Lady Matilda

Endless questioning. That was all he had heard, and it was just about enough to drive him crazy, past the point of insanity if possible.

You were no fool, he knew of it. He would not have stepped foot into another marriage let alone being forced to take a bride, if she was dimwitted. And you were far from it.

Callous, stern and prickly many called him, and yet you and what followed had wandered round him like a buzzing fly. Though it was not your company he despised, he liked that more than he could admit, but it was the mockery. For a man of his age, not old and yet not young with six children in his stead, you had been incessant in wondering exactly.

How.

He was handsome, far more than people had mentioned or cared to, striking in that fierce way. Hardened by battles and fatherhood alone. And you were captivated, and curious. And luckily for you, you were the thing, the creature, the pest that consistently managed to get under his skin.

The way you walked, talked, the way you made eyes at him across the feasting table, the way you’d so perfectly slotted into the family and how everyone, including the children adored you. For that he was thankful, truly, but it didn’t stop the fact you drove him mad.

“She is a new addition to the family, and she is fitting in quite well I should say.” Baelor countered as both men walked through the punctured halls of Maegor’s Holdfast.

“She has taken over.” Maekar muttered with a roll of his yes , stalking slowly beside his brother.

“Your senses perhaps.” Baelor replied coolly, an edge of amusement following.

Maekar slowed, squinting piercing eyes at his brother as they moved to stand over the edge, overseeing the court below where you and the children had played. Egg and Rhae had tugged at your hands, making you stand to play and duck behind the plant pots with them in small strides, with Daeron watching on. Even Valarr stood at the corner with a smile, whispering no doubt pleasantries and flattery about you. Some said you would have been more suited to one of the younger Prince’s, perhaps there would be more in common, a likeness, but even though he remained shadowed, the idea made his blood boil. A possessiveness over territory he had yet to claim.

Not a chance.

“What I mean is, she does no harm. It has been a long time since they have all looked like this.” Baelor reasoned, picking at the stone underneath his palm as he eyed Maekar.

“Around you she may not.” The grumble came fast, quick to override his brother’s words. But his throat felt dry, tacky and stuck like the words could barely come out. Like what he had heard was true.

His senses, overtaken his senses. How?

What with your cunning ways, your ability to charm and please, and weasel your way in without needing to, to be so beautiful and too good for him. It needled at him. The marriage both of you had been so blessed with was not necessity, not by anyone’s means, but yet it came anyway.

Swift and secure, as all things should be, strengthening alliance or something else they had bothered to give title.

The loss changed him, hardened him in ways that most wouldn’t be able to understand, but you had tried to. Endlessly. Attempts to break down the brick wall that was your husband became futile, and so you decided to go around him. For it was jsut as new to you as it was to him, and with him years your senior, you had expected him more forthcoming.

And yet he was not.

He was reserved and callous, moving through the halls of Summerhall like a gust of wind more than a steady hand, ignoring all of your questions insisting they were nothing but “nonsensical whims.”

But you had longed for something different. Perhaps not the chivalrous fanciful lords and their ways, but his own.. the longing looks he had given you across court, the fleeting touches at your lower back and arm when duty had warranted it. But you wanted more, you wanted him, not duty. And he had been rather intent on keeping it from you.

But one thing he didn’t deny, was that his brother may well have been right. None of them had looked like it in such a long time, nor had he felt the way he had in so long. So.. undone, having to pry himself from his thoughts, especially when you caught his gaze from across the din.

Your smile bright and curved, more like a smirk, knowing and tempting. His jaw ticked harshly, tongue pressing deep into his cheek, only for a fleeting moment before you had looked away, and his fingers had all but gripped the stone under his fingers enough to chip it.

Baelor had caught it, a single glimpse to his side and back onto you and the children again. The heat that burned from the man beside him was enough to scold and he had not lingered on the thought of what had wandered through his head.

Nor did he need to, because before pulling away, Maekar’s eyes barely left you.

His thoughts were, you.

——

The chamber was cool, years of aged stone encasing you more than you’d have liked. The day had .. wonderfully, breaking your fast with your ladies and the children, tending to them in the gardens and watching over some of their lessons, and retreating back to your ladies once more. For them you were thankful, able to wander the lower halls without question or prying eyes, and the ability to talk as freely as you wished.

“If only he wasn’t so prickly.”

“Careful, he is our Prince after all.”

“It is a miracle he has fathered children of his own at all, not near as pleasant as his brother.” Quickly followed by, “Apologies my lady, we only wish to see you happy..”

You had confided in them briefly, private chatter between you of how exactly to woo the prince, or rather atleast to accept his affections that so many had claimed to have seen. Also that so many had claimed the Prince did not have a heart to give.

