— 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐤.

DAWN’S FIRST BREATH whispered through gossamer curtains, slivers of an ember-orange pooling over gold decorum, passing over stone floors. The vibrant splendor of it all began to eat away at the shadows once swallowing your chambers whole.

It murmured still, exhaling tendrils of vibrancy, veiled through shrouded silks, striking your visage with a sudden glower. Space lay empty beside you, Aerion’s figure nowhere to be found.

Arms like coiled vipers were no longer wrapped tightly around your body, intended to root you firmly in-place. Relief settled within your chest, unfurling like the petals of a flower as you released a slow, lackadaisical exhale.

Twilight began to dissipate with not an ounce of haste, dismal darkness giving way to shades of violet, the celestials clinging to the horizon even still. A tepid gale drifted in from the gap in the window.

Exhaustion still clung to you in groggy wisps, a haze that clouded your thoughts as you began to stir. Your sleep was a fitful one, with dreams born from anguish and despair, a feeling of being trapped. Aerion’s vicelike hold had also not aided in permitting you to find peaceful rest.

The conversation you had with Maekar permeated your thoughts heavily, as if attempting to provide some reasoning to your fractured relationship with Aerion. Still, you found it difficult to provide any rationale to your husband’s actions.

It was an amalgamation of many things; pity, disgust, anguish, melancholy. Part of you mourned what could’ve been with Aerion, but it was all dust scattered to a passing breeze.

With the hunt afoot, you hoped it would give you time to be amongst the wilderness and distance yourself from your husband’s behavior. Whilst his focus would be solely placed upon chasing beasts through the thicket, you could exist without his claws for hours.

The longer you gazed at the empty void beside you, the more you found favor in waking up alone. Aerion’s disappearances were commonplace, between whoring and unknown proclivities; the seedier sort, you assumed.

There were times where Aerion had left before the encroachment of dawn, and it often gave you some relief, being left to your own devices.

The cloying scent of morning blossoms hung heavy in the air, akin to a perfumed dowager. With a soft yawn, you began to stretch, startled by the sound of knuckles tapping at your door.

“Princess, may we enter?” Jocelyn, one of your handmaidens, softly crooned on one side of the ancient mahogany.

“You may enter,” You call, tossing the duvet and ruffled sheets aside, managing to unravel your shift. Jocelyn entered with another maid, a Lysene girl called Nesera, with delicate features and a mousy smile. “Good morrow.”

Jocelyn greeted you with a kindly smile, carrying a bundle of fabric unfamiliar to you, in shades of azure and a gentler blue. “Good morrow, Princess. Shall we run a bath for you?”

The sting of teeth had settled within the hollow between throat and shoulder, an unpleasant sharpness that echoed with your husband’s zealousness. It was yet another discomforting reminder of his presence, clinging to you like a festering plague.

Wincing at the stab of dulled pain, you nodded, allowing your handmaidens to busy themselves with filling the bronze basin at the other end of your chambers.

“Where did you acquire this dress?” The perplexity is unmistakable within your tone, gaze curiously tracing over the fabric carefully laid over your footlocker. “It isn’t one that I’ve worn before.”

“Prince Aerion requested you wear it today,” Jocelyn stepped into the ingress that joined your washroom and marital quarters, hands glistening with water. “Shall I return it to the seamstress?”

A knot formed within your stomach, a bitter twist that served to snare around your heart. You seldom had control over your own life, and this gesture seemed to reach a new height of possessiveness.

A dragon guarding his prize, a plaything to be dressed and paraded around, you thought with a twinge of dismay.

As you traced your fingertips over silk and satin, you considered Jocelyn’s question carefully, looking at her with a wavering grimace. There was a moment of silence that passed between the both of you, a sense of understanding.

“There isn’t a need,” A soft exhale escapes you, one that seems resigned to your fate. “I suppose the color will fare well in the midday heat.” It is a weak excuse, but one that must suffice for the time being.

Aerion’s behavior was commonplace, knowledge known between many of the servants at Summerhall. Once, it had embarrassed you beyond belief, but as his shadow grew, you withered within it.

It was easier to mold oneself to such behavior, to adapt and endure rather than fight against the tides. You hoped that the longer you stayed in Aerion’s good graces, the simpler life would become.

“The color suits you, Princess.” Jocelyn offered sympathetically, bowing her head before returning to the task at-hand. Both of your handmaidens filled the tub with warm water, summoning you once finished.

Shedding your shift, Jocelyn politely set the worn garment aside for washing, standing by while you sank into the washbasin. Warmth kissed your collar, quietly sloshing around your body.

The desire to be alone took root once more. “I shall finish bathing alone and will dress myself.” Ensuring that you were cordial, both of your handmaidens curtsied before taking their leave.

Daylight pooled in through gossamer curtains, slivers of gold dancing over marble. Silence surrounded you then, the only sound being that of your heartbeat and the trickling of water.

Beside the bronze bathtub, the dying embers of your hearth sputtered with their last flickers of life. You watched their glow subside, from a vibrant orange to mere crackles, blanching into ash.

Sometimes you wondered what your life might’ve been like had you married another.

Genuine affection and fantastical romance was a whirlwind fantasy you’d long held for yourself, read about in the pages of a well-loved book. Songs were written about beautiful maidens, of ardor, of a burning tenderness.

You wondered if this husband in another life would treat you kindly, with a gentle hand and open heart. The potentiality of it all hurt the more you contemplated, an incurable ache.

It was everything you’d longed for; connection, a desire to be heard and understood.

Aerion made little attempts, and on the occasion he did grant you with a favorable gift, it was something sparkling and pretty; something to dress you in. You much preferred books or flora over gemstones.

Lavishing your skin in scented oils and crushed herbs, you washed yourself thoroughly, lingering in the water for longer than you should’ve. It was a welcome respite; perhaps the only solace you’d have today.

As you finished bathing, you dried yourself, finding the azure gown that Aerion had chosen for you. The garment was beautiful, embroidered with silver stitching, lavish in all senses of the word.

Yet, it felt more Aerion than it ever did you.

The daily ritual of dressing was often handled by your handmaidens, but you’d taken to learning how to do it yourself. It brought you a sense of independence, something you sorely needed.

Shrugging on a thin chemise, you stood before a gilded mirror, stepping your way into your gown. It was a tighter fit, to be expected, but it wasn’t suffocating. A sea of cerulean blanketed your form, a gentler hue.

Laces sit undone in an unruly bundle along your spine; you miscalculated in needing another set of hands. After a handful of attempts to tie it yourself, you huffed, mouth tilting into a frown.

The doors of your chambers rattled suddenly, causing you to nearly leap from your skin. Ancient mahogany was violently thrust aside, making room for Prince Maekar’s indomitable frame.

“Where in the fuck have you gone, boy?” His moody, cantankerous quip reverberates through your quarters, footsteps carrying a domineering weight to them.

Even the stone beneath his feet seems to bend in subservience, countenance contorted into a frustrated scowl. A wine-hued tunic bears draconic stitching along the breast, circling the collar.

“Your Grace,” Startled, you whirl around, still in the midst of fidgeting with your gown. “Aerion left before dawn’s first light.” You replied hastily, noticing the sour look on the older man’s face.

White cloaks settle in the corridor, and Maekar seems rather apologetic for his untimely interruption. When he realizes that it is only you, a dogged exhale is drawn from his chest, visibly exasperated.

“Hmph,” Standing rigidly, his steely gaze noticed the empty space in your bed before shifting to you. “I suppose I should’ve knocked.” Maekar levels, brows furrowing together as he nods at you.

Before he can turn on his heel to leave, you stop him with a pleading ‘wait’, hoping that he isn’t put-off by your request. It isn’t commonplace to ask this of your father by-law, but you have no other choice.

“I — Your Grace,” Part of you wants to ask for his assistance in lacing your dress, but you fear his reaction to such an odd request. “May I ask for your help, if you have a moment to spare?”

“What is it?” Maekar attempts to soften his approach with you, but his lashing irritation seeps freely into his tone. It is almost unavoidable for him to behave otherwise, as tempestuous as a brewing storm.

“Are you particularly gifted with lacing gowns?” The inquiry is somewhat lighthearted to ease any awkwardness, and you watch as he lofts a brow.

“You’ve handmaidens for that, girl,” He fusses, chin jutting up as he gestures outside the doors. “Or a husband, if he decides to make his presence known.” The grit in his cadence is painfully evident.

“I understand your reservations, it’s just — I dismissed them, and I cannot find Aerion,” Embarrassment rips through you in hot, sharpened waves, causing you to wilt. “I do not wish to keep the hunting party waiting.”

Maekar stands like some rooted elm, his expression a near-grimace as he lets out an indignant huff. Some sliver of him warns against such an act, but you appear positively dismayed.

He is a hard-handed prince, a cunning warrior with a penchant for openly displaying his stoicism. Yet, he looks at you now with something else; somewhere between agitation and pity.

Wordlessly, he begins to cross the threshold of your chambers, over gaudy tapestries and rugs until he reaches your dressing alcove. He’s tall when he nears you, broad-shouldered, endlessly sour.

Doe-eyed, you gaze at him with a hint of abashment, lips parting to offer an apology. “I can try to do it myself, Your Grace. I should not have asked you, I —” You are silenced by his sharp grunt.

“Turn around, then.” He grumbles, dismissing your bubbling apology with a flick of his hand. As you obey without protest, Maekar sees your laces as more of a challenge.

He doesn’t dare back down from it, either.

Careworn digits find the laces at the small of your back, giving them a gentle tug before he begins to tie them for you. Much to your bewilderment, he proves a gentle hand in the matter — softer than Aerion.

Maekar is quiet, stone-faced as he makes swift work of your gown, brows creased in concentration. He recalls assisting his late wife on numerous occasions, and this isn’t any different.

There is a strength carried without boast in his hands, hands that have seen strife and war incarnate. It almost seems subdued as he fiddles with your gown, lip curled in concentration.

“Thank you for this, Your Grace,” The tender cadence of your voice finally vanquishes the awkward hush. You do not feel skittish or flighty around him as you do with Aerion, you realize. “I know it is not your duty.”

That duty belongs to your servants or his son, he thinks, but he does not vocalize such vitriol. Instead, Maekar works in his own stern, sullen silence, gaze fleetingly tracing over your crown.

He knows that it is wrong, finding favor in your appearance, in believing you to be exuberantly comely. There is something delicate about your features, in the way you glimpse the world through sunlight and optimism, and in the way you truly look at him.

“These damned things need simpler ties,” He utters, fingertips briefly brushing along your spine. It is accidental, but it sparks a wave of gooseflesh that coils tightly around your spine. “Fucking nonsense.”

The Prince’s idle grousing and grouching prompt you to smile, masking the gesture amidst your tresses. It does ease your nerves, knowing that he isn’t outwardly angry by your asking.

With Aerion’s evasiveness and Aegon’s attitude already souring his morning, there is some comfort he finds in this menial task. It places his focus elsewhere; on you instead of his unruly sons and their failings.

“You seem experienced with this,” You try again to make some feeble attempt at conversation, alleviating the flicker of tension. “You lace a gown as if you’re preparing for battle.”

Maekar huffs, firm hands looping the last of your silken laces, careful to keep the contact fleeting. “We might as well be going to war.” He mutters, referring to his strife with his family and chafing against peacocking noblemen.

His remark does get you to laugh incredulously, the noise akin to the pealing of bells. It doesn’t last for very long; the sound is joyous, something that you haven’t done often.

Silence follows, accompanied by the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional rumble from Maekar. He forces your laces into submission, glowering all the while.

The fleeting, chaste brush of skin against skin elicits a subtle shudder from you, belly sparking to life with a low flame. Warm breath fans across the nape of your neck, akin to steam from burning charcoal as it slithers along your flesh.

Gooseflesh bristles along your spine from the scrap of touch, and you suppress a shiver. Despite the hardiness of his hold, it is softer than you expect; as if he’s tempering himself for your sake.

For a moment, your heart catches in your throat, threatening to beat from your chest. You know how strange it is to feel that way from mere contact alone, but you do. It is different, so unlike anything else that had come before.

Despite the roughness of his digits, plentiful battle sewn within and worn by the mace, it isn’t malicious. Had Aerion stood in his place, he might’ve been crueler, malevolent; Maekar was stern without harboring darkness.

“He has much to learn,” Maekar grits suddenly, piercing the hushed veil with a quieter remark. “Marriage is much a sacrifice as it is duty.” The bitter blow of his words do evoke a frown, and you stare aimlessly at your mirror.

It felt more like a gilded cage.

The razor-sharp prickling of tears sting at your eyes, and you realize that you’ve sacrificed everything; your home, your family, your independence. You did not want to sacrifice your soul in the process.

“He has little to lose.” You murmur, choosing your words carefully. It feels wrong to rake Aerion over the coals before his father, but he does not refute you, either.

If it were anyone else, he might’ve snapped at them, barked something fierce, but he can sense the melancholy within your voice. It is a circle of agony between you and Aerion, with no end in sight.

Met with an unwavering wall of silence, you know that your words cut deep, like the edge of a knife digging into a gaping wound. It hurts him just as much as it does you, although he’d never confess to it.

Threading the last of your stray laces together, he gives them a light tug, brows still furrowed together. There is little else he can say that would alleviate the tension or improve your situation.

As he finishes assisting you, he steps aside, momentarily ensuring that his work was suitable. Eyes meet briefly, and he wishes he hadn’t truly looked at you; he saw something else, something more.

With a clenched jaw and an indiscernible expression, he huskily clears his throat, prompting you to speak. “Thank you, Your Grace.” You stand as if you’ve been burned, hands twisting together.

“We should not delay any further.” Maekar murmurs, moving towards the doors with haste in his step. Whatever moment of lightness he might’ve felt withers away, diminished to something strict, as if he’s called to war.

“Of course. I shall join you at once.” Prim and proper, you watch as he moves with purpose from your chambers, steps blazing like he’s on a warpath.

As you watch him depart, you can still feel the ghost of his digits searing like a hot brand against your spine.

Breakfast was a hurried affair, ushered along by the arrival of noble stewards at Summerhall. It all feels like a blur, and you’re merely a spectator floating above your own body.

The hunting party consisted entirely of men anxious to sate their bloodthirst, save for yourself and Jocelyn, who stayed at the rear of the caravan.

Lord Manfred Dondarrion and his lord-father, Midas Dondarrion, were both in-attendance, traveling from Blackhaven to Summerhall.

Both men were keen on the hunt, spoiled with full bellies and plenty of drink to keep them preoccupied. Maekar did not possess the temperance for entertainment; both men narrowly avoided him.

Renowned for his inability to make friends, the older Prince was not his brother; there was little room for benevolence, little room for chivalry and kindness. Even in his hubris, he wished Baelor was here to play the chivalrous prince.

From afar, you observed Maekar’s steely glare as it pierced through his eldest son without mercy. He rode a stallion, with a coat as black as dusk, hooves stomping through the sun-touched grass.

Daeron straggled along in front of you, sitting atop a bay-colored gelding that seemed as sluggish as its rider. A wineskin sat firmly in one palm, and he was rather generous with the drink itself.

“Get rid of that,” Maekar hissed, clutching the reins in one fist, the other clenched atop his lap. “Do you not have a shred of propriety?” He grouses, lip curled in disdain.

“You care little for Aerion’s propriety,” Daeron’s embittered counter digs beneath his father’s skin like a hot brand. “Why must you concern yourself with mine?”

If it weren’t for the gaggle of people, Maekar might’ve blistered with rage. Instead, he was scarcely holding himself together, releasing a disdainful grunt before urging his horse forward.

Guards clad in Targaryen tabards raised a colorful pavilion beside the forest’s edge, spacious enough to provide respite from the sun’s heated wrath. Crimson tapestries appear vibrant when met with daylight, billowing in the breeze as wooden stakes are driven into the earth.

Aerion seemed thrilled by the idea of hunting, prattling on about spearing shadowcats and skewering boar. His blood runs thick with exhilaration, with the promise of a clean kill and something to stick his sword into.

As your entourage made camp beside the thicket, you maintained your distance, fortunate that your dress spared you from the sweltering temperatures.

Perhaps Aerion made one right choice, after all.

“The day is ripe for catching boar,” Midas announces, a portly and redheaded man, skin weathered by the passage of time. A guard stands behind him, holding his hunting spear aloft. “Fine weather, this is.”

Paying little heed to such guests, you wandered off, standing at the fringes of the encampment. A soft exhale escapes you, allowing yourself a moment of respite.

Glittering light split through verdant foliage, casting the surrounding woodlands in a gentle glow, one that enticed you to explore further.

A crisp, midsummer gale filled your lungs with sweetness, the day veiled by wisps of passing clouds. It is vastly different from the mountainous air of the Vale, lacking the icy bite, the chill.

Instead of mountains, you are met with grasslands and woods that are devoid of depth, devoid of mystique. Regardless, you are thankful for the opportunity to be amongst nature.

Fortunately, Aegon was in attendance, the young boy clad in a crimson doublet that matched his father’s own attire, pale tresses strewn about over his crown. He carried a rather unimpressive shortsword, prepared to join the hunt.

The boy joins you gladly, viewing you as the only sensible option for company. Considering his choices, you do not fault Aegon for turning to you.

“Are you going into the forest with us?” He asks, sleeves pushed to the crooks of his elbows, little hand placed atop the pommel of his dulled sword.

“I believe this is as far as I am permitted to go,” You shrug nonchalantly, offering a smile to the boy. “I am thankful for the opportunity to have fresh air nonetheless.”

“You could come with me,” Aegon’s boyish insistence is endearing, but you know it isn’t plausible. “I am going with Daeron. He wouldn’t bother us, nor would Ser Yorkel.”

“Aerion has asked that I attend to him, my Prince,” A twinge of disappointment slithers into your tone, but you know better than to openly speak against your husband. “Perhaps another time.”

For a boy his age, the disgust and hatred is evident, plain within his violet hues. It swirls with a thinly-veiled irritation, considered rather mature for such youth. Aerion’s mistreatment of his siblings is known, and rarely corrected.

“I will bring you back a flower,” He offers, mouth curling into a smile that warms your heart. “I know that you like moonbloom.” An astute observation that says more of his character, above all.

“That is most generous of you, dearest Egg,” The gesture is touching, prompting you to smile, pearlescent teeth and all. “I hope that you find a shadowcat today.”

“My Father says that shadowcats are a myth.” Aegon muses, and before he can utter another word, he turns suddenly. Footsteps crackle behind the both of you, and you know who it is without looking.

Aerion stands coiled, shortsword hilted amongst a dark scabbard, encrusted with gaudy jewels. The sunlight turns his tresses pallid, bringing out the underlying wisps of pale-gold; you would’ve found him pretty if it weren’t for his temperament.

Masking your irritation, you conceal it well, managing to conjure a thin smile. He gazes upon Aegon with blatant agitation and disinterest, bordering upon vitriol that stuns even you, twisting your belly with a wave of disgust.

“You needn’t trouble my wife with your antics,” Aerion utters, pallid brows furrowing together as he callously waves him off. “Leave us, little rat.” He spits, and your heart withers.

Such venomous boorishness is extended to all he dislikes, far more obvious to his siblings than to you. Sometimes, you cannot tell if he truly loathes you, or if brutality is simply written in his blood.

Aegon huffs, chin jutting out in defiance as he turns brusquely on his heel, reluctantly scampering off. It pains you to watch the boy be spoken to in such a manner.

As your husband flanks your left, palms crossed atop his pommel, he reads your dour countenance like the open pages of a book. His lip curls, head cocking to one side as his mouth opens.

“You’ve something to say, wife?” Aerion’s tone is whiplike, akin to lightning striking at your marrow with the intensity of it. It’s almost as if he’s invoking a challenge, inviting you to test your mettle against him.

“You should not be so cruel to him,” You find it within yourself to speak up, chest tightening with a lick of terror. It is best to correct him now with eyes watching, instead of behind closed doors. “Aegon is your brother.”

Aerion’s gaze is as sharp as thorns, tongue lashing across his bottom lip, eyes tempestuous, seething with anger. His brows furrow together, expression darkening. “He is,” Amethyst hues flicker brazenly over your frame. “Brothers are still capable of annoyances.”

Knowing better than to question your husband, you glance elsewhere, tempering the fire that rouses within your heart. Agitation gnaws at your flesh like teeth, and you resist the urge to bite your cuticles.

A chasm of silence fills the gap between; Aerion is no fool when it comes to your demeanor. He feels it waft from you, as hot as a forge, your growing dissatisfaction. Wordlessly, he steps closer, forcefully invading your space as if staking a claim.

“As are wives.” Aerion’s words sink like talons into your flesh, ironclad and merciless.

Steeling yourself, the exhale you give shakily drags through your chest, lungs burning with another stab of fear. You wholly understand the weight of consequence should you defy him.

He waits for an apology as if one is owed to him, ethereal features turning sharp, serpentine. Gooseflesh erupts across your spine as if you’ve been tossed into a blizzard, feeling his hand smooth along your cheek.

“This heat is grueling,” Shifting the subject elsewhere, it is effective in derailing Aerion’s growing ire, severing the simmering tension on either side. “You did well in choosing this gown.”

Anger unfurls from Aerion’s posture, coiled like a predator prepared to leap at its prey, now relaxing from his brewing irritation. His finger remains poised along your jaw, sweeping over satiny flesh as if it is his possession.

Staving your nerves off, you valiantly brave the unpredictable maelstrom that is your husband, bearing witness to his seething demeanor.

“Speak less,” Aerion snips, holding your chin between thumb and forefinger, tracing his digit over the plump of your bottom lip. “You are much prettier that way.” His voice is a velvety purr and twice as cruel.

Fury lashes again with a vengeance, but it is to no avail — it feels completely and utterly useless. Unwilling to submit to his bitterness and give him a reaction, you nod politely, as you always have.

“As you wish, my dragon.” It is that use of his dossier that beguiles him so, fire flickering within his eyes, an obsession renewed. You nearly wince when he presses a chivalrous kiss to your brow.

When your gaze averts elsewhere, beyond Aerion’s shoulder, you freeze when you notice Maekar glowering in your direction. It is subtle, and yet the world recedes in the wake of your rushing pulse.

As gazes snare together, a wave of heat comes to claim you, wrapping around your bones and melting your marrow. The only sound you hear is the thrumming of your heartbeat as it pounds incessantly in your ears, a melody that echoes with uncertainty.

The stern lines of his visage do not soften no matter the attempt, but they do look upon you with an ounce of understanding. A hitch forms within your throat, sticking thickly as words dance against your tongue.

