ALL TYPES OF ART

Declan enjoyed times like these when the house was empty, and he got you all to himself. With Maud gone, leaving everything to Taggie was unfair, so he caved and hired a housekeeper. Little did he realize he'd fall head over heels for you.

You both took your time dancing around one another like nervous teenagers at a school dance. Harmless flirting and late-night conversations over the meals you'd cook for him led to Declan taking matters into his own hands.

He was used to control. He enjoyed it, really. The power felt comfortable, and he had no issue wielding it.

Declan was still on edge one day after a trifling day at Coriniuim. His usual soak and cig in the tub wasn't helping. The radio was blasting ear-aching songs, and the water was getting too cold too fast, but that all changed when you walked in on him with an armful of fresh towels.

He took a chance, one that could've ended with him locked up, but you didn't run. You followed his dubious commands and let him exert his dominance, allowing him to reign over you.

Since then, you two have been inseparable.

"Ah, right on time," Declan notes, looking at the clock perched on the mantle in his study as the large front door creaks open.

Declan mentioned inviting a friend over earlier in the day, but you didn't think he meant now.

The sight of your wide doe eyes makes his gut fervently twist. He's always appreciated someone yearning after what was his, especially an individual so well-loved by the women of Rutshire.

"Don' stop, Love," Declan instructs. His Irish accent dips low as he curls a solid hand around your head when you start to draw back. Your wary, garbled sounds vibrate Declan's cock eliciting a hiss from his lips. He sends you a pensive look and keeps you locked as the steps draw near. "You know I like people ta watch, but I wan' to try somethin' new."

Your heart lodges in your throat. Declan had divulged this kink not long after the two of you began dating. It was harmless fun flirting with other men while Declan observed from the shadows like a deviant; the journalist grew feral until he could no longer hold himself back, scurrying off with you in his arms, leaving the poor target in a stupor.

No one could ever come close to Declan; you never want them to.

"I seem to have come at a rather inconvenient time, have I not?" A pondering English baritone fills the room.

Rupert Campbell Black.

With arms crossed, the affluent man leans on the rustic doorframe. He catches your uneasy gaze with a cheeky smile, prompting a wildfire in your belly.

Declan shakes his head, his thick mustache ticking excitedly, "Not at all. Come in."

You try to move again, but Declan doesn't budge an inch. Your brows knot in confusion as your hands fly to cover your exposed bits as best you can.

"Say hello, ta Rupert, Swee'heart," Declan instructs, his dark chestnut eyes alight with devilry.

Your gaze trails from the man's supple leather loafers and pressed lined slacks to the sepia colored dress shirt that exposes a svelte chest as the top two buttons are undone. Rupert oozes high society and overt confidence, the kind of man you'd go dumb even looking at.

"My, my, where has Declan been hiding you?" Rupert croons. His azure orbs fixate with dark intrigue at your naked, shivering form.

As you greet Declan's neighbor, a slight garbled noise barely registers to the men. Tauntingly, Rupert leans over and puts a hand behind his ear, "Sorry, Angel. What was that?"

Your belly flips, and butterflies flutter carelessly in the wake of being so degraded. Still, your cunt produces a wave of arousal and clenches around nothing.

Knowing he doesn't have much patience, you chance another look at Declan and wish you hadn't. His white teeth bared, and his lips pulled back into a light sneer, like a wolf facing down prey, waiting for you to heed his command.

Declan bites back a moan at the hedonic sensation of you stringing together a messy greeting for the affluent man.

Rupert snickers. "Aren't you cute."

"Thatta' girl." He praises before thrusting his length into your throat and cutting off your air.

He waits for a beat, relishing in the watery glaze that coats your eyes and how your chest heaves. Fidgety hands dig into his darkened slacks, knocking the loose ends of his belt. Drool spills down your chin and settles at the base of his cock.

"Ya know ya waited too long ta give Rupert a warm welcome." He fumes, his expression twisting lightly with displeasure.   

With a soft growl, Declan eases his grip. You fall back on your heels, a blight, coughing up spittle and trying to suck down fresh air at the same time.

"Might I say, you've got a real treasure here," Rupert leers down at your messy face and spit-soaked breasts that make your nipples shine in the light. "Lovely to meet your acquaintance."

"Though' you migh' like a taste." Declan offers, looking up at Rupert like you weren't perched at their feet, anxiously awaiting their next move.

"Would I ever." A Cheshire grin tugs at Rupert's lips. He makes a show of folding his button-down sleeves over his muscular forearms as he stalks around you.

Declan beckons you with the tilt of his head, "C'mere, Love. I ain't done wit' your mouth."

You sniffle before taking your place between his knees once more. Declan can sense your worry as Rupert traces a finger down your spine while he crouches behind you. "Don' worry abou' him. He won' do anythin' out of line."

Declan taps his bulbous crown against your swollen lips, drawing your attention away from the blue-eyed beau. His sturdy thighs are a protective shield, enveloping you like a fortress from harm.

As curious fingers tickle your sticky thighs, your lips part with a gasp, allowing Declan to thrust into your warm, wet mouth.

"Jesus Christ, she's soaked." Rupert husks as he softly skims your glistening folds. Your cunt throbs from his unfamiliar touch, coursing a frightening spark of arousal up your spine.

"She's not 'ad much experience." Declan hisses as his crown breaches the tight confines of your throat. Your hand tugs at the thick base that's peppered with dark curls, fingers barely overlapping, pumping in time with his languid thrusts across your tongue.

"You don't say." The Englishman trails off, no doubt thinking of all the crude ways he could defile you.

As you start a slow rhythm, bouncing your head up and down Declan's cock, making the older man unashamedly moan, Rupert swipes his fingers across your seam and gathers all your shiny slick, drawing it up to your clit before lazily circling the tender bud.

Bright lights erupt under your eyelids. Blood rushes south, pooling in your core, heightening your suffocating lust as your body bends to his will.

"Ah ah, Angel." Rupert tsks, grabbing hold of your wriggling hips. His grasp keeps you stock still, unable to evade his voracious touch.

The pads of Declan's fingers press into your scalp as a soft warning. "Be good ta Rupert."

Being pushed and pulled between the two older men was agony of the luscious kind. You only knew of Declan's touch, the succulent highs and lows. The amorous sublime.

A gentle hand glides over your ass before massaging the plump cheek. Your frantic cries are a mumbled mess as you're pushed higher and higher into the pleasurable abyss from Rupert's caress.

He winds two fingers into your core, cursing from your tightness, and splays his dexterous digits along your walls. His thumb lands square on your clit, swiping back and forth with prowess. "So sweet and responsive. Such a good girl." he curls his fingers along your walls, drawing pathetic noises from your chest.

Your body rolls like waves, back and forth between the two men. Rupert's teeth sink into the tender skin of your ass before a gentle tongue soothes the marks and trails down the valley of your cheeks, causing you to choke around Declan's cock.

A wad of spit lands directly on your rosebud just before a wicked tongue ravishes the tight, untouched hole.

Your belly drops at his vulgar touch. No one ever touched you there before. A heavy wave of arousal slips from your cunt as you fight the urgent need for release. Rupert moans hungrily as he laps the rim of your ass.

Your incessant wriggling alerts Declan to Rupert's perverted actions.

"What'd I say, ya daft cunt?" Declan fumes. His mustache twitches as he shoots daggers at the man posed behind you.

Rupert swirls his tongue one final time before leaving your rosebud with a loud pop. "Sorry, chap. I forgot you haven't filled all her holes yet." The tug of his lips says otherwise.

Declan mumbles under his breath and leans back in his chair, focusing on you. "What'a fuckin' sight," he grunts, yanking your tear-coated face off his girth. His large hand completely cups the side of your face, making you feel like a doll with glossy, swollen lips as he stares at you like a man possessed.

Rupert twists his wrist, and your eyes grow wide as saucers. The need to come moves to the forefront of your mind. Declan can tell you're fighting, doing everything you can to hold back as you're slowly dragged to the edge.

Your jaw goes slack, and eyelids flutter; you're willing to endure any repercussions for coming without approval, but then Declan stamps your orgasm out just as quickly as it started.

"No, no, no. Don' be greedy," he tsks, shoving your dumbstruck face back down onto his length.

With Declan's cock stretching your lips and drooling pre cum over your taste buds and Rupert curling his fingers into the spongy spot behind your clit, your nerves scream for release.

The insides of your thighs are soaked, slick from want and a need held so close yet so far away. A soft cry falls from your spit-stained lips as Declan snatches your head off his cock and curves a large hand under your chin, holding you like a precious piece of art.

His opaque orbs sweep across your face, wild and feral; he's on the edge of breaking but holds steady like the stubborn man he is.

"Come on, Declan, let the girl come," Rupert implores to the stoic man holding captive your utmost pleasure.

The corner of Declan's lips tilts. He knows what'll happen. He can see it in your face, how truly gone you are, how nearly close the dam is to breaking.

"Go on, show 'im what he's missin', Swee'heart." Declan encourages, finally allowing you the taste you've wanted all this time.

Your body writhes in their combined hold with unkempt ecstasy as a ravenous cry fills the large study. You come like a geyser, locking like a vice around Rupert's fingers, forcing a curse from his lips as you coat his wrist and trousers with your creamy release.

"Jesus-" Rupert moans, dark and depraved, watching with rabid fascination as your core pulses in time to the beat of his heart.

Declan gathers you into his arms, away from the still man, propping your knees on either side of his thighs. "Sit on the couch and watch," he orders a dumbstruck Rupert before easing you down on his swollen cock.

A whimper catches in your throat from the obscene stretch as his girth widens your channel for the first time that day. Declan grabs your ass and steadily bounces you on his length, helping you rise and fall since your legs have turned to jelly.

"Gone so dumb, ya can' even move," Declan mocks. Coarse whiskers chafe your skin as he nibbles your chin, pouring filthy praises against your jaw, "Still so tight. Maybe two cocks'll do the trick," he drives his girth into your exhausted body. "Wan' your pretty cunt gapin' fa' me."

The seam of his brown sweater grazes your clit on every thrust; the fibers are soft yet overstimulating, your body boils, on the verge of combusting, and there's nothing you can do.  

A low moan catches your attention, dragging you from your frenzied state. As you turn your head to find the strange noise, you see Rupert with his swollen cock in his hand, barely out of his trousers. His cock weeps, the bulbous tip pulsing red, while he sucks your juices off his glistening fingers like a man starved for days.

His animalistic gaze bores into where you and Declan connect. You can imagine how obscene it is. Declan's sticky balls thwap immorally against your ass. Sticky sounds bounce off the walls as he draws more slick from your core, staining the base of his cock in a creamy ring.

Rupert's eyes flit to yours. You silently mouth his name, playing with the man who's used the women of Rutshire like a kid with infinite toys. The subtle action pushes the posh man over the edge.

Biting his knuckles, Rupert spills over his other set with a ragged string of grunts. The image sets off a chain reaction. You follow suit, crying as you come around Declan's cock, and dragging your other half with you. Declan's thick brows furrow, groaning his ecstasy as he fills you with ropes of white.

The three of you gradually come down from the hedonistic scene. Your hearts beat to their natural rhythm as the birds outside sing a dusk setting song.

"T'was lovely to meet you, Angel," Rupert flirts, cleaning his cock with a handkerchief before tucking himself into his trousers. "Hope to see you again real soon."

"Fuck off, Rupert," Declan quips, jutting his chin toward the door.

Rupert sends you a wink before rounding the couch and exits with the fattest smile you've ever seen.

Declan mumbles under his breath and curls his arms around you. He tucks your head under his chin, letting you unwind comfortably before the crackling fire.

"Was that okay, Swee'heart?" Declan's asks with softened eyes.

With a satisfied sigh, you snuggle deeper into his hold, seeking the warmth and protective embrace he can only give. "More than."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

“You heard me.” Baelor replied.

Lyonel stood there in disbelief, his mind racing at the thought of losing you to another man.

“I love her and she loves me. This is not merely an alliance for either of us anymore. This is nonsensical!” He protested.

“That is a shame.. hopefully she can grow to love Lord Tyrell.” Baelor mentioned.

Lyonel’s brows furrowed and his body language shifted.

“Is this humorous to you?—“

“Does the Prince of the realm find it humorous robbing his daughter of a love match?”

Baelor sat back in his chair, fidgeting with his rings.

“Humorous? No—“

“ I have no control over what the king desires in terms of betrothals. I set this one up for my daughter, I was happy to and you ruined it.”

Lyonel scoffed, his shoulders pulled back at Baelor’s words.

“I did not ruin anything. I did not have her punished, he did! I did not embarrass her, he did!—“

“So, don’t you dare try to put the blame in my lap!” Lyonel fumed.

Baelor rolled his eyes with a loud scoff.

“You are a fool and it was my mistake to consider you as anything other than that. You had my daughter's name in rumors that should’ve never been thought of!—“

“Yet, you think that you deserve to be her husband?”

Lyonel began to pace Baelor’s tent, his anger rising as the time passed.

“I don’t deserve her as she is far too good for me, that I’m man enough to admit— but she doesn’t deserve this. This rotten family has done nothing but change her.”

“If you love her, then you will leave and let her do her duty to the realm. You have done more than enough thus far, Lord Baratheon.” .

