#captainfernsalutes

You have always drawn eyes.

Beautiful, intelligent, the perfect lady. You were admired by commonfolk and nobles alike for your amicability and wit. Your lord father was a loyal ally to the great House Targaryen and a valiant support during the Blackfyre Rebellion, not to mention a loud and magnetic personality. His parties and tourneys drew thousands from across Westeros—even luring nobles and merchants alike from across the Narrow Sea.

Similar has happened today as you watch with bated breath, your ringed fingers interlinked upon your lap, as a pair of lordlings clash in a flurry of splintered wood from your position in your noble pavilion. Your father roars his approval, cheering loudly as one poor knight topples from his horse, a jagged shard of lance protruding from a joint near his shoulder in his plated armour. You can’t help but cup your hand to your mouth, watching as the poor felled knight is dragged from the tiltyard.

Your lord father takes a deep sip from his goblet, resplendent in the midday sun. He is draped in the colours of your House, as are you, with jewels strung around your neck and wrists, decorated like a shrine. He turns to you, wine still glossy on his lips as he eyes your uneasy expression which does little to match the glittering of your jewellery. You’re now fidgeting with a wreath of flowers, an intricately woven ring of heartseases, carnations and lilies, finished with ribbons of your House’s colours.

“What is troubling you, my dear?” Your father asks, reaching across to place a gentle hand atop your own, the metal of his rings cool against your knuckles.

You exhale and then give him a meek smile. “Nothing, father. I apologise—”

“You are my daughter. Do you believe I do not know when you are lying?” Your father interrupts, giving you a pointed look.

Embarrassment claws within your chest as you drown out the cheers from the large crowd beyond the pavilion, realising that there are likely to be dozens of eyes glued to you. You calm yourself, ensuring your face remains as passive as possible, but you can feel the slightest tremble in your lower lip.

“I—what if I do not wish to give my favour away?” You say, fingers brushing the beautiful wreath in your lap. “I see no point in—”

Your father interrupts you again with a smooth and rather diplomatic confidence you’re sure he uses with everyone he speaks to. It usually gets him what he wants, and paired with the irreverent glimmer in his eyes, you realise why he and Lyonel Baratheon get along so well.

“Do not view this as giving your favour away,” he says carefully, drumming his fingers against your hand as he speaks. “View it as lending your favour to a poor, desperate lad who wishes to impress you. You are helping the needy, which all ladies care to do, do they not?”

You can’t help but scoff, your father battering his eyelashes in an attempt to make you smile with his humoured tone.

“These men are not needy. They are knights,” you reply.

“Ah, but they are still men,” your father utters, withdrawing his hand to pick up his goblet and take another drink. He tips his goblet in your direction before he drinks. “And all men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.”

You mull over your father’s words for a while as he gets to his feet and shuffles towards the entrance to the pavilion. You hear him speaking to someone, you hear the thunderous cacophony of the crowd, the stamping of hooves, the blaring of bugles. And you’re not sure how much time passes before you hear a beckoning call of your name. You look to your side, placing your flowered wreath upon an adjacent pedestal, and see that your father is welcoming a pair of men into your pavilion dressed in black and red.

Your heart stammers in your chest as you hurry to your feet, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen appraising you as you drop into a perfected curtsy.

“Seven blessings,” you utter, tone light and airy, your flower-sweet perfume lingering around you as you dip.

Your father introduces you, a beaming smile split across his face, both by name and a proud declaration, “my little dove, my pride and joy.”

Humour sparkles in Baelor’s eyes as he turns back to your father, settling onto a chair on his other side. “You have sons, do you not?”

Your father lets out an annoyed puff at the mention of his sons, then shakes his head as he sinks back into his own seat, Maekar settling with a grunt on the other side of his brother. “My sons are… spirited. My daughter, however, is perfect.”

Something like relatability crosses across Maekar’s face, the subtle hint of a smile as warmth grows in your chest. He’s put you on a pedestal with his praise, and now you can feel even more eyes on you as you settle back into your seat.

—✿—

Across the tiltyard, Aerion Targaryen watches you from the flap of his tent as servants and smiths attend to his intricately plated armour. His violet eyes trace the lines of your face from afar, the curves of your body beneath your dress and skirts as you sit, mostly obscured by the low walls of the raised pavilion. He watches the way you join politely into conversation with your father, his uncle and his father, and he can imagine that you’re saying all the right things. That pretty little mouth of yours would say all the right things, wouldn’t it? Would it plead and beg sweetly too?

“My prince,” some kind of servant says hesitantly as he approaches, cloaked in the colours of your noble House. “Your mount is ready.”

Aerion acknowledges him for the briefest of moments with a bored look, before his eyes find you once more. Your father and Baelor are laughing at something you’ve said, and you dip your head like the polite lady you are to hide most of your smile. He sees, too, the cute little wreath you are now toying with, and he realises, with something sick and sharp building in his gut, that it would look perfect around his lance.

With purpose, the prince strides away from his tent, finding his steed at the edge of the tiltyard. Servants help him into the saddle, before he’s securing his feet into the stirrups and urging his warhorse forward through the sawdust-thickened mud of the tourney grounds. Another knight, already arranged against him at the ruling of your father—“It is my tourney, in honour of my nameday, so I can do as I please,” the lord had announced—canters towards the pavilion.

Aerion pulls his horse to a stop as he watches with narrowed eyes as the knight—a knight from somewhere in the Reach, he thinks he remembers—requests your favour. Or at least, Aerion assumes he does, for he cannot hear anything over the angry rush of blood in his ears as jealousy rips raw through his chest.

You bow your head and rise to the edge of the pavilion, and gods, you look a dream—the material of your skirts flowing around you as you dip, the curve of your breasts and neck on full display as you slip your wreath onto the knight’s lance. Aerion faintly hears the roar of the crowd as the Reach knight says something to you that makes you beam, your smile splitting widely across your face as your father claps.

Then, the knight takes your hand in his and fucking kisses it. Plants a gentle kiss to the back of it before he’s turning his horse away with a triumphant smirk.

Aerion is seething. Anger boils hot inside him, and with an angry, too-hard thrust of his hips, he urges his horse towards the knight, and the pair meet in the middle of the field for a brief moment. Aerion’s eyes drop to the wreath around the knight’s lance, his jaw flexing, violet eyes flashing with an unbridled fury that has him wishing he could drive his lance through the other man’s throat.

Maybe he will.

“It seems the lady has given me her favour,” the Reach knight says with a sickening smile that makes Aerion want to punch him in the face. “Best of luck, for I intend to honour her virtue greatly and de-horse a dragon today.”

Aerion scoffs. “You impudent little rat. If I do not kill you today, I will slit your throat on the morrow for use of such words.”

The Reach nobleman does not look put-off in the slightest, which, admittedly, takes Aerion by surprise. The knight simply smiles and then pulls down his visor, cantering back to the edge of the tiltyard, leaving Aerion alone in the middle, swamped suddenly by the sounds of a jeering crowd of commonfolk. Anger burns in his veins as he turns with a curse, trotting back to where his squire awaits him, his lance primed and ready.

He’s going to kill that fucking knight. And then he’s going to have you.

—✿—

You watch the knights ready themselves as the trumpeting of bugles pierce the clamour of the crowd. Your fingers are crossed against your lap as you watch the young knight you had bestowed your favour on roll his shoulders and clutch his lance and shield, ready. Your father offers you a side-long glance.

“Are you happy now, my dear?”

You don’t turn your head to speak with him, eyes on the tiltyard. You can’t help the way they fall from your favoured knight to the opposing side, where the imposing Prince Aerion is being handed his shield and lance. “Happy may be too strong of a word.”

Your father chuckles. “Well, these men are certainly needy for your favour.”

You huff. “Yes, as you have said.”

“Yes, but I failed to mention,” your father begins, clearing his throat. “That when a needy man does not earn a lady’s favour, well…”

Your stomach squeezes tightly as you watch the dangerously beautiful face of Prince Aerion vanish behind his helm as he shuts his visor with a rough hand.

Your father shakes his head, chuckling again. “They become quite dangerous.”

With a blare of a horn and a surge of noise from the crowd, both knights take off galloping towards one another. You grip the arms of your chair, watching with your heart in your throat as they get closer and closer, lances poised, before they clash—wood chips flying, metal grinding on metal.

You gasp when Aerion forces his lance through the Reach knight’s shield, shattering it completely. The end of the other knight’s lance makes impact with Aerion’s shield, but the now-jagged tip of Aerion’s lance drives through a gap in his plated armour. You hear the Reach knight let out a sharp shout of pain as the lance drives into the flesh beneath his armpit, and he tips sideways off of his horse.

“What a charge!” Your father remarks to Baelor and Maekar, the three men watching, transfixed, as the Reach knight’s horse gallops away and Aerion whirls his around, hounding for a second run.

The black steed takes off again, and Aerion dips his lance low, much to the detest of the crowd, who jeer and curse and throw stones, as Aerion’s lance lands a decisive blow to the staggering nobleman’s armoured back. He is thrown forward into the mud, winded, piece of wood protruding from his side.

You raise a hand to your mouth as you watch Aerion dismount his horse, dragging the tip of his lance through the mud. He’s not stopping, you realise, as he stomps through the muck to kick the fallen knight onto his back. Then, tossing his lance aside, he brings two hands to his shield and slams the heavy base of it down atop the knight’s helm, the visor denting with the impact. Aerion brings the shield down again, and you find yourself shooting a hand out to grip onto your father’s.

Sensing your concern, your father nods to a man near the edge of the pavilion. The man quickly blows into his bugle, and relief washes over you as Aerion, body heaving, pulls away from the unmoving knight. However, terror quickly seizes you when the prince stalks a few feet away to pick the fallen knight’s shattered lance from the ground. He snatches the favour—your favour—from the broken lance and then lifts his visor.

His eyes find yours as he clutches your favour, bringing it to his chest as he stares up at you. The crowd shouts at him, but he ignores them. You can see the way he ignores them, eyes transfixed on you, the dainty garland engulfed by his hand, crushed in a vice-like grip.

You continue to hold onto your father, who angles his head to whisper to you, “See, my dear? Dangerous.”

—✿—

That evening, you successfully manage to avoid Aerion by locking yourself away in your chambers, informing your father that you feel unwell and intend to retire early. Of course, he knew you were lying, but noticing the dullness in your eyes and the unease that seemed to seep from your pores, he let you go with a kiss to your forehead. Now, as the sun sinks beyond the horizon, and your father and the visitors dine across the castle, you light the candles around your chambers until the room is bathed in a soft, golden light, shadows flickering against the wall. You calmed yourself with a bath, and now sit before the fireplace in your soft linen chemise, a book in your lap.

The flames light the pages well and warm the bare skin of your arms and legs.

The quiet is punctuated, however, by a sharp knock on your door. It is much too forceful to be one of your servants, and for the briefest of moments, you wonder if one of your guards has something to ask of you. You pad towards the door, standing just behind it as you unbolt it and open it a crack.

“Open up, little dove,” Aerion utters, and you yelp in fright as his strong fingers curl around the edge of the door and shove inwards.

You jump back, heart in your throat, as he enters your chambers, violet eyes alight and reflecting the flickering flames of the fire and surrounding candles.

He looks you up and down, the point of his tongue running along his bottom lip. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You shake your head, hugging your arms around your body. The heat of his gaze burns through the thin material of your chemise, and despite the trepidation rooting deep in your gut, something warm gathers at the base of your womb, your nipples hardening.

“No,” you whisper. “No, my prince, I’ve just—”

“I won your favour,” he interrupts you quickly, stalking forward after slamming—and bolting—the door shut. “And you’ve been hiding from me.”

Some semblance of courage seizes you in that moment as you remember what your father had told you. You lift your chin a little as he crosses the room, predatory like a lion. Or perhaps a dragon.

“You did not win my favour,” you hiss at him, but you find yourself backing up in response to his movements. “You stole it. No proper knight would steal another’s favour.”

A dark smile splits across his serpentine features as he creeps closer to you. He wears his House colours, blacks and blood-reds, his tunic and doublet dark and fitting against his strong chest and lean torso. The pale skin of his hands and throat are a stark contrast.

“It was always supposed to be mine, little dove, whether you knew it then or not,” Aerion says, stopping only when your back hits one of the wooden posts of your canopy bed. “I simply saw an opportunity to take it back.”

You scoffed, but it came out more as a breathless sigh. “Knights do not—”

“No, they do not,” Aerion whispers, stepping forward once more to pin you to the post, his chest flush to yours. One of his hands seizes your chin, forcing you to look at him, and your hands fly out to rest against his forearm. You don’t push him away. He continues, “Knights earn, my sweet girl, but dragons take, don’t they?”

“I…” You can’t speak, your tongue heavy in your mouth as he maintains eye contact. Your body heats beneath your chemise, blood honey-thick in your veins as you attempt to form a sentence, but your words fail you.

“I am a prince of the realm, blood of the dragon,” he mutters, trailing a finger across your jaw, up along your cheek before cupping your face. The press of his rings are cold to your heated skin. Your lips part, a feather-light sigh escaping you. “And I will take whatever I want. Do you understand me?”

You find yourself nodding, the warmth of his body against yours pulling something tight in the base of your tummy. Your hands squeeze at his forearm, feeling the soft skin and the sparse blond hair there. No scales, no fire.

“So, from this moment forward, you will not grant your favour to anyone but me,” he tells you, hand back on your jaw. He grips you tightly, and a meek yelp leaves you, his hold bruising, the back of your head knocking lightly on the wooden post. “And if you do, I will sever the head of whomever is brash enough to seek your favour, and mount it to the post of your bed for you to look at whilst I fuck you. Do you understand, or shall I repeat myself?”

“I understand,” you say quickly, voice squeaky with both fear and the restriction of your jawbone. “I understand, my prince.”

Aerion approves, for his eyes flash brightly and a purr escapes his chest as he dips forward and presses his lips to the corner of your mouth. It is soft, tender, and he trails his mouth over the curve of your jaw and down onto the slope of your neck. His other hand rubs over your hip, and your breath hitches in your chest as his hand smooths down your front. It trails over the material covering your mound, before slinking beneath the short hem and brushing against the airy linen of your smallclothes.

The heat of his fingers and the gentleness of his touch has your hips bucking involuntarily, eyelids fluttering as he sucks at your pulse which thrums heavily in your jugular.

“I’ve heard whispers about the sweet little dove that nests within this castle’s walls,” Aerion breathes against you. The coarse pads of his fingers press against your clothed core and a quiet sigh is coaxed from your chest. “I never imagined she’d be such a good girl—such a good listener.”

He rubs two fingers back and forth over your clothed slit, the gusset of your smallclothes growing damp with your slick. The heat of your core against his fingers makes him groan into your neck, his sharp teeth skimming your sensitive skin as he sucks at the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

You hold on to his forearm as it rocks with the movements of his hand, but you should be wrenching him away, cursing and screaming and begging for your guards to seize him, to haul him away for attempting to corrupt your virtue. But you don’t. Your brain is fuzzy, your heartbeat heavy in your core, nipples catching on the linen of your chemise and brushing against his doublet. You can’t believe how your fear has turned into lust as the Targaryen prince works two of his fingers against you, his lips suckling at your neck while he grips your jaw tightly still.

The hands you have on his forearm trail up, caressing the bare skin, then dancing across the sleeve of his tunic. He groans against you at your touch as you wind your fingers over his shoulder, then flatten across his chest, caressing his pectorals beneath the padded doublet. His mouth withdraws as he pants against the curve of your shoulder, one of your hands threading along the back of his neck, nails scraping through the short hair that grows at his nape. You grab a fistful, stroking his scalp, before tightening your fingers and tugging gently.

Aerion pulls back and growls, then slams his mouth to yours. The kiss is harsh, more teeth and tongue than anything you’ve ever experienced, his lips burning hot against yours. The fingers he pushes against your clothed slit dip against the fabric, pressing against the puffy bud of your clit, pinching before rubbing a heavy circle. It makes you stutter out a moan against his mouth, which he uses to curl his tongue against you deeper, sliding across your teeth. He tastes of wine and ash, and something metallic, the richness of blood on his snake-like tongue. A sound of deep pleasure, a loutish grunt from the back of his throat, knocks against your teeth as he kisses you, the hand he has on your jaw forcing you to be completely pliant beneath him.

Aerion pulls back after a long moment, pressing a wet, saliva-slick kiss to the corner of your mouth once more before speaking lowly into your ear, “Are you going to be good for me, little dove? Are you going to give me what I want?”

“Yes,” you whisper, pleasure a firm knot in the base of your belly already as he continues to slide his fingers back and forth against you, the fabric of your smallclothes soaked through, tacky against your folds.

The prince tuts at you, his fingers vanishing from your core. You whimper at the rush of cool air that hits you, but he quickly closes the space when he taps four fingers roughly against you—a measured smack against your covered cunt, which rips an embarrassingly loud moan from your chest, head falling back against the post.

“You are a lady,” Aerion chastises you whilst he acts more unlike a prince than any nobleman you’ve ever met. His palm cups your core now, soothing the dull ache caused by the smack. “Answer nicely.”

You pant, eyes watering as you meet his, lips swollen from the force of his kiss. “I–I’ll be good, my prince. I’ll be good for you.”

