iris || valarr’s lover girl

His ears perked.

Northerners. In the South. That was rare. That was interesting.

He watched the doors swing open, and you walked in.

You were a Stark, duh. He could tell by the fur, the obvious Stark sigil on your chest, the way you carried yourself like you were ready for a fight. Your hair was braided back, your face was pale, and your eyes, grey as winter, scanned the room with open disdain. He liked that.

Aerion was fascinated.

He crossed the room and stopped in front of you. "You must be the Stark girl."

You looked at him. No curtsy. No smile. Just a flat, assessing stare. "And you must be the Targaryen one."

"Aerion."

"I know who you are."

He grinned. "And what do you think of me?"

"I think you're a southern prince who's used to getting what he wants." Your accent was thick, Northern, rough around the edges. "I'm not going to be one of your conquests."

He laughed. "You think I'm trying to conquer you?"

"I think you're trying to charm me." You stepped past him. "It won't work."

He followed you. Through dinner, through the feast, through the endless southern flattery. You ignored him. You ignored everyone. You sat in the corner, nursing a cup of ale, looking like you would rather be anywhere else.

He couldn't stop watching you.

"You're very persistent," you said, when he sat down across from you.

"I'm very interested."

"In what?"

"In you." He leaned forward. "You don't play games."

"Neither do the wolves. We don't have time for it."

"Then what do you have time for?"

You looked at him, your grey eyes sharp and assessing. "The truth. Honesty. People who say what they mean."

He held your gaze. "I can do that."

"Prove it."

He did. He stopped flirting. He stopped performing. He talked. Honest, blunt, sometimes ugly. You listened. You nodded. And when he finished, you almost smiled.

"You're not as terrible as I thought," you said.

"High praise."

"Don't let it go to your head."

A few days later, he found you in the courtyard, your bow in hand.

"You hunt?" he asked.

"Obviously." You looked him up and down. "You?"

"I've been known to."

You grinned, like you already won. "Then let's make it interesting. Whoever catches the biggest one wins."

"What's the prize?"

You shrugged. "Loser has to do whatever the winner wants for a day."

He thought about it. Then he smiled.

"Fine," he said. "But when I win, you have to go hunting with me every day for a month."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's what you want?"

"I want to spend time with you."

You stared at him. "That's pathetic."

"I know."

You shook your head, but you were almost smiling. "And if I win?"

"Then I'll leave you alone for a month."

You considered this. "That's not a very good prize."

"I know." He stepped closer. "I'm trying to lose."

You laughed, and something in him made him want to hear it again. Every day.

The hunt lasted all day. You were fast, precise, lethal. He was... not. He missed shots. He tripped over roots.

You caught a massive stag. He caught a rabbit.

You looked at his kill. You looked at him. You shook your head.

"You did that on purpose," you said.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You let me win."

"I lost fair and square."

You laughed again. He couldn't stop smiling.

"We'll go hunting tomorrow," he said. "And the day after. And the day after that."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

"You won. I lost. Those were the terms."

You shook your head, but you were still smiling.

"Fine," you said. "But I'm picking the spot."

"Whatever you want."

He meant it. He would follow you anywhere.

Daeron - Daeron has always been quiet. He was always being overlooked. He was the quiet one, the one who drank too much and said too little.

Then he met you.

You were a Stark, which meant you did not simper or scheme. You did not play games. You said what you thought, and you expected others to do the same.

He liked that. He did not know how to tell you.

He found you in the training yard one afternoon, sparring with a knight twice your size. You won. The knight was on his back, gasping, and you were standing over him, your sword at his throat.

Daeron watched from the sidelines. Definitely not thinking this was hot as hell. You caught his eye and grinned.

"You want a turn?" you asked.

"I don't think so."

"Scared?"

"No." He walked forward, his hands in his pockets. "I don't know how to fight."

You tilted your head. "You're a prince. How do you not know-"

"I'm a disappointment."

You looked at him for a long moment. Then you sheathed your sword.

"Come on," you said. "I'll teach you."

"I don't-"

"Come on."

He followed you. You handed him a practice sword and showed him how to hold it. Your hands were steady, your voice patient.

"You fight like you've been doing it your whole life," he said.

"I have. Northern women don't sit in towers. We have to live just as the men do."

"So what do you do?"

"Fight. Hunt. Survive." You met his eyes. "We don't have time for games."

He thought about that for a long time. He thought about you.

He started coming to the yard every day. You taught him to hold a sword, to block, to strike. He was not good at it. He was not strong or fast. But he tried. He kept trying.

"Why do you do this?" you asked one day.

"Because you're teaching me."

"You could have any master-at-arms in the realm."

"I don't want anyone else."

You looked at him. He looked back.

"You're different," you said.

"Is that a good thing?"

"I don't know yet."

You kept teaching him. He kept learning.

When he kissed you, he was awkward and stumbling. You kissed him back, steady and sure.

"You're getting better," you said.

"At kissing?"

"At everything."

He smiled. It was the first time in a long time.

Duncan - Duncan and Egg had been traveling for weeks when they reached Winterfell, specifically for the goal to meet House Stark. The North was cold, vast, and utterly foreign. It was Duncan’s first time being this far north and he never met a Stark in his life.

You were the eldest Stark daughter. Your father asked you to show them around, and you agreed with a shrug and a grunt. You were not impressed by the princes. You were not impressed by Duncan. You were just... there.

But you were an enigma. To Duncan.

You moved through the castle like you owned it, well obviously you did? He mentally face palms. Your strides were easy, your hand always near your knife. You spoke to the smallfolk like equals. You ignored the southern lords who sneered at your accent.

And you hunted.

Duncan watched you track a deer through the snow, your movements silent and precise. You killed it with one arrow, dressed it yourself, and carried it back to the castle like it was nothing.

He could barely keep up.

"You're not bad," you said, when he stumbled over a root.

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

He did. He kept trying. He wanted to impress you. He didn't know why. His efforts even made Egg roll his eyes and cringe.

He found you in the godswood one evening, standing before the heart tree. The carved face stared down at him, red leaves dripping. You were praying, or something like it.

He waited until you turned.

"You follow the old gods?" he asked.

"I do." You looked at him. "You follow the Seven?"

"I do."

"Is that a problem?"

He shook his head. "I don't think it matters."

"It doesn't?"

"I think gods are gods. Whatever they're called." He looked at you. "I think what matters is how you treat people."

You studied him for a long moment. "You're not like the other southerners."

"I've heard that before."

You almost smiled. "Stay for dinner."

He did. He even extended it and stayed for a week. He helped with the harvest, chopped wood, listened to your stories about the North. When he left, you walked him to the edge of the village.

"Come back," you said.

"I will."

And he did. He kept coming back. Next time maybe with a ring. If he was lucky.

Valarr - Valarr came north for some annual hunting competition. Every house in the realm sent someone to represent and try to win, southern lords in their furs, northern lords in their leathers, all of them eager to prove themselves. He did not expected to enjoy it. The North was cold, the people were strange, in the nicest way possible, and it was just new to him.

Then he saw you.

You were the eldest Stark daughter, and you were riding into the competition grounds on a black horse, a beauty and powerful, its mane flying in the cold wind. Your bow was slung across your back, your face set in a look of calm determination. He couldn't look away.

"Stark," he said, when you passed him. Fuck he totally messed up, he rehearsed saying hello like five times.

"I am." You did not stop. "And you're the prince."

"Valarr."

"Yes, I know who you are."

He followed you to the starting line. "You're competing?"

"I am."

"Against men?"

You looked at him like he asked something profoundly stupid. "Yes. You think that will stop me? It’s been like this for my whole life."

He opened his mouth to say something else, but you were already gone, your horse leaping forward into the trees.

He watched you ride through the forest, your movements fluid and precise. You tracked a stag through the underbrush, your eyes sharp, your hand steady on the bow. He forgot to watch his own path.

You won.

He found you at the end of the day, standing over a kill that was bigger than anything he managed. A massive elk, its antlers spread wide, its body still steaming in the cold air.

"Valarr," you said, not looking up.

"Stark."

"You didn't win."

"I noticed."

You looked at him then. Your grey eyes were sharp, assessing.

"Did you think I would?"

"I didn't know what to think."

You almost smiled. "Most southerners don't."

He stepped closer. "I'm not most southerners."

"No. You're not." You wiped your hands on your tunic. "You're also not a bad shot."

"You saw me?"

"Everyone saw you. You were staring at me instead of watching the trail."

He felt his ears go red. "I was not."

"You were."

He opened his mouth to argue. Then he closed it.

You shouldered the elk and started walking. He fell into step beside you.

"You don't have to help," you said.

"I want to."

You glanced at him. "Suit yourself."

He walked with you back to the castle, listening as you talked about the hunt, the woods, the North. When you reached the gates, you stopped.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

"Neither are you."

He wanted to say more. He didn't know how. Yet.

"I'll walk you to the hall," he said instead.

You looked at him. "You don't have to."

"I want to."

You nodded and kept walking.

He followed you the rest of the week. He followed you to the training yard, to the woods, to the halls of Winterfell. He wanted to learn about you. He wanted to understand how someone could be so... you.

He wrote to his father that night.

Father,

I hope this letter finds you well. The hunting competition has concluded, and the North is proving to be more complicated than I anticipated. There are trade matters that require my attention here, alliances to discuss, negotiations to be had. I will be staying in the North for a little while longer to see them through.

I will write again when I have more news.

Your son, Valarr

He sealed the letter and sent the raven. It was not entirely a lie. There were matters to attend to. He just did not mention that the most important matter had grey eyes and killer aim.

He found you the next morning in the yard, already training. He watched you for a long moment before stepping forward.

"You're still here," you said.

"I'm still here."

You lowered your sword. "Why?"

He didn't answer. He just picked up a practice sword and faced you.

"Show me how you did that," he said.

You raised an eyebrow. "You want to learn how to fight like a Northman?"

"I want to learn how to fight like you."

You studied him for a moment. Then you smiled. Despite the cold, harsh weather, Valarr felt warm at that moment.

