whole house hot idccc

But Dunk did not keep that promise. He came back each night, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who has snuck her way into every thought and dream.

He didn't even know her name as he watched her take care of her small home. Watched as she grabbed logs from the small pile, and he wondered how she would survive the winter.

As he was cutting some more wood, and placed it in the pile, he wondered if she would be freaked out by some more wood appearing, but he was just doing his duty is all.

So Dunk waited, and saw the confusion on her face when she saw more wood in her pile. She looked around, but didn't indicate that she saw him.

♥︎

Dunk should have been long gone by now, but he couldn't help but stay. Whenever he went hunting for a meal, he always made sure to hunt just a bit more and leave it at her door. He even left flowers at her door as he just thought they smelled nice.

♥︎

But when she was taking her baths, Dunk felt shame as he wrapped his hand his long, thick cock as he watched her run her hands over her body, and he swore he even heard her moan once.

He kept that memory locked away on the few days he could not get to her.

Then one night, as she was laying on her back once more, floating in the peaceful water, she spoke startling poor Dunk as he was just about to finish with a strangled moan.

"I know you are out there. Please step out." Her voice sent a shiver down his back, as he did as she asked. He tucked his still very hard cock away, as best as he could, and stepped out from behind the tree that has become almost like his home.

"I am sorry for spying, my Lady." Dunk said as he watched her eyes trail up his body until they made eye contact.

"My goodness. You are a big one." She giggled as she slapped a hand over her mouth. Dunk felt his face heat up, but he agreed with her.

"So it has been you who has been helping me?" She inquired. Dunk just nodded his head.

"I hope I did not impose, my Lady." She insisted on him calling her by her name, as she said, "I am no Lady." She asked for his name and he told her. "I am Ser Duncan the Tall, but please call me Dunk."

He watched as she mouthed his name, and his dick twitched in his breeches.

"Not at all. The man who I was forced to marry left long ago." Dunk wanted to ask questions, but then she pulled herself out of her pond, and he was at a lose for words.

"So Ser Duncan the Tall. The night is getting cool, may I offer you a place to sleep for the night." Dunk tried to say no, saying that he is used to the changes of weather, she did something unexpected.

She reached out and gripped his cock through his breeches. Dunk could not help but let out a loud moan.

"It has been many, many mooms since I have laid with a man, and my own fingers are just not doing it anymore."

"We shouldn't." Dunk said as his eyes squeezed shut, his words coming out all jumbled.

"Please, Ser Duncan the Tall. I only ask this one thing, even though I know you must of touched yourself each night I bathed. I know you heard me moan for the unknown figure that has been watching me. Do you not wish to hear me moan your name?"

Something inside of Dunk snapped. He picked her up by herself behind and he wrapped her legs around his thick waist.

Dunk walked the two of them to her home, her lips kissing and nipping his neck the whole walk there.

♥︎

Dunk's eyes are rolled back as she bounced in his lap. His cock buried deep inside of her warmth. She struggled at first and Dunk almost told her that it was fine, but at that moment, she seemed to open up just enough to slowly take him inch by agonising inch.

Her back was arched as she settled in his lap. Dunk leaned in to take a nipple into his mouth.

Her hands gripping the back of his head as she whined out his name, making his dick twitch in her.

"Oh you like it when I say your name, Dunk?" He didn't even have to answer, as his dick twitched for him.

She slowly started to ride him as he watched where their bodies were connected.

He barely moved as he knew he could hurt her, but when her pace picked up, his eyes screwed shut and it was like he could see stars.

"Watch me Dunk. I'm close." She moaned as she kissed him. He forced his eyes open to watch her come undone for him.

But Dunk didn't want this to end just yet. He flipped the two around so she was on her back. His dick never leaving her warmth, as he pounded her into her bed.

Her warmth started to spasm around his dick as she let out a scream of his name.

Dunk, the ever gentleman he is, fucked her through her orgasm, and kept fucking her, as he put her tired legs over his shoulders and folded her practically in half, bringing another orgasm out of her.

Dunk wanted nothing more than to spill inside of her, but he pulled out and finished on her stomach, with a long, drawn out moan of her name.

He collapsed next to her on her bed and watched in awe as she swept some of his spend up with her thumb and sucked her thumb clean.

"Spend the night, and in the morning, I will wake you up with a surprise." Dunk didn't have to be told twice as sleep over took him.

A deep sigh follows your words, exasperated. This discussion had taken place many a time, and each instance came to the same consensus: you will not marry again.

Your husband is not dead.

You know it in your heart.

For the Gods of the North could never forsake him this way. Could never forsake you this way, to take for themselves what you most hold dear, what your soul and mind cling to so desperately, even after many moons without a word of his well-being.

The world beyond the Wall is ever treacherous, filled with peril and misfortunes.

And still, you hope.

And still, you pray.

Praying.

What a laughing matter.

You do not care for prayer, for getting down on one’s knees or touching one’s forehead to the cold ground in Gods knows what sept or, even worse, frozen damp earth cold enough to bite mercifully at your skin.

“They will answer you if you’re truthful, wife,” your husband used to say whenever your nose would turn beneath the Weirwood tree, displeased at having to sit in the frigid winds and wax grateful words for deities that you didn’t believe in, or worse, ask for their favour, be it forgiveness or blessing.

What a waste of time.

What a stupid, futile custom, which does not serve you and never will.

And of that you are most certain, for you have begged and pleaded with those wretched Gods to bring back your husband and to kill each one of the men who dared to raise the question of betrothal to you.

And yet, the petitions do not stop.

And yet, the lords still pester and ask and nag until their throats tighten with annoyance and their brows furrow with disdain for you.

“You are not thinking of The North’s future, my lady,” continues the man who thinks himself above his station, staring you down like it’ll solidify his words somehow. “It needs a lord, where it already has a lady. It cannot continue on ghosts and memories,” his tone mellows, trying to placate, but it does nothing but light a fire under your heels, slowly kindling all the way up towards your heart, your head. “You need a husband—”

“I already have a husband!” you interrupt sharply again, feeling a lump in your throat that you try to swallow down so your voice would not waver.

You cannot show any weakness.

You cannot let the vultures seek to exploit your sorrow, for there are many who would, and more than enough who already do.

“And you still have a lord, if your memory fails you, my lord.”

“My lady, it has been too long—”

“And it will be even longer if I do so wish it!” Your voice bellows in the council room, snapping the other men attending to attention, stiffening in their seats as if their chairs prickle at their backs. “I will take no damned husband until mine own turns up at my door, nothing but ash and bones.”

The words leave your mouth, and in the hope of making your station known, you add another vice around your heart, squeezing until you feel your chest throb with the heaviness of what you just said.

No one around the table looks at you with respect. Not anymore, at least.

Not since the disappearance of your husband, of their lord. In its place stands disdain, pity, and a disgusting spark of hunger.

Hunger for power, for worth, for proving themselves better than they are now that the one man who held them at bay under his boot has been amiss from court.

“Lord Stark had time to return, my lady,” one of them has the gall to say, making your head snap towards him, gaze scalding enough to melt flesh from bones. “Your husband is regrettably dead and—”

“My Cregan is alive!” Your voice cracks on his name, as it always does, even the mere utterance of it bringing forth the moons of grief and sorrow that weave through it like poison. “And any more word of it out of any mouth in this room will be regarded as high treason and thus punished accordingly.”

You cannot look them in the eye as you hurriedly get up and walk out of the room, door shutting behind you hard enough to startle the maids that lingered nearby.

As always, your feet carry you to the very place you curse: cold, damp, and unavailing.

The weirwood tree’s branches move slowly with the wind, as if welcoming you back, just like yesterday. And the day before. And every single day since your heart had been trampled over by your anguish.

It is with ease that you kneel beneath it now, trembling fingers curling into the skirts of your gown until they change pigment from how hard you’re holding on. You would tear this blasted thing to pieces if you could.

But it was one of Cregan’s favourites.

“The colour suits your eyes, sweet wife,” he said one day, stopping you in your tracks, your traitorous heart thumping in your chest like a bird’s wings at the observation. “Wear it more often, if you so please.”

And you did, to your utter dismay and annoyance.

Every time it was out of the washing, it made its way back onto your body, back under your husband’s gaze, which softened at the sight of it, as if pleased that you begrudgingly decided to allow him this one pleasure.

Now, the gown feels like another reminder that there is no one’s gaze sweetening for it, no beautiful grey eyes taking it in as if it were one of life’s blessings.

“I am becoming fiercely cross,” you whisper, chin wobbling as you try to hold back your tears, as if even the Gods are not worthy of seeing the extent of your heartache. “For you have not brought him back to me yet.”

Your eyes sting with the promise of tears, hot and angry, but you do not blink, for you wish not to give them a helping hand to slide down your cheeks.

“I have prayed, and I have knelt, and I have said every possible word in those blasted holy tomes, and yet my wish has not been granted!”

At last, even as you try to keep from breaking, not even you can keep up the facade of an unfeeling wife for too long, not when speaking of him.

“My knees have blistered, and my feet have frozen times over, and yet my Cregan is not here to soothe me!”

Your voice cracks under the anger that pushes your words forward, you vision is blurring from the tears that can no longer be kept at bay.

“Why have you not brought him back to me? Why must I suffer from such grievances while he is not here to appease me, as a husband should?”

It is childish. Selfish, to think of such things, to want your husband back for such whims.

But if not he, then who?

If not him, then no one else can, for you do not want them to. You would rather suffer through a thousand blisters and even colder feet than ask for someone else other than Cregan to help relieve your pain.

“Where is he?”

