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You would think the heat would make you more averse to his touch, and during the day, it does. You can scarcely stand to wear fabric on your back, much less allow his hands on you, drawing more sweat from you. You allow him to peck your lips when he passes you in the halls as both of you go about your duties, and nothing more. These mornings you share with him, however, are a different story.

Somehow, in the careful light of dawn, you cannot keep your hands from him, and you care little of the sweat that forms at the base of your back, at the edges of your hairline, as he lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and fills you completely. 

You never even have to say a word. 

You wake slowly, stretching your limbs and reaching a hand to his side of the bed, where he is always laying awake, mismatched eyes already on you. He has no trouble recognising the look of want in your gaze, slow-blinking and instinctual, as if desiring him was as natural as the act of awakening itself. Your hand reaches to cup his face, fingers stroking at his beard like a beckoning call, and he nods in response to a question you never spoke aloud, slotting his lips against yours with a low groan. 

He turns over, shifting till he’s on top of you, your legs parting around his broad body easily, all too familiar with the comfortable weight of him there. It’s little more than bodies slipping against each other, at first. Your mouth against his, his tongue against yours, hips moving in a slow stir through thin layers of cotton, hardly concealing the hard length of him, straining against fabric. He’s careful to avoid pressing against the swell of your belly, a gentle contradiction to the hungry way he kisses you. 

You can only take it for so long before soft, begging noises begin to fall from your lips, before your hips begin to tilt up into his and your hand comes to the back of his neck, pulling him into you. Baelor is rarely awake enough at this hour to be a tease, and for this you are grateful – he’s slipping a hand underneath your nightgown, pulling it up with the slide of his hand on your thigh, getting it just above your belly before your patience runs even thinner. Your hands run down his sides, thick with muscle, till they find the waist of his drawers and clamour to untie the strings that hold it closed. 

His pads of his fingers, calloused and roughened from years of fighting, feel like heaven when they brush against the core of you, and the hiss that leaves him when he feels just how ready you are for him is just as sweet in your ears. His shaft, warm and already sticky with his arousal, smears against your thigh as his fingers explore you. There’s no purpose to his touch but to revere the feel of you, soft and warm and wet, so wet for him. Pregnancy has made you sensitive to his every touch, pulling gasps from you at the mere feeling of his fingers running up and down your slit, barely brushing against the bundle of nerves at the apex of you, dipping shallowly into you. Your hips cant into his every little movement while you clutch desperately at his thin tunic, head tilting back on a moan, and suddenly you care little about the damp hair that sticks to the nape of your neck.

“Fuck,” He practically growls, eyelids heavy as he watches you. 

Your breasts, full and heavy, rising and falling with every pleasured sigh you make, makes him curse the fact that in a few hours they’ll be bound by stays and pretty fabric. Years of practiced restraint dissolve away at the mere passing sight of you in the halls, the shape of your figure in your new dresses, newly commissioned to fit your changing body. And when all he could do was brush his lips against yours before departing to his next council meeting — it was like passing pure moonlight, and barely getting to brush your fingertips against it before it was gone. 

Baelor tried to take his time with you during these mornings, before he is cruelly pulled away to attend to matters that hardly seemed important when you were by his side, looking like a goddess and feeling like sweet heaven around his cock, but you could not bare to be slow with him, and he could not bare denying you. 

He does not stop you when you reach back down to take him in your hand, tightening your legs around his waist, till he is right where you want him. The way he moves now requires no thought — one hand coming to cup your thigh, hitching it higher to give him better access, and the other coming to grip his hardness and guide it to where you’re dripping and open for him, and his hips move without his will, sliding him inside you entirely. 

You share a gasp, your nails digging into the skin of his sides as Baelor stills for a moment. His length was just right for you, always reaching that spot that makes your vision go white when he angles his hips just right, but the thickness of him. The stretch will always punch the breath from your lungs, like he’s moulding you around him, and you open for him willingly. You hear him swear above you, feel his lips press to your cheek, sticky with perspiration, peppering kisses to your face as he draws his hips back just an inch before he’s rutting into you again. 

His pace is slow and brutal and suddenly the heat of the air around you is nothing to the heat between your legs, the shaky breath of your husband as he fucks you the way you need. Years of meticulous education, and yet the feel of your husband, on your thigh, on your belly, inside you, under your hands and against your lips as they skim his shoulder, kissing and licking and biting him everywhere that you can reach, and you are reduced to nothing but pleas and Baelor, Baelor, Baelor. 

It does not take long for you to begin meeting his thrusts, writhing against him with no rhyme or rhythm, simply wishing him to be deeper, closer, more. The pudge of softness at the base of his belly — the one he resents, and the one you would happily rut against and make a mess of if he let you — is brushed with a thatch of dark hair, leading down and thickening into a perfect spot for your clit to rub against, providing all the friction you need to begin to clench down around him, drawing closer and closer to your release.

“Yes, my love- Gods, that’s it-”

His thrusts quicken, just slightly, just enough to tip you over that edge like water out of a glass; it washes over you just as smoothly, easily, with a whimper of his name and a shudder through your body, till your limbs are trembling and you can feel nothing but him. And he doesn’t stop then. He never does. He knows you too well, and he knows you want more. 

The grip on your thigh tightens, the angle changes, and oh-

He’s brushing against that spot deliberately, repeatedly, giving you zero respite after your climax before you’re climbing towards another one. You can hear that he’s whispering in your ear, but you couldn’t say what, your mind utterly consumed by white-hot pleasure building in your core again. Your nails scrape at any part of him you can reach — his shoulders, his sides, his hips — anything to bring him closer, to-

“Baelor,” You breathe out shakily. “Please, I want- want you to-”

“I know what you want,” He groans, his pace destabilising, quickening with no rhythm as he drives into you, chasing towards his release. You nod fervently, mewling a litany of pleas and his name mixed unintelligibly together till you’re tipping over the edge again, your climax washing over you from head to toe and arching you into your husband.

A moan forms around your name on Baelor’s lips, and then he’s there, nudged deep in you, spilling hot seed and sating the need that sits low in your belly every time you’re near him — never fully gone. 

Your husband’s hips rut against your own once, twice, uncontrollable, his jaw clenched on a growl as he releases. Breath comes back to both of you slowly, shaky breaths mingling, the only sound filling the still, hot air of your chambers. He’s careful not to collapse onto you, balancing his weight carefully as he bends to plant a sweet kiss on your lips, then on your belly, in silent worship. 

“I did not hurt you, did I, sweetling?” He whispers, his voice still hoarse from sleep. 

“Never,” You shake your head, cupping the nape of his neck and tugging him back up to kiss you. “But I shall still need you to carry me to the bath. I am far too damp from this heat.”

He hums against your lips, and you can feel the corner of his lips turn up into a smirk. “I have spoiled you, my love.” 

Baelor had come back to your chambers late, when the castle had gone still and the only chatter was that of the guards. He did not sit nor did he look as though he was to ready himself for bed - He stood before you with that solemn composure he wore as easily as his clothes. You were already in bed, book in your lap.

He spoke of nonsense, the Hedge Knight and Aerion denying the Trial by Combat and instead a Trial of the Seven. You rose from your side of the bed before you quite knew you had done so.

He stepped close, and your hand came up to cup his face. His skin was warm beneath your palm, his beard rough against the softness of your palm. He leaned into it without shame.

“He protected the Innocent. Is that not honorable, sweetling? Why should I not do the same?”

His voice was quiet and alarmingly certain. You could have struck him for that certainty.

He drew your hand from his cheek and pressed a kiss to your knuckle, slow and tender, as if trying to win you over by touch alone. You watched him do it, before shaking your head. You wanted him to stop this foolishness – to think of his sons sleeping not far from this chamber, to think of you.

“Tis very honorable, my husband,” you said, because what else could you say? Your voice almost trembled as you spoke, you would not allow it.

You looked into his eyes. You schooled your face to show pride, as pride befitted a prince’s wife, yet something in you betrayed the effort. A flicker - A tightening at the corners of your mouth.

He saw it at once. “Do not fret. Nothing could happen to me whilst in there.”

He smiled then, faintly, as if the matter were simple. He bent and pressed a kiss to your cheek and then another. He drew back only to return, smothering your face in brief, insistent kisses until his beard scraped at your skin and a laugh escaped you despite yourself – It was soft and unwilling, it thankfully broke the stillness between you.

You placed your hands flat against his chest to steady him, though you did not push him away.

“I do not like this idea at all, Baelor,” you whispered. You held his gaze as you spoke. You would not look aside like some timid girl. “Just because you survived Redgrass and the First Rebellion–” You sighed, “--do not make me a widow based on a whim.”

He lowered his head in thought, you felt his breath against your brow. For a moment he said nothing. You began to fear ravens – just in case they carried news of your husband's death, how could you have explained that to your children?

He lifted his head again. His expression had hardened, though not against you.

“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “that I will come back, to you– and to our sons.”

His hand came to your waist, firm, drawing you closer until there was scarcely space between your bodies. He bent his head and kissed you.

The kiss started soft, his lips pressing against yours with that steady certainty he carried everywhere. But you felt the heat building, the way his mouth opened just enough to deepen it, his tongue brushing yours in a slow, deliberate slide. Your hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him nearer, and he responded with a low sound in his throat - controlled, always controlled, but there.

You broke away first, breathing against his jaw. “Prove it to me now,” you murmured, your fingers already working at the laces of his breeches. He stilled, his hand tightening on your waist, but he didn’t stop you. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable in the dim light of the chamber, that solemn composure cracking just a fraction as you tugged the fabric down.

His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, already half-hard from the nearness of you. You wrapped your hand around it without preamble, stroking slow from base to tip, feeling it twitch and swell under your palm. Baelor’s breath hitched, but he didn’t speak - just watched you, his chest rising steady, like he was reining himself in.

You guided him back toward the bed, pushing until his knees hit the edge and he sat, heavy and pliant for once. He let you, his hands coming to your hips as you straddled his lap, your nightshift riding up your thighs. “You think you can promise me the world and then leave it?” you whispered, your thumb circling the head of his cock, smearing the bead of wetness there.

He leaned back on his elbows, his gaze never leaving your face. He grunted, “I have no plans of leaving anytime soon, sweetling.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss his neck, nipping at the skin just below his ear as your hand kept moving - firm strokes, twisting at the top, then easing off just enough to make him shift beneath you. His hips jerked once, involuntarily, and you felt the power of it, this rare unraveling. Baelor, who commanded councils and battlefields with quiet authority, panting under your touch. You didn't let up, your grip tightening as you pumped him faster, feeling the veins pulse along his length, the way he throbbed hot and insistent in your fist. His breath came sharper now, ragged edges to it, and you watched his face – jaw tight, eyes fluttering half-shut as he fought to stay composed. When his hips started to buck in earnest, chasing the friction, you slowed to a torturous drag, your thumb pressing just under the head to hold him there, teetering on the brink.

He groaned, low and strained, his hands clenching on your thighs. “Wife...” The word was a plea, quiet but edged with need, his control fraying like old rope.

“Not yet,” you whispered, resuming the strokes with a wicked twist, building him up again, relentlessly. Sweat beaded on his brow, his dark hair damp against his skin, and you leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear. “Feel that? How close you are? I could make you spill right here, but I want you desperate- until you beg to stay with me..”

His cock wept steadily now, slicking your hand, and you worked him through it, faster, harder, until his thighs trembled and his breath broke into short gasps. Just as his body tensed, arching toward release, you pulled your hand away entirely, leaving him twitching in the air, denied. He shuddered, a soft curse escaping him - rare, from him - and you soothed him with a kiss to his collarbone, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his inner thigh, keeping him hard, aching.

You repeated it, over and over, teetering him near the edge mercilessly - stroking until he was rutting into your hand, voice hoarse with restraint, then stopping cold, watching him writhe beneath you, that quiet authority shattered into quiet desperation. His composure held by threads, but you pushed further, your hand returning each time with fresh intent, overstimulating the sensitivity until even the lightest touch made him hiss, his cock flushed deep red, leaking endlessly.

“My sweet prince,” you whispered huskily, dragging your finger around the flushed tip, watching another bead of cum ooze out, slick and warm. “Are you going to join the trial?”

He panted, hips stuttering as you tightened your grip, pumping him steady now, relentless. It was unusual, this - him yielding like this, letting you take the reins. His dark hair stuck to his brow with the first sheen of sweat, and his jaw clenched, but he answered headfast, voice strained. “Yes, I will…”

You sighed, theatrical and teasing, and took your hand off completely, leaving him throbbing in the cool air. “Then you don’t get to cum,” you sassed, watching his cock bob, red and leaking, begging for more.

He grunted, a deep, frustrated sound that rumbled from his chest. His hands flexed on your thighs, but he didn’t grab - didn’t demand. “F-fine,” he managed, chest rising and falling hard. “I will not participate… just please, wife… let me be inside of you at last.”

The plea in his voice undid you, soft and raw, so unlike his usual reserve. You shifted, hiking your gown higher, and guided him to your entrance. He was thick, stretching you as you sank down inch by inch, both of you groaning at the feel of it - wet heat enveloping him, his cock pulsing inside you.

You rode him slow at first, rolling your hips in a rhythm that made his head tip back, eyes half-lidded. “That’s it,” you breathed, hands on his chest for leverage, nails digging in just enough. “Stay here with me. Fill me up instead of spilling blood on the morrow.”

His hands finally moved, sliding up your thighs to grip your ass, guiding you deeper, but still - he let you set the pace, his composure fraying at the edges. “Gods, you feel.. so good,” he murmured, voice controlled but husky, his thumb brushing where you joined. “So tight around me.. gods.. I want to breed you, wife. put another son in you tonight.”

The words sent heat flooding through you, his soft dirty talk wrapping around the ache building low in your belly. You quickened, bouncing harder, the slap of skin echoing soft in the chamber. He thrust up to meet you, careful but insistent, his cock hitting deep, brushing that spot that made your vision blur.

“More,” you gasped, grinding down, chasing it. “Give me everything, husband.”

He groaned, low and wrecked, one hand coming up to cup your breast through the shift, thumb circling your nipple. “I will,” he promised, voice a quiet rumble. “I’ll fuck a babe into you, hm?” His hips snapped up harder now, the restraint slipping, and you felt him thicken inside you, close.

You clenched around him, riding faster, the pressure coiling tight until it snapped - your release crashing over you, squirting wet around his cock, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath. He cursed softly, feeling it, and that pushed him over.

“Baelor-” you whimpered, still trembling, and he came with a shuddering breath, hips bucking as he spilled inside you. Obscene, the amount of it – hot and thick, pulse after pulse filling you until it leaked out around him, dripping down your thighs. He didn’t stop thrusting through it, grinding deep, like he meant to seal it there, filling you entirely just as he’d said.

You woke before the sun had properly risen. The chamber was still washed in that thin grey light that comes before dawn - The hearth had burned low yet the air carried the faint scent of smoke and your mixed sweat and crushed linen.

Baelor lay behind you, one arm heavy across your waist, the other trapped beneath your pillow. His body was warm, solid, and unmovable. The blankets were tangled about your legs, drawn high to your shoulders. He had not stirred once in the night after collapsing into sleep. Not once.

A knock came - sharp but rather careful.. thankfully.

Another knock, softer. Then the door creaked open a measure and your handmaid slipped inside, her slippers near silent against the stone. She kept her eyes lowered at once, though there was no missing the state of the bed, or your clothes strung around the room - nor the prince’s arm flung possessively over you.

“My lady,” she whispered, stepping closer. “It is morning. The horns will sound within the hour. The lists are already being prepared. The Trial…”

Her voice trailed off as Baelor shifted behind you. Not waking. Only settling deeper into slumber.

He made a low sound, something between a sigh and a rumble, and tightened his hold without awareness. His face was half buried against your shoulder, hair disordered, breath warm against your skin; then came the sound– A snore.

Not delicate and most definitely not princely. A full, unrestrained rumble that rose and fell without shame. You felt it vibrate through his chest.

Another shortly followed, longer, a rough, dragging sound that ended in a soft, almost ridiculous exhale; Then silence… then again. Your handmaid’s eyes flicked upward despite herself.

Baelor did not stir.

He was dead asleep; Gone entirely from the world. No battle horn nor clamor of armored men would wake him in this state, his mouth had fallen slightly open, his brow smooth in a way it never was when conscious. Whilst asleep you could admire him wholly - not as Hand nor as the Heir. Here, in your arms he was only a man thoroughly spent and deeply unconscious.

You shifted carefully, turning within the circle of his arm until you could see your handmaid clearly. The blankets slipped but you pulled them high again, tucking them beneath your chin with deliberate modesty. Baelor only grumbled faintly and pressed closer, as if offended by the loss of warmth.

“My lady,” your handmaid tried again, lower now, anxious. “They will expect you… t-the prince must prepare. The realm-”

Another snore cut through her words, Longer this time - deep enough that his chest rose sharply before deflating in a slow, heavy breath.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“Come here,” you whispered softly, you would hate to speak loud enough to wake him.

She hesitated, then stepped to the bedside.

You beckoned her closer still until she leaned near enough that her ear hovered just above the coverlet. You kept your voice soft and measured, though your eyes held something sharper.

“The prince is sick,” you murmured. “You shall have to tell them we will not be watching today.” A pause.

Behind you, Baelor made another ungodly noise into the pillow, one arm tightening reflexively around your middle as if to secure you in place. His grip was firm even in sleep, possessive without thought. You smiled slowly.

“See that no one disturbs us,” you added, barely above your breath.

You leaned back into him then, allowing the full weight of his body to settle along yours. The blankets were drawn up close, sealing in the warmth. 

Your handmaid straightened and gave a small nod. The door closed with care, you had truly done it.

dont worry DUNK IS OKAY, aerion.. cancelled?

The wedding breakfast was proving every bit as boisterous as the reception had been the night before.

