Duncan

Dunk is certain you are going to get yourself hurt one day at the flea bottom marketplace.

You wave at everyone in there, compliment a baker far too enthusiastically, stop to admire ribbons you absolutely do not need, and strike up a cheerful conversation with a stranger as if they’re an old friend, the possibility of them being dangerous never crossing your mind. Dunk loves the way you are, but it frightens him too. You are so bright, so openly kind, traits he believes are far too advanced for this cruel backwards world. He fears that with your sweet, trusting nature, someone will see it as weakness and try to take advantage of you.

Still, he does not wish to change you. He would never dull your spark. Instead, he chooses to protect it, to stand between you and anything sharp enough to wound you.

He trails behind you, mortified but intensely focused, his hand hovering near your waist, ready to pull you back against his broad chest if even the slightest danger arises. You skip along, blissfully unaware of how tense the man behind you is. Duncan knows Maekar would have his head before the morrow if he knew where his daughter and the knight sworn to protect her was. At the moment, Dunk hardly cares he would rather face the wrath of the dragon than see the she-dragon sad if he said no.

You don’t notice the danger at all. You’re still smiling, chatting about how you should get something for everyone, even Aerion.

“Princess, we should be getting back—”

“Just five more minutes,” you say brightly. “I want to look.”

“At what?” he asks, exhausted.

“Everything.”

You suddenly dart toward a stall of hand-crafted trinkets, picking up a doll with a frown. “Don’t you think this looks Aerion?” You giggle. “I should get it for him, he’d hate it, which makes it better.”

Dunk huffs despite himself. “I don’t think provoking your brother is wise.”

The owner of the stall leans a little too close, smiling in a way Dunk doesn’t like.

“You’ve got fine taste, my lady,” the man says smoothly. “Perhaps I could show you more we have in the back.”

Before you can respond, Dunk steps in, large and immovable, placing himself fully between you and the stranger.

“That won’t be necessary,” Dunk says sternly.

The man falters under his size alone. “I meant no harm.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Dunk mocks.

You peek around Dunk’s arm. “Oh! He was just being friendly.”

Dunk glances down at you, softening instantly. “Aye but we’re finished here.”

He guides you away with a firm hand at your lower back. You don’t protest, just loop your fingers through his.

“That shop owner was not being friendly was he?” you finally observe after a few moments after.

Dunk looks down at you, it always pained him when you were aware of how cruel some people could be. “Aye” he replied

“Well I am very lucky to have had you here with me.” You beam at him. You then go off to talk about whether horses have favorite apples, immediately discarding the situation like you simply just threw out trash.

Dunk thought you were wrong, he was the lucky one here, he has no problem protecting you for he made it his personal oath if the world insists on being cruel, he decided then he will simply have to be cruel back so you never have to be.

Baelor

The exhaustion shows in the slump of his shoulders.

In the way he has been staring at the same line of parchment for far too long.

In how he only half hears what Maekar is saying yet nods as though he understands every word.

The large doors open without a knock nor announcement.

Both princes glance up, but the first thing anyone sees is you peeking your head inside as though testing the weather before committing to it.

Baelor’s expression softens immediately, a small smile curves at his mouth, it is also a silent permission for you to come in.

You enter triumphantly, arms full of folded fabrics and trailing ribbons. They threaten to spill before you reach the table and deposit them in a dramatic heap.

Bright colors cascade across the dark wood, swallowing ledgers and maps whole.

Maekar exhales slowly through his nose but says nothing.

You smooth your hands over your skirts as if you have just completed grueling labor.

“Right,” you begin, clasping your hands together with great importance, “do you think Lord Celtigar would prefer warm or earthy tones for his chambers?”

You say it with the gravity of war strategy.

“I want the room to feel calm and welcoming,” you continue, . “I do like the earthy tones, but blues and greens might feel… seasick or mayhaps i can do bright colours….but now that may seem childish.” You speak as though you blurt out whatever new thought forms in you brain without thinking it through.

Maekar finally looks up.

“You interrupted a discussion of royal finances,” he says flatly, “for curtains.”

You glance at him, entirely unshaken. “This is an alliance matter. Colours affect morale, if he sleeps poorly, he will think poorly.”