The question rips out of your throat, painful, making you cough afterwards, wet and croaky from holding back your tears, still clinging onto that stubbornness, even if you are way past looking strong.

Your body crumbles under the weight of your own words, for they go unanswered again, like they always do.

No God answers you.

No mercy is given towards your cause.

Do the Gods take jest in your grief? Do they sit in some place high above, pointing fingers at the woman who used to scoff at the sight of their tree and now sits curled beneath it, begging for scraps of their clemency?

They must, for why have they not brought your heart back home? The one that still sits in your chest is not your own, for it stopped beating as loudly, it stopped following the same tune as Cregan’s, and now only thuds enough to keep you standing.

It was so cold, and yet it was not even close to the feeling of not having your husband close to you as you drifted off to sleep, walking close along Winterfell walls or not using his broad palms to warm your cheeks when the wind bit at them.

All of it felt colder, infinitely so.

You felt the snow dampen your clothes, your hair, your very resilience as you lay curled at the trunk of the weirwood tree, knees hurting as they dug into the frozen earth.

“They’re trying to marry me off,” you whispered, bottom lip wobbling as you hiccuped back sobs, shaking your head fervently as you continued, refusing the notion from your mind, tone only getting more desperate, as if words alone were enough to undo the misfortunes of your heart. “The council. Those good-for-nothing, callous men want me to choose another.”

Sometimes, you believe you have gone mad with grief, finding slivers of comfort in speaking as if Cregan was out there somewhere and could hear you, could reach through time and distance and soothe your sorrow.

It is so foolish.

It is so shameful to speak to the wind and hope it will carry your hopes and pleas to the one your heart yearns for most ardently.

“They want to give me to some lesser lord,” you continue, barely able to see anything past the veil of your tears. “To give some stupid mongrel your title and wife.”

There are not enough words, even if one could compile all that have ever been written, to articulate the way your heart breaks with every sound that leaves your mouth.

You had never known such pain.

But then again, you had never known life without Cregan.

Not after every bone in your body decided it did not want to be separated from him until the day the earth swallowed you both.

“How dare you!” you accuse, voice rising, cracking from overuse, shaking as it tries to make space through painful sobs. “How can you leave me to another?”

It is unfathomable to think of having to look upon someone else’s face and pretend your heart and soul do not call to Cregan. Of having to think about sleeping, eating, and bedding someone who is not your brutish, lovable northern man.

The thought makes you ill, willing your throat to swallow back the bile that rises from such revolting notions.

“Don’t leave me to another, for I will curse you for all eternity if you dare do so! And I will hate you until I draw my last breath.”

You never thought your voice could sound so earnest in its plea for mercy, for salvation from a fate that meant nothing but pain and grief. The promise of a betrothal to someone who is not Cregan would rather find you dead.

“Please come back to me, you insufferable brute.”

After so long in the cold, with nothing but your mournful words and blasted tears for company, you hear a few soft thuds in the snow close to you.

Then, a nudge to your bowed head, before soft sniffing brushed against your temple and hair, making you startle, teary eyes trying to blink away the moisture as you look upon the offending newcomer to your peace.

You scoff when you see the direwolf, but it has no bite in it, long gone, having lost the ability to perform distaste when there was no truth beneath it.

“What do you want from me, you beast?”

Hearing you address it only makes Cregan’s wolf move closer, a soft whine rumbling in its throat, nosing at your tear-streaked cheeks with insistence, as if sensing your distress and wishing to soothe it.

Just like he would.

Your throat feels like it’s burning again.

One of your hands lifts to pat at its furred neck, breath hitching at the warmth of it, not being able to hold yourself back from pressing close, burrowing into the beast with a shaky whimper, wet with tears and need for comfort.

“Don’t you dare forsake me, too.”

It’s vulnerable and disgraceful, and it makes you feel the weakest you’ve ever been, but this creature, this furred thing that nuzzles at you and tries to crawl under your skin out of a need to comfort, is the last remaining piece of your husband.

The last piece of your Cregan that hasn’t been taken from you.

Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.

It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.

Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.

The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.

Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.

No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.

He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.

His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.

"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."

It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.

No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.

By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.

Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?

-

By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.

It was hardly the first time.

The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.

Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.

You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.

Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.

Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.

So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.

That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.

You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.

Just a little farther...

"You appear to be losing your battle."

The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.

You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.

A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.

You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.

You were in far too much of a hurry.

"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."

His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.

"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."

You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.

"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."

"You are trying to do something."

"I am not."

"You are."

A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.

"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."

"I am simply a guest in the Keep."

The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."

There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"

You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."

"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."

His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."

You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."

"Are you?"

"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."

A beat passed.

"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."

You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."

"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"

A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."

You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."

The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."

You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.

Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.

"...It's you."

The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.

He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.

When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."

The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"

You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."

Silence settled between them.

Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.

You did not look mad.

Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.

More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.

Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.

His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"

He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.

You said nothing.

For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.

His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"

You instinctively stepped back.

"I only jest," he said quietly.

Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."

Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.

Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.

I've dreamt of you.

Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.

The tourney had grown boring, unbearable, and hot. It was a tourney for pleasantries and other obnoxious reasons for more chatter. 

Knights were swooning over you which in turn had caught the malicious attention of the other noblewomen who were in the bylines. You could not help but roll your eyes at the next Lord that would introduce themselves to you, but prim and poise was your vice, you were high on it, surely you must be. Gwayne is far more better than you in exchanging civilities, it is his strong suit and you? You were the complete opposite, which had confused the others of your marriage. The most righteous man in all of Westeros chose the egoistic sensualist of a wife he could ever find—it stunned you as well at the match, but it worked in your favour.

However, you had places to be, if not with your husband, then on your husband. 

You made your way in the sea of people who had been going through similar struggles as you in this heat. Thankfully, the wine makes everything somewhat bearable in the scorching heat, your silks clung onto your skin as you aggressively fanned yourself to cool down, it was hot and you were tired. 

Your servants did their best to alleviate the effects of the warm weather and the stuffy environment as you made your way through the many nobles that looked at you like you were a fresh piece of meat for the taking, for gossip, position, and whatever else they can gain from you. 

Finally, a cool breeze had brushed over your skin, soothing your strenuous toil but that was only for a short while. Your gaze landed on the ladies that were unashamedly doting on your husband, Gwayne. A blonde noblewoman had been faking her laughter to get his attention, only for her to finally gain it when she forcibly interlocks her arms with him. You took immediate notice of the recoil in his reaction, he knew better, good. Disgust was an understatement that painted his features.

The lesser blonde goads and toys with him as other ladies made this their chance to vie for his attention. It was an uncommon occurrence for some to slip past you but it is uncommon for a reason. Even so, it did not do any wonders to your ego, the skin you that you wore had shed and the dragon beneath it had finally revealed itself. 

“Ser Gwayne? Your thoughts on the lovely knights today?” 

“Have you tried the wine? Absolutely delicious!”

“You’ve great hair, is that lavender I smell?”

Their shrill voices rang in your ears as you made your way to them. Prim and poise. Which still rang true … but that was for occasions that it is appropriate, this was not.

“Princess! I did not realise you were here, you were gone for some period of time, but do not worry, your husband had better company to attend to,” the Lady exclaimed in such a fake manner that it heated your face to a flush of pink as the words landed like a strong blow. It only worsened the feeling as you see her holding Gwayne like she owned him, like he was her property. To your advantage, you knew how these played out, you were not idle and stuck with cross-stitching and other things, you were either on dragonback or training with your sword, an unbecoming image for a princess but you were no ordinary princess—you have the blood of old Valyria running through your veins and you have dragons.

You retaliate.

“You speak as though my presence requires your acknowledgment, rest assured, it does not.”

It deepened the disdain that took root in your bones, as it did not easily sway the Lady beside your poor husband who is caught in the crossfire. The look on your face was not quite subtle anymore, the disrespect you had experienced fueled the scorn on your face. 

You carefully designed the woman that stood right in front of her, through years and years of defiance and spite, you’ve learned to mask the arrogance with humility and the animosity with kindness. However, your arrogance took matters into her own hands, Gwayne knew upon entering your marriage that there would always be a third, your ego.

You ignored his innocent stare, reminding yourself to take care of him … later.

Much to your annoyance, another lady from yet another house spoke, “dragons tend to blend into the scenery until they choose to open their jaws.”

You gave her a small, pitying sigh, “how quaint. You speak of dragons as if they are beasts to be feared, rather than kin to be commanded. Do not mistake my silence for blending in, for I am merely deciding if you are worth the breath.”

The opponent had weakened, only then, you had struck the final blow. 

It was simple. Unnerving. Scorching. 

You held your gaze to their embarrassed ones, a sickly sweet smile you mimicked the first lady from earlier, your quaint fingers toying with the fabric of her dress, “although …you must pray I keep mine closed. Your silks are far too pretty to be reduced to ash.”

With a gentle grip, you pulled Gwayne’s arm from her grasp, walking away from the group of vipers and snakes. 

You could care less of the broken proper princess act in front of the noble men and women who were practically slithering from the sides just to take a piece of their gossip. The air as you walked right passed them grew cold and icy. They hold no worth to you, regardless of their miniscule jabs at you and your house.

The proud dragon princess. The defiant heir. The evil Hightower wife. The tyrant Targaryen.

At least they knew what the Gods have granted you before you even drew your first breath: the divine, unyielding right to rule, which left the rest of Westeros to pray the coin lands on the side that spares them from your fire. You hailed from the royal house that many feared … but most of all, you were in love. 

Gwayne had softened the rougher edges you wore when you met him, which had stunned you, you never bowed to anyone, no, not until he arrived into your life. He has earned the softness of your heart and you promised yourself that he will have it for the rest of your days together.

