#raymun x reader

✷ 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.

Aerion

The hall is loud with music and courtly laughter, but Aerion hears only one thing…..your voice. He swears to himself it sounds brighter and more bubbly as you converse with some footman as if he were the honored guest of the feast.

From across the room he watches, idly twirling a dagger between his fingers. At first he appears cool, almost detached.

Until you laugh.

Not the awkward one you give when you don’t understand something. Nor the polite one you offer because you hate making people uncomfortable.

The real one.

The one with the snort that makes you bend forward and sends your jewelry jingling.

His grip tightens around the dagger.

Surely nothing that boy has said warrants that precious sound.

When he hears it for a second time, something sharp snaps inside him. The dagger sinks into the wooden table with a dull thud.

He starts to move towards you in long slow, strides. He doesn’t rush, he need to for the predator does not rush to it’s prey. As he stalks towards you,the crowd parts immediately without him having to say a word.

The footman notices him first his smile falters immediately.

You don’t notice at all, still mid-sentence.

“I do think it would be most lovely if each house had a unique flower. I introduced the idea to my father by law he only said ‘interesting,’ but I’m getting through to him.”

You gasp softly when you feel your husband’s chest press against your back, but immediately beam up at him.

“Oh! My love,” you say excitedly. “This is Jason. He’s a footman to Lord Br—”

“Why are you harassing my wife?”

Aerion’s voice cuts cleanly through yours. His tone is accusing, his eyes locked on the footman like a blade poised at a throat.

The poor male’s face goes pale.

“My prince, I mean no disrespect—”

You blissfuly unaware of the tension blurt out,

“Oh! You must see, my love, look at the hilt of his dagger!” you say eagerly. “Instead of a sigil, he placed his late mama’s garnet diadem, isn’t that precious?”

Aerion hums, his gaze never once shifting to where you point.

“I suppose,” he says coolly. “Though I do not think something so precious belongs in the hands of someone so… low.”

His eyes never leave the footman. The silence stretches heavy, suffocating and uncomfortable.

The male swallows understanding what Aerion wants without him having to speak it.

“My prince. My lady. I believe my master will be looking for me soon.”

He bows and quickly flees.

“Aww, well if you must! Bye-bye, Jason!” you call, waving enthusiastically.

Aerion yanks your hand down, pulling you flush against him. His hands grip your hips, the hold not soft enough to be mistaken for tenderness, but not rough enough to be called cruelty.

“What is your obsession with collecting strays, my precious ruby?”

You blink up at him. “Strays?”

“Knights. Stable boys. Maids. Squires. Bakers. The elderly. Actual mongrels.” He scoffs. “You have a remarkable habit of favoring… lesser beings.” His grip tightens slightly at your hip. “You are the wife of a prince, not some tavern girl scattering smiles to every man who looks your way in hopes of earning more copper.”

“Ah, tavern girls are so lovely,” you beam. “It’s impressive how they balance all those drinks. I once tried to—”

“That was not a compliment.”

Your mouth forms a small “o.”

“You waste your compliments,” he murmurs, voice low and edged. His hand comes up to your chin, forcing you to look at him. “It makes me wonder if the ones you give me are even meaningful… if you offer the same warmth to some lowly squire.

You hum thoughtfully, not taking the accusation to heart.

“Well,” you say sweetly, hands resting against his chest, “I like your sword best compared to any other.”

For a moment he stills, his back straightening, chin lifting.

“Mhm, what else.”

It is more command than question but you happily oblige with a grin.

“I think you have the best sword skills in all the Seven Kingdoms and across the Narrow Sea and I think you’re the most beautiful of them all anndddd” you pause for emphasis “I think there’s no dragon temper quite like yours.”

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes sharp, possessive, almost feral.

He pulls you impossibly closer, like a dragon curled tightly around his hoard, daring anyone foolish enough to reach.

“Good,” he murmurs. “See that you remember it.”

Daeron

It was one of those rare moments where Daeron was not drunk.

He was still drinking, of course, but in moderation.

The reason was certainly not that he had a meeting with his father (if anything, that would encourage more wine). Rather it was because he was with you. He did it, not because you scolded him ( you never would) but because he preferred to be clear headed in the moments he spent at your side. Even the foolish ones…..especially the foolish ones. He rather remember the sound of your laughter exactly as it was rather than through the pleasant haze of wine.

He lounges beneath a tree, one knee bent, a wineskin dangling loosely from his fingers as if he hasn’t a care in the world but ever so often gently swatting any bees away that came buzzing too close around you. You on the other hand are attempting to braid a crown of wildflowers.

Keyword attempting, there are far more snapped stems than intact ones scattered in your lap. He found it adorable how anytime one breaks, you gasp softly as if personally offended instead of cursing as most would.

“You know,” Daeron drawls, lazily turning his head toward you, “the flowers were thriving before you declared war on them.”

You gasp. “I did not kill them! They are still alive!”

He hums. “In spirit, perhaps.”

You huff and return to your work, tongue peeking out in concentration as you try again. The wreath collapses immediately, and you toss it onto the growing pile.

Daeron sighs loudly. “This is painful to witness.”

“Then don’t watch!” Your voice cracks slightly.

“I can’t,” he says solemnly. “It’s like watching Aegon attempt swordplay, concerned for everyone involved, but very entertained.”

Despite the insult, you let out a soft laugh.

He finally shifts, setting the wineskin aside and pushing himself upright. “Move over before you render this meadow extinct.”

He kneels closer to you, long fingers brushing yours as he gently takes the flowers from your hands. His touch is warm and soft mayhaps due to the lack of swordplay the young prince so adamantly avoids.

“Like this,” he says, softer now. “Twist the stems together first don’t strangle them.”

Your eyes widen in awe at how quickly and easily he works.

“Wow. You’re amazing!”

He falters, visibly flustered. He is not accustomed to praise, especially not for something so small.

“Well,” he clears his throat lightly, “you’d best inform the maesters at once. Daeron the Fierce Master of Floral Arts.”

You snort, the sound bright in the quiet field, and it pulls a laugh from him as well.

He finishes the wreath with easy grace and lifts it slightly, examining it with exaggerated scrutiny. “Passable,” he decides. “For something created under my supervision.”

He places the wreath in your lap.

“See? They respond better to patience and gentleness. Much like princes,” he quips.

Carefully you lift the crown and place it upon his head as if he were Aegon the Conqueror himself.

