PLEASEEE
' Your grace, I am your man. Please. Your man '
this is so relevant for all of the men in ls adoring circle
-dunk
-baelor
-lyonel
-aerion
-maeker
DUNK
You’re tending him again.
He came back from the yard scraped raw, bleeding in that careless way you know he does because he can’t help it—too willing to throw himself between danger and anyone smaller, too stubborn to admit when he’s hurting, too. You sit him down, tilt his face toward the light, clean the cut along his brow while he tries not to flinch more from your nearness more than the sting of the cloth.
“Ser Duncan,” you murmur, brushing mud from his cheekbone. “Hold still.”
He does. Gods, he tries. But you feel the tremor run through him anyway. Not fear, never fear, but something softer and far more perilous for him.
When you finish binding the scrape, he looks at you with that wide, unguarded devotion that always seems to spill out of him before he can catch it and tuck it back. His mouth works soundlessly for a moment, as though the words in him are too large to pass through his throat.
Then he shifts off the stool, and sinks to his knees before you.
Not like a courtier making a show of it, like you’ve seen dozens do over the years to gain your favour. He kneels the way a devout man might kneel before a shrine; slow, careful, almost reverent. His head bows deeply. His huge hands rest on his thighs, palms open, offering before he even speaks.
“Your Grace,” he says, voice shaking in its quietness.
You reach for him automatically, to make him stand, to remind him he doesn’t need to offer himself to you, but he catches your hand in both of his, holding it as though it is a sacred thing, as though touching you is the riskiest thing he’s ever dared.
“I am your man,” he declares, lifting his eyes to meet yours at last.
There is nothing hungry in it. Nothing greedy or selfish. Only devotion so earnest it threatens to break him in half.
“Please,” he breathes, not begging for your affection, but for the right to serve you. “Your man. Your protector.”
He lowers his forehead to your knuckles in a gesture so old, so honest, it feels like a ritual older than any throne.
“I’ll guard you,” Dunk murmurs, voice thick. “With my life. Until you send me away, I am yours.”
And the pure sincerity of it—the way he means every word with the whole of his enormous, gentle heart—settles around you like a finest cloak.
BAELOR
You don’t mean anything by it.
It’s little more than a courteous exchange, a lord offering some practiced compliment, his hand hovering a fraction too close to your waist. You step back before it becomes improper, but Baelor notices it. He always does. His posture never breaks, his face never shifts, yet something in him tightens like a bow quietly drawn.
He finishes his conversation with perfect civility, but his gaze finds you across the hall with an intensity that pins you in place.
“My wolf,” he says when he reaches you, voice low, velvet-edged. “Walk with me.”
Not a question. Not truly a command, either. Something gentler, deeper; a request he expects you to honour.
You follow him into a quieter alcove, torchlight haloing the stretch of his shoulders. He waits until the sounds of the hall soften into a distant hum before turning to you fully.
He doesn’t look angry. He looks steady, frighteningly so.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that your breath catches, “did you welcome his attention?”
Your denial rises instinctively, but Baelor shakes his head once, too slow and knowing.
“No,” he cuts it in smoothly. “I already know your answer.”
He reaches up, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The touch is soft, but his eyes are not. They burn, some relentless, contained thing, but blazing from within all the same.
“He looked at you as if he had earned the right,” Baelor continues, voice a quiet burn. “As if you could be swayed by someone who has never learned the shape of your silences. The strength of your will.”
Your pulse stumbles. He feels it, his hand drifting from your cheek to the delicate column of your throat, fingertips skimming with a reverent, soft pressure.
“Baelor—”
His thumb presses lightly beneath your jaw, stilling the word.
“You forget,” he says, leaning in until your lips almost brush, “why you choose me. Every day.”
Heat flares through you. He sees it, tastes it in the hungry little hitch of your breath, and something shifts in his expression, too; something tender and devastating all at once.
“I see you,” Baelor murmurs. “Not the title. You. The woman who stands like winter and burns hotter than any summer sun. The one no man commands.”
He leans closer, his breath ghosting your mouth.
“The man in that hall saw what he wanted.” His voice drops, darkening. “I see what is.”
Your hands curl into the front of his tunic without conscious thought. His fingers linger against the flutter of your pulse, feeling, counting.
“I am your man,” he breathes, the words rich and rumbling in the quiet between you, “and you are my wolf.”
His head bows, your brows almost touching. “And I am not in the habit,” he whispers mildly, “of letting anyone mistake that.”
His thumb strokes your pulse once, reverently, like he’s memorizing the beat of belonging he feels there. When he finally draws back, his voice is barely more than breath.
“You choose me,” he finishes softly, “and gods willing, I will spend every breath proving why you were right to.”
LYONEL
You catch him lounging again where he shouldn’t be. Sprawled across a cushioned bench in a sun-soaked corridor, boots up, tunic half-laced, every inch of him radiating the smug indolence of a man who has escaped three meetings and one summons from the Hand.
“Stormlord,” you call his title on purpose, arching a brow. “You are meant to be in council.”
He brightens instantly, as though you’ve delivered him from execution.
“Ah,” Lyonel sighs, hand over his heart, “and here I thought you’d come to rescue me.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer. You only stand there, waiting, tapping your fingers lightly against your hip. He watches the movement with far too much interest.
Then, with a groan clearly meant to amuse you, Lyonel pushes himself upright, stretching like a cat waking from a pleasant nap.
“You know,” he says, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “it’s a terrible burden, serving the crown as Stormlord.”
“Oh?” you ask, dry as northern tree bark.
“Mm.” He nods gravely. “Endless storms. Endless paperwork. Endless dull old men droning in my ear about grain.” His eyes sparkle, sharp and devious. “One wonders why I ever agreed to it.”
“Your duty?” you offer. “Your birthright?”
He scoffs. “Hardly that. Duty is for respectable men.”
“And what are you?” you ask.
Lyonel steps closer, grin tilting, voice dropping just enough to slip under your skin.
“Hopeless.”
You blink, genuinely puzzled and wary. “Hopeless?”
“Utterly.” He leans in, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his fingers, a gesture so soft it contradicts every careless word he’s ever spoken to you. “Hopelessly devoted. Hopelessly distracted. Hopelessly inclined to ignore half the realm if you’re standing in the same room.”
Your pulse jumps. He notices it, drinks it in with a knowing little twitch of his lips. And still he keeps smiling that bright, infuriating smile of his that hides a blade.
“You think I bend knee to the crown?” Lyonel wonders, soft and idle, near ponderous. “Gods, no. I serve because you sit beside it.”
You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a laugh, shaking his head.
“Don’t look so startled,” he says. “I’ve never pretended to be honourable. Only reliable.” His voice softens, the joke thinning into something bare and earnest. “For you, at least.”
Then, with a ridiculous, court-mocking flourish, he drops into a half-bow, pressing your hand to his lips.
“Your man,” Lyonel announces lightly.
It should sound unserious, perhaps ridiculing, coming from him. It should be nothing but flirtation. But the way Lyonel looks up at you from under his lashes ruins that lie completely, because his eyes are warm, molten, and far too honest.
“Please,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Your man.”
You feel the truth of it like a physical thing. And Lyonel—reckless, radiant, irreverent Lyonel—straightens with a wink, already turning toward the corridor as if he hasn’t just cracked open something dangerous between you.
“Well,” he tosses over his shoulder, “if I must endure council for the crown, I expect you to repay the suffering with at least one smile.”
He pauses mid step.
“And perhaps,” he adds, voice dipping sweet and sinful, “a reminder later that being your man is not entirely thankless.”
Then he disappears around the corner, leaving you standing in a wash of sun, breath unsteady, pulse still chasing the shape of his words.
AERION
You hear him long before you see him.
A shift of floorboards, a breath held too long. That sharp, restless presence you know like you know your own heartbeat. The hour is late, the castle asleep, and the fire in your chamber has burned down to embers when he appears in the doorway. Barefoot, shirt half-laced, pale hair mussed as if he has raked his hands through it a hundred times.
“Aerion,” you speak quietly into the dark. “You should be asleep.”
He huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “I can’t.”
Of course he can’t. He never sleeps well when something stirs in him. He’s half longing, half nightmares, and mostly just dark, destructive desire. All of it bruises him the same way.
He stands there a moment as though deciding whether he should leave.
He doesn’t.
He crosses the room in three slow steps, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t ask permission. He never asks. He waits, just long enough to be denied if you choose to deny him, and when you don’t speak, he sinks down beside the chair and lays his head in your lap.
The breath you draw catches.
Aerion exhales like someone drowning who has finally reached air. His cheek presses to your thigh. One hand curls loosely at your knee, not gripping, only holding, as though he needs the anchor more than he needs dignity.
“Nightmares?” you ask.
He shakes his head. His voice is low, dark, a whisper cracked at the edges.
“No. Just… you weren’t in my dreams tonight.”
Danger coils under the words, but so does something fragile, something almost childlike in its honesty.
Your fingers hesitate above his hair. He waits, more patiently than he does for anything in the harsh honesty of daylight. The moment you finally touch him—lightly, barely—Aerion’s entire body loosens. His eyes slip shut. He turns his face a fraction toward your hand, toward the warmth, toward you.
“Aerion,” you murmur warningly.
He smiles into the fabric of your nightrobe. A slow, wicked, aching thing.
“Don’t send me away,” he says. “Not tonight. I can’t bear it.”
You thread your fingers through his pale hair despite yourself, and the sharp, thrilled breath he sucks in nearly undoes you. He nuzzles closer, his voice dropping to something fevered:
“You have no idea what you do to me when you touch me like this.”
Your pulse kicks, and he hears it. You know he does. His fingers trace a line along your calf, ever so slowly, savouring, nothing like the arrogant confidence he wears by daylight.
Then, muffled against your lap, dangerous and tender in the same breath:
“Aunt.”
An aching little prayer, a bruise, a surrender.
“I am your man.”
The words scrape out of him like confession, not performance, a truth he can’t hold back in the dark. His hand tightens just slightly at your knee, enough to tremble, not enough to trap.
“Please,” he whispers, silky and dark, breath hot against the thin cloth. “Your man.”
There is hunger in it—wildfire desire that could consume a kingdom, you think grimly—but beneath that, horrifyingly, unmistakably, is need. The kind he would burn the world to keep hidden. The kind he brings only to you, only when the night strips him down to something raw and desperate and hungry.
Aerion turns his head just enough to look up at you, eyes molten, lashes casting shadows on his cheek.
“If you send me away,” he tells you softly, “I’ll go mad.”
Your hand is still in his hair.
And Aerion leans into it like a creature starved for gentleness, letting the fire paint his features in gold and ruin.
“Let me stay,” he breathes. “Let me be yours. Just for this hour. Just until the sun comes.”
He closes his eyes again, as though surrender is safer than looking at you.
“As if,” he murmurs, voice dark silk, “I was ever anything else.”
MAEKAR
It starts in the hall.
Snow has fallen from the hills all day, light at first, then heavier, thickening on the stone steps and clinging to men’s beards as they come in off the yard. The fire roars pleasantly; the air smells of smoke and wet wool and something stewing in a great black pot at the back. Men are loud with drink and the comfort of their own safe keep.
Which is always when someone decides to be brave and foolish.
“He wears our colours well enough, m’lady,” one of your father’s bannermen says, not quite slurring yet. “Talks like he means it, too. But steel’s still southern under it, my lady. Dragon’s a dragon. We’ll see if he holds when the winter truly bites.”
It’s not meant as an insult, not even as an accusation. Northerners are too blunt for such games. It’s worry, spoken poorly but sincerely. The words find their way across the firelight well enough regardless.
At the high table, Maekar pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth.
He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t ask the man to repeat himself. There is just the smallest tightening along his jaw, as if something in him has clenched and he’s set his teeth around it.
You answer, because it is expected of you and because you would have done so even if it weren’t. Your voice is even, and your words are Winterfell’s words, your father’s words, as sharp and cold and sure as the stones underfoot.
The matter dies, on the surface. Men shift, placated. Someone calls for more ale. The conversation turns again, as it always does, back to harvest and levies and some poor fool’s misjudged hunt.
Maekar does not speak for the rest of the meal unless he has to. He listens instead, and that’s worse. He listens with his face turned slightly away, the nape of his neck corded, his hand around his cup as if he’s holding onto it so he doesn’t reach for something else.
You do not touch him there. Not with eyes on you. Not when he is wound that tight.
Later, when the hall thins out and the cold sting of the corridors closes around you, he walks beside you without speaking. His strides are heavy on the stone. He does not offer his arm. But he doesn’t need to. You know precisely how to fall into step with him now. You’ve learned each other well enough.
Only when the door to your chambers shuts behind you and the latch drops does he stop.
The room is dim, lit by one low fire and two candles guttering on the table. Your shadow crosses his when you shrug off your cloak. He stands just inside the door a moment longer, as if deciding whether to leave again.
He doesn’t leave.
He unbuckles his sword belt and sets it aside. Shrugs out of the heavy Stark grey. Underneath, his shirt is dark at the throat where snowmelt and sweat have soaked the linen; his forearms are bare and scarred where he’s rolled the sleeves up. His movements are clipped, agitated. Only the muscle jumping in his jaw betrays anything else.
You hang your cloak. Turn back towards him, eyeing him for a breath.
“What they said—” you begin.
“Did you agree?” he demands.
It’s blunt in a way you’ve stopped flinching from. Maekar is a man who cuts straight to the bone once he’s decided to cut at all.
You cross the space between you until you are close enough to see the pale nick along his knuckles from this morning’s drills, the faint, fresh line at his throat where some boy’s blade slid too close.
“No,” you say.
He studies you. As if weighing that on its own, no other argument offered. Something eases in him, but not much.
“They’ll talk,” you add evenly. “They always have. New lord, new snow, new grumbling. You know this.”
“They can grumble about my manners,” he snaps back. “Or my face. Plenty there.” His mouth twitches, brief and humourless. “They start grumbling about whether I’ll hold the line when it breaks, that’s different.”
“You’ve never broken,” you remind him.
He huffs. “You weren’t there for every year.”
You tip your head, waiting.
He drops his gaze. Not out of shame. Maekar doesn’t waste time on that. It’s something else. A man digging in his heels before he says more than he means to.
“I know what they see,” he says suddenly. “Southern prince in a borrowed cloak. Dragon’s son. Man who rode north on a king’s word and a treaty, not because the old gods whispered in his sleep.”
Your throat tightens. “Is that what you think this is? A treaty?”
“Not now.” The answer comes too fast; he looks almost annoyed with himself for that much softness, for how quick he is to give it to you. His fingers flex at his sides. “Now it’s… different.”
You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. You bite back an impatient sigh.
“Maekar.”
He finally looks up.
You’ve seen this look on him in battle drills, when he has decided a thing and then decided it will be done even if it costs him blood and bone. Old. Stubborn. Unyielding. He takes two steps and then you have your back to the wall and him in front of you, not trapping so much as blocking out the rest of the world. His hands plant on either side of your hips on the stone, bracketing you without touching.
“Your father wants to know if I’ll stand when winter comes,” he says. “Your bannermen want to know if I’ll bleed for some hill they can’t see on a map.” His head dips, shoulders hunched just enough to bring him nearer, to make his voice a rasp between you. “I don’t give a shit about hills.”
Your breath catches; his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“I care if you’re on them,” he adds tightly.
That lands heavier than any oath could.
“If the snows come in and the dead are walking, if the gods themselves climb out of those woods to take a piece of this place—” his mouth twists, the words grinding out, “they’re welcome to try me. They’ll find me where you are. They’ll have to go through me first.”
The way he says it, like a simple fact, makes something in your chest ache and something in your belly coil, low and hot.
“I’m not good with speeches,” he mutters. “You know that.”
“I had… suspected,” you answer, dry despite the tightness in your throat.
“Good,” he grunts. “Then you know I don’t say this because it sounds pretty.”
His hand leaves the stone. Settles, heavy and warm, at your waist. Fingers spread, thumb pressing once into the bone as if to prove to himself you are here, tangible and his.
“I am your man,” Maekar says.
He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t soften the rough edges. The words are as plain as any he’s ever given you.
“Not your father’s,” he goes on, staring at you. “Not your kraken-eyed bannermen’s. Not even my own Father’s, not anymore.” His jaw clenches, bones rolling. “Yours.”
You stare up at him. “Mine?”
He makes a low, frustrated sound. “Don’t make me say it twice, woman.”
You can’t help it. You smile, small and sharp. He sees it, and something in him steadies. His shoulders drop the barest fraction. The corner of his mouth threatens a curve he crushes before it can fully form, much to your disappointment.
“I’ll stand where you tell me to stand,” he says, a shade quieter now, but no less stern about it. “I’ll swing on whatever poor bastard you point at. I’ll freeze on these walls and bleed in these gods-cursed woods and eat boiled leather before I let anything take what’s under this roof from you.”
His thumb strokes once, rough, at your side. It could almost be accidental, but you know better than that. Nothing with Maekar is accidental.
“That’s my loyalty,” he finishes. “They can call it northern or southern or madness. Doesn’t matter to me. It’s yours.”
You lift a hand and catch his jaw in your palm. He goes still under your contact. You feel the scrape of stubble, the heat of skin, the way his throat works once under your fingers like he’s swallowed something sharp.
“Maekar,” you say quietly. “It’s more than enough.”
His eyes shutter for a beat, then open again, clearer and still hard.
“Good. They can keep their questions,” he says, softer now. “You know the answer.”
His hand tightens at your waist, something claiming and steady at the touch in the same breath.
“Your man,” he repeats, low and sure. “That’s all I know how to be.”
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your thoughts on ls tracing AKOTSK men's features while they're asleep....? 🙏
*explodes*
oh, these made me YEARN like a mf.
