Soulsuccker

Maekar

Maekar showers you with small but expensive gifts that reflect you hobbies and interests. He struggles to open up to you and say he loves you but the way in which he listens to you and surprises you with thoughtful little gifts and trinkets shows you his love for you. You need only mention it once and you will have it. Maekar definitely uses his position as a Targaryen prince to ensure your every whim and wish is met and that all of his gifts to you are of the highest quality and tailored to fit your tastes.

Lyonel

Lyonel loves a party and he loves to see you let your hair down and enjoy yourself, so he definitely throws parties, feasts and tourneys in order to catch your attention. He ensures that all of his celebrations are to your liking, with lavish decorations in both his house colours and your favoured colours and styles and has the best chefs available make all of your favourite dishes and has your favourite sweet wines imported from Dorne. Only the best of the best for you, to catch your eye. Once you are courting, he uses any small excuse to have a celebration in your honour, to flaunt his wealth and impress you.

Aerion

During your courtship, Aerion showers you with expensive, lavish gifts in hopes of impressing you and proving his love to you. He spares no expense on you buying you his favourite expensive wines and gold jewellery with dragon designs and he buys you outfits he wants to see on you made of rich fabrics, in Targaryen colours. He showers you with gifts and attention but only in a way that suits him and his tastes.

Valarr

Loverboy makes a point of training in the yard when he knows you will be passing by, and he starts showing off, pulling out all of his most impressive moves and flexing, trying to look good for you when you walk past. Catching your eye from the yard and smiling giddily when your eyes linger on him a little longer than usual. He also makes a point of researching your interests so that he can start a conversation about it and impress you with his knowledge. He loves nothing more than seeing you become excited about something and speak passionately about something your interested in and bonds with you over it.

Daeron

Daeron takes you on thoughtful dates, he sees the way in which other lords at court recite poetry and force you to awkwardly but politely smile and nod along as they serenade you with little interest in what you want to do. So Daeron takes you out, away from the court to do things that you both enjoy, he teaches you to fish and makes a picnic for you both to enjoy with all of your favourite foods and shows you the countryside of Westeros you had previously not experienced. It is only a bonus to him that it means your away from the other lords at court.

Dunk

Despite himself Dunk asks Egg for advice on how to win you over, on how to impress you. And Egg simply says, “I don’t know… ladies like flowers” and Dunk took that to heart. He makes a point of gifting you flowers weekly, he handpicks them himself, choosing the prettiest and healthiest wildflowers and trying them together with a ribbon, the bow a little haphazard but no less adorable.

masterlist

I love this request, thank you!!

do you agree? what do you think they would do to impress their partner? 😊

-kitty xx

Cregan’s mouth lifts in a soft smile, though his eyes are as grey and cold as the North. When he reties your bonds, the knots hold loose, gentle, easy on your wrists. You frown down at the slack rope between your hands, puzzled.

“This is a terrible way to tie someone up,” you say. “I can still move my –”

Cregan rises, still looking down at you. With one large hand, he takes an iron hook onto the slack rope and hauls it – and you – up, hooking it neatly onto one of the tent’s support beams. You gasp, the sound embarassing and startled. The oak beam creaks, but holds. With your arms above your head, your heels just barely lifting off the ground, you sway before Cregan Stark, defenseless.

AERION

in the beginning, he would fucking hate it.

would scold you for forming alliances with egg or daeron to wind him up, dragging you away from his brothers as you had committed the ultimate tomfoolery on him.

"do you think it is amusing? for you to act as a child would, and not a lady, a wife?"

so you would stop. everything.

no longer were you playing tricks on him. the undoing of his belt as he was seated, for it to fall and clatter onto the ground as he stood.

no longer was the incessant humming of a song you had heard at the last banquet. no longer were you on his tail, asking what he was doing. and no longer did you give him any ounce of affection. in fact, he resorted to begging you to annoy him once more. just to see your satisfied smile as he rolls his eyes for the hundredth time.

"wife."

"yes?" you would speak sweetly, your nose in a book to hide your face from him.

"why must you torture me?" he approached you, his voice soft and yet so accusing. "either you make my blood boil or you are seldom there at all. what must i do?"

you ignored him, you would let him come to his own conclusions.

he would sigh, and only then had you won. the grin on your face was impossible to conceal once you lowered the book.

