let's get in the back of your cop car, officer! ⋆✴︎˚｡

“Sister, what in the devil are you doing!”

“Look,” you whisper, your eyes still glued to the mystery man.

Lyonel’s head whips around. “Where?”

You roll your eyes, your hand moving to grasp at your brother’s chin. With his beard in your grip, you force his head to move in the direction you want him to look.

“What exactly am I—oh.”

Somehow the small oh that escapes his lips describes exactly how you feel inside.

“Oh indeed, brother dear.”

You both gape in unison for a moment before turning to face each other. Lyonel gives you a look — one you know the meaning of immediately. You begin shaking your head.

“No.”

“Sister…”

“I saw him first!”

Lyonel gives you another look, different from the first but still immediately recognizable. You let out a groan.

“It’s not fair,” you huff, your voice low but heated. “I’m the one who found him.”

“It’s my tent,” Lionel replies immediately, lifting his chin as if that alone settles the matter.

You open your mouth in shock, staring at him as though he’d just insulted your blood line. 

“It’s our tent,” you correct, your tone sharp.

“Oh yeah?” he shoots back, leaning forward in his chair, eyes narrowing in defiance. “Did you set it up?”

You scoff loudly, folding your arms.

“No. But neither did you, you buffoon.”

“I gave the command,” he says smugly, reclining back like a lord passing judgment.

“Yes, of course,” you mutter dryly, rolling your eyes. “Because that counts.”

You both stare each other down for a moment, as if to see which will break. Normally Lyonel wins — not because he’s the last to break, but because you don’t have it in you to fight him for the mere pleasure of sharing a night with the man you’re fighting over.

But this one. This one is different.

Something about him makes you want to let him linger. You want to have him for more than just one night.

You give your best pout. “You’re not being fair.”

Lyonel, being the good big brother that he is, hates to see you pouting, so despite himself he sighs, sinking into his chair.

“Fine…” he mumbles, and you give him a grin, your mouth opening to say thank you when he continues talking. “We can share him.”

The grin he gives you is not befitting for a Baratheon. If anything, the mischief behind his eyes should belong to a Targaryen. You swat at his arm and he feigns pain.

“Lyonel,” you whisper-shout, hitting him one more time.

“Ow, will you stop that?” He finally manages to grab at your wrist, stopping you from swatting him again. 

You tug your arm from his grip as you pout. Lyonel lets out an exasperated sigh as he watches you cross your arms against your chest, sinking into your chair. He lets you mope for a while before speaking up.

“How about he chooses?”

Your brows quirk up, moving to look at him.

“How exactly would he do that?” you question

Lyonel gives you his signature grin.

“We dance, and whoever he favors in the dance gets to have their fun with him.”

This was a good proposition. If there was something you and Lyonel shared, other than your taste in men, it was your ability to dance.

You gave him a wicked smile.

“You’re on, brother.”

Dunk had never had so much attention on him. It was kind of… overwhelming. When he’d been called over to talk to the owners of the tent, he’d thought he would be kicked out immediately, but that had not been the case. He had kept his attention on Lyonel Baratheon as he spoke, but it was impossible to ignore your lingering gaze on him.

Dunk’s eyes had fluttered briefly to you at the feeling of your stare on him, and when your eyes had met his, you let out a soft smile. Dunk’s heart hammered in his chest at the sight.

And when Lyonel had asked him if he enjoyed dancing, a wide grin appearing on the lord’s face as he answered yes, he couldn’t help but notice the glance both of you exchanged at the words.

Dunk wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he said yes to dancing, but this was certainly not it. He had never seen people move in the way you and Lyonel did.

Your movements were fluid and strong, like the current of a river, while Lyonel’s were rough and commanding, like the wind on a storming day. Despite the difference between you, they were both beautiful to watch.

Lyonel chased after Dunk, his movements seeming like a challenge, and Dunk responded in kind, mirroring the lord’s intensity. You lingered around them, flowing undisturbed by the exchange between the two men.

Dunk tried to pay attention to the man before him, his feet thundering against the ground as he playfully fled Lyonel’s advance, but as soon as he saw your dress flitting by, your hair a wild mess as you continued to spin to the rhythm of the song, his attention couldn’t help but shift to you.

You were an absolute sight.

He’d heard of you, of course — the lady of House Baratheon. Everyone in the realms knew of your beauty and fiery tongue. The confidence seemed to be connected to your blood somehow, because Dunk could tell Lyonel had it too, that same sense of unfazed energy that seemed to seep out of you.

Lyonel caught Dunk’s interest in you almost immediately, his own eyes moving to follow your movements as you danced. You hadn’t even noticed Dunk’s eyes on you yet, far too connected to the feeling of the dance to care about much else.

The sight made Lyonel smile.

He wasn’t bitter about losing, because it was clear from the way Dunk’s eyes lingered on you that something about you had clutched at the giant’s heart. And you weren’t even trying so hard. While Lyonel was actively chasing Dunk, you had been lost in your own world, and even so, you’d managed to get Dunk’s attention.

It was a shame he would not have his fun with Dunk, but he was glad to see the reverence for you in the large man’s eyes.

“Don’t just stand there, big man. Go dance with her,” Lyonel shouted softly, trying to be heard over the sound of music mixed with people’s joy-filled noises.

Dunk’s head snapped toward him at the words, wide blue eyes finding his in what Lyonel could only describe as panic.

“What?” the giant questioned, his jerky dance movements faltering for a moment.

“Don’t worry, she doesn’t bite,” Lyonel said, already gripping at Dunk’s shoulders — as best he could, anyway — and guiding him to face where you stood. “Unless you ask, of course.”

And with that, he gave Dunk a push and a pat on the backside, thrusting the giant closer to you.

Your eyes snapped open as you felt something graze you softly, your head lifting to glance at Dunk. His eyes were wide and his expression clearly nervous. You wondered if perhaps the uneasiness in his gaze was a constant in his expression. It certainly seemed to be, given that in the few moments you’d interacted, he was always looking at you with those blue orbs filled with worry.

“Sorry, m’lady, your brother—”

“Never mind that,” you cut him off, your hand moving to grab him. “Dance with me.”

You waited for a moment, smiling at Dunk’s frightened face before he gave you a small nod.

That was all you needed to tug him along with you.

You weren’t sure how long the dancing lasted. Long enough for your lungs to burn and your hair to cling to your temples. Your feet ached inside your shoes. 

You let out a breathless laugh as you stumbled toward a nearby chair, nearly collapsing into it. Your hand immediately reached for your goblet, fingers curling around the cool metal before lifting it to your lips. The wine tasted sweeter now.

A heavy thud sounded beside you.

Dunk dropped into the chair next to yours, the wood creaking in protest under his weight. His chest rose and fell quickly, broad shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

For a moment neither of you spoke. 

You turned your head slowly. He was already looking at you.

His cheeks were flushed, curls damp with sweat, blue eyes bright in a way that made something warm curl low in your stomach. There was still that nervousness there — but it had softened. Changed. Replaced with something almost… awed.

You smiled first. He followed a second later, slower, smaller — like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to. Your heart skipped.

You glanced around then, suddenly remembering the reason this had begun in the first place. Your eyes searched for Lyonel.

You found him easily.

He was leaning against a table across the tent, already deep in conversation with a pretty lordling, laughing loudly at something that had been said. He did not once look your way.

Not once.

A slow understanding settled over you. He had seen it too.

You turned back to Dunk, studying him openly now. He shifted slightly under your gaze, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“That was… ah…” he started, still catching his breath.

“Exhausting?” you offered lightly.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Aye, m’lady.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice just enough that it felt like a secret.

“Would you care to step outside, Ser Duncan?” Your fingers traced idly around the rim of your goblet. “For some air.”

His eyes widened slightly at the use of his name.

For a moment you wondered if he would refuse.

Then he nodded.

“I would like that.”

And the way he said it — soft, sincere — made your chest tighten.

The night air was cooler outside the tent. The noise of the feast dulled behind you, replaced by distant laughter and the rustle of wind through the trees. Dunk walked half a step behind you at first, large hands clasped awkwardly behind his back as though he were escorting a queen instead of simply walking beside you.

You noticed.

“You may walk next to me, Ser Duncan,” you said lightly, not looking at him.

He hesitated — only for a second — before moving to your side.

“Yes, m’lady.”

You hummed softly at that.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You seemed content, breathing in the night air, skirts brushing against the grass. Dunk, however, looked anything but content.

His shoulders were tense. His gaze flickered around as if waiting for someone to shout at him for daring to walk alone with a noblewoman.

“You look as though you are marching to your execution,” you said at last.

His head snapped toward you. “I beg your pardon?”

You smiled.

“You’re frowning.”

He hadn’t realized he was.

“It isn’t proper,” he admitted after a moment, voice low. “Me walking alone with you. I wouldn’t want talk to start.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“Let them talk.”

That surprised him. You finally looked at him fully then, brows lifting slightly.

“Do you always care so much about what others think?”

His jaw tightened faintly.

“I care about not overstepping.”

The answer was honest. Painfully so. Something in your expression softened.

“And do you believe walking beside me is overstepping?”

He swallowed.

“You are a lady of House Baratheon.”

“And you are Ser Duncan the Tall,” you replied easily. “I asked you to walk with me.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

The silence that followed was lighter now. After a few more steps, curiosity tugged at you.

“So where is it you sleep?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He blinked.

“Sleep, m’lady?”

“Yes. Your lodgings.”

His expression shifted — just slightly — but you caught it. A flicker of embarrassment.

“I’ve no tent of my own,” he said carefully. “There’s an elm not far from the edge of the grounds. I bed down beneath it.”

He kept his eyes forward as he said it, bracing himself. Waiting. For disgust. For polite pity. For distance.

Instead, you stopped walking.

He halted too, confused, looking down at you.

Your eyes were bright.

“You’re a real hedge knight, then?” 

It wasn’t really a question, more of a quiet observation. There was no repulsion in it either — if anything, Dunk thought he heard a bit of astonishment in your tone. You glanced up at him, your eyes sparkling with something he couldn’t quite place.

“Would you show me?”

For a moment, he simply stared.

“Show you?” he repeated, as if he’d misheard.

“The elm,” you clarified, stepping closer. “You make it sound… rather nice.”

He felt something shift in his chest.

“Yes,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. “Yes, of course, m’lady.”

And when he started leading you toward the tree, he did not walk behind you this time.

The elm wasn’t far.

Dunk slowed as they approached it, suddenly aware of every crooked branch and every patch of worn grass beneath it. What had always seemed perfectly fine to him now felt… small.

He stopped a few steps away.

“This is it,” he said, almost apologetically.

You stepped forward without hesitation.

Dunk remained where he was, large hands clasping and unclasping in front of him as he watched you take in the space. There was little to see — a thick elm with sprawling roots, a worn patch of earth where he laid his cloak, a saddle resting against the trunk.

You walked slowly around the tree, fingertips brushing lightly over the bark. Your skirts whispered against the grass. You tilted your head back to look up through the branches, following the way they stretched wide into the night sky.

Dunk shifted his weight.

He had seen noblewomen wrinkle their noses at far less.

“It is quite large,” you said softly.

He blinked.

You turned then, looking at him over your shoulder. There was no disgust on your face. No thinly veiled pity. Only something thoughtful. Curious.

“Though perhaps not for you,” you said with a soft smile, referring once again to his large stature. Dunk smiled to himself as you turned back to the tree, your head lifting as you continued to glance at the leaves above.

“It must keep the rain off well enough.”

“Aye,” he answered quickly. “It does.”

You moved closer to the trunk, crouching slightly to inspect the ground where he slept. Dunk’s stomach tightened. Your fingers grazed against the dirt before you pressed your palm into the grass, eyes closing for a moment.

“I’ve slept in worse places,” he added, as if needing to defend it.

You glanced up at him again.

“I’m sure you have.”

There was no mockery in your tone. Only fact.

You rose to your feet and walked back toward him, your expression thoughtful rather than disturbed. You stood there for a moment, your head tilting slightly to the side. It was clear you were thinking about something, but Dunk could not tell exactly what.

“Have you ever been with a woman?” you said after a moment.

That caught him off guard. His eyes widened, his head moving slightly to the side as he looked at you. Your face remained forward, eyes never leaving the elm tree. It was almost as if you had not spoken the words, almost as if Dunk had imagined them.

But then you spoke again.

“It’s okay if you have. There is no shame in it.”

His mouth opened and closed, his brain trying to understand what it was he was supposed to do in this situation.

“I have,” you said simply, and Dunk’s brows raised even more. You finally turned your attention to him, catching his comical expression. “Been with men, I mean,” you clarified.

He didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t. Why in the Seven Hells were you telling him this? Where had this conversation come from? One moment you were talking about a tree, and the next you were asking him if he’d ever been with a woman?

“Have I upset you?”

The worry in your voice made Dunk’s attention snap fully back to you. His eyes trailed over your furrowed brows. Your lips parted softly as if realizing something.

“I have, haven’t I?” you whispered before letting out a soft tsk. “Seven hells, what was I…” You began to turn around, muttering something about being far too direct and perhaps a sort of apology for your outspoken nature.

But Dunk heard none of it.

The only thing he could think of was the sight of your grinning face as you danced with him. The feeling of your hand on his arm as you guided him along. Your soft panting as you struggled to catch your breath after. And your question — Have you been with a woman? — echoed in his head.

