ALL TYPES OF ART

An ear-piercing whistle cut through the air, bringing the session to a temporary halt. Groans and relieved sighs spread across the pitch as the players slowed to a walk and made a beeline for the coolers lined up along the touchline. The coaches called out a few last instructions, though most of it was drowned out by the chatter that came with a well earned break.

Your attention remained fixed on the pitch, eyes following Jobe as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his training top before reaching for a bottle of water. He took a few long swigs, scanning the sidelines absentmindedly.

Eventually, he spotted you on the far end. The tiredness on his face disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a bright grin as he excused himself away from the group and started jogging over.

“You’ve been sat there the whole time?” he called, jogging over with a happy grin. He leaned against the barrier, still catching his breath. “Getting bored yet?”

You blinked, pulled back from your thoughts. “Hm?”

“I asked if you’re bored.”

“Oh! No, no.”

Jobe studied you for a second, eyebrows knitting together. “You sure?”

You nodded absentmindedly, your gaze drifting somewhere over his shoulder. Jobe turned to follow it, squinting across the training ground before looking back at you with a puzzled frown.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“… You sure?”

Before you could answer, Jobe closed the remaining distance between you. He swung past the barrier with a tired huff before casually throwing an arm across your shoulders, still warm from training. The material of his shirt brushed against your cheek as he shifted closer, completely unaware of how much of his weight he’d rested on you.

“There’s something else on your mind, c’mon love,” Jobe said, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “What’s up?”

The feeling of Jobe’s strong, muscular bicep tucked snugly under your jaw while he hugged you made the syrupy heat in the pit of your stomach spark and flutter with nerves.

That’s what’s up, Jobe.

You stiffen when he places his hand across your collarbone, your skin prickling beneath your tactical pants as he caresses it in an attempt to comfort you. It does the opposite—comfort is the furthest thing from your mind.

Remembering where you are, you wrinkled your nose, nudging him away with your elbow.

“Nothing. Now get off me.” you retort, averting your gaze. You try to shift your body away from Jobe’s grasp, but his strong hold keeps it in place.

Jobe’s brows lifted and he smacked his lips, eyes peering down at you. “Aye, What!?”

“You’re sweaty.”

He glanced across the field before letting out a short chuckle. “I’ve had a hard session!”

“And now you’re making it my problem, shoo.”

“Pssh, whatever. You’ll live.” Jobe then softly sighed, chuckling to himself while he shook his head. Then, his grip around you loosened slightly as he leaned down, close enough that only you would hear him over the noise of the training ground.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Jobe’s voice was so soft, gentle. So different from the teasing tone he’d been using moments before. He was always so attentive and sure when it came to you. Unlike what most people expected, Jobe had to mature more quickly than most. He was always analysed, and not to mention the rumours and comparisons that happened with being a Bellingham. You always admired how well Jobe took such teasing, and how it made him so much more mindful—you thought others could take some pointers from Jobe.

You stared ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just drop it, J.”

So, he did. Jobe always listened to you. Though you didn't miss the way his eyes narrowed at you the moment the words left your mouth; he was thinking of something. A shudder ran through you at the dangerous look passing over him.

You honestly barely remember how you ended up here, face down, being relentlessly pounded into the mattress. Your body was numb, and after two orgasms, all you could do was lie there and take it. You were too fucked out, too dumb to even try to do anything else.

It was like Jobe read your mind sometimes. He knew you were distracted by him while he practised; he knew you were all but drooling over his arms. Jobe tried to squeeze it out of you at practice, though when you got snippy with him at the bleachers, he realised he needed to get creative. He had spent the whole car ride home teasing you, playing dense, acting like he had no idea what he was doing to you.

The moment you got home, though, Jobe had had enough. He was a man, after all, and could only take so much deprivation, especially when it came to you and the way you make him feel.

Jobe all but dragged you out of his car. You could barely keep up with him, albeit the iron grip he had on your hand. The moment he frantically unlocked the door, you found your back being pushed somewhat aggressively against the door to close it.

Then, suddenly, you were pressed against the closest hard surface, face squished, and your shoulders tense as his hand grips the nape of your neck. His other hand finds its way into your pants, making quick work of unbuttoning them and slipping his fingers under the band of your underwear.

