I'm already disturbed. Please, come in!

He watched you and Baelor converse further down the dais with a clenched jaw. Why did the two of you need to lean so closely into each other’s orbit? His brother was not yet fifty, and certainly not hard of hearing.

But Maekar knew why. You hadn’t been meant for him, not at all. A pretty maiden from a powerful house, you’d been chosen for Baelor – to be the Crown Prince’s second bride – instead of stepmother to a fourth son’s brood of children.

At some point in your stay at the Keep, during courting, things had changed and Maekar had been faced with his brother, asking him to marry you instead. He had accepted, of course he had. Maekar was no fool, despite what some might say; you were young and radiant, a true beauty.

It had not been a hardship to take you under his protection earlier today. He remembered your blush as he had taken your maiden’s cloak from you and replaced it with the crimson and black of House Targaryen. Perhaps you had pretended it had been Baelor who had done so.

Maekar could not blame you. Anyone would prefer the Prince of Dragonstone over his dour, scarred younger brother. Who would want him, when they could have been Queen instead?

You had still been talking with Baelor when Maekar had stepped up to announce that you would retire. There was to be no bedding, a small mercy. He could not have been able to watch as Baelor spearheaded the charge, and tore your dress from you. Could not have survived seeing you shoot desirous eyes at his brother.

You were his wife. His. Not Baelor’s. If Baelor had wanted you, he should not have all but given you away.

There was silence when the two of you entered his chambers. Yours now, too, he supposed.

You moved to loosen your laces, sitting at the edge of the bed. Maekar stopped you, trapping your wrists against his long-fingered hands.

“I will not take you unwilling,” he said, breathing out slowly through his nose, determined not to be the kind of man who took out his frustrations on his wife. “Nor will I take you while you imagine me to be another.”

You tilted your head, brows arched in surprise. Your eyes were wide and confused. “Unwilling?” you squeaked, before you added, “And who else would I think of?”

“You need not pretend,” he huffed. “I know I am no great prize compared to Baelor.”

Immediately, you squinted. “What has given you the idea that I want Baelor?”

“It is only natural that you would resent this, the Crown Prince was promised to you–” The rest of his words were muffled in a kiss as you surged to your feet.

He allowed you to nip at his lips clumsily, your tongue a wild thing, curious and eager. Then you separated to breathe.

“I asked to marry you,” you admitted, cheeks gaining a rosy hue, “I saw you and I thought you the handsomest man I had ever seen. I begged my father to change the betrothal. I went so far as to go to Prince Baelor himself and confess my feelings for you.”

You smiled, a hesitant, brittle thing, and it filled his heart full of hope. “I have thought of nothing but this night for weeks. So please, let us continue and allow me to have my husband. Show me what the Anvil is capable of.”

And show you, he did. Repeatedly, thoroughly. No crevice of you did he leave untouched as he took you. He made sure to make you scream his name, and let everyone know just who was giving you such pleasure.

By the time Maekar returned to your shared chambers, the hour was late enough that even the scuttling of servants had gone quiet. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud, and he dragged a hand down his face before dropping into the carved oak chair beside the fire with a weary groan, not even sparing a glance at you as he rolled his shoulders, wincing when they pulled. Gods, but he looked spent.

His dark tunic still smelled faintly of horse and petrichor, silver hair disheveled from riding hard through the evening rain. There was tension in every line of him. In the set of his broad shoulders, in the flex of his jaw. In the restless way his calloused fingers drummed once against the armrest before he tore off his damp cloak and cast it aside, loosening the collar of his tunic.

“The weather did not hold, I see. You have had a long day, haven’t you, my love?” You observed softly. 

It had taken your husband long moons to begin confiding in you – he had long preferred to bear his troubles alone – with a pinched frown, shutting himself away instead of depending on someone else. He was not a trusting man. But he had come to trust you.

Maekar snorted. “If one more person comes in demanding something of me, I may start hanging them from the battlements to improve my mood. Fucking lickspittles.”

You bit back a smile and crossed the chamber quietly. To some, his crudeness was off-putting. You had grown to adore it, and appreciate his dry humour. Maekar did not look at you at first, though you caught the way his eyes slid closed when your hands settled upon his shoulders. 