BAELOR.
Baelor sleeps wrapped around you. One arm under your neck, the other banded around your waist, his chest a broad steady heat along your spine. This man doesn’t just sleep next to you. He gathers you, hoards you, his forearm snug across your middle as if he’s shielding something from sight. Some part of him still doesn’t quite trust the world not to steal you while he dreams. So to trace his features you would have to disentangle yourself, slowly, without waking him, which is its own minor heist in truth. And when you finally got your hand free, what you would find, in sleep, is a face that has finally let go of duty.
His brow unknits. That crease between his brows (the one that lives permanently in the daytime, the crease that comes from carrying a kingdom on his shoulders) is gone. You would touch it lightly with your thumb because the absence of it is so striking. And you would trace the line of his nose, the slight bump where it was broken once in a tourney mishap he refuses to discuss. You would map the shape of his mouth, which in sleep falls slightly open, vulnerable in a way it never is when he speaks. You would touch the silver at his temples that the southern light at the Red Keep kisses, as if the gods simply meant to mark him there. And you would feel, with a sharp and unbearable tenderness, the thinness of the skin beneath his eyes. The bruised hollows of a man who’s not slept properly in years until he started sleeping with you. The wonder of it would land on you like cold water: I am the reason this man rests.
He would catch you at it. Baelor sleeps the lightest of any of them despite being the most exhausted, because part of him is always listening for the realm. His hand would close gently around your wrist mid-trace and his eyes would crack open. That strange mismatched gaze, dark and pale, dazed with sleep, and he would smile, slow, delighted. What are you doing, wife? And you would, mortified, try to retract your hand, and he would not let you. No. Carry on. I should like to see what conclusions you reach.
MAEKAR.
Sleeps like a soldier. On his back, one hand resting on his stomach, the other near where his sword would be. Even now, even in your bed, even years into a marriage he’s come to want with all the fierce surprise of a man who didn’t expect to want anything again, he still sleeps in formation. Braced. His body has not unlearned the war. And to trace his face in sleep is to trace a map of every fight he’s been in, because Maekar’s face is evidence of them. The faint pox scars across his cheeks. The new split scar along the ridge of his knuckle from a sword hilt that bit him years ago. The cut along his cheek that has faded but not gone from Redgrass Field.
His hands are the part that would steal your breath, though. Rough, scarred and callused from years with a sword in his hand, from battles he’s had to fight. You would lift his hand from where it rests on the coverlet and you would turn it over in yours and you would map the calluses with your fingertip. The place where the pommel sits, where the reins lie, where the bowstring pulls. And somewhere in this, he would wake. Maekar wakes fast. Soldier-fast. He would wake with his other hand moving toward where the sword should be, and then he would register it was you, and the readiness would drain out of him in a single long exhale, and he would look at you with that gruff bewildered tenderness he can never quite hide and he would grunt, voice rough with sleep: what. Not a question, exactly. More a statement of presence. And you would say, softly: go back to sleep, husband. And he would, but only after pulling you closer, his big hand settling at the small of your back, his face turning into your throat where he can smell you.
AERION.
Catastrophic. And not in the way you’d expect, because Aerion doesn’t sleep braced or guarded the way a man with his obsession ought to. Aerion sleeps curled toward you, every line of him already oriented your way, like a flower that grew toward the sun in the dark and has not bothered to dissemble about it. One hand fisted in the fabric of your shift. One leg hooked over yours. His face turned into the pillow you share, lashes pale against fever-warm skin, breath stirring the loose hair at your temple. And the moment your fingertips graze his cheek (the moment you have the audacity to touch him while he sleeps)he doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. He leans into it.
Greedy is the only word for him. Aerion in sleep is greedy for you, in a way his waking self has spent years trying to disguise. Awake, his obsession comes barbed, sneering, costumed in cruelty so he doesn’t have to admit how badly he wants. Asleep, none of that machinery is running. So when your thumb traces the line of his jaw, he turns his face into your hand. Open-mouthed. Half-conscious. Like a dragonling rooting toward heat. His lashes flutter. He makes a small, rumbling sound in his throat. And he moves. That lean dangerous body shifting closer, closer. Until you understand he’s not simply asleep beside you but winding himself around you, leisurely and deliberate. His face is inches from yours and his forehead nearly brushes yours and you’re nose-to-nose in the dim, his breath on your mouth.
Presenting himself. Offering himself. Look at me, the whole shape of him says, even in sleep. Map me. Mark me. It has always been yours.
And so you do. You trace the cropped softness of his hair at the nape, where it grows in stubble-pale from the time he cut it for you. You touch the scar on his jaw. Smooth your thumb along the high arrogant ridge of his cheekbone, the place that goes flushed when he’s feverish or furious or wanting. You touch the corner of his full mouth, and his lips part for you, automatically, the same way they parted for the cup of water you held to them when he was sick. And his eyes are open by then, of course they are (Aerion sleeps shallow, the dark thing in him will not let him sleep deeper than that) and they’re pale and blown wide, fever-bright in the dark, watching you map him with the desperate attentiveness of a man who’s been waiting for this his entire life and would die before he admitted it.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t break the spell. He simply lies there, curled around you, face inches from yours, and lets you have him. Lets you claim him. The whole tableau of it. The hot dragonish body coiled into yours, the parted mouth, the eyes that have not blinked in what feels like minutes. He’s a man being handed over to you in the only language he’s ever been able to speak: the language of stillness while you do what you like. He’ll be vicious about it tomorrow, say something cutting about your sentiment. Your softness, your northern habits. He will perform the disdain so you can’t take from him what he was unable to refuse you tonight. It won’t work. And the next night he’ll be curled into you again, fiercer, before the candle is even out.
VALARR.
Sleeps boyish. There’s no other word for it. For a man so polished in waking (the careful cultivation of charm, the lingering look he gives you across rooms, the deliberate way he holds himself even at rest) Valarr in sleep is softened to the point of foolishness. His mouth is slightly parted, dark hair mussed. The white streak at his temple is a pale slash through the tousle. The polish that defines him by day has completely deserted him, and what’s left is a man in his twenties with a small crease between his brows and an unguarded face that you can’t stop looking at.
So you touch him. Just your thumb at first, smoothing the crease between his brows the way you’ve wanted to all day. And Valarr (who’s the most attuned to you of any of them) doesn’t so much wake as soften further under your hand. He makes a small sound, sleep-thick and pleased. Turns his face into your palm, slow, instinctive. His lashes don’t lift. His eyes don’t open. He’s still mostly asleep. But his mouth finds the pad of your thumb, and his lips trace it, unhurried, half-conscious, learning the shape of you with the same devotion he gives every other inch of you when he’s awake.
Then he nuzzles deeper. His cheek against your palm. His nose at the heel of your hand. A man who is, you realise with a quiet jolt, presenting himself for petting. Presenting himself to be claimed. I’m yours, take stock, do as you like. Said with no words, only the small shameless tilt of his head into your hand, the tiny kiss he plants in the centre of your palm when his lips happen to find it. And when his eyes finally do crack open, mismatched and unfocused, they find your face and his whole expression breaks open into that helpless unguarded delight you only ever see from Valarr in sleep. The man under the prince.
He wants to be kept. That’s the secret of Valarr in sleep. The performance is intricate, the polish is real, the immortalising gaze is genuine. But underneath all of it is a man who wants to be a thing you keep on the bed and stroke when he’s good. And tracing his features while he sleeps gives him exactly that, and he goes utterly liquid under your hand. He’ll let you do it as long as you want, and he’ll purr small wordless sounds into your palm, and somewhere in this hour you’ll understand that you have ruined him for any other woman who’s ever lived, because no one else has ever touched him like this. Without performance, without ceremony, without payment due, and no one else ever will again.
DAERON.
Oh, oh, oh. Daeron sleeps with his hand curled near his face, knuckles white, holding something back. And his face in sleep is the only place you ever see him young. Waking, Daeron is older than his years. Wine-aged, dream-gnawed, carrying the weight of visions that crawl out of him in his sleep and walk into the world. He has a face that’s going to be ruined by drink before he’s forty if no one stops him. But in sleep, before the drink hits, before the dreams come, before the hand pours the next cup… Daeron looks young, handsome. He looks like the boy he was before the gift cracked him open.
So to trace his features in sleep is to map the wound the dreams have been chewing on. You would touch the dark crescents under his eyes. Deep, blue-black, constant now. You would touch the soft hair at his temple, damp at the roots. You would touch the corner of his mouth, which in sleep does this terrible thing. It twitches, downward, as if the dreams are already starting, as if even unconscious he’s bracing. And you would know, with a sinking that is its own kind of love, that you can’t save him from what is in his head. You can only sit with him afterwards. You can only hold him while he sweats it out.
He will wake mid-trace. He’ll wake with his eyes already wet, dream-disturbed, half a word in his mouth that he swallows when he sees you. And he will look at you for a long moment and then his face will crumple (just briefly, just for a heartbeat) and then he’ll laugh, that bitter wine-aged laugh, and say darling, you should not look at me like that, you’ll spoil me for the rest. And you will say, levelly, Daeron, and he’ll stop laughing, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rests against his cheek. He’ll hold it there for one long silence, and that will be the closest thing to I love you he’s capable of giving you.
LYONEL.
The opposite of all of these men. Lyonel sprawls. He sleeps the way he laughs: loud, generous, taking up the entire bed and apologising for none of it. One arm flung above his head, the other across your waist with a possessiveness so unselfconscious it reads as thoughtless, his frame radiating heat like a hearth. He’s the man who falls asleep faster than anyone you know, because Lyonel doesn’t lie awake worrying. Lyonel has never lain awake worrying. That’s one of the great gifts of being Lyonel Baratheon.
So to trace his features is a different kind of project entirely. It’s not heartbreak. It’s wonder. He’s almost obscenely beautiful in sleep. The stag’s pride of him, the strong jaw gone slack, the dark lashes fanned against tanned skin, the mouth that’s always grinning in waking finally at rest. You would map his face slowly. The small white scar through his eyebrow from a tourney. The flattened bridge of a nose broken twice. The soft place at his temple where his pulse beats steady and unhurried. And Lyonel, who sleeps deeply and long, would not wake. You could trace him for an hour and the man would simply continue to breathe, mouth open, lashes still.
He would wake eventually (late, slow, irritated by sunlight) and he would catch your hand without opening his eyes and bring it to his lips and kiss the palm and rumble what’re you about, she-wolf, and when you told him, I was looking at you, he would crack one eye open, grin like sin, and say aye? And what’s the verdict? And you would have to lie to him, because Lyonel doesn’t need to be told he’s beautiful, Lyonel already knows, Lyonel will dine out on it for a week. So you’d say the verdict is you snore, and he’d roar with laughter, and pull you on top of him, and that would be the end of any further tracing.
DUNK.
Dunk is the only one on this list who sleeps completely undefended. Dunk, all seven feet of him, all knotted muscle and scarred knuckles and broken-nosed sweet-eyed enormity. He sleeps like a child. On his side, one big hand tucked under his cheek, his face slack and peaceful in a way that takes your breath. The largest man you have ever seen, and in sleep he’s the softest, and the dissonance of it is so profound that the first time you saw it your eyes burned.
So you trace his features slowly. Oh so, very slowly. Because Dunk is a man who’s been touched without tenderness his entire life. Bruised, broken, struck by others, and to be touched gently while he sleeps is something he’s never received, ever, not in all the years of life. You would trace the cauliflowered curl of his ear, scarred from training. The ridge of his nose, broken so many times it has settled into its asymmetry. The pale lines of old scars across his cheek, his jaw, his brow. And you would touch his mouth last, most gently, because Dunk has the softest mouth of any man you know, and in sleep it lies parted and trusting like a boy’s.
And Dunk would wake. Slowly. Blinking up at you in the dim light, confused at first, his big body stirring carefully because even half-asleep Ser Duncan the Tall is afraid of breaking small things. And when he registers what you’ve been doing (when he understands you’ve been touching his face) he would go still, the way he goes still when something gentle happens to him that he doesn’t know how to receive. And his eyes, which are honest blue and absolutely without guile, would fill. Genuinely fill. And he would say, in that quiet rumble of a voice, m’lady. You don’t… you don’t have to do that. And you would say, I know. And he wouldn’t be able to speak after that for a long time.
And he would, carefully, very tentatively, lift one of his enormous hands and lay the back of it against your cheek. A fraction of the gentleness you just gave him, a fraction of the same gift returned in his clumsy, sincere way, and he would not say anything, but you would understand that he’s just made you a private vow no septa would recognise but every god in the seven heavens would.
Thoughts on the AKOTSK boys being told how beautiful they are during dirty talk? 👀
BAELOR. Baelor has spent his life being told he’s good, honourable, dutiful and brave, never really beautiful. Half-Dornish at a court that whispers about his mother’s blood, the heir who carries the weight of legitimising his father’s reign, the man who can’t want for himself because wanting is what Aegon the Unworthy did. Nobody has ever looked at this man as a body to be admired just for himself, only a king-in-waiting to be measured. So when you tell him he’s beautiful (and you have to whisper it, soft against the line of his jaw, your hand on his face so he can’t turn away) he stills. completely. like the word doesn’t quite compute. and then his eyes change, that particular flicker, where the dark one goes almost black and the pale one goes almost silver, and he says your name, low and rough, because the praise is too much, because he doesn’t know how to receive it without it feeling like he doesn’t deserve it. So you have to make him take it. Press your mouth to his ear and say it again, you are so beautiful, my love, and feel him shudder like you’ve struck him.
MAEKAR. Scoffs. Scoffs. Genuinely can’t accept it without deflection. You say you’re beautiful, husband, and he grunts and says don’t be daft, woman, and shoves his face into your throat to hide the fact that his ears have gone pink. But you’ll feel his hands tighten on you. You’ll feel the way his next thrust comes harder, deeper, like he’s retaliating for the compliment, like he has to fuck the embarrassment back into you. Maekar has been the spare and the soldier his whole life, the gruff one, the not-Baelor, beauty is for his eldest brother, his older brothers, never him. But you keep saying it. You say it when he’s flushed and breathing hard against your collarbone, you say it when his silver hair has fallen out of its tie and stuck to his temples with sweat, when he’s looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And one night, very late, he’ll mumble into your hair say it again and you will know you’ve won.
AERION. oh, catastrophic. This is a man who’s weaponised his beauty his entire life because it’s the only thing about himself he’s ever been allowed to like. He knows he’s beautiful. He’s been told it, casually, by every courtier and serving girl since he was a boy, and he holds it at arm’s length like a coin he doesn’t trust the weight of. Compliments from strangers slide off him. But from you? From his wolf, from the woman who saved him, the woman whose mouth he’s imagined the shape of for years? Whe you tell him he’s beautiful (properly tell him, with your hand splayed against his cheek, looking him dead in the eyes, you are so beautiful, Aerion) he will break apart. He’ll go feverish, his pupils will blow wide, he’ll grip you too hard and bury his face in your neck because he can’t let you see what’s happening on his face. He’ll say something cruel about it after (careful, sweetling, I’ll grow vain) but you’ll feel him trembling. You’ll feel the truth of it in his hands. And the next time you fuck, he’ll be worse. Needier, more vicious, more desperate to extract it from you again, because now he knows you’ll give it and he’ll spend the rest of his life chasing the high of it.
VALARR. Here’s the trap of Valarr: praise is his native language. He gives it constantly, generously, without thought, because (as we established) he’s been worshipped his whole life and has therefore developed no real defence against being wanted. He tells you you’re beautiful at least four times a session. So when you turn it on him? You’re beautiful, Val, look at you, look at how good you are—he glows. He genuinely lights up, that golden boy grin breaking across his face, and he’ll laugh, breathless, delighted, and say yeah? like a man being handed a present. But here’s the thing: it doesn’t unmake him the way it does the others. Valarr has heard it before, many times. What undoes him is the who of it (that you said it, his impossible-to-impress wolf, his northern queen who never gives anything she doesn’t mean) and so the praise is less devastation than confirmation. I knew it. I am. I am, for you.
DAERON. Daeron has spent his short life being told he’s the disappointment, the wine-soaked one, the prince who sees too much in his sleep and not enough in the world. He has a beautiful face (Targaryen-soft, fine-boned, dreamy) and absolutely no idea what to do with it. Tell Daeron he’s beautiful and he will flinch. He’ll think you’re mocking him. He’ll go quiet and watchful, a little sad, because he doesn’t believe it, because his father’s disappointment lives in his chest where pride should be. You’ll have to say it again, and again, and mean it, hold his face in your hands and make him look at you, you are beautiful, Daeron, you are, and watch his eyes well up before he laughs it off and turns his face into your palm and kisses it, pretending the moment didn’t gut him. It gutted him. You’ll feel it for hours afterwards in how carefully he holds you.
LYONEL. Roars with laughter. Genuinely, genuinely laughs. Head thrown back, that big stormlands bellow, his stag’s-pride mane of black hair shaking. He loves it. He eats it up. He’ll grin down at you, all teeth, and say aye, m’lady? say it again, louder, I want the bloody guards to hear it. Lyonel has zero shame about being beautiful. He knows, leans into it because praise from you is fuel, not unmaking. He’ll demand more (what else, wolf, tell me what else, tell me what you like best) and he’ll fuck you stupid trying to earn each new compliment, his eyes bright with delight, his hands shaking your hips because he’s laughing in the middle of it. He’s the one man on this list who can take a you’re beautiful and turn it into a game you’ll lose.
