#hammeranvil

The great hall was a cavern of light and sound, a roaring beast fed by the voices of hundreds and the crackling of the great hearth. The air was thick, a heavy tapestry woven from the scent of spiced meat, the dripping sweetness of melting wax, and the underlying damp, mineral smell of the ancient stone walls. It vibrated with the low, ceaseless hum of a hundred conversations layered over one another. A minstrel in the corner, a man with a straggly beard and nimble fingers, plucked a jaunty, complicated tune on his lute, the notes weaving through the laughter like a silver thread, struggling to be heard over the raucous clatter of wooden plates and the occasional shout of a toast.

To any other observer, it was a scene of robust, unthinking celebration. A display of excess designed to remind the bannermen of House Targaryen's power and generosity.

Baelor could not have told you a single detail about the feast. He did not taste the wine, though his goblet was rarely empty. He did not hear the story the man to his left was telling. The minor lord was recounting a long-winded tale about a hunt that had involved a particularly cunning stag, a beast that had supposedly led three men on a chase through the Kingswood for three days. Baelor nodded at the appropriate intervals, a practiced, polite smile fixed firmly in place, but his mind was entirely elsewhere.

It was on you.

You were seated beside Maekar, as you always were, a position of honor and unassailable right at the high table. Your chair was pulled in close to his, so close that the dark fabric of your gown brushed against the black velvet of his doublet with every small shift you made.

You were laughing at something now, your head tipping back, the sound a clear, bright peal that cut through the din of the hall like a bell. The candlelight loved you. It caught the wild, waist-length halo of your hair, a restless sea that framed your face. It traced the delicate line of your jaw and the soft, vulnerable curve of your throat. And it illuminated the new lushness that three moons of carrying Maekar's child had given you.

Your body had softened, deepened. The change was subtle to those who did not look closely, but to Baelor, it was as stark as the changing of the seasons. Your breasts had grown fuller, heavier, pressing against the fabric of your dress in a way that made it difficult to look away. The bodice, cut in the current fashion, hugged the new curves, emphasizing their swell. Your hips had blossomed, creating a gentle, rounded slope that spoke of life and fertility and a profound, earthy change. Even seated, there was a tiny, barely-there swell of your belly, a subtle rounding of your midsection that was a secret the whole world now knew. You were glowing in the most literal sense of the word. Your skin seemed to hold the light, to radiate a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire roaring in the great hearth. You were extraordinary.

You had been extraordinary since the first moment. Baelor remembered the day. Maekar had brought you before his father at King's Landing, had stood beside you, his hand resting at the small of your back, a gesture of possession and protection that was entirely his. His brother, who had always been carved from granite and stern pronouncements, had looked at you with an expression Baelor had not seen on his face in a long time. It was a look of fierce, tender pride. This is my betrothed, Maekar had said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. And Baelor had looked at you, at your warm, playful eyes and the genuine smile that reached them, and felt something shift in his chest. It was a physical sensation, like a heavy stone finding its final resting place at the bottom of a deep, cold river. Heavy. Permanent. Entirely too late.

That was a year ago. A year of watching you belong completely and devastatingly to his brother. In that time, Baelor had become a connoisseur of your intimacy. He saw it in the way Maekar's hands would find you in any room, a steadying touch on your elbow, a possessive caress on the nape of your neck, a brushing of stray hair behind your ear. He saw it in the way you looked at Maekar, as if he had personally hung every star in the sky just for your amusement, your gaze wide and adoring. He saw it in the way his brother had come alive. Maekar smiled more now. He laughed, a rare and startling sound like rocks grinding together, rough but genuine. He moved with a new ease, a lightness that Baelor knew, with a certainty that was a physical ache, was because of you.

He was not the only one looking tonight. The young lord three seats down, a boy with a fresh face and an eager gaze, kept finding reasons to glance toward the high table. He would look at his plate, seemingly fascinated by a piece of parsley, then at his companion, then his eyes would dart to you, lingering a second too long before he remembered himself and blushed. The knight across the table, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a thick neck, was less subtle. His eyes would fix on you whenever you laughed, his gaze heavy and appreciative. He would take a long draught of his ale, his eyes never leaving you, admiring something he knew he could not touch.

Men had always looked at you. Baelor understood it — a visceral, helpless impulse, the particular misery of a man who knew exactly what he could not have. He could have anything he desired, but he could not have you. You were Maekar's. You carried Maekar's child. You looked at Maekar as if he were the center of your world. And in the face of that, all of Baelor's power felt like dust and ashes.

You leaned in toward Maekar now, your body curving into his space, seeking his warmth. Your lips brushed close to his ear, your thick hair falling forward to curtain the moment, creating a private world in the middle of the crowded hall. You were saying something meant only for him, a secret whispered in the language of lovers. Your fingers curled around his forearm. Whatever it was you said, it caused a reaction. Maekar's mouth curved in that rare way it only ever did for you. He turned his head, his platinum blonde hair almost white in the candlelight, catching the glow, and said something back. Your response was immediate. You laughed again. Baelor's eyes shifted from you and found his brother's eyes already on him.

