𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚏

Welcome ── .✦

Hi!! my names Lucy and im still pretty new to tumblr. there is nsfw content on my blog so it’s gonna be 18+! id love to go get to know knew people and geek out so please don’t hesitate to dm me! anyway yeah- also im SUPER open to any requests you may have<3 thank u for checking out my page !!

MASTERLIST

Fandoms I will write for:

-game of thrones

-akotsk

-hotd

-marvel

-harry potter

-bridgerton

-peaky blinders

-DC comics

-supernatural

ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ x ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴡɪꜰᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

PT 1 PT 3

summary: as your secret writings grow in success, the proximity to your husband causes restraint to weaken- how will he handle a scandal entry about the failure of your marriage? how will he prove you it’s wrong? (wc: 6.2k)

warnings: detailed descriptions of sex, male masturbation, insane levels of yearning, fem reader, no first name mentioned, horny reader, secretly horny maekar

note: i highly recommend reading pt 1 first!! also im so glad a lot of you enjoyed part one, your feedback made me so happy!! hope u enjoy this part as well

Your trafficking of chatter had yet to slow, though your life improved in station and fortune. You felt no compulsion to spitefully scribble about lives who were better than yours, despite scandal.

The cruelty in your words were often rooted in envy. A heartless reminder to yourself that you were not alone in your misfortune. One hundred and twenty one days passed since whispers unmeant for your ears found yours. You kept your eyes from slumber nightly, so that you may drink them again. 

Each Valyrian whisper a token of secret gentleness. The words began to vary in sweetness, some tender, some proprietorial. The broken confessions left you astonished each nightfall. Some words were too advanced for your understanding, though some phrases undid themselves like riddles in your mind.

 Your familiarity with the language improved each passing night. As a silent favor of care, you began to siege the haven in which he hid from you. Replacing his ink, sharpening his letter opener, organizing parchment, polishing leather. He was under the impression servants had grown more meticulous, and that you did not know a word of Valyrian. And like most matters, he was wrong. 

His feigned hatred became less convincing as days passed. You had a newfound respect for one another. Not affection, nor resentment. Just a general sense of toleration. You began to seek his company more frequently, to his dismay. Though his hushed proclamations betrayed him. Duties occupied your every moment when the sun hung high. As night fell, It grew your custom to sip wine together within your shared chambers. You both grow merrily drunk, as he pours forth his condemnation of fate and the tiresome humours of court. 

“Fucking idiots.” He mumbled, shaking his head. The keep lay shrouded in stillness whilst the children took their rest. In that hush, your husband’s grievances found voice. He sat tensely in his most favored lounge chair, close enough to be given warmth from the crackling hearth.

You stood behind him, fingertips kneading the stiff, stressed muscles of his shoulders. The act was to your preference, given he would not see you rolling your eyes as he went on about his insipid troubles. To relieve him of strain was the only time he allowed such contact. 

“You will find the scandal writer soon enough. I estimate she is of Northern blood.” 

“Humour me, wife. Explain to me.” 

“Well, her false name lacks any indication of where she may reside. If she was southern or perhaps somewhere in the middle, she‘d choose an exaggerated Northern name. But, if she is from the North, it‘d be best to use a name that could not be recognized anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. To remain neutral, rather than using a southern name, which is her total opposite. It would lead us right to her. And Gods know northern maesters are proficient in the pursuit of language. I hear literacy is common amongst northern common women. Surely she has learned elaborate words from them. If she is even a she at all. Or if it is the work of more than one person. Besides, these writings are surely a means of boredom. What is there to do up North anyhow?” 

Your writings became more treasonous than the last. The hunt for Hollowmere became an endeavor every member of the court had undertaken. Nobles do cherish a hunt. And their prized catch happens to sit amongst them, learning their every tactic.

It proved advantageous, altering the deployment of ravens depending on their strategies. The burden of your wrongs weighed heavy. 

You had become a device of truth, a vessel of verity. If you cease your writings, you will be discovered, upon seeing how the relief has improved your mood. And just because the scrolls stop, does not mean the hunt will.

Each word you dare commit to parchment binds you tighter to a pit of sin, the chastisement swelling with every scroll, until you are confined within the narrow bounds of your own wrongdoing. 

“It is possible. Merchants who sell the writings will be interrogated, bribed for word. The Wall will soon be crawling with traitors to the crown, I’m certain.” He shrugged as you continued your assault on the expanse of his shoulders. Your movements slowed, as you spiraled into a doubtful worry.

Your movements slowed, as you spiraled into a doubtful worry. You had not named yourself when exchanging ravens with common folk. Would they decipher your identity like Odette had? Did your lack of words regarding The Anvil‘s Lady reveal itself? It would be long before you forgave myself, for a means did manifest before you. The preservation of your identity was crucial. Your good name could afford insipid slander. As well as his. 

***

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is with most delicate restraint and undeniable fascination, that I turn my quill toward a matter that has, as of late, set many whisper fluttering through drawing rooms and banquet halls alike. For in a season otherwise rich with blossom and expectation, there exists one union curiously untouched by nature’s most anticipated blessing. Pray, cast your thoughts upon a certain royal coupling, whose vows were once apprehended with such heed that even the oldest amongst us declared it a match cursed by fortune itself. 

Their keep is vast, titles secure. And yet…the cradle remains empty. The Anvil and his young bride seem to merely tolerate one another, which is most unsurprising, given the Prince’s coldness. This author must also take note of the Prince’s fulfillment of duty, having given the realm six children already. Nevertheless, dear reader, feigned affection for prying eyes sustains a marriage of consequence.

 Duty, expectation and most crucially, issue, form the pillars upon which such alliances stand. Without them, even the grandest union may find itself…wanting. Moon blood continues to soil their sheets as the Princess is not yet with child. Or perhaps not laid with at all. Is the Prince incapable of performing his marital duty following his first wife’s abrupt demise? Or is there something undesirably plain regarding his current bride?

 A barren womb or a troubled widow? And so the question remains, whispered behind cupped palms and carried upon the breath of scandal: is this merely a pause before joy, or the first crack in a most carefully constructed facade? As ever, I shall observe with the keenest interest. 

Yours in curiosity and candor, 

Lady Hollowmere

***

“You said what to her?” Through the oaken barrier crept Baelor’s voice, and you, with an eager ear, laid yours upon the door’s cold face. You knew the words exchanged in the other room were not for yours ears. It was erroneous.

The procurement of your decorum was a brittle conviction, given it is what had beckoned your ear to the door. The brothers words were concise, sharp berates, that never seemed to grow louder than a murmur.

You have wrought a cage of your own choosing, and now you must dwell in it. Coin would grow scarce if your words did not grow harsher. Every word promised you to the fondness of rope and the pardoning from livelihood. It was a fearsome reality you have burdened upon yourself, plagued by the lives victimized by your debauchery. The ravens have nearly made a slave of you.

”I reminded her I had a wife. And she is not her.” The familiar hoarseness rang in your ear. His tone carried little trace of remorse. The words brought you back to where you stood in that study, astonished by the cruel jest your life revealed itself to be. Moments before your eyes found quill and parchment.

You empathized with that angry girl, longing for the impossible chance to tell her the joke that is your life is rather humorous, if you would just laugh. There was a deal you had dealt with every sinister evil in this realm, obligated to fulfill its wicked whims. You are shackled by your own quill.

The starved public no longer wished to read about jovial dalliances and petty disputes. It is blood they craved, words like lashings upon the backs of those who surpassed them in life. You had spat upon the cheek of every noble. Even your own.

You had gone as far as faking trouble reading, claiming words and letters move on parchment. The protection of your identity became something you’d endure humiliation for. 

“And yet, we debate why she has not given herself to you. It is too obvious to examine, brother. You have shunned her from any chance of winning your favor. She is not Dyanna, but she is no trifle either. She is as good as any. To her, she is substandard in your eyes.”

True to his nature, Baelor rides in the defense of the weaker cause. 

“Yes, well, it’s not as though I demanded her to take my side, did I?”

”It was expected of you, brother.”

”I never asked for another fucking wife.”

If you were any fragile lady, tears would have spilled from the rims of your eyes. It was nothing you hadn’t heard before. With time, you familiarized yourself with his detest for tenderness.

Vulnerability frightened him like no joust or bloodshed could. His cruel tongue was a means for a shield, a buffer to uphold his severity. Borne of southern heat and yet he was written by winter, kissed by cold gray bloom. You did not fear him, nor did you take his rigor to heart.

”I forbade a bedding ceremony, because I trusted you would do your duty. And you jeopardized her position in this court for your own selfish impulse.”

”And you’d rather I perform the act, and treat her with the same apathy? To burden her with a child she’d father with a stranger?”

”Behold the crown’s custom, brother. I loathe the notion no less than you.”

You wished to see their faces as they exchanged words. You pictured your husband’s lasting scowl, his jaw flexing in the midst of his ire. Baelor with his hands clasped behind his back, with a tilted head.

”So, this writer, she speaks the truth? You have not yet finalized the union?” Your eyes were denied the chamber’s sight, yet you were certain Maekar was nodding in somber resolve.   

“She…the Princess does not hold me in such regard. I am partly at fault, but it shall not soon be undone. Our marriage is…abstruse.”

You withdrew your ear in surprise. It felt out of his nature to use such a flowery word to describe something so plain. You held little esteem for one another, but you were man and wife after all. Obligated to accompany one another.

But, to him, you were blithe to the reverent whispers, when you appeared to be deep in sleep. Your reciprocated passivity was necessary, so that you may continue hearing them.    

“And I find your perception false. She sends for you much more frequently. Surely it is not because she loathes your company. By persistence and courtly grace, her heart may yet be persuaded.” 

“Ha, I am not courting the woman. That is a ridiculous notion, given we are already married.”

”Are you?”

The cold plain of the chamber door offered you silence following Baelor’s words. A stiff, unyielding, forceful silence. Just as you thought to leave, that Maekar will storm out in a fit of rage, he speaks.

”If that scroll had not been so fucking untimely, I might’ve had a chance. But she will discern my efforts without fail, now that there is talk. I must be wiser with my contrivance.” 

“Or, you can be honest, and simply pay heed to her feelings. I am not suggesting coercion. I am suggesting you tread at a pace with her best interest in mind. Affection is much less fickle and taxing than you think. Feigning your devotion will be no great task. You’ve endured far worse.” Verily, to fake such warmth was far from his main worry. What frightened him most was the honest stirrings of his soul. Something he had guarded like fine gold. 

***

Your knees were once again taken by a familiar anguish, once again met with a stone floor. Fortunately, you were able to take your leave before they left the study. In your newfound rite, you kept vigil by the hearth of your bedchamber, where letters are engulfed by fire’s embrace. 

Parchment written with cold hands, burned the same way warm ones did. Ravens that came from every way of a compass, all were rendered into ash alike. The pages curl as though in whispered protest, ink darkening before it yields. Edges glow like dying suns, as the flame licks its way through the words. The song of gentle crackle sings, till it is reduced to a soft, sighing drift of ash. Oh, to be that curious blaze. 

To be lit up from within, vein by vein. To be the sun. As the flames bloomed, you felt the warmth caressing your cheeks. Perhaps it is a brief taste of the burn you will endure in all seven hells. 

Your gown blossomed in soft folds around your seated frame, whilst you gathered your knees unto your chest, as if to ward off some unseen chill. The parchment, alight and consuming, drew your eyes in a cruel fascination, as though they had bewitched your will. You pondered if your husband found it odd how servants never tended to our hearth. For it was fueled solely by the secret you hoarded feverously. The sting of ash in your eye and itch in your throat was a punishment of your own design. 

“Are you cold?” His stern voice roused you from your addled trance, rescuing you from the abyss of your thoughts. They often went blank as you stared into the flame. 

”I am well.” You replied, eyes still fixed on the hearth. It was plain to you his asking was in light of the prior discourse. The one you should not have heard. 

“Is there anything you require?” A newfound gentleness found his voice, an unconvincing display of care. 

“Only silence, my Lord. Which I’m certain will pose little interference with what you always require.” A hitch of silence breathes between you, along with the hisses and pops of the fire. With a long measured sigh, a weight sinks heavily into your every bone. You felt yourself succumb to the fatigue of stealth, so drained by the restlessness of my antics. It was a petty lament, the soreness in your fingers, the depletion of thought onto paper. 

”And what do I always require?” 

A fine dust from an early pyre, you wanted to say.

”My absence.”

Your eyes flick to your feet, beseeching your lips to remain shut. He had spent hours debating the topic with his brother just moments ago. You did not wish to test him. Without a word, he stood beside your seated form.

Before you could apologize for your austerity, he sat beside you, heavy lids gazing mindlessly into the hearth. He heaved a sigh similar to yours as you both came undone before our fire.

The distance between you was cumbersome, reminiscent of your wedding night. Yet it lacked the same rigidity. You yielded unto ease with him at your side, simply reveling in the warmth of your chambers. Not a word stirred in the air, not even a whisper. 

As long moments passed, you tore your sights from the heap of char. A glance turned to a stare as you mapped his face. Though his eyes remained transfixed upon the flames, you watched as their glow danced across his blemished skin. The silvery gold hair of his jaw, the exhaustion in his stare. It was remarkably endearing, drinking the sight of him. A troubled, imperfect man. With a strange neglected beauty. 

The glance began to border greed as your sights returned to the fire. There was a foreign haste in the drumming of your ribs. A heat in your cheeks unrelated to the fire before you. He had given you exactly what you required, silence, whilst proving what he didn’t. Your absence.

“The children have taken a liking to you.“ He spoke. It may have been the highest praise he‘s given you since…ever.

“It‘d be a pity if they didn‘t, considering I am tasked with looking after them.“

You ended your remark with a breathy laugh. It was then you and Maekar‘s eyes met, your gazes warmed by the hearth before you. 

“Well, you‘re managing the nettlesome brood you‘ve been saddled with well.“ You hum in reply, amused by his urgency to flatter you. Had Baelor truly infiltrated his mind so thoroughly? Or was this the work of your writing? 

“You know, when I play with the children in the garden, they insist on reciting to me their reenactment of the Blackfyre rebellion. It‘s silly and watered down, but…they always fight over who gets to play you. It‘s the highest honour they can think of. I know I have assumed the role of their mother rather swiftly, but they still need you. They love their father. But we must love and raise them together. I am not trying to replace what you grieve, husband. But the children need both of us, which means we must be civil. Like…“

You racked your brain for a similar dynamic that could describe yours in an understandable way. Or at least use imagery he‘d resonate with. 

“Like a fletcher and bowyer. So that way we might be well-mannered to one another, but work proficiently."

“That sounds manageable. I will try to be more present.“ 

Time, the sly and silent thief, crept upon your tiresome bodies. You found yourself beneath the hush of your shared bed. As many nights before, you feigned your slumber, yet kept your ear keenly bent for secrets soft and lowly whispered. You awaited the harbored words with a vigilance, ready for them to ease you into rest. 

“Ao jorrāelagon issa ñuha syt se qogror.” (loving you is my sweetest peril). 

“Sōvegon, nyke ziry iksos gaomagon.” (hush, I’m trying to sleep). You murmured into the plush of your pillow.  

✧˖°── .✦────☼༺☆༻☾────✦.── °˖✧

Nights passed in silent procession, and you were brought again to where you had first stood. Right back where you started. It seemed the Prince was not seeking an answer from you that night, embracing him from what he believed possible. He made himself scarce (again), refusing to see you following the events of that night. 