He smiles. “Of course you will.”

Then, his palm shifts, two fingers looping through the band of your smallclothes and tugging. The material all but tears as he pulls it down your legs with such aggression it makes your hips buck. Your slick cunt is bared to the tepid air of your room, the fireplace dwindling now, and you squeeze your thighs together as you kick your undergarments away. His other hand leaves your face to join his other in pulling your chemise over your head, tearing it away from you and tossing it across the room. It disappears into the shadows and you’re left bare before him.

He groans at the sight, eyes dropping to where he kicks your legs apart with his foot, trailing his hand over your mound and dipping into the silken wet heat of your folds. Fingers slide over your puffy clit, and he groans again at the way your body jolts against him. His other hand squeezes one of your breasts tightly beneath strong fingers, nipple crushed beneath his palm, making you moan.

“Oh, my poor girl, you’re soaked,” Aerion whispers, almost in disbelief, as he runs two fingers through your slit, gathering slick between your folds. “Pretty little pussy’s drooling for her prince, isn’t she?”

His middle and ring finger find your hole, slick and warm and too empty. You huff out something that sounds like his name, but the syllables are lost as the pads of his fingers trace circles around you. You lean your head back, baring your throat to him, allowing him to swoop down and attach his mouth to a soft patch along the column of your trachea. As he does this, he—with surprising restraint—works the blunt tips of his fingers past the entrance of your cunt. He pushes, and pushes still, until your silken walls open around the intrusion, the bump of his knuckles rubbing against your posterior wall, sending electric shocks into your womb.

“She’s taking me so well,” Aerion lifts his head to utter against your cheek, and he nearly smiles when he feels how hot you are there.

He curls his fingers and presses further until the top of his palm rests against you. Quickly, he retracts his fingers before plunging them back into you, and the wet squelch that fills the space between you makes you suck in a breath, ears ringing. 

The prince hums darkly, kissing your cheek. “Oh, she’s mouthy too, is she? Pussy’s got something to say?”

He repeats the movements, the wet plap-plap-plap of his fingers rutting into you, and his palm hitting your wet folds, makes his cock twitch painfully in his breeches. You whine out, embarrassed, pleasure as heavy as an anvil in the base of your stomach, Valyrian steel threatening to sever the cord of tension that withheld your release.

“Please,” you find yourself begging as your hands grip his shoulders. The contrast of Aerion being completely clothed while you stand before him, naked with slick dribbling down your inner thighs, has a sort of drunkenness washing over you.

His other hand, kneading your breasts still, shoots up to slap a palm across your mouth as he works his fingers in and out, pace quick and unrelenting. He angles his head down to watch where his forearm flexes as he shoves his fingers into you—he pulls out, lines up to add a third, and then forces them in, and the stretch makes you yowl against his palm.

“Easy, little dove,” he utters, pulling his fingers away only to hike one of your legs around his hip, giving him a deeper angle to drive his fingers back into you. Three fingers stretch you open and curl deep inside you, pressing against the gummy spot inside that forces a tremor through you. You moan against his hand, breath coming in quick pants, eyelids fluttering as he fucks his fingers into your cunt. 

The pace is animalistic, rushed. Aerion grunts as his arm works, the other gripping the lower portion of your face so he can listen to the way your pussy takes him. He can feel dribbles of slick running down his wrist, smearing across your inner thighs. Your walls clench him tightly as he nails the best spot inside you, and he marvels in the way your leg trembles against his hip, your nails digging into the thick material at his shoulders as he urges you towards release.

You say something against his palm, but it is muffled. He wrenches his hand away and finally looks at your face as you manage to puff out, “M’gonna… come…”

Aerion pulls his fingers from you, your pussy clenching around nothing. You curse loudly, and then moan his name, eyes springing open when he drops your leg. He hides his smile as he sinks to his knees before you, hands grasping the doughy flesh of your inner thighs to spread your legs. His head slots between them, and he exhales a forceful blow onto your soaked cunt. The air makes you keen, hand shooting out to grasp his hair.

“Gods, just look at her,” he voices from below you, hands moving across your thighs. His thumbs find your folds and he spreads you open for him, slick webbing between them. The feeling makes you whine—and then the feeling of his tongue, pointed and firm, curling into your hole has you whining even louder.

The narrow slope of his nose rubs perfectly against your puffy clit as he works his tongue inside you, curling between your walls, slick and warm. His hand is wet against you as he holds you open for him, a series of soft, dragon-like huffs suffocated in the heat of your pussy as his tongue coils inside you.

The stretched cord of your release is pulling taut in your abdomen once more, and you find yourself rocking your hips against his face in chase of it. Pursuing a hare through the long grass, adrenaline mounting, hound’s teeth closing in.

“My prince,” you whine, hips twitching. “Gods, I’m going to—ah—”

He hums against you and the cord in your lower belly snaps and splinters inside you. Your orgasm racks through you, pleasure white-hot in your chest and womb, spreading through your veins as your pussy clenches around his tongue. You moan his title loudly, pelvis stuttering against the rigid lines of his face as he works you through your release. Your hole spasms around his tongue, clit thrumming with your heartbeat.

He hums again when some of your release dribbles down from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin, and when he pulls away, a string connects his lips to you. It snaps when he runs his tongue over his lips, sitting back on his haunches to admire the glossiness of your pussy and the way your hole clenches around nothing.

“Pretty girl…” Aerion muses, leaning forward to press one last kiss to your clit before getting to his feet.

His cock is painfully hard, pressing against his breeches and the seam of his trousers. Grinding his hips against your pelvis, Aerion drags his hands up your sides, caressing you softly, before placing them either side of your face. He kisses you, lips slick atop yours. A sinful thrill runs up your spine as you taste the faint musk of yourself on his tongue, an earthy-sweet ichor that Aerion will fist himself to the memory of for months to come.

“Your favour is mine,” the prince says against you, before the warmth of his mouth disappears and he’s spinning you around. Still fully-clothed, he pushes his body against your back, keeping you warm. “You are mine.”

You suck in a breath as one of his hands brands you between the shoulder-blades, rings biting against the skin as he forces you to bend. You curl over the end of your bed until your chest presses flat to the sheets, your arse bare against the tent in his trousers. You breathe out an “o-oh fuuuck” as he grinds his clothed cock—the imprint thick against the cleft of your arse—in firm, teasing thrusts.

After quickly ripping his doublet from his body, suddenly too hot, Aerion keeps one hand to your upper back, pinning you to the bed while his other works in unfastening the ties and clasps of his trousers. He nudges your legs wider apart with his feet as his trousers loosen finally, and he can dip his hand into his breeches, shucking them down enough to fish his cock out. He hisses quietly behind you as he fists himself, tip red and ruddy, beads of precum wetting the slit. He chokes on a groan when one slips down his frenulum and along a prominent vein on the underside.

“Gods, little dove, what are you doing to me?” Aerion groans, angling his hips forward to drag the head of his cock down the split of your arse before tapping it against your pussy. He spreads your folds with the blood-flushed tip as you mewl out, incapable of giving him a properly-worded answer.

He chuckles at that, and you are surprised when he bends to press a line of kisses down your sweat-dampened spine. You arch for him as he tongues the dip at the base of your spine, teeth nipping at the skin.

“So good for me,” he breathes against you, and groans as he pulls back to stand a bit straighter.

Still grasping the base of his cock, he runs the head up and down your folds once more, pressing firmly to your clit—“there we go, this sweet girl gets a little kiss,” he says under his breath—before he lines up at your entrance. He says louder, “I deserve this, little dove. This is my prize.”

And then he’s thrusting into you in one deft movement. Your eyes roll, fingers gripping the sheets as you cry out, an echoing moan causing the flames of nearby candles to flicker. An animalistic growl tears from Aerion’s chest as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, the silken walls of your cunt moulding like clay around him. The ridges of his cock slide against you just right, and the prince grips your hip and glues you to him.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so tight,” Aerion grits out, canines gnashing as he bites down the pleasure crawling up his diaphragm.

“Please,” you call out to him, cheek to the sheets, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. “Please, my prince, please move.”

Aerion grunts, but doesn’t chastise your begging. Instead, he does what you ask of him, withdrawing until the head of his cock is just nestled inside you, before rutting back in. You whimper out a pathetically meek string of gasps—“ah–ah–ah,”—as he sets a pace, his hips smacking against your arse, the fat rippling. He grunts and groans, the sounds have your pussy tightening along with his movements.

He keeps you anchored to the bed. The hand between your shoulder blades is strong and unmoving, and the hand on your hip clenches around the softness there with a vice-like grip, forcing your arse back onto him as he moves. The pace is quick and rough, packed full of desperation as he stuffs your wet cunt over and over. His cock stretches you open, splits you apart, curls up towards the plug of your womb. Desperation is translated through the way his deep grunts end with the lightest lilt, a slight whimper at the end.

All men are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.

“Hgnh—fuck, come on, sweet girl, that’s it. Y-yeah, that’s it, stay just like that,” Aerion mutters, rambling as his eyelids droop low, sweat beading high on his forehead and at the hair on his temples.

You can’t do much but bend and take it, cock filling you perfectly, the angle driving him deep against a spongey spot inside you that punches whimper after whimper from your throat. He groans when your back arches further for him. “That’s my good girl, that’s my girl—pretty little dove taking my cock like a dirty fucking whore.”

You moan in response, clit pulsing and body starting to shake. You tremble against the sheets of your bed, pleasure building like the rush of water beneath your skin. Rising and rising, suffocating you as the head of his cock drives you closer and closer to release.

Aerion knows you’re close.

“I know, sweet girl, oh, I know,” he coos down at you, caressing your back as he plows into you from behind. The bed creaks with the force, the sheets bunching beneath you. “Let me feel you. Give me your favour, little dove.”

The ball of tension in your belly grows tighter and tighter as your body grows hotter and hotter. Small moans of his name fall from your lips. Not his title, but his name. He doesn’t reprimand you for it, too obsessed with your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his cock, but he’ll be sure to scold you later. For now, he maintains his pace, watching the way your hips bounce against his pelvis, sweat still building in a light sheen along your spine.

“Aerion.” Then, with a realm-shattering moan, you come around him, legs locking up tightly, fists clenching the sheets.

Your eyes snap shut as stars burst behind them, your second orgasm crashing over you. Your lower belly pulls taut, pussy clenching around his cock as the pleasure crests, and Aerion takes it with a groan of your name, pace faltering slightly as he pushes deeper into you.

You’re boneless against the bed now as the prince uses you, his cock twitching, thrusts becoming shallower. He’s rutting into you, humping the curve of your arse, cock barely leaving the drooling sheath of your cunt as his high rears like a hissing serpent inside him.

Knights earn, dragons take.

Aerion groans your name, collapsing half-way on top of you, the hand on your back moving to the side of your head to hold himself up as he grinds his cock into you.

“I’m going to spill inside of you,” he mumbles, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yeah, m’going to fill you, little dove. Fill this pretty pussy with my seed. Every—uh, fuck—everyone’ll know who you belong to i-if you’re round with my babe.”

You whine, screwing your eyes shut, overstimulation leaking into your gut like molasses, but you know he’s not going to last. You can feel his cock jerking inside you with each sloppy thrust.

“Uh-uh, none of that, m’lady,” Aerion murmurs, words drawing together now: pussy-drunk. “You’re mine—your favour is mine. You belong to the dragon.”

Then, with one last growl of your name between clenched teeth, Aerion comes inside of you, release filling you in hot ropes as his cock twitches. He’s buried to the hilt, a wanton groan leaving his lips as the warm walls of your pussy milk him, take him. The heat that fills you, the sensation of growing full, makes you hum out a pleased moan.

Slowly, the prince pulls his softening cock out of you and wipes his shaft along your arse cheek. The stickiness makes you huff out at him, and he laughs as he tucks himself back into his breeches, drawing his trousers back up.

His seed leaks out of you as you attempt to pull yourself onto your bed, turning to lay on your back and watch as he retrieves his doublet from the floor and begins pulling it over his head. You didn’t expect aftercare, but the absence of his warm body against you makes your heart contract beneath your ribcage.

Aerion notices the brief expression of discontent that passes over your face. He rolls his eyes, smoothing his hands through his hair, clearing the strands that stick to his skin with sweat.

“I left your father’s feast for this,” he says, bending down and placing his arms either side of you. He cages you against the bed, nose brushing yours. “I will finish my meal and make your father happy, and then I will return and fuck you to sleep.”

The prince presses one last lingering kiss to your mouth, a surprisingly sweet gesture, before he retreats and heads for the door. He unbolts it and looks back over his shoulder, watching as you reach blindly for your chemise, limbs pleasure-lax, eyes tired. He sighs loudly, stalking back across the room and scooping your chemise from the floor. Pale fingers snap around your wrist and he pulls you into a sitting position.

“Arms up,” he orders, and you do as you’re told. He shoves the chemise roughly down your arms and then over your head. His fingers brush your softening nipples as he lays the fabric back over you. He shakes his head as you blink up at him like a doe. He grumbles, “Pathetic.”

But you’re sure he doesn’t really mean it, especially when he cups your cheek and caresses your cheekbone for a fleeting moment, before he’s heading back towards the door. He opens it and vanishes without a look back, closing it with a firm slam. But even with his abrupt exit, you can’t help but smile as you sink beneath your sheets, his seed and your slick leaking out between your thighs.

All men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.

———

you pitch a whine from the back of your throat as his cock spreads the wet clutch of your pussy apart, dragging deep towards the plug of your cervix as he ruts into you, hips smacking against the flesh of your arse. but that’s when you feel it—the solid mass of his chest and abdomen as he leans over you, crowds you, then the thick, scarred column of his arm as it wraps around your throat.

you yelp when he hauls you up until you’re kneeling with him, your sweat-slick back flush with his chest. the corded muscles in his arm contract as he pins your neck into the crook of his elbow, his head coming to rest directly beside your ear.

you suck in a gasp at the new angle and the way the head of his cock pushes up deep inside you. the pressure makes you keen, moaning his name as he traps you against his chest. your hands find his arm, nails dimpling the sun-kissed skin, as he noses at the shell of your ear, his hips rucking upwards.

“you’re restless today,” maekar mutters, tip of his cock nailing that perfect spot inside you. you mewl, clutching his arm as your pussy flutters around him. he pants against the pulse point below your ear. “you just couldn’t kneel there and take it, could you? were you waiting for this, sweet girl?”

his cock hits deep, the velvet ridges along the length rubbing against the slick walls of your cunt. you take him so well, squeezing tight each time he thrusts in and out, slick dribbling from you as he takes what he needs.

you whine in response. “no, maekar, i’m—”

“s’alright, s’alright…” maekar coos, his other hand curling around your waist to press flat to the mound of your lower belly. “i’ve got you, sweet girl. can’t go anywhere now, can you?”

the strong mass of his arm presses tighter to your throat, and you suck in a sharp breath. you hold his arm too, anchoring yourself as he fucks you, your entire body shifting with each of his movements. he’s grunting in your ear, and a couple of damp, white strands of hair fall across his forehead and rub near your temple.

“that’s a good girl, that’s it,” he whispers, feeling your pussy flutter around him. he’s holding you firm against him, the space between you nonexistent and boiling hot. the hand on your belly presses in, the added pressure making you cry out his name. he kisses your cheek softly. “s’alright, don’t fuss, sweet girl. just take it—just fucking take it.”

you can’t do much but take it, really. you’re pinned to his body, heat radiating from him. the bed creaks softly as his hips slam up against you, and he groans right in your ear. you moan his name in response, the vowels stretched around a whine, and he kisses the heated skin of your cheek again.

“my sweet girl, my best girl,” your husband rambles, breathing harshly as his cock ruts in and out of you, the wet heat of your cunt sucking him in. he groans, “i think you’ll take my seed just as well as you take my cock, won’t you?”

you whimper, gasping through the sound as the head of his cock grinds up against that spot inside you that has stars exploding behind your eyelids. the heat in your belly and the pressure in your spine threatens to shatter within you, and you clutch maekar’s arm in support as he fucks you. he groans, revelling in the tight squeeze of your pussy and the way slick dribbles from you, wet across the seam of his balls as he moves.

“she’s begging me for it,” maekar utters, holding you tightly as you flutter around him. “she wants me to fill her, doesn’t she? she wants me to fill her, sweet girl, i can feel it.”

you moan. “maekar, please, please, please—”

“i know, i know, i’ve got you,” your husband mutters, kissing your cheek as the heat and pressure inside finally overwhelm you. he feels your body seize up, your cunt clenching vice-like around the thick of his cock, and he knows you’re on the edge. his hand on your lower belly presses down even firmer. “let me feel you.”

you splinter from the inside out, orgasm racking through you as heat bursts like stars in your veins, and the pressure in your belly dissolves into the marrow of your bones. you come with his name on your lips, moans filling your chambers as your body trembles against his, nails digging into the scarred skin of his forearm. he fucks you through it, trapping you against him as you tremble and whine, pleasure flushing through your veins.