His jaw forms an unbreakable line, pale brows creased together, his scowl unbearably prominent. It is both militant and disdainful, amethyst hues burning as they aim to pin you in-place.

None the wiser to his father’s harsh gaze, Aerion dips to inhale a gust of your scent, zealousness overriding propriety. A satisfactory hum thrums through his chest, mouth curling into a smirk.

“Good,” His touch is like the scrape of a blade, unyielding and painful, even if it isn’t his intention. Arrogance drenches his tone like a thick oil; it repulses you. “I shall return for you, wife.”

Forcing a joyous smile, you are the very picture of a doting, adoring wife, but it does not reach your eyes; it never does, truthfully. Each attempt is thwarted by his monstrous being when you do try, and you have.

“I hope your hunt is most prosperous, husband,” The cadence of your voice lowers to a mere hush, gaze flickering to him when he looks upon you. “I wish you good luck.”

“Hm.” Aerion hums, aiming to plant a domineering kiss against your mouth; instinct gets the better of you. Before he can embrace you fully, your head dips, his lips pressing briefly to your cheek.

Infuriation is a mere understatement for what flashes in his eyes, gaze as cold as a midwinter’s ice. A glimmer of mild disbelief entangles with a crackling irritation, squashed at the sound of another’s voice.

Summoned to join the swarm of hunters gathering along the forest’s border, he says nothing — and that is perhaps more dangerous than words. The glower he gives you is an amalgamation of many things; Aerion isn’t accustomed to blatant denial.

Rage simmers within his marrow, a potent echo that refuses to quiet. Even when in the throes of a stewing wrath, he is beautiful, bewitching; pernicious, more like. His jaw sets, as taut as a bowstring before he merely huffs, the sound mirthless.

A lump forms within your throat, teeth chewing raw against the inside of your cheek. In the face of such uncertainty, you smother your terror as best as you can, stomach twisting into a thousand knots.

Aerion’s deliberate retreat is calculated, steps measured in the way a predator might consider prey, talons gripping you even as the distance grows larger. As his silhouette assimilates with the noblemen, you finally allow yourself to breathe.

Maekar is gone, his shape no longer visible as they forge ahead past the endless line of trees. The tightness in your chest does not diminish as swiftly as you believed it would, replaced by a nagging uneasiness.

Dread clings to your heart even still, as if preparing for what consequences might come of your insubordination. Aerion never takes anything lightly, and you know this all too well.

With the hunting party departing, it leaves you alone beneath the pavilion, flanked by two stray knights and Jocelyn. The company isn’t unwanted, but you’ve little desire to make conversation.

The unsettling feeling never leaves you, as if Aerion is somehow still watching from beyond the pines.

Even the velvet awning does little to ease the heat of a balmy midmorning, carefully slinking toward a merciless midday of humidity. Every moment spent in the Stormlands is another reminder of why you long for home.

The sun crests above the canopy, glaring white and scalding down upon you. It pours a smoldering heat, the weather turning from temperature to tepid as the day progresses.

Nearly two hours had passed by in agonizing sluggishness, and you could no longer stand being forced inside of a stuffy tent. Outside isn’t any better, but it allows you to peer into the thicket, and you are grateful for it.

The woodlands provide natural shade, with sunlight piercing emerald foliage, illuminating the forests in a blanket of gold. When pale tresses split green, your heart leaps into your throat.

To your relief, it isn’t your husband.

Unexpectedly, Prince Maekar is the first to return, with two knights hauling a dead boar behind him. Crimson has pooled in a ghastly spear wound atop its bristled skull. He appears rigid, pale tresses slightly mussed, the top buttons of his doublet undone to withstand the heat.

“A blow well-struck, Your Grace.” Ser Wate commended his Prince with a bow of his head, met with typical indifference. Those who serve him have come to learn his prickly demeanor rather quickly.

Wordlessly, you observe Maekar as he strides toward the pavilion, muttering his gratitude after accepting a wet cloth from Jocelyn. He dabs beads of perspiration from his brow, dragging it along his neck.

Something possesses you to watch, unable to tear your gaze away from the older Prince. Lingering within the band of shadow provided by the colorful pavilion, you find yourself enthralled; you don’t remember this feeling.

Darker patches of sweat sit along the collar of his tunic, coalescing along the column of his throat. This dishevelment is accompanied by a furrowed brow and the hard-pressed line of his mouth.

It allows your mind to wander into the realm of curiosity, piqued by what force he might have been during the Rebellion. He is still a warrior made, with a soldier’s rigidity and militant prowess.

Despite the pallid shadow of his beard, you are able to find the strong line of his jaw, cheekbones marked by long-healed pox scars. An unspoken strength resides heavily in his hands, calloused by both age and battle.

Corded muscle threads up from solid hands, forearms thick and taut like bowstrings, veiled by the velvet of his tunic. A stutter tangles around your heart, accompanied by the blossoming of warmth stirring deep within your belly.

For a moment, you wonder what it might be like if he touched you.

A trembling exhale bubbles from your lips when amethyst hues land upon you without reproach. Maekar’s stare is one that demands attention without vocalization, and you feel yourself fidgeting as a response.

If he knows that you were admiring him, he does not let it show, countenance an indiscernible wall. As your heartbeat sticks thickly within the bottom of your throat, a shiver passes through you, as if he’s pierced your defenses through gaze alone.

He steps closer, boots firm across sun-bleached grass, nearing your place in the shade. It is steel and sweat he smells of; heat, petrichor, and a caged irritation. The hunt has bled off on him, it seems.

“Will you walk with me?” Despite the wording of it, Maekar’s question is more of a silent demand. He stands as if he’s made of stone, pale tresses catching with slivers of gold beneath the sunlight.

Wordlessly, your head dips in a nod, flanking Maekar as he deliberately leads you from the encampment. A wide berth is what you’ve wanted since arriving, and he intends to fulfill your quiet wishes.

Cerulean silks snag carelessly over twigs and dried grass, steeping your hem in nature’s remnants. The pace he sets is measured, resolute at your side as the both of you walk toward the woodlands.

As you distance yourself from the pavilion, idle voices fade away, hushed by the ambiance of life teeming amongst the trees. A stray breeze picks up, stirring your tresses to life and offering a reprieve from the heat.

“You are impressive with Aegon.”

It is Maekar who carefully pierced the wall of quiet erected between you, tone more akin to a rumble instead of steely. Whispers often reached him of your kindness to his young children; never aiming to replace or fill a void, but simply nurture.

“He is a good boy,” A threadbare smile curls your lips, steps slowing to a crawl as you round the forest. Your fingers twist idly into the thin sleeves of your dress. “He will make a fine King one day.”

A brief scoff rattles the firm, heavy line of his shoulders, and yet he does not smile. It is the same stoic expression he always wears, and even when he tries to soften himself, his countenance does not bow.

“If the Gods are kind.” Maekar levels, knowing that the heart of his youngest boy is perhaps unspoiled, and has not yet succumbed to the madness that torments his brothers. He walks as if preparing for war, and your strides oppose him at every turn; soft, aimless, and freeing.

In your heart, you still feel his eyes upon you when Aerion was distracted; it burrows deep beneath your flesh, alive and tingling within your marrow. You still feel his careworn digits against your spine as he laced your dress with kind hands.

“Your hunt was fruitful, it appears,” Conversation passes awkwardly between the two of you, as if grasping for something to talk about. “You do not seem pleased with your trophy.” It is an astute observation; a verdict.

“Boar make for dull sport,” Maekar shifts his weight as you come to a halt, moving despite your stillness. It is the preparedness he feels, as if he’s still on the battlefield. “Noisy creatures.”

“What does excite you, then?” The question emerges hurriedly, without consultation or any thought for how it might come across. Still, you do not refute it, standing within a cluster of canopy that provides a cool shadow.

Sunlight passes beneath wisps of stray cloud, a momentarily sanctuary from the midday heat. A bead of perspiration tracks from Maekar’s brow, rolling through the crease between, settling toward his jaw.

Sensibilities forbade him from entertaining such an emboldened question, and yet he is still a mortal man; men bend easily for beautiful things.

Damp linen clings to his skin beneath his doublet, stained with the exertion of the hunt. The pale shadow of his beard remains rather unkept, as if spearing the boar had made him abandon any physical sense of propriety. Violet hues lighten at a certain angle, more lavender instead of icy slabs of amethyst.

“Hunting,” Maekar utters, and the answer almost tastes more like a half-fib instead of transparency. Admittedly, he is unsure of what excites him now; life is more structure and procedure instead of spontaneity. “Combat, perhaps, if this were many years ago.”

“You do not seem excited, Your Grace.” It is a plainly-spoken observation on your behalf, murmured through a tone indicative of a tender concern. Your boldness is tempered by the twinge of vulnerability he feels with you, compelled by truth.

A dogged exhale drags through his lungs, as if the very insinuation of his emotions threatens his sanctity. It does, in a way — it irritates him to no end. “One need not display excitement so openly to experience it.” His gritty utterance is blunt and steel-hard.

“Of course,” Eyelashes fluttered in rapid succession, and you feel as if you’ve sorely misspoken. “Forgive me for drawing any assumptions, Your Grace.” The constant use of pleasantries becomes grating with the passage of time.

“Maekar,” An iron-wreathed sigh leaves him, dismissing your use of such regal dossiers. “You needn’t continue with such repetitive formalities.” Despite the hardness of his words, he isn’t cruel about it; only rigid, like forged steel.

The corner of your mouth twitches at that; no silken promises to stroke an ego, no fanciful titles, and no serpent to bite back at you. “Maekar.”

As you repeat his name, you find that it sits well upon your tongue, as if it belongs there.

Silence follows again, a labyrinth that he attempts to navigate through, wanting to make more of an effort to soothe you. Something draws him to you, the wisp of a flame threatening to spark into something untamed.

Perhaps it is because he feels your loneliness and melancholy in his marrow, wears it as he does his own, only yours is written plainly. You struggle to wade through the woes of a loveless marriage, held aloft by an optimism that wanes by the day.

“It is beautiful here, but the temperature is rather relentless,” It is you who pushes the conversation forward, idling with mundane topics that might disinterest lesser lordlings. “The Vale was always much colder, resistant to warmth.”

“The Vale is a place I have not yet visited,” Maekar confesses, following your line of sight as it sits across the fields of sedge and sungrass. “Aegon tells me you’ve a longing for home.” He states firmly, the lines of his face relaying a characteristic stoicism.

“He is most observant,” A forlorn smile twitches the corner of your mouth, and you wish that your husband was as courteous as his younger brother. “I miss the cooler air; the way the mountains split past clouds, or the scent of dew at the crack of dawn.”

“You do not miss your family.” His words sit heavy with a statement, another observation that he doesn’t easily dismiss. It is yet another blow to your heart, as if you hadn’t endured enough already. You speak little of your kin, who traded your happiness for status.

Saddened by the rawness of his words, your shoulders roll in a brief shrug, gaze finally shifting elsewhere. “After I was wedded to Aerion, the letters ceased soon afterwards,” Tears clung wetly to the corners of your eyes. “Some trade people for an elevated standing in the realm.”

Maekar’s jaw formed a taut line, twitching in irritation as he listened to you with a startling attentiveness. This attention he paid you was something you were sorely deprived of, denied by a husband who was far more self-obsessed and vain.

“Duty is not always easy,” Despite the hardiness of his remark, his tone becomes unusually soft, as if he too drags this weight you carry. “Many would tell you that I am not an easy man to love.” The sudden shift in topic derails your thoughts, but it isn’t unwelcome.

He bends, just a little, toward you; a great oak swaying for the gentle breeze that surrounds it. The Prince emerges from beneath his stone barrier for a moment, understanding what you need now more than ever. He feels ill-suited for comfort, and yet he attempts it anyway.

His rawness and honesty surprise you, and you do not take this sliver of vulnerability for granted. Before you can utter another word, Maekar presses on, pacing until he too finds refuge within the arch of shadow.

“Aerion is cut from the same cloth,” It is an admittance that he has never vocalized before, but he has thought about it relentlessly. Aerion’s demeanor stemmed from somewhere; someone. “Difficult to love.” He grunts, and your countenance is scrawled with perplexity.

As much as you attempt to see reason in Maekar’s words, you cannot; you can’t fathom your husband. It stings you like thorns, the hard truth, but you understand the deep love a father possesses for his sons, no matter their inner darkness.

“You do not have venom in your veins,” Words tumble from your tongue with a bitter anguish, and you know it is all insolence, desperation. “You are rough in-nature and not in blood, as unyielding as steel without cruelty, Your Grace. You are cut from the same cloth, but you are not the same man.”

A crackle of agitation whipped through him, like the swift plunge of a knife fraying his veins. “That does not mean that you are incapable of growing to have some affection for him.” Maekar states, blunt and hard-handed as ever without giving you an inch.

“You think I haven’t tried to love your son?” Bewildered, your mouth loosens with a stream of repressed anger; feelings you’ve been carrying since the moment Aerion revealed his true nature. “That I have not poured every ounce of my soul into wishing he would love me?”

“You forget yourself, my Lady.” As a stern warning is issued, he cannot help but pity the glassy look within your eyes. This is his seed he has sewn, Aerion, growing into thorns that threaten to choke you.

“I cannot love him, and I cannot force it,” You whisper through clenched teeth, hands folding into fists that long to beat against something, anything. “You claim to be difficult yourself, but I do not see it — not as I do with Aerion.”

Maekar feels deeply; marrow-deep sentiments that he seldom displays openly. Emotions were always a complicated subject, something that could be exploited or manipulated if he did not tread carefully. He feels for you now, tearful and clinging to self-preservation.

“He is my son,” He tells himself often that Aerion is his boy, his beloved blood whom he would kill for. He tells himself that as to not face the hard, ugly truth of what his son has morphed into. “As he is your husband, your duty.”

“Surely you’ve wanted something more beyond duty, Your Grace,” There is a weight to your words that cannot be ignored, and Maekar’s breath hitches slightly. The noise is subtle, one that he swallows. “To be viewed as more a man than a symbol.”

A dry, mirthless scoff tears past his lips, but he does feel your statement burn deep within his heart. It had been many years since Dyanna’s passing, and he had become an ally of isolation out of duty to her.

The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know how long he could continue to be alone.

“You are young,” Maekar’s tone is clipped, reverting to the typical sternness he wields so often. “You may think differently as to the meaning of duty as years pass.” He brushes your inquiry aside with a practiced ease, posture rigid and formal.

“Is cruelty considered part of your son’s duties?” A saddened lull echoes within your tone, gaze fixated on the stalwart visage of your husband’s father. You know it is a feeble deflection, something menial to rip your mind away from the pain that torments you.

A second passes, and you wonder if Maekar is truly furious with you for such emboldened statements; there are no accusations to be made, only the raw truth. It is within such candor that the both of you begin to agonize.

Pain sinks like talons into his countenance, a pain of a father whose connection is severed from his children. The weight of a man who has become accustomed to wandering through life like a spectre; half-tethered, half-gone.

Teeth mindlessly pierce into the delicate flesh around your nails, an old habit that refuses to break. Your father once admonished you for it often, forcefully seizing your hands to prevent you furthering any maiming.

The more you contemplate Maekar’s words, the further you bite, the further you gnaw. It becomes automatic in-nature, unable to stop until you’ve reached a point of completion. When you do, copper sits tangy upon your tongue, and you wince.

“Stop that.” The suddenness of Maekar’s perturbed timbre forces your attention away from your fingers, and he is close. You did not realize he’d continued to carve away at the berth between you until now; he does not treat you as Aerion might’ve.

In such close proximity, you realize how tall he truly is, countenance weathered by scars and by age, but the years have been kinder than most. Perspiration glitters along his furrowed brow, violet hues warmed by sunlight.

Calloused hands close around your wrists, but he does not touch you with the domineering force you’ve grown so accustomed to. Rough-hewn digits cradle your palms as if you’re something precious, pale brows knitting together with a stalwart grimace.

Heat blossoms within your belly, curling around your bones as if you’ve been scorched. As skin embraces skin, gooseflesh erupts along your spine, lips parting to make room for a soft gasp.

Blood does not phase him; he has seen entrails spilled about on battlefields, men without limbs, crimson stains pooling over earth. He inspects your hand carefully, gaze flickering over razed cuticles and marred skin that is still stubborn to heal.

“Forgive me,” An apology spills forth without any real thought behind it, embarrassment soon rippling through you, hot and shameful. “I know that it is uncouth of me to do this to myself. It is not comely.” The worry within your cadence is telling.

In truth, he cares little for the aesthetics of it; he is more concerned with your agony, with what pain you’ve endured instead. “Comely? That does not matter,” Maekar murmurs, his timbre a low, gravelly lull. “It hurts, yes?” He asks, tone bending slightly, making room for a twinge of softness.

“Yes,” As you loose a confession, you savor the sensation of your hand within his; larger, rough like old leather worn by the weight of war. “It is painful.” Wet tears bristle at the corner of your eyes, and yet they do not fall; you refuse.

“I will have Maester Melaquin bring you a salve upon our return.” Maekar utters, warm breath fanning hotly across your face, still well within your reach. He becomes silent, wondering if every mark you’ve made is because of Aerion; because of his son.

Anyone who might’ve stumbled upon the sight would have considered it rather improper; scandalous, even. You, standing near the shelter of oaken boughs with Prince Maekar before you, closer than what was viewed as proper, your hands clutched within his.

For a fraction of a second, your gaze lands upon the hard line of his mouth, hidden beneath the pallid shadow of his beard. It is treacherous, dangerous to consider what it might’ve been like to kiss him, to feel his lips grace your knuckles, or your throat.

It is the spark of a fantasy that you know will lead to nowhere, but you wonder, and wonder still. You wonder if he would treat you gently, firm hands and a stern heart, unguarded with you.

Maekar’s stare traces a slow path from your hands to your neck, adorned in a necklace of rubies and fire opal, clashing violently with the gentler hue of your gown. It drags languidly to the soft slope of your jaw, and then your eyes; you’re ogling, too.

It is then that he sees something he knows he shouldn’t; that little flicker of affection in your eyes, and the involuntary softening of his own heart. Everything goes still in the wake of joined hands and rushing pulses, the world growing startlingly quiet.

He releases your hands suddenly as if he’s touched searing embers, shoulders squaring, countenance regaining that typical hardiness of his. Realization settles within his marrow, yet he does not display it openly, throat rumbling lowly.

“We should return, before our absence is noticed.” Maekar is blunt in his statement, words like iron, as if he had not cradled your hands moments prior. You do not attempt to refute him, merely bowing your head to keep from saying anything else.

Wordlessly, he begins to walk ahead of you, hands flexing as if they’ve wrung themselves together, over and over again. He says nothing else, as silent as a crypt, making your way from the forest’s edge toward the encampment.

The phantom sensation of his calloused palm still stays tangled around your hands, the burning ghost of what you’ve longed for.

The late afternoon wanes in temperature, as if dusk stands idly upon the precipice, cooling the humidity with a sense of shadowed calm. The grasslands of Summerhall were purged of three boar on this day, without a single shadowcat to be found amongst the woodlands.

With the day behind you, you sit in the carriage alongside Aegon and Jocelyn, entertained by the boy’s stories from the hunting venture. He talks endlessly of Daeron’s drunken slumber beneath a tree, spearing boar, and tracking his elusive prey.

A sprig of Lady’s Lace is clutched tightly within your left hand, picked by Aegon himself, a gesture of affection. Despite the simplicity of it all, you find it incredibly endearing, far kinder than anything you’d received thus far. It was a common flower found in forests, but no less beautiful.

Aerion said little to you once he returned, and that frightened you more than veiled threats. The insolence you displayed earlier in the day, the denial of his affection; you were certain that it would come back to haunt you, and haunt you without any mercy.

The closer you neared to Summerhall, the more anxious you became, as if approaching your untimely demise. Despite your frayed nerves, your thoughts still lingered perilously on Maekar’s touch, on the way he’d held your hands and treated you gently.

You felt abhorrent; a sinner doomed to some sort of hell.

As Summerhall loomed overhead, your heart began to race, pulse pounding wildly within your breast. A dryness formed within your mouth, and you steeled yourself for evenfall. You prayed to the Gods that Aerion’s fury would remain leashed; a prayer likely to go unanswered.

You were absent at supper, something that was noticed by those in attendance — Maekar, primarily. It was your appetite that had vanished altogether, replaced by a gnawing fear that refused to settle.

Alone in your marital chambers, you savored the solace while it lasted, waiting in a suspended dread for Aerion’s inevitable entrance. You thought of what to say if he asked about why; what sweet words you could conjure up in order to spare you from his temper.

When he did return, the air felt thick, as if the tension was alive and heated, able to be sliced with a longsword. His footfalls echoed with a veiled agitation, countenance beautifully pained, a dragon prepared to breathe fire on whatever annoyed him at the present.

The door shut like an iron-wrought cage, causing you to nearly leap from your own flesh. You had shed your gown, gently placing the garment inside of your wardrobe, clad in a linen chemise, allowing the draft to soothe your sunkissed skin.

Aerion’s gaze fell upon you like a barrage of ice, serpentine and irate, narrowing into near-slits. “You loathe me,” His accusation came swiftly and landed heavily, invading your space like some thick fog. “Is that it?” He questions sharply, standing before you, coiled and poised.

“Where did you conjure up such a bold assumption?” Even with the tremor of fear clinging to your cadence, you masked it all with a practiced ease. You stood beside the footlocker at the end of your bed, hands gripping at the sleeves of your shift to keep from fidgeting.

“Do not play the fool with me,” Instinctively, you wince when he steps closer, nails digging into your biceps through the veil of fabric. “You denied me what is owed.” Referring to the kiss you avoided earlier in the afternoon, you want to wither away, knowing how stupid it was of you to deny him.

“Denying you one kiss does not mean that I loathe you, husband. There was an audience present,” A feeble excuse, but it was enough to keep the dragon at-bay for a moment. “Do you truly think so little of me?” The question was all-encompassing, and intended to mislead.

Aerion’s brows furrowed together, forming a line that vaguely resembled his father; it wasn’t nearly as cruel. Again, he stalked closer, reaching out to grip firmly at the nape of your neck, digits threatening to curl into your tresses without mercy.

Fear bristled along your flesh, threatening to swallow you whole as you waited for Aerion to brusquely tug on your hair. The inevitability of it kept you suspended in a harrowing anticipation, stomach turning violently with a knot of nerves.

“I need not remind you of your place, wife,” Without an ounce of tenderness, he guides you closer, visage hovering mere breadths away from yours. “I gave you your name — your status, your blood is mine.” He utters, watching as your lips part.

