#got smut

note: Aerion’s part is longer than I expectrd because… well I got carried away! I really have to rewatch daemyra’s scene sooo I can put it rightin my imagination and I also used rhae’s clothing that scene to use here in the fic too.

Being the youngest daughter of Maekar Targaryen means living in the shadow of a father whose heart turned to stone the moment Dyanna Dayne took her last breath. Your own mother was a political marriage to satisfy the both parties, and she birthed you with silver hair and lilac eyes that you inherited from your father, but she also gave you other features she passed down, like your skin. You might look the part of being a Targaryen, but you’re a ghost in your own home, and your father stares at you as if he’s searching for a face he’ll never see again. He looks for a resemblance to Dyanna that you don't have, while your other sisters carry her memory in their faces. You’re just a reminder of a necessity, and it left a void that no amount of power could ever truly fill.

The rest of your siblings are just a mess of broken pieces, and you’re always watching them from the shadows of the big halls. Daeron is the oldest, but he’s usually lost in the drink in his goblet while he tries to escape from his own dreams. Aerion is a brother who hates you because you don’t share his whole blood, and he treats you like an outsider every chance he gets. Aemon stays away from the family, and your sisters are busy with their own lives, while your beloved Egg is always sneaking off to escape Aerion, too. You’ve learned to do things in the way only a princess like you can, and that means testing the patience of the one man who actually looks at you.

Baelor Targaryen is the Hand and the heir to the throne, but to you, he’s just the uncle who holds your leash too tight. He doesn't have a daughter of his own, so he has taken you under his wing, and he tries to keep you shielded from the world while your own father forgets you exist. He treats you like a doll that might break while he ensures you remain untouched because he wants to save your hand for a high lord you deserve, and he treats your name as if it’s his own to defend. You feel trapped by his kindness, and his constant worry makes the whole place feel like a cage that gets smaller as time passes. Your beloved brother knows about the complicated relationship you have with your uncle, and Aerion loves to mess with your head because of it.

He whispers that Baelor is just another man trying to own you, and he pushes you to break the Prince’s heart just to see what freedom feels like. He always loved to toy with you, even when you were younger, because you and he don’t share the same mother. So it was nothing that he spent weeks filling your ears with stories about common folk beyond the Red Keep, because that was the easiest way to build an image for you, and he promised to show you things Baelor would never allow. He talks about walking through the realm without a single knight at your back, and he tells you the people in the streets have more life in them than anyone in this cold place.

That promise of freedom is what leads you to the small scrap of parchment paper hidden under your pillow, and you read his handwriting by the light of the fire. The note tells you exactly where the hidden door is and gives you instructions on how to get out without anyone knowing. You wait until the halls are quiet and the knight in charge thinks you’re already out for the day. The only sound you can hear is the wind passing by while you walk toward the corner of your chambers. The chair in front of the exit is heavy, but you manage to shove it aside, and the wood scrapes quietly against the floor as you clear the way to the wall. You press your hand against the stone, and it swings open to reveal a dark pathway.

There’s an unpleasant smell and wet stone, while you can see a small bundle of fabric sitting on the floor of the passage. You lean through the opening while your hands grip the edge of the stone frame, and you peer into the hallway to check if the coast is clear. Once you’re on the other side, you reach for the bundle, and you start to strip your heavy clothes. It lands on the floor, and you leave it right where Aerion’s gift had been waiting as if you're swapping one identity for another. You put on the brown tunic, then tie the laces at the front before slipping into the sturdy breeches and the dark grey doublet. The fabric is rough against your skin, but it has more life than anything you’ve worn in years.

You sit on the cold ground to pull on the boots, and you tug the laces tight until they’re secure enough for a long walk. You finish the look by tucking your silver hair under a cap, and you finally look like just another smallfolk in the city. Sevens, you even look like a boy in such a state. You stand up, and you shove the stone back toward the way it was, but you make sure to leave a tiny gap. You don't close it all the way because you need to be able to get back inside before the sun comes up and people come looking for you. You begin to walk down the narrow stone stairs once you're sure everything is good, and the air gets colder the further you go. The walls are damp, and the only light comes from the small torches flickering in the distance as you follow the path deeper.

You keep your steps quiet as you watch the uneven way beneath your feet while moving through the hallways and along the silent tunnels. The path eventually leads deep under the Red Keep, where the altar of the massive skull of Balerion is sitting. You take a moment to look at its enormous size before walking past it, then follow the hallway as it leads toward more steps. You finally feel the cold air of a chilly night after you reach the bottom, and you see a figure leaning against the wall. Aerion looks up as you approach, and he gives you a crooked smile. “Took you long enough.” Aerion doesn't wait for an answer before he reaches out to grab your hand with a firm grip.

He tugs you forward, and you follow him as he leads the way out of the keep and toward the city. Both of you hurried to reach the bottom of the stairs, and the silence of the Red Keep is replaced by the distant noise of King's Landing at night. Aerion keeps a fast pace while he guides you through the streets. “Stay close and do not let go of my hand,” he says as he looks over his shoulder to check on you. He turns a corner where the street is filled with brothels, and you realize he’s taking you toward the Street of Silk. You keep your head down while you clutch his hand tightly when you step into this kind of crowd for the first time.

“Is this it?” you ask while you try to process what you see and the strange faces. “It is,” Aerion laughs, and he leads you deeper into the noise. “Baelor would be mad if he could see you now.” You follow him inside a crowded building, where you can’t describe very well what the scent is that you smell. Someone snatches the doublet right off your shoulders as you push through the people, and it disappears into the crowd, but Aerion doesn't even try to stop them. He just yanks his own hood back to reveal his silver hair, and he stands tall as he leads you further into the room. “Let them have it,” he says while he looks back at you. “You do not need it here,” he adds.

You look around the room, and you see why he isn't worried about you missing your clothes. People are showing all of their skin everywhere you look, and you see women with exposed breasts while men walk around with their cocks hanging between their legs. In every corner, there are people fucking without any shame while the rest of the crowd just watches or drinks. You see bodies entwined together, and the sight makes your face hot, but Aerion just keeps moving as if this is the most natural thing in the world. It’s almost like he’s always here and used to it. Aerion leads you into a massive room where the room is filled with gasping breaths and sounds of pleasure.

You see people fucking on every surface, and some are sprawled across the cushions, while others are pinned against the walls or just doing it without shame on the floor. The sight of so many men and women thrusting or bouncing out in the open makes your heart race. He guides you toward the side of the room, and he doesn't stop until your back is pressed against a cold wall. Aerion looks down at you with a grin, and his fingers reach for the laces of your tunic. “You are shaking,” he whispers while he starts to undo the knots with slow movements. “Is the little princess scared of a few naked bodies, or is it just that you have never seen how people live?”

He loosens the fabric until it hangs open, and he shoves his hand inside to grope your breast. His calloused palm squeezes your flesh, and he watches your face for any sign of pleasure. “Look at them,” he orders while he yanks on the laces to open the shirt even further. “Do not turn away like a coward. You wanted to see behind the walls of the Keep, so you might as well see all of it.” His other hand drops to the waistband of your breeches, and he starts fumbling with it. You try to look away from the people nearby, looking at the two of you, but he grips your chin, and he forces you to keep your eyes on the room. He yanks the breeches down past your hips with a sudden movement, and they fall to your ankles.

“Much better,” he murmurs as he looks at you from your head to your toes while you stand there and have never felt more exposed than before. “Now you look like you actually belong here.” Aerion doesn't waste another second before he silences your protest with his mouth, and he crushes his lips against yours in a harsh kiss. You feel the warmth of his body as he pins you harder against the cold wall while his hand slides down between your legs. His fingers find your pearl, and he starts to grind his palm against your center with a harsh pressure that makes your knees weak. You try to gasp, but the sound is trapped in your throat as he slides his tongue into your mouth, and he rubs his thumb over the sensitive bud. The sensation is overwhelming while he toys with what’s between your folds, and you let out a muffled whine into the kiss because of the way he teases you.

He smirks against your lips when he hears the high-pitched moan you make, and he only increases the speed of his hand to make sure you can’t think of anything but him. “Good,” he murmurs while he breaks the kiss just enough to look at your expression. “Make those pretty sounds for me while everyone watches.” Aerion shifts his weight while he watches your face for any sign that you’re close to finishing, and he shoves two fingers deep into your cunt without any warning. The sudden fullness of your cunt makes you arch against the stone as the pain from the stretch of his fingers affects you while you try to clench around him. "Hngh-! ” You let out a choked gasp, and your fingers sink into the skin of his shoulders while you try to find your breath.

He doesn't slow down or give you a moment to adjust, but instead, he thrusts his fingers deeper until they’re knuckle deep. He smirks at the way tears start to pool in your eyes before he leans in close, and you can feel his breath against your skin. “Mmph... Ah! Enough... Aerion- nnngh,” you whimper while you squirm against his hand, but he only takes it to push his fingers deeper inside you. “Enough?” he mocks you before he starts to move his fingers at a rough pace. “If the High Lords of the realm could see their little Princess now... legs wide and sobbing in a brothel, do you think a single one of them would still want to marry you? You are tainted now,” he sneers while he increases the speed of his hand. “No one wants a girl who has been opened by her brother while commoners watch her make those sounds.”

“Hah... P-please," you whimper while the pain mixes with the pleasure, and your head lolls back against the wall as he shoves his fingers deep into you. He just watches you while your tears start to flow out because it’s all becoming too much. “You want more?” Aerion murmurs against your skin, and he suddenly drops to his knees while your breeches stay bunched at your ankles. You let out a broken gasp as he forces your knees apart with his other hand until the fabric of your breeches tugs against your skin and your wet pearl pulses from the feeling of the cold air. He keeps his fingers buried deep inside you while his tongue swipes across your folds at the same time.

“A-Ae-! Gods,” you cry out, and your fingers find his hair while he buries his face between your thighs to taste you out. The feeling of his mouth makes you grind against him as he sucks on your bud while his hand pumps inside. His other hand grips your hip to keep you pinned against the wall while you heave and sob his name. The way he licks and moves his fingers inside you is something you have never felt before, and you attempt to keep your legs from shaking too hard, but always fail. “Look at me,” he growls against your skin while he looks up at you with hunger, and he continues to flick his tongue against you until you’re sobbing from how he does it.

Aerion buries his face even deeper between your thighs while his tongue licks the line of your folds, and he uses the tip of his tongue to flick at your swollen pearl. You let out a loud moan that echoes through the place because you don’t even care if the other people here see your brother between your legs. The shame doesn’t matter if he uses his mouth to suck on your cunt that way, and you only think about the way he shoves his fingers deeper into you. You don’t care about the people watching or the fact that he’s your brother because the way he moves his tongue makes you forget it. You only want to feel more of him as you watch his dark hair move against your skin while he gulps down the slick around it.

You strive to open your legs further, even though the breeches at your ankles stop you, while you lean your head back against the stone, and you let your cries fill the air. “Emā se sȳrje orvorta eman mirre ēdas,” (You have the best cunt I have ever had) he mumbles against your skin while he swipes his tongue over you again, and his fingers pump deeper inside you until you feel something you can’t even describe. You grind your cunt against his mouth while you seek more relief, but he suddenly yanks his face away. You let out a frustrated whine that almost sounds like you’re complaining, which makes him slap your clit with his other hand in response, and he shoves his fingers deeper.

The way he uses his mouth and the thrust of his fingers make you moan loudly because you need his mouth back against your cunt. Aerion doesn’t put his face back between your legs yet, and it almost feels like he doesn’t want to, especially the way he stays there while he continues to use his hand. He watches your reaction while his fingers move fast around you, and the way his eyes stare at you is too much, as if you can even feel it touch you. “L-lēkia- A-Aerion… P-please- kostilus dīnagon aōha relgos arlī va nyke,” (Brother, put your mouth back on me) you cry out as you look down at him.

He smiles at you from below while he finally moves his face back against your center to start working his mouth again. He flicks his tongue up and down your folds with a greed that makes you sob while he sucks at you as if he is starving. You feel his fingers continue to pump, and his mouth focuses on the pearl until your entire body shakes from the pressure. He devours you while he ignores the sounds of the brothel around you because he only cares about the way you taste. Aerion gives you a few more hard thrusts before he yanks his fingers out where he leaves you gaping and empty. He stands up fast, and you immediately feel the cold air of the brothel on your skin when the warmth of his body against you disappears.

He doesn’t say a word when he turns his back on you, and he starts walking fast toward the exit as if he doesn’t want you to catch him. You are left heaving against the wall with your breeches pooled at your ankles and your shirt hanging open that reveals your exposed breasts to the entire room. “Aerion-! N-nngh- hah... wait!” you gasp while you strive to find your balance. You clutch at your open tunic to hide your chest, but you can't even move to follow him because your legs are still shaking from his touch. You watch his silver hair disappear into the group of naked bodies, and you realize he’s actually leaving you here. “Lēkia! Sevens- Aerion!” you call out again, but the sounds of people moaning nearby drown your voice.

You feel the pulsing feeling between your legs, and you hurried to tug your breeches back up before anyone else decides to take advantage of you. “Damn him,” you hiss while you angrily fix your beeches with clumsy fingers. You put your breasts back into the tunic, and you yank the ties shut as fast as you can while your heart beats fast against your ribs. You look around the room with a panicked expression and notice a few men staring at you with hungry eyes. The sight makes you finish tucking in your shirt quickly, and you run toward the exit to try to find him before you're truly lost around the city. You stumble out of the brothel, and the cold air touches your skin like it’s a slap in your title that you’re walking out like this.

You don’t even realize the cap that hid your silver hair is gone, and you just keep walking as the wind blows those strands away. Your clothes are messy, and the way you tuck your tunic is not even proper, but you don’t care because you just want to get away from that place. A few drunkards hanging around in the alley stop to stare as you pass over them. “Is that... silver?” one of them mutters while he squints his eyes through the dark as if he’s trying to confirm if it’s one of the Targaryen bastards because who could even have silver hair but in such a state like you have right now? No highborn will wear that filthy fabric. “Cannot be,” another responds, and he leans against a wooden post. “What would a dragon be doing coming out of a hole like this?”

“Look at the way she walks,” the first one whispers while he watches your shaky legs. “Someone definitely had their way with her there.” You really tried to keep your head down and not fight with them because you would just get yourself caught. You pick up your pace while your heart thumps against your ribs like you are wishing no one would ever recognize you. Every person you’re walking by feels like a hand reaching for you, and every muffled laugh from a nearby window sounds like a mockery of your shame. You reach the side entrance of the Red Keep, and you slip through the door while the silence of the castle swallows you whole. Thanks to the Sevens that the knight on duty was distracted by another night, so they didn’t even blink an eye in your direction.

The halls are empty except for the rats lingering around and the fire from the torches. Everyone is asleep, and the only sound you can hear is the scuff of your boots against the floor. You feel small in the big corridor while you hug your arms around your chest as a poor attempt to feel fully covered, despite the fact that you’re even clothed, and because you can’t stop trembling from the cold. You walk past the closed doors and along the walls as your messy hair falls over your face while you keep your eyes on the floor to avoid being seen. You can feel the air on your swollen lips as you realize how exposed you feel without your doublet because you are only wearing a tunic.

A few of the laces are still untied at the top, but you don’t even bother to fix them. You just want to be in your chamber and hide, so you pick up your pace, which makes your boots thud louder against the floor. You reach the hallway, turn at the end of it, and you almost start running until a tall figure steps out from the shadows and blocks your path. You nearly crash into his chest, and you stumble back while you struggle to keep your balance. You saw the dark hair and stern expression of Baelor when the dim torchlight fell on his face. He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest while he looks down at your messy hair and your untied tunic with a look of pure disgust.

“Where have you been?” he asks, and his voice sounds like he’s mad. You try to walk past him by taking a step to the side, but he moves to block you again, and he stays put. “I asked you a question,” he says before he steps closer, and he forces you back toward the stone wall. You just shake your head, and you try to look away from his gaze because you can’t bear the way he’s judging you. It’s almost like he sees a different person right now, and it’s not the lovely niece he knows. “Did you hear me?” Baelor asks again while his voice rises a little, but not enough to wake people, and he looms over you. “I want to know which brothel you crawled out of and which whorehouse allowed you in.”

His words stirred emotions deep inside you, and what he said is probably worse than a slap. You look up at him and try to stand tall, like you are gathering your confidence to talk back to him. “It is no concern of yours where I spend my time,” you said while you met his eyes. “You are neither my father nor my King, and I do not owe you an account of my activities!” you said with annoyance before you tried to push past him again, but Baelor reaches out, and he catches your wrist. He yanks you back toward him, and he holds you so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“It became my concern the moment you brought shame to this house,” he hisses while he stares at your messy hair and tunic. “Was it Aerion? Did you let that boy drag you into the mud?” You let out a bitter laugh before you twist your arm, but he doesn’t let go, and his eyes are now eyeing you angrily at your swollen lips. “Aerion knows how to spend his time,” you spit out, and you lean in toward his face while your eyebrows knit together. “But you are so occupied with the King’s business and the duties of the Hand that you likely have not laid hands on a woman in years.” Baelor’s jaw tightens, and his grip on your wrist gets even tighter until it hurts. He doesn’t say anything for a second, but you can see the rage behind his eyes as he stares at your swollen lips and your slightly opened tunic that will surely reveal your chest if he pulls the tie more.

“Is that what you believe?” he asks, and his voice is strained as he yanks you closer to his chest. “That I have lost my way?” He doesn’t drag you away, but instead he shoves you back against the cold stone of the corridor wall with a sudden force that knocks the whine out of you. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, and he uses his other hand to grip your throat. It’s not enough to knock you out, but it's enough to catch you off guard. The hallway is empty, and the dim torchlight makes his shadow loom over you as you can feel the warmth of his body. “You think I am too old and too tired for the likes of you,” he whispers after he leans down and his breath touches your ear. “But look at you. You walk back here in this state, and you expect me to ignore how you ruin yourself for a night with Aerion.”

You look up at him, and a taunting smile spreads across your face because you can see how much you’re getting under his skin. You almost look like you enjoy the way he’s towering over you, and you only smiled for a moment before it disappeared. You widen your eyes, and your eyes start to water while you stare at him with a frightened look. Luckily for you, you have a talent for faking your emotions. “You are hurting me,” you whisper, and your voice sounds small in the empty hallway. His hand is still tight against your neck, and you can feel the heat from his palm against your skin. You’re not actually in pain, but you watch his expression for any sign of hesitation. You lean your head back against the wall, and you let a single tear roll down your cheek while you keep your eyes looking at him.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, and you let your voice tremble just enough. “Are you truly going to hurt your only girl because of Aerion? I thought I meant more to you than a reason to lose your temper.” Baelor’s grip doesn’t loosen, but you see a flicker of something in his eyes when you call yourself his girl. He looks down at your swollen lips and then back at your watering eyes while his chest heaves against yours. He leans in closer until his nose brushes against yours, and you can feel his anger. He can easily see through the act, and his eyes darken when he realizes you are trying to play him. “You are not a girl,” he says roughly. “You are a woman who does not know her place, and you think you can play these games with me because I have been kind to you in the past?”

He tightens his grip around your throat, but it’s not in a way that will choke you out of air; instead, he wants you to feel the pressure while he looms over you. He lets go of your wrists, and they drop to your sides, but you’re pinned too firmly against the wall to move. “Do not play the victim with me when you were just in the arms of a prince who cares nothing for your safety,” he growls, and his face is inches from yours. He slides his free hand down your chest, and he slips it under the hem of your tunic. His palm is hot against your skin as he moves upward, and he finds your breast under his palm. He squeezes your flesh firmly, and his thumb brushes over your nipples while he watches your tears dry up.

