valyriantarg

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The truth was embarrassingly short. Your roommate, who was never around. Your friends, who were back home, not at your university. The barista who knew your order. Your mother, on Sundays.

Aerion watched you flounder with something that might have been amusement. Then he said, “Come to lunch with me.”

His request didn't sound like you had an option of refusal.

That was how it started.

Lunch became coffee, which became study sessions, which became just hanging out. Valarr joined the second time, sliding into the booth across from you with an apologetic smile that made his mismatched eyes crinkle at the corners. Where Aerion was all needling and provocative, Valarr was soft-spoken and careful. He asked you questions about your classes and remembered your answers. He noticed when you were cold and draped his jacket over your shoulders without making a production of it. He laughed at your jokes, even the ones that weren’t funny.

Aerion noticed things too, but differently. He noticed when you were uncomfortable and pushed anyway, not to be cruel but to see what you’d do. He noticed the way you shrank from attention and made a point of drawing it to you, loudly announcing your arrival when you walked into a room, slinging an arm around your shoulders and declaring you his favorite person. He noticed your silences and filled them with his own voice, rambling about nothing and everything until you forgot to be anxious.

They were strange. The whole family was strange. You learned that the first time they brought you to the Targaryen estate. Valarr’s father was there, a grim-faced man who barely acknowledged your existence. Aerion’s father swept through with cutting remarks about the staff. A small dog wearing a diamond collar yapped at your heels.

Most people, you imagined, would have been overwhelmed. Would have smiled too wide and laughed too loudly and tried too hard to prove they belonged. You just stood there, taking it in with fascination, and when Aerion’s father fixed you with a razor-sharp stare and asked what your family did, exactly, you answered honestly and without flinching.

Valarr had hidden a smile behind his hand. After that, you were invited back. You became a fixture at the estate, then at Valarr’s apartment downtown, then anywhere they happened to be.

“They don't know what to do with you,” Valarr told you one night, the two of you sitting on the balcony of his penthouse while Aerion raided the kitchen inside. The city glittered below you like a spilled jewelry box. “Most people want something from us. Connections. Money. Status.” He said it without bitterness, just a quiet statement of fact. “You don’t.”

“I mean, I do want to have those things, in general. Just not at the expanse of being a leech.” you mused.

Valarr looked at you for a long moment. Then he smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Exactly.”

You didn’t understand what they saw in you. But they kept you close, you let them, and somewhere along the way they stopped being the Targaryen cousins and started being Aerion and Valarr, your best friends, one of the few only people who had ever looked at you and decided you were worth knowing.

Valarr bought you things you mentioned wanting and forgot you’d mentioned. Aerion bought you things you'd never have the audacity to ask. When you tried to refuse, Aerion threatened to return everything and buy something twice as expensive. You learned to accept.

They took you places you’d never have gone on your own. Gallery openings where Aerion got you drunk on champagne and Valarr held your hand so you wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. Weekend trips to the coast, the three of you crammed into Aerion’s obscenely expensive car, windows down and music blasting. Dinner at restaurants with waiting lists months long, where the staff knew them by name and never brought a check.

They listened to you. That was the strangest part. You told them things you’d never told anyone, and they didn’t flinch or pity you or try to fix it. They just listened, and then Aerion made an inappropriate joke to make you laugh, and Valarr squeezed your hand, and the loneliness receded a little. They were lonely too in their own way, you realized. They had each other, but they were polar opposites in so many aspects, you unintentionally ended up in between them in conversations more times than you could count.

It was a Saturday in early spring. You were at Valarr’s apartment, sprawled across his ridiculous sectional sofa with a movie playing. Aerion was on the floor, his head tipped back against the cushions, close enough that you could smell his cologne. Valarr was on your other side, his thigh pressed against yours.

The conversation had drifted, lazy and aimless, touching on relationships and attraction and the mess of it all. Aerion had just ended something with a girl whose name you’d never bothered to learn. Valarr was between relationships, which meant he was quiet in a way that made you want to wrap yourself around him. You, as always, had nothing to contribute.

“What about you?” Aerion asked, tilting his head to look up at you. “Ever been in love?”

You shook your head.

“Ever been kissed?”

Your silence was answer enough. Aerion’s eyebrows rose, his expression flickering from surprise to something hungrier. Valarr went very still beside you.

“Wait,” Aerion said, sitting up. “You’re telling us you’ve never...”

“It’s not a big deal,” you said, too quickly. Your face was burning. “I just never...”

“How is that possible?” Aerion looked genuinely bewildered, as if you’d just announced you’d never eaten a strawberry or seen the ocean. “You’re...”

“Don’t,” you warned. You hated when people tried to reassure you about this, as if your lack of experience was a problem to be solved.

Valarr cut in, his voice gentle. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Of course there isn’t,” Aerion agreed, recovering quickly. “I’m just surprised.” He paused, and you saw something calculating flicker behind his violet eyes. “So you’ve never…done anything? With anyone?”

You shook your head, wishing the couch would swallow you whole.

Aerion exchanged a look with Valarr. It was brief but you caught it. Months of friendship had taught you to read their silent communication, the way they could have whole conversations in a glance.

“We could teach you,” Aerion said, and his voice had dropped, gone lower and smoother. “If you wanted.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Not like that,” Valarr said quickly, shooting Aerion a look. “He means...we could help you. Explore. Figure out what you like.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was careful. “Only if you wanted to.”

“You’re our best friend,” Aerion added, for once with no mockery in his tone. “We’re not going to be assholes about it. Not going to message you at three in the morning for a quick fuck and pretend you don’t exist the next day. We’re not those guys.”

“We’d treat you well,” Valarr said softly. His eyes held yours, earnest and impossibly gentle. “Better than any boyfriend would.”

The implication hung in the air: not that you have one. It should have stung, but it didn’t. It was just true. You didn’t have a boyfriend. You’d never had a boyfriend. You’d never had anyone look at you the way they were looking at you now.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Valarr added, seeing your hesitation. “Just…think about it.”

You thought about it.

For two weeks, you thought about it. You thought about it during lectures, your pen still against your notebook. You thought about it at night, staring at your ceiling, your stomach flipping with something that wasn’t quite fear. You thought about it every time you saw them, which was often, because they didn’t treat you any differently. They didn’t push or pressure or bring it up again. They were just Aerion and Valarr, your best friends.

It was Valarr who tipped the scales, though you doubted he meant to. You were in his kitchen, helping him cook dinner, or rather, watching him cook while you chopped vegetables badly, when he reached past you for a spice and his arm brushed yours. The touch was nothing. Incidental. But you felt it like an electric shock. When you looked up, he was already looking at you.

“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t move away.

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

He kissed you.

It was soft at first, tentative, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, his lips were warm and careful against yours. You’d imagined first kisses before, clumsy things in the back of cars, quick pecks at school dances, but you’d never imagined this. This slow tenderness that made your knees weak and your heart pound.

You didn’t hear Aerion enter the kitchen, but you felt him. His presence was a sudden heat at your back, and then his hands were on your hips, his mouth at your ear.

“Finally,” he breathed.

Valarr pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. “Is this okay?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Aerion made a sound low in his throat and spun you around to face him. His kiss was nothing like Valarr’s. Where Valarr was gentle, Aerion was demanding, his mouth hot and insistent against yours, his tongue sweeping past your lips before you could think to part them. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, and the other slid down your spine, pressing you against him.

Behind you, Valarr’s hands found your waist again, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. You gasped, and Aerion swallowed the sound, his teeth grazing your lower lip. It was overwhelming, being caught between them like this, heat on every side of you, hands everywhere. You didn’t know where to focus, what to feel, how to process the sensation of Aerion’s tongue in your mouth while Valarr sucked a bruise into the junction of your shoulder.

Then Aerion’s hand slid lower, over your hip, your thigh, and then he was touching you through your jeans, the pressure of his palm making you buck against him. You whimpered, and he laughed against your mouth.

“Bedroom,” Valarr said.

They moved you through the apartment in a tangle of limbs and kisses, pausing every few steps so Aerion could press you against a wall or Valarr could pull your shirt over your head. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were trembling, bare except for your underwear, and Aerion was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

“Lie down,” he said, and you did, your back hitting the cool sheets of Valarr’s enormous bed.

Valarr stretched out beside you, propped on one elbow, and traced a line from your collarbone to the waistband of your underwear. “You’re beautiful,” he stated it like a fact, like the sky being blue or the sun rising in the east. “We should have told you that sooner.”

Aerion was stripping off his shirt, revealing a torso that belonged on a billboard, all lean muscle and golden skin. “She knows.”

“I really don’t,” you managed, and they both laughed.

Aerion crawled onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. His hands found the waistband of your underwear and paused, his eyes meeting yours. “Okay?”

You nodded, breathless.

He pulled them down slowly, far too slowly, and you had to resist the urge to cover yourself. Aerion’s gaze was heavy, reverent, and when he ran a finger through your slickness, you gasped and grabbed at the sheets.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re soaked.”

Valarr made a sound of appreciation, shifting closer. His hand found your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and you arched into his touch. “So responsive,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I wondered if you would be.”

“I always wondered,” Aerion agreed, and then his finger was inside you, and you stopped being able to think.

He worked you open slowly, carefully, one finger becoming two, his thumb circling your clit with devastating precision. Valarr continued his lazy exploration of your breasts, his mouth replacing his hand, his tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers teased the other. Every touch sent sparks racing down your spine, building and building until you were writhing between them, making sounds you’d never made before.

“Please,” you gasped, though you weren’t sure what you were asking for.

“Please what?” Aerion’s voice was rough, his control visibly fraying. “Tell us what you want.”

“You,” you managed. “Both of you. Anything. Everything.”

Aerion groaned and reached for his belt. Valarr helped you sit up enough to kiss you again, deep and slow, while Aerion shed the rest of his clothes. When you broke the kiss and looked down, your breath caught. He was beautiful. The sight of his cock, hard and straining, made your mouth go dry.

“You’re sure?” Valarr asked, his hand cradling your face, his eyes searching yours.

“I’m sure.”

Aerion positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against where you were wettest, hottest, most desperate. “This might hurt,” he said without teasing. “Tell me if it does. I’ll stop.”

“Don’t stop,” you said. “I want this.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, and you felt yourself stretch around him. It was strange at first, the pressure almost too much, and you must have tensed because Valarr’s hand found yours and squeezed.

“Relax,” he murmured against your ear. “Breathe. You’re doing so well.”

His voice, steady and soothing, helped you unclench, and Aerion slid deeper. The discomfort faded, replaced by a fullness that was almost overwhelming. When Aerion began to move, slow and careful, you felt something inside you start to build again.

“Fuck,” Aerion gritted out. “You feel...” He didn’t finish the sentence, just dropped his head to your shoulder and thrust deeper.

Valarr’s mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His hand slipped between your bodies to find your clit, circling in time with Aerion’s thrusts. You cried out, your back arching. Aerion took it as encouragement to move faster.

That was when he found it. A spot deep inside you that made your vision blur and your breath stutter, that sent a shock of pleasure so intense it was almost pain. Aerion felt you clench around him and grinned.

“There it is,” he said, and angled his hips to hit it again and again.

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could only hold onto Valarr’s hand and take what Aerion was giving you. He was relentless, pounding into that spot until you were whimpering, your inner walls gripping him so tightly he had to pause, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Do that again.”

You couldn’t help it. Every time he hit that spot, your body clenched around him, and he seemed to take it as a personal challenge to stay there, to bully that spot until you were a writhing mess beneath him.

Valarr made a small, frustrated sound. He’d shifted to kneel beside you, and you saw that he’d freed his own cock from his trousers. He was stroking himself slowly, his darkened eyes fixed on you with an expression that bordered on painful. He looked so beautiful like that, his lips slightly parted, his brow furrowed with need.

“Valarr,” you breathed, reaching for him.

He moved closer, letting your hand wrap around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm, and when you stroked him the way he’d been stroking himself, he made a sound that was almost a whine. A pretty, desperate sound that made your heart clench.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, because Aerion was still buried inside you, still moving in slow, devastating thrusts, and you wanted to give Valarr more than just your hand.

“Don’t be sorry,” Valarr said, his voice strained. He leaned down to kiss you sweetly despite the tension in his body. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”

But Aerion noticed. Aerion always noticed. He sighed, a put-upon sound, and slowed his thrusts.

“You’re pouting,” he told Valarr.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Aerion pulled out of you, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. “Come here.”

Aerion flipped you onto your hands and knees, positioning himself behind you. His hand smoothed over your ass appreciatively before he guided himself back inside you with one long, slow thrust. You gasped, your fingers curling into the sheets.

Then he reached for Valarr, pulling him around to kneel in front of you. Valarr’s cock was level with your mouth, flushed and leaking, and you understood what Aerion intended.

“There,” Aerion said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Now we can both have her.”

Valarr’s hand cupped the back of your head, gentle, guiding. “You don’t have to...”

But you wanted to. You leaned forward and took the tip of him into your mouth, tasting salt and skin. Valarr made a sound that was almost a sob. You couldn’t take all of him, Aerion’s thrusts behind you made coordination difficult, but you lapped at the head, suckling gently, while your hand came up to stroke him and cup his balls the way you’d read about, the way you’d imagined in the privacy of your own bed.

“Oh,” Valarr breathed, his voice breaking. “Oh, that’s...please don’t stop.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. He was so pretty like this, his composure shattered, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his eyes half-lidded and glazed with pleasure. Every little sound he made sent a thrill through you, made you want to give him more, made you want to be the reason he fell apart.

Behind you, Aerion was building his rhythm again, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust. You moaned around Valarr’s cock, and both of them groaned in response. The pleasure was building in you too, coiling tighter and tighter, and you knew you wouldn’t last much longer.

But Valarr was still whining, still trembling. Aerion made another one of his put-upon sighs.

“You’re impossible when you’re needy,” he said. You felt him pull out of you.

You made a sound of protest, but Aerion was already moving. He grabbed Valarr, positioning him on his hands and knees, and you watched, dazed and trembling, as Aerion used your slickness to ease his way into him. Valarr cried out, his back arching, his hands scrabbling at the sheets, and Aerion fucked into him with the same ruthless intensity he’d shown you.

“Better?” Aerion asked, his voice rough.

Valarr nodded frantically, his whines dissolving into moans. Aerion thrust into him a few more times, hard and fast, until Valarr’s sounds turned from desperate to satisfied. Then Aerion pulled out, pressed a kiss to Valarr’s shoulder blade, and delivered a sharp smack to his ass.

“Stop whining now,” he said, and returned to you.

He pushed back inside you, you were so close, so sensitive, that you nearly came right then. Aerion felt it, felt the way your walls fluttered around him, and he drove into you with renewed purpose.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his hand finding your clit. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered. The orgasm ripped through you, hot and blinding, you cried out as your body convulsed around him. Aerion groaned, thrusting through your climax, and then he was coming too, spilling inside you with a shudder.

For a long moment, the only sound was breathing. Ragged, uneven breathing, and the thrum of your own heartbeat in your ears. Aerion pulled out slowly, you collapsed onto the bed, your limbs refusing to cooperate.

But Valarr was still there, still hard, still waiting. Aerion noticed, and his mouth curved into a smirk.

“Your turn,” he said to Valarr. Then, to you: “He’s been very patient.”

Valarr moved over you, his body covering yours. You opened your arms to welcome him. He kissed you and when he pushed inside you, you were still so wet, so sensitive, that it made you gasp.

“Is this okay?” he asked, always checking, always careful.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, Valarr, please.”

He moved differently than Aerion. Where Aerion was demanding, Valarr was worshipful, each touch meant to draw out your pleasure. He murmured praise against your skin and you clung to him, your legs wrapped around his waist, your fingers in his hair.

You weren’t sure you could come again so soon, but Valarr was patient, he knew your body now. His hand slipped between you to touch your clit. You felt the pressure start to build once more. He watched your face, reading every flutter of your eyelids, every catch of your breath, and adjusted his rhythm to match what you needed.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

You came again, softer this time, a wave rather than a crash. Valarr followed you over the edge with a broken moan.

Aerion had stretched out beside you, one hand idly stroking your hip. Valarr was half-draped over you, his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

Aerion shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes were heavy-lidded with satisfaction.

“Come here,” he beckoned. “Kiss me.”

You leaned up to do as he asked, but he caught your chin with his fingers, redirecting you downward.

“Not there,” he said. “Here.”

He guided your mouth to his softened cock, still slick with your combined release. You understood. Your face felt hot. This was the cock that had taken your virginity. That had stretched you open and filled you and made you come undone. And he wanted you to kiss it. To show it gratitude.

You pressed your lips to him softly, chastely. He was warm and yielding against your mouth. You tasted yourself on his skin. Behind you, Valarr made a small, approving sound.

“Good girl,” Aerion murmured, his hand smoothing over your spine. “That’s my good girl.”

After they’d cleaned you up, they’d bundled you into one of Valarr’s oversized sweaters and settled you between them on the couch.

“Is this going to change things?” you asked, your voice sounded small in the quiet room.

Valarr and Aerion exchanged a look. Another one of those silent conversations, the kind you were still learning to read.

Then Valarr took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “Only if you want it to.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Aerion added. He was sprawled on your other side, his head in your lap, and he tilted his head back to look up at you. “You’re stuck with us.”

“But,” Valarr added, “if you want this to be a one-time thing, that’s okay too. We’ll still be your friends. Nothing will change.”

“I don’t want it to be a one-time thing,” you admitted.

Aerion’s grinned. “Good. Because I’ve got plans for you.”

“Aerion,” Valarr warned, but he was smiling too.

“What?” Aerion said, all false innocence. “I’m just saying. We’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Your face heated, but you were smiling too. Valarr lifted your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles.

It didn’t take long to notice the patterns. Aerion and Valarr had been best friends since before you entered the picture, a unit. Aerion had a reputation. The fuckboy prince, leaving a trail of conquests in his wake. Valarr was quieter about his, but no less active; a string of girlfriends who lasted a respectable amount of time. But they seemed to be more devoted to each other.

Some nights, when you were spent and drowsy, curled on Valarr’s side of the massive bed in his apartment, the apartment that had become the apartment, the one all three of you spent most time in, you’d wake to the sound of low voices and slick, rhythmic movement. You’d blink your eyes open to the dim glow of the city through the windows and find them tangled together at the other side of the bed. Aerion’s hand fisted in Valarr’s dark hair, Valarr’s mismatched eyes, one blue, one brown, half-lidded and hazy. They never shooed you away. Aerion would catch your gaze, his mouth would curve, and he’d ask, “Want to watch, sweetheart?”

Sometimes you did. You’d prop yourself on the pillows, thighs pressed together. Other times you’d roll over and drift back to sleep.

The FaceTime calls started when Aerion was traveling for a week, some family obligation he’d bitched about endlessly. You’d been in Valarr’s bed, of course, because that’s where you slept now even when Aerion wasn’t there. Your phone had buzzed with an incoming video call. Aerion’s face filled the screen and he’d said: “Put me on the nightstand. I want to see.”

He’d watched you ride Valarr with an intensity that made your skin prickle, giving direction in that low, commanding drawl. Slower. Let him feel you. Good girl. After that, it became a thing. Whenever Aerion was away, he’d call. Sometimes you’d prop the phone so he could watch you and Valarr together. Sometimes Valarr would be the one on the phone, watching Aerion fuck you with that quiet, focused expression that made your stomach flip.

You learned quickly that Valarr was the softer of the two, or at least, he played softer. Aerion liked control. He liked pushing Valarr to the edge and keeping him there, liked the way Valarr’s voice cracked when he begged. The first time you’d witnessed it up close, you’d been perched on the edge of the bed while Aerion had Valarr bent over the armchair, driving into him with brutal precision. Valarr’s face was flushed, his mismatched eyes wet at the lashes, and every time Aerion’s hips snapped forward, a desperate little whine escaped his throat.

“Aerion,” you’d said, unable to help yourself, “let him come. Please.”

Aerion had paused mid-thrust, turning his head to fix you with an exasperated look. He’d heaved a sigh so fake it could’ve won awards. “Darling. We’ve talked about this.”

But Valarr had blinked at you with those impossible eyes, glassy and pleading, and made a sound so pitiful and pretty that your hand moved before your brain caught up. You reached for him, fingers wrapping around his neglected cock. Valarr’s whole body shuddered with relief.

“See?” you’d said, stroking him gently. “He needs it.”

Aerion had pulled out and physically removed your hand. His fingers circled your wrist and tugged you away. Valarr made a bereft noise that nearly broke your heart. “Stop falling for it,” Aerion said flatly. “He’s playing you. He does this every time.”

“He’s suffering!”

“He’s a brat who knows exactly what he’s doing.” Aerion’s violet eyes narrowed at you. “If you don’t stop interfering, your pretty arse is next. You’ll just be sore and sorry.”

You’d pouted but relented. Valarr had shot you a tiny, conspiratorial smile before Aerion resumed his pace. Brat indeed.

Valarr had once mentioned offhandedly that Aerion rarely let him return the favor. “He’ll bend me over any chance he gets, but try getting him to take it?” Valarr had laughed, low and a little wistful. “Nearly impossible. He’s a tyrant.”

The idea had planted itself in your mind. A few days later, you’d brought it up over breakfast, casual as you could manage. “What if I wore a strap?”

Valarr’s fork had paused halfway to his mouth. Aerion had looked up from his coffee.

“Absolutely not,” Aerion said.

“Not for you, necessarily,” you’d amended. “I just thought…you said you don’t let Valarr top you, so maybe…”

Aerion set his mug down with a decisive clink. “I much prefer your cunt. Or your mouth. A piece of silicone attached to your hips doesn’t change my preferences, love. I want you, not a facsimile.”

But Valarr was watching you with interest in heterochromic eyes. “I’d let you,” he said. “If you wanted to experiment. I’d teach you.” He reached across the table to brush his fingers over your knuckles. “I do prefer your tight wet cunt, but I’m not opposed to trying. We can go slow. I’ll show you how to move, how to read my body. It could be fun.”

Aerion had rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull. “Have at it. Don’t come crying to me when she discovers a power trip and you’re the one whining into the mattress.”

You’d grinned at Valarr. He’d winked at you, eyes sparkling.

But Aerion had his own particular tastes. One of them you discovered entirely by accident, or as much of an accident as anything could be with Aerion. You’d fallen asleep sandwiched between them, you always did now, your body a warm line against Valarr’s side while Aerion sprawled on your other flank. Sometime in the deep, quiet hours before dawn, you surfaced from a dream to a strange sensation: a weight, a rhythm that your drowsy brain couldn’t immediately categorize. You made a small, petulant noise, trying to squirm away from whatever was disturbing your sleep, but a hand clamped gently on your hip and held you still.

“Shh.” Aerion’s voice, rough with sleep and want, right by your ear. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You blinked blearily, the darkness of the room swimming into focus. Aerion was above you, then in you, moving with slow, lazy thrusts that dragged pleasure through your sleep-heavy body despite your confusion. Valarr was still asleep on your other side, his breathing deep and even, undisturbed.

“Aerion,” you mumbled, voice thick. “What’re you...”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He dipped his head to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You looked too pretty. Just relax. Let me take care of it.”

You were too drowsy to argue, too pliant with sleep to do anything but let your eyes flutter shut again. He fucked you like that, slow and unhurried, almost meditative, until you were gasping softly into the pillow, still not fully awake, your orgasm washing over you like a warm tide. He finished with a low groan against your shoulder and pulled out carefully. By the time Valarr stirred a few minutes later, Aerion was already cleaning you up with a warm cloth, utterly unrepentant.

Valarr had blinked awake, taken in the scene and sighed. “Again? Aerion, we talked about this.”

“You talked. I listened. I simply disagreed.” Aerion tossed the cloth toward the hamper and climbed back into bed, insinuating himself against your back. “She doesn’t mind. Do you, darling?”

You’d just burrowed deeper into the pillows and made a vague affirmative noise, already slipping back toward sleep. Valarr had huffed a quiet laugh and pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re spoiled,” he murmured, though you weren’t sure if he meant Aerion or you. Maybe both.

The morning after, Aerion had been in an unusually good mood, making coffee and humming under his breath while Valarr sat at the kitchen island watching him with a fond, exasperated expression. You’d shuffled out of the bedroom wrapped in Valarr’s shirt, still feeling the ghost of Aerion’s midnight attention between your thighs, and accepted the mug Aerion pressed into your hands with a kiss to your temple.

“Sleep well?” he’d asked, eyes glinting.

“You’re a menace.”

“A generous one.”

Valarr had snorted into his coffee.

Part 2: coming soon...

a/n: This was shameless smut but plot and backstories will develop. There will be angst and yearning and complex emotions. I've tried out a new approach idk. Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist! <3

Tonight was no different. Gwayne was always on alert here, half waiting for someone to make an attempt on his life while asleep. Thus allowing him to hear the steps coming quickly towards him.

The feet sounded bare, padding against the floor, but they were loud nonetheless echoing through the halls.

He was immediately shooting out of bed, hand wrapped around his sword in an instant. With the weapon raised he waited, hearing the steps stop just outside his door before it was opened revealing just who had come for him.

But it was no solider making an attempt on his life. It was you. He breathed your name out like a prayer, the blade dropping to the floor with a loud clatter. Moving toward you, pulling you into his chest, without hesitation.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, gripping your red dress in his hands. It was a favorite of his, one that you had worn often before this whole mess had started.

The one that had tore you apart.

"Rhaenyra said you were here…and I had to see you. I had to make sure you were alright," you confessed, your voice cracking as he could hear the concern laced through it.

He pulled back cradling your face as you smiled at him. It was the one he loved so much. The one that filled him with warmth, and occupied his dreams in your absence, "I have missed you so much," he whispered.

"Make up for the lost time then."

His mouth was on yours in a second, claiming yours, "I have missed you so much," he repeated against your mouth. He needed you to know just how much he had longed for you these days. He pushed you back toward the mattress. Your hands moved quickly freeing his cock from his breeches.

He went to lay you down against the mattress, but you stopped him. You turned your bodies causing the back of his knees to hit the bed before you pushed him back. He sat up staring at you, as you pulled your dress up around your hips.

You looked younger almost, in a way he could not explain. Entirely different from the last time he had laid eyes on you, and even now as he tried to recount in his mind just when that was exactly, but he did not let himself dwell on it.

You were here, and he was going to enjoy your time together no matter how small that might be. You straddled him, gripping his cock in your hand as you ran him through your slick folds,"Are you wearing nothing under neath?" he questioned, raising a brow.

You did not respond, but his mind did not stay on it long as then you sank down on top of him. "Oh fuck," he moaned out.

Neither of you moved for a moment, simply existing there, feeling each other, before you finally began to rock your hips back and forth setting the pace. He allowed you to with no complaint, simply holding your hips as he looked up at you.

"You feel divine," he told you, as he watched your face contort in pleasure as you rode him. He could still remember the first time it had happened, you had told him you needed no instruction as you had been riding dragons all your life.

"You are a vision of beauty in these dark times," he continued, his praise, as he could feel you clench around him like a vice.

"Are you a bard or a solider?" you asked, grinding your hip down into him hard, causing him to moan.

"Both. I am both for you," he confessed.

"What else are you for me?" you asked, your hands moving to lace through his red hair forcing him head back to look at you.

"Whatever you want me to be," he assured you. His release came out of no where, as you moaned at his name loudly, pressing yourself further into him. You did not move, and he did not pull out both of you clingly to the other as if you were afraid you would both disapear.

Because that was the truth was it not? The moment would end and you would have to go back to wherever you came from and he would be stuck here.

Something felt wrong though. Something he could not quite put his finger on it, but he did not want the thought to consume him. If anything he wanted you to consume him instead. To simply be a man and woman in love rather than anything else.

You a Targaryen. He a Hightower on different sides of a war for a throne neither of you would even sit.

His ragged breaths filled the air. He buried himself further into your chest, trying to hide away from the world even if it was only for a moment longer,"I must go," you whispered, your hands running through his hair gently working the knots from it. You leaned down pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

"Why?" he questioned in protest, trying to cling to you, but it felt as if his fingers were slipping through you.

He could feel you shift against him, and he could not stop you from pulling away. He tried to urge his mind "Because I am dead. Remember you helped kill me at Rooks Rest?" You pulled away from him and suddenly you were dressed back in your riding leathers, blood smearing your face. The smell of ash filling his nostrils.

His mouth opened, as everything came back. Your dragons screeches as she was ripped apart. The way he watched you fall through the sky, crashing through the castle. A horror that had been repeating through his minds for day.

The real reason as to why he could not find sleep as you were always there awaiting him in his dreams, but even tongiht it seemed you would make your way to him either way.

He could see it all now. When he found your body, your neck not angled right, your limbs cold and disfigured, before he watched the men remove your dragons head, "No.No. No," he cried dropping to his knees.

He burnt your body himself, trying to honor you in some way, but it obviously was not enough. You were haunting him, because he had failed you. He crawled to the floor trying to burry his face into your stomach, "I am sorry. I am so so sorry," he sobbed.

You reached down wrapping your fingers around his chin. You were unnaturally cold, and the light from your eyes was now gone, as they resembled something close to black, "No apologies will ever bring me back. All because you chose the usurper over me."

The tears streamed down his face as you smiled, and it did not hit right. It was not the one filled with warmth or even the shy one you would cast him across the hall. This was someone else's smile on a face that resembled you, "Sleep well, my love. I will be back again and again and again until you leave these blasted walls or die here."

And just like that you were gone, leaving him once more, as sleep evaded him and he thought of nothing but you and the guilt that ate away at him.

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Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.

Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.

He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.

Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.

You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.

The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.

Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.

You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.

“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”

The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”

He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.

He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”

Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.

Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.

“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.

You knew it was not a jest.

You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.

He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”

It pains him?

You will show him something that pains him.

There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.

Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.

Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.

day one

You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.

The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.

If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.

Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.

Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.

You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.

“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.

When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.

“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.

He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”

“Tell me one,” you counter.

All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.

Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”

“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.

day two

You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.

“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.

You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.

“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.

“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.

“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.

Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”

He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”

“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”

Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”

“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”

A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”

You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.

“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.

You nod. “I could.”

The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.

It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.

If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.

day three

The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.

Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.

You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.

He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.

When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.

“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.

Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”

You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.

