Iso-sleepy

your husband only grumbled, rough hands trying to stop you from revealing more skin. still, you were determined, swatting every attempt away with a disgruntled sound, making maekar even more annoyed.

"have you no shame at all, woman?" he grouched, face pinched in irritation as you lifted the tunic until it pooled under his armpits, revealing his chest and belly in all its glory. "disrobing me and pawing at my flesh like i'm nothing but a toy to be played with when i'm exhausted from the bloody fucking—"

but you were barely listening to what your husband was saying, and frankly, in that moment, you had no qualms about paying mind to what came out of his mouth. all you cared about was how good he looked in that moment, leaning back against the pillows of your bed, still sweaty and dirty from the royal hunt he attended, looking every inch a man. all muscle and sinew and gods, the smatterings of fine silver hairs all over his chest and belly, and all the way lower on his navel, where a white trail of hair led right beneath the waistband of his breeches, to his cock.

you almost sighed thinking of it. you loved your husband's cock. it was one of the best things about him.

"you're exhausted," you parroted, humming as your soft hands continued to caress his stomach, pressing your fingers in, kneading at the skin like a cat, leisurely and appreciative, eliciting a displeased groan from your husband. "so sit back and indulge me for a few moments, dear husband."

maekar only scowled at you, the furrow between his brows deepening, lip curling in a snarl as he leaned forward, trying to loom, to intimidate in hopes you would cease pestering him. "don't dear husband me, you aggravating woman," he gritted, teeth barred, akin to a dragon before it unlatched its jaws to breathe fire and ash in anger. it made you warm under your chemise. you loved when your husband was all snappy and indignant.

you leaned forward, undeterred by his little intimidation tactic, noses almost brushing as you spoke, your tone soft and persuasive, as if beckoning a wild animal that might bite. "you were gone for so long, and i have been here, all alone, missing you like a limb," you lamented, distracting him from the way your fingers trailed along the waistband of his breeches now, prodding at the pudgy roll of fat there, loving the soft feel of it. "the least you could do is yield to my whims for a while."

aware that it wouldn't be enough to placate your husband, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his scarred cheek, leaving chaste, sweet kisses on the skin as you murmured. "you always look so good after a hunt, husband," you appeased, relentless in your pursuit of what you wanted, especially when it was something as delicious as touching maekar freely without him grumbling in your ear incessantly. "makes me want to devour you whole," your tone was on the precipe of resembling a purr, lips descending towards the strong line of his jaw and down his neck, nuzzling at the sweaty skin in delight.

as always, he tried to persist, even as you felt his skin warm and flush under your lips, making your mouth curl into a satisfied smile. you had him exactly where you wanted him, even if he was still resisting.

"you're being ridiculous," and oh, he was already panting softly, broad chest heaving along with the warm breaths that brushed your temple as you littered his ruddy-skinned throat in wet kisses. "pouncing on me like a cat in heat the second, ah—fuck," he cursed right when your tongue laved at his skin, tasting the remnants of the hunt. the sweat, the grime, the dirt—him, musky and manly and oh so palatable. “stop. i reek of filth and—”

“and i love it,” you moaned against his throat, mouth parting to press open—mouthed kisses to the skin of his throat, tongue licking at every remnant of perspiration, catching it against your palate and savoring it like the finest arbor gold. “you smell s’ good, husband, gods. i want to lick you all over.”

it always got like this. the more disheveled he returned, the more aroused you got. shame had deserted you moons ago, being absurdly vocal about how much you enjoyed when your husband was anything but presentable and pristine.

maekar made an aborted sound at your words, already flushed all the way to the tip of his ears, one rough hand moving to clasp the back of your nape and squeeze in hopes of deterring your assault on his senses, but it seemed in vain. the touch only spurred you, a soft sound resembling a purr rumbling against his throat as you continued to press your tongue to his skin, dipping it to taste the touch of grime gathered in the hollow of his throat.

“filthy,” maekar snarled, fingers squeezing just so at your nape and pulling upwards, eliciting a disgruntled sound from you; a whine. your lips were slick with spit, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide, hazy with heat and adoration, which only made the pressure of his hand increase, reprimanding you for how far gone you already looked. “you’re a filthy, dirty woman, you know that?” he spat, tone brooking on a growl. “always have been,” maekar continued, tightening his hold onto your nape, the pads of his fingers restricting your breath for just a moment, just enough to make you gasp, before he eased it. “getting hot and bothered by your soiled husband like a degenerate,” his thumb brushed against your throat, where he gripped prior, the closest thing to quiet tenderness you could get in that moment, but it made warmth spread through you regardless.

“what of it?” you challenged, dipping your head back to his throat, nosing along the flushed skin, your soft fingers resuming their pawing along his belly, pressing and prodding at the pudgy flesh there, nails scraping along the trail of fine hairs leading below his waistband, making your husband hiss. “it’s your smell i crave, your taste,—” another filthy lick, along the jut of his collarbones, before moving downwards towards his chest, where the smattering of hair was thicker, the smell of sweat and musk more pungent.

maekar tensed as soon as he felt your lips brush against one of his pecs, and you could feel the shiver that ran through him when the tip of your nose nudged a nipple, willing it to harden.

“don’t you fucking dare—”

you did it again, nosing at the pebbling bud once, twice. then, you licked it, slow and wet, circling the nipple with the tip of your tongue, flicking teasingly.

a garbled moan punched out of maekar’s chest, his hold on your nape tightening anew, his other hand fisting the sheets under him, white—knuckled and trembling with restraint. you could tell he wanted to shove you away, to haul you as far as possible from his body so he wouldn’t be able to feel all this, to have to succumb to your whims and depravity. but you also knew he liked it. craved your attention like poison in his veins. hated that he needed it. snarled and snapped his jaws while being half—hard already beneath his breeches, blushing from the tips of his ears to where your mouth was currently busied, lips parting to suckle noisily at his nipple, drawing out another restrained, delicious grunt from your husband.

“look at you,” he managed to bite out through gritted teeth, broad chest heaving under your mouth, voice thinner, breathier. “licking and sucking like a common whore,—”

but you didn’t let him finish, letting your teeth scrape against the bud, nipping at it enough to sting, halting his crude words, making him curse, back arching, pushing his chest more into your awaiting mouth. it was a reprimand, but also a sick, twisted pleasure. seeing your husband bucking and snarling under your lips and tongue was a sight you could never get tired of, much like right now, as you laved one last lick to his wet, swollen nipple, before nosing between his pecs through the fine hairs there, inhaling the scent of him like a woman possessed.

“how would you know what common whores do, mhm, husband?” you murmured, nuzzling along the underside of his pecs, letting your lips press against the skin in damp kisses as you descended towards his stomach, fingers still trailing along the hairs leading towards his navel. “have you been indulging without my knowledge?”

each question was a taunt, like dangling a hunk of meat under a dragon’s nose, waiting for it to bite. and you loved nothing more than to taunt your dragon until he bit, until you could feel his teeth sink in, metaphorically or not.

and he always bit.

“you think i would debase myself with some pleasure house wench?” he snarled, violet eyes glinting with something close to offense, which made you preen quietly, warmth spreading through your chest like drizzled honey.

as you nosed along his stomach, you couldn’t help but breathe him in again, mouth parting in soft pants as your eyes fluttered, the musk of him stronger the closer you got to the V—shape of his hips. “i would hope you wouldn’t, dear husband,” you mouthed along his belly, tongue poking out to lick at the skin, tasting him again. “i would be thoroughly scorned if you so dared,” another lap of your tongue, slow and filthy, this time along the trail of hair near the waistband of his breeches, feeling a slight tickle onto your palate.

but, gods, the scent. the taste of him.

musky and sweaty and man.

it drove you wild, lips pressing to that tempting silver line, open-mouthed and slow, savoring him on your tongue again and again, as if you couldn’t get enough.

a groan slipped unbidden from maekar’s mouth, fingers tightening at your nape, as if remembering he still had a hold on you, blunt nails biting at the skin light enough to make you shiver as he pressed with firmness, as if scruffing a cat. “don’t need some perfumed, wanton wench when i have my hands full with you,” he panted, eyes trained on you, almost unblinking, having watched you the entire time, despite his protests. lavender hues half—lidded, glinting, part anger, part heat, eyeing you like a predator stalking prey.

his words made you purr against his skin, a satisfied sound, your fingers moving to tug slightly at his waistband, revealing more of his navel to you to lick and kiss. “good,” you murmured into his skin, dipping to nose at the cincture of his pants, and lower, nuzzling against his crotch, where you could feel him hard and throbbing already.

“woman, you—” but his protest dissolved into a shuddering moan as you rubbed your cheek against his clothed cock insistently, eyes fluttering, gaze holding his, molten and smoldering with heated affection. the friction was delicious, and it only made more bitten off pleasured sounds fall from his lips, broad chest heaving, splotched red from how hard he was blushing, skin ruddy and flushed. he looked good enough to eat. and maybe later, you intended to do just that.

the scent of him was strongest there, musk so strong it made you dizzy with want, lips parting to mouth at his crotch, feeling his cock throb beneath the cloth, only spurring you on. “smell s’ good,” you mumbled as you continued to map the hard ridge of his arousal with your mouth, tongue laving at the material, wetting it with your spit, making the outline of his cock even more visible. “taste s’ good, husband.”

“gods, fuck—” came from above you, the grip at your nape firming, pressing down, almost smushing your face into his crotch, but you couldn’t be happier to succumb to maekar’s guidance, feeling his hips twitch upwards, rutting weakly against your face.

it made you moan, the action so debauched, so depraved, making you nose along his clothed cock in time with the clumsy grinding of his hips against your face, the scent of him thickening, clogging your senses and coating the back of your throat from how greedily you inhaled.

“c—can’t believe you’re, shit—” he could barely get his words out, too impaired by the way you looked, the blissful look on your face as he humped against it. “can’t believe you’re getting off on this, you wanton woman,” maekar continued, his hips picking up the pace, forcing you slightly more against his clothed cock, grinding against your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your nose; anything he could, the pleasure tingling down his spine way too rapid for his taste. “mouthing at me like a filthy animal, letting me hump—fuck.”

you could tell he was getting close, the thought satisfying you more than you could tell. seeing your husband so unraveled by this alone, hips grinding against your face, hand holding you down for more delicious friction, chasing more but not being able to get it. a delicious torture that was way too exquisite not to witness.

“mhm,” you hummed against his crotch, rubbing your cheek harder against his clothed cock, feeling it throb incessantly, the smell of him more pungent, the precum leaking steadily through his breeches and staining your cheek. “not my fault my husband left me unattended for so long,” you lamented, fluttering your lashes, continuing to rub against him. “i’ve been so lonely,” the words were mouthed against him, breath warm against his crotch, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“always so fuckin’ demanding,” he groaned, long and suffering, humping against your face with more fervor, so close to his peak, face and throat flushed and splotchy, hand firm against your nape as he pushed your face deeper into his crotch. “n—never satisfied, ah, fuck, fuck, wife—,”

wife. the word strained and close to a whine as he lost control, rutting against your plush cheek once, twice, before he came with a pained groan, as if someone clawed the sound from deep in his chest, his spent dirtying his breeches, wetting the fabric against your cheek.

his chest was heaving, mouth parted wide as he tried to catch his breath, his grip still firm, but trembling against your nape, his thumb now brushing along the side of your throat, just like before, as if rewarding you silently, thanking you for letting him use you like this.

it made you smile and you nuzzled into his now damp crotch, the smell of him more powerful than ever, making you moan against the cloth. the sound seemed to bring maekar back from his post coital bliss, his violet eyes blinking down at you, hazy but attentive.

“lick it,” he breathed out, voice strained and heaving still, the fingers at your nape guiding you towards where his cum stained his breeches most, a wet patch visible where the head of his now softening cock was under the cloth. “can’t let good spend go to waste, wife.”

you only hesitated for a heartbeat, mind not wrapping around his words for a moment, before you moaned, mouth parting eagerly, tongue pressing to the damp material and licking, feeling the taste of him invade your palette. “yes, yes,” you sighed, overly pleased, too preoccupied and greedy, lips wrapping around the wet spot and suckling it into your mouth, the essence exploding onto your tongue.

“fucking filthy woman—,” maekar cursed, the sight of his wife, so desperate and eager, making him equal parts flustered and astounded.

you knew the night was going to be a long one when you felt a twitch under your tongue, your husband’s cock throbbing back to life, making your lips curl.

You woke when a plinth of light fell across your eyes. Squinting against the sunshine, you stretched slowly, your limbs protesting as they remembered the previous day’s exertions. 

A healthy flush stained your cheeks and your gaze fell to the side, where your husband was still fast asleep. His silver hair was tousled – the work of your own hands a few hours ago – and scratches and bruises lingered on his skin. Some of them yours, some his rowdy children, some his training’s.

