#noncon cw

The dogs warn you of their arrival first.

You don't get many travelers this far from the road, the animals unused to the clamber of horses. You'd lived within the walls of a keep once, learned enough to know what it is that draws closer, but your husband had made what little fortune he had in lumber and within his woods you dwell now.

It's not until you hear the excitement that you think - maybe - you'd been missing, the thrill of a busy yard; but it's late when they come calling, and with your husband away on business you think at first you won't be able to indulge, forced to send them away down to the hut where the goats sleep. Or better yet away altogether lest your husband have cause to question your virtue. You silence the dogs before creaking the door open, weathered and warped and hanging limp in its frame. For all you never seemed to be short on wood, your husband had never had much skill with it. 

"Who goes?" You call into the dark, eyes ill-adjusted after the roaring fire you'd built inside. The evening has fallen quicker than you'd realized, hurried along by the ominously dark clouds rolling in from the south. There'd been no word about white ravens yet, but there was never much word of anything really, and you don't need some bird from the Citadel to tell you what you could see plain enough with your own eyes: Autumn was upon you, only the second of your life.

"Pardon, my lady," a voice calls from the dark, and the formality is almost as surprising as the shape that comes into focus: vague gray outline blanching blue as it escapes the shadows of the trees. Despite the wan light, it catches on silver chasing polished bright as pearl, a brilliant white cloak spilling over a bleached white saddle. Even the horse seems an unearthly sight, so colorless it seems near a spirit despite the journey out to your corner of the map.

And what a long ride it must have been, all the way from King's Landing. 

"I'm sorry to disturb, but I wonder if we may beg shelter for the night?"

We. You see no one else among the trees, but you can guess well enough who might be among them, and the prospect makes you shrink further behind your door. "You Kingsguard?" You ask, forgetting what little manners you'd ever been taught. If there was one thing you'd learned, growing up in the shadow of that keep, it was - no matter how exciting it could be to watch the high lords play their games - you never wanted them noticing you back.

"I have that honor, my lady," he admits, close enough now that you can see his warm smile beneath glittering visor. "I am Ser Roland Crakehall, of Crakehall. And who might I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

The gallantry is almost enough to startle a laugh from you, your name falling from your lips like a babbling brook, breathy with stifled laughter. It's just the one name, though, no mention of sprawling halls you might have inherited were it not for the ill-luck of birth order. You wonder how many brothers Ser Roland has, that his father allowed a spare heir to take the oath of the white cloaks.

"A pleasure," Crakehall assures you, but his pretty white mare dances impatiently. 

"How many are you?" You ask, not bothering to return the pleasantries. 

If he finds this objectionable, he does not make mention. "We are but four, good woman."

"And what might you four be needing tonight?"

"Only a roof, kind lady," a voice calls from the treeline then. It's deceptively soft, though not without power. The voice of a man unused to going unheard. "Though some pleasant company would not go amiss."

You falter a moment, caught in your door. With your husband out you should have more than enough reason to turn four strange men away, but the presence of the Kingsguard in his pretty white cloak changes things and you measure your next words carefully, begging for pity where you doubt you'll find any.

"Beg pardon, my lords, while roof I have, my husband -."

"Your Grace," a new voice corrects, stepping closer. Despite his black woolen doublet, he shines near as bright as Crakehall, white-blond hair marking him more clearly than any silver crown. A Targaryen, blood of the dragon, in your quiet wood. "You are addressing a prince." 

"Peace, brother," the first voice pleads. He follows close behind, flanked by another white cloak, a dark shadow to his proclaimed brother's light. Two dragons, one Dornish in coloring. This can only be Prince Baelor, Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne. The thought seizes in your chest like ice, chilling your nerves and setting your hands flapping uselessly, patting at your skirting as if to smooth it, though you know it to be hopelessly rumpled after so many days alone. 

"Your Grace," you stammer, what little knowledge of niceties you know finally returning to you. Dropping a belated curtsey as best you can, you hear the second prince - you don't yet know which one he is. There are three others? Four? - stifle a snort and know you have failed miserably. 

Prince Baelor is gracious regardless. "Rise, lady. No need for such shows in your own home."

"Thank you, Your Grace," you mumble, straightening up. "I'd invite you inside, yet…"

"Your husband is away, yes," Baelor acknowledges, something akin to a bemused smile pulling at his cheeks, nearly patronizing. "It is an unfortunate situation, but you see, there are no inns for many miles, and we grow weary of riding." 