“good girl, there we go,” he mutters, practically bouncing your spent body back onto his. your head rolls back onto his shoulder and he plants a wet kiss to the junction of your jaw. his hips snap, then snap up again, and he growls where he kisses you, his balls drawing tight. “gods above, you’re so fucking tight. she’s begging for a babe, isn’t she? cunt’s pitching a right fit—doesn’t want to let me go.”

you mewl softly, eyes closing as maekar barrels towards his own release. there’s a sharp pressure in the base of his spine, and you can feel the desperation of his movements as he chases that pressure towards its breaking point.

maekar groans, thick and rumbling. “i’ll spill inside you, alright, sweet girl? fill you with my babe—fuck, you always look so fucking good when you’re with child, when you’re round with my babe. yeah, fuck—fuck, my sweet girl, my perfect girl—”

he’s rambling now, and that’s when you know. maekar groans your name right against the shell of your ear as his hips stutter, the arm around your throat pinning you back as he spills inside you. the pressure in his spine snaps and spreads, and he moans deep from his chest as the heat of his orgasm crashes over him. his cock nudges deep inside, right at the base of your cervix, and paints you in thick, hot ropes.

being filled has you leaning back into his hold, whimpering across a sigh as he ruts a few more times, emptying himself completely as your pussy pulls tight, milking him. he kisses along your jaw, cradling you as his cock jerks, then softens where he’s buried, slick and seed drooling slowly from where you connect.

“there we go…” maekar whispers, large hand rubbing across your belly as if that’ll help the taking process. he kneads the soft fat there with calloused fingers. “nice and full, sweet girl.”

you whine, pliant in his arms, blinking the setting sunlight from your eyes.

The golden light of the sinking sun illuminates your path through the Red Keep as you hurry through the vast network of halls, your heavy skirts whipping against your ankles as you move. Servants stop when they see you, bowing their heads or casting their eyes downwards in respect, and ever the dutiful princess, you respond with the same kind smile that has earned you quite the positive reputation across the kingdoms.

A kind, amiable consort to match the justness and integrity of the great Baelor Targaryen. A gentle hand beside him to lessen the load, to calm him of his day’s struggles and guide him tenderly through the reddened corridors of the royal residence. Whispers whirl of how your smile can subdue any man, really––lesser lords notice the relief that seems to wash off of Maekar when you enter any room, and the ladies-in-waiting spot how tension leaves the faces of Valarr and Matarys when you place your hands upon their shoulders in comfort.

Some say it is magic. Some say you are an enchantress, primed with the ancient knowledge of some kind of dark ritual that enables you to calm even the most tempestuous of storms (these rumours began when you calmed the raging Aerion one night, several moons ago, and he, to everyone’s utter shock, listened and obeyed).

But it is not magic.

Nor are you always successful.

You continue briskly down the warmly lit hallway, head level and eyes fixated onto the opening space in front of you. You can hear equally hurried footsteps behind you, and you huff to yourself, making it to your favourite wing of the castle and throwing open the door to your chambers. You slam it shut behind you and it seems the bones of the castle rattle with the force, the heavy wood appearing to rock on its hinges. With an exasperated sigh, and in a considerably unladylike manner, you fling yourself down onto the furs of your bed.

There is a gentle knock on your door.

“No,” you respond simply.

“I have yet to speak a word,” the voice of your husband travels quietly through the thick wood. Despite these being his chambers too, he did not open the door. Instead, when greeted with your silence, he continues with a gentle, “My love?”

“Leave me be,” you say loudly, lifting your faces out of the plush furs.

“I do not wish to,” Baelor replies quickly. “May I enter?”

He asks for permission to enter his own chambers. The chivalry of it all makes you sigh as you roll onto your back, picking yourself up to sit on the very edge. You let him wait for a few long moments, watching sunlight dance through the large, reticulated windows adjacent to your bed.

“My love,” he says again, somehow even more gentle than before. His tone has something twisting bitterly inside your stomach, something tasting of guilt when it rises like bile into your mouth. You shake away the feeling, pressing the tip of your tongue to the backs of your teeth as you withhold a pout. Baelor continues, “I will leave if you––”

“You may enter,” you say quickly before you regret it. Not that you ever would.

The door creaks open slowly and your husband enters your shared chambers. He closes the door softly behind him before he remains adjacent to it, mismatched eyes finding yours across the room, a deep crease in his brow. There’s something heavy there, in the way he holds your gaze, his own guilt manifesting itself in the space between you like some kind of spectre. You yearn to bat it away and make him feel right again.

He takes one step closer. “I did not mean to speak to you in such a way.”

His curt words from earlier echo around your skull as if he were shouting them at you right at that moment. Frustrated and tired, Baelor had dismissed you tersely from his solar when you attempted to peel the stress from his body with your kind words. Paired with a flick of his hand through the air in obvious dismission, his words cut through you like a knife––and he knew it. You were offering him such sweet words, such (usually) welcomed comfort and support, and he had all but cleaved your heart in half for it. A short moment after the words had been said, he looked up in surprise––surprise and shock at himself––as you withdrew from him, hands leaving his shoulders and warmth vanishing, extinguished like a candle. You had backed away and then fled the room, leaving Baelor to fumble over the papers before him, inkwell toppling over and splashing ink across the parchment as he moved quickly to get up from his desk.

You notice the ink stains on a couple of his fingers, black smudged into the crevices of his skin. His face appears calm, but he fidgets with a large silver ring on his ring finger.

“Yet you did,” you mutter in reply, crossing your arms over your body. “You spoke to me as if I was little more than… than a servant.”

You pause, then scoff out: “Actually, you are always so courteous to our servants, so I believe you spoke to me with even less courtesy. Perhaps you would speak to a hound like that, or perhaps a Blackfyre––”

Baelor huffs loudly, but he wasn’t angry. “Do not pain me, my love.”

You raise a brow in his direction.

“I apologise for the way I spoke to you. It was unbecoming and unjust of me, and I stand here before you, as your husband, to ask for your forgiveness,” Baelor says carefully, taking another couple of steps towards you. He stops, just out of arms reach. “From sunrise to evenfall I have been continuously called upon, but I know that does not excuse the insolence of my actions.”

“No,” you whisper. “It does not.”

“Please, my love.” Baelor steps forward once more and brings a large hand to the side of your face, cupping your cheek and touching his thumb to your cheekbone. “I am deeply sorry. May you forgive me?”

You notice the glassiness of his mismatched eyes and immediately melt beneath his gaze, a surge of remorse flowing through you as his other hand finds the other side of your face, cradling you. His eyes scan over you and you let your frown slip away.

“You are forgiven,” you begin.

Baelor smiles, the lines around his tired eyes deepening. “Thank––”

“On one condition.”

Baelor cuts himself short, slowly closing his mouth. You smile innocently at him as he continues to cup your face in his warm hands. He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and you feel butterflies in your stomach as if you were some simple maiden.

“Anything,” he whispers against you.

You take a step back (which requires considerable strength considering the warmth and gentleness and familiarity of his hands on your face). His arms drop to his sides and he peers at you curiously. You point at the bed behind you.

“No more work for the rest of the evening,” you say. “And you’re going to get on that bed and not move unless I tell you to.”

Baelor opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Not wanting to spurn anymore wrath from his wife, he keeps eye contact while he discards himself of his royal wear, his tunic falling away to reveal the strong expanse of his chest. Silently, you turn and he understands immediately––your clever, observant prince––and makes slow, careful work of the intricate knots on the rear of your dress.

You feel him against you. So warm and solid, his hands skim the heavy fabric as he unravels the backing with deft fingers. His breath fans over your shoulder too, which you can feel when it bares to him, the sleeve of your dress slipping down as he works. Warm lips press to warm skin. Over and over, Baelor takes the time to trail tender kisses along the shoulder, over the junction of your neck and up the side of your throat. He peels your dress down past your waist as he kisses the pulsepoint right below your ear, and you are aware that it is practically jumping out of your skin to meet him.

You lean your head back against his shoulder, your skirts hitting the solid ground with a resounding thump as his hands find the soft linen of your shift, clutching your waist. 

His nose bumps the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Then, his hands move, and you sigh out wistfully as his hands cover your breasts, palms burning-hot even above the thin material. He kneads you there as he sucks the skin at the curve of your neck, humming quietly to himself. You reach a hand behind you to loop into the band of his trousers, pulling him closer, feeling the imprint of him against your backside. You arch into the feeling and his quiet hum turns into a low groan.

You step forward and bring him with you with your finger hooked into his trousers still. He followers willingly, hands reaching for you as you spin out of his grasp, laughing. You stop at the edge of the bed.

Baelor quickly makes work of his trousers, and you can’t help but giggle at the desperation he shows in rucking them down his legs and then ridding himself of his breeches like a lovesick lord. You bite your lip as his already hard cock bobs out, and you have a moment where you wish to reach forward and grasp it (but you realise that would likely end up with you on all fours on the ground––good in any other situation but this).

You nod to the bed.

“So demanding,” he chuckles warmly, clambering onto the bed before turning to rest against the multitude of pillows at the top. He puts one arm beneath his head, smiling over at you as you slowly begin to remove your shift.

He watches you as if he’s being rewarded, free hand wrapped around the base of his cock. The head is ruddy with blood already, precum pearling at the slit as his eyes darken.

Your shift finally, finally––taking too fucking long, Baelor thought––hits the floor, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the room. Golden sunshine illuminates your body in such a way that Baelor’s mouth drops open: you were a vision from the gods themselves.

“Seven above…” He mutters, fisting his cock. The pearl of precum drops and rolls alongside a dark vein prominent on the underside.

You crawl towards him, breasts on full display as you settle up between his legs, and you hear his breath quicken, see the paced rise and fall of his chest. You make a point of swooping in low as you slink over his abdomen, the flushed head of his cock brushing between the swell of your breasts. Baelor groans loudly, the look of victory on his face mere moments ago completely gone. His pupils are blown wide with lust and his cock twitches as he rucks his hand shallowly over the base.

“My love,” he breathes out. “Gods, please, I need you.”

You straddle his hips, cock a hair’s breadth away from the heat of your core. You lift yourself and ignore the slight tremble in your thighs.

“Do you know how wet you make me?” You ask him in a whisper, and the groan that elicits from his chest was as strong an aphrodisiatic as anything you could find in Lys. You continue, “How soaked I am, simply from your touch?”

Baelor swallows thickly. “Show me––”

“How much I ache for you?” You lift yourself higher until the head of his cock, flushed a painful, bruising red, presses softly to your slick core.

“Oh fuck––” Your husband draws in a sharp breath.

But you don’t sink down. You simply begin to rock yourself back and forth, nudging the head of his cock through the wet folds of your cunt while you whine and whisper questions at him that he most definitely cannot answer. He could reach forward and take your hip in one large hand, slamming you down onto him. He has the power to do it, the nerve to do it, but he holds firm. Doesn’t move. Obeying his princess while she takes what she needs.

“Do you know how often you work late into nightfall, leaving me here, alone? How I have to touch myself to the thought of you because you are not here to satisfy me.”

The prince curses again and screws his eyes shut, relishing in the wet heat coursing down the length of his cock. He imagines you lying in your shared bed, your fingers crooked deep into the silken warmth of your cunt, moans drawing from your lips including a loud lilt of his name into the emptiness of the chambers. He envisions the pads of your fingers working desperately over the swollen bud of your clit, your back arching, nipples straining against the thin white fabric of your shift, pussy bared to the room and clenching around nothing.

His cock twitches and he groans.

“Let me taste you, my love,” is all he can think to say as he opens his eyes. He lets go of his cock to reach for your hip, squeezing gently and caressing the skin, as if that would help strengthen his case. 

If you were a weaker woman, it would have.

Instead, you angled yourself to pry his hand away from his cock. He held you still, but let you move his fist away, watching with hooded eyes. All thoughts of work left his mind as you dragged his cock back and forth along the dripping seam of your cunt, nudging your clit and pressing against your hole. Again, and again, and––

“Gods, sweetheart, please,” Baelor whispers, tone strained, his free hand gripping the furs of the bed tightly, knuckles white. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m––”

It takes the power of all Seven above for you not to smile in victory at his incessant pleas before you’re slowly sinking down onto his cock. His head falls back against the pillows and he moans your name, loud and clear into the golden glow of your chambers as his free hand snaps to your hip to mirror the other.

Your cunt opens perfectly for him and you whimper at the stretch. He splits you open, sinking deep inside you in one fluid motion like a sword into its scabbard. The perfect fit. And he lets you know it, too––

“That’s it, that’s it, so good,” Baelor mutters his praises when he finally opens his eyes to look at you again. “So good for me, my love. So good––yeah, there we go.”

You start to move, your thighs tightening as you lift yourself and shift back down, cock rutting deep towards the plug of your cervix. The angle is torturous, and you can feel the vein on his cock inside you. It makes you moan, and then whine when his hands brace against the flesh of your hips. He’s pulling you down onto him before he can stop himself, panting as he watches your pussy take him like something out of a dream.

A spark ignites deep in your belly, your body heating. That fierce, intense heat that seemed to roll off most Targaryen men was the same heat that settles now inside you––inside your womb as you ride a dragon. Your dragon.

And he was never one to play on that too much. Never one to flaunt the fire that ran wild in his veins. Until, of course, he had you over top of him like this. Riding his cock so well, taking him so deep, drawing growls from a hidden part within him.

“That’s a good girl,” he says darkly, his cold rings a biting presence against your waist. “Keep going––ride your dragon, sweetheart.”

You moan, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care that the sound probably penetrated the castle walls around you. You focus on the blooming pleasure in the bottom of your belly, the tingle building in the base of your spine, and the heat of his gaze on your face and breasts as you ride him.

Sweat builds up on the back of your neck and down the curve of your spine. You’re panting like a hound, toes curling against the soft furs, hands gripping at the softness of his stomach and chest, feeling the hair there. Baelor’s hands are strong on your hips, rolling you against him, his own hips shifting upwards with each of your movements, meeting you in the middle and thrusting himself deeper inside you. Your cunt is drooling out from around him, and he can’t help but stare at the thin, white ring that is slowly building at the base of his length. Maybe you are magic.

“Baelor,” you whine.

The wooden bedframe is creaking, the candles on a nearby table are flickering, and the setting sun has morphed from a resplendent gold to a blood red. Your chambers were bathed in the colour, your skin drenched in it, matching the ruby that sparkled on one of Baelor’s rings.

He huffs deeply. “My love?”

“I’m…” You taper off on a whine, head flopping forward as your legs begin to cramp and the tension in your belly grows tighter, pulling taut like a bowstring. You manage to whisper out a desperate, “Oh gods, please…”

“I know, I know,” Baelor shushes you gently. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you whine. You lasted in your conquest for a good amount of time, but ultimately, you can never stay strong when your husband is involved.

He feels you clench around him and he almost loses his sanity, his next words dying on his tongue. They were honey-sweet, though, and so he quickly conjures up, “Need to feel you come around me,” before a low moan rips from his chest.

The hair at his temples has darkened with sweat, his chest flushed. He can feel the desperate tension in his cock, his balls tightening with every wet thrust into the tight clutch of your cunt. He’s fucking you roughly now, chasing the highs that crest upon an imagined horizon like the blazing sun beyond the Keep’s walls. It feels like there is smoking billowing from him, his grunts deep and bordering animalistic, eyes swimming in a red haze as night creeps into the room. The red streaming in is dying out, slowly, slowly––

He moans your name. “Come on, sweetheart, let me feel you.”

You gasp out. “Fu-uck!” And then come around his cock with a drawn-out moan.

Your pussy draws tight around the thick of him, squeezing and pulsing with your rapid heartbeat. It leaves you breathless, heart hammering against your ribcage as you slump forward, arms liquifying as your pleasure rocks through you. But Baelor catches you, presses you firmly to his chest with one hand while the other retains its grip on your hip, fucking you down onto his cock. He kisses you like this. When you’re pliant in his arms, the qualms of the day banished from your pleasure-hazed mind, he places wet kisses across your face, your throat. He sucks at your neck and tastes the salt of your sweat, and then he licks into your mouth and tastes the saccharine remnants of blood oranges imported from Dorne.

Laying here with you, moving together, his mouth on yours, his cock inside you, Baelor forgets about everything he needs to complete today. He forgets about what had stressed him, and forgets the inkwell likely still dripping onto the stone floor of his solar.

His thrusts become sloppier, less coordinated. He pants into your mouth, kissing the corner with a surprising tenderness in contrast with his manic thrusting.

“Baelor––” You sob out through a tired whimper.

“S’alright, my love, just be good for me,” he replies quickly, and you can hear the tension strung between each word. “Be good for me––fuck, yeah, that’s––oh gods, take it for me, sweetheart, take it––”

With one last rut of his hips, Baelor pulls your arse tightly onto him, practically melding you to his hips as his cock twitches once, twice, and then spills inside you. The sensation draws a strained groan from the prince, and the feeling of his cum filling you shoves an involuntary gasp out of your parted lips.

The two of you lay together, heaving chests pressed against one another, your raging hearts falling into sync, sweat slick between your burning bodies. Like glowing embers, the heir to the iron throne and his beloved wife settle and fizzle out just as the sun finally vanishes behind the distant horizon.

Now only a few candles cast light on where the two of you remain intertwined, Baelor’s softening cock still nestled inside you, your combined slick and cum slowly dribbling out and onto the furs.