Jobe finds you positively wet; a groan leaves his lips, “Fuck me… already so wet for me, darling.” His voice sends shivers down your spine as he whispers straight into your ear. “Did I really get you this riled up? Hmm?”

His pointer and middle finger slide down your folds, going past your clit and finding your soaking wet hole. Middle finger circling it, spreading the wetness around before dipping inside, three knuckles deep almost immediately. Your eyes roll back while your head droops down to lean on his chest.

Suddenly, with wide eyes, a light bulb went off in your head. You thought about the way you felt when Jobe’s arm hung around your neck casually earlier, his firm, muscular biceps slithering around your neck. The way your underwear soaked, the way you tried to play it off, and the way in your hazy state, considered asking him to do it again. Well, it doesn't hurt to ask, right?

“J—Jobe,” you breathlessly spoke, dopily smirking up at him in your fucked out state. His eyebrows were pulled together tightly, perhaps slightly too focused on making you feel good. “Oh, fuck—hey, hey.”

However, the last words that left your lips made him snap from his trance; his plunging eyes darted to you immediately. Jobe’s movements immediately stopped, which made you whine and whimper at the loss of friction.

“Yeah, baby? You alright?” Jobe leaned down to kiss the side of your head tenderly. Jobe always listened to you—and sex was never an exception. He always made sure you had cummed multiple times during sex before even thinking about himself, no matter how badly he needed to get off. And neither was making your fantasies and desires come true.

“W—wrap your arm around my neck. Please,” you hushed out quickly. You'd been embarrassed by this had it been any other scenario, but by this point, you and Jobe were far past the honeymoon stage of your relationship.

“Are… are you sure?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you, y’know—”

“Jobe—ngh—I will be fine. I promise. Just please…C’mon...” you practically begged, peering up at him with hooded eyes. You didn't feel like chit-chatting logistics with him, and you trusted Jobe. He'd never do anything to hurt you; he always listened.

Jobe licked his lips, and that was enough confirmation he needed from you. Slowly, his hand moved around from the back of your neck to your throat. He spun you around, making your torso face the wall. His headlock on you was just tight enough to make it slightly harder to breathe. A hoarse gasp escapes your throat as you feel him in and on you, another finger joining quickly as he pumps the digits at a slow pace. At every thrust into you, he presses against that pleasurable spot that only he can reach. His thumb is quick to join the motions, making tight circles around your clit as he fingers you slowly.

If you weren’t so caught up in the pleasure, you’d be mortified by how fast you came. It came washing over you like a tidal wave, Jobe holding you up with his other arm wrapped around your waist. The hand that had been choking you was now wrapped around your torso as he hugged you from behind.

When you manage to catch your breath, you relax back into Jobe’s embrace. He lets you rest a moment before grabbing you. Unexpectedly, his bicep is back around your neck, the clasp tight as he starts to guide you to the bedroom, “Didn’t think I was done with you already, did you?”

Once you get to the room, he pushes you towards the bed, positioning you in front of the floor-length mirror before he throws you down on the bed and pulls your shorts fully down. You gasp as the cold air hits your warm center, and you try to bring your hands up to support you, yet Jobe has other plans. He grabs your arms and puts them behind your back, one hand covering both your wrists, “Come on, hands behind your back. That’s it. Keep ‘em there, yeah?”

You catch his gaze in the mirror, and all you can do is nod. Your need for him is literally running down your legs at this point. You could tell he was relishing in this as much as you were, just so quick to mock and coo at you. It made your mind whirl—just what else was Jobe capable of? What else would he get off to? The possibilities felt endless.

You hear his zipper being pulled down, and he positions himself at your entrance, teasing the tip of his dick there. Letting your wetness coat him as he keeps a hand between your shoulder blades, making sure you stay down. “Tell me what you want, love.”

His eyes find yours again in the mirror, the intense contact almost burning you, and your mouth is open as you breathe laboriously. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to his request. “Please, Jobe.. please, please fuck me! I need you inside me now.” You whine out, making sure to sound extra pathetic as you wriggle your ass back on him, making his dick slip in an inch.

