Write in progress

It’s packed with noise and heat and song that leaks out the seams. In the blue wash of night that takes this reeking city, the windows stand square and proud. Gilded in gold. You can hear laughter, strong plucked strings of seductive music. Other, more deeply vocal noises you don’t need to guess at the nature of.

“Fuck.” You hiss.

Your stomach squirms itself in knots. Like the old ones in sailors rope, that hung off the wharf.

You turn on your heel. You pace another length down the street. Slippers cutting a path in the wet dusty dirt. Your seaweed green skirts trail in it. Blue velvet cloak hem now sodden in muck. The light rippling off it. The jewellery on your wrist, crinkles like shells colliding. Twinkling silver.

You don’t know if you can do this. Once that threshold is crossed. There’s no snatching it back. Literally.

A breeze shudders up like a hot cough from from bay. Tar, salt and wood. Fish skin and old sea-logged rope. It sweeps over you. The real true filth of this city cuts through the street, butting up against the polite boudoir imagery this place sells. The streets you crammed through, smelling like rotten meat, piss, ale, and sun baked dirt. The soiled perfume of normal life.

You turn over your shoulder. Cloak falling in your eye. Hair whipped in a curling strand over your hood. Pearl earring swaying at your neck in a heavy cold drop.

You look at the golden mouth of that doorway. The promised land. It opens to let two drunk men stumble in. From here you can see a flash of red and orange. Silks hanging up. Lewd crimson tapestries lining the halls no doubt. Bodies twisted in the fabric in sexual repose. Platters of rich fruit and deep dark cups of wine to ply the customers with.

Scent sneaks out the arched wooden doorway. You can smell it from here. Luxurious incense. Sensual jasmine and warm cedar. The air trickling with it; it is all spice, sweat and heat. You know there holds naked hot flesh, and pure debauched sin behind that door.

You look down at your hands. Bring them up from under your velvet cloak. They’re shaking. The silver band on your ring finger wobbles. Tears shiver under your eyes. Ones you’ve had to choke back for far too long.

You give yourself a breath. You yank that mocking band of silver off your hand and shove it deep in your cloak pocket. No one need know.

You’re done with being frustrated. And angry. So bitterly angry you could cleave heads off shoulders with one blow. Lash the lands like a furious tempest. All waves and decimating tides. You could drown the world with your rage. Like some ancient sea goddess walking out the waves with desolation to hand.

You were through with feeling like a second choice in your own halls. Your halls. Your bed. Your name dragged through the silt to be laughed at. Passed over in favour of younger, perkier girls. All swaying silk dresses, and easy trite smiles.

You were of House Velaryon. Old, rich stock. Fine blue blood in your veins as ancient as foam whipped off the seas. You were a daughter of Driftmark, and its salt-bred tides wrapped your bones.

Your marriage was as cold and loveless as the deep black seabed. It had started off in fondness. You tolerated one another. Bedded when you needed too. Soon, it ran dry. Became about making the motions and nothing else. Worst of all, your womb remained empty. That was when his eye began to wander—

You suffered blow after blow of humiliation. Watching your husband openly flaunt his dalliances. Indiscreet affairs held right under your nose.

Then you’d received word, a mere day ago, a nasty sneer caught out the side of a maids mouth, that one of your husbands mistresses, had fallen with child.

That is what had driven you here. The grain of sand that tipped the scales.

You’d heard tale this pleasure house before you, was the finest there was in all of Westeros. All types of variety, and flesh of every kind on offer.

Your husband had been the one to break your wedding vows.

Now, you intend to finish the job and shatter them to dust.

Scatter the ashes in the wind and laugh as it slips through your fingers like white sand.

You march on up to that door. You take the worn iron handle, and you twist it and push inside. Heat rushes to meet you.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

The walls inside pulse red like spilled blood. Cut veins. Heavy and close. The ceilings shiver with hung silks and bulging arcs of fabric. Iron lanterns frame golden light in squares. Throwing dozy red pools over your skin, when you push your hood back.

Men and women revel around you. Romping. Naked, some dressed, some merely rumpled. Slumped on low plump chaises, bolster cushions stuffed and spilling over the tiled floor. Some are pleasuring their guests. Some are being pleasured right in the open.

Candles are crammed on every surface. Flicking upward light like dragon tongues. The sides of the room is lined to with people, and antiques from far flung corners of the lands. Frescoes of naked men and women frolic in chalky paint across the dim walls. Red grapes and cut pomegranates are piled in bowls like molehills, off a low placed table. Glistening like rubies.

You see men half undressed, aswell as women. Bodies glisten with chains and jewels. Looped down manly naked shoulder blades. Coral red beads or orange silk shawls draped over bared breasts. Laughter and jasmine clots the air, along with music threading its notes from somewhere hidden.

Everywhere you look; the choice is endless. Dark haired man. Petite white haired woman with skin so beautifully dark it drank the light. Tall pale redhead. Paler than moon. Strong tan thighs. Arms bulging with hair and muscle. Curvy hips. You can scarce breathe with the sensuality of it all.

One woman breaks from her silk draped doorway. Cocks a hip. Flaunts herself in your path as easy as a summer breeze.

She’s barefoot. Ankles ringed in gold bangles. Her hair raven black, down to her waist. Eyes were so green it was striking. She’s naked with a mulberry brocade robe lapping open at her sides. Her nipples flash in the light. Perked and pierced with gold.

She sizes you up with a flick of her lashes. Goblet in one hand. Tilting her head cool and easy. Taking the measure of your noble posture and regal clothes.

“May I help you, precious?” She purrs. Accent landing somewhere between Tyrosh and Myr.

You look at her. Wet your lips. She looks like a rippling pantheress made flesh. It made you seize up.

“I’m looking for- someone.”

“We have many someone’s here.” She tells you plain. Eyes narrowing to see if you were worthy of her time.

“I need uh… A man.”

She smiles down at you. Eyes dipping low. Trying to make you out under all that swathing velvet. Pretty. Veiled. Posture stiff. Noble blood.

“Any particular sort?”

She sweeps her arm across the room. “We have big, slim, short, tall. Well-hung. Average. Pretty men. Handsome men. I have some who want bruises and punishment. And some who’ll beg and whine for your cunt and your pleasure. Name your price and your type. Precious.”

You reach in your cloak. Withdraw a sizeable pouch. The stags within clink. Her grin glistens with red wine and hunger.

“No expense spared.” You state. Hopeful.

She looks voracious.

“Hmm for that? You get my top boys. I have someone very good. A little older. But very wild. Dark haired devil. He’s one of my best. Will tongue fuck you to tears, and pound you like a bull til dawn.”

“I just want someone…” the words turn to sand in your tongue. You swallow and it clicks down your throat.

“I want kind. Someone soft. Who’ll treat me gently. Not see me as something to use up, and discard.”

Saying it hurt more than you thought. Tears threaten your eyes again.

Her grin curls on one side. “I understand. Precious. Do you care about his… size?” She arched a brow.

You shrug modestly. Clinging your hands together. “I suppose not.”

She chuckles. It’s warm as drizzled honey.

“Come. I have just the man for you.”

The room she leads you too is empty. But the evidence of whose been before you makes you sweat under your dress. Rumpled bed. Perfume in the air like a living ghost.

“Wait here. Precious. My Duncan will be with you shortly. I’m sure you’ll enjoy him.” She closes the door with her laugh sliding in the gap. Your coin in her hand.

You stand at the threshold. Moving in slow like you’d be told off for lingering.

This room was bigger that that red den downstairs. The walls no less oppressive. Slaked in russets and oranges. A palatial bed takes up the centre of the room. Purple sheer curtains hide the rumpled, crushed blankets. Copper silk bolsters and blue linens. Feather mattress no doubt.

Wine and more fresh fruit lay to one side. A carafe of red. A golden platter of honey drenched, sticky figs lay in a circle. The house pulses sound around you. Moans of all kinds bat at the doors. The creak of a bed repeatedly hitting a wall.

You spy the window. Covered with a misty blue curtain and a patterned wood shutter. Pinpricks of light burst across the cloth like freckles. You draw it aside. Feel the cool night air sighing in, brushing along your skin like a lover-

“My lady.” Comes a honeyed dulcet from behind you. Accent soft at the edges like it’s been sanded round.

You spin. Caught. A gasp leaving your lips. And when you see the man filling the doorway; your mouth stays hung open like a sea cave.

He wasn’t just man. He was entirely too much, man.

He was four heads taller than you at the least. Wide shoulders like a sturdy Ox. all muscle and rippling with power. But softened in places. A giving pouch of a stomach. Healthy cover of large pecs. Thighs that look as solid as ancient tree trunks in the godswood.

He’s wearing a navy robe. Thin gauze. His pale skin shimmers under the chiffon cloth. He’s recently bathed. Oil seeps a rich, thick scent off him. Verdant vertiver and cedar.

His body was like carved marble, but his face is where you get stuck.

He even looks kind.

Eyes blue as the narrow sea from your bedroom window. A noble jaw. Fine blade of a nose. Hair worn long to his shoulders. Copper-blond in the dim light. A smile that was rugged and warm, white teeth imperfect and a little crooked. But it added to his rough hewn charm.

His smile quirks at the corner with catching you off-guard. “Apologies. Didn’t want to startle you.”

You fidget with your hands. “Forgive me. I’m not usually one for being skittish, but I’m not used to-“

You turn to the room. Making a broad gesture to that truly, huge slab of a bed. Incense trails a sickly smoky path up into the corner of the ceiling. Candle flames snap on every surface. Moans skate across the walls from other rooms. Some high and violent shouts. Others more grunting and low.

You suddenly note how many large mirrors frame the walls. Inbetween the blue tapestries of writhing bodies and naked figures. It makes those rope knots in your stomach tug again. This entire place is made to sell and shout about sex. In a way you’ve been taught was not proper.

He smiles. A breathy laugh. He finishes your words for you.

“But you don’t frequent whore houses very often. That’s alright.” He soothes.

Coming in properly. Gently shutting the door behind him. Blocking out everything else. Tapering your time and attention down to him.

“I may be big, but I promise you I’m not a brute. Why don’t we have some wine. My lady- if you’d like.” He urges. Gentle as if he was calming a wild, thrashing horse.

“Very much. Yes. Please.” You swallow. Noticing your dry mouth and throat.

You flicker a weak smile his way. Wanting to curse yourself for how foolish you’re appearing.

You watch him move to the side. The low table where the fruit is. A wall of his fragrance smacks you as he moves past. Woodsy and fresh green. Like new sapling oak trees.

He pours you both a cup of wine. The goblets cold to the touch. Carved of intricate metal. A soft silence descends as you both sip. Flood sweet, heady red on your tongues.

He seats himself on the bed. You remain stood. He casually lets his eyes find you. Still garbed up like you were expecting to catch a chill.

“It’s warm in here. You can loosen your cloak if you like. No rush though if you’re not ready. Take all the time with me you need.”

“Don’t imagine your mistress would be too pleased with me taking up your whole night.”

You deprecate yourself. Looking to the expensive rugs on the floor cause you can’t believe how soft his eyes are.

“You paid good coin for me. I’ll not see you dissatisfied. She wouldn’t care for that either. Our reputations here make her a rich, powerful woman. That relys on keeping our clients happy and safe. Unless they pay to feel otherwise.”

You look over at him. He’s so sincere. Blue eyes blazing at you.

You were rather warm. You’re sure for a trade that required naked skin, the rooms had to be kept a decent temperature.

You slip your fingers for the pearl clasp of your cloak. Let it fall from your shoulders. Shimmering velvet. Like waves falling down your body.

His eyes take you in. Slowly. Without making you feel less. Or dissected.

He sees more of the shape of your delightful figure under the plain cascade of silk. The bell sleeves were long and framed your slender arms and hands. It hugged your waist and flared at your hips.

The neckline just kissed your shoulders. The way mist draped the sea on cold mornings. There’s no overdone embroidery. No fripperies or fuss. Just silver at your wrists, throat, and fingers. A lariat necklace wedged with sapphires draped down your throat. Curls of patterns that seem like shells on the metal. More pearls clasped around the design. Draping off your small hands too.

You look like some soft, sacred thing, dredged with care out of the sea. Wrapped in clinging weeds and sand. Like a salt crusted pearl. A goddess reborn. A precious treasure tucked inside a shell. Something special.

You retake your goblet. Another inch bared. Slow progress.

“I’m not here to shame you into doing something if you’re scared. If you’ve changed your mind, you’ll have your coin back. Every one. And I’ll walk you to the door myself. My lady. No harm in it.”

You open your mouth. But no sound comes out.

An honest whore who won’t take your coin regardless- how refreshing.

