whole house hot idccc

your entire life, you've never once witnessed your mother and father share a moment of affection. it's quite the opposite, a marriage characterized by icy remarks and disregard.

your septa, in a misguided attempt to save you from the same fate, was always steadfast in her most important lesson— once you were wed, you would no longer be a lady of highgarden. you would be a wife, and wives are meant to be agreeable, lacking in opinion, and obliged to bear heirs.

thus, as you pledged yourself to the son of oldtown, that is what you resolved to be. nothing more, nothing less.

and it worked. for a little while, at least. ser gwayne is completely taken with you— poised, polite, and beautiful in the way that men write songs about.

but the man you married is quite clever, and it doesn't take him long to realize that you are perhaps too gracious.

for three moons now, he has toiled to earn your trust. to see what lies behind your mask of docile courtesy. truthfully, he finds it more challenging than any foe's sword or diplomat's politic.

his efforts have not been entirely fruitless, and he looks forward to the moments it seems he has earned your confidence to some degree. just days ago, you petitioned him on behalf of a young servant boy who's shoes had fallen to disrepair.

he acceded without pause, and watched later on as you presented new boots to the boy. a tender expression decorated your features as you spoke with him, a sight that was new to gwayne.

it tugged at something in the very center of his chest and strengthened his resolve.

while you took note of the way your husband's demeanor softens around you, especially when you are alone in his chambers, you surmised it must simply be fatigue, pity, or some mix thereof.

what other conclusion is there to draw, when he has only lain with you in the way a husband does his wife but once since your wedding night?

to think he must find you undesirable despite all your efforts is disheartening, to say the least. in your attempts to initiate intimacy, he returns your kisses briefly, but eventually pulls away and suggests, "shall we turn to slumber, wife?"

unbeknownst to you (and thankfully his father, as it would surely inspire his ire), gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.

so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.

until he proves himself to you.

until you want him too.

as the sun begins its ascent above the horizon, you're perched on the ledge of your chamber window, staring down at the port of oldtown. while gwayne readies himself for the day, the dock workers and fisherman are already hard at work.

"you know..." your tone, somewhat pensive, draws his attention. "the mornings here are an oddity to me."

your hands fidget with one another in your lap, a display that does not escape his notice. "how do you find?"

"they are rather.. overwrought. the blinding light reflected off the sea. the salt that carries in with the breeze. the cries of the gulls..."

gwayne begins to suspect that your words are not meant for him— more so a personal observation spoken aloud. there's an element of your disposition that feels solemn, a circumstance that has grown more frequent in recent days.

approaching where you sit, he peers out of the window before turning his gaze to you. a thought occurs to him as he studies your face.

"what time i spend in highgarden, i find myself overextended with little opportunity to appreciate the scenery— tell me of the mornings there."

a fond smile graces your lips, much to his relief.

"oh, they are beautiful. periwinkle skies. the soft croons of doves. the smell of roses, sweet and faint. i... i miss it fiercely."

your eyes meet his, and frightened realization dawns upon your countenance as you mistake the sympathy written on his face for disappointment.

"b-but i am grateful to be here, husband. being in oldtown, with you, is doubtless a privilege many a lady has dreamed of."

his brow furrows and he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you.

"it aggrieves me that you oft refrain from speaking freely, my sweet wife. your words bore no offense. surely anyone would miss a home so lovely."

you look away bashfully, feeling as if you've been ensnared in some intricate trap.

hoping to relieve your apparent doubt, gwayne adds, "i should like to see one of these highgarden mornings together, wife. what do you say?"

your eyes widen as your gaze meets his, astonishment dominating your every feature. "you would go to such lengths on my behalf?"

"well, certainly." his head tilts ever so slightly. "is it not my duty to ensure your happiness?"

the question leaves you speechless. never had you been taught any version of marital duty that involved your own contentment.

you stand with a sigh, brushing past him and pacing the length of your chambers as you ponder his words. "i.. i could not possibly trouble you with my childish whims—"

he catches you by the wrist, his tone full of sincerity. "be assured, petal, it's no trouble at all. the journey is scarcely a day."

the term of endearment, a recent development, makes your cheeks feel warm. "my gratitude is yours for even entertaining such a notion, husband."

"husband.." he repeats, smiling at you softly. "when shall i have the honor of hearing mine own name from your lips?"

it's quiet for a moment as you try and fail to recall a time you heard your mother and father refer to one another so familiarly.

"is that your desire?" you finally ask.

he hums, considering the question. "my sole desire is to have you as you are— not the duty bound wife of this undeserving husband, but your true self, wherever she may be hiding."

your heart stutters violently in your chest. "oh."

he lets out a breath of amusement, your brief response potentially the most candid you've ever been with him.

"i'd wager i could make the arrangements to leave for highgarden in three days time. would that be agreeable?"

a small gasp escapes your lips. "truly? you mean it?"

"of course—"

you're both caught off guard when you press upon your tip toes and throw your arms around his neck. you miss the way his cheeks flush pink before he returns your embrace in earnest.

your next words are spoken quietly, but your husband hears them quite clearly. "thank you, gwayne."

you pull away just a few inches, and his smile is so wide that small dimples form upon his cheeks and his eyes shine brightly. you've always found him handsome, but the sight before you makes your knees feel a little weak.

"very well, then. i will see to our travels today," he affirms. emboldened by your proximity, he cannot refrain from leaning down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. "i shall see you for supper this evening."

before you can process what's happened, much less muster up a response, you're left alone.

staring after the doors through which he disappeared, the pads of your fingers move to the place his lips met your skin.

Maekar groaned, finally tearing himself from you. 

He only meant to give you a quick goodbye kiss, for the day that is, but you quickly turned one kiss into two into a passionate kiss that had Maekar humming against your mouth.

“One more,” you asked with puffy lips, your arms draped around his neck.

“Fine,” Maekar grunted before pulling you closer again, his tongue finding little resistance.

You didn’t have to touch him to know how painfully hard you were making him, Maekar’s huge hands splayed across your back, his fingertips pressing in, his head dipping lower…

“You’re going to be late, husband,” you smiled, pressing a quick peck to his lips.

This time, Maekar swallowed his groan.

Around dinner time, the door to your chambers opened without a knock, in a way you knew Maekar was entering. Still, you pretended to be deeply engrossed in the book you were reading, expecting Maekar to huff and puff a little before leading you to your bedchambers.

“Did you find that amusing?” his gruff voice loomed over you.

“Hm?” you feigned ignorance and innocence, though a tiny smirk gave you away. Looking up to Maekar through your lashes, you could tell he was in a particular mood, especially when he tossed his cape over the closest chair. 

“Undress,” he ordered, and if you thought you could tease him a little more, the tone of his voice left nothing up for discussion. 

Slowly, you stood, unlacing your dress without any sense of urgency, but Maekar waited for the whole Gods-forsaken morning. His lips crashed onto yours, all teeth and bite, his hands tugging, pulling, and breaking, a distinct sound of the fabric ripping filling the room. 

Soon, you were standing bare in front of your husband, his lips leaving a trail of bruises over the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands roaming your body. His hot breath was making you so wet, your hands finally cupping his cock through his breeches.

“Fuck,” Maekar finally grunted, his teeth gliding over your shoulder. He took a couple of steps back, slumping into a chair, taking in your figure. 

Your mouth watered at the sight of Maekar freeing his cock, and you immediately went to kneel.

“No,” he rasped, stroking himself. “Come here. Fuck yourself.”

He immediately hooked one arm around you as you straddled him, the other grabbing your ass; slowly, without any preparation, you lined up the tip of Maekar’s cock and, with a deep breath, slowly started to sink on it. 

It hurt, but you wanted it badly. 

Watching a red flush creep up Maekar’s neck and how he was so desperately swallowing all his moans made you feel so eager to please him, so with a painful yelp, you sat all the way down. 

Maekar’s hand flew to your neck to steady you as your whole body trembled, speared on his cock; he pulled you against himself, your hands bracing against his chest.

“Now you know how I felt the whole morning,” he spat out, but you knew your husband.

There was no bite in his words, and he even pressed a quick kiss to your temple. You rolled your hips slowly, feeling how Maekar’s cock throbbed inside you, and he finally let out a long groan, his head falling between your tits, licking and sucking.

You continued rolling your hips a little faster, listening to Maekar muffle his groans and moans on your tits, his teeth grazing your hardened, sensitive nipples. It unlocked something in you, being completely naked and him fully clothed, for reasons you could never understand.

Your legs were trembling already, but you were determined; you knew Maekar was going to punish you properly in the evening, take your time with you and keep you on edge for hours, denying you over and over again. It was a gift, your current time together, a loving treat before he’d unleash on you.

But now, his cock was spreading you, mixing a little pain with a lot of pleasure, your body nothing but a vessel for Maekar to relax into a little. Or a lot, you smirked to yourself, feeling ropes of cum already leaking out of you in the middle of his surprised orgasm.

“Fuck,” he muttered after his breathing returned to normal. “I need to change out of these fucking clothes.

“I have to go, my love,” Baelor whispered, still holding you close as you sat in his lap.

“You’re always in the meetings, My Prince,” you protested, your nails lightly scratching the skin at his nape, just as you knew would drive him wild. “I never see you anymore.”

You pulled him into a deep, tender, intimate kiss, feeling the pressure in his breeches against your thigh. Baelor’s hands tightened around you, and a breathless moan escaped your lips, going directly to the Crown Prince’s cock.

And then you pulled away, watching his differently coloured eyes go all glassy and unfocused, his hands falling to your ass, gripping it, but letting go when you stood up.

He watched you depart his solar, trying to remind himself that duty called, but wanting nothing else but to follow you back to your shared chambers.

It wasn’t that late when Baelor finally made his way to you, at least not by Baelor’s standards. He could barely pay attention during the meeting, his mind constantly drifting to you, to that kiss, your body pressed against his. 

He found you asleep, a book splayed over your chest, one hand still atop it; you dozed off in the middle of a chapter. Baelor gently removed it, making sure to slide a bookmark inside, before carefully putting it aside. 

You wore nothing but his favourite shift, a dark red silk that was transparent in certain light — the one you wore on your wedding night. 

With a new sense of urgency, Baelor undressed, sliding under the covers next to you. He has missed you and your warmth, his cock stirring to full hardness when a first sleepy moan escaped your lips.

“Baelor?” you whispered, your heavy-lidded eyes meeting his glassy ones. 

Usually, Baelor would be patient, controlled, measured. But those kisses you shared before his meeting reminded him how much he loved to let go, lose himself in you.

“You’ve been teasing me the whole day,” Baelor whispered back, his lips capturing yours as his fingers slid over your breasts, pinching your nipple through the flimsy fabric.

You just moaned in reply, one of your hands tangling in his hair, the other one sliding back to his nape, your nails dragging over the skin; Baelor sighed in your mouth, pressing his tongue deeper, climbing on top of you. You could feel his cock already, hard, hot, and leaking, before his fingers found their way lower, exploring your heat. 

Not for long, as when he was satisfied that you could take him without too much preparation, Baelor impatiently bunched up your shift, his muscular thighs forcing yours wider apart, exposing you fully to him. He tried, Gods know he tried, to give you enough time to get used to the stretch, but when your cunt started to greedily swallow him, Baelor had to admit he was just a man.

He sheathed himself fully, drawing an audible moan out of you, selfishly chasing his own pleasure. He knew now exactly how you liked it the most, which spots to hit and how hard, and how slowly to drag himself out before feverishly fucking back into you. None of it mattered now, as Baelor kept fucking you into the mattress.

You loved it. 

So much so that your moans and whines became louder than the slapping of the skin on skin, your nails lodged firmly into the skin of Baelor’s back, trying to bring him as close as possible, feel his warmth and his sweat. When your back arched off the bed into him, and you started babbling his name, Baelor’s lips finally turned into a satisfied smirk. 

He would never admit it, but he loved getting back at you.

You couldn’t help yourself tease but Lyonel a little before every meeting, just kissing him for a moment too long, or wearing his favourite perfumes and oils.

“You little minx,” Lyonel would breathe out every time, willing himself to leave and tear himself from you.

Today, however, you were feeling particularly naughty, standing on your tiptoes, tangling your hand in Lyonel’s curls, your tongue swirling around his.

“My Lord,” an embarrassed young servant tried again, not looking at you two, his cheeks and ears burning.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lyonel muttered, physically moving away from you, until you cupped his cock, that was.

You could feel it harden under your hand, confines of Lyonel’s breeches still secluding it somewhat.

He practically jumped away from you, his mouth falling open.

“Wife, how dare you start this before my meeting?” there was a certain level of dramatics in his voice, almost as if he was personally offended that you were going to leave him high and dry.

But you just winked at him, pressing a rather chaste kiss to his cheek, and ushered him out of the solar.

You were pretty proud of yourself, occasionally chuckling to yourself as you continued to read your book, waiting for Lyonel to return. It would be some time, you guessed, as this meeting was important, although you didn’t bother too much to find out why.

Imagine your surprise then, when Lyonel returned to the solar with pressing urgency.

“Done already?” you frowned, wondering who and what offended him now.

“No, no,” Lyonel mumbled, walking to you, unlacing his breeches. “We’re taking a short break.” He led you behind his desk as you laughed.

“Take it off,” his head indicated to your dress.

“Lyonel, here?” it was your turn for fake dramatics, especially as Lyonel already had you in his solar, multiple times.