He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”

“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”

You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.

The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.

Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.

Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.

And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.

“Ser?” you whisper.

“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.

You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.

“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.

He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”

You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.

Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.

“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.

Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”

“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.

Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.

You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.

He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.

You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.

The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.

You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.

Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.

“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.

Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”

You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”

“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”

His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.

You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.

The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.

“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”

That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.

You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.

day four

Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.

The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.

You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.

It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.

“What are they?” you whisper.

“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”

“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.

Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”

“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.

He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.

“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.

You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.

“Can I touch one?” you mumble.

He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”

You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.

Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.

Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.

He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.

The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.

His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.

You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.

Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—

Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.

“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.

“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.

“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.

You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.

He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.

“Don’t cry,” he comforts.

You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.

day five

Gwayne did not like to see you cry.

He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.

He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.

Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.

You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.

He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.

Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.

He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.

The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.

“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”

You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”

Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”

“Then why have you asked?”

He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”

“You jest.”

“I do not.”

You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”

“That is unneeded for you to know.”

“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”

His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”

“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.

“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”

“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”

“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.

You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”

“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.

“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”

Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?

“Do you remember his name?” he asks.

“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”

He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”

You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”

“What happened to him?”

You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”

He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”

“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.

“I suppose so.”

day six

The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.

It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.

“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—

“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”

Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.

He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”

The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.

“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.

His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.

The walk to your room is silent.

Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.

“I’m sorry—” he begins.

“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.

He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.

You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.

You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.

As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.

“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.

“It is,” he agrees solemnly.

You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.

Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.

“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.

Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”

Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.

“I fear the same.”

You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”

He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.

“As you wish, my princess.”

day seven

Your horse stops before you instruct it to.

In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.

You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.

You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.

“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”

“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”

The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.

You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.

Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.

Where is Gwayne?

You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.

His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.

He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.

You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.

“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.

Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.

You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.

“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.

“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.

You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?

He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.

The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.

“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.

“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”

You want to keel over and die.

You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.

Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”

“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”

“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.

“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.

We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—

Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.

Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.

He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.

In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.

Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—

His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.

You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.

Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.

You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.

He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.

“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.

It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.

He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.

Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.

“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.

He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”

And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.

The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.

His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.

You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.

His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.

Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.

The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.

It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.

The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.

You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.

Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.

He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”

You nod, but it is not enough.

“Tell me,” he commands.

“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.

Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.

You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.

You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.

His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.

You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.

He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.

Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.

He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.

“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.

You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.

He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.

“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“

You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.

It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.

You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.

You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“

You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.

You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.

“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”

You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.

Still, you breathe out a chuckle.

day nine

The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.

Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.

He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.

You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.

His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.

You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.

He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.

“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.

Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”

“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.

“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.

His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.

He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.

“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”

You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”

“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”

“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”

At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.

“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.

“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.

He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”

“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.

So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.

You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.

But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.

You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.

His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.

Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.

“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.

You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.

Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.

“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.

He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.

It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.

His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.

You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.

“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.

Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.

He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.

He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.

“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”

You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.

“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.

“Why not?” you breathe.

His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”

You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.

“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”

Ah. In that case—

Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.

It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.

Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.

Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.

You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.

It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.

He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.

It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.

His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.

You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.

“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.

He nods once. “As you wish.”

And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.

He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.

He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.

You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.

Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.

You think you might faint.

day fourteen

Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.

It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.

But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.

If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.

Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.

He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.

You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”

Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.

Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I want us to wed.”

Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.

“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.

“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.

“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.

Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.

“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”

“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”

“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”

Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.

As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.

“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.

Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.

You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.

He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.

The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.

The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.

“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”

You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.

Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.

He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.

“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.

It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.

He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.

One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.

The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.

His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.

There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.

He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.

In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.

“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.

day sixteen

When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.

You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.

Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.

You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.

You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.

When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.

He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.

“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.

His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”

For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.

Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.

You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.

It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.

“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.

Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.

You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.

“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”

His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.

The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.

“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.

She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.

You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.

But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.

The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.

day thirty five

You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.

The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.

It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.

But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.

You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.

If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.

He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.

You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.

But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.

These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.

If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.

A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.

You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.

Something deep inside you says it will.

A sharp gasp left your lips as you immediately sat up, awakening from your nightly torment once again.

The gods seem to like punishing you this way.

Forcing you to relive the monstrous turn of events on that night of Laena Velaryon’s funeral, every night in dreamland.

They know it's your fault.

If only you hadn't mocked your uncle so harshly for being dragonless that day.

You huffed to yourself, losing your train of thought before roughly shoving the covers off of you.

"Meow."

Meraxes, your white long haired cat stared at you through the darkness of your room, alerted that you had awakened.

Looking at the small kitty next to you, you stopped your huffing to acknowledge her, scratching at her head with such gentleness as she began to purr.

"Sorry for worrying you, my love. You won't be upset at me if I find comfort somewhere else tonight?" You cooed, smiling gently.

She looked at you with a blank expression, like always. Yet, you swear she always understands you.

Meraxes purred once more before rolling on her back comfortably, seemingly content now, slowly pulling away and humming as you did so.

You then reached beside your bed to grab your shawl, wrapping it around yourself and made your way out of your chambers.

As if your body had a mind of its own, taking you to your older brother's room, routinely. You seem to find yourself going to him for comfort after every nightmare.

Which was of course, across the large castle.

Your hands slowly pushed at the heavy wooden doors, wincing at how loud the noise was. You walked across the room, trying to not make a sound as you moved to fix your hair and take off your shawl before sitting by the bedside.

It was dark in the spacious room, the only source of light coming from the full moon outside the window sill.

Sniffing the smoke coming from the blown out candles on the table, you snatched the blanket to wrap yourself inside before laying close to the warm body that was practically spread across the large bed.

The loud snores were oddly comforting, even though it sounded like the great and obnoxious roars of caraxes.

Once you laid yourself right next to your brother, you quickly felt the warm skin of his burly arm wrapping around your waist.

He brought you closer.

“… Mmm… Sister, is that you?" Jace murmured hoarsely, awake now.

His face resting closer to yours.

He held you closer, tighter. You hummed in response, placing your hand right on top of his as you tried to get more comfortable.

"Same nightmare, hm?" He asked, his soothing voice whispering.

"Yes." You breathed out.

You can practically hear him and his thoughts right now, you swear he must be sick of you at this point, but you know he would never say it out loud.

"Our brother clouds your mind." Jace lightly scoffed, showing his disapproval but remaining sweet with you, "and your judgement. Why don't you ease your mind? He's a dunce, sister."

"It's not that simple, Jace." You argued, huffing at his words to which he quickly laughed. "Aerion does not have control over me! It's just… that night… he scared me."

A moment of silence filled the room.

"He was not the same after that night."

Jace swallowed at that.

The young prince tried to collect his thoughts, he only pays attention to Aerion unless he's doing something foolish.

And that was usually on the daily.

He does recognize the fact that his younger brother changed.

He's just not sure if it's for good.

Over the past years, rumors and whispers only increased.

It was worse back in King's Landing of course, comparing both brothers to each other, debating who was truly Targaryen or not.

Aerion has the look of a true Targaryen. He claimed Vermithor. He was always their grandfather's favorite grandson. Daemon seemed to pay more attention to him too.

And now you.

Always seeming to worry for your twin, making every effort for Aerion.

He enters your mind like he owns it.

It infuriates Jace. What makes that devious idiot better than him? It was obvious his little brother was well liked, even if he was a pain in the ass.

Jace still cared for him, of course, that was his brother, no matter what.

But…

"He's still our brother." He answered, nudging your shoulder before shutting his eyes and held you against his chest. "Rest now, sister. Duties call for us on the morrow."

You wanted to discuss further but ultimately you knew your brother was right.

In the morning, you had duties with your mother.

Boring duties to be exact.

Studies… dragonback… Valyrian lessons…

Shutting your eyes finally, your breathing began to slow down and the warmth from Jace's body was helping you ease back to sleep.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

THUD!

"This match's victory belongs to me, once again. Get up, idiot." Aerion demanded with such arrogance in his voice and manner, staring down at Luke, who fell too harsh on the muddy ground once again during their lessons.

It was always like this.

Every lesson, defeating his little brother. It was clear to Aerion that Luke was a lost cause.. .he wasn't making any progress.

It was an easy feat every time.

Now if it was with Jace, that was a different story.

Lessons between him and his older brother always went on, never able to declare who wins.

But unfortunately, Jace was off—at mother's beck and call like always. Too busy with his newfound place at mother's council.

Now Aerion was stuck with Luke as his opponent.

The silver haired prince released his hold on him, taking his boot off his stomach and walked back into position.

As he walks back to the other side, he can see Daemon's gaze clearly on him.

Luke slowly emerged from the mud, trying to wipe his face from the mess.

"O-Okay!"

The young boy felt all the more embarrassed.

"Perhaps, we shall let us be finished." Daemon suddenly spoke, looking over at the two princes as if he was growing bored, ready to head back inside already. "Do keep trying, Lucerys. You'll be as skilled as your older brothers soon enough."

To that, Luke appeared worried and a bit gloomy, like a puppy kicked to the side.

Aerion continued to keep that signature smirk on his face, snatching off his helmet before ruffling Luke's curls roughly.

"Run off, find your bride-to-be. Training, same time on the morrow." Aerion ordered blankly, watching as his little brother jolt but quickly nodded, "I won't go soft on you. You have the blood of the dragon, it's time you embrace it."

"Yes, Brother." The young prince nodded once more but slowly this time. Seemingly trying to appease his brother but also himself.

Aerion released his hold on Luke and shoved him towards the direction of the castle.

As he stared at the back of Luke's head, his eyes trailed over to the figure nearby that was walking towards him from the castle.

A dangerous glint settled in the dragon prince's eyes.

You tightened your hold on the skirt of your dress, bunching up as much fabric as you can to not ruin it by the mud.

Huffing from the long walk but as you came closer, noticing your younger brother going back to the castle.

You smiled, waving at Luke.

But he kept passing by—avoiding your gaze, you can tell by his stance alone that he probably wasn't doing well in training today.

And he was training with Aerion. That was hell itself.

As soon as you reached your twin brother, you could begin hearing the soft bellows coming from the cave where Silverwing and Vermithor resided on dragonstone.

"Must you always torment our sweet brother?" You questioned playfully, there was no hint of annoyance or malice in your tone.

"Oh… Do I need permission, sister?" Aerion appeared disinterested by your words, his hands moved to smooth down the creases on your dress before firmly settling on your waist.

A small yelp left your lips from complete shock when he suddenly pulled you closer, practically pressed up against his training gear.

He tilted his head, a small smile appearing on his lips. "Hm?"

He was certainly enjoying this.

Without another second going by, he leaned down to smash his lips into yours in a feverish kiss, full of passion and desire.

Your hands moving to wrap around his neck, internally groaning at the fact his gear was in the way.

You swallowed every second of this heated kiss, relishing his tongue in your mouth like he's claiming you for the first time.

How much you often think about that night…

"Fuck. I needed that." Your twin brother broke away from your lips, desperately moving to trace his lips down your jaw to your neck. "You have not been visiting my chambers, sweet sister.”

You suppressed a giggle at how desperate he sounded, roaming your hands into his short silvery hair.

Aerion groaned at the feeling. He certainly missed it.

"I missed your cunt-"

You quickly moved back a bit to cover his mouth with your palm, flustered by his sudden confession. "Hush!"

"Hush me with your cunt then. You can't deny me any longer." He swiped at your skin with a long lick of his tongue before pulling away, laughing at the disgusted look on your face.

You wiped your hand on his gear before fully emerging from his embrace, "Scoundrel."

You wanted to stay irritated but you couldn't.

Aerion always found a way to weasel himself in your heart, you couldn't stop the rush of excitement that's bubbling in your chest every time he would… well, act like himself.

He was a dangerous force to be reckoned with.

And it made you want him even more.

You brought your hand back up to his face, swiping at the smudge of mud on his cheek as you both maintained eye contact.

"Mother had asked me to bring you back inside. Supper is starting soon." You spoke once more.

He hummed, "I'm dirty. I must bathe myself first. Will you join me, sister?”

His eyes darkened with need, lowering his face to the point his lips ghost over your soft and plumped lips.

It felt wrong to reject your twin.

Perhaps this time, you both could actually spend some quality time together instead.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Splash! Splash! Splash!

"Mmm! A-Aerion! Oh—"

"Fuck- Stay like this… keep riding your dragon."

The steamy water only continued to make waves in the spacious bath, some spilling over the edge and falling on the ground but both of you didn't care.

You continued to pull yourself up, holding your weight by holding onto your twin brother's shoulders, practically digging your nails into his pale skin as you skillfully pull yourself off his cock before slamming back down.

You couldn't help but let out a sharp cry once feeling his cock's tip hitting your cervix again.

Aerion was curving up into you, practically teasing your sweet spots with his tip, meanwhile your pussy is happily getting stretched out once again, your soaking walls clinging to every inch as if speaking of missing him and his mean cock.

He would never admit aloud, but he could cum from just being inside you alone.

This whole time, his hands were occupied with holding onto your ass. Forcing you to keep fucking yourself on his cock as he thrusts up ever so rough just to hear you cry.

Aerion urgently moved to squeeze your breasts, jiggling them around with a teasing tongue poking out of his mouth to lightly flick at your hardened nipples meanwhile looking up at you, maintaining such pleasuring and dirty eye contact that he was basically fucking you with just his gaze alone.

You were absolutely in love with whatever the fuck was wrong with him.

His hot, wet mouth quickly rush to wrap around your left nipple, tongue suckling until he was pulling sweet moans from your lips.

The wet sounds of you riding your dragon, as your brother loves to call it, echoed through the spacious area of Aerion's chambers. Soft sounds of your moans and his occasional grunts and hums of approval against your skin also being a bit nosy.

If anyone passed through the doors, they could probably hear it all…

Though, it didn't matter in the moment.

You were meant to be together. You were meant to love your twin. You were meant to be fucked by your twin.

Pulling you from your thoughts, Aerion released your nipple with a hard pop before kissing the curve of your cleavage and groping handfuls of your breasts.

"I'm close, B-Brother..!" You softly whimpered.

Sweat glistening on your body, even when bathing in a tub of now cooled water.

That's how long time has passed, you were already late to supper once entering the bath after your brother.

That is when he took the initiative, forcing you to sit firmly on top of him before he slammed his hips up, thrusting up into you with such vigorous speed to the point even more water began spilling out of the tub.

"Fucking cum on my cock," he growled against your skin, relishing in the pain of your nails digging into shoulders to the point he was starting to bleed.

He only continued ramming his cock upwards as his left hand trailed down beneath the water to rub against your clit, watching as you violently came undone.

The pressure in your pussy tightened, tightening around his girth, your walls clamping around him like a vice.

"Aerion!" You cried out, allowing yourself to cum finally, spilling all over him as you hear him groan at the hot feeling.

It didn't take long for him as well. Your brother followed shortly after as his hips smacked up against your ass one more time.

Jets of hot cum flooding your sweet cunt as he roared from intense pleasure, like if he was truly a dragon.

You couldn't help but collapse on top of him, your whole body feeling like jelly and stickiness.

Panting tiredly, your hands wrapped around his neck and clung to him even more.

His broad arms also held onto you, smoothing down your back to calm both of you down.

He leans towards to kiss you, and it's nothing short of messy. It's all tongue and wet once you slowly pulled yourself off, continuing to remain seated on his lap as he crashed his lips into yours, filled of need.

You tried to make it slow, meaningful, this time but he only urged for something more aggressive and sloppier with the kiss.

You looked back at Aerion once pulling away, lips all swollen and covered in spit, out of breath.

The hand that was on your lower back traveled to cup your jaw, pulling you back for one more kiss.

He bites your bottom lip once finishing, and you couldn't help but giggle when he slowly released his hold on you.

Before you could say anything, a loud bang on the door was sudden.

"You're late to supper! Mother is seething, Aerion!" Jace shouted, you can hear the irritation in his voice.

You completely forgot all about dinner.

Reluctantly, you pulled away in frantic, making a loud splash as you climbed out before rushing to put back on your gown —not caring that you were still wet.

Behind you, Aerion let out a loud and annoyed huff as he stayed inside the bath, not bothering to move as urgent like you were.

"It's just dinner. Lighten up. It is entirely tedious."

"AERION!" Jace yelled more stern this time, to which your twin brother laughed.

He shook his head lightly before moving to also get up, snatching the towel off the chair nearby and pat down his hair dry.

"All right, all right. I'll hurry to change, I was bathing." Aerion responded, still taking his sweet time.

As you remained quiet, not wanting to get caught by your older brother, you swore you heard Jace let out a huff through the heavy wooden doors.

"Y/n wasn't in her chambers either. Find her on your way to the dining hall. And don't take long!"

To that, Aerion shot you a smug look. "I will. Do not worry, brother."

You stifled a giggle, trying to be as quiet as you could while continuing to tie your own dress laces.

Jace went quiet for a moment, it seemed like he was gonna say something else but instead, he began to walk away.

Once the sounds of his footsteps began to die down, you decided to leave first, so as to not make it seem suspicious if you guys did show up to dinner at the same time.

Opening the doors to the dining hall, a few servants bowed once you entered.

You kept your head low, giving a generous smile to every servant before approaching your mother, giving her a kiss on the cheek then towards your younger siblings.

"You are late," Your mother firmly noted but her eyes were soft on you as you were busy giving Luke a fat kiss on his cheek.

Which Luke let out a disgusted groan, wiping at his reddened cheeks in slight embarrassment, trying to wipe off your kisses.

You grinned, like always, making your way to greet your cousins, "I'm always late, Mother,” You responded playfully.

As you finished with greeting Rhaena and Baela, you gracefully sat yourself next Jace, immediately snatching the lemon off his cakes and popping it into your mouth.

Rhaenyra sighed, not in annoyance or frustration.

Daemon looked amused as he sipped on his wine.

And with perfect timing, Aerion arrived as well.

Yawning into his hand, snatching a wine glass from a servant's platter as he made his way to sit next to you.

He sprawled on the chair, as if he owned it, to which your mother sighed once more, this time with slight frustration.

You swore you heard a laugh coming from Daemon.

"Forgive me, mother." Aerion spoke lazily, slightly turning his head towards you as he took a sip from his glass, "Can't keep up with time."

His words made you laugh, hiding your lips behind your palm.

You couldn't help but press your thighs together from the sight of his smirk.

Jace couldn't resist the urge to roll his eyes, not finding any of it funny.

Rhaenyra looked over to your twin brother with that usual look she has whenever dealing with him but then, she suddenly turned over to Daemon.

It was as if they were speaking to each other with their minds.

Watching as your step-father nod, your mother suddenly turned to look back at all of you,

"Children," She started, you watched as she fiddled with the ring on her middle finger.

You know she always fiddled with her rings whenever something was on her mind.

Swallowing slowly, you pushed back your plate to give your full attention.

"Aerion, Y/n… it will be your namesday soon." Rhaenyra acknowledged, replacing the serious look on her face with a fond smile. "Your grandsire, King Viserys, wishes to see you all, and be there to celebrate with you."

With that news, you lit up.

You swore till this day, you were always your grandfather's favorite.

It's been years since you had last saw him.

Of course you wanted to reunite with him!

But Aerion seemed unimpressed, "We'd have to go back to King's Landing? Seriously? That place is a hole of dirt."

"Aerion," Rhaenyra warned, urging him to not complain. "The King only wants to see his family celebrate together. It is your ten-and-eighth nameday afterall."

She paused.

"And… He also discussed your betrothals in his message.."

Once you heard that, both you and your siblings grew even more shocked.

You were already receiving betrothals from great houses ever since you were ten, but if the King was now discussing the topic, you know you would be wedded soon.

The thought frightened you, of course.

Rhaenyra sighed, seemingly trying to form her words together before she fully acknowledged you, "He also mentioned a possible betrothal between you and Aemond."

To those news, your face paled.

You were at loss for words.

The thought of marrying..

.

.

.

"L-Let go of me..!"

"Let this be a lesson to you and your bastard brothers!"

.

.

.

Marrying that spawn of complete evilness?

Not a chance!

You would rather slice your head clean off before ever entertaining that idea.

"Who's that, again?" Aerion spoke up, looking completely bored while taking a bite out of his bloody steak.

You snapped your head towards him, not finding any of this funny like he was, but he genuinely appeared confused, not having any recall on who Aemond was.

Before either you or Jace could open your mouths to tell him to shut up, your mother spoke up once more.

"Please, my sweetness, don't fret," She hurried to ease your discomfort, a small but genuine smile on her face as she straightened her posture, "I had already let him know that would not happen."

The conversation should have ended there.

It was relieving that your mother had immediately rejected the idea.

But…

"I had already proposed the idea to the King that you and Jacaerys should be wed."

And with that, the room instantly fell silent.

Silent to the point, you could hear a pen drop.

You felt as if you were about to faint in your chair, your eyes widened and heart dropping.

Jace choked on his wine, getting it all over his lips and chin.

Meanwhile, Aerion stopped his chewing.

He was eerily quiet.

Suddenly, his table knife clanked on the wooden table loudly, echoing across the large room.

"Are you fucking mad?”

Seven hells.

HIIII chapter 2 is outttt😋🫰🏼

thank you all for being so patient!!

and to be honest, if aerion is ooc it’s simply because i made him a bit ooc considering the fact this is set in hotd universe😭 i truly think he would be a bit more softer and less cruel considering he’s in the era where dragons reign and thriving and he’s the son of rhaenyra..she would do a decent job at raising him.

and THANK YOU @hxtd @a-lina for proofreading and editing as always <3 love u sm twin

“Don’t touch.”

…

“Don’t touch!”

Aerion refused to listen to his brother, still moving his hand mindlessly to touch the dragon egg in the steamy pot, the same way he picked for the cradle of their baby sibling. He took great pleasure in seeing Luke cry and pout when he wanted to pick the egg but alas, Aerion always got what he wanted.

In awe, you still kept your gaze on the egg, mesmerized by the pretty scales. Aerion had picked a beautiful egg.

From afar, all the siblings could hear the screams of their mother during her labor. You swore it would be a girl this time, mentioning to your mother that the babe should be named after one of the conquerors.

“—...ow!”

“I said don’t touch it!” Jace shouted, immediately scolding Aerion, watching his younger brother dunk his hand into an ice bath containing wine, while Jace put the head of the pot back on and locked it.

You sighed at the sight in front of you before suppressing your giggle, “You never listen.”

“Why would I? I am a dragon, I don’t have to listen to anyone.” Aerion boasted, puffing out his chest proudly as if he actually were a dragon himself.

You finally giggled but Jace remained stern, giving Aerion a good nudge on his shoulder.

Luke was too busy playing on the floor with Ser Harwin, wooden toys in both hands as he screamed and crashed the figures together, completely forgetting the whole ordeal back from the dragon pit.

All of you remained waiting in your mother’s chambers, anticipating when she would finish giving birth and hopefully come back to her chambers to greet you all first with the babe.

“Mother will be fine,” Aerion said, voice calm… and oddly confident.

Jace glared, feeling somewhat more annoyed by his younger brother. “You don’t know that.”

Aerion shrugged his shoulders, not bothering to look at his brother before he came closer towards you, pinching your cheek with a bit of harshness before you winced, shoving him off lightly.

“Yes I do.”

That seemed to only tick Jace off even more.

Luke swallowed, his sweet little brown eyes shining with tears. “S-She’s been screaming for hours. I don’t wish for Mother to die.”

“Childbirth is natural, Luke… Mother is strong.” You said, agreeing with your twin as you smiled down to Luke, offering him a warm embrace. “Pain is temporary.”

“The princess is right. She will be fine.” Ser Harwin spoke, trying to ease the little prince’s mind.

Jace’s face tightened, continuing to glare at Aerion.

You looked over at Jace and then back at Aerion, you could notice the tension from a mile away.

Sure. Their little quarrels can be amusing, especially when you seem to be caught between them from time to time.

Time seemed to pass so slowly. It was utterly quiet and boring.

But also nerve-wracking.

You couldn’t deny that you were also awfully worried for your mother. You silently prayed that she would be healthy, and so would the babe.

Jace turned his head slightly, looking down at your lap and saw your hands fiddling with the fabric of your skirt.

He knew.

Slowly but reassuringly, his hand moved and grasped yours, offering some kind of comfort, to which you appreciated graciously.

“Mother!” Luke cried, the quiet comfort between you and your brother breaking as Luke rushed across the room with impatience and relief, throwing his arms around her.

“Luke! Be careful!”

You and Jace followed as well, but were more careful than your younger brother.

Aerion stayed behind of course, never the affectionate one but he looked visibly relieved.

Mother was alright. That’s what mattered.

“My sweet children,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice quiet but warm. She hugged you all tightly, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead.

“Princess,” Ser Harwin greeted, bowing his head slightly out of respect.

Rhaenyra nodded in return, offering the commander of the city-watch a kind smile. Rhaenyra’s gaze slid to something softer after a second went by before she looked away again, remembering her children were still here..

Her eyes trailed from you, Jace, and Luke before settling on Aerion, who appeared to pay attention to the babe in Laenor’s hands.

Aerion’s face was scrunched up, nose slightly twitching, eyes squinted.

The babe’s hair was brown. Yet again.

Then Aerion saw Laenor’s thumb brush the tiny boy’s cheek with tenderness, shushing him with quiet but loving words.

It seemed stupid to have this much irritation and hatred towards his own father. If he actually was their father.

Aerion wasn’t a fool, unlike everyone else around him.

That wasn’t his father. It couldn’t be. He refused it since the day he was born, along with you.

Rhaenyra’s gaze narrowed immediately, always the intuitive one when it came to the little troublemaker, Aerion.

“Aerion,” she said, voice low. “Come.”

Aerion begrudgingly but obediently approached.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked over him, searching for trouble like routinely when it came to him. “Did you behave yourself while I was gone?”

Aerion stood firm. “Yes.”

Rhaenyra stared, expecting to catch something from his demeanor alone.

…

“He filled Aegon’s chamber pot with bees, Mother!” You interrupted, grinning as you watched as your mother lightly pinched his cheek. “The queen was furious!”

The young prince let out a small wince, glaring at you with slight annoyance, “Ow…! Sister is lying, Mother! She’s a snake!”

“Am not!” You shouted.

“Yes you are!” Aerion shouted back.

“Aerion leave our sister alone!” Jace butted in, trying to ease the growing argument between his twin siblings.

Just the sight alone of her children quarreling was a headache but a sweet sight to see. Rhaenyra quickly ruffled both you and Aerion's fluffy white locks.

Then Rhaenyra nodded her head towards Laenor. “Here,” she said softly, and you all turned to look at the babe. “Your brother, Joffrey.”

Laenor lowered the babe in his arms, just a bit, presenting him to the rest of his children.

“Gentle, sweetlings..” he murmured. All of you went meek, astonished by how little he was and lively he seemed to be as his tiny hands raised in the air, balled into fists.

"Mother…, look," Jace said, opening the warm pot as she moved to find a seat. Rhaenyra glanced at the dragon egg as she carefully sat down with Ser Harwin's help.

"We chose an egg for the baby." Luke finished for Jace.

You quickly moved to be seated next to your mother, wrapping your small hands around her, eagerly basking in her warmth.

"Ahh...that looks like the perfect one.”

"It's not everyday a dragon egg leaves the dragon pit, my princess. I thought it was best to escort them." Ser Harwin explained.

Rhaenyra nodded, reassured, "Laenor and I thank you, Commander."

Jace closed the pot and you focused your eyes back on the newborn.

As Laenor was coddling the babe, whispering sweet things. You can hear him clearly, "You will make a fine knight," he had said.

You caught yourself staring far too long, practically ignoring all around you. Squinting your eyes too many times in hopes little Joffrey would magically turn into a girl.

You remember wailing like a spoiled princess upon the introduction to little Luke after birth.

You were bullied endlessly by your twin for years after the events, to the point that even Luke made the assumption that you hated him but that was never the case.

With silence disappearing quickly, Rhaenyra uttered, "Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey."

The Velaryon didn't argue. He simply gave the babe to Ser Harwin before he started to rock the babe gently. "Joffrey, is it?" he asked.

Laenor nodded. The name left you slightly baffled, it was an unusual name for a Velaryon or a Targaryen but you did not want to voice your opinion.

Finally, Harwin lifted his gaze. He looked first at Rhaenyra, a nod so slight it was almost imagined. Then to Laenor, a deeper, grateful nod.

"Father, may I hold Joffrey?"

Suddenly, Luke came closer. His tiny hands reaching towards the baby, trying to hold him before getting yanked away by Jace and your father.

“No, no, no." Laenor fiercely exclaimed, dragging them both out, "Off to the dragon pit, you three."

"But I wish to hold Joffrey!" Luke whined.

Laenor’s voice gentled, the practical seafarer reasserting himself. “Enough. Your mother needs rest. Jace. Luke. Aerion. Dragonpit. Y/n, septa studies.”

To that, you began to join Luke’s whining. You absolutely hated your readings, you rather be out there with your brothers.

Trying to cease a bond with a dragon considering that you and Aerion still hadn’t gotten the chance to bond with one yet. Or have an egg hatched in your former cradles.

Rhaenyra’s eyes caught Aerion’s before the gathering would head out the chamber doors.

“Aerion,” she called.

The young boy stilled, turning back around before walking towards his mother as his siblings left the room with Laenor. “Yes, Mother?”

Her gaze searched his face, more serious this time.

“Be good,” she whispered.

Aerion let out a small huff, already used to this talk. “I will.”

Rhaenyra did not look convinced, her hand moving to brush his bangs away from his eyes, adoring the pout on his chubby face.

“I mean it. Be good to your sister. I don’t wish to see any more quarrels between the two of you.” She continued, urging him to actually listen. “That is your sister. You protect her..not fight her. Understand?”

For a moment, Aerion was quiet.

He looked back at Rhaenyra with less annoyance now, showing that he was taking in her words.

He nodded, truthfully this time. “Yes Mother.”

She gave him a soft smile, moving her hand away to allow him to leave.

The door closed right behind Aerion.

.

.

.

Huff..

Huff…

“Let go of me..!” You cried out.

Huff..

Huff…

Luke had already been beaten to the floor, nose broken with blood trickling down his swollen face.

