whole house hot idccc

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

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

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

Maekar:

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

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

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

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

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

Aerion:

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

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

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

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

Dunk:

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

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

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

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

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

Baelor:

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

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

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

Lyonel:

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

Fights with him go one of two ways.

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

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

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

the door is ajar so he would catch a glimpse through the crack of it: you spread in bed, naked except for a tank top. one hand shakily, slowly thrusting your vibe in and out. the other handling the wand on your clit.

he would push the door open slowly as to not frighten you, when you turn to see him you're fighting to keep your eyes open but you still don't stop. so he walks over to you, seeing that his presence doesn't stop you from continuing to chase your orgasm.

you've gotten bold. maybe he should correct that. later.

"you missing me, honey?" ormund asks once he's at the foot of the bed.

you can only nod your head.

then he caresses your leg, his knuckles traveling all the way to your thigh, parting it slowly.

then he sees it.

the shiny silver of a butt plug.

"well, you're just full, aren't you?" he asks as he leans down to kiss you chastely when you nod once more.

"almost." he says, unbuckling his belt and zipping his pants just low enough to take out his half-hard member.

"open." he orders.

you do, starting to suck on him.

he adjusts, getting closer to you and holding your head for support. his thumb caresses your cheek as you continue getting him hard as a rock and his other hand pulls your tank top up and starts toying with your nipples.

it doesn't take long for you to cum, he talks you through it, the feeling of being completely full while he praises you makes you shiver, your legs shaking at the overstimulation and his oh so perfect words.

"all warmed up for me, perfect." ormund says as you're coming down.

he unbuttons his shirt while you're catching your breath, folding it neatly on the nightstand, his pants follow.

then he gets in top of you, he carefully removes the wand from your still shaky hand, and slowly takes the vibe out of you. you whine at the loss, pouting at him.

he looks at the butt plug, debating for a second what to do with it, but finally deciding to keep it in.

he knows how much you love anal, he may reward you, if you're good.

"we have something to discuss later." he says as he teases your wet hole, his forehead on yours as he slowly starts to push in.

"your use of toys- fuck-" he grabs one of your legs, moving it to rest on his shoulder. "there has to be moderation... regulation."

then he gets lost in it... in you.

yeah, you'll discuss that later.

the journey north had felt like an execution.

every mile carried you further away from warm stone halls and luxurious flowering gardens, and closer to a kingdom of snow you’d spent your entire childhood mocking.

you’d been promised a great marriage someday by everyone around you. perhaps a prince. perhaps an heir to the Rock’s most strongest allies. someone wise and cultured. someone rich beyond reason.

instead, your father had smiled when he announced you were to wed Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell.

a wolf.

you ignored your imbecile of a father for days afterwards.

now, winterfell loomed before you, ancient and grey beneath a sky that seemed incapable of producing anything except snow.

you hated the place already.

the gates opened as your wheelhouse approached. a man outside announced your arrival, your face cringing at his obnoxiously loud northern voice.

you climbed down from the wheelhouse without accepting anyones hand, lips curled into a scowl. your eyes swept across the courtyard until they settled upon a man waiting near the steps.

he was taller than any of your cousins or uncles, or any of the men back home, with broad shoulders hidden beneath his thick fur coat and hair dusted with snow. his eyes were gray and calm, simply watching as you stepped closer. not judging, not admiring, just watching.

“my lady,” he breathed as soon as you were near. he calmly introduced himself to you, his voice thick with an accent that was beginning to hurt your ears already. “i hope winterfell will become home to you in time.”

“i should pray not,” you replied harshly, brushing past him before he could answer and ordering for the servants to take you to your chambers.

cregans steward grimaced at your actions, glancing at cregan with alarmed eyes.