The bed laid barren and chilled, yet you reserved his stead beside you, as though he might yet to come. The notion was foolish, his actions fickle. All your striving came to little worth. Your labours proved to be vain and fruitless.

Diligently pursued, yet rendered void. Was it amiss that you should mark his affection? What profit lay in his disdain of you, when even you knew the truth? To what end served his scorn? Your marriage was a trifling riddle, vexing, and unwilling to unravel. Fortunately, you had other concerns to occupy yourself with. 

You sat before your desk, still in a state of nightly undress, making sense of the scattered ravens splayed across the wood. You begin gliding your letter opener through each scroll, noting the realm’s most promising scandals.

”Mad for the gambling halls, he is. Throws away gold and sense alike. It’s a ruinous path he walks, so I’ve heard.” 

“He’s lost to vice and wagers. Spends what’s his and what ought not to be spent, heedless of all. A danger to himself and his own, M’Lady.”

”The man’s bewitched by hazard and dice. Squanders his purse and shames his blood. No wit or caution left in him. Aye, tossing away coin like chaff in the wind.” 

Separate accounts of Lord Lannister’s whoring and spending came from every corner of Westeros. It seemed to be all they could muster, as Lord Lannister made himself the easiest target. 

At the hush of the maid's steps, you scramble to conceal your writings in a hurried disquiet. With feigned ease, you welcomed them into your chambers, languidly drawing your hand through your unbound hair.

You watched as they dutifully prepared your garments, a concise rhythm like second nature. Nimble fingers loomed through your hair, heels of palms pressing fragrant oils to the skin below your ears. In a quaint vigil you sat, warm tea meeting your lips as you were obediently tended to.

”Your Grace, the Prince would have you receive these as a most humble gift.” The words nearly drew a laugh from deep within your chest. A gift? From my husband? Was she new at Summerhall? With reluctance, you reached for the box she offered you, intently studying the contents.

A fine pair of earrings, wrought in fine silver. Rubies adorned the garments, their crimson gleam catching the morning light like drops of fresh wine. They were exceptional. 

“Right…how thoughtful.“ You murmur, your tone riddled with a mocking disbelief. It seemed unlikely a reclusive, ill-tempered, war hero would have such refined taste in jewels. As you gazed into the gems, your vexation only worsened. He refuses to sleep beside you, after answering him in Valyrian, refuses to meet your eyes, refuses to grasp your very existence. And you are gifted…earrings?

With an exasperated scoff, You attach them to your ears. Now it is your turn to refuse, and deny how well they compliment your complexion.    

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

The great hall where you broke your fast was host to a mischievous company indeed. Four restless, troubled boys, two rowdy young girls and a stepmother whose writings strayed close to treachery. Yet their quarrels, bright and unserious, wove themselves into air so often, what was once discord became a strange soothing refrain. 

“Where is father?“ Aemon whined beside you, a book laid in his lap as he ate. 

“He is rather occupied, unfortunately. So it is me who you are stuck with.“ You joke, ruffling his hair, earning youthful giggles from the boy. In light of your neglect, you had grown close with each of them. Even Aerion, to your bewilderment. The naive hope of having a child of your own felt as though it had slipped from your fingers. Though you were bound to their company by duty, your chance of motherhood felt somewhat redeemed.

“Why is my wine watered?“ Daeron‘s words are slurred as he inspects his goblet as though it had been laced with poison. 

“Because it is merely dawn. The only time you should be drinking is when the moon rises. Not the sun.“ With a theatrical groan, he leans back in his seat, defeated. You stared across the table, eyes boring into the vacant seat before you. You could so much as trace his scowl in thin air.

Though he stood absent in body, his spirit lingered grievously. You pined to behold him seated opposite from you. You wished to be thought upon with fondness. The same kind he showed you when he thought you asleep.

“Mother?“

“Mm.“

“When do you suppose Lady Hollowmere will write of my search for a wife?“ The laughter that escapes you is instant and boisterous. Uncontrollable, in fact. Tears pricked at your eyes, breath escaping your lungs. You felt yourself begin to turn a flush crimson shade, resembling your gown. You ceased your laughter upon realizing you were alone in your amusement.

“Oh, Aerion, dear, I am deeply sorry. That was… ill-mannered of me..“ You wipe at the stray tears, composing myself for your step son‘s sake.

“What is so humorous? I am in earnest, mother. I intend to take one soon.“

“Seven above, finish your eggs first. Then you may seek any unlucky woman you please.“ Your jest is met with an eyeroll reminiscent of his father. An eyeroll you‘ve been subjected to far too many times. 

“I‘m certain Lady Hollowmere has far more pressing concerns to write about, brother.“ Daella squeaks from her seat, playful malevolence in her tone. You had given little heed to the fact they had been reading the scrolls.

You began to weigh each word within your thoughts, seized by dread of what they might discern of those they were raised to respect. By what artifice could you deny them Lady Hollowmere?

“Those scandal writings are not for your eyes. None of yours. There is an entire library just paces away. You all have no tenable reason to be reading such filth.“ The words have a firm rigidity, a tense quiet blanketing the hall.

They mumble words of apology, glancing nervously at one another. The thought of them reading the scrolls provided you little comfort. But my, what exquisite taste they had. With a repressed sigh and plastered smile, you rise from your seat. 

“Now, if you will excuse me, I will attend to your father and see how he fares.“

╭────-·-ˋˏ-༻𖤓༺-ˎˊ·-────╮

╰────-·-ˋˏ-༻𖤓༺-ˎˊ·-────╯ 

The fear that once coiled in your stomach, unraveled itself, reborn as wrath of iron and will. With a fierce, steadfast ire, you sought his study, as though summoned by fate. There was an unrelenting thunder in your steps. A purpose sharp as steel. He held no claim to deny you. You considered mercy, had he not gifted you ruby earrings.

The gesture stung with insult. He judges you so shallow, it seems, that such trifles might appease you and banish you from his life. You were the hound he so dutifully trained. Ruby and silver were as good as stale bread, in comparison to his presence. How you wished to be content with heaps of jewels. How you wished to feel equally inclined to shun him, as he shunned you. 

With a strangled anger, you allow yourself into his study, allowing the doors to shut in a muted click. His eyes refused to leave the parchment before him, as though he was preparing for war. A veiny, rigid hand carded through his silver hair, a fractious sneer on his lips.

“I did not send for you.“

“I don‘t recall you ever have.“ 

Your candid words linger in the air, the room accommodating a newfound heaviness. Between you lingered a grievous strain, eager for your bitter tongues. Like a drawn bow, quivering before fatal release.

“You know, entering this marriage, I reckoned I would often be the one to sulk like a scolded child. To my astonishment, the child is you. Alone, brooding in your solitude and held fast to every duty your father entrusts you with. Though they are never of any worth. Fourth son.“

You hadn‘t anticipated the remark to leave your lips with such spite. Ever saddled with his unamused frown, he lifts his head, sparing me a glance.

“Have I done something, woman? Are the earrings too heavy for your empty skull?“ His jaw clenches as his eyes narrow, spurring me further.

“Fuck your earrings. You may shower me with however many jewels you please, but none will keep me from this room. From you. Remember? Fletcher and bowyer?“

A vagueness plagues his eyes. Like a harbored, frustrated, remorse. A glance that shuns you. A glance like an apology.

“Will you compose yourself? How many times must I deny you? When will you understand I do not want you?“

“You did once, clearly. When I lay awake, faking sleep.“ His frustration was displaced by embarrassment, a crimson flush creeping up his collar. The silence swelled, dense and oppressive. It pressed harshly upon your lungs, depriving you of ease. Reluctantly, you approached his desk, honoring the sovereign ground he calls his own.

“Speak plainly then. We have been wed for nine months, yet I remain untouched. If you deem me repulsive, then give me peace of mind. I will not take it to heart.“

“You are repulsive. In character, that is.“ In his own troubled way, he had managed to compliment you. It was difficult to conceal your flush as your charged conversation was yet to meet an end. 

“It is not my intent to berate you. I am sorry for my brutality. It is only that I have beaten myself to a pulp, to prove I am deserving of being your wife. Caring for children that are not mine, attending to this keep, going above what my station expects of me. I do not wish to stay hidden from you, behind those doors, because you will not allow it. And I do much more than care to admit, to prove that to you.“

It is at this point his quill is resting in a vile of ink, his parchment set aside. 

“And what is it, you‘re proving to me now?“ His stare was piercing, a scrutinizing audience of your vulnerability.

“That if I must leave my home, my family, my customs, my life, it will not be for a man I do not know. I do not ask for much. Only that you return to our bed, help me off my mare after riding, speak to me every so often. And you cease embarrassing my position in this court. We shall inform the court our duties of marriage have been met, and I am not to carry forth a child.“

He replies with a solemn nod, his lips a firm line. You patiently stood before his seated form, awaiting words. 

“Have you gone mad, woman? You think it is an accident, the distance I keep you? Seven above, if you only knew. There is nothing I mourn more bitterly than the man I have failed to be. I am sorry I am not the lord of your girlish dreams. I am sorry the road of your life curved so cruelly that it led you to my side and no one else’s. Pity me if it pleases you. I have pitied myself enough for us both. I know you heard me…those nights past. Those words were spoken by a frightened man hiding from truths he lacked the courage to face. But heed this, wife, every step I take away from you is taken for your sake. I would sooner bear loneliness than see you harmed by drawing too close to me.“ 

“I am not so easily frightened. Certainly not by emotionally stunted princes who think it best to never touch their wife.“

Your steps drew closer to him, causing him to stand, stepping away from his desk. Your chest was nearly flush with his as you peered up at him. You could see his restraint weakening like a rope ready to snap. 

“Prove me wrong, husband. Touch me, if it pleases you. It would certainly please me.“ Your voice became a quivering whisper despite the lewdness of your words. He swallowed, his stare never daring to leave your eyes. 

“Take me right here, on your desk. Put your mouth on me. Let me learn every part of you. Please.“ His breathing labored in his chest as he felt his breeches begin to tent. Gods, it took everything in him not to take you in his arms and claim in ways that would make a whore blush.

He envisioned pursuing every filthy fantasy, showering you with the brutal force of his devotion to you. The ravenous hunger of his affection.

But, he deemed the situation in his pants something he’d tend to when you took your leave, and when he could let your name fall from his pleading lips. 

With his lips just a hair’s length from yours now, he turned, seating himself back into his chair. With a scoff you storm out his study, your hands aloft in utter disbelief. Maekar heaves a sigh when he hears the door shut.

His attention shifts to his rigid cock, throbbing in his breeches. He groans at the feeling, angered with himself. He wanted nothing more than to touch you, revel in the feeling of your soft skin. Or have you tend to him beneath his desk and he tried to keep focus. The thought drove his band straight down, freeing his cock to bob against his thigh.

He took it into his palm, so eager for the feeling to leave him. To be freed from the torment of keeping you out of his reach. He lets out a breathy groan as he begins to drag his hand up and down, head falling back against his chair. He pictured you riding him in his study, languidly rolling your hips, teasing him. Chasing your own high. Using him like a good husband.

He envisioned your tits swaying in his face, fighting to take a hardened peak into his mouth to suck.

“Fucking hells…”

He whines under his breath as his strokes hasten in fervor. The thought of taking you from behind pops into his mind. How your desperate mewls would sound against the pillows. How the gentle curve of your back would arch with each punishing thrust. How he would murmur in your ear to “take him like a good girl”, while giving a few slaps to the flesh of your ass.

Maekar’s mouth fell open as he breathed heavily, ugly. Loud, breathless pants pleading for you. To hold you within his arms, to kiss you where you liked, to caress you where you moaned.

“Fuck- mmm, yes-yes-yes”

Maekar listlessly begged as his fist moved faster. He was beginning to sweat in his seat, hoping no one in the corridor could hear his groans or sounds of wet skin.

Then as he felt himself teetering on the brink of his pleasure, his need for you overtook his senses.

“Uh huh-fuck-such a good girl…gods, let me fuck you, pretty thing. Could make you f-feel so fucking…”

His trailing words were replaced with wanton whimpers as he came into his palm. He shuddered, cursing under his breath as he pictured filling you up. Fulfilling his duty.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Aemon rested heavily against you as you wandered the hushed corridors, striving in quiet earnest to not wake the slumbering child. It became all too clear your arms were unfit for motherhood, as they trembled beneath his motionless weight. You found him, face down amid his reading in the library, the hour unspeakably late.

You gathered the sleeping boy, returning him to his chambers, though rest would have had him remain. The trek doubled in length, as you navigated near darkness and Aemon‘s dead weight in your hold. You anticipated the remainder of your evening as you walked, envisioning the void bed and the haunting stillness of sound.

The nights you had spent in solitude seemed to feel unbearably silent, vacant of all livelihood. It was as though the air held its breath, weary of reminding you you are the only one to hear its drifting sighs. Despite his absence of body, you prepared his side of the bed each night, longing for the familiar dip in the mattress. 

*CLUNK* Your palm flew to the back of Aemon‘s head as it collided with the stone walls, glancing around the corridor in search of potential witnesses. You mutter a hushed apology to the boy, grateful there were no servants to observe your clumsiness. After what felt like moons, you opened his chamber door, onehandedly lighting a candle so that the child would not be subjected to further head injuries.

You bestowed the boy upon his bed, seeing him well with rest. Yet with a gentle stirring he awoke, and knew himself restored unto his own chamber.

“Mother? Did you mark the place in my book?“ A yawn slips past his lips, tugging his covertures to his chin.

“I did, not to worry.“ You falsely assured him, taking the candle from his bedside. He seemed appeased by the falsehood, eager to return to his rest. You offer him a final smile, rising from the edge of his bed.

“Those earrings are most lovely.“ His tiresome words are slurred as his eyes flutter shut. You pinched the candle‘s wick, the room yielding unto darkness.

“Rest well, sweet boy. I will see you in the morrow.“ You withdraw yourself, the chamber door shutting quietly from behind you. 

With weary, leaden steps, you made a slow return to your chambers. You hungered greatly for the gentle embrace of sleep. The tender grace of slumber's quiet hand. It is the only respite you are granted, so absorbed by pursuits and obligations. It was a quiet moment unfit for your solitude.

A blissful stillness not to be hoarded. No sooner had you entered your chamber than a strange vision did present itself, which you deemed a shadow of your own fatigue. Yet, it was true. There he lay beneath the gentle coverings of your bed. He laid in stillness, as if in tender vigil for your return.

“The hour is rather late.“ He remarked from his place in bed, knees bent slightly to support a book resting in his lap. The image was nearly verbatim of what you had seen in the library.

“I did not expect you. And I certainly didn’t expect you to await my return.“ You did not stray from your nightly pursuits despite his disrupting presence. As you withdrew pins and braids from your hair, the room fell into a familiar quiet. You remained in a thin chemise, hair spilling from your shoulders.

“If you must know, I was returning your son to his chambers. Seems he does not know when is appropriate to retire, just like his father.“ You taunted, lifting the covertures to slide into bed. Composed in comfort, you turned yourself to him. Amidst the dull candlelight, you study his face with a quiet reverence, regarding his visage as he reads. You committed every scar and line to memory, marking each feature with a careful eye.