“There,” you say softly, eyes gleaming. “Much better.”

“Because of the flowers?” he asks, breath catching with a quiet laugh.

“Because of the prince wearing them,” you correct.

He blinks at you, momentarily stunned, his usual snarky remark dying on his tongue.

He stands quickly, hoping you don’t notice the faint pink tint rising to his cheeks.

“They’re my squire, I’ve taught you all that I know. Do try not to massacre any more flowers, or the Reach may take offense,” he says, brushing himself off to return to his shaded spot for a nap.

You laugh again and shove him back down.

Daeron lets himself fall dramatically into the grass, one arm thrown over his eyes. “Abused,” he declares. “After all I’ve done.”

But he’s smiling.

And when you settle beside him, still giggling, he tilts his head just enough so he can hear it better.

Raymun

Raymun had imagined meeting you at least a hundred times.

In most of those imaginings, he was taller, broader, silver-tongued and effortlessly charming. In some versions, Steffon had been shipped off to Essos on urgent business and never mentioned again.

In reality, Raymun nearly knocked his forehead against yours when he bowed, tripped over his own boot and stammered through every word as if he had only just learned the Common Tongue.

You had smiled at him anyway.

Which, frankly, was worse.

Because no one that warm and bright could possibly be meant for him.

So when he sees you again days later in the orchard, skirts gathered in your hands as you hurry toward him, pink and blue silk fluttering stark against the browns and greens of the trees he almost looks over his shoulder to check if you are running toward someone else.

“Good morrow, my lord!” you call breathlessly. “I was told you prefer the orchard to the training yard, which I think is rather wise, because apples smell far better than sweat.”

Raymun blinks.

He opens his mouth.

Nothing.

He had rehearsed clever greetings for the next time he saw you, but suddenly they vanish. All he manages, in a low, cracking voice, is:

“Yes.”

You beam at him anyway.

You clasp your hands behind your back and rock gently on your heels. “I’ve been wondering,” you begin earnestly, “do you think apple trees grow better if you speak kindly to them? I told that one over there that its branches are very elegant just in case it needed encouragement. I also informed another that its apples were the reddest in the orchard I thought mayhaps it might be proud and next season producers even more ones like it-“

You pause, glancing at him.

Raymun only stares and you mistake it for discomfort, in reality he’d been awestruck.

“Oh my,” you say quickly, smile faltering. “Am I speaking nonsense? My septa used to slap my wrist with her stick and tell me I needed to ‘get back on the ground with the others.’”

“N-no,” he says at once. “I think it’s great… you should continue encouraging the trees.”

Your smile returns instantly. “Good good- I should hate for them to feel discouraged.”

You wander farther into the orchard and stop before a tree whose basket at its base sits completely empty, while the others are nearly full.

“I think this one is shy,” you declare. “It hasn’t dropped a single apple yet, perhaps it requires praise from someone… familiar?” Your eyes lift to his hopeful and Inviting.

Raymun’s mouth falls open. He points at himself as if you’ve just requested he recite a poem in High Valyrian.

You nod eagerly.

Not wanting to disappoint you, he obeys.

Raymun, who has faced men twice his size in the training yard without flinching, who has taken a sound beating from his cousin and remained standing approaches the tree as though it might strike him down.

He clears his throat.

“Umm… hello tree ,” he says stiffly to the branches above, he opens his mouth then closes it again nothing comes to mind. “I am sorry my lady but I am not very good with words.”

“It is easy,” you insist, eyes shining. “Simply tell the truth as it is, and it will come out naturally.”

He looks at you for a heartbeat longer than necessary before turning back to the tree.

“Well umn the other trees have firm branches,” he begins slowly. “All the same shape, all dropping at the same time, all predictable….. then there’s you” he chuckles lightly “your branches bend in every direction, reaching wherever they please, dropping apples at random moments. Some might think that strange… but I think it means you are unique. You may not seem like the other pe— trees , but I think you are… better for it….perfect even.”

His voice softens near the end.

As if summoned by his confession, an apple loosens from a higher branch and drops thudding into the grass near his boot.

You laugh clapping delighted. “You see? It responds to you!”

He bends to retrieve it, brushing the grass from its skin hands it to you. Your fingers brush his as you accept it.

“I think it ought not be pressed,” he says quietly, cheeks slightly pink, eyes steady and certain. “Some things are better kept whole.” This time he does not hesitate nor stutter.

You cradle the apple to your chest as though he has handed you something far more precious.

“I shall treasure it,” you promise solemnly.

Valarr

The first alarm bell in his head rings when your maidservant informs him you are in the library after he inquired where you had disappeared to all the morrow.

You did not read, not often or for long periods of time.

He did not mean it as an insult, you enjoyed literature well enough, but you preferred stories spoken, acted, performed… or read aloud by him. That was his favorite, you sprawled across his lap while he read, your fingers tracing the embroidery of his doublet as his voice soft voice reads through the passage.

The second alarm is before he steps into the library through the large oak doors he hears whispering and shuffling and giggles where there should be silence. Once he enters the tips of his ears turn red when he finds you half beneath the great wooden table that is covered by blankets and tapestries, your skirts hiked up, ares high in the air.

Despite having had you in far more intimate positions, he still turns his head sharply aside, clearing his throat to get your attention.

“Valarr!” you say excitedly and move far too quickly.

Thunk

Your head collides with the underside of the table.

He is at your side in an instant

“Gods—” His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing your temples as he inspects you with frantic concentration. “Are you hurt?”

“I am fine,” you assure him sheepishly.

Only then does he properly take in the room.

The great table has been dragged from its place and is smothered in blankets and pillows. Chairs are draped in heavy cloth to widen the structure. Honorable books shipped from across Westeros and the Free Cities are now stacked as makeshift castle walls.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“You will make my father scold you again.”

And by ‘scold’ he means Baelor will give you the gentlest tap upon the wrist. The heir adores you even though it has only been one moon since your marriage to his son, he treats you like the daughter he always wished for.

“Little egg was sad he could not go riding because of the rain,” you explain softly. “I thought this would make him feel better.”

As if summoned by name, a small head pops out from the opposite side of the blanket wall.

“I am her sworn knight!” declares Aegon brandishing a wooden sword. “You may not enter the queen’s fortress without the proper password! Hiyah!”

He smacks Valaar squarely on the thigh.

Valaar blinks down at him.