The oddest feeling squirms within you. Unsettled and sharp. Something your tide-worthy bones can’t meld well with. Defeat.

You answer him in kind. You stand your wine down. Wet your dry lips. You cross to stand before him. Hands fussing with your pearl rings. “Can I be honest?”

“I encourage it. Yes.” He nods. Sweet as sugar, and so calming.

“It’s a betrayal that has led me to your door tonight. A humiliating hurt so deep I scarce know what to do with it. Still don’t. But all I know is, I am so sick and tired of being frustrated, and alone and feeling second choice. I wanted someone to look at me. And see someone worth looking at. Not to be glanced over.”

The words sting as they leave your tongue. Your courage torn to strips. It hits deep in your chest like an arrowhead. The truth. You are of no consequence. You are unloved.

You don’t want to be alone. Not again. Not tonight.

A sombre expression takes his face as he sips the wine.

“Your husband?” He checks when he lowers his cup. Voice dipping into a darker tone.

Your heart knocks into your ribs. “How did you-“

“Sweet thing. I’ve been in this business a long time. I know a lot more than you’d think. You’d be shocked how many wives we get come in here.”

“Don’t know whether to find that reassuring or awful.” You concede.

“I understand your reticence. You never thought you’d find yourself seeking a whore for the night.”

“I’m coming to learn that life deals us all sorts of unpleasant hands at times. I’m trying to make peace with that.” You tell him. “It’s not going very well.” You jape. Voice watery.

“Gods. Listen to me-“ you curse yourself. Hand pressing to your brow. “I pay for your services, and end up boring you to tears.”

Is it any wonder you’re alone. You soft, sea foam fool.

“I’m not bored.” He assures. Eyes melting into yours.

“Then that either makes you the kindest soul alive. Or an incredibly good liar.”

“I don’t lie.” He tilts his head at you. “Lying is a filthy sin.”

You smile. Urge yourself to walk over. Linger closer to him.

“Devout are you?” You check. Arms crossed over your belly.

“I think you’ll find lots of cries for gods to be found within these walls.” He flirts.

You start to smile. “I imagine so. The size of you…”

You let your eyes fall for the first time at his lap. Piles of fabric bunched there. Wrinkled blue gauzy cloth that did nothing to hide the sheer weight of the cock that rests against his thigh. He’s big everywhere.

“Don’t have to be shy. My lady. I can disrobe for you. All you need do is say the word.”

That snaps something in you. Breaks the brittle fraying rope of your patience. You lean over and cup one side of that handsome, strong face.

Then you sway down and slant your lips over his.

The kiss is hurried. Pushed on him. Yet he melts to it. Smile tracing yours.

When you pull away, startled by your own brazenness. Breathing against his lips. Dry and hot. He tastes like deep red wine. “Forgive me- I didn’t ask if you were allowed to uh, kiss.”

He smiles. Huge hand cupping your face. Strokes your hair out the way of your cheek. “You’re allowed to do whatever you like with me-“

“That’s dangerous.” You smile gently. He feel like hes won something seeing that.

“Yes it is.” He smiles back like sin. “May I touch you properly? Let me taste those pretty lips again.”

You’re dumbstruck. You nod.

His hand lands soft on your waist. Respectfully. Covers the whole dip of it. Feeling along the fine silk of your dress. The flare of hip. The skimming arch of a rib.

He rises slowly from the bed. Stands his wine down. Your hands splay to his chest. Gauzy chiffon and heat of him blossoming under your touch. Gold gems inlaid with blue. Glittering and laying over the hollow at the base of his throat. Chains so fine and dainty it looked like liquid gold poured over his pale skin.

One hand stays to your waist. The other dances soft patterns on the nape of your neck. Your curling hair cupped to his palm. He has to bend down to kiss you- but he finds the reward to be well worth the sacrifice in height.

“I never asked your name.” You whisper before his kiss landed. Mortified that the lightning strike of lust in seeing him has stripped you of all your good courtesy and sense.

“It’s Duncan. Sweetness.” He offers. Thumb swiping over the back of your neck.

“Duncan.” You whisper. Treating his name like prayer. Maybe he’ll make a devout of you too.

His mouth softly finds yours again. Puts his lips on yours so gently, it makes you sigh. He wraps you up in his big arms. Makes you see stars. Your tongue feels drunk and clumsy, falling against his.

Your heart sighs against your ribs. This is what being held and cherished truly felt like. To be wrapped in the arms of a lover, who treated you like a man who’d seen shore after years at sea. Someone who saw you. And didn’t dare look away-

The kiss turns intense. Teeth and passion. You let yourself arch to his arms. They band around you. You’ve never felt safer.

He held you the way the tide did when you swam in High Tide’s beaches as a child. Suspended and utterly caught. Nothing had ever held you as sweetly as this.

His arm is around your back. A solid band of muscle. You feel the heat of him even though your simple silk.

“Would you undo my laces.” You ask against his spit wet mouth. Hot warm lips searching for you when you pull back.

“Turn around.” He answers. Softer than sand.

You spin to him. You trust him. His hands graze your hips. Seeking upwards. Finding the small laces that ran down your neck. He deftly weaves them free. Gets you down to your stays and shift. The laces on your whalebone stays he also undoes. At your bidding.

His hands pause on the straps of your shift clasped off your shoulders when you’re down to that final layer. Breath coming fanned hot over your ear. “May I, my lady?”

“Yes.” You breathe. It hitched when you feel the linen open, falling down to your hips. He pushes it free. Big hot hands falling gently on your waist when he was done.

You moan when you feel his lips descend for your shoulder. Eyes closing and mouth open like you’re praying when he kisses the slender crook from neck to shoulder bone.

“I wish to look at you. Sweetness. Turn for me.”

You work up the bravery to spin back and stand before him. In naught but your skin and your jewels. The pearls and gems rest at your sternum. Hanging between your breasts.

Your hair he takes the careful time to shift and arrange off your shoulders, spilling it down your back. Looking at your eyes rather than your pebbled nipples, or what lay between your legs.

“You’re beautiful.” He hushes. Softly the words bloom between you. You could curl sated around those words forever from his gentle mouth.

You can’t recall the last time someone called you that.

You tuck your fingers at his chest. Just under the neckline of his own gown. He’s gazing at you with such heat in those eyes know you know what blue flame feels like. It’s jarring.

He smiles like he’s been waiting for you to ask this of him. Those big fingers undo the flimsy tie slung low about his waist. He shrugs the material off and down his shoulders. Drops it to the floor at his heels. The sheer enormity of those shoulders and that chest comes free.

He must have oiled from a bath. Because the sheer amount of heat and perfume rising from his skin makes you near dizzy.

You look at his muscular chest. Wide as a wall. Packed with muscle and a healthy layer of weight. Your fingertips cross down over his pectoral to his nipple. The wide flat disc a pale pink in the light. Freckles and dusky copper hair catches the light in a fine dusting. He sighs with delight at your hands on him.

“You are beautiful too. Not worth the insulting title of a whore. Duncan.” You tell him.

When your eyes sink to his ribs. His belly. And then below, your mouth really does drop. Something that could shame a horse hangs between his legs. A thick column of a cock. Ruddy and flushed. Resting against huge thighs.

No doubt about it. He was much larger than your husband. In a way that made your throat dry and your cunt clench.

“Flattery gets you all sorts of places with me.” He grins. Unashamed. Yet the slightest tinge of a blush takes his cheeks.

How sweet that is, a man who sins and fucks for a living. And he preens and blushes at your kind words. Capturing you in his hold. Palms skimming down your back. Over your hips to grab your ass.

“Come to the bed.” He poses it as a question. Not a certainty. “If you’re ready-“

You take the hand he offers. He walks you to it. Let’s you place yourself down on the covers. Where you sit, blooms up the scent of cotton. Warmed by sun and kissed with the oaky scent of his skin and sweat.

“It’s been some time. I-“ You do try and get the words out but they lodge in your neck like pebbles. “We haven’t. I haven’t been bedded, in some, many, months.”

He crouches before you. Brushes his fingers to your jaw. Tilts it up to make you look at him. Fingers mapping your skin like he was touching something sacred in a Sept.

He looked almost pained for you. Brows dipping in the middle in a frown. “None of that. I’m not taking you yet. We’ve got other things to do first.”

Your face is a pretty, confused picture. Your hand comes to circle at his huge, thick wrist. Eyes gleaming in the candle light like coins.

“First off. You’re going to cum on my tongue. Sweetness.” He promises like it’s nothing. “Because I never take a woman until I’ve make her cum at least once. That is my only rule.”

It tips your stomach upside down and inside out to hear the words spoken so plainly. “Oh.”

“Only if it pleases. My lady.” He soothes. Happily. “Lay on your back for me.”

You kiss him again. Hands digging fingers in his neck. Lips joined again. He tips you back. Hand spread huge on your ribs. Your spine meets the soft cottons and silks rumpled below you. All you can focus on is the blissful, warm tenderness of his mouth.

Your arms come up to cross at his neck. Resting at his shoulders. His body is as massive and as heavy as he appears. But he’s keeping his weight off you. Kissing your lips numb with delicate skill. Tongue tangled with your own.

His hand moves - slow as honey. Melts across your stomach. Down your navel. Taking great care to pet through the thatch of curls at your cunt.

You breathe shakily into his lips when his fingertips drape a little lower. Catching the wetness of your pussy.

“Can you spread your thighs- I’ll need the room.” He urges.

You do as he says. Watching as he lowers his mouth to your neck again. To suck wet spots under your ear that turn into wet shapes. He trails his nose over your skin.

“You smell divine.” He mumbles. “Heavenly. Like the sea has worked its way into your skin.”

It made him think of a windswept shore. Dune grass ruffled in the breeze. Air alive with the scent of salt, and a mineral rich ocean, abutted with rugged cliffs.

You close your eyes and let yourself fully get lost in the sensation of his mouth closing over your nipple. The warm strike of his tongue that makes your hips twitch and your body arch to him.

He lavishes attention on your breasts. Until they feel aching. Tumbling into his mouth and every suck undoes more of your reticence. By the time he makes it to your belly. Nose grazing your stomach. Your fingers are twisted deep in that copper hair.

Your legs lay wide and open for him. His hands frame your thighs. Nipples aching and wet exposed to the smoky jasmine air.

“Anyone ever eaten your cunt before, sweetness?” He seeks.

You hold his gaze. “No.” You feel shame wash your cheeks and chest.

“Then I’m glad to be your first. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve the honour of such a perfect cunt as this.” He tilts his head looking down as two fingertips push through the wetness that seeps from you.

His fingers circle your clit. A little swirl that pressed back into your body. It made you groan. Sudden and sharp- eyes threatening to roll back.

“You’ve touched yourself I take it?”

“Sometimes.” You tell.

Because you had. On nights when your cold empty bed mocked you. When that ache cradled between your hip bones started to drive you mad. When you needed something stronger than wine to take the edge off. Then. You did sink your fingers between your legs and try to place yourself elsewhere.

Pain was more your lot than pleasure. When you had to hear the offending grunts and wet slaps of your husband roughly using one of the maids, out in the shadowed alcoves when he thought you were long abed. Her squawks twinned with his hog-like sounds. Then his footsteps when he walks right past your door groaning in satisfaction. Belt buckle jangling.

The silence afterwards made a fool of you. The slam of his bedchamber door. You fell asleep tear stained and empty more often than you ever did wet and truly sated.

“Let me get rid of those pesky fears. Sweetness. I can’t wait to bury my tongue in you any longer.”

He lays his mouth to your cunt. Broad, long strokes with the flat of his tongue to spread you open. Delves his tongue right inside you as you cry above him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He gets his face right into your pussy. Everything gets involved. Chin. Lips. Cheeks. No place untouched.

You can’t help it. You arch. You whine his name so loud you’re sure it makes it though the walls. Sweat builds on your brow and at the dip of your lower back. All you can feel is his wet mouth as he slurps. You near nothing but the laps and sucks as he makes vivid, fierce love to your cunt with his tongue.

You rut your hips. Unintentionally sliding yourself across his lips. He lets you. He knows you need to find your rhythm. Smiles when he sees how you’re throwing your head back. Hand a vice in his long soft hair already. Strands viced like copper wheat in your fingers.

“Oh, Duncan-“ You sigh. When his lips close in a suck over your clit, you lose your mind. Eyes flick back in your skull. Body limp. He directs your hips with his hands. Takes them both and smears his mouth to you again and again. Groaning in satisfaction.

He lashes his tongue. He swirls. He suckles and licks. A heady pulse begins to push up in your lower stomach. Bliss unfurls through you in incredible waves. Each one batters through and leaves you stunned. One hand slides up your body and tests with holding one of your breasts as he feasts down below. You whimper with the sensation. He catches your nipple with clever swipe of his tongue.

