whole house hot idccc

The Stormlands were not ever favoured for their changing weather. An hour before the sun had set it had been eagerly warm, golden even. And now as dawn approached? The fog came, and the cold crept in quietly through every crevice within the estate. The blankets did little to coddle you, nor did the smoking fire that had since burnt its flame. Your husband led behind you, your back against his chest as his jaw sat confined within the crook of your neck. It was peaceful, despite the scratching of his beard and the incessant fucking cold that overwhelmed you. Normally you were capable of coping with any climate, yet the Stormlands ceaselessly deceived you, no day could pass without a drastic change in the temperature, it was aggravating.

“Husband.” You prodded, yet his arms circling your waist only tightened as he huffed half-asleep. “Husband.” Again you whispered, yet somehow more desperately. “What?” That rasp. Sometimes you thought waking him mid-slumber was worth it just to hear the rawness of his voice. “I am cold.”

He huffed again, drawing you tighter into his embrace, his skin sticking to your own. “I cannot fix that, can I? Pray for better weather.”

“I thought Targaryen’s thought yourselves gods? You fix it!” Your whispering was a desperate shout, quiet and sharp yet with all the assertiveness you hoped would rouse him further. It did not. Instead he slipped his cock inside of your dripping hole, causing you to fall short of words entirely.

“So tight f’me.” He mumbled, a lazy kiss pressed against the column of your throat. “Aren’t you?”

A whimper escaped you, involuntarily at that, yet he pursued. Goosebumps riddled your flesh as his fingers brushed along the raised skin of your forearm. “I am cold.”

“I would like to disagree.”

You smacked his arm, hard enough for a sting. You were frustrated, physically. Yet your body was pliant to his will, giving him all that he desired within every curve of your being. “You could just be a decent husband and re-stoke the fire for your freezing wife.”

“I would rather fuck her, if she wouldn’t mind.” He grumbled, his kisses pressing further until he met the edge of your earlobe, at which he nibbled lightly. You raised your head away from his touch, causing a tired groan to escape him before his hand came to clasp around your throat. “You do it.” He rasped, drawing your face back to his comfort, yet his hand remained firm where he pleased.

“I am comfortable.”

“As am I.”

“Then I suppose this will have to remain satisfactory.” He concluded, he begun to rut into you, slowly, dragging his cock against the plushness of your walls causing a mewl to escape you. It released itself strangled at the pressure yet he maintained his stature. His kisses resumed, now against the skin of your shoulder as his free hand found your clit to begin its devotion. You arched against him at the feeling, the only sounds being the contained cries of your pleasure as you scratched at his forearm. “Seven hells do you want people to think I’ve been attacked? Hm? Or do you just want those of the court to see how good I can fuck my wife? We travel for Kings Landing tomorrow, what will my family say?”

“Do not talk about the courts or your fucking family whilst your cock is ruining me you beast!” A wanton moan escaped you yet again, he only chuckled against your ear softly as he felt you clench around his cock.

The heat between your thighs had risen into your belly, tightening like knot ready to snap, tension high arisen beneath your now warmed skin. You wriggled, forcing him deeper inside of you, meeting his every thrust as the wet sounds of your sex filled the room amidst your breathless moans of worship. “That’s it. You knew what you needed, didn’t you? Your husband’s cock to keep you full of him and warm.” His voice was low yet unwavering, your eyes fluttered until they fell shut before you felt yourself convulsing around him. His cock twitched deep inside of you before he released his own restraint, spilling his seed raw and deep inside of what was entirely yours, yet in this moment now his. You couldn’t fight your own release any longer, milking him for all his worth you followed suit much more vocally than your husband’s grunts.

“Contented are you?” His hand unwound itself from your throat as his teeth sank into your shoulder playfully. You pinched his thigh, tilting your head so perfectly your eyes could meet, “go and stoke the fire f’me. Would you husband?” You asked sweetly, batting your eyelashes at him like he hadn’t just taken apart your entire being and put you back together piece-by-piece.

With a feigned groan of annoyance he slipped from behind you, his cock leaving you empty and leaking of your mixed sex. He saw to the fire, you watched his broad frame. The entire raw being of the man who scarcely ever let himself be seen as so human. He was beautiful, though you doubted he’d teach you a lesson should you proclaim as such.

A/N: a little Maekar drabble because he’s still my number one husband guys trust.

as always: likes, comments, reblogs + any interactions at all are always always appreciated - take care everyone!!

DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.

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“It’s Daeron the daring.” Ormund attempts to correct for what feels like the hundredth time. Him having been your darling boy since he came to live with you.

“No it not.” You reply rolling your eyes at the man. Looking at your tall boy as you move some of him hair away from his face, the boys hair out of place after training. “He’s a darling.”

“Muña.” Your boy whisper his face flushed red, looking like Gwanye when you call him your handsome knight. “A knight can’t be called darling.”

“Why not?” You ask, thinking the name fitting.

“He’s a man.” Ormund tells you with an annoyed look on his face.

“He may be but he’s still my little boy.” You say, not bothering to hide your smile as you embarrass the boy. Him knowing that if he wants you to stop all he has to do is ask or do your code.

“I wouldn’t exactly call our boy little, he’s a tower.” Gwayne says, announcing his arrival as he presses a kiss to your cheek. Knowing you’re finding it difficult that your eldest child, who used to sneak into bed with you when he had a nightmare, is now a knight and entering tourneys.

“Or are you just short?” You offer, knowing that your second son takes after his father in the hight department. Valarr being quite short for his age.

“Rude.”

“True.”

“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” Ormund interrupts, finding it annoying when you and Gwanye banter back and forth. “What’s for dinner? I’d like lots of vegetables.”

“Yes of course.” You reply, having already told the kitchens to made Daeron favourite. Him having won game night the night before. “Ser Daeron the daring what would you like for dinner? I’ve already requested lemon cakes for pudding.”

“I don’t mind.” He says softly looking down at the floor, not wanting Ormund to see his smile. You insisting that darling sounds better than daring.

-

“Breath.” Gwayne tells you as you watch your two eldest sons talk before the tourney. Valarr having paint on his cheek as he talks, hands all over the place as he can’t stay still.

“I am.” You say, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. “I’m just worried.”

“He’s seven and ten.” Gwanye reminds kindly, knowing you still worry about him at his age.

“Exactly, still a babe.”

“My love.” Gwanye sighs, cupping your cheek so you look at him. “He will be fine.”

“What if he gets hurt?”

“He won’t.” Gwanye reassures. “But if he does I give you permission to feed Ormund to Silverwing in retaliation.”

“And the twat who hurt him?” You ask sweetly, having asked to do the same to anyone who hurt your husband.

“We’ll see.” He laughs giving you a quick kiss. Having to leave to get ready as he was competing soon.

-

“Aren’t you a bit old to compete?” You ask your husband judgementally, knowing he’s mainly doing it for you. Knowing that if you have him to make fun off and tease you’ll stop worrying about Daeron so much.

“I’m not old.” Gwanye laughs, noting the smirk on your lips.

“Our eldest is seven and ten.” You remind, looking your husband up and down. Hating how handsome he looks in his armour.

“I am adopted.” Daeron says letting you fix some of his armour, Baelor clearly having tried to help him get ready.

“Ok then, our second eldest is four and ten.” You say, deciding not to mention that your youngest is four. Daeron and Gwayne having matching string on their sword handles that the girl gave them.

“And an excellent squire.” Gwanye responds, all of you looking over at the boy who’s painting dragons on the tourney horse. “He’s also a talented artist.”

“Don’t get hurt.” You sigh, accepting your fate. Kissing both on the cheek before walking over to see Valarr. At least knowing you won’t have to worry about him entering tourneys as he’d much rather paint.

“I won’t.” Gwayne reassures, just about to give Daeron a pep talk when you respond.

"You have to listen to me! You can't trust them, they'll turn their backs on you at the first opportunity!" you insisted, trying to keep your voice steady despite your growing frustration. Standing before you was the man who was your husband, but in that moment, he seemed like someone else entirely.

Maekar barely lifted his gaze from the documents he was reading before answering, with the kind of calmness that on other occasions you had found reassuring, but which now irritated you even more. "We need their ships. We cannot ignore them." he grumbled, placing the papers on his desk with a gesture that was sharper than necessary.

You took a step forward, unable to let the matter go, and stood in front of him, almost as though you were trying to force him to listen to you. "Of course we can. We are the royal family." you retorted firmly, lifting your chin as you tried to hide how much it hurt that he seemed so quick to dismiss your concerns.

For a few moments, Maekar remained silent, studying you with an expression you could not decipher. Then he sighed, weary, and those words left his mouth with such simplicity that he did not seem to realize the wound they were about to leave behind. "You cannot understand certain things." he said, and when you protested, hurt by the arrogance of his words, he added with another sigh, almost as though he were trying to explain something to a petulant child, "You're too young."

Those words struck you far harder than he could ever have imagined. It was not his tone, nor the simple disagreement, nor even the fact that he had chosen to disregard your opinion that truly hurt you. It was those words, too young, that continued to echo in your mind even after the room had fallen silent again. The words repeated themselves inside your head like an endless refrain, taking on a more painful meaning each time. Too young to understand. Too young to stand at his side. Too young to truly be his equal.

You remained motionless for a few moments, staring at him as though you suddenly had before you a man you knew only halfway, while Maekar seemed to realize that something in your expression had changed, even though he had not yet understood how deeply. You suddenly felt small, insignificant, naïve, almost like a tolerated presence beside him rather than his wife. And that feeling struck precisely at the most fragile part of yourself, the part you had desperately tried to hide ever since the day you had become his wife.

You had always known that there were years between you that you could never erase, memories he had lived through before you were even old enough to understand them, people who had known a part of him you could never have access to. And, more than anything, there had been a life before you in which Maekar had loved another woman. His first wife had become, in your insecure mind, a ghost you could never hope to equal. A woman who had known Maekar when he was younger, who had shared years with him that you could never give back, who had known his hopes before reality caught up with him, his fears before responsibility, his dreams before duty suffocated them. She had stood beside him in a way you could never imitate. She had had sons and daughters with him, had left memories in his life that no subsequent marriage could ever erase. You had tried to convince yourself that it did not matter, that the past was simply the past, and that the fact Maekar had chosen you, that he had wanted you beside him, was enough. And yet those insecurities had never disappeared. They had remained hidden beneath the surface of your heart, silent and patient, waiting to resurface at the first wound.

You lowered your gaze because you did not want him to see how deeply his words had hurt you and, above all, because you did not want to give him the chance to realize that he had struck something far deeper than wounded pride. With surprisingly steady hands, you gathered the things you had left on the table, carefully arranging the papers and small objects, as though you needed to focus on something tangible to keep your voice from trembling. Maekar barely had time to watch you before you spoke. "I understand." Only one short, polite word. Terribly distant.

Then you turned and walked away, leaving him alone with the words he had not yet had the chance to take back. Behind you, you heard his voice calling your name in the corridor, hesitant at first and then more determined, but you did not stop. You continued walking without looking back, your heart heavy and your throat tight, repeating to yourself that you had done nothing wrong. You were not a child. You were not a stranger. You were his wife. And yet, as you walked through those corridors you had crossed hundreds of times before, you could not shake the feeling that, for the first time, Maekar had shown you exactly how he saw you.

In the days that followed, the castle suddenly seemed enormous. Every corridor appeared longer, every doorway seemed to offer an escape route, and you learned Maekar's movements with precision, as though you were trying to flee from an enemy rather than your own husband. If you knew he was in the council chamber, you chose the corridors farthest away from it. If you saw him crossing the courtyard, you changed direction before he could reach you. If someone announced that he was about to go to a particular wing of the castle, you immediately found a reason to be somewhere else. You did not want to argue again, but you were not ready to forgive him either. Above all, you were not ready to look into his eyes and risk discovering that the distance you felt in your heart existed in his eyes as well.