“Aegon,” he says carefully, “should you not be using this time for more scholarly pursuits? If I am not mistaken, you have yet to translate an entire passage in High Valyrian—“

Something catches his eye above.

A page ripped from one of the books, bearing a drawing of a bunny sleeping peacefully in a bright, colorful meadow has been pinned to the top of the fortress like a banner.

He knows exactly which book it came from.

He had read it to you only last night. He remembers the way you had risen onto your knees, pointing excitedly at the illustration and declaring that if you ever had your own house, your sigil would be a very cute animal.

He stares at it.

“My love…. You did not mutilate a perfectly good manuscript for this—”

Aegon frowns.

So do you.

And suddenly Valaar feels very much like the villain in this tale.

His shoulders soften immediately.

“But,” he amends gently, “I suppose it is not a crime for a prince and lady to have one day of rest….please ensure you place everything where you found it.

He turns to leave you two to your game, but you tug at his sleeve.

“We are missing a monster,” you say brightly. “Every brave knight needs one to save the fair maiden.”

His brows crease immediately knowing where this was going. “I am not playing a monster.”

“Pleaseeeee.”

“My sweet—”

“Please please pleaseeee” you beg as you shake him.

He should refuse.

He must refuse.

There are letters awaiting him before supper, matters of coin and other duties befitting an heir, none of which involve crawling beneath tables in a blanket fortress.

But you are looking at him like that.

The look you give when you want him to stay a little longer in bed , the look you give when you ask him to sneak you more biscuits because your mama forbid you from having more and that look always breaks him.

He sighs softly.

“Very well,” he relents. “But only if the queen grants the beast a true love’s kiss to turn him back human.”

“That is not how monsters work—” Aegon protests, only to be gently shoved aside by his eldest cousin, landing safely among the cushions.

“It is now,” he declare.

He reaches out brushing his thumb tenderly across your cheek before pressing a soft kiss.

For a man who faces the Small Council and tourneys with ferocity and stubborn resolve the same can not be said when it came to you.

Dunk - 5/10

The wandering hedge-knight didn't have much in this world, you were by far the most important thing in his life. Watching a Lordling flirt with you, promising you what Dunk knows he cannot give, had him feeling nervous and guilty. He wasn't a jealous man by nature, he was protective but not possessive - Dunk trusted in your love for him.

Though, this time he questions whether he has robbed you of a better life, he desires desperately to show you what he can give you. Dunk is far more affectionate than usual, never letting you out of his arms or his sight. He has you as often as he can get away with it, gently but full of passion, having you ride him and revelling in the moans his length drew out of you. He'd like to give that Lordling a clout about the ear, but he knows that it's not worth the beating.

When you ask him, Duncan looks down at you with those big blue eyes, panicking as though he'd committed a grievous sin. 'I wish I could give you what he could, a comfy bed and a full belly each night, it's what you deserve.' Holding Dunk and reassuring him that he's all you want is more than enough to relieve him of his jealousy. He'll be prideful in that innocent and adorable way that only Dunk could be. Flaunting you, talking about you, giving just enough sass for that little Lordling to know that you're exactly where you want to be.

Lyonel - 7.5/10

It's not that Lyonel wasn't jealous, his characteristic smirk had faded into his characteristic smile whilst he watched you. 'Look at them all, they know what I've got' The knights seated next to him were nodding along, until they saw the look in his eyes. Lords were buzzing around you as you danced in his tent, ogling how your frame moved, trying to get in close to you.

It's just that Lyonel is entirely confident in his ability to satisfy you, romantically, sexually, however you wished. He was jealous of those occupying the physical space close to you, but that could be rectified. You could see him staring, you knew what would be coming next. How he'd stride over to you, pressing his body close to you, dancing in a way that would make others uncomfortable

Should you question his very, very obvious jealousy, Lyonel will profusely deny that anything has affected him. But, he'll take you in a way that betrays his emotion. He'll fuck you whilst the party rages on in the other room of the tent, Lyonel will bend you over the table to make sure that you can be heard. The clattering of the furniture, the slapping of you two together, and the harmony of your moans will let everyone know who's allowed to get that close to you.

Baelor - 5.5/10

Baelor knew that his life was a demanding one, he often didn't get to give you the time or attention that you deserved. It was your kindness that got him, the way you'd kiss him and say that you understood. Now, now you had been sat in conversation with the same man for nearly an hour. At a feast, he was kept in his conversation by politics, doomed to watch you laugh and joke with someone else. Baelor felt incredibly jealous, he yearned for your body of course, but it was your prescence, your company that he was pining for.

It hit breaking point, he excused himself, barely keeping his rational demeanour together as he excused you. On the walk to your chambers you ask him if you've wronged him, he admits to you that 'you have not my love, but I have wronged myself. On asking if he was jealous, Baelor hid nothing from you 'yes, yes I am jealous'.

Baelor spoke to you in a tone so gentle it was reserved only for you 'I would like to make love to you, and then I would like you to tell me about your day, all of it.' Baelor's jealousy was always expressed through his passion, he meant to show you just how much time and care he had for you, he needed to show that he could provide this for you. Baelor took a long time for your love making, hours of slow pleasure just for you - drawing out orgasm after orgasm. He was between your legs, feasting like a prince, before his fingers descended onto your clit again and again. Your talk of the day would last into the early hours of the morning.

Valarr - 7/10

He struggled to admit it, Valarr was beside himself with jealousy. The first tourney where you were here to watch him, as his wife, and he'd failed to achieve his goal. A knight had rode up to you, declaring you as the beauty of the tournament, asking to fight for your honour, and all he could do was watch it happen. Watch as you graciously accepted, he knew you couldn't refuse, watch as you took the wreath that was not in his colours, watch as you placed it upon your head as your pretty hair flowed around it.

He was less gentle that night, pushing you into a mating press Valarr wanted to see all of you, take all of you in. His jealousy was obvious, but when you asked on this night he denied it. He rode out quickly the next day, presenting you with a wreath and flowers as he shouted up to you 'Will I have the favour of the tournaments' beauty, for I shall win for you today.' Accepting Valarr's favour, the glow of pride in his behaviour was easy to see, Valarr fought and won with a flourish in the tourney - earning the praise of all his family.

This eve you asked Valarr whilst he lay next to you, and you finally got your candid answer 'Yes, I felt jealous, I wanted it to be me' he looked across at you, his eyes lit by candlelight 'I wanted to give you my favour first, before anyone else' He looked almost jokingly upset, but you quickly realised that it was very sincere. Telling Valarr that he always had your favour would make him laugh, fetching the wreath and offering to prove it would make him smile.

