WE LIGHT THE WAY

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A—aftercare (what are they like afterwards?)

on the comedown, the mask slips. he is hellbent in those moments, desperate to reach his peak surrounded by your velvety warmth and drunk on the heady scent of your bath oils and perfumes and something so distinctly you. but then the armor slips and with it, his restraint. and in the aftermath, maekar is molten beneath your touch. in the aftermath, he is quiet. solemn, but warm. he mutters small words of affection and soft endearments to convey the immense love he carries deep in his heart, the gratitude, the devotion he cannot seem to speak aloud, but that he wants you to know is there. 'my heart', 'my sweet wife', 'my girl' are all common murmurs in between the kisses he will lay to your sweaty brow, the crown of your head, a flushed cheek, a shoulder blade, a collar bone, the hollow of your throat, the palm of the hand that holds the side of his face just so, the valley between your breasts, right above your heart—all of them spoken in that weak grumble between a murmur and that deep, rolling timbre he gives to you alone. he does not know how to express to you the true depth of his being, that home you've made for yourself in his heart, that you are the unravelling of the hardened warrior he never asked to be and the keeper of the man beneath the facade of prince. and so he presses his kisses to your feverishly heated skin, pushes the hair from your eyes and behind an ear, traces the backs of his knuckles over a cheekbone. with an ache of inadequacy in his heart, that vulnerable, bloody wound in his chest, he yields. he pulls you close, encompassing your waist with those thick, scar-ladden arms of his, hands traversing the planes of your back with practiced civility and eventually losing themselves in the roots of your hair. he pulls you to the muscled wall of his chest and blurs that fickle line where he ends and you begin. if you catch him in the right mood, a rare 'i love you' will make it out of him once he thinks you're sound asleep and gone to the world beyond—but you hear him, every time, and draw closer. the world wouldn't think it, but your husband, that harsh, blunt prince practically made from valyrian steel, edges sharpened to something even sharper, becomes no more than a moody dragon wrapping itself greedily around the most treasured thing in his life, as if daring the world to pry you from his grasp. maekar, whose love his a heated living thing lingering in the thunderous beating of his heart, humming just beneath the surface. he becomes a dangerous thing that yearns for you, and nothing but you. there is literally nothing that could pull you from maekar in those moments, in the aftermath, where he is solely yours.

and if you reciprocate, meet him in that vulnerable place he is at and hold fast to the pieces of himself and bind them together when he cannot, then… well, lets just say there's no army in the whole of the seven kingdoms who could stop his pursuit of any cause, as long as the command fell from your raw, kiss-swollen, spit-slick lips. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖B—body part (their favorite body part and their favorite part of their partner's body)

maekar would say , if he was held at knife point, that his favorite part of you was your lower waist. but the truth is that its so much more complicated than that. in my mind maekar loves a healthily plump woman with ample softness to grab at and worship and the lower waist just incapsulates that. but i digress. 

he loves your lower back, the curvature of it and the elegance of your stature. he would love to place his hands there during feasts to claim you as his, to guide you closer to him. he doesn't know what it is, but if given the opportunity to look at you from a far, his gaze will linger there for far longer than is proper. whether it be across a dining hall, or simply across your marital chambers as you look longingly out at the expanse of the blackwater, or as you sit prettily at your vanity and undo your intricate braids before joining him in bed—his gaze lingers there, as if he could undress you with his gaze alone, reveal the expanse of your lower back and imagine the way his thumbs press into the soft dimples he knows are there even through the layers of fabric that conceals you from his wandering eyes. maekar is also hopelessly entraced by your ass, as much as he hates to admit it. it is a whole other part of you that has maekar's grip on reality sliding and which sends his feverish blood rushing to improper places. and where would he be without his love of your hips, the softness there that is always so compliant beneath his hands, the hard bone of your pelvis beneath it a reminder that you are solid, and real and his. it would be his favorite place to put his hands in the heat of the moment, as he gathers you against him those big hands of his will settle there like moth drawn to flame. there's also a part of him that would die happy if he suffocated between the lucscious expanse of your soft thighs. the way your stockings would dig into them would drive him mad and to no end. especially after the birth of daeron and aerion, they grow stronger and even softer, as if your body knew how to protect you and your children as well as instinct. you often needed small bits of ribbon to hold your stockings up around them, and it would drive maekar insane. but most importantly, he loves the delicate curvature of your lower stomach and the layer of that fat that develops once you have his babes too. it is a physical embodiment of your sacrifices for him and the family you build with him, and he would never neglect to worship at the alter of your hips, but especially at your lower stomach. 

your favorite parts of him are his arms, his shoulders and his neck. he hides it beneath layers of blood red velvet and the thick, textured leather of his doublets, beneath silver clasp and leather belt, but he was more knight before he was truly a prince. he spent his childhood and well into his early adulthood weilding mace and sword, not as a weapon but as an extension of the self. and despite the years since his days as a commander of an army that vanquished the rebellion, that physique remains—even if the softness of his days as a prince soften him around the edges ever so deliciously slightly. his broad shoulders are a wall of thick-corded muscle beneath his pale freckled, pox-marked and scar-decorated skin. his arms are more of them same, but you love when they frame any part of you, blocking out the world and pulling you close. there is no place you'd rather be than in the arms of your husband, hands planted firmly on his shoulders or at the base of his neck, pressing a kiss to scarred cheek, or that sacred little spot beneath his jawline where you could feel his pulse jump beneath your lips. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖C—cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

maekar is fully the type to push his seed back into you, whether that be with his fingers or with his cock, gathering it on the head of him and slowly pushing back in, a deep growl echoing from somewhere deep in his chest and spoken ever so softly against your neck or the shell of your ear.

'do not waste what i have so graciously given you, wife'.

'but you had been so greedy for it a mere moment ago, my love.'

'what kind of husband would I be to deny you of your wifely right, hm?.'

the words are said with a lilt that is as close to flirtatious and light and teasing as maekar is capable of getting, despite the low, rough growl in which he says it. it is enough to have that coil of heat tightening in your belly all over again.

but there's still an edge of seriousness to it. he will makes sure that it takes. and this only gets worse with hyperspermia!maekar. that man will prop your hips up with a pillow with a gentle 'lift your hips for me, my heart.' before he partially lifts you with a broad hand at the base of your spine, the other slotting the soft, feathered-down pillow into place beneath you. if you have not worn him out, he will take a few moments, with your legs locked about his shoulders, thighs bracketing his head as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses over your lower stomach and thighs, fingers casually collecting the copious amount of him that tries to spill out of you, the other groping at your breast tenderly. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖D–dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

maekar could get drunk on the taste of you alone, the gentle, naturally musky scent of your cunt enough to drive him to madness. it is between your thighs, with his tongue buried in your folds, nose pressed so close that the bridge of it nudges your pearl with every drag of his hot tongue over you, that he can understand how weaker men could wage war, spill blood, and commit atrocities for a shred of a woman's favor. 

this becomes rather apparent in the long summers, when the air in king's landing starts to become oppressive, suffocating and pressing in on all sides. it is those days that maekar finds you especially intoxicating. he will find you fanning yourself, wiping at your breast and forehead with a cold cloth, as rivulets of sweat drip down your back, and find himself hardening at the mere imagination of how sweet the summer heat has turned you. he will greet you as he always does, with a quiet, near-imperceptable, 'wife.' before he drops to his knees before whatever chaise you have taken to lounging on, movements languid in the heat of the day. its then that his hands will roam, beginning at your feet, planting them firmly on his thighs, and begin working at the muscles of your legs with the callused pads of thumb and forefinger, his touch practiced and firm enough that it sets your skin alight more than than the hot simmer of the summer air on your skin already has. his hands almost always travel upwards, ghosting over the bend of your knee, lips laying a gentle kiss to to the top of it, before continuing his upwards ascent until he finds himself mere inches away from your core. and as he begins to kiss and lick and suck at your folds, you notice that the depths of his breaths increase, the heaviness of them a weight in the quiet chambers that none but you and the stone walls of the keep are privy to. 

'maekar, i have not yet bathed! please!' you whine at him, hands pawing gently at his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt to push him away, cheeks flushing and burning bright at his advances, at the impropriety of it all. but it would take the stranger himself ascending from the seven hells to tear maekar from you then. when he looks up at you with that lilac stare of his, you find that all of that steely edge and unyielding iron will lingering in them has gone molten at the sight in front of him. no, now there is a sheen of something more carnal there, dilating his pupils until only a sliver of that starlit lilac remains. 'its so hot, i am terribly unfit-'

and its only then that his mouth will leave you. 

