KIT KAT

Robb moved through the stone halls like a thief, cloak tucked tight, footsteps soft on the worn floors. The castle had mostly gone to sleep. Those who hadn’t, were still drinking themselves into a stupor in the Great Hall. Good. Fewer eyes.

Behind him, Grey Wind padded in perfect silence, his large loyal shadow. Nose twitching.

"No," Robb whispered, crouching and reaching out to touch the direwolf’s thick fur. "Not this time."

Grey Wind huffed, unconvinced.

"You’ll get us caught. I need you to stay. Please."

Another soft growl. Not angry, just questioning.

Robb exhaled, pressing his forehead to the direwolf’s. "I’m not going too far. Just to her."

Grey Wind stilled, watching with those strange, knowing eyes.

"I’ll be back before dawn," Robb promised. "Stay."

With one final reluctant glance, Grey Wind slunk back into shadow.

Robb stood. His heart beat like a war drum.

You were just beyond the next corner. He could see the glow of firelight beneath your door, leaking out into the corridor like warmth begging to be touched.

What he was about to do was foolish. Improper. Dishonorable. But he couldn't bear the thought of sharing your first night in a room full of drunken fools. That moment, that memory, was meant for the two of you.

He didn't wish to knock, knowing how the sound would echo down the hallway. A soft push was all it took to open the door.

He slipped inside and closed the heavy door behind him. The latch clicked softly.

A fire burned low in the hearth, and his eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, he saw you, sleeping softly in bed. Your hair was a spill of silk over the pillows, your eyes gently closed. Furs and blankets tucked around your shoulders.

His chest ached with a strange, warm feeling. The two of you had grown up together. Robb had loved you since before he knew what love was, and tomorrow you would be his wife.

It was a day meant for joy, but all Robb could feel was dread. The thought of the bedding ceremony had kept him up late into the night.

Theon had told him it wasn't so bad. All he had to do was lift your skirts, sheath himself inside and get it over with.

Even with your assurances that you would endure it bravely, Robb would not let your first time be something merely to endure. He wanted you to enjoy it.

There was another reason, a secret, selfish one. More than wanting to bring you the kind of pleasure Theon boasted about in his crude tales. Countless nights he had imagined your heat, your sounds, the soft glory of your body around him. Tomorrow, every god would know you were his. Tonight, he only wanted you to feel it.

He stepped further into the room. Your breath was slow, even. He wondered how long it would take for you to wake, should he join you under the blankets.

But no, you would stir and panic at the unfamiliar shape, the sudden weight on the bed. That was the last thing he wanted. 

Instead, he shed his cloak and went to the fireplace, stoking the flames and adding a few more logs. He pulled off his fur-lined gloves, letting his hands bask in the heat.

"Robb?"

He turned, seeing you awake, your eyes bleary, voice still heavy with sleep.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, sitting carefully on the edge of your bed.

“Just a little,” You blinked up at him, frowning. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, I just... couldn't sleep."

"Are you worried about tomorrow?"

"Yes," he admitted, taking your hand beneath the furs. Your fingers were warmer than his, and he curled into the comfort. "Very."

You smiled. "Have you come to end the betrothal, my lord?"

"You can't be rid of me so easily."

"A shame." You sat up, the blankets falling away to reveal a shift. It was thin, white cotton. In the firelight it nearly glowed, faintly see-through, and Robb’s eyes darted away like he had been burned. His cheeks growing hot.

"What are you doing here, Robb?"

"I've come to steal a kiss," he said. "Is that allowed?"

You laughed. "I suppose so."

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. It was sweet, tentative. You pulled him closer, shivering slightly. "You're cold. Come here.”

He hesitated, then climbed beneath the covers. You squeaked when his icy feet brushed your leg.

"Gods, you're freezing."

"Sorry," he whispered, curling closer. "I'm thawing, I swear."

You giggled, pulling the furs tighter around you both. "Thaw faster."

He smiled and kissed you again, deeper this time. His fingers found your hip, your arm, awkward in his gentleness.

"Is this all right?" he murmured.

You nodded. "Yes. Just... don't stop kissing me."

That was easy. Kissing you felt like breathing. He slid a hand along your thigh, faltered, then tried again. Your own hands wandered to his shoulders, clumsy with nerves, bumping his chin, tangling in the blanket.

"Sorry," you whispered.

"Don't be," he said, laughing softly. "I think I'm doing worse."

He kissed your cheek, your neck. When his hand drifted up, brushing your breast through the shift, you gasped.

"Is this all right?" he asked, searching your face.

"Yes."

He lowered his head, kissing you again, deeper, slower. Your fingers found his curls, tugging gently.

He pulled back, gasping. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come here, we-"

"You've only just kissed me." You smiled. "We've been doing that since we were children."

"Not in your bed, with so little clothing," he said, color rushing to his cheeks. "Your father would have my head if he knew I was here."

"Yet you still came."

"I couldn't stop myself," he murmured, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

"And I am glad you didn't." You kissed him, smiling against his mouth. "Kiss me again, my lord."

"I would have you call me by name," he said, kissing the side of your mouth, down to your jaw. "When it's just us."

You giggled. "As my lord commands."

He huffed a laugh, eyes warm, lips meeting yours again. The shyness you had both clung to since childhood slipped like snow off a branch. Robb made a startled sound, half-laugh, half-moan, when you nipped at his lower lip.

You kept kissing, addicted to each others’ lips, until heat pooled everywhere your bodies touched. Robb shifted, and suddenly his quilted doublet clung too tight, suffocating in the space between you.

You broke away, palm pressed to the broad plane of his chest. "You’re going to melt in all this wool," you murmured. "Let me."

He sat up, knees still on the mattress, allowing you to help him shed the layers of his outfit. You were methodical, fingers brushing over clasps and ties, and Robb sat obediently still, feeling like a child being undressed for bed. It should have been silly. But your touch was reverent, your eyes intent. It was thrilling.

Underneath, he wore a simple linen shirt, thin and well-worn. It clung to him slightly, catching at his shoulders.

You reached for the collar, then stopped. Your eyes met his, a soft blush blooming across your cheeks. Robb smiled, and leaned in, catching your lips in a quick, chaste kiss. He felt your smile against his.

He broke the kiss, but not the connection, forehead to forehead, his breath mingling with yours.

You tugged the hem of his shirt. Robb raised his arms, letting you peel it over his head. He shivered slightly as the cool air touched his bare skin, gooseflesh rising on his arms.

Your gaze was heavy, traveling the length of his torso, taking in the hard lines and soft shadows. The light cast from the hearth turned his pale skin golden. A glow that spread from his collarbone to his navel, down the length of his strong, sturdy arms.

You had seen Robb without a shirt before. In the river, swimming in summer. On the training yard, sparring with Jon and Theon. You had always found him a pretty lad. But now he was truly a man grown, with muscle and strength. And yet, his expression was shy. Underneath he was still the boy you had always loved.

You cupped his cheek, smiling. He leaned into the touch, sighing contentedly. Then he was kissing you again, pushing you gently back against the bed.

You gasped, giggling. Your shift rode up with the motion, soft fabric sliding along your thighs. And suddenly his hand was there. Bare. Warm. Rough. A bold touch that made your stomach flip.

You tensed. Robb broke away at once, eyes wide, hand lifting like he had been caught stealing.

"Sorry," he stammered.

"It's all right." You whispered, taking his hand and placing it back on your thigh. "Touch me,”

His fingers were gentle, uncertain but eager, tracing the line of your thigh, the curve of your hip. You sighed, sinking back into the furs, eyes falling shut.

He didn't quite know where to put his other hand, or if he should say something about your beauty. He was too nervous and aroused to form proper thoughts. The sight of your breasts, pressing against the thin shift, was more than his brain could process. They rose with every breath you took, just beneath the sheer fabric, like something sacred he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look at.

In the haze, he remembered something Theon had told him once. A line he claimed would make any woman insatiable. Robb doubted the veracity of the statement, but he had no better ideas.

He took a deep breath and pressed a kiss to the side of your neck.

"Your breasts are so lovely," he said, the word strange and clunky on his tongue. "I hope they are the last thing I see before I die."

Your eyes flew open. Your mouth parted, a soft laugh bubbling forth.

"What?" you said, trying to catch your breath.

Robb’s face went beet-red and he quickly buried it in the crook of your neck. "That was terrible."

You couldn’t help but laugh. He joined you, chuckling into the soft skin of your neck, the sound sending sparks through your chest.

"Who told you to say that?" you managed, running your fingers through his thick hair.

"Theon," he mumbled.

"Why are you taking romantic advice from Theon Greyjoy?" you teased, still giggling.

He wanted to sink through the floor, or at least find a convenient snow pile to hide in. 

"Because," he said, pulling back so you could see the honesty in his eyes, "I don't know what I'm doing."

You sobered, watching him for a moment. "Me neither."

"I want it to be good for you," he said, cheeks still pink.

"Then it will be." You smiled, reaching up to brush a stray curl away from his forehead. "As long as it’s with you, I’ll enjoy it."

He smiled, then leaned in to press his lips to yours, letting his body relax into the comfort of your soft, warm frame. He stopped thinking so much. It was easier if he just listened. Your sighs and quiet moans were a good guide. The way you arched your back, hips lifting off the bed when his hand brushed over a particularly sensitive spot.

He moved, shifting his weight, until he was settled between your legs, his hips pressing between your thighs. The hardness in his breeches was unmistakable. You blushed, remembering what your sisters had told you. How big a man’s cock could get, how it would grow and lengthen and swell when it was ready to take a woman.

You bit your lip, feeling the press of it against the apex of your thighs, your breath catching in your throat.

Robb’s lips trailed down the length of your neck, over your collarbone, pausing at the neckline of your shift. He glanced up, searching your eyes.

Your nod was subtle, almost imperceptible.

He reached down, taking the hem of the thin fabric in his fingers. Slowly, carefully, he peeled the shift up and over your head, revealing the rest of you.

For a moment, he just stared. Taking in every detail, every curve and plane. You felt a sudden rush of insecurity, wanting to cover yourself with the blankets. But he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, and sighed.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, cupping your cheek.

"And you are far too handsome for your own good," you said, kissing him again.

His hand drifted down your shoulder, ghosting across the swell of your breast. When his thumb brushed across a hardening nipple, you gasped, hips jerking up in surprise.

Robb grinned. The expression was boyish and proud. "Did that feel good?"

"Y-yes," you stammered, cheeks hot.

His hand found the other breast, rolling and pinching gently. His lips followed, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the center of your chest, across the tops of your breasts, over each nipple. Your fingers carded through his hair, overwhelmed. There were so many new sensations, so much warmth and pleasure you had never imagined possible.

Your heart pounded. Your skin flushed, a fine sheen of sweat coating your body. Robb was the same. His chest glistening, breath unsteady. You ran a hand down the slope of his shoulder, marveling at the muscle there, and the way he trembled under your touch.

His hand moved higher on your thigh, and you spread your legs, allowing him access. His breath caught when his fingers grazed the heat between your thighs.

You had touched yourself before, in secret. A curious finger slipping into the wet, aching heat…but never further. You had always worried someone would catch you.

But now, with Robb, all of those fears faded away. He was warm and gentle, coaxing little gasps and moans from you.

He felt your arousal, the slick gathering between your legs. He wanted to taste it. Had imagined it more times than he cared to admit…but wasn't sure if that was too bold, too vulgar. He didn’t want to shock or scare you.

Your eyes fluttered shut when he slid a finger inside, the movement slow, deliberate. You were hot, tight, and so wet. It took all his self-control not to rut against the mattress like a green boy.

He was gentle, cautious. But soon your body was rocking against his hand, silently begging for more. He added a second finger, stretching the sensitive walls, and was rewarded with a soft gasp.

"Robb," you moaned, nails digging into his forearms.

"Shh," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "You must be quiet. We can't be heard."

You let out a soft giggle, his beard tickling the skin of your neck. "Easier said than done when you are touching me there.”

"Then I suppose I’ll have to kiss you to keep the noise down." He grinned, kissing you, smothering your laugh with his mouth.

Your hands moved down, fumbling with the laces of his breeches. His breath hitched, hips twitching, the hardness beneath pressing into the curve of your hip.

"Can I see you?" you whispered, pulling back just enough to see the blue of his eyes.

He nodded, too nervous to speak. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his own nakedness, and the way your eyes roamed his body.

You gently freed him, fingers trembling slightly. A small smile formed on your lips. "Oh," you said softly. "It's so... different."

"Different than what?" he asked, a blush forming.

"What I imagined," you admitted, cheeks pink.

He smiled. "Have you been imagining it, then?"

"Hush," you laughed, your cheeks warming.

"No, no." He chuckled, leaning down to kiss the soft skin of your cheek. "Tell me."

"Robb," you whined, looking away from him.

He grinned. "Do I meet your standards, my lady?"

"Perhaps," you said, biting your lip.

"I should hope so. I am to be your husband."

"My soon-to-be lord husband," you said, looking at him through your lashes. "Will you give me what is mine?"

He swallowed, arousal spiking through him. "Yes," he managed, kissing you.

You sighed against his lips, your bodies sliding together. You were both so warm, skin feverish, blood running hot. 

He pulled away, reaching down to free his cock, aching with the need to be inside you. Your eyes were dark, half-lidded. You were panting, chest rising and falling, thighs spread invitingly.

You took him in your hand, stroking him a few times, testing the weight. He bit back a groan, his hips bucking into your touch.

He had never been touched like that. Only by his own hand, when the need was too great. And even then, he felt guilty.

But now, with you, it was different. You were meant to be his wife, and he, your husband. This was how things were meant to be, two halves coming together, sharing and exploring.

His fingers brushed over yours, guiding himself to your entrance. He paused, catching your gaze, and pressed inside.

He had never felt anything like this. The soft, wet heat gripping him. His arms shook, and he had to stop for a moment, lest he lose himself too soon.

You were breathing hard, hands moving to grip his arms. He leaned down, capturing your lips, the kiss messy, distracted. He kept easing forward slowly, breath catching as he met resistance. Your face pinched.

"Wait," he whispered, panic rising. "Did I hurt you?"

"It’s all right," you said through clenched teeth. "I think that was it."

He kissed your cheek. "We can stop."

"No. Just go slow."

He did. Inch by inch, the pain faded, replaced by pressure and heat. You clung to him, sighing, adjusting to the fullness.

His hand found yours beneath the furs.

He began to move, careful and reverent. It wasn’t graceful. You bumped noses. He nearly slipped off the edge of the mattress. Your moans and sighs filled his ears, he bit back his own groans, not wanting to miss a single one of yours. Your nails dug into his skin, leaving marks, but he didn't mind. In fact he hoped they would leave a scar, a reminder of this perfect night.

"Robb," you breathed, voice ragged. "Something ... something's happening..."

"Yes," he panted, sweat-slick forehead pressed to yours. "Yes, go on, it's all right."

You shuddered, arching your back, head thrown back, toes curling. It felt like lightning had struck, the pleasure coursing through every nerve.

Robb watched in awe, committing every second to memory. He had heard this sort of thing could happen with a woman. But seeing it happen, feeling it happen, was an entirely different thing.

He felt his own release building, a tension like a rope, fraying at the edges. It didn't take long, the sight of you, the feel of your body, the sweet sounds you made.

You clung to him, kissing him, riding out the waves of pleasure. He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, hips twitching and stuttering as he spilled inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Robb shifted, gently cupping the underside of your thigh as he slid fully against you, still inside, still trembling. One of his hands found its way to your belly, broad and warm, splayed low across the soft curve.

"Maybe," he murmured, voice hushed and rough against your ear, "maybe we made a child tonight."

Your breath hitched. He smiled, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

"I’d like that," he added, hand still resting there, possessive and reverent. "Something that’s ours. Made from this."

You turned your head, catching his mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. You didn’t answer with words, but your smile said enough.

You both lay there, trying to catch your breath. Your skin was tacky with sweat, limbs tangled. His hair tickled the side of your face, the curls damp.

"I love you," he said, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck.

"I love you too." You smiled, kissing his temple.

He rolled off of you, pulling you with him. You curled up against his chest, smiling as his fingers traced the line of your spine.

"We’ll have to face the bedding tomorrow," he murmured, thumb stroking your spine, "but this was ours."

"Ours," you echoed, drowsy smile against his collarbone. "I like the sound of that."

"Me too." He smiled, watching you, a wave of fondness and affection washing over him.

He could have laid there forever, but a soft whine came from the other side of the door, followed by a scratching sound.

"Grey wind," Robb whispered harshly, frowning. "Go away!"

Another whine. The scratching grew louder, and the direwolf let out a long, mournful howl. Robb scrambled out of bed, quickly pulling his clothes back on, while you grabbed your shift.

Robb went to the door, cracking it open just enough to peek out. The hallway was empty, but the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard approaching. The guards were coming to investigate the noise.

"Fuck," he hissed, grabbing the rest of his things, you were giggling as he fumbled around in the low light.

"Robb, they aren't going to care-"

"I will not have the guards speaking of you in such a manner," he said, finally managing to find his gloves.

You climbed out of bed, wrapping a robe around yourself. He paused, a grin forming, and kissed you.

"Sleep well," he murmured, stealing another kiss.

"Don't be late tomorrow," you said, smiling against his lips.

"Never."

He snuck back out, closing the door behind him with Grey Wind at his heels. You fell back into bed, still smiling, still giggling. Dreaming of all the tomorrows you would have together.

———————

Aegon always felt that he had been cursed with strange sisters, his wife, Helaena, was obsessed with bugs and all other small insects. Then there was you, ever since you were a young girl you had been fascinated by nature. If you were missing the first place anyone would check was the gardens because more often than not that is where you were.

You’d hum to yourself, plucking away weeds, something your mother would shun you for.

"We have groundskeepers for a reason, Y/N,” she’d say, clicking her tongue.

You never listened though, and after a while she gave up on trying to stop you. At least Helaena hid her quirks inside the castle, you were always outside for anyone to see. You never knew why but you always felt connected to nature, even going as far to scold your guard when he’d stand on certain parts of the grass.

You loved Rhaenyra, you held a lot of respect for her even as a child. You were just a babe when Jace was born but when Luke was, even though you were still quite young, you brought her daisies from the gardens. Years later when Joffrey would be born, you brought her baby’s breath.

Unlike Aemond and Aegon, Rhaenyra’s children’s brown hair never bothered you. In fact, you grew quite close with Lucerys and Jacaerys. Luke gained more respect towards nature each time he spoke with you and Jace, Jace found you fascinating. When he wasn’t training with a blade, he would find you in the gardens. He could listen to you ramble on for hours on end about the different flowers and their meanings.

“The daisies remind me of Luke…” you‘d hum, twirling a flower in your hands.

“And what of me, princess?”

You chew your lip, tilting your head in thought before abruptly standing up, “Come, I’ll show you!”

You dash further into the gardens with Jace chasing after you as you giggle. Eventually, you come to a stop in front of bunches of carnations.

“You remind me of the carnations… the red ones represent your strength and determination, the pink your loyalty, and the white your kindness…”

Jace hums, a smile appearing on his face, “They’re very pretty…”

You decide it best to not tell him that carnations often represent love.

“I’d also say that the hyacinths are similar to you… playful and bold… only the red ones though…”

He tilts his head, “And why only the red?”

The smile on your face wavers a bit, “The purple ones are an apology… to represent regret or guilt. They show grief.”

Everyone was gathered at Driftmark for Laela’s funeral. You had picked flowers, forget-me-nots, giving them to Baela and Rhaena as a way to show your sympathy to them. You didn’t miss the way Jace and Baela had their hands clasped together, and you could have sworn you felt your throat close up at the sight.

Later that night, you were shaken awake by Jace and the other children, alerting you that Vhagar had been stolen. When you all went to investigate, you found Aemond atop of Vhagar, landing on the ground. He swiftly dismounted the dragon, boasting about how it is now his. This enraged Baela, after all, Vhagar was her mothers dragon and the beast should have been her sisters to claim but Aemond had gone behind their backs before Rhaena was even granted a chance.

Chaos erupted as Aemond shoved Baela to the ground, you rushed to scold your brother but he only yelled at you, shoving you to the ground as well. You could feel the palms of your hand split open. Jace flipped his blade in his hand, ready to attack but it was flung away from him, landing near Luke.

It was sudden, Jace managed to toss some dirt into Aemonds face, temporality blinding him, and it gave Luke the chance to attack him with the blade. Your brother's ear piercing scream filled the space, blood dripping from his eye as the guards finally came running. All of you were gathered as one of the maesters tended to Aemond’s wound. And when your mother was informed that the eye would never heal - she was enraged.

Alicent demanded that they take one of Luke’s eyes and when the king refused, she tried to attack Rhaenyra, managing to slice open the woman’s hand. That night would be one of the last times you’d see the Velaryon boys for a long time, the family decided it was best that they travel to live on Dragonstone.

The day you said goodbye to Jace was the first day you coughed up a petal, through your tears, you could tell it was from a carnation.

You were able to keep it hidden for about six days before your mother found out. She noticed the blood on the sleeve of your gown and immediately questioned you about it. At first she had thought you had gotten your blood moon and had been messy about it but you quickly broke down and told her about the flowers.

She took you to the maesters instantly, watching as he examined and questioned you. She paced around the room anxiously, picking and biting at her nails just like she used to do as a child. A habit that she thought she managed to shake but clearly not.

The maester finally turned to look at Alicent, “Your grace… I have never seen such a thing… I’ve only ever read of it and have heard a few tales..”

“What is it?” Alicent asks quickly, making her way to you from across the room.

She brushes your hair from your face gently, and the maester sighs, “Rūklon ānogar… flower blood… it’s a disease, a curse… it’s a trick of nature… the princess is not loved by who she desires and nature is punishing her for it.”

Your mother looks horrified, “Who she desires? What… What kind of illness does that?! Will it go away with time?”

“I’m afraid not…the princess, she will die from this… I’ve read about a paste once before that could dull the symptoms, but there is no evidence of a long term solution… perhaps it is possible to survive off of the paste but I… we truly do not know.”

“A paste?!” Alicent raises her voice slightly, “My daughter is coughing up flowers, potentially dying and you offer me a mere paste that may save her, a paste that may not even work?!”

“Mother…” you pull at her sleeve, causing her attention to shift back to you. Her gaze softens at the sight of your blood stained lips.

“Yes, my dear?”

“It is… the only option,” you nudge your head towards the maester, “He would know…”

Alicent sighs at your words and turns her flaming gaze to the maester, “Get the paste, quickly.”

“Your grace,” he bows his head before scurrying off.

Your mother sits down on the bed beside you, pulling you to her arms, “It’s that…” she swallows harshly, deciding that it wouldn’t be fit for her to say bastard boy, “…Jacaerys, isn’t it?”

“Mother…” you mumble and she shushes you.

“No one will know of this, you are simply ill and that is why you are away, do you understand? No one can know of this, not even your brothers or sister, not even your father…”

“I understand…”

“Good,” she says then suddenly sighs, “This is my fault, I should have just let you marry the bas- boy. The boy.”

You shake your head a bit, “That… would not make him love me.”

And you were right, because off in her chambers, Helaena sits, stitching away at a quilt, mumbling to herself, “The flowers are wilting…”

Everyday, the paste would be mixed into your food and to the maesters credit, it did work. Although it made you feel near nothing, which was to be expected. You no longer sat smiling in the gardens, you would sit with a dull look on your face. Your mother tried to get you to act like your old self but it seemed impossible. But it didn’t really matter to her, as long as you were alive and preforming your duties as princess she was happy.

The point is, the paste worked for years with “minimal” issues, until he came back to King's Landing.

You were not there to greet them when they had arrived, he was a bit upset at the lack of your presence but assumed that since you were older now, you had more duties to tend to. Or perhaps your mother had forbidden you from greeting them. Jace guessed you would find him after but you never did, so he went looking for you but it seemed as though you were nowhere. The first time he would see you, would be at the large family dinner that the King wanted.

You were seated next to your grandsire, Otto and your brother, Aemond, staring at the table, praying the ground would swallow you whole. You hadn’t just been avoiding Jace either. You were avoiding the whole family, Lucerys, Rhaenyra, Baela, Rhaena, and Daemon. Baela and Rhaena were your friends at one point and Lucerys always looked up to you. Rhaenyra had been a role model for you and Daemon… well, he was Daemon.

Being here, with them, was painful. Almost as painful as the stems growing in your lungs. The paste was no longer working, that much was clear. Whether it had something to do with Jace’s sudden appearance or simply the disease fighting back, you had no clue.

“This is an occasion for celebration it seems…” your father announces, “My grandsons, Jace and Luke will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena…”

The King continued on, but you were no longer listening, your gaze had snapped up from the table to focus on Jace and Baela. The way he looked at her and the way she looked at him. It was the same way you always looked at Jace, only he never returned that look. Your throat seemed to close up a bit and you had to fight away the urge to cough. You dug your nails into the handles or your chair, hoping to ground yourself in some way. Aemond, ever the perceptive one glances towards you, narrowing his eye, trying to read you but you ignore him.

It’s then that you can faintly hear Aegon's teasing voice as he leans over to whisper at Jace, “…You’ll finally get to lie with a woman… You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

“You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

his betrothed.

You try to subtly clear your throat to relieve some of the pain but it is no use, you quickly grab your napkin and begin to cough into it, gaining the attention of everyone around the table. Rather reluctantly, Otto begins to pat at your back. Alicent begins to chew at her nails, quickly catching herself and holding her hands firmly in her lap.

“Are you all right, sister?” Aemond asks, taking a sip of his wine, it was obvious in his tone that he held no real concern for you and was only asking out of duty.

Carefully, you pull the cloth from your mouth, holding it tightly in your lap, “Yes…” you breathe out, relieved that you still have your voice.

The room has gone silent now and Daemon glances between Alicent and you as though he’s piecing a puzzle together. During the silence, Luke realizes this is the first time you’ve spoken since they’ve arrived, your voice sounds different, more matured and older… but most of all, scared.

“The flowers are wilting…” Helaena mumbles softly.

Neither Jace nor Luke would be able to speak with you that night because the second King Viserys’ speech was over, your mother had a guard escort you back to your chambers, claiming that you were ill and not feeling well. This only raised Daemon’s suspicions.

When the King died and your brother was crowned, you made the decision to flee from King’s Landing with Rhaenys with only the clothing on your back. You knew it was a stupid decision and you knew that your condition would only worsen, especially now without the paste, especially if you were to be constantly around him. But it did not matter to you, you refused to be on the wrong side of the war, even if it meant you would die sooner rather than later.

You were able to hide your sickness for less than one moon before you were unable to any longer. You were just lucky it had not happened during one of the council meetings, you were sure you’d be accused of bringing some sort of the plague with you. None of the men on Rhaenyra’s council seemed to trust you, but that wasn’t saying much considering it hardly seemed like they trusted her.

It had happened in your private chambers while one of the servant girls, Beth, was helping you out of your day clothing and into a night dress. You began to cough, unable to stop it as Beth fawned all over you, trying to help in any way. Your airway became even more restricted as you coughed, blood and petals falling to the ground in front of you when you could no longer stand. Then finally, you coughed up an entire carnation, stem and all.

The poor serving girl began to scream, rushing out into the hallway to yell for help. It was pure coincidence that Jace and Baela had been walking down the hall. Baela and the serving girl ran to find Rhaenyra, Daemon and a maester while Jace attempted to help you from the ground. But the second his hands touch your skin, it felt as though you’d been pricked by thorns. You shoved him from you, sinking further to the floor.

“Do not touch me…” you manage to hiss out.

“Y/N—“ Jace tries once more but you push his hands away, crawling across the floor to your bed.

Baela and Beth returned just as you began to pull yourself to your bed, all while begging Jace to not touch you. They were not alone when they returned, they had brought the Queen and King as well as the maester.

Jacaerys watches you with concern as Baela approaches him, placing a comforting hand on his arm which only makes you begin to cough more. Rhaenyra seems concerned that it is contagious and you could not blame her, perhaps she thought you were ill like your father.

But Daemon immediately silenced those thoughts when he picked up the flower from the ground, spinning it in his fingers, admiring the blood that coated his fingers.

“Rūklon ānogar,” he breathes out.

Everyone looks to him, while he still keeps his gaze focused on you, watching as you tense up at the mention of the fatal disease.

“Flower blood…” he clarifies.

“Rūklon ānogar? Flower blood?” Rhaenyra echoes, “That’s impossible, it’s not real.”

“Clearly it is…” you mumble quietly, allowing your head to fall back against the headboard.

“How long…?” Rhaenyra begins to ask but is cut off by her husband.

“Since before she came to Dragonstone, I suspect much long before.”

You nod, ”Years…”

Jace’s eyes narrow, a bit of anger flaring within him, “You came here, knowing of your illness?!”

“Relax,” Daemon says, “She’s not contagious… she is going to die though. Terribly. Painfully.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” you glare at him.

“My question is how are you still alive if it’s been years,” Daemon takes a step forward, finally dropping the flower in his hand, “you should be dead.”

“A paste…”

“A paste?” he asks, almost mockingly.

It is then that the maester cuts in, “It was believed that a paste could… prevent symptoms…delay death…”

“Then get her the paste,” Baela cuts in.

Oh how you wished you could hate Baela, it would be so much easier if she was awful but she wasn’t. And you knew none of this was her fault, just as none of it was Jace’s.

“It is not that simple, my lady,” the maester begins, “The ingredients needed for such a thing are very hard to come by… we do not have such things here.”

“Then we try King’s Landing,” Jace offers, causing Daemon to scoff.

You shake your head, “No… they wouldn’t.”

“Your mother is there! Your brothers! Your family!” Jace argues.

“They’re no family of mine!” you manage to shout, immediately doubling over on yourself, coughing.

Rhaenyra begins to pat at your back, the feeling was much more comforting than when Otto had done it, “Sweet girl…” she mumbles quietly.

“Tell me,” she asks softly, offering you a goblet of water that Beth had gotten, “Why risk yourself? Why come here knowing we could not provide for you?”

“Because…” your voice cracks as you pull away from Rhaenyra, “I refuse to die on the wrong side of this war… just as I refuse to die in this bed…”

You begin to try and force yourself out of the bed but quickly realize that you are much weaker than you were just moments before. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, trying again but once again, you fail.

Suddenly, you feel a hand on your back and another hooking under your knees. When you open your eyes you realize you’re being held by Daemon, you allow your head to fall against his chest as he begins to carry you out of the room, already knowing where it is you wish to go.

You can’t help but overhear the hushed conversation between Baela, Rhaenyra, and Jace as they follow behind.

“What kind of sickness does this, your grace?” Baela asks quietly.

“A cruel one,” Rhaenyra answers with a grim look on her face.

Jace frowns, “I don’t understand, flowers? Why? What causes such a thing?”

Finally, Rhaenyra sighs, “Love, my boy, love.”

“Love causes that?” Baela asks, astounded.

“The unrequited kind…”

“Unrequited love? Who would be fool enough to not love Y/N?” Jace asks, making Rhaenyra shake her head.

“I think you know.”

Daemon sets you down carefully in the gardens before stepping away just as the others make their way into the gardens. Jace seems to be storming towards you, determined to speak with you before your inevitable death. Daemon makes a swift exit, taking Rhaenyra and Baela with him, allowing the two of you a moment to talk.

You choose to ignore Jace, just as you had done before, running your hand along one of the beautiful flowers that only grows on Dragonstone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jace asks.

You hum, “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“I, yes, it would’ve! I- I could have loved you… it did not have to come to this.”

You sigh, pulling your hand away from the plant, turning to face him, you bring your hand up to his cheek, once again feeling as though thorns are going through your skin, “You can not make yourself love, Jace.”

“But I do love you, I do… I…”

You smile, softly, “Just not as I love you.”

“I am so sorry, Y/N…”

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Jacaerys, this is not your fault.”

He shoves your hand from his face, tears glimmering in his eyes, “How can you say that?! You should be cursing me! You will die, you understand that right?! You should hate me!”

“I could never hate you.”

He begins to pace, running his hands through his hair, making you sigh, “Jace, it is okay, really.”

“You shouldn’t be saying that, no, no, I should be saying that to you! I should be the one—“

“I accepted this a long time ago, and I need you to listen to me… please,” you pat the ground next to you and Jace sits down after hovering for a moment, “I am not a dragon rider Jace, I do not want a dragon's funeral… I want… I want to be buried somewhere like here, in the gardens, let my body be the nutrients needed for the flowers to bloom.”

Jace only stares at you, committing every aspect of your face to his memory. Because there were no portraits of ‘Y/N Targaryen’ on Dragonstone, and it was too late for one to be made. The only portraits of you resided in King’s Landing but if he knew Aemond, he knew that the one-eyed man would have already destroyed them all, removing you from history. This would be the last time he’d see you, and he knew that over time his memory would fade until you were just a name without a face.

You call his name, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Okay,” he says, shaking, “I will… make sure of it.”

The two of you sat in silence in the gardens until you asked to say your goodbyes to everyone else before finally you asking to be alone. It was only then that you began to play with the dagger you had stolen from Daemon while he had been carrying you.

And in his and Rhaenyra’s shared chambers, Daemon looks in the mirror at the empty slot on his belt where his dagger once was. He would have panicked, but fortunately he knew exactly where the weapon was and who held it.

It was no surprise to anyone when they found your body in the gardens the next morning. What was surprising was Prince Jacaerys expressing your desire to not have a dragon rider's funeral. So it was then settled, you would be buried where you had died.