“It is unseemly to gape.“ His gruff voice mumbles, eyes transfixed to the page of his book. Armed with a newfound resolve, you shut the volume upon his lap as though to draw him from its spell. Reluctantly, his exhausted stare finds yours. 

“And it‘s unprincely to dottle.“ You grin at your own petty taunt, settling further beneath the covers. Regardless of how many juvenile mocks you may torment him with, he always seemed to observe your gratitude for his presence.

Your tired sight is met with a veil of black as he extinguishes the last candle, isolating you both to the resolution of nightfall. You hear him stir beneath the sheets, settling with a sharp exhale. You count the seconds in your thoughts, just as you had the prior nights he laid beside you.

“Sōvegon ēdruta, ñuha ābrazȳrys.” (sleep well, my wife)

“Se doe, ñuha ābrar.“ (and you, my husband).

maekar x fem second wife reader 18+

summary: your strange, distant marriage leads you to pursue writing westeros’s most revered scandal sheet. while you and your new husband harbor true feelings, you must navigate a new life as a step mother and lady of summerhall

warnings: arranged marriage, smut, wedding night consummation (sorta?), vaginal fingering, loss of innocence, maekar spits on your *****, no aftercare, alcoholism (daeron), maekar is bad with feelings, mentions of death

WC: 6k

note: definitely will be a part two! also, some scandal entries are directly inspired from real lady whistedown entries so if they sound familiar, that’s why! enjoy and let me know if you’d want to be added to the tag list for this series :))

The chamber door shut with a gentle thud. And with the door’s heavy sigh, all sound was swallowed by stillness. The straggling wedding merriment, the mortal ruckus had vanished. No whisper dared stir, as though the air itself held its breath. It was a tension so dense you prayed the stone floors would engulf you. To shield you from the unbearably stiff quiet.

You stood a modest distance from one another, merely five paces. Though it was just far enough to feel ill at ease. It was a night that you had been adequately prepared for. The entirety of the day felt as though your every muscle had rehearsed it. Every deliberate movement, with the intent of procuring  your perfect day. 

To your youthful dismay, it was far from perfect. Upon the announcement of your betrothal, you were offered no sincere congratulations. No one you knew from home met your eyes and said, you are vastly fortunate, my Lady! 

You were graciously given solemn stares and consoling words. Your position in court had the same number of takers as aspiring leech collectors. Dear friends had mourned your departure like you would soon slay yourself in the matter of moons. 

You knew of your husband’s image. Gruff, stern and unspeakably blunt. He had certainly hardened with age, that was undebateable.  Despite the gossip, (and nickname), you oversaw the image bestowed on the man, and approached the remainder of your days with cheerfulness. Your home regarded you as positively charming. Why would the Prince see you any different? 

“My Prin-“

”You are quite young.”

Oh, he’s a genius! you thought. Young, you were. Though you were under the impression he had taken note of that by now. Despite your age, you were now his political equal. Though, your composure surpasses his immensely, you‘d never boast about such matters, should your humility allow it. But you knew it was just as clear to the rest of the court.

 His comment left a sneer on his face as his eyes assessed your form, from a cumbersome distance. You were merely four years older than his eldest son. If circumstances were different, you may have felt his cloak upon your back.

”But no less sensible I can…assure…you…that…” You trail off as he turns his back to you, striding toward the farthest side of the bed. Your spine corrected itself, anticipating instruction. Consummate and be done with it, you tell yourself as he settles onto the bed.  

A sharp exhale leaves you as you undo your garment, the silk beginning to slide from the curve of your shoulder. You kept your eyes fixed upon him as you began to undress. While you could not slow your labored breaths, you remained attentive to your task. Your duty.

The silk fell into a puddle at your feet, the flickering candlelight cast over your bare skin. The lingering chill within the chamber scattered goosebumps on your skin, causing you to tense up. Sheepishly you approached the bed, watching him sit up as you crawled onto the mattress.

Maekar remained completely dressed, a bitter contrast to your vulnerable state. 

“Lie back.“ He spoke with a gruffness that made your thighs press together. It wasn‘t cruel, or spoken with any intention of making you uncomfortable. It was simply his most gentle way of directing you. 

You obliged, feeling your bare body sink into the mattress. You crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to shield yourself from him, which to your surprise, he made no effort to move your hands. With coarse hands, he parted the soft flesh of your thighs that were clenched together. You spread your legs for him in response to the gesture, feeling yourself grow more nervous beneath his piercing gaze. His hands found your thighs once more, soothing the skin of the inside. The closer he got to your pussy, the more you felt your breath stall in your throat. 

“This will be over soon, girl. Tell me and I will stop.“

His tone remained stern, steadfast to his duty. Though his words held no falseness to them. Yes, the way he speaks is gruff, like gravel running down a hill. Yet it became progressively harder to ignore the warmth growing in your stomach with each stern word he uttered. 

His fingers gently began to trace your folds, earning a stifled gasp from you. It was unlike something you‘ve ever felt, let alone someone else‘s fingers. His touch was exploratory, tentative, heeding your small reactions. As his finger ran up and down your pussy, it began to collect the wetness he drew from you. But, that wasn‘t enough. 

You felt it, a warm wet glob spat straight onto your eager cunt. Maekar continued rubbing the wetness up and down your slit, till he was seemingly pleased with the feeling. 

His finger began to explore higher, gently rubbing your clit into little circles. The foreign sensation drew breathless whines from you, as you bucked your hips into his touch. As Maekar‘s finger returned to your core, you whimpered at the lost contact of your clit. 

Though, he soon replaced the sensation with a long, thick finger, sliding itself inside your tight pussy. It stung, especially when he breached that small film of skin that confirmed your maidenhood. Yet as he withdrew the digit and drove it back deep inside you, the pain began to melt into mindless pleasure. 

The sensation surprised you as the warmth deep in your tummy pooled. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth and you felt yourself being jostled by the new pace he set. He wasn‘t withdrawing his finger anymore, only thrusting them deep to hit the spot inside you that made tears well in your eyes. 

You gripped the curvatures beneath you as you writhed beneath his touch. Wanton pants and moans escaped your parted lips, careless of how they may be embarrassing you before your husband (or a stranger, rather). Your hips bucked and humped into his hand as his fingers thrust harder, with a newfound haste in his touch. 

“Mmmphh, my Prince- you- it feels so good, husband.“

Your whine was accompanied by the wet sounds of your pussy echoing through the chamber. Maekar grunted as he felt you clenching around him. 

“Hush, needy girl. Hold still for me.“ His voice had sounded as though it had deepened. Maekar‘s tone remained stern and demanding yet it met your ears like silk slipping through someone‘s fingers. Through the haze of your aching pleasure you could see him restraining himself with every bone in his body. His cheeks bore a red flush beneath his beard, his chest heaving at a pace one could only mistake for ravenous hunger. 

You only began to squirm harder despite his command, feeling the building pleasure in your core threatening to snap. You felt it grow with every brutish thrust of his finger. Until the feeling was so overwhelming, you had no choice but to succumb to the feeling. 

“Fuck- my Prince I-ah, it‘s too much.“ His response to your pleads was a stifled groan as you felt your walls flutter around his fingers. The sensation climbed and climbed till it broke, drawing your bows into a tight pinch, allowing desperate moans to tear through your throat. You shuddered as your orgasm thrashed through you, Maekar fingers fucking you through your high. 

As you felt it weaken and your core clench around its own emptiness, you let out a content sigh as your breathing slowed. While you enjoyed your after glow, Maekar inspected the sheets beneath you, lifting your hips slightly to grant himself a full view. 

Whatever was he searching for? you thought. When you raised your head, your eyes snagged on what he had seen, a faint reddish blotch beneath you. It was proof you had been breached. Though, not necessarily bedded. 

You opened your mouth, ready to ask if he was ready to actually consummate the union. The question never seemed to escape you as the room was soon blanketed in the shroud of nightfall. Maekar pinched the flame on his bedside, settling into the bed for rest to take him. 

It had confused you entirely. Pleasant, yes. Anything your maids or mother spoke of? No. And it certainly wasn‘t anything that would result in children. Was proof you had been prodded at enough? Were you not to fall pregnant with his babe? As every noble wife should?

You sat in the darkness, still naked, utterly vexed as to what you were to do. For now, you decided it was nothing that would be solved in that moment, so it was best you sought rest instead. 

You shuffled into bed, a cold distance from where your husband laid, faced away from you. Visions of your home, your family and everything you held dear seemed to plague your thoughts every moment you tried closing your eyes. Though to be granted sleep, you yielded to the sorrowful memories, praying every night of your life was not to be so dreary.

***

As the days wanned and waxed into weeks, you made yourself scarce. Attending every possible duty and indulging in every frivolous hobby. Your new gowns weren’t exceptional either. What was once elegant and pastel was now dark and heavy. Though your marital bed remained drier than sand it had grown colder than the North. You felt no dip in the mattress as you slept, no steady breathing beside you. Your “husband” had made it abundantly clear he felt no obligation to become better acquainted. Or speak to you at all. Or look in your direction, for that matter. Moons had passed and yet your marriage was still not legitimately consummated. Rather than succumbing to woe, you undertook being the lady of Summerhall and a mother to six troublesome royals. 

The endeavor proved grievous, affording you scarcely a moment for your own pursuits. Leisure had become a rarity. Choosing fabrics for the royal seamstress, learning the ancient family dialect, reading ravens, sending ravens, attending to the children. And now, the botanicals, it seems.

”Are you certain, your Grace?” The caretaker of the royal gardens seemed startled by your request. You both stood before the withered, overgrown flowerbed of carnations. You had grown fond of the royal garden, though it could hardly compete with the one you had grown up with. The carnations were appallingly unkept, a heap of rotting petals. They may have bloomed years ago, by the looks of it. His hesitation was mildly insulting. You were a nature enthusiast, when day was done. If wisdom be yours in any measure, it lies in the study of flowers.

”Quite. This garden is in desperate need of something…invigorating. Something to enhance its charm. Not keep hidden behind wilted flowers. In my estimation, tulips, orchids and peonies shall do the task most handsomely. Wouldn’t you agree?” You offer the man a smile as you envision your proposal. He nods sheepishly offering you a worried grimace in return. Strange.  

***

  “Wha- you are letting me win!” Aegon pointed at the chess board, the disputatious boy pleased with his observation. You both remained in the silent library as night unfurled its sovereign bloom. Three candles illuminated the board, burning low as your match refused to seek a winner. Your chin rested upon your folded hands, raising a brow in feigned surprise.

”Daring of you to accuse me of such a thing.” You hum, taking your turn, deliberately giving him the perfect opportunity to take the king. The night grew dark and you were proving to be as old as your husband. In dire need of sleep after a day of listless, insipid tasks. 

“There!! You did it again!!” His shrilly boyish voice rang through the library drawing a laugh from you. He was too smart for his own good. Yet, not smart enough to conclude you wanted to retire. You put an exaggerated look of shock on your face and a hand to your chest, earning a giggle from your opponent.

”That is utter nonsense! I would never!” Now it is the both of you laughing with little grace, filling the empty silence of the room. The likelihood of raising a child of your own grew slimmer every passing day. Though you were perfectly content in moments like these. 

“Father!” The boy chirps, as your heart plummets into your gut. Your eyes go wide as you hear his footsteps draw closer, a frustrated haste in his stride. His impending presence was palpable, even with your back turned. 

“Aemon, you are up quite late. With company I see.” You turn to face the boy’s father, offering something foreign to him. A smile.

”Oh, I am at fault, my Prince. Aegon could not sleep so I insisted a game of chess may ease his mind. Though he did play rather skillfully. You would be impressed.” He heaves a sigh at the explanation, deeming it verbose in his mind surely. What part of you bonding with his son did he find pernicious? You had put much effort into the matter. Wine tasting with his eldest, frolicking with his youngest. As for Aerion, you had little luck winning his regard. The girls seemed to adore you, insisting their maids replicate your hairstyle on them every waking morrow.

“Retire to your chambers, Aegon. You may finish the game tomorrow.” The boy nodded, flashing you a smile as he withdrew himself. Your reciprocated grin was cut brief, upon realizing Maekar meant to speak with you. What could he possibly want after avoiding you like the plague?

”Does something trouble you, my Lord?” You kept your voice gentle as you straightened your skirts. Your patience knew no bounds, much like his brother. If he wished to be angry, unable to find the right words, then you  would welcome the unbearable quiet.  

“They were hers. The carnations.” Without further explanation, you knew the woman in which he referred to. The woman whose shoes have dwarfed you entirely. 

“I am…terribly sorry, your Grace. It was never my intent to over step. The fault is mine.”

”Do not coddle me, woman.” His tone grew firm, the tone he used in political discourse. The tone he uses to evoke fear. It was purely calculated tactic. You were unafraid of your husband. And you certainly do not cower behind babbling apologies. 

“I am not coddling you, your Grace. I am merely conveying my regret. Apologizing for my carelessness. I know there is no replacing what you’ve lost. Man and wife should be able to have such conversations, without fear or judgement.”

”I had a wife. And you are not her.” In a fleeting second, he turns, withdrawing himself. Like he had done since the day you wed, he marooned you in solitude. Cast you into a dark quiet where no solace dwells. A companion to none.

His gruff words impaled your now rotten sense of hope. He does not even wish to try to start anew. You are forced to care for the children she cannot, and rejected by your husband, wistful for his late bride. But I am right on time, you thought. You were meant to marry at this age, to be enamoured, to have children of your own. Yet you were confined to a marriage your husband was still mourning.

The feeling made you writhe in your own skin. You weren't a woman of hubris or pride. Yet it pained you to blend so seamlessly into the walls. So overlooked, unforgivably undermined. Another radiant noblewoman forced into red and black. You were proven to be too cheerful for this family. Too quick to smile. As though your own warmth had outcasted you. 

You exhausted yourself, competing with a ghost. Rivalling ash. To hold you to her standard was unjust. It was dishonorable, to make you contend with the dead. If they meant to disregard your value, you shall disregard theirs, you decided. Beat their image to a pulp. Slay their false prestige. Why stop at the royal family? Why not uncover every misdeed and flaw noble families harbor like sin? Relay every detestful thought you shooed from your mind. Every snarky jest you had to stifle by biting your tongue. 

There was truth to the bitter assessments. And Seven knows greed is unladylike. The amiable thing to do is share. Before you could defy the immoral tempt, your gaze flicks to the parchment and quill on a desk. How it begged it to be used. To be a device of callous truth. Who were you to deny it such glory?     

Dearest Gentle Reader,

As the bells of septs toll and the candles burn in noble halls, there arrives amongst you a humble scribbler. One who keeps no banner, bears no crest, and yet observes more than many a lord. It is my kindest intention to set quill to parchment and faithfully recount the triumphs, follies, dalliances and indiscretions that flourish so abundantly in our realm. 

One may wonder by what authority I undertake such task. The answer is relatively simple: none at all. Yet, while knights ride to tourneys and ladies exchange honeyed words behind their jeweled fans, someone must preserve truth of what truly passes between them. 

And what a fortnight it has been. 

Lord Arryn was observed departing a maid‘s chamber well after the moon had been hung at its highest. Though the Lord claims he had merely been discussing the matters of estate management, one suspects broomsticks were not the only items receiving close examination that evening. 

Nor may this author neglect the unfortunate incident at Lord Tully‘s feast, wherein two noblemen nearly came to blows over an emerald necklace, a disrupted inheritance, and if—whispers speak true—the affections of the same maiden. The necklace survived the encounter. The gentleman‘s dignity did not. 