“Then I must remind you of yours,” The sudden bite of your words cut through him like the edge of a blade, embittered and emboldened. “You are my husband, yet you do not behave as one should. You are cruel when it is not necessary, cruel to me. What have I done to deserve it?”

Aerion blinks owlishly, bewildered by your words as if he’s been struck with an open palm. There is an amalgamation of thoughts in his mind; obsession, possessiveness, indifference, a self-serving desire to make you pay for the insolence you’ve hurled at him.

A sharp pain blossoms through your crown when he sharply pulls at your hair, bending you enough so that he hovers above you. “I should have your tongue for that,” He utters, gaze narrowing into snakelike slits. “Cruelty teaches lessons, ensures obedience.”

“You do not have to prove anything to me,” Your words are a half-gasp, gaze pleading for him to release you from his steely hold. “You have nothing to gain from this.” Again, you loose another pained yelp when he tugs once more, insistent and demanding.

To Aerion, it was a desperate attempt at having some control over his life, and that extended to you. He was forced into this unfruitful union in an attempt to curb his demeanor, a poor farce by his father, and it left him seething.

What good was a dragon if it was to remain leashed?

“I do not need you,” Aerion states bluntly, as if he is convincing himself of this instead of wounding you with his words. “You are replaceable.” He utters, but his eyes betray him this time, and you see it — he lies between his teeth.

To placate him, you reach for his tunic, fingers slipping over wine-hued velvet, and he begins to slack his grip against your hair. A dull throbbing rattles your skull anyway, but you ignore it for now, gaze wet with unshed tears as you blink them away.

“You are not replaceable,” In an appeal to his ego, you know exactly what to say to appease him; it works seamlessly. “You are the blood of the dragon, the scion of Old Valyria.” When you stroke his deep-rooted need for praise, he keens beneath your embrace.

When Aerion begins to relax, his hand comes to cup your chin, squeezing with a vicelike hold, thumb circling beneath your bottom lip. He regards you with an indiscernible expression, planting a cold kiss to your brow before withdrawing.

He settles like a child in the aftermath of some foolish tantrum, but it does not bring you any comfort. A look passes between you both, estranged; you do not mask your tumultuous emotions this time. You wished that he saw you as more than merely a possession, as his wife.

Something salty and wet trickles down your cheek, a tear that strays, caught by Aerion’s tongue. It lashes across your flesh, eliciting a discomforting shiver from you that coils coldly along your spine, bringing with it a tide of gooseflesh.

Wordlessly, he presses his mouth to yours.

For a moment, you wonder if Maekar was right — if you might be able to have some sliver of affection for Aerion with the passage of time. If your heart may soften to him and his tempestuous mind, or if your future children may ease his madness.

Gods, you try in vain — and you fail.

The kiss devolves into its usual pattern; domineering, as if he is attempting to mold you to his will and enforce your compliance. You do not attempt to fight back, and your anger quiets in his shadow. That flicker of hope you thought you had diminishes like an extinguished flame, disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared.

When he recoils, you do not say anything at all, and neither does he. The unusual tide of silence fills your belly with dread, but not before he begins to shed his tunic. You immediately assume the worst, preparing for another evening of his roughness.

“Lay down.” Lacking his usual bite, his tone is still a command, but not wrathful. Still, you do not have any choice in the matter, legs feeling like weighted anchors as you drag yourself over marble floors and furred rugs, going to crawl into your shared bed.

As your back kisses the feathered mattress, you wait with bated breath, terror gnawing at your bones like some ravenous beast. Aerion slinks across your room, closing the distance with graceful, lazy strides before joining you in bed, and you steel yourself for the inevitable.

Instead, he merely lays his head against your chest, pale tresses nestled along your collarbone. Even with this position, you still lay in fear, hand shakily clamoring to cradle the base of his skull. This is uncommon, but a ritual you’ve participated in on occasion.

His arm cages over you like a vice, hand planted along your ribcage like a hot brand, a dragon lording over his prized treasure. It is not sleep he chases after, but your tender touch. As torn as your marriage is, there are rare glimmers of quiet you find.

Fingers hook like talons into your chemise, an unspoken reminder of who you belong to. Neither of you speak, and you merely seek to placate him by trailing your fingers over his hair, heartbeat fluttering like the beating of bird’s wings.

It is a tempest of emotions you experience with Aerion — from cruel and bitter to an intolerable tenderness, one that surely comes from a place of manipulation. The dull ache continues to blossom throughout your head, and there is little remedy to ease the sting of pain.

Inevitably, he succumbs to sleep this way, curled around you and offering little reprieve for you to move elsewhere. Instead, you sit poised against the feathered pillows, gaze trained towards the dying hearth. Waning embers dance sluggishly, until they are nearly squashed.

“No matter how much you convince yourself otherwise, you do need me, Aerion,” The cadence of your voice warbles from the gloom of fear, hushed, but you remain resolute in spite of it all. “It is I who does not need you.”

As you speak into the void, you are left with nothing but the maelstrom of your own mind — and you do not know if that is worse than your husband’s venom.

Summerhall teems in full-bloom with the liveliness of warmer seasons, spring turning hot, harkening with it the first sigh of midsummer. The Stormlands were hotter than some, with Dorne bordering to the South.

Grassy, verdant plains swept as far as the eye could see in the Dornish Reaches, with clustered forests. In the thick of the tempered heat, sunlight bathed emerald in ember shades.

Even the beauty of summertime did little to lift your spirits, offering a mere sliver of comfort.

It made you long for home, this tepid heat and unfamiliar environment. As moons passed, you grew accustomed to Summerhall and the weather surrounding it, but you still felt leagues away.

If it weren’t for the watchful eye of your entourage, you might’ve stepped into the woodlands; never to be seen again, if it were your choice.

Whispers had long haunted your steps of the dragon-house, with their mystical blood and unorthodox family tree. Amethyst eyes, regal Valyrian features, and tresses as pale as a first snowfall. Only destruction and fire had come scathing from House Targaryen, a lineage muddled by madness and bloodshed.

A marriage arrangement between yourself and Aerion Targaryen had once filled you with excitement, ignoring the rumors surrounding the pale-headed prince. Fantasies took root of gallantry, dragons, and children favoring their father’s appearance.

Aerion Targaryen was not gallant nor debonair; he was a fanged serpent, venomous and wicked, masquerading as a dragon.

Courteous in the public eye and cruel when doors were closed, you swiftly learned that this marriage may ruin you, take every scrap of your soul. He was not what you had imagined for yourself at all.

Navigating through the machinations of an obsessive and vain personality had been wrought with strife, initially. Though, as time passed, you adapted too, molding yourself into something fortified.

You played the game to the best of your ability.

Copper tastes tangy upon your tongue, droplets of crimson oozing from split cuticles, chewed beyond recognition. Spices and smoked meat leave faint traces in your mouth, marred by blood.

Teeth pierce skin and cut too deep, prompting you to wince as your hand recoils from your mouth. Pain brings you back into the fold, seated beside your husband at a gilded table.

The two of you dine in an eerie silence, as quiet as a crypt, heralded by a tension that threatens to swallow you whole. This is commonplace — mostly.

Oftentimes at supper, your Targaryen husband is raving about his latest conquest or prodding at you with mocking japes. The aura of silence he gives is more terrifying than his bark.

Once, you thought him to be beautiful; ethereal, handsome, and sculpted by the Gods. Now, he appears cracked to you, a marble statue crumbling asunder at the foundation.

Madness spills from splintered places, a damaged psyche that you cannot begin to comprehend. There is no remedy for what ails Aerion, and even then, you wonder if he has been this way all along.

The table is scattered with a variety of foodstuffs, but it is his drink he so adores. He greedily gulps from a goblet of Arbor Red, his wine infused with liquid wildfyre.

Sometimes, you wished he’d choke on it.

A pit forms within your stomach, nerves frayed, and the world consumes you. The septon often discouraged you from wishing ill upon your husband, but he never makes himself favorable.

The last few moons had been agonizing; a marriage bound with blood, you thought. It was a horrid union to a rotten princeling who had little desire to bond with you outside of your expected marital duties.

During the first fortnight of courtship, he was the soul of chivalry under the watchful eyes of his predecessors, the fantasy of every blushing maiden. When eyes were no longer prying, he transformed.

It was easy to recall the smoldering embers within his eyes, turning violets to molten gold, the deliberate shift from false niceties to ruthlessness.

Every drop of blood echoed with madness in his marrow, a beast lying in-wait, set to crawl away with you in his jaws. If it wasn’t vitriol he spewed at you, it was a hand, a threat of the blade.

Aerion was egotistical, a man who heavily favored blood, swordplay, and shirking responsibilities over sensible hobbies. He whored on-occasion — pinched handmaidens, ventured to brothels, distanced you.

There were tiny slivers of calm he offered, but they were few and far between. The only solace you found were on days he left to find a pretty wench and go hunting.

Those at home had stopped answering your letters entirely. With your House’s status elevated due to marrying a Targaryen, there was little need for you, now.

You were undoubtedly alone — at the hands of a monstrous Prince who believed himself to be a dragon, caged to human form.

Aerion sits flanked to your right, pale tresses touched with gold, droplets of crimson juice rolling from his chin. Idle hums of approval emanate from him between greedy bites of seared boar.

His stylistic doublet reminds you of a midsummer’s sky, wreathed in hues of orange and red, contrasting with the pallid hue of his hair. Had his personality been that of his cousin Valarr, you might’ve doted on him.

He eats obnoxiously, much to your smothered disdain. It is gluttonous, with a penchant for bloodied meat and wildfyre wine to sate his hunger.

A wet crunch resonates through the dining hall, the sickening noise of the Prince tearing meat from bone, bloodied and rare.

“We are hunting on the morrow, wife,” Aerion murmurs, tongue flicking like a serpent as he catches a drop of liquid upon his lip. “Wild boar and shadowcats.”

After your rather disjointed honeymoon, you had learned to appease Aerion through his love of the strange and unusual. Be it legend, bloodshed, or dragons, you attempted to appeal to him whenever possible.

Dried cruor stuck to the tender flesh around your nails, the product of constant nerves and a growing melancholy. You were a flower doomed to wither in the shadow of your husband; that was your life.

Sitting straighter, you idly prodded your fork into honeyed meat, preferring something tart. “I pray to the Seven that you vanquish your prey without consequence, my Prince.” You hum, feigning joy.

The facade you’d learned to play was a measured one; shoddy at-times given your demeanor, but as resolute as one could be.

“Hm,” A low utterance simmered from his lips, accompanied by crooked brows and an indiscernible expression. “I would have you come along — a pretty jewel to lick the blood from my blade.”

A ripple of irritation crackled within your chest, hot and sharp. If it weren’t for your composure, you might’ve scoffed or lashed out; instead, you opted for calculated silence.

“As my Prince desires.” Despite the compliance of your answer, Aerion could taste the coiled disdain; he saw it flicker in your eyes.

“As I desire,” With a twist of mockery, his mouth twitched into a capricious smirk, idly balancing a knife within one hand. “Does my little wife have no desire of her own to accompany her Prince?”

“Forgive me, my Prince, I only thought that the hunting grounds were no place for a lady,” It was a perfectly suitable response, one that seemed to sate the Prince. “I would be delighted to attend.”

“If I command it, you shall have a place at my side,” Aerion uttered, flourishing his hand dismissively. “I suspect that you have never slain anything before; you are far too delicate.”

You wanted to slay your vainglorious husband.

There were a plethora of evenings spent laying awake beneath the canopy of your bed, staring aimlessly, imagining plunging a blade into Aerion.

A death by fire, perhaps; much to your own amusement, you fantasized of watching your husband wither to mere ash. A dragon drowned in his own flame, certainly a way to perish.

“I have thought about it,” The brashness of your confession suddenly strangled you, as if you had gravely misspoke. As your lips parted, Aerion’s mouth crooked further. “Forgive me, I — that was untoward.”

“Have you?” The pale-haired Prince appeared perplexed by your confession, head cocking to one side. He gestures for you to continue, amethyst hues resembling chips of ice.

“Y—Yes,” Fumbling over your words, you clamor for a better excuse, heart beating like a bird’s wings. “I’ve imagined felling elk in the forests, or slaying a wolf.” It was easier to conjure up a feeble lie when the truth was much uglier.

“Mm,” Aerion’s pearlescent teeth bite ravenously into the haunch of boar once more, satisfied with your reply. “Perhaps I may allow you that pleasure on the morrow.”

“You would flatter me, my Prince.” Letting the matter rest, you twist your fork into a helping of vegetables, attempting to calm your nerves.

It is often that you circle around Aerion like a slumbering beast, never daring to wake him. He circles you in-turn, a predator drawn to hapless prey, his little doe of a wife held tightly in his clutches.

Silence seeps into the gaps between, and Aerion’s gaze shifts to the flayed skin around your fingers. Through furrowed brows, he brazenly reaches to seize your wrist, grip ironclad.

The suddenness of his action prompts you to carelessly knock over your glass of wine, untouched, garnet liquid spilling like blood across the tablecloth.

“Your fingers,” He utters, openly displaying his displeasure with the state of your hands. “You’ve maimed them again.” Aerion disliked it when you picked; when you made yourself less pretty.

A handmaiden steps forward to rectify the mess, scrambling in a flurry to clean the spilled Arbor Red. She says nothing as your husband tugs you close, head ducked, eyes lowered.

“I — I did not intend to bloody them, husband,” Terror sinks into your cadence like talons, heart seizing as the pale-haired prince brings your index finger to his lips. “I apologize.”

Akin to a viper, his tongue lashes cravenly over your dried blood, an unusual gesture, but better than the alternative. A shiver courses through your spine, and you attempt to relax, if that were possible.

“I prefer you pretty,” Aerion clicks his tongue, still holding onto your wrist, thumb tracing over your knuckles. It is a faux tenderness you feel — cold, callous. “Leave it.”

The snap of his command is whiplike, striking at the handmaiden with a razor’s edge. He waves her off as a dismissive child would, reluctantly releasing you from his hold.

Rising from his seat, Aerion postures, smoothing a palm across his doublet. “Come, wife.” It is never a question with Aerion, never a suggestion — everything is a command, begging for your attention.

Having hardly eaten your supper, your belly lurches for nourishment still, forced to endure your husband’s penchant for peacocking about.

Flustered, you rise from your chair, gaze apologetic as you pass the cowering handmaiden. He never offers an arm nor a hand unless it is on his own terms; this time, you are left to stumble behind him.

Summerhall is a beautiful castle, with arched, stained-glass windows which pool in splendid shades over ancient marble. The architecture is certainly Valyrian, but captivating nonetheless.

Much of your evenings are spent coddling the Prince, be it with a song, story, or petting his hair. You’ve found that he is easily subdued through physical affection, even if it is sometimes revolting to do so.

Despite your strained marriage to Aerion, you do find joy within his siblings. Daeron is one you do not see much of, drowning within his cups, but you see plenty of Aegon, Daella, and Rhae.

As day bleeds into dusk, orange light is squashed by darkness, glowing embers exchanged for a starlit canvas, the moon swallowing sunlight whole.

When you reach your marital chambers, the ritual begins anew, something you’ve grown accustomed to. It was always painted this way — lifeless, loveless, and one-sided.

Consummation is commonplace, and never a pleasurable task; you often wait for it to be over in silent despair.

Aerion says many things, pouring his venom into your ears, touching you, steering you in whatever way he prefers. You never revolt against it, and the facade you’ve learned to master takes root.

Teeth pierce the junction between throat and shoulder, blood filling his maw, eliciting a startled yelp from you. It’s lost somewhere in his kiss, which is akin to blazing wildfire itself; domineering and ruthless.

It all feels like some blur when your gowns are brusquely torn from your body, hands like thorns perusing your body. Whenever you’ve attempted to find some enjoyment in it, your stomach twists violently.

He is never gentle with you, never handling you with a tender embrace or sweet caress. Pressure bears down upon you, as if he is attempting to brand you with his will. You’d grown accustomed to the brutishness of it all, as if he knows nothing else.

Silky, deceptive promises pour themselves like poisoned honey into your ear as he drives his hips into you. It lacks tact, a motion intended to consume, dominate; he would live within your flesh, if he could.

He talks ceaselessly of spilling his seed into your belly and planting a babe there, and it has not happened yet. You suppose you have the Gods to thank for their divine intervention.

Aerion often sleeps soundly in the aftermath of chasing his own release, bare-chested and snoring softly at your side. You lay in your shift, staring absently at the window before you, left ajar for summertime to creep inside.

That is when you leave your marital bed.

Nimble hands close around a robe of Myrish silks, a mauve hue that reminds you of lavender sprigs. Seizing a flickering candelabra and a pair of slippers, you go wandering the castle.

These nightly walks have often allowed you some semblance of serenity, left alone with your thoughts, no princeling to lord over you.

Sometimes, your feet carried you to the kitchens, where you gorged yourself on lemon cakes until your stomach churned with nausea. Other times, you simply sat near an open window and took in the dusky gale.

There was one place in particular that offered more solace than anywhere else.

Within Summerhall’s polished wings, you find comfort in the castle’s sizable library, seeking knowledge there when it is withheld from you. If you were born a man, you might’ve been a rather impressive Maester.

The scent of ancient dust and parchment is sweeter than anything you’ve known, a farcry from Aerion’s ash and brimstone. Something soothes you; the sliver of freedom, or perhaps the secrecy of it all.

Countless books greet you like old friends, worn spines closer to a smile, their pages bringing you peace. The air is stale, drier here and cool, offering a reprieve from the midsummer scald that burns through Summerhall.

As you quietly enter the study, you do your best to avoid opening the door fully, archaic wood groaning in protest. It is a sanctuary you’ve built for yourself amongst the chaos, amongst the flames.

To your bewilderment, there is another light flickering somewhere through shadow, candlelight surrounding the indomitable silhouette of Prince Maekar.

The Anvil, they call him; the title is rather befitting.

Known for his staunch, cantankerous demeanor and stoic countenance, your interactions with the Prince of Summerhall were somewhat limited. In the handful of conversations, he kept it clipped, brief.

He did not treat you unkindly, but he was not a tenderhearted individual. Though, you supposed that any sliver of courteous consideration rivaled your husband’s malicious intent.

“Prince Maekar,” Incredulity seeps into your tone, akin to a shrill squeak as you fumble with the door. “Forgive me, I was unaware that this study was preoccupied.” Your knees bend in a curtsy.

“None of that, girl,” Maekar utters, pale brows furrowing together as he regards you with a steely expression. “What are you doing here at this hour?” He questions, posture rigid.

“I often visit at the hour of the bat, most nights,” Opting for transparency, you stand awkwardly in the doorway, clutching onto the candelabra. “It allows me to be alone with my thoughts.”

One might’ve interpreted your statement as a desire to escape your husband — Maekar understood it that way, and he did not blame you for it.

His shortcomings as a father haunted his steps, plagued every aspect of his life. These reminders of his own paternal failures oft stared him right in the face; bit back like a wounded animal.

He witnessed Aerion’s callousness through you, his lady-wife; whispers had reached him of his son’s treatment of you, wholly undeserving. It was yet another stain on his legacy, another reminder of his calamities and what havoc his blood wrought on the realm.

A dogged exhale drags through his chest, broad physique clad in a black tunic that is left partially unbuttoned. There is an exhaustion etched into his features, one that reaches his gaze as if it belongs there.

“Sit,” Maekar gestures to the empty seat beside him, something that deeply surprises you. It was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. “Is your husband aware of these visits?”

“No, Your Grace,” Hesitant, your footsteps are feather-light as you cross the threshold of the study, bringing your own source of light closer. “He would find it in poor taste.”

“Yes, I believe he would,” With an indiscernible visage, his lip curls in mild disdain, tone kept to a low rumble. “It is unwise to be roaming about at dusk.” His statement is sharp, poignant.

“I understand, Your Grace,” Lowering yourself into the elder mahogany, you place your candelabra down, the flickering glow catching against your hands. “I will not venture here again.”

In closer proximity, Maekar notices your razed cuticles, delicate fingers twisted by gnawed agony, your own nervousness displayed openly.

He does not blame you, and he does not fully blame Aerion, either. Admittedly, your union was doomed from its inception; a shrewd, lost maiden of a noble house and his own son, a man morphed into someone unrecognizable.

“Nonsense,” Maekar utters, countenance constantly furrowed into a steely expression. It is his eyes that soften somewhat at the sight of you, visage still forged of a hard iron. “You are no prisoner here.”

A bitter laugh nearly escapes you, but the noise turns to ash within your throat, and you know it’s for the best. You do not feel liberated, nor a prisoner; shackled somewhere in between, held in a colorless void.

“Your consideration is most appreciated, Your Grace,” Courteous, you ensure you sit with a proper posture, keeping your manners about you. “I much enjoy the pursuit of knowledge.”

“A learned girl, aren’t you?” He inquires, ogling you with a rather crystalline perplexity. You do not cower before him as others might’ve, ducking their heads and silencing themselves.

Deliberative, you choose your words carefully, unwilling to be subject to his temper, too. “I do have a great love of reading. I often say that, were I born a man, I might’ve become a Maester.”

A mirthless scoff slips through his throat, partially obscured by dancing shadow, hands folded together. “I’ve a son in the Citadel,” Maekar’s jaw tenses, gaze forlorn. “He quite enjoyed his books.”

“It seems that you are a studious man yourself,” You prompt, kindly gesturing to the tattered volume before him. The script is High Valyrian, a tongue unfamiliar to you. “Unless you simply enjoy the library.”

“My brother would tell you that I am a capable warrior before a scholar.” Maekar grouses, noticing the pleasant smile that sticks to your features. You haven’t smiled much since marrying Aerion.

He was a tall man with a stalwart posture, broad-shouldered and formidable, even as he proceeded to age. A grizzled, pale beard clung to his visage, violet hues almost a darker shade, as if they’d been bruised many times over.

Aerion bears some resemblance physically; but that is where all of it begins and ends.

Maekar shoulders the weight of experience, of battles, of iron sinking into flesh, of princely duties. He carries it exceptionally well, as if he is born for it, earned through years of strife and turmoil.

His blood yields Aerion, whose beauty and silver-tongued charm is well-renowned. Even with all of his prettiness and defined features, it is all drowned out by his cruelty, by his venomous bite.

Admittedly, some sliver of you found Prince Maekar to be handsome; and despite his prickly demeanor, he did not treat you with the harshness he did everyone else.

It was wrong to think such things; you were married to Aerion.