Baelor does not hide his proud smile.

He leans back slightly, studying the fabrics as though you have presented battle plans.

“Anything will likely please him,” he says gently. “He was raised among stone and steel. Colour might surprise him in a good way.”

He considers for a moment longer.

“Earthy tones, perhaps. He often speaks fondly of hunting as a boy.”

Your entire face lights at once, ideas igniting behind your eyes.

“Yes—yes, that is perfect and if that’s the case we shall have a hunt in his honor!”

You spin toward the door, already halfway gone before.

“Beloved.”

You turn instantly. “Yes?”

Baelor gestures lightly toward the table.

You gasp softly, having entirely forgotten the heap you left behind. You hurry back, gathering the fabrics in a flurry.

“You should eat,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes at him. “You forget when you worry”

Maekar arches a brow.

Baelor only inclines his head solemnly. “I will my love, join me in the garden later and we can also discuss your ideas”

You smile feeling satisfied and silence returns.

Maekar watches his brother for a moment.

Baelor sits back down, but something in him has steadied. His shoulders do not sag quite so heavily now. His hand moves with clearer purpose as he resumes his work.

There is still a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.

Maekar exhales once.

“Curtains,” he mutters.

Baelor’s eyes remain on the parchment.

“Curtains,” he says softly.

And continues writing.

Lyonel

Lyonel is halfway through shouting at one of his men to bring more barrels of wine for the evening feast when you appear.

“This is not enough, you half-wit,” he snaps, not yet looking at you. “Do you plan to have my guests licking the bottoms of empty casks? Move.”

The servants scatter.

He notices you then, though he doesn’t turn right away. Instead, one arm opens in silent invitation. You step into it without hesitation. His hand finds your hip, firm and possessive, drawing you against his side while he finishes glaring down the trembling steward.

“And if I see watered wine,” Lyonel adds coldly, “you’ll be drowned in it.”

Only when the man flees does Lyonel finally turn to you. The sharpness in his face softens instantly.

“What is it?” he asks, voice dropping into something far warmer. “Do you need new silks? More jewelry? More flowers for your garden?” His hands settle fully at your hips now, thumbs brushing over the fabric. He is already prepared to grant whatever you wish.

You place both palms against his chest and shake your head. “No. I want to play a game.”

He narrows his eyes at you purr leaving his lips. “Oh?”

“What scent am I wearing?”

He blinks. “What?”

“I’ve been experimenting and I think this is my favorite one.”

A slow grin pulls at his mouth. While other lords might dismiss such things from their lady wives, Lyonel never dismissed anything that mattered to you, no matter how “silly” or womanly it was.

He leans down, nosing into your hair like a great hunting hound. “Rosemary.”

You beam. “No.”

He shifts to your neck, fingers hooking gently into the neckline of your gown to bare your shoulder. His lips hover there before placing a slow kiss. “Honey.”

“No.”

He gasps in mock outrage. “Deception.”

You laugh. “False, you are simply bad at this.”

“I am excellent at this,” he protests, dragging you flush against him until your chest presses to his. “You are just a deceiving little minx.” His fingers sneak to your sides, tickling until you squirm.

“Do you give up, my lord?” you grin up at him.

“No,” he declares at once. “If I can not guess by smell I am sure I can by tasting you.” He lifts you suddenly, hands firm under your thighs, hauling you against him like you weigh nothing. You squeal, gripping his shoulders as your feet leave the ground.

“You have a party soon” you laugh but make no attempts to escape

He only shrugs they can do without their host for a few hours.

Maekar

Maekar hasn’t even turned the corner but he already knows you’re infront of his study when he hears a bright, unrestrained, entirely too enthusiastic voice for the early hour down the corridor.

You are standing far too close to one of his guards, peering up at the man’s helm with open fascination.

“Does it pinch your ears?” you ask, head tilted like a curious pup. “Because it looks like it would, my mama always said I have a rather large head… do you think it would pinch mine because of that?”

The guard looks as though he would prefer a battlefield.

Maekar steps into view.

“You are distracting my men.”

