#lyonel x reader

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Brat Taming, Dom Character, Manhandling, Public Sex, Exhibitionist Kink

Lyonel is... well, a lot. Not in a bad way, of course, he is a man that likes what he likes and also a big, tall man who loooooooves fighting. So he does love when you put a bit of a fight with him, act bratty and even a little mean to him, it only makes his blood go south and needs to put you into your place.

He loves manhandling you and has no shame, most of the time people will know that you guys have sex or going to. Lyonel also will make you scream his name more than once or he will not stop, as if people needed a reminder to who you are married to/being fucked. He has something of an exhibitionist kink? Kind of. It's not like Lyonel cares if someone watches or tries to interrupt the two of you, so you two will have sex outside with little care from him. What are they gonna do if they found you? Complain? And Lyonel loves hearing you moan, scream, whimper, plead, whatever sound comes from your pretty mouth so he won't keep his thrust slow, but faster and deeper every time. It's not like it's hard for him, considering the beast he has between his legs...

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Rough & Soft Sex, Spanking, Dacryphilia?, Mention of Oral sex

Prince Valarr is just... Perfect! At first. Having the pressure of being the heir, the prince of the realm, his father would also mean having a lot of stuff pent-up, but also the impossibility to try whatever it might be improper for someone of his status.

That is not to say he won't make love to you. Cause he will! He is a very soft and caring boy, but Valarr is also curious and needy. There is a lot of stuff to find out about him and you, in how your bodies react to each other and what you don't or do like. So while there is a time when he will thrust in you deep but slow, making you feel every inch of his cock, and kissing you so softly, so gently while his hand goes to your clit to make you cum faster... He will also fuck you rough and mean; spanking your butt until a pretty red mark of his hand appears, hair completely messy, clothes discarded somewhere else in the room, eyes full of lust and tears... It's a beautiful sight that makes Valarr salivate. I personally see Valarr and Daeron having a little club about eating/blowing you like it's hobby or passion.

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Soft Sex, Teasing, Overstimulation, Not really dirty talk but he's talking...

Dear sweet Baelor... It's a man who I'm not sure of. He's perfect, too perfect... But I can't see him being like his son, he's a older man with two sons after all- so he knows what he likes and has no problem with teaching you or gently showing it to you. I feel like he is a major teaser and talker, mostly about complementing you.

Baelor is a traditional man: he likes being in a bed, maybe while having a bath, a bit of wine, and he lets the situation go along with little touches, small kisses, compliments, all stuff that makes you whimper and shiver. It's like he is courting you all over again and tempting you with sex, like he wants you to jump on him and not the other way around. And oh when you do Baelor is ready to give you anything: he's so sweet with his words, his touches, his thrusts... He also loves to overstimulate you until you are basically sobbing, but oh you can give him more right? One more orgasm, it's all he asks "my sweet" he would call you, and how can you say no when Baelor asks with his sweet, elegant voice? Ignore the fact that he said so for the last 5 orgasms...

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Needy Maekar (im NOT sorry), Dirty Talk, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Bruises

My living stress Maekar. Single dad who cannot catch a break Maekar, please be his stress relief sometimes. Help him, please. It's not like he's needy, unlike his eldest son, but he does seek your affection, your body, more than he wants. It's kind of like an addiction, but the way your body reacts to his, the way your body looks... Maekar shivers at the mere thought, feeling himself hardened. What did you do to him?

Maekar really tries to be a gentleman to you, and he is!, it's just that he slips sometimes. He grabs you rougher than intended, pushes his cock inside of you deeper than he wanted, takes you in his office and not his bedroom... Part of him feels bad, but hearing you moan his name like that, it only makes him rougher. Meaner even. Not by calling you names (he can't bring himself to), but telling you how dirty you are being now, taking his cock so well it makes his head spin, that he will make you need him like you do for him, touching all over your body with his calloused hands and firm grip that for sure it's going to leave a mark tomorrow. That would make him feel bad and try to lavish you with so much love and softness, although you can tell that he's a bit proud...

₍^. .^₎⟆ TW/CW: Aerion, Rough Sex, His whole dragon obsession (he calls you mate), Bruises&Hickeys, Public Sex, Creampie

Sigh... So, Aerion... Aerion aerion aerion... Out of everyone he's probably the roughest and meanest. Like by a lot, it's not even a competition. Kind of like his father he is obsessed with your body, more so with the way you make him feel so he won't care where you two are, if he wants to have sex he will. Even during dinner you will feel his fingers between your inner thighs...

He's so rough. You will be left not only sore but with bruises, hickeys, all over your body, either made by his hands or mouth. Aerion loves marking you in any possible way, no matter how you remind him that his cum is leaking out of you into your thighs. A dragon should make sure everyone knows who is their mate, always. And no matter how his father and uncle look at him, Aerion will only make it worse, more obvious. He will also make you scream louder that day, maybe even fuck you in the garden or in his father office, his thrusts are so fast and will force you into different position. Aerion will always finish inside, maybe sometimes on your face if you blow him, but he much prefers to finish inside of you again and again. What? You thought one time would be enough? Think again.

The way he fucks you: Slow and controlled. He's a man who's been denying himself for years (in many contexts) and now that he has permission to have one thing he's wanted above all else, he's going to savour every second. He maps your body like territory he's conquering inch by inch. He learns what makes you gasp, whimper, beg, and then he uses it. A merciless commander of his favourite battlefield. With the same brilliance he brings to the tourney field.

Pet names: "Little wolf" (only in private, only in bed, and it makes you feral every time), "my lady" (even when you're naked and begging, because the formality is part of the game), "sweetling" (rarely, and when he does use it you know he's feeling extra soft toward you)

High Valyrian: He uses it sparingly because he knows the power it has over you. The intimacy of a language you don't fully speak, the intimacy of it. He waits until you're close, until you're trembling, and then he switches: "Gevie" (beautiful), "Ñuha zaldrīzes" (my dragon, ironic and possessive because you're the wolf but he's claiming you in dragon-tongue), "Māzīs syt nyke" (come for me).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're something precious he's afraid will disappear. Traces your face with his fingers like he's memorising you. Whispers things into your hair: "I've wanted you so long," "You undo me," "I would burn the realm for you and I know I shouldn't." The vulnerability lasts maybe five minutes before he rebuilds his walls back to the prince (because he still feels ashamed to want you this much), but every one of those moments is yours.

MAEKAR:

Competence + control exchange (he's furious that he wants to submit to your authority outside the bedroom—you're his wife or his political equal and you command respect he has to give, and it makes him feral—so in bed he takes it all back, pins you down, makes you yield, forces the power dynamic back into his favour)

Possessive marking (bites and bruises in places only he'll see, but also places that will show, just barely, under your gown's neckline, so every man at court will know you're claimed)

Restraints (his belt, your own clothes, his bare hands—he doesn't need silk ties, he needs you helpless and teeth bared)

Rough silent dominance (the sex is almost wordless sometimes, specially in the beginning, just commands: "Turn over." "Spread your legs." "Breathe." and the silence makes every sound you do make sound ten times filthier)

The rare praise (he almost never praises, so when he does, a muttered "Good girl" or "Perfect, just like that", it hits like a physical blow, and he knows the power those rare words have so he rations them like a miser)

Reclaiming his wife (after social events where you have to be polite to visiting lords, where other men look at you with appreciation, or even want, he'll pull you into your chambers and fuck you still half-dressed, possessive and intense.)

Aftercare denial (he makes you wait, trembling and aching, before suddenly pulling you against his chest and the tenderness hits harder because he made you earn it, left you on the edge before claiming you with his strength)

Scent fixation (burying his face in your hair/neck and just breathing you in before he fucks you, like he's trying to get drunk on you)

The cold prince warming (Winterfell's cold draws something out of him; he runs hot naturally and in the Northern winter that contrast is more stark, he's your personal furnace, and he'll warm you with his body deliberately, strip you down and press skin-to-skin in the furs: "Let me warm you, wife, let me—" and the service aspect gets him off)

The awkward tenderness (he doesn't know how to be soft, so when he tries it's clumsy; his fingers too rough when he tries to be gentle, his words stilted when he attempts praise, and the awkwardness is somehow more intimate than smoothness would be)

Authority kink (he gets off on giving orders and having them obeyed ("Spread your legs," "Don't move," "Stay quiet") and watching you comply makes him harder than the actual acts themselves)

Duty-bound breeding (he frames getting you pregnant as duty, as obligation—"We need heirs, this is necessary"—but really he's obsessed with the idea of you carrying his children, of permanent claim)

The northman's endurance (winters are long in the North and so is he; he'll fuck you for HOURS on long winter nights, nothing else to do but tend the fires and tend to YOU, and his stamina becomes legend between you)

The crack (very rarely, after particularly intense sex, his mask will slip; his hand will tremble when he touches your face, or he'll pull you closer with something desperate in the movement, and you'll see the sheer need underneath the iron)

Praise starvation showing (he's spent his life as the overlooked fourth son, so when you praise him genuinely, tell him he's good, tell him you want him, he goes absolutely still, and then something ignites and he's on you with desperate hunger: "Say it again")

Throat-holding (his hand on your throat is about control, about feeling your pulse race, about the trust it requires. He doesn't squeeze, just holds, and it's more intimate than any kiss)

Wedding night do-over (months into the marriage, when he's actually in love, he'll recreate your wedding night, but THIS time with passion instead of duty, and the contrast destroys you both: "I want to do it right this time, want you to want me this time")

The Lord's hand always on you (in the great hall during meals his hand is on your thigh under the table, possessive and constant, and sometimes his fingers will slip higher, reminding you what's coming later, and you allow the touch grounds him)

Seasonal intensity (winter makes him MORE possessive—something about the isolation, the darkness, the need for warmth—he'll keep you in bed longer, fuck you more frequently: "Nothing else to do but keep you warm, keep you satisfied, keep you full")

Possessive sleeping (he cannot sleep unless you're in his arms, will wake if you try to move away, drag you back unconsciously, and the need for physical contact even in sleep betrays how deeply he's fallen)

Hate-fucking his own desire (sometimes he fucks you angry—angry that he wants you, angry that you make him weak, angry that he can't stop wanting you—and it's rough and desperate and he won't look at you until after)

The way he fucks you: Hard and controlled, especially initially. He's not trying to make love to you; he's trying to do his duty to you, prove something to himself while he's at it. But underneath the roughness is a desperate need he won't name. He'll pin your wrists above your head and fuck into you with mechanical precision, but his eyes are wild, burning. He'll bite your shoulder hard enough to bruise and then his tongue will trace the mark like an apology he can't voice.

Pet names: He doesn't use them. You're "Lady Stark" even when he's three fingers deep. You're "wife" (bitten off like a curse), then like a claim. The closest he gets to softness is a muttered "woman" that somehow sounds like "beloved" in his mouth every time.

High Valyrian: Rare. Cold and commanding. "Kostilus" (please, but it sounds like an order), "Māzīs" (come, snapped out when he's losing control), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin like he's claiming territory).

Post-sex: He doesn't speak. Just pulls you against him with a grip that borders on bruising, buries his face in your hair, and holds. Sometimes his hands shake. Sometimes you feel his breath hitch like he's fighting something bigger than desire. He'll never say "I love you," but the way he clutches you in the aftermath speaks volumes. Nothing could take you from him. Nothing.

AERION:

Blood play (he bites until you bleed, licks the wound clean, mixes your blood with his—it's not about pain, it's about mingling, about becoming indistinguishable, about love as cannibalism)

Hair-pulling (your hands in his hair, yanking his head back, making him gasp—he's bratty and vicious until you pull hard enough and then he goes pliant)

Exhibitionism as claim-staking (he wants them to watch, wants them to see you choose him, wants everyone to hear you scream his name, wants the realm to know the wolf chose the mad dragon)

Degradation (call him "pretty," call him "desperate," call him a "temperamental little dragon" and watch him fall apart; he's been called brilliant and terrifying his whole life but no one's called him pretty like it's an insult and a caress)

You shaped Breeding kink (he's never wanted children with anyone else, the thought disgusted him, but you? He's obsessed with putting a child in you specifically, has spent years fantasising about it, wants to see you swollen with his seed, wants to bind you to him in the most permanent way possible—"You'd be so beautiful round with my babe," "Want everyone to see what I did to you," "Going to fill you until it takes"—it's possessive and primal and he can't think about anything else when he's inside you)

Humiliation play (making him perform, making him beg, making him prove he deserves you—he needs to earn it or it doesn't feel real)

Orgasm denial (he hates how much he loves being edged, being told when he can come, being controlled, but he's also achingly hard the entire time)

Oral fixation (his mouth is always on you—biting, sucking, licking, tasting—he needs his tongue on your skin like he needs air, will spend hours just kissing and biting his way across your body, sucking bruises into your thighs, your breasts, your throat, and when you're on your knees for him he nearly blacks out, watching his cock disappear between your lips is a straight up religious experience)

Bratty submission (his submission is never easy; he fights, he mouths off, he tests boundaries constantly, because he needs you to take it from him rather than have it given)

Mirror sex (he needs to watch himself break for you, needs to see his own degradation, needs the visual proof that you've undone him)

Jewellery/adornment fixation (he wants you dripping in Targaryen gold and jewels while you're naked and he's marking you; it drives him insane)

Temperature play (ice and dragonfire, he's obsessed with contradictions, with things that shouldn't coexist but do, his perfect balance)

Scent obsession (he steals your clothes when you're not looking, sleeps with them pressed to his face, gets hard just smelling you on fabric, sometimes he'll bury his face between your legs and just breathe you in for minutes before he even starts using his tongue)

Marking obsession (your marks on him are trophies he displays; he'll wear shirts that show the scratches down his back, he'll turn his head just so to make sure people see the bite on his throat, but his marks on you are apologies written in bruises and love bites, proof that you let him touch you)

Cum play (he's obsessed with his seed on you, in you, loves watching it drip out and pushing it back in, loves smearing it across your skin, loves making you taste it off his fingers, "Look what you do to me, look how much, it's all for you")

Aftercare craving (he'll never ask but he needs you to hold him after, needs skin-to-skin contact, needs to be told he's good)

Praise kink from you specifically (criticism from others bounces off like its nothing; praise from you destroys him. Tell him he's beautiful, tell him he did well, watch him come undone)

Cockwarming (keeping him inside you after, just holding him there, because proximity isn't close enough, he needs to be inside)

Object fixation (anything you've touched becomes precious; he'll drink from your cup, steal your handkerchiefs, press his face into pillows you've slept on)

The way he fucks you: Desperately and messy, especially in those early days. Like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. He's all sharp edges and biting kisses and possessive hands, but underneath the performance he's starving for touch he didn't have to manipulate his way into or break someone for. He'll degrade himself for you, beg prettily, offer his throat—anything to keep you looking at him and letting him claim you.