“Nnngh... H-hah n..." you moan breathily as you arch your back against the wall. The sound makes his jaw clench, and he moves the hand that is already at your neck to slide his fingers up until they touch your lips. He shoves them into your mouth to make you choke on them while his palm is firm against your chin to hold your head from looking away. He forces your jaw open with two fingers he placed over your tongue to keep you quiet. He pressed his weight into you so you could feel the hardness of his cock under his clothes, and he kept his other hand busy under your shirt. “Keep your mouth shut,” he commands, and his voice is gritty. “You will wake the people in this wing.”

You let out a muffled moan against his hand, and you look up at him with wide eyes while your heart thuds against your ribs. He let out a deep groan from his throat, and he started to grope your flesh with pressure that makes your legs feel weak. You try to say something back to him, but you can only make a whine around his fingers while he stares at your face. You look up at him through your lashes, and you reach down with your free hand to find the heavy shape of his cock through his breeches. You wrap your fingers around the length of him, and you feel him throb under your touch when you squeeze him. Baelor lets out a deep grunt, and he closes his eyes for a second as he reacts to your hand.

He doesn’t pull away, and instead, he uses his hand on your face to control your mouth. He shoves his index and middle fingers deeper into your throat while he uses his thumb and his remaining fingers to grip your jaw tightly. He forces your mouth open wider, and he curls his fingers over your tongue to keep you from speaking or biting down. “Mmmph... Hngh! ”You gasp, and your eyes water for real this time when you feel his fingers reach close to your throat. “Seven hells,” Baelor curses, and his voice is hoarse as he leans his forehead against yours. “You are a bold little whore, and you think you can handle a man like me just because you have been playing with Aerion.”

He keeps his fingers buried in your mouth, and he moves his other hand from your breast down to your waist. He fumbles with the ties of your breeches, and he yanks them open with a harsh tug. He doesn’t stop there, and he slides his hand inside to find your wet cunt while your hand keeps working on his cock through the fabric. He finds your bud, and he rubs his thumb against it with a force that makes your knees buckle. "Nngh-! Mmmf!” you cry out against his fingers, and your cunt gets wetter as he pleases you with his thumb. “You want to be used?” he whispers, and he stares into your eyes while he works his fingers inside your mouth with his hand inside your cheeks. “I will give you exactly what you deserve.”

Baelor pulls his hand away from your cunt and mouth before he turns you around with a surprising movement that leaves you breathless. He pushes your face against the cold wall, and he yanks your breeches down to your knees. He holds your ass, and he feels the softness of them for a moment before he leans closer and grinds his clothed cock against you. He wraps one arm around your body, and he slides his hand underneath your tunic so that it rests firmly on your breast while he stays close against your back. “Iksan vaoreznuni,” (I am sorry) he starts apologizing in Valyrian against your ear, and his voice is laced with a guilt that wasn’t there before. “I did not mean to be so harsh with you, my little dove.”

He keeps grinding against you while his hand kneads your chest, and he nuzzles the side of your neck as if he wants to be even closer to you. His anger turns into a desperate affection as he holds you tightly against the wall while his breath hitches. “You just do not understand what it does to me when I think of you in those places,” he murmurs gently, and he closes his eyes as he feels the warmth of your body. You move your hips back against him, and you feel him through his breeches. You grind your arse against his front, and he lets out a heavy groan. You lean your head back against his shoulder before you smile.

“Are you jealous?” you ask softly. “Does it bother you that I was there with my legs open while other men watched? Does it eat at you to think that any one of them could have taken me on the floor and used me until I could not walk?” You feel his heart thudding against your back, and his grip on your breast gets tighter because of what you’re saying. You chuckle, and you move your arse against him again to make sure he feels you against him. “Aerion is young, and he has the fire for it, but you are just an old man who thinks an apology will make me forget how you just had your fingers down my throat,” you whisper, and you shove your arse back into his pelvis.

You feel his breath against your ear while you move your hips to feel his thick cock against your soft flesh. He makes a rough sound, and his fingers sink into your skin. You don’t stop, and you close your eyes while you mock him with your movements. “You are slowing down… Maybe you are just scared that you do not have enough blood left in you, actually, to handle a woman like me,” you murmur, and your hair brushes his face when you lean your head more to his shoulder. He let out a snarl, and he yanked his breeches down past his hips with a single motion. He doesn’t give you a second to prepare before he grabs your waist with both hands, and he positions himself at your entrance.

He pushes into you with a sudden thrust that buries his cock inside you in an instant, and the force of it makes you cry out. You have no choice but to place your palms against the wall to keep your body from falling while he pins you there with the weight of his body. He moves his hands, so they’re both holding onto your hips before he begins to work you against him with a hard force. He isn’t just thrusting into you, but instead he is yanking your hips back to meet every ram of his cock, and the impact makes your face uncomfortably rub against the wall. “You want to talk about Aerion?” he growls in your ear, and his voice is filled with ugly rage. “You think that boy has the fire for this when he could not even keep you for a whole night? He left you in the dirt like a used whore because he is a coward who only knows how to play instead of being a man.”

He pounds into you even harder, and his fingers on your skin are enough to start bruising with how he puts pressure on it while he uses your hips to control the depth of every plunge. “I was going to be kind to you… I was going to take you back to your chambers to- " He cuts himself off while he buries himself inside you to the hilt. “To give you the gentle touch you deserve,” he taunts as he yanks your hips back to meet every ram of his cock, and the impact makes your forehead bang against the wall. “But, no, you just had to keep your tongue wagging,” he hisses while he pounds into you without any plan to stop this any sooner. “Look at you now,” he grunts when you clench around him. “You’re being used in a hallway by the old man you look down on.”

He keeps a tight grip on your waist while he pistons into you. “You’re taking every inch of me while your precious brother is probably with another whore’s cunt." Baelor lets out a moan against your neck, and he moves one of his hands from your hip to your arse. He grips the soft flesh painfully before he pulls back just enough to hit one of your arses with a loud slap that can be heard through the corridor. He doesn’t even care if someone hears the sound or if your father, Maekar, happens to walk around the corner and find his youngest daughter being used by his dear brother. He doesn’t want to hide anymore, and instead, he looks like he wants the whole castle to know exactly who is fucking you like a hound.

“Go on then,” he growls, and he pushes his hips into you with a thrust that makes your toes curl against the floor. “Do not hold back your voice for my sake.” He buries his entire length inside you, and he stays there for a heartbeat to let you feel the fullness of it. “I want you to moan so loudly that every guard and every servant in the Red Keep knows what you are.” He lets his cock throb inside you, and his thickness makes your breath hitch. “Let them all hear how the future king handles a slut like you.” A slap to your arse makes you arch your back with a loud moan to hear from it. His hips start to hammer into you again with a relentless pace and don’t stop for breath. He keeps yanking your hips back to meet him so that you take every bit of him.

His eyes focus on the side of your face, and you can only gasp for air while he seems possessed by the need to have you. “I want them to know,” he murmurs while he kneads your skin. “I want Maekar to hear his youngest daughter making these sounds for me while Aerion sleeps alone in his bed.” You keep your palms pressed against the cold stone, and your arse is arched high to meet him while he works behind you. Baelor doesn’t just thrust anymore, but instead he digs his fingers into your waist so he can force your arse to slide over his cock, and he makes you take every inch of him with each drag. He decides how the pace will go by yanking you back against him while he drags your ass forward to force a moan out of you, and he doesn't let you move an inch unless he’s the one guiding you.

The sounds of both of your skin contacting are loud in the empty hall, and he groans when he feels you clench around him with every slide of his cock. He isn’t gentle at all, and he seems surprised by the way your body welcomes him like that. “You are so tight,” he grunts in your ear, and his voice is strained while he tries to keep his pace. “How can you be this tight after a night with that boy? Did he even touch you at all, or are you just built to take a man this way?”

You let out a broken moan while your back arches even more, and you feel the weight of him filling you completely. You turn your head just enough to look at him, and you let a small smile show on your face even as he hammers into you.

“Do you like it, Uncle?” you gasp, and you shove your arse back to meet him while your heart thumps. “Nngh- do you like how t-tight I am for you? Mmn- tell me.” Baelor lets out a sound that is almost a growl, and he nods while he buries his face in your hair. “Sīkudi nopāzmi" (seven hells), he mutters, and he leans closer into your back while his cock pulses inside you. “Damn you… You know I do- " You let out a laugh, and you wiggle against him, taking him more deeply as you purposely clench around him. “Aerion never put his cock in me,” you whisper while you feel him slow down from his movements behind you. “He only used his fingers and tongue. You are the only one who has been inside me tonight.” Baelor stops for a split second after he hears you, and then he pounds into you, which almost knocks your palms off the wall.

He doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath, and he just pounds himself against your arse while he grips your waist so hard that his knuckles turn white. He sounds like he’s losing his mind, and he shoves his face into your neck while he keeps the same pace without any mercy. “Tonight?” he spat out, and his voice was laced with surprise. “You say I am the only one who has been inside you tonight, but what of the nights before this one?” He yanks you back against him to shove himself deeper inside you, and he holds you there while you feel him twitch. “How many men have used you?” He moves your hips in a slow circle to make his cock rub against your womb, and he watches the way your back arches. “How many times have you given yourself away while I was not looking?”

You gasp as his palm smacks your arse again, and your back arches until your spine feels like it might snap. You feel him filling you, and you shake your head while you try to keep your palms on the wall. “N-no one, uncle- " you cry out, and you shove your arse back to meet his pelvis. “I am a maiden, and no man has ever had me. I have never done this with anyone but you.” The words make him groan while he guides your hips back to meet his thrust. He isn’t even holding back now, and he slaps your arse again while he fucks into you. He looks like a man possessed after hearing that you were a maiden, and he keeps his eyes on the back of your head while he claims you in the middle of the hallway. “A maiden,” he repeats, and he sounds almost disgusted with himself even as he keeps ramming into you. “You are a daughter of the Prince, and you have a name to uphold, yet you let Aerion drag you into that filth?”

He leans his chest against your back to crush you into the stone while he shoves his cock deeper into you to show his anger. “Did you not even think about what would happen to you if someone else had found you first?” He doesn’t even seem to realize the irony of his words while he’s having his way with you here in the open. “You are lucky I am the one who caught you because any other man would have just taken what he wanted and left you ruined in the street.” You clench around him because of what he said, and the pleasure is so good that you finish right there against the stone. You squeeze him tightly, and you feel yourself getting soaked while you let out a loud cry. Baelor lets out a groan when he feels how much you got soaked compared to a few seconds ago, and he realizes you just spilled around his cock while he’s still moving.

You let out a whine, and you turn your head over your shoulder to look at him. “No one else will take me now anyway- " you whisper while you feel him throbbing inside you. “After all, you have already taken my maidenhood in a hallway.” You feel his breath on your neck, and you lean your forehead against the wall to catch your breath while his cock pulses inside you. “Who would want me after the Hand of the King has had his way with me?” You say those words to hurt him, and you feel your knees wobble. The reminder of what he has done makes him snap, and the way he shoves his cock into you almost knocks the wind out of you. He doesn’t stop, and instead, he uses your hips to drive himself even deeper while his face is twisted with rage.

He’s breathing raggedly, and he looks at you with a look that shows he’s done playing games. “Then you will learn to lie like the rest of them,” he growls, and he pounds into you so fast that your head hits against the wall again. “Many a lady has fooled her husband before, and you will simply do the same. If you wanted to stay pure, then you should not have gone out with Aerion.” He slaps your arse just to let out what he’s feeling, but he also likes how it bounces, and the sound it makes is loud. Baelor pounds into you even harder while he’s starting to feel that he’s close to his own release. He moves his hands away from your arse, and he wraps one arm around your neck to hold you steady while his other hand slams over your mouth. He’s trying to silence you because the way he’s fucking you made you let out a loud scream that will wake the other.

It’s ironic because he was just telling you to be loud not so long ago, but now he’s panicked that someone might actually come looking for the source of the noise. Your chest is still pressed against the wall, and you can only make muffled sounds against his palm while he moves on your back. “Mmmph! Nnngh-! ” you cry out behind his fingers, and your eyes open widely while you feel him hit the spot inside you that you didn’t know existed. Your back is arched, and your hips are tilted up to take every inch of him while he can’t control his temper. “Quiet,” he grunts in your ear, and he pants while he’s working to catch the feeling of release. “Bloody- you are too tight, and you are going to get us caught with those sounds.”

He keeps his hand clamped over your face while he shoves his cock into you with a heavy pounding that hits the back of your womb. He’s not thinking about anything but how you feel, so he’s just trying to get as deep as he can before he can’t control himself to pull away. You feel his fingers dig into your cheek, and you can only moan into his palm when his cock throbs inside you. “Hngh... haah...” he lets out a heavy sound, and his body goes rigid while he finally cums inside you. He keeps you pinned to the wall, and he doesn’t let go of your mouth until he’s sure you won’t scream again. Baelor pulls out just as he’s about to lose it, and he spills white seed right against your arse instead of inside you.

He lets out a sound that is almost like a whine while he coats your skin because he wasn’t planning on leaving a babe in your belly just yet. He’s breathing hard, and he immediately shoves back into your cunt after pouring all of the drops on your arse. You can feel that he’s still throbbing, and he’s trying to push his seed inside you, even though he’s already spent it all on the outside. He keeps his hand clamped over your mouth while he forces himself back in. "Mmmf-! ”You moan against his palm, and your arse grinds into him while you feel full again. You can feel his seed clinging to your skin while the remnants drop down to your thighs. “Look at the mess you made me do,” he says while he tries to recover, and he keeps his hand over your face to stifle your moans.

He’s acting on pure instinct now, and he grinds his cock against your walls to shove the slickness from your arse back inside you. You can only let out muffled gasps while he holds you, and he doesn’t pull away until he’s satisfied with it. Baelor finally pulls away before he looks down at your arse to see how his seed covered it, and the sight makes him let out a groan. He’s clearly affected by the mess he made, and he moves his hand away from your mouth before he lets go of your neck. He turns you around to make you face him, and he takes a look at your messy state while you try to catch your breath. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes move to where your breeches are yanked down to the ground. He reaches down, and he pulls them up first because he wants to make you look presentable before he even thinks about fixing his own clothes.

doesn’t say a word while he tugs the fabric into place, and his hands are a little shaky as he tries to hide away the evidence of what just happened. “Look at me,” he commands, and he hooks a finger under your chin to lift your head while he’s finishing with your clothes. “We cannot have anyone seeing you in this state.” You lean your weight against him because you can’t feel your legs, and you look up at his face while he tries to fix your hair. “Your chambers are closer than mine,” you whisper, and you watch his jaw tighten at the suggestion. “You cannot exactly let me walk looking like this.” He clearly doesn’t want to bring you there and risk people seeing him carry his niece into his room, or, even worse, someone seeing you leave in the morrow.

He knows the gossip would be hell if anyone caught a glimpse of you slipping out of his door in the morning, but he looks at the state of your clothes, and he knows you’re right. He lets out a frustrated huff, and he suddenly leans down to scoop you up into his arms while he ignores that he didn’t properly put his breeches on. He carries you down the hall with hurried steps as if he’s running in a race, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches his door. He brings you straight to his bed, and he tosses you onto it while he finally turns to lock the door. Baelor stands by the door for a moment while he tries to catch his breath, and he finally turns to look at you, where you’re sprawled on his bed.

He looks at your tunic, and he sees how dirty it is, which makes him let out a frustrated sigh because he knows those clothes have already touched the mattress. You aren't making it easy for him, though, and you start to roll across the fine sheets while knowing it’s a filthy thing. “Stop that,” he said before walking towards you, and he lunges forward to catch your waist before you can ruin the entire bed. “You are going to dirty it, and I will not sleep in a bed that smells like shit.” He ignores your stubborn look, and he begins to help you out of the fabric. He pulls the tunic out of your body before he yanks the breeches down, while his fingers brush against your skin, and he doesn’t say a word until your clothes are tossed onto the floor.

He reaches into a chest at the end of his bed, and he pulls out one of his own nightclothes before he offers it to you. “Put this on,” he mutters, and his voice is still hoarse while he looks at your state. You look at the fabric, and then you look at him while you bat your eyelashes as you slowly push the garment away. You make it very clear that you have no intention of wearing his clothes, and you lie back against the pillows while you don’t wear a thing. Baelor stares at you for a long moment, and he feels his resolve slipping while he takes in the sight of his niece in his bed. “Fine,” he grunts, and he turns his back to you so he can finally strip out of his layers, too.

“If you wish to be difficult, then you can sleep… like that, but do not complain if you get cold.” He starts to change his own things, but then he feels your gaze on him, and it makes him pause halfway through. He looks over his shoulder, and he sees the way you're watching him, and he decides to abandon his own night clothes as well. He climbs into the bed while he's showing skin as you do, and he pulls the heavy covers up to hide both of you. He stays on his side of the bed, and he stares at the ceiling while attempting to ignore the fact that you’re lying there completely naked right next to him. You aren't about to let him keep that distance, though, and you slide across the distance until your skin brushes against his.

You wrap your arms around his chest so you can cling to him while you nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck, and you can feel the way his heart beats against his chest. “Still so tense, Uncle?”You," you murmur, and you breathe against his throat. He doesn't try to push you away, but his hand moves up to rest on your hip with a firm grip. “You should be asleep,” he mutters. “Tomorrow is going to be… You aren't helping.” You let out a small laugh, and you nuzzle deeper into his body while you enjoy how he feels against you. “You're being a sour old man just because you finally got what you wanted,” you tease, and you tilt your head up to look at his defined jawline.

“Though for all your stern looks and your seriousness... You still fuck like a man on his deathbed.” Baelor finally looks at you like he will drink you in with the way you’re batting your eyelashes and your grin. “Is that so?” he asks before he rolls onto his side to face you properly. “Perhaps the old man has more endurance than you can handle if you keep testing his patience in his own bed.” Baelor pulls you closer, if that’s even possible, until there’s no space between your bodies, and he doesn’t say another word. He just closes his eyes, and he accepts that his life as he knew it ended the moment he tasted you because now he would rather burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground than let you belong to anyone else.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

you’d been practically conjoined at the hip ever since. so much so, it had felt like a natural progression when the two of you stood before a septon to be married. giggling all the while, unable to take even something as monumental as your wedding seriously.

companions, best friends, lovers. the two of you understood each other in a way no one else ever could. it doesn’t take long for you to garner a reputation for yourselves, either. 

because one thing about lyonel baratheon and his wife? you never missed a party, and you never turned down a drink.

wherever you went, you’d find cause for celebration. and it’s no exception when you venture to the reach for some lord’s nameday whose title neither you nor your husband could recall.

but it made no matter, because the floral wine they serve in highgarden is strong. and by the night's summit, you and lyonel are swaying, barely holding each other upright. the muscles in your belly ache from the amount of rambunctious laughter you’d been subjected to, all thanks to the squire who’d taught lyonel some new song about ser jonquil and his cock’s will.

by the time the party beneath the baratheon tent is in full swing, music and merriment risen to a steady thrum, there’s but one thing on your mind.

you bid your dancing companions farewell and set your sights on lyonel instead, who watches you from the head table on the other side of the room. he’s lounging back, posture loose and unguarded. you adjust your thin skirts and climb into your husband’s lap, a sleepy smile on his face. when you straddle his hips, his rough hands instinctively slip beneath your silks, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.

“we should visit highgarden more often,” you say, gently running your hands down his chest, feeling the dark, coarse hair beneath your palms. his tunic has been gone for hours now, discarded in the sticky summer heat, but his great helm remains; formidable, golden antlers twisting away from his brow. looking every bit the strong warrior you know and love, soft only for you.

his answering smirk is familiar. one that lets you know your minds are in the same place. “well, i’m nothing if not a man who pleases his wife,” he jests, bringing your hand to his mouth. he presses a chaste kiss to the tip of each one of your fingers.

you giggle at the scratchy feel of his facial hair against your skin and cradle the side of his cheek, thumb stroking over his plush, wine-stained lips.

lyonel leans in close enough so that no one else can hear. a treason meant for your ears only as he says, “if it is highgarden you want, i will give it to you.”

it sends a thrill up your spine. the way his voice goes all low and gravely, the way he smiles as if you’re playing pretend but you know, you know he means it. if you said the word, he would pick up sword and lance and strike down the tyrell’s and laugh while he did it.

but that’s not what you want. not truly, no. 

because right now? there’s only one thing you desire in the entire world, and it just so happens to already be yours.

your smirk mirrors the one on his face, and you gasp in subtle surprise when he surges forward and takes your thumb between his teeth. your eyes stay suck there as he takes your thumb into his mouth, feeling the softness of his tongue as it swirls around the digit. “actually, there’s something else that i want,” you say, arousal pooling low in your belly as you sit atop this big, strong man.

you watch his lips, but lyonel watches you. all too familiar with that burning look in your eyes, feeling the growing wetness between your legs even through his breeches.

