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he waits. months bleed into years that leech the dark from his hair. his clothes lighten, from black and blood red to rich browns, creams, and clay reds for he refuses even the notion of funerary black. they say he is mad to wait. they say you are lost. but he knows you and they do not. baelor keeps the light in his eyes. he stokes it purposefully, daily with the memory of you. even as his heart cracks from the weight of hope that may never be fulfilled, he keeps the light in his eyes because he could not bear the thought of you returning after all this time just to find him hollow.
the following battles are of a type he is less accustomed to. he dodges the deluge of marriage proposals and the lords who push them. he forbids his blood even speak of marriage. at this point, he’d rather take up a chisel and hammer and carve the message above the gates to the Red Keep. the vows had flowed like honey from his mouth on your wedding night: ‘I am yours and you are mine from this day until my last day.’ the pair of you are homophrosyne so baelor knows come hell or high water, even if it’s only as a specter on the wall, you will return. the very least he can do is wait.
dunk as orpheus
everyone calls him stupid and it’s at this point, after you are gone, that dunk knows that he is. surely, his head has been rattled one too many times to be fully sane. surely, he’s one of those unfortunate few to have come into the world without even a drop of sense because after a high lord snatches you up for his own, dunk’s one thought is to bring you back. bring you home to him.
these noblemen, nigh gods themselves with how they saturate themselves in splendor and excess, do not know your value. even if he plucked the beating heart out of his chest, they could not comprehend it. but dunk is a man of honor. he cannot leave you to your fate. stealing you away would only mean death for the both of you. the sword will not help him.
dunk is a fool, so he relies on his word. he attempts in clumsy sentences and patched up verses from tawdry ballads to explain all that you are. a cool breeze in the summer. the first apple blossom of spring. when he succeeds against all odds and takes you home, he swears nothing will part you again. and when he fails to keep hold of you, dunk does as any knight would and sings songs of you until his dying day.
‘ – she hath my hearth in thrall. no life I own, nor liberty, for love is Lord of all’.
he waits. months bleed into years that leech the dark from his hair. his clothes lighten, from black and blood red to rich browns, creams, and clay reds for he refuses even the notion of funerary black. they say he is mad to wait. they say you are lost. but he knows you and they do not. baelor keeps the light in his eyes. he stokes it purposefully, daily with the memory of you. even as his heart cracks from the weight of hope that may never be fulfilled, he keeps the light in his eyes because he could not bear the thought of you returning after all this time just to find him hollow.
the following battles are of a type he is less accustomed to. he dodges the deluge of marriage proposals and the lords who push them. he forbids his blood even speak of marriage. at this point, he’d rather take up a chisel and hammer and carve the message above the gates to the Red Keep. the vows had flowed like honey from his mouth on your wedding night: ‘I am yours and you are mine from this day until my last day.’ the pair of you are homophrosyne so baelor knows come hell or high water, even if it’s only as a specter on the wall, you will return. the very least he can do is wait.
dunk as orpheus
everyone calls him stupid and it’s at this point, after you are gone, that dunk knows that he is. surely, his head has been rattled one too many times to be fully sane. surely, he’s one of those unfortunate few to have come into the world without even a drop of sense because after a high lord snatches you up for his own, dunk’s one thought is to bring you back. bring you home to him.
these noblemen, nigh gods themselves with how they saturate themselves in splendor and excess, do not know your value. even if he plucked the beating heart out of his chest, they could not comprehend it. but dunk is a man of honor. he cannot leave you to your fate. stealing you away would only mean death for the both of you. the sword will not help him.
dunk is a fool, so he relies on his word. he attempts in clumsy sentences and patched up verses from tawdry ballads to explain all that you are. a cool breeze in the summer. the first apple blossom of spring. when he succeeds against all odds and takes you home, he swears nothing will part you again. and when he fails to keep hold of you, dunk does as any knight would and sings songs of you until his dying day.
‘ – she hath my hearth in thrall. no life I own, nor liberty, for love is Lord of all’.
a/n: the insanity of this post even existing is beyond my comprehension
baelor | lyonel | maekar
baelor.
It comes from distance. He is sworn to the realm, first and foremost. Baelor is in possession of the most powerful position, the highest privilege in all of Westeros and still the gods saw fit to bless him with you as his wife. You, who understand the trappings and isolation of duty and do not begrudge him for it. You, who readily communicate and voice your misgivings and grievances instead of letting them fester. You, who match him in near every way.
Creeping loneliness fosters his jealousy toward all those who unduly monopolize your time: the court ladies who yak your ear off with petty squabbles, the councilmen who ramble in circles explaining what you already know, and all the little incompetencies that demand your attention. Baelor is all poise and propriety, but he starts getting short with people. And when you pull him aside to question him in your shared chambers about his poor mood, he finally has his moment.
With half a mind set on bending you over the side of the bed, his kisses are less gentle than normal. But there will be time for that later. He will make time for that later. Baelor is as much a diplomat as a warrior so he is well-accustomed to the power of a well-timed revelation. “I have missed you, my dear,” he says as he takes to his knees to spell out the depth of his longing in between your thighs. Over and over, until you beg for reprieve.
lyonel.