You endured to heat as you scurried towards your guest chambers, your husband following suit. He knew better than to defy you and your authority. 

“You are angry,” he pointed out, a pout could be seen from his lips. Gods, he was handsome.

“I am fine, I do not partake in such folly,” you said wryly.

“Are you mad at me?”

That question stopped you in your place, you turned back to him as if he went mad. 

“Absurd.”

He sighs, “you are tense.”

“They treat you as if you are a toy to play with, I simply reminded them of who warms your bed.”

That reply made Gwayne blush. The sight made your heart soften.

You circled him like a dragon ready to devour its prey, guiding him towards your bed unknowingly, again, he knew better than to defy you of all people. 

He sits at the edge of your bed, you rightfully took your place between his legs, your hand gentle as you grasped his chin to look up at you. Your eyes never left his, you were furious of course, no one deserved to touch him like you did, to love him like you did, to pleasure him like you did.

“You are pliant, husband.”

“Of course I am. Only to you,” his statement encouraged the uproar in your thinly veiled arrogance, the mix of pride and ego had egged on your arousal. It claws on your stomach as he submitted, caved into your touch alone, reminding you once more that he belonged to you. 

His hands slithered up to your waist, undoing your laces as he maintained eye contact with you, serving you. His grip possessive and needy, the heat you had complained about was erased from your memory as a fresh wave of fire began in your body. Your dress pools down to your feet as he strips the rest away, pulling you in, making you straddle his lap.

He kisses you earnestly and eagerly, his hands cupping your breasts as you press yourself closer to him, the erotic sensation of your nakedness that is opposite to his clothed body is vibrating between your bodies. 

He hums into the kiss as he deepened it, taking claim of you, his tongue sliding against yours in an indulgent dance that rendered him weak. There was no urgency in the act, it was just two people who willingly adored each other in secrecy and in public. You attempted, hard, to keep up your strong appearance, to stay mad but you were oh so soft for your husband. The feigned hatred in your face began to dissipate as he pathetically moaned into your lips, owning him, needing him. You submit. 

On the other hand, Gwayne felt almost unworthy of having you all to himself, the unashamed greed made him run hot to the touch. He holds your body against his, his kisses more insistent and that was all you needed to undo you. Gwayne feels the love that is radiating from you and he plans on using that to his advantage, to win you over, carefully, lovingly, intimately.

He pulls away to look at you and then to your pouted lips, a string of saliva connecting you both. He notices that you look … softer in the ambient light of the chambers, although he loves you just the same even when the fire in you sparks aflame. Your hair is a mess but it sat pretty on you, you have this effortless beauty and sensuality that you exuded and he envied almost anyone who will ever come across you—but he would never tell you that, it must be a safely kept secret but it would not matter if he considers you a god. The Seven truly took their time with you and he was grateful that you chose him, he could not bear spending a life without you by his side. 

Gwayne never indulges himself, he rarely does, not until he met you. His earnest gaze appreciated your features, he notices the smallest of things, the faint scar on your neck from your cousin’s dagger, that crooked smile you have whenever you are content, the pattern of your breathing is different when you turn supple and needy—these are some of the things he notices about you, because he listens and he knows. 

Your clingy sounds had urged Gwayne’s light kisses on both of your tits, which soon evolved into sloppier ones that made you sigh in relief as he grips the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him, your puffy cunt brushing up against his clothed cock, a needy moan slips past between his lips. 

To him this was vulnerability but to you this was opportunity. 

You ground your hips against him, feeling your slick arousal spreading on the fabric of his breeches, the action sending waves of pleasure to your body. You pushed his body against the bed, your hands placed on his chest as you continued the rolling motion of your hips as you made him watch you take your pleasure from him.

“You only look at me,” you moaned, your gaze fixed on his face as you rode him, your movements provocative and needy, only for him. Only for Gwayne. 

If it was humanly possible, Gwayne could have peaked at the sight before him, his cock twitched needily under your wet cunt. His hands were snug at your waist, your movements were encouraged by him, his groans were like hymns of worship to you and you lived for it. The heat from earlier took a toll on your stamina but you were bound to endure it, lest your claim be proven hollow—you were stubborn.

Gwayne touched you everywhere as you rolled your hips against him, you threw your head back as you felt yourself closer to the edge, the friction between your sexes is delicious. It relaxed your complaining body and pleasured it further. Another wet spot had appeared on his breeches from his precum and tantalizingly mixed with your wetness. Your moans had increased and your nails scratched at his chest as you quickened your movements.

There was a fire that had awoken in your belly, it was only spurred when Gwayne moved against your hips, intensifying your pleasure, the action provoking your climax. Your hips stuttered as you came, your pants and mewls were of his name and that made Gwayne groan deeply.

It tamed you. Your body took comfort on top of his, Gwayne pulled you closer, his movements subtle yet noticeable, he partially slid his breeches off, his hard cock instantly meeting your sensitive sex.

He whispered praise to his sweet wife and that alone had lulled the fire in you, only a little bit before it gave out on you and gave more way to him. You were still sensitive from your high but the want is still etched into your body, Gwayne caressed your buzzing body, his fingers feeling every crevice you have. 

“My sweet dragon … I need to feel you around me, come home.”

That usual sweet tone of his stirred you out of your bliss, your consciousness coming back to you fully as he tapped the enraged  head of his cock to your hardened pearl, you reacted to the sensation as he collected more of your previous honeyed arousal to lubricate himself with.

He fixes your position, raising your hips a little for him to move properly beneath you, his cock nudging into your hole, the squeeze of it made Gwayne twitch beneath you.

His free hand guided your hips down his length, practically splitting you in half at the sheer size of him when he enters, it overwhelmed the both of you at this point. Your wetness emitted a sound so scandalous that Gwayne was livid for it, he tested his rhythm as he bounced you on his cock, the air left his lungs as he moved you up and down.

Your body was still pressed against his body, your hips met his, Gwayne controlled your movements, using your sensitive cunt for his pleasure. He made sure to revel in moments like these, taking charge of your shared pleasure when you were typically the one in control.

His hold on you was intimate, it weakened your defences and had your walls fluttering around him which earned a soft whine from your husband, he accentuated his movements, his tip nudging against the spot that made you spasm and shake, exactly where he belonged.

“Gods,” you mewled, the walls around you collapsed, there was no reason to shield yourself with your ego, you were snug in his arms and you were being ravaged in full force, what more could you ever need in this moment? 

You cried out as your cunt clamped down his twitching length, his orgasm following suit as you felt him coat your walls with his cum. He needed to stuff you full to the brim and to hope to the Gods that it takes root in your womb. He felt himself softening as you both came down from your highs, he could feel himself leaking out from your pretty hole, your essence running down from your thighs to his. 

Gwayne then kisses you silly, as egoistical as you are, you were ticklish and he used it to his advantage, you giggled softly and before you knew it, you were laying down on your bed. His unabashed gaze took you apart, like always, with care. 

You were not going to finish this day without a fight.

You slightly opened your legs, your cunt oozed what was left of your mixed arousals and that had fogged the goodness in your husband’s eyes, almost completely. Gwayne went weak when he saw you leaking more of him, puffy and pretty. 

His mouth was on you, his hands on both your thighs as he opened you up to him. To some, this endeavour was mechanical, to Gwayne, it was pure love, for you.

His tongue dipped right between your folds, lapping up the leaked evidence, the sweetness and the saltiness was almost like a drug to him. You moaned wantonly and called out to him in your pleasure, your hands on his hair and on your tits. Gwayne’s strong hands fought with your thighs that had threatened to close in on him, but he wanted to worship you first before indulging himself. The obscene wet noises fell from his lips, guttural grunts and groans as he tasted you both on you.

“Yes, Gwayne, yes!”

The words that came out of you was a plea instead of a command, your fingers tugging tightly at his hair. Gwayne sucked the last of his cum from your cunt and resurfaced with a pussy-drunk smile on his face. 

By the time you pull him on top of you, closer to you as your lips meet for another kiss, his length has hardened once more. Gwayne’s words of love and praise fell muffled to your lips, his cock heavy on his hand as he supported himself with the other. 

He pushed himself inside you once more, purely for the reason of belonging there, of completing you—making you full. His free hand plays with the pearl of your cunt, earning him scratches on his arms as you hold onto him.

“My sweet wife, you are perfect … you are all mine,” he grunts into your ear.

His demeanour softens at your blissful face, the cacophony of sounds emitting from the both of you across chamber walls which turned into intimate hymnals that billowed around your connected bodies and fine silks you lay on top of.

Gwayne was determined to push for another peak for you, to make sure that his sweet wife was satiated, to forget her woes, to remember that he belongs to her—Gwayne needed it like the air he breathed, like the uttered prayers under the Seven’s eyes, like his sustenance to live for you. Gwayne wanted it now more than ever, his thrusts became rough, your sounds more high-pitched, melodic even. You could feel his slicked up balls slap your ass, making a plapplapplap sound as he quickens his pace.

He could feel you swarm around him, like flames and he was unaffected by it, your cunt does the fluttering around his hammering length once more and it sends him to the Seven Heavens and Seven Hells and back. 

His movements erratic, panting as he holds your body closer to him as he finishes inside you once more, coating your tightening walls, your orgasm making his length even more slick.

Gwayne pulls out momentarily, patiently watching both your essences ooze out you again before collecting it with the tip of his cock and fucking it into you, you moaned lazily as he thrusts deeper, slower. He emphasises his movements, the belonging and need, his message was not lost on you. You were beyond saving from the very moment you submitted to him, from the moment you met him, leaving your ego no choice but to watch your carnal affair instead.