He presses one thigh to the bed. Baring you open wider as the pleasure reaches such an intense peak you hardly know what to do. You want to shuffle away because it’s too much. The threatening edge of it is so great. You feel it will swallow you whole - just like he is.

The pleasure crests and breaks. You cum with his tongue struck deep in you, his nose pressing your clit. Watching up your body as you writhed. Slick with sweat. Your release throbbing, fluttering around the push of his tongue as you ascend from the high of your orgasm.

You pant hard to catch your breath. Tits swelling and falling on your heaving chest. Eyes glazed. Mouth loose and open. His name dried on your tongue in bliss.

He licks his lips. Takes his face out from your pussy. Soothingly drags a thumb over one hipbone. “You looked like you needed that.” He decided cleverly.

You can scarce unstick your tongue from your mouth to answer. “I- gods.”

“Don’t be sinning on me now.” He teases. Pressing an indulgent kiss to your stomach. Hovering over you still.

You look up. Taking in his state. He looks composed and sweetly serene. Even with your wetness shining well over his mouth and cheeks. When you drop your eyes, you see the huge state of him. Leaking and hard. Flushed bright red at the head. Clear fluid sliding down in trails to his heavy sac.

You swallow. “Will you- fuck me?”

“I’ve an idea.” He insists.

He climbs back and sits up on the edge of bed. Encourages you to climb in his lap. His cock looks insultingly big thrusted up straight and true from his groin.

He takes your hand and moves you to be closer. Gets your waist ringed in his big hands. Settles you over him. You whine when his cock brushes your pussy. You answer with a needy clench. Knowing exactly where you next need him.

He cups under your jaw. Thumb along your jawline. Sweat wicking along his skin and yours. Melting together. Your breasts pushed to his chest.

“Will you have me like this? Some prefer to be on their hands and knees. Safer not to look. Easier to take when you can’t fret over how big I am.”

“Like this. Please-“ your hands are on his cheeks. In his hair.

You can’t bear to have him anywhere but right here with you. The closeness enough to intoxicate. His scent. His sweat. The sear of his hot skin. Your arms wind around his neck. Thighs spread wide enough to hurt, over his.

“We go at this slowly.” He tells. “I don’t want to hurt you. You keep eyes on me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Grabbing his heavy cock at the base. He gets you placed over it. Up on your knees. Stabbing kneecaps into the soft sheets.

“There you go, sweetness.” He breathes. Watching your mouth drop open.

He breaches you slowly as promised. Your cunt splitting over the thick girth. He lowers you gently. Hands vicing your. Elbows braced on his sweaty shoulders. His hands all over you.

He breathes, open mouthed at the feel of your clamping down on him. Made his eyes flutter. Taking in the pretty sight of you in his lap, pussy dripping like heaven down his cock. Ass meeting the muscled columns of his thighs. He feels how tensed you are.

“Easy.” He slides his mouth to yours. Takes your mind completely with a kiss that stuns. Sinks you lower and lower down on him.

You cry out when you finally settle fully onto him. Cunt pulsing so tight it makes him choke. Gods, you were tight. Warm and grabbing him tight like wet silk. He knows it can be a lot after a while without this kind of penetration.

You push your forehead to his. Moaning into his lips when his cockhead curves a spot inside that made you come alive. More alive than you had been in months. You buck in his hold. He’s there to keep you steady.

“There it is. My sweet. That’s the spot I’m going to fuck. It’s gonna make you cry out for me. Again and again.” He promises.

“So good. Fuck. So much-“ you mumble. Panting. Love drunk against his lips. Your hips ache from the strain already. But you’d sooner die than pull off him.

He scoops his fingers under your ass. Grabs you and guides the pace. Drops and lifts you off his cock in a pattern that gets you gasping. Clit grinding on the downstroke against the wiry bush of curls at the base of him. He likes how he can feel you pulse over him.

You raise up a little on your knees. Desperate to keep the pace he’s set. Breasts starting to bounce. Hands digging for his shoulders. Nails punched with his sweat.

The jewels at his throat shimmer and wink at you. He lowers loses his mouth in your bouncing tits. Licks the sweat and salt of the sea off you. You whine. Pitchy and high.

Face screwed up in sheer pleasure. Mouth dropped wide. He takes the opportunity to shove his tongue into your mouth. Suck at your own tongue and swallow a moan. Eat it off you.

You hum his name. Desperately cupping his face. Right there in the moment with him. Pleasure biting at your heels. Chasing and rocking the same obliterating goal. Your teeth meet messily in the fierce kiss.

His hips starts to push to yours. Riding together.

“Cum for me sweetness. Let go. Take what he never gives you. Take every bit and know you deserve it. Gorgeous girl.” He soothes.

Kissing his way to your ear. Chin lost in your neck. Hand up your back as you wrap yourselves in the other like a warm cloak.

Your eyes tremble with tears. “Duncan.” The sheer weight of the admission sinking into your skin. You tremble in his hold like a leaf.

“I’m right here.” He whispers. Lips searching for yours. Big hand cupping the back of your neck. Hair sticking to his sweaty palm. “Focus on me. Let it all melt away.” He urges.

He takes the lead to get you there. Drills his hips up into you with savage rhythm to punch his cock to you again and again. A bruising pace. Yet, it’s exactly what you need. What you’ve needed for months. He fucks the moans right out your mouth and into his.

Your whines climb higher and higher. Voice raw and hoarse. His name entwined with the gods. Nails in his scalp. Head tipped back to the heavens.

He fucks you hard and fast enough to summon a shout from your mouth. The enormity of the feelings moving through you is terrifying. It starts in your lower back. Sweeps for your calves. Up your thighs. Bursts open in your stomach and takes the rest of you sweeping with it. You shake. You cry. You can’t believe how right it feels.

You sag to his body. Let him use you however he needs. Clutching on the for the ride as the shocks and crests bleed into perfect bliss. Shattering on the rocks like a wave. Dispersing to the sea again when it’s done.

Your hand sinks to the damp hair at the back of his neck. Fingers clutching. He spills to you. Deep and hard with his hips jerking and twitching to your own.

You feel wickedly delighted by feeling the hot, steady splash of him inside you. It feels good. Like you’ve rectified a wrong gone long unpunished. The realisation of it makes a fierce thrum of passion plough through your chest.

He pants and cradles you to his lap. Fingers dimpling into your ass. Sweat beading his brow as you writhe and feed each other the high with the last little shocks of climax. Rutting and rubbing hot, fevered skin.

You delight in seeing a blush climbing its way uo his neck and chest. Settling at the base of that gold necklace of his. Your release slicks you together where your joined. You drip even more now.

You sigh for him. High and airy. Happy.

“You are divine.” You rasp. You feel like you near bit your tongue in half when you came.

He breathes a satisfied smile. Cheeks red hot. Contrasting to his gold red hair. “As are you.”

He traps you into a lippy, slow kiss. Tasting of the musk of you, wine and sweat. “That husband of yours is a fucking fool. Sweetness.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You agree entirely. Instead, drag your fingers down the thatch of slight hair at his chest. Golden fuzz in the light. His sweat sinks into your fingertips.

The haze slips away. Like a sea breeze twisting through your fingers. You have to let it pass- clammy coolness takes your skin. Now you must redress, and leave his embrace.

He makes a face as you pull back from his chest. Take your hands off him. Shift in his lap. Softening cock feeling big inside you still.

“You probably have a whole queue of other clients to see. I should go-“ you decide softly.

“You don’t get to leave that easy. Stay a minute. Come back to yourself. Have some more wine and then find your clothes. Besides. I have some tea for you to take. To ensure no, accidents occur.” He strokes his thumb across your chin.

His huge paw of a hand comes up to stroke the back of your sweat-licked hair. He leans to presses a warm kiss to your brow. Gently helps you manoeuvre off him, on legs that shake and knock like a newborn fawn.

He sets you back on the covers. Twists to find his robe. Ties it loosely around his body again. But it honestly, it is no good. Now you know how delicious that body is, your eyes roam every inch as he crosses to the far side.

Past the huge copper bathing tub that could seat five. You think you can guess as to why. He could comfortably host an orgy in these rooms. The bed could sleep ten if needed. You watch his wide back, he pours something into a wooden cup. It steams and swirls.

You’re clutching the bedsheets to your cooling skin when he comes back. Raking your fingers through all the knots in your wild hair.

He passes you the cup. “Drink all of it. And another pouch for you to take home, to have tomorrow. Just to be sure.” He winks at you.

You sip the tea. It’s almost minty and sharply herbal. Not unpleasant. But you’d rather have more wine. He knows. Smiles as he passes you your cup of wine to wash it down with when you’re done. A better taste left on your tongue.

He cleans you when you rise from the bed. On one knee with a warm wet cloth that smelt like roses. Taking the salty leak of his spend from between your legs. Naughtily sinks his face in and kisses your curly mound when he’s done. Looking up at you with a wide smile when you gasp.

He rises to full height. Helps you pull on your clothes with plenty of kisses dropped on your naked skin. Some to make you squirm. Others make you moan. All of his attentiveness makes you smile.

Moneys worth and then some. He was worth his weight in gold.

You find a purpling bruise on the crook of his neck. Vicious purple. Marked with teeth. “I apologise.” You frown as you find it. “I didn’t realise I’d been so rough with you.”

It makes him smirk. “No. No. Sweetness. That wasn’t you. Don’t worry. That was-

He’s just helping loop your dress up over your hips, when the door swings open with a heady whine. It makes you jump. Shying away. The illusion of the peaceful utopia you’d built together, exposed.

It makes Duncan frown. Draws you into his arms. Keeps you out of sight of the door. With the shield of his own body. His jaw grits. He’s ready to snap in anger at whoever it was. “Close the door won’t you. For fucks sake-“

You brave a glimpse over your shoulder. Spy the man whose filling the doorway like he could woo the wooden frame it’s in.

From the looks of him; you believe every inch of that.

“Apologies lover. Figured you’d be finished by now. Heard you had a sweet morsel in here.” Comes the low drawl of a voice, that only knows how to seduce.

Deep and playful. The way a panthers tail curls when it walks. Easy seductive grace. That’s what this dark man made you think of;

He’s shorter than Duncan - but that’s not a surprise. There’s not many men that could match his height. But he’s tall and still broad enough to swoon at.

His skin is gloriously tanned. Hair a dark cloud of raven-silver on his head. You would say halo, but the devilish nature of his smile entirely belied any saintly imagery.

There are big orange gems laid in gold, circling over his neck. And naked chest. Pearls too. Draped across his shoulders like he’s bathed in the stars. He’s covered in jewels and gold, that click and rock when he moves. Gold thick cuffs on his wrists. Bangles. Earrings dangle to his shoulders. One a fat purple gem shaped like a teardrop. The other is a pearl the size of an olive.

Hoops punched through the tops of his ears. More cuffed around his bulging upper arms. His fingers drip in rings too. Every thick one adorned. Gems and jewels thrown across every inch of his skin, like he’s a treasure in his own right.

Your mouth dried out when you see he also has gold rings forming little circles at his nipples. A chain webs across and over his shoulders joining them together. It jangles when he moved.

He’s holding a wine glass down by his thigh. Near empty. His chest hair is matted and grazed with sweat. Scratches are raked over his shoulders. Punctured in his sides. He looks like he’s been thoroughly, viciously mauled, and laughed right through every second.

A golden cloth, like the heart of the sun, similar in thin nature to dunks gown, is tied around his hipbones. Dipping scandalously low. A pelt of dark hair carpets his chest. Bolted with silver and ink. That same colouring leads in a happy trail down his belly below where the fabric ends.

He has red scratches scored on his chest. Neck covered in mouth shaped bruises like red and black love hearts on his skin.

His eyes are dark, glittering. Black as beetles wings. And they settle on the sight of you circled in Duncan’s arms, with predatory intensity. His grin slopes wider across those kiss-bruised lips.

“My, my. Aren’t you a delectable one.” He leers.

Smoothly invites himself in and prowls to where you’re stood. Smoothing your dress over your shoulders again. Even clothed, his grin makes you feel utterly naked.

You come to realise, this man is all mouth. He runs loudly. As loudly as the rest of him, which is screaming with the weight of shiny jewels and gold.

“Usually I don’t much care who takes up their time with my husband. But I’m sorry to have missed you.”

That word catches you upside the head like an arrow. Husband.

“Husband?” You twist in Duncan’s arms. Peering up at him. Eyes wide.

Duncan nods. Smiling down at you. “You didn’t give me that bruise. Sweetness. That was this one-“ he jerks his head to the other man.

“As you can see, he’s got quite a mouth on him.”