Maekar - 10/10

Maekar's inherently jealous and possessive nature was driven by insecurity - he'd been overlooked, fourth best, considered the ugliest and least intelligent or charming of his brothers. But he had you, the most beautiful woman in Westeros, and Maekar would never, never lose you. He didn't much like seeing you talk with other men, his possessiveness was very tangible in public, his eyes had not left you in an hour. You were talking, and now you were dancing, with his brother Baelor.

Baelor had so much, Maekar watching the one thing that he had laugh and joke with Baelor enraged him with jealousy. You belonged to him, but did you prefer Baelor? Did you find him more handsome, more talkative? He saw you smile back at him, Baelor noticed - you must be talking about him he thought. Approaching your seat next to your husband, he simply answered 'No.' when you asked about jealousy. You saw the scowl Maekar shot his brother, this was becoming a point of contention between them. It was past breaking point, Baelor whispered to his brother 'Do not take it out on her tonight.'

Maekar was offended of course, but he was also petrified that Baelor thought he needed looking out for you. He was going to fuck you, possessively, roughly - but he'd never stop you talking to who you wanted. His fucking you wasn't a consequence, it was just what Maekar needed with his entire soul, all of you. He barely made it into your chambers, pressing you into the wall, you ask him if he's jealous - he returns your question 'Who do you belong to?' Your face will be pressed into the pillows promptly, as Maekar yearns to hear you tell him who's making you moan and scream.

Daeron - 5.5/10

Daeron is confident in himself, you would not be with him if you did not want to be. He knew himself, knew his flaws - he also knew his strengths. Watching this knight flirt with you felt a little different though, he was so different from Daeron. 'He certainly couldn't do better than me' Daeron thought to himself, but seeing how different this man was from himself released thoughts he thought he was long since over.

He was not a brave, built knight like this man - he was the dreamer, the drunken. Do you like the qualities that you see in this man, could he compete with something that he could not give you. Daeron does not credit his courage though, if you ask him whether he's jealous he will converse with you openly 'I did feel a little jealous yes, though perhaps more of his character than his obnoxious flirting, do you enjoy men such as him?'

Daeron will take your reassurance, as much as he plays it off as inconsequential musings about his character, he was affected by the feelings it arose. Hearing you say that you didn't care for a hardheaded simpleton will make Daeron laugh. He was what you wanted, you loved him and he knew it. No need to dwell on this, and the thoughts of his childhood that it was stirring up. You were here now, and you weren't going anywhere.

Aerion - 9/10

Aerion exhibited much of the possessiveness of his father, though it certainly did not stem from the same place. Aerion was not insecure, if anything he was arrogant - watching you scream after being told about dancing with other Lords simply fed his ego, you need him and he needed you. It was going to happen tonight, he had decided. Watching another dance with his Princess was angering him, and enticing him at the prospect of what he could do about it.

In all honesty, you wanted to ask him if he was jealous because you knew what it would cause, so you did it. Aerion was direct in answering you 'Jealous of that whelp? You want the dragon, I know you need it.' He was going to delight in withholding satisfaction, spending the next three hours at the dance barely looking at you. He whispers to you 'Dance if you want, each one you take means more time with me.'

You now knew what his meaning was, bent over the knee of the man who "wasn't jealous" The spanking had lasted nearly 25 minutes, your ass raw from Aerion's care. He needed you to say that you needed him, that you wanted him. Aerion fed on your devotion like the dragon he claimed to be, taking you however and whenever he felt like doing so.

Raymun - 4/10

Raymun was on the top of the world after Ashford, he was one of the knights everyone was talking about. His confidence was sky high, he knew you wanted him, you sought him out after all. He also knows that he doesn't have much to give you, at least not compared to the knights that you could have - or that he thinks you could have. Raymun thought you the most beautiful woman in Westeros, truly. You were beautiful enough to be a Queen, so he must treat you like one.

Seeing a Lord from one of the larger houses flirt with you should rile him more, but Raymun knows that he has something to give you that they could not replicate, and he would show you. He felt no need to drag you away, barge in and cause a scene. You could always see his quiet confidence, knew when he was watching over you.

"You're not wearing anything," he observed.

"I’m not. Thought you might need a treat… Thought you might like it.”

He exhaled slowly. “I love it.”

You heard the rustle of fabric as he shed his tunic, his belt, his breeches. You definitely didn’t not smirk internally. Then his skin was against yours warm, solid, the weight of him settling over your body. His chest pressed to your back deliciously. His hips cradled between your thighs.

His hands found your wrists. He pinned them above your head, his fingers interlacing with yours, pressing into the pillow.

"You're too good to me," he murmured against your ear.

He pushed inside you in one slow, deliberate thrust. You gasped, your body arching, and he groaned low and rough, his forehead dropping to the back of your neck.

"So wet," he gulped, panting slightly. "Were you waiting long? I’m sorry.”

"T-too long."

He pulled out and thrust back in. The obscene wet plap of skin against skin filled the room, the sound of him driving into you again and again. His pelvis slapped against your ass with each stroke, and he held your wrists pinned above your head, keeping you in place beneath him.

"Good girl," he growled, his hips never stopping. "Good girl, taking me so well. You like this, don't you? Like being filled up."

You nodded, your mouth open, your moans muffled by the pillow.

"Let me hear you," he said. He released one of your wrists to pull the pillow away, tossing it aside. "I want to hear every sound you make."

He fucked you harder. His hips snapped against yours, driving you deeper into the mattress. His hand found your hair, fisting it gently, turning your face to the side so he could watch your expression.

"That's it," he said. "That's my good girl. Taking all of me so well. My girl."

You couldn’t take it any longer with his praise, you came around him, your body clenching, and he groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. His cock pulsed inside you, filling you with warmth, and he buried his face in your neck, breathing hard. "You're going to be the death of me," he murmured.

You laughed, breathless. "What a way to go."

He kissed your shoulder and didn't move for the rest of the night. Mission: Treat Baelor, accomplished.

Lyonel - The feast had been enormous. Music, dancing, drinking, lords and ladies packed into the great hall until the walls sweated. Lyonel had thrown it, of course, he loved any excuse for a celebration. And like the party animal he is, feasts are never EVER small. He had been in his element all night, laughing loud, drinking deep, spinning serving girls until their skirts flew up.