You were beginning to move away from him, no doubt embarrassed due to his lack of response. The thought that he might have shamed you — and the realization that you were slipping away from him — finally pushed him to act.

His hand reached out, gripping your arm with ease. You were farther from him, but his large size allowed him to reach you without difficulty.

Your head snapped toward him at the feeling of his hand on your wrist. Your eyes moved from where he held you to his face. You blinked at him, the moonlight casting a soft glow onto your features.

Your mouth parted as if to say something, but before you could, Dunk spoke.

“I have.”

He watched your lips part even more.

“Been with women, m’lady.”

The sigh that slipped from your lips sounded more like a gasp, and Dunk couldn’t help but flush at the sound.

You stepped forward, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. You stared into his eyes for a moment before your gaze flitted down to his lips.

Gods, you wanted to kiss him so badly.

You stepped closer, close enough now that he could smell the faint trace of wine lingering on your breath.

For a moment, Dunk could not speak. His heart thundered against his chest. The hand he held onto you with was damp with sweat — he was sure you could feel it — but you didn’t seem to mind.

You had never hesitated before. Not like this. You had never needed permission. Never needed reassurance.

And yet…you suddenly felt unsure.

Not because you didn’t want him, but because you dreaded the possibility that he would not want you.

“Would you…” Your voice almost caught, and that alone startled you. “Would you want to be with me?”

Of all the things he had expected you to say, it had not been that. Not with that small, uncertain note in your voice. Not when you were a Baratheon. Not when you had carried yourself all night like a storm no man could stand against.

And here you were, looking up at him as though he held the power.

It felt absurd.

His hand lifted before he could think better of it. Large and warm, it came to rest against your cheek, rough thumb brushing just slightly along your skin.

Your eyes closed at the touch.

He exhaled shakily.

“It would be an honor,” he said, and he meant it. Every word.

Your eyes opened slowly.

And then you grinned.

“Good.”

You surged up on your toes and kissed him.

It was not tentative. It was heat and wine and breath and hands fisting into fabric. His other arm wrapped around your waist instinctively, pulling you closer, as though afraid you might disappear if he did not anchor you there.

You kissed him like you had decided something. Like you had chosen him.

And for a moment, Dunk forgot every rule he had ever tried to live by.

When you pulled back, breathless, you did not give him time to recover. Your hand slid into his, fingers lacing tightly.

“Come,” you murmured.

He followed.

Of course he followed.

You led him back toward the elm, toward the worn patch of earth and the cloak laid carefully against the roots. Your heart was pounding now, not from dancing but from anticipation.

Dunk slowed.

“Here?” he asked, voice rough.

You turned to him, brows lifting slightly.

“Yes. Why not?”

He glanced at the ground, then back at you.

“It isn’t… befitting,” he managed.

You laughed softly — not cruelly, but genuinely amused.

“I don’t care.”

And the way you said it — so certain, so unbothered — made something inside him finally loosen. 

You stepped closer again, hands finding his chest.

“Do you?”

His answer came in the way he kissed you this time.

Your fingers gripped his tunic at the intensity of the kiss. The soft hiss you let out as your back struck the elm’s bark was swallowed by Dunk’s eager mouth. You didn’t know where his sudden confidence had come from, but you were enjoying this new side of him.

One of his hands moved to brace against the tree as he crowded you, his other hand gripping your chin, guiding your mouth to stay fused with his. He stepped closer, and the movement made you feel him against you.

Gods. He was already hard.

You were about to slide your hand down when he suddenly pulled away.

You stared at him, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. And before you could utter so much as a word, he had dropped to his knees before you.

His hands found your waist, caressing you through the fabric of your skirts as he looked up at you — not hesitant, but intent.

“May I?”

“Yes…” you breathed, your head falling back against the tree as Dunk’s hands began to gather your skirts in his grasp.

His movements were swift, the worry and hesitation you’d seen him display all evening now completely gone. You barely had time to adjust to the cold air against your skin before Dunk was leaning in, his tongue moving to lick at you. You gasped, a hand gripping at his hair immediately. 

One of his hands pressed against your stomach, keeping your skirts lifted as he continued his ministrations. Your hips bucked against him unconsciously, chasing the pleasure and causing his nose to brush against your most sensitive spot. You let out a moan, your head twisting to the side at the sensation, the rough bark digging into your cheek as you did.

“Ser Duncan,” you whined, the use of his title causing him to twitch beneath his clothes. Even so, he forced himself to pull away enough to speak.

“Just Dunk, m’lady,” he whispered against your skin, his face still partially concealed by your skirts.

“What?” you whispered, prompting him to lift his head so he could look at you. His mouth was slick, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip to keep quiet.

“It’s just Dunk, m’lady,” he said simply. “For you, I’m just Dunk.”

The way he said it — so completely devoid of pride, so ready to lay himself bare for you — made your brows furrow. Your hand rose to his cheek, a soft smile touching your lips.

“My Dunk,” you sighed.

Dunk let out a low groan at your words, his eyes locked on yours as his hand inched higher along your leg. He watched your mouth fall open in a quiet cry as his fingers slid into you.

Your walls fluttered around him, your body unaccustomed to the sudden intrusion. But as soon as he began to move his fingers, the initial flicker of discomfort on your face melted into pleasure. He continued to watch you as he quickened the pace, soft grunts leaving him while you moaned his name.

Your hand moved to grip his hair, gently guiding his face back to where it had been before. Dunk didn’t hesitate, his tongue joining his fingers as he continued to draw you closer to your high. It didn’t take long — not with the steady rhythm of his touch and the heat of his mouth against you.

When his free hand left your stomach to lift your leg over his broad shoulder, shifting you to a deeper angle, you were undone. You cried out his name, nails digging into the bark behind you and into Dunk’s scalp as pleasure crashed over you, juices covering his face as it did.

You sagged softly against the elm, your breath coming in short bursts. Dunk remained beneath your skirts for a moment longer, his hand moving slowly up and down your thigh in a gentle caress.

Once you had managed to steady your racing heart, your hand drifted to Dunk’s shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze meant to signal for him to rise.

Dunk understood your request, his hand moving to set your foot gently back on the ground before pulling your skirts down from over his head. He rose with ease, one hand coming up to brace against the tree beside your head as he looked down at you.

You offered him a satisfied smile, one of your hands lifting to his face. Your finger brushed at the wetness smeared along his chin before you brought it slowly to your mouth. Dunk watched the motion, his body visibly shaking at the sight.

You grinned up at him then, your gaze dropping pointedly to the unmistakable tent in his trousers.

“Your turn.”

You had barely moved an inch before Dunk’s hand gripped you. You looked up at him, face wide with confusion.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he began, desperately trying to keep his thoughts in order. “It’s just that… well… I don’t think I’ll last much if you do.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his confession.

He gave you a shy look. “And I’d… uh… well, I’d much rather be inside you.”

Your brows raised in surprise. Dunk caught the reaction immediately, already beginning to stammer.

“If—I mean—if you’d let me, of course.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped from your mouth. The sound made Dunk’s brows shoot up. But you were quick to reassure him.

“Yes, Dunk. Of course I’d let you,” you smiled, hand caressing his cheek. “Actually, I was hoping you’d ask.”

“You were?” he questioned, clearly surprised.

Instead of answering him, you pushed yourself up and pressed a kiss to his lips. Dunk groaned against your mouth, large hands moving to hold your waist. Once you broke the kiss, your foreheads rested against each other for a moment before Dunk pulled back. His hand moved to grasp yours, slowly inching toward where his bed lay.

“Where are you going?” you asked softly.

Dunk looked at you, then at his cloak.

“I thought you ought to lay down.”

You followed his gaze, a look of amusement flashing over your face before you looked back at him.

“No need. Here is fine.”

Dunk glanced at the ground beneath your feet, scattered with roots and broken branches.

“Here, m’lady?”

“No, Dunk,” you answered with a laugh, your hand lifting his head so he was looking at you. You let go of his hand and leaned back against the elm’s trunk. “Here.”

Dunk began to shake his head.

“But, m’lady, it’s—”

“Unbefitting?” you interrupted. “And your tongue inside me wasn’t?”

Dunk’s mind froze for a moment, the bluntness of your words catching him off guard.

“But… you—”

“Yes?”

“You’re a lady. You should be treated as—”

“No, I’m not,” you cut in, making Dunk’s brows furrow even more. You stepped closer to him.

“If, to me, you are just Dunk and not Ser Duncan the Tall, then to you I am just me, not a lady of House Baratheon.”

Dunk continued to gaze at you, uncertain.

“Lust knows not the bounds of titles, Dunk,” you said simply. “Nor does love, for that matter.”

Dunk took in your words. He wasn’t certain he fully understood, but now was not the time to dwell on meaning — for him or for you. There would be time later.

For the first time that night, Dunk’s resolve steeled. He stepped forward, the movement lacking any hesitation. Once he was close enough, his hands moved to your waist, pressing you gently against the bark so he could lean down and give you a searing kiss. When he lifted you with ease, your legs wound instinctively around his waist.

Dunk shifted, one of his hands moving to wrap around your body as the other worked on untying his breeches. You continued to kiss him as he did, your arms wrapping around his neck, your tongues brushing together.

Dunk pulled back just enough to free his mouth from yours, his forehead resting against yours as your breaths mingled.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you sighed back.

That was all he needed. With one swift movement Dunk lined himself up and began pushing himself inside you. Your brows furrowed, nails clawing at his shoulder at the intrusion. He was thicker than the men you had been with before so the pressure was overwhelming. Even so the pain didn't last. 

Dunk moved slowly, trying his best not to hurt you. Every gasp you let out made him want to pull away, but the way you clawed at him stopped him from doing so. With one last shove he settled completely in you, his head moving to rest on your shoulder as he willed himself to not cum too soon. 

“Gods you… fuck you’re so warm,” Dunk muttered, more to himself than anything.

All you could do was whine softly, your fingers threading into his hair as you adjusted to the size of him. Your walls fluttered around him, making his job of staying still a lot harder. 

“Dunk,” you sighed, voice barely audible over your beating heart “Move.”

So he did. He tugged back slightly, pulling back as much as he could without leaving you fully, before plunging back in. You back hit against the bark as he began to thirst into you. He started off slow at first, perhaps afraid of hurting you but it did not last. Soon enough Dunk was practically pistoling into you. 

You had lost the ability to talk, the only sounds that left your mouth were gasps and moans. Dunk wasn’t much better, with each powerful thrust a grunt escaped his throat. But that didn't mean he couldn’t talk too. If anything the longer he was inside of you the more he talked.

“Gods… you feel incredible.” “That’s it… let it out. Sound so lovely for me.” “Gods, what have I done to deserve this?”

The praise seemed endless, and all you could do was bask in it. Dunk was barely holding on, you could tell by the way he twitched against you. Despite your own scattered thoughts, you forced yourself to lean closer, pressing your mouth near his ear.

“Cum Dunk,” you whispered.

“I shouldn't," he reasoned. “Not inside.”

“Please. I want it,” you murmured against his ear, nose nudging softly on his cheek "It's okay I promise."

He knew he should not do it. It was unwise. Dangerous even. But you had asked him, and he would give you the moon if you asked.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I need you to cum first though, are…are you close?”

“Just cum Dunk.”

“But you’ll-”

“If you do, I swear I will too…just…please” you groaned.

Dunk nodded, his hands shifting so he could better hold onto you before he sped up his movements. His mouth dropped open in a silent groan as he came. You followed after him, the feeling of his seed spilling into you triggered your own orgasm. A shout of his name slipped from your lips before you sagged against his body, locked limbs finally relaxing. 

Dunk's seed seemed never ending, it kept flowing out until it started to spill down your thighs. It didn't surprise you though, not with his stature. Once it seemed to have finished, Dunk’s dick softening inside you, he pulled out. You whined softly as your feet hit the ground, thighs aching from having been locked against his large waist for so long. 

Before you could even think about what had just happened, Dunk pressed a soft kiss to your lips. You accepted it, hand splaying across his chest as you kissed him back.

“Can I stay with you?” you asked once he pulled away.

“I… I don’t think that would be wise, m’lady,” he whispered shyly. “People will come looking for you, and I’m not so sure they’d be kind if they found you—”

“Tangled in the arms of a hedge knight?”

Dunk smiled at your tone, his nose brushing against yours as your foreheads stayed pressed together. You let out a sigh, hand moving to tangle your fingers with his.

“Then come back with me,” you said softly. “Sleep in my tent with me.”

Dunk pulled back at the words, looking at you with unfiltered surprise.

“What?” you asked. “It’s not like my brother would care.”

Dunk opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.

“And don’t dare say it’s unbefitting. I couldn’t give less of a fuck.”

The laugh that escaped Dunk was unexpected. It caused a large grin to spread across your face. He moved his free hand to your cheek, thumb brushing over it as he continued to stare at you.

“Alright.”

He could not deny you anything. If you’d asked him to walk to the ends of the earth, he would follow without hesitation — if only to see the beautiful smile plastered across your face.

“Good,” you said, moving toward where you had come from, your hand still clasped in his. “Come on, then.”

Like a moth to a flame. 