He eyes over at the other man with daggers. “Do you have to be so coarse? Lyonel? Some days I swear. You behave like the arse end of a mule.”

The man blows Duncan a kiss. Leans up and seals the deal. Pecks a lippy kiss on the side of his face. Enough to make him wash pink with a blush.

“Your mule. Lover. But hung like a fucking stallion might I add.” He sticks his tongue though his teeth and grins. Catches your eye.

Duncan’s huge hands slip your cloak back up your shoulders. Fastens the pearl clasp together. He brushed a hand lovingly over the back of your hair.

“See you to the door, sweetness?” Duncan asks.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be fine.” You insist.

Lyonel scans you from head to toe. Oh yes. Your cheeks blazing with the glimmer of sweat. Glistening with joy, like a woman whose been properly, thoroughly, pounded.

Lyonel catches your hand before you can slink away. Reels you in with it. Folds your cloak out his path. Leans down and kisses your knuckles. Looks deep into your eyes with a spine-melting grin.

“Look at you. Gods. You’re fucking delectable. Ask for me next time. Won’t you?”

You don’t know how to look away. He’s hypnotising.

You swallow. Nervous. Withering under his intense gaze. “What makes you think I’m coming back?” You fluster.

He chuckles. Grin a bright flash. It’s the most dark and delicious sound you’ve ever heard.

“Trust me. Not many like my Duncan. Pet. You’ll be back.” He winks.

LYONELS PART COMING NEXT—

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The unknown voice caused Maekar's head to over meeting your eyes. Your brows were furrowed a slight frown that looked out of place on your beautiful face, "What?" he asked, but it sounded more breathy then he had intended.

You laughed slightly, and the sound stored itself deep into his chest. "I take it you do not like feasts," you said, gesturing around to the loud celebration for King's five and fiftieth name day, most were sure it would be the last causing it to be over the top. "Though I hear from others the frown is a permanent fixture of your face."

"Do you always approach random men and insult them?" he questioned dryly, rolling his eyes, but secretly waiting to see her reaction.

To his uttermost glee, she laughed. Loud and full of life, and it caused a warmth to spread through him.

"Only the handsome ones," you replied, without missing a beat your grin widening even further to which he did not know was even possible.

"Are you always this insolent?" he asked, but his voice lacked any bite. He was enjoying this far more than he would like to admit. Enjoying you.

"Depends who you ask. Though I am sure my father would agree with you."

He nodded, "And who is your father I would like to consult him?"

"Lord Tyrell," you said nodding over to the man himself who seemed to be talking to his eldest brother.

Ah. The Green dress should have been an indicator, but he was too distracted by the sweet smile on your face rather than the silk you wore. He stared at you for a moment, and then he realized he had been staring for some time causing a red blush to spread across his cheeks.

He was thankful for his bearded cheeks covering most of the sight. He merely grunted in reply, and your bright smile faded slightly. He instantly felt his stomach dropping, wanting nothing more than to bring the sight back.

He wanted…needed to see you smile once more. To hear your laughter fill the air once more to bring the warmth back into his body. To lost in his own thoughts he was unaware of the fact that in his silence his expression had turned to a stern expression settled on you.

You rocked back and forth slightly on your feet, "If you wish for me to leave I can return back to his side," you prompted, causing his sharp gaze to snap back toward you once more.

His mouth opened and closed slightly, "Uh…no," he seemed to have surprised himself with his own words, "You are not a bother."

Your teeth flashed at him once more, your smile returning to your face, "You do not seem so sure about that."

"I am not…Only time can tell if you will annoy me or not," he replied, rolling his eyes once more, to which caused you to laugh.

"Mayhaps you will enjoy my company, My Prince."

"Mayhaps I will."

You stared at him, your eyes dragging slowly across his face and it caused him to feel slightly unease. Not the same way his brother's wife's burning gaze put him on edge, but rather the fact he was scared you were suddenly going to be displeased with what you saw.

But instead your gaze meet his violets one once more. and you smiled at him, "Do you have gardens here in the King's Landing?"

He knew very well that you were aware of the gardens. He did not take you for an idiot despite only have known you a few moments, "We do," he told you.

You nodded, "Would you like to accompany me for a walk through them this fine evening?" you questioned.

The thought that you wanted to spend time with him alone excited him, it brought a thrill through him that he had not felt in some time, but he was still a gentleman. He was still a prince and you were a proper lady. He did not want to smudge your reputation or mayhap selfishly he did .

"Do you need a chaperone?" he questioned, eyes looking around once more trying to find your father or perhaps another man who bore your sigil proudly on their chest. He was unsuccessful as soon as he heard your voice once more you held his utmost attention.

"I won't tell if you don't."

He should have turned away. He should have fought against you finding someone to accompany you, but the selfish part of him won, and he did neither of those things instead leading you out to the gardens.

The moon shined brightly in the sky as the loud noise from the fall became a distant thought as your arm wrapped around his stronger one. You smiled slightly at the sight, and it warmed him once more as if he was standing in the sun rather than the dead of night, "The gardens at Summerhall are just as grand," he found himself telling you.

"Are they? Mayhaps I will see them one day."

He hummed in reply, watching your face as you took in the sight in front of you. He took note to each reaction you granted the flowers, storing them away with the thought of attempting to learn more about them for future conversation.

Before he knew it you were at the end, but he continued to lead you toward a place that appeared more hidden than the rest. You suddenly paused unlinking your arms as you turned to him.

He blinked at you a moment trying to think of something to say, but all that came out was, "We should head back." But made no move to head back toward the castle. Standing here, willing any Gods or even the flames to be on his side. He wasn't sure exactly what he was wishing for, but was granted it nonetheless.

"Or…" you trailed off, looking down bashfully.

He looked as if he was a mere hound and you were mentioning a treat. "Or?" he questioned.

You looked up, "We are alone," you pointed out with a grin, moving toward him. Your hand rested across his chest and he realized then how weak he truly was ready to crumple for you with one mere touch.

'We are," he confirmed, his voice gruff as his throat felt on fire holding your gaze.

You titled your head to the side, "Do you want to kiss me, Prince Maekar?"

He stared at you, before nodding slowly, "Are you married?"

"I am not," you confirmed pressing further into him, and that sealed your fate.

Though what happened that night depended on who was hearing the story, but one thing can be clear. You were married to Prince Maekar before a half year had passed from that night.

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You were sitting in the dark, on the counter of the tiny kitchen you all shared during the camp. It was the middle of the night, and the nerves were starting to get to you, your dreams and hopes for the championship turning into anxiety-ridden dreams that were waking you up night after night.

You were eating ice cream, directly from the bucket, a chocolate and vanilla mix that had your names plastered all over it, just in case someone else was even tempted to grab a spoonful.

“Why are you awake?” a deep and quite annoyed voice of Coach Mike’s whisper filled the room. He crossed his arms, standing in front of you; close, maybe too close.

You heard him coming, heavy steps from the upper floor. You enjoyed your filtration, being Mike’s favourite, but you were craving more, so much more. Just the sight of him standing in front of you, his face in an inquisitive frown, made your pussy ache and clench around nothing. 

“Persistent craving for something sweet,” you replied with a smirk, slowly pulling the spoon between your lips in the most flirtatious way you could. 

Mike’s glance fell from your lips to your top and your already hardened nipples as he stepped half a step closer. You could already feel the heat radiating from his body as he desperately tried to calm his breathing. 

“Would you like some?” you continued in the same manner, flashing a devious smile his way.

“Mhm,” he nodded, stepping completely into your space, his huge hands splayed on the counter around you, one of his thumbs oh-so-accidentally brushing against your thigh. 

He smelled so good, looking so fucking hot in that kit, his nipples peeking through the flimsy material. You tried so hard not to look down at his bulge, the same one you kept sneaking glances at for days on end already. He was so close too, his legs brushing on the insides of your thighs, but not close enough for his cock to press against your skin, not yet.

You brought the spoon all the way to his lips, mostly chocolate because that’s what Mike preferred, trying hard not to blush while looking him in the eyes. 

He took it a little awkwardly, his lips closing around the cold metal, his eyes fixed on you and your face, waiting for what you’d do next.

You licked the spoon slowly and thoroughly, making a point of getting every last taste of Mike’s saliva, dragging the spoon shamelessly over your tongue. Mike’s thumb stilled on your thigh, his eyes focused on your lips, his mouth slightly agape.

And then Mike closed the distance.

His lips crashed into yours, his hand grabbing at your neck to hold you steady. He was quite eager and needy, his teeth tugging at your lips, then swallowing, in a sloppy, wet kiss that made you immediately wetter. Your fingers were playing with the chain around his neck, tugging at his shirt, and tangling in his hair as you pressed yourself harder against his hardened chest and broad shoulder, your legs pulling him closer into you.

You finally felt it, his cock that was already throbbing, begging for the warmth of your pussy. And it was big and fat. Fuck, you needed Mike to fuck you right here and right now.

Mike was whisper-moaning into your mouth, his tongue continually darting into your mouth and licking your lips; he wanted to be so much louder, enjoy this finally, but he was aware of the thin walls of the building, and he didn’t want to ruin this moment by having your teammates or other coaches stumble onto you two.

Suddenly, Mike picked you up by your ass, and you almost shrieked, surprised by his strength. Adjoining the kitchen was a tiny living room space, with a TV, a couple of sofa chairs, and a couch, perfectly shielded from view. 

He dropped you on that couch, crawling over you, his lips dragging over your neck; he was grinding onto your pussy through the fabric, sending a jolt of electricity through you and dragging a loud whimper from your throat. Too loud.

His hand immediately shot up to cover your mouth as he continued to kiss your neck, short exhales warming your skin. Your hips desperately buckled into him.

And then you heard it, a creak of the door and steps coming your way; one of your teammates, for sure.

Mike slowed down, his eyes finding yours in the dark, but he didn’t stop, and neither did you.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” you whispered, desperately and cock hungry, “just put it in for a bit.” You immediately moved both your shorts and panties to the side, pleading with Mike, your whole body trembling under his weight. If you could feel him inside just for a little bit, surely you would feel so much better immediately.

Mike waited for a moment, weighing his options, this whole situation, before hastily pulling down his shorts; his cock was flushed, and already leaking, so ready to bury itself deep inside your warm walls. 

He pushed slowly, his hand clamping harder against your mouth; you closed your eyes, exhaling hard into his fingers, trying so hard not to moan in pleasure. Mike’s cock felt so good, stretching you out, dragging inside your tight walls, his cockhead kissing all the way in, causing even more heat and excitement to pull inside your pussy.

You couldn’t dwell on it too long; those steps now walking around the kitchen, so close to the couch where Mike was literally thrusting into you, unable to stop himself. Your heart was beating so hard, and you tried to still your body, your legs and arms wrapped around Mike, trying to still him too, will him into not moving or making another sound.

On the other hand, you didn’t care that much, wanting him to fuck you hard and fast, make you come around his cock, over and over again. His head was still buried in the crook of your neck, and he was nibbling at your skin to try and stop himself from moaning, his hot breath sending pleasurable waves through you, all the way to your hardened nipples.

You listened as your teammate found your opened ice cream on the counter, and nicely put it back into the freezer, then opened one of the cupboards, surely looking for her stash of some forbidden snacks. You wanted her to leave as soon as possible because you were sure not even Mike’s hand could stop the moan building in you, caused by Mike’s cock impatiently twitching inside you.

“Fuck,” you finally whispered after hearing the doors close, your tense body relaxing somewhat, as Mike’s mouth closed around your nipple, sucking through the fabric.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his hips slowly thrusting into you, making you arch your back, your chest pushing into him. “My good girl,” he continued, enjoying how your pussy responded to his praise, fluttering and clamping on his cock.

He dragged his cock out of you slowly, and kept pushing it back in the same manner, driving you crazy, his mouth now wrapped around your other nipple. You pushed your hands under his shirt, your nails digging into his skin, making his leaky cock twitch even harder, drawing quiet moans out of him.

“Such a good fucking girl,” Mike continued, returning to your throat, the hand clamping onto your mouth now sneaking its way between your bodies to rub at your sensitive clit.

“Fuck, Mike,” you whispered, your whole body squirming, unsure if you could take all this overstimulation; in the past, with other lovers, you would usually tense so hard you couldn’t come at all, and you really, really wanted to come with Mike, so fucking badly.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he instructed, now nibbling at your jaw. “I want you to come around my cock, milk me dry.”

“I want that too,” you whispered, teary-eyed, your jaw tensing. “And I want you to come inside, Mike,” you added, fully aware of how desperate you sounded, begging your coach to fill your pussy up.

