a donut.

Duncan the Tall

Years on the road made him adaptable, can (and will) fall asleep anywhere. He is huge, so any position he falls asleep in is immediately classified as sprawling. If he is fortunate enough to have a bed, it's as simple as it gets. A blanket and a small pillow are more than enough, given that he is used to sleeping on the ground under the stars (which he actually prefers). Sleeps deeply from the general physical exhaustion that comes with travelling, but unfamiliar noises can wake him. If you are travelling with him, he would try to find inns for you to sleep in, but you would always persuade him to sleep outside. You love it best when you are tucked underneath him, and he is both a shield and a blanket to you. His arm? Best pillow ever.

modern Duncan sleeps on some raggedy couch he found someone giving away on facebook marketplace, and he is genuinely fine with how he either crams to fit or lets his feet dangle off the armrest. after the two of you move in together, your largest expense is a proper super king-sized bed, and this guy is sleeping like a log, and his entire body fits for the first time ever. hogs all the blankets. sleeps in pajama bottoms only, no matter the weather. likes having the window open.

Aerion Targaryen

They invented the word lavish for this man. Silk sheets, embroidered pillows, expensive furs, softest blankets. Everything about him must reflect his status. Crazy enough to demand that his bedding be changed daily. A ton of pillows on the bed. His sleeping habits? Depends on his mood. If he is unprovoked, he sleeps like a baby, on his back, cocooned among his pillows. If, however, he is brooding and psychotic, he stays awake for three days straight, generally growing more and more unstable, throws everything on his bed all over the room, and then crashes on the floor for 19 hours. Twitches in his sleep. With you, his favourite position is lying on his stomach, his head on your belly, as you lightly scratch his head, his arms, his back. Purrs like a kitten dragon.

modern Aerion is the type of guy who, if he's sleeping at someone's place, demands their room and then criticizes everything about it. blood-red silk pajamas, embroidered with his name. still demands bedding to be changed daily just because he can, until he moves in with you, and you make him change the bedding for the first time in his life; then he sees what a hassle that is, so you are back to a normal bedding-changing schedule. bedroom littered with expensive scented candles. room temperature is a furnace. childhood bed couldn't be seen from the mountain of dragon plushies he had on, and would force Maekar to say goodnight to each and every one of them every night when he would tuck him in (no papa, that one is Vhagar, Balerion is the black one, now apologize to them, papa).

Daeron Targaryen

Poor baby Daeron. Sleeps wherever he collapses after drinking - curled on one side, face-down, or tangled in blankets. Maekar finds him and carries him to bed. Wakes up in the night, disoriented. Bed is meant to be luxurious, but frequently left messy. Half-empty wine cups, discarded clothing, books and papers scattered everywhere. Sweats and twitches in his sleep. Also, if he's drunk, he snores. If his dreams are plaguing him, screams and cries in his sleep. Positions alternate from face-down spread like a star to curled up like a fetus. With you, though, as he is trying to stay away from the bottle, favourite position is being the little spoon: safe in your embrace, falls asleep enveloped by your scent, as you sing lullabies to him.

modern Daeron sleeps in his day clothes as he just plops on the bed, or pajamas that haven't been washed in weeks. his bed is actually just a mattress on the floor. owns 2 bedsheets, both have holes in them. sleeps fitfully, wakes often, gets at most 4 hours of sleep at night. you refuse to sleep at his place, so he finally goes out and buys a proper bed, but the task of changing the sheets is all on you. you buy him a star projector nighlight and a white noise machine, and they help calm him and fall into a deep sleep, and he actually gets a good 6 hours now. still loves being the little spoon. sleptwalk as a child. Maekar removed all the window handles and had all the doors locked, and would always return him to bed (because every noise wakes that man up). talks in his sleep. naps often.