But they were wrong.

Not with the way he looked you, so dark and delicate, like he could snap at any moment..

You must have made him feel green again, one had giggled, as you did.

You had asked him to visit your chambers many nights, and yet he did not, instead your maid came to you, always. She bathed you often, brought tea and a fresh pitcher of water, even sat with you a while when you had wanted it. Almost as if it had been sent for you, and for that you were thankful. But there was no sign of him.

And alas, you had had enough.

They were not wrong, you had noticed it too. Such fighting for restraint and the tension that lingered was inevitable, a livin thing that made you ache.

And so you had taken their advice.

If he will not make such a move, perhaps you should.

And you liked that idea, you liked it very much. Because out of all the talk and gossip, the questioning of your husband’s want for you was dwindling, and yet you did not give in.

Your chambermaid, Niamh, had just finished setting out the tray in the small table, a glass bowl of fruits beside a candle, a hand towel and your bodily oils. She stood straight backed and patient for what her ached body would allow, resting her arms at her middle with a small, expectant smile.

“I have run you a bath, should you require assistance, my lady?”

“That will be all thank you Niamh, you are dismissed.”

She nodded curtly, and with the turn of her heel the oak creaked behind her softly. You had waited a further few moments to let the echoes of her footsteps die out before you moved, stepping into the thinness of your laced nightgown with a devilish grin.

Because it was not the bath you were ready for.

Your steps patterned the lines of the corridors you’d mapped out for some time, every corner and shortcut that was hidden beneath stone. Maekar’s own chambers was not far from your own, a whole stretch of hall and a turn away. Every outline of jagged rock shadowed with a trail of sconces and the few tapered and coloured tapestries that hung from the walls.

Your heart thrummed harshly in your chest with adrenaline, your fingertips flexing as you clutched your arms around yourself from the cold night air. And once you arrived outside of his chambers, the feeling only seemed to grow, goose pimples trailing your skin. But with a single look, defiant and what confidence you could muster up, the two men standing vigil outside had stepped aside without protest for you.

Seemingly aware of the mission you had embarked yourself on.

The chambers were darker than your own, everything lined perfectly and sparse just as you had remembered it from your night together moons ago. The last time he had truly touched you. You stepped inside carefully, snaking yourself around the door before closing it shut with a heavy click.

The hearth warmed the room, dimming it in golds and oranges across banners of red and black. Your breath stuttered as you turned, so taken with breathing the space in you hadn’t known the figure staring right at you. And a look of confusion etching the striking, miserable features.

His robe was a dark and velveted crimson, one that wrapped to his shins and broadened his shoulders. His eyes glistened in that light, twinkling more tender than they had let on, almost enticing.

“Husband.” You greeted innocently.

“Who let you in?” Maekar spoke sharply, like the words were a bad taste on his tongue.

“Your kingsguard, very thoughtful of them.” You gestured behind you at the door as you moved further into the room, closing the gap between you as much as you could dare.

“You should be asleep,” His eyes raked over you for a single moment, rather all he could allow himself before he turned to his side, back facing you as he made for the bed, “in your own chambers.”

Your nightdress was of the finest silk, cream and a lightness that hugged your curves in the most torturous way, your hair clung to your shoulders and your skin bared.

Something he should not have seen, should not have wanted as much as he did.

“I have come to see you.”

You dared a foot forwards, planting it across the cool floor and onto the myriah carpet just at the end of the bed, a small smile peeking at your features. He had rested himself onto the edge of the bed, sitting hunched as his legs trailed far and long in front of him, shoulders sagged and tense.

“Well now you have seen. Now leave.”

But you did not, you couldn’t. He was far too close, and you had not yet begun.

You didn’t answer to that, instead you had crawled toward him on the edge of the bed, a mere arms length away.

“I have missed you.”

He only looked at you as he took a heavy inhale, a simple look, displeased and thrown. Why. You blinked up to the violets that bore into yours, a face like statue and stone. How could you. After all that was placed on you both, all the gossip and venomous words that spilled behinds backs, after how much he had attempted to keep from ruining you.

“What are you saying?”

“Well you hardly spend any time here.. with me.” You kicked your legs in front, swinging just beside his, close enough to knock together where yours didn’t meet the length of his own.

“Do not pretend to be so stupid.”

“It scares you.” You inched closely, carefully, arms reaching toward him, through the robe. And he allowed you to, legs spread wide and shamelessly as you settled yourself over him, a knee perched on either side.

“What?” He blinked up through lidded eyes, pupils blown and decisive, even if he would not speak as such. He would let you have your fun, amuse yourself and find out what you had so longed to have.