“something bigger than highgarden,” you mutter, unable to hold back your playful smile.

lyonel shifts beneath you, pressing his already hard cock to your center, delighting in the little sound you make in response. when he leans his head back, a web of saliva snaps against his chin. “bigger than highgarden?” he clicks his tongue. “now, i’m not quite so sure something like that will fit, sweet girl.” 

you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders, and give a slow, tentative roll of your hips.

he sinks lower into his seat at the sensation; cock aching now, desperate for your attention. but then you slide your tongue over the shell of his ear and whisper, “i suppose you’ll have to make it fit, then.”

and if he was desperate before? well, lyonel is certifiably broken by you after the words leave your honeyed mouth. destroyed, eviscerated, slave to submission. a worshipper knelt at your altar. “shall we return to our sleeping arrangements?”

you roll your hips over his again, and this time lyonel’s hands on your thighs flex. “you mean to leave?” you tilt your head. “since when are we ones to leave a celebration?”

he slips a hand between your thighs, running gentle knuckles over the seam of your cunt. “do you suppose i take you here, then? lay you back on this table with your pretty legs spread, a feast for all eyes to see?”

you shake your head, shivering at his touch, chasing the friction you know good and well he’s capable of giving. “they do not have to see everything, you know. there are parts of me that belong only to you. let them see what you will them too.”

for the life of him, lyonel cannot rid himself of the toothy grin on his face. his pretty, filthy little wife and all her salacious words.

“let them see what it looks like when a man knows how to please his wife,” you urge, hips rocking all the while. “let them see what it looks like when a woman worships a storm lord.” 

lyonel does not need any more convincing.

despite the songs still being sung beneath the golden tent and the voices that fill the space around you, lyonel pulls his cock out with one hand and brings the other to your lips. he presses his fingers behind your teeth, stroking the softness of your tongue, gathering your spit. 

you look so pretty like this, lyonel thinks. desperate to be touched, mouth all full of him. and he wants to take care of you the way you need, the way you deserve. because no one else could ever give it to you, no. not like this.

not like him.

once he’s satisfied, lyonel removes his fingers from your mouth and brings the moisture to the head of his cock instead, wetting the tip to make it fit. “lean back for me, baby. just a little.” he’s careful to keep your skirts angled around your legs just right so that no one but him gets a glimpse of just how pretty you are here.

you do just as he instructs, and he presses the swollen tip of his cock to your entrance. and as he slowly pushes in, pulling you down onto him, the stretch is nothing short of bliss. your body adjusts to make room for him in it, as if it was made with his overbearing size in mind.

it takes some time, in truth. a few gentle rocks to ease him in, filling you so full you can feel him in your belly.

once he’s sheathed fully inside, your lips part on a gasp and lyonel laughs. the sound is quiet, coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “there you go,” he says. “that’s it. that’s what you need, hm?”

“yes. gods, you’re so一”

“bigger than highgarden, if i recall,” he teases.

you anchor yourself with your hands on his shoulders and carefully begin to move, finding a rhythm that has your muscles going slack. but lyonel’s big hands are on the small of your back, holding you tight against his chest, your center of gravity shifting to the place his heart resides.

“oh, people are staring,” he mutters with a laugh. “trying real hard not to but, gods. they’re so fucking obvious. they’re all watching you, baby. watching you grind up on my cock, so fucking needy for it you can’t even wait until the night’s end.”

a whine leaves your mouth as he speaks, and it’s only then that your lord husband realizes you just might be enjoying yourself more than you let on. that you like the feeling of all those eyes on you.

but yours? they don’t leave him. pupils blown wide, lips parted, soft moans dripping from your warm tongue as you bounce in his lap.

your arousal drips down his cock, staining the dark hair between his legs, producing obscene sounds that anyone too close would be able to hear.

“my pretty wife,” he muses, finding your clit beneath your skirts and circling it with his thumb. your thighs clench at the friction, release closing in fast. “mine. all fucking mine. come here. give me a kiss.”

you do, and it’s sloppy. lips slotting wetly together, his tongue swirling into your mouth, tasting of wine and warmth and home. he swallows up your sweet moans and lifts his hips in tandem with your desperate rocking, his cock burrowing impossibly deeper, stretching you open and pressing hard against that sweet spot that makes you writhe.

lyonel knows you’re close when your rhythm falters and your nails dig into the strong muscles at the back of his neck. “squeezing me so tight,” he whispers, thumb still swiping over your clit. “take it, sweetling. show them how good it feels to be all full of me.”

when release finds you, his name leaves your mouth all shrouded in bliss. an erotic symphony meant all for him, the party fading to nothing behind you. all that matters is you and him and the way his cock throbs inside you. 

you pepper wet, open-mouthed kisses all over his face. his lips, his nose, his forehead. lyonel fucks you through the euphoria, groaning low when you slide your tongue up the side of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin.

 “yeah, there you go. that’s it. so good for me. such a good girl. and all mine.” with your cunt pulsing around him, he knows he won’t last much longer.

but then you lean back to drag that sweet tongue of yours over the mighty antlers of his great helm, and the sight of it sends lyonel careening off the precipice of release as if they were an extension of his soul.

his orgasm hits him hard, breath stuttering, fingers pressing into your hips hard enough to bruise. “oh, fuck me. gods, you’re so一fuck一so fucking perfect. my perfect girl.”

it’s the worship that does him in, lyonel knows. the way you’re always insatiable for his touch. the way you haven’t a care in the world as long as the two of you are together. the way you take him as he is, totally and completely infatuated, and make him feel like he’s everything you’ve ever wanted and so much more.

the come down is slow. his seed spills out of you, making a mess of his breeches. but lyonel doesn’t mind, not when he’s so in love with you it hurts. 

he brushes the back of his knuckles over your cheekbone in total admiration and nudges the side of your cheek with his nose. “anything you want,” he says again, and it makes you giggle. the sound is soft and saccharine and has him smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks flush. “i mean it. i’d give you anything you want.”

“well, for now, i think i just want some more of that floral wine.”

lyonel sits a little higher in his chair, eyes scanning the room until he finds a serving man who sports a suspicious-looking swell between his legs. lyonel raises a hand to him and shouts from across the room, “you! gather every last drop of wine in the reach for my wife and for every man who steps foot beneath my tent tonight!”

roars of revelry ring out around you, the excitement reaching new heights.

you tip your head back and laugh, still held in his lap. 

lyonel might not know the name of the lord he’s here to celebrate, but one thing he knows for certain is that when it comes to the thing he loves most in this world? 

it will always be you.

Tourneys were your favorite place to work, from the bustling crowds of nobles to the excitement and energy that filled the air. Your lord Lyonel Baratheon was a very generous patron to you, he even made sure you had the chance to go to see the matches yourself when he didn't need your service.

You and the rest of the servants worked the whole tent, preparing the meals and drinks and serving the guests. Everyone was dressed in the best finery, and the atmosphere was lively and exciting. Lyonel was a wild man, sitting at his high table sharing stories and laughing, the knights around him were drinking and eating, cheering on the tourney fighters and sharing jokes.

You were weaving through the crowd with a tray of empty cups when you first spotted him.

He ducked under the tent flap like a man entering a child’s playhouse, having to stoop just to clear the entryway. The other knights around him were tall men in their own right, but he towered over them like a great oak over saplings. Your feet slowed. Your tray tilted. One of the cups slid and you caught it just before it could clatter to the ground.

Seven hells.

He wasn’t just tall. He was enormous. Broad-shouldered, thick-necked, with hands that could probably wrap around your whole waist and then some. He moved with the careful, deliberate gait of a man who spent his whole life being too big for the world around him, ducking under doorways and watching his elbows. There was something almost gentle about the way he navigated the crowded tent, nodding apologetically to another serving girl he nearly bumped into, offering a shy smile to a lord who clapped him on the arm.

You suspected he was the infamous Ser Duncan the Tall. You heard the name from your Lord Lyonel, who was absolutely beside himself with glee to have such a specimen at his table. Lyonel had a tendency to attract unique and interesting knights, you had met your fair share, but Ser Duncan was something else. The way the firelight caught the broad planes of his face, the way his simple tunic stretched across shoulders that looked strong enough to carry a wagon.

You wanted to climb him like a tree.

The thought made you bite back a smile. You had always been bold; some might say too bold for a serving girl... but you would argue that you just knew what you liked. And you liked them big. Strong. Men who could pick you up and pin you against the nearest wall if the mood struck them.

And, well... you could tell Ser Duncan would definitely be able to do that.

You adjusted your grip on the tray and made your way toward him, weaving through the crowd with purpose. He found a spot near one of the side tables, sitting slightly apart from the other knights, like he wasn’t quite sure he belonged.

"What are you having, Ser?" You asked as you neared him, giving him a flirtatious smile.

Duncan startled, blinking like a deer caught in a snare. When his eyes met yours, you had to stifle a giggle. Gods above, he was adorable.

"Me?"

You grinned, setting your tray on the table and stepping closer to him. "I didn't think I was talking to anyone else."

A faint pink flush colored his cheeks. You resisted the urge to pinch them, instead pouring him a cup of wine and handing it to him. He accepted it, taking a small sip.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low. He set the cup back down, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's-it's good."

"You don't sound convinced," you teased.

"I, uh…" He glanced at the flagon, then back at you. "I'm actually not much of a wine drinker."

You set your tray down on the table, bold as you pleased. "But this is no ordinary wine, Ser. This is a special blend, crafted from the finest Dornish grapes, crushed beneath the breasts of the most beautiful maidens and aged for fifty years in the cellars of House Martell themselves. How can you turn up your nose at such a delicacy?"

Ser Duncan's eyebrows rose. His gaze flickered down to your chest, then quickly away, like a man realizing he'd been caught stealing. "Crushed beneath... what?"

"The breasts of beautiful maidens." You couldn't help the wicked grin that curled the corners of your lips. "Big ones, usually."

Ser Duncan's mouth fell open. He looked completely scandalized, his cheeks now positively flaming. The sight was too much for you. You laughed, unable to contain yourself any longer.

"I'm only teasing you, ser. This is watered down peasant wine."

He huffed a quiet laugh, and the sound of it rumbled deep in his chest. "That sounds more like it."

He reached for the flagon, and you watched his massive fingers wrap around the handle. Everything about him was big; knuckles, wrists, the corded muscles of his forearms. You wondered what those hands would feel like against your skin, squeezing your hips, pulling you down onto his-

You bit the inside of your cheek. Gods, the things he could do to you...

"You’re with Lord Baratheon’s retinue?" he asked, taking a tentative sip.

"Mmhm." You leaned against the table, angling your body toward him. "Pouring ales, fetching food, listening to lords tell the same stories they told at the last three tourneys."

He smiled again, broader this time. It softened his whole face, made him look even sweeter somehow. "I don’t imagine they’re very good stories."

"They get worse every time. Bigger battles, more dragons, more women who were definitely not that beautiful." You tilted your head, studying him. "You are Ser Duncan the Tall, aren't you?"

He ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck. "Just Dunk, mostly. Yes. That's me."

"Lord Lyonel spoke of you earlier. Said you were a champion in the making."

Dunk rubbed the back of his neck. "Did he, now? I don't know about that. He's a generous man, is all."

"Don’t sell yourself short." The words came out before you could stop them, and you watched the flush deepen. "My lord has great instincts for talent. He can sniff out a great warrior a mile away. If he says you're a champion, then you're a champion."

He looked at you then, really looked, and you felt something warm curl in your belly. His gaze was direct but not forward, curious but not presumptuous. Like he was trying to figure out what to make of you.

"What’s your name?" he asked.

You told him. Watched his lips shape it as he repeated it back, like he was memorizing it.

"That’s a pretty name," he said. Simple. Earnest. Like he didn’t know how to be anything else.

Seven save me, you thought. He’s so sweet. Like a big dumb puppy.

Gods, but you had a weakness for the sweet ones. The idea of being pinned beneath him while he pumped his hips into you, his brow furrowed in concentration and his sweet mouth shaping your name over and over again, had the blood rushing straight between your legs.

The bold part of you. The part that had gotten you into and out of trouble more times than you could count; pushed you forward. You reached out and touched his arm. The muscle beneath his sleeve was solid as oak.

"You should dance with me, future champion, it may be the only time I have such an honor." You offered him your hand.

His eyes went wide. He looked around, like he was checking to see if anyone was watching, then back at you. "Me? I'm not much of a dancer."

"This isn't the lists sweet knight, it's not a contest. Just two people moving together." You wiggled your fingers, smiling encouragingly.

He swallowed hard, and rose to his feet. He was even bigger up close, towering over you like a redwood. The top of your head barely cleared his chest, and you could feel the heat coming off him in waves.

You took his hand. His palm dwarfed yours, his fingers wrapped easily around your wrist. You had to strain your neck to look up at him. He stared back down at you, a question in his eyes. You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and then you pulled him toward the center of the tent. He kept his steps light, letting you lead, his expression open and curious.

The minstrels were playing a jaunty, wild tune. It filled the air, swirling with the smell of food and drink and laughter. You pulled Dunk close and let the music take you.

Dunk was clumsy at first, hesitant. You had to coax him, show him the rhythm, guide his steps. But he was a quick study, and soon he was matching your pace, mirroring your movements.

You lost track of time after that.

It could have been minutes or hours. Your blood was singing, and at some point Dunk had lifted you onto his shoulders, and the tent spun and blurred as he carried you around, laughing the whole time. You were only slightly distracted by the feeling of his hands on your thighs, big and warm, calloused fingers pressing into soft flesh.

You had to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

At some point, the minstrels started playing a slower tune. The dancers around you paired off, and Dunk set you gently on your feet.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair was tousled from the dancing, his skin flushed and shining with sweat. He was so gorgeous it hurt. "I didn't mean to carry you off like that."

"I don't mind. I like being carried." You bit your lip, reaching out and touching his arm again. "Do you want to get some air?"

"I-" He paused, and his gaze dropped to your lips. His tongue darted out, wetting his own. "Sure."

You took his hand and led him away, weaving through the crowd. When you glanced over your shoulder, his gaze was fixed on the curve of your hips. A shiver ran down your spine.

Gods, but he was adorable.

You ducked out the back entrance, into the cool night air. The moon hung overhead, half full and bright. You meant to keep walking, to find somewhere private, but the moment the tent flap fell closed behind you, Dunk's hand caught your wrist.

"Wait."

You turned. He stood there, backlit by the glow from the tent. His chest was rising and falling like he'd run a race.

"I just-" He stopped, shook his head. "You should know. I'm not... I don't do this. Usually. I'm not good at-"

You stepped toward him, rising on your toes, and pressed your palm to his chest. His heart was pounding. "Neither am I, Ser Duncan. But I'd like to. With you."

Something in his face shifted. Softened. His hand came up to cover yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You bit your lip again, looking up at him from under your lashes. "C'mon."

Dunk followed behind you. You could hear his footsteps, heavy and uneven on the grass. You slowed, and his hand found the small of your back. A simple, chaste gesture, and yet you felt it in every fiber of your being.

"This way," you said, leading him through the darkness. The castle gardens were empty, the trees standing dark and silent.

The two of you slipped into a cluster of trees, moonlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the ground.

Dunk's hand slid up to the nape of your neck, and as you turned, he pressed your back against the tree, his body caging you in.

He bent his head and kissed you, slow and gentle. His lips were soft, almost sweet, and the taste of him had your pulse fluttering in your throat. He was so much bigger than you, his broad chest blocking out the moon and stars.

"You're very forward," he murmured, kissing along your jaw, down the column of your throat. "Very bold."

"I like what I like." You arched into his touch, sliding your hands up his chest, his neck, burying your fingers in his hair.

He chuckled, his hands dipping under your bottom, lifting you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you let out a soft gasp when his hips pressed into yours.

Even through the fabric of his breeches, the length and girth of him was unmistakable. You felt yourself clench, a wave of heat spreading through you.

"Like what you feel, sweet girl?" He asked, rocking into you.

"Yes, ser." Your voice was breathless, the title slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

"Just Dunk," he corrected, and his voice had gone deep, a rumble that settled low in your belly.

"Dunk." You tightened your legs around him, feeling the muscles in his back shift and flex as he held you.

One of his massive hands moved up your thigh, pushing your skirts ahead of it. The fabric bunched around your hips, and the cool night air hit your bare skin. His fingers found the damp heat of you through your smallclothes, and he groaned.

"You're soaked."

You whimpered as he slid a finger under the fabric, touching the slick heat of your sex. He pressed his lips to the hollow of your throat, licking a slow stripe up the side of your neck, his fingers exploring.

"You're so warm," he murmured, his thick fingers searching through the slick heat, finding the place where your body opened for him. He circled there, a teasing pressure, and your hips canted up against his hand.

"There?" He asked, his voice a low rasp against your ear.

You could only manage a nod, a broken sound escaping your throat as he pressed the tip of one thick finger inside. Just the first knuckle, and you felt the stretch, a burning sweetness that made you clutch at his shoulders.

"So tight," he breathed, pulling back slightly before pressing in again, deeper this time. "Gods, you feel like silk."

His thumb found the sensitive nub above your entrance, circling it with a devastatingly light pressure. The dual sensations had your head falling back against the tree, a moan tearing from your lips as he began to work that single finger in and out of you, a slow, deliberate rhythm that had your thighs trembling.

He was watching you, his blue eyes wide and fixed on your face, drinking in every gasp and shudder. His other hand held you steady against the tree, supporting your weight like it was nothing.

"Is that good?" he murmured, his lips grazing your ear.

"Yes." It was the only word you could manage.

He was panting now, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. His body was rock-hard against yours, the outline of his cock straining against his breeches. He added another finger, and your nails dug into his shoulders, a desperate noise slipping from your lips.

"Look at you," he groaned, his fingers beginning to pump faster, in and out, the heel of his palm hitting the apex of your sex with every thrust. "Riding my fingers, making the prettiest noises..."

You reached for his cock, fumbling with the laces of his breeches. The fabric strained, his size barely contained within. He groaned, looking down between you as you managed to slip your hand beneath the fabric and wrap it around him.

Your fingers didn't even meet.

The girth of him alone was incredible, hot and velvety against your palm, the tip leaking pre-cum that smeared across the head. The realization of what he was about to put all that inside you hit you like a wave, and a sudden surge of need gripped you, the ache of emptiness driving you crazy.

He seemed to have the same thought. His fingers slid out of you, and then those massive hands were gripping the backs of your thighs, shifting your weight. He stepped back from the tree, carrying you with him, and hitched you higher against his chest. The world tilted. Now you were looking down at him, knees bent around his waist, your body angled so that when he adjusted his stance, the blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance.

He tilted his face up to yours, eyes half-lidded and dark. "It's been so long since I-" He swallowed hard. "Gods, you're perfect." A flush crept up his cheeks even as desire burned in his gaze. "If you want me to stop, just say the word and I'll stop, alright?"

You shook your head, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. "Don't stop. Please, Dunk. Please."

He lowered you then. Or rather, he loosened his grip on your thighs, and gravity did the rest; easing down onto him inch by incredible inch, his gaze never leaving your face.

The stretch was a burning sweetness that had your nails digging into the broad planes of his shoulders. You could feel the muscles there, the way they bunched and flexed beneath your fingers, rock-solid from holding you like you weighed nothing.