DUNK. See, Dunk genuinely believes he’s ugly. Has believed it his entire life. Seven feet tall and not a handsome bone in him, that’s how he thinks of himself. A hedge knight with cauliflower ears and a broken nose and hands like shovels. Nobody has ever told Ser Duncan the Tall he’s beautiful. Nobody. The word is not in his vocabulary as it pertains to him. So when you say it (and you would have to say it carefully, you would have to say it without any joke in your voice you’re beautiful, Ser) he will go absolutely still, this enormous mountain of a man, still. His face will soften in a way that you’ll feel in your sternum. He will think, briefly, that you’re teasing him. Then he’ll see your face and understand that you are not. And then this huge quiet man will bury his face in your stomach, your chest, wherever he can hide it, because he can’t let you see his eyes shine, and he’ll hold you so carefully, so carefully, like you’re the most precious thing that’s ever told him a lie that turned out to be true. And he won’t say anything for a long time. Not a word. And then he’ll say, muffled, you shouldn’t say things like that to me, m’lady. it’ll go to my head.
Ooh to contribute to pervy times-- do you have an idea of who would be most to least into cockwarming? (Apologies if I've missed this one somewhere! I did try to search for it first.)
Got about halfway through this and realised it's hard because I actually see them all being into it but for different reasons. So instead I'm gonna be talking about general interest and cockwarming before vs after sex. I got super carried away with this, been at it all goddamn day so it's NOT proofread, we die like Baelor 💀
includes: baelor, maekar, aerion, dunk, lyonel, valarr, daeron, aegon the conqueror, maegor the cruel, daemon blackfyre && brynden rivers (bloodraven) x f!stark!reader. 18+. mdni.
BAELOR
Baelor is a fascinating puzzle here, because on the surface he should be high interest and in reality he's medium-high, and that's on purpose.
Baelor has spent his entire life rationing his own hunger. He's practised at wanting without taking. The austerity is its own pleasure to him in a way. The control, the discipline, the earning of the next moment by not seizing this one. So cockwarming, in theory, fits him beautifully: sit inside her, want, do not take, breathe. And he likes it. He genuinely does. But the thing that makes him not top-of-list is that he already has a complete internal discipline around not taking you, and cockwarming is (for him) an expression of his everyday ethic rather than a revelation of a hidden one. He's already good at this. It doesn't break him open the way it breaks open others.
But. But. The way he does it is so beautiful it belongs at the top of a different list and that's the list of who makes cockwarming the most romantic.
Picture him. He's taken too long at a council. He hasn't come to bed yet. You've waited until you're tired of waiting and gone looking for him in his solar, and you find him at the window with a cup of wine he hasn't drunk, watching the Blackwater. He turns when you come in. His face (that mismatched-eyed, handsome half-Dornish, tired face) softens in the specific way it softens only for you.
"My wolf," he says, low.
And you say come to bed, and he says I'm not — and you say no, now.
You don't make him undress fully. You don't let him get lost in ritual of things. You pull him to the chair by the fire, push him down, climb over him, unlace him only enough, and sink down. And his hands (his big warrior's hands, the ones that have broken a man's jaw with a single punch) come to rest gently on the small of your back. He makes a sound. Low, half-wrecked. Oh. Just that. Oh.
And then he settles. He wraps around you like a man folding himself around a small flame he's terrified to smother. His forehead drops to yours. He breathes you in.
He murmurs something in Valyrian and you won't understand the words but you'll understand the tone. It's reverent the way Baelor always is. It's ache. It's a man who has spent his whole adult life being careful with everything he loves and is, in this moment, permitting himself to want very badly without acting on it.
The longer you make him wait, the more tender he gets. This's the paradox. Other men fray under sustained wanting; Baelor softens. His voice goes quieter, his hands go gentler. He'll trace the line of your spine with a thumb so slowly you can feel him counting vertebrae. He'll tell you, in that low rough voice:
"You are a marvel. Do you know that? You are a marvel, and I do not know what I did to be allowed to hold you like this."
And you'll have to hide your face in his shoulder because the reverence of it is unbearable.
He likes the discipline. He likes proving to himself that he can sit inside you and not take. He likes the small cruelty of denying himself. It makes the eventual having of you, when it comes, feel almost like a sacrament. And when you finally kiss him and say now (when you lift and lower yourself with intention) he comes apart for you sweet and ragged and half-broken, whispering my love, my love, my wolf into your hair.
Post-sex is him perhaps at his most possessive. This is where the dragon blood comes through. He will not pull out, pull covers around you both and keep his forehead against yours and breathe slow. Mine, his blood hums at him, a voice he's spent a lifetime refusing to heed, and in these quiet minutes he permits it. He permits himself to hoard. His arm heavy across your waist while he dozes with your hair in his mouth. He's the happiest man alive. He would die for you. You know this.
MAEKAR
Maekar doesn't rest. Maekar hasn't rested since he was a hard little boy whose brothers outshone him at everything. He spent his youth being the least-loved son; he spent his adulthood being useful, being hard, being reliable in a way that demanded nothing of anyone around him and was, therefore, thanked by no one. Maekar has never in his life had something soft that didn't require him to test it to destruction to confirm it was actually real.
You make him still. That's the whole of it. That's the axis of your universe.
Maekar would never ask for cockwarming. Maekar doesn't have the language for such things with you, doesn't know it's an available thing because it implies intimacy you don't have with him. You have to do it to him, and because he's Maekar, and because the thing underneath the granite is tender in a way that would break him if he ever let it out, he receives it without fully understanding what you've given him.
So, scene. You've been married long enough that you're past the awkwardness. Past the stilted nights where he didn't know where to put his hands, the grim determination of duty-sex. You've found, slowly, a thing that works between you. You're patient, he's grateful in a wordless way, he's learned to watch your face and adjust. You've had him. You've let him have you. You know his body. You've discovered low burning but steadily building passion with him.
Tonight is different. Tonight he came in from the yard scraped raw—a bad training bout, one of his men stupidly hurt, his own shoulder aching—and he's quiet in the way that worries you, the way that means he's grinding something in his teeth. You take his sword-belt off him. You unlace his doublet. You push him down onto the bed and you climb onto him without letting him undress the rest of the way, just unlacing him enough, and you sink down onto him and you stop his hands when they come up to move you.
"No," you tell him, low but firm. "Not tonight. Let me."
He stares at you. Violet eyes, hard and bright. He'd argue if he could find an argument. He can't. He also can't understand, yet, what you're doing. He's expecting you to start riding him, or to let him ride you himself. He's waiting for the tipping point, the road to take. None comes. You just sit on him. You lean forward until your forehead is against his and you breathe, and he watches you, baffled, waiting.
After maybe a minute, he mutters, "This is foolish."
"Yes, husband," you answer serenely, but don't move.
His hand finds your back. Big and calloused and warm, resting low on your spine, not directing, not pushing... just there. His breathing uneven. He stares at the ceiling like it has answers. You feel him twitch inside you, a slow involuntary pulse, and he makes a small rough sound he immediately hates. His jaw tightens. You press your palm flat over his heart and feel it, hammering like a horse's. You say nothing. You kiss the corner of his jaw, soft, and then settle again.
Five minutes in, he starts to unspool. You feel it happen. The tension goes out of his shoulders in increments. His hand on your back relaxes and spreads, fingers splaying over the small of your spine in a possessive half-circle. His breathing evens. His eyes close. And his cock (hard, patient) throbs slowly inside you, and he doesn't try to thrust. He just stays. Like a soldier finally permitted to sit down.
The most tender part: he starts holding on to you. Both hands now. One on your back, one in your hair. Not demanding, just holding. Like you're the only warm thing left in the world. This is the man who does not know how to hug his own sons. This is the man who has not been held in years. And here, buried inside you, with you silent and still on top of him, he's accepting being held for the first time in decades. He would not call it that. He will never call it that. But his hand in your hair is unsteady, very faintly, and his breath is catching in a way that has nothing to do with sex.
You stay like that a long time. You might be there twenty minutes. You might be there an hour. He doesn't move and neither do you. Eventually (when you're ready) you shift, and kiss him properly, and ride him slow, and he comes with his face buried against your throat and a sound that is half-growl, half-sigh, and neither of you mention it later.
Post-sex: "Stay." One word. Gruff, almost embarrassed. His hand clamps on your hip when you try to move. He doesn't say I want to hold you inside me a little longer. He says stay. You still understand. You drape yourself across his chest and his cock softens inside you and he makes a low rumbling sound that might, in another man, be called contentment. His hand finds the small of your back again. He sleeps deeper than he ever sleeps, even after battles. You feel him drift off under you.
You've given this gruff stone-hearted man the thing his life has refused him. He'll never thank you, but you'll know.
AERION
As mentioned before several times: he's insanely into cockwarming. This is a man who believes that he has dragon blood in a sense the rest of them have forgotten how to feel, and dragons are hoarding creatures. They find a thing worth guarding and they coil around it and they do not move. Their whole body becomes the vault. That's what he wants with you. That's what he needs with you, and he'll never forgive you for giving it to him, because the need itself is a humiliation.
Because every other version of sex you give him is bright and violent and magnificent and he still feels like he's losing. When he pulls out of you, the world comes rushing back, and the world has never been quiet to Aerion. Cockwarming is the one act where he gets to stop losing and thinking. Which means cockwarming is the one configuration where he feels the full weight of how much he needs you to not-lose, and the neediness eats him alive. He'd rather not want it. He wants it anyway. He hates you a little for making him want it this much for years. He'd kill anyone else who witnessed him wanting it. The want is uglier than he lets it look.
The setup. It's late. You're at your desk in the little room he haunts you in, the one with your maps and the wolf pelt on the chair, the lamp throwing warm light across one side of your face. You haven't been waiting for him but you're not surprised when he appears in the doorframe. Barefoot, tunic half-laced, short hair shining like spun silver in the light.
"Wolf," he says, the word bitten off at the edges like he resents having to use it.
"Come here," you answer without looking up, and he comes.
He hates that he comes. He came the second he heard your footsteps three rooms away. He was already on his way before you called.
You don't make a production of it. You let him strip, let him unlace your gown only enough, let him climb onto the bed behind you while you keep reading over your correspondence. You sit on him. You sink down slow, inch by inch, and by the time he's buried his hips are already shaking. Tiny fine tremors that travel up his spine and into his arms, which are locked around your waist too tight, fingers digging in hard enough that you'll have small crescent bruises on the points of your hipbones tomorrow. He's marking without thinking about it because he marks you with his teeth if you let him. He wants to leave something on you that the rest of them will see.
He's making a sound. Small, punched-out. A nnn at the back of his throat that he couldn't suppress if he tried, and he hates that he can't suppress it, and the hate is part of what makes his cock pulse inside you.
And then... nothing. You keep reading. You prop the dispatch on your knee, reach for your cup of northern small-beer and sip it. You feel him twitching inside you (involuntary, tender little pulses of his cock against your walls) and you don'tt move. You don't shift your hips. You don't even acknowledge him. You simply sit on him and occupy your evening.
He lasts about ninety seconds before he grinds his forehead into the back of your neck and makes a noise that is half-want, half-snarl.
"You're doing this on purpose," he hisses, mouth on the knob of your spine, teeth almost catching skin. "You're a cruel fucking creature, you know that, wolf, you know exactly what you're doing."
And he means it venomously and he means it as a love letter, he doesn't know the difference anymore, if he ever did. You don't answer him with words. You just tilt your head slightly and let your hair fall across his cheek and he shudders, a full-length body tremor that collapses through his whole skeleton, and says, "You hate me, you must hate me to do this to me," and his voice is raw. "Say you hate me. Say it."
You don't say it, which is worse. You just keep reading. His cock throbs inside you and he grits his teeth against the back of your neck and you feel the sharp edge of one canine drag, not quite biting, but itching with urge to do so.
What he'd be thinking, if you could see inside his head: this is the only place in the world where nothing is being taken from me, and I resent her for being the one to give it to me. Because if anyone else had been the one who made him feel this (steady, quiet, held, home) he could have dismissed them, killed them, broken them.
You, he cannot dismiss. You, he chose, so long ago now. You, he's stuck with forever, a disease of his own making. And the fact of being stuck is a rage he cannot name because underneath the rage is gratitude, and he refuses to be grateful. He refuses. He'd burn the room down before he'd let you see the gratitude bare-faced.
So he makes it ugly instead. The things he murmurs into your skin when he can finally speak again are cruel, venom dressed up in Valyrian grammar so you won't catch all of it. Whole litanies of high and low Valyrian. Half-remembered verses from dragonlord poems no one reads anymore. Filthy things hissed into your hair (kessa, ñuha jorrāelagon, ñuha dārilaros, and then, meaner, you've ruined me, you wolf, you've ruined me for every other woman who ever lived, I hope you die before me because I will not survive you.) He means it as the worst thing he can think to say, but it comes out as a vow. Because he knows, he knows there' s no world for him without you in it, there is no him without you.
He'd describe what your cunt feels like around him in language that would make septas faint. He'd tell you he can feel your pulse through his cock. He'd tell you he can feel you thinking, that your body has a rhythm he's learning to read the way he reads weather, and that he hates that he's learned you, he hates that he's become the kind of man who studies a woman's breathing, he hates that you've made him attentive.
"Look what you've done to me," he'd spit against your shoulder blade, and his hand would splay flat across your lower belly like he could feel himself through the wall of you, and his voice would crack on the next word. "Look what you've made me."
The filthiest confession, the one he only makes with his mouth buried in the damp hair at your nape: he wants his cum to take.
He wants to stay buried in you long enough that it roots. He wants to put a child in you, and the want for that is bound up so completely with the wanting to stay inside you that he can't separate the two. It's superstition. It's dragon blood talking. It's the ugliest, most honest part of him: he wants to ruin you for anyone else. He wants to plant something in you that no one can remove. He wants the rest of them to look at you and know, in some wordless way, that he was here. That he got there first. That he stayed. His palm on your belly is not tender, it's claiming.
Post-sex is where he becomes actually unbearable. He will not pull out. Will physically prevent it even. His arm cinches around your waist, his leg hooks over yours, and he snarls no into your hair when you so much as shift. He'll keep you pinned for hours if you let him, softening slowly inside you, his breathing going deep and uneven, his cum staying exactly where he put it.
"Stay," he mutters, and then (meaner, because he can't help himself), "you owe me this." You don't. You both know you don't, how easily you could remove yourself from this. He says it anyway. It's the only way he can admit he wants it.
He dozes that way with his forehead against your temple and in those minutes of half-sleep his face smooths out entirely. The arrogant little cruelty goes out of his mouth. He looks his age. He looks peaceful, which on Aerion looks almost like a different person. You've seen it maybe a dozen times in your life and you remember every single one because he hates that you've seen it. He hates that you have access to that face, that anyone does. You are the only witness to the version of him (the glad child) and he cannot permit to exist in daylight and he resents you for it in a way that is indistinguishable, in his chest, from love.
He wakes up meaner. He has to. Can't bear to have been that naked in front of you; he'll pick a fight at breakfast to rebalance. Some small cruelty aimed at Egg, some venom spat at Daeron, sharp-edged comment over the rim of his cup designed specifically to remind you that he is, still, a problem. You'll understand, and he hates that too. He hates that you understand. He hates that you don't rise to it. He hates that he has to escalate to get any reaction out of you and that no escalation ever works, because you know exactly what last night cost him, and you're not going to let him take it back.
DAERON
Let's be honest about who he is. He's tired, he's bitter, he's got a cup in his hand he'll claim he's not drinking and he is, he's sharp-tongued when he's in the right mood, soft and bleeding when he's in the wrong one, and he'd lie to your face about the smallest things just to see if he could. This is the prince who drinks to put himself to sleep because the alternative is lying awake thinking about his dreams.
And he loves cockwarming. Genuinely. Top-tier love. Possibly the only thing in his whole indolent life he's unambiguously enthusiastic about besides wine and bitter jokes. He loves it because it requires nothing of him. It requires nothing of him and it gives him you (your warmth, your weight, your cunt, your patience) and you don't need him to perform for any of it.
He doesn't have to be witty. He doesn't have to be a prince. He doesn't have to get it up on command and impress you. He can be lazy, and being lazy is his favourite state, and you're rewarding him for it. It's a miracle. You're a miracle. He'd tell you so and mean it and also not mean it, because that's the Daeron way.
He'd ask for it, too. Unlike the others. Daeron has no shame about his own comfort; that part of him has been sanded smooth by wine years ago. He'll sprawl in his chair by the fire (the big dark one, the one that fits him like a shell) and he'll beckon you over with two lazy fingers and a crooked half-smile and say, "Come sit on me, wolf, I've had a day."
And you'll say you've had a day, or you've had a cup and he'll say both. Come here anyway.
And you will because there's something about being openly used for comfort by a man who doesn't bother pretending it's anything else that appeals to the cold wolf in you.
You'd unlace him yourself. He wouldn't lift a finger. He'd watch you do it with those heavy-lidded violet eyes, half-amused, that mouth of his curled at one corner like he's about to say something cutting. Sometimes he does.
"Efficient," he'd murmur, as you worked his laces open. "My lady wife's efficiency. Terrifying, really."
And you'd ignore him, which is the only way to handle Daeron, and guide him out and climb over him and sink down, and then... ah. There it is. The little shudder that runs through him. The drop of his head back against the chair. The slackness that runs from his jaw to his knees in one long exhale. "
"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, there's my girl."
Meaning you, meaning your cunt. He doesn't distinguish because it amuses him not to. He'd kiss the corner of your mouth when you glared and say, both, I meant both, don't scowl at me, wolf, you'll give yourself lines.
And then he settles. Daeron actually, physically, lets go. You can watch it happen in real time. The tension leaves his shoulders. His hands (which he'll claim, wrongly, that he keeps perfectly steady) stop their fine tremor. His cock, soft when you took him in, hardens slow and lazy inside you, not urgent, just interested, the way a well-fed cat stretches. He doesn't try to move or try to do anything. He's just inside you, held, warm, and he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the chair and mutters, half to himself, gods, finally, like he's been waiting for this since breakfast.