"Alright," you said. "But don't complain when you're sore tomorrow."

But now, you sat across from him in a cozy little tavern, and he couldn't keep the grin off his face.

"We're leaving," he said, his voice buzzing with barely contained energy. You’ve never seen him so… happy?

"Aerion-"

"We're leaving tonight. I've arranged everything. Horses, a septon, a village two hours east." He reached across the table and took your hand. "You and me. Married. Finally."

You stared at him. "Your father is going to-"

"He'll live." Aerion squeezed your hand. "I don't care about my father. I care about you. About us." He was practically bouncing. "I've been waiting for this for months. I've been planning. I've been-" He stopped, laughing. "I've been so angry for so long, and now I'm just…"

"Excited?"

"Yes." He looked at you, his violet eyes bright. "I'm excited. I don't think I've ever been excited about anything before. But I am. About you. About this."

You laughed. He pulled you up and kissed you.

"Pack up," he said. "We leave at midnight."

The ride was cold and dark. He didn't speak much, but he was smiling. He kept your hand in his, his thumb tracing circles on your skin.

The septon was old, and knew who Arron was, who wouldn’t? The septon didn’t care, though. Just said the ceremony while smiling and mumbling something about young loves. Afterwards, after Aerion kissed you oh so passionately, he pulls back.

"You're mine now," he said, pulling back. "And I'm yours."

"You just angered your father."

"Good." He grinned. "At least now I have you."

That night you did your business, and in the morning, he sent a raven to his father:

Married.

Deal with it.

Daeron - Daeron was never good at speaking up. He let his father plan his life, his marriage, his future. He nodded along, in fact he’s pretty sure he was drunk when he had that conversation.

But when he met you for the first time, he wanted something for himself. He wanted to make decisions about his own life.

He didn't plan a grand escape. He just packed a small bag, took your hand, and walked out the side gate one evening.

"Where are we going?" you asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I know we're getting married." He squeezed your hand. "I don't know where."

You found a rural area later on. There was a septon who agreed to marry you, no questions asked. Daeron's hands were shaking. His voice was soft.

"Are you sure?" you whispered.

"I've never been sure of anything," he said. "Except this."

You spoke the vows. He kissed you like it was the first time.

"We should probably tell your father," you said afterward.

"He'll find out eventually."

"You're going to be in trouble."

He smiled. "I don't care."

Three days later, Daeron received a letter. Easily recognizing Maekar’s handwriting.

Fine. You're a foolish boy. Bring her home.

He ran to you asap. "My father says it's fine."

You looked at him. "It's fine?"

"He says I'm a fool. But he wants us to come home."

"Let's go home," he said.

Valarr - Valarr was never impulsive. Everyone knew that, HE knew that. He planned. He prepared. He considered every angle and possibility.

Then he met you. And he realized that some things couldn't be planned.

His father had arranged a match for him. A girl from Tyrosh. A political alliance, a proper match. Valarr sat through the meeting, nodding, saying nothing. So his father Baelor assumed that he accepted.

He hadn't.

He found you in the library that night.

"We're leaving," he said.

You looked up from your book. As if you were actually reading. You were NOT. Definitely not crying either. "Excuse me?"

"We're leaving. Tonight. I've already arranged for a septon."

"You've arranged-"

"I want to marry you." His voice was calm, but his hands were shaking. "I've never wanted anything more."

He always followed the rules. He always did what was expected. He had never deviated from a plan in his life. But you, you changed everything. He couldn't marry some girl from Tyrosh. He couldn't pretend. He couldn't. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

You stared at him. Then you stood.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'm not going to argue with you about this."

He smiled. He took your hand and led you out.

The septon was waiting in a small chapel. The ceremony was quick, quiet, private and perfect. Valarr's hands were steady as he placed the cloak around your shoulders.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He then sealed your vows in a chaste, but longing kiss. A few days later, he wrote to his father.

Father,

I know you arranged a match for me, and I thank you for that because it pushed me to do what I wanted. Not you, not anybody. I know you expected me to follow your plans. I always have. But I can't. I love her. I love her in a way I didn't know I was capable of. I've spent my whole life doing what was expected of me. This is the first time I've done what I wanted.

I've married her. I know you'll be angry. But I'm not sorry.

Your son,

Valarr

The maester came, examined you, and told you what you already assumed since you got that pain. You were losing the baby. Three months of his baby, of your baby.

The bleeding was heavy. You passed clots the size of your palm, the pain sharp and unrelenting, you couldn’t catch a break. You cried, yes from the pain, but more from the loss. The quiet future you had been building in your mind, erased in a single night. You felt like a failure.

Aerion stood in the corner, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. Watching you. If you didn’t know any better you would’ve thought he was angry with you.

When the maester left, he crossed to you. He knelt beside the bed and took your hand.

"I'm sorry," you said. "I couldn't-"

"Don't." His voice was sharp, cutting you off. "Don't you dare apologize."

"I should have been more careful-"

"You should have been nothing." He gripped your hand tighter. "This isn't your fault. It's not your body's fault. It's not anyone's fault."

You looked at him. Trying to decipher how he felt. His face gave nothing away but his eyes were glassy with tears.

"I wanted this," you cried. "I wanted to give you a child."

He pulled you into his arms, his grip fierce and protective.

"Who told you that was your purpose?" His voice cracked. "I don't need a child. I need you. I need you alive and breathing and here."

You cried into his chest. He held you, his hand pressed to your back, his jaw tight against your hair.

He stayed with you all night. He didn't sleep. He just held you.

In the morning, the bleeding hadn’t slowed at ALL. The pain had eased maybe a tiny bit but it was still agonizing, especially the pain of losing a baby. Aerion sat beside you, his hand still in yours.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The room felt too quiet. Too empty.

When you finally looked at him, you wished you hadn’t.

His face was carefully composed, but the grief was still there, he looked as lost as you felt, and the sight of it made something inside you crack.

Without a word, he moved closer and pulled you into his arms.

One hand cradled the back of your head while the other wrapped around your shoulders.

He held you tightly, resting his cheek against your hair.

Daeron - You were so careful. You tracked your cycles, eaten well, rested when you needed to. When you missed your moon blood, you let yourself hope. You didn’t tell Daeron yet. You wanted to be sure so you could surprise him.

You were in your chambers, sewing, when the cramping started. It was different from the usual, it was off. You set down the needle and pressed your hand to your stomach, waiting for it to pass. It didn't. It built up.

Then you felt it. The sudden, unmistakable rush of warmth between your thighs. You looked down. The blood was already soaking through your dress, pooling beneath you on the chair.

You made it to the bed, but barely. You collapsed onto the mattress, your body wracked with waves of pain as you curled up in a ball. Daeron found you an hour later. He was in the yard, trying to find something to do that would make him feel useful. He opened the door, and his face went white. You were curled on the bed, pale as death, your dress and the sheets dark with blood.

He crossed the room in three strides, his hands hovering over you. "What happened?"

You shook your head, your teeth chattering.

He called for the maester. He held your hand while they examined you. He didn't leave your side. When the maester told you that you had lost the pregnancy, Daeron's face crumpled but he held his feelings in. You needed HIM and he was gonna be there for you.

He held you while you cried. He brought you water. He held the cup to your lips when you were too weak to lift it.

"I thought I was going to surprise you," you said, your voice quiet.

"I know."

"I was so careful."

"I know." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I know."

The guilt sat heavy on him, but he didn't let it consume him. He stayed focused on you, on your recovery, on your comfort. It was only later, when you were asleep, that he let himself break. He sat in the chair beside the bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

You woke and saw him there. You reached for him.

"Daeron."

He looked up. His eyes were red rimmed and full of tears.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have been healthier. I should have done better-"

"You don't know that this was your fault."

He shook his head. "But I could have been stronger for you."

You pulled his hand to your cheek.

"You stayed," you said. "You're staying."

He pressed his forehead to yours.

"I'm not leaving," he said. "I'm never leaving."

In the days that followed, Daeron was quiet, but he was there. He brought you meals. He sat with you in silence. He held your hand when you cried and didn't try to fix it. He didn't make promises about trying again because he knew better. And actions are louder than words, so he stopped drinking entirely. He didn't make a show of it or announce. He never explained, but you knew. He was doing it for you.

Duncan - He knew, obviously. You told him three days ago, sitting by the fire in the small cottage you rented for the summer. His face lit up like you handed him the sun. He lifted you off your feet, spun you around, and pressed his forehead to yours.

"A baby," he said. "Our baby."

He was like a puppy ever since. Bouncing around the cottage, bringing you extra blankets, asking if you were comfortable every five minutes, trying to craft wooden toys for the soon to be baby. He didn't care if it was a boy or a girl. He said it didn't matter, he just wanted a healthy baby. A healthy you. "I don't have a preference," he had said, grinning. "I just want them to have your smile." That had made it hurt even more now.

Today, he went out to chop wood. He kissed your forehead and told you to rest, and you watched him through the window while you made a simple stew, the kind he loved. Then the cramping started. You pressed your hand to your stomach, trying to breathe through it but it felt impossible. After awhile of enduring those cramps, you felt the sudden, unmistakable rush of warmth between your thighs. You looked down. The blood was already soaking through your dress, pooling on the floor.

You tried to call for him. You stumbled, gripping the counter, and then your knees gave out. You hit the floor hard, the pain crashing over you in waves. The stew bubbled and burned on the fire. You couldn't reach it. You couldn't reach anything.

You didn't know how long you lay there. Minutes. Hours, then you were snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of the door bursting open. Duncan's voice was bright, he had no idea.

"I got enough wood for the-"

The bundle of wood dropped. It clattered onto the floor while he ran to you, falling to his knees beside you.

"HEY-hey-what happened-"

"I'm sorry." you sobbed. "I'm sorry, I was cooking, and I-I'm losing it-"

"Don't be sorry." He lifted you, cradling you against his chest, and carried you to the bed. "I'm getting the maester."

After everything, you finally spoke up, guilt eating you away.