“The thought scares you.” You continued, fingers running along the collar of his robe, lining the silk just across the hem where his skin was bared. Few silver hairs littered his chest where the material opened, hard planes of pale muscle rising and falling sharply.

“What thought woman? Speak.” Maekar snapped through the quiet, impatience clawing at his skin like a fire.

“Surrendering yourself.”

He almost laughed, almost, a short incredulous huff bubbling from his throat.

“It is not my duty to surrender.”

“But it is your duty to put a babe in me is it not, the marriage was consummated moons ago and you had done so little as touch me.” Your fingers worked at his shoulders, taut muscle pulling between your nails. He stayed rigid, batting your hand away with a flick.

But you moved it back, placing it right back to where you had it.

“Do not test me.”

You could feel him there. The warmth of his breath, the burning glare that did not leave your face, the heat brushing between you through thin layers of fabric. Arousal flooded your core, and you had half the mind to bite back a moan. You had not had him like this, and he was not denying you.

“I’am not testing you.” You shrugged, hands slowly circling to meet around his neck. A brave move, even if not wise. He swore he could hear the hammering of your heart, and still see the curve of the smirk he had not from forgotten hours earlier, the one that plagued his mind.

The one he wished to wipe off of your face and take you over his lap in an instant—

“Perhaps it is more than duty you require..” Your fingers continued at his collarbones, humming dreamily at the thought. “Perhaps it is want.”

Your eyes met, bearing down into one another as your breaths mingled, your faces somehow rocked closer together on instinct, where your lips neared touching.

“Though if you do not wish for more, nor to consummate this marriage.. I wouldn’t be offended. Perhaps you are scared.. and after having so many it would be more than enough for an old man to—“

That was enough. The pure breaking point he’d sure he’d lost a long time ago. All resolve had seemed to snap with a heavy punch in his gut.

You didn’t have time to contemplate another word before he had shifted you both roughly. Long, thick fingers circled around your throat, your back shoved down into layers upon layers of silken sheets and furs. The tassels of his robe had fallen in his swiftness, bearing his chest completely leaving him only in his breeches and you had completely lost your breath.

You were pinned, folded with your legs pressed into his thighs as he kneeled over you.

“Do not anger me, girl.”

You blinked up at him, gasping at the pressure against your throat. You could smell him from there, more than before. And he was intoxicating. His scent, the smell of woodsmoke and pine, and need.

“You know well that is not it.” He gritted, glaring down at you with a gaze that made the pressure in your belly pinch hot.

“Then what is it.. mayhaps that you are older—“

The fingers tightened at your throat as he leaned down, body rising over yours as more weight anchored you down.

“Seven hells no. Tell me what you want. Say it, tell me you want this as I do, before I change my fucking mind.” The hand at your waist clamped tighter, stretching the seams of your nightgown. Your skin was ablaze, ignited under his touch and the aching deep in your core.

There was much you could have said, even struck him for making you wait so long, for denying himself of you for reasons he couldn’t even begin to name, but you had forgotten all else, raw need buzzing through your skin.

“Want you to put a babe in me husband.. want you to show me how well you fuck.”

You breathed out with a whine. And he growled, deep and beastly, like a primal instinct that could not be tamed. So guttural it sounded almost dragonlike.

His grip curled around the back of your neck, shoving you up to face him with bared teeth as he pressed himself further down, nose nudging harshly into yours.

“Good girl.”

His lips crashed to yours, fierce and unyielding, the force shoving you both back onto the bed as he bent over you. Your tongues swept together before his pushed his between your lips, tasting you, savouring and claiming all at once.

“You have driven me mad, wife.” With one hand he reached between you, unlacing the confines of his breeches in one heavy tug. They fell away down to his knees, the sharp ‘v’ of muscle trailing down to his cock defined and pulsing with vein. Even through lidded and lusted eyes you could see him, all of him. He was thick as he was long, the tip reddened with an aching blush and the beading sticky stream of precum.

Maekar waited a moment, slowing as he rose, releasing his grip on your neck, tracing his fingers over the bunched hem of your nightgown. He pushed it up, inch by inch until he brought it to your chest.

“Off.” Was all he called gruffly, and the command made you dizzy, raising your arms shakily as he snaked it off of you before tossing it somewhere to the floor where neither of you had cared to look for it.

He had longed for this sight. You had lingered long in his memory since the first time, the swell of your breasts and nipples pebbling under the cool air, the dip of your waist and curve of your stomach. The flush of your face under the firelight flickering behind you, silhouetted only by his shadow above you. Gods you did drive him mad.

And he was a fool to wait so long, to make you wait.

Hands brushed down your sides, callouses scratching along your skin as you shivered under his touch, fingers splaying over your belly and parting your thighs.