Sometime during the night, he had wrestled himself from beneath the covers. Maekar always ran hot. As such, his nude form was laid bare as he rested on his back, arms tucked to the side. He sleeps like a dead man on his pyre, you thought. Quiet, breathy snores and the slow rise and fall of his broad chest assured you of the fact that he was very much alive.

Your eyes fell lower. You felt like some kind of cretin – leering at Maekar’s manhood as he slept, unaware. He was not even hard. His cock rested against his thigh, still impressive in size, despite being soft. 

When aroused, it sometimes looked angry, aggressive. Like this, there was something vulnerable to it – something you found irresistible.

You began ghosting your fingertips over your husband’s happy trail, following the blonde hairs like a map.

An exhale. You glanced at Maekar’s face sharply, but it remained slack, his frown lines smoothed out. He looked so peaceful like this, so handsome. Unburdened.

Your fingers continued their descent, and reached the thatch of hair at his base. You ran your digits through it lovingly, knowing how good it felt rubbing against you when you fucked each other. 

Beneath your hand, his cock jumped. Once, twice. Alarmed, you watched for other signs that Maekar was waking up, but nothing else about him changed. Not his breathing, nor the looseness of his body that was never present while he was conscious.

You knew that your husband would gladly entertain you should he wake, but you found that you did not want him to. The fragility of him as he slept was what you desired, what made your insides throb with need.

Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you swallowed, torturously aware of the rush of wetness between your thighs as you imagined your sleeping husband’s still mostly soft cock between your lips, the velvety texture of his skin, the give of his flesh before blood engorged his shaft. 

Maekar liked waking you by burying his head between your legs – and the only reason you had never done the same to him was that he was usually up and about when you were still bleary with sleep.

You leaned down and retraced your path with your lips, ephemeral kisses placed upon his pale skin. You quickly reached his length. 

Briefly, you simply nuzzled against it, relishing the soft texture brushing your cheek, your chin tapping against his sack. 

You did not tease yourself for long, drawing his rapidly thickening cock into your mouth, tongue running over his veiny, sensitive underside. 

Salt and bitter musk exploded on your senses, as well as a faint tang that you realised was what remained of your own juices. A stuttered breath later, you licked at his mushroom-shaped head, pointing the wet muscle of your tongue and flicking it along his weeping slit. 

Your cheeks hollowed as he slowly but surely filled out in the snug cavern of your mouth, your jaw working to accommodate his generous girth.

Eager to feel more of him, you bobbed your head, engulfing more of him, only stopping when his length threatened to choke you. Spit dribbled past your lips, down your chin and onto his twitching flesh as you kept your head right at that edge, your nose almost nestled against his groin. You held yourself there for a few heartbeats longer, then began exploring him further.

Like a woman possessed you kissed along his erection, licking and sucking on his ruddy head, lavishing it with attention as though he was the sweetest treat you had ever tasted. 

Eyes flickering up at his serene face, you shoved a hand between your legs, sliding easily through your own arousal as you began grinding on the heel of your palm.

Slick sounds echoed lewdly through the silence of your bedroom, and you moaned softly around Maekar’s rigid shaft, his hips instinctively rocking back into your mouth whenever you withdrew to breathe. 

A burst of flavour made you grin. Maekar’s cock was leaking across your tongue, his flesh hot and throbbing as you sucked harder. Your free hand pressed lightly on his hip to still him and give you control over the depth as your own hips rolled in time with the motion of your head in Maekar's lap.

By now, his breathing had started coming in quicker, along with your own, and you could not say that you were truly surprised when your husband’s large hand clumsily but firmly settled atop your crown, long fingers threading through your hair. A guiding, familiar weight – a gesture so possessive and comforting that a whine rose inside of you.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he mumbled drowsily, his baritone voice rumbling, rough with sleep, “you’re so good to me.”

He groaned, dislodging your loose grip on his hip effortlessly – probably entirely ignorant of the fact it had even been there, in the haze of his lust – and thrusting into you with abandon. Once, twice, three times. You whimpered, spluttering, fighting to stay relaxed as he tensed with a shudder, buried to the hilt.

Maekar came with a grunt, thick spurts of salty cum flooding your mouth, shooting down your throat as you desperately swallowed around his pulsating cock, trying to keep it all inside. A moment later, you fell apart on your own fingers, the muscles of your cunt fluttering and clenching around nothing. 

You kept your mouth around him until you were sure he was completely spent, then you withdrew slowly, licking your lips to catch a stray droplet trying to make an escape. 

“Seven Hells, woman, you’re insatiable. Did I not tire you out enough last night?” he groused, though his hand began cupping your cheek as you rested it against his belly, staring up at him with a lethargic smile. You hummed.

“You’re just too handsome,” you said hoarsely, blinking slowly and growing tired again in the aftermath of your own orgasm. “Like having you in my mouth.”

“Well, it’s a hell of a way to wake up.”

Maekar was supposed to be yours. It was supposed to be you, Baelor, and Maekar together, a family together until the King had decided that he could not just allow that to happen with all the whispers already surrounding his family. 

Which had led to the downfall of his plan. Maekar would not join your relationship, instead having to find a wife of his own, and for his brother to claim his own son. You had helped with selecting his bride having known the woman from childhood. 

Dyana was absolutely lovely. You adored her, more than you think you ever had a woman in your life. You held absolutely no resentment for her. She was a friend, a staple through your life. 

The Dayne had been the first person you had kissed when you were four and ten both wanting to understand why your brothers kept doing it with random girls in the corridors, and not wanting to do it with some random boy. Then again before she married Maekar as she was afraid of looking like a fool in front of half the realm. 

It was her idea to travel down to Dorne in your husband’s absence, an extended stay away from the capital. 

A vacation away from the vultures of court.

You currently lounged on the bed, the silks pulled tightly over your bare chest as you watched your husband dress for the trip ahead. The sun had barely risen, but he would have to leave within the hour, “I cannot believe you will be gone for so long,” you whined. 

He chuckled slightly, “I will be home before you know it,” he tried to assure you, but you both knew it was a lie. Since the day you had wed the pair of you had hardly been away from the other for more than a fortnight. 

“Mayhaps I should just come with you instead.” 

He sighed moving to the bed, as you watched him approach you, “You could not be away from the boys that long. Dorne will be nice with Dyanna and Maekar. Besides if you get…” Baelor tilted his head searching for the words, “Lonely. Then you have company to use in my absence,” he told you. 

Your eyebrows drew together searching his face, “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

Your husband shrugged, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his hand moving to your neck as he dipped your head back to stare up at him, “You know me better than I know myself I am sure you know exactly what I am saying.”

You only nodded, “We shall see,” was all you replied. 

The Dornish sun beat down on your face, and it made an excitement fill you, to be back home in a climate that finally felt right. There was no whispering gossip about that you did not fit in or that you did not deserve to be Queen one day. 

It was almost pure bliss. Dyanna sat next to you, watching as Aerion, Valarr and Daeron ran around enjoying the warm weather as each clutched a small dragon in their hand pretending to make them fly. 

“I could kiss you for suggesting we come home instead of staying at the Keep,” you confessed, turning to look at her. 

She let out a laugh, a smile spreading across her beautiful lips, “I would accept that form of gratitude,” she told you. 

The pair of you stared at each other a moment, and it was as if there was a shift in the air. There had been something different during this visit. Something that was not there in the Red Keep, but neither of you could quite place it as it was. 

Dyanna was a safe space, you hand long decided. One that has made you feel like your best self. She was there to hold your hand during your labors, and tell you how beautiful you look when your body did not look the exact same after two children. 

She in a very sense made you feel along the same way Baelor did. What you were unaware of is that she felt the same way. 

“You look very pretty today,” you then complimented, your eyes taking in the dark purple of her dress. She seemed to have a weight lifted off her away from the prying eyes of the capital, adn you were the same way.

Things were different here than in the Red Keep. Neither of you had to be the perfect wives married to a Prince of Realm. You could just be yourself. The person you were once able to be all the time before husbands and children had changed everything. 

“Maekar, does your wife not look gorgeous today?” you yelled out turning toward him. 

You watched him flinch as if he did not. You were aware that he stood so closely behind the air of you, but he should have. You were not one to miss things and he was not one to not linger especially in an unfamiliar place. 

This was your home, but he was still protective at his very core, over all of you. His eyes blinked as they locked onto you then slowly turned to Dyanna as he finally came closer instead of lurking, “She always looks beautiful. Both of you do,” he finally decided, but cringed as if the words were not meant to be spoken aloud. 

You hummed, “Did you know Dyanna was my first kiss,” you then confessed casually. His eyes widened as a blush spread across Dyanna’s cheek. “When were what… four and ten?” you asked, turning toward the woman. 

“Yes…and then again before I married Maekar, because I was nervous about looking a fool.”

You grinned, looking from the woman to her husband, “Better keep her close tonight, Maekar or I might let her keep me company,” you whispered to him patting his chest, before you stepped around him, “Come on, Valarr and Aerion, we can go sit in the water gardens.”

The words caused a reaction to fill both of them, their bodies going warm as they stared at you watching as your eyes flickered between both of them, as the statement was for both of them. They watched you turn away, each of your sons gripping your hands as you swung them lightly receiving a loud laugh from both. 

“Maekar,” Dyanna whispered, causing him to turn toward her. He hummed in reply, “Why did you end up giving her up?” she questioned, but knew the answer. 

“I am not going to dishonour you,” he stated, but his voice sounded rough as if there was vice wrapped around it, getting smaller by the minute. 

Dayne thought about it for a moment. Her husband was honorable, and for that she was most appreciative of, but she was not sure she would call what he was referring to as dishonourable. Especially when they both wanted the same thing that came in the form of you. 

She nodded, “If you do not…I will cross that line for us both,” she then started patting his chest, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Come along Daeron let us join your cousins,” she then called, wiggling her hand out to the door. 

Maekar still stood his mouth opening and closing, wondering what the fuck had just happened. 

The hour was late, and you both should have been asleep, but yet here you were. “He does not wish to dishonor me. Which I understand and am grateful for, but it seems like it is killing him slowly.” 

“He loves you,” you assured her as if that was what she needed to hear. It was not, because she already knew. 

“Just as he loves you… I know the thing between Baelor, yourself and him had a…complicated ending.” 

“That is one way to put it,” you laughed shaking his head slightly, “Baelor gave me permission to fuck him in his absence,” you declared. 

She did not reply at first and you wondered if you had accidentally offended her, “Just him?” she then asked. 

The moment switched in an instant. Your eyes trailed over her form, “Well…his exact words were I would have company if I got…lonely,” you recited with a grin. 

She hummed, her eyes dragging over your frame. You leaned forward giving her a clear view down the front of your dress and you watched her violet eyes darken almost instantly, “If you want me to make the move, Dy, you’re going to have to say the words,” you told her plainly. 

Dyanna nodded, her head going back and forth as if the decision had not already been made. You waited patiently sitting back watching her with a large grin, “I see it now,” she admitted. 

Your eyebrow drew together, “See what?” you asked, as you stood to your feet, the thin silk of your dress whispering against the floor as you approached her slowly. 

“Why Maekar is the way he is. You are…some else entirely.”

“As are you,” you assured her, your hands finally touching her, resting on her neck as you titled her head back to look up at you from her chair, “Say the words, Dyanna.”

The pupils of your eyes no doubt were entirely as blown as her, “Make your move,” she finally whispered, closing her eyes in preparation. 

You leaned down carefully as if you were going to press your mouth to hers, but you stopped just before you gave in to what you both want, “I can’t hear you,” you teased, your breath fawning her face causing her lips to part instinctively. 

Her eyes fluttered opening, meeting yours, “Please,” she said louder, voice a little rougher with need. 

You finally gave in, pressing your mouths together, your tongue instantly moving into the warmth of her mouth as you gave yourself the proper exploration this time. The pair of you moaned into each other’s mouth, each being swallowed as your tongues mingled against the other. 

She stood pushing herself to her full height as you kept your mouth connected, your hands moving up her sides to the strings at the back of her dress pulling them free with quick fingers. The thin material pooled at her feet. 

“Your turn,” she muttered against your mouth, her lips trailing down the column of your throat as she stepped back a moment waiting. You did as she said, freeing yourself as the material went falling down showing your form to her. 

You let her take her time sweeping over your skin, taking in everything she could with her eyes before you moved back toward her, with a grin. 

You guided her back toward the bed, stopping her for a minute before you sat back against the mountain of pillows, waving her forward. She crawled up the bed as you smirked at her, and you could see the confusion on her face. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, slightly confused as you guided her to straddle your thigh. 

She was not sure what she had been expecting, but it hadn’t been this, but she trusted you. “Grind down against me,” you whispered, your mouth moving to latch to her throat as you sucked against it hard enough to leave a mark. 

“Oh,” she muttered, as she rolled her hips against you, a wave of pleasure running through her as her clit rubbed against your flesh. 