Morning sunlight poured through the tall arched windows and open doors of the great hall, turning the pale stone almost golden. Beyond the balcony, the castle grounds were washed in the clear light of late morning, though inside there was little of the quiet one might have expected at such an hour. Servants moved briskly between the long tables with steaming pots of tea, silver jugs of cream and great platters piled with bread, fruit, smoked fish, eggs, honeyed ham and little sugared pastries.

Half the wedding party looked as though they had not slept at all. You were fairly certain some of them hadn't. Lyonel Baratheon's dark hair was decidedly flat on one side, as though he had only recently lifted his head from a pillow, or perhaps a table and his doublet looked remarkably similar to the one he had worn to the ceremony. One of its golden clasps had been fastened incorrectly. He was currently leaning heavily against the back of a chair while listening with grave concentration to a story that appeared to have no ending.

You hid your smile. Giddy. Baelor's hand settled against the small of your back as he guided you down the shallow steps from the balcony.

It had been there almost constantly since you had left your chambers; he seemed incapable of passing more than a few moments without touching you. His palm rested warm against the fabric of your gown, fingers spreading whenever you slowed, gently steering you between chairs and sleepy courtiers.

"We shan’t be here long" he murmured near your ear as you reached the high table. "...I will have you back to our bedroom and beneath me as soon as breakfast is done."

Your breath caught in your throat as you gazed up at him, the soreness between your thighs a reminder of that delightful stretch you felt when he pulsed within you, his hips grinding against yours, his rough hand pinning your thighs wide and open. Each roll of his hips pulling you closer and closer to the addictive feeling that splintered your body.

‘’Now my love, let me feed you. You will need your energy for what I have planned.’’  he grinned his eyes flickering to the distracted crowd before bringing his hand down to give you a sharp rap on your rear. A breathy whimper falling from your parted lips. Ravenous eyes, near black, held you captive. 

‘’Move my innocent wife, before I brag you back to the room in front of the whole court and give you a lesson on how a dragon claims his wife. I will have your screaming in pleasure.’’ his eyes glint, ‘’Go greet your family, my love while you still have the a voice.’’ he ushered you foward.

You turned sharply to greet those already gathered. Your father was first. He chortled as you bent to kiss his cheek, catching your hand before you could retreat and squeezing it affectionately. "Look at you."

Your mother was less easily satisfied. She kissed you and then immediately cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing beneath your eye as she studied your face with the ruthless attention you had long been accustomed to hear. You knew precisely what she was looking for. She said nothing, though the corners of her mouth curled downward knowingly.

Behind you, Baelor had already taken your abandoned place in the greetings. He clasped your father's shoulder with enough warmth to make the older man laugh before turning to your mother and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Good morning, Mother." he greeted

She immediately stiffened, Baelor withdrew with a strained smile before retreating, letting back beside you once more letting your mother glare at him.

"Hmm." 

His smile widened, if only strained.

The Queen received your kiss far more graciously, taking both your hands and squeezing them before releasing you. The King, however, caused a spectacle. He pushed himself enthusiastically from his chair the moment you approached.

"Ah! My new daughter!"

"Your Grace…" Before you could finish, he seized you warmly by the shoulders and planted a resounding kiss upon one cheek and then the other.

"Father," Baelor called, laughter threaded through his voice. Baelor stood with one arm loosely around his mother's shoulders as she embraced him, though his attention remained entirely upon you. His father's playful eyes flicked towards him. "Do not startle my wife."

"Your wife?" the King repeated. "My daughter now and I will startle her as often as I please.’’

You escaped the King's lingering hands before he could decide upon another embrace and continued around the table.

Aemon and Egg appeared to have already escaped into the crowd. You caught the briefest glimpse of pale hair disappearing between two groups of guests before losing them entirely. But Dunk was slightly harder to miss, he loomed off at the distance smiling following the boys, in his new pretty white clack. Maekar, unfortunately for him, had not been so quick to escape with his sons. He sat hunched over a cup of something dark and steaming, shoulders stiff, looking as though he deeply resented the existence of mornings, weddings and cheerful relatives in equal measure.

You bent and kissed his cheek. Maekar grumbling at your kiss, recoiling the instant your lips touched his cheek as though you had committed some terrible offence against his dignity. His shoulders drew up and his face twisted into such exaggerated disgust that you could not help but laugh. He immediately scrubbed the back of his hand across the place you had kissed, muttering something thoroughly uncharitable beneath his breath. Unfortunately for him, the performance was entirely undermined by the warm flush creeping over his golden skin. It began high upon his cheekbones before spreading towards the tips of his ears, and when he noticed you looking at him, his scowl deepened.

"Do stop smiling, it does not befit a Targeryn princess."

That, naturally, only made your smile grow. You might have lingered to torment him further had your handmaids not descended upon you in a flutter of skirts and concerned hands. One caught the trailing edge of your gown before someone could step upon it, while another fussed unnecessarily with the fall of your sleeve. Between them, they managed to shepherd you back towards your mother and the Queen, both of whom had already settled near the centre of the high table. Behind you came the scrape of chairs, the clink of silver against porcelain and the steady murmur of a hall still recovering from the excesses of the previous night.

Maekar watched his brother approach through narrowed eyes, his cup balanced between both hands as though the warmth of it might soothe his temper. It evidently did not.

"I did not think we would see you before dinner, brother."

Baelor, who had been reaching for the back of your chair, stopped. Slowly, he turned his head. Maekar met his gaze over the rim of his cup. His expression was wonderfully bland, though the slight curl at one corner of his mouth betrayed him. "The servants are nearly ready to serve tea. We thought we might have to send out a search party."

The silence between the brothers lasted only a moment, but you had already begun biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Baelor's eyes narrowed upon Maekar with the particular look of an elder brother deciding precisely how cruel his retaliation ought to be. Then his expression softened into a smile so pleasant that Maekar immediately looked suspicious.

"My apologies, brother. Had I known you were so desperately wanting for company, I would have attended to you as soon as possible."

Baelor stepped behind your chair and rested both hands upon its carved back, apparently giving the matter serious consideration. "Though perhaps a more constant companion would be better. Someone capable of enduring your moods without requiring the rest of us to suffer them. A wife, perhaps." Baelor continued, plainly delighted with himself. "She might even make you pleasant."

At the mere mention of a wife, the King, who until then had been occupied with buttering a thick piece of bread, looked up with sudden interest. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Oh, I quite agree."

"Father," Maekar warned.

The King ignored him completely. "A wife seems to have put your brother in an exceptionally good mood."

Baelor's eyes flickered towards you. You caught the glance. So did Maekar. His expression became even more miserable.

The King leaned back in his chair and regarded his younger son thoughtfully. "Perhaps my new daughter has a friend? Or a cousin? May perhaps one of her ladies, then?" his eyes travelling towards the collection of young women who had been fussing around you since the previous evening. Breannei Lannister, Carlys Mollen, and Mysa Dayne all gathered a short distance away, speaking quietly amongst themselves while occasionally glancing towards the high table. "They have certainly been hovering around you since last night." The King's smile suddenly faltered as he looked towards the ladies. Then back at Maekar. His brows rose "Unless there is something I ought to know, son.’’ The King leaned forward. "I am not to acquire another three daughters, am I?"

"For fuck's sake." Maekar muttered it directly into his cup before taking a long drink, his cup came down against the table with rather more force than necessary.

Your father choked upon a laugh and hastily disguised it as a cough. The Queen closed her eyes for a moment, her lips tightening in the unmistakable expression of stifling a laugh. Baelor, meanwhile, had abandoned any attempt at dignity. His shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter as he lowered his head.

You decided Maekar had suffered enough. "I do hope you are not terrorising my dear brother."

Baelor's attention shifted immediately towards you. The wickedness in his expression disappeared beneath something altogether softer as he came around the table.

"Never, my love."

He pulled your chair out before you could reach for it yourself, one hand resting upon the carved back while the other extended towards you. You placed your fingers in his and allowed him to guide you into your seat. He pushed the chair carefully towards the table, only to pause, glance at the distance separating your chair from his, and drag it several inches sideways until the two were nearly touching.

"Oh, gods spare us." Maekar growled.

Baelor paid him no attention. The moment he was seated, his hand disappeared beneath the edge of the table and found yours. His fingers slid between your own, his gold rings cold against your skin,  his thumb beginning a slow stroke across the side of your hand while he surveyed the breakfast spread with his other.

You watched as a piece of warm bread appeared upon your plate. Then some eggs. A portion of smoked fish followed. Then berries. Then strawberries.

"Baelor." You glanced meaningfully at your increasingly crowded plate. "I am capable of feeding myself."

Baelor did not stop till your plate was piled high before he lifted your intertwined hands and pressed a kiss against your knuckles before returning them beneath the table.

Across from you, Maekar watched this display with the expression of disdain. "It is sickening."

"You seem unusually invested in our marriage this morning," Baelor observed, calmly breaking a piece from his bread with one hand.

"I am unfortunately required to witness it. Along with the whole of the realm.’’ Maekar's eyes dropped pointedly towards the place where your hands disappeared beneath the table. His gaze rose again to his brother, his mouth twisting. "It might have been better if the two of you had simply stayed in bed."

You reached for your plate, Baelor's thumb continued moving lazily over your knuckles. "I did try to persuade him." You arranged your features into an expression of perfect innocence. "I was rather enjoying myself."

Baelor slowly turned his head towards you, eye wide and burning. You refused to look at him. Instead, you reached for one of the strawberries he had placed upon your plate, turning it delicately between your fingers. "But I thought it prudent not to wear out my husband on our first full day as husband and wife."

Maekar spat his wine. Red Arbor erupted across the white tablecloth in a spectacular cloud. He doubled forward coughing, one hand striking against his chest while the other blindly searched for something with which to wipe his mouth. A servant several paces away startled so badly that the silver jug in his hands rattled against its tray.

You calmly bit into your strawberry. When you finally looked up, Maekar was staring at you with enormous eyes. His horror was surpassed only by Baelor's expression.

Your husband looked genuinely speechless. His hand remained wrapped around yours beneath the table, but otherwise he had gone completely still. His lips had parted slightly and his brows had risen as though he could not quite reconcile the sweetly smiling woman beside him with the words he had just heard leave her mouth.

The King broke first. His laughter exploded across the high table with such force that several conversations farther down the hall faltered. He threw his head back, one broad hand striking the table as he laughed, entirely heedless of the Queen's increasingly disapproving stare. Your father was staring determinedly at his plate, though the trembling of his shoulders betrayed him. Your mother was the only one entirely untouched by the comment, instead she just glared out at the guest staring at the top table.

Baelor's surprise faded first. Then his eyes narrowed, amusement warming them as the corner of his mouth began to curl upwards. That familiar, dangerous smile slowly returned. He leaned towards you until his shoulder brushed yours, lowering his voice enough that his words were meant only for you.

"You are going to regret that later. When I get you back to our chambers my lovely, if you thought you were sore before you will have to think again. Minx.’’

Warmth climbed your neck, your thighs rubbed together, a now familiar wetness coating them. The dull ache you had  You turned your face towards him, meeting his gaze with a sweetness you did not remotely feel.

"Promises, promises."

Maekar made a strangled sound from across the table.Fortunately for what remained of his patience, footsteps sounded near the high table.

"Father. Princess." Valarr approached  with Princess Kiera upon his arm, "Good morning," Valarr ventured cautiously. "Myself and Princess Kiera, wish to extend another congratulations. I hope we can spend the day celebrating."

"Save yourself, nephew." Maekar's warning came with such weary sincerity that Valarr stopped.His brows drew together. He looked at Maekar. Then at the King. Then at the Queen. Then towards his father.

Baelor, who had regained most of his composure, was sitting rather too close to you and looking entirely too pleased with himself. Valarr's confusion deepened. Princess Kiera followed the direction of his gaze and appeared to understand enough of the situation to know that ignorance might be preferable.

She gave Valarr's arm a gentle pat. "Do not worry, husband. I shall explain it to you after you have eaten."

Valarr allowed Kiera to guide him towards their places, though he continued glancing between the members of his family as though careful observation might eventually reveal what had happened. 

Baelor held your gaze as he reached into the bowl himself. He took his time examining the fruit before selecting the largest, ripest strawberry and bring it to your lips 

"Behave," he murmured as you took a bite.

For several seconds Baelor merely regarded you. Then a low laugh escaped him, warm and helpless, and he shook his head. His hand slipped back beneath the table to find yours once more, fingers threading through yours as naturally as before.

Across from you, Maekar watched your hands disappear beneath the table. His shoulders sagged. ‘’Baelor kindly retrieve your hands from underneath the table, people are eating.’’

xxxxxx

The courtyard had become a confusion of farewells by the time your parents were finally ready to depart. What had begun as an orderly procession of servants carrying trunks and travelling chests had gradually dissolved into embraces, forgotten parcels, last-minute instructions and horses stamping impatiently against the stones. The morning had grown pleasantly warm, sunlight spilling over the pale walls and catching upon buckles, polished breastplates and the bright-painted sides of the wheelhouse waiting near the gates. Servants hurried back and forth beneath the watchful eyes of your mother's household steward, while guards checked saddles and harnesses for what seemed the third time.

Your father appeared entirely unconcerned by the chaos. He stood before you with his travelling cloak thrown back over one shoulder, looking from your face to the castle behind you with a fondness that made his smile deepen.

"You are glowing dear, I hate to part with you again but we must return. Your aunt is traveling from the Riverlands and your mother is rather keen to gossip. I fear that the celebration she is planning will ruin us," your father laughed. He kissed your forehead and squeezed your hands before allowing your mother to claim you.

She did so almost immediately. Your mother's hands settled upon your arms, smoothing the fabric there despite there being nothing wrong with it. She had been fussing over you for most of the morning, straightening your sleeve, checking the clasp at your throat, brushing an invisible piece of lint from your shoulder and you had begun to suspect that each unnecessary adjustment was merely an excuse to touch you once more before leaving. Now that the moment of departure had actually arrived, the stern composure she had maintained throughout the morning was beginning to falter.

Her eyes travelled carefully over your face. There was something searching in the way she looked at you, as though she were attempting to discover in your expression all the things you had not told her. Her fingers tightened slightly around your arms before her voice dropped low enough that the question was intended for you alone.

"Was he good to you...he didn't force you or rip you…"

Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks. You glanced instinctively towards the gathering of people nearby before returning your attention to your mother. Her expression held no teasing curiosity; she was entirely serious, concern pulling her brows together as she waited for your answer.

"Very mother."

Something in her face relaxed. Her shoulders lowered and the grip upon your arms softened, though the relief that passed across her features was swiftly followed by an emotion she was considerably less successful at concealing.

"Well then.." a tear filled her eyes "I know I have been difficult but I do truly want you well and safe."

The sight of that tear robbed you of whatever irritation her questioning might otherwise have inspired.

"Mother I am safe can be here with Baelor." you smiled.

Your mother's mouth tightened. "Baelor will not always be by your side. You would have been much safer as Lord Baraethon bride."

"Mother…" you hissed.

Your eyes immediately darted beyond her shoulder.Baelor stood several paces away with his back to you, speaking with your father and one of the knights accompanying your family home. At least, he had been speaking with them. Now he was very noticeably silent.

You knew at once that he had heard. His back had become as straight as a spear. His shoulders were squared beneath his dark doublet and his head had tilted just slightly to one side, not enough to turn towards you but enough to make it painfully obvious that every ounce of his attention had shifted to the conversation behind him. Your father appeared to notice the change as well. His eyes flickered briefly towards you and your mother before returning to Baelor.

"I know…I worry…it is a mother's job. Just because you have run off and got married does mean I will stop." The defensiveness in her voice softened towards the end.

You sighed, your irritation fading as quickly as it had come, and reached for her hands. "I know, mother."

Her fingers closed tightly around yours. For several moments she simply looked at you, taking in your face as though committing every feature to memory despite knowing perfectly well that she would see you again before long. Then she drew herself upright and summoned some of her usual authority.

"Till home then. I will have a banquet fit for a future queen ready for you. I hope the journey is good and the road treats you well."

Before you could answer, your mother pulled you into her arms. She crushed you against her with enough force to make you stumble half a step forward, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. Her cheek pressed against your hair and when she spoke again, the command in her voice could not entirely conceal its tremor.

"Be cautious my dear. Trust few and be wary of everyone."

"I will be a mother. I love you, see you soon."

She held you for another moment before finally forcing herself to release you. Even then her hands lingered upon your shoulders. She kissed one cheek, then the other, inspected your face one final time and turned sharply towards the waiting wheelhouse before her emotions could betray her further.

Your father gave you one last affectionate smile before following. The wheelhouse door was closed. Within moments the driver called to the horses and the procession began moving towards the gates, wheels grinding over the courtyard stones as mounted guards fell into formation around it.

You stood watching until the wheelhouse began to disappear beneath the shadow of the gatehouse.

Beside you came a suspiciously rough sound. Maekar, you had come to realise, did not laugh so much as produce increasingly strange variations of grunts whenever something genuinely amused him. This particular noise emerged from somewhere behind his beard as he stood a short distance away, arms folded firmly across his chest. To anyone who did not know him, his expression might have appeared as dour as ever. You were beginning to know better. There was a faint crease beside his eyes that had nothing whatsoever to do with irritation, and although the beard concealed most of his mouth, you were almost certain there was a grin hiding beneath it. More tellingly, he was not watching the departing wheelhouse. He was watching his brother.

Baelor remained rigid beside you, his severe frown fixed upon the vehicle carrying your mother away. His eyes followed it with such concentrated displeasure. Even after the wheelhouse passed beneath the gate and vanished from sight, Baelor continued staring after it.

You gave Maekar a warning glance before turning towards your husband. Sliding closer, you rested one hand against Baelor's chest, feeling the burning heat through the embroidered fabric of his doublet.

"Husband, she means well." you smiled up at his hand resting on his chest.

Baelor's face lowered towards yours, though his eyes stubbornly remained upon the gate for several moments longer. His jaw shifted once, irritation still evident in the hard line of his mouth. Only when the last of your family's escort disappeared from view did his gaze wonder to your features, his expression softened almost immediately.

"I am sure she does but if she mentions that prancing stag again I will have her thrown in the dungeons." he smiled as he placed kisses to your cheek.