“All of this teasing.. and talk with your ladies who do not know fuck all.”

His fingers dug into the flesh of them, ignoring the way you inched downward to him, the hard press of his length just above your aching cunt.

“She must be so needy for me for being desperate like some common whore...” He tutted sharply, running a finger from your navel to your heat, slipping through the wetness that gathered over your clit and entrance. Flush crept your cheeks brazenly, hips arching instinctly as he curled two inside of you.

You moaned loudly, digits filling you at once as your cunt sucked them in greedily, rocking back onto them as he flexed them. He worked you open like that, scissoring as you bucked and humped yourself back onto his hand restlessly. And again he let you, urging you on, pumping his fingers deep while his thumb circled at your clit, letting your sticky sweetness coat his hand.

The sounds were lewd, a squelch against his palm where it filled you, motioning and massaging at your g-spot over and over until you had broke a sweat across the sheets, working yourself up with a desire that needed to be sated.

He didn’t let you finish, couldn’t, not even the satisfaction of having you come undone on him was enough. He had to have you, and there was only way it was going to happen, with having you wrapped around his cock and buried deep inside of you.

“Why the fuck did you—“ Your words caught on your tongue, dying as he angled himself, heavy length rubbing through your folds with a sickening tease. He slipped himself inside, thickness filling you with a burning stretch as you took him. His mouth moved back over yours, catching your whines and enduring the way your nails clutched at his back with a groan.

He stilled only to feel all of you, sheathed so far inside you swore you could feel him in the your belly. His cock punched deep, fingers gripped in a swarm around your hips to only anchor himself further, tongue sweeping over yours in a feverish haze. You could hardly breathe, the air punched from your lungs as he thrust inside of you, pulling out gently just to shove himself back deeper, and purposefully until stars blurred your vision.

Your thighs curled at his hips, muscle tensing and straining where he fucked into you like a man possessed, grunts muffled into the curve of your jaw as you begged and whined for him, wrapping yourself tight at his middle as he huddled himself over you. The hard bone of his knees braced at the bottom of your thighs, stretching you further for him to get more of you, your body on full display and all for him.

You tried to speak, to rise over the lack of words as your mouth parted, but it failed you, he was merciless.

“Take. It.” He rasped, rising over you to tug your legs upward, resting them onto his chest and up to his shoulders. Your husband was undone, completely. Silver flattened hair had fallen into his eyes, pale skin flushing with a sheen of sweat and desire, his eyes burning as he took you in. As if to study you so deeply and commit you to memory, finally having you in his arms, unable to spout those stupid questions and irk him further.

But it did not last long, not until he had you flipped again, this time with your face pressed into the furs, a heavy palm smoothed over your back.

“You want to know how hm?” His breath hit the shell of your ear, cock sliding over your arsecheek.

Your blood ran cold, a shiver wracking your body as fingers twisted into your hair, forcing you up along with his hips. He had you bent beneath him, his hips dragging into your arse as he lined himself up once more. You were arched up into him, breasts bunched into the mattress and your cries muffled into the sheets.

The angle there hit deeper, fuller, settling that spot inside of you with every snap of his thrusts. The sound of slapping filled your ears, punctuated only by his grunting and your moans. He tugged you back onto him where you fell completely boneless, his cock spreading you open as your arms spread wide, clutching and fisting at the pillows as you moaned into the mattress.

“This is what you wanted is it, to fuck you full..” A hand cracked down onto your arscheek and you mewled, arching your back to meet the stinging pressure. He fucked into you still, sinking in and out so deeply it was certain to kiss your cervix.

“Perhaps this will shut you up.. spilling inside of this cunt.”

Your whines became babbles, a plea of “yes yes yes” falling from your lips needily, and he gave you it, everything you desired, begged for, everything you deserved. His head fell, a hand moving over the trail of your spine, cinching at your waist to bring you closer.

You couldn’t take it.

The pair of your fell apart together, every slap of skin and pant sending you over the edge. His teeth bit into your shoulder from behind, tongue smoothing over the marks that punctured your skin.

“Please..” You whined, your walls spasming wildly around him as your climax crashed over you.

“Let go for me, my girl..” He groaned through gritted teeth, grabbing a harsh fistful of your arse as you clenched around him, your swollen cunt milking him dry as he chased his own high. He gave few more thrusts before spilling inside of you, fucking it back into you as you shook round him, legs limp beneath him.

He did not let go of you right away, pulling from you carefully, your wetness and his spend leaking from you as he rested your hips back onto the bed. A pillow was placed under your middle as he lifted you without fuss, tilting you ever so slightly downward. So it will keep. Your heart eased its hammering as your body began to rest, heavy warm arms tugging you upward and onto his chest.