“Take it off, or I’ll take it off,” his voice was impatient and so, so needy. 

He pulled his breeches down a little, just enough to free his cock, before sitting down. You watched him stroke his cock, flushed with blood already, looking painfully hard. 

“Were you this hard this whole time?” you teased, slowly unlacing our dress, trying to give Lyonel a show. 

“Hurry the fuck up,” Lyonel barked, getting seriously impatient.

You didn’t listen, because when did you? So Lyonel took matters into his own hands, turning you around with a surprised shriek from you, and bending you over the table.

“You need it that badly, husband?” you listened as he bunched up your dress and your shift, his cock already sliding between your folds, coating it in your slick.

With a sharp thrust, he sheathed himself completely inside you, causing you to fall further forward on the table as a painful yelp tore from your lips.

No matter how hard or how often Lyonel fucked you, it always took some time to get used to the merciless stretch of his cock.

But this time, Lyonel wouldn’t grace you that time, irritated and a little angry you spurred him on in the first place, chasing his own pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck,” he moaned out, his hands pulling your hips to meet his thrusts, the cold of his rings burning into your skin. 

“I needed this,” Lyonel grunted as he continued to plunge into you, “I needed you.”

His babbling always sent such pleasurable jolts through you, sometimes even more than his cock. But you liked it, when he took, when he used you, when he was so desperate to fuck you, he adjourned his meeting. 

You listened, with a smirk on your face, as Lyonel’s breathing became erratic, a tell-tale sign he was close. He gripped your hips even harder, stilling inside you before spilling his seed. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered, slapping your ass before quickly lacing himself back up and returning to his meeting.

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Oh you've heard all about that, but it was adorable how she wanted to share this 'secret' piece of information with you, so you pretended to be caught off guard anyway, she was the nameday girl after-all, and a little white lie never hurt anyone, now did it? You did not know if she was to have another nameday as good as this one, considering the amount your father spent to show off, insurmountable amounts of coin that may never find their way back to the coffers.

You could not say you were particularly excited about the arrival of your guests of honor, being what you were. The kind term used for you was "natural daughter", although many preferred the short and sweet title of "bastard" when your back was turned.

And while the reputation of bastards were never truly as flowery as that surname branded upon you the moment you drew breath—it did not help at all that the war waged by one that shared your affliction was still fresh on the minds of all. Sufficed to say you were unsure of the wisdom of your being here—more so on your task of "earning favor" from your honored, royal guests, which was a more dignified way to say you were to doll yourself up to entice them into taking you as paramour—that was the best case scenario.

You doubted anything would come of it. For one, even if it was a trivial thing, you hardly knew a thing of the royal princes for you did not expect to meet them in person, much less see them a single time in your life.

As a result of that realization, you decided to pay a visit to that increasingly packed meadow, confident that you would find what you desired there, because you certainly weren't going to get any from your lord-father.

Naturally, the information was easy to find, and even more so entertaining was the night you spent acquiring it, this was one upside of bastardy, prying eyes were not constant and you were allowed to do as you wished so long as you were not recognized—an easy feat.

Opinions and telltales on the Targaryens were as clashing as night and day, you'd found.

Most were not completely content with them, one man drunkenly regaled you with tales of times he never really witnessed himself, of times before the Conquerors, when the kingdoms were independent and spent ample time affronting the house of dragon with a blistering, audacious loudness — you left him mid-rant, of course.

You doubted that any of the treason he was wasting your time and his breath with was truly any of your business, if it was anything true, and it certainly was not giving you anything of substance for you to use.

The song of the Hammer and Anvil kindly gave you a little perspective on them, not much on their personalities besides them being an excellent, unrivaled pair of soldiers, but you learned about one other thing. If you enjoyed his company enough and were so inclined to try and solicit the older prince to take you to bed—you would have a good time, if the song held any truth, what with his giant veiny "host of dornish spear-men."

The Hammer's son, Valarr, was married so that was that, you were not exactly desperate enough to be a homewrecker.

The Anvil's sons, Prince Daeron and Aerion were close to you in age, you found, neither of them had any tales or accounts that tugged at your heartstrings, they were not particularly the type of men you would swoon over. You liked your gentlemen older, leaving you only two choices, their fathers.

The older prince seemed the kind to humor a young maiden and allow you his time and conversation, but the younger prince? You were unsure of him, the man would most likely kick you right out, you doubted someone with as many sons and daughters, many of which were described with distasteful words such as "disappointing" and "monsterous", a man who had to take care of such a brood alone would not care nor have the time or energy for baser pleasures such as a woman's company.

But at a certain point during your little investigation and plans you decided not to overthink it. Princes they may be, they were no different than the men you've brought to heel before. A fact, self-evident and unchanged was as followed: there was nothing so undoing to a man than a lady's touch and smile. And you will prove it once again when those black and red banners finally show themselves in Ashford Meadow.

"Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honorable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne," the Herald might as well pause to drink some water from how many titles he had to mention and no one would fault him for it.

And if his titles hadn't made you dizzy, the man himself made sure to make it so you were. Draped in Targaryen black, he took your breath away; with his broad shoulders, his greying hair and beard that only emphasized how handsome he was.

He towered over them all even from your perch on the stands above, you were thankful for your bastardy then, because you knew you would make a fool of yourself if he were before you now, and smiled at you like that.

"and his brother, Maekar." The herald rushed in a near stumble of words, that misstep not missed by the man heralded, you were certain his name was not said correctly either—or you thought you were certain, at least.

Was it 'may-kar' or 'my-kar'? Maybe the herald was onto something with that 'mee-kar'.

Oh who in the hells cared?

That chain of thought that only sprang out as a futile distraction from the intense heat and dizziness you felt when you saw his brother was abandoned as quickly as your mind took it up, because what little sense remained—what little he spared you at the sight of him—reminded you that you mustn't even be here.

And so you retreated back within the castle with your marching steps matched with the rushing rhythm of your heart. Your quickened pace made some castle servants slow their own to see if you were well, some instead staring at your retreating form with a raised eyebrow, wondering what managed to chip at the Lady Flowers' polished poise so much so that she would rush in a manner so unlike herself.

In the solar that doubled as a chamber for guest reception, you waited, willing away all the jitters you felt as you inspected the bowls of fruits laid out on the table for what felt like the hundredth time but truly was the fifth.

It would not do to lose composure like this.

You believed that you've perfected the art of pretending.

Ever since you've known what it meant, you've been a pretender.

You've pretended to not notice the little slights of Lady Ashford, the biggest of all being the creation of your moniker: "Lady Flowers."

It used to wound, but now you were numbed to such artless mockery.

Adding to that your many dresses being devoid of the Ashford sun, but each generously overflowing with flowers from the tops of the bodice down to the base of the skirts—each petal a reminder, underhanded yet as clear as that sun you were deprived of for so long.

It was only after your sweet sister's insistence that you would match her in garments when you finally got the chance to know what it felt to bear the sun—it felt empty.

Your grandest performance was in pretending that it did not annoy or upset you how many times you were thrown onto lords for alliances that would never bear fruition, because no matter how charmed a man would be he would much rather marry the daughter of a greater lord to better serve his position, you were momentary, an alluring distraction that was to be forgotten the second the hoofbeats of departure drummed their way out of town.

You did not understand what your father hoped to gain from this. Did he think the princes—the heir apparent and the man who was more soldier than prince—would ever think to ask for your hand?

It was laughable—but hey, at least you would be spending time with Him, and if you were lucky it would be until the morning, your father would not shame you for it, apparently—annoyingly. It seemed your "whoring" was acceptable if it was with a prince.

Speaking of, you could hear a march of steps and your father's voice following along the sounds, carrying on a conversation you'd rather not interrupt. With a deep breath, you smiled gently and charmingly, the smile of a lady who has never been tense a day in her life, the smile of a lady that doesn't know the meaning of trouble, but would be down to get up close and personal with it — the smile men liked to see.

The silver-haired prince did not even realize you were there, as did most of them, not even your father realized you were in the room, but you did not truly blame them, because you stood in their blind-spot beside the solar's entrance, and you did not announce yourself, who were you really, even your lord-father let the conversation proceed without him, so why interfere?

The older prince saw you first, his gaze sweeping, eyes sharpened with the honed perceptiveness of a man who had to learn to count every head and to whose body they were connected to before he could let his guard down for even a second in any room he stepped into.

You held his gaze, his eyes of light and dark unfaltering in their focus.

They were pretty, you decided, especially when they flitted down to take you in. The motion quick and one you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't staring back at him.

Perhaps staring directly at a prince was insolence, but he did not seem to mind, so neither should you.

Your smile grew wider, the nerves you felt settled down, he was as gallant as they all said, respectful and humble, gentle and kind with the servants, calm and understanding with his agitated brother. Regardless of his lack of respect for his hosts, deeming your sister's nameday celebrations a "miserable circus."

Your father turned around and nearly jumped in place, making the princes turn sharply to where he was staring, your name burst out of his lips in a shout.

Your smile stayed unmoving, no matter how many times you scared your father like this it was always hysterical, it was made more amusing by how the hands of the princes found the hilts of their daggers in a flash, thinking there was some danger by the way your father jolted, you allowed yourself a passing glance at the older prince's hand—just for a moment.

"Your graces, allow me to introduce you," your father started as you walked towards him at the outstretch of his arm beckoning you close.

You gave a curtsy as you were introduced, just like those disdained septas taught you, back straight as an arrow when you bent down, swift and graceful. To your surprise (and utter delight) Baelor extended a hand, palm facing up in a polite and wordless request to take your hand in a kiss, a request you granted in a near instant with girlish eagerness shrouded by a lady's restraint.

Just before his lips touched your hand the booming voice of the Anvil had him draw back. You did not like that man—at all.

"You!" He shouted and all heads turned to the doorway to find what held the man's ire.

"Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?"

A tall man timidly showed himself from behind the carved, curved wall, the way he believed that he hid himself well was comical, something told you that was a thing that happened to him a lot. No man of that stature can really blend anywhere, but his posture disagreed with him, he slouched as if that could make the prior statement untrue.

Having realized the impropriety of your proximity, that his hand was still holding onto yours, you pulled away reluctantly and took your place next to the steward, and you watched. Looked on to the hedge knight's appeal to the prince, who only responded with grace and patience, unlike his brother who kept on interrupting, disgruntled by everything.

The admiration you held for him only grew stronger and stronger. You've never met a nobleman that was as devoid of arrogance as he. To remember a hedge knight, a stranger one met once upon a joust was not something any would bother doing, but he did.

It was refreshing, and you could tell the knight thought so too, having been turned away by so many men who have had his old master nearly die countless times under their service but were too entrenched in their own splendor to care about him over his lack of a great noble name. You were happy for him, truly, it was your sincerest hope that he would win, if not you wish he'd be agreeable to having his horse and armor bought back by a lady and not prattle on about propriety and how it would be unseemly for him to let a woman spend her silvers on him, he seemed the type, you could see it in his big doe eyes.

Now that you thought about it—does he even own any armor? Seemingly not, from that sorry string of rope tied around his waist acting as belt.

After all was said and done, and the hedge knight took his leave, you felt that it was your turn. You were done with the prelude; You have introduced yourself to them, might even go as far as to say that you already held their interest—Baelor more so than Maekar, you could not tell if the latter's looks were of interest or not, what with his scowl etched deep in his face, he was offended by your presence, most like.

But Baelor?

Everything pointed to him taking a liking to you—it was exciting. His mindful eyes spread a pleasant warmth at the core of your stomach, spreading outwards, like the warmth of a hot drink in a cold winter's night. If only that hedge night hid himself better, maybe you'd know what his lips felt like on your skin, you wonder if you might've fainted then if only his eyes had caused butterflies to swirl in your stomach.

The tall doors of your father's chambers loomed overhead — you stared blankly at them, but the frustration was close to showing itself on your face.

Mind absent, you didn't hear the footsteps approach.

"If you mean to speak to your lord-father, my lady," a genteel voice that was sure to haunt your dreams cut through the fog surrounding your mind. "you will not find him here—he has been kind to allow me residence in his chambers for the time being."

The surprise lasted hardly a second before you quelled it and gave him a curtsy. It wasn't that you hadn't known about this lodging agreement, it didn't surprise you at all when you were informed of it, your father is arguably the physical manifestation of sycophancy, it was more embarrassing than anything else if you were to be honest.

"Your grace," you greeted with a small smile. "I did not know of this change—I apologize,"

"Do not apologize, this is your home," Baelor reassured with a small smile.

Quietly, you nodded. "I will not disturb you any longer, your grace."

"Enjoy your night," you said as you passed him and the kingsguard whose name you did not know. Perhaps you could have made an excuse and said you wanted to take back something of yours, a necklace, a book, anything, you were sure he would be kind enough to let you in — but did you want to disturb him after such an eventful night and day? His patience and hospitality surely had limits.

Baelor's gaze followed your retreating form—eyes drifting down despite himself at the bare of your back—he watched until you left the corridor and his vision turned their focus towards Ser Willem, who watched the doorway you exited through with some unfounded interest—still.

The scene irked him, the man should approach his duty with the mindfulness and zeal it required—not stare stupidly like a love-struck boy.

"Ser Willem," the call of his name snapped the knight out of his stupor. "the lady is no threat— be sure to mind your manners," he said before striding off to his bedchamber, the knight following behind with a lowered head.