“Yeah?” Mike chuckled, speeding up his thrusts, still trying to find the right rhythm of rubbing your clit. “You want me to spill inside this tight pussy, sweetheart?”

You answered with a moan, his fingers finally applying the right pressure in the right tight circles, causing the knot in your stomach to finally start tightening. You couldn’t think anymore, and for the next couple of minutes, you weren’t aware of anything except Mike, and his mouth on yours, and his cock fucking into your rougher, and his fingers rhythmically working at your desperate clit.

Mike kept telling you to breathe and be good, to breathe and relax, and how he would make you feel good if you continued to listen to him, and you just kept nodding, completely unaware of how pussy drunk he was.

“Just a bit more,” he kept repeating, and you thought he was talking to you, but he was talking to himself, trying to prolong this feeling of being balls deep inside you, finally.

You listened to that squelch his cock was making in your pussy, your slick surely dripping all over him and his shorts and the fucking couch, and the sound of his heavy balls hitting your ass - you finally felt it, and you let go, that fucking divine feeling of coming overwhelming you, your vision changing to white, and Mike’s mouth swallowing your whimpers and breaths.

He kept fucking you through it, desperately pressing himself against you, fucking you into the couch, his weight almost completely on your body. It felt so good, not to have a man cum immediately into you, but to continue out of sheer need to feel you this much.

“Just a bit more,” Mike whispered again, his forehead pressed against yours, his hips burning into your spread thighs.

You were too tired to keep your legs wrapped around him, your knees falling to either side of him, your arms tiredly hanging from his neck. You were sweaty and sticky, and yet, you wanted to make Mike feel so good, as good as you felt.

“Mike? Mike, does it feel good for you?” you asked, pressing your lips to his ear.

“Yeah, it fucking does. I just want it for a bit longer,” he muttered, his hips hitting against yours with a bruising strength.

“I promise you can fuck me tomorrow, Mike. And the day after and the day after,” you cooed, bringing him in for another sloppy kiss.

“I want to fuck you anytime I want,” he replied, his hips stuttering. “I want to fuck you and spill my cum inside you any fucking time I want,” he groaned, stilling.

You could feel it, the twitching and the hot stickiness of his spurts, painting your insides, and Mike falling on top of you, pressing sloppy, open-mouth kisses all over your face. 

“I want you, sweetheart,” he muttered, breathing hard and ragged. “I want you all the time.” 

You smiled, feeling a sudden emptiness when Mike pulled his cock out; you quickly pulled your panties higher up, and the shorts too, so his leaking cum could soak them thoroughly. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” you whispered as he helped you stand up, “we do it somewhere more comfortable? I don’t want you to suffer, old man,” you added with a smirk. 

“So funny you think I’m already done with you tonight,” Mike whispered back, grabbing at your ass.

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You traced them once with your fingers.

“Perfect,” your mother’s voice echoed faintly in your memory, though she is far from here now.

A knock sounds at the door. “My lady wife?” Lyonel’s voice, though softened, still carries that familiar warmth.

You turned to face the door. “Enter husband.”

He does and for once, the Laughing Storm stills. He looks at you as though struck.

“Well,” he breathes, closing the door behind him. “If my lords do not fall in love with you tonight, then they are blind men all.”

You arch a brow, though warmth creeps into your cheeks. “You say that as though it would please you.”

“It would not,” he replies at once, crossing to you. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs brushing the silk as though confirming you are real. “They may admire. They may praise. But they shall know you are mine.”

“And I yours.” You reminded him softly.

He grins, leaning in to press a kiss just below your ear. “A fact I intend to never to forget.”

He offers his arm to you. “Come, my wolf. Let Storm’s End meet its new lady.”

The Great Hall of Storm’s End is alive in a way that feels different from Winterfell. Not quieter or louder, but wilder almost if that was possible.

The doors opened and all eyes turned. You feel it the weight of them, the curiosity, the measuring glances but Lyonel’s arm beneath yours is steady, anchoring you against the possible storm. He does not slow nor does he falter, leading you forward with the easy confidence of a man entirely at home.

He turned to face the crowd below, “My lords!” he called, his voice carrying over the hall. “You have waited long enough for this moment. Allow me to present my lady wife! Lady Y/N Baratheon!”

A murmur rises and then claps of approval and delight. Some of the men below you recognize. Faces from Winterfell stepped forward first. The Lords who had traveled north now smiling as though they were greeting an old friend.

“My lady,” Lord Estermont said with a bow, “you grace these halls as you did the North.”

“And with better weather besides,” Lord Wylde added, earning some laughs.

You answer them with calm grace, your voice steady, your smile warm. Already you saw how easily they fall into conversation, how readily they had accepted you.

Lyonel watches it all with quiet pride.

The feast itself was a spectacle to no surprise. Platters overflowed—roasted meats glazed in honey and spice, fruits you have never seen, wines richer and heavier than northern ale. Music swells from somewhere unseen, faster, and brighter.

This is not the North’s steady warmth like you were used to. This itself is a flame and at its center was Lyonel.  You had thought you had seen him in full while at Winterfell laughing and commanding. You had been wrong.

Here, he is something more. He moved through the hall like a storm given form with clasping shoulders, trading jests, his laughter rising above all others. Lords leaned towards him, drawn in; servants move quicker in his wake. He belonged to this place in a way that was undeniable.

And yet his hand found yours again and again. A glance, with a smile only meant for you. A brush of fingers along your back as he passes. Not less himself but more yours.

“Do not think I shall let you hide at the table all night my love,” he murmurs at your ear after a time.

“I would not dream of it,” you replied.

“Good.” He said before he placed a kiss on your cheek.

Before you could make aware of his next move, he pulled you to your feet.

The dance floor was already alive, skirts and cloaks swirling. The music shifted as he led you out, his hand firm at your waist.

“Keep up, my wolf.” He warned.

“I seem to always do.” You said giving him a wink.

He laughed and then you were moving.

The dances of the Stormlands are quicker and bolder. He spins you once, twice, your skirts flaring, laughter escaped you before you could stop it. His steps were sure, guiding without force, his eyes never leaving yours.

“See?” he said, his breath warm, grinning wide. “Not so frightening.”

You answered, “Only because you lead well enough,”  

“High praise from a direwolf.”

“And well earned.”

He dipped you slightly at the end of a turn, just enough to make your heart stutter. When he brings you back upright, his hands lingered at your waist.

“You are radiant this evening,” he said quietly.

“And you,” you replied, “are insufferably charming.”

“So, I am told.” Giving you a chinking wink and sticking his tongue out.

He does not release you at once, though the dance ended. Instead, he brushed his thumb along your knuckles before leading you back to the high table. When you were seated once more, breath still quickened, cheeks flushed, he turned fully toward you. For a moment, the noise of the hall seemed to fade.

“Are you happy?” he asked. Not lightly or not in jest but really asking how you felt. “Truly happy?”

You look at him this man of storms and laughter, who brought wolves into his halls and warmth into your heart.

“Yes,” you said softly. “I truly am.”

Something in him eased at that, something deep as if he needed that last bit of reassurance.

“Good,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his lips. “Then Storm’s End has done its duty.”

“And you?”  you asked, “Are you happy as well?”

He smiled not his usual broad, boisterous grin of the hall, but something quieter. Something real.  “I have my lady wolf at my side,” he said. “What more could a stag wish for?”

The feast had begun to mellow, though the hall still thrummed with warmth and lingering revelry.

The candles had started to burn low, the wax pooling like melted gold along the tables. The music had softened to something slower, more winding, as if even the musicians felt the pull of the hour. Many of the storm lords had drawn closer to the high table now, cups in their hands, their voices lowered but no less spirited.

You were sitting beside Lyonel once again, your hand resting lightly near his on the table, as he spoke of your journey south to the lords.

“The sea was kinder than expected,” he was saying, one arm slung lazily across the back of your chair. “Though I suspect my lady wife brought the calm with her. The storms feared to challenge her.”

A ripple of chuckles followed.

“You’ll find the storms here less easily cowed,” one lord remarked with a grin.

“I should hope so,” you answered before Lyonel could, lifting your cup. “I would not have come all this way for timid skies.”

That earned you a few approving looks.

Another lord leaned forward, curious etching his features. “And the North, my lady? Is it as grim as they say?”

“Grim?” you echoed lightly. “Only to those who do not understand it.”

“A land of snow and silence,” he pressed. “Hard folk. Harder winters.”

“And yet,” you replied calmly, “we always endure.”

Lyonel’s other hand brushed yours beneath the table.

But not all eyes upon you were warm. One lord older, his hair mostly grey, his expression sharper than the rest had watched you in silence for some time. Lord Swann. When he finally spoke, his tone carried something colder beneath its courtesy.

“Endure, perhaps,” he said. “But endurance is not the same as refinement. The North is…. Shall we say distant. It is removed from the true courtly ways of the realm.”

The table quieted just enough to take notice.

You felt it then, that familiar tightening in your chest. But it was not from fear. No, it was your northern steel.

You turned your gaze at him slowly, deliberately like a wolf who had found her next meal. “And yet here I sit amongst you, my Lord Swann.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Aye.  A curiosity, if nothing else.”

Lyonel shifted beside you, something in him coiling but you were quicker to answer. You set your cup down with quiet care.

“A curiosity?” you repeated, your voice still even but edged now with a cold north bite. “Is it so curious that a daughter of the North might carry herself with dignity? If I remember correctly Lord Swann you did not accept Lyonel’s invitation to join him on his journey north for our wedding like some of the lords here. A pity really.”

“I meant no offense my lady,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “Only that the North is.. less tempered by the grace us southern folk hold dear.”

You smiled then but there was no softness in it. You could say it closely resembled a wolf baring it teeth.

“In the North,” you said, leaning forward just enough to meet his gaze fully, “we are tempered by winter. By hunger. By war. We do not dress our words in silk if still will serve better.”

A few lords shifted, watching now with interest as their new Lady Baratheon held her own.

“I am my father’s daughter,” you continued, your voice steady as stone that holds Winterfell. “Lord Cregan Stark does not raise weak children, nor foolish ones. If you doubt my refinement, I would suggest you measure it not by softness but by strength. Our house words are Winter is Coming and I live by that.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any blade. Then Lyonel laughed. Not mockingly but with fierce, unrestrained pride.

“Gods be good,” he said, shaking his head. “You see, my lords? I warned you. A wolf does not bare her teeth without cause.”

Lord Swann inclined his head again this time with something closer to respect.

“My lady,” he said, quieter now, “it seems I misjudged. You are indeed proving to be the daughter of the Legendary Cregan Stark.”

“A mistake easily corrected.” You replied.

Lyonel’s hand found yours openly now, his thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that spoke far more than words.

If he had been proud before, now he looked as though he might never recover from it.

The conversation shifted after that, lighter, easier. The tension dissolved into laughter and renewed toasts, but you could feel the difference. Not curiosity now, but recognition.

At last, the hall began to empty.

One by one, the lords took their leave, offering bows and finals words. The music faded entirely. Servants moved quietly, cleaning the remnants of the feast.

Soon, only you and Lyonel remained at the high table, the great hall vast and echoing once more.

A final pitcher of wine sat between you. He poured for both, slower now, the energy of the night settling into something quieter.

You lifted your cup, watching the firelight dance within it.

“Thank you,” you said softly before you turned your gaze to him.

He glanced at you, “For what?”

“For everything.” You set the cup down, turning fully toward him. “For coming north. For choosing me. For bringing me here.”

Your fingers traced lightly along the edge of the table.

“If you had not answered Jonnel’s letter or thought he was crazy for offering my hand to you.” You exhaled faintly. “None of this would have been.”

He studied you, something deep and thought in his gaze. “Your brother will always have my thanks for deciding to write to me.”

“He has mine as well,” you said, a small smile touching your lips. “But now he is also your goodbrother. Who would have thought all those years ago when you first became friends with my brother that we would wed years later.”

Lyonel huffed a quiet laugh, “Indeed he is. I will have to remind him if that now him and I are one in the same some days, but If I would have realized then what the Gods had intended, I would have married you a lot sooner.”

“You are right.” You spoke. “You both are entirely too pleased with yourselves when it comes down to it.”

“But only when it is warranted.”

You shook your head, but your expression softened.

“I am lucky,” you said then, quieter still. “To have this. To have a love match. You can not imagine how many times I prayed to the Old Gods to let me have a marriage like my siblings have and my parents. They answered my prayers finally to send me you.”

The words lingered between you. Lyonel’s hand came up, gently cupping your cheek.

“No,” he said softly. “We are both lucky to have each other.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, though no tears had fallen yet.

“I would have ridden a hundred roads and sails a thousand seas to find you.” He added. “Letter or no letter I would have made my way to you.”

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes just for a moment.

