#targlocket

maekar took a deep, steadying breath, trying very hard not to snap at his newly betrothed. or throttle her. was it truly too late to call the arrangement off? a prince of the realm could do as he pleased, after all.

“it excites me in the same measure as a court meeting about grain taxes does, wife,” he grunted, fingers tightening onto the half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. he would need way more than that for what was to come in a few moments. maekar would drown himself in numerous barrels if it would spare him from having to pretend to fuck his wife in front of tens of courtiers and ladies in waiting. oh, and a maester. how could he have forgotten? the gods also needed to be witnesses to such a sacred arrangement. the more people see the proof of his virility, the better. they should invite the whole realm if they are so eager to see him perform his husbandry duties.

“grain taxes,” was heard from his right, your voice deadpan as you sneaked a glance towards him, a huff falling from your lips. “it pleases me that my lord husband would associate us having a moment of unbridled passion with the ever ardent intricacies of grain taxes,” your lips twitched, a little smile in the corner, cheeky.

he could feel the vein in his temple pulsing. a headache was on the way. and even then, it couldn’t even come close to the one that was already in his presence. he could’ve asked all the healers in the seven kingdoms, and none of them would be able to cure him of the ever-lasting migraine that was his wife.

a wound without a cure. a curse without benediction. a grueling fate without end, at least for now.

“unbridled passion?” he almost bristled at the words. the assumption that there will be anything but a poor attempt at make-believe on his part grated on his nerves. “i would have hoped that you would not delude yourself into believing we shall be doing more than a farce of this, wife.”

maekar was not about to engage in any intimate endeavors with his new wife. the court should be more than pleased that he was even willing to go along with this to begin with. having sycophants linger near their royal chambers while they were supposed to get lost in the throes of passion was unnerving enough. he will have to make it seem like the consummation happened, like he was on the other side of the door, pleasing his wife and proving the realm he was still a man in his prime, capable of desire. figures.

“a farce?” you probed, eyebrow raised, the arch of your mouth thinning in displeasure. “you would make a sham of our consummation?” the tone of your voice seemed almost… offended, as if you couldn’t believe your husband would even go to such lengths to avoid bedding you.

that timbre of your voice made his brows furrow, lifting the goblet of wine to his lips to stall his response, glancing to the side over the rim of the cup. he allowed himself a furtive glance towards you, enough to notice the slight narrowing of your eyes. you were opposing him, just as you have been doing since ink touched scroll a fortnight ago, when both of your fates were tied by duty and vow.

“not a sham,” he corrected, although he was not sure it held much truth. “i am sparing both of us of the dreadful act of having to touch one another more than necessary, which i was of the impression would please you. not make you look like a scorned child.”

there was a long, tense silence before you spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “you would think it dreadful to touch one another?”

maekar paused for a moment, taken aback by the note of disbelief underlying your words, making him turn to look at you fully now, needing to see why you would have that reaction to such a simple truth. “by the looks of it, wife, you do not seem to share my sentiment?”

there was a sharp glint in your eyes now, the poise in your posture faltering for a moment, giving way to tension, before you gathered yourself. “not in the slightest. i deem it preposterous that you would even think of it in such a manner,” you retorted, chin lifting, proud. “or, is it perhaps a ploy to conceal your dignity, my lord husband?”

“my dignity?” his voice dipped low, almost cautionary, making it clear that your next words should be chosen very carefully, lest you wish to start something maekar was not sure you had the wits about you to see through.

but you did not seem frightened in the slightest by his attempt to dissuade you.

“yes,” you reinforced, head tilting just so to the side, feigning innocence. “are you so unassured in your virility that you would devise such schemes to keep it from being questioned? i reckon it is normal for a man of your station to care so deeply about these things, but such lengths are truly ridicu—”

your words were cut off by rough, calloused fingers pressing into your cheeks, hard enough to stall your speech as maekar leaned into your space. he was gripping your face, keeping your gaze on his, not giving you an inch of room to even tilt your head one side or the other.

“one more word out of you, and i swear to all the seven,” he snarled, purple eyes slanted in a glare so scathing it could burn you whole, like dragon-fire. he felt the moment your breath hitched, the short puff of air brushing his fingers. “i will throttle you right here, in front of all these good-for-nothing lickspittles.”

he was expecting your demeanor to change. for fear to cloud your vision and reason to come back to you. for apologies to tumble unbidden from your mouth, hoping to appease and coax him into being merciful.

no wife, no woman of his will look him in the eye with so much fervor, insulting one of the qualities he was boastful about. his virility? maekar had sired six children. a feat worthy of praise. a testament to the strength of his seed, to the potency of it. to how easy it was for it to take root in a fertile womb and conceive heirs for him.

his newly betrothed had some nerve trying to undermine the one thing the whole realm knew to be true.

with that same nerve, you looked maekar in the eyes and smiled. a quirk of your lips, eyes lowering as the pressure of his fingers rose, half—lidded with something akin to satisfaction, as if you wanted this to happen, waiting for your husband to lose control and exert that temper you knew flared at the slightest provocation. too quick now, after a fortnight of constant instigation from you, feeling like his fuse grew shorter and shorter, and now it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose, inevitably.

your tone was soft, but the challenge beneath it was unmistakable. “did i perhaps touch a nerve, my lord husband? is it truly so easy to have you rattled? enough to grasp me like a brute, where anyone can see? and at our wedding feast, no less.” the more you talked, the more honey weaved through your words. but it wasn’t sweet, not in the slightest. it burned. “have manners been forgotten by a prince of the realm? i would've thought you more courteous than this.”

you were toying with him, like a cat would a mouse. and maekar targaryen had never been faced with such a thing, with a woman who dared bare her teeth back at him after he showed his. it made the ancient blood that flowed through his veins sear under his skin, hackles raising as if he was a dragon in human form, ready to breathe fire onto its enemies and leave smoke and ash behind.

the gods knew to take dragons away, for if they were still roaming around them now, maekar wouldn’t have hesitated to feed his novel betrothed to his own and watch from the sidelines, not missing a moment.

the thought made his fingers dig even harder into her cheeks, the soft skin dimpling under his blunt nails. your lips were pursed because of the pressure, and maekar will not admit to himself how his scathing glare flitted to the way they formed a pout, glistening still with the wine you were drinking prior. you looked ridiculous. that’s why his eyes lingered before returning to hold your gaze.

“you don’t deserve my manners,” he downright growled, a sound so deep and rumbly, like a dragon made flesh, leaning in until your noses almost touched, but he won’t allow more contact between you two than what he was willing to offer. “you don’t deserve anything that i have to give,” he almost spat, his broad chest heaving slightly, as if restraint was becoming hard to grasp. “i do not want to give you anything, you insufferable wench.”

your eyes widened for a moment at his words, but yet again, there was no fear, no offense, not even a sliver of rebuttal. only pure delight, as if his harsh words were music to your ears.

maekar did not understand. why were you not cowering? why were you not mellowing out? why in gods name were you tipping your head forward, close enough for your breaths to mingle.

“but you will, my lord husband,” came your whisper, brushing against his rough lips, as if you wanted him to taste the resolve in your words, the defiance in your tone. “i am your lady wife. what is yours, is mine.” another twitch of your lips, now higher, more pleased, like a cat that got the cream. “and i shall have it, even if i need to take it from you by any means necessary.”

“you know not of what you speak—”

“and neither do you,” you interjected, firmer this time, your gaze lowering to his lips for just a moment, as if pondering a secret only known by you, before lifting to make eye contact again. “your riches do not interest me. the crown i could do without. your name is nothing but an ancient thing that binds me to you,” you had his attention, to his absolute dismay, and it visibly pleased you.

“what i want,” a pause, leaning in enough to let your lips brush his, making him recoil, before he stubbornly held his place, not wanting to show how much the contact unnerved him. “is you, my lord husband.”

you must’ve had too much to drink, maekar thought. what you were saying made no sense to him, sounding like a lie the simpering women would whisper into one’s ear when they wanted to climb into their beds and rut on their cocks to solidify their station. it must be a ploy to try and soften him, to make him pliant and susceptible to future indulgences of yours.

you wanting him? why in gods name would that interest you in the slightest, when many other things should garner your attention, those which were mentioned by you. it should’ve been his gold, his station, his name, his connections.

not him. never him.

“do not think yourself so clever,” he spat, feeling his frustration mount, underlined with a begrudging sense of confusion, which he chose to ignore. “to believe that i shall fall for these empty words of sentiment,” maekar continued, fingertips squishing more of your now flushed cheeks, but not enough to bruise. he was not a brute to mar a woman, let alone one tied to him by marriage, contrary to rumors and whispers. “so do not waste your breath, my lady. it will do you no good, and i am not inclined to listen further.”

he thought that would be sufficient to shut you up, to make you see reason for once since you wed, and stop you from pushing nonsensical notions like they were fact. but you didn’t. his words seemed to only fuel the fire in your eyes, and he could feel the way your jaw clenched just so under his grip, resolve surging.

“i will prove it to you,” fell from your lips, solid and resolute, as if there was not an ounce of apprehension beneath your tongue. “one day, you will see that i speak truth,” a deep, steadying breath passing between your mouths, as if you were holding back something of great weight. “you will rid yourself of this meaningless whim of yours and accept what i am willing to give.” you spoke it as if the future was as you saw fit, and he had no say in it. it enraged and perturbed him in equal measure. “or you won’t have a sliver of peace in my presence.”

as if that was any different from how things have been since the papers were signed. maekar has not had any modicum of repose since he was cursed with a bothersome woman like you. the gods must jest at his expense now more than ever for the hand he was dealt.

“you have a lot of nerve for a—”

“and now, as the night grows near, we shall encourage the lord and lady towards what they surely are most expectant of! their bedding!”

the words boomed among the feast, ripping them apart from one another as every pair of eyes in the hall turned towards them, more attentive than ever.

maekar almost winced. he hated bedding ceremonies, for he would rather walk on glass barefoot than be subjected to such foolish nonsense. but alas, the court demanded it in fear of maekar showing reluctance towards another bride after many years of being a widower. so, he relented, kicking and screaming internally when it was brought to his attention, but anything to shut the mouths of courtiers and realm alike.

maekar did not look to his side. something in his chest pulled him away from meeting your gaze after the charged conversation you had. he hated that your words had been enough to unsettle him, even the tiniest bit.

instead, his eyes followed a group of way too eager lords who were rounding their high table to hoist you up and out of your seat. had they no shame in being so zealous? to let their hands grip at you, lifting you above their shoulders, fingers too rough against the fine silk of your wedding gown. where had decorum gone?

the sight made irritation spark in his gut, especially when he could hear your squeals of delight and the lilting sound of laughter that spilled unbridled from your lips as you were carried away to the royal chambers. it’s like you reveled in this whole travesty. in men touching you so shamelessly while hooting and hollering ribald jokes, one more salacious than the other.

in his case, being tugged on by simpering ladies was nothing but a nightmare come to life, but he had to bite his tongue and go along for the sake of tradition. maekar would’ve rather your hands on him, trying to rid him of his ceremonial cloak and vest, than a bunch of unknown women with too much nerve and too little propriety. he knew you better than he did these squealing birds.

your mirth was ever present when maekar made it to the chambers, his eyes narrowing to slits as he saw the way one of the lords was handling you, too ambitious in the way his fingers were nearly ripping your gown to the floor, leaving you clad in only a thin chemise. and he wasn’t the only one. the rest of the mindless, idiotic sycophants even dared to let their grubby palms smooth down your curves as they hollered more japes.

the ladies tending to him were more reserved, probably sensing maekar’s prickly nature, his body language so stiff they could barely get his tunic off, now half open, letting the broad expanse of his chest peek through, smattered with fine white hairs.