The sound of droplets followed your steps throughout the castle, hushed and quick. You didn’t set a concrete plan as to what you were about to do; you only rushed with an autonomy you could not quite understand. 

There is a tender ache in your chest whenever you lock eyes with him, no matter the distance. May it be across the room, the height of the steps, or the damning closeness of dining tables during feasts. It is wrong, you convinced yourself it was. 

It had to be. Who were you compared to the heir of the Iron Throne, the Hand of the King, the future of House Targaryen– Baelor Breakspear?

You were restless, your mind giving up on itself and recounting all the tiny moments you shared with him. 

The way he had greeted you– weeks ago, when your father had shipped you off to the Red Keep like some peace treaty– with the Prince’s warm hand bedding your own, and his lips leaving a burning kiss on your knuckles. 

The way his hand had clasped on the back of your waist, a reassurance that ended up as a dance during one of the feasts held in his name. His hand had traveled to the side of your waist then, his eyes remaining on you even after the songs had ended. 

When you found him in the library, nose-deep in books that keep the history of Westeros. The way his fingers had caressed the pages then, with such reverent care. The way he shared a smile with you, acknowledging your presence in the room.

It was maddening. You thought him oblivious.

You halted at the near half of the steps, trying to catch your breath and give your mind some clarity. The candelabra you held nearly left its pattern on your palm from the way you gripped it so tightly. You assessed yourself, setting the candelabra down and putting your hand on your beating heart. 

“My lady?” 

You thought yourself mad, now even more so than ever, for materializing his voice. You let out a breathless chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “You terrorize my very mind, and now make yourself known?” You say quietly, turning your head away from the voice. 

You then hear footsteps, ones that grow increasingly loud behind your back.

“I fear I do not know what you speak of.”

You feel his touch on the small of your waist. 

Your eyes snap open.

“My lady?” The voice of your lady-in-waiting brings you back to your mind. You look at her, puzzled at the sudden change of setting. “Were they bad dreams again?” She speaks softly, setting a pillow on your back to help you sit up, “You were mumbling.” She looks at you, handing you a goblet of fresh wine. 

“I-” You start, your hand instinctively reaching out for the cup, “I was- he was-” you try to make your words known, but you fail fairly quickly.

“His grace has asked your companionship during a council meeting as a cupbearer,” she helps you up, her hands familiar with the routine of your nightgown, “To assure your House that there is no ill will.” 

The council meeting went by quickly. Talks of peace treaties between Houses and trades across the seas, all for ensuring the stability of the Kingdom. Baelor, ever the observant one, took it upon himself to note the gown you were wearing. 

A playful light blue color, surrounded by gold accessories and white accents, topped with a bare corset that accentuated your figure. 

He lost himself at the sight, taking in a deep breath without any intention to do so. He linked his hands together, his fingers fiddling with the rings he wore. 

You thought it a nervous habit, one he does when faced with long talks of peace and courtly duties. 

You were completely unaware that you were his undoing. 

He gulped out of his cup, one for composure, another for focus. He gulped it like a man with thirst, a drop of wine spilling its way out of the corner of his mouth. 

You stepped forward with more wine, pouring it into his cup with practiced ease. He freezes, picking up your scent by the decreased distance between you. “That is quite enough now.” His voice wakes something inside of you, a feeling similar to desperation. 

He taps your hand gently, and you retreat the wine with a nod. 

Later that evening, you took to the castle gardens after you had dismissed your lady-in-waiting. 

The night was cold, and you found yourself clutching to the fabrics of your gown. You breathed in the cold, welcoming it with your warmth. 

You hear leaves crunching, accompanied by steps that seem to weigh royalty. 

You turned, immediately greeted by his eyes. 

“I think it best for you to be at your chambers at such time, my lady.” His hands are behind his back, his voice laced with regality. 

“And you, your grace–?”

“Baelor.” He insists.

“Baelor,” you sound it out, cautious and unyielding, “you must rest.” 

“I could not find sleep.” 

You nod.

He closes the distance between you two with a stride, his figure undeniably real and close. “I–” you start, your eyes shying away from his, “Don’t.” He hushes, his hand reaches out, the tip of his fingers tracing the outline of your throat. 

He keeps his eyes on you, the back of his fingers now gently caressing the plush of your cleavage. 

“You reside in my thoughts,” he whispers, “and through my actions.” 

He tips your chin up, wanting to maintain eye contact before inevitably crashing his lips on yours. 

He breaks away.

A beat.

“Do you want to stop?”

You cannot. You do not want to. Not now, not ever. 

Not when he has his lips attached to the side of your neck, his hands at your back, grounding you with him. 

Not when he has you backed up against a garden wall, with his hands traveling down your gown.

You retired to his chambers by his idea. Who knew that something so sweet would be Baelor Breakspear’s unbecoming? 

“You entice me.” He grunts, setting you atop his lap, “You, my fire,” he kisses you, his hands running through your back and unlacing your gown, “You hold my passion.” The gown falls and pools around your hips, revealing you bare in front of him.

He stares. He takes all of it in and commits it to his memory, “You are my undoing.” 

His thumb glides through the pit of your stomach before lowering itself on your cunt. 

“M-My prince, I am-” You panic, “I have not done this.” Your hand catches his wrist with the shake of your head. He looks at you with a gaze that seems like worship, “Let me guide you.”

He sets you down on the bed made of silk and feathers before undressing his tunic. “I have longed for you.” He lowers his head down to your mound, his breath fanning against your skin. His fingers trace through your folds, “This,” his finger rubs a circle against it, “is where I will lose myself.” He looks at you for any trace of discomfort before proceeding, “And here,” his finger pushes through your entrance, “is where you will feel me.” 

“It may hurt,” he cautions, slowly pushing more of his finger inside of you, “yet you take me well.” He praises, his other hand reaching up to cup your breast, “Tell me, my fire,” his tongue lands on your slit before tasting you, “do you long for me too?” he asks, eyes now focused on you. “It– it is wrong.” You whimper, overwhelmed by the new feeling. He rises, detaching himself from your sweet lips. He leans forward, holding your chin up to look at him, “That is not what I asked.”  You let out a labored breath when he sets his thigh between your legs, his piercing mismatched eyes looking at you with pure wonder. 

“I.. I do.” You stammer out, shying away from his gaze. “I find myself waiting on you,” blood rushes to your cheeks, “so that I may set my eyes upon you.” You now look at him, his gaze remaining still on you, “So that I may meet my desires,” your hand reaches out for his, “but even now I know not what they mean.” His hand meets the expanse of your body, visiting the plump of your breasts down to the curve of your waist. He nods, a small smile revealing itself on his face.

He pulls away, undressing the rest of his cloths. You feel yourself melt at the sight, mouth slightly agape in fascination. He reaches for you, holding you by the waist and setting you on top of him. 

He takes a nipple into his mouth, his teeth lightly grazing on the bud. Your hands find themselves on his short-cropped hair, your body leaning towards him a bit more. His hand cups your other breast, his fingers playing and pinching the nipple with skill. You start to let out sounds you have never made before, and lose yourself to his touch. 

When you let out a whisper of his name, his eyes open and look up at you. 

His cock grows impossibly harder, the length of it resting just by your stomach. 

“You will take me,” he whispers against your breast, “As I will you, as my lady wife.” 

He props you up slightly, lining himself up to your entrance. “Cry to me,” he kisses your sternum, “I am here, I will ground you.” With that, he sank you on his cock, the feeling burning its course through your whole body. He lets out a groan, his eyes shutting and letting the feeling wash over him. Tears escape your eyes, your arms melting on his shoulders. You lean forward, your head just by his cheek. He tuts, his palm cradling the back of your head, “You are beautiful.” He lets you adjust to his length, his body keeping both of you still, “You are good.” 

A rim of blood displays itself on his cock when he moves you upward. You wince, your thighs trembling. “Look at me.” He commands, you do as you are told. He sinks you down once more, his lips pressing gentle kisses on your tear-stained cheeks. 

“You can take it.” He reaffirms. 

“You will, won’t you?” He asks, his lips attaching to the crook of your neck.

You whine, nodding obediently, “Yes.” You hold on to the blade of his shoulder.

“Pretty thing.” 

Your cheek leans in to his touch, your body finding itself perfectly fitted into his arms. “Baelor, please..” Your hands reach down to your mound, your fingers desperately finding where he had tasted you earlier, “More.”

He thrusts up into you slowly, stretching your walls out so that they may accommodate his girth. “Are you certain you know of what you ask, girl?” You look at him, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your eyes are glazed with tears, your lips plump and wet. 

You are the very picture of perfection, he thinks. 

You nod, an answer to his question. 

“Speak.” 

“Please, my prince.” You grow desperate, your hips moving with a rhythm you could not control. Both of your hands glide down his chest, a slick feeling pooling at your core. “I need you.” Another tear slips down your cheek, but this time his thumb catches it, wiping it away. He kisses the spot softly, reverently, with a care that makes you remember the time with his fingers on Gods know what book. 

“You make a man mad.” he looks at you, hands flat on your back. “With your pretty tears and your honey-laced words,” he thrusts up, the tip of his cock bullying itself right to the deepest parts of your core, “And with this cunt.” 

With one swift motion, he lays you down on the flat of your back. His hands find the back of your knees, pressing you down with his weight. His cock is at just the right angle, hitting a spot that makes your breath quicken and your eyes tear up. 

He starts thrusting with renewed vigor, the once-gentle prince completely losing his composure and leaving him with only his primal instincts. “You have no idea–” he grunts, pushing you further down on the sheets, “Just what you do to me.” He locks eyes with you, looking all over your features. “You think I enjoy the games we play?” He asks, slamming his cock in you and keeping still. 

“I-I know not of what you say.” 

He lets out a laugh, mocking or genuine, you cannot tell. 

“You make me lose focus,” he starts thrusting, each word paired with a motion. “You look at me with those eyes I cannot run from.” He shakes his head, allowing himself a smile, “Even in sleep, I see you.” His thumb moves towards your cunt, rubbing a sensitive bud. “I want–” he shakes his head, his cock unrelenting and heavy, “I need to see you full of my seed.” He reaches down, taking your lips with his. His teeth bite down on your lower lip, hard enough to make it bleed. To your surprise, his tongue glides on the metallic taste almost in haste, like an instinct he could not falter. “I can never escape you.” He pulls away, his cock leaving your core. He holds your waist, carefully turning you over to your stomach. 

He lines his cock on your entrance, pushing the tip in before leaving a kiss on your shoulder. His hands find your hips, pulling you up with him before finally pushing his cock inside you. 

You feel all of him then. 

It was all so sweet. 

His hands, kneading the soft curve of your hips.

His thighs, slapping against yours. 

His words, ramblings that either make or break you. 

He feels your walls clenching around him, a plea for release. 

“Lose yourself to me.” He coaxes, his hands pulling you up to his torso. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping it for support. “My heart.” He whispers, his lips ravaging your neck. He doesn’t stop his pace, obedient to what you need. 

You feel it building at the pit of your stomach. His thumb rubs against your bud, bringing you closer to release. “Take it, my love.” He says against your neck, his thrusts chasing his own release. 

You lose yourself, moaning his name with pure admiration. 

He bites down on your shoulder, desperate for his own release. His hands move everywhere– your breasts, your stomach, before ultimately settling on your neck. 

A grip, not too tight, but enough to make you understand that you are his. His lips move against your jaw, needy, desperate. All it took was the feeling of you closing in on him, an action done to relieve yourself from the overwhelming feeling of your release. 

He breathes your scent in, his nose nudged on the crook of your neck. He delivers the final thrust, your name escaping his lips. 

He spills his seed inside of you, his arms keeping you steady.

Both of you collapse on the silk sheets, arms tangled and bodies unbelievably close. His hands stay on you, not wanting to let go. 

He pulls his cock out gently, earning a quiet wince from you. He moves, leveling his head in front of your cunt. He spreads your folds open, his eyes intently watching his seed drop from your core. He uses his finger to scoop some, pushing it back inside of you.

You nestle back into his arms, his hands patting you off to sleep. 

“Nyke am ñuhor ao ñuhor nyke jēdrar.”

I am yours, my love. 

targaryen divider by @feimingo, sword divider by @honeyluvsw ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ !

a/n: baelor has completely taken over my every thought ever since he graced my screen in akotsk- he's just sooooo hot uggghhh.. please feel free to correct me about any mistakes i made! i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! reblogs, comments, likes, or any kind of interactions are deeply appreciated!! xo, pearl!

"can you carry me the rest of the way to the car? my feet hurt." you pouted after what was supposed to be innocent dinner, and baelor knew it was a trap. he was a wise man, he knew, but he complied anyway because something physically restrained him from saying no to you. he regretted it as soon as he lifted you in his arms, instantly sensing the mischief radiating off of you as you rested your head on his shoulder, then leaned closer to hum directly into his neck.

modern!baelor who swears he's the one pulling the reins in your relationship, but is often dragged into the most exotic of activities just because you feel like it. you made him take a 'yoga with cats' class once.