'i do not remember asking whether you have taken a bloody bath this day, my love''

the words are blunt as they fall from glistening lips, but gentle nonetheless. mostly because he does his absolute best to never curse at you, even when he is balls deep in your cunt, pleasure numbing those sharp edges of his mind until there is nothing left of the anvil but a puddle of molten iron. he will try to be better than his baser self for you always, and that includes the language he directs at you. there is no malice in the words. just simple disbelief, that you cannot see how easily you drive him to insanity without even trying, how your scent alone is enough to bend his every will and whim to your pleasure, how absolutely undone he has become in his marriage to you. 

he will take two fingers, long and lean, callused over in all the right places and adorned with the thick golden band inlaid with a ruby that shown like fire (the wedding band you had commissioned for him after the announcement of your betrothal) and allow them to roam the edges of your petal-soft cunt gently, your nerve endings fraying as he prepares to work you open on his hand. then his lips will reconnect with the slick, velvet heat of your core, nose nuzzling the hair that curls over your pubic bone, fingers working you open and hitting that one spot over and over again, until you aren't sure whether you're dizzy from the heat or from your husband's diligence. and all the while maekar is breathing so deeply you swear the sound of it is all you can hear—that and the deep groan leaving him every so often, and your high, pitchy whimpers and sighs that he draws from you like he hounds the men of the king's council for answers most plain. 

what you DONT know however, is that anytime maekar cannot be with you, cannot taste you on his fingers, cannot smell the pleasant, heady musk of you in the hot summer air clouding your marital chambers, he will find a pair of your small clothes, guiltily, as if he were committing some grave act the gods could never excuse him for, bring them slowly, delicately to his nose and breathe. its as though he can feel the tension leaving his every muscle in and instant, every aching thought in his head, every weight on his heart ceasing to exist the moment he catches the faintest scent of you on what little seabreeze can make its way through the cracked window at the side of the room. he will never admit it but this is exactly how he got through his time at the frontlines of the first blackfyre rebellion. with a pair of your panties hidden in his bags, in that place that only he knew of to covet when he saw fit.

what you don't see is the way that after meakar has sought you out in your chambers and made his love for you abundantly clear, he will sit in his council meetings, fingers settling just along the ridge of his upper lip as if he were deep in thought, hands unwashed so that he can still smell, can almost taste, the way you had come undone for him only hours prior. you don't see it but this man, after prying every known pleasure from you in waves will take those long callused fingers of his and bring them into his mouth, and lick them until they are clean, remembering the slow deliberate drag of his tongue over the part of you that belongs to him and to him alone, who's sweet intoxicating scent he can still feel lingering at the edges of his senses, placating him more than any dornish wine ever could.

⊹ ࣪ ˖E—experience (how experienced are they? do they know what their doing?)

given his longstanding history with the personal insecurity he tries to bury deep and away from the light of day, maekar entered his marriage with you with little to any experience at all. but he's overly analytical by nature, and would learn your tells and consequently, what has you coming undone for him and by him. and he will do so with terrifying speed. the way your eyebrows pinch almost imperceptibly upwards and your eyelashes flutter at the gentle pressure he applies with the flat of his palm to your lower stomach as he's buried in you? yup, the exact force needed to apply that pressure has already been memorized. the way you bite your lip to keep from moaning openly, high and blissful, the moment he tilts his fingers so they brush that spot while he's tongue-deep in your folds, nose nudging your pearl gently? ya, he's got that exact angle burned into his muscle memory. the way you whimper when he tangles his hands into the roots of your hair and tugs just so in order to get you to arch towards him and expose the patch of sensitive skin just behind your ear to his slow march of gentle, barely-there kisses as he makes his way down to the nape of your neck, and over your shoulders? he knows exactly how much you like it from the way you instantly clench and throb around his length. this man learns you like he learned to fight: diligently, attentively, resiliently, and without fail. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖F—favorite position (this goes without saying)

maekar's first rule is that he must be able to see your face. it is how he gauges your happiness and measures his welcome. he is aware of his nature, and it is by looking at your face that he knows how to toe that line of what is too much and what has you coming absolutely undone for him. (not to mention, the way your eyebrows pinch together when you come on his cock, the way you're soft lips part in the ghost of a moan… well, he begins to understand that old targaryen adage…understand why so many in his bloodline went mad). beyond that, it is your face—the visage that haunts his dreams and brightens his every waking moment. you often find that maekar's large palm will almost always find its way to your cheek, thumb nudging against the apple of your cheek and gaze roaming your face with something that looks oddly like yearning before he dips his head to your shoulder, those targaryen silver locks of his tickling your collarbone. 

beyond that maekar has preferences but honestly as long as he can see your face, he will be happy. the mating press is obviously a favorite of his (the man has 6 kids, fight with the wall). he likes being seen as strong, dependable, a support. so he lovingly anticipates the moment that all tension leaves your body, likely after he's already made you cum around his fingers or on his face, and you allow him to hike your calves around his shoulders and press ever inward. the graceful pliance you display in those moments, the way you succumb and rely on him and his strength to bring you pleasure makes maekar a little lightheaded at the thought. 

that being said, there is a very tender part of him that goes soft at the idea of you wanting him… maekar knows what its like to be needed, but seldom wanted. and that difference will drive his actions as a husband more than he would like to admit. and as such, he really loves when you ride him, in any capacity. but he especially loves it when you force him back into the pillows and eiderdown and furs, and climb atop him to take whats yours. its the wanting that undoes him in those moments—the undeniable understanding that you want him enough, that you love him enough to chase your pleasure through instead of because of him truly makes him happy. 

and so if you ask it of him, he will immediately settle, against the soft comforts of your wedding bed or the hard, high-backed wooden chair that sits at his desk, and allow you atop him. his hands often come to settle beneath the curve of your breast, palm finding the curve of your ribs, the softness there melding with the very real sensation of the rise and fall of your ribcage beneath his fingertips as your breaths come in increasingly desperate gasps and wanton sighs. he loves the satisfaction that comes with your wanting, with your need of him. he loves rutting up into you, and watching the scrunch of your eyebrows loosen as the motion, the sensation of him pressing up into you with equal fervor momentarily distracting you from your pursuit of your pleasure. he loves laying soft smacks to the curve of your ass, listening to the soft whimpers that fall from your lips as he settles the sting with a loving pass of his heated palms over the reddened, swelling skin he leaves in the wake of his actions. he loves the way you place your hand over his thundering heart, and weave your fingers into the silvery hair covering his chest—a sign he has come to understand as a mark of your wanting him, of your gratitude that he is yours, just as much as you are his. it is a sign of your claim on his heart. he knows it. you know he knows it. maekar is also quite fond of the way you, in the aftermath, collapse against him, relishes in the feel of you tucking your head beneath his chin, nuzzling into his chest as if seeking shelter in the heat and bulk of him. he relishes in wrapping his arms around you in those moments, letting the bulk of them conceal you from the world and anchor you to him. its then that he allows himself a moment of pride, of sheer, unadulterated joy—even if only for a moment—in the feel of you, against him, seeking refuge. because gods, the seven knew you were his refuge. he is just happy to be able to respond in kind. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖G—goofy (are they more serious in the moment? more humorous? etc.)

there is literally not a goofy bone in maekar's body. honestly the likelihood that he would find any amount of goofiness as a jest directed at him, his physique, or who he is is actually quite high. maekar is used to people making fun of his appearance. his bluntly chopped hair, the poxmarks, the slight unevenness in his teeth, his blunt attitude, his crass tongue, his brutally sharp nature, the immense intellect he possesses but which will never comapre to baelor's. there are things about maekar that some deeply hurt part of him worries you will dislike, no matter the number of times you tell him how dearly you love him, how deep and how warm your affection for him runs. one poorly timed, poorly worded and poorly placed jest would have any amount of comfort he feels with you crashing down. and you would absolutely need to work hard to reconcile it. 

so he is not goofy. he is not a fan of humor. there is a time and place for teasing, he feels. and they will happen, when the days' events have him feeling flustered, agitated and ornery. but it is a very specific type of teasing. otherwise he is a singularity. a single body, with a single focus, and a single mission. when he deigns to be vulnerable enough to give himself, mind, body and soul to you he is nought but a man—your man and husband—focused on none other than you, and that sickly saccharine thing that sits in his chest and turns his touch that much softer against the warmth of your body, against the beauty of you, as he brings you pleasure he would never give another, as he seeks from you a pleasure none other could give. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖H—hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc)

maekar's chest is dusted with whisps of silver hair that cover the expanse of his chest, connecting to that trail of hair that descends over his softening abs and down benath the line of his dark linen trousers. its not particularly unruly, but it is enough that that continuous trail of starkissed silver has you practically drooling everytime you catch even the briefest glimpse of it in those quiet hours as the sun rises and falls—those hours where he is nothing more than yours and yours alone in the quiet warmth of your marital chambers, door barred and locked against the realm and her duties and her woes. as for beneath his trousers, he is known to trim himself but only on occasion. that silver, targaryen-hair of his curls at his base of his cock, and covers the expanse of his thighs. if you truly had a strong aversion to it he would increase the amount that he trims it, but otherwise he could not be bothered beyond cleansing himself. especially not if you were to look at him with that animalistc glint of desire as your gaze travels down that silvery, "starlit path" of his, as you so affectionately call it. he hates the metaphor, some part of him railing against his heritage to be sure. but when you look so content and happy, and when you look at him like that, who is he to correct you?