“You do not know what it is that you are asking of me!” Lyonel shouted, slamming his hand on Baelor’s desk.

“I am not asking anything, the king is telling you. You need to leave the princess alone.” Baelor spoke.

“This will ruin her.” Lyonel muttered.

“You and your version of love ruined her—“

“Your love for her is weak and fickle, just like your honor as a man. It was you who allowed her to get into this situation.” Baelor pointed out.

Lyonel bit his tongue and stormed out of the tent. Baelor wasn’t entirely wrong, but he wasn’t right either. Things had spiraled out of Lyonel’s control and he had no idea what to do, but this wedding between you and Lord Tyrell could not happen.

Lyonel grabbed his things from his tent, got on his horse, and left without a word.

You slowly got up and got dressed, feeling embarrassed that Daeron saw you and Lyonel. You believed him when he said that he wouldn’t tell as Daeron has always been good at keeping secrets, but it was still humiliating. 

There was an ache between your legs from your intense fun several hours prior, coupled with the pain in your feet— you needed some milk of the poppy.

The wind blew outside, softly rustling the flap to your tent. As the breeze brushed against your skin, you sat in the chair and tried to put your boots on. 

Your focus was interrupted by your father walking into your tent.

“Father?” You spoke, your eyes glancing up at him.

“Here, let me help you.” He replied, sitting in the chair across from you.

He patted his leg, signaling for you to raise your foot and put it in his lap. 

You did so with a wince leaving your mouth.

“Is there something wrong, father?” You ask through the pain.

He looks over the bloodied bandage on your foot and doesn’t respond.

“You needed to get these changed before you went to sleep. They need to be changed regularly or you risk infection.” He softly ridiculed you.

“I know, I know.. I was just tired and didn’t want to bother with it.” You responded.

He sighed and sat there staring at you, your foot still in his lap.

“There is a matter that I need to speak with you about.”

Those were words that would always make you anxious and make you want to crawl out of your skin. They could either be the best news you’ve ever heard or earth shattering.

You adjusted in your seat, your eyes filled with worry.

“Is there something wrong?”

His lips were pursed and his was breathing steady, so it was impossible to read the situation for what it was.

“Your grandfather has decided to end your marriage alliance with Lyonel—“

“He thinks that it has caused too much of a stir. Instead, he’s proposed a betrothal to you and Lord Tyrell.”

You stared at him blankly as if his words were foreign. Your mouth parted with so many things that you could say and yet, none left your mouth. 

Tears fell from your eyes in shock as you registered what your father had admitted.

“What?” You choked.

“It was not my decision, but we found it best.” He added.

You leaned forward grabbing his hand. “Please, father. Do not let him do this—“

“I love Lyonel.”

He let out a sigh as he hoped that your feelings weren’t already so deep for him.

“I understand, I do— but it is done.” He spoke plainly.

“I don’t want to wed anyone else! I will not do it!” You yelled, pulling your foot out of his lap.

You stood up, your balance off and unable to remain steady.

“Daughter, please be careful.” He warned, reaching out to help you.

You sob, stumbling away from the chair and towards your cane by the table.

“You yourself got to marry our mother and experience a great love, but you rob me of that? Why?”

“What about my happiness? I instead get to be married to an old man, who will surely treat me like a brood mare and not care about me.” You pointed out.

“I’m sure that Lord Ty—“

“Get out!” You yelled, interrupting him.

He was startled to see you be so upset and feel so deeply about such things.

“Let me at least help you—“

“Get out! Get out!” You screamed, people outside of the tent staring to see what was going on.

Your uncle was making his way towards the tent when Baelor made his way out of it with a look of defeat.

All you wanted to do was get married to Lyonel and go live out your days in Storms End, but even that thought had gone up in smoke.

Once you had calmed down, the Maester came into your tent and assessed your feet.

“Princess, you must be mindful. Your feet are still healing and too much pressure on them will delay the healing process. Unless, you absolutely have to— please refrain from walking.” 

You nodded, your cheeks wet from tears and eyes puffy.

He applied the paste to your feet and wrapped them gently, leaving you with milk of the poppy before exiting the tent.

As the Maester walked from your tent, Valarr entered holding a tray with your breakfast on it.

“Valarr?” You questioned, surprised to see him.

“Sister.” He responded with a smile.

He rushed to set the tray on the table with a smile and give you a hug.

“It has been too long.” He laughed.

His presence made you want to cry again as you missed your brother and did not get to see him often.

“What are you doing here?” You asked as he took the seat in front of you.

“You think I’d miss the wedding for my sister? She’s marrying the laughing storm, there’s no way I’d miss that.” He smirked.

You wiped your teary eyes.

“Not anymore.”

His brow raised in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Grandfather has decided against that betrothal and has instead proposed me to Lord Tyrell.” You explained.

You pulled over the tray of food and prepared to eat, so that you can drink some milk of the poppy.

Valarr’s eyes looked like they could bulge out of his head.

“Leo Tyrell?—“

“Gods be good.” He huffed.

You took a  bite from the fig on the tray, trying to hide your sadness.

Valarr glanced down at your bandaged feet, his stomach turning at the sight.

“I heard about your punishment..” 

You scoffed, “who hasn’t?”

He looked sad seeing you in the state that you were in, a state of sadness that was unfamiliar to him.

“I don’t like to see you this way, sister—“

“Sad and hurting.”

You stirred the bowl of oats that sat in front of you.

“Trust me, I don’t want to feel this way. I just wanted to be with Lyonel.” 

Valarr was unsure of how to comfort you in this as he’d never experienced this before. He was never denied his love for Kiera and didn’t agree with how things were going.

“I’m sure Lyonel made you the happiest woman in the seven kingdoms.”

You caught yourself smiling at the thought of him as you ate, a warm feeling rushed over your body.

“He makes me feel seen as a person and not just a woman who can give him children. I don’t feel like a pawn with him—“

“I feel happy and free.”

Valarr himself smiled at your words about Lyonel. He leaned forward and rubbed your knee.

“That’s how you should feel.. it’s just unfortunate that grandfather changed his mind.”

Valarr’s words turned the oats in your mouth bitter, bringing you back down to your sad reality.

“Maybe, the two of you could keep in touch as friends?” He suggested innocently.

You scoffed, dropping your spoon into the bowl.

“I will not stand around and watch the man that I love eventually fall in love with someone else. It would kill me..”

Valarr’s facial expression softened.

“I did not mean—“

“I did not mean for it to come off that way. I just wanted to suggest something that might put you at ease.”

You waved him off with a feigned smile. “It is okay, brother. I understand what you meant.”

He nodded, his eyes watching you as he wanted to ask you a question— but was fearful of doing so.

“Sister?”

You picked up your spoon and took another dreadful bite out of your oats.

“Hmm?”

He adjusted in his seat, “did you—“

“Did the two of you have sex?” 

You swallowed your food and wiped the corner of your mouth.

“Do not ask questions that you do not want the answer to.”

“I am asking for an answer, sister. Did you?” He reiterated.

You glanced at him and stirred your oats.

“Yes.. last night.” 

He sighed, covering his face with his hands . “Did you at least have him finish elsewhere?”

You just stared at him and didn’t respond.

“God’s be good!—“

“You have to be smarter than that, sister!” He softly scolded you.

“Never mention this to anyone else.” He added.

You finished your bowl of oats and began eating another fig without a care at his panic. 

“You’re the only person I’ve told. It’s not exactly like I want to go shouting it outside.”

There was a silence in the tent after your words and his. He understood that you loved Lyonel and that you weren’t intending to be harmful with your actions.

“Kiera and I did not wait either, unfortunately. We should’ve, but I allowed myself to be weak.” He confessed.

“Yet, you sit here and judge me?” You questioned.

He waved his hand. “I am not judging, because I understand your feelings. I just do not believe it to have been a wise decision given the already dire situation.”

You rolled your eyes. 

“I know that it wasn’t smart.”

He leaned forward in his chair, touching your arm.

“I do not want you to think that I am against you, as I could’ve easily ended in the same position. We will figure out a solution, I’m sure of it.” 

He stood up and gave you a loving hug — placing a kiss on your head.

“I will help you figure this out, I promise.”

Your brother left out of your tent with a smile on his face and no doubt on a mission.

The last day of what was supposed to be the royal hunt was painfully dull. You spent most of it to yourself and avoided everyone. All you could think about was Lyonel and how he’d handled the news, you assumed not well— because he did leave. He left without a word and you couldn’t say that you blamed

him much, your family had driven him crazy. They’d made him think that you weren’t worth the hassle.

The wind did not ease up as everyone had hoped, instead it picked up— rustling the flaps to your tent and blowing things off of tables. 

Your father kept his distance and did not say anything else after he told you the news. It seemed he realized that maybe you were losing yourself in this punishment and then ending your betrothal.

——

Lyonel rode his horse back to King’s Landing and hoped to figure out a way that could stop this betrothal. 

He could not lose you and it certainly wouldn’t be to the pig Leo Tyrell. Lyonel could not stand him and his sharp tongue. He was worse than annoying, he was a pain in the arse. 

You were his, the woman that he’d do anything for and go anywhere for. He had never quite loved a woman the way that he loved you. 

Your sarcasm, beautiful laugh, quiet nature, and overall curiosity. You made him dream of a life that he didn’t deem possible for himself. Losing you would be a death sentence for the laughing storm.

It also wasn’t lost on him that he had spilled inside you, when the two of you had sex— what if you did become pregnant?

How could you explain that to your father, the king, and your new husband?

The thought of you being in a scandal like that made him feel ill. 

The ride back to King’s Landing was slow and tiresome. You rode in the carriage as you were drowsy from the milk of the poppy and could not keep your eyes open. Your tongue felt like cotton in your mouth and your head felt too heavy to lift up. 

You were eager to get to your bed. You had missed it deeply, along with the peace and quiet of your own private room. 

For most of the ride you were in and out of sleep, until you jolted awake as the carriage came to a stop. 

The grey skies blocked out the sunlight and made you confused on how long you had been asleep or how long that it had taken you to arrive back at home. 

As you rubbed your eyes, the door to your carriage opened.

Your father held out his hand, allowing you to steady yourself on him as you were still not quite yourself. Your eyes noticed the other carriages present, but they weren’t Lyonel’s. 

That’s when you noticed the roses on the banners, it was House Tyrell.

Given how quickly they had arrived in King’s Landing, your grandfather must’ve already had this plan in the works. You suddenly had begun to feel more uncomfortable than you were before, the nausea building in your stomach.

A short, old man stood in front of you and your father. He held his hand out and shook your fathers with a smile as he gave him a warm welcome.

Your father rubbed your arm. “Daughter, this is Lord Tyrell.”

You gave a half smile with a nod.

“Nice to meet you, my lord.”

Lord Tyrell nodded back and grabbed your hand, placing a soft kiss to it.

“It is lovely to meet you as well, Princess.”

You had started to frown as it felt impossible to hide the disgust that you felt. Baelor noticed your frown and leaned close to your ear.

“Don’t be rude, daughter. Stop frowning.” He whispered.

Lord Tyrell did not seem to notice your frown and slight recoil as all he did was stare at you like you were a piece of meat. 

“You are absolutely beautiful—“

“I’m sure our children will have your beauty.”  He spoke.

“What an odd thing to say.” You mumbled to yourself.

He’d only just met you and already had the thought of having children with you on his mind.

He seemed like a sick pervert to you, not even a normal old man.

After you did not respond to his remark, he held a conversation with your father. You excused yourself from the conversation, grabbing your cane and making your way to your chambers.

Lord Tyrell was not even moderately attractive in your eyes, how you would be able to marry him and eventually bed him was heavily on your mind. There wasn’t enough milk of the poppy in the realm that would make it easier for you to suffer through him.

Just the thought of the old man on top of you— rubbing your body, wanting you to suck his shriveled cock, and rutting into you made you dry heave. 

He was a far fall from Lyonel.

Once you were in your chambers, you had requested more milk of the poppy from the servants. The pain in your feet and legs had begun to return after the walking that you had to do. You stumbled to your bed and started to undress yourself, when your door opened.

It was Lyonel.

You were shocked to see him, but so happy to at the same time.

He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into a deep kiss. 

“I’m sorry that I left, my love. I just—“

You smiled, pulling your lips from his and staring into his eyes.

“It’s okay, I am not upset with you.”

He held you in the hug for a moment longer, taking in the feeling of relief that he gets with you.

“How are you doing, my sweet doe?” He asked.

You pulled from his grasp and sat down on your bed, a frown on your face and on the verge of tears.

“I feel awful, Lyonel— that’s the truth of it.”

His heart ached in his chest at your words, because none of this was supposed to happen this way. It was never supposed to be this complicated.

“I don’t care if I have to bankrupt Storms End to satisfy the king, I’ll do it. I won’t let you go.” He mentioned.

You slowly and meticulously unlaced your boots— pulling them off so that you could fully relax.

“I don’t want you to piss off my grandfather, Lyonel.”

“Fuck the king.” He scoffed.

Your eyes flicked over to him as he stood in front of you, a slight scowl spreading across your face.

“Apologies, my love.” He spoke, correcting himself.