"Easy," he breathed against your lips, though whether he was talking to you or himself, you couldn't tell. "Easy, sweet girl. Take it slow."

But slow felt impossible. He was so much thicker than any man you had ever taken, longer than his fingers had prepared you for. You felt full to bursting and he was barely halfway inside you.

Dunk made a sound low in his throat, something almost pained. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

"You feel..." He swallowed hard. "Gods, you're so tight. So small."

He took a step forward, pressing you back against the tree, and then he rolled his hips. The motion sent him a little deeper, and a moan escaped your throat.

"So sweet," he murmured, repeating the movement, this time with a bit more force. "The way you squeezed me? Do it again."

You tried, you really did, but the gentle command in his voice had your muscles fluttering uselessly around him. He was just so big, filling you so completely that there was barely room to move.

He seemed to understand. A slow, almost wondering smile curved his lips.

"Can't, can you?" He shifted his hips, pressing deeper just a tiny fraction, and you cried out at the sensation. "I've got you too full. Look at that."

He tightened his grip on your back and thigh, helping him to lift you and lower you on his cock. His strength was absurd, almost casual, and the realization that he could do this all night without tiring made you whimper.

Up. The drag of him almost pulling free.

Down. The heavy stretch of him filling you again.

He set a rhythm, slow and deep, and each downward stroke seated him so fully inside you that you felt him against your cervix, a pressure that bordered on too much and somehow made you ache for more.

Your hands scrambled at his shoulders, fingers finding purchase in the thick muscle there. You could feel every sinew, his body a furnace of heat and power. When you dug your nails in, he groaned, and the sound vibrated through his chest into yours.

"You're gripping my shoulders," he observed, voice rough with amusement and desire. "Like you're afraid I'll drop you."

He loosened his hold slightly, just enough that you slid down another fraction of an inch on his cock, and you yelped, clutching him tighter.

"I've got you." He tightened his grip again, pulling you up and then letting out a deep groan as he sank back inside. "Gods, I've got you."

He kissed you then, fierce and open mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours, the taste of him flooding your senses. You rocked into his thrusts, meeting his rhythm, chasing the feeling building inside you.

Your climax hit suddenly, and Dunk swallowed your moans as you clung to him. It tore through you, leaving you shaking, a shuddering mess in his arms.

His breathing was ragged, the tendons in his neck standing out. His rhythm grew erratic, his hips pumping into you, the sound of skin slapping on skin obscenely loud in the quiet of the gardens.

"Where do you... Fuck, where-"

"Inside," you managed.

Dunk's breath hissed through his teeth. "That's not- ahh- not a good idea. Not unless- not if we-"

He slammed his hips into yours, and his body went rigid. You could feel him, pulsing, his cock jerking inside you. He held you there, grinding, and the sensation had you gasping, a second, smaller peak rolling over you.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck. His mouth was open, his chest heaving.

When he finally pulled out, his seed dripped down the inside of your thigh.

You were both panting, a sheen of sweat coating his brow. The moment you were steady on your feet, he reached for the hem of your skirts and began trying to straighten them, his movements fumbling.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his gaze flicking to yours. "I wasn't too rough?"

The concern in his eyes was real, his expression sweetly open. You couldn't help yourself; you giggled and wrapped your arms around his neck, and he lifted you into a kiss.

"Not at all, champion. You were perfect."

A flush crept up his cheeks. He reached up and brushed his knuckles across your cheek.

"Can I see you again?" he asked, his voice hesitant. "I mean, I understand if not. But if you'd like to... I'd like to. Very much."

You smiled. You couldn't help it.

"I'd like that."

And when he grinned, and the moonlight fell across his face, his expression so bright and boyish and beautiful, you decided right then and there that you didn't just want him for one night.

No, if the gods were kind, maybe you could keep him for a while.

You blame your father for what you’re doing now. And on the morrow, after you’ve thoroughly debased yourself, you will be sure to let him know that you feel that way.

Pulling up the hood of your cloak, you duck your face against the harsh rains. Mud squishes beneath your boots as you run up the road toward the local tavern. The people there might likely recognize you. But they won’t be the type to care so much that they’ll fetch your father. 

You only need one night of debauchery. After that, all will be well. If the Gods are good. They haven’t favored you thus far, but perhaps your luck is bound to change. 

The inn’s windows are aglow with light, the crooning song of a bard coming from within. You rush toward the door, pushing it open as you shake rain from your cloak. 

Pushing your hood back, you smile to yourself as you take in the revelry of the night. You’ve heard from many a weary traveler that your village is far more joyous than most. You have Baron Merryweather to thank for that. And if he has his way, in a week's time, they will be thanking you as well. 

Shaking the horrid thoughts away, you step further into the tavern, scanning the crowd. You’re hoping to find an unfamiliar face. Or you’d settle for one you know, but who’s drunk enough to forget your duties. 

While you search, you fail to look ahead. With a pained huff, you find your path cut short as you ram into a solid wall of a man. “Oh,” you groan, clutching your nose as it throbs. Gods be good, how firm was this man that it hurt so much?

With a harsh glare, you cut your eyes toward him and find whatever venom you were going to spew gone. Your eyes trace over him top to tail, warmth stirring within you. He’s tall, taller than most men you’ve met. With thighs thick as a tree trunk and arms you wouldn’t mind sinking your teeth into. 

Not only is he thick as a castle wall, but he’s also staring at you with adorably sheepish eyes. He looks sweet, if not a little dumb, and absolutely someone who wouldn’t know your name. 

“Apologies Ser. I don’t know how I could have missed a man quite so… large,” you purr, hardly hiding the attraction in your voice. 

Your brows raise as he continues to stare at you. His lips part, cheeks flushing, but little comes out. Your eyes drop to the boy at his legs. He offers you an embarrassed smile before kicking the man in the shins. 

“Egg,” he hisses, finally broken from his stupor as he glares at the boy. Egg gestures toward you and the giant’s eyes find yours again. “Oh, pardon, m’lady.”

“No pardon necessary, the fault is mine. Perhaps I might make it up to you with an ale?” You were laying it on thick. Too thick for any other man. But he seemed easily distracted by a pretty smile. 

“Oh,” he stuttered over his words and shook his head. “That won’t be needed- Egg! You kick me again and I’ll clout your ear,” he scowled down at the boy and you bit back a laugh. 

“An ale would be nice, madam,” the boy directed toward you. 

“You can’t even finish a pint,” the man pointed out, still glaring at him. 

“It’s really my pleasure, Ser…” you trail off, smiling softly. 

“Dunk,” he tells you, narrowly dodging another kick. “Duncan,” he quickly corrects, grabbing the boy by his neck and redirecting him toward their table. “Off with you,” he growls, pushing him away. 

“Your brother?” You ask, stepping further into the tavern until Dunk has no choice but to follow you. 

“Squire,” he corrects with a grumble. 

“You’re a proper knight?” You ask, eying him and seeing no sword nor shield. 

“A, uh, hedge knight,” he corrects, almost seeming ashamed. 

“I meant no offense, Ser. A hedge knight is a knight, the same as all the others. I only meant to see if you fight under a Lord’s banners?” 

More specifically, how much does he know about Baron Merryweather?

“No lord, m'lady, just me and Egg.”

You hum, grabbing a mug for him and yourself. He takes it from you and your eyes widen at just how small it looks in his palm. For once, you were right; it seemed the Gods were looking favorably upon you tonight. 

“Interesting. Most men who pass through are sellswords or farmers. We rarely get the virtuous and honorable. Are you an honorable man, Ser?”

Dunk frowned into his cup before nodding. He lifted his eyes to yours, puffing his chest more confidently. “Aye, I believe so. I try to be, at least.”

“Hm,” you hum into your mug. “Even trying seems to be a rare quality these days.” Perhaps you’re being too obvious. But Dunk seems to have already indulged in his cups. He’s less likely to look into each vague query of yours. 

You move away from the bar and Dunk follows you to a table. Taking a seat on the bench, you let out a little laugh as Dunk plops down right beside you. He seems a mite tipsy and unaware of proper decorum. Something that would likely work in your favor. Once you’d gotten a few cups deep yourself and actually worked up the nerve to ask him to bed you, of course. 

“What brings you here?” You ask him, nails drumming along the table as you decide how to go about this. It is of the utmost importance that you are bedded by dawn. Perhaps even letting him spill inside if you feel so desperate. 

But you don’t feel right just outright asking the man to fuck you. That seems far too crass. And far too bold considering how incredibly sober you still are. 

Intent on rectifying that, you tip your head back, letting the ale pour down your throat. Dunk's eyes are wide as he watches you, an impressed gleam in them. 

“Do you mind, Ser?” You ask, passing him your empty cup. Dunk shakes his head and gets to his feet, heading toward the bar. A warmth has begun to settle in you when the door to the tavern bursts open. 

Two guards pass through, head swiveling about with too much intent to be coincidence. Cursing, you jump to your feet, racing toward the bar. “Do you have a room?” You ask Dunk, ignoring how he jumps at your sudden presence. 

“Aye, I’m sharing it with the boy,” he tells you, brows furrowed. 

You whip toward the innkeep and she shoots you a glare. “This is a horrid idea, girl.”

You slap a coin harshly on the counter. “A room, woman,” you grit out. She shakes her head and passes you a key. No sooner is it in your hand are you grabbing Dunk's sleeve and dragging him toward the stairs. 

“What’s going on?” He demands. You ignore him, using his body to block your face from the guards as you swipe a pitcher of ale from a passing table. 

“Nothing,” you turn to him with a frazzled smile. “But it’s so loud down here. Wouldn’t you like to speak somewhere a little quieter?”

Dunk doesn’t seem to catch on to your insinuation as he shakes his head. “Gods,” you groan, hauling his thick body up the stairs behind you. “Just come along, Ser. I have plans for you.”

“Plans? Pardon, m’lady, but I-“

“Hush,” you chide, tugging him into the room and firmly shutting the door behind him. Dunk stumbles, the mead in his hand sloshing over the edge. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been rather forward, Ser.” You undo your cloak and toss it on the chair beside the fireplace. “But I wondered how you might feel about bedding me?”

“B- bedding?” Dunk sputtered over your proposition. And you probably should have softened such a blunt approach. But panic is encroaching on your senses and you can only think of the guards below you both who might soon knock upon doors to oust you. 

Slowly, you make your way toward him. He doesn’t back away, but he still seems hesitant. You slip your hand around his, easing the ale from his grip and downing the rest before putting the jug aside. He watches you with wide eyes as you tug lightly at the laces of your dress. 

“Well?”

Dunk's eyes are trained on your breasts, pale cheeks flushed as he swallows, snapping his gaze back to yours. “What?”

You laugh a little at his nerves, taking his hands in your own and guiding them to your bodice. “Do you find me desirable, Ser?”

“Yes,” he whispers. You smile coyly at him and tug at his hold, urging him to finish what you started. 

His fingers tremble slightly as they tug at the laces of your dress, eyes trained on your breasts. The palm of his hand is large enough to cup them whole. You try to keep your mind from straying to what else of him might be so large, but it is truly the only thing in your head. 

You knew that losing your maidenhead would be a mite uncomfortable. But you imagine it might be worse with a man so large.  

“You’re sure about this, m’lady?”

“Hm?” Your eyes snap back up to Dunk and you frown. “Of course.”

“It’s just, you seem… nervous, I suppose.”

“Well, you must admit, you are quite large. Your size would be daunting to any woman.” Dunk frowns and you reach up to take his hands. The very ones he seems to have forgotten are resting on your breasts. 

“I am entirely sure about this, Ser, relax.” Odd, that you’re the one calming the knight, considering you’re the one about to be defiled. No matter, a shy man is all the better than a cruel one. 

You guide his hands back to your dress, reaching for his breeches. He gives a firm nod before undoing your laces and tugging the collar of your dress down. You swallow thickly, pulling at his pants and immediately freezing at what rests between them. 

“Gods,” you mutter. Dunk dips his head, claiming your lips as he tugs the sleeves from your arms. You’re grateful for the distraction, not interested in lingering long on the sheer girth of what’s supposed to fit within you. 

How do whores do this? You wonder.

His calloused hands smooth along the planes of your body, squeezing at your waist before your dress is pooling on the floor. You hold tight to his arms, stepping free from it as you lead him toward the bed. 

Dunk’s knees hit the edge and he sits obediently, hands smoothing around your hips as he stares up at you. He seems to be fine doing things on your terms, which makes it easier but even more overwhelming. 

“I must admit, I have not done this often.”

“No,” he grins a little, hands dropping to your thighs. You jolt at how he squeezes, warmth filling you. With such grace you hardly notice, Dunk urges you forward, leading you until you’re sitting on his lap. “You’re quite bold, then.”

“I try to be,” you offer. “So,” you’re not sure there’s any good way to ask how you’re meant to begin. Dunk seems to understand your hesitation well enough. 

And for a man with comments about your own boldness, he certainly doesn’t hesitate to dip his hand between your legs. “Oh,” your hips jolt forward at the rough feel of his fingers gliding through your slick. You bite your lip, afraid of what embarrassing sounds might escape you. 

“‘Nough of that,” Dunk scolds, hand coming up to tug your lip from between your teeth. His fingers delve a little deeper this time, a shallow dip into your opening that does have a strange sound escaping you. He seems to like it well enough, laughing slightly as he kisses you again. 

You're grateful for the distraction from what he's doing to you. Such quick enjoyment is surprising. The stories you’ve heard from others all seem to revolve around men being fast and the women with nothing but newfound soreness between their thighs. 

“Ser,” you pull back, slightly breathless as you smile. “Would you mind if I…” your hands prod at his shoulders and he nods, dropping back against the pillows. You plant your hands on his chest, shifting higher up his legs as you get yourself comfortable. 

Dunk waits until you’re still, head dropping to kiss him once more, to slowly insert one thick finger inside of you. It’s enough to still you completely, breath hitched as you get used to the foreign sensation. It’s almost like a pressure, one move away from simply combusting. Dunk doesn’t note your hesitation very well, alcohol still thick on his tongue as he kisses you. 

You wish you’d been able to get another ale before the guards had come in. Perhaps with a proper buzz about your brain, you’d be able to think a little less. 

Your hips move in tandem with his hand, slowly accustoming yourself to the rhythm as you begin to grow used to the feeling. But just as soon as it feels less intrusive, he brings his thumb up to your core, swiping clumsy circles over your bundle of nerves. 

“Gods,” you gasp against his lips, hips jolting roughly. 

“This alright?” He mutters, his free hand swiping your hair from your shoulder as he kisses a messy line down your neck. 

“Mm” you release a high pitched hum and simply nod. “Very good,” you squeak, legs beginning to tremble slightly at the effort it takes to hold yourself up. 

Something begins to build inside you. It ebbs and flows, building upon that pressure in your core. Your hips chase the feeling, teeth bite your lip bloody as you suck in a sharp breath. But just as it begins to crest, Dunk pulls his hand away and you're left cold. 

“Ser,” you gasp, surprising yourself with your own irritation. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, frowning slightly. “You just don’t look very comfortable.”

“Well,” you take in the strain on your hips and reluctantly nod. “Perhaps not.” 

“Here,” the ease with which Dunk flips you over is staggering. But you shouldn’t expect anything less from such a big man. He kneels between your legs, now, large hands keeping your thighs spread as he positions himself between them. 

This is it, then. The moment you finally become a true woman. 

Perhaps you’re less prepared than you thought. Your eyes clench shut as you suck in a deep breath, fists balling into the sheets. 

Dunk pauses, hands stilling along your legs. You wait for the inevitable, the sharp pain between your legs or the feeling of being split in two. But it doesn’t come. Peaking an eye open, you see Dunk staring down at you with a furrow in his brow. 

“Are you… Are you a maiden, m’lady?” Your lips part, no clever lie coming in time. Dunk jerks back like he’s been burned. He throws himself down on the end of the bed, hastily grabbing a pillow and attempting to cover his lap. And the sword that rests between those legs. 

“Ser-“

“You misled me, lady. I didn’t think you to be untouched.”

With a huff, you sit up, settling yourself beside him and trying to ignore just how naked the pair of you are. “I did not intend to trick you, Ser. It’s just- The men in the village and those that pass through it are not good men. I saw you and there was something about you that made me think you were the last good man I would see for a long time."

You turn to him, cupping his cheek and tilting his head so he might meet your eye. “I didn’t intend to lie, sweet knight. I just thought you might be the right sort of man to help me understand what it means to be a woman. You seem to have a kind enough touch. I did not think I would fear pain at your hands.”

He remains silent for a moment before finally lifting his blue eyes to meet your own. “Do you? Fear pain?”

“No,” you tell him softly. Slowly, you reach over and tug at the pillow in his lap. It slips from his grip easily, and you mount his legs, taking its place. “I do not fear you, sweet knight. Do you fear me?”

Dunk lets out a little scoff and shakes his head. You reach for his wrists and plant them low on your hips. “Then touch me again, Dunk. Show me what a proper lover is.”

His brows furrow and you nod your head encouragingly. His hands hover over you before you kiss him again, hoping to ease his worries. Slowly, they drop back to your hips, squeezing, before he’s tugging you closer. 

Your breath hitches are your core catches along the tip of his cock. His own hips jolt at the noise, thick fingers tightening around your curves until you think the imprints of him might haunt you for the next few nights. Chasing the pleasurable feeling of what you hadn’t been able to finish before, you grind your hips down harder, canting them at an angle so you can drag along more of him. 

He lets out a sweet-sounding groan, the husky noise like oil to the flames of your lust. “I want you to feel good,” he whispers. Some part of you warms at the care in his voice. The earnest truth he holds within his blue eyes. 

The Gods had blessed you tonight. With a true knight and a good man. “Alright,” you nod, pulling back and admiring the glossy sheen along his lip from how thoroughly he’s kissed you. “Show me.”

Dunk needs no further encouragement. His arms tighten under your thighs and you let out a short squeal as he stands, carrying you as if you were hardly burdensome at all. He kneels on the bed, lowering you carefully and keeping your legs hooked around his hips. You keep your eyes on his, not wanting to look down and see what would happen. 

Despite hardly knowing him, you do trust him. You trust that he’ll do his best to ease the discomfort. Besides, your pleasure has been taunted and ripped away from you enough that you’re painfully needy for him to just be inside you. 

Dunk’s eyes dart up to yours once more before he slowly begins to ease his way inside you. It does sting; it’s not entirely pleasant as he has to practically bully himself within untouched walls. “Are you alright?” He asks, pulling back like he might try to leave. 

“Please,” you tighten your legs around him, hands drifting up to his shoulders as you nod. “Don’t stop,” it’s an effort to keep the grimace off your face as he nods, slowly continuing. But you cannot take this agonizing wait much longer, the sting has begun to subside. The pain makes way for something more pleasurable. And your patience snaps. 

You buck your hips up, aiding him and he lets out a low noise that has shivers racing along your spine. “Don’t,” he mutters. His head dips between his shoulders and he lets out a shaky sigh. “Bloody hell, you’re tight.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, hands tracing their way from his well-rounded shoulders up to his jaw. “Please, Dunk,” you abandon the formalities of his knightly title, finally, and tilt your hips once more. There is a heavy pressure inside of you, building and mounting the longer he sits within you. You cannot take it. You need something to make this infuriating pressure release. 

Dunk nods and begins moving his hips. Slowly at first, before the tight pull of your walls is too enchanting for him to resist. You toss your head back, teeth gritted as a low moan escapes you while the sting completely disappears.

There is nothing left of your mind. Nothing left of you but this heavy feeling of him inside you. This even heavier feeling of his weight atop yours, pressing you further into the mattress as his rough hands tilt your pelvis up toward him. 

You can feel the pleasure growing, like a tingle along your tongue, trickling down your throat and blooming across every nerve as you begin to match his movements. Unpracticed hips, clumsy as they try to chase the mounting release he had denied you not so long ago. 

