Ovulation-induced Literature

"We are surprised to see you Lord Stark. We thought the snow would keep you in your castle." Prince Baelor calls out to your father. Behind him is his brother Prince Maekar. Both men carry an air of calm and authority around them.

"Baelor. Maekar." Your father yells in greeting, dismounting his horse and handing it off to a stable boy, he turns and introduces me. "You remember my daughter. She will be joining the other knights in the tourney tomorrow."

Baelor turns his head slowly to look at you. Maekar on the other hand snaps his head towards you in shock. You can feel both their eyes on you. The way they move over your body assessing you. You think for a second you can hunger or want in their eyes. But you ignore it as there is no way that would happen.

"Good afternoon your graces, I did not know you would be enjoying the festivities with us." You say and click your tongue causing your horse to bow its head to them. Your father smiles at you then looks back at the two princes. "Well if you'll excuse me I must stable my horse. I hope to speak to you two later. " As you move away you hear Maekar say something to his brother in shock and your father laughs as they all walk into the castle.

As you approach the stables you see a man, a very tall man, wearing what looks like rags with a long sword at his hip. His blue eyes sweep over you and widen. You send him a small smile and call for the stable boy that stands behind this behemoth of a man. The boy rushes up and lets you dismount before he takes the rains. You feel someone staring and turn to see the man, eyes wide at you as if he saw a ghost. Are all the people here attractive. Before you can say anything you hear another man on horse back approach. His voice instantly making you shake your head with a small smile on your face.

"Boy stop gaping and see to my horse." Aerion tells the tall man.

Oh what to say about brightflame. He is a mean, devilish man. Always finding a way to cut someone down with words or a blade. He has changed since you last saw him. He has grown into his body, sharp jaw, lean but strong body. He was always kinder to you than the rest, not by much but enough, you missed him and unfortunately he missed you as well.

"I, I am not a stable boy m'lord." The man replies seeming a bit nervous.

"Not clever enough?" A long pause then he speaks again. "Well if you cant manage horses then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench"

"Prince Aerion leave the poor man alone" You finally speak not being able to see this unfortunate conversation go on any longer. He looks at you eyes brightening for just a second.

"Ignore what I said about the pretty wench, I found myself a pretty wolf." Aerion says with a smirk on his face. He dismounts and walks over to you. "Hello my wolf, it has been too long since I have seen you last. You've been hiding from me in the snow princess?" The tall man watches on with interest.

"I think someone long ago told me, 'You can not hide from a dragon', my prince." you say rolling your eyes. You turn to look at the tall man again. "I apologize for him Ser. I am a princess from the house Stark. This is prince Aerion Targaryen.You are?"

"Oh prince it is fine. I - I mean princess not prince you are clearly a girl. I mean woman." You giggle at his sputtering. That seems to calm him a bit, the possibility of getting flogged for disrespecting you lowering.

"My name is Duncan, Ser Duncan the tall. I have the honor to be a knight and I wanted to fight in the tourney tomorrow." Duncan says somewhat excitedly. You smile up at him trying to figure him out. He seems to nervous as if this is his first time at a tourney. The white haired man next to you bristles in jealousy as you don't pay him any mind.

"Seems knight hood has fallen on sad days. Come on little wolf let's get you inside." Aerion says grabbing your arm and guiding you to the inside of lord Ashford's castle. You turn and wave goodbye to the hedge knight. Ser Duncan raises his hand and you loose sight of him as you are lead into the castle.

You cant keep in your laugh, sensing the jealousy, it sounding loud in the hall bouncing off the stone. He rolls his eyes and pulls you into an arch away from prying eyes. His gaze is sharp moving over your body. His hand shoots up and grips your face tilting it up at him.

"It seems you mock me wolf." He says leaning close to your face his hand squeezing just a bit tighter. "Must you always wear these outfits. I would love to see you in one of the gowns I sent to you. But if you did not bring them I have another here for you to wear tomorrow."

"I would never." You tease. "And I thought we joust tomorrow I cant wear a dress and ride a horse"

Before either of you can continue footsteps sound from down the hall. As much as Aerion wants to keep you there and cause the maids to whisper about his claim on you. He doesn't. He moves back and pulls you out of the archway and continues to where he can hear the voices of the lords speaking to one another.

"Ah prince Aerion it seems you found my daughter." Your father says with a smile. Before he can say anything else Maekar cuts him off.

"Has she told you she is joining the tourney tomorrow. She wished to fight against the knights. Fucking crazy. You could get hurt princess, is this really worth finding a husband" Maekar says to his son then to you.

"I understand your worry my prince, but I believe if a man cannot knock me off my horse, or beat me in a battle, then I cannot trust him to keep me safe. If I am stronger then him, more capable, am I supposed to protect him when danger is near? This is a simple test." You say to the room. Aerion grins, licks his teeth, and leans back in the chair. You walk and sit next to him.

"Ignore him he is just upset as his sons have been delayed." Baelor says.

"Fuck me. delayed? They are not delayed."

"Do not curse in company"

"I said fuck me. Not fuck them."

You watch in amusement as the brothers bicker back and forth. Aerion nudges you and leans to whisper in your ear. Informing you he will be back in a moment. He stands and squeezes your hand before he goes. You ignore the talk of the lords your mind wondering back to when you met the Targaryen family.

Training was difficult Ser Edrin did not hold back. He did not care if you were only 10 and you were a woman. He heard your father tell him to train you to be a knight , and he was going to make sure you were the best in the realm.

"Again!" He yelled.

"I can't" You whimpered out on your knees. Holding your side in pain, the snow also causing your fingers to go numb. Edrin walks over and stands above you.

"Get up." He waits and when he sees you don't move he lowers himself to you. "Get up. I know you are in pain but this is what happens when you do this. It will hurt, it will bruise, and to a weak person it will break them. But you are not weak. You are a Stark and you are more than you think. Prove everyone wrong and stand" He stands and kicks the sword to you. "So get up and go again!"

You grab the handle of the blade and use it to stand. His words settling in your chest. Somehow this knight that only yells, grunts, and belittles believes in you. He doesn't even believe in the other knights here. Once you are up you ready yourself wincing. And from behind you hear the gates open and them announce something. You ignore it and move to strike. You see him move to strike high and you swing low instead of blocking catching him of guard. Your hit landing on his knee causing him to falter and fall. You point the sword at his neck. He stares at you for a moment and his lip twitches. A clap sounds from the edge of the arena and you step back from Edrin. He stands and grasps your shoulder walking you over to the two men.

"My graces." he says bowing and he nudges you causing you to follow his move and bow.

"That was impressive fighting. Your boy is good" The white haired one says. Ser Edrin try's to fight the smile off his face.

"Thank you Ser but this is not my boy. This is-" He gets cut off.

"My beautiful daughter" Your fathers voice sounds from behind you and Edrin.

"You. Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us? Show yourself." Maekars voice brings you back to the present.

You turn your head to the door and see Ser Duncan. You stand and smile. He looks so nervous being called out to in that manner.

"My lords, princess, I do apologize for my interruption. I have tried to get people to vouch for me so I may join the list, but they do not remember Ser Arland of Penny Tree. He knighted me before he passed. I have his sword and shield to prove it."

"You need better proof than that boy." Lord Ashford says

"I remember stories of him that you told me. Father do you remember?" You speak up looking at your father.

"That I do. He was the one who unhorsed the Great lion." My father confirms.

"Well then its the game masters choice but I see no reason to deny the lad." Baelor says.

"Thank m'lord"

"We get it you're thankful now fuck off"

"Well Ser Duncan I can show you out. Follow me." You say standing and walking him out of the room. You move your head close to him. "Ignore Prince Maekar he is like that with everyone."

You say walking to the entrance of the castle. As you emerge outside you squint the sun beginning to brighten the grounds. You continue walking and see that Duncan is trying to say something but cant get the words out. You let him fumble a bit.

"Princess let me buy you some cider as a thank you."

"Lead the way ser." As you walk he sees a boy by the tent and calls him over. You turn and your eyes widen in shock. Its Aegon and he's bald. Duncan dose not notice your emotion and goes to get everyone a drink. Aegon grabs at your hands and quietly starts begging you to not inform dunk, as he calls him, of his name or his true identity. Before you can reply Duncan comes by and hands off the drinks.

"I hope he wasn't rude my lady. Egg is a good lad." Duncan says almost proud. Eggs eyes are still on you praying to the gods above that you don't drag him back to his father.