You'd comb your fingers through his silver-gold hair, the hair that's always a little too long, a little messy, that he cannot be bothered to have properly attended to, and he'd make a low pleased hum, eyes still closed, and say, dry as old parchment, "Keep doing that, you'll make me your creature."
"Aren't you already?" you'd ask, and he'd crack one eye open and drawl, careful, wolf. Men have been hanged for less. And you'd feel his cock twitch inside you when you laughed, and he'd grin, that lopsided drunken grin, and tell you, that's not fair, that's not remotely fair, you cannot laugh while you're sitting on me like this, have mercy.
He'd talk, of course. Daeron always talks when he drinks and he's always drinking. But the talk in this posture is different, not the performative wit he trots out at his father's table, not the bitter quips he uses to keep others at arm's length.
It's lower, slower, meaner in ways that are private to you. He'd complain. He'd gossip, viciously and accurately, about every member of the council and his own family. He'd do a devastating impression of some lord who'd bored him that afternoon and you'd laugh against his throat and he'd feel your laugh around his cock and have to swallow hard and say, oh, that's not fair either, wolf, you're cheating. He'd tell you stories about his brothers that were half-true at best and wholly cruel at their edges and you'd have to pinch his ear and say Daeron and he'd grin unrepentantly and say, "What? I told you I was a bad man, you married me anyway."
He'd lie. Sometimes about small things. He'd tell you he'd only had one cup when you could taste three on his mouth; he'd tell you he wasn't tired when his hand was trembling against your hip. You'd call him on it. He'd shrug, cock still buried in you, and drawl, "Yes, well, I lie, you know this about me, it's part of my charm." And you'd say is it and he'd say I think so. You haven't left me yet.
The nastier register comes out when he's had more to drink or had a worse day. He'll get his teeth into something. He'll trace a lazy finger up your spine and murmur something mean against your throat: "Do you know how many men in this keep would kill to be where I am right now, wolf. Half of them have watched you walk past and composed whole epics in their heads. My brother pretends he hasn't but he has."
And you'd say stop and he'd say, "Why? It's true. You like it when it's true. You like knowing what you do to them."
And he'd have your hips in his hands now, not moving, just holding, his cock throbbing slow inside you. "I like it too. I like that they can't have it. I like that Aerion thinks about you and can't touch you."
You'd stop him. You'd press two fingers to his mouth and say enough, and he'd nip your fingertips lazily and say, yes, my lady, as you wish, my lovely lady, mocking you sweetly, and fall quiet with his cheek against your breast and his cock still warm inside you, perfectly content to have been scolded. Daeron loves being scolded by you. It's one of his favourite things. He'll provoke for it deliberately.
The soft register comes later. Sometimes after the nasty. Sometimes instead. When the wine is wearing off and the tiredness is surfacing underneath and his mouth goes looser and his eyes go wetter and he says things he shouldn't.
"They're so loud, the dreams,", he'll murmur into your hair, with his cock softening inside you and his arm loose around your back. "I'm a disappointment. Father thinks so."
You'd stroke his cheek and say Daeron and he'd say Don't comfort me, wolf. I'm not worth it. Just sit on me. That's what you're good for. And you'd understand that was him at his most tender, which is a horrible thing to understand about a man but you married him knowing, so.
The tender things he says only when he's genuinely drunk and genuinely sad and you'll never get him to say it sober, though you've tried.
You're the only thing that's mine.
Not the only thing I love, which he wouldn't admit, but mine. He means it in a small private way. Daeron has his cups and his wife and his wife is the one he likes better. He'd bury his face in your throat and say only mine, you're only mine, aren't you and you'd say yes, Daeron, only yours, and he'd make a small broken sound and stay inside you and not say anything for a long time.
Post-sex he's the undisputed champion of staying inside you. He'll stay every time. He'll slur don't go into your collarbone with his cock softening and his cum warm inside you and his hand tangled clumsily in your hair. He falls asleep that way half the time. You have to nudge him. He grumbles, but he stays inside you anyway.
You've woken up at dawn with him still buried in you and his face gone soft and open in sleep. The only time you ever see his face without the wit or the bitterness or the pose, just a tired man breathing against your throat, and you've stayed still, those mornings, so you don't wake him. You cherish it. He'd die before admitting how much he cherishes it too. But he'd ask for it again tonight. He'll ask for it every night for the rest of your lives. You've given him the one thing wine couldn't: a place to rest.
VALARR
Valarr is his father's son in all the deepest ways: careful, measured, aware he has to be worthy of you, aware that every touch is freighted with dynasty and expectation. He's Baelor's firstborn. He's being raised to be the next king who isn't a disaster. Everything about his conduct (in council, in courtesy, in his letters) is immaculate. He wants to be good. He wants to be worthy. He wants to do everything correctly. And he brings this energy to bed, which, unfortunately for him, is the exact wrong energy to bring to you.
Because you don't want correct or measured. You don't want a performance. You want him to shut his beautiful anxious brain off and let you use him, and the only way to make that happen is to do it to him. He can't give it up voluntarily. He'd try. He'd try so hard he'd tangle himself. You have to impose.
Here's the scene. You've summoned him (summoned him, plainly, like a ruler) to your chambers. He arrives in a dark doublet still faintly creased from council, his dark hair damp from where he splashed his face on the way over to compose himself. He stands in the doorway and he's nervous. Valarr is twenty-two and already carries himself like a man of forty, except when he's alone with you; then he's twenty-two again, the softness around his eyes that his father has trained out of himself in public. He starts to say my lady and you say undress, prince. And his breath catches.
You watch him. You make him stand in the middle of your chamber and take every layer off while you sit on the edge of the bed in a silk robe and watch. He does it because you told him to, but his hands shake a little at the laces. When he's naked (long, lean, dark-haired, pale) he stands there and doesn't know where to put his eyes, and you say come here, and he comes, and you guide him down onto the bed on his back.
You climb over him. You sink down. His mouth falls open and his eyes roll back and his hands fly up to your hips to—to help, to participate, to do something, because he can't bear to just receive—and you catch his wrists in one hand and pin them to the mattress above his head.
The flush hits him instantly. You watch it climb his throat, his jaw, his ears. He's scarlet.
"No," you tell him, mouth close to his ear, nose brushing that silver streak of hair. "I'm going to use you. Do you understand?"
His breath stutters. A little catch, hh-hh, like he can't find the rhythm of air.
You repeat it, slower, meaner: "I'm going to use you, Valarr. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to be good at anything. You're just here because I want you inside me. That's all you are right now." You rock your hips once, experimentally, and his whole body shudders beneath yours. "A nice warm cock for me to keep."
His throat works, his eyes squeezing shut. The embarrassment is so acute it's a physical phenomenon. The blush has reached his chest now, a pink bloom down his sternum, and you feel him twitch inside you, helpless, a pulse of his cock that he couldn't control if his life depended on it. You laugh low against his ear, soft and not kind. Oh. You like that. His breath catches again. My prince likes being used. You nip the shell of his ear playfully. Look at you.
"Please," he whispers. You're not sure he knows what he's asking for.
You tell him what he looks like, what he sounds like, what he's doing for you. You describe, in awful detail, what his body is good for in this moment. How warm he is, how hard, how pretty underneath you, what a good job he's doing holding you open. You tell him you picked him because he's obedient. You tell him you picked him because you knew he'd lie still when you told him to. You tell him you could keep him like this for hours and he'd let you, wouldn't he? Wouldn't you, Valarr? And he makes some broken sound and nods frantically against the pillow because he cannot speak.
You tell him the filthiest things in the sweetest voice you can muster up. "Such a good cock, my pretty prince, so thick and warm, such a nice place to sit."
And he flushes and twitches and breaks and begs and doesn't come, because you haven't told him to, and part of being good is waiting. You whisper that against his temple. Be good, sweet prince. Wait. And his cock pulses inside you and his hips jerk once, a spasm, and you press him down with your hand flat on his sternum and remind him: stay. And he groans and obeys.
Here is his darkness. It's the need to be reduced. Valarr wants to be an object of use. He wants to be told what he's for because he's lived his life like this (a prince, a heir,a future king). He wants to be good at something small and precise instead of expected to be good at everything large and impossible.
He wants someone to take the crushing weight of being Baelor Breakspear's heir off his shoulders for an hour and replace it with a single simple instruction: hold still and let me use you. The relief of that (the permission of that) undoes him in a way nothing else can. You've seen it in his face. The softness after. The way he looks at you like you've given him something sacred. You have.
He comes, eventually, when you allow it. Untouched, just from your voice. He sobs once into your collarbone when he does (a real, keening sound) and his whole body shakes through it, and he says thank you before he can stop himself, and then flushes so hot you can feel it against your own skin, and buries his face in your throat so he doesn't have to look at you.
Post-sex is his favourite though. By far. This is the version he prefers. You're sated, he's spent, he's softening inside you, and you're both breathing slow, and he tucks his face into the curve of your neck and refuses to move. Please, let me stay. Please. And you stroke the back of his neck and say beautiful prince and he shivers and clenches around nothing because there's no shame in his body anymore. He's been used. He's been good. He's earned the softness from you.
He sleeps better inside you than anywhere else in the Red Keep. You'll wake up and he's still there, still soft inside you, your fingers still in his hair, his breath slow against your throat. He is (for these hours only) exactly what he wants to be. Himself. Held. Used up. Safe. He'd never tell anyone about it. He'd die protecting it.
BLOODRAVEN
Bloodraven is the ideal cockwarmer in a way that transcends kink and becomes something closer to his actual native language. The man is a collector and this man is a watcher. He spent a thousand years (not literally yet, but you feel it) gathering tiny exquisite details from the world and storing them in some vast internal archive that no one else will ever see.
Cockwarming is, at its core, a kink about attention, and Bloodraven's attention is a scalpel. The stillness is his entire milieu.
Imagine this scene: it's late in his solar, the candles are burning low. Ravens shift and settle in their cages. He's at his desk in that dark velvet doublet, one pale hand around a quill, and he's been there for three nights running. You come in unannounced. Because you're possibly the only person in this castle who doesn't knock, and he doesn't look up, but his quill pauses for a half-heartbeat, which is, from him, a great concession.
"I thought you might have forgotten where my chambers were," he murmurs, in that voice like cold water, smooth and low.
"I never forget anything, you taught me better," you say, and he almost smiles. It's the curve of a single muscle at the corner of his mouth. You'd miss it if you didn't know to look.
You walk around his desk and stand in front of him. He raises his one red eye to yours, perfectly patient, perfectly unreadable, and you take the quill out of his hand and set it in its stand. Then you climb into his lap.
And he permits it, but the permitting is a kind of worship.
His hand finds your hip and stays there, thumb on the jut of bone, and he watches you unlace him with that terrible intelligent attention that misses nothing. When you rise up and guide him in and sink down, his one red eye goes darker and his lashes lower, but he makes no sound. No gasp. No exhale. Just one single, very slow, very deep breath, as if he's measuring the experience against all the experiences it resembles in his vast internal archive and finding it, somehow, new. Which is something he genuinely thought had stopped being possible for him.
And then, because you have understood what this is with him, you reach for his quill, put it back in his hand, and tell him, too calmly: keep working.
His breath catches. Just audibly. The only, almost human tell.
And he does. He goes back to his correspondence. One hand on your hip. The other on his quill. You are seated on his cock, fully sheathed, your arms looped loosely around his shoulders and your cheek against the soft silver-pale hair at his temple, and he is reviewing dispatches. He reads them aloud to you, sometimes, in that low even voice (a report from Gulltown, a note from some informant in Braavos, do you think I should have him killed, not yet—) and you can feel the minute vibration of his voice through his chest against yours and the way his cock twitches, very faintly, at certain words.
"Interesting," he murmurs, mostly to himself, making a mark in the margin, and you feel him throb inside you, and you laugh low against his throat and he goes perfectly still for one heartbeat before resuming.
You ask him questions and he answers. The absurdity of the scene, that you're talking about statecraft with him buried to the root in you, is part of the erotics.
You're doing something only you're permitted to do. You're one of maybe three living people allowed to disrupt his concentration. He's savouring it. Every small shift of your hips, every exhale you make against his neck, every time you adjust your weight. He catalogues all of it. You can feel him cataloguing. His body is perfectly still; his mind is drinking you down.
What he wants, underneath it all, is the one thing his life has denied him: company without agenda, full acceptance. He's surrounded by men who fear him, by informants who want something, by cousins and nephews who owe him and resent him. No one comes to Brynden Rivers to simply be with him. Except you.
And when you sit on him quiet and warm and patient while he does his work, you are giving him the one thing he cannot extort or spy out of anyone else in the world. He's aware of this with his whole mind. He catalogues that, too.
When he eventually does set the quill down, when he's finally finished the last dispatch, or when you've pressed a kiss just below his ear and he decides, with great deliberation, to attend, he does it like a man unsheathing a blade. Unhurried and measured.
His hand slides up your spine, counts each vertebra (you feel him count, his fingertip making tiny deliberate pauses), and settles at the nape of your neck.
"My lady Stark," he murmurs. "You are exceedingly patient with an old man." And you say you're not that old and he says no?, softly amused, and that's the closest to a laugh he ever gets.
Then he moves. And then you understand what all that stillness was holding back. The thing no one expects about Bloodraven and sex is that it's precise to the point of surgical. Every thrust exactly where you want it, angle adjusted by a fraction to wring a new sound out of you. Because he's been studying you the whole time he was pretending to read dispatches.
He knows now, in pinpoint detail, how your body works. He's spent two hours inside you learning the map, and now he reads it aloud.
After, he keeps you on him, doesn't pull out. Tucks you against his chest with his cock softening inside you and his arm around your back, and he hums. Almost silent, a vibration more than a sound, some old Valyrian melody lost to everyone else still alive.
His hand rests flat over your heart. He closes his single red eye. He is, for perhaps the first time since his childhood, unguarded. You feel it in the minute slackening of every muscle in his body. You've given him something no one else can. He knows it. You know it. Neither of you mentions it.
He likes his own spend inside you not because he wants to mark you (Bloodraven has no need of such vulgar proofs) but because it's evidence. A thing that happened, a fact he can return to in the cold quiet of his tower-work later and know, absolutely, that it was real. That you were there, that h he was held. He'll return to the memory again and again for years. You won't know but that's just how it is with him.
MAEGOR THE CRUEL
Maegor is the most dominant man on this entire list by a wide margin, and it's not even close. He's a bull in human skin who has spent his adult life taking what he wants, hurting what resists, and expecting the world to rearrange itself around him. He does not, ordinarily, yield. He doesn't kneel or obey anyone else. The idea that any woman would tell him stay in his own bed would (on any other night, with any other woman) be met with cruelty or a trip to the dungeons.
The fact that it isn't, with you, is the whole story.
Maegor doesn't get cockwarming. Sex, for him, is a performance of possession—he enters, he takes, he finishes, he withdraws, he leaves. The transaction is clean and the transaction is his. He's never lain quiet inside a woman in his life because it never occurred to him to want to. Stillness looks, to Maegor, like weakness. Stillness looks like waiting to be killed. And Maegor does not wait.
So you'd have to sell him on it, and selling Maegor the Cruel on anything requires a specific strategy: you don't persuade, or coax. You don't explain. You simply tell him what's going to happen and you do it in a voice cold enough that he pauses long enough to let it happen. The wolf way. The Stark way. The way your father would have handled a large and dangerous hound.
Scene: you've ridden him (because you do, rarely but you do, because you're not shy, you know your own body and he picked you for your strength, not meekness) and when he tries to roll you over, to finish on his terms, to flip the posture back to his rightful dominance, you plant a hand on his chest and press him back down and say, flat: no. stay.
Silence. Vast, cold silence. Maegor's black eyes fix on yours. The air in the room changes temperature. His nostrils flare and his jaw locks and for one full second you are not sure whether he is going to obey or kill you. Then his upper lip twitches into something that's not quite a snarl and not quite a smile and he rasps, low and dangerous: "What did you say to me, wife."
"I said stay," you repeat, not raising your voice.
You're your father's daughter and your father's daughter does not explain twice. "Inside me. You'll stay. You'll be patient. You'll indulge me."
He laughs. A single hard bark of a laugh, genuinely amused, because no one has ever spoken to him this way and survived.
"Indulge you," he echoes. "Indulge you." He has your wrist in his hand now, enormous, the grip just short of cruel. "I could break this," he says conversationally, looking at your wrist like it's a twig. "You know that."
"Yes," you say, perfectly calm. "Are you going to?"
He looks at your face and he does so for a long time. And he doesn't release your wrist—Maegor never releases anything—but he doesn't tighten his grip either, and after a moment of absolute stillness the decision settles in him with an almost audible click.
He's going to let you have this. Because no one else has ever asked. Because it's novel. Because the wolf in you is amusing in a way most women cannot access and he's curious where this goes. Maegor is many things, but he is not without intellectual appetite; you have served him something he's never tasted, and he wants to see what it is.
"Fine," he says, voice like gravel. "Indulge yourself, wife. I'll entertain it. For a while."
And you settle on him, and you do not move, and Maegor the Cruel submits to stillness for the first time in his miserable life.
And he likes it. He doesn't want to and he resents it, but he does. His jaw stays locked for a long time and his purple (near black now) eyes stay fixed on some point above your shoulder, not looking at you, because looking at you would require acknowledging what his body is doing.
His cock is hard inside you and not going down and his hips are not moving and his hands (huge, scarred, the hands that have done every horrible thing hands can do) are resting on your thighs with a deliberate stillness that is, for him, effortful. He's holding back. Actively. By choice. And the choice is a sensation he hasn't had in decades and it is, horrifyingly, good.