Baela and Rhaena were holding up each other, staring with fear in their eyes.

Jace was stagnant in where he was, feeling useless. Scared.

You continued to cry out, your trembling hands tried to reach behind you to release Aemond’s hold on your hair.

You were in distress. Aerion watched as your pretty silvery hair was tangled into Aemond’s hands, face slightly cut from his scratches.

He had only arrived just shortly, sensing something was wrong when you didn’t come to bed..

Call it twin intuition if you must.

The young boy’s chest was heaving heavily, eyes slightly widened and expression filled with immense anger.

Protect her..

Save her..

He quickly moved once Aemond raised the rock higher in the air, about to strike you right in the head with it.

Wielding the Valyrian steel in his right hand, Aerion moved it swiftly with the intent of saving his sister.

“RELEASE HER!” Aerion roared.

The blade smoothly cut across the prince’s face. Deepening the cut further, blood gushed out.

It all happened so quickly.

Aemond had released you without a second thought, clutching his left eye… or the remainder of what’s left.

His yells of agony could be heard from miles away as he fell to the ground.

And the strange part was…

Aerion didn’t feel guilty.

You fell on your bottom, harshly. Immediately crawling to where your older brother was, clinging to Jace like a lifeline as you cried into his neck.

As the yells furthered, the Kingsguard had finally been alerted.

All of them move past you, your siblings, and cousins to get to Aemond.

“My prince… let me see…” You could see from just his expression alone that Aemond no longer possessed a pair of eyes.

But you weren’t watching him.

Your eyes slowly gazed over to Aerion.

He was still standing where he had cut Aemond’s eye out.

No movement at all from the little prince.

But you swear that you’d seen the faintest glimpse of a smirk on his pale face.

.

.

.

When writing the history books of House Targaryen, maesters would say that Aerion had meant to kill Aemond that night.

Surely not for the sole purpose of protecting his sister..

Had that very night been the start of his cruel, monstrous ways?

hi guys !! omg it’s been a fat minute..but hi !! i had to tap in that aerion obsession..that’s my man 😻😻

this is the only chapter that’s not timeskip don’t worry don’t worry

you’re being fed with chapter 2

also creds: @a-lina @hxtd

There was only one true highlight to your days: Rickon Stark.

Cregan's son of 18 moons now, Rickon inherited his father's looks but none of his aloofness. He was a glad child, chubby and giggly. And though he was not your own, there was some motherly instinct that pulled you to him.

Thus, you spent your time avoiding Cregan. And instead, playing with little Rickon.

What you didn't know was that Cregan noticed it. Of course, he did. 

He would watch you two in doorways, from balconies, far enough to not interfere, but close enough to see the way your eyes twinkled with little Rickon. 

Your eyes didn't twinkle like that with him. 

… 

You were currently outside, the two of you bundled up, as you played in the snow. 

Rickon jumped happily, kicking with his pudgy legs. His coordination was still often tested. But with the snow so thick, it cushioned his falls. 

You scooped up a handful of the white powder and tossed in the air. He giggled as it fell around you. 

He always had this way of making your days happier just by being in them. 

It quickly turned to a game of tag. You ran around the snowy courtyard, trying to give the boy a chance. He'd spend half of his energy just trying to turn around in his heavy furs, then shriek to see you so close to catching him. When you caught him, you spun him around in your arms. You pretended to drop him once, making his face turn pink in happiness. 

When you set him down, it was his turn to chase you. You happily obliged, barely speed-walking to keep the distance manageable. You gave a mock sound of fright when he got too close. 

You saw a heavy snow pile nearby and plopped yourself into it. Rickon laughed and crawled up after you, wrapping his arms around your neck as if "catching you." The two of you were pink, from both laughing and the cold. 

"Lady Stark."

You sat up with true fright this time, wrapping an arm around Rickon in your lap to keep him steady. Your hair was covered in snow and you no doubt looked a fool. 

Lord Stark stood there, shoulders wide and back straight. His head tilted as he studied the two of you. "What are you doing out in the cold?"

The happiness that was warming you left, making you realize just how cold you were starting to get. "I… forgive me, my lord. Rickon merely wanted to play."

Rickon, immune to the tension between his two favorite people, trudged his way to Cregan, arms extended out. 

"There's my boy," he murmurs, already reaching down to pick him up. He does it with ease. 

You'd seen his biceps a few times now— you knew lifting a 10 kg toddler was no hardship for him.

"You just wanted to play?" He asked him, blue eyes searching. Rickon nodded happily, hands coming to his father's face. When the Warden got whatever answer he was looking for, he turned to you again. "Is your ladies' tea not soon?"

You shy, standing and trying to brush some of the snow from your cloak. "Another hour but yes."

"An hour?" His brows furrowed. "An hour and you are not in your chambers preparing?"

You sigh. It felt like half of your day was spent in your chambers trying to look presentable. "Once this snow has fallen from my cloak, that is presentable enough. Rickon asked me to play with him, and that was far more important."

Saying such a thing was foolish. Cregan might begin to believe that you wanted to neglect your duties as his Lady. But it did quite the opposite. 

He blinked, mind unsure, lips parted, as he tried to register the fact that you believe his child to be important.

It was a deep fear he'd never voiced. That a second wife may cause a rift with Rickon. 

But it seemed he was worried for naught. 

"It…" he stumbled over his words for a moment before hardening. "Get inside before you freeze."

You obeyed without resistance, not wanting to anger him anymore than you believed you already had. 

He cursed under his breath. He hated his own harshness sometimes. 

As Cregan trailed in far behind you, Rickon rambled about what he did outside. The Warden tried to pay attention to his son, but part of his mind was on his second wife and how you dropped everything just to entertainment his boy. 

…

That night, a servant comes to your bedchamber late, saying Cregan was calling on you. 

As he did occasionally. 

You gave a polite nod, dressing in your robe. After all, he was calling you just to do your marital duties. There was no point in dressing up if he was just going to hike your skirts up anyway. 

It was a bit later in the night than he usually called for you, but you hardly noticed as you walked down the corridor. 

On regular nights, you'd enter and the two of you would awkwardly stare at one another for a moment until you laid yourself on his bed. 

He didn't touch you more than he had to. Didn't take his time to make you preen. You figured he was just not interested in you. And that was alright. You were not Arra, and nothing would change that. 

But this time, you opened the door to see him still in his day clothes. He sat by the hearth of his large room. His head didn't snap at the sound of your entrance. Not like he usually did. He stared at the flames. 

You stood there in the doorway for a moment, waiting for him to take initiative. Or even just to acknowledge you. But he didn't.

"M… My lord?" Your voice carried, softer than you wanted. "I was told you called for me. If you did not… I apologize—"

"I've been thinking," he interrupts, eyes still on the red hearth. "About things."

"I understand," you try to ease. "Being the Warden leaves your mind quite occupied. If you wish for me to come back at a better time, I will."

"No. I've been thinking about you."

That's when his head finally turns to you, eyes right on yours. There's something knowing, something scrutinizing, something almost soft. It's complicated, but it fills you with both warmth and a chill.

"Oh," is all you manage out. 

The edges of his lips twitch in amusement. "Oh?"

"I… I'm confused, my lord."

"'S alright." He waves a paw of his in a beckoning gesture. "Come sit with me."

You shut the door, your feet cold and pattering across the floor. 

You sit so politely on the chair next to the settee Cregan is on. He's spread out, naturally from his broad frame, but also in his relaxed state. 

You won't admit it, but his room was always warmer than yours. It was quite nice.

The silence settles over the two of you as Cregan's gaze gets hazy with deep thoughts once more.

Worries started to flood you. "I know I have not been a proper wife to you." You miss the way his expression hardens. "But I can do better. Be better. For you. If you want to give me a second chance." You find yourself fidgeting with the hem of your robe. "I understand if not, as well. Wherever you send me will be fine."

You can feel his gaze on you now, but you refuse to meet it. The embarrassment was already warming your cheeks enough. 

"You think," he speaks uncharacteristically soft, "that I called you in here to send you away?"

"I understand if you did, my lord. Being the Lady Stark is a task that not many can do. If I've disappointed you, then I apologize."

Then, he begins to laugh. Not a loud one, not a demanding one. Quiet. Much like the rest of him. 

Cregan was a quiet man, but everything he did was noticeable all the same. Not because he demanded attention, but because he earned it. 

"Too kind for the likes of me, my girl." He shifts in his seat, grunting like an old man whose muscles ached after sitting for long amounts of time. "Calm yourself. Why are your shoulders always so tense?"

You try to force yourself to relax, dropping your shoulders immediately. It did little to ease you inside. 

His head tilts. "I'm not sending you away. Far from it."

A breath leaves your lips in relief. Now, your shoulders truly begin to slack. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you for a second chance—"

"Quiet," he teases, raising a hand up. "This is not a second chance. You had not ruined your first. Tell me." He leans forward, resting his wrists on the top of his knees. "Do you love me?"

You hesitated. You loved the North. Winterfell. Rickon. But did you love Cregan?

He already detected an answer in the silence. "I see." His tongue ran over his teeth. "I hold no anger towards you for it. You love my son. I see that now. I suppose that's all I need."

"Oh, yes. I love him very much," you can't help smiling about. "He's a cheery boy."

"Aye." He runs a hand over his chin. "You've made him so. He was… rather quiet after…" he stopped. 

You hum. "He just needed someone to play with, I think."

"He needed someone to listen to him. To care for him. And you're doing so. Thank you, my lady."

"Do not thank me for that. I did not do it for your favor."

"I know that. I do."

You take a moment. "I still don't understand what you were thinking about then? Were you thinking of children? Is that why you called for me?"

"Hm? Oh, gods no. Well," he's suddenly stumbling over himself. "I didn't call you in here to sleep with you. Not tonight. I want to know you a bit more. That's all. I can't help but believe that I've been the poor one. You've moved from your home, everything you know. I have not even tried to help you adapt. Even after your kindness to my house… our house."

"Our house?"

"Aye. Our house."

"I do like that… our house."

Something jumps in his heart when you smile at him. 

He didn't think such a thing would affect him. But he finds himself nervous like a young boy again, wanting to keep that joy on your face. 

"It's quite late, my lord. Perhaps I should return to my chambers. If I may."

He takes a deep breath. "Of course. Sleep well, my sweet lady."

The walk back to your room leaves you with a lot to think about. Cregan… intimidating Cregan… finally extended a hand to you. He wants to know you. It feels a bit late, but better he wants to know you at all, even late. 

But something about him was still a bit frightening. You'd heard rumors of things he'd done as Warden. Like any hardened Stark, he'd killed men. He'd done horrid things, won battles. His hands were far from soft. 

Could his grip be gentle enough, despite callused palms? You weren't sure you wanted to find out. 

Still, there was something about him that you loved. 

You told yourself it was because Rickon shared his eyes. 

…

There you were in Rickon's little chamber, playing on the ground with him.

Rickon was not a spoiled child, despite what you were sure many northerners believed. Cregan kept a strict house, teaching Rickon from a young age to not take things for granted. 

No, Rickon had only a few toys. But even those, he was eternally grateful for. His father carved a new one for his every name day. Most of his toys were the gifts from his name days, where other lords would bring various things for him. 

His favorite was the wooden wolf Cregan had carved. It was a hardy thing, smoothed to perfection. The snout was broad, paws large. A male dire wolf. 

Rickon loved it very much. 

He would hand you one of his other toys so that you could play alongside him. Today's was a hare. 

You gigged at him. "Am I to be prey?"

He giggled back, answering you with a firm nod. 

"I suppose I must be quick, then?"

On the rug you played for far too long. His direwolf would catch your hare with ease. He'd growl like he believed the animal would, then restart the hunt all over again. 

If you ever had any question that he was a Stark, this answered it. 

After catching your hare for the fifth time, you heard Cregan's presence in the doorway. You cocked your head back but said nothing. 

His eyes moved from you to the 'violent' scene of Rickon pretending to eat your hare. His brows raised. "He's not giving you a fair chance, is he?"

"I'm a hare against a direwolf, Lord Stark. It's only truthful."

"I dunno." He steps in, his frame taking up more space in the room than you thought. He bent down on his knees. "Easy, son." He interferes, saving your hare. "Hares are quick, don't you know? It's hard to catch something so delicate." His eyes flicker to you before going right back to the mission at hand. "They can be too fast if you're not careful. Sometimes you have to decide if they're worth the hunt."

Rickon half listens, his eyes on each toy as his father holds them up. "Sometimes, direwolves must soften, be merciful. What if, this time, you let the hare get away?"

The toy is pressed to your palm, a glimmer in Cregan's eyes that you didn't notice before. 

The scenario plays again, and Rickon let the hare go. Both you and the boy look to the Warden to seek approval. 

Cregan smiles at his son. "Good. That was good."

Rickon just as quickly hands the direwolf to his father and moves to entertain himself with something else. 

He twirls the wood in his hand, looking over every detail, but not truly seeing it. 

The hare in your own stills. "How do you know which hares are worth chasing, my lord?"

He thought for a moment, before he pushed back a smile. "I only chase hares that are kind enough to let young direwolves win the hunt every time."

Your cheeks warm. 

"Tell me, my lady, would you let an older wolf win the chase as well?"

Your thumb runs over the face of the little toy. "He must run fast but… perhaps."

A sudden red comes up his neck. You made the Warden blush. 

The man whose hands were metaphorically painted in red blood. No, you reddened his skin in an entirely different way with a mere tease. 

"Perhaps," he whispered like a promise. "Perhaps he will."

"He sounds determined. I heard predators give up if the chase is too difficult."

"Aye, most would. Is that why you haven't been caught yet?" He placed the toy down, leaning into you with a lower voice. "I'm an efficient hunter, my lady, should you decide you want to be hunted."

Your eyes flit to him, finding him not far now. His gaze is purely on you, drifting down to your lips once. 

You nervously turn away, unsure how to answer.

He chews at his bottom lip, accepting the way you did not jump at the opportunity. No matter. He's patient, and you will come when you are ready. 

He stands, clearing his throat. "I originally came to ask if you wished to attend petitions with me. But it seems you're quite busy here."

"It is important work, but I would like to attend. Since you invited me. I'm sure Rickon could be entertained by his nursemaid for a while."

He extends a hand to you, helping you up from the floor. You don't remember him being so careful natured. As soon as you're up, you pull away. 

"Rickon could attend as well," he suggests. 

"He could? It would be distracting enough to have me there, much less a boy. I don't want you to feel as if—"

"As if what?" He asks, tone suddenly hardened. 

"I…"

"No. Tell me. Tell me why you and Rickon would be a burden to me. And I will tell you why you are wrong."

When you don't respond, he softens. "You are no burden to me." He takes your hand in his own, bringing it to his lips. "Never. Rickon is a part of me, as are you now." He kisses your knuckles so softly, you barely feel it. But his eyes stay on you. "Tell me again. Would you like to come to petitions with me?"

You only nod. And soon, Rickon is scooped in one of his arms, his other hand wrapped around your own. 

Any lord that is surprised to see the three of you enter together quickly covers it. 

Rickon stays on Cregan's lap most of the time, content with the direwolf in his hand. He bangs it on the table, even growls a few times. 

He growled once at a lord he didn't like, and Cregan did nothing to stop him. He didn't like the lord either. 

Petitions ran long, and soon Rickon was growing tired. He reached for you. 

You naturally took him without question. It made Cregan warm. 

Rickon curled up with ease, nose tucked into your shoulder. And with just a few squirms, he was fast asleep. 

Towards the end, Cregan reached out for your hand. You let him intertwine his fingers with your own.

And it felt natural. 

…

Time with Cregan became more common. You'd walk outdoors together, play with Rickon. Even silence in the library was nice, for it was still together.

And finally, you'd decided that yes, you did want the Wolf of the North. You wanted him to chase you. To want you. To have you in the proper way a husband should.

One night, when the two of you had spent long hours in the library (because neither of you wanted to part), you made the first move. 

You closed the tome you were reading from, choosing instead to move to Cregan's side of the table. 

He watches you, though pretends not to. 

"I'm tired of this," you declare to him. 

He finally looks up at you, brows furrowed. "Aye? Of what exactly?"

"Of… well, I'm not sure." You pull out the chair next to him, sitting down. 

He turns to you, giving his full attention. "You're tired, but have no knowledge of what or why?"

"I am tired of… Do you remember what you said, a few weeks ago? With those toys with Rickon?"

"I do," he answers with ease. It had been at the forefront of his mind since it had happened. 

"I want that. You and I… I think."

Something lit behind his eyes. There was no indication that he heard you besides the small turn of his head. "Aye?"

"If that's alright. If you are still offering it—"

"Can I kiss you?"

You still. "You've kissed me before Cregan. You need not ask."

"I do," he insisted. "Those… they were not like this. Not like what I want with you. Can I kiss you, my girl?"

You nod, cut short by his hands on you suddenly. He pulls you to him, lips capturing your own. 

You all but melt into his hold. He'd held you a bit. Kissed you just a bit. But he was right. Not like this. 

The kisses before— they were meaningless, a mere guilty habit between two political figures that were expected to produce heirs. 

This one was hungry, filled with something you couldn't explain. A final climax to a building tension of months. It was warm and purposeful, not to ease guilt, but to prove something else instead— that he loved you. A hand cups your cheek, the other at your arm to pull you closer.

You kissed back just as quickly. Your own hand goes to his wrist, obeying his plea to have you near. 

It doesn't take long for you to find yourself in his lap. 

Your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck and experimentally pull, earning a growl from your wolf's throat. 

His lips part from yours to start kissing down your neck. You let him, hands tightening your grip. "I'd have ya if you let me," he huffs against your skin. "Clear this fucking table and have my way with you, hm? Show you how often I think of ya."

You groan in satisfaction when he nips a soft spot. "Kiss me."

No hesitation, he returns his mouth to your own, his tongue moving across your bottom lip. "Love you," he tries to speak between kisses, though muffled. "I love you so fucking much. My girl, aren't you?"

"Just wanna kiss you," you whine. 

He pulls back just enough to be teasing. He looks into your eyes, hazy with intent. "As my lady wants," he purrs. 

His hands roam over your lower back, arms wrapped around you to keep you against him. 

His lips connect with yours again, sweeter and slower. 

…

The next day, as you go to Rickon's room, you find Cregan already there. He's speaking lowly to him, as he tends to do when teaching him things. 

"It's important to respect a she-wolf. This one is a match for your direwolf." In his hand is a new toy, the she-wolf in question. It's a bit smaller, with more narrow shoulders. "They work together, yes? The direwolf here, he loves the she-wolf. When he hunts, he hunts for her. He cares for her. Understand?" When Rickon nods, he's satisfied. "Good. Go play now."

Cregan stands, leaving the boy to his devices. His back straightens, large and imposing. Then he freezes, chin up. You hear it, the way he takes a deep inhale. Then he begins to chuckle. "Knew I smelled a sweet scent." He turns, eyes on you with a grin. "What are you doing here?"

"I was merely being curious of your lessons. A new carving?" You see how he shies, giving a small shrug. "It looks nice. He seems to love it."

Rickon peers up, quickly running to you and extending the toy out towards you for you to see. You bend to his level, taking it from his pudgy hands. "Ah, how beautiful," you coo. "She seems quite fierce. Is she a kind wolf?"

Rickon thinks over it for a moment before looking to Cregan for the answer. 

Cregan shrugs. "Is your mother a kind wolf?" He asks the boy.

You gawk, looking back to see that he's gesturing at you. 

Mother. It tastes odd on your tongue. 

"I believe you need a pup next to complete the set," you finally speak. "Papa, mama, and baby?"

Rickon agrees, taking the toy and moving to play once again. 

You don't move for a while. 

Mother. 

Cregan said it so naturally. 

"Is that alright?" He asks from behind you. 

You look up at him, tears brimming in your eyes. "Yes. Gods, yes. I didn't… Thank you."

"Oh, my girl," he coos, pulling you up. He pulls you in and you utterly collapse against his chest. He kisses the crown of your head. "You needn't thank me. Not for this. This was all your doing."

When your tears begin to dry, he pulls you away enough to examine your face. His eyes move down your nose, across your red cheeks. "So beautiful. What a beautiful mother you are."

You push yourself up on the tips of your toes to meet his lips. 

Being Lady Stark was a difficult task. But being Cregan's wife and Rickon's mother? That was the easiest thing you'd ever done.

...................................................................................

You stormed off, walking past Baelor without a word and leaving Maekar.

“Leave her alone.” Baelor spoke.

Maekar took a deep breath.

“Brother, I am in no mood for a lecture right now.”

Baelor put his gloves on, ignoring Maekar’s words.

“Good thing I do not plan on giving one. I said leave her alone and I meant it, we’re guests in her home.”

“Mind your own business.” Maekar muttered.

“You engaging in such affairs is my business. I am heir to the throne and anything that you do becomes my responsibility.” Baelor reminded him.

“I did not do anything that would affect you.” Maekar grunted.

Baelor tilted his head slightly, his lips pursed and facial expression unreadable.

“How would it affect your wife?”

Maekar scowled, pointing his finger. “Don’t you dare!”

“No, you don’t. You have a wife and children, you have a duty to the realm. Reopening the wounds of something you ruined is a fool's task.” Baelor spoke plainly.

Maekar scoffed. “I do not need to be reminded of my failings as a husband.”

Baelor walked closer to him with a look of sympathy.

“You did not fail, brother. However, your guilt is unfair to put on her shoulders.”

“You know nothing of what you speak.” Maekar replied.

Baelor nodded and decided not to respond to his comment for he knew that his actions would end poorly.

“I came to ask, do you still want to take Vermithor out? I came to join you.”

Maekar nodded and began walking towards the area where the dragons stayed.

Baelor walked behind him and in that moment, he pitied his brother. A feeling that he had never felt before, he felt a surge of.

He knew how Maekar felt about you, as it was only a secret to someone who was blind. He pitied that Maekar had never allowed himself to live down his choice, how his life is a constant reminder of his failed choice, how his poor children have the face of the wrong woman.

His brother was doomed to a life of continued misery.

When you got to your chambers, you finally felt like you could breathe. You shut your door and slid down it with a muffled sob.

This couldn’t be happening again, not with him. You had escaped the feelings, the dreams, the questions— all of it and he just brought it back.

You didn’t even know what to think anymore, I mean how could you? He told you that he regretted his life with his wife, pictured you during their intimacy, and thought about you all the time. It didn’t make you feel warm inside, it made you feel distraught.

Both of you could have had it all, had exactly what you had talked about— but he ruined it. He ruined it and isn’t even satisfied with his decision, a twisted joke.

You sat on the floor, your back against the door and your knees to your chest— tears staining your cheeks. The feeling taking you back to how you felt in that moment years ago.

The candlelight dimmed as it melted down quicker than expected. 

You sat there for a while, before you eventually got up and got into your bed. Once you were in the bed, you couldn’t sleep.

His words consumed you, every inch of you. His words took root in your body like the vines from a tree— marking every inch of you and only allowing you to think of him.

When Maekar flew Vermithor, he couldn’t focus— not like he normally did. 

The wind against his skin, flying Vermithor with Meleys inching closer. It’s a feeling that would make any lord feel as if they were on top of the world, but for him it did nothing.

His mind just thought back to you and your reaction to his words. He didn’t know why he said them, but he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He had finally stood in front of you, several years later and who knew if he’d ever get another opportunity.

Things happened and life changed. He’d never be able to live with himself if you went through the rest of your life thinking that he didn’t love you. It might’ve been better if you did think that, considering he could never truly be yours.

When Maekar got back to his chambers, Dyanna was up waiting on him— which he had hoped that she wasn’t.

“Where have you been?” She asked.

He shut the door, a huff of air leaving his mouth. 

“I took Vermithor out.”

She ran her fingers through her hair as she sat on the edge of the bed, watching him.

Maekar slowly and efficiently removed his clothing, not paying any attention to Dyanna’s staring. In truth, he did not want to face her— instead he wanted to go to sleep and rest his mind.

The room was barely lit, the fire in the fireplace dying and the shutters to the window closed.

Maekar removed his doublet and Dyanna made her way over to him. She grabbed his hands, stopping them in the middle of his task.

“Maekar.” 

She pressed a gentle kiss against his lips, one that this time he didn’t invite back.

“I’m sorry.” She muttered against his lips.

“I shouldn’t have been rude the other night, forgive me.” 

Maekar moved her hands and continued to remove his doublet, creating a small space between the two of them.

“All is forgiven.”

She noticed his coldness towards her, his lack of sudden interest, and a bridge between them that didn’t seem to be there prior.

“Is everything alright, husband?”

He sighed, a tinge of annoyance accompanying it.

“Yes, everything is fine.”

She walked closer to him, closing the gap and she kissed him again. He still did not welcome it or her.

It felt as if her heart was shattering in her chest.

“Did you go see her?” She questioned.

Maekar walked to the window, cracking the shutters to allow some air into the room.

“Go see who?”

“Her.” She replied.

Maekar turned, facing towards her. 

“I will not go over this with you again, Dyanna. It is late and I wish to sleep.”

Dyanna stood there, not shocked— but irritated. She was not going to let this go or her thoughts about it, she didn’t have proof— but the way that her stomach turned at the sight of you was enough. She felt that he loved you, but maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was an insecurity.

Even if he did love you, she was his wife and she wouldn’t allow him to have even a fleeting moment with you. He chose her for a reason.

Her eyes watered and she paced the room.

“Do you not love me anymore?” She softly asked.

His brow furrowed as he fluffed his pillow on his side of the bed.

“Can you please…” He sighed.

Dyanna stood near the center of the room and began to weep, silently — but just loud enough to get his attention.

“Dyanna.” Maekar called out.

She didn’t answer, she just cried— cried as if he’d truly hurt her feelings.

He got out of the bed and walked to her, bringing her into his arms.

“Don’t be foolish, of course I love you.” 

She nuzzled her head into his chest, his silver chest hairs rubbing against her cheek.

“I’m sorry.. I don’t know what’s gotten into me tonight.” She mentioned.

She looked up at him, her eyes catching his attention. Dyanna didn’t stare at him long, before she pressed her lips against his again.

“I want you, husband.”

He kissed her back, but not out of want as he always had before.

“Not tonight.” He mumbled.

“Please, I want to make you feel good.” She whined.

He caved, even when he felt like it was a betrayal to you and his feelings that he had confessed. It felt wrong, twisted in a way.

Dyanna pulled her shift off, leaving her bare as she continued to kiss Maekar and guide him back to the bed.

Her hand rubbed against the bulge in his trousers, making him groan.

“You are needy.” He spoke.

They both fell back onto the bed, her hand untying the laces to his trousers.

“You must be equally needy as you are already hard, husband.” She taunted, her hand running along his hard cock.

He kissed her neck, trying to hide the groans that wanted to escape his throat. 

He laid back on the bed as she straddled him, his cock nudging against her folds. His hands rubbed over the swell of her breasts, his fingers teasing her hardened nipples.

She began to line him up at her entrance.

“Turn around.” He groaned.

“Turn around? Like not facing you?” She asked, a confused expression.

He nodded.

She turned around, her back to him and sank down on his cock.

The sex was supposed to be enjoyable, something that brought them closer— but instead Maekar was struggling. As Dyanna rode him, he thought of you.

He thought of the way that your hair would frame your face when you were on top, how your lips would part when his tongue would slide against your clit, how your moans were music to his ears.

He could not truly enjoy himself, not really.

As he got closer, he had her stand up— so that he wouldn’t spill inside her. 

He wouldn’t do that, he couldn’t risk it.

Afterwards, he slept in the bed with his back towards Dyanna. She slept facing him, wondering what had taken over her husband.

The next morning, the snow had covered the ground as it had come down heavier than before. You had taken your bath and soaked in the water for longer than usual, your mind consumed with him still.

Was this a cruel punishment or Jape from the God’s? To have a married man on your mind in the capacity that you did was unholy.

You went under the water, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to feel weightless. Allowing yourself to not feel, think, see, or hear anything.

After your bath— you skipped breakfast and got ready. You had to attend a council meeting, one in which you hoped that Maekar wouldn’t be present.

On your walk to the meeting, you saw Jena.

“I’ve been looking for you!” She smiled.

Your brow raised in surprise. “You have?”

She grabbed your hands and chuckled.  “Don’t be silly, of course! We have much to catch up on.”

“That we do.” You replied.

“Will you meet me in my chambers later?” 

You nodded.

“I will see you then!” She replied as she walked away.

Jena was a longtime friend of yours and you were glad to still have her, even though the two of you didn’t remain as close. However, you didn’t look forward to chatting with her as you knew it would be about Maekar.

You walked into the council room— everyone was present, including Maekar and Dyanna.

You took your seat at the table, your chair unfortunately beside Maekar’s.

“Let us begin.” Baelor spoke, grabbing the ball 

“As you know, we have many things to discuss here today. I will start with the obvious one, the threat beyond the wall.” Your father spoke.

“What is this threat that you speak of, Lord Stark?” Lord Arryn asked.

You picked up your red, marbled ball from its holder on the table.

“We are noticing and being told by the nights watch that the wildlings are gathering, gathering in ways that they normally do not.” You spoke.

“Such as?” Lady Tyrell added.

“Clans that have notoriously hated each other, killed each other, and stayed away from each other have made truces. They have begun working together.”

Dyanna scoffed, causing your eyes to flick to her direction.

“Who cares about some barbaric wildlings and who they get along with?”

You sucked your teeth.

“Tsk—“

“Barbaric they may be, but they are trying to climb the wall again. If they succeed— they will rob, pillage, kill, and rape any person in their way. Children included.” You mentioned.

You could see Baelor shift in his seat as your words caused him a bit of unease.

“What are the odds that they successfully climb over?” Baelor questioned, his fingers toying with his ring.

“I doubt it’s possible, it’s a seven hundred foot wall!” Lord Tyrell mocked.

“They were close last time, far too close. It was only by the grace of the God’s that they didn’t make it over.” Your father pointed out.

“It was no God, it was the men of the nightswatch.” Dyanna assured everyone.

Her tone was riddled with mockery and rudeness, two things that you would not tolerate in your fathers home.

“I assume that you have left your manners back at Summerhall, Princess?.” You spoke, getting the attention of Maekar and Baelor.