Baelor presses another characteristically tender kiss to your forehead as he strokes your back with his large, worn hands. “I am truly sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier, my love. I will never cause you such distress again, gods believe me.”

He nuzzles against your cheek as you reply, “I forgive you, my prince. I know how much of a dragon you become when you are overwhelmed.”

He grunts against you, but says nothing more, knowing that, once again, you’re right. And being with you has extinguished the day’s burdens and he feels utterly content.

Maybe you are magic.

———

there’s a dull ache seated in your womb from the force of his thrusts, and a tension in your thighs as you part your legs for him. skin slaps against skin, the sound echoing throughout the room, a nearby candle flickering with your joint movements. you rock against the desk, sweat building beneath your bodice, clinging to the curve of your spine and beneath the swell of your breasts where they’re pinned to the wood.

baelor grunts loudly above you with each rut of his cock. your pussy opens for him, silken walls split wet and hot around the thick of his cock. he grunts like a fighting man—like a man battling with his own pleasure, heavy balls landing firmly against your clit, a honey-thick tension pooling at the base of his spine.

he holds you tightly, heart leaping against his sternum as he listens to the whines and whimpers that drop from your lips. the clutch of your cunt sucks him in, warm and deep and his, and he can’t stop the groan of your name that follows a particularly deep, rolling thrust towards the plug of your womb.

“such a sweet girl,” baelor manages, vowels hoarse around another grunt. he feels your pussy flutter around him, and he coos, “my perfect girl, bending and taking me so well, aren’t you?”

you nod with your cheek pressed to the desk, but it doesn’t work too well. instead, you dip further into an arch, sucking him in even deeper as he ruts up towards the base of your cervix, the angle pulling him in close. you moan loudly when the head of his cock nudges up against that perfect spot inside you, and you can’t help the way your legs begin to tremble when he drives into that spot over and over again.

“my best girl,” baelor continues his praise, rolling his hips in a way that has you writhing beneath him. but he holds you firmly, unyielding in his strength as he fucks you. “you always do so well for me.”

“baelor,” you gasp out, suddenly feeling breathless. your orgasm looms like a phantom, hovering just out of reach but drawing nearer the more you chant—sporadic moans of baelor’s name and title as your body grows hot. you whimper, a stiff knot of pleasure in the very base of your tummy. “oh gods, baelor.”

baelor groans in response, hips stuttering for a moment before he collects himself with a whisper of your name. “my girl. all mine—you’re all mine, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

you can’t respond. his cock pushes so deep inside you that it knocks the air from your lungs, and you’re too busy trying not to drown in your own pleasure to string together a proper sentence. but your husband won’t settle for that: he rucks his hips hard into you, shunting you against the desk and forcing a yowl from the back of your throat.

“aren’t you?” baelor repeats, panting as he moves. sweat beads high on his forehead, a sticky heat trapped beneath the thick material of his tunic and doublet. he continues, “you’re all mine?”

“yes,” you blurt out around a moan as you shake against his desk, the glass bottle of a nearby inkwell trembling with you. your pussy clenches tight around the thick of his cock, stretched out and drooling where you bend for him. the heat of your orgasm rapidly begins to cook you alive, and you’re panting before you can stop yourself. “yes, baelor, oh my gods.”

“ah, such a good listener,” baelor says, lilting and almost mocking as you hurtle towards release. he brings you back against him, admiring the ripple of your flesh as he moves you against his pelvis. he takes a hand and palms the fat of your arse cheek. “i love it when you do what you’re told.”

the way he says that undoes the knot of pleasure inside you, and you come with one final moan of his name. he fucks you through it, thrusting deep and hard towards the plug of your womb, grunting as you come apart beneath him. you shake, limbs trembling as you huff and moan and mewl, sounds bouncing off the stone walls. your pussy clenches around his cock, fluttering with the hammering of your heart, and the tension in your body releases.

“oh there she is, that’s it,” baelor murmurs, patting your arse before taking hold of your hips again. he pulls you to him, desk groaning in protest as he ruts into you again and again. the pressure inside him builds, and builds still, until he feels the muscles in his jaw working as he grits out, “and now she’s going to take my—ha, uh—my cum, yeah? s’that what you want?”

because you’re such a good listener, you nod. you nod deliriously, mewling for him to spill inside you, stuff you full. his response is a deep, resonating groan that echoes more dragon then man, followed by a hushed whimper of your name. then, he’s shoving himself to the hilt inside you, a sheathing of valyrian steel, hands bunched tightly on your hips, and spilling.

his head falls back, the lump in his throat working as he moans and comes deep inside you. his balls jerk, drawing up from where they rested against your slick folds as his hips falter to a stop. baelor groans again, emptying himself until he’s satiated. he folds himself then, when his heart no longer clatters against his ribs, across your back, pressing you even harder into the desk.

Two days before your nameday, when the sun swam amongst an ichor of oranges and reds along the line of the horizon, your father informed you that Prince Baelor Targaryen was to attend your nameday tourney.

You had stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, from the reflection in your mirror as you readied yourself for bed. The hand of the king, heir to the Iron Throne, the Baelor Breakspear was to attend your nameday tourney? You weren’t sure whether to be thrilled to have such an esteemed guest attending your event, or petrified that a prince of the realm—the prince of the realm—was to be within your castle upon the morrow.

At daybreak, you still weren’t sure how to feel, let alone several hours later, when you stand before the lush gardens of your home as the unmistakable black and red banners approach from between a pair of willow trees. Nerves twist in your stomach as the convoy comes to a stop before you, your father standing just in front. Sweat builds out of fear along the back of your neck as the prince dismounts his horse and approaches your father like an old friend.

“Seven blessings, your grace,” your father says, bowing politely before clasping Baelor’s hands firmly. 

The pair share an amiable smile before Baelor gestures to the beautiful stone castle you call your home. It is not the largest, but it is clean and warm and dry, and that’s all that matters to you.

“I appreciate both your invitation and your hospitality,” Baelor tells your father, diplomatic and courteous. Exactly the man you have been told he is.

You watch the exchange timidly, hands balling at your sides in an attempt to prevent yourself from fidgeting. Fidgeting is unladylike, your father had told you once. You were able to distract yourself, however, by slowly appraising the prince as he engaged in conversation. You had seen him once before, many years ago, when you were much younger and your memory was blurred at the edges. It was from a distance then, but now you could see him so much closer.

There were always whispers of his Dornish features that differentiated him from the typical Targaryen, and seeing them up close, they made him even more handsome than you can begin to describe. The dark hair, wisped with grey, and the mismatched eyes. A subtle confidence in his posture, a pride in his broad chest, an undeniable strength in his arms and hands—you see the rings there, and the veins that run along the back, and find yourself feeling slightly light-headed.

You hear your name.

You jump slightly, blinking yourself from your daze to find that your name was spoken by Baelor himself. He is facing you, his entire body turned in your direction. You grow warm as you drop into a curtsy, one you have tediously practised, and set your gaze on the ground as you do so.

When you rise, Baelor is still looking at you. His gaze is as soft as the early morning sun, and you find yourself wondering if this Targaryen is as much a dragon as the rest of them are.

—✿—

You are the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

And it makes his chest swell tightly with shame because you are so much younger than him—too many years younger than him.

But yet, his eyes linger from his position at the window of your father’s solar. He can see you through the pane’s lattices, ambling slowly through the gardens with a couple of your ladies. Your skirts flow like water around your heels, your face pressed into a serene smile as one of your ladies says something to you. From this angle, too, he can see the lines of your shoulders and the top of your breasts, the curve of your jaw as you tilt your head, peering at something further afield.

“Your grace?”

Your father’s voice forces Baelor to turn from the window, shaking his head slightly. What baser instincts have overtaken him that he is spying on a young woman through an upper-floor window?

“Your daughter,” Baelor begins casually, leaning himself against the stone lip beneath the window. “She is unbetrothed?”

Your father makes an annoyed face, and Baelor suddenly sits up a little straighter. There is something heavy—like disappointment—in your father’s eyes. Baelor clocks it immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he awaits a response.

“I have attempted to find her suitors, but she is rather… recalcitrant. I blame that on her mother,” your lord father says from his desk, reclining back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest, an exasperated look on his face. “I had no problem securing betrothals for her siblings, but she is proving to be more difficult.”

Baelor responds calmly. “How so?”

Your father sighs. “She spends too much time with the commonfolk for her own good, she is much too engaged with political discourse, and she spends most of her time engaging in activities I explicitly tell her not to do. Not to mention her needlework is unrefined—”

“What do you mean by that?” Baelor continues, spinning one of the rings around on his finger. “What kind of activities, I mean.”

The prince was thankful his younger brother wasn’t here, for he was certain that Maekar would have picked up on exactly what it was he was trying to achieve.

Baelor wanted to get to know you. He wanted to know why exactly a young woman as stunning as yourself remained holed up within this castle. Why there were no suitors clamouring around the halls in pursuit of you. He places his hands on the stone lip of the windowsill to stop himself from playing with the garnet-encrusted ring on his finger.

“I have caught her gambling, using dragons, in local inns, participating in mock sword fights with her cousins, using real blades. Gods above, she has recently taken a penchant for archery, of all things,” your father says almost embarrassed. He looks over at Baelor. “But, I will not give up. I hope that whoever the victor of this little tourney will make an appropriate match for her.”

The grip Baelor has on the stone turns white-knuckled.

—✿—

That afternoon, you successfully avoid your father and return to the fields at the rear of your home. Here, a stack of hay bales sit across the grass, fashioned into a crudely made target. You grab your bow and bundle of arrows, hidden in a nearby shrub, and align yourself with the target, the middle of the topmost bale painted with a couple of red rings.

You knock your arrow with shaky arms, elbow dropping too low as you aim, fire, and proceed to watch the arrow fly high above the bales.

“Seven give me strength…” You mutter, annoyed but undeterred.

You take a deep breath, rolling your shoulders as you prepare to notch another arrow. You find it difficult to keep your elbow bent the way it’s supposed to, and all the help you received from your father’s best archer was nothing, other than informing you he was a right cunt. Women aren’t natural archers, it’s a man’s weapon, he had said.

“Fucking idiot,” you say angrily to yourself and let the second arrow fly. It wobbles as it zips through the air, but manages to clip the corner of the top bale, sending a puff of straw into the air.

“Ah, what did the hay ever do to you?”

You whirl around with a yelp at the unexpected voice behind you. Baelor chuckles at the fright that passes over your face as he approaches, footsteps dulled in the soft grass. You blow out a breath, quickly gathering yourself and bowing your head as he reaches you.

“My prince,” you say quietly. “I apologise, I did not mean—”

“No, no, do not apologise,” Baelor interrupts you gently, then gestures at the bow clutched in your hand and the pile of arrows at your feet. “I did not mean to intrude on your practice.”

You grow warm, stomach fluttering as you poorly attempt to hide the bow behind your back. Bashful, you stutter, “I’m not–it’s not–”

Baelor laughs quietly and reaches a strong hand in your direction. He gently takes your forearm and slowly pulls it back around until the bow rests before you once more. His touch is warm atop the soft fabric of your sleeve, but you flinch when his thumb presses against a bruise forming beneath your skin.

He notices this, eyes dropping. Then, he tuts. Tuts, like you were a child suddenly caught stealing cakes from the kitchens.

“M’lady, you must wear a bracer for such activities,” Baelor tells you, bringing his other hand to push away your sleeve and reveal your forearm. His fingers brush against the inside of your wrist with a tenderness that makes your legs weak.

You pray that he cannot feel your pulse quicken. “I do not need one.”

There’s a sparkle in Baelor’s mismatched eyes when he meets yours. Then, his thumb presses just a little bit harder on the tender flesh of your arm’s ventral side. You hiss out as he blindly pinpoints a steadily blooming bruise from the previous days’ practice, and you withdraw your arm from his hold.

His hands drop. “Every good archer needs a bracer because every good archer has arms in need of protecting.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, head turning to look at the untouched hay bale target several dozen yards away. “I am not a good archer, your grace.”

Baelor peers at you curiously. He notes the dejectedness in your tone, and the subtle sadness in your beautiful eyes. He has always wanted to help, to solve, to be of service, but the feeling triples as he rakes his eyes over you, a honey-thick possessiveness filling his chest. He takes another step closer.

“You are practising,” he says. His tone is so soft. Even softer than the way you hear the stableboys easing the skittish mares. Baelor continues, “The best archers in all the realm were not simply born as such. They had to practise.”

You chew your lip thoughtfully, turning back to face him. You feel slightly embarrassed, not just at the fact that the heir to the Iron Throne is being so candid with you, but also because you are finding it so hot. The butterflies in your stomach increase tenfold.

“Here.” Baelor lifts his arms. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll direct you.”

Tentatively, you allow the prince to guide you into position—slotting an arrow into place and holding the bow and arrow like you usually would before release. This time, however, Baelor places his palm to your elbow and lifts it. His fingers reach over to brush against your shoulder too, forcing a subtle change in your posture.

“Here we go,” he says, circling you. You can feel the warmth of his chest against your back as one of his hands finds the bow, altering your aim, whilst the other skims over your ribs, guiding your body to change direction just slightly. “Keep an open stance, shoulders straight—yeah, there we go, that’s a good girl.”

You’re sure he doesn’t mean it like that, but you have to bite your lip hard to stop yourself from whimpering involuntarily. It also takes the strength of an entire army to keep you from squeezing your thighs together.

“And we want to keep our core engaged,” Baelor finishes, and suddenly his hand is pressing lightly against your tummy. Big palm, wide-spread fingers, pushing enough for your breath to hitch. His voice skims past your ear. “This keeps a solid foundation. Now, try pulling back and taking a shot.”

You take a deep breath and set your eyes on your target across the field, acutely aware of his hand still ghosting across your stomach and the heat of his body against your back. You wonder, just briefly, what would happen if you stepped back into him.

Focus.

You pull your arm back just a little bit more and then let go. You don’t bother wincing at the pain that snaps across your exposed forearm, instead watching as your arrow splits through the air with a light whistle before penetrating the second red ring of the target. You push away from Baelor to jump up in victory, skirts bouncing around you as you pump a fist into the air like an excited child.

“Yes!” You exclaim, breaking off into a sprint across the field.

Baelor smiles as he watches you examine the arrow embedded in the hay bale. However, the cool air that hits him makes him miss the warmth of your body, the smell of your skin.

“Seven forgive me…” He mutters to himself as he watches the way you bend, the curve of your arse rounded by the heavy fabrics of your skirts.

—✿—

As the sun sets, you find yourself sneaking out through a servant’s entrance—like you so often do—and heading down into the tourney’s encampment yonder. Colourful tents are pitched, crowded beside one another, with people milling about, talking and shouting and drinking. There are banners that you recognise fluttering softly in the breeze, and there are some you have never seen before. The market is bustling too, and oil lanterns light the faces of vendors selling their goods.

“M’lady!” One of the vendors calls to you as you wind your way through the crowd.

You approach with a smile, and the older woman who had called to you gestures at the array of fruits stacked along a wooden table. “Apples and peaches, fresh from the Reach, or ‘ve got the more exotic choice ‘ere: pomegranates, from Dorne.”

You pluck a round, brilliantly red pomegranate from a small crate. “When I saw you in the village a moon ago, you didn’t have pomegranates. How did you get these?”

The older woman points at you, grinning. “I have my ways.”

You shake your head, passing the woman a few coins and taking a sack of pomegranates and peaches. You then make your way through the market, still humming with people even as the sky steadily darkens and the shadows beneath the nearby trees grow larger.

Soon, you find yourself in front of a stall lined with daggers, the blades glinting in the light of an overhead lantern. You spy a few with handles carved from bone, others made of steel and wrapped in leather, even one chiselled into a serpent’s head with rubies for eyes.

“First it was bows and arrows, now it is blades? You have dangerous pastimes, m’lady.”

You flinch at the sudden noise, turning to find Baelor sidling up beside you. Only now do you notice the hush that has fallen over the nearby crowd, and how the vendor of the stall you stood before stands up straighter. You notice, too, the presence of the kingsguard lurking amongst the shadows in your peripheral vision.

“Your grace,” you greet, bowing your head.

You don’t curtsy, but offer him a small smile instead. He returns it, and then peers down to where your fingers brush over the ornately carved hilt of a silver dagger. You withdraw your hand.

He chuckles, hands behind his back. “Do not fret.”

You swallow, nervous. “Is my father—?”

“Not here,” Baelor says immediately. Then, he nods back to the daggers. “Go on. Choose one.”

You grip the sack of fruit tightly in one hand, your other hand fidgeting with the softly braided belt at your waist. You can feel his eyes on you as you look between the daggers laid out neatly on the table before you. Hesitantly, you reach for one with a smooth, straight-edged blade. The hilt is simple, wrapped in ridged leather that matches the colour of your house, but the pommel flares out a little into a sphere, a small gemstone glittering in its centre. It’s a solid, comforting weight in your hand.

“Beautiful,” Baelor remarks, but his eyes haven’t left your face.

You can’t help but smile as you spin the dagger slowly against your palm. You look up at Baelor after a moment, gesturing to the daggers with the point of your own.

“And you?” You query.

He shakes his head, hand moving to rest at his side where a dagger sits comfortably in its sheath on his belt. “No, I’ve my own.”