“Do it again,” you instructed, as your mouth worked, trailing down her chest, to the heavy mounds. 

Dyanna let out a loud moan as you wrapped your mouth around the hardened peaks, your tongue flicking causing her eyes to practically roll back as she continued to rock her hips down against your thigh just like you had told her too. 

You could feel her drooling down onto you causing it to feel easier as she humped against you, gliding repeatedly as your tongue dragged across her chest to the other suit continuing your pursuit of her other breast. 

“There ya go. Take what you need.” Your hands planted on her hips to help guide her as she rode your thigh. 

She did exactly that as her nails dug down into your shoulders, pressing small crescents into the skin as she chased her own high, using you just like you had suggested moments ago. You knew exactly the moment she finished, her nails digging further, as her entire body seemed to tense as she cried out your name causing you to grin against her chest. 

You pressed a tender kiss to her breast, as she moved forward, her head resting against your shoulder as her ragged breaths filled the air, “What now?” she asked, as she sucked in a deep breath trying to regain her composure. 

You shook your head, grinning up at her, “I am giving you Baelor’s rule of curiosity tonight,” you told her. 

She sat up looking down at you, confused, pulling at her features, “And what is that?”

“You get to finish twice before I do,” you told her, your hands snaking up the smooth skin of her spin before you wrapped them around the nape of her neck pulling her back down to your mouth once more. 

Her hands moved cupping either side of your face as your mouths moved against each other. She bit at your lower lip causing you to groan slightly, your hands moving down to grip her ass tightly in your hand as she began to slowly grind against you once more. 

You sat up slightly, turning her over onto her back as smoothly as you could manage, now hovering over her.  You simply held yourself above her for a moment eyes scanning her face as you tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, “You are so so so beautiful,” you whispered to her, pressing a kiss to her lips then to her cheek, then her neck slowly trailing down her body til her womanhood. 

You leaned forward not wasting another moment as you licked a long strip up her folds. She let out a loud moan, her hands shooting forward to interlace in your hair giving you a harsh tug as you entered a digit inside her, your tongue flicking over her swollen clit. 

Maekar let out a sigh as sleep evaded him, and he had no clue where his wife had gone off too. He had decided to go off in search of you. He was not entirely sure what had led him to this decision, his body moving before he could talk himself out of it. 

He let out a sigh, lifting his hand to knock against the door, but he did not get that far when he heard a loud moan carry through the wood. He could instantly feel his bones go cold, before it was quickly released by a warmth that resembled a dragon’s fury. 

Who could you have been in there with? Was someone taking advantage of you in his brother's absence? He could feel his anger rising with each thought worse than the one before finally he pushed the door open ready to stop him, but he paused. 

What he was expecting was not 

Both of you turned toward him. You for half a second, your brain registering it was him before diving back into his wife’s cunt. Dyanna’s eyes tried to say to him, but her head turned back in a loud moan instead, not able to hold his gaze. 

He did not know what to take in from the sight in front of him. His body instantly had a reaction that he could not quite control as he heard sounds coming from his wife that he was typically earning, but it was not him this time

It was you. 

You who he had such a guilt, because you were constantly invading his thoughts. You who was currently slotted in between his wife’s thigh devouring her as if it was your last meal. Then he realized he had been standing there too long, observing, watching and suddenly he felt as if he was intruding. 

He moved to turn away, “Maekar,” Dyanna called out, causing him to turn back slowly, “Come here,” she beckoned him forward as you pulled away your head resting against her thigh watching him. 

The Dayne stood to her feet as you lounged back against the bed watching them. She pressed herself into him, as her hands went up to cup his cheeks forcing him to meet her eyes. Neither said anything for a moment, only staring at the other. 

Then she turned back toward you, and you offered her a single nod, “You can join us. You can have what you want,” she assured him, her thumbs rubbing gently against his bearded cheeks, giving him her attention once more.

“Dyanna,” he warned, though it lacked any bite, as each of you knew him much better than that. 

“Maekar, please,” you then whined, causing his violet gaze to shit toward you. 

“It is okay, Maekar,” Dyanna assured him. 

He swallowed harshly looking to his wife once more, searching her face for any hesitation, but he found none. You stood to your feet and he finally allowed his eyes to drop down taking in your appearance. 

You looked different from what he could remember, but it was better than any recollection he could make. He did not have long to admire you as your hand wrapped around the nape of his neck forcing his mouth down onto yours. 

Dyanna smirked to herself moving herself to the bed, watching you both, not quite knowing where she wanted to keep her eyes. 

Your hands trailed down, rubbing against his hardened cock causing him to groan. Then you gave him a harsh shrug, “Take off your clothes,” you instructed, moving to sit down next to his wife.

He began to take off the layers, but you did not watch, instead turning toward the Dayne beside you once more. You moved forward reconnecting your lips to her guiding her back toward the mattress causing Maekar to begin to quicken shedding his clothes. 

You hardly paid him any mind as you could feel him move behind you, the mattress dipping further under his weight. You trailed open mouth kissing moving back down toward her still soaked womanhood. 

You settled yourself in between her legs once more, the cushion of her thighs feeling something close to heaven, 

You could feel the tip of his penis, run through your folds collecting your slick, “You are fucking soaked. Is this all from devouring my wife’s cunt?”

You did not reply, only grinning against her, before sucking harshly on her clit letting her moan be only the reply he needed.  Though you could not see his face you had known him long enough to feel the satisfied expression boring into you. 

He notched himself at your drooling hole, before pushing himself in with one fluid thrust, “Seven fucks,” Maekar groaned at the feeling. 

You could only moan, which sent a vibration up Dyanna, causing her to curl further into you. Your hand moved inserting two digits into her, with ease, her walls adjusting to you without complaint, as you began to fuck her with your hand. 

You had already fingered out exactly what caused her toes to curl before Maekar’s interruption. Maekar had the same advantage with you. Though it had been years since he had the pleasure of touching you he remembered you like the back of his hand, thrusting into you with the same brutal rhythm he knew made you cock drunk. 

The room filled with the obscene sounds of the three of you. The wet sounds and cries of pleasure that no doubt could be heard in the halls if anyone had dared based by the doors, but none of you cared too wrapped in the other. 

Maekar fucking you like a man possesed, as you continued to devour his wife as if she was the only source of water. It felt like something overcame you all. Such need. Such want. Making you all wonder how it had taken this point in the trip to get here. 

It quickly turned into a game as if you were all waiting to  see who would topple over first, each waiting intently to see who was able to make the other finish. 

It was Dyanna. 

She cried out your name as her fingers tightened around your hair 

You used her tongue fucking her through it, until she was pushing you away as she fastly approached over stimulation. You moved resting your head onto her thigh as Maekar continued to brutally thrust into you from behind. 

His hand trailed down your front until it moved, pinching your clit. You groaned slightly, nipping into Dyanna’s thigh as she moaned slightly watching the pair of you with a hazy expression still as if she was high from before. 

“Cum,” he demanded, needing you to go next. 

“Fuck you,” you grit out, but you could feel the coil in your belly threatening to snap. 

He whispered your name, as he began to circle your swollen pearl as you squeezed around him. You could not see his face, but you could feel his triumphant grip knowing you were close. 

“Be a good girl and cum on my cock,” he instructed. 

It was your undoing. 

The white-hot pleasure traveled down your spine as you finally tilted over the edge crashing into the deep end of relief. You clamped down around him like a vice causing him to cry out your name when he finally joined you and his wife moments later. 

Maekar came with a guttural groan, peeling forward to press his mouth into the place where your shoulder and neck connected. All three of your ragged breaths filled the air, before you let out a laugh, “I bet that’s not how you thought our trip to Dorne was going to go.”

The light of sunset filtered through the high tower window in shades of gold and red. The air was still, heavy, as if the castle itself were holding its breath.

The cane struck the stone once.

Then again.

A dry, rhythmic sound announcing his approach down the corridor.

Each step was steady, though he dragged his injured leg slightly. The pain never fully left; sometimes it was only a murmur in his bones, other times a sharp memory of the day Aerion Targaryen had thrown him from his horse during the tourney, the animal crashing down on top of him and breaking his leg like a snapped branch.

He did not need to remember.

His body did it for him.

He pushed the door open without announcing himself.

The chamber was dim, lit only by the dying light of evening. And there, seated by the window, was him.

Maekar.

His twin.

Not identical—never that—but born on the same day, beneath the same sky, with the same fire in their blood. Maekar sat rigid, hands clenched over his knees, staring at some distant point that did not truly exist.

He did not turn at the sound of the cane.

He knew who it was.

—You shouldn’t be standing so long, —Maekar said at last, his voice low and rough.— Your leg…

The Reader set the cane against the wall and stepped closer until he stood before him.

—And you shouldn’t be alone.

The wind stirred the curtains faintly.

He remained upright despite the strain on his balance. From above, he could see the hard line of Maekar’s profile, the tension in his jaw, the nearly imperceptible tremor in his hands.

—Look at me, —he whispered.

Maekar hesitated.

But he obeyed.

His violet eyes were clouded with something that was not quite tears, yet hurt as if they were.

—It was an accident, —he said softly.— You know that.

The name did not need to be spoken.

The Trial of Seven.

The blow.

Baelor falling.

Maekar swallowed.

—I struck him, —he murmured.— I raised the weapon.

—In combat. Not with hatred. Not with intent to kill.

—If I had aimed differently—

—If the world were different, we would not be who we are.

He lifted a hand to Maekar’s cheek, stroking it patiently, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath his fingers.

—It was not your fault.

Maekar’s breath faltered. Then, as though the rigidity holding him upright collapsed, he wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his forehead against his abdomen.

An intimate gesture. Vulnerable.

The Reader slid his fingers into his silver hair, stroking gently, soothing him.

—I miss him, —Maekar murmured against the fabric.— He was my brother.

—I know.

His hands continued combing through his hair, then down to massage his neck slowly.

—But he knew who you were. He knew you were not a murderer.

Maekar tightened his hold.

—I don’t want you to look at me and see the same.

Carefully, mindful of his leg, the Reader bent enough to press a kiss to his crown.

—When I look at you… I see the man I love.

The words lingered warmly between them.

Maekar lifted his head. His eyes were still fragile.

—You’ve always been stronger than me.

A faint smile.

—No. Just more stubborn.

That earned something close to a breath of laughter.

Maekar studied him a moment longer. Then his hands slid from his waist to his hips.

—Come here.

—Maekar…

But he was already guiding him.

With a blend of firmness and care, he pulled him down and settled him onto his lap. The movement was slow so as not to strain his injured leg. One hand supported his back; the other helped position his good thigh carefully.

Once seated, the Reader let out a small breath.

—You always do what you want.

—I always know what you need, —Maekar replied quietly.

He adjusted him closer against his chest, wrapping both arms around him. One hand rested firmly at his waist; the other slid up his back and into his hair.

The air shifted.

Closer. Warmer.

—This way you don’t strain your leg, —Maekar murmured, almost defensively.

—Of course. All this for my leg.

A shadow of a smile crossed the prince’s face.

He rested his forehead against his.

—I hear the blow when I try to sleep, —Maekar confessed softly.— I see him fall.

The Reader cupped his face in both hands.

—It was combat. It was duty. Not hatred.

—But it was my arm.

—And your burden. That does not make you a monster.

Maekar’s hand drifted to his injured leg, holding it carefully, as though he still feared breaking him.

—I should have been there when Aerion threw you from your horse.

—You couldn’t have foreseen it.

—He broke your leg.

—And you lifted me from the mud.

Maekar closed his eyes.

—It wasn’t enough.

A gentle stroke along his cheek.

—It has always been enough.

Maekar kissed him then.

Slow. Deep, but unhurried. A kiss that demanded nothing except to remain. His hands held him as though anchoring something fragile.

When they parted, Maekar rested his face in the hollow of his neck.

—Don’t let me go.

—I never do.

The Reader stroked his hair, his neck, his back, feeling the heartbeat beneath his chest gradually steady.

— We are two halves of the same day, — he whispered.— If one falls, the other lifts him.

Maekar’s arms tightened, but no longer in desperation.

In refuge.

And so they remained, swaying slightly in the quiet of the tower as night fell over the castle.

There, in that shared embrace, the guilt weighed less.

There, they were only themselves.

Only you and I.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Baelor also hates him.” You confess, taking a sip of your wine as Rhae sleepily climbs into your lap. “Hello, sweetie.”

“That liar he told me he likes the prick.” Maekar responds passing you a blanket to place over his youngest child.

“Once when he left the room Baelor called him a fucking prick who should learn his place.” You tell him smirking, knowing Maekar loves hearing about when Baelor doesn’t like someone.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” You giggle kissing the side of Rhae’s head as she falls asleep against you. “He used to tolerate him but after he called me a ‘whoring witch’ last week Baelor hates him.”

“He what?” Maekar asks, knowing that if someone said that about Dyanna they’d be dead. “Why is he still alive?”