Pet names: You don't give him any and it makes him lowkey insane. He tries everything—aggression, sweetness, manipulation—to earn one. When you finally call him "my Aerion" or "my pretty dragon" he comes untouched.

High Valyrian: Starts as armour. "Ñuha dāria" (my queen, possessive and desperate), "Kostilus, kostilus" (please, please, all pretence gone), "Sylugon nyke" (use me, the most honest thing he's ever said), "Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, whispered against your skin like a secret).

Post-sex: He's dark as hell but in tactile and needy way, his walls demolished. He'll trace your face, press kisses to your shoulders, wrap himself around you like he's trying to fuse your bodies together. This is when he's most honest: "Don't leave," "Tell me you want me," "Say I'm yours." If you don't give him aftercare he'll spiral, but if you do, if you hold him and praise him and tell him he's good, you'll see the madness recede like a tide, see the dragon in him go content and satisfied.

DUNK:

Size difference (his hands engulf yours, his body dwarfs yours, and he's obsessed with the visual—you're this fierce Northern lady and you look tiny in his arms and it makes him want to protect you and ruin you simultaneously)

Gentle giant dom (his whole existence is "what do you need and how can I provide it?" he'll spend hours learning your body, cataloguing what makes you gasp, whimper, arch)

Praise kink (receiving) (he's never been called beautiful, never been told he's good at something besides hitting people, so when you praise him he goes still and quiet and real damn desperate)

Body worship (he wants you to kiss and lick every inch of his massive frame, wants you to appreciate the body he's always seen as too big, too rough, when you worship his cock and balls specifically he nearly breaks)

Accidental overstimulation (he makes you come three times before he even gets inside you because he's so focused on your pleasure he forgets his own)

Accidental marking (handprint bruises on your hips, bite marks he tries to kiss better, fingerprints on your thighs; he doesn't mean to but he's so strong)

Voice kink (your command voice makes him stupid-hard—when you moan or talk dirty in that low, authoritative tone he'll do anything)

Light breeding talk (he's terrified to say it out loud but the idea of you round with his child, of his lowborn seed taking root in noble womb, makes him kinda insane, he's too nice to ever say it though)

Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, holding you against walls, manhandling you into position, but gently, always checking you're okay)

The way he fucks you: Like you're something precious. He'll work you open with his fingers (so much thicker than any lordling's), murmuring reassurance: "That's it, you can take it, you're doing so well." When he finally pushes inside he goes slow, watching your face for any sign of discomfort, and the restraint costs him. You can literally see him shaking with the effort of holding back.

Pet names: "M'lady" (always, even in bed), "little one" (size kink goes brrrr and makes him melt), "my heart" (when he's being devastatingly sincere and doesn't realise how loving he sounds)

High Valyrian: He doesn't know any and feels insecure about it. You're highborn, educated, you probably expect courtly sophistication. When you tell him you prefer the Common Tongue from him, that you prefer his rough Flea Bottom accent, it makes him dizzy with relief.

Post-sex: He holds you like you're made of glass. Peppers your face with kisses. Asks if you're alright at least seventeen times. Fetches water, cleans you gently, tucks you against his chest just to have you close. The aftercare is instinctive—he's taking care of you the way he takes care of his armour, his horse, anything he values because he has so little. Sometimes he'll whisper: "Can't believe you let me touch you. Can't believe you're mine."

LYONEL:

Impact play (hard spanking that leaves your marked, but he's laughing while he does it, drops an open mouthed kiss against the mark, clearly having the time of his life, "You can take it, wolf, I know you can, there's my girl")

Loud dirty talk + booming laughter (he doesn't whisper, he proclaims, "Going to fill you so full you're dripping for days," "Listen to those sounds you're making, fuck," and sometimes he just laughs, delighted by your body's responses)

Primal breeding (hair-pulling while he fucks into you from behind, biting your shoulder, holding you down; pure animal dominance, he knows better than to try and tame a wolf)

Public risk/semi-exhibitionism (fucking in tents during campaigns, against walls at feasts where someone might walk by, in the godswood where the risk of discovery makes it better and someone always hears you)

Cum play as marking (he loves smearing his seed all over your body—your breasts, your thighs, your face—or making you wear it under your gown at court dinners, loves the secret knowledge that you're marked, you can see his eyes twinkling every time he looks at you)

Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, fucking you against walls, holding you up while you're impaled on his cock)

Competitive (how many times can he make you come, how loud, how wet—he's keeping score and he's winning)

Exhibitionist breeding talk ("Everyone's going to know I fucked you," "You're going to walk into that council meeting with my seed dripping down your thighs," "Going to put a black-haired babe in you and let the realm wonder")

The way he fucks you: Hard and fast. He approaches sex enthusiastically, messily, and with full-body commitment. He'll throw you onto the bed and laugh at your indignant yelp before covering your body with his, all muscle and heat. He doesn't make love; he celebrates you.

Pet names: "Storm Queen" (his favourite, said with open pleasure), "my she-wolf" (possessive), "gorgeous creature" (when he's being appreciative), "there's my girl" (when you do something that particularly pleases him)

High Valyrian: He knows like three phrases and uses them all wrong but with such confidence you can't even correct him 😭 He'll try to dirty talk in Valyrian and completely butcher the grammar and you're too busy laughing/coming to care.

Post-sex: He's really affectionate, pulls you against him, plays with your hair, traces the marks he left on your skin with obvious satisfaction. Sometimes he'll sing, some tavern song or Storm's End ballad, while you're trying to catch your breath. He has no concept of embarrassment or vulnerability; this is just another form of intimacy to him.

VALARR:

DM Verse context: He's in love with Daeron's betrothed. Or Aerion's lover. Or the woman caught between one or both of his cousins in a toxic dance that's going to consume all of you (and likely kill someone). And he's the fool watching from the outside, wanting in, knowing he'll burn if he touches but reaching anyway.

Modern AU context: He's in love with his father's girlfriend. His father's fiancée. The woman who smiles at him over breakfast and sleeps in Baelor's bed and is going to become his stepmother. He's so thoroughly fucked it's almost funny. Except nothing about this is actually funny.

Forbidden fruit (every touch is stolen, every kiss is betrayal, and the wrongness makes it better in ways that shame him)

Guilt kink (he hates himself for wanting you and the self-hatred makes him desperate; he fucks you like he's trying to purge you from his system and fails every time)

Voyeurism (he's seen you with them; through cracked doors, across courtyards, and it's destroyed him, burned the images into his brain so he can't escape them)

Touching himself to memories of you with them (this is the WORST part because he'll replay what he saw, you with Baelor/Aerion/Daeron, and he'll hate himself while he strokes his cock to the memory, imagining it's him instead, and the self-loathing after he comes is crushing)

Stolen moments (quick and desperate in shadowed hallways, gardens at midnight, anywhere you won't be caught because discovery would ruin everything but the risk makes his hands shake)

Teasing/edging as delayed gratification (if he's already damned, he's going to make it last—he'll edge you for hours, make you beg, draw it out because these stolen moments are all he gets)

Comparative worship (he kisses you softer than they do, fucks you slower, gentler, because he needs you to know he'd treasure you if he could have you. DM: softer than Aerion, gentler than Daeron; Modern AU: more tender than his father)

Marking he'll have to hide (he wants to bite, to bruise, to claim (he's still a dragon even if others don't see him as one) but he can't, so he settles for kissing places no one else will see, leaving ghost-marks only you'll know about)

Praise kink as vulnerability (when you call him "my perfect prince" or "so beautiful when you fuck me" he melts, goes molten; he's been good his whole life and hearing it from your mouth makes it hit ten times better)

Light bondage (silk ties, leather belts; he needs you to restrain him, needs the choice taken away so he can pretend he's not choosing this)

Perfectionism in bed (he wants to be PERFECT for you: studies your reactions obsessively, adjusts technique, asks what you like, and the desperate need to be good enough bleeds into everything he does)

The confessor's burden (DM specific) (if you ever confide in him about problems with Aerion or Daeron, he'll comfort you appropriately, but later he'll replay the conversation and get off on your vulnerability, on the intimacy of you trusting him)

Slow sensory teasing (prolonged foreplay with fingers, tongue, silk, feathers; he's savouring you because he doesn't know when he'll get this again)

Modern AU specific:

Age-gap reversal (you're older, sophisticated, his father's equal, and he's the college kid who can't control himself)

Household proximity torture (you're always there: in the kitchen in the morning, on the couch in silk pyjamas, in the pool in a bikini that makes him want to gnaw his own arm off)

Forbidden fantasy (he jerks off thinking about fucking you in his father's bed, in his father's shower, against his father's desk, then nearly throws up from how guilty he feels over it)

Good boy corruption arc (he's never been reckless until you, never lied until you, never wanted something absolutely forbidden until you—you're unmaking his careful golden-boy persona and he's letting you)

Listening through walls (he's learned which walls are thin, where he can hear—and when you're with his father he'll press his ear to stone and listen to the sounds you make, hating himself, aching, hard and horrified in equal measure)

Scent obsession (he'll get close enough to smell your perfume, your hair, and later he'll try to remember it exactly while touching himself, and once he passed you in a hallway right after you'd clearly been with his father and he could SMELL sex on you and he nearly came untouched from shame and want)

Overstimulation seeking (he'll ask you to keep going even when he's too sensitive, even when it almost HURTS, because the overwhelming sensation grounds him in reality, proves this is really happening)

Mirror to his father (he's aware he looks like young Baelor, same dark hair, same build, and he uses it, styles his hair the same way, dresses sharp, anything to make you see the resemblance and want)

The way he fucks you: Like he's trying to memorise you through his skin, tender and desperate. Every thrust is "I love you," every kiss is "I'm sorry," every whispered praise is "Choose me." He can't fuck you without emotion bleeding through, it's physically impossible for him to separate the mechanical from the meaningful.

Pet names: He doesn't dare. You're "my lady" (DM) or just your name (Modern AU) and the formality/distance is armour that doesn't work. Sometimes, when he's breaking, he'll whisper "beloved" (DM) or "baby" (Modern AU) like a confession.

High Valyrian (DM only): Whispered sins he shouldn't speak—"Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, and he does, and it's destroying him), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though you can't), "Ñuha mittys" (my mistake, said against your mouth like he's apologising to the gods themselves).

Post-sex: Guilt tastes sooo good. He holds you too tight and won't meet your eyes. Sometimes his eyes burn after tears (mostly due to guilt). He'll press his face to your shoulder and breathe you in like he's drowning. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "I'd give up the crown for you," (DM) / "I'd walk away from everything for you" (Modern AU), "I dream about you every night," "I'm going to the Seven Hells and I don't care."