Jace brought you flowers, placing them on top of the fresh soil. Bunches of purple hyacinths, something that his family would not understand but it did not matter because you would and so would he.

Even dead, the flowers in your lungs bloomed, they ripped through your organs, cracking through your bones until finally piercing through your skin into the dirt. Eventually sprouting into a beautiful bunch of carnations. 

Even in death you still loved the flowers. Even in death you still loved him.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, shadows stretching long across the war room. Maps and raven-sent missives cluttered the table, flickering under candlelight. Robb sat at the head, brows furrowed in that stern, brooding way he wore so well, studying the placement of men like they were chess pieces.

You stood in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but one of his tunics, watching him.

He hadn't come to bed.

Again.

"Robb…" you murmured, stepping closer.

He barely looked up. "One moment, sweetling. Lord Karstark’s reply arrived. If we move by dawn-"

You cut him off, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind, your lips brushing his ear.

"The hour grows late, husband." You could feel the tension in his shoulders and it only fueled your want. "You can attend to this tomorrow."

He let out a heavy breath, fingers curling on the table.

"There isn't time."

"Then make some," you urged, kissing his jaw.

"You know I can't. This has to be finished."

Your grip tightened, your fingers combing through curls, pulling his head back. He groaned and you caught the way his eyes slipped closed, the way his teeth dug into his lower lip.

"I miss you."

"And I you." He turned to kiss your lips, his beard tickling you. "But the war doesn't wait."

You pulled back, frustrated. "The war has kept you from your wife for nearly a month. Is that what you want?"

His brow furrowed and you knew he was about to launch into his spiel of duty and honor and the greater good.

So you did the first thing that came to mind.

You slipped into his lap.

His hands landed on your hips, a startled look on his face. You leaned down to kiss him, your lips insistent, fingers tugging at his hair.

"Please my king," you murmured, nipping at his lips.

"You shouldn't distract me," he said, though his tone was already growing ragged.

"No?" You reached between your bodies, undoing his breeches without ceremony. "I’m not asking you to stop. I just need to feel you inside me. Please, Robb…"

His jaw flexed when you guided him out; half-hard, responding to your touch. He let out a soft groan as you rolled your hips against his, stroking his cock to fullness.

"Fuck," he breathed. His hands roamed your thighs, his cock twitching under your palm.

You stroked him slow and steady, letting his cock rest between your thighs, teasing his tip in your palm.

"You need to relax," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Let your queen take care of you."

"It's not… ah-" he sucked in a sharp breath when pulled open his tunic you were wearing, revealing your lack of smallclothes, "not that simple."

"It can be. For now."

Your fingers curled around the base of his cock as you raised your hips, then sank down slowly until he was sheathed fully inside you. Your breath caught in your throat as your walls fluttered around him, already slick from how long you'd been wanting this.

He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his composure.

You stayed still, chest pressed to his, arms wrapped around his shoulders as he gripped your thighs in a bruising hold.

"Gods," he muttered against your shoulder, trembling just slightly as he forced himself not to move. "You’re so fucking warm."

"I told you," you whispered against his ear, "you needed to relax."

He didn’t answer.

Just set his jaw and reached for the nearest parchment.

You smiled, because he thought he could resist you. That he could sit here, thick and hard inside you, while you clung to him like he belonged to you ... and somehow focus. Like you weren’t dripping for him. Like your cunt wasn’t fluttering around his cock every time you shifted the slightest bit.

You kissed just below his ear, letting your lips graze over the edge of his jaw. "Do you know what I was thinking about while I waited for you?" you murmured.

His eyes flicked toward you. Warily. "What?"

"How good you feel when you’re spilling inside me." Your hips rolled, just slightly, and he hissed through his teeth. "So deep… So hot… I think about it every night you’re not there."

"Darling..." he warned, but you were already kissing his neck, soft and slow.

"I want to be full of you again," you said sweetly. "I want to be dripping down my thighs when I walk back to our chambers. I want to lie in our bed with your seed inside me, hoping it takes."

His grip tightened, knuckles pale.

"I want to be round with your child," you whispered, hips barely shifting, your cunt squeezing around him. "I want the court to whisper behind their hands that the queen swells quick with her king’s heir because he fucks her full every night-"

A strangled noise escaped him and suddenly he was clutching your ass, lifting you and placing you on the table. His palms landed flat on the surface, the parchment beneath crumpling, his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss.

"You talk too much," he growled.

You grinned, reaching up to cradle his face. "Only when it makes you fuck me."

He groaned, spreading your thighs wider, sinking into you as deep as he could go. The table shook, ink spilling and quills scattering. You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, holding on as he moved slowly, almost lazily, dragging his cock along every inch of your cunt.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, breathless, hips rolling against yours.

"Yes," you gasped, nails raking through his hair. "More, Robb, please..."

He chuckled, kissing your lips once more.

"My lady demands too much."

"You'll give it to me."

"Aye," he agreed, pulling back enough to press his hand to your belly, rubbing soft circles. "I'll give you everything."

Your heart clenched at the words, a smile forming on your lips. But it was hard to keep focus when his hand slipped down between your bodies, his thumb pressing tight circles against your clit.

The pressure built steadily, coiling hotter and hotter as he worked his hips in tandem with his thumb. It wasn't long before the sensation broke, washing over you like waves on the shore, leaving you boneless and trembling beneath him.

You felt him spill inside you, heard him groan your name, and smiled to yourself.

He slumped forward, spent and boneless, bracing his arms on either side of your head.

"Better?" you asked, a grin forming on your lips.

He nodded, brushing his lips to yours. "Better."

"Good," you said, kissing him again. "Now, my king, if you've quite finished, I would like us to return to our chambers."

He hummed, pressing his lips to your shoulder, hands skimming down your sides. "I suppose I can allow a small reprieve."

"Small?" You raised a brow.

"The war waits for no man," he said. He adjusted his clothes and tucked himself away, helping you down off the table.

You pouted, straightening your tunic and reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. He looked down at you with a knowing smirk.

"But I can at least carry you back to bed," he said softly, scooping you up and carrying you from the war room.

You giggled, clinging to his shoulders. "That's better."

The fire in your chambers had long since gone to embers, but the bed was warm with thick furs. Grey Wind was curled up at the foot like a guardian carved from shadow and smoke. Robb laid you down carefully, brushing a kiss to your temple as you burrowed into the blankets.

You reached for him, hopeful, sleepy. "You’ll stay?"

He hesitated. His eyes lingered on your face like he hated himself for what he had to say.

"Grey Wind," he said quietly, running a hand through the direwolf’s thick coat. "Watch her for me."

The beast let out a low, affirming rumble.

Robb leaned down one last time, brushing his lips across yours. "Rest," he whispered. "I’ll be back before you wake."

And just like that, the king was gone. Back to his war.

But his warmth lingered on your skin, and Grey Wind stayed, his head resting on the pillow beside yours. And deep in your belly, you imagined something new beginning to stir. The quiet promise of a child. Of a life after the war.

It was all that kept you sane, in the lonely hours without him.

The gardens in the Red Keep were a maze of flowering bushes and winding paths. They were beautiful, especially now, as the sun was beginning to set, and the sky was washed in shades of pink and orange.

But it was more than beauty. It was privacy. A quiet corner where you could read and enjoy the fresh air, without the bustle and chaos and demands of the day.

You sat on a secluded stone bench beneath a flowering tree, a book open in your lap. You had read the same page four times. The words blurred together, meaning slipping through your fingers like water.

It was not that the book was dull. It was that your mind refused to settle. Your thoughts kept circling, returning to the same, constant problem.

Valarr. Your betrothed. The man you were to marry.

It was a match your father had arranged, but one you did not mind. Valarr was kind, if somewhat reserved. He was handsome, with mismatched eyes and dark hair. A true prince in every way.

And you did not know him at all.

Glimpses of him across the hall, a few words exchanged before he was called away. You were about to be a princess, a future queen, but you had very little real power and even less certainty about the man you were meant to marry.

What was he truly like? Would he be cruel or kind? A good king, a good husband?

He was a good man, you had no doubt of that. But there was still an ocean of unknowing between you, and no easy way to cross it.

You were pulled from your thoughts by a familiar voice calling your name. Your head jerked up.

Your betrothed, Valarr, was walking towards you, his own book in his hand. He smiled when he saw you, but there was something hesitant in it. He was always polite, kind even. But reserved. You suspected he was as unsure of how to act around you as you were around him.

"I did not mean to disturb you." He said.

You shook your head, rising to your feet. "It is no trouble." You assured him, giving him a polite curtsy.

He looked surprised. "No, no. Please. Sit." He insisted.

You did so, and he joined you, sitting on the bench, but a proper distance away.

"It is a lovely day." You said.

He nodded, smiling again, though his expression remained slightly strained. He was fiddling with the book in his lap.

"How are you?" He asked.

"Well, thank you." You said.

A silence fell. An awkward, uncertain silence.

"I- I came here because..." he hesitated, then held out his book, "I know you like to come here to read, so I thought, perhaps we could read together. If you are not busy."

You took the book from him. It was a collection of poetry. A very pretty book, with gold letters and a leather cover.

"This is lovely." You said, running your hand over the cover.

"I'm glad you like it." He said, with a shy smile.

You returned his smile. There was a spark of warmth between you. Something soft, and genuine. A little light in the sea of uncertainty.

"What are you reading?" He asked, gesturing to your own book.

"Oh it's... not very interesting." You said, feeling a blush creeping up your neck.

He raised an eyebrow.

"It's a romance." You admitted, cheeks burning.

"Is it?"

"Yes." You said, the flush on your cheeks growing.

He smiled, the warm expression easing the tension between you. "Romance is a worthy subject." He said.

You gave him a look. "A romantic, are you, my prince?"

"Well..." His cheeks reddened slightly, but he was still smiling. "I've read a few romances, in my time."

You grinned, unable to resist teasing him. "Only a few?"

He chuckled, but there was a slight hesitation. "Well, I- I just read a lot of books, about all kinds of things."

He was even sweeter when he was flustered. It made your heart squeeze, a fluttering warmth in your chest.

"There are many subjects worth learning." You agreed.

He looked at you, his expression soft. There was a moment of silence, a quiet pause. Then he spoke.

"I'm hoping to learn more about you."

The warmth in your chest spread. You opened your mouth to respond, but a branch snapped somewhere behind you. You turned, just as Daeron burst through the hedges onto the path, his silver-gold hair tousled, his cheeks already flushed from an afternoon of drinking.

"There you are!" His face lit up when he spotted Valarr. He stopped a few feet from the bench, planting his hands on his hips. "We have been looking everywhere for you, cousin."

Behind him came Aerion, sharper-featured than his elder brother, his smile a thin blade. Unlike Daeron, he seemed largely sober, which made him entirely unsettling. He hung back near the hedges, arms crossed, watching. His eyes slid to you, and something flickered there.

Valarr stiffened beside you, his easy posture vanishing, he shifted himself ever so slightly, putting himself between you and his cousins.

"I've been here." He said, his tone clipped.

Daeron closed the distance, stopping directly in front of the bench. He clapped Valarr on the shoulder, jostling him where he sat. "Your favorite cousins are only here for a few more days, and you spend it buried in books. Come, join us for a drink. We're going out."

"Going out?" Valarr's eyes narrowed, "You can't mean..."

"Outside the keep," Daeron confirmed, his grin widening. He rocked back on his heels, clearly pleased with himself. "We're sneaking out. You're coming."

Valarr shook his head. "I am not interested."

"You are always not interested," Aerion called from his spot near the hedges. He hadn't moved closer, but his voice carried easily. "That is rather the point."

Daeron's gaze shifted to you, still seated on the bench beside Valarr. His eyes were glassy, but his grin only widened. "Perhaps my cousin's beautiful betrothed will accompany us."

Your heart jumped into your throat. The sudden attention made your skin prickle, but you fought not to squirm. You had never spoken with the princes outside of a few polite exchanges. They were intimidating. And while their intentions seemed harmless, the idea of being alone with them made your stomach turn.

Valarr shifted, drawing their attention back to him. "My betrothed is not interested either," he said firmly.

"Don't start," Daeron cut him off, swaying on his feet a little, still grinning. "She is young. She is not dead. She deserves a night of fun."

"Come on, cousin," Aerion said, stepping forward at last, his gaze locked on Valarr. There was something strange in his expression. Almost challenging. "Aren't you bored of all this?" He gestured at the gardens around you, at the walls of the keep. "This isn't a life, it's a prison."

Daeron's face lit up, nodding. "Exactly. You need some adventure, a taste of the world."

Valarr looked unconvinced, and you weren't sure you felt any better. This didn't seem like a good idea. You had heard tales of what could happen to women alone, far from the safety of the keep.

But it was not just fear, but something else that made your heart beat faster. A nervous thrill, a tingle down your spine.

"Well if our dear cousin is too cowardly, what about his future bride?" Aerion's eyes fixed on you. "Are you as dull as him?"

Valarr started to rise, but Aerion stepped forward, and the two faced each other, a breath apart.

"Leave her alone." Valarr's voice was hard.

Daeron rolled his eyes, pushing between them. He took Aerion by the arm, steering him back. "Don't be so rude little brother, apologize."

"I didn't mean to offend the lady." Aerion's smile was a mockery, his eyes still cold.

Valarr's jaw tightened.

"It's alright." You said, reaching out for Valarr, your hand finding his sleeve. He relaxed, but only a little, and moved to sit back down beside you.

"See, she is not offended." Daeron said, grinning, as he wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders, pulling him close. "So, will you join us, my lady?"

"I'm not sure that is wise." You said, glancing at Valarr, "it might be dangerous."

"Not with us." Aerion scoffed, as though the concept of being in danger around them was preposterous. "No street scum would dare bother a highborn."

Daeron gave Aerion a shove, sending him stumbling a step. "God, your head is almost as big as Kings Landing." He turned back to you, shaking his head. "I would not let anything happen to my cousin's bride. No harm will come to you."

You bit your lip, considering. They were both drunk and acting reckless. But then, everyone acted a little recklessly sometimes. Even you.

And this might be the only chance to spend time with Valarr, away from the keep, away from the eyes of everyone.

"Where would we be going?" You asked.

Valarr's head whipped towards you, surprise evident on his face.

Daeron beamed. "The tavern."

Aerion scoffed. "No, a brothel. And a good one, not of of those cheap-"

"I think we can find some middle ground." Daeron gave Aerion a stern look, before turning back to you. "A drink, perhaps some food, some music. It will be fun."

Valarr shook his head, his cheeks flushing. "It's not appropriate, we can't-"

Aerion let out an exasperated sound, cutting him off. "You have been spending too much time with the old men. Do you know what the rest of us are doing? Drinking. Fucking. Living while we still can."

Daeron nodded, a little too vigorously. "It's true, cousin. You are a bore. An old, dull bore."

"I am not." Valarr's voice was strained, his hands balling at his sides. "I am simply-"

"You are a boring, dutiful little shit, like our dear uncle." Aerion cut him off.

For a moment, you thought Valarr might hit him. But he was too well-mannered, his jaw just clenched, and his mismatched eyes narrowing.

"I am not," he said.

"Then come," Aerion's voice was sharp, his grin mocking.

Valarr hesitated, his gaze flicking to you.

You swallowed hard. You weren't sure if this was the right decision, or the stupidest thing you had ever done. But it would be an adventure, and there would be music and food. And Valarr would not allow any harm to come to you.

You hesitated. It was an appalling idea. Disrespectful. Foolish. Dangerous.

And exciting.

"If Valarr agrees, I will go." You said.

Aerion's eyebrows lifted, and a faint smile curled his lips, he looked from you, to Valarr.

Valarr sighed. He rubbed his forehead, like a much older man. His eyes met yours, and you saw something in them you hadn't expected. He wanted this too, you realized. He just hadn't let himself admit it.

"Alright." He said, "I will come."

"Splendid." Daeron's grin widened. "We will come get you in your rooms, just make sure you are alone"

"And dress plainly," Aerion added from beside his brother, giving you a pointed look. "This is not a royal procession."

Daeron smacked him lightly upside the head. Aerion shoved him, and the two brothers began to tussle, playfully shoving and punching each other as they moved back toward the hedges.

"See you soon, cousin." Aerion called over his shoulder.

You and Valarr were left alone again, sitting together on the bench. The silence between you was more comfortable now. There was a strange energy in the air. Excitement, nervousness. You couldn't stop smiling.

"You really want to do this?" He asked.

You nodded, feeling a little breathless. "I think it will be fun."

His expression was soft, almost fond. "I will go find a plain cloak then."

You returned his smile. "See you soon."

He took your hand, lifting it to his lips. Your heart squeezed, warmth spreading through your chest.

Then he stood, giving you one last smile before moving off the path, disappearing into the maze of the garden.

You watched him go, your heart hammering. What were you getting yourself into?

But there was no turning back now.

You spent the next hour in your chambers, trying to calm the flutter in your stomach. You changed twice, finally settling on a simple wool dress in a muted grey, nothing that would mark you as a highborn. A dark cloak, its hood deep enough to hide your face. You left your jewels on the vanity, your rings in their box.

When you caught your reflection in the mirror, you almost did not recognize yourself. You looked like any other young woman in the capital. Ordinary. Unremarkable.

Free.

You had tried to eat, but your nerves were too tangled, your stomach too tight. Now, as the minutes dragged, you were beginning to doubt if Daeron and Aerion would actually come get you. You were doubting a lot of things.

When a knock sounded from behind you, you nearly jumped out of your skin. It was coming from a solid bit of wall in the corner of your bedchamber, the sound muffled by the stone. You had noticed the seam in the stone before, but had never thought much of it. Just a trick of the light. Now you realized what it was. You heard it again, louder this time, and understood.

A secret door.

You hurried across the room and pressed your hand against the stone. There was a moment of resistance, and then the wall shifted, swinging open silently.

Aerion stepped into the room. He was dressed simply. The only thing marking him as a prince was his silver hair, and he hid it under a deep hood.

"Oh wow," Daeron said, his eyes sweeping across the chamber. "I see uncle is hoarding the nice rooms for his son's bride."

Aerion snorted. "This is not nice, Daeron. You can still smell the piss coming from Flea Bottom all the way up here."

"Sorry it doesn't meet your Summerhall sensibilities, cousin." Valarr appeared behind Daeron. He had a deep blue cloak over his shoulders, the hood pulled up. "Perhaps you should return home before it starts affecting your delicate nature."

You couldn't help it, you giggled, and immediately regretted it when Aerion's eyes narrowed.

"Sorry," you murmured, ducking your head.

Daeron stepped forward, holding a hand out. "Do not apologize, princess. Aerion is a sensitive flower."

"Fuck off," Aerion grumbled, already heading toward the door.

"Shall we?" Daeron asked, grinning, still offering his hand.

"Yes, let's go." Valarr stepped forward, taking your hand before Daeron could.

You followed them out, letting Valarr lead you. He kept close, his body a protective presence beside you.

"You have nothing to worry about, princess," Daeron said quietly as he fell into step beside you. "You are in good hands."

"Yes," Aerion called from ahead, his voice echoing in the dark stone hall. "Valarr has always been our favorite. We would never get his future bride in trouble."

"That's right!" Daeron raised his voice to be heard. "Nothing but the finest wines, the fattest whores, and the softest beds."

"That is not reassuring," Valarr muttered, lifting your hand to his lips. "And I only have eyes for my betrothed."

Your heart fluttered. He smiled at you, his hand still clasped in yours.

Daeron shook his head, but his grin didn't fade. "Always the goody-goody."

Aerion chuckled, leading you down a winding set of stairs. "He can't help it. Uncle Baelor runs a strict household."

"I have my own life," Valarr said, sounding defensive.

"Sure, you do," Aerion said, the words dripping with sarcasm.

Aerion stopped at the end of the corridor, just past the corner.

"We cannot go through the main gate," he said quietly, jerking his chin towards a small wooden door. "Guards will see us. We must go this way."

You glanced around, but the hall was empty, the only light the torches flickering on the walls. Hiding from the guards was a concept so far outside your experience, you felt a little dizzy.

"Come." Aerion pulled the door open, a gust of cool air rushing past.

You moved closer to Valarr, who squeezed your hand. "We will be fine," he whispered.

You followed him, and Aerion and Daeron, through the door and into a small passage. It was cold, and damp, the smell of mold thick in the air.

"Stay close," Valarr murmured, his grip on your hand tightening.

The darkness was thick, the stone pressing in. You could hear the soft, quick patter of footsteps, the quiet breaths.

For a moment you panicked, fear rising up, wanting to turn back. But then you felt the cool night air on your cheeks.

You stumbled out into a small overgrown courtyard, a covered well at the center. Aerion stood beside it, watching the door. As soon as you appeared, he turned and made for a small side gate, slowly tugging open the rusted metal. It barely budged, only a small gap between the bars.

"Daeron, help." He said.

With Daeron's strength and both of them leaning against the gate, it opened wide enough for a person to pass. Aerion slipped out, and Daeron waited for you, holding the gate open.

"Hurry," he hissed.

Valarr led you forward, his hands still gripping yours. He pulled you close, his mouth by your ear.

"Keep your hood up," he said.

You did, pulling it forward until it blocked most of your face. You stepped into the gap, squeezing through. You felt the scrape of metal against your hip, and you hoped your dress wasn't torn. When you were through, you turned, watching as Valarr followed, his shoulders a tight fit. Daeron went last, taking one look at the opening before diving through.

Aerion tugged the gate shut behind him. It closed with a clang that seemed far too loud, but no one appeared.

You had never been outside the keep like this, at night, unaccompanied. The streets were lit by torchlight, the moon bright in the clear sky. You could hear the hum of the city, the sounds of distant revelry.

Daeron was grinning, a wild, joyful smile. Even Aerion seemed excited, the tension gone from his expression.

"Not so bad, was it?" Daeron said, slapping Valarr on the shoulder.

Valarr did not respond, his expression still guarded.

"Now we must go quickly," Daeron said, "lest the guards spot us."

"Follow me." Aerion took off, striding quickly through the streets.

The others followed, and you were pulled along. You clung to Valarr's hand, and he kept his grip on you, leading you. You were grateful for his presence, his steadiness. You knew he would keep you safe.

You kept your head down, hiding your face under the shadow of your hood. A group of people passed, talking loudly. A few of them glanced at the four of you and Valarr tugged you closer, his hand going to your waist. You felt the heat of his touch, even through the fabric. Your heart skipped a beat.

"Sorry," he murmured.

You shook your head, unable to speak. You liked having his hand there, his warmth surrounding you.

After a few turns, the street widened, and the crowds grew thicker. Music spilled from open windows and doorways. Laughter, shouts, the clink of glasses.

"Here we are," Aerion announced, stopping in front of a tavern.

It was a large building, the sign out front was worn, the image long since faded, but the sound from inside was unmistakable. Loud, raucous laughter. The sound of mugs slamming on tables, the strum of a guitar.

The smell hit you first as Daeron pushed open the door. It was ale and smoke and something cooking in the back. It was not the perfumed air of the court. It was real. Alive.

"Here we are," Daeron grinned, arms wide. “The best kept secret in the city."

You had never been in a tavern. You had not even been allowed in the kitchens growing up.

But here it was just the common folk, the workers and craftsmen, the laborers. They filled the tables, drinking and talking and eating. You saw no one dressed like a lord, no one dressed like a highborn. Just regular people, enjoying a night out.

A man with a weathered face sat on a stool in the corner, his fingers moving over a guitar, the melody drifting through the smoke-hazed air.

Aerion was already walking inside, his posture easy, his head high. Daeron followed, and Valarr's arm slid around your waist.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice a whisper in your ear.

You nodded, leaning into him as the two of you followed the princes. They led you to a table in the corner, further away from the other patrons. You slid into a seat between Valarr and Daeron, facing the rest of the tavern.

Aerion leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. "There are far better places to go in the city, if you ask me."

"Nobody asked you. Besides, this is just the first stop, and the ale comes free," Daeron replied, leaning back. "I know the owner."

"Of course, you do," Aerion rolled his eyes.

The ale was brought out quickly, and Daeron passed around four mugs. You watched, fascinated, as he clinked his glass against yours and took a deep swallow. Aerion was already drinking, and Valarr was sipping tentatively, making a face.

"Well?" Daeron set his mug down, glancing at you. "How do you like it?"

You took a sip, trying not to make a face. The drink was cold and bitter. Not unpleasant, but not what you expected.

"It's... nice," you lied.

Daeron laughed. "Don't worry, we can get you something else. What would you like?"

"I'm fine," you said, shaking your head.

"Don't let her fool you, she is a wine drinker," Valarr said, shooting you a sly smile.

"Is that so? Well, we'll get some wine." Daeron waved a hand.

You shook your head. "No, it's fine. I'm fine."

A bottle was already being brought to the table, and a moment later, a mug was placed in front of you. You looked up to find the barkeep smiling at you.

"On the house, m'lady," he said.

Daeron beamed. "Good man. Thank you."

The barkeep nodded and turned away, heading back to the bar.

You picked up the mug, taking a small sip. It was  a deep red, with a sharp flavor far more potent than any you had tasted at court.

Daeron laughed. "Now that's proper wine, not some filtered piss from the arbor," he said.

You smiled, feeling a little braver. You took another drink. This time, the wine warmed you, the taste sweeter.

By the time you were halfway through your second mug, you could feel it loosening your muscles, making the evening feel a little warmer, a little less fraught.

Time began to pass at an odd pace. You found yourself talking, joking, laughing with the princes. Valarr had managed to relax, his hand finding yours under the table, his thumb brushing over the back of your palm. It made your heart skip, and the wine in your veins only made you feel warmer.

You were sitting a little closer to him, and he was leaning in, listening to a tale of some mischief the cousins had gotten up to when they were boys.

"So, we're sitting in the privy, waiting for the guard to move on, when we hear this sound, like something is in the pipes," Daeron's words were slightly slurred. "And then this huge rat jumps out, and it's the biggest fucking thing I have ever seen. I swear to the gods, it was the size of a cat."

Aerion rolled his eyes, draining his glass. "You're exaggerating, as usua-"

"No, I'm not!" Daeron insisted. "It was the biggest rat I've ever seen, and I'm telling you, it was the size of a cat."

"That's impossible." Aerion's brows furrowed, his tone almost sulky.

"It was!" Daeron exclaimed.

"No, it was not." Aerion shook his head. "You're just drunk."

"Have you considered it was just a cat?" Valarr asked, his voice dry.

"It was not a cat!" Daeron said, smacking the table.

You giggled, and the sound escaped you, drawing the attention of some of the other patrons. Your cheeks heated, but the alcohol had loosened your muscles and made you feel braver.

"You're too drunk, brother," Aerion said.

"Isn't that the point?" Daeron retorted, taking another swig of ale.

"Not all the time, you should probably learn that." Aerion shot back, his tone scathing.

Daeron reached across the table and smacked him. Aerion returned the gesture, and the two brothers dissolved into bickering.

Valarr took a long drink of his ale, watching them. You could see the faint amusement in his eyes. He caught you looking and a flush crept up his neck. He reached out, brushing a stray curl from your face.

"Are you having fun?" he asked.

You smiled. "Yes, I am. Thank you."

He nodded. "I am sorry they are..."

"Being themselves?" You offered.

He smiled. "Yes, exactly."

"I don't mind," you said, finding them quite amusing. "I'm glad we're here."

"Me too."

Daeron and Aerion were still bickering. Daeron was waving his arms around, a bit of foam dripping from his mug. Aerion had a scowl on his face, and he looked like he might hit him again.

"We are leaving," Daeron declared, getting to his feet. He was wobbly, his words slurring, and he had to grab the table. "There are better places in the city."

"I've been saying that for fucking hours," Aerion grumbled, finishing his drink. He got to his feet, steady enough, though he stumbled into a chair on his way up.

"Careful," Valarr said, moving to catch him.

"Cousin, please." Aerion shoved him back. "I'm not an old woman. I can stand on my own."

You finished the last of your wine and got to your feet. You were more unsteady than you thought, but managed to stand without tumbling over.

"Off we go! To better places!" Daeron led the way out of the tavern. The fresh air was welcome, and you took a deep breath.

"And what better places would those be?" Valarr asked.

You were surprised to hear a slight slur to his words. He had not seemed as affected by the drinks, but his movements were a bit looser, a bit slower.

"I am thinking of this pretty little brothel," Aerion said, grinning. "It has been awhile."

"No," Valarr said immediately.

"No, thank you," you added.

"Come now, it's fun. And the girls are very accommodating." Aerion wiggled his eyebrows.

"Absolutely not," Valarr said.

Daeron threw his head back, groaning. "It's not just a place for whoring! A proper brothel is a whole experience- dancing, drinking, fucking magic beyond anything."

"Magic?" Valarr sounded amused.

"Yes, magic." Daeron insisted. "And breasts that will change your life, make you forget yourself."

"I would rather not forget myself," you said, shivering a little in the chill night air.

"It is the finest in the city," Aerion said, as if that settled it. "Silk sheets, perfumed baths, women who know what they are doing."

"That sounds lovely," you said, glancing at Valarr, "but I think I would like to go back to the Red Keep."

Valarr put his arm around you. "We should return."

"Nope!" Daeron reached out and grabbed your arm, pulling you away from Valarr.

"Hey," Valarr protested, his brow furrowed.

"Oh, come on." Daeron rolled his eyes. "She'll be fine. Besides, it's the best brothel in the city."

He began to drag you down the street. Aerion was close behind, looking excited. Valarr hesitated, a frown on his face.

"Come on, cousin," Aerion called.

Valarr sighed, following reluctantly. He looked uneasy, his expression pinched.

"Come," Aerion called, looping an arm around his shoulders. "It will be fun."

"Fine," Valarr said, shoving Aerion off of him.

The brothel was not far, just off the main street, a nondescript door nestled between a wine shop and a baker.

Aerion and Daeron were first, already arguing about something new. They passed a stern looking knight who was guarding the entrance with such casual ease, you knew it was a regular thing.

Valarr was behind you, letting out an awkward little cough as he passed the guard. Who seemed to be completely unsurprised by four cloaked figures stumbling up the stairs.

The brothel was not what you expected.

You had heard whispers of such places before. Servants giggling behind their hands, lords making crude jests at feasts. You had imagined something dark and furtive, men skulking through shadowed doorways.

But this place glowed.

Warm light spilled out from a series of arched doorways, a haze of smoke floating in the air. The sound of a stringed instrument drifted down, the melody lilting and lively. The smell was all incense and wine and something sweet. Honey, perhaps, or roasted almonds.

The floors were polished wood, and the walls were draped in sheer silks, bright and colorful. Tapestries and carpets and cushions were strewn everywhere, making the whole place look like a plush nest.

Side rooms were tucked away behind curtains, and you could hear the soft murmur of conversation, the occasional cry or moan.

Your face went warm. You could not look at any of them directly, instead focusing on the dancers in the main hall.

They moved with languid grace, the bells on their ankles chiming with each step. The music rose and fell, the dancers swaying along, their hips shifting under silk.

Aerion had removed his cloak, and his hair gleamed in the golden light. He was grinning as a pretty woman approached, his gaze sweeping over her.

She wore a low-cut gown, her breasts spilling out of the material. She smiled, her face painted, her dark hair piled on top of her head. He grabbed her by the hips and drew her close, kissing her hungrily.

"Do you know who I am?" he murmured, his hands moving over her.

"Of course, my Prince," she said, her voice like honey. "All of you are welcome here."

"Excellent."

He kissed her again, and she pressed closer. His hands moved down her back, grabbing her ass. She moaned, tilting her head back, giving him access to her neck. He sucked and bit at the exposed flesh, his eyes closed.

"Gods, brother," Daeron groaned. "Get a room."

Aerion did not seem to hear, he was fully absorbed, he walked backward, tugging the woman along, the two disappearing behind a curtain.

Valarr was staring straight ahead, his face pink. He was tense, his shoulders hunched.

"Shall we have some wine?" Daeron clapped him on the shoulder.

"I- I think I am fine," Valarr said, his voice strangled.

"I'll go get us a bottle." He grinned, giving you a wink before heading off.

You were suddenly alone with Valarr. In a brothel. Where people were having sex.

You tried not to think about it.

"Well," he said, his voice strained. "This is..."

You stepped a little closer, not daring to reach out and take his hand. You felt warmer than ever, a strange feeling growing in your belly.

"Yeah..." You couldn't meet his eyes.

He swallowed hard, taking his own step closer.

"It's not-" He paused, taking a deep breath. "We shouldn't-"

His gaze finally shifted, his eyes meeting yours. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. He took your hand, and the simple touch sent a jolt of heat through you.

"What should we do?" you asked, your voice low.

"We could... go somewhere."

You nodded. "Alright."

You let him lead the way. You did not care where he took you, as long as it was quiet and private. You were painfully aware of the sounds, the moans and sighs and cries, a little louder as you navigated the twisting corridors.

He stopped suddenly, leading you behind a curtain. It was a small alcove, with a large bench covered in cushions. It was private, with no view of the other rooms.

"Is this alright?" He asked.

"Yes," you whispered.

The music was muffled, but the sounds still filtered through. There were gasps and grunts, the slap of skin against skin. You did not know what to say, the heat and tension in the air making your mind foggy.

"I..." He hesitated, his hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer. "I have never done anything like this."

"I haven't either," you said, your hands were shaking as you rested them on his chest. "I'm glad you're here with me."

"I would never want to be anywhere else."