“That is it, my sweet dragon, you did good, so good.”

His voice a soft whisper to your ears as he peppered your face with kisses, his hips halting their movements, staying right there and inside you. 

Gwayne is not a man of pride but this time … he indulges for his egoistical wife, smugly.

“Are you still mad at me, wife?”

“Oh, shut it.”

© 2026 𝙂𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙉𝙀𝙎-𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂! i condemn plagiarism of any kind and feeding my work to ai, NO AI here! my writing may be shit but it is my shit.

Valarr is not an easily jealous man. 

In fact, Valarr would say he is not jealous at all. Jealousy is for lesser men—insecure men. Men who fear losing what is theirs because, somewhere deep down, they know it was never truly theirs to begin with. Valarr has never counted himself among them. He is a prince of the blood, second in line to the Iron Throne after his father. He has had the world in his hands since the moment he was born. There has never been much that could be taken from him. 

Or, perhaps more accurately, there has never been much he cared enough about to fear losing.

So, when his wife spends an afternoon hawking with the twins and returns bright and smiling in a way that Valarr has hardly ever seen from her, he does not care.

When Aerion lingers around her, keeping her so engrossed in conversation that she does not even notice Valarr entering the room, he does not care.

When she laughs at Daeron’s jokes during a feast while Valarr is forced to entertain a balding marcher lord, Valarr does not care.

He notices, certainly, because Valarr notices everything, but noticing is not jealousy. 

In fact, it makes Valarr happy. It does. He knows that you have been struggling to adjust to life in Westeros. He knows that you are lonely. He is happy that his family is welcoming you, that they are making efforts so that you might feel comfortable. He is happy that the court is starting to warm up to you.

He is.

He really is.

He is glad that you come back to your shared chambers smiling more often than not now, because his heart ached every time he returned to find you sitting by the window in silence, staring east toward a sea that would never carry you home. There had been nights when he woke to find your side of the bed empty, mornings where your eyes were red, days where you smiled, strained at the corners, forcing yourself because courtesy demanded it. 

It had haunted him—truly haunted him. When he joined his father at meetings, he would find his mind drifting to you, wondering what you were doing, if you were alone, if he would have time to stop at the kitchens to have them make a Qartheen dessert to bring up to you. When the two of you were in the same room but separated, his eyes always followed you, searching for the cause of every frown and distant look, because maybe if he could identify who was upsetting you, he might be able to fix everything.

Valarr could win jousts and navigate court politics, but he had spent months watching you wither beneath loneliness and homesickness, and there had been little he could do about it. So, yes—he is happy that you are enjoying time with his family, and you return to your shared chambers with stories and smiles instead of tears.

He is. 

Mostly. 

The trouble is that sometimes he gets a little—well, peeved when he realizes you might enjoy spending time with his cousins considerably more than you enjoy spending time with him. Not that Valarr is keeping track of who you seem to enjoy spending time with the most and who you don't, because he isn’t, that would be absurd. He notices things. 

For example, he notices that you are quick to seek out Aelor and Aelora during events. He likes to believe that it’s because you know that he’s frequently occupied with princely duties and do not wish to burden him when the twins are more readily available company. It is a much more pleasant explanation than acknowledging that the twins care little for keeping up appearances, so you might feel more comfortable around them. They are quick to jump down someone's throat if they look at you the wrong way, whereas Valarr is bound by his duty and his future to keep the peace, so he is forced to take more civil approaches, even when every instinct is telling him to be considerably less diplomatic.

He notices how Aerion listens whenever you speak of home as though the subject genuinely interests him, asking questions and remembering details that Valarr himself sometimes struggles to keep straight, and he finds the realization oddly aggravating, especially because Aerion has never been known for his patience. His cousin is sharp-tongued and capricious, and he possesses a sort of cruelty that occasionally borders on artistry, yet somehow all of that seems to vanish whenever you are involved. 

And he especially notices how Daeron somehow always manages to appear wherever you are. If you are in the garden, Daeron is in the garden. If you are in the library, Daeron is in the library. If you are attending some unbearably dull feast that neither of you particularly wished to attend, Daeron will inevitably materialize at your side before the first course is served. 

Worse, you always seem pleased to see him. Valarr will look across a room, hoping to find your eyes on him, but will find Daeron leaning against your chair, saying something undoubtedly idiotic, and you will be smiling, and then comes the laughter—the real laughter, bright and unrestrained, not the polite courtly ones Valarr has become used to—and Daeron, naturally behaves as though drawing the sound from you is his life’s greatest achievement, and it—

It is irritating. It is deeply irritating. 

Not because Valarr dislikes seeing you happy—quite the opposite, really. For months, he would have given anything to hear you laugh like that. The aggravating part is that Daeron accomplishes it so effortlessly. Valarr spends hours carefully choosing gifts from home, remembering passing comments, searching for ways to ease your loneliness, while Daeron simply appears, says something absurd, and suddenly you are laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

Valarr thinks about it far more often than he’ll ever admit, but it is not jealousy.

If anything, Valarr is grateful, because Daeron is succeeding where he has failed. When you first arrived in Westeros, Valarr spent months trying to draw you out of your shell. He took you riding, and he brought musicians from Essos to court; he commissioned cooks to learn Qartheen dishes and listened patiently whenever you wished to speak of home.

Yet, it is Aelor and Aelora who convince you to leave your chambers when homesickness threatens to swallow you whole.

It is Aerion who can keep you talking about Qarth for hours without ever looking bored.

It is Daeron who manages to make you laugh until tears run down your face.

His eye twitches, knuckles whitening around the goblet in his hand as he stands at the window of the chambers he shares with you, staring out over the Blackwater. You have still not retired for the night; you left the feast early to join Aelor and Aelora in wandering the gardens, and Valarr had assumed you would be in your shared chambers waiting for him by the time he finished entertaining the Lord Tyrell and Lord Hightower with his father, so he’d brought up a Qartheen spiced liquor, hoping to share it and spend some time with you before bed.

Rationally, he knows you have done nothing wrong. 

You had smiled at him when you entered the hall earlier. You had kissed his cheek before taking your seat. You had even sought him out briefly between courses to tell him where you were going and who you would be with. He had just—he had hoped to spend time with you. That is all. 

Unfortunately, jealousy is not a particularly rational emotion.

Not that Valarr is jealous.

He straightens when the door finally creaks open, turning to look just as you slip into the room. It is awful, truly, the combination of fondness and bitterness that washes over him at the sight of the breathless smile on your lips as you enter the room.

“I hope Aelor and Aelora walked you back,” Valarr murmurs as he places his goblet down and makes his way over to you. He relishes the way your expression softens when you turn your attention to him. It’s almost enough to overwhelm the greenness eating away at his chest. Almost. “You should not be wandering the halls alone at this time of night, wife.”

You tilt your face up as soon as he draws near, and he dips his head down to brush his lips against yours. You make a soft noise into his mouth, curious, and he fights a flush when he feels your tongue dart out to lap at his lower lip.

You pull back, eyes alight as you ask, “Is that Qartheen?”

Valarr hums in agreement, hands sliding down to your hips as he looks down at you, thumbs smoothing easy circles over the fabric of your dress. 

“It is,” he says simply, and then he raises his eyebrows, beckoning a response to his initial unspoken question.

“Oh. Aelor and Aelora retired to their chambers early,” you tell him. Valarr’s brows immediately furrow, incensed by the idea of his cousins leaving you to make your way back alone. “Daeron walked me back.”

In Valarr’s defense, he truly does not mean to scoff. He doesn’t even realize he has until he sees your face change. You blink once before your brows raise questioningly, beckoning an explanation for the reaction.

“Is that a problem?” you ask after a moment, bemused. 

“No,” he says immediately, and he also does not mean for his voice to come across so strained, but from the way you raise your brows further, he fails miserably. He clears his throat and repeats more carefully, “Of course not.”

You study him for a moment too long. Valarr can hardly hold your gaze, so he resigns to looking at the painting to your left as though it’s the most interesting thing in the room. From the corner of his eye, he sees the moment your face smooths out in realization, and a pit forms in his stomach.

But all you say is, “I missed you today.” 

Valarr exhales through his nose, sinking into you when he feels your arms wind around his waist. What little fight remains drains from him immediately; for all of the time he spends stewing in his own thoughts, for all of the ridiculous conclusions he manages to draw from a few hours apart, it is remarkably difficult to maintain any sense of grievance when you are standing in front of him looking at him like this. 

“I missed you too,” he admits quietly, one hand lifting to cradle the back of your head as you prop your chin on his chest to look up at him. He dips down to brush his lips against the crown of your head, eyes sliding shut. “Lord Tyrell and Lord Hightower kept me occupied for the better part of the evening. I am beginning to suspect it was deliberate.”

“There was a conspiracy against you, was there?”

“There usually is,” Valarr agrees mournfully.

“My poor prince,” you coo, lifting your hand up to brush your fingers against his cheek. 

Valarr leans his face into your touch. “Your poor prince indeed. I am suffering terribly. You should do something to fix it.”

You laugh prettily, and Valarr feels the last of his irritation dissolve into something much uglier: guilt. Because here you are, smiling up at him, arms wrapped around his waist, telling him that you missed him, and all evening he had been sitting at the high table feeling resentful because you’d spent time with his cousins. 

You have spent months lonely in a foreign kingdom, struggling to find your place and navigate a court that had viewed you with disdain from the moment you arrived. Now, you finally have people who seek you out and make you laugh, people who make Westeros feel a little less cold, and Valarr, instead of being grateful for it, spent half of the evening sulking like a child over it.