“And I,” you murmured, “would have waited a hundred years.”

He smiled at that, not a wide or loud smile but something steady and certain. “Good,” he said. “Because I do not intend to let you go now that I have you. The Stranger himself could not take me from you.”

The hall was quiet now and the fire burned low. And at the high table of Storm’s End, stag and wolf sat side by side—no longer strangers, no longer merely wed. But bound by something far deeper than they could imagine. Love.

Below the stormy skies a Direwolf and a Stag have made a life only written in stories.

Maekar ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Becoming the father of six, Maekar got used to being constantly nervous, and it got worse when Dyanna died. However, when he decided to confess his feelings to you, that nervousness turned into insecurity. Something foreign for the Anvil. He brooded for days, closed up in his chambers, until he decided it was ridiculous and set aside everything to go straight to the point, but failing in the manners. He would express the obvious by almost touching on the insult and taking for granted an eventual union. When you refused his feelings, he became touchy, and you animatedly argued until your love escaped from your lips, calming the waters and recovering from the back-and-forth.

Lyonel ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The joyful and light-hearted nature of Lyonel led him to visit you often, cover you with gifts of every taste but carefully avoiding speaking about his feelings. Wasn’t his practical love language enough to make you realise how he feels? Yes, it was, but you didn’t want to give him the victory without fighting. When you asked him directly if he loved you, he started laughing nervously, making stupid excuses to avoid answering. Teasing him with a fake marriage proposal from another Lord worked to see him on his knee, pouring his heart on a silver tray and begging for your love.

Baelor ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The heir to the throne has been prepared for the role throughout his life, learning to use words appropriately according to the circumstances. No one ever taught him how to express his feelings to a woman, though, and he became restless. He would write down an essay and memorise every single word to repeat it at you with charm and confidence. Too bad he froze in front of you when the time came, and after long moments of absolutely embarrassing silence, he would excuse himself and take leave. You had to subtly reassure him and nudge him until he made a proper love confession with a hand kiss in the end.

Duncan ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Our pure boy would become strangely quiet and avoid you because his good soul prevented him from hiding or lying about his feelings, but at the same time, he would be terrified to lose you forever. Your journey around the Seven Kingdoms would become weird and filled with tension; something you couldn’t bear. When you asked for clarification about his strange behaviour, he would stutter about a fake nightmare or an argument he had with someone at the market. All little lies that led him to panic until you reached for his hand, reassuring him softly until he would just say the three magic words.

Cregan ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Sarella was born on a day when a heavy sandstorm moved through Dorne. Heavy winds crashed outside as pain wracked through your body. Luckily, Lemonwood was suited and designed to withstand it, keeping the sand from billowing down the halls. Lady Jena pressed a wet cloth to your forehead as two wet nurses helped you into the birthing chair for Maester Deziel to examine you.

"You are progressing nicely, my lady. It shouldn't be much longer," he said, and you leaned into Jena.

"You're doing wonderful, sweet girl," she praised, kissing your forehead.

"Please, I need Baelor. I need you both with me," you whimpered.

"Go and fetch the prince, please," Jena instructed one of the nurses. She soothingly stroked your hair, and you tried not to crumble completely. You had made your choice, and they both journeyed to Lemonwood to be with you during your labors at the expense of King Daeron's ire. There were consequences to actions, and your daughter would never bear the Targaryen name. She would be a Sand, but she would be loved and cherished above all.

Baelor entered your chambers. Your mother had taken a bit of pity on you after unleashing her anger and disappointment like a scorpion's sting, and allowed you to remain in your home. While Lemonwood had passed to your eldest brother, she ruled with an iron fist, and your brother allowed her to. She could not turn her daughter out nor make a babe suffer for the choices of others. Bastard or not, this child was her blood.

"The maester tells me you are progressing well," Baelor smiled warmly, clad in yellow and violet silks, dressed in the Dornish style while in these halls. Jena was draped in orange silks, making her red hair even more vibrant. While your mother might still be cross with you, she was delighted to host the heir to the Iron Throne and his good lady wife and ensured they were kept in comfort.

"So he says," you smiled weakly, and the maester placed a cup in Baelor's hand.

"Give her some more milk of the poppy, Your Grace, she will be thankful for it when she has to push."

Baelor knelt in front of you, pressing the cup to your lips and helping you take a drink before a strong cramp seized your belly. Pressure spread through your back and pelvis, nearly making you fall from the birthing chair, and blood pooled beneath you. Jena and Baelor stayed by your side as the Maester scurried over and guided you through the process. It was unbearable at times, making you feel like you might be torn in two, but by the end, you ended with a daughter in your arms. Your gaze flickered toward Jena first, bracing yourself to find jealousy, but her face only held the look of pure love and adoration. Unshed tears watered in Baelor's mismatched eyes as he took in the sight of his daughter.

They stayed on a month longer, helping to tend to you and bond with the babe.

"Mmm, she is lovely," Jena cooed, pressing her nose against Sarella's head, breathing in the powdery, milky scent.

Baelor gently grasped her small foot before kissing her tiny toes. "Utterly divine."

You couldn't disagree. An overwhelming love for her surged through your body.

"I do not wish for you to go," you murmured.

Their gazes fell on you, and Jena handed Saerella to one of her wet nurses, who went off, leaving the three of you alone. They took a place on either side of you, each holding one of your hands.

"I know, and I am sorry you must suffer the most from all this," Baelor said gently.

"We all knew there would be consequences. They could have been worse, I suppose," you sighed.

"We would have you at court, if it were left to us," Jena said, kissing your temple. King Daeron had been firm in that decree. However, you could not fault him, as his father's bastards had been paraded freely through the Red Keep, only to lead to further complications and bloodshed in the future. He had banished you from King's Landing for a term of three years, and so you returned to Lemonwood with your tail tucked between your legs. You bore your punishment, the child growing inside of you giving you strength, even on the days when all you could do was weep and hide away in your room.

"I know. Have you and your father mended ways at least?" you asked Baelor. This was the aftermath that weighed heaviest on you: the tension between Baelor and Daeron. Between father and eldest son, you had worried that Baelor would have his inheritance stripped away and be removed from the line of succession. Every morning, you gave Mother Rhoyne thanks that it did not happen.

"Things are still…tense at times. My mother mediates, though coming here did not gain any favors with him, but we could not leave you alone," he replied, lifting your hand and kissing each soft pad of your fingers.

"I hate that I caused such strife."

Jena scoffed. "You were not alone in this tryst. We all participated of our free will, little pet."

"I do not regret it. You are more to us than a simple affair. I would take you as a second wife if I could," Baelor said seriously, and you turned your head to face Jena.

"And I would allow him," she smiled, kissing you sweetly. "You are mine just as much as you are his."

It soothed your fears, calming you a bit. Though you suspected the realm could stomach a bastard easier than two women taken to wife.

"Be strong for us, tend to our girl well. We will return soon," Baelor whispered before drawing you into his embrace.

There was a frustration as you were still healing from your labors; otherwise, you would have taken both to your bed before they departed.

"The king has requested an audience," one of the kingsguard informed Baelor shortly after their return to the Keep.

"Best of luck," Jena said, rubbing her husband's chest and pecking his lips.

Baelor followed the guard to his father's chambers, where he was granted entrance. He wasn't surprised to discover his mother there as well and dutifully kissed her cheek. She had been the shield during Daeron's initial anger, though she had exchanged her fair share of stern words with her eldest son, but she knew his heart and nature. He did not lie with another woman out of a simple lustful folly, and when learning of Jena's involvement, she understood. She had grown up in Dorne, where it was more acceptable.

"Your Grace," Baelor said respectfully, giving Daeron a nod.

"I've heard I now have a granddaughter."

"Yes, she and her mother are healthy and well," Baelor replied, and Myriah gently rubbed her son's shoulders.

"What a blessing," she murmured. "What is her name?"

"Sarella," he said with pride in his voice.

"A fine Dornish name." Baelor wondered if perhaps part of her was secretly thrilled he had involved himself with a Dornish woman. While Jena and Myriah were amicable, he knew his mother had always wished for him to marry a Dornish noble.

Daeron stood, balancing on his cane and slowly moving closer. "I do not mean to be cruel, my boy."

"I know."

"I have been conversing with my sister in Dorne. She would accept Lady Dalt into her service, and your daughter would be raised there."

"That is most…generous, Father, thank you."

"I admit that I cannot begin to truly understand, as I have only cared for and loved your mother. The damage my father did still lingers, and I fear what having your daughter here would stir up."

Before your banishment, you were brought before King Daeron and his small council, made to pledge your allegiance to Prince Baelor and acknowledge Valarr as his heir. You had to swear that your child would never lay a claim to the throne, should you give birth to a son. You did it willingly; you had no taste for causing any friction. It had been mildly humiliating, and Baelor held you in his arms as you cried after. It was never easy to admit wrongdoing publicly and then be laid to shame.

The letter with Baelor's seal arrived a week later, and you accepted the terms, moving you and Sarella into Princess Daenerys's service and into Sunspear. Baelor and Jena would visit twice a year, and you cherished every moment. They doted upon Sarella, as did Princess Daenerys, the little one held in high favor and never disparaged for being a Sand nestled safely inside Sunspear.

"I was beginning to worry you would not join us," you teased as Baelor finally entered your quarters, a warm breeze wafting through the open windows and bringing with it the scent of spice and citrus.

"She is very demanding for a two year old," Baelor chuckled, bending down to kiss you and Jena.

Orange silks were draped over your bed. "Oh, I cannot fault her for wanting to keep you in her company," you smiled, head in Jena's lap. Her red hair was loose, as were her breasts, with just a slip of silk hugging her slender waist. Those rosy nipples were swollen from all your suckling, your teeth marks embedded in her creamy flesh.

"She is a darling," Jena smiled, stroking your hair.

Baelor loosened his golden doublet and then removed his boots before getting into bed with his two beloveds.

"One more year, my darling, then you can return to King's Landing."

"Hard to believe such time has passed," you mused as Baelor drew your feet into his lap, his fingers massaging up your calf, then inching toward your upper thigh.

"I wish we had our own oasis, for the four of us to escape to," Jena whispered, reaching down to tug up the hem of your robe to give Baelor easier access.

"If only I weren't the heir," Baelor hummed, his ringed hand dipping between your thighs and stroking your cunt.

"We must manage with the hand we were dealt," you reasoned, biting back a moan. The time in Sunspear allowed you ample reflection and an understanding that the outcome was not as terrible as you once thought. You could have been put to death or imprisoned. You could have never seen them again with your child ripped from your arms, so you were thankful for the fate you had been given. Though the allure to tempt it again made heat swell in your lower belly. "Put another in me."

Baelor's stroking paused, giving you a slow blink of his mismatched eyes as his cock stirred at the request. "Is that wise?"

"I am already tainted, and Sarella and I are well cared for here. I could extend my stay in Doren and put off my return to King's Landing," you reasoned. "Besides, I think you two prefer escaping here to be with our daughter and me.'

"Our daughter," Jena smiled, tracing her thumb over your lip.

"She belongs to all of us," you grinned.

Jena shifted, bracing you against her bare chest and dipping her fingers under your thighs to spread you wide for Baelor. He moved onto his knees, tugging off the ochre tunic before unlacing his breeches. Once he was situated between your splayed legs, he thrust his cock deep inside you and leaned toward Jena to kiss her. Enveloped between them, you closed your eyes and gave your body over to pleasure. It had been too long, and finally, you were finding your spirit again.

Tycella was born within the turn of nine moons, with them by your side again and surrounded by Daenerys's personal attendants. Tycella's eyes were clear as sapphires, reminding you of Jena. There was no logic in it, but you enjoyed the pretense of your fantasies. She adored the girls as much as Baelor did.

"I would like to commission a small palace to be built for you close to Sunspear. My uncle and aunt are in support and will provide guards for your security," Baelor said, holding you and Tycella in his arms. Jena was asleep next to you with Sarella's head tucked under her chin.

"Baelor…that is very generous, but…"

"Would you not enjoy it?"

"I would, I just don't wish to bring the king's ire upon you again."

"I would not be too bold or foolish to do such a thing without discussing it with my father."

"And he agreed?" Tycella squirmed against your chest, in search of your nipple. Baelor rubbed her tiny back to help settle her as she latched onto you.

"He did. He is slowly accepting the importance of you."

"Then I would like it a great deal," you smiled, tears shimmering in your eyes.

He wanted you to have a home, a place for you and the girls to call their own.