You stopped visiting the places where you knew you would find him and even stopped seeking his company during meals, preferring to have food brought to your chambers. At first, the servants seemed confused, but eventually they learned not to ask questions. You often ate in silence by the window, watching the castle continue with its daily life while you seemed to have become nothing more than a shadow within it. You could hear the voices of people in the corridors, the clatter of armor, the calls of the guards, the constant movement of the court, but everything seemed distant, as though you were separated from the rest of the world by an invisible pane of glass. In the evenings, instead of going to Maekar's chambers, you had another room prepared and personally carried some of your books, your clothes, and the few things you considered truly yours into it.

Whenever Maekar entered his chambers and found his side of the bed empty, the silence seemed heavier to him. You did not even give him the chance to pretend that nothing had changed. You no longer shared his bed, you no longer reached for his hand when the two of you walked together in front of others, and, above all, you no longer gave him the trust he had once learned to expect. And perhaps that was what hurt him more than any argument could have. Because he could face your anger. He could endure your accusations. He could even accept you telling him that he had been wrong. What he did not know how to deal with was your silence, that sudden distance growing between you with each passing day, reminding him that a sentence spoken without thought could wound far more deeply than he had ever imagined.

Maekar tried to speak to you on the third day. He found you in one of the highest corridors of the fortress, standing by one of the great stone arches, watching the courtyards below. Your hands rested on the parapet, your gaze fixed downward, where guards crossed the yard and servants hurried from one building to another. For a few moments, he remained at a distance, watching you in silence, almost unable to find the courage he needed to approach. Ever since you had begun avoiding him, Maekar had learned just how difficult it could be to speak to one's own wife when every encounter seemed to turn into an impenetrable wall. Eventually, he took one step forward, then another. When he was close enough, he quietly spoke your name. You heard him. He knew you had by the way your shoulders stiffened ever so slightly.

You slowly turned around, and your eyes met for a brief moment. Maekar wanted to take advantage of that moment, to tell you that he was sorry, to explain that he had never meant to hurt you, that those words had been spoken out of exhaustion and irritation, and that they had never represented what he truly thought of you. But he could not bring himself to say anything. You said nothing either. You simply looked at him for a few seconds, your expression so composed that it was almost more painful than anger, and then you walked past him without stopping.

Your perfume lingered in the air for a few moments after you had gone, and Maekar remained motionless, unable to follow you, while the sound of your footsteps faded down the corridor. His heart sank in his chest with a feeling he had never experienced during any battle, nor before an enemy, nor when faced with the most difficult decisions he had ever had to make. He was helpless.

The following day, it happened again, this time near the library. Maekar saw you leaving the great hall with a book held tightly against your chest and, for a moment, thought that perhaps this would be the right opportunity. He had spent most of the morning searching for the right words in his mind, repeating them to himself and discarding them one after another because every possible explanation seemed too weak compared to the pain he had seen in your eyes. He called your name in a low voice, trying not to sound authoritative, and took a step toward you. You slowed only slightly, but you did not stop.

Maekar then tried to explain that he only wanted to talk to you, that he did not wish to force you, that he would wait as long as necessary if only you would give him a few minutes. But you kept walking. You did not quicken your pace, you showed no anger, and you did not even glance at him. You simply continued down the corridor as though his voice had become part of the sounds of the fortress, something you could hear without being obligated to answer.

On the fifth day, he encountered you on the stairs. This time, he reacted instinctively. When he saw you coming down, he raised a hand in an attempt to stop you, but halted before he could even touch you. You descended without looking at him, passing by with that same calmness that was slowly driving him mad. Maekar remained on the staircase, his hand still raised for a few moments before he slowly let it fall to his side. Every attempt ended the same way. And the more he tried to reach you, the more he understood that the problem was not finding the right moment, but convincing you that listening to him did not mean exposing yourself once again to the possibility of being hurt.

He wanted to explain that he had never meant to say you were incapable, that he had never thought you were too naïve or too inexperienced to understand what was happening around you. His irritation had spoken in place of reason; exhaustion had turned a political discussion into something personal, and he had chosen the worst words he could possibly have chosen. He wanted to tell you that he knew perfectly well how sharp your mind was, that you were clever, intelligent, and far more observant than many men at court would ever admit. Often, you were the one who noticed details he had overlooked. He wanted to remind you of all the times he had sought your advice, all the times he had listened to your opinion because he recognized its value. But every time he imagined saying those words, they seemed inadequate. How could he tell you that you were intelligent after making you feel stupid? How could he assure you that he did not consider you beneath him after telling you precisely the opposite? Maekar did not know what to say. And as the days passed, he increasingly understood that even the most sincere apology would not be enough if you did not want to hear it.

Your absence became a constant presence in his life. Every room seemed to remind him of how much you had been a part of his days before that argument. The seat beside him during meals remained empty; the corridors that had once been filled with your laughter suddenly seemed unbearably quiet. Even his chambers seemed different without your books, your clothes, and those little things you had left there over the months without him ever paying much attention to them. Now every detail seemed important. The blanket you had chosen. The book you had forgotten on one of the shelves. A brooch accidentally left on the table. Everything seemed to speak of you. And everything reminded him that you were there, in the same fortress, only a few corridors away, and yet he could no longer reach you.

In his eyes, everything seemed empty, dark, and sad. Even the fire in the hearth could not make the rooms feel warmer. Maekar had faced war, grief, responsibility, and the consequences of his own decisions without allowing anyone to see how deeply they hurt him. And yet your absence was enough to hollow him out.

Baelor was the one who noticed. He knew you too well not to understand that something was wrong, and he knew his brother well enough to realize that Maekar's silence was not normal. There was something different in the way Maekar moved, in the way he avoided other people's eyes, and above all, in the melancholy that seemed to have taken hold of him. Baelor confronted him one evening when he found him alone in his study, an untouched goblet of wine before him and his gaze lost in the flames of the fireplace. He did not even bother to knock. He entered, closed the door behind him, and watched him for a few seconds before speaking. "What have you done to my daughter?" he asked without preamble.

Maekar slowly lifted his eyes. For a few moments, he remained silent, as though considering whether to lie, minimize the matter, or convince his brother that nothing serious had happened. But eventually, he lowered his gaze. He told him everything, from the argument to the words he had spoken. When he finished, Baelor remained motionless. For a few moments, he seemed unable to find an answer. Then anger transformed his face, twisting it into a furious expression.

He took one step toward his brother, then another, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. He grabbed Maekar by the collar of his tunic and gave him a slight shake. "The day I gave her to you in marriage," he said in a low, terrible voice. "you swore to me that you would never make her suffer."

Maekar did not step back. He accepted that anger without attempting to defend himself, because he knew he had no argument with which to do so. "I know."

Baelor tightened his grip, staring at him with eyes full of anger and disappointment. "I was lenient because I knew she loved you, but now this?" he demanded.

Maekar closed his eyes, allowing those words to fall upon him. "I know."

For a moment, the elder brother seemed on the verge of forgetting every bond of blood between them, and only his awareness of the consequences kept his fury from becoming something irreparable. At last, he slowly released Maekar's collar, but he did not look away. "You are my brother," he murmured at last. "but she is my daughter. Don't make me choose."

Those words stayed with Maekar long after Baelor had left. For the first time, he fully understood the gravity of his mistake. He had made you feel insignificant, and he wanted nothing more than to beat himself up over it.

That night, Maekar remained awake until dawn, sitting alone before the fireplace, which had long since gone out. The room was shrouded in darkness, and only the faint light of the moon managed to filter through the windows, casting pale streaks across the floor. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. He remembered the way you had lowered your gaze after his words, the way you had gathered your things with surprisingly steady hands, and above all, that quiet tone in which you had said that you understood. Now that single word seemed far more painful to him than any accusation you could have hurled at him. I understand. He could not bear the thought that, in your mind, he had become the man who had confirmed every insecurity you had always feared you possessed.

Eventually, he made a decision. If you no longer wanted to come to him, then he would come to you. If every time you saw him, you walked away, he would find a way to show you that he would not stop seeking your forgiveness, even if he had to do so silently for weeks, perhaps even months. Maekar had always believed that words were enough when they were spoken sincerely, yet now he was beginning to understand that he could not expect you to immediately believe his apologies simply because he was finally ready to offer them. So, instead of chasing you through the corridors and forcing you to listen to him, he decided to stop asking you for something you were not yet ready to give. He would wait. And every day, he would find some way, however small and seemingly insignificant, to remind you that he had no intention of giving up in the face of the wall you had built between you.

His pretty girl.

In the days that followed, Maekar stopped trying to convince you with words and began doing so through small gestures.

Every evening, when you entered your chambers, you found a new, colorful bouquet of flowers on your bedside table, chosen with a care you would never have associated with him. Sometimes they were roses with delicate petals, arranged elegantly in a silver vase; other times they were simple wildflowers gathered from the castle gardens, still carrying the scent of earth and dew, as though Maekar remembered that you had once said you preferred those to the elaborate arrangements favored by the court. On more than one occasion, he had plants brought from distant lands simply because he remembered a conversation you had shared months earlier, when you had casually mentioned a particular fragrance that you liked. There was never a note accompanying the flowers. No declaration. No request for forgiveness. Only the small gift, left every evening in the same place, as though he wanted to tell you that he was thinking of you even when he could not bring himself to speak to you. You looked at them, sometimes for several minutes, allowing their fragrance to fill the room, and no matter how hard you tried to maintain your resolve, it was impossible not to understand who had sent them. The following morning, however, you continued to leave them exactly where you had found them, unable to decide whether to consider them a tenderness or yet another painful reminder of how much you missed him.

Then the jewelry began to arrive. Maekar commissioned necklaces, bracelets, and rings from goldsmiths he personally knew, choosing stones he knew would catch your eye and designs that reminded him of things you had admired during your travels. He did not simply order the most expensive pieces he could find, as any man might have done if he wished to appease an offended wife with gifts. He remembered the things you had said. A stone you had stared at for a long time in a foreign shop. A pattern carved into a column that you had called beautiful. A particular shade you had always loved. Every piece of jewelry seemed to contain a fragment of your life together, a memory Maekar had kept even when you had believed he was not paying attention to your words. When you saw them, however, you would hold them between your fingers for only a few moments before carefully placing them back inside their boxes, never wearing them in front of him. You did not want to be cruel, and perhaps that was precisely why you never threw them away. You kept them. But keeping a gift did not mean you were ready to forgive the person who had given it to you. Maekar understood the difference, and although a part of him would have loved to see you wearing even one of those pieces around your neck or on your wrist, he said nothing. He did not ask you.

Even at the table, his persistence became obvious. He ordered the cooks to prepare your favorite dishes, had entire courses replaced whenever he discovered that you had not eaten, and made sure the wine you loved was always available, even when he knew you probably would not dine in the same room as him. Whenever a servant told him that you had left a dish almost untouched, Maekar would ask what was wrong, whether the food had been cold, too heavily spiced, or simply different from the way you preferred it. Sometimes he had something completely different prepared and sent to your chambers without accompanying it himself. And yet you continued to ignore him, allowing his attempt to win you back to slowly become his punishment. You did not make scenes. You did not openly reject the gifts. You did not tell him to stop. You simply refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that those attentions were slowly breaking through your armor. And Maekar, who had learned to recognize even the smallest changes in your expression, could not know how many times, when you were alone, you picked up one of the pieces of jewelry and studied it for far longer than you would ever have admitted, or how many times you leaned your face toward the flowers to breathe in their fragrance before remembering why you had received them.