The realization is profoundly embarrassing, and he cannot help the sigh that escapes his lips. 

“What is it?” you ask him, thumb stroking over his cheekbone in a way that only serves to make him feel worse, but he takes advantage of the comfort you offer him anyway, because he is greedy for anything and everything you deign to give him. “Valarr?”

“I was unfair to you,” he says after a moment, voice quiet. 

Your brows furrow, and you tell him, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I have,” he insists, fingers tangling gently into your hair, nails scratching your scalp lightly in the way that always makes your lashes flutter shut, because he knows that you know what was bothering him when you entered the room, and he would prefer for you not to think you might be doing something wrong just because he is petty. “I am happy that you have my brother and cousins. Aelor and Aelora… Aerion and Daeron. I am, truly. I desperately wanted you to have friends here—wanted you to feel welcome. I spent months worrying about you; every time I saw you upset, I felt as though I was failing you somehow. I am glad.”

He hates that he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

There is a terribly knowing expression on your face as you search his face, and then you press closer to him, arms tightening around his waist, face burying into his chest. Valarr sinks into the warmth of your embrace, pressing his face into the top of your hair and inhaling the saffron hair oil he’s become intimately accustom to. 

“You know I would always prefer to spend time with you than them,” you murmur after a few moments pass. “You need not be jealous.”

Valarr closes his eyes, mortification washing through him instantly.

Apparently, he is not nearly as subtle as he thought. 

“I am not jealous,” he mutters petulantly into your hair. “I only—”

What exactly is his defense here?

I only spent the entire evening staring across the feast whenever Aelor and Aelora made you laugh?

I only felt irrationally irritated when Aerion remembered some insignificant detail about Quarth that you mentioned months ago?

I only had a distinct urge to throw my own cousin into the Blackwater when you said he walked you back to your chambers?

I only wish it could be me with you instead of them? 

None of those sound particularly persuasive. 

“I am a little jealous,” he admits at last, shoulders slumping in defeat. Valarr grimaces when your shoulders begin to shake, face heating up again. He says, affronted, “You are laughing at me.”

“I am not,” you disagree, but he can hear the laugh in your voice.

“You are,” he accuses, pulling back to look down at you with a scowl that lacks heat, considering he cannot help the way his lips curve up at the sight of the smile on your face.

“I would never.”

The blatant lie is so outrageous that Valarr actually huffs. 

You lean up on your tiptoes to ghost your lips against his, and he sighs lightly into your mouth, one hand sliding to the small of your back as though drawn there by instinct. The annoyance that had been simmering beneath his skin all evening dissipates a little further when he feels you smile against his lips. 

He follows when you begin to pull away, stealing one more kiss before finally relenting. Even then, he cannot quite bring himself to put any real distance between the two of you, pulling you so that you’re flush to him, walking backward slowly until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. 

He sinks onto the mattress with a quiet exhale, drawing you with him until you’re comfortably settled on his lap. 

Impossible woman, he thinks fondly.

He can never get enough of you. He has known since he was young that his grandfather or father would arrange a marriage for him. It was simply the reality of being born who he was. Princes did not marry for love; they married for alliances, and for peace, and for duty. As a boy, he prayed that if he could not find love in whatever match he was assigned, he would find the same type of friendship his parents had found in one another. He would have ocnsidered that enough—more than enough.

Valarr knew the moment he laid eyes on you descending from your ship that he was doomed. The memory remains painfully clear—the harbor had been crowded that day, warm and sunny, and he was filled with dread and anxiety as he waited for the Qartheen ships to dock. Lords, ladies, gold cloaks, servants gathered nat the docks—all eager to catch a glimpse of the Qartheen daughter who had crossed half the world to marry into House Targaryen. 

Valarr remembers very little of them, but he remembers you. The sea wind had caught at your silks as you descended the gangplank. Gold and sapphire glimmered at your wrists and throat; chin lifted high despite the hundreds of unfamiliar eyes fixed upon you. You had looked terrified—you had hidden it beautifully, but he had seen the tension in your shoulders and the way your gaze swept over the crowd, searching for something familiar and finding nothing.

He rehearsed his introduction to you a thousand times before that day, and he still fumbled over his words the moment you were finally in front of him. He remembers the brief look of confusion that crossed your face, and the way he wanted the ground to open to swallow him hole.

Then you smiled, wide and bright, a laugh bubbling from your lips, and he lost whatever hope he had of approaching this marriage sensibly, because he has spent every day since chasing the memory of it, hoping to draw that sound from you a second, a third, a fourth time, hundreds of times, thousands. 

It became more difficult as court life weighed on you. He would seek out trinkets from Qarth in the market and commissioned a musician who knew songs from your homeland, but nothing ever seemed to be enough to wash away the morose expression on your face at the day's end. Every difficult day that ended with you smiling at him instead of staring silently out at Blackwater Bay felt like a battle hardwon.

Perhaps that’s why the jealousy cuts so deeply. It is not because he begrudges his cousins for making you happy; it is because they are enjoying something he spent months fighting for. But looking at you now, in his lap, eyes bright and lips curved up into a smile that exists solely because of him, Valarr finds that he cannot bring himself to resent any of them for long. 

“Perhaps I will join you next time then,” you muse, looping your arms around his neck. Valarr lets his eyes slide shut again when he feels you peck his jaw, trailing kisses along his flushed skin. “I can spend the entire day listening to Lord Tyrell discuss harvest, and Lord Hightower complain about tariffs from Braavos. Then we can be miserable together.”

“A compelling proposition,” Valarr replies, lips curving up into an easy, lidded smile as he looks up at you. “Though I fear you might start dozing off mid-conversation, wife.”

“I would never!” you gasp, faux-offended, and Valarr laughs, arms tightening around your waist, and he smiles when he hears the yelp that spills from your lips when he lays you back gently against the mattress, following you down until he is hovering above you, forearms braced on either side of your head. 

For a moment, he can only look at you. His wife, in his arms, in your shared bed, smiling and happy, looking at him as though he’s the only thing in the room worth seeing, and Valarr loves you. He loves you more than he knows how to articulate, so much that it scares him sometimes, because you awaken instincts in him that he scarcely recgonizes in himself.

Protectiveness, of course. Possessiveness, maybe. 

But also something much darker. 

Valarr has always considered himself a rational man, but that composure seems to evaporate whenever you’re involved. Every time he sees you upset, every time your smile falters because of some careless remark, something ugly stirs inside him. He wants to know who caused it; he wants names and answers. The urge is immediate and irrational, a vicious thing that he’s not particularly proud of, but it makes him understand why men have started wars for the woman they love. 

But you are smiling now, warm and happy beneath him, and for the moment, that is enough.

Valarr dips down to press his lips against yours again. He kisses you slower this time, savoring in the faint taste of lemon on your lips; when he pulls back slightly to take a breath, you chase his lips, nipping at his bottom lip before you pout and lay back against the mattress, looking up at him with big eyes that make Valarr’s heart jump. 

He lifts one hand to your face, cradling your cheek gently in one hand, thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. 

“I mean it,” you say after a moment, nosing into his palm briefly before looking up at him again. “The court probably expects it of me anyway—to be at your side while you handle all of your princely duties, I cannot keep running off with your cousins to socialize.”

Valarr’s expression softens. “No,” he says immediately. “Do not martyr yourself for my sake. I spend enough time trapped in those conversations for the both of us. You should enjoy yourself. The Seven know you’ve spent enough time miserable in this Keep already.”

You look unconvinced, and Valarr feels ashamed, because this is his fault, his pettiness, his jealousy that got you to this point. You are finally at a place where you are starting to feel comfortable; he has spent months wanting nothing more than to see you smile, and now that you finally are, he has somehow managed to make you question whether you should.

“I do not care what the court expects, and I certainly do not care what some lord thinks my wife should be doing during a feast,” he tells you. “I want you happy, and if that means spending an evening with my cousins while I suffer through discussions of grain yields, then so be it.” 

The court might slowly be warming up to you, but they still love to get their snide comments in just to see how you react. He would sooner carve out his own heart than watch that careful, guarded expression return to your face because he had been selfish enough to keep you at his side, forced around people who seek to remind you that you do not belong instead of the few people in this keep willing to bare their teeth on your behalf the moment someone forgets their manners.

He sighs lightly as he leans down to press his lips against yours again, hand sliding from the side of your face to rest at your throat. His thumb presses lightly into your skin, and he swallows thickly when you flutter your lashes up at him. 

“Will you come with me to the gardens tomorrow then?” you ask after a moment, lips curved up as you look up at him, and how is Valarr ever supposed to deny you when you look at him like this? “I saw a flower tonight. It reminded me of your eyes. I wanted to bring it up here to show you, but I didn’t want to kill it.”

A lump forms in his throat, because yes, you had spent the evening with his cousins, but you had still seen something beautiful and thought of him.

“Of course,” he says without hesitation, and your smile widens, bright and full of light in a way that Valarr will spend his life guarding. 

For a moment, he simply watches you—the way your eyes shine and the way your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem of his tunic. You are his, and Valarr was never really a possessive man until he met you, but now there is no denying it, because the sight of your tears ruins his day, and a careless remark from a lord leaves him imagining increasingly creative ways to make someone regret opening their mouth. Because seeing you hurt awakens something so violent in him that he almost forgets that he is meant to be his father’s son. 

There is concerningly little that Valarr would not do for you if it meant making you happy.

So he will join you in the gardens tomorrow, because he cannot deny you at all, much less when you are laying beneath him with wide eyes and a small smile. Because you are his wife, and he loves you.