“Summerhall is a beautiful castle, Your Grace,” The amiable hush of your voice severs the brief pause. “I quite enjoy the stained glass windows.”

“Hm.” A low grunt leaves him, and Maekar finds some twisted humor in your words. His late wife had always adored those damned windows.

There is a valley of silence that passes between the both of you, with Maekar examining the neckline of your shift. It is not the fabric that catches his eye, but the discoloration of flesh; a bruise, he suspects.

In vain, he struggled to be a good father to his children. Perhaps he was too stern or too heavy-handed, but it had become difficult once his wife had passed.

Aerion was always the one he’d longed to understand fully, to split open his skull and unravel his thoughts. It was said that when a Targaryen was born, the Gods often flipped a coin to decide if they would be cursed with madness.

The coin soured with Aerion.

In the face of his own blunders and his son’s cruelty and misguided nature, he still loved Aerion deeply, as any father would. It pained him to know that you were unhappy, unhappy and harmed.

“Are you looking forward to the hunt tomorrow, Your Grace?” The softness of your question shakes him from his thoughts, as kind as spring; the contrast between yourself and Aerion is glaringly apparent.

Maekar appears pensive, brow creased with a permanent annoyance. “Aerion has asked that you join us,” He murmurs, narrowly avoiding your inquiry. “You need not appease him.”

A moment of surprise flickered across your features, lips parting before you shook your head. “It would do me plenty of good to be out amongst the fresh air, your Grace. Maester Melaquin has said it may ease melancholy.”

Realizing that you might’ve spoken out-of-turn, you swallow the growing lump within your throat, averting your gaze from that of the elder Prince’s. The steeliness had bent, softened; he understood.

Calloused digits flexed into a fist, in a valiant attempt to relieve some semblance of irritation. He dared not ask why you had succumbed to melancholy; you seemed happier now than you’d ever been.

The correlation between Aerion’s presence and your dour demeanor was not lost upon him. Whispers had reached his ears of your lack of conception, with no heir to bind you to his son.

Subject to the chasm of silence, you cleared your throat, spine crawling with a brief tremor. “I apologize, your Grace. I’ve little to commiserate over — Prince Aerion is a good husband. I simply miss home.”

Maekar regards you with a thinly-veiled pity, one that is swallowed by his harshness. Amethyst hues pick you apart, and a stab of shame rips at his heart when he realizes he finds you pleasing.

“You needn’t lie to me,” His cadence lowers to a gruff timbre, akin to the roll of thunder before it splits into a tempest. “Aerion was not always this way.”

Vulnerability was never his strongest attribute, and in fact, he viewed it as the enemy. To sink to this level with you, his son’s bride — it all felt rather untoward.

Nestled within the quiet, you notice the sullen visage Maekar wears, as if a shadow has come to surround him. “What was he like, if I may?” You ask softly, genuine and intrigued.

A scoff escapes him, but it is not out of malice. Instead, he seems to be trapped within a lament, remembering his son’s cheerful, rambunctious demeanor from many years ago.

“Fond of the outdoors, boisterous, and cheerful,” Maekar recalls, gaze flickering elsewhere. A hush befalls him, countenance a reflection of his own anguish, and he looks to you. “He is still my son.”

“I see glimpses of it, I think,” As the words slip softly from your mouth, your gaze is drawn toward flickering candlelight. “Or perhaps it is merely a wishful thought on my part.”

A humorless scoff rattles his chest, fingers lacing together, visage drawn into a mask of veiled disgust. “He was glad in his youth. I do not know what plagues his mind.” Maekar utters, his tone a mere lull.

Targaryen madness, a curse of the blood that has haunted his House for generations. It torments Daeron as it torments Aerion; different sides to the same coin.

Part of you yearns to spill your thoughts, unleash this torrent of fury upon Maekar, beg for him to annul your marriage and let you return home. Still, you remain rigid and cordial, with little desire to insult your husband.

Aerion did not loathe you; in fact, he was rather fond of you, of his pretty doll. You were closer to a favored toy instead of a wife, a shiny thing to parade about and play with whenever he desired.

Obsession and control began to bleed into your union, darker traits heightened by his sense of self-importance. You had attempted, in vain, to find it in your heart to love him despite this darkness, and you couldn’t.

It was not the marriage you envisioned for yourself.

“You are unhappy.”

Maekar’s utterance hits you suddenly, as if the wind had been ripped from your lungs. It is more an observation than a declaration, but you are unable to refute the truth laced into his words.

Something wet bristles at the corner of your eyes, tears begging to be shed, and yet you keep them at-bay. A tight sensation tugs at your chest, throat growing thick, heart weighed by turmoil.

“It is not by choice, Your Grace,” Your voice is little more than a whisper as you claw for composure. “I feel adrift, stranded somewhere unfamiliar with faces I do not know. I am more alone than I’ve ever been.”

It feels improper to unload your grievances on Aerion’s father, of all people. He is your father-by-law, certainly not of your blood, and an aloof man with his own slew of personal responsibilities.

Nearly seven years had passed in the wake of Dyanna’s demise, and her presence was sorely missed. He felt her still linger in the faces of his daughters, or her light piercing through Summerhall’s stained glass.

That sense of loneliness is something he experiences himself, more often than he cares to admit. He navigates it as he does everything else — with stoicism and complete bullheadedness.

Despite sitting in his castle, surrounded by his children and servants, he is more inclined to lock himself away and slave over work. He wonders now if his time would be better spent elsewhere.

He feels ill-equipped to comfort you properly, and even then, something feels wrong. Maekar is hardened to the world, and you are not; you’re softer, tenderhearted in a way that men often took advantage of.

“That sentiment will subside with the passage of time,” He offers sternly, tone mellow enough to bring you a sliver of ease, but not much. “It is a mirror we all must face.”

Maekar knows it isn’t what you’re wanting to hear, but it is the cold reality of living. Knowing that your displeasure stems from his own son is a personal sort of torment, one he wishes he could rectify.

Just as he knows Aerion is a difficult man to love, he suspected that his own lady-wife once believed the same thing about him.

“I understand,” A threadbare smile curls your lips, but it seems forced, practiced. You resist the urge to pick at your fingers. “Perhaps it will fade. I have enjoyed spending time with your daughters, when permitted.”

Daella and Rhae were a source of comfort whenever you had time to see them, bright and boisterous girls who enjoyed your presence. The gardens of Summerhall kept the three of you well-occupied between tending to growing blossoms and spinning fairytales.

“Rambunctious girls, I presume,” Maekar murmurs, knowing well that he had not been around for them as often as he should be. “They sorely lack a womanly figure in their lives.”

After the passing of his wife many years ago, it left some great void within him, tearing his family apart. He withdrew, abandoning niceties and becoming harsher than ever, impatient, full of repressed rage.

Within that vein, he pushed his children away, the ones who needed them most in the wake of such tragedy.

“They are kind and gentle.” You say it quietly, as if you fear it might upset him. Instead, he seems forlornly, as if this revelation is a poor reflection on his character.

Maekar tenses, pale brows still furrowed together, amethyst hues a maelstrom of sentiments. He does not allow himself to slip further into vulnerability, maintaining the stony wall he’d constructed.

The quiet seeps in again, and you look somewhat pained, countenance a mirror to your soul. Speaking with Maekar brought you an unusual comfort, a place to rest amidst the tempest you were caught in.

He was hardened, certainly, but gave you plenty of introspection, something you sorely needed. These deeper conversations were ones you could not have with Aerion, nor the pursuit of knowledge.

“Make use of this library,” He says plainly, decisively. “Should my son ridicule you for it, merely tell me, and such behavior will be corrected.” Maekar knows it is perhaps the one kindness he can do for you.

“I do not wish to cast any further shadows upon you or my marriage, Your Grace,” Part of you feels wrong for having him intercede on your behalf when the relationship is already so volatile. “I will manage.”

Maekar does not attempt to refute you or dissuade you, hand coiling around the spine of his book as you stand, seizing your candelabra.

“As you wish.” He utters, tone gritty and stern. A dogged exhale drags through his lungs as he watches you closely, startled and hasty.

Fearing that you’ve been gone too long already, you politely dip into a rushed curtsy, features blanketed in the candle’s soft glow. “I shall see you on the morrow.”

With a mere nod of his head, Maekar nearly says something else, but his own rationale stops him. Words simmer to ash upon his tongue, posture rigid as ever as you retreat toward the doors.

Before you exit, you look to Maekar, hoping that your conversation will be kept secret. He seems a man of great discretion, unlikely to parade your business around for the realm to see.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Your Grace,” There is a slight deliberation within your words, considering what to say. “This is the first time in many moons that I’ve felt a sliver of understanding.”

Poised, the older man gives another nod, slow and methodical. He thinks little of your gratitude, feeling as though it is his duty instead of an obligation.

Maekar says nothing, characteristically silent as you bow your head with the ghost of a smile. He doesn’t dismiss you verbally, but you are keen enough to recognize his desire for solitude.

“Say nothing of this to anyone.”

His words are abrupt and direct, a command that demands your obedience on the matter without room for protest. There is something unrecognizable about his countenance, something you cannot place.

Admittedly, you aren’t sure of who else you would tell; you’ve no confidants, no one trustworthy enough to lean upon here in Summerhall.

Regardless of this, you offer another bow of your head, knees bending as a show of acknowledgement. “Of course, Your Grace. I would not dare betray your trust.” You reply, resolute and staunch.

With that, he settles within his chair, chin dipping in a curt nod before you slip away. The door shuts behind you with a resounding thud, and you’re left alone in the corridor, no Kingsguard to be found.

The walk back to your marital chambers is deliberate; you do not find it within yourself to make haste. It feels similar to a death march, as if your fate had already been sealed long before you reach the doors.

Footfalls whisper quietly over old stone, waning candlelight providing slivers of orange to guide your path back. As you shrewdly writhe past the doors, your heart plummets when you notice that Aerion is not in bed.

Ice spikes with dread in your belly, as if someone had struck you hard and swiftly, leaving little time to fully catch your breath. As wood groans behind you, your gaze falls upon the shape of your husband.

He sits lazily upon a plush chaise beside the hearth, loose tunic strewn carelessly about his frame, blanched tresses burning beneath the firelight. Once you are in the sanctity of your chambers, his chin juts forward.

“Where were you?”

Aerion’s question is as sharp as razors, like claws rending flesh as he turns enough to cast his gaze upon you. Amethyst hues resemble chips of ice cast in flame, head cocked to one side as if he’s testing you.

“I apologize,” You once detested lying, but it had become a second skin of defense for you, fibbing to appease your husband. “I’ve become rather restless as of-late, and wandering the halls sometimes soothes me back to slumber.”

“Hm,” With a mere quirk of his fingers, he beckons you closer, a wordless command that you dare not defy. Placing your candelabra down upon the table, you step to his side, sitting rigidly against the cushions. “You did not wake me.”

“I did not wish to disturb your sleep, husband. The dragon does require ample rest, of that I am certain,” Those saccharine, lovely words of yours lull him into submission; you can see the zeal within his eyes. “You seemed so comfortable.”

Fingers carefully trace your temples, caressing a blazing path from brow to jaw, thumb flicking over your bottom lip, still healing from his bite. He studies you with an obsessive intensity, one that might make any sensible individual cringe away.

Despite the lightness of his embrace, it is never born of an ardent tenderness or something affectionate; it is as if he is attempting to mark you, control you. You feel it in the way he looks upon you with possession, more a prized jewel to be displayed instead of treasured.

Silent, he peels your robe aside, gaze falling upon the hollow between throat and shoulder, where he’d bitten you earlier. Pressing his thumb over the wound, he plants his mouth to your jaw, lustful and covetous.

“A sweet creature, aren’t you?” Aerion purrs, considering you more a novelty than a wife. You are his bride in title only, and the rest of you is his to claim, do with as he desires.

You’ve learned to say little, smiling instead with all the excitement you can muster, exhaustion beginning to seep between the cracks. “May we return to bed?” The whisper you give is frayed by the growing desire for sleep, and fortunately, he does not fight you.

As you return to your marital bed, you shudder when his arm wraps tightly around you, as if securing you in-place from leaving again. It sends another wave of terror through your body, as if he is privy to your thoughts.

Gooseflesh coalesces along your spine as if you’ve been left within a freezing tempest, and you find yourself unable to fully relax in his ironclad grasp. His warm breath fans hotly across your flesh, curling like smoke against the nape of your neck.

“You needn’t leave our bed for such things.” Aerion’s cadence is flat, and yet the threat still simmers beneath. It is not veiled, bringing you little comfort, and sleep suddenly becomes a distant fantasy.

“Of course, my dragon.” Swallowing the sudden lump within your throat, you haplessly sink into his grip, knowing that there is nowhere for you to go. Muscles tense around you, like a serpent coiling around prey, leaving little room for struggle.

Sleep abandons you cruelly and without warning; you do not chase after it.

Daeron never considered himself amongst the ranks of good and impressive husbands — if he even considered himself one at all.

In court, he witnessed the very worst and the very best of unions, with wives hanging gleefully from their husbands’ arms. In other instances, it was cold and callous, plainly loveless.

Princely duties seemed beneath him, particularly marriage; a fickle union born of appeasing houses, treaties forging alliances. It was all a rather dour affair, one that he was forcefully subjected to.

Toiling within his own displeasure seemed to do little for him, alleviating nothing. Instead, it carved a deeper hole through his heart, a void without a sliver of light.

He never considered himself a good man, either.

Only a few moons had passed since his marriage to you, a comely young woman of noble birth with a suitable lineage. It was the perfect image of what any advantageous match should be.

To him, you were an obligation born of his father’s desire to appeal to other houses. He didn’t know you — the courtship was fleeting, a series of hurried meetings where he made his disinterest clear.

It was cruel of him, but easier to keep you at arm’s length. He balanced upon the edge of madness and duty too often, keeping you suspended in the empty chasm between.

Whenever you attempted to show him kindness, you were met with a distant indifference from your betrothed. After the third meeting, you resigned yourself to a life of silence.

Your wedding was much of the same; stiff, awkward, and lifeless.

What should’ve been a happier occasion for you was sullied by your new husband’s love of wine and melancholic behavior. You hoped that he’d change his mind — you still hoped he would.

Though, instead of resigning himself to the new role of doting husband, Daeron often spent his evenings drowning in goblets of Dornish red.

Oftentimes, he would travel to the slums with the single-minded appetite of forgetting himself. When the wine continued to flow, the longer he spent wasting away in the underbelly of some pungent tavern.

All the while, you slept alone in a cold bed, often pondering why your husband despised you.

In truth, Daeron did not hate you whatsoever; there was not an ounce of malice in his body. Instead, he used his cups in an effort to suppress his waking nightmares, plagued by visions and dreams.

Dragon dreams haunted his every step, premonitions steeped in mystique and anguish. They were puzzling and indecipherable, visions that clawed at his mind each time he closed his eyes.

He was cursed by the Gods, he thought — no end to these nightmares, no end to this torment. Wine was the only thing he tried that alleviated the weight he carried within his mind.

By sinking further into his cups, he alienated you, the one person longing to comfort him. Daeron was torn by both fear and self-deprecation, knowing that you deserved a husband whose thoughts did not drive him to madness.

Whispers had reached his father regarding your lack of consummation, causing a string of heated arguments and bitter exchanges. It only resulted in more nights spent washing his agony down with the drink.

On the eve of your wedding, he had only touched you briefly with trembling hands, smelling so powerfully of wine that it seemed a second skin.

When he recoiled and claimed he could not go through with coupling, he recalled the confusion and torment on your face. You had gone on believing that it was your fault — that he did not find you pretty.

In truth, he found you aesthetically ethereal, and your immense beauty wasn’t the source of his distance. Much to his dismay, you had appeared in his dreams on-occasion, and it frightened him.

Why love someone fully if they might simply slip through your fingers?

A troubled way to live one’s life, he knew, but this chafing rift that crackled between the both of you needed to be mended somehow.

Admittedly, he had no one to blame but himself for this. Had he done his duty, he might have spared himself the scornful wrath of his father and spared your own sentiments.

At evenfall, he decided to make amends with you.

It was a balmy evening in Summerhall, marked by the kiss of a warm breeze, sunset having bled to twilight. The polished corridors remained hushed with the tide of dusk, a solace seldom felt.

Fields of orange blossoms stretched around the ancient castle, their pallor waning as the sun disappeared. Daeron had wandered the grounds for some time until he found himself back at the beginning.

Targaryen banners rustled softly, stirred by the passing wind that brought with it a saccharine scent. The surrounding countryside was in full bloom, vibrant and lively.

Instead of taking to another inn to drown his sorrows, Daeron lingered outside of your marital chambers. He had been standing there for nearly an hour, downcast and deliberating.

Daeron often slept on the cold floors of his childhood chambers, with a flagon clutched tightly in one hand, reeking of intoxication.

Entering your chambers instilled terror within him, as if he were traversing through some monstrous cavern. Though, you were certainly not the monster here; that title rests entirely with him.

There was no excuse for his reproach or his constant disappearances. He was uncertain of how to mend whatever chasm likely rest between the both of you.

He looked a mess, eyes ringed with haggard bags, platinum tresses disheveled, pale hues somewhat glassy. The flagon of mead he carried with him felt like a weight instead of a crutch.

Out of consideration for you, he knocked; a sluggish, fearful gesture that seemed drawn-out. He wasn’t deeply intoxicated — not yet, anyway.

When the set of doors began to rattle, one of them groaned open, old wood marked with draconic embellishments. You stood in the gap, visibly surprised to see your husband standing there.

“My Prince,” Startled, you wondered why he’d come to you now. You had slowly become accustomed to an empty bed and an absent husband, much to your dismay. “Is something the matter?”

My Prince — you did not call him Daeron.

Wisps of hair framed his features, comely and handsome, visage bearing the shadow of weeks-old stubble. Violet hues swam with a wet sheen of unshed tears.

When you first saw Daeron, you found him to be beautiful; and that sentiment hadn’t changed. Even with his indifference towards you, he managed to make your heart beat faster still.

“May I come in? If you permit it,” Daeron utters, tone unusually soft, as if he were crooning to some wild doe. “I would understand if you never wished to see my face again.”

Some part of you still carried the weight of bitterness when you thought of your marriage to Daeron. You had always yearned for a loving union, to dote upon your husband and any children that followed.

You thought he despised you or found you unsuitable, which might’ve explained his constant need for space. His words gave you pause, prompting you to hesitate.

“These are your chambers just as much as they are mine, my Prince.” Stepping aside, you gestured for him to enter, watching as he slipped through like smoke.

The interior was unfamiliar to him, a foreign place; it showed how little time he spent with you. A pang of self-deprecation rippled through him, visage looking pained.

A tenuous hush followed, one marked with many things left unspoken. He didn’t know where to begin — to apologize to you, to let you unleash your anguish, or to tell you of his dreams.

Daeron’s gaze floated toward your marital bed, one side left made, exceedingly tidy; what would’ve been his place, had he been dutiful to you.

For you, this was agonizingly awkward.

All of your attempts at a proper courtship had been squashed, extinguished like a growing flame, reduced to nothing. Now, he was here, fumbling about like a stranger in your chambers.

Any sensible woman might’ve met him with wrath and scorn, but you saw a ghost of a man instead, desperate for some measure of understanding.

Whispers had surrounded Daeron in regards to his demeanor, often melancholy and detached. You wondered what weighed on him so heavily; was it you? Was it this unwanted union?

“I suppose I should begin with an apology,” He started, moving to lean against the ottoman at the foot of your bed. “But even that seems improper for the strife I’ve caused you these last few moons.”

He oft felt as if he were floating, a mere spectator in his own body, wallowing in his wine. The recent tension with his father and his own self-reflection had been enlightening.

Perhaps, you could be a source of comfort, if he let you in instead of keeping you at-bay.

Quiet, you lingered near him, arms loosely folded over your chest. The evening gown you wore was made of a fine gossamer, a sheer garment that made you glow in the flicker of firelight.

Daeron was still a man; hotblooded and distracted by pretty things, and you were no exception to this. The pliant peaks of your breasts rose against silk, briefly ensnaring his gaze.

Through gritted teeth and a tense jaw, he fought against baser instincts, hoping to grant you a semblance of comfort, despite his shortcomings.

“Where did you go, all those nights?” You assumed he spent most nights whoring, which was the fate of most unsatisfactory marriages.

At first, you wanted to sob, knowing your husband might’ve been with other women. Now, you’d become hardened, adapting to this isolated existence instead.

Daeron was startled by the lack of vitriol from you, but he answered earnestly. “Drunk in the underbelly of some tavern,” He murmured. “Or in the sanctity of my chambers.”

“You did not … Lay with another woman?” Surprised, you choose your words carefully. Your handmaidens warned you of Targaryen princes, but you did not think Daeron to be cruel.

Admittedly, he had considered turning to whoring; and whenever the urge to visit a brothel arose, he simply couldn’t bring himself to follow through.

Many whispers had reached him of your kindly disposition, the tenderness in which you regarded everyone with. That sort of warmth was one he sorely yearned for.

“No,” He affirmed, clutching his flagon between his hands, fingers tracing over the rough leather. “I am an unimpressive and neglectful husband, but I would not dishonor you.”

A twinge of relief rippled through you at that, and you decided to bridge the gap, coming to sit beside him. “Was it something that I did?”

He knew you would ask him that.

Unwilling to meet your gaze, he shook his head, tongue darting to wet his bottom lip. “You did nothing wrong,” His tone falls to a gentle hush. “The fault lies within me.”

“I understand if you’ve a disdain for this marriage, but I simply wish for honesty, and to know you,” You begin, idly twirling a ring around on your finger, a gift from your mother. “You seem melancholy.”

Daeron chuckled mirthlessly at that, resisting the urge to take a swig of ale. Instead, he continued to meet you with transparency, something that you were owed.

“Melancholy,” He parrots, his gaze traveling across your chambers, towards the burning hearth. Within the fire, he can hear them; distant cries of dragons. “That is one word for it.”

“You seem weighed down by something.” As you assert yourself with such a claim, Daeron’s sardonic cadence begins to diminish entirely.

It gives him pause, violet hues daring to meet yours, and he’s greeted by an overwhelming amity. You’re longing to understand him, to treat him gently; he recognizes this now, plain as daylight.

Ghosts dance within his gaze, haunted by something; the corner of his mouth twitches sardonically. “If I told you, you may think me a madman. I do not wish to sully your view of me any further.”

Temptation sings a siren’s song from his flagon of mead, and he heeds its call, taking a swig to ease his frayed nerves. It doesn’t have the intended buzz he hoped for.