"if you must irk me to find your enjoyment, then so it shall be." he would declare, a soft kiss on your cheek was all the agreement you needed. "but only you. i will not hold such allowances for my brothers."

VALARR

at first, he found it adorable. he would oft giggle at you when you would pull at his cloak when he walked beside you.

it was not oft a lady was so animated in the way she carried herself, he had grown used to them being mute, seldom a smile, hands at their sides.

he had grown to love it, enjoy it. it made his days less dull and monotonous. he would tire of being cup bearer in the council room, or fetching books of the histories for his father to study with.

with his wife as his shadow, he laughed at you silently stalking him on his duties.

it had become a game to him.

for every moment you would tell him an awful joke, so bad he could not force a laugh.

he would poke your ribs to evoke a laugh from you in stead.

he would seek you out, sat in the gardens with a book on your lap, and pull the ribbon from your hair before running away with it.

and you would wait patiently, all smiles and politeness for his father, until you had tripped him up on the walk back to your chambers.

"wife." he would exclaim, a grin on his face, as you charged further into the room to distance yourself from him. "if i catch you, i will not let you get away with your torments."

BAELOR

i've said it before and i will say it again, this man is a brat tamer.

he will allow your constant bothering, he knew it was how you expressed your adoration for him.

he found it sweet, in fact. so much of your day was doing things to make him sigh, or roll his eyes, when in fact he enjoyed it.

you would sit by the window in his solar as he worked, and tap your feet rhythmically for hours on end, it being the only sound he would hear against his deep sighs.

"dear wife, are you restless?" he would ask.

you would walk circles around his bureau, book atop your head to 'improve your posture' as you called it. and even as the book would fall to the ground, and you would search his face for annoyance, he only shut his eyes to find patience.

"your posture is astounding, my dear. carry on, if you must." he would speak.

and it would always turn the tables come nightfall.

for you were his now. you had his entire attention.

and he would spend hours teasing you, irking you, until you begged him to stop.

"baelor, i am sorry." you would whine. "just taste me already."

"can i not have my own fun now? after enduring yours all day?"

MAEKAR

it would irritate the fuck out of him.

but he's used to it. he has five children who irk the fuck out of him, what's another in the form of his wife?

it would be your constant sighing, just to get under his skin. as you both sat in his solar as he worked.

"what do you want?" he would ask, not even looking your way to notice your silent giggling.

and you would not respond, even halting your sighs. just to push him closer to the edge.

you would drape yourself over his lap, another dramatic sigh as you settled into his chest.

"are you bored? is that it?" and once again his question would fall onto deaf ears.

you would place your hands atop the pages of the book he was flicking through, suffering his grunts as he reached for both of your hands.

he would simply kiss them, though not with a smile as he tended to wear, and hold them captive as he resumed his readings.

DAERON

like valarr, it is a game to him.

he will indulge in your annoyances, just as you would indulge his own.

if you hum a tune, he will hum a louder, scratchier rendition just to parry your own.

you would drink the wine from his cup the moment he fills it, adorned with a wine-soaked grin as he looks up at you.

"oh, apologies, dear husband. was that not for me?"

he would stand on the hem of your skirts as you would walk, or attempt to walk, and laugh as you nigh on fall to the ground.

"be careful with your footing, my wife. we would not want you to break a bone."

it was a constant chase of vexing the other, and it would ultimately end in a very intense moment of passion in bed.

teetering the edge of hate fucking, being so wound up with one another, that this was the only way to release the tension between you both.

he loved it. it made him hard. both teasing you, and being teased by you.

DUNC

he would think you were trying to upset him at first, but would come to understand it was just your nature.

you swung from his arm when he would open them for a quick embrace, between both his duties and your own.

you would be hot on his tail, following him around. unnervingly close, even for his wife.

"must you catch my feet in this way, my wife?" he would sigh, halting to feel you walk straight into his back. "or must i carry you everywhere?"

"i am not opposed to such an offer, my husband."

you would find such joy in the way he would roll his eyes at you, or tut at another one of your ridiculous, harmless jokes.

"you are as bad as egg, my wife." he would mumble into your hair, holding your body captive to stop you from sending him any further into madness.

"egg only encourages me." you would comment, sending the both of you into a deep laughter.

despite your incessant annoyances, he would never raise his voice, threaten you, for you were his lady. and it was how you loved him.