"this is the last time i let you drag me into your nonsense," he said while struggling to touch his own toes, with a kitten climbing up the back of his shirt. "i swear."

you only bit onto your bottom lip to prevent you from smiling, knowing full well that all it would take to convince him next time would be a few bats of your eyelashes. "keep telling yourself that."

modern!baelor who thinks it would be the understatement of the century to say he was relieved when his sons approved of your relationship. he was eternally grateful that he could spend time with the people he most cherised in the world, including you now, and it was almost ridiculous how instantly you bonded with the boys.

but it also made it very difficult for baelor to keep composure when you were near his family, simply for the fact that he couldn't just throw you over his shoulder like a caveman every time he felt the urge to.

"jesus fuck." he muttered one day, trying not to stare at the hem of your tennis skirt as he watched you play a match with valarr. the poor excuse of fabric kept riding up every time you stretched to reach the ball, and the way you would spare him a quick glance every time you made a point suggested you were very aware of that.

baelor cursed again. "fucking hell."

modern!baelor who struggles to match your pace sometimes, but only because you are so desperate for him that it borders on the line of inappropriate. he had learned the hard way that he needed to satisfy you at least once with his mouth or fingers before even getting inside you, but sometimes not even that would be enough.

"what is it, old man? can't keep it up anymore?" you teased as baelor tried to lift you off of him, just after experiencing what he would call you trying to ride him into cardiac arrest.

Like a moth to a flame. 

The sound of droplets followed your steps throughout the castle, hushed and quick. You didn’t set a concrete plan as to what you were about to do; you only rushed with an autonomy you could not quite understand. 

There is a tender ache in your chest whenever you lock eyes with him, no matter the distance. May it be across the room, the height of the steps, or the damning closeness of dining tables during feasts. It is wrong, you convinced yourself it was. 

It had to be. Who were you compared to the heir of the Iron Throne, the Hand of the King, the future of House Targaryen– Baelor Breakspear?

You were restless, your mind giving up on itself and recounting all the tiny moments you shared with him. 

The way he had greeted you– weeks ago, when your father had shipped you off to the Red Keep like some peace treaty– with the Prince’s warm hand bedding your own, and his lips leaving a burning kiss on your knuckles. 

The way his hand had clasped on the back of your waist, a reassurance that ended up as a dance during one of the feasts held in his name. His hand had traveled to the side of your waist then, his eyes remaining on you even after the songs had ended. 

When you found him in the library, nose-deep in books that keep the history of Westeros. The way his fingers had caressed the pages then, with such reverent care. The way he shared a smile with you, acknowledging your presence in the room.

It was maddening. You thought him oblivious.

You halted at the near half of the steps, trying to catch your breath and give your mind some clarity. The candelabra you held nearly left its pattern on your palm from the way you gripped it so tightly. You assessed yourself, setting the candelabra down and putting your hand on your beating heart. 

“My lady?” 

You thought yourself mad, now even more so than ever, for materializing his voice. You let out a breathless chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “You terrorize my very mind, and now make yourself known?” You say quietly, turning your head away from the voice. 

You then hear footsteps, ones that grow increasingly loud behind your back.

“I fear I do not know what you speak of.”

You feel his touch on the small of your waist. 

Your eyes snap open.

“My lady?” The voice of your lady-in-waiting brings you back to your mind. You look at her, puzzled at the sudden change of setting. “Were they bad dreams again?” She speaks softly, setting a pillow on your back to help you sit up, “You were mumbling.” She looks at you, handing you a goblet of fresh wine. 

“I-” You start, your hand instinctively reaching out for the cup, “I was- he was-” you try to make your words known, but you fail fairly quickly.

“His grace has asked your companionship during a council meeting as a cupbearer,” she helps you up, her hands familiar with the routine of your nightgown, “To assure your House that there is no ill will.” 

The council meeting went by quickly. Talks of peace treaties between Houses and trades across the seas, all for ensuring the stability of the Kingdom. Baelor, ever the observant one, took it upon himself to note the gown you were wearing. 

A playful light blue color, surrounded by gold accessories and white accents, topped with a bare corset that accentuated your figure. 

He lost himself at the sight, taking in a deep breath without any intention to do so. He linked his hands together, his fingers fiddling with the rings he wore. 

You thought it a nervous habit, one he does when faced with long talks of peace and courtly duties. 

You were completely unaware that you were his undoing. 

He gulped out of his cup, one for composure, another for focus. He gulped it like a man with thirst, a drop of wine spilling its way out of the corner of his mouth. 

You stepped forward with more wine, pouring it into his cup with practiced ease. He freezes, picking up your scent by the decreased distance between you. “That is quite enough now.” His voice wakes something inside of you, a feeling similar to desperation. 

He taps your hand gently, and you retreat the wine with a nod. 

Later that evening, you took to the castle gardens after you had dismissed your lady-in-waiting. 

The night was cold, and you found yourself clutching to the fabrics of your gown. You breathed in the cold, welcoming it with your warmth. 

You hear leaves crunching, accompanied by steps that seem to weigh royalty. 

You turned, immediately greeted by his eyes. 

“I think it best for you to be at your chambers at such time, my lady.” His hands are behind his back, his voice laced with regality. 

“And you, your grace–?”

“Baelor.” He insists.

“Baelor,” you sound it out, cautious and unyielding, “you must rest.” 

“I could not find sleep.” 

You nod.

He closes the distance between you two with a stride, his figure undeniably real and close. “I–” you start, your eyes shying away from his, “Don’t.” He hushes, his hand reaches out, the tip of his fingers tracing the outline of your throat. 

He keeps his eyes on you, the back of his fingers now gently caressing the plush of your cleavage. 

“You reside in my thoughts,” he whispers, “and through my actions.” 

He tips your chin up, wanting to maintain eye contact before inevitably crashing his lips on yours. 

He breaks away.

A beat.

“Do you want to stop?”

You cannot. You do not want to. Not now, not ever. 

Not when he has his lips attached to the side of your neck, his hands at your back, grounding you with him. 

Not when he has you backed up against a garden wall, with his hands traveling down your gown.

You retired to his chambers by his idea. Who knew that something so sweet would be Baelor Breakspear’s unbecoming? 

“You entice me.” He grunts, setting you atop his lap, “You, my fire,” he kisses you, his hands running through your back and unlacing your gown, “You hold my passion.” The gown falls and pools around your hips, revealing you bare in front of him.

He stares. He takes all of it in and commits it to his memory, “You are my undoing.” 

His thumb glides through the pit of your stomach before lowering itself on your cunt. 

“M-My prince, I am-” You panic, “I have not done this.” Your hand catches his wrist with the shake of your head. He looks at you with a gaze that seems like worship, “Let me guide you.”

He sets you down on the bed made of silk and feathers before undressing his tunic. “I have longed for you.” He lowers his head down to your mound, his breath fanning against your skin. His fingers trace through your folds, “This,” his finger rubs a circle against it, “is where I will lose myself.” He looks at you for any trace of discomfort before proceeding, “And here,” his finger pushes through your entrance, “is where you will feel me.” 

“It may hurt,” he cautions, slowly pushing more of his finger inside of you, “yet you take me well.” He praises, his other hand reaching up to cup your breast, “Tell me, my fire,” his tongue lands on your slit before tasting you, “do you long for me too?” he asks, eyes now focused on you. “It– it is wrong.” You whimper, overwhelmed by the new feeling. He rises, detaching himself from your sweet lips. He leans forward, holding your chin up to look at him, “That is not what I asked.”  You let out a labored breath when he sets his thigh between your legs, his piercing mismatched eyes looking at you with pure wonder. 

“I.. I do.” You stammer out, shying away from his gaze. “I find myself waiting on you,” blood rushes to your cheeks, “so that I may set my eyes upon you.” You now look at him, his gaze remaining still on you, “So that I may meet my desires,” your hand reaches out for his, “but even now I know not what they mean.” His hand meets the expanse of your body, visiting the plump of your breasts down to the curve of your waist. He nods, a small smile revealing itself on his face.

He pulls away, undressing the rest of his cloths. You feel yourself melt at the sight, mouth slightly agape in fascination. He reaches for you, holding you by the waist and setting you on top of him. 

He takes a nipple into his mouth, his teeth lightly grazing on the bud. Your hands find themselves on his short-cropped hair, your body leaning towards him a bit more. His hand cups your other breast, his fingers playing and pinching the nipple with skill. You start to let out sounds you have never made before, and lose yourself to his touch. 

When you let out a whisper of his name, his eyes open and look up at you. 

His cock grows impossibly harder, the length of it resting just by your stomach. 

“You will take me,” he whispers against your breast, “As I will you, as my lady wife.” 

He props you up slightly, lining himself up to your entrance. “Cry to me,” he kisses your sternum, “I am here, I will ground you.” With that, he sank you on his cock, the feeling burning its course through your whole body. He lets out a groan, his eyes shutting and letting the feeling wash over him. Tears escape your eyes, your arms melting on his shoulders. You lean forward, your head just by his cheek. He tuts, his palm cradling the back of your head, “You are beautiful.” He lets you adjust to his length, his body keeping both of you still, “You are good.” 

A rim of blood displays itself on his cock when he moves you upward. You wince, your thighs trembling. “Look at me.” He commands, you do as you are told. He sinks you down once more, his lips pressing gentle kisses on your tear-stained cheeks. 

“You can take it.” He reaffirms. 

“You will, won’t you?” He asks, his lips attaching to the crook of your neck.

You whine, nodding obediently, “Yes.” You hold on to the blade of his shoulder.

“Pretty thing.” 

Your cheek leans in to his touch, your body finding itself perfectly fitted into his arms. “Baelor, please..” Your hands reach down to your mound, your fingers desperately finding where he had tasted you earlier, “More.”

He thrusts up into you slowly, stretching your walls out so that they may accommodate his girth. “Are you certain you know of what you ask, girl?” You look at him, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your eyes are glazed with tears, your lips plump and wet. 

You are the very picture of perfection, he thinks. 

You nod, an answer to his question. 

“Speak.” 

“Please, my prince.” You grow desperate, your hips moving with a rhythm you could not control. Both of your hands glide down his chest, a slick feeling pooling at your core. “I need you.” Another tear slips down your cheek, but this time his thumb catches it, wiping it away. He kisses the spot softly, reverently, with a care that makes you remember the time with his fingers on Gods know what book. 

“You make a man mad.” he looks at you, hands flat on your back. “With your pretty tears and your honey-laced words,” he thrusts up, the tip of his cock bullying itself right to the deepest parts of your core, “And with this cunt.” 

With one swift motion, he lays you down on the flat of your back. His hands find the back of your knees, pressing you down with his weight. His cock is at just the right angle, hitting a spot that makes your breath quicken and your eyes tear up. 

He starts thrusting with renewed vigor, the once-gentle prince completely losing his composure and leaving him with only his primal instincts. “You have no idea–” he grunts, pushing you further down on the sheets, “Just what you do to me.” He locks eyes with you, looking all over your features. “You think I enjoy the games we play?” He asks, slamming his cock in you and keeping still. 

“I-I know not of what you say.” 

He lets out a laugh, mocking or genuine, you cannot tell. 

“You make me lose focus,” he starts thrusting, each word paired with a motion. “You look at me with those eyes I cannot run from.” He shakes his head, allowing himself a smile, “Even in sleep, I see you.” His thumb moves towards your cunt, rubbing a sensitive bud. “I want–” he shakes his head, his cock unrelenting and heavy, “I need to see you full of my seed.” He reaches down, taking your lips with his. His teeth bite down on your lower lip, hard enough to make it bleed. To your surprise, his tongue glides on the metallic taste almost in haste, like an instinct he could not falter. “I can never escape you.” He pulls away, his cock leaving your core. He holds your waist, carefully turning you over to your stomach. 

He lines his cock on your entrance, pushing the tip in before leaving a kiss on your shoulder. His hands find your hips, pulling you up with him before finally pushing his cock inside you. 

You feel all of him then. 

It was all so sweet. 

His hands, kneading the soft curve of your hips.

His thighs, slapping against yours. 

His words, ramblings that either make or break you. 

He feels your walls clenching around him, a plea for release. 

“Lose yourself to me.” He coaxes, his hands pulling you up to his torso. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping it for support. “My heart.” He whispers, his lips ravaging your neck. He doesn’t stop his pace, obedient to what you need. 

You feel it building at the pit of your stomach. His thumb rubs against your bud, bringing you closer to release. “Take it, my love.” He says against your neck, his thrusts chasing his own release. 

You lose yourself, moaning his name with pure admiration. 

He bites down on your shoulder, desperate for his own release. His hands move everywhere– your breasts, your stomach, before ultimately settling on your neck. 

A grip, not too tight, but enough to make you understand that you are his. His lips move against your jaw, needy, desperate. All it took was the feeling of you closing in on him, an action done to relieve yourself from the overwhelming feeling of your release. 

He breathes your scent in, his nose nudged on the crook of your neck. He delivers the final thrust, your name escaping his lips. 

He spills his seed inside of you, his arms keeping you steady.

Both of you collapse on the silk sheets, arms tangled and bodies unbelievably close. His hands stay on you, not wanting to let go. 

He pulls his cock out gently, earning a quiet wince from you. He moves, leveling his head in front of your cunt. He spreads your folds open, his eyes intently watching his seed drop from your core. He uses his finger to scoop some, pushing it back inside of you.

You nestle back into his arms, his hands patting you off to sleep. 

“Nyke am ñuhor ao ñuhor nyke jēdrar.”