“she’ll settle,” he murmured quietly.

you refused to settle.

the wedding came a few days after your arrival, your vows spoken with a clipped tone and furrowed brows. you criticized everything during the feast that came after — the food, the music and the talent of the musicians, the weather, your gown. cregan tried to offer some comfort but was met with an annoyed groan every time he opened his mouth.

after it was all over, you disappeared into your chambers and stayed there for an entire day.

then three days.

three became five.

five became eight.

servants entered with trays and left with the food barely touched. some of the ladies of the castle tried to enter to make conversation, and you sent each one away.

every morning cregan would softly knock on your door and asked if you required anything from him.

every morning you dismissed him.

every evening he sent another warm meal to you.

every evening you barely ate any of it.

on the ninth day, cregan himself came to try to talk to you.

his first two knocks were ignored by you. on the third knock he chose to simply walk in. cregan stepped inside with a tray in his hand. bread, cheese, warm stew.. and even your favorite honey cakes that he’d been told you loved.

“i didn’t ask for your presence,” you snapped as soon as he entered.

“i know.”

“well then leave!”

cregan quietly set down the tray, glancing at you with those grey eyes of his.

“you’ve barely eaten for a week. be angry with me if you wish. starving yourself serves neither of us.”

“i would sooner starve than-”

“call for me once you’ve finished,” he interrupted, your eyebrows furrowing at his rudeness. “there’s more honey cakes in the kitchens, if you’d like some more.”

with that, he turned and left before you could explode on him, a little hurt at how easily you dismissed him.

weeks passed and your temper remained.

you wandered wherever you pleased, not caring about who you disturbed. you ignored your schedules and skipped meals with the household. you ordered servants around as if you were in casterly rock.

one unfortunate maid burst into tears after you screamed at her for giving your gown a simple wrinkle, insulting her intelligence and declaring that every servant in the north was useless.

cregan happened to be passing by your chambers as the girl fled upon your command.

“what’s happened?” he asked as he paused in the doorway of the room.

“i corrected her incompetence, that’s what,” you answered rudely. “it seems that all of your servants are beef witted, nothing at all like the ones back home.”

cregan stared at you incredulously, awed at the hatred you held for everyone.

“no,” he said as he stepped closer, “no, what you’ve done is humiliate someone who’s served this house faithfully since she was a child-”

“oh, spare me the lecture,” you scoffed, giving him an eye roll.

“you will apologize to the woman,” cregan commanded, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots as he stepped even further inside.

“no, i will not.”

“i was not asking-”

“and i was not agreeing,” you replied, exasperated. you turned to walk away when a firm hand caught your wrist. annoyed, you turned back with your mouth open, ready to spew insults at your husband, only to be met with his once grey and patient eyes now turned cold.

“you’ve mistaken patience for weakness, wife.”

his voice lowered as he spoke.

“so let us correct that misunderstanding now.”

your heart beat a little faster inside your ribs. not from fear, no, but from something stranger that you couldn’t name.

“i am not one of your northern servants to be bossed around,” you hissed, trying to pull your wrist free.

“no,” he agreed, his own fingers tightening around your squirming wrist. “you are lady stark now. which means your conduct reflects upon my house, my people, and me.”

“you may dislike me,” he continued, “you may curse this marriage until your voice grows coarse. you may scream at me every morning and tell me you regret crossing the Neck.”

his gaze held yours steadily.

“but you will not bully those beneath your station simply because you are unhappy. you are clever enough to know the difference, and i expect better of you.”

you parted your lips again to retort, yet no sound came out, your throat dry.

“you will apologize,” he repeated, his brow lifting as anger flashed across your face. “say it. say you’ll apologize.”

“f-fine.”

“i did not hear conviction.”

your cheeks flushed. “fuck- i said fine! i’ll apologize.”

he released your wrist with surprising gentleness. you glared so fiercely at him he thought you might kill him with your eyes alone. then, muttering insults beneath your breath, you stormed after the maid.

something in your behavior shifted after that day. not all at once — you still complained about nearly everything, yet you made an effort to keep your temper in check around the servants.

and not because cregan had managed to make you see the wrongness in your actions, but because you were embarrassed. embarrassed at how cregan handled your behavior. how he made you apologize to a servant. how he had so much power over you. and most of all, how he managed to make you all hot and bothered with your flushed cheeks and racing heart and your aching cunt that throbbed at the mere tone of his voice.

you hated cregan stark. you hated what the north had forced you to become.