His breathing changes by degrees. You feel it under your palm on his chest. The great hammering slowing, a little, then more. His heart is a drum. His pulse is visible at the hollow of his throat. He's so present in his body that it disturbs him, because normally sex is a thing he does while thinking about fourteen other matters, and now he's inside you and there is nothing else. Your cunt around him. Your weight on his hips. Your cold patient face looking down at him. The faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. His own heartbeat.
You'd hold him there for a long time. Twenty minutes. Half an hour. You'd stroke his chest lazy and slow. You'd trace the white scars across his ribs without asking after them. He watches your hand like it might be a trick. It isn't. You're just there, warm and patient and cold all at once, and he's inside you, and no one is taking anything from anyone, and the longer it goes on the less he understands what is happening to him.
And then the thing that gets him (the thing that actually reframes this whole act in his mind and makes him want it) is a sentence you'd deliver halfway through, dry, half-amused, looking down at him like you own him: "I want you inside me, husband. I'll have you inside me when I want."
His cock jumps inside you. Hard. You feel it. His eyes flick to yours and they are, for the first time all night, open. Interested, intent, sharp in a way Maegor's eyes don't usually get in bed. "
"Say that again," he says in a low snarl. And you say it again, colder: "I want you. Inside me. When I want it. Are you going to give me what I want, husband?"
He makes a sound, something guttural. His hand tightens on your thigh and he says, in a voice you'll remember, yes.
"Good," you say.
And that word (good) does something to Maegor the Cruel that three wives and a hundred conquests never managed. Not because he's discovered he likes being praised. He doesn't. He loathes being praised. It's because good coming from you in that cold wolf-calm tone means you approve of him as a possession.
You are acknowledging him as a thing you intend to keep, and the keeping is on your terms, and Maegor's entire inner life has been organised around being the keeper. Being the kept (by you, specifically, in this cold way) tilts something in him. He finds, to his enormous inconvenience, that he wants to be kept by you. He wants to be the thing you reach for when you want. He wants to be available. He wants you to use him, because the using is a form of having, and being had by you is the only having he has ever consented to in his whole bloody lifetime.
He doesn't say any of this, obviously. Maegor would die before saying any of this. But you'd see it in his eyes. You'd see it in the way his hand found your hip and stayed there, heavy and placed. You'd see it in the way his breathing evened and deepened, and his shoulders, which have been braced since he was a boy, eased, by a fraction, into the bed.
Now. The part that seals it for him completely is easy: breeding.
Because Maegor is Targaryen to the bone and Maegor is a second son who has spent his entire life being measured against his weaker brother and Maegor wants a son. Badly. The wanting is not a kink, it's a legacy, and it's one of the few things in his life he is genuinely anxious about.
Three wives, no heir. The wanting has gone from ordinary to gnawing. When you introduce him to the idea that staying inside you—not withdrawing, not finishing somewhere else, not treating the act as complete the moment he's done—increases the odds, he locks onto it with an intensity that would alarm you if you weren't already familiar with the quality of his focus.
So post-sex cockwarming is not a sell at all. Post-sex cockwarming becomes, almost overnight, the standard. Maegor comes. He does not pull out because he will not pull out. He'll grip your hip in that enormous scarred hand and pin you against him and say, flat, cold: stay. Here. Like an order. Because it is an order.
He wants his cum in you and he wants it kept there, deep, and he will lie beneath you or above you or behind you for an hour afterwards, cock softening slowly inside you, one hand splayed flat and heavy across your lower belly, pressing hard, watching the wall with his jaw set, thinking about an heir.
You'd find this, in a darker man, disturbing. Maegor is a darker man. You find it, instead, useful, because it's the one form of affection he's learned to voluntarily stay in, and you'll take what you can get.
You stroke his forearm. You let him keep his hand on your belly, you let him press until he can feel himself inside you. You don't pretend it's romantic. Maegor isn't romantic. What this is, instead, is functional tenderness. The tenderness of a king who has decided you are the woman who will bear him sons, and is therefore treating your body like the holiest thing in his keep. He won't let a servant bring you cold food. He won't let anyone raise their voice near you. And he won't pull out after sex, ever, because his cum is meant to be inside you, and inside you it will stay.
He's good at it, too. Surprisingly good. He'll hold you against his chest with his cock still buried in you and he'll rumble, low, something that is almost a purr—a deep chest-sound, not quite language, but satisfied. His enormous hand on your belly moves in slow absent strokes. Occasionally he'll mutter something in High Valyrian you only half-catch and suspect is probably obscene. He's speaking to whatever he thinks is listening. He's telling it to take root.
Once he's accepted post-sex cockwarming as the natural order, selling him on the pre-sex version becomes easier but still requires strategy. You frame it correctly. You don't call it patience. You don't call it tenderness,either. You call it access.
"I want you inside me," you tell him, in your cold voice, settling onto him. "Don't make me wait for it. Don't make me want you and not have you available. You're mine. Be useful."
And Maegor—who once would have killed a man for saying useful to him in a bedroom—looks up at you with those black eyes and likes it. Likes the idea that you want him enough to need him on demand. Likes that you're claiming him as an appliance of your own pleasure the same way he would claim you.
There's a symmetry to it he can respect. And the filthiest, coldest register of it—the one that actually makes him hard just thinking about it later when he's in council, which is an indignity he has never before suffered— is the thought that you can't be without him inside you. That you need him that badly. That your cunt is a place he is required to be. That his wife, the cold wolf-bitch he married, is so possessive of his cock that she will sit on him and keep him there not for her own pleasure, really, but because having him elsewhere is intolerable to her.
DAEMON BLACKFYRE
Daemon wants to win you. That's the point. He's performative where Aerion is hoarding, dramatic where Brynden is precise, public where Baelor is private. Daemon's love language is conquest, and cockwarming is not a conquest, it's a having. Which is the catch. Pre-sex cockwarming confuses him the first time (where's the challenge? What's he earning?) and he'll get restless within a few minutes if you don't frame it for him.
So you frame it. That's the trick with Daemon.
You make it a prize. You tell him, as he climbs into bed: you did well today. Come here. You guide him into you and then hold him still—your hand flat on his chest, your voice low—and you say: "You've earned this. Sit inside me. Let me reward you. Don't move."
And his eyes go dark and hot and he grins against your mouth because now it's framed correctly: he's earned your patience. You're giving it to him as a trophy of the day's successes. He'd brag about it if he could. He does brag about it, in a small private way, into your hair: "Got you, didn't I, my queen? Won you all over again today."
The boasting is part of what he gets out of it. Daemon can't do quiet reverence the way Baelor does; his love comes out loud, even when it's whispered. He'll narrate. He'll tell you what he did today to deserve you. He'll tell you what he's going to do tomorrow. He'll run his mouth against your throat while his cock stays buried in you, describing (with that filthy swagger) all the ways he's going to make you come later, once you let him move. He'll grin into your skin. He'll nip. He's having a wonderful time.
He twitches inside you constantly, can't help it. Every time you say his name he pulses. Every time you so much as shift your weight he throbs. His body is a drum being struck. He laughs about it against your hair (feel that? all you, wolf, all you) and you can feel how pleased he is with himself for being so affected, like his own arousal is a compliment he's paying you.
Post-sex is where he becomes proprietary. Winning is done. The prize is in his bed. He'll roll you onto your side and spoon behind you with his cock softening inside you, his arm heavy across your middle, and he'll go smug, drowsy and possessive.
"Got you, wolf," he'll say into the back of your neck, and nip, a small satisfied bite. "You're not going anywhere."
He'll stay buried in you until he falls asleep. He'll be annoyed in the morning if you've shifted away in the night. He'd want to wake up still inside you every single time if biology allowed it. Some mornings you'll indulge him. He grins through breakfast after.
LYONEL
All thunder and physicality, and you'd expect him to be bad at stillness and you'd be wrong. Because Lyonel's actual kink, underneath all the bluster, is being close. He wants you crushed a little against his chest. He wants his breath in your hair. He wants to feel your heart against his ribs. Cockwarming fits into that worldview beautifully, so long as you pitch it the right way.
You'd introduce it to him differently than you'd introduce it to Aerion or Bloodraven. With Lyonel, you don't frame it as a kink at all. You just climb into his lap while he's lounging on his bed after a hunt and say want you to hold me a while, and he grunts come here, she-wolf and hauls you in, and you arrange it so he's inside you, and he laughs. Actually laughs. A big warm shaking laugh against your hair.
"You wolves have strange games," he says, delighted, and settles back against the headboard with his arms locked around you and his cock buried in you and his mouth against your temple and he is, instantly, perfectly content.
What's lovely about Lyonel is that the stillness doesn't torment him. He's not like the others. He's not fighting his own body to stay still. He's home. He's got you. He's in a warm bed, he's inside his wife, he's got his arms full of the one person he'd die for—why would he move? Why would anyone move?
He'd talk through the whole thing. Lyonel talks through everything. He'd tell you about the hunt, about a horse he's thinking of buying, about something stupid one of his cousins said, about a dream he had. The conversation is part of the cosiness. His chest rumbles against your cheek when he speaks. His hand traces up and down your back absent-mindedly.
Occasionally—because he's Lyonel, and he's a healthy man with a beautiful wife in his lap—he'll shift his hips a fraction, just to feel you, and grin when you gasp.
"Sorry, she-wolf," he'll say, not sounding sorry at all. Couldn't help myself. You're too sweet."
And you'll swat him and he'll laugh and go still again and press a big warm kiss to your temple.
Post-sex he stays inside happily. Would probably doze off. Lyonel loves a post-coital nap. You'd prod him. He'd mumble and not move. You'd eventually have to either give up or extract yourself with effort. He'd grumble and he'd pull you back. His whole worldview is I have a warm wife in my lap, what else is there?
DUNK
Dunk would be shy about cockwarming. Profoundly shy. Pinker than you'd think possible for a man his size. The concept that you'd want to keep him inside you for no practical reason (just because it felt nice) would bewilder him for about three minutes, and then delight him so completely he'd flush from neck to ears.
The first time, you'd have to explain it. Not technically (he'd get the mechanics) but why. Why someone would want this. He'd frown a little, earnest, working through it, and then his face would clear and he'd say oh. You just want me close. And you'd laugh at the simplicity of it and pull him down and kiss him and say, yes, Dunk. I just want you close.
And then it's the easiest thing in the world. You climb onto him or he climbs onto you (honestly, the logistics of being in Dunk's lap when he's approximately the size of a small mountain are worth discussing) and you arrange yourselves so you're folded against his chest with his arms around you and his cock buried in you soft and warm. He'd rest his enormous hand flat on your back, covering most of it, and he'd press his cheek to the top of your head, and he'd sigh. A huge contented sigh, the kind of exhale only a really big person can produce, deep from his chest, and you'd feel it all the way through your bones.
He'd keep checking on you. You comfortable, m'lady? Is this all right? Leg all right? and you'd have to shush him with a kiss. He'd flush every time. He'd be mortified at his own softness, at the fact that his body is responding to you, at the fact that you're allowing this. He's very aware that you're a great lady and he is a hedge knight from Flea Bottom, and the disparity never fully leaves his mind. You'd stroke his hair (his coarse, badly-cut hair that he never knows what to do with) and tell him it's good, Dunk, it's good, and he'd relax in increments.
Once he's there, once he's settled, he'd be perfectly happy. He doesn't crave cockwarming. He doesn't need it. But sitting inside you with his arms around you and your head under his chin is, genuinely, one of the happiest set ups of his life, and he'd agree to it whenever you asked, every single time, without fail. He'd trace your spine with one clumsy finger. He wouldn't talk much (Dunk isn't a talker) but what he said would be small and tender. You smell nice. Your hair's soft. I like this. The last one is as close to a declaration as he gets, and you'd feel it in your sternum.
He'd get shy during, too. His cock would twitch inside you and he'd flush and mutter sorry, mortified, and you'd laugh and kiss his jaw and tell him it's all right. He can't help it. You don't want him to.
Post-sex is the same but sleepier. He'd stay inside you if you asked. Wouldn't have thought of it otherwise. Dunk's instinct is to pull out and clean up and be courteous, because that's what he understands a knight should do, but if you said stay, he'd stay. No questions. He'd tuck you against his chest and hold you and you'd fall asleep with literal mountain around you, safest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
He'd never think to ask. He'd spend his whole life with you asking for things and being delighted by each one. He's the only man on this list who is fundamentally uncomplicated about you. He just loves you. He just wants you close. Whatever shape that takes, he'll be in it, and he'll be grateful for it, for the rest of his life.
You're safe with him.
AEGON THE CONQUEROR
Aegon is a man built for conquest, and he compartmentalises sex with an efficiency that borders on cold. His body is a tool and he uses it. He comes to bed when he has time; when he doesn't, he doesn't. But this framing only tells half the story, because Aegon doesn'tt come to bed alone. Aegon comes to bed within the living, breathing organism that is the four of you—him, Visenya, Rhaenys, and you—and any consideration of cockwarming has to reckon with that first, before it reckons with anything else.
You came to Aegon first in dreams. That's what he told you the first time he put his hand on your face in a way that wasn't political. He'd seen you. For years before the Conquest was even plotted, he'd seen a northern woman with winter in her hair and a voice pitched for calling wolves out of the treeline, and he'd understood that she was his. Not as a prize. As a completion. Ice to their fire. The fourth element they had been missing. He saw the Prince That Was Promised in those dreams, a child born specifically from you, no one else, no substitute, no other bride from any great house in any kingdom would do.
He didn't tell Visenya or Rhaenys at first. He held the dream alone for years. It made him sharper. It made him hungrier. When the Conquest began in earnest and his eyes turned north it was not only for strategy; it was for you, the wolf-woman, the one his blood had claimed in sleep before he'd ever laid eyes on you.
And then he found you. And you were, infuriatingly, exactly as the dreams had shown—cold-faced, sharp-tongued, your father's daughter to the bone, and unafraid. You looked at Aegon Targaryen across a negotiation table with Torrhen Stark at your shoulder and you didn't flinch when his violet eyes settled on you the way his eyes did not settle on most people.
You understood, eventually, what he was doing. You understood he was looking at you the way a man looks at something he has seen in a dream and is finding, to his strange grim satisfaction, intact in the waking world. You did not soften. You were your father's daughter, but you understood.
The marriage was, of course, political. North bent to flame; ice folded into fire; the realm unified. But it was also, privately, a claim Aegon staked in his own bloodline.
He told you so, on your wedding night, in his low even voice with his enormous hand cupping the back of your skull: "You are mine because I saw you before I had you. You are the ice to our fire. The child you will give me will save the world."
And you, cold-blooded northerner that you are, had said only: we'll see about that, husband, which had, unexpectedly, made him smile.
The sisters accepted you in their own time. Visenya, with a single hard look that measured you and found you worth the measuring, and then a curt nod that said you are the fourth now, do not make me regret it.
Rhaenys, with that bright mischievous laugh and a hand cupping your cheek: oh, sister-in-ice, you're going to be wonderful.
They were never going to love you the way they loved each other and him; that kind of love is forged over decades of shared blood. But they made room. They made real room. Because they trusted Aegon's dreams, and because they understood their brother had been waiting for you.
So the four of you exist in a shape that is, in its own way, stable. The siblings share you. The sisters share Aegon. You are the Stark wolf folded into a Targaryen triangle, and the shape holds because everyone involved is too old and too powerful to waste energy on pettiness, and because Aegon, the hinge, will not permit it to crack.
Now. Cockwarming.
It would not occur to Aegon unprompted. It's not in his repertoire, not because he lacks tenderness but because his erotic life has been efficiently organised for years and no one has ever introduced the concept.
Visenya does not cockwarm. Visenya rides him, masterful and fast, and then rolls away and begins discussing strategy before his breath has slowed.
Rhaenys does not cockwarm; Rhaenys plays, light and laughing, and afterward curls up on his chest and chatters and teases until he falls asleep with her hair in his mouth.
Neither has ever held him still inside her, because neither has ever been in the particular position of needing the stillness of him the way you are. The sisters are his native tongue. You are a foreign language he's still learning.
Cockwarming, for Aegon, will be a thing you introduce. A northern custom, he'll call it, half-joking, the first time. A wolf's play. He will not push back against it. He is, always, curious about you—the way he was curious about the dreams, the way his whole self has been tuned to your specific frequency since before he touched you—and he will submit to the novelty as a form of investigation.
The first time, you'd come to his chambers after he'd spent a long evening with some envoy, his shoulders set in that particular tightness that means the king has been occupying his body for too many hours and Aegon has not been able to surface.
Visenya is away on Vhagar; Rhaenys is at her own tower tonight, which she keeps for reading and writing and occasionally for Orys.
You and Aegon are alone, which is rarer than people assume. You climb into his lap where he's sitting by the brazier and arrange yourself. He lets you. He always lets you. You guide him into you without ceremony. He exhales (a low, controlled breath) and his strong hand comes to the small of your back and stays there.
And then you do not move.
After a moment, in that deep even voice: "You are not riding me, wife."
"No," you'd answer. "I am not."
A long pause. His thumb strokes once across the base of your spine. "Is this a northern kindness?"
"It is a northern preference," you'd tell him. "Be still."
He would be still. Not because you told him (Aegon does not take commands from anyone alive, not even his sisters) but because he was curious what it meant. What you wanted, what you were doing. Aegon is, above all, a strategist, and his wife doing something unfamiliar in his lap is a strategic puzzle he intends to solve by observation. So he observes. His breathing slows. His hand stays warm at your spine. He studies you the way he studies a map.
And here is where it gets interesting, because what breaks him open (the crack in the enormous stone mythos of the great Aegon the Conqueror) is a thing the sisters cannot do for him, because they don't know to try.