Valarr Targaryen

Side sleeper through and through, prefers the left. Generally gets a good night's sleep, sometimes is a bit tense from all the expectations put on him as Baelor's heir. Elegant bed, but not excessive, still has the blanket (or remnants of it) his mother made while pregnant with him. Two pillows for sleeping and one decorative that he places on the side chair when he goes to sleep. Dislikes furs. When his face scrunches, you always soothe the wrinkles between his forehead with the pad of your finger, or a light kiss, and he relaxes immediately. Not much tossing or turning, maybe he switches the side he sleeps on. Lightly drools when fully relaxed (or he had a few drinks before bed). Goes to sleep and wakes at the same hours every day.

modern Valarr prides himself on how neat he makes his bed. Baelor taught him when he was a kid, and he has kept that habit. his pet peeve of yours is that you don't make the bed good enough, so you compromised: he does the bed, you water the plants. forbids food and drinks in bed. his nightstand has a lamp, a glass of water, his glasses, and a book he reads for twenty minutes before sleeping. likes a colder room, rotates the pillow to the colder side. owns a weighted blanket.

Maekar Targaryen

Sleeps ramrod straight, on his back. Almost doesn't move. Breathes quietly. Years of military campaigns mean he's accustomed to waking at the slightest unusual sound, the sort of person to be fully awake in seconds if disturbed. His bed does not reflect his royal status: firm mattress, plain wool blankets, one measly pillow, with a dagger under it, one hand on its hilt. Never shows softness consciously, and it is obvious even when he sleeps, with tense jaw, furrowed brows, shoulders never fully relaxed. With you, though, things change completely. His bed is now adorned with pillows, blankets, and furs. Weapons are banned. Maekar scoffs and growls, but doesn't say anything. The truth is, he is getting the best sleep of his life with you in his arms. One arm always draped possessively over your stomach, nose burrowed in your neck, legs tangled, as if he's trying to mold the two of you together. His whole body is relaxed, and he even snores lightly. If he ever has to sleep without you, he sprays some of the oils you put in your hair on the pillow so it smells like you, and just burrows his face in it for the night. You love to run your fingers through his hair and beard before bed, because you can see how touch starved that man is, and how the tension leaves him as you continue caressing him.

modern Maekar puts all his kids to bed and reads them bedtime stories. still a light sleeper. groans as he gets in bed. mastered the whole military 'two-minutes-to-fall-asleep' technique. Maekar Targaryen sleeps naked, send tweet. does have a nightrobe though. has blackout curtains. room furniture is expensive, but minimalistic. until you bring all your tchatchkis. personally offended by your childhood plushie you bring over (gets flashback to Aerion's childhood). refuses to fuck you if that thing is on the bed (you stuff it in the nightstand). if you move apart during the night, pulls you back to him. growls when you get up before him; can't really sleep after you leave. does not understand the purpose of decorative pillows. no TVs, phones, or computers allowed in the bedroom.

Baelor Targaryen

Goes to bed after everyone else, rises before the sun. Sleeps enough to remain sharp; the realm needs him, so he cannot indulge himself in the luxury of sleep. He falls asleep not because he's tired, but because he decides to. Large bed, with fine linens and practical blankets, keeps everything tidy. Does like a firmer pillow. Sleeps on his back, but almost like he is moving to lie on his side, arms folded on his torso. Even though he works himself to the bone, he has a rule to not bring any scrolls, papers, or correspondence to his bedroom. Murmurs in his sleep, his brain never not working. Snores softly, like a quiet rumble when he's deeply exhausted. With you, though, he is much more relaxed. Tries to go to bed at a reasonable time, because he loves the late-night conversations between the two of you. He lies on his back, and you're curled to his side, your head pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Legs tangled, one of his hands combing gently through your hair as you play with the fingers and trace patterns on the palm of his other hand. Hates leaving you in the morning. Always dropping forehead kisses when he has you in his arms. When Valarr and Matarys were younger, he would always allow them to sleep in his bed if they asked.