“Gods,” he grunts low in your ear, soft sounds that you hadn’t expected from such a large man. But they only serve to entice you further. Your nails dig into his skin as his hands greedily trace over your body. Enjoying every inch you allow him access to. 

When the pleasure begins to grow into something overwhelming, an alien feeling you had not encountered before, you search for something to sink your teeth into. Something to ease some of the pressure. His arm is particularly enticing as you lean forward, digging the blunt ends of your teeth into him as the pressure finally explodes. 

Pleasure, blinding and so unfamiliar, bursts through your body. It numbs the tips of your toes and lingers until you feel like every nerve is alive with only the feeling of him. At the tight pulse of your walls, his hips begin to lose their rhythm, his grunts and groans growing breathier, heavier in your ear as he reaches his own peak. And when you begin to feel him pull away, the entire purpose of your trip to the inn returns to you with shocking clarity. 

Your feet lock around his hips, your walls tighten until you can feel the warmth of him spill inside you, filling you completely before spilling between your legs and messing the sheets. Dunk's arms tighten around you as he falls onto his side. You let out a shuddering breath, temple damp with sweat as he rolls you with him. 

He remains inside you a while longer, a feeling you welcome as your core still aches with this new pleasure you doubt you will ever taste so strongly again.

“That…” you shake your head, trailing off as you bury your face in his chest. You have no words and no proper amount of thanks that will ever show him just how grateful you are to him. How grateful you are for what freedom he has provided you tonight. Even if he does not know. 

A clumsy hand brushes some hair from your cheek and you glance back up at him. He wears a sheepish smile, his other palm smoothing along the side of your waist. “Are you alright? Do you hurt much?”

A smile pulls at your lips, unbidden, and you shake your head. “You were perfect, my sweet knight,” you promise, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Just as I knew you would be.”

Dunk’s already flushed face seems to burn brighter as he pulls you closer. You should have known he would not be like another man. He would not simply kick you from his bed once the deed was done. But you are still filled with warmth as you wrap your arms around him in turn. 

Your head lay on his chest for a few hours more, until you could see the beginnings of morning light starting to seep through the clouds. He has long since slept, his breathing deep and even beneath you. But you could not, deciding to instead enjoy the last few hours of your life before you return home. 

Sadly, you can delay no further. You attempt to slip from Dunk’s hold, but the man is twice as thick as a castle wall. The weight of his arm across you proves a valiant foe as you writhe and turn, trying to escape without waking him up. By the time you manage, you can already hear the songbirds greeting one another with their morning tune. 

“Gods,” you hiss, rushing through the room and hastily recollecting your clothes. You draw your dress on, fingers rapidly doing up the laces, before tossing on your cloak. You run to the door and gingerly pull it open before pausing. You turn and give Dunk one last look, the sweet set of his face and his hair mussed from sleep. 

“Farewell, sweet knight,” you whisper, before slipping back into the shadows. 

“Ser! Ser!” 

Dunk jolts up, head pounding from too much ale the night before. And stress. 

That wild woman, dragging him up to her rooms like some barbarian. He can’t say he didn’t enjoy himself. But rarely does he meet a woman so bold. 

He runs a hand through his hair, glancing around the room and frowning. You’ve gone, your dress and cloak gone with you. The spot you had been lying is cold beside him. It’s not as if he had expected you to stay to break your fast. But he still can’t help the disappointment that sours his mood. 

Egg pounds on the door some more and Dunk groans, tugging on his pants, and throwing it open. “What?” he snaps. 

Egg stands before him, arms crossed and face unimpressed. “You told me to wake you at dawn. I have tried all morning, and you’ve just lain in bed like a lump. Let’s go, Ser!”

Egg races back down the stairs and Dunk scoffs. The boy seems to forget he’s meant to be Dunk’s squire, not the other way around. Dunk can’t even count how many times Ser Arlan left him waiting in the stables after a night with a woman. At least Egg had his own room to rest in last night. 

With a low grumble, Dunk dresses and heads outside. Egg is already waiting with the horses, holding the reins as he huffs and puffs at Dunk’s slow pace. His stomach is full of nothing but ale and whatever pitiful meal he ate last night. He doubts they’ll be making much progress getting through the Reach today. 

“Alright, boy,” he grumbles. “On with ya.” Egg sucks in a sharp breath and nods, proudly leading the horses forward. Dunk might try to take Thunder from him, but the damnable horse seems to like the squire better than he does his own master. 

Dunk and Egg are almost through the village when they hear it. The loud screech of a woman and then a man screaming, “You whore!”

Dunk pauses, hand on the hilt of his sword as he turns toward the noise. A fine enough stone house, just behind him, hosts a fat, old man on the porch. His face is burning red, eyes near bulging from his skull as he drags a woman by her hair from the house. She lets out a pained noise as he tosses her into the mud. 

Her head lifts, eyes vengeful and full of fury. Dunk startles, pulling back when he realizes he recognizes her. “Ser,” Egg starts. “Isn’t that the lady from last night?”

“It is,” Dunk mutters, already moving toward you. Egg lingers behind him, keeping the horses calm as the man continues to shout. 

“You have ruined everything! All that I’ve done for you-”

“For you, father,” you spat back at him. He lifts his hand, the back of his palm cracking against your cheek so harshly that you fall back to the mud. 

“That’s enough, sir,” Dunk calls, racing over toward you. Your head lifts, eyes wide in surprise. 

“Ser?” You mutter. 

“I will thank you to stay out of this,” your father hisses at Dunk. Eyeing him disdainfully. “This is a matter between me and my whore of a daughter.”

“Yes, your whore of a daughter,” you laugh, taking the hand that Dunk holds out to you and getting to your feet. You stumble, the hem of your dress weighed down by the thick layer of mud coating you. “Exactly what I would have been if I’d let you marry me to the baron!”

“He would have saved us!” Your father snaps, lifting his hand again. 

Dunk steps between the two of you and the old man falters. “I don’t know what’s going on here-”

“No, you don’t!” Your father snaps, leaning around Dunk to glare at you. 

“But,” Dunk continues, voice firm as he glares down at the old man. “You hit her again and I’ll take your hand,” he threatens. You let out a small gasp behind him as color drains from your father. 

“How about you take her?” Your father hisses. “Since you seem to enjoy her so badly.” He tosses a bag at your feet and storms back into his home, the door slamming behind him. Dunk turns toward you, immediately, hands hovering over you as he takes in the steadily growing welt on your face. 

“Are you alright?”

You grimace and spit blood into the mud, rubbing your jaw. “Fine enough. I believe you have saved me once again, Ser. I’m in your debt.”

Dunk shakes his head, bending to pick up the bag and hand it to you. You mutter a quiet thanks, eyes trained on the ground as you wad up the material in your hands. “What’s happened?” He asks. 

You suck in a sharp breath and offer him a cold smile. “Would you mind escorting me from town? I’ll tell you on the way.” He frowns, confused by the request, but nods, offering you his arm as you struggle in your mud-heavy skirt. 

“Here, lady,” he offers, taking the bag from you so you might be able to lift your skirts and walk easier. You send him an appreciative smile, not speaking until you’re back with the horses and Egg. 

“Where to start,” you mutter to yourself, ignoring the odd look Dunk and Egg exchange behind your back. “The baron that rules this land is generous in all ways except in kindness,” you tell him, glancing over your shoulder to ensure you hold his attention.

“He has gone through five young wives in the past two years, none of them lasting long enough to bear him his heir. My father sold my hand to him for a rather sizeable dowry. I did not intend to die at the hands of that man. I apologize, Ser, but when you and I…”

You trail off, shooting him a suggestive look. “Fucked?” Dunk offers. 

“Gods above,” your eyes shoot wide and you glance over at Egg. “I was trying to spare the child, man.”

“Pardon, ma’am, but I rarely ever get a room to myself. I’m no fool,” Egg tells you with a knowing look. 

Your brow furrows and you shake your head. “Fine, then. Yes, when we lay together, it was to sully my reputation and virtue. To spoil myself before the baron took me as his sixth wife.” You glance up through your lashes, lips falling into something apologetic. “I am sorry, Ser. I do not mean to make you feel used or lied to. Truly, it was the only way to escape this hellish village.”

Dunk glances down at his boots, letting out a low sigh. Being lied to is never a grand feeling, but he is not hurt nor offended. Merely upset with himself that he failed to see you were hiding something. Perhaps he could have helped you without you having to sully yourself with him. 

“Where will you go now?” Egg asks. 

You cast your eyes back to Dunk before shaking your head. “I have nowhere to go. I doubt my father even put enough coin in that bag to buy myself a meal at the next inn.”

Egg glances between you and Dunk before smiling. “You should travel with us, ma’am.”

“Egg,” Dunk hisses, glaring at the boy. 

You offer him a sorry smile. “I do not want to impose on either of your travels, lad. But thank you. No, I suppose I will just have to wander,” you briefly glance toward Dunk before letting out a weary sigh. “Trade what I can for food and shelter. Trade myself if I have to. One must do all they can to survive-”

“You should travel with us,” Dunk interrupts, the guilt of your musings lying heavy on his shoulders. He does not enjoy the idea of you having to sell yourself on the side of the road for a measly piece of bread. 

You clap your hands together, eagerly smiling up at him. “Truly, Ser?” With a low huff and a slight grimace, he nods, seeing no other choice in the matter. Not with the way you and his impish squire have backed him into such an uncomfortable corner. 

“I swear, I will not be a burden upon you. Except…” you laugh slightly and offer a small smile. “I do not know how to build a fire. Or fish or hunt. And most skills you need for this life, I lack. But, if you teach me, I swear that it will be like I am not even here!”

Dunk lets out a low groan, rubbing his brows as he shakes his head. You and Egg both watch him expectantly before he finally lifts his gaze to yours. You trip over the hem of your skirt, struggling through the mud in your slippers. 

“Why don’t you sit on Thunder? So your legs don’t tire?” He offers, holding his hand out to you. 

“Oh, thank you, you are too kind to me, truly.”

“Nonsense,” he mutters, taking your waist in his hands and helping you onto the horse. 

“Ser, my legs are growing quite tired-”

“Good,” Dunk glares down at Egg. “A squire should be strong. A bit of pain will toughen you up.” Egg lets out a belligerent huff, glaring over at Dunk before stubbornly marching ahead. A gentle hand lands on Dunk’s shoulder and he looks over at you. 

“Thank you, Ser,” you whisper, an earnest appreciation in your eyes. “I owe my life to you.”

“No,” Dunk pats your hand, unsure how he’s meant to treat you now. “You don’t, m’lady.”

An impish look passes across your face as you withdraw your hand. His shoulder feels cold without the touch.

“Hm,” you hum. “I will find a way to repay you. One you will much appreciate,” you swear, and that gleam in your eyes sends a hot rush of blood to his cheeks.

The laugh you let out has him worrying over what sort of a woman he’s just invited to his company. He supposes he’ll find out soon enough. 

a/n: I don’t know if you guys have noticed yet but talking + sex = not my forte lol

It’s been so long since I’ve written smut that I fear I’ve lost my touch, but I will brave that embarrassment for a bite of this beefy man (my uterus has sent me into my monthly bout of lust if ya couldn’t tell😭)

Belle’s currently feeling:

end. — I do not own the characters or the show A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Tywin inclined his head, already satisfied, his fingers brushing the fabric of his crimson sleeve as though dusting off the matter entirely. Jaime, however, remained frozen, his golden brows drawn tight, his shoulders rigid.

“You’ll take your new oath after the wedding,” Robert added with a smirk, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips. “And keep the armor, boy. Suits you. Might even distract the girl from your sour temper.”

“When does she arrive?” Robert asked, glancing over at Tywin once more.

“She’ll be here soon,” Tywin replied coolly. “And she’ll be yours to present at court.”

Cersei stormed down the corridor, the silk of her gown hissing like a serpent with every furious step. Servants scattered at the sight of her, heads bowed low, skirts gathered quickly out of her path. When she reached Jaime’s chamber door, she didn’t knock. She shoved it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.

“I found out through Tyrion—Tyrion, of all people!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. Her golden hair was unbound, wild about her shoulders, and her eyes burned with fury.

Jaime turned from where he stood near the hearth, already tense, his jaw tight. “Don’t look at me like that, Cersei,” he said quickly, raising his hands in something like surrender. “Please—it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then why didn’t you fight harder?” she snapped, advancing on him like a lioness with blood in her mouth. “You’re Tywin’s heir, his golden son. You could’ve refused—should’ve refused!”

He shook his head, stepping back just enough to keep distance between them. “You know how he is. It was already done before I was even told. The match was signed, sealed, and ridden for Riverrun before I could speak a word.”

“You’re marrying her,” Cersei snarled. “A Tully. One of Catelyn’s sisters. Do you know what they’ll say? What they’ll think?”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you think I haven’t already thought of that a thousand times?”

She turned away from him then, as if disgusted by the sight of him, hands curling at her sides. “You’re mine,” she said, voice trembling—not with weakness, but with rage. “You’ve always been mine. And now you’re just—giving yourself away?”

“I didn’t give anything,” he bit back. “He took it from me.”

Cersei rounded on him once more, eyes glassy with unshed fury. “Then take it back.”

Cersei’s breath caught as the silence thickened between them, heavy as smoke. Her fists trembled at her sides, but she didn’t move away. Not when Jaime stepped closer. Not when his voice lowered.

“I didn’t want this,” he murmured, gaze pinned to hers, the firelight flickering gold across his face. “I swear it, Cersei. I tried—I tried to make him see, but he wouldn’t bend. He never bends.”

Her lip curled, but the anger faltered just slightly. “You’re stronger than him,” she whispered. “You’re better.”

“I’m yours,” he said, voice raw.

His hands came to her waist—hesitant, almost reverent. She let him. Her body was taut with tension, but she didn’t resist when he drew her in. Her hands found his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic. He ducked his head, their foreheads brushing. His voice was a breath against her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to face you.”

And then she kissed him.

Her kiss wasn’t tender—it was a punishment. Her mouth crashed into his with the heat of a wildfire, angry and possessive, like she meant to devour the apology right out of his throat. Jaime grunted against her, stumbling backward as she pushed him, lips bruising, hands clutching fistfuls of his tunic like she wanted to tear it apart.

He didn’t stop her.

His hands gripped her waist, hard, dragging her against him as if he needed to feel her anger to believe she still wanted him. Her teeth caught his lip, and he hissed. She smiled into the kiss, wicked and breathless.

“You let him chain you,” she snarled, lips brushing his jaw as she bit at the skin there. “You said you were mine, Jaime—mine.”

“I am,” he gasped, kissing her again, sloppier this time—off-center, raw, all tongue and desperation. “I didn’t ask for her—I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Her hand tangled in his hair, tugging his head back so she could look at him—lips red, eyes shining, chest heaving like she’d just fought a war.

“Then prove it,” she whispered.

He kissed her again before the words finished falling, hands moving rough under her skirts, pressing her back toward the table, knocking over a goblet and not caring for a single heartbeat. Her thighs hit wood. His mouth never left hers.

“Say you still love me,” she said, half a breath, half a challenge.

“I do,” he said, panting, forehead against hers. “Gods, Cersei—always. Only you.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You arrived without fanfare, just as you preferred—no banners, no trumpets, no company beyond a modest escort of Tully men who said little and kept their heads down. The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the courtyard of the Red Keep was cloaked in shadow. A few lanterns flickered near the gates, their flames swaying in the wind. You dismounted with practiced ease, your cloak fluttering behind you in the night breeze, your blue silks catching only the faintest kiss of firelight.

Tywin Lannister was waiting at the top of the steps. Regal as ever, stone-faced and imposing even in silence. But when you smiled—softly, without pretense—it startled him. You were younger than he remembered. More beautiful than he’d expected. And far, far softer. There was no hard edge to you, no sharp tongue. Just river-steady grace and that keen, unbothered composure that made men underestimate you far too easily.

“Lord Tywin,” you said lightly, lifting a hand in greeting, fingers curled in a gentle wave. “It’s been far too long.”

“It has,” he replied with a nod, his voice unreadable. But his eyes did not leave your face.

You stepped forward, skirts whispering against the stone. “My brother didn’t come. He trusts me in your care,” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “For the wedding, I mean. I’ve not told my sisters yet either—though I suppose I’ll have to now, won’t I?”

Your smile widened, sweet as spring rain. “I trust everything is in order—your hands are known for order, after all. Robert, in his drunken ramblings, speaks of you often. Not all bad, mind you. He said the feasts would come after the ceremony. Then we ride north.” You paused, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “All very well planned. Very… Lannister.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment. And though he said nothing, there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—something between respect and concern.

Because you were not what he expected. You were worse. You were gentle. And that made you dangerous.

“Come,” Tywin said, turning with the authority of a man who expected obedience. “You shall meet Jaime.”

You froze. Hands clutched together before you, the lace at your wrists trembling faintly in the night breeze.

“Oh, gods—no, I can’t!” you said quickly, cheeks flushing as you shook your head. “It’s… against Riverrun tradition. I’m not to see him until the wedding. Bad luck and all that.”

Your voice was light, teasing, but your eyes flicked nervously toward the great doors of the Keep, as if the Kingslayer himself might come strolling out to catch you mid-sentence.

“Hopefully,” you went on with a breathless laugh, “he’ll find me beautiful. And not just another old, sour-faced Tully.” You scrunched your nose slightly. “You Lannisters have such strong features. I always worried the Riverlands bred girls a little too plain.”

Tywin paused at that, glancing back at you. His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. But not quite.

“He’ll find you pleasing enough,” he said. “You are young. You are lovely. And, more importantly, you are useful. That is more than most women can claim.”

You smiled, but the weight of his words pressed behind your ribs.

“I’ll have my steward take you to your chambers,” he added. “You’ll be presented properly before the court at the feast.”

You dipped into a polite, practiced curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

He watched you one last time before turning, the click of his boots fading into stone. And as you followed the steward through the quiet halls of the Red Keep, you touched your cheeks and whispered to yourself—

“Please let him have kind eyes.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Jaime paced the length of his chamber like a caged lion, his golden armor half-undone, the clasps at his shoulders hanging loose where he’d started to tear it off in frustration. His breath came short, sharp, like every step might somehow undo what had already been set in stone.

“She’s here,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s actually here. Gods, why—why did Father have to find her so soon?”

Tyrion lounged in a carved chair by the hearth, a goblet in one hand and a smirk on his lips, watching the dramatics unfold with barely veiled amusement.

“You knew this day was coming,” Tyrion said mildly. “Father made it quite clear you’d be married off the moment Robert gave permission. You should be thanking him—he could’ve saddled you with a Frey.”

Jaime spun around, eyes wild. “Lysa Arryn was a Tully. She was supposed to be beautiful too.”

“She was, once,” Tyrion said, swirling the wine in his cup. “Many say this one favors her—delicate, they claim. Polite. She has the hair. The eyes. That Riverlands charm.”

“If she looks anything like that sickly hag of the Eyrie I swear to the gods, I’ll—” he choked on the thought. “Her eyes! They were like a fish pulled too long from water. That awful limp hair. Pale as bone, and her voice—”

He shuddered dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest like he’d been stabbed.

“I’ll surely die.”

“You won’t,” Tyrion said with a sigh, setting down his cup. “She’s young. That much I know. And she’s no fool. She knows what this marriage means. You’ll get through tomorrow, and then you can return to pretending to hate politics.”

“I was fine,” Jaime snapped. “Content with life. My white cloak, my sword. Her. I didn’t ask for this.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “You mean Cersei?”

Jaime didn’t answer. He looked away, jaw clenching, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“She’ll be at the feast tomorrow,” Tyrion added quietly. “And by the look of things, she’s not what Father expected.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped to him. “What do you mean?”

Tyrion’s smile was slow, knowing. “You’ll see.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Morning came too quickly.