"I understand, your grace," the knight replied respectfully, head inclined.

The prince only gave a hum in response, eyeing him before he stepped into the unfamiliar room.

Baelor had only been here once, the feeling of discomfort he felt then remained even now—especially now. Because he could only think about it's owner's daughter, the odd feeling of want made even odder now that he inhabited the man's quarters.

It seemed that everywhere he looked he could only find the sun, whether carved into wood or stones, that sun-in-splendor would look back at him. It was not a bad thing, not quite, he found it rather amusing—until a flash of your sun-shaped pendant which hung too low off your chain crossed his mind's eye. It was not amusing then.

He stroked the spines of books as he walked along the towering bookcases, hoping that he would find something boring enough to make him drowse off as soon as he could, and stop himself from thinking about those cheeky eyes and soft hands.

Half an hour passed and he has already discarded two books, the third making the same mistake as the ones prior and failing in its job to distract him.

The headache did not help ease his plight, after a minute of massaging his temple he decided he didn't want to be in this place anymore.

"You may rest now, Ser," Baelor dismissed the knight. Ser Willem thanked his prince with some reluctance in his voice, but he didn't argue and took his leave.

He stepped onto the sundeck, eager to just get some cool air on his skin and into his lungs. Leaned onto the banisters, he took a deep breath.

A grinning honeyed voice to his right made itself known.

"Can't sleep, your grace?"

He turned, the motion quick and graceless—unlike him.

You were here.

Leaned on the palm of your hand and cross-legged with a bottle of wine beside a cyvasse board sat on the table, you had a finger playing with a dragon piece, your soft digit petting it's head with slow and gentle motions, and for a moment, an absurd feeling of envy crossed his heart.

"My lady," he greeted calmly after regaining his composure from the surprise and quite honestly, the scare. "I apologize, I did not realize you were here."

"It's alright," you reassured smilingly. "it seems like this is a habit of mine."

"Not being noticed?" Baelor questioned with a tilt of his head, he could not believe that for a second.

You hummed as you frowned, matching the tilt of his head with one of your own, looking thoughtfully at something in the far distance. He almost apologized for the offense he caused before you spoke up again.

"No, I have no issues with that," you said, then grinned again. "I meant my habit of scaring the living daylights out of the poor souls around me."

"and it seems you are my victim for the night," you said playfully and casually before raising the goblet to your lips—unknowing of the less than innocent thoughts those reckless words put in his head, dishonorable thoughts unbecoming of a man like him.

"Sorry for that, your grace."

"You needn't worry about that, I was hardly startled," Baelor lied with a smile, pleased that you hadn't run away yet. His eyes found the table once more. He was not unfamiliar with this game, but he would not say he understood nor knew much of it, busy as he was and will be for the rest of his life, most like.

"Will your friend be returning? I may leave if you wish – I would hate to intrude on your fun," He inquired, eyes set on the pieces that were out of place, who was with you? that ridiculous feeling returned to him.

"No, there is no one, I was playing with myself," you replied casually as if what you just said doesn't sound deranged to anyone with ears to hear and a mind to process.

Baelor did not comment. He sat down across from you.

"I must confess, I've never gotten to play this," he confessed.

"Too busy huh?" You asked and he nodded, smiling steadily.

"I have seen it firsthand many moons ago, a Volantene trading caravan passed King's Landing on route," he told you as he held up an ivory colored piece, examining it, it's details, the timbered feel of it. "among the many items was this game—I dare say I've never seen the courtiers more enthralled by a pastime that was not a tourney nor a feast."

"I imagine they were more docile then," you commented offhandedly, and he laughed, the sound pleasant but carried a degree of exhaustion that told you everything you needed to know.

"Oh no—no," he refuted gently. "the court is not a place for serenity, but I will admit it was… amusing to watch them compete."

Baelor looked at the disorganized board with a pair of pieces in his hand, he had the look of a lost man trying to finish a task with no instruction. He thought that maybe he should have paid more attention as he spectated Valarr and Matarys' games the few times he sat with them of late.

"Where do these go, my lady?" He asked you, lost and unsure.

"The pieces go wherever you want them to — it is a game of strategy," you explained, gathering the pieces on your side in a line, readying them for introductions.

"I can teach you the rules, then you can best decide where each piece should be—" you looked up to him with a glint in your eyes. "—that is assuming you do want to play with me, of course."

Baelor hoped that he would have enough patience and willpower to survive the night without any tainted thoughts to sully his mind. "Enlighten me, my lady." You slid the cup you were sipping on to his side, and he only realized then that there was only one. "You will need some of this to ease the headache this will bring you, your grace."

What you told him was no lie, the rules of this game were hard to take in, but he learned regardless. Time passed by, and he hasn't won a single game yet, but he was not particularly interested in winning.

Strangely, the game was not the main source of his fun, it was your conversation. You spoke with him like he was an old friend, not a prince. You spoke to him so naturally, you weren't afraid to tease and taunt, you made him question his moves with a tsk and a smirk in your eyes, not going easy on him nor letting him win—and he let you, it felt freeing in a way.

"Do you believe in spectres, my prince?" you asked, your catapult taking his dragon again. His brow arched at the strange turn of conversation – not in mockery, of course – it was a bit unexpected to go from telling him (or taunting him) on how you were going to win this match in three moves to discuss whether dead spirits walked among you.

"I could not say," he replied honestly, trying to assess whether this was a tactic to throw him off his game or not, finding no answer in your lovely eyes.

You smiled. "So… it's a no then?"

"The world is full of oddities, I am impartial on the matter of their existence, the fact I haven't seen one does not dispute that they are real." A snicker left you, he was taking the question too seriously. Baelor gave an amused smile in response.

"May I ask why you have brought this up?"

"Word has it that our castle is haunted by a ghost of a young girl—or it was haunted—it has been a while since anyone spoke of seeing her, although some servant girls swore recently that it was her behind unexplained happenings: such as slammed doors, or that it was her who called them awake by name when they tried to fall asleep, commanding them to do their work,"

"Do you believe any of it?" He asked, eyes on you and unblinking when his king fell and you won once again.

"I do not," you responded as you sat back. "anyone would attribute the doings of the wind and a half-asleep mind to a ghost if they were tired enough, especially if their madame overworks them for nameday preparations,"

"There has to be some explanation to what the servants have seen all those years ago," he said.

A grin fought it's way to your lips again despite your attempts at resisting it, mischief danced in your eyes once more, like you knew more than you were letting on and were itching to reveal it. "The only plausible explanation is that it was merely a prank blown out of scale, there was only so much to talk about that wasn't about the war at that point in time, it was no wonder they clung to the tale."

Baelor hummed thoughtfully before his hands finally moved to rearrange the pieces back in place, this time with the same setup as before.

"It was you wasn't it?" He accused.

A laugh tore through the silence that followed, all sunny and mirthful. "What gave it away?"

Baelor looked at you as if you said something preposterous, he chuckled with an arched brow. "You all but confessed with how knowing you looked, and with your penchant to joke and terrify it was hardly a challenge to connect the dots."

His smirk fell into a gentle smile. "It was good of you though, to distract them,"

Your gleeful gaze turned something coy when it left his. "You flatter me, your grace, I've only done it because I found it funny, nothing more, nothing less,"

Since it didn't seem like you'd relent, Baelor decided to leave it at that and gestured to the board with one hand. "Your turn to start I believe."

"Hm…" You looked at the board, lost in thought — for a moment — the better way to describe the look you had now was one of a trickster in bliss, by the way you tried to hide your scheming grin behind a lonesome finger to no avail, he could not help but smile when your eyes met his. Whatever you had planned he was eager to uncover it.

But uncover Baelor did not, he could not — because how could he expect that your scheme would be turning the board the opposite way? "This is hardly permitted, my lady," Baelor said as he accepted defeat and took in the formation of the pieces that were now his and wondered, should he start trying?

"Oh it's not permitted—but isn't it more fun this way?" You told him, the curl of your lips all happy and sly-like, satisfied with your little ploy.

"I will allow this, but you will be making the first move," he told you.

"Whatever my prince wants," you told him, the silvery words light and teasing, sending his thoughts into frenzy, longing fantasies with you as the sole focus clouded his mind and urged his breaths to quicken ever so slightly.

The silence only fanned the flames of chaos in his mind.

"May I ask you something, my lady?" Baelor said, making you look at him curiously. "Of course," you responded.

"You were not in attendance for the first tilt this evening—how come?"

When he could not find you, he had assumed you were tired or disinterested in such activities. However, owing to all he learned about you in these past few hours you shared—your liveliness and love for your sister—it made little sense that you have not come to enjoy the tourney in her honor.

"No," you said coolly. "I was there."

His brows furrowed in confusion, were you teasing him again? "But I could not find you?" With your chin rested atop your interlocked fingers, you smiled wickedly.

"Oh? Were you looking for me, my prince?"

"I was only curious where you might have been," Baelor replied, the warm hues of the candlelight hid the flush on his face, or he hoped they did.

That impish grin of yours fell into a gentle smile, finding the reaction to his blunder so endearing you decided to have mercy on him.

"I was in the crowd," you shivered, the action causing the strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, you giggled as you recalled the events and raised the fabric back in place, unaware of his wistful gaze at your skin. "had the closest view of Lord Tully's sensational stunt,"

"That was dangerous," Baelor said, voice steady and stern, but you did not pick up on his meaning.

"I would not be concerned if I were you, the man must have done it so many times I doubt any raw fish would make him sick–" you said laughingly until Baelor cut you off.

"That was not what I was referring to—you should not have been down there—had you even brought any guards along with you?"

"No—there was no need for that," you said, confused by his sudden lecture. He gave you a questioning look. "How so?"

A momentary silence passed over the both of you. It would be a lie to say his concern hadn't sent warmth through you, but you were not about to get scolded for allowing yourself to have a bit of fun without having to sit with people you had to mind your manners with or else you would not hear the end of it. It was only for this night anyway, surely you can be allowed that little freedom?

"I am a woman grown, and there is no shortage of gallant men to save me should anything happen, that is discounting the ashford guards out and about the meadow vehemently instructed by my own lord-father to keep the peace—how could I not walk around without fear or care?"

Baelor's chest rose and fell with heavy, irritated breaths as he sat silently, as he looked at you silently. It was maddening how you could not see the danger behind your actions, yet your words did not lack in sense. You were right, but your reasoning—even if sound—did not ease his anxieties.

"Were you not allowed in the stands? and at this evening's supper?" Baelor questioned, restlessly twisting the ring around his finger. He did not understand, Lord Ashford hardly looked ashamed of you, no, he was more than happy to introduce you. Had anyone advised him against it? He hadn't done nor said anything to make anyone think your presence bore any insult to him or his, quite the opposite, so why?

An exhale of a laugh left you, both sardonic and entertained. No, you were not forbidden to attend, the Lord and Lady of Ashford would not pass up an opportunity to have you paraded around with so many princes, lords and landed knights about. Because if the princes did not care for you, other options should be explored.

"It was a personal choice of mine to watch the tilt where I had," you said, coldly, or perhaps it felt that way to him, he could not tell, all he knew was your warm smile and sweet laugh, the lack of them felt jarring.

"as for supper," you continued, practiced smile finding it's home on your lips. "I was not hungry." That was in a way, a lie. You had your fill—but your absence wasn't due to a full stomach—you were largely preoccupied with what you might do or say to him, figuring out which dress appeared the prettiest in the low light (or which of them slipped off easiest), cleaning off the sweat of your outing beforehand, making sure the most fragrant of oils scented the waters of your bath and now your skin, the kind you knew to turn men's heads — but you could not tell him any of that.

Imagine if you had, though, he did let you get away with so many comments and jokes that should have had you in the cells before daybreak, as soon as you verbalized them, matter of fact. "I was actually busy planning how to seduce you, your grace." Yeah… Hilarious.

So hilarious, in fact, that you decided to say it as is.

Shock, confusion, then denial crossed his face in quick succession. He chuckled, the sound betraying his confused, nervous mind and emotions, his fingers grew even more restless as they twisted and twisted that ring around. "Is this your version of an ice-breaker, my lady? because it is not as humorous as you think"

"I may have said like it in jest," you replied, eyeing him for any further reactions, heart thudding all the while. "but I spoke no lie."

"My lady, this is…" Baelor could not find the right word, or rather; He could not say it without feeling like a hypocrite.

"Inappropriate?" You finished for him cheekily. "You cannot truly believe that, was it not you who decided to sit here with me for hours, laughing and sharing wine, all while unchaperoned?"

"A lapse in judgment, a mistake I will not repeat again." Baelor responded firmly, guilt, longing and regret warring in his mismatched eyes. He stood and you followed suit, blocking his escape.

With a finger playing with the tip of his blade's hilt, you smiled, the curl of your agonizingly soft lips almost innocent, as if you were not shredding what little remained of his self-control into pieces. The space between you was far too narrow, so narrow he could catch the scent of lavender and incense with his every breath.

To him no one acted as audacious, as brazen and fearless as you were, it left him amazed how you could just speak like that, to the crown prince no less, but he had to admit to himself if not to you that it was admirable — to speak so freely, never had he such a freedom. What he had no knowledge of was your shaking hand, hidden and clenched into a fist behind your back, you were terrified.

"It was not a lapse in judgment," you countered, watching his jaw clench as his once steady eyes flitted up and down your face. "you knew exactly what you were doing; what you wanted." You stepped closer to him, expecting him to step away, but he did not, urging you on.