The guard immediately straightens, spine snapping rigid. He looks uncertain whether being caught indulging you by his prince is worse than answering your questions.

You turn, bright and unbothered. “I was merely checking on him.”

“He does not require checking,” Maekar replies flatly.

You glance back at the guard, then at Maekar. “You could at least ask if it pinches.”

“It does not pinch,” Maekar says, already moving past you toward his study. “And if it did, he would endure it.”

He pushes open the door

And stops

The heavy dark curtains have been drawn back, tied with absurdly cheerful yellow ribbons. Sunlight spills across the stone floors, chasing away the shadows he prefers. On the windowsill sits a small cluster of wildflowers in a simple vase,bright blues and yellows and whites standing in defiance of the room’s gray austerity.

A strip of soft blue fabric has been draped carefully over the back of his chair, clearly meant as a blanket.

His jaw tightens.

“What is this.”

You step in behind him. “I thought it was very gray in here,” you say cheerful . “Whenever you come inside, you always look… tense, I thought perhaps I might make it feel more homey.”

“This is not a sitting room,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “It is a study, the most important matters of the realm are handled here.”

He walks farther inside, gaze sweeping over the flowers,the fabric, the faint sweetness in the air that certainly was not there before.

“You cannot simply alter my privacy because you feel inclined to.”

You shrink at that.

Your fingers twist together and your shoulders fold inward. “I am sorry… I- I did not move anything important,” you say softly. “just moved books to dust lightly I swear it.”

It is subtle but he sees the change.

The way your voice lowers, the way you look at him as though you have disappointed him.

He had been prepared to lecture you about boundaries, order, and propriety but the sadness in your face unsettles him more than the flowers.

He steps to the window and lifts one of the blooms. The stem is slightly bent making it slightly uneven.

“You picked these yourself,” he says.

“Yes.”

“They will wilt.”

“I know.” Your voice is quiet now. “But they are pretty while they live.”

He studies the flower a moment longer, then sets it back down with measured care.

“Then you will see to replacing them,” he says at last. “If they are to remain.”

Your head lifts instantly, warmth returning to your expression like sunrise.

“Of course.”

He has to look away as if your smile was the very sun itself.

“I have work to attend to,” he adds. “I will see you at supper.”

You dip your head, smile lingering, and slip from the room closing the door gently behind you.

Maekar stands still for several long moments.

He glances toward the closed oak door, listening until your footsteps have fully faded down the corridor.

He takes the vase from the sill and carries it to his desk, setting it carefully within his line of sight, adjusting it so it no longer appears lopsided.

Then he sits back down and returns to his work as though nothing at all has changed.

When he threw remarks at you, you stayed silent. When his gaze scratched at you with resentment, you lowered your eyes to the floor or turned away. All of it was simply to avoid engaging with him.

Aerion was bold. And the more you tried to stay away from him, the more that boldness spread.

During an evening visit, with no choice but to sit beside him, you reached for the wine poured into your goblet, only for a hand to move before you and wrap its fingers around the goblet. Even though your gaze already knew the answer, it still drifted toward the person carelessly bringing the goblet to his lips. Your dear husband slowly took a sip while looking elsewhere, as though he hadn't just stolen your wine goblet at all.

The feast was already terrible on its own. And you had no intention of staying silent when the only thing capable of calming your nerves was taken from your hands too. "Aerion, that's my wine."

He looked at you as though you'd been wearing one of those invisibility cloaks from fairy tales and only became visible once you started speaking. His brows lifted slightly. He pulled the goblet away from his lips but didn't set it down, instead turning it between his fingers like it was another one of his toys. "Well then, my dear wife, are you truly going to upset your husband over a goblet of wine?"

Another one of those subtle, needling remarks. It was nothing more than a sentence meant to provoke you into challenging him. And this time, you didn't back down. No, you were tired of him thinking everything in your life belonged to him too. "Yes, exactly as you think, my dear husband. Now give me back my wine."

Your voice carried a faint poisonous warning beneath it. You hadn't meant for it to come out so sharp, so provoking that a few eyes around you began turning your way. Jaw tight, you watched his purple eyes roam over you with curiosity before settling back onto your irises. It was as if he were waiting to see whether you'd take your words back.