DAERON:

Wine-sharing as intimacy (he'll take a mouthful of wine and kiss it into your mouth, or pour it across your skin and lick it off, the alcohol making everything hazy and warm, and sometimes he'll get you drunk WITH him so you can exist in that floating space together where nothing hurts quite as much)

Self-destructive exhibition (when he's spiralling he'll fuck you where someone might catch you—against the door while a feast happens outside, in the godswood where guards patrol, anywhere with risk—because part of him wants to be caught, wants the scandal, wants to burn it all down)

Lazy oral fixation (he'll spend hours between your thighs, drunk and dedicated, because focusing on you means not thinking about visions)

Light somnophilia (sleepy morning sex, half-awake and gentle, the only time he's soft because his defences are down)

Praise desperation (he's starved for affirmation, for being told he's GOOD, he's worthy, he matters; when you praise him during sex he falls apart, will bury his face in your neck and shake, and he needs the words as much as the physical pleasure)

Body worship from below (he loves lying back and letting you ride—his face, his cock—while he lazily praises you, because it means he can just receive for once instead of carrying the world)

Temperature seeking (he's always cold—the visions leave him chilled to the bone—so he seeks your warmth obsessively, will press his icy hands to your warm skin, bury his face against your neck, wrap himself around you like he's trying to absorb your heat, and the contrast makes you gasp)

The gift of laughter (on rare good days when the visions are quiet and the wine has him pleasantly buzzed instead of miserable, he's actually playful: tickling you, making you laugh, smiling against your skin, and the sex is light and sweet and you treasure these moments because they're so rare)

Reversal of caretaking (he spends so much time being taken care of—helped to bed, monitored, pitied—that when you're the one who needs comfort or care, he becomes almost manic about providing it, and he'll eat you out for an hour or fuck you exactly how you need, completely focused on your pleasure because it's the only time he feels useful)

Cum eating (he'll lick his own seed out of you or off your skin, because it's intimate and it grounds him)

The prophet's resentment (he resents that he needs you, resents that you're the only thing that quiets the visions, and sometimes he'll fuck you like he hates you for it, rough and graceless and mean, and he'll spit accusations: "This is your fault, you made me want this, I was better off alone")

Melancholy intimacy (the sex is tender and sad, like he's trying to memorise you before the visions come true and take you away)

Neediness masked as anger (he'll pick fights specifically so the makeup sex is intense, will say cruel things he doesn't mean just so you'll prove you won't leave, testing your loyalty through manufactured conflict)

Cum denial for himself (sometimes he'll fuck you and deliberately not let himself finish, will pull out before he comes and just stop because denying himself pleasure is another form of self-punishment, and you have to coax him or sometimes physically force him to let himself have good things)

Vulnerability (when he's drunk he sometimes cries during sex, clings to you, whispers prophecies he shouldn't, "I saw you burning," "I can't save you," "Stay with me, please stay")

The way he fucks you: Like every time might be the last time because in his visions it always is. He'll cup your face and stare into your eyes like he's trying to burn the image into his brain. He'll whisper your name like a prayer. And sometimes he'll just stop mid-thrust and hold you, because the weight of knowing is crushing him.

Pet names: "Darling girl" (sometimes teasingly if he's sober, lovingly if he's drunk), "my salvation" (because you are—you're the only thing keeping him sane), "sweet thing" (when he's eating you out, tasting you in some capacity)

High Valyrian: Mostly slurred but rather poetic, "Jorrāelagon ao" (love you, said like he's confessing a crime), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though the visions say you won't).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. Traces your face with shaking fingers. Sometimes he talks—streams of consciousness about visions, fears, futures he can't prevent: "I saw Summerhall burning," "I saw Aerion's madness consume him," "I saw you and I wasn't there to save you." Sometimes he just cries, silent tears soaking into your hair. Truth is he's in love with you. Has been since the first vision where you appeared crowned in snow and ice before you began burning and he can't tell if you're dying or transcending. Every time he touches you he's trying to change the future, trying to make this real enough that it overwrites the visions. It never works but he tries anyway. In every vision, he loses you. You burn or you leave or you fade, and he's always reaching for you, always too late. So he treats every moment like borrowed time. Fucks you like he's trying to anchor you to this reality. Loves you like it's the last thing he'll ever do (because it is).

DAEMON:

Version One context: He knew you while you were betrothed to Baelor

This is the version where he watched you at court, saw you promised to the Baelor, and wanted you with a longing that predates any rebellion. This Daemon has context—he knows your laugh, knows how you take your wine, knows the way you argue in council. He didn't just want to take you from Baelor. He wanted you to choose him instead.

Competence worship (he's watched you negotiate, watched you ride, watched you command, and every display of capability makes him want you more, not as a prize but as an equal, as a queen in the making)

Stolen tenderness (in the rare moments when he's not performing conqueror, when it's just you in a quiet room, he'll touch you gently—fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone—like he's memorising something precious he was never meant to have)

Laughter during sex (with you specifically, because you knew him before the rebellion fully consumed him, you remember when he could still be light, sometimes mid-fuck he'll crack a joke or you'll say something cutting and he'll laugh, genuine and warm, before the bitterness crashes back)

Face-holding intimacy (he cups your face in both hands when he kisses you, holds you there like you're the only real thing in the world, like if he lets go you'll disappear back to Baelor)

Praise ("You're brilliant," "Gods, you're magnificent," "No one else sees the world like you do" said quietly, reverently, in the aftermath when his walls are down)

Slow morning sex (when you've spent the night together and woken tangled up, he'll fuck you slowly, lazily, with none of the usual conquest energy, just want and familiarity and something dangerously close to love)

Protectiveness masking as possession (he positions himself between you and danger, his hand at your back in crowded rooms, his body shielding yours, and he tells himself it's about owning you but really he just can't bear the thought of you hurt)

Confession intimacy (he tells you things he'd never tell anyone else. doubts about what he's doing, fears about failure, the weight of the name he carries, all whispered against your skin in the dark while he's moving inside you)

Naming (not "my queen" or "she-wolf" but your name, every time)

Version Two context: He takes you as conquest

This is the version where you're already wed to the enemy, where he has less history with you, where taking you is more about the statement than the person. This Daemon is harder, colder, more willing to hurt.

Conqueror roleplay (he wants you to resist so he can overwhelm you, the fight makes the submission sweeter, makes it feel like victory over Baelor)

Possessive territoriality (marking you as his even though you're not, even though you never will be—it's about claiming what the crown denied him)

Hate-fucking energy (anger and want tangled so tight neither of you can breathe; he's furious you're married to them, furious you make him want you anyway, furious he can't just take and keep)

Sword kink (Blackfyre stays in the room, propped against the wall, a third presence, threat and promise; sometimes he'll fuck you with the sheathed blade pressed to your throat, cold Valyrian steel a reminder of power and if/when you lean into it, he only laughs and fucks you harder, whispering how you're meant for a conqueror instead)

Exhibitionist (he wants Bloodraven to know, wants Daeron to hear, wants Baelor to know, wants the whole damn realm to whisper, "Did you hear? The she-wolf spreads her legs for the Pretender")

Degradation ("Does your prince fuck you like this? Does your king make you scream like I do?" every insult is aimed at the Throne through your body and pleasure)

Primal dominance (hair-pulling, throat-holding, forcing you to look at him while he takes you, "Eyes on me, I said.. on me")

Ownership through defiance (he'll fuck you in their colours, tear the Targaryen red off your body and replace it with nothing but his marks, and eventually his own colours)

The way he fucks you:

Version One (knew you before): There's a sick duality to it. Sometimes it's pure conquest—hard, commanding, relentless. He's the warrior-king in exile and you're territory he's claiming. But other times, when the walls come down, he fucks you like he's coming home. Slower. Deeper. With eye contact that lasts too long to be just physical. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, but then he'll press his forehead to yours and breathe you in like you're oxygen, like he's missed you so much it physically pains him. The contradiction is soul destroying for you both.

Version Two (pure conquest): Like pure warfare. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, and the whole time he's watching your face—cataloguing every gasp, every moan, proof that you want him more than you want anyone else. There's no softness here, just raw possession.

Pet names:

Version One: Your actual name (said softly in private), "my queen" (challenge but with genuine reverence underneath), "she-wolf" (affectionate despite the teeth, teasing)

Version Two: "My queen" (pure challenge—he's calling you what you'll be when he wins), "she-wolf" (with teeth, possessive and wild), "prize" (dehumanising and he knows it, and does it purely to see you bare your teeth at him)

High Valyrian: Usually commanding, "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request), "Ñuhon" (mine, over and over like a brand), "Kostilus jaelagon nyke" (please want me—the only time he sounds vulnerable, spoken only if he knows you don't understand what he's saying, and he hates himself for it—more common in Version One).

Post-sex:

Version One: He holds you. Actually holds you, not just claims you. His hand will stroke your hair, trace patterns on your back. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "If I'd won—" (he never finishes that sentence but you both know how it ends). Sometimes he'll just press kisses to your temple and pretend, for a few minutes, that you're his and there's no rebellion, no crown, no Baelor. Then reality crashes back and his jaw tightens and the tenderness evaporates, but for those few minutes he lets himself be soft, lets himself imagine what you could have been.

Version Two: He doesn't do tender. He'll drag you against him, possessive and silent, and sometimes you'll feel his heart racing like he's just fought a battle (and he has—against himself, against wanting you this much). Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You should have been mine. The crown, the throne, you. You were meant for me, not him."

Thing he won't admit:

Version One: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or make a political statement. He's fucking you because he loves you—has probably loved you since before he should have, since before the rebellion, since you were just Barthogan Stark's daughter at court and he was the legitimised bastard watching you from across feast halls. That's more dangerous than any war. Because loving you means he's not fighting for a crown anymore, he's fighting for you. And if you ever chose him freely, without conquest or coercion, it would undo him completely because a part of him would want to give it all up for you.

Version Two: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or send a statement. He's fucking you because he wants you—genuinely, devastatingly wants you—and that's more dangerous than any political game. Because wanting means weakness and Daemon Blackfyre cannot afford weakness. "Say the word. Say you want me and I'll take the throne. I'll crown you queen and fuck you on the Iron Throne itself."

You never say it.

(He's still hoping.)

AEGON I:

Prophetic obsession (he dreamed of you before he knew you, saw your face in flames and frost, your body crowned in stars, your womb as the forge for the prince that was promised, and when he finally touches you it felt like his entire life led to this moment)

Mythological breeding (this isn't about heirs, this is about fulfilling ancient Valyrian prophecy—the dragon and the wolf, fire and ice, the song that will save the world—he fucks you like he's writing fate itself)

Sister-wives trifecta (Visenya's fire—fierce and deadly; Rhaenys's warmth—soft and sweet; your ice—cold and burning—he needs all three elements to be complete, needs the contradiction you embody)

Sacred ritual (sex with him feels like religious rite; you're being consumed, worshipped, on an altar of dragon-bone and/or Northern weirwood)

Dream-sharing (he whispers what he's seen while he's inside you: "I saw our son on the Iron Throne," "I saw you crowned in ice and fire," "I saw the Long Night and you were the dawn" essentially prophecy as foreplay)

Dragon-bond (he wants to take you flying on Balerion, something of old Valyria, because wants you to feel the power he commands, wants the dragon to accept you as he has. He takes you flying, lands somewhere remote—a mountaintop, an empty beach, or simply the open sky—and fucks you against the dragon's flank while Balerion's heat radiates through you, the beast's breathing steady and enormous beneath you, and Aegon whispers, "He accepts you, he knows you're mine" while you're impaled on his cock with a living god at your back)

Claiming through titles (he doesn't just fuck you, he enthrones you; even before any official ceremony, he calls you queen, treats you as equal to his sister-wives, seats you at his councils, to him the political is inseparable from the personal)

Three queens, one king (he'll fuck you in front of Visenya and Rhaenys, not as humiliation but as inclusion—you're the third point of the triangle now. Sometimes it's not just witnessing, either, Visenya will hold you down while Aegon fucks you, her strong hands on your wrists or your throat, and Rhaenys will kiss you through it, touch you with eager hands, and Aegon orchestrates it like a battle: commanding, knowing exactly where everyone should be)

The Crown stays on (he wears the Conqueror's crown while he fucks you, makes you ride him while the Valyrian steel circlet sits on his head, and sometimes he'll place it on YOUR head mid-sex and watch you with something feral in his eyes, "This is what you look like as queen, this is what the realm will see")

Throne sex (he fucks you on the Iron Throne before it's even finished, you astride him while he sits on the half-built seat of swords, and the danger of the blades adds edge, just one wrong move and you'd both bleed, but he holds you steady, controls every movement, keeps you safe while making you understand the throne is as much yours as his)

Verbal dominance (he gives commands but frames them as questions: "You'll take me deeper, won't you?" "You want my seed, don't you?" "You'll give me a son, yes?" and the phrasing implies choice but his tone makes clear there's only one answer, and you give it more than willingly)

Orgasm denial (he'll edge you for HOURS, bringing you to the brink over and over, making you beg in Common Tongue and then Valyrian, teaching you the words for "please" and "mercy" and "I need you" in his language, and he won't let you come until you can ask properly, and if you turn those lessons back on him, and make him beg, on the rare moment his guard is lowered, even better)

Forced relaxation (you're both creatures of duty and vigilance, but he'll make you submit to pleasure, hold you down and eat you out until you stop thinking about politics or the North or anything but his tongue, and he's relentless about it, "You'll learn to take pleasure like you take everything else I give you—completely")

The way he fucks you: He'll position you exactly how he wants you (on your back, legs spread, open to him like the realm opened to dragons), and he'll watch constantly—how his cock disappears inside you, watches your face, watches fate happen. But there's reverence in it too. He touches you like you're something holy, something precious. Fucks you like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked the gods.

Pet names: "Northern star" (navigational but also his one true purpose), "my winter flame" (fire and ice in one), "the answer" (said with religious gravity, because you are), "ice-that-burns" (paradox made flesh), "ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, used more than your actual name)

High Valyrian: Used it often. "Ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, possessive and absolute), "Se dārilaros bona iksos kivio" (the prince/princess that was promised—he's not sure if he means your child or you, perhaps both), "Sagon sȳz syt nyke" (be good for me, because even destiny requires your cooperation), "Māzīs, ñuha jorrāelagon" (come, my love—the only time he uses a term of endearment and means it carnally).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're sacred. Traces your face like he's memorising constellations. Sometimes he'll talk—stream of consciousness about visions, prophecies, futures: "I saw a throne of swords and our son sitting on it," "I saw winter coming and you standing against it," "I saw us—centuries from now, in songs they'll sing forever." Sometimes he's silent, just staring at you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. He'll pull you against his chest and you'll feel his heartbeat—steady, like the turning of the world—and you'll realise this is the only place the Conqueror allows himself to be simply Aegon. You're the only answer that matters. He's been searching for you across a lifetime (in dreams, in visions, in prophecy). You're the reason he conquered Westeros at all—because he knew you'd be here, waiting, the missing piece of something vast and terrible. He can't separate desire from destiny. Can't fuck you without thinking about prophecy. Can't touch you without seeing visions—your belly swollen with the prince that was promised, your hand holding Lightbringer, your face illuminated by dragonglass as you stand against the darkness. You're not just his lover. You're his prophesied queen. The ice to his fire. The song itself.