"You have spent your whole life working to achieve the realm's needs and wants—but what about you?"

You pressed yourself close to him, taking his face in hand, the scratch of his scruffy beard pleasant on your palm as you ran it up slowly, reverently, the heavy scent of musk and agarwood fueling your desire for him even more. Your other hand rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer in rhythm with yours. Feeling bolder at his lack of rejection, you leaned your face closer to his, and whispered: "What about your needs and wants?"

Baelor felt helpless.

He had to leave, but his legs failed him. He had to push you away, but his hands cradled your face. He had to pull back, but his nose nuzzled at yours. Every voice in his head screamed at him to run — it took the slightest brush of your lips on his to silence them. Just one brush — and what little restraint he had crumbled into dust.

He pressed you hard against him, his other hand tangled in your hair as he kissed you, lips moving against yours fervently. His tongue lapped at yours, he recognized the sweet taste of arbor red on your tongue, despite that, it was the taste of you that intoxicated him, that urged him to keep losing himself in you.

This must be the relief and ecstasy singers and poets sung about so fervently, the feeling one felt after securing their heart's desire after so many years spent hungering for it, he was so lost in that feeling that he nearly forgot of his need to breathe. It was only when you pushed at his chest that he drew back to relieve the restrictive tightness in your chests.

Baelor's hand wandered up and down your naked back, relishing in the shivers his touch caused you. "You will regret wearing such light clothes, my lady," he warned, breath warming your ear. "the night will grow cold soon."

"I do not mind it," you confessed laxly. "that chill only promises that the warmth beneath the covers would feel even sweeter. Rain is always more cherished after a drought, is it not?"

Baelor looked at you and took in the swell of your lips, that hungry feeling gnawed again and he bent down for another kiss, only to pause midway when your wandering hand found the hard line of his cock and squeezed, the sensation caused him to back you onto the table and grip at the edges of the table to hold himself upright.

His groans and pants were music to your ears—to think you were once nervous to meet him—it was only when you had the gall to let out an exhale of a laugh that he took your hand off of him, holding it up by the wrist.

"You believe this funny?" He questioned as he stared at your self-satisfied expression, voice low and tinged with a hint of offense.

"No, my prince, I was only thinking that we could have been at this sooner if I had been bolder,"

"Bolder?" He repeated, more to himself than you, not believing his ears. "There's not a single drop of meekness in your body."

"There could be many drops of you in it, if you wished it so," you offered mischievously. Baelor sighed, exasperated but no less entertained by your tempting words. "Hush now," he said, silencing your giggles with his mouth as he slipped the loose strap of your dress down your shoulders, delighting in the noise that left you when he felt and squeezed at your soft breast.

"Hands on the table," Baelor said, breathless and gaze as hazy as your own, his pupils eclipsed the pretty rings of violet and brown. You obeyed with bated breath, mind in conflict with your body, was it wise to do this here? He had that Kingsguard with him, didn't he? You didn't trust yourself to be quiet when he finally fucked you. That chain of thought was quickly abandoned, it was hard to think when you had a handsome prince reverently caressing up and down your front as he whispered words to you in a language you could not understand when he was not kissing and mouthing at your shoulder.

Just when you were about to voice your impatience, his hands left your body and you heard a clattering sound. You turned your gaze downwards to see his rings laid on the table, discarded. The implications caused that ache at your groin to strengthen, only for it to alleviate when his fingers found home, moving slow — too slow.

"You are wet," Baelor observed, gathering the wetness with smooth strokes up and down your folds, circling at your clit and going low again—his voice was too smug in your opinion. "Too wet—and you've no underthings either. You've been waiting for this moment—haven't you?"

"I—ah!" You could not get a word in before he suddenly slid in a pair of his fingers, the motion smooth and swift. Maybe you were too sensitive. Maybe it was that your body wanted him as much as your heart or that you fantasized about his hands too much — but just those two long boney fingers were enough to make your legs shake and your knees buckle under you. Baelor held you up against him with his free arm, and he chuckled. You were sure he did it on purpose, entering you just when you were about to speak. In your daydreams, you expected him to be far more gentle, but maybe it was just the fruits of your labor, poking and prodding at him the way you did — you liked this side of him, maybe you could make him worse in the best way.

Baelor listened to your poor attempts at staying quiet, moans and cries of "my prince" prettying the silence of the night. He considered keeping the fact that no one could hear you to himself, only for a bit of time, but his better nature won out.

"There's no one but us, love," Baelor told you, he could tell you were about to come off the edge by the way your walls convulsed around his fingers. "you can be as loud as you want."

"My prince—I'm so close," you whined, gripping hard at the edges of the table under you. "I know—I know, you can let go now." A cry left you as your vision went white from the intense pleasure. He slowed his fingers and let you ride down your high. You sighed as he pulled them out, then took deep breaths to regain your composure. This wasn't enough, and when you turned and looked at him, you knew he shared your opinion.

Shivers ran up your skin — the promised cold finally filling the night air.

"Come with me," you said, pulling the straps of your dress back on your shoulder, a plea in your eyes. "my bedchambers aren't too far," you pulled at his belt. "I've yet to return the favor."

Baelor looked down at you, breathing heavily, he could not ignore the throbbing ache of his groin. He took your hand in his and squeezed. "Lead the way."

You tried to contain your eagerness but fell short when it came to steadying your pace — practically dragging the man through the halls like you were late for an important matter—in a way (to the both of you)—this was something long overdue.

Fondness stirred in him at your impatience, he could not recall the last time he wanted—needed someone so badly, and it was only made all the better by knowing that those feelings were not one-sided.

Baelor let you guide him into the darkness of your bedchambers. Immediately, that same maddening scent surrounded his senses, sharpened by the dimmed candlelight and his fierce craving for you.

The same craving that compelled him to pull you so strongly by the waist and into him it tore a gasp out of you that he silenced with a deep kiss. A thud sounded as his belt met the floor along with it's sheathed blade, a clink followed and resounded in the far corner as the brass hand pin met the stone floors, his movements practiced and unneeding of sight. You separated to help him undress, rearing back with a playful smile when he tried to chase after your lips.

"I cannot help you if my hands have no eyes to guide them, my prince," you teased, helping him out of his surcoat and tunic, you ran your hands through his dark chest hairs that somehow felt both rough and soft beneath your palms, raising them up to cradle his face and pull him into a kiss when he bent down to drop his breeches.

Baelor groaned into your mouth when he felt a pressure press onto the tip of his cock and circle, teasing him the way you teased the hilt of his forgotten blade, the way you petted at the head of that ivory dragon piece. Backpedaling until he fell onto the bed, Baelor pulled at the back of your thighs, coaxing you into his lap with your knees on either side of him.

You thumbed at his cheek as you looked down on him. "I want to try something, my prince." Pulling you close with his arms wrapped tight around your hips, he groaned at the friction this position caused.

He called your name for the first time, your lips parted, arousal sparking the hot feeling into a blaze, every intonation and syllable flowing off his tongue liquid sex to your ears. "I think we are past such pleasantries—call me Baelor."

"Baelor," you repeated, grin wide and eyes half-lidded. "may I try something with you?"

"You may," he gave consent, curious to see what you had in store, frowning when you pulled his arms off and breath slowing when you knelt down, he spread his knees apart instinctively. Baelor's mouth fell open with an exhale when your tongue lapped at the tip of his cock, glistened with all the precum accumulated after all that messing about.

It tasted better than your fantasies, the salty, earthy taste made you drool for more. His sounds and tight grip on the gathered hair of your roots urged you to take more of him in, to do more—but you did not. You kept circling at his leaky tip, teasing, kissing it gently, wanting to test his patience, see if you can break under that courteous demeanor again.

"If you begin a task, you should give your all to finish it," Baelor huffed, jaw clenched in frustration, you could tell he was holding back. He resisted the involuntary jerks of his hip up into your mouth, gripping tight at the sheets on his side. You drew back and licked your hips, gaze holding his, insolent, he thought.

"I'd like to take my time with you, it is not every night I have a man so handsome on my bed,"

Baelor pinched your chin between his fingers, gazing down at your all-too-pleased expression. "You want me to beg and plead—is that it?" He surmised, it all aligned in his mind. All you did was torment him from the moment you locked eyes, it was as if you were sent to him as a test to his patience, he was failing at it miserably. It was laughable, decades of self-governance and restraint sharpened by endless trials and adversities hounded onto him by his own blood, his own people, undone by one devilish smile from you.

"No, it is not," you replied, innocent in the face but not in your intentions. "I want you to make me beg and plead."

His breath hitched and he cursed, the words unfamiliar to his tongue. "Unruly thing," Baelor grunted, frustrated, grasping the side of your head. "you will be the death of me." He pushed your head down to his cock—finally, you thought, taking him in your mouth with a moan, rubbing your thighs together for some friction to soothe the torturous sensation you felt.

"Does it please you this much?" Baelor asked, impressed, watching you take more of him in with lidded eyes, hand stroking and twisting where your mouth could not. "Drooling and gagging all over my cock?" You did not answer, lost in the taste of him and the pleasured sounds you drew from his lips. Maybe it was the fact he has been anticipating this for a while. Maybe it was the pent-up years catching up to him, or that you were so good at pleasing him, but he was reaching his limit embarrassingly fast. He had to push you off.

After catching your breath, you looked up at him, wanting to search his face, finding his head thrown back and chest heaving as he tried to keep himself from spilling over you. "Have I done something wrong?"

Baelor did not answer, preferring to stand instead. "Rise," he commanded, firmly, and you obeyed, not being able to get a word in before he hoisted you up by your thighs, making you lock your legs around his waist and arms around his neck instinctively while he climbed onto the bed.

"You're so–" strong, you wanted to say, but your breath was stolen from you, your noses clashing when he could not decide which angle you tasted better. He removed the arms you had interlocked around his neck and sat back on his heels, pinning you down by the base of your neck when you tried to sit up. "Stay there," he ordered, and you obeyed with an impatient huff, aroused at the way he acted, the way he moved you like it was nothing.

"No wonder they all sing your praises, all those tales and songs," you drawled, eyes shamelessly looking over his arms, hand gripping at his wrist while the other clutched tightly at the sheets. "Oh?" Baelor responded, letting you drag his palm down your body, making him cup your soft breast. "And what do they say, exactly?"

"They spoke of your strength, your composure," you recounted, moaning distractedly as he pinched your nipple. "your good honor and your enormous…. hard… effort in winning the war." You laughter turned into a mewl when you felt him stretch you out in one smooth thrust. "I'm beginning to—fuck— question the bits about your composure and good honor," you managed, eyes hazy as you watched him lower to hover his face over yours. "Beginning to question?"

"You dare say that when you were the one who ruined me?" Baelor grunted, drawing back and pushing in hard, savoring the expressions and delicious moans you gave him, pinning your hands with one of his by the wrists when you tried hushing them. "Do not get shy on me now, sly girl, let me hear you."

No words could describe how good he felt inside you—and surprisingly but not so much—how grateful you felt for the ego that led your father into extending an invitation to the dragon house, you shuddered to think of a world where you never met this otherworldly man, a world where you never get to hear his voice or have a taste of his loving was a nightmarish thing to even think about.

You tried to kiss him but he evaded your lips, leaning back and smirking at your upset huff after he did it again. "Baelor…" You whined. "Hm?" He responded.

"You're acting cruelly."

"Am I?"

"Yes," moaning, you felt that same vein you ran your tongue over brush your insides incessantly. "Is this not what you wanted? You're quivering. What more could you possibly want?"

"Kiss me," you demanded when you should have pleaded.

"That's not how you ask for things," he reminded with heavy breaths, thumb trailing over your lips, taunting. "Baelor—please, kiss me—please," you begged, vision blurring from pleasure and tears. Baelor obliged, lips crashing with yours, his grip releasing your wrists to raise your legs higher, allowing his cockhead to reach even deeper, hammering into your cervix. In moments you could not even find the energy to kiss him, laying your head back from the intense sensations, you knew he was close too, his thrusts losing their constant rhythm.

As soon as you reached that sweet bit of ecstasy, he pulled out, chest heaving as he panted beside your head. "Baelor, why have you—" Your words turn to a gasp when he rolled you onto your stomach and pinned you under his weight, chest stuck to your back. "Not yet—I will love you thoroughly," Baelor promised, panting at your ear while he slid into you nice and slow.

"I will—mmh—still be here tomorrow," You reminded him, toes curling at the way his cock massaged your insides that still had not recovered from your release, at the way the head of it gently kissed your cervix. It was interesting, how he's made you come twice but he never allowed himself to feel it, not once. In the beginning you had not thought twice of it, plenty liked to chase that high over and over and not allow themselves to catch it too soon — but hearing what he said, you could not help but think that there was something deeper than mere fancy. Did he think you wanted this to be a one-time thing? Does he want it to be? "and the day after it too, I have nowhere else to be,"

"But you do," Baelor groaned. "only if you'd like." Your breathing hitched, for a multitude of reasons. His unexpected hold of your jaw pulling your head back into the crook of his neck, the scratch of his beard at the side of your face and the insinuation of his words. He wanted to take you with him; you will agree, you know you will, regardless of whether he wanted you as mistress or not, you did not care, as long as he was yours and you were his, it was the best you could ever hope for.