“Baelor said he’ll deal with it.” You reassure, knowing your brother by law is very protective over you. “You know he doesn’t act on emotion.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“Maekar, no.”

“Fine.” He says rolling his eyes, deciding to wait until a later date to kill the man. Looking at his six year old daughter who was up way past her bedtime. “She’s not to heavy is she?”

“No she’s fine, truthfully I love cuddling her.”

“Sappy shit.” Maekar says as the chamber doors open and Baelor walks in, clearly looking for you.

“Who’s sappy?” Your husband asks kissing your cheek before smiling down at the sleeping girl in your arms.

“Your wife.” Maekar says downing the last of his wine before standing up and looking at you. “I’ll leave you to it, give me my child.”

“You have six, can’t I keep this one?” You ask cuddling the girl closer to you, as you exaggerate a pout.

“I can offer Daeron.” Maekar says stealing the sleeping girl from your arms. “I hate how grown up she is now.”

“Not happening, Daeron is yours.” Baelor says to his brother, trying to be happy you’re spending so much time together. “Come on my love, time for bed.”

“Sleep well my little dragon.” You whisper to Rhae kissing the side of her head as she’s still sleeping in Maekar’s arms. “Night Maekar.”

“Night.”

-

“I love you.” You say to Baelor as you watch him get ready for the morning, picking out a set of cufflinks. Before coming back to the bed to kiss you goodbye. “How are you so handsome?”

“I love you too.” He responds giving you another kiss before pulling away. “Do you wish to join me for lunch today?”

“I wish I could, but I promised Rhae and Daella that I’d join them for lunch.” You say feeling guilty, desperate to spend more time with your husband but not wanting to break a promise. “You could join us. I think Maekar should be there as well.”

“I’ll see, I might not have the time.” He says feeling slightly hurt that you were choosing to spend more time with Maekar and his children. “I might join the boys.”

“That’s fine, but I’ll save you a seat just in case.”

-

“Are you looking forward to the tourney?” You ask Maekar over lunch in the gardens, saving a seat next to you for Baelor. On the off chance he joins you all.

“I’m going to enter the lists.” He grumbles, adding more salad to Rhae’s plate before doing the same to Daella and Aegon’s. The boy not even eating, too busy trying to chase a butterfly.

“What, Why?” You ask not expecting him to enter given all the complaints he’s given about having to attend.

“Aegon wishes to try being a squire and Daeron is refusing to attend and well, Aerion is Aerion so I’ll ride so he can be my squire.”

“Isn’t he still a bit young to squire?” You ask watching the boy trip over a stick.

“He’s nine, it’s still a bit young but he’s been begging.” Maekar says in fake annoyance at his youngest son’s begging.

“Are you going to ask for a lady’s favor?” Daella asks as she takes another sandwich off the serving plate.

“Gods no, people will expect me to marry her.”

“I wish I could go, I loved making my favor, but grandmother has asked I say back.” Daella says pouting, not wanting to attend her lessons on how to be a lady.

“Can I make a favor?” Rhae asks thinking they were pretty after she saw them at Daella’s nameday tourney a few moons ago.

“No you’re too young.” Maekar says, the girl not even attending. As she was also told to stay back at the castle by the queen.

“But-.”

“We shall make one together.” You tell the girl, knowing you best have one on the off chance some dumb knight tries his luck at the future kings wife.

What you didn’t know was Baelor had come out to see you, but stopped and turned back to his office when he saw how happy you looked with his brother.

-

“Are you entering the lists?” You ask Baelor late one night as you cuddle in bed, savoring the time together.

“Gods no, I’m too old.” He says scoffing at the thought of entering. “Valarr is though.”

“Oh yes I forgot to ask him, who’s his squire?” You ask having already spoken to your stepsons about the tourney but forgetting to ask.

“Matarys, we’ve agreed this is his last torney as a squire and I’ll knight him for his nameday. Why?”

“Egg wishes to squire and Daeron has refused to enter at all so Maekar is entering the lists in his place.” You explain not thinking anything off it as you draw shapes on your husband’s chest.

“Isn’t Aegon still a bit young?” Baelor asks, not letting Matarys squire until he was ten and two.

“He’s been begging.”

“Maekar’s to old to be competing anyway.” He settles on, not liking the thought of you supporting his brother in a torment. But crucially not voicing his thoughts.

“He’s not old.” You say rolling your eyes with a smile on your face before kissing his chest and moving to sit on his hips. “And nether are you, because I don’t think an old man can do what we just did.”

“Oh really?” He asks a smirk appearing on his face as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Really, but I suppose if you are that old I best let you go to sleep.” You say with a fake sigh going to get off him.

“Well now you mention it, I’m not that old.” He says with a laugh as he switches your positions now on top of you. Loving the sounds of your giggles at the sudden movement. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

-

“Princess!” Maekar says riding up to the stand where you were sat with Baelor to watch the tourney. “I request your favor.”

“Of course prince Maekar.” You say standing up to place the purple and pink monstrosity that Rhae made on his lance. “I wish you luck.”

“I wish to speak with you between events.” Baelor murmurs to you taking your hand in his when you sit back down beside him.

“Of course my love, is everything alright?” You ask not sure what was wrong as he’s suddenly gotten tense in the few seconds you’ve been gone from his side.

“It’s fine.” He reply’s shortly, not looking at you. “Lord Danbury has been dealt with by the way, thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.” You say squeezing his hand three times, not wanting to know what’s happened to the man who was making comments about you.

“He disrespected my wife.” He says simply giving your hand a final squeeze before moving to rest his hands in his lap, still not looking at you.

-

“Are you fucking my brother?” Baelor asks as soon as the doors to your temporary chambers get shut.

“What?” You ask in shock not expecting to be asked such a stupid question, by your husband no less.

“Are. You. Fucking. Maekar.” He says trying to stay calm as he knows you don’t like shouting, trying to busy himself by pouring himself some wine.

“No! Of course not, why do you even think that?”

“Then why are you spending so much time with him? Why are you always with his children? Why has he asked for your favour and more importantly why did you give it to him!” He demands, voice unintentionally raising as he gets more upset.

“Because I made the fucking favour with Rhae!” You snap, never feeling so offended as you do right now. Why would you ever cheat on your husband? The man you love more than anything in the world? “And am I not allowed friends? Or is that a luxury I can’t afford? He’s the only one who doesn’t try to use me for favours from you! So I apologize, my prince! If you’re so insecure that I can’t even have a friend!”

“That is not what I’m mad about and you know it!” He shouts running a hand over his hair in frustration.

“Why would I fuck Maekar? I’ve got you! I love you!”

“I don’t see what love has to do with this.” He says, knowing you love him. He’s just scared you love his brother more.

“I have never, and will never fuck your brother. I belong to you, just as you belong to me. The reason I’ve been spending so much time with him is not only because he’s a good friend but because the children need me. And truthfully? I need them. I love you and I love your children, I wouldn’t change it for anything. But they are grown, they don’t need me and I'm so lonely Baelor. I know you have so many important things to do but I miss you, and I don’t feel as lonely when I’m with the children.” You say tears streaming down your cheeks, not even bothering to wipe them as you wrap your arms around yourself. Having always hated arguing and the feelings it brings to you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.” He says fully looking at you now, seeing how hurt you are at his accusation and the shouting that came along with it. “I should have just spoken with you instead of jumping to conclusions.”

“I’m sorry too, I should have told you how I’ve been feeling.” You respond, wiping your face with the sleeve of your dress.

“I will try and work less but I doubt I can, but I want you to know you can always join me. Even if you just sit and read while I work, I want you there.” He says walking closer to you so he can wipe your tears. “I miss you constantly, I’m sorry for being insecure and I’m sorry for shouting, it's just I know he can give you what you want. But it’s not an excuse for how I acted.”

“I want you, Baelor. I’ve always wanted you.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while, so I don’t want you to think this is a rash decision.” He says softly cupping your face in his hand, his wedding ring touching your jaw. “Would you like a child with me? You don’t have to answer now, in fact I want you to think about it. I love you, and I have from the moment we met on that balcony five years ago. I’m sorry, please forgive me.”

The wheelhouse had been travelling for six days.

You had counted them with the particular attentiveness of someone trying to manage a large and complicated feeling by measuring its duration. Six days since your father had kissed your forehead at the gates of your family's seat and told you to make him proud. Six days of watching familiar landscape give way to unfamiliar, of your maid chattering cheerfully about King's Landing while you sat with your hands folded and your face composed and tried to locate the version of yourself that was equal to what was coming.

You were to marry a prince.

Not just any prince. Baelor Targaryen — the one they spoke of in the same breath as words like honourable and just and, with particular frequency, perfect. The Crown Prince. A man who was, by all accounts, precisely what a prince ought to be and therefore precisely the sort of person beside whom you were likely to feel the specific inadequacy of being simply and ordinarily yourself.

You had told yourself, firmly, on at least four separate occasions during the journey, that this was an enormous opportunity and you were going to meet it with grace.

You were still trying to convince yourself when the wheelhouse slowed.

"We are here," your maid breathed, with the reverence of someone beholding something magnificent.

You looked out the window at King's Landing and felt, beneath the nerves, a genuine and helpless flicker of wonder. It was so large. You had known it would be large, but the knowing had not prepared you for the reality — the sheer accumulated weight of it, buildings piled upon buildings, streets running in every direction, the Red Keep rising above it all against a sky the particular pale gold of early autumn.

You straightened your spine. Grace, you reminded yourself.

The wheelhouse stopped.

The welcoming party in the courtyard was larger than you had expected.

You descended the steps with your father's voice in your head — chin up, eyes forward, smile but not too much — and took in the assembled faces with as much composure as you could manage, which was moderate at best.

Lord this. Lady that. A maester. Several knights. A man you recognised from descriptions as Lord Hayford, something in the way he held himself suggesting mild impatience with ceremonial occasions.

And then—

He was standing slightly apart from the others, which you noticed first, and then you noticed everything else in rapid succession: the composed features, the dark hair with its threads of silver catching the autumn light, the mismatched eyes that were—

Were looking directly at you.

Not with the polite interest of a man performing the duty of greeting his betrothed. With a focused attentiveness that arrived so immediately and so completely that it momentarily disrupted your careful composure.

You held his gaze for one second. Two. Then you remembered yourself and dipped into a curtsy.

"Your grace," you said. "I am honoured to—"

"The honour is mine." His voice was even and warm and he was already moving forward, one hand extended to assist you from the last step with a naturalness that suggested it had not been calculated. "You must be tired from the journey. Six days is considerable."

"It was comfortable enough." You took his hand and felt the steadiness of it and focused very hard on not reacting to that. "The roads were kind."

"They are better maintained in the south." A brief pause in which those mismatched eyes moved over your face with a care that felt less like assessment and more like— attention. Genuine, specific attention. "Are you well? Truly. The question is not ceremonial."

You blinked.

"I am well," you said. "Truly."

Something moved at the corner of his mouth.

"Good," he said quietly. "Then let me show you your home."

Your home.

The words landed somewhere unexpected in your chest.

You allowed him to draw you forward into the courtyard, into the welcoming assembly, into the beginning of a life you did not yet know the shape of — and told yourself very firmly that the warmth spreading through you was simply relief at arriving safely after six days of travel.

You were almost convincing.

Autumn settled over King's Landing like something deliberate.

The leaves in the castle gardens turned gold and amber and the air took on that particular quality of cool clarity that made everything feel slightly more significant than it might in other seasons. You learned the rhythms of the Red Keep slowly, the way you learned most things — carefully, thoroughly, trying to miss nothing.

You learned that the small council met on Tuesdays and that Baelor emerged from those meetings with a specific quality of contained exhaustion that he would not mention unless asked and would understate if he was. You learned that he took his evening meal late when the day had been complicated and earlier when it had not and that this was a more reliable indicator of how court had gone than anything he said about it. You learned that he kept a book in his solar that had nothing to do with governance or war — poetry, you had glimpsed once, though he had not drawn attention to it — and that he read it in the half hour before sleep with the quiet privacy of a man who did not expect anyone to notice.

You noticed. You were not certain what to do with any of it.

The betrothal was formal and the wedding was set for three moons hence and in the meantime, you existed in the particular suspended state of someone who is almost something but not yet entirely. Almost his wife. Almost at home. Almost certain of what was happening between you, in the small moments, in the spaces between ceremony and duty.

The first thing that made you pay closer attention happened three weeks after your arrival.

You had mentioned, in passing, during a walk in the gardens — mentioned, not emphasised, barely lingered on it — that you found the castle library somewhat overwhelming in its organisation and had not yet managed to locate the histories of the First Men that you had been intending to read.

Three days later you found them on the table in your chambers.

No note. No ceremony. Simply the books, stacked neatly, with a small piece of parchment bearing only the relevant shelf location in the library so you could return them when finished.