You did the same. You waited for him to hand over your goblet.

Despite sitting so close together, the air between you felt heavy. Aerion leaned his weight against the arm of his chair and studied you from a slight distance. After staring at the goblet lazily rolling between his fingers for a while, he finally held it out toward you. "Here, my dear little wife. We're not lacking wine. I was merely wondering whether you'd panic in case you poisoned my own."

Trying not to roll your eyes, you quickly snatched the goblet from his hand before he could even consider pulling it back. You ignored how his fingers, warmer than your already warm body, felt against yours. Touching him almost made your own skin feel cold in comparison.

Still, something heavy dropped inside you for a brief moment. Was he serious. You stopped the goblet just a few centimeters from your lips and gave him a curious look. Your insane husband was still staring at you. "Is your lack of trust in me so deep that you think I'd actually poison you?"

He pursed his lips thoughtfully before flattening them like a taut rope. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned closer to you. His breath brushed against your cheek now, yet you didn't pull away. The last mistake you would ever make was shrinking away from your husband in front of others. From afar, it probably looked like a husband whispering sweet things to his wife.

His voice brushed against your ears like a warm ocean breeze. "It's not you I don't trust. I don't trust people. Everyone in my life could poison me. Especially now, my dear other half."

Your head snapped toward him. Your faces were so close together. You blinked rapidly while trying to make sense of his words. Your cheeks burned as though exposed to a dragon's skin. Every single time Aerion had stolen the food and drinks from your hands flashed before your eyes. You had thought he only did it to be an ass. The thought that he had been constantly tasting things first so you wouldn't be poisoned had never once crossed your mind. And the two of you weren't even that close. No, there had only been the marital duties every husband and wife were expected to fulfill. That was all. You couldn't possibly be close enough for him to worry over you being poisoned.

You tried not to let it affect you, but the confession had already spread through your blood like poison. It was too sweet. There were so many things you wanted to say. But every one of them clung to your throat, preferring death over coming out.

"Don't say such things to me…"

𝑆𝐸𝑅 𝐷𝑈𝑁𝐶𝐴𝑁

・He would admire his bookish wife

・Dunk only knows how to read a little, Ser Arlan taught him some. But living on the road, moving from place to place, there was no reason for Dunk to be well-educated.

・But looking at you and your books, made him realise that he too wanted to read books

・You read to him at night, when the fire is bright enough and the stars up ahead twinkle.

・Then one day, you caught Dunk with one of your books in his hands, his face contorted, doing his best to understand.

・It was that night that Dunk told you and you asked if you could teach him

・He said yes, sheepishly.

・And so, every day after the chores were done, you and Dunk do your lessons.

𝐿𝑌𝑂𝑁𝐸𝐿

・He would adore his bookish wife

"My darling! I got you a new book-" He constantly says

・You may be complete opposites, but you work.

・He never makes you go to banquets if you don't want to. Except you want to be the Lady Baratheon. So you attend, but not without a book.

・You love watching him act the fool. It always makes you laugh.

・Some women would be turned off by him, especially when he drinks, but your feelings, if anything, grow stronger.

・When you're both laying in bed, your head on Lyonel's chest. He asks if you might read to him

・You always accept his request

・Sometimes your eyes meet across the room. Lyonel lifts an eyebrow in a silent question. You give a small nod or smile that means everything is fine.

𝐵𝐴𝐸𝐿𝑂𝑅

・He would treasure his bookish wife

・The library would be your favourite place to go. With it's high ceilings and mahogany chairs.

・Most days it's where Baelor can find you.

・He usually sits next to you, with his own book and the two of you read in silence

・He never makes you uncomfortable, to be honest, he's your safe space. Wherever Baelor is, is where you want to be

・Part of your communication is usually done by silent acts.

・Baelor knows how you like to take your tea, where your favourite spot is to sit, what your favourite book is etc.

・You have deep night time conversations about everything. You come out of your shell more when it's just the two of you

𝑀𝐴𝐸𝐾𝐴𝑅

・He would be overprotective of his bookish wife

・Maekar is proud even if he doesn't speak about it dramatically. He has a particular smile for you that no one else sees.