"I'm sorry," you said. "I wanted to give you a child. I wanted to give you everything-"

"You gave me everything." He pressed his forehead to yours. "You gave me you."

"I know you didn't care if it was a boy or a girl. You said you just wanted them to have my smile. And I couldn't even-"

He pulled you into his arms. "Stop. Please stop."

You cried into his chest.

In the morning, he buried a small set of flowers in the garden, for your unborn baby. He came back inside and sat beside you.

"I love you," he said. "Nothing would change that."

You leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around you.

"You didn't disappoint me," he said. "You could never disappoint me."

You nodded against his chest. He kissed your forehead and held you close.

Valarr - You went to the maester together. Valarr held your hand the whole time, his mismatched eyes bright with hope. When the maester confirmed it, he turned to you, his face breaking into a smile so pure it made your chest ache.

"We're going to have a baby," he had said, pulling you into his arms. "We're going to be parents."

He kissed you right there, in front of the maester and the servants. He didn't care. He was going to be a father. He was going to be a father with you.

That was a month ago.

A month of planning, dreaming. You already started picking names. He had listened to every single one, his head tilted, his eyes soft. He had favorites, but he always deferred to you. "You're carrying them," he said. "You get final say."

It was midafternoon, a busy day for everyone and you were in your chambers, mild cramps. You decided to sleep it off, and when you woke up you were in agony. Then you looked down.

You didn't call for him. You couldn't. You just sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blood, your body wracked with pain and grief.

He found you hours later. He was in meetings. He was thinking about you. About the baby. About the names you chosen. He even ended the meeting early to go and find you, which brings you to now.

"Love, I'm back-" He stopped in the doorway.

You were on the bed, pale and shaking, he crossed the room in three strides, his face as pale as yours.

"Valarr-"

"What happened?"

"I think I lost it." Your voice cracked. "I'm sorry."

He called for the maester. When the maester confirmed it and gave you some medicine for pain, it was quiet.

"I'm sorry," you said. "I know you were counting on-"

He pressed his hand to your cheek.

"I was counting on you," he said. "Just you."

"Valarr-"

"The heir is second. You are first." His voice was quiet but firm. "You are always first."

You shook your head. "You're the prince. You need-"

"You." His voice cracked. "I need you. That’s all."

You cried. He pulled you into his arms and despite all his reassurances, in the morning, you still couldn't look at him. You don’t even want to speak with him.

"Can we still name them?" he asked quietly.

You looked up. "What?"

"The baby." His voice was soft. "Even if they're not here. Can we still name them?"

You stared at him. Then the tears came again.

"You don't have to-"

"I want to." He took your hand. "It feels wrong not to."

You nodded. He pulled you into his arms.

"I want to name them something beautiful," he said. "Something that means hope."

You told him the name you had loved most. He repeated it, his voice soft, and pressed a kiss to your hair.

He absolutely needed you.

He spent the next three days snapping at everyone, slamming doors, and glaring at the walls. He did not apologize. He did not come looking for you. He existed, angry and miserable, and he made it EVERYONES problem.

The irony was not lost on him. He had called you needy once. Who was the needy one now?

On the fourth day, he found you in the garden. You were sitting on a bench, reading. He stood there for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"You're still ignoring me."

You turned a page.

He stepped closer. "I said-"

You looked up. "I heard you."

"I don't like this."

"I don't care."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he sat down on the grass beside you.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For you to stop ignoring me."

You turned another page. He sat there and didn’t move. The servants were so confused looking at it. You were walking him like a dog.

"This is pathetic," you said.

"You're the one who's been ignoring me for four days."

"Because you called me needy."

He winced. "I was wrong."

"Say it again."

"I was wrong."

You finally looked at him. "You're very bad at apologizing."

"I know." He reached for your hand, pulling it into his lap. "I can’t do that, it’s just… not my thing."

"That's not a good thing."

"I know." His grip on your hand tightened. "But I'm here. I'm sitting on the grass. I look ridiculous. Can’t you see how sorry I am?"

"You do look ridiculous."

"Will you stop ignoring me now?"

You looked at him and his desperate eyes, his stubborn jaw, his hand holding yours like you might disappear.

"Fine," you said. "I forgive you."

He let out a breath. Then he moved, pulling you down onto the grass with him, wrapping his arms around you.

"I am not needy," he declared.

"You're literally holding me like I'm going to run away. I’m not going anywhere."

"Shut up."

He held you tighter and you let him, he earned it, of course.

Daeron - Daeron had drunk too much. Again. You had gone to fetch him from the tavern, like you always did, and he had mumbled something stupid about you controlling him, about you always telling him what to do.

You had left him there.

He remembered stumbling back to his chambers. He remembered sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the door. He remembered the horrible, sinking realization that you weren't coming.

He spent the next day in his room, too hungover to move, too sad to care. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He just lay there, replaying the fight in his head, wondering how he could have been so stupid.

By the second day, he started trailing after you.

It was pretty pathetic. He would stand in doorways and watch you. He would follow you down corridors, keeping a careful distance. He would sit at the far end of the table during meals, stealing glances at you.

He didn't wanna approach you. He didn't speak. He followed you. Was it creepy? Yes. But it’s the only thing he felt he could do, the mortification in his soul was far too great.

You caught him outside your chambers one evening.

"Daeron."

He froze. "I wasn't-"

"You've been following me for two days."

He looked at his feet. "I didn't know what else to do."

"You could apologize."

He looked up. "I don't know how."

You sighed. "You apologize like a normal person. You say 'I'm sorry, I was wrong, I shouldn't have said that.'"

He stared at you. "I'm sorry. I was wrong. I shouldn't have said that."

You waited.

"That's it?" you asked.

"I don't know what else to say."

"You could say you're an idiot."

"I'm an idiot."

"And that you'll stop drinking."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'll try."

You looked at his tired eyes, his messy hair, his desperate face.

"You're pathetic," you said.

"I know."

You opened your door and stepped inside. He didn't follow. He stood there, looking at you for permission.

"Are you coming in or not?" you asked.

He followed you in. He was going to make it up to you. In fact? He would be delighted for you to control him.

Duncan - Duncan had made a joke. It was early morning, before you'd had tea, before you'd even really woken up. He thought it was funny! A harmless ribbing about your... well, he couldn't even remember now. Partly because trying to remember makes him so sad. All he remembered was the look on your face.

Incredibly bad taste.

He had apologized immediately, but you were already walking away. By midday, you were avoiding him entirely. He didn't know how to fix it.

So he asked for help, and found Egg in the courtyard.

"I need help."

Egg looked up from his book. "With what?"

"Flowers. Honey. I need to-" He gestured vaguely. "I need to apologize."

"Why honey?"

"Because she likes honey."

"And you're bringing her honey?"

"I'm bringing her wildflowers and honey. A peace offering."

Egg stared at him. "You want me to help you pick flowers?"

"And find honey. There's a hive by the old oak."

"There's always bees."

"I know."

The trip was a disaster. The wildflowers were easy, Duncan had brought a sack and filled it quickly. The honey was not easy. The bees were territorial. Aggressive. They did not appreciate him reaching into their hive.

He got stung. Everywhere. While Egg stood a safe distance away, watching.

"You're doing great," Egg called.

"Shut up."

"Your ear is swelling."

"I know."

He emerged victorious, clutching a dripping comb of honey. His face was blotchy. His hands were swollen. He looked ridiculous.

He found you in the garden, reading, more like pretending to read, actually. He could tell because you were holding the book upside down.

He set the wildflowers and honey beside you. You looked up. Your eyes widened.

"What happened to you?"

"I got you honey."

"Your face!-"

"I got stung. A lot. There were bees."

You stared at him. He stared back, his face red, his eyes desperate.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said what I said. It was in bad taste. I'm an idiot. I'm sorry."

You reached up, touching his swollen ear. He winced.

"You did that for me?" you asked.

"I’ll do anything for you."

You sighed. Then you stood and pulled him into a hug.

"I forgive you," you said. "Now let's get you to the maester."

Valarr - You asked for space. Valarr nodded, why wouldn’t he? He said he understood, and gone back to his work.

He thought he would be fine. He was respectful. He could give you space. He was not the type to hover or beg. He had self control.

He was very, very wrong.

He attended meetings. He read documents. He signed things. He did everything he was supposed to do. He also made mistakes, tiny ones at first, the kind that made his clerks exchange glances like "What’s wrong with him?" He signed a document upside down. He called a servant by the wrong name. He walked into a room and forgot why. He was staring at the same page for an hour without reading a word. By day three, he was losing track of conversations mid sentence. He was not fine. He was not content. He was cooked. And may or may not have been caught writing you love letters instead of doing his work.

The worst part for him was seeing you.

Every time you walked past, there was a lump in his throat. Every time he caught a glimpse of you in the corridor, his mind went blank. He would stand there, frozen, watching you disappear, his heart aching in a way he didn't know how to name. He had thought he could handle distance. He could not handle distance. He needed you near him like he needed air.

Three days into your silence, he found you in the library. You were reading, and it had to be a book that HE recommended.

"Can I sit?" he asked.

"I asked for space."

He stood there, not moving. "I thought I could do it. Give you space. Be respectful." He swallowed. "I can't. I can't focus. I can't think. I keep making mistakes-"

He stopped, running a hand through his hair.

"Your space is important," he said quietly. "But so are you. And I don't know how to function without you."

You looked up. He looked very different from the usual. He was rumpled, tired, his mismatched eyes red-rimmed, either from lack of sleep or maybe crying.

"Valarr."

"I signed a document upside down today."

"You what?"

"I signed it upside down. The clerks are very confused."

You stared at him. Then you laughed. He almost smiled but then he remembered the current predicament.

"Please," he said. "I know you asked for space. I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm just asking you to talk to me."

You sighed. "You're impossible."

"I know."

You set down your book and gestured to the chair across from you.

"Sit."

He sat. He reached for your hand and held it, his thumb tracing circles on your palm, and for the first time in three days, the lump in his throat loosened.