Tomorrow, he will abandon the small council meeting he’s supposed to attend with his father, and he will endure whatever disapproval is directed his way, because his wife found a flower in the garden and wants to show him it, and that is infinitely more important than whatever trivial issues that are going to be discussed in the Tower of the Hand.

Valarr is a prince of the blood, a dragon, a knight, but before anything else, he is a husband who is deeply and desperately devoted to his wife. 

“I am sorry if I kept you waiting tonight,” you say quietly after a moment, reaching up to tuck a dark lock behind his ear before absently running your fingers through the silver streak that runs through his hair. “I hope I didn’t ruin any plans you had for the evening.”

Valarr’s expression softens. He ducks his head down to press his lips against your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he replies, “You could never ruin anything, ñuha jorrāelagon. My only plan for the night was to spend it with you.”

My love.

“Well, you’ve got me all to yourself, husband,” you say with a teasing smile. “What do you plan to do with me?”

Valarr gives you a sharp, boyish grin. “Oh, I’m sure you have an idea, wife.”

“Tell me anyway please?”

You pressed your palms against your eyes. Sleep would not come. It had not come properly in days, not since the rumors of battle had begun circulating through the castle like smoke from a damp fire. Servants whispered in corridors. Soldiers sharpened blades in the courtyard below, the grinding sound carrying up through the walls and into your bones.

The shift you wore to bed, white cotton with a ribbon at the neckline, had twisted around your waist. You straightened it with sharp, irritated movements, then reached for the robe draped over the chair.

The corridor outside your door was black. You stood for a moment until your eyes adjusted. Nothing. The sconces along the wall had been extinguished hours ago, part of the conservation measures implemented since the siege preparations began. Oil could not be wasted. You placed your hand against the rough stone wall and began to walk. The robe billowed slightly around your ankles as you moved, the shift underneath fluttering against your calves. You knew these corridors, you had walked them since childhood, had played hide-and-seek in the corners with your siblings, the group of you running laughing through the halls. Your feet remembered the way even when your eyes could not see.

The door to your old chamber stood open. Not particularly wide. A hand's width of amber light spilled from the gap, cutting across the dark corridor. Your heart quickened and you told yourself you should turn back. But if you were to die tomorrow, you wanted to see the view of your city from your bedchamber window one last time. You pushed the door wider. It swung silently on hinges that had evidently recently been oiled. The room felt warm, candles flickered gently in the breeze, the scent of lavender clung to the air.

Gwayne did not hear you enter. His attention was fixed on the view beyond, auburn hair catching the light from the candles behind him, burnishing it to copper. His hands rested on the stone windowsill, shoulders holding the tension of a man expecting the morning to bring an end to things.

You cleared your throat softly. He turned. His eyes found you in the doorway and his expression shifted, the surprise giving way to recognition, then something a bit softer. "My lady, you should be abed." He was still in his doublet, the collar loosened, unclasped at his throat. "As should you," you responded. You hesitated at the threshold. "May I join you?" "Of course." He stepped aside at the window, making room.

You stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind you. Tumbleton lay below like a scattered collection of shapes, the angular roofs, the square bulk of the market hall, and beyond the walls, stretching to the dark horizon, the fields held their secret burden of soldiers and campfires, an army waiting for dawn.

"These were my rooms once," you said. Your voice sounded strange in the space, too intimate for the size of the chamber. "Before all this. I just wished to see the view once more." Gwayne's gaze returned to the window. "It is a magnificent view." 

"There will be a battle tomorrow it seems." Ypur voice was quiet. He nodded. "Yes, it would appear so." The silence between you filled with the distant sounds of the castle settling in on itself. You watched a campfire flicker on the horizon and thought of the men gathered around it, sharpening swords, writing letters, praying.

"I am sorry," Gwayne said, "for the chaos brought to your home. The destruction done to your people." You turned to look at him. His profile was stark against the window's frame, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. He meant it. "It is not your fault," you said, offering a reassuring smile. He exhaled. "If it is any consolation to you, my lady, the men will all surely die tomorrow." His voice carried no self-pity. You found no comfort in the idea of anyone's death, certainly not in his. "What a shame, for something so terrible to happen to such a gallant knight."

He smiled. It transformed his face, the tension in his jaw eased, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and for a moment he looked less like a man facing his end and more like the kind of knight from the stories you had read as a girl. The kind who rode in on white horses and saved maidens and lived forever.

You looked away. The campfires on the horizon blurred slightly and you blinked, refusing the moisture that threatened. You would not weep. Gwayne had been kind to you over the past weeks, kinder than anyone else in this castle full of strangers. He had spoken to you in corridors, asked after your comfort, behaved as a guest in your home rather than a conqueror.

The impulse moved through you before you could consider any consequence. You turned toward him, rose onto your toes, and pressed your lips to his. It was brief, a heartbeat of contact. You pulled back immediately, your face burning, hands trembling at your sides.

"I apologize." The words tumbled out too fast. "I was bold, I know, I should not have. I just, if this is to be my last day on earth, I—" You swallowed. "I did not want to die without having ever kissed a man."

Gwayne's brows lowered. He looked at you again, his blue eyes searching your face, and you saw warmth there, deep and steady. His fingers came to your chin, tilting your face toward his. "Then you should at least have a proper kiss."

His mouth found yours, his lips moving against yours slowly, with tenderness. His hand slid from your chin to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and you leaned into him. Your hands found the front of his doublet, fingers curling into the emerald fabric as you kissed him back. He tasted of wine and honey. His other hand settled on your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your robe, as he drew you closer. Your bodies met, your chest against his, and you made a small sound into his mouth, a whimper that surprised you both.

Your fingers found the clasps of his doublet, already loosened, and you pulled. The ties came undone, your palms sliding over the linen shirt beneath, feeling the heat of his body through the thin fabric. He pulled back just long enough to shrug the doublet off entirely. It fell to the floor in a rustle of green. His hands went to the belt of your robe and untied it with efficient fingers. It fell open, revealing the white shift beneath. His gaze dropped, taking in the thin cotton clinging to your body, the shape of your breasts visible through the fabric.

"Are you certain?" Gwayne's voice was rougher now. "Is this what you want?" You nodded. The word yes seemed inadequate, too small for the enormity of what you were asking, what you were offering. You reached for the hem of your shift and pulled it over your head in one motion, letting it fall beside the robe. The cool air touched your skin and you fought the urge to cover yourself from embarrassment and chill. You stood before him in nothing but your slippers, his eyes tracing the length of your body.

"You are beautiful." The words were simple, unadorned. He pulled off his own undershirt, and your breath caught. He was slender, sculpted by years in armor. A thin scar ran along his left side, pale against his fair skin, and you reached out and touched it before you could stop yourself. His muscles jumped beneath your fingertips. He caught your hand, pressed his lips to your knuckles, and then bent and scooped you into his arms as though you weighed nothing. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, and he laughed, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours, and carried you across the room to the bed.

Gwayne lowered himself beside you. His hand came up to your face, brushing a curl back from your temple, tucking it behind your ear. "Tell me if anything is wrong," he said. "Tell me if I should stop." "I will tell you nothing of the sort."

His mouth found yours again, and his hands began to explore. They wandered the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip. He touched you as if he were memorizing the geography of your body. His mouth followed his hands, kissing the same path down from your throat. You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he groaned against your skin. The vibration traveled through you, settling low in your belly.

He took your breast in his hand, weighing it, his thumb brushing the nipple. You gasped, your back arching off the mattress. His tongue circled the tightened peak, wet and warm, and then he sucked it into his mouth. You felt his mouth curve into a smile. "Sensitive," he murmured against your skin. He released your breast with a soft pop and turned his attention to the other, his hand taking over where his mouth had been, rolling the wet nipple between his fingers. You were making sounds, breathless little noises that you barely recognized as your own.

His free hand traveled down your stomach, his fingers tracing the line of your hip, and you tensed. He paused, his mouth still at your breast, and looked up at you. "Relax," he murmured against your skin. "Let me." You forced your thighs to unclench, and his hand slid between them. His fingers found the wetness there, the evidence of your arousal slicking your inner thighs. "You are so wet," he breathed. "Gods, you are perfect."

His fingers parted your folds, and the cool air touched the wet heat of your cunt. You shuddered. His fingers explored, finding the swollen bud at the top, circling it with a featherlight touch that made your hips buck off the bed. He rubbed in slow, tight circles, and you cried out, your hand flying to your mouth to muffle the sound. "No, let me hear you.""Please," you heard yourself say, the word coming out ragged, unlike any word you had ever produced. "Please, I—"

His finger slipped inside. Your hips rolled against his hand, seeking more as you moaned, and he gave it, a second finger joining the first, the stretch of it foreign and welcome. He curled them, pressing upward against a spot inside you that made your vision blur. He kissed his way down your stomach while his hand worked between your legs. His tongue traced the line of your hip, dipped into the hollow of your navel, and then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue across your clit shattered something in you. Your hips jerked off the bed and his free hand pressed down on your stomach, holding you in place while his mouth worked. His tongue was hot and wet and relentless, circling that swollen bud, lapping at it with broad flat strokes that made your thighs shake on either side of his head. "Ahh, ahhh, Gwayne, I, oh gods—"

His fingers inside you curled again, found that spot, pressed it, while his mouth sucked gently. The coil in your belly snapped. You came with a sound you had never made before, a high keening cry that echoed off the stone walls. Your body seized, every muscle clenching, your cunt clamping down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses while wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. His mouth stayed on you through it, his tongue gentle now, lapping softly as you rode the aftershocks, and his fingers slowed inside you, easing you down.