But you hadn't wanted a party with hundreds of people, as much fun as it was, you wanted a party with just the two of you.

So you waited with quite the anticipation, heart racing when you heard his heavy footsteps in the corridor, the rumble of his voice humming some tavern song he'd picked up from the musicians. The door swung open, and he stumbled inside, still humming, still grinning, his tunic half unlaced.

"Honey!" he boomed, then stopped.

He blinked.

You were naked. Lying on the bed, propped up on your elbows, one knee bent. The candlelight painted your skin with a divine glow. The perfect picture of temptation. Just from this, Lyonel is thunder struck. His jaw practically dropped to the ground. His humming stopped. His grin froze.

"What's this?" he asked, his voice dropping low.

"Thought we could have our own party."

He locked the door. You heard the bolt slide home.

He crossed the room in three strides, not speaking, not looking away from your body. His tunic hit the floor. His belt clattered after it. His breeches followed, and then he was naked, his cock already hard, thick and heavy against his thigh.

He climbed onto the bed and settled between your legs, his massive shoulders blocking out the candlelight.

"You're so fucking pretty," he said, kissing your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. "All laid out for me. All mine.

He grabbed your knees and pushed them up toward your chest, opening you wide. His cock pressed against your entrance, wet and ready.

"This what you wanted?" he asked, grinning. "A party with just us?"

"Please," you begged.

He pushed inside you in one brutal thrust, and you screamed. He didn't stop. Didn't slow down. He fucked you hard and fast, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving into you so deep you felt him in your throat.

"Take it," he growled. "Take all of it. You wanted this. You fucking wanted this."

You did. You wanted it more than anything.

His hands gripped your thighs, his fingers bruising, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit until you came undone around him.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight. Gonna make me cum."

"Cum inside me," you begged. "Please. Please."

He did. He roared, his body shuddering, his cock pulsing as he filled you. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, his forehead pressed to yours.

"Best party I've ever been to," he said, grinning.

You laughed, breathless. "Better than the feast?"

"Feast didn't have you naked in my bed."

He pulled out and collapsed beside you, dragging you against his chest. His heart was still pounding, his skin slick with sweat.

"Love you," he mumbled into your hair.

"Love you too."

Maekar - Maekar was already in bed when you came out of the bath. He was on his back, one arm behind his head, his eyes closed, his chest bare. The sheets were drawn up to his waist, and his breathing was slow, he was sleeping, peacefully.

But you have other plans.

You let your towel drop to the floor. The air was cool against your bare skin, and you shivered as you crossed the room. The bed dipped as you climbed onto it, and Maekar's eyes opened.

He went very still.

You straddled his hips, settling your weight on top of him. His hands came up automatically, gripping your thighs, his fingers pressing into your soft flesh. While you grinded downwards on his painfully hard dick.

"You're naked," he said. His voice was flat, but his hands were already sliding higher.

"Like what you see?”

He stared at you so intensely it almost made you nervous. His gaze traveled down your body. Your breasts. Your stomach. Your thighs.

"You woke me up for this?"

You nod, feeling a little embarrassed. Did he not like it? Too much, maybe?

That’s what you thought until his mouth was crashing against your lips, as needy as you, if not more. He kissed you like he was claiming you, his tongue sliding against yours, his teeth grazing your lower lip. His hands roamed your body, your back, your breasts, your hips, gripping, squeezing, leaving marks you would find tomorrow. And you have no problem with that.

"Ride me," he said against your mouth.

You didn't need to be told twice.

You reached between your bodies, wrapped your hand around his cock, thick, hard, leaking precum, and guided him to your entrance. You sank down slowly, and he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you're so-”

You cut him off with a grind, braced your hands on his chest and began to move. Up and down. Rolling your hips. Finding a rhythm that made his fingers dig into your waist. The bite of his fingernails into your hips only heightening how good he feels.

He watched you. His dark eyes never left your face, your breasts, the place where your bodies joined. Every time you lifted up, he could see his cock slick with your arousal, and every time you sank down, he groaned like it was the first time.

"You're so beautiful," he said. "Riding me like this. Taking what you want."

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on either side of his head, and kissed him. He kissed you back, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands gripping your backside, guiding your movements.

"Harder," he said. "Fuck me harder."

You did. You bounced on his cock, your thighs burning, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The room filled with the sounds of your bodies slapping together, your moans, his groans.

"I'm close," he said. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."

You didn't. You rode him faster, harder, chasing your own release, and when you came, you cried out his name, your body clenching around him.

He followed a moment later, his hips bucking up into you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. He held you there, buried deep, his arms wrapped around your waist.

"You're going to be the death of me," he muttered.

You smiled and kissed his forehead.

"Get some sleep," you whispered, cuddling into his chest.

He snorted. "Yeah because we’re doing this again in the morning.”

Raymun - Raymun was a romantic. He brought you flowers, wrote you poetry, kissed your knuckles like you were something precious. He was gentle and soft spoken and made you feel like the most important person in the world, because to him, you are. Which was why you were so nervous.

You never did anything like this before. Well, you had sex. Plenty of times. He had seen you naked, touched you, tasted you. But never like this. He was always the one to initiate it. You weren't bold or brazen. You blushed when he complimented you, looked away when he held your gaze too long. The thought of being naked in his bed, without his knowledge made your stomach twist into knots.

But he was coming home late tonight. He had mentioned it at breakfast, almost apologetically. "The others want to have a few drinks," he had said. "I won't be too late. I promise."

You had nodded, told him to have fun, kissed his cheek.

And then you had spent the whole day planning.

You bathed. You lotioned. You brushed your hair until it shone. And then you lay down on the bed, completely naked, and pulled the heavy blankets up to your chin. The wool was scratchy against your bare skin, but it hid everything. Gave you courage.

Your heart was pounding. Your palms were sweaty. What if he laughed? What if he thought you were being ridiculous? What if he was too tired for you? What if-

The door opened suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

Raymun stepped inside, shrugging off his cloak, running a hand through his hair. His cheeks were flushed from the cold. You’ll warm him right up, you think.

"You're still awake?" he asked, surprised. "I thought you'd be asleep by now."

You shook your head, clutching the blanket tighter.

He crossed the room, tugging off his boots, then his belt. "You're being quiet," he observed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Is everything alright?"

You nodded. Swallowed. Took a breath.