“I do not believe that madness courses through your blood as it does others,” Consolingly, your hand reaches to briefly brush over his forearm. “I’ve no ill feelings toward you.”

Daeron scoffs mirthlessly, your piety a stark contrast to his own sourness. “I would not begrudge you if you felt otherwise, my lady.” He murmurs, staring elsewhere.

“This distance between us — I cannot mend it if you do not tell me what troubles you,” Quietly, you twiddled with your skirts, able to smell honey mead wafting from him. “I ask this as your wife.”

“It is not your wound to mend,” There is a sharpness in his tone that is wholly self-deprecating, seizing the blame away from you. “Have you ever felt as if you are helpless?”

A hush settles between as you consider his words carefully, gaze flickering about your husband’s countenance. “Many times.” You answer softly.

“It feels like an inevitability,” Daeron utters, amethyst hues wet with a sheen of unshed tears. “That I foresee many things, and am powerless to stop any of it.”

“What do you mean?” Seeking elaboration, you are desperate to reach out to your husband, to understand the root of his plight. “Do you have premonitions?”

“Dreams,” Forlornly, the man glances at you with a wayward stare, lips parting. “Only mine are doomed to come true.” He sighs, shaking his head with a light huff.

Dreamers, they were called; those of Valyrian blood whose prophecies often came to fruition.

“You thought I might not believe you if you told me, is that it?” The cadence of your inquiry is agonizingly calm, a sweetness unlike any he’d felt before.

Silent, his head jostles in a light nod, teeth scraping against the inside of his cheek. The resolve he thought he had withers in the face of your kindness.

“I saw you,” Daeron’s voice trembles slightly, as if clinging to any last thread of optimism. He does not wish to crumble before you, but it becomes increasingly difficult. “Covered by ash and by ivy, shrouded in darkness.”

Bewildered, you moved to comfort him as best as you could, fingertips dragging along his temples. “I sit here before you unharmed, husband,” You assure, brows knitting together. “Flesh and blood.”

“I thought it might be easier to keep apart from you, fearing that my vision may come to light,” He realizes now the grave error he made. “Foolish, perhaps, but it comforted me.”

“I understand your desire for distance, but I do long for my husband,” You murmur, lips twitching into a brief smile. “Allow me to help you, and place your trust in me.”

Seven Hells, he did not deserve you. This amiable tenderness you treated him with shrouded him like midsummer sunlight, warm and welcoming.

“I do not deserve your kindness, nor you.” His voice is splintered, agonized by this cordiality you extend to him. A low huff slips past his lips, humorless.

“You are deserving, even if you have convinced yourself otherwise,” As your cadence twines around him like ivy, he attempts to heed your words. “If these dreams haunt you so, my Prince, let me stand between you and them.”

Daeron shivers when your fingertips ghost across his jaw, a kiss of warmth to melt away the ice that surrounds him. Wordlessly, he places his flagon aside; he does not need it now, not with you.

Gooseflesh coalesces along your spine as he turns into the silk of your palm, planting a chaste kiss there. Pale lashes flutter in rapid succession, amethyst hues softening with an understanding.

“I ask that you call me by my name,” The hushed eloquence of his cadence is like silk, soft lips continuing to lavish your wrist with kisses. “I no longer wish to be a Prince to you.”

Something warm blossomed throughout your belly, a sensation you’d been longing for since the inception of your marriage. You feel it there, hot and unfurling when he dotes upon you.

A hitch forms within your throat as Daeron’s gaze lingers on you for what feels like an eternity, extending beyond the realm of propriety. He is your husband, after all.

Yet, he seems unworthy of coveting you in the way that he does now; that is something he should’ve been doing all along.

Your beauty was never questionable, always something to boast about amongst his kin. Firelight laps at your skin, blanketed by the soft glow of waning embers, bathing you in orange.

It curls across your features like smoke, bringing out the gleam in your eyes. Daeron is uncertain of how to proceed, and the weight of consummating your marriage by his father’s command grows heavy.

Before he can say anything at all, you bridge the gap, mouth pressing softly against his. It is rather unexpected, but he doesn’t find himself recoiling.

He scarcely recalled the last time he kissed you fully; he assumed he was deeply intoxicated if he did. The gentleness of your kiss coaxes him to relax, even if it feels as though he is undeserving of your affection.

Admittedly, you were aching to be touched.

Before tonight, you resigned yourself to a life of misery, only pleasuring yourself to chase some semblance of relief. Part of you hoped that Daeron would indulge you, and you were not above begging.

Tension slowly unfurls from his posture as he reciprocates your kiss, hand lifting to cup your jaw. Even that alone is enough to make you shiver with anticipation.

“Daeron.” At last, his name floats freely from your lips, and it is the sweetest sound of all. He can taste the neediness on your tongue, feel it when you grip his arm.

“I’ve been a cruel husband,” He murmurs, mead-tinged breath fanning across your features. “I have neglected your needs, haven’t I?” Daeron questions softly, watching your expression flicker.

“I — It is not my place to make demands of you,” Despite your desire for transparency, you do not want to coerce him into anything. “Though I have longed to touch you.”

Something hot strikes at his stomach, as though he’s been burned, pale brows drawing together. The dull buzz of alcohol hums through his veins, and yet your embrace evokes a similar effect.

“If permitted, I would like to remedy my errors,” Daeron’s proposition sends shivers down your spine; this is what you’ve wanted from first glance. “I wish to share your bed.”

Without a drop of hesitation, you nod, almost pleading for him to touch you. You lack experience, a stark contrast to your once-rakish husband, but he wasn’t regarded as a rough lover.

“You may.” With your consent issued, his chest expands with a sharp inhale, attempting to gather his bearings and make this pleasurable for you.

Daeron has little interest in fully consummating your marriage this evenfall, hellbent on pleasuring you, instead. It is your ecstasy he should be pursuing, wholly intent on making up for squandered time.

“My father demands that I put a babe in your belly,” He hums lazily, thumb caressing over your chin. “I will obey him in my own sweet time. I wish to please you.”

The pitch of his cadence, wrought with an agonized desire, makes your stomach ripple with heat. Admittedly, you care little for a child at the present — you merely want to feel desirable.

“You may heed his demands another night,” The words are hurried, growing impatient with the brewing tension. You long to be touched, coveted. “For now.”

Though, much to his shock, it is you who kisses him again, hunger pouring from your mouth. He feels it simmer in your kiss like wildfire, threatening to consume the both of you, ashes and all.

Daeron stifles a soft groan, hand cupping near the nape of your neck, feeling your hands curl into his tunic. Each kiss is almost voracious, a torrent of repression you’ve suffered, and he feels everything.

Suppressed desire ripples to the surface, and for a moment, your heartbeats seem to sing a similar lullaby, both aching with want.

For a young maiden who lacks experience with intimacy, you kiss him as if you’ve kissed a thousand times before. It is oozing with passion, unrestrained and uninhibited.

A startled groan erupts within his throat when you bite at his bottom lip, tongue surging into his maw. It is a messy dance, tongues twining, lips colliding, and saliva conjoining the two of you.

Recognizing his own need, one hand drops to grope at your hip, thumb drawing circles over silk. He grips you gently, coaxing you closer, until the distance between is only a sliver.

Each kiss is messy, hot; it becomes an amalgamation of tongue, teeth, and everything amorous.

The shadow of stubble burns pleasantly against your mouth, and you consider what it might feel like between your legs. Daeron’s fingers lightly tangle at the base of your skull, caressing into your tresses.

He tastes of honeyed mead and sweetness, borderline ambrosial as you feel his breath hitch slightly. Perhaps he is just as needy as you are — the thought delights you to no end.

“I’ve thought of you often,” Your confession plumes like a warm breeze across his mouth, desperate and frayed. “Every moment you’ve spent away from me has been torturous.”

Daeron feels the razor-sharp stab of guilt flood into him, but he doesn’t want to stoop to remorse while you’re in his arms. “I am a fool to have left you in such a state.” He utters, gaze shimmering with desire.

It is he who kisses you openly this time, overflowing with a long-smothered desire. The fire within unfurls, and he realizes how much he truly wants you, too. Mouths join again, colliding over and over with desperation.

As lips part, his mouth drops to your throat, gingerly pushing your tresses aside, planting eager kisses to your neck. The noise you make causes him to shiver, breathing in your scent.

It is not the wine that dizzies his senses, but you — this creature of kindness entrapping him in your tender web.

“You are not,” The gasp that splits your mouth causes you to grip handfuls of his tunic. “I thought that there was something wrong with me.” You murmur, and he slowly shakes his head.

“No,” The smile he gives is a touch somber, quietly begging for your forgiveness. “Only me.” Daeron strings kisses down the column of your throat, towards your collarbone.

Gathering your shift into fistfuls, you hastily tug it up along the pliant swell of your thighs, settling into your husband’s waiting lap. A sharp gasp splits his diaphragm, amethyst hues alight with something amorous.

Spurred to action, he inhales your scent, overwhelmingly cloying as he mouths along your flesh. As he descends to your collarbone, his hand slips beneath your breast, a wisp of touch.

“I burn for your embrace, I need you terribly,” Despite the pathetic whine you give him, it is Daeron who seems a mess, shuddering at your confession. “Please, Daeron.”

He enjoys feeling longed-for, sought after; when you give him this gratification, he melts into you, lips pursing to suckle at the soft skin of your chest. When you tug on his hair, it is he who groans in delight.

As the sharp sound blossoms through his chest, you catch it, doe-eyed and wanting to hear the noise again. You pull at your husband’s pallid tresses again, and it earns you another groan.

Before your hand can think to drop to his groin, he stops you with a fervent shake of his head. “Do not,” Daeron soothes, pupils blown-out, lips parted. “This is about you tonight, not I.”

A protest nearly slips from your mouth, but he silences you with a chaste kiss, tongue caressing your bottom lip. Daeron’s mouth lavishes your collarbone in further kisses, gaze shadowed by desire.

Lips passionately brand themselves to your throat, collarbone, sternum — he leaves no inch of your chest untouched. He worships your body, adoring you so viscerally, so deeply.

Enthralled, you watch as his head sinks further, hotly pressing kisses over every inch of flesh he can find. He tugs at your slip, inching the collar down enough to find your breast.

Without warning, his mouth wraps around your nipple, softly suckling at the sensitive bud. A keening moan leaves you, palm cradling at the base of his skull, threading into his hair.

“Tell me what you need,” Daeron’s ardent moan flutters across your chest, his voice soft as it floats between the both of you. “Let me earn your forgiveness.” He slurs, pawing at your hip.

Something hot and wicked settles between your legs, slick arousal coalescing at his subservience. Despite your lack of experience, instinct and desire drive you forward without hesitation.

“I need you, Daeron, I need your mouth.” When you let your tongue loosen, he nods eagerly, mouthing at your chest. He showers your pliant flesh in kisses, suckling at silky skin, clutching onto your hip.

With a stroke of his lips, Daeron began to suck at the peak of your breast, nose brushing along your sternum. It was warm and wet, neediness bleeding into his actions, an inevitability.

The heat from the crackling hearth crawled across your body, leaving you feverishly hot in the wake of your husband’s ministrations.

A fire churned within your belly, longing to be extinguished by his touch. Instead, it only burned brighter when his hand slithered toward your thigh, squeezing at the satiny flesh there.

Finding solace within your flesh, a tendril of spittle clings to the corner of his mouth, shimmering when he moves to tongue at your other breast. He exhales sharply when you tug at his hair.

As one palm grips his tresses, the other clamors between your legs, hastily hitching your skirts up around your hips, exposing your flesh to the cooler air of your chambers.

Ravenous hues trace over your physique, pliant curves framed by thin silks. “Have you touched yourself in my absence?” Daeron rasps against your chest, words emerging between wanton kisses.

Inclined to answer transparently, your head jostles in a lingering nod, lips parted. A razed groan draws doggedly from his mouth, countenance ruined by sheer desperation.

“Yes,” A ragged whine splits your diaphragm as your legs part for him, hand tugging at his tunic. “I thought of you when I did, I — I longed for you, husband.”

It should’ve been his hand between your legs all those nights.

Seeking repentance for his abandonment of you, Daeron greedily suckles at your breast once more, hand slithering towards the apex of your thighs.

Deft, nimble digits sweep over the wet petals of your cunt, shivering in delight when he discovers your arousal. Something pleasant blossoms through his chest; a sense of pride that further spurs his confidence.

Words disintegrate to ash upon his tongue, squashed in the wake of his mouth buried against your flesh. Teeth graze over your nipple, lips hungrily slavering all across your breast.

Fingers circle your clit with care, brushing languidly over the sensitive clutch of nerves. A white-hot jolt ripples through your body, sending a shockwave of bliss to your cunt.

Practiced digits trace over your slit, sinking in sluggish, rhythmic motions across your cunt. A moan sits heavy upon your tongue, loosened when he accompanies it with suckling your breast.

“Forgive me for my neglect of you, wife,” Daeron sighs, tongue dragging along your sternum. One hand shifts to ruck at your slip, flicking along the silken ties. “I wish to see you properly.”

A rosy tongue darts to wet his bottom lip, amethyst hues seeming pathetic, expression one of ardent need. In hurried movements, you clamor from his lap, hastily tearing your chemise off.

Supple flesh becomes unveiled, assuming some ethereal glow beneath flickering firelight. It licks across your skin like paint against a canvas, and Daeron is powerless against your charm.

Some heady, wanton gleam flickers perilously within glassy hues, lips parted, his countenance nothing short of awe. He quietly bids you to sit on the chaise, bones aching with anticipation.

Wordlessly, he slinks down until he is kneeling between your legs, doublet half-unbuttoned, pale tresses scattered around his crown.

Dexterous fingers cradle your calf, caressing along soft skin, ascending towards the crook of your knee. Still silent, he places a kiss there, eyes boring through you with an incendiary gaze.

“D—Daeron,” A fluttery sigh is drawn from your mouth, your cadence pitched with a wanton thrill. “Seven Hells, please do not deny me any longer.” You plead, and he is delighted to obey.

Daeron sluggishly trails kisses along your leg, starting beside your knee before training upwards. He touched you brazenly, no longer anchored by the heavy weight of restraint.

The tips of your digits caress against the base of his skull, perusing through pale tresses, gripping whenever he starts to stray. He kisses a path to the apex of your thighs, stubble scratching at your skin.

“Tell me that you need me.” Daeron sighs, sloppy and wanton, openly mouthing at your inner thigh. His shoulders spread you apart, hands groping the swell of your hips.

Dreams cannot touch him here — no nightmares, no ominous premonitions wrought with confusion and disillusionment.

As you gaze upon him, he looks thoroughly and utterly razed, amethyst hues doe-like and wet, pink lips shimmering when he kisses your cunt.

Gooseflesh coalesces along your spine, pinpricks of exhilaration gripping your body. His mouth burns like warm embers, reverent and gentle as he laps sluggishly over your slick petals.

“Daeron.” A moan flutters from your mouth, lips agape, hand threatening to tug at his tresses. Your body reacts violently to him, held in a state of constant need for so long.

His tongue softly splits you open, dragging over your clit, able to discern just how aroused you are. A noise emanates from the back of his throat, craven and deliciously needy.

“Say it,” He begs hotly, spilling warmth into your cunt as he buries his mouth there. There is an eagerness present, something messy and tactless, but still bristling with desire. “Please.”

Even the finest of wines could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower.

“I — Gods, I need you,” A cloying whine simmers from your mouth, diaphragm quivering with another string of moans. You tug at his crown, hips lurching forward. “I need you, Daeron!”

The ecstasy he feels in that moment is unparalleled; the sensation of being wanted, of being useful.

Desperation tears him asunder, and yet he succumbs to it all the same, finding sanctity between your thighs. He kneels as if he’s a sinner, coming to whisper away his vices between your thighs.

Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s starving, ravenous.

The ragged scratch of his stubble burns pleasantly against your cunt, chafing at your inner thighs. His mouth is a messy thing — sloppy, raring, and desirous.

As molten heat oozes like honey against your nethers, Daeron is drawn to your nectar, akin to a bee. He steadies one hand against your thigh, digits caressing circles into your skin.

The other holds steadfastly to your hip, shivering in delight when your fingers intertwine with his. Every sensation digs like a hot brand into your core, bliss entangled with something divine.

He sheds his misery like a second skin, abandoning it there between your legs, allowing himself to become drunk upon your presence. It is an intoxication of a different kind, quelled as his tongue drags languidly over your cunt.

Touching yourself paled in comparison to the wondrous labyrinth of his mouth, hips jolting as you pathetically chase after every scrap of friction.

Daeron groans into your cunt, concentration blurred by the earlier consumption of alcohol. It burns his nerves, removing any sharp edges and hesitation.

“Better than wine.” He huffs against your thigh, mouth brazenly glistening with your slick. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip before he looks to you, hopelessly devoted.

Slowly, he descends upon you once more, gaze silently begging for your attention as he drags his tongue across your slit. You let out a strangled whine, flushed and writhing.

Shame is not present here, drowned out by your cacophony of sweet noises. He lets himself be tactless and amorous, lapping openly at your cunt like some slavering animal.

His cock twitches within his breeches, aching with something desirous, mouth raking over your silken flesh with a single-minded purpose. Pleasure is exchanged between you both, a cycle of ecstasy.

A searing intensity pulses hotly between your thighs, arousal thick on his tongue as he savors you. Whenever your hips begin to writhe elsewhere, he grounds you gently, urging you to his mouth.

It is then that he finds the pearl of your cunt, breath heavy and hot as his lips kiss at the clutch of nerves. Your knees shake, a gasp ripping through your windpipe with a suddenness.

“Daeron,” A keening moan flutters prettily from your throat, countenance askew with pleasure. The sudden pulse of bliss ebbs through your body, wrapping around your bones. “There, mm — there!”

The sudden crash of euphoria is unlike anything you’d experienced before, as if you were a smoldering fire stoked to life. You fear smothering him, but Daeron welcomes it all gleefully.

It is a masterful push-and-pull he plays with you, relinquishing pressure against your clit before lapping at it again, and then repeating. He is drunk on you, consuming you as if you were his lifeblood.

“Fuck,” Daeron sighs into your cunt, chin glistening with your slick, lips still working to make you reach your pinnacle. “You taste divine.” He exhales, grasping at your thighs.

He could stay like this for an eternity if you asked it of him; begged him, perhaps. Your body responds viscerally to him, fingers knotted into his tresses, tugging whenever he found a spot that made you writhe.

Your chest heaves with labored sighs of passion, thighs quivering as his tongue rakes across your cunt. He stops again at your clit, lips kissing and suckling at the small bud in cycles.

Arousal claws at his veins like fire, hips pathetically rutting forward, friction scarce. A wet sheen of tears glistens in his gaze, tears of ecstasy stinging as he continues to lap sloppily at your cunt.

You feel it, then; white-hot and incendiary, moving like smoke as it slithers across your body. Release slams into you after the slow crawl, and you almost collapse.

Stars float aimlessly within your gaze, head rolled backwards, back arched and thighs smothering his head. Daeron cares little, delighted to drown in your taste, holding onto your calves.

When at last the dam breaks fully, you tremble with ecstasy, limbs weightless, body floating into a feverish haze. Pale tresses slip through your fingers as you tug again, and tug with a sense of urgency.

He drinks you as he would his wine, and yet you taste sweeter, chasing away whatever shadowy plague torments his thoughts.

Even as you reach your pinnacle, he does not relent, open-mouthed and greedy as he laps at your drenched cunt. A sharp moan escapes him when you attempt to inch away, nearly overwhelmed.

“Not yet, I beg you,” Daeron pleads, breathless and wanton as he reluctantly parts from your nethers. He appears undone in such an amorous way, gaze full of need. “Allow me another moment.”

Bewildered, your head bobs in a lackadaisical nod, digits softly stroking through his tresses as he plants kisses to your slick petals. Another moan drags through your chest, flesh hot and tingling.

He slows to an exploratory crawl, tongue licking you like some keening kitten, hands trembling as he caresses along your haunches.

“Daeron, Gods.” Another passionate sigh escapes you, hips absently rolling into his mouth. He groans as if he’s succumbed to ecstasy, and you reach to hold his hand.

This act alone is what takes him to his own precipice, marked by a bliss he hasn’t experienced for some time. He cums untouched, embarrassingly enough, but he is wholly satisfied.

When he finally ceases, your countenance is one of veiled amazement, body drenched in pleasure, knees trembling like leaves. You watch as he rests his chin atop your thigh, huffing a smile.

The moment is warm; the warmest it’s felt since the beginning of your marriage.

Daeron appears the picture of a man who has regained some sliver of himself, content to recline between your legs, stroking at your skin.

“Lay with me.” It is not a command you utter, but merely a request, one that he heeds without question. As you shakily wobble from the chaise, you lay in your bed, with your husband at your side.

He settles down, and for as foreign as it all feels, he does think he could grow accustomed to it. You turn into him, laying partially on your belly and on top of him, feeling his palm smooth across your spine.

A serene hush settles between you both, born in the aftermath of carnality and intimacy. The buzz that hums through two bodies is shared; and it’s perfect.

“You are endearingly sweet,” He hums, shivering as your fingertips dance across his hairline, politely fixing his disheveled tresses. “I suppose you would make an excellent wife.”

The light jest he gives does bring a sense of easiness to your heart, knowing that he is serious in mending your relationship. He knows now that he wants you entirely.

“If you would allow me the opportunity, I’d like to be,” A tender smile curls your lips, and you plant a kiss to his jaw, and then another. “But only if you agree to be my husband.”

Daeron huffs in mild amusement, mauve hues no longer bearing the weight of an unimaginable anguish. They seem lighter now, as if part of a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

“Hm,” He ponders, playfully keeping you in a moment of suspense. His head tilts enough to look at you, truly look at you, and he knows now that he is understood. “I do have some learning to do.”

His confession is astoundingly honest, and it makes your heart call for him even more. Neither of you truly know one another — but you can start anew.

“As do I,” Adjusting yourself further, you curl comfortably against him, enjoying the sensation of his fingers caressing your back. “I believe it would be best if we learned together.”

“Yes,” Daeron exhales, mouth twitching into the ghost of a genuine smile as he gazes at the canopy, tears glistening within his gaze. “I’d like that.”

MAEKAR WAS MORE A STUBBORN, IRATE AUROCHS THAN A WRATHFUL DRAGON, YOU THOUGHT.

He oft held a disdainful expression, as if the atmosphere soured him; his children even moreso. All of them were mirrors to his own failures, his harsh approach to fatherhood.