His eyes were dark, his pupils wide. You leaned in, closing the distance, kissing him.

It was a soft kiss, his lips gentle on yours. Clumsy at first, both of you unsure, but the longer it went on, the more confident you grew.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing closer. You were dizzy, the warmth inside you burning brighter, spreading throughout your body.

He pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"Sorry," he said, his voice low. "This isn't right, not here. We should wait... For a proper bed, for when we are wed-"

You cut him off with another kiss, the heat inside you overflowing, drowning out your rational thoughts. He groaned, pulling you flush against him, his mouth moving with yours. His tongue brushed against your lips, and you parted them, letting him in.

He guided you back until you were pressed against the wall. His hands were on your hips, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress.

You gasped as his lips trailed down your jaw, pressing hot kisses to the skin of your neck. He nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, and you felt that strange, liquid warmth between your legs again.

You had never felt like this before, had never known this kind of pleasure. You clung to him, your fingers tangled in his hair.

"Please," you breathed, your hands moving over his shoulders, down his chest. You could feel his muscles under his tunic, his skin hot to the touch.

"We shouldn't," he murmured, but his fingers were already finding the laces of your dress, working them open.

A hand moved inside your dress, cupping one of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipple. You had never been touched like this before, and the sensation was overwhelming. You arched your back, pushing into his touch-

Then the curtain was ripped aside.

Light flooded the alcove, harsh and golden. You froze, your eyes snapping open.

Ser Roland stood in the opening, his white cloak stark against the crimson silks. His eyes went wide for just a fraction of a second before returning to his usual cool expression. Behind him, two other Kingsguard, their faces carefully blank.

You could not move. Could not breathe. Valarr was still half-curled over you, one hand inside your dress, the other braced against the wall. His hair was disheveled, his lips swollen, his tunic rucked up at the collar.

He turned his head slowly, like a man waking from a dream to find himself standing on the edge of a cliff.

"Oh, fuck," he said, his voice a raspy whisper.

You couldn't help it, you giggled, the sound escaping you, a little high pitched and nervous. Then it just kept coming, and soon you were laughing uncontrollably, burying your face in his shoulder, tears leaking from your eyes.

Valarr was chuckling too, his shoulders shaking.

"My apologies, my Prince," Ser Roland said, his voice tight. "But the hour grows late, and it is time to return to the Keep."

"Right," Valarr managed. "Of course."

Valarr pulled his hand from your dress and stumbled back, his face flushed a deep, mortified red that spread from his cheeks to his ears to the column of his throat. He could not look at you. He could not look at the Kingsguard. Soft hiccups of laughter kept escaping him. He couldn't stop them.

You fumbled with the laces of your dress, your fingers clumsy and useless. Your face was on fire. Valarr's tunic was wrinkled and half-untucked from his breeches.

Ser Roland stood impassively, his expression carefully neutral, but there was a slight flush on his cheeks. The other two knights were studiously staring at the walls.

"Here, my lady," he said quietly, draping your cloak over your shoulders. He fastened it at your throat, covering the gaping neckline of your dress, and stepped back without meeting your eyes.

You wanted to die. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You wanted to go back in time and slap the wine out of your own hand. Valarr had a similar disposition, his own cloak covering his disheveled state. He looked like he was on the verge of panic, his expression twisted in shame and horror.

"Let's go," Ser Roland said, turning on his heel. The two knights fell into place behind him, and you were left with no choice but to follow.

Out in the main area, the music had stopped. The dancers were gone. Aerion sat on a divan, a nearly naked woman perched on his lap, his hair was sticking up in every direction, a smear of pink paint on his cheek. He was arguing with another white cloak while kissing the neck of the woman on his lap.

"No," he said loudly, the girl giggling. "No, I am not leaving, and I do not wish to speak to my father."

The Kingsguard looked deeply tired, as if this was a conversation he had many times. You watched him hand a gold dragon to the whore, and she scurried away.

Aerion sighed, leaning back, his shirt hanging open, his breeches unlaced. You saw way more of him than you would have ever cared to, quickly looking away. Your gaze met Valarr's, and the two of you quickly dissolved into giggles again.

"I am not done," he said, his words a little slurred.

"You're done." Ser Roland did not hesitate, hauling Aerion up and dragging him towards the exit.

"I was going to fuck her," he complained, his voice echoing through the empty hall. "Did you see her? Those tits?"

"No, and I don't care." Ser Roland sounded exasperated. 

Outside, the night was cool and quiet. Another group of Targaryen guards had gathered, standing at attention.

Daeron was being held up by another knight, his eyes barely open, wine stains all down the front of his tunic. He looked as if he had gotten into some sort of altercation. There was a red mark on his cheek, and his knuckles were bloody.

"Where have you been?" He slurred. "Ive been waiting for you guys... We gotta get back before father..." He trailed off, his words incomprehensible.

"Catches us?" Aerion said with a laugh. "It is a little too late for that, brother."

Daeron laughed too, his eyes half closed. "Oh shit."

Ser Roland's expression did not change, his grip on Aerion's arm never loosening. "Enough. We are going back."

The walk to the keep was long and silent, punctuated only by Aerion's drunken ramblings and Daeron's increasingly incoherent complaints. Valarr walked beside you, his hand in yours, heat and tension and unspoken words seeming to concentrate where your skin touched.

Ser Roland led the way, a few of the Kingsguard flanking the princes. The rest followed behind, bringing up the rear. The clink of armor was becoming louder and louder in your ears, the sound reverberating through your skull.

The wine made everything feel off, time stretching and blurring. Every step seemed to take an age, the world tilting slightly. You stumbled a little, your feet tangling, and Valarr reached out, steadying you.

"Easy," he murmured, his arm sliding around your waist.

You were led through the Red Keep, the halls dark and empty. There were a few candles still lit, the flames flickering in the breeze. The guards at the entrance bowed as you passed, but you could not meet their eyes.

You felt sick, a dull sense of dread growing inside you. This was the sort of thing that ended betrothals. You could see the scandal, the gossip spreading across the Seven Kingdoms. Your family would be humiliated. 

But Valarr's grip on you was firm, his pace steady. You tried to take strength from it, tried to focus on his warmth, his closeness. You hoped he had enough of a say in this matter that your future together would not be ruined.

Ser Roland stopped in front of a private study, gesturing for most of the guards to stand down. He rapped sharply on the door, then stepped back.

A voice from within. Maekar's voice, low and hard. "Bring them in."

The room was warm and dim, lit by candles and the dying embers in the fireplace. Maekar sat at a small table, papers scattered before him. Next to him sat Baelor, a cup of tea in his hand. His eyes were on his son, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"Father," Aerion said, crossing his arms.

"Boys." Maekar's tone was deceptively mild, but his entire posture was rigid, his eyes like chips of ice. "Care to explain why you have returned in this state? At this hour?"

"This is fucking ridiculous," Aerion went on, as if his father had not spoken. "I am a grown man, and you are treating me like a child-"

"Silence." Maekar's voice cracked like a whip. Aerion snapped his mouth shut, but his expression was mutinous.

Daeron leaned heavily against Aerion who tried to shrug him off. Daeron just clung tighter, and eventually Aerion relented, holding him upright.

Maekar's gaze flickered over them, and his jaw tightened. "I assume this was his idea." He jerked his chin at Daeron.

"Yes, Uncle," Valarr said, his voice hoarse.

"And I suppose you made it worse." Maekar was looking at Aerion now.

"It was not my idea," Aerion said quickly, but he did not meet his father's eyes.

"It was not mine either," Daeron muttered, his words slurring. "The gods know I did not want to-"

"You did not want to?" Aerion turned on his brother, his face contorted with rage. "You are such a fucking drunkard you could not find your own cock without someone to hold it for you, and you dare stand there and-"

"You shut your mouth!" Daeron shoved away from him, stumbling a few steps forward.

"Or what?" Aerion sneered. "Are you going to hit me? Try it, I dare you."

Daeron lurched forward, his fist swinging wildly. Aerion was ready, dodging the clumsy blow and the guards immediately rushed in, grabbing the two princes and holding them apart.

"Enough!" Maekar slammed his fist on the table. The candle jumped. Papers scattered.

The room went silent.

Maekar rose from his chair, his face dark with fury. He was usually an unassuming man, but in that moment he seemed to fill the room.

"Daeron." His voice was low, dangerous. "You dragged your cousin into a brothel with his betrothed in attendance and then proceeded to get drunk off your ass and pick fights with prostitutes."

"Yes, father." Daeron was barely audible, his gaze on the floor.

Maekar turned to Aerion. "And you." His voice rose. "You think you are clever, don't you? You think because you can talk circles around everyone, because you can sneer and scheme and slither your way out of trouble, that you are above consequences."

Aerion's jaw tightened. "I never-"

"Do not interrupt me," Maekar snapped. "I do not care what you think, boy, and I am sick and tired of hearing your mouth."

"Father-"

Maekar was breathing hard now, his chest heaving. "You are both fools. Stupid, reckless, thoughtless fools. You risked a great deal tonight. For what? A few hours of drinking? A few whores?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Gods save me from sons who think with their cocks."

Daeron flinched. Aerion looked at the floor.

"And you." Maekar turned to Valarr. His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "I thought you had more sense than my own sons."

Valarr's throat worked. "I only-"

"That's enough Maekar," Baelor finally spoke, his tone calm. "I will deal with my son and his betrothed."

Maekar hesitated, his fists clenched. His eyes swept over the two of you, and you felt his disapproval like a physical thing, settling onto your shoulders, a leaden weight.

"Fine." He turned to his own sons. "I have nothing more to say to either of you."

His sons nodded, their heads bowed.

"Take them to their rooms." Maekar waved a hand at the kingsguard. "And send the servants to fetch water and bread, and make sure they do not choke on their own vomit."

"Yes, your grace."

Maekar turned, sweeping from the room, the two boys following behind, heads low, escorted by white cloaks.

Valarr took your hand, squeezing it tight. You glanced at him, your heart in your throat. You did not know what he was thinking. Could not read his face.

Baelor cleared his throat. "Leave us."

The guards nodded, leaving the room.

"You two, come sit." Baelor gestured to a set of chairs, a fire blazing in the hearth. "Have some tea."

You sat. The chairs were comfortable, cushioned with soft fabric. Valarr sat beside you, his hand wrapping around yours.

Baelor watched the exchange, his eyes shifting between the two of you.

"Well." He sighed, pouring three cups of tea. "That was quite a show, wasn't it?"

"I'm so sorry father," Valarr whispered, his voice breaking. "I swear, I did not mean to- I was not going to-"

"It's alright, son." Baelor set the kettle down. "I have a feeling it was mostly Daeron's idea."

"Yes, but I didn't have to go along with it." Valarr shook his head, his eyes closing. "We shouldn't have. It was stupid, and reckless, and I-"

"Son." Baelor set a cup in front of each of you. "Drink your tea. This isn't a conversation we are having while your mind is fogged."

"You aren't angry?" You asked, taking a sip.

"I'm not pleased." He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "But no, I am not angry."

His eyes traveled over the both of you. You were not sure how much he could see, how much he knew. Your cloak hid the disarray of your dress, the mess of your hair. You sensed he could read people better than most, could pick out the smallest details.

"Did anything that would require... immediate attention happen?"

Valarr flushed, his face red, but he did not look away.

"No.. father. We did not-"

"Good." He nodded. "Good. No need to rush the wedding then."

You felt a rush of relief. So he wasn't angry, and you were not betrothed-ending scandalous.

He took a sip of his tea, watching the two of you over the rim of his cup. "It's alright if something happened... You wouldn't be the first."

"Father," Valarr said, his face even redder. "I swear, nothing did."

"Alright." He smiled, his eyes crinkling. "I believe you. And I trust you."

"Thank you, father." Valarr took a breath. "We- we did not mean to. To embarrass you, or shame the family. We were just..." He trailed off, shrugging.

"Drunk and young and in love," Baelor finished. "I know. I've been there."

You could not help it, a laugh bubbled out of you, a little too high and hysterical. Valarr gently rubbed your hand, soothing the tension away. You buried your face in his shoulder, trying to contain the giggles that kept escaping you.

"I think it is time for bed. You will not leave your chambers until I come for you on the morrow. I mean that." Baelor said, a smile tugging at his lips. "We can speak more then."

"Yes, father." Valarr stood, helping you to your feet.

"Goodnight," you managed, feeling a bit silly, a little overwhelmed.

Baelor gave you a knowing look, and you did not know what to do with your face. Your expression was stuck somewhere between a wince and a grimace and a smile.

"Goodnight." He turned to his son, his expression changing. "Separate rooms. Just to be clear."

"Yes, father," Valarr whispered, his face bright red.

Baelor gestured to the guards waiting outside. "Take my son to his chambers, please. See that his betrothed is also escorted to her own."

The guard bowed. "Of course, my lord."

Valarr walked with you, his hand still in yours. "I am so sorry about all of this," he whispered.

"It's alright," you replied, squeezing his fingers.

You were both silent, walking the corridors, the guards a step behind. You didn't want to leave him, wanted to spend the night with him. The wine and the heat were still making you dizzy, making the world a hazy sort of blur.

Valarr stopped outside your door, hesitating. He lifted your hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. "Sweet dreams," he murmured.

"You as well," you whispered, the touch of his lips sending a jolt through your body.

He let go of your hand, stepping back. The guard opened the door for you, and you were led inside, the door closing behind you with a thud.

You sighed, resting your head against the heavy wood. There was a strange sense of emptiness, a longing that you could not quite place. You turned, leaning against the door, slowly sliding down until you were sitting.

Now that you had a taste of what could be, the distance felt impossible. The walls, the doors, the guards, the entire Red Keep itself, seemed to stretch on and on, keeping the two of you apart.

Prince Baelor seemed almost surprised it didn't happen.

You thought about his words, and felt a blush creeping up your cheeks. What if it had? It wasn't as if you didn't want to. The feeling was new, the ache and the longing and the desperate need to have him near. You couldn't get him out of your mind, the way he had kissed you, the way his hands had felt on your skin.

You shivered. It was the wine, it had to be. It made everything seem brighter, sharper, louder. Louder. Louder. 

Then there was a knock, quiet, tentative.

Your head snapped up, your heart skipping. The knock came again, and you pushed yourself up. It was the secret door, the one that led you out of the keep and into the city.

You hurried across the room just as the stone shifted, revealing the passageway beyond. Valarr stepped into the room, his face flushed. He looked a little nervous, a little breathless, his hair a tangled mess.

"My prince." You couldn't keep the surprise out of your voice.

"I know I should not be here," he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

"What are you doing here?" You asked.

"I did not want the night to end." He took a step closer, his hand lifting, reaching for you.

You stepped forward, taking his hand. "We are going to get caught," you whispered.

"Probably." He brushed your hair back, his fingers lingering against your cheek. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No," you admitted.

His eyes searched yours, his fingers trailing down your jaw. "I've wanted you all night," he murmured. "Could not stop thinking about you."

You reached for him, pulling him closer. His mouth met yours, the kiss a little deeper, a little more urgent than before. Your hands slid over his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his hair. He pulled you against him, his hands settling on your hips.

"What we did... Back at the brothel." He drew back a little, his breath hot on your lips. "I.. I've never done anything like that before."

"Me neither," you said softly.

He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "Is it always like that?"

"I don't know," you whispered, your arms looping around his neck.

"I feel like I can't control myself." He chuckled, walking you backwards towards your bed. "And I've had too much wine."

"Me too." You let him lower you onto the bed, let him climb over you, his body covering yours.

His mouth found the curve of your throat, and you gasped, tilting your head back.

"We are not supposed to do this," you whispered.

"I know." He leaned back and pulled his tunic over his head, tossing it aside.

"Your father said separate rooms," you went on, your gaze sliding over his chest, his shoulders.

He shrugged, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your dress, slowly pushing the fabric up. "He did not say I had to stay there."

You arched up, helping him undress you, tugging the grey dress off, tossing it onto the floor. You lay before him, completely bare, the flush of wine spreading all the way down your chest.

His eyes trailed over you, a faint smile on his face. He ran a hand down your thigh, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "You are so beautiful," he whispered, leaning down and kissing you again.

You felt his skin against yours, and the heat intensified, spreading all the way to your fingertips. Your nails scraped against his chest, your legs wrapping around his hips.

"I like kissing you," he said, his lips trailing down your jaw, his teeth grazing the curve of your neck. "You're so soft."

His hands slipped between your thighs, and he let out a breath, his touch gentle, testing. 

"I want to feel all of you," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You nodded, unable to speak, his thumb finding the spot where you were most sensitive. His fingers teased, his lips trailing over the hollow of your throat. You moaned, the sound echoing through the room.

"Shh," he said, smiling. "Don't want anyone to hear."

You bit your lip, but your hips moved on their own, pressing into his hand. He watched your face, his mismatched eyes dark and focused, and something about the intensity of his gaze made the heat coil tighter in your belly.

"That's it," he murmured, his fingers still moving in slow, deliberate circles. "You're doing so well."

The praise washed over you, warm and unexpected. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his hair, tugging gently, and he let out a soft sound, half groan, half sigh.

"Valarr," you whispered, his name feeling new on your tongue, intimate in a way it had never been before.

He kissed you again, swallowing whatever sound you might have made as his fingers slipped lower, parting you carefully, exploring. You felt the gentle press of a single digit, the stretch of it, and your breath hitched.

"Okay?" he asked, drawing back just enough to see your face.

You nodded, your heart hammering. "Yes. Just... slow."

"Slow," he repeated, like he was memorizing the word. His finger moved deeper, curling slightly, and you gasped against his mouth.

He was so careful. So achingly, impossibly careful. Every movement was measured, gentle, his free hand stroking your hip, your thigh, your stomach, soothing where his other hand was learning.

"You're so-" he breathed, wonder in his voice. "Is this... is it alright?"

"More than," you managed, your voice breaking on the last word.

He added a second finger, and the stretch was sharper this time, a little burn that made you grip his shoulders. He stilled immediately, his forehead pressing to yours.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you to keep going," you whispered. "Please."

He made a sound, low and rough, and began to move again. His fingers worked inside you, slow and patient, and the tension in your body began to shift, melting into something else entirely. Something bright and building.

Your hips rocked against his hand, chasing the sensation, and he let out a shaky laugh.

"You are... so lovely," he whispered, his free hand cupping your cheek. "I can't believe... that I'm the one who gets to do this with you."

You were lost, the heat spreading through you, making everything hazy. The pressure inside you was winding tighter, higher, and you could barely breathe, could barely think. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

"Valarr, I-something is-"

"I know," he said, his voice thick. "Let go. I've got you."

He pressed his thumb to that sensitive spot again, circling in time with his fingers inside you, and that was all it took. The heat crested, crashing over you like a wave, and you were gone, drowning, the pleasure rolling through you.

Nothing had ever felt like this before, like every part of your body was alight. His mouth was on yours, and you could not even kiss him, could only clutch at his shoulders, could only feel.

When the trembling stopped, you lay there, breathless, your heart pounding against his chest. He pulled his hand away gently, and you felt the loss of him, already missing his touch.

"That was..." You couldn't find the words.

He smiled, shy again, the confidence from moments before fading into something softer. "Good?"

"Very good."

He ducked his head, his cheeks flushing. "I've never... I mean, I've read about it, but I wasn't sure if I was doing it right."

You reached up, cupping his face, making him look at you. "You were perfect."

His eyes searched yours, vulnerable and hopeful, and something in your chest cracked open. This was the boy you were going to marry. This sweet, awkward, wonderful boy who had snuck through a secret passage just to be with you.

"What else did you read about?" You asked.

"Well," he cleared his throat, his eyes flicking down. "There are a few other things."

"Show me." You kissed him, your lips moving against his.

"I-I'm not sure if-"

"Valarr," you whispered. "I want this. I want you."

He took a shaky breath. "Alright."

He shifted, pulling his breeches down and kicking them aside. You watched him, a flush creeping up your neck. His hands were shaking as he untied the laces, and his breath caught when his cock sprang free.

He was already hard, the tip shining. Your gaze trailed over his length, down to the thatch of hair at the base, and you felt a surprised little flutter in your chest. It was the same pale silver as the streak in his dark hair. It was strange, seeing him like this. Vulnerable and exposed. He was so handsome and the thought of having him inside you sent a thrill through your body.

He moved back over you, lifting your thighs to settle around his hips. Your hands slid over his chest, his shoulders, tangling in his hair.

"This is going to hurt a little," he murmured. "If-if it hurts too much, tell me. I'll stop."

"I trust you," you whispered, holding his gaze.

He nodded, and you could tell he was nervous, his body tense. He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pushing inside. The stretch burned, a sharp sting, and you winced, the pain stealing your breath.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his voice strained.

You nodded, digging your nails into his shoulder. "It's okay," you managed. "Just keep going."

"If you're sure," he said.

You were, so you did not reply, simply pulled him closer, kissed him harder, urged him to move.

He did, sinking into you inch by agonizing inch. You breathed through the stretch, the burn, your whole body wound tight, every nerve alive and singing.

Finally, he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, and you were trembling, could feel his heart racing, could feel the tremor in his hands where they held your waist.

"You are so," he took a breath. "So warm. You feel so... gods, I don't know if I can-"

"Just go slow," you said. "And kiss me."

He did, his lips finding yours, and you felt his hips pull back, and then press forward. There was another sharp twinge, and you whimpered, but the discomfort faded quickly, giving way to a new kind of sensation. A feeling of fullness. Of heat.

"That's it," you breathed, his name a prayer on your tongue. "Oh, Valarr. You feel so-"

"You have to be quiet," he warned, his voice low, rough.

"You're going to have to help me with that," you replied, and he laughed, the sound making you clench around him.

"Shit," he hissed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," you giggled, feeling light and dizzy and a little delirious.

His next thrust was deeper, faster, and you buried your face in his shoulder, moaning.

"Shh." He nipped at your ear. "They're going to catch us."

"Then go faster," you giggled again.

He obliged, and soon he was fucking you properly, his thrusts slow, deliberate. You met each one, lifting your hips, taking him deeper. Chasing that delicious friction that left you wanting more.

His cock brushed against something, and a jolt of pleasure shot through you, making you cry out.

"Is that a good noise or a bad noise?" He asked, panting.

"Good. Very good."

He adjusted his angle, trying to find it again, and when he did, you couldn't help it.

"Valarr!"

He laughed, the sound almost smug. "Found it," he murmured, and then he was thrusting again, his cock hitting that spot over and over.

It was too much, too intense, and you felt yourself climbing, felt the heat spreading through your body, and the pressure building.

"Its- I'm... again," you managed.

"I know," he breathed.

His mouth found yours, and both of you were beyond words, beyond thought, his hips slamming into yours.

Everything blurred, the world narrowing down to the two of you, and then it was too much, the pleasure spilling over, and you were lost, gone, clinging to him as the feeling consumed you.

You heard him groan, and felt his cock twitch, and then his seed was spilling inside you, his thrusts stuttering. You were both shaking, both breathing hard, the aftershocks rolling through you.

After a moment, he shifted, rolling onto his side and taking you with him, keeping you connected. His hand stroked your hair, and the other pulled you closer, settling on the curve of your waist.

"Well," he said, sounding a little dazed.

"Mmm," you agreed, pressing your face into his chest.

You were sweaty and sticky and tired and a little drunk. But also happy. So, so happy.

"You know," he began. "That was better than I imagined."

"You've imagined this before?" You asked.

"Since we first met, I have not been able to stop thinking about you." He smiled, his eyes heavy, his cheeks flushed.

"I like hearing you say that," you whispered.

"I like saying it."

His nose brushed against yours, his breath warm on your lips. You closed the distance, kissing him slowly, softly.

"Stay," you whispered. "Tonight. Just tonight."

"My father is going to actually kill me." He groaned, but you could feel him smiling.

"We do have to tell him," you said, your fingers trailing through his hair. "This way is probably the best way."

"He's going to be so mad," he sighed.

"At least we'll be married sooner," you said, trying not to giggle.

He lifted his head, looking at you. "You're right. That would make it worth it."

You smiled, the wine and the exhaustion making everything seem soft and warm and easy.

"You are going to be a terrible influence on me," he muttered, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Am I?" You laughed, trailing a hand down his spine.

"Mhm. I fear I will want to do nothing else but this." He shifted, pulling the blankets over both of you. "I would not be very productive."

"You can't possibly expect me to feel sorry for that," you teased.

He chuckled. "I suppose not."

His arms tightened around you, his lips finding yours again, and your breathing slowed, matching his. Sleep came quietly, pulling you both down into the same warm darkness, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

You woke to the sound of shouting, and for a long, hazy moment you did not know where you were. Then you felt the weight of an arm around your waist, the warmth of a body curled against yours. Your chambers. In the Red Keep. Next to the man who was meant to be your husband.

The sun was shining through the curtains, casting a bright golden light across the tangled sheets. Outside the door, the guards were panicking. You could hear their muffled voices, sharp with alarm. For the prince was not in his chambers.

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Valarr stirred beside you, his arms still wrapped around your waist, his hair tousled and his eyes heavy.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Mhm," you managed, yawning.

"Shit," he swore. "They're looking for me."

"Yes," you agreed, stretching.

He pulled you closer, and you laughed, leaning into his touch.

"We should probably get up," you whispered.

"Probably," he sighed.

Before either of you could move, the door was thrown open. Two guards stumbled inside, their faces pale. The first one opened his mouth, then froze. His eyes went wide as he took in the scene: the Crown Prince of all people, hair a mess, bare shoulders above a hastily clutched blanket, and you tucked beneath it beside him. The second guard looked at the ceiling as if it held the answers to every question he had ever asked. 

"My Prince," the first began, his voice strangled.

"Out!" Valarr shouted, his voice firm despite the deep red creeping up his neck.

The guards bowed so quickly they nearly collided, and the door slammed shut behind them.

You pressed your face into Valarr's shoulder, shaking with suppressed laughter. He was laughing too, his whole body trembling against yours.

"Come here," he murmured, pulling you in for a kiss.

You let him, smiling against his lips.

"They are never going to let us be alone now, not until the wedding," he muttered, his hands moving down to squeeze your bottom. "Just let me have this moment, then we can deal with the fallout."

"As my prince commands," you said, kissing him back.

Footsteps approached again outside, heavier this time, and the two of you scrambled to dress, giggling like children.

The door was flung open once more, and this time it was Prince Baelor. His expression was a mix of annoyance and relief, and he looked like a man who had not expected to start his morning this way.

With a flick of his hand he dismissed the guards behind him and closed the door.

"I told you," he began, pointing a finger at his son. "Separate rooms."

"We did," Valarr insisted. "Then I... left mine."

"And found her chambers?" Baelor asked, crossing his arms.

Valarr grinned, looking at you.

Baelor let out a long, slow breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose and held it for a moment, praying for patience. "I see," he said finally. "Well, there is no use trying to pretend this didn't happen."

"I'm sorry, Father," Valarr said.

Baelor looked from him to you, and shook his head. "I'll call for the wedding to be moved up. I suppose there is no need to wait. You are obviously already very fond of one another."

Valarr threaded his fingers through yours. "I love her." He tugged you closer, and you could not help but blush.

"As do I," you said, the words falling from your lips easily, honestly.

"Very well," Baelor sighed. "But for now, no more secret passages. Understood?"

"Understood," Valarr nodded, and you echoed the gesture.

Baelor gave his son a pointed look, raising his arm and gesturing towards the door.

Valarr looked at you, his expression torn, and you leaned up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

"Stop that," Baelor said, waving his arm like he was shooing a fly.

Valarr gave you one last kiss, and then reluctantly walked towards the door, his father following him out.

You watched him go, unable to keep the smile from your face. Valarr turned back once, just before the door closed, and winked.

You let out a breath, falling back on the bed, still grinning.

You could hardly wait for the wedding.

The wind howled outside the tower, rattling shutters and setting the fire to crackle and spit as Robb fed it another log.

Behind him, the bed creaked softly as you shifted, burrowed deep beneath the furs with a book balanced on your knees and Grey Wind curled heavy and warm at your side. His tail flicked once with lazy contentment, thumping softly against the mattress.

Robb turned, brushing ash from his hands. "It’s freezing. Move over."

He crossed the room, tugging off his tunic with chilled fingers, but the moment he lifted the covers to slide in beside you, Grey Wind’s head snapped up.

A low whine. Then a growl, he wasn't angry, just... possessive.

"Don’t start," Robb warned, already half in the bed.

Grey Wind stood.

Robb froze as the stubborn beast stepped right into the spot Robb had been aiming for and promptly sat.

You snorted behind your book.

"Oh, you think this is funny?"

"A little," you murmured, eyes still on the page.

Robb glowered. He wasn't about to share his wife tonight, and especially not with his damn wolf. He gently pushed Grey Wind out of the way and crawled into the bed.

You giggled as Robb pulled the book out of your hands and tossed it across the room. He leaned down and nuzzled into your neck, trailing kisses over your bare shoulder.

"Robb," you gasped, "Your hands are freezing."

He hummed in response, pushing the covers down, so he could slip his hands beneath your nightgown. He kissed his way up your neck, his fingers tickling up your thigh.

You arched toward him with a breathy sigh, and Robb smiled against your skin, his voice low and thick with want.

"I’ve been waiting all day to have you like this," he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. "Warm and soft and all mine."

Your hands found his hair as leaned over you, the weight of him delicious, grounding. His mouth found your collarbone, your throat, your lips…and just as his fingers slipped beneath your nightdress, brushing over your soaked heat-

Whump.

Grey Wind jumped back onto the bed.

Pushing himself right between the two of you.

Robb groaned loudly, dropping his head to your chest as the direwolf circled once, then flopped down directly across your hips.

You let out a startled laugh, half breathless, half annoyed. "He’s so dramatic."

Robb sat up, shoving at the direwolf’s massive shoulder. "Off, Grey Wind."

The wolf blinked. Didn’t move.

"Down," Robb repeated, sterner this time. "Go lie by the fire."

With an exaggerated sigh, Grey Wind heaved himself off your legs and padded a few steps away... only to sit again at the end of the bed, watching. Judging.

Robb gave you a look that said ignore him, and you tried…really tried…as he lowered his head between your thighs and drew a slow, deliberate lick up your center.

You moaned, hand flying to his curls, hips canting toward his mouth. "Oh…Robb-"

Before either of you could register the sudden shift in weight on the mattress, all eighty pounds of fur and misguided concern landed directly on Robb’s back.

"Seven hells!" Robb sputtered, dragging himself up off you with an exasperated huff as Grey Wind walked over him, sniffing at your face, licking your cheek like you were the wounded party.

You couldn’t help it, you burst into helpless laughter.

Robb looked murderously betrayed.

"That’s it."

He stood, hoisting Grey Wind from the bed. The wolf let out a startled huff, clearly offended as Robb stomped to the chamber door, flung it open, and deposited the menace into the hall.

"No more interruptions. No more chaperones. You are banished."

Grey Wind sat outside the door and howled.

Robb slammed it shut and locked it, turning back to you with hair tousled, chest rising and falling, and a look in his eyes that made your thighs press together.

"Where were we?" he breathed, already climbing back over you, hands sliding up your sides.

"Hmmm," you hummed, grinning as you wrapped your legs around his waist. "I think you were about to make me forget my own name."

Robb smiled, a real, proper smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "My favorite thing to do."

He reclaimed your lips, one arm braced by your head, the other pushing your nightdress up, helping you pull it over over your head. Your skin tingled in the firelight, the cold air a shock before the heat of him returned.

He kissed down your stomach, and your hands tangled in his curls as he settled between your thighs again. His gaze met yours over the plane of your body, dark and adoring, and then he lowered his head, and the world narrowed to the point of his mouth on you.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he worked you with his tongue, slow, languid strokes that built a tight, aching knot deep inside you. Every flick, every suck, every breath against your slick heat was deliberate, practiced. He knew exactly what you liked, exactly what made your breath hitch, exactly what made you arch off the bed.

He murmured something against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through you. Your whole body tensed as he sped up, a relentless rhythm that made your toes curl, that made your own moans sound distant, unfamiliar. His name was a prayer on your lips as he pushed you over the edge, your entire body shattering in a wave of blinding, perfect release.

He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your stomach until you were trembling and pliant, blinking back stars.

When he finally moved back over you, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. You could feel him, hot and hard and insistent against your thigh, but he made no move to hurry, content to just kiss you slow and deep, stroking your hair back from your damp forehead.

You pressed your hands against his chest, a gentle push that he answered easily.

You rolled with him, settling on top, straddling him. He looked up at you, firelight catching in his hair, his blue eyes soft in the dim light. He watched you as you positioned him, watched you as you slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch.

You both groaned at the connection, the familiar, perfect stretch of him. You began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that had him fisting the furs, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

His hands came up to grip your waist, guiding you, encouraging you.

"There you go," he rasped, his head thrown back. "Just like that, my love. You're perfect."

You leaned forward, changing the angle, and the friction shot straight through you, pulling another moan from your lips. He sat up then, wrapping an arm around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. The new position left you breathless, every thrust deeper, more deliberate. His face was buried in your neck, his hands gripping your ass, moving you against him.

"Robb," you gasped, your own hands fisted in his hair.

"I know," he breathed, his voice ragged. "I know. Come with me. Come with me now, love."

And you did. It was a slower, deeper wave this time, a crest that broke again and again as you continued to move together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the frigid air. He followed you over, a choked groan against your skin as he pulsed inside you, filling you with his warmth.