You giggled. "Well perhaps I could persuade you from doing that" you look up at him through your lashes going with the button of his doublet.

Your fingers found one of the small buttons running down the front of his doublet and toyed idly with it. Baelor's gaze followed the movement for an instant before returning to your face. Whatever lingering irritation Lord Baratheon's name had inspired disappeared beneath an entirely different expression. His eyes darkened with unmistakable desire, the corners of his mouth curling as he covered your hand with his own and gently drew it away from his doublet.

"Shall we retire, my love." he eyes hungrily dark eyes devouring you as he brought your hand to his lips and kissed them, purring as you laughed and ushering up the steps.

Baelor raised your hand slowly, pressing his mouth against your knuckles without once taking his eyes from yours. You laughed beneath your breath, suddenly very conscious of the number of people still occupying the courtyard, but Baelor appeared to have forgotten they existed. His hand settled at the small of your back as he turned you towards the steps, guiding you ahead of him with an eagerness he made very little attempt to conceal. Ser Duskendale and Crakehall followed at a considerably more respectful distance. Neither looked towards their prince and his new wife if they could possibly avoid doing so.

Maekar remained exactly where he was. His expression had returned to its usual scowl. The sound of hurried footsteps approached from behind him, accompanied by the fluttering of robes and the faint wheeze of someone who had crossed the courtyard more quickly than was advisable.

Maester Yormwell bumbled along. "They make a fine couple. It will make a wonderful start for my history."

The old maester came to a stop beside the prince with several scrolls clutched precariously beneath one arm, his chain bouncing against his robes from his hurried progress. He followed Maekar's gaze towards the staircase, apparently oblivious to the look upon the prince's face to lost in his own delight to think to deeply into the sight of Baelor, future king of the kingdoms, practically chasing his new wife back to their chambers had provided him with invaluable information to be recorded.

Maekar did not look at him. "Disgustingly so. What do you want, Yormwell, I am busy being violently sickened."

Yormwell blinked at him, uncertain whether the prince was joking. Maekar's face offered absolutely no assistance in determining the answer. After a moment, the maester evidently decided it was safer to proceed with his business.

"The ravens are ready to be sent. Are there any last minute adjustments you wish to add to my prince." Yormwell thrust the small scroll towards the prince.

Maekar made no immediate attempt to take the scroll. His gaze remained fixed upon the staircase. The last glimpse of your skirts disappeared through the doorway, closely followed by Baelor. Several moments later Ser Duskendale and Crakehall reached the top themselves, maintaining the careful distance of men who had absolutely no desire to discover how affectionate their prince intended to become once he was beyond the courtyard.

Only then did Maekar turn towards the maester. His gaze dropped to the scroll being held expectantly beneath his nose waiting for approval of the final arrangements for the royal progress: which houses were to receive them, where the travelling court would stop, how many attendants each castle could accommodate and countless other details Maekar had spent far too much of his morning considering. His eyes travelled over several lines before drifting back towards the empty staircase.

"Yes. Instruct the hosting houses to situate the Prince and Princess as far away from others as possible, lest we have those to offend the known kingdom, I am far too old for another rebellion…though a war might be a blessed release from any children my brother seems hell bent in unleashing on us."

''Yes my grace. Won't it be wonderful''

Soooooo what did you think? Poor Maekar. His life on the road with them is gonna be unbearable. But don't worry I will make it worth it for him. Next but the Kingsroad and Baelor has a lot to teach his beloved bookworm wife...lets just say she won't just be thirsty for knowledge... *insert suggestive eye wiggle* hahaha.

More to following soon.

Side note would anyone be interested in a three parter Ormund Hightower fiction obviously being ruled by a Redwyne reader as he needs to be taken down a peg...or several.

He tasted of wine and warmth and the quiet possessiveness that never quite left him, even in the soft hours after the children were meant to be asleep. “Hmm, shut that mouth and take it.”

You made a small, breathless sound when his lips trailed to the corner of your mouth, then lower, along the line of your jaw. His hand splayed possessively over your hip, thumb stroking idle circles that made your pulse skip.

“Fuck me,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough with want, “you’re still the most beautiful thing I have ever known.”

“Maekar!” You gasped in mock scandal, eyes flying open even as a helpless smile tugged at your lips. “Language. There are impressionable ears in this keep.”

He only huffed a quiet laugh and claimed your mouth again, kissing you until your thoughts scattered and the world narrowed to the solid weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours, the way his arms locked around you like he meant to keep the rest of the realm outside the bed curtains forever.

That was when the soft scrape of bare feet on stone reached you.

A small shadow hovered at the edge of the bed, clutching a wooden dragon, the one Maekar himself had carved years ago for him. Aerion’s hair was mussed from sleep, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Mommy,” came the little voice, thin with worry, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”

Maekar’s arms tightened around you at once, a low grumble of displeasure vibrating through his chest.

He lifted his head just enough to glare past the curtains, still half-draped over you like a dragon guarding its hoard.

You turned your face toward your boy, soft smile already forming, only for Maekar’s gruff imitation of a child’s plea to tumble out first.

“Mommy,” he mimicked in a deep, aggrieved rumble, arms locking tighter, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. You flicked the tip of his nose the moment the words left his mouth.

“Oh, hush, you impossible man.” Then, gentler, to the small figure at the bedside: “Oh, my sweet boy…”

You shifted, ready to throw off the linens, but Maekar’s hold only hardened.

“Woman,” he growled, low and final, “you are not leaving this bed.”

“You are insufferable, Maekar.”

“You are my woman. My wife.” His head settled heavily on your chest, eyes still fixed on Aerion with pure parental outrage. “See what your spoiling has caused. Go back to bed, boy.”

Aerion’s lower lip trembled, but his chin lifted with the same stubborn set his father wore. “Please, mommy.”

You reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, voice warm and firm all at once. “My sweet boy, you are grown now. You must start being independent. The dark is only dark, and your dragon will keep watch.”

Aerion’s eyes widened, pure betrayal shining in them as he pointed an accusing finger at the large man currently occupying the entirety of his mother’s arms. “No! Daddy is bigger than me. Why should he get to keep you? He’s bigger than me, he should be independent too!”

Maekar’s only answer was a deeper glare and an even tighter embrace, as though the very suggestion might somehow pry you from his side.

A bright, helpless laugh tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, soft and fond and utterly undone by the sight of your third son standing there in his little nightshirt, wooden dragon clutched to his chest like a shield, solemnly declaring that his father ought to be independent too.

Aerion’s whole face lit up at the sound. The worried crease between his brows vanished. He beamed so brightly the dim chamber seemed warmer for it, small shoulders straightening with pure, triumphant hope.

You reached up, carding gentle fingers through Maekar’s hair even as he continued to glare daggers over your chest. “It is only until I know he is safe and asleep,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing against his ear. “Just a little while, my love. Then I will come straight back to you.”

Maekar’s answer was a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated straight through your bones, half protest, half pure possessive displeasure. His arms tightened once more, as though he might simply refuse to let the world or his own son claim even a single heartbeat of you.

Yet when Aerion padded closer, bare feet whispering on the stone, Maekar did not stop you from shifting the covers. He only pressed one last, lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw, silent promise and soft warning both, before reluctantly loosening his hold enough for you to slip free.

Aerion’s small hand found yours at once, warm and trusting, and the wooden dragon bumped against your hip as he tugged you toward the door with quiet, victorious urgency. Behind you, Maekar’s growl followed like a shadow, low and continuous, the sound of a dragon who had temporarily lost his hoard and was already counting the minutes until it returned.

You guided Aerion down the quiet corridor, his small hand warm in yours, the wooden dragon bumping softly against your side with every eager step. The night torches burned low, casting long golden pools across the stone, and the keep felt hushed and safe around the two of you.

His chamber was small and familiar, tapestries of ships and stars, a single shuttered window, the bed piled high with soft furs. You helped him climb in first, then slid beneath the covers beside him, tucking the blankets snug around his narrow shoulders. Aerion immediately burrowed closer, the carved dragon clutched between you both like a shared secret.

For a moment he simply lay there, breathing in the quiet. Then his voice came, soft and hopeful in the dark.

“Mommy… will you tell me a story?”

You smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Of course, my brave boy. What sort of story shall it be?”

He thought hard, nose scrunching. “A scary one. But with a happy ending. And swords.”

“Very well.” You propped yourself on one elbow, voice dropping into the low, dramatic cadence reserved for the best tales. “Once there lived a fierce lady knight, strong and clever and never afraid of the dark. One night a terrible basilisk crept into her castle, its eyes glowing like green fire, its scales black as pitch. It meant to steal her youngest son away…”

Aerion’s eyes went round. You sat up a little higher, one arm sweeping wide as though drawing a blade from thin air.

“But the lady knight would not allow it!” You rose onto your knees in the bed, imaginary sword flashing in great, heroic arcs. “She charged down the corridor, slash! clang!, driving the beast back with every strike. ‘You shall not have my boy!’ she cried, steel ringing against scales. The basilisk hissed and lunged, but the lady knight was faster. She leapt, spun, and with one final mighty swing,” you brought the invisible blade down in a decisive arc that made the covers flutter, “she sent the creature tumbling into the shadows, never to return!”

Aerion giggled, pure delight bubbling up as he clutched his dragon tighter. “And then she hugged her son?”

“And then,” you said, settling back down beside him with a soft smile, “she gathered her son close, tucked him safely into bed, and promised that as long as she lived, no darkness, nor any beast within it, would ever touch him.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. Outside the chamber door the keep remained quiet, and somewhere down the hall a certain gruff dragon was almost certainly still counting the minutes until his wife returned.

Aerion’s small arms wound tightly around your neck the moment the last words of the story faded. He pressed his face into the curve of your shoulder, the wooden dragon caught awkwardly between your bodies, and held on as though the entire keep might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.

“Promise,” he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. “Promise you won’t leave me, Mommy. Not ever.”

You stroked slow circles over his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing begin to deepen. “I promise, my sweet boy,” you murmured against his hair. “I will always be here when you need me. Always.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, a soft, trusting hold that slowly relaxed as the last of his fear melted away. Within moments his body went heavy and warm against yours, the even rhythm of sleep claiming him at last. The wooden dragon slipped a little in his slackening grasp, but he did not stir.

You remained still for a long while, listening to the quiet of the chamber and the soft, steady sound of your third son’s breathing, the promise still warm on your tongue.

You waited until Aerion’s breathing had deepened into the slow, even rhythm of true sleep before you carefully eased his arms from around your neck. The wooden dragon remained tucked against his chest as you drew the furs higher, brushing one last soft kiss to his temple. He did not stir.

The corridor outside was cooler, the torches burning lower still. You moved quietly, bare feet silent on the stone, and turned toward the chamber that belonged to your firstborn.

Daeron’s door stood slightly ajar. Even before you reached it you could hear him, small, broken whimpers that caught in his throat, the restless shift of limbs against the sheets. Your heart clenched the moment the sound reached you.

You slipped inside.

He lay tangled in the covers, hair damp against his forehead, brow furrowed deep even in sleep. Another soft, wounded sound escaped him, and you knew at once what plagued him. The same dreams that had haunted him since he was barely more than a babe, shadows and fire and things too heavy for a child’s mind to carry alone.

It broke your heart.

You crossed the room without a word and sank carefully onto the edge of the bed. One hand found his, small and warm and tightly curled, and you stroked your thumb across the back of it in slow, steady circles. Your other hand brushed the hair from his brow, gentle as a whisper.

“Shh, my love,” you breathed, voice barely more than a breath. “I’m here. You’re safe. The dreams cannot keep you.”

Daeron’s whimpers quieted by degrees, though the tension in his small body remained. You stayed exactly where you were, heart aching, watching over your firstborn as the night pressed close around the both of you.

You leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Daeron’s forehead, letting your lips rest there a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm skin and the faint trace of the lavender the maids sometimes tucked into the bedding. Only when his breathing had evened into something closer to true rest did you rise and slip quietly from the chamber.

Aemon’s door was next.

You eased it open just enough to peer inside, and caught him in the act. The candle flame vanished with a sharp little puff of breath. In the sudden dark a small shape dove beneath the covers in a frantic rustle of linen, leaving only a tell-tale book abandoned on the edge of the mattress, its pages still open.

A soft, knowing smile curved your mouth.

You crouched low, voice dropping into a deep, rumbling growl that filled the quiet room.

“I am the great dragon of the night,” you intoned, claws of your fingers curling against the floorboards. “I hunt for children who refuse to sleep… children who read by candlelight long past the hour they should be dreaming. Those children must climb onto the bed… and then they vanish. Forever.”

A long, dramatic pause.

From beneath the covers a pair of wide eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket.

“Mommy?”

You lunged.

Aemon’s startled squeak turned into helpless, delighted laughter as you pounced, fingers finding every ticklish spot along his ribs and under his arms. He thrashed and giggled and tried to squirm away, but you were merciless, growling dragon-like nonsense between bursts of his bright, breathless laughter until the whole bed shook with it.

You finally relented, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a warm heap of soft laughter, both of you breathless. Aemon’s cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up in every direction, and the abandoned book had been kicked halfway to the floor in the scuffle.

You reached over and gently tugged the covers up around him again, smoothing them with a mother’s practiced hand. Your voice softened, though a thread of fond amusement still lingered in it.

“Now then, my little night-dragon…” You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. “Why are you still awake?”

Aemon’s laughter faded into something quieter. He tugged the covers up to his chin and looked at you with wide, earnest eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted in a small voice.

You tilted your head, fingers still gently smoothing his hair. “Why not, sweetling?”

He was silent for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, so softly you almost missed it:

“I just… wanted you.”

Your heart melted. Before you could answer, Aemon sat up a little straighter, expression suddenly solemn, as though he were about to make a formal declaration before the entire court.

“Mommy… can I marry you?”

The question hung in the quiet chamber, perfectly serious.

A deep, familiar voice answered from the doorway before you could.

“No.”

You both turned.

Maekar stood there, bare-chested, hair still mussed from the bed he had been forced to abandon. His violet eyes were serious, though a faint, reluctant warmth flickered in them as they moved from his second son to you.

“She is my wife,” he said, the words low and final, as though the matter had been settled long ago and required no further discussion.

You rolled your eyes at the pair of them, the fond exasperation of a mother and wife who had heard far too many claims upon her in one night.

But something darker flickered across Maekar’s violet gaze, something heated and intent that made your pulse skip. You knew that look. Knew exactly what it meant.

You turned back to Aemon, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, my little night-dragon,” you whispered. “I’ll be right down the hall.”

You stayed until his breathing evened and his small hand finally loosened its hold on the covers. Only then did you rise.

Maekar was already moving.

He crossed the chamber in three long strides, caught you around the waist, and in one smooth motion hauled you up and over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. A startled breath left you as the world tilted. One of his large hands settled firmly across the backs of your thighs to keep you steady.

“I want another,” he declared, voice low and rough with certainty as he carried you from the room, the door swinging shut behind you both.

Your bright, helpless laughter spilled out and echoed down the quiet halls of Summerhall as Maekar carried you with single-minded purpose, each long stride a clear declaration of intent. You knew exactly what that promise meant, knew the heat in his blood and the determination in the strong arm locked around your thighs.

Still laughing, you braced your hands against his bare back and asked, voice soft with hope and amusement both, “Do you think the gods might grant us a little girl this time?”

Maekar’s answer came without hesitation, low and absolute, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“Then I’ll keep trying until I give you one.”

You barely had time to draw breath before Maekar’s shoulder met the closed doors of your chambers. He set you down only long enough to press you back against the wood, one powerful thigh sliding between yours as his hands dragged the soft fabric of your nightshift higher and higher, bunching it at your waist.

His mouth found the side of your neck at once, open, hungry, almost reverent, trailing wet heat along the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. A low, broken sound escaped him, something closer to a growl than a word, and you felt the tremor that ran through his entire body as he pressed closer still.

He loved you so fiercely, so completely, that language had long since failed him. Every urgent kiss against your throat, every desperate grip of his hands on your bare hips, every ragged breath he spilled against your skin was the only way he knew how to say it.

Maekar’s mouth never left your neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke, the words rough and low and thick with hunger.

“I’m going to fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

The promise vibrated against your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you harder against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently through the thin barrier of his own clothing.

He rolled his hips once, deliberate and slow, letting you feel every inch of what he intended to give you, then again, deeper, more demanding, as if already imagining the way he would fill you.

Maekar dropped to his knees without warning.

He shoved your nightshift higher still, hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between your thighs like a man who had been starving for the taste of you.

There was nothing gentle about it, only raw, desperate hunger.

His tongue dragged through your folds in long, greedy strokes, then focused on the sensitive peak, sucking hard enough to draw a sharp cry from your throat. He growled against you when your hips jerked, the sound vibrating through your core as he licked and devoured, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from you before he took his own.

Only when your legs were trembling and your fingers were tangled desperately in his hair did he rise.

He manhandled you across the chamber with effortless strength, spinning you and bending you forward over the edge of the bed. The nightshift was shoved up around your waist, one large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other guided himself between your slick folds.

He thrust into you in one deep, claiming stroke, filling you completely, and a low, broken sound tore from his chest.

Then he fucked you from behind, hard, relentless, each powerful snap of his hips driving him deeper, the slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. His grip on your hip was bruising, possessive, as though he meant to imprint himself on every part of you.

Maekar’s hips snapped forward again and again, the wet, filthy slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. Each powerful thrust rocked you hard against the mattress, the ropes of the bed creaking in protest beneath the force of him.

Heat poured off his body in waves.

Sweat slicked the hard planes of his chest where it pressed to your back, and the scent of him, salt and skin and raw, masculine need, filled every breath you took.

His teeth were bared, a low, animal sound tearing from his throat as he drove into you without mercy. The thick length of him stretched you open on every stroke, the drag and burn of it so intense your fingers clawed at the sheets.

“Fuck, look at you,” he snarled, voice rough and broken, hot against the damp skin of your neck. “Taking me so deep. My wife. Mine.”