Despite his own weighty harshness, the Prince still kept a deep-rooted love he held for his ilk, a staunch, stoic love that sometimes lacked an outward warmth.

Even you, his beloved wife, were typically subjected to his prickly behavior, but you’d grown rather accustomed to his hardened displays of affection.

The Anvil was certainly a title that befitting a man of his stern, martial caliber. Initially, you’d feared such behavior when you married him, but he was different with you in the sanctity of privacy.

When his temper ran hot, you were there to soothe him, and today was no exception to this. A tournament held in Ashford Meadow was intended as a respite, with Aerion competing for House Targaryen.

Jousting and swordplay were familiar concepts to you, with two knightly brothers. They were enjoyable to witness, but the bloody aftermath was something you abhorred.

Watching Prince Aerion drive his lance into a stallion today had made your stomach turn unpleasantly, and you knew that your husband wasn’t pleased, either.

You suspected that you would hear plenty of it from him come nightfall.

Peach-ripe sunlight glistened down upon fields of emerald, bathing the grass in an ember-like glow. The scent of smoke and petrichor hung heavily in the air.

As day bled to twilight, evenfall encroached with a balmy breeze, the heat of summertime quenched with dusk. The halls of Ashford Castle were quiet in the aftermath of your husband’s ire.

Much of his day had been consumed by local politics and lickspittles, sitting alongside his brother in the castle’s hall. On top of such boredom, two of his sons were missing — an unfortunate occurrence.

Exhaustion weighed heavy on mind and heart, his anger having settled to a mere simmer. Maekar knew well to wind himself down before coming to you if he could help it.

Ashford Castle was no Dragonstone, and certainly not Summerhall. It was comely, humble; your temporary quarters were small yet serviceable.

“Fucking tournaments.” Maekar hissed as he abruptly entered your chambers, pale brows drawn together. He never held his tongue, even around you.

He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and formidable, even as he proceeded to age. A grizzled, pale beard clung to his visage, violet hues almost a darker shade, much to your amusement.

It complimented his personality, you thought.

Old mahogany groaned in protest, as if announcing his presence as he harshly shut the door behind him. He wore a characteristic scowl, and though it seemed permanent, his gaze softened at the sight of you.

You were a creature of patience and piety, a tenderness that was sorely lacking in his troubled life. Young, too; youthful yet tempered by duty and a wisdom beyond your years.

Maekar would’ve barked at anyone who pegged him as a weak, gentle man, particularly for you; even he was susceptible to your kindly charm.

Steely eyes swept the room until they found you, sitting in one of the rickety chairs beside the hearth. With a hand tucked beneath your chin, you looked to be reading.

You were never without something in-hand, be it book, quill, or your own gowns.

He looked regal, clad in a rich, maroon doublet, accentuated with darker embroidery, resembling the heads of dragons. His silence did not irk you as it might have with other people.

“What’s this I hear about your dislike of tournaments?” You inquire without looking up, engrossed in a historical volume gifted to you at your wedding.

With a dogged exhale, Maekar’s nostrils flare as he strides across the room, joining you in the adjacent seat. The chair lets out an unsightly creak, one that makes his mouth curl into a frown.

“My sons,” He grouses, chest rumbling with a soft growl. “One of them impales a fucking horse, and the other flees from his responsibilities with his wine and lickspittles.”

In vain, he struggled to be a good father to his children. Perhaps he was too stern or too heavy-handed, but it had become difficult once his wife had passed.

Despite his own blunders and the faults of his children, he still loved them more than anything, and would love them still, disobedience be damned.

“Both of which are no fault of your own,” The tender consolation you offer does little to alleviate his obvious irritation. “You cannot control them.”

“It would certainly make things easier,” Maekar hisses, countenance contorting into a look of annoyance. “Their actions make me look foolish.”

“Such is the temperament of youth,” It is a notion that you can understand, being youthful yourself. Though, you’ve always prided yourself on maintaining maturity. “They’ll return, husband.”

A low exhale drags through his lungs, as if the very air he breathes is wreathed with steel. “You do not possess their recklessness.” He states matter-of-factly.

“I am not a man,” You chime, much to your husband’s wry bemusement. He huffs, and the sound of it conveys a sense of pride. “We aren’t taught to be reckless.”

“No, you have a sharp wit about you, instead.” Maekar’s praise is subtle, but it burrows marrow-deep. You cling to it with a veiled glee, elated to please him.

The sound of your laughter is the equivalent of pealing bells, pleasantly pitched and full of mirth. You’ve always been warm and spirited, a rather stark contrast to his stony demeanor.

It was a good balance — Baelor always told him that.

Violet hues dance about your figure, admiring the way your shift clings around your hips. Despite his subtle ogling, he always ends with your face, a thing of beauty, and the envy of many.

Maekar considered himself fortunate to have a wife who seemed wholly interested in him, and not quivering in fear. Your gentle hand stilled the raging fire within him, like a kiss of ice.

“I must confess, I do understand the desire to flee from one’s duty,” The suddenness of your confession catches his attention. “The thought has lingered on many occasions.”

Lofting a brow, Maekar’s gaze shifts to you, as if you were insinuating something. “Tired of me already?” He questions, which does get you to laugh.

“Hardly,” Marking your page, you shut the tome with a soft thud, likely catching a whiff of dust in the process. “I evaded several attempts at marriage until I could no longer escape it.”

You hadn’t told him this story before.

Maekar was keenly aware of your difference in age, something that had chafed at his morals initially. Though, he’d come to realize that you were a breath of fresh air in many aspects.

Perplexed, he sits taller in his chair, countenance furrowed with vexation. “How many lords did you spurn?” There is a hint of wry amusement in his voice; just enough to draw interest.

“Three,” Your admission gets him to scoff, a rarity, and one that you take pride in hearing. “I only feared your name, and not you. I had heard many embittered whispers surrounding Targaryens.”

“Hm,” Maekar murmurs, gaze flickering toward the glow of crackling embers. He turns his signet ring around on one hand, contemplative. “I thought you a shrewd creature, when we first met.”

“You are not soft in your approach, in my defense.” You countered, lips curling into a bright smile, warm enough to melt the iciest of exteriors.

“Good,” He grumbles, but there is an underlying sense of playfulness, known only to you. “I should like to keep it that way, lest whispers spread of my tender hand.”

Another laugh escapes you, and it is beautiful to behold, even if he wouldn’t confess to it outright. You fill a void in him left behind by Dyanna, with no aim to replace her.

You simply exist alongside her; growing together, instead of attempting to overtake her memory. It is this kindly consideration you give that makes him adore you more than he thought possible.

Learning to love another again was no easy feat, and yet it had come so effortlessly with you. Maekar’s shattered heart was slowly mended by your tenderness, and he wouldn’t forget it.

“About your sons,” The saccharine pitch of your voice is somewhat of a relief, soothing and pleasant. “I am certain that Aegon will turn up. He is adventurous and spirited.”

“Too adventurous, that boy,” Maekar grunts with disdain, but it is all born from that of a concerned father. “He is my last son.” He utters with an unfamiliar softness, something tempered.

“I know, Maekar,” Your visage is one of concern and understanding, fearing for Aegon just as he does. He was young enough to sate a motherly need within you. “What of Aerion?”

“A fucking imbecile,” He quips, lifting a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose, visibly taut with coiled agitation. “Calling himself Brightflame.” Maekar sighs; he loves that boy to death, despite it.

“You look as though you might snap into two,” Without being commanded, you stand up, moving to hover behind your husband’s seat. “You must relax.”

Maekar’s inhale is distinct, sharp when he feels your soft palms settle against his shoulders. He’s bedded you on a handful of occasions, but this stirs his blood, awakes something primal.

A low noise emanates from him when your lips grace the crown of his head, a gesture that might’ve exacted irritation, but it was you.

“We should’ve never left Summerhall,” His constant grumbling and petulance often amused you. “Fuck the tournament.”

“You are perhaps the most cantankerous man I’ve ever known,” You muse, a pearlescent smile stuck to your features. “I understand your troubles, husband, but further ire won’t help.”

“I should have your tongue for such insolence,” Maekar crabbed, pale brows drawn together so tightly that you thought it might become permanent. “You are fortunate that I am merciful.”

“If you take my tongue, you will regret it,” There is a teasing lilt in your tone, one that he detects immediately. “You must unburden yourself, Maekar. Must I force you?”

The Prince releases a pensive sigh, theatrically slouching into his chair to satisfy your whims. Admittedly, he does enjoy being doted on by you like this.

He’s silent for a moment, as if attempting to conjure up some witty remark for your amusement. Instead, his thoughts linger perilously on your hands circling his shoulders.

Maekar’s theoretical unburdening involved his mouth between your legs, and yet he aired on the side of restraint. He was remarkably strong in willpower, but he was still a mortal man.

In the sanctity of your chambers, he allowed himself to become a mortal man for you, capable of vulnerability.

“Force me,” He scoffed, a rare, mirthful twinkle glistening within his eyes. “You will do no such thing.” Something low and sultry crept into his voice, a cadence you hadn’t heard before.

“Not force, perhaps, but persuasion.” You muse, and he can envision the mischievous curve of your mouth from where he sits.

“Careful,” Maekar utters, as if issuing a stern warning. “You severely underestimate my own willpower. It wounds my pride.” His stoic tone splinters with hints of amusement.

“I wouldn’t dare.” Wisps of your warm breath fan out across the nape of his neck, nearly prompting him to shiver. This banter you’ve concocted brings you immense joy.

As one of your palms kneaded lovingly into the muscle of his shoulder, he reached for your hand, silently bidding you to cease. He pressed a kiss to your wrist, an arduous gesture.

The sound that floated from your mouth filled him with a quiet pride, knowing that he could still make your heart leap. He peers at you searchingly, watching your expression falter.

“It seems it is your willpower that is easily swayed, my love.” Maekar remarks, low and sonorous. The flustered expression on your countenance is most satisfying to him.

Smitten, you are easily susceptible to your husband’s hand. When warm words fail him, action is always quick to take its place.

Something daring dances upon the tip of your tongue, something that you fear asking.

Unfortunately for you, Maekar is a learned man, calculating; he knows you wish to speak. “Go on then, wife. You’ve something to say.” He states plainly.

“If it pleases you,” Your tone is teetering, as if you’re attempting to walk a fine line of propriety and desire. “There are many ways to unburden yourself of this frustration.”

Fire blossoms through his veins, that consuming desire to take you then and there. Still, he doesn’t indulge in his own fantasies yet, head cocking to one side.

“Is that so?” Maekar’s timbre deepens, a noise akin to the rumbling of thunder before a deluge. The tension rises suddenly, tinged with exhilaration. “Come here, then.”

Something warm stirs within your belly as you circle the chair he sits in, coming to stand before him. He reaches out, and you feel his hand lightly pinch at your hip.

Even still, he seems the picture of a resilient man, resisting the urge to fall to baser instincts. Though, Maekar crumbles internally, wanting nothing more than to taste and fuck you properly.

He sits with a dignified, assured posture, gaze meeting yours as he gestures toward your garments. “You can unburden yourself of this.”

The remark he gives you is witty and succinct, causing you to bristle with heat. “I would, husband, but it does require a second set of hands.” You reply earnestly, not hiding your smile.

“Stubborn woman,” Maekar grunts, knowing that you do not need his help; you want it, instead. Even then, he indulges you, standing without an ounce of hesitation. “I highly doubt that.”

Practiced, calloused digits press into your hip as he turns you around, fingers working on the numerous laces of your evening gown. In such close proximity, he can smell you; honeyed, always saccharine.

Gooseflesh coalesces along your spine as your husband makes short work of your slip, and you shiver when he presses a careful kiss to your shoulder.

It is something he does quietly, without boast or remark, strong hands lightly cupping your hips. His beard scratches ragged over your silky skin, making you preen beneath his touch.

The weight of his own frustration begins to wane in your presence, calmed to a simmer. He presses a trail of kisses towards your throat, hearing you gasp.

Firm hands pull you closer, caging you against his chest as he lavishes your throat in hungry kisses. That irritation he felt is all channeled into something else, into wanting you — it’s much easier that way.

Teeth lightly ghost over the juncture between your throat and shoulder, causing a moan to float from your lips. Maekar is experienced, and he uses it to his advantage.

“Is this what you wanted?” A husky lull sighs against your flesh, low enough for only you to hear. Before you can answer properly, he bites your shoulder.

“Perhaps.” You exhale, sharp and splitting, wrought with exhilaration. Swiveling upon your heel, you turn violently, lips colliding against his with a vigor.

Maekar grunts, a grizzled noise that reminds you of an animal instead of a prince. He is characteristically quiet, a brewing storm of a man who kisses like thunder.

As your shift loosens, he guides you to where he wants you, a rather gentle manhandling. He nudges you toward the lounge bench at the end of your bed, beseeching you to sit.

“Maekar.” You sigh with passion, hands twisting into his doublet as you kiss his mouth again. He reciprocates it with a domineering fire of his own, endlessly ravenous.

“Sit down.” His command is gravelly, a low purr that scratches deliciously at the back of your mind. You obey him without question, and he doesn’t waste time kneeling before you.

The sight of your indomitable husband knelt between your legs like a sinner coming to confess makes your bones turn to molten liquid.

Violet hues swirl with a tempestuous desire, lust infused with an unwavering devotion. He tugs at the hem of your shift, guiding it up along your legs with some deftness.

It is you who worms away to shrug out of it altogether, discarding your gown somewhere over your bed. A pathetic half-moan leaves you when he kisses your inner thigh.

He unburdens himself then.

That anger he wore like a shroud is discarded, quelled as his tongue drags languidly over your cunt. The sensation makes you gasp, loosing an eager moan with his ministrations.

The ragged scratch of his beard sits pleasantly between your legs, your petals slick with a warm arousal. He is deliberate yet vigorous, firm hands keeping you apart, mouth buried.

A drove of sweet noises leave you, floating into the warm, open air of your chambers. Your hands dig at either side of you, nails catching on velveteen cushions.

The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he greedily laps at your core. Your taste permeates his mouth, a bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into a possessive haze.

The ministrations of his tongue are divine, as if this skill is something he’s practiced for some time. You are well-aware of his experience, of how he wields it.

A coil of taut heat tightens in your belly as Maekar deftly laps at your cunt, like that of a man starved. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you reach to tug at his pale tresses.

Alarmed by the sound, you immediately release his crown, much to your husband’s audible displeasure. He ceases for a moment, brows drawn together.

“Fucking Hells, woman,” Maekar growls, lips wet with your slick. “Why did you stop?” He questions, his annoyance lacking any malice behind it.

“I thought I hurt you, husband.” You nearly fumble over your words, torn asunder by ecstasy. Heat clings to your body like a feverish haze.

“Nonsense,” Another wave of grousing leaves him before he gestures to your hand. “I am not made of glass.” With that, his mouth returns hotly to your throbbing cunt.

Appeasing your paramour, you reach again, digits curling over the pale tresses at his crown. You pull sharply this time and without mercy, eliciting a growl of approval from him.

A tremor gripped your thighs, twitching around his head as your hips lurched forward. The friction that simmers between you both is enough to keep him hungry, tongue lapping at your cunt.

A low, sonorous growl erupted from the depths of his throat, tongue possessing a fervent desire of its own.

The shadow of his beard scratched against your supple flesh, leaving behind a prickling burn in its wake. You cared little for what mess it would leave, galloping after whatever pleasure Maekar provided.

Lurching forward, your hips jolted, urging yourself onto his tongue with a twinge of desperation. His mouth continued to greedily lap at your slit, teasing your entrance before moving to ghost around the pearl of your cunt.

It is then that presses a string of wanton kisses to the sensitive clutch of nerves. A shiver of delight grips your spine, throat erupting with a moan as your back begins to arch.

Your husband ruins you with such perfection, bringing you into the throes of pleasure, a bliss unlike any other. He is a man of few words, less so when he’s betwixt your thighs.

As your belly pulls tight with a heated coil, you do little to conceal your volume, releasing another delighted moan as he devours you further.

Everything is precise, controlled when it comes to his actions, and he knows exactly what you need. He laps over your clit a time or two, lips teasing the sensitive bud until you’re quivering.

“Maekar,” A shiver curls around your spine, visage contorted into a look of bliss as he takes you to your pinnacle. “Please, please don’t stop!”

Perhaps it is you who needs unburdening, and not him.

Strong hands hold steadfastly to your hips, rings like icy brands against your hot flesh. He keeps you pinned there, pleasuring you with his mouth as if it were his duty.

Pushed toward the precipice, your nerves are set ablaze, body responding to the ecstasy he brings you. Your pinnacle comes swiftly, white-hot and overwhelming.

The stolid, aloof wall he’d constructed melts in your presence, like the kiss of summertime. Maekar lets himself drown in you, in your honeylike sweetness.

The taste of you is emblazoned upon his tongue, and there is no equivalent, nothing that can match such ambrosia. As he tongues over your clit, he feels you shiver around him.

When at last the dam breaks, you tremble with ecstasy, limbs weightless, body floating into a feverish haze. Pale tresses slip through your fingers as you tug again, and tug hard.

A satisfied noise rumbles through his chest as he kisses at your cunt, even through your pinnacle. You are attempting to pry his mouth away, slick and sensitive.

“Stop fussing,” Maekar grizzles from between your thighs, countenance contorted into a stern expression. “Let me finish this, wife.” He utters, and you nearly laugh.

This was your idea, after all.

He savors another moment spent lavishing your cunt, feeling your grasp slack against his crown. Maekar is quite generous with his affection when it comes to you, to the surprise of many.

When your husband emerges victoriously, tongue lashing over his bottom lip and features blossoming with scarlet, he looks over you with a thinly-veiled fondness.

“Gods above,” You huff breathlessly, doe-eyed and feeling euphoric as you sink into the lounge. “Do you feel satisfied, husband?” Your inquiry is slightly humorous, a tender lull.

“Not quite.” Those amethyst hues lose their typical stoicism, exchanged for a warmth reserved only for you, and you alone.

On wobbling legs, you stand, prepared to have him again, hands tangling into his doublet. He looses a satisfied growl when you kiss him wantonly, aiming to disrobe him, make him an equal.

It is a sluggish dance toward your shared bed, and he does not protest your wishes when you brusquely shove the fabric of his tunic aside. He is strong, scarred; a thatch of pale hair sits upon his chest.

When his teeth scrape over your bottom lip, another whine of desperation escapes you. “I need you, Maekar,” Your admission is certain to wake the dragon. “Please.”

His mouth buries itself against your throat again as you hastily go about untethering his trousers, as if the moment carries a sense of urgency.

Vexation dwindles into lust, the carnal need he has for you, deeply rooted within him. He is deliberate with you when he wants to be, but your swiftness calls him into action.

Flesh against flesh, you let out a soft cry when he bites too fiercely, sure to leave behind a bruised sting. He does it again, marking you, ensuring that everyone knows who you belong to.

Greed was a sin, possessiveness; when it came to you, he was a great sinner.

Maekar possessed the hotblooded stamina of a man in his prime, age doing little to hinder him. With a desirous fire in his gaze, he is swift to get you into bed.

As you settle down onto the feathered mattress, he’s there to crawl on top of you, bullying his way between your legs. Your hands grip his broad shoulders, gasping when he kisses you.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, feel the rugged bristle of his beard as his mouth collides with yours. The kiss is hot and passionate, with no sign of stopping.

The thick, lengthy swell of his cock throbs hotly against your cunt, his arousal plain for you to feel. It makes you shiver, nails digging into his skin.

“You ruin me.” Maekar rumbles beside your ear, pressing another ravenous kiss to the curve of your jaw. His words are devastatingly effective on you, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

With that, he pushes forward, cock penetrating your cunt in one precise stroke. He isn’t sluggish, but he isn’t rough with you, either.

There is a medium he finds, a fine line between beast and man, holding his honor aloft. The familiar stretch you feel makes you sigh with passion, heat simmering between bodies.

A grunt reverberates through his chest, sharp nose brushing over yours in another kiss. This one is bruising, innately possessive, as if issuing a reminder of whom you belong to.

His name fell from your lips like some sacred prayer, whispered into the snared warmth of joined mouths, distance nonexistent.

The pliant peaks of your breasts had brushed against his muscled chest, your other hand snapping to grip at his bicep like a vice.

It was driving him mad, the way your cunt constricted around his cock, the way in which your back arched from the furs, chest flush to his.

Maekar released another growl, jaw set and brows furrowed in concentration as he kneaded into your thigh, something to alleviate his tension. He snapped forward, cock driving into you at a steady pace.

Nails sink further into his flesh, leaving behind both a sting and red crescents. A myriad of soft moans erupt from your throat, countenance relaying a look of sheer bliss.

“Gods, Maekar,” Another whine floats from your mouth, thick with desperation and want as he fucks you thoroughly. “I’ve missed this.”

The wanton, heady sound of your confession makes his blood simmer, heart calling your name. He grunts, pressing another eager kiss to the hollow of your throat.

A shiver passes through your spine, heat crawling over you like a fever as he continues to rut into you. His ministrations are repetitive; steady, needful thrusts.

It’s all very sharp; his cock hits you deep each time, as if he’s trying to bury himself within you. Your cunt clenches around him, faces brushing over one another.

A low, murmured ‘fuck’ leaves his mouth, pale tresses somewhat disheveled, amethyst hues akin to molten violets; dragon’s fire.

When he feels your leg hitch up to tangle around his hips, he finds his resolve crumbling away like stone against the tides. “Temptress.” He grouses, biting at your bottom lip.

“Yours.” The breathy, tender correction you provide tapers off into another gasp when he rocks forward. Maekar gazes upon you, enraptured; a blazing devotion.

His cock battered away at your slick cunt, aided by your mounting arousal. Everything felt so feverishly warm, as if you had been set ablaze, nerves feeling like they were steeped in fire.

The bite of your nails dig fervently into his shoulders, clawing at his back. Maekar’s hips urge against yours, cock sheathed deep inside of you.

Foreheads press together, mouths tangling in a snare of hot kisses and clashing teeth. A satisfied noise leaves your husband, who is losing himself in his own pleasure.

Hands that have split skulls and obliterated men fall softly against your haunch, dragging against your thigh as he fucks you deeply. You feel it in your belly, every thrust making your head spin.

Each drag of his hips is like searing embers, cock sluggishly drawing out of you before he eases back inside. Your back arches, lips apart, and you’re melting beneath him.

As he nears his release, any deliberation turns to passion, cock sinking into you over and over again. Maekar is deliciously thick, in a way that fills you completely.