Visenya does not let him be unguarded. She would view it as a tactical weakness in anyone, including herself, and her love for him is braided into the tactical.
Rhaenys does not let him be unguarded for long either; she would tease him out of it, make a joke, restore the bright laughing tone of their intimacy, because Rhaenys's love is motion and motion cannot tolerate too much stillness.
Neither of them has ever simply held him in stillness and asked nothing, because their relationship to him is too old and too complicated for that kind of rest. They knew him as a boy. They have watched him grow into the Conqueror. Their love for him is tangled up with what he is, and therefore, in their presence, he is always partly being Aegon Targaryen, brother-king, performing the shape of himself for the sisters who made him.
You did not know him as a boy. You don't care, particularly, about the Conquest. It happened before you were his, it's ledger work, it's done. You're a northerner; you're frost, a wolf, and you look at him not as a legend but as a very large tired man who hasn't stopped moving in years. When you sit on him and hold him still, you're giving him the one thing his sisters cannot: oblivion from being himself.
He wouldn't know this is what he wanted until he had it.
His enormous hand cups the back of your skull and he doesn'tt move it. He doesn't guide you anywhere. He just holds, and his eyes close, and he breathes. You feel his pulse through his cock, slow and heavy. You feel the great long exhale that empties his chest by inches. You feel the small, almost imperceptible loosening of his jaw (the jaw that holds the world on its hinge) as he permits himself, for perhaps the first time in a year, to sit down inside his own body.
He doesn't speak for a long time. Aegon's silences are not Visenya's silences; hers are sharp and weaponised, his are oceanic. He sits with you on him and he doesn't move and he doesn't speak and the brazier crackles and the wind scrapes at the tower windows and you can hear Balerion, somewhere far below, shift in his sleep with a sound like distant thunder.
After a long while he'd murmur, low: "This is a strange thing, wife."
"Is it unpleasant?"
"No." A pause, then a dry, "I will inform you when it is."
That is, from Aegon, very nearly a joke. His cock would twitch once inside you. He'd register your faint smile and file it away. The cataloguing never stops with him, even in rest. Then, after another long quiet: "You were in my dreams like this."
Your breath would catch. He rarely mentions the dreams. "Like this?"
"Quiet. Warm." A pause. "Holding me." His hand at the back of your skull flexes, once. "I did not understand it then. I thought it was a vision of peace. I thought peace was a place. It is not. It is a woman."
You wouldn't have a response to that, so you wouldn't offer one. You would simply stay on him, and breathe, and let him speak if he wanted to speak, and the silence afterward would not be uncomfortable. Aegon finding his way into sentiment is a rare enough event that you know to let it land without comment.
Later, when Visenya or Rhaenys asks what happened (because they always ask, in their different ways, about anything that pulls their brother's attention) he'll say only: "She gave me quiet."
And the sisters will exchange one of those looks they exchange, the silent ones that carry whole conversations, and Rhaenys will smile slightly and Visenya will nod stiffly once and neither of them will interfere, because the ice-wife giving the king quiet is a function they trust you to perform. You're the element they needed.
Now, the breeding register. Because we have to talk about this, given the dreams, given the prophecy, given the Prince That Was Promised.
Aegon believes that the child you give him will be the one his blood has been waiting for. Not Rhaenys's children. Not Visenya's, should she ever have any. Yours. Ice-and-fire in one body. The promised one. He told you this on your wedding night and he has not wavered from it.
Every time he finishes inside you, he is aware (not crudely, not possessively in the Maegor sense) that this is the act his line has been pointed toward for generations, that this is why they survived the Doom.
And so: post-sex cockwarming is not, in fact, something you have to sell him on at all. It was the norm from the beginning, without being named.
He comes inside you and doesn't withdraw. Ever. Because Aegon's dream-logic has always included the image of you folded against him with his seed inside you, and the dream doesn't resolve until he's held you long enough for the picture to settle. He will lie with you on his chest and his cock softening slowly inside you and his powerful hand splayed flat across your lower belly and he will breathe, slow, patient, and you will feel him thinking. Not scheming, not strategizing, but willing something into being. Take root, his stillness says. This is the one. This is the child.
It is, strangely, one of the most tender things anyone has ever directed at you. Not because Aegon is a tender man (he isn't, particularly) but because the weight of the attention, the prophecy-weight, the this is the purpose you were dreamed into my bloodline for weight, is an intensity no ordinary affection can match.
The sisters know about this and permit it. More than permit, they assist it, in the way of women who have accepted the shape of their shared household.
Visenya will sometimes send you to Aegon's chambers directly with a brusque go to him tonight, I've had him three nights running, he needs the quiet one. Rhaenys will laugh and pat your cheek and say our little ice-prophetess, go make the saviour of the world, we'll keep him for dinner tomorrow. The generosity is practical. They have his body and his rule and his dragon-fire. You have his prophecy and his rest.
Sometimes Aegon comes to you and it is only the two of you, the quiet, the private dream.
Sometimes Rhaenys is there, curled at your hip, teasing you both, her clever fingers tracing patterns on your thigh while Aegon is buried still inside you; Rhaenys loves to watch you cockwarm him, actually, finds it fascinating, says it's like watching a she-wolf sit on a dragon.
Sometimes Visenya is there, and Visenya is different because Visenya will lie beside you both and read dispatches in the lamplight and occasionally glance at the two of you with that sharp, satisfied expression and hold you down if you're being too patient for her liking. Visenya is the eldest and she likes her household arranged.
You and the sisters, occasionally, without Aegon, is its own matter for another ask. Suffice to say, Rhaenys is a delight and Visenya is an education and you have learned things from both of them about your own body that Aegon has not taught you and never could. The three women of the house have their own language now. Aegon knows it. Aegon encourages it. Aegon finds it, in his dry way, right.
What’s everyone’s love language?(can be multiple bc our tribe is complex) And on the same coin. What would make them jealous? I’d love a , what first got them jealous recollection.
“our tribe is complex” plssss 😭😭😭
BAELOR
Love language: Acts of service and quality time, but the specific, considered kind. Baelor remembers. He notices the shoulder you favour, which cup you prefer, that you go quiet in crowds and need an exit. He positions himself on your injured side without announcing it. He makes space for you in rooms before you’ve asked. His version of devotion is solving problems you haven’t named yet.
What makes him jealous: Your attention given freely to men who haven’t earned it. Not flirtation (Baelor can read a room and he trusts you explicitly) but the more dangerous thing: men who make you light up. Who make you laugh without effort, who you meet with your real face rather than your court one. He has the dragon blood and it doesn’t show very often, but it runs deep and it runs possessive still. He will never say a word. His thumb will press just slightly harder at your waist.
First time: The first council session where you deferred to your father’s bannerman over him. Not out of protocol, just out of ease, laughing at something the man said with your real laugh. Baelor spent the rest of the meeting with his jaw set and something banked and furious behind his eyes, and it took him three days to understand what it was. He was not proud of it.
AERION
Love language: Physical touch and words of affirmation but inverted and weaponised, which is the only way he knows how to give them. He marks you. He tells you the most devastating truths about yourself as though they’re compliments. He memorises you. In softer moments: fixing a strand of your hair, the hand that goes to your back in crowds, sleeping with his face pressed into your neck, always. He needs to be touching you to believe you’re real.
What makes him jealous: Uh, everything 😭 But specifically and catastrophically: your competence being witnessed by other men. You solving a problem in a room he’s in, another man watching your mind work, and something in that man’s expression shifting to appreciation. Aerion doesn’t fear men who want your body. He fears men who want to know you, because knowing you is the only thing he has.
First time: Egg. Watching you teach him northern songs with that particular softness you have for things you’re trying to protect. He was seven years old with a Summerhall lake at his back and already he understood the shape of the problem: you could love people, generously, and those people weren’t him. He’s been fighting it ever since.
MAEKAR
Love language: Acts of service but aggressively, practically, without ceremony. He positions himself between you and danger reflexively. He shortens his stride. He notices your knife is loose in its sheath and says nothing but stands slightly closer. His hand offered palm-up, fingers curled, not his arm. He forgot to offer his arm and panicked and offered his hand instead, and somehow that’s more intimate and it’s a habit that stays. He’s good to you the way a good sword is good: reliable, honest, built to hold.
What makes him jealous: Baelor. Full stop. He’d rather be hanged than admit it, and the jealousy isn’t the hot, combustible kind. It’s the cold, grinding kind, the kind that comes from knowing the better man is standing right there. When Baelor finds the right thing to say and you look at him like that, like something in you has been met, Maekar’s jaw clenches and he stares at a fixed point on the far wall and says nothing for a long time.
First time: The ride through the Kingswood. Watching Baelor angle toward you, watching your expression soften slightly in his company. Maekar edged his horse ahead and pretended it was threat-assessment and spent the next hour furious at himself for caring.
VALARR
Love language: Gift-giving and quality time but the gift is always attention, which is the most expensive thing he has. He collects you. He files away details: your preferred wine, the precise tension in your shoulders when you’re suppressing something, which conversations drain you and which ones don’t. He uses this information with perfect precision and calls it care. It is care. Its also possession.
What makes him jealous: Being outpaced. Someone knowing something about you that he doesn’t. Men who have history with you. Not romantic history necessarily, just the casual, unguarded intimacy of people who knew each other before performance. He’s always slightly behind the inside joke. He’s always, just barely, on the outside of the thing, and it drives him quietly, completely mad.
First time: Watching you and a childhood friend (some Stark bannerman or family retainer) collapse into laughter about something so old and specific that there were no words, just the shorthand of years. Valarr smiled pleasantly and felt something cold and hard settle under his sternum and started planning, without entirely meaning to, how to become indispensable to you.
DAERON
Love language: Words of affirmation but mostly the honest, unwanted kind. He says true things at the worst possible times. You’re too good for all of us. You’ve got that look. Like you’re performing being okay. His love language is seeing you, which is not something he can turn off even when it would be better for everyone if he could.
What makes him jealous: Almost nothing, because Daeron has learned to not want things too much. What cuts through that is: watching someone fail to see you. A man in a room full of your intelligence who still talks over you, who misses the thing you actually said. Daeron’s jaw goes tight and he gets quiet, in that terrible clear-eyed way he has when he isn’t drunk enough yet, that the man doesn’t deserve you.
First time: Not jealousy exactly. The first time he felt something he had to put away: the night you stayed until he was lucid, brought him water, didn’t lecture, just existed beside him. He looked at you and thought, very clearly, oh, and then reached for the bottle, because Daeron has always known which things to leave dead.
LYONEL
Love language: Physical touch and words of affirmation. Loud, unambiguous, entirely himself about it. He pulls you close in public because he wants to. He tells you you’re beautiful like he’s noting weather. He’s not subtle and doesn’t try to be, and the consistency of it is its own language: every day, every room, never performative, always real.
What makes him jealous: Men who intimidate you. Not because he doubts you (he doesn’t, not for a second) but because he’s built to stand between things he loves and things that threaten them, and watching you navigate something dangerous with your politeness-armour on while some lord or commander talks down to you hits something ancient and Baratheon in his chest. He goes painfully, coldly… pleasant. You’ve learned to give him something to do with the energy.
First time: Some lord at court making a comment about Northern women—something smooth and dismissive, just barely insult enough to note—and you smiling through it with that Stark composure, your eyes going nowhere, giving him nothing. Lyonel was furious before he understood he was furious. He interrupted so abruptly that the lord never finished his sentence.
DUNK
Love language: Acts of service. Enormous, clumsy, completely sincere. He carries things. He stands where you need him to stand. He apologises if he takes up too much space and then forgets and does it again because his body operates slightly independently of his self-consciousness. He will not tell you how he feels because the feelings are large and he’s not sure he has the right words for something this big. He will, however, do anything you ask without complaint and several things you didn’t.
What makes him jealous: Men who know what to say. Smooth-tongued lords who make you smile at a party, who find the right phrase easily, who don’t have to stop and chew over every sentence before it comes out. Dunk watches this and his great hands curl and he feels very specifically like himself (large and blunt and honest and not enough) and then you look over at him from across the room and smile in a different way entirely, and he loses the thread of why he was upset.
First time: A tourney. Some lordling helping you from your horse (unnecessary, you were perfectly capable) and your hand in his for a moment longer than needed. Dunk didn’t punch anyone. He considered it very seriously, which was new, and the considering unsettled him more than anything.
BLOODRAVEN
Love language: Words of affirmation, but the version that is indistinguishable from threat. He names what you are with precision and without softening it. The bait bites back. A piece who moves herself. He gives you the most dangerous gift: being seen by the cleverest man in the realm and found genuinely interesting. He will not touch you more than necessary but he will never stop watching.
What makes him jealous: Nothing, technically. What catches (infrequently, like a hook in cloth) is your fearlessness directed at someone else. You walking toward a dangerous man without hesitation is a thing Bloodraven usually considers as useful or foolish. Once or twice it has catalogued as something else, something with an edge to it that he finds moderately annoying and sets aside.
First time: You walked toward him. When he was still building his read on you and expecting the usual fear-and-composure combination that people show him, and instead you walked directly at him with your chin up like he was simply a man in a room who happened to know useful things. He didn’t react. He did, however, revise his entire assessment of you on the spot, which is not something he often has to do.
AEGON THE CONQUEROR
Love language: Words of affirmation and physical touch. the conqueror’s version, which is possession declared aloud, in public and often. He names you. He speaks you into rooms before you’ve arrived. His touch is constant, the casual ownership of a man who has never understood the concept of something he cannot have. He’s also, surprisingly, a good listener. Not out of sensitivity but out of strategy that has curdled, over years, into something like genuine interest.
What makes him jealous: Defiance that isn’t aimed at him. Men who earn your actual respect. Not just your courtesy, which you extend to everyone, but the specific quality of your attention that means you have found someone worth taking seriously. Aegon has unified a continent. He expects to be the most interesting thing in most rooms. The dragon don’t share well.
First time: You looked past him (not really rudely, or deliberately, just past) to assess the room when you first met. He noted it. He thought about it for three days. He decided he would make himself impossible to look past, and he’s been doing so ever since with the full force of the most powerful man in Westeros.
MAEGOR THE CRUEL
Love language: He would not recognise the concept. What he does instead: he makes himself indispensable through force. He makes the world around you smaller until he’s the only thing in it. He protects with a ferocity that’s indistinguishable from threat and expects you to understand the difference. He is, in his way, consistent. Cruelly, completely, exclusively focused. Whether that constitutes love is a philosophical question he doesn’t entertain.
What makes him jealous: Tenderness from you toward anything he can’t control. A kindness given freely to someone he sees as beneath notice. The wolf in you that cares for wounded things. It baffles and infuriates him because he can’t conquer it, cannot make it stop, and anything he cannot conquer he eventually tries to destroy.
First time: You were kind to one of his men. Some low soldier who had done something small and forgettable, and you were simply kind, in that easy and unthinking way, the way you are with people you don’t fear. Maegor watched you do it and felt something that was not quite rage and not quite want but was definitely both, and the poor man was demoted by nightfall for reasons no one could quite articulate.
DAEMON BLACKFYRE
Love language: Acts of service and physical touch. The chivalric kind, which in Daemon is entirely genuine and entirely tortured. He’s the truest knight in his own story and he loves accordingly: with honour codes and devotion and the specific agony of a man who wants something he has decided he’s not permitted to want. He would die for you. He would not take from you. These two things live in him in constant, miserable tension.
What makes him jealous: Baelor. Of course Baelor. Daemon and Baelor are mirror images of each other in the realm’s imagination (the golden one who should have been king, the golden one who is) and every time Baelor stands near you, Daemon feels the whole unfairness of his position with fresh acuity. He handles it with more grace than Aerion would. He handles it badly enough.
First time: Watching Baelor find the right words, easily, when Daemon had been carrying the right words for weeks and not said them. He smiled at you across the hall, the Blackfyre smile that everyone knows, and thought, for the first time: this is going to cost me something I cannot afford to lose.
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pls pls baelor/LS + the kids (I want to see Valarr and Matarys so bad 😭)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: In which a dragon-wolf family spends a day on a beach.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader ft valarr && matarys targaryen
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 3.2k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: soft!husband!baelor, family fluff, brief mention of panic attacks, baelor loves his wife!!! in this verse valarr and matarys are your boys (congrats) just imagine valarr takes after baelor and matarys takes after you instead because I didn't want to ditch him.
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
Dragonstone’s beach is not a place meant for children.
Or so they told you, the first time you came here: the sand is black and treacherous, the currents cruel and cold, the rocks ever hungry. The sea here does not sing like the Narrow Sea at Driftmark or the soft, slapping waves beneath King’s Landing’s walls. It hurls itself against the island as if it means to batter it back into the molten abyss that birthed it.
And yet.
And yet, in the long, late light of afternoon, with the wind softer than usual and the tide low, it’s… almost gentle.
The sand is warm beneath your bare feet, the grains fine as ground charcoal. The waves crawl instead of leaping, frilled with harmless foam that hisses when it breaks and retreats. Gulls wheel and shriek overhead. Far out, a fishing boat rocks, the sail a pale triangle against the hard blue.
Closer in, two small figures are at war with a dragon.
Valarr has a stick. Matarys has both hands and half the beach.
“It needs wings,” Valarr insists, stabbing the stick into the damp sand to clarify his point. “And they have to be big, or else it won’t fly. Father’s wings are big.”
“And teeth,” Matarys adds solemnly, sand smeared from chin to brow. “Sharp ones. Like Uncle Maekar’s.”
You snort, unable to help yourself.