"I missed you, and I love you." he said quietly.

"I love you too."

"I'm not-"

He leaned close, his voice low and sharp. "You have been twitching all night. You're pale. You're not eating." His grip tightened. "I'm not an idiot. What is wrong?"

Your face burned. "It's nothing."

"It's something." He searched your face, then his gaze dropped. He saw how tense your legs were, the way your skirts pressed together.

His jaw tightened. "You've leaked."

"I'm sorry-"

"I'm not going to yell at you for bleeding, you fool."

He pulled you up without another word, positioned himself behind you, and walked you out of the hall. He kept his body close, his cloak shielding you, his hand firm on your lower back.

In your chambers, he helped you clean up. He worked silently, efficiently, muttering under his breath about how you should have told him.

"You were being so weird," he snapped. "I thought you were hiding something. You were hiding something. You were hiding blood."

"I didn't want to ruin the feast."

"The feast wasn't as important as your dignity."

He pulled back, his chest heaving. Then he pressed his palm to your cheek.

"Next time, you tell me. The moment it happens. I don't care if it's the middle of a feast."

You nodded, breathless.

"Good." He sighed. "Now get in bed. I'll get tea."

And before you could say thank you, he left. Typical Aerion.

Daeron - You had come to watch him train, since Daeron never does so. And it was a nice sunny afternoon. You wanted to be near him, even if he spent most of his time getting knocked into the dirt by a sparring partner.

Then you felt an uncomfortable rush of warmth, you were going to stand up but no. Too much.

You had not planned for this. You were wearing a light dress, too thin, mainly because it was sunny, it was way too thin to hide anything. You pressed your knees together and willed the ground to swallow you whole.

Daeron caught your eye from across the yard. He grinned and waved. You tried to smile back.

Then he saw your face.

He dropped his sword. Ran across the yard. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just-" You stood too fast. The warmth spread. You froze.

Daeron looked down. Saw the stain blooming on your dress.

His eyes went wide. His face went pale.

"YOU'RE BLEEDING!"

"Daeron-"

"WHY ARE YOU BLEEDING?!"

"Because I'm a woman-"

"WHERE IS THE MAESTER?!" He was already turning, looking around wildly. "SOMEONE GET THE MAESTER!"

"Daeron, it's fine-"

"IT'S NOT FINE! YOU'RE BLEEDING THROUGH YOUR DRESS!"

He scooped you up like you were made of glass, cradling you against his chest.

"I need to get you to the maester," he said, voice shaking.

"Daeron, I don't need the maester. I need a change of clothes."

He stared at you. "But you're bleeding."

"I know. It happens every month."

His face went through several expressions, some of which were confusion, horror, then a dawning, embarrassed understanding.

"Oh," he said.

"Oh."

He set you down carefully, his ears bright red.

"I'll-" He cleared his throat. "I'll get you something to wear. And water. Hot water. Is that right?"

"That would be nice."

He nodded and practically ran to the castle.

Duncan - Lyonel Baratheon knew how to throw a feast. Nobody would deny that. Music, dancing, endless amounts of drink. The hall was packed, the torches blazing, and Duncan had been trying to drag you onto the dance floor all night. You weren’t feeling it so much, considering your head was aching for whatever reason.

"Come on," he said, offering his hand. "One dance."

"I'm fine here."

"You've been sitting for an hour."

"I'm resting."

"You're hiding."

You laughed and took his hand.

The music was fast, lively. Duncan spun you around, his big hands gentle on your waist. You laughed, breathless, and let him twirl you.

He twirled you again.

And then he saw it.

The back of your dress. A small, dark stain. Just visible in the torchlight.

His hands froze on your waist.

"What?" you asked, breathless.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

He was panicking. You had no idea. You were still smiling, still laughing, completely unaware. If he told you, you would be mortified. If he didn't tell you, someone else would notice.

He made a choice.

He pulled you close, his cloak sweeping around you both, hiding your back.

"I'm tired," he said.

"You just got here? What will Lyonel say?"

"I want to go outside."

"Outside?"

"For some air."

You frowned, but followed him. He kept you close, his body blocking you from the crowd, and led you out of the hall and into the corridor.

"What's going on?" you asked.

He turned you around. "Look."

You looked. Your face went white.

"Oh."

"I didn't want to tell you in there."

"Thank you."

He shrugged off his cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders.

"I'll walk you to your chambers," he said.

"Duncan-"

"It's fine."

You walked in silence. When you reached your chambers, he helped you clean up, his face red, his hands gentle.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For not noticing sooner."

"You're not supposed to notice."

"I'm supposed to take care of you."

You looked at his earnest face, his red ears, so cute.

"You do," you said. "You already do."

He smiled, very relieved and sat on the floor beside the bed.

"I'm staying," he said.

"You don't have to. I’m sure people are looking for you."

"They’ll understand."

He reached up and took your hand.

"Next time," he said, "I'll just carry you out. I don't need a reason."

Valarr - Valarr had planned a ride with some of the other men, a short excursion through the hills, nothing too strenuous. He had not planned to bring you, because you were tired, but you had insisted.

"I need air," you said.

"You're tired."

"I'm fine."

"You're pale."

"I'm always pale."

He sighed. He knew you well enough to know when you wouldn't budge.

"Fine," he said. "But we'll go slow."

The ride was pleasant enough. The sun was warm, the breeze light, and you felt good. Valarr stayed close, his eyes flicking to you every few minutes to make sure that you were enjoying yourself.

When the ride ended, he dismounted and offered you his hand.

"Come on," he said. "I'll help you down."

You took his hand and swung your leg over. He caught you around the waist, steadying you as you landed. The motion was smooth, practiced.

And then you landed, and felt an unfortunate, uncomfortable, liquid rush.

You hadn't felt it while riding, the motion, the saddle, everything had kept it contained. But now, standing still, you felt it.

You looked down.

Valarr followed your gaze. He saw the stain.

His face didn't change. He just stepped closer, his body blocking you from the other men.

"You didn't know?" he asked.

"I didn't feel it."

"Come on."

He kept himself between you and the others, his hand steady on your lower back, and walked you toward the castle.

"I'm sorry," you said.

"For what?"

"For ruining the ride."

"You didn't ruin anything." He glanced down at you. "You got some air. That's what you wanted."

He helped you inside, kept his back turned while you cleaned up, and brought you tea without being asked.

"Did you know this was going to happen?" you asked.

"I knew you were tired. I didn't know why." He sat beside you. "But I know now."

"You planned this."

He looked at you, his mismatched eyes soft.

"I plan everything." A pause. "Next time, don't push yourself."

"I wanted to ride."

"I know." He took your hand. "And I wanted you to enjoy it. But not at your own expense."

You leaned into him. He wrapped his arm around you.

"Thank you," you said.

"For what?"

"For not making a scene."

He kissed your hair.

You wanted breakfast in bed? He carried it to you himself. You wanted a new saddle for your horse? He commissioned the finest leatherworker in the Seven Kingdoms. You wanted to redecorate his chambers? He handed you the keys and let you go wild.

You complained about the stable. Too drafty. He had it rebuilt. You complained about the journey to court. Too bumpy. He bought you a litter with velvet cushions. You complained about his brothers. He couldn't do much about that, but he glared at them more intensely when you were around.

"You're spoiling me," you said once.

"No. I'm enjoying myself."

He was. He had never wanted to please anyone. He had never cared if someone was happy or miserable or anything in between. But you, you with your impossible standards and your endless demands, you made him want to try.

He still didn't know how to be gentle. He still threatened servants and set things on fire. But when you looked at him with those eyes and said, "I want the blue gown, the one with the silver thread, and I want it by tonight," he found himself moving before he'd even finished thinking about it.

"You're impossible," he told you.

"You're enabling me."

"I don’t regret it."

Damn right.

Baelor - Baelor was honorable. Dutiful. He believed in restraint, in discipline, in not giving in to every whim. In self control, in restraint, in moderation, and all those other fancy words the crown prince should be. So when he married you, he was oh so scandalized. You were spoiled. Entitled. You complained about the weather, the servants, the way the light hit the great hall in the afternoon.

He should have been annoyed. But He was charmed. And increasingly, he was convinced you needed a firmer hand.

"You're a bratty girl," he said one evening, watching you rearrange the flowers on the dinner table for the third time.

"I'm particular."

"You're impossible."

"You're still here."

He was. He was always here.

But tonight, you had pushed too far. You had rolled your eyes at him during dinner in front of the servants. You had made a snide comment about his choice of wine. You had crossed your arms and looked away when he asked you a question, like a child refusing to eat her vegetables.

The meal ended. The servants cleared the plates. Baelor stood, offered you his hand.

"Come," he said.

You took it. You knew that tone. Uh oh.

He led you to your chambers. He closed the door behind him and turned to you.

"You were testing me tonight."

"I wasn't!-"

"You were." He stepped closer. "You rolled your eyes at me. You made a comment about the wine. You refused to answer me." His eyes were serious. "You wanted to see what I would do."

You swallowed. "And what will you do?"

He reached out, his fingers brushing your chin, tilting your face up.

"I've given you everything you've asked for. The gowns. The jewels. The horse you wanted. I've indulged you because I enjoy seeing you happy." His thumb traced your lower lip. "But you are still my wife. And I am still your husband."

He took your hand and led you to the bed. He sat on the edge and pulled you across his lap.

"Baelor-"

"You've been a bratty girl tonight." His hand rested on the curve of your backside. "And bratty girls need to learn manners."

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks. "You wouldn't."

He raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't I?"

His hand came down. Did he just spank you?

"I'll give you anything you want," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "But you will be my good girl. Do you understand?"

Daeron - Daeron had never thought about having a wife. Not really. He had assumed, if he ever married, it would be a quiet arrangement, two people sharing a table, not speaking much, existing in the same space without requiring much from each other. Then you guys got married and he was not prepared.

You wanted things. Specific things. Impossible things. And you did not ask, no you stated, you ordered, as if the universe would simply rearrange itself to accommodate your preferences.

