Moonlight

You love being fucked fast and hard, bent over his writing desk after a long day of frustrations and petty disputes. Dress hiked up, panties down, legs spread wide, fingers gripping the edge of the desk as every thrust shoves you harder against it, the sharp slap of his heavy palm against your ass echoing through the room.

"Harder," you moan, and the groan from behind tells you he's unraveling just as much as you are.

You love how he kisses your throat afterwards, how his hands trail your back in featherlight strokes, as he pants into the crook of your neck, thanking you over and over again for letting him have you like this. He knows he doesn’t need to, he knows you would let him do anything he wanted with you.

You love the lazy lovemaking in the mornings when he doesn’t have any pressing duties that would call him away and you wake up with his cock insistently nudging your entrance.

“Schhh… my love,” he whispers and drags the head through your slick folds. Your body recognizes him even before your mind does and you are already dripping wet. “Relax, let me take care of my queen,” he rasps into your ear and slowly, patiently works himself deeper. 

His warm calloused palm kneads your breasts and you can’t but arch back into him as he slowly starts to move. 

You love how your absolute gentlemen of a husband, kind and soft spoken, who never forgets to pull your chair back for you to get seated, who has never let a servant help you dismount your horse, as it’s his job to keep his bellowed wife safe, who kisses your hand dozen times a day just because he loves to show everybody how much he loves you, whispers pure filth in your ear as he pounds into you, telling you how tight you feel, how perfectly you take him, what a good girl you are for him.

The rhythmic slap of skin on skin and the sticky wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you mixed with his panting breath are like music to your ears. 

You love when he returns from council meetings, tense and frustrated. He just drags a hand over his face and groans but you are already on your knees. You free his cock from his breeches, already hard and throbbing, and take him into your mouth without a word.

You love the taste of his cock on your tongue, you love to watch his handsome, precious face contort in pleasure as he bucks his hips forward, fucking into your mouth. You love the taste of him, salty, musky, all man, and when he comes, flooding your mouth, you swallow every drop, then lick him clean while he praises you in broken breaths.

The gods know you love traveling with him, but even more, you cherish greeting him upon his return from those long rides to the borders. You love the tiny creases that form around his eyes when he smiles the instant he sees you. Wrapping your arms around his strong shoulders, you whisper, "I missed you," in his ear, feeling him melt beneath your touch. You know he has missed you too and the moment the doors of your chambers fall shut your back hits the wood and he’s on his knees before you, your leg pushed up on his shoulder. He eats you out like a man starved, licking, sucking, fucking you with his tongue till your thigs tremble and your knees threaten to buckle in. 

And sometimes, when he returns late at night and you're already asleep, you feel the mattress dip as he slides closer. His arms encircle you, pulling you flush against him as he breathes you in.

"Please, put it in," you whine, half-asleep. "I want to feel you."

You drift off again with his cock buried deep inside, dreaming of how he'll fuck you in the morning, how he will make up for every night you have spent apart, how many times he will make you come on his tongue and his fingers first before giving you his cock.

You love to tease him mercilessly, straddling his lap you grind your soaked pussy against his length, coating him in your arousal. "Beg for it," you whisper, nipping at his ear, and he does, your noble prince, reduced to pleas, bucks his hips helplessly, chasing your heat and begs you to let him fuck you. You sink down slowly until he's buried to the hilt and then you ride him hard, bouncing on his cock, your breasts heaving as his hands roam your body, pinching your nipples, slapping your ass until it's red and stinging. The room fills with your shared gasps, the slick sounds of your bodies joining, and when you clench around him in climax, he flips you beneath him and pounds you into the mattress, chasing his own release. 

"I want you to give me a girl," he whispers as he comes deep inside you, filling you with his seed like it's still your wedding night. "A small wonder just like you, with bright eyes and a smile that crumbles me every time."

And when he speaks like this your peak hits you hundred times harder, crashing over you till you’re clamping down, spazming around him, milking every single drop of him. 

You love the feeling of him leaking out of you, as he keeps fucking you through it, his eyes dark with need and desire. He stills for a moment, but the sight of you spread out before him like this with his cum gushing down your thighs, head thrown back, jaw slack and eyes rolling back in your head in bliss makes him instantly hard again. 

His head drops down in the crook of your neck and he whispers I’m sorry my love, but I can’t get enough of you as he resumes rolling his hips into yours. His mouth is on yours swallowing your moans and whimpers. 

You're overstimulated, pliant, boneless and utterly fucked-out mess, but the moment his fingers find your pearl, the moment he ruts back into you, all that escapes your lips are broken chants of yes, yes, yes, more, please give me more until you come again and again, until you’re so full of him you feel bloated.

And when you finally give him what he so desires, when the small, screeching bundle is placed into his arms, his daughter, his little beautiful girl, you see his eyes go bright and wet as he kisses gently the tiny, fragile hand, the small wonder you have given him.

Thank you, thank you, he can’t stop whispering in the crook of your neck and you hear him sniffle. Is your prince really crying?

And when after a while he gently reaches for you and murmurs – I want more little wonders –   you know you will be giving them to him. 

And yet, it had evoked a scalding heat within your core, one that did not relent until you had, later that night, pressed the palm of your hand against the source of the ache. It had taken barely a minute for bright stars to dance across your vision, the lights interwoven between flashes of Baelor’s mismatched stare peering down at you.

You were not able to meet his eyes for weeks afterwards; each time your gaze would accidentally graze his own, a spark of excitement would course beneath the sinew that was wrapped around your limbs.

He had noticed your suddenly reserved demeanour, as he noticed every minuscule change in the behaviour of those who were under his care. The realm, the court, his house, his children, and now, you. 

Baelor had labelled your change as a distancing of oneself from their guardian and decided it was a natural progression, having experienced it with both of his sons prior–albeit, not to this degree. 

You would come around, he had figured, perhaps unwisely.

In the following days since you kissed him, there’s a different weight to Baelor’s stare when it lands on you for a beat before it's flitting to someone–something, anything–else. 

The depth of it is loud with unutterable words and thick with vulgarity.

In those fleeting moments, your eyes would settle on the partially-hidden mark that had bloomed over the skin of his throat, courtesy of your suckling, and you would become feverish.

What excuse did he give to those who bravely inquired of its origin, the question flickered across your mind, smearing a slickness between your thighs.

A delirious, wanton fervor licks at your belly, set alight with a growing desire to suck varying shapes and sizes into the older man’s neck; an array of vivid bruises that would mimic the alignment of the scar that had been carved into your own throat–ones that could not be hidden beneath collars or sharp-tongued excuses.

The day finally comes when you can no longer endure his absence or conceal the extent of your longing. 

Your feet steer you to the edge of the corridor that led to the hallway of his bedchamber, the knowledge that there was a guard stationed outside his door, despite the fact that he was not on the castle grounds, made you halt. 

A pebble tossed in the opposite direction, as you hid behind a stone column, was enough of a momentary distraction for you to slip past the guard’s peripheral.

The quiet closing of Baelor’s chamber door should have knocked even the smallest bit of sense into you. Anyone else in your position, given what you had already done, would have behaved in a manner that portrayed a deep sense of regret–a willingness to move forward and forget what had taken place. Instead, a finger trails along your lips as you recall how he had tasted. 

With hesitating steps, you approach the bed in the middle of the room, running your hand across the silken, decorative blankets that had been draped over the length of it. The thought of them touching his bare skin causes a tightness to form in your throat, briefly triggering a prickly ache along the stretch of your scar.

Does my envy know no bounds, you scoff aloud at the thought.

You slip the outer layers of your attire off, goosebumps rising over your skin when you remain only in your chemise. Eager fingers slide downwards, not stopping until they reach your dampened, puffy folds.