After, you stayed tangled, a mess of limbs and heavy breaths. He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, small, soft kisses that made your chest ache.

Then, from the hallway, came a loud, mournful howl.

And then another.

Robb stilled, then started to chuckle, a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your chest. You couldn't help but join in, burying your face in his shoulder, your body shaking with laughter.

"I'm going to skin that wolf," Robb said, but there was no heat in it. "Make a lovely rug for our chambers."

"He's just protective," you mumbled against him.

"He's a menace," he corrected, but he was smiling. He rolled, pulling you with him so you were curled against his side, your head on his chest. The fire crackled, the only other sound in the room besides the occasional, pathetic whine from the other side of the door.

He drew patterns on your back, a slow, lazy path up and down your spine. "Maybe we should just leave him out there. A night in the cold might teach him a lesson."

"Now you are being cruel," you chided, sitting up to look at him. "He'll think we're angry with him."

"I am angry with him," he said, though he pulled you back down for another kiss, this one slow and sweet. "He interrupted his king."

You laughed, a soft, happy sound. "Well his queen has granted him mercy."

You slipped from the bed, pulling your discarded nightgown over your head. You padded to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open just a crack.

A huge, furry head pushed its way in immediately, a wet nose nudging your hand and a low whine rumbling in Grey Wind's chest. You knelt, scratching him behind the ears. "You are a troublemaker," you whispered.

He wagged his tail, thumping it against the stone floor and began to lick your face.You laughed, shoving gently at the wet nose now pressing insistently against your cheek. "Stop, stop-"

Grey Wind did not stop.

Behind you, the bed creaked. When you glanced back, Robb had pushed himself up on one elbow, watching you both with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and something unbearably soft. The furs had slipped to his waist. Firelight painted warm lines across his chest.

"You're too soft on him," he said, but his voice had gone quiet. Tired. The good kind of tired.

"You're too hard on him." You crawled back onto the mattress, and Grey Wind followed immediately, settling his considerable weight at the end of the bed like he'd never been banished at all.

Robb opened his mouth. You raised an eyebrow.

He closed it.

You smiled and curled into his side, your head finding its place on his chest like it had a thousand times before. His arm came around you immediately, hand finding your hip beneath the furs.

Grey Wind sighed. A great, rumbling sound, and then flopped down across your feet.

Robb huffed a laugh against your hair, his hand tracing slow patterns on your skin. His breathing evened out first. Then Grey Wind's, a low rumble you felt through your toes.

You were almost there yourself when Robb's lips brushed your forehead.

"Love you," he whispered. Half asleep already.

You smiled into his chest. "Love you too. Both of you."

Grey Wind's tail thumped once against the mattress.

And the three of you slept.

You had not known, before this journey, how much you would come to hate the inside of a wheelhouse.

The rocking. The creaking. The endless jostle of wood and leather over rutted roads. Hours that stretched into days that blurred into weeks, the landscape crawling past the windows. Green fields giving way to brown hills giving way to the red dust of the Dornish passes. Your body ached. Your head ached. Everything ached.

And worse: the proximity.

Baelor rode beside the wheelhouse more often than he sat inside it. It was for duty, for visibility, the lords expecting to see their Hand. You understood. You did. But understanding did nothing to ease the frustration of watching him through the window and knowing you could not touch him.

Could not climb into his lap. Could not feel his hands on your skin. Could not do any of the things you had grown so used to doing, so desperate to do, in the weeks before the tour began.

At night, there were tents or guest chambers in whatever keep hosted the procession. Always thin walls. Always servants nearby. Always the knowledge that any sound, any movement, might be overheard. He held you close in the darkness, his lips pressed to your hair, his hand warm on your hip. But it went no further. Could go no further.

"I'm sorry, sweet girl," he murmured one night, somewhere in a tent in the Reach, when your body had pressed against his with an urgency you couldn't hide. "When we have privacy again, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

You believed him. You did.

But belief didn't stop the wanting.

By the time the procession crossed into Dorne, the wanting had become something sharper. Something that lived under your skin like a fever. You caught yourself watching him constantly. The way his hands moved when he spoke, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his eyes sometimes caught yours across a crowded room with a heat that made your stomach clench.

He felt it too. You knew he did.

But knowing only made it worse.

The heat hit first. A wall of it, dry and pressing, unlike anything you had known in the cooler climates of the Crownlands. The clothes you had worn through the Reach were too heavy here; you shed layers, accepted the lighter gowns prepared for you, thin silks in pale colors that left very little of your body hidden.

Baelor's eyes, when he saw you in the first of them, went dark in a way that made your breath catch.

"That's... not appropriate for a princess to wear," he managed.

"The Dornish ladies dress thus." You turned slowly, letting the silk swirl. "I would not wish to give offense."

He stepped close, too close, his hand finding your waist beneath the sheer fabric. "You're going to kill me before this tour is done."

You smiled, the first real smile in weeks. "Promises, husband."

But even that moment was stolen. A servant appeared. A lord required his attention. He was gone, and you were alone again, the silk still whispering against your skin, the heat still humming in your blood.

The palace where the procession now rested was ancient and beautiful, all open arches and torchlit courtyards, the warm wind carrying scents of citrus and spice. Everywhere you looked, there was beauty. Everywhere you looked, there was him.

And everywhere you looked, there was her.

Lady Allyria Dayne had joined the procession that afternoon, arriving with her own retinue from Starfall. She was everything the lords had whispered. Beautiful in a way that made you feel young and unfinished, dark-haired and dark-eyed, moving with a grace that spoke of decades spent being perfect.

She had greeted Baelor warmly. Had kissed his cheek. Had laughed at something he said, her hand on his arm, and you had stood at the edge of the courtyard and watched and felt the ground shift beneath your feet.

She was almost his wife.

The thought had not left you since.

Now you stood before a mirror in the chambers you shared, with a bed you had barely slept in together and stared at your own reflection. The Dornish gown was the color of pale blue, nearly transparent in the fading light, leaving your shoulders bare and your chest nearly exposed. Your hair was pinned up, tendrils escaping to frame your face. You looked... pretty. You looked young.

You looked like exactly what you felt… a girl playing at being a princess while the real women watched from the shadows.

A knock at the door, your husband's voice on the other side, "Are you ready?"

You took a breath and forced a smile in place.

"Ready."

The great hall of the palace had been transformed. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting warm light over tapestry-draped walls and the crush of bodies moving in dance. Music floated from the gallery. It was a Dornish tune, lively and foreign, nothing like the stately music of the capital. The air was thick with perfume and sweat and the heady weight of summer heat.

You stood at the edge of it all, Baelor's arm warm through yours, and tried to remember how to breathe.

"You're beautiful tonight." He leaned close to murmur it, his lips brushing your ear. "I haven't been able to look away."

You smiled up at him; a real smile, despite everything. "You're supposed to be working. Greeting lords. Being the Hand."

"I am being the Hand." His fingers moved down the small of your back, warm along your exposed skin. "But this hand would rather be doing other things."

For a moment, it was just the two of you. The crowd faded. The music dimmed. There was only his hand, his eyes, the promise in his voice. You wanted to pull him away to some quiet chambers and take advantage of his proximity.

Then a lord appeared, needing his attention. Then another. Then Maekar was there, pulling him aside with some urgent matter. He squeezed your hand, murmured "Find me later," and was gone.

You were alone in the crowd. You drifted through the edges of the ball, accepting a glass of wine, nodding to lords and ladies whose names you immediately forgotten. The Dornish gown felt strange on your body; too light, too revealing, every glance exposing.

A woman approached. Older, beautiful in a severe way, her dark hair streaked with silver. She smiled warmly.

"You must be the Prince's new wife. I'm Lady Blackmont."

You curtsied, murmured pleasantries. She seemed kind.

"And how are you finding Dorne, my dear? Overwhelming, I imagine. So different from the capital."

"It's beautiful," you said. "To see these lands is a wonderful privilege."

She nodded, then her gaze drifted past you. "Ah, there's your husband now."

You turned to see your stepson Valarr standing there, handsome and awkward, his smile polite. Lady Blackmont beamed at him, then at you.

"Oh he's not..." You flushed, "I am married to Prince Baelor, Lady Blackmont."

Her brow creased with confusion, then she laughed. "Of course you are!"

"They married not four moons ago." Valarr said as he came up beside you, his tone courtly and pleasant.

She shook her head, smiling. "My apologies. My old eyes... But it must be comforting to have family so close in age. Like a sister, almost."

You opened your mouth to respond, but she was already turning to Valarr, asking about his health, his own marriage plans. You stood there, glass in hand, feeling a fresh wave of shame rise up.

So close in age you are mistaken as his wife… The thought was an unwelcome one. The difference in years between you and Baelor was always at the edge of your mind; you did your best to ignore it. Now it rose up like a shadow, laughing and taunting you, reminding you what a silly girl you were. How silly a girl your husband had married...

The musicians began a new tune. Valarr bowed, held out a hand to Lady Blackmont.

"If I may, my lady..."

"Oh!" She was laughing. "What a young man!"

He took her hand and led her into the swirling mass of dancers, he gave you a sympathetic smile as they left, but it was no comfort. Your stomach was knotted with shame. You drank the rest of your wine and then grabbed another, sipping it fast. Trying to steady the shaking of your hands.

You watched as Baelor moved through the crowd with easy grace, greeting lords, clasping hands, sharing quiet words. He was in his element here. the Prince, the Hand, the favorite son. You watched the way men leaned close to speak with him, the way women's eyes followed him, the way he commanded any space he occupied.

And you watched her.

Allyria Dayne stood near the center of the hall, surrounded by who you could only assume were a gaggle of her admirers. She wore violet silk that seemed to flow like water, her dark hair loose and gleaming, her smile warm and knowing. She laughed at something a lord said, touched his arm, moved on.

And then she reached Baelor.

You couldn't hear the words, but you could see everything. The way her face lit with genuine warmth. The way he smiled back. Not in the polite smile he gave lords, but something easier, softer. The way she leaned in to speak, her hand finding his arm, lingering. The way he didn't pull away.

They stood together like two people who had done this a hundred times before. Two people who fit.

You weren't going to stand there and let that happen.

The wine made it easy, warm and bold and familiar. You moved toward them with all the confidence you could muster, telling yourself the flush in your face was only the heat, not the jealousy burning beneath your skin.

He looked up as you approached. His face did that thing you loved, a bit of surprise, then warmth, then something softer. His hand reached for you instinctively, finding your waist, pulling you close.

"There you are." His voice was warm, genuinely glad. "I was beginning to think you abandoned me.”

"Never." You smiled up at him, and for a moment everything was okay. His eyes on your face like you were the only person in the room.

Then you remembered her.

You turned, a smile still fixed in place. "Lady Dayne. Forgive me, I should have greeted you properly earlier."

Allyria inclined her head gracefully. "No forgiveness needed Princess. The demands of a royal tour leave little time for pleasantries."

Her voice was warm, cultured, effortless. She made you feel like a child playing at court.

"She was just telling me about Starfall," Baelor said, his hand moving gently over your waist. "The stone there catches the sunrise in a way that makes the whole tower glow. I told her we'd have to see it before we leave."

"That sounds lovely." Your voice came out steady. Good. "I've heard the Dornish coasts are beautiful."

"They are." Allyria's smile was kind. "Though I confess, I miss the cooler climate of the capital at this time of year. The heat here can be... overwhelming for those not accustomed."

Was that a dig? A warning? You couldn't tell. Her face revealed nothing but pleasant interest.

Baelor's thumb traced a small circle on your hip, a private gesture, meant only for you. "My wife has adapted remarkably well. Though I suspect she enjoys the excuse for lighter gowns."

He glanced down at you, teasing. This was yours. This ease between you, this private language.

Then Allyria laughed, a warm, genuine sound that you loathed. "Oh, I remember how you used to complain about court fashion in your youth. Always tugging at your collars, muttering about Southern summers."

Your youth. A version of him you would never know. A time when she was there, watching him grow into the man he is today.

Baelor chuckled. "I was an insufferable youth, as I recall."

"You were." Her eyes crinkled. "But you grew into yourself eventually."

They shared a look. Not romantic, exactly. Just... knowing. The ease of decades, of history, of inside jokes you would never understand.

Your smile was starting to hurt.

"I should mingle," you heard yourself say.

His hand tightened on your waist. "Stay."

"I'll find you later." You patted his chest, a wifely gesture, perfectly appropriate. "Dance with me when you're free?"

"Promise." He kissed your temple, quick and absent, his attention already drifting back to Allyria, to some more lords approaching, to the hundred demands of his role.

You slipped away.

He didn't stop you.

You grabbed another glass of wine as you drifted, not caring who saw, not caring how you looked. Not caring about any of it. The warmth in your body was starting to fray, giving way to something darker and hotter. Something that hurt.

You couldn't help but look back at him. He was already deep in conversation with her and another older looking man, nodding to some request, listening with all his usual intensity. She laughed at something he said and he smiled… that real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes.

You drank more wine.

"Careful, Auntie. If you grip that glass any tighter, it'll shatter."

Aerion. Of-fucking-course Aerion. He appeared beside you like a bad smell, all sharp cheekbones and sharper smiles. You had done your best to avoid him the entire tour, your husband's least favorite nephew, a presence you could happily live without.

But the wine was in your blood now, and his mocking smile made you angrier than ever.

You turned, forcing a smile in place. "Nephew. How pleasant to see you. You look well."

His smile twisted. "And you look... drunk."

You shrugged. "The heat makes me thirsty."

He made a tsking noise, the sound grating. "Highly unbecoming of a future Queen. Drunk and hiding in the corner like some serving wench. My uncle should take a firmer hand with you."

The words hit like a slap. Your whole body burned with it, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing. Instead you forced another smile, the wine giving it a cruel edge you'd never known before. "And here I thought your mother would have taught you to speak to your betters with respect."

You landed a hit. You could see it in the way his eyes flashed. It was cruel, yes, his mother had passed some time ago. But you were tired and angry and, well, you weren't sure you could have stopped if you tried.

He recovered with a cruel grin of his own. "Funny you bring up my mother... She used to tell me stories. About my aunt Allyria. About how she and my uncle Baelor were almost betrothed, before the king had other plans." He tilted his head, watching you. "Beautiful woman, isn't she? My aunt."

You didn't answer.

He followed your gaze to where Baelor and Allyria stood, still deep in conversation. "My uncle has always had excellent taste." He sipped his wine, contemplative. "Pity about the timing. If things had gone differently… she'd be sitting at the high table with my family instead of..." He gestured vaguely at you. "Well… I'm sure you are fine enough.”

You turned on him, your wine sloshing dangerously. "Excuse me?"

Aerion just laughed. "Come on. I've seen you. All doe-eyed, always chasing him around the keep. It's rather pathetic, honestly."

You reminded yourself that this was Aerion. The most awful, poisonous snake you knew. You didn't want to play his game.

But he wasn't done. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, conspiratorial. "You know, my mother used to tell me another story. About why my grandfather ultimately chose a different match for my uncle."

You said nothing. Refused to give him the satisfaction of asking.

He leaned in anyway. "My aunt Allyria was married young, you see. To an older Dornish lord. A good man, by all accounts." A pause, deliberate. "But the marriage was... difficult. She never conceived. Not once, in all those years."

The words hung in the air between you. You felt something cold settle in your chest.

"Of course, the maesters couldn't say for certain whose blood was to blame. These things are never clear." He shrugged, feigning casualness. "But a royal marriage requires heirs. The succession must be secured. And my aunt..." He trailed off, letting the silence do his work.

You understood. You understood exactly what he was saying.

Can't have some barren widow marrying the crown prince.

He didn't say it. He didn't have to.

"So you've got that working for you, at least," he murmured, his eyes sliding back to Baelor. "Youth. Fertility. All the things a man in his position needs from a wife."

The words landed hard and sharp. Your nails bit into your palms, a tightness in your throat. He didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"So… do go easy on him." He turned back to you with that nasty little grin. "He's so very hard working. He deserves to unwind occasionally, don't you agree?"

You hated him. Hated him with an intensity that left you trembling, a white-hot fury that made you want to scream.

Instead, you gave him your sweetest, falsest smile.

"Go fuck yourself."

You set your glass down carefully, afraid you might shatter it. Afraid you might throw it at his head.

Aerion's grin widened. He raised his glass in a mock toast, enjoying your fury far too much. "Such language from a princess. But I'll take that as my cue to leave you to your... observations." He glanced once more toward Baelor and Allyria. "Give my regards to my uncle. And my most beautiful aunt, of course..."

He drifted back into the crowd, swallowed by it like an ember in ash. 

You stood frozen. The sounds of the ball swirled around you but none of it felt real. You couldn't hear anything over the roaring in your ears.

Your eyes found them again across the room. Baelor and Allyria. Still talking. Still laughing. Her hand on his arm. Giving her that smile, the one you always believed was yours alone.

She should be here. In your place. At the high table. In his bed. She was beautiful. Graceful. Sophisticated. His equal in every way. And she had known him for decades. Known the man he was before duty and war had shaped him into something harder.

What did you know? A few months. A handful of lessons. A wedding night unconsummated because you were a frightened naive thing.

You were just the replacement. The fertile one. The broodmare the family brought in to do what she couldn't.

That was why he married you. Not love, not choice, not the way he looked at you in the firelight. Just... this. Your youth. Your body. Your ability to give him heirs.

The wine churned in your stomach. Anger and shame and humiliation, a toxic cocktail, swirling inside you, burning through your veins.

You grabbed another glass from a passing servant, then looked around the room for someone to talk to, anyone, to distract you from the storm raging inside.

Then a solution appeared, tall and broad and strikingly handsome, leaning against the wall not far away.

He looked to be about your age. Strong featured, with dark hair and piercing eyes, Dornish by the look of him. You could tell he was a lord. Not the highest born, maybe, but close. And he was alone, no friends or wife nearby.

Perfect.

If your husband could find someone to occupy his time, why couldn't you?

The wine was boldness and fire. You finished the rest of your glass and smoothed your gown, feeling the fabric whisper against your skin.

The lord's eyes found you. Then they widened.

You gave him a smile. He stood straighter, returned the smile with interest. You let your gaze drift past him to your husband. He was still with Allyria, his body angled toward hers. Still laughing at some private joke.

You forced yourself to look away from him. Forced yourself to look back at the other man, the lord still waiting for you. He approached now, still watching you, an interest in his eyes that had nothing to do with conversation.

You forced another smile in place, gave the lord your most innocent eyes. He was handsome, you could admit. And you were so, so angry.

"Princess," he bowed as he reached you.

You didn't bow back. You kept your eyes on him. He smiled at you, confident and eager. He was going to make this very easy for you.

"Are you enjoying Dorne, my lady?" he asked. "The heat suits you. Your beauty rivals the sun."

"You flatter me, my lord. I don't even know your name."

He inclined his head, his eyes still on you. "Lord Santagar, but a beautiful princess like you can call me Emeric."

"Emeric." You repeated it slowly, letting the vowels linger on your tongue.

His eyes darkened.

This was going to be so easy. He was a handsome man. He wanted you. Your husband didn't seem to give a fuck.

"I confess I'm not used to the heat here." You reached up to fiddle with your already low neckline, just enough to attract his gaze.

His eyes drifted down, lingered.

"Would you mind terribly showing me the balcony?" You let your hand find his sleeve. "I think a bit of air would help."

He was staring at your mouth. You had him.

"This way, princess." He touched the small of your exposed back, guiding you forward, his touch already too intimate.

The balcony wrapped around the side of the keep. Torchlight danced over the stones, casting a golden glow on the couples that dotted the space. You could see the stars above, a sea of glittering diamonds. The air was warm, heavy with perfume and wine.

He was saying something, flattery and compliments, the words drifting past you as you moved.

You walked to the railing, trailing your fingers along the edge, looking down at the gardens below, lit with soft moonlight.

"The night is beautiful, isn't it?" you said, not looking at him.

"Beautiful," he agreed, leaning next to you. His gaze was hot on the exposed skin of your back. "But I've always wanted to see the far north. I hear the sky there sometimes glows green and purple at night. Have you seen it?"

"No. But it sounds lovely."

"The world is such a large place," he murmured, taking a step closer. "So many things to see."

You turned and gave him a small smile. His eyes were on your lips, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Unashamed. Hungry.

You felt none of the shyness that had gripped you in the past. No, that was all gone. There was only the fury inside, burning bright and hot. You needed Baelor to see how easy it was for you to find another.

"Do you think I could persuade my husband to allow me to travel more?" you asked, a note of false innocence in your voice. "Or perhaps when I am Queen, I can go wherever I please."

Emeric's gaze darted from your chest to your eyes. He was so very stupid and definitely not listening. "Yes of course."

You took a step toward him, close enough now that he could reach out and touch. You could feel the warmth coming off him. His gaze drifted to your mouth, his hand reached out to skim over your bare arm.

"Where else would you like to go, my lord?" you asked, low and intimate.

His grin widened. He leaned closer. "Wherever the Princess wa-"

"There you are."

The words cut like a whip, cold and sharp.

Baelor. Finally.

Emeric jumped away. His face went a bright, ugly shade of red. "Prince Baelor." He bowed, then again. "Your Grace."

Your husband stood there, smiling with that princely smile, polite but not friendly, a wall of icy detachment. He was too practiced to let his emotions show. His court face was flawless, but you had seen the real one too often now, you could read him, even when you didn't want to.

He was angry.

He was so angry.

But why should he be? He had nothing to be angry about. You had every right to talk to any lord or lady you wished, just as he did.

Lord Santagar was bowing again and again, like some sort of strange bird. "My deepest apologies, my Prince. I was merely-"

"Yes, I saw." The words were still pleasant, but the tone made Emeric's mouth snap shut. "If you could excuse us."

Santagar bowed once more and then, with a nervous glance at the two of you, hurried back inside.

"Princess," Baelor said, all polite formality.

You could play that game, too.

"Prince," Your voice came out steady, but you still sounded young. Childish. Your skin burned hot and tight.

"Are you having a good evening?" he asked, still cool, still formal, not the way he usually was with you in private. "You seemed to be enjoying Lord Santagar's company."

You lifted an eyebrow at that, just enough to make him clench his jaw. "Yes, actually, Emeric was very interesting."

His jaw clenched harder, the vein in his temple pulsing, a rare sign of emotion. You were pushing too hard, you knew you were. But your own anger still simmered beneath your skin. You were itching to make him feel something, anything.

His gaze was steady. "What was so interesting, precisely?"

Your stomach tightened, heat flashing through you. He couldn't talk to you that way. Couldn't make you feel small like that, in front of all these people. Couldn't act like he had any right.

"Oh, many things," you answered, matching his tone. "Emeric had a fascinating view of the world. I'm considering making him part of my household, actually."

His expression didn't change, but his jaw was hard now.

"Oh yes," you continued, a vicious joy blooming inside. "I've always wanted a travel companion. Somebody to keep me company when you're away."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

You stepped toward him, the words spilling out now. You were so angry, it hurt.

"Why? Am I not allowed to have friends of my own?" Your hands found his chest, curling into the fine fabric of his tunic.

"He was not interested in being your friend." He looked down at you, his voice still calm, infuriatingly calm. "And you know better than to flirt with a man like that."

You wanted to scream. Instead, you laughed. "Are we not equals, my husband? You can do as you please, but I'm not allowed the same liberties?"

His expression was a mask, a perfect, princely mask. But his hands came around your waist, gently but firmly pulling you closer. "What has gotten into you?"

"Nothing has gotten into me," you hissed, trying to push his hands off. But he wouldn't let go, his grip was gentle but immovable.

"Sweet girl ..." His tone was placating, but his eyes flashed. "Please."

Something about that hit hard.

Sweet girl.

He always called you sweet girl when you were alone, when it was just him and you, skin to skin, tangled up in one another, bodies joined and minds unguarded.

The sound of it was intimate. Private.

He had no right to use that here, now, when you were so angry and he was acting like he cared. Like he didn't have some other woman all but sitting in his lap.

You wanted to scream, or hit him, or kiss him until he bruised. He could see it, he was watching you with those eyes that always saw too much, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to explain.

But you didn't want to explain. You wanted him to know why you were upset. You wanted him to hurt like you were hurting.

"Why don't you go back inside?" You let your voice slip into pure anger and pain. "I'm sure you and Allyria have a lot to catch up on. I wouldn't want to intrude."

He went still. The muscle in his jaw ticked. "She's not-" he stopped and looked around, suddenly aware that there were other people near.

He let you go and stepped back. You felt suddenly cold. "We're not talking about this here."

He took your arm, his grip tight, and started leading you down the balcony steps and into the gardens. You wanted to rip away from him. You wanted to throw him off and storm back inside. But instead you let him lead, with a mix of anger and a strange sense of satisfaction that you finally made him react.

He led you through the garden, past the still pools of water and glittering fountains, high hedges and trees heavy with fruit. You could hear the laughter and music from the hall drifting down to you, echoing through the night.

He stopped finally by a small pool, the moonlit water rippling gently. He released your arm and walked a few paces away.

He didn't turn, didn't speak. He was silent, the tension clear in the line of his shoulders, the rigidness of his posture.

Your heart was pounding.

He finally turned. The anger was still there, written in the line of his mouth, the intensity of his eyes. "As royals, we do not get the liberty of making a scene. What you did back there, flirting with some lord, throwing a tantrum when I intervened, was childish and reckless and completely unbecoming of a future queen."

You bristled, the anger and shame twisting. "Unbecoming, or unsuitable?"

He let out a frustrated sound, looking away from you and shaking his head. Then he moved closer, his hand coming around your waist again, guiding you back until you were pressed against a stone wall, hidden from the paths by a thick tangle of vines.

"Look at me."

He took your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to his. You wanted to push him away, to spit and scratch and fight, but your traitorous body reacted to his touch. To his scent. To the heat and nearness of him.

"Allyria Dayne is just an old friend." He kept his voice low, the words only for the two of you.

"I heard she was almost your wife." The words felt like a confession, like you were finally laying yourself bare. "That you were in love with her once."

"I was."

His answer was immediate. Unapologetic. Then his hand came up, cupping your face, his thumb tracing the tears you hadn't realized were on your cheeks. 

"I was," he said again. "A long long time ago."

"You are not that old," you whispered, more tears threatening to spill over.

He smiled at that, just a little. "Perhaps not. But it was another life."

"Do you wish she was your wife? Someone your age, with a history together, someone who isn't... barely older than your own sons." The tears were falling freely now, a warm trail on your skin.

He shook his head. "No."

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to forget all about the way he smiled at her. The way she laughed. The way his hand had lingered on her arm, her waist. The history between them.

You couldn't. You tugged hard on his tunic, jolting him forward a little. "I don't want you talking to her again."

He chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. "My sweet wife."

"I mean it," you warned. "Don't laugh at me, Baelor. I won't be made a fool of."

His thumb stroked the edge of your mouth, soft and tender, a counterpoint to the firm hand at your waist, holding you against the stone. "I must speak to her. We are visiting her lands. She is a valuable ally."

"I'm sure." You bit the words out.

He gave you a wry look. "She is not the enemy."

"She's beautiful." You weren't sure why you said it. But the words slipped out, unbidden and you couldn't look him in the eyes. "She's elegant and sophisticated and-"

"So are you." He caught your chin, made you meet his gaze. "You are kind. Thoughtful. Brilliant. And so beautiful you leave me breathless."

Your hands loosened in his tunic, the anger giving way to something else, a softer, shyer feeling, a tenderness that felt so fragile.

"You are my choice. Do you understand?" His thumb grazed the swell of your lip. "No other woman compares."

"Even so," You had to know, had to be certain, "Have you ... ever ... with her..." You trailed off, unsure how to ask it without sounding foolish.

His gaze held yours. "Have I ever taken Lady Dayne to bed?" He finished your sentence. You felt your skin heat up. "Is that what you are asking, my princess?"

Your face was aflame but you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

Something flickered across his face. Not guilt, exactly. Something older. More complicated.

"Yes," he said quietly.

The word hit you like a physical blow. You went cold. Tried to pull away again, but his hand tightened on your waist, holding you in place.

"Once," he continued, his voice low, steady. "A very long time ago. Before my first marriage. Before I understood many things."

"She was the first." Your voice was hollow, empty.

"Yes."

You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The confirmation was somehow worse than the suspicion had been.

He watched your face, at the way your expression crumpled, his heart breaking a little. He knew it had hurt you. He wished you hadn't asked. Wished he hadn't answered.

"We were young. I was perhaps seventeen. She came to court with her family for a tourney. We spent an evening together in the gardens. Wine, summer and foolishness." He paused. "A lifetime ago."

You tried to imagine it, this man you loved as a boy, carefree and impetuous, taking the hand of beautiful Allyria and leading her away to some quiet corner. Then an image came, unbidden and unwelcome, an image of his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin.

Your throat went tight, and your anger returned, hot and painful, burning away the soft, fragile feelings.

"On second thought, I think I will go find Emeric." You tried to wrench free, but his arm was iron around you, holding you in place. "I'm sure he would be happy to-"

"Careful," Baelor's voice was soft. Dangerous. "I don't enjoy you being on a first name basis with a man who would like nothing more than to take you to his bed."

"Why shouldn't I?" You hissed, your own temper rising. "You're doing the same thing with her."

"I am not." He leaned close, his lips inches from yours. "I already have a wife. One I love very much. One who has my complete and utter loyalty."

You looked away, your cheeks flaming, shame and anger and a desperate, aching need warring inside.

His fingers curled around your chin, guiding your face back to his. "Does that answer your question?" he asked softly.

"Not entirely." Your voice came out small, a little uncertain.

He waited, giving you the time to work out the words, to find the courage.

"Was it ... better? Then with me?" You whispered the words. You hated the question as soon as you asked it, the childishness, the insecurity.

He chuckled, low and warm, a vibration that traveled straight through you. "Much, much worse."

You blinked, the answer surprising you.

"Sweet girl," he said it the right way now, the words soft and reverent. "I was a boy then, not a man. All I remember is fumbling in the dark, too much wine, and her giggling because I couldn't find my way inside her."

Your lips twitched. You wanted to smile. You didn't.

"I'm being serious." He was grinning now, a rare, true grin, the kind he had when you were alone, the two of you tangled up and naked and breathless. "I barely lasted a minute. It was the most mortifying experience of my youth."

You couldn't help it, a little giggle slipped out.

His grin widened, his hand sliding from your waist to the curve of your ass, lifting your thigh up and over his hip, pulling you tighter against him. You could feel him, half-hard and firm through the silk.

"That was before I had any idea what to do with a woman." He spoke softly, his voice rough. "Before I learned how to bring pleasure."

You let out a shaky breath, feeling him rock into you, the friction delicious, making heat bloom between your thighs. "So you don't wish to be with her..." You whispered softly.

"What put this thought in your head?" His breath was warm against your neck, his lips skimming your skin. "Did you think I was going to toss you aside and go run off with her into the night?"

You were flustered. Flustered and aroused and wanting. But not quite ready to give up. "She's your... type."

He laughed. A true laugh, one you felt rumble through his chest. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Is she?"

You nodded, swallowing, trying to focus through the feel of his hand sliding up your thigh, lifting your skirts, finding the skin beneath.

"So does that mean this Emeric is your type?" He asked, a hint of disgust in the way he said the name. "You were certainly quick to take his arm."

"Baelor," you protested. He kissed you again, cutting off the rest.

His teeth nipped your ear. "What was that, sweet girl?"

You swallowed. "He... wasn't... I mean..."

He pulled back, his eyes dancing, a playful light in his gaze.

"I wasn't thinking." You finished, trying to hold onto some shred of dignity.

"I haven't felt that in years. That burning need to remove another man's hands from what's mine." He leaned forward, nuzzling your neck. "You're a dangerous woman."

"Am I?" You gasped as his teeth grazed your skin, his hips pressing you against the wall.

"Very." He nipped again, harder. "Wars have started over less."

You laughed, the sound turning into a whimper as his lips found your ear.

"And you're all mine." The word was low, soft. But you felt it, heavy between your legs, that low-burning flame rising, a flare of need and heat that left you trembling, desperate.

You clung to his arms, your breathing uneven, "Yours."

"Always." He whispered it against your lips, soft, but certain, before capturing your mouth with his.

His kiss was gentle, at first, but it quickly deepened. His tongue swept inside, teasing yours, his teeth nipping at your lower lip. You let out a soft sound, a gasp, and he kissed you deeper, hungrier.

You realized then, dimly, that you could still be found. Anyone could pass by and see you, their future king and queen pressed together in a darkened garden, his hand beneath your skirts, the other tangled in your hair, his mouth hot and urgent.

"I thought you were concerned about making a scene." Your voice was a little shaky, breathless.

"Yes." He kissed his way down your jaw, his hands sliding over your skin, making your thoughts scatter.

"Shouldn't we stop?" You were panting now, the need building inside, making it hard to think.

"Absolutely not." His voice was low, almost a growl, his hands pushing your skirts higher, baring the soft flesh of your thighs.

"People might see."

"Let them."

He was kissing your neck again, his teeth grazing the tender spot just below your ear, his hand drifting higher, under your silk skirts and over the thin fabric of your smallclothes, pressing the center of you with his palm.

You gasped, then let out a little whimper, arching into his touch. He let out a soft curse and pushed the thin fabric aside, his fingers finding the wetness gathered there, the sensitive spots.

"Oh," you were having trouble speaking, your legs trembling as he began moving his fingers in small circles, his mouth hot on your neck.

"Look at you," he murmured against your skin. "So wet for me. After all that anger."