⊹ ࣪ ˖I—intimacy (how are they during the moment?)

he is rough, but that is not to be mistaken for lack of emotion, intimacy, or care. he is rough but he is intense. maekar would be in love as he is on the battlefield—deliberately focused, diligently persistent, and with near-terrifying intensity. every gentle press of his fingers is dealt with exacting precision, intended to draw you to your peak doesn't matter that if its the third, fifth, seventh time he has given it to you in a single evening, to make you feel the same fire that burns in his veins for you. every slow drag and firm press of his length in and out of you is measured, as though you were a battle line on a map that he has traced in replicate, traced until he was sure he had true command over it, until it was his. he is a warrior, and as such he posses an innate knowledge of the strength and power coiled in every striation of muscle within him, each well-honed and dutifully managed. but that does not mean there is not love in it. that exacting nature, the calculation of every move, that power and heat that burns in him like dragonfire is his way of showing you how deep his love for you runs. it merely presents in the only way he knows how to express it. he would go to battle for you, water a thousand fields with the blood of your enemies if only you asked, overthrow any crown and conquer any throne because that is his way of showing his devotion.

but he also knows you are a woman, and a good one at that. you require—nay, are owed—some amount of affectionate softness from your lord husband. and so his intensity is not to be mistaken for lack of feeling towards you. it is not selfish or driven for his own pleasure, at least not in total. his intensity is to show you that he does love you, in his own way. and even if he can't always put it into words, it would be obvious in the way that he would focus the entirety of his being on you, an act practiced through years of commanding armies, of wielding mace and sword alike, of honing his body into a weapon of its own. all of that honed, exacting focus on you. for your pleasure. for your heart, to show you he loves you. and you will be well-loved by him, and he will show it to you in every thrust of his hips, in every kiss laid to your skin and cervix, in every drag of his hands and tongue, in every possible way. the court could whisper that he was not gentle, that maekar had to be a cruel terror of a husband, as stony and offending in bed as he was at court. let them whisper. for the gods knew the truth, and they could never say that maekar did not love you well. he would make sure of it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖J—jack off (masturbation headcanon)

if it is before he is married to you, and especially during his courtship of you and your inevitable betrothal, his hand was the only thing that kept him from defiling you in the eyes of the gods. you were just so sweet, it was entirely irresistible. the way you would drop your chin, eyelashes fluttering against the curve of a flushed cheek whenever he would compliment you; the way you would smile at him radiantly and he would, if only for a second, return your smile as if you hung the very sun and stars in his skies; the way you would gently squeeze his bicep as he walked arm and arm with you through the gardens—all of it would drive him to madness. often he would find his hands flexing, shaking with the restraint necessary to not pull you into the nearest corridor, away from prying eyes, and have his way with you. and his hands, normally so steady, still and precise in every swing of his mace and scratch of an inky quill on parchment, would shake until late at night when he could wrap it around his throbbing cock and work himself until the edge subsided, and he spilled himself against the scarred planes of his abdomen to the memory of your radiant smile, the way the silk of your dress and the gold of your jewelry rested against the fullness of your breast, the way you seemed to outshine everything around you, the way your hands, always so dainty in his own, would cling to him, the way your perfume clung to his senses still, gods damn him. each interaction would only feed more fuel to the desire that seemed to burn him from the inside out. he wished he could be a man of better piety and moral standing for you, but whatever shred of piety remained in him had died years ago. so he would let the shame bloom, hot and all-consuming, on his pale scarred cheek like a bruise while he stroked himself into complacency. it was either that or risk defiling your honor. and that? that was a sin he could not bring himself to commit.

after he marries you, however, he truly does not see a point in it. why would he when he has you at his beck and call, and you practically have him tightly wrapped around your smallest finger? that is unless, for whatever reason, he has to be parted from you for an extended period of time. then he will find some piece of you to bring with him: your handkerchief that smelled like the lavender you crushed into it earlier that morning before tucking it to your breast, your favorite pearl-encrusted hair pin that smelled of the oils you worked into your hair after every bath, your small clothes. he will bring some token of you along with him, and in those quiet moments between the hour of the sun's descent and her eventual rebirth he will hold them in gentle fingers, press them to his lips, whisper your name with strangled, sickening devotion in between the drawing of heavy strangled breaths while his hand pumps his cock incessantly in your absence.

it is an action only necessitated by your absence, but it is one that has saved him many a time. so though he would prefer the real thing—you, happy and sweet and alive and arching that pretty spine of yours against him and in his arms—he will settle for his hand or a pillow that smells like you in an effort to keep himself sane enough to return to you in one piece.

⊹ ࣪ ˖K—kink (one or more of their kinks)

the obvious one is the fact that he has to have a breeding kink. this man has 6 children. canonically, he has to have a breeding kink. but it is worth noting that this mostly stems from the idea and the look of you being pregnant. he loves seeing you round and radiant with his children. there is just something so endearing about how well you carry the weight of being a mother. the way he can feel your hips widen to accommodate your children, how you gain a little bit of softness that lingers in your arms and thighs, in the plumpness that settles along your cheekbones and beneath your chin, in the simultaneous heaviness and perkiness of your tits as they swell—all of it drives him crazy. and so it eventually manifests as the hope, as he's buried to the hilt in your velvety heat, worshipping you as best he can, and filling you multiple times over, that his seed takes. is he slightly ashamed of it? yes, but he also loves it. he takes pride in how well you mother his children. some part of him will always go soft over the fact that every good thing about his children comes from you—even though his children drive him, daily, to the brink of insanity in their varying degrees of madness and targaryen-bred temper and brashness and pride. he loves that, in them, he can see you and the physical manifestation of your unbowing and unyielding love for him. i also think that this is truly the sole reason for his undying devotion to his children. he may not know how to parent well. he knows he makes mistakes. but he will get up everyday and bend his every will to make them happy. to see them safe. in the worst cases, to see them alive and breathing, no matter the cost. and it is not because they are a piece of him, but because they are a piece of you. 

he also kind of gets off on making you watch yourself in a mirror while he makes love to you. there is definitely a large ornate mirror that sits off to the side of the bed in your marital chambers, heavy frame lined in gold and the tiniest rubies that glint in the firelight so that you can watch how well you take him, how divine you look doing so. if there is any doubt in your mind about your beauty, he will drive it out of you. he will make sure you know you are well loved by him, even if his heart is so hardened to the verbal expression of his love. he will try, for you, to tell you how much you mean to him. but when he falls short he will default to what he knows best—acts that show you undoubtedly where his favor lies. and sometimes, this will manifest in him fucking you from behind and in front of that stupidly expensive mirror. because if he cannot always say it, he will show you how sweet his heart is on you, in his own way, how dear you are to his soul, how deeply his love runs and just how much he admires you. he will show you just how undone he is by you, how well you fray his heartstrings, how well you have unclasped that armor around his heart and destroyed the walls he has built around him. and you will watch. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖L—location (favorite places to do the do)

he would prefer to take you in your shared chambers, where he can shut out the rest of the world and focus on the one person who makes him feel like more than a fourth son, more than a second choice, more than a soldier sitting in the shadows of his brother and basking in the light baelor cast, more than a prince of the blood and realm—the one who makes him feel loved and worthy for simply being the man he is.

but ! if he had to take you somewhere else, he would love taking you in his office. its convenient for the days that seem to stretch on without end, and the endless council meetings where the talk of coin, of blood and rebellion, of trade and blockade, of grain counts and the newest lord of a small insignificant house who's pride has grown too big for his seat and stature, frustrating maekar to no end. its then that he will thank the gods above for you, his wanting little wife who dresses in that maroon silk dress with the neckline that you know drives him wild, waiting prettily in his office with a spread of fruit and cheeses and meats for him. its those days that his office becomes his favorite place to take you simply for the relief you give him in those stolen, heated moments between council sessions where the two of you become a mess of heavy breaths drawn too slowly for the heat coursing through your veins, lips pressing so fervently together that your teeth and tongues clash, and hands that pull at his hair and your hips and the ribbons lacing through the tops of the stocking covering your thighs. 

there are also those nights that demand so much of him that his restraint is thrown to the wind the moment you walk in in nothing more than a shift and delicate shawl to maintain a shred of modesty, hair unpinned and gleaming in the firelight thrown about the sconces and candles and fireplace. its then that he will pretend to be annoyed by the interruption if only to hear your whines of how dearly you miss him. its then that he will let you climb atop him and let himself succumb to the slow roll of your hips, the swell of your ass and the curve of your spine as he lets his hands roam. he will soak in the moments where you draw his stress from him with fingers that trace their way slowly through his beard and tug at the hair at his nape and the pleasure you send coursing through his veins as you ride your dragon and take what you need from him, your breathy moans a prayer, a song that won't leave his head.

and then there was that one night, from which he is almost certain your son aemon was sired from. the one where he had, in a fit of passion, of gratitude, of a desire so monstrous it consumed him whole and reduced him to his carnal, more primitive instincts, taken you on his desk. he remembers the clattering of ceramic ink pots as he had sent them carelessly flying to the stone floor in order to lay you down on the heavy slab of dark walnut that served as his desk. he remembered thinking that you were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen the way your hair had sprawled like rivers on a map over the scrolls beneath you, spilling over the edge of the dark wood. the laces of your shift had come undone, the neckline shoved down below your breasts and the skirt upwards to reveal the expanse of your soft stomach. the fire had roared in the hearth, throwing its heat against his back as he worked your pleasure from you in waves until finally he had pulled you to the edge of the desk and taken you over and over again, your legs wrapped around his hips as they met yours, breasts bouncing and chest heaving with your whispered sobs, and hands clawing at his chest in an effort to draw him closer to you, to draw him so close that the line where he ended and you began seemed to blur into oblivion. he still remembers the burn of those scratch marks well into the following morning, and how soft his heart had become as he stared at his ink-stained fingers throughout the council meetings. and to this day, he still has no idea what the topic of said council meeting had been. nor did he care to find out. 