Yet these matters are but the smallest drops in a very deep goblet. 

For beneath every velvet cloak lurks a secret, behind every courtly smile a hidden ambition, and within every grand castle chamber a tale begging to be told. 

Rest assured, dear reader, this author shall keenly discover them all. 

Until then, guard your reputations carefully.

One never knows who may be listening.

Yours most observantly, 

Lady Hollowmere

***

Lady Jena snickered to herself as she brought a Dornish red to her lips. It has been one month since you made a slave of all ravens. As the slander scrolls made their debut, noble houses became fussy, displeased and utterly captivated.

They were amusing each other with their own transgressions and wrongs. A scene of rare hilarity, as they laughed heartily at one another. All stirred by the governance of your own quill.

 The fear you dangled above their noses simply because you wield the pen and them, the foolishness. The transaction of gossip for coin turned out to be a remarkable sum indeed. You used the proceeds to employ more ears across the realm, harvesting filthy dalliances and common yammer. Every scroll sold more than the last. It became the name on everyone’s tongue. 

“Do the scrolls amuse you, my Lady?” You ask, your tone more smug than you would’ve liked. Jena and you were now sisters, (mostly). She was fascinating company to keep. Her words were thought provoking, or plainly provocative, depending on her cups.

“How could they not? She is the first gossip writer to address the subjects by name. I should like to meet her, before she is hanged.” Her remark earned a scoff from you. You glanced around the royal terrace in which you lounged.

Beneath the kindly gaze of the sun, your spirits were made warm as the hours passed. Humorous stories and womanly horrors spilled freely from your lips in the company of greenery. You minded your tongue, omitting any details about the security of your coupling and the ink stains on your fingers.

Perhaps with time she will come to know of these things. After exiling the image of being hung, you set your eyes proudly upon your royal garden. A flowerbed of assorted beauties beside a now blooming bed of carnations. 

“You know how court can be. So exacting, so much…propriety. It is exhausting to pretend we don’t fraternize with stable boys ever so often, or speak ill of our own kin. I think it is a remarkable thing indeed, even if we must endure the laments of the offended nobles. They should be learning discretion, rather than blaming the scribbler.”

Jena nodded slowly at your words. You could not be so obvious with your flattery, nor could you openly detest the writings. You had to remain impartial yet amused. A line finer than a rib in famine. 

“And how often is it you fraternize with stable boys, my Lady?” She asked through a light chuckle.

“Till it starts to border on overindulgence, I’d say.” You both begin to laugh. Perhaps the heat had begun to melt your manners.

“The noble houses have only two choices. Put an end to their shameful deeds, or find clever ways to hide them.” To that, the rims of your goblets meet with a gentle clink. You sat before the chess board, callow nobles playing the opponent. You could give them every chance to win and prove their self proclaimed graciousness. You could eliminate every pawn and examine every fault. They could dare to outsmart you or succumb to your rules. But the wisest will let Lady Hollowmere decide for them.

***

    Dearest Gentle Reader,

I must send felicitations to Lord and Lady Mormont. Congratulations and stamina as they embark on the most exhilarating time in a young couple's life. I am, of course, talking of the honeymoon. Is there a more romantic notion? To retreat from society together finally leaving watchful eyes behind. 

You crumple the parchment in your palm, smearing your skin with black ink. Seven above, pull yourself together, you think. Lady Hollowmere‘s misfortune shall find no root in your envy. You’d be incapable of forgiving yourself if your own troubles jeopardized your writings.

You’d be incapable of forgiving yourself if your own troubles jeopardized your writings. Morning, tender and unrisen, found you seated at your desk in stillness. It was the only hour you were afforded the time to write, even if it meant wrangling your mind awake. Swaddled in a linen chemise, quill shaking in your grasp, unkept hair falling from your shoulders. Your eyes are hazy from rest, though your ears worked exceptionally. In the midst of your frustration, you were forced to abide the dreadful symphony of his sleep. Behind you, your “husband’s” steady hushed snores found your ears like ocean tide. A galling, nettlesome, abrasive, exasperating ocean tide. With a huff, your quill is reunited with ink. 

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The frenzy of competition. The thrilling delight of hazarding your all. I am referring not to the lure of King Landing‘s gambling halls, but to a gamble with far higher stakes. Matrimony. For once that particular wager is placed, it cannot easily be undone. A fact which, I am sure, is met with both regret and sheer relief.     

*Zzzzzzzz*

You whip around in your seat, spitefully glaring at the bane of your success. There he laid, sleeping as though he did not carry the burden of a secret so critical. As the sounds persisted, you resisted the urge to not write word of him committing loathsome debauchery, despite it being treasonous. The stifled snorts burrowed themselves deep within your good graces, bones and joints beginning to itch. 

“WILL YOU STOP THAT?? I AM TRYING TO WRITE OF LORD AND LADY MORMONT‘S SEXUAL DEVIANCE, YOU SORRY EXCUSE FOR A HUSBAND!! I WOULDN’T BE IN SUCH STATE IF YOU WOULD JUST ACKNOWLEDGE I EXIST!!”

 Your voice was hardly above a whisper, just loud enough for him to stir. Another sigh escaped you as you tried returning to your work a third time. You rubbled slow circles into your temples, undoubtedly spreading the ink onto your face.

If you allude to your own unhappy coupling, the small council will discover you like hungry hounds. If you write fondly of the Targaryen’s, the people will lose trust in you. If you write ill of the Targaryen’s, your ruby necklace will soon be replaced with rope. Similar to how you must speak of the scrolls, you must remain impartial. You are not regarded for hate speech. You are regarded for honesty. So falsehoods, they shall have!  

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The chase, the hunt, the thrill. It is a fact that all the world is searching for something. And our dear court is no exception. Some are searching for meaning, others for their better halves, while others are searching for tranquility, much like the honorable Prince Baelor and the lovely Princess Jena; who have decided to seek respite in Summerhall this month. And for one of the court’s most notorious bachelor, Prince Daeron Targaryen, who was last seen arriving fashionably late to the Lady Anvil‘s banquet. Even the most determined rakes must bow to that most powerful of forces, mothers. This author cannot help but wonder what he is searching for. More wine? Sensibility? But be cautious of searching too hard, dear reader, for you might not always like what you find. Ladies of court may have a new prize to seek, the heart of a certain eldest son. It seems this free-spirited reveling drunkard has been seen chasing the regards of Ladies, intent on leaving bachelor life behind. This author can only speculate. Could it be this rake has reformed? 

***

With steadfast heart and urgent step, you made your way in haste through the castle’s depths. The latest Hollowmere was now put in the covetous hands of the public, having sent the scrolls six nights passed. Surely, there are at least twenty vessels and ships making their way to the keep at this very moment. Not a breath could be wasted, time was dearer than gold in a pauper’s purse.

You greeted passing servants, maids and guards with an unyielding grin as your plan unfurled. Without breaking haste, you open the chamber door, humming to yourself as you open the drawn curtains, 

“Good morrow, Daeron!” You hum, drinking in the state of his chamber. It was a sty, to put it kindly. Broken, assorted, empty, full bottles littered as far as the eye can see. Everything was so askew, it almost looked purposeful. It was no condition a wife should have to reside in. 

“Come now, up, up!” You give several light slaps to the plane of his cheek as he begins to resurrect himself. With strangled whines, his eyes flutter open, adjusting to the light of day.

”W-wha…is something the matter, mother? Why must you wake me?” His voice gravelly from sleep. You snatch the bottle from the crook of his elbow, setting it on his bedside.

”Well, the sun has been up for quite some time. But, no matter. Your father and I are overjoyed by your news! This is momentous, Daeron! We are somewhat displeased with hearing the word from the newest Hollowmere, but-“ 

“Wait- wait…wha-Hollowmere? Whatever do you mean?” He rubs the fatigue from his eyes as you watch panic envelop his sullen features. To conceal the amused smile on your lips, you turn your back to him, beginning to tidy his chambers the best you could manage. 

“Oh, have you not read? She has written on your search for a wife! There are twenty ships, thirty caravans and fifteen carriages making their way to Summerhall as we speak, full of eligible young ladies. So many prospects you will get to choose from. The choice will be taxing, I’m sure. They are all so eager for your favour.”

His brows furrow, looking as though this was a nightmare he could not wake from. He put his palm so his perspiring forehead, trying desperately to come to his senses. You watch vexation, anger and worry cycle through his mind as he finds his bearings. 

“I-I said no such thing. It is a lie, what she has written.” You grimace at his plea for mercy, seating yourself at the foot of his bed. 

“Lady Hollowmere doesn’t write rumour, she writes truth. Her words are practically gospel. Perhaps your drunken stupor left you no memory of such a declaration. But this will be advantageous, Daeron. You are of age and need to take a wife. Find a lady to your liking before your father marries you to a stranger. You should have that privilege, to marry for love. And if none of them are to your liking, I will send them back as soon as you wish. But you must promise me you’ll try.”

His eyes soften, seeing through you like a veil. Daeron was your son now, despite the small number of years between you. You accepted that responsibility as you accepted his father’s cloak on your back.

 If you could shun him from being promised to a woman he did not know, you‘d do everything in your power. Marriage is just as political as war and dispute. A profitable transaction of virtue and binding promise. An economic, fiscal, monetary exchange of vows. But if you could give Daeron a chance of finding a love match, you would be content knowing someone will live the future you could not.         

“Thank you, mother. I will try, for you.” You nod, beaming at the drunkard who is willing to endure hundreds of blood thirsty ladies, for the sake of making his miserable step mother happy. 

“I know your indulgence is an escape. I know you are frightened by what you see. But, there is a charming man beneath all these cups. Ladies will prefer him, rather than Daeron the Drunken.” You tutted, reaching for the port you set on his bedside.

As you confiscated the bottle, you made your way to the door, allowing him to prepare for the remainder of the day awaiting him. Considering it is almost lunch. 

“I will send for a barber. And a bath. And someone to clean this… bachelor lodging.” You offer him a final fleeting smile before you withdraw yourself.

Outside his door, you silently celebrated with yourself. You had done the unthinkable. You had gotten Daeron the Drunken to entertain the prospect of marriage. With the intent of finding love. Perhaps you really were the prophet Lady Hollowmere was rumored to be.

***

With no small measure of dread, you beheld the hour where you must commence the third scheme, one you had long feared above the rest. You held your next course of action in deepest apprehension. You sat in your husband’s study, in solitude, a heavy stillness blanketing the room. It was beyond my comprehension how he managed to achieve anything in this study. 

Agonizingly quiet, and tidied to a suffocating degree. The impeccable precision of the desk, shelves, trestle tables were all too neat to even touch. You knew your marriage would be annulled the moment you laid womanly fingers on any of his belongings. So you sat, hands fixed in your lap, glimpsing around the one room in Summerhall you had not yet seen.

Though you suppose he won't be back for some time. There is little harm in just observing, right? Perhaps you could even learn something about the man you call a husband. His most favored book? Favored hobby? His handwriting? The quill he uses? There was so much discovery so few paces away. 

You abandon my restraint, rising from my seat. You gawk at every small trinket, every tome and every undusted surface. It was a captivating exhibition that had immersed you entirely. A glimpse into where he spends his hours, away from you. 

“Ahem.” The feigned throat clearing from the door alerted you of his return. He did not seem pleased with your snooping, but he did not order you to leave. You suppose that is a good start. 

“Your Grace, I-I was just…looking. It’s n-“

”I did not send for you.”

”I’m aware. I came by my own accord.” 

He hums in reply, though his face conveys an emotion too complex to decipher. His existence was a sick riddle. One you would spend the rest of your days endeavoring to solve. 

“Why?” His question came across as a demand, vexed as to why you meant to speak with your own husband. 

“We have a certain eldest son’s future to discuss. I’m sure you’ve received word of Daeron’s search for a wife. I was meaning to inform you I’m hosting a ball, so that he may acquaint himself with eligible ladies.” 

”My son does not swoon. He whores. He drinks. You will find no such luck in the matter.” You shrug at his candid words. He knew him better than you, sure. But that did not mean he could predict forthcoming events. Moody old bastard.

“As true as that may be, we do not know until we try. Someone may catch his eye. And I’m hopeful of it, so that we are not forced to marry him to a stranger. I mean…just look how content we are.” You chuckle to yourself, making light of my misery. 

“We are plenty fucking content. Now go.” With a sigh of defeat, you begin your stride towards the door where he stands. You approach him with slow steps, the space between you growing smaller with each pace. With an arched brow he looked down upon you, assessing the mischief you wore on your face.

“I will host the gathering. You will be glad of it, my Lord. I swear it.” You extend your pinky finger to him, which only makes his brows pinch together in vexation. With sheepish hesitation, and apparent detest for such frivolous promise, he ensnares his pinky with your own. The action brought a pleased grin to your lips. It was the first time he had touched you since the wedding. Though your kiss was scarcely a kiss at all. Just a brief meeting of skin.

“Excellent. And do buy new ink, you are dipping your quill in mud.” He rolls his eyes as he opens the door to his study, ushering you out of it. With a brief and courtly smile,  you withdrew yourself, waving daintily with your fingers.

***

The great hall gleamed like a reliquary of silver and red. Hundreds of beeswax candles burned in wrought-iron chandeliers overhead, their flames trembling against banners embroidered with red dragons. Long tables stretched the length of the chamber beneath black linen cloth, laden with roasted boar glazed in spiced honey. Silver goblets caught the firelight and scattered it like captive stars across the gathering.

Noble ladies shimmered in velvet and silk, jeweled sleeves brushing polished oak, while Lords laughed over brimming cups of wine dark garnets. 

And beside you, your husband.

The title still felt strange upon your tongue. Husband. A man chosen by signatures and seals by alliances drawn upon parchment long before either of you had been consulted. Life between you remained stiff, despite your most charming nature. His defiance frustrated you, but it was nothing you allowed yourself to weep over. 

Yet, that evening, something shifted. You felt it. 

At first, you tentatively watched him out of pure curiosity. Voices swelled. Goblets clinked. The hall grew warm with merriment. And yet, amid all the splendor, you became strangely aware of the simple nearness of him. It was duty, yes. Though it felt more contained than that. Every brush of your sleeves, every time you clung to his arm tighter, startled him more than the fanfare of instruments. 

You would often stand on your tip-toes to comment upon some amusing observation, often rooted in harmless cruelty. His acknowledgment of these remarks were low hums, only intended for your ears. Despite his efforts, you could sense his amusement in your jests. 

Love, you once imagined, would arrive with thunderous certainty. A knight‘s triumph, a poet‘s declaration, a bolt from the clouds. 

Instead, it came like snowfall upon an open field. Silent. Seeping. Gentle. Undetectable. Unnoticed by you until your world would transform. 

The evening deepened and the candles began to burn lower. You found yourself hoping the feast would never end. Not for the revelry, nor the music nor the wine. 

But because every time you glanced up at Maekar, you discovered another reason to remain.  

The feast had been an overall success. Dazzling floral arrangements, a plethora of guests and a night entirely spent on the arm of your husband. You could sense the stiffness of his chest as you clung to him, greeting all who arrived. You were beaming, despite the circumstances. It felt real.