no one back home would have humiliated you in such a way. no one would have forced you to apologize to a lowborn girl. no one would have made you change your behavior for servants.

damn you, cregan stark.

cregan had a much easier time correcting your behavior after that. he no longer held back and would no longer let you do as you pleased in his castle. he no longer let you torment the hard working servants because of your own unhappiness.

your first winter in the north was a particularly harsh one. snow fell thick outside, nearly up to your knees. each night you fell asleep with three thick fur blankets and even that was not enough to keep the chill out from your body. cregan had offered to let you move into his own chambers, as they were much warmer and he himself could warm you up during the night, but you refused.

on one cold day, the steward had informed you that winterfells stores would have to be rationed more carefully to get through such a hard season.

you took one glance at the simple supper placed before you and frowned.

“what is this? this is dreadful! we are one of the greatest houses in westeros, and you expect me to eat this? are you not ashamed?”

the steward swallowed nervously, fidgeting with his hands as he bowed to you.

“m-my lady, the stores are plentiful enough, though lord stark wishes everyone to eat alike until spring. the smallfolk have suffered a poor harvest, and-”

“i did not ask about the smallfolk,” you interrupted as you pushed the bowl away like a petulant child, “i asked why i should suffer because of them.”

the man lowered his head once again, reaching for the bowl. “as my lady commands.”

cregan reached the bowl before he could. he had entered without any of you noticing. he picked the bowl back up and placed it in front of you once again.

“you’ll eat, wife,” he said.

you looked up at him with deceiving eyes, eyelashes fluttering in an attempt to seem innocent. “i’ve lost my appetite.”

“i doubt that. now eat.”

his voice left no room for debate. with a loud scoff, you picked up your spoon and ate, refusing to look at cregan.

you found yourself in cregans chambers that night, loud whines and moans falling from your lips as you laid pinned beneath him. you’d come into his chambers to loudly complain about how cold your own were, which had set cregan off since he had quite literally offered to let you sleep in his own for warmth.

“you test me, little lioness,” cregan groaned into your ear, voice low and breathless as he rut into you again and again. “i’ve given you so many chances to behave as the lady winterfell should,” he mumbled, his thrusts growing rougher in frustration.

his hands dug into the flesh of the back of your thighs as he held your legs pinned against your chest, rendering you unable to squirm away from his touch. his cock stretched you past your limits, nearly too much for your cunt to handle. “too much?” he cooed at the sight of tears running down your flushed cheeks.

“n-no,” you cried out, every thrust stealing the air from your lungs. “please.. cregan, harder!”

he, surprisingly, obliged, his movements growing rougher and faster, your body rocking against the bed from the force of his thrusts. your nails dug into the pale skin of his shoulders and cregan knew you were close from the way your moans grew louder and louder.

“bad girls dont always get what they want,” cregan muttered as he slowed his pace, feeling your needy cunt clench around his cock.

“no, no.. cregan, please!” you sobbed, desperately trying to rock your hips against his own, though it was no use as he kept a firm grip on your thighs. “please.. please!”

releasing your legs, cregan leaned down to capture your drooling lips in a kiss before he resumed his movements. he allowed you to wrap your legs around his waist, pushing him closer, as he pounded into your pussy, relishing in how he was able to make you finally shut up for once.

you came with a loud cry, your sloppy cunt pulsing around him as waves of pleasure washed over you, yet cregan refused to relent. he continued to fuck into you, chasing his own release.

“no- too much, cregan!” you whined as you weakly slapped at his chest, hissing and panting in overstimulation.

“take it,” cregan huffed, “maybe this will teach you a lesson, hm?”

it didnt take too long for cregan to find release, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself inside of your womb. he, for all his strength, collapsed on top of you, his weight comforting and his natural body heat warming your very bones. your hands tangled in his hair soothingly, brushing through the strands with a tenderness he didn’t think you were capable of.

he rolled off of you after a few moments, pulling you into his arms and cradling you against his chest. the defiance that roared in you for so long seemed to burn out as you made yourself comfortable against him, replaced by a sense of peace and comfort you hadn’t felt in so long.