“a sword needs its sheath, don’t it, my lady?” exclaimed one of the men as his rugged fingers jerked your chemise down your shoulders, exposing the soft mounds of your breasts to the air, nipples hardening into dusky peaks. maekar’s breath stalled for a moment at the sight.

and like a beacon, every lord in the room had no shame in taking it all in, mouths open like panting bulls, some even licking their lips as if wanting to taste, making maekar’s restraint thin.

“gods, i wish my mother hadn’t weaned me, for your breasts are a sight to behold, my—”

“that’s enough,” slipped from maekar’s mouth, regretting it for a moment, before he pressed on. “keep your hands and your words to yourself if you wish to still draw breath where you stand.”

his tone was sharp, brooking no argument, if the people in attendance were smart. enough to cut every single jest, straightening the backs of every man in the room like clockwork, their mouths shut so tight their jaws trembled.

“y—your grace—”

“get the fuck out of the room before i decide to turn my wedding night crimson with the blood of the lot of you,” he barked, taking one step closer to where they stood, and it was sufficient to make them scramble, almost tripping over themselves to stand on the other side of the door.

the ladies remaining were uncertain of what to do, how to proceed. they haven’t undressed the prince like they meant to, hovering near maekar, almost trembling themselves.

“ah, ladies, do not fret,” you lilted, sweet like honeysuckle, stepping towards maekar, one hand lifting to press against the opening of his shirt, fingers spreading, brushing through the fine chest hairs. “i shall have the pleasure of undressing my husband myself. these muscles will know my touch alone.”

and for all the bravado he showed earlier, maekar could barely breathe under the bold touch of your hand, soft fingers brushing through the smattering of white onto his skin, reverent, as if you liked the sensation. and your words, spoken so saccharine, but he could tell it pleased you. having him to yourself. gods, what was wrong with you?

“now, off you go,” you continued, leaning into maekar’s space, pressing your bare breasts against his arm, his bicep cushioned between them. “my husband is ever eager to consummate our marriage, and i do not have the heart to make him wait any longer.”

maekar’s breath left him in one fell swoop, half from the feeling of your lush flesh pressing against his arm, and half from your words. you were a temptress, and the want to throttle you was coming back full force now, just as it was at the feast.

the door closed no long after, leaving you alone in the shared room, but not without company, for the lords and ladies, accompanied by one maester, had to hover on the other side, awaiting no doubt sounds of pleasure to waft through the mahogany wood.

“i’m pretty certain one of them was drooling while looking at my breasts,” you whispered, as if it was a secret, as if maekar hadn’t seen the hunger in their eyes and wanted to rip out each eyeball from their sockets with his bare hands.

“that does not concern me,” came his response, narrowed gaze dropping to where your hand still caressed his chest.

“mhm,” a pause, before your chin lifted, peering at him, a quirk to your lips. “i’m also certain one of them was eager enough to grope at them. i felt it.”

“which one?”

he hated the way he bristled, eyes traveling even lower now, to where your breasts were pushed up against his bicep, cushioning the corded muscle. god, but you had nice tits. they looked good squished against him, but he didn’t give that thought too much attention. he just liked tits a lot, is all. yours held no significance than, let’s say, a whore’s would.

the smile you gave him as soon as the inquiry left his mouth was so self-gratifying, he almost took his words back.

“i thought it did not concern you, my lord husband,” you reminded him, pressing even closer, the hand onto his chest drifting down, deft fingers slowly popping open the buttons on his tunic. “why the sudden interests, hm?”

maekar’s hand shot up to stop yours, halting your progress in undressing him, chest heaving slightly as he grit out, feeling tense as a coiled spring now that you two were alone and so, so close.

“stop it. we are not going to—”

and his words dissolve into a punched out groan as your hand trailed down to his crotch, where you seemed delighted to find him half—hard, and have no shame to press the heel of your palm into the growing thickness, rubbing in a slow downward motion.

“no?” you breathe, and the smile you give him is syrupy. he swears he can taste it, your words almost mocking him for his weakness, for the reaction his body had to… all of this. “then why are you hard, my lord husband? was the touch of all those ladies so satisfactory that it aroused you?”

and maekar wants to say that, yes, he got hard from those stupid court ladies feeling him up and tugging at his clothes, and not from the sight of your breasts pressed up against him, pebbled nipples brushing against the satin of his tunic. and definitely not from thinking how well his mouth could fit around one of them to suckle and lap at like a dog.

these feverish thoughts were just a result of not having seen a woman half—bare in years, and his body was betraying him by plaguing his mind with debauched scenarios that would never happen. that should never happen. he couldn't let himself show intimacy in such a way.

“because you keep touching me,” he snapped, harsher than he would have wanted, but he was so tense, and your hand felt too good, a fact which would never reach your ears. “even though i expressed no desire to want such a thing.”

your hand did not stop, whatsoever, continuing to rub slowly over the now fully hard cock in his breeches, making his breathing come in short, angry puffs against your cheek.

“then stop me,” you offered, only leaning closer, as if goading him into trying. “you’re a strong man. i reckon you could overpower a lady if you wanted,” then your lips pursued, thoughtful, and you continued. “unless… the stories i’ve heard about the anvil’s prowess were only tales for sleeping children?”

maekar knew what you were doing, playing him like a fiddle, making him lose all reason and succumb to your whims against his will, as if he were a weak man. as if he couldn’t discern between what he wanted to do and what you wanted him to do.

and still, he was powerless when challenged, like you knew his visceral need to prove himself to you, or anyone else. the gnawing ache in his chest whenever someone dared question him in any aspect of his life.

but more so, when his strength was disputed. undermined.

it did not even take a blink of an eye until he had grabbed you by the arm, hauling you over to the bed, pushing you backwards until you fell, sprawled against the furs and pelts, which cushioned the fall.

his weight pressed you into the mattress like the anvil itself, his knees bracketing your hips, holding you where he wanted you, wide-eyed and breasts jiggling with every breath. for a moment, he reveled in the surprise etched onto your face, before it turned into a cheeky smirk as your hands wasted no time before brushing down his chest again, seeking to undress him.

“so eager, my lord husband,” she whispered, still a bit breathless from the rough manhandling, but delighted beyond measure. “do not tell me that you’ve been secretly aching for this?”

maekar scoffed, scowling down at her from above, even as his breath hitched. gods, no one had touched him like this in so long. not with this teasing familiarity, and not on a night meant to be cold and ceremonial, even if they had never lain together. hell, even stood next to each other for more than duty demanded in the last fortnight.

your hands were warm, picking at the buttons like you had all the time in the world, and it grated on his nerves, even more so when he saw the smirk on your plush lips widening the more skin you uncovered.

he caught your wrist, firm enough to stop your exploration, holding it over his chest for a tense moment, before releasing it, brushing it to the side so he could take over, undoing the buttons himself. maekar rationalized that it was because you were agonizingly slow, and your touch annoyed him, the feeling of your fingertips brushing his skin prickling, leaving gooseflesh behind.

the tunic fell away swiftly, leaving him bare-chested, a mountain of corded muscle and sinew, veins traveling along his forearms and down his throat from how tense he was. your eyes drank him in, mouth parting in a sigh, overly pleased, as if the sight of him alone unraveled you.

it did not take long for your hands to follow the same path your gaze did, pawing shamelessly at the broad expanse of scarred skin, brushing over the smattering of thin white hairs onto his chest and down his navel.

maekar’s skin prickled further under your touch. he could feel your fingers over every scar. the one from dragonstone’s training yard when he was still a boy, the thin line across his ribs from a valyrian steel sword graze, now traced by curious, gentle fingers. but equally desirous.

the low rumble from his throat slipped without his permission as you continued, now groping at the thick muscles of his biceps and pectorals, sighing while you did it, breathy and satisfied, as if the feel of his muscles pleased you. being audacious enough to sink your fingers into the skin, to squeeze and feel every inch you could get under your palms. and he couldn’t do anything but watch you, feeling his breath hitch as he saw you lick your lips, slow and habitual, as if you didn’t realize you did it while feeling him up.

the prince could not get his bearings anymore. his breath came faster now—shallow, uneven. each one of your touches burned like fire, leaving behind a scorching trail. your hands were not those of a shy, hesitant maiden. no, they felt like a claim, like you were worshiping his body with shameless delight, exploring every hard ridge and dense muscle as if you’d been starved for it, as if you’d been waiting to do it.

“gods, husband,” slipped from your mouth as he felt a particularly lingering touch down his abdomen, your nails scraping along the skin, making the muscles ripple. “but you are a sight to behold,” you almost moaned, gaze half—lidded with nothing but unrelenting hunger. “you look delicious enough to eat,” you continued, downright purring now, like a feline playing with your food, daring to brush your hands down his shoulders, and along his arms, nails prickling at the protruding veins along the way. “so big and strong.”

you must’ve had way too much to drink. there was no other explanation as to why such words would come out of your mouth, why your palms touched him like you wanted him. that could not be. no one wanted him. no one should’ve wanted him. he was a hardened warrior, a widower, a father of six, a man who didn’t need—

gods above… delicious? how could you call him something so absurdly ridiculous? as if he were a feast laid out for your personal consumption. as if his body was made to be admired—devoured in its entirety—by her shameless gaze and persistent hands.

“how come no lady pounced on you sooner, hm?” you had the nerve to question—still touching him, mapping out his body like it was yours alone to do with as you pleased—as if there was a line out the door of ladies wanting nothing more but to jump on his cock and have their way with him. what preposterous notions had you in that head of yours? you must’ve hit it when you were a child, to think such perceptions.

his jaw tightened, trying to regain some sort of upper hand against you. “no lady is as impudent as you,” he reproached, his lip lifting in a half snarl, like a beast held at bay. “as adamant to touch something that isn’t yours—”

“isn’t?” you interjected, nails digging into the meat of his abdomen, hard enough to leave red crescent moons behind. a mark of yours, as if punishing him for even daring to say such a thing, when he knew you were bound by vow beneath the old gods and the new. it made maekar hiss, like a dragon challenged, ready to retaliate. “you are mine, by law and by vow,” you firmly stated, nails biting at skin anew, scraping down, painting red indent lines along ivory. “just as i am yours,” maekar had half a mind to snap, to bite, to do anything to stop the words coming out of your mouth, but you did not waver. “yours to have, yours to take, yours to touch.”

a beat, your chest heaving now, too, just like his was, only softer. “so touch me, husband,” provocation again, in your tone, in your gaze, in every single inch of your body. “unless you do not know how? has your prowess deserted you in the years of widowing?” maekar was moments away from strangling you, his fingers twitching with the urge to just wrap them around your throat and squeeze until not even breath slipped past your lips. but he had no such luck, for your next words stalled him, unmoving.

“shall i scream for all those court vipers to hear?” you incited, eyes narrowed, nails still deep into his skin, but he could barely feel the sting over the pounding in his ears over your goading. “shall i let the whole realm know that my lord husband is incapable of even touching his lady wife? of being man enough to make her feel good? instead of standing there gaping at a pair of tits like a green boy in his first whorehouse, incapable of—”

maekar’s eyes flashed—anger. humiliation. and something he couldn’t name, but it burned in his gut, spreading all the way down to his cock, hard enough to split stone now. it was surely the adrenaline of it all, his nerves on high alert, heart pounding so hard in his chest he could taste it in his mouth. nothing else. it couldn’t be anything else. not with you.

you were baiting him again. mocking his hesitation and reluctance to touch you, tone biting, just as your nails have been on his skin. words spoken like a commoner, not even close to the speech of a highborn lady, now wife of a prince of the realm. a targaryen.

he couldn’t continue like this. not with your hands on him, with your eyes watching him like you wanted him, like you desired him. with your—gods, with your tits bouncing with every breath, enticing him to forget all about your insolence and dip down to mouth and slobber all over them like a fucking dog until you moaned and arched against his tongue and teeth and—

his hands were rough, not enough to bruise, but firm as he grabbed your hips, holding onto the fat there and flipping you in one swift motion. not gently, not romantically.

dominant, like he had no doubt you would stay where he put you, where he wanted you, face down into the furs and pelts, hips angled backwards by his steady grip, bare breasts squished against the mattress, as was your tummy.