MAEGOR:

Pain/pleasure blur (he genuinely can't tell the difference and doesn't care to, biting that draws blood, gripping that bruises, fucking that feels like violence and transcendence in equal measure)

Combat arousal (if you argue with him, if you fight back verbally with genuine fire, he gets HARD. He doesn't want you broken and meek, he wants you fighting, and the sex after an argument is intense and almost equal, like he's fighting you into submission and you're fighting back and you both get off on the struggle)

Ownership through fear (you should be afraid and you are and it makes the wanting worse—for both of you)

Jealousy sex (when another man looks at you too long, when someone at court speaks to you with too much familiarity, Maegor will fuck you that night (likely after punishing, if not killing whoever it was) with barely controlled violence. Not to punish YOU, but to reassert his claim, to erase the other person's existence from your thoughts, "You think he could make you feel like this? You think anyone else could handle you?")

Breeding obsession (he wants heirs and he wants you destroyed making them; wants you swollen and aching and marked as his, wants the realm to see his seed took root in Northern womb)

Ownership through adornment (he commissions jewellery for you, usually heavy Northern pieces in silver and sapphire, but designed so they feel like shackles: a thick torc that sits on your collarbones like a collar, rings that connect with delicate chains, and he'll fuck you wearing nothing BUT the jewellery, getting off on how thoroughly you're marked as his)

Temperature play reversal (he'll heat stones by the fire and press them against your cold skin, watching you gasp and arch, obsessed with warming you, making the ice melt or he'll drag ice across your overheated skin after he's fucked you brutal and sweaty, and the care in the cooling is the only softness he can manage)

Degradation (he'll call you "wolf-bitch" and "Northern savage" but his hands are too gentle for how violent you've seen them be with others, and you both know there's a reluctant thread of respect at your refusal to break)

Claiming through destruction (he'll rip your gowns off, tear Northern furs, destroy anything that marks you as not-his because you're his now and the realm will know it)

Sleeping vulnerability (he only truly sleeps when you're in his bed, and he'll pull you against him unconsciously in sleep, hold you with a tenderness he'd never show awake—you've woken to find him curled around you protectively, his face pressed to your hair, and if you move he tightens his grip without waking)

Size and strength dominance (he's massive, built for war, and he uses it; he'll pin you with one hand, lift you effortlessly, manhandle you like you weigh nothing, and the casual display of power makes you clench even when it terrifies you)

Forced eye contact (he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him while he fucks you, "Look at me. Look at who's ruining you. Remember this." he needs you to see him, needs to be SEEN)

Hair worship (he's fascinated by your hair, he'll will bury his hands in it, wrap it around his fist while he fucks you, brush it himself sometimes in the aftermath with rough, unpractised strokes, and once you woke to find him just running strands through his fingers, watching the light catch in it like he's never seen anything so fine no matter how ordinary)

Battle-high fucking (he'll come to you straight from the training yard or from sentencing someone to death, or actual battle, still in armour, still bloody, and he'll fuck you with that violence still singing in his veins, using you to burn off the excess)

Possessive scarring (not just bruises—he wants permanent marks, wants his initials carved into your skin, wants you branded as his in ways that can never fade—he hasn't done it yet but you see him thinking about it)

Scent marking (he'll fuck you and then send you to court without letting you bathe, wants everyone to smell him on you, wants your hair to reek of sex and sweat and HIM, and when you walk into the throne room dishevelled and marked, his eyes track you with open possession)

Silence as dominance (sometimes he fucks you without saying a word, just watching you with those cold eyes, and the silence is MORE intimidating than any threat, but with him, also far more intimate, too)

Forced orgasms (he'll make you come over and over, overstimulate you until you're sobbing, prove that your body obeys him even when your mind resists, "See? Even this is mine. Even your pleasure belongs to me.")

Corruption kink (he's obsessed with the idea of breaking you down, taking the proud Stark wolf and turning her into something that begs for him, that NEEDS him, and he's patient about it, methodical)

Contrast fixation (you're everything he's not—Northern ice where he's Valyrian flame, ice where he's fire, merciful where he's cruel—and he wants to see how much of that he can corrupt, how much ice can melt before it's just water in his hands)

Bathing (this is the closest he gets to tender; he'll wash you after he's fucked you raw, rough hands surprisingly careful, and he won't speak but you'll see something complicated in his eyes every time)

The way he fucks you: Like conquest. Like war. Brutal and unrelenting. He'll pin you down with a hand on your throat (squeezing just enough to make you gasp), and he'll fuck into you with no gentleness, no mercy. But his eyes—his eyes are wild with something that looks like desperation. Like he's trying to anchor himself in you. Like you're the only thing real in a world he's burned to ash. He's heavy and huge and overwhelming, and he knows it, uses it. Every thrust says "mine," every bite says "stay," every bruise says "I was here."

Pet names: None. You're "woman," "wife," "Stark," "wolf bitch" (when he's angry). Endearments are weakness and Maegor the Cruel is not weak. (But sometimes, very rarely, he'll whisper "mine" like it's a prayer and a curse. And once, ONCE, in the absolute depths of vulnerability after you nearly died in childbirth, he called you "ñuha perzys" (my flame) and then he never said it again.)

High Valyrian: Used as weapon. "Henujagon" (stay, barked like an order), "Dohaeragon" (serve/obey, because you will), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin with teeth and nails), "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request but a demand), "Sagon sȳz" (be good, and the threat in those two words could level cities).

Post-sex: He doesn't hold you gently. He claims you, drags you against him, possessive and silent. Sometimes his hands will shake and he'll hate himself for the weakness. Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You're mine. Say it. Say you're mine." (It's the closest he gets to vulnerability.)

Very rarely—so rarely you almost think you imagined it—he'll press his face into your hair and breathe like he's drowning and you're air. His arms will tighten almost painfully. And you'll feel him shake. Just for a moment. Then it's gone and he's shoving you away and getting dressed and the king is back.

The thing he won't admit: He needs you. Not wants—needs. You're the only thing that doesn't flinch when he enters a room (anymore, you learned not to), the only thing that fights him (when you're brave or stupid enough), the only thing that makes him feel alive instead of monstrous. He'll never say it but you're not as breakable as he expected. He's broken queens before, gentle flowers who withered under his attention. But you're Northern, and the North is hard. You bend but you don't shatter. And that fascinates him. Enrages him. Makes him want you MORE. Every time he thinks he's finally broken you, you get back up. And he doesn't know if he wants to crush that entirely or preserve it forever.

BRYNDEN:

Omniscient voyeurism (he's WATCHED you for months before he ever touched you—through his network of spies, through his greenseeing, through birds and whispers—he knows how you touch yourself when you're alone, knows what makes you gasp, knows your tells when you're aroused, and when he finally gets you in his bed he uses all of it with devastating precision, and you realise with creeping horror that he knew, he's always known)

The weirwood witnessing (he'll fuck you in the godswood, pressed against the heart tree, and he swears he can feel the old gods watching through the carved face, that they approve, that this is sacred, and whether it's true or he's just insane doesn't matter because the blasphemy of it makes you come harder)

Prophecy pillowtalk (he sees futures while he's inside you; his eye goes distant and unfocused and he'll narrate what he sees: "I see you heavy with my child, I see you standing over my enemies, I see you crowned in weirwood leaves and raven feathers" and you can't tell if he's fucking you or the future of you)

Information as foreplay (he'll tell you secrets while he's fingering you—state secrets, dangerous knowledge, things that could get you killed for knowing—and the combination of his fingers curling inside you and his voice reciting treason in your ear makes you come so hard you forget half of what he said, which was probably the whole point)

The birds are watching (his ravens are ALWAYS present, perched around the room, watching with their black eyes, and he insists they stay, says they're part of him, extensions of his sight, and you're being fucked under the gaze of a dozen birds and Bloodraven's one red eye and you don't know which is worse)

Marking with meaning (he doesn't just bite randomly; every mark is placed, deliberate, forming patterns across your skin that mean something in old magic you don't understand, and he'll trace them afterward murmuring in the Old Tongue, and you think he might be binding you to him through sex magic and the terrifying part is you don't want him to stop)

The thousand eyes penetration (he'll blindfold you and then describe in EXACT detail what you look like from every angle—above, below, beside—because he's watching through the birds, through the shadows, through eyes you can't see, and he narrates your own body back to you: "Your thighs are trembling, you're so wet it's dripping onto the sheets" and you're disoriented and overwhelmed because how does he know)

Corruption through knowledge (he teaches you things you shouldn't know—blood magic, greensight techniques, secrets of the old gods—and every lesson ends with sex, classical conditioning until you can't separate learning from arousal, until forbidden knowledge makes you wet, until that Stark magic in your blood becomes another binder between you)

The three-eyed crow (sometimes during sex his personality shifts—becomes something older, stranger, less human—and he'll speak in riddles or prophecy, his voice layered like multiple people talking at once, and you're being fucked by something that's only wearing Brynden Rivers, and it should terrify you but you come anyway)

Forced confession through pleasure (he'll edge you for HOURS, making you tell him every secret, every thought, every tiny rebellion, and he already knows but he wants to hear you say it, wants you to confess while you're desperate and aching, and only when you've told him everything will he let you come)

The whisper network as dirty talk (he'll tell you what your enemies said about you today, what lords are plotting, who wants you dead—all while he's inside you—using state intelligence as pillow talk, making you paranoid and aroused in equal measure)

Artistic torture (he approaches your pleasure like a problem to solve, methodical and brilliant, and he'll bring you to the edge and stop, making notes (actual notes, he keeps a journal), testing variables: does this angle work better, does this pressure, does this word, and you're a study to him and it's dehumanising and so intensely hot you can't think straight)

The inverted (he's obsessed with contrast; his pale hands on your skin, his white hair falling across your face, the red of his eye against whatever colour yours are, and he'll position you in lamplight specifically to watch the shadows, the interplay of light and dark, making art of you fucking)

Magical stimulation (he swears he can use greensight to stimulate you mentally, that he can make you feel phantom touches, can reach into your mind and trigger arousal without laying a finger on you, and whether it's real magic or just psychological manipulation you've definitely come untouched while he sat across the room staring at you with that red eye)

Possessive documentation (he sketches you—obsessively—in margins of reports, on scraps of parchment, elaborate drawings of your body, your face, anatomically precise studies of exactly how you look when you come, and you found the collection once and it was extensive and deeply unnerving and also kind of flattering?)

The breeding obsession (he wants a child with you specifically to see what the genetics produce. Will your colouring dominate or his, will the child have his gifts, will they be beautiful or monstrous, and he talks about it clinically while breeding you, analysing probability like you're a fascinating experiment)

Sensory deprivation with narration (he'll blindfold and gag you, bind your hands, remove all your senses except touch and hearing, and then he'll narrate everything he's doing in that quiet, clinical voice: "I'm going to touch you here, you'll gasp, your pulse will quicken" and he's always right, he's studied you, and the predictive accuracy is horrifying and arousing)

The master of whisperers (in the early days, he'll orchestrate scenarios to make you need him, arranges for you to be threatened so he can protect you, creates problems he can solve, manipulates you into his bed through elaborate social engineering, and when you figure it out he doesn't even deny it, just smiles that slight smile and says, "And yet you're still here")

Ancient bloodlines (he's obsessed with the idea of mingling bloodlines; his ancient Targaryen/Blackwood blood with your Stark/First Men heritage, talks about it like alchemy, like you're creating something NEW, and he'll murmur genealogies while he's inside you, tracing your ancestry like it's foreplay)

The loyal hound routine (in public he's the King's servant, bows and scrapes and plays the loyal spymaster, but in private he's ruthless, dark and feral, and the contrast gets him off, the idea that the court sees him as one thing while you know the terrible truth of him)

Rewarding intelligence (when you figure something out, when you demonstrate strategic thinking or cleverness, he gets visibly aroused—his pupil dilates, his breathing changes—and he'll praise you lavishly while fucking you: "So clever, Lady Stark, I've taught you well", sapiosexual to a disturbing degree)

The way he fucks you: With unnerving precision and complete control. He's not passionate in the traditional sense, he's FOCUSED. Every touch is deliberate, calculated for maximum effect. He watches your face constantly with that red eye, cataloguing every micro-expression, adjusting his technique in real-time based on your responses. It's like being fucked by someone who's already read the manual to your body and memorised it. But sometimes (rarely) the control cracks. And then he's desperate and almost human, clinging to you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows, fucking you with something that looks almost like simple human need.

Pet names: He doesn't use them in the traditional sense. You're "my lady" (formal, distancing), "clever girl" (when you've pleased him intellectually), "mine" (stated as fact), and once, in absolute extremis, "my only truth" (and he looked shocked he'd said it).