"No, he was kind, he was telling me he calls you dunk." Eggs shoulders drop in relief.

He looks at you with a small smile as if saying thank you. You don't know his plan but he looks happy and unharmed. Honestly in all the time you've seen egg this is the first time he looks truly carefree. His brothers terror, and his fathers strive for perfection far behind him. And you can not bare to take that away from him. You start to think of what will happen if a knight or someone from the Targaryen family sees him. You hope what ever happens they both stay safe. All you do know is this will be the most interesting tourney of your life.

He likes the discipline. He likes proving to himself that he can sit inside you and not take. He likes the small cruelty of denying himself. It makes the eventual having of you, when it comes, feel almost like a sacrament. And when you finally kiss him and say now (when you lift and lower yourself with intention) he comes apart for you sweet and ragged and half-broken, whispering my love, my love, my wolf into your hair.

Post-sex is him perhaps at his most possessive. This is where the dragon blood comes through. He will not pull out, pull covers around you both and keep his forehead against yours and breathe slow. Mine, his blood hums at him, a voice he's spent a lifetime refusing to heed, and in these quiet minutes he permits it. He permits himself to hoard. His arm heavy across your waist while he dozes with your hair in his mouth. He's the happiest man alive. He would die for you. You know this.

MAEKAR

Maekar doesn't rest. Maekar hasn't rested since he was a hard little boy whose brothers outshone him at everything. He spent his youth being the least-loved son; he spent his adulthood being useful, being hard, being reliable in a way that demanded nothing of anyone around him and was, therefore, thanked by no one. Maekar has never in his life had something soft that didn't require him to test it to destruction to confirm it was actually real.

You make him still. That's the whole of it. That's the axis of your universe.

Maekar would never ask for cockwarming. Maekar doesn't have the language for such things with you, doesn't know it's an available thing because it implies intimacy you don't have with him. You have to do it to him, and because he's Maekar, and because the thing underneath the granite is tender in a way that would break him if he ever let it out, he receives it without fully understanding what you've given him.

So, scene. You've been married long enough that you're past the awkwardness. Past the stilted nights where he didn't know where to put his hands, the grim determination of duty-sex. You've found, slowly, a thing that works between you. You're patient, he's grateful in a wordless way, he's learned to watch your face and adjust. You've had him. You've let him have you. You know his body. You've discovered low burning but steadily building passion with him.

Tonight is different. Tonight he came in from the yard scraped raw—a bad training bout, one of his men stupidly hurt, his own shoulder aching—and he's quiet in the way that worries you, the way that means he's grinding something in his teeth. You take his sword-belt off him. You unlace his doublet. You push him down onto the bed and you climb onto him without letting him undress the rest of the way, just unlacing him enough, and you sink down onto him and you stop his hands when they come up to move you.

"No," you tell him, low but firm. "Not tonight. Let me."

He stares at you. Violet eyes, hard and bright. He'd argue if he could find an argument. He can't. He also can't understand, yet, what you're doing. He's expecting you to start riding him, or to let him ride you himself. He's waiting for the tipping point, the road to take. None comes. You just sit on him. You lean forward until your forehead is against his and you breathe, and he watches you, baffled, waiting.

After maybe a minute, he mutters, "This is foolish."

"Yes, husband," you answer serenely, but don't move.

His hand finds your back. Big and calloused and warm, resting low on your spine, not directing, not pushing... just there. His breathing uneven. He stares at the ceiling like it has answers. You feel him twitch inside you, a slow involuntary pulse, and he makes a small rough sound he immediately hates. His jaw tightens. You press your palm flat over his heart and feel it, hammering like a horse's. You say nothing. You kiss the corner of his jaw, soft, and then settle again.

Five minutes in, he starts to unspool. You feel it happen. The tension goes out of his shoulders in increments. His hand on your back relaxes and spreads, fingers splaying over the small of your spine in a possessive half-circle. His breathing evens. His eyes close. And his cock (hard, patient) throbs slowly inside you, and he doesn't try to thrust. He just stays. Like a soldier finally permitted to sit down.

The most tender part: he starts holding on to you. Both hands now. One on your back, one in your hair. Not demanding, just holding. Like you're the only warm thing left in the world. This is the man who does not know how to hug his own sons. This is the man who has not been held in years. And here, buried inside you, with you silent and still on top of him, he's accepting being held for the first time in decades. He would not call it that. He will never call it that. But his hand in your hair is unsteady, very faintly, and his breath is catching in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

You stay like that a long time. You might be there twenty minutes. You might be there an hour. He doesn't move and neither do you. Eventually (when you're ready) you shift, and kiss him properly, and ride him slow, and he comes with his face buried against your throat and a sound that is half-growl, half-sigh, and neither of you mention it later.

Post-sex: "Stay." One word. Gruff, almost embarrassed. His hand clamps on your hip when you try to move. He doesn't say I want to hold you inside me a little longer. He says stay. You still understand. You drape yourself across his chest and his cock softens inside you and he makes a low rumbling sound that might, in another man, be called contentment. His hand finds the small of your back again. He sleeps deeper than he ever sleeps, even after battles. You feel him drift off under you.

You've given this gruff stone-hearted man the thing his life has refused him. He'll never thank you, but you'll know.

AERION

As mentioned before several times: he's insanely into cockwarming. This is a man who believes that he has dragon blood in a sense the rest of them have forgotten how to feel, and dragons are hoarding creatures. They find a thing worth guarding and they coil around it and they do not move. Their whole body becomes the vault. That's what he wants with you. That's what he needs with you, and he'll never forgive you for giving it to him, because the need itself is a humiliation.

Because every other version of sex you give him is bright and violent and magnificent and he still feels like he's losing. When he pulls out of you, the world comes rushing back, and the world has never been quiet to Aerion. Cockwarming is the one act where he gets to stop losing and thinking. Which means cockwarming is the one configuration where he feels the full weight of how much he needs you to not-lose, and the neediness eats him alive. He'd rather not want it. He wants it anyway. He hates you a little for making him want it this much for years. He'd kill anyone else who witnessed him wanting it. The want is uglier than he lets it look.

The setup. It's late. You're at your desk in the little room he haunts you in, the one with your maps and the wolf pelt on the chair, the lamp throwing warm light across one side of your face. You haven't been waiting for him but you're not surprised when he appears in the doorframe. Barefoot, tunic half-laced, short hair shining like spun silver in the light.

"Wolf," he says, the word bitten off at the edges like he resents having to use it.

"Come here," you answer without looking up, and he comes.

He hates that he comes. He came the second he heard your footsteps three rooms away. He was already on his way before you called.

You don't make a production of it. You let him strip, let him unlace your gown only enough, let him climb onto the bed behind you while you keep reading over your correspondence. You sit on him. You sink down slow, inch by inch, and by the time he's buried his hips are already shaking. Tiny fine tremors that travel up his spine and into his arms, which are locked around your waist too tight, fingers digging in hard enough that you'll have small crescent bruises on the points of your hipbones tomorrow. He's marking without thinking about it because he marks you with his teeth if you let him. He wants to leave something on you that the rest of them will see.

He's making a sound. Small, punched-out. A nnn at the back of his throat that he couldn't suppress if he tried, and he hates that he can't suppress it, and the hate is part of what makes his cock pulse inside you.

And then... nothing. You keep reading. You prop the dispatch on your knee, reach for your cup of northern small-beer and sip it. You feel him twitching inside you (involuntary, tender little pulses of his cock against your walls) and you don'tt move. You don't shift your hips. You don't even acknowledge him. You simply sit on him and occupy your evening.

He lasts about ninety seconds before he grinds his forehead into the back of your neck and makes a noise that is half-want, half-snarl.

"You're doing this on purpose," he hisses, mouth on the knob of your spine, teeth almost catching skin. "You're a cruel fucking creature, you know that, wolf, you know exactly what you're doing."

And he means it venomously and he means it as a love letter, he doesn't know the difference anymore, if he ever did. You don't answer him with words. You just tilt your head slightly and let your hair fall across his cheek and he shudders, a full-length body tremor that collapses through his whole skeleton, and says, "You hate me, you must hate me to do this to me," and his voice is raw. "Say you hate me. Say it."

You don't say it, which is worse. You just keep reading. His cock throbs inside you and he grits his teeth against the back of your neck and you feel the sharp edge of one canine drag, not quite biting, but itching with urge to do so.