Maekar said nothing. He simply held Baelor's gaze from across the table, his violet eyes steady and knowing. Baelor held his gaze for one beat, two, the air between them thick and charged with things that could not be spoken. The noise of the hall faded to a dull roar. He could feel the muscles in his jaw tighten, a familiar, low-grade ache that had become his constant companion. Then he looked away, his gaze dropping to the dark, swirling surface of the wine in his goblet. He reached for it, his fingers closing around the stem. He needed the solid feel of it, the coolness. He did not lift it to drink.

Maekar looked away too, his attention returning to you as if nothing had happened, as if the silent exchange had been a figment of Baelor's imagination. But Maekar did not forget. He remembered the conversation from days ago with a vividness that made his stomach clench. He had gone to Baelor's solar, seeking company, sympathy. Baelor had made his offer then, his voice calm and even. Are you seeking assistance? He had said. Maekar had been furious. He was frankly lightly offended still. Baelor had seen it in his eyes tonight, a lingering resentment beneath the surface of his composure, a sharpness in his gaze when it landed on Baelor. It was a wound to Maekar's pride, a suggestion that he could not provide for his own wife.

The hour grew late. The energy of the room shifted, winding down like a clockwork mechanism running out of spring. Your head, which had been held high with regal grace throughout the meal, drooped slightly, leaning toward Maekar's shoulder. You caught yourself with a start, sitting up straight and laughing softly at your own tiredness, your hand pressing over your mouth in a gesture of apology. It was a charming, vulnerable display, and it made Baelor's chest ache with a tenderness he had no right to feel.

You turned to Maekar and said something, your voice too low for Baelor to catch. But Maekar understood. He was on his feet before you had finished speaking. His hand found yours, fingers lacing through yours, and he drew you up with great care. He supported your weight as you stood, his other hand hovering near your elbow, ready to catch you if you swayed.

You made your apologies to the table with a smile that could have lit the hall on its own. Several men watched you go: the young lord, the scarred knight, and half a dozen others. Their eyes followed you, a silent testament to your beauty. Maekar's hand settled at the small of your back as he guided you toward the great oak doors. His fingers splayed wide, claiming you, supporting you. You leaned into him as you walked, your head tilting toward his shoulder, your body seeking his support. Just before you passed through the heavy doors, you laughed at something he said, quiet and private, just for him. The sound was like a handful of glittering jewels tossed into the air, bright and beautiful and fleeting, and then it was gone.

The doors swung shut behind you both. Baelor looked down at his wine. The hall felt dimmer somehow, though the candles had not changed. He sat in the dimming light, the ghost of your laughter still ringing in his ears, and waited for the pain to recede into the dull ache he knew so well.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, the latch sliding home with a final, wooden thud that severed the noise of the feast from the sanctuary of your chambers. The roar of the hall, the clinking of goblets, the drunken laughter of the bannermen — it all vanished, replaced instantly by the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the man beside you.

You had taken only two steps into the room, your hand still resting in the crook of Maekar's elbow, when he turned you. The movement was swift but not rough. His hands came up to cradle your face, palms warm and calloused. He didn't speak. He simply looked at you, his pale violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs, as if he were reminding himself, in the quiet dark, that you were real. That you were his.

Then his mouth descended on yours.

It was a slow, deep, consuming kiss that started at your lips and pulled at something deep in your belly. His beard brushed against your chin, a rough friction that sent shivers skating down your spine.

You leaned into him, your body molding itself to the hard lines of his. Your hands released his arm and moved instead to the front of his tunic, fingers curling into the rich fabric. You pulled him closer, eliminating the inches of space between you, because any distance at all felt wrong. You needed the solid wall of his chest against yours, the proof of him grounding you.

He made a low sound in his throat, a rumble of approval against your lips, and began to move you towards the  edge of the bed.

The mattress was soft, yielding beneath your weight as he lowered you down, but his eyes never left yours. He followed you down, bracing himself on one arm beside your head, his body a cage of warmth and muscle that blocked out the rest of the world.

"Maekar," you breathed, the name a sigh on your lips.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hands moved to the laces of your gown. His fingers were sure, practiced, but there was no rush in his movements. He undid the knots with a patience that felt like reverence. The fabric loosened, and he pushed the heavy material from your shoulders, peeling it away layer by layer until the cool air of the room touched your skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

You shivered, not from cold, but from the anticipation of his touch. When you were bared to him, he stilled, his gaze sweeping over you. It was a look of possession, but soft, edged with wonder. His eyes traced the new curves of your body.

His hands came up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, pushing yourself deeper into his hands. He groaned, a vibration you felt against your ribs, and dipped his head to take one tight peak into his mouth.

The sensation was electric. He suckled gently, his tongue swirling around the nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you cry out. Your hands tangled in his hair, the silver-gold strands sliding through your fingers as you held him to you. He worshipped you with his mouth, moving from one breast to the other, lavishing attention on the sensitive flesh until you were writhing beneath him, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

But he didn't stop there. His hands smoothed down your ribs, over the soft curve of your stomach, coming to rest on the gentle swell of your belly. The life inside you fluttered beneath his palm. He lifted his head, his eyes locking onto yours, and then he did something that made your heart stutter in your chest. He leaned down and pressed his lips to your belly. It was a tender, almost chaste kiss, filled with a fierce, protective adoration that brought tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Maekar," you whispered again, your voice trembling.