You had stood there looking at them for a long moment.

Then you had gone to find him.

He was in his solar, predictably buried in correspondence, and looked up when you entered with an expression that arranged itself into welcome so naturally you wondered sometimes if it was simply his default when he saw you.

"The histories," you simply said.

"I thought you might want them sooner rather than later." He said it simply, returning his attention briefly to the parchment before him. "The library organisation is genuinely counterintuitive. I have lived here my entire life and still find myself in the wrong section occasionally."

"You did not have to—"

"I walked past the shelf." A slight pause. "It was not an inconvenience."

You looked at him for a moment. At the composed profile, the careful hands, the complete absence of performance in the gesture — it had not been done to impress, you understood that with sudden clarity. It had simply been done because he had thought of you and acted on it.

"Thank you," you said quietly.

He looked up.

"Of course," he said. Simply. Like there had been no other possible outcome.

You went back to your chambers and sat with the books in your lap for a while without opening them.

It happened again. And again.

Small things, mostly. The kind that could be explained away individually as courtesy or coincidence but that accumulated, over weeks, into a pattern too consistent to be either.

He remembered that you found large formal dinners draining and began, without comment, ensuring you were seated near people he had assessed you would find interesting rather than merely important. He noticed when you were cold before you said so — the Red Keep had draughts in specific corridors that you had not yet learned to anticipate — and without fanfare simply began walking on the side that blocked them. He asked your opinion on things with a genuine interest that made it clear he intended to consider what you said rather than simply perform the asking.

Once, during a particularly tedious reception, you had caught his eye across the room and made a very small and very subtle expression of suffering and he had excused himself from his conversation within five minutes and appeared at your elbow and said quietly that there was something in the adjoining gallery he thought you might find interesting if you wished to see it, and the something had turned out to be a window seat with a view of the gardens and a significantly reduced density of courtiers.

You had sat there for twenty minutes talking about nothing of consequence and it had been the best part of the evening by a considerable margin.

"You did that on purpose," you said, when it became clear the something had been the window seat all along.

"I have no idea what you mean," he said, with the composure of a man who had absolutely done it on purpose.

You had laughed.

He had watched you laugh with an expression that was there and gone too quickly to fully read, and then he had smiled — not the courteous public smile you had catalogued in your first weeks, but the quieter real one that you were only beginning to understand was different — and looked back out the window.

You had filed it away with all the others, trying very hard not to read too much into it. Trying very hard not to think about the way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you were not paying attention.

Trying very hard to remember that Baelor Targaryen was simply a good man and good men were kind to their betrothed and none of this necessarily meant—

Stop it, you told yourself firmly.

You stopped it. For approximately three days.

The wedding was six weeks away when one of your maids said the thing.

Not maliciously. That was almost worse — she said it with the cheerful thoughtlessness of someone making conversation, brushing your hair before bed, talking about nothing in particular.

"It is fortunate," she said, "that Prince Baelor is so dutiful. Some men would make the arrangement considerably less comfortable."

You met your own eyes in the mirror.

"Dutiful," you said carefully.

"Well — yes." She seemed to sense something in your tone and backtracked slightly. "I only mean — he is very attentive. Very correct. You are lucky he takes his responsibilities so seriously."

She moved on to talking about something else.

You stopped hearing her.

Dutiful.

The word sat in you like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples outward through every memory you had been carefully accumulating. The books. The draughts. The window seat. The way he looked at you.

Duty.

He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. Everyone said so. You had said so yourself, early on, when you were still cataloguing him from a careful distance. A good man. An honourable man. A man who would be kind to his wife because that was simply who he was, not because—

Not because he was—

You moved your head and the maid set down the brush carefully.

"I am tired," you said. "I think I will sleep."

You did not sleep.

You managed a week.

A week of telling yourself it did not matter, the distinction was irrelevant, you were building a life with a good man and that was more than most people had, and you were not going to be foolish enough to want more than that.

A week of noticing, with new and painful attention, every moment of his consideration toward you and trying to see it as duty rather than— rather than whatever you had been allowing yourself to imagine.

You were not very good at it.

The problem was that you had already, somewhere in the accumulation of small things and golden afternoons and quiet conversations, done something inadvisable.

You had fallen in love with him.

Thoroughly. Helplessly. In the way that sneaks up on a person because it did not arrive all at once but assembled itself quietly from a hundred unremarkable moments until one day the structure was simply complete and there was no unknowing it.

And now you did not know if it was returned or simply — performed. With the best possible intentions, by the best possible man, who would never deliberately mislead you, but who might simply be incapable of being less than wonderful to someone in his care regardless of what he actually felt.

You were sitting in the library — the histories of the First Men open in your lap, unread — when he found you.

He always found you. That was another thing you had noticed and were now trying not to assign meaning to.

"You have been quiet this week," he said. Not an accusation. Simply an observation, offered in the tone of someone who had been paying attention and had decided to say so.

"I am often quiet."

"Not like this." He settled into the chair across from you with the unhurried ease of a man who had decided he was not going anywhere. "Something is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong."

"You are a poor liar."

"That seems presumptuous. You have known me three moons."

"Two and a half." The mismatched eyes were steady on your face. "And yes."

You looked down at the unread book.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable but full — the kind of silence that had weight and shape and was asking something of you.

"Can I ask you something?" you said finally.

"Always."

You looked up. "Do you— " You stopped. Rearranged. "How do you— " Another stop. You took a breath. "Is this—" Your hand moved slightly, indicating the space between you, the whole of the past months, all of it. "Is this duty?"

The quality of his stillness changed.

"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

"I mean—" The words were harder to say than you had thought they would be. "You are a good man. Everyone says so. You would be kind to anyone in my position because that is simply who you are. And I—" You stopped. "I am aware that I cannot always tell the difference between— between who you are in general and who you are with me specifically. And it matters." Your voice had gone slightly unsteady. "It matters to me. To know the difference."

The silence afterward was very still.

Baelor looked at you across the library with an expression you had not seen from him before. Not the composed public face. Not even the quieter private warmth you had grown to treasure. Something beneath both of those, sitting more exposed than he usually allowed, as though your words had reached past every careful layer directly to whatever lived underneath.

"Come here," he said quietly.

"I am—"

"Please."

You went.

He moved the books from the chair beside his chair and when you sat by his side, he took your hand in both of his — that familiar gesture, the one that had started in a courtyard on an autumn morning — and held it with the same deliberate certainty he had held it then.

"Look at me," he said.

You looked.

"I am going to say something," he said carefully, "that I should have said more clearly and sooner. And I want you to hear it properly."

You waited.

"There is nothing dutiful," he said, "about the way I feel about you."

The words landed quietly and absolutely.

"The books were not duty. The walks were not duty. The window seat—" something moved at the corner of his mouth— "was absolutely not duty. I did not arrange your seating at dinner because I am responsible for your comfort. I did it because I know by now that Lady Rowan makes you laugh and Ser Willam bores you to your foundations and I wanted your evening to be good." A pause. "Not because it was required of me. Because I wanted it."

Your throat had tightened considerably.

"Baelor—"

"I have been—" He stopped. Gathered himself in the way he did when precision mattered. "I have been trying to be measured about this. To give you time to settle here, to know me, to make your own determinations without pressure from me. It was not— I did not intend for the restraint to read as indifference." His hands tightened fractionally around yours. "I am sorry that it did."

"It didn't read as indifference," you said quietly. "It read as— I could not tell if it was me or simply— your nature. You are good to everyone."

"I am courteous to everyone," he said, with a gentle precision that made the distinction clear. "What I am with you is—" He paused. Seemed to make a decision. "Different. It has been different since the first day. Since you looked at me and held my gaze and answered my question about the journey honestly instead of correctly." A beat. "I noticed you immediately. Completely. And I have not— I have not stopped."

The tears arrived without much warning.

Baelor's expression shifted immediately, his thumb moving to your cheek with that instinctive gentleness, and he looked at you with something so open and unguarded that the last of the stone in your chest simply dissolved.

"I did not mean to make you uncertain," he said quietly. "That is the last thing I would ever want."

"You didn't," you managed. "I did that myself."

"Then let me be clearer, so there is no more room for uncertainty." He held your gaze with complete steadiness. "I love you. I have loved you for some time. Not only because you are my betrothed and it is my duty, and not because you are easy to be good to, though you are." Something warm and certain in his eyes. "Because you are you. Specifically. Entirely."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I love you too," you said. "I have been trying not to for approximately six weeks because I was frightened it was one-sided."

The smile that crossed his face was the realest one you had ever seen from him. Not the courteous smile or even the private warm one but something underneath both of those, something that seemed to arrive from a place he did not usually allow visitors.

"Six weeks," he said quietly.

"At least."

"I knew I would love you since that day in the courtyard," he said. The laugh that escaped you was slightly tearful and entirely helpless.

Baelor brought your hands to his lips and held them there and looked at you over your knuckles with those mismatched eyes full of something steady and certain and entirely his.

"No more uncertainty," he said quietly. Not a question.

"No more uncertainty," you agreed.

Outside the library windows the autumn light had gone the deep gold of late afternoon, long and warm across the shelves and the books and the two of you sitting together in the quiet of it.

The wedding was on a morning in late autumn when the frost had just begun to touch the edges of things.

You stood beside him in the sept with your heart very full and your hands very steady and listened to him say the words with the same quiet certainty he brought to everything that mattered to him.

Afterward, in the brief moments between the ceremony and the feast when the world had contracted to just the two of you in a small antechamber, he looked at you the way he had in the library and said nothing at all.

He didn't need to. You already knew.

That evening at the feast your eyes met in a moment amidst conversations that held little interest for either of you. He looked at you with that quiet real smile and something in it that said I love you as plainly as if he had spoken it aloud.

The thing about arriving somewhere entirely new, you had discovered, was that everything was information.

The way people moved through corridors. Who made space for whom. Where the light fell at different hours and which rooms caught the cold and which held warmth. You had always learned places this way — quietly, observantly, building a picture from accumulated detail rather than relying on what you were told.

King's Landing was going to take some time.

You had known this before the wheelhouse stopped in the courtyard of the Red Keep on a grey autumn morning, frost beginning to cling to the stones and your breath visible in the air. You had known it standing in your father's hall a month ago while he explained, with the careful satisfaction of a man who had secured something significant, that you were to marry the fourth son of King Daeron.

Prince Maekar Targaryen.

You had made enquiries. Quietly, the way you did things. The responses had been — varied.

Difficult had come up with some frequency. Uncompromising. Formidable. One elderly lord had simply said sharp and left it at that with an expression suggesting this covered a great deal of ground.

One lady, however — a woman who had spent time at court three years prior — had said something different.

He is not cruel, she had said carefully. He is simply — exact. He says what he means and means what he says and has no patience for people who do otherwise. If you are straightforward with him, he will be straightforward with you.

You had found this, on balance, more reassuring than the others. You were a reasonably straightforward person, after all.

The wheelhouse door opened.

You descended into that grey morning with your chin up and your eyes open and your heart doing something inconvenient in your chest that you chose to categorise as reasonable nerves about a significant life event.

The welcoming party assembled in the courtyard was considerable.

You catalogued them with the automatic efficiency of someone who has spent a lifetime learning rooms — lords, ladies, a maester, several knights — and then your attention arrived at the man standing slightly apart from the others and stayed there.

Large was the first word that came to your mind to describe him. Not in the soft way of men who had never worked for anything, but in the particular way of someone built by years of genuine physical demand. Broad through the shoulder, carrying himself with an economy of movement that suggested he was always aware of exactly where he was in space.

The hair was more silver than you had expected from the descriptions. The beard. The lines of a face that had seen considerable weather and not been softened by it.

And the eyes — violet, which you had known to expect, but the quality of them had not been conveyed — sharp and direct and already, before you had descended the last step, fixed on your face with an attention so complete and so immediate that it momentarily disrupted the careful composure you had assembled for exactly this moment.

You held his gaze for a breath.

Then you curtsied correctly and said the correct things, and listened to him say the correct things back in a voice that was exactly as direct as advertised, and told yourself very firmly that the way he had looked at you was simply the assessment of a man meeting his betrothed for the first time.

Completely normal, nothing to catalogue separately.

Despite yourself, you definitely catalogued it separately.

He did not speak much at the welcoming dinner.

You had been warned about this — not specifically, but the general picture assembled from your enquiries suggested a man who conserved words for when they were useful and considered most social occasions insufficiently useful to warrant extensive deployment.

What he did instead, you noticed, was listen.

Not with the polite performance of listening that courtiers had raised to an art form — the occasional nod, the maintained eye contact, the mind clearly elsewhere. Actually listen. The way people did when the information mattered to them.

He listened to you with this quality for the entirety of the dinner.

You were talking mostly to Lady Arryn on your other side, and the conversation was pleasant enough, but you were aware — with the peripheral attention you had developed for exactly this kind of thing — of Maekar beside you. Still, present. Not participating in the table's general noise but not entirely absent either.