“m—maekar—,” you shrieked, surprised and muffled into the bed now, but he didn’t want to hear a word from you now, one palm dipping towards your shoulders, pressing down, keeping you in place. a silent command—stay there or else.

he was breathing hard, like a bull after a good run, nostrils flaring, broad chest heaving, eyes trained on the way your body looked beneath him now, arched, at his mercy, under his strong hands, held in place exactly as he pleased. no longer playing by your whims, no longer unnerved by your gaze or touches. no longer making him question things he was not ready to untangle.

his face was hot, hotter now, as his eyes traced the curves of you, the way your chemise hiked up your thighs, letting him get a peek at your rear. gods, what were you doing to him? maekar wished he could forget the way your ardent gaze devoured him whole, as if he were a god among men, as your tone dipped into sweet honey, sultry and purred.

nothing could unnerve him anymore. he was no longer shackled by—

a whine. pitched and demanding, slipped from your lips as your hips wiggled in his grip, pushing your rear back against him, brushing against the bulge in his breeches, ample flesh jiggling from side to side, catching his gaze like a beacon. “d—do something, you useless brute!” you demanded, back arching with the grace of a feline, pleading for attention without much preamble. still shameless, still without an ounce of decorum.

maekar’s breath left him sharply at the sight. your hips swaying, arse sticking out in unabashed invitation, like you were a cat begging to be scratched, petted—or worse, claimed. how dare you? he thought, incredulous as to how a woman could be this unashamed in her desires—in her want for… him. for this brute, as you called him so brazenly.

a brute, was he?

well, if he were such a brute, then he would act like one, and put you in your damn place once and for all, solidifying his place in this marriage and proving you wrong.

slowly, akin to a predator stalking his prey, his hand moved back towards the fat of your hip to join the other, thumbs digging slightly into the curve where waist met ass, feeling the warmth of you through the silk. you were burning, and he barely touched you yet. what a debauched creature you were.

and then, because you begged with that wiggle and sway, he answered. no longer useless, as his hands slid lower over plush cheeks, palm flattening over one rounded backside, and gave a sharp, resounding smack, making the silken flesh jiggle from the impact.

maekar expected a yelp, a rebuke. not a loud, pleasured moan, like a woman possessed, mouth parting against the pelt under your cushioned cheek, eyelashes fluttering, as if savoring the sting of the strike.

“gods, yes, yes,” you sighed, already pushing your arse back towards his palm, wanting more, like a greedy little thing.

his eyes darkened, the purple obscured by the black now, a flush crawling up his throat at the way you sounded, as if he offered you salvation and damnation both. like you’ve been waiting for this very moment since the wedding feast—his hand smacking your ass like a fucking degenerate commoner. and now you want more.

he didn’t hesitate.

smack. another sharp spank landed, not harsh enough to hurt deeply, but firm and stinging through the fabric of your thin chemise.

“look at you,” he grit out, mocking but reverent in equal measure as he hiked up your chemise to your hips, revealing the heated skin of your arse, where his palm smacked, marking you with ardor. it gave him a thrill like no other to see the labor of his punishment on you.

“arching and begging for it like a fucking cat in heat,” he continued, palm smoothing down the flush of your skin, but not to soothe. just to feel the heated pulse of the flesh there beneath his fingers.

it made his cock twitch in his breeches.

even more when he realized you weren’t wearing any small clothes, as a lady should. like a bride would on her wedding night.

gods, you were audacious beyond measure. he didn’t know if it angered him more than it thrilled him.

“no smallclothes,” he noted, tilting his head, as if assessing the expanse of bare flesh now at his disposal. maekar could even see a peek of the folds of your cunt as you continued to arch into his touches. and you were wet, almost dripping onto your thighs, onto the bedding underneath. his spanks have gotten you aroused. “not even a commoner would be this immodest.”

“don’t need them,” you retorted, only trying to push backwards more, relentless and needy. “they’ll only get in the way of you putting your cock in me.”

all the gods above, that mouth on you was lethal.

the words made a ragged, bitten-off curse fall from his mouth as his fingers moved to spread the globes of your rear enough to expose your pussy better to his gaze.

“drenched,” maekar breathed—still hang up on the way you mentioned his cock in such a raunchy manner, unbefitting of a lady—not being able to tear his eyes away from how soaked you were, and only dripping more, your hole clenching around nothing, as if already taunting him inside. “making a mess all over yourself, like you belong on streets of silk than in the bed of a prince.”

he couldn’t help but lean down, but not towards where you were softest. not yet. his rough lips pressed to the warmth now seared onto your arse, only hovering for a moment, before he pulled back his lips to bite, sinking his teeth into the ardent flesh. gently at first, just a slight press of canines. a dragon claiming what he marked.

then he kissed it. a hot, open—mouthed press that warmed the aching skin even more. no finesses, no romance. just raw possession now, letting you know with teeth and tongue that you belonged to him entirely now, and not the other way around. gods and vows aside. he was not yours. but you were his.

you couldn’t help the soft sounds falling from your lips, every touch from your husband burning. a true dragon’s claim on his hoard. no longer distant, no longer resisting that primal instinct you knew lay dormant within him, just waiting to be taunted out.

“a—ah, you could always move your mouth lower, my lord husband.”

lower.

said in such a sultry, daring way, as if you thought he wouldn't, as if you needed to coax him towards your cunt.

maekar exhaled slowly, the flush on his throat only blooming more insistent with every word from you, each more sweltering than the other. he even forgot about the courtiers lingering on the other side of the door. the thought only made his flush deepen, traveling all the way to the tips of his ears, reddening his cheeks along the way. he’s sure they heard the spanks. gods, they’re gonna think him a barbarian who slaps his wife around for pleasure. and it was only your fault for goading him into such things.

he couldn’t let shame burn too hotly in his gut, choosing to distract himself by slowly peppering kisses up your thighs, tongue laving across the skin, pulling more breathy sounds out of you. every press of lips was deliberate, each one slower than the last, inching where you wanted him most, where you smelled strongest. tangy, musky, and just a bit of sweetness, all dripping out of you, the more attention he gave.

for a prince of the realm, the way he comported himself tonight should’ve been shameful, but he couldn’t think about propriety and etiquette as his nose brushed along your folds, inhaling deeply, searing your scent to the back of his throat as he groaned aloud. fuck, fuck, fuck.

it felt perverted to trail the tip of his nose along your drooly folds, spreading them just so, nudging them apart, coating himself in your juices, mouth dropping open in a near growl.

the sound that got out of you was more like a yelped moan than anything, but you pressed your hips back, as if itching to hump your pussy against the bridge of his nose. and maybe one day, he would let you do just that, but today he had other plans, as he let the tip of his nose bump against your chubby clit, brushing against the silky skin.

“yes, yes, yes, right there,” you whined like a mantra, having no qualms in moving your hips, grinding down helplessly in hopes of pressing the tip of your husband’s nose more firmly against the bundle of nerves at the top of your pussy. “feels good, husband, gods—”

just this. just you humping his nose like a fevered whore, getting him soaked with your slick, enough for it to drip onto his reddened cheeks and even down to his lips, urging him to lick at them, tasting you on his tongue.

that was enough to urge him to stick his tongue out and lave at your pussy, a broad, firm flick of it, greedily soaking up all the wetness he could. maekar would drink from you if he could. if such a thing as the nectar of the gods existed, he was sure it wouldn’t come close to the taste of your cunt on his tongue.

your moan was loud, pulled from deep within your chest, melting you from head to toe as your husband continued to lap at you with a greed rivaling a thief's, stealing the sweetest sounds from your throat, the combination of his nose bumping into your clit and his tongue parting your folds almost making you go cross eyed from pleasure. “don’t stop, don’t—fuck, maekar, don’t stop licking.”

even like this, you were demanding and bossy.

“y’taste good, wife,” came muffled from between your thighs, accompanied by wet, slurping sounds, so lewd and arousing, it only made you drip onto his awaiting tongue more. “if i knew this was all i needed to do to keep your mouth shut,” a suck against your quivering hole, obscene enough to make even you flush. “i would’ve had you spread open right after we signed the papers,” a huff against your wetness, before he nudged his nose against your clit anew, grinding it in slow circular motions, making you shake. “it would’ve saved me a fortnight of peace.”

his words only made you seek his touch more, hips grinding with more fervor, seeking as much pleasure as he could give. “you should’ve,” you retorted, airy and soft, molded around a mewl as his tongue replaced the tip of his nose, circling your clit firmly, your eyes almost rolling back into your head from how good it felt. “should’ve taken me, too. put your cock to good use and render me speechless.”

as always, you were relentless. here he was, drowning in your pussy, and you wanted more. he should’ve left you like that, a sprawled mess onto the bed, aching and whining, showing you the importance of patience. of gratitude. of restraint.

but, alas, he has lost the will to make you suffer, to want to see you crumple, and now only desired this version of you. needy and pliant and pleading for every inch of him like a good wife would.

and even then, he couldn’t forget all the lip you gave him, all those jabs and ceaseless fussing.

your husband was not going to give you everything you wanted when you wanted it. not on your terms.

maekar drew back from between your folds, your juices smeared over the bottom half of his face, coating his beard, glistening in the candlelight, and twirled his tongue around his mouth for a few moments, before spitting right onto your quivering hole, thumb following to spread the wetness around. it was vulgar, but it made you whine louder. so he did it again, a bigger glob of saliva this time, dripping from your entrance to your clit, before trailing down onto the bedding.

“filthy,” he rebuked, as if he wasn’t the one dirtying you with such unabashed lewdness. two thick, calloused fingers swiped through the mixture of slick and spit, gathering it generously before feeding it into your hole, slow and methodical, all the way up to the second knuckle.

and curled, brushing against spongy walls.

“gods—,” you cried out, clenching around his fingers, as if sucking them deeper. it made your husband growl, punishing your greed by curling the digits again, dragging the rough pads along those spots which made your pitch higher, your thighs quiver. “more, maekar,” you pleaded, pushing your hips back, grinding onto his fingers, ass jiggling from the way maekar’s wrist slapped against the bottom of your rear. “need more, ah, need your cock. p—put your cock in me already, you brute—” you tried again, but he ignored you, only adding a third finger, stuffing you more full, placating you. but teasing you in equal measure, like the brute he was.

that seemed to frustrate you more, whine gurgling from your throat, hips gyrating with more insistence. “n—not enough!” you gritted, so, so impatient, focused on getting the only thing you truly wanted. “a true husband would’ve had his cock in me by now! a—are you, ah, fuck,” a harsh flick of his wrist interrupted your protests, deterring you for a moment, before you continued, brows furrowing. “does your prick not work anymore, my lord husband? are you afraid i won’t be satisfied?” the words tumbled out of your mouth unbidden, throwing every taunt at him in hopes of him biting.

“is it so small that it’ll leave me asking for your fingers again or—”

silence.

before a weight settled over your back like a blanket, so warm and sturdy, pinning your upper body onto the pelts ruthlessly, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you winded for a few moments.