"I know," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and damp. "I know, my heart."

He moved back up your body, capturing your mouth once more. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, stealing the air from your lungs until you were dizzy with need. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against you. He shifted his weight, settling between your thighs. You opened for him willingly, your legs falling apart to accommodate the breadth of him. He reached between you, his fingers finding the slick heat of your folds.

"You are so wet for me," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "Always so ready."

You gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "Please, Maekar. I need you."

He didn't make you wait any longer. He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself at your entrance. With a slow, deliberate thrust, he sank into you.

He knew your body better than he knew his own. He knew exactly how to angle his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur, knew just how much pressure to apply to drive you higher. He made love to you with a focus that was total and complete, his entire being concentrated on the point where your bodies joined. The room filled with the sounds of your coupling — the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the bed frame, the ragged gasps and moans that tore from your throat. You met him thrust for thrust, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the slowing rhythm of your breathing. You were sated, warm, and content, your body humming with the lingering echoes of pleasure.

Your arm rested across his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns through the light dusting of hair on his pecs. You could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm, a slow, rhythmic beat that soothed you. But as the minutes ticked by, you began to sense a shift in him. The tension that had left his body during your lovemaking was slowly returning, settling in the set of his shoulders and the tight line of his jaw. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on the dark wooden beams above, unseeing.

You tilted your head back so you could see his face. The firelight had died down to embers, casting his face in half-shadow, highlighting the furrow between his brows. You waited, watching him, knowing him well enough to know that rushing him would get you nowhere.

"What troubles you?" you asked softly.

He didn't look at you immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, as if the answer to some unspoken question was written there. Then, slowly, he exhaled, a long, heavy breath that seemed to deflate his lungs.

"I have been thinking," he said, his voice low, careful. It was the tone he used when he had been turning something over in his mind for a long time, weighing the words before he let them see the light of day.

"What of?" you prompted gently, your fingers still tracing the hard planes of his chest.

He finally looked down at you, his violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone.

"How would you feel," he began, his voice dropping an octave, "about inviting another to our bed?"

You sat up slowly, the movement dragging the sheet with you until it pooled at your waist, exposing your naked breasts to the cool air. You didn't feel the cold. You felt only a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.

Your eyes found his in the dim light, and they were already burning. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thinner.

"Who?" 

Your mind was already racing, leaping to conclusions with a speed that terrified you — immediately and catastrophically to another woman. Was there someone at the keep? Someone who didn't carry the weight of his child, who wasn't swollen with the evidence of his duty and desire?

You went sharp, your voice dangerously calm in the way that preceded a storm. "What woman has caught your eye?"

Maekar started to speak, to reach for you, but you cut him off, the words pouring out of you in a torrent of hurt and fury.

"While I am carrying your child?" you demanded.

Your chest heaved with the force of your emotion. You felt a hot, searing pain in your chest that had nothing to do with physical injury. His hands found yours, gripping them tight, fingers lacing through yours, anchoring you.

"There is no one else," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "There will never be anyone else."

The conviction in his voice gave you pause. You looked at him, searching for any sign of deceit, but found only a raw, open honesty.

And then he spoke again.

"I am tired," he admitted.

"Not of you," he added quickly, his thumbs stroking the backs of your hands. "Never of you." He looked away then, his gaze dropping to where your hands were joined. "I would sooner cut off my own hand than disappoint you or leave you wanting for a single thing. But I –"

The fury went out of you slowly, like a fire running out of air. The anger that had been fueling you evaporated, leaving behind a cold wash of realization.

You looked at him and the exhaustion that had been too proud to say plainly until now, buried beneath layers of duty and pride and love. He was a warrior, a prince, a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. And he was terrified that he wasn't enough for you.

It broke your heart.

Before you could speak, to reassure him, to tell him that he was everything, he continued.

"Baelor," he said, the name falling like a stone into a still pond. "Baelor has made his desire for you known to me."

Your eyes widened. You hadn't expected that.

"I suspect he has wanted you for some time." Maekar said, his voice steady, though you could hear the undercurrent of tension in it. 

He looked up at you then, his eyes searching yours for any sign of revulsion or anger.

"If you wished it," he said slowly, carefully. "If it would please you... I would ask Baelor to come to our bed. Just once."

He squeezed your hands tighter. "You are everything to me. More than I can say. I would not have you feel debased or used, nor like anything less than what you are. If I have given offense, I am sorry for it, and I swear to you I will never speak of this again.

You were quiet for a long moment. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. You thought of Baelor — of the way he looked at you, not with the crude hunger of the other men, but with a quiet, aching longing.

And then you looked at Maekar. Your husband. The man who loved you so much he was willing to share you, to set aside his own pride and possessiveness, just to ensure you were satisfied.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "You are always enough for me," you whispered fiercely. "I have never wanted anyone else."

"I know it," he said, his voice rough.

You pulled back slightly, searching his face. There was something else there, beneath the sacrifice and the love. A flicker of something you hadn't expected.

"Would it give you pleasure to watch?"

It wasn't an accusation. It was a real question, your eyes searching his face, trying to understand the depths of what he was offering.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. His pupils dilated. He made a sound that was very nearly a groan, a low, ragged exhalation of breath.