He studied your face for a moment, still concerned, not wanting to push it, he shrugged off his tunic, crawled under the blankets beside you, and reached for you automatically, his arm sliding around your waist, his chest pressing against your back.

His hand touched bare skin.

Your hip. The curve of your waist. The soft swell of your backside.

He froze.

His fingers splayed across your hip, like he was checking to make sure he was feeling what he thought he was feeling. Then he lifted the blanket just enough to look.

You heard his breath catch.

"Raymun?" you whispered, your face burning.

He couldn’t answer. He just pulled the blanket down further, exposing you to the waist. His gaze traveled over your body with adoration.

"When did you-" He swallowed. "You've been lying here like this? All night? For me?”

You nodded. “All for you.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then he kissed you.

"I love you," he said against your mouth. "I love you so much."

He kissed his way down your body. Your neck. Your collarbone. The swell of your breasts. He took his time, worshipping you, his lips pressing against your skin like he was trying to learn the shape of you by heart.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he looked up at you.

"Can I?" he asked.

You nodded. “Please.”

He put his mouth on you.

You gasped, your back arching, your fingers fisting in his hair. He was gentle at first, soft, exploratory, but when you moaned, he grew bolder. His tongue slid between your folds, circling your clit, dipping inside you. He licked and sucked and nibbled, and you came undone beneath him, crying out his name.

He didn't stop. He kept going, licking and sucking, until you came again, your body shaking, your hands tugging at his hair.

"Please," you begged. "Please, Raymun, I need you inside me."

He kissed his way back up your body and settled between your thighs. His cock, hard and leaking, pressed against your entrance.

"Look at me," he said.

When your eyes met, he pushed inside you slowly, inch by inch, his forehead pressed to yours.

"You feel so good," he breathed. "So good. I'm not going to last."

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.

"Cum inside me," you said.

That he did. He thrust into you, fast and deep, his hips slamming against yours. His breath was ragged, his moans muffled against your neck. When he came, he shuddered, his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth.

He kept himself buried inside you, panting.

"Can I stay inside you?" he asked, his voice soft, almost shy.

You nodded, giggling.

He kissed your forehead and held you closer.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too."

You fell asleep like that. Connected. His seed still deep inside you, his heart beating against your back.

You had never felt so safe.

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Still wearing the crown, they had to travel like any other lord or knight, by carriage or on horseback, a fact that the princess did not like at all.

Blood feud or not, it takes hours to get to the tournament she thought to herself as the wooden structure jolted once more and her shoulder bumped against that of her brother Daeron.

This hardly bothered the blond man, however, as his hand was already reaching for the next wine goblet, “Do you want to show up drunk? That’s unsightly” she commented, moving away from him again to avoid the smell of alcohol on his breath.

Whatever her brother had wanted to say, he seemed to have already forgotten. “I’m sure there will be entertainment at the bloody tournament, daughter” her father replied, equally annoyed and at the end of his tether.

Aerion had decided to prepare alone with his cousin Valarr.

Aegon was not with Daeron, which is why she had first gone looking for him with her father, and she had to play the pretty princess so that no one paid too much attention to Daeron.

She was slowly beginning to doubt whether her family could make a decent impression at the tournament at all, ‘‘Beside greenhorn knights, stupid squires and old lords...I already have enough to do with the drunkard” she grumbled, yet had to smile.

As much as they had problems with each other, no one could deny that she was like her father. Annoyed, irritable, and longing for a moment of peace from a family to which she was bound.

Trying to make the best of it when the carriage came to a halt, she held Daeron as best she could. At least he managed to walk normally, wave and place his hand on hers.

Let the people choke on the sight of us she thought to herself as Daeron kissed the back of her hand a little too effusively, almost knocking her over, and she hastily pulled him into the castle.

She was glad when Daeron disappeared into his room and Maekar and her uncle took care of business with Lord Ashford.

The only reason she had come along was to deal with the calculated disorder that Daeron, Aerion and Aegon would cause.

Drunk, mad and stubborn, her brothers were the envy of her little sisters, who were already enjoying their stay in King's Landing.

Her presence served as appeasement, distraction and perhaps even as a conversation piece for marriage, as the charade with her and Daeron kept unwanted guests away.

At least she now had some time to visit the tournament itself with a few ladies and soldiers...the boys would surely manage on their own.

It was pleasant, almost liberating, to engage in light conversation with her women about those present, to make fun of the clumsy ones who realised who was standing in front of them, and to simply have some peace and quiet.

To enjoy the stalls, to encourage her guards to take part in a game of archery so they could have some fun too. She might be harsh on her own blood, but she cherished her acquaintances and friends dearly.

‘‘The hedge knights are really big and stupid’’ she heard Gwen say, the girl for whom the tournament was, and smiled, ‘‘Believe me, Lady Ashford, they only get older and stupider’’ and the group laughed.

You were lucky if you found a handsome knight these days who wasn't just after money and a quick night.