At one point Lady Arryn said something that made you laugh — genuinely, not politely — and you felt rather than saw something shift slightly in the stillness beside you.

You glanced over. He was looking at his wine.

"Do you find Lady Arryn amusing?" you asked quietly, because you were a reasonably straightforward person and the elderly lady's advice was fresh in your mind.

He looked at you. Direct, as advertised.

"I find her adequate," he said. "I find the question of what makes you laugh more interesting."

You stared at him for a moment. He returned to his wine with the composure of someone who had not just said something that landed like a small precise arrow directly in the centre of your chest.

You turned back to Lady Arryn, brows slightly furrowed and filed it away. Told yourself very firmly it was simply an observation.

Winter settled over King's Landing like a declaration.

Sharp mornings and early dark and the particular quality of cold that got into stones and stayed there. You learned the Red Keep the way you had intended — carefully, observantly, building your picture from detail.

You learned that Maekar was in the training yard before dawn every morning regardless of weather, that he ate simply and without much interest in the ceremony of meals, that he had strong opinions about military history and expressed them without invitation to anyone who raised the subject within earshot, and that he was, as advertised, genuinely difficult.

You watched him reduce a knight to a state of profound professional humiliation in approximately four sentences during a training observation. You watched him dismiss a lord's petition with a bluntness that left the room briefly airless. You watched him sit through a court reception with the expression of a man enduring a minor but persistent physical ailment.

He was, objectively, a great deal.

The thing was—

That he was not like that with you.

Not entirely. He was still direct — bluntly, immediately, without the social cushioning most people employed. He still said what he meant without apparent concern for whether it landed comfortably. He did not perform warmth that he did not feel.

But there was something different in the way he was difficult with you versus the way he was difficult with everyone else.

With everyone else it was — weather. Impersonal. The sharpness of a man who had long since stopped moderating himself for the comfort of people he did not consider worth moderating for.

With you it was—

The first time you noticed it properly was two weeks after your arrival.

You were in the main hall of your solar, working through correspondence with your maid when he appeared in the doorway, assessed the room with his standard military efficiency, and crossed directly to where you were sitting.

"You are in the wrong chair," he said.

You looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

"The light is behind you. You will strain your eyes." He moved to a nearby table, lifted a candlestick that was not his to move, and set it beside your correspondence with the certainty of a man who had not considered the possibility of objection. "That chair—" he indicated one six feet to the left— "catches the window light in the afternoons."

You looked at the chair. Looked at him.

"How do you know which chair catches the window light?" you asked.

A brief pause.

"I have been in this room before," he said.

"So have a lot of other people."

Something moved in his expression that he shut down immediately. "Do you want the better light or not?"

You moved to the other chair. He left without further comment.

You sat in the improved light and thought about it for the rest of the afternoon.

It kept happening.

It was to note that nothing about Maekar was gentle or particularly deliberate in its presentation, as you had noticed over the passing weeks. It happened the way he did most things: directly, without ceremony, as though the action were simply the obvious response to an obvious situation, and he could not understand why it required comment.

He appeared beside you at events with the air of a man who had simply happened to end up there. He inserted himself into conversations where someone was boring you with the blunt efficiency of a man who had decided the conversation should end and ended it. When you were cold — the Red Keep's draughts were considerable — he did not offer his cloak with the gallant performance of a suitor. He simply reappeared at court wearing one fewer layer than he had been previously and if anyone connected these facts that was their business.

He argued with you.

This was, perhaps, the most distinctive quality of how he was different with you versus everyone else. He argued with you genuinely — not talking over you or dismissing you but actually engaging; pushing back on things he disagreed with, demanding you defend positions you had stated, listening to your defence with the focused attention of someone who intended to update their view if warranted. And, to his credit, he had done so on at least two occasions.

You had never had someone argue with you like that. Like your opinion was worth the effort of genuine contest. You found, to your own surprise, that you loved it.

"You are wrong about the Andal migrations," he said one evening, during a dinner that had somehow become a conversation about ancient history.

"I am drawing on three separate sources," you said.

"Your sources are drawing on each other. The primary account is Maester Edwyn and the other two are simply Edwyn with additional speculation."

"And you have a better source?"

"I have a better argument." He leaned forward slightly. "Which I will make if you stop citing Edwyn as though repetition improves him."

You stopped citing Edwyn. He made the argument. It was, frustratingly, quite good.

"You may have a point," you said.

"I have the point."

"You have a point. There is a distinction."

Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile — Maekar did not distribute smiles widely — but the particular movement that you had begun to understand was his equivalent.

"You are stubborn," he said.

"You are insufferable," you said pleasantly.

The almost-smile deepened fractionally. He refilled your wine without being asked.

You filed that dinner alongside everything else and told yourself very firmly to stop filing things.

The orbiting was what finally made it impossible to ignore.

You had not named it that at first. You had noticed it as a pattern without quite articulating what the pattern meant — the consistent proximity, the appearing in rooms, the finding you in the library or the garden or the great hall with the air of a man who had simply ended up there through no particular intention.

It was one of your maids who named it.

"He follows you," she said one morning, with the frankness of someone who had been observing this for weeks and had formed a view.

"He does not follow me," you said, slightly scoffing at the comment.

"He was in the east gallery yesterday."

"A lot of people pass through the east gallery."

"He walked past it twice in the same hour."

You said nothing.

"He was in the library the morning you went to find the Valyrian histories," she continued, with the relentlessness of someone making a case. "He does not use the library. I asked."

"You asked?"

"Someone had to." She met your eyes in the mirror with complete composure. "He orbits you. Like the—"

"Do not say moon."

"My lady." She set down the brush. "That man has not sat through a single court function in living memory without removing himself at the earliest opportunity. Last week he stayed for three hours."

"He had responsibilities—"

"You were there for three hours."

The silence that followed had considerable weight.

"It does not mean—" you began.

"My lady," she said gently. "It definitely does."

You looked at your own reflection for a long moment.

The thing was — you knew she was right. You had known for weeks, in the part of yourself that you had been firmly instructing to be quiet, that the revolving around had to mean something. That the arguments and the candlestick and the appearing-in-rooms and the almost-smiles that he seemed to distribute almost exclusively in your direction meant something.

But.

The other thing you knew — the thing that sat in you like a counterweight, cold and persistent — was that Maekar Targaryen had not chosen this.

Neither had you, of course. Arranged marriages were arranged and you had made your peace with that before the wheelhouse ever left your father's gates. But you had arrived at court genuinely open to whatever this became.

You were not certain he had.

And the gap between he is making the best of an obligation, and he wants you here specifically was one you could not quite cross on the evidence available.

Because what if the circling was simply — supervision. Responsibility. The particular attentiveness of a man who had been told this was his duty and was performing it with the same thoroughness he brought to everything.

What if the almost-smiles were simply relief at finding his betrothed manageable rather than something warmer. What if you had spent months mistaking tolerance for affection because you had wanted very badly to be wanted.

"I think," you said carefully, "that there is a considerable distance between orbiting someone and wanting them there."

Your maid looked at you through the reflection on the mirror for a moment.

"My lady," she said quietly. "You have seen how he is with other people, and how he behaves when you are around."

"Yes," you said. "I have. And I know that he is — less sharp with me. More present. But—" You stopped. "He did not choose me. And I sometimes think — what if he is simply — enduring because that is what he ought to do?"

The silence afterward was soft and sad.

"I think there is only one way of knowing, my lady," your maid said.

"You may be right," you said. "I need to be certain before I—" You stopped.

Before you let yourself love him fully and openly and without the careful guard you had been keeping around it.

"I need to be certain."

You managed another month.

A month of morning walks that you treasured and questioned in equal measure. A month of arguments that made you feel more genuinely met than anything else in your life and then made you wonder afterward whether being argued with was the same as being valued. A month of that steady and reliable circling he did around you, and the almost-smiles, and the appearing-in-rooms, and all of it—

All of it complicated by the thing you had heard a few days ago.

It had been a small thing, objectively. A court function — one of the interminable evening receptions that Maekar endured with his standard expression of contained suffering. You had been across the room when Lord Peake had said something to him, too quietly for you to hear, and Maekar had gone very still in the way he did before he said something cutting.

What you had caught, crossing toward them through the crowd, was the tail end of it.

—grateful she is at least tolerable, given you had no say in the matter.

You had turned around and found somewhere else to be and spent the rest of the reception being perfectly composed and not thinking about it.

You had been thinking about it for a week.

Tolerable.

A week of tolerable sitting in you like a splinter. A whole week of looking at him and the almost-smiles and the map he had drawn you — a map, he had drawn you a gods damned map — and not being able to fully silence the voice that said:

What if this is simply what he does for someone he considers adequate. What if you are a responsibility he is managing well. What if you have built an entire architecture of hope on the foundation of a man who is merely being thorough about his obligations.

You could not keep it any longer. It was making the mornings bittersweet and the arguments hollow and the map — the map that you had folded carefully and kept — feel like something you had misread entirely.

So, you went to find him.

You found him in the armoury. You had learned this about him the way you had learned everything — by paying attention. Maekar in the armoury meant Maekar thinking hard about something he had not yet resolved.

You wondered, with a distant kind of hurt, if that something was you.

He was working through sword forms when you entered, moving with the focused economy that characterised everything physical he did, and he stopped when he saw you with an expression that arranged itself into attention immediately and completely.

Your heart did the inconvenient thing. You were so tired of your heart doing the inconvenient thing.

"You do not usually come here," he said.

"No," you agreed.

He set the sword aside. Reached for a cloth. Watched you cross the room with that still focused gaze and waited, because Maekar always waited rather than rushing toward things.

You stopped in front of him.

You had rehearsed this. Several versions of it, over several sleepless portions of several nights. You had intended to be measured. Precise. To ask the question cleanly and receive the answer without making it larger than it needed to be.

Instead what came out was—

"Am I tolerable?"

Maekar went completely still.

"What?" he said.

"Lord Peake." You held his gaze even though it cost something. "Three weeks ago. At the reception." A breath. "I heard what he said."

The stillness that followed was different from his usual stillness. This one had texture. Something moving through it that his face was working to manage and not entirely succeeding.

"You heard—"

"She is at least tolerable," you said quietly. "Yes, I heard. And I heard you say nothing back."

Maekar looked at you for a long moment.

Something was happening in his expression that you could not fully read — several things at once, moving too fast and too layered — and then his jaw tightened and he looked away briefly and then back, and the expression he wore when he found your eyes again was not one you had seen from him before.

"How long," he said. Very quiet. "Have you been carrying this."

"A week."

A rough exhale.

"And before that," he said, with the precision of a man reassessing a situation from new information, "you thought—"

"I didn't know what to think," you said. "I don't know what to think. You are — you are so present and then you say something like that and I don't—" Your voice had developed an unsteadiness you had not intended. "I don't know if I am someone you want here or someone you are making the best of. And it matters." You looked at him steadily despite everything. "It matters enormously to me."

The silence afterward was enormous.

Maekar looked at you with an expression that was almost painful to witness — not because it was closed or guarded but because it was the precise opposite. Something sitting fully exposed across his features that he was not attempting to manage, like the usual mechanisms had simply failed to engage.

"Lord Peake," he said. Low and deliberate. "Was asking me questions about you that were not his to ask. In a manner that was not—" His jaw tightened. "I did not trust myself to answer honestly in that room in that moment."

You stared at him.

"So you said nothing," you said slowly.

"Because the honest answer—" He stopped. Something working in his throat. "The honest answer was not something I was willing to give Peake in the middle of a reception."

"What was the honest answer?"

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then he crossed to you with that direct purposeful movement of his — two steps, no hesitation — and took your face in both hands and looked at you from very close and said:

"That you are the furthest thing from at least tolerable that I have ever encountered in my life."

Your breath left you.

"That I have been—" He stopped. Started again. The words clearly costing him, dragged out by sheer force of will. "I do not know how to do this. I am aware of that. I know that I am—" A rough exhale. "I know that I am not easy to read. That I communicate— badly. That what is obvious to me may not be—" His thumbs moved against your cheekbones. "I have been trying to be near you because when I am not I am—"

He stopped completely. Looked almost furious with himself.

"Unsettled," he said finally. Like the word had been extracted.

"Unsettled," you repeated softly.

"You are the only person who—" Another stop. Jaw working. "I do not follow people around reception halls or draw them bloody maps of corridors or—" He cut himself off. The red was climbing his neck toward his ears. "I have never done any of those things for any person. In my life. Before you."

Your eyes were burning.

"Then why—" you started.

"Because I wanted to." The words came out low and fierce and completely certain. "Not because you are my betrothed. Not because it is expected of me. Because I wanted to and I could not seem to stop and I did not—" His voice roughened. "I did not particularly want to stop."

You looked at him.