Jobe growls at the feeling before pushing in all the way in one go, “Good fuckin’ girl, eh? Begging so pretty for me.” You see him bite his lip as he gets lost in the feeling of your heat wrapped around him. His gaze is fixed on the point of your connection as he slowly starts to pump into you. “Fuuck, love, you feel so good for me. Always taking me so well.” You moan into the bedsheets, the feeling of Jobe’s cock filling you up is always too much for you. Muffled words resembling pleas and his name comes out in gasps and puffs of breath as he picks up his pace.

Jobe is seemingly not satisfied with your head in the sheets, he bends down over you, covering your body with his. Pressing against you entirely and stopping his thrusting while he’s deep within you; “Come on, pretty girl. Look at us, yeah?” The arm that was previously holding you down now snaked around your neck. Your throat slots into the crook of his elbow, and he lifts you up a bit so you can look in the mirror. The move makes your head rest on his bicep as he holds you up. “Look at us, love. Could anyone else make you feel this good?” He tightens his arm muscles a little, constricting your airflow as he starts fucking into you again. His hips are smacking into your ass as your vision starts to blur.

“No! No, no one, only you; all I need is you, Jobe.” Gasping out with the little breath you have left.

He’s panting with exertion, his words being gasped out over the sound of skin hitting skin. “That’s right, sweet girl. Only I can satisfy you, you were made to take my cock. Only me.” His other hand goes from gripping your hip to rubbing fast at your clit. “Come on my cock, darling. Make a mess on me.” As he says his final line, he also lets up the pressure on your throat.

The walls of your pussy are fluttering around his dick as your second orgasm crashes into you at the same time as you inhale the sweet air. Your gaze has not left Jobe’s since he lifted you up, and you fight to keep your eyes from shutting as he fucks you through it. Your hands have left their place on your back and are now helping to hold you up as your body trembles.

Both of Jobe’s hands have gone to hold your hips now, his focus on his own orgasm. Still keeping the intense eye contact as his hips start stuttering as he spills himself deep inside you. Eyes finally shut as he slowly comes to a stop. His forehead is resting on your back now, and both of you are trying to catch your breath.

“Fuck me… I reckon we should do that more often,” Jobe breaks the silence, speaking into your back, trailing kisses over your sweaty skin. You just groan into the sheets. You knew he would never shut up about this, bastard!

© SINFULPETAL. // all rights reserved. do not copy or repost any original content from this blog.

tags: @agirlwholovestoread, @sophiaehernandez, @yunakwi, @wehatesophia, @ronanpakes0, @writtenbylolo, @shuzcis, @dollettetimes, @laminesgirl, @dianazyb, @jupitereleven, @sleepysidcros, @sia840, @11sp4des, @bia-n-t-d, @laylaysanangel, @ichigonator, @coolswaggyunicorn, @heuaxtales, & @ant1fr4gile

the game was over, you watched jude drop to his knees. it was a tough game and you knew that, every goal made spiked your heart rate.

he came over to the sidelines and carried you off, going straight to the car and not even stopping by the locker room. the car ride home was fun, you played music and sung your heart out.

by the time you got home you assumed jude was exhausted, he said he would stop by the pharmacy for some quick pain meds and you took the time to shower. when you stepped out jude was already sitting on the couch, drinking water while watching a movie.

you hurried to get ready and plopped next to him on the couch, you were still brushing your hair when he started to smell your neck.

you moved slightly as he was tickling you, “jude, what are you doing?”

“you smell so good.” he says, smelling once more.

you laugh, “you creep.”

you’re still brushing your hair when he moves his hands to your lower back and starts rubbing it. you don’t mind as he always does that, you just keep doing your business.

until he kept going lower and got to the waistband of your sweatpants. he fumbled with it, folding it over and back up again, hesitating.

“baby,” he whispered into your ear.

“jude?” you say, grabbing his hand to hold it, but he doesn’t accept it, instead he keeps fumbling with your waistband and you know what it means, you let out a soft sigh, “i just took a shower, babe.”

you can hear him groan slightly, “please i need it, feel me.” jude says while placing your hand over the very obvious and rock-hard bulge in his shorts.

you start feeling around, hating that you love it, you just didn’t want to get back in the shower after a long day. jude continues begging and you finally put the hairbrush down and get on your knees in front of him.