He leaned over your back, one hand fisting tightly in your hair until your scalp prickled, the other gripping your hip hard enough that you felt the imprint of every finger. He pounded into you harder still, the head of his cock dragging over that perfect, aching spot inside you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Gonna fill you until you can’t walk straight. Until every fucking soul in this keep knows who you belong to.” His breath scorched your ear, teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to sting. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine while I fuck another babe into you.”

He didn’t slow.

Every stroke was deep, punishing, claiming, his body moving over yours like a man possessed, teeth still bared, the wet sounds of your joining obscene and constant, the words spilling out of him in a relentless, heated stream as the whole world narrowed to the overwhelming heat and friction and the raw, consuming way he took you.

Your moans fractured into soft, broken mewls as the relentless drive of his hips stole every coherent thought.

The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the chamber, louder now, raw and desperate as heat bloomed low in your belly, sharp and overwhelming, and the words he demanded spilled from your lips without hesitation.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice high and trembling. “Yours, only yours. Maekar...”

A savage sound tore from his throat.

He fucked you even harder.

The pace turned punishing, almost frantic, deep, brutal strokes that forced the air from your lungs with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back so he could watch the way your body took him. Sweat slicked the places where his chest met your spine.

The bedframe groaned beneath the force of him as you felt every thick inch of him, the stretch and friction so intense it bordered on too much, and still he drove deeper, chasing the promise he had made, determined to leave you wrecked and full and marked as his.

Maekar’s voice was rough, almost broken, as he leaned over you again.

“Do you want another babe?” he demanded, the words punched out between deep, driving thrusts. “Tell me.”

“Yes...” The answer tore from you in a high, helpless cry. “Yes, Maekar, yes...”

Something in him shifted.

The punishing edge softened all at once, though his hips never stopped their steady, deep rhythm.

He released your hair and slid that hand around to cradle the side of your face instead, turning your head so he could press open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

Soft.

Reverent.

Almost aching.

He still snapped his hips against yours, full, claiming strokes that filled you completely, but the hunger had turned tender, every thrust now laced with the quiet intensity of a man who loved you beyond reason.

His lips trailed warm and lingering over your skin, murmuring your name between kisses, as though the only thing that mattered in the world was the way your body welcomed him and the promise you had just given.

Maekar’s mouth never left your neck as he continued to move inside you, deep, steady, relentless. The tenderness in his kisses only sharpened the way every stroke dragged over that perfect place within you, building the pressure higher and higher until it broke.

You came undone with a broken cry, walls clenching tightly around him. He groaned against your skin but did not stop. He simply held you through it, hips still rolling, drawing the pleasure out until you were trembling and oversensitive, then he kept going.

A second climax tore through you sooner than the first, sharper, your fingers twisting in the sheets as soft, helpless sounds spilled from your lips.

Maekar’s hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding the swollen peak of your pleasure and circling in time with his thrusts, coaxing a third wave that left you shaking and gasping his name.

Only when you were boneless and wrecked beneath him, body fluttering around his cock with every lingering aftershock, did his own control finally shatter.

His rhythm faltered.

A low, guttural sound tore from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you in long, pulsing surges, hot and deep and endless, filling you exactly as he had promised while his mouth pressed one last open, trembling kiss to the side of your throat.

Maekar stayed buried inside you for a long moment after the last pulse of his release, his breath warm and uneven against the damp skin of your neck.

Then, with exquisite care, he eased free and gathered you into his arms as though you were something infinitely precious.

He carried you the short distance to the head of the bed and laid you down among the tangled sheets. His hands were gentle now, so gentle, as he smoothed the nightshift back down over your body, then reached for the soft cloth kept near the washbasin. He cleaned you with slow, reverent strokes, murmuring low, wordless sounds whenever you shivered under his touch.

When he was satisfied, he discarded the cloth and climbed in beside you, drawing the covers over you both. One strong arm slid beneath your shoulders. The other curled around your waist, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest. His fingers combed lazily through your hair, untangling the strands his earlier grip had left mussed.

He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, each one quieter than the last. His violet eyes, no longer fierce, held only a deep and open tenderness as they traced your face in the low light.

“My wife,” he whispered at last, the words barely more than breath against your lips. “My heart.”

Steam curls thick in the air. There, rising from the great copper tub, stands your husband, Ormund Hightower. Water sheets down the broad slope of his shoulders, tracing every ridge of muscle across his chest, the hard plane of his stomach, and lower. It drips from the dark hair at his groin, clings to the powerful lines of his thighs. He is utterly bare, unashamed.

A furious blush explodes across your cheeks, spreading down your neck and to the tips of your ears. Your gaze darts away, but not before catching the sight of him in full. “M-my lord!” you stammer, voice barely above a whisper, trembling. “I— I did not know you were here. The servants said you were in the yard, I… I beg your forgiveness for intruding. I shall leave at once!”

You spin on your heel, heart hammering, reaching for the door handle.

But Ormund moves with surprising speed. In two long, wet strides he is upon you. His wet hand closes firmly around your wrist and he pulls you back, turning you to face him as the door slams shut. Water from his skin soaks into the fabric of your gown where it presses against his chest. He leans down, towering over you, one hand tilting your chin upward so you cannot hide your flushed face. His eyes lock onto yours. A slow, teasing smirk curves his lips.

“Blushing so prettily again, are we, sweet wife?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. His thumb brushes your heated cheek. “My gentle little dove… always so kind, so soft-spoken. You look after everyone in this keep with that tender heart of yours. But here, with me…” He pauses, pulling you flush against his dripping form, his free hand settling possessively at the small of your back. “…you tremble like a maiden.”

Your breath catches. Then he asks, voice dropping, edged with command, “Where the fuck do you think you are going?”

Your lips part to protest or apologize more, words tumbling out in a flustered rush. “M-my lord, I didn’t mean to stare, I swear it, I only came to— I should have knocked, I beg you, please let me—”

He silences you with a kiss.

It is not gentle. His mouth crashes down over yours, hot and claiming, swallowing every stammered syllable. One large hand cradles the back of your head while the other grips your waist, yanking you flush against his naked, dripping body. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you deeply, dominating the kiss until your knees threaten to buckle. You whimper into his mouth, fingers curling helplessly against his wet chest. When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen and glistening, your breath coming in shaky little gasps.

He does not give you time to recover. His hands slide down your arms, strong and sure, guiding you downward with quiet authority. He walks you back a single step from the door, then presses you lower until your knees meet the thick woven rug spread across the stone floor near the bath. The damp fabric of your skirts pools around you as you sink down. You find yourself kneeling before him, the hard, water-slick length of his cock now level with your flushed face.

Ormund towers over you. One hand settles on the crown of your head, fingers threading slowly into your hair, not yanking, but holding you there, possessive and steady. The other hand cups your chin, tilting your face upward so you have no choice but to meet his dark, hungry gaze. Water still drips from his body onto your collarbones.

His voice is low, rough, edged with dark promise. “If you please me enough, little wife… I’ll fuck you so good that you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

You lean forward on your knees. The thick, water-slick head of his cock brushes your lips. You part them shyly, tongue flicking out first to taste him, salt and soap and the clean musk of his skin.

Then you take him into your mouth.

Ormund’s reaction is immediate. “Fuck—” The curse rips out of him, low and guttural. His fingers tighten in your hair. “Gods above, woman…”

You suck gently at first, lips stretching around the thick crown, tongue swirling experimentally. He hisses through his teeth. “Shit— that’s it. Just like that.” His voice is rough, strained. “Your mouth… fuck, your mouth is sin. Hot, wet little sin wrapped around my cock.”

The praise comes filthy and constant, spilling from him between curses as you work him with your mouth. “Look at you,” he growls, hips giving a shallow thrust. “My sweet, gentle wife on her knees with her pretty lips stretched around me. Blushing so fucking hard while you suck your lord husband’s cock. Gods, you’re perfect.”

You whimper around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. He groans. “Fuck— do that again. Moan on it, sweetling. Let me feel how shy and eager you are.” His free hand comes down to cup your cheek, thumb stroking where your lips are wrapped tight around him. “Such a good girl… taking me so deep. You want to please me, don’t you? Want me to keep my promise and fuck you until you can’t walk?”

You nod as best you can with your mouth full, eyes watering slightly as you push further, nose brushing the dark hair at the base of him. Saliva and bathwater mix, dripping down your chin. You bob your head, sucking harder, tongue working the underside.

Ormund swears again, voice breaking.

“Fuck— yes. Just like that. Your mouth was made for this, wasn’t it? Made to worship your husband’s cock. Such a filthy little wife… so proper in the halls, but on your knees you’re a fucking dream.” His hips rock, fucking your mouth in slow, controlled strokes. “Gonna fill this pretty throat if you keep going like that. Or maybe I’ll save it… pull you up and bend you over the bath instead. Fuck you raw like I promised.”

He holds your head steady, letting you feel the full weight of him on your tongue, then eases back just enough for you to breathe, only to push forward again with a low, filthy groan. “Fuck. Your mouth is going to be the death of me.”

You feel him start to lose control. His thighs tense, his grip in your hair tightens until it borders on painful, and the filthy stream of praise and curses becomes broken, desperate. You push deeper, swallowing around the thick length filling your throat, eyes watering as you look up at him through wet lashes.

That does it.

“Fuck— fuck, fuck, fuck—” Ormund snarls, voice shattering. His hips jerk hard, once, twice, and then he’s coming with a raw, guttural groan. Hot, thick pulses flood your mouth, coating your tongue.

You swallow it down, every drop, throat working, some of it spilling from the corner of your lips as he keeps thrusting shallowly through the aftershocks. “Gods— your fucking mouth— shit— taking it all— good girl, good fucking girl—”

He’s shaking when it’s over, chest heaving, thighs trembling so hard you can feel it where your hands rest on them. For a second he just stands there, breathing like he’s run a mile, cock still twitching against your tongue as the last of his spend trickles out.

Then something in him snaps.

He hauls you up so fast your feet barely touch the rug. One strong arm bands around your waist, yanking you against his still-heaving chest.

Before you can even gasp his name, his mouth is on your shoulder, teeth sinking in hard through the damp fabric of your gown, biting down with feral intent.

You cry out, the sharp sting blooming into heat that shoots straight between your legs. He growls against your skin, biting harder for a moment before finally easing off just enough to speak.

His voice is wrecked, low, dangerous. “I will not be gentle, not now, not when you have just sucked out my fucking soul.”

His free hand fists the front of your gown, right at the neckline, and he rips. The sound is loud, violent. Fabric tears straight down the center with one brutal yank, laces snapping, seams splitting. The ruined gown falls open, exposing your breasts, your stomach, the wet heat between your thighs. He shoves the torn pieces aside, baring you completely.

Ormund’s eyes are dark, almost black with lust. His chest still rises and falls hard against you. His thighs are still trembling from the force of his orgasm, but his cock is already twitching back to life, pressed hot and heavy against your bare belly. One hand slides down to grip your ass, hauling you up onto your toes so he can grind against you.

“You wanted to please me?” he growls. “You did. Too well.” His teeth graze the bite mark again. “Now you’re going to take what you earned. And I’m not going to be fucking gentle about it.”

He spins you without warning, pressing your front against the nearest wall, stone cool against your flushed skin, his body burning hot at your back. One hand pins your wrists above your head. The other slides between your legs, finding you slick and ready, and he groans.

“Fuck. Already wet for it.” Two thick fingers push inside you without preamble, curling deep. “Good. You’re going to need it.”

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, bare skin now, and lines himself up, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

“Brace yourself, sweet wife,” he warns. “I’m going to fuck you until you forget how to walk.”

The thick head of his cock notches against your entrance and then he drives forward in one brutal thrust. You cry out as he sheathes himself to the hilt inside you. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming. He fucks you like a man possessed, hard, deep, relentless. Each thrust rocks you forward against the wall. “Fuck— tight little cunt,” he snarls. “Gods, you’re squeezing me like you were made for this.”

You try to speak, to beg for a moment. “M-my lord— ah— it’s— too— too much—” He growls and fucks you harder. “I know what you need. You sucked my soul out through my cock and now you’re going to take every inch of what you earned. Beg for it if you want mercy. Beg.”

Your thighs are already trembling. Every thrust punches a whimper from your throat. He slides a hand between your legs from the front, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing in tight, ruthless circles. “Come on it. Come on my cock while I fuck you stupid. Then beg me for more.”

The orgasm rips through you without warning. Your whole body seizes, thighs shaking violently, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down around him. He fucks you straight through it, pace never faltering. “That’s it— fuck, yes— come for me, sweet wife. So pretty when you fall apart.” His voice is thick with filthy praise. “Good girl. Such a good girl taking it so deep.”

You’re pleading now, voice hoarse. “Please— please, mercy— I can’t take any more— my lord, please—” He pulls out so suddenly you nearly collapse. In one fluid motion he spins you around, lifts you clean off the ground, and slams your back against the wall again. Your legs wrap around his waist as he drives back into you. Now face to face, he rolls his hips, grinding deep. “Look at me. You want mercy? Then beg for it properly. Tell me what you really want.”

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks, but your body betrays you. “Please— please fuck me harder— please, Ormund— I want it— I want you—” He drops your wrists, both hands gripping your ass, and starts fucking you in earnest, lifting and dropping you onto his cock. Every thrust punches the breath from your lungs. Your legs tremble where they’re locked around him.

He talks the entire time. “Fuck— that’s my girl. Taking it so deep. Look how your pretty tits bounce for me. Gods, you’re perfect— my shy little wife turned into a desperate slut on my cock.” He shifts his grip, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around your throat. “You swallowed every drop earlier and now you’re going to take another load. Going to fill this cunt until it’s leaking down your thighs for days.”

You’re babbling, broken pleas mixing with his name. “Please— please, I’m going to— I can’t— my thighs— they’re shaking— please—” He knows. Your second orgasm is already cresting. He angles his hips and when you come again it’s with a scream muffled against his shoulder. Your thighs clamp around his waist so hard they shake, your whole body convulsing. You’re sobbing, begging incoherently for mercy even as your cunt milks him.

Ormund snarls and keeps going. He fucks you through the orgasm and straight into another. He carries you across the room to the large copper bath. He sets your ass on the wide, curved edge, pushes you back until you’re half-lying on the rim, and hooks your knees over his elbows. The new position spreads you open. He looks down at where you’re joined. “Fuck— look at that. Look how well you take me. Stretching around me so pretty.”

You’re beyond coherent begging. “Please— please, Ormund— mercy— I can’t come again— I can’t—” He leans over you, biting the other shoulder, and drives harder. “You can. And you will.” One hand slides between you to rub your clit again. “Beg me to come inside you. Beg me to fill you up.”

The words push you over the edge again. You come with a broken wail, thighs trembling so violently they nearly slip from his arms. Your cunt spasms around him, gushing wet. You’re sobbing his name, begging, “Please— please come inside me— please fill me— I want it— I want you to ruin me—”

That’s what finally breaks him. Ormund roars, hips slamming forward as he buries himself deep. You feel him pulse inside you—hot, thick ropes flooding your cunt. He keeps thrusting through it, grinding deep, pushing his spend further inside you while his thighs shake and his chest heaves. “Fuck— take it— take every drop— good girl— my perfect wife—”

He doesn’t pull out when he finishes. He stays buried inside you, hips rolling in slow, deep grinds as the last of his orgasm fades. Your thighs are still trembling uncontrollably. Your whole body feels liquid and ruined.

But he’s not done. Even as his come starts to leak out around his cock, he starts moving again, slow at first, then building back to that feral pace. The overstimulation makes you keen. “No— no more— please— I can’t—” He kisses you, deep and claiming, swallowing your pleas.

“You can. Because I know you want it. Because your cunt is still fluttering around me like you need more. Because you sucked my soul out and now I’m going to fuck one into you.”

He lifts you again, carrying you to the thick rug in front of the hearth. He lays you down on your back, follows you down, and hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half as he drives back into your come-slick cunt. The new angle is devastating. He fucks you deep and slow at first, then faster. You’re beyond coherent begging now, just broken sounds and desperate little “please”s that he answers with more.

He makes you come again. And again. Each time your thighs tremble harder, your voice grows hoarser, your pleas for mercy grow more frantic. And each time he ignores the mercy but gives you exactly what your body is begging for, more, harder, deeper, until you’re a trembling, sobbing, come-drunk mess beneath him.

Only when your legs are shaking so badly they can no longer stay hooked over his shoulders does he finally slow. He lowers them gently, settling his weight over you, still buried deep. His hand strokes your sweat-damp hair back from your face. “You took it so well,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the bite mark on your shoulder. “My good girl. My perfect wife.”

He rocks his hips once more, slow, deep, possessive, pushing the mixture of your come and his deeper inside you. Then he stills. “I told you I wouldn’t be gentle. And I wasn’t. But you wanted it. You begged for it. And you took every fucking inch like you were made for me.”

He rolls so you’re draped over him instead, your trembling thighs straddling his hips, his softening cock still inside you. One big hand strokes slowly down your back. “Rest,” he orders softly, even as his other hand grips your hip to keep you seated on him. “Because when I’m hard again—and I will be—you’re going to take me one more time. On your knees this time. Or bent over my desk. Or wherever I decide. And you’re going to thank me for it.”

You’re too spent to answer with words. Your body just trembles against him, thighs still shaking, cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock, filled and marked and utterly claimed. Ormund’s arms tighten around you, possessive even in the aftermath. His lips curve against your temple.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “My sweet, shy wife who fucks like sin when I tell her to.”

He holds you there on the rug, the fire crackling nearby, your ruined gown tangled around both of you, his come slowly leaking out of you onto his thighs. And even as your body aches and trembles with the aftermath of being so thoroughly used, you feel the low, steady thrum of satisfaction deep in your bones.

Because he was right.

You wanted it.

Yet here he was, trying in vain to ignore the rapid beat of his heart at the sight of the pretty new guest in the Red Keep. You stood at the edge of the yard, surrounded by other noble ladies and whispering over the knights- and Princes- training. He could hear your laugh ring through the crash of training.