The halls of the Red Keep were transformed, the stone corridors draped in sweeping banners of Tully blue and burgundy, braided together with Lannister red and gold. The colors twisted in perfect harmony—rivers and lions bound in silk—a symbol of alliance, though few would dare call it love. It was beautiful, undeniably so, and that alone was enough to sour Cersei’s mood. She watched from her place near the dais, her jaw clenched behind a forced smile, envy roiling beneath the surface. You were all anyone spoke of. No one had seen the youngest Tully since girlhood, and now here you were—grown, radiant, untouched by time or scandal. Some whispered that your beauty rivaled hers. Others said it surpassed it.

Your hair was a striking Tully red—brighter than Catelyn’s, longer than Lysa’s—and it shimmered like copper fire in the sunlight spilling through the stained glass. Your eyes, soft sea-blue with a ring of storm grey, carried the hush of deep water. You looked like a memory come to life. And gods, you were perfect.

Jaime stood at the end of the hall, stiff and irritable beneath layers of polished gold. He looked like a knight carved from sunlight—handsome, proud, and visibly annoyed by the fanfare. But when the horns sounded and the guests rose, when the great oak doors creaked open, and you stepped into the light of the throne room—

Even he went still.

You walked slowly, unbothered by the weight of every eye in the hall. Your gown was a vibrant blue, soft but rich in color, stitched with fine silver thread. It hugged your form, dipping low across your chest where a silver trout gleamed at the center of your bodice. You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they were beautiful, but carried it like a secret rather than a weapon.

You paused when you saw him—your betrothed.

Your eyes met his across the distance. He was taller than you remembered. Sharper. Golden. He looked nothing like the boy you once glimpsed from afar.

“His eyes are… sorta kind,” you murmured to the maiden at your side.

“He’s the Kingslayer,” she whispered with a smirk. “And more handsome than I imagined.”

“He looks… bright,” you said softly, as if the word surprised you.

“Well, he’s your husband now,” she teased.

Jaime stepped forward as you neared, every movement rehearsed, mechanical. He reached for your hand, but before his fingers could graze yours, you laughed—low and warm, barely above a whisper, and yet it echoed in his ears.

“No need to be so formal, Ser Jaime,” you said, your voice sweet as summer wine. “You don’t need to kiss my hand.”

He faltered, blinking at you like you’d struck him. Something in your softness stunned him. You weren’t cold. You weren’t haughty. You weren’t what he feared.

You smiled at him—genuine and quiet.

And for the first time that morning, he didn’t know what to say.

“You grew,” Jaime said, eyes trailing over you with quiet disbelief, like he still expected the child from long ago to emerge beneath the silk and ceremony.

You tilted your head, grinning. “Well, I’m not the sniveling girl you saw clinging to Edmure’s leg at your sister’s wedding.”

You giggled then, the sound light and sweet. “Cersei looked beautiful that day.”

He smiled at the memory, despite himself. He remembered you now—the way you’d peeked out from behind your brother’s cloak, wide-eyed and wary, flinching every time the crowd roared too loud. A little thing in pale blue, red hair in tangled ribbons, constantly twisting your fingers. Barely old enough to speak in full sentences.

“And what were you so afraid of?” Jaime asked, amusement tugging at his lips.

You leaned closer, your breath brushing his shoulder, smiling too brightly—too kindly—for a girl about to marry a man the realm called Kingslayer.

“In truth?” you whispered. “Your steed. That damned horse of yours.”

He blinked. “My horse?”

A bark of laughter escaped him, far louder than he meant. Heads turned. The hall fell quiet. Cersei’s eyes narrowed from the dais. But you only beamed up at him, utterly unbothered.

“Gods, yes,” you said with a playful grimace. “A creature that large, able to kill me simply by twitching wrong? That is no friend of mine. I’ve never learned to ride. I don’t wish to. I’m quite sure they hate me as much as I hate them.”

“You hate horses,” Jaime said, still grinning, voice lowered now. “You’re marrying a knight and you hate horses.”

You laughed again, musical and unbothered. “I adore fish. Small, harmless, until they’re not. I grew up beside the river, not in a stable. A trout is a far nobler beast, in my opinion.”

He looked at you—really looked—and something in his chest shifted.

Because this wasn’t the marriage he expected.

You weren’t trembling. You weren’t bitter. You were soft and bright and quietly strange in a way that unsettled him and gods help him, he was starting to like it.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Jaime said with a short nod, offering his arm.

You placed your hand there softly, your fingers light against the hard muscle beneath his crimson sleeve. He began walking, slow and measured, the two of you moving through the corridor toward the sept, steps echoing beneath vaulted stone.

“The wedding,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter than before, “as you so adamantly requested, has now become a documented contract—signed, sealed, and quite literally paraded before the realm.”

You turned your face slightly toward him, your smile warm, but edged with mischief. “Well yes, I assumed your disdain at being plucked from the Kingsguard would sour any desire to celebrate being tethered to the trout girl.”

You said it lightly, teasing, but your voice never lost its softness. “Edmure told me—very firmly—not to mention cloaks, kings, or guards. I fear if I so much as say the word ‘oath,’ he’ll emerge from the stone itself to strangle me.”

That pulled the smallest laugh from Jaime, short and genuine.

“I’m a big boy,” he said. “I don’t need you to temper my mood.”

You smiled gently, eyes forward now. “I know. But still… it’s alright to grieve. To mourn what you’ve lost. I don’t fault you for that. I wouldn’t even blame you if you chose to walk away—if you rejected all of this. I wouldn’t be angry.”

The words hung between you for a moment, too tender, too real.

Jaime’s jaw shifted. He looked down at you, not with pity or coldness, but something quieter. Something harder to name.

“I would never dishonor you,” he said simply.

And in that vow, however soft, was the first crack in the armor he wore far beneath his gold.

“Ahhh! My little trout girl!” Robert’s voice boomed across the hall, slurred and far too loud for the closeness of the space. He barreled forward, flushed from drink and grinning like a man half his age, and before Jaime could so much as blink, the king had snatched you from his side.

You squealed with laughter, caught off guard by the sheer force of the man’s affection. “Robbie!” you gasped, eyes bright, arms barely catching around his barrel chest.

He hugged you tight, swaying slightly, then leaned back to grin at you as if you were some long-lost treasure he’d only just remembered. “Beautiful trout! Gods, look at you. Go on—go! Jon’s been begging to see you. Poor lad’s near chewed my ear off. You know how he gets.”

You looked past the king’s shoulder and saw Jon Arryn seated in the corner of the hall, watching you with a warm, expectant gaze. You nodded quickly, touched by the thought. As you moved to pull away, your eyes found Jaime’s again across the crowd—his smile small, real, and caught half behind his hand.

Robert clapped Jaime hard on the back—twice. The kind of blow that rattled armor.

“You married a good one,” Robert said, voice thick with wine and sentiment. “I thought for certain she’d be a Stark, you know. Madly in love with Benjen. Gods, he loved her too. Quiet boy, but fierce where it counted. I remember her first kiss to him—”

“I rather don’t care,” Jaime cut in, tone cool but even. “She’s my wife now. Whatever came before me is her own. Just as I had a life before her.”

Robert blinked, then let out a loud, wheezing chuckle. “Aye. Fair enough, fair enough.” He smacked Jaime’s back again, even harder this time, before staggering off toward another cask.

Jaime stood still for a moment, watching you slip through the crowd toward Jon Arryn. Your laughter trailed behind you, soft and clear.

And yet… Robert’s words lingered like smoke in Jaime’s chest. “The North has a way of bringing up old feelings.”

Now you both stood in the center of the hall, the contract signed, the rites spoken, the knots tied. A simple union, formalized before the realm with only the faintest brush of ceremony—no silken bedding speeches, no wild fanfare, no drunken debauchery. Just you and Jaime, side by side beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Red Keep, the air heavy with roses and smoke, the murmurs of lords and ladies still echoing along the stone.

You were now Lady Lannister.

A soft tune played from the minstrels’ corner, delicate and low, and he led you into the first dance with hesitant fingers resting at your waist. You moved like water—effortless, light. You smelled of wildflowers and river reeds warmed by sunlight, of quiet summer mornings along the banks of the Trident. You didn’t cling to him or press too close. Your hand at the nape of his neck was soft, steady—nothing like Cersei’s sharpened claws and possessive touch. It unsettled him, that gentleness. How it made him ache.

“You’d make a fine Lord Tully,” you said, eyes sparkling. “A golden-haired fisherman. A beard would suit you, I think. And longer hair to shield you from the summer sun.”

He snorted—an inelegant, surprised sound. “A Tully?” he repeated with a smirk.

You grinned up at him, spinning just slightly beneath his arm. “A quiet life. Far from court. Far from lions and crowns and whispered plots. It’s what most girls dream of when they marry, you know. Not power. Peace.”

Your words were sweet, light—but they landed heavy.

He looked down at you, your face tilted toward his, your smile still resting there like it belonged. You weren’t scheming. You weren’t pretending. You meant it.

And for one strange moment, Jaime found himself picturing it. A river keep. A slower life. Your hand still in his.

“And what do you dream of?” he asked, his voice low.

Your smile turned wistful, eyes drifting past his shoulder. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

The music lingered soft around you, the low hum of harp strings wrapping gently through the air as you turned beneath Jaime’s hand, laughing quietly at something only the two of you could hear. He was smiling—truly smiling—for the first time that night, the corners of his mouth soft and unguarded, as if, for once, he had stopped bracing for the weight of expectation.

Then she came.

Cersei moved through the hall like a storm cloaked in silk—green velvet clinging to every curve, golden hair piled high, eyes glittering with something colder than envy. She stopped just beside you, her hand gliding over Jaime’s arm with practiced familiarity.

“May I steal my brother for a moment?” she asked sweetly, her smile anything but.

You didn’t flinch. You turned to her, your face open and kind, too kind for someone so clearly being challenged.

“Of course, my Queen,” you said gently, bowing your head with grace honed from years at Riverrun. Before stepping back, you gave Jaime’s hand the smallest squeeze—a silent farewell, and perhaps, a warning.

You disappeared into the crowd, and the space between them collapsed like a trap sprung shut.

“Only one day,” Cersei hissed, stepping in close, her breath hot against his cheek, “and you’ve already forgotten you were in my cunt.”

Jaime stiffened, color rising to his face. “Stop,” he said low. “No one’s forgotten.”

Her hand slid across his chest, possessive, venomous. “Your hand was on her back, lower and lower. Her fingers at your neck like she already knows what makes you weak. And tonight, you’ll bed her, won’t you?”

Her voice cracked with restrained fury.

“Will you think of me?” she asked, voice quieter now. “When she breathes your name? When her legs wrap around you? When she gasps and you have to pretend she feels like home?”

Jaime closed his eyes for just a moment. And in the smallest, most broken whisper, he said “Of course. Of course I will.”

But even as he spoke it, he turned to look back through the crowd, trying to find the river girl in blue.

And he hated himself for how much he already missed your hand.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The fire burned low in the hearth, its golden light casting soft shadows across the stone walls of the wedding chamber. The room smelled of sandalwood and rose oil, and the silence that stretched between you both was fragile—heavy with unspoken thoughts, sharpened by expectation.

Jaime moved first.

His lips found yours with no warning, mouth hot and desperate, hands framing your face as if he feared you might vanish. It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t elegant. It was hungry, wild with need. He kissed you like a man drowning, like he needed your mouth to breathe.

“Jaime—Jaime,” you gasped between kisses, your palms pressing gently against his chest, breath caught somewhere between surprise and laughter.

He stilled, forehead brushing yours, panting.

“Wait,” you said softly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go slow. We have all our lives to be quick and hungry.”

Your fingers moved with care, tugging at the laces of his shirt, easing the fabric back from his shoulders until his skin was bare beneath the firelight. “Unless,” you said with a crooked smile, “you’re ready to get this over with?”

“No,” he said at once, voice rough. “No—gods, no.” He looked away, jaw flexing like he didn’t trust himself to say more.

You stepped back, wordless, and let your gown fall from your shoulders.

The silk pooled at your feet with a whisper, and the chill of the chamber kissed your skin. You stood bare before him, chest rising slowly, heart thudding, but you did not hide. There was something reverent in your stillness. Something brave.

“I am a maiden,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “And I wish my first time to be slow. Gentle. And full of love.” You paused, meeting his eyes. “Even if it is only for one night, Ser Jaime.”

Your smile was the kind that wrecked men—gentle, sure, and aching. Jaime stared at you like he’d never seen something so painfully real. And then, with trembling hands, he reached for you—not as a conqueror, but as a man humbled.

“Then slow,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “And gentle. And like love.”

He kissed you slow, the back of your legs meet the bed. Teasingly, you crawled back, your eyes low full of want. He grabbed your ankle, yanking towards him. “Let me taste you, River girl.” You bit your lip, nodding too eagerly.

His mouth was hot, reverent, and far too patient.

He kissed the inside of your thigh first—once, then again, slower the second time, his stubble scraping softly against your skin. His hands kept you open, gentle but firm, and he watched you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like awe. Like hunger smothered beneath restraint. When he lowered himself fully, breath ghosting over your most delicate place, you barely had time to brace before his mouth found you.

He kissed your clit like it was his, like he’d done it before in dreams and now meant to do it right—slowly. His tongue dragged across you, lazy and deliberate, not searching for the peak but drawing it out, warming you with long, wet strokes that made your thighs tremble around his head.

You gasped, spine arching off the mattress.

“Gods—” the word spilled from your lips in a breathless cry, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting tight in those golden strands. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

That made him groan—deeply—the sound sending a pulse through your whole body. He pressed his mouth harder against you, tongue flattening, circling, teasing the sensitive pearl with slow, worshipful flicks that had your hips lifting, grinding softly, needing more.

He didn’t give you more. Not yet.

He licked you through every twitch and gasp, lips dragging over the slick heat of you, soft and wet and sloppy, so soaked from his tongue alone that he had to drag his hand down and part you again, groaning when he felt how much you gave him.

“You taste like summer,” he murmured against you, voice thick, drunk on you. “Sweet river girl.”

Then he went back to it—louder now, messier. His mouth moved with open hunger, tongue pressing, sucking, flicking faster, then easing back just enough to hear you whine. You were soaked down your thighs, clenching at nothing, thighs quivering, head tossing back on the pillow.

You felt wild beneath him—shaking, panting, begging—but he just held you still, thumbs stroking circles into your hips like he had all night to ruin you slowly.

“Jaime—Jaime, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking, your hand reaching for anything, for him, dragging his name from your throat like a prayer.

And still—he didn’t stop.

His mouth was soaked with you—chin glistening, lips slick, breath ragged as he buried his face deeper between your thighs like he couldn’t get close enough. His tongue moved in filthy, wet strokes now, no longer gentle, no longer teasing. He was feasting on you, devouring every whimper, every twitch, every cry of his name like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

When he sucked hard—right on the clit—you cried out, body jerking like he’d struck some hidden nerve. Your thighs tried to close, to squirm away, but his arms locked you in place. His grip was tight now, possessive, dragging your hips closer to his mouth, forcing you to stay open for every soft, wet suck and every obscene lick he gave you. He was messy with it—his tongue flicking fast and eager, his nose pressed against the soft heat of you, and gods, he was moaning into you now, low and rough and wrecked.

“This your first time coming?” he groaned, voice muffled, lips dragging over your swollen pearl. “On my tongue?”

You nodded frantically, hands pulling at his hair, back arched off the bed, desperate and close and wild.

“Yes! Gods—yes,” you whimpered, your voice barely human.

That did something to him—broke something. He growled low in his throat and sucked again, harder this time, his tongue working you over like he wanted to brand the feeling of him into your body forever. Sloppy, filthy, perfect—his mouth sliding against your soaked folds, his tongue curling up to catch every drop of you like he was starving.

Your body locked up—legs trembling, belly tightening, breath catching in your chest—and when your release hit, it hit like a wave crashing over stone.

You screamed.

Your thighs clamped around his head, hands fisting tight in his hair as your hips bucked, and he didn’t stop. Not for a second. He moaned as you came, mouth still moving, still kissing you through it, drinking you down with feverish, worshipful hunger. He let you ride it, every spasm, every broken cry, until you were limp beneath him—shaking, gasping, soaked and ruined.

He pulled back slowly, face wet, chest heaving.

“Sweet gods,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “I could die with that taste on my tongue.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, your body still trembling from the force of it.

Jaime hovered over you, his body taut with restraint, golden hair tousled, lips still wet with your release. His tunic was discarded long ago, leaving him bare to the waist, muscles flexed as he braced himself on either side of you. But it was your movement—slow and sinfully deliberate—that shattered what control he had left.

Your legs curled around his hips, and your body arched, grinding up against the hot, heavy length of him—bare now, pressed against your soaked entrance but not yet inside. The heat of you dragged along him with every slow roll of your hips, and the friction made his breath stutter, made his arms shake.

“Gods,” he hissed through clenched teeth, dropping his head against your shoulder. “What are you doing to me…already ruining me with those sweet whines”

Your hands threaded into his hair, your lips brushing his ear as you rocked again, the tip of him dragging through the slick mess between your thighs. Not quite entering—teasing. Coating him. Driving him mad.

“I want it to feel real,” you whispered, voice trembling. “All of you. All of this.”

He grunted—deep, guttural—the sound scraping from somewhere low in his chest. You rolled again, slower this time, your clit catching just beneath the ridge of him, and his hips jerked like he couldn’t help it.

“Seven hells,” he groaned, breath shuddering against your neck. “I’ve never—”

He cut himself off, teeth gritting.

“Never had someone like this. Needy for me. Wanting me like this.”

Your mouth kissed along his jaw, soft and slow. “I need you, Jaime,” you whispered. “Please.”

He pulled back to look at you then, eyes burning, his hands moving to grip your hips like he was anchoring himself. The tip of him nudged against you, almost there, his breath ragged.

“Say it again,” he said hoarsely. “Say you need me.”

“I need you.”

“Then gods forgive me,” he whispered, and he pushed in—slow, every inch of him pressing through slick heat, stretching you open until he was fully seated inside, thick and deep and shaking above you.

Your gasp tore into his mouth as he kissed you—desperate, messy, teeth catching on lips, both of you groaning as your hips adjusted to each other.

He started to move—long, slow thrusts that dragged against every inch of your trembling walls. His forehead rested against yours, his hands everywhere—cupping your cheek, gripping your waist, brushing your breast, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.

“You feel like godsdamned heaven,” he groaned. “You were made for me.” He lost himself the moment he sank into you.

There was no grace left in him—not with how warm and soaked you were, how your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for him all along. His first thrust was deep, sloppy, too rough for the tenderness he’d promised, and your gasp shattered between his lips as his hips slammed flush to yours, the sound of it loud and filthy in the quiet of the chamber.

He moaned—loudly—his head dropping to your shoulder, golden hair clinging to his brow as he fought to breathe.

“Fuck—gods, you feel—you feel like sin,” he groaned, grinding deep into your soaked cunt, hips jerking as your walls fluttered around him, wet and eager.

You cried out beneath him, your nails digging into his back, your legs locked high around his waist as you pulled him back in.

He fucked you hard—messy and fast, every thrust sloppy with wet sounds, your slick dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Your skin slapped together again and again as he pounded into you like he couldn’t stand the thought of ever leaving your body. Sweat slicked between you. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, your breast—kissing, biting, claiming.

“You’ll only have me,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hands cupping his face as he fucked you through another wave of pleasure.

His hand slammed against the headboard, gripping it like a man trying to hold on to reason, while the other arm wrapped tight beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip, spreading you wider, deeper. His strokes were brutal now—filthy and fast, wet and relentless, your slick coating his cock, his thighs, the bed beneath you both. The sound of him inside you—flesh slapping flesh, the obscene squelch of every thrust—filled the chamber louder than the fire crackling at your side.

He groaned—loudly—his head dropping low as he watched himself disappear into you again and again, jaw clenched so tight it looked like pain.

He groaned like you’d struck him in the gut, his head snapping up, gold hair sticking to his sweat-drenched brow.