When you opened your eyes Gwayne was above you, propped on one elbow, his blue eyes soft and dark. His chin was glistening. "You are beautiful when you come."

You reached for him. Your hands found the laces of his breeches and he let you fumble with them, watching your face with that same soft dark expression. When you freed him, you gasped. His cock was hard and flushed, the head of it slick with his own arousal. You had never seen a man in this state before, so you had nothing to compare it to, but his was beautiful. "Does it please you?" he asked, a flash of arrogance, confidence, beneath the warmth. You would have laughed if you were not so desperately, overwhelmingly ready. "I'm sure it will," you murmured. He gave you a wolfish grin and kissed you, positioning himself between your legs. His forehead rested against yours. "This will hurt, but only for a moment," he whispered. "You will let me know if it grows to be too much?" "Yes," you whispered. "I do not care. I want you. Please, Gwayne."

The pressure was immense. The stretch of him, broad, insistent, splitting you open around his girth, was unlike anything you had imagined. There was sharp pain, a brief tearing sensation that made you cry out against his shoulder. He froze, his entire body rigid above you, every muscle locked. "I am sorry," his voice was ragged, barely controlled. "I am sorry. Are you—" "I am fine," your voice shook, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he slid the rest of the way inside you.

You both moaned. He was so deep, impossibly deep, hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the root inside your tight slick channel. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pressing your hand into the mattress beside your head. "Breathe. Let your body adjust." You breathed. In and out, shuddering, your cunt fluttering around him in involuntary pulses. The pain faded, replaced by a deep aching fullness. Then he shifted his hips, just slightly, a small roll, and the head of his cock pressed against that spot inside you and pleasure blazed through the discomfort. "Oh," you moaned. "Please, move."

He did. Slow at first, drawing back until only the tip of him remained inside you, then pressing forward in a long stroke that seated him fully. His hips met yours with a soft fleshy smack and you gasped, your fingers tightening on his. "That is it," he murmured, his voice hot against your ear. "That is it. You take me so well. So tight, so wet. Gods, you feel—"He picked up the pace. The slap of skin on skin grew louder, your hips began to move with his, an instinct you did not know you possessed, meeting each thrust with a roll of your own that drove him deeper. "Yes," you gasped. "Yes, yes, right there, Gwayne—" "Here?" He adjusted the angle and the head of his cock dragged across that spot inside you with every stroke and your vision went white. "There, please don't stop—"

He did not stop. His thrusts grew harder, faster, the control fraying at the edges. His hand released yours and gripped your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you. The bed creaked, the headboard knocking against the stone wall in a rhythm that would have been mortifying if you had the capacity for mortification. You were lost to the sensation of him inside you, the fullness, the friction, the obscene wet heat of your cunt swallowing his cock with every thrust.

"You are perfect," his voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and that was the end. The coil in your belly, which had been winding tighter with every thrust, every stroke, every wet slap of his hips against yours, snapped. You came with a wail, your back arching off the bed, your cunt clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that pulled him deeper. He followed you over the edge with a groan that was almost a growl. His hips stuttered, lost their rhythm. The warmth of his release flooded you, hot and thick, until you were shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, your nails raking down his back.

He collapsed beside you, his cock slipping free with a wet obscene sound that made you both exhale shakily. His arm came around you, drew you against his chest, as you lay there in the aftermath, your sweat-slicked body pressed against his, his heart hammering against your ear.

One sennight had passed since they’d arrived at Summerhall, and Dunk had finally been assigned duties – real, actual guard duties. 

He was to stand at the end of the corridor for the first shift of the night – hardly a glamorous task, but he vowed to give it his all just the same. Prince Baelor had trusted him enough to take him under his employ following the Trial of Seven – Dunk would not do anything to jeopardise that trust now that the maester had finally declared him recovered enough from his injuries. 

Wine, not oil. Oil will kill him.

The Crown Prince had saved Dunk twice over, thinking of the well-being of a simple hedge-knight even before his own – his brother’s mace had given the prince a serious concussion, though they had not known it then. It had been only when Steely Pate had lifted Prince Baelor’s helm that the man collapsed, falling unconscious. 

Dunk had caught him before his body could even touch the ground, and for a single horrible moment his stomach had plummeted, certain Prince Baelor was dead. 

He had not been, thank the Gods. Though he had given everyone an awfully big fright. Later, Dunk had been told that he had whispered Up, up, ser, rise with the prince in his arms, though he could not remember. 

Prince Baelor had not risen then. It had, in fact, taken three days for the Crown Prince to awaken, and three more for him to be steady enough to depart Ashford.

As part of the prince’s household, Dunk had followed, and Aegon – who insisted on staying on as his squire – in turn followed him.

Summerhall was to be a stop on their path to King’s Landing – they would stay for a fortnight, let the horses rest and stock up on food and rations for the Kingsroad. 

Prince Maekar, Egg had mentioned, would join them instead of staying in Summerhall as had been originally planned – the King had summoned them all to explain why a Trial of Seven had taken place at a girl’s nameday tourney.

It was daunting to think that in a moon’s turn, Dunk might be standing in front of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Dunk just hoped he would not embarrass himself. 

He shifted on his feet, trying not to think too hard on it – there was no sense, Ser Arlan had always said, in worrying about things you could not change.

Still…Dunk had put his foot in his mouth already – at least once that he knew for certain. 

It had been upon their arrival in Summerhall, where he had discovered that the keep – contrary to what he’d believed – did have a Lady.

When Aegon had told him his mother was dead, he had just assumed…well, that Prince Maekar was unwed. He was not. 

In Dunk’s defense, he had only remarried recently, barely six moons ago. 

Though nothing could have saved him from his blunder.

When Aegon had spoken of having two sisters, he had always just mentioned that one of them was older than him, the other younger. Never their ages.

Daeron was a man grown, and he was Aegon’s brother. When he’d seen a young, noble woman in a black and red dress, Dunk had naturally assumed her to be the elder of Aegon’s sisters. Had assumed you to be another Targaryen.

Of an age with Daeron, his twin perhaps. Dunk knew that twins need not always look much alike.

You’d greeted the silver-haired prince with affection, a lingering kiss on his cheek. Dunk had not thought anything of it – you had surely only dearly missed your father.

He had mentioned as such – how nice it was for a daughter to be so concerned – only to be faced with Aegon’s laughter, a small, bemused smile on Prince Baelor’s face and a glare that had been so venomous that Dunk still awoke during some nights, sweating, remembering Prince Maekar’s hatred. 

Confusing Prince Maekar’s young wife for his daughter – it hadn’t done much to endear himself to the gruff man. In fact, Dunk rather thought Prince Maekar despised him, blaming him for the whole mess in Ashford and now feeling insulted by his innocent remark.

Dunk wished he knew how to convince the prince that his older brother had not made a mistake taking him on as a knight.

He sighed, hoping Egg would know of something, when suddenly a noise broke through the silence. 

It was quiet and muffled, but Dunk had a keen ear and Flea Bottom had taught him to pay attention to even the slightest of sounds.

For a moment, he hesitated. Investigating the noise meant leaving his post – though surely he would be forgiven, should it turn out that someone was in need of aid. 

He heard it again, and this time he identified it as a woman’s voice. Calling out, though Dunk could not make out the words.

As he tracked the noise, striding further into the corridor, his countenance darkened. Dunk clutched his sword scabbard nervously, praying to the Gods that his grip would not slip.

Whatever it was, it sounded like–

Like a woman in pain. He had not been able to make out words because they were none, only gasps and whimpers. Then, he heard something else.

A sound that made him cringe, an instinctive flinch overtaking his body. It was the sound of a palm hitting flesh.

Someone is hurting this woman, Dunk thought, first in a panic and then with growing determination as he remembered that he was no longer a boy, helpless Dunk from Flea Bottom. He was Ser Duncan the Tall.

Upon his honour as a knight, he knew he had to intervene.

He knew that the castellan had told him who each of the chambers in this corridor belonged to, but Dunk, for the life of him, could not recall it clearly. It was not important. He could get names later – first, he needed to assist whatever lady was in distress. 

He was proud to say he did not hesitate as he threw open the door, his sword in hand, raised and ready. “Unhand the lady at once!” he roared, putting all his strength into his voice, relieved that it did not shake.

But the accomplishment quickly soured. Everything curdled in his stomach as he beheld the scene he had stumbled into.

There was no maiden in distress – only a lady. A princess by marriage. Prince Maekar’s wife, a lady around Dunk’s age. You.

And you were not in distress, even Dunk could see it. Your head was thrown back in pleasure, your bottom bare and reddened by your husband’s hand. He had been spanking you, Dunk thought, and you were enjoying it. 

A furious, dark blush spread from the tips of his ears to the tip of his toes as two pairs of eyes found him, one widened in alarm, the other alight with anger.

His sword dropped to the floor with a clatter, and he quickly averted his eyes from the sight of your nude body. “I–” he started, “I thought–”

The prince’s voice cut through his stutter. “Fucking imbecile!”

There was movement, though Dunk did not see it. The ceiling was his refuge; he was afraid to look down again.

“I should have you flogged,” Prince Maekar continued, sounding closer than before. Just once, Dunk’s eyes flicked down again, and he saw the prince’s form striding over to him, a pair of breeches hastily covering his lower body. Beyond his shoulder, you had sat up, the sheets wrapped around you. You looked alarmed. 

“My love–” you began. 

Prince Maekar shushed you. “Do not,” he interrupted flatly, “defend him.”

Softer, he added, “He saw you.”

I wish I didn’t, Dunk thought, then wavered, because that sounded like the sight of you had been unpleasant and it had certainly not been, you were quite comely, beautiful even, and–

He cleared his throat. Ser Arlan was right. I’m an idiot.