As you bend at the waist, descending until your cheek is resting over the plush of his bedding, your lungs are filled with the spicy, woody smell that clung to his body. It was as mouthwatering as you remembered; a pool of saliva quickly darkens the fabric below as every noisy glide of your fingers along your slit echoes filthily in the space. 

You think of him over you, his touch replacing yours to bring you to completion. 

Just then, the memory of how much larger his hands were in comparison to yours is overwhelming your thoughts, eliciting a mewling whimper from your chest.

Baelor's hunched behind your seated form, carefully moving your fingers around the quill until they’re holding it with a sturdier grasp. 

“Firmer–excellent, good girl,” he murmurs, removing his hand from atop yours so that you may begin copying the passages he had delegated for you to practice on.

He had remained looming above you for several minutes, his watchful gaze assessing every nervous, shaky stroke you etched into the thick page. 

Finally, he lets out a soft, thoughtful hum and moves away.

Your fingers move faster, frantic and messy in their pursuit of toppling you over the ledge Baelor had, unknowingly, daggled you over. If you had been quieter, less sloppy in your movements, you may have heard the click of the door of his chamber opening and closing.

A lone knee slides up the side of his bed as you imagine him stretching you, his movements in tandem with the hushed murmur of praises he would breathe against your ear. 

His thick digits, soaked and pruned, glistening in the candlelight with your essence.

From across the room, you heard the repetitive sound of parchment turning. 

Each one was more enticing than the last because, having studied his pattern, by the fifth page he would bring the tip of his middle finger to his tongue and moisten it before reaching for the corner of the page.

His hold would return to the spine, but the sight of his finger, still wet with his saliva, leaving a damp spot on the leather encasing the book would fan the embers of desire in your belly, flaring the simmer until it turned into a wild, uncontrollable inferno–one that you feared would swallow you whole.

Loud, unguarded moans leave your lips; the motion of your hips riding your own fingers is frenzied as your release washes over you.

Would he make you look at the mess you made? Reprimand you in that specific way that he did when he was disappointed because he had expected better from you?

A startled, fearful gasp exits your throat when a hand is suddenly enclosing over your arm to turn you around, the fingers that dripped with your climax now hang limply by your side as you find yourself face to face with the object of your fantasies and affections.

Baelor’s adorned in his riding attire; boots speckled with mud and droplets of water, a mixture of perspiration and rain shone in the grey around his temples.

“What have you done?” 

His eyes trail over your dishevelled appearance, from the sweat soaked slip that is clinging to your form, to the drool on his bedding, before finally settling on the mess you had created between your legs.

How long had he stood there and observed you, waiting until you reached your peak to chastise you?

Trembling, slippery fingers clasp at his clothes, pulling until he’s breathing in every one of your exhales. 

You can smell the leather, sweat, and earthiness that had adhered to his body from the long ride, concluding that he must have returned to his quarters to wash the grime and exertion off of his body. 

Brazenly, you weave your sticky fingers into the dark, silvery strands of his beard; vivid fantasies had plagued your mind for years, all of which portrayed, in detail, your face rubbing against the same coarse hairs you were currently combing through. 

If you rubbed against it thoroughly enough, would his scent remain attached to you?

And so, as the last of your restraint drains, you press the sensitive, heated plush of your cheek against his. It hurt pleasantly–a scratchy, ticklish sensation that you hope will burn later as a reminder. 

Baelor remains still, even as your face descends to lick the beads of sweat that run down the side of his throat with wide, hungry swipes of your tongue. 

“Stop,” he mumbles, moving closer, crowding you into the bed.

With a furrowed brow and grimace, he watches you fumble with the drawstrings of his breeches, gaze darkening when you spread your legs further apart.

The head of his soft cock drags through your folds, nudging your swollen clit over and over again as clear fluid drips out of its tip and mixes with your own wetness. With aroused fascination, you slap the meaty weight of him against the top of your slit, causing your body to quiver and the tremor in your thighs to worsen. 

“Gods–,” Baelor chokes, jerking as a full body quiver wrecks his towering frame.

You tug harder each time his eyelids droop further, not only to prevent him from hiding the wretched way his pupils had expanded, but to ensure he sees the extent to which your heat is repeatedly prodded by the tip of his ruddy, pliable cock.

The raw openness his eyes reflect as they meet yours makes your chest ache; as you had done days ago, you lean backwards and offer up your scarred throat in exchange for the vulnerability he was displaying before you.

The first press of Baelor’s lips against the old wound had you jolting against him, the grip you held him with tightening until every tender kiss he places along the column of your neck is accompanied by an erratic, low sound.

“It was never your father who was destined to ruin me, but you.” he chokes as the words tumble from his parted, glossy lips, a hand rising to grip the bedding you were sprawled atop.

The statement triggers another, far more intense, release from you–one that was met with his own when the spurts of his peak drips over your slit and down the length of your thighs.

“After the trial, I could not–,” he begins to explain after a moment but halts.

Had that been why he was so willing to find you a suitor, given his prior reluctance?

Once the aftershocks subdued, you tuck him back into his breeches, tie the laces, and then, with wobbly legs, walk over to the small desk in the corner of his room.

Baelor silently watches you write for what feels like hours but is truly only a moment, then goes rigid when you are returning to his side.

Love was not lost; it was simply dormant, lingering under the surface and waiting for the right spark to bring it back to life.

Baelor still felt fondness when he gazed at his good lady wife. The strong, beautiful woman who had given him two healthy sons, and when she expressed her desire not to have more, he respected her wish. Otherwise, he was certain they would have rivaled Maekar and Dyanna. He adored his boys, longing for more little ones to be following at his heels. But a good husband respects his wife's wishes, does he not?

They still lay together, nestled close and finding creative ways to bring each other pleasure, but Baelor missed spilling between her pliant thighs. In his youth, he would ravage her any chance he could, making her squeal and blush. Many gifts were bestowed upon her, and songs were sung of his devotion and love for her. It was not gone, nor did he suspect her desire for him had disappeared entirely, but perhaps these were just the curses of passing time. Now, with their two sons, one a man grown and the other on the cusp, they felt the effects even more, and disappointment settled deep inside.

A breath of fresh air swept through the Red Keep when you arrived at court, draped in yellow silks as if you were a sunbeam. One of Queen Myriah's ladies, Lady Dalt, was in failing health, and you were called to be by your grandmother's side to help nurse her and attend to the Queen in your grandmother's absence. Prince Baelor and Lady Jena were sent to greet you upon your arrival, and both fell under your bright enchantment.

"My lord, my lady," you said respectfully before lowering into a gentle curtsey.

"Lady Dalt, it is our pleasure to welcome you to court," Lady Jena smiled, red hair cascading down her shoulders. She wore a vibrant violet gown with diamond and pearl jewelry. A netting of pearls blanketed her shimmering hair. A glittering thunderbolt dangled from the silver chain around her neck. Her cheekbones were sharp and defined with a full mouth and kind, blue eyes. A stunning beauty.

"It is an honor to have you here, even under such sad circumstances," Prince Baelor said. His outfit was a more somber black with slashes of crimson woven through his doublet. Rings of gold and ruby gleamed on his fingers, but it was those eyes of differing shades that were captivating. One brown, one blue. Most intriguing.

"The pleasure is mine. The good queen is most kind to allow her personal maesters to attend to my grandmother in her time of need. I am happy to serve in whichever capacity is needed."

Baelor and Jena exchanged a look, their eyes meeting in a silent exchange. Both had felt that spark. It had breezed in with you. Sunshine and lemons. A rainbow spilling down the halls.

"Allow us to show you to your quarters," Baelor said, offering you his arms.

"I'm sure the heir of the realm and his good lady wife have better things to do," you teased.