He lets it hang there, not itself yet an imposition, and yet needing to be addressed regardless.

"I have the stable," you supply lamely, motioning to the small structure which shelters the goats, itself little more than a roof supported by posts. The silver-haired prince eyes it with revulsion, lip curled, and yet the Hand does not even bother to look.

"Which will be suitable for our guard, yes, thank you," he smiles encouragingly, and the two knights seem to sag in their armor.

"My L - Your Grace, I only have one bed," you protest, but the princes are already dismounting, near in unison, as if reacting to some queue you don't remember giving. 

"Which we shall not take," Prince Baelor assures, even as his brother scowls at it. Baelor reminds him, "We are not unreasonable. We have our own bedrolls. A fire by which to lay them is all we ask."

They're closer now, having handed their reins off to the Kingsguards. Up close, you note the crimson slashes sewn into their attire like open wounds, the heavy silver chains and clasps which hold everything in place. They have not brought any packs, though you suppose that's normal enough, doubt royalty often carries their own supplies.

"My lords, I'm afraid I must refuse -."

"You cannot refuse your princes," the younger one snaps, the muscles of his jaw jumping as he works his teeth. He scares you, you realize, beyond just the significance of his station - barely contained hostility.

Baelor must catch the look you turn on him: wide-eyed, cornered prey. "You must forgive my brother Maekar, my lady. Fruitless hunts do not agree with him. Of course you may refuse us entry into your home," he assures, but he never lists an alternative they might turn to, and the implication is clear enough.

You may refuse your princes entry, the Hammer and the Anvil - force them to stay under the open sky tonight - and find half your husband's lands razed for kindling by morning, or taxed for gold dragons on the acre come Spring. So you step aside, let them in, and shut the flimsy door tight behind them.

***

The dogs don't like them much, barking and growling so badly you're forced to put them outside. They seem to like the knights and their horses even less, but at least outside the walls of your small cottage they have room to get away from the newcomers, loping off into the shelter of the woods when the horses enforce their space. The princes can do little to offer you the same courtesy, their presence seeming to spill into every corner. They look absurd tucked into your home, polished and gleaming amidst your drab, cluttered space. You keep a nice enough house, you're proud to say, but it's one unburdened by finery and here the princes now sit, resting like stolen jewels upon the rough-hewn bench at your table. They mutter between themselves as you fret about, fixing their arrangements. Crakehall had indeed brought in their bedding, but given your house could hardly fit three grown men, let alone one in full armor, you'd taken the bundle from him quickly and put yourself to work trying to make their stay comfortable.

Of course, you're only one woman, and the princes were well-used to a veritable team of men at their disposal; they interrupt you often to make small demands which run the night out long. First, a bowl of fresh water to wash their faces and hands; then it's only proper that you give them guest right, a sad, stale loaf of bread you'd been saving for breakfast being sliced for them to nibble while you fix them up something a bit more substantial. Maekar asks for wine, which you cannot provide, then rolls his eyes and demands you bring him ale instead.

"You do have some, I presume," he prompts when you stand there deliberating too long. Baelor hides a smirk behind his hand, evidently amused by his brother's fussiness.

"I do, Your Grace, it's only…"

"It's only what?" The prince demands, snapping you out of your reverie even as his brother waves his hand at him, an easy dismissal of his temper which doesn't seem to work.

"My husband will notice the depletion of our stores, Your Grace. I don't think he's like to believe that two princes of the realm were here."

"Then he will notice," Maekar accedes, uncaring. "Bring it."

Baelor is slightly more understanding. "We will pay you for it," he offers, but something about his benevolence sets you further on edge, his soft voice edged like a very fine knife. The ale was made on his family's lands, of the seeds sown and barley harvested there - as everything else within your home. By rights, they're entitled to it, even if you're reluctant to give it, so why would a dragon lord offer to pay for what's already his? 

Still, you're in no position to refuse. "As you say, Your Grace."

But they complain when you pour it, too. 

"This is shit," Maekar belches after his first mug, beating himself on the chest to help the movement along like one would a baby.