modern Baelor does not go to bed without a cup of tea, with honey (never sugar) and a splash of milk. aerates the room before bed. sleeps in proper pajamas, goes feral when he sees you sleeping in one of his shirts. always kicks one leg out from under the covers. you practically sleep on top of him, and your hair always ends up in his face. he's used to it by now. doesn't move much, heartbeat slow, breath steady, naturally warm. sleeps soundly, but wakes instantly if you whisper his name. does not need an alarm to wake up, instinctively reaches to your side of the bed. owns the softest blankets and pillows known to man. if you fall asleep on the couch, he always carries you to bed. forehead kisses, even when he's half-asleep. loves to sleep when it rains, finds storms oddly comforting.

bonus: Aegon Targaryen

In every single universe that kid takes up all the space in bed, spread like a star. Maekar has received several kicks to his jaw when he allowed Aegon in bed (he tries to be brave after a nightmare, but always runs to his father. Maekar grunts, but always relents). Snores and talks in his sleep. If awoken by a nightmare, loves to snuggle to calm down.

But Winterfell was different. He might be king, but no matter how many royal trumpets announced their arrival, or how many banners bearing the three-headed dragon flew above the castle, you were a Stark, and here that meant more than the crown he wore. You were one of their own, a daughter of Winterfell who they watched growing up from a solemn little girl running through these halls into a woman worthy of the direwolf sewn upon her cloak. Old servants still fussed over whether you had eaten enough. Grey-haired guards who had once carried you on their shoulders now straightened with unmistakable pride that their little wolf-maiden returned home.

Baelor found he could not begrudge them their affection. Indeed, he rather enjoyed watching it. There was something quietly beautiful in seeing the reserved young woman melt so easily among her own people. The careful queen disappeared, replaced by the daughter of the North. He had married a woman beloved by her people. How could he resent that? If anything, it only made him love you more.

The bed felt oddly incomplete without the familiar weight of you curling against his side, your cold feet seeking his warmth beneath the blankets. So he remained where he was, the book forgotten once again, content to wait for the sound of the door opening and the woman who, without intending to, had become the part of every evening he anticipated most.

As if on cue, the chamber door opened. Baelor looked up as you entered, closing the door behind you and already unfastening your cloak. "There you are," Baelor said. You looked up at him, and his mismatched eyes warmed as they met yours. You could not help but smile as you worked on the laces of your dress. "There I am."

"I had begun to suspect Winterfell had reclaimed you."

You rewarded him with a chuckle as you slipped out of your dress and reached for the nightgown a maid had left for you. "It tried." Once dressed, you moved to the vanity and took the pins out of your hair. "The kitchens insisted I eat. They baked honeyed cakes."

"Your favourites."

"And the kennelmaster wished to show me the latest litter."

"And you can never restrain yourself from petting the dogs."

"Then my old nurse caught sight of me in the corridor."

"A fatal mistake," he nodded gravely.

"It took nearly half an hour to escape. And then lord Cerwyn stopped me."

"Another quarter hour?"

"Near enough."

"I have reached a conclusion," Baelor said, crossing his arms.

"Oh?"

"I have a distinct impression I rank somewhere below the castle itself in your affections."

You turned towards him, hand paused mid-brushing your loose hair. "You sound jealous."

"I am."

"Of Winterfell?"

"It has monopolised my wife since we crossed the Neck."

At that, you couldn't suppress the bark of laughter that escaped you. "It is home."

"I know."

"The walls know my footsteps."

"They've been trying to keep you."

"Try as they might, a stubborn dragon is unwilling to release me."

"What a terrible fate."

"Oh, do not pity me. I might have been raised by wolves, but it is the dragon my heart chooses."

You felt Baelor's breath hitch. You tilted your head to the side, taking in the sight of your husband lounging on the bed. You felt the weariness around your eyes after the long day, felt the heaviness that slumped your shoulders. None of it dulled the tenderness with which you looked at him. Your love needed no grand declarations, only the reassurance that he was there.