I am yours, my love. 

targaryen divider by @feimingo, sword divider by @honeyluvsw ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ !

a/n: baelor has completely taken over my every thought ever since he graced my screen in akotsk- he's just sooooo hot uggghhh.. please feel free to correct me about any mistakes i made! i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! reblogs, comments, likes, or any kind of interactions are deeply appreciated!! xo, pearl!

The coach broke a wheel three miles out and you walked the rest of it, which meant you arrived at the Targaryen keep with aching feet and a fine coating of road dust and absolutely no patience left for being intimidated by architecture. You looked at it coming up the drive, the towers, the iron-spiked walls, the yew trees grown so tall and dense overhead that the light inside their canopy had gone green and strange.

You lifted the iron knocker, which was shaped like a dragon's head and heavier than it had any right to be, and let it fall.

The sound it made went somewhere deep into the house and kept going.

The woman who opened the door was perhaps sixty, with a face that had aged from gracefulness into something considerably more formidable, dark eyes that missed nothing, and a ring of iron keys at her hip. She opened the door slightly and looked at you and stopped.

Not her feet. She was still standing, still holding the door. But something in her simply stopped, her expression, which had been arranged in the careful neutral of professional appraisal, went through something she couldn't quite contain, a flinch that wasn't quite a flinch, there for two seconds and then locked down behind her eyes and gone.

She looked at your collar. Then your hands. She looked anywhere but your face.

"You're the new girl," she said. Her voice gave nothing at all away.

"Yes, ma'am." You say softly, as she opens the door wider to let you inside.

"Come in. Mind the step."

The entrance hall was vast and dim, the ceiling swallowed in shadow, the walls hung with tapestries so old their colours had bled into a single dark richness. Between two of the torches on the far wall hung a portrait of a dark-haired man painted with the careful attention of someone who expected the portrait to outlast everything around it. He was looking slightly past the viewer, and there was something about the stillness of his expression, the weight behind his eyes, that made it difficult to look at directly.

Every torch in the entrance hall bent sideways at once.

All of them, the same direction, the same moment the flames nearly went out and the shadows went wild across the walls and the tapestries rippled like something had moved through the room very fast. Then the flames straightened once more and the light resettled. Everything was exactly as it had been.

You stood very still.

"The draught," said the woman behind you, not looking up from the small ledger she'd produced. "When the doors open. You'll get used to it."

The doors were closed. You had heard them close behind you.

"Yes, ma'am," you said.

Her name, she told you as she walked you through the house, was Mrs. Calla. She walked through the corridors with her chin held up, her back rigorously straight, and hands clasped in front of her. She walked purposefully, as she showed you the west quarters, where staff slept, the kitchens which were enormous, smelling of that evening’s stew. The laundry, the linen rooms, the great hall under its Holland cloth. She offered nothing the whole time, didn’t ask if you had any questions about the place, the history of its owners, or why people cursed this keep, and the history it came with it.

As she brought you to the east corridor, your footsteps slowed as she slowed her own ahead of you. She stopped at its mouth without entering. The torches were left unlit. The cold coming from it was several degrees below the rest of the house it seemed, and at the far end the darkness was very complete.

"The eastern wing is not for you," she said.

You looked down it. You couldn't see where it ended.

"Not for any of the staff. His Grace keeps his own hours and requires nothing from the household." The keys at her hip went perfectly still. "You will do your work in the rooms I've shown you. You will not come to this side of the house. You will not linger here when you're passing. Is that understood."

"Yes, ma'am." And then, because you had never quite learned to leave things alone: "Does His Grace come through the main house often?"

The pause this time was different from the others.

"His Grace is always in the house," she said. "You will likely never see him. That is how things are meant to be." She turned from the corridor. "Come. I'll show you to your room."

You turned to follow her. And from the far dark end of that passage, something happened to the silence– it changed. It was as though something at the other end of that long dark hall, in some way you couldn't name, become aware that you were there. You walked quickly after Mrs. Calla and didn't look back, ignoring the feeling of being watched.

“Why am I never to see him?” you asked, hurrying to keep pace with her brisk steps.

She did not answer. Whether she had not heard or simply did not care to respond, you could not tell. Her silence felt deliberate.

Your chamber was small and clean with a narrow bed and a window overlooking the kitchen garden. The other bed belonged to a girl named Myrtle, who you met properly the next morning over the basin.

She was pretty in a sharp-featured way, and she smiled readily and showed you the things Mrs. Calla hadn’t covered– which cupboards held the extra cleaning cloths, how Mrs. Calla liked her tea, where the back passage was which would cut ten minutes off the upstairs rounds. SHe was generous with all of it, and you thanked her for it, and she smiled wider, and the whole time something in the back of your mind sat quietly and watched the particular brightness of her attention whenever she asked you a question.

The other maids were much the same, in their different ways. Bessa kept to herself with a bluntness that wasn't quite rude but left no room for warmth either. Ellen watched you from across the room at mealtimes with the flat curiosity of someone waiting to see what you'd do wrong. The rest acknowledged you when courtesy required it and otherwise moved around you doing they're own chores. It wasn't hostile, exactly, just utterly indifferent.

You had been in worse places. You kept your head down and did your work well and told yourself it would ease in time.

Though it didn't ease. But you stopped expecting it to, which amounted to the same thing.

“What’s he like,” you asked Myrtle one evening, when you’d been there long enough that asking didn’t feel too strange. You were both in the chamber, end of the day, and the question came out lighter than it felt, as if you hadn’t been turning it over since your first night. “His Grace. Nobody ever mentions him.” 

Myrtle was brushing out her hair. She met your eyes in the small mirror above the basin, and for a moment something moved in her expression, though once it was there it was gone in an instant.

"He keeps to himself," she said.

"Yes, but what's he—"

"There's nothing to tell." Her voice had flattened in a way it hadn't before, the easy brightness gone out of it. "He's the lord of the house and he keeps to his wing and that's that." She looked back at her own reflection. "I wouldn't go asking the others either. Nobody likes questions about him."

You looked at the back of her head for a moment.

"All right, sorry," you said, not exactly knowing what you even were apologising for, but it felt awkward not too. So you dropped it. But that night you lay awake in the dark and listened to the house settle and thought about the look that had moved through Myrtle's face, quick and unguarded, before she'd shut it away. Not the expression of someone who found the question boring.

The expression of someone who found the question dangerous.

The footsteps started the third night.

You woke for no reason, the way you sometimes did, snapping up out of sleep as though your name had been called, though you would only wake up to find the room dark and quiet and Myrtle a still shape in the other bed.

Then, from directly overhead, footsteps.

Slow and perfectly even, moving from one end of the upper corridor to the other. They had the wrong quality for a person's footsteps. Too light, for one thing, they made no sound on the boards, no creak, no shift of weight. They moved the way sound moves through water, constant and unhurried, and they went to the far end of the corridor and came back, and went again, and came back again, back and forth in their tireless circuit, and you lay in the dark and listened to them with your eyes open and your heart doing something quiet and strange.

You fell asleep to the footsteps eventually. You didn't tell anyone in the morning, you hadn't had a reason to.

A week later you saw him coincidentally.

You were up in the small hours for water, and the corridor outside your room was dark, and at the far end of it near the main staircase there was a figure. Tall, dressed in dark that made him almost part of the shadow behind him. Dark hair, his jaw was unshaven, flecks of grey brushing along the sides like soft scars from time itself. He stood with a quiet strength, not the rigid stillness of someone frozen in place, but the deep calm of a man who had walked long and carried far too much for far too long.

He wasn't looking at you. His face was turned toward the stairs, or toward something above it, or toward nothing at all. He gave no sign that he knew you were there, and yet some part of you was absolutely certain that he did.

Then he moved sideways, unhurried, toward the east corridor, and rounded the corner and was gone.

You stood in the dark with your cup in your hand and your heart doing whatever it was doing, and then you got your water and went back to bed.

You didn't sleep for a long time after.

It was Myrtle who found you the following week, cheerful, arms full of fresh linen, smile already in place.

"Mrs. Calla wants the library in His Grace's wing seen to," she said. "She asked me to pass it on– only I've got my hands full this morning." A small, practised shift of the linens. "You don't mind, do you? East corridor, last door on the left. It'll be unlocked."

You looked at her. The smile. The ready, bright eyes.

You thought about the quality of her face the evening you'd asked about him. The flatness that had come down over it.

"Mrs. Calla asked specifically for me?" you said, your brows drawn together in confusion.

"She said whoever was free." A slight tilt of the head. "You're free, aren't you?"

You stood there for a moment and turned the situation over once in your mind.

Then you thought: you have no proof of anything, only a feeling, and feelings aren't grounds for refusing work.

"All right," you said.

Myrtle's smile got wider. "You're a love."

She went. You watched her go. Then you picked up your cleaning things and turned toward the east corridor and reminded yourself firmly that it was just a library, and went.

You found that the corridor was different when you were walking into it with purpose. It felt less oppressive, or so you told yourself. The darkness at the far end was just a wall and a door, the cold was just a passage that got no sun. You moved through it steadily and didn’t let yourself hesitate.

You passed the portraits on the walls without looking closely. Figures in the clothing of other centuries, some figures with pale blonde-like hair, very few had dark coloured hair. They were the same strong bones repeated across numerous different faces and different eras. Generations of them.

The library door opened easily under your hand.

You stopped in the doorway for a moment because you couldn't help it.

The room was enormous, the walls lined floor to ceiling with books whose spines had cracked and faded into something richer than their original colours. The smell of old paper and leather was thick enough to be almost a taste. Two tall windows let the pale morning light in, though it were still dark as the curtains were drawn slightly closed. There was a wingback chair angled toward the cold fireplace with a book left open on the arm, not placed there carefully, just abandoned, as though whoever had been reading it had stood up mid-thought and hadn't come back.

You stepped inside and got to work.

You were careful with everything. The books you only dusted at their edges, barely touching them. The table you cleared and wiped slowly. The rug you swept with long, gentle strokes. The room had a quality that made you want to move quietly in it, not the imposed quiet of formal rooms but something else, the specific hush of a place that has held a great deal of feeling over a very long time. You moved through it and the work was almost peaceful, and the pale light shifted and the dust moved in it, and you were bent over the far side of the table working at a watermark near the edge when the room changed.

Not a sound. Not anything you could point to. Only that the room had been empty and then it wasn't, a shift in the air or the light or something beneath both, and you straightened and turned.

He was in the doorway.

You hadn't heard anything. Not the door, not footsteps in the corridor, nothing. He was simply there, and the stillness of him had a physical weight to it, like the stillness of things that have been still for a very long time. Tall, dark-haired, unshaven, dressed in clothing that seemed to take the light from around it rather than give any back. His nose had been broken, you noticed, the bridge of it slightly off-true. His hands, loose at his sides, were large and scarred in the particular way of a man who had spent his life in armour. 

His eyes were mismatched. One a dark, earthly brown, the other a blue, and they were looking at you. They had something in them that made the breath go out of you very quietly. He looked the same from when you had saw him coincidentally days ago, though this time it didn't stop the flutter in your chest when you looked at him properly, only to find him looking directly at you.

It was the look of a man confronted with something impossible. He wasn't frightened, it was something much larger than frightened, something that had too much in it to fit into any single expression. His gaze moved over your face, following the lines of it the way you follow something known by memory so long that the memory has worn grooves, and the rawness in it, the private and completely unguarded rawness, was the most unsettling thing you’d seen since you arrived.

He didn’t breathe, at least it seemed like he didn’t. 

The silence of the library made it very clear that he didn’t breathe, and you noticed this, and the noticing of it moved through you cold and slow and you didn’t look at it too directly.

"What are you doing here."

Not a question. The shape of one, gutted out.

"I was told–"

He moved.

You didn't see it. He was in the doorway and then the next second the distance between you had halved and you were looking up at him and your mind was still trying to find the steps that had crossed that distance and couldn't. He was close enough that you had to tilt your chin to hold his eyes, and the quality of his looking had changed– had become something that pressed, that had several hundred years behind it pushing forward all at once.

"Are you her?"

The words barely had sound in them.

"Did the gods send you back."

Your mouth had gone dry. Your heart was in your throat doing something undignified. You opened your mouth to answer and found the beginning of no sentence at all, confusion swarming your head.

"Your Grace, I—"

"Answer me."

His hand came up. It wasn't a decision– you could see that it wasn't, could see the motion happening without his permission, his body acting on something older and more insistent than intention. His fingers stopped just short of your jaw. Close enough that you felt the cold coming off them, the specific cold of things that haven't been warm in a very long time.

"You—" he started, something breaking open at the back of his voice.

"Your Grace." Mrs. Calla's voice from the doorway cut through everything clean.

His hand dropped. Something moved behind his face– not a flinch, he was far too composed for flinching, but a shift inside the composure, like watching something huge quietly absorb a blow. His eyes went carefully, deliberately still.

You turned. Mrs. Calla stood in the doorway with her keys motionless at her hip, looking at you with the expression of someone whose worst suspicion has just been confirmed.

She didn't look at him. Only at you.

"She isn't permitted in this wing," she said. Perfectly even. "I'll see to it that it doesn't happen again."

She crossed the room and took your arm and steered you toward the door, and you went, because there was nothing else to do but get dragged away from him. Your cleaning equipment were still on the table, it stayed completely forgotten.