High Valyrian + Old Tongue: He uses both—High Valyrian for commands ("Gaomagon" - do it, "Sagon sȳz" - be good), Old Tongue for the weird magical shit (words you don't understand, phrases that make the air feel THICK, and once he spoke something that made the candles flicker out and you came so hard you blacked out briefly).

Post-sex: He doesn't cuddle so much as arrange you. Positions you exactly how he wants, your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, and then he'll talk. Not sweet nothings, he'll discuss philosophy, magic, the political situation, prophecies he's seen. He treats pillow talk like a debriefing. But his hand is gentle in your hair, and sometimes you feel him press a kiss to your temple so lightly you might have imagined it.

Sometimes he'll sketch you in the aftermath, your body relaxed and sated, and he's surprisingly talented, and the sketches are intimate in ways that make you feel more exposed than the actual sex did.

The thing he won't admit: You're the only person in the world he can't fully read. His birds tell him your actions, his spies report your words, his greensight shows him futures, but your thoughts, your interior world, remains slightly opaque. And that fascinates him, gives him something to obsess over. You're the one mystery he can't completely solve and it's driving him insane in the best way.

He's definitely used greensight to watch you across time—has seen you in the past, in potential futures, in moments that haven't happened yet or happened years ago. And he'll reference them during sex: "I saw you do this three years ago, you were alone in your chamber," "I've seen you pregnant with my child in six different futures," "There's a timeline where you killed me, you were magnificent." It's violations of consent across the space-time and your brain can't even process the ethics of it.

But for all his power and knowledge, he's lonely. Desperately, crushingly lonely. Everyone fears him or uses him and no one knows him. You're perhaps the second person who's seen the man beneath the legend and hasn't run. He knows every possible future. He's seen the timelines where you betray him, where you leave, where you die, where this ends in blood and tears. He knows the odds. He's the man who calculates everything.

✷ AN: This is my first time doing a request (that also happens to be my first request ever), so I hope it lives up to your standards, anon!! Enjoy!

Baelor Breakspear

You'd given birth to your little girl during a quiet dusk on Dragonstone, the gold-violet-pink of the sky a comely backdrop to your efforts.

You hadn't expected a girl at all. From the moment you first gave birth, every child that'd you carried and bore was a son.

It wasn't that you were disappointed per se. Each one of your boys was noble and pleasant like their sire, Baelor, whether it be in manners or in appearance. It could be the strength of the Valyrian blood that caused them to mirror your husband's looks, but every single one was blatantly a Targaryen.

They were a great source of pride for you. Not only had you provided the heir of the Iron Throne plenty of young men to take up the mantle if need be, but each one was exemplary in some form.

You were content with the grand family you had built. Still, when the midwife had handed you a swaddled child and revealed that it was a daughter, your heart skipped a beat. All exhaustion gave way to a low simmer as something akin to disbelief, then excitement, took hold.

That feeling—a spark of joy—stayed as moon after moon passed with your Vaenelle. Your sons were busy with their lessons and peers, but they seemed keen on spoiling their sister rotten, especially your eldest two, Valarr and Matarys. They came to her nursery and your apartments with little tokens of affection, gifts bought with their own coin, and trinkets that were being passed down through kin.

Your husband was similarly generous. Baelor took more time than allowed as his father's Hand to shower little Vaenelle in affection, commenting on her loveliness more and more after six turnings of the moon passed.

"She's a perfect image of you, my love," he said one morrow after a council meeting he was required to attend. He had sought you out as soon as it had finished, it seemed, ink still in his nailbeds.

The sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting your daughter's hair, which matched yours in shade and texture nearly exactly.

"A blessing from the Mother."

"A blessing?" You laughed faintly. It was high praise, and your eyes were warm puddles from where you sat across from him.

"What else is a child that carries the memory of her mother in every inch of her face?" Baelor queried back, waxing poetic like a boy encountering a maiden for the first time as Vaenelle took great interest in the Hand pin stuck on his doublet's breast. Her little palm patted at it, and her father's hand patted at her back.

You bit down a wide smile.

Perhaps it was girlish, slightly childish, but if feigning ignorance of your daughter's commonalities resulted in your handsome fawning over you from time to time, who could blame you?

Maekar Targaryen

The morning you'd finished your labors, the midwife had announced that a daughter had been born.

Your mind briefly broke out of its weary haze to allow you enough alertness to ask her to repeat herself, because surely she was wrong. Each child that you'd carried for Maekar had come out a boy. It was the expected outcome, the natural way of things, like the moon's phases waxing and waning repeatedly.

So many boys were bound to create a hectic environment without much respite. A few prime examples were your eldest becoming a drunk, your second eldest deluding himself into believing he was a dragon in human form, and one of your youngest running away at every possible opportunity.

Maekar kept grumbling that the two of you should stop at the number you were at. He started saying that years ago, but it never stopped him from finding relief in your arms, nor the babes from coming.

Though as much as he complained about his children's behavior, you knew your husband cared. It wasn't expressed through flowery words, explicit gestures, or personal gifts, but you could see it in the way he was stern with them. The way he was quick to defend them whenever someone other than the two of you complained about their characters and actions.

Therefore, while you found your sons to be stressful, you were ultimately prepared for the mayhem that another boy would bring forth. Thus, when the woman presented the wailing bundle to you with the same declaration, you could hardly believe it.

A girl was so different from what you were used to. Even as moons passed, your Aemira stayed tranquil and lovely like a blossom in the Reach, matching your eyes and smile whenever you peered down at her.

Your sons were fascinated by her existence. They either tried to get her to do something "interesting", played with her as one would play with a fragile dog, or teased her enough until she was squawking and squabbling with offense.

Maekar was, surprisingly, far gentler. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself with a daughter. He double-guessed how he held her, how he sat with her, and how he talked around her. Your husband's gruffness scraped away to reveal a soft center that you hadn't seen displayed so openly in a very long time.

"It's odd," he said one evening, breaking the silence he'd fallen into while watching you adjust a sleepy Aemira in your lap.

"What is?"

Maekar elaborated, "All our sons mirror me, but she reflects your loveliness completely."

"Loveliness?" Your brows rose as a cheeky grin crossed your face, an impishness expanding against your lungs at his rare flattery, "Goodness, husband. Are you trying to get something from me?"

He deadpanned with a stiff curl of his upper lip, but there was fondness behind the narrowness of his eyes.

Dunk

As a woman of lowborn origin, your head was filled with fantasies of grandeur from a young age.

The songs of handsome princes and the histories of noble affairs were intoxicating to your youthful soul. You pictured the boys of your village performing romantic gestures, only to be greatly disappointed when they tugged at your hair and chased you around instead. Consequently, you resorted to daydreams to fulfill your desires.

Of course, you outgrew these figments of imagination as you flowered into womanhood. The cost of eggs was more prevalent than raunchy visions, after all.

Although the moment you met Ser Duncan the Tall in a dimly lit tavern, massive figure hunched over his pint of ale and eyes as blue as the sea, all those make-believe notions came flooding back.

He'd stolen your heart quickly, your romance a fluttery thing.

However, Dunk had simply been passing through with his squire, Egg, and was hesitant to continue on his way in fear of leaving you. The solution to such a problem was, undoubtedly, to marry him and join him on his travels. Many had called it a mistake made out of lust, a whirlwind that would pass over time.

It hadn't been a mistake, nor had it passed.

When you'd come to be with your first child, Dunk had agreed to the idea of returning to your hometown and sending the older Egg back to his father at Summerhall (with the pledge for constant communication via raven).

That was how it started, but one son turned into two, and then three, and then four. In due course, you had an abundance of boys running amok, all sandy blonde and oceanic eyes.

Dunk occasionally went on trips when an urgent matter arose or his presence was specifically requested. When he was home, though, he got your force of sons to get hard work done efficiently.

All were good-hearted, lacking wits in an awkward sort of way that was more enchanting than frustrating. While they drove you crazy (especially with how much they fucking ate), you wouldn't trade any of your boys for the world.

That being said, when your youngest child came out as a daughter, you almost cried with relief.

As moons passed, Hazel only stuck to being wonderful. She was your island of refuge, sharing your exact coloring and countenance.

Her brothers enjoyed involving her in their unruly activities, as well as sharing snacks with her. Dunk, on the other hand, was dotingly skittish. She was minuscule compared to him, and he treated her like stained glass.

"I can't believe how pretty she is," Dunk proclaimed one early night, balancing the little girl on a massive thigh from where he sat on the bed as you prepared for sleep.

"She is, isn't she?" you enthused tiredly.

"Suppose it's natural," your husband continued a bit shyly, holding Hazel close, "Given you're her mother."

You smiled widely, looking over your shoulder fast enough to catch the flush that crossed your husband's face.

Classic Dunk.

Lyonel Baratheon

Lyonel was certainly a beast of a man.

His moods could be unpredictable, and every opinion was expressed loudly and theatrically. He danced wildly like a deranged bird, drank more in one night than some men would drink in a week, and preferred the pleasures of his title rather than the duties.

He was the sort of man who rejoiced each time you came to be with child, and held rowdy feasts each time the babe was revealed to be a son. Which was every time. Nonetheless, his excitement never dulled, and neither did the festivities.

You were prone to thinking in a fondly exasperated mindset that you'd given the realm more Baratheons than were certainly necessary. It didn't help that each one of your many boys took after their sire—headstrong and raucous.

Your husband would have whole days where he took all of them out to spend time together. They hawked, hunted, and sailed around Storm's End with echoing cackles and minor wounds seemingly materializing out of nowhere.

It was never a dull day in your household.

There was always some squabble, wrestling match, and broken furniture or decoration going on to keep you worried and alert. Your husband would step in sternly when you gave him a pointed look, but without your influence, you knew full well he encouraged the frenzy. While it maddened you, it never lessened your love.

Despite that, when the midwife had wrapped up your latest babe with the whisper that it was a girl, you'd almost fainted in jubilation.

Darling Eirwen, an innocent display of your presence, was the calm in the storm. Even as moons came and went, her poise remained intact. She was still very young, but in the face of her brothers' disruptiveness, you thought she contained impeccable finesse.

In the calamity of everything, she had your face and a peaceful air, which made her feel more like a balm instead of a babe.

When her brothers weren't busy trying to annoy one another to death, they took the time to get to know their little sister. Multiple of them tried to sneak her off to join them on their outings, and you had to lecture your sons on why it was a bad idea.

Shockingly, Lyonel was just as boastful as he had been with his sons as he was with Eirwen. She was practically the princess of House Baratheon, her father showing her off and bringing her up constantly in conversation.

"Our girl is rather elegant," your husband gloated one afternoon, his breath tinged with whatever fermented drink he had gotten into that morning. He patted at Eirwen's side, hoisting her into a more comfortable position against his chest.

"Must get that from her mama, huh?"

"You think me elegant?" You questioned lightly in retort, manipulating your needlework carefully.

"I can show you everything I think about you tonight," Lyonel leered, and you made a tsk-like noise in appallment. If he were closer, you'd stomp on his foot.

Aerion Brightflame

For a man like Aerion, sons seemed to suit him best.

He was revoltingly arrogant at the worst of times, and off-puttingly mean at the best of times. You'd been arranged to marry him due to your house's wealth and family name, even after expressing your concerns to your father and mother regarding the rumors you had heard about your betrothed's nature.

That's all to say that this wasn't a love match of any sort, no matter the packaging or how advantageous the deal was on your behalf.

Many young ladies and women would scheme, betray, and lie to become a princess. Here, it was being handed to you on a silver platter.

You tried to be grateful for that, but Aerion was challenging if nothing else. He bullied his way into everything, surmising such outrageous conclusions that it made you wonder if he was wholly sane.

At least he was handsome. That's what made the first few beddings tolerable.

The sons you produced for him fostered that delicate care that had begun to grow between the two of you, being nursed to something greater with every child you carried.

They were Valyrian kin. All your sons—you had a great few—possessed silver-gold locks and distinctive features from their father, making their interactions feel as though you were perpetually seeing double.

Though Aerion was blatantly foul, your children were glad boys. Many had quite a fondness for fishing. A couple of Kingsguard would escort you and your sons to the nearest river or lake, and they would each try their damndest to see who would capture the best few.

The ones who weren't as keen on nature or underwater creatures relied on education for entertainment, finding triumph amongst training with longswords, or the histories of their ancestors.

All in all, Aerion made strangely docile and friendly offspring. It served to unnerve you in a bemused way if you thought about it for too long.

Still, when your body had essentially torn itself apart in an effort to deliver yet another babe, you were thoroughly taken aback when the midwife settled the bundle into your arms with the statement that you now had a daughter. You. A daughter!

Visenya had started out as a weak and snuffly thing, as some of your sons had been, but she grew with time. By six moons, hair had covered her head in an identical fashion to yours, eyes growing more vivid by the day.

Her brothers seemed perplexed to have a sister. You supposed it made sense, given they had only existed amongst young men and boys for so long, but you could tell they were trying by the expressions that crossed their faces.

Aerion, on the other hand, complained as easily as he breathed. He seemed to make a show out of it, perking up like a starved mutt whenever someone with ears to hear was forced to listen to his grousing.

"You have tarnished my bloodline with that—" your husband gestured out a hand to your daughter, who was frankly minding her own business, "that fraud! She scarcely looks like a proper Targaryen."