You hum, eyes dragging back down to the table. They immediately find the dagger with the serpent-head pommel. You place your dagger down to pick up that one, examining it beneath the lantern light, the rubies in the eyes sparkling. Baelor watches you curiously as you hold it out towards him, a warmth in your eyes he hasn’t seen in a woman in a very long time. It just about renders him speechless.

“Now this,” you say quietly. “Is very Targaryen, don’t you agree, your grace?”

He eyes the dagger, mouth curving into a smile. “Certainly.”

“And do you like it?”

“I do.”

“Then consider it a gift,” you say finally, urging the prince to take the dagger from you. He does, his fingers brushing yours, and you feel butterflies returning to your stomach. 

However, before you can speak any further, he is shaking his head and reaching for a small coin purse hidden on the other side of him and handing several dragons to the vendor. The vendor gapes as he gratefully takes the coins, and then you gape at Baelor as he gently leads you away from the market stall, grabbing the dagger you had placed down before doing so.

“That is not how gifts work,” you comment with surprise.

In the shadows of a towering willow nearby, Baelor stops and turns to you. Carefully, he hooks a finger into the braided belt at your waist and pulls you forward slightly. Your heart skips a beat as the distance between the two of you narrows, the heat and masculine smell of him engulfing you. With great tenderness, Baelor slots your blade into the belt, hand brushing across your hip as he does so.

“That is exactly how gifts work,” he utters, voice rich and dark. “I gifted the dagger to you, and you have accepted it.”

Your eyebrows draw together. “But—”

“I am prince of the realm,” Baelor interrupts you easily. His hand is resting on your hip now, and his tone makes the words in your mouth dry up instantly. “I have gifted you this dagger, and you have accepted it, haven’t you?”

You can’t speak. Words fail you, throat closing up around a soft whimper. So, you nod. And then Baelor, Prince Baelor Breakspear, reaches up and pats one large hand against one of your warmed cheeks, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“That’s a good girl.”

Fuck.

—✿—

In the middle of the night, you find yourself tossing and turning amongst the soft sheets of your bed. Your chambers are dark around you, cooled since your fire died out, but you were too hot. Sweat clung to the backs of your knees, the base of your spine, up along the nape of your neck. It was almost feverish the way your body thrums with heat, and you sit up in your bed, sleep evading you.

Maybe a drink of water and a cake of some sort will quell your restlessness.

You push yourself out of bed, rubbing your eyes as you pad across your chambers. From a table near the door, you grab your chamberstick, light it, and head out your door.

The corridors of your castle are lit with the soft orange glow of mounted torches, and it is rather quiet save for the distant clanking footsteps of guards on patrol. Your footsteps are muffled against the carpet that rolls through the middle of the hallway as you make your way down the large, winding staircase and towards the kitchens.

You find the large kitchens empty save for one maid, Marla, who is sweeping the floor beside the oven’s hearth. She looks up as you enter, then curtsies with the broom still in her hand. She has worked here since before you were born.

“You need not greet me as such at this hour,” you tell her as you approach the large table in the centre of the room. You gesture to yourself as you walk, dressed in your thin nightgown. “Especially when I look like this.”

Marla laughs softly, then nods towards a foot-long wooden box on the table. “You are still the lady of the house, even at this hour.”

“Ha,” you laugh, slightly spiteful. You place your chamberstick nearby, the flame adding to the low glow from the torches on the upper walls. “Do not remind me.”

You open the lid of the box and find neatly lined rows of honeycakes, dusted with sugar. Excitedly, you take one, still slightly warm to the touch, and take a large, rather unladylike bite, groaning blissfully as you chew. Marla shakes her head in amusement, smiling softly at you as she stores the broom away.

“Leftover from supper,” she tells you as you finish your honeycake. It’s perfectly sweet and soft and reminds you of your childhood. 

As you help yourself to another cake, Marla disappears momentarily and returns with a cup of water. She places it in front of you.

“Thank you,” you say through a mouthful of cake. Then, you point at the box with sugar-coated fingers. “Will you have one?”

Marla hesitates, peering over her shoulder through the shadowed doorway that you know leads to the servants quarters. “I shouldn’t…”

You swallow your mouthful then push the box towards her with your free hand. You drum your fingers against the side as she looks between you and the door.

“As you said, I am the lady of the house,” you tell her pointedly. “Have a cake… please.”

Marla smiles timidly, but approaches the table anyway. She brushes her hands across her flour-dusted apron and plucks a golden honeycake from the box. You offer her your half-eaten one, and she laughs as she taps hers against it before taking a bite. The moment is quiet before she speaks again.

“It is your nameday.”

“Not until the morrow.”

“It is the morrow, my lady.”

You stop chewing. “Gods, what hour is it?”

“We have long since passed the hour of ghosts.”

“Oh.” You swallow, then suck on one of your fingers in thought, cleaning it of sugar. “Then I shan’t keep you any longer—”

“Oh, my apologies, m’lady.”

You whirl around, finger still in your mouth, to find Baelor in the doorway of the kitchens. You faintly hear Marla squeak behind you as she drops into a deep curtsy, her mouth stuffed full of honeycake. The sound makes you snort as you take your finger from your mouth, shooting her a look as she hurries to swallow.

“Don’t choke,” you joke, and she gives you a stern look.

You turn back to Baelor, who watches you thoughtfully, eyes shadowed where he stands beneath the warm light of a nearby torch.

“Archery, sneaking out, and now pestering servants for cakes? You really are troublesome, aren’t you?” Baelor chuckles softly, crossing into the kitchen.

You scoff, folding your arms over your chest. The movement causes your nightgown to rise slightly, the fabric fluttering near your knees. “I am not stealing. I was spending time with Marla.”

Baelor’s eyes find Marla for a split second. Marla hangs her head, slowly edging towards the servant’s door.

“At this hour?” Baelor cocks a brow at you.

You scoff again, then turn to Marla. Now, she’s in the doorway and giving you a pointed look. No longer bashful with Baelor’s attention away from her. She’s looking at you with a quirk in her brow and a subtle smile on her lips.

Then, she quickly says, “I’ll take my leave, your grace, my lady.”

She vanishes, and you turn back to find Baelor staring right at you and a lot closer than you had originally thought he was. So much so that you can see the colours of his eyes through the shadowed darkness. They shift downwards, and you realise you’re standing in your sleepwear, the material of the nightgown thin against the dips and curves of your body.

“The last time I checked, I was the lady of this house, meaning I can do whatever I want within its walls,” you tell him, returning to the earlier conversation. “You, on the other hand…”

Baelor takes a step forward, and you take a step back. The small of your back hits the large table, your chamberstick trembling beside you, the small pan rocking against the wood.

He looks around the kitchen. “Sleep evades me.”

“So you decide to wander a foreign castle on your lonesome?” You note the absence of the kingsguard following after the wake of his shadow.

He nods, looking back to you now. There’s a tenderness in his expression that makes you feel slightly dizzy. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep, but you find yourself gripping onto the edge of the table in fear your legs will give way, knees weak.

“I do not usually have such freedoms at home,” Baelor tells you honestly, taking another step forward. 

A small bit of fear passes through you like a phantom—not fear of him, but the fear that he, a prince of the realm, is suddenly too close to you, a lady, dressed only in her nightgown and delicate smallclothes beneath. Out of instinct, you raise one of your hands and he walks into it, your fingers and palm pressing to his chest.

His tunic is warm with the heat of him, as if he’s only just rolled out of bed.

“Your grace…” You warn him as he stops, head cocking to the side as if trying to get a better read of your facial expression.

He watches you. You look angelic in the soft orange glow of the torches, the flickering flame of your chamberstick distorting shadows across the exposed skin of your neck and throat.

“Your father intends to wed you to the victor of this tourney,” Baelor says to you suddenly. The words make your mouth go dry with shock. He continues, “He says you are recalcitrant. Says you are difficult to manage.”

As he speaks, one of his hands encircles your wrist where your hand is still pressed to his chest. He holds you there, feeling the rhythmic thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers.

“I am,” you reply defiantly.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

You watch as he slowly lifts your hand away from his chest. His mismatched eyes examine your fingers, and your mouth drops open slightly when you realise you’ve pressed a few fingerprints of dusted sugar onto his tunic.

Mortification flushes through you. “My prince—”

“I think,” Baelor begins, raising your hand to his face. “You’re a young woman in need of some guidance. Need a firm hand to set you on the straight and narrow, hm?”

The prince presses his lips to the tip of your middle finger, kissing the sugar from the grooves of the print. Your lips part further, a breathless huff leaving you as he repeats the action on your ring finger, practically sucking the dusted sugar off of your skin. Heat blooms beneath the linen of your smallclothes, and you whine quietly, clenching your thighs together. His lips brush across the base of your fingers, then over the lines of your palm, before he finally presses a kiss to your wrist. Your pulse jumps to meet him, the heat there burning against the softness of his lips.

“Is that what you need?” He asks you softly as he turns your hand in his hold. He presses a kiss to the back, then your knuckles, then up to the joint of your wrist.

“Yeah…” You reply. It’s winded, quiet, desperate.

The heir to the Iron Throne is kissing your hand right now.

“And who’s going to do that for you?” Baelor lowers your hand but follows the movement, stepping closer and shrinking the space between you.

You look like a doe staring up at him.

“You,” you manage to whisper. “You, my prince.”

Baelor leans forward and your breath hitches heavily in your chest. Still gripping the table, you remain still as he crowds your space, head dipping. His lips, as warm as they were on your hand and wrist, skim across the curve of your cheek, and then press to the very corner of your mouth. You subtly angle your head, presenting more of yourself to him, but he pulls back, and you catch sight of a small bit of white sugar across his lips. He licks it away.

“Such a sweet girl.” He leans back in again, this time his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, accepting the way you shift your head for him. He nips at the skin as his hands find your hips, lips travelling to your ear, where he whispers, “Will you let me guide you?”

Your hands fly away from the edge of the table and circle around his shoulders, pressing him to you.

“Yes,” you say quickly. “Please, my prince, I need—”

His head moves, and suddenly his mouth is on yours. You whine the second his lips slot against you, the sound making him grunt as the hold he has on your hips tightens. You part your lips for him, his tongue pressing in the moment you do so. A warm, wet slide over your bottom teeth, licking across your bottom lip. You taste the tiniest sweetness of sugar on his tongue, as he tastes the honey-sweetness cloying across your own.

—✿—

The thoughts he has of you are unbecoming of a future king, but he can’t help himself. Not with you. Not when you look at him with glossy eyes and a little pout in your lips. Not when your pulse flutters with each brush of his hand against you. The Seven may judge him but he knows, deep within his psyche, something chiseling into his bones, that you are meant to be his. Why else would your body be reacting this way?

Why else would you be hoisting yourself onto the table to wrap your legs around his waist, the linen of your nightgown riding up your thighs? Why else would the heat of your core press against his hardening length, separated by barriers of material, grinding and pushing? Why would you be whining and whimpering into his mouth as his hands caress your hips, and why would your hands be gripping the muscles of his shoulders like a feral cat?

“My prince,” you call for him softly as his mouth drops to suck kisses down the supple skin of your throat—the same skin he had been admiring just moments before.

You taste of roses, of clean water and the musk of sweat. The softness of your voice and the sweetness of your skin seems to pull at his invisible strings, his hips rocking forward to nudge the tent of his trousers between your legs.

—✿—

He pulls back, hands shifting from your hips to rub down your thighs. You shiver at the touch, clutching his shoulders still, as the heat of his hands passes through your nightgown. His fingers find the hem, toying with the stitching there, as his eyes rise to meet yours in an act of consent. You nod, and the prince continues, pushing the fabric up towards your hips.

You groan, tone dulcet, as the soft skin of your thighs is revealed to the shadowy kitchens. Baelor hums low in his throat, and then he’s dropping to his knees before you. The action makes you gasp and teeter slightly at the edge of the table. Your hands find the ledge once more as the prince presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, one of his hands massaging over the fat of your thigh and dipping to the edge of your smallclothes.

“Please,” you whisper, and Baelor knows there are men out there who would go to war if a pretty lady like you begged them like this. He knows he would. “Please, my prince—”

“Baelor,” he corrects you gently, hooking his fingers into your smallclothes and pulling them. You lift your hips slightly with a moan, allowing him to pull the material down past your knees, then your ankles, and then away.

He tucks them into the pocket of his trousers as his eyes find your core, slick with arousal and already drooling. Another low hum leaves the back of his throat. Pressing forward with his large hands holding your thighs apart, Baelor places a kiss to your clit. You keen against the table, hips bucking, hand shooting down to thread your fingers into his hair.

“Oh, fuck, Baelor.”

His cock throbs heavily in his breeches at his name on your lips. He continues placing kisses down the wet slit of your cunt, spreading your folds open as he descends lower until he can push the tip of his tongue inside you. His eyes flick upwards to watch your reaction as he does this, and pride fills him as your head rolls back on your shoulders, a breathy whine escaping you, echoing around the empty room.

The prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Pleasure is already pulling back like a bowstring in the base of your tummy as Baelor, a prince of the fucking realm, curls his tongue into the wet heat of your pussy, the slope of his nose rubbing perfectly against your clit. Gods, no one has ever put their mouth on you like this, and as you grip his hair and rock your hips into his movements, you wonder how much practice he’s gotten over the years.

“Mmm,” you hum out, trying to suppress your sounds.

They’re loud as they bounce against the stone walls of the kitchens, and you’re aware that the castle beyond these walls is suffocated by the night’s silence.

Baelor’s movements are firm and quick, the perfect rhythm. His tongue curls and flicks deep inside you, and the heat of embarrassment lies beneath your skin as you can feel yourself dripping around him. The scratch of his beard against your thighs, the curve of your arse, against the sensitive skin of your folds is an added pleasure you didn’t know you needed. The sensation punches moan after breathy moan from you as the bowstring in your belly pulls tighter.

Your pussy clenches around him as his nose digs particularly hard against your puffy clit, and the sound it elicits from his throat makes the wood of the table creak in protest by how hard your hand grips it. The vibrations are rough against you, a pleasant buzz as white-hot pleasure continues to build up your veins.

“Baelor,” you call to him. “Baelor, fuck.”

One large hand drags away from your thigh, and just as you feel his tongue retract, two thick fingers find your entrance. They crowd into you, thicker than his tongue, pushing between the slick walls of your cunt as he wraps his lips around your clit—but not before mumbling out, “Such unladylike language.”

His fingers scissor inside you, the pressure forcing you to squirm against the table. Your chamberstick quakes as you roll your hips into his touch. His hair between your fingers is soft, clean, but the hair of his beard is coarse and continues to rub harshly against your inner thighs. The bowstring in your lower belly pulls tighter, and when he curls his fingers deeper into you, thick and blunt, you cry out his name once more.

“Baelor, m’gonna—oh, gods, m’gonna—”

Baelor feels the tight channel of your cunt squeeze around his fingers, your thighs tightening either side of his head, and he groans with his mouth on your clit as you come around the digits. He fucks you through it, tongue dipping low to join the movements, lapping the slick the drools from you in syrupy strings. You sob his name, your orgasm shuddering through you, the bowstring snapping and splintering the pleasure through your arteries.

But he continues. The prince’s fingers continue to move, thrusts lazier, less hurried, but he continues to curl them deep inside you, his tongue still furling through your folds. You finally look back down at him and tug gently on his hair, trying to get his attention. He grunts, eyes wrenching open and peering up at you, pupils so large his eyes almost appear the same colour.

“I need you,” you whisper, finally managing to pull his face away. His mouth and beard shine with your slick.

“Manners,” he replies simply, fingers still rucking in and out of your dripping hole.

The sound is wet and obscene and you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes, pin-pricks of overstimulation beginning to pierce the post-orgasmic veil draped over you. Slowly, Baelor gets to his feet, still fucking his fingers into you, pressing a kiss to your knee as he rises. He continues, “Good girls use their manners.”

You huff, hips twitching.

A flicker of a smile ghosts across the prince’s face. “And you’re a good girl, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

He adds a third finger, pushing it in torturously slow, and you choke on a gasp, keeling forward until your head rests against his chest. He kisses your temple, then the tip of your ear. His free hand moves to cup the nape of your neck, stroking his thumb as he holds you to him, three thick fingers spreading you open.

“Y-yeah,” you finally manage to stutter out, abdomen clenching, a mix of pleasure and overstimulation spreading through you. “Yeah, I’m a good girl.”

Baelor grips the back of your neck and pulls your head away, angling your face to get a good look at you. He leans down and plants his lips on your forehead.

“My good girl,” he utters against your skin, his fingers picking up speed.

You gasp at the change, and he seizes the opportunity to duck his head and slot his mouth back to yours. The kiss is messy: too much saliva as your tongues meet, your slick heavy on his. Your teeth clash as he drives his head forward, hand wide across your neck. Staking his claim, taking what he wants.

Quickly, another orgasm builds, the base of your spine tingling as your legs begin to shake. You attempt to hook them around his waist again, but you’re not strong enough. Baelor feels this though, and removes the hand from your neck to grab the back of your knee, hooking your leg around his hip. He drives his fingers deeper, and deeper still, as you clutch him tightly, balling the fabric of his tunic between your fingers.