Maekar, however, did not stop. He never complained when he found the flowers untouched on your bedside table the following morning, nor when he discovered that the jewelry was still inside its boxes. He did not complain when, during meals, you preferred to eat away from him, nor when you crossed a room without even sparing him a glance. Every time, he silently accepted the rejection, even when he returned to his chambers with the feeling that the weight pressing against his chest had grown even heavier. He had understood that insisting would not work in his favor. So he continued in silence.

Every day away from you seemed to last twice as long, and every night he returned to his chambers knowing that you were still sleeping somewhere else. The bed you had once shared remained cold and far too large, and Maekar began to understand just how much of his life was tied to your simple presence. At first, he had thought that giving you space was the right thing to do, but with every passing day, it became increasingly difficult for him to endure the distance he had created. He noticed your absence in the most ordinary moments: when he sat down at the table and instinctively searched for your gaze, when he had something to tell you and turned toward the armchair where you used to sit, when he heard an opinion during a meeting and immediately thought about what you would have pointed out. Even at night, when he went to bed, the automatic gesture of reaching a hand toward the side of the bed you had occupied for so long reminded him brutally that you were not there. Silence had become his most faithful companion.

One night, you returned to your chambers later than usual. Most of the candles had nearly burned out, and the moonlight filtered through the windows, casting pale streaks across the floor and barely illuminating the furniture in the room. You were tired and wanted nothing more than to close the door, rid yourself of your heavier garments, and finally allow yourself a few hours of silence, without having to think about Maekar, the argument, or all the things that continued to occupy your mind despite your efforts. You entered without expecting to find anyone, but stopped immediately when you recognized the tall figure standing before the window. For a moment, your heart quickened, more from surprise than fear.

Maekar was watching the courtyard shrouded in darkness, his hands clasped behind his back and a thoughtful expression on his face. He had not tried to hide, nor had he attempted to approach you before your arrival. He simply seemed to be there, as though he had been waiting for a long time without knowing whether you would ever return. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You slowly closed the door behind you and watched him, wondering why he was there after all those days and, above all, why this time he had chosen to wait for you in your chambers instead of stopping you in the corridors. Eventually, you broke the silence. "My lord, what are you doing here?" you asked, using the formal tone you had adopted with him, which more than any anger reminded him of just how far away from him you still were.

Maekar slowly turned. His eyes met yours, and for a few seconds, he seemed to forget even how to breathe. He looked at you as though it had been far longer since the last time he had truly had the chance to see you up close. The soft moonlight kissed your cheeks and outlined the profile of your face, making it even more apparent how tired you were. Maekar noticed every detail: the tension in your shoulders, the way you kept your hands folded in front of you, the distance you had instinctively maintained between the two of you. Always so beautiful. He took one step toward you, and then another, slowly, leaving you all the space you needed to move away if you wished. When he was close enough to see you clearly, he stopped. For the first time in days, he did not seem intent on filling the silence with an explanation. He simply looked at you, wearing a tired and vulnerable expression you had rarely seen on his face. Then he drew a deep breath, as though gathering the courage to finally tell you what he should have said long ago.

He said nothing. Instead, he suddenly dropped to his knees before you. The gesture was so sudden and unexpected that you barely had time to suppress a surprised gasp before Maekar was fully kneeling at your feet, without caring about the dignity he had always carried with him, nor the fact that he was a prince. His hands gently closed around your legs in desperation. He lowered his head and buried his face in the folds of your skirts, lightly clutching the fabric between his fingers as though he feared that, even after all these days, you might still decide to walk away from him. For a few moments, you could not even react. You had seen him furious, tired, authoritative, thoughtful, and even defeated, but you had never seen him like this. Maekar had never knelt before you in such a way. He had never let every defense fall away, nor had he ever allowed anyone to see how deeply something could hurt him. And now he was there, at your feet, his head bowed and his shoulders perfectly still.

You remained motionless, completely stunned by this display of vulnerability you had never seen in him. For a moment, your hands remained at your sides while all the emotions you had tried to keep separate during those days collided in your mind: anger, pain, disappointment, fear, and beneath it all, that affection you had never truly managed to erase. Looking at Maekar in that moment made it impossible to keep pretending that his presence did not matter to you. After a moment, you slowly raised one hand and placed it in his hair, almost without realizing what you were doing. Your fingers gently moved through his silver strands, still strangely disheveled, and you felt his breath tremble against your clothes. That small gesture seemed enough to make him lose, for a moment, all the tension he had been holding inside until then. He did not move, as though afraid that even the slightest movement might shatter that fragile moment, but his fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of your skirts. You continued stroking his hair slowly, while the silence of the room seemed to envelop both of you and, for the first time in many days, you did not feel the need to run away.

"I was a fool." he finally murmured, his voice much quieter than the one he normally used. The words seemed almost difficult for him to say, as though admitting them aloud meant making real everything he had tried to suppress in the preceding days. "I was a fool, and there hasn't been a single day when I haven't regretted it." His arms tightened slightly around you, and for a moment you felt his breath falter. "Every day away from you breaks my heart. Every day when you look at me and then walk away reminds me of what I've done."

You watched him in silence, observing the moonlight illuminating his silver hair, strangely tousled, and suddenly he seemed different from the man you had seen on the night of the argument.

"Forgive me, my love." he whispered, his voice strangely pleading. "Please. Forgive me for hurting you. For making you believe you weren't enough. For making you doubt what I feel for you." His fingers trembled slightly as he continued to clutch your skirts. "I never should have said it. I never should have allowed my anger to speak for me."

You let him speak, listening to every word without interrupting him, while your heart beat hard in your chest, surely much like his. You had imagined many times what it would be like when you finally spoke again, but none of the scenes you had created in your mind had ever included Maekar kneeling before you, stripped of all pride. When silence finally filled the room once more, you slowly lowered your gaze toward him. "You hurt me." you said quietly.

Maekar immediately nodded, making no attempt to defend himself. "I know." He lifted his face slightly, but still did not dare to look at you completely, almost as though he feared finding the same distance in your eyes that he had seen during the preceding days. "And I will never forgive myself."

You watched him for a long time, allowing the silence to stretch between you once again.

You could have left him in that position for a few more minutes. You could have reminded him of how much you had suffered, of how those six words had fed fears that had already existed inside you long before he had spoken them. But looking at him, with that vulnerable expression, made you waver. You slowly bent down and gently took his cheek in your hand, forcing him to lift his face toward you. Maekar obeyed immediately, and when your eyes finally met, you saw something in his that you had not seen for days: Fear.

Your lips curved into a timid smile, and Maekar held his breath. "I forgive you.” you whispered.

For a moment, he remained completely still, as though he were not certain he had heard you correctly. Your words seemed too beautiful, too simple after all those days of silence, and Maekar was almost afraid to move, fearing that if he did something wrong, he might discover that he had only imagined the moment. Then relief filled his eyes, and the faintest smile finally appeared on his face. He gently took your face between his hands and rose only enough to reach you, still leaving you the opportunity to pull away. He kissed you softly, as though the gesture itself were a question to which you could still answer no. His hands trembled slightly against your now warm face, and his lips were soft, so familiar that they suddenly reminded you of everything you had tried not to think about during those days.

When he pulled away slightly, he remained with his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed and a tiny smile that he could no longer suppress. "We should go back to our chambers." he murmured against your lips, relief evident in his voice. "They've become far too cold without you."

A small laugh escaped your lips, the first he had heard from you in days, and Maekar remained still for a moment, listening to it as though it were the most beautiful music he had ever heard. His hands sought yours, carefully intertwining his fingers with yours.

Valarr wore a deep purple gambeson and Matarys wore a green one. Matarys was young yet, he was only a squire waiting to be of age to be knighted. And Valarr, ever so demanding, always tried to win so Matarys would be a good knight. 

You watched his sweaty face as he taught his little brother how to defend himself, his resolve not faltering one bit. He wasn’t aggressive, his movements controlled as the end of his sword kept on smacking Matarys.

“Stop it” Matarys complained as Valarr kept on hitting him. 

“You think Blackfyre bastards will stop?” He said, shaking his head. “Do not yield easily” 

You fanned yourself with the expensive fan that Daeron’s wife had brought from Tyrosh as a wedding gift. Valarr was the pinnacle of chivalry, just after his own father, and no doubt that Matarys would be too once he was knighted.

“My wrist hurts” Matarys complained..

“Stop complaining” Valarr said, as Matarys managed to hit him in the chest once. 

“I’m not complaining” Matarys said “I’m just saying. Besides, blunt weapons do little to hurt me, but you strike me as if you are upset with me.”

“That’s enough, my princes” The master-at-arms intervened as both princes threw their swords on the mud.

You smile: it was the right time to approach your beloved husband. You walk closer to where he was, not minding your dress getting muddy.

“Valarr!” You called him out, taking him by surprise when you hug him faster than he can respond to your voice calling him.

“My love” he says, breathless, catching you in his arms. 

Matarys huffs, “Good morrow to you too, goodsister.” 

“Good morrow, Matarys” you say to him, hiding your face in Valarr’s gambeson, near his neck. “Mmm, you smell good.” 

“I have been training all morning” he mumbled, his tone amused as his arms were around you. “I must make time for a bath.”

“Oh?” Your face immediately moved upwards to smile at him, and you say “Would you… mind company?”

You have been wed for a little time, just a few moons. You had been so excited to marry him, because he had courted you like a proper man did. He would take you on a stroll of the gardens, whispering to you confessions of love when your walking rhythm was too fast for your septa to follow up in the conversation, and when she was distracted, he would steal a kiss to your cheek. 

And you were smitten by him, always tending to him, doing things for him, embroidering doublets, making sure the maids would wait for him with warm water and rose scented soaps. 

In truth, you were slightly obsessed, fussing over him at all times. He didn’t mind, he had told you once you asked him if it was too much. Just proves how much you think of me, as I think of you.

“I apologise, my sweet, but I am afraid the council will take long hours. I need to be there.” 

“You only have to fill cups” you mumbled, as if that could excuse his role.

“For the King and my father. And all the masters that control the Realm. It is no little task.”

You knew you couldn’t argue with him, he was just like his father when speaking like this. It sounded so divine, so essential that you didn’t contradict his words. 

Yet he looked so handsome, a smile on his face as he looked at you with utterly adoring eyes. His sweet mismatched eyes, looking at yours as if nothing else mattered.

You move to press insistent kisses on his neck, wrapping your arms around his neck, nuzzling him as a cat in heat would. “Then… then we can be quick.” You say against his skin.. 

“My love-” he said, chuckling at your advances, yet his hand wrapped  around your arms to pull you away. “We are not in our chambers”

“It’s only Matarys, and Ser-”

“Still” he said, not dismissive. He’s amused, even endeared by your affections. “You just wait for me, yes?”

“Alright…”

The next time you managed to catch him, he was at council hours, yet you saw the Kingsguard outside the library. 

You looked at your ladies in waiting, curious as if they knew the answer. As you walk to the Kingsguard, you ask.

“Good morrow, ser Roland” you greet him, and trying to peek at the library, you asked “Is my husband there?” 

“He is, princess. The Good King asked for some scrolls of the North. The prince proposed himself to seek them.”

You smiled.

 “Good!” You said, walking inside the library and closing the door behind you, leaving ser Roland and your two ladies-in-waiting behind. 

As you peeked through the halls, you found Valarr checking the scrolls quietly, making sure he got the right ones. He was so kind in your eyes, eager to prove himself, he did everything so dutifully.