The stress of this ordeal had started to weigh on you heavily, your potential fate constantly on your mind. You needed rest— just complete silence to process your feelings, fears, and inevitable heartbreak. If only you hadn’t gone to Lyonel’s feast, then things would be different.

“I’m scared.” You mumbled.

Lyonel walked over to the bed, standing in front of you with a saddened expression.

He gently lifted your head with his finger.

“Don’t be, I will protect you from this—“

“You mean everything to me.”

He kissed you softly, his hands holding your face and melting away your worry. Everything else was merely background noise when you were with Lyonel. You couldn’t focus on anything else, nor could you be sad.

The kiss deepened, his body leaning against yours and making you lay back onto the bed.

“Lyonel.” You spoke, just short of a whine.

“Just let me take care of you.” He muttered into your mouth.

You laid back onto the bed and Lyonel dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed— his arms wrapping around your thighs as he pulled you closer.

He pushed your gown up, a groan leaving his mouth at the sight of you.

“It doesn’t take much for you to get wet.”

He put your legs over his shoulders, his tongue swiping your slit. Your fingers curled into the sheets as his tongue lapped at your clit.

“Fuck, Lyonel.” You gasped. 

His tongue rubbed against your clit with such precision, your eyes barely open from the pleasure.

Your betrothal to him had just ended—you were promised to another and shouldn’t be doing this. It was wrong, but it felt so right.

“You taste so good, my love.” He growled.

You moved your hand and had your fingers intertwined with his messy curls.

 The sensation in your stomach building.

“What would Leo say if he caught you being a whore for me? Hmm?”

You yanked his head back, the grip tight on his hair. Your chest rising and falling fast.

He looked at you and began to smirk, letting out a deep chuckle.

“I like it when you’re rough.” He taunted.

He pressed two of his fingers inside of you, distracting you.

“Look at that, how well you suck them in.”

The way he touched you, talked to you, and handled you drove you mad. No one had ever had such control over your body, but he did. He did and you hated it.

He pulled his fingers out of you, staring at them in awe as they were coated in your slick. He brought them up to your mouth.

“Suck them.” He demanded.

You complied with ease, bringing his fingers to the back of your throat with a moan as you sucked them clean.

“Good.. you are so good, my doe.” He groaned.

He started eating you out again, your back arched from the sensation. It felt amazing and you couldn’t get enough of it.

You could not imagine having to lose out on this man and pleasure for Leo Tyrell.

“Fuck!—“

“Lyonel, Lyonel.” You whined as your peak approached.

You were hardly able to keep quiet as you reached your peak, feeling completely out of your own body.

Lyonel loved to make a mess out of you, keeping you wrapped around his finger and wanting more. He stood up, licking his lips and had an accomplished grin on his face.

“Did that help you feel better?” He asked.

You rolled your eyes as you laid there and took time to collect yourself.

“I love you.” He mentioned. 

You pulled your gown down and sat up slowly. “I love you too, my stag.”

He gave you a kiss with a smirk. 

“I like when you talk to me like that.”

You laughed as he crashed back onto the bed with you.

 It was things like this that defined your relationship with him, not the big moments— but the small ones. How you hated when those moments would come to an end, how you knew that you wanted a lifetime of small moments with him. This was what you wanted, nothing more and nothing less.

You and Lyonel stared into each other’s eyes, smiles on your faces..

The sound of thunder echoed throughout your chambers as the sky continued to darken, reminding you of the night sky— but slightly warped.

Lyonel’s fingers rubbed your face, his cold rings meeting your warm skin. He touched you as if it’d be his last chance to see you.

“I will give up everything for you.” He confessed.

“I’d never ask you to do any such thing.” You replied.

“But I would… you can get drunk, participate in tourneys, and live anywhere. Should they deny us our love, all you have to do is say the word and we can leave.”

Words that would normally make you laugh otherwise, hung in the air with consideration. 

“Okay.” You acknowledged.

The two of you spent another two hours, just laying on the bed and laughing at nothing— enjoying each other’s company.  He eventually had to leave, even though you didn’t want him to.

Despite the brewing issues in the capital with the insufficient amount of meat available, the crown still thought it was a reasonable idea to throw a feast for your betrothal to Lord Tyrell. The sickness in the goats and cattle had proven to be more serious than first assumed. It spread like wildfire, contaminating livestock and making them inedible.

The capital had grown restless as they waited for a solution from the crown, but there was no real solution— not outside of being careful and waiting it out. No one had any idea where the sickness had originated and there was no cure of any sorts. They were even in talks of trading with the free cities to handle this rather growing issue.

You sat in your chambers and braided your hair, staring at yourself in the mirror. For this feast, you were wearing your own house colors— but you also pinned the small stag that Lyonel had made to your sleeve. You didn’t like the idea of standing in front of people and faking your interest or happiness. 

It made no sense.

You stared at your dress as you finished your braid. Your heart sank as you realized that if things didn’t work out, you’d no longer be wearing black and red— but green and gold. Lyonel would not mind you still wearing House Targaryen colors, but you knew that Leo would be a different story.

To calm your nerves and oncoming pain, you drank some milk of the poppy. The walk from your chambers took way longer than it should’ve, but you were in no rush and your feet hurt.

The dining hall was filled with people, the candles bright and warm, along with music playing. 

You took your seat at the table beside Lord Tyrell, his hand brushing against your thigh as you sat down.

The hall had an unusual amount of flowers present, which you could only imagine that it was supposed to be a form of symbolism. 

As time and multiple conversations lingered on, more wine was poured into your goblet and supper was served.

“I think that you shall like the reach, princess.” Lord Tyrell spoke as he cut into the meat on his plate.

“It is vast and beautiful.” He added.

“So, I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that you could get lost in its beauty.” You mentioned as you ate your carrots, trying to seem interested in the conversation.

He chewed the meat loudly, the kind of noise coming from his mouth that made you want to scream. The noise had truly begun to get under your skin.

He chuckled, gulping down some of his wine.

“That is right! The gardens there are filled with Chrysanthemums, lilies, and roses of course. Flowers that remind me of your beauty.”

Aerion snickered, causing Lord Tyrell to glance at him and making the moment even more awkward. 

Marker had a scowl on his face from Aerion’s comment, but also disgusted with the whole ordeal.

You saw Lyonel watching your every move from his table, his eyes noticing how uncomfortable you were.

Your knee jerked and hit the table as Lord Tyrell had stroked your upper thigh.

You winced in pain, getting the attention of your father.

“Are you alright, darling?” 

You nodded, rubbing your leg. “Yes, I’m fine.”

The tension at the table was noticeable to all who sat at it, except Lord Tyrell— who didn’t care and was too focused on you to notice.

People made their way to your table and congratulated your family on the match. 

“Leo, it seems that you’ll have a few babes after all!” A lord joked.

Lord Tyell and that man found his joke to be hilarious.

“That I will!—“ He spoke, looking at you.

“They say Targaryen women are wild behind closed doors, so who knows how many we’ll have.” He winked, laughing with the man.

He was truly disgusting, saying those things and talking about you like you were an object. 

His words made your stomach ache.

You had the staff fill your goblet several times over the course of the feast, hoping to dull your senses enough to forget where you were.

A lot of people had gotten up from their seats and danced around. Lord Tyrell had asked for you to dance with him, but you politely declined because of your feet.

Lyonel drank ale and watched how close Leo was to you, his veins filled with jealousy.

The only people left at your table were— Lord Tyrell, your uncle, your father, Daeron and you. Everyone else had gotten up to mingle, which you should have too.

The staff brought you a slice of raspberry and lemon pie, something you hadn’t eaten since your mother had passed. It was her favorite and you always struggled to eat it after she died.

You ate the pie and felt a sense of comfort and peace. You felt close with your mother, someone you needed now more than anything. 

Some of the filling dripped onto your chin and you grabbed the towel to wipe it, but before you could— Lord Tyrell had used his finger to wipe it off. You stared in shock as he put his finger into his mouth and sucked the filling off with a smile.

Your uncle frowned in disbelief as he saw the entire thing unfold.

“Hmm, that pie is delicious.” Lord Tyrell mumbled.

You felt stuck as if you couldn’t move afterwards. You wanted to curl up and die. He had managed to ruin such a peaceful moment for you.

You slowly pulled yourself up, your legs wobbling and tears filling your eyes.

“May I be excused?” You asked your father.

He nodded.

You took your towel, threw it down onto the table and grabbed your cane. 

Once you made it down the first steps and were walking to the doors to exit, Lyonel tried grabbing your hand.

“My love, what’s wrong?”

You yanked it away and kept walking, but your father saw interaction and he wasn’t the only person. Lord Tyrell also saw the quick interaction between the two of you, how there was more beneath the surface than just a betrothal.

Whether you and Lord Baratheon had developed deep feelings for each other, mattered not. He was going to wed you and you were going to give him an heir.

You walked down the hall and up the steps to your chambers. Your breath felt as if it were caught in your chest and the space was closing in on you. Your skin felt warm and your gown felt too tight.

Everything felt wrong and you felt uneasy. You stumbled into your chambers, slamming the door behind you.

Your fingers reached for the laces on your gown and struggled to untie them. 

Tears streamed your cheeks as you hurriedly untied your laces and pulled the fabric of your gown away from your skin. Your breaths came  in with a sense of relief, finally feeling like you could breathe.

As you leaned over your desk, you took a moment— allowing yourself to feel all of the feelings that you had been suppressing.

The door to your chambers had opened and shut, just faint enough for you to recognize.

“What happened?” Lyonel spoke, his steps coming closer to you.

Tears fell from your eyes onto the book on your desk, your hand smacking it off in a fit of rage.

“He’s a fucking pig!—“

“I have to marry him and pretend to be happy with him! A man that I will never love and who will only see me as a broodmare.” You fumed. 

Lyonel slowly walked behind you and wrapped his arms around you, the candlelight in your room casting a shadow on the opposite wall. 

“Calm down, darling.” He spoke softly into your ear.

You touched his arms as they wrapped around you in a form of protection, your anger slowly leaving your body.

“Do not allow that small man to make you feel this way. You are so much more than this anger that you feel, more than his small thoughts of you.” Lyonel reminded you.

“You are perfect, precious to me. You will never be a Tyrell—“

“Lyonel—“ you interrupted.

“Never, you hear me?” Lyonel whispered into your ear.

His warmth pressed against your body, clouded every angry and sad thought that had still swarmed your mind. Would Lyonel kill him to stop the wedding? Would you have to run away?

Lyonel’s lips grazed your ear in a teasing manner, before he started to place soft kisses along your exposed neck.

You bit your lip as your hands dropped to your side, fingers fidgeting with the fabric on your dress.

Lyonel moved his hands to your waist, his eyes glancing over your exposed back with your laces mostly untied.

“You are mine—“

“And mine only.” Lyonel groaned.

He pushed his foot in between yours, gently causing your legs to spread.

“We shouldn’t..” you mumbled, leaning forward on your desk to brace yourself.

He pulled your gown up and ripped your tights without a care. His fingers were moving to rub against your wet cunt.

“So wet already.” He teased, his finger rubbing through your folds.

“Lyonel.” You whimpered.

He rubbed your clit, your lips slightly parted.

“If you want me to stop, then just say the words.”

Moans escaped your mouth, but no words telling him to stop.

“Please—“ you whined.

His brow raised, “please what?”

Your legs wobbled, “don’t stop.” You stammered.

Lyonel pulled his hand away from your cunt as he pulled his cock from his trousers.

You gripped the edge of the desk as you felt his head rub against your slit.

He spit in his hand, rubbing his sensitive head. 

He lined himself up and slowly pushed in, stretching you.

“God’s.” You mumbled.

The stretch was intense like it was the first time, the kind of stretch that took your breath and felt good at the same time. He took his time as he gave you inch by inch, making you almost beg him to stop teasing.

He pulled you back against him, his hand wrapped around your neck as his cock snapped into you.

“He could never love and fuck you the way that I do.” He grunted.

You didn’t know what had gotten into him tonight, but whatever it was— you had enjoyed it.

He adjusted and  leaned you over the desk—pounding into you. 

“You’re so deep.” You moaned.

“If only he knew how far from innocent you are, how you liked to be fucked.” Lyonel grunted.

You reached your peak in shock, it came quicker than it ever had before. He covered your mouth as he fucked you, your moans louder than they should be.

“You’re singing so pretty for me tonight.” He chuckled.

Lyonel’s fingers pressed so deeply into your hips that you were sure he’d leave marks.

“Fuck, my love—“

“You grip me so perfectly.” 

He cock slammed into two more times, before the thrusts stopped and Lyonel’s grunts filled the air. His seed painted your walls white and left you a leaking mess.

“Fuck me, you are amazing.” He breathed as he pulled out after a moment.

He grabbed a towel and wiped you off. “I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

You shook your head, turning around to face him.

“Are you jealous? Is that why you said the things that you did?” You asked.

He hesitated as he adjusted his trousers, a smirk tugging at his lip.

“A stag jealous of a rose?—“

“Nonsense!” He joked.

He gave you a kiss and left your chambers as he’d already been away from the feast for too long. The last thing that you needed was for someone to notice his absence and come looking.

You did not bother to return to the feast, you were now tired and in no mood to pretend with Lord Tyrell. You stayed in your chambers for the rest of the night and immediately went to bed after your bath.