“tomorrow we begin anew, dont we, wife?” he murmured against your hair, patting your lower back as you agreed with a hum.

It had just been a day since you got that raven from Maekar.

In his letter, he told you that, despite the best efforts of the maesters, they were not sure how long Baelor still had. His words were but mere ink; you still felt his sorrow through them.

You remain the only one I have informed, but rumours spread like wildfire. By the time the Stranger comes for my brother, the whole realm will already know me as kinslayer.

So you prepared for the worst.

You called for the handmaids and ordered the discreet preparation of mourning clothes for Maekar and the children when they got back. The letter had just arrived, but it must have been days since your husband wrote it: Baelor might already be dead. It was strange to live in that space of not knowing.

Not even a full day had passed when there was another raven; you had just gotten back from praying at the sept. You expected it would be the one carrying the news of the crown prince's passing. It must have happened soon after Maekar wrote his first letter to you, then.

You took a deep breath before you opened the parchment...

...and almost dropped it when you saw: Prince Baelor lived. They'd stay in Ashford for as long as the maesters thought it was necessary, then make for Summerhall.

'The Mother is merciful!' you exhaled, holding the parchment to your chest.

Many weeks later, Maekar returned with the procession from Ashford.

Once you made sure Baelor and his wife were comfortable in the guest wing, you and your husband returned to your chambers. Maekar collapsed into the armchair the moment you closed the doors, like the weight of the past few weeks had finally caved him in.

'I should've listened to you,' he muttered.

You squeezed his shoulder as you stood next to him, reaching for the the wine carafe. You poured out two cups and handed him one.

'You warned me of Daeron and what he might do. None of this would've happened if I hadn't had to go looking for him. What a fucking disarray,' he grumbled, more to himself.

'This family is doomed,' he said after a moment of consideration, as he downed his cup.

You leaned against the table, watching him.

'You speak of doom–yet your sons live, and your brother too.'

'I have to send Aerion away,' he said, and you could see in his eyes that it grieved him. Aerion had caused him so much pain, and still, there was an unwavering fatherly affection in his heart.

'It is for the better. You will see,' you tried to console him. And you believed it; that this might yet set Aerion on a true path.

'Aegon's gone off, and I do not know where,' Maekar continued.

'He must be with the hedge knight. And from what your brother's told me, it sounds like he's in good hands. You will find him soon enough; he'll be right till then.'

Maekar looked at you, astonished.

'I'm stunned by you both. How can you think it's right for him to roam the country in rags, sleeping in ditches?'

'You wouldn't have been able to stop him,' you reached out to graze his cheek with your hand: an endearing gesture that you hoped would anchor him.

'Don't you remember? You just said you should've listened to me. You will see I'm right again,' smiling, you stroked the scars under his eyes that had already begun to heal. They were not there when he left, so they must be from the trial.

'Whatever you say, woman.'

'You will see,' you repeated as you lifted the goblet to your lips.

He pulled you closer then, still sitting, so that his forehead was resting against your abdomen.

'I should've had you there, too. Bad things happen when you're not there,' he whispered, closing his eyes as you brought your hand to caress his hair.

'Do not dwell on it,' you said softly, brushing his silver strands.

How things could change with time. When you first arrived at his court, you knew it was expected of you to be like a mother to his children and a lady of the house. The prince was famous for his prickliness, and you weren't sure exactly what to expect. But you weren't one to stand in an open field when it thundered, and soon realised that was something the stern prince admired in you.

With time, you saw something other than respect glint in Maekar's eyes when he met with your defiance. Each time you shot down one of his laments or held his gaze during a disagreement, you saw it. A split second, and you could've missed it, but there it was: like a spark in the shadow of your fire, waiting to meet it.

That's how he was looking up at you now; in the privacy of your chambers, his cold front peeled back, and you could see how everything weighed on him. With his eyes, reverent on you, he was asking for an answer only you could give.

You slowly raised your cup to your mouth, taking a sip and savouring the rich tang, as you held his gaze. You watched as his eyes flicked to your lips, still wet from the wine.

A small, wicked smile tugged at your lips.