“Valarr” you call for him, smiling as you wrap your arms around him once more. “I came in search of you.” 

He was a bit surprised, as one hand wrapped  around your waist as he chuckled. 

“It seems you have me located at all times” he said amused.

“I do not. My path simply always crosses yours,” you said simply, kissing his cheek. “You look handsome.”

“I always look handsome according to you.”

“Because you are-” you said, and then “-Why don’t you take me here?” 

Valarr looked at you, your boldness never stopping to surprise him. “In the library?”

“Yes. I miss you terribly… No one will catch us here.”

“My heart, we did it last night” he whispered to you, low enough so no one else could hear. “And in the morning we cuddled and kissed before I woke up. You kept me long enough for people to notice.”

You smiled, your cheeks a bit rosy with his comment. “Well, you’re my husband. I always want you.”

“I also always want you, dearest” he said with a smitten look in his eyes. “I think of it in council, and when I do everything else. You are all I think about, when I wake up beside you and when I sleep by your side.” 

You pressed your lips against his, your hands on his jaw, guiding him to meet your lips. You already felt the heat forming between your legs, you always craved him so deeply.

“Wait, wait, wait-” Valarr stopped you for a second, stepping back with a chuckle. “You do not mean to do it here” he says amused.

“But…” you stuttered. “But we have time, we’re alone”

“I have to go back to the small council. What if they found the heir’s heir with the future Queen copulating  in the library?”

You shrunk in your place. “We do not ‘copulate’, we… we make love”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “We can see to that at night, yes?” He said tenderly. “I love you”

It felt unfair, having him dismiss you because he was so dutiful that it was becoming exasperating. Yet you supposed that it is reasonable for him to do everything by the rules.

“Love you too…” you mumbled as he walked with scrolls in his arms.

You turn in bed. Once, and then another time. Valarr has just blown out the candles, and you could not help but think. He was already dozing off, his busy day catching up to his body. He was tired, yet you couldn't help yourself.

“Valarr?”

“Yeah?” He mumbled, grunting slightly. 

“We never saw to that.”

“To what?”

“I said we make love. You said that we will see to that at night,” you reminded him.

Valarr turned over to face you in the darkness of the night, his mismatched eyes never looking at you with any less affection, not now or ever.

“Seven Gods…” he said chuckling, dragging a hand through his face. “Insatiable, you are. Obsessed with me.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Like I said, not at all,” he said, pulling you closer to him as he moved to press a kiss on your cheek softly.  “But I am exhausted, love. Perhaps we could, in the morning.”

“No! I have waited for you all day” you complained, looking at him. “I want you to fuck me. Now, please”

He chuckled, sitting up as he said “All day?”

“Yes…” You say, as you have given much thought to this. “I have waited for it, I imagined every second of it… I would start by going down on you. I’ll suck your cock until you cum, then I’ll…” you squint your eyes, thinking for a second “I’d ride you, because I know you’ll be overstimulated” 

“I wouldn’t,” he said, rolling his eyes, amused, looking at you as he muttered “I’ll still fuck you how you like it.” 

“You haven’t fucked me all day.”

Valarr’s movements were teasing, as he chuckled to accommodate you to his liking. He left you seated against the headboard of the bed, making sure your back was against the many pillows in your gigantic bed. As his fingers moved to undo your nightgown, he rambled once again.

“I’ll show you what I can do, then” button after button, his mismatched eyes glazing over at all your naked skin that presented to his sight. “I ought to spank you for your bratiness against your husband” he said playfully “But I feel indulgent tonight, with a surge of energy.”

“Energy? Not lust?”

“It could be both,” he said simply, as he took off his linen shirt and pulled down his breeches. He was hungry, taking clothes off more quickly than any maid could. “The lust I feel for you, usually I work it off so it can be useful for my duties.”

“The lust you feel for me should go to me. To fucking me,” you complained “not to the realm.”

Valarr wasn’t surprised at finding you wet, he has never found you anything but since you were together. It pleased him greatly, you knew that for a fact, to find his wife always ready for him, that craved his busy attention all day. 

He slid his fingers against your slit, as he hummed  “Hmmm, look at how wet she is” he murmured, feeling the slick heat. “All for me?” 

“All day” you mumbled, a bit grumpy as he chuckled, moving to press a tender kiss on your lips.

“We shall fix that immediately. Can’t have the wife of a prince this needy… this drenched.”

“Don’t tease me,” you say to him, as he pressed small insistent kisses on your neck. He was amused, and it was impossible for him not to tease you from time to time. 

“Alright. Shall we fill her then?”

Valarr’s movements were swift, as he positioned behind you, kissing you neck softly and his hand raising your thigh carefully. He was most tender at this time of the night, as he was tired from the day’s duties that had him running around, each second of his day counted and it was more valuable to him. 

“My needy wife” he murmured, kissing your neck as his cock slid into you making you moan, finally getting what you have been craving all day. You had grown used to feeling a small sting inside, trying to accommodate your husband’s length, and it had become pleasurable with time. 

Valarr’s groans were always a delight, hearing him moan against your ear is one of your favourite parts of being intimate with him. He was young and full of energy, and he did not hold back to his pleasure. 

“You feel so good, my love…” He murmured against your ear, his chest feeling sweaty against your back as he rocked his hips, thrusting each time harder against your cunt. “She always feels so good for me.”

He had a way with words, that always made you blush even as he fucked hard into your cunt. The muscles in your thigh would hurt by morning, but you did not care, moving your torso slightly so you could face him a little better. 

“I needed this so bad” you whimpered against his mouth, small hairs of your head sticking to your sweaty forehead. 

“I know, my love. Me too”

“We should go to Dragonstone and fuck there all day. No, for a whole week.”

He smirked, his mouth pressing against yours as his thrusts become more desperate by the second. The drag as his cock slid in and out made you moan loudly, feeling Valarr’s arm wrap your waist as he moved his fingers to press the small nub in your pussy. He never left you unattended, and then he’d ask himself why you always were so needy about him. 

“You’re insatiable” he murmured, his breaths shorter, as he whimpers “Fuck…” 

It all became too much, the head of his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you, his fingers circling your clit at the same time, and his mouth all over your nape and neck, always having a handful of you each time he fucks you.  

“That’s it, take this dick…” he groaned, “she was made for my cock, huh?”

He rarely spoke so dirty when in bed, he was the image of chivalry at all times, but it seemed that this time you have pushed him to the limits. 

“Yes, Valarr, please…”

“Shh… I love being so deep inside you…”

“I’m going to come, Valarr” you moaned, the pleasure becoming too overwhelming and exasperating all at once “I’m going to come, m’gonna come…”

“Seven above…” Valarr groaned, arousal evident in his tone, burning each drag of his words, so unlike him not to speak with such property and poshness, but pleasure was too much for him as well. “I’m gonna fill you full of my babes, that shall have you calm, hmm?”

“Yes!” You moaned, cumming as he kept stimulating you, not leaving you alone for a second. His fingers were insistent against your clit, pressuring it just enough as his gorgeous eyes looked deep inside yours, even if your eyes are closed, you can feel him staring at you.

“Fuck, I will” he promised “I’ll fill you up- There you go, take it…”

You could barely make sense of what he rambled on, feeling limp as you feel his hip shaking, burying himself inside as deep as he can as he cums, his seed filling your womb as you try to catch your breath between whimpers. The thigh he held with his hand was already shaky, as your muscle has become tired much more after your orgasm, yet you do not wish to move.

“I love you” he murmured, as you both tried to catch your breaths, he smiled before kissing you softly. His cock twitched inside you, still leaking the small amount of cum inside his balls. 

“Love you too…”

“Are you satisfied?” 

“Mhm, perhaps” you said smiling. “At least for now, yes.”

Even if it was supposed to be a small hunting day (more like an excuse for the King to have his whole family together in one place), there were a little less than a hundred people, nobles and servants mixed in the terrain... Too much people compared to Summerhall.

You laid back in the King’s Pavillon, a massive space with many sofas, tables and you were sure there was a bed somewhere. You sat back in your chair, the sixth round of some card game that Jena and Aelinor were big fans of… you had never heard of it. 

“It is your turn, sister,” Jena says to you. 

“Ah, yes, I…” you had paid no mind to the instructions, as you senselessly discarding one card after taking another. 

“Your deadwood is very confusing” Alys Arryn said then, who was next to you. 

“I am still figuring out the game…” you murmur, accommodating your cards in your hands. 

You missed your husband. They had taken a long time in the hunt, and King Daeron preferred to take a few men on the hunt, to be more like a family matter. 

Baelon had taken Valarr and Matarys, while Maekar took his four sons with him, leaving Daella and Rhae here to play with their cousin Aelora, currently playing monsters or maidens around the tent. 

“Gods, you seem awfully bored with us,” Jena says, slightly amused. 

“I just miss my husband. It is still a bit weird not to have him around” 

“He will be fine” Aelinor says, moving to pick up the card Alys discarded “If Aerys can survive a hunt without a book, so can you survive without your husband.” 

You knew Maekar had fun at hunts, more than he did welcoming his father’s court at Summerhall or having to do other court activities. But you were getting impatient without him, used to his presence around Summerhall, going through the halls seeking for him, having a lovely tea together or even waking up next to him. 

Naturally, you thought that Jena, Alys and Aelinor were used to marital life. They had been married longer, had sons, and were stable.  

You married him not so long ago. You were significantly younger than any of them, and a new addition to the family. Everyone welcomed you warmly, sure, but you still preferred being with Maekar everywhere. 

Once it is your turn again, you see the set in your hand and pick up the card Jena discarded. 

“Your graces” A servant says, as the horn sounds in the back. “The King has returned along with his songs.” 

Standing up, you are quicker than them, leaving your cards discarded on the table as you move to seek both Daella and Rhae from the ground. 

“Come on, now, girls, your father has come back” you say excitedly, as they stand up.

“With our brothers?”

“With Egg?” Rhae perks up at that.

“Hopefully, the four of them are in one piece… if the Gods are truly merciful” you say, taking their hands as you walk outside along with them. 

First you see King Daeron, riding alongside his half-brother, Lord Bloodraven. You see the red deer behind them, with all the princelings behind it. 

“There’s Aegon!” Rhae points out, seeing the two ponies that Aemon and Aegon used. 

“There’s father” 

Maekar had the same scowl that he left with, after scolding relentlessly his four sons. You had no doubts that they had been scolded again and again in the road, much more compared to Valarr and Matarys ‘perfect princes’ as he called them, which frustrated him in comparison to his own sons.

Once he dismounted, his boots thudding on the dirty ground, the fake clapping of the court when his father presented the red deer was background noise as he sees you waiting for him, and he knows you are restraining yourself not to jump at him like a predator would with its prey.

“I missed you so much” It is the first words out of your mouth before he could even stop before you.

“Missed me? We were gone but three hours.” He says, his tone stern per usual, rough and devoid of that sickly sweet tone Rhaegel would use with Alys; no matter who were with them. “Try to exercise some restrain…”

He soon noticed there was something wrong with his new wife. 

His sternness, harshness and unforgiving nature did not turn her away; instead it turned her on. Like every harsh word said against her, made her enter into some kind of heat. He could not understand it. 

For the sake of experiments, he tried to be more lovey dovey, which had the same result. No matter what he does, he finds that his wife wants him more and more by the minute. 