He met your gaze with an identical one. You knew he spent the day meeting with various northern lords, listening to their concerns. They respected him, not simply because he was King, but because they found no vanity in him, no empty boasts. He listened before he answered, kept his word once it was given. He neither mistook silence for weakness, nor blunt honesty for insolence. They appreciated he did not shrink from the cold or long rides through snow, and that he trained with sword and lance alongside his own men rather than merely watching from the gallery. He would never truly be one of them. He was a dragon, raised beneath the southern sun, heir to a dynasty far removed from Old Kings of the North. And yet, the North had a way of judging deeds above birth. They might not call him their own, but they trusted him. And here, there were few honours greater.

You rose from your chair, and slowly made your way to the bed. Baelor's eyes did not leave you as you kneeled on the bed next to him. You reached for his crossed arms and pryed them apart, smiling when he offered no protest. You slipped your fingers in his, idly tracing the calluses across his palm. Baelor's gaze never left you. There was nothing guarded in it. No kingly reserve, no careful diplomacy, only unmistakable affection. He was looking at you as if you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, as though he had quite forgotten the book at his side, the dying fire, the snow beyond the windows, even the lateness of the hour. There was a softness to his expression that belonged to no one else; the corners of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile, the violet and brown of his eyes following your every movement with quiet admiration.

It was a look you had caught a hundred times before. A look that still made you wonder, after all these years, how a man so admired throughout the realm could gaze upon you with such open devotion. "What?" you asked.

He blinked, almost as though he had forgotten you could catch him staring. "You are beautiful."

You laughed softly, lowering your eyes. "I am in my nightgown."

"I see that."

"My hair is a mess."

"I disagree."

"I look exhausted."

"You do."

You looked up again, to which Baelor simply chuckled. "And yet," he said, smile widening, "I've never thought you lovelier."

Wanting to mask how your cheeks warmed, you pressed a soft kiss to Baelor's hands you still held. "You have always been a terrible judge," you murmured against his hands.

"No," he answered, leaning closer to you. He flipped your joined hands until his were cradling yours, and brought them to his lips to kiss, his gaze never leaving yours. "I have simply always been hopelessly in love with my wife."

He tugged you to lie under the blankets with him, and you obliged, allowing him to tuck you under his arm, your head resting over his beating heart. A few moments passed, Baelor idly caressing your arm you splayed over his chest. "I had forgotten how quiet it is here," you murmured to his skin.

"It suits you."

"Does it?"

"You stand differently, more relaxed. You breathe more easily. It makes you a Stark again."

"I never stopped being one."

"No," he chuckled, kissing the top of your head, "you merely remembered."

You snuggled closer to him. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"There was never any question."

"You have an entire kingdom to think about. Seven of them, actually."

"I have my wife to think about."

As Baelor drew the blankets a little higher around you, you nestled closer to him, warmed not only by the hearth and the furs atop the bed, but by the steady heat of the man who held you.

Winterfell had always been your home.

But it was in Baelor's arms where you truly belonged.

The heat was truly overbearing. It clung stubbornly to the walls of the Red Keep, trapped beneath its high ceilings, nowhere to escape. The air was stale, unmoving, thick enough that every breath felt a labour on its own. It seemed to have subdued the castle itself. Servants, who ordinarily hurried through the halls with their quiet efficiency, now moved at a sluggish pace, their steps careful, conserving the strength such a warm day allowed. Many lingered in the shadows, if duty permitted, grateful even for the illusion of coolness in any shadow they could find.

Inside Prince Maekar's chambers, the stifling heat had stripped away what little tolerance the prince had. Already irritated by the small council (the meeting Baelor had, mercifully, ended quickly), and the exuberance of his children at midday meal (not even boiling temperatures could ever deter Aegon), the prince all but ran towards his chambers, barking at the guards in front not to bother him, shutting the doors and slowly exhaling, trying to ease the headache which has started to appear, aided by the insufferable heat. The stillness, the suffocating air, the sluggish pace of everyone around him - it all grated on his nerves. Even the smallest inconvenience was enough to earn a sharp glare or a clipped command. He ought to have been used to the heat, after all; he was half-Dornish, but even that could not stop the sweat gathering along his brows and beneath his collar, tracing slow paths down necks and backs, leaving linen to cling uncomfortably to skin.