The muscles beneath your palms were hard as stone, knots upon knots, borne of stress.

“You’re tense, ñuho vēzos,” you murmured. My sun. In your time as his wife, you had picked up on a few Valyrian phrases, some words here and there. Mostly insults. 

“I am surrounded by fools,” Maekar replied flatly. 

“Mm.” Your thumbs pressed deeper, kneading slowly at the knots gathered beside his thickly-built neck. “My poor prince.” His answering grunt slowly melted into a low, pleased hum beneath your hands.

The fire crackled softly. Outside, rain whispered still against the barred windows. Your husband shuffled back into you – slowly, inch by inch, still trying to resist the comfort you offered on principle, even while craving it.

You smiled to yourself. Coquettishly, you leaned down further against him.

The thin fabric of your gown did little to hide the warmth of your body as your breasts brushed the broad plane of his back. The first time, just for a moment. Then again, more deliberately, as your hands worked lower along his shoulders.

Maekar went still beneath your fingers, his spine straightening, a stuttered exhale catching in his throat.

“Wife,” he said, voice roughened into a gravelled baritone, “are you attempting to distract me?” On anyone else, the simple ‘wife’ would have been a slight – without frills, harsh and to the point – but you knew Maekar. With him, it was as good as any saccharine endearment. Wife was what you were to him. The woman he loved, and would protect with his life.

You suppressed another grin, whetting your lower lip. “That depends on whether it’s working.” Thumbs pressing either side of his spine, you worked on loosening the knots of his shoulders as you pressed your chest against his back, nipples straining noticeably against your thin shift now.

A low sound escaped him. Half laugh, half groan.

You continued as though innocent, sliding your fingers once through the silver fall of his hair. Maekar’s head tipped back slightly at the sensation, exposing the strong line of his throat.

Gods, he was handsome like this. Relief smoothing the stern lines of his face, thinking of nothing but the pleasure of your touch. Just a tired man unraveling beneath your touch.

“You do not need to do this,” he muttered, violet eyes half-lidded.

“I wish to,” you whispered. “You seemed in need of cheering.”

“Hm.” His hand came up suddenly, catching your wrist where it rested against his shoulder. Large fingers circled it easily. “And this is how you choose to do it? By teasing your husband?”

“Are you complaining?”

“No.” His thumb dragged once across your pulse. “I do not believe I am.”

Heat curled low in your stomach at the sound of his voice. Deep, worn by exhaustion, but softer than the tone he used with anyone else, in either Summerhall or King’s Landing.

You bent closer still until your lips brushed the shell of his ear, unable to resist a little jape. “I suppose it is a good practice for when your aches become a daily occurrence. You do have so many years on me.”

He turned his head slightly then, enough that you caught the sharp violet of his eyes in the firelight.

“You mock your prince,” he said quietly.

“My husband,” you corrected, “my very handsome, aching husband.” You pressed a quick kiss to his bearded cheek, above the pits of his scars. “You like it.”

Dangerous words to say to a man like Maekar. In one swift motion he caught your arm and tugged. You barely had time to gasp before finding yourself pulled around the chair and straight into his lap. The heavy wood creaked beneath the sudden movement.

“Maekar–”

“You are a menace.” His hands settled firmly at your waist, broad enough to span nearly the entire of it. The feeling had your insides twisting hotly. “Do you know that?”

You smiled, breathless. “I’ve been told before.”

His eyes traveled slowly over your face, your mouth – the rise and fall of your chest.

You could tell he was debating something. Perhaps whether he was too tired to continue, whether he could give you the gentleness he believed you deserved. Most thought your husband a thoughtless brute, useful only in war. But beneath all the iron and temper and sharp edges was something fiercely controlled. A man forever holding himself back with bloodied hands.

Your fingers slid into his silver hair gently. “Stop thinking for tonight. Just let me touch you, my love.”

For a heartbeat he simply stared at you. Then Maekar exhaled heavily and rested his forehead briefly against yours, a warrior laying down his sword at the feet of his sworn lady.