“I could not. I grew bored without you.” you say frowning slightly as the kids were entertained by King Daeron in the meanwhile, your hands trying to flatten his shirt… an excuse to get your hands on him  “And so wet. I couldn’t focus on the stupid cards…”

“Stop it” he grunts as every single member of his family was close enough to hear this conversation. “I’m too tired for this shit, I just want to wash the filth from my skin. Besides, the kids were a… disaster, the horses were restless and the deer was a fucking nightmare. All the while, you were here playing cards”

“I know something to cheer you up…” you try meekly to offer the solution you gave to anything. 

“Once we are in our chambers, perhaps” he growls, his hand softly squeezing yours. 

“But the ride home is at least an hour” you practically whine, making a face “I am so wet!” You murmur, a bit exasperated. “Can’t we…”

“We can’t”

“But…”

“We cannot, wife”

You look around; Aerys was entertaining both Aemon and Daella, while Aerion was making a fuss about the deer to his grandsire. No one was truly paying any attention to you both. 

“Please. I will leave you alone for… for the ride. Yes? I won’t ask again to ride in the same horse-”

“You sound like a petulant child”

“And I will… I will tend to your children, so they can leave you alone… and, and you can rest, please, please. The riding home is one hour long!”

Maekar sighs, his eyes scanning the pavilion before making up his mind. The thought of leaving her waiting for an hour while writhed in discomfort because of him did not sit right with him.

“It has to be quick-”

“Thank you, th-”

“Listen to me, woman” he sternly stops you, speaking quietly so no one could hear. “Find a secluded grove, to the opposite road of King’s Landing. You hear? Opposite” He says almost in a condescending tone. “Go and do not make a fool out of yourself, or I’ll drag you back to the ladies so you can bore yourself to death with more cards.”

Walking outside the pavilion makes you feel like a mischievous child. You see the road to King’s Landing, so you turn to the opposite way. You walk near bushes and narrow trees, but you find a little spot, secluded enough that a giant bush could hide you.

You wait a bit relentless, walking in circles and peeking out from your spot, half thinking of waiting for him naked. He would get mad at that, you know, and you would be left waiting for at least a week, reprimanded all the way to Summerhall. 

Maekar appears some minutes later, with a scowl on his face as he spots you rather quickly. The sound of the people is far, not enough to miss anything important. 

“Why would you bring a sword?” you ask when he finally reaches you.

“Because animals are fucking living here.” 

You tiptoe to wrap your arms around his shoulders, nudging his chin with your head as a cat does when purring. You were so strange to him.

“I had to tell Baelor that you almost fainted from the heat” he grunts, looking down at you as his hands find your waist. “That I was going to check on you and we’ll be back”

You grin softly, and say “I’ll faint if you do not fuck me”

“You’re worse than a crass wench” he hums as you start kissing his neck softly, his hands moving to start pulling up the skirt of your dress. “He said to make sure you were well. I guess I have to.”

You were not as fond to a quick thing, you love to take all the time in the world, but Maekar often indulged your desires with quick fucks, to which you could not complain about. 

His lips find yours in a passionate, exasperated way, trying to fist the fabric of your skirt in one hand as the other moves without a clear purpose. He smelt sweaty, after a hunt with his sons, no doubt he had been extra annoyed. Gods, thinking about it made you more turned on. 

“I need you inside” you moan against his lips, your hands moving to his breeches, fumbling over drawstring, being far too eager to do it correctly. After a few pulls and grunts, you finally free Maekar’s cock. 

“Turn around” he grunts, as his hand moves to turn you around himself, gripping your hips with bruising force. That’s how you know he is equally desperate for you. “Hold yourself steady with that… tree.” He grunts. 

His eyes turned to the distant royal camp, seeing some of the King’s guard, but he knew they were far from sight; still, he knew he could not take long before Baelor sent some shitty guard to find them. 

Maekar is a little surprised to find your pussy absolutely drenched, yet he is thankful you needed no more than little preparation. His fingers nudge against your opening, as he wonders how the fuck a woman could be so needy. Was it your age? Dyanna was enthusiastic, sure, they had six children, but never this much. He has half a mind that if his cock would keep up as it did when he was your age, you would give him more kids than Queen Alysanne gave King Jaehaerys. 

Deeming you ready, he slides his cock inside, trying not to let his anxiousness make him stiff. The familiar warmth of your cunt is soothing, making him forget how dangerous this was. Gods forbid if someone found out… worse, if one of his kids found them. 

And as simple as that, you were pleased. He knew by the way your muscles relaxed and your moans became one of pleasure that you had exactly what you needed, and if you fulfilled your promise, he would get some peace on the ride home. 

“Fuck” he grunts, his hands gripping your waist as he starts pounding your sweet cunt. “Fuuuck, I needed this”

He pounds into you hard, you have trouble trying not to lounge forward, as your hand in the tree was not near enough to keep up with Maekar’s harsh thrusts… Not that you were too bothered about it either, as the thickness of his cock slid inside your walls just as you loved. 

“I bet you needed it way more, hm?”

“Yeah, so bad…” You say, involuntarily trying to grip the tree harder. “It was the only thing I had been thinking” He loved when you whined petulantly, driving him insane. 

His hands find your waist, using it to keep a hold of you while he moves his hips. You could feel the fabric of your dress sloshing forward, just to feel the soft hit on your shin. 

“You’re like a dog in heat” He grunts, though you can tell it was no tease, he meant it. “Even dogs have more property, you practically started to hump me the moment I got down of that horse, fuck-” 

You bite your lower lip, your eyes involuntarily closing, as your moans are high pitched and short. Maekar’s cock, in your opinion, was the best work of the Seven Gods, you could not understand how they could do something so perfect and to expect you not to jump on him every chance you got. 

“I love it…” Slurring your words, he smirks softly, knowing you were cockdrunk, and hopefully, satiated.

“That’s it. Why don’t you rub your clit so you cum?” He says, as he sees how your other hand disappears between your legs. “There we go. I bet there’s nothing on that silly brain of yours, hm? All mushy from finally getting cock.”

He can feel the way your muscles tense while your finger flick your clit, Maekar knows how sensitive it is for you. The first time he licked your pussy, you came hard after a few licks from him. 

This time is no different; your moans become a little more breathless and high as you cum on his cock, trying to push him deeper as you lean back to meet his thrusts. He hears your loud pants, the small sounds in your throat as you become all mushy from your long needed orgasm.

It is not like he doesn’t enjoy all the times you ask for him…, he always says that you were keeping him young, that you drained his balls all day… and he loved it. It made him crazy for you. 

“Fuck… You’re so beautiful” he grunts, giving final thrusts before he starts to pump his seed inside your pussy, as he always did. 

Maekar loved feeling the tip of his cock nudging inside you, and leaving his seed for you to feel all the way back to the royal camp. It thrills him to think of you leaking his cum while everyone is around. 

He gives you one more lazy thrust, as if to ensure his seed would remain inside, which makes you tremble slightly and lean forward.

“Shit-” he says, catching you before you hit the ground. 

“Hey!” You say to him. “I almost fell into the bushes” you say, moving one hand to take one of the branches out of your neck. 

“Don’t be dramatic” he says, as he helps you to stand. He moves to brush off the small leaves into your thighs and the dirt that got into your legs. “Now, compose yourself. Fix your hair, your dress… and your… face. Do not look so pleased..”

“I just really love when you fuck me” You say, looking at him with those big adoring eyes, while he tucks his cock inside his breeches. 

“Gods, do not look at me like that, still cockdrunk” he says smirking softly, moving his hands to flatten your hair, as if that would make it less obvious. “We had a deal. That you would be pleased and I would be left to rest, remember?”

“Yes…” you agree begrudgingly. 

“And are you pleased?”

“Hm… until the night, maybe.” you grin, charming as ever, just the way to drive him mad.

“Ugh… Go to the camp, I’ll be there in a few moments.” He mutters, moving to press a soft kiss on your temple, before softly spanking you to walk.

· · ─ ·✶Bonus:

Maekar enters the Pavillon as everyone else gathered around the fire, the sky already going dark. The hunt was successful, everyone cheered the red deer the King and his sons had hunted, eating the feast… even his children had been more than pleased, and you kept up with your promise, making sure Rhae’s portion was cut in small pieces and making sure Daeron didn’t drink the whole jar. 

Everything was fine… until you started scratching yourself like a rabid dog. 

“The maester gave me this,” Maekar says, sitting on the edge of the sofa you were on, scratching your left knee. “The ointment will soothe your itching. Aerys is trying to figure which plant might have given you an itchy skin. He is like going through the dictionary on his head or something…”

“This is the Gods punishment for being greedy,” you say, your nails making your skin red as your fingers twitch uncomfortably. “For being a needy whore”

“You aren't…” he starts, trying to comfort you, but he cannot help the chuckle. 

“Do not laugh!” you whine, making your skin go red under your nails. But it was too much, you felt as if your bones were itchy inside your skin. As if every follicule conspired to make you scratch with no end.

“You are not a whore, darling” he tries to apply some of the balm in your skin. “Stop it, you cannot scratch where I’ll put the ointment.”

“I am going to die” 

“You are not” he assures. “I had the pox, and believe me that I felt the same.”

“You were a kid- kids get pox, grown women do not” you grunt. “Are you sure it is from a plant? This feel like fleas”

He sighs, as he takes your hand away from your leg. Maekar remembered the desperation to scratch everywhere, the scars on his face and body were a reminder. He applies the balm in circles, seeing the small bumps on your skin. 

“It is only on my legs and my face, I have tried not to scratch my face or I’ll have it red all day” you whine, your hand subconsciously moving to scratch the side of your ear. “You know how horrible it is having to see which parts of your body are itchy? I had to check my own cunt”

“By the Seven…” Maekar says quietly. “Aerys was right. The rash is from a plant, it was the… the bush near us,the one you almost fell in…”

He sees your horrified face as you scratch your jaw, and he feels partially guilty. 

“The Gods are punishing me!”

Maekar moves to apply the ointment on your face, trying to make circles around the red skin. It was bumpy and dry, and you looked absolutely miserable. He knew that massaging the skin did little to relieve the itch. 

“I’ll tell the Maester, so they'll know what to do... yes? Do not scratch”

He asks an impossible task, as you start scratching your scalp as if to convince yourself you were relieving the itch. 

When Maekar comes back, he does alongside Baelor, Aerys and the Maester. You knew that your good brother liked solving mysteries, much more when one would ‘challenge’ his knowledge and wisdom. 

Maekar finds you scratching your leg with your bracelet, as it helps you get to more skin in a more effective way. He sighs, getting close to taking it from you. 

“Wild Parsnip” Aerys says, almost smug for himself to get it before the Maester. “How did you not notice?”

“If I knew the bush would give me this infernal itch I wouldn’t have been near it!” you say, wanting to strangle Aerys but holding yourself back (As Maekar sits beside your head to comfort you… and calm you down)

“And how long does this wild parsnip take effect?” Baelor asks.

“It might be days”

“DAYS?” you ask, sitting up feeling the pit growing in your stomach, next to the urge to scratch your skin like a cat with fleas. 

“It depends on the type of exposure” The maester said, mid annoyed at Aerys meddling. “Do you know when you touched the plant?”

“Hours ago” Maekar says, shrugging. “She just started itching when we were having the feast.”

“Was it in the carriage? When they were setting the pavilion up?” Baelor asks then. “Or might it be something in the air? It is important to know if anyone else might be doomed to this itching.”

“I haven't seen it around, but it might as well be” Aerys says shrugging, “The exposure to sun is very dangerous, it might be inflammatory”

“How did it hit your legs, my lady?” The maester then asks, which has the three men looking at you. 

You remain quiet, turning around to see Maekar. This was absolute hell, you feel embarrassed to no end. You’d give anything to play cards with your good sisters and never go into the forest for a quick fuck.

Maekar sighs, looking at you.