At this impossible prickly furious man holding your face in careful hands and going red about it and being unable to finish half his sentences because the feelings were too large for the vocabulary he permitted himself and underneath all of it—

Wanting you.

Not tolerating you. Not enduring you adequately.

Wanting you.

"You should have told me," you said. Your voice came out slightly unsteady.

"I was telling you," he said. With the exasperation of a man who has been shouting in a language he forgot to teach you. "Every morning. Every — I was telling you constantly. I did not realise you were not—" He stopped. The exasperation folding into something softer and more painful. "I did not realise you could not hear it."

The tear that escaped was entirely without your permission.

Maekar looked at it with the expression of a man who had just understood the full scope of something and found it considerably more significant than he had calculated.

"You thought I didn't want you here," he said quietly.

"I thought you were making the best of an obligation," you said. "I thought tolerable might be the ceiling."

Something moved through his face that was almost difficult to witness — the specific pain of a person realising that their silence, their indirection, their assumption that presence spoke for itself — had caused hurt they had never intended.

"No," he said. Roughly. Completely. "No. You are not—" He seemed to abandon the sentence in favour of a more direct approach. "I would have chosen you. Do you understand that? If there had been a choice. I would have chosen you anyway."

The tears arrived properly then.

Maekar made a low distressed sound at the sight of them and pulled you forward until your forehead rested against his chest and his arms came around you with the fierce careful certainty of someone who had decided this was where you belonged and intended to make that structurally clear.

"I would have chosen you," he repeated into your hair, like he needed you to have it twice.

You held onto him and let the week of tolerable dissolve out of you.

"I love you," you said into his chest. Muffled and slightly tearful and entirely sincere. "I have been trying not to fall for you like a stupid maiden since I arrived here."

The arms around you tightened.

"Trying not to," he repeated, something almost amused in the way he phrased it.

"You are very difficult," you said.

A sound escaped him. Short and low and startled — that real laugh, the unguarded one. "I am aware."

"And I love you anyway. Entirely." The silence that followed was warm and full.

His lips pressed into your hair.

"I am afraid that I am not going to become easier without a little time," he said gruffly.

"I know."

"I will still argue with you."

"Good."

"But I am—" A brief pause. "I am going to be better. At saying things. Directly. So you can hear them."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. He was flushed and slightly wrecked and entirely, completely serious.

"You don't have to become someone else for me," you said softly.

"I am not becoming someone else. I am becoming—" He seemed to search for it. "Clearer. So you do not have to put up with a husband who is incapable of communicating."

Your heart turned completely over.

"I love you," you said again.

The red reached his ears.

"I know," he said gruffly.

You raised an eyebrow. A long pause.

"I love you," he finally conceded. Like a man starting to pay a debt he was glad to owe. "Obviously. Entirely. Since approximately the moment you stepped out of that wheelhouse and looked at me like you were taking notes."

"I was actually taking notes," you said.

"I know." That almost-smile. The real one.

The wedding was on a morning in deep winter when the snow had just begun to fall over King's Landing.

You stood beside him before the sept and listened to him say the words with the directness he brought to everything true and thought, with distant clarity, that almost no other would be capable of fully knowing what sat behind those violet eyes that you had learned to read over the months.

Afterward in the brief moment before the feast he looked at you and said, without preamble—

"You look—" he stopped. The old frustration with vocabulary fleetingly visible. Then, with the deliberate care of a man who had made himself and you a promise, "You look like someone I would have chosen," he said. "In any life."

You had learned his language months ago. But he was learning yours too.

You rose onto your toes and kissed him once, briefly, and felt him exhale against your mouth like something that had been held carefully for a very long time finally being set down.

"There," you said softly. "Was that so difficult?"

"Insufferable," he said. With considerable fondness.

That evening during the feast he sat beside you, and you talked about things that had little or nothing to do with the celebration surrounding you. Maekar meticulously refilled your cup without you having to ask, and you, in return, stole some of the food from his plate.

After a moment of silence in which you looked around the great hall at all the people overcome by the emotion that a royal wedding allowed, when you returned your gaze to Maekar you realized that he had been watching you all that time.

Not with the careful concealed attention of before.

Openly. Completely. With those full violet eyes that were no longer a riddle for you. They were so full that he had needed not words to express what was behind them. He did not look away when you caught him.

You smiled and he, for a moment, smiled fully, with the intimacy of addressing an audience of one.

Outside the snow continued to fall over King's Landing.

Inside, Maekar Targaryen sat beside his wife at his own wedding feast and looked at her like she was something he had found unexpectedly and intended to keep for the rest of his life.

The chamber was utterly quiet, candlelight flickering against the walls. Shadows softened the edges of carved stone and heavy drapery, wrapping the space in secrecy rather than splendor.

The small blade in Baelor's hand caught the candlelight. It was thin and sharp, almost ceremonial in its simplicity. No words were spoken at first, because none were needed.

Mismatched eyes never leaving yours, he drew the edge of it slightly across his thumb, not flinching once. A bead of crimson welled, dark against his skin. He came closer to you, lifting his hand with deliberate care. The touch was feather-light as he pressed that drop of blood to your forehead and then to your lips, leaving behind a mark that felt warmer than it should have.

Maekar followed without hesitation. His cut was firmer, less restrained than Baelor’s, but same as him, his gaze never left yours either. When he marked your forehead and lips, the touch was harder than Baelor’s, and with a steadiness that carried its own weight, something unspoken and resolute. 

It felt claiming. It felt binding. A true recognition of your bond.

When the blade passed to you, the air seemed to tighten. You felt both of them watching, not as princes, not as figures of power, but as men standing at the edge of something irreversible.

The sting of the blade was brief. 

You stepped first to Baelor, your fingers steady despite your heart thundering under your ribs. You marked him, two lines of blood ascending into a peak above his brow, before pressing your thumb to his lips, touch lingering just enough to turn the act into something more than ritual.

Then, you moved to Maekar. With him, the moment stretched, quieter and heavier. When you pressed the same mark upon him and then his lips, he exhaled slowly, as though grounding himself in the reality of it.

Three vows, unspoken but understood.

Baelor moved to grab one of the goblets placed at the table, filling it with dark red wine. He added a single drop of his blood, before passing it to Maekar, who did the same. When it was placed in your hand, you paused only a moment before letting your own blood fall into the mixture.

For a heartbeat, none of you moved.

Then Baelor drank. Maekar followed immediately after. And when you drank the last drops, you could not help but savour the richness of the wine, carrying with it the faintest trace of iron beneath its sweetness.

When it was finished, the goblet was set aside.

Baelor’s voice was the first to break the silence, speaking in High Valyrian as though the words themselves demanded reverence. Maekar followed, his tone firmer, grounding the ancient phrases in something unmistakably real. You answered them without hesitation.

Iksan aōhon, se iksā ñuhon.  

Sir se syt mirre jēda, ēva ñuha morghon. 

I am yours, and you are mine. 

Now and for all time, until my death. 

It was a second binding, chosen freely this time, stripped of ceremony and witness. And here, in the dim light of your own making, you chose each other all over again, as you have done before and as you always would.

Baelor’s hand found yours first, his grip firm, as though acknowledging the gravity of what had just passed. Maekar’s hand grabbed your other one immediately after, warm against yours.

You looked at them, your husbands, your breath catching in your throat at the intensity of their gaze. Your heart was racing, your pulse thundering in your ears as a wild hunger was singing in your veins. Baelor cupped your face with his free hand, thumb grazing over your cheek with tenderness. 

“Ābrazȳrys (wife)…” He murmured reverently, voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “Our wife…”

He surged forward, claiming your mouth in a searing kiss. You whimpered as your mouth molded against his, lips fused in urgent harmony. The faint taste of blood from the rite invaded your senses, igniting a fierce spark within you. Your fingers clutched the front of his doublet, knuckles turning white as his other hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you tight against him. His tongue teased your lower lip, coaxing your mouth to open apart. You obliged him, the kiss plunging deeper as your tongues tangled in a heated dance. 

Maekar lingered for a moment, eyes dark with barely restrained fire, before his fingers brushed against your arm, sending sparks across your skin. You barely pulled away from Baelor, lips plump and tingling, turning to Maekar with a soft gasp, calling out to him.

“Wife…” He whispered, voice thick with need.

His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair before pulling you into a kiss. It devoured you whole, the kiss fierce and unrelenting, a storm of lips, teeth and tongue that stripped your breath away. You clung to him now, desperately, moaning as he tugged at your hair, angling your head back and deepening the kiss more. His tongue swept inside your mouth in bold strokes, exploring every crevice. He drew your tongue into his mouth, sucking harshly before letting go and nipping at your lower lip with a growl that vibrated through you. The intensity built like a gathering storm, your body melting between them as desire coiled tighter in your core.

Maekar’s palms glided up your sides, cupping your breasts through the thin dress fabric, thumbs rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your stiffening nipples. A sharp moan tore from your throat, muffled against his mouth, and heat surged between your thighs as Baelor’s lips trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to tease. 

You were untouched in the truest sense, preserved by the Sevens' grace. Yet these kisses eclipsed the ones Baelor and Maekar had given you before. They were nothing like the ones they had stolen in shadowed alcoves or deep in the gardens. 

And their touches… Baelor’s touches were always reverent, fingers skimming your body with worshipful care that left you throbbing with unspoken longing. Maekar’s were always bolder, fingers digging harshly on your hips, hard enough to bruise, whispering vows of the pleasures he would give you. And now, there was nothing holding them back.

“Bisa bantis, iksā īlvon (This night, you are ours)…” Baelor murmured hotly against your ear, teeth nipping at the sensitive lobe as his fingers tugged at the laces of your gown.

You gasped into Maekar’s kiss, your body arched between their pressing forms, as his hands joined Baelor’s in relieving you off of your dress. Their touches were intoxicating, maddening, and they burned like wildfire. You felt adrift, as layer after layer of garments shed in whispers of silks, pooling at your feet, until you lay bare and quivering in need.

“To the fucking bed… now.” Maekar said, locking eyes with Baelor, who nodded.

Gentle yet commanding hands guided you towards the bed, Baelor lifting you effortlessly onto the silken sheets. Your chest rose with uneven breaths and you braced yourself on your elbows, your eyes devouring as your husbands undressed. Maekar shed his tunic impatiently, muscles rippling under pale skin which was marked with faint scars from battles and tourney fields. Baelor followed suit and undressed with measured precisions, his frame sleeker but equally beautiful, old wounds mapping his flesh like badges of valour. They retained their breeches, but your gaze snagged on the dark, tempting trail of hair arrowing downward from their navels, vanishing into shadowed promise. Their gazes were warm upon you, feeling like a touch.

The bed dipped as Baelor joined you, his mouth crashing upon yours in a full, devouring kiss while his hands nudged your thighs apart with gentle insistence. Your moaned, your hands clutching the sheets beneath you as he trailed kisses along your jaw before venturing lower, nipping at your neck, lavishing attention upon your breasts, tracing fire down your stomach until he settled properly between your legs. A low groan rumbled from deep within him at the glistening wetness, his fingers parting your slick folds, drawing a sharp inhale from you that dissolved into a moan when your lower lips yielded to his touch. 

“Let me taste you, my sweet girl…” He said, his breath hot against your folds.

He offered you no chance to respond before his tongue darted out, giving you a languid, deliberate lick along your drenched folds. His hands splayed across your thighs, holding you in place, while his tongue delved between your folds. A loud moan escaped your throat, your eyes clenching shut and your hand moving to his head, l fingers threading into his short hair. 

“How does she taste?” Maekar asked, and you could hear the restraint in his voice.

“Hmm…” Baelor groaned against you. “Better than I imagined…” 

You had thought about this so many times over sleepless nights, but you were never prepared for it to be this divine. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue flicked against it, making you see stars. 

“Oh Baelor…” Your cries filled the room, your hips grinding instinctively against his mouth. “Love, please, do not stop…”

With one hand he grabbed your hip ferociously, pinning you in place, while his other hand explored and teased your folds. As his tongue circled your clit with relentless precision, his fingers prodded your entrance, one finger slipping in slowly and easily at your wetness. He took care to take it slow, letting you adjust to the intrusion before he crooked it upward, syncing the motion with the pressure of his tongue, hitting that sensitive spot deep within. You could not help but moan brazenly, watching him, his beard feeling deliciously against you. 

“That is it.” His voice was muffled, the words vibrating against your slick skin. “You do not have to hold back with us īlva prūmia (our heart).”

Every reaction you gave him, each gasp, each shudder, drew a quiet, satisfied sound from his chest, low and approving.

“Iksā doing sīr sȳrī syt īlva (You are doing so well for us).” Baelor groaned, mismatched eyes locked on your. “Gods, she is so wet, so needy for us already, brother.”

Your eyes flitted to Maekar, who stood close by and watched every moment, every movement you made, every sound you let out. His hand rubbed the swelling length of his cock through his breeches, eyes burning with raw desire as he devoured the sight before him. Lost in the thick haze of bliss, you met his scorching gaze and reached out to him, fingers trembling with desperate need.