His brother helps, broad palm clapping Maekar soundly on the back. "That's no way to thank our gracious host, brother," he chastises, his grip turning bracing on Maekar's shoulder. Pulling him close, Baelor whispers something in the other's ear that makes him snort into his empty mug before tilting it at you in a silent request for a refill. You oblige, but it's Baelor who takes it from you, strong fingers lingering over the back of your hand for a moment. He drinks the mug down quickly, stifles a laugh when he lowers it to find Maekar frowning at him. 

"Well, I'm paying for it, and you didn't seem to want it much anyway," the prince sniffs, and Maekar snatches the flagon from you, topping both empty mugs off.

"Oh, sit, will you?" He demands when he sees the way you frown at the rapidly dwindling stock, sliding you his own mug. "If you're going to be punished for the crime, you may as well do it."

"My brother has the right of it, despite being so crass in his delivery. And he will be better company momentarily, I assure you. Sit with us a while, please. We are tired from the road, but not yet enough for bed," Prince Baelor begs, his smile warm and genuine. It's then you notice his mismatched eyes, the bright one glinting like honed steel in the firelight. 

"Alright," you mutter, taking the offered drink despite knowing Maekar is right - it is shit. 

But the company does get better. The princes tell you what brings them so far from King's Landing - an envoy sent to entreat with Lord Florent, and a small hunting trip deployed therefrom to work off Maekar's growing temper.. 

"It was only meant to be a day," Baelor explains, "but we wound up trekking further into this barren wood than we'd thought we had and couldn't make it back out in time for the storm."

As if to illustrate his point, the rain beats down upon your humble roof, and you send a brief prayer to the Smith to keep it from leaking on their royal heads for the night. "My husband is no gamekeeper. These woods are a lumber yard, nothing more."

"We see that now, yes, else we'd offer you a fresh pelt for your fine hospitality tonight," Baelor says diplomatically, though it's a useless platitude at best. Even if they had offered a fresh pelt, you'd no coin to see a tanner about it.

"A pretty gift," you hedge, another gap in your courtesies making itself evident.

"Kingly, one might say," Maekar sneers, though his venom does not seem aimed at you. 

Baelor smiles at him, his hand returning to rub his brother's back - softer this time, comforting. You swallow down some more ale. "Spoiled thing."

You think it's an effect of their station, their ability to make you feel like an intruder in your own home. They've been doing this all evening, retreating into their own company and leaving you to flail without direction before quickly turning back to you, four eyes of three colors growing heavier as the tankard empties. They handle the drink better than you, used to fine arbor golds and the freshest brews, no doubt. You do not often drink, generally preferring to let your husband take your share so you might enjoy a night of peace. But tonight it's you who fills the drunken role, eyelids drooping as the drink and the smoldering fire combine to heat your face and the unmoored moments when your guests seem to forget you become more like a pleasant drift. 

It's only when you come-to staring at them unabashedly that you catch yourself, embarrassment pooling in your belly and curdling there alongside the ale. 

"I'm sorry, my princes," you stammer, and the pair turn to you, bemused.

"What for?" Prince Baelor asks, while Maekar looks on, evidently unimpressed by the interruption.

"I - I've drunk too much, I fear. I must retire."

You stand clumsily, head swimming slightly. Baelor rises with you, as if you're some high queen he must show respect. But Maekar sits solidly, watches as you round the table -

and pulls you into his lap with a grip on your wrist when you inevitably stumble.

"Sloppy," he admonishes, though you barely hear it, blood rushing in your ears.

He smells like summer citrus and cloves, city scents not quite hidden beneath the layer of damp wood. You should not be here.

"Apologies, my lord -."

"Your Grace," he corrects again, tone dark and hard as iron. His eyes are but hard flint when you meet them. 

"Your Grace, I didn't mean -."

"No harm was done, I'm sure," Baelor interrupts, tucking himself up closer along his brother's side as he sinks back to the bench. "My brother meant only to keep our serving wench near while we still drink."

It takes you a moment to process his meaning, wilting as their gazes as they grow more unimpressed the longer it takes you. Eventually Baelor shoves at his empty mug and you nearly fall from Maekar's lap in your haste to fill it for him, finally catching on. Reduced to a barmaid in your own home.

The flagon is near empty, only enough to fill one mug. You curse under your breath when you realize that Maekar will be needing a refill as well, and begin to equal the drink between the two vessels when Baelor waves your hand away, bidding his brother drink from his own cup. He holds it then to his lips, so that Maekar need not release his grip on you..