LYONEL

again, this man would find the fun in it.

he is all for a jest, in fact, he welcomes it. he wants you to engage in such foolery with him.

it was not what he had expected. he always thought his betrothed would be tight-lipped and only speak when spoken to. someone he would have to entice from their shell.

but you were not at all what he imagined. you were... annoying.

yet in the most amusing way.

you would tell awful jokes, ones so unkind to his ears he would end up in laughter.

you would climb atop him in the mornings, prodding his cheeks to wake him up.

and he would whine, huff, take hold of your arms to cease your behaviour.

The sun had no right to be shining.

Valarr Targaryen knew this with every fiber of his being, the certainty of it settled deep in his bones as he lay sprawled across the vast, empty expanse of his marriage bed. Outside the windows of Maegor's Holdfast, the morning light spilled across Blackwater Bay in a display of golden indifference, painting the room in cheerful hues that made him want to scream.

It had been four days.

Four days since his wife—his sun, his moon, his very reason for drawing breath—had climbed into a wheelhouse and rolled away from him, bound for whatever minor keep happened to be housing her brother and his excessively fertile wife. A daughter. They had produced a daughter, and apparently this was cause for such celebration that Y/N simply had to attend.

He understood this, theoretically. In the same way one understood that the sun would eventually set or that winter would someday come. He understood that sisters loved brothers and that new nieces were supposedly wonderful creatures worth traveling for. He understood all of this with his mind, which was a traitorous organ that had clearly never been in love.

His heart, however—his poor, neglected, Y/N-less heart—understood nothing except that she was gone.

Valarr rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into her pillow.

It still smelled like her.

He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. They had looked at him strangely, which was absurd. Who wouldn't want to preserve the last traces of their wife's scent? The faint floral notes of whatever oil she used in her hair, the warm sweetness that was simply her, the way the fabric seemed to hold the memory of her cheek against it—

A knock at the door.

"Go away," he said into the pillow.

"Your Grace, the King requests your presence at the small council meeting." It was his squire, a boy of twelve who sounded far too cheerful for someone whose master was clearly in mourning.

"I'm ill."

"You said that yesterday, Your Grace. And the day before."

"And I remain ill. It's a persistent illness. Very serious. Possibly fatal."

A pause. "Should I fetch a maester, Your Grace?"

Valarr considered this. A maester would poke at him and ask questions and inevitably conclude that he was suffering from nothing more than a severe case of missing his wife. Which was true, but also humiliating to have spoken aloud by a man in grey robes.

"No. Tell my grandfather I am... indisposed. With grief."

"Grief, Your Grace?"

"My wife is gone." He said this with such profound tragedy that the boy actually went silent for a moment.

"Ah. Yes. For... four days now, isn't it, Your Grace?"

"Four days, seventeen hours, and—" He squinted at the window, trying to gauge the sun's position. "Approximately six and a half hours. Not that I'm counting."

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"The counting would imply that I have nothing better to do than track her absence, which I don't—because she took my purpose in life with her when she left."

Another pause. Valarr imagined the boy standing in the corridor, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if the prince had finally lost his mind. He probably had. It didn't matter.

"Shall I bring you breakfast, Your Grace?"

"No."

"Lunch?"

"I said no."

"Dinner? Perhaps some wine? Bread? A boar? Anything at all?"

Valarr lifted his head just enough to glare at the door. "Do I sound hungry to you? Does a man whose heart has been ripped from his chest and carried away to some distant keep where he cannot reach it sound like he wants bread?"

The boy wisely retreated.

Alone again, Valarr flopped back onto the pillow and resumed his vigil of misery.

---

An hour later—or perhaps three; time had lost all meaning—he found himself in his chambers, seated at the desk where he had once, in a former life, attended to correspondence and other tedious duties. Now it served a far more important purpose.

He opened the locket.

It was a beautiful thing, commissioned three days ago from a goldsmith who had clearly thought him mad but was wise enough not to say so. The outside was simple enough, a smooth disc of gold that fit perfectly in his palm. But inside, nestled against the fine enamel work that had cost him a small fortune and the goldsmith's entire week, was her face.

Her face.

The painter had captured her perfectly—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way one eyebrow always lifted slightly when she was about to tease him. Valarr had described every detail with the precision of a maester cataloging a rare specimen, and the man had somehow managed to translate those fevered descriptions into art.

He kissed it.

Then he kissed it again.