What he'd be thinking, if you could see inside his head: this is the only place in the world where nothing is being taken from me, and I resent her for being the one to give it to me. Because if anyone else had been the one who made him feel this (steady, quiet, held, home) he could have dismissed them, killed them, broken them.

You, he cannot dismiss. You, he chose, so long ago now. You, he's stuck with forever, a disease of his own making. And the fact of being stuck is a rage he cannot name because underneath the rage is gratitude, and he refuses to be grateful. He refuses. He'd burn the room down before he'd let you see the gratitude bare-faced.

So he makes it ugly instead. The things he murmurs into your skin when he can finally speak again are cruel, venom dressed up in Valyrian grammar so you won't catch all of it. Whole litanies of high and low Valyrian. Half-remembered verses from dragonlord poems no one reads anymore. Filthy things hissed into your hair (kessa, ñuha jorrāelagon, ñuha dārilaros, and then, meaner, you've ruined me, you wolf, you've ruined me for every other woman who ever lived, I hope you die before me because I will not survive you.) He means it as the worst thing he can think to say, but it comes out as a vow. Because he knows, he knows there' s no world for him without you in it, there is no him without you.

He'd describe what your cunt feels like around him in language that would make septas faint. He'd tell you he can feel your pulse through his cock. He'd tell you he can feel you thinking, that your body has a rhythm he's learning to read the way he reads weather, and that he hates that he's learned you, he hates that he's become the kind of man who studies a woman's breathing, he hates that you've made him attentive.

"Look what you've done to me," he'd spit against your shoulder blade, and his hand would splay flat across your lower belly like he could feel himself through the wall of you, and his voice would crack on the next word. "Look what you've made me."

The filthiest confession, the one he only makes with his mouth buried in the damp hair at your nape: he wants his cum to take.

He wants to stay buried in you long enough that it roots. He wants to put a child in you, and the want for that is bound up so completely with the wanting to stay inside you that he can't separate the two. It's superstition. It's dragon blood talking. It's the ugliest, most honest part of him: he wants to ruin you for anyone else. He wants to plant something in you that no one can remove. He wants the rest of them to look at you and know, in some wordless way, that he was here. That he got there first. That he stayed. His palm on your belly is not tender, it's claiming.

Post-sex is where he becomes actually unbearable. He will not pull out. Will physically prevent it even. His arm cinches around your waist, his leg hooks over yours, and he snarls no into your hair when you so much as shift. He'll keep you pinned for hours if you let him, softening slowly inside you, his breathing going deep and uneven, his cum staying exactly where he put it.

"Stay," he mutters, and then (meaner, because he can't help himself), "you owe me this." You don't. You both know you don't, how easily you could remove yourself from this. He says it anyway. It's the only way he can admit he wants it.

He dozes that way with his forehead against your temple and in those minutes of half-sleep his face smooths out entirely. The arrogant little cruelty goes out of his mouth. He looks his age. He looks peaceful, which on Aerion looks almost like a different person. You've seen it maybe a dozen times in your life and you remember every single one because he hates that you've seen it. He hates that you have access to that face, that anyone does. You are the only witness to the version of him (the glad child) and he cannot permit to exist in daylight and he resents you for it in a way that is indistinguishable, in his chest, from love.

He wakes up meaner. He has to. Can't bear to have been that naked in front of you; he'll pick a fight at breakfast to rebalance. Some small cruelty aimed at Egg, some venom spat at Daeron, sharp-edged comment over the rim of his cup designed specifically to remind you that he is, still, a problem. You'll understand, and he hates that too. He hates that you understand. He hates that you don't rise to it. He hates that he has to escalate to get any reaction out of you and that no escalation ever works, because you know exactly what last night cost him, and you're not going to let him take it back.

DAERON

Let's be honest about who he is. He's tired, he's bitter, he's got a cup in his hand he'll claim he's not drinking and he is, he's sharp-tongued when he's in the right mood, soft and bleeding when he's in the wrong one, and he'd lie to your face about the smallest things just to see if he could. This is the prince who drinks to put himself to sleep because the alternative is lying awake thinking about his dreams.

And he loves cockwarming. Genuinely. Top-tier love. Possibly the only thing in his whole indolent life he's unambiguously enthusiastic about besides wine and bitter jokes. He loves it because it requires nothing of him. It requires nothing of him and it gives him you (your warmth, your weight, your cunt, your patience) and you don't need him to perform for any of it.

He doesn't have to be witty. He doesn't have to be a prince. He doesn't have to get it up on command and impress you. He can be lazy, and being lazy is his favourite state, and you're rewarding him for it. It's a miracle. You're a miracle. He'd tell you so and mean it and also not mean it, because that's the Daeron way.

He'd ask for it, too. Unlike the others. Daeron has no shame about his own comfort; that part of him has been sanded smooth by wine years ago. He'll sprawl in his chair by the fire (the big dark one, the one that fits him like a shell) and he'll beckon you over with two lazy fingers and a crooked half-smile and say, "Come sit on me, wolf, I've had a day."

And you'll say you've had a day, or you've had a cup and he'll say both. Come here anyway.

And you will because there's something about being openly used for comfort by a man who doesn't bother pretending it's anything else that appeals to the cold wolf in you.

You'd unlace him yourself. He wouldn't lift a finger. He'd watch you do it with those heavy-lidded violet eyes, half-amused, that mouth of his curled at one corner like he's about to say something cutting. Sometimes he does.

"Efficient," he'd murmur, as you worked his laces open. "My lady wife's efficiency. Terrifying, really."

And you'd ignore him, which is the only way to handle Daeron, and guide him out and climb over him and sink down, and then... ah. There it is. The little shudder that runs through him. The drop of his head back against the chair. The slackness that runs from his jaw to his knees in one long exhale. "

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, there's my girl."

Meaning you, meaning your cunt. He doesn't distinguish because it amuses him not to. He'd kiss the corner of your mouth when you glared and say, both, I meant both, don't scowl at me, wolf, you'll give yourself lines.

And then he settles. Daeron actually, physically, lets go. You can watch it happen in real time. The tension leaves his shoulders. His hands (which he'll claim, wrongly, that he keeps perfectly steady) stop their fine tremor. His cock, soft when you took him in, hardens slow and lazy inside you, not urgent, just interested, the way a well-fed cat stretches. He doesn't try to move or try to do anything. He's just inside you, held, warm, and he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the chair and mutters, half to himself, gods, finally, like he's been waiting for this since breakfast.

You'd comb your fingers through his silver-gold hair, the hair that's always a little too long, a little messy, that he cannot be bothered to have properly attended to, and he'd make a low pleased hum, eyes still closed, and say, dry as old parchment, "Keep doing that, you'll make me your creature."

"Aren't you already?" you'd ask, and he'd crack one eye open and drawl, careful, wolf. Men have been hanged for less. And you'd feel his cock twitch inside you when you laughed, and he'd grin, that lopsided drunken grin, and tell you, that's not fair, that's not remotely fair, you cannot laugh while you're sitting on me like this, have mercy.

He'd talk, of course. Daeron always talks when he drinks and he's always drinking. But the talk in this posture is different, not the performative wit he trots out at his father's table, not the bitter quips he uses to keep others at arm's length.

It's lower, slower, meaner in ways that are private to you. He'd complain. He'd gossip, viciously and accurately, about every member of the council and his own family. He'd do a devastating impression of some lord who'd bored him that afternoon and you'd laugh against his throat and he'd feel your laugh around his cock and have to swallow hard and say, oh, that's not fair either, wolf, you're cheating. He'd tell you stories about his brothers that were half-true at best and wholly cruel at their edges and you'd have to pinch his ear and say Daeron and he'd grin unrepentantly and say, "What? I told you I was a bad man, you married me anyway."

He'd lie. Sometimes about small things. He'd tell you he'd only had one cup when you could taste three on his mouth; he'd tell you he wasn't tired when his hand was trembling against your hip. You'd call him on it. He'd shrug, cock still buried in you, and drawl, "Yes, well, I lie, you know this about me, it's part of my charm." And you'd say is it and he'd say I think so. You haven't left me yet.

The nastier register comes out when he's had more to drink or had a worse day. He'll get his teeth into something. He'll trace a lazy finger up your spine and murmur something mean against your throat: "Do you know how many men in this keep would kill to be where I am right now, wolf. Half of them have watched you walk past and composed whole epics in their heads. My brother pretends he hasn't but he has."