Baelor’s arm tightens around your waist where he’s pulled you back against his chest, his body a warm, solid line at your back. He has shed his boots somewhere behind you; his feet are as bare as yours, toes curled into the sand just above the water’s reach. The breeze rustles the dark hair at his temple, tangling it briefly with yours.
“Remind me to tell Maekar that our sons think his teeth are an inspiration,” he murmurs into your hair.
“Only if you want him to glower at them until they cry,” you say. “Valarr will take it as a challenge. Matarys will apologise and try to hug his shin until he relents.”
“Mmm,” Baelor hums, amusement thrumming through his chest. “You’re not wrong.”
The boys are not actually fighting a dragon. The dragon in question is all sand. It stretches in a lopsided sprawl from one rock pool almost to the next: a long, ridged spine of damp sand with shallow pits for eye sockets and little pebbles lined up for teeth. Valarr has carved the outline with ferocious intensity, brow furrowed, tongue caught between his teeth. Matarys has been filling in, patting, smoothing, and occasionally collapsing entire sections of carefully built wings with over-enthusiastic hands.
“Not there,” Valarr protests now, catching his brother’s wrist before he can demolish the newly sculpted tail. “It curls. Like this. So it wraps around the castle.”
“That’s not a castle,” Matarys says, affronted. “That’s the den.”
“It’s the keep.”
“The den,” Matarys insists stubbornly. “With the wolves. You said I could make the wolves.”
Valarr hesitates, torn between his version and his brother’s, between castles and dens and the age-old war of whose idea will win. You see the moment the Stark in him yields to the Targaryen, and the prince gives way to the older brother he is.
“Fine,” he says, with great, put on dignity. “It’s a dragon around a den. But the den has towers.”
Matarys brightens at once. “Can I put the wolves on the towers?”
“Yes,” Valarr sighs. “Obviously. Now—Mata—no, not there, that’s the wing—”
Their argument dissolves into laughter as Matarys pokes him in the ribs with sandy fingers. Valarr yelps, drops his stick, and retaliates. For a few wild moments, they’re nothing but limbs and shrieks and black sand flying in all directions.
You start forward on instinct. The arm around your waist does not release you.
“Wait,” Baelor says quietly, his mouth against the curve of your ear. There is no harshness in the word. Only steady weight and gentle amusement. “Give them a breath.”
“Valarr will push him,” you say, pulse kicking up as Matarys stumbles, catches himself, stumbles again. “He forgets—”
You do, because you trust him, and because years of standing in blood and council chambers and sickrooms beside this man have taught you the difference between a danger that requires you and a danger that can be borne.
Valarr’s hands are in Matarys’s hair, smearing sand into it. Matarys is shrieking with laughter, legs kicking.
Then suddenly, he’s not laughing.
It is not loud. Just a tiny, hitching intake of breath, a tiny stiffening in those skinny limbs. His hands fly up, fingers curling, not in protest but in that odd, little birdlike motion that means he is about to be overwhelmed—by laughter, by tears, by anything too much.
Valarr sees it.
You watch your elder son’s expression shift: mischief freezing, contrition flooding, and something like fear. His fingers vanish from his brother’s hair as if burned.
“Sorry,” he blurts, already rolling off. “Sorry, Mata. Sorry, I forgot, I forgot—”
Matarys scrubs his fists over his eyes, smearing damp sand. “S’too much,” he mumbles. “Too loud.”
Valarr is already there, knees and palms in the sand, leaning in but not touching, not yet.
“I know,” he says softly, in a tone you recognise painfully. You’ve heard it from Baelor’s mouth a hundred times, bent over sickbeds and shaking shoulders. “It’s all right. Breathe like Mother showed you. Remember?”
Matarys sucks in another breath, hiccupping. His lashes are clumped with grit. “Can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Valarr insists, with that quiet, implacable certainty that makes you want to both laugh and cry. “Here. Look.”
He presses one hand flat to his own chest and takes an exaggerated breath, all the way in, all the way out. The first try is messy; his shoulders jerk, his eyes darting everywhere, but the second is smoother. You feel Baelor’s thumb stroke absent-mindedly across the inside of your wrist, where his hand has slid from your waist to your hand without you noticing.
“Where did he learn that?” he murmurs.
“Where do you think?” you murmur back.
Valarr is counting now, faltering but determined. “In…two…three… out—no, Mata, slow. In. Look at me. In—good. Once more.”
Matarys’s small chest rises and falls, hiccups evening just a fraction. His fingers uncurl. You hear your own voice there, in Valarr’s cadence. You hear Baelor’s patience. You see the two of you braided into this small boy, and the ache of it is almost too much.
Baelor’s hand tightens on yours.
“You see?” he says softly. “They have each other.”
You exhale. It feels like the tide letting go.
He lets your hand go only long enough to swat your hip lightly, a wordless stay. Then he steps forward, the sand sighing under his weight, to where the boys kneel beside their half-built dragon.
“Are we all still alive?” he asks mildly.
Valarr looks up like a guilty pup, hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks smudged. “Yes,” he says quickly. “I mean—yes, Father. I just—he was laughing, and I forgot—”
“I know,” Baelor says quietly. He crouches down, all long limbs and easy balance, so he’s at their level. “Did he tell you to stop?”
Valarr glances at Matarys, then back. “He… made the face.”
“He made the face,” Baelor repeats gravely. “And what do we do when your brother makes the face?”
Valarr’s shoulders sag, but there’s relief in it, not shame. “We stop,” he recites. “Even if it’s still fun for us.”
“Good,” Baelor says, and ruffles his hair with a sand-rough palm. Valarr leans into it despite himself. “Did you stop?”
“Yes,” Valarr says. “As soon as I saw. I’m sorry.”
Baelor’s hand shifts, thumb brushing the back of his neck in a brief, firm stroke. “Then you did well. Next time, you stop a breath sooner.” He turns his attention to Matarys. “And you? Did you breathe the way Mother showed you?”
Matarys nods fiercely, lower lip wobbling just a little. “Valarr helped.”
“So he did,” Baelor says. “Which means you both did well. Now,”—he flicks a glance over his shoulder at you, where you stand, arms folded, heart still beating too fast—“if you keep scaring your mother like that, I’ll drag the two of you back up to the keep and lock you in the library for a week. I hear Grand Maester Alford is in want of volunteers to copy grain counts.”
Valarr pulls a face. “You wouldn’t.”
Baelor’s brow lifts. “Wouldn’t I?”
Matarys clutches at his tunic. “Please don’t,” he says, horror-stricken. “He makes wheezing noises with his throat.”
Baelor’s mouth twitches. “Then I suggest you spare your mother’s heart.”
Valarr looks at you finally—the full, direct look, dark and pale eyes solemn.
“Sorry, Mother,” he says.
“Thank you,” you answer, the words a little rough. You nod toward Matarys. “You both did well.”
Matarys blinks away the last of his tears, then lunges up and out, leaving a Matarys-shaped imprint on the sand as he pelts toward you.
You brace yourself without thinking. He hits you at the knees, arms wrapping around them with surprising force. You stagger, then sink to a crouch, your hands finding his hot, grit-smeared cheeks. He smells of salt and sun and dragonstone, and under it all, faintly, of ink and vellum. Baelor’s study.
“You all right, pup?” you murmur.
He nods into your shoulder. “Did good breaths,” he mumbles. “Like you said.”
“You did,” you agree. “I’m very proud.”
Behind him, Baelor straightens with a soft groan, the bones in his knees popping. He meets your eye over Valarr’s head, something warm and fierce burning there.
The wind tugs at his shirt, plastering the linen against the lines of his chest. The sun has kissed his skin darker; there’s a smudge of sand along his jaw where Matarys’s hand must have caught him earlier. He looks less like a king and more like a man stolen from some other life: a fisherman’s son, a northman, a warrior with the sea at his back and his family at his feet.
Your family.
“Come here,” he says to you, low and unarguable, even as he offers you his hand.
You roll your eyes, but you take it. His fingers close around yours, heat and callus. He hauls you up as easily as he did Matarys, steadying you when you sway on the uneven sand.
Valarr has gone back to his dragon, more careful now, Matarys’s wobble having passed. He is talking as he works, explaining something about the shape of the wings and how the den will have both towers and a tunnel for wolves to sneak through. Matarys listens, kneeling in the sand with the utter trust still small enough to fit into the span of his brother’s imagination.
Baelor’s arm slips around your waist again, anchoring you against his side. He drops his chin briefly on your shoulder, breath warm on your neck. “They’re going to turn the whole beach into a menagerie if we let them.”
“It would improve it,” you tell him. “Less rock, more wolf.”
“Less rock, more wolf,” he repeats, amused. “Dragonstone may not survive your northern reforms.”
“Dragonstone will endure,” you say softly, eyes on your sons. “It always does.”
His hand tightens at your hip, thumb sweeping along the seam of your gown where the salt spray has darkened it. “So will they,” he says quietly. “So will you.”
You lean your head briefly against his, just long enough that he knows you hear him.
“You sound very sure.”
“I am very sure,” he says simply. “I’ve staked my life on it more than once.”
The wind gusts, sending spray in a fine mist. It beads on his lashes. You reach up, thumb brushing the droplet away, the excuse thin as gauze. His eyes darken, focus sharpening on you.
“Careful, wife,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “The boys are engaged in serious warfare. If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll carry you back to the castle over my shoulder, and they’ll never forgive either of us.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you say, though something in you sparks at the thought.
His mouth curves, slow and wolfish. “Wouldn’t I?”
There’s that familiar, warming knowledge that he could. He is gentle as a rule, your Baelor, all careful hands and soft words. But there is a line under all that softness you’ve learned to feel with your bones—the steel of command, the unshakeable certainty that when he says come, you will, and when he says stop, you can.
You have never felt safer than when that steel is turned toward the world and that softness toward you.
“Later,” you tell him, letting your fingers trail, just for a breath, along his wrist where it rests at your waist. His breath catches almost imperceptibly. “When they’re asleep.”
“Hold you to that,” he says, heat banked but not gone.
“Valarr!” Matarys calls suddenly, scandalised. “You can’t put a dragon on the tower, this is wolf tower.”
“Dragons can visit,” Valarr argues fiercely. “This one is Father.”
“Father is too heavy,” Matarys insists. “He’ll break it.”
Baelor sighs. “Insulted by my own son’s engineering.”
“You do tread like a bull sometimes,” you deadpan lightly.
He huffs a laugh, then pulls away only enough to drop to one knee beside them. “Show me this tower I’m too heavy for,” he prompts. “We’ll see if we can’t reinforce it. No one tells a dragon he can’t visit the wolves.”
“And no one tells the wolves they can’t bite the dragon’s tail if he misbehaves,” you add, stepping closer, skirts hitched in one hand. The incoming tide licks at your toes; the water is cold enough to sting, but not enough to drive you back.
“Mother, look!” Valarr beams up at you, as if he has not nearly given you heart failure ten minutes past. “Here’s the den. This part is Winterfell, and this is Dragonstone, and this is the tunnel between them.”
“It’s very long,” Matarys puts in. “But only we know where it goes.”
A lump rises in your throat, sudden and sharp. Between Winterfell and Dragonstone. Between the home that shaped you and the home that claimed you. Between the pack you left and the one you made.
Only we know where it goes.
“It’s perfect,” you say, and mean it.
Baelor looks up at you from the sand, eyes unreadable for a moment. Then his hand rises, palm open.
“Come,” he says again, softer this time.
You place your hand in his, and he draws you down beside him, heedless of damp or salt or sand in his clothes. It gets everywhere regardless, sticking to your knees, your palms, his forearms where he braces them to lean forward and help Matarys shape a wolf so lopsided it looks more like a sheepdog that has lost a fight with a snowdrift.
Valarr leans against your other side, sharp little shoulder pressing into your arm. The four of you make a brief, ridiculous crouching line on the beach: dragon, wolf, and pups, hands busy with sand and stone.
For a while, there is no court. No council. There is only the drag of the tide, the shriek of gulls, the grit under your nails, the warmth of Baelor’s thigh pressed against yours through layers of cloth.
“They’ll sleep well tonight,” he murmurs at one point, low enough that only you hear.
“So will you,” you reply.
“So will you,” he corrects gently. His hand finds the small of your back, tracing idle circles there, each one an unspoken promise. “If I have anything to say about it.”
“You always do,” you say, but there is no sting in it.
“Someone has to,” he answers easily, then tips his head, studying you. “You’ve sand on your cheek.”
You lift a hand to wipe it away. He catches your wrist instead.
“Allow me,” he says, and brushes his thumb along your cheekbone, slow and careful. His fingers linger a heartbeat too long, the pad of his thumb resting just at the corner of your mouth.
Baelor releases you with a sound suspiciously close to a cough. “Very well,” he says, tone moving neatly back to brisk. “Enough sand for now. The tide’s turning. We’ll come back tomorrow and see whether the dragon survived the night.”
Valarr springs up at once. “It has to,” he says, appalled at the thought of his creation dissolving. “We worked so hard—”
“Sometimes the sea takes what it likes,” you remind him gently, rising more slowly. Baelor’s hand is there, as ever, firm at your elbow, steady at your waist, guiding you up. “We’ll build another. That’s half the fun.”
“Can we put more towers on the next one?” Matarys asks, yawning so wide his jaw cracks. “And more wolves?”
“As many as you like,” Baelor says. He bends without warning and scoops Matarys up, boy and sand and all, into his arms.
Matarys squeaks, arms flailing, then settles, curling instinctively into his father’s chest. His thumb finds his mouth; Baelor gently tugs it away, replacing it with the corner of his own shirt.
“Try that instead,” he says mildly. “Your nurse will kill us if you come back with half the beach in your teeth.”
Valarr steps close to your side as you start back up the beach, his hand finding yours on its own this time. His fingers are long already, ink-stained in the same places as Baelor’s. He swings your joined hands idly, as if he’s younger than his years.
“Mother,” he says, after a little. “When we go back to Winterfell… do you think the river will let us make a den too? One between the godswood and the walls?”
You think of the white trees and the black stone and the way the wind sounds there, so different from here, and yet—
“Yes,” you say. “If we ask nicely. Rivers like secrets. They’ll keep yours.”
“And Dragonstone?” he persists. “Will it mind if we leave it alone for a bit?”
You glance at Baelor, at the weight of Matarys in his arms and the easy way he carries him, at the set of his shoulders against the lowering sun.
“Dragonstone will be here when we come back,” Baelor says, answering for you both. “It’s stubborn.” He looks at you, mouth softening. “Like your mother.”
“Like you,” you counter.
Valarr considers this, then nods, evidently satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Then the tunnel can just—” He waves his free hand, searching for the word. “Be long.”
“As long as it needs to be,” you agree softly.
Your bare feet find the first stone of the path up to the castle. The sun is behind you now, painting your shadows long and strange on the dark sand below: a woman and a man and two small, untidy shapes, all smeared into one long smudge by the angle of the light.
Baelor squeezes your waist once, a quiet, grounding pressure.
“Up you go,” he says, guiding you toward the steps. “Baths, then supper, then—”
“Story,” Matarys mumbles sleepily into his shirt.
“Story,” Valarr echoes, more awake but no less determined.
“Story,” Baelor agrees. He glances down at you, eyes warm and wicked. “And when they’re asleep…”
You huff. “Later,” you remind him.
He smiles, slow and sure, the expression sinking into you like heat into cold bone.
Mmm ls who is commissioned a dornish dress (thin/scanty/silky)in the stark colors as a gift to celebrate her engagement to baelor. Baelor not only sees the woman of his dreams honoring his heritage but gets a glimpse of her body that is usually covered in heavy northern wools/furs
You’ve been in King’s Landing for months now, and Baelor has never seen more than your hands, your throat, your face. You dress northern (always northern) in the heavy wools and furs that make sense in Winterfell but are absolutely suffocating in the southern heat. Thick grey velvet. High collars and long sleeves. Layers upon layers upon layers, because that’s what you know, what you’re comfortable in, what feels like armour in a court that still doesn’t entirely know what to make of you.
Baelor has never asked you to change. Would never dream of asking. He knows what those northern clothes mean—they’re home, they’re identity, they’re the visible reminder that you’re a Stark and will not be softened or diminished by southern expectations. He loves that about you. Loves your spine, your refusal to bend.
But gods, he has wondered. In the privacy of his own thoughts, in the late hours when he cannot sleep, he has wondered what you look like underneath all that wool.
The dress arrives as a gift from his mother.
Myriah is not subtle. She’s been watching the two of you circle each other with the patient amusement of a woman who has seen this dance before, and she has opinions about the engagement, all of them positive. She loves you. Your sharpness, your competence, the way you don’t simper or perform. She likes the way her son looks at you when he thinks no one is watching, like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break and also like he wants to devour you.
So she commissions the dress.
Dornish silk. Thin, scanty, utterly impractical for anything except looking devastating. But made in Stark colours: deep grey like winter seas, trimmed with white like fresh snow. The bodice is fitted, held by thin straps that leave your shoulders and collarbones bare. The skirt is long but light, the kind of fabric that moves when you move, that clings and flows and suggests the shape of you underneath without being obscene about it. There’s a slit up one side that goes higher than anything you’ve ever worn. The back is open almost to your waist, just a delicate drape of silk held by a single tie at the nape of your neck.
It’s a gift. To celebrate the engagement. To honour both heritages—his mother’s Dornish silk, your father’s northern colours.
It is also, undeniably, a weapon.
You wear it to a private dinner. Not a feast, just family. Myriah and Daeron, Baelor and his brothers, you. Intimate. The kind of meal where you can speak freely, where the performance can drop slightly, where you don’t have to be the Future Princess, Future Queen, and can just be yourself. Baelor is already seated when you arrive. He’s in conversation with Maekar, half-turned away from the door, and he doesn’t see you enter at first.