"Perhaps," he admitted. The word was low and rough, scraping against his throat.

Something gleamed in your eyes. You looked at him for a long moment, this proud, exhausted, beautiful man who had just admitted he wanted to watch his brother take you to bed — and something in your chest loosened. You held his gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

"I think my dutiful husband has earned a single night's respite," you said finally.

Maekar let out a chuckle. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. You could feel the rapid flutter of his heart against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

The slip was barely a barrier at all, a wisp of material that ended high on your thighs, leaving your legs bare to the shifting air of the room. Moonlight filtered through the high window, casting you in silver and shadow, defining the arc of your belly and the dark promise of your nipples beneath the thin silk. You looked like a painting of a goddess brought to life, trembling with a latent energy that seemed to vibrate right through your skin. You looked like something a man would burn cities for, or at the very least, lose his mind over.

Maekar was standing by the door, his hand paused on the latch. He had been watching you in silence, but as you turned, the air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with the static that always built between you two. He stopped moving entirely. The latch clicked, forgotten in his grip.

He crossed the room then, his stride eating up the distance between you with an easy grace. When he reached you, he didn't speak. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the wild curls of your hair, and he pulled you into him. His mouth crushed yours, hard and demanding. He tasted of wine and the dark, metallic tang of sleepless nights. He kissed you with a thoroughness that stole the air from your lungs, his tongue delving deep to stake a claim, to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

Your knees went weak, the silk of the slip doing nothing to stop the heat radiating from him. You melted into him, your hands finding purchase on the hard planes of his chest, feeling the heavy thrum of his heart against your palms.

He pulled back abruptly, leaving you gasping, your lips swollen and wet. His gaze bore into yours, intense and searching. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, his grip firm but not bruising, tilting your face up until you had nowhere to look but him.

"You are mine," he rasped, his voice a low vibration that you felt in your bones.

"I would never forget," you breathed, the truth of it settling in your chest like a stone.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less possessive. It was a sealing of a vow, a brand pressed against your mouth. The sheer force of his ownership undid you. The thought of Baelor seemed to dissolve in the face of Maekar's overwhelming presence. Why did you need anyone else when this man could undo you with a look?

He pulled away, his hands catching your wrists and gently disentangling them from his clothes. The loss of his heat was a physical shock. Resting his forehead against yours for a moment, he lingered, his eyes closed, as if he were warring with himself, fighting the same urge to stay.

Then he stepped back. The space between you felt like a chasm.

"Wait for me," he murmured, the command soft but absolute.

He turned and walked out the door, leaving you standing in the pool of moonlight, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You listened to his heavy footsteps receding down the corridor, counting them as they faded. Then silence returned, filled only by the crackle of the dying fire and the rush of your own blood.

Down the hall, the stone floor was cold under Maekar's boots. His blood was still up, heated by the taste of you, by the sight of you standing there like a queen waiting to be worshipped. He felt a strange, chaotic mix of emotions — possessiveness warring with a dark, twisted curiosity.

He reached Baelor's door and didn't bother with politeness. He knocked, three sharp raps that echoed in the quiet hallway.

A moment later, the door opened. Baelor stood there, a book still in one hand. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of his brother standing there at such an hour.

"Maekar?" Baelor's voice was rough. "Is something wrong?"

"I have something you must see immediately." His voice was tight, controlled, but there was an undercurrent of urgency that brooked no argument.

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked back down the corridor.

Baelor hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He looked back into his room, then at his brother's retreating back. There was a tone in Maekar's voice he couldn't place, yet he stepped into the hall.

"Maekar," he called, hurrying to catch up. "Brother, what is this?"

Maekar didn't slow down. "Walk."

Baelor fell into step beside him, matching his long stride. The castle was asleep around them, the shadows long and stretching in the flickering torchlight. He studied Maekar's profile, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Maekar was impossible to read when he chose to be, a fortress of a man, and tonight he was locked tight.

Baelor's mind raced, spinning through possibilities. He prepared himself for bad news. If there was trouble, he would meet it. But as they turned the corner toward Maekar's chambers, the air seemed to change. It grew heavier, warmer, scented with something sweet and familiar.

Maekar stopped abruptly in front of the door to your chambers. He placed his hand on the wood, his fingers splaying wide. He paused, his back to Baelor, a statue of hesitation. Then, with a sharp exhale, he pushed the door open and stepped aside.

"Look," Maekar said.

Baelor looked.

And there you were.

You were standing by the window, your back to the door, your silhouette etched against the night sky. The silk slip you wore was the color of moonlight itself, clinging to your body with a faithfulness that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Baelor stopped breathing. It felt like he had taken a blow to the chest, a physical impact that knocked the air right out of his lungs.

He had thought about this. Gods forgive him, he had spent countless nights in the dark, staring at the ceiling of his own chamber, thinking about this exact thing, imagining what you would look like out of those heavy court gowns, what your skin would feel like under his hands, what sounds you would make when you were lost to pleasure, what secrets lay behind your closed doors.

Now he knew. Or he was beginning to.

You were breathtaking; a vision made flesh, a creature of such intense, terrifying beauty that it made his hands shake. You looked at him, your gaze locking onto his. There was no shyness in it. Only heat, curiosity, and a depth of invitation that nearly undid him right there.