“Let go for me, sweet girl,” Baelor pants against your mouth, your lips brushing.

Your entire body is trembling, a knot of tension too tight in your belly. You whine, a pathetic little mewl that bounces around the empty kitchen. “I can’t—”

“Uh-uh, none of that. Good girls do what they’re told,” Baelor interrupts your whining as your head tilts back. He presses a kiss to your chin. “And you’re a good girl—you’re my good girl. So let go for your prince. Let go for me.”

He’s corrupting you. He’s stealing your virtue. He’s a prince, you’re a lady.

But the sight of you coming again wipes his princely thoughts from his mind. They are replaced by you. You, you, you—your head falling back as your hands grip his tunic, your kiss-bitten lips parting as a moan of his name fills the space. A pleasure-strung Baelor! as he ruts his fingers into the dripping heat of your cunt. His name has never sounded so good.

Nipping lightly at the curve of your neck, beard brushing your skin, Baelor curls his fingers and slows his thrusts until you eventually unclench around them and your thighs quit their trembling. When you whisper his name, he pulls his fingers away and holds them up between the two of you. He spreads them, your slick interconnecting in glossy webs, and you pant around a whine, your chest heaving.

Baelor examines his fingers. The curiosity in his mismatched eyes fuels your embarrassment even further. The feeling whips through you even more when he takes two of them and slides them into his mouth.

“Baelor,” you groan, frowning and reaching for his wrist.

He lets you pull his fingers from his mouth, but not before he’s holding his ring finger in your direction. “Have you ever tasted yourself?”

Your jaw hits the floor.

Baelor chuckles, taking that for his answer. His left hand shifts from your leg, travelling over your abdomen, caressing your clothed breaths, before planting firmly on your jaw. He holds your chin as he presses his ring finger to your lips. You watch him with glassy eyes.

“Open,” he instructs simply.

You do.

Baelor smiles and feeds his slick ring finger into your mouth. Instinctively, you wrap your lips around his knuckle as the digit presses down onto your tongue. You suck then, tasting yourself, and you grip his wrist firmly as you moan around his finger. Baelor watches you carefully, the smile gone from his face. Your lips press to the cool metal of his ring, and the way your eyes stare up at him—glossy, expectant, so good—has his cock pressing even harder against the seam of his trousers.

“Seven above,” he hisses too quietly for you to hear and pulls his finger from your mouth.

You’re about to complain when he’s driving hard against you, caging you atop the table edge as one of his hands shoots down to untie the knots of his trousers. Wrapping your legs around him, you’re eager to help: hands leaving his wrist to pull at the ties and help shuck the material down his hips. His breeches move with it, and his cock bobs free.

“Oh, gods,” you whisper as Baelor fists himself.

You admire the thick patch of hair at the base which narrows towards his navel, as well as the ruddy head bruised with trapped blood. He swipes his thumb over his slit, smearing away a pearl of precum.

The hand he has on your jaw moves back to the nape of your neck. The prince holds you there, forcing your head down to watch as he guides his cock to your drooling cunt. He runs the head up and down your slick folds as you bunch your nightgown further up your waist to get a better look, whimpering at the feeling. Finally, the head of his cock notches at your hole, and you suck in a breath as he presses in.

A low groan leaves him.

“Baelor,” is your whispered response as you hold him.

He’s a gentleman as he feeds his cock into you, but you’re so wet that he slides in languidly, bottoming out in seconds with a pained grunt.

“Ah–ah fuck,” Baelor mutters, hips twitching, cock pumping inside you.

“Please…” You lean forward to press a kiss to his neck as he lifts his head from where he had been transfixed on where your pussy swallowed him.

“Yeah, I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he says, both of his hands moving to your hips now.

He anchors himself to you as his hips pull back, dragging his cock out slowly, before thrusting back in. The table creaks as he repeats the action again and again, and you pull away from sucking a mark onto his neck to moan at the ceiling.

Your chamberstick rocks against the table, the pan clanking across the wood as the heaviness of his thrusts lurch your arse against the surface. Strong fingers hold you firmly, calloused by years of swords and reins. The thought has your mind wandering to a younger Baelor, with longer hair and less of a beard, with large hands and fierce eyes. You whimper at the vision of him wielding his longsword, or pulling at the reins of a rearing horse.

His grunts are brutish, unbefitting of the heir to the Iron Throne. But he can’t help it. You’re so beautiful and soft beneath him, your pussy so tight and warm and wet, the noises clearing from your throat so sweet and alluring. You call for him like you’re already his, and he can’t help but think as such.

“See? Such a good girl,” Baelor pants, watching as your face contorts with pleasure, eyes fighting to stay open. The sound of your wet cunt is loud over the creaking of the table, and sparing a glance down, he sees a thin, creamy-white ring building at the base of his cock. He groans as he puts his eyes on you once more. “Just need a little guidance, hm?”

You nod deliriously, not quite deciphering his words as your third orgasm begins to build in your belly. The bowstring is back, the fingers of pleasure notching the arrow and pulling. Tighter, tighter, tighter.

His cock is a thick stretch inside you, curving up to nudge towards the base of your cervix. The gummy walls of your cunt are tight around him, squeezing with each thrust against your g-spot, a blooming heat enveloping your lower body.

All thoughts of decorum gone, Baelor reaches a hand from your hip to the neckline of your nightgown. He tugs it down, allowing your tits to spill out, nipples soft in the heat between you. Groaning again, he dips his head to suck one into his mouth as he continues to rock his hips. An electric shock passes through you as his teeth scrape against the sensitive skin. He switches sides as you moan his name, one of your own hands finding the hemline of his tunic and pushing beneath the material. He lifts his head finally, slamming his mouth to yours as your hand moves up. You feel the softness of his abdominal muscles, the hair that trails softly there. The muscle shifts with each thrust of his hips.

He moans your name when you bite his lip. You never thought you’d hear the hand of the king say it like that. It makes you dizzy.

“Baelor,” you whine, as he fucks you towards your release. It’s tight and hot and he’s moving so fast that you barely have enough breath to speak. “P-please, my prince.”

“S’alright, sweetheart,” he coos, hands pulling you harder down to meet his hips. “You’re feeling good, hm? You want to finish for me?”

Bowstring pulling taut, it has nowhere left to go.

He slips a hand away to rub a firm couple of circles across your swollen clit.

Tension building, building— too tight.

“Are you going to be a good girl and show me how pretty you are when you come on my cock?”

It can only snap.

You cry out his name, hands scrambling for purchase as your third orgasm overwhelms you. It burns hot inside you—a feverish heat that spreads through your stomach and chest, delves down into your pelvis and courses through your legs. Your cunt draws in tightly, pulsing with your racing heart, squeezing around the thick of his cock as you sob his name. A couple of tears roll from your eyes as your entire body is overcome with tremors, and you faintly feel him lean forward and kiss them from your skin.

“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” Baelor whispers as his thrusts falter. He rolls his hips, movements sloppy and desperate. 

Clinging to control, the tight clutch of your pussy draws him in and his mind goes blank. His mouth drops open to release a strangled “ah—oh, fuck, sweet girl—” followed by your name, before he’s doing exactly what the heir should not do and spilling inside you.

He pulls you to him as he fills you, seed pumping hot against the plug of your cervix. His strong arms wrap around you, your nightgown sticking to your sweat-licked spine as he buries his face into your neck while he comes in warm spurts. Hips twitch, balls pulling up tightly as he empties himself completely into the tight clutch of your pussy (the first time he’s done so in what feels like eons).

Then, silence.

The kitchen is deathly quiet if you ignore the ragged panting leaving the both of you as you clutch each other. It remains like that for a moment until Baelor’s head clears, and he gingerly pulls back, cock softening and flopping out of you. You both look down and groan simultaneously as your cunt drools milky-white.

“Gods, what have I done…” Baelor mutters, but he doesn’t sound regretful. Moreso shocked as he takes two fingers and collects the seed that drips from you, preventing it from splattering onto the stone floor below.

“Exactly what I wanted you to do,” you sigh, seizing him by the jaw and bringing him forward. You kiss him, and it’s gentle. It reminds you of the kind of prince he is.

You’ll need moon tea, he should say. You’ll need to forgive me, and forget this ever happened, a good prince would say.

“I’ll speak with your father at daybreak,” he says instead, helping you off of the table after a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

He helps you fix the neckline of your nightgown and draws the fabric back down your thighs—which you squeeze together to prevent anything from leaking out onto the floor—as you reply, “About what? The fact you sullied his daughter’s virtue in his kitchens?”

He pats your cheek fondly as you help tuck his softening cock back into his breeches. 

“No, I fear that may cause a political incident,” Baelor says, only half-joking. “I will tell him you are to be betrothed to me.”

Your fingers freeze where you tie a knot against the waistline of his trousers. Slowly, you lift your head to look at him, throat suddenly dry. “What?”

“Your father wants to promise you to the winner of the tourney, but I’m sure he would hardly reject the offer of betrothal from a prince of the realm.”

“The prince of the realm…” You find yourself muttering.

Baelor takes your face in his hands and forces you to stay put. With this angle, you can see a small bruise forming at the curve of his neck. A mark you had sucked there. Pride fills you and you can’t help offering him a small smile.

“Will you have me?” He asks you tenderly, thumbs stroking your cheeks, still damp from tears and his kisses.

Of course you’re nodding before any other thought crosses your mind. “I’m already yours.”

Baelor’s eyes sparkle as he pulls your mouth to his again, your hands threading around his shoulders as the kiss develops. His tongue sweeps in, gentle and guiding, and you’re about to let out a whine when clanking footsteps pull you from the pleasure.

You rip yourself away from him, eyes flicking to the door. Guards, approaching from somewhere down the dimly lit hall. Panicked, you snatch your chamberstick with one hand. You take Baelor’s hand in yours and pull him towards the servant’s entrance.

“Quickly, your grace,” you say, tugging him through the narrow passageway. Your legs are unsteady beneath you as you lead him. “I know these tunnels well.”

Behind you, Baelor lets out a soft laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

He lets you lead him through the dark, damp passage, and wonders whether you’ll remember to ask him for your smallclothes back.

—✿—

“I beg your pardon, your grace?” Your father stares at Baelor, dumbfounded.

Early the next morning, Baelor stands in the middle of the solar, his hands clasped in front of him. His presence commands the entire room, your father and a few of his closest advisors sit and watch, captivated.

“Betroth your daughter to me,” Baelor repeats calmly.

“You?” Your father takes a deep breath. “But, your grace, you are hand of the king, much older than—”

“She is beloved, is she not? Your people love her, and I am confident mine will as well. Furthermore, there will be no pressure for her to bear my child if she does not wish, as I have my two sons,” Baelor assures your father with careful composure.

Your father gapes. “But—?”

“You were considerably enthusiastic, m’lord, to vow your daughter to the winner of the day’s tourney, yet you seem hesitant to allow her hand to your future king.” Baelor was not one to brandish his titles as such, but annoyance was quickly building within him, veiled partly by jealousy.

Your father hurries to exonerate himself. “Not at all, your grace! I just didn’t think—I mean, my daughter is scarcely well-behaved, and does not conduct herself as a princess should.”

“You regard her with such poor consideration,” Baelor utters, tone hard. “Now, m’lord, I will ask only once more. May you grant me, the prince of the realm, your daughter’s hand?”

Your father nods quickly. “Yes, of course, my prince. She—yes, she is all yours.”

Baelor hums, pleased, hand resting comfortably on the snakehead dagger in a sheath at his hip. The bundle of your smallclothes are heavy in his pocket, and the red mark on his neck is obscured by his collar.

“Mine…” He whispers to himself.

He knows you are.

———

he’s not gentle.

it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.

maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.

he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.

you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.

“don’t fuss,” maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, “fuck, you always take me so well, don’t you?”

he doesn’t really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.

“how many times…” maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. “will i have to spill in this tight cunt before you’re full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before you’re round with my child?”

you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but it’s lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.

maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.

“is that what you want, little dove?” he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. “you want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt ‘til she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?”

“maekar,” you manage out, and it’s low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.

“i’m right here,” he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. “oh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill her—wants me to make you a mother.”

you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. it’s right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.

maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. “fuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we go…”

he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.

but he’s not far behind you—as you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with “that’s it, there we go” and “good girl, just like that” as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.

maekar groans loudly. “gods, you’ll look perfect round with my child—fuck, i’ll be good to you, little dove, an’ i’ll keep you full all—the—fucking—time—” thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before he’s letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.

he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.

he doesn’t pull out, but he collapses half way on top of you—the hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.

“it’ll take,” he says like he’s sure of it. like he knows it will.

“and if it doesn’t?” you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.

maekar chuckles. it’s a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.

“then we keep trying,” he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. “i’ll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until you’re too full to even move… understood?”

you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.

———

me next

Valarr dismounts his palfrey and is greeted immediately by his squire, who takes his shattered lance with mud-stained hands. The prince then pulls his helm from his head. His hair clings to his forehead, dark with sweat, his cheekbones pink as he spares a look over his shoulder. The sounds of the tourney meet his ears: people shouting their approval, roaring praise as he leaves the tiltyard, peering at his opponent, who picks himself out of the mud with a loud groan.

“An incredible joust, your grace,” a young worker in Targaryen colours says earnestly, taking the prince’s palfrey before leading him away.

“At this rate, you will surpass your father in tourney victories,” a Dornish nobleman, a cousin to some degree, remarks as Valarr heads towards his tent.

“Perhaps the ‘Breakspear’ name will fit well with you also, your grace,” another nobleman, from some lesser house in the Stormlands, adds as Valarr passes by.

The prince offers all those who give him their congratulations a polite smile, but it is largely to conceal a grimace. He had received a solid knock to the ribs, the blunt head of a lance cracking off the edge of his shield and finding the curve of his armour. Despite the steel holding strong, the impact rattled him enough to bruise.

“Where is my wife?” Valarr asks suddenly, glancing up towards the Targaryen pavilion that overlooks the tiltyard. You, his wife, are nowhere to be seen—the seat between his father and his younger brother achingly vacant.

His words seem to fall on no ears at all as the excitable crowd disperses around him. However, he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he turns to find an elderly woman with a kind smile and even kinder eyes. She dresses in shawls of varying lengths and colours, presenting herself as a traditional healer that frequents the villages throughout the Crownlands.

“Your grace, do your ribs pain you?” The woman asks, and Valarr instinctively raises a hand to his side. The woman notices the movement and nods solemnly, brushing one of her shawls aside and revealing a belt laden with small pouches. She takes one between two wrinkled fingers, presenting it to the prince. “This is a tannin that will ease the pain and reduce bruising. Simply mix it with water—”

The woman is interrupted by a hand gilded in white armour. Valarr sighs softly as Ser Roland plucks the small pouch from the woman and inspects it with little interest.

“Be gone, witch,” Roland says, dropping the pouch onto the ground. With his head, he gestures in the opposite direction. “If you approach his grace again with your poisons, you will be hanged.”

Valarr bristles, eyes snapping back to the elderly woman, who he expects to look petrified. But as his mismatched eyes find her, she appears calm, almost serenely so. She appraises Roland carefully, looking him up and down with dark eyes that seem to bore directly into his soul. Valarr notices the way Roland stands a little straighter.

“I hold no poisons,” the woman says, still looking at the man of the kingsguard. “And you, Ser Roland Crakehall, should know that.”

Roland clears his throat, obviously a little shocked that the woman knows his name. She continues looking at him, before gesturing to the pouch on the ground. Roland looks to Valarr, who simply nods as he silently observes, and the knight sighs through his nose. He plucks the pouch from the ground and hands it back to the woman.

“Thank you,” the woman smiles at Roland, then turnes her attention back to Valarr. “As I was saying, your grace, simply mix this tannin with water and drink hot. It will ease your pain.”

Valarr takes the pouch, ignoring the sharp look from Roland. He bows his head in respect. “Thank you.”

“And this,” the woman continues, pulling another small pouch from her rope belt. “Will… improve your celebrations, should you find your wife. You can mix it with the tannin, if you like. It will improve the taste most definitely, but be aware that it will also increase the properties of—”

“Your grace,” Roland interrupts. “It would be foolish to—”

Valarr raises a hand and stops his guard. He takes the pouch along with the other, and offers the woman a kind smile. He then turns to Roland, gesturing to the elderly woman with a wave of his arm, his armour clinking.

“Pay the woman, Ser Roland,” Valarr orders, then backs away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my wife.”

He leaves Roland with the woman and heads for his tent. Inside, it is spacious but warm, glowing gold with lantern light. Servants flock him immediately, hands working to unhook and unlatch the plates of his armour. He hands the two small pouches to one of his attendings as he stands atop a small platform.

“Please brew a tea with these,” he says, and the servant nods before disappearing somewhere behind him. 

He stands patiently, arms and legs widened as his servants strip him of his tourney armour. When the steel is lifted from his body, and his padded, sweat-damp gambeson is stripped from his torso, he dismisses his servants as politely as he can. His ribs ache something fierce, and he finds himself staggering across the tent in his linen chausses and breeches, bare chest shining with a thin layer of sweat.

The last servant in the room is the one whom he’d asked to brew him the tea. She approaches the prince with her eyes lowered and, bless her heart, trying very desperately not to look at the toned abdomen directly in front of her. She offers the prince the cup of steaming tea, before taking her leave and skittering out of the tent like a frightened mouse.