And yet, he was nowhere near as irritated as you. His wife. His usually gentle, kind, easy-smiling wife had turned positively feral in this heat. A Mormont of Bear Island, used to whipping winds and frosty winters, now at the mercy of King's Landing's sweltering heat. Every inconvenience earned a weary sigh, every bead of sweat another muttered complaint beneath your breath. You fanned yourself without pause, more out of frustration than hope, your patience fraying. Maekar hated seeing his wife uncomfortable, the Anvil willing to move mountains for you, yet unable to combat this heat (not that he would ever speak of it in public; his feelings were whispers shared between the two of you in your bed, knowing looks shared at feasts and among crowds, his hand at the small of your back, your fingers wrapped around his forearm). Yet, he could not help but feel a sliver of satisfaction at seeing you so disgruntled; after all, he was usually the irritated one of the pair.

That satisfaction of his was short-lived, because his pretty young wife turned all her frustrations on him in the quiet of their chamber. "You," you said, pointing your fan at him, as if it were a dagger, "are responsible for this." Standing by the window, his goblet of cooled wine in hand, he looked over at you, his eyebrows raised. "This heat. It follows you. Your dreadful dragon blood has cursed this castle."

His violet eyes narrowed at your stretched form on the lounge. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. You Targaryens, burning hotter than the furnace, have cursed us with this insufferable heat, because you think of yourselves as these great beasts of fire, so we all must balk in your heat, you...you...you half-lizards," you finished your lament, throwing the useless fan across the room.

"Half-lizards?"

"Yes, half-lizards, scaly creatures that delight in baking upon rocks."

Maekar scoffed, "I've never baked upon a rock."

"No, you merely insist on living inside one"

Maekar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Seven save me."

On the lounge, you crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes at him. "The Seven have abandoned this city, I am certain of it"

"You've taken leave of your senses, woman."

"Oh yes, I've left them somewhere between the gates of King's Landing and this infernal chamber."

Maekar turned fully towards you, his hands now clasped together behind him. He cracked his neck slightly, willing himself not to roll his eyes at you. "You married me willingly."

"Well, I must have suffered a sunstroke when I arrived at this place"

"It was early spring when we met. Besides, I remember you gushing about how you do not have to wear such heavy dresses and furs anymore because of such splendid weather," he said, with a slight mocking tone.

"Oh, you've noticed my dresses, my prince?" you purred at him, a mocking smile on your face.

Maekar groaned at that. But you were right. Of course he noticed your dresses. He noticed everything about you. He can still remember the first time he saw you, among the many who arrived to celebrate the King's nameday. He can still remember the day vividly, how he could not wait for it to end, when suddenly you appeared, with your braided hair, a mix of awe and caution in your eyes. Eyes that widened slightly when you caught his gaze, and his heart did something, something it had not done in a very long time, so much so that he was almost, almost, thinking of visiting a maester because he thought something must be wrong with him. Over the years, many women were paraded around the Red Keep, in hopes of the King's youngest son marrying again. Many were hopeful, but many were disheartened when they were faced with his cold demeanor. But you, oh, you were not disheartened in the slightest. You took it as a challenge, and you slowly, but surely dismantled all of Maekar's defences, rattling him to the core. And so you became his bride, a pretty, young bride, much more suited for Daeron or Valarr, even Aerion. But no, your eyes only shone for this stoic old widower, and Maekar did not know what he did to deserve you, but he quietly thanked every god there is for having you. You and your kind eyes, your witty mouth, your gentle hands, and gods, he could feel the fierceness of his devotion, of his love for you. He could not stop the ends of his mouth curling upwards.