The sheets were pulled over you carefully in silence, only his ragged breaths and the crackling of the hearth filling the heavy silence in the room.

“Rest.”

A hand combed through your hair, smoothing over your face as you looked up at him, and this time he found yours, and really looked. Your arm wrapped over his as his hooked under your legs, sweeping you closer, together wrapped in your warmth.

He felt you looking, and he waited, expecting another quip as per usual.

“Are you done with the nonsense now?” He mumbled, resting his head back onto the wooden headboard.

“Mhm.. maybe.” You hummed, tracing the silver hairs at his chest.

“For fucks sake..”

“I believe you’ll have to do it again.”

There it was.

The mouth that drove him mad. His arm tightened around you, but he said nothing.

Though he didn’t need to, his exhales grew harsher, his spend still dripping from you as you rubbed your thighs together, and over the hardening of his cock.

Not as duty, not as requirement, but as your husband, and the pure unrestrained need for wanting you, and how he wasn’t to deny it again.

It all started, as most inadvisable things did, with your mouth.

You had been walking the gardens with two of the other ladies, taking the late morning air before the Queen's afternoon appointments, and the conversation had wandered — the way conversations wandered when the court was between crises — toward the maze. Someone had mentioned getting lost in it the previous week, going around the same hedge three times before a gardener had the mercy to redirect her, and you had laughed and said it was not so complicated once you knew the trick of it.

Maekar had been nearby. He was frequently nearby, in the particular way that you had long since stopped pretending was coincidence. He was not part of your group — he was never part of groups, he existed at their edges, a gravitational presence that declined to announce itself — but he was close enough to hear, leaning against the stone balustrade with his arms folded and the expression of a man who was not quite listening and was, in fact, listening to everything.

"The trick of it," he said.

You looked at him. "The left-hand rule. You keep your hand on the left wall and follow it. You'll find the centre in under ten minutes."

"That works in simple mazes."

"This is a simple maze."

Something shifted in his expression. Not offense — Maekar did not take offense the way other men did, did not bristle and puff. He went very slightly still instead, and his lilac eyes acquired a particular quality of attention that you had learned to recognise as interest dressed in flat clothing. "You think you know it better than I do."

"I know I do," you said, pleasantly, and the other ladies went very quiet in the way of people who could see where a conversation was heading and wanted a good view. "I have walked it a hundred times. You have walked it—" you tilted your head "—twice? Three times?"

"I have a sense of direction."

"So do I. And I also have the left-hand rule." You smiled. "I'd wager I could lose you in there inside five minutes."

His eyes held yours. The stillness in him had changed quality — something underneath it now, something that was considering the dare rather than the offense.

"You'd wager," he repeated.

"If you would like to test it, my prince." You kept your voice light, easy, the voice of someone proposing nothing more serious than a morning's entertainment. "I go in first. You give me two minutes and then follow. If you catch me before I reach the centre, you win. If I reach the centre first—"

"What does winning look like for you?"

"You admit I know the maze better than you do."

The corner of his mouth did not quite move, but something happened in the vicinity of it. He looked at you for a long moment with those flat violet eyes and the quality of attention that was never entirely flat, and then he unfolded his arms and said, "Two minutes."

You went in laughing.

You could not help it — the absurdity of it, the brightness of the morning, the particular pleasure of having made Maekar Targaryen accept a dare as though it were a matter of personal honour. Your slippers were quiet on the gravel path and the hedges rose green on either side, eight feet high and dense as walls, and you put your left hand out and touched the leaves and moved.

The maze unfolded the way it always did for you — familiar, almost comfortable, the turns coming where you expected them, the dead ends already known and avoided without thought. Left at the first junction. Straight through the false turn. Right at the narrow passage that looked wrong but wasn't.

You were smiling to yourself, moving briskly, when you heard him enter behind you.

Earlier than two minutes, you thought. Which was either impatience or confidence, and with Maekar it was impossible to always tell the difference.

You moved faster.

The maze had three distinct sections — the outer ring, which was straightforward; the middle, which was where most people lost themselves; and the inner passage, which was tight and doubled back twice before opening into the centre garden. You were through the outer ring already, turning into the middle section with your hand on the left wall, and you could hear him somewhere behind you — not close, but not distant either, footsteps even and unhurried, which meant he was not panicking and had not yet lost himself.

You took the double-back without slowing.

For a few minutes there was nothing — just the green walls and the morning light falling in columns between the hedges, and your own breathing and the distant sound of birds. Then footsteps again, from a different direction than expected, and closer.

You felt the first small flutter of something that was not entirely amusement.