・You are able to calm him, even when his temper burns hot

・When you're in social situations and you're getting uncomfortable, Maekar will take the attention off you and back on him

・Being together never requires constant conversation. Just existing side by side feels enough.

・Everyone sees Maekar as stubborn, strict and intimidating. Which is funny to you because he never even raises his voice to you

・He's soft, gentle and kind. He may be a tad rough around the edges at times, but you know his heart

You were everything to Valarr, his sanctuary and septa. His wife and love and life, the one whom he would could return to always, to find warmth and comfort. Safety and sanctuary. You were the light of his life and had been since the two of you were young, since he heard the sound of your laughter echoing through the halls. 

            Since he heard your voice, your words and had to make you his. He needed just one thing in his life that was his, whole and complete and he wanted that to be you. And he got what he wanted. He got you and your love, your touch. He got to know what you felt like underneath him, what it felt to hold you in the morning, to kiss you and mark you and show everyone that you were his. 

            Because you were. He had chosen you and marked you and he had you. No one else did. No one else ever would. He would burn the world for you if it hurt you. He would burn the world down to keep you. 

            And he would burn the world down to get you back if you were ever mistaken enough to leave. 

            Because you are not allowed to leave him. Ever. 

***

            Valarr’s mind is on you, not the council meeting before him, not the way the lords speak of money and taxes and road maintenance. Not the discussions of his grandsire or his father. Not the importance of charity or dealing with citizen unrest. No, his mind is on you. 

            His mind is on you and the way you laugh, head tipped back with abandon, throat exposed. His mind is on you and the way you hold him, like he’s a precious thing, a rare thing—as if he’s as special to you as you are to him. His mind is on you and the way you fall asleep at night, the way your eyelids close, your body pressed to his, no space between you two, his arms anchoring you, tethering you. Possessing you. 

            His mind is on you. On the way you look when he kisses you, kisses his way down your body, leaving marks in his wake, claiming you. Showing everyone whom you belong to. His mind is on you and the way you feel around him, clenching and releasing and the way you sound when he brings you to your peak. His mind is on the way you look beneath him, the way your body looks like a masterpiece, covered in his signature—love bites on the surface of your skin, reminders that you are his. 

            His mind is on you and he wants to go to now, but he must still play the role of dutiful prince, loyal heir. The perfect son. His mind is on you, but his body is here in the throne, beside his father, pretending to focus on council issues when really his body feels too tight and his sight is filled with you not the papers before him. 

            It’s a delicate balance, focusing on you over his duty but to him, you are his duty, he took vows to cherish you, to protect you, to love you and that is what he should be doing. 

            Let the kingdom fall to ruin so long as he has you, his wife, in his arms. 

            The only peace he has is the thought of you, waiting for him, in your chambers. The chambers that the two of you reside him, him having forgone the idea that you would have separate rooms. He needs you with him always, by his side, in his bed. He needs you where he can watch you. 

            Protect you. 

            That’s what he does. He protects you. You are far too innocent and perfect; kind and trusting to be left alone. Having you in your own rooms, away from him, would just invite disaster. It would be courting death for someone could hurt you and then he’d have to end them and tell you your mistake. 

            Make you see the error of your ways.

            It’s not that he would be angry at you. No. Never angry, you know not what you do. It’s why he must protect you.

            Always. 

            “I do believe that concludes this meeting, my lords,” his father says, voice deep and booming, resonant and powerful, mismatched wolf’s eyes turning on Valarr, narrowed with curiosity and irritation. Valarr knows his father was aware of his misdirected attentions but he does not have it in him to feel ashamed or to care. He simply wants you. 

            He always wants you. 

            “Am I needed elsewhere, Father or am I free?” he asks, eyes narrowing on his father, one hand behind his back, clenching and unclenching in a fist, rage at the distance and separation from you taking a physical toll upon him. If he had his way, he would never be parted from you, would always be with you, have you fused to him so that everyone could see that you were his and he was yours. 

            How strong the two of you were, how strong your love. 