there's also a sort of perverted pride that rises in his chest when he realizes that any servant could walk in at any moment and see just how sweet you are on him, how lovely you look as he pounds into you, how well he takes you. surely the realm would whisper then of how the stony, cruel, ugly prince maekar could bring such pleasure to a lovely little thing like you, rather than the venomous wonderings of how he could even deserve you. it would never come to be, but the thrill of taking you in his office stems ever so slightly from the possibility. 

so ya, his office, if not the privacy of his your own marital chambers. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖M—motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

what gets maekar going is not blind devotion, nor pliant meekness—the quiet qualities so commonly expected of a noble lord's wife. it is you—in all of your unyielding wit and your fearlessness in meeting him head on, even in his grumpiest, most ornery moods. you do not shrink from him. you stand your ground, press where others wouldn't dare, test him where lesser souls would yield, and—on those rare, hard-won occasions—bend that stubborn, iron will of his till it matches the shape of your own. 

maekar's father is king of the seven kingdoms and his brother is hand and heir—the weight of the crown weighing heavy on both their brows. but maekar is faced with another sort of turmoil, a different burden entirely. maekar is valyrian steel sharpened to a deadly edge and wielded when house and blood of the dragon is called into question. he is the head of the king's armies, old valyrian wrath given flesh, chaos and war, the promise of fire and blood incarnate. and as such, maekar understands the consequence behind each decision, understands what is meant when power is brandished and the value in knowing when to restrain one's own hand. 

he may not wear the crown upon his brow, nor the pin of the hand of the king upon his breast. but the cost of the blade at his side and the fatigue that lingers in his bones and the furrow in his brow is a palpable thing—that tension in his shoulders that never truly leaves as if he's perptually bracing for a blow he cannot anticipate. no consequence goes unconsidered. no decision is measured less than thrice. no path walked without every possible end weighed and understood, internalized even. it is a weight that eats at him, one that he cannot set down—whether from anxiousness or from pride, it did not matter. 

and so you do not meet him as a simpering princess, with compliance aplenty, weak comfort, and empty words. no, that would not do. you meet his stormy temper with your own, show him that the fire that burns in you recognizes the fire that burns in him. you refuse to yield, even though that would be easier. because getting maekar to yield that care, to get him to offload some of that burden onto you, even if only for a brief moment, is a monumental feat. you meet him with devotion, with a care that will not yield despite how well he forges that iron armor around his heart. when you finally wrest that burden from him—turning him into something gentler, something that does not have to think so hard about every movement, that does not plan, that does not bear the weight, something that does not bear those consequences—he cannot help but love you endlessly for it. he loves you deeply, quietly, with a devotion that burns even hotter than the dragonfire in his veins, and in his own way. but he loves you all the same. 

but maekar will not yield easily. nor has he ever been taught how to ask for help. and so when he truly needs it, he will get ornery about it and deliberately bait you into taking that burden from him. and its then, when you match his fire and put him in his place—that's what gets him going. 

it always starts the same: with a wandering touch given without the intention to follow through. a smoothing of his hand up your thigh beneath the table at breakfast, a thousand kisses placed to every erogenous patch of skin he can claim in the quiet of the morning, a playful pat to your backside while you are dressing, a compliment that is more lewd than propriety allows. 

then? nothing. silence. he will avoid you for the rest of the day, vanishing into duty and pretense, finding some ledger or recounting of the histories to bury his nose in, making a thousand excuses as to why he must skip the midday meal he usually takes with you in his solar. he withdraws, as if you aren't the very shape his heart has taken, as if he believes himself too self important to rise to the occasion of loving you as thoroughly as he knows you deserve.

and when you do see him, it is always in passing. those lilac eyes are a shade of violet as deep as dusk, gleaming like cut amethyst in the firelight. he will say little, but that gaze will linger where he knows it shouldn't, where it is not proper—the low neckline of your dress, where the tops of your breasts are evident and the necklace he gave you hangs heavy; on your mouth when you speak, as if he wants nothing more than to drown your words in a clash of teeth and tongue that will leave your lips swollen and unistakably covered in him; on the place where the dip in your waist gives way to the swell of your hips, as if imagining the way his hands would look if he placed them there and tugged you so close that you molded to him, fusing you to him for eternity. 

he will be entirely absent—infuriatingly and tactically so. you only see him in passing, in council chambers where he knows that desire cannot escape and must simmer and crawl beneath your skin. he is nothing but a shadow on the wall, all duty and discipline and edges one does not dare touch for fear of slicing onself clean to the bone—save for that passing moment in the hallway just before supper, where his hand lands low against the curve of your ass as he brushes past you, a soft, insolent pat that burns your skin for longer than it has any right to. 

he is absent from supper, because of course he is.

you find him exactly where you expect him, in your chambers, sprawled in your bed in nothing but a pair of dark linen trousers, laces already undone where they fall halfway down his calves. he lounges against the furs and eiderdown, a book propped open against a bent leg. one sword-bitten, calloused thumb makes its way between the soft curve of his lips, drawn briefly to his tongue, before he turns the page with languid ease. his eyes lift to yours then—agonizingly slow, knowing, and tinged with a salaciousness that you swear would make the maiden herself blush in a way that cannot be proper. 

hello, my dear, the look says, beckoning. 

'wife,' he calls as way of greeting, slow and satisfied. a challenge. 

you scoff, the sound rough and unbecoming, one that would surely earn you scandalous looks if you were before the court. but you weren't. you were here—behind closed doors, tucked into the sanctuary of your marital chambers, with your husband sprawled recalcitrantly across your bed and a fire crackling healthily in the hearth. it was unbecoming, yes, but from maekar it earns you nothing but hunger. 

you crossed the room in less than a breath, lithe fingers snatching the book from his lap and snapping it shut in one fluid motion. you do not set it aside as much as you discard it, tossing it to some corner of the room you could not care for in the heat of the moment—attention already drawn elsewhere as you climb atop maekar's lap as though you belonged there. your thighs part to accommodate the breadth of his hips, hands thudding against the rough, old grain of the headboard, caging your husband in, honing his focus to none other than you. 

a certain smugness rolls off of him in waves. 

insufferable bastard, you think, a grin tugging at the stubborn corner of your mouth when you hear his breath hitch, catching in his throat in surprise. i love you. 

'you are reading the same page you were this morning,' you accuse, voice edged in frustration, but there is no true malice in it—only an unmistakable undercurrent of warmth that lines your every word. 'and you've ignored me all day…husband.' 

you catch an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips, a minute movement that any other would've missed. but you were attuned to every microexpression, every twitch, every glance given by the man in front of you—a language only the two of you could truly speak. 

'darling, i was occu-'

'no.'

a hand settles on his chest as way of interrupting the discernible lie waiting on the tip of his tongue. you can feel the beat of his heart quicken beneath your fingertips—just there, beneath the the hair that shown like starlight that curled over his chest, the war-honed muscle beneath, the steady, unyielding bone and sinew even farther below. you let your gaze drift, heated and longing, to his mouth—to the soft upper lip, the silvery mustache that kisses the top of it. you know he sees it. 

'do not give me falsehoods. you are many things, maekar targaryen, but you are not subtle. you wanted a rise, and now you have it.'

those amethyst eyes that never leave you gleam with a certain fire that stirs something just as scorching deep within you. a flicker. a crack in the armor. and you know he sees it—the frustration, the love, the longing. 

'you provoke me,' you continue, voice nearly as quiet as the dead. your thumb traces a delicate circle, once, twice, over his heart. 'you light the fire and leave it to burn unattended. and for what? to see if i will come to heel?'

a hand of his own, wide of palm, warm, and calloused where sword and mace have bitten for years, slides over your own. long fingers wrap around your palm, a disruption to the deligence with which you track his pulse. you see it for what it is: a plead—as if to say please, spare me. you know too much. 

'to see if you would come at all,' he admits, voice a low rasp under the weight of the affection he does not know how to bear, and does not know where to place. 

there it is. there it always is. the ugly truth that tears at his soul more than the weight of the crown and mace and diplomacy ever could. the question that, though it remains unspoken, is as clear as the bells' of the sept, tolling high and clear through the thick air. 

'all you need do is ask,' you murmur. an apology, a grief for all the softness he had been denied before you were there to convince him of anything else but the weight, the burden, the ache. 

'you would have me beg?' he says lowly, a sadness begins to creep into the edges of those molten violet irises of his, a faint blush gracing the arch of his cheekbones to match—as if he knew his own foolishness by posing the question. 'you would have me risk refusal?'

'i would have you be honest,' you murmured. your other hand moves from the wood of the headboard to cup his jaw, the texture of the rough grain replaced by the coarse hair of his beard. 'and i would never refuse you.' 

a bone-deep sigh heaves from him then, as the sheer certainty with which you say the words knocks the very breath from his lungs. you can feel all fight eddy from him then, a fraction of that tension that maekar keeps at bay like a storm brewing on the horizon ebbing, even for a fraction of a second. 