"Baelor," you said.

Just his name, but the way you said it, the soft rasp of your voice, the way your lips formed the syllable, rushed through his veins, heating him from the inside out. He felt his cock twitch, hardening instantly against the rough fabric of his breeches.

He dragged his gaze away from you, forcing himself to look at Maekar. His brother had moved to a seat near the large bed. Maekar sat down, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back with an air of terrifying composure. This was not the furious brother who had nearly come to blows days ago at the mere suggestion of impropriety.

"What is this?" Baelor managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

Maekar's violet eyes were fixed on him, sharp and assessing. "My wife is insatiable," Maekar said, his tone calm. "Assist her as you offered."

Baelor felt a surge of adrenaline, a mix of incredulity and a fierce, blinding hunger. He looked back at you. You hadn't moved. You were still watching him, your chest rising and falling slightly faster now, your eyes dark and wide.

This was surely a dream born of too many lonely nights. But the heat of your gaze was real.

He stepped further into the room, moving slowly, giving you every chance to step back, to send him away. He was a knight, a man of honor, and even in the face of this temptation, that honor held. This h would not rush.

He stopped in front of you. Up close, you were even more devastating. The scent of you was intoxicating — vanilla and jasmine. He could see the delicate flush on your cheeks, the soft parting of your lips. He slowly raised one hand, letting it hover for a moment before settling it on your waist.

The silk was warm from your body. Your skin was even warmer beneath it. His hand spanned your side, his thumb brushing against the curve of your belly. He looked deep into your eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of reluctance, anything that would tell him this was a mistake.

There was only a burning curiosity, a softness that welcomed him, and a desire that mirrored his own. You leaned into his touch, just slightly, a subtle movement that surrendered to his weight.

"One rule, brother," Maekar's voice cut through the silence like a whip crack. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of iron.

Baelor glanced over his shoulder. Maekar hadn't moved, but his eyes were burning, fixed on the point where Baelor's hand rested on your hip.

"You will not spill your seed inside my wife," Maekar said, his voice dropping an octave, low and dangerous. "I will not share that with you."

It was a line drawn in the sand. Baelor understood. This was a gift, but it came with conditions. The ultimate claim belonged to Maekar.

Baelor nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion of assent. He didn't care about the restriction. He would take whatever scraps of paradise you were willing to give him.

He turned back to you, lowered his head and captured your mouth with his.

Baelor kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to drink in your soul through his lips. His mouth was soft but insistent, moving against yours with a slow, sensual rhythm.

His other hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You felt the tremor in his hands, the way his restraint was already beginning to fray, and it made you ache for him. You melted into him, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid, thudding beat of his heart. The silk of your slip rubbed against him, a sensory friction that sparked fires along your nerve endings. You were caught between the moonlight at your back and the solid heat of him in front, and for the first time that night, the ache inside you began to feel like it might finally be sated.

The weight of Baelor's hands on your waist was deliberate, his fingers spreading wide as if to memorize the topography of your hips before he guided you backward. You moved without resistance, trusting him completely. The bed gave beneath you, the silk of your shift whispering against the heavy furs as you sank into the softness. He followed you down, crawling over you, the heat of him pressing down, solid and overwhelming. His mouth found yours again, and the world narrowed down to the sensation of his lips. Your lips parted without thought, an invitation he accepted instantly. His tongue slid against yours, slow and possessive, savoring you as if you were the last sip of something rare and intoxicating.

You arched into him, your body seeking more contact, more friction. Your fingers curled into the front of his doublet, the rough fabric biting into your palms as you pulled him closer, needing to bridge the gap between you. His hands never stilled. They traced the curve of your waist, drifting down to the inside of your thighs, his calluses catching on the delicate skin there, sending shivers racing up your spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air. The silk of your shift rode higher with every upward stroke of his thumbs, the fabric bunching around your hips.

Then his palms were sliding under the hem, pushing the fabric upward in one fluid, practiced motion, leaving you exposed to the firelight spilling across the room. You gasped into his mouth as the cool air hit your bare skin, the sudden vulnerability making your nipples tighten into hard peaks. Your breath hitched, a mix of anticipation and exposure.

Baelor groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips, and for a heartbeat, he simply looked. His mismatched eyes dragged over your naked form. He didn't just see you; he devoured you with his gaze, tracing the lines of your body, committing them to memory.

The distinct creak of leather broke the rhythm of your breathing. Maekar. The knowledge that he was watching, that his violet eyes were fixed on your exposed skin, made the heat inside you flare brighter.

Your need was a living thing, clawing at your insides. You slid your hands between your bodies, fumbling desperately at the laces of Baelor's breeches. Your fingers were clumsy, trembling with urgency, but he helped you, his own movements just as eager. The laces came free, the fabric falling open. You wrapped your hand around him, the heat of his cock a brand against your palm. He was thick, heavy, the vein along the underside pulsing against your fingertips. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you smeared it with your thumb, watching his eyelids flutter, his jaw clenching as he fought for control.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word a prayer torn from his chest.

You stroked him once, twice, relishing the weight of him in your hand, and his hips jerked forward, his control fraying. The firelight painted your skin in gold and crimson, glinting off the dampness already gathering between your thighs.