“I was sent,” you said, the words tumbling out too quickly. “One of the girls told me you asked for the library to be clean, I was merely just doing what I was told.”

Mrs. Calla turned then, slowly. Her eyes moved over you with the same measured distance she gave dirt or to hard to get rid of stains in the walls of the ancient castle. But when her gaze reached your face, it lingered too long.

"You will not come to this side of the castle again," she said. "Under any instruction, from any person in this household other than me. No reason is good enough. Do you hear me girl?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Go."

You went.

You were thirty feet down the corridor when his voice came through the closed door, low and barely carrying, rougher than it had been in the library.

"She looks like–"

Mrs. Calla's voice over it immediately, flat and final as a door swung shut.

"It is mere coincidence, Your Grace. She is nothing but a maid."

Silence then followed, and you can just imagine him creasing his eyebrows together in thought.

You kept walking and did not stop, because stopping meant standing in the corridor with those words settling around you, nothing but a maid, mere coincidence, and thinking about the look on his face. About the way his hand had risen without him deciding to raise it. About the rawness in his voice when he'd said did the gods send you back, like a question he had stopped letting himself ask a long time ago and had asked anyway.

You walked back to the west quarters and you didn't think about any of it.

You were mostly successful.

You were still awake when the scream came.

It tore through the house without warning– high, full, with all the breath behind it a person had, and was swallowed by the walls before it could finish itself, cut off in the specific way sounds are cut off when something stops them rather than when they simply end.

You were sitting up before you'd finished being asleep.

The room came together around you. Ceiling, walls, curtain, the candelabra on the table between the beds.

Though oddly enough you found that Myrtle's bed was empty, which was unusual, as the girl loved sleep, and followed a strict bed-time routine.

Her blanket seemed to have been shoved back sharply, the pillow still dented. Her nightgown still on the chair beside the bed, which meant she hadn't just gone down the corridor. The window was dark. The house was silent.

Your stomach said what it said and you didn't argue with it.

You lit the candelabra with hands that weren't quite steady, pulled your shawl around your shoulders, and went to the door.

You stood there with your hand on the latch and you thought about Mrs. Calla's voice. You will not come to this side of the house. No reason is good enough.

Then you thought about Myrtle's nightgown on the chair and the sound that had come through the walls. Even though she had tried getting you in trouble with Mrs. Calla, you still were quite fond of her.

The keep at half past two was a different house.

Not only darker, nut the corridors also felt longer, the distances between doors stretched somehow, the shadows in the corners heavier than shadows had any right to be, as though they had been there long enough to acquire substance. You moved through the main hall with your candelabra making its small warm circle and your footsteps too loud on the stone, and you stood in the centre of it and listened.

From upstairs, on the east side, a sound followed the dead of the night again.

It wasn't a scream, it was worse than a scream. Lower, wetter, the sound a body makes past the point of screaming, when screaming has been used up and something more fundamental takes over. It hit you in the stomach and lodged there.

Then it stopped.

The silence after it was enormous.

You stood at the bottom of the staircase and you were afraid in the plain, physical way that operates below thought, in the stomach and the knees and the back of the throat. You stood in it and let it be what it was.

You climbed up the stairs without thinking straight of what you would even do when you find the source of the sound. You noticed that the upper east corridor was cold enough at night that your breath showed. You silently confirmed to yourself that you preferred being in the east corridors in the morning.

Portraits lined the walls, the same figures that all had similar features, from downstairs’ portraits, the same bones repeated across generations, the same set of the jaw in different arrangements. Your candelabra made them shift and live as you passed, and you moved through them without slowing.

Aerion, read one brass plate. The face beneath it was beautiful and wrong around the eyes, the kind of wrongness that sits in the arrangement rather than any single feature. Maekar, it looked like they were somehow related, he had a scar along his jaw, something locked-down in his expression that made him look like a man perpetually expecting the worst. And as you walked down the hall you passed others you didn't know, names that meant nothing to you, faces that shared their architecture across centuries.

You moved through them and didn't linger, following the corridor to its slight bend, and turned the corner.

Though your how body turned to cold, the candelabra nearly left your hand.

She was looking back at you.

Not at you– the painted gaze went past you, fixed on some middle distance that no longer existed. But her face. The line of her jaw. The particular shape of her mouth, the way her brows sat, the specific arrangement of features that you had looked at in the glass every single day of your life and knew the way you knew your own handwriting, the way you knew the backs of your own hands.

It was your face.

Your face. In oil paint. In a frame aged dark at the corners, on a woman dressed in clothing of another century, in a portrait that had been hanging on this wall for far longer than your grandmother's grandmother had been alive.

You stood there and your mind did something strange– it simply refused, at first. You stood there and looked and your mind said no very quietly and then said it again, and then the painting kept being what it was and the brass plate beneath it kept reading the date it read, centuries ago, so far back the number looked abstract, and your mind ran out of no's and had to let the thoughts in.

Your hand came up. You didn't decide to raise it. Your fingers moved toward the canvas as though they already knew the way, toward the painted jaw that was your jaw, the painted mouth that was your mouth, and you were thinking– if thinking was even the word for the static hum taking up residence behind your eyes, that you were losing your mind. That this was what losing your mind felt like, this specific and terrible clarity, this moment of standing in a corridor in the dark and recognising yourself in a painting made before anyone you had ever known had been born. You though to yourself that you should leave. That you should turn around right now and go back down the corridor and down the stairs and out of this house and never come back, position or no position, because whatever this was it was not something you were equipped for, it was not something any person was equipped for—

Beside her in the portrait, a man. Dark hair, dark eyes, one hand resting near hers with the care of someone who has learned not to take that nearness for granted. His expression in paint was the quietest thing in the whole corridor– not the locked-down grimness of Maekar, not the beautiful wrongness of Aerion. Just a man looking at something he loved, captured at the exact moment he forgot anyone was watching.

Your fingers nearly reached the canvas.

"I wouldn't touch that."

You spun so fast the flames nearly went out.

He was at the bend of the corridor, and the candlelight found him almost immediately. His hair was slightly disheveled, he seemed the same as when you had saw him in the library, though much different in ways you couldn't name.

His hands were at his sides. His hands, which seemed dark in the shadow, but not shadow-dark, the reddish-brown dark of something dried into the creases of his knuckles, worked into the lines of his fingers, under his nails. At the corner of his mouth, the same stain, smeared like an attempt had been made at wiping it away.

You knew what it was. The knowledge settled into your body before your mind had finished finding words for it, heavy and certain and cold, and everything in you that had any sense at all took a very large step backward inside your own chest.

"Those sounds," you said. Your voice was someone else's, thin and unsteady. "Earlier. The yelling. What–"

"It's done." Quiet. The deliberate, careful quiet of someone managing something. "It has nothing to do with you."

"Where is Myrtle." The question came straight out of you, no preamble. "Her bed is empty. I heard a woman–"

"She's alive."

The flatness of it. The indifference threaded through it, not cruelty exactly but the absence of any particular concern, and the absence was worse than cruelty would have been.

"That isn't—"

"That's all I'm going to tell you."

He stepped toward you.

One step, slow and deliberate, and you stepped back without deciding to, and then again when he took another, until your back found the wall of the corridor and your hand tightened on the candelabra until your knuckles ached. He stopped. He was close enough now that you could see his chest wasn't moving, not the stillness of a man holding his breath, the stillness of a man who had simply stopped needing to. You watched for it and it didn't come and the cold moved through you slow and deep.

"You're frightened," he said. Observing it. Not apologising for it.

"You have blood on your hands." Your voice shook on the last word and you hated it. "On your mouth. I don't know what happened in this castle tonight and you won't tell me and yes, I am frightened, I think that's a reasonable—"

"Look at me."

You looked at him instantly. You couldn't stop looking at him, that was half the problem.

"I mean really look." Something shifted in his voice, underneath the quiet of it. "Not at my hands. At me."

You looked. The mismatched eyes, the grey specks across his beard, the face of a man who had been a soldier once and carried it still in the way he stood, in the particular way his grief sat in his expression, not worn on the surface the way fresh grief is worn, but settled deep, the grief of something that has had a very long time to become part of the bone.

He reached up, slowly, and you went rigid, and he stopped. His hand suspended in the air between you, not touching you, giving you every opportunity to move or speak or refuse.

You didn't move.

He reached out slowly and pushed a loose strand of hair from your face, one careful motion, and his fingers didn't linger and his eyes didn't leave yours.

"I have been in this house," he said quietly, "since before anyone alive can remember. I have watched every person I knew and loved so dearly become dust.” His eyes were very steady as his voice calmly said it. "I stopped wanting things a long time ago. I stopped letting myself. It was the only way to get through the years without–" He stopped. Something worked in his jaw. "And then you walked through my door."

"Don't," you said softly.

"You bent every flame in this house toward you when you crossed the threshold." His voice had dropped lower, something private in it now, something that had not been said to anyone before this corridor, this dark, this moment. "I felt you arrive. In three hundred years I have never felt a person arrive, nor did i care that someone had arrived."

"Your Grace." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

"She used to stand exactly the way you were standing in the library." The words came out like they cost him something. "Her head at that angle. The way you turned when you heard me." You watched his adams apple bobble, as he fought to say the words. "I have not seen that in three hundred years and you did it without knowing, and I—" He stopped himself. Breathed in slowly. "I know you're not her. I am not a fool and I am not so far gone that I cannot tell the difference between a ghost and a living woman." His eyes moved across your face, that slow and aching attention. "But you are something. And I find I cannot make myself believe that it is nothing."

You were pressed against the wall and your heart was doing something unreasonable and you were still terrified, the blood on his hands still dark at the edges of your vision, and underneath the terror was something else entirely that you had absolutely no intention of examining.

"I'm afraid of you," you said. Plain and quiet. The only honest thing you had left was said.

Something in his face changed when you said it. Not surprise, something more like pain, the private kind, the kind a person absorbs and doesn't show except in the split second before they manage to hide it.

"I know," he said. "I know you are."

He moved closer.

You pressed harder into the wall. "Don't—"

"I am not going to hurt you." He said almost instantly, his voice dropping to almost nothing. "I need you to understand that the way you understand that you are breathing. Whatever you have heard. Whatever you think you have seen tonight." His jaw tightened. "I would sooner end three hundred more years in this house than put a single bruise on you. Do you hear me."

Not a question.

"I have hurt the only person I—" He stopped. Started again, quieter. "I could not keep her. Whatever happened, I could not keep her, and there is not a night in three centuries I haven't stood somewhere in this house and known that." His voice was the quietest thing in the corridor. "I would not survive doing it twice."

The silence was enormous.

Your heart was very loud in it.

His head bent.

Slowly, with the full awareness of what he was doing, he pressed his lips to the side of your throat. Barely any pressure– just the cool fact of his mouth against your skin, cool the way stone is cool in winter, cool the way things are that have not been warm in a very long time. You felt it land and you felt your own pulse jump against it and you heard the smallest sound leave him.

"You're here," he said against your skin. The words barely words at all. "You're here and I can hear your heart."

His jaw dragged slowly upward, the grey-stubbled roughness of it catching the soft skin beneath your ear, and the sound you made was very quiet and deeply, entirely honest.

"Please." Your voice had nothing left to steady it. "Please, you have to stop." Though you didn't want him to stop.

His teeth grazed your pulse. Gentle. So gentle. A question, not a demand, the most careful thing in the world.

You made a sound that answered it completely against your will.

He went still.

Absolutely still, his mouth resting against your pulse, and the corridor was silent and you were breathless and your hands were flat against the wall behind you and you were not pulling away, you were not pulling away, and you hated yourself for it in the most breathless and unconvincing way.

He lifted his head.

He stepped back. Letting the cold in.

He looked at you and you looked back at him and his face was barely contained- the grief and the three hundred years of it and something else pressing right up against the surface, his mismatched eyes very bright in the candlelight.

"Go," he said. Low and rough, stripped bare.

He turned toward the portrait. Toward her face. Toward your face.

"Go back to your room." His hands at his sides, very still, the dried blood dark against his skin. "Before I do something that I won't be sorry for. And you will."

And so you went.

Down the corridor and down the stairs and through the main hall and back to your room, and you didn't look back once, though you felt his gaze on you the entire length of it– unblinking, steady, like light that has been traveling so long it no longer remembers what it left behind, only that it was always meant to find you.

Myrtle's bed was still empty when you returned to your chambers, though you couldn't bring yourself to care, if she hadn't disappeared then you wouldn't have had the interaction with Baelor in the hall. But you wouldn't let yourself admit that. Gods forgive you.

You sat on the edge of yours and let your fingers graze the side of your throat. To the place where his lips had been, still feeling the scratch of his beard against your neck. Your pulse was still going too fast, still loud, still embarrassingly honest.

You told yourself what you felt was relief.

The almost was the problem.

The almost was going to be the problem for a very long time you thought to yourself.

Two weeks passed and Myrtle did not come back.

Nobody said anything about it. That was the part that sat strangest, not the absence itself but the silence around it, the way the other maids moved around the empty bed in your chamber like it was something they all privately agreed not to see.

When you had asked Mrs. Calla, and said that Myrtle appeared to be missing, she looked at you for a long moment and said that she had left to attend to a family matter and would not be returning, and the way she said it left absolutely no room for a follow-up.