"Be my wife — come with me to King's Landing and I'll make you my princess,"

"But I am a—"

"Fuck that," Baelor said, not wanting to hear any of it. "there are no laws against it—and if there were I will marry you anyway." Pressing a kiss to your cheek, he spoke up again. "Would you like that?"

"I…" Your voice died in your throat, unbelieving of your ears, considering for a moment that perhaps you were in a fever dream, but no mind could think up a dream so lovely. "Very," was all you could muster. "Perfect—so perfect." Baelor groaned, breaths growing louder, deeper, you had an inkling it was not only about your agreeance. He slipped from you again, kneeling as he let your head drop to the soft sheets.

A wound-up noise left you while you stared back at the starry sky through your windows. "The sun will rise soon."

"I am sure." At the low, shaky words, you rolled onto your back to take in the exhausted state of him. "Do you not have somewhere to be early in the morn?"

He grinned weakly. "I heard there was a tourney at Ashford meadow."

"You will rue attending if you do not rest enough," You said, caressing the side of his face. "let me take care of you." His eyes flitted over your face, steady where his breathing was not. "Very well."

Smiling you had him lean up on the pillows and straddled him. His hands immediately found your hips as you lowered yourself on his cock, easily, your walls slick with your arousals beyond adjusted to take him in with no difficulty, a sigh escaped you both at the relief. It took no time before you were moving up and down in quick rhythm.

Baelor took one of your breasts in his mouth, licking and pulling with his lips, pushing you down to the hilt with his hands, your own anchored on his shoulders as you called for his name, blissfully, repeatedly. The only sounds echoing through the dark room were your cries, his quiet, pacifying words of a language you never got to learn, the lewd repetitive claps of skin on skin.

"Baelor!" You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, face hovering over his, movements stuttering and legs growing weaker. Broken curses poured from your lips when he bucked his hips up into you. "I can't–'m sorry." Buried deep and holding you tight, Baelor had you on your back, and with renewed strength immediately set a vigorous, merciless pace, pushing and pulling inside you, over and over and over—the nails digging into his back, the pretty moans and whine in his ear—all of it goaded him to keep going, determined to have you come again.

"How it ails me that I cannot stuff you full of my seed." Baelor inhaled deeply at your temple, relishing your scent, groaning like the mere act brought him pleasure. Your back arched into him at the thought. "You can—please, Baelor." He pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your face. "You know nothing of what you ask, love,"

"I can take it just—" a whimper "—let me."

"I know you would—and you will," Baelor believed you wholeheartedly, he can already imagine it, you, brimming with his love inside you, the thought filled him with so much warmth, so much pleasure. "you need only patience until we are wed." You shook your head desperately, the coil inside you uncomfortably wound. "I need you."

He hummed in lieu of a response, circling his fingertips on your clit, the rapid motions along with his rutting into your sweet spot materializing the light of day into your ever blurred, darkening sight. "You have me." The earnest, gentle but resolute words, coupled with everything else he was undoing you with, send you over the edge, ripples of pleasure surge through you and his motions falter ever so slightly, distracted by the way you shuddered, the way your slick walls gripped onto him. "That's it—fuck."

Baelor pulled away from you, hot ropes of cum gushing out and dirtying your abdomen. Guilt ridden apologies fell from his lips as he rutted into his fist until the last drop ran down his soaked tip. After your breaths slowed into a speakable rhythm, he got off the bed and asked you to stay lied back and wait, receiving a weak nod in response.

When he returned, a bucket and towel in hand—your favorite towel which you would grieve later, but you couldn't be bothered to care about now, not when Baelor cradled your face and brushed away at the wetness from your cheeks with both his thumbs, eyelids fluttering in shame. "I am sorry," he told you, voice hushed.

"Why?" You asked smilingly, shivering at the damp coldness the wet towel left in its wake. "I've been unkind, I should not have been so rough," Baelor explained, wringing the towel of it's water and continuing in his task, hands tender like you would shatter at the slightest bit of force — it was maddening how easily he made you want to kiss him. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you smiled, endeared, and took the towel from his hands and begun cleaning them. "But you know I wanted you to be."

"I do, but—" a chaste kiss interrupted his rant before it went out of hand, warmth spread through his face to his ears, as if he was not drilling into you minutes before, it gladdened you, this reminder that he wasn't merely lust that sent him after you—but adoration too.

"Hush now," you said, pushing him down onto the pillows, resting your head onto his chest.

A huff left him. "You know I must leave for my own quarters now," Baelor told you, as he encased you in his arms and let you enlace your fingers with his and play with them. "I was hoping you'd forget about that," you said distractedly, memorizing the shape and feel of his palm and fingers by touch.

"I have a tourney I would rather not be late for."

"Sleep here." His brow arched at the suggestion, lips curled in a smirk. "You know precisely why I cannot do that,"

"Why not? None would scold you for not being in bed, you are a guest and a prince at that, besides you will have to get used to–" a thumb gently swiping over your lips, hushed you. "As you wish—but only for a while, understand?"

Minutes of hushed conversation passed by, negotiations that ended in a two-way victory; you would spectate within the safety of the stands if he entered the lists, recommending the castle's smith to armor him cheekily when he tried to use his lack of armor as an excuse.

That hushed conversation turned into hours of soft snores, your warmth gently guiding him to slumber — sending the royal servants into a frenzied search when the only things they found of him were his abandoned rings scattered on the surface of that table.

saw this on pinterest and it wholly encapsulated baelor in this...

sorry for not being active a while was busy getting rolled by my crippling anxiety,,, i am good now so i can get going on the wips <33

feedback is appreciated, i'm an esl english major so it'll help my career a lot, okay maybe not so much on the smut part lol but ig for recreational purposes i can learn — hope you enjoyed!!

Author’s note: Damn, school is rough. Five chemistry experiments in under an hour. Anyways, hope you enjoyed! Once again, feel free to send requests through if you have any plot ideas.

The scent of lemons and salt air from the Arbor still clung to your skin, even in the heart of King’s Landing. In your chambers high in Maegor’s Holdfast, the final fittings of your wedding gown had just concluded.

The cloth of silver, woven with vines of garnet thread to honor House Redwyne, lay across a chair like a sleeping ghost. Tomorrow, it would be yours. Tomorrow, you would become the princess consort, wife to the heir of the heir.

A soft knock, too authoritative to be a servant, sounded at your door. Your handmaid, Lysara, opened it to reveal the stern, familiar face of Ser Roland Crakehall of the Kingsguard. “My lady,” he intoned, his voice a low rumble. “The Prince of Dragonstone requests your presence in his solar. At once.”

Your heart, already a flutter of nerves, gave a peculiar lurch. Baelor Breakspear. Your good father to be. Since your arrival at court a moon’s turn ago, you had found him a figure of immense, comforting gravity. Where his son Valarr was a bright, cheerful flame, all quick smiles and excited plans for the tourneys he would hold in your honor, Prince Baelor was the steady hearth.

His mismatched Dornish eyes, so unlike the lilac of his Targaryen forebears, held a wisdom that seemed to quiet the room. In his presence, the frantic gossip of the court faded. He had been kind to you, asking after your mother’s health, discussing the vintage of a particularly fine Arbor gold your father had sent. You had felt safe under his gaze. Protected.

“Of course, Ser Roland,” you said, your voice steady despite the sudden dryness in your throat. “Is… is Prince Valarr summoned as well?”

“The Prince Baelor wishes to speak with you alone, my lady.” The finality in his voice brooked no further question.

You followed the white cloak through the serpentine corridors of the Red Keep, the torchlight casting long, dancing shadows. The summons was unusual, so late on the eve of your wedding. Perhaps it was about the security arrangements, or a last minute change to the ceremonial order. Valarr had mentioned his father was a stickler for tradition.

The Prince of Dragonstone’s solar was not the glittering chamber you expected. It was a room of work, a massive oak desk strewn with scrolls and ledgers, books lining the walls, a dying fire in the hearth. The air smelled of parchment, sealing wax, and the faint, clean scent of steel. Prince Baelor stood before the fire, silhouetted against the embers. He had shed his formal court doublet and wore a simple black tunic, he turned as you entered, and Ser Roland closed the door behind you, leaving you alone.

“Lady Y/N,” he said, his voice warmer than the fire. “Thank you for coming. Forgive the hour.” You curtsied deeply. “It is no trouble, my prince. You wished to speak with me?”

“I do.” He gestured to a high-backed chair opposite his own by the fire. “Please, sit. Some wine? It is from the Arbor, I believe. A gift from your father.” He poured two cups of deep red wine without waiting for your answer, handing one to you. His fingers brushed yours, and they were calloused, a warrior's hands.

You sat, cradling the cup. “Is something amiss, my prince? With the wedding?” Baelor took his seat, studying you over the rim of his cup. In the flickering light, the streaks of grey in his dark hair seemed more pronounced, the lines of care around his eyes deeper. The broken line of his nose gave his face a rugged, tragic nobility. “The wedding proceeds,” he said slowly. “All is in readiness. It is not the ceremony that concerns me, Y/N. It is you.”

“Me?”

“You are very young. And very far from home. You come to us with… a certain reputation.” He held up a hand as your cheeks flushed. “I speak not of gossip, but of observable fact. You are celebrated as one of the great beauties of the realm. Your features, a gift from your Lyseni mother, are striking. More pronounced, some whisper, than even in our own line.” He took a sip of wine. “Such beauty is a power. And power attracts attention. It also attracts… rumors.”

A cold trickle, distinct from the wine’s warmth, traced down your spine. “What rumors, my prince?” He leaned forward, his dark eyes capturing yours. “There are whispers, my lady. Whispers that the daughter of House Redwyne, who spent her girlhood between the vineyards of the Arbor and the pleasure of Lys, may not have come to her betrothed… untouched.”

The world tilted. The wine in your stomach turned to acid. “They are lies,” you whispered, the words scraping your throat. “Vile, filthy lies. I am a maiden. I swear it by the Seven, by the gods of my mother, by every star in the sky.” Tears of furious shame pricked your eyes. “Prince Valarr knows my character. He does not listen to such slander.”

“Valarr is a boy in love,” Baelor said, not unkindly. “He sees your hair, your eyes and hears only the songs he wishes to sing. A king—and a future king’s heir—cannot afford such poetry. He must deal in facts.” He set his cup down, the sound final. “I believe you, Y/N.” You blinked, the tears falling. “You… you do?”

“I do. I have watched you. I see your virtue, your dignity. But my belief is not enough. The Iron Throne, the continuity of our bloodline, rests upon certainty. There is a custom, an ancient Valyrian rite of accountability, that addresses this precise doubt.” You had never heard of such a thing. Your mother had spoken of many Lyseni customs, some shockingly libertine, some deeply private, but never this. “A rite?”

“Among the dragonlords of old,” Baelor continued, his voice dropping into a soothing, pedagogical rhythm, “the purity of a bride entering a direct line of succession was not a matter of trust, but of verification. It was considered the solemn duty of the senior-most male of the direct line to… ensure the bride’s state. To remove all doubt, for the good of the family. To take the question into his own hands, so that no shadow could ever fall upon the union, or the children that sprung from it.”

The meaning unfurled in your mind, slow and horrific, like a poisoned blossom. You stared at him, your breath caught in your chest. The kindness in his face had not vanished, but it had transformed. It was still there, but it was now the kindness of a physician about to lance a wound, practical, inevitable, and utterly devoid of personal desire. Or so it was presented. “You cannot mean…” you breathed.

“It is called ēlī bantis,” he said, the High Valyrian words smooth and liquid from his tongue. “The First Valyrian Night. It is not a right, as the petty lords of the First Men corrupted it into. It is a duty. A burden of office. One I had hoped never to bear again.”

A shadow of what looked like genuine pain passed over his features. “My own wife, Jena… she is gone but a year. This gives me no pleasure, Y/N. But with Valarr as the next heir but one to the throne, the custom is invoked. The doubt must be erased, utterly and verifiably, by me. For the realm.”

He stood and walked to the fire, his back to you, giving you a moment. You sat frozen, the silver and garnet future you had envisioned for tomorrow shattering like glass. This was a nightmare. A cruel, twisted test. “And if… if I refuse?” you asked, your voice a thread of sound.

He did not turn. “Then the rumors, in the eyes of the court and the kingdom, are confirmed. The wedding would be… postponed. Indefinitely. House Redwyne’s standing would be shattered. Your father’s alliance with the Crown, broken. And you would be returned to the Arbor, disgraced, your beauty forever shadowed by the mark of a false oath.”

He turned then, and his gaze was heavy, inescapable. “I do not think you wish for that. I do not think you are false. This is but a formality. A final, private step before the public celebration. It is how things are done. How they have always been done, to keep our bloodlines pure and our successions unquestioned.”

He approached you, not as a predator, but as a solemn priest approaching an altar. He stopped before your chair. “You wish to marry my son?”

“With all my heart,” you choked out.

“You wish to be the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must trust the wisdom of your kings. You must pass through this last gate.” He extended a hand, not to grab, but to receive. “Give me your doubt, Y/N. Give me the rumors. And I will give you back certainty, and a crown.”

The world narrowed to that hand, to the firelight in his dark eyes, to the crushing weight of duty he made sound so reasonable. You thought of Valarr, waiting blithely in his chambers, dreaming of the joust he would win in your name. You thought of your father’s proud, smiling face. You thought of the shame that would swallow them whole if you walked out that door.