Baelor's gaze darkened. His mouth crashed down on yours again, but just long enough to steal your breath before he broke away. His lips trailed down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You whimpered, your back arching off the bed, offering yourself up to him. His hands found your breasts, one cupping the heavy weight, his thumb circling your nipple until it ached with sensitivity. The other lifted, guiding your flesh to his mouth.

The first pull of his lips sent a jolt straight to your core, electric and sharp. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to you as his tongue swirled, his teeth scraped gently, and his free hand kneaded the other breast with just the right amount of pressure. Pleasure coiled tight and low in your belly, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking friction, seeking him. He gave it to you — his mouth hot and wet, his fingers pinching your nipple just shy of pain, the dual sensations making your vision blur.

"Baelor—" His name tore from your throat..

He released you with a wet pop, his breath coming fast and ragged. "Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire, his eyes burning into yours. "So fucking beautiful."

From behind, Maekar's voice, laced with possession: "Isn't she?"

The pride in his tone, the absolute certainty of ownership, sent another wave of heat through you. They were both looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth wanting.

Baelor's hands slid down the length of your body, his touch reverent yet possessive. He hooked your knees over his shoulders, the movement effortless, displaying you to him. The cool air hit the wet heat between your thighs; you could feel his breath there, hot and uneven. Could see the way his shoulders tensed as he leaned in, his lips parting in anticipation.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow. Deliberate. A flat, broad lick from your entrance to your clit, as if he were tasting the finest vintage, savoring the first sip. Your fingers clenched in the sheets, your hips jerking upward, chasing the sensation. He did it again. And again. Long, slow stripes, his tongue firm and wet, learning the shape of you, mapping the folds of your sex. You were already trembling, your thighs quivering around his head, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Oh — oh gods —"

His fingers joined the assault, two of them pressing inside you in one smooth, fluid thrust. You were so tight, so hot, your inner walls clenching around him immediately, trying to draw him deeper. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration traveling through your bones and making you whimper. "So fucking tight," he growled, his voice muffled against your skin. He curled his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that made your back bow off the bed, a silent scream tearing at your throat.

Your moan was obscene, broken, your hips bucking wildly as he worked you. He thrust his fingers in and out, his thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles, his mouth sealing over you, sucking, licking, devouring. The sounds you made were beyond your control — high, needy cries mingling with the wet slap of his tongue and the lewd squelch of your arousal as his fingers pistoned in and out of you.

"Baelor, please —"

"Go on. Let him taste you." The command from your husband was the final straw. It shattered what little control you had left.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, brutal and beautiful in its intensity. Your back arched, your thighs locking around Baelor's head as you came, your cunt clenching rhythmically around his fingers, your cries filling the chamber. When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn't been abated in the slightest. He crawled up your body, his heavy cock dragging against your thigh. His mouth found yours again, and you could taste yourself on his tongue; sweet, wild,  and feel the way his body trembled with the effort of holding back.

You pulled him down, your arms wrapping around his neck as your legs parted instinctively to cradle his hips. He broke the kiss to look at you and the expression on his face made your chest ache. It was adoration mixed with lust.

Then he was moving, shifting your body with easy strength until your head was at the edge of the bed. Your hair spilled like a dark halo over the furs. He knelt between your thighs, taking his cock in his hand, the tip already weeping with need. You reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his length, stroking him, guiding him to where you needed him most.

The first press of him against your entrance was heaven. You were so wet, so ready, but he was thick, the stretch burning in the best possible way as he pushed inside. Your nails dug into his back, your breath stuttering in your chest.

"Fuck —"

He bottomed out with a groan, his entire body trembling. "You —" His voice was ragged, ruined. "You feel —" He couldn't even finish the sentence. He just moved.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made your vision white at the edges, your moans turning into broken pleas. "More — harder — please —"

He gave you exactly what you begged for.

His hips snapped forward, his cock driving into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, your cries mixing with his grunts and the wet, obscene noises of your body taking him. You heard Maekar shifting, his breath audible even over the sounds of your coupling, but you couldn't look, couldn't think because Baelor was fucking you, his fingers digging into your hips, his mouth finding your sensitive spots.

"Such a good girl," he growled, his thrusts punishing, perfect. "Taking me so well — this tight little cunt was made for me, wasn't it?"

"Yes —" The word was a sob torn from your throat. "Yes, yes —"

Your head fell back, dangling over the edge of the bed, and that was when you saw him.

Maekar.

His breeches were undone, cock freed from its confines, his hand wrapped around the thick length. He was stroking himself in slow pulls, his eyes locked on the place where you and Baelor met. His lips were parted, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. The sight of him — your husband, so visibly undone, watching you being fucked by another man,  sent a dark and twisted wave of pleasure crashing through you.

Baelor followed your gaze. His grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing erratic as he realized what you were looking at. He pulled out of you with a wet, sucking sound, to flip you onto your hands and knees before you could even protest the sudden emptiness. The cool air hit your soaked cunt, making you shiver, your thighs trembling as he positioned himself behind you. His palm came down on your ass,  hard,  and the sharp sting sent a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Then Baelor was inside you again, his thrusts immediately brutal, his hips slapping against your ass, the sound lewd and echoing in the quiet room. The sensation was perfect. You cried out, your nails digging into the sheets, your body rocking helplessly with the force of him.