"Nonsense, we would like to assure that you are settled properly. Your grandmother is a beloved in our court, and we will see you well tended to," Jena insisted, guiding you onto Baelor's arm before squeezing her husband's shoulder.

"Your grandmother's rooms are adjoining, should you need to assist her," Baelor explained.

"That is most kind and thoughtful," you smiled, slipping free of his arm to take a look around before pushing one of the windows open. "It is a bit stuffy." Your smile made Baelor and Jena's hearts skip a beat. They watched as the sun warmed your cheeks, longing to lay their lips over the sun kissed flesh.

"If there is anything you require, please let us know. We wish for you to feel comfortable here," Jena offered as her husband's hand slipped over her lower back. She was always so generous and welcoming, one of the many reasons he loved her.

"That is kind of you, my lady. I…if I am not overstepping, I would greatly appreciate some colorful cushions and bedding, if possible. To cheer it up a bit," you said kindly.

"I will talk with the steward at once," Jena said.

"We will leave you to settle and rest, but mayhaps you'd like to join us for dinner in the Tower of the Hand this evening? A private audience with just us before we expose you to the full court," Baelor stated.

"Oh, I would love that! Thank you, Your Grace."

"Until this evening, then," Baelor smiled, and the two left you to rest as the servants filed in to help unpack your belongings.

Queen Myriah had instructed the servants to prepare a bath for you, knowing the rituals from Dorne. You bathed in warm water, floating with jasmine, rose petals, and lemon rinds. It felt good to wash the grime away from your skin that had clung to it during your travels. After your bath, you looked in on your grandmother, dabbing her forehead and helping her drink the herb laced tea.

"My cough is getting better," she told you weakly.

"That is wonderful," you said, fluffing up her pillows. "Your cheeks have color in them as well. These are all good signs."

"Thank you for coming, my dear."

"I only wish you had summoned me sooner," you said gently, kissing her forehead and smoothing back her graying hair. "But I am here now, and you'll be feeling right as rain soon. Mother sent me with some treatments and a taste of home." Your mother wished to come, but such a tumultuous journey would have stressed her.

"With a fine Dornish queen, I do not lack for home," she chuckled.

"What about lemons from our gardens?" you teased. "Mother sent me with a whole trunk."

"Oh! Delightful."

"Now, rest. I will check in on you before supper." You kissed her cheek before returning to your chambers.

You peeled the rind from the lemons, steeping them in the hot water fetched for you, drizzling in some Tyroshi honey along with the lemon juice. After it was covered with a clean cloth, you left it to steep, intending to serve it with your grandmother's supper. Two handmaidens helped you get ready for dinner with Prince Baelor and Lady Jena. You chose another garment of dazzling yellow silk decorated with patterns of white lemons. White-gold hugged your throat and fingers with tiny matching hoops dangling from your ears. You dabbed a bit of citrus oil on your wrists, hollow of your throat, and behind your ears. Before departing for the Tower, you checked on your grandmother once again, helping her take sips of the brew.

"You look lovely, my darling girl. Enjoy your supper." You left her with a kiss as two guards escorted you up the winding stairs that led to the Tower of the Hand.

"Lady Dalt," the guard introduced before stepping aside to allow you passage.

Lady Jena bristled around you, her red hair braided and glittering with amethysts, and she wore a samite dress in an almost orchid color. "My, you are bright." Her tone was amused, and the curve of her knuckle trailed down your cheek, making your flesh warm beneath her touch.

"Should I change?" you asked, suddenly feeling nervous.

"Oh, no. Yellow is such a beautiful color on you," she praised.

Baelor wore a similar outfit to earlier this afternoon, except the doublet was the color of freshly spilled blood. He poured three cups of wine, presenting two to you and Jena.

"Thank you, Your Grace," you said, smiling as you drew it between your ringed hands.

"Please, you needn't bother with that fuss. You may call me Baelor when we are in private," he said.

"My, that makes me feel rather special," you beamed, touching your hand to your heart.

"You are special, dear girl," Jena mused before taking a sip of the wine, the red liquid staining her lips.

Your fingers lightly touched the necklace around your throat, nervously tugging and sliding the chain through your fingers as you gauged the looks Baelor and Jena were giving you.

"Why do I suddenly feel like I am being served up as the main course?"

Baelor and Jena exchanged a sly look. "You are perceptive," Baelor hummed.

Jena stepped closer, lifting your hands and pressing the lip of the cup to your mouth, prompting you to take a deep sip of the sour Dornish red. One of your favorites. Your grandmother had a loose tongue. "But not if you don't wish to be," she whispered, swiping away a stray opaque ruby droplet that dribbled down the corner of your mouth.

You took a deep breath. It seemed for a brief moment that you held all the power in the equation, and you should use it to your advantage. "Mmm, well, first I would like the supper promised to me and an evening to consider. I think that is fair, wouldn't you agree?" You were interested, but not too rash to quickly fall into an arrangement with them. You doubted that many made the prince and his wife wait for their desires to be fulfilled.

"I would," Baelor nodded, extending his hand and motioning you toward the table. There was an absence of servants, which was strategically planned, no doubt.

The olives were fresh and flavorful, crunching pleasantly beneath your teeth.

"You must try the duck," Jena smiled, nodding toward Baelor to serve you a piece.

He was skilled with the knife, cutting through the succulent meat to ensure you got a decadent slice with crispy skin.

"Thank you, Y…Baelor," you smiled after quickly correcting yourself. After lifting the fork to your mouth, you sank your teeth into the tender piece of meat and skin. "Absolutely delicious."

Those mismatched eyes were glued on you, as were Jena's stunning sapphire-hued ones, making you feel like the duck about to be devoured.

"I can feel you both attempting to wear me down," you chided playfully.

"Tis a compliment, my dear lady," Baelor said, though he was respectful enough to lower his gaze. Jena seemed bolder, never faltering. You could appreciate it.

"Indeed, it is," Jena murmured, finding herself enraptured by you. She had never felt such stirrings before, never dared to think of another besides her husband. But this little rainbow sent from Lemonwood had conjured her mind into a frenzy. Though she did not wish to have you simply for herself, she imagined you nestled between her and Baelor. Mayhaps you were a missing puzzle piece, sent to complete them. "Now I'm certain they cannot compare to what you can get from home, but there are lemon cakes for dessert."

"I could never refuse a lemon cake, good or bad," you grinned.

Jena lifted one with three fingers, the large amethyst on her ring finger catching in the candlelight before pressing the sweet to your lips. With a soft flutter of your lashes, you parted your mouth to allow her to feed it to you. The candied lemon rind was tart, the icing sweet, and the cake crumbled between your teeth.

"It is delicious," you murmured after swallowing it down.

"Good," Jena beamed, cleaning your mouth with her linen napkin.

"We are meant to be behaving, my dear," Baelor scolded gently.

"Oh, forgive me. Have I offended you, dear girl?" Jena's hand glided over the curve of your cheek, and you couldn't resist pressing into her palm.

"Not at all. A bit of teasing is acceptable, my prince," you said, turning your gaze toward Baelor and watching a mischievous smile curl across his lips.

His chair scraped against the floor shrilly before he approached you, wine cup in hand. Heat bloomed through your lower belly as he loomed over you, something dark in those mesmerizing eyes. "Open." A simple, sharp command. You were beginning to think they held a fascination for your mouth.

He tilted the cup, draining the wine into your mouth with one hand cupped beneath your chin, yet a few drops still plopped onto your yellow gown, staining the fabric. Your head spun, wine heady on your tongue as it filled your mouth, and you very nearly buckled to your knees, ready to accept their offer. Baelor reached for a linen napkin, dabbing at the burgundy droplets that clung to the bodice of your dress. A warm flush heated your skin, spreading down your neck and toward your chest. His warm thumb traced over your stained, swollen lips.