As a princess herself, she knew she would soon have to look for one too... but until then, they still had the tournament and some time.

~~~~~~~~~~

The visit was pleasant but after a few hours also tiring, so the group returned to Lord Ashford's castle.

After dinner, during which little was said apart from a few snide comments and grumbling silence, she was not quite ready for bed.

A certain curiosity about how the place looked lit by torches, not wanting to wake her ladies, she decided to go out with a few guards.

The guards were good men who were also curious, but on her orders they held an umbrella over her to protect her from catching a cold and getting wet.

But it was actually worth it; the square and the stalls themselves, even the people, seemed different.

The thick flames of the torches danced, people laughed and drank in and around the tents, music seemed to come from everywhere.

It could have been a nice outing, and she was already on her way back when she heard something.

Something that made her pause.

“Targaryens are incestuous aliens! They marry their own siblings, they are tyrants!” and for a moment she thought she had misheard, a trick of her senses, a conversation taken out of context, but the person continued.

On and on, words full of hatred and aversion towards the dragons, the royal family, she could have ignored it, could have kept walking, but she was part of the family, and there were innocent ones among them.

She opened the flap of the tent harshly, “Who dares to speak so of the crown and my family?” Her question came immediately, aversion but not yet anger.

Instead of finding a group of greenhorn vagabonds or followers of a faith, there were two men. One was tall and simply dressed, the other smaller, with dark curly hair and reddish fabric, which suggested he was a squire.

Instantly, both stood up, bowing and stammering apologies, “Princesses! I-I am drunk, I would never insult you like that” he tried to explain, and she let the taller one go with a slap on the back of his head.

With the guards behind her, she stood in front of the dark-haired man. “What is your name?” she asked, seeing no coat of arms on his clothing and recognising the tent.

“Raymun Fossoway...I am squire to my cousin Steffon Fossoway” he explained, pointing to a sign with an apple on it. The house meant little to her, something about lost lordship and now knights perhaps rang a bell, but the sight before her was not only sad, almost pitiful.

Surrounded by onlookers, he had lowered his gaze and followed her with his dark eyes as best he could, “What should I do? Tell my father Maekar, my uncle Baelor, or Aerion?” she asked her guards.

They agreed and saw the panic in the young man’s eyes as he imagined the horror that would befall him.

Falling to his knees, he grabbed her hand, clasped it and looked up at her, “Oh, please have mercy! Drunken words of a squire. I am indebted to you if you forgive” me he pleaded, his hands surprisingly warm and slightly rough.

He seemed to have carried a sword and shield, his dark curls were tousled and his dark eyes were somehow sweet. Having him there in front of her...why not have some fun?

Dragons could also play with their prey before they devoured them.

Pretending to think, she sighed, “Be glad that your princess is so kind. I will forgive you for your treacherous words, but you will remain in my service until I free you” she explained.

Seeing relief when he smiled and immediately kissed her hand when she motioned for him to rise. Raymun thanked her profusely as she instructed one of the guards to give Raymun the umbrella.

“I’m going back to the castle, hold my umbrella and be in the courtyard at noon” she instructed before moving on, her new squire hastily following her, holding the umbrella better than anyone ever had.

Whatever she asked him to do, he did. When she wanted a glass of wine late in the evening, he brought it to her, along with a freshly baked tart.

When she asked Raymun to sing a song, she was pleased with his pleasant voice.

“You do your job well, my apple” she praised him, and saw the satisfied expression on his face as he continued to walk with her, accompanying her to the entrance of the castle as she had requested.

There he bowed and gently took her hand, “I will be here at noon...forgive me once again for my uncouth manner, princess,’ he said, and she once again eased his worries.

Knowing that she didn't have to wave to him, she did so anyway, and the small, almost awkward wave he gave her in return made her smile.

An apple, we share the same red she thought of the coat of arms as she entered the castle to finally find sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning was just as quiet. No one had noticed her excursion, let alone Raymun's words, and she was actually somewhat glad that she had heard those harsh words.

Knowing that Aerion would have set fire to the squire and his tent. “Aegon, how would you like to practise with the sword today?” she asked her little brother after breakfast, his sense of adventure as great as his joy.

The princess was right, and together with Aegon she went into the large courtyard – Raymun had followed her instructions.

He was already waiting for them and relaxed a little, “Princess, good to see you” he said, smiling at her before she introduced her brother.

“Aegon, this is my good squire Raymun. He will be your training partner today,” she explained. Both seemed a little uncertain at first, but the youngest was convinced by the idea.

Raymun, on the other hand, was somewhat overwhelmed by the idea of training a child, a prince, with real swords.

“Is that safe for the prince?” he asked, but she seemed unconcerned, “You’re a sweet apple, Raymun, don’t sour my brother,” she replied and stepped back a little to give the two some space.

Aegon was full of enthusiasm to show what he could do, and Raymun seemed to try to engage with the younger boy, allowing him to strike, blocking here and there and moving into different positions.

His learning and Aegon's learning complemented each other, and at some point, both seemed to get the hang of it and were able to move a little faster.

The princess enjoyed watching the back and forth, training her brother and yet lightly punishing Raymun.

However, the mock battle came to an end when Raymun apparently let the younger man win, Aegon gave Foosoway a small cut on his hand and thus won.

Cheers and applause followed, “Well done, my prince” Raymun praised, and the princess also encouraged Aegon, gently placing a hand on his shoulder, “Tell father of your success” before hinting that he should leave them alone.

Delighted, the younger brother hurried back to the castle, and when the two were alone again, “He's good, your brother” Raymun admitted, but there was more to it than that.

“Anyone can be a tyrant, Raymun...our house is just as tainted as the others, yet we also have innocent people among us” she made clear, seeing the guilt in his dark eyes before he put his sword away.

“Forgive my words once again,” he began, but she interrupted him, shaking her head, took him aside and sat down with him, “You’re right, it’s the truth. If we hadn’t had dragons, I probably wouldn’t even be here” she agreed, and both understood that in the end, even the Fossoways could have ruled if they had had dragons.

History, or the gods, or whoever else had other plans, and so here they were now.

To her relief, the cut was not deep, a bit like a scratch “Here, this is the least I can do” she replied, handing Raymun her embroidered handkerchief with a gold dragon coin placed inside.

Friendly as he could be, he wanted to brush her off, not accept it, apologise, which made her smile before she kissed him on the cheek, which made him pause.

His cheeks turned pink as he seemed overwhelmed, “Maybe dragons like apples too” she winked and slowly rose to return inside before calling out, “Oh, and you are dismissed from my service, Raymun Fossoway” and waved goodbye to him.

Perhaps her generation of dragons would not marry each other; perhaps one day she would find her way back to her sweet red apple.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He would parade you around on your arm, introducing you as his future lady to be. You’d bitten your tongue, tasting blood as you’d held yourself back from pointing out that you did have a name, and getting married to him would not erase that. At feasts, there was rarely a moment's peace, and you’d sit, bored out of your mind as he told and re-told the same stories over and over and over, and you felt as if you could fall asleep. Or die of boredom. Preferably the latter.