“No one else has it”

“How could you be sure? Anyone could-”

“No one else did” Maekar repeats. “My lady wife and I…” he sighs, “We went into the forest for a few minutes, because I had a need of her. And it was near that damn plant, and I was too rough. It is only my fault that she suffers like this. End of story”

You bury your face into Maekar’s chest, embarrassed that your neediness had brought you an itchy skin, no exposure to the sun for the next few days and a possible inflammatory reaction. 

But at the very least, your husband had saved your dignity by exposing himself as the needy one. It really made your heart love him more and more, as you heard Aerys’ gasp of disgust and Baelor sigh, as if seeking patience. 

Besides... an evil thought formed on your wicked head. If you could see a way for the itching not to be persistent, and maybe even bearable, you could persuade Maekar to fuck you.

If not, you always had your mouth ready for any part of his body... Maybe being secluded to the chambers in King's Landing while you healed (enough to go under the sun and not explode) would not be so bad.

Baelor emerged from the shower with the empty cardboard box pinched in his hand, the shower filter's packaging crushed flat. "All done," he said, as you took the box from him, your fingertips brushing the warmth of his palm.

He wore a black polo that stretched across his shoulders, and tailored black slacks that hung from his hips perfectly. Only Baelor could manage this, you thought; performing manual labor while appearing as though he'd stepped from a runway.

"Thank you for coming over," you said, setting the box aside. "This didn't have to be done today."

He crossed his arms, and your breath caught. The hours with his new trainer had carved definition into him that you appreciated, still mapping with your eyes when you thought he wouldn't notice. His biceps pressed against his sleeves, the fabric straining just enough to make your mouth dry.

"No problem."

His tongue swept across his lower lip. He stepped closer, letting his gaze openly travel down your body with clear appreciation, taking in the linen dress that clung to your hips, the way it ended midthigh and left so much leg bare.

"Is there—" he paused, letting his eyes drag back up to meet yours, "—anything else I can do for you before I go?"

You both knew he was really asking.

"I am considering getting a new TV for the bedroom," the words coming out innocently even as heat gathered beneath your skin. "Would you be able to take a look? See if I could mount something bigger with what's there?"

"Yeah."

A smug grin crossed his handsome features as he followed you from the bathroom into the attached bedroom. His hands found your hips, guiding you with gentle pressure that made you acutely aware of every inch of space between your bodies. You stopped before the wall where your current TV rested, and then his chest pressed against your back. Then you felt him, hardening against you, straining through layers of fabric to reach you.

"Baelor—"

He turned you in his arms and swallowed your words with his mouth. His kiss tasted of patience finally abandoned, of restraint cracking open. You melted against him, your hands finding the breadth of his shoulders, the strength you'd watched him build week after week now yours to grip and pull closer. He made a sound against your lips and then his hands were beneath your thighs, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, carrying you the few steps to the bed.

"Good girl," he breathed, his hips settling against your ass before he drew back and slammed forward again. The bedframe knocked against the wall, a rhythmic percussion. "Look at you taking this cock. Taking all of it like you were made for it."

His hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive strength, and you moaned into the mattress, pushing back to meet his next thrust. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, wet and filthy, punctuated by your broken gasps.

One hand lifted, came down swift and sharp on your right ass cheek.

"Ah!" You yelped, the sting radiating outward, and he laughed, that dark, pleased sound that vibrated through his chest and into your spine where his body covered yours.

"Can feel how much you like that," you could hear the smirk in his voice, could picture his eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction. "So tight. You always like it when I use a little more force."

You did. You had always responded to this, the edge of dominance, the certainty that he could and would take what he wanted from your willing body.

"So good," you slurred, your tongue thick in your mouth, your hips working backward to meet his increasingly brutal rhythm. "Harder—"

"Fuck," he groaned, his head tipping back, the shift in his stance as he gathered himself. Then he was leaning forward, his chest pressing against your back, his beard scraping the sensitive skin of your shoulder as his mouth found your ear. "There you go, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good. Remind you what you've been missing."

"Fuck me—" The plea escaped before you could catch it, before you could maintain any pretense of composure. You were reduced to this, begging, spread open, his cock pounding into you relentlessly, hitting that spot inside that made your thighs tremble and your vision spark with white light.

He wrapped one arm around your waist, his hand sliding between your legs with unerring accuracy. His fingers found your clit and began to rub in tight, merciless circles.

You jerked forward, the sensation too intense, too much, but his other arm caught you, held you in place.

"Don't run now," he chuckled, the sound dark and intimate against your ear. His beard tickled your neck, his breath hot and damp. "Not after you lured me over for this. Calling me to fix things all the time—" A particularly hard thrust cut off your moan, drove the air from your lungs. "When what you really want is me to stuff this pussy."

The words should have stung. Instead, you felt only the truth of them burning through you, the admission that you had been manufacturing reasons for him to come, to be in your space, to look at you with those eyes that saw too much.

"God, Baelor—" Your voice cracked, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it, the fullness, the friction, his fingers working you. You were close, so close, your body tightening around him in pulses you couldn't control.

"It's okay," he whispered, his voice softening. "You can come now. I've got you. Let go, sweet girl. Let me feel you."

The permission broke something open in you. Your orgasm crashed through, wave after wave of pleasure radiating from your core outward until your fingers cramped from gripping the sheets, until your voice gave out from crying his name, until you were nothing but sensation and surrender, milking his cock with contractions that made him groan and curse and lose his rhythm.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK—"

He stilled against you, his hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts as he emptied himself inside you. You felt it, the pulse of his release, the heat flooding your already-slick cunt, the way his body went rigid and then slack, his forehead dropping to rest between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in harsh pants that stirred your hair.

You lay sprawled and limp, your face still pressed to the mattress, his weight a comforting blanket over your back, cock still buried deep.

Then he was withdrawing, slowly, carefully, and you felt the immediate loss.

Gentle hands turned you, helped you collapse onto your side, and then his mouth was pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw.

"Going to hop in the shower," he said, his voice still rough. "You want to join? Round two?"

You laughed, or tried to, it came out as a breathless huff. "No. I can't really stand right now."

He laughed too, and gave your ass a light smack that made you twitch and smile despite yourself. "Fair enough. Don't move. I'll be quick."

You didn't move. You couldn't have if you'd wanted to. You lay there listening to the shower run, your body gloriously used, every muscle loose and warm.

When he emerged, towel wrapped low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest hair and the gray-threaded beard, you had managed to sit up against the headboard, your hair a wild tangle that would require serious attention.

"That shower feels the same," he observed, reaching for his clothes where they'd been discarded in haste.

"It's a filter," you replied. "It's supposed to be better for your hair and skin over time."

He paused in pulling on his shirt, filing that information away. "Are you saying I should shower here regularly?"

The heat that flooded your face. You opened your mouth, closed it, felt the corner of your lip catch between your teeth as you considered your answer and found none that wouldn't reveal too much.

He laughed.

"Enough of that." You turned away. "It's time for business."

You forced yourself to stand, to go to the bathroom and begin the work of restoring order to your hair. The mirror showed you flushed and mussed, your eyes too bright, lips swollen from his kisses. You looked exactly like a woman who had just been thoroughly fucked.

"Valarr—" you began.

"Yes, I have interviews tomorrow with tutors for him," Baelor interrupted, smoothing his slacks. "I'll let them know he's a legacy at two schools, but we still want at least a 1500."

You nodded. "Okay. And Matarys started driver's ed. He needs some hours with a parent, and I refuse to get in a car with him ever again."

Baelor chuckled. "It's not funny," you insisted, pouting at your reflection. "He nearly killed us both!"

"Going what? Ten miles per hour?" His eyes were crinkled with amusement, the amber one catching light differently than its blue partner, both focused on you with such obvious affection.

"He ran a stop sign!"

Baelor's expression softened as he watched you. "No worries," he said, reaching to clasp his watch back on. "I'll get him on the road this weekend."

Your hair was perfect once more, falling in smooth waves past your shoulders. You reached for your makeup drawer, doing a light retouch of concealer and lip gloss.

"Thank you, Daddy," your eyes meeting his in the mirror's reflection.

His eyes narrowed, sharpening instantly, as you gave him your filthiest grin in return, one that promised everything you couldn't say in words.

He shook his head, a sharp motion as if to clear it, and stood. "Do you need anything?"

"Could you get me some water?"

"Whatever you want." The phrase fell easily from his lips, natural as breathing.

You stood alone in front of the mirror, studying your own reflection as if it might provide answers. Baelor was the perfect husband. Kind, a good father, a good man, a great provider, and he fucked you through the mattress with devastating skill. He was attentive. Available emotionally and physically in a manner that felt almost performative, except you knew him too well. This was real. This man who prioritized you and the boys above work despite being the head of the restructuring group at one of the largest law firms in the city. He who would drop anything to come to you when you needed him.

He was perfect.

If only he had been this man before you left him.

╰┈➤୭˚. ᵎᵎ❝𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀❞: heyy guys 🫣 i imagined this to take place after a major battle where ormund survives instead of dying so not exactly canon but whatev. so this idea actually came somewhat out of nowhere lmao. but yeah i had some absolutely disgusting thoughts about ormund breeding me and decided to write them sooo here we go and this is sooo filthy as a result. anyways i hope everyone is well and i hope u guys enjoy. love u and thanks for the support! - A<3

disclaimer: i obviously do not condone this, this is fiction meant for adults. if it's not for you that's totally ok, pls take care of yourself 🩷

++ gingham divider by @/chateaubarnes, support banner by @/lobster-graphics!

ormund who finds himself absolutely infatuated with jon roxton’s pretty wife. jon was his most loyal knight, his most fierce comrade and friend. so doesn't it make all the more sense that, after jon gives his life in battle for ormund’s, that ormund makes sure his friend’s dear wife is taken care of?

especially given your circumstances. a new mother of a babe only three months old. it’d be unthinkable to just leave you on your own when your husband died in his service. so he moves you into his household, to, in his words, “keep an eye on you.” it's what any outstanding man of the faith would do.

it helps that you're so sweet and soft-spoken. always taking care not to leave any messes. cooking for ormund despite him insisting such a thing is not necessary—but deep down he enjoys it nonetheless.

there are a lot of things he enjoys about you.

your voice. your hair, the smell of it when he drifts by you—luscious and floral, from the various soaps and oils he gifts you. your laugh. the light in your eyes, unspoiled and full of hope, despite everything that had befallen you. your intellect—for jon had always bragged about you knowing more than he did and ormund always thought he was exaggerating. but you knew a surprising amount for a woman, enough to keep engaging conversation with. and there's something else he enjoys, too, something so subtle that he suspects you're not even aware of it yourself.

it's how you still carry that vibrant glow—that radiance—from when you were with child.

it makes him want to breed you so fucking hard your legs don't work. until his seed starts leaking out of you with nowhere else to go. until that pretty belly of yours is swollen with his babe—his heir.

he can see it now—you with that radiant smile, breasts all warm and heavy with milk, your hands constantly on your round, swollen belly. he'd have you with child practically every year if he could. you'd give him a little army of strong sons and sweet daughters, he's sure of it. little heirs for the future of oldtown, of house hightower. what more could a man ask for?

to him, there's never a time you shouldn't be like that, and it's a role you're clearly so happy with, so well suited for. he's seen you with your son—how caring you are, how kind, how devoted. the smile on your face when you rock him, singing him to sleep tells ormund everything he needs to know. you’re the perfect mother.

he'd just prefer if you'd mother his children instead.

so one day a few months later, he decides to make his move. the first step, really.

it was just after dinner when you and he were alone in the dining hall, him having convinced you to let one of the nursemaids look after your son for a while so you could get some much needed reprieve.