Following your disappearance from the feast, Lord Tyrell had arranged for breakfast in the garden. It was just you and him with extra kingsguard for you, considering tensions in flea bottom were steadily rising. Your father nor uncle could attend as they were needed in a council meeting to discuss the starving peasants.

The sun was out, high in the sky and beaming onto everything below. Though the sun was out, it wasn’t particularly warm as the wind carried a chill breeze.

You sat across from Lord Tyrell, staring at the rose bush directly behind him and waiting for it to be over.

“It’s a beautiful day outside today, Princess.” He spoke.

You nodded, adjusting in your seat as a sharp pain traveled up your leg.

“That it is.” You replied.

He sipped some of his tea, his eyes lingering on your face.

“You did not return to the feast last night, your presence was missed.”

Your brows raised at his statement as you hoped that he would not bring it up.

“I felt unwell and I was in a bit of pain, so I decided to retire to my chambers a little early.”

He nodded, his gaze shifting to something behind you.

“Princess, are you happy with our betrothal?" 

You bit the inside of your lip and faked a smile as you could not say what you really felt. 

“Of course.. of course, my lord.”

The food and fruit was brought to the table as the loud silence lingered. You put two honey cakes and a few pieces of fruit onto your plate, catching a glimpse of Lord Tyrell’s face as he looked repulsed. He looked at you like you were over eating, like you were doing something wrong.

His visible disgust made you lose your appetite and feel insecure.

He ate the food on his plate with no hesitations, a loud smacking noise filling the air every time he bit into a honey cake.

“With our wedding fastly approaching, I want to explain my expectations.”

You sat there, intrigued by what he’d say even though you did not ask. Your fingers picked at fabric on your dress as a small distraction for yourself and to hide how annoyed you were.

“I will be kind to you, I will never raise a hand to you, and I will care for you— but I will not tolerate anything other than a dutiful wife.” He mentioned.

“Make no mistake, this will not be a love match. It is my duty.”

“I understand, my lord.” You replied softly.

“When I bed you, I will spill elsewhere— until we’ve been at HighGarden for a month. I want you to have the chance to get used to your new home, before we start trying.”

Him talking of bedding you made you feel nauseous and as if this was a cruel punishment or a jape from your grandfather.

“I want us to have three children, with reasonable spacing between them of course. I care not about the sex, but at least one boy would make things easier.” He added.

“If I do not want three children?” You asked, getting his attention from his fourth honey cake.

“That would be unfortunate.” He replied.

The wind blew, bringing in a cool breeze.

“I also will not tolerate insolence from you either—“

“I do not intend to be insolent.” You replied back plainly, interrupting him.

“Do not interrupt me, girl!” He scolded.

Your face began to scowl instantly at his remark. You already were not fond of him and found him to be a disappointing stain on his house, but his rudeness was unnecessary.

“I’ve heard about this punishment that you received, unfortunate but perhaps necessary—“

“Your relationship with Lord Baratheon, whatever it is— will cease.”

Your brows furrowed as you feigned ignorance and gritted your teeth.

“I was merely only betrothed to Lord Baratheon, we had no relationship outside of that. I hardly spoke with him, my lord.”

He scoffed, sucking his fat fingers to taste the honey.

“I saw the two of you in the dining hall and whatever that was. There will be no more of it.”

“My lord, that was only—“

“I will not have a whore for a wife!” He snapped.

You stood up from your chair faster than you ever had before.

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

You didn’t even wait for a response from him before you walked off. You were not perfect nor had you ever tried to be, but you did not deserve to be talked to this way.

You did not know Lord Tyrell well, but you had never heard that he was cruel. 

Baelor and Maekar sat in Baelor’s solar, recovering from the boring and frustrating council meeting. There was still no viable alternative to shortage of meat and the free cities had not responded yet. 

Maekar sat down in the chair with a loud sigh.

“This place has caused me more stress than my own children possibly could.” 

Baelor sat down at his desk, his energy was low as the whole thing had been a tiring situation. Between the shortage, your betrothal, the king's concerns— he was worn thin.

“I see Lord Baratheon is still present in the city.” Maekar spoke.

Baelor’s fingers fidgeted with his rings.

“I suppose he’s still here to show support for the upcoming wedding, along with the other noble houses.”

Maekar scoffed, grabbing some nuts from the bowl beside him.

“Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not being daft. Their betrothal is over and he would have no other reason to be present other than support.” Baelor responded.

Maekar rolled his eyes, a huff of air leaving his mouth.

“He’s still here because he loves her, don’t deny what your eyes have allowed you to see.”

Baelor leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on Maekar and his words.

“Well, that no longer matters. Does it?—“

“She is to wed Leo Tyrell.”

“He is a disgrace of a man, I find him repulsive quite frankly.” Maekar mentioned.

“It’s a wonderful thing that you’re not being wed to him then, brother.” Baelor reminded him.

Maekar began to frown at his remark as it did indeed rub him the wrong way.

“Let her marry Lord Baratheon and let that be the end of it. He’s less likely to be a pain in the crowns arse anyway.”

Baelor sighed in annoyance.

“It is not up to me and you know that. Father isn’t happy about the rumors and neither am I.”

“Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about rumors if he didn’t punish her for something so minor— that caused the rumors.” Maekar pointed out.

“There’d be no punishment, if she’d just listened.” Baelor gritted.

Maekar chewed on the nuts in his hand.

“Seven hells, who cares if she fucked him? They were going to be wed.”

Baelor’s eyes flicked up at Maekar. 

“Now, they’re not and that would present a problem— if that were the case. No lord would want her in that condition.”

“When were her age, we had fucked our way through the street of silk.” Maekar added.

Baelor’s lips were pursed as he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“We did, but she is a woman.”

The hours had passed by and you sat in your chambers. Your fingers idle, your mind filled with thoughts and questions.

The way that Lord Tyrell had talked to you was embarrassing and just more hurtful than you cared to admit. You knew that the men could be awful as you’d heard tales, but you’d never experienced such brutality in person. 

The servants and Maester came into your room. The servants prepared a bath while the Maester changed your bandages.

“The wounds have a long way to go, but they are looking better than they did yesterday.” The Maester spoke.

You nodded.

“Thank you for helping me.”

He finished wrapping the bandage on your right foot.

“It is my job, princess. I imagine I would no longer be a Maester, if I did not help you.” He chuckled.

His reply made you smile as you could appreciate his honesty. Being a princess meant that everyone always walked on eggshells around you and your family, very seldom were they bold enough to just talk plainly.

“I must also admit, Princess— though the wounds cause you great pain, we will have to lessen the amount of milk of the poppy that you consume. It is not healthy for prolonged use.” He mentioned.

“Oh.” You muttered.

In your mind, you weren’t consuming that much milk of the poppy. It almost felt like you hadn’t had enough lately. Most days you had to try ignoring the pain.

He finished tending to your wounds, leaving you more milk of the poppy— but only a small amount.

You got undressed and took your bath—trying to relax. While you sat there in peace with your eyes closed, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.” You spoke.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Lyonel standing in front of you with a grin on his face.

“I’m not interrupting, am I ?”

You shook your head, your wet hair clinging to your chest as the ends floated in the water.

“I hadn’t had the chance to see you today. I wanted to come check on you.” He admitted.

You smiled. 

“I have not done much, other than have an awful breakfast with Leo.”

He walked closer to the tub, his hands behind his back and worry on his face.

“Oh?”

You wiped your face.

“He called me a whore.”

The grimace of Lyonel’s face was unlike any expression that you had seen before.

“That’s not funny.” He replied.

You adjusted in the tub, leaning on your side and facing Lyonel.

“He said that he would not have a whore for a wife.”

“Hmm.” He grunted in response. You could see his face twitch when you repeated what he had said.

“I have somewhere that I’d like to take you tonight.. if you don’t mind sneaking out.” He smiled, kneeling beside the tub.

“Lyonel, I cannot get into any more trouble.” 

He pushed your hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear.

“No one will ever know, we’ll be dressed differently.”

Your brow raised in intrigue and a bit of confusion.

“Dressed differently?”

He showed you the clothes that he had held behind his back. They were not the kind of clothes that a noble

would wear, but the clothes of peasants.

“Dressed like a peasant?” You asked.

He nodded and you could tell this was a terrible idea, but you were interested in where he’d take you.

You finished up your bath, dried off, and got dressed. Lyonel helped you hide your silver locks in the hat that he brought you.

The two of you held hands as you snuck out of the keep and into the night.

Your heart raced as the two of you walked around. The night sky was clear and bright, no wind or sound of insects. It was just quiet.

“Where are we going?” You laughed.

He glanced at you with a smirk as he held your hand and continued walking.

The two of you had managed to make your way onto the street of silk, a road that you had never been on before. You had heard tales, but never anything in great detail.

The street was lively with beggars, whores, puppeteers, and regular commonfolk. You didn’t bother to ask Lyonel where he was taking you again, but you knew that it probably was somewhere you shouldn’t be.

As you walked a woman on the sidewalk inhaled fire and spit it back out like a dragon, the crowd and yourself in awe.

An elderly woman sat at a table, she called your name as if she knew you. It caught the attention of both of you and made you stop.

“Let me see your future, girl.” She spoke, her voice deep and raspy.

You glanced up at Lyonel and he shrugged his shoulders.

You walked over to the woman’s table as she just creepily stared at you. She tapped the table and signaled for you to give her your hand.

Her gnarled fingers traced your palms, her eyes closed and only the people walking around provided sound.

Lyonel watched as you waited for the woman to say something, he was surprised that you’d believe such nonsense.

The woman started to laugh and dug her nail into your palm.

You yanked your hand back with a wince, Lyonel ready to stab the woman with his dagger.

“I’ve seen your future girl..”

“A plague will befall House Targaryen and only few will remain, including yourself. The throne might pass through you, if your inevitable madness does not prevail.”

Her words started to cling to you and worry you, even though you couldn’t understand why.

“Kiss your brothers and hug them tight, for they do not have long—“

“Your uncle will become a kinslayer and the man beside you will have a hand in it.”

“Stop.” You spoke, your eyes beginning to water at her awful words.

Lyonel had a frown on his face as he did not like what she was insinuating nor did he like that she was upsetting you.

“Fuck off, witch.”

“That I may be, but I only speak the truth.” She teased.

“She will give her husband six babes, but he will have seven.” She added.

Lyonel grabbed your hand and pulled you away as he didn’t want her words to affect you and take root, but it was too late.

“Do not believe that madwoman, my love.” He whispered to you.

You wiped your eyes, an uneasy feeling in your stomach. 

“I don’t.”

You continued walking with Lyonel, your eyes watching all of the things around you.

He brought you to a building— purple, velvet drapes hanging at the door.

“This is where the fun begins.” He laughed.

When you walked into the building— you were met with the faint sound of music being played, but the biggest shock was people were nude and moaning.

You tugged at Lyonel’s hand.

“Lyonel! What are we—“

He grabbed a goblet of wine from the nude woman’s tray and handed it to you. “Drink up.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, but he was serious. You started drinking the wine and saw two people having sex against the wall near you.

You had no business being in a whore house with Lyonel or in general. Being in there made you feel gross and made you wonder what Lyonel truly thought of you.

You handed the goblet to Lyonel as he dragged you to the end of the hall and stopped in front of the last room on the left.

He turned to you.

“I need you to be quiet, but I want you to peek through the curtains and tell me what you see.”

“What?” You questioned with mild annoyance.

“Just do it, my love.” He answered.

You leaned forward, sighing and closing one of your eyes to properly peek through the slit of the curtains.

You didn’t see anything at first, you just heard the moans of a man who was getting his cock sucked.

Then he moved his head and it was Lord Tyrell. Your eyes widened, but you weren’t surprised that he would do that. Of course he’d hold the views he does and then sleep with whores.

It wasn’t until you heard a voice, that you questioned your eyes and what you saw.

“I’m back, my rose.”

Lord Tyrell smiled with glee as the naked man approached him.

You gasped and Lyonel covered your mouth. 

“Shh.”

You watched as Lord Tyrell happily embraced the man with a deep kiss, before he started sucking the man’s cock. The woman sucking Lord Tyrell’s cock moved her head, but it was no woman— it was a man.

You felt as if your eyes were going to bulge out of your head.

Was this why he was so old with no wife and children? He was only into men? Is that why he said your marriage would be no love match?

You stormed out of the building in front of Lyonel, unable to understand what your eyes showed you.

“What the fuck?” You yelled.

“I needed you to see it with your own eyes.” Lyonel spoke, grabbing your hand.

“Does my father know?” You questioned.

Lyonel shrugged. “I doubt that they have heard the faint rumors that circled about him. They would never allow such a marriage to happen.”

You were more confused than ever and just needed time to process.

“I will be informing the king of such information and I’m sure they’ll send their spies to verify the rumor, before ending the betrothal.” Lyonel pointed out.

You held his hand and walked with him to your chambers in silence. You finally reached your door, hesitating to go in.

“I will see you tomorrow after I speak with the king.” 

You nodded, pressing a kiss to his lips before entering your room.

When you were in your room and fully alone, you sobbed into your hands. Your life had become one big jape and you seemed to be the only one who did not find it humorous.