Valarr sinks down into his plush chaise, peering into the surface of the tea. It’s a milky white in colour, perhaps something closer to cream, but there is an intense berry-sweetness that catches him by surprise. The steam caresses his warm face as he brings the cup to his lips, taking a tentative sip. There is an obvious bitterness in the initial wash across his tongue, but it does not linger.

He smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tasting between sips. The sweet acidity of ripe mulberries is heavy on his tongue, and it takes him back to his youth, where he and Daeron would fill their pockets with the berries from shrubs that sprouted plentifully in the woodland near Summerhall.

He drinks the tea happily, enjoying the silence of his tent. He listens to the distant noise of the tourney, and only when the bottom of the cup stares up at him, pinkish-white sediment sticking to the bottom, does he realise he still hasn’t found you.

With a small huff, Valarr gets to his feet and places the cup aside. Immediately, there is less of an ache in his ribs as he stretches his arms above his head. He pops the tension from his upper back before approaching the flap of the tent, pulling it back and getting the attention of one of his kingsguard.

“Will you find my wife and bring her to me?” Valarr asks, and the guard nods then disappears.

Valarr peels back into the tent, and when he turns, the entire interior seems to glow even brighter beneath the suspended lanterns. He freezes, bare feet on the red Myrish rug that obscures the ground. He peers around the tent, eyes narrowing, as he realises that everything seems clearer. Everything looks more colourful: the reds and blacks of his tent seem even more vibrant, the silver of his sword glints even brighter where it lays across its mount.

That is what he notices first. What he notices second is the fact that his body is on fire.

His blood boils beneath his skin, but it doesn’t pain him. Valarr lets out a strangled groan as he pitches forward, catching himself on the post that holds the ceiling of the tent up. It doesn’t cause him pain, like a blade through flesh, but it causes him discomfort, like the press of an orgasm that just didn’t want to release.

He groans again, body suddenly overcome with this heat. Sweat beads high on his forehead, along the nape of his neck, between the muscles of his pectorals. Something contracts low in his stomach, and he looks down, mouth agape, as blood rushes south and heat spreads through his pelvis.

His hands find the ties of his chausses, and he rips them from his body as he stumbles deeper into his tent, now just in his breeches. His cock pushes painfully against the linen, hardening with each step towards his chaise. By the time he sinks into the plush cushions, he’s completely hard and pitching a tent in the front of his breeches.

His heart hammers wildly in his chest, eyes wild as he lowers a clammy palm to his pelvis. Pushing against the tent there does not help, and he lets out a pained hiss as the friction seems to sear a path up the column of his spine. His hips twitch involuntarily, and his face flushes red as he realises he’s leaking against the soft white linen, a little wet patch spreading across the front.

“Gods, oh gods,” Valarr mutters, fingers tearing apart the knots of his breeches. 

Biting his bottom lip to hide any more sounds, he dips his hand beneath the material and grasps himself. He successfully swallows a groan, his cock hot against his palm, velvet skin pulling taut across Valyrian steel. His chest shudders when he wraps his fingers around himself, the head already wet with pre-cum. He smears it, biting down another desperate groan as he gives himself a short, sharp tug. Sinking into the chaise, he spreads his legs as he jerks himself again, a heavy knot finding its way into the base of his stomach.

Then, the flap of the tent pulls back, and his eyes shoot up to find you stepping inside, dusting your hands down the front of your dress. Your eyes are elsewhere as you pull your cloak from yourself and hang it on an adjacent rack.

“Please forgive me, my love,” you begin, voice soft in the relative silence of the tent. You bend and remove your shoes as well. “You remember Ser Raymun Fossoway, don’t you? Such a lovely lad he is. Well, he and his lady invited me into their tent for a cider, and I just couldn’t refuse. It was delicious, by the way. We really must purchase—”

You finally look up and notice your husband panting in his chaise, his pale skin slick with sweat, his chest heaving. You pause, back to the flap of the tent, brow furrowing as you take him in.

“My love?” You question, taking a step forward. But you stop yourself, eyes shooting down to where Valarr’s hand moves in quick, short strokes beneath the white linen of his breeches. Your eyes widen, then rise, skimming across your husband’s flushed face. “Valarr?”

“My sweet wife,” Valarr breathes, stilling his hand and simply clutching the base of his cock. His other hand lifts, begging you to draw closer. “Gods, I have missed you.”

You stay rooted to the spot. “Valarr, what’s happening?”

Valarr groans at the way you say his name, his cock giving a feeble jerk in his hand. His heart clatters against his sternum too, nearly rendering him breathless.

“I believe,” he starts quietly, eyes roaming across your body. “I have been given a… stimulant of sorts.”

You gape at him, noticing the cup beside him. You sigh then, turning back to the flap and enclosing your fingers around it. Before you can peel it open, Valarr lets out a broken whine behind you.

“No, no, please don’t leave me,” he begs, wobbling to his feet. 

You peer at him over your shoulder as he staggers, hand flying out of his breeches, which sit low on his hips now, a thatch of neat hair—dark but flecked with white—exposed where they fold open. He makes it to the post in the centre of the tent, wrapping an arm around it in support as he gazes at you, desperate and absolutely ragged with desire.

“Wait,” you instruct him, and your husband’s whimpering quietens. 

You poke your head out of the tent then, urging for the nearby kingsguard to draw closer. The day was slipping away now, sky alight with the colours of the setting sun. 

The kingsguard approaches, and you speak to him quietly. “Please ensure no one interrupts us for the rest of the night. My husband is… unwell.”

“Of course, your grace,” the guard says, and you offer him one last smile before dipping back into the tent. 

When you back into the tent, your back collides with a warm, sweat-damp body, and you immediately sink back into the heat as Valarr wraps his arms around you. You quickly tie the tent door shut for good measure as Valarr buries his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling and whining, hips bucking until he can grind his hard cock into the curve of your arse.

“I’m very proud of you, by the way,” you tell him, hands smoothing across his forearms as you shift your head to the side, allowing him to drag his nose along the junction of your neck and shoulder. “That might’ve been your best tilt of the tourney.”

Valarr groans into your shoulder, and then his teeth come down in a bite. It’s not hard, not at all, but he sinks his teeth into your skin just enough to leave little indents. You hum, then muster as much strength as you can to pry his arms away from you. He hiccups around a groan as you turn and step out of his embrace, your back pressing to the tent canvas.

“What have you taken?” You ask, crossing your arms across your chest. The action presses your breasts a little higher in your low-cut dress, and Valarr can’t help the way his eyes follow the movement.

He groans, still looking at the swell of your chest. “A tea…”

You huff and breeze past him. Valarr closes his eyes as your movement shifts the air, and he catches the smell of your perfume: powdery and sweet and enough to make him salivate. But your warmth leaves his personal space and he whimpers at the loss, spinning on his heel so fast he loses his balance. He falls and catches himself on the post in the centre, watching as you cross the tent and pick up the porcelain cup.

You inspect the inside, finding the pinkish sediment gathering at the bottom. Without another thought, you dip your finger and wipe the sediment from the base, lifting your finger and watching the white-pink granules sparkle like sugar.

Valarr leans a shoulder against the centre post, his hand dipping back into his breeches. As he grasps his cock and hisses serpent-like into the heated air of the tent, he watches the way your eyes glisten as you inspect the strange powder.

You look over at him when he whines. His breeches finally fall, slipping down his hips and pooling at his ankles as he strokes his cock. You try your best not to look down, but you can’t help it: his cock hangs heavy between his legs, the tip blushing pink and wet. His lips part as he strokes himself, his brows furrowing.

He looks at you like you’re the prettiest thing in the realm. Well, if you ask him, you are the prettiest thing in the realm. The prettiest woman in the known world.

“Taste it,” Valarr whispers, the vowels broken around a poorly hidden whine as he supports himself against the tent’s post.

You frown at him, but raise your finger anyway. You smell summer berries and jasmine, and you lock eyes with Valarr as you stick your finger in your mouth and suck the granules clean from your skin. The act makes Valarr moan, and you watch as his cock drips as he gives himself another sharp stroke before he’s crossing the tent towards you.

You like the taste. It’s sweet and acidic, and the smell lingers in your sinuses as you place the cup back down.

“I don’t want to know where you got this from,” you say, dancing around your husband as he makes a move to grab you. Your laughter lifts through the room, and Valarr groans, collapsing onto the chaise with a blush heavy on his cheeks. The dresses of your skirts whip around your bare ankles as you stand over him. “But I assume it’s not from our maester.”

Valarr whines, fingers tight at the base of his cock. “No.”

“No? Oh, Valarr.”

“Please,” Valarr pleads, eyes shining like gemstones as he gazes up at you. His long eyelashes flutter as his pupils expand. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, I just—I didn’t think—”

You hold up a hand, and he silences with a whimper. With that same hand, you reach down and cup his cheek. His eyes close and he leans into the contact, his skin burning. You stroke your thumb across his cheekbone, glancing down at where he holds his cock.

“Don’t apologise,” you say gently, and your husband’s eyes open. “We shall discuss it later. For now—” Your hand drags up the side of his face until you can thread your fingers into his damp hair. The sound that leaves his throat is broken as you continue. “—does my champion need some help?”

“Please,” Valarr hurries out, and then groans when your fingers leave his hair. But he waits before complaining, watching instead as you gather your skirts enough to slip your fingers through the ties of your smallclothes. Slowly, you pull them down, your skirts dropping as your smallclothes hit the floor. Valarr gapes as you kick them aside, knowing you were now bare beneath. “Oh, pretty girl—”

“I love watching you compete,” you utter, approaching slowly. Valarr leans back in the chaise as you step between his spread legs. “You’re so strong, and you look so good in your armour.”

“Yeah?” Valarr has stars in his eyes.

His cock aches, the knot in his belly heavy, pressure building along his spine, but he ignores it all to reach for you. Two hands find your hips, but he doesn’t try to pull you to him. Not yet.

“Yeah,” you reply, hands covering his atop your hips. You stroke your fingers across his knuckles, across the bones of his wrists. “That armour… gods, Valarr, you look so good.”

Valarr gapes at you. His cock jerks against his stomach, smearing across the skin.

You gaze down at him, fingers ringing around his forearms now. “I can’t help myself. It makes me so wet watching you like that—”

“Oh, fuck,” Valarr curses, pulling you to him. He buries his face into the mound of your lower stomach, nuzzling you there as a moan rips free of his throat. One of your hands finds his hair again, this time carding through the streak of white, and you feel him shudder where he hides himself against you. “Oh, my sweet girl. My pretty wife.”

“I’ll take you so well,” you purr, delighting in the way your husband squirms in your hold, whining into the thick fabric of your bodice. “I’ll take all of you.”

“I know you will,” Valarr gasps out, lifting his head. 

You finally allow him to pull you, and you find yourself straddling his lap as he sinks back into the chaise. You had long given up arguing about being too heavy to sit in his lap like this, for he simply retorted that you could sit on his face instead if you wish. You slide into his lap, skirts billowing out around you as his mouth finds yours, with the initial contact making him moan down your throat.

The kiss is messy. He’s burning hot against you, and his hands hold you tight as his tongue licks the berry-sweetness from your lips. You make a noise from the back of your throat when his tongue finally bullies inside, finding yours and pulling another little noise from you. He whines in response, one of his hands bundling into your skirts and pushes it up around your hip as you press yourself further into his lap.

As his tongue smooths against yours, you find yourself heating up. Suddenly, the material of your dress is too hot against your chest, your nipples pebbling beneath your chemise and a shiver running down your spine. You pull out of the kiss to suck in a breath, eyes opening and finding the room glowing with previously unseen colour. The lantern suspended overhead blares like a trapped sun, and when your eyes find your husband’s, the lighter one seems to shine.

“Oh, I think I feel…” You lose your train of thought as Valarr hums his acknowledgement, head shifting to suck at your neck. You grind yourself down against his lap, and you finally angle yourself well enough to feel the length of his cock rut against your inner thigh. You moan, “Valarr.”

Valarr’s breathing hard against your throat as his hips rock, a desperate string of “huh–uh–uh” as his cock slides against your bare thigh, velvet skin smoothing back, pre-cum a sticky smear as you shift your legs to draw him in closer.

You throw one of your arms around his shoulders. The other dips down between your bodies, fingers wrapping around the thick of him and giving him a teasing squeeze. His kisses across your throat falter, and his head falls back. He whimpers softly as you stroke him, before lifting your hips slightly to drag the tip of him through the wet split of your pussy.

“Oh, gods, sweet girl, you’re soaked,” he moans, holding you tightly.

His breath comes in quick pants, his chest flushed with sweat. You whine at his words and bend to kiss him again, sucking his lip into your mouth as you run the tip of his cock through your folds again. You swallow his whimpers as you rock the wet heat of your cunt against his length with as much precision as you could offer (considering your body was alight like a pyre).

“Please let me have you,” Valarr whines, angling his head to kiss along the line of your jaw.

You nod, sitting higher in his lap to drag the head of his cock to your hole. You notch it there yourself, running a few tight circles before slowly pushing in, sinking at the same time. The sound that leaves your husband is a garbled mix of whimpers and groans of your name as you take him. You put both hands on his shoulders now, squeezing the strong muscle there.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he mutters, mouthing where your pulse hammers beneath your ear. Your head tips, allowing him to suck and bite, before lifting a hand from your hip to seize your jaw. He forces your mouth to his, teeth clashing, tongues sweet with mulberries. When he pulls away, a thin string of spit connects your mouths. It breaks when he says, “Keep going, sweet girl.”

You listen, finally sinking all the way down until your arse presses to his thighs. Your skirts fan out around you in a pool of black and crimson.

Valarr groans. “Yes, yes, thank you, fuck, thank you.”

“Valarr,” you whisper as you slowly start to rock your hips. 

You lift as well, then slide yourself back down. The movements are slow, calculated, and it takes the strength of all Seven not to simply drop down and take him to the hilt. There’s a fire burning deep within you, clawing up your diaphragm, spreading through your chest as you sink, feeling every velvet ridge against the walls of your pussy. Valarr hisses, one hand holding your hip, the other still on your jaw—not gripping, just holding, as his mismatched eyes watch your face, utterly transfixed.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he breathes as you lift yourself, circling your hips. He groans, thick from his chest, when you lower yourself back down. Your pussy flutters when he hits deep, angling right up towards the plug of your cervix. He groans again. “That’s it, that’s a good girl. My best girl.”

“Valarr,” you whine. Your body is burning hot as you set a rhythm, rocking in his lap and taking him again and again.

Valarr releases your jaw and hooks his fingers into the neckline of your dress. He tugs roughly, and you gasp out when you faintly hear something tear. Your breasts spill free, and the moan that leaves him rips through the tent so loud that you’re certain it pierces the canvas. But it doesn’t worry you—all that concerns you now is the fact that you’re fucking yourself on your husband’s cock and his mouth is taking a wet hold of one of your nipples.

He sucks, and you keen. “Valarr.”

The prince’s hand works around the other, pinching and rolling as he continues to rut himself into you. His eyes flutter closed as he mouths at you, huffing with each upstroke and each squeeze of your cunt around him. Your fingers find his hair then, threading between the soft, dark strands until you find the strip of white. The hair is slightly coarser, the texture different from the rest against the pads of your fingers as you curl it between your knuckles and give it a solid tug. His mouth leaves you with a wet pop, his lips kiss-bruised and parted around a whine when he looks up at you.

“You feel so good,” you mewl, arching your back. Heavy pressure builds at the base as your thighs start to ache, and you tug at his hair again to steady yourself. Your husband groans, burying his face between your tits. He mouths at the soft skin of your sternum, panting like a dog. You pet his white streak as you grind down against him. “You always make me feel so good.”

Valarr kisses the slope of your tits as he gently pulls away, both hands on your hips now as he helps you take him at a steady pace. “Yeah? M’so good to you, aren’t I?”

“So good,” you agree. Your body is on fire, sweat slick where your dress clings to you.

“And you’re proud of me?” Valarr whines out as your fingers card through his hair. His movements begin to quicken, and he thrusts up hard, cock hitting that gummy spot inside you that has you seeing stars. Your head rolls on your shoulders as you whine, your husband continuing as he kisses across your chest. “You’re proud of me winning the tilt? The lists?”

The air of the tent is thick with heat, smelling of arbor gold, ripe mulberries and the musk of sex. 

You shudder as you cry out, then force your reply around a breathy whimper. “Yes, Valarr, yes—gods, m’so proud of you.”

Valarr groans. His hips jerk, and he hits even deeper, the thick of his cock splitting you open as you roll against him. You’re so warm against him, the clutch of your pussy silken and hot, and he whimpers when you drool around him, slick running down his balls as he rucks up.

“Did it for you,” he whines, and you bend to kiss him then. It’s not much of a kiss, the two of you high on the mulberry stimulant that makes the tent glow. It’s more tongue and spit, pathetic little whimpers being exchanged as your lips slide together with no pattern. Valarr’s tongue drags to the corner of your mouth, licking the berry-sweetness from the groove. “I want you to be proud of me. I did it for you, sweet girl.”