"That the last of it?" Maekar asks before tilting his head to accept the drink. 

Baelor hums his confirmation, eyes tracing his brother's bobbing throat. "Best make it last."

You feel like an intruder in the moment again, shifting uneasily on your precarious perch. You'd heard all your life how the blood of the dragon had remained so pure, though you'd always assumed it to be a matter of tradition, dutiful matchmaking. Yet this…

"The drink is poured, my princes," you offer, and Baelor's eyes dart to you, brow furrowed, his turn to be annoyed at the interruption. "May I be excused?"

"And yet it's not finished." His voice is cold now, deadly in its softness. He pulls back on the mug while still staring at you, allowing his brother to catch his breath. Shifting his grip on the vessel, he cups the bottom and holds it up higher, presses it to your lips instead. Maekar inclines his chin again, peering down his nose to watch the way you falter. 

"Drink," Baelor commands, sharp, and you comply, tilting your face slowly to allow him to follow, precise movements ensuring no brown ale spills onto your cotton smock at first, though he does not relent until the glass is emptied and the angle of the pour sharpens enough to have you guzzling embarrassingly just to keep it from spilling down your front. You cannot breathe like this, chest burning as you wriggle against the hands that hold you in place. Baelor has shifted closer still, balancing himself with one hand on his brother's shoulder as he leans over you. Maekar's grip has shifted now, one strong arm wrapped around your hips, with the other hand buried in your hair as if to help support your neck in its extreme angle, though he uses it as no more than a means to keep you close, his whiskery lips pressed against your temple as he commands you to take it.

Finally, you cough your way through the last drop and Baelor tosses the mug aside with a sharp crash. You can hear him laughing heartily over your own ragged breathing, though you cannot make sense of it until he presses his lips to yours, steals away what little air you've been able to take.

"Well done," he praises, quiet voice returned now to that of the benevolent lord. "Took that better than a drunken whore."

"She's a natural," Maekar snarks, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth as his brother retreats. The insistent hardness pressed against your ass seems to grow heavier at the taste he finds there.

You've enough time to hear the answering 'that remains to be seen' before you're being yanked from the younger man's arms and shoved unceremoniously over the table. Your head swims with sudden movement, shards of ceramic biting into the meat of your palms when you try to lever yourself up. "My lords -?" you peep, and then squeal at the answering crack of a hand upon your rear.

"Your princes," Maekar reminds you, now thoroughly annoyed at having to play the scolding septa. "Your Majesties," he offers instead, cracking you again and again as he lists alternatives. "Your Graces, your liege -!" He cuts off, panting with effort. You shoot him a look over your shoulder as you try to scramble away from him, note the way his greased hair hangs in his eyes.

Finding yourself pinned in place by something sturdy leaning against the backs of your thighs, your hand darts back instead to massage the sting of your cheeks, staring up at your evident captors through tears in your eyes. Your breath comes in racking sobs now, the suddenness of it all overwhelming you in your already altered state, and it catches in your throat when Maekar grabs at your wrist again, wrenching your hand up to the small of your back so that Baelor can grab your ass in its place. He squeezes, strong fingers digging cruelly into the fat there and you hiccup. 

"Please, your Graces. S-stop!"

"Well what do you know? You can teach them manners," Baelor muses, shifting his hips away from yours so that he can pull your skirts up.

You scream loudly then, loud enough to set the dogs barking beyond the walls. The Kingsguard will hear, you think, and their vows of chivalry will compel them to intercede.

But Maekar only hums, unconcerned. "Everyone learns better with some encouragement." He pats your rump again, nothing more than a light tap, yet you've been left sensitive, on edge, and it makes you jump regardless.

"Even young princes?" Baelor prompts, and there's something lilting in his voice, a jape you're not in on.

Maekar finds it no funnier than you. "If you hold out her feet I'll show what encouragement works best on young princes," he offers, just as Baelor slips your small clothes past your toes. 

"That won't be necessary," Baelor laughs, hinging himself over your back to kiss away your tears. "Think the lady has learned her lesson well enough, hm?"

You don't actually know what it is you are supposed to have learned, though you refuse to admit it, afraid of Maekar's ire.

But Baelor, evidently, does not honestly trust your insight. "You cannot refuse your princes," he supplies, nodding at you encouragingly - a mother teaching their toddler new words. 