You wanted to snap back, to tell him the anger was still there, simmering beneath the wanting. But then his fingers pressed deeper and the words dissolved into a moan.

"I was angry too," he admitted, his voice low. "Watching you let him touch you. Knowing he was imagining..." He didn't finish. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and his fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made your vision blur.

"Baelor-"

"Mine."

"Yours." You panted it out, the word dissolving into a gasp as you felt the cold press of his rings against your skin, you tightened around his fingers, pulling him closer, deeper.

"So perfect," he groaned, his other hand still holding up your thigh, rocking his hips into you. "I can feel you squeezing my fingers, sweet girl."

Your nails dug into his shoulders. Your body was wound with heat and pressure, pleasure coiling inside, tightening, building, and his fingers and the low rumble of his voice and the friction of him pressed against you was all too much.

A moan slipped out, louder than you meant, and his mouth covered yours, swallowing the sound. 

"Shh, my sweet wife," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. "If you make too much noise they'll hear."

You flushed, but you couldn't think, could only rock into his touch. His eyes were dark, intense, watching you as his fingers worked you in small, insistent circles.

You tried, clenching your teeth and digging your fingers into his arms.

"I know," he murmured, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "You need more."

He withdrew his fingers and you made a sound of protest, but then he was lifting you, both thighs around his hips, your back against the rough stone. You heard him fumbling with his breeches, then felt the hot press of him against your entrance.

"Look at me."

His eyes met yours, dark and burning.

Then he eased inside you in one slow, steady thrust.

The sound you made was too loud, you knew it, but you couldn't help it. The stretch of him, the fullness, the weeks of wanting finally satisfied. He pressed his hand over your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath coming in harsh pants.

"Quiet," he breathed. "Remember?"

You nodded, your eyes locked on his.

His hands slid down, cupping the swell of your backside, fingers spreading wide to support your weight. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, and he hitched you higher, his palms kneading gently as he settled you against him.

"There," he murmured, his voice thick. "That's it."

He didn't thrust. He rolled his hips instead, a slow, rocking motion that pressed him deeper without ever fully withdrawing. Your hands found his shoulders, then his jaw, pulling his mouth to yours. The kiss was unhurried, a sliding of lips and breath that matched the rhythm of his body.

You could feel the way his fingers flexed against your skin with each shift of his hips, the small, unsteady sounds he made against your mouth.

"I've got you," he whispered, and it sounded like relief.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape. The stone was rough against your back and he pulled you closer, his palms sliding down the backs of your thighs, then back up to grip your hips, steadying you.

But the weeks of wanting were still there, coiled beneath your skin. The jealousy. The anger. The desperate need to feel him, to keep him.

You rocked your hips forward, pulling him deeper, and a low sound rumbled in his chest.

"More," you breathed against his lips.

His eyes darkened. One hand left your hip, sliding up your side, your ribs, your throat, then his palm pressed flat against your mouth, fingers splaying across your cheek. The weight of it, the warmth, the slight press against your lips, it sent a jolt straight through you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze heavy-lidded, his chest heaving.

"You want more?" His voice was low, rougher now. "Then take it."

He rocked into you harder, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that was no longer gentle. His hand stayed firm over your mouth, muffling the sounds that wanted to tear out of you. The other hand gripped your backside, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

This wasn't the slow, careful husband who had taught you to find pleasure. This was the man who had watched you flirt with another man. The man who had been sleeping beside you for weeks without touching you. The man who was, perhaps, just as desperate as you were.

You met him thrust for thrust, your legs locked around him. The stone scraped your shoulders, but you didn't care. You wanted to feel this tomorrow. Wanted the memory of it pressed into your skin.

"You feel so good," he groaned. "So fucking good. I've thought about this every night. Every night, lying next to you, wanting-"

He didn't finish. His hips snapped forward, even harder this time, and the words dissolved into a low groan. It felt dirty and primal and deliciously rough and the thought that you were out in the open, anyone could walk by and hear or see drove the pleasure higher.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe, trying not to cry out. His own control was starting to slip, the hard snap of his hips jolting your whole body.

"Now," he growled against your ear. "Now, sweet girl. Come for me now."

And you did.

It crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under, stealing your breath, your sight, your thoughts. Your body seized, your inner walls clenching around him, and you heard yourself make a sound that was almost a scream before his hand pressed harder, muffling it against his palm.

He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you.

His forehead was pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, the night air cool against your overheated skin. His hand had fallen away from your mouth, and you realized distantly that your legs were still wrapped around his hips, his body still pinning you against the wall.

Slowly, he lowered you to the ground. Your legs buckled immediately. He caught you, one arm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the stone.

"Careful," he chuckled, his hair tousled, his eyes bright.

You reached up and fixed it, smoothing it back into place, while he tucked himself away and rearranged his clothing.

"Are you alright?" His hands slid down your sides, his fingers curling around the silk at your waist, straightening the dress.

You nodded. You felt... different. Lighter. Some weight gone from your chest. But still, not quite ready to look him in the eye.

"I don't like arguing with you," you murmured, fussing with the edge of his tunic.

"Good." His finger caught your chin, tilted your face up to his.

"You're smug," you told him, narrowing your eyes.

"Of course." He leaned down and kissed the tip of your nose. "I just felt you come apart around me. What am I supposed to be?"

"Baelor!" You protested, feeling yourself blush.

He chuckled, brushing a soft kiss to your lips. "My sweet, blushing wife."

Your cheeks grew warmer. "I'm not blushing."

"No?" He raised an eyebrow, his thumbs moving over the heated skin.

"Stop." You tried to turn away, but he caught your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

"Come, I promised you a dance."

You looked down at yourself, your wrinkled, half-ruined dress, his creased and rumpled tunic. "We look a mess."

"Doesn't matter." He pressed a kiss to your hand, his gaze lingering on your face, soft and warm. "It's Dorne."

He led you back towards the balcony steps, your hand resting in the crook of his arm. Other couples were sitting quietly along the edges, enjoying the warmth, the stars, the quiet. A few people glanced over as you passed, and you noticed several pairs of eyes following you, whispers, the odd bit of laughter.

Before the steps was a stone fountain, the water flowing, rippling softly in the moonlight. And there, standing beside it with a cup of wine in hand, was Allyria Dayne.

She looked up as you approached. Her eyes moved from Baelor's face to yours, then down to your rumpled gown and his wrinkled tunic. Her expression went from surprise to then something that might have been amusement, then a warmth that looked genuine.

Baelor's hand slid down your back, a soft caress, fingers splaying across the small and pulling you closer to his side. You looked up at him, and his eyes met yours, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He nodded a greeting to Allyria. "Lady Dayne."

"Prince Baelor." Her tone was amused, a hint of laughter. 

"Lady Dayne." Your voice came out steady, calm. You smiled at her, not the sharp, jealous smile from earlier, but something simpler. Something that felt almost like grace. "The gardens are lovely tonight. I hope you're enjoying the evening."

"I am," she said, her smile widening. "Thank you."

He looked down at you, pride clear in his gaze. "My wife has promised me a dance."

"Don't let me stop you." Allyria lifted her wine glass in a salute. "The music is still playing."

You smiled at her, feeling something settle in your chest, and turned, taking the arm your husband offered.

The two of you climbed the steps, leaving Lady Dayne and her wine glass by the fountain.

"That was remarkably composed of you." He murmured it in your ear.

"I'm learning to navigate these sorts of things." You kept your tone light and playful.

"That is good," he warned. "Because I have a whole line up of former lovers all waiting for their chance."

You huffed a laugh. "You jest."

"Perhaps," his lips twitched, and the music washed over the two of you as you entered the ballroom, a sweet, lilting melody.

You swiped at his chest, but his hands were already reaching for yours, guiding them up, around his neck. His own fell to your waist, pulling you close, and the two of you began to sway.

"You really have no idea, do you?" he murmured, his gaze warm, his fingers splayed on the small of your back.

"About what?"

"The effect you have." His hands slid lower, over the curve of your ass.

"Baelor," you tried to push him away, but he held firm, pulling you tighter, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"On me."

He kissed you, then. Soft, sweet. His lips lingered against yours, brushing, teasing. He pulled back just enough to speak.

"Or the way men look at you."

"Which men?" You asked, breathless, a little dizzy.

"All of them." His mouth found your neck, the hollow between your shoulder and collarbone.

"You're making that up."

"Am I?" He murmured against your skin. "Lord Santagar is watching you right now."

"He is not." You looked around the room, your cheeks flushed.

"He is." He laughed, low and warm, and spun you, the two of you twirling to the soft, sweet strains of music.

"Well he can't have me," you teased.

"No," his grip tightened on your waist. "He can't."

 You were still learning. But with his arms around you, his heart beating in time with yours; this lesson you already knew by heart.

Aerion had been a thorn in Valarr's side ever since they were young, a boy who could only find happiness in the suffering of others. The prince was a sore loser and a glutton for praise, but he was also a man grown, and with that came a dangerous mix of pride and entitlement.

Your husband tried his best to ignore his cousin's constant boasting, and shield you from the brunt of his taunting, but today the man was particularly persistent.

You had an uneasy feeling about Aerion the moment you spotted him trotting towards where you sat with Valarr, helping adjust the straps on his armor. The morning sun glinted off the hilt of his sword, but there was nothing warm in the smile he wore.

"Cousin!" Aerion bellowed, pulling the reins of his horse to halt in front of the two of you.

Valarr sighed, turning his head towards the man with a grimace, "Aerion," he greeted, a hint of irritation lacing his tone.

"Care to face me?" The sneer on the prince's lips was clear, and your stomach churned at the sight.

"I would not risk your health for a tourney," Valarr quipped, earning a laugh from you and a scowl from Aerion.

"We'll see how you fair once the horns blow," Aerion threatened, his gaze flicking down to your seated form, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

For a heartbeat, you thought he might simply ride away. You should have known better.

"Lady y/n," he yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear, his tone sickeningly sweet. "Might I have the honor of your favor before the match begins?"

Valarr's hands tensed around his sword, but his face remained stoic. His eyes, however, told a different story. He was seething. You could almost feel the heat radiating off of him, a silent fury that threatened to boil over.

You could also feel the eyes of Baelor, your goodfather, on the three of you. When you risked a glance toward the royal box, you found him watching with an unreadable expression. His expectations for this tourney were clear, and you knew your decision would be scrutinized by everyone watching. Your family, as repugnant as some members could be... Could show no cracks.

And Aerion knew that just as well as you did. He was deliberately trying to humiliate your husband in front of everyone. He wanted to get under Valarr's skin, to make him falter in front of the crowd. The way he held your gaze now, all false warmth and waiting challenge, made it clear he was enjoying every moment of your discomfort.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Beside you, Valarr had gone very still, you wanted to reach for him. You wanted to tell Aerion exactly what he could do with his request.

But everyone was watching. And Aerion knew that you couldn't refuse without making Valarr seem weak by association. A wife who wouldn't honor her own husband's cousin? The whispers would be merciless.

So you made your choice.

Slowly, you reached up and untied the ribbon from your sleeve. It was a small thing made of red silk, with a little stitch of a dragon you had woven in. It was nothing of real value. But the weight of it in your fingers felt enormous.

Aerion's smile widened.

You laid the ribbon across his palm, careful not to let your fingers touch his skin. "Good fortune in the joust, Prince Aerion," you heard yourself say. The words came out steady and bright. You couldn't look at Valarr.

Aerion brought the ribbon to his lips and kissed it while holding your gaze. "I shall treasure it."

He snapped the rains of his horse with a laugh, and turned away. Over his shoulder, he called out, "I won't embarrass you today, cousin! I've chosen another opponent!" And then he was gone, trotting toward the other tents, your red ribbon streaming from his gauntlet like a victory flag.

You turned back to face your husband, his face carefully blank, but you knew him well enough to know he was angry. His mouth was a flat line, and his shoulders were tight, like he was holding back the urge to storm after his cousin.

"It's only a ribbon," you whispered as you approached him, knowing it would sound like a paltry excuse.

Valarr shook his head, not meeting your gaze. "I know," he said, but there was no reassurance in his voice.

He was upset, and the worst part was, you couldn't even blame him.

"It will be over soon," you said softly, "and then we will be free of him."

Valarr gave a short, humorless laugh. "I fear we will only be free of him when he is dead."

You flinched at the venom in his words, but you couldn't argue with the sentiment. You placed a gentle hand on his arm, trying to soothe the anger you could feel coiled beneath the surface. "Go show him what you're made of, husband."

For a moment, you thought he might pull away, but then he leaned into your touch. He looked at you, and the anger in his eyes was gone, replaced by something else. Something raw and hungry.

"For you," he said, and then he kissed you, hard and quick, a brand against your lips.

Then he mounted his horse and rode out into the field, a stark figure in black steel armor, and you watched him go, your heart a nervous flutter in your chest.

The day was a blur of pounding hooves and splintering lances. You watched as Aerion unseated rider after rider, your red ribbon prominently displayed through every round.

Valarr won his own matches, but his victories were far less showy. He took his time, calculating and patient. You knew none of these knights would dare harm the crown prince. He had to save his strength for the only true danger… his very own cousin with a talent for violence.

You made your way to the royal box just as the final match was announced. Valarr and Aerion would face each other.

The air in the tent was tense, everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting to see who would win. Baelor sat leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, watching his son and nephew, his face an unreadable mask.

You sat down next to him, trying to keep your own expression calm, but your palms were sweating.

Baelor glanced at you, his brow furrowed. "I see my son has been easily baited," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

"Yes," you agreed, your voice quiet.

Baelor let out a long breath, shaking his head. "I suppose if he wins, it will be good for him."

"And if he loses?" You asked.

Baelor's eyes met yours, his mouth a thin line. "Then it will be a lesson learned."

The herald's voice thundered across the lists: "FINAL CHALLENGE! PRINCE VALARR OF HOUSE TARGARYEN! PRINCE AERION OF HOUSE TARGARYEN! THE KING'S OWN GRANDSONS, TWO YOUNG DRAGONS! WHO SHALL CLAIM THE VICTORY?"

The crowd's cheers grew louder, and you and Baelor fell silent, leaning forward in your seats, anticipation thick in the air.

Valarr rode out onto the field, his armor gleaming in the afternoon sun. Aerion was a dark shadow, his black plate and the flames etched into his breastplate lending him an ominous air.

"Begin!"

The horses surged forward, their powerful muscles rippling beneath the riders' legs. They moved as one, charging down the length of the field, lances poised and ready.

The crowd roared.

You gripped the edge of your seat, watching as they drew closer and closer, their speed increasing the sudden collision of their lances shattering the air.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your heart pounding as you watched Valarr sway in the saddle, struggling to regain his balance. Aerion was grinning, his teeth bared.

"One point for Prince Aerion!"

Valarr shook his head, trying to clear the dizziness. He righted himself, gripping his lance tighter.

The horses galloped forward again, racing toward each other. This time, Valarr was the first to hit. His lance struck Aerion's shield with a resounding crack.

Aerion grunted, but stayed upright.

"A point for the Crown Prince!"

"Well done," Baelor said quietly, clapping his hands together.

You couldn't speak, your throat was too dry. You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe. Time seemed to slow as you watched Valarr's squires rush to replace his broken lance. His eyes met yours across the distance, and even from this far away, you could see the fire burning in his gaze.

You were not a religious person, but in that moment, you sent a prayer to whatever god would listen. Please, let him win.

The horn sounded, and the horses raced forward again. This time, the crash was so loud, it seemed to shake the ground.

Aerion was knocked off his horse, landing hard on the dirt. He lay there, unmoving. The crowd cheered, a deafening cacophony of screams and shouts.

Valarr reined his horse to a halt, his shoulders heaving with exertion, then he looked up. Not at the cheering masses, not at his fallen cousin, but directly at you. Even from this distance, you could see him reach for his chest, where his heart would be beneath the steel, and then extend that same hand toward you. Just for you.

"Prince Aerion is down! Prince Valarr wins the final joust!"

Baelor clapped again, louder this time, a small smile curving his lips.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, relief washing over you in waves.

Valarr had won.

You made your way down to the field, smiling at the people who nodded and bowed in your direction. The crowd was still cheering for their new champion, and their excitement was contagious.

You found Valarr talking to his squires, his helmet tucked under his arm. He looked sweaty and tired, but his face was alight with pride.

You waited for him to finish giving his instructions, not wanting to interrupt.

As soon as he was alone, you approached, trying to keep the grin from your face. You schooled your features into an expression of careful neutrality.

"Well fought," you said, your voice a low purr.

Valarr looked at you, his eyes darkening. "Thank you, wife."

You reached out, taking the helmet from his hand and setting it aside. "Do you need assistance removing your armor?"

"Yes," he said, his tone matching yours.

"Yes, well fought cousin," Aerion's voice cut through the moment like a blade.

You turned to see him standing behind you, his face a mask of calm. But you could see the rage burning in his eyes, and you felt a twinge of fear.

Valarr stepped forward, blocking Aerion's view of you. "Thank you," he said, his voice icy.

Aerion removed the red ribbon from his gauntlet, holding it up to show the both of you. "Keep the joust, cousin. I kept something better." His eyes flick to you, then back to Valarr. "She gave it so sweetly. Practically on her knees for me."

You held on to Valarr's arm, keeping him from lunging at his cousin. For a second you thought he was going to snap, to attack Aerion with his bare hands. But then his body went still, and he looked at Aerion with a cold smile.

"You should get that head checked, cousin," Valarr said, his voice dangerously quiet. "It seems you are confused on who kneels for who."

You saw Aerion's hand twitch towards the hilt of his sword, but before he could respond, a group of kingsguard arrived, leading his horse by the reins. Aerion let out a sigh, the tension in his body easing as his anger faded. He mounted the horse, a sour expression on his face.

"Another time," he said, looking at the two of you. "Enjoy your victory, Valarr. It won't last." And then he rode away, leaving the two of you standing alone in the arena.

Valarr said nothing. His hands had gone slack at his sides, and when you finally dared to look at him, you found him staring at the space where Aerion had been. His expression a little angry, but mostly just sad. He looked younger in that moment, like the boy you'd married who still feared he'd never be enough.

"Valarr." You reached for him.

He flinched away, then caught himself, scrubbing a hand over his face. "It's fine. You're right. It's only a ribbon."

But his voice cracked on ‘ribbon’ and you knew it had never been about the ribbon at all. He turned on his heel and began striding back towards the keep, not looking back.

You hurried after him, following him into the cool shade of the castle. The halls were blessedly empty, save for a few servants who ducked out of sight.

You caught up to him in your chambers, already halfway out of his armor, tossing the pieces aside with careless abandon.

"Are you alright?" You asked, stepping closer.

"No," he snapped, pulling off his gambeson and throwing it to the floor.

"Val," you said, your voice softening.

"He had no right," Valarr said, his hands clenching into fists. "No right to ask for your favor. No right to touch you."

"He didn't," you reminded him. "I barely touched his hand, that was all."

"He wanted to humiliate me," Valarr said, turning to face you, his eyes blazing.

"And you showed him, you won. He didn't."

Valarr didn't say anything, he simply looked at you, his jaw tight and his breathing labored.

"Why did you give him your favor?"

You blinked, caught off guard by his question. You could tell he was hurt, but his tone was more curious than accusatory. "I had to," you said, taking a step toward him.

Valarr snorted, shaking his head. "You didn't."

"I did." You took another step closer, until you were close enough to touch him, to soothe the tension from his shoulders. "Remember what your father said, these are delicate times, we cannot look divided."

Valarr sighed, reaching out and pulling you flush against him. "I know," he murmured. "But it still felt like a slap to the face."

"I'm sorry," you whispered, winding your arms around his neck.

Valarr rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. "He'll never have you," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips.

"And I'll never want him," you replied, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

His hands tightened on your hips, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He kissed you again, harder this time, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

You moaned, tangling your fingers in his hair. He lifted you easily, wrapping your legs around his waist, and carried you toward the bed.

He sat down on the edge, placing you in his lap, your skirts bunched around your waist. His mouth found your neck, biting and sucking at the tender skin.

"Mine," he groaned, his mouth hot against your skin. "My pretty little wife."

"Yes," you gasped, tilting your head back as he trailed kisses down the column of your throat. "All yours."

Valarr tugged at the ties on your dress, slowly pulling until the fabric loosened.

His warm hands slipped beneath the fabric, pushing it aside, and skimming over your breasts. Your nipples pebbled at his touch, and he groaned, brushing his thumb over one of them.

You shivered, arching into his touch. His other hand drifted down, fingers tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric of your dress.

"I should have ran him through after I knocked him from his horse," Valarr muttered against your skin, his voice muffled where his face was pressed to your neck. "For looking at you. For trying to claim what is mine."

"Yes," you murmured, your fingers working at the lacings of his tunic.

He groaned when you finally tugged the garment off, revealing the hard planes of his chest. His muscles flexed beneath your fingers, and he shivered at your touch.

His hands slipped beneath your dress, cupping your ass and squeezing it and pulling you closer against him, grinding you against the growing hardness in his breeches.

"I'll keep you safe from him, little wife," Valarr murmured, pressing his lips to yours, swallowing your answering moan. "Always."

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less passionate. His hands continued their exploration, pushing your dress down your shoulders until it pooled around your waist where you sat in his lap. The air was cool against your skin, but Valarr ran hot, his palms warm where they settled on your bare hips.

You helped him push the rest of your dress aside, and he lifted you briefly to tug it free completely. When you settled back in his lap, you could feel exactly how much he wanted you, hard and insistent beneath his breeches.

"He said you were on your knees for him," Valarr murmured, the words tight. "But I know better, don't I? I know who you kneel for."

"Only you," you breathed, and to prove it, you shifted in his lap, grinding down against him. He let out a sharp breath, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs.

"Only me," he echoed, his voice strained. "Say it. Say that you kneel only for me."

You leaned forward, kissing his throat, teasing the skin with your teeth. "I kneel for no one," you purred, and then you pushed him backwards on the bed, his eyes going wide. "But my husband," you finished, straddling his hips and smirking down at him.

You reached down and tugged at the laces on his breeches, making quick work of them, before hooking your fingers in his waistband and pulling them down over his hips.

You trailed your fingers along his length, watching the way he trembled beneath you, the way he gripped the sheets beneath his hands. He was beautiful, stretched out beneath you like this. His mismatched eyes were dark, his hair tousled. You would never tire of seeing him like this.

"What does my prince need from his princess?" You teased, wrapping your fingers around him and giving him a few languid strokes.

Valarr groaned, his head falling back against the pillows, his eyes fluttering shut. "Everything."

You leaned over him and kissed his jaw, then down his neck. "Say the words, Val," you breathed, kissing the hollow of his throat. "What do you need from your princess?"

His eyes snapped open, staring at you with those beautiful mismatched eyes that still made your stomach flutter even after all these months of marriage. His hands came up to grip your thighs, thumbs tracing circles against your skin.

"I need you to ride me," he said, his voice low and rough. "I need to watch you take what's yours. Need to see you move on my cock like you belong there. Because you do. You belong right here."

The raw honesty in his words sent heat pooling low in your belly. You lifted yourself up, positioning him at your entrance, and slowly, deliberately, sank down onto him.

Valarr's head fell back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. His fingers tightened on your hips, guiding you as you began to move. The stretch of him inside you was perfect, familiar and new all at once.

"Gods," he breathed, his eyes fixed on where your bodies joined. "Look at you. Taking all of me like the perfect little wife you are."

You set a rhythm, slow at first, rolling your hips in lazy circles that made him shudder beneath you. His hands roamed your body, palming your breasts, tracing down your stomach, settling back on your hips to help guide your movements.

His grip tightened as you picked up speed, your thighs burning with the effort. You leaned forward, bracing your hands against his chest as you began to bounce up and down, taking him as deep as you could.

Valarr grinned up at you, watching as your eyelashes fluttered and your breasts bounced in time with your movements. He met you thrust for thrust, his hips lifting off the mattress. He knew what you liked, how to angle himself inside you to make your legs shake, make you tighten around him like a vice.

You leaned forward, your hair falling around both your faces as you pressed your lips to his. "Val," you breathed, the sound catching in your throat.

Valarr wrapped an arm around your back and rolled the both of you, pressing you into the mattress, your leg up over his hips. His lips never left yours as he started thrusting, his strokes slow and deep and aching.

Your hands wandered down his chest, fingers splaying out against his skin, feeling every hard line and ripple of muscle as he moved above you. His eyes were bright, watching your face as you both neared your end, the pressure building inside you both.

"You feel so perfect," he murmured against your mouth, "I could spend all night inside you. Could make you come around me again and again and again."

The thought made your walls clench, and Valarr let out a sharp breath. You both knew he wasn't lying, that he would make good on those words if you let him.

You could feel the tension in your core coiling tighter, your breath coming in sharp gasps, the sound punctuated by the soft slap of skin against skin as he pushed you towards the edge.

He must've sensed it too, because he picked up speed, thrusting faster and deeper, making you arch off the bed. His mouth was hot against your throat, leaving kisses and bites that would mark you later.

"You're mine," he growled, "and I'm yours."

You nodded, too caught up in the pleasure to do more than babble out your agreement. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him close, your bodies tangled together, sweat-slick skin against skin.

He leaned his forehead against yours, his hips stuttering against you, and he let out a strangled groan, his thrusts turning into long, deep grinding motions, like he wanted to be as close to you as humanly possible.

You held on to him, clinging to his shoulders as you followed him over the edge, squeezing around him as your climax washed over you in waves of bliss. His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing the sounds you made. He kissed you as you shook through your release, his hips moving in slow circles to draw out every ounce of pleasure he could.

When he finally pulled away, you both were gasping for air, your chests heaving as you stared at each other, a thousand words and emotions passing silently between you. You didn't have to say it out loud for him to hear your I love yous, and you could read it clearly on his face.

Valarr eased himself out of you, collapsing next to you on the bed.

You curled into his side, resting your head on his chest, his heartbeat thudding against your cheek.

"How do you feel, my prince?"

Valarr turned his head, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Better," he murmured.

You smiled, kissing his chest.

"I suppose I should go apologize to my cousin," Valarr sighed, his fingers trailing lazily down your spine.

"What? Why?" You asked, propping yourself up on an elbow.

Valarr grinned at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "So I can rub my victory in his face."

"Well, in that case," you laughed, sitting up and swinging a leg over his hips.

Valarr's hands slid up your thighs, his eyes darkening.

You bent down, brushing your lips against his, teasing and light. "I have an idea."

You found Aerion on the way to dinner, his mood no better than earlier. He was limping slightly, his expression sour.

"Good evening, cousin," Valarr said cheerfully, his arm looped around your waist.

Aerion looked up, his gaze going to Valarr's arm around you, before flicking to the state of disarray the both of you were in, hair a mess, clothes rumpled, cheeks flushed.

It didn't take much to figure out what the two of you had been doing, and his expression darkened further.

"Cousin," Aerion replied, his voice icy.

"How is your head?" Valarr asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Fine," Aerion muttered, his jaw tight.

The two of you strolled in front of him, walking a little too close, letting the air hang heavy with your shared secrets.

Valarr's hand slipped lower, cupping your ass and giving it a light squeeze. You giggled, swatting at his hand and he pulled you closer, bending his head down and nipping at the skin of your neck.

Aerion stopped walking, watching the two of you. "Do you not have any shame?" He hissed, his fists clenched at his sides.

Valarr laughed, his breath hot against your ear. "None at all."

"See you at dinner," you said sweetly, linking your arm with Valarr's and pulling him away.

You found a quiet corner and fixed each other's clothes, making yourselves presentable. Valarr was grinning the whole time, letting you comb through his hair with your fingers

"Your laces are crooked," he teased, his hand sliding down to brush against the ties on your dress.

You laughed, batting his hand away. "Stop that."

He grinned, stealing a quick kiss and properly smoothing down your skirts. "Ready, my princess?"

"I am, my prince," you replied, taking his arm.

The two of you were still chuckling when the two of you entered the hall, taking your seats at the high table.

Valarr shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "He deserves it."

"Perhaps we were a bit mean to Aerion," you whispered, though you couldn't keep the grin from your face.

"Don't get cocky now," you teased, elbowing him in the ribs. . "Arrogance is a slippery slope for a prince, you know. Better not let it get out of control."

"But I have you to keep me in line, don't I? My clever little wife." Valarr smiled, leaning over to press a quick kiss to your cheek.

"You do," you said, lacing your fingers with his under the table.

He brought your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. "I would be lost without you," he murmured.

"I will keep you on track for your destiny, my prince. But you have to remember to take the time to enjoy your victories along the way." You looked up at him, squeezing his hand.

Valarr looked at you, the love shining in his eyes, and he grinned, his eyes twinkling. "And what a victory it is."

Nobody knew the Red Keep's secrets quite like you did. Your brother Daeron had mapped them all out for you. Every hidden passage, every forgotten stair, every way in and every way out. He taught you where to hide when you wanted to disappear, where to perch when you wanted to spy, and most importantly, he showed you the doors that led beyond the stone walls into the city beyond.

He warned you never to use them alone. Never at night. But what could possibly happen to the king's own granddaughter? You knew how to handle yourself. You weren't some wilting flower who needed protecting.

And that's how you ended up here, in the back room of a brothel on the street of silk, three cups of cheap ale warming your belly and a fiddle playing somewhere beneath the laughter and the creak of bedsprings overhead.

Daeron never warned you about men like the one in the corner.

Your cloak lay bundled on a bench, forgotten, and your silver-gold hair caught every flicker of candlelight like a beacon. It felt good, though. Freeing. Here, away from the Keep's suffocating rules and endless expectations, you could just be.

You had bought a round of drinks for all the whores, the barmaid's eyes had gone comically wide when you pressed three silver stags into her palm. And now a handful of locals were teaching you a dance that would make your septa faint. A girl with a missing tooth and a kind smile tried to warn you between laughs. "Not safe here for you princess," she muttered, gesturing vaguely

You waved her off. "I can take care of myself."

You didn't see the man in the corner. Didn't notice how his gaze followed you like a cat watches a mouse, or how he murmured something to the two rough-looking men near the door before melting back into the shadows.

You were too busy laughing, too busy spinning, too busy being free.

~~~

Duncan was going to lose his job.

And possibly his life, depending on if he could find you or not.

How did one lost princess become so damn difficult to find? He had searched every street, alley, tavern, and brothel. You were not at any of the usual haunts your siblings favored.

Which meant you were either drunk in a gutter somewhere, or already dead.

The second possibility sent a wave of panic through him so sharp it nearly knocked him off his feet.

Panic wasn't a feeling Duncan was accustomed to. In ten years of wearing the white cloak, he had faced down knights and brigands and things far uglier than most men saw in a lifetime…and he had done it all without a flicker of fear. But somehow a slip of a princess who barely reached his chest had him trembling in his boots like a raw recruit.

You were the daughter of Maekar Targaryen. The family's little treasure. A princess with a penchant for mischief that put even your notorious brothers to shame.

And that was saying something.

Maekar had asked him personally to keep you out of trouble. To watch over you and ensure your safety.

It seemed like a simple task, when he laid it before him.

Until he had met you.

You were nothing like your sisters and cousins, mostly pampered maidens he had known. You were fierce and reckless and full of more fire than all of them combined.

And he was half in love with you.

That was a dangerous thought. One that had no place in the head of a Kingsguard. He was a shield and nothing more, and the fact that your father had asked him personally to watch over you, well...that made his secret affection all the worse.

He asked around, describing you as best he could without giving away your identity. A girl with silver hair? A few coppers loosened tongues. Someone had seen you heading toward the Street of Silk. Someone else mentioned a girl buying drinks at the brothel on the corner there.

Duncan sighed.

That didn't sound like a good sign.

He found the brothel and slipped in the back. He wasn't wearing his white cloak, so it was easier to blend into the shadows. He kept to the corners and moved silently, watching, searching for any flash of silver-blonde hair or hint of your voice.

When he spotted you, he almost laughed.

There you were, dancing with the whores in the middle of the floor, the barmaids cheering you on. The locals looked torn between shock and awe, watching you spin and jump and sing along with the fiddle, and Duncan could see the appeal. You were beautiful. More than that, you were alive. So full of joy and wonder, he felt his heart clench at the sight of it.

Unfortunately he had to cut your fun short.

~~~~

You were starting to feel the drinks now. The room had a pleasant spin to it, and the fiddler had launched into a tune you almost recognized. You were laughing and dizzy and entirely lost in the moment.

And then a large hand closed around your arm, and all the joy bled out of the night.

"Princess."

Duncan. Of course it was.

His face was stone. His eyes, usually so warm, were cold as winter frost. He wore a dark cloak that hid his white armor, and his sword hung at his hip. He looked good, as he always did, with his thick arms, those big blue eyes and the dimples in his cheeks that flashed every time he smiled.

But right now, he wasn't smiling.

"Dunk!" you slurred, grinning. "You came to join the fun?"

"I came to drag you back to the Keep before your father discovers you're gone." He sounded so angry, it was making your head hurt.

"I was careful." You said weakly, even though it was a lie. You had been anything but careful.

"Careful?" He gestured to your hair, still on full display. "This is you being careful?"

You scowled at him. "Other blondes exist, you know."

Dunk shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's time to go, princess. Now."

You pulled out of his grip, managing to stumble away. You were angry now. How dare he ruin your fun? Who did he think he was? He was your guard, not your father, not your jailer.