And you'd say stop and he'd say, "Why? It's true. You like it when it's true. You like knowing what you do to them."

And he'd have your hips in his hands now, not moving, just holding, his cock throbbing slow inside you. "I like it too. I like that they can't have it. I like that Aerion thinks about you and can't touch you."

You'd stop him. You'd press two fingers to his mouth and say enough, and he'd nip your fingertips lazily and say, yes, my lady, as you wish, my lovely lady, mocking you sweetly, and fall quiet with his cheek against your breast and his cock still warm inside you, perfectly content to have been scolded. Daeron loves being scolded by you. It's one of his favourite things. He'll provoke for it deliberately.

The soft register comes later. Sometimes after the nasty. Sometimes instead. When the wine is wearing off and the tiredness is surfacing underneath and his mouth goes looser and his eyes go wetter and he says things he shouldn't.

"They're so loud, the dreams,", he'll murmur into your hair, with his cock softening inside you and his arm loose around your back. "I'm a disappointment. Father thinks so."

You'd stroke his cheek and say Daeron and he'd say Don't comfort me, wolf. I'm not worth it. Just sit on me. That's what you're good for. And you'd understand that was him at his most tender, which is a horrible thing to understand about a man but you married him knowing, so.

The tender things he says only when he's genuinely drunk and genuinely sad and you'll never get him to say it sober, though you've tried.

You're the only thing that's mine.

Not the only thing I love, which he wouldn't admit, but mine. He means it in a small private way. Daeron has his cups and his wife and his wife is the one he likes better. He'd bury his face in your throat and say only mine, you're only mine, aren't you and you'd say yes, Daeron, only yours, and he'd make a small broken sound and stay inside you and not say anything for a long time.

Post-sex he's the undisputed champion of staying inside you. He'll stay every time. He'll slur don't go into your collarbone with his cock softening and his cum warm inside you and his hand tangled clumsily in your hair. He falls asleep that way half the time. You have to nudge him. He grumbles, but he stays inside you anyway.

You've woken up at dawn with him still buried in you and his face gone soft and open in sleep. The only time you ever see his face without the wit or the bitterness or the pose, just a tired man breathing against your throat, and you've stayed still, those mornings, so you don't wake him. You cherish it. He'd die before admitting how much he cherishes it too. But he'd ask for it again tonight. He'll ask for it every night for the rest of your lives. You've given him the one thing wine couldn't: a place to rest.

VALARR

Valarr is his father's son in all the deepest ways: careful, measured, aware he has to be worthy of you, aware that every touch is freighted with dynasty and expectation. He's Baelor's firstborn. He's being raised to be the next king who isn't a disaster. Everything about his conduct (in council, in courtesy, in his letters) is immaculate. He wants to be good. He wants to be worthy. He wants to do everything correctly. And he brings this energy to bed, which, unfortunately for him, is the exact wrong energy to bring to you.

Because you don't want correct or measured. You don't want a performance. You want him to shut his beautiful anxious brain off and let you use him, and the only way to make that happen is to do it to him. He can't give it up voluntarily. He'd try. He'd try so hard he'd tangle himself. You have to impose.

Here's the scene. You've summoned him (summoned him, plainly, like a ruler) to your chambers. He arrives in a dark doublet still faintly creased from council, his dark hair damp from where he splashed his face on the way over to compose himself. He stands in the doorway and he's nervous. Valarr is twenty-two and already carries himself like a man of forty, except when he's alone with you; then he's twenty-two again, the softness around his eyes that his father has trained out of himself in public. He starts to say my lady and you say undress, prince. And his breath catches.

You watch him. You make him stand in the middle of your chamber and take every layer off while you sit on the edge of the bed in a silk robe and watch. He does it because you told him to, but his hands shake a little at the laces. When he's naked (long, lean, dark-haired, pale) he stands there and doesn't know where to put his eyes, and you say come here, and he comes, and you guide him down onto the bed on his back.

You climb over him. You sink down. His mouth falls open and his eyes roll back and his hands fly up to your hips to—to help, to participate, to do something, because he can't bear to just receive—and you catch his wrists in one hand and pin them to the mattress above his head.

The flush hits him instantly. You watch it climb his throat, his jaw, his ears. He's scarlet.

"No," you tell him, mouth close to his ear, nose brushing that silver streak of hair. "I'm going to use you. Do you understand?"

His breath stutters. A little catch, hh-hh, like he can't find the rhythm of air.

You repeat it, slower, meaner: "I'm going to use you, Valarr. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to be good at anything. You're just here because I want you inside me. That's all you are right now." You rock your hips once, experimentally, and his whole body shudders beneath yours. "A nice warm cock for me to keep."

His throat works, his eyes squeezing shut. The embarrassment is so acute it's a physical phenomenon. The blush has reached his chest now, a pink bloom down his sternum, and you feel him twitch inside you, helpless, a pulse of his cock that he couldn't control if his life depended on it. You laugh low against his ear, soft and not kind. Oh. You like that. His breath catches again. My prince likes being used. You nip the shell of his ear playfully. Look at you.

"Please," he whispers. You're not sure he knows what he's asking for.

You tell him what he looks like, what he sounds like, what he's doing for you. You describe, in awful detail, what his body is good for in this moment. How warm he is, how hard, how pretty underneath you, what a good job he's doing holding you open. You tell him you picked him because he's obedient. You tell him you picked him because you knew he'd lie still when you told him to. You tell him you could keep him like this for hours and he'd let you, wouldn't he? Wouldn't you, Valarr? And he makes some broken sound and nods frantically against the pillow because he cannot speak.

You tell him the filthiest things in the sweetest voice you can muster up. "Such a good cock, my pretty prince, so thick and warm, such a nice place to sit."

And he flushes and twitches and breaks and begs and doesn't come, because you haven't told him to, and part of being good is waiting. You whisper that against his temple. Be good, sweet prince. Wait. And his cock pulses inside you and his hips jerk once, a spasm, and you press him down with your hand flat on his sternum and remind him: stay. And he groans and obeys.

Here is his darkness. It's the need to be reduced. Valarr wants to be an object of use. He wants to be told what he's for because he's lived his life like this (a prince, a heir,a future king). He wants to be good at something small and precise instead of expected to be good at everything large and impossible.

He wants someone to take the crushing weight of being Baelor Breakspear's heir off his shoulders for an hour and replace it with a single simple instruction: hold still and let me use you. The relief of that (the permission of that) undoes him in a way nothing else can. You've seen it in his face. The softness after. The way he looks at you like you've given him something sacred. You have.

He comes, eventually, when you allow it. Untouched, just from your voice. He sobs once into your collarbone when he does (a real, keening sound) and his whole body shakes through it, and he says thank you before he can stop himself, and then flushes so hot you can feel it against your own skin, and buries his face in your throat so he doesn't have to look at you.

Post-sex is his favourite though. By far. This is the version he prefers. You're sated, he's spent, he's softening inside you, and you're both breathing slow, and he tucks his face into the curve of your neck and refuses to move. Please, let me stay. Please. And you stroke the back of his neck and say beautiful prince and he shivers and clenches around nothing because there's no shame in his body anymore. He's been used. He's been good. He's earned the softness from you.

He sleeps better inside you than anywhere else in the Red Keep. You'll wake up and he's still there, still soft inside you, your fingers still in his hair, his breath slow against your throat. He is (for these hours only) exactly what he wants to be. Himself. Held. Used up. Safe. He'd never tell anyone about it. He'd die protecting it.

BLOODRAVEN

Bloodraven is the ideal cockwarmer in a way that transcends kink and becomes something closer to his actual native language. The man is a collector and this man is a watcher. He spent a thousand years (not literally yet, but you feel it) gathering tiny exquisite details from the world and storing them in some vast internal archive that no one else will ever see.

Cockwarming is, at its core, a kink about attention, and Bloodraven's attention is a scalpel. The stillness is his entire milieu.

Imagine this scene: it's late in his solar, the candles are burning low. Ravens shift and settle in their cages. He's at his desk in that dark velvet doublet, one pale hand around a quill, and he's been there for three nights running. You come in unannounced. Because you're possibly the only person in this castle who doesn't knock, and he doesn't look up, but his quill pauses for a half-heartbeat, which is, from him, a great concession.

"I thought you might have forgotten where my chambers were," he murmurs, in that voice like cold water, smooth and low.