“shut up,” was growled against your ear, so low and vicious it made your now empty hole quiver and drip even more slick. gods, where had his fingers gone? “you insufferable, wanton wench,” his words dripped with so much venom it made a delicious shiver run down your spine, more than delighted to have him pressed along your back, shoulders to hips, feeling the hard length of his cock press along the folds of your pussy through his breeches.

one of his hands fumbled with the fastenings, pulling himself out, thick and girthy, guiding the head towards your folds, smearing his precum all over the silky flesh as he panted against your ear. “you don’t deserve this,” he rumbled, gliding the cock-head slowly along the wetness, before slapping it against your clit. once, twice, like small love taps, barely giving you any stimulation. “but i’ll give it to you anyway,” he inched back towards your entrance, repeating the lewd motion, precum coating the throbbing hole with each slap of the head against it.

his arms moved, one settling by your head, elbow pressed into the mattress so he can curl all that muscle and sinew against your neck, cradling your head between his forearm and bicep, the crook of his elbow pressing softly against your throat, making you gasp, choked and whiny. your husband had you in a headlock, squeezing just so, just enough for you to feel his strength and what he could do with it, if he wished.

it made you moan shamelessly, palms coming to curl around the muscle there, nails digging in, making maekar hiss, and flex just a bit more in retaliation, before relaxing the squeeze.

“please, husband,” you pleaded, a little breathless from the hold of his arm, pushing your hips back against him. “take me, fuck me, have me.”

music to maekar’s ears. having you so desperate, begging for him so sweetly, letting him place you how he wanted and keep you there, his weight keeping you pressed to the bedding, your hips tilted up by his other hand, which now slowly pushed the head of his cock into your glistening hole, still careful, even with all the pent-up frustration and arousal. he never meant to hurt you, no matter how much you infuriated him.

a loud, suffering groan brushed your ear as he bottomed out, feeling how tight you were, how wet and warm and gods—he could die in your cunt. in this greedy, hungry thing, which pulsed and throbbed and squeezed around him like it wanted him deeper.

you were no better, practically drooling over his bicep, shameless moans spilling freely, loud enough to be heard by the courtiers, perhaps the whole castle. pleasure overtook you, urging you to babble, fingers gripping at his muscles like a lifeline. “have me, husband,” you repeated those salacious words, clenching around him tightly. “t—take me like a real man, not a green boy who—”

the hand that guided his cock inside snapped upwards, clamping over your mouth, thick fingers pressing into the flush of your skin, rendering any more comments to silence.

“shut,” he ground out, dragging his hips back before snapping them forward, thrusting inside you. “your insolent mouth, woman,” rasped against your cheek now, as he set a firm, ruthless pace, navel slapping against the flesh of your ass, making it jiggle, the sound echoing through the room.

your sounds of pleasure were muffled by his hands, slobbering all over the inside of his palm from how much you were drooling, moans and cries barely making it past the rough fingers pressed to your lips. maekar could’ve winced at the feeling of wetness, but it only thrilled him more to have you like this, mindless with bliss from how deep his cock reached, the tip hitting that one spot inside your gummy walls that made your nails scratch at his bicep and your tongue lolling out, pressing against his palm, even daring to lick.

every thrust brought him closer to the edge, feeling the telltale sign of heat at the base of his spine, spreading into the pit of his stomach. and by the way your sounds could barely be silenced anymore, so were you.

his pace quickened, hips snapping against your ass harder, rutting into you with fervor, close to snarling against your ear from how good it felt. gods, your pussy was made for this. for him. coating his cock, making tendrils of slick stick to his navel and the backs of your thighs from how wet you were, the sounds squelching and filthy. “pussy so good, wife,” maekar rumbled, the praise slipping from his mouth. “so good for your husband’s cock.”

his wife was getting close, he could tell; her hands now clawing at the one of his onto her mouth, making him slacken it just enough for her to cry out, garbled and supplicating.

“spend in me,” you mewled, little ah, ah, ah sounds muffling against the inside of his palm, now coated with your drool. “give me your seed, maekar,” the pleading continued, making his thrusts falter minutely. “let me have your seed, husband.”

you sounded so desperate, so… earnest, as if all that happened led to this, to you asking for something a husband should give freely, without a shroud of doubt. like a future where you might end up round and full with his child was something you would be pleased with. it was too much for him. he won’t be made to believe that such a forthcoming was meant to be sound, especially when you were overcome with pleasure.

maekar found himself shaking his head, palms pressing back against your mouth to silence any more begging, to cease such ramblings from a woman who didn’t mean what she was saying, even if your words almost made him cum inside of you moments ago.

“i—i can’t,” he groaned, low and shaky, as if pained. “i won’t, wife.”

Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldn’t name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.

The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.

He hopes you’ll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.

Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment you’ve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?

Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.

You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.

He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, won’t get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when you’re face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.

Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he won’t have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.

But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all you’ve lost; of all he’s made you lose.

It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.

Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.

The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.

But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.

He wishes he would’ve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesn’t feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He would’ve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.

Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.

If his promise would’ve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it would’ve knocked the air out of you both. He would’ve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing it’ll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like he’s your whole world.

May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.

He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys would’ve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldn’t. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.

And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?

Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.

So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure it’s real.

Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Don’t dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again and—

“I shall watch him,” your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you — “You need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.”

My Queen? Mother?

The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.

A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.

Were you crying? He couldn’t bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.

Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.

He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didn’t matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.

Please.

Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.

Please.

One last time is all he asks.

If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.

He knows he’s begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.

Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heart—

Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldn’t fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he must’ve brought you.

But he is wrong.

You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.

Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.

If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he could’ve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.

He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.

"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want to—"

Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then why—

"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.

Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?

Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."

The Maesters? What ever could you mean?

Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?

"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wake—"

And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.

It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"

His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.

But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."

Breathing life back into you.

Does that mean—

But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?

Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.

Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.

"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.

A laugh.

Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.

You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."

Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.

"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you again—"

He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.

And Gods, you do.

Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.

He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.

Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.

"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dārilaros ñuha."

Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.

He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.

"Avy jorrāelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrāelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, for—"

But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."

Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.

He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."

Oh.

In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.

"But I have—"

"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."

"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.

You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.

He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.

"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.

And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.

tag list: @silkaurum @oldtowrs @mademoisellepetite @dreamgirlevill @0nlybitt3r4may @rhaenyras-crown @ghostlybfgf @pinkdoeweirdo

ñuha jorrāeliarzy — my love

dārilaros ñuha — my prince

"I am not—"

"But you are," you interrupt, humming, lifting a hand to thread your fingers along the surface of the water as you speak. "Every time you join me, you do nothing but stand there and brood," the sound of your tongue clicking follows, as if expressing your distaste for this odd tradition your lord husband has instilled in the moons you have been wed. "It disturbs my repose."

Cregan scoffs, having half a mind to not roll his eyes at your audacity. He should be used to it by now, seeing as you have never shied away from making it abundantly clear how much you love being indulged and enjoying your reprise without a single interruption.

And yet, he was not going to allow you to discard him with a flick of your hand and a defiant tilt of your chin whenever you wished to be undisturbed. He was your husband, and if he wanted to be in attendance at whatever ridiculous southern pompous customs you had, he would.

That's why he had asked the servants to put an armchair in your bathing chambers, close by the tub, where he shall sit every time he has the luxury of disregarding or postponing his duties for a while, just so he can watch you bathe and pamper yourself. Cregan did not care if word filtered through the walls that The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North spent part of his pastime sitting splayed out in a chair in his wife's bath chambers, feasting on one of the most exquisite viewings in the Seven Kingdoms. Let them talk and whisper. He did not need to explain himself to anyone, least of all to gossiping servants and sycophants alike.

His wolfish gaze was shameless as it traced the damp, dewy skin of your neck and shoulders, fingers drumming onto the wooden arm of the chair, faltering in rhythm just a tad whenever you shifted, the water lapping at your curves. He swore sometimes you were moving with the intent to drive him to madness, even if it was the most minute gesture.

"Disturbs your repose," he parroted, lips twitching with amusement at your feigned disdain for his presence. "My apologies for being such a pest to my own wife," Cregan continued, "I was not aware bathing oneself required such solitude."

Your expression shifted, a scowl marring your pretty features as your chin tipped upwards, as if his words had no place even reaching you. "It always requires solitude. You are just adamant to perturb it," you complained, sighing, as if the mere thought exasperated you, which made Cregan's mouth curl further, dripping with mounting enjoyment. "You stand there watching me like some kind of lecher," you accused, scowl deepening, a scoff leaving your plush mouth. "It is unbecoming of a husband to ogle his wife so shamelessly. You northerners have no decorum."

And oh, the way your lips curled every time you mentioned his culture, tone haughty and dipped with venom at the edges, as if spitting out the very word, made his blood sing.

"Just brutes with no finesse," you finished, chin raising just a bit higher, showing him you were above such things, above him, above his culture.

Gods, he wanted to haul you out of that bath and spank you until you cried those fat, pretty tears again, cheeks flushed and voice wet from babbling at him to stop. Cregan was not a man given to punishment easily, especially with the woman he was bound to by law and vow, but he came to understand that there were few ways he could make his wife see reason, and even then, only if you wanted to give in to his whims and relent.

"If you wanted a soft southerner lord with nough but a flaccid cock and no mind of his own, wife," he spoke, lips curling into that slow, wolfish grin, the one where his canines peeked through. A wolf showing his teeth without biting, but making it clear he could if provoked further. "You wouldn't have accepted my proposal so readily, riding for Winterfell not even a fortnight after our sigils were put on parchment."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes in that infuriating way Cregan loved and hated in equal measure, as if his words were nothing but white noise you were forced to listen to. "It was in my best interest to accept," you protested, inclining a little higher, leaning back against the tub, the water lapping at the tops of your damp breasts. A muscle in Cregan's jaw twitched as his eyes followed the movement. "Why would I be the lady of some lesser lord when I can be Lady of Winterfell?" The words were accompanied by a hum, evidently pleased with the title you possessed. "I am nothing but a woman of great ambitions, as you're well aware, husband."

Cregan huffed, more amused than anything, head tilting, not taking his eyes off the way he could make out the pebbled shape of your nipples just shy of peeking above the milky, fragrant water. He knew what you were doing. This little game of yours was as old as time.

You were losing ground, not pleased with the way he was biting back at your attempts to unnerve him, and had no other alternative but to call to his most primal, animal instincts that reside as deep as the marrow of his bones. He was a man, after all, and no stranger to the cravings of the flesh, more so when it came to his infuriatingly enticing wife, bare and glistening, lounging in the tub, indulging his eyes with glimpses and flashes of your body, willing to make him falter in his resolve.

"You never cease to remind me of the fact, wife," he said, feeling his chest puff up a tad at the way you huffed at his words, clearly displeased that he was not indulging your whims still. Not yet. Cregan was enjoying this more than he wanted to admit. "No woman in the Seven Kingdoms can rival you in that regard."

"What about other regards?"

Cregan's mouth twitched again, but he reigned in his expression for now. "Other regards?" He feigned confusion, tilting his head to the side, dragging his eyes from where they traced the shape of your damp breasts, up to your narrowed, inquisitive gaze. "I fear I do not follow. Must you be so kind as to specify, wife?"

Your brows furrowed, body shifting slightly into the tub, the water lapping at your skin, wetting it anew, drawing Cregan's eyes towards every patch for a few moments, rough fingers twitching onto his armchair, but he won't be baited this time. Raising one eyebrow, he waited, grey eyes now solely focused on yours, keeping you ensnared until you gathered the words to throw back at him.

"Am I rivaled in other regards by the women of the Seven Kingdoms?" You asked, chin held high, trying to absolve yourself of the vulnerable undertone woven into the question, gaze sharp, narrowed. But the way one of your hands lifted to grip the edge of the tub, curling around it, gave you away. You needed to ground yourself for this sort of fragility, and it made Cregan's heart soften just a tad every time, melting the frost of the North around it and giving way to the ceaseless warmth you brought with you from the South.