there you were, so close to him, so available. like a dream come true.

he kissed you.

it was a chaste kiss, of course. nothing untoward. quick.

but you froze. and then flinched backward, lips parted and eyes widened in not just shock—but a tinge of something…

something like fear.

and then you stuttered out, “m-my lord, i-i'm afraid i'm not really rea-ready to pursue such…such things. i'm still—" you gulped, "i'm still... grieving,”

still grieving, you said. wonderful. is that why you always smiled at him so? why you always laughed at his jests, beaming when he was around? and why had you suddenly called him “my lord” when before you had always called him ormund?

he had to stop himself from calling you an empty-headed, teasing bitch. from bending you over the table right there and pounding that cunt of yours until you cried, pumping you full of his seed and getting you pregnant right then and there.

but—

fine. he couldn't blame you completely. it was your nature, after all. you were a woman. simple-minded. sensitive. squeamish. it probably made you feel guilty, getting involved with ormund so soon after your husband's death.

so he'd give you a little more time, that's all.

in fact, it only made his desire to have you even stronger. if such an honorable man such as he had those thoughts about you, then he could only imagine what dark horrors the vile men of this world would do to you. especially since you were clearly more naive than even most women. this is exactly why you needed him and his protection—a soft-hearted, ignorant, vulnerable woman like you could never be trusted to survive on your own.

so he waited. content with the knowledge that, at least, he had identified the problem.

until one day you pulled him aside to tell him that you were “leaving” and going to lannisport so you could “start anew” and “focus on the baby.”

then ormund did something he knew he'd have to beg the gods forgiveness for.

he slapped you.

a hard slap, but not too hard—the back of his hand landed against your soft cheek with an audible smack!

the seven would abhor it, he knew. but the problem had not been just simple-mindedness as he had thought—but stubbornness too. and sometimes stubborn women like you needed something sharp to knock you back to reality.

your lips trembled as you stepped back, unable to speak as tears slid down your face.

“you,” he said as he stepped closer, gently wiping a glossy tear from your cheek with his thumb. “are not going anywhere,” he declared finally, caressing your hair before lightly gripping the back of your neck. “do you understand?”

you sniffled, frantic, watery eyes taking him in. he could see it, the fight draining from them as the wheels turned in your head and you finally accepted the best outcome—the only outcome for you. “yes,” you whispered, nodding.

he hated it, seeing you so hurt. so…afraid. but it was necessary. you needed guidance. protection from your own ignorance and stupidity, your own helplessness. you were supposed to stay here, happy, with him. that was always the way things were supposed to be. how else could he fulfill the debt he owed to jon, than by making sure you were safe by keeping you here for himself?

he smiled, brought his hand to your face, tilted it up, and suddenly his lips met yours once again, except this time they were…hungrier.

fingers entangled in your hair, he held the back of your head in place with one hand while the other grabbed your ass and pulled you flush against him, making your lips part in a whimper.

you didn't refuse his kisses this time.

nor did you refuse when he pulled down the top of your dress, massaging your breasts with his large, firm hand, squeezing until drops of warm milk trickled onto his hand.

he smirked and sat you on a nearby table, lifting up your skirts and parting your legs while you were still letting him guide you, your lips overwhelmed but still trying to keep up with his own. so obedient, he couldn't help but think, though your tears hadn't completely stopped, the brine of them mingling with the sweetness of your lips on his tongue.

and the second he grabbed hold of your legs and sank his throbbing, hard cock into the sopping, molten heat of your cunt, he knew instantly that everything that he'd done had been justified. the months of patience— which you tested constantly. the slap. the tears.

gods forsake him, he’d do it all again in a heartbeat if he had to.

it was all worth it for this.

you underneath him, panting, crying out his name in filthy, delirious need like he was your destruction and your salvation all at the same time. clutching onto his shoulders while he drove himself into you, fucking the obstinacy right out of that pretty head of yours. you were just as he imagined, whining and whimpering like a dumb bitch in heat. the way you hugged his cock, gripping him like a fucking whore, your cunt was just begging for his release, begging for him to fill you up and return you to your proper state.

he didn't stop until his seed was spilling out of you, warm and thick as he pulled out and kissed your forehead, telling you that soon you'd have a little hightower heir to look after.

Winterfell was covered in snow when you’d arrived. The journey was long, stuck in a carriage to keep from freezing. All you’d wanted was to see the kingdom which would now be your own, feel the ground beneath your boots, breathe the crisp, cool air, but your mother had forbidden you from stepping out into the chill. “No man wants a stupid, frostbitten wife, be reasonable.” 

The fresh snow crunched under your foot when you were finally released into the courtyard. Despite the cold, the old stone walls, the hardened faces of the northmen lined up to greet your family, you smiled at your surroundings. The afternoon sun glistened on the ice, creating a soft glow that lit up the castle walls. You took your father’s arm, stepping forward until you were face to face with your husband-to-be. 

Man. 

That was the first word that came to you when you saw him. Tall, broad-shouldered, face clearly hardened by years of cold weather but no less handsome. A greatsword, longer than you were tall, strapped across his back. You were certain he knew how to use it. Cregan did not smile, but he took your hand when you offered it, holding it gently in his larger, callused one and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

Few words were exchanged before the wedding; a simple affair, by southern standards, vows before the heart tree on an evening so cold you could barely feel your fingers. Cregan’s hands had been warm in yours, the only thing grounding you to your present fate. Ale and laughter had echoed through the great hall, though your now-husband had not asked you to dance. You hadn’t really expected to, though a part of you had hoped he might take you up in his arms and spin you across the floor. He’d sat beside you on the dias, solemnly greeting guests and nodding thanks at their pleasantries. 

You had tried to give your thanks as well, but most of the northerners were only confused by you. Thin, pretty gowns, no good for the harsh cold. Heart and embroidery, poetry and song, lessons you’d spent years perfecting were suddenly all you had to entertain yourself. 

If not for a little boy tugging on your sleeve, you may have spiralled into hot embarrassment. Luckily, little Rickon Stark was all too eager to speak with his new stepmother. A spitting image of his father, the young boy had come from Cregan’s first marriage, though he’d hardly remembered his mother. Instead, you were there. A strange southerner, a new delight in the neverending plane of snow and ice. 

He instantly captivated you, distracting you from your husband who had tried little to gain your favor, it seemed. Lord Stark was a silent type, appearing to listen to your words but giving you little in return. Often you felt he was irritated, or maybe even bored with you, it was difficult to read his stoic demeanor. 

Instead, you threw yourself into entertaining the younger Stark. Soon, he’d all but lodged himself into your heart. Rickon had no problem conversing with you, or laughing loudly, or chasing you down the battlements. It was a pleasant distraction from your current problem, which was of course that, despite everything, there was no hiding the way your heart leapt whenever Cregan was near. 

You’d tried, oh had you tried, to make him feel the same. You ordered dinners you knew he favored, laid out his clothes, kissed his cheek when you left in the mornings, but he always gave you the same hard look, or nodded down at you in what you hoped was a thanks. 

Any small affection you kept close. Once, in a game of hide and seek with the boy, you’d found yourself out in the cold longer than you’d planned. A quick peek out was all you meant, but soon you were wandering though the godswood looking for a pair of little boots poking out from behind a tree. You’d rubbed your hands together, desperate to get some heat back into your fingers, when a deep voice pulled you from your search.

“You shouldn’t be out here like that, little bird.” 

You’d spun, coming face to face with your husband. He did not look amused by your current state, in fact, his face was pulled into a deep frown as he scanned your poorly dressed body. 

Cregan tugged at the fingers of his gloves, pulling them off his hands before thrusting them toward you in a fist. Your hands brushed as you took them, gratefully, and it almost seemed like he shuddered at the touch. Almost immediately, he was back to his  usual stiffness. He watched you intently as you stuck your hands in his almost comically large gloves. You thanked him softly, wiggling your fingers at him with a smile, but he only nodded, giving you a short bow before stalking off gods knew where. 

Obviously, you knew Cregan wasn’t really in need of an heir. He had Rickon, who was growing every day, and loved nothing more than pretending to be his father. It warmed your heart to see him, marching along after Cregan like a duckling, pretending to swing a stick like it was ice, screwing up his face like he was responsible for the Northern realm. It did not stop you from picturing a baby of your own. Not a replacement, but a companion, a new addition, someone to raise and dote on and love. 

Cregan did not appear to share your sentiment. You’d laid together, it was true, your wedding night, and many times after, but he had never told you he wanted another. Each moon, your spirit dimmed a little, at the notion of never getting a child of your own. 

In a moment of desperation, you had found yourself in the Godswood, knees against the ice, begging gods you could not name for a gift you knew they could not give you. 

“My southern gods have forsaken me, I do not know where else to turn. There is but one thing I ask of you.”

You could hear the begging in your voice, the desperate whine of a woman losing her mind. “I know you cannot make my husband love me, I have tried fruitlessly to no avail. It has broken my heart, but I cannot change his will to fit my own,” You let out a shuddering sigh, eyes brimming with tears, “All I ask for, all I want, is for him to give me a baby.” 

A choked sob left your mouth as the tears began to fall. You pressed a hand to the cold bark of the weirwood, the red eyes of the forest looking down on you.

“I have come to love little Rickon as my own; he is my boy in everything but blood. It would make him so happy to have a sibling, I know it. Someone to play with, to teach, run through the halls together.” Your voice was softer now, thinking of the little brunet boy who still clung to your hand when you walked together. You smiled at the image, but you weren't finished. Not yet.

“Please, I beg of you; give me someone to put my heart into, someone I can love, who will love me back without cause. I cannot live in heartbreak any longer.” 

You hung your head, exhaustion hitting you as your tears slipped down into the snow. You watched the little pockmarks form in the white as the droplets fell on the untouched blanket. 

A crack in the ice sounded behind you.

Your head whipped around, frantically wiping tears from your cheeks at the sight of the man looming just steps from you. Even in your embarrassment, your grief, your shame, Cregan looked every bit as handsome as the day you met him. Snow dusted in his dark hair, and across the fur around his shoulders. He said nothing at first, staring down at you with an expression you couldn't read. You made to stand, to run, hand gripping the low branch to pull yourself up, but he was on you before you could rise. 

Cregan took a knee, close enough to feel the heat of him and effectively caging you against the weirwood. Your eyes widened, fresh tears welling as you stumbled back, your spine hitting the solid wood.

“Husband, I- I did not think- I assumed I was alone, you see-” 

He raised a hand, slow enough not to startle you, and cupped your damp cheek. 

“You shouldn’t cry out here, little bird, can’t have the tears frozen on your face.” His voice had the usual rough edge that only comes from taciturnity. A thumb brushed across your cheekbone, slick with saltwater. 

You shook your head.

“Cregan, my lord, I- please do not think-” 

The winter storm in his grey eyes stopped you. He leaned closer, forehead pressing against yours. A low, wolfish sound left his throat. 

“My wife is cold.” 

He did not wait for a response- not that you thought you could make one. Instead, he tugged the cloak from his shoulders, wrapping it around your frame with the practiced care of a man with purpose. 

You were overwhelmed by the feeling of him; the smell of leather, sweat, and pine from the fur, still warm from his body, enveloped your frame as he scooped you up into his arms. He wasted little time carrying you through the wood, a determined clip to his step. You hadn’t even realized how cold you were until the warmth of his hand touched you, and now tucked against his body, feeling began to return to your fingertips. Cregan did not speak, but you caught him looking down at you several times, a smouldering thing that made your heart flutter and your stomach ache. 

Cregan took you to his chambers. 