            “You are free, my boy,” Baelor says, a small smile growing on his face as he shakes his head. “You are much in love with your wife. That’s good. Makes for a strong king.” Valarr has nothing to respond with, nothing to say in answer. He simply nods and takes off, out of the meeting room, through the halls and up the stairs to your chambers. 

            Where you wait for him. Where he will be able to take you—preferably on every surface in the room. Where he will be able to show you how much he missed you, how much he wants you, will always want you. Where he will be able to fill you, to leave marks upon you to remind people whom you are. Whom you belong to. 

            Where he will be able to taste you, to feel you. To remember just exactly that feeling of ecstasy when you clench around him, when you unleash that breathy moan, that exhalation of his name. Where he will be able to tell you he loves you. 

            Over and over and over. 

            He doesn’t knock upon the door, doesn’t need to with the room being his as well and so he simply walks in, closing the door behind him and sliding the iron latch into place, hands already peeling his doublet off, finger going to the laces of his breeches as he wanders through the room, through the combined touches of your possessions and his. 

            Although, you’re truly the only possession he cares about in the room.

            “My flower? My flower, where are you?” he calls, his voice teasing and lilting and that of a man starved, waiting and tensing. A hunter searching for his prey. “My flower?” When there is no answer to either question, no answer to his call, no giggle or tired reply, he tenses for a new reason. 

            “My flower?!” he yells, tone rising and turning angry. He hopes your just bathing, teasing, baiting. Anything but you being gone. “Darling? If you can hear him, talk to me!” 

            Nothing. 

            And that’s when he loses it, red tinting his vision as he searches every room of the chambers, each one devoid of your presence, of your rosebud scent and skin that glows like sun. Every room is empty. You are missing. 

            Missing…

            He screams, the noise of an angry broken man, his voice cracking as he rages, knocking decorations down, shattering glasses, rendering tapestries, kicking and attacking inanimate objects as if the things you carried from your birth home have taken you. As if they are responsible for letting you go. 

            “My prince? We heard the screams, is all alright?” one of the Kingsguard asks, his hand holding the key, the one which opens the door. The one which the guards must have in event of an evacuation. 

            “WHERE IS MY WIFE?!” Valarr cries, turning around, one hand closed around the blown-glass dragon you insisted on buying for him during your honeymoon trip around the Seven Kingdoms. (He remembered the way you giggled as you purchased it, handing it to him, your giggle becoming a full laugh at the look on his face. The exact reason he treasures it so.) He hurls the dragon at the guard, the glass object shattering against the flesh of his face, the guard crying out in pain. 

            The others take a step back in fright as Valarr charges forth, steps no longer that of a caged predator, but of a monster set free. “WHERE IS SHE?!” He grasps the front of one’s uniform, pulling him to him, whispering the question again in a much more dangerous tone. 

            “We don’t, Your Grace,” the knight whispers, terror lacing his voice as Valarr punches him, once, twice, thrice. Over and over, until he quite loses count, only stopping when he realises the other guards still stand around him. 

            “What are you idiots waiting for?! GO FIND HER! She does not get to leave me and NO ONE takes her from me! FIND HER!” And the guards run, footsteps the sound of metal against stone, echoing throughout the keep, the smell of fear wafting after them as he straightens himself, wiping his bloodied hands upon his doublet, walking calmly from the chambers, jaw set so tightly together that he fears it may never open again. 

            He examines every inch of the Keep, every room, searching. He accosts Aerion, questioning him about your whereabouts, slapping him open-palmed when he speaks crudely of you. He questions all those who come into contact with you. Only to receive the answer of nothing and no idea. 

            He goes to the library, your favourite room in the Keep and finds it empty of you. And that is when the panic sets in, when he imagines you taken, kidnapped, stolen out of the window. Taken and killed or taken and paraded somewhere as someone’s prize. 

            And that’s when he runs from the library to the Great Hall, to the room where the guards assemble. It’s when he yells and orders them to find you just find you goddamn it. But they do not move, frozen in place by the sight of the young prince in total loss of control. 

            The way he demands and attacks, tears tapestries from walls, threatens to burn them all alive if they do not bring you back to him. 