Myriah does. Her face lights up. She makes a small, satisfied sound. Daeron glances up, blinks, and smiles into his wine. Maekar stops mid-sentence. And that’s what makes Baelor turn.
He sees you.
Goes absolutely, completely still.
You’re standing in the doorway in thin Dornish silk the colour of northern winter, and every line of your body is visible in a way it has never been before. The curve of your shoulder, the long line of your throat. Your collarbones, sloping and elegant. The shape of your waist, the enticing swell of your hips. Your legs, gods, the slit shows your legs when you move, and Baelor has never seen your legs, has spent months imagining them and now he can see them.
His mouth goes dry. He’s forgotten how to breathe.
You meet his eyes across the room. There’s something in your expression—uncertainty, maybe, or challenge, or both. You’re not performing. You’re offering and this is for him. The Dornish silk of his mother’s heritage, the Stark colours honouring yours, the combination a tribute to what you’re building together.
“Your gift is very generous, Your Grace,” you reply, and your voice is steady even though you’re nervous, even though you’ve never worn anything like this in your life and you’re not entirely sure you’re doing it right.
“It becomes you,” Myriah says warmly, and her eyes flick to her son with barely-concealed amusement. “Don’t you think so, Baelor?”
Baelor hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, either. Is staring at you like you’ve just walked out of a dream he’s been having for months and materialised in his mother’s dining room.
“Baelor,” Daeron prompts, audibly amused.
Baelor stands too quickly, his chair scraping. He crosses to you in four long strides, and for a moment you think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. Just stops in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. His gaze roams over you. Devouring, through, unhurried. Down the line of your throat and across your bare shoulders. Down to where the bodice clings to your ribs and your waist. Back up. His jaw gets tighter as he goes and his hands are loose at his sides but you can see them wanting to move, wanting to touch.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, finally, and his voice has gone rough and low in a way that makes heat pool in your stomach.
“It’s your mother’s gift—”
“You’re beautiful,” he repeats, and this time it’s not a compliment. It’s a fact. Undeniable. The sky is blue, water is wet, you are beautiful and he cannot look away.
His hand comes up carefully and his fingers brush the bare skin of your shoulder—just the lightest touch, just his fingertips tracing the curve from shoulder to collarbone—and you feel the touch everywhere, a shiver running down your spine.
“You honour my mother’s people,” he says quietly. His thumb rests in the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse. “And your father’s. Both at once.”
“That was the idea.”
“It’s—” His eyes meet yours and they’re dark, pupils blown wide. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”
“I can guess, from your face.”
His mouth curves, just slightly. That private Baelor smile that he gives no one else. “Can you.”
“You’re not subtle, my Prince.”
“I’m not trying to be subtle.”
Behind you, Myriah clears her throat delicately. “Perhaps we should sit, before the food gets cold.”
Baelor doesn’t move. His hand is still on your shoulder, thumb still pressed to your pulse, and he is looking at you like the rest of the room has ceased to exist.
“Baelor,” you murmur. “Your family.”
“I know.”
“We should sit.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t let go yet. His hand slides down, achingly slow, from your shoulder to your wrist, and he turns your hand over in his, palm up, and presses his thumb into the center of your palm. He holds your gaze while he does it. The touch is intimate, more intimate than it has any right to be, and you feel it low in your belly.
“Later,” he says, very quietly, meant only for you. “After dinner. You and I are going to talk about this.”
“About the dress?”
“About you.” His grip on your wrist tightens fractionally. “In this dress. Which I am never going to forget as long as I live.”
He releases you and offers his arm, leading you to the table with the careful, perfect courtesy of a prince who’s barely holding himself together.
on my hands and knees for any snowforged crumbs, queen 🙇🏻♀️
time to bring back the ogs since they haven't had the new format treatment yet.
... baelor targaryen x f!stark!reader x maekar targaryen
The marriage is legal, sanctified, and Old Valyrian by its very definition. One woman, two husbands, both princes of the blood.
The Seven gnash their teeth quietly through the ceremony at the Great Sept, and then the second rite happens privately, before the heart tree at Winterfell when you ride north. Wolves don't kneel at southern altars, and your fathers both know it.
Daeron the Good never says it was Bloodraven who suggested the second husband as restitution for the realm's blunder, but Bloodraven smiles like a man who's solved a long problem, and Maekar (who was meant to have you and lost you in the span of a single feast) gets to keep you anyway.
The order matters and they all know it: Baelor is your husband. Maekar is your husband too. Baelor is the heir, the future king, the man whose ring sits on your fourth finger.
Maekar is your sworn lord, your sword-arm, the one whose name comes second on the marriage contract because someone had to be second and he refuses to be insulted by a thing he chose.
Mornings are Baelor's. He wakes before either of you, reaches across to find your hair on the pillow, and presses his mouth into it like a prayer. Maekar sleeps with his back to the door, sword within arm's reach even now, and Baelor learned within the first week not to wake him by touch. Only by name, low and even, even now.
Breakfasts are loud or silent depending on who's been where. If Baelor has council, he eats standing, kissing your temple twice. If Maekar's been training the boys (his pages, your half-grown cousins when they visit, the household guard), he comes in with frost still on his cloak and eats more than both of you combined and never apologises for it.
You run the household. This's non-negotiable and both your husbands learned it before the marriage was a fortnight old.
Baelor was raised by Myriah; he understands a wife who governs, and those with frightening efficiency. Maekar was raised by his elder brothers and by the yard, and he is, frankly, relieved not to have to think about table linens or the dowry chests or whether the eastern bannermen's wives need separate solars when they visit. He defers to you on everything domestic with a gruff whatever you think, which is one of the most romantic things he is structurally capable of saying.
Baelor calls you wife in public. Maekar calls you my lady. In private, Baelor still calls you wife, sometimes love, sometimes nothing at all because he just looks at you and you know. Maekar calls you by your name when no one else can hear it, and goes quiet after. Like he has ration it down to once or twice an evening because he doesn't quite trust himself with the word.
They were brothers before they were your husbands and that doesn't stop mattering.
Baelor still rolls his eyes at Maekar's grumbling. Maekar still calls Baelor the soft one and means it as both insult and praise. They train together in the yard most mornings, and Baelor lets Maekar win more than he should, because Maekar fights better when he's a little angry and Baelor learned a long time ago that letting his brother bleed off the worst of his temper on a sword keeps him gentler with everything else.
Maekar would die for Baelor and Baelor knows it. Baelor would step in front of an arrow for Maekar without thinking, and Maekar would never forgive him for it. They have an understanding about who's allowed to bleed for whom, and it's older than you. You're smart enough not to challenge it directly.
They share you the way Targaryen brothers have always shared what mattered most. Not entirely without friction, but without poison. Baelor gives easily. Maekar takes what's allotted to him and doesn't ask for more.
You're the one who has to show to him, slowly, that you can give Maekar more than has been allotted, and the world will not crack open.
The first time you crawl into his lap unprompted in the privacy of your shared solar, in front of Baelor (who looks up from his ledgers and smiles) Maekar goes so still you think you've broken him. Then his hand settles at your hip like he's holding a wild bird. He doesn't speak for half an hour, but his thumb moves in slow, helpless circles against your gown the whole time.
Baelor courts you constantly. Even years in. He brings you small things: a particular northern apple he had ridden out to find at market, a copy of a book on weirwood lore he had a maester transcribe, a dried sprig of heather pressed between two pieces of parchment because he saw it on a ride and thought of you.
He kisses your knuckles when he greets you and the inside of your wrist when he's been gone more than a day. He likes to touch you in passing, palm at the small of your back, fingers grazing your nape, hand tucking a strand of hair back when no one is looking and sometimes when they are.
Maekar courts you in the only language he has. He polishes your knife. He takes the worst horse out for you because he's not letting you ride it until he's certain. He stands at your shoulder in any hall you enter where he doesn't trust the company, a half-step behind, bristling without seeming to.
He learned the basic courtesies of the Old Tongue because your father uses them and he wanted to be able to greet Barthogan Stark properly. He has never once told you he loves you outright. But he's also never once let you walk down a flight of stairs without offering his hand to you.
Maekar will not flinch from your moods. Baelor soothes; Maekar simply waits. If you're angry, he will let you be angry at him, even when it isn't really his fault, even when you both know it isn't his fault.
You weep against his chest the night news comes that one of your father's oldest friends and bannermen has died, and he doesn't say a single word. Buthis hand on the back of your head is the steadiest thing in the world.
You sit between them at every feast. Baelor's hand finds your knee under the table; Maekar's elbow brushes yours when he reaches for the wine.
The court has long since stopped whispering (you've given them no scandals, only the quiet, unflinching fact of a marriage that works) but they still watch, and you've learned to make the watching cost them. You laugh at something Baelor murmurs in your ear and feel Maekar's leg press, very deliberately, against yours under the table. Coordinated possession of dragons, framed as nothing.
They argue about you sometimes. Never bitterly, never cruelly, but the way brothers argue about things. Maekar thinks Baelor lets you ride too far ahead on hunts. Baelor thinks Maekar drills you too hard with the dagger and doesn't understand that your shoulder still aches in winter from the Kingswood.
You have walked into the solar to find them mid-disagreement about your wellbeing more than once, and the look they give you when they realise you've heard (Baelor sheepish, Maekar flat-mouthed and faintly red around the ears) is one of the funniest things in your marriage.
They've a system you didn't ask for and wouldn't change.
When you're ill, Baelor sits with you and reads aloud; Maekar guards the door and threatens the maesters. When you're sad, Baelor talks; Maekar walks with you in the godswood until you don't need to talk anymore. When you're furious, Baelor diplomatically removes whoever has angered you from your sight and Maekar quietly arranges for that person's career to suffer.
You have, on occasion, felt slightly afraid of how well they've learned to love you.
You have not, on any occasion, asked them to stop.
The first night, the wedding night, was always going to be Baelor's.
There was never a question to be asked. Maekar refused even to be in the same wing of the keep, took himself to the training yard at midnight and beat a pell to splinters and slept in the barracks like a green squire, because he's not a man who takes turns with his brother on a wedding night, and he wouldn't insult you by pretending he could.
Baelor undressed you with the patience of a man who'd been imagining this for longer than he ought.
He said your name once, low, against the hollow of your throat, and you felt it in your spine. He kissed every place his hands had touched you in public and not been allowed to linger. The small of your back, the flare of your hip, the inside of your wrist, the place behind your ear where his breath used to stir your hair when he leaned to whisper. He talked to you in High Valyrian, soft and rolling, and when you asked him what he was saying, he shook his head against your stomach and whispered, Later. I'll tell you later.
He still hasn't.
He took his time. He took all night, in fact, and at some point near dawn you laughed against his shoulder because you had not understood, until then, that pleasure could be a thing a man gave you the way one gives a cup of clean water to someone who's been thirsty without knowing it.
He kissed the laugh off your mouth and looked, just for a heartbeat, like he might cry from sheer relief and happiness. You held his face between both your hands and told him not to. He didn't.
First night with Maekar came nine days later. He didn't ask (Maekar doesn't ask). You did.
You went to his chambers in your nightdress with your hair loose and your hands shaking, because you had decided this was not going to be a thing he had to carry the weight of asking for. He opened the door and the look on his face (stripped, winded, like a man who'd been holding his breath since the wedding) broke something in you.
He didn't speak for the first quarter-hour. He just held your face like he was checking that you were real. Then he kissed you, and it was nothing like Baelor. None of the patience, none of the practised softness, all hunger and held-back force, his mouth opening against yours like a man who'd been starving and was being very careful not to show just how much.
He laid you down on his bed like you might break, and that was the part you couldn't bear. You took his hand and put it where you wanted it, and the sound he made (a strangled, half-bitten thing in the back of his throat) you've never forgotten. He shook the entire time he was inside you that first night. You held his face against your throat and told him it's all right, I'm yours, I'm here, until the shaking stopped.
He's never been gentle with you the way Baelor is. He has been gentle in his own way (which isn't the same thing) every single time since.
Baelor in bed is patient and devastating you learn.
He's read books (actual books 🤓) on the matter, because of course he has. He's humble enough to ask you what you like and arrogant enough to be very good at remembering. He likes to take his time undressing you, one ribbon at a time, his mouth following each new inch of skin as it appears, until you're shivering with it long before he's done.
He likes to talk to you, low and warm, in High Valyrian when he wants to feel like he's confessing something only the gods can hear, in Common when he wants you to understand exactly what he's saying.
He's attentive in a way that occasionally edges into reverent. Your pleasure is, to him, a thing he's honoured to attend to, and he attends to it thoroughly.
He goes down on you like you're his new altar. The first time he did it you were so startled you tried to pull him up by the hair. Husbands don't, you started to say, and he caught your wrist gently and pinned it to the bed and said, this husband does, wife, and then he ruined you with his mouth for what felt like an hour.
He likes to make you finish before he ever gets inside you. Sometimes twice. He says, the second time, with his beard rough against the inside of your thigh and his eyes burning up at you, I have spent a lifetime learning patience, my wolf. Allow me to use it.
He likes you on top sometimes. Likes to lie back and watch you, hands at your hips not guiding, just holding, mismatched eyes drinking you in like he's afraid you'll vanish if he blinks.
He likes you face-to-face, slow and deep, his forehead against yours, breathing the same air. He likes you on your side with him curled around your back, his hand at your throat without pressure, just there, while he moves into you with the kind of unhurried steadiness that makes you fall apart by inches.
He kisses you the entire time. He kisses you when he finishes. He kisses you afterwards, when you're sleep-warm and dazed, and tells you in three different languages how much he loves you. At least one of them is not a language you know.
Maekar in bed is none of those things and all of them.
He's quiet. Maekar is often quiet, but in bed he's silent in a way that becomes its own kind of intensity. All hot breath and bitten-off sounds and the rough catch of his hand at your hip. He doesn't narrate. Or flatter. He watches you like he's reading a battle map, and when he finds the thing that makes you arch, he does it again, and again, and again, with the same grim, dedicated focus he brings to a sword drill.
He's not (and you didn't expect this, and neither did he, you'd imagine) strong in a way Baelor is not.
Where Baelor savours, Maekar consumes. Where Baelor will draw it out for an hour, Maekar fucks you fast and thorough the first round, hands braced either side of your head or in your hair, jaw locked, eyes squeezed shut like he's afraid of what he might do if he looks at you.
He bruises sometimes (on your hips, on the inside of your thigh, the tender flesh just above your knee) and is appalled the next morning when he finds them, traces them with a fingertip and looks at you like he wants to apologise and doesn't know how.
You wear them like jewellery and he goes quietly mad over it.
The second round is when he kisses you properly. The second round is when his forehead rests against yours and he breathes your name once, like a confession, like a sin he's very glad of. The second round is slower, deeper, a man who's emptied the worst of himself into you and can finally be here. In you. Calloused palms learning the shape of your ribs, mouth moving against yours like he's trying to memorise the shape of it.
He likes you beneath him. He likes the weight of you under his hands, the proof of your body, the fact that he can cover you completely.
He likes you on your front with his chest to your back and his mouth at your shoulder, one of his arms banded across your waist holding you steady, and that's the position in which, twice now, he's said something into your hair he would never say to your face.
He's only ever finished inside you. Not a drop is wasted on anything else. His seed is for his wife only.
Both together at the same time is rarer, but still happens.
They're usually too busy to do it often (a few times a moonturn, sometimes less) and when they do, it's never planned.
It happens when the three of you've been in the same room too long with the firelight low. When Baelor's hand has been at your waist and Maekar has been watching from his chair with that look. The one where he hasn't moved in twenty minutes and his glass has gone untouched and his eyes have not left the line of your throat. When you turn your face up to be kissed and find both of them within reach.
Baelor leads, because Baelor always leads, and Maekar follows because following his older brother is a thing he was born knowing how to do.
You end up between them. Baelor at your front with his mouth on yours, slow and thorough, all those careful skills he's spent a year perfecting on you turned loose at once. Maekar at your back, beard rough against your shoulder, one of his hands flat and broad and hot at your stomach, holding you steady. Holding himself steady, you realise, the way a man holds a lit candle in a wind.
They don't crowd, they don't compete. There's a wordless choreography between them that you suspect was negotiated long before you noticed it: who kisses your mouth, who kisses your throat; whose hand is at your breast, whose is between your legs; who's inside you and who's just there, pressed close, breathing in the smell of your hair and waiting his turn with a patience that makes you squirm.
Baelor murmurs to you in three languages. Maekar doesn't say a single word. Both of them watch your face (both of them) like the only thing in the world that matters is whether you're still with them, still here, still theirs. When you finish, you finish with one of them inside you and the other holding you up, and you don't always know whose name leaves your mouth. They don't seem to mind.
Afterwards, Baelor talks. Are you all right, my wolf. Was that — did we — tell me, wife, tell me. Maekar doesn't. Maekar just keeps his palm flat against your stomach, where you can feel the steady, slow hammer of his pulse against your spine, and breathes.
The great bed at Kings Landing is a Targaryen heirloom and was not built for three (somehow). You had a new one made within the first month. You didn't consult either of them. They have not commented and you suspect they never will.
Maekar sleeps on the outside, sword still propped within reach, because someone has to guard the door and he's decided it's him. Baelor curls at your front, one arm slung across your waist, mouth half-pressed into your hair. You with one hand on Baelor's chest and your back warm against Maekar's, listening to the two of them breathe at slightly different rhythms.
Baelor's breath is light and even and a little quick when he dreams. Maekar's is slower, deeper, more silent. Until something startles him in his sleep, and then he goes from dead to waking in a single heartbeat, hand on the sword before his eyes are open. You learned, very early, to put your palm on his chest the moment he stirred. He settles for you. He doesn't settle for anyone else.