"I want the blue curtains replaced with gold ones."

He blinked. "The blue ones are fine."

"The blue ones are dull. Gold will bring out the light."

"There's no gold in this room."

"Exactly."

He replaced the curtains.

You wanted the fire to be a specific temperature. Not too hot, not too cold, you needed it just right.

"Warmer," you said.

He added a log.

"Too warm."

He removed it.

"Now it's cold again."

He added a different log.

"There," you said. "Leave it."

He left it. He had no idea what he had done differently.

You wanted him to sit beside you at dinner instead of at the far end of the table. He moved. You wanted him to hold your hand under the table. He held it. You wanted him to look at you when you spoke. He looked.

Once, you wanted a new horse. A white one. With a silver mane. "I saw one in a painting once," you said. "I want that one."

"That's not how horses work."

"I don't care how horses work. Find me that horse."

He found it. It took him three months. He didn't tell you how many stables he visited. He just handed you the reins and watched you ride.

Another night, he was carrying you upstairs, after you "pestered him." to carry you. You actually didn’t, just mentioned your feet were hurting and he whisked you away. When he continued to keep whining about how he’s going to drop you, you kissed his cheek. Cue the nose bleed: he forgot what he was complaining about.

Maekar - Maekar was not a soft man. He cursed. He glowered. He told people exactly what he thought of them, and what he thought was usually not complimentary. When he married a Lannister, he assumed he would spend the rest of his life arguing.

And he was right. You DID argue about everything.

You wanted the windows in your chambers replaced with larger ones. "More light," you said.

"The light is fine."

"The light is dreary. I want to see the garden."

"You can see the garden from the window you have."

"I want to see it better."

He cursed under his breath and walked away. You thought that was the end of it.

The windows were replaced within a fortnight.

You wanted a specific breed of dog. Not a hunting hound, not a lapdog, a wolfhound. "They're elegant," you said.

"They're enormous."

"They're elegant and enormous."

He told you no. He told you the castle didn't need a beast the size of a pony wandering the corridors. He told you to pick something smaller, quieter, less likely to knock over a serving girl.

You crossed your arms and stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you blinked.

The wolfhound arrived three weeks later. Maekar pretended it was a gift from a northern lord. You knew better.

You wanted him to attend a poetry reading with you. "Absolutely not," he said.

"It's by the sea. There will be wine."

"I don't like poetry."

"You don't have to like it. You just have to sit there and look stern."

"I always look stern."

"Exactly. You'll fit right in."

He cursed. He went. He sat in the back, arms crossed, glaring at the poet. You held his hand under the bench. He didn't pull away.

You wanted a new tapestry for the great hall. "The current one is ugly," you said.

"It's historical."

"It's ugly and historical."

He grunted. You assumed that was a no.

The tapestry was replaced within a month. You didn't ask where the old one went. You didn't care.

You were both stubborn. You both refused to give in. But somehow, impossibly, things kept appearing. A new saddle. A larger hearth in your chambers. A set of silk sheets in your favorite color.

"Did you order these?" you asked, holding up the sheets.

"The servants must have."

"The servants don't know my favorite color."

He grunted and walked away.

You smiled and cherished those sheets, and maybe you’ll show Maekar how much you cherish them. Later. At night.

Valarr - Everyone was surprised when Valarr married you.

He was quiet, studious, prone to long hours in the library. You were loud, demanding, prone to long lists of grievances. No one thought you would suit.

No one was more surprised than Valarr. Because he was right where he wanted to be.

You wanted a library of your own. Not to share with him, you wanted YOUR own. "I need space for my books," you said.

"You have space in my library."

"Your library is full of your books. I want my own."

He built you a library. It was smaller than his, but warmer, with a fireplace and a window seat overlooking the sea. You spent hours there. He visited you every evening.

"You're distracting me," you said.

"I'm admiring you."

"Same thing."

He smiled. He stayed.

You wanted him to attend a feast with you. He hated feasts, and you knew he did. He hated the noise, the crowds, the endless small talk. But you asked, and he went. He stood beside you the whole time, his hand on your lower back, his mismatched eyes scanning the room.

"You don't have to stay," you said.

"I want to."

"You hate feasts."

"And I love you."

You stared at him. He stared back.

"That's cheesy," you said.

"That's honest."

You rolled your eyes. But you held his hand tighter.

You wanted him to call you "my love." He already did. Every morning, every evening, every time he looked at you. "My love, are you warm enough?" "My love, did you sleep well?" "My love, you're beautiful when you're angry."

He grunted. It was the closest he came to praise.

Your brothers, meanwhile, were a disaster. Daeron had stopped speaking at dinner. He sat, he drank, he stared at the wall then disappeared. Eventually coming back smelling like perfume. You started sitting beside him. After three nights, he ate a piece of bread. After a week, he grunted at you. After a month, he muttered your name. An improvement compared to his usual behavior.

Aerion was always worse, if not the worst. Aerion threatened servants, set things on fire, and once challenged a mirror to a duel. How could anybody be so foolish? You found him in the corridor with a kitchen boy cornered, a knife in his hand. You did not yell. You did not run for Maekar. You just walked up to him, took the knife from his hand, and said, "The cook needs that back." He stared at you. You stared back. He let the boy go. The next day, he apologized to the cook, in his own way. Maekar watched from the doorway, his arms crossed.

"How did you do that?" he asked later.

"I asked him to stop."

"He doesn't stop for anyone."

"He stops for me."

Maekar stared at you. "Are you using dark magic?"

"No, Father."

"I'm not convinced."

Aemon was never there. He lived in the library, read by candlelight, forgot to eat. You started fetching him for dinner. He complained. You stood in the doorway until he put his book down. "Fine," he said. "Fine." He followed you to the great hall. He ate. He went back to the library. But he came to dinner every night after that.

Egg was the adventurer. He disappeared for weeks, came back with wild stories and no warnings. You told him, gently, that he needed to send a raven. "Just one word," you said. "'Alive.' That's all I need." He grinned and said he would. He forgot. You reminded him again. He forgot again. You stopped reminding him and simply stood in his doorway whenever he returned, silent, arms crossed. He started sending ravens.

Maekar watched all of this. He did not understand it. He had tried yelling, threatening, grounding, none of it worked. You did not yell. You did not threaten. You just existed, and your brothers fell in line.

"You're a witch," he said one morning.

"I'm a sister."

"There's no difference."

He meant it as a compliment, of course.

Maekar and affection did not go hand in hand, but you started hugging him when you were young. You were small, barely tall enough to reach his waist, and you wrapped your arms around his legs without warning. He froze. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Hugging you."

"Stop."

You didn't stop. He stood there, stiff and uncomfortable, until you let go. The next day, you did it again. The day after that, again. He complained every time. "You're too old for this." "This is undignified." "What will the servants think?" You ignored him. Eventually, he stopped pushing you away. He did not hug back but he stood still and let you hold on.

By the time you were grown, it was routine. You hugged him hello. You hugged him goodbye. You hugged him when you were sad, when you were happy, when you had not seen him in a while. He grumbled. He did not pull away. Once, when you left for a month long visit to your aunt, he stood at the gate longer than necessary. You waved. He nodded. Did he cry? Yes. But you weren’t aware of that.

When you returned, you hugged him. He did not grumble. He just stood there, one hand coming up to pat your back once, awkwardly, before stepping away. The servants pretended not to see. They were paid well.

Maekar asked your opinion on everything now. Trade agreements. Marriage alliances. Whether to execute a thief or send him to the Wall. You answered honestly. He listened. Sometimes he took your advice. Sometimes he didn't. But he always asked.

"You have a good head," he said once.

"Thank you, Father."

"Don't let it go to your head."

He meant: I trust you. He meant: You are valuable. He meant: You are my favorite, even though I will never say it.

Your brothers noticed but instead of being jealous, they were relieved. You were the buffer between them and Maekar's temper. You were the one who translated his grunts into actual communication. You were the one who remembered everyone's name, everyone's birthday, everyone's grievance.

Daeron started coming to you before he went to Maekar. "Can you... tell him?" he would ask. You told him. Maekar listened.

Aerion started asking you to accompany him to court. "He's less angry when you're there," he admitted. You went. Maekar was, in fact, less angry.

Aemon started sending you letters from the Citadel. Short ones. "Still alive. Reading." You wrote back. "Eat something."

Egg started bringing you souvenirs from his adventures. A carved wooden horse. A shell from the sea. A pressed flower. You kept them all in a box under your bed.

One evening, after a particularly disastrous council meeting (Aerion had insulted a lord, Daeron had fallen asleep, and Egg had not shown up at all) Maekar sat in his solar, staring at the fire.

You brought him tea. With honey. The way he liked.

"Your brothers are trying to kill me," he said.

"They're trying to live their lives. There's a difference."

"One of them set a curtain on fire today."

"Aerion’s trademark."

"Obviously."

You sat beside him. "He's restless. He needs something to do."

"He needs a keeper."

"He has me."

Maekar looked at you. His face was tired, but his eyes were soft.

"I don't deserve you," he said.

"You deserve all of us. Even the ones who set things on fire."

He huffed. It was almost a laugh.

"I did want sons," he said quietly. "I wanted one. Maybe two. But I wanted a daughter. I always wanted a daughter."

"You have me."

"Yes." He reached over and patted your hand very awkwardly. "I do."

You sat in silence, watching the fire. Then you leaned over and hugged him. He did not push you away. He never pushed you away anymore. He just sat there and let you hold on.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For being normal."

You laughed. He did not. He was dead serious. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

That night, he lit a candle in the sept. He thanked the gods for you. He asked them to keep you safe. He did not ask them to explain how you controlled your brothers, since he had given up on that years ago. He simply accepted it as a mystery, like rain or the changing of the seasons.

His daughter. The only one he trusted. The only one who hugged him without flinching. The only one who made him think, just for a moment, that he might have done something right.

He blew out the candle and went to bed.

In the morning, he would yell at Aerion again. He would worry about Daeron again. He would wait for a raven from Aemon. He would wonder where Egg had gone.