"Now, who is the one misbehaving?" Jena cooed, standing behind her husband and wrapping her arms around his waist with her chin resting on his shoulder.

"She said she didn't mind," Baelor reasoned.

"I fear I must take my leave lest I rush headfirst into this," you whispered, nearly stumbling as you stood up. Prince Baelor quickly steadied you.

"Of course, one of the guards will escort you back to your chambers. We eagerly anticipate your decision on the morrow," he said, bowing his head.

Closing your eyes, you inhaled deeply to gather your wits. "I assure you that you shall have one. Good evening."

"Might we give you a kiss before you depart?" Jena asked, and Baelor fixed her with a stern look. "To ensure sweet dreams."

"I…well, yes, I suppose that would be acceptable."

Jena took hold of your chin, drawing you close and pressing a chaste kiss upon your lips before turning your head toward Baelor. He followed suit.

The guard escorted you back to your chambers, where you fell face down on the bed, breathing in deeply and clutching a pillow tightly against your chest. Their taste lingered on your tongue. Thoughts swam through your head like a raging sea until dreams eventually pulled you into a deep slumber. When you woke the next morning, bright white sun streamed through the windows. You rubbed your face and entered your grandmother's room, still wearing your stained dress.

"The brew you made did me a world of good, dearest," she smiled, sitting in a chair by the window. "I can see you had an eventful evening." She raised a dark brown.

"That is wonderful news," you praised, bending to kiss the top of her forehead. You broke your fast with her, helping spoon feed her a hearty broth. "And it was nothing of the sort, just a simple dinner."

"Mmm," she hummed.

When you returned to your chambers, you discovered servants bustling about. Pillows, cushioned chairs, silks, and tapestries in vivid hues were placed, bringing warmth and vibrancy. Blues, yellows, greens, pinks, purples, reds, and oranges. You were particularly enamored with the tapestry depicting green trees bursting with ripe lemons. After the servants departed, you burnt a bit of jasmine incense and meditated with your thoughts. You requested a private audience with Prince Baelor and Lady Jena later that afternoon. Prince Baelor summoned you to the Tower nearly two hours later.

You wore a blue dress on this visit, like the calm waves of the sea, with silver jewelry, and your hair swept out of your face.

"There's our little rainbow," Jena smiled, wearing a lilac gown with long, billowing sleeves.

"I heard your grandmother is feeling better, very good news," Baelor smiled, standing to greet you.

"She is, thank you."

Anticipation hung in the air, and each one waited for the other to speak. You twisted the silver ring around your middle finger before doing so.

"How would this arrangement work?"

"Please, sit," Baelor said, waving toward the cushioned bench and pouring you a glass of wine. Jena moved to your left side, drawing your hand into her lap while Baelor sat to your right, placing the cup in your free hand. There was a comfort in being between the two; the sweet fragrance of rose wafting from Jena and an earthy spice clinging to Baelor.

Details were discussed. They wished to share you. You would become their mistress, which was not unheard of in the royal household, but it would be treated with utmost care. You would not be paraded around like a conquest, but cherished and valued. Nearly all the wine in your cup was gone by the time the discussion ended. Your mother's nagging voice circled the back of your head, cautioning you against his, that Prince Baelor and Lady Jena were nearly old enough to your own parents. But you did not heed the phantom warning; you wanted it more than anything.

One word was all that was needed. "Yes." It toppled from your lips with ease.

The amber glow from the candles and the orange firelight illuminated the room, bathing you in warmth as Baelor unlaced your crimson gown, letting it billow around your feet. Jena pressed a sweet kiss to your lips before removing your under shift, leaving you in just jewelry, slippers, and stockings. Baelor's calloused hands cupped your breasts, thumb circling around your nipples until they hardened. Ravenous teeth scraped over the delicate skin of your neck. A dragon looking to pierce its prey. Lady Jena's fingers were like sparks over your bare skin, lightning strikes searing your flesh. Each one left their mark.

You settled in Baelor's lap, stockinged thighs thrown over Jena's shoulders as her hungry mouth pressed against your damp cunt. A rose flush clung to her pale cheeks, her pink tongue delving between your folds, making you whimper against Baelor's palm clamped over your mouth. You could taste the salt of his skin. His other hand skimmed down your belly, seeking your swollen pearl and circling it. They worked in tandem to bring you to a sweet release, leaving you trembling and panting in the aftermath. You had never been touched in such a way before. Just stolen, secret kisses, and once a squeeze to the arse. This was utterly divine.

The next night, Jena demonstrated how to pleasure her husband's cock. That rosy mouth wrapped around his stiff flesh, sliding alluringly over it and stretching her lips crudely wide. She pulled away just before his seed spilled, guiding you into her place. It was a strange feeling, making your eyes water and triggering a gag reflex, but she coaxed you into relaxation while Baelor stroked your hair.

"You're doing so well, sweet girl," he praised, which was a remarkably high compliment in itself and one you wished to chase. His seed spilled down your throat; sticky and salty, while Jena's fingers tangled in your hair.

The evenings bled into long hours before you snuck off in the early dawn before the rest of the Keep roused. Thighs marked with pink bumps from Baelor's beard, Jena's red nail scratches on your hips and down your back, and cunt aching from their sweet abuse. Pillows muffled your yawns as you managed to sleep for a bit until the time came for you to look after your grandmother, who was doing much better. You wondered if you would have to return home soon, now that she was in better health. Quickly, you shook such thoughts from your mind. Queen Myriah was delighted at how well you got along with Lady Jena and moved her into her service for the duration of your stay.

"We have a present for you, little pet," Jena cooed, pulling you into her lap and kissing you.

"Oh?" you asked, eager to discover what it was.

Baelor presented you with a necklace on a velvet cushion. Jewels of various colors hung from the golden chain. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, citrine, a fire opal, and an indigo hued tanzanite. Every shade in the rainbow.

"It's beautiful, thank you," you beamed as Baelor fastened it around your neck.

They treated you like a princess, spoiling you with trinkets and attention. It was easy to become wrapped in it, to become enveloped in them. You weren't brazen about it; you weren't flaunted around the Keep as a plaything, all of it kept private. Which is perhaps why your meddling grandmother arranged a meeting between you and Lord Leo Tyrell's son when the vassal was visiting at court. You were polite and agreed to tea, not wishing for any suspicion to arise, but you had no intentions of marrying him. You were able to fake a smile for an hour, sipping on your tea and eating cream cakes to keep from screaming as he blathered on about upcoming tourneys.

Though that night at the feast, he asked you for a dance, and you could feel Baelor and Jena's eyes on you. You didn't think you could refuse and accepted his offer, gliding across the stones and twirling as the musicians played.

"What a lovely couple they would, don't you think, Your Grace?" your grandmother whispered loudly to Queen Myriah, who gave a sly smile. Mayhaps you should not have worked so hard nursing her back to health.

You returned to your seat, feeling irritated, and scraped your fork down your plate, relishing in the abrasive sound it made. Your mood did not lift as the night ended and you returned to your chambers. The guard arrived at his usual time to escort you. While part of you wished to be in their company, to be wrapped in their arms, you resisted. Your mood was foul, and you wished to stew in peace.

"I am not coming," you told him crossly before slamming your door and strewing in front of the fire, digging your bare feet into the stone beneath them.

Nearly an hour passed before there was a knock on your door. You put on your slippers and flung the door open. "I told you that I'm not coming!" The words garbled in your throat when you saw Baelor and Jena standing there instead of the guard.

"Yes, so we came to you," Baelor replied coolly as Jena slipped into your chambers.

"I do not recall inviting you in," you growled.

The prince shut and bolted the door behind him before taking hold of your chin, fingers digging into your flesh. You had not seen this side of him before. Jealousy laced through his eyes.

"Is that any way to talk to the heir of the throne?" he accused.