"There," you smiled triumphantly, noticing the tips of his ears reddening. "You smile because you know I am right."

"I smile because you are being absurd, woman"

"I married a dragon."

"A moment ago, I was a half-lizard."

"Dragons, lizards, same thing," you waved dismissively.

"Alas, you merely married a prince."

"A very hot prince."

He narrowed his eyes at you again. "Careful, wife."

"Or what?" You challenged him, your eyebrows raised questioningly, but a gleam in your eyes, delighting in needling your husband. "I should have married a northern lord; it would be easier to bundle in furs during the winter, rather than melt into my dress here."

He would hardly call what you were wearing a dress. It was a slip of a fabric, a fine silk which clung to your hips (Targaryen red, of course, because you know how much he loves seeing you in his colours), a neckline plunging low; one might find it obscene, were it not for the sweltering weather. Nestled in the hollow between your breasts, he could see the blood-red ruby pendant he gave you as a present when you accepted his proposal. Adding to the inappropriateness of the dress were the two slits at your sides, through which he could see hints of your exposed skin, and his blood pressure spiked when he saw you wearing it this morning, because with every movement he would be offered a fleeting glimpse of the flesh he could very well remember the taste of. Oh, you were going to be the death of him.

He started to slowly approach you, his violet eyes darkened.

You folded your arms again. "Do not stalk toward me as though you intend to frighten me."

As if I could, thought Maekar. "I have no need for that, wife."

"No?"

"Well, you have already admitted you'd rather have another husband."

"I said another climate."

"You implied the husband."

"I implied nothing."

"You implied everything," he said, slightly growling on the last word. He stood now in front of you, and you tilted your chin to look at his imposing form, and gods, your husband was beautiful. He stood above you, a mountain of a man, with his broad shoulders and a barely restrained power about him, his every moment measured, every muscle coiled under his pale skin. You peered at him under your lashes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you took him in, this husband of yours.

"What are you going to do?" you asked, your voice almost whispering, losing the catty tone you previously held. "Scowl at me until winter comes?"

"I've considered it."

Maekar making a joke? This heat must've truly impacted him.

"It won't work, my prince."

He reached to cup your face, his fingers tracing your lip. "No?"

"I have become quite immune to your scowling, husband."

Maekar groaned at that, this time not being able to prevent his eyes from rolling. "You are impossible."

"So you've said."

"And insufferable."

"I learned that from my husband," you said, slowly rising. He was a full head taller than you, so your head was still tilted to be able to see into his eyes. You could see his desire for you in his violet eyes, the desire you knew was equally present in your eyes. You were pressed to him, and he burned, the dragon blood in him, but the heat was forgotten now, because here, in his arms, is the place you always want to be in. Your words elicited an actual smile from him, which he quickly tried to hide, but you caught it, and you laughed properly then, entirely pleased with yourself.

"There it is," you murmured. "I knew if I teased you long enough-"

Maekar silenced you with a kiss. A searing kiss, and you grabbed onto his arms as he held your face. The world beyond faded into silence, leaving only the steady rhythm of shared breaths and the soft rustle of your silk. The heat was forgotten, because there was only Maekar, and his lips, and you moaned into the kiss as he slightly bit your bottom lip, and you wished for him to never stop kissing you. Maekar's right hand crept downwards, tracing the ruby pendant between your breasts, and his fingers gripped the exposed flesh at your sides. You arched into him, hands gripping at his tunic.

When you finally parted, it was only for a fraction, with his one hand on your hip, the other cradling your face, and you gazed into his eyes, which turned almost black. They dropped to your swollen lips for a moment, before gazing at your eyes back again.

"That," you said softly, "is a far more convincing argument."

"Thought so," he murmured.

"And if I blame your dragon blood again?"

Maekar's hand gripped your waist. "I will simply have to silence you a second time, wife."