So you let it close. You went back to your work. You kept your head down and did your rounds and ate your meals in the kitchen with the other girls who did not speak to you, and every night you lay in the room that was now entirely yours and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about the east corridor.

You mostly failed.

The dreams were the worst of it. They came every few nights, never quite the same but always connected to each other somehow. It started with the corridor, the candlelight, his lips against your throat. Though in the dreams it didn’t stop where it had stopped. In the dreams his teeth found your pulse point and broke it open, and the feeling of it was not what you expected, it was not pain, it was something else entirely. You woke from those dreams with your hand pressed to the side of your neck and your heart going too fast and a feeling in your chest you refused to name. 

You thought about the way he had pushed the hair from your face. One careful motion. Like he already knew the weight of it.

You thought about I would sooner end three hundred more years in this house than put a single bruise on you, said in a voice so quiet it barely existed.

You thought about the sound he had made when his lips touched your throat– barely anything, barely a sound, the sound of a man setting something down that he had been holding for three hundred years.

You thought about all of it more than you should, and you stayed well away from the east corridor, and you told yourself that was the end of it, that it was for the best.

But it wasn't the end of it. You knew it wasn't the end of it. But you could pretend, in the daylight, while you worked, and pretending was something you were good at.

The curiosity was what undid you.

It had been building since the night you’d seen the portrait. Who was she? Not what she was to him, you knew what she was to him, it was written plainly in every line of his face in that painting. But who? What had she been like before she became a grief that had lasted three centuries and showed no sign of ending. 

You wanted to see the portrait again. You told yourself that firmly, several times over the course of the evening. Just the portrait. You were not going to the east wing because of him. You were going in spite of him, because you had a right to understand whose face you were carrying through someone else's history.

The portrait corridor received you the same way it always did– cold, still, the unlit torches casting nothing, the painted faces watching you pass. You moved through them steadily. You were getting used to them, which felt like its own kind of warning that you were spending too much time here.

You stood infront of her for a long while. Long enough that the candles burned lower. You looked at the differences this time, all the small ones. From the particular fall of her hair, the way her hands were folded, whether the line of her jaw was truly identical or only close. You still didn’t find what you were looking for. 

You looked at him beside her. The man he had been before he knew what was coming.

Then, from somewhere further down the wing, further than you had ever gone– a sound.

You went still, deja-vu haunting you.

It was low. Almost nothing. The kind of sound that a house makes settling, or pipes, or wind finding its way through old stone. You told yourself all of those things in quick succession and stood very still and listened and the sound came again, and it was not the house settling. It was a voice. Two voices, maybe, though one of them had a quality that made it difficult to be certain. The voice were low and rhythmic, almost soothing, the way you'd talk to a frightened animal. The other was a girl's voice, high and soft and fading.

You should have gone back to bed, though you followed the sound.

You walked further in the corridor than you'd ever had before, past the portraits, past the library door, into a part of the wing that had no light at all except yours. The doors here were heavy and dark and closed, and the sound was coming from behind one of them, the third on the left, a thin line of dim light at its base.

You stood outside it.

The girl's voice had stopped.

You put your hand on the door and opened it, not thinking twice of it.

The room beyond was a sitting room, or had been once. Heavy furniture pushed to the walls. A low fire in the grate throwing red light across the floor, across the dark shape of a man kneeling, across the still white arm of a girl lying beneath him, her hair fanned out across the floorboards, her face turned to the side and very, very pale.

He had his mouth at her throat.

You understood what you were looking at and what you were looking at did not stop being what it was no matter how long you stood in the doorway. The firelight caught the dark of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hand was braced on the floor beside her, and the sound he made was very quiet and very complete, the sound of something entirely focused on what it was doing.

Your hand opened.

The candelabra hit the floor.

The sound it made was enormous in the silence, brass on stone, the clatter of it ricocheting off the walls, and the flames went out and the room was nothing but firelight, and he stopped.

He went completely still, crouched over her, and the stillness had a different quality than his usual stillness. This was the stillness of something interrupted. Of something that had been very far inside itself and had been pulled out suddenly.

He already knew it was you. You understood that even before he moved. He had known the moment the candelabra left your hand, maybe before, he had known the particular sound of your heartbeat in the corridor, had felt you standing outside the door.

He rose.

Slowly and unhurried, with the complete and terrible composure, unfolding to his full height with his back still to you, and you instinctively took a step backward into the doorframe and your hand found the wood of it and held on it. The girl on the floor did not move. Her chest rose barely, she was alive, you told yourself, her chest was moving, but she had not moved.

He turned then. The firelight hit his face and you made a sound, small and involuntary, and pressed yourself back further.

The blood was not like the night with Myrtle, not dried, not old. It was fresh, dark at his mouth, a streak along his throat where it had run. His mismatched eyes found you immediately, across the room, and the expression in them was not guilt, not shame. It was something far more complicated than either of those things, something that had you in it, specifically you, the way his expressions always had you in them now, like you had become the fixed point everything else organised itself around.

You ran.

You turned and you ran, down the dark corridor the way you'd come, your hands out in front of you because the candelabra was behind you and there was nothing but the thin far light of the portrait corridor ahead, and your feet were loud on the stone and your breath was loud and your heart was—

His hand closed around your wrist.

He hadn't made a sound. He was simply suddenly there, at the bend of the corridor, and his hand was around your wrist and your momentum swung you almost into him and you wrenched back and he let you, he let you try to pull back as if his touch burned you, but he did not let go of your wrist.

"Stop," he said.

It wasn’t a command exactly, it was something more careful than a command, something that was asking as much as it was telling. 

You pulled against his grip again. It didn't move. It was not painful, not tight, just utterly immovable, the grip of something that was not going to be dislodged by anything you could do and knew it, and was choosing, regardless, to be gentle about it.

"Look at me."

"Let go of me," you said. Your voice was barely a voice. "Let go, please, I won't — I'm not going to say anything, I swear to you I'm not going to say a word to anyone, just let me—"

"I'm not holding you because I think you'll speak." Still that quiet. Still that careful, deliberate calm. "I'm holding you because you're frightened and I need you to hear me before you go."

"I saw—" Your voice cracked. "That girl, she was—"

"Alive." Firm. "She is alive. She will wake in the morning and remember very little and she will be unharmed." A pause. "I do not kill them. I have not killed anyone in a very long time. What you saw tonight was not— I would not have you think it was what happened to Myrtle."

You stopped pulling. Not because you believed him, or not entirely, because something in the specific plainness of the way he said it landed differently than a reassurance would have.

"Then what happened to Myrtle," you said eyes squinting at him.

"Myrtle," he said carefully, "made a choice to come to that part of the house alone in the middle of the night having been told very clearly not to, and she did so because she had been paid to do so by someone who wished you harm. She encountered something in this wing that was not me and was not gentle." His voice stayed level. "I did not touch Myrtle."

You stood in the dark corridor and looked at him and your wrist was still in his hand and the firelight from the room behind you caught the blood on his face, and you felt very many things simultaneously and could not sort them into any useful order. You didn't understand what he said to you mere seconds ago, it was as if he spoke the words in a riddle.

He moved.

Slowly, giving you every opportunity to understand what was happening, he walked you backward until your back met the wall of the corridor, and he stopped there, close, one hand still around your wrist and the other braced on the stone beside your head. Not trapping you, or not only that. Something else in it. The same quality as every time he had been close to you, the specific focused quality of his attention, like the rest of the world had gone slightly out of his consideration and there was only this.

"I need this to survive." The words came out very quietly, and there was nothing performative in them, no attempt to make them easier to hear than they were. "That is the plain truth of it. I need it the way you need food and water and sleep– not as a want, as a requirement. I did not choose what I am. I have done my best to do it without causing lasting harm." His mismatched eyes were steady on yours. "I need you to understand that before you decide what I am."

You looked at his face. The blood at his jaw. The grey threading through the dark of his beard. The eyes, one darker than the other, both entirely fixed on you.

"I'm afraid of you," you said. It came out smaller than the last time you'd said it.

"I know." His thumb moved, once, across the inside of your wrist. Not quite a caress. Something more like a reflex, like his hands had their own ideas about what to do in proximity to you. "I know you are. You are also still here."

You were. You were still here, back against the wall, heart going at a pace he could certainly hear, and you were not screaming and you were not clawing at his hand and the honest reason for that, the one you were least proud of, was standing approximately twelve inches from your face looking at you like you were the only fixed point in three hundred years of motion.

"Don't,"' you said quietly.

"Don't what."

"Look at me like that."

Something shifted at the corner of his mouth. The barest thing. "I'm not certain I know how to stop."

The silence held.

Then suddenly breaking the moment of solace, "Did she send you?"

His voice had changed, dropped into a tone which was more lower and more private, the careful evenness giving way to something rawer underneath. His eyes moved over your face, aching attention that never seemed to be able to get enough of what it found there.

"Did she send you to haunt me." Not accusatory. Something far more broken than accusatory. A question asked into the dark by a man who had been asking versions of it for three hundred years and had never gotten an answer. "Because if she did, I would like to know. I would like to understand if this is a punishment or a mercy. I cannot tell, from where I am standing."

"Your Grace—" you started.

"Baelor."

The word came out quietly but with a weight behind it, a firmness. His eyes had not moved from yours.

"Call me Baelor. I have not heard my own name said by a voice that—" He stopped. "Please."

You looked at him. The blood drying at his jaw. The grey at his beard. The ruined, patient, ancient expression on his face.

"Baelor," you said softly.

Something happened in his face when you had said it. Something that had been held very tightly for a very long time loosened, just slightly, it was painful to witness, not because it was ugly but because it was so clearly involuntary, so clearly a thing that had happened to him rather than something he had chosen.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said. "I don't know anything about why I look the way I look or what it means. I'm sorry for coming into this part of the house. I'm sorry for opening that door. I wasn't– I was going to the portrait, that was all, and I heard something and I–" You stopped. "I'm sorry. I should not have come. I won't tell anyone. I swear to you I won't tell a living soul."

He was quiet for a moment.

"You think I'm angry about the snooping."

The word snooping, in his voice, with the faintest possible inflection, not quite amusement, though it was something drier than amusement, and was unexpected that it punctured something in the tension between you.

"Aren't you?"

"No." He said it simply. "You could take up residence in this wing and I find I would not manage to mind it very much." His eyes moved over your face again, that slow and helpless inventory. "That is the problem, if you want to know. That is the thing I have been standing in this house with for two weeks. You are not supposed to be here and every time you are I find that I cannot make myself want you to leave."

Your heart was doing something your ribs felt inadequate to contain.

"Baelor–"

"You look exactly like her." He said it very quietly, like a confession. "Every angle of you. Every—" He lifted his free hand and his fingers brushed your jaw, just barely, the backs of them, a touch so light it barely registered except that it registered everywhere. "I have spent years with her face in my memory and you are standing in front of me and I cannot– my memory and my eyes cannot be reconciled and it is–" He stopped. His jaw was tight. "It is a very specific kind of madness."

You were not breathing correctly.

His thumb was still on the inside of your wrist, over your pulse, and the touch was so light and so still and so entirely focused that it felt like the loudest thing in the room.

"I look at you," he said, lower, "and I wonder."

"Wonder what," you said, barely sound.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

"She looked the same as you." His voice was the quietest thing in the corridor. "Every feature, every—" His gaze came back up to yours slowly. 

“Yet I wonder if you taste the same.”

The words landed and stayed.

You should have said something sensible. You were aware, distantly, that a sensible thing existed to be said– some response that involved the girl in the other room, or the blood still drying at his jaw, or the very reasonable fear that had driven you out of that room and down this corridor not ten minutes ago.

You didn't find it in time.

His head bent and his mouth found yours and the first thing you tasted was the blood. Copper-dark, faint but unmistakable, spreading across your tongue before you could decide what to do about it. You made a sound against his mouth that was not dignified. He went still, pulling back a fraction, giving you every opportunity to use the space.

You closed it again.

He made a sound low in his chest when you did, something that had been held in for a very long time coming loose at a single point, and then his hand was at your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kissed you the way a man kisses something he has been trying not to want– with the full weight of the trying in it, three hundred years of restraint collapsed into this, messy and graceless and real. All tongue and the faint scrape of his teeth and his beard rough against your mouth and the copper taste of him that you could not stop chasing.

His other hand found your waist pressing you in, and you felt the full weight of him and pulled at the front of his shirt because your hands needed something to do with themselves. He let you. He let you pull and he came willingly and his thigh pressed between yours against the wall and you gasped into his mouth and he swallowed it.

"Baelor—"

"I know." His lips dragged to your jaw. "I know."

He was not rushing. That was the thing– the absolute, devastating patience of him, like he had all the time there was and intended to use it. His mouth moved down the side of your throat and you let your head fall back against the stone because there was nothing else to do with it, because the alternative was watching his face and you were not certain you could survive that right now.

His teeth grazed your pulse point.

Not breaking the skin. A question. The same question he had asked before, in this same corridor, against this same pulse, and the answer you gave now was the same one you had given then, the sharp catch of your breath, the way your fingers twisted in his shirt, your hips pressing forward against the thigh he had put between yours without entirely meaning to.

He groaned against your throat. A quiet thing, rough, and it unmade you completely.