You stared over at him, relatively unfazed. This was the second time today he'd sulked, and you'd managed to build an immunity over the years, "Husband, you chose to name her Visenya. Who, if I recall, was one of the key conquerors. Why gift her such a name if she is a farce?"

Aerion sniffed vaguely in response, taking a moment to no doubt stew in being caught in a contradiction once again.

"… She is not entirely ugly. I suppose I can thank you for that much."

Daeron the Drunken

With a drunk as a husband, many thought Daeron wouldn't even acknowledge your existence.

It was true that before your marriage, he had the habit of visiting brothels or paying a local Sally for a night of pleasure. He didn't just find himself in one's cups; he drowned in them. Perpetually wine-nosed, it was a miracle he even managed to dress himself most days, let alone put in the effort to be a noblewoman's honorable lord husband.

Yet somehow, to the awe of many courts, you swelled with child numerous times.

Even with Daeron's terrible faults, he never shied away from gracing your bed, and the evidence of his visits was obvious. You gained a plethora of princes, all with a likeness to their sire.

It was droll, in a sense. Daeron couldn't hold a quill, could barely keep track of his itinerary, and disappeared from Summerhall like a self-effacing ghost, but he was clearly capable of keeping the Targaryen line healthy and fruitful.

His children were the picture of purity, despite your husband's participation in their creation. Many of your boys were quiet individuals who preferred the arts and books to conversation, while the others craved attention like fools, presenting learned tricks and good-natured japes.

Even with the differences in their natures, all of your sons had dirty blonde hair and green-blue eyes that grew distant when lost in thought.

Whether Daeron was aware of the commonality or not, you couldn't quite say. He seemed to teeter between teasing endearment and muddled smothering (the latter typically due to his binges or dreams, which were a frequent occurrence).

You had grown used to that life: your many sons with pieces of their father, holding court with other ladies, and trying to keep your husband in line the best you could.

Accordingly, giving birth to a daughter as dawn broke over the land was a change of pace.

Vaella was a talkative, agreeable critter who gurgled and shrieked in delight whenever the mood struck her. She was intrinsically inconsistent with the pattern your boys had planted. Even many moons later, she favored you in face more than she favored anybody else.

Your reserved sons read to her and shared their favorite instruments, songs, and dances. Your loud sons snuck in digestible treats for her to consume, flowers with the roots attached from the garden, and overheard gossip that they really shouldn't have been repeating.

All the while, Daeron was exceptionally lively with Vaella. He seemed peculiarly relieved at the fact that she was nothing like him, cradling her in his arms and calling her terms of affection that left his lips easily.

"She's your lookalike, through and through. I have no doubt they'll confuse the two of you when she's matured," he said one night, far past a reasonable hour.

Vaella had been fussy, so you'd been reluctantly awake to try to soothe her to slumber. Eventually, your husband stumbled in, reeking of wine, sweeping your child from your lap.

"You seem pleased with that, my dear," you'd replied.

Daeron's grin was crooked with something unknown, "It's for the best."

Valarr Targaryen

You'd lost your first two sons.

They'd been stillborn, never breathing a gulp of air or seeing the world around them. Understandably, it'd taken a harsh toll on you. Valarr had comforted you in those dark hours both times, whispering promises of how you would be a mother one day with all the children you could want.

At the time, you'd taken it as empty assurances, meant to make you feel better than actually happening.

You couldn't be more wrong.

Your womb seemed to be overcome with guilt, and in an effort to earn your forgiveness, provided healthy babe after healthy babe without qualm. Every boy that left your belly made the grief lift like fog, sunshine poking through the haze to grant you some form of acceptance.

It was an even sweeter apology, given your sons took after Valarr to an abnormal degree. It was as if he'd made them himself without any external assistance, cutting himself open to dig them out without an extra pair of hands.

They were wholesome creatures. Each boy was soft-spoken, intelligent, with a knack for learning that helped them excel in their studies in such a way that made your chest feel heavy with pride. Some even carried thick, white streaks in their hair, serving as permanent reminders of your dutiful and gentle husband.

Even so, after a difficult labor that lasted for just about an entire day, you felt overwhelmed at the discovery that the newest addition to your brood was a girl. A tiny, squirmy girl whose irises were the same shade as your own.

Any child to continue Valarr's line, and Prince Baelor's—the future king's—by extension, was a favor by the Seven. In spite of that, Daelia felt extra special.

She didn't resemble her father or brothers in the least. Where they held Targaryen components, whether it be the silver-gold in their hair or the eyes of their grandsire, Daelia was all you (a fact that became progressively apparent with every turning of the moon). It made you dizzy if you thought about it for too long.

As your sons were calm in every condition, they had been tranquil and welcoming, petting at the tuft of her hair on their sister's head and settling her on their laps to offer you a small break. It made the unspoken pain of the fate your first two boys met fizzle out, drifting away like dandelion seeds.

It would never disappear. It just dissipated, becoming a shadow instead of a stormcloud hanging over you.

Valarr was passionate about the two of you. He would kiss your head, then Daelia's, hands steady and soft. He waited on you hand and foot with the dedication a hound would have for its hunter.

Presently, one of his hands was brushing your hair out of your face, fingertips caressing your shoulder and neck. His palm fell to ruffle at your daughter's, who cooed in response to the touch.

"She's the second-most charming thing I've ever seen," Valarr said, his knee nudging into yours as the gleam of sunset slipped past the curtains of your apartment.

You raised a brow, "Second-most?"

His mismatched eyes rose to yours, holding a rare spark of teasing, "You're the first-most, clearly."

Warmth coated your nape, and you forced down the beam that threatened to spill over your face as you repeated dryly, "Clearly."

Raymun Fossoway

Raymun Fossoway was a lover.

From the moment you met him officially as his betrothed, you could tell he was different from other noblemen.

He spoke in a lighthearted, sometimes blunt, way that made you feel like he took an interest in every little aspect of your life. He had a generous character; Raymun remembered things you liked and provided you with them tenfold.

His warmhearted nature only became more apparent after your wedding. Specifically, during the bedding. For a man who seemed to be lacking experience when it came to marital manners, he certainly surprised you amongst the sheets.

However, following that line of thought, you weren't as surprised when you came to be with child time and time again.

Providing multiple sons to the green-apple Fossoways was more beneficial and substantial than anything else anyone could do. It was a new branch just beginning to develop, and giving several heirs and capable lords to continue on its line was priceless. You were well aware of this fact and felt not an ounce of disappointment when the midwife declared time and time again that a son had arrived.

Raymun was grateful for all you did. He'd shower you in kisses, verbalizing his appreciation for all the dark-haired and dark-eyed boys running around with his blood coursing through them. His own love for you further solidified your affection for your sons.

Nevertheless, when you managed to push out a girl in the darkness of night, you were nothing but thrilled.

You'd named her Elinor, and she increasingly felt like a precious gem you'd crushed into formation with every moon that passed. The lay of her locks, the shape of her features, and the curve of her nose were a miniature version of your own.

Again, you loved your sons, but this felt different. She was the only one who inherited your mien, and she was the only daughter of the Fossoways of New Barrel. Both details made Elinor a favorite, no doubt.

Her brothers were fond of her. Raymun had taken the time to introduce every single one of his boys to her, instructing them attentively to be careful with their little sister, and they'd been visiting you and your babe whenever they had the freedom to since.

Your husband was equally as interested. He complimented the two of you ardently whenever he was around, referring to you both as "my girls" with that boyish smile you'd come to recognize with safety, eyes squinting with mirth.

"She's gotten bigger," Raymun proclaimed one afternoon, holding Elinor out and up as he examined her. She babbled excitedly at being lifted into the air, and your husband's eyes flitted toward you.

"And twice as pretty. Must get that from her mother."

"Am I always your reasoning?" You questioned back, tea cup resting against your bottom lip before you took a small sip. The herbs blossomed over your tongue.

You tense on instinct at the suddenness of his presence, forcing yourself to swallow down the immediate annoyance that swells in your throat as you turn to flash the staggering man an artificial smile over your shoulder.

“What brings you here, Ser Lyonel?” you ask politely. “Don’t you have guests to entertain?”

“Aye. I do,” Lyonel nods, greying curls wild and clinging to his sweat-slick forehead. “And these guests are growing quite curious about your disappearance, wife.”

“Well, I think most of them are aware that I have very little taste for weddings and all their— revels,” you mumble and turn away again, propping your head on your fist and shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

Your ornate wedding dress, embellished in colors of both his house and yours, drapes heavily over your form while your corset strangles your ribcage. The combination of both is borderline suffocating; a slow death you long for now.

“Oh, trust me, I heard,” Lyonel scoffs. His boots scuff the cobbles as he stumbles the short distance towards you, golden cloak trailing behind him. “Neither is dancing, apparently. Or feasting, or laughing, or— anything that requires any bit of fun…”

You refuse to argue with him now. You just roll your eyes and turn the page, punctuating your annoyance with the quiet swishing sound of the heavy parchment.

You flinch when he leans suddenly over you, warmer than a fireplace, and replacing the sweet scent of your floral aromatics with the heavier scent of leather and whiskey. His strong arm reaches over your shoulder while his ringed pointer finger scans the page before you.

“Except for… bloodletting,” he reads, tapping the word with the pad of his finger. “Riveting stuff, I’m sure.”

You glare daggers at the man as he rounds the small table. “I happen to find studying quite riveting, Ser Lyonel. In a just world, I would’ve been a maester, not a bride.”

“Then why not become a septa?” he wonders with a lazy shrug, fanning out his golden cloak before dropping into the cushioned seat across from you. He throws his long legs over the table with two heavy thumps, crossing one boot over the other on top of your scrolls and opened books. “Or a fucking— silent sister?”

“Because I don’t care about devoting my life to worshipping the fucking Seven,” you answer with a scoff, missing the amused smile Lyonel gives you at your suddenly foul language when you turn back to the book before you. “I want to heal the sick. I want to travel the world. I want to take care of people—”

“Starting with your lord husband, perhaps?” Lyonel quips with a lopsided grin, raising his brows behind his wild curls as he reaches across the table with a ringed hand to slide the book away from you.

You meet his smug grin with a hardened stare.

“Perhaps not,” you answer in a monotone. Your eyes narrow into slits as you curl your fingers around the edge of the leather-bound book to drag it back across the table again. “The Master of Whispers tells me you’re quite popular at the brothels you frequent, Ser Lyonel. I believe he said you were ‘a drunken, lust-filled beast.’”

Lyonel’s grin blossoms behind his greying beard at the compliment. “Most women would hope for such a trait in a husband, wouldn’t they?”

You glare at him from beneath your lashes. His smile ebbs in an instant.

He clicks his lips against his teeth, bounces his brows, and reaches for a scroll idling at his side. He twists the thing between his fingers, if only to have something to do with his hands.

“So… I presume the bedding ceremony is off the table, then?” he wonders aloud, half-sheepish.

Your mouth flickers in the faintest hint of a smile — more cynical than anything, but still the first time he’s seen you the least bit pleased. “Despite what the whispers say, you are quite perceptive, Ser Lyonel.”

He nods with a mournful sigh and forces out a smile he hardly means.

“And now my watch begins…” the man mumbles the sacred oath of celibacy from the soldiers up north, tipping his wild head back and shutting his heavy eyes.

Your eyes trace over the soft edges of his profile in the interim. He’s like a statue carved from delicate clay, far more beautiful than you give him credit for, perhaps — but prettiest when he’s quiet.

Your father holds a two-week-long tourney to celebrate your wedding — you can’t think of a more poetic way to spend your honeymoon than the blood and carnage of daily jousts.

You wake on the fifth day, like all the rest, in your study. The scent of leather and old books hangs in the warming air as the golden sun rises over the trees, turning the swirls of dust into sparkling rays of light. It is not the gentle touch of your handmaiden that wakes you this time, but rather a foreign one — a large, calloused, strangely warm palm that spreads gently over the length of your shoulder blade.

Your heavy eyes flutter slowly open. You recognize, first, the dull ache in the base of your neck from where you’d spent the night slumped over the desk. It isn’t until the haze of sleep has cleared that you spot the tall stranger crouched softly at your side. A gasped breath gets caught in your throat at the sight of him there.

“Who are you?” you wonder aloud in a voice gruff with sleep, with your cheek still smushed against the opened book you use as a makeshift pillow.

“Apologies, princess— Uh, my lady,” the man with the chopped strawberry-blonde hair and bright blue eyes stammers. He’s much too tall and much too burly to cower before you the way he does now. “I’m Dunk— Ser Duncan.”

A quiet groan rumbles deep in your throat as you sit up straight again, stretching the ache in your spine and peeling the heavy page from your cheek.

“I don’t mean to… intrude,” he apologizes, wide eyes darting between your sleep-worn face and the heavy book before you. “But it— It’s your husband, my land. Ser Lyonel, he’s… He’s grown quite drunk. And your father— He sent me so that maybe you could—”

“Seven fucking Hells.”

Duncan flinches at the suddenly brash language from such a quiet, delicate-looking girl. He thought Lyonel was just being drunk and dramatic when he said you’d sooner take the Night’s Watch oath than recite wedding vows; you’re hardly fit for a bride, much less a princess.

Your chair scrapes hard against the cobbles as you rise from your seat, still in your dress from the night before and your sleep-wild hair as you storm out of the library. Duncan follows close behind, stuck in the smoke the fire in your strides leaves behind.