"I cannot refuse my princes," you sniffle, voice raw and jagged in your throat. 

"The perfect lady," he commends warmly, a prickly kiss pressed to your heated cheek. The caress pulls a sob from you, your body going limp in your hopelessness. Of course the Kingsguards won't help, the coins in their purse weighing heavier than any oath.

Pressed so close, you can feel the prince's breeches chafing against the swollen flesh of your rump. Thick, heavy knit. The finest sheep sheared at the height of Spring, black wool stained even deeper by the richest dyes in the kingdom and spun by a tireless team of overworked hands. It's itchy against your flesh, the silver teeth of his belt biting. Yet all preferable to the weight that follows behind it, the hard length slotting itself against the seam of you.

With his hips shoved flush against yours, he levers himself to his full height. There's some jostling behind you and the rustle of fabric. Your eyes roll up to him, almost dreamily, and you see the cords of his neck stretched taut, sharing breath with his brother as the younger man strokes him to full hardness. 

Eventually Baelor swats Maekar's hands away and he leans his weight forward, guiding his cockhead to your rim. Dry and unprepared, the stretch burns as he presses incrementally deeper. Your breath leaves you in a high, thin whine, pushed from your lungs as your body tries to make room for him. The prince curses through clenched teeth, the word bit off a strained.

You hope this hurts him, too.

"How tight is she?" Maekar asks, voice pitched low. Not meant for your ears.

"Not sure I should bother paying her 'husband' for the ale," Baelor quips, breathless, and Maekar laughs, this thumb prodding against the flesh pulled taut around Baelor's cock. 

"Gods, just look at her," he breathes as Baelor bottoms out. Maekar shifts his hips behind his brother's before either of you are ready, forcing Baelor's tip up against your sensitive gate. He indulges in a slow rhythm, one that keeps Baelor buried to the very end of you, grinding deep. It draws short grunts from Baelor, his grip on your hips pulling you close even when Maekar's weight shifts back.

"Does she grow wet?" Maekar asks, tongue still far too clever.

"She does." Baelor huffs with a breathless laugh. 

It turns your stomach, the fact he's not lying - though the pain inflicted by his resumed movements at least saves you the shame of finishing as he works himself within you. It builds some, a small kernel of spiteful pleasure which you can almost feel as if outside of yourself, ponder on it like a disinterested maester: there's the bleeding, soft edge of it, rubbed raw from within you. Just a matter of beastly instinct. 

Baelor's breath heaves, a horse worked to a lather beneath his heavy doublet. You wonder if he's hairy under there, imagine it matted to his flesh. The limit of your pleasure blurs further.

When the prince finishes, he's got his cock pressed firm against your gate, his weight pressing you hard against the protesting table. You think you can hear Maekar's low voice beneath his brother's prolonged groans, but if he does speak, it's nothing you can make sense of. Consonants sharp as the teeth that press briefly into your shoulder, vowels pliant as the tongue that follows. 

Heavy hands slip down your spine as Baelor pulls away. The touch makes you shiver almost as much as the loss of his heat, the damp air of the room cold despite the fire that still burns in your humble hearth.

I hope the roof hasn't begun to leak, you think distantly.

There's a scuffle of noise behind you, the princes rearranging themselves gracelessly. Maekar's boots are heavy, the table jittering as he's guided into place behind you. You brace yourself for another rough penetration, cunt clenching tight enough that you feel Baelor's seed drool down your lips, soak your pearl. 

Maekar whines. 

"Greedy," Baelor grits, but it's not you in need of correcting this time, and with a hard shove he forces Maekar to his knees between your own. 

Distracted, Baelor doesn't stop you when you push yourself up onto your elbows, confusion compelling you to figure out what he's about. He's got one hand planted on the table above your hip, his weight leaned onto it so he can loom lordly over his brother, held down on his knees by Baelor's fingers fisted in his hair. Maekar looks dizzy with want, lids lax yet gaze no less focused on your leaking cunt. You squirm in embarrassment to be so seen, but the shame of it keeps you distracted, your thoughts disorganized enough that you don't see it coming when Baelor uses his grip to guide the younger prince's face to your cunt. 

You yelp when he kisses your center, effort renewed in your bid to shimmy away. Baelor's weight shifts closer, his hand now planted on your lower spine, pressing dangerously.