You knew Duncan was fast, but you were faster, and you had the element of surprise. He had just enough time to shout, "Princess, don't!" and then you were running. You pushed past him, grabbed your cloak and ducked through a side door, taking the steps two at a time.

The side street was packed with revelers, and you used the crowds to lose him. You weaved between people, darting across streets and dodging carts. When you were sure he was gone, you ducked into a narrow alleyway and collapsed against the wall, struggling to catch your breath.

He would have his hands full explaining your absence.

Good.

You turned to slip away and froze, the breath rushing out of you.

A man was standing there. A tall man, with a long nose and a wide mouth, and eyes that were as cold as the bottom of the sea.

"Princess." His voice was as soft as a whisper.

You backed away, slowly. You had no weapon, but you could scream, and someone would surely come.

But then your back hit another solid chest. You spun around. A second man was blocking the exit.

And now the first was advancing, a cruel smile on his face.

"Pretty thing," he purred, "Rich girl like you has a father with a heavy purse."

The second man's hands grabbed you, and you screamed, thrashing in his grasp.

You had been so, so stupid.

"Shut her up," the first man hissed, and a rough hand clamped over your mouth. You bit down, hard, tasting blood. The man howled and struck you across the face. Stars exploded behind your eyes, and for a moment the world went soft at the edges.

When your vision cleared, they were dragging you deeper into the alley. The sounds of the street grew distant, muffled by walls and shadow.

"Spoiled girls shouldn't be out alone," the first man said, yanking your cloak from your shoulders. He shoved it at his companion. "This alone is worth something. The silver clasp, look at it."

"Her hairpins too," the second muttered, already reaching for your hair. You jerked away, but he caught a handful and yanked, making you cry out. Three silver pins joined your cloak.

The first man crouched in front of you, grabbing your chin. His breath was foul. "What else you got, little bird? Coin? Jewels?"

You fumbled at your waist, pulling the small purse your uncle Baelor had given you. "Here. Take it. Just let me go."

He snatched it, weighing it in his palm. A grin spread across his face. "Well, well. Someone's got expensive tastes."

Behind him, the third man had been watching the street. Now he turned, eyes roaming over you in a way that made your stomach turn. "We could get more. Ransom her back to her rich daddy."

Your blood went cold.

"Please," you whispered. "You have the coin. Just-"

A hand closed around your arm, hauling you up. "Shut it."

You screamed again, raw and desperate, the man holding you cursing as you kicked and struggled. A fist connected with your stomach and all the air left you in a rush, and you doubled over, retching.

"Bind her," the first man was saying, his voice coming from a distance. "And quiet her up, and be quick about it. Someone's bound to hear."

Duncan heard the scream. He felt the scream. Like a blade between his ribs. He had been searching frantically, pushing through crowds, cursing himself for letting you slip away. When that cry tore through the night air, his blood went cold.

And then it went hot.

He ran.

The alley was dark, narrow, the kind of place where men went to die. Duncan didn't care. He rounded the corner and what he saw stopped his heart.

You were on the ground, silver hair strewn around you. The man standing over you was binding your hands behind your back. Another man stood nearby, watching, your cloak and a small purse clutched in his hands.

And the third man, the third man was kneeling near your head, shoving a wad of cloth between your lips and tying it around the back of your neck.

Something inside Duncan snapped.

He drew his sword, and the men all turned, eyes going wide at the sight of a white knight, a Kingsguard, appearing out of the darkness like a ghost.

He didn't give them a chance to speak.

The man holding your things died first, Dunk's sword sliced across his chest so deep his guts spilled out. He fell over, unable to even scream. The second man, the one binding your wrists, fumbled for his own weapon, and Duncan used the momentum from his swing to turn and slice the man's throat open. He went down in a gurgle, and Duncan advanced on the third, the one kneeling near your head, his knife drawn to your throat.

"Back," he growled, pressing the blade to your skin. Your eyes were wild and fearful, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Don't hurt her," Duncan said softly, dropping his sword. It hit the cobblestones with a clatter. "Just let her go."

The man looked terrified. But he also looked desperate, and a desperate man was a dangerous man.

"Back!" He shrieked. "I'll kill her, I'll do it. Get back or I'll slice her throat."

"Do that," Duncan said quietly, "and I will peel the skin from your bones."

The man trembled, shaking, the knife wavering, too distracted by Duncan's imposing presence. Too distracted to notice you reaching for a rock.

With a strength born of fear and rage, you slammed it into his skull, knocking him backward. The knife fell from his hand, and Duncan leapt, lifting the man off the ground and throwing him against the wall. He hit it with a horrifying crunch before crumpling to the dirt.

Duncan whirled, dropping to his knees. "Princess are you hurt?" He asked, his hands gently tugging at the gag. You coughed and spit and sucked in a greedy breath, trying to free your wrists.

"It's okay," Duncan murmured, his hands fumbling at the rope. "I've got you."

As soon as your hands were free, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and laughing through your tears.

"Did you see me, Dunk?" You breathed, pulling back, looking up at him. "Did you see me bash his head in?"

"Aye, princess," he said, wrapping your cloak around your shoulders, making sure the hood hid your hair. "You did good."

You looked around at the carnage, the dead bodies and the pool of blood, and the world spun a little. Dunk caught you before you could fall, lifting you in his arms like a bride. You pressed your face into Duncan's neck and tried not to look.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, the alcohol wearing off, the fear and pain setting in. "I'm sorry... I just wanted a night away, and-"

"You're alright, princess." He brushed a stray lock of hair off your forehead, tucking it safely beneath the hood.

"Take me home, Duncan."

"Of course my lady."

The Red Keep was quiet and dark, save for a few servants who quickly averted their eyes at the sight of their princess, carried in the arms of a Kingsguard. You were exhausted, your limbs aching, your head pounding, and you were grateful for the darkness, for the quiet, for the feel of Dunk's arms around you.

Your bedchamber was warm and dry, lit only by the embers in the fireplace. Dunk laid you gently on the bed, and the sudden absence of his arms around you made you ache.

"Wait," you gasped, sitting up, clutching at his cloak. "Please, I don't want to be alone."

"You need to rest." His voice was kind, but firm, and you wondered if he could hear the thunder of your heart. "I'm just going to be outside the door."

"No." You pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Stay."

He looked down at you, his eyes so soft, his mouth so close. His hands pressed into the mattress, bracing him above you. "Princess," he said, his voice low, "what are you doing?"

"I'm thanking you."

"You don't need to-"

But you had already kissed him. He made a soft sound, like a growl, and his hands tightened on the sheets. You could feel the tension in his muscles, his hesitation, his restraint.

"I've wanted you for so long, Dunk," you murmured, your hands tangling in his hair.

"We can't."

"We can." You nipped at his lip.

"Princess..." he sounded so torn, his eyes squeezing shut, his jaw clenched. "It's not proper. I'm a knight and you're-"

"Not a maiden."

He jerked, his eyes flying open, and you held his gaze, letting him see the truth in your face. The confession made his breath stutter, and his eyes darkened.

"Who?"

You smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and traced the line of his cheekbones. "Does it matter?"

He made a strangled noise. "Yes."

"Then it's my secret to tell."

His expression was so sweet, his brows knit together, his cheeks flushed. You had never seen him flustered before.

"Did they hurt you? Threaten you?"

"No." You laughed. "I like sex, and they were pretty."

"Oh," he said softly, and it seemed that was the only word he could manage. "When? How?"

"I have ways," you said, your eyes twinkling.

His jaw tightened. "You need to stop sneaking out."

"If you stay, I won't."

"Princess."

"Duncan." You leaned up and nipped at his jaw, enjoying the groan he made. "Stop arguing. Take off your armor."

You reached for the clasps, but he caught your hands, holding them gently.

"If we do this, I need to know it's not just tonight," he said softly.

"Good," you breathed, "because I've imagined this far too many times to settle for a single night."

His breath hitched, and his eyes went impossibly soft. "You've thought about this?"

"All the time, since the moment we met."

He swallowed, and you watched his throat bob. He still looked a little stunned, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening. "Why?"

You smiled. "Why not? You're handsome. Strong. A knight, no less. Why wouldn't I think of you?"

"You are a princess," he whispered, as if that was all the explanation he needed.

"So what? I'm not supposed to have wants and needs? Or desires? Does the fact that you're a knight and I'm a princess mean I'm not allowed to feel anything?"

"Of course not. But...you're a Targaryen. And I'm just a commoner."

"A very uncommon commoner." You laughed.

He rolled his eyes.

"Ser Duncan the Tall. Knight of the Kingsguard. My brother's most trusted friend. A man so strong, he could rip a man in two."

He chuckled. "I've never done that."

"No," you purred, "but you would for me, wouldn't you?"

Your lips were a whisper away from his, and you could feel the warmth of his skin, smell the leather of his armor, the sweat and the soap and the smoke from the tavern. You could feel his hesitation. You could also feel the moment he gave in.

"I'd do anything for you, my lady."

He kissed you.

You melted into it, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him back, pouring all the desire and need and loneliness you felt into him.

"Take off the armor," you murmured, pushing on the steel plating.

He smiled, his lips brushing yours. "Patience, princess."

"I don't have patience," you complained, "and it's digging into my skin."

"Oh, am I hurting you?" He immediately pulled back, frowning.

"Duncan," you groaned, sitting up and pulling him toward you. "Take. Off. The armor."

"Yes, princess," he chuckled, reaching for the buckles.

You watched as he started working at the clasps, but his fingers were shaking and clumsy. He cursed, and you giggled.

"Do you want help, ser?"

"I can handle a few buckles," he grumbled.

"Really? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like it might take the rest of the night."

"Ha ha," he muttered, his eyes narrowed.

"I could get a squire."

He shot you a look, and you laughed, the sound echoing through the room.

"Here." You pulled his hand away. "Let me."

You were more deft with the buckles than he was, and the armor fell away, revealing the simple white tunic beneath. It clung to his arms, the sleeves pushed up.

"See?" you smiled, running a hand down his arm, marveling at the firmness of his muscles. "Was that so hard?"

"You are mean," he muttered.

"Mmmm." You moved his hand to the ties on the front of your dress, enjoying the way his eyes widened. "Now be a good boy and get these undone."

He smiled, but it wasn't his usual sweet and sincere smile; it was a wicked smile that made heat bloom low in your belly. And instead of reaching for the ties, his hands moved to your hips.

And then he pulled.

One smooth, effortless motion, and you were straddling his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thick thighs. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance, and suddenly you were pressed flush against him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, close enough to see the way his pupils had blown wide and dark.

"Oh," you breathed, and it came out far needier than you intended.

His hands spanned your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, and he looked at you from beneath those heavy lids.

"Take it off for me," he murmured.

"What?" Your voice was a little higher than normal, your brain fuzzy with the feel of him.

"The dress. Take it off."

"I was the one giving orders," you reminded him.

"Aye," he smirked, leaning in until his lips were just barely brushing yours. "You can try."

His voice was low and warm, the rough rumble of it vibrating between your thighs, and suddenly all thoughts of ordering him around were gone, and all you could focus on was the press of his hips against yours, the size and heat of his hands on your waist, the way his lips curled in a smirk.

He was watching you, those blue eyes glittering, and you could feel the power in his grip, the restraint. He was letting you set the pace, giving you the option to call this off.

You didn't.

You pulled the strings, letting it loosen and then shrug out of it, the fabric pooling around your hips. You sat there, completely bare, and the hunger in his gaze was unmistakable.

It wasn't often you felt shy, but here, with Duncan's hands on you, you suddenly found yourself blushing, your heart skipping in a strange new way.

He must have sensed the change, because he looked up, his brows drawn together. "What is it?"

"It's just…you're looking at me like I'm the first girl you've ever seen."

His thumb stroked across your cheek. "You're the first princess I've ever seen."

The words were so sincere, so sweet, and you couldn't help but laugh. "I'm sure you've been with other girls."

"Oh yes." His hands slid down your sides. "But none like you, princess."

He leaned in and kissed the swell of your breasts, the curve of your shoulder and your giggles died in a rush of lust. His lips trailed up the column of your throat, leaving a searing heat in their wake.

"Gods," you breathed, your hands finding his hair, pulling him closer. "Why didn't we do this sooner?"

He pulled back, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"I think your father might object."

You rolled your eyes. "Don't mention my father when I'm half naked."

"Apologies, my lady." He dipped his head again, and you gasped when his tongue darted out, tasting your skin.

His hands skimmed down your sides, his fingers calloused but gentle, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the tops of your thighs. Then you felt his thumb gently brushed right above the spot where you needed him most.

"Oh," you gasped, grinding down on him, fingers pulling on his tunic as you tried to get closer, desperate for more.

He was smiling, that new smug, self satisfied smile that made your stomach flip.

"What's the matter, princess?" He murmured, pressing against you just slightly, his thick fingers still not quite where you needed them. "Not so mean now, are you?"

You narrowed your eyes, a spark of indignance lighting in your belly, but it fizzled out when you felt his middle finger brush against your entrance. Your head fell forward onto his shoulder, and your fingers twisted in his hair.

He pressed his finger into you, slowly, carefully, and you bit your lip to keep from making a sound. His thumb brushed your clit, and your breath caught, your body lighting up. He was kissing your neck, the shell of your ear, his tongue hot against your skin as he fucked you slowly, working you open with that calloused finger until you were a trembling mess in his lap, sobbing his name as he whispered praises.

"There?" he asked softly. "Right there, princess?"

"Yes, there, please, Dunk-"

He added a second finger.

The stretch was sharper this time, fuller, and you buried your face in his neck, breathing hard against his skin as your hips started moving on their own, seeking more. Only then did he begin to move.

Each thrust of his fingers was deep and deliberate, curling up into that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. You couldn't think, couldn't speak, could only hold onto him and ride the rhythm he set. Your forehead pressed to his, your breath mingling hot and quick, and he watched you fall apart with those impossibly blue eyes.

The first orgasm took you by surprise.

One moment you were climbing, reaching, desperate and the next you were shattering, a cry escaping your lips as your body clenched around his fingers. He didn't stop. Didn't slow. Just kept moving, working you through it, pushing deeper.

"There you go," he murmured, and you felt the praise all the way to your bones. "There you go, sweet princess,"

You were still trembling when the second one started building, faster this time, the sensitivity almost too much. You tried to pull back, but his arm held you steady, and his fingers kept moving, that relentless slow deep rhythm that had you seeing white.

"Too much," you gasped. "Dunk, it's too-"

But it wasn't. Not really. And when you came again, clenching helplessly around him, you heard yourself make a sound that was almost a sob.

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath coming harder now, though his fingers never faltered. "So sensitive," he observed, and there was wonder in his voice, dark and fascinated. "Is it always like this for you?"

You shook your head, could only shake your head, because you couldn't find words, couldn't find anything but the feeling of him inside you, filling you over and over.

His thumb pressed where you needed him most, and you jerked, a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you. "No?" He sounded almost pleased. "Just me, then?"

You nodded frantically, your hands fisting in his tunic, your whole world narrowed to the spot where his thick fingers worked you open, worked you through orgasm after orgasm until you lost count.

He slowly, carefully eased his fingers out, and you whined a protest, clinging to him. You could feel his lips curve against your shoulder, and he smoothed his hand over your hip, rubbing small, soothing circles.

"I've got you," he murmured, and you wondered if he could feel you shaking. He pressed his lips to yours, so sweetly, his tongue brushing along the seam. Your lips parted, and the kiss quickly became deeper, hungrier.

You tugged at his tunic. "Off," you said, the word coming out a little slurred, your tongue still loose from pleasure. "Now."

"You sure, princess? Don't want you to feel like I'm taking advantage of you." His mouth twitched, and his tone was teasing, but his eyes were serious, scanning your face.

You laughed. "Duncan, I swear to every god, if you don't get these clothes off I will start cutting them off with your sword."

"If it pleases my lady." His smirk widened.

"Oh it will please your lady."

He tugged his tunic over his head and tossed it on the ground, and you were treated to the glorious sight of his bare chest. It was better than you could've ever imagined, thick and broad, chiseled, every inch of it a warrior. Your hands immediately went to his arms, to those hard biceps that had given you so much to think about. He laughed, a soft rumble, and the sound made you warm all over.

"Enjoying yourself?" he murmured.

You trailed a hand down his chest, over his belly. His breath caught, and his fingers flexed against your hip.

"Immensely," you said, pressing closer to him, your mouth against his throat.

You reached for the laces of his breeches, and he let you undo them, his head falling back as you tugged the fabric down, his cock finally free of the confines. It sprang out, heavy and thick and the sight of it made your mouth water. You wrapped a hand around him, your fingers barely meeting. He sucked in a breath, hips thrusting involuntarily.

"Princess." It was almost a whine, his hand closing over yours, and you felt the size, the rough callouses, the warmth.

"Duncan," you whispered, "please. I want this."

His jaw tightened. He still looked unsure. So you wrapped a hand around him and lowered yourself down onto the tip, until you felt the pressure, the stretch.

He cursed.

His hands came down hard on your hips, gripping, fingers digging in so tightly you thought it might bruise.

"Slow," he groaned. "Gods, I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," you soothed. "You couldn't. I know you'd never hurt me, Duncan."

He made a choked sound, like he couldn't quite breathe, and you could feel his thighs trembling as you lowered yourself down inch by inch, letting your body get used to him. He was so thick, stretching you wide, filling you so perfectly.

 His jaw was tight, the muscles straining. You could hear the way his breath shuddered. You leaned forward until your bodies were flush against each other, his chest hard against your breasts, and you could feel his heart pounding, a match for your own.

You looked at each other, your foreheads pressed together, eyes wide open and seeing each other for the first time.

And then you started to move.

His hips stuttered up, his arms shaking from the effort of letting you move on your own. Your breath caught in your throat as you lifted, dropping down harder, taking him deeper. He was watching you, blue eyes hot with lust and awe, and the intensity of it made you burn. 

Your lips found his, desperate for contact, desperate for more of him. He groaned, the sound so delicious and deep you ground your hips down hard and did it again, and again, and again until he was cursing under his breath and you were moaning helplessly into his mouth.

The air between you was hot and humid, your breath mingling in quick bursts. His fingers were still tight on your hips, guiding your movement, pushing deeper each time, and you clung to him, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath your hands.

"Duncan," you whispered, burying your face in his shoulder. You couldn't stop, couldn't slow down. He felt so good inside you. So perfectly, inexplicably, indescribably good.

He wrapped his arms around you and pressed his lips to your temple, and he murmured something in your ear, so low you couldn't hear it over the rush of your own pleasure. His hips started to move beneath you, his hands holding you tight, and you let yourself melt against him, letting him move you like a doll, pliable in his hands.

And then you shattered.

It was a slow, overwhelming thing, your pleasure washing over you in wave after wave of hot bliss, so deep you almost sobbed. Your nails dug into his back, your forehead pressed against his, and he didn't stop moving, not until he followed you a few moments later with a soft grunt, his cock twitching and pulsing inside you, the heat of his spend spilling in your belly.

You slumped against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, your cheek pressed to his neck.

You were both breathing hard, slick with sweat. He pressed his lips to your temple, his breath coming in heavy pants.

"You okay, princess?" he murmured, stroking your hair.

You nodded against his throat, pressing closer. You felt sated and warm and a little fuzzy in a way you had never experienced before. He leaned forward, shifting the both of you until you laid side by side on the bed, your leg draped across his hips.

His hand skimmed up your side, over the dip of your waist, your hip, up to your shoulders. You looked up at him through your lashes, enjoying the softness of his gaze, the gentleness of his touch.

"I thought you would be...more demanding," you confessed. "And not nearly this sweet."

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through your body, and it felt good. "Oh, did you? You thought I would manhandle you into the wall? Lift you up by your hips?"

You giggled. "Yeah."

His thumb stroked along your shoulder. "I could."

"Maybe later," you murmured, nestling closer. "I want to stay like this, just like this, for as long as possible."

He kissed you. Soft and sweet, his lips brushing against yours. You melted against him.

"I wish I could stay, princess. You know I do. But the sun will be rising soon."

"Just a little longer?" you whispered. "Please?"

He pressed another kiss to your forehead, and then he held you against him, and he stayed.

When the morning came, he slipped from the bed and began pulling his clothes on. You sat up, watching him pull on his armor. When he finished, he leaned over the bed, and he kissed you. You reached out to hold him, to pull him back in, but he stopped you, gently moving your hands to his lips.

"I can't stay," he whispered, regret and apology in every word.

"I know," you murmured, watching his lips brush your skin, wishing it were enough.

"I'll be right outside the door. Just like always."

"I know," you sighed, pulling him up for another kiss, a long slow thing that made you feel warm all over.

He broke away and walked to the door.

"Duncan?" you said softly.

He turned, a questioning look on his face.

"You'll be here tonight?"

A slow smile spread across his lips, and he nodded once before disappearing out the door.

And you fell back on the bed and let the smile take over, the soft warm feeling blooming in your chest. If he wasn't in your bed tonight, you would simply have to run away again, and find him in that tavern once more.

The gardens of the Red Keep had always been your sanctuary, though today they felt more like a cage of blooms and buzzing insects. You sat on the stone bench beneath the weirwood sapling—the one that would never grow properly in this southern soil—and pretended to read a book about Dornish poetry.

You weren't reading. You were watching.

Across the garden, Valarr Targaryen stood with a cluster of courtiers, his black doublet immaculate despite the afternoon heat. That ridiculous streak of silver-gold in his brown hair caught the sunlight like a promise, and when he laughed at something one of the lords said, you felt your stomach do something entirely inappropriate.

Not that you'd ever admit it.

You'd known Valarr since you were both children, stumbling through dance lessons and falling asleep during Maester's lectures. He was your best friend. Your only real friend, if you were being honest with yourself, which you tried not to be about certain things.

He caught you staring and grinned, excusing himself from the courtiers to cross the garden toward you.

"You've been on that same page for twenty minutes," he said, dropping onto the bench beside you. Close enough that his knee brushed yours. Close enough that you could smell the faint sandalwood of his soap. "Is Dornish poetry that captivating, or are you just avoiding Lady Elisweth again?"

"Both," you admitted, snapping the book shut. "She wants to discuss her daughter's upcoming marriage to some Reach lord, and I've heard the details fourteen times. I counted."

Valarr's mismatched eyes softened with amusement. "Fourteen? You're certain it wasn't fifteen?"

"I'm an excellent counter."

"You're excellent at everything." He bumped his shoulder against yours, and warmth bloomed through your chest like spilled wine. "Walk with me? The Small Council is meeting, and I'm meant to be observing 'the duties of a future king' or some such nonsense. Father won't notice if I'm late."

You should have said no. You should have remembered that every time you spent alone with Valarr, you ended up feeling confused and fluttery and generally nonsensical. But you never did.

"Fine," you said, standing. "But if your father asks, I was lecturing you on Dornish poetry."

"Tyrannically, I'm sure."

The walk through the godswood was comfortable, familiar. Valarr talked about his younger brother Matarys's latest mischief—something involving a cat, a pie, and the Master of Coin—and you listened, laughing in all the right places. This was easy. This was how it had always been.

Which was why you felt safe enough to bring up the topic that had been nagging at you for weeks.

"Valarr?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something? Something... personal?"

He stopped walking, turning to face you with an expression of genuine concern. "Of course. You can ask me anything."

You bit your lip, suddenly uncertain. But the question had been burning in your mind ever since Lady Florent's dinner party, when Valarr had spent the entire evening speaking to exactly three people: you, his father, and the wine steward.

"Why don't you ever... talk to women?"

His face did something complicated. "I talk to you."

"That's different. I'm me." You waved a hand dismissively. "I mean other women. Ladies at court. Eligible ones."

Valarr's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I talk to them when necessary."

"Necessary." You stared at him. "Valarr, you're the heir to the heir. You're eight and teen, unmarried, and I've watched you literally walk around Lady Cassana rather than pass her on the stairwell."

"I was going the other direction anyway."

"You turned around mid-step and walked into a tapestry."

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "It was a very nice tapestry."

You grabbed his arm, pulling him toward a stone bench beneath an ancient oak. "Sit. We're having a proper conversation about this."

"I don't want to have a proper conversation about this."

"Sit."

He sat.

You settled beside him, tucking your feet up on the bench and turning to face him fully. "Valarr, be serious with me. Your parents have been trying to arrange matches for you since you were fifteen. Your mother sends you to speak with eligible ladies at every feast. And you... what? Grunt at them and leave?"

"I do not grunt."

"You absolutely grunt. I've heard it. It's a very distinctive grunt."

He crossed his arms, looking remarkably like a sulking child despite being nearly six feet of Targaryen prince. "I simply haven't found anyone suitable."

"No one? In three years of introductions? There have been dozens of women, Valarr. Beautiful ones. Clever ones. One of them could recite the entire lineage of House Targaryen from memory."

"That one tried to correct my Valyrian pronunciation."

"So?"

"So, my Valyrian pronunciation is perfect."

You threw your hands up. "You're impossible."

"I'm selective."

"You're turning down every match your parents suggest. Lady Roslin? Rejected. Lady Alysanne? You hid in the stables for three hours. Lady Jeyne? You told her you preferred horses to people, which I suppose is honest, but—"

"She asked if I thought she was prettier than my horse."

"Was she?"

Valarr paused, considering. "My horse has very kind eyes."

You burst out laughing, and after a moment, he joined you. This was why you loved— liked. This was why you liked spending time with him. He could always make you laugh, even when you were trying to be serious.

"Valarr," you said, once you'd composed yourself. "You have to marry eventually. You're the heir."

His expression shifted, something flickering in those mismatched eyes. "I know."

"So why not at least try? Give someone a chance? You might be surprised."

He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face with an intensity that made your skin warm. "And what about you?" he asked softly. "You're unmarried as well. I've noticed you turn down your share of suitors too."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes." You looked away, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I just haven't found anyone who... who makes me feel..."

The way you make me feel, your traitorous mind supplied. Who looks at me the way you do. Who makes my heart race without even trying.

"Who makes you feel what?" Valarr prompted, his voice unusually gentle.

"Safe," you said finally. "Comfortable. Like I can be myself without pretending."

He reached out, tucking a nonexistent strand of hair behind your ear with such casual intimacy that you forgot to breathe. "You deserve that," he said. "Someone who loves you. All of you. Not just the lady at court, but the girl who feeds bacon to the castle cats and argues with maesters about Dornish poetry."

Your heart was doing something alarming in your chest. "You remember the cats?"

"I remember everything about you."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning you couldn't quite grasp. Valarr's hand lingered near your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for one wild, impossible moment, you thought—

"Your Grace!"

You both jerked apart as a page came running down the path, red-faced and breathless. "Your Grace, the Small Council—your father sent me to find you—he's very insistent—"

Valarr closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly. "Of course he did." He stood, smoothing his doublet, and for just a moment, his gaze caught yours. "We'll finish this conversation later."

It sounded like a promise.

Except you didn't let him finish it.

Because the more you thought about that moment in the godswood—the way he'd looked at you, touched you, spoken to you—the more confused you became. Valarr was your friend. Your best friend. He'd never given any indication of wanting more than that.

Had he?

No. No, certainly not. He was just... affectionate. That was all. He'd known you forever, so of course he was comfortable with you. It didn't mean anything.

He remembers everything about you.

You shook the thought away. It meant nothing. Valarr was simply a good friend. A very close, very handsome, very attentive friend who happened to make your heart race and your thoughts scatter.

Stop it, you told yourself firmly. He's your friend. Nothing more.

The problem, you decided, was that Valarr needed to find someone. Someone who wasn't you. Someone he could actually marry and love and—

Your stomach clenched painfully at the thought.

But it was the logical solution. If Valarr found a wife, he'd stop looking at you like that. Touching you like that. Making you feel things you had no business feeling. He'd be happy, and you'd be happy for him, and everything would go back to normal.

Normal. Yes.

You just had to find him the perfect match.

Lady Emilia Massey was beautiful, accomplished, and had a laugh like chiming bells. You'd positioned yourself strategically near the lemon cakes at the afternoon gathering, watching as Valarr approached her with the expression of a man walking to his own execution.

"Lady Emilia," he said, bowing stiffly. "Would you care to walk with me in the gardens?"

She dimpled prettily. "I would be honored, my prince."

You watched them disappear down the path, feeling oddly hollow. This was good. This was what you wanted. Valarr deserved someone lovely and appropriate, someone who wouldn't make him grunt and flee.

Twenty minutes later, Valarr reappeared—alone.

"That was quick," you said brightly, perhaps too brightly. "Did you enjoy your walk?"

"There was a bee."

"A bee."

"A very aggressive bee." He sat down heavily beside you, reaching for a lemon cake. "It kept circling us. She was quite distressed. I escorted her back inside."

"You escorted her back inside because of a bee?"

"Would you prefer I let her be stung?"

You stared at him. "Valarr, there are bees in the gardens constantly. You've never once escorted me inside because of a bee."

"That's different."

"How?"

He took a bite of cake, avoiding your gaze. "You're not afraid of bees."

"I'm terrified of bees."

"You've never mentioned it."

"You've never given me a reason to."

He had no response to that, just looked at you with an expression you couldn't read.

Lady Marcella Crane was next. You engineered an introduction at the library, knowing Valarr spent his mornings there. She was clever, well-read, and shared his interest in dragon lore.

You watched them from behind a shelf of histories, pretending to be absorbed in a book about the Dornish Marches. They talked for nearly an hour. An hour. You'd never seen Valarr talk to anyone for that long except you.

When they emerged, Lady Marcella was smiling. Valarr was... Valarr.

"The library was pleasant," he reported later, when you found him in the training yard. "She knows quite a bit about dragons."

"That's wonderful!"

"Yes." He parried a practice blow from a knight, then turned back to you. "She suggested I grow a beard."

"A beard?"

"To look more 'kingly,' she said. More 'distinguished.'" He paused, lowering his sword. "Do I need to look more distinguished?"

You studied him—sweaty, flushed from exertion, that ridiculous silver streak and his brown hair plastered all over his forehead. "No," you said honestly. "You look like you."

Something warm flickered in his eyes. "Good. That's what I prefer to look like."

By the fourth rejection, you were beginning to suspect a pattern.

Lady Celine Hightower was too tall. Lady Arwen Oakheart talked too much about her horses. Lady Jenna Marbrand laughed too loudly. Lady Sara Westerling had an unfortunate preference for boiled eggs.

"She boiled them," Valarr said, as if this explained everything. "At the breakfast table. In front of everyone."

"People eat boiled eggs, Valarr."

"Not at my breakfast table they don't."

You pressed your fingers to your temples. "You're impossible. You're genuinely impossible. What do you want in a wife? Tell me. Give me something to work with."

He considered this, tilting his head in that way that made your heart flutter traitorously. "I want someone who doesn't try to be someone they're not. Someone who's comfortable with silence. Someone who laughs at my jokes even when they're not funny."

"Everyone laughs at your jokes. You're a prince."

"You don't."

You blinked. "What?"

"You don't laugh at my jokes just because I'm a prince. Sometimes you don't laugh at all. You just look at me like I'm an idiot and change the subject."

"You are an idiot sometimes."

"Yes." He smiled, that real smile, the one he saved for you. "That's what I mean."

You didn't understand. You never understood, not really. But something in his words made your chest ache.

Lady Rosa's Frey's cousin was the final straw.

You'd watched Valarr spend exactly four minutes with her before excusing himself to check on his horse, a horse that was, as far as you knew, perfectly healthy and didn't require checking. He didn't speak to another woman for the rest of the evening.

You were brooding about it in the library the next morning when Matarys Targaryen—Valarr's younger brother, all of fourteen and insufferably pleased with himself—slid into the chair across from you.

"You're doing that thing again," he said.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you stare at my brother like he's a puzzle you can't solve and your face does that crinkly thing."

"My face does not do a crinkly thing."

"It absolutely does. It's very sad to watch." He helped himself to an apple from the bowl on the table, biting into it with a loud crunch. "Still trying to marry him off?"

"I'm trying to help him find happiness."

"By forcing him to talk to women he clearly doesn't want to talk to?"

You frowned. "He has to marry eventually. He's the heir."

"Does he, though?" Matarys leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I mean, have you considered why he doesn't want to talk to them?"

"Because he's difficult and picky and once rejected someone because she ate boiled eggs?"

Matarys snorted. "No. Well, yes, that's also true. But there's another reason." He glanced around dramatically, as if checking for spies. "A secret reason. A family secret."

You leaned in despite yourself. "What kind of secret?"

"The kind that explains why my brother has turned down every eligible lady in the Seven Kingdoms." Matarys bit into his apple again, chewing with infuriating slowness. "Think about it. He's handsome, charming when he wants to be, heir to the Iron Throne. Any woman would be thrilled to marry him. And yet—"

"And yet nothing," you said. "He's just... particular."

"He's particular about women because he's not interested in women." Matarys raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "At all."

The words took a moment to land. And then another moment. And then they crashed into your brain like a runaway cart.

"You're saying—"

"I'm saying nothing." He held up his hands innocently. "I'm merely suggesting that if my brother has shown zero interest in every eligible lady you've thrown at him, perhaps the problem isn't the ladies. Perhaps the problem is that they're ladies."

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"But he—we've been friends forever—he's never—"

"Never what? Shown interest in anyone? Talked about wanting to marry? Glanced twice at any woman at court?" Matarys shrugged. "Strange, isn't it? Almost like he's waiting for someone who isn't a woman."

He stood, brushing apple crumbs from his tunic. "Anyway, just a thought. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. You seem clever." He paused at the door. "Well. Clever enough."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the most horrifying realization of your life.