When your nails begin to pierce flesh, you start to loosen your grasp until your near-feral husband bids you otherwise.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” He snarls beside your ear, murmuring something indiscernible in Valyrian. Your cunt clenches pathetically around his cock as you release another moan. “That’s it, beloved.”

A bit of pain never phased him, particularly from you, his tenderhearted paramour. Subservient to your crazed husband, you scratch further, until he growls into your mouth.

“Maekar,” His name sits heavy on your tongue, reverent and beguiled as he fucks you steady, beard burning your lips. “Gods, Ma — Seven Hells!”

As his cock spears you yet again, pleasure blends with pain for your husband until the both of you reach your pinnacle.

Carelessly, he spills his seed inside of you, filling you to the brim with his spent. There is some primal itch to give you a child, one of your own, and yet he has little desire to unleash another hellion upon the realm.

Though, he imagines one with your temperament — and perhaps, he can live with that.

Reaching your own release, bliss ripples through you, white-hot and scathing, as if you might simmer into ash. Your throat trembles with simpering moans, gasping for composure.

He stills, bodies flush together, naught but ragged, labored sighs filling the space between. Amusingly enough, he almost seems placated, an eerie calm; unburdened, as you’d call it.

Maekar’s stalwart, harsh countenance has faded into something softer, worn yet amiable. Violet hues relinquish their steeliness as he plants a kiss to your brow.

“I might’ve hurt you, husband.” Your concern, whilst kind, is of little importance to Maekar. The sting he feels from your nails is but a reminder of his own devotion.

“You forget I’ve fought in many battles,” He soothes, seemingly unperturbed by what marks you’ve left behind. “Your nails are damned feathers compared to what wounds I’ve endured.”

Climbing down from your pinnacle, you stifle a low whine when your husband removes himself from you, leaving behind a warm mess between your thighs.

Maekar settles beside you, broad musculature inviting you in without protest. A silvery gloom pools in through old, worn glass, bathing you in blanched light.

The aftermath is hushed with the scent of sex and spiced smoke from the hearth, a comfortable silence that allows him contemplation.

“You do seem less tense,” Your remark is accompanied by the soft curl of your lips, a glint of amusement shimmering in your eyes. “My methods have calmed you after all, dearest.”

A scoff escapes him, and you can feel his pointed glower from where you lay, chin carefully tucked against his collarbone. It bores through you with a searing intensity.

Despite it, he still looks upon you with a fierce ardor, a protectiveness exuding from him. You feel his hand come to cup your chin, calloused thumb dragging languidly along your jaw.

With a characteristic grumble, your boulder of a husband does treat you to the faintest of smiles. “You might be unburdening me more often, wife.”

Emerald foliage hugs the silty banks of a winding stream, twisting through the woodlands of Ashford Meadow. The summery breeze that whispers through carries the scent of dew, petrichor, and smoke.

A balmy heat clings to a midday sun, obscured by the occasional wisp of cloud. It splits through the canopy, bathing leaves in shades of gold.

Fluttering wings of a songbird settle against the elm’s outstretched branches, serenading the man beneath it with its twittering lullaby. Sun spills over him, catching upon his dusky-blonde crown.

At its misshapen base, Dunk sits with a pensive brow and a maelstrom of improper thoughts, ones that, if vocalized, would call for the removal of his head.

Situated beside the remains of a snuffed campfire, is you — a princess of the realm, one who seemed unusually content in his presence.

Blood of the dragon, a Targaryen; scion of Baelor, the Hand of the King, Breakspear. Dunk could still scarcely fathom why a princess of the realm indulged in his company.

Careworn hands sit laced together atop his middle, fingers idly drumming against his tunic. His gaze hasn’t left you for several minutes, sheepishly following the soft contours of your features.

A cloak of velvet swallowed you whole, the hue of spilled crimson, billowing beneath the breeze. Draconic embellishments were woven into your gown, hem steeped with mud from your constant traversing.

“You don’t seem worried about gettin’ into trouble, m’lady,” Dunk remarks, comfortably sprawled beneath the tree. “I’m not exactly splendid company.”

Upon your arrival to Ashford Meadow alongside your kin, you had little desire to witness the carnage wrought by blood and blade.

Whilst Valarr demonstrated prowess upon the tournament grounds in the name of House Targaryen, you sought to assimilate amongst the smallfolk. It was a lively tapestry, one that you longed to weave yourself into.

You indulged in the occasional ale, breathed in the crisp air of the Ashford forests, and nimbly evaded the watchful eye of your Kingsguard. For a moment, you simply were — no title, no nobility, just yourself.

Two nights prior, you encountered Ser Duncan wandering the grounds, horse in-tow, wide-eyed and seeking refreshment. Humility was not lost upon him, nor his immeasurable compassion.

It was then that you engaged in conversation, perplexed and magnetized by this hedge knight. He was good; that piety you witnessed drenched his very being.

Goodness was not a commonality found in the realm — it was a rarity, akin to a gemstone hidden amongst mounds of rubble. Duty kept you bound to a life opposite of his; one of rigidity, not a shred of freedom.

“Do not sell yourself short, Ser,” The softness of your cadence wrapped him in silk, with all the sweetness of honey. “I find you to be riveting.”

“Riveting,” Dunk sputters, features ruddy with heat as he shakes his head. “You might find the horses to be a bit more entertainin’.”

“Perhaps,” You mused, chest expanding as you inhaled a gust of dew-laden air. “They are beautiful creatures, are they not? I quite enjoy a morning ride.”

With a stirring of his throat, he sits a little taller, grunting when rough bark cuts uncomfortably into his spine. “Beautiful, I s’pose — pains in the arse, some of them. Pardon my tongue, princess.”

Jovial laughter resonates throughout the grove, easing his embarrassment to a mere lull. He thinks himself to be little more than a prattling jester in your presence.

“Pardoned, Ser,” A teasing lilt spills from your tongue as you exhale, looking upon him with a peculiar softness. “Do you look forward to fighting in the tournament?”

“Of course,” He peacocks, his own facade of confidence bolstered by the timbre in his voice. “I hope to emerge a champion, once it’s over.”

“I am certain that the Gods will favor you,” There is a sweetness to you that he finds compelling; one worth fighting for. “If your heart is true, you shall find victory.”

“You believe that?” Dunk inquires, sitting up properly, forearms perched against his knees. He’s massive even when prone, all thick muscle and stretched limbs, and yet his eyes are exceedingly gentle.

“I do,” Your answer fills him with some sliver of hope. “The realm lacks knights like yourself — serious about your vows, a defender of the smallfolk, and selfless.”

“I am honored by your praise, m’lady,” He wonders what he did to deserve such accolades, but accepts them nonetheless. “You must not know many knights.”

“Not all of them have your heart, Ser Duncan.” Hands smooth over your skirts, an elegant dress that seems far too gaudy for a romp through the woodlands.

Though, it certainly isn’t lightweight, either. The refuge of the elm’s shade provides a needed respite from the growing heat, suffocating you in a gilded cage of velvet and pretty silks.

Whilst you toil in your gowns, Duncan admires the intricate fabrics, the way they contrast with your features, bringing out details he commits to memory.

A lump forms within his throat, cerulean hues tracing over the gracious curve of your throat. The neckline of your garment is trimmed in rubies and opals, flesh unblemished, a canvas of perfection.

Some wicked part of him considers what beauty rests beneath, features flushing with scarlet when he thinks too hard. It’s improper, crass to think of you in such ways.

It is unavoidable.

“Might I ask a favor of you, Ser Duncan?”

The amiable lull of your voice drags him from the brink of mental debauchery, much to his relief. He nearly coughs, straightening where he sits when you address him properly.

Who was he to refuse a princess of the Realm?

If the circumstances were different, he wouldn’t have a choice but to heed your wishes. Dunk’s scramble to adhere to your request made your nose wrinkle in wry amusement.

“Of course, m’lady.” He stumbles to kneel, movements clumsy and unpracticed. The sound of your laughter makes him bristle with embarrassment.

“You needn’t kneel, Ser,” As you rise from the grass, you gesture to the longsword sitting against the elm’s ancient trunk. “Could you teach me?”

Duncan stands, gaze finding the shoddy scabbard shielding Arlan’s sword from the elements. His incredulity is evident, marked by lofted brows and a tense jaw.

“Teach you to fight? Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but don’t you have a flock of Kingsguard for that?” Dunk questions, his tone considerate yet gentle.

“I do not wish to become a master-at-arms overnight, Ser — I only ask to know how to hold a blade, handle it, swing it at that wall if I must.” Gathering your skirts, you step towards the tree.

“A Kingsguard could teach you better than I, m’certain.” Persistent, he edges you toward the logical choice. Dunk already feels immense pressure — you’re a Princess, wasting your time alongside his ilk.

“The Kingsguard are of better use protecting my father and uncle,” Nearing the longsword, your gaze traces the well-worn hilt, across steel and silver. “I want you to show me.”

“Your Lord-Father would have my head if he knew,” His tone is somewhat pained, wrought with a tangle of nerves clotted in his belly. “I shouldn’t …”

“I won’t force your hand, Ser,” The graciousness of your smile is enough to make his knees buckle, not an easy feat for a man of his stature. “It was merely a request, one that you can deny.”

“Denyin’ a princess seems a dangerous gamble,” Flustered, his admission prompts you to laugh, shooting him a look. “My apologies.”

“Do you think me so spoiled, Ser Duncan? I would never make any demands of you,” Soft and marrow-deep, your velvety voice sinks into his bones. “You are a good man.”

“You flatter me, m’lady,” Scarlet clings to his features even still, not to be mistaken by the kiss of sunshine. Calloused hands fold together as he clears his throat. “S’pose I could show you a few techniques.”

This sort of defiance did ignite a fire within you.

Your father was a good man; tempered, just, and compassionate. However, all goodness had its limits, and your recent betrothal to a Lannister turned you sour.

If it were your choice, you would’ve favored someone like Ser Duncan the Tall — someone humble, whose penchant for selflessness outweighed ego. There was no charm equal to tenderness of heart.

Strength rests within his hands, firm and taut with years of earnest work, knuckles scraped, digits calloused. Hands that would handle you gently, you were certain.

A pang of molten heat struck violently at your belly as a slew of unholy fantasies invaded your mind like a festering plague. You thought of Dunk — of his mouth, his hands, how he might feel beneath you.

Quietly, your gaze raked over the muscle of his forearms, each layered in a dusting of dusky-blonde hair, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his tunic.

This flicker of desire would prove difficult to extinguish.

“I do not wish for you to think of me as your superior,” It was insistent, your request; simple, you thought. “I am your equal in all measures, Ser Duncan.”

It was difficult to mask the shock he felt, lips parting in surprise. “Well, not in all measures, Princess,” Duncan protested, quieting when you sighed. “Sorry.”

“You must think me privileged for this, but status is sometimes burdensome,” Forlornly, your eyes drifted elsewhere, toward the sky. “For a woman.”

Dunk had spent much of his youth regaled by Ser Arlan regarding the snobbish, spoiled nature of nobility. Princes, princesses, lords, ladies — all of them too vain.

You didn’t strike Dunk as vain.

The longer he stared at you, the more he attempted to understand your desire for liberation, for wanting to hold a blade, or to sleep beneath the stars.

“It isn’t my place to judge, m’lady,” He consoles, blue hues fluttering about, attempting to maintain an element of propriety. “I thought all Targaryens were …”

“Exhaling fire and scorching with fury?” The mirth within your tone was unmistakable, accompanied by another dazzling smile that sparkled beneath the sunlight.

“Some of them,” Dunk shuddered to think of the serpentine Prince Aerion, with a gaze as sharp as razors. “Some are kinder.” A low rumble spread throughout his chest.

Warmth slithered over the back of your neck, tendrils of fire that clung to your flesh. It was soothed only by another wisp of breeze, easing the flame that danced within you.

Silence simmered, creeping between the both of you like ivy, holding with it a veiled tension. Attraction was to be expected — you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, far too ethereal for the likes of him.

Golden sunlight curled across your crown, drenching you in midday embers. It glittered against your smile, a gentle thing, one that regarded Duncan as someone worthy of attention.

“Perhaps I could return at twilight,” It was a brazen suggestion, one that turned his stomach with nerves. It required sneaking off from your tents — again. “If that suffices.”

“Are you certain? Won’t you have to …” Dunk’s rambling ceases when he notices the look you give him; amused, as if he’s said something humorous.

“I am elusive, and I am certain that I won’t be caught,” Your assurances did little to alleviate his worry, but he conceded to you anyway. “Do not fret, Ser Duncan.”

Despite your reassurance, Dunk contemplates all possibilities; if you’re followed, if you’re caught with him alone, if you are questioned in regards to your whereabouts.

Though, he finds a strange sense of serenity in your heartened smile. It reminds him of sunlight striking water at the first sigh of dawn; glittering, bright, and breathtaking. His heart sings at the sight of you before him.

“If you are caught?” Dunk pipes up as you inch toward the woodland, hem catching upon undergrowth with a sense of carelessness.

“Then I will treasure the time that I had with you, Ser Duncan the Tall.” With that, you turn on your heels, your mirthful grin emblazoned on his mind like a hot brand, certain to never leave his thoughts.

Gods help him.

Twilight chases the day away, veins of violet infusing an orange horizon, bringing with it a cloak of encroaching darkness. Stars twinkle overhead, a thousand kisses of a celestial light.

As sunlight wanes into dying embers, Dunk paces beside a crackling campfire, wisps of fire dancing away into a cooler dusk. Sienna blankets emerald glass, casting shadows over the great elm.

Anxiousness gnaws away at his stomach like a beast clawing at a carcass, eating his marrow, leaving only his nerves in the wreckage.

He assumes the worst — you aren’t coming.

Calloused hands perch themselves against his hips, kneading into rough-hewn fabric for a semblance of relief. Every distant stirring of wildlife sends a jolt of fear through him.

Dunk half-expects Prince Baelor to storm through the trees with his white-cloaks like a reaper come to collect his head, but nothing happens. Instead, he’s met with a stretch of endless silence.

It is only when your silhouette moves gracefully through darkness that he eases his pacing.

Gone are your lavish gowns, exchanged for something pretty yet simplistic, a rich violet swathed in your cloak. Any intricate braids are pinned down, and his breath hitches at the sight of you.

A smaller, bejeweled knapsack hangs loosely from your hand, a token of repayment for your unlikely instructor. As you weave through the grass, a warm smile spreads across your features.

“Good eve, Ser Duncan,” Greeted by a comely hearth and his handsome visage, you unclasp your cloak, placing the garment upon a lower branch. “I’ve brought you something.”

He nearly blossoms when you reveal your gift; foodstuffs, his weakness. It’s a colorful array of baked pastries, fresh fruits, and a hunk of cured ham, wrapped carefully in a scrap of fine cloth.

“You didn’t have to,” Dunk mumbles, stomach lurching violently. He eats for two, a man of his indomitable size; he welcomes the meal. “Thank you, m’lady. This is generous of you.”

“Rumor has it that you’ve a penchant for gooseberry cakes,” The lightness of your teasing causes him to blush, and he knows it originated from Ser Lyonel. “I cannot blame you.”

Dunk’s smile is sheepish, wreathed in a tinge of chagrin as he stifles a cough. “Wondered who spread such a rumor,” He sighs, ogling the small tart. “There’s some truth to it.”

Amusingly, he sheds his flustered expression, greedily digging into the food you brought with you. Homemade stew from Fleabottom was his form of a delicacy, and this far surpassed it.

The thick glaze of gooseberry jam floods his tongue, bittersweet as it twists in-tandem with the spongy cake. He’d eaten four of these in Ser Lyonel’s tent yesterday without an ounce of shame.

Your footsteps are feather-light, carrying you through swaying grass as you approach Thunder, one of Ser Duncan’s horses. Fingertips stroke softly along his neck, drifting across chestnut fur to his withers.

“I used to have a horse much like this one, until my cousin impaled it with a sword out of spite.” Anguish layered itself into your tone, lying beneath the surface.

Prince Aerion, Dunk assumes, mouth curling into a frown of displeasure. The thought of someone willfully inflicting harm to an animal with malicious intent turns his stomach with dread.

“I’ve little tolerance for anyone who maims animals,” Dunk utters, swiping at his lips with the back of his palm. The tarts sit heavy in his belly. “Don’t care if they’re royal blood or not.”

“You’re kind, Ser Duncan,” A low exhale billows through your nose, fingers brushing over the horse’s shoulder in continuous motions. “I should hope that you never lose such a sentiment.”

Sturdy hands close around his sheathed longsword, holding it aloft as he comes to stand beside you. He keeps a comfortable berth, but the newfound proximity nearly turns him into a blushing boy.

This time, you’re keenly aware of his gaze and how it shyly flutters about your countenance. Dunk looks at you fondly and with the warmth of someone who sees you, and not shrouded by lust.

“Still wantin’ to learn a thing or two?” His question is as soft as silk, wrapped within the rougher baritone of his Fleabottom drawl.

“If you’re willing, Ser,” Your reply is noninvasive, making no demands of the hedge knight. There is little honor in using your status to make him do much of anything. “I would be honored.”

Dunk clears his throat, gesturing toward the stretch of grass beside the helm, furthest away from the horses and campfire. “We’ll need a bit of room for this. Don’t want you hittin’ the horses.”

Gathering your skirts, you nimbly dance around the fire, setting in the grass as Dunk removes the longsword from its scabbard. It’s no Valyrian steel; it’s worn with age, clunky, but it’s reliable.

He offers it to you, noticing your arms buckle slightly, unaccustomed to the weight of a blade. “Heavier than I thought it’d be.” You murmur, managing to keep it somewhat steady.

“It’s no feather, princess,” Dunk chuckles, politely stepping beside you. He hovers, bulk of his musculature ghosting over you, a thrilling sensation. “If I may.”

The knight goes crimson again, attempting to ignore the closeness between bodies, but he isn’t impervious to the saccharine scent of your skin.

Dunk reaches to adjust your grip, large hands blanketing yours, calloused skin like rough leather over your own. He shudders; you feel like silk, softer than anything he’s touched before.

As he politely moves your hands about the hilt, he steadies you wordlessly, watching as you fix your stance without being prompted.

“Seems you already know a thing about posture,” He marvels aloud, smiling when you laugh. “Have I said somethin’ funny again?” Dunk assumes his antics often amuse you.

“I’ve grown up watching my brother handle sword and shield, and my father. I observe them when I can,” The radiance of your smile is unlike any other. “Perhaps you’ll make a swordsman of me yet.”

Another rumble of laughter shakes his chest, a sound that you aim to hear often, if you can. Firelight licks across his frame, blanketing his features in a sienna glow, embers against blue.

“You’ll want to know how to parry,” Dunk clears his throat, showing you how with a stick he found lying about. “You can try it with one hand, but you’ll want two on the hilt.”

With a nod, you awkwardly mimic his movements, wondering if all knights feel clumsy when wielding a sword. Despite your unpracticed hand, the sense of power you feel is present.

He shows you how to strike with three maneuvers, each different from the last. Swordplay is a foreign concept, one that requires ample practice and patience.

Regardless, you’re a quick learner, but you handle the longsword as if it’s an anchor. It is heavy, forcing exertion from your arms, delicate and untrained.

“Swing up,” Dunk’s instruction is calm, tempered; he sounds akin to a soothing septa instead of a knight. As you follow through, albeit barely, he smiles. “Good girl.”

Butterflies erupt within your belly like a storm, accompanied by a molten heat that is rather unfamiliar to you. Gods, you burn — his words sink like fire into your flesh.

Good girl, he says — you’d like for him to say it again, only with your mouth on his throat.

In turn, Dunk thoroughly revels in watching you handle his tutelage, even if your movements are bumbling and ungainly. You’re beautiful when focused; furrowed brows, curled lip, locks of hair strewn about.

“I cannot imagine practicing this each day,” You confess, muscles already burning from merely bearing the weight of the blade. “How long have you been a knight, Ser Duncan?”

“A sennight,” The softness of his cadence signals honesty; he’s only just been knighted. “I’m no master-at-arms, princess.” He murmurs, brows furrowing together.

“Not all experience measures a fighter. Some of the Kingsguard are shoddy swordsmen, chosen only by status and bloodline,” Your words bring him some comfort, but it’s threadbare. “I think you’re a fine teacher.”

“You’d have better luck learnin’ from your Kingsguard, m’lady,” Dunk murmurs, unwilling to accept such accolades from you. “I don’t know as much as I’d like to.”

“I would rather learn from someone who is currently practicing than from someone who hasn’t in years.” You shrug, lowering the longsword to alleviate the dull ache in your arms.

There is some measure of truth to your words, infused with a wisdom that Dunk takes to heart. He watches as you brace yourself against the sword, tip of steel dug into the earth beneath you.

“Tired already, princess?” A teasing lilt clings to his voice, innocuously harmless as you give him a pointed glance. “Meanin’ no offense, of course.”

“This is more difficult than I thought it’d be,” Heat blossoms over your features as Dunk steps forward to retrieve his longsword. “You all make it seem so effortless — you, my father, my brother.”

“You’ll have to build a bit of muscle,” Without a second thought, his large hand closes around your bicep. When he realizes his error, he jerks away. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to …”

“You’ve a tender hand, Ser Duncan,” Your words caress his mind like that of a balmy draft, warm and molten as it wraps around him. “For a man of your stature and strength.”

A hitch forms within his throat, countenance ruddy, burning hotter as he shrinks beneath your stare. It is penetrating yet kind, the sort of gaze that would make a man like him collapse to his knees.

“Ser Arlan used to tell me that I was as thick as a castle wall, and twice as stupid,” Dunk fumbles, placing his sword back into its scabbard. “Nothing’s changed.”

“You aren’t stupid nor a fool, Ser,” Despite your consolation, he withers away, lowering himself onto his bedroll with an unceremonious grunt. “You didn’t mean any harm.”

Unconvinced, he sits with his knees drawn toward his chest, appearing larger than before as you sit beside him. Beneath the elm’s flourishing boughs, neither of you say much of anything.

A tenuous quiet falls like a whispered hush through the grove, the only ambiance that of a lively wilderness and the smoldering of the campfire.

Above, the stars paint the horizon with their pale light, a sky uninhabited by dour clouds. It’s crystalline, accompanied by the kiss of a midsummer’s eve and the scent of new life.

“This place is beautiful,” Your voice floats like a distant dream, severing the silence. “Forests like these aren’t common near Dragonstone; not as green.”

“It is beautiful,” Dunk hums in concurrence, and though your eyes fall to the heavens above, he is too preoccupied with staring at you. “Very nice.”