Construction began by the Water Gardens, close to the Summer Sea, offering you a private respite and a bit of freedom. It would take a few years to complete, and you'd remain in Sunspear until then. As you grew round with your third child, Baelor wrote to inform you that Valarr and Matarys wished to join him and Jena on their next visit. It took you a bit by surprise, but you agreed. Sarella was five and every inch a proper little lady, having learned much from Princess Daenerys, who was very fond of her. She greeted her half-brothers sweetly, while Tycella, a mere child of two, was only interested in Matarys's long, fiery hair, which resembled Jena's. He was quite patient and let her weave white roses in his hair. His wife, Lady Alerie Tyrell, had accompanied him.

"It seems you have turned the Targaryen dragon into a proper Tyrell flower," she teased Tycella before kissing her cheek.

Baelor and Kiera were with Sarella at the sea's edge while you walked with Jena and Valarr. You counted it as a small victory that Baelor and Jena's sons were here. Another consequence of the fallout was that Valarr had been furious and had secluded himself on Dragonstone with his wife. You'd never forget the cold stare he fixed you with the day King Daeron called you before the small council to swear your allegiance toward the prince as Baelor's heir. It had made your legs and stomach feel like jelly. For some reason, it felt worse than the fire raining down by the usually docile King Daeron. You shook your head, trying to chase away the memories. There was no point in dwelling on the past.

After the children and guests had been settled for the evening, the three of you joined together. You wiggled free from your violet silks, rubbing your swollen belly. You were about five moons progressed.

"Another girl, do you think?" Baelor hummed, dropping down to kiss your stomach.

"The odds are in that favor," you smiled. Not that you minded, having daughters kept you safe. You knew King Daeron would not wish for you to produce a son. "Jena, I have a gift for you."

"For me, sweet pet? That is most thoughtful of you," she smiled, pouring chilled wine.

"It is in the red sandstone box," you smiled. It sat on the desk by the golden ewer of wine. Baelor's mouth and hands on your belly kept you firmly seated.

Jena took a swill of the red wine before opening the box, a smirk spreading over her rosy mouth. "You remembered."

"Mmm, these things are easy to find in Dorne, I am learning."

Baelor's curiosity got the better of him, and he moved to his wife's side, peering into the box. He gently cleared his throat. "And what need do you have for such…things?" He waved his hand toward the box.

"A woman has needs and desires, but I do not wish for a paramour," you replied simply.

"Wise decision," Baelor replied, jealousy thick in his eyes.

"These apparatuses prove useful. I can pretend I'm riding you. They even make one in the shape of a dragon's head."

"You'll have to demonstrate for me," Baelor mused.

"Help me put it on," Jena instructed her husband.

You watched while your fingers skimmed over your inner thighs as Jena rolled the orange silk around her hips and Baelor dropped to his knees to help get her into the contraption. The leather phallus was smooth and packed tightly with cotton to keep it erect, with elegant stitching to keep it intact. The harness was made of buttery-soft leather, with a metal ring for the phallus to slip through. Baelor's skill from dressing in armor made it easy for him to get Jena into it. The leather cock proudly protruded between her thighs, snug against her mound.

"It is very fitting," Baelor smiled, running his fingers over it.

"I thought we could play pretend this evening. We can imagine this babe is yours," you purred.

Baelor slipped a couple of olives between his lips, crunching them beneath his teeth before washing them off at the basin and slipping his hand between your thighs. Those ringed fingers stroked you expertly, gathering your wetness, and once his hand dripped with your arousal, he smoothed it over the leather phallus.

"You'll want it wet," he told Jena. "Our little pet is already well prepared."

You reached for a green silk pillow and shifted onto all fours, using it to cradle your belly, as lying on your back was too uncomfortable at this stage. Jena's mouth watered at the sight, her delicate hands kneading your fleshy arse and soft hips. The bed shifted with the weight of your paramours.

"Line up, then sink in slowly," Baelor whispered in Jena's ear before nuzzling the spot just below her ear.

Jena licked her lips before following his advice, watching your cunt swallow up her cock. "Seven Hells, I understand the appeal," she groaned, wetness gathering between her thighs.

"Get used to the feeling, then set a pace."

Jena slowly rolled her hips, thrusting deeper inside of you and making your moans fill the candlelight room.

"Feels good," you whimpered.

Baelor's hand skimmed down Jena's back, two fingers delving between her arse to dip into her cunny. While she fucked you, he finger fucked her. It was a salacious sight to watch her take you as he would. Her hips would be sore by the morning, but she didn't mind. It was an exhilarating feeling. Her hands moved up your sides, and you pushed up with your hands, allowing her to cup your stomach.

"Our babe grows strong, sweet pet," she murmured.

"Indeed, she does," you panted, clenching around her cock.

Jena's movements grew slower as Baelor's fingers danced her closer and closer to pleasure.

"Can my girls release together?" he hummed, the tip of one finger circling Jena's swollen pearl.

"Anything for you, dearest," Jena purred, rocking her pelvis against your arse and sending you toppling over the edge just as she did.

The three of you curled together in the aftermath, with you between them. You savored the warmth of their skin, the taste of their lips, and the thrum of their heartbeat against your ear, imprinting each sensation deep in your muscle memory.

Obella was born with blue eyes, just a shade darker than Tycella and Jena.

In the span of ten years, you had given birth to four daughters with a fifth growing inside your belly as your palace was completed next to the Water Gardens. Baelor and Jena also became grandparents when Matarys and Alerie welcomed a son this past winter. Sarella held her father's hand, her inky hair spilling down her back as they walked together to inspect the new space. She possessed so many of his features that it would be hard to deny she was his. Tycella skipped ahead, her hair a shade lighter than her older sister's, and dragged Obella behind her. Jena held three-year-old Arella on her hip, bending the small girl down to let her smell the jasmine that filled the vases throughout the palace. A lemon and orange tree had been planted in the gardens, and both were in bloom.

"It needs a proper name," Baelor turned to smile at you before lifting Sarella into his arms and kissing her cheek.

"He's right," Jena smiled, shifting Arella in her arms.

"Hmm," you contemplate, gazing around the pale marbled halls, then landing on your dark-haired daughters before taking in Baelor and Jena. "Sandfire."

"Very fitting, my sweet girl," Baelor said, kissing you softly. A chorus of the little girls' giggles echoed through the halls.

Blankets were spread on the sandstone floors, and an embroidered violet cloth was draped over a small table as you enjoyed a lazy supper as a family. There were olives, stuffed peppers, flatbreads, chickpea spreads, roasted lamb, lemon soup, and plenty of strong wine and Dornish red. There were fresh figs and cream swans for dessert. Your heart fluttered as you watched Baelor loom over the three elder girls, helping them to get their food and eat. Arella was happy to stay attached to Jena, soaking in the attention she lavished on her. Your fifth had not even entered this world, and you were now considering a sixth. You loved having his children. None batted an eye at the last name Sand here in Dorne, for there were many. Even Prince Maron and Princess Daenerys had their paramours. The banishment, lifted nearly seven years ago, no longer seemed a punishment. You were free here, well looked after by Baelor and Jena, and with four amazing daughters, their silky dark hair keeping you company.

The babe growing inside you craved spice, so you nibbled on stuffed dragon peppers, oozing with melted cheese and a dash of snake sauce. This one was truly a dragon; soon, you suspected you might be breathing fire. When you gazed over at Baelor, you observed his brow knitted in contemplation. Something plagued his mind, and you would press later, wishing for him to enjoy the time with his daughters. He was an attentive and loving father. The three of you put the girls to bed, and after the telling of three adventurous tales, they all succumbed to slumber.

"Something is weighing on your mind, dearest. Care to unburden yourself?" you asked him gently. A warm breeze from the fragrant gardens wafted through your open windows.

"My father's health is failing; every day might be his last." Jena rubbed his shoulders.

"I am sorry to hear that." Any bitterness or hatred you felt toward King Daeron faded long ago. "But there is more, I suspect."

"He and my mother wish to meet the girls before he passes."

That made you go as still as the marble statues in the garden. "I see."

"It would mean a great deal to me if you would allow it, sweet girl."

You glanced down at your hands, studying the rings that hugged your fingers. Each one was a gift from Baelor and Jena.

"Our daughters must be protected from the vipers at court."

"Maekar has already promised to cut out tongues." It had surprised you when you discovered Prince Maekar had been so accepting until Baelor informed him that it delighted his youngest brother to discover his brother's imperfections.

You couldn't help but smile. "Then I suppose we should ready to head back with you. I want to be settled in one place before the babe comes."

Baelor stood and held your face in his warm palms. "Thank you, sweet girl." Appreciation and gratitude bloomed through his kiss.

At the end of the week, you boarded the ship, Breakspear, and journeyed to King's Landing. You were not surprised to discover there was no formal greeting when you arrived at the gates, but you did not care. You instructed your daughters to hold their heads high as you were shown to rooms inside the Holdfast, close to Baelor and Jena's. You brushed their dark hair until it gleamed and dressed each in vibrant hues: Sarella in yellow, Tycella in violet, Obella in blue, and Arella in green. Baelor and Ser Roland Crakehall escorted you and the girls to the king's quarters. The five of you curtseyed in respect.

King Daeron had aged a great deal; his hair was a shocking white, and he looked weak. Queen Myriah, bathed in orange silk, circled the girls, cupping their chins with her golden ringed hand. Golden bangles hung from her wrists and chimed with her movements.

"They are beautiful," she whispered.

Each girl politely introduced themself, even Arella, who stumbled over her words, but did not let it deter her. A faint smile crossed Daeron's face.

"I had always hoped for a daughter, but the Gods blessed us with four sons instead," he murmured, covering his mouth to conceal his phlegm laced cough.

"I thank Mother Rhonye every day for my blessings, and pray I receive her mercy when I deliver this babe, Your Grace," you said kindly.

"My son will be king soon."

The room fell eerily silent.

"There is no reason to dance around the subject; it is a simple truth. He will be a good king. Your fate is no longer in my hands, Lady Dalt. Baelor may decide how to handle this situation. You may go." He weakly waved his hand in dismissal.

"Your Grace," you said, bowing before leaving with the girls, with Baelor trailing behind.

"Lady Dalt." Queen Myriah's warm voice echoed behind you, and you turned to face her. "Might the girls be brought to my chambers? I wish to visit with them."

You exchanged a look with Baelor. "I will be with them," he assured you, hand grazing over your lower back. You noted the invitation did not extend to you, but it mattered not. It mattered more that your daughters were treated kindly. You would bear a sling of arrows to keep them protected.

"Of course, Your Grace." You instructed your daughters to be on their best behavior before letting the ladies take them, as you were eager for a rest. The sea's waves had made your stomach queasy.

You were rather quiet as you supped with Baelor and Jena that evening in the Tower.

"Are you alright?" Jena inquired.

You nodded with a soft smile. "I'm just tired."

"You worry," Baelor noted.

"That, too," you admitted.

"I would bring you to Dragonstone," Baelor offered.

"No. When you are king, that seat is Valarr's. I swore never to cause tension, and I will not take what is his," you replied sharply.

"My desire, my wish, is to have you and our daughters close."

"Sandfire is the safest place for us to be. Kept away from court, please," you insisted.

Jena gently rested her hand on top of yours, her gaze falling on Baelor. "I want them close as well, but this might be the best arrangement for all. You will be scrutinized even more once you take the Iron Throne."

"I made my bed long ago, and know the consequences could have been far worse. I see no need to rock the boat when you are king," you reasoned.

Disappointment hung heavy in his eyes as he considered yours and Jena's words. "I am lucky to be surrounded by two such wise women," he smiled. "However, I would ask you and our daughters to visit at court from time to time, do not hide forever in Dorne."

"I can agree to that," you grinned, sipping on your wine. "The food is bland here; this one craves spice."

"Is she to be our headache?" Baelor teased.

Jena laughed. "I will have them bring up some dragon peppers from the kitchen." She kissed your temple before fetching a servant.

Darella was born in King's Landing the night before King Daeron succumbed to his illness. Baelor wished to honor his father by choosing her name. You and the girls remained in King's Landing for the coronation, as you would not miss the crowns placed upon Baelor's and Jena's heads. They were a perfect vision of a king and queen. Nearly a year and a half passed as you remained at court before you grew restless and wished to return home, though your girls had thrived here with their tutors and lessons.

"We will come in six months' time," Baelor promised, his mouth leaving searing kisses all over your skin.

"You best, or I will hunt you down," you teased, trailing your nails down his chest, sprinkled with the dark and gray hair.

"Is that any way to speak to your king?" he scolded.

"Mayhaps our pet has grown too brazen and forgotten her place," Jena purred.

"The insolence still lingers; you did not beat it all out of me."

"Well, let us rectify that."

You squirmed over his knee as his palm blazed a fire across your vulnerable backside. Each strong, precise slap sent a throb to your pearl and made heat lick in your lower belly.