'You want a taste?'

He nodded slowly as you slid into his lap to kiss him.

As his mouth met yours, he snuck his tongue against your lips, licking the remains of the wine with a contented hum. The alcoholic flavour, mixed with the taste of him on your tongue, sent a warm jolt into your stomach.

He kissed you hungrily, and when you broke away from him, he chased your mouth with such eagerness that you had to push at him until his back met the armchair with a dull thud. One hand on his heaving chest, the other reaching for your goblet, you kept your eyes on him as you took a small sip from your cup–this time, holding the wine in your mouth instead of swallowing.

After placing the cup down carefully, you reached for his face and leaned over him, lips meeting his. You dribbled the wine into his waiting mouth and felt him harden under you as he took it. Some dripped onto your jaw and neck, and he was on it immediately, not wasting a single drop, licking your skin greedily.

'Did you miss me?' you asked breathlessly as you clung to his shoulders.

'What kind of question is that?' he grunted as he covered your throat with his mouth, 'I lay sleeplessly thinking of you. How you should be there with me...'

He grabbed your hair to bring your face to his. You smirked at the sensation of his fingers tangling with your strands at your nape. The pleasant feeling went straight into your groin; he spoke the next words against your lips, hot breath mixing with yours:

'How I should be fucking you instead...'

Taking your jaw between his thumb and index finger, he tilted your head so he could lick up a stray drop of wine running down your jaw.

'I'm never leaving your side again,' he grumbled against your skin.

'Whose idea was it, I wonder...to spare me from this miserable circus...' you panted, feeling yourself get wetter with each kiss he planted on you. You began to rub against his thigh, and the feeling of your briefs sliding against your slick centre made you lightheaded.

'Shut me up next time I get ideas like that,' Maekar said, and you felt his hands at the back of your dress, untying the knots with fast moves and stripping you.

You moved to help him out of his shirt and trousers, and pulled him with you to the floor. You felt a thrill as he hiked your chemise up and stared at the dark spot on your underwear.

He hooked his fingers and slid it off, throwing it to the side. Then, wasting no time, he buried his face between your legs and took a deep inhale of your pussy.

'Maekar...' you sighed, head thrown back, waiting for his tongue. He gave it to you, with his hands holding your thighs in place on his shoulders as he licked you.

He was unyielding. Even when you started to whine and shake, when the feeling started to become too much, and your hips unintentionally began to buck away from his mouth from the overstimulation, he held your legs tighter around him. Nowhere to withdraw, you just took it; until he made you come on his tongue, while you cried out his name, writhing on the bedroom floor.

Once your breathing settled a bit, you pushed yourself up and guided Maekar to lie down on the tiles. With your hand on his wide chest, you could feel his heartbeat against your own skin, and you thought of how you'd missed him. You were rarely apart this long, but when everything at the trial went awry, he had to stay away for many more weeks than initially planned. Thank the Gods, it was all over now.

You climbed on top of him, and then, before you could react, his hands tore your thin chemise in one swift move; the sharp sound of the fabric filled the room.

'Maekar!' you cried, but he was already fondling your now free breasts. The tattered silk hung on your shoulders.

'What? I'll get you new ones,' an inviting glint in his eyes.

Smug bastard.

You knew what he was trying to do. His eyes were on you, with an anticipatory look, questioning you. What will you do now?

You raised your hand, and the next moment, a stinging pain burned your palm as it connected with his cheek.

'Argh...' he groaned, as he snapped his face to the side from the impact.

He turned back to look at you, but you landed another slap as soon as his eyes met yours.

Chest heaving, he grabbed your hips and drove into you without hesitation. He got you so wet with his mouth, but you still had to adjust to his size as he began to fuck up into you.

Sweat covered your skin as the sound of your ass meeting his groin filled the room.

'Do it again,' he hissed between his teeth. It wasn't an ask, but a command.

So you did, delivering another smack across his cheeks as you rode him. Pain mixed with pleasure; his and yours. The skin on your hand was on fire now, but each time you landed another slap, his cock got harder inside you until he couldn't hold it back anymore and came, filling you to the brink.