"It's hurt. I'm not leaving it."

He watched as you carefully scooped the raven into your shawl. It didn't peck you. It just lay there, breathing shallow, its black eyes fixed on your face.

"You're going to carry that all the way back?"

"Yes."

"This is why I don't let you go anywhere alone."

You smiled at him. He glared. But he walked beside you the whole way, and when the raven let out a pitiful cry, he even held a branch out of your way so you wouldn't trip. Maybe sliced a few branches too.

The maester set the wing. You set up a small nest in your chambers, nest being a basket lined with soft cloth, placed near the fire. Aerion watched from his chair, arms crossed. What an attitude.

"If it gives me a disease, I'm blaming you."

"It won't give you a disease."

"You don't know that."

The raven recovered slowly. You spent hours feeding it scraps of meat, changing its bandages, talking to it in a low, soothing voice. Aerion pretended not to notice, but he noticed. He noticed that you weren't paying attention to him.

"You're obsessed with that bird," he said one evening.

"It's healing."

"It's a bird. I'm your husband."

You looked up. He was scowling, but his ears were red.

"Are you jealous of a raven?"

"I'm not jealous. I'm stating a fact. You've spent more time with it this week than with me."

You laughed. He didn't. In fact he does not find it funny.

The raven, sensing an opportunity, let out a loud caw. Aerion glared at it.

"I hate that thing."

"You don't hate it."

"I do."

He didn't hate it, you knew that because you caught him sneaking it bits of bread when he thought you weren't looking. You saw him talk to it once, low and gruff, when you were pretending to sleep.

"You're not so bad," he muttered to the bird. "But if you tell her I said that, I'll pluck your feathers."

The raven cawed softly.

When it was finally strong enough to fly, you carried it to the window. It sat on your wrist, looking out at the sky.

"You have to go," you said.

It didn't move.

"Go on."

It hopped to the sill, turned, looked at you. Then it flew.

Aerion came up behind you, his hand on your waist.

"It'll come back," he said.

"How do you know?"

"Because you're its person now."

You leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your hair.

"Don't get another one," he said.

"I make no promises."

He sighed. But he was almost smiling. Maybe next time you could bring home more birds, or maybe a deer!-

As if Aerion read your mind, he cut you off. "Don’t get carried away."

Okay. Nevermind.

Daeron - You found the squirrel at the base of a chestnut tree, its leg trapped under a fallen branch. It was tiny, frantic, its tail twitching as it tried to drag itself free.

Daeron was walking with you, as he'd been trying to spend more time outside, fresh air instead of wine. He stopped when you stopped and crouched down.

"What's that?"

"A squirrel. Its leg is stuck."

He crouched beside you, peering at the animal. "It's very... twitchy."

"It's scared."

"It looks like it wants to bite me."

You lifted the branch carefully. The squirrel scrambled back, then collapsed, its leg bent at an odd angle.

"We need the maester," you said.

"You want to bring that thing to the maester?"

"I want to bring it to the maester."

He sighed but helped you wrap the squirrel in your handkerchief. It bit him through the fabric.

"See?" he said, wincing. "Vicious."

"You'd be vicious too if your leg was broken."

Once the maester did what he could, you set up a small box in your chambers, lined with some rags. The squirrel slept for a full day.

When it woke, Daeron was sitting nearby, watching it.

"It's staring at me," he said.

"It's curious."

"It's plotting my demise."

You laughed. He didn't.

Later that evening, you found Daeron offering the squirrel a drop of wine on the tip of his finger.

"Daeron!"

"What? It looked thirsty."

"It's a squirrel! They don't drink wine!"

"It's an animal. Animals like wine."

You slapped his arm playfully, but you very serious.

"Don't give alcohol to wildlife."

"Fine. More for me."

He took a sip himself, then watched as you fed the squirrel a piece of apple.

"You're good at that," he said.

"At what?"

"Being gentle. I'm not."

"You're gentle with me."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and took your hand.

"That's different. You don't bite."

The squirrel healed slowly. It grew bold, climbing the curtains, stealing crumbs from the table. Daeron complained constantly, but you caught him talking to it when he thought you weren't listening.

"You're a menace," he muttered to the squirrel. "But she likes you. So I suppose you can stay."

When the squirrel was fully recovered, you carried it to the forest. Daeron came with you, standing a few feet back.

"You'll miss it," he said.

"A little."

"It had character."

"It had a lot of opinions."

He laughed. You set the squirrel down. It scampered a few feet, looked back, then disappeared into the trees.

"Goodbye, little one," you whispered.

Daeron put his arm around your shoulders.

"You know, I would never run away from you, if I was a squirrel" Daeron says, triumphantly.

"I wouldn’t let you."

Duncan - Duncan heard the crying while you guys were being adventurous, a thin, desperate mewling coming from a pile of rubble near the old watchtower. He lifted a broken beam and found her: a tiny grey kitten, no bigger than his hand, one leg bent, her fur matted with dust.

"Oh, sweetheart," you breathed.

Duncan knelt beside you, his big hands gentle as he scooped her up. She was trembling, terrified, her eyes huge in her small face.

"We need the maester," he said.

"I'll run ahead."

"No." He tucked the kitten into his tunic, against his chest. "She's scared. She'll be warmer with me."

You ran together. As the maester did his work, Duncan held the kitten the whole time, murmuring to her, his deep voice a low rumble.

"There now," he said. "You're all right. We've got you."

The kitten stayed in your chambers for weeks. She was too small to be away from her mother, but it seems the kitten was abandoned already, the maester said. She needed round the clock care.

You fed her warm milk from the tip of your pinky. Duncan built her a bed in a wooden box with your softest scarf as her bed. She slept curled against his chest at night, tucked under his chin.

"She likes you," you said.

"She's scared of everything."

"She's not scared of you."

It was true. The kitten, who hissed at the servants and hid from the maester, would climb into Duncan's lap the moment he sat down. She kneaded his tunic with her tiny paws and fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

"She thinks you're her mother," you teased.

"I'm not her mother. I'm her... large warm thing."

When the kitten was fully healed, you sat down with Duncan to discuss releasing her.

"She's wild," you said. "She belongs outside."

Duncan looked at the kitten, who was currently asleep on his shoulder.

"She's not wild. She's never caught a mouse in her life."

"She needs to learn."

"She needs a home."

He looked at you. His eyes were soft.

"I want to keep her."

You stared at him. "You want to keep the kitten?"

"I want to keep the kitten." He shrugged. "She's small. She's quiet. She doesn't take up much space."

The kitten opened one eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.

"We're keeping her," you said.

"We're keeping her."

You named her Pip. She grew into a sleek grey cat who followed Duncan everywhere, sat on his shoulder during meals, and slept on his pillow every night.

(fun fact! Pip is actually based off of a REAL GREY KITTEN THAT I FOUND. it was yearsss ago but I still miss her.)

Valarr - You were eavesdropping conversations while walking with Valarr around the village, one conversation piqued your interest. A farmer was grumbling to his wife about the weakling lamb, the one born too small, the one that couldn't keep up with the flock. "No use wasting good grain on it," he said. "Let nature take its course."

Your heart clenched.

Valarr was beside you, as always, his hand resting on your lower back. He felt you tense.

"What is it?"

"That lamb. The farmer's going to leave it."

"You don't know that."

"He said 'let nature take its course.' That means he's going to let it die."

Valarr looked at the lamb, a tiny, shivering thing, one leg dragging, its eyes half closed. It was curled in a patch of straw, separate from the others.

"You want to take it," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"To the castle."

"The stables. Just until it's strong enough."

He was quiet for a moment. You could see him calculating the space, the feed, the maester's time, the inevitable mess. He did not like the idea of this whole thing. But he knew you. He knew this was important to you.

"Fine," he said. "Go talk to the farmer. I'll arrange for a cart."

You kissed his cheek and ran to the farmer.

The lamb was installed in a clean stall in the royal stables that afternoon. The maester examined it, malnourished, a damaged leg, mostly genetics but not entirely hopeless with enough care. You named it Clover.

Valarr visited once a day. Not because he cared about the lamb, but because he knew you'd be there. He'd lean against the stall door, arms crossed, watching you care for the tiny creature.

"It's going to follow you around like a dog," he said.

"That would be adorable."

"It would be annoying."

You smiled. He didn't, but his eyes softened.

When Clover grew strong enough to wobble around the stable, Valarr started bringing apple slices. He claimed they were for his horse. You noticed the lamb nibbling them from his palm.

"You're feeding her."

"I'm feeding the horse. She steals them."

"She can't reach your horse's mouth."

He smiled and didn't answer.

The day came when Clover was fully healed, her leg strong, her coat thick, her eyes bright. You knew she needed to go back to the flock, but your chest ached.

Valarr found you sitting in the straw, the lamb's head in your lap.

"You're going to miss her," he said.

"A little."

He sat down beside you on the straw, in his fine tunic, without a word of complaint.

"She can't stay forever, my love." he said.

"I know."

"But she can stay another day."

You looked at him. He was watching the lamb, not you.

"Really?"

"One more day." He shrugged. "Then she goes back to the farmer."

You threw your arms around him. He stiffened, then relaxed, his hand coming up to pat your back.

"Thank you," you whispered.

When you finally returned Clover to the farmer, Valarr walked with you. The farmer was very grateful and extremely surprised, a healthy lamb was worth something after all. He offered you coin. You refused.

As you walked back to the castle, Valarr took your hand.

"She has a good life because of you."

You squeezed his fingers. "Does that mean this can by a daily thing?"

He watched you constantly, the color of your face, your breathing, the way you held yourself. When you swayed, he was there. When you coughed, he appeared with water. When you had a bad spell, he dismissed every servant and sat in the corner, pretending to read, while actually counting your breaths.

"You don't have to do this," you said once.

"I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I can't stand the noise of you coughing. It's irritating."

Right. Okay. He handed you a cup of tea. It was already sweetened. He knew you liked it that way.