You pulled off the peasant clothes and climbed into bed. It didn’t take long for you to drift off, the wine playing a major role.

The sun shined into your room, but there was quite a bit of commotion outside the keep and in the hallway.

Your door flung open, your father hurrying to your bed. He shook you, calling your name and trying to wake you.

You jumped awake, frightened from your father being there along with the kingsguard.

“No.. no.” You mumbled under your breath, you did not want to get in trouble again.

“Daughter, snap out of it!” Baelor spoke.

He covered you up when he realized you were only in your shift and had the guard turn their backs.

“Get dressed! We must go now!”

“Father? What is going on?” You stammered.

“The smallfolk have revolted, there was a riot in Fleabottom last night. We have had to shut the gates to the city.” Your father mentioned.

You were shocked, too stunned to speak.

Baelor looked at you as if he was going to regret what he told you.

“In the riot last night, people were injured—“

“Lord Tyrell is dead.” He admitted.

Your face dropped, “what?”

Baelor sighed, taking a moment before telling you the rest.

“Along with Leo, there were other nobles hurt. A few of the Tyrell and Baratheon bannermen were killed.. “

“We have not been able to find Lord Baratheon, yet.” He added.

His words had become hazy as your ears rung and your heart dropped.

You began to cry.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

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“My Prince?” 

Maekar looked up from his brooding to see you gazing at him expectantly. Daeron was seated beside you, smirking at his father. He was seated very close to you. Maekar ignored the way it tweaked him. You were only a few years older than his oldest, why were you not marrying him?

“Father? Your sweet lady has asked you a question.” Daeron’s words made a smile spread across your cheeks. 

You had a lovely smile. Very irritating. 

Maekar tried to recall what you’d asked him. Something about the gardens? Maybe he only thought that because you were in the garden. You must have recognized his distress:

“My Prince, I was only asking about what you were doing in the training yard this morning, you seem so strong.” 

You had one brow raised, a smirk on your face telling him you knew he wasn't paying attention. Daeron hid his laughter in his cup- a cup Maekar was sure had no tea inside. 

Maekar huffed. 

“I- I am-” Maekar was not used to stuttering out answers to pretty girls, it was not a feeling he enjoyed. 

“Father must keep his training tight, what with his old age and all.” Daeron joked. Maekar knew his son was only pushing him because he could not retaliate in front of you. Any other guest, the Anvil would have had no problem correcting the boy- but there was marital propriety to think of. A red hot anger surged through him as you let out a surprised chirp of a laugh. Quickly, you slapped your hand over your mouth. 

“My apologies, my Prince.” 

Your face looked like you might genuinely meant it, but he was bitter all the same. What was Daeron even doing there? You’d asked Maekar to tea, a grin on your lips when he’d nodded an affirmative. He’d put on a show of acting nonchalant, arms crossed over his broad chest and a petulant look on his brow. Deep down, so deep he could easily pretend it wasn’t there, a part of him was pleased. It had been a long time since a pretty young woman had looked at him without apprehension, without trepidation; the delight on your face was enough for him to don a nicer cloak and press his hair flat. Then he’d arrived to find Daeron reclined in what should have been his seat beside you. 

Maekar gave you a curt nod at your concession. 

“There is no apology needed, my lady.” He started gruffly. He turned to his son. 

“I did not know you were joining us this afternoon, it's a pity I did not see you in the yard.” It wasn’t a question, but the boy knew his father enough to know what he was saying. The bite in his voice was enough, even without the snide comment. Daeron took a moment to respond, leaning back in his chair- and leaning a little bit closer to you.

“Oh, I was taking a stroll through the gardens when I stumbled upon our lovely lady here, and she asked if I’d like to join the two of you. How could I say no to such a pretty face,” the boy gestured to you, “and as we waited for you to meet us, we’ve become quite close you see.” He punctuated the answer by wrapping his arm around the back of your chair. You laughed softly at him. 

“Oh yes my Prince, I know I’d said this would be the two of us, but I could not resist your son’s charm.” 

Maekar’s eyes saw red when you gently placed a hand on Daeron’s forearm. He stood abruptly, giving you a curt bow before turning and storming off. Your giggles mixing with his son’s only added to his fury. 

It was not until many hours later when the older Prince realized you’d complimented his strength as you teased him. 

After that, he thought of little else. 

*****

 The Anvil had assumed that would be the worst of it, but the torment was only beginning. Time and time again, he went to seek you out, and there Daeron was, arm in yours, whispering, making you laugh. 

Once, Maekar had gone to request you to go riding with him. All morning he’d worked himself up on whether to even ask. How ridiculous he’d felt, torn up over some girl. Only you weren't just some girl, you were exquisite and charming and his, or very soon would be. Finally, he’d come to the conclusion that he was a prince, and any lady would be honored with the invitation. He’d stomped to the stables, shoulders back, certain in himself, before stumbling upon you and his son. It was immediately evident that the two of you had just been out, horses whinying softly as the two of you brushed the dust from your clothes. Oh, the embarrassment of standing in the archway, as you looked up and asked him if he was going out. 

Another day, Maekar had gone to the library to find a book, something to reference for the next council meeting. He’d been looking forward to a moment of silence, hiding away where no one would ask him stupid fucking questions. Instead of tranquility, he instead found you and Daeron attempting to teach Aegon to waltz. His jaw had fallen open (an uncommon sight) as you attempted to lead the boy around the dim room. 

“One, two, three, one, two, three, close! With a little more conviction now, Egg.” You laughed as the little Prince attempted to spin you. 

“Here, Egg, let me show you.” 

Daeron had stepped in, wrapping an arm around your waist and lifting you to spin you around. Your startled giggle would have been music to Maekar’s ears had it been instigated by literally anything else. Aegon laughed as his brother twirled you, before the young boy caught sight of the older man. 

“Father!” 

The spinning abruptly stopped as the pair of you noticed Maekar at the door. You stepped away from Daeron- not far enough for Maekar’s liking- and gave him a curtsey. 

“Father! Your sweet lady and I were just teaching Egg to dance. She is a lovely dancer, is she not?” 

It would be a lie to say that Maekar hadn’t spent an exorbitant amount of time watching you dance at feasts. The gentleness in which you moved, the grace of your hands, the sureness of your steps, every bit the lady he knew you were trained to be. He’d yet to stand up with you, hard reputation outweighing the urge to take you in his arms. You’d grinned at Daeron’s comment, turning from him to face the older man and extending a hand. 

“My Prince, won’t you dance with me?” 

Your plea had led to one of the most awkward waltzes of Maekar’s life. The room was silent, as your laughter had been the only music. He held you far from his body, avoiding pressing your soft body to his chest. He was painfully hard. It didn’t help that each time he turned you, he caught sight of his sons over your head, sly grins on each of their faces; so like his own in his youth. 

Maekar truly lost it one evening when he spied the two of you whispering closely, giggling softly to one another. You were so enraptured with one another that you didn’t see the older Prince. You sat close, backs to the Anvil as Daeron bent low to speak to you. A soft summer breeze fluttered through the courtyard, whipping your hair around your face. Maekar had to look away when his son reached out and pushed a strand behind your ear. He stormed off, unable to watch another moment, lest he throttle his boy. Had he stayed, crept closer, he may have heard your voice on the wind.

“Daeron, I don’t understand, he won’t budge. He hasn’t fallen for anything! Do you think he dislikes me? Maybe he thinks I'm not pretty enough, or not clever enough?” 

Your debate had been going on for weeks. As you and the young Prince had grown closer, you’d confided in him your desire for a happy marriage. He hadn’t lied, admitting that his father was a difficult man. While the older man had yet to cave to your charms, the younger had become a close confidant. He shook his head, laughing at your comment.

“You must be joking. I have never seen any man fight his inner urges harder than my father. I fear you’ve bewitched him.” He poked your side in emphasis. You playfully slapped his hand away. 

“How silly I am, that I pray to the gods that my husband might like me.” 

Daeron sighed. 

“Have you considered for a moment that he might think you’re too lovely for him? He’s not used to seeing such perfection, maybe it frightens him.” The Prince joked. You rolled your eyes at his teasing. 

“I doubt your father is frightened of anything.” 

“Nothing but pretty young girls.” 

Another smile spread across your face. 

“Yes, the Anvil, who rides into battle swinging a mace without a second thought, is scared of me.” 

Daeron nodded, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and giving you a squeeze.

“Don’t fret, my friend. If I was betting man, I’d say he was off touching himself to the thought of his pretty lady right now.” 

That earned him a smack in the chest as the two of you burst into laughter. 

*****

Maekar fisted his thick cock in hand. 

He’d been at it for an hour, furiously trying to jerk himself to completion. Thoughts of your face, your hands, the curve of your waist and the swell of your breasts filled his mind. The sound of your laugh, the lilt of your voice, the smirk you gave him when you teased, it was almost too much to bear. 

Despite the angry red head of his manhood, the hard grip, and the rapid speed in which he tugged himself, he couldn’t find orgasam. Each time he came close, picturing you on your back, on your knees, your hands wrapped around him instead of his own, a wave of shame washed over him. To think of you in such a way felt akin to committing a grave sin. 

Each night, since the first night you met, he’d lay back in his silken sheets, naked and wanting as he pulled on his cock until finally releasing to the thought of the sound of your whines or how tight your cunt would wrap around him. It was shameful, really, how desperately he wanted to hold you, kiss you, fill you with his seed. 

What did you taste like? He needed to know more than he needed to breathe, but the wedding was still weeks away. What if you didn’t want his touch? He needed you so badly, but could not even think of hurting you without angering himself. 

Dribbles of precome leaked from the fat tip as he continued to slide his hand back and forth. Would you want him to kiss you? Maybe, and you had the perfect lips for kissing. Or maybe you imagined kissing younger lords, nearer your age, men like Daeron. He shuddered at the thought. No, in his mind, you would take his face in your soft hands and kiss him tenderly, running your fingers through his hair, down his chest. 

He reached down with his other hand, cupping his heavy balls to the thought of you smiling as you pulled your lips from his. How desperately he wanted to kiss your neck, down your sternum. What shade were your nipples? He could hardly sleep, he thought about it so fervently. 

Maekar bit into his bottom lip to stifle a groan. How unbecoming, an old prince, trained in the ways of court and battle, moaning like a teenager to the thought of a pretty lady. It didn’t stop him from continuing in his fantasies. He rubbed his thumb across the slit, picturing your hand replacing his. Would he have to show you how? A dark, red-hot part of his soul- the dragon in him- roared at the thought of you knowing how to touch a cock. 

No, you were a proper lady, he’d need to show you. Wrap his large hand around your smaller one as you stroked him. He let out a choked whine when he realized that your fingers probably couldn’t wrap all the way around him. He’d let you touch him, explore him, as you learned the ways of pleasure. 

And you would know no pleasure like his tongue. How he yearned to thrust it into your heat, lapping up your juices as you dripped wantonly for him. 

Maekar came with a whine of your name as he pictured you arching off the bed- his bed- when he’d suck your clit into his mouth. Hot come splattered against his bare stomach, the white of his spend mixing with the white of his body hair. 

The Prince sighed, already ashamed of his thoughts, and the mess he’d made. Slowly, he pulled himself from bed, groaning as his joints ached from the movement. He wiped his come from his stomach, taking care not to spill it on the floor, before laying back down and pulling the downy blankets around himself. 

The next morning, he would have to face you, look you in the eye and speak to you like he hadn’t thought about giving you a babe the night before. His frown deepened at the thought, and he knew he would get little sleep that night. Mind stuck on his future bride.

*****

Maekar could feel you watching him. He remained focused on his work, or at least pretended to be. Couldn’t give you the satisfaction of knowing he was interested in what you were doing there. You stood in the doorway of his study, leaning against the frame and following him with your gaze. You’d been there several minutes, silent for once, and he refused to be the one to break the tension. 

Dinner had been a difficult affair. You’d sat beside him, a gown of black silk wrapped snug around your body and cut low enough that had he tried, he could have seen right down the front. It took everything in him to keep his eyes on your face, though it didn’t entice him any less. You had been so alluring, tempting him with your soft smiles and gentle touches. In fact, you’d spent most of the night with your hand resting on his forearm as you talked to him. He’d purposefully sat Daeron on the opposite end of the table, and he relished your undivided attention on himself. You were no less teasing without your friend, but he was secretly pleased to let you lavish him with attention. So enraptured by you, Maekar managed to miss the many looks you and the young Prince passed to one another, a sly wink in your direction when Daeron caught you pressing your fingers to the older man’s bicep.

You’d gone off to bed, or so Maekar had thought, and he’d attempted to get some correspondence done while his mind still reeled. 

Finally, his resolve broke:

“Why are you staring? You should be in bed, girl.” 

You let out a breathy laugh at his gruff tone. 

“I can’t help it, my future husband is certainly very handsome, you cannot blame me for my gawking.” 

Maekar rolled his lavender eyes at what he assumed was a jest, though when he finally bet your stare, you seemed to be telling the truth. You had your bottom lip between your teeth and an earnest look on your face that the Prince almost thought might be bashfulness. Heat crept up his chest to his neck, a warm redness spreading and exposing his thoughts. You moved closer, stepping softly until you reached the edge of his desk. He tried to hide his surprise as you hopped up to sit, glancing over at his papers scattered over the surface.