“only head, okay?” you furrow your eyebrows while tugging at his shorts.

he nods excitedly, quickly pulling his shorts down. you see his cock spring up and you feel yourself get warmer in between your legs.

you start by moving your hands up and down slowly, spitting on it every few strokes so you can go faster later. even with the first few strokes jude’s head was thrown back and he was holding back groans, only letting a few low ones out that are stopped by lip biting.

you started to speed up and finally put your mouth on the tip, tasting the sweet and salty taste of his pre-cum, you didn’t let any of it go to waste, licking it all up.

“y/n.” jude moaned, which you had never heard before.

it made your stomach flutter, you took his whole length in and started to bib your head up and down quickly, enjoying the noises he was letting out that you’d never heard.

“fuck, just like,” he gasped quietly, “that baby.”

he jerked his hips up, his cock to hit the back of your throat and causing you to choke slightly. jude grabbed your head with both hands and slowly fucked your face.

“mm, my good girl,” he groaned non-stop with each motion, “you like that?”

you gave him an eager nod as he started going faster and faster. your spit mixed with his pre-cum was dripping down your chin onto the floor, he lifted your head up and your mouth made a “pop” sound from the suction.

you swallowed everything you could, getting the rest of the spit and continuing to stroke his cock. he lifted your chin up with his hand, leaning down to give you sloppy kisses. you moaned into the kiss, fighting with his tongue.

he then pushed your head back down and let you go at your own pace. you went quick, taking all of him in and not caring about your gag reflex. you looked up at him while doing so and his head was back again, his hands looking for something to grab on. they eventually found your hair and he pulled it into a makeshift ponytail.

the spit started dripping down to his balls this time and you took your hands down to play with them. you took his cock out with your mouth while continuing to pump it with your hands and you lifted it slightly to get under.

you started sucking his balls, one at a time. making swirl motions with your tongue while moaning so he’d feel the vibration.

“jesus, fuck y/n, you’re so good at that.” jude groaned, this time soothing your hair.

you kept going and switched once more, your mouth going back on his cock and your hands to his balls, playing with both of them at once.

you felt his hips jerk up slightly and lock in place, he put his hands on your head and shoved his cock down your throat. you felt the cum shooting down your throat as you looked up at him. his eyes were shut tight until you finally popped him out your mouth, swallowing all the leftover cum.

you finished cleaning him off as he spoke again, “thank you love, i needed that.” he said trying to catch his breath.

you smiled, “never heard you make those noises before.” you playfully said while pushing his knee to get up.

“yeah, well, i’ve never take. viagra before.” he says, letting out a slow, deep laugh.

“viagra?” you asked, confused.

he pulled you closer to him by your waist, “mhm, i thought your little joke was stupid and decided to take some.”

you didn’t respond, you only thought why he would ever do that in a million years.

“bad idea.” jude said, breaking the silence and hugging you while his head was against your stomach.

-

THANK YOU FOR 500 FOLLOWERS!! I LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOU ALL!! BESITOS PARA TODOS USTEDES! 🩵

also i did not proof-read and i made this on zero hours of sleep at like three am.. so i apologize for any mistakes!

honorable mention: @lanasspammasubii07 ;)

ju. bellingham taglist: @luvrgrl-222 , @soobieewoobiee , @laneyrainy0 , @mmonkeh3000 , @mariaaaalm , @dianazyb , @brune77e , @strwayberrymilktea , @oliseamorr , @ceziaa , @sourcandyfish , @rosyyyrube , @auroraenne , @deieia , @rockurwurld @frankoceanistz <3

With Jace as your guide, Vermax lowered his head. You could feel the dragon’s hot breath warming the space, being pushed low with his exhales and moving up as the heat from within him expanded before rising up into the rafters of the barn. The smell of smoke filled your nose.

“Slowly.” Jace’s mouth was both too close and too far away from your ear. “Though he’s harmless, right now at least.”

“Is he as gentle as you, my prince?” You asked, and he exhaled–an almost laugh with such a specific sound you didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling again. He sounded closer now.

The emerald dragon was inches from you now, rumbling low. You could feel the sweat beginning to form in your hairline.