He huffed, letting his mouth form that tender, soft curl reserved only for you, grey eyes crinkling at the edges with barely concealed fondness. "No, wife," Cregan said, tone glazed with honeyed affection, letting his eyes feast on the way your chest heaved with a soft breath, as if his words had eased an unknown burden curled beneath your breastbone. "There is no woman in all the Seven Kingdoms who could dream of besting you."

And still, you scoffed, protest ready on your tongue, bristling in the milky water, never one to cease when you wanted certainty. "If your words are baseless, you may keep them, for I have no use for-"

"Not in my eyes," Cregan interrupted you, tone lowered but firm, halting your tongue before you could descend into yet another one of your haughty deflections.

It was ever pleasing, the way you faltered in the face of his sincerity. Blinking akin to a startled doe, your expression passing from one emotion to another, offense to confusion to reluctant preening. He could see it. Your chest heaving with soft breaths, plush mouth parting, pupils dilating wide enough to encompass the color of your eyes, leaving behind pools of black. And then, the flush. That warmth spreading from the tops of your breasts and climbing up, up, up your throat, splotching over your cheekbones and reaching the tips of your ears.

Mhm, he got you good this time. Cregan might have to ride the high of such an accomplishment for the fortnight to come, if he was lucky. The Gods were ever so merciful to grant him such a gift and let him savor it, too.

"The smell of the bathing oils must've affected you a great deal, husband, to say such theatrical musings," you mumbled, not meeting his eyes for a heartbeat, two, before looking into that northern gray you preached you found so insufferable. "It makes you sound like one of those flaccid men you mentioned earlier."

Cregan could only huff, amused, watching as you tried in vain to deflect and throw whatever attempt at diffusing the meaning of his words back at him. "Sound, maybe," he said, offering you a slow, wolfish curl of his mouth, baring just enough hint of teeth to allude to a threat, but not bestow it. "But I am anything but flaccid, wife. You, of all people, should be familiar with the hardness of—"

"Silence!" You shrieked, one hand dipping beneath the water's surface and swatting upwards, sending droplets of water towards him, attempting to will him into silence. "Have you no shame, you brute? To speak of such things in the company of your wife?"

But he was not perturbed; on the contrary, his lips pulled into a smirk, pleased and smug. Making you bristle truly was the thing he favored most, aside from the feel of your body and the sound of your voice. "Should I speak of such things in the company of someone else, then?"

"Don't you dare! Gods, you're giving me a headache," you fussed, swatting water at him again, eyes narrowed as you demanded. "Help me bathe, so you may amend for your wrongs."

And who was Cregan to refuse such a decree from his wife?

Away from his own son. Even now, having the heir he most ardently wanted, healthy and nursing from your breast in contempt, Aerion still was not entirely pleased. Still wanting to possess and monopolize every bit of it.

“I would,” he responded, lip curled lightly, even as he made his way towards the plush bed, where you and the babe were lounging, surrounded by pelts, pillows, and blankets. It was Aerion’s order, for his wife and son would not want for nothing and would receive every bit of comfort there is, at any hour of the day. “It is the greatest offence to steal one’s wife,” Aerion continued, a frown now marring his handsome features as he slid under the blanket, moulding himself to your back from shoulders to ankles, hooking his around yours. “More so a prince’s of the realm. A dragon’s.”

You had half a mind to contain the laughter that was bubbling in your throat at your husband’s words. he would rather take a spear to the heart than openly admit to missing you, to inquire you offer your consideration and affection to him, too. So, instead, he would find every which way to demand it, one more nonsensical than the other. It was confusing in the early stages of your betrothal, with all the fussing and squabbling, but over time, it slowly bloomed into unadulterated fondness, making your heart flutter.

Your husband had always been a greedy man, wanting nothing else than to hoard everything he deemed worthy of him, like a dragon with its shiny treasures. Most endearing, truly, but you would never relay that little thought to him, for you know Aerion would show his teeth at any diminishing praise from you.

“He is not stealing anything,” came your soft protest, your lips twitching with amusement as you felt Aerion’s arm curl around your waist, holding you tightly pressed against his chest, fingers spreading to encompass as much of your belly as possible, just to feel and paw at the clothed skin. “You know babes need all the care and vigilance from their mothers,” you lilted, before adding pointedly, leaning back against him. “And fathers.”

He scoffed, the puff of air brushing against your nape, where your husband was currently nuzzling, face tucked against your skin as he mumbled. “He needs too much,” Aerion protested, the fingers on your belly pressing in, kneading at the pudgy skin, similar to a cat kneading. “He takes too much from you,” your husband continued, words slightly muffled by his incessant nosing against your neck, breathing you in, the smell of warm milk and motherhood drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

You didn’t respond, only huffing, your attention drawn to the peaceful babe in your arms, as one of his little hands patted at your breast, fingers curling onto the skin as he nursed. Your expression melted, heart soaring with so much love and affection for the bundle nestled at your chest. You and Aerion’s bundle. The most important thing in the world to both of you.

“Even now, his greed knows no bounds, wife,” Aerion complained again, chin hooking onto your shoulder, cheek pressing against yours as he watched the way his son suckled at your breast, content and unburdened, the corners of his little mouth smeared with milk as he cooed softly the more he nursed. “He’s been feeding for what feels like forever,” he pressed on, brows furrowing, making you stifle a soft snort of laughter, which only made your husband scowl. “And you seem to find my predicament highly amusing.”

Of course you did. Having your husband close to pouting over not receiving enough attention from you was prime entertainment when one was so swamped by the intricacies of motherhood.

“Maybe just a little bit, my love,” you spoke, turning your face until your nose bumped against his cheek, wanting his gaze on you, urging him to meet your eyes. “But he needs it.” The words only make his frown deepen as he peers at you, lip curling in distaste. “How is he to grow into a strong dragon if he doesn’t feed, hm?” you wonder, but it’s all placating, wanting to coax out your husband’s agreement by using his own pride against him.

Since before the babe was even born, all you heard was your husband proclaiming that his son was to be the strongest dragon. An exemplary Targaryen. The one who would mount the world and bring renown to the family name anew.

And now he dared to complain when you were aiding his dreams to come true? Feeding and nurturing his son to your breast as many times as the babe fussed, even in the dead of night, bone—tired with exhaustion.

He only sneered lightly, leaning in to brush your noses together, eyes half lidded with intent as he watched you. The frown between his brows eased just a bit when he saw your gaze being trained on him steadily, no longer on the babe. “He’s being a greedy little dragon, then,” your husband mumbled, not ceasing his nosing, pressing closer so his lips brushed against your cheek. “Seizing all your attention and love for himself, while I am left bereft without my sweet wife's tending.”

Your breath hitched from his words, and even more so when his tongue flicked out to taste the corner of your mouth, needy and insistent, pupils blown wide, eclipsing the purple of his eyes. He only looked at you like that when he wanted to have you, which was more often than a proper lady would want to admit. But you never minded. You loved being wanted by Aerion. It felt exhilarating to be caught under the sheer intensity of his gaze; a predator prowling his next prey, a dragon circling its mate before giving in to ancient instincts.

“You are being dramatic to a fault,” you accuse, breath thinning into soft puffs as your husband’s lips trail towards your jaw, peppering the curve with wet, lingering kisses, willing to make you falter. “We sleep in the same bed every night, and have supper—”

“And it is not enough,” he interrupts, pressing one last kiss to your soft chin before nudging your noses together anew, lips brushing as he spoke, tone low. “I haven’t bathed with you in moons, wife,” your husband reminds you, eyes sharpening in reprimand, as if you have committed a grave sin and must now repent. “Haven’t had you cheer me on when I joust at tourneys, bestowing your favor upon me so I can come back victorious.”

He spoke truth, and you knew how much Aerion cherished those moments, even if never said out loud. His eyes always sought out yours when he jousted, preening under your watchful gaze, pea-cocking only for you, especially when he won. The baths you missed as well. Having the whole bath-chambers to yourselves while you washed each other, letting your hands linger and steam warm up your skin when ultimately your husband became too impatient not to have you against the tub, slick bodies moving languidly until you both came, tongues tangled and nails biting into each other’s skin.

Aerion missed you.

The thought made you smile against his mouth, a secretive, fond thing, humming as you leaned to peck his lips, pleased to see him chasing your mouth when you drew back. “You know it was hard for me to move much, my love,” you whispered, lips touching as you spoke. “Our little dragon demanded my rest more often than not,” a little smile in the corner of your mouth as you continued, offering another kiss, which Aerion soaked up like a man starved, inhaling sharply through his nose as he meant to prolong it, but was denied. “And now look at him. Chubby and cute as a button,” you paused for a moment for your husband’s gaze to clear from the brief haze of want, before murmuring. “Healthy.”

Aerion’s expression seemed to ease, chest heaving just so as he watched you, stagnant for now, as if acclimating to your words, to their meaning.

He sighed, moving closer, eyelashes fluttering as a long sigh parted his lips, brushing against yours as he murmured. “Healthy,” Aerion repeated, tone dipping into reverence. “You have given me a healthy, strong babe,” he continued, tipping his chin to slot his lips with yours, making you gasp softly. “A miracle.”

The words were poured into your mouth, Aerion’s lips firm but slow against yours, coaxing you to reciprocate, to let him reward you for the blessing you brought into this world, for the pride that swelled into his chest every time he looked at his son, for all the days and nights you ached and wept from the pain of pregnancy. For his son and heir.

You couldn’t help but melt into his kiss, forgetting for a moment about the content babe suckling at your breast. Oh, how you have missed your husband, even if he had kissed you plenty today. Aerion couldn’t tolerate the absence of your touch for too long. It was like an itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch, quieting only when your bodies touched, when he tasted your lips, when he felt your warmth seep into him and make a home in the marrow of his bones anew, simmering his blood.

“My good wife,” Aerion crooned against your lips, his tongue swiping to lick greedily into your mouth, tasting you fully, swallowing the quiet moan emitting from your throat as he brushed the roof of your mouth and traced the ridges of your teeth. “Giving me so much,” he murmured, tone shifting to a pleased rumble from deep within his chest the more he talked. “Making me so proud.”

“Aerion—,” his name slipped unbidden from your mouth, but it sounded muffled as your tongues tangled wetly, your husband relentless in his conquest of your mouth, coaxing your lips wider for more leverage, groaning when they gave way, lax and pliant for him to do as he wished with.

He was kissing you like he hadn’t in years, his lips wrapping around your tongue and sucking lewdly, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch you, to let his gaze feast on how debauched you looked as you allowed him such indulgences. As you let him slowly move back and forth, taking more of your tongue between his lips before drawing back until only the tip remained, just to repeat the salacious motion, making you whine from how wanton it felt.

“Aerion—,” you tried again, half—moan, half—plea, eyes hazy and soft with pleasure, the word coming out garbled from the way he was still leisurely suckling on your tongue, growling in annoyance when you meant to draw back. His gaze was sharp as he gave one last, long suckle, leaning back, just enough to let you speak, your lips still brushing.

“Do you not wish to—”

“W—we can’t, my love.” You hoped your tone was apologetic enough for him to let you continue and not dive back in to claim your mouth. “The babe—”

He scoffed, gaze drifting towards the bundle tucked against your breast, still nursing, but slowly drifting towards sleep. The little glutton was still going strong, puckering for more, milk—drunk even though his eyes were half—lidded with slumber and satiation.

You could see a myriad of conflicting emotions flit onto your husband’s features, only to relent moments after, a frustrated sigh leaving his swollen, spit-slick lips from how eager he had kissed you prior.

Aerion turned, leaning in to press one last firm, lingering kiss to your mouth, letting his tongue swipe at the seam of your bottom lip before tipping back. “Later,” he muttered, thick with unspoken intent. A promise.

You huffed, wanting to protest, but were rendered silent by the way he settled against you, still moulded to your back, arm tight around your waist, holding you cuddled into his chest, his chin tucked onto your shoulder.