Valarr Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, your dearest friend in all the world—

Preferred men.

It made so much sense. The discomfort around eligible ladies, the avoidance, the way he seemed utterly uninterested in every woman presented to him. He wasn't being picky. He wasn't being difficult. He simply... wasn't attracted to them.

And you, his closest friend, had been torturing him by forcing introductions to woman after woman.

Guilt crashed over you like a wave. How could you have been so blind? So stupid? He'd trusted you with his friendship, and you'd spent weeks trying to marry him off to people he could never love.

Well. You'd fix this. You'd make it right.

You just had to find him a man instead.

Ser Davon Fossoway was handsome, chivalrous, and currently unattached. You cornered him after the midday meal, explaining that the prince had expressed interest in discussing—something. You hadn't quite worked out the details.

"He wants to discuss... swordplay?" Ser Davon looked confused but hopeful. "With me specifically?"

"You're an excellent swordsman, aren't you?"

"I like to think so, my lady."

"Perfect. He specifically mentioned wanting to speak with an excellent swordsman. In private. In the gardens. By the rose arbor."

The rose arbor was romantic. Everyone knew that. You were very clever.

Ser Davon arrived promptly. You watched from behind a hedge as Valarr approached, looking baffled.

"Ser Davon? My... my friend said you wished to speak with me about something?"

"I understood it was you who wished to speak with me, my prince."

"Oh. Well. I suppose we can... speak?"

They stood there awkwardly for a long moment.

"Lovely weather," Ser Davon offered.

"Yes. Very... weather."

"Good for swordplay."

"Is it?"

"Generally, yes. Dry ground, you know. Less mud."

"I... see."

Another long pause.

"Well," Ser Davon said finally, "if that's all, my prince, I should return to my duties."

"Yes. Duties. Of course."

Ser Davon bowed and fled. Valarr stood alone in the rose arbor, looking like a man who'd just survived a battle he hadn't known he was fighting.

You needed a different approach.

Ser Addam Rowan was older, more confident, and reportedly very charming. You arranged for him to encounter Valarr in the library, where the prince spent his mornings. Surely a shared interest in books would—

"Are you... following me?" Valarr asked, when you appeared behind a shelf for the third time that week.

"What? No. I'm researching. For a thing. A research thing."

He raised an eyebrow—the one above his blue eye, which always made him look particularly skeptical. "You're researching in the military history section? You once told me you'd rather clean the dragonpit than read about battles."

"This is... different research."

"What kind of research?"

"The kind I don't need to explain to you."

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell sandalwood and parchment. "You've been acting strange for weeks. Setting me up with ladies, then suddenly with knights. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on. I just want you to be happy."

"I'm happy."

"You're lonely."

His expression shifted, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "I'm not lonely. I have you."

"That's different. That's—I'm your friend. You need more than a friend. You need someone who can be... who can give you..."

"I have everything I need."

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "Valarr, you don't have to pretend with me. I understand. I figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

"That you're not... that you don't..." You lowered your voice, glancing around the empty library. "That you prefer the company of men."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Valarr stared at you. His mismatched eyes went wide, then narrower, then wide again. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened.

"You think," he said slowly, "that I prefer men."

"I understand if you can't say it openly. With your position, it must be—"

"I don't prefer men."

"But you never—all those ladies—you never showed any interest—"

"I showed interest in exactly one person." His voice was strange, tight with something you couldn't identify. "For years. Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point where my parents have a bet about it."

You blinked. "A bet?"

"Mother thinks I'll confess by my nineteenth nameday. Father thinks I'll wait until I'm twenty. They've been wagering for three years."

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's the problem. That's always been the problem. You don't see it. You've never seen it."

"See what?"

He stepped closer, and closer still, until you were backed against a shelf of musty histories with nowhere to go. His hands came up to frame your face, gentle but insistent, and his eyes—one blue, one brown—burned into yours.

"You," he said softly. "Only you. Always you."

And then he kissed you.

The world stopped.

No—the world started, for the first time in your life. Colors brightened. Sounds sharpened. Everything you'd never understood, never let yourself feel, came crashing down in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Valarr's lips were soft against yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn't pull away. His hands slid into your hair, tangling in the strands, and you made a sound you didn't recognize—somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, breath coming fast.

"Now do you understand?" he whispered.

You couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him—this boy you'd known your whole life, your dearest friend, the one who remembered everything about you.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you finally managed.

"I tried. Constantly. You never noticed."

"I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid. You're..." He laughed softly, warm breath ghosting across your lips. "You're you. And I love you. I've always loved you."

Something cracked open in your chest, flooding warmth through every part of you. "I love you too. I think I have for years. I just didn't—I couldn't—"

"I know." He kissed you again, quick and sweet. "I know."

"What do we do now?"

"Now?" He smiled—that real smile, the one you'd always thought was just for you. It was. It had always been. "Now we tell my father he owes my mother a foot massage."

You pulled back, confused. "What?"

He took your hand, pulling you toward the library door. "Come on. I want to see the look on my father's face."

The walk through the Red Keep was a blur. Valarr's hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and solid, and you couldn't stop staring at the way your fingers intertwined. His thumb traced patterns on your skin, soothing and electric all at once.

Prince Baelor Breakspear and his wife Princess Jena were in the hand's tower, enjoying the afternoon sun on their private terrace. When you appeared in the doorway, hand in hand with their son, Baelor's eyebrows shot upward.

"Valarr?" Jena set down her wine glass, a smile already curving her lips. "And... oh. Oh."

"Mother. Father." Valarr squeezed your hand. "I believe you know the Lady Y/N."

Baelor's gaze dropped to your joined hands, then rose to meet his son's eyes. Something passed between them, a look of understanding, of recognition, of finally.

"Son," Baelor said slowly, "is there something you wish to tell us?"

"I wished to introduce you to my future wife."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You turned to stare at Valarr, who was watching you with an expression of such warm certainty that your knees went weak.

"Future—Valarr, we haven't even—"

"I've been waiting years," he said simply. "I'm not waiting any longer."

Jena clapped her hands together, beaming. "I knew it. Baelor, pay up."

Baelor sighed, reaching for his coin purse. "You said by his nineteenth nameday. His nameday is still three moons away."

"The spirit of the bet, husband. The spirit."

"I don't believe in the spirit of bets. I believe in strict interpretation."

"You owe me a foot massage, and you know it."

While his parents bickered good-naturedly, Valarr tugged you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. "They've been doing this since I was fifteen," he murmured. "Every time I looked at you too long, Mother would nudge Father and whisper 'there it is.'"

"You looked at me?"

"Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point of embarrassment."

You thought back over the years—every lingering glance, every casual touch, every time he'd appeared at your side without being called. How had you missed it? How had you been so blind?

"I really am stupid," you murmured.

"No." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "You're perfect."

"Now you're just being romantic."

"Is it working?"

You smiled up at him—this boy, this prince, this man who'd loved you for years without you ever knowing. "Yes," you said softly. "It's working."

On the terrace, Baelor handed over a small pouch of coins with exaggerated reluctance. Jena accepted it with a triumphant grin, then raised her wine glass in your direction.

"To the future," she called. "And to my son finally having the sense to act on what's been obvious to everyone except the two of you."

Valarr groaned. You laughed.

And when he kissed you again, right there in front of his parents and half the court, you finally understood what you'd been missing all along.

Nothing at all.

Because he'd been there the whole time. Waiting. Hoping. Loving you.

You woke twisted in the sheets, your shift rucked up around your hips, your heart hammering against your ribs. For a moment you couldn't remember where you were; only that you'd been somewhere else, somewhere warm and dark, with your husband's hands on you and his voice in your ear saying things you never heard him say before.

Then the dream frayed at the edges, dissolving like mist, and you were left with only the ache between your thighs and the certain knowledge that you could not spend another day simply waiting for night to fall.

The doors to your bedchamber opened, and a servant entered, bearing a breakfast tray. "Good morning, Your Highness."

"Good morning."

You sat up, pushing back the blankets. Your sheets would need changing and your skin was damp, your thighs sticky.

The servant set the tray on the small table by the window and turned, a smile on her face. "Would you like to bathe before breakfast, Your Highness?"

"I would."

"I'll send for the girls."

A bath was drawn, a tub set before the hearth, and you sank into the steaming water with a sigh. Your servants scrubbed your skin and washed your hair, and all the while you tried to think of a reason to visit Baelor today. Something, anything, so you would have a pretense for seeing him.

Several days had passed since the dinner in his chambers. Several days of meals taken separately, of brief sightings in corridors, of him disappearing behind the door of the Small Council with an apologetic look that said duty calls. Several nights of lying alone, staring at the canopy of your bed, replaying every moment of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, his voice rough with wanting.

You had not slept well any of those nights.

But this morning's dream had been different. More vivid. In it, he had not been patient. In it, he had lifted you onto the great council table and… 

You sank lower into the water, until it lapped at your chin.

"Your Highness?" One of the servants looked at you with concern. "Is the water too cold?"

"No, it's perfect. Thank you."

But her gaze lingered. She exchanged a look with the other servant who was folding your discarded shift.

You had been married long enough now to recognize that look. It was the same look the servants had given you in the first fortnight, when the marriage bed remained unslept-in and your sheets unmarked. Still not consummated. Poor thing.

But this look was different. Curious, rather than pitying.

You thought of the gossip you'd overheard before your wedding… whispered advice, crude jokes, warnings about pain and duty. They knew things. Things your mother had only hinted at. Things Baelor had shown you, but never explained in words.

"Margot," you said, before you could lose your nerve.

The older servant looked up, the shift still in her hands. "Your Highness?"

You hesitated. The water sloshed gently as you pulled your knees up, making yourself smaller. "You've been married, haven't you?"

A pause. Then Margot's face softened, just slightly. "Seventeen years, come spring."

"And your husband..." You trailed off, heat rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the bathwater.

Margot set down the shift. She was a plain woman, sturdy, with gray threading her dark hair and eyes that had seen too much and judged too little. "You can ask, child. I won't bite."

The other servant had gone still by the hearth, clearly listening.

"Does it... hurt?" The question came out smaller than you intended.

Margot considered this. "The first time, for some. Depends on the man. Depends on the woman." She came closer, kneeling by the tub so she could speak quietly. "A good man makes it hurt less. A patient man makes it not hurt at all, given time."

You thought of Baelor's fingers, slow and gentle, stretching you. The ache that had turned to pleasure. "And if he's patient?"

"Then you're lucky." Margot's eyes were knowing. "Most girls aren't."

The other servant spoke from the hearth, her voice shy. "My sister said it gets better. After the first few times. She said..." A blush crept up her neck. "She said she started to like it."

Margot snorted. "Took me a year to like it. But your sister's husband is older than mine was when I wed." She glanced at you. "His Grace is also not a young man."

Your stomach tightened.

"He's been married before," Margot continued, more gently. "He knows his way around a woman. That's worth more than youth, if you ask me. Young men are in a hurry. Older men..." She shrugged. "They've learned that rushing gets them nothing."

"That's true," the younger servant agreed. "But now you're happy now, aren't you Margot?"

Margot nodded, a faint smile curving her lips. "Happy enough. Though I could do with a husband who doesn't snore."

They both laughed, and you did, too…but the sound faded quicker than theirs, drowned out by the persistent ache between your legs.

By the time they had finished helping you from the bath, the feeling had only grown stronger, settling deep in your bones like something that meant to stay. It stayed through the drying of your skin, through the breakfast tray that appeared and disappeared, through your servants lacing you into a gown of pale red and pinning your hair just so. It stayed as you rose from your vanity and crossed to the window, as your gaze found the Tower of the Hand rising against the grey sky.

The ache had not faded. It had only changed shape.

You could not spend another day waiting.

But you could not simply appear at his door, could you? What would you say? I dreamed of you. I can still feel where you touched me. I've replayed that moment a hundred times. I need a new one.

The thought made you cringe. You pressed your palm against the cool glass, trying to maintain reason. You did not move from the window, because moving meant deciding, and deciding meant either cowardice or madness, and you were not yet certain which this was…

So you left your chambers without a clear destination, your feet carrying you down corridors and up staircases. You told yourself you were going to the library. Or the gardens. Anywhere but there.

But your feet ignored your protests.

By the time you realized where you were going, you stood at the end of the corridor that led to the Small Council chamber. The door was closed. Through it, you could hear the low murmur of voices, men arguing, men deliberating, men deciding the fate of the realm.

You should leave.

You should absolutely leave.

But your feet would not move.

And the door opened.

A man emerged; some lord you did not recognize, with a pinched face and a stack of papers. He startled at the sight of you, then recovered, bowing stiffly.

"Your Highness." His eyes flicked past you, as if looking for an explanation. "Were you... expected?"

"No, I-" Your voice came out too high. You cleared your throat. "I need to speak with my husband. It's urgent."

It wasn't. Not remotely. But the lie came easily.

The lord's eyebrows rose, but he was not so foolish as to question the crown prince's wife. He stepped aside, holding the door. "Of course, Princess."

The Small Council table was long and dark, scarred by decades of use. Maps and papers covered its surface, along with wine cups and half-eaten plates of food. The afternoon light slanted through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

Seven men sat around that table. You recognized some: the Master of Coin, the Master of Laws, the Grand Maester with his chain and his weathered face. And at the head, Baelor.

He looked up at your entrance, and his face did that complicated thing again, a mix of surprise, then warmth, then something hungrier, that quickly disappeared.

"My dear." He set down his quill. "Is something amiss?"

Every man at the table was looking at you. You felt your cheeks burn.

"I... I needed to speak with you. It's... private."

A beat of silence. Someone cleared his throat.

Baelor rose, followed by the rest of the council. He did not look at them. His eyes were fixed on you, at the blush spreading across your cheeks.

"Gentlemen." His voice was calm, unhurried. "We'll resume on the morrow."

"My prince, the grain shipments-" someone began.

"On the morrow," Baelor repeated, and there was steel beneath the calm.

Chairs scraped against stone. Men gathered papers, exchanged glances, bowed in your direction as they filed out. You kept your eyes on Baelor, too embarrassed to meet anyone else's gaze.

The door closed behind the last man.

Silence.

Baelor stayed where he was, watching you, his face unreadable. You suddenly regretted coming here. Regretted barging into a council meeting. Regretted lying, telling the lord it was urgent. Your behavior was unbecoming of your status, driven by emotion and not duty. You felt so very foolish.

You looked down at your hands, twisting in the fabric of your skirts.

"Come here, sweet girl." He spoke softly, and the familiar endearment made your chest loosen.

He reached out, taking your hand, pulling you into the space between him and the table. You could feel the heat of his body, could smell the woodsmoke and ink that clung to his clothes. His thumb stroked over yours, gentle and slow, and his gaze moved over you, assessing.

"Did something happen?" he asked.

You shook your head, too flustered to speak.

"Why are you here?"

You swallowed, gathering your courage. "I was wondering..." You trailed off, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat.

"Wondering what?" He brought your hand to his mouth, and kissed the inside of your wrist.

"Why you've ignored me." Your voice came out in a whisper. "You didn't send for me again. For days, I haven't... haven't seen you... After..." You couldn't bring yourself to finish the thought, so instead, you looked down, trying to control your blush.

He paused, then chuckled softly. "Do you really think I've been ignoring you, my sweet wife?" He drew you closer. "You, whom I can think of nothing else?"

You let yourself be drawn, let yourself breathe in the familiar scent of him, let his hands on you drive out all your fears of rejection and shame. His fingertips trailed down your arm, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

"The realm begs for my attention." He spoke in your ear, low and intimate, and the sound of it made the ache in your bones surge. "I am duty-bound. I must do my work."

"But not to the exclusion of me." The words escaped your mouth, bold and impudent.

He huffed a laugh. "You think I'd willingly stay away from you?" He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your hip. "I've been doing this alone for so long, I forget sometimes that I'm not alone anymore. That there's someone who notices when I'm gone." His voice dropped lower. "Someone who minds."

Before you could respond, his hands closed around your waist and lifted you easily, setting you on the edge of the council table, maps and papers crinkling beneath you.

You gasped, clutching his shoulders for balance. He stood between your legs, looking down at you with his dark mismatched eyes. One of his hands came up, brushing hair back from your face, stroking a thumb across your cheek.

"Tell me," His voice was soft. "Why are you really here? In this room?"

Your tongue darted out, wetting your lips. You swallowed. "I couldn't stop thinking about the other night. In your chambers. And how I didn't want it to be over."

"Mm-hm." His gaze dropped to your bodice, taking in the full swell of your breasts, the way they heaved with each shallow breath. "I know the feeling."

He leaned in, brushing his mouth against yours. It was a soft, slow kiss. Teasing. The tip of his tongue touched the seam of your lips. When you gasped, he slid his hand behind your head, holding you there while he deepened the kiss. You clutched the front of his tunic, pulling him closer, heat coiling low in your belly.

"It's difficult to concentrate on ruling when there are far more interesting things to think about." He moved his lips down your neck. "Far more pleasant things." 

"Like what?"

"Like how I'd like to tear the seams from this dress." His voice was a low rumble, the words sliding over you, leaving a trail of heat. "Like how much I want to touch you again." His hands slid up your sides, and back down, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. "Like how wet I bet you are already, and how much I want to taste it."

Your thighs automatically tried to press together, but his hips were between them, keeping them apart. His hands moved to the front of your bodice, tugging at the laces.

"May I?"

You nodded, and he loosened your bodice, his hands sliding beneath the cloth and pushing it aside, baring your breasts. His eyes darkened. His thumbs found your nipples, circling them gently.

You gasped.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and then his head dipped, and his tongue traced a circle around one aching bud.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Pleasure jolted through you, tightening in your belly, dampness gathering between your thighs. He pressed his hips forward, and you felt the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches.

He kissed his way back up your throat, to your ear. "How badly do you want me to keep going, sweet girl?"

Your hands tightened on his shoulders. You shifted against him, a silent plea.

"Hmm." His hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples, the touch maddeningly light. 

"I- please-"

"Please what?" His lips were so close, his voice so soft, but the look in his eyes was anything but. "Tell me."

"I want-" Your whole body ached.

A sudden loud knock on the door made you both jump. Baelor quickly pulled your dress back into place, smoothing the fabric just as the door opened.

"Your Highness-" The same lord who had let you in had returned, a fresh stack of papers in his hands. "I meant to mention, the tax-"

He froze, taking in the scene before him: the crown prince between the legs of his young wife, the princess flushed and disheveled, her gown hastily retied.

"If you wouldn't mind, Ser," Baelor said pleasantly, his eyes never leaving the intruder, "this is a private meeting."

"Your Highness, I had no idea-"

"Clearly."

The lord was bright red. He ducked his head, backing toward the door. "My apologies, my prince... princess..."

He retreated, and the door shut once more.

Silence.

Baelor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. His arm wrapped around your waist, his lips finding your ear. "That's one way to let the court know their prince is no longer celibate."

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder. "Gods, I'm mortified."

"Don't be. It will save us an awkward conversation." He kissed the side of your neck, fixing the laces of your bodice. "Now the servants will speak of babes instead of beddings. The Small Council will be relieved, I assure you."

"Babes?" you repeated.

"Mm-hm." His hands went back to your waist, his lips tracing a line of kisses along your throat. "It's our duty, after all."

His palm slid up the curve of your stomach, pressing lightly. "A duty we must try to fulfill," he continued, his voice low and rough. "Many, many times."

You whimpered, tilting your head back, granting him access to your neck.

"But not here." He whispered, kissing your neck softly before pulling back. "We should go somewhere more private."

You nodded against him, not trusting your voice.

He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and led you from the council chamber. The corridors were blessedly empty… whether by chance or because word had already spread that the Crown Prince was not to be disturbed, you did not know. Still, you kept your eyes on the stone floor, certain that anyone who saw you would know exactly what you were thinking, what you were about to do.

His chambers were not far. He opened the door, drew you inside, and closed it behind you with a final-sounding click.

The fire was lit. The window was open, a breeze stirring the heavy curtains. A single candle flickered, casting warm light across the bed, which had been turned down already, the pillows fluffed, the blankets straightened.

Baelor moved to stand behind you, his hands settling on your waist. He kissed the side of your neck, drawing you back against him.

"Relax, I'm going to add more logs to the fire."

He pulled away, crossing the room. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your stomach. You watched him build up the flames, stacking logs and kindling until the fire was crackling and bright. You enjoyed the way the firelight played across his broad shoulders, the silver streaks in his dark hair.

He straightened, and his eyes found yours. The same warmth was there, along with something darker, deeper. Something that made your heart beat even faster.

He reached for the clasp of his tunic, unfastening it. The fabric fell away, and he discarded it, letting it drop to the floor.

You lifted trembling fingers to the ties of your bodice. They were still loose from his attentions in the Small Council chamber. You undid them slowly, the fabric loosening, slipping from your shoulders.

His gaze was unwavering, watching you reveal yourself to him.  The dress pooled at your feet, and you stepped out of it, clad only in a thin shift.

"Keep going," he murmured.

Your hands found the hem of your shift, pulling it up and over your head, letting it drop on top of the dress. You stood before him, vulnerable and trembling, every inch of you exposed.

His gaze moved over you, taking you in, a slow smile curving his lips.

"Come here."

He held out a hand, and you took it. He pulled you to him, the heat of his skin against yours. His hands moved down your back, cupping your ass, drawing you closer, until you could feel his hardness pressing against you.

Your hands were on his chest, slowly exploring. He had always been well-made, but age had added muscle. He was no young, lean soldier; he was a man, with broad shoulders and a thick chest and a solid stomach. A man who had spent a lifetime ruling and sparring, and the evidence was in his body. Your fingers traced over a deep scar on his chest, and his hand covered yours, stilling it.

"Old wounds," he murmured. "Nothing to worry about."

You nodded, biting your lip. You let your hand drift lower, to the laces of his breeches.

"Go ahead, sweet girl," he said, his voice thick.

The laces loosened, and you pushed his breeches and smallclothes down. He stepped out of them, and kicked them aside, his cock sprang free, hard and ready.

You were standing so close, but he did not move to touch you. He simply stood, looking down at you, his eyes moving slowly over your face.

"You are perfect," he said quietly.

Heat bloomed in your chest, your cheeks, your stomach. You looked away, suddenly shy.

"And you are lovely." His lips brushed the top of your head, and then he took your chin, tilting it up. "Are you nervous?"

You hesitated, then nodded.

His eyes were warm. "Don't be. We'll take our time. All right?"

You nodded again.

"Wrap your arms around my neck."

You did, and his hands went to your hips, lifting you easily. You let out a gasp and held tighter, and he carried you to the bed, depositing you gently in the middle.

He kissed you, slow and deep, and you relaxed into the furs. His hands were warm and solid, sliding up your legs, tracing the contours of your body.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his fingers trailing up the soft skin of your inner thigh.

You let out a sigh, spreading your legs, welcoming him. He hummed in approval, and his thumb grazed over the seam of your cunt, spreading the wetness there, and a soft moan escaped your lips. . "Do you like when I touch you here?"

"Yes," you whispered, arching into his hand.

"Mm. And if I do this..." He dragged the pad of his thumb up, circling the little bundle that had given you such pleasure before. "Do you like that, too?"

Pleasure jolted through you. Your breath came short, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"That's a yes, then." He grinned, and bent his head, his mouth finding the peak of your breast.

He teased you with his thumb, rubbing circles, coaxing more and more wetness. Then he eased two fingers inside you, curling, stroking the same spot that had made you tremble before. The soft squelching sound, the lewdness of it, only made you hotter. 

You made soft, desperate noises as he pumped his fingers in and out, his thumb circling that spot above. Lost in the sensation, lost in him. Your eyes were glazed over, half-lidded, clutching at his shoulders, his hair, as if to keep him from stopping.

He hummed softly, kissing your throat, the hollow of your neck. "Are you ready, sweet girl?"

"Please." You were nearly breathless, rocking into his hand.

He chuckled. His fingers left you, and you made a soft noise of protest, your hips bucking against him, seeking more.

"Easy," he murmured. 

He settled himself between your legs. You felt the head of his cock nudge against you, and you took a shaky breath. He stayed like that, letting you get used to the sensation, his hands lifting your thighs, spreading them wider, opening you for him.

His lips brushed your forehead. "You're going to feel a pinch, sweet girl. Just breathe."

His hands tightened on your thighs, and he pressed forward, the blunt head of his cock easing inside you.

You whimpered, feeling the stretch. It was not like his fingers. This was different. Deeper. Almost too much. Then something did pinch, sharp and hot.

"Ah," you gasped, digging your nails into his biceps.

"I know," he soothed. "I know. But it will feel better soon."

You nodded, and the sting faded. The fullness, however, did not. You squirmed beneath him, trying to adjust, trying to understand this new feeling.

His hands smoothed over your thighs, soothing, his lips brushing yours. "Do you need me to stop?"

"No, I... no." You took a deep breath, hands moving to his shoulders, trying to steady yourself.

"Good." His mouth trailed down your throat, his hips shifting, his cock pressing further, then withdrawing, a slow, measured movement. 

Your walls clenched around him, adjusting, and the feeling slowly turned from pain to something else. Pleasure. Not the same sharp pleasure as his fingers, but something softer, deeper, spreading through you.

"Oh," you breathed.

He let out a low chuckle, his breath warm against your cheek. "Feeling better?"

"Mm-hm."

He began to move in earnest then, slow heavy strokes that seemed to reach your very center. Each thrust pressed him deep, held, then withdrew just as slowly before sinking home again. The pressure was building, the pleasure building, and you were making noises that would have embarrassed you in any other circumstance.

He angled his hips, and something shifted inside you. A spark, a building pressure. Your back arched.

"There," he murmured, his eyes watching your face. "There it is. I can feel you clenching around me."

You moaned, gripping his forearms. His pace stayed the same, steady, slow, until you were gasping, trembling, your eyes squeezed shut.

"No, no, open them." He leaned down, nuzzling the soft skin below your ear. "Look down, watch us."

You forced your eyes open. You were both flushed, slick with sweat, his skin glistening in the firelight. You looked down the length of your body, past his chest, to where you could see his cock disappearing into you, each thick, slow stroke.

"Touch yourself," he murmured.

You shook your head, overwhelmed, your gaze still fixed on where his body met yours.

"Just like I showed you before." He caught your wrist, guiding it between your legs. "Make yourself come on my cock."

Your eyes widened at his crude words, and a wave of heat went through you. Then your fingers found the little bud above where his cock was buried inside you, and the world went white.

It was beyond anything you had experienced, it felt like you left your body. You could hear your own moans, the slick sounds of him fucking you. Your head tipped back, body moving without thought, hips rising to meet his thrusts, desperate to draw out this sensation.

You could hear his groans, his muttered praise, but could not make out the words. Then his thrusts grew shallow, and his hands clutched your hips, his body tensing.

He made a strangled noise, and then warmth spread through you, the press of his cock deeper than ever. It made everything sharper, brighter.

A silent moan left your lips, and your whole body tipped over into oblivion. Your walls clenched around him, again and again, and you were dimly aware of him whispering your name, his cock pulsing inside you.

Then you collapsed into the furs, and his weight came down beside you, his arm draped over your waist, his face pressed against the curve of your shoulder.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the slowing thunder of your hearts. You were floating, weightless, the ache between your legs now something warm and satisfied rather than sharp with wanting.

You turned in his arms to face him. He was watching you. Had been watching you, you realized. His mismatched eyes moved over your face like he was memorizing it. You should have felt exposed. Instead, you felt seen.

No one had ever looked at you quite like this.

You reached out before you could think better of it, your fingers finding the edge of a scar near his shoulder. Old and silvered, faded into his skin like something that had always been there.

He went very still.

"May I?" you whispered.

He gave the smallest nod.

Your fingers traced along it, then found another lower, and another. A map of a man you barely knew, written in healed wounds.

"So many," you murmured.

"Old scars from the rebellion," he said softly, his hand drifting up and down your spine.

"I thought the kingsguard were supposed to protect their prince," you said, tracing a star-shaped mark on his chest.

He chuckled, his hand pausing on the small of your back. "They do. But it's a bit harder when the prince is in a battle."

You made a soft noise, thinking of him younger, covered in blood, fighting for his life. It was so different from the man beside you, holding you. You had never thought of him as a warrior before.

He kissed the top of your head, his arm tightening around you. "I'm fine, sweet wife."

"I don't want you fighting." You buried your face in his chest.

"No?" He chuckled, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your hip. "Why not?"

"Because..." You struggled for the right words, and settled for the truth. "Because you're too important. The realm needs you."

His expression softened. "The realm needs a leader that will fight for it."

"I'd rather it had one that stays alive," you muttered.

"Sweet girl." He tucked your hair behind your ear, his thumb tracing along the line of your jaw. "I'm not planning to die. Not for a very long time."

You nodded, pressing your face against him, and his hand came to rest at the back of your neck, warm and solid.

"Besides," he murmured, his thumb stroking over your nape, "I have a great deal to live for now."

"Like what?"

"Hm. Well, there's a certain princess who has agreed to give me a babe or two. Or three."

You smiled, blushing, and his fingers tightened at the back of your neck.

"I have a kingdom to rule, sons to raise, a library full of books I've never read... And a wife to please." He chuckled. "There are many things to keep me occupied. For a very long time."

"Oh, is that right?" You tilted your head back, looking up at him.

"Yes, it is." He cupped your chin, his eyes moving slowly over your face.

"You should start with the wife," you said softly.

"That is the plan." His lips brushed yours. "As soon as I catch my breath."

Cregan stood upon the battlements of Winterfell, the wind whipping through his dark hair. Below, the courtyard lay swathed in twilight, the torchlight catching the frost on the stone.

You watched him from the window of your new rooms, your fingers clutching at the heavy fur of your new cloak. It was well-made, as was everything in the North, the pelts of snow bears and wolves stitched together with an expertise that spoke of generations of survival. Your new cloak, for your new life.

A life with Cregan Stark.

The thought sent a tremor through you, though the chambers were warm. A great fire crackled in the hearth, chasing away the Northern chill, but it couldn't chase away the knot of dread in your stomach.

You felt like cattle at the market when the raven arrived at the keep that housed your late husband's family. The steward had presented the letter to you with a bowed head, the seal of the direwolf unmistakable. An invitation. A request. A command, your hands shaking so badly you could barely break the wax.

Cregan Stark needed a new wife. And you were a widow. Simple, clean, an exchange of one life for another. This one, however, was in the North. A thousand miles from all you have ever known.

He was a good man, they told you. A noble lord, just and fair. He had been kind to you in your brief courtship by raven and then the handful of days you spent together before the ceremony. You couldn’t help but compare his gentle touch when he took your arm to your husband's rough handling. Cregan's eyes held a warmth that seemed to melt the frost around him.

But kindness in the courtyard and in the great hall was one thing. The bedchamber was another.

Your late husband had been a man of duty. Your marriage had been a contract, a merging of lands and titles. He had done what was necessary to secure an heir, though the gods had not blessed your union. It was a thing you dreaded more than the cold of winter. A quick, clumsy, painful affair that left you feeling soiled and insignificant. You had learned to endure it, to lie still and think of anything, anything at all, until it was over.

Cregan could see you from where he stood. The window was a square of golden light against the dark stone of the castle. You were a silhouette, small and still. He had hoped this would be easier for you. A widow, like himself. You had both known the sharp sting of loss. He thought it might create a space between you, a quiet understanding that he had not felt with anyone since his Arra had passed. He imagined you sharing stories of your lost loves by the fire, building a new life on the foundations of the old ones.

But all he sensed from you was fear.

He sighed, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He had seen the way you flinched when a man raised his voice too quickly in the hall, the way your hands folded in your lap, trying to hide their trembling. He had seen the wariness in your eyes, a deep-rooted caution that spoke of more than just the grief of a widow.

He turned from the battlements and made his way through the familiar corridors of his home. Now your home. The thought gave him a pang of guilt. He had uprooted you, dragged you to the end of the world for his own needs. The Stark line. The duty that never ended.

When he entered your shared chambers, you were standing by the bed, the heavy coverlet already turned down. You were wearing a simple nightgown of fine linen, the fabric so thin it was nearly translucent. Your hair was unbound, a curtain over your shoulders.

It had been mere hours since the wedding. A simple affair in the godswood, hands bound beneath the weirwood tree. A kiss on the cheek, vows made, and that was it.

Now, in the quiet of the room, you did not look at him. Your gaze was fixed on some point on the floor, your shoulders rigid. And without saying a word you crawled on to the bed, moving to the very center, and laid down on your back, your hands clasped over your stomach. You closed your eyes, a muscle twitching in your jaw.

Cregan felt a cold wash of rage, not at you, but for you. For the man who had taught you this was all you were good for. A vessel to be used.

For a long moment, he just stood there, the firelight carving the hard planes of his face. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but also weep for the sorrow of it.

"What are you doing?" He whispered gently.

Your eyes flew open, wide with a fear that made his heart ache. "My lord?" you whispered, confusion warring with the terror in your face.

"Cregan," he corrected gently, moving further into the room. He didn't approach the bed, not yet. He gave you space. "You do not have to call me 'my lord' in here. We are husband and wife."

You flinched at the word, and he knew then, with a certainty that chilled him, that your previous marriage had been a battlefield, not a partnership.

"I am ready… Cregan," you said, your voice a breathy, broken thing. You sounded so young. So lost.

He saw a single tear trace a path from the corner of your eye to your hairline, and watched the way your whole body seemed to tremble.