Jace’s lip pressed itself to your ear. Your eyes fluttered shut, and his voice lowered itself to a whisper. 

“Whoever said I was gentle, Lady Stark?”

Scales in your palm, pressing up into you. Fingertips at your knuckles, holding tightly. Your eyes opened, and it fell into place for you as you peered up at Vermax, now nuzzling into your palm.

“You are one,” You murmured, awestruck.

Jace nodded proudly, the movement vivid against the side of your head. “He is mine own brother in all but blood. Were one of us to die, the other would feel a hollow in our chest the rest of our days.”

“Does that scare you?”

This time, Jace doesn’t nod. You heard him swallow. He let loose a shaky breath, now too looking at his dragon. His hand prompted yours, and you began to scratch the tip of Vermax’s nose. Vermax let out a pleased huff, but it did little to assuage Jace.

“It is my worst fear,” The prince admitted, “One so strong I’ve lost count of the nightmares it has brought me.”

Your head turned to look at him then. Emotions danced in his eyes—pain, admiration, admiration, all for his dragon. He looked so young, still. Even if it was winter, and the sun was dull and dim, freckles still spanned his sharp cheekbones and angular nose. If you wanted to, you could probably count every single one. Gods, did you want to.

With a purse of your lips you realized just how close he was. Jace wasn’t looking at you, however. And Vermax, despite pressing into your palm, was looking at Jace. 

They have known each other for a thousand years, it would have seemed. There was some sort of conversation happening here you were not physically capable of being privy to. It was all too familiar, you thought, and your lips turned up before you could help it.

This drew Jace’s attention. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. Face to face now, still behind you. Pressing close. Too close. “What?”

“This is a talent of yours, Jace. Holding entire conversations with your eyes.”

He shook his head. “It is a bond between dragon and rider.”

Your eyes widened, gaze curious but not prying. “Oh? Since when is my lord husband your dragon, then?”

Jace looked surprised for a moment, before scanning your face. Dark eyes lingered on your lips a beat too long, causing your breath to hitch.

“Is that jealousy I hear, Lady Stark?”

Now you shook your head with a wry smile. “Not at all. I’m simply curious.”

Jace’s forehead tilted forward, ever playful. His breath fanned your face. “Ask away, then. I am an open book.”

“You may be an open book, Prince Jacaerys,” You murmured, blood roaring in your ears, “Yet my lord husband seals himself shut until you are at his side.”

“What can I say,” He whispered, nose ghosting across yours, “I’ve a gift for opening people up.”

If either of you moved half an inch closer, your lips would touch. This was an exquisite torture. Surely, this was crossing someone’s line. Yours, Jace’s, Cregan’s. At some point they merged. Stopped being lines and curved, woven into a circle. 

You exhaled steadily. Vermax, suddenly disinterested, stepped away. Jace didn’t let go of your hand as you lowered it. The fingers other hand—when had it moved from the small of your back to your hip?—inched along the edge of your cloak, threatening to dip inside.

You were warm. The dragon was warm—surely, this was why. You should have stepped away. Jace should have stepped away. This was hardly proper.

“You and my husband share the strangest bond,” You pointed out, “One I’ve seldom seen between men.”

The statement was a question you didn’t need to pose. Jace hummed, raising his eyebrows. Goading. Expecting. His hand had found its way into your cloak, fingerpads brushing your wool dress.

“Is this an accusation, my lady?” His low tone held no malice, hand tightened against your hip. The rise and fall of his chest pressed up against your back told you everything you needed to know. He wanted this as much as you did.

“Not in the slightest, my prince,” A third time, you shook your head, slower. More deliberate. Using the movement to brush the tip of your nose against his. A small smile graced his pretty lips, lips now so close to yours anyone from afar would immediately think the worst of Lady Stark and The Prince of Dragonstone. 

His nose pressed harder into yours. The hand over yours, now at your side, burning where he touched. His other hand, lingering just below your breast. Your mouth tipped open, nearly trembling with anticipation. Every second grew infinite.

“No?” Jace murmured, eyes trained on your parted lips, “What should I take it for, then?” 

He dragged a finger across your wedding band. You felt your mouth go dry.

An invitation, you wanted to say. A door I want you to open.