This was the price. Not for a song, but for a throne. A numbness, cold and clear, spread through your veins. It was the feeling of stepping off a cliff. You placed your hand in his. It was ice against his warmth.

“I understand, my prince,” you heard yourself say, as if from a great distance. “For the good of the realm.” A sigh, almost of relief, escaped him. He drew you to your feet. “It will be done with respect,” he murmured, his other hand coming up to cradle your cheek. His thumb brushed away a stray tear. “You are brave. Valarr is fortunate.”

He led you not to the desk, nor to the floor, but to a large, padded couch near the bookshelves, its deep crimson cushions plush and inviting in the flickering firelight that danced across the room's stone walls.

The air was thick with the scent of aged leather from the surrounding shelves and the faint, smoky tang of burning oak. He sat first, his powerful thighs spreading slightly as he settled into the corner, the fabric of his dark tunic straining against his broad chest. With a firm hand on your elbow, he guided you to stand before him, your heart pounding like a war drum in your ears.

His blue and brown eyes locked onto yours for a moment, holding you captive, before his hands moved to the intricate lace fastenings at the back of your evening gown. His fingers were steady, not fumbling in the least, deliberate, expert, as if he had unlaced a thousand such garments in his long life.

Each loosened tie felt like the unspooling of your future, the silk whispering against your skin as it gave way. The gown slid from your shoulders with agonizing slowness, the cool air kissing your exposed flesh, then pooled at your feet in a silken heap, leaving you in nothing but your thin silk shift that clung to your curves like a second skin.

“The custom is specific,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the space between you, as his gaze raked over the sheer fabric outlining your breasts and the shadow of your hips. “It must be witnessed by no one but the principals. It must be performed on the eve of the wedding. And the senior lord must… be thorough in his examination.”

Without another word, his hands gripped the hem of your shift and lifted it upward, the silk dragging over your thighs, your stomach, your ribs, until it joined the gown on the floor.

Now you stood utterly bare before him, the firelight painting your skin in warm gold and deep shadow, highlighting the gentle swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the cascade of your hair tumbling over your shoulders.

You crossed your arms instinctively, but he caught your wrists in one large hand, pulling them down to your sides with unyielding gentleness.

His gaze traveled over you with a dispassionate scrutiny that pierced deeper than any lustful leer, cataloging every inch, the pert nipples hardening in the chill, the soft thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs, the tremble in your knees.

He reached out and took a lock of your silver-gold hair, rubbing it between his calloused fingers, the texture rough against the fine strands. “So like true Valyrian stock,” he mused, almost to himself, his breath stirring the air near your face.

“More than my own.” Then his hands were on your hips, turning you gently but firmly, his touch clinical, like a maester assessing a specimen.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a fresh wave of hot shame washing over you, burning your cheeks and chest. You felt his rough fingers trace the curve of your spine, starting at the nape of your neck and sliding down, vertebra by vertebra, a general inspecting a piece of territory he intended to conquer.

He paused at the small of your back, his thumbs pressing into the dimples there, then continued lower, over the swell of your ass cheeks, parting them slightly to expose you further to the room's warmth.

A sob welled in your throat, but you swallowed it down, biting the inside of your cheek until the metallic tang of blood flooded your mouth. His inspection dragged on, eternal in its intimacy, his palms cupping your ass, squeezing the firm flesh, then sliding forward to your belly, fingers splaying wide to feel the flat plane and the subtle quiver beneath.

He turned you again, facing him now, and his hands rose to your breasts, lifting them, weighing them in his palms as if testing their ripeness. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, not roughly, but enough to send unwelcome sparks through your body, making them tighten further. You bit your lip harder, tasting more blood, as his eyes remained solemn, dutiful, betraying nothing.

But his breathing had deepened, just slightly, a subtle hitch that betrayed the man beneath the mask. “The final verification,” he said, his voice dropping to a low husk that sent a shiver racing down your spine, “cannot be merely visual.”

Before you could protest, he pulled you down onto his lap, your back pressing against the solid wall of his chest, his heat seeping through his tunic into your naked skin. One strong arm banded around your waist, holding you firmly but not painfully, his forearm like iron across your midriff.

The other hand slid down your trembling stomach, fingers trailing fire over your navel, dipping lower to the soft curls guarding your pussy. You stiffened, a silent scream locked in your chest, every muscle coiling tight.

“Be still,” he whispered against your temple, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm and scented with wine. “It will be faster if you are still. Think of tomorrow. Think of the crown.”

You focused on a crack in the stone of the hearth, its jagged line blurring as tears pricked your eyes. You thought of the Arbor's sun-drenched vineyards, the laughter of your siblings, anything but the feel of his exploring hand parting your thighs, his thick fingers delving between your folds.

He spread your pussy lips with clinical precision, exposing your virgin slit to the air, and you felt the cool draft tease your clit, making it swell despite your horror. His middle finger traced the seam of your cunt, up and down, gathering the faint slickness that your body betrayed you with, before pressing against your entrance.

The intrusion was slow, deliberate, a single finger pushing inside your tight, untouched channel, stretching the delicate walls. You gasped, the burning stretch making your hips buck involuntarily. He held you steady, his arm tightening, as he probed deeper, curling his finger to feel every ridge and flutter within you.

“So tight,” he murmured, almost clinically, but with that husky edge sharpening. He withdrew slightly, only to add a second finger, scissoring them to open you wider, the wet sounds of your pussy echoing obscenely in the quiet room. The pain sharpened as he reached your barrier, pressing against the thin membrane of your hymen, testing it.

A sharp, burning pain made you gasp aloud, your body arching as he pushed harder, breaching just enough to draw blood. A single, traitorous tear escaped your clamped eyelids, trailing hot down your cheek. He twisted his fingers once more, coating them in your essence and that crimson proof, before pulling them free with a slick pop.

“There,” Baelor murmured, his arm tightening around you like a vice, possessive now in its hold. You felt the evidence of his inspection—a smudge of your own virgin’s blood mingled with your arousal—on his thumb as he held it before your eyes for a moment in the firelight. It glistened dark and crimson, a seal of your defilement. “The proof. The doubt is gone.”

But he did not release you. The arm around your waist did not loosen; if anything, it pulled you closer, grinding your ass against the growing bulge in his breeches.

Instead, the hand that had been the instrument of proof moved to your thigh, his grip shifting, turning you slightly in his lap so that one leg draped over his, exposing your dripping pussy to the fire's glow. You felt the hard, insistent pressure of his cock through the layers of his clothing, thick and throbbing against your skin, a promise of worse to come.

“The custom…” you whispered, terror finally breaking through the numbness, your voice a fractured plea. “It is done. You have your proof.”

“The custom,” he breathed into your hair, his voice now thick with a tension that was no longer dutiful, the words hot against your scalp, “demands finality. The proof must be… irrefutable. A witnessed testament is one thing. A consummated fact is another.”

The pretense of dispassion fell away like a shed cloak, his solemn facade cracking under the weight of raw desire. The solemn duty curdled into something hungry and possessive, his hands roaming now with purpose—gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, sliding up to knead your breast, pinching the nipple until you whimpered.

He shifted beneath you, his free hand fumbling with the laces of his breeches, shoving them open with rough urgency. His cock sprang free, hot and heavy against your ass, the veined length slapping your skin, the tip already leaking precum that smeared wetly across your thigh.

“You will be my son’s wife tomorrow,” he growled, a raw, desperate edge in his voice you had never heard before, laced with jealousy and madness. “But tonight… tonight, you are the answer to the rumor. You are the seal upon the pact. You are mine.”

There was no more discussion. No more ritual pretense. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you just enough to position you, the broad head of his cock nudging against your slick, blood-tinged entrance. With a brutal, claiming thrust, he sheathed himself inside you, forcing past the remnants of your maidenhead in one savage plunge.

Your pussy stretched impossibly around his girth, the burning tear making you cry out, a short, sharp sound that he swallowed by sealing his mouth over yours in a devouring kiss, his tongue invading as ruthlessly as his cock.

The pain was deeper now, a rending of soul as much as body, your walls clenching in futile protest around the invading shaft that filled you to the hilt, his balls pressing against your ass.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound primal, as he began to move, slow at first, savoring the tight grip of your cunt, then faster, harder, his hips snapping up to bury himself deeper with each thrust. The couch creaked beneath you, the padded surface muffling the wet slaps of skin on skin, the obscene squelch of your pussy taking his cock over and over.

His free hand came up to cup your breast, squeezing the soft mound, his thumb circling the hardened nipple in a parody of tenderness that only heightened the shame. “So beautiful,” he rasped between thrusts, each word a confession torn from his depths, his teeth grazing your neck.

“All this time… in my halls… with his smiles… Gods, your pussy was made for this—for me.” He pinched your nipple sharply, drawing another gasp from you, your body betraying you with a fresh gush of wetness that eased his pounding.

You were a doll in his arms, used and posed, your legs splayed wide as he fucked up into you, his cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting spots that sparked unwanted pleasure amid the agony.

The numbness returned in waves, a blessed, hollow shield, but it cracked with every brutal drive, every grunt he made against your skin. His pace quickened, hips pistoning relentlessly, the head of his cock battering your cervix as he chased his release.

His hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in firm circles that made your traitorous body quiver, your pussy fluttering around him despite the tears streaming down your face.

He was right about one thing, it built to a shattering peak, but not without prolonging your torment. His rhythm fractured, thrusts turning erratic, deeper, more desperate, until his body tensed like a bowstring.

A low, guttural groan was torn from him as he spilled his seed inside you, hot jets of cum flooding your womb, marking you irrevocably as his. He held you impaled on his pulsing cock, grinding deep to ensure every drop claimed you, his breath ragged against your neck.

For a long moment, he stayed like that, his forehead damp against your shoulder, his body heavy and slick with sweat on yours, his cock softening but still twitching within your abused pussy. Cum leaked out around him, trickling down your thighs in a sticky mix with your blood.

Then, with a shuddering sigh, he withdrew, the wet slide of his shaft leaving you empty and aching. He set you aside on the couch like discarded finery, your limbs loose and unresponsive, your pussy gaping slightly, sore and dripping his seed.

He stood, righting his clothing with swift, efficient motions, tucking his spent cock away as if nothing had transpired, the Prince of Dragonstone reassembling his armor of composure. He walked to a sideboard, poured a finger of amber liquor from a crystal decanter, the liquid glinting in the firelight, and drank it in one swallow, the burn steadying his hands.

When he turned back to you, his face was a mask again, but the edges were blurred, the solemnity now tinged with a sickened exhaustion that mirrored the hollow ache in your chest. He looked at you, curled naked and trembling on his couch, your silver-gold hair tangled, your eyes wide and empty, thighs smeared with the evidence of his possession.

He fetched your shift and gown from the floor. He did not hand them to you, but laid them beside you with careful folds, as one might lay a shroud beside the dead, the silk cool against your heated skin.

“The custom is fulfilled,” he said, his voice flat, drained of the fire that had consumed him moments before. “No shadow touches your marriage now. It is… clean.”

You did not move. You could not. “Dress yourself,” he said, not unkindly, but with a firm distance. “Ser Roland will see you back to your chambers. You will not see me again until you stand before the High Septon. You will look at my son, and you will smile. And you will never, ever speak of this. For if you do, you will not only destroy yourself and Valarr, you will prove that the rumors were true all along—that you are a woman who speaks falsehoods and seeks to undermine the Crown with vile fabrications. Do you understand?”

You understood. You understood with a crystalline clarity that froze the marrow in your bones. The trap was perfect. He had not just taken your body; he had taken your voice. Your truth was now the most dangerous lie in the kingdom.

With mechanical, puppet like movements, you pulled the silk over your skin, your fingers fumbling with the laces you could not reach. He watched for a moment, then stepped behind you and fastened them himself, his touch now making your skin crawl. He did it quickly, impersonally.

He walked to the door and opened it. Ser Roland stood outside, his face a blank white slate. “The lady is returning to her chambers,” Baelor said, his tone that of a man concluding state business. “See her there safely.”

You walked past him, out of the room that smelled of parchment and sin. You did not look back. Ser Roland fell into step beside you, a silent, judgemental ghost. The walk back was a blur. The corridors seemed longer, darker. In your chamber, the wedding gown still lay across the chair. The ghost awaited its occupant. Lysara was dozing in a corner but awoke with a start. “My lady? Are you alright? You’re so pale.”

“I am tired,” you heard yourself say, the voice not your own. “The prince wished to review the final oaths of the ceremony. It was… lengthy. Help me to bed. And in the morning, draw me a bath.

The hottest water the pipes can carry.” As you lay in the dark, the phantom feel of his hands on your skin, the ghost of his weight upon you, would not fade. You stared at the canopy overhead.

Tomorrow, you would wear the silver and garnet gown. Tomorrow, you would walk to the sept on Valarr’s arm. Tomorrow, you would smile at Baelor Breakspear as he stood beside the king, the image of paternal pride and royal wisdom.

You came back from the dissociation where your mind was taking refuge when the priest called your name with a trembling voice. Teary eyes filled with hope gave you the awareness that his life was in your hands. A wrong answer, and Aymer would have ordered his death.

“Do you take this man as your husband?” He repeated. “My Lady…”

“She’s not a Lady, my dear priest. God only knows how many cocks she saw.” Aymer’s eyes weighed on you like stones as he spat out his disrespect with disgust, causing widespread amusement. “But I’m sure our Lord will forgive her for her sins, in the end. Right?”