“It’s just you,” he growled. “Only you—gods, my wife—my sweet river girl.”

He bent low, lips finding yours, kissing you hard as he fucked you harder. One hand still braced on the headboard, the other still locked tight around your thigh, holding you in place as he drilled into you with fevered, soaking thrusts. You could hear how wet you were for him—hear it every time his cock slammed back in, thick and heavy, stretching you until your toes curled.

He was trembling now, breath stuttering, voice broken with need.

“So close—so fucking close—gods, tell me you want it—tell me you want me to fill you.”

You nodded fast, clutching at him, gasping against his lips. “I want it—I want you. Give it to me, Jaime—please—please.”

Jaime was shaking above you now—truly shaking, his muscles flexed and locked as he thrust into you with desperate, brutal rhythm, like every inch inside you dragged him closer to the edge of sanity. His hand stayed clenched around the headboard, the wood creaking with each slam of his hips, while the other hand gripped your thigh so tightly your skin ached. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, even as sweat dripped from his temples, even as his jaw tensed like he was in pain from holding back.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” he groaned, his voice breaking into something feral.

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, back arching, your hands clawing at his waist, at his arms, at anything. “Jaime—please—please give it to me.”

That ruined him.

“Gods,” he gasped, voice raw, wrecked. “You want it? My wife—my sweet, wet little thing—beg me.”

“I’m begging,” you sobbed, your thighs trembling, your body soaked and aching from how deep he was buried. “I want you—I want all of it—please, inside—inside me, Jaime—please—please—”

He slammed into you hard, once, twice, then froze.

And then he broke.

His whole body locked above you, his abs tightening, his teeth bared as the first hot, violent spurt of his release spilled into you. He growled—the sound harsh and stunned—like it hurt to finally let go. His cock jerked inside you, pulse after pulse, pumping you full, soaking you from the inside out as your walls clenched and fluttered around him, milking every last drop of him.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” he choked, trembling through it, voice high, nearly frantic. “So good—so good—I’ve never—never—gods, I can feel it.”

You moaned beneath him, body curling into his, your cunt so sensitive, so wet from everything he gave you that you could feel his seed leak out before he’d even stopped moving.

But he wasn’t done.

He kept thrusting—slow, now—shallow and filthy, pushing his cum deeper inside you, hips still twitching as his body rode the last waves of his climax.

“You wanted this,” he panted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You took it so well—so greedy for it—gods, I don’t want to pull out.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, your voice soft and ruined. “Stay in me. Fill me again.”

He kissed you—open-mouthed, messy, desperate—and nodded.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispered against your lips. “Everything.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The night crept in slow and heavy, the fire in the hearth reduced to a bed of glowing coals. Shadows danced faintly across the walls of the wedding chamber, long and soft, curling like tendrils across the stone. The air smelled of sweat and sex and sweet rose oil—the scent of a marriage not only sealed, but consumed.

You lay sprawled atop him, your cheek against his chest, his arm draped around your waist with the lazy weight of a man too exhausted to pretend anymore. His hand rested just above the curve of your hip, fingers twitching now and then, as if even in sleep he refused to let go of you. His other hand was tangled in your hair, thumb stroking absently over your scalp. Jaime’s breath was slow. Deep. Peaceful.

Neither of you stirred when the chamber door cracked open.

Cersei moved like a ghost. Silent. Cloaked in black. She had waited for hours. Waited until the moon was high, until the maester had finished his whispers and returned to the Keep, until the guards had yawned and shifted, their attention dulled by late hour and too much wine. She’d spoken to the maidens, all of them. Each said the same thing.

He never left.

She had demanded truth from the steward. From the servants who passed the chamber door. One claimed she’d heard laughter—low and warm—and then quiet murmurs, like lovers breathing each other in.

Now, here she stood. At the edge of the bed.

Watching.

Your red hair spilled like wine across Jaime’s bare chest, one of your legs curled possessively over his. The covers had fallen to his hips, revealing the flush of his skin, the shine of dried sweat still lingering across his abdomen. The mark of you.

Cersei didn’t blink. Her jaw clenched.

You looked soft in sleep. Disarmed. Not like the clever, smiling thing that had teased him in the hall or bowed so sweetly when she asked to cut in. No. Now you looked his. And worse still—he looked yours.

His arm was wrapped around you like instinct. Not habit. Not performance.

“You fool,” she whispered, so quiet it barely left her lips. “You gave yourself away.”

She didn’t cry. Not yet. She only stared.

Because for all the things she’d feared… nothing had prepared her for this. For the way Jaime held you in his sleep. Like you were peace. Like you were home.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You quickened faster than anyone expected.

The court had only just settled into the comfort of your union when whispers began to spread like ivy between pillars. At first, it was idle talk—sidelong glances at your fuller face, murmurs about how often Ser Jaime’s hand rested at the small of your back, the way his eyes trailed you when you left the room. But by the end of the second moon, the whispers grew teeth. By the third, your gowns—once effortlessly elegant—had begun to shift, your corsets laced looser, your silhouette softening in ways no feast could explain. By the fourth moon, it was undeniable: Lady Lannister was with child.

And Cersei Lannister hated you for it.

She hated you with a venom that festered behind her smile, behind every forced curtsy and every cordial greeting. She watched you across the great hall with wine in her hand and acid in her throat. Watched the way Jaime drifted toward you like gravity itself bent for your comfort. Watched how your hands found his without needing to search. How you smiled up at him, and he smiled down. Always down—softly, privately, like no one else was in the room.

She saw the way his hand slipped around your waist as you walked, how his thumb sometimes brushed over the small swell of your belly like he was trying to remember it, trying to feel the child even before it moved. She watched the way he kissed your temple, your cheek, your hair, in moments no one else seemed to notice—but she did. She always noticed.

It wasn’t just the touch. It wasn’t just the tenderness.

It was the quiet. She could live with passion. She knew how to match fire with fire. But what you and Jaime shared was worse—it was peaceful. It was domestic. It was real.

And then came the moment that undid her.

You were seated together, not even touching—just speaking in low voices, Jaime’s golden head bowed slightly toward yours. You laughed gently, tilting your head with that same unbearable grace you carried everywhere.

“Fisherman Tully,” you teased, a whisper she heard clear as bells. “Still no beard. Still no boat. I suppose I’ll have to keep you.”

Jaime’s smile bloomed slow and warm. He reached for you, fingers cupping your face like it was made of something delicate and rare. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, and he leaned forward until your brows nearly touched.

“Gods help me,” he said, “but I would fish for you.” You flushed, glowing like hearthlight.

Cersei flinched. Physically. She felt it—sharp and hot in her chest, like a brand pressed beneath her ribs.

She turned away quickly, biting down on her wine cup so hard her lip bled. The worst part? You weren’t trying. You weren’t flaunting anything. You were simply… loved. Gently, openly, and without need for performance. She had been everything to him once. And now she was nothing more than his sister.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

It was eight moons into your marriage, and you were round with child—visibly, proudly, undeniably his. Your walk had slowed, your steps heavy with life, but none of that stopped him. Not when you looked at him the way you did. Not when your voice dipped low and teasing, when your fingers brushed his wrist at supper, when you whispered something sweet behind your cup and he smiled like a man undone.

That night, you didn’t make it to the wedding chambers. You barely made it past the corridor.

Cersei had turned a corner in time to see it all—the two of you tangled against the stone wall, just past the curve of the gallery arch, torchlight flickering against golden armor and sapphire silk. Jaime’s hands were on you already—everywhere—gripping beneath your thighs, lifting you as if your swollen belly weighed nothing at all. Your skirts were bunched up around your hips, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, his mouth crushed to yours in a kiss so hungry it bordered on violence.

She froze.

You moaned into his mouth, breathless and soft, and his groan followed—low, guttural, wrecked.

“I couldn’t wait—fuck, I couldn’t wait,” he gasped, pinning you harder against the wall, grinding into you, still fully clothed but undone just enough to thrust deep inside you with wet, obscene sounds that echoed off the stone.

“Jaime—gods, Jaime,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, head thrown back as he buried himself again. “You shouldn’t—someone could see—”

“Let them,” he grunted. “Let them see you like this. Round with my child, moaning for me, taking me like you were made for it.”

Cersei couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Her heart slammed in her chest as she stood in the shadows—watching.

You gasped when he shifted, lifting you higher, your hands flying to his hair as he thrust up into you, messy and deep, the wet sounds between your bodies so lewd, so filthy, it felt like a spell had been cast in the corridor.

“When you have this one,” he groaned against your neck, “my firstborn—you’ll give me another. Gods, I don’t care what it is. Boy, girl—doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s ours.”

You sobbed softly, legs trembling around his hips.

“You’ll give me three,” he growled. “Four. Fill this keep with little lions that look like you.”

His hand slid to your belly as he fucked you against the stone, reverent and obsessed, his moans growing louder with every thrust, every squeeze of your soaked walls around him. And Cersei—Cersei—stood there hearing it all.

Her fingers shook at her sides. Her mouth opened, but nothing came. Because he already had three children—her children. A son with her jaw. Another with her smile. A daughter named for a dead woman he never even loved.

And he had never said those words to her. Not once.

Not when Joffrey was born. Not when Myrcella wrapped her tiny fingers around his. Not even when Tommen cried in his arms.

“My wife,” he moaned into your mouth. “My sweet river girl.”

Cersei turned away, tears burning, rage swallowing her whole. She needs control, she needed him back.

The next morning came slow and gray, with a hush over the Keep as though the stones themselves were holding their breath.

Cersei waited in the covered walk outside the training yard, where the sun barely touched the stone. She wore no crown, no paint on her lips—only fur draped over her shoulders and her golden hair braided back from her face the way she wore it when she wanted to be disarming. A picture of softness. The illusion of warmth. But there was cold behind her eyes.

She had sent for him before breakfast, a single note with no seal. Jaime had hesitated, standing at the window with the parchment still open in his hand, your body asleep in the bed behind him, belly round beneath furs and sunlight. He didn’t want to leave. But old habits—old loyalties—dragged him from the room.

He found her as she always was when she meant to twist him—silent, poised, patient.

“You look tired,” Cersei said quietly as he approached. Her voice was gentle, too much so. “Is the little trout keeping you up?”

He said nothing at first, just clenched his jaw and stepped into the shadowed arch with her.

“She stirs often,” he said at last. “The child moves a great deal.”

“Hmm,” Cersei hummed, her eyes trailing to his chest, where the collar of his tunic was still crooked from your hands. “That happens in the late moons. They grow restless. Kicking. Turning. Demanding.”

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

“Has she ever tended a newborn?” she asked, voice light. “Has she seen one gasp for breath with blood still wet between its legs? Or does she think it will arrive sweet and silent, cooing like the doves in her window?”

He glanced at her, a flicker of warning in his eyes. “Why are you saying this?”

Cersei smiled, slow and tired. “Because I remember what it cost to be a mother. You forget. You weren’t there.”

“I wanted to be,” he said.

“And yet you weren’t.”

That silence stretched between them like a blade. She circled him slowly, fingers brushing his arm, his shoulder—touches she used to command him with. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean in.

“You were never made for this, Jaime,” she murmured. “Not for quiet. Not for softness. You are steel. You were born with a sword in your hand and a war in your name.”

He looked away.

“She’ll find out what you are,” Cersei continued, voice like honey and ash. “Not a father. Not a husband. Just a lion with his claws clipped, trying to play house with a girl who dreams of rivers and names her belly love.”

Jaime said nothing. He stared past her. Until her voice lowered, sharper now, closer.

“Will she still smile when she sees what you’ve done? Will she call you Fisherman Tully when the blood runs dry in her sheets and the babe’s cries don’t stop for nights on end? Will she laugh when your patience fails?”

He turned then, something shifting in his face, but before he could speak— A voice echoed down the corridor.

“Oh! My fish!”

Jaime froze. His body turned instinctively toward the sound, and Cersei’s hand slipped from his arm like it had never belonged there at all.

You stood at the far end of the hall, wrapped in a simple cloak, your hair half-braided, loose strands curling around your cheeks. You moved slowly, carefully, but your smile—your smile was bright enough to chase away the fog of her voice.

“I thought you were at Robert’s door,” you said, breathless from the walk. “I missed you, I hate waking up without you.”

You waddled forward with one hand cradling your belly, the other reaching for him. Jaime met you halfway. Without thinking. Without hesitation. His hand slid around your waist, his lips brushed your temple, and his other hand instinctively covered the swell of your stomach like it belonged there.

Cersei watched it all, silent. Stone.

“What’s wrong?” you whispered up at him, your palm resting over his heart.

He exhaled slowly, then smiled—small and broken and true.

“Nothing, my river girl,” he murmured. “Just spoke with my sister. She always knows how to damper a mood.”

You tilted your head and chuckled gently. “That is what siblings are for. Edmure would purposely ruin my mood before my favorite meal.” You giggled.

You pressed your face against his chest, and he kissed the top of your head like he couldn’t bear to let go. Cersei turned then, the hem of her cloak snapping as she walked away—not fast, but hollow.

She had three children by him. She had given him a dynasty in secret. But you? You had his peace.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The moons passed faster than anyone could hold them.

Your daughter—Elia Lannister—was born just after dawn on a morning soaked in gold. The air had been warm that day, and the bells had rung not for death, but for life. A bright, shining life. The halls of the Red Keep had swelled with laughter, the scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, Jaime’s joy so radiant that even the oldest servants said they hadn’t seen him smile like that since he was a boy.

She was beautiful from the moment she was placed on your chest. Dark strawberry-blonde hair, soft as down, skin warm and flushed, her little eyes squinting up at the light as if even the world dared not blind her. She was loud, too—cried fiercely when she didn’t like the cold water or the way her father took too long to bundle her. But in your arms, she softened. And in Jaime’s arms, she shined.

He named her himself.

“Elia,” he whispered, holding her so carefully, his hand cradling her entire back. “Elia Lannister.”

You had blinked in surprise, but when you looked at his face—at the guilt and softness and something mournful buried beneath the pride—you said nothing. You only kissed his cheek and said,

“Then Elia she is.”

The first moon after her birth passed in warmth and quiet joy. You healed slowly, the maester pleased with your progress, your appetite returning, your sleep only interrupted by Elia’s whimpers in the night. Jaime was often there, even when he had duties. He’d return to find her in your arms, asleep against your breast, and he’d kneel beside the bed just to press his lips to her hair.

“You’ve made me into something else,” he whispered to you once, late at night, when the fire had burned low. “Something I never thought I could be.”

But peace in the Red Keep never lasted long.

In the second moon, the winds shifted.

Whispers crept through the corridors—nothing certain, nothing official. Then came the messenger ravens from the Vale, then the locked doors, the urgent meetings. Then came the silence.

Jaime was called away more frequently. He never told you much when he returned, only that the King was restless, that Cersei had taken to pacing the halls again at night, that something was coming. And still, you tried to keep your world small. Focused. Your child. Your husband. The sound of Elia’s breathing as she napped on your chest. The smell of pine oil and old wood in the nursery.

Then, near the end of the second moon—

The bells rang again.

But not for life this time.

Not for joy.

They rang for death.

Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Warden of the East, was dead.

The announcement echoed through the Keep with a force that made the tapestries tremble. You had just laid Elia down in her crib when the thunderous chime struck, and you felt it in your chest before you even heard the words.

Jaime came to you that night with his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.

He looked older than he had the day before.

“He’s dead,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your nightdress, your hair braided loosely down your back. Elia stirred in the cradle, but did not cry.

“So it begins,” you whispered. And it did.

Everything moved quickly after that. Too quickly. Faster than a new mother could bear. Faster than a husband could stand.

Robert demanded a feast. He demanded new banners be sewn. He demanded Ned Stark. The North was to send its wolf to court.

And Jaime? Jaime didn’t leave your side that night. Not once. “The world is spinning,” he said, lying beside you, his hand on your belly where Elia once rested.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The corridor outside your chambers had barely gone silent when Jaime threw the door open without knocking. He was seething, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides from the moment Robert left the council room. His words echoing,

“Congratulations on your babe,” Robert had said, voice booming with false warmth, “even though our congratulations are short-lived. I need you to travel north with me. We leave at the turn of the first moon.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. And Jaime had no say in the matter.

By the time he reached your chambers, the wet nurse had taken Elia for her night feeding. You hated the arrangement, loathed the distance, but Jaime had begged you to rest. Promised it would only be for a few nights. Promised he’d be near.

Now, he was.

The door shut hard behind him. Jaime kicked off his boots like a man starved of gentleness and made his way to your bed, where you’d just begun to drift into the first real sleep you’d had in days.

“Jaime?” you stirred softly.

He didn’t answer—not with words. He climbed into bed and reached for you with a need that bordered on desperation, mouth already pressing against yours, hard and fast.

“My fish—” you tried to speak, but he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands were warm and trembling slightly as they cupped your face.

“I’ve been deprived,” he groaned against your mouth, every word drenched in want. “The maester said you’ve healed. Tell me. Tell me you want me. Tell me I have permission to enter you…to feel you.”

His forehead rested against yours, breaths tangled, golden hair brushing your cheek. There was something unsteady in his voice, like he was trying not to fall apart.

“Of course you do,” you whispered, fingers threading into his hair.

But before the sentence could finish, he kissed you again—hungrier now. Mouth slanted over yours, swallowing every word, every breath. His hands roamed slowly, reverently, like he was rediscovering you inch by inch.

“I need you,” he murmured, voice breaking as his lips traced along your jaw. “Before they take me from this. From you. From the only thing that’s ever felt like home.”

You felt the weight of it then—not just lust, not just need. It was grief for the time you wouldn’t have. Fury that Robert was stealing him away, that duty still dragged him by the throat. And love. Gods, so much love it hurt to breathe through it. “What’s going on Jamie?” You whispered

Your legs tangled beneath the sheets as you pulled him closer.

The breath he let out—gutted, raw—hitched in his throat like it hurt to hold it. Jaime buried his face in your neck, his weight sinking down over you, one hand braced above your head on the carved wood of the bed, the other sliding beneath your thigh to hitch it up around his hip.

He wasn’t patient tonight.

His movements were frantic, but reverent. The kind of aching that only came from nights spent watching, waiting, too afraid to touch you while you healed, while your body ached from the beauty you brought into the world. Now, he had you—cleared by the maester, no longer fragile in the ways that had terrified him.

“Mine,” he whispered into your skin, dragging his mouth down your neck like a man who’d been parched for moons. “You’re mine—gods, tell me—say it.”

Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling gently. “Yours. Always yours.”

That broke something in him.

He groaned so softly it sounded like prayer, hips rolling as he found you again for the first time in weeks. The stretch drew a gasp from your throat, your spine arching under him. He cursed under his breath, forehead pressing to yours as he held still, just for a moment, trembling.

“Gods, you’re still so—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, only whimpered against your lips as your name fell from him like a sin.

You kissed him through it. Softly. Desperately. He tasted like longing, like a man running out of time.

He moved with aching tenderness at first—hips rocking, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing you. Then faster. Messier. His grip on your thigh tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pushed deeper, overwhelmed by the sounds you made, the way your hand slid down to feel where your bodies joined.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he breathed, jaw clenched, voice shaking. “I’ll—gods, I’ll lose it.”

You smiled, breathless. “Then lose it. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

He kissed you again, but this time he broke apart mid-kiss, the rhythm of his hips faltering.

“Say it again,” he gasped, panting into your mouth. “That I’m not going anywhere. That I can stay here. With you. That you love me.”

“I love you,” you said between the thrusts, each one deeper than the last. “I love you, Jaime. I love you—I’ll wait for you, but gods, I wish they didn’t have to take you.”

He moaned so loudly at that, shameless and desperate, his fingers curling into the headboard as he held himself above you. “I’ll give you another,” he gasped, mouth at your ear. “Another child, I swear it—Elia won’t be the only one—”

Fucking gods—” he groaned into your mouth, voice hoarse and broken. “Missed you—missed this—missed you, my sweet girl, my fish—”

You whimpered into him, nails dragging down his back as he pressed you into the mattress, pace already desperate. He couldn’t hold still. Couldn’t think. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your breast, your thigh slung high around his hip as he ground deep, chasing that ache that had haunted him every night he lay alone in his chambers.