Being anchored to the man who vowed to love you, to protect you. Though he did not put much effort in either, it felt correct in a sense. Like jigsaw pieces finding one another. There were brief hitches of time where you‘d peer up at him, and watch his scowl relax into something more neutral. Not joy, or adoration, but tranquility. Your soothing presence ironed the wrinkles from his scowling face.  

As for Daeron, he did not manage to meet a Lady worthy of his attention—to his standards, at least—and found himself swarmed with eager ladies all evening.  

“Well, real attachment rarely forms over one feast. He‘ll find a lady to his liking as soon as he outgrows whores. And we will be patient, husband. We mustn't rush him into such matters. It‘s overwhelming for a boy his age.”

He gruffly hummed in acknowledgement. Not agreement, nor protest. Simply just, I can’t seem to disregard the noise coming from your mouth. You sat beneath the coverture of your bed, a silk white sleep shift affording you little warmth.

You reached over to extinguish the candles on your bedside, the wick hissing as your fingers pinched the flame. Your chambers were illuminated solely by the flickering light of the hearth. You restrained yourself from yammering, apprehensive you may drive him forth in dread.

It was most challenging to keep silent. For such a guarded, sullen man, you wished for nothing more than to berate him with your every whim. Your day, your progress on the harp, your sentiments on lemon tarts, your affinity for honeybees…

”What ever are you gawking at, woman?” His bitter tone impales the quiet, waking you from your daze. Unbeknownst to you, your eyes had not left his undressing form. His progress in the matter was small, still fully dressed, to a capacity. It was mildly surprising, given how long you had stared. 

“Sorry, sorry. I shall give you privacy.” You rolled, turning your back to him. You suppose it is improper to see a man undress when you are not wholly wedded. Because you were not bedded, (not in the way that counts, anyway). With a sigh, you sink further into the mattress. The new position overwhelmed you with newfound ease, your weary frame a hair‘s length from sleep. You remained silent, your breaths deepening. It was enough to give the impression you were asleep. Especially to a man who could not see your face.

You feel the mattress dip beneath his weight as he climbs into bed. Your shared bed. The bed he had not slept in since your wedding night. You swallow your nerves, maintaining the farce of your own slumber. He groans, shuffling beneath the covertures. 

You believe he had stilled, finally taken rest like you had. The following moments prove your estimation wrong, hearing him stir once more. The weight beside you grows closer, as he props himself on one elbow. In quiet vigil he drank you in. You gentle slope of your fluttering lids, the soft parting of your perfect lips. 

To you, he was cold and hardened. It was his defense, a device of not letting you grow too fond or close. What in him was worth loving, he thought to himself. In his eyes, you were fair as the first blush of dawn upon the eastern hills. You moved with a grace that seemed borrowed from goddesses. Your countenance was as delicate yet striking as a rose newly awakened in a garden. Cheeks touched with the soft grace of youth. He was denying himself something he was addicted to, without even indulging in first. 

He knew his feelings would surpass what he‘d allow, and felt it safer to let you live out your days away from him. But with wine on his breath and restraint growing thin, he couldn‘t help just gazing. When his stare grew in greed, he raised a finger, gently swiping a stray lock of hair from your face. His lips curled into a wounded smile, admiring you as you “slept“.

He was well aware your beauty was not your greatest adornment. If he was going to be forced to marry it would not be to a fool. You bore yourself with a noble kindness, a steadfast loyalty and a warmth that made hearth and hall alike feel blessed. You were his comfort and delight, but most of all his greatest peril. His most fearsome torment. 

“Sōvegon ēdruta, ñuha ābrazȳrys.” (sleep well, my wife) You hear him croak as he settles into rest. It was a strangled sound, only meant for his ears. A hushed confession he harbored like secret. It wasn’t meant for you to hear, or understand. The words had stunned you as you laid, partially convinced you had dreamt it. Had he not seen the Valyrian text on your bedside? 

daeron x wife!reader 18+ MDNI

Summary: you and your husband are having trouble producing an heir. luckily, daeron is given a remedy in the midst of his drunken stupor.

Warnings: mentions of infertility, brief mention of somnophilia, sex pollen, needy daeron, kinda sub!daeron, body worship, established relationship, drinking, heavy breeding kink undertones, no first name mentioned/ no use of y/n, daeron and reader are VERY in love

WC: 2.7k

Nearly a year had passed since your vows were spoken beside Daeron. Your union was one of rare harmony, for affection dwelled between you faithfully. You both found joy in one another‘s company, and understanding flowed as naturally as a gentle stream. No harsh words dared linger, and your hearts remained inclined toward one another.

Especially considering Daeron is no easy man to love. Despite his challenges you made them your own and restlessly helped him overcome his burdens. It was no easy feat, and there was still much to be done. There was a time he feared your children would be plagued by his visions, or he would forsee something unforgivable about the child.

The unlikely, complicated beauty of your marriage was well known to the realm. However, the royal cradle remained empty. The bed prepared for young dragons remained untouched, gathering silence where laughter ought to dwell. 

Throughout town and country-side alike, tongues wagged with endless conjecture. Whether sickness had plagued you or Daeron, whether the Seven themselves had simply denied you the fruitful blessing or some other mystery pertaining to your husband‘s fondness of wine. 

Yet all who beheld the two of you deemed your devotion true and steadfast. 

Your love endured through idle speculation, yes, but that didn‘t stop Daeron from feeling like a poor excuse of a husband. You reassured him relentlessly, told him how the vision that besieges his thoughts does not make you love him any less. And he believes you, rightfully so. 

At times wine would soften his spirit and draw forth tears he would sooner have hidden. All that he despised about within himself rose from the depths of his heart and stood plainly before him. Daeron sought to drown such thoughts beneath yet more wine and ale, but on one fateful night his sorrow left him stripped of all defenses.   

“Easy, my Prince. Another glass and you‘ll drink yourself into the grave.“ 

The barkeep tutted Daeron as he draped himself over the counter, finding himself in another stupor. Demeaning thoughts taunted his mind as he sat, I‘m not the husband she deserves, and father would be happier with me in a tomb. 

“Just one more, then I‘ll leave. Swear it.“ 

Daeron mutters through slurred words and half promises. Before he‘s given the chance to reach for his fresh new glass, he‘s met with another barkeep sliding it across the counter. 

Barkeep was a bit of a strong statement. She was a frail older woman, age resting lightly upon her spirit. Though her body bore the marks of many winters. Deep lines framed her face, yet her keen eyes sparkled with knowledge gathered from herb, root and star. 

Daeron could‘ve sworn his dreams were melting in with reality, unsure of where the other man left and when she had replaced him. 

“No wine in your great castle, my Prince?“ The woman croaked, offering him a snide grin from where she stood, hunched. 

“Or does the princess not like it when you indulge?“

Her grin deepens and she watches her bold words unfurl in his mind. Daeron would never be the sort of prince to inflict harm on an old woman for such words, especially not in his state. 

“She doesn‘t mind. ‘Jus want to leave her to her own peace. I have given her little enough already. A rightful husband is to give a wife a family and future. I have given her neither.“ 

Daeron was slightly surprised at how fast the words left him, unmindfully tumbling from his wine-stained lips.

“You‘ve got it all backward, princeling. The question isn‘t whether you‘ve given her those things. The question is whether you‘ve shown her they still matter to you. Ain‘t much romance in a man sleeping on a tavern stool.“ 

He digests her words in his clouded, drunken mind. It all pieced together for him then, and he had newfound conquest to prove his devotion to you.

“Well? How do you reckon I can?“ 

The woman is already reaching for a small vile kept away from the neat rows of wine bottles. The vile clinks as it meet the rings on her fingers, 

“This should do handsomely.“ 

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

There were very few comforts that surpassed reclining in a royal bed, a book nestled in your lap, whilst candles burn low and a warm mug steams beside you. It was one of those nights to yourself as Daeron scavenged a local village for their wine. You knew he took comfort being outside the confines of the keep, so these nights never had a way of bothering you.

Truthfully, you could die happily right there. Freshly cleaned hair, floral oils still fresh on your bathed skin and a clean silk chemise wrapped around your body. 

You held no disdain for the quiet, you cherished it. Such gentle moments were a rare blessing amid the endless demands of court. Few would ever dare speak it aloud, but the burden of a princess‘s station was heavier than most could fathom. Thus, the solitary hours felt nothing short of perfect, 

That was, until you heard your bed chamber door groan as it opened.

“Daeron? Are you back, my love?“ 

You don't spare him a glance from your book as he shuffles into the room, his steps sounding heavier with each one he took. Even in great splendors of drunkenness, the cadence of his steps seemed highly unusual.     

You hear him groan as he approaches the bed, kicking off his boots with a sluggish tug.

“Are you well?“ 

You behold him as you glance up from your book, searching his face. An angry red hue flushed in cheeks and ears as sweat began to bead at his forehead. His once lilac eyes were nearly black with how blown his pupils had become. His lips were parted just slightly, taking in desperate hitches of breath as he stared at you with half-lidded eyes. 

“My sweet wife.“ He murmurs with a horse voice as he begins crawling toward you on the bed. His behavior was something you hadn‘t seen before. Surely the both of you enjoy a tiresome fuck when you are nearly taken with sleep and he is drunker than a sailor. But this was different.

This had vigor. 

You had little time to set your book aside as he draped himself on top of you. As your mouth opened anticipating a question, you felt how hot his skin was. Scolding, really. He was a flushed, sweating, restless mess of a man disheveled by the need for his wife. 

You bring the back of your palm to his forehead and cheek, nervously checking for fever. Daeron whines at the contact, nuzzling into your touch. With a vexation worn plainly on your face, you swipe the sweat-slicked hair from his face. 

“Are you well, husband? You feel quite warm.“ 

Your nervous chuckle is caught in your throat as you feel his painfully hard cock nudge into your thigh. 

“Daeron, explain to me what you have done.“ 

You sit up, crossing your arms across your chest awaiting explanation. Daeron symptoms only grow as he gawks at you, mindlessly pawing the covers for your touch. 

“Please, sweet girl, my beautiful, sweet, wife, please just touch m-“

“I‘m not lifting a finger till you explain to me what‘s happened to you. Was it a brothel? Hm? Someone slip you something there?“  

“Mm-mm, no, my love, I swear to you. I did not step foot into one of those.“ 

His slurled words offer you comfort, allowing you to slowly inch back down the bed to where he laid. Your nails begin to scratch the expanse of his back in comforting motion. Daeron let out a groan as you touched him, despite the act being purely innocent. 

“Please, talk to me, Daeron. You‘re worrying me.“ 

“H-hurts…“

“What hurts, my love?“ 

He lets out a whine and begins to buck his hips into the mattress. The friction draws a broken groan from him as he continues to babble and listlessly beg. 

“A witch- she…she gave me something.“ 

“You took something from a witch. Please be joking.“

“She said it‘d give us an heir.“ 

Despite his disordered, wanton state, your heart softened at his words, picturing him drinking a mysterious liquid for the sake of blessing you with a child. Your lips softened into a smile as he peered at you through glassy, desperate eyes.

“Well, how does it work then, what she gave you? Am I to wake already with child?"

You offer your hand to lovingly stroke his cheek, though Daeron takes hold of it, lathering it with sloppy kisses. Your palm, wrist, forearm were being devoured with open-mouth pecks. 

“Mm, not until I‘m through with you. Not until you make me better.“

“And…how am I to do that, sweet boy?“

With the same grip on your wrist, he tugs you. In a blink of an eye, you‘re on top of him, straddling his engorged cock. Daeron looks up at you with eyes that worship, eyes that are peeling off your clothes before he could rip them off you. You stifle a chuckle at the sight. 

Your hand slides down his stomach at an agonizing pace, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

Soon, your hand palms his rigid cock, earning you a strangled whine from deep in his throat. He bucks his hips into your touch, writhing with fervid pleasure.

“Please, my love, ‘nough teasing. I need you. Need you more than anything, please. I‘ll be good.“

“Mm, will you? You want to pound me into the mattress till I can‘t say anything but your name? You want this whole keep to know how good you fuck your wife? How good you make her feel? How wet you make her? And how wet she‘ll be when you cum and fill her up?“ 

Daeron moans at your lewd words, partially frustrated by you enjoying this the way you are. You roll your hips into his clothed cock, earning an open mouthed groan from him. With keen hands you fumble with the ties of his breeches, while he listlessly pleads for you to go faster.

As his cock springs free you inspect his hardness. The tip was a bruised, painful looking purple. While his reddened length twitched with each beat of his heart. His cock was already soaked with precum before you even laid a hand on it. 

“Poor baby, so needy for me.“ 

You pepper his tip with sloppy kisses as he writhes beneath you, watching you intently with his lips parted. As you finish with your torment, you shift yourself onto your stomach, arching your spine. Your tits press into the mattress, still clothed by the chemise, as you feel Daeron bunch the fabric right above your ass. 

He gives one firm smack to the flesh, watching it pinken from the act. You stifle a moan into the sheets as his hands draw you back toward his cock. Without warning, he thrusts, filling you completely in a moment‘s notice. 

You let out a whorish moan into the covertures, feeling yourself already go dumb on his cock. He sets a fast, agonizing pace as he seeks relief from the pleasurable pain the potion had plagued him with. Your fists curl into the sheets in hopes of grounding you from his brutal thrusts.

Daeron pants above you, shallow heaving breaths accompanied by strangled moans. You feel his urgency in the way he slams into you, the way he is so desperately claiming you with each jerk of his hips. It‘s something almost primal, something so intoxicating about his need to mark you. To give you a child, to solidify the profound beautiful love you share into something you can raise. 

As Daeron brutishly fucks you, he envisions your stomach round with child, breasts heavy and swollen with milk. Providing for your child, being a good mother. It‘s as though his purpose dawns on him. It only makes his need to prove his love to you stronger. 

“Seven fucks- what have I done to deserve you, sweet wife? All mine, hm?“

“I…mphh yeah- I‘m yours, Daeron. I am all yours…“ 

The words are broken by rugged movements, but they reach you and Daeron‘s ears all the same. Muttered proclamations of devotion all clouded by the fevorous love-making, so enraptured with one another. 

A sweet moan tore through your throat as his pace deepened, hitting the spot that made drool begin to pool in your mouth. You thoroughly enjoyed fucking your husband in the past, but this was entirely foreign. It was something blissfully won, a filthy coupling of two people who would do anything for each other. 

You could smell the honeyed wine on his breath as he panted into your ear like an animal, so enveloped by the addicting feeling of being inside you. That delectable suck of your cunt around him, how it drools with the sweetest nectar enticing him further. 

Your bed chamber attained a string of echoing plap-plap-plaps, as Daeron‘s bare hips drove into the plump of your ass with vigor. His lips suckled and kissed your neck and below your ear as you whined into the sheets. You were nearly as unraveled as he was. 

“Mm-mhm, that‘s it, my love, that‘s a good girl. Feels so good doesn‘t it.“ 

“Yes-yes-yes, fuck, Daeron!“

At your pleasing cries his pace gains speed, drawing breathless wanton gasps from your throat. Daeron takes a fistfull of the hair at your nape, pulling it slightly in order to raise yourself from the mattress. You rose, forgetting what it was like to breathe. 

“Y‘gonna cum for me, sweet girl? Gonna cum all over my cock while I fill you up?“

“Y-yes, fuck, please, Daeron,“ 

The loud moans escaping you and Daeron‘s lips was nothing short of pure impropriety. The smack of his hips against your ass, the ridges of his cock rubbing against your walls and the loving firm grip he had on your hair sent your orgasm thrashing through you. It came in blissful waves, leaving you a quivering, writhing, moaning mess in Daeron‘s hold. He soon follows, releasing hot thick ropes of cum deep inside your pussy. 