You couldn’t even dull the boredom with wine or cider, as he would soon pluck your cups away, insisting that ladies shouldn’t be drinking such things. Which was unfortunate, because you loved House Fossoway’s apple cider. If you’d be allowed to drink all you wanted, you’d survive the marriage with it alone.

There was also another, not-so-slight problem. You’d fallen inadvertently and hopelessly in love with his cousin and squire, Raymun. You’d not meant to, obviously, but you’d been pulled together like moths to a flame, and now, you were seeking silent moments and secret kisses wherever you could. He was considerate and kind, honorable, in a way his cousins could only dream of. He let you sneak sips of cider from his cup, and snuck you and your ladies apple tarts whenever he could.

Now, Steffon is trying to find you at a feast and has managed to track down a few of your ladies. They tell him they have no idea where you have gone. When in reality, they have just shown Raymund to the secluded corner behind the kitchen tent, where you are hiding. “Your lady seems quite the slippery sort.” Ser Lyonel hums in amusement as he winks at your ladies, who blush and giggle before they hustle away. “Ah, she’s just shy.” (You aren’t, you just didn’t like the people he spent time with. Except Ser Lyonel, but he seems impossible to hate). Steffon waves his hand in the air, some cider sloshing over the rim of his mug. “I’m sure she’ll turn up when she starts missing me.”

You are perfectly happy where you are, outside in the drizzle, Raymun’s cloak stretched over you both, giggling and kissing like idiots in love (which you were). You’d draped a brown overskirt to cover your easily recognizable bright yellow gown, and to the rare people passing by, you are just two young working people having their moment out in the rain. “I wish - we - didn’t have - to - hide.” His sentence is fractured as you keep kissing him, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest. “Me neither.” You mutter against his lips, and you feel a sting of guilt.

You know your honour would be ruined and that your future marriage would be wrecked if this came out, but you cannot stay away from him. You’d tried, you’d both tried, but that had just ended in three sleepless nights, Raymun having a concussion from his mind wandering at the training field, and your embroidery looking more like a donkey than a horse. So you’d agreed that when it came time for the wedding, you’d just have to stop and accept the reality. Now, you could fool yourselves a bit that everything was going to, somehow, work out.

*****

The trial of seven is over, and everyone is dealing with its outcomes. The mood, all around, is joyful. Ser Duncan has won, the prince had yielded. Sers Beeabury and  Ser Humfrey Hardyng were seriously injured, and Daeron Targaryen is possibly blinded in one eye, but there were no casualties in the trial. The flashes of everyday joy feel brighter, somehow. Children laughing, the smell of fresh bread, lovers twirling each other into their arms. Sers Duncan, Lyonel, and Raymun don’t speak, they just stand and breathe, watching the life go on around them.

A flurry of bright yellow heads is headed their direction with alarming speed. “Raymun. Raymun!” He hears your voice calling for him and turns just in time to receive the tornado of movement that is you into his arms. “I have the most amazing news!” You press kisses all over his face. He’s stunned. There are people everywhere, they can see everything. “The engagement-“ He stammers, but you are too excited to let him speak. “The engagement is off!” You announce with joy. “Father was not pleased when Steffon took Aerion’s side. Said it shows he’s not trustworthy, not a good quality for a husband to have. That he wants me to have a good one.” You’re breathing hard, excited, and speaking fast, but you do not care. “But- But that’s not all.” You give his hands an excited squeeze, jumping in place.

Your gown fluttering around you, a cloud of fabric. “We are to be wed come spring!” You cry, kissing him all over again. He just stares at you, mouth hanging open. “W-What?” “After my father told his advisor that perhaps we were not a good match. With Steffon, I mean. I…” You trail off, blushing. “I suggested that maybe we would be a good match. Then, my house would still align with your house. And-“ your blush deepens. “And that you’ve shown yourself to be brave and honorable as you took your cousin’s place on Ser Duncan’s side, siding against the Kingsguard, when you were only freshly knighted. Y-Your father met with mine just before. It’s official now.” You finish, breathing heavily, after speaking for so long, too excited and flustered to breathe in between words.

Raymun just stares, trying to wrap his head around the situation. “Kiss the girl, you stupid plonker!” Ser Lyonel calls from the sidelines, not one for pretending that he hasn’t been eavesdropping on the whole conversation. “She’s standing there, singing your praises, and you’re just staring? Are you fucking dim?” This seems to finally reach him.

And Raymun kisses you. Deep, elated, and filled with love. Your arms wind around his shoulders, holding him tight as he holds you close by your waist. People around stop to stare before huffing and going along with their day, but neither of you pays them any mind. You separate and stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment, not speaking, just thanking the gods.

But your peace is ruined by a thundering shout. “Raymun! Come here, cousin, you lady-stealing, good-for-nothing, little bitch.” Steffon is marching towards you four, slipping in the mud in his rage. “He’s angry.” Dunk points out helpfully. You see Raymun squaring up for a fight, but you have had it with fighting for today.

You pull Ser Lyonel’s dagger out of its sheath, as Steffon blunders to a stop, and press its tip to his abdomen. He stiffens, eyes wide as he takes you in, as if seeing you for the first time. “Raymun didn’t steal me away,” you correct evenly, “my father made the choice as you showed what kind of a man you truly are today, out on that field.” You gesture with contempt, eyeing him like he’s something stuck to the bottom of your shoe. “I’m a Lord now.” He exclaims, as if it will solve everything. “I don’t care if you’d just been given sainthood. I’d rather die an old maid than be married to a man who sells his honor for a title.” You spit, rolling your eyes, taking a step back. “Now, leave us be, or we’ll see how big a pair of apples you truly carry.” Your hold on the dagger tightens as you give a wague gesture towards his crotch with the blade, and he pales. “You cannot threaten me.” He sputters, but still takes a step back. “Threaten you? Is someone threatening you?” You look around, in feigned alarm. “Ser Lyonel, do you see anyone threatening this brave knight?” You ask the man who looks like this is the best entertainment he has had for years, and he shakes his head. “I do not, my lady.” The lord answers, grinning widely. “I am a witness to a calm conversation.” Steffon’s shoulders slump, and he slinks away, but not before throwing one last poisonous look in Raymun’s direction, who answers it with heat.

A stunned silence rings for a moment. “I think I am in love.” Lyonel’s loud laugh breaks it, and everyone seems to collectively inhale. Blushing faintly, you return his dagger to him. “My apologies, Ser Lyonel, I didn’t have time to ask for your permission.” Bashful, you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “None needed, my lady. Any woman who threatens a man’s apples is welcome to my daggers.” He gives you a wink, which Raymun is quick to note, and pulls you to his side.

He pulls you away for a step, staring at you like he’s seeing you in a new light. “You just did that. For me.” His voice is stunned, but affection is shining in his eyes. “Of course, you silly man,” you give an affectionate eye roll, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “but I do require something from you.” You bat your eyelashes at him, and he laughs, pulling you closer. “Anything, my lovely.” “Apple cider.” He laughs, warmly, deeply. “And Apple cider you shall have, as much as you want. Sers, do you want to join us?” Sers Duncan and Lyonel gladly do, and you head for the Fossoway tent.

*****