"Oh, so now are the heir with me?" you scoffed.

"I fear our little pet has forgotten her place. Parading about with that Tyrell boy," Jena said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. She dipped her finger into the pot of sweet cream on your table, coating it. You craved a sweet treat during the hour of the ghosts. Baelor turned your face toward hers, and she shoved her cream-coated finger into her mouth. "We must remind her, husband."

"Indeed."

All you could do was mumble around the finger shoved in your mouth before Jena withdrew it, and a soft, wet pop vibrated through the air. She peeled the robe down your body before capturing you in a violent kiss, teeth gnashing and blood spilling from where she split your lip. You nearly tripped as Baelor spun you around, lapping the blood away and trapping you into an intoxicating kiss that nearly drew all the air from your lungs.

"Do you think that Tyrell boy can make you feel as we do?" Jena whispered in your ear, tugging on your hair.

"N…no," you whimpered once Baelor pulled his mouth away from yours. "I do not care for him; that was my grandmother's doing."

He withdrew his dagger, slicing through the silk of your nightdress, leaving it in tatters. The flat of the blade pressed against your nipple.

"Look at the wildnesses you bring out of us, sweet girl," Baelor whispered, gold flickering in his brown eye.

"I like it," you admitted, heart pounding in your chest. There had been nights when you had been bound with silk or leather, resting on your knees while you pleased them. Soft fabrics wrapped around your eyes as they teased you, competing to see who could make you peak the quickest.

Jena's teeth sank into your shoulder, hard enough to break the skin and leave a mark. It seemed the ravenous dragon blood had somehow toppled into her veins, searing deep in her skin just like it was slowly doing for you. They may have lost their actual dragons, but their allure and power shone brightly. Through your heavy-lidded eyes, you saw the riding crop attached to Baelor's belt. Tonight would be painful, but you would walk on hot coals for them. You would run through fire. A little pain seemed of no consequence.

Your upper body rested against Jena's lap after Baelor bent you across the bed. Arse upturned and vulnerable. The leather tenderly caressed your skin before the sharp crack marred it. Baelor was methodical, striking your skin precisely and criss crossing over the delicate flesh until scarlet welts bloomed. The pain made your skin itch and burn, making the throbbing and need between your thighs almost impossible to ignore. He knelt behind you after, kissing each mark he left while Jena stroked your hair and let you suckle on her fingers.

"Our good girl," she purred while Baelor's hands stroked your hips. "Sweet little pet."

There was a rustling of clothes before he entered you from behind, while Jena continued to hold and stroke you. His thrusts were more powerful this night, driving himself deep inside you.

"Would you like your prince to fill you with his seed?" Jena whispered, her blue eyes turning dark, almost an indigo. She knew what her husband desired above all else. A soft pair of thighs to rut against and a willing cunt to spill in.

"Y…yes please, my lady," you whimpered.

"He desires it above all else, sweet girl; it would make him happy," she whispered, stroking the back of your neck.

"P…please, Your Grace, spill inside me," you begged.

His hips slammed into your sore, bruised arse before he spilled, sending his seed deep inside your cunt and spilling down your thighs. But you weren't satiated yet; you needed them embedded inside you. Flesh burning next to yours. You clawed at Jena first, as Baelor's amused laughter filled the room.

"Our little pet has claws," Jena purred, letting you do as you wished. You suckled on her rosy nipples, tugging them between your teeth. Your tongue trailed over her soft belly before it buried in her cunt. Nails dug into her hips while you tongue fucked her until she mewled like a needy cat in heat. Her naked body arched, hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her moans before she spilled against your mouth.

You set your sights on Baelor next, dragging your nails down his furry chest and the V leading to his ruddy, leaking cock.

"Might you need some time to recover, Your Grace?" you teased wickedly.

"Should I whip you again for such insolence?" he asked sternly, tugging on your hair.

"I fear I might need many beatings before the lesson stick." You felt brazen tonight.

"Do not fret, little pet. I will guide you well." His cock slowly stirred to life, and you wasted no time engulfing him with your mouth. He hissed, bucking his hips.

Jena shifted behind you, the curve of her pelvis pressing agaisnt your arse while you sucked on Baelor's cock.

"We should get you a cock, wife," Baelor grunted.

"Yes, I should like that," she purred, moving her body to the side and sinking two fingers inside you.

Wish fulfilled. Caught between them both, stuffed full and drooling, weeping with desire. Baelor had enough spend to spill into your eager mouth as you clenched around Jena's fingers, soaking them with your release. But it did not end there. It ended with Jena astride Baelor's face with you riding his cock. You milked him dry that evening, hoarding each delicious drop. Jena's mouth melded against yours in a brazen kiss while she soaked her husband's mouth, and you soaked his cock. That morning, they were the ones to sneak off into the early dawn light.

Fate would assure you remained in their favour, forever bound to them.

Two full turns of the moon later, brought you unannounced to the Tower of the Hand, wringing your hands nervously.

"What has you so distressed, sweet pet?" Baelor asked, concerned written all over his face as Jena poured you a cup of pink wine from the Arbor to help soothe your nerves.

Your hand trembled as you took a deep breath.

"I am with child."

The silence in the solar was a physical presence woven from unspoken fury. Moonlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, carving the room into stark planes of silver and deepest shadow. You stood before him, near the centre of the room, feeling like a specimen pinned for display.

"You shamed yourself tonight."

Baelor's voice was quiet, cold. He did not look at you, but stared into the hearth where the last embers of the fire were dying, casting a faint, ruddy glow on his profile. "You shamed your father, you shamed our house, and most of all," he paused, "you shamed me."

Never, in the entire course of your marriage, had he spoken to you with such venom, such withering contempt. This was not the gentle prince who had tried so hard to meet you halfway and earn your favour. In his place stood a stranger, a man whose shoulders were rigid with a fury so tightly leashed it felt dangerous.

You opened your mouth, a hundred defences and accusations crowding your tongue. It was just a dance. It was a festival. No one recognised me. But the words died, unspoken, as he turned his back to you.

"Undress," he commanded.

The word was so out of place that for a moment you were sure you had misheard him. A short, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. "You cannot be serious."

He did not turn. "I will not ask you again."

The finality in his tone left no room for argument, no space for defiance, no crack for your pride to slip through. Your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, your nails digging sharp, painful crescents into your palms. This was madness. And yet, as you stood there in the moonlit bedchamber, you felt the urge to obey.

Your fingers trembled as they found the laces of your gown. The heavy, expensive silk seemed to resist your touch, clinging to you as if reluctant to abandon your body to the cold air and the even colder gaze of your husband. The knots were stubborn, your fumbling, shaking fingers making clumsy work of them. Finally, the last knot gave way; the gown sighed as it slid from your shoulders.

You stood before him in only your thinnest shift, a simple slip of pale silk that was nearly translucent in the stark lunar light. It clung to the curves of your hips and breasts, doing little to hide the hardened peaks of your nipples, which pebbled against the sudden chill. Exposure had never felt so complete, so absolute.

Baelor turned then. His eyes raked over your body with a slow, deliberate intensity that made you feel unbearably hot despite the cold. His expression was a mask of cold indifference, giving nothing away. He walked towards you until he was right in front of you.

"Kneel," he ordered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that vibrated up your spine.

"No," you whispered, looking down at the floor.

His hand shot out, not to strike you, but to grip your chin, forcing your head up to meet his gaze. "You will do as you are told."

A choked breath escaped your throat, and with it, the last of your defiance crumbled into dust. Your legs felt weak and watery, but they held you just long enough to lower yourself to the floor. You kept your eyes downcast, focusing on the intricate patterns on the floor, on anything but the man towering over you, a dark colossus of rage and ownership.