It made you relax, a small smile quirking your lips as you held the babe closer against your chest, lifting his body just a bit so your husband could easily see him without having to dip his gaze down too much.

“Later,” you parroted, and felt your heart flutter when a pair of lips brushed your temple moments later, as if sealing that promise in place.

It should’ve disgusted him. How easy it was for you to be brought down to nothing but a heaping, wet mess in front of him, looking every inch more a pathetic excuse of a woman than someone who carried the Targaryen name for moons now, since being tied to him.

Your voice always shook. So soft, so brittle, like a bird's flutter of wings.

The look in his eyes should’ve been stern. unforgivable. So full of disdain it would make your sorrow grow. How dare a princess of your station, who will one day carry his legacy in your womb, stand there, soft hands reaching towards him with the urgency of a beggar, seeking solace?

But try as he might, denying you comfort has never been beneath him.

Aerion’s pupils were blown so wide the purple was barely recognizable, breath hitching in his throat, broad chest heaving as he watched your fingers curl with hesitant urgency into the velvet of his tunic, the material scrunching in your grip.

“I’m sorry, husband,” you babbled through sniffles, barely able to keep your chin from wobbling as your teary eyes pleaded up at him, begging for consolation without words. For understanding. For forgiveness.

Gods, you looked so fragile like this. A side of you Aerion was expected to loathe. But gods, he craved it.

It was a sick, tormenting feeling that curled into the pit of his stomach and slithered its way to his chest, making it ache with the need to soothe. To appease the woman who carried his name, warmed his bed, and loved him without preamble, without ulterior motives.

Aerion clicked his tongue once, twice, as if reprimanding her; a sound of disapproval, making your eyes brim with tears anew, thinking you have upset him with your wailing. But those poisonous thoughts dissipated when broad, warm hands lifted to cradle your flushed cheeks tenderly, encompassing your visage between them, rough fingers stealing some of the warmth in the ruddiness found against the apples of your cheeks.

“My sweet wife,” Aerion crooned as he stepped closer, gaze never leaving your flushed face, so attentive it made a sob catch in your throat. His attention was always laser-focused, scathing in its intensity, like a predator on the prowl. A dragon in his might, his eyes onto his precious hoard. “Why must you weep so? You’re debasing yourself beyond measure by taking courtly whispers to heart. Those wenches know not of what they speak of.”

Gods, you were so perceptive of him. Every word out of his mouth curled around you, easing the tension in your body like a burning flame to a candle, dripping with reassurance rather than apprehension. You hung onto every single syllable, every softening of his tone, every touch that was meant to placate, to melt you back into something agreeable and content.

“But what if they speak truth?” you protested, not fully convinced that the poisonous words that have wafted through the walls and into your heart are without foundation. “If I am not meant to carry your name—”

Aerion’s fingers pressed into your skin, dimpling the rosy flesh of your cheeks as his eyes narrowed, stealing the rest of your speech. His grip was unforgiving, but not bruising. He could never dream of marring your sweet features with his cruelty. It would be a disservice to his gaze, for how could he look at anything other than the dulcitude of your face, so soft and full of love for him, and see it blemished?

“You are my wife,” he spoke, barely above a whisper, but it sounded more like the edge of a sharp knife, glinting between you both. “Not any of those simpletons of court, those painted whores with nothing to do but spit their venom at you.”

His voice lowered, pressing closer, lips brushing yours, feather light with each word. “You. The only one worthy of my seed in your womb, my name next to yours, my heart in the palm of your hands.”

Aerion’s pupils dilated as he talked, always undone when talking about how much you belonged to him. How much of you he owned. It undid him more than anything else in the world.

But more so, how much of him you owned.

A prideful, conceited man such as him would rather plunge a dagger straight to his heart than admit such weakness, but he knew it to be true.

Never before had someone relied on him as much as you did. He was your comfort, all things considered. Even if he misplaced his anger at times, even if harsh words slipped unbidden from his mouth, you never wavered in your dependency on him.

He was needed. wanted. Craved by you.

Not in depravity, like all those years past when every courtesan and brothel girl would trip over themselves for a tumble into his bed.

But for safety, to soothe and console you in times of distress, holding you tight in his arms while murmuring gruff words into the crown of your hair.

All the gold in the world could not equate that small sigh you let slip past your lips as you calmed down, achingly content, as if all the troubles in the world vanished, nestling even closer to him.

And all because of him.

It made his cock twitch.

As it was now, as your tears glistened down your cheeks, eyes so wide with uncertainty, pleading for more solace, leaning into the rough grip of his fingers, even if it was uncomfortable.

Aerion had to bite back a groan at the sight. Gods, it was addicting. arousing.

Your tears were wet and hot as they slid against his skin, and he didn’t think twice before adjusting his grip, fingers lowering until they cradled your jaw, tipping it up towards him, his mouth inches away from the damp, ruddy cheeks.

“They do not deserve your weeping, your tears,” Aerion rasped against your skin, rough lips pressing against warm flesh, trailing the path of your sorrow with reverence. His eyes lowered, half lidded with mounting hunger as he felt the saltiness on his lips, arousal spiking at the taste.

“Only I do, my sweet wife,” he continued, tongue poking out to lick a glistening teardrop from your cheek, tracing its course back up, underneath your eyes, where another kiss fell, tender. The gasp that fell from you was delicious, the gesture dirty, uncommon, but done so delicately, it brought nothing but warmth to your chest, and between your legs. And a twitch of satisfaction to Aerion’s lips.

You were so easy to unravel. To please. Now that he started, he couldn’t cease the gnawing feeling of more, more, more.

His tongue met your skin again, lapping at every trace of tears he found upon ruddy cheeks, holding you firmly in his grasp, turning your face every which way he pleased to reach every single lingering tear. Aerion’s breathing picked up with each lave of his tongue, eyes blown wide, the purple almost obscured by the black of his pupils as the salty taste coated his taste buds and stuck to the back of his throat.

Your breathing matched his, only faster, small hitches of breath remaining as you calmed down your crying, interrupted by hushed whines whenever the tip of your husband’s tongue flicked against your skin, curling obscenely, almost reptilian. In moments like these, he was more dragon than man, the thought only making the warmth in the pit of your stomach flare hotter.

“A—Aerion—,”

“Husband,” he cut you off without preamble, followed by a hint of teeth against the apple of one cheek, as if in reprimand, before soothing it with a lick of his tongue, slow and warm. “My name is mine own.” His whisper was ragged, underlined by the hint of a growl. Then he paused, enough for your breath to hitch as his lips descended to brush against yours again. “Husband means I am yours.”

You gasped against his mouth, the raw possessiveness in his words lighting a fire in your veins, leaning forward instinctively to chase his lips, but he held you firm by your jaw. A twitch of his lips followed, accompanied by a self—satisfied hum from deep in his chest, akin to a purr. The gratification he got from your eagerness was addictive, like a drug.

“Say it, my sweet wife,” he demanded, tongue flicking out against your lips, slow and filthy, not letting you pursue it, revelling in the whimper that vibrated against his taste buds. Gods, he could almost savour it, sweet as honeysuckle and twice as consuming. “Who am I?”

He could see how wide your eyes got, how rapidly the flush of your cheeks reddened, bright and embarrassed at being put on the spot like this, of being demanded in such a way. But the way your plush lips parted betrayed you, along with the hammering pulse Aerion could feel where his fingers pressed beneath your jaw. His wife loved this, too.

“Husband,” came unbidden, breathy and so, so eager, the last syllable dissolving into a whine, so overwhelmed that new tears glittered in those pretty eyes he loved so much. “My husband, my—”

One teardrop fell slowly down your skin, tracing a path towards your mouth, disappearing along a plush lip.

And Aerion’s resolve shattered, tongue following the damp trail down after it, relentless, a groan rumbling from deep within his chest as he chased the wetness of the tear, tongue licking, broad and filthy between your lips now.

You were always so warm. Be it your mouth or your cunt or your embrace, the warmth never ceased to pull him in, infallibly making him want more. Always more from you.

He licked into your mouth, his grip on your jaw firm, pulling lightly to urge you to slacken, wanting you pliant and easy under his tongue. Aerion couldn’t help it. You tasted so good, made such pretty sounds as he traced the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth, and swirled his tongue around yours, slick and wet, the sounds echoing in the space between you.

His other hand slid towards your throat, wrapping his fingers around it. not to squeeze, just to hold, to possess. He could feel the telltale vibration of your whines, of your moans as he suckled your tongue into his mouth, and it gave him a thrill like no other.

His cock was so hard in his breeches, tenting it obscenely, almost brushing against your thigh if you would move even an inch closer. He hoped you would soon. Aerion would have no qualms in rutting against your pretty legs to get off. You were his wife, and he would take his pleasure from you without shame, in any medium he could get it, using you to feel good.

“No more sorrow over petty courtly whispers,” he whispered as teeth nipped at your lip, a reminder of how this all came to be, of why your tears were now coating the back of his throat instead of sliding against your pretty face. “You are above every witless wench that dares speak ill of you, of us.” His words were rough to chide you, but he couldn’t help sliding his tongue against the reddened skin where he bit, as an apology.

You nodded, eagerness to please bleeding out of you and towards him, heating the fire always lying dormant in his being, caught to life by you. Only ever you. “Yes, husband,” came your whisper, lips brushing his, yearning to keep kissing, to cease his speech, but he didn’t let you yet, overly pleased by your readiness in giving him what he wanted, in letting him soothe the doubts that might still linger in the soft crevices of your heart.

“Very well,” he crooned, pressing his lips to yours in a chaste but lingering kiss, rewarding you silently, pleased with the state of you now.

Malleable and reassured and his.

Always his.

His sweet wife.

You felt so safe in your husband’s arms. Gods, there was no better place to laze around and get drowsier than wrapped up in him after a tiring day spent puttering around your shared home. He runs as hot as a furnace, your Duncan. There was never a need for a blanket, for if you were cold, his big, calloused hands would rub and massage the chill away, so gently and tenderly, melting you even further into the cradle of his arms.

Like now, those same broad palms were pressing into the give of your hips, slowly dimpling the clothed skin as he listened to you list off the livestock that needed to be taken towards the hills for grazing. His face was tucked into the crook of your neck, nuzzling the skin there, taking slow lungfuls of your scent, nosing along your throat, pleased to find remnants of lavender and soap from your earlier bath still clinging to the flesh.

“Y’ smell so nice, my lady,” he rumbled against your skin, pressing closer, muscles and sinew tightening around your middle, perching you higher onto his lap until you are flush against his broad chest, your rear snug on top of his crotch. “I ought to buy more of those fancy bath oils for y’r pretty skin.”

My lady. Even after some moons of being each other’s in front of the gods, your Duncan still called you my lady. Not all the time, no.

Only when he felt the need to fuck you.

You thought it was endearing. Your Duncan, so big, so broad, as tall as oaks and as strong as steel, getting so overcome by the feeling of want, of need for you, that he blurts out such formalities still.

The sweet name rolls off his tongue anew, just a few after, more a strangled noise than anything, akin to a wounded beast as you feel a familiar thickness poking against the small of your back, barely grazing between your clothed buttocks.

It was truly a blessing how easily Dunk got aroused. You hadn’t even meant to do anything to entice him, but it seemed just having you close was enough to have him hard and wanting under you.

With a soft sigh, you lean your head back, his broad shoulder cushioning your nape as you peer up at him sweetly, voice but a whisper as you coax, testing the waters. “Do you wish for me, husband?”

The swiftness with which callouses bite into the fat of your hips was all the confirmation you needed. Your Duncan was so precious, so easily unraveled. It made you smile.