The fatigue soon overtakes you, collapsing onto the bed stripped of all energy. Like orgasm, Daeron is soon to follow, tumbling beneath his own weight beside you. He scoops you up into his arms before you could utter a word. The disquiet world of your lives finds silence as he holds you against his heaving chest, coveting you like your all that matters to him. You nuzzle into his embrace, purring gently at the feeling of his hands running through your hair.

“So, feel any better?“ You murmur in a hushed voice, mindful of the peaceful quiet that fell upon both of you. 

“Much, much, better, my love.“

“I‘m very glad to hear that.“

You hum, gently peppering kisses along his jaw as you drink in the sight of his normal face. His eyes flutter shut, content with the feeling of your body in his arms. 

“And how do you feel, my beautiful wife?“ 

“Mm…good. Very good. A bit different.“

“Different how?“

“Just different from the other times. This one felt significant.“

You peered into his eyes.

“Like…something may come of it.“ 

A smile spreads across his lips as he watches yours grow, basking in the solace of newfound hope. Perhaps the witch had done you a favour after all, granting you something you and your husband wanted desperately.  

“Wait.“

“Hm?“

“I have yet to kiss you.“

You laugh at his remark, recalling the events in your mind. He leaned over with a soft reverence, grasping your chin in his palm. Daeron‘s lips intertwine with your own, not in haste but in silent adoration. The touch was gentle, yet it carried the weight of vows you had spoken before Gods. Your lips lingered for a moment, neither claiming nor retreating. But meeting in a stillness that felt older than language.    

“You are a fool.“

“Any man would be with you as his wife.“ 

Ser Duncan x Targaryen!reader

Summary: After being on the road with your sworn protector and younger brother, Egg, you find yourself burdened by the events of a few nights prior, after a group of men from a tavern attempted to kidnap you

Warnings: Vague mentions of kidnapping, no mention of sexual assault, in depth depiction of trauma, nightmares, panic attacks, angst with LOTS of comfort, sfw

WC: 1.8k

Unbidden and most unwelcome, the memory of that dreaded eve lingered within your mind, circling your thoughts like a starved vulture. Whenever you sought peace, your mind recited the cruel remembrance hidden behind your eyes. Several weeks had fled into the past since the mischance befell you. Yet the recollection remains as fresh as newly spilled wine upon snow.

 You would tell yourself many women have endured such tribulations, and that your burdens were not singular beneath the moon. Though the more your gaze rested upon the wound in your thoughts, the deeper it ached. And Seven knows no flesh is healed whilst one keeps watch upon the bleeding. 

Though your mind bore heavy burdens, still one truth stood firm against the storm. Your sworn defender remained the only man worthy of your trust. Ser Duncan. A hulking, fumbling brute to outward eyes, forever tripping over his own words and apologizing for imagined offenses. He would sooner beg forgiveness for breathing loudly than raise his voice in anger at you. 

Yet many a knave and cruel bandit had fled limping from his grasp, their courage shattered alongside their limbs. It troubled your understanding of how a man so mighty in violence could be so soft in spirit.

He had saved you, just some weeks ago from a few rogues who had caught a glimpse of the silver dragon adorning your finger. You fought tirelessly for your survival. Thrashing, clawing, screaming. Though it only exhausted you, turning into a futile attempt of escape.

Before they could haul you into their wagon, your sworn knight fought them till blood sputtered from their lips. You weren‘t certain what had scarred you more. The feeling of their hands, or the pulp-like beating they received. 

In Dunk‘s words, what truly matters was that you, and your brother Egg were safe. Dunk carried the guilt of not saving you sooner like a wet cloak. He kept vigilant watch upon you with unwavering eyes, ever mindful of danger and how it lurks. Dunk would not subject you to further harm with him absent from your side. 

You were grateful for such devotion, yes, for his protective nature had only deepened since that dark affair. Yet still the memory weighed heavily upon your thoughts. And no matter how often you convince yourself of your own safety, your heart remains unpersuaded.   

Rain lashed the inn with savage fury , no different from the cursed night your suffering began. Upon the thin glass of the window the storm drummed and thundered without mercy.

At the sound, a tremor seized your form, as though your soul had been dragged unwillingly back into the memory of that harrowing moment. That terrible, dreadful moment which still haunted your waking thoughts. 

You maintained a cumbersome distance from Dunk in the creaky inn bed. Egg slept next door, most likely already taken by sleep. Dunk laid rigid at the far side of the bed. You both were aware of the impropriety in the circumstance. A sworn hedge knight, and the princess he took an oath to protect.

Though, given the change in weather, you insisted Dunk would‘ve frozen sleeping on the floor, and invited him to join you in the comfort of a termite bitten bed frame and straw mattress. 

“Goodnight to you, Ser. Sleep nicely.“ 

You offer a timid smile before rolling over, trying to nestle deeper into the scratchy covers.

“Don‘t shy to wake me, should you need me.“ 

He answers in a fond, gruff voice. One which he manages to balance exceptionally. His words bring a faint smile to your lips and you squeeze your eyes tight, eager to be met with sleep. You begged the Seven for a peaceful, deep slumber to distract you from who laid next to you. 

Dunk slept like a soldier. One palm cradling the back of his head as he laid on his back. He was always easy to wake, so vigilant even in sleep.

Even in moments like these.

 You woke to the feeling of coarse palms shaking your bare shoulders, coaxing you from sleep. You had been screaming, crying. The ache of your throat and the slick of your cheeks made that clear. Breathing came in shallow, jagged pants as Dunk searched your face. It was the middle of night, when the moon was hung highest. You grasped his hands, desperate for an anchor, something to ground you to reality.

Your mind remained outside that tavern, welcoming being kidnapped for all to see. Before you could stop it, raspy choked cries escaped deep from your chest. For the first time, through the blur of hot tears, Dunk seemed scared. Frightened, even. And that alone terrified you beyond measure.

 His hands seemed hesitant upon your skin, unsure of how to comfort the woman he calls Princess. You watched as he fought angered words of vexation, gruff shouts from a tender place of worry. He opened his mouth yet no sound escaped, not even a stutter. 

Dunk was no stranger to nightmares. Phantoms besieged his thoughts, his younger years stalking the halls of his memory. The harrowing vision of your attack lingered behind your eyes, the tremble of your bones refusing to ease.

A cold dread crept through your veins, thoughts scattered like startled crows. Each rapid thump of your heart struck you as the tolling of a funeral bell. Air grew thin and cruel. You gasped like a drowning man cast into a black fathomless sea, yet no breath brought me comfort.   

Muffled inquiries of assurement sat muffled in your ears, incapable of hearing Dunk through the throb of blood. You could feel each drop being pumped in thick spills, as though it was preparing itself to never pump again. Your breathing soon turned into shallow quivering whimpers, fighting the jerk of tears in your throat. Amidst the blackened veil of nightfall, you stretched forth and laid your trembling body upon his chest.

Beneath your vise-like embrace, you feel him stiffen, hands lingering aloft as though he was uncertain where they ought to rest. You clung to him like an anchor cast into troubled waters, binding you steadfast to the moment. With much hesitation, one arm rests across your back, the other clutching your head as he holds it against him. 

“Shhh, shhh, you‘re safe, sweet girl. I‘m here. I‘m here, princess.“ 

You can taste the worrisome quake in his words, panic stricken by your state. At his comfort you surrender to the whirlwind of emotion, letting raw, thick cries rack through you.

You cling to him tighter allowing your cries to unmindfully spill. The sound devastated Dunk. It tore something tender in his heart, the part of him that cherishes seeing you happy. The part of him that turns red pondering your laugh. It was all his fault, he told himself. 

His calloused knuckles stroked your wayward hair, whispering comforting words into the crown of your head. 

“I‘m so sorry…I- shhh, breathe, breathe.“ 

Your wails only grow louder against his chest, unable to shake the visions plaguing your mind. It was the rain. The same deluge that soaked through your gown as you were nearly taken from everything you love. Your hand cupped your ear in an attempt to shield yourself from the noise. And just like anything, Dunk noticed.  

He gently pushed your hand aside, replacing it with his own. His palm managed to muffle the noise far better than your own, allowing you to succumb to a newfound ease. 

“I know, I know. You‘re safe now,“ He brings you closer to your chest, dwarfing you as you lay against him. His whole torso had swallowed your form entirely, shielded from the world by his frame. Dunk had gathered you in his arms, bestowing gentle kisses upon the crown of your head. His hand stroked your quivering back tenderly, doing anything he could to provide you with ease.

Your desperate gasps began to slow, your tear-slicked cheeks beginning to dry. You felt your bearings return to you as you melted into Dunk‘s hold. 

“You‘re alright, sweet girl, I‘m sorry. Gods, I‘m so sorry for everything, princess. But I‘m here now, aye? I‘m here…“

 His soothing words are followed by more gentle “shhh‘s“, as he listlessly continues running his fingers through your hair. Once your cries had ceased mostly, you pulled away from his chest with a sniffle, raising your head to meet his eyes. 

You peered at him through the veil of tears coating your eyes, where you witnessed his fright tempered by aching affection. Dunk summoned all the strength he had to bring you solace. Though every sob that tore from you undid him. 

He shifted slightly, taking your flushed cheeks into his palms, in a comforting hold. Dunk raised your face closer to his with a wounded love-sick grimace on his face. As he brought your face closer, he closed the gap by placing slow, soft kisses on your tear-stained cheeks, your forehead and your nose. Your sorrowful pout remained as his warm lips brushed your skin, though your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling.

The act was profound in its tenderness, so full of devotion in each peck. Dunk’s heart was bent toward two sacred purposes. To keep you from harm’s way and cherish you beyond measure. 

With one final kiss to your forehead, he brought your hand to the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palm. Dunk gazed at you in understanding, watching as you tried matching his calm breaths. 

“There we go, much better. Such a brave girl.“

Your heart fluttered in your ribs at his praise, to a newfound calmness that eased the distress in your bones. You nodded at his murmured encouragements, features softening into a content exhaustion. 

“Thank you.“ 

You hardly manage to croak with a strained voice, offering Dunk a weak smile. He brought your forehead to rest against his, his breaths still deep and prolonged in an attempt to soothe you.

“There‘s no need, princess. It is my greatest honour protecting you. I would rather see myself dead than do nothing to ease your pain. From the very pit o‘ my chest, I mean it. Every word.“ 

You nod weakly at his words nestling yourself back into his warm chest. With a heaved sigh you surrender to the feeling of his hold. A soft, stable anchor in an ocean of vast cold waters. 

“Get some rest now, I‘m right here if you wake. Right here for you, sweet girl.“

Dunk whispered into the crown of your head. He knew you had exhausted yourself, fatigued by your own sobs. But his promise was not made in falsehood. He was always going to be there when you wake.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺ ༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

18+ MDNI

i think he’d suggest it, partially from a place of insecurity. we damn well know maekar is emotionally stunted, severe and war hardened. in no way does this man deem himself desirable (especially not in the eyes of his young, gorgeous lady wife) and he’d think there’s no way you could enjoy yourself in your marital bed when having to look at him. mhm yup LOUD AND WRONG

and ofc, despite the root cause, it’d turn into something you really enjoy. the anticipation, of being completely vulnerable and at his mercy? wetter than narrow sea lemme tell u

bonus points if your wrists are bound, but the feeling of him drinking you in, deciding how hes gonna make you feel good is intoxicating.

he’d wrap his strong fingers around your neck, not applying force, but just keeping you grounded amidst your pleasure. or maybe the way his tongue would linger on your skin, making you wonder where he’ll lick you next.

you can feel his gruff, labored breathing in the crook of your neck. you can feel him, his presence. yet, you are clueless to how he plans to take you

BONUS:

after being with you for a while longer, he’d grow prouder in his skin. after your relentless reassurance ofc. you’d caress him, purring sweet nothings like, my big, strong, sexy husband

hed start to miss those glossy, pleading eyes of yours and want to try something different

a new pleasure of his would be gagging you with panties. (or smallclothes ig? idk)

the sight of you writhing in his lap while he spanks you, your whiny cries muffled by your panties, unravels him.

this is also very common practice when you both visit another keep or go on a hunting trip- to avoid waking every soul in the damn building

anyway yeah those are my depraved thoughts…

MASTERLIST `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

hi everyone!! welcome to my masterlist, I plan on expanding it more soon :)) thanks for visiting !!

CROSSED OUT BLOGS ARE 18+

AKOTSK:

Baelor Targaryen

Parchment

Ser Duncan

Fetch me a stool…or perhaps a a ladder

Squeamish

Right here

Daeron

ill be good

Maekar

the quill and the anvil pt 1

Drabbles:

Maekar and blindfolds

sub!dunk x fem!prostitute reader

18+ MDNI!!

Summary: Ser Arlan takes Dunk to a brothel for the first time, insisting it’s where he’ll truly find manhood. When he falls into readers service, she decides to teach him what it means to be good

Warnings: sub!dunk, inexperienced!dunk, use of sweet/good boy, prostitution/brothel work (obviously), handjobs, oral (m!receiving), riding, begging, gentle!dom reader, fem reader, fem anatomy, typical GOT/medieval misogyny

WC: 4.5k

note: not proofread- also, sorry if this is an inaccurate depiction of a medieval brothel, idk I wasn’t there LMAO- Also, im sorry the spacing is so weird, it turned into a huge pain in the ass so I hope it’s not too weird, thx!!

“You‘ve the body of a man, but not the spine of one, aye? Bit of stubble doesn‘t make you grown.“ Ser Arlan barked into the night air, Duncan in tow. Despite his squire being the age of twenty and…something, Ser Arlan insisted he had yet to be a man. Pretty adamant on the matter, actually. Perhaps it was because he still looked upon the same hunger-ravaged lad Duncan had once been. Or maybe the youthful glimmer that lingered in his gaze. 

Regardless, Duncan was at his wit‘s end. After being berated with phrases like, you‘ve a man‘s height and a child‘s wits or, you‘re green as spring wheat and twice as foolish, what Ser Arlan deemed manhood was a riddle so thorned, not even the wisest minds could make sense of it. 

Beneath the weeping heavens, they journeyed side by side. One wandering, one bound with purpose. They marched beneath the moonless rain as one debated in the chamber of his thoughts, where the seven hells are we going? And the other debated if he‘d spend his coin on a ginger or a blonde. 

“Well now, this is where the realm stops coddlin‘ ya. Where men are forged.“ Ser Arlan remarks the brothel before them as though it was a gilded throne, eager for him to warm it. As the matter became plain to Duncan, he found himself stricken with unease. His nerves twist, restless with dread. He had been riddled with quiet torment as his eyes widened at the shelter ahead. Never had Duncan wielded a honeyed tongue nor the gleaming riches that women tended to favor. Still, coin in this establishment could succeed where his words failed. If he had any coin…  

“Ser we- I mean no disrespect but, I‘m uncertain we can afford such…service.“ Verily, Duncan was ignorant of how heavy the coin purse was. But, it‘d make a fine plea to wait outside with the horses. 

“Nonsense, boy, I‘ll buy myself the lowliest of the lot. You can spend the rest on a decent lady. The grimy ones are sold cheapest, and I‘d not shame ye with ‘em.“

To Ser Arlan, that phrase was even more endearing than “I love you“.  