His fingers moved to tangle viciously in your hair, gripping thick handfuls of the strands. He pulled your head back, the sting on your scalp a sharp, searing line of fire that made you cry out. Your neck was arched at an uncomfortable, vulnerable angle, your throat exposed to the cool air.

"Look at me," he demanded. "What shall I do with you, princess."

The word princess was a curse on his lips. His other hand moved to the laces of his breeches, his long, skilled fingers working with practised efficiency. Your eyes widened even further as he freed himself. His cock sprang forth from the confines of his leather and linen. It was massive; longer and thicker than you had imagined, a roadmap of thick, prominent veins pulsing beneath the skin. He began to stroke himself, his hand moving slowly up and down the length, and a strange, dark, undeniable arousal coursed through you. Your cunt clenched in a sudden, aching throb of need.

"Open your mouth."

You complied without thinking, lips parting automatically. The surprise of your own submission hit you then. How could you be aroused by this humiliation? But there was no denying the slick wetness gathering between your thighs, the way your body responded to his authority, to the sheer power he exuded, even as you felt shame.

"Keep your knees apart," he ordered. "Hands behind your back."

You shifted your position on the cold floor, spreading your knees wide, the position feeling obscene and open. You laced your fingers together at the small of your back, the posture thrusting your breasts forward and leaving you utterly at his mercy.

The swollen head of his cock brushed against your lower lip, leaving a salty trail. The taste of him; salt and pure, unadulterated masculinity, exploded on your tongue. At first he was slow, allowing you only an inch, then two, letting you adjust, but his patience, if he had ever possessed any, vanished quickly.

His hips began to move, thrusting deeper with each powerful stroke. His grip on your hair tightened, using the strands as reins to control your movements, to pull you onto him. The head of his cock battered against the back of your throat, making you gag, your body convulsing with the reflex. Tears streamed freely down your face, blurring your vision, as you struggled to breathe through your nose, to accommodate his relentless, punishing pace. The sounds were obscene; the wet, slurping noises of your mouth, the grunts from his chest, the desperate, choking gasps that tore from your own throat.

"That is it," he grunted, his voice rough with exertion, his hips snapping forward. "Take it all."

You found your body beginning to move, a desperate, instinctual rhythm. You rocked back and forth on your knees, seeking friction, some small measure of relief from the throbbing ache building between your legs. Baelor noticed.

"Filthy girl," he growled, his voice laced with contempt. He yanked your head back harshly, pulling his cock from your mouth with a wet pop. A string of saliva connected your lips to his head for a moment before breaking. "Did I give you permission? Stop that right now."

You froze, the shame burning through you, hot and sharp. "This is your punishment." His voice was as cold and hard as the stone beneath your knees.

With that, he shoved his cock back into your mouth, resuming with renewed vigour. His heavy sack slapped against your chin with each drive. Your jaw ached, a deep, throbbing pain, and your throat burned, stretched to its absolute limit. And still he used you, his breathing growing ragged, his thrusts becoming increasingly erratic, chasing his own pleasure with a singular, selfish focus.

Then he spilled his seed down your throat in hot, thick pulses, a seemingly endless flood of cum that flooded your mouth, coating your tongue. You swallowed frantically, your throat working, desperate to take it all, to please him, to prove you could obey, to be good, even as some of the viscous fluid escaped your lips to trickle down your chin and drip onto your heaving breasts.

When he finally pulled away, you were left gasping for air, your body trembling with a combination of exhaustion, pain, and a searing, unfulfilled desire that made you want to scream. He stood over you for a long moment, his cock still semi-erect and glistening. Then he reached down and hauled you to your feet.

His hands gripped the delicate neckline of your shift. With a sharp tug, he ripped it in half. The fine silk tore like wet paper, leaving you completely, shockingly naked before him.

"Get on the bed," he commanded, gesturing with a jerk of his head toward the large, four-poster bed against the far wall.

For a moment you could only stare at him, your mind a complete blank.

"If I have to ask you again, I will increase your punishment."

The threat, spoken so calmly, sent a bolt of fear and excitement through you. You scrambled backward, almost falling, before turning and half-running, half-stumbling toward the bed. You climbed onto it, the cool, smooth sheets a shocking sensation against your overheated, sweat-sheened bare skin.

"On all fours."

You complied instantly, positioning yourself on your hands and knees in the centre of the mattress, your backside facing him. The position exposed your most intimate, vulnerable parts to his gaze. You could feel his eyes on you, taking in the delicate curve of your spine and the glistening, flushed folds of your cunt, already dripping and swollen with need.

You felt the mattress dip heavily as he knelt behind you. For a moment there was only the sound of your own panting breaths. Then his touch landed on you, light and gentle, as his fingers traced the elegant curve of your spine from the nape of your neck to the cleft of your backside. The touch made you shiver, a wave of gooseflesh rising on your skin. You thought, perhaps hoped, he might take you then, might finally end this exquisite torture and fill the aching emptiness inside you.

Impatience got the better of you. You pushed your hips back, a silent, shameless begging, trying to impale yourself on what you hoped was waiting for you.

"Do you wish to be taken like this?"

"Yes," you breathed, the word a desperate, broken puff of air. "Now, Baelor."

His hand came down on your backside hard. The sound, a sharp, crisp smack, echoed in the quiet room. The sharp, biting sting made you cry out, more from shock than from any real pain.

"You still lack manners," he said, his voice hardening again, all the softness gone. "You will take what I give you, when I give it to you."

His hand came down again, this time on the other cheek, a matching blow that landed with perfect, stinging precision. The blows began to alternate. You lost count of how many he gave you. The initial sharp sting morphed, spreading into a deep, pervasive heat that throbbed through your entire body. The pain mingled with pleasure, creating a confusing, intoxicating mixture of sensation that made your head spin.

Soon you were dripping, slick juices running down the inside of your thighs. Your legs shook uncontrollably, the muscles straining with the effort of holding you up. You could hear yourself making sounds; mewling, babbling, desperate whimpers and pleas that you barely recognised as words.

Baelor chuckled, the sound dark and deeply mocking. "You like this, don't you? Filthy girl, your cunt is dripping for it."

The humiliation burned, but so did the desire. You found yourself pushing back to meet his hand, shamelessly asking for more, for harder, for anything and everything he was willing to give you.

"Please," you begged, the word torn from your throat, raw and ragged. "Please, Baelor."

"It seems you are learning," he said, his voice holding a note of satisfaction.

His touch changed then. The spanking stopped, leaving your cheeks throbbing and burning. Two thick fingers slid effortlessly into your dripping cunt, stretching you deliciously, filling you, giving you immediate relief. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your eyes roll back in your head and a loud, unrestrained moan tear from your lips. It felt so good, exactly what you needed, a perfect, overwhelming pressure that sent you hurtling toward the edge of a blinding release.

Just as you felt the first tremors begin to build deep in your core, he stopped. He pulled his fingers out and lifted his thumb away. A desperate, frustrated wail escaped you. You wanted to cry from frustration.

"Please, please!" you begged, pressing your face into the cool, scented sheets to muffle your broken sobs. "I am sorry, husband, so sorry. I beg you, please, I need you."

A triumphant smirk crossed Baelor's handsome features, though you could not see it from your position. You felt his hand move up your spine, the touch sending shivers of anticipation through your body, before tangling once again in your hair. He leaned over you, his body blanketing yours, his hard chest pressing against your burning back. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he whispered.

"Now was that really so difficult?"

A choked, ragged sob tore from your throat, your entire body trembling. You shook your head, unable to form a single word further.

Baelor chuckled. "How fortunate you are to have a husband as forgiving as I." His fingers, which had been stilled on your skin, began to trace abstract patterns on the sensitive flesh of your thigh. His fingers brushed perilously close to the apex of your legs, and you whimpered. "I will give you what you want. You are being so good now, so pliant."