“G—Gods, don’t,” the rasp of his voice almost broke like a boy’s, already overwhelmed, slowly losing his composure. “I oughta not, m’lady. Y’re tired, I know of it. You spent all day puttin’ those gentle hands of yours to work. I cannot just—”

And it was the truth. You were tired, but that was the last thing on your mind, especially when your eyes trailed down your husband’s flushed cheeks, the sweat beading his temple, the veins in his neck pulsating with restraint.

“You can,” you insisted, fingers lifting to cradle his chiseled jaw and lure his gaze towards yours, letting him see the same ardent desire reflecting back at him. The touch was tender but purposeful, making sure he could not look anywhere else but at you as you spoke. “For I wish it, too.”

His pupils blew wide, the baby blues you so loved now darker, dropping to your mouth, as if debating on closing the distance, of tasting the words you spoke with his tongue and teeth to make sure you spoke truth.

You could tell the restraint was still warring within him, the concern regarding your fatigue from the labor of the day not quite vanquished. But it was no trouble, for you were as stubborn as he was, and even more relentless.

Slowly, your hands touched his, soft against rough, guiding them up your knees, under your chemise, pressing broad palms against your thighs, letting him feel the warmth there as it beckoned him higher, towards the heat between them.

Dunk’s jaw ticked, something akin to equal despair and desperation twisting his expression as he realized his resistance was crumbling. You could feel the harsh exhale through his nose against the top of your head, a hiss of surrender as his fingers squeezed at the flesh of your thighs, dimpling it as he hoisted you flush against him. His chest rumbled, the sound reverberating from the top of your spine and down to your very toes, something animal and carnal that brought gooseflesh all over your skin.

“You aren’t even ready f’me, m’lady,” your Duncan exhaled shakily against your throat, the sound almost a moan as his fingers itched higher towards the apex of your thighs, where slickness already pooled unbidden. “Your pretty cunt’s not loose enough to take me yet. You ought to know I have to stretch her out f’ me.”

And you knew it to be true. Your husband’s cock was too big for you to take without the help of his fingers first, no matter how wet you were and how much you whined that—

“It’ll fit,” tumbled from your lips, getting impatient as your thighs parted for Dunk’s warm hands, urging him to touch you, to take what you both wanted so avidly. “Be gentle, and it’ll fit, husband—”

But your Duncan would never put himself in the position to hurt you. No matter how molten the heat in the pit of his stomach got or how incessant your need to throw caution to the wind and see how well your pussy can stretch around his girth was.

His lips pressed fervently to your temple in an open-mouthed kiss, panting against the skin as he trailed more down to your rosy cheek, your jaw, placating you, trying to keep himself and you from doing something reckless.

“S’not right, m’lady,” Dunk croaked against your jaw, lips still mouthing at the skin. “‘s already late and ya need to rest. You were moments from finding respite on me just a few ago.”

His words might protest, but his hands tell another story entirely, rough fingers caressing higher until they’re brushing against the slickness smeared onto the inside of your thighs, making him pause for a tense moment.

Dunk is so still, your gaze turning to him just as a groan parts his lips, the sound torn painfully from somewhere deep in his chest. “You’re—m’lady, I,—gods, y’re drenchin’ yourself already.”

You feel heat flood your cheeks at his crude words, tilting your face up until it's pressed into his throat, a tad bashful at being caught so undone by your Duncan. But who could blame you? Having his solid frame hold you so tightly, hands roaming, and mouth kissing heated paths down your skin was enough to have your core slick and throbbing.

And yet, he was still trying to do right by you, by his lady, for his fingers were stagnant now, just rubbing into the soft flesh of your thighs in desperate strokes, the tips barely grazing against your soaked cunt.

It drove you mad, this husband of yours. Always thinking about your well—being, even when you could feel his cock give pathetic little twitches between your buttocks, the chemise the only barrier between your bodies.

“Mhm, all for you, my love,” you encouraged, your hips rolling into the phantom of his touch, making your rear grind against the bulge in his breeches. You felt the way his throat bobbed until under your lips, the vibration of yet another groan making you hum. Your Duncan was slowly giving in, slowly letting go.

As much a man of honor as he was, he could never deny you for too long, especially with how good it felt to have you grinding back onto his lap like this, the ridge of his cock humping the cradle of your rear again and again, making his mind turn to mush. His hands dug into the fat of your slick thighs, broad hands encompassing each one, guiding you properly against his crotch, moving you slowly back and forth, making your body slide lightly against his broad chest.

A gasp slipped past your lips, your core throbbing at the feeling of your husband using his strength in such a way. Gods, it made you wetter than a maiden on her first night, no matter how many times your Duncan moved you as he pleased, his brawn being used for pleasure instead of fighting.

He was getting pent up, puffs of air rustling the top of your head, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your thighs as he ground you faster against his crotch, the friction delicious and raw, like animals rutting together in their carnal desires. His grip was so strong, so steady, that you didn’t even have to move anymore, letting him push and pull you against him, melting like drizzling honey into his strength.

Dunk could barely think like this, with the whisper of her heat brushing against his clothed crotch, her chemise being damned to all hell for keeping the warmth he knew resided between those thighs. In his desperation, he kept one hand anchored to her, the other one fumbling with his breeches enough to free his aching cock from its confines, a sigh of relief following.

You wasted no time in hitching up your chemise, letting it pool around your hips, letting his glazed, unfocused eyes feast on the dampness between your legs, the folds of your pussy drooling slick along your thighs where his fingers still gripped.

“Gods, look at that,” came rasped against your ear, punched out, the words thick in his throat. “M’lady is so wet f’ me.”

And the way his gaze was fixated on your mound made you believe he was addressing your cunt, not you in that moment, which only made you wetter, to have your Duncan call your pussy in such a way.

His hand rejoined the other, gripping higher up your thighs, at the apex of them, his thumbs now brushing over the dripping folds, making your breath hitch noisily, hips chasing the touch helplessly, begging silently for more.

The touch was reverent. Thick, calloused thumbs outlining the flesh, parting it lewdly to reveal your puffy clit and fluttering hole, bringing a rosy flush of embarrassment to your face. Your Duncan loved seeing how much you wanted him, the pads of his fingers exposing you even more, letting cool air brush against your cunt, like a caress.

“Look at her,” he whispered against your jaw, his chin now hooked onto your shoulder to have a better view of how his thumbs were spreading you open. “S’throbbing for me, isn’t she? M’lady gets dirty so fast. I barely touched her an’ look.”

He juts his chin lightly, coaxing your gaze to shyly flit down to where his is, and a whine falls from your lips as his words ring true. You were so wet, already making his fingers glisten with your juices as he slowly started to rub along your folds, gathering more, greedy with the feel of the smooth slide.

“But she’s not ready for me,” your Duncan tuts, so soft and breathy it doesn’t even sound like a reproach as his touch lingers on your clit, swiping over it gently, giving you a smidge of the pleasure you seek. “She’s too small to take me right. Can’t hurt you.”

It is too late to care for such things. You are desperate for more, already overwhelmed by his slow touches, rolling your hips to encourage him to rub your clit faster, to give you anything but this torturous indulgence.

“Need to feel you, Duncan. Want your cock, my sweet,” you plead, resuming the grind of your hips, feeling the thickness of him under you fully now, only fueling the molten heat in your veins. He’s so hard against your buttocks, and you shuffle enough to perch against his navel instead, letting his cock spring free between your thighs, bobbing against your slick flesh obscenely.

It makes you gasp, and you hear an even louder one above you. No wonder your husband’s eyes are glued to the way the thick length looks framed by lush, slick flesh on either side. The tip of it is oozing precum along heated flesh, and you watch with bated breath as it gives little throbs and twitches.

You have half of your mind to not seem frenzied with lust, but your body has no such qualms. One of your hands moves to palm his cock, lining it flush against your wet slit, folds parting against the girth of it, plump and soft. It looks sinful, clawing a groan out of your husband, whose hands now grip hard enough to leave marks behind on the fat of your hips, wishing to hold you in place, to still the hunger in your movements.

“C—can’t, m’lady, can’t, won’t—”

But you are done listening, squeezing your thighs, cushioning his cock between the apex of them, snug and so, so wet with slick, glistening, and beckoning towards sin.

The sound that tumbles from your husband’s mouth is more beast than man, his grip trembling now to hold you, moments from tipping over the edge of something delicious and heated, something you both desire so ardently. “Gods, a—ah, don’t—” Your Duncan is trying his hardest to keep his wits about him and failing miserably, just as you want him, just as you need him.

He was so hard and throbbing in the cradle of your thighs, encouraging you to squeeze his cock between them again, slow, hips rolling upwards, until only the flushed tip was poking through, your folds gliding wetly over the length.

“Feels good, husband,” you croon, words sickly sweet and wanton, your head falling back against his broad chest with a moan as your hips move again. “Give it to me like this, my love, please. M—make it good for your lady.”

Those words seemed to melt the last frayed ounce of restraint Duncan had. With rasped curses—sounding almost angry, at the end of his patience—his broad palms circled your hips, so big his fingers spanned across your belly, and yanked you down against his lap.

Tandem moans fell from both of your mouths as his cock slid between your thighs with the motion, your hand keeping it snug against your mound, the drooly tip bumping against your puffy clit with every upward rut of your husband’s hips.

Your Duncan was moving you on its own, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were nothing but a feather in his grasp, bound to bend to his will. And gods, did you love it. You loved when Dunk manhandled you, when he forgot just how strong he was, how much he could do with the muscles and sinew he possessed, bouncing you effortlessly onto his lap, his cock sliding between your tightly squeezed thighs from base to tip.

Once again, his gaze was trained solely onto where the cockhead poked between your plush flesh, making a mess of both of your juices, coating your thighs, making the rock of his hips smoother. “M’lady’s so hungry for it. C—couldn’t wait until the morrow.” It sounded like he was chiding you, but the dampness of his breath against your neck as he groaned and moaned unabashedly told otherwise. He loved it. He loved it when you wanted him so much that all sense of propriety flew out the window, and all that remained was his lady. His lady, who would do anything to get her way.

“You’ll have me on the morrow as well,” you declared, demanding and whiny, as if it was not up for discussion. “You’ll give me your cock properly, as a husband should.”

A punched-out moan fell from his lips, nodding feverishly as he whined, face aflame and a little drool at the corner of his mouth from having his lips parted by pleasure. “A—anything m’lady wants. Anything, anything. G—Gods, I’ll give you anything y’want, my sweet lady, pretty lady—”

The slide felt so good. He started babbling, praise so sweet it pooled in the pit of your belly, rapid and curling. Your hand never straying from keeping his length flush against your slick folds, loving to watch the way they parted around the girth, the way the flushed tip grazed your clit with each rock of Duncan’s hips.

You were pliant and melting in his hold, letting him do all the work, to bounce you harder and faster along his cock, feeling the way it throbbed and twitched, already close to his peak. Your poor Duncan.

Dunk’s grip on you was like a man clinging to the edge of something sinful, fingers flexing firmly against your flesh, squeezing more with each bounce, rhythm starting to falter the closer he got.

His lips were drooly and wet as they met the skin of your temple, your cheek, your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses, desperate and frantic. “My perfect, precious lady,” he would moan, pitched and breathy, praise falling from his lips without preamble. “S’good for me, always so good to me. Lettin’ me have you like this. G—Gods, I love you s’much.”

All you could do was smile, dopey and soft, turning towards his kisses, catching his lips with yours, letting your moans mingle between your tongues as you chased your peaks together.

“Love you so much,” you mewled against his mouth, tongue swiping the roof of it, eliciting a wounded, whining sound, his hips stuttering. So, so close to the edge. “Are you close, my sweet?”