Cringing at the sound of his own voice, words turn to ash upon his tongue, dying within his throat. He wonders how many lords and handsome princes have asked for your hand, or your favor.

Laughter tumbles from your lips, nose wrinkling in wry amusement as you glance at him. Your eyes follow the strong line of his jaw, over days-old stubble, over the crook of his nose.

Dunk meets your gaze, swallowing the slight lump within his throat, regarding you with a thinly-veiled fondness. He tenses when your palm settles against his forearm.

“Princess, I — You shouldn’t,” Floundering in embarrassment, he looks the part of a blushing maiden more than you, endlessly gallant. “You’re …”

“Virtuous,” Silken fingertips trace the muscle of his arm, gaze eclipsed by a blossoming desire. “If I wanted to be with you, would you spurn my advances, ser?”

A weighted shock slams into his chest, a force so sudden that it rips the air from his lungs. Your honor was to be protected, safeguarded; Dunk worried about yours far more than his own.

Yet, your embrace was akin to cold raindrops against his blazing skin; welcomed, refreshing, and gentle.

Gooseflesh coalesced along his spine, accompanied by a tremor that quaked his stomach. In such close proximity, he caught a whiff of your scent; honeyed, the sweetest thing imaginable.

“Aren’t you worried about your station? Worried about your honor? I’m a mere knight, m’lady, I want to do right by you.” Dunk rambles, feeling your hand grace his own, satin stretched over something rough.

“If my honor falls upon you, then I’ve chosen a soft place to land, I cannot think of another more deserving,” The cadence of your voice brings him some comfort. “Damn my station.”

This was your freedom to choose whomever you wanted — and you wanted Ser Duncan the Tall, hedge knight.

“I don’t want to hurt you, princess,” Something rough and heavy slithers into his voice, letting it drop to a deliciously low octave. “I’m not a very experienced lover.”

“We have that in common,” As his hand slips into yours, you press a kiss against his bruised knuckles, over calloused skin. “We can learn together.”

Dunk knows what catastrophe this could bring upon him; ruin, most likely, or perhaps a severed head. Despite this warning, he bends anyway, abandoning caution.

He understands that you’ve a right to choose, just as he is owed a right to deny you — he doesn’t.

In your youth, you often pranced about Dragonstone, stealing kisses from stable boys and starry-eyed noblemen at feasts. There was a curiosity present, and this was the first time you truly wanted to explore.

As if circling a wild doe, Dunk is deliberate as he leans to kiss you, so painfully sluggish that you nearly bridge the gap yourself. Anticipation stirs within you, a spark soon to fester into fire.

Tenderness blossoms where uncertainty withers, and whatever pang of fear you felt ceases to exist. Lips meld together, honey and smoke.

A steady exhale drags through his chest, one of contentment as he climbs down from his own nervousness. His hand shifts, politely grazing the underside of your jaw, the action brief.

“I won’t shatter, Dunk,” Abandoning the usage of lordly dossiers, his name sits on your tongue, wreathed in something cloying. “I promise.”

Dunk takes your words into consideration, shivering as your breath fans across his mouth, like the sigh of summertime. His head jostles in a brief nod before he kisses you again; passionate this time.

Something heady hazes his mind, something feverish as he tilts forward to kiss you fully, feeling your fingers grasp at his tunic. There is nothing forceful, nor harsh — only ardor.

Blanched light pools through the elm’s verdant canopy, blanketing the both of you in silver. Your mouth is akin to silk, something downy to balance his roughness.

When your hands creep toward his collar, Dunk almost leaps at the contact, palm cupping your jaw. Each kiss bleeds into the last — less restrained, and steadily growing comfortable.

Within his kiss, you find yourself flourishing, shedding the shackles of duty and embracing a newfound calm. His thumb slowly circles your cheek, tender as ever.

The rigidity of his posture begins to unfurl, limbs loosening as he settles against his bedroll, heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

He inhales when you slink closer, feeling the curve of your breasts press into his chest. It is then that you brazenly surge forth, climbing into his lap without hesitation.

Dunk agonizingly recalled the last time he’d touched a woman; many moons ago, a brothel worker bought by Ser Arlan. It was a sour recollection of events — clumsy hands and a clumsier bedding.

You were no harlot; you were of royal blood, dragon’s blood.

Emboldened and driven by the hum of excitement, you find yourself in the knight’s lap, spread over thick thighs as your kiss crawls to a simmer.

“You are exceptionally handsome,” Your amiable lull is beguiling to him, body pliant and waiting beneath velvet garments. “You’ve the bluest eyes of anyone I’ve seen.”

Heat licks along his spine as he basks in your compliments, feeling a pang of foolishness when he realizes he hasn’t paid you the same favor.

“You’re beautiful,” Dunk gathers his bearings, stifling a throaty groan as your hips adjust against him. Mortification courses through his veins when he realizes he’s already hard. “The sort of beauty one might sing about.”

Smitten, you do little to mask your enamorment, fingertips gathering along the nape of his neck. “Are you going to write a song about me, Ser Duncan?” Your tone is coy, a touch playful.

“I just might, princess.” He rumbles, gazing up at you as if you’re a goddess come to claim him. Dunk’s hands cup your hips with a burst of confidence, stare half-lidded as caresses your curves.

Enraptured, he watches as your hands abandon his throat, reaching down to ruck up your skirts, listening to the hitch in his chest.

Plum-colored velvet pools around the swell of your hips, fabric settled in an unceremonious heap. It is you that kisses Dunk again, infused with a fiery passion that he gladly chases.

A noise stirs within his throat, a deep sound of satisfaction coupled with desperation. Restraint only tempers his hand for so long until it becomes futile.

Between ambrosial kisses, he meets your doe-eyed gaze, teetering upon the knife’s edge of desire. Surrounded by the teeming shroud of wilderness, your heart echoed his name, an amorous lament.

Mouths softly collide, succumbing to a mutual and burning flame, one that takes you both. He feels your hands tug at his tunic, fingertips dancing across bare flesh.

He shivers when you touch him, likely out of startlement and surprise instead of an earthly chill. Dunk revels in the feeling of your satiny palms caressing at the muscles of his abdomen.

“Dunk,” You sigh against his lips, sweet breath pluming over his features, a wash of sweetness. The tent in his trousers strains urgently against your inner thigh. “My sweet Dunk.”

It isn’t a firm claim you utter, but he would’ve been glad if it were, hand lowering to your thigh. Dunk’s calloused digits settle beneath your skirts, daring to glide over satiny flesh, the first to touch.

“Princess,” His gravelly murmur is so warm, warmer than any kiss of sunlight as he plants a kiss to your jaw. You taste like a dream beneath the pillars of his lips. “I’d like to taste you proper.”

Inexperience did not equate to naivety — you knew what he meant, knew of his intentions.

A tremor of anticipation coiled tight within your belly, warped by an insatiable desire. It was unexpected for you, a virtuous woman, but you did not spurn whatever fantasy he longed to share.

“Of course, if it pleases you.” Your agreement was nearly instantaneous, met with yearning blue eyes and a lackadaisical nod. The knight gestured toward his shoddy bedroll.

“I’m aimin’ to please you, m’lady,” Dunk’s earnestness makes you melt as you lay on your back, lashes kissing the freckled skin beneath his eyes. “That’s all I want.”

The earth cradles you, bedroll nestled above a thatch of spongy grass, and you feel little discomfort as the knight shifts between your legs. His frame is statuesque, forcing your legs farther apart.

It allows you to hold steadfastly to his arms, thick and burly beneath your palms, nails digging playfully into his biceps. As he hovers above you, bulky musculature blanketing you with heat, your lips curl into a smile.

“I do not wish for you to feel any sort of obligation,” It is your turn to become flustered, visibly smitten as you trace your hands along his arms. “Royal blood or not.”

“I want to please you,” The insistence in his husky lull makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. “Would you allow me this?” Dunk asks, tone bordering upon desperation.

With a hurried nod, you feel his mouth press sloppily to the juncture between your throat and shoulder. He kisses you wherever he can, nothing short of reverent and tender.

Gold-skinned and eager, your knight shuffles further down, calloused palms cupping your hips, drawing circles there as his mouth descends upon you.

First, you feel his lips sweetly embrace the crook of your knee, skirts hitched up around your waist. It’s sluggish yet exploratory, savoring you, worshiping you; it’s what you deserve.

Dunk’s rust-blonde crown begins to disappear between your thighs, lavishing your inner thighs in kisses until he finds your cunt. You’re slick already, warm and waiting, all for him.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He pants like a crazed animal, breathing somewhat labored with excitement. Before you can utter another syllable, his lips are on you like a hot brand.

His tongue softly splits you open, dragging over your clit, able to discern just how aroused you are. A noise emanates from the back of his throat, wanton and deliciously needy.

Strong hands idly caress and squeeze at your hips, grounding himself as he savors your cunt. Dunk is enthralled, and yet he moves slowly, longing to savor your taste.

Bliss ripples through your body in balmy waves, a white-hot buzz that clouds your mind. A soft, keening moan splits your diaphragm, one hand fisting at his ruddy tresses.

The knight unabashedly grunts from the taste of you, hands coming to hook beneath your thighs, resting soundly atop your hips. The muscles in his forearms tighten, caging you in against him.

His broad shoulders bully your legs apart, tongue like embers as he slowly traces your cunt, drinking you in. He hears you moan, say his name, and he’s driven to madness.

“Gods above, Dunk.” Your cloying moan carries through the grove, heady and delighted, thighs tensing against his face. Pleasure sinks into you like talons, sharp and urgent.

Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower.

Dunk groans, the gravelly noise shaking his chest, mouth sloppily lavishing your cunt in kisses. He lacks grace and tact, but makes up for it with a ceaseless passion.

It’s as if you might melt into the bedroll, shrinking further earthward, back arched with ecstasy. As molten heat pools between your thighs, Dunk laps at your cunt with great enthusiasm.

He could stay like this for an eternity if you asked him to; begged him to, perhaps. Your body responds viscerally to him, fingers knotted into his tresses, tugging whenever he found a spot that made you writhe.

Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s starving, ravenous.

Another barrage of his tongue evokes a moan from your mouth, bubbling from your throat, a blissful crescendo. You fear smothering him, but Dunk welcomes it gleefully.

It is then that he finds the pearl of your cunt, breath heavy and hot as his lips kiss at the clutch of nerves. Your knees shake, a gasp ripping through your windpipe with a suddenness.

Your nerves feel ragged, as if they are scorched with wildfire, burning within Dunk’s embrace. Instinctively, your hips lurch forward, haplessly jerking toward his mouth.

“Sweet girl.” His low, affectionate drawl makes the ache between your legs grow, prompting you to give another tug of his hair.

“D—Dunk,” A throaty, tapering moan escapes your mouth, and then another, and another. His tongue laps dutifully across your clit, repetitive yet driving you to the very brink. “There, there!”

Whatever nervousness he once felt toward your coupling is extinguished, leaving only his affection for you in its wake. Strong hands sweetly caress your thighs, circling beside your hips.

The heavens above glimmer down upon you, cool breeze bringing some relief to the heat of your body. Another ripple of ecstasy oozes through your bones, mouth agape, countenance one of bliss.

Your chest heaves with labored sighs of passion, thighs quivering as his tongue sloppily rakes across your cunt. He stops again at your clit, lips kissing and suckling at the small bud.

You feel it, then; white-hot and incendiary, moving like smoke as it slithers across your body. Release slams into you after the slow crawl, and you almost collapse.

Dunk tenderly takes you through it with loving hands and a gentle mouth, still greedily lapping at your slit. Your taste sits heavy on his tongue, bittersweet and his alone.

The height of your pinnacle fills you with ecstasy, loose-limbed and heady as you settle fully into the bedroll. Your knees tremble, grip loosening against his crown.

Scarlet-faced and aching, Dunk presses a string of warm kisses to your thighs, face lifting from between your legs. Beguiled, he offers you a charmed smile, tongue lashing over his bottom lip.

“Was that alright, m’lady?” Dunk rumbles, attempting to ignore the incessant throbbing that strains against his breeches. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no,” You soothe, catching your breath as you coax him closer, wanting to cradle his face. “That was wonderful, Dunk. I did not think such pleasure was possible.”

At your bewildered confession, the knight chuckles, visage rather sheepish as he sinks into your embrace. Your silken palms come to cup his jaw, thumbs circling across his face as you urge him closer.

“We don’t have to keep goin’, princess,” Dunk offers, delighted to please you without a care for his own release. “M’happy to lay here with you.”

To his shock, you kiss him, loosing a soft moan when you taste yourself on his tongue. It drives him mad with desire, sucking in a sharp inhale as he reciprocates.

As mouths join in a blistering kiss, he feels your hands dip to his broad shoulders, pushing steadily and without any sense of urgency.

Dunk follows obediently, guided by your heavenly hand until he’s on his back and you’re perched in his lap. Clamoring to straddle him, you sit up, noticing the delight etched into his visage.

“I want to continue, Ser,” Fingertips tease the hem of his tunic, beginning to lift the fabric up. Hurriedly, he moves up enough to peel it off, tossing it aside. “As long as you wish the same.”

“Aye, I — Yes,” He fumbles, bristling with excitement as he feels your lips press against his throat. A poignant groan bubbles through his throat, hands settling over your hips. “You’re beautiful.”

Dunk sits contentedly beneath you, shivering as your digits caress across his chest, over a light layer of hair. He’s well-built, broad — but he isn’t some chiseled statue.

Adjusting your weight, you let your hands drop to the front of his trousers, toying with the laces. Lips meet again in another flurry of kisses, fingers tugging until the linen loosens.

Freeing his cock, you nearly gasp at the sheer size of him, stomach pierced by the icy stab of fear. You’ve never seen a man unclad before, and he can hear the audible hitch in your throat.

“I’ll be gentle, promise,” Dunk assures you immediately, hands caressing along your spine. He plants a soft kiss to your jaw, nose nuzzling into your satiny skin. “Wouldn’t dare hurt you, princess.”

“I trust you, Dunk,” Your whisper tapers off into a soft gasp as his cock pulses hotly against your thigh. “You’re so handsome, so perfect.” The sultry lull of your voice makes his cock twitch.

“M’lady …” Flustered, he preens beneath your praise, unaccustomed to hearing such sweetness from one’s tongue. He’s a little tongue-tied, swallowing the growing lump in his throat.

“I want to feel you,” As your plea reaches his ears, he struggles to maintain propriety, resisting the urge to pull you onto his cock. “More than anything.”

“I’m yours,” Dunk does little to mask the desperation, voice frayed and fractured with want. “I’m your man.” His sigh is almost dreamlike, pupils dilated with the shadow of desire.

At that, you lower yourself onto his cock, gasping at the intrusion. He is thick, his girth something to acclimate to. The both of you loose a shared moan, foreheads flush together.

Tight around him, his cockhead splits past your folds, pressing into your cunt. The sensation of him stretching you out makes you moan, hands gripping at his shoulders, nails kissing skin.

“Dunk!” Your moan is piercing, an overwhelming pleasure pierced by the sting of discontent. You dig crescents into the broad, freckled muscles of his shoulders.

He watches as your countenance blossoms into a look of bliss and mingled discomfort, brows furrowing together, lips agape. Dunk bristles, worried that he’s hurting you involuntarily.

“Fuck.” Your hissed expletive is unbecoming of a maiden, and yet you say it anyway. His deliberate entry makes you writhe, soothed by the kisses he presses to your throat.

“Should I stop? Is it — Gods, is it painful, m’lady?” The knight flounders, desire hazing his sensibilities. You feel divine, taking him perfectly, save for the clenched muscles.

“No, do not,” Another sputtered whine slips past your mouth as you remember to breathe, settling further down onto his cock. “Seven Hells, Dunk.”

“Easy now,” Dunk pants, not wanting you to exert yourself so swiftly. It’s the first time you’ve bedded a man — and he isn’t small, by any means. “I’ve got you, sweet girl.”

The use of such an innocuous nickname causes your stomach to pulse with butterflies. You lower yourself further, inch by inch, breath fanning across his face.

Fortunately, the warm slick between your thighs soothes the descent, and you feel him deep; deeper than you expected. A low grunt ripples through him, hands cupping your hips.

It is Dunk’s steadfast hold that guides you, cautiously easing you up upon his cock, and lowering you again. The movement is innately intimate, intended to be pleasurable.

The tranquil hum around you is accompanied by the soft noises of your coupling, with labored breaths and the occasional moan. Your hands reach for his hair, gripping tightly to him.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” Dunk huffs, pressing a warm, sloppy kiss to your mouth. The pace becomes rhythmic, certain; your cunt clenches tight around him. “Slowly, m’lady.”

His warm baritone fills you with comfort, pacifying any worry you might’ve had. Before you can move any faster, you can feel him in your belly, causing you to shiver.

It’s a deep-rooted bliss you feel as you ride his cock, aided by his tender support. He isn’t forceful, never takes more than you want, allowing you to set whatever pace you choose.

Beneath you, Dunk reclines, comfortably sprawled across the tattered bedroll. Cerulean hues gaze at you as if you’ve hung the stars yourself, watching as you take his cock so perfectly.

Something wicked flickered inside of his heart, imagining taking you against the tree, skirts rucked around your hips. When his name slips lasciviously from your mouth, he looses another eager grunt.

He cradles your virtue as if it’s something precious, lips parted, chest expanding with a sharp inhale. Dunk is thoroughly razed, unable to keep from caressing your hips, large hands holding you tightly.

As you sink down onto his cock once more, the pressure becomes less of a sting, it’s natural; you want him again and again.

The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, yet all he could focus on was you — beautiful, radiant you, someone worthy of worship.

You rode Ser Duncan as you would a broken gelding, finding your rhythm, mapping out any awkward motions. It was continuous; up and down, hips rolling forward, hands steady atop his chest.

Unfortunately, Dunk knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

It was as if every nerve was set ablaze, senses drowned by you, submerged within the warmth of your cunt and the mere visage of you. He groaned when your nails dug beside his ribs; a pleasant sting.

“Fuckin’ Hells, don’t stop.” Dunk doesn’t intend to spout expletives in the presence of a lady, but it spills clumsily from his mouth anyway. You seem to like it, mouth twitching into a smile.

“Dunk!” You moan, and the sudden quickening of your pace is dizzying for the both of you. A dull ache radiates throughout your thighs, pulsing within your cunt.

Years without a woman’s embrace made him incredibly sensitive — he’d only ever had it once before. With you, this all felt otherworldly, an ecstasy unlike any other.

When you sink down onto his thick cock once more, his composure is thoroughly destroyed, naught but ash. He says your name; reverent, adoring, and loud.

He spills himself inside of you then, cock throbbing hotly as you rock downward again. Dunk almost guides you off, but the sensation nearly causes collapse as his face screws up with bliss.

It’s a sight that is surely to be emblazoned in his thoughts forever — you atop him, doe-eyed and pliant, your hands stroking his chest.

The peak of ecstasy makes his limbs feel weak, and you begin to still, bouncing another time or two until the both of you cease. It’s hushed; the sort of silence born of a joyous disbelief, reveling in the moment.

As you move off of him, you feel the sting that is sure to be with you for days to come. Yet, you delight in it; your knight did this to you willingly.

“Are you feelin’ well? Nothin’ painful?” Dunk asks immediately, awkwardly attempting to clean himself of the mess he made. Tendrils of his spend are left behind, and he shifts to grab his tunic.

“You are well-endowed,” You muse softly, laying down beneath the stare. “It isn’t what I expected it to be. I’ve been told foul tales of consummation before.”

Flushed, Dunk grabs his flask of water, taking a hearty swig before settling next to you. “I wouldn’t dare harm you,” He murmurs, features ruddy as you curl closer to him. “Couldn’t imagine someone treatin’ you unkind.”

The smile you give him could’ve illuminated a thousand fires, one of sweetness. He is rendered sheepish, reduced to a blushing boy in your presence.

“I wish that I could stay here until the morrow.” There’s a forlorn melancholy in your tone, and as much as Dunk wants you to stay, he knows you’re bound by duty.

“It isn’t morrow yet, m’lady.” Dunk’s low croon causes you to shiver, and you press your body closer, savoring the feeling of being held.

As you lay together beneath the heavens, shrouded by gentle greenery and the arms of your knight, duty suddenly becomes an afterthought.

𝐀 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒.

ONE-SHOTS.

lay in you gently (like greenery) — ser duncan x reader

unburdening — maekar targaryen x reader

depollute me, gentle angel — daeron targaryen x reader

DRABBLES.

a river worth wading — COMING SOON.

𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒.

┊ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 . . .

nsfw, smut, porn w/plot, porn without plot, most kinks (within reason, just ask and/or request, most things are sensible) legal age gaps, dubious consent, fluff, non-nsfw. I write drabbles & one-shots.

┊ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 . . .

incest, gore, anything deemed illegal/inhumane, explicit non-con, harmful kinks, graphic abuse, self-harm, suic*de. I do not write headcanon lists or anything out-of-character.

⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ ┊ 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒 . . .

this will be updated on a weekly basis as my inspiration & interest often comes and goes for various fandoms.

𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐢𝐚𝐟 / 𝐚𝐤𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐤 / 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐝: ser duncan, baelor targaryen, maekar targaryen, aerion targaryen, daeron targaryen, lyonel baratheon, valarr targaryen, cregan stark, rhaenyra targaryen, daemon targaryen, otto hightower, gwayne hightower, aegon II, robb stark, podrick payne, brienne of tarth, sandor clegane.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬: joel miller (tlou), bob reynolds, johnny storm (mcu), johnny lawrence (cobra kai), carmen & richie (the bear)

⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ ┊ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 . . .

I do not work on any sort of timeframe for requests. I have a full-time job & am typically pretty busy; this blog is just a fun hobby and not something that I consider a priority.

I prefer nsfw, smut, or smut/fluff requests. I don’t mind receiving non-smut requests, but I typically work on those last / on an “inspiration-based” schedule.

I only write for fem!reader or afab!reader. I do not write for male readers or gender-neutral readers. I also strive to use all-inclusive language in my fics. If you see something, let me know so I can correct it.

Please be very detailed in your request if you’re wanting something specific. Vague details will result in me taking more creative liberties.

Despite my goal to try and keep everyone in-character, my interpretation may differ from that of another writer. Please keep this in mind!

I reserve the right to deny or not write a request if it makes me uncomfortable or doesn’t adhere to my guidelines.

I do not accept headcanon requests, canon/canon requests, or anything involving characters that I don’t presently write for (check current muses).

Please ask questions or send in a message if you don’t understand something! ❤️ I am always more than happy to help and clarify if something needs answered!