"You don't taste the same," he said, into your neck. The words dragged warm against your skin. "You taste like yourself." His hands were at your waist, your ribs, deliberate and slow, learning the shape of you through the thin fabric of your nightgown. "I have been trying to decide if that is worse or better."

"And?" you managed, though your voice had lost any pretence of composure.

He lifted his head, and looked at you.

The firelight from the open room behind you caught the blood on his mouth, on yours, smeared now and shared, and his mismatched eyes were dark and entirely certain and fixed on your face with an attention that felt like pressure, like standing too close to a fire.

"Better," he said. Simply. "Considerably."

He kissed you again and this time it was different,  less careful, something under the patience finally surfacing, his hands moving with more intent and yours in his hair and your back arching off the wall toward him. His mouth was at your throat again and you said his name in a way that was not a sentence and he answered it, mouth open against your pulse, the faint graze of his teeth and the warmth of his breath and the specific focused quality of his attention that made you feel like the only thing in the world that existed.

"Tell me to stop," he said against your throat.

You didn't.

His hands moved and you made a sound that echoed in the corridor, a sound that had no pretence in it whatsoever, and he pressed his forehead to your temple and breathed you in and you felt the three hundred years of him in how still he went, like he was committing this to a memory that had been keeping things for centuries.

"Tell me to stop," he said again, quieter. More ragged.

"I don't want you to stop," you said. Honest. No qualifier, no apology for the honesty.

Something moved through his face that was almost painful to witness.

He pressed one long, deliberate kiss to the side of your throat, open-mouthed, his teeth just grazing the skin without breaking it, and the sound that left you was embarrassingly frank about what it was. His hands were still, suddenly, firmly, holding you rather than exploring, and he lifted his head and looked at you and his jaw was tight with the effort of something.

"Not here," he said. Low, rough, the composure in pieces. "Not in this corridor with her—" He stopped. His eyes moved briefly to the portrait behind you. Back to your face. "Not like this. Not the first time."

You looked at him. Breathing hard. The blood on both your mouths. His hands at your waist, not releasing you.

"The first time?" You repeated softly, cheekily almost.

Something in his expression shifted, the tightness giving way, fractionally, to something that was almost wry if wry could coexist with three centuries of grief.

"I am attempting," he said carefully, "to be honourable."

"How is it going?"

"Poorly," he said. "But I am attempting it."

You laughed. Small and unsteady, and he went still when you did it in that way he always went still, the ghost of her moving through the space between you, and you felt it and you let it be there and you held his gaze anyway.

You reached up and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. He watched you do it, very still, his eyes on your face.

"First time," you said quietly. "So there's a second."

It was not a question.

He turned his face slightly into your hand, just barely, his jaw against your palm.

"If you'll have it," he said.

The gentle command from Baelor sounds beneath you, encircling your thighs to guide you into an easy grind. The swiping of his tongue along your slit makes the stroke of ink on old pages even harder to read.

"Rȳbas se aegon dārysion ikso aōhi by vēzos se ñuhor ziry… liberysion? Daorys Conqueror drējī iiii… iderēptan ondor ōregon issa rȳbas ziry ikso pāletilla–oh–s-se brōstan se Starry Sept se Oldtown ondoso High Septon se Vēdosorys–fuck, right there."

Some of the words could be smoother in their pronunciation, prettier off the roll of your tongue, but your reciting is rather impressive. You're learning fast, which only strengthens the suck of Baelor's lips around the clit. A non-verbal, spit-bathed action of admiration from the Hand, whose cock leaks stringy dribbles onto his stomach… twitching each time you squeak and groan.

Baelor makes you read until you can't anymore, until his face is coated in you and you're crying for him to let you come. He only obliges after making you ask in his mother tongue.

"Epagon nyke hae bisa, ñuha jorrāelagon," he mumbles wetly, pecking light kisses against your folds.

(Ask me like this, my love.)

It takes you a moment to sound it out. The once foreign, now familiar sounds slowly register.

"…k-kostilus, kostagon nyke–nyke māzigon? Kostagon ao mazverdagon nyke m-māzigon?"

(Please, can I come? Can you make me come?)

A proud smile spreads against your pussy, followed by a pat of your ass.

"Sȳrī gaomagon…"

(Well done...)

𓆰 VALARR TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN

It is official. You are now wed to Valarr Targaryen, linked to the Prince of Dragonstone until the end of either of your times… and Gods, if he wasn't going to make sure you enjoy the first several suns of being his wife.

You've come too many times to care how uncomfortable the two members of the Kingsguard are. Valarr, caring even less, is stuffed under the covers and up against your cunt, savoring away as he has been all morning.

"…My Lord–"

"I'm a bit busy with my new wife. Your new Princess, who I'm sure would much rather hear nothing than the drone of your unimportant questions."

They can barely hear the muted words over the little groans you release whenever Valarr curls his lips around the swell of your clit. He gives you one last suckle before kissing up your belly and emerging from the blankets with a full exhale of air. The man licks at your neck, then pecks up to your mouth before shuffling on his side with an arm wrapped around your front. His movements slip the covers down just enough to reveal your breasts to the men, who nearly choke as they rescind their stares.

"Y-your uncle has... requested your presence in the main hall," one of the guardsmen stutters out. Valarr continues his kisses, humming with the content of a million and one men when your hand reaches to cup his jaw. He deepens the pecks into a long snog, only interrupted by the few words your husband can remember to get out.

"Men, my father has instructed me to spend whatever necessary time it will take to make my woman comfortable in her new home," he begins, mismatched pupils trained onto you as he lowers himself back under the covers with a grin that makes you giggle. There's a pause of quiet, and then a squeal from you, who reaches a grab at the nearest pillow with a dropped jaw and arching back.

More nipples. The guards look away, this time toward each other. Completely helpless and willing away the blood rushing to their own cocks.

How beautiful their new princess is.

"Therefore," Valarr breathes in, "I advise you return at a later time. Perhaps sometime next week? Possibly next summer…"

𓆰 AERION TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN

"You."

The cut of his voice startles you well before the echo is finished ringing throughout the corridor. Your steps pause, and you tighten your grip on the bedsheets in your hand.

Turning, you see him. The prince, with his hair like ash and violet eyes stuck in a hard stare. There's something else there, too, just behind all that mean. It tries to suffocate your lungs as Aerion struts toward you, only pausing when he's close enough for your throat to bob with a thick gulp. Silently, he keeps watching you, eyes settled upon your chest as you bow before him.

"My prince. You are usually not awake at this hour. Is everything alright?"

Aerion just blinks at you, thinking.

"Fine. Just feeling a bit hungry."

"Oh. I can stop by the kitchens and retrieve a platter for you, if you wish. I am sure they wouldn't mind, so long as I explain who it is for."

The wobble in your voice is small, but there. Quivering with already uneven breaths, you opt to focus on the loose of his sleeping tunic while you speak. Boring and beige it is, yet, somehow, he wears it with an air that only he is capable of.

"No, girl. I'm hungry. Starved."

Brow furrow, you still don't understand. What kind of appetite can a plate of summer fruits not fill?

Your question is answered by a long walk to his room and a surprisingly gentle touch he uses to guide you toward his bed.

At first, he just talks.

Asks you how in seven hells you'd been assigned to working for the ruling family. Wondered why such a pretty thing like you would be relegated to changing bedsheets and fetching bathwater. There's a bit of impatience to his voice, but he keeps himself together long enough to get your shoulders to relax and wrap a hand to unstring the back of your dress.

He quickly stops you from covering yourself when the fabric pools to the floor, leaving you completely bare before him. Tracing a touch around your nipple, Aerion talks with a bowed chin.

"As I said, I'm rather famished… and I've had an eye on you for quite some time, gevie."

The word, strange sounding to you, slips a shiver down your spine. Aerion drags his middle finger lower, across your stomach, through the hair of your mound, and dips it inside your slit. You gasp and reach to clutch at his arm, moaning in surprise at the way the digit strokes your clit before he yanks it away.

Gazing straight at you, Aerion stuffs the finger inside his mouth. Groaning at the taste, he wipes all over his tongue before tugging it free with a pop.

The man commands you with a silent ah, dropping his jaw and waiting for you to do the same. Between your parted lips slips the same finger that reaches to press so far against the back of your tongue that you gag.

Aerion smirks at the sound, grabbing your cheeks with the rest of his hand so you can't look anywhere but him.

"Yes… you'll do quite nicely."

𓆰 DAERON TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN

He's drunk, nearly-crying, and balls deep inside you.

"Fuck me," Daeron groans, eyes rolling as his hips smack into yours. You clutch him and the damp of his skin closer, tugging on the wild head of hair when he cries out once more with an ache to fill you for the second time this night. "Milk me, dove. Take my seed."

His words are slurred and breathless, choking away into nothing as his cock pumps you full with another thick load of cum. Your name slurs out of the man as a prayer, eyes glazed with alcohol and tears. "Ah–ah. Yesyesyesyes."

Daeron pulls out before either of you is ready, but only to use his tongue to catch when his cum leaks from your slit. His impatience and hazy mind get the best of the eldest son, who resorts to slicking his tongue inside you to scoop out the mess. Eating himself from you, he makes certain not to forget your clit, thumb coming to pull back the hood to swipe his nose at it.

Again, he's drunk. Yes, on ale and wine, but also you. Addicted, really, to filling you up then slurping at your clit until you're empty, only to fill you back up once more.

"The way we taste together…" he huffs out wet breaths across his still squirming tongue. "I could die in this, for you. Drown in it."

Daeron nuzzles his face deeper. Swirling his head and tongue in opposite directions while stretching his grip until he can grope your chest. He squeezes, humming with slow blinks and a sweaty forehead. All the while, thinking nothing of your husband-to-be.

Completely lost in you, Maekar's future (and second) wife, all the ale clouding just how fucked he will be if he is to keep this up. The unfairness of it all keeps him stupid, lapping at you like a trained mutt. Like a son who does not care of his father's wishes.

Daeron saw you first, so why doesn't he get to marry you?

𓆰 MAEKAR TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN

He can't help but let a little of his demeanor, stern with sturdy grips, leak in at times like this. Times when he has to grip your skin to keep you from closing your legs like your body keeps trying.

It's almost too much. The fast flicks of Maekar's tongue and rough slurps of your hole, making sure to drag his teeth against your clit just to feel you jerk. You can feel the beard of white scratch at you with every sharp gesture of the man's head, prickles dragging to dampen themselves along your slit.

A gasp snatches from your lungs when Maekar pushes his tongue inside you, as deep as it'll reach. He growls, allowing you to trap his head with your thighs as he fucks his tongue in and out of you, jagged breaths blowing from his nose loudly.

"My P-Prince, I must return–agh–to my chambers…" you remind him through shaky, barely able to remember the reason for the coming evening celebrations. "…to prepare for tonight's festivities. My father is pr-probably wondering where I've gone. Ah! If we do not finish soon, I fear all the honey cakes will be gone before–"

"Fuck the cake," Maekar grumbles, silently making a note to himself to make sure you get some regardless of when he finally frees you from his grasp. "And your father is probably drunk on wine and too busy shouting songs with my guards to realize his kin is gushing about in the arms of The Anvil."

With that, he's latching back onto you, scraping the flat of his tongue on your nub in lively strokes. His chest jumps with a small victory when you whine his name, forgetting all about the party and sweets and the worry over what your father will think.

Soon enough, you won't have to concern yourself with whatever your father feels–how easy the aging prince traces his title into your dripping centre. Soon enough, you will be his pretty wife, fully his to feed cake while he sucks your tits to rid himself of the shitty days behind him.

𓆰 LYONEL BARATHEON of HOUSE BARATHEON

Of course, he is to find you at the worst possible moments. Worst being relative, as Lyonel possesses a skill of the tongue unlike any other, but still. You could be in the bath, in bed, or walking through a nearby forest, and he's pouncing. Sudden and tender, groping at your flesh through the dark, golden-detailed cloth that he'd begged you not to slip on during the earlier hours of the morn.

Deep chuckles bounce from Lyonel and against your inner thigh. After the sound, a sloppy kiss.

"Lyonel," you huff, helping to bunch up the dress of your skirt that he's already halfway buried beneath, his hands clawing at your panties with light scratches and tugs of impatience. "L-Lyonel."

The man answers with a dig of his tongue inside you, groan cutting through the buzz of the outdoors at the taste. The ground sits hard under your back, almost damp when you arch to rub harder against the measured flicks.

"We w-will be requested for dinner soon," you remind him, breathless and with a fuzzy stare at the sky of seemingly endless clouds. Lyonel remains distracted, suckling you with long licks until his mouth fills with the taste of you, promptly spitting globs of spit to slicken you even further. You can feel the warm, sticky drip down your ass as Lyonel feeds away. Unconvinced.

Finally, he answers. Bubbles of drool coat his lips and chin, the words muffle just below your belly button, when he kisses his way through an unbothered shrug.

"No matter that," Lyonel wheezes, stomach pressed against the grassy ground as he shuffles. Poking his head to catch your eye. "I will command the kitchens to prepare you something of sustenance once the trees watch me take you properly."

"And what of your meal?"

Lyonel laughs, messy curls tickling his forehead. "Oh, my sweet, sweet thing. I have all the nourishment I need right here in my palms."

tell me what u think :)