He had not taken the double-back. He had gone around it. Which meant he was not following your path — he was cutting across the geometry of the maze by instinct, not rule, and either he would hit a dead end inside forty seconds or he had somehow mapped the structure of the thing from the outside and was working from a mental picture rather than direct navigation.

You turned left again and moved faster, and the laughter in your chest had shifted slightly — still there, still genuine, but with an edge to it now that had not been there before.

He was not flailing. He was hunting.

The realisation arrived quietly, the way important realisations sometimes did. The footsteps behind you were not the footsteps of a man consulting the left-hand rule or backtracking from dead ends. They were the footsteps of a man who had assessed the terrain and was moving through it with purpose, and they were getting closer with a consistency that spoke to someone who had spent a professional lifetime navigating hostile ground and was simply applying the same skills to a garden maze.

You made three fast turns in a row, the sequence you knew best, the one that doubled back and came out on the diagonal and lost almost everyone — and heard, perhaps twenty feet away through the hedge, footsteps that paused for barely a second and then adjusted.

The flutter sharpened.

You ran.

Not entirely — not the full commitment of actual flight, not yet — but your steps quickened into something just below a run, your hand dropping from the wall as you took the turn by memory instead of touch, cutting left and then immediately right and then through the narrow passage that smelled of damp earth and cut greenery, and behind you the footsteps did not quicken into confusion.

They quickened into pursuit.

Something in your body answered to that before your mind had finished processing it. An old knowledge, older than thinking — the particular electricity of being followed by something that had decided to catch you. Your heart was going faster than the exertion warranted. Your slippers were nearly silent on the path and the hedges blurred green at the edges of your vision and you were still smiling except that the smile was different now, had moved from the amusement of a known outcome to something more breathless and less certain.

You took the last sequence before the inner passage — the one that required knowing which of two identical-looking turns was the correct one, the final test of anyone who claimed to know the maze — and you took it correctly, by instinct, without slowing, and you heard him behind you take it too.

Immediately. Without hesitation.

Oh, you thought.

The inner passage was narrow. Single file. Eight feet of dense hedge on either side and the path barely wide enough for two people to pass. You turned into it and moved as fast as you dared and the gravel was loud underfoot now, no masking it, and behind you the footsteps were close. Close enough that you could hear the quality of them — not the measured even tread of a man in public but something else, something quieter and more focused, and when you glanced back over your shoulder the passage curved and you could not see him yet but you could hear him and the distance was—

His hand caught your arm just as the passage opened into the centre garden.

Not roughly. Not quite. But with the complete certainty of a man who had known exactly where you were for the last sixty seconds and had been closing the distance with patience rather than speed, letting you tire yourself on the last turns, and the momentum of it turned you and suddenly you were against the hedge wall with his arm braced beside your head and Maekar Targaryen was very close, breathing harder than usual, and looking at you.

You looked back.

His eyes were dark.

Not the flat colour of the Maekar who stood at the edges of rooms and said little. Not the controlled, deliberate watchfulness he wore in public like armour. This was something underneath all of that — something that had come up through the layers during the last ten minutes, called up by gravel and laughter and the specific animal satisfaction of a chase successfully completed, and it sat in his eyes now with an intensity that made the inside of your chest feel very warm and very strange.

He was breathing heavily. So were you.

You were not afraid. That was the first clear thing. You looked at him — at the dark intensity in his face, the particular way he was looking at you, the fact of his size and his proximity and the arm against the hedge that was not quite trapping you and was not quite not — and you were not afraid at all. What you were was something considerably more inconvenient.

You were looking at him the way his prey might look at him, and something in you was answering to that in kind, and the warmth in your chest had moved considerably further south.

"I nearly made it," you said. Your voice came out quieter than intended.

"You did make it." His voice was low. Rough in the way it got rougher sometimes, when something had gotten past the wall. "Centre garden."

"Then I win."

"I caught you."

"The terms were—"

"I caught you," he said again, and there was nothing argumentative in it. It was simply a fact he was stating, looking at you from very close with those dark eyes, and the fact had nothing to do with the terms of the dare and both of you knew it.

The space between you was very small.

You watched his face — the old pox scars beneath the silver beard, the weathered set of his features, the muscle in his jaw that was working slightly with the effort of something, and the darkness in his eyes that was not going anywhere, that had been lit, you guessed, during the chase and was still burning with nowhere to go. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a decision with both feet.

You lifted your chin.

It was not a large movement. It was the smallest possible thing — a degree of tilt, a fraction of angle, barely anything. But it was not nothing, and he read it the way he read everything, with the complete attention of a man who had been paying close attention for considerably longer than was safe.