"Please, might my king show mercy?" you whimpered, tossing a pathetic look over your shoulder.

"He might," Baelor murmured, stroking your abused flesh marked with his fingertips and ring imprints.

"Mayhaps he'd like to fill me with his seed once more so I might bear him one more," you pleaded.

"Is that what you desire?"

"More than anything."

"'Tis your desire as well, husband. You enjoy watching her grow with your seed. Well, both of us do," Jena hummed, squeezing Baelor's thigh.

"One more, to keep you company until we join you in Sandfire," he smiled.

You rode him, sweat dripping down your back and your breasts bouncing with him spread naked beneath you.

"Jena," you whispered, needing her against you as well. It never felt right when it wasn't the three of you. She crawled over, kissing your sweat slicked shoulders before cupping your breasts and toying with your nipples. Then she pressed you down against Baelor's chest, drinking in the sight of his cock nestled deep in your cunt, heavy stones full and flush against your skin. She rubbed against you, cheek pressed against your shoulder, the three of you melding together and toppling into pleasure simultaneously.

You returned to Sandfire, full of Baelor's seed and with your five daughters in tow. When they came to visit in six months' time, you were pleasantly round, belly partially exposed by the red silk draped over your skin. The girls fluttered around their father, eager to tell him all they had been up to. He never minded as they grasped his hands and clothing, pulling him off to keep them for themselves, leaving you with Jena.

"You are glowing as usual," she smiled, a few more lines around her sapphire hued eyes and just a touch of white around her temples.

"Simply enjoying this pregnancy for it will be my last. I will have my hands full," you grinned, looping your arm through hers.

"Our daughters have brought Baelor great joy; he thinks about them often."

"I'm glad you both love them so."

"Just as we love you," she reminded.

You walked with her through the gardens, feeling the babe shift in your belly while Baelor doted upon the girls inside. Darella, just barely two, wiggled herself close into his arms. A lock of her chestnut hair pressed against his bearded cheek. Sarella and Tycella danced together after supper as you all gathered in the main hall. Though your eyes were on Baelor, wearing the loose tunic and breeches preferred in Dorne, swathed in cream, gold, and sand with a long golden chain dangling from his neck and nestled against his chest hair. Obella played her harp, a lilting song filling the air.

"Hard to believe how much they've grown," Baelor sighed, chin resting against his palm. "Sarella will be a young lady in just a few years."

"If you wish, you can bring her to court to have her closer by. She will be old enough to handle it," you said.

"Kiera would gladly take her as one of her ladies," Jena said.

"She would have to be acknowledged then," Baelor reasoned.

"Enough time has passed; you are king now. That decision is yours. I do not think people would fear your daughters trying to claim the throne," Jena said. "This is not another Blackfyre rebellion in the making."

"We still have a few more years to prepare for the situation, but if you wish to acknowledge our daughters publicly, then I will not stand in your way. Nor would you be the first Targaryen king to have bastards."

The girls finished their dancing and playing and were met with applause.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" Baelor cheered.

The once golden sky faded into violet before turning an inky, velvety black as night settled over Sandfire with the girls nestled safely in their beds apart from Darella, who was bundled against Jena's chest. The two fast asleep with Jena's fiery hair spread across the orange pillow, making her whole head appear to be engulfed by flame. You rested between Baelor's strong thighs, his hands roaming over your stomach. His touch calmed the restless babe, soothing her to sleep.

"Maerella for this one, if you approve," he whispered in your ear.

You nodded before wrapping his arms tighter around you. In this moment, all was well. Despite the rocky waves of the past, you managed to create a smooth foundation, and your life blossomed in unexpected ways.

You could not help, but constantly compare Dragonstone to Maekar. You did not know mean too. You did not even always notice that was what you were doing, and yet your mind constantly made the connections.

This was suppose to be a fresh start, a way to mend your marriage to Baelor, and yet it felt anything, but that.

You had wondered if it would be easier to go into the sea and to float away, mayhaps the boys could come with you and you could live your life in peace. Away from the heavy burden of the crown pressing down into you.

"Mum, did you hear me?" your eldest asked causing you to turn from the crashing washes you hoped would eat you hole to him.

Valarr, six and ten stared at you, blinking awaiting your answer to whatever he had just asked.

"What?" you asked.

"When can we go home?"

You could feel your shoulders tense. Home. Valarr wanted to go back to the only home he had ever truly known, having lived in the capital since his father was named Hand of the King when he was only seven.

You moved toward him cupping his cheek, and he allowed you. Despite almost being a man grown himself he was still your son, and he knew that. You smiled at him though it did not quite reach your eyes, "I will talk to your father."

It was never hard to find Baelor throughout the day. He would always be in his chambers, perched over a desk reading through the ravens and different accounts he had been sent that day.

He looked tired. He looked as tired as you felt, and were sure that his emotions mirrored your own.

Dragonstone had not been in at all what you were expecting. There was conversation, but that often led to harsh words being exchanged. That the wounds inside you kept feeling as if they were being pressed on deeper rather than healing like they should have started to at this time.

The true problem was the Hand of the King never truly get a day off. Even being in an entire different castle. Even if he had promised his wife once more to allow them time to work on themselves.

"Valarr wishes to go home," you told him, finally causing him to look up from his work.

His face did something you could not name or mayhaps you just did not wish too tired of the same constant look. He pushed his lips together as his gaze trailed over you searching you for a lie that he would not find.

"Valarr or you?" he countered leaning back in his chair arms crossing over his chest.

You let out a scoff before you could stop yourself, "If I wished to go home I would tell you I wished to go home," you made your moved to leave thinking the conversation was over. That it would not progress any further from that point.

You were wrong.

"Maekar said it was more than sex."

You paused, slowly turning from the exit to your husband, "We're having this conversation again."

"It has been a month and you still will not give me a real answer."

It was the same thing over and over again. Beating the dead horse, despite how it never made a move to rise. You were suppose to be working past this, but instead it felt like you continued to go in circles.

Talking about Maekar ended no where, but a screaming match with doors slamming and sleeping in a cold bed alone for another night.

You swallowed. You did not want to lie. You would not lie to him, and instead you said, "Think about going back home…For your sons at least."

You left him with his thoughts, and that was not the smartest move, but you could not have known that then. Though you would figure it out soon enough.

The bruises on Baelor's face had begun to heal, but the ones deeper inside had not faded in the slightest.

He had conjured a story in his head. One that he would have been able to look past. That you sought Maekar out for company, that he was a warm body to fill the place of himself. That Maekar used you to numb some of the pain of being alone after Dyanna.

It was more than just fucking. It was more than any excuse he had made in his mind, and his brother had sent that idea crumbling straight into the ground with what he had told him that day in the courtyard.

'There…There is something that I cannot explain between the pair of us.'

He was not sure why he could del with the fact that you had slept with his brother, but not the fact you had feelings for him.

It felt different. More intimate. It hurt more this way.

And he knew. He knew, he knew, he knew that he was the one that had out the thought there. That he had give his blessing, but he was wrong. He was so very wrong, and thought you knew that.

You did know that, but you had also made your promise. You were a woman of your word, but he thought for once you were bluffing. And maybe you were at least at first.

He could put the pieces together. He could picture his brother slowly slipping into his place with you and even his sons. Even now they stull looked as if there were waiting for the boot to drop.

Maekar was for once what he was not.

Matarys and Valarr wanted their uncle.

You preferred his brother. Now every time he looked at you he wondered if you were thinking of him. If you stared out at the moon wishing he was by your side. If you ate meals missing Maekar's dry since of humor.

He was driving insane.

Baelor wanted you to feel something close to what he had. What he still felt. He wanted the pain inside him to stop. He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.

He was not truly sure what he wanted.

For the first time in his life he felt like he was at a loss. That he was not the perfect prince and Heir he was depicted as.

'That you have neglected your wife for moons and she finally had enough of it…came running to me and it kills you for once that someone choose me over you! The perfect prince wasn't fucking perfect for once.'

"Do you need something, m'lord?"

Baelor's eyes lifted up to the maid standing in front of him. She was younger, with big brown eyes and a bright smile. She was pretty. She was very, very pretty.

"Come here," he beckoned her forward. She did so with an eager grin moving across the floor quickly, "What is your name?"

You were tired, night after night with little sleep and you thought it had finally gotten to you.

Neither had turned to notice you and the irony in the situation was almost to funny. Two moons ago Baelor had walked in on his brother and yourself. Now you had walked in on him balls deep in a woman you could not identify even if you tried.

Whether it was the sleep deprivation or the simple fact you did not know how to react you laughed, loudly, finally catching their attention, "This really appears to be working on our marriage."

Within a flash Baelor was on his feet, the evidence of his hard cock staring at you. The unknown woman scrambled fixing her dress as they both gawked at you.

She opened her mouth, now realizing just who had caught them. Not just some random woman, but his o

"I do not want to hear your excuses. Leave before I change my mind," you told her, not sparing her a glance keeping your eyes on your husband.

The door shut and neither of you acknowledged it staring at the other. Despite laughing only a moment ago your face lacked at humor. Your eyes bore into him it was a wonder he had not dropped to the ground.

"Are you going to put pants on or should we fight with your cock out…because if it stares at me a moment longer I cannot promise I won't attempt to cut it off."

He blinked at you once before collecting his trousers from the floor pulling them to cover himself. "Was she all you imagined?"

"Was Maekar?"

"You want to know about how your brother is in bed, because I will tell you if that's what you want to hear."

You moved forward slowly, and it caused a chill to crawl up his spine. He awaited your next move in terror, "You want to hear about how nice his cock feels moving in and out of me or about how I scream his name?"

His jaw locked as you circled him. He felt like he was being hunted. He did not feel like the strong warrior, but instead as if he was mouth awaiting the trap you were setting for him."Did you picture me?" you asked, your nail dragging against his back muscles pain following your trail as you moved to now stand in front of him.

"Did you?" he countered.

"No," you replied honestly.

You watched his face do the thing from earlier, the same thing it had been doing for the last month. He shook his head, looking away from you, but you moved gripping his beard chin forcing his mismatched eyes on you, "You spent months neglecting me and I went to your brother for companionship. Can you really blame me?" you questioned.

You let go of him stepping backward, putting the distance between you as if it would dull the anger, but it did the opposite."Call it what it is," his voice was rising by the minute, the calm demeanor he typically wore back in King's Landing waiting for its prince.

"And what is it, oh wise, Baelor?" you asked, your arms crossing over you chest. Your voice remained even but your began to shake with the pent up rage.

"You love him!"

You stared at him for a second, the realization settling deep in your bones like a dull ache that never quite faded. He had spoken it into the world. Something that you had been ignoring for weeks, because it was more than sex.

But if you ignored it would go away

Baelor apparently did not share that same thought, "So you thought sticking your cock into some random maid would dull that? If anything you made it worse you idiot!"

"You slept with my brother!"

"And now I am going to do it again as soon as we get back to King's Landing," you declared.

He opened his mouth to say something, but there was nothing more you wanted to hear, "We are returning to King's Landing. I expect you to make the preparation on the morrow or I will write to your brother to handle, because I can aat least trust him to make good on his word."

Spinning on your heels the door feeling as it had rattled the castle. The waves crashing outside, angry and violet felt dull in comparison to the rage of storm he had just created.

"Oh, fuck," Baelor cried out crumbling to his knees just like his marriage just had.

Maekar Targaryen had seen battle. He was the Anvil for Sevens sake, and here he was staring at your letter as if he was four and ten trying to court a woman for the first time.

You made his heart race. You made a warmth spread through him that he thought had been buried alongside his wife.

"This is so fucking stupid," he muttered staring at the letter, and yet he still did not open it.

He moved toward the widow staring out at the night sky. He on several occasions had debated taking his children back to Summerhall. To his proper seat, but some deep part of him still held out hope you would return soon. For his children of course, and definitely not because he missed you.

He closed his eyes and let your face filled his sight instead of the back of his eyelids, and if he focused hard enough he could hear your laugh,"This is ridiculous," he muttered once more, but his voice was already softer.

His eyes opened slowly as he looked to the moon, wondering if you were staring out at it like you did when sleep evaded you. Or perhaps you were already deep asleep in his elder brother's arms.

Finally with shaky hands and one last glance at the moon he opened the letter. He treated the parchment with such delicacy you would swear this was not the same man who had earned the title of the Anvil.

Dearest Maekar, On the morrow my boys and I will set out making our way back to Dragonstone. With or without your brother's permission. I will see you soon.

His fingers ran over every word, tracing the letters that you had written with him in mind, "She's coming home," he breathed out, and there was too much emotion threaded through his words for a man who was suppose to be treating you like only a good-sister.

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