Before your muddled brain could process the shift from punishment to reward, he moved. His hands, strong and sure, gripped your hips, and with a single, decisive movement, he flipped you over onto your back. The force of it knocked the air from your lungs, your world spinning for a second before righting itself. With another rough yank, he dragged you down the mattress until your backside was on the edge. You were completely exposed, vulnerable, positioned for his use.

Your breath hitched, catching in your throat as your eyes finally took him in. You saw him in his full naked glory for the first time. He was magnificent. Lean and corded with the muscle of a warrior, his chest was a broad expanse dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a tantalising trail, a clear path leading down to the neat, trimmed dark hairs at the base of his cock. It looked even bigger than when he had forced it past your lips. Your cunt clenched instinctively at the sight of him.

You moved to snap your legs shut, but your legs barely moved an inch before you froze. Baelor's gaze had found yours. His mismatched eyes hardened. It was a silent command; you obeyed, and your legs fell open again.

"Since you seem to have a taste for fooling around with common men," he said, as he stepped between your splayed thighs, "I will treat you like a common whore." His hands were rough as they gripped the backs of your knees, pushing them up and out, wider, impossibly wider, until you were spread obscenely. "This is what whores get, is it not?" he growled, lining himself up. "Taken hard and put away wet."

He positioned the blunt, thick head of his cock at your weeping entrance, notching it against your soaked, swollen folds. You were so wet from his earlier torment. There was no warning; with one brutal, powerful thrust of his hips, he slammed into you.

A scream tore from your throat as he split you open. The stretch was incredible. He felt so much bigger at this angle, so much deeper than you had ever imagined possible. It felt like he was impaling you, driving all the way up into your chest. Your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets.

Baelor gave you no time to adjust. He pulled back, his cock dragging against your clenching walls until only the head remained inside, then he drove into you again, just as hard, just as deep. Your scream dissolved into a choked, broken moan. He set a relentless rhythm, taking you as you had never even dared to imagine in your darkest, most secret fantasies. Long, impossibly deep strokes, plunging his massive length into you again and again. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, mingling with your desperate, tearful cries.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your muscles trembling with the effort, needing to see, needing to witness your own possession. The sight of his sweat-slicked body moving between your spread thighs, his dark, glistening cock disappearing into you again and again, only to reappear slick and shining with the evidence of your arousal, was incredible.

You had never felt like this before. Never experienced such overwhelming pleasure so seamlessly intertwined with the feeling of being possessed, of being owned. He took you thoroughly, the thick head of his cock battering against a deep, sensitive place inside you that you never knew existed. Each brutal thrust sent electric sparks shooting through your veins, made your toes curl, made your breath catch in your throat. Your breasts bounced with the force of his movements, the nipples tight, pebbled points of aching need.

His hands left your hips, moving with deliberate purpose up your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. They settled around your throat, his long fingers wrapping around your neck in a grip that was firm but not constricting. "Look at you," he growled, his hips never ceasing their devastating rhythm. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin over your racing pulse. "Taking my cock like you were made for it."

You could not answer. You could only gasp for air, your eyes wide, locked on his as he continued his relentless assault on your senses. "You behave so well when you are full of cock," he whispered, his voice dropping to a filthy murmur. His grip tightened infinitesimally. "Is this what you needed? A good, hard fuck to put you back in your place."

The words should have enraged you, but instead they sent another blinding wave of arousal crashing through you. Because he was right; gods help you, he was right. You felt more alive, more present, than ever before. Your body sang with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful.

You fell back against the sheets, your arms giving out, unable to hold yourself up any longer. You were completely at his mercy, unable to do anything other than scream his name and moan. "Baelor! Baelor! Oh gods, yes, do not stop, please do not stop." The words were torn from you, a litany of desperate, mindless pleas.

He shifted his stance, changing the angle of his penetration, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. The new position was devastating, allowing him to plunge even deeper, and you cried out as the thick head of his cock brushed painfully, exquisitely against your cervix. He leaned forward, folding you nearly in half, his face now close to yours, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against your breasts.

"That is it," he grunted, his breath hot and damp against your ear. "Take all of it. Every inch." His pace quickened. "You wanted this. You wanted to be used."

It was so much. The fullness, the relentless, deep stimulation, the filthy words whispered in your ear like a prayer. You felt the build starting deep inside your core, a tight, hot coil of tension winding tighter and tighter, climbing higher and higher with every powerful thrust. Your entire body tensed, your toes curling, your inner walls clamping down around his cock like a vice.

Baelor reached between your sweat-slick bodies, his fingers finding your swollen, aching clit. He began to rub it in a perfect rhythm, matching the tempo of his thrusts, applying just the right amount of pressure to send you hurtling towards the edge. "Let go for me," his voice rough with his own impending release. "Show me how much you love it."

That was all it took. Your release crashed over you; you screamed, your back arching off the bed, your body shaking uncontrollably, and then something new happened. A gush of fluid erupted from you, soaking his abdomen, drenching the sheets beneath you. You did not even know what you had done, only that it felt incredible, that your body was convulsing with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony.

Baelor groaned. "Yes, that is it, soak me, you filthy girl," he growled, his hips pistoning faster, chasing his own release. The sight of you, the feel of you, pushed him over the edge. "I am going to fill you," he snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as his own climax took hold. "Breed you."

His words pushed you into another release, smaller but just as intense. He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, his body going rigid as a bowstring, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spent. You felt the hot, powerful pulses of his seed deep inside you, pulse after pulse, so much of it, emptying himself into you as he groaned your name against your skin.

Baelor's full weight pressed you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release. You were a mess. A ruined, satisfied, well-taken mess.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his mismatched eyes meeting yours in the dim moonlight. The anger was gone, replaced by dark satisfaction, and a hint of something tender beneath. He gently brushed a sweaty, tangled strand of hair from your forehead.

"Now, have you learned your lesson?"

The thing is, I think after the accident and the start of this affair/relationship between you two, he definitely becomes a lot more overbearing/clingy as a person. He wants to be around you at all times, wants you to be in his arms or in his vicinity, which leads to things like you becoming the cupbearer at council meetings, you being required to sit in his study with him as he works, and your evening routines becoming severely intertwined. If you are someone who needs alone time, good luck to you because he gets sooo stormy if he's away from you, and people tend to avoid him in those moments. He doesn't really want you to be away from him, but if you have to be for whatever reason, then he'll first try to convince you not to be, and then he'll be very grumpy and grouchy and just serious-faced until you are back with him.

But your nightly routine is definitely undressing each other, if you're bathing then you're bathing together, no handmaids/attendants/stewards, nothing. He'll help you undress and do your routine, but he wants you to do his for him. He still struggles with some fine motor skills sometimes, especially when he's really tired, so you have to undo clasps and buttons for him, retie laces if need be. You take off his rings for him, listen to the little clinks as you drop each one into the little dish that holds them.

His hands have a tremor in them now sometimes, especially when he's tired, so you feel them shaking against your back as he undoes your laces for you. He wants to do your earrings and necklaces but sometimes he can't undo the necklace and it really frustrates him but you just bring your hands up and have him guide your hands instead. Then you turn around, holding his hands in return now, look up into his eyes, and just gently kiss over his knuckles until his eyes flutter shut and his breathing slows down again.

He loves moisturising you. You had never thought about it before, or if you had, you knew you could never afford the fancy stuff the ladies had so you didn't bother. But after being with him, he gets you whatever possible things you could want, which means getting you rose or flower scented creams and gently rubbing them into your hands and feet, into your legs and arms until you're basically melted into your bed and begging him to clamber in so you can go to sleep.