For weeks now, he’d watched you; trailing behind you when you walked with your Septa, standing close enough to be awkward when you spoke to your friends, just to hear your voice. He wanted to know how you took your tea, what you thought of the book you were reading, what it meant when you tucked your hair behind your ear and bit your lip. You always smiled when he came near, curtseying for the Prince, but he’d yet to have the courage to speak your name, to kiss your hand and offer his intentions.

It angered him, how distracted he was. Twice now, Lyonel Baratheon had knocked him on his ass. On any normal day, Maekar knew he could take the stupid Stormlord, but the shining star across the training yard kept drawing his eye.

“My Prince, I’d heard you were better with a sword than this.” The Laughing Storm’s voice echoed across the lot. Clashing swords stilled, bows and arrows froze, and sights fell on the Prince and the knight.

The only sight Maekar cared about was yours.

His gaze cut to you, only to balk in horror at you staring so intently at him. Lyonel’s gaze followed.

“Ahhh,” he said, quieter than before, “I see your problem.”

Maekar’s head snapped back, glaring as the dark haired knight extended a hand to him. He batted it away, instead stumbling to stand and grabbing his sword.

“Again.”

Lyonel smirked.

“I understand, my Prince. She’s a beauty.”

No sooner had he spoken did Maekar’s practice blade come down on him. Lyonel laughed again, catching the sword and stepping into the offense. The Prince was wild; bringing his sword down onto the man again and again.

Maekar knew Lyonel was one to tease, but the comment still irked him. What if he decided to pursue you? Lyonel, with his easy smiles, charming words- Maekar hadn’t even spoken to you. What would he do if Lyonel decided to enchant you before the Prince could even work up the courage to introduce himself? Would you choose a Prince over a man who knew how to please a woman?

The thoughts ran through his head as the pair of them danced across the courtyard. Lyonel kept an easy grin.

“Didn’t like that, did you? Tell me, have you courted the fair lady, or is she free to accept the hand of any worthy knight?”

Maekar slammed his shoulder into him, and both men tumbled to the ground. Lyonel was laughing so hard he could barely sit up, or maybe it was the Anvil sitting on his chest. The blond man’s forearm pressed against his opponent’s throat, holding him down with his teeth bared. Lyonel blew him a kiss.

“If I’d known how easy it was to disarm you, I would have found a pretty girl to smile at you years ago. Maybe I’d’ve started winning.”

Maekar grumbled and reluctantly let him up, giving him a hand.

It was the princely thing to do, of course.

Lyonel gripped his shoulder, squeezing before retrieving his practice blade.

“Some advice, my Prince?”

Maekar gave him a short nod.

“Stop wasting time and pursue the fine lady, before someone else does.” He gave the Prince a wink before turning, shouting out to his men with a laugh.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this.” You whispered, teasing evident in your voice. Maekar was not amused, but kept his hand firmly in yours as he tugged you away from the dreary afternoon tea. He peeked around a rosebush, halting for a moment before continuing once the coast was clear.

He’d found you at the party; a silly, frivolous affair to be enjoyed only by the pampered gentry, Maekar was sure. He watched you, first. Your command over the conversation, the confidence, the poise, you would make a formidable lady of Summerhall. Maekar was sure of that too. Weeks now, you’d been engaged, and soon you’d belong to him entirely. He couldn’t help the strain in his trousers, nor the color in his ruddy cheeks, at the thought of you wrapped in his cloak, smiling up at him in the Sept for all the world to see.

Your eyes found his across the garden, a knowing look in your eye as he immediately stalked toward you. Glimmering in the summer sun, your beauty drew him in like a moth to a flame. You turned from your companions as he met you, extending your hand daintily to afford him a place to kiss. He eagerly took it, bending low and pecking your knuckles.

So quickly you found yourselves pressed into the slender stone alcove Maekar had found. You let little time go to waste before gripping the leather of his doublet and pulling him close. He let out a breath as he leaned in against you, pressing you up against the wall and caging you between his arms.

“I could not sit by and watch you for another minute, sweet lady. You have bewitched me, entirely.”

His forehead came down to yours, the warm weight of it a welcome pressure before he leaned down farther to join your lips. It was tender, clumsy, the two of you still learning the finer intricacies of romance. He took your hips in hand, his mouth sliding against yours and the spikey white stubble on his chin rubbing against your smooth cheek. You pulled away with a giggle, holding his face between your palms.

“My Prince, you’re scratching me.”

“Forgive me, I will be sure to remove it for you.” Maekar grumbled low, determined to do whatever it took to keep you kissing him. You shook your head, grin spread wide.

“No, no, please. I quite like you like this, all rugged and handsome.”

Maekar scoffed as you gently scraped your fingernails over his pocked cheeks. He was certain his face was turning an embarrassing shade of crimson, and prayed to whoever was listening that the gloom of the alcove hid his shame.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Certainly a little lady like you wouldn’t take some wild-faced barbarian as a husband.”

He was looking away from you know, brow hard and grip on your hips close to bruising. You hummed, pulling his face close and pressing kisses across his jaw.

“Maybe I would. I quite like the idea of you looking a little wild.” You whispered against his skin. Maekar let out a groan, turning his head to meet your lips again. Teeth clashed, the firm muscle of his tongue slid against yours in an effort to learn every inch of you.

You let out a sound close to a whimper, and he tried in vain to cant his hips away from you.

“I think I saw the Prince go- oh!”

The two of you jumped apart instantly at the sound of a new voice. Your breath was ragged as you turned and saw the two squires watching, eyes the size of dinner plates. At the sight of their Prince, the one they’d been so adamant on finding moments before, the pair of them dropped into identical bows. They began to talk over one another.

“My Prince, we were-”

“Your mother, our- our Queen-”

“She had only asked after where you’d gone.”

You turned back to Maekar, only to see his brow hard and his fists clenched.

“Do not speak of this.”

His voice was icy, so different from the way he spoke to you. You were beginning to see the cracks in the armor he’d worn especially for his betrothed, and it occurred to you there was a reason for his reputation.

It did the trick: both boys nodded vigorously, stepping backwards before turning tail and skimpering off.

You pressed a hand over your rapidly beating heart. Even if they hadn’t seen you crowded together, surely your swollen lips- and Maekar’s pink cheeks- were enough to tell anyone what you’d been doing.

“Oh gods, your mother is going to think she’s marrying her son off to a harlot!” You whined, your face falling into the cradle of your hands. Maekar stepped closer, fingers wrapping around your wrists and gently exposing your quickly dampening eyes.

“Do not fret, my lady. I will kill them before they can do anything to sully your reputation.”

Truth be told, Maekar quite liked the idea of the men at court knowing you were happy with your match, but he understood the cutting edge of noble society.

“Oh you will do no such thing!” You gently slapped his chest emphasis. Maekar smirked down at you, rubbing his thumb against your wrist in a way that made it very difficult to concentrate on his words.

“It is my duty to my lady wife to protect her, be certain that I will not break that vow.”

The bells of the Sept were still ringing as you kissed your now-husband, tucked away behind a wall near the grand feast. Maekar’s hands were on you; gripping your hips, sliding over the curve of your waist, one finding a place at the back of your neck, the other keeping you flush against his chest.

The two of you had become quite proficient in secreting away from crowds to steal a kiss. The Prince was steadfast in his honor; never going farther than licking behind your teeth and grabbing your bottom, but you knew how hard he was fighting his urges based on the lead pipe pressed against your abdomen.

You’d gripped his arm tight as you’d entered the hall, music and laughter all around. Maekar was as close to smiling as he ever was, tall and strapping in his dark silk and bloodred velvet. He’d grown his beard out for the occasion- his brothers incessantly teased him for the snow white hair- but the way you were raking your fingers through it made it worth it to him.

“Maekar, my husband. Please, I want you.” Your voice was soft, breathy, and it pulled a growl from the back of his throat. His mouth moved from yours across your jaw, leaving wet kisses down your neck and biting against the column. The ruckus from the party drowned out your mewling, but he was close enough that the sounds felt just for him.

Maekar laved his tongue over where he’d bitten, before sucking the skin against his mouth. You halfheartedly batted at his shoulder.

“Maekar! Stop people will see the mark, we do still have to go in there you know.”

The both of you were now no strangers to high collars, but your wedding gown was devilishly low, and Maekar felt an all-consuming need to claim. He smirked against your skin.

“I thought you said you wanted me, my lady.”

You took his hand, dragging it up the gossamer front of your dress and pressing his palm over your breast. Maekar’s lavender eyes were blown wide, dark gaze boring into you as he groped gracelessly at your tender flesh. As he touched you, you reached up and thread your hands through his hair, the blunt cut so charming in your eyes. The new leverage let you bring him down for another kiss, hot and wet as your mouths met. He groaned into your mouth, pressing the bulk of his thigh between your shaky legs. The force of him, wrapped around you, all over, pushing you close up into the wall, made your head swim.

You began grinding down on him, furiously trying to find some small pleasure in the cloth between him and your cunt. Maekar pulled back again to watch, eyes hard as you rubbed your hips against him.

You pulled his hair again.

“Maekar, please. Do something.”

Your quivering voice broke him from his lustful trance. Your Prince grabbed your waist, fingers digging into the softness there and raking you against him. You let out a pretty shout, head tilting back and exposing the expanse of your neck and chest. Maekar hungrily took the opportunity; hot kisses over your collarbones and the tops of your breasts.

Maekar mumbled against your skin:

“My lady, my wife… So beautiful… and mine.”

You nodded fervently.

“Yes, yes my love, all yours.” You barely spoke above a whisper. He could feel the tension in his stomach building, the warmth of you against his body bringing him close and tightening the tension in his balls. You must be close, if the harsh grip on his hair and the broken movements of your hips were any indication.

Quickly, Maekar gripped your skirts, moving to ruck them up around your hips and touch your warm pussy. As humiliating as it was, he knew he could not withstand coming, untouched, watching you take your pleasure from him. He’d be damned, however, if you did not finish alongside him. He would find the place on you he’d heard so much about from older knights, the place that would make you call his name out, tell the court who he belonged to.

The sound of a cleared throat broke him from his concentration.

Maekar turned his head with his teeth bared, not unlike a dragon, and tugged your exposed form tight to his chest where the unwanted voyeur could not see. Shame flooded through him at the sight of Baelor, his beloved older brother, standing before the pair of you with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face. The small snort of a laugh you let out eased him, a little, but the look on the crown Prince’s face set his blood boiling.

“Fuck off.”

The growl rang out in the narrow hall, and to Maekar’s chagrin, Baelor had the nerve to laugh.

“I have to say, brother, I didn’t think you had it in you. Though I must apologize, my lady, for the intrusion. I was sent to find the wedded couple; I had no intention of seeing you so…”

Baelor gestured to you and Maekar’s grip tightened, curling you in his strong arms and tucking you under his chin.

“I appreciate the thought, my Prince, but I can assure you we were only trying to bless the sacred act of marriage.” You answered, trying your best to sound innocent in such a compromising position. Baelor did not look convinced, but he only laughed at your excuse.

“Oh, I am certain my brother has eagerly tried to consecrate your ‘sacred marriage.’”

“You think I cannot please my woman?” Maekar spat. The younger Prince was well aware he was being baited, but his anger clouded his ability to control himself. Baelor laughed again.

“I have every confidence you and your lovely lady wife will have no qualms with the bedding, if what the servants say is anything to go by. Though I would request you wait for the proper hour in the night.”

You could feel the tension building in Maekar, muscles bristling. He was about to shoot back a response when you softly stroked his side, reaching up to whisper:

“Darling, maybe it's best if we find somewhere more private.”

You punctuated your statement with a kiss on his jaw, and slowly he began to relax- just a little.

Baelor watched the exchange curiously. He gave a satisfied nod when you reluctantly stepped away, attempting to straighten your gown before reaching up to pet down Maekar’s silver hair. He closed his eyes as you preened him. Baelor’s intentions softened as he watched you cup his little brother’s cheek. The blond took your hand in his own, kissing your open palm before weaving your fingers together.

“I am glad you both are understanding; it is only fitting you go about this the proper way.”

You nodded thoughtfully.

“Of course, my Prince,” You turned to Maekar, “Lord husband, shall you show me to your chambers?”

Your Prince’s eyes blew wide, before his grip on your hand tightened and he gave you a terse nod. Baelor did not look amused.

“That was not what I was saying and you know it.”

The pair of newlyweds were clearly not listening, already wandering down the hall and passing the older Prince. Baelor watched you go, irritated only because he would have to explain all of this to his mother.

Maekar stopped you before you turned down the next hall.

“Baelor?” He called back.

The older brother sighed.

“Yes brother?”

“You can tell mother, and the rest of the court for that matter, there will not be a bedding ceremony tonight.”

Maekar had awoken, for once, with only his lovely wife in his bed. No sons pressing tiny, cold feet to his back, no daughters stealing blankets; only you, head on his chest and arm slung around his waist. He ran a hand down your spine, stroking the softness of your skin and gripping the fat of your bottom.

“Something you like, darling?” Your voice was raspy with sleep. Maekar hummed, his large hand cupping the back of your head as he leaned down for a kiss.

“Can you blame me for waking with a need for my lovely wife?”

“Mmm, I suppose not.” You said, smiling softly as he kissed you again.

The tranquility of the golden morning was soon broken by the sound of child-sized fists on the door.

“Mother! Aegon won’t leave me alone! Tell him he’s not allowed to talk to me today.”

Maekar groaned, rolling his eyes as his head fell back onto the pillows.

“He started it! Tell him he can't talk to me!”

The small voices began to mix together, different sides to a story overlapping as each of your five children tried to tell their side. Each one was a joy, a new love of your life, but damnit if they weren't loud.

Maekar pulled himself out of your arms, mumbling:

“Its too fucking early- damned children.”

You laughed as you watched him stride to the door, swinging it open to find the small army you called your own peering up at their father.

“Your mother is resting. Do not disturb her.” His voice was clear and low. five little heads nodded reluctantly, peeling away but trying to get a glimpse of their apparently sleeping mother as they went.

Maekar shut the door, pulling the barring it.

“My love, is that really necessary?” You laughed, though you stopped when his heated gaze met yours.

“It is for what I’m about to do to you.”

Maekar could hear the change in your breath as he came closer, watching the rise and fall of your chest through your thin nightgown. He hooked a hand under your knee, tugging you flat on your back and opening your legs for him. Your shift was hiked up, your hands and his working the fabric up over your hips to expose your cunt to him. He could see the tremble of your fingers; after all these years married, he still relished how much he affected you.

He wasted little time, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before wedging his broad shoulders between your thighs. The broad, flat muscle of his tongue languidly swept over the plain of your pussy, pressure focusing on the button of your clit.

You moaned low.

“Keep that pretty mouth shut, wife. We wouldn’t want anyone to hear you.”

It was so rare, with all the princely work sent from the palace, monitoring threats from any corner of the realm, and parenting so many children, that he would still find time to tease you; you took it as a gift.

Your hands slid into his hair as he began his incessant assault on your cunt; alternating between firm sucks to your clit, and slipping his tongue between the folds to lap up your juices. Maekar used his fingers to spread you, kissing your opening before thrusting his tongue inside.

You were ignoring his words, whining as you ground your hips against his head. Maekar was not amused, pressing the flat of his palm to your stomach as he continued his onslaught. He savored the sweet, musky taste, the clench of your thighs around his ears, the way you said his name.

“You want my fingers?” Maekar mumbled against you.

“Give me your cock.”

He huffed a laugh, kissing your folds gently before slowly rising up onto his knees with a groan. You smiled lazily at him, a sheen of sweat across your forehead and your dripping cunt exposed.

“Is it your back, darling? Not getting any younger you know.” You emphasized your statement by pushing your toes against his chest. Maekar’s eyes narrowed, grabbing your ankle. He relished the startled sound you released.

“Do you want my cock or not, little lady?”

You nodded eagerly, and it was all he needed to come crashing down over you; propping himself up on his forearms and lining the head of himself up to you.

Maekar thrust, and you felt him slide all the way in. your hands grabbed his shoulders, fingertips digging into the firm muscle as he began to piston his hips into you. He tucked his face against your neck, mouth open in a not-quite-kiss as he rode out the overwhelming feeling of his lady love’s cunt wrapped so snuggly around him.

“Made for me, wife. All mine.”

He felt you flutter around him, and knew you were fast approaching completion. Your lips pressed against his ear to whisper:

“And you are all mine.”

Maekar shuddered, feeling the familiar tension in his stomach. Your legs came around his hips, shaking but squeezing him close.

“Come now, my lord husband, give me another.”

He nodded fervently against your shoulder.

“Gonna fill you up, sweet lady, get you nice and- fuck- full of me.”

Maekar’s small resolve was coming to an end at the image of you round with his child again. Your pussy clenched around him, and your hips began meeting his thrusts as you rode out your orgasam. He could not wait, painting you with his come and using his cock to push it deep inside your warmth.

You grabbed at the back of his neck, whining as he slowed down his thrusts. Both of you were panting hard; wet, ragged breaths against each other's skin as you tried to catch your breath.

Minutes passed, joined, before you spoke.

“That was pretty fast.”

Maekar snorted.

“Guess we’re both not as young as we used to be.”

You tugged his hair, getting the sweet moan you were looking for.

“Speak for yourself, darling. I’m going to have another baby.”

He rolled his eyes, giving you another short thrust.

“Now that we have the time, I should make sure it takes.”

You nodded, smirking.

“Yes, a marital duty. Just in case.”

The bar was loud in a way that would’ve made most people’s teeth ache - but it was nothing Rip hadn’t handled before. The smell of stale beer mixed with cigarette smoke hung heavy, but Rip was used to that too - the usual backdrop to late-night distractions when the ranch felt like a cage and Beth was too far away; both emotionally and physically. The frost outside made the warmth inside a small comfort, but Rip didn’t care for comfort tonight. He just wanted out.

He slung off his jacket and scanned the crowd with that practiced, half-bored glance. He was expecting the usual - some barrel racer or rodeo girl, a quick drink, a quick fuck in a trailer, no strings, no follow-up. But then, out of the corner of his eye, something stopped him.