'i wanted you to come to me,' maekar mutters, a quiet, reluctant vulnerability trembling in the timbre of his voice. the statement is simple, deliberate and lacking any sort of ornamentation typical of courtly proceedings. but you can see the quiet way in which the statement undoes him, the toll it takes evident behind the hard set of his jaw, the jump of the tendon in his neck, the deepening of the furrow between his brows. 

i wanted you, but i lack the words to tell you. what if you did not want me in turn? what if the fault lay with me? what would become of me without you? how do i continue on if you do not allow me dominion over your heart? what if you have no use for mine?

you melt at the admission, heartstrings tugging achingly at the blatant need in it. when maekar makes eye contact with you, wary and searching, you give him a delicate half smile, a gentle tug at the corner of your lips. a gentle amused huff leaves you as both hands find their way to his face then. as if on instinct, maekar inclines his head towards you, as if burying himself in your gentle hold would grant him refuge. lips, warm and soft as a long summer's breeze smooths over the crease between his brows, your kiss a plea to relieve the tension building there. 

'you are impossible, my love,' you murmur gently, lips still hovering against his forehead. one hand slides up to tuck a fallen strand of silvery hair back into place behind his ear, noting how much longer it had gotten in the recent months, its silky softness beneath your trembling fingertips. 

'and you are relentless,' he complains. but when your gaze meets his own, you are delighted to see the softness lingering there, still despite it all—a content amusement and a fierce gratitude to match. 

'someone must be, if you are ever to relent and take rest,' you reply, heavy silence following your words as your hands fall down from his jaw, over the broad expanse of his shoulders and about the back of his neck, finding purchase in the silver strands at his nape instead. maekar knows you speak truth, it is just not one he has every truly wanted to accept. 

'you carry it always,' you murmur. 'the weight of life and death, the bloodier parts of the crown your father would rather a blind eye to, every fragile thread holding this realm in balance. even here… even with me.'

maekar's hands absently find their way to your hips, as if grounding himself to the bone and pliant flesh would remind him that he the weight he carries is not the only thing the gods provided him in this life, that there was still something good. 

'i know not how to put it down,' maekar murmurs, eyelashes fluttering shut as he another heavy sigh works its way from that place deep in his chest where he holds all his grief and hope and pride away from prying eyes. 'and i am not sure that i can.'

'i simply ask you to let me share the burden with you. even if only here with me, away from the court. just for a little while?' you plead.

'it is no gentle thing,' he mutters, always your grumpy cynic of a husband through and through. 

'neither are you, but i love you all the same,' you hum, a teasing lilt to your voice. your hands find their way to his jaw again, this time delicately angling his cheek upward to allow you to press another kiss to the soft, scarred skin there as way of emphasis.

that does it. something hardens with certainty in maekar's gaze, you feel his hands begin to roam, skimming the expanse of your waist until his thumbs finds that notch along the ridge of your hip, seeking some solid part of you to ground him to the moment, to you. it is only when he dips his head to press a lingering kiss to your shoulder, before resting his forehead along its ridge that he is able to drag his gaze from your face, your mouth, the twinkle in your eyes. 

'gods, you are a stubborn creature,' he sighs, half content and half desperate to have you as close to him as possible. the tension begins to melt from him, then, something mischeivous and mirthful rising to take its place. he tugs you closer, angling you in way that causes your hip to catch along the hard line of his cock where it now strains against the linen of his trousers. 

'are you going to free me of this dreadful corset, or shall i expect to suffer it all night?' you hummed, tone roguish and anything but innocent.

a sound that resembles somewhat of a disbelieving laugh tumbles from your husband then, a disbelieving sound that sounds so foreign in his voice and yet it sparks something bright in the cavity of your chest, that place within your heart that he always seems to occupy.

and he does not need to be asked twice, thick, ring-laden fingers finding the laces of your dress with deft efficiency, tearing at the layers of your dress until they litter the floor and nothing but your sweet moans fills your martial chambers. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖N—No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

degradation is an absolute no go for maekar. whether it be of himself or of you, he would not tolerate it. the moment he even gets a whiff of it the armor is back on, the walls around his heart thrown back up without haste, and the sneering, judgemental, cursing prince and stony facade of the rebellion-hardened warrior has snapped back into place. he would no longer be maekar, your husband, your lover. he would be maekar targaryen, prince of the blood and the realm, the anvil who squashed the rebellion dead and left its ashes in his wake. 

maekar has spent his life as a warrior, as second best to baelor. he was never his mother's favorite, nor his father's preferred—and even less so in the eyes of the realm. and though it is not baelor's fault, and he would never blame his brother a day in his life for the different lives they lead, but he lives his every waking moment in the shadow of his brother. and until you, there was no one who was ever truly sweet on him, who wanted him and made the active choice to stay by his side, to choose him day-in and day-out. he faces enough scrutiny from those around him, from his father, his mother, his brother's men on the small council. he does not need it continuing into the bedroom and into his love life. 

maekar also had the pox as a kid, and canonically has marks on his face from it. and though the scars are faded, the marks still remain. they're easy to forget about every now and again, but that self-consciousness never really leaves him, damages a part of him deep down inside. so any attempt to degrade him would set him off. 

furthmore, he would not tolerate degradation of you either—from anyone. even if his father, daeron, king of the seven kingdoms, were to raise a negative word against you, maekar would proclaim himself a blasphemous traitor in mere seconds, his discontentment known and loudly heard. he would not tolerate it. you are his wife, his heart, his guiding star and calming warmth. every good thing maekar believes you is right with the world, every lovely thing imaginable. you are everything, and maekar is a warrior. and a warrior will protect his own to the death. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖O—Oral (preference on giving or receiving)

maekar eats it. there is no other way to put it. he loves the taste of you–that sweet, honeyed musk of your arousal—on his tongue. he loves to watch you progressively fall apart on his tongue, loves to find that spot with his tongue and fingers, rubbing and licking against it until he hears the echo of his name on the stones of your marital chambers, echoing in that high, little whine that drives him to absolute madness. 

it becomes a challenge to him the moment he undresses you the evening of your wedding–the speed of his endeavors, how quickly he can wring your pleasure from you with his tongue alone, with his nose pressed to the hair that curls over your pubic bone, wide, strong hands trap your trembling thighs against his broad shoulders, pinning you to him so you couldn't squirm away from him, even if you had wanted to. how quickly he has you unravelling on his tongue soon becomes how often. how often then becomes whether he can do so with his tongue alone. then it becomes whether he can do so with your hips hovering above his face, his hands digging into the fat of your thighs to keep you from moving too far. and everything in between. and he gets very good at it very quickly.

that being said… maekar has a little bit of a… scent kink. and that goes both ways. he adores the smell of you—the soft scent of lye and clean linens, of the flowers he had imported from across the great grass sea because they were your favorite, of the scent of lavender oil on your skin, of the unmistakable smell of you beneath it all—that intoxicating essence that sets his senses ablaze. 

but…if you return his obsession?!?!!? you best believe that nothing will tear you away from maekar. ever. 

the moment you rid him of his heavy doublet, and leather belts undoubtedly decorated with a knife's sheath, his riding boots, and slowly undo the ties at the front of his tunic until it falls open to expose the ivory expanse of his chest, silver hair nearly glittering in the evening candlelight, and nuzzle your face into the hardline of his cock where it sits straining beneath the confines of his linen underclothes he specifically wears for riding, or training with the boys in the yard, or hunting—you will turn maekar, in all of his blasphemy and ire, into the most pious man the seven kingdoms has ever known, praying to the gods to thank them for whatever sweet twist of fate brought you to him. 

it is with his hand curling around the side of your neck such that his thumb presses gently into the column of your throat, just next to the slight bulge where he knows his cock sits, his fingers lost in the wisps of hair curling at the nape of your neck in the heat of the moment, that maekar comes undone. it is with open mouth and tension coiling in the base of his spine, that his face turns upwards in praise of the seven above and his bones grow weak under the weight of your devotion. with your nose pressed to the silver-spun hair covering the space just below his navel, cock disappearing between swollen, pretty lips that maekar prays to the stranger to leave you to him, to bless him with a long life with you by his side—that damn near threatens the stranger and curses him for the mere concept that the stranger could take you before it took him. 

because it is in those moments that you ruin him. utterly and entirely, he is yours from that moment on. not even death will take and keep you from him. nothing would, he thinks. nothing could tear me from you. my heart is yours until the stranger itself rips it from my chest, my love. 

because though maekar will never admit it, he would be utterly wrecked at the mercy of your lips. he would die on the sword of his own making as long as he was granted the prayer of your love, the weight of your devotion, your tears as you consume him, the constancy of your presence and the immeasurable, invaluable peace and pleasure you brought him…even in moments as utterly debauched as these. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖P—Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc)

maekar does not have a consistent pace. but he does have a consistent intensity. it would not matter if he fucked you with a voracity that would put the dornish to shame, or whether he take a painstaking amount of time to ensure that you felt every ridge and press of his cock. the intensity is still the same. either will satiate you at a rate so furious you wonder if it is his personal vendetta against the gods and their cruelty made physical manifest—as if he had some point to prove. 

as long as he gets what he wants—and that is of course, you—he couldn't be more content. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖Q—Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc)

maekar, as a prince of the blood whose responsibilities weigh heavy, does not prefer a quick fuck—if he can help it. but he does understand their utility. there are a finite number of moments in the day in which he can be solely dedicated to you, especially during the rebellions, and especially as you populate the halls of summerhall with his white-haired, purple-eyed brood of dragon dreamers, and especially when the cruelty of fate burdens his brow with the weight of the crown and makes him king. so when the long days stretch into long nights that stretch into a long fornight and turn of the moon, and the only moments he can be with you are against the shadowed walls of some hidden alcove or the wet, lonely caverns of the cisterns in king's landing where your moans echo off of lofty, rocky ceilings; or sprawled across the parchment and inkpots and correspondence strewn about his dark mahogany desk in his chambers at summerhall; or in your carriage when the targaryen procession halts for luncheon on the journey his father demands he and baelor make across the seven kingdoms to 'uphold the crown's presence'—he takes it. and he does so gladly. 