Your entire body’s pulling taut now, that pressure in your spine migrating deeper and deeper into your pelvis. You gasp as it settles and Valarr’s cock knocks right up against it. You lift and drop, taking him deep and grinding yourself down until the swollen pearl of your clit catches against his hair. The contact sends you reeling, and you clutch him tightly as your body stretches rigid like a bowstring.

“Always proud of you,” you manage to whisper, knot tight in your belly, pussy fluttering around him. “My prince, always such a good—oh, gods, such a good boy.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Valarr whines into the valley of your tits, arms hugging around you completely now as he holds you to him, rutting like a man driven to the brink.

A breathy whine leaves his throat and you feel his cock jerk before he’s coming deep inside you, hips working himself through it as he chases your pleasure like a hound.

Your orgasm crests then, release taking you hard as the bowstring snaps. Your thighs clench where you straddle him, and the fingers in his hair tighten as you come. His name is a wanton chant from your mouth as something in the depths of your belly clenches and your pussy draws him in tight enough to urge another desperate whimper from his throat. Heat spurs through your veins, bursting like stars as your eyes close, your release hitting you hot and hard.

Valarr moans your name as he continues to spill, seed filling you deep as the rolling of your hips stutters. His heart lurches in his chest as the heat within him begins to dissipate, and he can’t help the satisfied groan that leaves him as his cock finally gives one last weak twitch before it stills inside you.

You pet his hair, resting your head on the crown of his as you fizzle down, embers dying. You feel him dripping out of you as his cock slowly softens, and it feels like you can finally breathe again without igniting the pyre within you.

“Valarr, my sweet boy,” you whisper, kissing the top of his head before withdrawing. He does the same: kissing your sternum one last time before reclining back in the chaise. He gazes at you with those glassy, mismatched eyes you love so much, and you drag your hands to cup his flushed cheeks. “Do you feel better?”

You lean in and kiss him softly on the lips.

He hums, content, eyelids drooping. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” You kiss the tip of his nose, then pull back. You smooth his dark hair away from his forehead, the strands wet with sweat. “Shall I call for a maester to be sure?”

His hands tighten on your hips. “No.”

You give your husband a pointed look, palming the sweat from his forehead as you check his temperature.

He huffs out a lazy laugh. “I’m fine, I promise… and, if I may be honest, I have no intention of letting you leave this tent until the morrow.”

You smile, allowing him to lift his head and capture your mouth in another tender kiss. You cradle his face and return it, trying to hide your smile as you feel his cock twitch heavily inside you.

“Valarr…” You whisper, and your husband just hums, beginning to trail a line of kisses from your mouth, over your jaw, and then down your throat and onto your chest.

“I love you,” he says, mouth over your heart now, kissing the warm skin. “I love you.”

———

i’m a valarr loves giving AND receiving praise truther

tags 🌿

his violet-blue eyes meet yours, and you watch the lump in his throat work as he swallows. he nods once, the movement sure. confident.

“i’m a prince,” aerion affirms, leaning back with his hands flat to the mattress either side, exposing more of his chest and abdomen to you. his legs spread wider too. “and i’ve taken you as my bride, so there has to be a bedding ceremony.”

“a bedding ceremony?” you can’t help but smile. you fidget with the satin drawstring on your pyjama bottoms.

aerion looks you up and down, decidedly ignoring the smile spread across your pretty face. “a prince and a princess have to produce an heir, obviously.”

“obviously,” you repeat, fingers pulling apart the loose bow on the front of your pyjamas. aerion’s eyes flit down to the movement, quick like a falcon’s. and his gaze is predatory when you loop your thumbs into the waistband. you continue, “and where exactly did you get this idea? i mean, i understand bounty hunter and his target, and ceo and secretary, but this is new.”

aerion rolls his eyes. “it’s just—whatever. we don’t have to do it. you’re being—”

you pull your thumbs away from the elasticated waistband and let it snap back against your hips. “no, i want to. i really want to, aerion.”

he smiles, all wicked and vulpine in the low light of the room. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say, then gesture towards your closet and ensuite. “should i… put on a dress?”

“maybe another time,” he tells you quietly, then gets to his feet. the mattress groans as he pushes himself from it and closes the distance between the two of you. his fingers quickly find the hem of your pyjama shirt. “you ready?”

you cock your head, challenging the boldness in his gaze. you simply raise your arms and allow him to pull your shirt from your body, your tits spilling free. you hear him groan under his breath when you make quick work of shoving your shorts down too, leaving you completely bare before him.

you kick the shorts away, fingers gently unravelling the towel around his waist. he watches you quietly, pupils swelling. you toss the towel aside, feeling the goosebumps ripple across the flesh of his abdomen as your hands trail from his hips, over the lines of his stomach.

you smile at him, teasing, fingers cupping the slight curve beneath his pectoral muscles. “and… action.”

there’s a flicker of a smile on your boyfriend’s face before it vanishes, replaced by a pure, unbridled need that sends your heartbeat straight between your thighs. his hands shift, one finding the small of your back and the other the side of your head, pulling you firmly into him.

you gasp out, hands flat against his chest. pushed against him, you feel the hardening of his cock against your bare skin, the heat of him near branding as his thumb moves to hook around your chin and pin your head in place.

“my pretty dove,” aerion mutters, eyes scanning your face. there’s a heat in his gaze that sparks embers in the ashes of your womb, and you find that it rises quickly through the base of your stomach. he coos, “look at you. bare for me—bare for your prince.”

you release a soft sound, something like a whimper that trips over the tip of your tongue. you feather your fingers across his chest—in the way you know he likes—and you delight in the purr that escapes him as your hands slide across his shoulders.

“for you,” you say in a whisper, pressing yourself closer and shifting your hips. his cock grinds up against you, flushed and hot. one hand remains on his shoulder, but the other traces down. across the lines of his abdomen, the neat line of white-blond hair, then through the patch at the base of his cock. your fingers ghost across the root of him. “please, my prince, i need—”

“i’ve waited so long,” aerion interrupts, the hand on the small of your back vanishing, only to reappear around your wrist. he pulls your hand away from his cock, slowly leading you towards the bed. “so long to have you. and now you’re here with me. where you belong.”

aerion guides you down onto the bed, and you shuffle back until your head finds pillows. you relax into them, and he chuckles, his own hand wrapping around the base of his cock. the head blushes deeply with trapped blood, the slit wet and pearling with pre-cum as he climbs up onto the mattress, resting on his knees.

“i am to be king one day, you know,” he tells you then, and you watch with your heart clattering against your ribs as he lowers himself between your spread legs. he lies on his stomach, hands finding the fat of your thighs as he continues. “everything will be mine. this country, this land, this castle—” he leans forward then, placing a gentle kiss to your clit. “—this pussy. you.”

you squirm, fisting the sheets. heat blossoms molten in your veins, flushing hot through your core as he presses another tender kiss to your clit, before trailing a line of small kisses down through your folds. you arch, mewling softly, the pleasure sending a series of electric shocks straight to the base of your spine.

“and because i’ll be king, i’ll need an heir,” he mutters, lips moving against your core. he spreads them wide, tongue unfurling like a serpent’s, and he drags it through your folds until he can swipe it flat across your hole. he hums, pleased, when your thighs clench either side of his head and a breathy moan of his name falls from your mouth. “but first, this pretty girl has been waiting for her prince long enough, hasn’t she?”

his tongue presses deep, bullying past the tight ring of muscle and splitting you apart. you’re slick and silken and warm against him, his face burying deeper between your legs as he grips the flesh of your thighs. you moan, the sound reaching the ceiling, as aerion takes you apart with his mouth. the sounds are loud and wet too, and you notice—but don’t address—the way his ears burn red as he works below you.

he parts from your pussy for a moment, staring up at you with glistening eyes. “fuck, she’s noisy, isn’t she? pretty baby’s wet and fussy—she’ll take me so well, i just know it.”

then, he’s sliding back in, his mouth hot against you. you moan loudly, a lilting and slightly breathy “my prince, please” as he fucks his tongue into you. he acknowledges you with a squeeze of his fingers against your thighs, but his movements don’t relent, and as he slowly grinds his hips against the mattress and the bunching sheets, he curls and flicks his tongue inside you.

you swelter where you lay stretched for him. your chest heaves, rising and falling in rapid succession as his nose ruts against the swollen pearl of your clit. the warmth kindled low in your belly fans through your womb, and there’s a steel-hot pressure building at the base of your spine. it makes you cant your hips, grinding your cunt deeper against his face.

“my pretty girl,” aerion murmurs directly into your cunt, and despite the throb of your heartbeat and the low buzz of pleasure in your blood, you know he’s not talking to you in that moment. his eyes are transfixed on your pussy, and he whispers to it between ruts of his tongue inside you. “being so good for me—” licking in, out, then a kiss to your folds, “—being so good for your prince—” a board stripe, up, then back down, “—m’gonna stuff you so full, pretty baby, i promise.”

he moves his tongue back inside you, curling and thrusting with as much tactility as his fingers would. it has you writhing into the sheets, pressure thick in the base of your spine, and you can feel the heat in your womb drawing hotter and hotter. molten.

“my prince,” you gasp out, something contracting low in your belly. your thighs pull tight, starting to spasm either side of his head. you whine, “please, i need—i’m so close.”

aerion says nothing, just continues to lick you towards your release. but his hand does snake inwards from your thigh, and you feel the firm press of a thumb on your clit. the added pressure tears a yowl from your throat, and you bear down into the contact as your body shakes, sweat building along your spine. you call his name, and his title, again and again, before the pressure in your back gives way and you tumble into your orgasm with twitching limbs and another loud moan of his name.

aerion takes you through it, rubbing his name across your puffy clit as he draws the slick from your pussy with long, serpentine curls of his tongue. a few beats pass, your heart knocking against your sternum, before the prince detaches from you, a string of slick and saliva connecting his mouth to your pussy. it snaps when he licks his lips, his lower face wet, and he stares up at you with glazed eyes and pink cheeks.

“oh, she’s so ready for me,” aerion mutters, eyes finding your cunt one last time and pressing a tender kiss over your hole.

he kisses your folds, then your clit, then up and over your mound. he follows the curve of your lower belly, over your navel, and soon you’re moaning softly as he trails surprisingly gentle kisses over your sternum and between the valley of your breasts. he takes time to take nips at the skin on either one though, but he quickly slides his wet face into the column of your throat so he can kiss up and around your neck. when he finds the junction of your jaw, he licks over your pulse point.

his cock rests hot and heavy against your thigh, and as you blink away the haze of your first orgasm, you feel the heat of another, a promise, collecting inside you again.

“the first cock you’ll ever have, and it’s mine,” aerion utters, nosing your pulse and inhaling deeply, as if committing your smell to memory. he groans, and his cock jumps where it sits against the plush of your thigh. “fuck, sweet girl, y’r gonna take it like an absolute dream, aren’t you?”

you nod, delirious and far to high-strung across your pleasure to form a proper sentence. blood sits hot in your core as the prince shifts his hips, sliding the head of his cock through your folds. it’s messy as he ruts blindly, groaning into your neck as he wets his cock with small, jerking movements that make the mattress shake.

he spends a moment like this, panting and whining with his body pressing you into the bed. you wonder then, as heat traps between you and the ache in your pelvis festers bruise-like beneath the weight of your pulse, if this is the prince, or if it’s your boyfriend.

“my prince,” you call to him, hand finding his shoulder and trailing down his back. his skin is slightly clammy with sweat and remnants of his shower. “please, aerion.”

coaxed by your soft calls, aerion picks himself out of your neck and sits back on his haunches. he settles there, between your parted legs, and takes one hand around his cock to guide it up and down through your slick folds. you suck in a breath, and he taps the tip heavily against your puffy clit, a cunning smile splitting across his handsome face. his features appear softer in the golden lamplight.

“easy, sweet girl, easy,” he coos, his other hand finding the back of your knee. he drags one leg up, angling it against his body as he bends slightly. his cock notches, swallowed by the soft clutch of your pussy. he grins wide when you moan, speaking through a groan of his own. “oh, look at her. so ready to take her prince, isn’t she?”

the way he pushes in, with a shallow furrow in his brow and a slight parting of his lips, is less than ceremonious. it’s a deep, rolling thrust that slides his cock into you in one movement—it’s more of the aerion you know, than the prince you’ve met—and the feeling of him bottoming out has you choking on a sob.

but still, the prince settles. he holds one of your legs against him, practically hooking it over his shoulder. the width of him stretches you apart, and you flutter around him, pussy wet and thrumming with your pulse. heat sits stagnant in your belly as his cock plugs you full, his balls resting snug against the curve of your arse.

“here it is, that’s my good girl,” aerion mutters as his eyes flick from where you struggle to look at him, to where his cock splits your cunt apart. his fingers skim over your folds, feeling around where you take him. the sensation makes you mewl, and he shushes you, hand finding your other leg next. “i know, i know.”

“deep,” you say simply, gasping when he gets both of your legs near his shoulders and bends even more. you feel some air leave your lungs as he presses your legs back towards you. “y’so deep—m’so full.”

aerion pulls out, then shunts back in. it’s a breathtaking movement that sends you reeling: you arch, spine curling, sheets bunching beneath you as he pries you open on the thick of his cock. he thrusts again, and again still, and he grunts with each rolling stroke of his cock near the plug of your cervix.

“i know, i know,” the prince repeats, practically folding you in half as he fucks you. your pussy drools around him, eliciting a wet string of plap-plap-plap as he moves into a solid, rhythmic pace. “you feel your prince right up in your tummy, baby? is that right? never felt that before, huh?”

you nod, nails pressing little red indents into his shoulders as he thrusts into you. your head tips and you moan out his name, tits bouncing, tummy squished as he folds you. he pants loudly, sweat glistening high on his forehead. it catches like glitter in the ichor of the lamplight, and if you were to blur your eyes enough, it may have appeared like a crown.

“taking me so well,” he praises you, eyes threatening to close as he already begins to lose himself. your cunt clenches tight around him, and the little whimpers that fall from your mouth have his cock jerking inside you. he groans, “holy fuck, baby, you’re so good.”

that sounded like aerion.

you loop him back into the fantasy, drawing him even closer, sucking him in even deeper—both physically and mentally. one hand trails over the nape of his neck, then you thread your fingers through the short hair at the back of his head. you tug lightly, but focus on scratching the tips of your nails across his scalp.

“my prince,” you whine out, the syllables stretched poorly across a wanton moan. the pressure in your lower back has returned, and the promise of another orgasm has materialised, growing hot in your stomach. you whisper to him, “let me give you an heir.”

he groans. it’s loud and almost pained as it fights it’s way from the depths of his chest. his body presses tighter to yours, pinning your legs, the angle driving him even deeper into you. you moan loudly, something clenching in the base of your belly, as his cock pulls you apart.

“i’ll give it to you,” aerion grits out, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he holds back from spilling right then and there. his balls twitch heavy against your arse, and the tension in his pelvis bleeds like ink into the marrow of his bones. “i’ll come—i’ll spill inside you, pretty dove. i’ll fill this pretty pussy so good, i promise.”

you whine, urging his head down. and he relents briefly, sliding his mouth to yours and licking a couple of sweet-tasting whimpers from your tongue and teeth. when he pulls back, he huffs, rutting his hips against yours even faster now. the stretch of his cock pulls the pressure inside you apart, tearing it from your limbs, until it coagulates deep in the pit of your womb and you succumb to the heat.

you come with a gush around him, the feeling drawing a loud, pornographic moan from you. “aerion” slips out into the evening silence of your room, and you clutch him tightly as your body shakes and quivers. your pussy flutters tightly around the thick of his cock too, slick dribbling out with each desperate thrust.

a thin white ring builds around the base of his cock as he fucks you through it, the sounds of your cunt taking him—schlick-schlick-schlick—making his ears burn hot and his balls tug tight against your arse. composure evades him, evaporating into the golden-hued shadows, as his own orgasm builds, and builds, and builds.

“you’re going to give me an heir,” the prince groans, rambling mostly. “i’m gonna fill you—fill this pussy, fuck you nice and full, yeah? i want—i want you round with my child, baby. i—fuck, just—just need to breed this pretty little—”

he doesn’t last long, sentence sliced by the point of his pleasure. it’s sharp, taking him brutally while he moans out your name. it’s wanton and desperate as he buries himself into you, a sword into a scabbard, and comes. you mewl softly, still trembling, when he spills right up against the plug of your womb, your legs still bent against your stomach as he leans into you. his cock twitches as he empties inside you, and a small whimper of your name falls from his lips, feeling your pussy milk him dry.

you both pant like you’ve run non-stop. sweat clings to you both, and you’re tacky with it as he extracts your legs from his chest and gently lowers them either side of him. his cock is still buried inside you, plugging in his cum, as he gently shifts so you can both lie comfortably against the mussed sheets. he buries his face between the swell of your tits and you stroke his hair tenderly, heartbeats syncing.

“and…scene,” you whisper, playful but tired. you draw circles across the back of his head when he grunts into your chest, too pleasure-lax to be amused. you smile. “are you okay, my prince?”

he doesn’t want to admit how much he enjoyed that. he also doesn’t want to show you how red his face is, burning from the fact he liked it so much.

so instead, he grunts and mouths at your sternum. you smile, taking that for your answer.

———