"You should thank your prince," he patiently reminds you, pushing Maekar's mouth more firmly against you when the other mutters something incoherent against your flesh. "And don't talk with your mouth full, brother," he laughs. "What an ill-mannered pair you are."

As if to prove himself then, Maekar's kisses turn determined and focused. His tongue licks over your flesh, pulling your lips into his mouth to suck kisses from them. Heat blooms in your belly despite yourself, your neglected pearl throbbing against his tongue when he laps over it hotly with the flattened, teasing muscle.

"Are you playing with your food?" Baelor demands suddenly, pulling at his brother's hair. 

Maekar shakes his head, nose buried in your seam, and you protest meekly, managing to inch minutely away.

But he only follows after, pushing the crest of your hips hard against the edge of the table. He locks you in place with strong arms wrapped around your thighs, forces you to bear it as his tongue hardens into a point and flicks at your pearl. He's merciless as only a prince can be then, just as capable of granting it as he is unwilling, and with the determination of a man having earned his moniker, he builds your peak until you stumble down the other side of it, hips working uselessly against the creaking table. 

Maekar pulls off with a wet smack, his knees cracking as he rises to his feet. Baelor is praising him, you think, voice warm and encouraging, but it's in that other language again and it washes over you, your focus softening as your tension does. A bow made warped and wilted with the heat.

You feel another wet kiss against your rim, Maekar's weeping cockhead pressed shallowly into your gaping hole. You're grateful for your pliancy this time, feel ready to be stretched around his considerably thicker cock.

But it never comes, Baelor's fist wrapping tight under the other man's cock like a flange, preventing him from slipping fully into your cunt. A high whine cuts through the room - you're not even sure if it's you or Maekar - and Baelor's laugh dances up the ladder of your spine. 

"Go on then, brother," he encourages, free hand finding purchase on your hip. "You can't refuse your prince."

"Baelor," Maekar groans, his hips working that same leisurely pace from earlier, as if trying to acclimate himself the same way his brother had, though he's never allowed much deeper than the crown of his cock.

"Your Grace," the man corrects, and you can feel his grip turn punishingly tight for a moment, punching Maekar's breath from him. Baelor winks at you, prompting a sudden sob, ashamed to be caught staring at them over your shoulder. 

"Your Grace, please," Maekar begs, his pace rapidly building. He's leaning over you now, eyes closed behind the pale curtain of his hair. "Please, please, please."

"Pretty when you're being sweet," Baelor breaths against his temple, and Maekar's hips twitch forward hard, his cock slipping incrementally deeper into your wet heat. "But you must learn to respect your subjects," he suggests. No irony in his voice; spoken low, as if you weren't even there. "You cannot take their hospitality for granted or they'll hate you."

Your eyes meet his through your tears then, staring at him defiantly as he doles his final lesson:

"Should have offered her coin."

Shame burns you up, inside and out. With a sob, you hang your head, moaning cries coming hard enough to block out the sound of Maekar's cresting pleasure. You feel their weight shift behind you at the last moment, Maekar's cock slotted between your cheeks so that his seed pools into the small of your back instead. 

"The dragon doesn't waste his seed," he mutters, and Maekar's delirium breaks just enough for him to chastise his brother for that,

"And what about yours?" He breathes, incongruously affectionate in that moment.

"What about mine?" Baelor returns, his voice just a hair too bitter to be teasing.

You're an intruder in the moment again, and this time they seem to agree, letting you scurry out from under them with little more than disgruntled huffs and a pat on your rump. They let you slip away to your bed, leaving you to lick your wounds behind the flimsy partition while they settle into their bedrolls as promised, ever the gallant examples of their house. You find no rest that night, eyes trained on the shadows that leap and play against the privacy screen. The princes voices linger late, that slithery tongue which obscures their conversation from you, but they lapse into the heavy breaths of dreamless sleep eventually. Your eyes begin to drift then, though you startle awake each time the hut creaks in the storm, sure that they've gone back on their word.

They never do, and in the morning you feign sleep until you hear them leave, slipping out of your house through the creaky door your husband will never fix. 

When you slink out of bed many hours later, you find a neat stack of gold dragons piled on the table where they'd fucked you, a steep price for a poor whore. Absently, you thank them for the small mercy Baelor had shown, forcing Maekar to spill upon your hip.

A/N: I won't lie, this is basically a retelling of my other fic, new and improved with more rape, but I'm having fun with this dynamic so...