would he prefer to have you unravelling over the course of hours against his tongue, rail you into the mattress of your marital chambers until your honey-sweet cunt takes the shape of him permanently, and settle into those hazy, peaceful hours in which your warmth settles and he can hear the soft snores of your breathing as you fall into a deeply satisfied slumber against him? would he rather spend his time where your mere presence is a constant balm to the tempest of his soul? yes. undoubtedly. 

but that is not always possible. and maekar may not be an optimist, or a simpering pacifist. he may be blunt and pessimistic and harsh. but there is one thing maekar is and it is a famished opportunist. for you, for your touch, for your attentions and affections he would go to war, slay a thousand mortal enemies and a thousand immortal more. he would rule until his heart gave out, swing the sword and the mace until nought all but your peace and happiness remained, and run himself absolutely ragged for the contentment of his lady wife. all of it would be done without question as long as there was one thing at the end of it all—you, his wife. his lady love. the object of all his desires, and the presence that disturbs and burdens him with a joy unlike any other. 

so if all he can get of you is those brief little moments throughout the day where he manages to steal you away from the realm and reclaim you for his own heart—then you best believe he will make the most of them. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖R—Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc)

maekar is painfully horrible at one thing. and that is telling you no. your marital chambers are no different. there is approximately one thing he would be opposed to and that is sharing you. but if you pleaded with him to wrap your wrists in silk, to smack your ass harder that he would normally, to suckle from your breast after your children have had their fill of your milk and your body hasn't quite caught up to that realization, if you asked if you restrain him, if you asked to suck his cock and end up worshipping his balls with your tongue instead—whatever it was… maekar would likely not be able to tell you no. it may take some convincing, but ultimately, if you want it bad enough, he will indulge you at least once. 

the risk has led to some of the best evenings of his life, to be sure. and so who is he to deny the opportunity to be hopelessly, and irrevocably, to absolutely ruin and be ruined by you. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖S—Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

(we get it how many times are you going to rely on the fact that he is forcefully discplined and incredibly strong, a skilled warrior through and through? we! get! it!) maekar is a warrior (DUH)—disciplined and used to the burning in his lungs, the fire in his muscles, the build of the fatigue and the persistence through it all. he's fought many a battle, slain many an enemy, and found the courage to press ever onward—even though every muscle in his body said to stop, even despite the cry of fatigue lingering in his very bones under the weight of armor and shield and mace and sword. 

but what is war compared to a woman's touch—nay, compared to the unabashed, claiming touch of the woman who loves you? nothing, maekar is sure. 

so yes, this man can go for hours. round after round. there is no shortage of stamina with maekar. there just isn't. if he is limited by anything it would be his own lack of patience. but even then… if you asked it of him, he would do it before his heart even had a chance to hammer to life in his chest. 

that being said, he will falter eventually if you are sweet and soft with him. if you can work it out of him, maekar's stamina will crumble under your vulnerability, your openness, your acceptance and him and the unrestrained penance you pay at the alter of your love for him. but it is less about the lack of physical ability, and more due to the intensity which you make him feel. he can go for hours, but the second you tenderly lift a hand to his pockmarked jaw, and kiss him with lips that seem to just barely ghost, warm and wet and wanting, over him—he is gone. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖T—Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

maekar takes the bedroom very seriously and takes a deep sense of pride in just how much pleasure he can work from you. he firmly believes that the only "toys" you need are his fingers, his tongue, his cock, etc.. the only thing remotely close to a toy that ever enters the bedroom is a wide, maroon silk ribbon you insist he buys for you for entirely too high of a price from a tyroshi merchant. later that evening as you crawl atop his lap, intending to take what is yours and show him just how grateful you are, that very same ribbon makes a rather welcomed appearance. 

it starts with your delicate hands working at the ties of his linen tunic until you can easily maneuver your delicate palms beneath its hem and ever so slowly over the planes of his abdomen until he tears it from his form in a desperate attempt to pull you closer, to feel you against him. you loop your arms around his neck, tugging him close and kissing him so fervently that maekar can practically feel his lips swelling beneath your attention, diligent tongue and teeth nipping at him as delicately as you can. one hand threads into the silver strands of well-groomed hair at the nape of his neck and tugs gently to expose the strong column of his throat, the protuberance of it bobbing as a low, rumbling growl tears through him. a grind of your hips into his own has maekar absolutely distracted to the sudden loss of the warmth of your delicate hands, and before maekar can truly register it cool silk runs across his skin in their wake. a protest rises in his throat but is lost to a strangled open-mouthed sigh as you begin to ride him in earnest, that gods-damned ribbon pulled taught around the back of his neck, forcing him as close to you as physically possible. maekar has no choice but to press hot, open-mouthed kisses at your shoulder, the hollow of your throat, the tops of your breasts. his hands grasp desperately for any anchor—hips, curve of your ass, the bottom of your thighs where they meet his over and over again—as you took what you needed and held him so close that all he could think about was you and the only air he could breath was marked by your perfume and the scent of your coupling and something so unmistakably you he feared you would drive him to insanity. 

and despite the taunting 'cruel little minx' and muttered 'gods, woman, you will be the death of me', that would fall from his lips in place of the admission, the whole affair rewires something in him, stirring something awake deep within him. something that hungers. your boldness has him blushing from the tips of his ears, to the high, scarred arches of his cheeks, all the way down his neck and over the hard planes of his chest in a way that never truly leaves him.

but of course he couldn't allow you to get away with your whimsical fantasies and plots without a little revenge of his own, nor allow your claim on his heart and loins to go unanswered. 

'maekar, dearest, have you seen my ribbons?' you asked the next morning, confusion burdening your brow in a way that maekar found entirely too endearing. 'i can't seem to remember where i placed them.' 

needless to say, you and your husband were late to breaking your fast with the royal family, king daeron included. and when you do show, it is with both of your hands clutching the thick iron-like muscle of your husband's bicep in an attempt to hide the low ache between your unsteady legs and the shakiness in your gait. you smile prettily through the flush that will not leave your face and silently thank the gods for the high neck of your dress that keeps out both the chill of the morning and shields the freshly-blooming bruises along your collarbone from prying eyes, leaving you with a tingling sensation (a cruel reminder truly) everywhere your husband had ruthlessly kissed and nipped at your skin, his assault only yielding and his tongue only soothing aggravated skin after it flushed for him. but most of all, you are thankful for the long, tight sleeves of your dress that covered your wrists and the lines that are surely imprinted into the delicate skin from where that same maroon ribbon had dug in as your husband forced your tied hands above your head and held them there with the iron-wrought grip of his wide palm and strong calloused fingers, forbidding you to touch him as he worked orgasm after orgasm from you with nothing more than the relentless pounding of his cock into your core. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖U—Unfair (how much they like to tease)

maekar tries not to be unfair towards you. he tries to give all of himself to you and your happiness. especially in the hazy, cerulean twilight of the morning, when the sound of the waves lapping at the cliffs below the red keep or the chirping of the song birds in the gardens at summerhall fill the cool morning air. with maekar, the mornings are for you—that seemingly timeless stretch between slumber and the rising of the sun that are dedicated to the devotion of you. the whole of you while you are still wholly his. he's still heavy between your thighs, deliberate in the pursuit of your pleasure as he splits you open on his cock in that slow way that hints at the fatigue that still pulls at his bones. 

but this is the version of your husband that teases you for the soft noises that make their escape from your warm, wanton mouth into the silence of the moring with a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth or in between the kisses he lays delicately to your temple and jawline and occasionally, nips at your shoulder gently—his canines sinking softly into even softer flesh. this is the version of maekar who would crack open his own chest and pull his heart from its depths if it would make you understand the man beneath the solderi and the armor and prince and the dutiful brother—the man who makes that love his sworn oath. this is the man who lets that swirling, all consuming warmth that lingers in the center of him slip through the cracks in the early whispers of morning as he wraps wide, heavily-muscled arms around you as if he could shield you from the servants who would eventually come to claim you for the court, as if he could merge the heat and dragonfire and ire of himself into the sweet, tender, warmth of you, as if he could truly bind you to him for eternity. you were never quite sure which. 

this is the version that has finally learned that there is no punishment waiting for him when he sets down the sword, when he lets you through the gate in the walls he subconsciously buries himself behind. he is a man changed, and a man who would fall on the sword of his own devotion if you merely asked it of him. you stay his more harsh ways, giving way to the version that loves with shame and without pretense.

but…if is instead one of those days where the sword seems to lay heavy and cold in his hands, and he cannot seem to put it down, the cool metal of the handle biting into his palm to prevent him from truly unfurling his fingers to set it down…when frustration and exhaustion draw his scowl into something deeper and more permanent, when the politics of court have driven him to his wit's end—this is when that dragonfire, that inner madness he and his line were so well known for, makes its appearance. 