Before he can speak a word, it reads on his face. While Lyonel had been weaving one of his sprawling tales of gallantry, another man stole the first dance from you. As long as you have known him, in every pageant, every feast, every celebration, and even on restless, droning nights at Storm’s End, Lyonel takes your first dance. Across the room, you catch the glint in his eyes. You know what’s brewing. Your poor husband is thunderous, and you must make it right. The challenge is halfway out of his mouth when you kiss him, slow and sweet.
“Fret not, dear husband,” you say, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “I am yours, always.”
It is a simple declaration, no poetry, no rhetoric, but your assertion cuts to the very heart of him. When he finally gets you alone, in the dark and candlelight, he is lost, so he looks for your eyes. Once more, he seeks confirmation. He needs to hear it. One more time. He calls your name, throws your words back at you. " – please, I am yours, please – " A throaty moan leaks past his lips, nails raking red lines on your thighs, hips raising to meet you as you finally heed his begging and sink down onto him.
maekar.
The laugh is unlike he's heard from you. It starts with a harsh wheeze then you're doubled over at the waist as you devolve into unrestrained, shrieking cackles. Ugly and joyful. It is a sound he has never been able to pull from you. Maekar feels the weight of the revelation like ring-laden backhand. Your laughter comes most often as a consequence rather than intention. Regardless, he knows himself. He knows his strengths and weaknesses as well as he knows your own. And so, he stays true to his nature and does as a warrior should. Maekar sets his feet and bides his time. You don’t even see it coming.
The door to his office had barely clicked shut before he’s on you. His mouth rests beneath your ear, one hand on your hip as the fingers on his other work you. Diligence, rather than patience, is his virtue. He is burning, and yet, he keeps his voice soft.
“You weren’t so silent before. Why bother now? Let me hear you.” The pace of his hand remains steady and draws sweeter sounds from you, all of them punctuated by the lilt of his name.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a/n: the insanity of this post even existing is beyond my comprehension
baelor | lyonel | maekar
baelor.
It comes from distance. He is sworn to the realm, first and foremost. Baelor is in possession of the most powerful position, the highest privilege in all of Westeros and still the gods saw fit to bless him with you as his wife. You, who understand the trappings and isolation of duty and do not begrudge him for it. You, who readily communicate and voice your misgivings and grievances instead of letting them fester. You, who match him in near every way.
Creeping loneliness fosters his jealousy toward all those who unduly monopolize your time: the court ladies who yak your ear off with petty squabbles, the councilmen who ramble in circles explaining what you already know, and all the little incompetencies that demand your attention. Baelor is all poise and propriety, but he starts getting short with people. And when you pull him aside to question him in your shared chambers about his poor mood, he finally has his moment.
With half a mind set on bending you over the side of the bed, his kisses are less gentle than normal. But there will be time for that later. He will make time for that later. Baelor is as much a diplomat as a warrior so he is well-accustomed to the power of a well-timed revelation. “I have missed you, my dear,” he says as he takes to his knees to spell out the depth of his longing in between your thighs. Over and over, until you beg for reprieve.
lyonel.
Before he can speak a word, it reads on his face. While Lyonel had been weaving one of his sprawling tales of gallantry, another man stole the first dance from you. As long as you have known him, in every pageant, every feast, every celebration, and even on restless, droning nights at Storm’s End, Lyonel takes your first dance. Across the room, you catch the glint in his eyes. You know what’s brewing. Your poor husband is thunderous, and you must make it right. The challenge is halfway out of his mouth when you kiss him, slow and sweet.
“Fret not, dear husband,” you say, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “I am yours, always.”
It is a simple declaration, no poetry, no rhetoric, but your assertion cuts to the very heart of him. When he finally gets you alone, in the dark and candlelight, he is lost, so he looks for your eyes. Once more, he seeks confirmation. He needs to hear it. One more time. He calls your name, throws your words back at you. " – please, I am yours, please – " A throaty moan leaks past his lips, nails raking red lines on your thighs, hips raising to meet you as you finally heed his begging and sink down onto him.
maekar.
The laugh is unlike he's heard from you. It starts with a harsh wheeze then you're doubled over at the waist as you devolve into unrestrained, shrieking cackles. Ugly and joyful. It is a sound he has never been able to pull from you. Maekar feels the weight of the revelation like ring-laden backhand. Your laughter comes most often as a consequence rather than intention. Regardless, he knows himself. He knows his strengths and weaknesses as well as he knows your own. And so, he stays true to his nature and does as a warrior should. Maekar sets his feet and bides his time. You don’t even see it coming.
The door to his office had barely clicked shut before he’s on you. His mouth rests beneath your ear, one hand on your hip as the fingers on his other work you. Diligence, rather than patience, is his virtue. He is burning, and yet, he keeps his voice soft.
“You weren’t so silent before. Why bother now? Let me hear you.” The pace of his hand remains steady and draws sweeter sounds from you, all of them punctuated by the lilt of his name.
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