He would have kissed you. Or you would have kissed him. Someone would have stumbled in the next few seconds, you knew it to be true. Your blood was running too hot and the pupils of his dark eyes were too dilated. You were two objects in unstoppable movement in the direct line of each other’s fire. The collision would have been inevitable and ruinous and you would have welcomed it with open arms.

But then Vermax’s head snapped up, grunting at something behind you. Jace, feeling his dragon’s altered state, split from you. You jumped at both of their movements, perfectly in sync with each other. And when the you both turned, your eyes landed on one of your guards lingering in the doorway, looking incredibly uncomfortable at the entire ordeal. 

“Y-your grace. Lady Stark,” He said, “Lord Cregan has returned.”

You cleared your throat a little too loudly, hands smoothing out your dress. At your side, the prince clasped his hands behind his back. He clenched his jaw, and any hint of his playfulness was gone. 

“Yes... Yes, of course,” You sighed, heart pounding, “Thank you, Ser Justin.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

BB is lying on his side facing the wall with his eyes open and his jaw clenched so tight his molars ache and the sounds (the muffled ones, the ones you're trying to smother with your hand over your own mouth, the ones Bobby is producing into your neck in a register so low it's almost subvocal) are four feet away. not through a wall. not through drywall. four feet of open air. the same room. the same dark.

he can hear the wet sounds. the rustle of sheets. the creak of the twin bed frame that matches his twin bed frame. Bobby's breathing, which BB knows the way he knows his own because they've been sleeping in the same room since birth, gone ragged and uneven.

and your breathing. shorter, higher, catching on something BB can picture with devastating clarity because he's seen Bobby kiss you a thousand times in the kitchen and in the car and at Terrence's garage and he knows exactly what Bobby's mouth does and he knows his mouth is the same shape and his brain is constructing the scene from four feet away with a fidelity that makes him want to scream.

he doesn't scream. he doesn't move. he lies there and faces the wall and counts the cracks in the plaster and wills his body to be still and his body does not listen. his body responds to the sounds the way any body would respond except worse because the voice making those sounds is his voice.

Bobby's groan is BB's groan. the vocal cords are identical. and BB's traitorous hindbrain can't fully distinguish between hearing Bobby and hearing himself and the result is a pavlovian response so immediate and so humiliating that BB presses his face into the pillow and breathes through cotton and prays for it to end already.

it doesn't end. it takes approximately eleven more minutes. the twin bed creaks faster. your muffled sounds get less muffled. Bobby says something (BB catches his own name on Bobby's voice, except it's not his name, it's yours, but the drawl and the register are identical) and you finish with a gasp that BB will hear in his sleep for the next three weeks.

silence after. breathing. Bobby's breathing slowing. yours slowing. the twin bed settling. and then Bobby's voice, barely a murmur, "you think he's asleep?" and your whispered "god I hope so" and BB lies facing the wall performing the steady breathing of deep sleep with dedication of someone whose life depends on it.

in the morning nobody mentions it. Bobby makes breakfast. you steal eggs off his plate. BB sits at the table and drinks his juice and doesn't look at either of you and nobody says a word about it, banter as usual, and that's that.

the apartment is better. the apartment has walls. the walls are thin but they're walls and the physical barrier helps. BB can't see anything. can't gauge distance. can only hear, and hearing is bad enough but it's better than four feet of open air and a matching twin bed.

except.

except the apartment means you stay over more. means Bobby's bedroom is fifteen feet and one sheet of drywall away. means BB hears the bedframe (a different bedframe now, queen, Bobby upgraded) creaking in a rhythm that BB's body recognises the way a musician recognises a song they've heard too many times.

means BB hears Bobby's drawl through the wall, the low rough version, the one that says things BB has never heard anyone say and the register does things to BB's nervous system that he cannot override because it's hearing himself saying those things. to you.

and BB hears you.

your laugh. that gasping laugh you do when Bobby says something funny at the wrong moment. the way your moans build. the specific pitch of your voice when you're close. higher, tighter, Bobby's name breaking apart in your mouth. BB has memorised it. against his will. through drywall and shame and months of proximity.