He wants to be the one that does everything for you, wants to be the one that elevates you from your position into the new lady who fits perfectly into his life, which means he is def doing all these things for you, but especially teaching you how to read and write. For you he will have all the patience in the world, which means he will just sit with you when you get frustrated because you can't understand something or aren't doing as well as you want to.

As you start to get better, he will leave little notes for you in your rooms for you to find and read as the day goes on (and he cannot be there with you). You'll have woken up late that day, he's already gone to council, and you find a little bit of parchment on your vanity.

"Th- The mirrrr... mirr-oh-r is luc-ck-y to look up-on yo-oh-er be- be- be-you-ty"

And then you just sit there feeling blushy and warm because how the hell is this your life now? How is this the crown prince of westeros writing this for you?

And there's always more. You'll have a message delivered halfway through the day from some messenger boy and the parchment simply says "I love you" or "I think of you always". Or he'll quote poems and novels for you, and eventually, when you start working on your own writing, you start doing it for him in return.

You feel really giddy as you sneak around his study, tucking little prepared parchments into random places and corners so he'll always be finding little notes of love from you.

When you finally manage to write yours and his name for the first time, the two of you are so ecstatic. He kisses you silly and the two of you just hurry in the direction of your bed and just sort of stumble onto the edge in your haste and end up sliding onto the floor in your excitement, basically rabid for each other.

every time you had approached it, you would beg him to halt his movements, your hips frantically wriggling away from his even as he assured you that it was not something to be afraid of.

to your dismay, not even he could shake the unwelcome thoughts that had been tormenting your mind for the past six moons. still, he was gentle, immediately obeying your pleas to stop as he wrapped his arms around your body and rocked you, ceasing only when you stopped shaking. 

“it is shameful,” you had finally admitted, tears running down the side of your face as he brought you closer into his embrace.

“what is shameful?”

“to reach.. completion, especially before you have,” you repeated words that were not your own, ones that had been relayed to you countless times by others, all of which began the moment your betrothal to the heir had first been announced several months ago.

baelor’s brows drew together as he massaged circles into the base of your back.

he could convey to you that what you had been told was not only false but also cruel and not what he wanted, or enjoyed, in the slightest. however, he understood that he would need to put it delicately, as he did not want to alarm you or cause further damage.

“what do you believe will happen if you reach your peak?” his raspy timbre felt like a physical caress down your body; the slow, deep movement of his torso rising and falling with each breath he took and word he spoke caused the short hairs over the expanse of his chest to tickle your breasts.

“there is nothing you can say or do that will ever upset me,” baelor said lightly, his neck straining back to place kisses over your face, “I would sooner die than break that vow, my dear.”

you believed him–of course you did–you trusted no one more than him, but still, a part of you had difficulty confessing the thoughts that had plagued you.

“it would be unfair,” you explained, voice hoarse as you struggled to keep your composure, “to you, and all that you do…”

baelor refrained from making a face, one that displayed his visceral revulsion at the lies you had been fed for gods know how long.

“do you believe me capable of ever hurting you,” he asked softly, his thumb swiping over your jaw, “whether it be with my words or hands?”

you shook your head.

“then,” baelor started, his mouth pressing against yours for a beat, “I must confess,” his lips moved to your cheek, the coarse hair of his beard rubbing against your swollen lips as he maneuvered his face over yours, “nothing would bring me greater pleasure than to feel you release around me.”

your swallow was audible, his words sending a new flood of slickness between your parted thighs.

“baelor.”

“what occurs between the two of us,” he moved above you, his hips settling comfortably between your pliant legs as he gently rocked forward, “is not to be held to the defective standards of others.” 

he slowly slid into you again, all the way to the hilt, and nipped playfully at your collarbone when you clenched tightly around his length.

“will you grant my wish,” baelor murmured, hands rising to hold your wrists beside your head, grasp loose in case you wanted to escape but also secure enough to ground you, “will you release around me?”

you could feel it building up again; all you were capable of was laying there and taking the pleasure he wrought out of you, the remnants of your strength used to break out of his hold and thread your fingers through his cropped hair.

“I feel–,”

baelor hummed in response as he pressed his forehead to yours, his mismatched eyes focused on your unfocused stare. 

“there she is,” he mumbled to himself when you cried out at the sudden change of angle in which his hips drove into you.

“it’s–,” your body convulsed below his, passage tightening around him until he could barely move.

he released an accompanying groan to your mewls, each one sending shockwaves of delicious sparks up and down your limbs.

“thank you.” baelor said once you stopped twitching, his hands moving to brush away the stray strands of hair that were plastered to your damp skin.

if he hadn’t been pressing you down into the bedding, you were certain you would be floating.

then, he was withdrawing and sliding downwards, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he stared up at your puzzled expression. 

“what are you–,”

without answering, baelor’s mouth descended to lick the wetness that had spread over your core, his tongue moving with practiced precision to bring you to completion again.

“sweetness,” the term of endearment was muffled against your inner thigh, the flush of red across his cheekbones and chest as he bit at your skin had you clenching around nothing.

“How’s that?” you murmured, admiring the way his tan skin glistened in the candlelight.

The tops of your fingers would occasionally trace over one of the many scars that had been etched into his body; the sizes and colours of the faded lesions varied, some the length of your forearm and a lighter hue, while others were as small as a quill tip and similar in tone to the surrounding skin.

Baelor hummed in reply before a muffled, “perfect,” left his parted lips. 

The right side of his face was pressed into a cushion below, providing you with the alluring image of his open mouth, flushed left cheekbone, and fluttering, dark lashes.

He made a content rumbling every time you worked out a stubborn lump, the hand he had resting around your calf tightening in appreciation of your efforts.

A raspy, dizzying moan left his throat in a long exhale when your hands kneaded at a particularly sensitive wound–one that, despite being eleven years old, would periodically still flare up and throb.

The sound made your legs constrict around him and eyelids flicker as arousal settled thickly at the base of your spine. You lingered around the edges of the aged laceration, evoking another low, unconstrained noise from deep within his chest.

Slowly, your fingers dragged upwards, leaving a trail of long, red welts that took their time to vanish, along the length of his shoulder blades. 

The dark grey and silvery hair that rested around the nape of his neck and ear was sleek from a coating of oil, darkened from when you had earlier threaded through the strands in a besotted manner. They had looked enticingly cute; their naturally curled shape too tempting for you to not reach up and twirl them around a single, slick digit.

“Turn around,” you commanded once you had managed to get all of the painful nodules out of his shoulders, your hips rising to provide him with room to flip over.

Once Baelor was comfortably facing you, you sat back down over his pelvis, legs tightening around his body once more when he peered up at you with a knowing smile.

This part wasn’t for him as much as it was for you.

He had gained a thickness over his muscles as the years passed, a supple, malleable layer of meat that easily surrendered to your ministrations. 

You poured more lotion over your palms, rubbing them together until the liquid was warm, and then placed them atop his torso.

The hair that was scattered over the stretch of his chest immediately darkened as the balm coated his skin; the glossy sheen that enhanced the bulkiness of his upper body caused heat to unfurl within your lower abdomen, drift up, and settle in blotchy, tingly patches over your throat and face.

Baelor’s own hands were resting over the upper part of your thighs, his new position supplying him more access to you.

His body jolted forward when one of your nails accidentally scraped his dusky nipple, eliciting a startled intake of air from the older man. You bit the inside of your cheek to refrain from remarking on how sensitive he was, despite knowing that he would never retaliate even if you were to do it again.

“Enjoying yourself?” Baelor inquired after several minutes of being thoroughly prodded, scraped, and tugged at. 

His scarred brow rose in response to the engrossed, fixated look on your face.

You hadn’t noticed how drastically your breathing had changed; immersed with the way his short, coarse hairs felt when you combed through them, and how every sinewy ridge of his flesh pliantly absorbed each stroke and squeeze you delivered.