Her brows furrowed.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You may beg all you like, my question will not change.” You gritted.

Her mouth parted slightly in shock at your response, your father called your name, and Maekar audibly cackled.

“A word in the hall.” Your father spoke, looking at you.

Both of you stood up from your seats and made your way in to the hall, your father gently shutting the door behind him.

“Have you taken leave of your senses, daughter?—“

“That is the royal family!” He criticized you.

“I care not who they are, I care that she lacks respect. We are talking about something very real and she’s treating us like half-wits!” You reminded him.

Your father paused at your words as he did agree, but you must be better and hold yourself to a higher level than petty snark.

“You will apologize and conduct yourself in a better manner, there is no time for this nonsense.”’ Your father insisted.

“It is not nonsense, father. If they do not take this problem seriously, then we will all be in peril.”

He nodded, his hand rubbing your shoulder.

“That I do understand, but your disrespect can reflect on us poorly.” He noted.

You took a deep breath with a nod and opened the door, walking back into the room. Your father gently shut the door behind him and took his seat.

“I apologize for my remark, Princess.” You spoke as you took your seat.

Maekar could sense your anger when you took your seat, remembering how you had a certain fire that brewed within you.

“Alright, let us pick up where we left off.” Baelor continued.

Maekar leaned close to you. 

“Are you okay?” He whispered, his hand touching yours.

You moved your hand away from his, “Daor.” (No)

“Well, can we not stop them from getting over the wall again?” Baelor inquired.

“We do not have the numbers that we once had, nowhere close.” You added.

“I see no reason why we couldn’t supply them with more men.” Lord Arryn pointed out.

Your father took a sip from his goblet, his eyes staring at you.

“The problem is not the men.. it is what is happening to them. Between the Wildlings, there have been several ranger parties that have gone missing. It is a growing trend.” Baelor sat up in his chair, his curiosity peaked.

“Gone missing how? As in deserted?”

There was a silence that lingered at the table, both you and your father hesitant to mention these things to them. As most other Houses believe the words of the north to be fairytales.

“They are dead.” You spoke plainly.

Maekar looked at you, his brows raised in confusion.

“Dead?”

You nodded, fidgeting with your ball.

“They are dead. Some found in pieces and many not found at all.”

Lord Arryn and Lord Tyrell glanced at each other, also shocked by the information.

“How is that possible?” Lady Tyrell asked.

“White walkers.” You mumbled.

The room felt as if the air had been sucked out of it. No one made a sound or moved.

Dyanna chuckled. “As in what’s told to us in a bed time story?”

“Dyanna.” Baelor spoke, correcting her insulting remark.

Maekar rubbed your arm secretly under the table, as he knew that his wife’s words would anger you. Even though you hated him touching you, you for some reason allowed it to happen.

“They could be the inspiration for your bed time stories, yes.” Your father nodded.

“Why weren’t we informed of these things beforehand?” Baelor inquired, his voice on the cusp of disapproval.

“Would you have truly believed it and listened, or would you have chalked it up to northerners being ridiculous?” Your father commented.

Baelor nodded. 

“Ah.”

“Why can’t they just fly their dragons over the wall and burn whatever it is?” Lord Tyrell suggested.

Maekar rolled his eyes.

“Dragons cannot go over the wall. Our ancestors tried it and they refused.”

The meeting did not continue for much longer as there needed to be time in between what was said and to think. There wasn’t a suitable solution to that problem and the other problems weren’t even mentioned.

You got up from your seat and made your way out of the room. You were undeniably angry, at everything but mostly him. If he’d just stayed at Summerhall then you would’ve been fine and he wouldn’t be crossing your mind the way that he does now. 

You wouldn’t feel the need to snap at his ignorant wife. You wouldn’t feel the need to want to feel his touch again. You wouldn’t feel the need to dream of what your life would be like, what your kids would be like, and how they looked.

You wouldn’t be hurt and envious.

You felt like a bird in a cage, only you enjoyed the peace in the cage and you didn’t want to be free of it. 

Part of you wished that the two of you would’ve gotten on Vermithor and flew away, living your lives together and the way that you wanted to. It was a foolish dream and only just that, a dream. 

Maekar watched as you walked away, how your hair framed your face, how the winterfell gowns always looked amazing on you.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Dyanna.

She grabbed his hand as they walked through the halls. “I cannot believe that she would take such a tone with me.”

Maekar grunted, not really a response— because in his mind your response was kinder than it should’ve been.

 “Is House Stark notoriously rude?” She asked.

He groaned. “Dyanna, will you just let it go? She apologized and it was handled.”

She wanted to scream at his responses, the family had barely been at winterfell less than a week and all he did was defend you. He had never defended her so fiercely and with such ease, but with you it came to him as naturally as breathing.

When she married Maekar, she was thrilled. She had done her house a great service by marrying the prince, but that wasn’t the only thing that mattered— because she had won him over and they were in love. In love is what she told herself after the wedding, when Maekar seemed withdrawn. Maybe he didn’t get the newlywed excitement that her mother had mentioned to her, but it was okay— because they were in love.

The bedding ceremony between the two of them wasn’t two lovers tangled in the sheets—it was duty, it was cold, it was over as quick as it started, and it consisted of Maekar trying not to moan your name.

It would just take time is what Dyanna told herself and it did take time, he did eventually warm up to her— but it was never the complete love that she was expecting.

They could laugh, smile, have a good sex life— but there was always a gap, something keeping it from being whole.

Although she had once looked forward to visiting Winterfell and experiencing it, she couldn’t wait to leave and never return.

She wanted her husband’s full attention again.

You walked to Jena’s room to see her as you mentioned that you would, knocking lightly.

“Come in.” She called out.

You shut the door behind you as she smiled, watching you take your seat. The room window was opened, the cool air meeting the simmer of heat left in the room. The snow made it bright outside and equally bright in the room, almost too bright.

“I am glad that you came. It’s been far too long, since the two of us have had a moment like this.” She mentioned.

You fidgeted with the rings on your fingers.

“Aye, it has been far too long.”

She offered you a cup of tea, the same way that you like it. She had remembered even all those years later.

“How are you?” She asked.

You took a small sip of your tea. “I am fine, how are you?”

“I am well, things between me and Baelor are good as well.” She mentioned with a slight nod.

“How are the boys?” You followed up.

She took a sip of her tea, adjusting in the seat.

“They are doing well, Valarr is set to get married to Kiera soon and Matarys is heavily interested in books like his father.”

“I’m glad to hear that, tell Valarr that I want to congratulate him.” You smiled.

Jena was your best friend and knew you like the back of her hand, which made small talk pointless— maybe just a courtesy.

She leaned forward, setting her tea down on the table in front of you.

“Enough small talk—“

“Baelor told me that you and Maekar were kissing near the godswood.”

You chuckled as you took another sip of your tea.

“I did not think that such things would be whispered about in bed or otherwise.”

She waved you off as you set your cup of tea down.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, I know you and how you feel about him.”

You started to frown. “How exactly do I feel about him?”

“The two of you were in love, inseparable honestly.” She mentioned.

You scoffed, leaning back in your chair.

“That was many moons ago, I was young and..”

You struggled to find the right words. Young and stupid? Mayhaps, but you did love him and you did think that it was real at the time.

“I was young.” You finished.

“Do you not love him anymore?” She asked.

You stared at her, your face barely readable. “I did not say that—“

“The kiss.. it was a mistake.” You trailed off.

“It was a mistake because you enjoyed it.” Jena playfully teased.

You pulled your shoulders back in slight offense at her remark.

“I did not enjoy it!”

She rolled her eyes, picking at her hands.

“Whatever you say.”

You sat up in your chair, starting to feel distressed and anxious at her words. You grabbed your cup of tea, your hand starting to shake. Whether what she suggested was true did not matter. He was married and a guest in your home, to suggest the underlings of an affair with the prince is a terrible thing.

She glanced down at your shaking hand, how you needed to use your other hand to steady it.

“Are you alright?”

You sipped your tea and put the cup back down.

“I don’t appreciate your ugly accusation.”

Her brows furrowed, “what did I say wrong?”

“That I enjoyed him kissing me.” You replied.

She chuckled as if she didn’t take you seriously, like your words were merely a funny jape. Her reaction had started to upset you more than you expected.

“Why is this humurous?—“

“You got your happy ending with Baelor, two amazing kids. I got my heart fucking broken, that’s what I got!”

“He broke me into tiny little pieces like a vase and I had to try putting it back together, only I didn’t realize that it would never be the same again.” You spoke, tears welling in your eyes.

Jena looked embarrassed at her remarks, guilt taking over her face.

“I didn’t mean.. I didn’t mean—“

“I loved him so much, Jena. You guys will just never know. He destroyed me and it hurt so bad that I wanted to die— receiving news that he got married, welcomed a babe..”

“So, no. I did not enjoy the married man who hurt me, kissing me.” You reiterated, holding back a sob and your shame.

Jena stood up from her chair, her own eyes watering at your words. She knew that it would’ve been devastating, but she never thought about to what extent. It angered her that he could do that to you.

Jena knelt by your chair.

“I did not mean to mock or laugh.. I would never want to hurt you in that manner.”

You wiped your eyes and scoffed.

“I’m fine, it’s not the end of the world. I just got worked up, that's all, my apologies.”

“No need to apologize. I was wrong to insinuate such things.”

You rubbed her arm, reassuring that you were going to be fine and she walked back to her seat.

“I’ve also heard how Dyanna has been acting and I’m sorry for that. She’s being ridiculous.” She admitted.

You shrugged with a sniffle.

“I imagine she’s not a ray of sunshine all of the time anyhow.”

She giggled, taking her seat and picking up her cup of tea.

“She’s different than people imagine, you know?—“

“She’s not inherently cruel or anything of the sorts, but she’s not kind either. There’s a bitterness there..” Jena confessed.

You listened and refrained from giving your own opinion as it didn’t matter.

“Is she a good mother?” You questioned.

Jena stared at you, her cup resting against her lips and her hesitation obvious.

“She’s alright.. I think that she’s always so focused on Maekar that she cannot truly focus on them, not as a mother should at least.”

You and Jena sat there for hours talking and just catching up. It felt good to have a friend that you could talk to openly about your feelings, one who already knew everything and understood.

Whether you set your life to be intentionally secluded, you’re not sure— but you were alone more often than not.

Loneliness meant peace knowing that you’d never be hurt again in that way.

After your conversation, the time had slipped past you and Jena. It was Lady Tyrell’s nameday, so a small gathering was taking place in the dining room for her.

All the guests, the Stark family and bannermen were present to celebrate her. What better way to celebrate someone than with music, wine, and food?

You put on your dark blue velvet gown with long sleeves and a high neckline. Your gown had your house sigil embroidered on the short overlay connected to your gown. 

It was rare to wear the dress as there were not many occasions that called for it.

In the dining hall, it was bright and lively— filled with chatter. This time you were seated next to Valarr and Aegon. You had come to realize that Egg as they called him was a joyous boy. He made sure to talk to you and tell you his jokes, a few of them made you laugh.

He even mentioned the song that he had learned, the song that Daeron had taught him. You wished you hadn’t asked what song that he was referring to, because the lyrics made you almost choke on your wine.

“Your mother would not find that song humurous.” You snickered.

He smiled with a slight shrug. 

“No, she wouldn’t— but you do.” 

You nodded, taking another sip of wine— indulging yourself far too much.

“I do, but I am not your mother.”

Egg twirled his fork on his plate, his head hung low at your words almost like you had suddenly hurt his feelings.

“Father wishes you were.”

Your lips parted at his words, you figured that the wine had betrayed your mind and made you think ludicrous things.

“Pardon?” 

Rhae ran up to the table, near you and Egg.

“Egg come on, let’s dance!”

Egg left his chair casing after Rhae, the two of them joining the other people that were dancing.

Maekar watched while eating the few vegetables on his plate. He saw how you smiled with Egg and how Egg couldn’t quit laughing, it warmed his heart. It was very seldom that he’d come close to a smile, but at the sight of that— he almost couldn’t stop.

Dyanna nudged him, bringing his focus back to her.

“Husband, would you like to dance with me?”

Maekar made a gagging noise, repulsed at the idea.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your betrothal!” You spoke to Valarr.

He smiled, glancing at you.

“Thank you—“

“I had not had the proper opportunity to meet you, Lady Stark.”

You set your goblet back down on the table.

“No need for formalities, but it is nice to meet you as well.”

Valarr was quiet during the dinner, not that he didn’t have anything to say— but he just seemed very watchful of his surroundings from what you could tell..

“Are you excited?” You questioned.

His lip curved in a smile, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I am—“

“It’s just I am not looking forward to the feast afterwards.”

You raised your brows in surprise. “Oh?” 

He turned in his seat, facing you with a sense of urgency.

“I do not know how to dance and Kiera loves dancing..”

“I have no one to teach me. I’m afraid I will embarrass the both of us.” He blurted.

You covered your mouth in a laugh.

“Here I thought you were going to tell me a big secret. Learning how to dance is not a hard task.”

Valarr’s face reddened like a tomato.

“Can you teach me?—“

“If. If you do not mind of course.”

You took one more sip of your wine for courage and stood up. 

“Join me.” You smiled.

You and Valarr made your way down from the table and to everyone else.

“What are they doing?” Dyanna questioned, getting Maekar's attention.

You gave Valarr your hand, your fingers slightly curled together and held out to the side of you. His hand on the small of your back, gentle and guiding with your other hand resting on his shoulder.

With your pace, the two of you somewhat moved in sync— dancing with each other. Dancing for you was effortless, but not as effortless for Valarr.

He stepped on your toes a few times, which made you wince in pain and followed with him profusely apologizing. It didn’t take long for him to get the hang of it, making him seem like a natural.

“It was a silly ask, but thank you for helping me.” Valarr spoke into your ear.

You shook your head, still dancing with him.

“It wasn’t silly. It’s quite alright, I never turn down a moment to dance.”

Shortly after, you ended your dance with Valarr and planned to make your way back to your seat— you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“Will you give me the honor of a dance?” Maekar asked.

Your eyes rapidly scanned the room when he asked. He’d clearly lost his mind to ask you so openly for a dance.

“Maekar..” You stammered.

“Take my hand, so I don’t look like a fool standing here.” He spoke.

You hesitated but took his hand, Dyanna was distracted in conversation and hadn’t noticed.

You and Maekar started to dance, completely in sync with each other like you were years ago.

“You’re stiffer than usual.” He noted.

You rolled your eyes, “I am not.”

The music continued, but the song changed — a slower beat that made you and Maekar feel closer than it should have.

“Why did you ask me to dance?” You questioned.

“I missed dancing with you.” He admitted, spinning you.

His words made your heart flutter, even though they should have disgusted you.

“Dance with your wife.” You replied with a bit of snark.

The two of you dancing captured the eyes of everyone around you and everyone at the table, including Dyanna. They watched as both of you moved so effortlessly amongst people, your eyes locked on each other. If they had not known any better, they would’ve assumed that the two of you were married.

“She does not dance as well as you.” He countered.

“Must you make my life harder?—“

“All you have to do is avoid me until you leave and we’ll never have to see each other again.” You mentioned.

He scoffed, his feet moving with yours.

“I cannot lose you.. not again.” 

You stared at him, almost causing yourself to miss a step.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” He questioned.

“Pretending that Dyanna does not exist and that this is a second chance.” You reiterated.

His face started to redden, his grip becoming tighter.

“I do not wish to talk about her.”

“Why?” You inquired, just short of taunting. 

He did not answer, he instead spun you around again. Everyone watched in awe as the fabric of your gown spins outwards.

“Why?” You asked again in a demanding tone.

His face came closer to yours, his violet eyes scanning your face.

“I don’t wish to be reminded of the worst mistake of my life.”

Jena glanced at Baelor, who was displeased with his brother's antics and pursuit of you. Thankfully, King Daeron and Queen Myriah were not present to see it as the king felt unwell.

“His behavior is embarrassing to this family.” Baelor mentioned to Jena.

Jena sipped her wine as she watched the two of you.

“He’s going to crush her again.” She spoke with pity.

Baelor nodded, his lips pursed as he toyed with his rings.

“She does not deserve it.”

Your brows furrowed at Maekar’s confession.

“The worst mistake?”

He nodded as if he was embarrassed by his statement, not because it was true— but it made him a despicable person.

The music continued as the end of the song neared. Your heart thumped in your chest, your eyes welling with tears.

“How dare you come here and dump this in my lap?”

“I cannot help myself with you.. I feel utterly weak and bewitched by you. I love you.”

The music ended and so did your dance, you pulled away from him. People clapped at the two of you, moved by your dancing. You stared at him, tears falling down your cheeks as you stood there.

You fled out of the dining hall, completely overcome with emotions— wanting to get to your chambers.

 Maekar followed behind you, putting his foot between the crack of the door as you went to shut it.

You opened it, staring at him.

“Go.” You commanded.

He walked closer to you, “no.”

Your chest rose and fell fast as he closed the gap between the two of you, walking into your room.

You felt so weak and you hated him for it. You wanted him, you wanted to love him— but you couldn’t.

He stood over you, shutting the door behind him.

“Maekar.. we shouldn’t.” You stammered.

His thumb traced your cheek, making your breath still.

“You are breathtaking.” He mumbled.

You closed your eyes, trying to ignore his words— but your body was betraying you.

He rubbed your bottom lip with his thumb, leaning in closer to your face— your breath mingling with his.

“I love you.”

“No, you don’t.” You replied.

“Let me prove it to you.” He suggested.

You tried to step back, but you couldn’t make your feet move away from him— even though it should come naturally.

His lips swiped yours in an act of defiance, an act of betrayal to his wife.

“Tell me to leave and I’ll go.” He whispered.

“Maekar.. I”

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated.

When you were younger, your family left Winterfell and went to King’s Landing for matters that your father needed to handle. Nothing about the trip seemed pleasant or anything that you were interested in, but you had to go. Your father and mother wouldn’t accept any other answer.

It was absolutely dreadful to you and you couldn’t bring your direwolf, Greywind either. He’d be tended to by staff, but without you for a few moons.

Once you reached the city, you could see a few of the dragons flying overhead. The big, God-like creatures that you’d heard tales of. You often wondered if they had ever heard about the Direwolves that you and your family had.

Most of the time while you were there, you tried keeping to yourself. You weren’t interested in making friends, needlepoint, or walking around the gardens. You wanted to go home to Greywind and a place that didn’t smell like shit.

It wasn't long before you were no longer able to secretly hide. Jena Dondarrion set her sights on you and the two of you became friends rather quickly— quicker than you expected. Jena was funny, shared similar sentiments to you, and was very outspoken. She was just the kind of person that you needed to keep yourself busy and from sitting in your chambers everyday.

Jena introduced you to her betrothed, Baelor. A sweet young man with eyes that you could get lost in. He didn’t have the traditional Targaryen looks, he looked more like the queen than his father. With Baelor was his brother, Maekar. Maekar was tall, his face scarred, bright silver hair, and deep violet eyes.

He was not welcoming like his brother, instead he had very few words for you at first— just merely grunts. Despite the two of you having such little conversation, he often found himself near you and Jena. If Baelor was around, then so was he. You didn’t mind as he was very handsome and interesting in some ways.

Eventually, he started to talk to you more often and wanted to spend time with you alone. You had started to smile more often with him and experience flutters in your stomach at the sight of him, feelings that you couldn’t explain. When you told Jena, she laughed and said that she had seen it coming. She mentioned that she had never seen Maekar smile until he had gotten close with you.

He introduced you to his dragon, Vermithor. The two of you took a night ride on him and enjoyed being high in the night sky. After the ride, the two of you shared your first kiss together and you knew that you were smitten.

Over the course of the time that you were in King’s landing, you had fallen in love with Maekar as he had with you. He was not hard with you or dismissive, he was the exact opposite. There was a softness to him that most wouldn’t know existed. Maekar had serious conversations with you about a marriage betrothal, bringing the north and royal family closer together.

As your time had winded down, you lost your maiden hood to Maekar. You loved him so much that it was such a small thing to you, especially with the two of you wanting to marry each other.

He pressed kisses onto your back as his hands gripped your hips, his cock snapping into you.

“You are so perfect.” He groaned.

Your fingers gripped the silk sheets on the bed, your moans muffled into them.

His cock was so deep inside you, the head dragging along your sensitive spot.

“Maekar.” You whined.

He smacked your ass, completely captivated by the view of you taking every inch of him.

“That’s it, my love.” He murmured.

You buried your face in the sheets as your moans and pleasure intensified. Your peak fastly approaching.

“You are so close, my love. I can feel it.” He growled.

“Please, Maekar.” You whimpered.

You weren’t even sure what exactly you were begging for, but the words fell out of your mouth with ease and he loved hearing you beg.

“Fuck.” You rasped.

Maekar’s name spilled from your mouth repeatedly as you reached your peak.

His thrusts got faster and harder as he got close, your cunt still clenching around him.

“You are so fucking tight.”

Within a few more thrusts, the grip on your hips tightened as he threw his head back in bliss — filling you with his warm seed.

“I love you.” He mumbled.

“I love you too, so much.” You replied.

He pulled out of you, trying to catch his breath and got a towel to clean you with.

The two of you cuddled up with each other, the moonlight shining on the sheets.

“I’m so glad to have met you, you have brightened my life in so many ways that I didn’t think possible.” Maekar confessed.

He made you smile, made you feel warm inside, and just made you feel seen. He was the best thing that had happened to you.

You looked up at him, into his beautiful eyes.

“You make me so happy, Maekar.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, the kind you give when you want to savor the moment as you know it’ll never happen again.

His eyes looked sad after the kiss, a sadness that you had never seen before.

“I need to talk to you.” He spoke softly.

“Is something wrong?” You asked as you got out of bed to pour yourself some water.

“I..”

“I cannot marry you.” He confessed.

Your movements stopped as if your heart had stilled in your chest.

“What are you talking about, Maekar?” You questioned.

He struggled to look at you, your nervousness all over your face.

“I will be marrying Dyanna, from House Dayne.”

You stood there silently, blinking your eyes and almost unable to formulate a sentence or complete thought. Your mind took you elsewhere, flashes of your memories with him filling your mind.

He called out to you, his voice bringing you back into the moment.

Your eyes were glassy, a single tear streaming down your cheek.

“What about us?” You asked, your voice shaky.

“There cannot be an us anymore. It is not what I wanted—“

You didn’t bother to listen to anything else that he had to say. You frantically grabbed your clothes and began to put them on.

“Please.. talk to me.” He begged.

You stood up, facing him after lacing your boots.

“I shall bid you goodnight, my prince—“

“Congratulations on your betrothal. I hope that it goes well.”

He sighed, getting out of the bed and walking over to you.

“Don’t be like that, not with me.”

You looked at him, your face wet from the tears that fell.

“You are not who I thought that you were. All of those words meant nothing—just something to get me into your bed, hmm?”

He grabbed your hand with a scowl on his face.

“Don’t say that, because it is not true.”

You scoffed. “You knew that you were betrothed to her before you slept with me tonight, didn’t you?”

He hesitated, his excuse caught in his throat.

“Exactly what I thought.” You replied, yanking your hand from him and leaving his chambers.

You felt like a complete fool, falling in love with a prince and allowing yourself to be bedded. You never saw any signs that would have given you the notion that you wouldn’t get married to Maekar. You embarrassed yourself and your house, you knew better.

After that night, you counted down the days until your departure and avoided him. You had basically turned into a shell of yourself, you just stayed in your chambers.

The one day that you did find the courage to leave and get fresh air, you saw Maekar with Dyanna walking around the gardens. He saw you and left her side to get to you, but he could not catch up.

Jena came to you and apologized as if she’d done something wrong, but you reassured her that there was nothing to apologize for. It just simply was not meant to be, is what you said and those words were bitter in your mouth.

You promised her that you’d stay in touch and wished her the best.

When you finally left, you felt a sense of relief— a weight off of your chest. You could put all of this behind you and act like it didn’t happen.

Once you were back at home, things for you had returned to normal. You spent a bunch of time with Greywind and tried to clear your mind,

Three moons later, Maekar flew Vermithor to winterfell a few days before his wedding.

“What are you doing here?” You snapped.

He looked anxious as if he’d seen a ghost, struggling to look you in the eye.

“I needed to see you.”

“Maekar, I am trying to move on with my life. I cannot deal with this.. with you.”

He grabbed your hands, his violet eyes scanning your face.

“I made a mistake.” He blurted.

Your brows furrowed as you pulled your hand from his grasp.

“What?”

“I don’t want to marry her, I —“

“You should not have come here. It is not a good look for me or you.” You reminded him.

“I don’t care! I want you and I cannot stop thinking about you or what we had.. I just miss you.”

You scoffed, in disbelief at his audacity. Greywind came to your side and began to growl at Maekar.

“I do not know what it is that you wish for me to say. Our time is over, it was a lesson learned. I do not wish to revisit it.”

Maekar stepped forward and so did Greywind. You rubbed Greywind’s head.

“Easy, boy.”

“Just tell me not to and I won’t do it. I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to you, I only want to marry you.”

Your lips were pursed and facial expression unchanged as you listened to him. His words did make you feel weak, but you couldn’t accept them. He had caused far too much damage.

“You need to fly back to King’s Landing and do us both a favor, forget about me.” You spoke plainly.

His facial expression softened, on the cusp of a frown.

“I love you.” He mentioned.

Your lips instinctively started to curl into a smile, listening to the words that you had missed hearing.

“I wish you the best of luck on your marriage to Dyanna.” You replied as you began to walk away, signaling for Greywind to follow you.

You left Maekar standing in that spot alone with the snow falling around him. There were so many things that you could’ve said, but you decided not to. He chose someone else over you and that was his right, as was yours to not accept his feeble apology.

Maekar so badly wanted to run after you and beg for your forgiveness, even though he didn’t deserve it. He never wanted to hurt you or lose you, but he did just that. Dyanna was a good woman and would make a fine wife, but she wasn’t you.

Him flying to you was unfair and a terrible idea, but he had to try. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t and even though he did, he’d still struggle to live with himself.

His stupidity cost him a great deal and maybe it hadn’t completely sank in yet, but it would.

Your house had been preparing to host the royal family. They were going to be arriving at any moment and would be visiting for an undecided amount of time. There would be two noble families joining as well, more visitors than you liked.

They were visiting to discuss issues with the wall, the wildlings, debts, and other matters. Ultimately, things that you did not plan on concerning yourself with.

You planned on keeping yourself out of sight while they were visiting as it just seemed like the easier option. The servants were working extraordinarily hard to prepare food, chambers, and everything that was needed. They were informed that at least two dragons would be present, so they had to make sure that there was an abundance of meat available to feed them.

While you were in your chambers preparing for a nap — you could hear the sound of dragons flying above. A sound that you hadn’t heard in years.

The horn sounded as the carriages and horses arrived below.

You shut the shutters to your window and lit a candle, giving the room a flicker of light.

You laid on the bed and allowed yourself to drift off, Greywind asleep on the floor. Your nap lasted a few hours and it felt completely necessary, you felt better rested than you were earlier.

The flame on the candle had begun to flicker, so you blew it out and opened your shutters. There was noise bustling below and the sun had begun to set, but no sign of the royal family— which meant you were in the clear.

You put on your boots and walked with Greywind to the kennel master. Once you visited him, you grabbed the two large buckets of fresh and raw meat.

Snow and ice crunched under your boots as you approached them in the empty field— Vermithor and the beautiful Meleys. Meleys watched as you approached, meanwhile Vermithor continued to sleep. Most people would be terrified to approach them, but you weren’t and neither was Greywind. You had been around them plenty of times and figured that they would both remember you from years ago. If not, then it would no longer be your problem.

Vermithor opened one of his eyes as you got closer, scanning your every move. Meleys moved closer as they could smell the meat and you.

“I know, both of you are probably starving.” You mumbled.

You walked up to Vermithor and rubbed his nose, big breaths of air leaving his nostrils.

“It’s been a long time, old friend.”

Meleys nudged you, slightly pushing you back onto your heels.

“I brought both of something to eat.” You mentioned.

Greywind moved with your every move, watching the dragons and wanting to protect you from any incoming threat.

You poured the meat out of the buckets and onto the snow in front of them. Vermithor hesitated to eat, while Meleys began to lightly char her meat. While waiting on Vermithor to eat and watching him, you absentmindedly picked up a few chunks and fed them to Greywind as he stood beside you.

“I’m not sure why you’re being picky today.” You groaned.

Beside you, Greywinds ears turned to the sound of footsteps approaching. He turned to face behind you and began to growl.

“You are the only person outside of ourselves and the dragon keepers who can safely feed them this way.” A voice spoke.

A voice that you hadn’t heard in years, but you recognized it all the same. You didn’t bother to turn around, you only continued to watch Vermithor as he had started to show interest in the meat.

“I must be lucky then.” You responded.

The footsteps inched closer, but Greywind was not agreeable as his growling intensified.

“Greywind, enough!” You spoke, causing him to whine.

You slowly turned around and your eyes met his. He looked the same, just older with a few more scars. A face that you hadn’t dreamt of or thought about in years. It was an odd feeling to see him after such a long time.

“Wow, you look—“ the words caught in his throat like a dry piece of bread.

“It’s been so long.” He stammered.

You nodded your head, your grip on the bucket handle tightening.

“Aye, it has.”

He seemed nervous which was unusual as Maekar was never nervous. He slowly stepped a bit closer to you.

“How have you been?”

“I’ve been alright, nothing worth complaining about.” You replied.

He looked as if he wanted to ask so many questions— as if things were plaguing his mind, but he couldn’t say them.

The conversation was interrupted with his son Aegon, Daeron, and Dyanna approaching.

Dyanna walked up to Maekar’s side, a smile on her face as she acknowledged him.

“My love, what are you doing out here?”

He seemed defeated like he didn’t know how to honestly respond.

Aegon waved at you, an excited smile on his little face as he and Daeron stared at Greywind.

“Is he friendly?” Daeron asked.

You nodded your head slightly. “He won’t bite, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Aegon looked at Maekar, “can I?”

You commanded Greywind in High Valyrian to stay calm and be still as Aegon approached. Maekar’s brow raised, he was surprised that you were still fluent after the lessons from years ago.