"I never forget anything, you taught me better," you say, and he almost smiles. It's the curve of a single muscle at the corner of his mouth. You'd miss it if you didn't know to look.

You walk around his desk and stand in front of him. He raises his one red eye to yours, perfectly patient, perfectly unreadable, and you take the quill out of his hand and set it in its stand. Then you climb into his lap.

And he permits it, but the permitting is a kind of worship.

His hand finds your hip and stays there, thumb on the jut of bone, and he watches you unlace him with that terrible intelligent attention that misses nothing. When you rise up and guide him in and sink down, his one red eye goes darker and his lashes lower, but he makes no sound. No gasp. No exhale. Just one single, very slow, very deep breath, as if he's measuring the experience against all the experiences it resembles in his vast internal archive and finding it, somehow, new. Which is something he genuinely thought had stopped being possible for him.

And then, because you have understood what this is with him, you reach for his quill, put it back in his hand, and tell him, too calmly: keep working.

His breath catches. Just audibly. The only, almost human tell.

And he does. He goes back to his correspondence. One hand on your hip. The other on his quill. You are seated on his cock, fully sheathed, your arms looped loosely around his shoulders and your cheek against the soft silver-pale hair at his temple, and he is reviewing dispatches. He reads them aloud to you, sometimes, in that low even voice (a report from Gulltown, a note from some informant in Braavos, do you think I should have him killed, not yet—) and you can feel the minute vibration of his voice through his chest against yours and the way his cock twitches, very faintly, at certain words.

"Interesting," he murmurs, mostly to himself, making a mark in the margin, and you feel him throb inside you, and you laugh low against his throat and he goes perfectly still for one heartbeat before resuming.

You ask him questions and he answers. The absurdity of the scene, that you're talking about statecraft with him buried to the root in you, is part of the erotics.

You're doing something only you're permitted to do. You're one of maybe three living people allowed to disrupt his concentration. He's savouring it. Every small shift of your hips, every exhale you make against his neck, every time you adjust your weight. He catalogues all of it. You can feel him cataloguing. His body is perfectly still; his mind is drinking you down.

What he wants, underneath it all, is the one thing his life has denied him: company without agenda, full acceptance. He's surrounded by men who fear him, by informants who want something, by cousins and nephews who owe him and resent him. No one comes to Brynden Rivers to simply be with him. Except you.

And when you sit on him quiet and warm and patient while he does his work, you are giving him the one thing he cannot extort or spy out of anyone else in the world. He's aware of this with his whole mind. He catalogues that, too.

When he eventually does set the quill down, when he's finally finished the last dispatch, or when you've pressed a kiss just below his ear and he decides, with great deliberation, to attend, he does it like a man unsheathing a blade. Unhurried and measured.

His hand slides up your spine, counts each vertebra (you feel him count, his fingertip making tiny deliberate pauses), and settles at the nape of your neck.

"My lady Stark," he murmurs. "You are exceedingly patient with an old man." And you say you're not that old and he says no?, softly amused, and that's the closest to a laugh he ever gets.

Then he moves. And then you understand what all that stillness was holding back. The thing no one expects about Bloodraven and sex is that it's precise to the point of surgical. Every thrust exactly where you want it, angle adjusted by a fraction to wring a new sound out of you. Because he's been studying you the whole time he was pretending to read dispatches.

He knows now, in pinpoint detail, how your body works. He's spent two hours inside you learning the map, and now he reads it aloud.

After, he keeps you on him, doesn't pull out. Tucks you against his chest with his cock softening inside you and his arm around your back, and he hums. Almost silent, a vibration more than a sound, some old Valyrian melody lost to everyone else still alive.

His hand rests flat over your heart. He closes his single red eye. He is, for perhaps the first time since his childhood, unguarded. You feel it in the minute slackening of every muscle in his body. You've given him something no one else can. He knows it. You know it. Neither of you mentions it.

He likes his own spend inside you not because he wants to mark you (Bloodraven has no need of such vulgar proofs) but because it's evidence. A thing that happened, a fact he can return to in the cold quiet of his tower-work later and know, absolutely, that it was real. That you were there, that h he was held. He'll return to the memory again and again for years. You won't know but that's just how it is with him.

MAEGOR THE CRUEL

Maegor is the most dominant man on this entire list by a wide margin, and it's not even close. He's a bull in human skin who has spent his adult life taking what he wants, hurting what resists, and expecting the world to rearrange itself around him. He does not, ordinarily, yield. He doesn't kneel or obey anyone else. The idea that any woman would tell him stay in his own bed would (on any other night, with any other woman) be met with cruelty or a trip to the dungeons.

The fact that it isn't, with you, is the whole story.

Maegor doesn't get cockwarming. Sex, for him, is a performance of possession—he enters, he takes, he finishes, he withdraws, he leaves. The transaction is clean and the transaction is his. He's never lain quiet inside a woman in his life because it never occurred to him to want to. Stillness looks, to Maegor, like weakness. Stillness looks like waiting to be killed. And Maegor does not wait.

So you'd have to sell him on it, and selling Maegor the Cruel on anything requires a specific strategy: you don't persuade, or coax. You don't explain. You simply tell him what's going to happen and you do it in a voice cold enough that he pauses long enough to let it happen. The wolf way. The Stark way. The way your father would have handled a large and dangerous hound.

Scene: you've ridden him (because you do, rarely but you do, because you're not shy, you know your own body and he picked you for your strength, not meekness) and when he tries to roll you over, to finish on his terms, to flip the posture back to his rightful dominance, you plant a hand on his chest and press him back down and say, flat: no. stay.

Silence. Vast, cold silence. Maegor's black eyes fix on yours. The air in the room changes temperature. His nostrils flare and his jaw locks and for one full second you are not sure whether he is going to obey or kill you. Then his upper lip twitches into something that's not quite a snarl and not quite a smile and he rasps, low and dangerous: "What did you say to me, wife."

"I said stay," you repeat, not raising your voice.

You're your father's daughter and your father's daughter does not explain twice. "Inside me. You'll stay. You'll be patient. You'll indulge me."

He laughs. A single hard bark of a laugh, genuinely amused, because no one has ever spoken to him this way and survived.

"Indulge you," he echoes. "Indulge you." He has your wrist in his hand now, enormous, the grip just short of cruel. "I could break this," he says conversationally, looking at your wrist like it's a twig. "You know that."

"Yes," you say, perfectly calm. "Are you going to?"

He looks at your face and he does so for a long time. And he doesn't release your wrist—Maegor never releases anything—but he doesn't tighten his grip either, and after a moment of absolute stillness the decision settles in him with an almost audible click.

He's going to let you have this. Because no one else has ever asked. Because it's novel. Because the wolf in you is amusing in a way most women cannot access and he's curious where this goes. Maegor is many things, but he is not without intellectual appetite; you have served him something he's never tasted, and he wants to see what it is.

"Fine," he says, voice like gravel. "Indulge yourself, wife. I'll entertain it. For a while."

And you settle on him, and you do not move, and Maegor the Cruel submits to stillness for the first time in his miserable life.

And he likes it. He doesn't want to and he resents it, but he does. His jaw stays locked for a long time and his purple (near black now) eyes stay fixed on some point above your shoulder, not looking at you, because looking at you would require acknowledging what his body is doing.

His cock is hard inside you and not going down and his hips are not moving and his hands (huge, scarred, the hands that have done every horrible thing hands can do) are resting on your thighs with a deliberate stillness that is, for him, effortful. He's holding back. Actively. By choice. And the choice is a sensation he hasn't had in decades and it is, horrifyingly, good.

His breathing changes by degrees. You feel it under your palm on his chest. The great hammering slowing, a little, then more. His heart is a drum. His pulse is visible at the hollow of his throat. He's so present in his body that it disturbs him, because normally sex is a thing he does while thinking about fourteen other matters, and now he's inside you and there is nothing else. Your cunt around him. Your weight on his hips. Your cold patient face looking down at him. The faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. His own heartbeat.

You'd hold him there for a long time. Twenty minutes. Half an hour. You'd stroke his chest lazy and slow. You'd trace the white scars across his ribs without asking after them. He watches your hand like it might be a trick. It isn't. You're just there, warm and patient and cold all at once, and he's inside you, and no one is taking anything from anyone, and the longer it goes on the less he understands what is happening to him.