You were sitting alone at the end of the bar, not pretending to be anywhere else, just there. And damn if you weren't the kind of pretty that made him forget how to talk. A face that felt like it belonged in a museum - the kind of thing ancient Greeks would’ve carved into marble and gone to war over. Soft, gentle features framed by this soft curl he didn’t think existed outside of film, catching the light just right. Your eyes were big and curious, not like you were sizing him up but like you were quietly wondering something just out of reach. A complexion that glowed even under the dull bar lights, chubby in a way that made you look warm and real. Jeans hugged wide hips, a simple henley stretched just enough to make Rip’s head go a little fuzzy.

Rip’s mouth went dry. Weird.

He walked over, boots clicking softly on the worn floorboards. He leaned on the bar next to you, careful not to crowd. He was a big guy and he knew it - if you crowded a colt too quickly, it would bolt.

“Hey,” he said easy, voice rough around the edges. “Mind if I join you?”

You blinked, cheeks tinting pink like a sunrise. Your lips parted, but no words came. It was like your brain was already running ten steps ahead of what your mouth wanted to say. Then finally, you caught yourself.

“Uh, no, go ahead,” you managed, voice soft but clear, no hint of any Midwestern drawl - definitely East Coast, maybe New York or Boston, something with bite and quick rhythm.

Rip smiled, noticing the way you tucked a curl behind your ear, fingers fidgeting with the ring on your thumb as if you weren’t used to being talked to by guys like him.

“What brings you to this corner of the world?” he asked, trying to keep it casual but knowing it was a stupid question - people didn’t come to the middle of Montana without a story.

“Visiting,” eyes flickering to the door. Nervous - but not avoidant. Ease up, Wheeler. “Family.”

Rip nodded, took a sip of his drink, then shrugged. “That’s as good an answer as any.”

You laughed then - quiet, a little breathy, and it made Rip’s chest tighten. He wasn’t sure if it was hope or just loneliness, but maybe tonight was worth a chance. He didn’t press. Some things were better left unsaid. For now, this was enough - a moment where two strangers met in a bar in a small town, far from the noise of everything else.

Most women around here knew the game. Played it, too - leaned in when they wanted something, leaned out when they were bored. But this girl flushed pink every time he did something simple, like buy her a drink or hold her gaze a second too long.

“A Coors Lite, please,” you told the bartender when Rip offered. Not some fancy city drink. Smart. Knew enough not to stick out too much, even if you already did just by existing.

Rip didn’t ask questions he didn’t want answers to. But he asked some, because hell, you were interesting.

“So what brings you to Bozeman?” he asked again, gently more specific this time, like he wasn’t trying to peel you open but just wanted to know what pages you kept on the surface.

You fiddled with your can, running your fingers along the cold metal before answering. “I’m technically here for legal stuff. Some land thing. My dad was supposed to come, but he’s… not great with travel anymore. So I got nominated.”

Rip raised a brow. “You a lawyer?”

You snorted, then immediately looked horrified by your own noise. “God, no. I have no idea what’s going on. I just have to hand people some paperwork, nod, and pretend I’m smarter than I am.”

“You don’t seem dumb,” Rip said simply, truthfully, sipping his whiskey. “You do seem nervous as hell, though.”

That earned a little laugh, shy and surprised. You tucked a lock of that soft hair - curling just enough to tempt his fingers - behind your ear again. That  fringe danced across your brow every time you moved, like it was its own thing entirely. Like distant tall grass that moved like water when a breeze blew through. He liked watching you talk, he decided, even if you tripped over your own thoughts more often than not.

“You’re not from around here,” he said next, more observation than question.

“Is it that obvious?”

Rip shrugged. “Accent gives you away. You talk fast like the world’s ending. But you look like you’re trying real hard not to.”

You smiled, glancing down at your drink. “Yeah. I’m from Philly.”

So he was right, then. East Coast toughness under all that sweet awkwardness. You were like a deer wearing leather - soft and watchful, but maybe not the kind to run if you got close the right way.

He didn’t touch you much, but when he did - his hand brushing your elbow when he leaned in to say something over the music, his knuckles grazing yours when you went to reach for your drink - he made sure it was firm but easy to escape. You never pulled away.

When you offered your name, just a first, no last name, he didn’t press. Didn’t need it.

He’d known plenty of women who made sure you knew exactly who they were, loud and clear. You didn’t. And Rip didn’t care. Not because you weren't interesting - hell, you were probably the most interesting woman he’d met in months - but because he wasn’t looking for a résumé. If you came home with him tonight, it’d be because you wanted to. Not because he pressured, or lied, or pushed. Rip had done too many bad things in his life to not have some code left.

And you? You deserved to be treated like a lady.

…even if all he wanted was to see how those jeans looked on his bedroom floor.

“You want another?” he asked, nodding toward your half-empty can.

You blinked, surprised. “Sure. Yeah. Thank you.”

Rip smiled and waved the bartender over. He wasn’t in any rush. Not tonight.

Though it was about ten minutes in - maybe fifteen - when you blinked at him, your eyes wide like something had just clicked behind them. You looked at his face, then down at their drinks, then back up again. And then-

“Oh. Oh,” you said slowly, almost horrified. “You’re trying to get in my pants.”

Rip choked on his whiskey, barely managing to hold back a laugh. He hadn’t not been trying, but the way you said it - genuinely surprised, like it had just occurred to you - knocked the wind right out of him.

You looked even more flustered now, cheeks flushed to hell, mouth working soundlessly as if your brain had fired off twelve responses and rejected all of them. You lifted your drink, set it back down without sipping. Then tried again.

“I mean- I’m not mad,” you added, hands flailing slightly like you were trying to swat the air into making sense. “I just didn’t- notice, I guess? I thought you were just… like, nice. I don’t know why I thought that. You're- you. You look like you wrestle bears for fun.”

Rip tilted his head, amusement tugging the corner of his mouth. “Can still be nice.”

“Yeah, no, I see that now.” You rubbed your palms on your jeans like they were suddenly damp. “God, I’m such a fucking moron.”

“You’re not,” Rip said, honest and calm. “I’m just not in a rush. Was enjoying talking to you.”

You stared at him. Then looked down. Then up again. “You’re really hot.”

Now he blinked. “Thanks.”

You bit your lip - not sexy or whatever, god no, just contemplative - then looked toward the door, back to him, like you were waging some internal war and finally decided fuck it.

“I- uh. I drove here. If you- if you want to come back to mine?” You offered, voice tilting up at the end like a question you weren't sure how to ask. “It’s clean, I swear. Not, like, murdery. I have nice sheets. Uh- Egyptian cotton.”

Rip snorted, standing slowly and tossing some bills on the bar. He didn’t crowd you, didn’t touch. Just looked down at you with that calm, solid heat of his.

“Egyptian cotton, huh?” he said. “That’s real tempting.”

“I panic bought them when I moved,” you admitted, already rising awkwardly, grabbing your jacket like you’d forgotten how your limbs worked. “I don’t usually do this. I mean- I never do this. I’m not like- this isn’t a… thing. That I do.”

“I figured,” Rip said quietly, following you out into the frost-bitten night. “But for the record? I’m glad you’re doing it tonight.”

---

Your car was nothing flashy - some modest, newer-age sedan with a sensible paint job and a faint smell of bubblegum from an air freshener dangling from the rearview. Rip didn’t know much about makes and models unless it was a truck, but he could tell it was the kind of car someone bought with practicality in mind. No frills, no nonsense. Just like you, he was beginning to suspect.

He climbed in, the door shutting with a clean click, and blinked as the seat warmed beneath him. Heated seats. Huh. He didn’t say anything, but damn if that wasn’t a little luxury he didn’t know he liked. His spine, worn raw by years in saddles and dirt roads, eased inch by inch.

You settled behind the wheel with a kind of casual tension - shoulders loose, but hands steady. You didn’t even check if he had his seatbelt on before you started reversing like you’d been doing it a thousand times - ears clocking as his seatbelt clicked in-, hand on the back of his seat when you looked out the back window. Not aggressively, not timidly either. You drove like someone’s dad, Rip realised, trying not to smile - confident, relaxed, a little more unravelled than you should, one hand resting on the emergency brake like you were used to stick shift and had never broken the habit. It looked oddly natural.

Rip glanced sideways at your profile - the way your brow furrowed just slightly as you merged onto the road, how your mouth pressed into a line like you were in your element, even though the line of your body was relaxed. Your left thumb tapped against the wheel in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

“You always drive like that?” he asked, not mocking - just curious.

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you’re gonna give someone a lecture about seatbelts and road safety.”

You made a noise - half-laugh, half-sputter. “I am the seatbelt lecture. I grew up with a dad who nearly cried every time I drove without both hands on the wheel. This is the compromise.”

Rip smiled faintly, letting his head lean back against the warmed leather. “Could be worse.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Could’ve been a barrel racer in a lifted truck. You’d have hit three mailboxes by now and been half out the window yelling at a raccoon.”

You snorted, and he could see the tension bleed out of your spine just a little more. They weren’t even halfway to your place yet, but it already felt like a better night than Rip had expected. The silence between them settled easy, like they’d both agreed it didn’t need filling.

Rip kept quiet the rest of the way. Just sat there in that heated seat, watching the frost on the roadside glint under your headlights, and let himself enjoy - for a few quiet minutes - the strange, unlikely calm of being driven home by a woman who looked like art and cursed like a gambling man who’d bet on the wrong horse.

The drive didn’t take long. Your place sat just far enough out of town to feel private, tucked along a winding dirt road flanked by open land. Rip instinctively scoped it out - five, maybe ten acres, easy, with no back fence he could spot. Big enough to be running cattle, or keeping horses. But there wasn’t any sign of livestock. No fencing. No barn. Just empty space, the kind of stillness that spoke of possibilities never taken.

He didn’t ask. Wasn’t here to talk land or business.

The house was a mid-century rancher - low-slung roof, long porch, warm yellow light spilling from the front windows. It had the kind of bones that whispered someone cared once, and the way you’d decorated kept that feeling alive. Inside was more of the same; soft lighting, cozy mismatched furniture, warm earth tones and worn-in textures. No sterile surfaces, no showy bullshit. It smelled like cinnamon and a hint of something herbal. Homey.

Rip stepped inside and automatically slipped his boots off, out of habit more than manners. You had already shrugged off your jacket, tossing it on a hook by the door. There was still that flush to your cheeks, but you didn’t seem nervous anymore. Just a little wired - like this was uncharted territory you were committed to walking anyway.

“You want a drink or something?” You offered as you moved into the kitchen, padding across the hardwood like you knew every creaky board by heart. “I’ve got whiskey, wine, or some real tragic grocery store beer.”

Rip leaned on the doorway, eyes tracking your movements. “Whiskey’s fine.”

“Help yourself,” you said, waving toward a shelf with a few bottles and clean glasses, like you weren't trying to impress him with labels. You disappeared briefly into the back hall, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself at home.”

He poured two fingers, neat, and settled onto the arm of the couch, taking in the room. The decorations were eclectic but intentional - books piled in corners, plants by the window, an old record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. It felt lived-in. Real. It made his place back at the foreman’s cabin feel cold by comparison.

You came back a moment later, looking a little more focused. No nerves, just steady intention in your eyes. You stood in front of him, twisting your fingers together for half a second before speaking.

“Okay, so. Real talk? I’m clean. Last tested two months ago. And I’m on birth control.”

You said it clearly, no stuttering now. Thought it through, made a choice. He wonders for a moment if you’d recited it in a whispered tone when you were in the back room for that split second.

“If you’re clean - and can prove it - I'm okay skipping condoms. But I’m not guessing. No offense.”

Rip blinked, then let out a quiet grunt of appreciation. You weren't messing around.

“No offense taken,” he said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open and produced a laminated card - something he only had because Beth made him get tested regularly ‘just in case’ and bullied him into actually keeping the paper. “Six weeks ago.”

You took it, read it, and handed it back. “Cool. Thanks.”

Rip set the wallet aside and stood, slow, giving you space to change your mind if you wanted.

“You always this direct?” he asked, more curious than anything.

“Only when I’m trying not to talk myself out of doing something I really want,” you admitted, then cleared your throat. “And also, I had half a beer and if I don’t say it out loud, I’ll spiral into overthinking.”

He stepped closer, carefully, and placed his hand on your hip—firm, but not demanding. You didn’t pull away.

He murmurs your name, voice low and steady. “You sure about this?”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and dark and steady. “Yeah. I really am.”

You were curious, that much was clear within the first few kisses. You weren’t inexperienced exactly, but you weren't practiced either; your footing a little unsure, the rhythm of your hands unsteady. Like you were still figuring out how to ask for what you wanted without words. But there was no hesitation in the way you leaned into him, in the heat behind your kisses, in the way your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like you didn’t want him going anywhere.

Rip let you take your time.

He hadn't been with someone this young in a while - not in years, not since he was closer to your age himself. And it wasn’t the age that gave him pause; it was the energy. The difference in how you moved, how you let yourself be surprised by sensation. It was new. Not a one-night stand you’d done a hundred times. This was something you chose tonight, not something you defaulted to.

So he slowed down.

He let you crawl into his lap on the couch when you hesitated halfway into another kiss, like you weren't sure where to go but didn’t want distance. His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you without demanding anything more, mouth wet and warm on his. You kissed him like you were testing flavors, every touch of your mouth a new exploration, your hands moving from his chest to his neck to the edge of his beard with cautious, fascinated fingers.

“Can I…?” you murmured once, already tracing the line of his jaw.

“Go ahead,” Rip said, voice low and warm, like he might say yes, ma’am to a different kind of order.

Your fingers slid through his hair, tugging lightly, thumb brushing the short strands at his temple. Your other hand brushed his beard, tentative, like you half expected it to bite back. You laughed under your breath, delighted at the feel of it, and kissed him again - off rhythm, breathless, slightly off-center.

It made something fond stir in Rip’s chest. Hell, he hadn’t felt fond in a long time.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured against his mouth.

“I’m letting you explore,” he said simply, cupping the back of your neck, large calloused hand gentle against the soft skin there. “You’re doing just fine.”

You flushed again, but didn’t back down. Emboldened, maybe. You shifted your hips in his lap and gasped quietly at what you felt - realizing just how much he was holding himself back.

Rip smoothed one hand up your back, the other resting solid on your thigh. “Easy, sweetheart,” he said, low and quiet, like you were a spooked horse. “We got time.”

You looked down at him, eyes shining with something sweet and open and a little wild. And Rip, who’d only come into town to fuck the noise out of his head, felt himself settle like an old horse recognizing a steady pasture.

This wasn’t going to be quick. And that was just fine.

Rip caught on fast; You might’ve been unsteady on your feet - figuratively, at least - but you responded like a goddamn live wire the second he started putting intention behind every move. A firm hand braced on your waist instead of hip, fingers digging in just enough to hold you still? That made you gasp and melt against him. Sweet words murmured low against your ear as he mouthed up the side of your neck - that’s it, sweetheart… you’re doin’ real good - and you damn near shivered in his lap.

Beth never let him talk like that. Never let him handle her like this. With Beth, it was fire or nothing, chaos with a side of claws. Rip loved her, would burn the world for her, but this - this soft, hungry, curious little thing in his lap - she let him be something else. Something warmer. Gentler. Present.

You clung to his shirt like it was keeping you tethered, lips swollen and slick from kissing, panting between pulls of air like you didn’t know what your body was doing anymore. Rip tilted his head, brushed your hair away from your face, watched the flush creep from your chest to your cheeks.Your hips were moving on their own now - little rocking motions, not even aware of themselves. Not trying to get off, not yet. Just chasing friction because you needed it.

He cupped your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and kissed you slow, deep, until you whimpered into his mouth. Then he pulled back, still steady, still warm. You blinked down at him, dazed and kiss-drunk and more than ready.

His voice was like warm honey when he murmured your name, low but not rough. “You wanna keep going, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, lips parting like you had to remind yourself how to speak. Then you nodded. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, I really do.”

Rip’s smile was small, but real. He shifted under you, hands sliding down to your thighs. “Alright, then.”

You took his hand.

It wasn’t anything big - just your fingers curling shyly around his like you weren't sure if it was allowed, if it meant something (which it didn’t) - but Rip let you. Didn’t mock, didn’t tease. Just let you lead him toward the back hall with your small, warm hand in his, like you were guiding something sacred.

The bedroom was clearly the master. Rip’s sharp eye clocked it all in an instant; the en suite door cracked open with the glow of a soft bathroom light spilling out, a vanity cluttered with jewelry and hair ties, and a shelf of well-loved books on the far wall. The bed was large - king-sized, he figured - but only one side looked used. Even made up neat as it was, the faint imprint in the pillows, the tucked-in charger cord, the glass of water on the nightstand… told a quiet story.

You lived alone. Or at the very least, slept like you did.

You paused by the bed, suddenly unsure again, chewing at your bottom lip like maybe you’d made a mistake inviting a rough ranch hand into your safe little den. Rip didn’t rush. He stepped up slow, fingers brushing the hem of your henley.

“Still sure?” he asked, low.

You nodded, eyes dark and wide. “Yeah.”

“Alright, then.”

He started at the bottom. Kneeled down, knees clicking as he settled in front of you. You made a little embarrassed noise and grabbed his shoulder.

“You don’t have to-” you started, flustered.

“‘course I don’t,” he said calmly, already undoing the laces. “But I want to.”

Your boots came off slow, careful. You wobbled a bit and muttered something about how dumb this was, how weird it felt having someone do this for you, but Rip just hummed, patient and steady. When he peeled off your socks, he paused - chuffing a soft laugh.

“Pink cats?” he murmured.

“Shut up,” you groaned, covering your face. “They were clean and I didn’t think anyone was gonna see them.”

Rip grinned, tucking them aside. “Ain’t teasing. I think they’re cute.”

That seemed to short-circuit you for a second. Then you looked down at him - really looked - and the air changed again.