Dyanna tilted her head in confusion—because she knew it was High Valyrian, but she did not understand what was being said. It was not lost on her that you and Maekar once shared something special, but she was his wife now. None of that mattered.

Aegon giggled as he tried playing with Greywind.

“Father, she looks like the woman.. the woman that you have the portrait of.” Daeron blurted, causing Maekar to scowl.

Dyanna laughed, looking at her husband.

“What is he talking about?”

Maekar rubbed her arm, “I don’t have the faintest notion.”

You waved at Aegon and signaled for Greywind to follow you.

“It was lovely seeing you, my prince and princess.” You spoke.

Maekar watched as you walked away, the feelings from years ago creeping up into his stomach and twisting in his chest. He needed to talk to you and get to know you again, he could not lose the opportunity.

Once you got back into your chambers, you had to take a deep breath. You felt confused for the first time in years, as if you suddenly didn’t remember your own feelings. Your stomach knotted at the sight of him, his wife, and his children that looked exactly like him.

He had the family that you had once dreamt of yourself, putting actual details to things that you had envisioned. Although, things did not go that way— you were happy for him.

He got everything he wanted.

Time for supper was fastly approaching, which meant that you needed to change. You had a hot bath prepared, so that you could relax beforehand.

This dinner with the royal family wasn’t exactly what you were looking forward to. It would be awkward and you had nothing to contribute, but your father insisted.

Once you were finished, you took your time and got dressed. You hated this, seeing him again and having your sad feelings come back to the surface.

You left your chambers and made your way to the dining hall with a pit in your stomach.

Your family along with the royal family gathered in the dining hall, the candles lit and illuminating everything perfectly. Jena ran over to you and pulled you into a big hug.

“You liar! You did not keep in touch as you promised.” She taunted.

You hugged her back, internally overjoyed to see your old friend again.

She held your hands in hers, her eyes glassy.

“I suppose the north has not turned you cold, has it?”

You both shared an in sync laugh. “You know that it hasn’t,”

King Daeron and Queen Myriah approached you with smiles on their faces.

“Daughter!” The king laughed, pulling you into a hug.

“It is wonderful to see you again.” He added.

Despite the fact that you never married his son, he still always called you daughter. He loved Dyanna, but he hated Maekar’s decision to not marry you.

“It is wonderful to see you too, your grace.” You replied.

He waved you off, “no need for such formalities!”

You hugged Queen Myriah, her warmth and touch reminding you of your own late mother.

“I suppose there are no children for me to meet?” She asked softly.

You shook your head and tried to hide the flicker of embarrassment that brewed inside you. Even though the realm demanded it of young women— you did not marry nor did you have any children. It was of little interest to you and your father spoiling you the way that he did, meant that he wouldn’t force you.

Besides, you had five other brothers along with several nieces and nephews— you being wed was not necessary. Your father allowed you to continue to live at Winterfell, helping him with certain political duties and keeping to yourself.

Everyone took their seats at the table, you were seated beside Daeron with your father on the other side of you.

The hall buzzed with small conversations, eating, and laughter. You did not engage much as you were uninterested and ready to return to your chambers.

Maekar stared at you from his seat across the table, a stare which you paid no attention to— but Dyanna noticed.

She called your name, bringing your attention from the vegetables on your plate.

“It is so wonderful to finally meet you and put a face to the name. I couldn’t recall meeting you all those years ago.” She spoke.

You awkwardly smiled back, setting down your fork.

“It is nice to meet you as well, Princess.”

She raised her brow, glancing around the table.

“Are your husband and children around? I’d love to meet them.”

Your spit was caught in your throat as she feigned ignorance. She knew bloody well that you were not married, but she asked anyway— a weird jape.

Your brows furrowed, even though you tried to hide your reaction. Her question caught the attention of everyone at the table, including her husband right beside her.

“Forgive me, but you must have someone else in mind, princess. I am not married and I do not have children.”

She was shocked by your statement, her hand clutching her chest.

“Apologies! I meant no offense..”

“It’s just not often that I see a woman of your stature and beauty being unwed.”

Baelor glanced at Maekar, signaling for him to stop Dyanna from potentially insulting you.

Maekar placed his hand on her thigh, grabbing her attention.

You pursed your lips, picking up your goblet.

“That is quite alright, no need to apologize.”

Before the conversations at the table could resume again, she kept speaking.

“Why is it that you are unwed, my lady?—“

“I know plenty of young noblemen who’d be honored and lucky to have you as their wife.”

Maekar leaned closer to Dyanna’s ear, his patience gone.

“Stop it, now.”

You hesitated, drinking some of your wine and embarrassment filling your body.

“I had no interest in that kind of duty and lucky for me, my father understood and did not force me.”

Your father smiled, raising his goblet.

“Yes! My daughter is a fine woman, but her help and focus was needed here. I’m grateful to have her here as she is happy to be here.”

You nodded your head.

“Thank you father.” You muttered.

She smiled, her hand touching Maekar’s.

“That is lovely!—“

“I just hope that if you do change your mind that you experience a love match like I did.”

King Daeron and Queen Myriah exchanged looks.

You looked at Maekar, the embarrassment all on your face.

“I’d like to thank this family for allowing us to convene here, taking us into their home for political matters.” Baelor stood, raising his goblet and trying to redirect the conversation.

All of you raised your cups in the air.

The conversations around you continued as they were, no one thinking about the words from Dyanna.

Daeron sat beside you on his fifth goblet of wine and barely able to hold his head up.

“I dreamt of you..” He slurred.

You leaned closer, hoping to hear him properly.

“What did you say?”

He wiped the spit that pooled at the corner of his mouth.

“I dreamt of you.. you and the small child.”

You were completely confused as you didn’t have a small child and how could Daeron possibly dream of you when he’d never met you before? The entire family confused you, more than you’d like to admit.

While the dinner continued with no end in sight, you asked your father to be excused as you had grown tired.

You got up from the table and made your way out of the dining hall. The wind blew against your cheeks as you walked outside, taking the long way to your chambers.

Maekar was following behind you.

“Wait—“

You turned around with a frown on your face and rolled your eyes.

“Why are you following me?” You questioned.

He seemed as if he struggled to come up with the right answer to your question, because there was truly not just a single answer.

“I’m sorry for what Dyanna said—“

You held your hand out, stopping him mid sentence.

“I do not need apologies for your wife, Maekar. I am fine.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have said those things.” He replied.

You let out a small chuckle. “You’re right, she shouldn’t have but she did. I’m unsure as to why she wanted to embarrass me, though.”

Maekar pulled his shoulders back, seeming offended.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t be naive. She knew the answers to those questions, everyone in the fucking realm knows that I’m unwed—“

“Her pointing out that the two of you have a love match, it was all a jab.” You chided.

“I don’t know why she would think it necessary to do that.” He mumbled.

You scoffed, almost bordering a laugh.

“I’m glad we’re confused together, but I am retiring to my chambers. Please, inform the princess that I will be out of her way for the duration of her stay.”

You walked away from Maekar, leaving him cold and speechless.

Later that night, as Maekar and Dyanna prepared for bed— he was silent. He didn’t have much to say as he’d thought of what you said and he realized that there was probably more truth to it than he wanted to give.

He did not want his wife being rude to you or to anyone in Winterfell for that matter, as it would reflect poorly on the royal family.

“Husband?” Dyanna spoke, shutting the shutters on the window.

Maekar just stared at the fireplace, his mind elsewhere— thinking of things that he shouldn’t as a married man.

“Husband, do you ignore me?” She giggled.

Maekar scowled.

“Why did you have to act that way in front of everyone?”

She glanced at him as he sat in the bed, a look of confusion on her face.

“I did not act in a particular way to my understanding.”

He gritted his teeth, his patience thinning.

“Please, give me the dignity of being honest, wife!”

She was startled at his reaction, not expecting him to be upset over her reasonable questions.

“Is there a reason for your behavior tonight? Something I missed?”

“You meant to humiliate her tonight and you did not have to do it, it was cruel!” He spat.

Her frown became prevalent on her face.

“Why are you defending her?”

His brows furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening.

“Defend her?—“

“It is about respect, Dyanna! We are the royal family and in their home. How do you think her father would respond, if he sniffed out your disrespect?”

She rolled her eyes, walking towards the fireplace.

“She should be married, it is odd that she is not.”

He rubbed his hand against his face. “Her marital status is not of your concern.”

“I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.. or any ideas at all while we’re here.” She confessed.

“Ideas?—“

“Dyanna, what are you on about?”

“Everyone knows about the two of you, how much you two loved each other—“ she mumbled.

“For fucks sake!” He growled, interrupting her.

“You are the only one with your mind on that petty gossip from ages ago, let it go and do not embarrass me!”

He felt a sting in the back of his throat calling your love petty, minimizing the impact of your relationship. He needed to stop Dyanna, but he could never admit to his wife that he still loved you.

What kind of man would that make him if he admitted that he made a mistake?

Dyanna waves her hand in front of her face, creating a small amount of wind to stop from crying.

“I will not have your whore from years ago ruin my family!” She yelled.

“My what?—“

“Have you lost your senses?” Maekar inquired.

The royal family had only been present for a few hours, yet Dyanna was losing her mind about you. You hadn’t even done anything or said anything of note, but she had come to the conclusion that you would ruin her family.

Maekar did not want his wife to cry as she had nothing to worry about, nothing would happen between the two of you— whether he wanted it to or not.

His rash decision to not choose you had tormented him since that day— remembering how you cried, how you withdrew from, how those were the worst words to ever leave his mouth.

Dyanna crawled into bed beside him, her face wet from crying. Maekar held out his open arm to embrace her and have her come close to him.

She laid her head on his chest.

“I love you, Maekar. I just get beside myself sometimes.”

“I love you too.” He muttered.

As the days had passed by, you had avoided the royal family at all costs. You hadn’t even attended the first three meetings, prompting your father’s worry. In order to ease his mind, you told him that you were feeling unwell— and that you’d be at the next meeting.

Dyanna’s eyes scanned the halls for you, every time she left her chambers. Even when Jena told her to quit worrying as she was Maekar’s wife and not you— but she could not ease her mind.

She hated you, she hated that you had him first, that he defended you a few nights prior. She didn’t understand why her heart towards you was so cold, why jealousy would overtake her.

It was starting to snow again and the light was fading, so you decided to go visit the weirwood tree before it got too dark. Greywind stayed in your room where it was warm, near your fireplace.

The snow and ice crunched under your boots, but there was still a loud silence as everyone was inside.

You sat at the weirwood tree, your mother’s favorite place. You’d find yourself coming to the tree to talk to her as if she was still here, like she’d respond back.

Amidst the silence, you saw a tall looming shadow out of the corner of your eye. 

It was Maekar.

“Must you find me everywhere I go?” You grumbled.

“I did not mean to intrude.. I was on my way to take Vermithor out.” He admitted.

You rubbed your gloves against the tree, not paying him any attention.

He stood there, watching you— not sure if you needed company or if he should leave.

You stood up and walked towards him, almost walking past him.

“Have a good night, my prince.” 

He grabbed your hand, which shocked you.

“Stop it!—“

“Stop that. You don’t have to be that way.”

You yanked your hand away from his grasp, a scowl on your face.

“What are you on about?”

He sighed.

“You don’t have to give me the cold shoulder, treat me as if I’m some prince and that’s all.”

Your head instinctively tilted, amusement on your face.

“That is all you are, a prince of the realm.”

“You know what I meant.” He remarked.

You scoffed. 

“I don’t actually, I’m unsure of how you want me to treat you.”

He threw his hands up in defeat and began to get annoyed.

“Don’t act like we’re strangers, avoid me like I’m a plague.”

You took a deep breath, your emotions starting to get the best of you. Feelings that you had hidden for so long were starting to creep to the surface.

“Your wife would have my head, if she saw me close with you! She does not like me and with your behavior, I don’t much blame her.” You growled.

He looked at you with his deep violet eyes, giving you the look that  he’d always give you years ago.

“I would never allow her the satisfaction of harming you.” He murmured.

You stood there in disbelief at this conversation. You never thought that you’d see him again, let alone have this conversation with him years later.

“You should stop while you’re ahead.” You spoke.

“I can’t.. I cannot.” He conceded.

“I think about you all the time, about what we could’ve been, that this could have been our family.” 

You walked over to him, rage burning in your veins.

“How dare you?—“

“You made your choice years ago. Why would you come here and rob me of my peace and my choice?”

“Because you feel the same way.” He stammered.

His response got under your skin more than it should’ve, more than it would’ve if it weren’t true.

“I don’t! I am happy here with my life, I do not wish for anything else.”

He snickered in disbelief.

“You are a terrible liar. You are not happy here.”

“I am!” You protested.

“Why didn’t you get married? Why didn’t you have kids?—“

“Why didn’t you move on?” He asked.

His questions immediately cooled your anger, bringing a punch to your stomach. You hadn’t moved on, you were still stuck in that moment years ago when he chose Dyanna. 

His world ending words left you unable to move on, you could not seek happiness with another.

“Fuck off.” You bit back at his question.

“That’s not an answer.” He spoke softly.

Tears began to well in your eyes, because he just had to come to your home and speak his stupid words. Add his regret to your shoulders.

“What more do you want, Maekar? Hmm?—“

“You got everything that you wanted! The wife, the kids, the happy home.”

He looked at your face, your eyes glassy and skin probably hot to the touch as it always would be when you were overwhelmed.

“I was wrong.” He admitted.

His words stopped you dead in your tracks, making you lose your focus.

“What?”

“I was wrong! I made a mistake!” He argued.

“You were supposed to be my wife and I have thought about that everyday of my life. I thought about it when Daeron was born, when I’d have sex with her, when I’d lay down in bed.”

He walked closer to you, closer than he should be to you.

“You are disgusting!” You hissed.

“I know.”

“She deserves better.” You pointed out.

He took another step closer. “She’s not as innocent as you perceive, but she does deserve someone who looks at her the way I do you.”

A tear fell down your cheek, your mind screaming at you to walk away from him— but somehow you were stuck there letting him get close.

“I ruined us and for that I’ll always be sorry.”

“I hate you.” You mumbled.

He closed the gap between the two of you, pushing your hair out of your face. 

“No, you don’t.”

He leaned in—pressing his lips to yours in a deep kiss, a kiss full of passion and old feelings. A kiss that you almost completely welcomed, but you stopped yourself.

You pushed him away from you, wiping your mouth.

“What we had is over! It’s a dream that faded years ago—“

“Stay the fuck away from me, Maekar.”

Baelor who had been standing there the entire time, cleared his throat— catching the attention of both of you.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You breathe out through your nose, the corner of your mouth tugging despite yourself. “I’m not always—”

“Always,” Maekar repeats, stubborn as a mule, his voice leaving no room for arguments. His fingers flex once against your side, a small pressure that is more insistence than touch. “North makes you suspicious. You would wake if a mouse sneezed.”

Baelor’s thumb strokes slowly across your hip. You feel the movement like someone put a hot pocker under your skin. “He’s not wrong,” Baelor muses, and there’s faint amusement in it, a gentle thing that would sound wrong from anyone else. “You listen like you’re expecting to be attacked.”

“I do not,” you argue, your eyes cracking open fully, “It keeps you alive down here.”

A pause.

Maekar shifts then, propping himself up on one elbow. The sheet slides down his chest a fraction, revealing old scars and new bruises like a map of every hard lesson he’s ever learned in his life. His hair is a pale, disordered crown. In this light, he looks younger than he does in armour, and more dangerous for it, because there’s nothing courtly to soften the lines of him.

He stares down at you, expression set into its usual severity, and you can see the effort it takes him not to scowl at the softness of morning.

“You’ll ruin her,” he says to Baelor, his words flat.

Baelor exhales a quiet laugh. You feel it vibrate through his chest behind you. “That would suggest she isn’t already ruined.”

Maekar’s mouth twitches, a near-smile as you’ve ever seen from him, and for good reason too. You’re hardly presentable right now, not after last night’s handling. “By you, I mean.”

Baelor’s hand tightens, almost imperceptibly, on your waist. “I’m trying,” Baelor says softly, “to keep her.”

Maekar’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. His fingers slide up, brushing your cheek with a roughness that isn’t unkind. “So am I,” he answers.

It’s difficult for him to admit this, you think. It always feels like he has to pay for vulnerability. Maekar doesn’t give words away the way Baelor does; he holds them in his mouth until they’ve been sharpened into something he can trust.

You swallow, throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with tears. “Neither of you owns me,” you say, because you have to say it.

Baelor’s breath warms the back of your neck. “No,” he agrees quietly. “We know.”

Maekar’s hand remains on your cheek. His thumb presses once at the corner of your mouth, a touch both gentle and infuriatingly sure, like he’s reminding himself you’re here, with them, in their bed and not somewhere else.

“Doesn’t stop me wanting to,” Maekar mutters.

Baelor hums, low and thoughtful. “It doesn’t stop me wanting to, either.”

You close your eyes for a beat. In the dark behind your lids, you see three versions of the day ahead: council chambers and banners and polite, bland smiles; training yards and sweating men and Maekar’s temper, sitting close to his skin; corridors full of whispers, the story everyone will tell themselves about you no matter what you do.

And then you feel Baelor’s mouth press, not to your lips, but to your temple—a brief, reverent touch, more vow than kiss. Maekar, as if he can’t be outdone even by tenderness, leans in and bites lightly at your shoulder through the thin linen of your shift, a blunt little claim of teeth that makes you inhale sharply.

“Maekar,” you warn, half groan, half reproach.

His mouth curves against you, feral with satisfaction. “It’s daybreak,” he says, as if that explains everything. 

Baelor’s hand slides up, fingers splaying over your ribs, steadying you. “Behave,” he whispers gently, but there’s quiet amusement in it too. He is indulgent with Maekar in a way he’s with almost no one else.

Maekar huffs. “I am behaving.”

“You’re biting,” you point out dryly.

“That’s restrained,” Maekar insists, completely serious.

Baelor’s laugh fills the air, low and warm, and it loosens something under your ribs you didn’t realise was clenched. “Gods,” he murmurs, still amused. “I never thought I’d see the day my brother argued his virtue while using his teeth.”

Maekar’s jaw works but he looks, for one moment, almost pleased with himself.

You stare at the canopy above you—carved dragons chasing one another through stylised clouds—and let the warmth of them both pin you where you are. You feel their bodies on either side, two different kinds of strength, two different storms. 

Baelor’s palm presses once firmly at your waist. Maekar’s fingers curl into your hair, careful despite himself, learning the shape of gentleness by force.

“Stay,” Baelor says softly, not command, not plea, just want.

“For one more breath,” Maekar adds, like he can’t help himself.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Red Keep stood high above the sprawling city of King’s Landing, its red brick walls and towers dominating everything and everyone beneath them. It was strange, you thought, how quickly everything could change. For months your life had been nothing but meadows, hedgerows, and the long, empty stretch of sky above you. Now you could call a castle your home.

Though home was perhaps too generous a word for the four walls you would inhabit. A place of stone and watchful eyes could hardly claim that. Still, it was something else, an opportunity. A chance to learn and perhaps, for the first time in a long while, to live without the constant need to watch for danger, as you had on the road, where every stranger, every dark stretch of forest, and every quiet mile carried the possibility of trouble.

Though the recent weeks of the journey to the capital, had been some of the happiest you could remember in a long while. The days passed in the steady rhythm of the road, with Egg and Duncan often riding on either side of you, filling the miles with stories, questions, and jests. You had spent quite a few nights in crowded inns, or beneath the roofs of accommodating lords who gladly welcomed Prince Baelor’s company.

Yet your favorite evenings had been the quieter ones in the pavilions. After the camp had settled and the fires burned low, the three of you would sometimes slip away from the others and sit beneath the open sky, talking about nothing and everything until the night had grown deep and the stars were the only witnesses left awake.

It made you wish, fleetingly, that the road might never end, that it could remain just the three of you riding on alone, unburdened by duty, untouched by courtly expectations, and blissfully ignorant of the politics waiting ahead. Yet the Red Keep only grew larger with every canter of your horse, its towers climbing higher against the sky, refusing to fade no matter how much you might have wished it would.

The first thing you noticed was the smell. A choking stench of excrement that reached you well before the city walls, carried on the sharp edge of the sea breeze. You wondered if it breached even the keep’s walls, and whether the most powerful people in the realm spent their days subjected to it as well, or if they had long since grown accustomed to it, their fresh rushes and lofty towers masking what lingered below.

You knew, for a certainty however, that the people who lived in the mazes of narrow streets would be far easier to put out of mind once in the keep’s confines. 

Poverty was not something you were a stranger to, it had been your constant companion for most of your life. But you had not expected it on this scale. 

When you had imagined the heart of the realm, your thoughts had always lingered on kings and nobles, on fine halls and easy comforts. You were almost ashamed, now, to realize how little you had considered the countless lives that fought to survive in their shadow.

But now you forced yourself to confront it, to make your gaze linger where it might otherwise have slipped away; on the children begging at street corners, on the women who stood hollow-eyed in doorways, and on the men who watched it all with a quiet, worn resignation.

Something in you tightened, low and uneasy.

How long would it take, you wondered, before you grew used to it too, to the suffering that would stretch out everyday beneath you?

The speed with which the press of the city vanished gave you a hint. The moment the gates of the keep groaned shut behind you, it was as though King’s Landing had been swallowed whole. The shouting voices, the rattle of carts, even the stench, though not entirely gone, faded a little from your awareness. 

The princes’ party was ushered through without question, guards snapping to attention more from recognition than inquiry.

Even so, you could feel it, the shift of relief. It moved through the group like a quiet exhale, subtle but unmistakable after the long road. Shoulders eased, reins loosened and the tight edge that came with travel, of watchfulness, of uncertainty, began, at last, to soften. Even the horses seemed to sense it, their restlessness easing as they were led away.

But now here, there were walls and order, and a familiar routine.

Inside, the stone beneath your feet was clean, worn smooth by years of passage rather than neglect. Servants and guards gathered in quiet efficiency, ready to answer the needs of the arriving party. The movement around you felt almost choreographed, and suddenly, beneath the height of the vaulted ceilings, you felt very small. 

Your gaze settled on Baelor, anchoring yourself to one of the familiar figures in the swirl of activity. But it felt different seeing him here, within these walls, beneath the vaulted ceilings and watchful eyes of court, where every step and every word carried meaning.

Here, he did not simply belong, he fit.

The space seemed to shape itself around him as much as he moved within it, as though this was where he had always been meant to stand. The ease you had seen on the road had not vanished, but it had changed—tempered into something more deliberate, more measured.

More… distant, perhaps. Or perhaps not distant, just fuller.

More defined by the role that awaited him.

It struck you then, more clearly than it had before, that this was the place he would one day rule from. That every corridor, every chamber, every pair of watching eyes already bent, in some quiet way, toward that future.

An aide slipped to his side, speaking in a voice too low to carry, though the urgency in it was clear enough. His expression altered only faintly before he turned, signaling to Maekar with a small, deliberate motion. 

His brother’s jaw tightened, but he followed without question and together they moved off, their steps purposeful, and vanished down one of the many corridors. 

A small, unwelcome fear stirred low in your chest, something almost childish in its shape, as you watched one of your few allies disappear so quickly after you’d first stepped into the dragon’s den.

The feeling was foolish, and you knew it. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, not someone you could trail after or hide behind like a child clutching at their father’s cloak. You were brought here to protect him, and yet the feeling lingered all the same.

Baelor had been kind to you on the road, in a way you had not expected. He had made time for conversation, speaking with you as though you belonged among his company, explaining what you might expect of the city, and of your place within it.

He had even introduced you to his son, Valarr, who reminded you of him in the best ways, though there was something more polished in him, something softer and more princely in a way that made him seem more unknowable.

Aerion, by contrast, had offered nothing. He rode in silence, his pride wounded as plainly as the bruises that still marked him, his expression set in a cold, unyielding line all the way.

With Maekar, it was slightly different. For most of the journey, he had scarcely acknowledged your existence, save for the rare, cutting look cast in your direction, sharp enough to remind you that he had not forgotten your charged words, even if he chose not to speak of it. 

Perhaps, you hoped now as you were sure he did, that you would see even less of him within these new walls.

A guard had taken it upon himself to lead you and Duncan through the keep, his pace brisk and his directions sparse. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, turning in on themselves, each passage much like the last, stone, torchlight, shadow. It would be far too easy, you realized, to lose your way here, to wander these halls and not find another soul for hours. 

The room that was now yours was modest in size, but comfortable enough. It was simply furnished, a bed, a chest, a single chair, nothing excessive, but far more than you had been used to on the road. It sat in the base of the tower of the hand, beside Duncan’s own chambers, so you may be close to Baelor if he has need of you.

What a simple but precious luxury it was to have a space of your own. And yet, you found yourself already missing the open sky, the easy stretch of it above you, and the quiet chorus of birdsong that had followed you down country lanes.

It didn’t take you long to unpack your few belongings, after all you had never carried enough that could slow you down. Still, you took a moment, setting things where they belonged, as though the act itself might make the space feel more like your own.

But it didn’t and the room remained what it was, comfortable, perhaps, but impersonal. Temporary, in a way that unsettled you more than the open road ever had. Perhaps time would be the only solution.

A heavy knock sounded at the door, before you’d even really settled yourself. You turned, already expecting Duncan, and when you opened it he was there, but he wasn’t alone.

Ser Roland Crakehall stood beside him, broad and immovable as a wall, his white cloak falling in heavy lines from his shoulders. Where Duncan looked faintly uneasy, his smile a touch too quick, his posture just a little too stiff, Crakehall’s expression gave nothing away.

“The King requests your presence.” 

“What for?” you asked, doing your best to keep the unease from creeping into your voice. You suspected it wasn’t customary to question a king’s summons, but the habit of obedience had never quite taken root in you.

Ser Roland neglected to answer, and simply turned on his heels, leaving you little choice but to follow along.

You weren’t sure you would ever grow used to princes summoning you at their convenience, but this was no prince.

This was a king. The very one that sat the Iron Throne.

The realization weighed heavily as you followed, your thoughts circling the summons again and again. Why would he call for you and Duncan so soon after your arriva to the keepl? Unless, of course, it was to send you away from it.

The possibility clung to you, unwelcome and unshakable, trailing every step. When you stole a glance at Duncan, his expression mirrored your own, tight and distant, as if he’d arrived at the same conclusion.

Both of you were led deeper into Margor’s Holdfast, which was truly like a castle within a castle, where all the royal apartments were situated wrapped in luxury and guarded by a deep dry moat outside.

The first thing you noticed upon entering King Daeron’s solar was his son. Baelor stood near the window, light falling across him in a way that softened the sharpness of the room.

At the sight of you, a small, gentle smile found his lips, and something in his eyes that was warm, steady and quietly reassuring reached you at once, loosening the tight knot that had been sitting in your chest.

The second was the room itself. It was not grand in the way you had expected. Instead, it was crowded with books and scattered papers, stacked in uneven piles across tables and shelves, spilling into corners as though they had outgrown their space. Ink-stained parchment lay open beside sealed letters, maps half-rolled, quills abandoned mid-thought.

It felt lived in and thoughtful. Not a king’s chamber, but a scholar’s.

Then your gaze found the king. His expression mirrored his son’s in a way, calm, composed, and almost gentle, though there was something sharper beneath it, something more deliberate. His frame was smaller than his sons’, his shoulders slightly rounded, a softness at his middle that spoke more of study than steel.

Lastly, and with the faint return of that unease, your eyes settled on Maekar. He sat off to the side, slouched in his chair, holding the Targaryen looks of his father and yet none of its expression.

“Ah, so I meet you at last. I finally have the chance to satisfy my curiosity of the hedge knight, and the lady in mail.”  The King spoke, a note of quiet interest in his voice as he turned to face you.

Movement at the edge of your vision drew your attention, and you turned just enough to see Duncan dropping to his knees, his head bowed in earnest reverence, that made you slightly grimace.

A flicker of panic crossed your face as you hesitated, suddenly unsure what was expected of you or whether you could bring yourself to follow suit.

A soft laugh broke the tension, drawing your attention upward from where it had settled on your boots.

“You need not kneel alongside your friend, my lady,” the king said lightly. “And you, Ser please, rise.”

You lifted your gaze as Duncan pushed himself back to his feet beside you.

“I admit,” King Daeron continued, “I have become quite familiar with the tales from Ashford. I have had the fortunate benefit of hearing them from my sons themselves.” There was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, as his gaze flicked briefly toward Baelor and then, more briefly still, toward Maekar. “It seems that between the two of you, you have caused no small stir.”

You wondered briefly, if he had meant that small stir you and Maekar had conjured in the corridor of Ashford castle.

“If I may, Your Grace,” Duncan said quickly, “we didn’t mean to do no such thing. We only wanted to do what we thought was right, and I pulled her into it.”

The king regarded him thoughtfully. “So,” he said, “you acted out of honour, and you, out of loyalty?” His gaze shifted to you. “Tell me, are you of the same blood? Or something closer still?”

“Neither, Your Grace,” you shook your head. “I met Ser Duncan only two days before the tourney, on the road. He spared me from what might have been a… less than pleasant encounter.” You hesitated only briefly before continuing. “I entered the trial for him out of loyalty, and debt, but also because…” You steadied slightly. “I believed it was the right thing to do.”

There was a brief pause.

“She stood when others would not.” Baelor’s voice, quiet but certain.

It cut gently through the space, not interrupting, but anchoring. You felt it more than heard it.

The king’s expression shifted, just faintly. “Indeed,” he said. “An honourable and courageous thing to do. I’m the first to admit that I am no warrior and have kept books more as company than knights, though I can recognise the strength and skill you must have shown on that field, especially for my son to have given you two a place amongst his guard.”

“It is a great honour, your grace.”

You straightened slightly, aware suddenly of everything, your stance, your voice, the way you carried yourself in a room that was not built for people like you.

“Then I hope the both of you continue to prove yourselves worthy of it.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Your first week in King’s Landing passed in a blur of stone corridors, unfamiliar faces, and the constant sense of being watched.

Each day seemed to begin earlier than the last. You were roused at dawn and expected in the yard before the sun had properly risen, where the master-at-arms wasted little time in putting both you and Duncan through your paces.