And then the thing that gets him (the thing that actually reframes this whole act in his mind and makes him want it) is a sentence you'd deliver halfway through, dry, half-amused, looking down at him like you own him: "I want you inside me, husband. I'll have you inside me when I want."

His cock jumps inside you. Hard. You feel it. His eyes flick to yours and they are, for the first time all night, open. Interested, intent, sharp in a way Maegor's eyes don't usually get in bed. "

"Say that again," he says in a low snarl. And you say it again, colder: "I want you. Inside me. When I want it. Are you going to give me what I want, husband?"

He makes a sound, something guttural. His hand tightens on your thigh and he says, in a voice you'll remember, yes.

"Good," you say.

And that word (good) does something to Maegor the Cruel that three wives and a hundred conquests never managed. Not because he's discovered he likes being praised. He doesn't. He loathes being praised. It's because good coming from you in that cold wolf-calm tone means you approve of him as a possession.

You are acknowledging him as a thing you intend to keep, and the keeping is on your terms, and Maegor's entire inner life has been organised around being the keeper. Being the kept (by you, specifically, in this cold way) tilts something in him. He finds, to his enormous inconvenience, that he wants to be kept by you. He wants to be the thing you reach for when you want. He wants to be available. He wants you to use him, because the using is a form of having, and being had by you is the only having he has ever consented to in his whole bloody lifetime.

He doesn't say any of this, obviously. Maegor would die before saying any of this. But you'd see it in his eyes. You'd see it in the way his hand found your hip and stayed there, heavy and placed. You'd see it in the way his breathing evened and deepened, and his shoulders, which have been braced since he was a boy, eased, by a fraction, into the bed.

Now. The part that seals it for him completely is easy: breeding.

Because Maegor is Targaryen to the bone and Maegor is a second son who has spent his entire life being measured against his weaker brother and Maegor wants a son. Badly. The wanting is not a kink, it's a legacy, and it's one of the few things in his life he is genuinely anxious about.

Three wives, no heir. The wanting has gone from ordinary to gnawing. When you introduce him to the idea that staying inside you—not withdrawing, not finishing somewhere else, not treating the act as complete the moment he's done—increases the odds, he locks onto it with an intensity that would alarm you if you weren't already familiar with the quality of his focus.

So post-sex cockwarming is not a sell at all. Post-sex cockwarming becomes, almost overnight, the standard. Maegor comes. He does not pull out because he will not pull out. He'll grip your hip in that enormous scarred hand and pin you against him and say, flat, cold: stay. Here. Like an order. Because it is an order.

He wants his cum in you and he wants it kept there, deep, and he will lie beneath you or above you or behind you for an hour afterwards, cock softening slowly inside you, one hand splayed flat and heavy across your lower belly, pressing hard, watching the wall with his jaw set, thinking about an heir.

You'd find this, in a darker man, disturbing. Maegor is a darker man. You find it, instead, useful, because it's the one form of affection he's learned to voluntarily stay in, and you'll take what you can get.

You stroke his forearm. You let him keep his hand on your belly, you let him press until he can feel himself inside you. You don't pretend it's romantic. Maegor isn't romantic. What this is, instead, is functional tenderness. The tenderness of a king who has decided you are the woman who will bear him sons, and is therefore treating your body like the holiest thing in his keep. He won't let a servant bring you cold food. He won't let anyone raise their voice near you. And he won't pull out after sex, ever, because his cum is meant to be inside you, and inside you it will stay.

He's good at it, too. Surprisingly good. He'll hold you against his chest with his cock still buried in you and he'll rumble, low, something that is almost a purr—a deep chest-sound, not quite language, but satisfied. His enormous hand on your belly moves in slow absent strokes. Occasionally he'll mutter something in High Valyrian you only half-catch and suspect is probably obscene. He's speaking to whatever he thinks is listening. He's telling it to take root.

Once he's accepted post-sex cockwarming as the natural order, selling him on the pre-sex version becomes easier but still requires strategy. You frame it correctly. You don't call it patience. You don't call it tenderness,either. You call it access.

"I want you inside me," you tell him, in your cold voice, settling onto him. "Don't make me wait for it. Don't make me want you and not have you available. You're mine. Be useful."

And Maegor—who once would have killed a man for saying useful to him in a bedroom—looks up at you with those black eyes and likes it. Likes the idea that you want him enough to need him on demand. Likes that you're claiming him as an appliance of your own pleasure the same way he would claim you.

There's a symmetry to it he can respect. And the filthiest, coldest register of it—the one that actually makes him hard just thinking about it later when he's in council, which is an indignity he has never before suffered— is the thought that you can't be without him inside you. That you need him that badly. That your cunt is a place he is required to be. That his wife, the cold wolf-bitch he married, is so possessive of his cock that she will sit on him and keep him there not for her own pleasure, really, but because having him elsewhere is intolerable to her.

DAEMON BLACKFYRE

Daemon wants to win you. That's the point. He's performative where Aerion is hoarding, dramatic where Brynden is precise, public where Baelor is private. Daemon's love language is conquest, and cockwarming is not a conquest, it's a having. Which is the catch. Pre-sex cockwarming confuses him the first time (where's the challenge? What's he earning?) and he'll get restless within a few minutes if you don't frame it for him.

So you frame it. That's the trick with Daemon.

You make it a prize. You tell him, as he climbs into bed: you did well today. Come here. You guide him into you and then hold him still—your hand flat on his chest, your voice low—and you say: "You've earned this. Sit inside me. Let me reward you. Don't move."

And his eyes go dark and hot and he grins against your mouth because now it's framed correctly: he's earned your patience. You're giving it to him as a trophy of the day's successes. He'd brag about it if he could. He does brag about it, in a small private way, into your hair: "Got you, didn't I, my queen? Won you all over again today."

The boasting is part of what he gets out of it. Daemon can't do quiet reverence the way Baelor does; his love comes out loud, even when it's whispered. He'll narrate. He'll tell you what he did today to deserve you. He'll tell you what he's going to do tomorrow. He'll run his mouth against your throat while his cock stays buried in you, describing (with that filthy swagger) all the ways he's going to make you come later, once you let him move. He'll grin into your skin. He'll nip. He's having a wonderful time.

He twitches inside you constantly, can't help it. Every time you say his name he pulses. Every time you so much as shift your weight he throbs. His body is a drum being struck. He laughs about it against your hair (feel that? all you, wolf, all you) and you can feel how pleased he is with himself for being so affected, like his own arousal is a compliment he's paying you.

Post-sex is where he becomes proprietary. Winning is done. The prize is in his bed. He'll roll you onto your side and spoon behind you with his cock softening inside you, his arm heavy across your middle, and he'll go smug, drowsy and possessive.

"Got you, wolf," he'll say into the back of your neck, and nip, a small satisfied bite. "You're not going anywhere."

He'll stay buried in you until he falls asleep. He'll be annoyed in the morning if you've shifted away in the night. He'd want to wake up still inside you every single time if biology allowed it. Some mornings you'll indulge him. He grins through breakfast after.

LYONEL

All thunder and physicality, and you'd expect him to be bad at stillness and you'd be wrong. Because Lyonel's actual kink, underneath all the bluster, is being close. He wants you crushed a little against his chest. He wants his breath in your hair. He wants to feel your heart against his ribs. Cockwarming fits into that worldview beautifully, so long as you pitch it the right way.

You'd introduce it to him differently than you'd introduce it to Aerion or Bloodraven. With Lyonel, you don't frame it as a kink at all. You just climb into his lap while he's lounging on his bed after a hunt and say want you to hold me a while, and he grunts come here, she-wolf and hauls you in, and you arrange it so he's inside you, and he laughs. Actually laughs. A big warm shaking laugh against your hair.

"You wolves have strange games," he says, delighted, and settles back against the headboard with his arms locked around you and his cock buried in you and his mouth against your temple and he is, instantly, perfectly content.

What's lovely about Lyonel is that the stillness doesn't torment him. He's not like the others. He's not fighting his own body to stay still. He's home. He's got you. He's in a warm bed, he's inside his wife, he's got his arms full of the one person he'd die for—why would he move? Why would anyone move?

He'd talk through the whole thing. Lyonel talks through everything. He'd tell you about the hunt, about a horse he's thinking of buying, about something stupid one of his cousins said, about a dream he had. The conversation is part of the cosiness. His chest rumbles against your cheek when he speaks. His hand traces up and down your back absent-mindedly.