A restless quiver stirred in Duncan‘s blood as he envisioned his own hand offering the coin. The notion sickened him, striking foully against the image he had long held of himself. It defied every principle, every virtue and every moral he had. Regardless of the coiling dread in his stomach, he was highly aware of the inevitability of it all. Duncan opened his mouth in protest then closed it, in hopes to find wiser words on his tongue. He had never laid with a woman before. And he didn‘t wish to humiliate himself before someone who does it for coin.

Without so much as another murmur, Ser Arlan advanced upon the entrance and strode toward the brightly lit dwelling. Well, it appeared bright amidst the veil of impossible nightfall. With unwilling feet did Duncan stagger after, his heart beset by mounting fear as the haze upon his mind faded.

His senses gained clarity. Beneath the shroud of eveningtide there stood the house as he approached. A house of ill renown and impropriety. Yet, it was garbed in such splendor that even a septon’s eye might linger upon it. The timbered walls were painted a deep crimson and wine-dark velvet hues, whilst lanterns of amber glass hung from iron hooks. It casted honeyed light upon the rain slick cobbles below. Silken banners stirred languidly from the upper balconies, and from within came the muffled strains of girlish squeals, soft laughter and the clink of silver goblets. 

Before Duncan knew what was hell and what was his reality, Ser Arlan pushed the heavy oaken door, amplifying every sight and sound from outside. The ceilings were draped with silk, sheer as a maiden‘s sigh. The gold thread glimmered like the eyes of the temptresses watching from their alcoves. Sweet perfumes of myrrh, rose and spiced wine wafted through the chill night air, entwining themselves with all who enter.  

The madame of the house was quick to greet the pair of them, yet she couldn‘t help to think it odd a father brings his son to such a place. 

“Cheapest you have.“ Ser Arlan grunts, placing coin in the madame‘s palm. Before Duncan could ask how much he ought to spend, he has nowhere to be seen, already escorted to the ‘cheapest accomodation‘. 

“I- sorry, M‘lady, I‘m new to these…dealings. What‘s the fee? And- where do I head?“ 

The madame was a mere stranger to men of gentle make and virtuous heart. At once she perceived what should be amended in him, and where he must be sent. Duncan handed her the appropriate coin with a trembling, clammy palm. The woman takes it as though it‘s life blood, nodding vaguely down the hall.   

“Eighth door to your right. Don‘t stray.“ Duncan nodded at her gruff words as though they were orders in battle. With a gulp, he began his death procession down the narrow hall. His ears were met with a growing symphony of skin against skin and restless pants. With eyes widened like silver platters, he cast his gaze from the gauzy curtains, behind which lurked filth scarcely shielded. 

“Three…four…five…six…“

He counted each curtain as his feet carried him closer to what he thought was his certain demise. After a rushed recounting, he found himself before the eighth curtain to the right. He needed to be certain it was the right one. He didn‘t want to end up with the “lowly lot“ Ser Arlan entertains. Without another moment to lose, he clears his throat, reluctantly ducking through the archway. 

The gruff sound from his throat alerted from where you lounged on your bed, tucked behind the silken canopies that shielded the bed from the rest of the room. Like muscle memory, you adjust the jewelry that sits heavy atop your skin. You then make sure your satin garment, (only worn for the sake of being taken off), sits right. Then came your speech, which also flowed from your lips like you had rehearsed it for years.   

“Right then, shed your breeches and leave your boots by th-“ Your unenthused instructions were interrupted by a sharp hitch of your breath. You finally assessed the man that stood before you, awaiting your service.

 A towering man of broad shoulders and abundant frame, fashioned strong as an oak yet fair upon the eye. His strength sat plainly upon him in the swell of arm and chest, though softened somewhat by a pleasing fullness around his mid section. His countenance was comely and warm, bearing the easy humbleness of a man often admired in tavern and hall alike. Even though Duncan found that far from the truth.

“Seven‘s bones…look at the height on you. I ought to tell someone to fetch me a stool. Or perhaps a ladder.”

You remark as you giggle at your own joke. He nodded politely at your crude comment, at an utter loss for words. Any would fail him if he tried. Still, there he remained, rigid and motionless, as though wit and will alike had abandoned him.

Tense in limb and uncertain in purpose, he obeyed what you instructed prior (only the second step), by removing his boots and leaving them by the threshold.

“You're quite the timid sort aren‘t you? May I have your name, Ser?“ You stood closer, radiant doe-like eyes peering up at him. The sight only made his words feel more scarce on his tongue. He opens and closes his mouth, anticipating sound. How would anything he say compete with your melodic, sing-song voice?

“Dunk…My name is Dunk, M‘lady.“ A flattered beam finds your lips as you blush at his formality. No man had ever addressed you as such. Somedays you were fortunate to even be referred to as “woman“.

“Please, spare me your fine formalities, Dunk, I am no lady. Unless, you have a knack for pretending…“ Your words trailed as he nervously interjected you.

“No, I do not wish to pretend anythin‘, M‘lady. You are a lady, so I‘d like to speak to you as one.“ Dunk managed to nervously choke out, to which you nodded in somewhat understanding. 

You stole a moment to gawk at the kindness he had already shown you, despite being in your room for nearly thirty seconds. As you beheld the man before you, he finally allowed himself to drink you in properly.

 You were fair in visage, (certainly the most beautiful woman he could‘ve bought his time with), radiant in youth. Your beauty was something gentle and natural, neither overworked or vain, but softly striking in its ease. Dunk thought the embodiment of grace had taken a particular liking to your form. Eyes bared bright, attentive life to them, keen as the morning sky. 

“So, Dunk, what would you have of me? Or shall I decide, since you don‘t seem forward sort?“

“Pardon my ignorance, but I am untried in these matters. Not certain what‘s…customary.“

“Well, these sorts of places don‘t demand practice. All the girls know plenty of their trade for the likes of you. So, just tell me what excites you.“

“I suppose I don’t quite know, M’lady.” He curtly replied with a chuckle on his lips. You shrug at his response, having a quiet debate in your head. What were you to do with him?

You hum, beginning to drag your nails and finger tips across his chest, spurring him on. The muscle stiffened beneath the touch, but he seemed to relish the sensation. Still, there was much more to be done.  

The idea took root in your mind, slowly lowering yourself to your knees. He appeared even taller from where you kneeled, and you appeared far smaller in comparison to his stature. Something foreign stirred in the pit of Dunk‘s stomach at the sight. 

A faint, knowing curve of your lips betrayed your feigned innocence, taking delight in his slow undoing. You shifted your attention to the hilt of the long sword that rested at his hip. It was an old iron thing, clearly worn with use and age. Your fist grasped the base of it as your face neared closer to the handle of his sword. 

“Does this excite you, Ser?“ Your sultry voice is followed by the breath stalling in Dunk‘s lungs, faltering as you drag your tongue up the expanse of the hilt. Through half lidded vision, you watch his brows furrow in what appears to be a wounded frustration. The drag of your tongue is met with the old taste of sweat from his palm, the masculine flavour going straight to the throbbing between your thighs. As he watched the lewd act, he couldn‘t help but picture the hilt of his sword as something much more…localized. 

You brought yourself back to standing, your body in closer proximity to his than before. With an audible gulp, his stare conveyed a captivated terror. As though something he had been dreaming for was coming true faster than he could make sense of it. 

“Or perhaps, this?“ You sang, eyes transfixed to where his stare lingered. As you began to fiddle with the clasps of your gown, the fabric bunched at your feet in one fell swoop. Leaving you completely bare before him, aside from the lavish jewelry adorning your form. 

Before he could reply, his rigid cock strained against his breeches as he practically drooled beholding you. You tilted your head in hopes of finding his gaze, but it proved to be futile. His eyes feasted upon the sight of your breasts, mind restless with image. How they‘d feel in his hands, how they‘d feel in his mouth. 

You took his rough hands into your own, guiding them to caress the tender swell of your breasts. The column of his throat bobs as he kneads the flesh in his palms, a muffled groan escaping him. His thumbs run across the pebbled buds of your nipples causing you tot shudder under his touch. 

As you noted his newfound pleasure, you took his hands back into yours, escorting him to your bed with an unyielding smile upon your lips. He complied, his eyes now enraptured by your own. 

You pushed him back onto the bed, surprising you slightly due to his size. He was entirely powerless under your gaze, pliant putty in your hands. His eyes peered up at you as though he was witnessing divinity. As though you were to pardon him from all worldly anguish. Unlike other men, who seek haste and efficiency, Dunk would not be hurried. He would have every fragment of time, and hold it close as though it were treasure beyond reckoning. 

You joined him amongst furs and silks in slow, calculated movements. What was once dread had now turned to fervent impatience, a yearning for only nearness. He would deem it a blessed passing to die with so much as your company, without having to lay a hand on you. 

In one swift motion your legs bracketed his, straddling him where he laid. The position somehow made him appear more helpless beneath you, completely at your mercy. Mercy you had, as you were inclined to be gentle and slow with the blushing giant underneath you.  Your nails found their rightful place a second time, mindlessly tracing lines into his tunic. 

“Do you touch yourself, Ser?“ Your keen gaze flicks to him as your lip catches between your teeth. The filthy question was spoken so innocently, so softly, he began to think he had misheard you. The question was a handy way of allowing your inexperienced clients to open up. Dunk turns a crimson that matches the silks the pile of you lay on top of. 

“Most men do, M‘lady.“ Dunk nervously chuckles beneath you, still unsure where to put his hands. For now, they would lay tensely beside him. 

“And… that means you do as well?“ The tease brought another wave of flush to his neck and ears, only making your smile grow wider. 

“Show me.“ Your order finds his ears in a silvery whisper, to which he begins to fumble with the laces of his breeches. To save him the embarrassment, you place his hand aside, shifting your attention to the tangled prison. As your fingers work the strings, his hips buck into your hand as he suppresses a whine. 

“Eager are we?“ You giggle in amusement, pushing his breeches to his ankles. For a moment, you deem yourself disoriented, that your eyes have betrayed you. You gulp in astonishment, unsure what to make of his…length.

“Your knight, Ser Arlan, you‘re certain he is not your father?“ 

“No, M‘lady.“

“Right then.“

You deny yourself a witty remark like your cock would do a better job impaling me than that sword on your hip, or perhaps, so men can just carry lances however they please? You did not wish to subject him to further embarrassment, considering it was his first time in a brothel. You wanted to give him a reason to return, you thought. 

 Dunk kicks them off, instantly taking his cock in his fist. With eyes half-lidded in languor, he keeps you vigilantly in his sight, as his hand squeezed amidst his clumsy strokes. You shifted where you laid, positioning yourself to replace his hand. His breath came in sharp exhales through his nose, cheeks redder than a field stained by battle. 

“Dunk,“ the name crawled off your tongue, “you‘re blushing in front of a whore.“ You remark with an amused tone, watching as he tries to shield his face from you. Gently, you grasp his wrist, pulling his hand away. 

“Allow me, sweet boy.“ You purr into the shell of his ear, taking his length into your palm. His breath hitches in his throat at the feeling, head thrown back against the furrs. He‘s sensitive, you note mentally. You start working him in slow, languid movements, his mouth falling open into an ‘o‘ shape. He feels heavy in your hands, finger tips just barely touching due to his size. 

“M‘not a boy.“ He grits through his teeth as you continue stroking him exactly how he showed you. To his comment, your hand hastened in speed only slightly, watching his heaving breaths grow more laborious. You remarked every twitch, every stiffening muscle. As he lost himself in the abyss of his own pleasure, he became far less mindful of his sounds. It was a pleasure to bear witness to his unraveling.

“Forgive me, Ser. It‘s a fair assumption to make, when you're so needy for me, like a good boy.“ Despite his best efforts, he seems to cherish the title, a needy groan escaping him. You buried yourself against the crook of his neck, leaving a lingering path of kisses upon his skin, as though you were marking him with the memory of your closeness. The dual sensations draw needy whines and groans deep from his chest. Your fist quickens at the sound.

“D-don‘t stop, M‘lady, mmph, feels so g…“ His words trail off as he loses himself in the sensation, pleading eyes finding your own. 

“Does my hand feel better than yours, Dunk? Am I making you feel good? Such a big strong man…so handsome when he‘s begging.“ 

The pad of your thumb drags over his slit, his hips bucking at the feeling. He nods and agrees listlessly, so enraptured by your touch. You maneuver yourself down the bed, your hand still working Dunk through his pleasure. His eyes snapped open as he felt your breath on his tip, your face a dangerous proximity to his cock.

“You musn‘t- I‘ll s-spend too soon.“ His empty plea draws a breathy laugh from you. A lumbering giant who could surely break firewood with his palms, reduced to a writhing mess beneath your touch. 

“I won‘t tell a soul.“ You whisper, swearing yourself to secrecy. To your assurement, Dunk nods vigorously, eager to feel your lips around his cock. You began by placing sloppy kisses on his reddened tip, gently licking ever so often. It was pure anguish for Dunk, growing even needier as you continued. The tip of your tongue dragged right along his slit, causing him to nearly cry out. 

“Shhh, ‘gonna take such good care of you. Just relax for me, sweet boy.“ He nods again at your assurance, watching intently as your soft lips wrap around him. It was rather challenging to deny such an offer when faced with your tempting, darling eyes. His lips part as he feels the warmth of your mouth, smothering him so sweetly. 

The feeling was intoxicating, a surge of bliss coursing through him. He whined at the sensation, carding his rough fingers through your hair. Not with the intent to force or push, solely to ground himself to the moment. 

You peered up at him through your glossy eyes, meeting his gaze, clouded with pleasure. A wistful part of his mind wished he could be subjected to the view of you every day. His reasoning warned him that such fantasies were but folly. He thought of your sweet kindness as purchased, not something he had rightfully earned. 

Through the chamber resounded the lewd strains of your mouth, rich with sinful delight, until Dunk felt his senses reel. It was wicked indulgence, yet incredibly tender. 

You grew bolder in your efforts, taking him deeper into your throat. The act was followed by wet sounding gawks coming from the walls of your mouth. His cock twitched and pulsed against your tongue, signalling you he did not make his claim in falsehood. He really was about to spend too soon. You hummed against his length, a pleased purr from your throat as his breathing grew more erratic.

“I can‘t-fuck- I‘m gonna…Gods I‘m so sorry, M‘lady,” His pleas are followed by strained groans that rattled in his chest, earning him another content hum from you. The vibration of your voice, the wet eyes boring into his, the soft tousled hair tangled in his fist, was enough to send him over the edge. He came with a hoarse, whiny moan, hips involuntarily bucking further into your mouth. Dunk had never felt such invigorating bliss in all of his days. 

As you swallowed each drop of his release, your eyes never dared to leave him. You watched as he convulsed with each spurt, his eyelids fluttering with a pleasure he didn‘t think achievable. His chest rose and fell with each quivering breath. There was something so enchanting about a man who has entirely surrendered. As his breathing slowed and stalled in his lungs, your bare form crawled up the furrs to run your fingers through his wayward hair. 

“So good for me, Dunk. Such a good boy for me, hm?“ He nuzzled into your touch as you tenderly caressed his head. Your other hand finds his flushed cheek, stroking the feverish skin as he regains his bearings. 