Sparring sent fresh aches through your ribs, your movements slower than they should have been while your wound still stubbornly healed, but you gave no sign of it. You would not allow yourself to show even a hint of weakness. 

The master-at-arms himself was a hard, impassive man. He did not mock you as some of the others did, but that almost made it worse. There was something in the way he watched you, cool and distant, that spoke of quiet disapproval. As though Prince Baelor granting you the right to stand there was, in itself, an insult he was forced to endure.

The keep itself was another battle entirely. Its halls twisted in ways that still made little sense to you, and more than once you found yourself turned around, retracing your steps with growing irritation.

Servants passed like shadows, guards watched with quiet scrutiny, and courtiers when you strayed too near the more public spaces, looked at you with open curiosity, as though you were some strange token brought in from beyond the walls.

Word seemed to have spread. The Lady in Mail. Some spoke it with amusement, others with disdain.

Still, there were moments of ease.

Egg found you whenever he could, which often meant in the times he could steal away from his septa, his chatter a welcome distraction from the weight of everything else.

He had a way of appearing as though by accident, rounding corners at just the right moment, slipping into the yard when the others had begun to drift away, knocking at your door with an energy that felt entirely untouched by the weight of the place.

His chatter came easily, unburdened and bright, filling the spaces that might otherwise have been claimed by quieter, heavier thoughts.

Duncan, too, remained a steady presence, and you spent many of your evenings drifting between each other’s rooms, talking as you had on the road. But even then, you began to notice the difference, how often he was called away, how his duties seemed to stretch longer than yours, as though the keep had already found more use for him than it quite knew what to do with you.

And Baelor… Baelor was as measured as ever. He did not hover, nor did he leave you entirely to fend for yourself. There were brief conversations, passing remarks as you stood at his guard that carried more meaning than they first seemed, and a reassuring smile that carried more weight for you than you think he appreciated. 

Still, when Duncan had retreated to his own room, and there were no drills or duties left to occupy your thoughts, a quiet hollowness would settle in. It came unbidden, a restless ache for something you could not quite name, a sense of home you had not known in years, yet felt the absence of all the same.

It made the training yard something of a refuge.

Especially in the quieter hours, when the others had long since drifted away and the noise of the day had settled into evening stillness. More often than not, it was just you and Duncan left behind, the yard empty save for the soft scuff of boots against gravel and the dull ring of practice steel.

There, at least, things made sense.

You could lose yourself in the rhythm of it; the swing, the parry, the familiar weight of a blade in your hand. No watching eyes, no quiet judgments, no need to prove anything beyond the next strike. Just movement, breath, and the steady comfort of something you understood.

And for a little while, as dust rose around you and the light began to fade, the rest of it, the keep, the court, the feeling of being out of place, fell away.

“Just ten more minutes,” you pressed, a breath short of a plea.

You had been at it for hours, and it showed. Sweat clung to your skin, your muscles beginning to protest in quiet, insistent ways but you did not slow.

Duncan might have been allowed the occasional lapse, a missed step, a moment’s carelessness written off with little more than a laugh. You could not.

“You’re going to kill me,” Duncan muttered, shifting his grip as he circled.

“Only if you let me,” you replied, a hint of a grin tugging at your lips.

He huffed something that might have been a laugh, and then you were at it again.

Again the rhythm of steel on steel chorused once again, parry, strike, turn, recover. Duncan fought with strength and instinct and you answered with precision, turning his strikes aside, slipping just out of reach, forcing him to adjust, to think.

“Ser Duncan.”

The voice cut cleanly through the clash of steel and you broke apart at once.

At the edge of the yard stood Crakehall, broad-shouldered and composed, as though he had been there some time already, watching. His gaze flicked once between you and Duncan, taking in the scene; the dust, the sweat, the state of you both.

“You are needed in Prince Baelor’s quarters,” he said evenly. Then, after the briefest pause, “...Perhaps I can take over from here.”

Duncan stiffened as his grip shifted slightly on the hilt, and a flicker of hesitation crossed his face that he couldn’t quite hide. For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at you as if in apology and then retreated into the keep. You watched him go reluctantly.

Silence settled in his wake.

For a moment, the two of you simply regarded one another across the torn yard, the last of the dust drifting between you, and then he stepped forward, taking his place before you.

Up close, there was something almost amused in his expression now, less judging than curiosity.

While he and Ser Donnel had remained polite while in the presence of their princes, you could see the laughter in their eyes whenever they regarded you. While Duncan may just be a hedgeknight, he was still a man and you were just a woman playing at one.

“Well,” he said, rolling one shoulder as though loosening it, “let us see what sort of trouble Ser Duncan has found to occupy his time.”

He lifted his sword in an easy salute, casual, almost lazy. “Do try not to take it too poorly if this ends quickly.”

There it was, worn openly in the looseness of his stance, in the easy set of his shoulders, in the way his blade came up just a fraction too slow to be taken seriously. Crakehall did not think you a threat at all.

His underestimation was as natural to him as breathing.

And that was fine. It was familiar. You had lived in people’s expectations all your life, as just a vulnerable girl. Something lesser, something safe to them that they could play with.

It had kept you overlooked, and more importantly it had kept you alive.

So you let him believe the rhythm of the fight belonged to him. Let him think you were reacting, yielding, matching him instead of guiding him. Every step back measured, every deflection calculated, not to stop him but to shape him. To lead him.

You had learned early that strength alone was loud and obvious, easy to meet head-on.

Assumptions, though, were quiet and dangerous. And they cut deeper than any blade, if you knew how to utilise them.

Crakehall smiled handsomely as he came at you again, confidence unbroken, certain of the ground beneath his feet. 

He did not rush. His first strike was clean and measured, the sort of probing blow a seasoned knight used to test a new opponent. You met it without strain, turning it aside with a precise movement of your wrist.

He followed with another, a touch faster. Then a third.

You yielded ground by inches, letting him set the pace, letting him believe he held it.

“Not bad,” he remarked, as your blades met again with a sharp ring. “You’ve got a neat hand. Ser Duncan must enjoy the exercise.”

Your answer was steel. Then you shifted, stepping inside his guard just enough to force him to adjust. He did, smoothly, but a flicker of surprise crossed his face at the speed of it.

He pressed a little harder then.

The next exchange carried more weight, more intent. His blade came down in a heavier arc, meant to test your strength outright. You caught it, but did not hold it, turning his force aside so it carried him a fraction off balance.

A fraction was just enough.

You stepped in.

He recovered quickly as expected, he was too experienced not to, but now you were closer than he expected, your strikes coming faster, tighter, forcing him to bring his blade up in earnest defense.

The easy amusement faded from his face.

Steel rang sharper now, quicker. He gave ground once, then held, meeting your flurry with solid blocks, his strength reasserting itself.

You did not let up.

A faint high drew his guard up, just enough.

You turned your wrist, blade flashing low instead, not to strike but to catch.

His sword jolted in his grip as you twisted, stepping past him in the same motion. For a heartbeat, you were at his side, your leverage perfect, his balance just a shade too far forward-

-and then his weapon tore free.

It spun once in the air before striking the dirt with a dull thud a few feet away. Silence followed it.

You had already stepped back, blade raised, point steady, aimed cleanly at his chest.

Crakehall stood still, hand empty, eyes fixed on you.

The dust settled slowly around his fallen sword as you tried not to let your satisfaction show too much on your face. 

For a long moment, neither of you moved and then he let out a low breath; half laugh, half something else. The look on his face told the story of a man who had wagered all his money on a certain bet and came out short changed. 

“Well perhaps his grace did see something in you.” He moved to pick up his sword. “But tell me are there other talents of yours he’s…enjoyed?”

The accusation landed, crude and unvarnished, lodging itself like a final and desperate blow in your chest. Crakehall’s eyes dragged the length of you as he spoke, slow and deliberate, as if weighing something that had nothing to do with steel or skill. It made the words worse, gave them shape, made them linger all over you. 

It shouldn’t have surprised you. And yet it did.

You had heard whispers before, half-cut laughter in corridors, the murmur of servants and sworn swords who thought themselves unheard, the sideways looks that followed a beat too long. But never so plainly. Never thrown at you like that, as though it were fact instead of filth.

The heir to the throne had returned from Ashford and brought you with him. That alone was enough to start tongues wagging.

A prince does not pluck someone from the dust without reason, spare them from punishment and then keep them close. A prince does not place a young woman within his guard, no less, without men deciding they already know why.

In their minds, there was always only one explanation. Your jaw tightened, though you kept your face still. 

The keep had not seen Ashford. They had not seen the chaos, the blood, the split-second choices that decided who walked away and who did not. They had not seen what you had done to earn that place and what it had cost.

But Crakehall had been there.

He had stood on that same tourney field. He had seen all of it. If any one of the kingsguard had the chance to understand, to see past rumors, past assumptions, it was him.

Still, he let the same easy conclusion settle in his mind, as if what he had witnessed counted for less than what was convenient to believe.

A flicker of something cold settled in your chest at the thought.

If a man who had seen it with his own eyes would reduce it to that, then what hope was there with the rest of them?

What chance did you have of proving anything at all, when the truth itself could be so easily ignored?

He watched you as the silence stretched, as if expecting something like anger, perhaps, or embarrassment. Some crack in the armor.

You gave him none. If anything, you felt the steadiness settle back into your limbs, the same cold focus that had guided your blade moments before.

Fine. Let him think it. Let them all think it.

You could endure the looks. The murmurs. The quiet, cutting judgments dressed up as courtly politeness. You had endured far worse.

But this was different, because it did not end with you.

Your thoughts turned, unbidden, to Prince Baelor. To the man who had given you more than you could have ever imagined for yourself.

But he had also put you in a difficult place. A place others were already eager to question, to undermine, to tear apart with nothing more than suggestion and suspicion.

Whispers had a way of spreading. Of growing teeth and even princes were not immune to them.

You could fight a man. You could meet steel with steel, prove yourself in the only language that never lied. But this? This was something else entirely.

You could not cross blades with rumor. You could not disarm it, could not force it to yield. All you could do was withstand it and hope it did not take root.

Hope that Baelor saw you as you were and not as they painted you. That he remembered Ashford as you did. That he weighed what you had done, what you had risked, against the idle poison of court talk.

That he would not decide it was easier to let you go than to defend you.

You had not asked for his favor. Had not sought his notice. But now that you had it… the thought of losing it to something so small, so baseless, sat ill with you; both in the fact that you were afraid to lose it and that you wanted it at all.

Your grip shifted slightly on the hilt, easy, controlled.

“Is that what you tell yourself,” you said at last, voice level, “when someone bests you?”

It was a small thing, the words, but sharp enough. 

Crakehall’s expression flickered and this time, when he looked at you, it was not with amusement.

From the balcony above, the yard lay spread out beneath Prince Maekar in pale stone and drifting dust, the sounds of steel carrying cleanly upward, sharp, measured, unmistakable.

Voices did not.

Whatever passed between you and Crakehall after the bout was lost to distance, swallowed by the open air. Maekar caught only fragments, tone without words, the rise and fall of something too quiet to grasp.

But he saw enough.

He had watched the fight from the moment it began to when it ended, thought he couldn’t quite admit to himself why. 

Not the way his attention had fixed too sharply, not the way each strike had felt almost personal. As if every blow you took, and gave, had struck somewhere beneath his own ribs.

He told himself he had only entered the yard to find Aegon. That was reason enough. He was often there, lingering at the edges while you and Duncan trained, happy just to watch.

But Aegon had long since been forgotten.

He saw the shift, the moment Crakehall stopped treating it as sport. Saw the way you moved, not merely quick but deliberate, each step placed with intent, each motion economical where Crakehall’s was broad and forceful.

And then—

The turn.

It was clean. Too clean.

Crakehall’s blade wrenched free of his grasp and struck the ground below, a dull note against the sharper ring of steel that had preceded it. You stood already clear of him, your own sword raised, point steady at his chest.

Maekar did not move.

Below, the yard seemed to still around you both. A Kingsguard, disarmed.

Not by chance, not by trickery, but by skill.

His gaze sharpened, fixing on you now with something far more intent than passing interest.

Crakehall bent, retrieved his sword. There were words exchanged then, he could see that much. The angle of Crakehall’s head, the slight shift in your stance. Something passed between you.

And then he saw it. Subtle, perhaps, to anyone not looking for it, but Maekar was. The change in you.

It was there in the way your shoulders lost a measure of their tension, not relaxation, but something closer to withdrawal. The line of your posture, which had been all edge and readiness moments before, seemed to draw inward, as though bracing against something unseen.

Something had struck. 

Crakehall straightened, saying something further. Maekar could not hear it, but he did not need to.

He saw where Crakehall’s gaze lingered. Saw the faint shift in your expression, however controlled.

Saw enough.

Maekar’s jaw tightened, just slightly.

Below, the distance between you and the Kingsguard remained, but the nature of it had changed. The fight was over, but something else had taken its place, quieter, less visible, and perhaps more telling.

He rested his hands against the cold stone of the balcony, violet eyes never leaving you.

That image of you, blade steady, breath measured, something in you dimming after victory instead of brightening, lodged itself firmly in Maekar’s mind.

It followed him from the yard and it sat stubbornly with him at the dining table that evening.

Torches burned low along the walls, their light catching on polished wood. Servants moved carefully, as if wary of disturbing something unseen.

Aerion lounged to Maekar’s right, a goblet turning idly between his fingers. Across from them, Egg sat straighter, smaller, his eyes moving between them both, as though trying to read a room that refused to speak.

No one said much.

Daeron’s seat sat empty, as it so often did, he was likely drunk in some corner of the castle or the city beyond it, and Maekar had long since stopped wasting breath trying to drag him back to the table.

He ate without noticing the taste, his thoughts still caught in the yard, in the turn of your wrist, the clean disarm, the moment after. The way you had stood, victorious and yet somehow diminished, as if the fight had cost you something no one else could see.

“I hear the castle is already alive with talk of the Lady in Mail,” Aerion said idly, turning his cup between his fingers. “Even if she has been… conveniently kept from court.”  Aerion let out a quiet, humorless breath, leaning back in his chair. “I give it a fortnight,” he said, almost idly. “Before she’s gone, one way or another.”

Maekar did not look up, but across from him, Egg stilled, his attention snapping sharply to his brother, a frown already forming.

Aerion continued, as if musing to himself, “Of course, perhaps she’s better suited to whatever slum she was pulled from.”

“Shut up broth-.” Aegon started, though Aerion did not so much as glance at him.

“If you have something to say,” Maekar cut in sharply, his tone like a blade striking stone, “say it plainly or don’t say it at all.” His eyes fixed on Aerion now, hard and unyielding, whatever patience he possessed already worn to its edge.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Aerion’s face.

“Very well,” he said, setting his goblet down. “She should never have set foot in the capital. The fact that she’s been taken into our service is a jest and worse, a stain on our honour.”

Maekar set his cup down with deliberate care.

“Yours,” Aerion went on, turning his gaze fully to Maekar now, “and mine, Father. She should have been left on that tourney field where she belonged. We are the blood of the dragon.” His lip curled faintly. “What does it say of us, that we must rely on some whore-”

“Enough.”

The word did not come softly.

Maekar’s hand struck the table with a crack that echoed through the room, hard enough to send his cup jolting, wine spilling dark across the wood. The sound cut through everything through Aerion’s voice, through Egg’s protest, through the quiet murmur of the room beyond.

Maekar rose slowly from his seat.

When he looked at Aerion, there was no restraint left in his expression now, only something cold, hard, and absolute.

“She showed more honor on that field,” he said, each word measured and cutting, “than you have in your entire sorry existence, boy.”

Egg couldn’t help the gleeful satisfaction that crossed his face after his shock had passed, that his father of all people was defending you. The thought settled warm and bright in his chest despite his effort to hide it.

The silence returned now, but it had changed.

And though your name was not spoken again, your presence lingered there all the same.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The road had always been quiet at night, but there was something in the stillness in the keep after dark that felt more pressing. Every distant footstep, every murmur through stone walls seemed to carry further, as though the castle itself listened. 

You lay staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the stone above, still dressed for the day.

It would be easy to leave. The thought came without warning, settling into place with unsettling ease.

Easier than this. Easier for Baelor. He had given you this place in his guard and what had he received except slander? 

Even as the thought came, you cursed it. Here you were, probably someone he never thought of beyond duty and you were losing sleep over his reputation, as if it were something else you needed to protect. As though it mattered to you at all.

Perhaps you were only making excuses for yourself.

It wouldn’t just be easier for him, but for you too. Being on your own meant, you had no one to prove yourself to, no one to follow except your own whims and the open road.

You had left places before and walked away with less than you have now. You knew how to disappear, how to slip from one place to the next until even memory lost its hold. It should have felt the same but it didn’t, because something about this time was different.

And you knew, even as the thought lingered, that this time, it would not be so easy to forget what you were leaving behind. And who.

A knock broke the stillness.

Sharp. Quick. Out of place at this hour.

For a moment, you did not move, listening as the sound echoed faintly through the wood before settling back into silence. Then it came again, more insistent this time.

“It’s me,” came the hushed reply. “Open the door.”

Egg.

You frowned slightly, rising and crossing the room in a few quiet steps. When you pulled the door open, it was not quite the sight you expected.

He stood there half-swallowed in a roughspun cloak several sizes too large for him, the hood drawn low over his head. It did little to disguise him, not to anyone looking closely, but it was enough, perhaps, in poor light and passing glances. It brought you back to how he looked exactly as he had done in Ashford, just a boy who was unburdened by his name.

For a moment, you simply looked at him. “Why are you wearing…?” You asked.

“There’s no time, there’s been orders for you, come!”

You didn’t move at once, but he was already turning, already moving down the corridor as though certain you would follow.

“Egg—” you started, but he didn’t stop.

By the time you had dragged on your boots, snatched up your dagger, and thrown your cloak over your shoulders, he was halfway down the passage, glancing back only to make sure you were coming.

You caught up quickly, your frown deepening and brow furrowing. “At this hour?”

He nodded quickly. “Orders.”

“From who?”

There was the briefest pause.

“From Baelor,” he said, a touch too fast, fishing his gaze on the corridor in front and nowhere near you.

“Did he,” you said flatly.

“Yes,” Egg insisted, shifting slightly under your scrutiny. “He did.” He met your gaze with all the earnestness he could muster. It was not very convincing.

Then he pressed on, tugging the cloak tighter around himself, already moving again as though momentum alone might carry you both past the question. Silence stretched.

You could see it then, the barely contained anticipation, the way he leaned forward just a fraction, as though already halfway wherever he wanted to be in his mind. Whatever this was, it was not duty.

It was mischief. You should have refused. It would have been the sensible thing. The responsible thing. The sort of decision expected of someone placed in a prince’s guard.

Instead, your gaze flicked once more over his ridiculous cloak… and something in you loosened.

You exhaled softly.

“If this is a lie,” you said, turning slightly to face him as you walked, “it is a poor one.”

Egg kept his pace brisk. “Well you could go back to your room, and leave me to it…”

“Well,” you returned evenly, “I could also go straight to your father.”

That stopped him.

For a heartbeat, he froze, the weight of that threat settling visibly. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if he were trying to decide whether you might actually do it.

“You wouldn’t,” he said at last, though there was less certainty in it now.

You said nothing as he shifted under your gaze, tugging his cloak tighter around himself as though it might somehow protect him from the implication alone.

Then, softer this time-

“So you’ll come?” he asked, peering at you from beneath the shadow of the hood, his eyes wide, hopeful in a way that made it difficult to refuse outright.

There was something earnest in it, despite the lie. Something boyish.

You held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, letting the silence stretch just enough to make him wonder, then you sighed, the sound quiet but decisive. It was difficult to refuse him, though you knew more often than not, a prince was better served by hearing no.

“That depends,” you said, fastening your cloak, “on whether your plan involves more than running headlong into trouble.”

Egg straightened immediately, eagerness returning in full force. “It does,” he said quickly.

You gave him a look.

He hesitated, then amended, just slightly, “Mostly.”

That, somehow, was worse, but not enough to stop you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By the time you and Egg pushed through the door of the tavern, you were already planning your exit.

Men crowded shoulder to shoulder around rough-hewn tables, their voices loud and unguarded, rising over one another in a constant, restless din. Tankards struck wood with dull force, laughter broke sharp and sudden, and somewhere near the hearth a pair of men argued openly, their words slurred but their anger clear enough.

A loose circle had already begun to form around them, not intervening and not stopping it, only watching with idle interest as though waiting for it to become something worth remembering.

The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and spilled ale.

You did not step far inside.

Instinct alone kept you near the door, your gaze already moving, already measuring the distance, exits, hands, tempers. Who was watching? Who wasn’t.

There were too many bodies and too little space.

A place like this could turn in a heartbeat, and when it did, there would be nowhere to go.

The both of you had escaped the keep through a smaller postern gate set into the outer wall, half-concealed and little used. A single guard lingered nearby, more occupied with the slow passage of the night than his duty.

Apparently Egg had used this way once before, when his brother had sneaked him out into the city, though from the way he had mentioned it, it didn’t sound like a night of fun.

The city had closed in quickly beyond the walls, narrow passages twisting into one another, shadows clinging thick between leaning buildings, our anxiousness pressed as close as the bodies that brushed you. The freedom you had imagined for a couple of hours had lasted all of a moment before something tighter had taken its place.

What had you been thinking? 

“We shouldn’t be here,” you muttered under your breath, shifting just enough to place yourself between Egg and the rest of the room, your body angled to obscure him from wandering eyes.   

Egg made a face at the brown liquid in his cup, turning it slightly as though it might improve on inspection. “Well,” he said, resigned more than anything, “we’re here now.” He took a half-hearted sip, grimaced, then glanced back at you watching you watching the room. “I know you’re thinking about leaving…you’ve been different all week”

You didn’t quite meet his eyes, your jaw tightening as you looked past him instead. The noise of the tavern still roared around you, but it felt distant now, dulled beneath the weight of your thoughts. You didn’t want to lie to him so you said nothing at all.

“We’re to return to Summerhall,” Egg continued. “Father’s ordered it. Me, Aerion… Daeron too, when they can find him sober enough to sit a horse.” 

Your eyes met his face now just to discover it had lost any of the brightness of daringness as it had when you escaped the keep. 

“Well then I have even less reason to stay.” You said after a beat, lifting your cup. The ale burned slightly as you swallowed, but you barely noticed.

“You have every reason to, for Baelor.”

“Baelor is half the reason I should be leaving, I don’t belong here and I’m not sure I want to.”

“But you belong with me, and Duncan.” He replied, softer this time. Not arguing, just stating it, as though it should be enough on its own.

You opened your mouth to answer and found you had nothing. No sharp remarks. No easy dismissal. No argument you could offer that didn’t sound thin the moment you tried to shape it.

Your gaze dropped instead, settling somewhere on the worn edge of the table, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup.

“How come you didn’t ask Duncan to go with you tonight?” You asked instead, grateful for the shift, for something lighter to hold onto.

“He never would’ve said yes.”

“No,” you agreed quietly, a faint hint of amusement touching your tone. “He wouldn’t.”

You didn’t stay long after that. 

When you stepped back out into the street, the air felt sharper and neither of you spoke, heavy with the words you exchanged in the inn. 

The streets beyond the gate were narrower than you remembered from your arrival, the dark swallowing what little space there was between leaning buildings. Lantern light flickered weakly from doorways and windows, casting more shadow than illumination. People moved through it all in a steady restless current, quieter now than in daylight, but no less present.

It was different on foot. There was no distance now. No height of a saddle to soften the view like when you had first arrived a week ago.

You felt it in the press of bodies as you passed, in the way shoulders brushed too close, in the low murmur of voices that never quite stopped. The smells were stronger too, rot and refuse, smoke and something sour beneath it all that clung to the back of your throat.

You had only turned a few corners when you heard it.  A man’s voice, low and insistent.

“…don’t be like that—”

You turned before you fully registered why.

The alley was narrow, half-swallowed in shadow. A single lantern cast just enough light to make out the shapes within.

You faintly recognised one of the serving girls from the tavern, her back was pressed to the wall, shoulders drawn tight, as though she could make herself smaller by force of will alone.

The man in front of her had one hand braced beside her head, leaning in too close, his voice thick with drink and something uglier beneath it.

She tried to push past him but he caught her arm, and you were already moving.

“Let her go.”

The words were quiet, but they carried.

The man turned, irritation flashing across his face. “And who—”

You didn’t let him finish.

The dagger was in your hand before he could blink, drawn clean and held low, the edge catching what little light there was.

You stepped into the alley, closing the distance just enough.

“Let her go,” you repeated.

Something in your tone, flat, certain, utterly without hesitation, cut through his bravado faster than the blade itself.

He hesitated as you tilted the dagger slightly, not as a threat thrown wildly but as a promise.

Slowly, his grip loosened and the girl pulled free at once, stumbling back a step, her breath quick and uneven as she disappeared through the dark.

The man straightened, muttering something under his breath, but he was already stepping away. “Not worth it,” he said, louder now, as if to reclaim something of himself as he retreated.

You did the same, your hand settling firmly on Egg’s shoulder as you steered him back toward the keep, guiding him ahead of you without breaking stride, your other hand still resting on the hilt of your dagger.

For her, it had not been anything unusual, just another moment to be endured and forgotten, folded into the rest of them.

You knew those moments. Knew the quiet calculation, the way you learned to measure a man at a glance, to decide when to stand your ground and when to slip away. The road had taught you that much, if nothing else.

But even then, it had come in stretches. Days of open sky and empty paths, where the only danger was distance and the only sound of your own footsteps. You could go miles, days even, without seeing another soul.

Here, there was no such mercy. The danger did not come and go, instead it lingered.

It waited in doorways, in narrow alleys, in the spaces between one breath and the next. It pressed close, constant and inescapable, woven into the lives of women who had no choice but to endure it, again and again, without pause.

And unlike you, they could not simply walk away.

You could leave.

The thought returned, but it no longer sat as easily as it had before.

Because leaving would not simply mean escaping the whispers, or the watching eyes, or the quiet judgment that followed you through the keep.

It would mean turning your back on this, on people who did not have that choice.

On people who had no road to take and no quiet stretch of sky to disappear into. No choice at all.

People who could not step away when the night closed in too tight, or when a man decided they were his to corner, to claim, to wear down simply because he could.

Your jaw tightened slightly.

You had spent so long surviving by moving on, by never staying long enough for anything to take root. It had always been your strength, that you could leave when things grew too dangerous, too complicated, too heavy.

But now for the first time, it felt uncomfortably close to something else.

Not freedom but something more like abandonment.

Egg didn’t say much of the encounter aloud and neither did you. The city clung to you as you left it behind; the smells, the sounds, the faces. It followed you through the gates, through the winding corridors, all the way until the heavy stone walls closed in once more and the world narrowed back to torchlight and echoing steps.

You made sure Egg reached his chambers, and the both of you seemed relieved of the fact.

He lingered at the door a moment, as though he had something more to say.

“You’re not leaving,” he said finally.

It wasn’t quite a question, and you held his gaze for a beat.

“Get some sleep,” you said gently, reaching up to pull the hood of his cloak back from his head, the gesture soft with quiet affection.

He slipped inside, the door closing softly behind him with a muted click.

For a moment, you simply stood there in the corridor, listening as the faint sounds of movement within faded, until even that disappeared. The keep settled around you once more, stone and silence, distant footsteps echoing somewhere far off.

But it felt different now. Quieter, yes, but not empty. Not in the same way.

You turned at last, setting off down the corridor toward your own chambers, your steps quieter now, measured against the hush that had settled over the keep. Your thoughts lingered elsewhere, on Egg’s words, on the girl, and on the weight of it all, so much so that you did not hear the approaching footsteps until it was too late.

You rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into him.

You halted sharply, breath catching for the briefest moment as you stepped back.

“Your Grace—”

Prince Baelor steadied himself just as quickly, one hand lifting slightly as though to catch you, though he stopped short of touching you. The motion lingered a fraction before he let it fall.

“My lady,” he replied, his voice low, touched with mild surprise rather than reprimand.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Up close, he looked much as he always did, composed and measured, but there was more of a softness to him at this hour, something less guarded than in the light of day. He was not dressed for court, his attire simpler, though still of fine make, the weight of his station carried even in ease.

And there, beneath it all, was a quiet weariness. It showed in the slight heaviness about his eyes, in the way his shoulders held just a fraction lower than they did by day, as though the duty he carried had settled more honestly on him in the solitude of night.

“You’ve been out.” he added, studying you a moment more closely now. His gaze flicked briefly to your cloak, to the slight disarray of it, before returning to your face.

You inclined your head. “Yes.”

A small awkwardness settled in you then, unfamiliar and faintly unwelcome. It was easier to stand before him with a blade in hand than like this, searching for words that did not come as readily.

“Do you go much?” you asked. “Into the city?”

“Not as often as I should,” he admitted.

The honesty caught you off guard. 

“It’s easy not to,” you said.

“It is,” he agreed.

There was no defensiveness in it. No attempt to soften the truth or turn it aside.

Your eyes met his then, and lingered. A moment too long, perhaps.

“They don’t expect anything to change,” you said after a moment. “The people there, they barely react to it,” you went on, frowning slightly. “As if… as if it’s already decided.”

Baelor watched you closely now. “That kind of life rarely allows for much expectation,” he said.

You shook your head faintly. “It shouldn’t be like that.”

“No,” he said again, quieter this time.

You hesitated, then pressed, a little more boldly. “But it could be different.” His brow lifted slightly, not dismissive, just curious.

“How?” he asked. The question came without an edge, but it still made you pause.

“There’s enough, isn’t there?” you said. “In the city. In the realm. Food, coin, resources.” Your voice steadied as you went on. “If it were… better given. Better managed.”

Baelor was quiet for a moment.

“Perhaps,” he said.

It wasn't an agreement. Not quite. You caught it.

“You don’t think so.”

“I think,” he said carefully, “that things are rarely as simple as they appear from the outside.”

A flicker of frustration touched your expression, quick and unguarded. “And from the inside?” you asked.

“More complicated,” he said, with the faintest hint of something dry.

You exhaled softly through your nose. “That sounds like an excuse.”

The words slipped out, and this time, you felt it the moment they did. The weight of them and the impropriety.