Then he held it against his chest and stared at the wall, imagining that she was here, that she was laughing at him for being so dramatic, that she would wrap her arms around his neck and press her forehead to his and tell him that four days apart was nothing, that he was being ridiculous, that she loved him anyway.

He would take that. He would take her calling him ridiculous a thousand times over if it meant having her here.

The door opened.

"I told you I don't want—"

"Brother." It was Matarys, his younger brother, standing in the doorway with an expression of unholy amusement. "Still alive, I see. The servants were placing bets."

"Get out."

"I've come to save you from yourself." Matarys strode in as if he owned the place, flinging himself onto a chair with the careless grace of someone who had never known true suffering. "Four days, Valarr. Four. She'll be back in another fortnight, at most."

"A fortnight?" Valarr sat up so fast the locket swung wildly on its chain. "You said a sennight yesterday."

"I was being optimistic. Babies are unpredictable. Births take time. Celebrations take longer. You're looking at ten more days, minimum."

Ten more days.

Ten more days without her laugh, without her hand in his, without the way she hummed while she brushed her hair at night, without—

"I'm going to die," he said flatly. "I'm going to expire from lack of her, and they'll find my body here, clutching this locket, and the maesters will write treatises about it. 'The First Recorded Case of Death by Wife-Absence.' They'll name it after me. Valarr's Malady."

Matarys snorted. "You're pathetic."

"I'm devoted. There's a difference."

"There really isn't." His brother leaned forward, expression shifting to something almost like concern. "Valarr, listen to me. You need to do something. Anything. You haven't left these chambers in days—"

"I left yesterday."

"To stand on the battlements and stare at the road south for three hours. That doesn't count."

"It counted to me."

Matarys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Father is worried. Grandfather is worried. Even Aerion looked mildly concerned, and he's usually too busy practicing his cruel smile to care about anyone's wellbeing. You're making a spectacle of yourself."

"Let them watch." Valarr touched the locket again, tracing the outline of her painted smile. "She is my wife. I love her. I am not ashamed to miss her."

"No one expects you not to miss her. We expect you to miss her like a normal person. Go to council meetings. Eat food. Bathe, for the love of all the gods, you're starting to smell like a stabled horse."

Valarr sniffed his own armpit. It was... not pleasant. But that was beside the point.

"The small council can function without me. Food is unnecessary without her to share it. And bathing—" He paused, considering. "Would it be strange if I used her soaps?"

"Yes."

"They smell like her."

"I know. That's why it would be strange."

Valarr disagreed fundamentally with this assessment, but he was too tired to argue. He slumped back against the pillows, pulling the locket out to gaze at it once more. Her eyes. Her smile. The little mole near her left eyebrow that he kissed every morning without fail.

"She's so beautiful," he murmured.

"We know. You tell us constantly."

"Do you think she's thinking of me? Right now, at this moment? Do you think she misses me too?"

Matarys stood abruptly. "I'm leaving. I came to help, but I find I have no stomach for watching my brother dissolve into a puddle of sentiment. If you need me, don't find me."

The door closed behind him.

Valarr hardly noticed. He was too busy imagining her in some distant keep, holding her new niece, perhaps glancing toward the window and thinking of him. Perhaps touching her chest where a matching locket—because of course he'd had two made, one for each of them, so she could look at his face too—rested against her heart.

He hoped she was looking at it.

He hoped she missed him even half as much as he missed her.

Another knock.

"What?"

A servant entered, this one older and wiser to his moods. She carried a tray with bread and cheese and a cup of wine, which she set on the table without comment.

"Your Grace," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "The Princess Y/N's wheelhouse was spotted on the Rosby road an hour ago. Moving south. Away from the city."

Valarr's heart plummeted through the floor.

"Away?" He sat up, clutching the locket like a talisman. "Why would she be moving away? She's supposed to be moving toward me. The world is meant to bring her closer, not farther. That's the natural order of things."

"The messenger said the princess decided to accompany her brother's family part of the way to their next destination. She'll be delayed by another few days."

Another few days.

He was going to perish. Truly and completely. They would find him dead of yearning, his cold fingers still wrapped around her painted smile, and on his lips would be her name, and the singers would compose ballads about his devotion, and—

The servant was still there, watching him with an expression that might have been pity.

"Leave the bread," he said weakly.

She left.