"Look at him," Baelor growled, his fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head up to force your gaze forward. "Look at your husband while I fuck you."

You obeyed, unable to do anything else.

Maekar's hand stilled on his cock. His violet eyes burned into yours, his expression a mix of possessiveness and dark, hungry approval. "You love this, don't you?" His voice was sharp and precise. "Love being used like a whore."

You nodded, the movement jerky, your inner walls tightening around Baelor's cock at the degradation. "Yes — gods, use me —"

Maekar stood in one fluid motion, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He crossed to you in two quick strides, his cock thick and flushed dark. He was hard as iron, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

He was right there in front of you. His hand cupped your face gently as his thumb brushed your lower lip. "Such a greedy girl," he murmured, his voice a caress and a threat all at once. "Always so hungry."

You moaned, your tongue darting out to lick the pad of his thumb. He groaned, his cock twitching right in front of your face, another bead of pre-cum welling at the slit.

"You've spoilt her, brother."

Maekar chuckled. “So it would appear.”  

The head of his cock brushed against your swollen lips. "Open." You obeyed instantly, parting your lips and flattening your tongue.

The first taste of him was home — salty, musky, the familiar weight of him on your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deep, relaxing your throat to accommodate him as Baelor fucked you from behind. The dual sensations were overwhelming. You were full, stuffed to the brim, your mouth occupied by Maekar's thick length while your cunt was stretched tight around Baelor's. Baelor's balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, sending jolts of pleasure racing up your spine.

"Fuck —" Maekar's hand tangled in your hair, guiding your head, his hips rolling slowly as he fed you inch by inch. "Just like that."

Baelor smacked your arse again and you welcomed it. "You feel incredible," he groaned, his voice strained. "So tight — so perfect."

You couldn't speak. You could only take, existing solely for their pleasure in this moment. Your moans vibrated around Maekar's cock, muffled and wet, your body trembling violently as your orgasm built again, coiling tight and low in your belly like a storm about to break.

Maekar's voice was a low growl, directed over your shoulder. "Fuck her harder."

Baelor obeyed without hesitation.

His next thrust was punishing, his hips snapping against you with enough force to drive you forward, taking Maekar deeper into your throat. His cock hit that spot inside you that made your vision whiten, that blinding point of pleasure that obliterated thought. You came with a muffled scream around Maekar's cock, your body clenching violently, your cunt milking Baelor as your orgasm ripped through you. Your throat fluttered around the thick length filling your mouth, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity of it.

Maekar groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Fuck — fuck —" His cock pulsed on your tongue, and then he was coming, his release hitting the back of your throat in thick, hot spurts. You swallowed around him, desperate to take it all, your own climax still rippling through your body, leaving you a trembling, gasping mess between them.

Baelor's rhythm faltered. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his cock swelling inside you, his entire body tensing as he chased his own release. He was right there, hovering on the edge —

A sharp, cold flash in Maekar's eyes.

"Baelor."

One word. A reminder. A command.

Baelor groaned, a sound of pure frustration, his cock twitching inside you where you wanted him most. But he obeyed. With a ragged curse, he pulled out, his release taking him by force. His cock pulsed, painting your thighs and the curve of your ass in thick, white stripes. His mismatched eyes screwed shut as he rode out the waves of his pleasure.

Maekar slowly withdrew from your mouth, giving you a moment to breathe. He stroked your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip, wiping away a stray drop of his release. His voice was soft, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.

"Good."

You collapsed forward, your body giving out entirely, every muscle liquid and spent. For a moment, there was only the sound of three people trying to remember how to breathe.

The mattress shifted, the heavy weight of Baelor's presence leaving your side, and the sudden coolness of the air struck your sweat-dampened skin. You didn't open your eyes. Your body was a vast, unmapped landscape of sensation, trembling in the aftermath, the aftershocks of your release still fluttering through your inner muscles in small, desperate waves. The sound of water splashing, distinct and wet, echoed against the walls. Then Maekar was in front of you.

"Let me," Maekar murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your chest.

You felt the cloth first against your thigh. It was hot, wrung out just enough to be warm without burning, and the sensation drew a sharp, hissing breath from between your lips. He didn't rush. He wiped away the sticky evidence of Baelor's release, the fabric dragging softly over your sensitive skin.

You forced your eyes open. The room was dim, lit only by the dying orange glow of the hearth and the pale silver spill of moonlight from the high windows. Maekar's face was shadowed, but his eyes were fixed on yours.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak immediately. Your hand moved slowly, heavily, across the furs until your fingers brushed against his wrist. You felt the steady, rhythmic thump of his pulse beneath your fingertips.

"Yes," you whispered. The word cracked in the quiet room.

"You were perfect," he said, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you, a secret shared in the dark. "So good, my heart."

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The contrast — the roughness of his beard, the softness of the cloth, the hardness of the bed beneath you — threatened to pull you under. It was almost too much.

"You are everything," he whispered against your hair. "Everything. I would have you know that."

He meant it. You heard it in the way his voice broke, just slightly, on the last word. You felt it in the tremor of his hand. You turned your face into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut again, letting yourself drift in the current of his affection. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your shoulders, lifting you as if you weighed nothing more than a feather.