You straightened slightly. “I—” A small pause. “Forgive me. That was….”

Baelor regarded you for a moment and then, to your quiet astonishment, something softened. Something like restrained amusement flickering at the edge of his expression.

“It was honest,” he said. A beat. “And not entirely untrue.”

That eased something, just slightly. Still, you held his gaze, more careful now.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he said gently.

The way he said it, without censure and without distance, made it difficult to look away, so you didn’t. Silence settled again, but it felt different now. Less fragile and more deliberate.

“It can be,” he continued. “An excuse. In the wrong hands.”

You nodded once, slower now.

A pause lingered, and then, before you could stop yourself–“When you’re king,” you said, “will it still be complicated?”

His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable for a moment longer than comfort allowed, as though he were measuring not just the question, but you.

There was no offense in it, only weight.

“When I am king,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, “it will still be complicated.”

Something in your chest sank just slightly, but he hadn’t finished.

“But that does not mean it must remain unchanged.”

You regarded each other thoughtfully then, and then without knowing quite why you said-

“I thought about leaving,”

“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t,” he replied, moving his hands to intertwine at his back.

“At first, it was because of them,” you said. “The rumours.”

Even now, you did not name them directly, but you did not need to.

Something in his expression stilled, the softness there giving way to something more intent, not anger not quite, but a quiet displeasure at something he could not openly address.

“And now?”

You hesitated.

“Now it feels… small.”

Baelor was very still now.

“I do not place people in my service lightly,” Baelor said. His voice had changed, not raised, not sharpened but steadier now, firmer beneath the quiet. “If I must answer for that,” he continued, “then I will.”

The words landed with a weight you had not expected. “That is not a burden I consider yours to carry alone.”

The words lingered between you, and then something shifted.

Not in the space, but in the quiet way he looked at you now, less prince and for a moment and more simply a man who had chosen to listen.

“If this place becomes… difficult,” he said, measured but gentler than before, “you may come to me,” he finished. “For anything.”

You stilled slightly, caught off guard by it.

Not the offer itself, but the way it was given. Without expectation and without condition.

The words were neither grand nor spoken loudly, but they settled with more weight than any promise of titles or position. And he spoke as though, for that brief space of time, nothing else in the keep demanded his attention.

“Thank you, your grace.” you said at last, though the words came quieter than you intended.

They lingered between you for a moment, soft and unguarded in a way that felt at odds with everything the keep demanded of you.

Instead, he held your gaze, and something in his expression eased, just slightly. Not the careful composure he wore by day, but something warmer, quieter. A small smile followed, unforced and fleeting, but no less real for it.

You inclined your head, if only to give yourself a reason to break the moment, and stepped past him, close enough to feel the faint warmth of him as you passed. “My prince.”  

Your steps carried you down the corridor, steady now, the soft echo of them folding into the silence of the keep. Behind you, the moment settled into memory.

And this time, the weight of the night and the keep did not follow quite so closely behind.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It had been there since you’d returned from your daily walk, and you hadn’t thrown it away, as you had with the others, because that would have been making a gesture, and you didn’t want to make gestures that would later need explaining.

Instead, you’d spent the last few hours without looking at it too directly — although your gaze, involuntarily, had fallen upon those petals, an action you’d never admit to —, which was more or less the same tactic you’d employed with everything since you’d arrived in the capital.

You’d been installed in the Red Keep for two weeks and four days — the time it took to feel somewhat at ease with the crimson bricks and the labyrinthine corridors. Yet you still felt like a stranger beneath that roof.

It wasn’t the size, though it was considerable, far larger than the home you’d left behind.

It wasn’t the noise, though there was more of it than you were used to.

It was something you still couldn’t quite put your finger on. The feeling that every stone, every tapestry, every guard posted in every corridor belonged to a story that had begun long before you entered the Sept of Baelor, and that would continue long after, with or without you.

You were a minor detail in that story, a useful detail, conveniently placed, with a last name appropriate for what was needed at that political moment.

You knew it even before the wedding. Everyone knew it.

And for that reason, you had taken refuge in your chambers ever since you rose at dawn the day after your wedding night, for you had soon learnt that that place was the only one you could truly call your own, even though it bore no resemblance to your childhood quarters.

Your days were carbon copies of one another, and you felt that at any moment you would lose your mind.

You would wake when you heard your personal handmaiden, Marra, moving things about to tidy the room.

She greeted you, chose the dress based on the colour she fancied most that day, and then styled your hair with intricate braids and the headpiece that best complemented her creation.

Then, when you stood in front of the mirror and she was behind you, putting the finishing touches to your appearance, the same conversation would come up.

Always the same question.

“The prince asks if you’ll be dining with him tonight, my princess.”

Always the same answer.

“Tell him I can’t tonight, I’m not feeling very well.”

Dining together meant sitting opposite him for the time it took to serve and clear an entire table of dishes, with that deafening silence that had been etched into your eardrums the one time you’d been alone with him, on your wedding night.

Baelor had a habit of trying to fill it. Not with difficult topics, but with reasonable things, even interesting ones at times, which was almost worse because it forced you to reply with more than monosyllables and then you’d find yourself thinking about the answer for longer than should be necessary.

You spent your mornings in the solitude of the gardens in the west wing of the castle, secluded enough for your liking and sheltered from any unwanted presence.

When you returned to your bedchamber, a white rose was always waiting for you on the table.

It had been eleven days since you had adopted that monotonous routine.

Eleven days as the wife of Baelor Targaryen.

Eleven white roses.

The first had arrived the day after the wedding, though you hadn’t counted that one or the one the following day because you hadn’t thought he would continue.

He continued.

You didn’t quite understand why: you had been perfectly clear with those evasive actions.

At the wedding, you’d worn the dress you were supposed to wear, said what needed to be said and placed your hand where it was supposed to be, and then, in the days that followed, you’d responded to everything that required a reply with just the right amount of detail, without any obvious coldness, but without anything that could be interpreted as an invitation.

It was the system your septa had taught you from the moment you could remember, when your greatest concern was not getting caught stealing pastries from the kitchen and husbands were a distant prospect.

It was a system that had worked all your life with all sorts of people.

Baelor, it seemed, hadn’t noticed. Or he had noticed and decided not to take it personally, which was a possibility you found even more irritating than the first.

He never took offence at your rejection. He was polite, without making any demands, and that was the most disconcerting thing — that there was nothing to reproach him for.

You got up, set aside the heavy book you’d been reading, and picked up the rose from the table.

Almost as if by reflex, you brought it to your nose and breathed in its scent. It smelled of freshness and the same fragrance as the previous ten. You trimmed the stem lightly to remove any thorns and finally placed it in the marble vase that adorned one of the small tables in the room, right alongside its sisters. You’d had it brought in a few days earlier, when the bouquet had grown considerably, because letting them die on the table seemed to you an unnecessary cruelty.

In your view, it was practicality, not sentimentality.

The vase now held eleven roses, each at a different stage of bloom — the first ones fully open, almost at the end of their life, the last ones still half-closed. An involuntary record of the days you’d spent here, arranged by degree of wilting.

You rested your hands on the side table and stared at the vase for a deliberate moment, revelling in that image of the gleaming petals, caressed by the yellowish shadows of the candlelight.

You wondered, not for the first time, what sort of man would send eleven roses to a woman who had not replied to a single one.

A fool, thought one part of you.

A prince, thought another.

Neither answer quite satisfied you.

Tired, you closed your eyes and ran your hand through your hair, now free of any trace of Marra’s creativity.

You left your spot and made your way to the bed, banishing any trace of that mental tangle that was robbing you of more sleep than you cared to admit, a habit you’d grown all too accustomed to when things got too difficult.

You blew out the candle, but not before taking another look at the eleven roses.

What you realised the next day was that the first thing you did every time you opened your eyes wasn’t to look at Marra, who was moving nimbly between the furniture, but at that wretched vase with the eleven roses.

It was an almost insignificant detail that you should have ignored, and yet you couldn’t, because every time your mind tried to think of something else, the image of a flower would take shape in your mind.

The morning was no less monotonous, even though you were quieter than usual, immersed in a silence that wasn’t your own.

You never used to complain, but today you hadn’t even commented on the pale green dress with tight sleeves and the hairstyle with a pearl hairnet that Marra had chosen for you, even though you usually tended to offer a few words of opinion on her choices.

Your handmaiden smoothed the back of the dress with her hands and tucked away the last few stray strands of hair that had dared to escape the style.

“The prince asks if you will be dining together tonight, my princess.”

You were staring at your reflection in the mirror.

“No,” you replied bluntly, without understanding why that question had irritated you more than usual that day. You realised your jaw was clenched.

Marra didn’t say another word, for she knew better than anyone when not to disturb a nobles’ mind when they were out of sorts.

You had never felt such a desperate need to leave your chamber as you did that day. You thought the morning sun and the gentle breeze might untangle that web of troubling thoughts that had become snared in your mind.

You wandered through the corridors with your eyes fixed on the floor, leaving the task of reaching your destination to your body, which you believed you had trained sufficiently during those days.

The servants who crossed your path stepped aside in silence and looked at you curiously, accustomed to seeing anyone but the future queen.

You didn’t see them. You saw the vase. You saw the eleven flowers.

You wondered whether there would be a twelfth flower that day, or whether Baelor had finally grown tired of it all.

You turned a corner without choosing it, climbed a few steps without counting them, and walked through a corridor that smelled of damp stone. At some point, the air changed and the sound of your own footsteps faded into the background, replaced by sharper sounds.

The sound of metal clanging together made it clear that your feet had not led you to the garden in the west wing.

You stood still for a moment before looking up.

It was the training courtyard.

You looked around; that gallery was a stark place, with worn stone and no witnesses other than the columns and the blue morning sky.

These weren’t the main galleries where the ladies stood to watch the gentlemen; it was the sort of place one came to when one didn’t want an audience.

Or when one didn’t want anyone to discover that one was there as a spectator.

As you turned to correct that lapse in attention and head where you really wanted to go, something inside you stopped you in your tracks.

You remained halfway between fleeing and staying.

You hesitated for a few seconds and then finally took a few steps towards one of the weathered arches, looking out over the courtyard from that vantage point.

You felt the cold stone through the sleeve of your apple-green dress, yet that sensation was forgotten beneath the pounding of your heart.

You didn’t even know why your heart was behaving that way; it wasn’t as if you were doing anything out of the ordinary: you’d simply ended up there by mistake and were watching the training courtyard out of sheer boredom.

Your eyes darted from one spot to another, taking in the whole expanse of the courtyard, whilst at the same time you played with the pearl necklace adorning your neck.

You watched the Knights of the Kingsguard training and engaging in light sparring with one another, their white cloaks fluttering in the wind; elsewhere, the Master-at-Arms, Ser Quentyn Ball, alongside Daemon Waters and you assumed he was correcting the mistakes the prince had made in combat; and at one end, another boy with white hair and red eyes trying to balance one of his arrows on the bow.

Your gaze came to an abrupt halt when you spotted your husband’s figure amongst the throng of moving bodies.

You didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath until the air left your lungs.

Baelor was leaning against the sword rack, both hands resting on the hilt of his sword. He wore a light chainmail over his dark tunic, and his dark hair looked as though it were adorned with dewdrops from the exertion.

Facing him, with his back to you, stood his brother Maekar, the only one with whom he shared that passion for weapons. He held a mace in one hand and, unlike Baelor, a helmet in the other.

You didn’t know what they were talking about, but Baelor had a calm smile on his lips, whilst he shook his head slightly at what his younger brother was saying.

Baelor spoke with his usual calm, his shoulders relaxed, his head tilted just enough to listen. Every now and then he would shake his head slowly.

Maekar, on the other hand, could not sit still. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the mace tracing small, impatient arcs in his hand. At one point he lifted his helmet, as if to emphasise a complaint.

After a few minutes of conversation, your husband made a gesture with his hand, playing down what Maekar had said, and then ruffled his silver hair. When Baelor walked away, Maekar followed him instantly, frowning but with hurried steps.

You remained standing there for a little longer, your eyes fixed on where the brothers had been and your hand moving back and forth with the pearls of your necklace.

Seconds later, you sighed in exasperation and let your hand fall by your side. Then you shook your head slightly and ran your hands over the skirt of your dress; you hadn’t realised they were sweating until you felt the fabric rubbing against your palms.

Quickly, this time you did turn around and began walking back the way you had come, with hurried steps and your mind completely consumed by something you wanted to sort out, but lacked the ability to do so.

With every step you took down those corridors, you felt them stretching and twisting further and further, as if, suddenly, that castle had become more convoluted than it had ever been, like an endless labyrinth with no way out.

The sound of your heartbeat echoed in your ears, a constant melody that tormented you with every step you took.

As you rounded the final corner to finally return to your bedroom, you stopped dead in your tracks upon hearing two voices deep in conversation as they walked leisurely along.

In any other situation, you would have ignored it, but the subject of those women’s conversation left you frozen in your tracks, and you stood still just before crossing into the main corridor.

"…they say Daemon Waters has more support in Dorne than the king would care to admit."

Their voices carried clearly through the silence of the gallery, echoing off the stone with an unintentional precision.

You took a deep breath, though you felt your breath coming out in gasps.

“Prince Baelor is popular at court,” said the other, in a carefree tone. “But popular at court is not the same as popular in the realm.”

Your breath caught in your chest. You pressed your lips together slightly.

"Too Dornish for some people’s tastes."

For some reason, what came to mind was the way Baelor had spoken to Maekar in the training yard, his carefree, warm smile.

You remembered the eleven roses.

You pressed your lips together.

There was a brief silence. You looked down and swallowed.

“That’s why the wedding to the Dondarrion, I suppose. To make up for it. Though if the girl isn’t even capable of having dinner with her husband…”

The next thing you heard was low laughter that faded away with the sound of their own footsteps.

Suddenly, you were all too aware of being there, standing in the middle of the corridor, with the voices of the two women lodged deep in your mind.

You stayed where you were for a moment longer. Then you carried on walking, slowly, staring straight ahead with your hands hanging limply at your sides, as if you hadn’t heard a thing.

You reached your bedchamber and closed the door slowly, without making a sound.

You stood for a moment leaning against the wood, looking around the room without seeing anything in particular: the candle on the table, the chest by the wall, the bed still made with a neatness that felt foreign to you.

A twelfth white rose on the table, where the first eleven had been found on the previous days.

Tough if the girl isn’t even capable of having dinner with her husband.

You exhaled slowly.

That was it, of course; that was what had left you with that weight on your chest, that dull buzzing that wouldn’t quite go away — not the other thing. Baelor wasn’t Dornish enough for some people’s tastes, which was a cruel thing to say, spoken with the same casualness with which one comments on the weather.

You stepped away from the door and made your way to the bed, your gaze still fixed on that flower lying on the table, almost like a threat.

That was none of your concern.

Your concern was the dinner.

Your concern was that two women who didn’t even know your name had summed up in a single sentence something you still didn’t know how to name.

The candle flickered. There they were: white, perfect, completely bound to you, with that calm, courteous presence that suddenly became unbearable to you.

Twelve white roses for twelve days.

You looked at it for a second, two.

You rushed over to the table.

You pulled them out of the vase in one go and grabbed the remaining one with your other hand, more roughly than necessary, and the water splashed onto the wooden table, which you didn’t bother to wipe up.

You walked over to the wardrobe that lined one of the walls, yanked the door open and tossed them inside, among the folded clothes and hanging dresses, without a care in the world.

You slammed the door shut with a bang that echoed louder than you’d intended.

You stood there in front of the closed wardrobe.

The only sound in the room was your rapid breathing.

Slowly, you moved away from the wardrobe, made your way to the bed and sat on the edge, your hands in your lap and the empty vase dripping quietly on the table.

That was it. Just that.

"By the Seven, my princess!" exclaimed Marra as soon as she opened the door.

You were curled up on one of the leather chairs in your bedchamber, your knees drawn up to your chest. You were wearing nothing but your white nightgown, light and faded, and your unruly hair fell in tangled strands over your shoulders.

Before you, spread out on the table, lay a half-written scroll, surrounded by the remnants of failed attempts: torn papers, crumpled into small balls that dotted the surface like silent witnesses to your frustration.

Amidst that chaos stood the vase with the twelve roses, their heads drooping slightly.

“My princess, are you all right?” asked the handmaiden urgently, as she set aside the wicker basket of clean sheets and made her way towards you. “It is very early, and you usually wake later.”

The first rays of morning light fell like a river of honey upon your dishevelled figure, clearly anxious, as you kept touching the pearl necklace she had put on you the day before.

“I’m perfectly fine, Marra,” you explained, your eyes still fixed on the parchment. “I just woke up earlier today, that’s all.”

Marra looked at you uncertainly. That sight was unfamiliar even to her, who had known you for barely a few weeks.

“Would you like me to call the maester, princess?” asked the girl, a clear note of concern in her voice.

“No!” you exclaimed. You turned abruptly to look at her. Dark circles ringed your eyes and there were traces of ink on your face. Quickly, you dropped the quill and brought one hand to your forehead. You rested your elbow on the table. “I mean, don’t worry, Marra, I’m not ill; there’s no need to disturb the maester at this hour.”

The girl took a breath and looked at you, then glanced discreetly at the scrolls.

The same sentence, written over and over again in different handwriting and with different phrasing, each attempt slightly different from the last, as if the solution were simply a matter of finding the exact words.

My prince and husband, I would like to ask for the honour of sharing dinner with you this evening.

Your Grace, if it pleases you, I would wish to dine in your company.

Baelor — crossed out.

If it is not too much trouble — crossed out as well.

And the last one, unfinished, the ink still wet:

Tonight I shall dine with you, if the invitation still stands.

Marra looked up without saying a word and went to fetch the clean sheets without comment. When her back was turned to you, she couldn’t help but smile.

You looked at the scroll again.

It wasn’t because of the women in the corrido or perhaps that was what had set you in motion, the push you needed.

However, you’d been staring at the ceiling since before dawn, and what was keeping you awake wasn’t the girls’ laughter, but something simpler and more irritating: that you wanted to have dinner with him because perhaps you’d been too reluctant and you were more alike than you thought, and you didn’t know how to tell him. And that, for some reason, was driving you completely mad.

You lingered a moment longer, looking at your latest attempt.

Tonight I shall dine with you, if the invitation still stands.

Simple, direct, perfectly reasonable, and yet you’d spent the last three hours unable to write a single word since.

You set the quill down on the table and leaned back in your chair with your arms crossed, staring at the parchment as if it were the most intimidating thing you’d ever seen.

The problem wasn’t the sentence. The problem was everything that came after the sentence, which was nothing, because once you’d sent it there’d be no going back and he’d read it and know what you’d meant, and that was a disaster because you’d spent a total of twelve days ignoring his invitations.

You touched your necklace without realising.

“Marra,” you said, staring at your handwriting.

“My princess?” asked the girl on the other side of the room, pulling the sheets off your bed.

“If you wanted to say something to someone,” you began, “something that isn’t difficult to say but isn’t easy either, how would you do it?”

Marra folded a sheet with exasperating calm.

“It depends on what you mean, my princess,” he explained in a calm tone, as if he didn’t quite know what you were talking about.

“Something simple. An invitation.”

“To whom?”

You paused and took a deep breath: “To someone important.”

Marra didn’t reply straight away. She finished folding the sheet, placed it on the chest and turned towards you with her hands clasped in front of her.

“In my experience,” she said, in that voice of hers that never rose too high, “when you spend the whole night trying to say something simple, the problem isn’t the words. It’s that you’re worrying too much about what’s going to happen next.”

You looked at her.

“I’m not worrying about anything.”

"Of course not, my princess." she turned back to the bed to arrange the cushions.

Silence. You let your hand, which was holding your pearl necklace, drop.

"Can you help me?" you asked, your voice uneasy.

Marra gave a small smile and nodded slightly. She approached the table without fuss, looked at the last scroll for a moment, and then looked at you.

“This one is fine,” she said, pointing with a calm gesture. "'Tonight I shall dine with you, if the invitation still stands.' It is direct. It is correct. It asks for no extra permission nor explains too much.”

“It seems too short.”

“Short things are harder to misinterpret, my princess.”

You stared at the sentence. Then you looked at Marra. Then you looked back at the sentence.

You picked up the quill and traced the sentence again with admirable slowness, as if all your anxiety had vanished in an instant.

Marra watched you with a smile as you wrote carefully.

When you had finished, with the ink in place and the parchment completely unblemished, you folded it and applied the wax to seal the little message.

Then you handed it to Marra.

“Can you give it to him now?” you looked up. Your eyes were shining.

“But, my princess, I have to dress you for today’s walk,” she replied as she took the note between her fingers. Things had never been like this before: she always came first to dress you and then went to speak to Baelor, not the other way round.

“I don’t want to go for a walk today, Marra.”

Your sincerity softened her heart, and she finally nodded. She clutched the message between her fingertips and gave a slight bow of her head to confirm her departure.

Just as she was about to step through the doorway, your voice stopped her one last time.

“Do you think he’ll agree?”

That almost desperate tone made her smile, and she turned to look at you: “Of course, my princess, you’re his wife.”

You breathed a sigh of relief as you fiddled with the end of one of those message drafts scattered across the table.

“So this afternoon you can come and… get me ready.” You paused briefly, still not looking up, so as not to meet Marra’s gaze. “Put a pretty dress on me and do my hair nicely.”

The handmaiden continued to smile tenderly.

“Aye, my princess, I’ll make you look lovely for the prince,” she replied at last. “You could wear the orange dress with…”

“I want the red dress, Marra,” your voice cut her off, “and my hair down.”

Marra’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. That was the other new development of the day.

“As you wish, my princess.”

The time it took for Marra to leave and return felt to you like five lunar cycles.

You remained slumped in your chair, staring at the door, until you felt he was taking longer than usual — even though only the blink of an eye had passed — then you got up and began to wander aimlessly around the room, your mind elsewhere and your steps unsteady.

You began to touch everything within reach. You fiddled with the pearls again, then picked up your hairbrush, then a book you’d stopped paying attention to two days earlier, then ran your fingers over one of the pieces of furniture and brushed the dust off your nightdress.

And then, you looked at the flowers again.

There were no longer eleven, there were twelve.

All arranged perfectly in that marble vase. They were slightly bent because of your tantrum that night, but the petals were all in place. Those that had been half-closed were now fully open, drinking in the morning light streaming through the windows.

Would there be a thirteenth?

Of course there would be: thirteen days, thirteen white roses.

But what if Baelor didn’t give it to you because you’d now decided to accept his invitation to dinner, when you’d ignored him ever since your wedding night?

What if your chance to get closer to him had already passed?

Ten roses meant courtship, twelve meant despair. Thirteen was simply too many.

You felt your hands begin to sweat and your throat tighten.

You didn’t really want to have dinner with him; you just wanted to silence the voices in the corridors: you wanted to erase the laughter of those women, even though you could no longer remember what it sounded like.

You didn’t want to see that dark hair and those mismatched eyes, one regal and the other foreign, according to half the vipers at Court. You didn’t want to hear that voice, even though it had a slight accent that reminded you of your wedding day and some moment from your childhood.

Of course you didn’t want any more roses.

You looked at the vase again.

Twelve white roses.

Thirteen days.

You brought your hands to your face and took a deep breath.

Suddenly, the door swung open without warning. You turned your head immediately and your breath caught in your throat when you saw Marra.

You couldn’t wait to rush towards her.

You took the note she was already holding out to you, your hand trembling as you took it. You broke the seal of the three-headed dragon and felt your vision blur with emotion.

The invitation always stands.

You exhaled almost dramatically and read the sentence again, just in case you’d misread it and your mind was playing tricks on you.

“Aye, my princess, he has accepted; you are reading it correctly,” said Marra in a low voice, watching your ecstatic expression.

You nodded a few times and then looked at her again.

“And my rose, Marra?” you asked urgently.

She looked at you.

“There is no rose today, my princess.”

Your crimson dress with wide sleeves rustled every time it brushed against the stone floor, and the gold around your neck and ears glinted in the light of the torches lining the corridors.

You arrived neither too early nor too late, just at the time you usually had dinner, and assumed Baelor did too.

You stood in front of the door to the private dining room.

Two Kingsguard were standing guard at the door and looked at you as you arrived.

Before entering, you smoothed your dress once more, gave your hair a final touch-up, loose with a half-up style, and adjusted your jewellery, even though you’d already done so dozens of times whilst walking through the corridors; and when you felt ready, one of the two guards opened the door and announced your arrival.

You looked inside the room. Everything was perfectly arranged: the candles, the plates and the silver cutlery.

Baelor was standing by the table, a glass of wine in his hand, though you assumed it was more of an involuntary gesture than a sign of indulgence.

He wore a straight-cut black tunic and, across his torso, an asymmetrical panel in a dark red hue, almost like aged maroon, which crossed his chest diagonally. There was no unnecessary ornamentation: the garment was designed to command respect through simplicity, not excess.

Your husband made a slight gesture with his ringed hand for the Kingsguard to leave, and he, obediently, left you alone.

There was a deafening silence that was broken after a few seconds by Baelor.

“My lady wife,” he said, with a faint smile, “you look absolutely radiant tonight.”

He approached you with calm, steady steps and, when he was close enough, took your hand and pressed his lips against the back of it.

You felt your cheeks flush.

“Thank you,” you murmured softly.

Baelor looked up and gazed at you with those two-toned eyes.

“Thank you for keeping me company tonight,” he said in a calm tone. Then, he raised his hand and pressed something against yours.

When you looked down, your breath caught in your throat.

In your palm was a rose.

The thirteenth.

A red rose.

You stood there speechless for a few seconds.

“It’s red,” you said at last, sounding puzzled.

"Aye."

"All the others were white."

"Aye."

You looked at it for a moment longer. Then you looked at Baelor.

"Why?"

"Because tonight is different," he said, with his usual calm, "the white ones are for the days when you don’t come. The red one is for when you do."

Your voice died in your throat and you felt a tightness in your chest.

"I…"

"I won’t ask you why, my wife," he said, letting go of your hand and running his fingertips discreetly over your wrist before stepping back. "Would you like some wine?"

You nodded, almost instinctively, and when he turned away, you looked back at the flower.

The deep red petals were fully open, as if they had burst forth after being held back. The stem, as always, was thornless, smooth and gentle to the touch.

“How have these thirteen days been?” you heard, accompanied by the sound of wine pouring into the glass in the background.

“Fine, I…” you began to speak, but you were really too entranced to say anything coherent. “The Red Keep is huge.”

You wanted to run away right then and there.

Baelor laughed quietly and finally turned back to face you.

“Of course,” he agreed, handing you the golden goblet. You took it, and your trembling hand did not go unnoticed by Baelor. “There’s no need to be nervous.”

You looked at him and took a deep breath, taking a sip of the wine. It was a little bitter, and you were glad of it; it was a good way to wake you up.

“I’m not nervous,” you replied at last, though you didn’t believe your own words. You chose your words carefully, trying not to say anything foolish again. “I often take walks through the gardens… I saw you from the gallery. You were arguing with your brother.”

Baelor nodded, taking another sip from his glass.

"About the rosebushes," he explained. "He asked me when I was going to stop sending you roses if you were always ignoring me. I told him there were still plenty left."

You swallowed.

"Ah"

Silence.

The crackling of the torches sounded indifferent, unaware that it was bearing witness to that moment. You looked away from Baelor, just as you had done on your wedding night.

You felt like a stranger again beneath that roof, in that conversation, with that flower between your fingers.

Baelor’s hand closed over yours, holding the rose alongside you.

His fingers were rough, calloused from weapons. The hands of a prince, of a warrior. Of Targaryen and Martell.

There was no harshness in his expression: he didn’t squeeze your hand, he didn’t make a fuss. He simply held it.

For a moment, you had the strange feeling that you didn’t need to explain anything, that he already knew.

That he understood that awkward silence, that unease you couldn’t quite put your finger on, as if it were familiar to him.

You thought, without meaning to, of the two girls, of the hushed voices drifting between columns and tapestries, of how they said he was too Dornish for some people’s tastes, as if that were a flaw rather than a difference.

Too Dornish and not enough Targaryen. Perhaps that was why he didn’t press the matter.

Perhaps that was why he didn’t look at you as though you were a duty to be fulfilled, but as something to be looked forward to.

You lowered your gaze to the rose in your hands.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said at last, and felt as though a weight had lifted from your shoulders. “I don’t know how to be the wife of someone I don’t know in a place I didn’t choose. I’m not… I’m not used to being treated well without there being something behind it.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

"Because you’ve been waiting for fourteen days for there to be something behind it," he said, without accusation, "and I’ve been trying for fourteen days to show you that there isn’t."

You looked up and stared at him for a long, silent moment. You saw no hint of judgement in his gaze.

“Why do you keep sending them?” you murmured. The question came out more bluntly than you’d intended.

Baelor didn’t answer straight away; he simply held your gaze. You felt the warmth of his hands on top of yours. They were warm, and at last you felt at home.

“Because you are my wife,” he said at last, “and because you came here without asking, to a place you didn’t know, amongst people you hadn’t chosen.” He paused briefly. “The least I could do was let you know that I am not against you.”

You were speechless at these words.

“The roses are not a demand,” Baelor continued, still without turning. “I expect nothing in return. I never have. But I’m not going to stop sending them just because you don’t accept my invitations, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

"I wasn't thinking that."

"What were you thinking, then?"

His chest was almost pressed against yours and, even though he was taller than you, you didn't feel intimidated.

He was giving you that direct attention of his that demanded nothing but didn’t look away either, and you found yourself without the right answer ready.

“I was thinking,” you said slowly, choosing your words carefully, “that I don’t know what to do with someone who wants nothing.”

Baelor didn’t take his eyes off you, even though you looked down at your clasped hands.

“Everyone wants something,” you continued. “My family wanted the alliance. The king wants the south. You want…” You paused.

"What do I want?" asked the prince, without hostility.

You looked down at the red rose between your fingers.

"I don’t know," you admitted. "And that’s what I don’t know how to deal with."

Baelor took a deep breath and, after a few seconds, reached out with his free hand to take your chin and lift it until your eyes met again.