The priest nodded frantically, humouring him without hesitation, too scared to pronounce a word outside the ceremonial lines. Aymer's sharp teeth showed up in a cruel smile. “I already forgave her, that’s why we are here today. I want to make her a respectable woman.”

It was free humiliation led by jealousy of seeing you with another man, which was ridiculous considering your profession. When Aymer tasted you for the first time, he became addicted. A woman who submitted to him uncomplainingly and satisfied his whims was liquid gold for his limbs. And he took his time to ruin you in every way he wanted.

“Aymer… please. I will be your wife, but don’t get him killed.” You begged, trying to sound convincing.

“Are you dithering to marry me to keep him alive?” It was a trap without a possibility of saying the right thing. “What if I order his death right now, and I will lead you in chains around the country until we find another priest to marry us?” His irritation pressed through his gritted teeth.

“I do.” You answered in the blink of an eye, taking his hands in yours in a desperate attempt to keep him calm, and you repeated your answer while looking at the priest, nodding with no hesitation. You even brought out a smile, pretending to be happy with it, with the mere hope he would have been pleased, at least.

But Aymer hated being fooled. His mocking smirk faded instantly, and his eyes, lost in yours, revealed a furious calmness that made your toes curl with terror.

“In the name of our Lord, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

In the wake of those words, with a sudden and firm grip of your hair, Aymer dragged you out of the church, ignoring your whimpering of pain. “Kill him.” He ordered his men.

A few hours before…

The cheap incense failed its purpose to cover the smell of sweat and sex, but inebriated the senses like a good drug regardless. The dim light of the candles, strategically placed to hide imperfections, helped to give an erotic aura to turn on the customers’ desire.

The entrance was for those who didn’t have much money or decency. A tangle of naked bodies addicted to wine and orgasms writhed on the pillows and carpets of the floor. A good advertisement for the hesitant ones, an invitation to come back for those who enjoyed the treatment.

Aymer entered the brothel with a smirk painted on his face and an already half-hard cock in his pants. It was a circle of hell, but it was his favourite place since he met you. The memory of your body, your voice, and your smell filled his mind throughout his journey. It didn’t matter in which corner of the country he was; he always came back to you.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t devotion. You were only his favourite whore, and the only woman who could handle him just right. Or at least, he was convinced of it.

Heavy steps crossed the room, ignoring everyone around but the Mistress, who approached him in a hurry. The woman was visibly terrified, and she had all the reasons to be. She was breaking their agreement for you to be always available if he showed up.

“My Lord. We were expecting you in a few days.” She stood in front of him, who didn’t slow down even for a moment.

“And yet here I am. Where is she?”

“Ser, she’s not ready yet.” Her broken voice followed her stumbling pace as she walked backwards. “Please, allow me to introduce you to another beautiful flower. You will not be disappointed. Hanna, Catherine!”

He suddenly stopped; his irritation was palpable. “I don’t fucking want flowers. I want her.”

“And you’ll have her, My Lord. I'm just asking for a few minutes.” She tried her best to show a reassuring smile, but showed only hesitation.

The silence that followed was thick with fear, and Aymer tasted it as if it were a delicious cake. He loved the power he had over the frightened people, those who indulged him only to save their useless lives. He drew his sword and pointed at Hanna’s throat. The poor woman stood still in sheer fright and whimpered as she silently started to cry.

“No, please! No, Ser!” The Mistress begged for Hanna’s life. “Upstairs, the second room on the left.”

Aymer didn’t knock at your door because he was horny, you weren’t a lady, and he was paying well for your services. It was a real shame when he witnessed you entertaining another man. Those familiar moans escaped from your mouth like a song while your body moved so elegantly as you rode him. Those same movements you used to offer to him, those same vibrations of your throat that thrilled his senses as he fucked you. Your sweet scent was everywhere, but the stench of that worm was polluting the entire room.

“Wait for you to turn outside, please.” You moaned and turned your head as if the invasion of your room was routine, but your blood ran cold in your veins when you recognised Aymer. You moved out of the bed quickly, covering yourself with your robe and bowing at him, something really annoying for your customer.

“Hey! I didn’t finish yet! Come back here, you wh…”

The man couldn't finish his complaint, because Aymer cut off his head with one clean blow of his sword. It was the first time for you to see his true nature, the beast behind the man, the satisfaction in his eyes as he stared down at that lifeless body. The blood of his victim was still warm when he took you, face pressing against the wall, nails scratching the surface. Aymer cared to leave the sword belt on the floor, but he was so eager that he had time only to drop his trousers to his ankles and pull his hauberk enough to free his cock. The chain mail around his chest was cold and uncomfortable against your naked back, and your toes struggled to keep you balanced. Each thrust inside you was claiming and brutal as he cared to keep you firmly in position.

“I got you, my beautiful butterfly. No one else will have you.”

It was the only thing he said right before marking you with his seed, as if he needed to wash all of your customers' fluids off you.

What happened next was a series of events beyond your control.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The spiral staircases leading to his chambers seemed endless as he kept dragging you around by your hair. You hit his back and his arm with all your strength, lamenting and begging, but he didn’t slow down, until you stepped on your robe and fell on your knees. Aymer lifted you by your weight, pushing you against the cold, stony wall. His grip around your hair was still too strong. “I teach you what it means to make fun of me.”

“I was trying to save his life, you monster! You sow death wherever you go.” You hissed back, showing an anger he had never seen in you. He liked it, even if he would have never told you, not to ruin his whims.

“It was better when you were a whore. All buttering and sweet, always ready for me.” He pushed a hand between your legs, pressing as much as possible to feel something through the light fabric. “Do you remember when I bought you the first time? You were wrapped up with fine silk like an expensive gift, and adorned with flashy jewellery.” He lowered his voice. “Fuck, your tight cunt was heaven, even when you bled for me.”

Of course, you remembered. Aymer’s face at that moment would have remained indelible in your mind for the rest of your life, as the breathless pain pervaded your intimacy, just because he couldn’t restrain himself from taking you roughly. Even the Mistress was sorry for you, but she couldn’t do anything in your favour. Refusing what Aymer de Valence wanted meant death.

“I would bring you back if I could, but there is only a pile of burnt wood left and a bunch of dead whores.”

“What?” You sighed. That revelation broke you enough to make you sob, even if you promised yourself you would have resisted. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but there he was, licking your tears and growling with wild desire. “My poor butterfly. I took you from your cocoon by force, but I assure you, no other men will fuck you. It will be like at the beginning. Promise.”

You suddenly realised what Aymer meant and the possible reason behind that wave of violence that led him to kidnap you from the brothel, burn it down and kill everyone else in the middle. He was in love with you, or better, he fell for the idea of having a compliant, gentle woman, happy to stay with him. Someone who could love him despite his sins. It was your professional role; it was what you learned from your job, accepting all the customers, no matter what their lives were outside the brothel. Aymer forgot the reality in favour of a sweeter fantasy, something that he never had in his life, the love of a woman.

In the last stretch of the way to his chambers, Aymer dragged you by your arm, giving your scalp immediate relief. The doors opened with a sharp blow, and he threw you inside with such impetuosity that you stumbled to avoid falling.

You knew you never stood a chance, but you could control it. It was your job, it was what your Mistress taught you, it was the only thing that allowed you to survive him. Your mind suddenly relaxed, reminding yourself that you already went through it. You knew Aymer de Valence. That was your power.

You wiped your tears and walked to the table to pour two cups of wine. “Alright, husband. I have no intention of fighting you. Moreover, we are married now, and you have all the rights to me.” You approached him with calculated steps, trying to show confidence and offering him the wine. “I didn’t thank you for saving me from a life of misery.”

Aymer caressed his teeth with his tongue as a conscious smirk appeared on his face. He took the wine from your hand and drank it all in one sip before throwing the cup against the wall with strength, making you jump out of your skin. He slapped your hand that was holding the other cup, making you drop it and wrapped your nape with a firm grip.

“Don’t play with me, wife. You were happy to be a whore, your cunt let you earn a lot of money with no effort.”

The mask you built to survive anything he was planning vanished, and something else emerged from your heart. Rage.

“Let’s make this quick, then.” You said in a strangely calm tone, staring into his eyes fearlessly.

The light blue of his eyes darkened as he watched you shed your robe, his gaze sweeping over the curves revealed. A flicker of something primal ignited in his expression, replacing the cold contempt he had worn moments before. He let you go, moving back enough to take a full view of your naked body.

“Quick?” He repeated with a dangerous edge to his voice. “I don't recall agreeing to that arrangement. I was promised a wife, not a transaction.”

He moved around you like a predator studying his prey, and you mirrored his movements to be prepared for what was next. “I don't remember making you such a promise.”

“Is that so? She didn't have time to tell you. Your Mistress sold you to me in exchange for all his girls.” His large frame moved slowly with purpose as he closed the distance between you two, his boots were heavy on the stony floor.

The heartbeat pulsed into your ears, appalled by his words. “What?” You asked in a faint voice, causing his animalistic laugh.

“Too bad she’s not here to confirm it, but it doesn't make a difference now since you’re my wife now.”

Your eyes moved from him only to land on the fireplace poker. He looked in the same direction, his eyebrows shot up at your defiance, his lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts amusement and irritation. “Do you want to hit me with that?”

You replied with a mere attempt to reach the fireplace as quickly as you could, somehow already aware you wouldn't have made it. Aymer moved fast without giving you an escape. His hands came up to grip your arms firmly, painfully, his touch rough and demanding. “Do you think you can dictate terms in my chambers? I am Aymer de Valence, and you will learn your place.”

He dragged you to the bed, throwing you on the mattress as he dropped his trousers and slid his robe off his head without ceremony. He didn’t need to wait for an excuse to take you, but he always liked to play a bit before consuming his meal.

You knew he liked it when you were all sweet, purring, and praising into his ear, and taking him completely as if he were the only man on Earth. That’s why you fought. “Touch me, and I’ll drag you into hell with me.” You roared like a lioness.

“I'm sure we'll have fun down there together.”

When he spread your legs, you slapped him. Once, twice, and the pace of the slaps increased when his shock turned into amusement. Your body slipped down under him easily, as he pulled you to him and pushed a couple of fingers into your cunt. The sudden invasion made you tense up, boosting his excitement.

“Are you sure you want to play this game? I’m going to hurt you.”

Your strategy of toying with him in your favour broke instantly. The helpless situation where you were and his guttural laugh led you to fight more strongly, turning your slapping into fists, but even when his lip started to bleed, he didn’t move away from you.

“I'm beginning to think I may have gotten the better end of this bargain.” He spat some saliva and blood on your cunt as lubrication, and it was the last thing you heard before his hardness penetrated your intimacy with disrespect. You tried to relax your body as much as possible to avoid physical pain, but effortlessly. You were already exhausted by the journey, the wedding, and the general violence your mind and body suffered in the hours before, to resist any longer.

He slipped inside you easily, moving your hands from his chest, above your head and squeezing your wrists at every thrust. The familiar scent of his sweat, the texture of his skin and every damn scar you knew so well dragged your mind back to the past months, when you used to be his paid whore; when even if you pretended to be pleased by his attention, the sex was different. He has always been rough and generally disrespectful, but he let you peek at his caring side, the same side where he kept the love he felt for his sister and nephew like a treasure. The beast had feelings.

That was what betrayed you, because in those months, you felt pleasure when you lay with him. And even if it was a bad joke of your mind to protect yourself, your cunt became wet and your skin sensitive to his rough touch.

“Keep tightening, my love. Your cunt is heaven.”

You weren’t tightening for his pleasure, but for yours. It didn’t matter, though; he was having what he wanted. Your broken gaze, humid with tears, moved away from his aroused face.

“Don’t you dare. Look at me.” He commanded.

You deliberately took your time to meet his feral eyes again, but your expression remained emotionless. If he wanted you angered, fighting or broken, you gave him indifference.

“I feel nothing, husband.” Your tease was a hazard, but how satisfying his rage was. You were ready to take the blow. The grip around your throat was so strong that you couldn’t breathe, and while the remaining air was slowly leaving your lungs, he felt enjoyment in having your life in his hand. His pelvic movements became erratic and faster; he wanted to reach the final pleasure without killing you, but still, keeping you on a thin wire.

“Yes, fuck… that’s it. Do you feel it?”

Yes, you felt it. Your body trembled with the unwanted orgasm, shaking with intensity. Damn, it was better than all the fucks you did for work in your whole life. You hated it, but you needed it more. Your face was red, as tears wetted your temples and your fingernails sank into the flesh of his hand around your throat. You couldn’t beg using your voice, but the feeble hope for his mercy filled your heart. When his cock emptied into your womb and his guttural voice filled the room, he loosened his clutch to let you take one last breath before passing out.

You woke up the following day, dizzy, with a huge headache and suffering every time you swallowed. Dark marks were printed on your throat and wrists as you checked your body in the mirror. Aymer was gone, but you didn’t know for how much, and you knew he wasn’t done with you yet.

“He’s my son.” Maekar says rubbing looking down at the cooing babe in his arms, the little boy holding his father’s finger in his little hand.

“He’s mine too.” You laugh, not minding that he’s stolen your baby from you. Happy he loves his children so much, him not always able to show it.

“You got to carry him for nine moons, let me hold him now.” Maekar say turning away from you as if you were going to steal the babe of him. You just wanting to kiss him.