now this…? this is the version that seems to barely hide that cruel twist of tension lingering just below the surface. this version snaps at the members of court, that bares its teeth and buries its softness in a veil of sharp wit and dark words. this is the version who will take to the yard and pick up the sword before he surrenders to the arms of his wife. this is the version that loves and loves, and loves hard. but this is also the version that hungers, that has needs. 

this is the version that, in the short periods of respite he gets from his duties, will pull you into the nearest forgotten corridor and kiss you, desperate and heavy and all-consuming, until his lips flush with heat and yours swell beneath the force of his love. this is the version that will scoop you up and place you amongst book and scroll, correspondence, inkpot and quill alike, lift your skirts and take you like the whole of the seven kingdoms and the free cities depended on it.

this is the version that will drive you to your pleasure countless times, dimly-washed glow of evening candlelight and incense and the fire that casts its dancing shadows across the walls. each scrape of his beard against the plush swell of your thighs and your poor, swollen, cunt sends yet another tingling sensation spreading from the fringes of your consciousness to your core like wildfire. meanwhile those large, calloused hands find the softness of you and pull. this is the maekar that consumes and takes and loves in equal measure.

but this is also the version that will bring you to the precipice of your fourth peak that evening before he reliqnuishes his mouth from your core, withdraws his hands from your stomach and his fingers from that slick, honey-sweet spot that has you praying for the seven to grant you mercy at his expense abruptly as though he were commanding his troops to pull out of battle,. and suddenly, every pleasure, every sensation just stops. this is the version that does not care how high and pretty you whine for him (trust me it will drive him insane, but maekar is not a man who does anything in partial. he will love you with the entirety of his heart and soul and mind, pleasure you with the entirety of his body. but he will teasingly neglect you with the total and complete absence of himself from you as well). this is the version that doesn't care how much you plead (though his heart warms at the thought of it, going soft in the center from hearing those words pour from your lips.). he is unfair. 

he will withdraw and place himself against the headboard and feathered pillows with all the suffocating heat of dragonflame in his gaze and the smugness of a man who knows he's won before his opponent has even begun. sword-worn calloused hands will begin to palm at his cock that is absolutely straining against the hard planes of his stomach, thick and flushed and heavy (he will not tell you that he has memorized the way youwould do it, palm swirling about the thick head of himself before, hand squeezing delicately as he traced ever downward until he could stroke his heavy balls with long, scarred fingers that pressed and kneaded with want and in absence of you. he will not tell you that, will not confess that you and those hands of yours are the undoing of him.. but you will notice). 

he will offer you his hand and helps guide you on top of him, hips straining to accomodate the wide expanse of his thighs as you shuffle up the expanse of furs and linen until you straddle them. 

he will murmur out a 'good, my sweet wife.' but that is where the line of total devotion ends, and that thing in the deepest, dark, depths of himself, the animal that has set its eyes on its prey and which will not be satisfied until it has it in its maw, begins. 

'now convince me of your devotion, dear,' he murmurs, voice toeing the line between that deep, ragged thing that commands respect and inspires fear in hedgeknight and kingsguard alike (towards the end of this ref for the tiktok edit folks: here) and that thing that goes almost imperceptibly softer for you (and the beginning of these three because i'm literally psychotic: here and here and here). 

his hands will settle on your hips, guiding you as you rock back and forth to begin, but then they travel upwards to pinch at the fat of your breast. and when you whine and your hands try, and fail, to pull his away, to relieve the sensitivity that he had been diligently working you up towards all evening, he will swat them away with a chilling look of warning lingering in that molten silvery gaze of his. 

'oh, my poor sensitive girl,' he will purr up at you, that wicked grin on his face deepening as he guides your hands to his shoulders and then pulls you against his chest until your arms wind helplessly around his neck. 'come on, take what you need. take what's yours.' 

if he is feeling really mean he won't touch you, opting instead to let your scratch and claw at his chest, the bulge of muscle that lies between his shoulder and back, and tug at the silver strands of his hair in your quest to find purchase of anything to ground you to this realm, to reality, to him, and failing. 

'show your lord husband how much you need him, dear,' he'll hum, tone gone absolutely and positively arrogant. 'make yourself come on my cock if you want me to truly satisfy you.' 'come on. my poor little dove. take it.'

and it is only after you've ridden yourself to your high, the backs of your thighs becoming raw from the thick covering of silver hair that whirls across the expanse of his muscled thighs and lower abdomen, that he will give in and fuck you the way you truly deserve, in a way that truly claims you as his, inside and out. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖V—Volume (how loud are they, what sounds do they make, etc)

when you first marry him, you would expect him to be silent. he is all whetstone-sharpened steel and hardened stone walls. brashness with no apology. plated-armor and mail. no frills, nothing fancy. just maekar. and so you envisioned him to be quite similar in bed—anticipate him being the type to do his duty to you and leave it at that. no pleasure. no seeking, no bowing under the weight of his own heart, under that heavy, ugly want. and yet…

and yet, when he finds himself buried to the hilt in your warmth, with the softness pressed so close to his own, he finds he is undone. wholly so. by every stitch and seam, every beat of his heart and hum of his heartstrings. every ounce of him calls to you like a song the moment he finds himself within your presence. and so he can't help but sigh into that notch between collarbone and neck, where he can feel your moans echoing through skin and sin and bone and sinew and want. and so you will frequently, much to your delighted surprise, hear 'my girl… oh my girl' or 'gods, woman' he will call you woman, but you know there is an undertone of my woman, when it is said in his voice echoed into the space between breaths as he drives himself further into you with every powerful thrust of his hips. occasionally, especially when he can feel you fluttering around the length of him, a curse will slip from his lips—'seven fucking hells' and 'a sure-fire sign that all that battle-hardnened, diligently disciplined control is slipping. oh my heart' spoken like you were the only prayer he cared to learn, the cradle of your hips his only altar as you tugged him ever closer, fingers digging until they leave little red half-moons in the pale planes of his well-muscled back. if you ask him to go harder, plead for him to be closer (every inch of him is already pressed, hot and heavy, to you), a soft 'i'm trying, i'm trying' will all but stumble from his lips, short and breathy and barely audible. but you will hear it, because every noise from him is another ounce of stolen pride you feel knowing that this, this mumbling, wanting, needing thing you reduce your husband to is because of you. 

the praises are short, babbled, mumbled, shoved into little pockets of sound so small that you know he cannot help himself as he mutters them, but knows just how foreign the softness is in the gruff tone of his voice. its as if he is well aware that his defenses are failing, that his restraint is a thin, fallible barrier between him and you and the total devotion he does not normally have the words to speak. and so they are whispers and hot, open-mouthed sighs and low, rolling groans that start somewhere in that part of his chest that has gone absolutely soft for you, and forcing itself from his throat despite maekar's better judgement. 'you feel divine' will leave him in a pant, as if it were a thought that meant to stay in his own head, but under his unravelling control slipped its way out. 'so beautiful, my girl' stumbles from his lips, holy and reverent as its murmured into your skin as he rests his head on your shoulder, violet eyes fighting to remain open, to continue observing the way his cock disappears in you over and over again, the evidence of your pleasure forming at the base of him.

when he gets close to spilling himself into you or along your pretty collar bones or the soft swell of your stomach, he sometimes slips into high valyrian. he almost finds it easier to say all the things he truly feels for you that way, in his mother tongue, in something older than himself and this duty that has shackled him so, something that proceeded the hurt and neglect that has turned him into an irrevocably icy and regretfully hard person incapable of softness. something primal and sharp in its syllables, but something nonetheless wrought with passion. 

he never truly tells you what they mean, brushing you off whenever you ask what it means with a flush rising to pockmarked cheeks. but there is one that is constantly echoed, the one you think you know better in his mother tongue than you do even in your own.. 'avy jorrāelan, avy jorrāelan, avy jorrāelan' (i love you, i love you, i love you). repeated like a prayer, between kisses pressed to your throat, to that place just below your jaw that has your pulse nearly jumping up to meet him, to the bone between your breasts that shields your heart so dutifully for him. 

other phrases you will commonly hear as well include: 'lykiri, dārilaros, lykiri' (calm down, beloved, calm, but said like hush my love, hush i have you now) and 'ñuha jorelis' (my little love, adjacent to but more raw than 'my girl' or 'woman' to him).