The room was dim from the dying sun in the window, and wasted no time setting you before the hearth. He went to work coaxing a flame, throwing a log on the growing fire and stoking the embers. You watched his hands shift as he tugged his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle. It was hard not to stare when he was so close, the rise and fall of his chest, the slope of his nose, the stern draw of his brow. 

The golden glow of the fire began to warm you, and you shuffled the heavy cloak from your shoulders. You startled when Cregan leaned in, reaching around you to lay the wolf pelt out flat, before his fingers found the lacing of your gown. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing, distracted by the determination on his long face, before you batted his hand away. 

“Cregan, my lord, what in the seven hells are you doing?” 

He tilted his head at your question. 

“You asked the gods for a babe, I am only giving you what you want.” 

Cregan went for your back again before your hands grabbed his shoulders. 

“What- no, I did not mean-” You huffed. He nodded for you to continue, and you took a deep breath before finishing:

“I was just upset, surely you know I would not want you to give me a child against your will.” 

Cregan looked properly confused now. An arm came around your back, pulling you closer until you were flush against his chest, all but perched in his lap. One of his hands pet the back of your hair, before wrapping around the back of your neck. Your heart raced; what was he doing? You hadn’t been so close since your wedding night, why now? 

“You cannot think I would not wish to see you with my babe in your belly. I have thought of little else since the day you arrived.” 

It was hard to put your thoughts together at his admission. You went back through time: his watchful gaze as you skated across the frozen pond, Rickon’s little hand in yours; dinners favoring southern tastes, so different from the simple meals of the North; all the times he mumbled “Put some gloves on,” or “That’s not warm enough.” 

You struggled to come up with a response. 

“But, but you’ve never said anything! Never tried to- how was I to know you cared for me?” 

Cregan growled.

A low sound, deep in his throat, and you suddenly knew why the Starks had chosen a wolf as their sigil. 

“I am of the North, I do not have the frilly words you southerners use,” He leaned forward, forehead against your temple, and took a deep sniff against your cheekbone, “But make no mistake, little bird. You have affected me in ways you cannot imagine.” 

You frantically searched his gaze for a jest, a cruel lie to get under your skirts, but all you saw was the heated, stormy need from under his heavy brow. 

“Let me give you what we both so desperately desire, do right by the gods.” 

Courage got the best of you at his words, and your hands came up to his neck. Cregan followed your lead, pressing his lips against yours with a force that took your breath away. He was so warm, all around you, arms and lips and thighs, it was almost too much to bear. You clumsily followed his lead, tentatively stroking his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue. His teeth scraped against the muscle before slicking his own tongue out against yours. A gasp left you against his mouth, but his hand on the back of your head kept you firmly close. 

Cregan used his other hand to grip the collar of your gown, tugging down with a harsh tear that rang out across the otherwise quiet chamber. He let you pull back then, if only to grip the fabric with both hands and separate the panels. You let him, eyes dazed and a mix of your spit on your chin. His eyes scanned down your chest, your exposed breasts, taut nipples, softness of your stomach, before he grabbed at the shoulders of the ruined gown. 

In a moment, he had you naked, back against his cloak, chest heaving. Cregan looked you up and down again, hands on your knees to spread your legs. You could feel the cool air on the warm slick of your cunt, and moved to gently close your thighs, but Cregan stopped you.

“No, wife. I will see you.” 

Reluctantly, you let him stare. He blinked a few times, pupils blown wide at the sight. He sniffed the air, and you almost died of embarrassment before he lunged forward to press his long nose between your folds. You could feel him smelling you, nuzzling against the dampness of your core.

“Cregan-” 

You grabbed at his shoulders. A knot was forming in your stomach, tense but not at all unpleasant. He sensed you growing restless, and crawled up your body until he was once again at eye level. Your hands found his hair, tugging him down to kiss you again, and he gave you a rare smile against your lips. You wiggled against him, hips canting up against his clothed thigh. 

“Sweet girl, I have you now, no need for that.” Cregan mumbled against your lips. He pushed himself up on an elbow, looking down at your soft body below his. His fingertips graced against your cheek, then your throat, before sliding down to paw at your breasts. Your eyes shut at his shamelessness as he gripped the flesh in his hand, rubbing his palm flat down against your chest, gently jiggling the swell, pinching at the hardened nipple. His eyes bounced from his work to your face, watching the movement of your brows and the way your lips flew open when he twisted the peak. Mewling groans left you, a sound you’d never heard made from your throat. 

Cregan looked every bit the predator watching his prey, toying with it before devouring every last bite. Slowly, he leaned forward, mouth parting to lave his tongue against the pulse at your neck. 

A startled sob left you, head tilting back involuntarily to expose more skin. He gladly accepted, teeth combing down against your flesh and sinking deep enough to bruise. Your hips were moving again, thrusting up to bump against the hardness at the front of his pants. Your fingers twisted in his hair again, unsure if you wanted to push his canines away, or drag him even closer. Cregan trailed slippy kisses down across your clavicle, nipping and sucking as he made his way down your body. He paused at your breasts, wrapping his lips around a nipple as he fondled your other tit. You yipped when he bit down, edging delicately from pleasure to pain, and he let out a low chuckle. His tongue gently circled the nub in apology, and he kissed it softly before continuing down to his prize. 

Your thighs strained to accommodate the bulk of his shoulders. Cregan wedged himself between them, spreading your legs and opening the petals of your pussy for him. He breathed you in again, musk of your arousal coating his nostrils. 

Shock, confusion, shame, pleasure; the feelings bounced around your skull when he pressed a smoldering kiss to your opening. Cregan got to work, slicking his tongue through your folds and wrapping his lips around your clit. You could hear how wet you were, a slurping coming from between your legs as he ate you. Involuntarily, you thrust your hips up, begging for purchase on his tongue. 

“None of that. Let me care for you.”

The vibrations went straight to your clit, and his large hand came to meet your next thrust, pressing down on your lower stomach to keep you still. Cregan’s other hand crept up to your cunt, spreading the folds with his fingers to give his tongue more room. There was no room for embarrassment; in truth, you could hardly think of anything at all, except maybe gripping his hair to angle him closer. He gladly obliged, sucking on your clit and rubbing the sensitive little nub with the tip of muscle. His shoulders tensed when you whispered, a wanton sound that found him prodding your opening with a finger.

Cregan slid one into the knuckle, curling the digit before thrusting again. You shrieked out, holding on to him for dear life as he picked up the pace. Your thighs quivered around his head, and he added a second finger; the delicious arc of the thrust touching a spot you hardly knew. 

“Cregan please, I need-” 

As if he could read your thoughts, he continued his movement, languidly rolling your clit with his tongue. You came with a shout of his name, entirely undignified but without shame. Your spine tingled, a new feeling, only heightening with his mouth on you. 

Slowly, unwillingly even, Cregan pulled his fingers from deep in your cunt. Immediately, the slid past his lips, and he sighed at the taste. Before you could speak, his mouth was on your heat again. Only this time, it was to tenderly lick the dribbling juices away. Your breath was caught in your throat, a fish out of water, gasping for air as he touched your sensitive body. 

When he rose, a gleam of slick coated his face from nose to jaw. He kissed you again, taste of you on his lips. Your fingers fumbled clumsily at the clasps of his doublet, trembling so much you could barely grasp the metal. Cregan chuckled, sitting up enough to undress. 

“My wife wants to see me, then?” 

You nodded frantically, reaching up to run your fingers over newly exposed skin. He was even more impressive bare; hard muscle of his arms and shoulders, bulge of his chest, dark hair traveling over his stomach and under his waistband. 

A waistband he was presently unlacing, tugging down to expose the hard length of his cock. Cregan didn’t bother removing his pants all the way, settling for shoving them to his knees before his hands were on you again. He slid his palms up your legs, gripping the fat of your thighs in his paws before hooking behind a knee. 

You gasped as he flipped you onto your stomach. How exposed you felt, somehow more vulnerable then when he’d pulled your legs apart. Entirely at his mercy under him. Reverently, he ran a hand flat down your spine, stopping to grab at your bottom and slap at the swell of flesh. You relaxed as he settled above you, the warmth of his chest entirely covering your back and his body surrounding you on the floor. 

“I will not stop until my seed takes, little bird. You are mine.”

Cregan gripped his dripping cock in hand, nudging your cheeks apart until he could notch himself in the opening of your cunt. A growl left him as he mounted you, sliding his thick shaft into the hilt. You gripped the fur beneath you, desperate for a hold as you struggled to take him. He began to rock his hips, sharp thrusts that had you crying out softly with each one. The urge to move your pelvis, to meet his movements with your own, was overpowering, but he kept you pinned so thoroughly beneath you; all you could do was lie under him and take it. 

You felt his warm breath on your neck as he tucked chin over your shoulder. 

“Mine, wife. Mine to keep warm, mine to feed, mine to fill with babes- fuck-” He paused when you clenched around him, so affected by the rumble of his words, “As many as you want, fill the castle with them.” 

This may have been the most words you’d heard him speak in one sitting. It was hard to say, focusing on anything but the bully of his cock was difficult. A wet, slobbering noise filled the room, his heavy balls slapping against your clit. With each thrust, a sweet moan would leave your lips. 

Sweat beaded between your bodies, the heat of the fire mixing with the exertion, and of course, the overwhelming warmth that radiated from his body. Slippery, but the weight of him kept you firmly pressed against his chest. Your stomach twisted, a dull aching growing low and gradually rising with each pound. 

“I think I might- oh gods, Cregan.” 

He buried his head against your hair at the desperation in your voice. 

“I’ve got you, sweet girl.” 

Cregan managed to wedge a hand underneath your body, fingers finding your clit, small circles rubbing against the oversensitive nub. You writhed underneath him, body arching with the little room you had. He somehow pressed down even closer, needy with desire to be close. His other hand came up to grip yours, threading his long fingers through your smaller ones. 

Words were gone from both of you know, grunting and moaning the only communication as you reached your peak again. A flood of wetness coated his cock, intensifying the squelching of your bodies joining. Cregan’s hips didn't stop, chasing his own orgasm as your walls clenched down around him. 

Teeth sunk into your shoulder as he came, unloading his balls into your quivering hole. His thrusts stuttered as he shot his spend, slowing gradually until he buried himself fully. 

You could feel his heartbeat against your back, rapid as your own. Cregan kissed your neck and shoulder lazily. His mouth open against where you’d surely have a bruise come morning. 

Carefully, Cregan began to extract himself from you. He rose up on his hands, slowly canting his hips back to draw his softening length from your warmth. 

The sound was obscene.

You barely had time to react to the fact, as your husband’s fingers began pushing the leaking come back inside. You choked out what sounded like his name, and he leaned forward to kiss your head. 

“Shhhh, no need to fuss. Can’t let any of it go to waste, now.” The low timbre of his voice settled you, and the feeling of his free hand petting your side calmed you as he shoved his fingers into your swollen pussy. 

Cregan licked his fingers greedily before lying down beside you, arms coming round to pull you against his broadness. He cupped your cheek, whipping away a few stray tears that had managed to escape. 

“You will tell me, little bird, if you feel this way again. I will not have my wife think I do not care for her.” 

You nodded slowly, head rubbing against his chest. The exhaustion of the evening finally catching up. The reaction satisfied him, and he tilted your chin with his finger to leave a lingering kiss on your mouth. He tasted of your joint sex, but underneath was something you were beginning to recognize as just him. Wild, canine, the very essence of the North. 

You drifted off, warm and sated in his arms. Cregan stayed up a while longer, watching the rise and fall of your breathing, rubbing your back as he thought of what a southern Stark might look like.