Occasionally—because he's Lyonel, and he's a healthy man with a beautiful wife in his lap—he'll shift his hips a fraction, just to feel you, and grin when you gasp.

"Sorry, she-wolf," he'll say, not sounding sorry at all. Couldn't help myself. You're too sweet."

And you'll swat him and he'll laugh and go still again and press a big warm kiss to your temple.

Post-sex he stays inside happily. Would probably doze off. Lyonel loves a post-coital nap. You'd prod him. He'd mumble and not move. You'd eventually have to either give up or extract yourself with effort. He'd grumble and he'd pull you back. His whole worldview is I have a warm wife in my lap, what else is there?

DUNK

Dunk would be shy about cockwarming. Profoundly shy. Pinker than you'd think possible for a man his size. The concept that you'd want to keep him inside you for no practical reason (just because it felt nice) would bewilder him for about three minutes, and then delight him so completely he'd flush from neck to ears.

The first time, you'd have to explain it. Not technically (he'd get the mechanics) but why. Why someone would want this. He'd frown a little, earnest, working through it, and then his face would clear and he'd say oh. You just want me close. And you'd laugh at the simplicity of it and pull him down and kiss him and say, yes, Dunk. I just want you close.

And then it's the easiest thing in the world. You climb onto him or he climbs onto you (honestly, the logistics of being in Dunk's lap when he's approximately the size of a small mountain are worth discussing) and you arrange yourselves so you're folded against his chest with his arms around you and his cock buried in you soft and warm. He'd rest his enormous hand flat on your back, covering most of it, and he'd press his cheek to the top of your head, and he'd sigh. A huge contented sigh, the kind of exhale only a really big person can produce, deep from his chest, and you'd feel it all the way through your bones.

He'd keep checking on you. You comfortable, m'lady? Is this all right? Leg all right? and you'd have to shush him with a kiss. He'd flush every time. He'd be mortified at his own softness, at the fact that his body is responding to you, at the fact that you're allowing this. He's very aware that you're a great lady and he is a hedge knight from Flea Bottom, and the disparity never fully leaves his mind. You'd stroke his hair (his coarse, badly-cut hair that he never knows what to do with) and tell him it's good, Dunk, it's good, and he'd relax in increments.

Once he's there, once he's settled, he'd be perfectly happy. He doesn't crave cockwarming. He doesn't need it. But sitting inside you with his arms around you and your head under his chin is, genuinely, one of the happiest set ups of his life, and he'd agree to it whenever you asked, every single time, without fail. He'd trace your spine with one clumsy finger. He wouldn't talk much (Dunk isn't a talker) but what he said would be small and tender. You smell nice. Your hair's soft. I like this. The last one is as close to a declaration as he gets, and you'd feel it in your sternum.

He'd get shy during, too. His cock would twitch inside you and he'd flush and mutter sorry, mortified, and you'd laugh and kiss his jaw and tell him it's all right. He can't help it. You don't want him to.

Post-sex is the same but sleepier. He'd stay inside you if you asked. Wouldn't have thought of it otherwise. Dunk's instinct is to pull out and clean up and be courteous, because that's what he understands a knight should do, but if you said stay, he'd stay. No questions. He'd tuck you against his chest and hold you and you'd fall asleep with literal mountain around you, safest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

He'd never think to ask. He'd spend his whole life with you asking for things and being delighted by each one. He's the only man on this list who is fundamentally uncomplicated about you. He just loves you. He just wants you close. Whatever shape that takes, he'll be in it, and he'll be grateful for it, for the rest of his life.

You're safe with him.

AEGON THE CONQUEROR

Aegon is a man built for conquest, and he compartmentalises sex with an efficiency that borders on cold. His body is a tool and he uses it. He comes to bed when he has time; when he doesn't, he doesn't. But this framing only tells half the story, because Aegon doesn'tt come to bed alone. Aegon comes to bed within the living, breathing organism that is the four of you—him, Visenya, Rhaenys, and you—and any consideration of cockwarming has to reckon with that first, before it reckons with anything else.

You came to Aegon first in dreams. That's what he told you the first time he put his hand on your face in a way that wasn't political. He'd seen you. For years before the Conquest was even plotted, he'd seen a northern woman with winter in her hair and a voice pitched for calling wolves out of the treeline, and he'd understood that she was his. Not as a prize. As a completion. Ice to their fire. The fourth element they had been missing. He saw the Prince That Was Promised in those dreams, a child born specifically from you, no one else, no substitute, no other bride from any great house in any kingdom would do.

He didn't tell Visenya or Rhaenys at first. He held the dream alone for years. It made him sharper. It made him hungrier. When the Conquest began in earnest and his eyes turned north it was not only for strategy; it was for you, the wolf-woman, the one his blood had claimed in sleep before he'd ever laid eyes on you.

And then he found you. And you were, infuriatingly, exactly as the dreams had shown—cold-faced, sharp-tongued, your father's daughter to the bone, and unafraid. You looked at Aegon Targaryen across a negotiation table with Torrhen Stark at your shoulder and you didn't flinch when his violet eyes settled on you the way his eyes did not settle on most people.

You understood, eventually, what he was doing. You understood he was looking at you the way a man looks at something he has seen in a dream and is finding, to his strange grim satisfaction, intact in the waking world. You did not soften. You were your father's daughter, but you understood.

The marriage was, of course, political. North bent to flame; ice folded into fire; the realm unified. But it was also, privately, a claim Aegon staked in his own bloodline.

He told you so, on your wedding night, in his low even voice with his enormous hand cupping the back of your skull: "You are mine because I saw you before I had you. You are the ice to our fire. The child you will give me will save the world."

And you, cold-blooded northerner that you are, had said only: we'll see about that, husband, which had, unexpectedly, made him smile.

The sisters accepted you in their own time. Visenya, with a single hard look that measured you and found you worth the measuring, and then a curt nod that said you are the fourth now, do not make me regret it.

Rhaenys, with that bright mischievous laugh and a hand cupping your cheek: oh, sister-in-ice, you're going to be wonderful.

They were never going to love you the way they loved each other and him; that kind of love is forged over decades of shared blood. But they made room. They made real room. Because they trusted Aegon's dreams, and because they understood their brother had been waiting for you.

So the four of you exist in a shape that is, in its own way, stable. The siblings share you. The sisters share Aegon. You are the Stark wolf folded into a Targaryen triangle, and the shape holds because everyone involved is too old and too powerful to waste energy on pettiness, and because Aegon, the hinge, will not permit it to crack.

Now. Cockwarming.

It would not occur to Aegon unprompted. It's not in his repertoire, not because he lacks tenderness but because his erotic life has been efficiently organised for years and no one has ever introduced the concept.

Visenya does not cockwarm. Visenya rides him, masterful and fast, and then rolls away and begins discussing strategy before his breath has slowed.

Rhaenys does not cockwarm; Rhaenys plays, light and laughing, and afterward curls up on his chest and chatters and teases until he falls asleep with her hair in his mouth.

Neither has ever held him still inside her, because neither has ever been in the particular position of needing the stillness of him the way you are. The sisters are his native tongue. You are a foreign language he's still learning.

Cockwarming, for Aegon, will be a thing you introduce. A northern custom, he'll call it, half-joking, the first time. A wolf's play. He will not push back against it. He is, always, curious about you—the way he was curious about the dreams, the way his whole self has been tuned to your specific frequency since before he touched you—and he will submit to the novelty as a form of investigation.

The first time, you'd come to his chambers after he'd spent a long evening with some envoy, his shoulders set in that particular tightness that means the king has been occupying his body for too many hours and Aegon has not been able to surface.

Visenya is away on Vhagar; Rhaenys is at her own tower tonight, which she keeps for reading and writing and occasionally for Orys.

You and Aegon are alone, which is rarer than people assume. You climb into his lap where he's sitting by the brazier and arrange yourself. He lets you. He always lets you. You guide him into you without ceremony. He exhales (a low, controlled breath) and his strong hand comes to the small of your back and stays there.

And then you do not move.

After a moment, in that deep even voice: "You are not riding me, wife."

"No," you'd answer. "I am not."

A long pause. His thumb strokes once across the base of your spine. "Is this a northern kindness?"

"It is a northern preference," you'd tell him. "Be still."

He would be still. Not because you told him (Aegon does not take commands from anyone alive, not even his sisters) but because he was curious what it meant. What you wanted, what you were doing. Aegon is, above all, a strategist, and his wife doing something unfamiliar in his lap is a strategic puzzle he intends to solve by observation. So he observes. His breathing slows. His hand stays warm at your spine. He studies you the way he studies a map.