One evening, you wanted to go for a walk. He came with you, “not for company”, he said, but because he needed to stretch his legs. He brought a small flask of water, a woolen blanket, and a piece of dry bread in case you felt faint.

He walked beside you, close enough to catch you. And when you stumbled on a root, his arm was around your waist before you could fall.

"Clumsy," he muttered. It didn’t sound like he was actually annoyed, though?

You knew he cared. You could see it in the way he hovered, the way his eyes tracked you, the way he always found an excuse to be near when you were ill. He'd never admit it. He'd rather swallow his own tongue than say "I'm worried." But you didn't need the words. You had his actions.

When you caught a summer cold that turned into a lung fever, he cancelled his meetings. "They're pointless," he said. "Nothing but fools droning on about taxes. I'd rather be bored here."

He sat by your bed for three days. He read reports. He sharpened a dagger. He glared at anyone who came near. But every time you coughed, his jaw tightened. Every time your eyes closed, he checked that you were still breathing.

On the third night, you woke to find him slumped in the chair, his head dropped forward, snoring softly. You reached out and touched his hand.

He jolted awake. "What? Are you worse? Do you need the maester?"

"I'm fine. You're exhausted."

"I'm not exhausted. I was resting my eyes."

"You were snoring."

"Targaryens don't snore."

You smiled. He saw it and looked away, his ears reddening.

"You're not allowed to get sick again," he said.

"I'll try."

"Try harder."

He poured you a cup of water and held it to your lips. You drank. He set the cup aside and, after a moment's hesitation, brushed a strand of hair from your face.

"This is your fault, you know," he said quietly.

"My fault?"

"If you weren't so... you. I wouldn't care. It's very inconvenient."

He said it like an accusation. But his hand lingered on your cheek.

"I know," you said.

He grunted. "Good. Now go back to sleep. I'll be here."

"Because you have nowhere else to be?"

"Because the chair is comfortable."

He settled back, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. But his hand stayed on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch.

You fell asleep with your fingers brushing his.

In the morning, he was gone. But there was a fresh cup of tea on the bedside table, a plate of warm bread, and a note in his sharp, messy handwriting.

Had to go, will be back in a few. Don't die. It would annoy me.

Baelor – Baelor was a man of action. He solved problems. He didn't wring his hands or hover. So when he realized you were chronically unwell, prone to weakness, to sudden fevers, to days where you couldn't rise from bed, he did the only thing he could. He built a life around you that accommodated your frailty, and he never once made you feel like a burden.

He moved your chambers to the warmest part of the keep. He had the maester prepare a satchel of remedies that went with you everywhere. He assigned a handmaiden to stay with you when he couldn't be there.

You noticed, of course. You noticed the way the fires were always lit, even in summer. The way fresh linens appeared whenever you had a bad night. The way he carried you to bed when you fainted at a feast, his face betraying nothing, his arms steady as stone.

"You don't have to do all this," you said one evening, after he'd personally carried you up three flights of stairs because you were too weak to walk.

"I know."

"The realm needs you. You have council meetings, tourneys, duties-"

"The realm will survive a few hours without me." He set you down on the bed and knelt to remove your shoes. "You’re also my duty."

You giggled and looked at him, the strong line of his jaw, his dark hair, the strong hands that had held a sword in battle now gently unlacing your boots.

"You're too good to me," you whispered.

He looked up. His eyes were soft.

"I'm not good. I'm practical. You're my wife. Taking care of you is my duty."

He paused.

"And my privilege."

When you had a particularly bad spell, a fever that raged for days, leaving you delirious and weak, he stayed by your side. He read to you. He fed you broth when you couldn't hold the spoon. He held your hand through the worst of it, his thumb tracing slow circles on your palm.

One your fever broke, you opened your eyes to find him slumped in a chair by the window, still in his tunic, his head dropped forward. He looked exhausted. There were shadows under his eyes.

You reached for him. He woke immediately.

"You're awake, how do you feel?," he asked. His voice was hoarse.

"I'm awake, I feel way better."

He crossed to the bed and pressed his palm to your forehead. "Fever's gone."

"You stayed?"

"I stayed."

He sat on the edge of the mattress, took your hand, and held it to his chest.

"You scared me," he admitted quietly. "I don't scare easily."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He kissed your knuckles. "I’ll always be here to take care of you."

He then pulled the blanket up to your chin and tried to make you sleep for another few hours.

Daeron – Daeron had spent most of his life being the one who needed care. He drank too much, stumbled too often, relied on others to pick him up. So when he married you, someone who needed him, it changed something deep inside him. You were always getting sick. A cough that lingered for weeks. A fever that spiked without warning. Days when you were too tired to lift your head, too weak to walk to the window. Daeron didn't panic, well, he tried not to. He also tried to make sure he wasn’t overbearing or micromanaging you. He just stayed.

He learned your rhythms. The way your skin went pale before a bad spell. The way your breathing shallowed when the pain was bad. The way you smiled through it, like you didn't want to be a bother.

"You're not a bother," he said one afternoon, when you'd apologized for the third time.

"I keep you from your duties."

"My duties can wait." He handed you a cup of tea.

He didn't make very grand gestures. He just showed up. Every day. Every night. When you were sick, he brought you whatever you craved, sweet cakes, warm bread, broth from the kitchen. When you were well enough, he took you for slow walks in the garden, his arm looped through yours, ready to catch you if you stumbled.

When you fainted at dinner, in front of everyone, he scooped you up, carried you to bed, and sat with you until you woke.

"You're going to exhaust yourself taking care of me," you said.

"Then we'll be exhausted together."

He smiled.

Another winter, you caught a chill that settled deep in your chest. You coughed for weeks, couldn't keep food down, lost weight you couldn't afford to lose. Daeron moved into your chambers. He slept in the chair by the fire, woke every few hours to check on you, to make sure you were still breathing.

"This isn't sustainable," you said, your voice a rasp.

"Then get better."

"I'm trying."

"I know." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I know."

On the worst night, you woke from a coughing fit to find him holding you upright, his hand on your back, his face pale.

"I thought-" He stopped. Swallowed. "I thought you stopped breathing."

"Daeron, I’m not going to die."

"O-of course not. I was just… worried."

He held you all night and in the morning, your fever had broken. Your chest was still tight, but you could breathe easier.

He brought you tea and sat beside you, his knee pressed to yours.

"I love you," he said. "Even when you're sick."

"Especially when I'm sick?"

"Especially."

Maekar – Maekar was not a soft man. He did not coo or coddle. He communicated in grunts and glares and the occasional sharp word. So when he married a woman who was constantly ill, who fainted, who coughed for weeks, who needed constant care he handled it the only way he knew how.

He got gruff.

"You look terrible," he said, not looking up from his papers.

"Thank you."

"Drink this." He pushed a cup toward you. It was some foul-tasting tonic the maester swore by. Ew.

"What is it?"

"Medicine. Drink it."

You drank. He grunted in approval.

Throughout your marriage, he learned to read you. The slight sway before a faint. The shallow breath before a coughing fit. The glassy eyes that meant a fever was coming. He didn't ask if you were okay, he just acted.

When you fainted in the courtyard, he carried you inside and didn't say a word. When you had a coughing fit at dinner, he put his hand on your back, steady and warm. When you were too tired to walk, he picked you up and deposited you on the nearest surface, a chair, a bench, the bed.

"You don't have to-" you started once.

"Shut up." He wasn't being mean. He just didn't know how to say “I'm worried.”

He started keeping a small bag by the door, water, dried meat, a warm cloak, smelling salts for when you went out. He never explained it. He just grabbed it and threw it over his shoulder.

"You pack like a mother hen," you said.

"You collapse like a sack of flour. We're even."

One day, you caught a fever that wouldn't break. You were sick for weeks, too weak to rise, too tired to eat, your skin pale and clammy. Maekar cancelled his meetings. He didn't say why. He just didn't go.

He sat by your bed for hours, pretending to read, his eyes flicking to you every few seconds. He fed you broth when you couldn't hold the spoon. He held your hair back when you got sick. He grumbled the whole time, but he never left.

"You don't have to stay," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

"I know."

"The castle needs you."

"The castle can burn."

You stared at him. He stared back.

"Don't look at me like that," he said. "I'm not being romantic. I'm being practical. You're my wife. I'm supposed to keep you alive."

He pressed his palm to your forehead. "Fever's still there. Fuck."

"I know."

He cursed under his breath and went to fetch a cold cloth.

When you were all better, you woke to find him slumped in the chair by the window, his head dropped forward, his sword across his knees. He was pretending to sleep, but his eyes opened the moment you stirred. He crossed to the bed, pressed his hand to your forehead, and grunted. "Fever's gone."

"You watched over me?"

"Obviously." He sat on the edge of the bed. "Someone had to." Yes. Maekar is so mother hen.

Valarr – Valarr was a planner. He liked to be ready for anything. So when he married you, he did what he did best. He prepared.

There was always a basket by the bed. Inside: a warm cloak, and a handwritten list of your symptoms, medicine, and more remedies in case someone else needed to help.

"Valarr, we're just going to the garden," you said.

"The garden is outside. You could faint. You could get cold. You could-"

"Valarr."

He sighed. "Humor me."

He brought the basket everywhere. To dinner. To the library. To the courtyard. The servants whispered, mainly because that basket was a woman’s basket, but he didn't care.

Aftwr a particularly bad fainting spell, he just moved into your chambers, brought his books, and stayed.

"You don't have to-"

He didn't look up from his reading. "I want to."

He read to you when you were too tired to hold a book. He held your hand when the pain was bad. He tracked your fevers on a piece of parchment, noting the times, the temperatures, the effectiveness of the tonics.

"You're very organized," you said.

"Someone has to be."

Alas you caught a cough that turned into a lung infection. You couldn't keep food down. You couldn't sleep. Every breath was a struggle. Valarr barely left your side.

He brought you tea. He fluffed your pillows. He read aloud from a history book, his voice low and steady, even when you couldn't follow the words.

"You're going to exhaust yourself," you said.

"I'm fine."