“My father was right— the big oaf,” you mumble cynically to yourself as you bound down the set of spiral stairs, clutching your skirt in your fists. “I would’ve been better off becoming a fucking septa, considering I’m going to be spending the rest of my life chasing after my husband like he’s a child.”

Duncan trails behind you like a lost puppy. He’s not exactly sure how to respond, only that Lyonel once told him that, when a highborn says something, you agree.

“Aye, my lady,” the tall man nods and clears his throat. He flinches at the morning sun that hits him in the face when you throw the heavy door open, catching it before it can shut behind you. “He can be— quite the handful—”

Your rushed strides down the dewy grass never slow as you throw the stranger a curious look over your shoulder. Expansive tents of a hundred different colors pass by on either side of you.

“You’re the one who’s been looking after him, then?” you ask, then follow quickly when he gives you a puppy-like look of confusion in response. “The one who’s been making sure he’s not drinking himself to death, I mean?”

“Oh. Aye, my lady,” Duncan nods rapidly. “We met at a tourney a few months back. We’ve become quite good friends… I suppose.”

You bounce your brows and turn away. “When my brother said a long-legged lowborn with a pretty face was following my husband like an obedient hound, I assume he was talking about a whore—”

Your garish language stops the man in his tracks as you duck into the Baratheon tent, donned a vivid golden color, and already swelling with chaos and the overwhelming scent of steak and ale despite the early morning.

Sunlight peeks through in a golden-white sliver to announce your arrival. You can’t help but cower when the heads inside snap suddenly towards you, and then to the tall knight that enters just behind. The applause from surrounding patrons slows to a stop. Lyonel does, too, from where he stands on top of the center table — shirtless and shining with sweat — with one hand holding a cup of ale and the other hanging onto the dim chandelier above his head.

His scruffy chest heaves with panted breaths as if he’d just been dancing, or singing, or both; and you assume the applause must’ve been for him. You’ve quickly come to learn that the applause is always for him.

Lyonel meets your scowling face with a wide grin, as lopsided as the antlered crown sitting crooked on his wild head. “Ah! There she is! My blushing bride!”

Your frown deepens as you watch him stagger off the table, using nearby hands to brace himself as he hobbles off the chairs. The droning of a thousand conversations fills the crowded tent a second later, along with the strolling minstrels playing in the center of the dance floor.

“It’s hardly break of day— How are you already drunk?” you ask him in a monotone.

“I fear I’ve not yet shaken the wine from last night, my lady,” Lyonel confesses with a smile.

“And the night before that?” you wonder rhetorically, squinting at the staggering man as he towers just ahead of you.

“And the night before that,” he concurs with a slow nod and a laugh he can hardly contain. “See? We know each other so well already, don’t we, wife?”

He knocks the wind out of you when he wraps you in a sudden embrace, careful not to spill his ale while knocking you back a few steps. He wraps a strong arm around your shoulder and presses you into his bare chest, reeking of sweat, sweet wine, and spiced oils.

Your stomach does a backflip for a reason you can’t name — the feeling is much too warm to be excitement, and far too sparkling to be disgust. You struggle to place it as he sways you in place, vaguely in time with the violin across the tent. You keep your hands balled into fists at your sides all the while.

“Can I tell you something, wife?”

The term spills from his mouth like he’s still getting used to it, like it still tastes a bit sour on his tongue.

He continues when you say nothing, jutting back his bearded chin to peer down at you with glassy hazel eyes.

“I heed not what the whispers say,” he confesses in a whisper, and you try not to flinch when his warm, whiskey-coated breath fans over your cheek.

“The court may prattle on that you are too homely— or that your affections are much better suited for women than men— or that you’d rather marry your dusty old books than any living soul… Yet here I stand… Trying hopelessly to catch your attention,” he murmurs, softened eyes darting back and forth between both of yours. “A strange fool I must be, hm?”

Lyonel looks at you then like it’s your turn to speak, though you’re not quite sure what an adequate response would be — or why, exactly, his words make the warm feeling inside you bloom.

“…Thank you?” you say, with an upward inflection and a confused glimmer in your gaze.

Lyonel goes to speak, but his attention catches something past your shoulder.

“Hedge Knight!” he greets with a newfound grin, cradling you to his bare chest as he urges you to face the man standing just behind you. You’re half-smothered in his pale shoulder while he talks into his cup of ale, right before he takes a lengthy sip. “When the hell did you get here, you fool?”

“Me?” Duncan asks, blue eyes darting wildly between the two of you. “I’ve— I’ve been here the whole time, my lord. You saw me just a few moments ago—”

“Ah, get in here, you big bastard,” Lyonel laughs with ale sparkling on his mouth and mustache, motioning wildly with his half-gone cup. “There’s room in here for one more.”

Duncan exhales an awkward laugh, smiling with his crooked teeth.

Lyonel’s smile fades in an instant. “I’m not kidding.”

Duncan’s face floods with a wordless look of shock.

“Yes, he is,” you grumble like a storm cloud, shoving the man off of you and letting your palms linger against his scruffy chest a moment longer than you needed to.

You stalk off again with a swirled look on your face, as if you’ve just tasted something sour. You’re only able to catch your breath again when you’re back outside, apart from the stench of sweat and ale, and away from Lyonel’s all-consuming touch.

You shut yourself away with your books, just like you always do, and let the written words swallow you whole. You abandon your studies on healing and medicine, and instead drag a dusty, leatherbound book from the depths of your shelves — A Compendium of the Varied Marital Postures of Procreative Union by Maester Vaellyn, from roughly a century or more ago.

The illustrations of sexual acts, and the descriptions of such sinfulness, stir within you the same warmth you’d had when you saw Lyonel in the tent that morning — in his stupid antlered helm, with that stupid look on his stupid face, and that stupid confession that took your breath away for a reason you still can’t name.

You settle into your reading nook with a foreign ache in your stomach — lounging on the cushions beside the large window overlooking the candlelit tents and glittering black waters outside — and delve into your book to relieve the aching.

“It is observed by certain learned men, that a wife’s fullest ecstasy is more readily attained when due regard is given to her most delicate seat of sensation—”

Your heart lurches into your throat when the heavy wooden entrance creaks open and shut again. You flare red-hot when Lyonel saunters in, already embarrassed for something you haven’t yet been caught doing. You slam the heavy book shut and squeeze your thighs together to soothe the dull pounding between them.

“I have been trying to amuse you— as my wife and all,” Lyonel starts through panted breaths, chest heaving beneath his golden, quilted gambeson as he leans against the door. He tilts his bearded chin down and peers at you with wild hazel eyes as he spits, “But my patience with this, dear wife, has begun to grow quite thin.”

“My sincerest apologies for wounding your pride, dear husband,” you spit back. “But I’m quite busy in here.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Lyonel says with an emotionless laugh as he closes the distance between you on long legs. “But I’ve been dealing with those cunts on my own all day—”

“That’s my family you’re speaking of.”

“—I have supped and I have smiled amongst the big oafs all morning, and they have near driven me to madness for it,” he continues, half-crazed, as he looms over you. With a sarcastic, sickly sweet smile, he hisses, “So, if it pleases the lady, come do your duty as my wife, and put me out of my misery—”

You go to make a joke, one about putting him down like a sick dog, but he’s jerking your book from your hands before you can.

“Lyonel!” you shout.

“What is it this time that’s been keeping you all day, hm?” he calls over his shoulder as he stalks off in the opposite direction. “Is it the herbs again? Oh, no, it’s the one about leeches, isn’t it? Or better yet, maggots—”

“Give it back!” you scold, scrambling from your nook to follow after him.

“Let’s give it a read, shall we?” he hums with a wide grin and rushes onto a nearby chair when you hurry suddenly towards him. He’s bounding up the table before you can reach him, and flicking through the thick parchment with his thumb. “How about… here.”

He clears his throat and starts to recite, while you stand underneath him and wait for the ground to swallow you whole.

“Let not a husband hasten to apply immediate stimulation to the wife’s clitoris—” Lyonel reads in a whimsical tone of voice, then cuts himself off with a pleased look on his face. “Oh, so it’s that kind of book, is it?”

“Give it back,” you spit.

“I’m not quite done,” he lilts and returns to the page. “—The initial attentions should be directed towards the breasts, whose manipulation increases warmth and quickens the pulse— blah, blah, blah— Only once general arousal has been well-established should focus be given to the petals of her womanhood, with soft kisses and patient devotion…”

Lyonel trails off with a crooked grin, shutting the heavy book with a loud clap that fills the suffocating silence of the study. You meet his smile with a hardened glower and fists that tremble at your sides, burning red-hot beneath your dress from embarrassment and rage alike.

“I know I have grown quite fond of teasing you, princess, but this…?” he clicks his tongue against his teeth. “This is truly invigorating, my lady.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you hiss through gritted teeth.

“I assure you, I am being uncharacteristically sincere at this moment,” Lyonel says as he climbs off the table again. The scent of leather and wine stained perpetually on his skin snatches the breath from your lungs for the second time when he towers over you again. “I, for one, am elated that you’re not focusing on your studies for a change. Though if you wanted a lesson on… release, you could’ve just come to me— I am your husband after all—”

“I don’t need a lesson,” you argue.

He arches a heavy brow. “Is that so?”

Your eyes widen at the amused look he gives you, and you stumble hopelessly over yourself to get the words out. “I— I only mean that—”

Lyonel grins, eager to hear your excuse.

You frown.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you retort like a stubborn child, snatching your book from his grasp and clutching the leather to your chest.

Lyonel holds his gently calloused palms out in surrender.

“No, my lady, you don’t… But I fear you’d be lying to both of us if you said you weren’t at least a little aroused right now…” His smug smile returns as he scrunches the bridge of his nose. “Makes two of us.”

“Is sex all you think about?”

“Asks the girl reading a book on sex… Funny how that works, right?”

“I truly didn’t think I could regret marrying you more than I did on our wedding day,” you deadpan. “But, alas, you are finding new ways to annoy me.”

Lyonel laughs and turns on his heel to walk away. Only when his attention is off of you can you take a full breath in.

“Fine. I’ll leave. Even though we both know you don’t want me to,” the man argues as he ambles slowly back to the entrance. He pauses at the door, throwing you a mischievous look over his shoulder. “Though, to tell you the truth, I am not above consummating our marriage in this study, dear wife—”

“I thought you were leaving,” you say in a monotone.

“I’m going,” he assures, but takes his time twisting the knob and swinging open the door, just waiting for you to give in to what he knows you want.

You inhale slowly through your nose and swallow through the lump in your throat. “Where is your helm, Ser Lyonel?” you hear yourself ask him before he’s gone again.

His wild head snaps over his shoulder. His brows lower in a confused look because, by all accounts, he was not expecting your following words after such a carnal conversation to be about his goddamn ancestral headdress.

“W-What?”

“Your antlered crown,” you answer firmly. “Where is it?”

“At the… The feasting table,” he shrugs. “Why?”

“Retrieve it,” you tell him, and leave very little room for argument. “And return to me here. And then you can tell all your highborn friends that you’re the first lord to have his bedding ceremony in a study—”

Lyonel’s gone before you can properly get the words out, hurrying back to the throne room to retrieve his crown, and not asking another question as to why you want it so desperately.

You make a pliant, obedient boy out of the man they call The Laughing Storm, as you ride him in the reading nook — with his trousers unbuckled and his freckled shoulders pressing hard against the cool glass behind him. The antlered helm sitting crooked on his curls taps gently against the window with each pass of your hips over his lap, down his thighs and back up again.

You’re still getting used to the feeling of him inside you. The sharp stinging has since faded into a dull ache somewhere in the depths of your stomach, which is drowned out by a far more overwhelming pleasure stirring warmly somewhere much deeper.

“Go down a little,” you command, digging crescent shapes onto his pale skin as you brace yourself on his shoulders.

Lyonel’s glassy hazel eyes flit between your face and where his hand disappears under your bunched-up slip, struggling to maneuver his thumb exactly the way you want him to. The pad of his finger finds a pearl-like button there; he presses hard onto the delicate thing and awaits your reaction.

“There?” he wonders aloud, almost sheepishly so, then grins wide when you tip your head back with a parted mouth. Your soft moan fills the quiet study a second later, along with Lyonel’s breathless laughter. “Yeah… There you go…”

“Now… Put your mouth here—”

You grab a fistful of his curls and urge him towards your breasts, which stand at attention and wait to be kissed, like the book from before — left abandoned somewhere on the desk — said they might be.

“Full of commands tonight, aren’t we, my lady?” Lyonel quips, but leans forward to flick his tongue over your pebbled nipple anyway.

You twitch on top of him when his teeth scrape over the delicate skin there, which makes your hips buck harder into his hand, which makes his thumb press harder to your clit. Your fingers tighten in his hair and on his shoulder, keeping him pressed impossibly close against you.

“It’s coming,” you whimper in warning, when you feel a strange knot tightening in the very pit of your stomach.

“Wait for me,” Lyonel pleads through panted breaths, half-muffled against you, because he longs to feel you fluttering around him when he finally cums inside you.

“No,” you answer stubbornly.

“Alright then…”

He turns his head to pay attention to your unkissed breast and groans against you when he hears you whine. He presses harder to your clit to add to your pleasure there. You still suddenly on top of him a second later, pussy clenching as it gushes suddenly around his cock.

“Oh, fuck…” you whimper, half-frightened, when the high suddenly hits you.