His hands found your waist and your back met the hedge wall and his mouth came down onto yours with a certainty that had no hesitation in it whatsoever — not the frozen stillness, not the careful bracing of a man managing himself. The chase had burned through all of that. What was left was Maekar without the management, and that was consuming in a way that made your hands fist in the front of his doublet and your whole body lean into him before you had made any conscious decision to do so.

He made a sound against your mouth that was low and not composed at all.

His hands found the fabric of your gown.

The centre garden was empty — it was always empty at this hour, too deep in the maze for casual visitors, and the high hedges cut the sound from the rest of the gardens — but the awareness of where you were was still present at the back of your mind, the low thrum of exposure that should have made you careful. It did not make you careful. It made your heart beat faster, and when his hand found the hem of your gown and pulled it up with an unhurried and entirely purposeful movement, you exhaled against his mouth with a sound that was frankly not quiet.

He covered your mouth with his other hand.

Not hard. Not frightening. Just — present, his palm warm against your lips, his eyes on your face with that dark intensity, watching you.

You looked back at him over the edge of his hand. You held his gaze. You let him read you. His eyes darkened further.

His hand moved beneath your gown, and the first touch of his fingers against the skin of your inner thigh made you close your eyes and make a sound that he successfully contained, his palm firm against your mouth. His fingers moved upward with a patience that was almost cruel, learning the soft skin of your thigh with the same unhurried attention he gave to everything he decided to do properly — no fumbling, no uncertainty — until he found you and his breath went out hard and quiet against the top of your head.

"Gods," he said, very low. Not a prayer. An inventory.

You were wet. You were embarrassingly, thoroughly wet, because you had spent ten minutes being hunted through a garden maze by a man who moved like a predator and caught you like it was inevitable, and your body had apparently been reaching its own conclusions throughout.

He traced your wet folds and your hips moved forward and the sound you made against his palm was the kind that did not pass for anything else than what it was.

His fingers moved. Slowly at first, with the focus of a man learning something new and intending to learn it thoroughly, and you gripped the front of his doublet with both hands and pressed your forehead against his chest and breathed through your nose in the careful, controlled way of someone trying very hard not to be audible. His hand on your mouth shifted — still present, still firm — and his thumb touched the corner of your jaw in a gesture that was almost tender in the middle of everything else.

With your free hand — one still fisted on his chest — you found the lacing of his breeches.

He went still for a moment. The fingers between your thighs did not stop but something in his breathing changed, became more deliberate, and when you worked the lacing open and got your hand inside his breeches and wrapped your fingers around him he made a sound against your hair that was quiet and completely undone.

He was hard. Fully, achingly hard, which was its own kind of information — that the chase had done this to him too, that whatever had woken up in him during the last ten minutes was not only in his eyes. You stroked once, slowly, learning the weight and warmth of him, and felt him exhale in a long careful breath.

"You—" he started, and stopped.

You stroked again. He lost the thread of whatever he had been going to say.

His hand moved against you with a focus that made your knees unreliable, his fingers learning what you responded to and returning to it with the systematic dedication of a man who does not do anything halfway, and you were very glad of the hand at your mouth because the sounds trying to get out were not small. Your hand around him stroked in a rhythm that matched what he was doing to you and his hips moved into it with a helplessness that was remarkable on him, on Maekar who was never helpless, and you felt him press his face into your hair and breathe.

"I need—" he tried to say, very low.

You nodded against his palm. He hooked your leg over his arm. The lift was easy for him — the fact of it sent heat flooding through you from somewhere deeper than thought. He pressed you back against the hedge wall, your leg over his arm and your skirts rucked up, and he looked at you over the hand still at your mouth with those dark eyes, making sure, waiting.

You held his gaze and nodded once again.

He pushed inside you.

Your head went back and the sound that came out of you was well and truly muffled by his palm, which was the only reason it did not reach the outer ring of the maze. He was — a lot. The stretch of him, the weight, the way your body had to accommodate something significant.

Then he began to move.

It was not gentle. It was not what you would call gentle, exactly — he was too focused for gentle, too present, the full consuming attention of him directed entirely at this, his eyes on your face watching every response you gave him, and the pace built quickly into something that required the hedge wall for structural support. The hand at your mouth was unwavering. Your arms were around his neck and your face was close to his and you were looking at each other from inches away with an intimacy that was almost unbearable on top of everything else.

He watched your eyes go glassy and his jaw went tight.

He watched you try to muffle a moan against his palm and something in his face came apart.

He moved harder and you took it and your fingers found the back of his neck and your nails pressed in and he made a sound that was short and low and nothing like composed, his hips driving into you against the green wall of the maze, and you thought distantly and somewhat incoherently that you had been right about knowing the maze better than him and also that the winning felt considerably different than you had anticipated.