“I want you to be well,” he whispered, with the simplicity of someone speaking the truth. “I want this place to feel less alien to you over time. I want you to have someone to talk to if you ever feel the need.” He paused. “I want you to look back in a decade’s time and not think I treated you like a pawn on a chessboard.”

Your lower lip trembled slightly and your hand wavered at those words.

“A rose doesn’t say that,” you protested.

“Thirteen does.”

You looked at him for a long moment. You had spent thirteen days creating distance with the precision of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and why they’re doing it.

You had ignored the roses, or tried to, the invitations, and the way he had never used any of those things against you.

You had been perfectly proper, which was what you knew how to be when you didn’t know how to be anything else.

And yet here you were, in this room, with a red rose in your hands and your husband, standing at a slightly imprudent distance, telling you that he wanted you not to think, ten years from now, that he had treated you like a piece on a chessboard.

You looked at him with clear emotion in your eyes, as if he had managed to tear down all the walls you had so carefully built over those days in a matter of seconds.

Baelor smiled and leaned in close to your ear, their bodies finally touching completely. You felt his breath on your ear and couldn’t help but shiver.

“Now then, my lady wife, I ask you once more: will you accept my invitation to dine with me?” he asked. “Will you accept my red rose?”

A red rose when you come.

A white one if you don’t.

You nodded slightly and Baelor stepped back just enough to give you one last smile, take your hand gently and lead you to your chair.

You placed the rose on the table and sat down.

The next day’s training left Baelor exhausted, but the beaming smile on his lips never faded.

He returned to his chambers with sweat-soaked hair, aching muscles and a sore side — a gift from Maekar, who’d got up on the wrong side of the bed that morning and had to prove it on the training ground.

His valet unbuckled his belt whilst he listened to the cracking of his knuckles as he stretched them. He flexed his neck and arms, yet these were mere background noise to the prince, for all that was on his mind was that overwhelming happiness he could not explain.

He had won every training bout.

He had told Maekar never to doubt his judgement because those roses had been answered.

And dinner. He couldn’t stop thinking about dinner.

As the boy was unbuttoning his tunic, Baelor looked away and caught sight of something on the table.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Can you leave me alone for a moment, boy?” asked the prince, and the valet nodded repeatedly, nervously, before practically running out of the chamber. He was new and didn’t know how to behave in the heir’s presence.

Baelor approached the table with slow steps due to the pain, and when he stood before it, he saw it.

A red rose.

And beside it, a message which the prince opened at once.

There are still plenty of rosebushes.

He smiled as he read your handwriting and closed it, placing it back on the table. He took the rose between his fingers and smelled it, whilst calling the valet back.

“Cut a rose,” he said when he saw the boy enter the room again. “A red one, like yesterday.”

- whining out of sheer complaining to your leave; sasha, whom you’ve bonded quite closely to at work was wiping faux tears with a pout as the locker once in recipient of every phase a frustrated college student may pass through closes in empty.

“do you really have to quit? i thought we were going to rot here as servers foreverrr.” a hand on your hip.

“well, i suppose i got lucky with this.. online gimmick. saved up enough for myself.” white lie slipping past in a curled smile.

“i wish you didn't have to go…”

eyes rolled at her exaggeration with a court giggle. lips pressing to her cheeks now in a friendly kiss.

“with how you’re talking.. one would assumed i have a death sentence. we can always hang out! and maybe.. i'll show you around that new apartment of mine.” winking at her gasp, a last wave to your now previous co-workers.

the door to the back seat was opened for your comfort, buckling the seatbelt before offering a polite smile to reynold, maekar’s driver tasked to pick you up.. and drop you off plenty enough for recognition.

“could we pass by the café in—”

“mr. targaryen demanded i take you home directly, miss.” he turns the wheel into drive.

“but he’s not here—”

“what mr. maekar demands, i do, miss.” cut off once again which causes a sigh to leave your lips.

- four months of being a sweet clandestine for a man once so troubled in living; maekar has developed your life in ways a laugh of ridiculous explaining your older self would emit. it isn't exactly difficult to comprehend precisely the effects of becoming the apple of the eye to a man whose head is level in a state of utter masculinity sans incertitude.

key slotted to the door, opened and locked instantly like maekar has insisted you countless of time to gain as habit. brushing your hair back before gasping in startle upon landing your eyes to where he sat in the leather couch just by a corner of the living room, eyes watching you through the rim of his cognac glass.

“you’re here.. why didn't you text me?” feet slowly walking into where his thighs were spread for your sitting— gladly taking the pleasure to with a kiss to his cheek first and then his lips second.

“missed you, doll. how was lecture?” whispered in between pauses of the same kiss that begins to grow into sin-like.

“missed me? we were fucking in your car yesterday before that board meeting.” a jest to ease the felt tension in between his shoulders, hand brushing in gentle caress to his bearded cheek that you’ve grown to adore the feel of.

“well that’s different now, isn't it? can’t a man not want his pretty girl to hold?” he jests in return causing a laugh from your lips, kissing him again before your knees fall in between his thighs to unbuckling the belt free of where he grew hard for you so quickly.

quite a challenge not to when those eyes are shaped like provocation and shaded in carnal arousal no man below their principle could deny themself of.

head thrown back to the unreal feel of your hollowed mouth, spit in messy glisten as you knew maekar was in favour of seeing when you suck his cock. hair brushed back and tugged with a hiss caused by swirling the tip with tongue— blinking prettily before focusing on making him feel good.

“missed you too.”

- fingers massaging his own temple out of utter show in fatigue growing every second to the meeting prolonged more than called for. oxfords tapping against the tiled floor in ticking bar of thinning forbearance in any more business jargon with men of supposed knowledge.

maekar swiftly takes his leave the second it was possible, incapable of hearing further theories in number and valued assets— loosening the tie around his neck while he allowed the chauffeur take route of his hotel.

phone lit in a picture of his children for his lock screen, passcode typed to reveal the candid picture of you he had captured one evening in bed together: head placed atop of his chest, hair framing your pretty sleeping doll face with a hand tucked to your chin in an almost pout.

his thumb caresses the screen in quiet, eyes softening to the calming reaction the very photo of you causes him. his pretty doll face, gods you were a weighing balm to maekar’s soul. scrolling more to that album he keeps to himself filled with candid photographs of you in mundanity that captures him entirely to ease once more— forgetting the lassitude laced shoulders.

three more days worth to the business trip maekar was currently obligated to in casterly rock for the new business projection with the lannisters.

‘hey, doll face. calling you in ten minutes.’

‘finished with the conference.’

‘what are you doing?’

‘missing your pretty face right now.’

all four messages lighting up the screen of your cell and the smile on your lips— for stoic man to the public, one could not possibly comprehend such clingy messages from someone like maekar.

- the first two months in hindsight were so so sweet for both you and maekar. most would call it ‘the honeymoon phase’ but you didn't label it as such. why? well simply because the term or expression was fit for those in a relationship, and what you both were did not fit the category.

squealing in ecstatic tone when you open your eyes to the boxes of the highest contender in your wishlist: Agent Provocateur.

immediately kissing his cheeks repeatedly with ‘thank you’’s and ‘you’re the best’ in between, maekar merely nudges you to try them on, wanting to see you in laces himself— a win-win situation in his opinion.

“no.. i don’t want a new bag, thank you anyway.’”

maekar ignores your words while the pictures his assistant has sent over were being inspected to his taste and your own, responding with a mere ‘get all three.’ and followed with a ‘thursday appointment with my PA in graff and chopard.’ shutting his phone off after to wrap his arms around your cooking form by the stove— nape pecked so reverently.

“okay. then what do you want?”

“..a car maybe?” you tease while peppering the sauce.

“no.” instantly rejected, knowing maekar was only comfortable with having you be escorted by reynold. the city bearing plenty of reckless drivers.

he’s lost dyanna already, he was not risking the life of who held his heart in growing segments now.

blushed pink baby shirt, pink lace panties and white socks.

one of maekar’s favorite ways to have you dressed on a saturday morning after a particularly tiring friday night— spent panting beneath him in curled moans drawn from each slick thrust he fucks with his cock into your cunt.

forearms leaned over the railing of the balcony, watching the busy streets from twenty floors above. the early summer breeze blows your hair like swaying flowers, eventually lulling maekar to rise from the sheets and have his chest pressed flat your back— hands placed in those lace in the hips and nape bared for low humming.

“come back to bed.”

head tilted for more senses of maekar’s beard scratching the skin so lullingly, chuckling at the little nips before a squeal leaves your lips— carried like a bride back to the sheets where he looms over your much petite form than his.

“don’t you have a family lunch at twelve? it’s ten, maekar..”

“they can wait. bend over.”

- cruising through the days of each week with an almost heart shaped red glasses at the amount you’ve blossomed into such a lovely young woman from maekar’s heed and charge— one would only assume you were being treated correctly by a man.. which is the entirety of the truth concealed under your tongue. but some possess quite a keen eye.

“how do you know sir reynold?” a voice captures your attention just until the exit of the main hall. breath hitching when your eyes land on a certain brunette with a silver streak in his hair and bi-colored irises. valarr targaryen— bless him and his inherited perceptiveness.

“uh.. sorry what?” you stumble in words, only hearing a chuckle from him.

“sir reynold. he’s my uncle’s driver— how do you know him?”

staring at him is slow panic that you swallowed with a rather charming expression.

“he’s uh.. my family friend actually! from my father’s.”

“really? i was informed his family’s in the north.. odd.” valarr ponders in low, glancing around momentarily before offering a hand.

“valarr by the way, we should.. hang around sometime— you’re in natural sciences, right?”

blinking back astounded for a second, plastering a smile before shaking his hand in return— which seemed strangely lengthy for propriety.

“sure, and yes— how did.. how did you know that?”

“uh.. good guess, i suppose?”

you hummed to that, nodding before giving him one last wave and heading to the east wing of the campus where your lecture was. unbeknownst to you, his eyes were onto your disappearing figure with an almost smile— the m pendant on your necklace completely missed by valarr.

oh you and your pretty doll face. that’s two birds from the same flock.

- the first sunday of every month is reserved for family, daeron had consistently applied said philosophy to his family for years and with how the targaryen manor was occupied with running children and sighing mothers— it’s a formed tradition in customs now.

long table decorated with hot and freshly served meals by the private chefs busy in the kitchen, maekar smiles at the conversation between him and his brothers— simply recounting how they were in memory of university.

“you four were headaches of mine— to your mother as well.” their father in chew of seared veal.

“oh they still are, aren't they husband?” myriah smiles quite fondly to her sons, glancing at daeron who was pouring what seemed to be his third glass of wine.

“daeron dear, how’s that girlfriend of yours?”

“we broke up, grandmother. a couple months ago.” he shrugs, lips already in sip of the red.

“and you did not tell us, why?”

“didn't feel like it.”

aerion scoffs to that, chewing veal himself with roasted kale in seasoning before meeting his grandfather’s eyes.

“we’re young anyway and the people here are… unfortunate—ly not of standard.” boasting himself which causes groans all around the table, growing exhausted of his prideful head.

it continues in waves, the conversation surrounding the topic of the dynasty’s future. two rather placid members seemingly content in observing until one’s called for.

“valarr— you seem too calm tonight, my grandson. anything you want to speak about?”

resting against the chair with an easy smile formed to the question, shrugging his shoulders in shy before chuckling.

“met a girl a week ago… in campus.”

attention on the speaking young man, valarr shakes off the teasing from his cousins with a phrase in pursuit.

“she’s uh.. beautiful. almost doll-like really. smart too— natural sciences.’’

maekar piques up at that, setting the glass of scotch and sucking his teeth in attentive now. eyes on his nephew regards in vigilance to the discomforting traits described much too familiar to who awaits him after said dinner.

“did you get her name?”

“she’s interested as well?”

“how’d you meet her?”

“you should introduce her to us.”

“which family is she from?”

“have you two gone on a date?”

all asked to valarr whose ears were turning red in thought of you, swallowing a gulp of water to help but was futile as he answered still in shy.

“not yet, but.. i plan on asking her out on a date this week when i see her in campus again.”

“do you think you can get her number from sir reynold for me, uncle maekar? she mentioned being his family friend—”

“and why would i do that?” cold. brute and simple in reply— odd at the swift almost defensive.

stunned but not offended, valarr smiles to his uncle instead.

“well.. so i can have her—”

“no.” rising from his seat with a final sip of liquor, disregarding the looks of skepticism from his family members and a startled nephew.

‘in your apartment in 30. red lace.’ a single text he sends as maekar takes his suit jacket from the maid and make way to the mercedes in park.

fin.

⌎⊰⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊱⌏

“That’s my mum.”

You pushed the anger from your face turning to the two Lords of the Reach, “If you would excuse me I wish to talk to my family alone.” 

The two men nodded and hurried out of the room as you turned to Ser Roland, “Fetch me Daeron and Valarr,” you commanded as the two eldest Targaryen’s shared a glance before standing making their way to you. 

“Why Valarr, my love?” Baelor asked gently, reaching a hand out to you. 

You swatted his hand away glaring at both the men. Dunk was now even more confused than before. If you were Egg’s mother then you must be Maekar’s wife…then why was Baelor referring to you as “my love.”

“He is the one who wrote about this shit show.”

“Of course he is,” Aerion muttered from the table.

Your burning gaze turned from them “If I hear one more snide remark from you it will be the last one we all hear because you'll be going to the wall, understood?”

He huffed out a breath before slumping in his chair crossing his arms over his chest as he nodded.  He no longer resembled the vicious prince from earlier, but instead a child who had been reprimanded. 

The hedge knight now wished you had been here this whole time. You finally set your sights on him and he flinched slightly, “What is your name?” you questioned.

“Dunk… Ser Duncan,” he stuttered out. 

Maekar finally called out your name, and the knight instantly noticed how soft it sounded even coming from the man’s mouth. You ignored him, your eyes squinting as you stared at the large man, “Well, please take a seat, Ser,” you said kindly. 

Valarr and Daeron had now arrived to join you all. 

“Mum!” Valarr exclaimed happily, voice cheerful as he was the only one not bound to feel your wrath to tonight. 

Duncan who now sat next to Egg looked to him in confusion, “How is she your mom and Valarr’s?” he whispered, but it wasn't very quiet as Maekar had heard him. 

The man scoffed, but his youngest son got a reply out before he could, "She's married to both of them, Ser,” he said, hoping the man would drop the conversation there. 

He didn't.

“To both the princes!?” he exclaimed. The young boy only nodded, shooting him a look urging him to be silent so that he could keep his head.

He had heard of Aegon the Conqueror having two wives,but had no idea that the brothers shared a wife. That seemed like something Ser Arlan should have mentioned or even Raymun on his rant about the Taragyen family earlier.  He now looked at the children and could see small pieces of you in each of them, everything piecing together slowly. 

He watched as kissed Valarr’s cheek slightly, and even cast Daeron a small smile as they also took a seat now the only one standing was you, and with one look alone the room became quiet. Duncan felt as if he was intruding on a family affair, but didn't dare argue with you. 

“How did you manage to get here so fast?” Maekar asked, causing you to roll your eyes. 

You took a deep breath, “The three of us will talk afterwards for now were going to go in order,” you turned your sights on Daeron who seemed to sober up immensely upon your gaze. 

“Why is your brother bald?”

He scratched the back of his neck, then you turned to Aerion, “Do not get me fucking started on your behavior. When is that acceptable?” you asked, raising a brow. Now you turned to the youngest, “Must I tie you to your fucking bed post to prevent you from running off again?” Finally you now looked at your two husbands, “And you two! You cannot manage to keep your sons in line for a few days without me? Youre just as fucking bad as the rest of them.”

The silence was suffocating as everyone watched the wheels turning in your head. You turned to the hedge knight, “You struck Aerion because he broke a woman’s finger?”

“They were–” Aerion started, but didn't get very far as your head turned back silencing him once more. 

“But!”

“Listen to your mother!” Maekar and Baeleor both commanded sternly, causing him to sulk back into his seat.

“Yes that is my recall, my lady.”

“Withdraw your accusation, Aerion,”  you now commanded. 

His eyes widened, “But he hit me!” he whined.

“Did you lose any teeth?”

“No.”

“Are you gravely injured?”

“No.”

‘Did you perhaps deserve a good knock upside the head?”

“Yes,” he whispered, crossing his arms.

You smiled nodding your head toward the Hedgeknight, ‘I withdraw my accusation,” he said, begrudgingly causing you to nod. “Great, we will discuss your punishment for the horse later, go clean the damn blood off yourself.”

He sighed standing to his feet, but before he could leave you moved forward cupping his face gently in your hand whispering something to him which caused him to frown slightly, but nod. You pressed a kiss to his temple and then he was gone.

“What else was there?” you now asked, turning toward Baelor and Maekar once more. 

“Daeron accused Ser Duncan of stealing Aegon,” the elder reminded you, causing you to hum.

“Aegon, did you willingly go with this man?” you asked.

“Yes, mum,” he told you. 

“Apolgize to your father for running off.”

He turned toward Maekar, “I am sorry for running off father,” he told him.

The man only grunted until his eyes met yours, “Do not do it again,” he told him. 

“Now hug him.” 

Egg stood hugging him, and Dunk couldn't help, but notice how awkward it looked especially in comparison to the gentleness you just used with Aerion. The boy then moved, hugging your legs tightly as you pressed a kiss to his bald head, “Go prepare for bed and I will come discuss your punishment with you.” 

He nodded, moving out of the room. You now pinched the bridge of your nose slightly before setting your sights on Daeron. “Why is your brother’s hair?”

“I shaved it off. We were going to hide out at an inn until the tourney was over.”

“And your brother ran off and you just stayed there?”

“He told me he was leaving. I lied to father, because I didn't want him to gwt angrier at me.”

“Apolgize to your father.”

“I am sorry for lying and worrying you father,” he told him, his voice filled with genuine honesty. 

Maekar nodded slightly, looking at you. “Go to your chambers and if I find you drinking tonight I will pour water over your head.”

He nodded standing to his feet, you moved to him hugging him gently like you did the other two before sending him on your way. Then you looked to your eldest, “Have you done anything?” you now asked, a slight smile playing on your lips.

“No, but I would like to point out I was right,” he declared standing to his feet moving next to you.

“About what?” Baelor asked, eyebrows furrowing together.

“That you two would perish without her,” he kissed the side of your head before moving out.

Duncan was now terrified as your eyes turned to him, along with your husbands. “I do hope you do not make it a habit of striking royalty, Ser Duncan. It is a fast way to lose your head,” you started with. 

He swallowed harshly, eyes widending, “Of course, Your Grace. I mean–” he continued to splutter over his words. 

“Seven hells she knows what you mean shes not a fucking idiot,” Maekar hissed. 

“Maekar,” you chided, causing him to grunt leaning back in his chair.

You stared at the hedge knight, your eyes scanning him causing him to squirm, “I would like you to swear your sword to Baelor. It will show your loyalty to House Targaryen and can be seen as a punishment,” you decided. Ducan took it gratefully doing as he was told before leaving, a servant be instructed to find the man a chamber and draw him a proper bath for the night. 

Now it only left the three of you, “Honestly what the fuck would you two do without me? You’d probably both have let that foolhardy play out on your own.”

Both men stood making their way to you, as they trapped you between them, “There is a reason we both married you,”  Baelor teased, moving to lean in, but you wormed way out of your hold.

“Not tonight. You two will be left to your hands for release, that is your punishment,” you called out before leaving the room, going to visit each of your children like you had stated earlier.

Maekar sighed leaning moving to his chair letting out a groan, “We are never traveling anywhere without her again,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We are in agreement on that. Can you imagine what would have happened if she hadn't arrived?”

You had not known, before this journey, how much you would come to hate the inside of a wheelhouse.

The rocking. The creaking. The endless jostle of wood and leather over rutted roads. Hours that stretched into days that blurred into weeks, the landscape crawling past the windows. Green fields giving way to brown hills giving way to the red dust of the Dornish passes. Your body ached. Your head ached. Everything ached.

And worse: the proximity.

Baelor rode beside the wheelhouse more often than he sat inside it. It was for duty, for visibility, the lords expecting to see their Hand. You understood. You did. But understanding did nothing to ease the frustration of watching him through the window and knowing you could not touch him.

Could not climb into his lap. Could not feel his hands on your skin. Could not do any of the things you had grown so used to doing, so desperate to do, in the weeks before the tour began.

At night, there were tents or guest chambers in whatever keep hosted the procession. Always thin walls. Always servants nearby. Always the knowledge that any sound, any movement, might be overheard. He held you close in the darkness, his lips pressed to your hair, his hand warm on your hip. But it went no further. Could go no further.

"I'm sorry, sweet girl," he murmured one night, somewhere in a tent in the Reach, when your body had pressed against his with an urgency you couldn't hide. "When we have privacy again, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

You believed him. You did.

But belief didn't stop the wanting.

By the time the procession crossed into Dorne, the wanting had become something sharper. Something that lived under your skin like a fever. You caught yourself watching him constantly. The way his hands moved when he spoke, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his eyes sometimes caught yours across a crowded room with a heat that made your stomach clench.

He felt it too. You knew he did.

But knowing only made it worse.

The heat hit first. A wall of it, dry and pressing, unlike anything you had known in the cooler climates of the Crownlands. The clothes you had worn through the Reach were too heavy here; you shed layers, accepted the lighter gowns prepared for you, thin silks in pale colors that left very little of your body hidden.

Baelor's eyes, when he saw you in the first of them, went dark in a way that made your breath catch.

"That's... not appropriate for a princess to wear," he managed.

"The Dornish ladies dress thus." You turned slowly, letting the silk swirl. "I would not wish to give offense."

He stepped close, too close, his hand finding your waist beneath the sheer fabric. "You're going to kill me before this tour is done."

You smiled, the first real smile in weeks. "Promises, husband."

But even that moment was stolen. A servant appeared. A lord required his attention. He was gone, and you were alone again, the silk still whispering against your skin, the heat still humming in your blood.

The palace where the procession now rested was ancient and beautiful, all open arches and torchlit courtyards, the warm wind carrying scents of citrus and spice. Everywhere you looked, there was beauty. Everywhere you looked, there was him.

And everywhere you looked, there was her.

Lady Allyria Dayne had joined the procession that afternoon, arriving with her own retinue from Starfall. She was everything the lords had whispered. Beautiful in a way that made you feel young and unfinished, dark-haired and dark-eyed, moving with a grace that spoke of decades spent being perfect.

She had greeted Baelor warmly. Had kissed his cheek. Had laughed at something he said, her hand on his arm, and you had stood at the edge of the courtyard and watched and felt the ground shift beneath your feet.

She was almost his wife.

The thought had not left you since.

Now you stood before a mirror in the chambers you shared, with a bed you had barely slept in together and stared at your own reflection. The Dornish gown was the color of pale blue, nearly transparent in the fading light, leaving your shoulders bare and your chest nearly exposed. Your hair was pinned up, tendrils escaping to frame your face. You looked... pretty. You looked young.

You looked like exactly what you felt… a girl playing at being a princess while the real women watched from the shadows.

A knock at the door, your husband's voice on the other side, "Are you ready?"

You took a breath and forced a smile in place.

"Ready."

The great hall of the palace had been transformed. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting warm light over tapestry-draped walls and the crush of bodies moving in dance. Music floated from the gallery. It was a Dornish tune, lively and foreign, nothing like the stately music of the capital. The air was thick with perfume and sweat and the heady weight of summer heat.

You stood at the edge of it all, Baelor's arm warm through yours, and tried to remember how to breathe.

"You're beautiful tonight." He leaned close to murmur it, his lips brushing your ear. "I haven't been able to look away."

You smiled up at him; a real smile, despite everything. "You're supposed to be working. Greeting lords. Being the Hand."

"I am being the Hand." His fingers moved down the small of your back, warm along your exposed skin. "But this hand would rather be doing other things."

For a moment, it was just the two of you. The crowd faded. The music dimmed. There was only his hand, his eyes, the promise in his voice. You wanted to pull him away to some quiet chambers and take advantage of his proximity.

Then a lord appeared, needing his attention. Then another. Then Maekar was there, pulling him aside with some urgent matter. He squeezed your hand, murmured "Find me later," and was gone.

You were alone in the crowd. You drifted through the edges of the ball, accepting a glass of wine, nodding to lords and ladies whose names you immediately forgotten. The Dornish gown felt strange on your body; too light, too revealing, every glance exposing.

A woman approached. Older, beautiful in a severe way, her dark hair streaked with silver. She smiled warmly.

"You must be the Prince's new wife. I'm Lady Blackmont."

You curtsied, murmured pleasantries. She seemed kind.

"And how are you finding Dorne, my dear? Overwhelming, I imagine. So different from the capital."

"It's beautiful," you said. "To see these lands is a wonderful privilege."

She nodded, then her gaze drifted past you. "Ah, there's your husband now."

You turned to see your stepson Valarr standing there, handsome and awkward, his smile polite. Lady Blackmont beamed at him, then at you.

"Oh he's not..." You flushed, "I am married to Prince Baelor, Lady Blackmont."

Her brow creased with confusion, then she laughed. "Of course you are!"

"They married not four moons ago." Valarr said as he came up beside you, his tone courtly and pleasant.

She shook her head, smiling. "My apologies. My old eyes... But it must be comforting to have family so close in age. Like a sister, almost."

You opened your mouth to respond, but she was already turning to Valarr, asking about his health, his own marriage plans. You stood there, glass in hand, feeling a fresh wave of shame rise up.

So close in age you are mistaken as his wife… The thought was an unwelcome one. The difference in years between you and Baelor was always at the edge of your mind; you did your best to ignore it. Now it rose up like a shadow, laughing and taunting you, reminding you what a silly girl you were. How silly a girl your husband had married...

The musicians began a new tune. Valarr bowed, held out a hand to Lady Blackmont.

"If I may, my lady..."

"Oh!" She was laughing. "What a young man!"

He took her hand and led her into the swirling mass of dancers, he gave you a sympathetic smile as they left, but it was no comfort. Your stomach was knotted with shame. You drank the rest of your wine and then grabbed another, sipping it fast. Trying to steady the shaking of your hands.

You watched as Baelor moved through the crowd with easy grace, greeting lords, clasping hands, sharing quiet words. He was in his element here. the Prince, the Hand, the favorite son. You watched the way men leaned close to speak with him, the way women's eyes followed him, the way he commanded any space he occupied.

And you watched her.

Allyria Dayne stood near the center of the hall, surrounded by who you could only assume were a gaggle of her admirers. She wore violet silk that seemed to flow like water, her dark hair loose and gleaming, her smile warm and knowing. She laughed at something a lord said, touched his arm, moved on.

And then she reached Baelor.

You couldn't hear the words, but you could see everything. The way her face lit with genuine warmth. The way he smiled back. Not in the polite smile he gave lords, but something easier, softer. The way she leaned in to speak, her hand finding his arm, lingering. The way he didn't pull away.

They stood together like two people who had done this a hundred times before. Two people who fit.

You weren't going to stand there and let that happen.

The wine made it easy, warm and bold and familiar. You moved toward them with all the confidence you could muster, telling yourself the flush in your face was only the heat, not the jealousy burning beneath your skin.

He looked up as you approached. His face did that thing you loved, a bit of surprise, then warmth, then something softer. His hand reached for you instinctively, finding your waist, pulling you close.

"There you are." His voice was warm, genuinely glad. "I was beginning to think you abandoned me.”

"Never." You smiled up at him, and for a moment everything was okay. His eyes on your face like you were the only person in the room.

Then you remembered her.

You turned, a smile still fixed in place. "Lady Dayne. Forgive me, I should have greeted you properly earlier."

Allyria inclined her head gracefully. "No forgiveness needed Princess. The demands of a royal tour leave little time for pleasantries."

Her voice was warm, cultured, effortless. She made you feel like a child playing at court.

"She was just telling me about Starfall," Baelor said, his hand moving gently over your waist. "The stone there catches the sunrise in a way that makes the whole tower glow. I told her we'd have to see it before we leave."

"That sounds lovely." Your voice came out steady. Good. "I've heard the Dornish coasts are beautiful."

"They are." Allyria's smile was kind. "Though I confess, I miss the cooler climate of the capital at this time of year. The heat here can be... overwhelming for those not accustomed."

Was that a dig? A warning? You couldn't tell. Her face revealed nothing but pleasant interest.

Baelor's thumb traced a small circle on your hip, a private gesture, meant only for you. "My wife has adapted remarkably well. Though I suspect she enjoys the excuse for lighter gowns."

He glanced down at you, teasing. This was yours. This ease between you, this private language.

Then Allyria laughed, a warm, genuine sound that you loathed. "Oh, I remember how you used to complain about court fashion in your youth. Always tugging at your collars, muttering about Southern summers."

Your youth. A version of him you would never know. A time when she was there, watching him grow into the man he is today.

Baelor chuckled. "I was an insufferable youth, as I recall."

"You were." Her eyes crinkled. "But you grew into yourself eventually."

They shared a look. Not romantic, exactly. Just... knowing. The ease of decades, of history, of inside jokes you would never understand.

Your smile was starting to hurt.

"I should mingle," you heard yourself say.

His hand tightened on your waist. "Stay."

"I'll find you later." You patted his chest, a wifely gesture, perfectly appropriate. "Dance with me when you're free?"

"Promise." He kissed your temple, quick and absent, his attention already drifting back to Allyria, to some more lords approaching, to the hundred demands of his role.

You slipped away.

He didn't stop you.

You grabbed another glass of wine as you drifted, not caring who saw, not caring how you looked. Not caring about any of it. The warmth in your body was starting to fray, giving way to something darker and hotter. Something that hurt.

You couldn't help but look back at him. He was already deep in conversation with her and another older looking man, nodding to some request, listening with all his usual intensity. She laughed at something he said and he smiled… that real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes.

You drank more wine.

"Careful, Auntie. If you grip that glass any tighter, it'll shatter."

Aerion. Of-fucking-course Aerion. He appeared beside you like a bad smell, all sharp cheekbones and sharper smiles. You had done your best to avoid him the entire tour, your husband's least favorite nephew, a presence you could happily live without.

But the wine was in your blood now, and his mocking smile made you angrier than ever.

You turned, forcing a smile in place. "Nephew. How pleasant to see you. You look well."

His smile twisted. "And you look... drunk."

You shrugged. "The heat makes me thirsty."