And here is where it gets interesting, because what breaks him open (the crack in the enormous stone mythos of the great Aegon the Conqueror) is a thing the sisters cannot do for him, because they don't know to try.

Visenya does not let him be unguarded. She would view it as a tactical weakness in anyone, including herself, and her love for him is braided into the tactical.

Rhaenys does not let him be unguarded for long either; she would tease him out of it, make a joke, restore the bright laughing tone of their intimacy, because Rhaenys's love is motion and motion cannot tolerate too much stillness.

Neither of them has ever simply held him in stillness and asked nothing, because their relationship to him is too old and too complicated for that kind of rest. They knew him as a boy. They have watched him grow into the Conqueror. Their love for him is tangled up with what he is, and therefore, in their presence, he is always partly being Aegon Targaryen, brother-king, performing the shape of himself for the sisters who made him.

You did not know him as a boy. You don't care, particularly, about the Conquest. It happened before you were his, it's ledger work, it's done. You're a northerner; you're frost, a wolf, and you look at him not as a legend but as a very large tired man who hasn't stopped moving in years. When you sit on him and hold him still, you're giving him the one thing his sisters cannot: oblivion from being himself.

He wouldn't know this is what he wanted until he had it.

His enormous hand cups the back of your skull and he doesn'tt move it. He doesn't guide you anywhere. He just holds, and his eyes close, and he breathes. You feel his pulse through his cock, slow and heavy. You feel the great long exhale that empties his chest by inches. You feel the small, almost imperceptible loosening of his jaw (the jaw that holds the world on its hinge) as he permits himself, for perhaps the first time in a year, to sit down inside his own body.

He doesn't speak for a long time. Aegon's silences are not Visenya's silences; hers are sharp and weaponised, his are oceanic. He sits with you on him and he doesn't move and he doesn't speak and the brazier crackles and the wind scrapes at the tower windows and you can hear Balerion, somewhere far below, shift in his sleep with a sound like distant thunder.

After a long while he'd murmur, low: "This is a strange thing, wife."

"Is it unpleasant?"

"No." A pause, then a dry, "I will inform you when it is."

That is, from Aegon, very nearly a joke. His cock would twitch once inside you. He'd register your faint smile and file it away. The cataloguing never stops with him, even in rest. Then, after another long quiet: "You were in my dreams like this."

Your breath would catch. He rarely mentions the dreams. "Like this?"

"Quiet. Warm." A pause. "Holding me." His hand at the back of your skull flexes, once. "I did not understand it then. I thought it was a vision of peace. I thought peace was a place. It is not. It is a woman."

You wouldn't have a response to that, so you wouldn't offer one. You would simply stay on him, and breathe, and let him speak if he wanted to speak, and the silence afterward would not be uncomfortable. Aegon finding his way into sentiment is a rare enough event that you know to let it land without comment.

Later, when Visenya or Rhaenys asks what happened (because they always ask, in their different ways, about anything that pulls their brother's attention) he'll say only: "She gave me quiet."

And the sisters will exchange one of those looks they exchange, the silent ones that carry whole conversations, and Rhaenys will smile slightly and Visenya will nod stiffly once and neither of them will interfere, because the ice-wife giving the king quiet is a function they trust you to perform. You're the element they needed.

Now, the breeding register. Because we have to talk about this, given the dreams, given the prophecy, given the Prince That Was Promised.

Aegon believes that the child you give him will be the one his blood has been waiting for. Not Rhaenys's children. Not Visenya's, should she ever have any. Yours. Ice-and-fire in one body. The promised one. He told you this on your wedding night and he has not wavered from it.

Every time he finishes inside you, he is aware (not crudely, not possessively in the Maegor sense) that this is the act his line has been pointed toward for generations, that this is why they survived the Doom.

And so: post-sex cockwarming is not, in fact, something you have to sell him on at all. It was the norm from the beginning, without being named.

He comes inside you and doesn't withdraw. Ever. Because Aegon's dream-logic has always included the image of you folded against him with his seed inside you, and the dream doesn't resolve until he's held you long enough for the picture to settle. He will lie with you on his chest and his cock softening slowly inside you and his powerful hand splayed flat across your lower belly and he will breathe, slow, patient, and you will feel him thinking. Not scheming, not strategizing, but willing something into being. Take root, his stillness says. This is the one. This is the child.

It is, strangely, one of the most tender things anyone has ever directed at you. Not because Aegon is a tender man (he isn't, particularly) but because the weight of the attention, the prophecy-weight, the this is the purpose you were dreamed into my bloodline for weight, is an intensity no ordinary affection can match.

The sisters know about this and permit it. More than permit, they assist it, in the way of women who have accepted the shape of their shared household.

Visenya will sometimes send you to Aegon's chambers directly with a brusque go to him tonight, I've had him three nights running, he needs the quiet one. Rhaenys will laugh and pat your cheek and say our little ice-prophetess, go make the saviour of the world, we'll keep him for dinner tomorrow. The generosity is practical. They have his body and his rule and his dragon-fire. You have his prophecy and his rest.

Sometimes Aegon comes to you and it is only the two of you, the quiet, the private dream.

Sometimes Rhaenys is there, curled at your hip, teasing you both, her clever fingers tracing patterns on your thigh while Aegon is buried still inside you; Rhaenys loves to watch you cockwarm him, actually, finds it fascinating, says it's like watching a she-wolf sit on a dragon.

Sometimes Visenya is there, and Visenya is different because Visenya will lie beside you both and read dispatches in the lamplight and occasionally glance at the two of you with that sharp, satisfied expression and hold you down if you're being too patient for her liking. Visenya is the eldest and she likes her household arranged.

Baelor:

Missionary.

He wasn’t much for crazy or over the top positions. He simply loved having you on your back legs wrapped around his waist, as he stared deep into your eyes. Kissing your neck and chest and he slammed into you deep and hard. Lips so close to yours, hovering just enough to where you couldn’t reach him, like he was swallowing your moans. Leaning up so he could place your legs on his shoulder, and drive himself in a new angle hitting your spot deeper. Watching as you tried clawing to grab onto him, and then gripping onto the sheets beside you.

“My sweet darling wife taking my cock so well, you were made for me.”

Daeron:

Cowgirl.

Daeron loved when you were on top of him. If he had too much too drink which was a lot, he would sit back with his arms hanging lazily on your waist, as you bounced up and down. Your nails pinching down into his chest so hard you could leave marks. Grinning up at you as you were chasing your own orgasm, loving how much control you were taking. He loved when you would dominate him like this, and all he would do is just admire you. Hand reaching up to grip your breast massaging the fatty flesh, and pinching your nipple until it was a hard nub.

“Yes, that’s it my fire, ride my cock just like that, gods you feel so good.”

Duncan:

Holding you in the air.

Duncan was always worried when it came to sex, worried that whatever position he had you in he’d hurt you. So he found holding you up in the air was the best, hands gripping your cheeks as he bounced you up and down on his cock. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you held on, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, as you just whimpered and moaned into shoulder. Sometimes pressing you against the wall if he ever felt you slipping, and not wanting to lose his rhythm. Grunting in your ear like a wild beast, as he felt himself closer to release.

“Don’t worry my love, I’ll make sure my cock stays inside this wet cunt.”

Maekar:

Reverse cowgirl.

Maekar was obsessed with sex, and could have you in any position that he wanted, but he loved when you rode him faced away. Watching as you bounced up and down on him swallowing his cock, your lips gripping onto him when you pushed up. Hands coming down on your ass hard and swift making you cry out. Hands helping you move up and down once he could feel your movements slowing down, not wanting you to lose steam when both of you were so close to release. Then he would cruelly grip your hips and keep you still to feel his cock twitch inside you.

“This cunt is all mine to fuck however I want, and not even the gods could fuck you like this.”

Valarr:

Spooning.

Valarr felt like this position felt the most intimate, and reminded him so much of cuddling. He loved keeping your back pressed to him as he thrust his hips against you in such slow, deep strokes. Kissing along your neck and shoulders, and his hand running up and down your waist. Then lifting your leg up so he could use as leverage to pound inside you harder. Wrapping his fingers gently around your throat as he applied the slightest pressure, feeling you clench down tightly around him. Not wanting to ever leave this bed, and keep you like this until he takes his last breath.