Valarr stared at the tray. The bread looked dry. The cheese looked plain. The wine looked like the kind that would make him maudlin rather than numb, and he was already so deep in maudlin that any further descent would require ropes and a guide.

He reached for the locket again.

Four more days. Possibly five. Possibly a whole sennight of additional Y/N-less existence stretching before him like an endless grey sea.

He could do this.

He could survive.

He had her locket. He had her pillow. He had the memory of her voice, which he replayed in his mind constantly, and the way she laughed, which he conjured up whenever the silence grew too loud.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

---

He was not fine.

Three hours later, he had migrated to her solar, where he sat surrounded by her things—her books, her embroidery, her little pots of color for painting, her shawl still draped over the back of her chair. He held the shawl in his lap, stroking the soft wool, breathing in the fading scent of her.

"Y/N," he whispered to the empty room. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."

It helped, somehow. Saying her name. Keeping her present through sheer force of vocalization.

"You have to come back soon," he continued, addressing the shawl. "I'm running out of things to do. I've stared at the locket so much I might have worn a hole through the enamel. I've read every letter you ever wrote me—twice. I've counted the floorboards in our bedchamber. There are forty-seven. Did you know that? I didn't know that. I know it now."

The shawl offered no response.

"I talked to your pillow this morning. Told it about my day. Which was nothing, because you weren't here, but I described the nothing in detail. The pillow was a good listener. Better than Matarys, certainly."

He sighed, slumping lower in the chair.

"Do you remember our wedding? Of course you do. But do you remember how I couldn't stop staring at you? How they had to nudge me to say my vows because I was too busy looking at your face? The septon thought I was nervous. I wasn't nervous. I was just—you were so beautiful. You're always so beautiful. I'm not sure you understand how beautiful you are. I should tell you more often. I'll tell you every day when you come back. Every single day. Multiple times a day. You'll get tired of hearing it."

He paused, considering.

"No, you won't. You love me. You think I'm wonderful. You tell me that all the time, and I never get tired of it, so why would you get tired of—"

A knock. He was going to have words with whoever kept interrupting his mourning.

"Your Grace?" A different servant, this one young and nervous. "There's a raven. From the princess."

Valarr was on his feet before the sentence finished, crossing the room in three strides and snatching the tiny scroll from the servant's hand. He unrolled it with shaking fingers, devouring the words:

My love,

My good sister is recovered and the babe is healthy and beautiful. They have named her Valerya, after you. (I may have suggested it.) We will be delayed another few days as we travel with them to—

He stopped reading.

They had named the baby after him.

A tiny girl, carrying a piece of his name. Because his wife had suggested it. Because his wife thought of him even while holding a newborn, even while surrounded by her own kin, even while separated by miles and miles of road.

He read the sentence again.

They have named her Valerya, after you.

"Your Grace?" The servant was still there, hovering uncertainly. "Is all well?"

Valarr looked up, and for the first time in four days, he smiled.

"All is well," he said. "All is very well. Tell the kitchens to prepare a feast. Tell my brother I'll be at council tomorrow. Tell my grandfather I've recovered from my illness."

The servant blinked. "You have, Your Grace?"

"I have." He pressed the letter to his chest, right over his heart, where the locket rested against his skin. "My wife has sent word. I am cured."

---

That night, he wrote her a letter.

It was very long. It contained approximately seventeen declarations of love, twelve descriptions of how much he missed her, three jokes that she probably wouldn't find funny but he hoped she would anyway, and a detailed account of his conversation with her pillow.

He did not mention the forty-seven floorboards. That seemed excessive even for him.

At the end, just before sealing it with wax, he added a postscript:

I have commissioned a third locket. This one will have two paintings—one of you, one of me—side by side. So that when I look at you, I can also imagine you looking at me, and we can be looking at each other even when we're apart. I know it's not the same as having you here. But it's something.

Come home soon.

Your devoted husband,

Valarr

P.S. If you see this baby Valerya, tell her her uncle loves her already. Not as much as I love you. Nothing could be that much. But a respectable amount for a niece.

He sent it with the fastest raven in the rookery, then climbed into bed—her side, always her side now—and fell asleep with the locket pressed to his lips and her name on his tongue.

Five more days.

He could survive five more days.

Probably.

---

Author's Note:

Normalize men being this pathetic about their wives. The dragons may be gone, but dramatic devotion should not be.