⊹ ࣪ ˖W—Wild Card ( a random headcanon for the character)

dare i say that maekar is a little bit of a masochist? but its not in the way that one might typically think. because the thing is that maekar is extremely aware of the fact that his body is that of a soldier's. he is a man turned weapon. he is all well-honed, disciplined edges. his every muscle is akin to the heft of his mace, the heaviness of it matched with whetted wit and skill. and so he is incredibly aware of the propensity he has to cause pain. 

and he doesn't want to hurt you. he doesn't want pain to have a place in his martial chambers, in his bed. he wants you to trust him, to know that he is a weapon, but he is your weapon. to hone. to wield against those who would wrong you, the lords and ladies of court, the realm—whomever you damn well pleased. 

but that doesn't mean that it doesn't make its way in eventually. and it happens totally by mistake. he'll be taking you from behind and go to smack your ass and, in the throws of pleasure derived from the honey-thick warmth of your cunt, will forget to measure his strength—an angry, raised handprint rising to the surface of velvet-soft skin. 

he'll have you on your back, hips slamming into yours at an alarming pace and his hand will settle at your throat, lithe fingers nearly finding their way into the wisps of hair that begin at the nape of your neck. its then that maekar will hear a gasp fall from your sweet, swollen lips and his gaze will snap to your face, openly admiring you in a way that he would never admit to out loud. but he does all the same, purplish silver eyes becoming molten as they trace the ridge of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the line that had formed between your pinched eyebrows, the remnants of him glistening on your lips. he doesn't even notice how tight his grip around your throat had become until he becomes suddenly and acutely aware of the way your breathing has gone ragged, hands (hands that are so much smaller than his own) wrapping around his wrist and forearm, a physical plea. 

and in the beginning those moments would send a flood of guilt rushing through him with such violence he thinks it could rival the very rapids of the white knife in the north, cold and brutal and entirely unyielding. 

but that's not what gets him going. its not the hurting you. its not the thought of the pain your feeling at his hands. because that has him absolutely devastated, his chest seemingly cracking open at the thought. no. 

its the way you respond that has him on his metaphorical knees before you, that sends his head spinning with pleasure, that awakens that animal that lingers deep inside him, the unkind thing that wants. that hungers. 

its the way that he feels your cunt flutter around him, becoming impossibly tight and infinitely more wet, when he brings his hand down to the curve of your ass. and again when he tugs at the flesh of your hips with a little too much force, the crest of the iliac of your hips rising sharp and fast to meet his hand. its the way you whimper when he tangles a hand in your hair at the back of your neck and tugs. its the way your hands wrap around his wrist—not to pull him off, but to have something ground you to him, to the man above you, to your husband, to the man who you know loves you so dearly, whose heart practically beats for you, as his fingertips press unforgivingly into that spot below your jaw where your pulse flutters beneath his touch as the world becomes that much more lucid and the pleasure that much more intense as a result. 

so no, its not the fact that he can hurt you, that he does, that pain inevitably works its way in because maekar is first and foremost a weapon. no its the fact that beneath all of it. its acceptance. it is not pain for pain's sake. it is acceptance of who he is, at a fundamental level. it is the fact that you love him enough to derive pleasure from both man and weapon. it is the way you've learned to not only love the man he is, but to take pleasure from the edge of the knife, from the heaviness of the mace, from the sheer power of the sword. 

you love it. you accept it. and you give it back. 

it will never cease to amaze maekar how quickly you can unravel him, how easily you tease that animal out of the cave in his chest and make it your friend. and the fact that it usually comes hand-in-gratuitous-hand in the form of marking alters something in him entirely. 

a bruise kissed to the skin of his neck, somewhere between the ridge of jaw and hollow of throat and swell of the shell of his ear. the scratch marks that cover the expanse of his freckled back and muscled abdomen from where you cling to him as though he is the singularity to which you gravitate, the center of your world and the sole focus of your heart. the angry, raised half-moon-shaped marks your teeth leave in pliant flesh, decorating his shoulders, his bicep and—on the rare occasion that he takes you from behind, baring all of that muscled weight down onto you, pinning you between the mattress and the ruthless pace of his hips–even the forearm he wrapped around your throat before rearranging your insides to match the shape of him. 

so yes. he is a little bit of a masochist, and maybe so are you. but it comes from a place of deep understanding and a deep appreciation of the fact that maekar may be harsh and prickly and as sharp as whetted valyrian steel, but he is your weapon above all else. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖X—X-Ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

maekar may not be the longest in the seven kingdoms, by any stretch of the imagination. but he is still of substantial length and girth that, when he's buried himself in you—shoulders tucked into the bend of your knee, hands holding your hips as if you are the only thing grounding him to this very earth, panting heavy praises in your ear, wrecked from the pleasure he finds with every stroke of his heavy cock—you can feel the air heaving from your lungs with every stroke, every fervored press of the large head to your cervix. he is dense as well, so much so that even when painfully and entirely hard, there is a substantial hang to him—solely from how much blood it takes to send his cock aching with want. he will bury himself so deep you can practically feel him rearranging your insides to match his shape. there is a large vein that travels down the underside of his cock from base to frenulum, and if you drag your tongue along it enough, sensual and teasing, he will absolutely come otherwise untouched the first few ten times. his balls are heavy and perpetually full, the balls of a man who fills you entirely, as if he knows it will take and it likely already did. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖Y—Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

if maekar had his choice of it, he would take you away from court and the wanting eyes of the realm that measure you like a thing it can sink its teeth into and tear. he would take you some place quiet—hide you away from the realm, abandon his duties at court. the heat of summerhall, maybe, with its gardens and afternoon storms, and whichever fresh fruits you fancied (it'll taste better than the seven heavens on your tongue anyway), and its pressing heat. he would give you plenty of dresses made from the finest dornish silks, and he would hide you away like the most coveted jewel in all the land, peeling the silk from your sunkissed skin only to replace it with his lips a mere breath of a moment later. 

or maybe he'd take you to dragonstone, where he could dress you in wool and furs that would shield you against the chilling sea spray and howling, seafaring winds. he would light a fire in the hearth and gather you in his arms and hold you there under the guise of 'protecting you from the ocean's chill'. you always teased him that he the blood of the dragon truly did run through his veins, heating him from the inside out as if he were your personal, portable hearth anyway. you were correct. why not prove your point?

but regardless of where, maekar targaryen knows one thing for certain: that he would take you, in every way, in every room and on every surface possible. he would claim any seat in all the realm, claim it as his own and name you its lady. he would do it in a beat of his thunderous heart, before you could even spare a breath, before you could even ask. and he would pull you into every alcove, behind every heavy, iron-ladden, wooden door, and take you until he had you crying from pleasure. and soon the halls of whichever castle you called home would be filled with children—children who had those purple eyes of his and likely his targaryen silver hair, but which would have your smile, your demeanor, who would take after you as if you hung the very stars in their skies and lit every corner of their very existence. you had a nasty habit of doing so. he above any else in the realm should know. 

it is a thing he thinks about daily: taking you away. making you entirely his own. finally surrendering as entirely yours. being yours. without restraint. without the poison of a thousand vipers and blackfyre sympathizers pouring into his ear. without the weight crown and sword weighing him down, without the burden of conditional expectation wearing him thin when it should've been you instead, taking from him what was already yours to claim. 

so yes, maekar yearns. silently. with a furrow in his white eyebrows and the deepening wrinkle between them and a clenched fist. but no one could say he loved you—his woman, his wife—any less. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖Z—Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep after)

in the beginning it is very difficult for him to fall asleep afterwards, all of the 'what ifs' and insecurities and worries beginning to creep in as he lays on his back beside you, allowing you to come down from your high without the burden of him pressing in close (he is oblivious to the fact that you want nothing more for him to do exactly that). 

what if he didn't bring you pleasure? what if he hurt you? what if you faked it? what if he you didn't even want him, and this was all some sick ode to duty and honor, to what was expected of you? what if, after all, he still wasn't good enough for you? 

that all melts away the moment your hand finds his jaw, thumb skimming his scarred cheek and the high arch of his cheekbones, fingers losing themselves in the soft silver scruff there. it takes all he has to not lean into it with the full force of himself and each inch of warrior he harbored within himself. each movement is addled with the fatigue that lingers at the edges of your consciousness, settling into your bones with a certain hazy warmth that he put there. you tug him closer, crowding his space and leaving none for the thoughts you can see behind those lilac irises and the heavy set of his brows. you press a gentle kiss over the poxmarks decorating his cheek, to that pinch between his brows, the strong arch of his nose, the flush of embarassment that begins to surface, the corner of his mouth that slowly begins to quirk upward, imperceptible to anyone but you.

'you were perfect, my love,' you would murmur, words like honey as they dripped from swollen lips into ears that wanted nothing more than to hear your high, breathy moans for the rest of their days. its then that you would scoot closer to him and tuck yourself into his side while his arm hesitantly comes around your waist, as if he could crush you by wanting too much, by taking more than he should've been allowed—his heart a soldier's through and through. your head would come to rest against his broad muscular shoulder, your fingers drifting into the silver hair that seemed to burn iridescent in the candlelight, swirling over the muscled plane of his chest. in the last hazy moments of conscious you could cling to, your hand would settle over the plate of bone protecting his heart from beating out of his chest to get to you. 

'so so good,' is the last slurred whisper he hears before you slip into a pleasure-induced slumber, finally giving way to that fatigue he practically bullied into your core with every thrust of his heavy cock.

your breaths will even out, deepening as your naked form lays so comfortably against his own. as if you had every right to be there. 

when you wake briefly in the late hour of the night, you can feel the weight of his wide palm atop your own smaller one, still over his chest, over a heartbeat that is still growing accustomed to the softness you placed there, of the shape of you that it is beginning to take hold there, vulnerable and soft, in his chest. you can feel the subtle press of the tip of his nose into the hair that you are sure has curled wildly as a result of the night's escapade, each breath of his washing over you like the waves lap steadily at the sands after a storm. and you know then that he has found peace, thrown precaution and pretense and propriety and ego to the wind—all for the pleasure of being yours, even if it is behind closed doors. 

from that night on, sleep comes to him easier when you are there beside him—in whatever form that may take. he will always ensure you get to sleep before himself, but he will be closely and blissfully behind you. 

©𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐑𝐒2026— do not steal, copy, repost or expand upon my works without my explicit permission. i do not give permission for any of my works to be fed to any sort of ai generator or otherwise. the things i write are my own and do not use ai generation.