“What are you doing?” You asked, a hint of a laugh in your voice as you slide one bare foot across the outside of his thigh. Maekar grabbed your ankle, not hard enough to hurt, but enough that you let out a surprised little whimper. A sound that went straight to the Prince’s cock.

It was in that moment, hand pressed to such an intimate part of your body, when it dawned on Maekar that you were in a nightgown. A thin, gauzy, scrap of a thing, a bluish-white, almost translucent in the dim glow of candlelight. If he’d looked harder, he would have seen the tautness in your nipples and the dark patch between your thighs through the gossamer. His mind spun in bitter jealousy at the idea of any man, guard or knight, lord or servant, happening past you and catching you in such a state of undress as you came to see him. 

“What the fuck are you on about, little lady?” Maekar started, “Coming in here, touching me, tempting me, basically naked. Why are you here, and not off searching for my oldest son?” 

The words came out before he could think, and his chest clenched at the crestfallen look of confusion written across your features.

“My Prince, I certainly don’t know what you're talking about. Why would I seek Daeron out? I’m in nothing but my nightgown, as you said.” You replied, tilting your head in question. 

Maekar was growing angrier by the moment. He rose abruptly to address you again, hands coming down on either side of your hips on the desk as he loomed over you. You leaned back to accommodate him, meeting his gaze. 

“Don’t think I don’t see it, girl. The way he stares at you, whispers to you, and you let him. He wants you, badly, and it only makes sense that you want him.” The Prince spat, teeth bared and brown knit together. 

You burst out laughing.

He did not take it well.

Maekar’s large hand shot out, gripping your ching to stop you from shaking in giggles as he looked into your eyes.

“You think this is all funny, don't you? The two of you laugh at the thought of an old man like me lusting after the sweet little lady, is that it? Assume I won't be able to keep up, and he can have you once we're wed?” The Prince was seething now, working himself up in a fervor as the weeks of insecurity spilled out of his mouth. It finally dawned on you, the strange, harsh way he acted, the awkwardness, the cold. Had the Anvil believed you to be disinterested in him? Gently, you wrapped your hands around the wrist holding your face, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm. 

“Maekar, listen please. Since the moment I came to Summerhall, I have had eyes for only one Prince. One who has invaded my every thought. I am glad to have found a friend in Daeron, though I have no doubt he is tired of my pining.” 

The older Prince gave you a confused look. You moved to take his face in your hands, rubbing your thumb against his old pox scars.

“Why would I want him, I have you all to myself. My husband.” 

Maekar didn’t correct you. Didn't say that he would not be your husband for a few weeks yet. Didn’t accuse you of lying about your feelings for his eldest boy. 

Instead, he kissed you. 

Maekar leaned down, pressing his chapped lips to your soft ones. You let out a surprised whine at the feeling, gripping his face clumsily and digging your fingers into the silvery hair of his beard. His arms moved around you, bracketing you tightly against his chest and tilting your head back for a better angle. You felt the wetness of his tongue lick across the seam of your mouth, and he pressed it inside when you let out a surprised yelp. He groaned at the heat of you, sliding his tongue against yours and back behind your teeth. Your arms came around his shoulders to hold on as he pulled you closer, lifting your bottom off the hard wood to gain better access to your mouth. A whimper left you as one of his large hands cupped your ass, squeezing the cheek and pressing your core against the heat of him. 

The Prince laid you down on your back across the desk, continuing his intrusion past your lips. Your hands were gripping the leather across his back, his muscles ripping as one hand gripped the outside of your thigh. His other hand slid up between you to your chest, cupping your breast through the thin fabric and rubbing his thumb against your nipple. You whined, head falling back and lips finally pulling from his. A thin web of spit connected you to him as you stared up into his lavender eyes; a look in them you did not recognize but immediately realized was lust. 

The two of you panted softly, Maekar could feel your breath on his mouth. 

“Is it always like that?” 

Maekar looked at you in confusion. 

“Kisses, will they always be this way?” you explained. The Prince’s heart gripped at your sweet question. His lips quirked up, not quite a smile but without their usual harshness.

“If you wish, my lady.” 

He cupped your face in his large hand, tracing your features with a feather-light touch; one that seemed impossible for a man of his countenance. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, then moved to press a kiss to the base of your throat. You let out a squeak, heat flushing to the wetness already slicking your thighs. Maekar moved lower, kissing the swell of your breast over your heart before kissing the nipple below it. He couldn’t help himself from giving the tight peak a gentle nip, relishing in the way your hips canted up against his pelvis. 

Maekar continued to move lower, pressing kisses to your body over your nightgown as he gripped the hem. Slowly, he pulled the fabric up past your knees, your thighs, until it settled around your hips and your cunt was bare to him. He leaned back, noting the wetness collecting on your folds and the downy hair that surrounded it. 

You had never felt so exposed in your life, but you had also never been so aroused. One of his hands came to lay across your inner thigh, spreading your legs ever further for him, while the other he reached to his mouth to dip his thumb past his lips. He then pressed the thumb against your clit, gently circling the nub. You cried out, a broken sigh of his name as you wiggled against the desk.

He took a knee, grabbing your hips and tugging you closer, throwing your legs over his wide shoulders. You pushed up on your elbows to get a better look at him. 

“I don’t understand, my Septa said- is this what men like?” 

Maekar looked up at you from between your legs, brow furrowed. 

“It is of little consequence what other men like. Now quiet girl, while I taste you.” 

Before you could give him a response, he licked a wide stripe up your warm pussy. You shuddered, and his grip tightened to hold you as he let out a growl at your taste. He continued his onslaught, licking against your core and dipping his tongue into your opening. The sounds you released were better than any music he;d ever heard, rivaling only your laugh in melody. He finally took your clit between his lips, sucking on the bundle of nerves as you ground your hips against his face. His silver beard was slick with you, and he savored the notion that he may smell you on him after. Maekar knew he’d have you here every day if he could. Legs spread for him, wet painting his face as he fucked into you with his tongue. 

Makear dug his sharp nose against you, rubbing it against your clit when you gripped his hair. So perfect you were, better than he could have ever hoped. You tasted sweeter, whined prettier, and held him tighter than he’d imagined in his darkest fantasies. 

Your eyes rolled back as he drilled his tongue inside you, licking up into your heat and curling against your wetness. 

“Oh my gods, Maekar. Please, more, I need-” 

You were cut off by your own shriek of his name as he pressed his long fingers to your clit, moving in tandem with his tongue. Sparks flew across your vision, mouth falling open in a moan. You gripped him tighter as you rode out your high, moving your hips against his face to seek every last drop of pleasure. He readily complied, sucking at your flesh and laving his tongue through the excess wetness dribbling from your cunt. He felt your thighs squeeze around his head, before relaxing as you came down. 

The Prince continued to move his tongue, kitten-licking your folds and cleaning your juices. You gently tugged on his hair, pushing his head away at the stimulation. He leaned against your thigh, turning his head to press a kiss to the softness there, eyes squeezed shut. 

There was no escaping the wrongness of what he’d done. Touching you before you were wed, pulling sounds meant only for a husband from your lips. It did not matter. He was to be your husband. Soon, you would belong to him, and he was quickly realizing just how much he already belonged to you. 

“My lady, forgive me.” Maekar said at last, a weak attempt to regain some sort of morality. His resolve gave way with a shudder as you carded your fingers though his soft hair. 

“Whatever for?” You asked, a slight wobble in your voice. 

The Prince sighed, reluctantly lifting himself off of you and sitting down in his chair with a groan. You sat up slowly, brows raised in a look of utter dismay that Maekar immediately didn’t like seeing. He leaned forward and took one of your hands in his. 

“My lady, I cannot- I have defiled you in a way that cannot be excused. You must know that I am not one to easily bend to my own depravity.” He was back to his usual seriousness, eyes hard as he tried to convey his own strength of mind. 

You let out an astonished laugh. 

“My Prince, do you think you have tricked me so?” You stood, nightgown falling back into place as you swayed on your weak legs, falling forward into his lap. He pulled you close, your chest pressed against his and your lips inches apart. 

“You think I do not want this? That I have not tried to tempt you at every turn? Why do you think I found you tonight, to talk about your son?” 

He growled at the mention of the boy, gripping your waist tighter. 

“Do not mention my son when I still have the taste of you in my mouth.” Maekar growled out. 

You smiled, pressing a chaste kiss to his pouting lips before tucking your head against his neck. 

“Don’t let me interrupt your work, my Prince, I am quite content to sit silently and watch.” 

Maekar rolled his eyes, despite the hardness in his trousers at the feeling of your lips on his throat. He pulled you up closer to his body, reaching out to take up his quill once more. 

“I do not believe you’ve sat silently for anything in your life, girl.” 

He was rewarded with the soft sound of your laughter against his ear. The older Prince realized that he could easily wait for the wedding to wet his cock in you, if this was the arrangement. 

You have always drawn eyes.

Beautiful, intelligent, the perfect lady. You were admired by commonfolk and nobles alike for your amicability and wit. Your lord father was a loyal ally to the great House Targaryen and a valiant support during the Blackfyre Rebellion, not to mention a loud and magnetic personality. His parties and tourneys drew thousands from across Westeros—even luring nobles and merchants alike from across the Narrow Sea.

Similar has happened today as you watch with bated breath, your ringed fingers interlinked upon your lap, as a pair of lordlings clash in a flurry of splintered wood from your position in your noble pavilion. Your father roars his approval, cheering loudly as one poor knight topples from his horse, a jagged shard of lance protruding from a joint near his shoulder in his plated armour. You can’t help but cup your hand to your mouth, watching as the poor felled knight is dragged from the tiltyard.

Your lord father takes a deep sip from his goblet, resplendent in the midday sun. He is draped in the colours of your House, as are you, with jewels strung around your neck and wrists, decorated like a shrine. He turns to you, wine still glossy on his lips as he eyes your uneasy expression which does little to match the glittering of your jewellery. You’re now fidgeting with a wreath of flowers, an intricately woven ring of heartseases, carnations and lilies, finished with ribbons of your House’s colours.

“What is troubling you, my dear?” Your father asks, reaching across to place a gentle hand atop your own, the metal of his rings cool against your knuckles.

You exhale and then give him a meek smile. “Nothing, father. I apologise—”

“You are my daughter. Do you believe I do not know when you are lying?” Your father interrupts, giving you a pointed look.

Embarrassment claws within your chest as you drown out the cheers from the large crowd beyond the pavilion, realising that there are likely to be dozens of eyes glued to you. You calm yourself, ensuring your face remains as passive as possible, but you can feel the slightest tremble in your lower lip.

“I—what if I do not wish to give my favour away?” You say, fingers brushing the beautiful wreath in your lap. “I see no point in—”

Your father interrupts you again with a smooth and rather diplomatic confidence you’re sure he uses with everyone he speaks to. It usually gets him what he wants, and paired with the irreverent glimmer in his eyes, you realise why he and Lyonel Baratheon get along so well.

“Do not view this as giving your favour away,” he says carefully, drumming his fingers against your hand as he speaks. “View it as lending your favour to a poor, desperate lad who wishes to impress you. You are helping the needy, which all ladies care to do, do they not?”

You can’t help but scoff, your father battering his eyelashes in an attempt to make you smile with his humoured tone.

“These men are not needy. They are knights,” you reply.

“Ah, but they are still men,” your father utters, withdrawing his hand to pick up his goblet and take another drink. He tips his goblet in your direction before he drinks. “And all men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.”

You mull over your father’s words for a while as he gets to his feet and shuffles towards the entrance to the pavilion. You hear him speaking to someone, you hear the thunderous cacophony of the crowd, the stamping of hooves, the blaring of bugles. And you’re not sure how much time passes before you hear a beckoning call of your name. You look to your side, placing your flowered wreath upon an adjacent pedestal, and see that your father is welcoming a pair of men into your pavilion dressed in black and red.

Your heart stammers in your chest as you hurry to your feet, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen appraising you as you drop into a perfected curtsy.

“Seven blessings,” you utter, tone light and airy, your flower-sweet perfume lingering around you as you dip.

Your father introduces you, a beaming smile split across his face, both by name and a proud declaration, “my little dove, my pride and joy.”

Humour sparkles in Baelor’s eyes as he turns back to your father, settling onto a chair on his other side. “You have sons, do you not?”

Your father lets out an annoyed puff at the mention of his sons, then shakes his head as he sinks back into his own seat, Maekar settling with a grunt on the other side of his brother. “My sons are… spirited. My daughter, however, is perfect.”

Something like relatability crosses across Maekar’s face, the subtle hint of a smile as warmth grows in your chest. He’s put you on a pedestal with his praise, and now you can feel even more eyes on you as you settle back into your seat.

—✿—

Across the tiltyard, Aerion Targaryen watches you from the flap of his tent as servants and smiths attend to his intricately plated armour. His violet eyes trace the lines of your face from afar, the curves of your body beneath your dress and skirts as you sit, mostly obscured by the low walls of the raised pavilion. He watches the way you join politely into conversation with your father, his uncle and his father, and he can imagine that you’re saying all the right things. That pretty little mouth of yours would say all the right things, wouldn’t it? Would it plead and beg sweetly too?