“Say it,” he gasped. “Say you missed me. Say you’re mine.”

“I missed you,” you whispered between moans, lips swollen, eyes wet. “I’m yours, Jaime—I’ve always been yours.”

His groan cracked in his throat. He kissed you too hard, too fast, teeth knocking together before he dragged his mouth down to your jaw, your neck, sucking until you gasped and clung to him tighter. Every thrust was sloppy, hungry, his forehead pressed against yours as he rutted into you like a man starving.

“Come with me,” he begged, voice shaking. “To the North—fuck—I’ll take you with me, Elia too, we’ll ride behind Robert—I’ll get a carriage, I’ll—gods, please.”

“Jaime—” you tried, but he didn’t let you finish.

“You hate the wet nurse,” he groaned, dragging his hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit. “And I can’t sleep without you, I—need you.”

You were pulsing around him now, your walls fluttering tight. He felt it, nearly collapsed from it.

“Say yes,” he moaned, losing all rhythm. “Say yes, fuck, please—I’ll keep you warm, I’ll build you a bath from snow and rocks if I have to, just—just don’t stay behind.”

Your lips trembled. “I’m scared to travel with her so young.”

“Then let me carry her. I’ll do it all—fuck, I’ll wear her on my chest like a milkmaid if it means you’ll come. Just don’t—don’t leave me here like this.”

He was close, so close, fucking into you like he could drag the answer from your body. You clung to him, kissed him, moaned his name with every breath.

“Please come,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his mouth crushed to your cheek. “I can’t leave without you.”

That was when you tightened, crying out his name as the pleasure crashed over you—hot and helpless, thighs trembling around his hips as he pushed as deep as he could and spilled into you with a moan that nearly broke you in two.

He didn’t move after. Just held you there, buried inside, shaking from the force of it.

“I’ll ask Robert,” he whispered, breathless. “I’ll beg him if I have to.”

Your hands brushed his hair back. Your legs were around his waist, ankles crossed behind him as he drove into you with rough, trembling thrusts. He was everywhere—breath on your neck, hand fisting the headboard, the other holding your thigh so tight it’d bruise. The bed creaked loud, rhythm uneven, like he’d been denied for years not weeks.

“Say yes,” he groaned again, panting into your shoulder. “Say you’ll come north with me—say it—please gods say it—”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, dragging him closer as your hips tilted up to meet every thrust.

“I—Jaime—” you gasped, words caught on a moan as his cock hit deep, too deep, just the way you liked.

“Say it,” he begged again, voice cracking. “You—you’re mine, not Robert’s court, not this castle—me. Come with me. Let me keep you close—fuck—I can’t breathe without you.”

He was shaking. Desperate. The wet sounds of your bodies filled the room, your slick soaking his cock as he rutted harder, rougher, hips slapping into you with no grace left. Just need.

“I’ll build a tent,” he whispered wildly, biting your jaw. “A whole fucking tower of snow if I have to, just—say you’ll come. I’ll take Elia. I’ll guard you both with my fucking life, I swear it—”

“Yes,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I’ll go—Jaime—I’ll go with you—gods, don’t stop—” He groaned like a wounded animal. Everything in him buckled.

“Fuck, fuck, my girl,” he choked, kissing you like he was drowning, thrusts suddenly frantic, pace ruined. “You’ll come with me—you’ll stay with me—say it again—”

“Yes—yes—I said yes!” you sobbed against his lips, legs shaking as he drove you toward the edge.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck—my wife, my fucking wife—” You fell apart with a cry, pulsing so hard around him he nearly collapsed, fucking through your high with curses and whimpers. He didn’t last another second. “Mine—mine—mine,” he moaned, voice low and broken as he spilled into you with a sob, burying himself as deep as he could go. “You’re coming with me, sweet girl—you’re mine.”

When it was done, he didn’t move. Just lay there shaking, still inside you, whispering your name over and over.

“I’ll tell Robert tomorrow,” he said against your neck. “You’re coming with me. Our daughter too. We ride north… as a family.”

Your thighs still trembled as you curled against him, breath hot against his chest, one hand draped lazily over his heart. His seed still inside you, sticky and warm, a mess neither of you cared to clean yet. His body hadn’t moved far, still draped half over yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he gave you space.

“When do we leave?” you murmured, voice hoarse and soft, edged with the ache of being stretched for the first time in moons.

He sighed, almost guiltily, as he brushed sweat-slick hair from your cheek.

“A moon. Maybe two.” His voice was low, gentle now that the desperation had passed. “Preparing to ride north is no easy feat. Horses, wagons, guards—it’ll take five weeks just to reach Winterfell.”

You shifted under him, heart skipping, and he saw it in your eyes. The flicker of doubt, the ache of new motherhood, the fear of leaving the only home you’ve known—of dragging a baby through snow and dirt and gods-know-what. Your face faltered, just a little.

And he panicked.

“No—my girl,” he said quickly, voice breaking as he cupped your face again, kissed your lips like a promise. “Don’t take it back. Don’t let fear ruin what we just—don’t, please—”

You blinked, but he kept going, nose brushing yours, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“It’ll be comfortable. I swear it. I’ll make it so. You won’t lift a finger. I’ll get a nurse for Elia, extra cloaks, furs, a litter if I have to carry you both like queens.” He kissed you again. “You’ll have your own tent, with a fire. With blankets. With me. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Jaime—”

“No more courts. No more hiding. I want to fall asleep with you every night and wake up to Elia’s cry. I want to sit by a fire and brush your hair. I want to be a father in front of the world and call you mine without shame.”

Your fingers curled against his jaw.

“You’ll hate the cold,” you whispered, smiling faintly.

“I’d eat snow if it meant I could have you beside me.” He kissed your forehead, a different kind of reverent now. “Just… don’t leave me there. Don’t let them take you from me.”

You leaned up, kissing him slow and certain.

“I already said yes, didn’t I?” His eyes shut like that yes was a prayer.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The morning air clung soft and cool against the stone corridors, the hush of a castle slowly waking. You stood in the sun-drenched gallery near the window alcove, swaying gently with your babe in your arms—little Elia curled against your chest, drowsy from her morning feed, her fingers clutching your gown with milky satisfaction. You hummed under your breath, a river song your father used to sing on storm-heavy nights.

Your other hand rested low on your belly, already heavy with your second child.

A moon ago, you’d begun to swell again. Three moons after birthing Elia, and the gods had quickened you once more—much to the shock of the midwives and the rage that roiled behind Cersei’s perfect smile. You’d hardly left the birthing bed before Jaime had put another child in you. And it showed.

Your cheeks glowed, your skin dewed with that soft fullness that came with being wanted, kept, loved. Every corner of you was bloomed and softened. Jaime hadn’t stopped touching you since.

Tyrion, leaning on the edge of a carved table, raised his goblet with a smirk. “You know, you’re becoming quite the legend in court. Some say you’re carrying the fourth lion already. Others say you’re a witch who’s bewitched my brother.”

You smiled over Elia’s curls. “Only a fool would believe it took witchcraft. I simply loved him. That was enough.”

Tyrion hummed and toasted your honesty. “And he worships you for it. That’s rarer than magic in this place.”

From the far end of the gallery, Jaime stood listening—half-shadowed, arms crossed, his eyes not on Tyrion but you. The way you leaned into the light. The way your smile bloomed just for his brother. He trusted you, but still, something curled hot and green in his gut.

“Talking to our brother again?” Cersei’s voice cut like a blade. She’d come from the other hall, her steps soft as a snake. “You’ll see her old lover soon enough.”

Jaime didn’t look at her.

“She loved him to death,” Cersei continued, soft, serpentine. “Benjen Stark. The one who took the Black. She cried when he took the oath. I remember—gods, the way she wept.”

He finally turned. “Stop.”

She smiled, too wide. “What? You’ve knocked her up again—twice in one year, Jaime. Shouldn’t you know who you’re breeding with? Or would you rather be surprised if the next one’s born with Northern eyes?”

His jaw clenched. Across the room, your laugh floated up at something Tyrion had said, and Elia cooed.

“You’re vile,” Jaime said low.

“She’s a Tully,” Cersei hissed. “They drown in emotion. You think she’s forgotten him?”

But her words melted away when you looked over your shoulder, catching Jaime’s eye. Your smile was soft, tired, glowing. You mouthed something to him.

“Come”

He was already moving before Cersei even blinked.

You looked the same as when he last saw you, though now you were accompanied by a raven who rested on your arm. He had not seen the animal when he was here last, but something told him that you had long been companions.

You raised your head softly in greeting, which caused him to give you a slight nod.

“My lady,” he muttered, a bit out of breath.

“I did not expect to see you, Ser.”

The raven crowed at him, but you were quick to shush it.

“Don't worry, dear. He's harmless.”

Gwayne could not tell if you were talking to him or to the bird.

“I thought you said you knew things.”

“I did,” you said, raising your arm, causing the raven to fly off into the night sky. “Till you came along.”

Gwayne's brows furrowed at your words.

“You cannot see what will happen?”

“In truth, I don't know if I ever did. Perhaps I just saw what was most likely to happen, and not what would be.”

Something passed over Gwayne's face. You noticed it instantly.

“My words grieve you,” you stated.

“Yes,” he confessed. “I may have made a mistake.”

You raised a brow at him, silently questioning.

“Might be best if I just show you.”

He turned looking back into the bushes he had come from. You tried to look for whatever he seemed to be searching for. It took you a moment, but then you saw it—a flash of orange between the green.

“It is alright,” Gwayne called softly. “She will not harm you.”

You watched as the orange shifted, inching closer and closer until a boy was revealed to you. He shied away from your watchful eyes, keeping his gaze on the ground as he moved. It was only when he was standing next to Gwayne that he dared look at you, and even then it was only for a brief moment.

They were related. You could tell almost immediately.

“This is my nephew, Daeron.”

Gwayne's words only confirmed your thoughts. 

You made your way over to them slowly. 

Daeron trembled like a leaf as you approached. For some reason, it pained you to see him so frightened. If he had been a man, you might have relished the reaction, but he was only a boy, and you would not harm him.

“No need to be frightened,” Gwayne whispered.

“Your uncle is right, boy. You need not fear me. I am—”

You paused, brows furrowing as you got close enough that, if you reached your hand out, you would be able to touch Daeron.

Gwayne glanced at you in confusion, not understanding your sudden hesitation.

“Dragon blood,” you whispered.

The little bit of color left on Daeron's face seemed to drain away at your words.

You could feel Gwayne tense for a moment, uncertainty filling him. His hand hovered at the hilt of his sword. He did not want to harm you, but he would do so if you put his nephew in danger.

Luckily, he didn't need to take such drastic measures.

Your face opened into a smile, the largest one Gwayne had ever seen you wear. You placed your hand up, shushing Daeron softly as he flinched. Once your palm came in contact with his chest, you let out a soft hum.

“Breathe, boy. 'Tis alright.”

Despite his wide eyes, Daeron did as you asked, taking a deep breath in. You nodded at him, closing your eyes. You stayed like that for a while, eyes closed, your palm pressed against Daeron's chest as he breathed.

“She is not with you, is she?”

“My lady?” Daeron breathed.

“Your dragon,” you whispered, your eyes still closed. “She is not with you.”

“We had to leave her. A dragon would—” Daeron faltered for a moment.

“Call too much attention,” Gwayne finished for him.

Your eyes snapped open, your head turning to look at Gwayne. He returned your gaze, causing a soft smirk to grace your lips.

“Shame,” you muttered, taking a step back.

You observed them for a second before turning on your heels and walking toward the house.

“I'll make dinner.”

Daeron and Gwayne watched your frame disappear into the house, both of them frozen in confusion for a moment before following you inside.

Gwayne sat at the table, his eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing. Absentmindedly, his finger traced the rim of the cup before him.

The soft padding of feet against stone caused him to snap out of his thoughts. He watched you as you returned from deeper in the house. You made your way to your worktable, barely sparing him a glance. Gwayne had become used to this behavior. He took your lack of attention toward him as an opportunity to observe you in silence.

“It took him a while to settle,” you finally spoke, still not turning to face Gwayne. “His heart was beating so fast in his chest, it was like treating an injured bird.”

Gwayne let out a soft sound at your comparison. It was a mix of agreement and amusement. You turned to face him then, leaning against your table for a moment before walking toward where he sat. Gwayne lifted his head to look at your face as you stood before him, his blue eyes tracing over your features.

You lifted your hand to his face, your fingers tracing softly over his skin. It took everything in him not to let out a sigh at your touch. Not to close his eyes and nuzzle into your soft hand.

“The bath is ready for you,” you whispered, your fingers still moving against his cheek.

Gwayne knew he did not need to say anything. The moment you took your hand from his face and returned to your table, he got up, making his way to the bath.

He sat in the warm water, trying to still his beating heart and rid himself of the thoughts of you that had suddenly seemed to plague his mind.

He was not startled by your presence this time. Unlike when he'd first been here, he now felt like he knew you. So when you stepped from behind the wall, he did not flinch. If anything, he sank deeper into the water.

Unconsciously, his eyes went to your hands, expecting you to be carrying some sort of elixir to place on his wounds as you had done before.

This time, however, you carried nothing with you.

Upon looking at you, Gwayne noticed you wore something he had never seen you in before. A robe of such deep blue it looked like the night sky itself.

“How is the water?” you asked as you walked closer to him.

“Warm,” he sighed, desperately trying to keep his voice level.

“Good,” you said.

And then, to his great surprise, your hand moved to the tie of your robe.

Gwayne's eyes widened as you dropped the piece of clothing to the ground, leaving you completely naked before him.

He should avert his eyes. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do.

But something about your expression told him that you wanted him to look.

So he did.

His eyes traced over your skin with something that wasn't quite greed, but not entirely innocent either.

You walked up to the bathtub, your eyes never leaving his as you moved. You lifted your foot, motioning to get into the bath.

Gwayne's hand snapped up before he could even think about what he was doing. Your gaze flickered over to his extended palm, surprise flitting across your face for a second before you accepted his gesture, your hand moving to hold onto his as you stepped fully into the water.

Your hands remained intertwined as you sank into the water, your thighs moving against his as you settled onto his lap. 

Gwayne shuddered as you sat, finally releasing your hand. You stared at each other in silence, the water splashing softly around your bodies.

Gwayne was flushed, his lips slightly parted as he waited for what you were going to do.

When your hand moved to his chest, your nails grazing his skin softly, he allowed himself to close his eyes, a breathy sigh escaping him without shame.

You smiled at the reaction, but Gwayne could not see it with his eyes closed.

You shifted slightly, your body grazing against him, causing him to let out a soft groan as his eyes snapped open.

You were so close to him now that he could feel your breath against his face.

His hand, which had been gripping the edge of the tub desperately, moved to your face, gently cupping your cheek. His eyes moved from yours to your lips, and, as if understanding his silent request, you inched closer, your lips slotting against his.

The softness of the kiss surprised him. He had grown so used to your distant behavior, to your short words and cold demeanor, that the warmth that seeped into his body as you kissed him had been most unexpected.

Unexpected, but not unwelcome.

His other hand moved to settle on your thigh, squeezing the skin softly as you deepened the kiss. He did not know if you did it on purpose or not, but your body rocked softly against his, making his breath hitch as you rubbed against his hardening cock.

But from the way he felt you smile against his lips, he realized it had been done on purpose.

His hand left your cheek, slipping beneath the water so he could grip your hip. He pushed you down slightly, and the soft breath you let out against his lips at the action made him feel like the luckiest man in all of Westeros.

You bit at his lip, tugging it as you began to rock your hips, his hands gripping onto your skin with such force you'd be surprised if you didn't bruise.

Gwayne called your name softly, causing you to lean back slightly so you could look at his face.

“Yes?” you breathed, never stopping your gyrating motions.

“May I—” he groaned, his eyes snapping shut as you hit a particularly sensitive spot. “I need to be inside you.”

“Oh?” you said, a teasing lilt to your voice.

“Please let me—ugh—I promise I'll—fuck...” His breath hitched as your nails dug into his chest, rougher this time.

“You'll what?” you teased.

“I'll make you feel good,” Gwayne managed through gritted teeth.

“Oh, is that so?”

You leaned forward, your tongue moving against his neck before your lips came close to his ear.

“A knight that knows how to fuck,” you whispered, your teeth nipping at his earlobe.

Gwayne groaned at your words, his hips jerking up almost involuntarily. The action caused you to let out a small moan despite yourself, and the sound had Gwayne practically whimpering.

“Is that what you want, Ser Gwayne? To fuck me?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Please.”

“You're cute when you beg, Ser.”

“Fuck,” he groaned.

“Oh, do you like it when I use your title? Is that it?” you questioned.

Gwayne could not manage to speak, so he simply nodded enthusiastically. You hummed softly, smiling at his state.

“Go on then, Ser. Fuck me.”

That was all he needed.

Gwayne moved so quickly you were shocked there was still water left in the tub when he settled you into the position he wanted.

Your mouth opened in a slight moan as he entered you, the intrusion stealing the breath from your lungs. Gwayne was not much better off, his brows deeply furrowed as he breathed out a string of curses.

Once you finally grew accustomed to the feeling, he began to move, his hips lifting quickly into you. The water splashed around your bodies as you moved in tandem, both desperately chasing the pleasurable feeling of being together.

You were doing a good job at keeping quiet, breathy moans escaping you with every thrust of Gwayne's hips. The knight, however, was having a harder time. Your hand snapped up to cover his mouth as a particularly loud moan threatened to escape him.

“Shh,” you whispered. “Don't want to wake the young prince.”

The groan that slipped from Gwayne vibrated against your hand.

“You're close,” you stated, your free hand moving to rest on his chest to keep yourself steady.

Gwayne nodded against your palm, his brows furrowing deeper. You leaned forward, nipping and kissing at his throat, your body growing aware of your own closeness to cumming the more soft sounds escaped Gwayne.

You managed to make your way to the knight's ear, your nose pressing against his cheek as you whispered sweetly, “Let go, Ser.”

Gwayne's hips bucked one last time as pleasure washed through him. His teeth sank into one of your fingers, using it to muffle the sinful sounds that escaped him as he came. The pain mixed with the pleasure of him inside you, and before you knew it, your body was crashing into his as you let out a silent moan, your mouth wide as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

The water was long cold, but it did not bother either of you. You sat between Gwayne's legs, your back pressed to his chest as you enjoyed his closeness. His hand moved up and down your arm, tracing shapes and letters against your wet skin.

For the first time you'd seen him, Gwayne seemed completely at ease. You'd be lying if the knowledge that you were the one who had put him in such a state didn't make your heart flutter with unexpected feelings.

Gwayne placed a kiss to your hairline. There was no need for him to do so, which made the action that much more meaningful.

“We'll have to do something about his hair,” you said suddenly, pulling Gwayne out of the blissful state he had found himself in.

He let out a deep sigh, the action echoing against your skin.

You turned your head to look at him, one of your hands moving to play with his hair.

“And yours, for that matter,” you whispered as your fingers toyed with his locks. “Though it is a shame. I quite like your hair as it is.”

Gwayne smiled at your words. His hand moved to yours, tugging it away from his hair and to his lips so he could place a tender kiss on the back of it.

“We will deal with all that another time,” Gwayne muttered, his lips still pressed against your skin. “After all, there are other things than the war.”

You let out an amused huff, recognizing your own words being echoed back to you.

“You are right, Ser,” you whispered, inching your face closer to his so you could place a chaste kiss upon his lips.

Gwayne hummed softly against your lips, and when you parted from him, your body moving back to its original position against his chest, he couldn't help but notice how you settled deeper into the water, relaxing against him.

Gwayne smiled, his arms moving to wrap around your waist beneath the water.