Your Duncan could only nod, fervent and clumsy, barely able to reciprocate your kiss from how hard he was panting and keening against your lips. “Not gonna’ last. Feels s’good. M’lady’s so warm and wet,” he continued, voice thinning with each syllable. “M’sorry, m’lady, Gods—”

“Give it to me, my love. Your lady wants it,” you urged, coaxing him into it as your thighs squeezed once, twice—

And then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum coating your skin as his cock twitched, an undignified sound ripping from his throat that would’ve probably shamed him if the sensation of your thighs squeezing around him, milking him through it didn’t feel so heavenly. You didn’t let up either, letting your husband clumsily bounce you a few more times, his throbbing cock sliding against your folds and clit so perfectly, enough for you to tip over the edge as well with his name on your lips, wanton and heated.

Breathing seemed like a luxury now, both of you so spent and sweaty, your body melting against his sturdy, broad chest, thighs shaking with the remnants of your climax, small, pitiful whines falling from your lips as you settled.

Your Duncan had to catch his breath, before he slowly maneuvered you, hands easing up around your hips—now massaging the flesh like an apology for being rough, for using his strength in such a manner, for leaving behind marks etched into your flesh—and tucked you against his chest, turning you gently so you were facing him, your legs dangling over the side of the armchair.

Head tucked under his chin, ear pressed to his chest, the sound of his heart loud and slowing from the heat that transpired between you. “My sweet wife,” he whispered, so achingly loving, pressing small kisses to the top of your head, before nuzzling close, nosing along your hair. “My darlin’ lady,” he continued, and you couldn’t help but smile, bashful and content, snuggling closer to the warmth of his frame, turning your head enough to press a smooch against where his heart was beating. "Thank you, thank you—,"

Your Duncan was so lovely, especially spent and tender like this, broad hands easing you into drowsiness as he murmured sweet nothings into your hair, as if he hadn't taken you apart moments prior.

Sighing softly, you hoped he would hold up his end of the bargain and take you properly tomorrow, or you would have to take what you wanted again.

Baelor was a pious man. Follower of the faith of the seven. A dutiful, loving husband since your marriage was set in stone moons ago. You loved your husband. Would do anything for him in a heartbeat, as he would for you. The affection between you was mutual and only flourished with each passing day.

You also knew how much your husband cared about his brother. They have been close since the early days of their boyhood and would put their lives on the line for each other, if need be.

They would train, hunt, and attend tedious council meetings together.

What you would’ve never expected is that they would also fuck you together, their bodies bracketing yours with no way of escaping, rough hands groping and positioning your body to their delight.

Your husband leaned back against the headboard of the bed, with your bare chest splayed against his navel, while Maekar held your hips pushed back, angling them to his liking as he rutted his cock into you with fervor. It would’ve been shameful to vocalize how good it felt. How could a wife let herself moan and mewl for her husband’s brother?

But Baelor just smiled, crooning softly, broad hands cupping your face, wiping away the tears of guilt from your eyes, so achingly tender and soft, like he always was. The snap of Maekar’s hips kept jostling you, pressing your bare breasts against baelor’s navel, right up against where his cock sat proud and thick, unattended for now.

“My sweet wife, why do you weep so? Doesn’t Maekar’s cock feel good?”

The words were filthy, but his smile was loving, his eyes still carrying that everlasting affection for you, even as they glinted with mischief and satisfaction. You loved your husband so much, even while you could feel his brother’s grunts and groans behind you, one of his palms coming down onto your ass, spanking it firmly, making you cry out as the flesh of your buttocks jiggled, drawing Baelor’s eyes to it with interest.

“You’re being too rough, brother.” Your husband’s voice dipped into sternness, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him. He was enjoying this. It made your toes curl. “Don’t leave too many marks on my wife. We’ve talked about this.”

Maekar’s only answer was a scoff, followed by a rough slap of his hips that splayed your face down right onto Baelor’s lap, pressing you into the mattress as he shifted closer.

“Then why is she squeezing my cock every time I do it?” his tone was gruff, but you could feel the smugness beneath it, how proud he was to reduce his brother’s wife to a mewling mess onto Baelor’s lap, and having him watch the whole ordeal. “This pussy’s gonna milk me dry, brother.”

Your husband’s answer was just to hum. One of his hands moved to brush through your hair, soft and soothing as you curled more onto his lap, your cheek now pressed onto his muscled thigh, mouth parted into hiccuping moans, drooling onto his skin, the pleasure too intense for you to even have the decency of a closed mouth.

“Feels good, my love?” he asked, so hushed and soft, his smile sweet like honeysuckle as he peered down at you, firm fingers petting your hair tenderly. You could only nod, mind too far gone in mindless pleasure from how Maekar was hitting that spot inside your cunt that made you want nothing but pleasure.

“Yeah? Then tell him, my sweet,” Baelor coaxed, fingers now pressing lightly into your nape, cupping it gently, lulling you into listening. “Tell my brother how good his cock feels. How well he’s fucking you. I want him to hear it. Don’t you?”

The request was debauched beyond reason, but you could never refuse your husband anything, especially when he was gazing at you so lovingly, as if you hung all the stars in the sky for his viewing alone. The words tumbled out of your drooly lips not long after, garbled through moans of pleasure as you felt your core pulse and throb around Maekar, your peak closer than you thought prior.

“Cock f—fells s’good, Maekar! P—please don’t stop, please! ‘m so close, so close—”

The response was a loud, deep curse behind you, feeling rough fingers dig into your hips as if punishing you, dragging you back by the fat there, slamming so deep into your pussy that you swore you could feel Maekar’s tip reaching your womb.

“Are you hearing this, brother? Your wife loves how good I fuck her. Gods, she’s sucking me in,” Maekar grunted, one of his hands moving to where you two were connected, his thumb spreading your folds even more apart to see how well his cock slid in and out of you. “Fuck, look at this greedy hole. Can’t get enough.”

The exchange only made Baelor huff, amused, his eyes never looking away from you, making sure he saw every twitch and expression on your face, wanting certainty that his brother was making you feel as good as you deserved.

“Now you know why I leave council early, brother,” your husband said, the curl of his lips turning haughty for a few moments. “I would be doing myself a disservice to be away from my wife’s pretty cunt for too long.”

Maekar, despite his gruffness, his stunted emotional upbringing, and his inability to keep his temper under control, was nothing but devoted to you.

An attentive husband who made sure you had everything you wanted, even while he was out for days at a time, leaving instructions that his lady wife was to be cared for and made an utmost priority. Despite what the court and realm thought of him, you knew his heart. The one who loved you fiercely, even when words were not said aloud. His actions always showed you what his mouth couldn’t utter, and for you, that was enough. Maekar didn’t need to say flowery words or recite poetry in your ear to show that he cared about you most in this world. His relentless pursuit of your comfort and happiness showed you where his true feelings lay, every single day.

His brother, however, was different.

Baelor likes to talk.

Revels in it, even. More so when he has you slowly bouncing onto his cock, gentle hands caressing the curve of your hips, letting you set the pace you favor, not guiding you yet, but encouraging you to take what you please from him.

“You can go slow, my lady,” he would whisper, soft and reassuring, head tilted back to rest on the back of the armchair in you and Maekar’s shared room. The comfortable one which faced the bed, upon which your husband stood splayed out, watching as his brother’s cock slid into your cunt, unhurried and sloppy.

Maekar’s eyes narrowed at Baelor’s words. “Slow?” he scoffed, jerking his chin towards both of you, tone displeased; demanding. “Have her go faster. She can take it,” he commented.

A fierce flush crept up your neck at your husband’s words, fingers twisting in Baelor’s velvet tunic, not knowing if you wished to press closer or pull back, feeling more flustered than a maiden on her first night.

“Patience, brother,” came Baelor’s answer, his eyes warm and patient as he brushed sweat-dampened locks from your forehead and neck. Rough fingers then cupped your cheek, brushing the warm skin tenderly as he spoke. “Your wife feels good like this. Don’t you, my lady?” A twitch of his lips before he continued. “I can feel you squeezing around me. It feels wonderful.”

His words were so warm, his touch delicate and careful, as if you were made of porcelain. It made you squirm, leaning forward to hide your face in his broad shoulder, obscuring the rosy hue of your cheeks from both men’s view, making Baelor chuckle fondly.

“Your wife is a delight, brother,” he mused, catching Maekar’s gaze, making the younger man roll his eyes, feeling a twinge of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, but not enough to take measures to quench it.

“She is,” your husband agreed, voice gruff, but underlined with a whisper of fondness, the affection he felt for you seeping through the cracks. “Loveliest fucking thing in the Seven Kingdoms.” He paused before a twitch of a smirk touched his lips. “With a pussy I would fight wars for.”

The words were crude, but they made you squeeze harder around Baelor’s cock, the rhythm of your hips faltering for just a moment as you felt heat crawl up your spine at your husband’s words. Gods, he could be so wanton at times, but that was another reason why you loved him. Why do you always get so, so wet for him. Just as wet as you were now, dripping all over his brother’s cock, making the snap of Baelor’s thrust sound sloppy and debauched.

“Ah, she liked that,” was whispered against your ear, the tone fond but laced with amusement. “She’s soaking me so much, brother,” a low chuckle, before Baelor’s hands drifted down to grip handfuls of your ass, letting the plush flesh dimple through his fingers, slowly urging you to move faster. “Making such a mess, my lady. No wonder my brother loves to tongue at this sweet cunt so much. He’s always drinking his fill, isn’t he?”

You couldn’t see the shape of his lips, but you knew there was a teasing curve to them as he crooned into your ear, one broad palm softly patting at one ass cheek, urging your hips to roll deeper, for you to bounce quicker, to take his cock like you meant it. Like you would Maekar’s.

Refusal wasn’t an option, not when you felt so warm and cradled in his lap, feeling more feverish by the second, the pleasure slowly pooling in the pit of your stomach, flaring more and more, your peak rapidly approaching.

“If you make her cum, maybe I’ll allow you to get a taste of that sweet cunt,” came your husband’s voice, almost amused. “Have her ride your face,” he continued, voice dipping into something sinful, something that made your toes curl. “Would you like that, wife? Getting that pussy all over my brother’s face? Show him how you like it licked?”

There was no other place to hide from the heat washing over you but deeper into Baelor’s arms, hearing the older man chuckle fondly, patting at your buttocks, as if comforting you after his brother’s words. You wanted to refuse, to say that, no, only your husband can have his mouth between your legs. Still, all reason flew out the window, leaving you a moaning, shivering mess, nodding against Baelor’s shoulder, fingers scrambling at his tunic, needing something to hold onto, lest you lose your composure for good.

Baelor seemed pleased with your answer, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass now, lifting and dropping you back onto his cock, harder, faster, hips snapping up into your cunt with fervor, as if already eager for the promise of Maekar’s words.

“Shh, let go for me, my lady,” he encouraged, hushed and tender. “I’m eager to have a taste of what my brother so raves about.”

Who was going to judge them? They were princes of the realm, heirs to the throne, and dragons in name and blood.

No one had to know how Baelor sat back, goblet of wine in hand, watching how both of their pretty wives knelt at Maekar’s feet, while his brother fed his cock into their mouths, alternating between them. Maekar always let his beloved wife have a go first, carding his fingers through her hair, before holding his cock at the base and sliding into Baelor's wife’s mouth, letting her suckle at it as well. And repeating the ordeal. Again and again, each wife lapped softly at his length. His brother was greedy, but Baelor couldn’t blame him.

Just as Maekar couldn’t blame his brother, as their pretty wives straddled his lap, one mounting a thick, muscled thigh, as the other slid down onto Baelor’s cock. Always his wife first, then Maekar’s. One riding cock with fervor, while the other ground her clit against corded muscle, both needy and wanton. Just as Baelor and Maekar wanted them. It was debauched, but their wives felt pleasure, felt cherished, and received all their attention, so in the end, if the women in their lives were happy and sated, so were they.