When the prince was almost upon him, Dunk realised he ought to do something. Not knowing what else to do, he dropped to a knee, his head bowed. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, not sure if he made any sense, “I meant no harm. I merely heard… I thought–” 

“That I was mistreating my wife?” the Targaryen prince asked, brows raised. 

“No!” Dunk yelled all too quickly, fear coursing through him at the thought of what Prince Maekar might do to him, “I couldn’t recall that these were the Lady’s chambers, I swear. I merely– I am a knight,” he said, as though it was an explanation. 

“A fool is what you are,” Prince Baelor’s brother countered, his expression stern. Dunk wished the floor would just swallow him up. He was glad that at least he had not been struck yet. A clout in the ear, Ser Arlan had always called it.

“Maekar,” you said softly, “he did not know any better. He heard a woman cry out behind a closed door. He did what he thought a knight ought to do.” 

Dunk was astonished that your words seemed to be working, placating the dragon that seemed only moments from spewing fire. The prince’s shoulders lost some of their tension, your husband swaying towards you as though drawn by a siren song. 

“He ought have better discernment,” Prince Maekar grumbled, his jaw clenched.

“I am sure he will learn.” Your eyes brushed past the prince’s, locking with Dunk’s. “Won’t you?”

He nodded so fast he was almost dizzy with it. “Yes, of course, m’lady, I will, I won’t make this mistake again, I swear it upon my life–”

“I believe you,” you interrupted him with a giggle. “See, my love? He is as earnest as they come. Baelor chose well.”

Prince Maekar did not look impressed. “He still saw you naked.”

You sighed, drawing the sheets tighter around yourself and stepping up to them. Dunk tried not to look at the shape of your legs. He was still kneeling, his line of sight rather unfortunate – for his well-being at least.

“He did not do it on purpose,” you told your husband, one hand curling around his bicep. 

For a moment Dunk thought Prince Maekar might shake it off, but he did not deny you.

Instead, the harsh prince allowed you to all but wrap yourself around him, and Dunk felt as though you were a wall, protecting him from the Anvil’s wrath.

But the Prince of Summerhall was not quite ready to give up. “That does not change anything,” he snapped. “He had no rights to your body.”

“The maester has seen me naked, are you going to punish him?” you asked with a small smile. 

“That is different.” 

You chuckled, your right hand cradling your husband’s cheek, turning his head your way. 

“I fail to see how,” you commented. “I am not married to Maester Creyle.”

“Do not test me, wife.” It was phrased as a warning, but Dunk could see the prince’s mouth twitching, and he could detect no venom in the older man’s tone.

“But I do so love testing you,” you lilted. You traipsed back towards the bed, sitting down. Even Dunk could notice how charged the air had become – differently than before. Not with anger.

Prince Maekar immediately began following you like a hound on a leash, following its master. Halfway there, he remembered Dunk.

“Leave,” he ordered, not even bothering to look back at the kneeling knight. It was but one word. 

Dunk had never gotten up faster in his life. He scrambled for his sword, sheathing it with clammy hands as he stumbled through the door, quickly closing it behind himself. He pretended he had not heard your squeal, the creak of the mattress. 

By the time he retook his post, his face burned anew. He did not want to listen. Truly, he did not. But without beeswax to plug his ears, it was impossible to ignore what he now knew were the sounds your husband drew from your body. 

When it was time for a change of guards, he did not say a word. He did not need to. Your pleasure was still clear for all to hear. 

Dunk’s eyes met the other knight’s. “You just learn to disregard it,” the man said, a pained grimace on his face. “But it is astonishing, is it not?” Upon seeing Dunk’s puzzled face, he elaborated. “A man his age with a wife that young?” He whistled quietly.

“Dragon blood sure burns hot. Be glad you weren’t here for their honeymoon.”

My eyes averted to the man in front of me—between my legs—as he dug his fingers deeper into the flesh of my hips. A small moan tried to escape me, but I bit my lip, trying to suppress it.

His scowl only deepened at my reaction. With a growl, he slammed himself inside me—his thrusts relentless, almost too desperate for even him.

 "Are you gonna be mad the whole time?" Maekar exhaled sharply, eyes locked onto mine. My glare only hardened—more annoyed by the second—and I made sure he saw it. I was furious at him, and my face screamed it without words. He rolled his eyes when he caught that stubborn look—I wasn’t backing down.

"You’re acting like a fucking child," he growled before yanking me closer by my hips with those big hands of his. A moan slipped out despite myself—but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. So I turned my head to hide it… but his hand snapped up instantly—rough fingers gripping my chin—and forced me back to face him.

"Look at me… you don’t get to look away while I’m fucking you," he murmured into my ear, his lips brushing my skin like a whisper. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver through me. My eyes flicked up instinctively—meeting his.

"You’re impossible," I finally snapped through clenched teeth. He didn’t argue. Just gave the tiniest shake of his head—like I was the impossible one. 

He wasn’t giving in. I could see it—the frustration etched on his face. It wasn’t helping… not at all. My patience snapped.

With a low groan, I shoved him off me and pushed him down onto the mattress hard enough that his back hit the sheets with a thud—the bed creaking loudly under us.

Straddling his lap without hesitation, I gripped one of his shoulders for balance—my nails digging deep into skin on instinct; I didn’t care for marking his skin.

Then slowly—I adjusted my hips until he was fully inside me once more—a quiet moan escaping despite myself. But this time, I kept eye contact. 

Something shifted in his gaze—his eyes darkening, hands sliding back to my hips like they owned me. I set a slow rhythm—deliberate, controlled—and he responded instantly: breath hitching, chest vibrating under me as a muffled groan escaped.

"You don’t get to be mad at me," I breathed out between movements—my voice laced with defiance. The contrast was obvious: his earlier aggression now muted beneath my pace.

"Acting like a jealous child," I accused softly—the words almost teasing if not for the edge underneath.

He scoffed through clenched teeth—a disbelieving grunt—but didn’t argue back. No agreement either… just silent resistance simmering beneath us both.

"So fucking jealous," I whispered—then attacked. My lips crashed onto the sensitive skin of his neck—kissing first, then biting gently before sealing my mouth over a pulse point.

Maekar couldn’t hold it in—a loud moan tore through the quiet room as I sucked hard. A hickey bloomed instantly: dark red against his pale throat.

Pulling back just enough to admire my work? Worth it. Childish? Maybe… but that smirk on my face said otherwise.

Leaning down again, I took him all in—the sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead; those faint pink cheeks from exertion; eyes glazed over like he was drowning in sensation.

"I could see it on his face… he wanted to fuck you," he finally said—voice low, edged with something possessive.

"He was greeting me, like all the other lords and ladies," I scoffed in annoyance. He shook his head again.  

"I saw the look on his face…" His hands traveled upward, roaming all over my body. "...he looked at your breasts." His hand immediately cupped one of my breasts—I threw my head back when his thumb brushed against my nipple.

"You’re projecting," I moaned, his touch making it hard to breathe. "Just admit you're jealous without a reason—" Another moan cut me off as he arched up, meeting my hips halfway.

"Fuck," I whispered under my breath before locking eyes with him again. "You just wanted an excuse to fuck me."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "You're actually insane." But the tight grip on my hips? The way his jaw clenched? It all screamed guilt—even if shame wasn’t something he usually showed.

My hand snapped up—and smack—my palm connected with his cheek. His head turned sharply to the side from the force… but shock didn’t flash across his face.

No. Instead, a low moan spilled from him—deep and involuntary.

"Why won’t you just admit it?" I demanded through gritted teeth, hips never stopping their rhythm against him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"  

Each word punched out of me as my hips slammed down harder, skin slapping loud in the quiet room. He groaned—then suddenly his hands framed my face, yanking me forward.

The kiss was all heat and chaos: lips crashing, teeth clashing before his tongue shoved past mine. Still burning with frustration, I bit his bottom lip hard—the metallic tang of blood flooding our mouths instantly.

He moaned into it… but I swallowed that sound whole, humming like it tasted good despite everything.

My hips stilled abruptly—no more movement. I stayed suspended above him, breathing hard.  

"I’m not moving again until you admit it," I said flatly, arms crossed over his chest like a barricade. The room fell dead silent—just our ragged breaths between us.

For a long second? Nothing. No sound from him… no shift of muscles under me.

Then—a barely-there mumble escaped his lips: "...You were right."

It was so quiet I almost missed it.

So without blinking: "Louder." My voice didn’t waver this time—demanding clarity before any action resumed at all. "You were right."  

His voice came out stiff—forced, like the words physically pained him. His eyes flashed with something raw: frustration, surrender? Maybe both.

I didn’t move. Not yet.  

"Again," I demanded, holding his gaze as my hips stayed frozen above him.

A beat passed—then another low grumble escaped through clenched teeth: "...You were right."

That did it.

"Fuck...yes," I breathed before finally rolling my hips down hard again—the fire in my stomach erupting all over again as we hurtled toward that edge together.

The tension snapped—both of us hurtling toward the edge at once. His hands gripped my hips hard, fingers digging in as his breath came in ragged bursts against my lips. There was no teasing left—just pure urgency.

Then it hit: that white-hot second where everything crystallized. My body tensed first—a gasp tearing from me before I could stifle it—as pleasure ripped through every nerve ending like lightning.

Maekar arched beneath me with a choked groan; his entire frame locking up for one suspended moment before crashing down into release right alongside me—the two peaks colliding perfectly without words needed.

The room settled into a hush. No sounds now except our slowing breaths and the faint creak of cooling bodies.