"You're pale."

"I'm always pale."

He wasn't. He was tired. You could see it in the shadows under his eyes, the way his hands shook when he poured your water.

"You should rest," you said.

"So should you."

He climbed onto the bed beside you, careful not to jostle you, and wrapped an arm around your waist.

"I'll rest here," he said. Yes. No problem with that.

You woke to find him asleep beside you, his face pressed to your hair, his arm still around you. The basket was on the floor, rummaged through but still packed.

You touched his cheek. He woke instantly.

"Your fever," he said, already reaching for your forehead.

He exhaled and closed his eyes.

"Good," he said.

When you finally recovered, he took the basket and repacked it. More water. An extra blanket. A new vial of everything.

"We're not going anywhere," you said.

"We will."

He kissed your forehead.

"Just in case," he said.

He carried the basket out the door.

"That's not a top."

"It's comfortable. And it’s hot outside.”

He stared at you. His violet eyes were dark, hungry, furious. His jaw was tight.

"You walked through the castle like this?"

"No one saw."

"I saw." He pulled you into an alcove, pressing you against the wall. His body was hard against yours, his breath hot on your neck.

"Every man in that room saw. Every servant. Every guard." His hand slid down, gripping your hip. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Made you angry?"

"Made me hard."

He pressed his hips against you, letting you feel him. His cock was thick, straining against his breeches.

"We're going back to our chambers," he said. "And you can wear it freely."

"And then?"

He kissed your neck, hard, biting.

"And then I'm going to ruin you."

He took your hand and pulled you down the corridor.

The door had barely closed before he had you against it. His mouth was on your neck, his hands shoving your skirt up around your waist.

"You have no idea," he growled, "what it took not to bend you over that council table."

"You would have?”

"In front of all those lords?" He bit down on your shoulder. "Yes. I would have."

He spun you around, pressing your cheek to the cool wood. His fingers hooked into the scrap of lace at your hips and tore it. The sound of ripping fabric made you gasp.

"Aerion!- I- I liked those."

"I'll buy you more."

He fumbled with his belt, and then his cock was pressing against your entrance.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this. Please Aerion-"

He pushed inside you in one rough stroke. You cried out, your fingers scrabbling against the door. He didn't wait. Didn't go slow. Just fucked you hard and fast, his hips slapping against your backside.

"This is what you wanted," he said, his voice ragged. "Walking around in that little nothing. You wanted me to lose control."

Could he blame you? It was hot outside and… well... what was the harm in teasing? You hadn't expected him to snap quite like this. You were definitely hoping, though.

"You're so tight," he groaned. "So fucking wet."

His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. His thrusts deepened, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

"I'm going to fill you up," he said. "And then I'm going to fuck you again. And again. Until you forget why you ever thought wearing clothes was a good idea."

You came first. screaming, clenching around him. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.

He didn't pull out. Just stayed there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to your back.

"You're never wearing that in public again."

"Never?"

He pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh.

"Never. Only for me."

He scooped you up and carried you to the bed. Good luck.

Daeron - Daeron had been sober for months. He was proud of that. But when he saw you walking toward him in the garden, wearing a pale pink lace top that barely covered your breasts, he felt the sudden, desperate need for a drink. He needed something to cool the fire in his blood.

You smiled at him, seemingly oblivious. "Good morning."

His jaw dropped and he choked on air.

"That's... what are you wearing?"

"A top. Do you like it?"

He couldn't look away. The lace was thin, almost transparent. He could see the circles of your nipples, the soft swell of your breasts. A matching scrap of lace peeked above your skirt.

"You can't wear that outside."

"Why not?"

"Because-" He swallowed. "Because I can't think when you look like that."

You stepped closer, your hand resting on his chest.

"Maybe I don't want you to think."

He groaned, low and desperate. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him.

He kissed you and when he pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark.

"We're going inside."

"Now?"

"Now." He took your hand, his fingers trembling. "Before I take you right here in the garden."

He led you toward the castle, his pace hurried. You laughed. He didn't. He was too busy imagining all the ways he was going to make you moan.

He kicked the door shut and pressed you against it, his mouth on your neck.

"I've been trying so hard," he said between kisses. "To be good. To be patient."

"You have been."

"It's not enough." His hands slid under the lace, cupping your breasts. "Not when you look like this."

He pushed the straps down, and the top fell away. He stared at your bare chest, his breath catching.

"You're so beautiful."

He lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to the bed and laid you down, climbing over you.

"I need to be inside you," he said. "Please."

You reached down and guided him to your entrance. He pushed inside slowly, his forehead pressed to yours.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, fuck."

He moved gently at first, far too gently. You wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him deeper.

"Harder," you said.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

He let go. His thrusts became faster, deeper, his moans muffled against your neck. His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit.

"That's it," he said. "That's it, love. Cum for me."

You did. Your body clenched around him, and he followed, spilling inside you with a broken groan.

He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in your hair.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He pulled out and rolled onto his back, dragging you against his chest.

"You're keeping that top," he said.

"Am I?"

"Yes. But you're only wearing it for me."

You smiled and kissed his chest.

"Deal."

Duncan - Duncan was mending a fence by the stables when you came to find him. He looked up, smiling, ready to ask about your day.

Then he saw your top.

It was blue, his favorite color and made of lace so fine it looked like spun sugar. Your breasts were barely contained, the fabric clinging to every curve.

"What's that?" he asked, straightening.

"A top."

"That's not a top." He set down the hammer, his ears turning red. "That's... that's underclothes."

"It's comfortable."

He stared at you. His mouth was dry. His big, calloused hands hung uselessly at his sides.

"You can't wear that out here."

"Why not?"

"Because-" He looked around. No one was nearby. Just the horses, the fence, and you.

"I can see your..."

"My what?"

He gestured vaguely at your chest. "Your... everything."

You smiled. "Is that a problem?"

He stepped closer, his large frame blocking the sun. His hand came up, fingers tracing the edge of the lace.

"You're trying to kill me," he said.

"Is it working?"

He pulled you against his chest, his heart pounding beneath your ear.

"We're going inside," he said. "And you're going to explain to me why you thought this was a good idea."

"And if I don't?"

He lifted you easily, carrying you toward the castle.

"Then I'll just have to guess."

He laid you on the bed and stood back, looking at you. The lace top had shifted, baring one breast. Your skirt was bunched around your thighs.

"You're so beautiful," he said.

"You're staring."

"I can't help it."

He pulled off his tunic, then his breeches. His cock was already hard, thick, pressing against his belly.

"Come here," you said.

He crawled onto the bed, covering your body with his. He was so big, warm, solid, overwhelming.

"I've never wanted anyone the way I want you," he said.

He pushed your skirt up the rest of the way and settled between your thighs. His cock pressed against your entrance.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this."

He pushed inside you slowly. You both groaned. He was thick, stretching you, filling you.

"Gods," he breathed. "You feel so good."

He moved with deep, languid thrusts that made your toes curl. His hand found your clit, rubbing in time with his movements.

"That's it," he said. "That's it, sweetheart."

You came, clenching around him. He followed a moment later, burying himself as deep as he could and spilling inside you with a groan.

He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in your neck.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He rolled off, pulling you against his chest.

"You're never wearing that outside again."

"Never?"

"Only for me. In private. With nobody around, in fact, not even the horses get to see-"

You cut him off with a smooch. He was quite happy.

Valarr - Valarr was reading in his study when you walked in. He didn't look up at first because he was deep in a text about dragon migration patterns. But then you sat on the edge of his desk, and the movement caught his eye.

He looked up.

His book slipped from his fingers.

The top was crimson, the color of a dragon he was just reading about (nerd), made of lace so delicate it looked like it might tear if he breathed on it. Your breasts were full and soft beneath the fabric, the peaks visible through the pattern. A thin ribbon tied at your throat.

"Valarr?"

He didn't answer. He just stared, his mismatched eyes wide.

"Do you like it?"

He stood. Crossed the room. Took your face in his hands.

"Where did you get this?"

"I made it."

"You made it?"

"From an old dress. I wanted to surprise you."

His thumbs stroked your cheeks. His breathing was shallow.

"You're wearing this... out?"

"Just to your study."

"No one else saw?"

"No one else."

He exhaled. Then he kissed you. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

"You're not leaving this room."

"I wasn't planning to."

He lifted you onto the desk, pushing papers aside. His hands slid under the lace, cupping your breasts.

"I'm going to take my time," he said. "And when I'm done, you're going to make another one of these."

"Why?"

He kissed your neck. "So I can tear it off you again."

He pulled the ribbon loose, and the lace fell away. His mouth followed.

He kissed down your chest, taking one nipple into his mouth. You gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair. His other hand pushed your skirt up, fingers sliding beneath the lace at your hips.

"You've been teasing me all day," he said against your skin. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"I wasn't teasing."

"You were." He looked up at you, his mismatched eyes dark. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

Okay, did you sit on his lap multiple times before this to distract him from his book? Yes. Did you get bored and try on this top to help distract him further? Also yes.

He pushed your underwear aside and slid two fingers inside you. You were already wet.

"You're ready," he said.

"I've been ready."

He withdrew his fingers and unfastened his breeches. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking.

He lifted you off the desk and turned you around, bending you over the edge. His chest pressed to your back, his lips brushing your ear.

"I want to watch myself fuck you," he said. "In the mirror."

There was a large mirror on the far wall. You could see both of you, him, tall and broad, you, bent over the desk, your lace top bunched around your ribs.

He pushed inside you slowly, watching your face in the mirror.

"Look," he said. "Look at how beautiful you are."

You watched as he fucked you, his hips slapping against yours. His hand found your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

"Cum for me," he said. "I want to see you fall apart."

Your body clenched around him, your mouth open in a silent scream. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan.

He stayed buried deep, panting.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He pulled out slowly and turned you around, pulling you against his chest.

"You're keeping that top," he said.

"Am I?"

"Yes. But you're only wearing it for me."

He kisses your forehead, covered you with a spare cloak, and took you by the hand.

“Where are we going?”