The sudden change in position made your head spin. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, steadying yourself against the solid wall of his chest. He held you cradled against him, his heartbeat a fast, steady drum against your ear. He didn't carry you far,  just to the other side of the bed, where the pillows were piled high against the headboard.

He lowered you down with excruciating care. Your head sank into the softness of the down pillows, and he immediately reached for the heavy furs that had been kicked to the foot of the bed. Maekar pulled them up, shaking them out so they settled over you like a cloud, burying you in softness. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. He sat on the very edge of the mattress, his hip pressing into your thigh.. His fingers pushed back the wild tangle of your hair, smoothing it away from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear. 

"Sleep," he whispered. "I have you."

But your eyes drifted past him, drawn by a movement in the shadows.

Baelor was standing near the foot of the bed, his back partially turned. The moonlight caught the sharp lines of his shoulders as he moved, quiet and methodical. He found his shirt on the floor and pulled it over his head, the fabric sliding down to hide the skin you had only moments ago been raking your nails against. He told himself it was decency. He was giving you privacy, retreating to allow husband and wife their moment. It was the honorable thing to do.

But you could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his spine. He moved like a man in a trance, his breeches still unlaced and hanging loosely on his hips. He was watching. Even as he dressed, he was watching the way Maekar's hand smoothed your hair, the way your body curled instinctively toward your husband, seeking his heat, the way your fingers twitched against the furs as if reaching for him even in your drowsy state.

His chest rose and fell in one deep, shuddering breath he couldn't quite suppress. The longing that rolled off him was palpable, a thick wave of sadness that seemed to lower the temperature of the room. It wasn't just the night, though, that had been extraordinary, a fever dream made flesh that he would remember for the rest of his days. It was this. This quiet aftermath, the domestic belonging. This was what he was starving for.

He had touched you, tasted you, heard you cry out his name. But he would never have this. He would never be the one to tuck you in, the one whose hand you sought in the dark, the one who got to whisper that he loved you and know that you were safe simply because he was there.

One night was not enough. 

The pain of it was written into the lines of his back, the slump of his shoulders. He was a man who had mastered his emotions, who moved through the world with wisdom and calm, but in this moment, he looked utterly undone.

Your heart ached for him. You saw the raw, open wound of his loneliness, and you couldn't bear it. Not tonight. Not after everything.

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, looking up at Maekar. He was still smoothing your hair, his eyes soft and full of a devotion that made your breath catch.

"Maekar," you whispered.

He stilled immediately, his hand resting warm against your cheek. "Yes, my heart?"

"Come to bed. Lay with me."

He stood, shed his breeches, and slid in beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the furs rustling as he settled. You didn't wait — you rolled toward him immediately, your body finding the familiar curve of his, your leg draping over his, your head tucking into the hollow of his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you flush against him.

Baelor had taken two steps toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

The question hung in the air, soft and certain. Baelor froze before turning slowly.

You had raised your head from Maekar's chest, looking at him over the mound of blankets, your eyes clear and steady in the dim light.

Baelor stood in the center of the room, his shirt still unlaced, looking like a man who had forgotten how to speak. He looked between the two of you — his brother, whom he loved, and you, the woman he had somehow impossibly fallen for with a terrifying intensity.

"I —" He started, then stopped. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "I thought —"

"Are you not staying?" you asked.

The question was simple. It shouldn't have undone him as completely as it did.

He looked at Maekar. Something passed between them in the silence, not permission, but an acknowledgment. Maekar's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. But he didn't speak, only held you a little tighter.

Baelor couldn't leave. He didn't have the strength to walk away, not when you were looking at him like that, not when the alternative was a cold empty bed and a lifetime of wondering.

You had already closed your eyes, your breathing beginning to slow and deepen.

"Come to bed, Baelor," you murmured, the words slurring slightly with exhaustion. "Just for tonight."

Just for tonight.

The words were a lifeline and a wound all at once. He stood there for one last heartbeat, looking at the two of you tangled together in the vast bed. Then he moved, slowly, carefully around the foot of the bed to the empty side. He looked down at the narrow space between you and the edge and sat on top of the covers. It wasn't much. But it was enough.

"Stop this nonsense, brother," Maekar murmured, "Sleep properly."

Baelor slowly climbed under the furs.

You shifted, rolling so that your back was now against Maekar’s chest. Your hand moved without thought to rest against Baelor's chest, a tether in the dark.

He looked down at your hand and felt the warmth of it seeping through his skin. His eyes locked with Maekar’s over your shoulder. Maekar was watching him, his violet eyes steady and unreadable in the darkness. Then he placed a kiss on your cheek, let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

Slowly, Baelor lowered himself down. He lay on his side facing you, careful not to touch you anywhere else, not crossing any line that hadn't been offered. 

He watched your face in the moonlight, listened to the sound of your breathing, and felt his own sync to it without meaning to. The warmth of you radiated into his side, seeping into the cold places he had been carrying for longer than he could name. 

As he lay there in the dark, watching the woman he could never keep, held by the brother he could never replace, Baelor closed his eyes and let himself pretend,  just for tonight,  that this was where he was meant to be.