“My prince,” some kind of servant says hesitantly as he approaches, cloaked in the colours of your noble House. “Your mount is ready.”

Aerion acknowledges him for the briefest of moments with a bored look, before his eyes find you once more. Your father and Baelor are laughing at something you’ve said, and you dip your head like the polite lady you are to hide most of your smile. He sees, too, the cute little wreath you are now toying with, and he realises, with something sick and sharp building in his gut, that it would look perfect around his lance.

With purpose, the prince strides away from his tent, finding his steed at the edge of the tiltyard. Servants help him into the saddle, before he’s securing his feet into the stirrups and urging his warhorse forward through the sawdust-thickened mud of the tourney grounds. Another knight, already arranged against him at the ruling of your father—“It is my tourney, in honour of my nameday, so I can do as I please,” the lord had announced—canters towards the pavilion.

Aerion pulls his horse to a stop as he watches with narrowed eyes as the knight—a knight from somewhere in the Reach, he thinks he remembers—requests your favour. Or at least, Aerion assumes he does, for he cannot hear anything over the angry rush of blood in his ears as jealousy rips raw through his chest.

You bow your head and rise to the edge of the pavilion, and gods, you look a dream—the material of your skirts flowing around you as you dip, the curve of your breasts and neck on full display as you slip your wreath onto the knight’s lance. Aerion faintly hears the roar of the crowd as the Reach knight says something to you that makes you beam, your smile splitting widely across your face as your father claps.

Then, the knight takes your hand in his and fucking kisses it. Plants a gentle kiss to the back of it before he’s turning his horse away with a triumphant smirk.

Aerion is seething. Anger boils hot inside him, and with an angry, too-hard thrust of his hips, he urges his horse towards the knight, and the pair meet in the middle of the field for a brief moment. Aerion’s eyes drop to the wreath around the knight’s lance, his jaw flexing, violet eyes flashing with an unbridled fury that has him wishing he could drive his lance through the other man’s throat.

Maybe he will.

“It seems the lady has given me her favour,” the Reach knight says with a sickening smile that makes Aerion want to punch him in the face. “Best of luck, for I intend to honour her virtue greatly and de-horse a dragon today.”

Aerion scoffs. “You impudent little rat. If I do not kill you today, I will slit your throat on the morrow for use of such words.”

The Reach nobleman does not look put-off in the slightest, which, admittedly, takes Aerion by surprise. The knight simply smiles and then pulls down his visor, cantering back to the edge of the tiltyard, leaving Aerion alone in the middle, swamped suddenly by the sounds of a jeering crowd of commonfolk. Anger burns in his veins as he turns with a curse, trotting back to where his squire awaits him, his lance primed and ready.

He’s going to kill that fucking knight. And then he’s going to have you.

—✿—

You watch the knights ready themselves as the trumpeting of bugles pierce the clamour of the crowd. Your fingers are crossed against your lap as you watch the young knight you had bestowed your favour on roll his shoulders and clutch his lance and shield, ready. Your father offers you a side-long glance.

“Are you happy now, my dear?”

You don’t turn your head to speak with him, eyes on the tiltyard. You can’t help the way they fall from your favoured knight to the opposing side, where the imposing Prince Aerion is being handed his shield and lance. “Happy may be too strong of a word.”

Your father chuckles. “Well, these men are certainly needy for your favour.”

You huff. “Yes, as you have said.”

“Yes, but I failed to mention,” your father begins, clearing his throat. “That when a needy man does not earn a lady’s favour, well…”

Your stomach squeezes tightly as you watch the dangerously beautiful face of Prince Aerion vanish behind his helm as he shuts his visor with a rough hand.

Your father shakes his head, chuckling again. “They become quite dangerous.”

With a blare of a horn and a surge of noise from the crowd, both knights take off galloping towards one another. You grip the arms of your chair, watching with your heart in your throat as they get closer and closer, lances poised, before they clash—wood chips flying, metal grinding on metal.

You gasp when Aerion forces his lance through the Reach knight’s shield, shattering it completely. The end of the other knight’s lance makes impact with Aerion’s shield, but the now-jagged tip of Aerion’s lance drives through a gap in his plated armour. You hear the Reach knight let out a sharp shout of pain as the lance drives into the flesh beneath his armpit, and he tips sideways off of his horse.

“What a charge!” Your father remarks to Baelor and Maekar, the three men watching, transfixed, as the Reach knight’s horse gallops away and Aerion whirls his around, hounding for a second run.

The black steed takes off again, and Aerion dips his lance low, much to the detest of the crowd, who jeer and curse and throw stones, as Aerion’s lance lands a decisive blow to the staggering nobleman’s armoured back. He is thrown forward into the mud, winded, piece of wood protruding from his side.

You raise a hand to your mouth as you watch Aerion dismount his horse, dragging the tip of his lance through the mud. He’s not stopping, you realise, as he stomps through the muck to kick the fallen knight onto his back. Then, tossing his lance aside, he brings two hands to his shield and slams the heavy base of it down atop the knight’s helm, the visor denting with the impact. Aerion brings the shield down again, and you find yourself shooting a hand out to grip onto your father’s.

Sensing your concern, your father nods to a man near the edge of the pavilion. The man quickly blows into his bugle, and relief washes over you as Aerion, body heaving, pulls away from the unmoving knight. However, terror quickly seizes you when the prince stalks a few feet away to pick the fallen knight’s shattered lance from the ground. He snatches the favour—your favour—from the broken lance and then lifts his visor.

His eyes find yours as he clutches your favour, bringing it to his chest as he stares up at you. The crowd shouts at him, but he ignores them. You can see the way he ignores them, eyes transfixed on you, the dainty garland engulfed by his hand, crushed in a vice-like grip.

You continue to hold onto your father, who angles his head to whisper to you, “See, my dear? Dangerous.”

—✿—

That evening, you successfully manage to avoid Aerion by locking yourself away in your chambers, informing your father that you feel unwell and intend to retire early. Of course, he knew you were lying, but noticing the dullness in your eyes and the unease that seemed to seep from your pores, he let you go with a kiss to your forehead. Now, as the sun sinks beyond the horizon, and your father and the visitors dine across the castle, you light the candles around your chambers until the room is bathed in a soft, golden light, shadows flickering against the wall. You calmed yourself with a bath, and now sit before the fireplace in your soft linen chemise, a book in your lap.

The flames light the pages well and warm the bare skin of your arms and legs.

The quiet is punctuated, however, by a sharp knock on your door. It is much too forceful to be one of your servants, and for the briefest of moments, you wonder if one of your guards has something to ask of you. You pad towards the door, standing just behind it as you unbolt it and open it a crack.

“Open up, little dove,” Aerion utters, and you yelp in fright as his strong fingers curl around the edge of the door and shove inwards.

You jump back, heart in your throat, as he enters your chambers, violet eyes alight and reflecting the flickering flames of the fire and surrounding candles.

He looks you up and down, the point of his tongue running along his bottom lip. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You shake your head, hugging your arms around your body. The heat of his gaze burns through the thin material of your chemise, and despite the trepidation rooting deep in your gut, something warm gathers at the base of your womb, your nipples hardening.

“No,” you whisper. “No, my prince, I’ve just—”

“I won your favour,” he interrupts you quickly, stalking forward after slamming—and bolting—the door shut. “And you’ve been hiding from me.”

Some semblance of courage seizes you in that moment as you remember what your father had told you. You lift your chin a little as he crosses the room, predatory like a lion. Or perhaps a dragon.

“You did not win my favour,” you hiss at him, but you find yourself backing up in response to his movements. “You stole it. No proper knight would steal another’s favour.”

A dark smile splits across his serpentine features as he creeps closer to you. He wears his House colours, blacks and blood-reds, his tunic and doublet dark and fitting against his strong chest and lean torso. The pale skin of his hands and throat are a stark contrast.

“It was always supposed to be mine, little dove, whether you knew it then or not,” Aerion says, stopping only when your back hits one of the wooden posts of your canopy bed. “I simply saw an opportunity to take it back.”

You scoffed, but it came out more as a breathless sigh. “Knights do not—”

“No, they do not,” Aerion whispers, stepping forward once more to pin you to the post, his chest flush to yours. One of his hands seizes your chin, forcing you to look at him, and your hands fly out to rest against his forearm. You don’t push him away. He continues, “Knights earn, my sweet girl, but dragons take, don’t they?”

“I…” You can’t speak, your tongue heavy in your mouth as he maintains eye contact. Your body heats beneath your chemise, blood honey-thick in your veins as you attempt to form a sentence, but your words fail you.

“I am a prince of the realm, blood of the dragon,” he mutters, trailing a finger across your jaw, up along your cheek before cupping your face. The press of his rings are cold to your heated skin. Your lips part, a feather-light sigh escaping you. “And I will take whatever I want. Do you understand me?”

You find yourself nodding, the warmth of his body against yours pulling something tight in the base of your tummy. Your hands squeeze at his forearm, feeling the soft skin and the sparse blond hair there. No scales, no fire.

“So, from this moment forward, you will not grant your favour to anyone but me,” he tells you, hand back on your jaw. He grips you tightly, and a meek yelp leaves you, his hold bruising, the back of your head knocking lightly on the wooden post. “And if you do, I will sever the head of whomever is brash enough to seek your favour, and mount it to the post of your bed for you to look at whilst I fuck you. Do you understand, or shall I repeat myself?”

“I understand,” you say quickly, voice squeaky with both fear and the restriction of your jawbone. “I understand, my prince.”

Aerion approves, for his eyes flash brightly and a purr escapes his chest as he dips forward and presses his lips to the corner of your mouth. It is soft, tender, and he trails his mouth over the curve of your jaw and down onto the slope of your neck. His other hand rubs over your hip, and your breath hitches in your chest as his hand smooths down your front. It trails over the material covering your mound, before slinking beneath the short hem and brushing against the airy linen of your smallclothes.

The heat of his fingers and the gentleness of his touch has your hips bucking involuntarily, eyelids fluttering as he sucks at your pulse which thrums heavily in your jugular.

“I’ve heard whispers about the sweet little dove that nests within this castle’s walls,” Aerion breathes against you. The coarse pads of his fingers press against your clothed core and a quiet sigh is coaxed from your chest. “I never imagined she’d be such a good girl—such a good listener.”

He rubs two fingers back and forth over your clothed slit, the gusset of your smallclothes growing damp with your slick. The heat of your core against his fingers makes him groan into your neck, his sharp teeth skimming your sensitive skin as he sucks at the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

You hold on to his forearm as it rocks with the movements of his hand, but you should be wrenching him away, cursing and screaming and begging for your guards to seize him, to haul him away for attempting to corrupt your virtue. But you don’t. Your brain is fuzzy, your heartbeat heavy in your core, nipples catching on the linen of your chemise and brushing against his doublet. You can’t believe how your fear has turned into lust as the Targaryen prince works two of his fingers against you, his lips suckling at your neck while he grips your jaw tightly still.

The hands you have on his forearm trail up, caressing the bare skin, then dancing across the sleeve of his tunic. He groans against you at your touch as you wind your fingers over his shoulder, then flatten across his chest, caressing his pectorals beneath the padded doublet. His mouth withdraws as he pants against the curve of your shoulder, one of your hands threading along the back of his neck, nails scraping through the short hair that grows at his nape. You grab a fistful, stroking his scalp, before tightening your fingers and tugging gently.

Aerion pulls back and growls, then slams his mouth to yours. The kiss is harsh, more teeth and tongue than anything you’ve ever experienced, his lips burning hot against yours. The fingers he pushes against your clothed slit dip against the fabric, pressing against the puffy bud of your clit, pinching before rubbing a heavy circle. It makes you stutter out a moan against his mouth, which he uses to curl his tongue against you deeper, sliding across your teeth. He tastes of wine and ash, and something metallic, the richness of blood on his snake-like tongue. A sound of deep pleasure, a loutish grunt from the back of his throat, knocks against your teeth as he kisses you, the hand he has on your jaw forcing you to be completely pliant beneath him.

Aerion pulls back after a long moment, pressing a wet, saliva-slick kiss to the corner of your mouth once more before speaking lowly into your ear, “Are you going to be good for me, little dove? Are you going to give me what I want?”

“Yes,” you whisper, pleasure a firm knot in the base of your belly already as he continues to slide his fingers back and forth against you, the fabric of your smallclothes soaked through, tacky against your folds.

The prince tuts at you, his fingers vanishing from your core. You whimper at the rush of cool air that hits you, but he quickly closes the space when he taps four fingers roughly against you—a measured smack against your covered cunt, which rips an embarrassingly loud moan from your chest, head falling back against the post.

“You are a lady,” Aerion chastises you whilst he acts more unlike a prince than any nobleman you’ve ever met. His palm cups your core now, soothing the dull ache caused by the smack. “Answer nicely.”

You pant, eyes watering as you meet his, lips swollen from the force of his kiss. “I–I’ll be good, my prince. I’ll be good for you.”

He smiles. “Of course you will.”