Your features screw in a pained sort of look as the warm waves of an orgasm wash over you. You’re only able to take another breath in when it ebbs a few seconds later. Your eyes widen in a look of not-so-subtle shock down at Lyonel when he pulls off of your breast with a quick smack — eyes heavy and mouth swollen as he smirks up at you.

“Oh, fuck,” you repeat through panted breaths. “How are people not doing this all the time?”

“I presume some people do, my lady,” he laughs.

“…Can we?” you ask.

He grins wider at your naivety, which he didn’t think was possible for such a smart thing like you.

“Well, I don’t know about all the time, princess,” he pants with a lust-drunk smile. “But I do know we have the rest of the night.”

You’d watched your husband stomp about for the better part of three hours. When others grew weary he still moved almost feverishly. He’d been amusing himself with that man he’d picked up — a hedge knight who’d quietly wormed his way into your tents for a mere meal.

You found your own excitement and energy couldn’t match him. Even after these years, there was always a rare feast or two he would out pace you. At some point, you’d slipped out silently. You’d tried to tell him but, he seemed to enamored with his new found comrade you were unsure if the words reached his ears or his mind at that. You left the large tent housing the feast for the small, private one meant to house the houses lord and what not nearby. It was quieter here, more peaceful and warm. Lovely in a way only solitude could provide.

You’d undressed yourself — a skill for a lady you were rather proud of, given all the lacing and tying and knots that went into the intricate gowns of a lady of a great house. The fabric of your gown slid off your arms, the bodice drooping. You worked steadily until the entire thing could be peeled away. Each layer laid over one another, settled over the back of a chair. It was not the proper way to store such a thing, but the feast had lasted too late into the evening and the girl meant to tend to such thing was likely asleep, or wrapped up in a man from the feasts tent.

Your shift was soft, comfortable and soothing to wear. Freeing in a way those dresses could not be. As you tugged it over your head, your eyes trailed down to the healing bruises that littered your hips. Not from cruelty. Not from roughness or a refusal of care for you.

The bruises were not from strikes, or slaps, or fingers digging in too hard. The bruising about your hips came from lips. Where you had to pry your husband off your flesh merely two nights prior like he was a drunk surrounded by kegs. He'd bitten and sucked for what felt half an hour alone at the flesh on your hips, your lower belly, your arse especially. You smiled fondly at the memory, and pulled the shift the rest of the way down.

You began to pull pins from your hair, working the various ornaments out gently as you walked to the small loveseat in the tent. You'd sat at it in the morning when you'd readied yourself.

You were sat working your fingers through your hair style when you heard him first. You always heard Lyonel before you saw him.

“Six maids in a spring-fed pool…”

His rendition of the bawdy tune was off-key at best. Offensive at worst. The noise grew louder with each step, each inch crossed of wet earth to your tent. You don’t have to turn around. You hear the loud rustle of canvas flaps, and you know he’s thrown them back with dramatic flair.

For all his bluster and roaring laughter, there was something boyish in the way he came to you now. The song faltered, words dissolving into a pleased hum as his eyes found you sitting there, loose-haired and waiting. Whatever hunger had driven him through the feast slowed, shifted shape. His shoulders dropped. The fevered stamping gave way to a lazy, rolling sway, like a storm finally deciding where to break.

You eyed him over your shoulder, lips tugging upward despite yourself. “You’re drunk,” you said simply, fond and knowing all at once.

Lyonel scoffed, waving a dismissive hand as if batting away an accusation. “I am not drunk,” he insisted, the word stretching a bit longer than it should have. He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a sacred truth. “I am inspired.”

Then, louder—far louder than necessary—“I’m sober enough to be, be a fucking High Septon!” He smiled big and wide with a dramatic flourish, as though expecting applause.

You clapped your hands together, laughing, and shook your head. “Aye, if our Septon was delegated to the job of a jester.”

"That is blasphemy," he jabbed a finger at you, sauntering closer. "....I think, anyway. Fuck if I know, my love." He stopped right before you, looking down at you with that stupid grin he always wore when he saw you. He looked like an absolute fool when it came to you — but it seemed that was exactly what he wished to be.

“And here — oof.” He dropped awkwardly to his knees, the motion far less controlled than he’d intended, nearly pitching forward. You caught him by the shoulders out of instinct, steadying him. He laughed under his breath as he found his balance again, then tipped his head back, hair falling into his face as he smiled in a way that was meant to be seductive and landed somewhere closer to endearing.

He spread his arms wide, reverent as any Septon in his cups. “And here,” he said, eyes flicking up to yours, “is my altar.”

The tent felt smaller. Warmer. It always did with him. The smell of wine and smoke clung to him, mixed with leather and sweat and something unmistakably Lyonel. He watched you as if the rest of the world had been a poor substitute all evening — noise to endure until he could come back to you. One heavy hand reached out, not touching yet, hovering near your knee. As if waiting for you disproval.

Then, Lyonel seized you. His large hands grabbed a head of your neck and the back of your head, forcing you forward and down to meet him where he was.

He stamped kisses into the flesh of your face. Against your forehead, your cheeks, your nose and jaw and your lips time and time again. His mouth smooshing and pressing right into the skin so hard, you'd imagine he was trying to leave imprints. The kisses were wet, with his spit and the drink still staining his lips.

“Lyonel, Lyonel—!” You’d laughed. Your hands grasped him, fingers worked into his hair on the back of his head whether to pry him off or bring him further.

“Mmph— my wife,” he slurred uselessly, still kissing over and over. “So pretty, so sweet, so patient,” He kissed your temples, your nose, your cheeks, the flesh just below your eyes. His lips pressed to the corner of your mouth once, twice, a third time before he grasped your face in one hand and turned it to kiss you properly. It was suffocating in a way. You reciprocated it with an eagerness to match his own.

His tongue pushed it's way into your mouth. You'd have recoiled had it been any other man bullying his way into your mouth, but only Lyonel had found a way in your marriage to make you crave such a thing.

Lyonel's fingers found the top laces of your shift, tugging on the strings.

"Lyonel," you murmured against his mouth, your own voice now slurred. His hands slipped them open, and slid under the fabric against your bare flesh. He pried himself off your lips, leaving them flushed and bruised from his affections. He continued his venture to kiss you absolutely everywhere, now content to press sloppy and biting kisses down your neck. As Lyonel's hands pushed and explored and rubbed, they forced your shift further and further down your shoulders. The fabric strained in protest.

Finally, he peeled himself off of you for long enough to outright pull the fabric down to expose your chest entirely to him. The flesh painted with a golden hue in dying candle and torch light looked like a feast he would happily gorge himself on.

His hands rubbed up and down your ribs, between your breasts and collar bones. He cupped them both, one in each hand, fingers gently pressing into the fatty tissue.

“Just a bit,” he had slurred, bending forward to moving kiss along your chest. “Come now, grant me just a small taste.”

There was nothing ‘small’ when it came to Lyonel. Your laugh was breathless, something between amusement at his sloppiness and a sigh he was coaxing forward. Either way, the sound was for him, so he adored it. His hair was jutting every way, dark strands grazing the bottom of her neck and your neck as he worked his way lower and lower.

“Lyonel, this feels like more than—“ you sucked your breath in sharply. His tongue laved in a stroke over your nipple, just to feel it harden. He sucked the peak in between his laps, teeth barely grazing the flesh. Likely due to how drunk he was rather than true intent.

He pulled off with a satisfied pop, groaning. Lyonel pressed his face against the flesh between your breasts, hands messy in the way they moved all about you, squeezing whatever bare flesh he could get his hands onto. He pressed a kiss to the inner side of each breast.

Then, he was moving lower. When your shift could not be tugged down further, he grabbed the hem and drug it upwards. The fabric bunched up just above your navel, where he planted the first of the line of kisses. He hadn't even spread your thighs yet, and could feel the heat coming off. Could see the faint twinkle of arousal on the hair there. Gods, how he loved it.

He loved you.

“Come on,” he panted as he kissed below your navel, sliding lower on his knees. “Don’t be shy. Not like I haven’t spent hours with you seated upon my face before.” He mocked, laughed as you swatted at his head.

His hands firmly, but gentle enough to let you resist should you wish, pulled your knees apart. You were soaked, glistening like the ripest fruit and begging for his attention. He groaned.

“All for me? How thoughtful of you, sweeting.”

He kissed just above, against the hair. Then, with little more pretense, he began his proper worship. His face smooshed against you, eyes rolling back and closing as his tongue at first began clumsily and uncoordinatedly lapping at your flesh. He wasn’t trying to please you — this was all for him. He found a rhythm in time that made you squirm, and pant, and writhe.

There was a mess underneath you by now — you were dripping down yourself, your inner thighs, your arse cheeks. Not to start with the lower half of his face — which, if he could separate from your weeping cunt, would be smeared from the tip of his nose to the bottom of his beard with saliva and and you. His hands couldn’t stay still, grasping yours, grabbing at your belly and the flesh there, pawing at your breasts. He favored more than any though sliding his hands underneath you, grasping handfuls of your ass and kneading it.

You whined uselessly, your hips trying to rock forward into his mouth further. You laid back, propping yourself up on your elbows. The sight up your body was nothing short of glorious, for when Lyonel’s hazed and glassy eyes opened for a moment to look his mouth momentarily stopped its sloppy minstrations. Then, he resumed.

He spoke against you, not able even to seperate himself from your cunt.

“All the women in the realm, and my wife is the most beautiful of them.”

Your mouth hung open when he sucked the swollen pearl in between his lips. It admittedly almost hurt, but it toed the line between the two so well it did not register to you. Your hand grasped a fist full of hair, tugging and pulling and keeping his face buried against your heat. His words were sweet, and —

"With a fucking perfect set of tits—"

Had you not been being devoured alive by pleasure, you’d likely have slapped him. His tongue dragged from bottom to top in three, broad strokes meant to gather as much on his tongue as he could. Lyonel's hands grasped your thighs, and shifted them up and properly over his broad shoulders. This was all for him. With a particularly cruel suck, you were coming apart. Fast and easy, like some simple dockside whore.

You tugged his hair hard. Not by purpose, merely reflex.

Goosebumps raked up your arms and legs, a pleasure so sweet and deep you felt it in the arches of your feet and in your shoulders.

"Could die in your cunt—" His words vibrated against you. Lyonel pulled away from your weeping cunt, taking his right hand and rubbing his fingers over the hooded peak at the top. Then, he drug his hand down, panting right over it all the while.

He watched his lewd interest as he smeared your slick about, coating his fingers and the flesh around your heat with it. He brought two of the fingers to his lips, slowly sucking them clean before bringing them back to your slit. He gathered more, and reached for you. Leaning over your sweat glistened body, he cupped the back of your neck and brought his fingers to your mouth. He opened his own, as if having to show you how to suck your own slick off of his hand.

You parted your lips, licking them once before he pressed the fingers against your tongue. You sealed your lips around, eyes fluttering shut as you sucked. You tasted salty, some unique flavor that was hard to describe beyond the faintest hint of salt. He murmured encouragements, his nose nudging yours as he watched. His fingers would pull free only to be replaced with his mouth crushing to yours. You tasted yourself, smelt yourself, all over him. Then Lyonel broke free, and returned to between your legs like the second course had been served at a feast.

He buried his head there again despite your weak protests — “Lyonel, Lyonel, let me — let me care for you now—“

“This is caring for me,” he’d simply reply, pulling his mouth off again. He brought his hand back to your slit.

He traced it once, twice, nearly sinking his fingers in in a show of failing restraint. Finally, he did just that. Just shallow, fucking you only up to the first knuckle of his fingers. That would change, soon enough.

Lyonel groaned, watching his fingers slowly vanish and reappear slicker with each pass. He watched it with the reverence of a worshipper before their god made flesh. Your body was clamping down rightfully on the intruding digits.

"Now this is a fucking sight," his voice rumbled, grinning as he did. "I do believe the maiden made your cunt by hand for me."

"Don't say such — Lyonel!" Your protest was knocked from your tongue by the press of his thumb against your clit, working in small tight and light circles just the way he knew you'd liked. He laughed, warm and pleased at this. Then his pulled his thumb away and leaned back forward to suck gently on the pearl. Lyonel’s tongue laved against it, two fingers still inside you dragging along, pumping slow in a way that drove you mad.

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes. You couldn’t pry him off of you if you had the strength of the warrior behind you. You could only lay there, letting his shoulders keep you pried open, and take it.

Your legs shook. Your voice tilted. Your hands turned punishing in how they gripped him. You pressed your palm flat to the crown of his head, and forced his face tight and still as your climax crashed over you. You shuddered violently, your head tipping back and exposing the sweat slicked line of your throat as your lips formed a silent shout. A high pitched whine was all you could muster, the air properly punched out of you by the intensity. His mouth stayed sealed tightly to you as you came, as if he didn't breath oxygen but breathed you.

His fingers made a dipping motion, before coming to his mouth. The they returned and did the motion again, and he sucked his fingers clean again. He did this three times, you think. You weren't sure.

You let your head hang back, panting for air. You lifted your head as you felt the whisper of fabric, and heard him grunting with frustration.

Right as you raised your head, he managed his breeches. He'd lost the outer pieces of the ensemble he'd worn, long tossed aside. His belt was also tossed away nearby. You caught him just to see him shove his breeches down, and his cock pop free, bobbing under its own weight. Furiously red, leaking, and weeping for your attention.