“But-.”

“I’m sure the older boys would love some time with their mother.” He tells you, him having been working all day and unable to be with your sons.

“Would they now?” You ask raising an eyebrow at your husband. Daeron and Aerion both sleeping as it’s late. You having just read Daeron back to sleep. You giving your husband a look. “Stop sniffing him.”

“I’ve missed having a newborn.” Maekar muses swaying slightly with the boy, while kissing his forehead. “You’re already more well behaved than your brothers.”

“Maekar.” You say sternly giving him a look. “It’s time for bed.”

“Wife.” He teases a smirk apart in his face, him at his happiest with you and the children, a newborn babe in his arms.

“You get so mushy when we have a baby.” You say rolling your eyes while you get ready for bed. Letting him cuddle Aemon for a while longer, the babe needing to actually sleep in his crib for a change.

“I love you.” Maekar whispers to you later while you cuddle in bed, your head resting on his chest while he holds you close to him. All the children sleeping in their beds.

“I love you too.” You say kissing his chest softly. Tired but also wanting to spent time with just Maekar.

“Can we have more?” He asks quietly as if saying it any louder would scare the idea away.

“Isn’t three enough?” You ask, happy with any amount of children you have.

“Just a few more?” He whispers kissing the top of your head, already picturing a future with more children.

“We’ll see.”

“Thank you.” He says softly, loving you and the children more than anything in the world.

“What for?” You ask in genuine confusion, not knowing what you’ve done to warrant being thanked.

When the two of you are first wed, Daeron is utterly determined not to drag you down into the darkness with him. He avoids you mostly, not because he wants to but because he thinks it's what's best for you. If he's off drinking in taverns instead of at feasts, he cannot embarrass you in front of the court. If he's paying for a night with a woman (or man), then you don't need to feel like you have some sort of wifely obligation to please him. What he doesn't understand is that you like when you have him at your arm at gatherings, someone to whisper to, to laugh with, to spin in his arms when he's on the good side of drunk. He certainly cannot wrap his thick head around you wanting to keep him in your bed, despite his devotion to your pleasure. Maybe you’ve mentioned a time or too that he need not seek the companionship of others when you are so willing to give it; but he's been either too drunk to understand, or cannot believe you are doing anything but attempting to flatter your lord husband.

You're not embarrassed by the dreams, or the rumors, or even the antics, but it does anger you to see him suffer- and it doesn’t help that you think he's ignoring you. Finally, you decide you’ve had enough. You find him one night, passed out on the floor of his chambers. A gentle nudge with your toe in the ribs has him up, shaking, clearly waking from some fiery nightmare. It's hard not to comfort him, but you’d come to speak your mind. He's not as drunk as you thought he’d be, and maybe that's why he's suffering so, but it also means he hears you more clearly. With a wistful tone that breaks his heart, you question why he’d even agreed to marry you, if he was so disinterested. Daeron is extremely confused. Why would you be unhappy with him forcing himself so far away? You have to be clear with your own heart, he barely believes but the small hope that you might love him keeps him from arguing too much.

Side note: I do think in general Daeron is not much of an arguer, especially with you. He seems like if he's got something good going for him, he’ll just agree with what you say because it's easier, or because he’d rather suffer than be upset with him. This also may be a point of contention the poor man has to work through in your relationship.

Maekar:

You fight with Maekar over his complete inability to show his feelings, while also managing to be so deeply jealous. He is callous, cold, sometimes bordering on cruel, even with you. You knew it before you’d been with him; watching the flippant way he treated servants and nobles alike, cutting words meant to strike deep, a perceived lack of emotion towards his children. It all irked you, how he clearly thought that his princehood or knighthood or name alone was enough to warrant the respect and reverence of those around him. (Aerion gets it from somewhere lol).

It's why, once the two of you are married, the people living and working at Summerhall know to give the two of you a wide berth when he’s irritated you- or if you’ve angered him. Dragonfire burns between you when a fight stirs. You’ve said something kind, sweet, gentle, and Maekar’s responded in the only way he knows how. Scoffing, ignoring, deflecting; anything but giving up his own true feelings. Deep down, he feels weak admitting how much he likes the affection you give him, and how completely smitten he is with you, and because of that he’s acting like a giant baby. He says something arrogant, you respond with confrontation, he says something he doesn't really mean to get you to stop. The older Prince so starved for tenderness, but can barely manage hearing a compliment without bristling.

As much as he initially pretends not to care for you, jealousy bleeds through the armor he’s created. You think him disinterested in you, because he’s shown you nothing to prove his devotion, and maybe you’ve let some handsome young knight lean a little too far in to speak with you at a feast. It's not like you’ve done anything truly improper; being married to Maekar means conversing with the gentry, but you cannot deny you’re enjoying the soft smiles and playful words of the man in front of you. Your back is to your husband, else you’d see the lavender death-stare permeating the crowd and finding a place where the knight has gently taken your elbow to pull you away from a drunken bout. It's cautious, protective, respectful; everything the touch of a husband should be, and it sets Maekar’s blood on fire.

He’s on you in an instant, not even sparing the man a glance before tugging you away with an iron grip on your waist- not enough to hurt, but it certainly gets your attention. By the time he’s found a place far enough from the crowd that you can hear one another, you’re just as angry as he is. What right does he have to all but ignore you, then pull you from your innocent enjoyments? He accuses you of impropriety, you question why he cares, and you find yourselves close enough that your breath mingles between you, chests close. He’s leaning down to speak right into your face, but he falters when he realizes proximity. The makeup comes in the form of hot, rough, baby-making sex; the kind where the truth is whispered out against bare skin at his most vulnerable.

Apologies come after, when you’re both sated, laid in his arms and drifting off to sleep. It's always quiet, he’s not going to repeat it, but it's raw and true and the way into his guarded heart.

Aerion:

There’s no question about what you fight with Aerion about; the man is crazy and you’re the only one who seems to say it to his face (besides his family). There is a deep seated cruelty to him, a bitter fascination with seeing just how far he can push someone’s buttons before they snap. Anything from chewing loudly to cheating in a joust, Aerion will go out of his way to rile up his rival that extra notch. He craves the attention, revels in it, and feels a high off the control other people’s spiraling gives him.

When you’re betrothed to the Prince, he immediately assumes you to be another plaything for him to torment. Wives are meant to head their husband’s wills, and certainly someone given to him would know their place, right? The first time he goes after you, snide words about the ostentatious way you’ve dressed to meet him, the table silences. Your family is of course taken aback, though they’ve heard the rumors, and can do nothing in the face of royalty but sit back and pray you don’t take it too personally. Maekar has all but grabbed the back of his son’s doublet when you snap back at him. Something about the plainness of his cloak, and shouldn’t someone whose own father is downed in finery, and a Prince no less, look the part?

Instead of offense, Aerion feels a piqued interest in you, and a firmness in his trousers. Awkward chuckles from the other dinner guests get the evening back on track, but the Prince’s eyes do not leave you for another second. From then on, he’s constantly trying to chase the high you’ve given him. For so long, most people he’s tormented roll over and take it, but you meet him with your own fire. It's almost childish, how he tries to instigate fights. Petty namecalling, clever jibes, he even goes as far as to try to back you against walls, attempting to use his physical advantage to get a reaction from you. He’s the type to get you yelling at him, just so he can sit back and watch with a grin, palming himself through his clothes. This of course gets you even more angry, as he’s clearly not listening and is doing this on purpose.

Eventually, arguments progress from screaming in anger to screaming in pleasure. The argument definitely continues throughout your lovemaking, only now it's interspursed with your whimpering and his grunts against your throat. Be ready for him to increase his terror; he now knows what the end result will get him.

Dunk:

The problem with Dunk is that he’s too kind for his own good. It gets him into trouble wherever he goes. He’ll stand up for anyone he thinks could use his help; a child unfairly scolded by an adult, an old man overcharged by a greedy merchant, a young woman jeered at by lecherous tavern goers. Often it leads to getting run out of towns, kicked out of inns, and more than a few cuts and bruises. It won’t stop him, there’s a pureness in his heart that keeps him from allowing injustice to occur, but it doesn’t mean you like to see him scraped up.

Fights with him never end in screaming, he’s too good for that. He’s also not one to try and use his obvious physical advantage over you; scaring/intimidating you is out of the question and the thought of putting a hand to someone he loves makes him sick. Instead, it's mostly lectures about him needing to take better care of himself, make better decisions, and stay out of trouble. Once or twice, he’s mumbled out with his head hung low and his worn boots scuffing the dirt:

“No need to worry yourself over me. M’not worth the concern.”

He says it to try and calm your nerves, as if telling you he thinks himself expendable will make you feel better. There’s a look of shock on his face when you get angry at him for even suggesting it. Dunk will fight back with you, but it's always in a low, calm voice, desperately trying to get through to you that he will never stop fighting for those who need him, even if he hurts himself in the process.

It makes his heart stutter and his ears warm when you show such attention for his wellbeing. Some nights, after a particularly physical altercation, you’ll have him sat out close to the fire so you can try to clean him up. Dunk will perch you on his knee as you dab at the gash in his arm with a cloth. You’re telling him off as you clean him. What was he thinking, getting into the petty squabbles between villagers? Did he really think he’d be alright against four other men? What would you and Egg do without him? He’s not really listening to a word out of your mouth, other than the fact that you clearly cannot fathom seeing him hurt. He’s just watching you with a dopey grin on his face like “my lady wants to fix me up and love me and take care of me” while you’re yelling at him. (Egg of course butts into your lecture, fueling the fire with “oh and ANOTHER thing.” He doesn't want anything bad happening to his hedge knight either.)

Baelor:

Fights with Baelor are almost always about the same thing. Your Prince is so, so dedicated to his work; it becomes a problem when he puts it before taking care of himself, sleeping, eating, and spending time with you and the boys. The worst part is, you know he's not trying to upset you, he’s just the kind of man who wants things done correctly, and is dedicated to the Realm and crown. As a man raised in King’s Landing, where vulnerability is a weakness and every eye has been turned to him since birth, he naturally conceals his feelings- even from you on occasion.

The arguments come when you can see he's struggling. The dark circles round his eyes, the dinner cold and untouched at the edge of his desk, the bed cold from him getting back late and rising too early. He won’t mention it, but you know him enough to know he’s holding on by a thread. It's his need to prove himself; years of whispers over Dornish features and death of dragons has him constantly striving to be the best. You're angry, but it's more about feeling helpless in a pursuit to help him. He’s not really doing anything wrong; of course the Hand is busy, and of course the heir to the throne has better things to do than lay about. There also may be some insecurity baked in: who wouldn’t have doubts if their husband chose duty and honor over their love?

When you do finally say something, admitting you’re hurting without him, and how it pains you to see him suffer so, Baelor’s immediately understanding and apologizing. It’s jarring, because you had a whole speech prepared and ideas on how to help and you’re ready to bear your heart and soul to him to get him to understand and now he’s just… on your side? It’s because he’s fully aware that he’s stretched himself too thin, that he’s neglected you, that throwing himself into his work has hurt himself, but more importantly, it's hurt the people he loves. If you’re still hot after the apology, tense and shaking with nowhere to put it, he’ll sit back with a soft, lovestruck look in his eye and listen to you rant about the affairs of your heart. Baelor’s tugging you into his lap, arms coming around you, nodding along and pressing a kiss to your forehead as you lose steam. (He’s definitely the type to “yes ma’am” when you’re ranting at him.)

Lyonel:

The thing about Lyonel is that, if you act like a wild, indulgent, unserious playboy, people are eventually going to assume certain things about you. There is some truth to it; he does love to entertain, to satisfy himself and others, and there’s a storm brewing behind his eyes that unsettles even the bravest of men. He feels every emotion to the fullest extent, but seldom does he share those particular, vulnerable feelings with others. Occasionally, a pure heart will break his facade and he’ll expose parts of himself he normally keeps hidden. Dunk instantly connects with Lyonel so personally that the Stormlord is willing to fight to the death over him. The problem is, if you’re married to a man like that, eventually he will have to confront the fact that keeping feelings buried and acting casual about important matters does not make for a very good husband.

Fights with him go one of two ways.

The first is him deflecting. You tell him it hurts your feelings when he goes off on hunting trips with “friends” who don’t really care about him, or when he leaves for a tournament and insists you’ll be better off stuck at Storm’s End. (AN: If you haven't read anything I’ve written about Lyonel before, I kind of see him as the type of man who is disinterested in marriage at first and doesn’t really want to be involved in it until he realizes his feelings for you and it hits him like a brick.) He’s scoffing, telling you you’re crazy for being upset- which of course makes you angry.

As your relationship progresses however, a second type of fighting begins to occur. Lyonel doesn’t do anything by halves, and when he starts falling in love with you, it overtakes him. It also means that when the two of you are worked up about something, he’s no longer casually cool and aloof. You’re everything to him, but it means you get the full brunt of his feelings when he’s in a snit, and that's its own type of storm. It comes from his heart, though the shouting between you shakes the stones of his keep.

You’ll follow each other down the dark halls, continuing the argument as servants scurry away from your shared wrath. There's so much passion in it, the drama of it all, yelling and pointing, faces hard and teeth bared. It's not about him making you feel small, it's about his incessant need to be heard. Typically, these fights end in your bed, snug in his arms and hot from his body, somehow barely remembering what either of you were angry about in the first place.