Then, his palm shifts, two fingers looping through the band of your smallclothes and tugging. The material all but tears as he pulls it down your legs with such aggression it makes your hips buck. Your slick cunt is bared to the tepid air of your room, the fireplace dwindling now, and you squeeze your thighs together as you kick your undergarments away. His other hand leaves your face to join his other in pulling your chemise over your head, tearing it away from you and tossing it across the room. It disappears into the shadows and you’re left bare before him.

He groans at the sight, eyes dropping to where he kicks your legs apart with his foot, trailing his hand over your mound and dipping into the silken wet heat of your folds. Fingers slide over your puffy clit, and he groans again at the way your body jolts against him. His other hand squeezes one of your breasts tightly beneath strong fingers, nipple crushed beneath his palm, making you moan.

“Oh, my poor girl, you’re soaked,” Aerion whispers, almost in disbelief, as he runs two fingers through your slit, gathering slick between your folds. “Pretty little pussy’s drooling for her prince, isn’t she?”

His middle and ring finger find your hole, slick and warm and too empty. You huff out something that sounds like his name, but the syllables are lost as the pads of his fingers trace circles around you. You lean your head back, baring your throat to him, allowing him to swoop down and attach his mouth to a soft patch along the column of your trachea. As he does this, he—with surprising restraint—works the blunt tips of his fingers past the entrance of your cunt. He pushes, and pushes still, until your silken walls open around the intrusion, the bump of his knuckles rubbing against your posterior wall, sending electric shocks into your womb.

“She’s taking me so well,” Aerion lifts his head to utter against your cheek, and he nearly smiles when he feels how hot you are there.

He curls his fingers and presses further until the top of his palm rests against you. Quickly, he retracts his fingers before plunging them back into you, and the wet squelch that fills the space between you makes you suck in a breath, ears ringing. 

The prince hums darkly, kissing your cheek. “Oh, she’s mouthy too, is she? Pussy’s got something to say?”

He repeats the movements, the wet plap-plap-plap of his fingers rutting into you, and his palm hitting your wet folds, makes his cock twitch painfully in his breeches. You whine out, embarrassed, pleasure as heavy as an anvil in the base of your stomach, Valyrian steel threatening to sever the cord of tension that withheld your release.

“Please,” you find yourself begging as your hands grip his shoulders. The contrast of Aerion being completely clothed while you stand before him, naked with slick dribbling down your inner thighs, has a sort of drunkenness washing over you.

His other hand, kneading your breasts still, shoots up to slap a palm across your mouth as he works his fingers in and out, pace quick and unrelenting. He angles his head down to watch where his forearm flexes as he shoves his fingers into you—he pulls out, lines up to add a third, and then forces them in, and the stretch makes you yowl against his palm.

“Easy, little dove,” he utters, pulling his fingers away only to hike one of your legs around his hip, giving him a deeper angle to drive his fingers back into you. Three fingers stretch you open and curl deep inside you, pressing against the gummy spot inside that forces a tremor through you. You moan against his hand, breath coming in quick pants, eyelids fluttering as he fucks his fingers into your cunt. 

The pace is animalistic, rushed. Aerion grunts as his arm works, the other gripping the lower portion of your face so he can listen to the way your pussy takes him. He can feel dribbles of slick running down his wrist, smearing across your inner thighs. Your walls clench him tightly as he nails the best spot inside you, and he marvels in the way your leg trembles against his hip, your nails digging into the thick material at his shoulders as he urges you towards release.

You say something against his palm, but it is muffled. He wrenches his hand away and finally looks at your face as you manage to puff out, “M’gonna… come…”

Aerion pulls his fingers from you, your pussy clenching around nothing. You curse loudly, and then moan his name, eyes springing open when he drops your leg. He hides his smile as he sinks to his knees before you, hands grasping the doughy flesh of your inner thighs to spread your legs. His head slots between them, and he exhales a forceful blow onto your soaked cunt. The air makes you keen, hand shooting out to grasp his hair.

“Gods, just look at her,” he voices from below you, hands moving across your thighs. His thumbs find your folds and he spreads you open for him, slick webbing between them. The feeling makes you whine—and then the feeling of his tongue, pointed and firm, curling into your hole has you whining even louder.

The narrow slope of his nose rubs perfectly against your puffy clit as he works his tongue inside you, curling between your walls, slick and warm. His hand is wet against you as he holds you open for him, a series of soft, dragon-like huffs suffocated in the heat of your pussy as his tongue coils inside you.

The stretched cord of your release is pulling taut in your abdomen once more, and you find yourself rocking your hips against his face in chase of it. Pursuing a hare through the long grass, adrenaline mounting, hound’s teeth closing in.

“My prince,” you whine, hips twitching. “Gods, I’m going to—ah—”

He hums against you and the cord in your lower belly snaps and splinters inside you. Your orgasm racks through you, pleasure white-hot in your chest and womb, spreading through your veins as your pussy clenches around his tongue. You moan his title loudly, pelvis stuttering against the rigid lines of his face as he works you through your release. Your hole spasms around his tongue, clit thrumming with your heartbeat.

He hums again when some of your release dribbles down from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin, and when he pulls away, a string connects his lips to you. It snaps when he runs his tongue over his lips, sitting back on his haunches to admire the glossiness of your pussy and the way your hole clenches around nothing.

“Pretty girl…” Aerion muses, leaning forward to press one last kiss to your clit before getting to his feet.

His cock is painfully hard, pressing against his breeches and the seam of his trousers. Grinding his hips against your pelvis, Aerion drags his hands up your sides, caressing you softly, before placing them either side of your face. He kisses you, lips slick atop yours. A sinful thrill runs up your spine as you taste the faint musk of yourself on his tongue, an earthy-sweet ichor that Aerion will fist himself to the memory of for months to come.

“Your favour is mine,” the prince says against you, before the warmth of his mouth disappears and he’s spinning you around. Still fully-clothed, he pushes his body against your back, keeping you warm. “You are mine.”

You suck in a breath as one of his hands brands you between the shoulder-blades, rings biting against the skin as he forces you to bend. You curl over the end of your bed until your chest presses flat to the sheets, your arse bare against the tent in his trousers. You breathe out an “o-oh fuuuck” as he grinds his clothed cock—the imprint thick against the cleft of your arse—in firm, teasing thrusts.

After quickly ripping his doublet from his body, suddenly too hot, Aerion keeps one hand to your upper back, pinning you to the bed while his other works in unfastening the ties and clasps of his trousers. He nudges your legs wider apart with his feet as his trousers loosen finally, and he can dip his hand into his breeches, shucking them down enough to fish his cock out. He hisses quietly behind you as he fists himself, tip red and ruddy, beads of precum wetting the slit. He chokes on a groan when one slips down his frenulum and along a prominent vein on the underside.

“Gods, little dove, what are you doing to me?” Aerion groans, angling his hips forward to drag the head of his cock down the split of your arse before tapping it against your pussy. He spreads your folds with the blood-flushed tip as you mewl out, incapable of giving him a properly-worded answer.

He chuckles at that, and you are surprised when he bends to press a line of kisses down your sweat-dampened spine. You arch for him as he tongues the dip at the base of your spine, teeth nipping at the skin.

“So good for me,” he breathes against you, and groans as he pulls back to stand a bit straighter.

Still grasping the base of his cock, he runs the head up and down your folds once more, pressing firmly to your clit—“there we go, this sweet girl gets a little kiss,” he says under his breath—before he lines up at your entrance. He says louder, “I deserve this, little dove. This is my prize.”

And then he’s thrusting into you in one deft movement. Your eyes roll, fingers gripping the sheets as you cry out, an echoing moan causing the flames of nearby candles to flicker. An animalistic growl tears from Aerion’s chest as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, the silken walls of your cunt moulding like clay around him. The ridges of his cock slide against you just right, and the prince grips your hip and glues you to him.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so tight,” Aerion grits out, canines gnashing as he bites down the pleasure crawling up his diaphragm.

“Please,” you call out to him, cheek to the sheets, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. “Please, my prince, please move.”

Aerion grunts, but doesn’t chastise your begging. Instead, he does what you ask of him, withdrawing until the head of his cock is just nestled inside you, before rutting back in. You whimper out a pathetically meek string of gasps—“ah–ah–ah,”—as he sets a pace, his hips smacking against your arse, the fat rippling. He grunts and groans, the sounds have your pussy tightening along with his movements.

He keeps you anchored to the bed. The hand between your shoulder blades is strong and unmoving, and the hand on your hip clenches around the softness there with a vice-like grip, forcing your arse back onto him as he moves. The pace is quick and rough, packed full of desperation as he stuffs your wet cunt over and over. His cock stretches you open, splits you apart, curls up towards the plug of your womb. Desperation is translated through the way his deep grunts end with the lightest lilt, a slight whimper at the end.

All men are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.

“Hgnh—fuck, come on, sweet girl, that’s it. Y-yeah, that’s it, stay just like that,” Aerion mutters, rambling as his eyelids droop low, sweat beading high on his forehead and at the hair on his temples.

You can’t do much but bend and take it, cock filling you perfectly, the angle driving him deep against a spongey spot inside you that punches whimper after whimper from your throat. He groans when your back arches further for him. “That’s my good girl, that’s my girl—pretty little dove taking my cock like a dirty fucking whore.”

You moan in response, clit pulsing and body starting to shake. You tremble against the sheets of your bed, pleasure building like the rush of water beneath your skin. Rising and rising, suffocating you as the head of his cock drives you closer and closer to release.

Aerion knows you’re close.

“I know, sweet girl, oh, I know,” he coos down at you, caressing your back as he plows into you from behind. The bed creaks with the force, the sheets bunching beneath you. “Let me feel you. Give me your favour, little dove.”

The ball of tension in your belly grows tighter and tighter as your body grows hotter and hotter. Small moans of his name fall from your lips. Not his title, but his name. He doesn’t reprimand you for it, too obsessed with your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his cock, but he’ll be sure to scold you later. For now, he maintains his pace, watching the way your hips bounce against his pelvis, sweat still building in a light sheen along your spine.

“Aerion.” Then, with a realm-shattering moan, you come around him, legs locking up tightly, fists clenching the sheets.

Your eyes snap shut as stars burst behind them, your second orgasm crashing over you. Your lower belly pulls taut, pussy clenching around his cock as the pleasure crests, and Aerion takes it with a groan of your name, pace faltering slightly as he pushes deeper into you.

You’re boneless against the bed now as the prince uses you, his cock twitching, thrusts becoming shallower. He’s rutting into you, humping the curve of your arse, cock barely leaving the drooling sheath of your cunt as his high rears like a hissing serpent inside him.

Knights earn, dragons take.

Aerion groans your name, collapsing half-way on top of you, the hand on your back moving to the side of your head to hold himself up as he grinds his cock into you.

“I’m going to spill inside of you,” he mumbles, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yeah, m’going to fill you, little dove. Fill this pretty pussy with my seed. Every—uh, fuck—everyone’ll know who you belong to i-if you’re round with my babe.”

You whine, screwing your eyes shut, overstimulation leaking into your gut like molasses, but you know he’s not going to last. You can feel his cock jerking inside you with each sloppy thrust.

“Uh-uh, none of that, m’lady,” Aerion murmurs, words drawing together now: pussy-drunk. “You’re mine—your favour is mine. You belong to the dragon.”

Then, with one last growl of your name between clenched teeth, Aerion comes inside of you, release filling you in hot ropes as his cock twitches. He’s buried to the hilt, a wanton groan leaving his lips as the warm walls of your pussy milk him, take him. The heat that fills you, the sensation of growing full, makes you hum out a pleased moan.

Slowly, the prince pulls his softening cock out of you and wipes his shaft along your arse cheek. The stickiness makes you huff out at him, and he laughs as he tucks himself back into his breeches, drawing his trousers back up.

His seed leaks out of you as you attempt to pull yourself onto your bed, turning to lay on your back and watch as he retrieves his doublet from the floor and begins pulling it over his head. You didn’t expect aftercare, but the absence of his warm body against you makes your heart contract beneath your ribcage.

Aerion notices the brief expression of discontent that passes over your face. He rolls his eyes, smoothing his hands through his hair, clearing the strands that stick to his skin with sweat.

“I left your father’s feast for this,” he says, bending down and placing his arms either side of you. He cages you against the bed, nose brushing yours. “I will finish my meal and make your father happy, and then I will return and fuck you to sleep.”

The prince presses one last lingering kiss to your mouth, a surprisingly sweet gesture, before he retreats and heads for the door. He unbolts it and looks back over his shoulder, watching as you reach blindly for your chemise, limbs pleasure-lax, eyes tired. He sighs loudly, stalking back across the room and scooping your chemise from the floor. Pale fingers snap around your wrist and he pulls you into a sitting position.

“Arms up,” he orders, and you do as you’re told. He shoves the chemise roughly down your arms and then over your head. His fingers brush your softening nipples as he lays the fabric back over you. He shakes his head as you blink up at him like a doe. He grumbles, “Pathetic.”

But you’re sure he doesn’t really mean it, especially when he cups your cheek and caresses your cheekbone for a fleeting moment, before he’s heading back towards the door. He opens it and vanishes without a look back, closing it with a firm slam. But even with his abrupt exit, you can’t help but smile as you sink beneath your sheets, his seed and your slick leaking out between your thighs.

All men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.

———