he tries to leave earlier. finds excuses. "I should head out" before the movie ends. "early morning" that doesn't exist. but he can't always leave. he lives here. this is his apartment too. there's only so many excuses. and some nights he's in his room and you and Bobby are in Bobby's room and the drywall is fifteen feet of nothing and the sounds come through.

and sometimes. at his most alone. at his most lonely. lying in the dark of his own room with the sounds muffled by the wall and his body rigid and aching and the shame already building before he's even started—

his hand moves.

he doesn't decide to do it. or he decides and pretends he didn't. his hand slides beneath the waistband and he's hard, he's been hard since your first moan came through the drywall, and he wraps his fingers around himself and closes his eyes and the shame is so hot it's indistinguishable from arousal.

he thinks about you.

not abstractly. specifically. he places himself in the scene on the other side of the wall. replaces Bobby with himself. same face, same hands, same body. it's not even a stretch, it's not even imagination, it's just substitution, the simplest swap, because they're identical and the only thing separating BB from the body currently making you moan is circumstance and cowardice.

he imagines his mouth where Bobby's mouth is. his hands where Bobby's hands are. his name in your throat instead of Bobby's. and he works himself with the efficiency of someone who needs this to be over as fast as possible because every second he spends in this fantasy is another second of evidence against his character.

it doesn't take long. the sounds through the wall and the image in his head and the months (years) of accumulated want converge and he comes into his own fist with his teeth buried in his lower lip to keep the sound in. to keep any sound from leaking through the wall the way yours leak through to him. the orgasm is brief, sharp and powerful, catastrophically followed by a wave of shame so total it makes his skin crawl.

he lies there. in the dark. hand still on himself. the evidence cooling on his stomach. and through the wall he can hear you laughing. that easy, warm, post-sex laugh that means Bobby said something stupid and you're happy, genuinely happy, in the arms of a boy who looks exactly like the boy lying alone fifteen feet away with cum on his hand and disgust thick in his throat.

BB cleans himself up with a t-shirt from the floor. rolls over. buries his face in the pillow. presses it down until the sounds are gone. until the laughter is smothered. until the only thing he can hear is his own breathing and the frequency of his own self-loathing.

he's twenty-two. he's never had a girlfriend. he's never been touched the way Bobby touches you. the sum total of his sexual experience is his own hand and the sounds that come through a wall and the crushing, annihilating guilt of imagining himself in his brother's place. he doesn't know what your skin feels like. he doesn't know how you kiss. he doesn't know the warmth of your body against his because his body is always cold on the other side of a wall and your warmth belongs to someone else.

someone who looks exactly like him.

someone who has his face and his hands and his mouth and uses all of them on you while BB lies in the next room and pretends to be asleep.

Bobby notices the early exits, in his delayed Bobby way. "You've been bailing early lately. Everything good?"

"Fine. Just tired."

"You're always tired."

"Fascinating observation."

Bobby looks at him. that look. the one where Bobby is trying to read BB and getting static. Bobby can read BB better than anyone in the world but even Bobby can't read this because this is the one thing BB has locked in a vault and buried at sea.

the fact that his twin brother's sex life is the most agonising thing in BB's existence. the fact that he touches himself to the sound of it and hates himself after. the fact that the face you love is his face too and he will never, ever, ever tell you.

and the worst part. the very worst part. the thing that makes this a BB problem and not just a jealousy problem:

he can't even fully separate himself from it. because it IS his face. when you moan Bobby's name through the wall, the face you're moaning for is BB's face too. when you grab Bobby's jaw and kiss him, you're grabbing BB's jaw. when you look up at Bobby with those eyes, you're looking at BB's bone structure. every single physical thing about Bobby that you find attractive is a thing BB also possesses and BB cannot escape the knowledge that you are, on a purely structural level, attracted to him. to his face. to the body he shares with the boy in the next room.

you just don't know it's him you want.

or maybe you do.

and that thought (the thought that maybe some part of you, when you're with Bobby, when Bobby's face is above you and Bobby's mouth is on you) maybe some part of you is responding to the template itself, the shared architecture, the face that belongs to both of them.

that thought is so dangerous and so intoxicating and so deeply fucked up that BB buries it as deep as it will go and never looks at it directly.

he lies in his room. in his own bed. fifteen feet and one sheet of drywall from everything he wants. and he does not think about it.

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.

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