He stood, fingers skimming up your legs, over your hips, dragging your henley with them. You raised your arms without being asked, the soft fabric sliding up and over your head. No bra beneath it - just warm skin and the weight of your breasts held in by a simple bralette, modest and pale. That, too, he peeled away, gentle and unhurried, watching every shift of your body with the kind of attention most women forgot how to receive.

“You’re beautiful,” he told you, voice gone soft. Honest.

You flushed from chest to hairline.

“Jesus,” you whispered, breath catching. “Are you always like this?”

Rip shook his head, brushing a knuckle across your cheek. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Most times I ain’t allowed to be.”

And then he bent, kissed the slope of your shoulder like he had all the time in the world, and made you feel like this - your socks, your nerves, your pink - was something worth worshipping.

On the other hand - you stripped him like you couldn’t quite believe you were allowed to.

There was no smooth seduction to it - just this bright, wide-eyed eagerness that Rip found unexpectedly charming. You tugged his button down loose, fingertips brushing against his stomach as you helped him out of the undershirt, your breath hitching a little when your hand grazed the trail of coarse hair leading downward. You made a little pleased sound, like a hum trapped behind your teeth.

Then came the jeans.

You were kneeling by then - and Christ, ain’t that a pretty sight, Rip thought - still flushed and laughing softly as you fumbled with the button. “This would be a lot sexier if I had any idea what I was doing,” you muttered.

“You’re doin’ just fine,” Rip said, amused, watching you fumble his zipper with all the focus of someone defusing a bomb.

“I swear I’ve undressed a man before-”

“Didn’t say you hadn’t.” His voice was low, steady, a little raspy now. “I’m enjoyin’ the view, that’s all.”

You finally got the zipper down with a triumphant huff and pushed his jeans off his hips. He stepped out of them easily, leaving him in nothing but his boxers.

And then you just… stared.

Your mouth parted, breath catching. Your eyes tracked over every inch of him like you were trying to memorise the shape of him in case you woke up and this had all been a dream.

He wasn’t some glossy magazine centerfold - he was a working man, all heavy muscle and solid bulk, thick around the middle but broad enough that it barely mattered. His body was marked by years of real labor;scars across his chest and arms, a tan that refused to fade even in winter. He had hair - a lot of it in thick dark whorls - on his chest, his arms, the soft trail disappearing under his waistband. No six-pack, just thick pectorals and strong shoulders and thighs that looked like they could break steel.

You made a noise - tiny, barely audible - like someone biting back a prayer. Your hand hovered, like you wanted to touch but weren’t sure if you should.

Rip raised a brow, gently amused. “You look like you’re thinkin’ about climbin’ me like a tree.”

You blinked. Swallowed. “I am.”

That earned a low laugh out of him, slow and appreciative. He cupped your jaw again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You go ahead, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You can touch all you want.”

And you did - hands trembling just a little as you ran them up his chest when he helped you to your feet, through the wiry hair, over the curve of his belly, up to his shoulders. You pressed your mouth to a patch of skin near his sternum and sighed like he tasted like something you hadn’t realised you needed. You did want to lick him, and from the way your eyes flicked up, dazed and greedy, Rip had the feeling you might ask permission real soon. Rip was patient with you, nonetheless. Patient in a way that wasn’t performative, not a show - just steady, measured, like he’d done this a hundred times and still wanted this time to matter.

Eventually, when your thighs started shifting restlessly, when your breath caught more than it steadied, he leaned in and kissed your temple, murmuring, “Lay back for me, sweetheart.”

You did - still a little flustered, a little shaky, but pliant beneath his hands. He pressed another kiss to your hip, then murmured something about being right back. You blinked, a little dazed, watching him go.

He came back with a small, neatly folded towel he’d found in your en suite - soft and clean, smelling faintly of your lavender detergent - and wordlessly slid it beneath your hips. Practical. Gentle. Kind. The way his hands handled you like you were something worth taking his time with made you feel stupidly close to tears.

Then he spread you open.

Rip settled between your thighs like he belonged there, large hands dragging your legs apart slowly, firmly. And he saw you - really saw you. Thick, soft thighs he could sink his fingers into, warm skin dappled with stretch marks and the faintest tremble of nerves. He hummed low in his chest, appreciation humming off of him like heat from a sun-warmed fence post.

“Good lord,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this pretty. “You got no idea how sweet you look laid out like this, do you?”

You flushed deeper, skin pinking from neck to cheeks. You started to move your hands to cover your face - embarrassed, shy, trying to disappear.

And then-

“I, uh,”  you stammered, voice small. “I didn’t shave. I meant to, but I forgot, because I didn’t exactly plan this and I just- sorry-”

Rip paused, blinked once, and then gave a quiet huff of disbelief. Not angry. Just… bemused.

He brushed a hand gently over your inner thigh, calloused fingers warm, reverent.

“You apologisin’ for havin’ a grown woman’s pussy?” he asked softly, voice still carrying that lazy drawl. “Sweetheart, darlin’, you got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

You peeked at him between your fingers, shame starting to crumble under the weight of his calm, hungry gaze.

Beth had always stripped herself bare - cold wax, no softness, no give. It had always felt clinical, clean, impersonal. Like she was preparing a stage, not sharing something of herself.

But this? This was different.

Your hair was soft, not neatly trimmed but not unkempt like you’d had forgotten about it only recently, small whorls that framed your pussy lips like ivy growing around something sacred. Rip reached out and thumbed gently along the mound, marveling at how damn pretty you were.

“Truth be told,” he murmured, leaning in close enough you could feel his breath, “I like it. Like that you didn’t bother dressing it up for anyone.”

You let out a shaky breath, hands slowly lowering from your face. Your eyes found his again, wide and wanting.

“You sure?” You asked, still fragile.

Rip kissed the inside of your thigh, lips dragging slow and warm over the soft flesh there. He can feel you tense - in the good way, body instinctively reacting.

“I’m damn sure.”

You tried so hard not to make noise.

Rip noticed it almost immediately - the way you bit down on your lip, how your throat worked like you were swallowing sounds, your fingers fisted tight in the sheets as if to anchor yourself against the tide rolling up your spine.

You trembled, not with fear, but with the kind of restraint that came from inexperience - like no one had ever given you a reason to believe your pleasure was meant to be heard. Like someone had taught you to be quiet even when you were shaking apart.

Rip didn’t rush. He didn’t tease or delay, didn’t make a show of dragging things out. He just leaned in and got to work, one broad hand splayed low across your belly to keep you still, the other gently spreading your lips with fingers careful but sure.

And then he found your clit.

Soft. Swollen. Hidden under that neat little hood but not hard to find if you knew what you were doing - and Rip did. The moment he dragged his thumb slow and precise over that chubby, pretty pearl, you broke.

The noise you made - choked and shocked, high in the back of your throat like something had been yanked loose - wasn’t rehearsed or performative. It was real. Pure. Like you’d never been touched right before. Like no one had ever taken the time to learn you.

“Oh God-” you gasped, hips jolting, legs twitching around his shoulders.

Rip didn’t let up. Just smiled a little to himself and said, low and warm, “That’s it, sweetheart… don’t hold back on me.”

You were already leaking, slick glistening across the towel he’d tucked under your arse. The scent of you filled the room - good, clean, musky and earthy and raw. The smell of a woman wanting, not afraid of it. Your pussy glistened with every movement, every roll of his tongue and press of his lips.

He buried himself there - tongue curling just right, pressure constant but gentle, circling that clit while his nose nudged against the sweet soft mound of you. Your thighs clamped around his head for a moment, then flinched back like you didn’t know what to do with the pleasure.

“Rip-” you gasped again, voice cracking like you weren't used to saying names like that mid-moan. He looked up, mouth slick with you, beard damp with your arousal, and grinned.

“You keep sayin’ it like that,” he said, voice deep and proud, “I’m gonna think you mean it.”

You whimpered - loud, unguarded - and Rip smiled against you, pleased as hell. You wouldn’t stay quiet for long. Not once he was done with you. You came fast - so fast it caught you off guard. Your face flushed deep red, eyes wide with embarrassment as a choked strained noise shot its way out of your mouth. You tried to pull back, to tuck your hands into the sheets, to quiet the little whimpers and gasps that slipped out anyway, but Rip just held you steady, his voice much the same, low, like a lifeline.

“Thaaaat’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re doin’ real good. Ain’t nothin’ to be shy about.”

The more he praises you, the harder and harder it becomes for you to keep that tight grip on any semblance of control - whimpering and whining softly, those low moans bubbling up from your throat like some secret song only he got to hear. Your fingers tangled in his hair, hesitant at first, pulling a little like you were testing him, but mostly just carding through the short curls, grounding yourself in the moment.

Rip leaned into your touch, sort of like a very large cat, you think deliriously. 

He didn’t give you much of a breather - once your first wave passed, he slid his fingers in - slow, gentle, teasing at first, then deeper, searching. Your hips jerked, your back arched, and suddenly there was no chance of quiet - needy open mouthed sounds flooding the room, urgent and unrestrained.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned softly, “you sound real pretty when you come undone.”

When you finally coaxed him up - after three slow, deep orgasms that left you trembling and stretched open, utterly spent - your breathing was ragged, eyes shining with a mix of awe and need.

“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling, fingers clutching at his shoulders like you might unravel without his strength.

Rip didn’t need any more convincing than that. How could he say no to someone who actually said please?

He peeled off his boxers, slow and deliberate, giving you a moment to take it in. You were no blushing virgin but jesus fucking christ - your eyes went wide, lips parted in surprise. His cock was big — definitely in proportion to the rest of him, thick and long, bobbing under the weight of itself. You swallowed hard and looked up at him, searching.

“How do you want me?” 

Rip smiled - a slow, warm grin that held both promise and patience.

He crawled on top of you, careful not to rush, and gently folded your legs up against your chest. His rough hands slid under your thighs, steady and sure, pulling you close - the heat of him making sweat prickle behind your knees.

“Just like this,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Easy, slow. You’re my whole world tonight.”

It took a minute to get in - slow, careful, like sliding a rawhide rope through a tight knot. Rip’s glad for a moment that he has a firm grip on his self control, or he’d drive straight into the squelch of your tight flexing cunt. Your breath hitched sharply as he eased inside, body soft and welcoming, folding around him until he was seated full and firm. “Y’alright?” He murmurs, strained. Waiting. He watches your face - and when you nod he presses the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling his hips back.

The moment he started moving in earnest, you squealed - high-pitched and surprised, like a wild thing caught off guard but not wanting to be freed. Your eyes were wide, shining like stars caught in a black sky, every moan and gasp spilling from your lips in ragged bursts as he found every right spot, every secret in that wet pussy that made you arch and shudder. Your legs draped over his shoulder, trembling, muscles taut and gripping. The air filled with the scent of you - musky, real - the natural heat of a woman alive and aching, mingled with the sharp tang of sweat and the faint warmth of the wool blanket bunched beneath them.

Rip’s own breath came in slow, rough bursts, every grunt and low growl a promise, an affirmation. He could feel you pulse against his chest, the way your nails dug lightly into his back, and the desperate shivers that ran from your neck down to the tips of your toes. It wasn’t even intentional, but you looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered - eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed with a raw, burning need. Vulnerable but fierce, fragile but unrelenting. Like you were both surrendering and claiming everything all at once.

Rip swallowed thick and the flicker of a thought comes and goes - Goddamn, this might just be the best fuck of my life - before it’s gone, drowning in the gumminess of your plush cunt, brain almost whiting out when you cum again  - tight and fluttering around him, voice gone breathless and wrecked - Rip didn’t let you go. Didn’t chase his own high, didn’t pick up the pace like most men would.

Instead, he shifted.

Gently.

He gathered you close, kissed the underside of your knee, and eased you onto your stomach like you were precious cargo. Your body was still trembling, slick and pink and overheated, but you didn’t protest - just gasped quietly as he settled in behind you.

Not to fuck you like an animal.

To hold you. To be close. To give you the weight of him - not crushing, but grounding. The solid wall of his chest pressed to your back, the heat of his belly flush to your ass, one hand slipping under your belly to tilt your hips just so.

Then he started to move again.

Slow. Deep.

He rutted into you with that long, thick drag that had you whining into the mattress, hands gripping the bedspread like you were hanging on for dear life. The angle let him push deep, so deep you could barely breathe, every inch making you shake. Every stroke pushed a sound out of you - choked, high, helpless.

“You’re doin’ so good for me,” he rasped against your ear, voice low and hoarse. “So sweet… fuck, you feel perfect.”

He pressed kisses along your shoulder - wet, reverent, lazy as his hips rolled into you over and over. You shuddered beneath him, breath stuttering, body loose and overstimulated but still clenching down every time he bottomed out.

Your hair stuck to her cheek in damp strands. Your fingers curled tight in the sheets. Your thighs were shaking.

Rip kept going.

“Good girl… such a good girl,” he whispered, burying his face against the curve of your neck. “Let me in like this… takin’ me so well. Goddamn, baby.”

You made a wrecked little sound - half sob, half moan - and he kissed the back of your neck, lips soft as his thrusts stayed firm and steady, deep enough to make your whole body jolt with every pass.

It was heaven, he realized - this - the heat of her, the way you gripped him, the way you gave herself. Not just the best sex he’d had in years. The best he’d ever had.

He made you come twice more before he even thought about letting go - your poor body trembling, twitching, barely able to handle it, and still, you begged for more with nothing but broken little whines.

You sounded like a puppy, soft and needy and helpless, those high breathy sounds spilling from your throat like you couldn’t stop them even if you tried. Your fingers clutched the blankets like it was your last tether to reality, legs spread and shaking beneath him, body slick with sweat and pleasure and the weight of his praise.

The second orgasm hit with a sharp gasp, your whole body locking up, and the third followed not long after - closer to a sob than a moan, wrecked and wild, hips twitching with every deep, slow thrust. Your cunt clamped down on him like you couldn’t bear to let him go.

Rip didn’t stop whispering to you. Didn’t stop kissing your shoulders, your neck, your hair.

“Thaaat’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good, fuck, I got you- I got you, just let it happen-”

Only then, when you were spent and still panting beneath him, boneless and soft and pliant, did Rip finally let himself go.

He shifted just enough to slide one arm under your chest, anchoring you against him as he picked up the pace - still deep, still slow, but with a purpose now. Each thrust dragged a soft moan out of your throat, even in your haze, even as you blinked through the aftershocks.

Rip bit down gently on your shoulder, hips stuttering, his voice a ragged growl in your ear as the tight, wet heat of you finally dragged him under.

“Fuck- Fuck, baby- goddamn-”

He spilled deep inside you, groaning low, hips jerking once, twice, before stilling entirely. The weight of his body dropped over you, but his arm stayed where it was, trying his best not to crush you. You sighed, shaky and soft, and reached back to curl your fingers into his hair.

Still whining. Still glowing.

And Rip? Rip had never felt so full.

---

You stirred after a little while - still soft, spent, and sore, but trying to gather yourself, limbs trembling as you shifted on top of the sheets. Rip felt you move, the way your body tensed like you were about to do something, and lifted his head just enough to look at you.

“I should- clean up,” you murmured, blinking heavy-lidded and dazed. “You’re the guest. I-”

“No,” Rip said simply, voice low and final.

You blinked, surprised by the sharpness of it, but he was already sitting up beside you, reaching for the towel and that half-finished bottle of water on your nightstand.

“You’re not gettin’ out of this bed, darlin’. Not after what I just did to you.”

“I’m- fine,” you say, smiling tiredly, but your legs twitched like a newborn foal trying to stand. It was cute. It was pitiful. And it made something in Rip’s chest twist in a strange, fond way.

“Seven,” he muttered, gently blotting between your thighs, careful with the towel and even gentler with his hands. “You came seven times. That’s damn near a medical event.”

You flushed a deep pink, curling your fingers into the sheets as he worked. “That sounds fake.”

Rip leaned in, kissed your shoulder. “It ain’t. I counted.”

He got you cleaned up with the same patience he’d shown you all night - no rush, no fuss, just quiet care. He pressed the bottle of water to your lips and grunted until you drank, then helped you sit upright long enough to lead you - carry you, really - toward the bathroom. Your legs wobbled under you like cooked noodles, and you grumbled under your breath the whole time.

“I can walk,” you whine, clinging to his arm.

“I know,” Rip replied, steady. “Don’t mean I’m lettin’ you.”

You peed, grumbled, peed again, and then let him guide you back to the bed. You were quiet as he pulled the blankets over you, tucking you in with the kind of gentle efficiency he used when calming a skittish horse.

You stared at the ceiling for a second, biting your lip, then turned to look at him - tentative, small, something uncertain hiding behind your eyes.

“…Will you stay?”

Rip hesitated, just a breath. Every instinct told him to leave. It wasn’t smart. Wasn’t safe. He didn’t know you. Beth would-

But fuck, he was tired. His body was loose and warm and clean in a way he hadn’t felt in years. And your voice - so soft, so shy when you asked - landed somewhere deep in his chest.

“…Yeah,” he said finally, exhaling like it hurt. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

You looked at him like he’d given you something precious.

He slid in beside you, and Jesus Christ - your mattress was good. Firm in all the right places, warm from the lingering heat of your body. He sank into it like it was made to hold him. His arms slid around you easily, and you curled into him like you’d been doing it for years.

Rip lay there, staring at the ceiling, you breathing slow and deep against his chest, and thought:

"A surprise," you smiled, running your hands over his chest. "It's been a long day and you need to relax." You cupped his cheek, noting the dirt still stuck on his skin.

"Are you gonna help me relax?" he asked. You nodded, pulling him down into a kiss.

"On the bed," you ordered, pushing him back a little.

"Yes, ma'am," he smirked. He sat down on the edge of the bed and you stepped between his legs. "Now what?" You put your hands on his shoulders, pushing him onto his back.

You leaned down, laying on top of him. Kissing him heavily, you ground your pelvis against him. He groaned quietly as you felt him get harder in his jeans. He wrapped his arm around your back so he could slide up farther on the mattress.