            It is this that Baelor walks in on, the sight of his son so angry that every line of his face is set with terror and anger. He watches his son hit the guards, destroy the decorations of the family, the signs of status and lineage. He watches as his son threatens to build piers strong enough to burn every single Kingsguard alive if they fail to bring him his wife. 

            And it terrifies Baelor, the sight of this obsession, this possession, this love gone completely mad. Completely wrong.    

            Especially when Baelor just left you in the field of sunflowers, Valarr planted for you as a wedding gift. Something to remind you of your garden at home. 

            “What is the meaning of this?” Baelor demands, not needing to raise his voice, the words carrying, his son pausing and turning to look at him, mismatched eyes for the first time that of a stranger’s. 

            “My wife. Is missing. And these. Fools. Cannot seem. To find. Her,” Valarr’s every word is heavy and angry and fear-filled. It’s that which Baelor understands. 

            “She’s in her garden reading. She asked me to find you for it had taken you a long time to get to her after the meeting. Especially since you had made plans for a picnic,” he tells his son, watching not as shame fills his son’s face, but victory and desire and relief. 

            You are still here. You are waiting for him. 

            “Thank you, Father,” he says, running past him, all smiles now, a wolf-sharp smile as he pats his father on the shoulder, running past him, running from the destruction behind him. Running to you.

***

            He finds you exactly where his father said you would be, sitting inside the field of sunflowers, a book in hand, laying on your side upon a deep red blanket limned in gold, hair half-braided. You look at peace, but Valarr knows the lines of your body better than you and he can read the stress and fear upon you in the tension of your spine and the way you sigh before turning the page. 

            “My flower!” he cries, falling beside you, hands playing with the laces of your dress, teasing them open, slipping his hand to rest between your shoulder blades, to touch your skin and feel your warmth. 

            “I thought you’d forgotten me, my husband,” you whisper, your voice thick with sadness, tears and it sings through Valarr’s heart as he retracts his hand, pulling on your arm until you lay flat on your back, a single tear slipping down your cheek. He leans down, licking it away and reveling in the sweet taste of your skin. The taste that is, the fact that you are still here and that you waited for him. 

            “I would never forget you, my heart,” he whispers, moving his body until his legs are on either side of your hips, his body braced above yours as he leans forwards, pressing kisses against your neck, his tongue flicking against your pulse point. “I forgot we were meeting here. I went to our rooms to find you and found you missing. I found you missing and I destroyed most of the castle and threatened to burn the useless Kingsguard alive for failing to bring you to me.”

            “Did you. Really?” you ask him, your breath hitching as his mouth hits the peak of your breasts, tongue tracing the shape of them, mismatched eyes pupil-blown and locked on you. 

            “Yes,” he answers, his hands pinning your hands above your heads, his lips coming up to press against yours, his tongue invading and stroking against yours, sucking it into his mouth, his teeth nipping at it, the touch causing desire to well inside of him, his hands raising your skirts, freeing himself from his breeches. 

            He continues to kiss you, while pushing inside of you, groaning into your mouth at the feel of you, trailing his lips down your skin, sucking and biting on your neck, each thrust punctuated with a growl of mine. 

            He takes you in the field of sunflowers, planted to remind you of home, of Reach. He takes you in the field where anyone could see and delights in it. The idea that they could see just how much you belong to him. 

            And when it’s done, when he’s filled you with his seed, your neck already darkening with the force of his love, marks in the shape of his mouth, a sign of you belong to me. 

            “Why did. You tear the. Castle apart?” you ask him, still breathless with desire, turning into his body, still pressed against you, his legs twined with yours, his hands holding you possessively. 

            “Because I thought you had left me,” he whispers, the idea of you leaving him feeling with that same helpless fright and desire and he pulls you closer, already hard again and forcing himself inside of you again, delighting in the way you moan his name. 

            “You.” Thrust in.

            “Are.” Out.

            “Not.” In.

            “Allowed.” Out

            “To.” In

            “Leave.” Out

            “Me.” In. 

            And you come apart around him as he comes apart inside you, falling against you spent for the second time. And then he whispers the words into your skin, 

“You are not allowed to leave me.” And you sigh in response, nestling against him, the sun beating down on the two of you. “Not ever.”

            And then he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.