"Ready for what?" he asked, though he knew. He needed to hear it. Needed to understand the depth of the wound he was being asked to heal.

You swallowed hard, your knuckles white where they gripped each other. "To do m-my duty," you managed.

He let out a sigh that was half groan, and slowly, he sank into the large, high-backed chair by the fire. He ran a hand over his face, the stubble scratching against his palm.

You sat up, "Have I displeased you?" you asked, your voice small.

"No," he said, and the simple word was so full of a strange, gentle emotion that it made your chest tighten. "Gods, no. You have done nothing to displease me."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look at me," he said, not unkindly.

You hesitated, but obeyed, slowly raising your eyes to meet his.

"Whatever your former husband told you," he began, his voice softer now, "whatever he did... that is not what it is between us. Not what it will be."

Another tear escaped, the shame was a physical thing, a burning in your throat. "But... we are married. It is my wifely duty to..."

"Come here," he said softly, cutting you off.

It was not a command. It was an invitation. But still you froze, unable to move.

"To the fire," he clarified, as if sensing your turmoil. "You are cold."

You slid from the bed, your bare feet silent on the thick wolf-skin rug. You clutched the front of your nightgown, a flimsy shield, and made your way to the fire, standing a few feet from his chair, still radiating tension.

He gently pulled you forward, and you let out a surprised yelp as he effortlessly lifted you, settling you on his lap.

He wrapped one of the heavy furs from the back of the chair around your shoulders. "Better?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in your ear.

You could only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs. One of his large, warm hands rested on your waist, the other came up to gently brush the hair from your cheek.

"You are my wife," he said, the words a simple, undeniable fact. "And it is my duty to care for you. To protect you. To bring you joy."

"Oh." You said softly, pressing yourself a little closer to him, his warmth seeping into your skin.

"Tell me," he said, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic circle on your waist. "Did your late husband ever bring you any joy?"

The question was so direct, so gentle, it shattered the carefully constructed wall around your heart. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, unable to let him see the fresh tears, the vulnerability. You shook your head against him, a small, miserable gesture.

He made a soft, pained sound. His arms tightened around you, a secure cage, a safe harbor. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, strong and true.

"What a fool he was," Cregan murmured, more to himself than to you. "To have a treasure and to only see the stone."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you said nothing. You just breathed him in. He smelled of pine, of cold air, of leather and woodsmoke. He smelled of safety.

After a long silence, he spoke again, his lips brushing against your temple. "There is no debt to be paid between us. No duty to be endured in this bed. Do you understand me?"

You nodded again, your throat too tight to form words.

"I want to share a life with you. All of it. The days and the nights. The joy and the sorrow." He paused, his hand moving from your waist to splay across your back, a brand of warmth through the thin linen of your gown. "And in the nights... I want to give you pleasure. Not take it."

Your head shot up at that, your tear-stained face turned to his. "What do you mean my lor- … I mean.. Cregan?"

A small, sad smile touched the corner of his lips. "May I show you? May I teach you what it should be?"

You looked into his eyes and saw no hunger there. No demand. Only a deep, abiding tenderness, a patient desire to undo a wrong you hadn't even realized you endured. The fear was still there, a cold knot in your belly, but something else was blossoming alongside it. A flicker of curiosity. A spark you never allowed yourself to feel. You nodded, a single, jerky motion.

"Good," he whispered as he gathered you into his arms.

He carried you to the bed, laying you down upon the furs as gently as if you were made of spun sugar, your head sinking into the soft pillows. Then, he leaned over you, bracing a forearm on the mattress beside your head.

"Our bed," he said, his voice a low caress. "A place of warmth and rest." He lowered his head and kissed your lips, a gentle, unhurried brush. "A place of pleasure."

You let out a breathy little gasp at that, and his mouth found yours again, more firmly this time, his hand cupping your cheek. His kiss was a slow, sensual exploration, a lazy slide of his tongue, a nip at your lower lip. You felt the tip of his thumb trace the line of your jaw, his fingers sliding into your hair. He tasted like mead, his beard soft against your skin.

You didn't know what to do with your hands. They lay stiffly at your sides, unsure.

"Touch me," he whispered against your mouth, and it was the most sinful, beautiful thing you had ever heard. "Like this."

He moved your hand to his chest, placing it palm down over his heart. It beat under your touch, strong and sure. Then, he moved his lips down, his beard tickling the soft skin of your neck, the hollow of your throat. It tickled, and you let out a small, breathless giggle.

"Good," he murmured, kissing the corner of your jaw. "Laughter in the bedchamber is a good thing."

He kissed lower, over the curve of your shoulder, nudging the strap of your nightgown aside to reach the delicate skin beneath.

You were breathing harder now, your chest rising and falling as his lips traced the path lower, down over the fabric, his teeth grazing the hard peak of one nipple. It felt good. A slow, building sensation, a warmth spreading through you. You arched a little, letting out a low moan.

He slowly pushed up the hem of your nightdress, exposing the soft skin of your thighs, your stomach. You could only watch, your breath coming in ragged gasps as his fingers reached the edge of the linen.

"May I?" he asked, his voice a dark, silken rumble.

"What... what are you going to do?" you asked, uncertainty and need mixing in the words.

"This," he whispered, and before you could protest, his head disappeared beneath the covers.

You felt his breath first, warm against the inside of your thigh, a soft moan escaping your lips. And then his mouth was on you, a slow, languid lick along the slit of your sex, his hands hooking under your knees and lifting them over his shoulders.

The slow build had now turned into a blazing fire, every nerve in your body alive and singing. You cried out, your hand reaching blindly for his head, tangling in his dark hair.

His tongue found a rhythm, swirling over the little nub that sent sparks shooting through you. You couldn't seem to stay still, your hips bucking, your legs tightening around him. It was so good, the heat building in your belly, a tension gathering inside you.

"Cregan," you moaned, unable to stop the sounds spilling from your mouth.

You could feel him smile against you, the scratch of his beard adding another layer of sensation. "Just let go," he murmured.

You didn't know what you were supposed to let go of, did he mean his hair? The way your thighs were squeezing him?

And then he did something with his tongue, something that sent a wave of pure, blinding bliss crashing over you. You arched your back, a cry on your lips, every muscle in your body tensing. And then it released, a pulse that spread through you, warm and electric.

You collapsed back onto the bed, gasping, your skin flushed. You could feel him slowly licking at you, his hands stroking the insides of your trembling thighs.

"So beautiful," he said, his voice a satisfied rumble. He moved up, kissing your stomach, the curve of your breast, the hollow of your throat.

When he emerged from beneath the blankets, his lips were shiny, his eyes dark with lust. But his hands were gentle as they moved the hair back from your face, his thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks.

"I don't believe that is how we make heirs," you murmured, a giddy smile touching your lips.

"No," he laughed, "it isn't...but it helps."

You blushed at that, and he chuckled again, lowering his lips to yours. You could taste yourself on him, a salty sweetness.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his forehead resting against yours.

"Yes," you breathed, your hands finding his shoulders, his upper arms. He was so solid, his muscles bunching under his tunic. You were suddenly aware of the ache between your legs, the slick heat.

"Do you want me to continue?"

You nodded, your hands drifting down to tug at the hem of his tunic. "I want... I want to see you," you managed, a sudden shyness creeping into your words.

"Alright," he whispered. He sat up, straddling your hips, and pulled his tunic off over his head.

You had seen a man's body before. Your former husband's unappealing shape. But this was different. Cregan was young, his shoulders were broad, the muscles defined, his chest covered in a dusting of dark hair. You couldn't help but reach for him, running your hands over his stomach, the trail of hair that disappeared below his breeches.

"You feel... Firm," you said, not knowing how else to put it.

He chuckled, "thank you, I think."

"How do I make you feel good?" you asked, a sudden boldness in the words.

"You are," he said.

You frowned. "But..."

"Trust me," he said, his fingers moving to the ties at the front of his breeches. "It feels very, very good."

You watched him remove his clothes, feeling your cheeks burn. His cock was long and thick, already hard and jutting toward you.

"It's very...," you couldn't say the rest, feeling a nervous thrill as his weight settled over you.

"Your former husband was lacking, then?" he said, his tone playful.

"Cregan," you hissed, smacking his arm.

He laughed, a low, rich sound, his lips pressing against the side of your neck.

"Do not be embarrassed. It is not your fault."

You giggled at that, the ridiculousness of it all. Your late husband would have been appalled, perhaps even insulted, at such levity. But you liked it. You liked his laughter, the way his smile lit up his whole face.

"Now," he said, his mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear. "Let's see if I can't get you to make that pretty noise again."

He took his cock in his hand, stroking it a few times. Then, he guided your thighs up, his hands behind your knees.

"Wrap them around me," he murmured.

You obeyed, your calves pressing into his back, the position opening you up to him.

"How did your former husband take you?" he asked.

You blushed at the question, biting your lip. "He would... lie atop me, flop on top of me, really. And..."

"Pound into you like a battering ram," Cregan finished.

"Something like that," you replied, laughing again.

"He was an idiot."

"Perhaps," you replied.

"He was," Cregan insisted. "Because he had this," and his cock slid through your sex, a teasing pressure, "and did not appreciate it."

"Oh," you gasped, arching against him.

"And he missed the best part," Cregan added.

"What's that?" You asked, your voice high and breathless, your hands clutching his shoulders.

"You'll see," he whispered, slowly pressing himself inside you.

There was no pain. Just the delicious stretch of him, the slow, careful slide. You let out a small gasp as his hips met yours, fully sheathed.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded, a breathless yes.

He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm, a push and pull that sent sparks racing along your nerves. His lips found yours, a lazy, open-mouthed kiss, his beard a rough contrast to the softness.

It felt good. Different. Your hands tightened on his back, urging him closer, and he obliged, his thrusts speeding up.

"Do you like that?" he murmured.

"Yes," you whispered, a flush warming your skin.

His hands tangled in your hair, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. He watched you as he moved, a look of intense concentration and pleasure on his face.

One of his hands slipped between you, finding the little bud where the pleasure coiled, and began to stroke.

The tension returned, the delicious build of it, the heat. Your hands clutched his chest, a breathy whimper on your lips.

"Look at me," he demanded, a raw, possessive edge to the words.

Your eyes met his, and you couldn't have looked away if you wanted to. The world seemed to shrink to the small space between your bodies, to the pleasure building inside you, the feel of him.

You knew what he meant now, about the best part. As you neared the edge, the moment before falling, a sense of freedom, a connection so intimate and deep it almost scared you.

And when the climax took you, the world fractured, everything unspooling, and you were clinging to him, nails scratching down his chest. He moved faster, harder, until with a groan, his own pleasure crashed over him, his hips stilling.

For a long moment, he just stayed there, inside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. And then, he kissed your cheek and slowly rolled onto his side.

His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. One hand came up, rubbing a palm across his face. He looked spent, the tension gone from his body.

You did what you had always done before. You turned onto your side, facing away from him, and closed your eyes.

But a strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against him, his body a wall of warmth.

"What are you doing all the way over there?" he mumbled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You felt a laugh bubbling up, and tried to smother it. You had always been taught that men wanted their sleep undisturbed.

"I... I wasn't sure if you wanted me near," you managed, rolling over to face him.

"Always," he replied, his hand sliding down your hip, pulling your leg up and hitching it over his.

"My former husband used to kick me out of the bed."

A shadow crossed his face, a fleeting expression of rage, quickly replaced by amusement.

"I do hope you are jesting," he replied, his hand squeezing the curve of your backside.

You shook your head, a giggle escaping.

"That man was a fool," Cregan said, his hand drifting over the swell of your breast. "To have a woman like you, and to send you away."

You leaned forward, nuzzling the hollow of his throat. He felt warmer than the furs, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring rhythm against your skin.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, tracing the line of his jaw with a fingertip. "For the loss of your first wife... I am sure she was a wonderful woman."

He made a soft, sad sound, and gently kissed the top of your head. "She was. She would have liked you."

You weren't sure what to say to that, so you just snuggled closer, one of your hands finding his, threading your fingers through his.

"We will make a good life, you and I," he said softly, his voice heavy with sleep. "I will not be a demanding husband, or a cruel lord. I promise."

You lifted your head, a strange tightness in your throat. "I trust you."

His eyes opened at that, meeting yours. He smiled, the warmth in his gaze filling you. "And if the gods bless us with a child, I will be a loving father."

A single tear escaped, and he wiped it away with his thumb.

"Don't cry," he whispered. "It's our wedding night, after all. There should be no sadness here."

"Happy tears," you managed. "I am very happy."

"Good," he said. And then, his lips touched yours, and you felt yourself melting into his arms.

"I think I like wedding nights," you murmured, a smile curling the corners of your lips.

"Well then," he said, a wicked glint in his eye, "I'll make sure the rest are just as enjoyable."

"Your Highness," You dipped into a curtsy at the threshold of the Hand's office.

The sight that greeted you made you pause. Papers carpeted the floor in drifts, quills lay scattered like fallen branches after a storm, and an open inkpot teetered at the very edge of the desk, one careless elbow from disaster.

Baelor hunched over his work, scratching at parchment with single-minded focus. An empty glass sat by his side, a half-empty bottle of wine beside it. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and his tunic bore wrinkles that suggested he had slept in it. Or simply never bothered to change.

"You needn't call me that in informal settings, my dear." Baelor did not even glance up. "I am nothing but your husband when we are alone."

You still did not know quite how to behave around him. He was a good deal older than you, a widower with two grown sons. The rushed wedding had been more treaty than ceremony, your house’s loyalty in exchange for your hand. In the fortnight since, you had shared meals, exchanged polite conversation, and slept alone in chambers that felt far too large.

But you remembered how he had looked at you in the sept. Not with the cold appraisal you expected, but something softer. Almost wondering.

You stepped further into the room, picking your way carefully over the strewn papers. You reached for the empty wine glass, intending to fetch a clean one from the kitchens. You were not much for politics, but you understood enough to know his position was stressful. The least you could do was bring him fresh wine.

He watched you fuss from the corner of his eye, setting down his quill as you collected his empty plate. "You do not need to do that." His voice was quiet, gentle, though still he had not fully turned to face you. "There are servants who can tend to it."

"I want to." You smiled, moving the inkpot to safer ground and wiping at the black splatters staining the wood.

He rose and rounded the desk, his hand closing over yours. The touch sent a strange tightening through your belly, a knot pulling taut, low and warm. You were still learning the weight of his hands, the way they dwarfed yours completely.

"Leave the papers be." He squeezed your fingers, smiling gently down at you. "Come and sit. Tell me of your day."

"You have been busy. I did not wish to disturb you."

"You are never a bother."

He led you to the chaise by the window, where the afternoon sun cast warm light across the cushions. He sat and tugged your hand, urging you to join him, you sat a respectful distance from him. Your hand was still clasped in his, his thumb tracing a line over your knuckles. 

"You have been married to me a fortnight," he said, "and I have been locked away with ledgers and ravens. I wish to make it up to you."

You flushed, feeling the heat creeping up the back of your neck. "It is your duty to rule. I would not expect you to abandon that for me."

"I am your husband first." His hand settled on your hip, heavy and warm through the fabric of your gown. "And I have neglected my duties to you."

You swallowed hard. You had heard the whispers…servants who thought you could not hear. Still not consummated. Poor thing, probably terrified of him. Or perhaps he is too old to-

You shook the thoughts away, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. He was strikingly handsome, with dark hair and mismatched eyes.  His face bore the marks of his years, the lines beside his eyes when he smiled, but they only made him look distinguished. Powerful. His chest was broad, his hands large and gentle. It did not matter what the servants said. They were not the ones married to him.

"What are you thinking, sweet girl?" His thumb stroked the curve of your hip.

"Nothing important."

His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, fingers splaying wide. "Let me try again. What are you thinking?"

Your face burned. "I... the servants talk. They say we have not…that you have not-"

"Taken you to bed?" He said it plainly, without shame or hesitation. "Consummated our marriage?"

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

His sigh was soft, not frustrated but something tender. "You were forced to wed a man near twenty years your elder and brought to a court you do not know. I wanted to give you time. Time to know me, to trust me, to want me.... Not because duty demands it. Because you choose it."

You sat silent, his words settling over you like a warm cloak. Your flush deepened. Choose. No one had ever asked if you would choose.

"Have you chosen me?" he asked quietly.

Slowly, your hands reached out and came to rest against his chest. You felt his heartbeat there, steady and strong. You were still learning him; his warmth, his patience, the way he watched you like you were something precious.

"Yes," you whispered. The word felt enormous. "I choose you."

His arms came around you, drawing you closer until you found yourself in his lap, knees bracketing his hips. You could feel him beneath you, solid and warm, and you leaned in, pressing your lips to his, all gentle and questioning.

He answered by kissing you back, soft and slow, letting you set the pace. His lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

Then his hand slid from your back to grip the curve of your backside, and the sudden boldness startled a gasp from you. He took the opportunity, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his fingers kneaded the soft flesh through your gown.

That strange feeling in your belly had returned, hotter now, spreading like honey through your veins. You clutched at his shoulders, unsure whether to pull away or press closer, that terrible knot drawing ever tighter.

"My prin-husband," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "I fear I ...feel strangely."

He chuckled, low and warm against your ear. His hand crept to your stomach, pressing gently against the tension. "This is what you should feel, sweet girl." His palm slipped lower, fingers sliding down to brush against the apex of your thighs. "It will only grow from here."

"I - ah." You grasped his arm, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

He smiled, kissing the hollow of your throat. His fingers moved in slow, firm circles, the friction growing warmer and wetter by the moment. 

"A woman is different from a man," he explained, his mouth pressed against your ear. "When we touch each other, it is not the same."

"Yes," you said softly. "I know how it's supposed to happen. My husband... I mean- you put your cock inside me."

He chuckled, a sound that rumbled through his chest. "A crude description, but yes."

A wave of embarrassment washed over you, and you hid your face in the crook of his neck.

"Tell me, my dear," he whispered, "did your mother explain it to you?"

"She...she told me not to struggle."

He stiffened, his fingers pausing their gentle motion. "What else did she tell you?"

"She said...she said that once the lord finishes, I will be bound to him." You felt foolish, reciting the words as though they were a poem or a lesson.

"My dear girl." His tone was pained, and you dared to look up at him. "It is a good deal more than not struggling."

He drew his hand back and cupped your face, his mismatched eyes searching yours. "Your husband should never hurt you."

You swallowed. "Is ...is it not painful? your highne-"

"Baelor," he corrected, his lips curving into a smile.

"Baelor." Your heart fluttered, your skin prickling at the way his name sounded on your tongue.

He leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His hands moved to the front of your gown, finding the delicate laces that ran from your chest to your waist. He did not rush. Each tug was slow, deliberate, his knuckles brushing against your breasts through the fabric.

"I have thought of this," he murmured against your mouth. "Since the moment I first saw you in the sept. The unwrapping. Like a gift I do not deserve."

Your heart hammered. "You deserve everything, my prince."

He shook his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I deserve nothing. But I shall endeavor to earn you, all the same."

The laces loosened, and his fingers slipped beneath the edges of your gown, pushing the fabric aside. Cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and chest. You wore a thin shift beneath, the linen so fine it was nearly transparent.

Baelor's breath left him in a long, slow exhale. His hands smoothed over your shoulders, pushing the gown down your arms until it pooled at your  waist. The shift clung to you, revealing the shadowed peaks of your nipples, the curve of your breasts.

He bent his head, his lips skimming the bare flesh above the neckline. His beard scratched pleasantly against you, and you squirmed. His hands moved to your breasts, cupping their weight. His thumbs circled your nipples, and they tightened into hard points beneath the thin linen. 

"So soft," His voice was thick with admiration. 

He nudged the shift down with his chin, his tongue darting out to flick against your nipple. You gasped, your back arching. He closed his mouth over you, sucking gently, and you felt the wetness between your thighs growing, that terrible pressure building.

You had never felt anything like it. It was a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful, a wanting that was both a comfort and a torment. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, holding him to you.

"Baelor," you gasped, your hips moving unconsciously against his, seeking something you did not understand.

He released your nipple with a soft pop, switching to the other, giving it the same attention. His hands slid down your back, gripping your backside again, pulling you flush against him. You could feel him, hard and thick against your stomach.

"That's it, sweet girl," he murmured against your skin. "Move with me. Let your body feel."

His words were a permission you didn't know you needed. You let your hips rock against him, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through you.

He guided your movements, his hands on your backside, until the rhythm was set. He trailed kisses from your chest up your throat, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

"Can you feel it, my love?" he breathed.

"Yes," you gasped.

"Good. Do not be afraid of it."

His hands slid beneath your skirts, his fingertips tracing slowly how your bare thighs, his palms warm and rough against the soft skin. He urged you to part them, his fingers dipping between your legs.

You gasped as his fingertips brushed against the source of the ache, your most private place.

"It is alright," he murmured, stroking the seam of you, his thumb teasing the nub at the top. "Your body knows what to do. Let it."

His touch was a revelation. Your hips canted forward, searching for more of the sensation. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the soft linen of his tunic.

He dipped his fingers lower, tracing the edges of your entrance. You felt the wetness gathering there, coating his fingertips.

"That is how it is meant to feel," he said softly. "Not a duty, not a burden. Pleasure. For you and for me."

He gathered the wetness, dragging it back up to that sensitive spot, his movements smooth and sure. He watched your face, his gaze intent, cataloging every shift in your expression.

His fingers dipped back down to circle your entrance, testing, teasing. Then, slowly, one finger pushed inside you.

You gasped at the foreign sensation. His finger was thick and calloused, stretching you as it slid deeper.

"There," he whispered, his middle finger slipping inside you. "Does that feel good?"

You could only whimper in response, the sound needy and high. He curled his finger, stroking the velvety walls of your cunt, the heel of his palm still pressing against that sensitive spot.

"It will be a stretch at first," he murmured, sliding his finger out before pushing back in, all the way to the knuckle. "But we will take it slow."

You had heard the whispers, the jokes, the lewd suggestions. But the reality was different. It was not some awkward tumble in the dark, a quick, painful thrusting. It was this, the press of his palm, the rasp of his beard against your collarbone. Not just one sensation, but many, all working together to build something new and wonderful inside you.

He added a second finger, and the stretch was more pronounced. You felt your walls flutter around him, and his soft chuckle tickled your skin. "Easy, let it ache a moment."

You forced yourself to breathe, the pressure giving way to pleasure as you followed his guidance, rocking your hips against his hand.

"Yes," he breathed. "Just like that. Ride my fingers, sweet girl."

Your blush returned, but it was distant. Your body's needs eclipsed any sense of shame, and you ground against him, your eyes squeezing shut as the tension coiled ever tighter.

"Eyes open," he murmured, his voice gentle but insistent. "Look at me, my love."

You forced yourself to open them, looking into his eyes. They were darker than usual, swallowed by his dilated pupils. He watched you, his gaze roaming your face, your chest, his lips parted slightly.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let it take you."

You did not know what that meant at first, but then it struck you all at once, a wave crashing over you. The tension snapped, a flood of wetness coating his fingers as pleasure radiated from your core, spreading to every inch of you. Your hips stuttered, no longer able to keep a rhythm, and a soft moan from your throat.

He held you as the wave crested, murmuring soothing words against your hair. He slowed his fingers, drawing the sensation out, his palm pressing gently.

You collapsed against him, breathing hard, and he slipped his fingers from you. They glistened with your slick, and he brought them to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste them.

"My sweet wife," he murmured. "You honor me."

The haze of pleasure had not yet left you, and you blinked at him, your stomach twisting at the sight, a fresh heat blooming within you.

He smiled and kissed you softly. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a bitterness that was not unpleasant.

"That is only the beginning," he said. "You will learn, and I will show you."

You nodded, dazed, unable to find words. He kissed you again, lacing your dress back into place. "But for now, let us stop there."

"I-" You did not know how to tell him the way his touch still made you ache, the way your body seemed to crave more. "You're still..." You gestured vaguely to the place where his breeches strained.

"I am." A rueful smile. "But that is not your concern tonight."

Before you could argue, he shifted you gently from his lap. He stood, adjusting his breeches, it was quick, almost private, and you felt a strange pang at being shut out.

He turned, offering his hand, helping you to your feet. His hands found your hips and he pulled you close, his lips finding yours.

"Will you join me for dinner tonight?" he asked, his nose brushing against yours. "In my chambers?"

You nodded.

"In a few hours." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "Wear nothing beneath."

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, your hands clutching at his chest. He chuckled, low and warm, and kissed you once more before stepping away.

You hesitated, feet rooted. He stood by the desk, papers waiting, but his eyes were still on you.

A smile tugged at his mouth. "You can walk down the steps, can you not? Or do I need to carry you?"

"Oh- no... I can walk." You flushed and turned, forcing yourself not to look back as you stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind you.

As you walked toward your chambers, you couldn't stop thinking about his hands, his words. His tongue. And the promise of the evening.

You couldn't wait for all the other lessons to come. 

Ser Duncan the Tall was a giant of a man, and the armor that covered his massive frame made him look even bigger. He was near seven feet tall, with the physique of a warrior. His broad chest and shoulders, muscular arms and legs, and thick, tree trunk-like thighs were all visible through the chainmail he wore.

The hedge knight had just won a joust against a knight named Ser Lachlan. Duncan had easily beaten his opponent, sending him flying off his horse and onto the ground, knocking the wind out of him. The crowd roared, and you expected Duncan to take part in the glory. But instead he helped Ser Lachlan up, and they shared a hearty laugh. The cheering crowd grew louder, and you with it.

You wanted to stay longer, to perhaps steal another moment with him, but you couldn't. The tournament was over and you had to go back to your stall in the market. Your father needed to be there to sell some of the fruits and vegetables from your farm, and he had let you go watch the tourney in his place.

As you passed the jousting arena, you caught sight of the knight sitting in a tent with a small boy, his squire. He was taking off his armor, piece by piece, and handing it to the child. It was clear the boy was struggling under the weight of the armor, but he never complained.

The knight's eyes met yours and he flashed you a smile, the same one that had made your heart flutter every time you'd stolen away to see him these past weeks. Your cheeks flushed red and you quickly looked away, hurrying back to the marketplace.

"Did you have a good time?" your father asked.

"Yes, I did. Thank you, Father."

He smiled and kissed your forehead. "Good. I need to go see a man up in town about some tools for the farm. Can you run the stall while I'm gone?"

"Of course."

"I'll just be gone for one night. Keep safe, my darling girl."

"I will."

You stayed busy selling fruit, bread, and cheese to all the local merchants. A few knights tried to talk to you, and you did your best to remain polite, but none of them held your interest. Your thoughts kept drifting to a certain towering knight, to the quiet moments you'd shared in the weeks since the tourney began. Walking through the market after your father retired, stolen kisses behind tents, his large hand engulfing yours.

As the day drew to a close, the crowds began to thin and your sales slowed. Your back was turned to the stall, and you were arranging a display of apples, when a shadow fell over you.

You turned around to see him, your handsome knight.

For a moment, you simply stared, your heart quickening the way it always did when he appeared.

He looked out of place among the baskets of fruit and common folk, too broad, too tall, too… noticeable.

"Ser, can I have an orange?" came a small voice from behind him.

Duncan didn't look away from you.

"Of course," he murmured, reaching into the basket.

He handed the orange back to his squire, who wandered off happily, settling on the ground nearby with his prize.

Only then did Duncan lean closer, lowering his voice.

"I wasn't sure you'd still be here."

"You shouldn't be here," you whispered, though you made no move to send him away. You never could.

"I know." His mouth curved, restrained, that same quiet smile you'd come to treasure over countless brief meetings.

His gaze flicked briefly over the market, the few lingering merchants, the passing strangers. Then back to you.

"How much for the orange?" he asked, tone careful.

You tilted your head, pretending to think about it. "Hmm… one kiss."

For a beat, he didn't move. Then something warm and dangerous flickered across his face.

"You shouldn't say things like that," he murmured. He said the same thing last week, and the week before, and still he came back.

"You asked."

His hand caught yours before he could think better of it, firm and certain, and he pulled you back behind the stall, into the narrow space hidden from most of the crowd.

And then his mouth was on yours.

Quick at first, stolen. Then deeper, like he'd been holding himself back all day… like he'd been holding himself back for weeks.

When he drew away, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

"I missed you," he said softly.

"I missed you too." You had, every day since you met him, every night when you lay alone in your tent and thought of him.

His thumb brushed your cheek, lingering like he might forget where he was. Then, reluctantly, he eased back.

You glanced past him to the small boy, now happily peeling his orange. Duncan followed your gaze, frowning a little.

He sighed. "I have to go."

He hesitated, as though it hurt to leave, then leaned down, pressing a final, soft kiss to your lips.

"My father is gone for the night," you whispered.

His eyes darkened.

"Are you inviting me?"

"Yes."

You bit your lip, and his eyes traced the movement. The same way they had that first night he walked you back to your stall, the same way they did every time you parted.

He let out a low breath. "I can't."

"Why not?"

He looked pained, his eyes moving over your face. "I should be courting you ‘proper. With flowers and poetry and…" He'd said as much before, every time you'd grown bold, every time your kisses had lingered longer than they should.

You touched his chest, your fingers sliding up to rest on the warm skin of his neck. "Duncan, you have no need for such things. Not with me. I already love you."

The words seemed to steal the breath from him. "Say that again."

"I love you, Ser Duncan. And if you do not come to my bed and keep me warm tonight, I don't think I can bear it." You had waited weeks, waited through his honorable protests, his promises to do things properly, his gentle hands always stopping just short of where you wanted them.

He let out a short laugh, like he couldn't quite believe you. But there was no denying the heat in his eyes.

"Alright," he murmured, a faint smile touching his mouth. "I'll be there."

It was dark by the time you reached your camp, the stars glinting above you in the sky. You were nervous, and you wondered if this was what every maiden felt on her wedding night… or on the night she finally gave herself to the man she loved.

You distracted yourself by stoking the fire and laying out a blanket next to it. Your father was wise enough to set up camp outside the town, but tonight, with him gone, it felt too quiet.

You'd imagined this moment so many times, in the quiet hours after Duncan walked you back to your stall, in the fleeting instants before sleep took you. Now that it was here, your stomach fluttered with something between anticipation and fear.

There was a rustling in the trees and you jumped, grabbing a dagger from your pack.

A shape moved toward you, tall and broad.

"It's only me," Duncan's low voice came from the darkness.

Relief flooded through you.

"I didn't expect you so soon," you whispered.

"I couldn't leave you alone out here," he said, soft but firm, "not with all the nasty hedge knights lurking about."

You laughed and stepped forward to hug him, and he bent down and lifted you into his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist and his hands cupped your bottom, squeezing the soft flesh through your dress.

"I want to marry you," he murmured, his lips brushing yours.

You smiled, your hands stroking his hair. "You'll have to speak to my father about that."

"Of course," he agreed, kissing the corner of your mouth. "First thing when he returns."

"And what will you say to him?" He hummed and started to walk, slow and sure, carrying you a few steps away from the fire, toward your tent.

"I'll tell him that I can't live without his beautiful daughter," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. "That I've tried to be honorable, tried to wait, but I love her too much to stay away any longer. That I'll do whatever it takes to have her by my side, protect her and provide for her."

You sighed as he lowered you onto the bedroll, the blanket soft beneath you. He looked around your small little space, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"This is where you sleep?"

You nodded. "Yes. Is it not good enough for a knight of your renown?"

"Of course it is. In fact, it's more than I ever had as a boy." He leaned over you, kissing your cheek. "But if we are to marry, then you'll have a proper home. One with a roof and four walls and a real bed."

"You'll have to win plenty more tourneys," you teased.

"Oh, I will. I'll win them for you."

He kissed you softly, his hand tracing a gentle path down your side; slower now, more deliberate than any of the kisses you'd stolen in shadows and behind stalls. This was different, the weight of his body pressed against yours, the heat of his skin, the taste of his lips without the need to part too soon.

You felt a little shy beneath him, your dress suddenly feeling far too hot and tight, and you tugged at the fabric. Duncan smiled and eased back, helping you remove the heavy garment.

"Have you ever been with a woman?" you asked softly, trying not to sound too timid.

"No," he said, his voice equally soft. "Never."

You bit your lip, not entirely surprised, considering his earlier reservations.

He must have noticed your expression because he added, "It wasn't a matter of pride, or wanting to save myself, or any such thing. Just… well, I've had little opportunity."

"Because you're so big and intimidating?" you teased.

"Yes... Actually, yes." He grinned sheepishly.

"Not even a whore? There are plenty of those around tourney grounds."

"No," he admitted, shaking his head. "I don't have the coin to spare."

You couldn't help but smile, giggling a little.

"What?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"I'm sorry, it's just..." You reached up and cupped his cheek. "You are so sweet, my love."

"I'm not," he insisted.

You reached for his tunic, and he helped you pull it over his head. 

His body was thick with muscle, broad shoulders and powerful arms. For a heartbeat, fear flickered through you at seeing the size of him, the strength, knowing he could crush you with his hands if he wished.

But this was Duncan. Your Duncan. The man who helped fallen knights and gave oranges to his squire. The man who had walked you home every night for weeks and never once pressed for more than a kiss.

"Do you not want this?" he asked softly, and the concern in his eyes banished the last of your doubt.

"Oh, I do. It's only that… I'm nervous."

"You needn't be," he said. "I'll never hurt you."

You knew that was true. He would sooner cut off his own arm than cause you harm.