When you came it was in silence — enforced, effortful silence, his hand at your mouth and your own teeth biting down against your lip beneath it, your whole body pulling tight and then releasing in a long slow wave that started somewhere deep and moved outward, and you felt him groan into your hair, quiet and rough, and follow.

He kept you against the wall after.

Not immediately releasing the leg he held, not stepping back. His forehead came down against yours and his breathing was uneven against your face and his hand finally fell from your mouth, not because you needed it to anymore but because he apparently needed to put it somewhere else, and it ended up at your jaw, thumb at the corner, the same almost-tender gesture from earlier.

You breathed.

He breathed.

The centre garden was very quiet around you. Birdsong, distantly. The sound of a breeze moving through the tops of the hedges.

He set your leg down with a carefulness that was incongruous with the previous ten minutes and entirely characteristic of him — the protectiveness that lived underneath everything, that persisted through all the walls coming down. His hands smoothed your gown back into place with a focus that was perhaps slightly unnecessary but that you understood as something other than practicality.

You looked at him.

His ears were red. Both of them, deeply, unmistakably red, and the colour was down to his jaw and probably further, and he was not quite meeting your eyes in the way of a man who has done something he does not regret and is not yet sure what to do with that.

"You still took a wrong turn at the diagonal," you said.

He looked at you.

"The identical junctions," you said. "You hesitated. Half a second."

"I caught you," he insisted.

"Eventually."

The muscle in his jaw moved. His eyes were doing something complicated. Then he said, "Next time I will not hesitate," and the words landed warm and certain in your chest, because next time was doing a great deal of work in that sentence, and both of you knew it.

"Next time," you said, "I will have a longer head start."

He looked at you, and the red was still at his ears and his jaw, and the dark intensity was still in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth moved in something that was not quite a smile and was considerably more devastating than one.

"Good," he said.

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the moment Feyre accepts the bond, she and Rhysand have sex, but the foundation for their sexual relationship was laid when she was still with Tamlin. As much as the pro crowd loves to disregard the first book, feysand's first sexual interactions were nonconsensual. Rhysand reads her sexual thoughts aloud to Lucien and Tamlin the second time they meet. He SAs her UTM by coercing her into a bargain where he "owns" her, drugs her, forces her into skimpy clothes, has her on his lap while she's drugged, and has her dance under the influence until she can't even remember what she did.

The first time he kidnapped her, he forces her to write sentences about how he's a perfect lover. He projects sexual fanfic of them into her brain to the point where she initially doesn't even realize it's not her thoughts.

During his infamous pity party monologue, he says that he assumed that Feyre would figure out they were mates WHEN they had sex. Gave no thought to the fact that she might never want to have sex with him, nope! For Rhysand it was a forgone conclusion that of course Feyre would want to sleep with him. And once you read that, all previous sexual interactions seem like either grooming or manipulation on his part. Predatory attempts to warm her up or open her up to the possibility and once she got there, he kept laying it on thick until she gave in, notably after he spun his sob story and included a significant amount of emotional manipulation.

Was Rhysand telling the truth at all? Potentially. A lot of his stories conveniently happen a long time ago before Feyre was even born and she doesn't bother to verify anything for herself. But seeing as the whole setup of that chapter is essentially "Convince me, and I'll accept you as my mate" why wouldn't Rhysand lie in order to achieve what he's been after since he coerced her into a bargain under the mountain? We've seen that Rhysand isn't above deception (Summer Court) and frankly, he has all the reasons in the world to try and lock down Feyre, seeing as a) she has every High Lord's power, including his daemati powers and b) she's proved willing to help him and easy enough to manipulate into doing things his way. As an added bonus, she's young and impressionable and his to shape as he pleases.

Finally, she's only been in the Night Court, his court, since leaving Tamlin and Spring. He showed her Velaris and has a vested interest in that particular secret staying secret. Ergo, she can't leave. She hasn't learned to winnow yet and doesn't stand a chance against Rhys or any of his cronies.

Like it or not, Feyre has about as much agency or power as she did in Spring, and I'd argue less because Tamlin often caved to her on various issues (the tithe, having people in the manor) and didn't have as many people in his circle. Tamlin not being her mate means that there's no biological factor that attracts her and compels her into sexual activity. Tamlin not being a daemati means that he can't go rooting around her brain and see her her sexual thoughts or plant any sexual thoughts of his own. He still restricted her movement which, regardless of how much of a red flag it is for a romantic partner to do, it was a reasonable move for a leader.

This isn't to say that she should've stayed with Tamlin. She has every right to leave, but there are clear issues with how Rhysand behaved towards Feyre that are never addressed or even recognized as bad. And until they are, feysand will always be an imbalanced and problematic relationship with a rotten foundation.