You unbuckled his jeans and pushed them down. Kissing his neck and exposed chest, you reached down and grabbed his hard-on. He groaned, wishing he was in you already. When you pulled away from him, he knew his wish was coming true.

Sliding over him until he bottomed out, you moaned quietly, sounding more like a whine. You started riding him, running your hand over his chest and gripping his shirt. Having two fistfuls of his black button-up and his hands on your waist for support, you went faster.

Your legs were burning as you could feel your stomach begin to tighten. Wanting to close your eyes, you stared down at the state of Rip. He was watching you. Not your hips rolling against him or your breasts as they bounced. He was watching your face and the way your mouth hung open and your moans were falling out. He was watching your hair, with his hat still on your head, sway as you moved.

You were thrown off the edge, gripping the tufts of shirt tighter. His name slipped off your tongue like you were begging as your eyes fell shut lazily as your coiled snapped and you came around him. He rolled you over so you were on your back.

He took the hat off your head and tossed it onto the floor so you could lay flat. His lips crashed into yours as he lifted your chap-covered legs around his waist. He wanted to pull another one out of you. It was your surprise to him, but he wanted to make it up to you.

Wrapping your arms around his back, you grabbed two more fistfuls of his shirt from that side. He kept snapping his hips into you, making you want to scream out, but he swallowed all of your moans.

His thrusts were hard and fast, dragging you closer to the edge. He pulled his lips off of yours and smiled down at you. He loved seeing you so enraptured. Kissing your neck, he listened to the guttural moans you let out. It was the best sound in the world as far as he was concerned.

You fell over the edge, screaming his name as your legs shook on his waist. He followed after you, finishing deep inside you. As you panted for air, he leaned down, kissing your chest gently.

He hovered over you, kissing your chest and neck and jaw until you could breathe again. Then he connected with your lips.

"That was the best surprise I could have," he smiled down at you, pushing your hair off your sweaty face.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," you giggled, pecking at his lips. "Where'd your hat go?"

Your husband didn't believe such a thing either. But Gwayne was ever the gentleman about it. He wanted you safe in Oldtown, hence why he left you there all those months ago. 

But now, every dragon was needed, including yours and your half brother, Daeron's.

Ormund reluctantly brought you with the Hightower army. 

You had been an utter nuisance, for Gwayne had made a spoiled wife of you. You were a princess, and such things were to be expected.

It's too hot, the men leer too much, the ground is muddy, the food is bland—

Now, it didn't matter. 

For the Rouge Prince had found your camp.

You left the tent, squinting up at the bright sun. Three dragons. 

Vermithor was easy to spot. The beast was wide and formidable. 

Caraxes was unique. 

The third took you a moment to register as Silverwing. 

Two of these dragons were supposed to be unclaimed. 

Without thinking, you began to run through the camp to your dragon. 

Tessarion, Daeron's own, was quick and agile. She was a good beast. 

But she was not anything like your Cannibal. 

You had claimed him not long before your wedding to Gwayne as a younger girl.

More so… the Cannibal had claimed you. 

You had visited Dragonstone with your elder sister, Rhaenyra. The Cannibal had to nearly knock you from Syrax to make you realize he was claiming you. 

He was protective and fierce. You loved him deeply. 

"Rȳbagon se gīda, cannibal.  Se qrinuntys iksis va (Listen and calm, Cannibal. The enemy is near.)" You yelled as you neared, but one of the soldiers caught you by the arm. 

Cannibal growls lowly. 

The soldier pulled you close. "Lord Ormund wishes to make peace. The War is to be over."

You fought against him. "My husband still fights. Until I am reunited with him, I will not falter."

"You would rather die in the attempt?"

That made you still. 

Gwayne would never forgive you for such a thing. 

You sigh. "Then what would Ormund have me do?"

…

You stand next to Daeron, surrounded by Hightower soldiers. 

Ormund goes to Daemon, and all hold their breath. 

You place a steady hand on your half-brother's shoulder. "All will be well, Daeron. Both are stubborn, but Ormund would not throw us into danger."

You see Ormund pull out his sword and kneel. 

He was really pledging his fealty so easily. Over rumors. 

You only hope that Gwayne would too if it came to it.

"Tessarion must be glad she will not have to fight," you try to ease. 

Daeron barely looks at you. He is becoming ever the soldier Ormund wanted. 

You and Gwayne had hoped to raise him. You had yet to bear children, and Gwayne would have loved to be like a father to his nephew. But Ormund won out over the two of you. 

You run a hand over his current red hair. "All will be well, I hope. We'll go back to Oldtown, and Gwayne will meet us there."

But you hear Daemon's laugh as Ormund walks back to the army. 

And suddenly, you're being pulled through the crowd. You fight it and squirm until you're pulled into the clearing. 

Walking in front of you is a younger blonde boy. 

You look around confused until you catch Ormund's eyes. 

That sneaky little shit. 

He would offer you up on a platter because he knew Daemon would know you. 

But Daeron? This is a random child. 

You huff as you move past him to the Rouge Prince. "Must you always make such an entrance?"

He smiles. "I have missed you, niece."

"I wish I could say the same. Where is my husband?"

He shrugs. "Seems we are both wondering that. It is odd to have you here in a war camp without your husband. Don't you think?"

"Who claimed those dragons?"

His brow raises. "Oh, those? Dragonseeds, you see. Loyal to the Queen. Odd, hm? That there are bastards more loyal to your sister than you are."

"I am loyal to Rhaenyra."

He gives you a puzzled look. "Then why do all this?"

"Sometimes you must put aside your beliefs for the ones you love, uncle."

He gives a hearty laugh. "And that is what you believe you are doing."

You push your shoulders back to feign confidence. "Gwayne will defend his father and sister. And I will defend my husband. You would do so for your wife."

"Ah, and I do." He rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. "Otto Hightower, however, needs no loyalty anymore."

"He…" You frown. "What?"

Ormund brings this false Daeron forward as he pretends to be pained by it. 

The boy won't even meet your eye. But you won't deny that Ormund did well dyeing his hair a Targaryen silver. 

"Well met, nephew," Daemon taunts. 

The false Daeron follows him without fuss. You, however, have to be pulled along. You are grateful your dragon is far enough to not see this. 

"Stop! What of my dragon?" You spit. 

His patience grows thin. "He will be brought to the dragon pit in King's Landing. As will— what's her name— Tessarion?" 

"He will hate it there. You cannot control a dragon like him."

"I will take my chances."

Daeron is taken to Caraxes.

"Hugh will be kind to you… hopefully." And you're tossed his way. 

Hugh the Hammer, the rider of Vermithor, is a truly gentle man. In other circumstances, you would enjoy his company. That day was not today. 

He helped you up, even as you grumbled and complained. Ever the spoiled thing. 

But as you left, you saw the look in Ormund's eyes. He smirked up at you. 

He always had a plan, but you had no idea if this one included your wellbeing.

Gwayne, you hoped, would be wise enough to find you in King's Landing. 

…

Rhaenyra visits you as soon as she knows you're there. 

You're held in your old room. Your things are untouched from childhood. It hurts to look upon. 

You were a much different girl the last time you were here. 

You pick up the small wooden horse on your nightstand. Your father had carved it for you. He had loved you much. 

The door opens suddenly, and you drop the poor toy to the ground. 

"Rhaenyra."

She's quiet for a long time, as if unbelieving that you were even there. She looks over you. She notes the dirt on your cheek, the dark bags under your eyes, and the tangles in your usually carefully cared for hair. 

"Is my husband safe?" You have no fight. No words to strike her with. You've given in. 

Her lips tighten to a firm line. "We are in the process of obtaining their surrender."

"Do not hurt Gwayne on account of Criston Cole's foolishness. If my husband knew I was here, he—"

"I am doing what I can," she sighs. "Things are in such disarray."

"And Daeron? What will you do with him?" You don't want an innocent boy harmed on behalf of your half-brother. 

"Daemon believes I should kill him." She sees the shock fill your eyes. "I don't believe I shall. He's just a boy. He is a danger to my claim, but perhaps sending him to the Wall will do him well."

"Perhaps…" You are careful with your words. "Perhaps Alicent may say her goodbyes?" You would not directly say the truth of it, but you would help her discover it. That, and you wanted to see Ormund suffer some.

She squints at you. "That is certainly a thought I will consider. You, however, should wash up. The road seems to have been unkind to you."

You shrug. "I spent weeks in a war camp. It damages even the highest spirits. What will you be doing with me, sister?"

"What ever do you mean?" She scoffs. "You are my sister. We grew up together. You will swear your loyalty and that is that."

"Do I not pose a threat myself? My future children?"

She stands in the doorway. "Forgive me, sister, but I do not see a world where you have children. It had been years with your lord husband and still your womb is bare."

Her words sting a deep insecurity inside of you. Only because you know she is right. 

"I will have a bath drawn for you. Wash up." 

The door shuts behind her, leaving you in silence. 

…

A rider hurries through the camp as they begin to pack up this particular morning. They are not far from Harrenhal now. 

The rider throws himself from his horse and rushes to Criston Cole. 

He seems surprised to get the letter. When he sees the red dragon sigil on the wax seal, he hurriedly opens it. 

His dark eyes roam over each word, then reads it once more. He rises slowly. 

"The Hightower army has surrendered."

The camp stops. 

Gwayne's blood runs cold. He is the only one to move, rushing to the commander. "Surrendered? Casualties? Men lost?"

"There was no battle," he explains, fury beginning to brew under his brows. "They just surrendered to the Prince Daemon and his dragon riding pretenders."

The camp falls into hushed whispers, but Gwayne is far from satisfied. 

He gets closer, something akin to terror in his green eyes. "What of my family? My wife, my nephew, my cousin?"

The Commander hesitates, running a hand over the lower half of his face. "The Targaryens have been taken. Held hostage in the castle."

He has to move to a tree to stabilize himself. "She will not let them live. They will be made examples. Dragon riders are… they are dangerous. Our host is down, the Keep taken. We must surrender when they come."

But Cole is already on the move. "Pack faster! We must make Harrenhal by sunset. The King Consort awaits us there."

Gwayne Hightower is left watching the world move around him while his has entirely froze.

He has many choices to make and his wife's life revolves around all of them.

The ranch never truly slept.

That was something you’d learned growing up as John Dutton’s youngest daughter—wind in the grass, horses shifting their weight, the low creak of old wood breathing with the night. You’d always loved it. Tonight, though, the silence felt heavier. Too loud.

Rip had been doing his usual night round before heading to bed, boots crunching softly against gravel, the brim of his hat low over his eyes. He wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary. The Yellowstone had a way of lulling you into routine—until it didn’t.

That’s when he heard it.

Soft, broken breaths. A sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the animals.

He stopped mid-step.

The stable doors were cracked open, warm light spilling out into the dark. Rip frowned, instincts sharpening as he approached. Then he heard it again—closer this time. A shaky exhale that curled low in his gut before he could stop it.

When he pushed the door open, the sight hit him like a punch to the chest.

You were there.

Leaning against one of the stalls, skirt bunched up around your hips, one hand buried between your thighs. Your forehead glistened with sweat, cheeks flushed a deep raspberry, lips parted like you were caught mid-prayer. Your eyes were closed—so lost in whatever you were chasing that you didn’t notice him at first.

You would never admit—wouldn’t dare—that this had been your intention when you walked into the stable. But earlier, passing by the bunkhouse, you'd overheard the cowboys laughing, joking, talking too freely about women and release and things a lady didn’t usually let herself think about for long.

Frustration had a way of steering you by the hand.

And somehow, without even realizing it, you’d ended up here—hand under your skirt, panties pushed aside, trying to quiet a heat you didn’t fully understand yet.

It took you a few seconds to realize you weren’t alone.

Rip was sure his throat closed up entirely, because when the words finally came out, he didn’t remember deciding to say them.

“I—sorry. I didn’t know.”

His rough voice startled a sound out of you, sharp and breathless. You yanked your hand away from yourself faster than a rooster at dawn.

“Rip! Oh God— I’m sorry, I—” You stumbled over the words, heat rushing to your face as panic set in.

Rip had already turned his back to you, jaw clenched, trying like hell to scrub the image of you touching yourself from his mind before his body betrayed him inside his jeans.

“I shouldn’t stay” he muttered. “It’s alright. I’ll pretend this never happened. You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

He stayed facing away from you, shoulders tense beneath his black shirt, muscles tight like he was bracing for impact.

“Don’t go. Please, wait.”

“I really don’t think I should,” he said quietly.

“Rip, wait. I need to ask you something. It’s important.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re gonna kill me... or get me killed” he muttered, unsure if he meant it for you or for himself.

When he finally turned around, his breath caught. Your cheeks were still flushed, eyes wide now, lips swollen. The image from moments ago replayed in his head whether he wanted it to or not.

“Can’t you ask someone else?” he asked, voice strained.

“Absolutely not. I can’t ask my brothers, and I definitely don’t want to ask my sister.” You hesitated, then just said it. “Do you actually know what an orgasm is?”

The word landed between you like a live wire.

“Not a fake one,” you added quickly. “A real one. Do you know how to tell the difference?”

Rip wanted to turn around and walk straight to his bed—he just didn’t know if it would be to sleep or to deal with the hard knot forming in his pants. He swallowed thickly, trying to figure out if you were serious or pulling some cruel joke.

You’d always been curious. Honest to a fault. But he’d never imagined standing in front of you while you asked him what the hell an orgasm was, cheeks still hot, fingers probably still slick with your own want.

You were definitely trying to kill him.

“What?” was all he managed.

“I’ve only been with one man,” you admitted softly. “And I never felt that rush everyone talks about.”

You squared your shoulders, drawing courage from somewhere deep inside you. You trusted Rip—maybe too much. He was a cowboy through and through. If anyone would know, it would be him.

“And you don’t feel it when you touch yourself?” he asked, voice lower now.

“It feels better than when someone else does,” you said honestly. “But I still don’t get there. I get so close, and then… nothing.”

“I see…” Rip murmured.

Without fully realizing it, he took a step closer. At this point, he was far too interested to pretend otherwise.

“Maybe I can’t,” you whispered. “Maybe she is broken.”

He shook his head immediately. “Sweetheart, I don’t think she's broken. I think no one’s ever known how to take care of her.”

Your breath hitched.

“And what if you tried?” you asked, eyes locked on his. “You don’t have to use your dick. You could use your fingers. Looks like you’ve got very capable hands, cowboy.”

Rip’s hand tightened at his side. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, only looked at you—the way the light caught the edge of your face, the way vulnerability softened your words.

“Don’t say things like that,” he murmured eventually, voice low but steady. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

You didn’t move, didn’t back away. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me,” you said quietly. “That’s why I asked you.”

Something in Rip’s expression shifted—an echo of pain, maybe, or restraint. He stepped closer, slow enough that the air between you seemed to stretch thin. His presence filled the small space like heat.

“I’m not the man you ask for something like that,” he said. “You think I’ve got control, but it’s not the kind you’re asking for. If I touch you now, I won’t be able to stop.”

“I trust you,” you whispered.

Rip was so close now that your breaths tangled between you. He smelled like pine, masculine cologne, and old wood—just that was enough to make a slick warmth gather between your thighs.

All you had to do was look up at him through your lashes, and something inside him snapped.

His gaze darkened, jaw tightening as his rough hands dug into your hips, gripping hard enough that you were sure his fingerprints would bloom there later, bruised and unmistakable.

“Rip… please.”

“You’re so damn pretty,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous, “already begging for something you don’t even know if you can handle. You’re gonna have to hold onto my shoulders so you don’t fall apart, ‘cause nobody’s ever made your legs shake before.”

His hand slid from your hip to the space between your thighs, forcing them apart with a practiced motion. He found your heat easily—too easily. You were ready for him, like you’d given yourself over before he even touched you. Panties soaked and shoved aside, your center wet and pulsing, aching for his attention.

He pushed one finger in, slow and deliberate, just to confirm what he already knew.

When he pulled it back out, a breath tore from your chest—you didn’t want him to leave you empty. What he did instead was almost worse. He lifted his hand, holding his finger up between you, glistening with your arousal.

“Look at you,” he said quietly. “Definitely not broken.”

Before you could answer, he brought his fingers to his mouth, lips closing around them with a low hum. “Mmm… and so sweet, too.”

“Please,” you breathed. “Give it to me.”

“What is it you want?” he asked, eyes locked on yours. “You wanna know what an orgasm feels like? Ask for it, sweetheart. It’s yours.”

“I want you to make me cum, Rip,” you said without flinching. “So hard you ruin my pussy for any other man.”

He let out a dark chuckle. “You kiss your daddy with that mouth?”

“Fuck, Rip.”

He didn’t need any more instructions.

His hand dragged slowly along your slit, teasing until your whole body trembled. Then, when you were shaking and sensitive, he pushed his fingers back inside you. One at first—and when your moans turned desperate, he added a second without warning.

Rip had been right.

No one had ever known how to take care of you before.

What he was doing with his fingers—no one had ever made you feel anything like it. Not even your stupid ex boyfriend with his sad excuse for a cock. Rip was a real man, and if he could do this to you with just his hands, you couldn’t even imagine what he’d do if he fucked you right there.

“Oh my God,” you gasped. “What are you doing to me?”

“Giving you the attention you deserve, princess.”

There were no words for what built inside you. All you could do was grab onto his thick arms and moan his name against his ear.

And then it happened.

The feeling tore through you from head to toe—electric, overwhelming—coiling hot and tight in your lower belly. As if that wasn’t enough, the hand that had claimed your throat joined the other, his fingers never slowing inside you while his thumb found your swollen clit, pressing and circling until you cried out and stars burst behind your eyes.

“Fuck, Rip!”

“Now that,” he said, voice steady and sure, “is an orgasm, sweetheart.”

It hadn’t been romantic—not really—but all you could do was cup his face and pull him down into a kiss, gratitude pouring into it. His fingers were still inside you, and you weren’t sure you wanted them gone, not while your legs still shook like paper.

When he finally pulled them free, he brought them to both your mouths, making you taste yourself along with him, tongues brushing and tangling as you shared it.