“Maekar please…” You begged prettily. “My love, I need you.”

He surged forward without a shred of hesitation, positioning himself on his knees beside your head, towering over you like a storm about to break. You gasped as he seized your outstretched hand and pressed your palm against the thick ridge of his cock, a growl rumbling from him as you began stroking him. You arched up, lips brushing the fabric, inhaling his scent before sucking hard at the outlined shape of his tip. 

“Fuck…” He groaned, his fingers fighting with the strings, pulling his hard cock out, the tip glistening with pre-cum. 

The sight of Maekar’s cock made your mouth water, your walls clenching around Baelor’s finger as you imagined how it would feel inside of you.

"Open." He commanded, pressing the tip against your lips.

You obeyed without hesitation, lips parting to take the head of his cock into your mouth. The taste of him bloomed on your tongue, his thickness stretching your lips. Maekar groaned loudly as he pushed deeper, his hand moving to the back of your head, guiding your movements.

“Gods, look at her, taking it so well.” He sighed as he watched you sucked him. “Īlē vēttan syt bisa. Syt īlva. (You were made for this. For us.).”

Caught between them, you felt overcome with pleasure and need. Maekar’s cock slid deeper into your mouth as Baelor added another finger in you, stretching you gently. Your jaw ached in a pleasant way as Maekar pushed you more onto him, testing your limits.

“That’s it… Take me deeper.” He grunted, as you hollowed your cheeks around him. “Aōha relgos iksin vēttan syt bisa (Your mouth was made for this)…”

All this while, Baelor’s relentless rhythm drove you mercilessly closer and closer to your release, your walls gripping his fingers like a vice. Groaning at the sight of you taking Maekar’s cock, his tongue flicked wildly over your swollen clit with rapid and punishing strokes, his fingers thrusting deeper, curling inside your slick heat to grind against that spot that made you scream in pleasure. 

You moaned loudly, drawing loud groans from both of them as you pushed Baelor’s head closer, hips bucking against him as you chased your release. Pleasure coiled tight in your core, his touch relentless, building you higher with every thrust of his fingers and flick of his tongue. You writhed beneath him, your walls clenching on his fingers, moans spilling from your lips as pleasure built sharp and fast. Your release washed over you, intense and all-consuming, your body quaking as you clenched around his fingers.

Baelor did not stop, his tongue lapping every drop of your release with a ravenous, gleaming hunger in his eyes. He finally pulled back, giving you a final lick before pulling his fingers.

“Your turn, brother.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your trembling inner thigh, nipping at the skin before he rose completely. “You must taste her.”

Maekar nodded, a soft moan escaping his throat as he eased out of your mouth. He pulled you up to press a searing kiss to your lips, tugging at your lower lip before letting go. 

As he moved lower, slotting himself between your legs, Baelor moved as well, capturing your gasping mouth in a devouring kiss. His tongue pressed against your lower lip before thrusting deep, and you groaned, tasting yourself on him. One of his hands slid up your body to your breasts, squeezing one and then the other, thumb rolling and pinching your nipples with insistent pressure that shot sparks straight to your core.

“Oh Gods!” You all but screamed, as Baelor’s lips latched on your nipple and Maekar dove in between your thighs, his tongue lapping at your drenched folds with ravenous hunger, sucking your folds. His fingers clamped your hip in a brutal hold, pinning you down exactly how he wanted you, the other hand slipping into your wetness, stroking your swollen lips. 

His tongue circled your clit in tight, merciless movements as two fingers prodded your entrance, pushing inside slowly and smoothly, aided by your wetness and previous release. He eased them deep, letting your muscles flutter and stretch around them for a moment before pulling them out and thrusting them again. A wild, broken cry tore from your throat, body shaking violently, thighs clamping his head, your fingers threading through his hair.

“Qogralbar, ao sylutegon hae vok qringaomnon (Fuck, you taste like pure sin), wife… so fucking wet and sweet.” Maekar growled into you. The vibrations from his voice rumbled through your core, his words muffled as he sucked your clit between his lips and hummed.

You whimpered helplessly, legs quivering uncontrollably as Baelor pressed warm kisses to your collarbone and neck. He took your free hand, wrapping your trembling fingers around his free cock. Your dazed eyes moved to it, the shaft warm and heavy in your grip, pre-cum leaking at the tip. 

“Baelor…” You keened, pressing your lips against his.

Guided by him, you pumped him firmly, stroking his length fast and sure from root to dripping tip.

“Yes, dearest, just like that…” Baelor hissed against your lips, his hand leaving yours to grab your breast.

You gently twisted your wrist at the head to smear his leaking pre-cum, feeling him groan deep into your mouth, hips jerking as you continued to stroke him with frantic rhythm.

“Oh Gods…” You gasped, feeling another release reaching its peak. “Oh, I do not think I can-”

“Yes, you can.” Baelor interrupted you, as Maekar greedily lapped at your folds. “Give us another one, ñuha jorrāelagon (my dear).”

Baelor’s thumbs twisted your nipples sharper, pulling the peaks taut, while Maekar’s savage licks and fingers twisted the coiling pressure to an unbearable peak until it shattered. Your back arched off the silken sheets, moaning their names as your second climax ravaged your body in violent surges. Your walls spasmed wildly around Maekar’s thrusting fingers, as a scream tore from your throat, swallowed whole by Baelor’s crushing kiss.

Your body was still trembling from the shattering aftershocks of your release, every nerve alight with lingering ecstasy, when Baelor and Maekar rose in perfect tandem, their eyes burning with hunger. They removed their breeches with urgent, fervent tugs, and a profound look of deep understanding passed between them.

You watched, heart pounding against your chest, as Baelor positioned himself between your trembling thighs, coaxing them apart, while Maekar drew close once more, his presence a warm, intoxicating promise above you.

Grasping the base of his cock, Baelor dragged it along your entrance, coating himself in your wetness. You gasped as the tip glided teasingly to part your delicate lips, before pulling away and then back again, each stroke building an unbearable ache of anticipation. 

“Are you ready for me, dearest?” He murmured, enchanted at the way you parted for him.

You nodded with fervent desperation.

“Use your words.” Maekar’s fingers brushed against your hair.

“Yes- I need you!” You obeyed quickly. “Please, I want you both-”

At that, Baelor pressed forward slowly, for he could not, would never deny you, and it was deliberate and unhurried. The initial sharp stretch bloomed into a divine, consuming fullness, your inner walls fluttering and embracing him with yielding grips, holding him as if he were always meant to be there. Inch by inch, he buried himself fully around you with a low groan.

“Jelevre (Breath).” Maekar murmured, watching the way your face contorted in pleasure.

After giving you a moment to adjust, Baelor began to move. He set the rhythm, deliberate, unyielding strokes that built gradually, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. You could not help but arch up to meet his thrusts, cries spilling out as the pace intensified with each snap of his hips.

“How does she feel?” Maekar asked, voice rough with anticipation.

“Vok (Perfect).” Baelor groaned. 

Maekar tightened his grip on your hair, and you looked up at him lips parted. He grasped his still hard cock, stroking it before feeding it past your parted lips with urgent insistence. You sucked him eagerly, tongue swirling wildly around the tip, jaw aching, hollowing your cheeks deep as you could to take him deeper. Grunting low, he moved as slowly as he could, restraint barely keeping hold on him, as he did not wish to hurt you.

“Gods, your mouth... so fucking tight-” He rasped, restraint fraying at the edges.

The sound of your moans, Maekar’s grunts and Baelor’s hips meeting yours filled the room, their grunts accompanying your moans and whimpers like a raw harmony. 

Maekar’s cock throbbed against the heat of your tongue, hips thrusting faster each involuntary jerk betraying his teetering release. He hovered on the brink of ecstasy, desperate to yank out and bury himself into your dripping walls, his breath fracturing into desperate groans.

Baelor’s fingers dug into your hips with unyielding fervour, and you were sure it would bruise the next morn. He leaned forward, his mouth descending to capture your taut nipple, his tongue swirling in languid circles before his teeth grazed the sensitive peak. He did the same to your other breast, each flick of his tongue sending waves of delight to your core.

“Iksā doing sīr sȳz syt īlva (You are doing so good for us)…” Baelor murmured in reverence, his warm breath fanning your nipple. “You are taking us so beautifully…”

Words failed you, your mind blanking as the thick drag of his cock filled and withdrew from your core. Both brothers chuckled lightly, their laughter low and intimate, very pleased with your reaction, your surrender, both moaning deeply when your walls clenched tight and your mouth was warm around them in response. 

Baelor angled his hips sharper, driving deeper to strike that hidden spot. His free hand slipped down to rub your clit in firm, circling motions that matched his deep thrusts. Heat built steadily through you, coiling tighter with every deliberate movement, every whisper, every brush of their touch. Your breath hitched and your heart raced.

“Yes-” Baelor hissed, his thrusts unrelenting. “Give us one more love…”

“Fuck, you can do it.” Maekar grunted. “One more…”

At the sound of their voices and unrelenting touches, your release tore through you, intense and all-consuming, your body trembling as your walls clenched and fluttered around Baelor’s cock, leaving you breathless.

Baelor’s composure frayed as he pursued his own peak, his control slipping. He moaned at the tightness around him, his breath turning uneven, his rhythm faltering into erratic thrusts. After a few more powerful strokes he came, spilling deep inside of you, your name a ragged chant on his lips.

Meanwhile, Maekar’s restraint snapped taut like a bowstring. He yanked free from your mouth with a furious curse, strings of spit connecting your lips to his dripping head, denying himself the urge to come down your throat.

They did not grant you a moment’s reprieve, as Maekar swiftly turned you onto all fours, your arms and knees sinking softly into the mattress. Baelor's gaze burned upon you both, watching as Maekar positioned himself behind you like a conqueror, caressing your folds with the tip before surging forward. You gasped as he buried himself to the hilt easily due to your and Baelor’s previous release.

A sob escaped you as Maekar set a more relentless and punishing pace than Baelor had. His hands clamped onto your hips in a bruising grip, yanking you back to meet each of his thrusts, the force rippling through your frame. You braced yourself on trembling elbows, every whimper rising from your lips laced with raw, insatiable need, your body thrumming under the onslaught. 

“Look at me…” Baelor murmured.

His voice was a velvet command laced with hunger, his fingers weaving through your hair with possessive grace. And you did without hesitation, your dazed eyes looking up to meet his gaze, a soft keen escaping your lips as he drew you closer. You understood, parting your lips to take his softening cock eagerly, tongue tracing his length in devoted and languid strokes. You drew his sensitive head deeper, tongue swirling around it, making Baelor groan deeply at the wet heat enveloping him.

“You are perfect…" Baelor whispered, his voice strained. “You are so perfect, your mouth enveloping me so wonderfully, even as he claims you so fiercely from behind.”

Maekar's pace turned utterly savage, hips snapping with brutal force with each punishing plunge, the raw stretch and friction igniting fresh fire in your oversensitive walls. You gripped him like a with desperate fervour, dripping and clenching amid the relentless assault. Tension coiled tighter and hotter anew within you. 

“Ficking Gods, iksā sīr ȳrda… sīr vok… (you are so tight… so perfect…)” Maekar grunted, as he watched his cock disappear into you with each eager thrust.

Baelor threaded his fingers in your hair, guiding your mouth with firm tugs, while Maekar's breath broke into ragged groans, filthy praises falling from his tongue. His hand slid around your body, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in firm circles, pushing you to the precipice of another release.

The world around you faded. You could only feel the slap of skin, the burn of Maekar’s grip on your hips, the thick slide of his cock stretching you, Baelor’s fingers in your hair, pulling you off his softening cock to watch you overcome by pleasure. You came with a loud, unrestrained moan, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, walls pulsing around Maekar as you sobbed in overwhelming pleasure. He followed seconds later, burying deep and spilling inside you, his growl primal as he held you there, bodies locked in trembling ecstasy.

You collapsed forward, spent and more than sated, your body still warm from the intensity of everything that just passed between you. With their help, you settled back against the pillows, breathing unsteadily as both laid down beside you.

The quiet of the chamber wrapped around the three of you, and for a moment none of you spoke. The air felt heavy, not just with exhaustion but with something deeper as well.

“Will every night be like this?” You whispered, your voice soft yet still touched with lingering desire.

Baelor cupped your jaw, his palm warm, thumb tracing your swollen lips, his expression softer than before. 

“If that is what you wish, jorrāelagon (love)...” He said quietly. “Then yes. As often as your heart desires.”

Beside you, Maekar let out a low breath, as his hand laid on your hip, a grounding and certain presence. 

“And more than that…” He added firmly. “This is only the beginning.”

Between them, you felt it,  the weight of what had truly begun. Something chosen, something shared.

Something that would not ever be undone.

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