With one elbow propped on the mattress, you lean into his chest as you touch him. You feel the raw heat of his body as one of your bare tits press into his tunic. With a newfound courage, his palm kneads your exposed breast, groaning at the contact. A few gentle squeezes then turns into him maneuvering you on your back. 

The angle grants him access to both, nuzzling his face between the swells of supple flesh. To Dunk, air was a trifling matter. He could suffocate between your tits without a single lament on the matter. Your fingers continue gently stroking his scalp as he explores the skin. Open mouth kisses and nudges with his nose sends a pleasurable hum through your veins.

“Want t‘please you, M‘lady. Wanna be so good for you.“ He murmured with a strangled voice still buried between your tits. You gently tug on his sandy hair in hopes he‘d speak clearer. 

“That‘s sweet of you, Dunk, but I can fetch us wine in the meantime. It is not my intent to overwhel-“

Your words are cut off by a soft gasp as he begins to suckle on the tender peaks of your nipples. His tongue flicks and sucks the skin as you feel yourself writhing beneath him. Your fist tightens in his hair as he bathes them in wet heat, the suction of his lips sending blood straight to your throbbing clit. And to your astonishment, he‘s hard again. Hard as stale bread. 

The slavering sounds of his mouth on your tits fill the room, accompanied by your gentle sighs of bliss. His mouth left your tit in a wet pop, eagerly latching to your other one. In the midst of his movement, you clasp your arms around his torso, flipping him onto his back quicker than a flea on a farm dog. 

He makes a vexated, wounded sound as you find yourself straddling him again. Your tits gleamed with the slick of his mouth in candlelight, bestowing a delicious vision unto Duncan‘s eyes. You drag a finger over his lips, hushing his confused pleas. 

“Y‘wanna make me feel good, Dunk? You want this brothel to hear me cry your name?“ 

Dunk keenly nodded at your words, partial to that last suggestion. You tugged at the hem of his tunic, implying you wished to see it on the floor. Drool pooled in your mouth as you watched him comply. His muscles bulged from his flesh with every movement. 

Dunk writhes beneath you, his chest heaving as he stared at you intently. With your eyes fixed on his, you lean back slightly, your hands finding the mattress behind you. You bare your dripping cunt to his gaze, watching his pleased grin turn to a wounded pout. As he watches your slick pussy, you begin rubbing your slickness across your folds, displaying how wet he makes you. 

“See what you do to me? Need you to fill me like a good boy. Need you to fuck me so good, Dunk. You can make me feel good, can‘t you, baby?“ 

“Uh-huh, I can please you, M‘lady. Please- let me be good for you.“ 

You nod, humming at his words. Your leaking pussy hovers above his eager cock, practically begging you to sink down on it. Who were you to deny it such pleasure?

In slow, deliberate movements, you lower yourself onto him, feeling your walls accommodate him in a delicious stretch. His mouth falls agape as you sink further, a low groan rattling his throat. 

“Gods above…“ He loses the thought on his tongue as your bare hips meet his, feeling himself entirely buried inside you. A sweet moan leaves your throat as you feel him reach places none of your customers could. So thick and deep, you were completely full with him. 

Your hands take hold of his wrists, pinning them beside his head. The act startled him, his eyes widening in sweet bewilderment. You were a hair‘s length from his face, his ragged pants fanning your cheeks. The grip on his wrists tightened as you rolled your hips, feeling his tip rub against the spot inside you that made your knees limp. Your lids fluttered shut as he bucked into, feeling deeper than you had before. 

Your chamber rings with the sharp, wet slaps of skin against skin, and strangled moans. With aching knees you bounced atop him, one hand groping your tit, the other scraping its nails down the plane of Duncan‘s chest. You were pleased by the helpless groans that escaped him, hypnotized by the sight of before him. You were even more pleased by the new red marks marking his pec.

“Fuck- Dunk, it‘s so fucking big- filling me so perfect. Such a good boy for me.“ You choke out through the haze of your pleasure. Shameless moans left your lips as you bounced with a newfound vigor, taking him from tip to base every thrust. Dunk began to meet your hips each thrust, brushing your sweet spot each time. The mounting pleasure in your stomach began to coil, threatening to snap. 

“Oh Dunk, I- I‘m…mm…“

  You listlessly warned as your pleasure thrashed upon you, igniting every vein in your body. Your aching pussy clamped down on his length, a surge of wet slick coating his cock. You were slightly humiliated by how fast you managed to finish. The feeling lessened as you felt Dunk coat your insides with hot ropes of cum, a shudder racking his body. He came with a groan more strained than the last, surrendering to his pleasure. 

Soon, the only sounds that remained were your uneven breaths and the muffled commotion from the other rooms. You gaze upon the man, so spent, yet so swallowed by pleasure. 

In a rare, defiant act of your morals, you leaned down to claim his lips with your own, tenderly kissing him. His hands clasped your jaw and he clumsily reciprocated the kiss. Duncan‘s inexperience was clear, but his enthusiasm was a force of nature. 

Perhaps you didn‘t need a stool or a ladder, to take such a man

Baelor Targaryen x Maid!Reader

18+, MDNI

Summary: as a new maid at the red keep, you find yourself distracted by the lord of the house. when you begin to form a bond, he makes it his mission of rewarding you for being his most dutiful maid

Warnings: Fem!reader, reader has female anatomy, power imbalance, slightly ooc Baelor, smut, oral (f-receiving), vaginal fingering, little aftercare, slight angst if you squint, no use of y/n or name

WC: 4k

The Red Keep stood loftily, like a mountain wrought by giants. Walls of pale red granite veined with ivy, banners whipping proud against the morning wind, and gleaming windows that cast pools of ruby and sapphire light upon the halls.

You remembered the day you arrived as though it stalked the halls of your memory. The keep appeared daunting as you stood before its gate. A vast heap of stone, crawling with venerated royals, who deemed themselves Gods. Dragons, even. How ridiculous, you thought.

Despite its vile inhabitants, your labours became fairly simple as moons passed. Hauling steaming water in copper basins, beating dust from velvet draperies, polishing silver until it shone bright enough to mirror the faces of the Seven themselves. Your hands harbored an unrelenting ache, your back began to weary, and yet you held little resentment for the duties of your station. 

At night, exhausted beyond measure, you would climb into your quaint servants’s bed beneath the rafters, where the wind sighed through the stone. Yet even there, wrapped in rough wool sheets, you often stare from the narrow window at the torchlit battlements and feel your soul overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. Your upbringing was scarcely noble or opulent in any measure. No sovereign hand to guide you through youth, no monarch’s blood throbbing in your veins. Not even a lord’s, at that. You proclaim a humbler lineage, something that showed just how successful you were in your pursuits. 

Though you were raised far from the reach of courtly refinement, you carried your burdens with such poise that even lords mistook you for one of their own. With discipline and gentle conduct, that is. You answered every duty through honor, decorum, earning the respect of an unkind world. It was unheard of, to serve the house that warmed the throne, being raised in the plagued alleys of Flea Bottom. 

You attended to your station with utmost diligence, yet the King‘s eldest son unraveled the discipline you so carefully maintained. His stare tested your composure. His silvery voice compromised your restraint. His kindness surpassed those of his kin, he was a man who carried himself with a quiet intensity. It made your knees buckle beneath your own weight. The way in which he fiddled with his rings, how he‘d sigh into the embrace of his chair after a strenuous day of court.  

No labor seemed burdensome if it meant avoiding services in his chambers, study, or wherever else he tends to linger. The notion of speaking with him, even if it was solely for the sake of duty, horrified you beyond words. The few times you have spoken, he treated you kindly, looked upon you fondly. It was enough to fuel the delusions you shook from your thoughts.

And now, to your utter dread, you were bound for his study. The maid who customarily tended to Prince Baelor‘s study had been struck by sickness. Every footstep rang as a silent plea to the heavens, each fall of your foot a burial bell. Your slow procession could be mistaken for a march toward certain death, or an early pyre. Though as your trek continued, your steps did not falter. Quivering breaths racked your chest as you envisioned him awaiting you in his study. Seven above, slay me now, you think. 

You hear a gruff, “you may enter“, through the heavy oak door, beckoning your entrance. With a final huff, you gently push the door, making your way inside. 

“My Prince,“ you manage, gulping nerves as he spares you a glance. He offers you a fleeting smile, returning to the work before him. Seems like he wished to leave you to your work as well. 

You began your labours in earnest pursuit. Smoothing fine leather, arranging tomes and straightening parchment with a careful hand. Still, he taps his quill in a soft cadence, breaking your focus like a distant bell. The subtle clink reminded you of the company you found yourself in, as well as your surroundings. 

“Forgive my boldness, but I don‘t recall I‘ve seen you before.“ You whip around at the velvet hush of his voice, trying hard to suppress the scolding red finding your cheeks. It is considered unseemly to banter with servants regarding topics not revolving of duty. Still, you decide to entertain his attempt of friendliness, perhaps even familiarity. 

“There is no need for forgiveness, your Grace. The maid who often tends to your study has fallen ill, I‘m afraid. I can request another servant if it would pleas-“

“That won‘t be necessary, thank you.“ You nod, opening your mouth yet no sound escapes. As you begin to pivot on your heels, he speaks again. 

“Might I inquire who you formerly served? I take it you are newly arrived, seeing that I cannot recognize you. Unless I have failed as a prince to know all who labour in my keep. A troubling thing for any prince who would claim diligence over his household.“

“I assure you, my Prince, you are faultless in such matters. I arrived here after serving House Mormont as a ladies maid.“

“I am sorry this keep is without any daughters, otherwise I‘m certain you would do an exceptional job as theirs“ You fight a breathy laugh at his words, as you quickly give the prince your name in a rushed manner. Baelor nods, allowing you to resume your duties.

“Surely you must long for cooler winds, yes? The heat in these lands can prove rather relentless.“ You turn to face him a second time, bewildered by his fascination. None of the maids had ever mentioned Baelor being so talkative. 

“A small price to pay, your Grace. I hold this position in high esteem.“ The remark earns a small grin from him, eyes darting back to the quiet chaos of his desk. 

“The honour is mine.“ He insisted, the words finding you like a hand between your legs. Your heart fluttered like a captive bird as your knees threatened to give way beneath you. Never had you been acquainted with such temptation. Unfamiliar, insidious and lingering upon your skin like fevered touch. Perhaps Baelor is the sickness that struck the first maid. 

***

Weeks came and went since that fateful meeting in his study, and no longer did he make himself distant from you. He became a frequent presence throughout the keep, appearing where he thought he may earn but the briefest glance from you. You, well, you were bewitched beyond remedy. Beyond any maester‘s repair. Rendered weak every time your eyes snagged on his as you passed one another in the halls. You remained servicing his study intermittently through the week, earning you witty, frivolous exchanges with the prince. You cherished every moment like a popper covets gold in his pocket.

 That was until, you received word from another servant as you scrubbed the flagstone. You‘re knobby knees throbbed beneath you as your rag dug into the surface of the stone floors. A mess of suds, grime and a disregard for being on the floor.

“Sorry to interrupt, but the Prince requests your services.“

“Mine? Whatever for?“

“Well, his Grace mentioned somethin‘ about the way you arrange his parchment.“

You scoff as you set your scrubbing aside, pausing to shake your head in disbelief.

“He‘s askin‘ for yo-“

“Aye, I got that, great, thank you.“  

He withdraws himself, hands thrown aloft defensively. As he makes his trek down the corridor, you rise to your feet with a weary breath. It was the first time he had ever called for you specifically. Apprehension began to rack your body, yet it had been accompanied by a foreign warmth that coiled in your stomach. In bordered between pride and adoration for the man you call ‘prince‘. 

Your steps carried with mounting haste, carrying you onward. A joy unfurled across your features, till your cheeks burned sore from grinning. There was a rare exhilaration in basking in the prince‘s company. You were to earn yet another treasured exchange with him. A volley of wit and hushed laughter. 

The moment began the same as the last, a gentle knock to the oak door, and a grant of entry. To your dismay, your beaming smile had yet to subside. 

“Ah, there you are, I began to think you had lost your way.“ He rose from his seat upon your entrance, reciprocating the smile upon your lips. 

“Please excuse my punctuality, my Prince, I came the moment you requested me.“ You winced at the words in your mind hearing them leave your lips. Yes, you would cum if he asked you to. 

“Pay it no mind, I insist. It was my intention you would aid me in arranging the parchment cluttering my desk. Seems I have a talent for misplacing them. And I was rather delighted by the work you carried out some days ago.“ 

“Thank you, your Grace, I‘d be happy to assist you.“ With faltering steps you approach where he stood, feeling the throbs of blood in your ears grow louder. He separates himself a good distance from the desk, allowing you to insert yourself in between. A nervous huff of laughter left your lips as you felt him tower behind you, making sense of the skew of papers. 

“Just, tell me what to put where, my Prince. I‘ll arrange it in a way that will make it easier for you to find.“ He hums in approval from behind you. In truth, you had a vague idea of how this work was to be done. Scribbles upon parchment were merely illuminated by a flickering candle, the rest of the study shrouded by nightfall. You began by taking one in your grasp, raising it towards your face. 

“That one is for-“

“Trading, I presume?“ 

He falters behind you, ashamed of himself he was under the impression you were incapable of reading. Especially the cry for help he calls handwriting. He makes a small affirmative sound, encouraging you to place it in a separate pile. 

Baelor gave a silent thanks to the Seven that his visage was hidden from your sight. You had utterly undone him, reducing him to putty in your grasp. Before him stood a woman most dutiful, wise and fair, and in her presence he felt himself wholly powerless. 

“I would not willingly encroach upon your privacy, your Grace. Rest assured, I will not read any contents.“ 

“Nonesense. All trifling matters, to be sure.“ 

You nod as you continue your pursuit. All the while, Baelor feels himself emboldened by the late hour and goblet of wine he drank prior to your arrival. He was the next in line, the crown prince, hand of the king. Yet, your softness tempted him like no gold or whore could.

“The court is in dire need of a smart woman like you. I‘d like to see you prove them all fools.“ Heat crept from your neck to your ears at his praise. Similar to Baelor, you also began thanking the Gods he was incapable of seeing your face. As moments wore on, you began to grow restless as you stood. The scent of wine upon his breath crept close to your nape. And the nearness of him— Gods. Watching, waiting, left you weak upon your knees. It was near enough to wrestle with all restraint, longing to whip yourself around, claiming his lips with your own. 

“Hm. A smart prince isn‘t enough for them, I see? Or does he also happen to be a fool?“ You wished to flee from where you stood, profusely apologize for addressing him so improperly, yet the words that tumbled from your lips felt anything but shameful. Still, before you could apologize for forgetting your station, he spoke. 

“In your company, yes. The biggest fool.“ He hushes the quip on your tongue as his hands begin to snake around your middle. A claiming, tender touch, moving in closeness, rather than lustful seduction. 

“Your Grace, I-“

“Do you wish to leave? You have my sanction, if that is what you wish.“ 

All you could muster was a clumsy shake of your head, denying his claim. There was nowhere else you longed to be in all of Westeros, but the closing distance between the eldest prince and the desk of his study. As your mind grew clouded by wanton desire, you strove against the notion of yielding to such temptation. You were a maiden, yes, one with honor and steadfast virtue. You did not consort with the likes of princes, or entertain perilous engagements. 

“I must continue, my Prince, your parchments-“ Your pleas fell upon deaf ears as he swept every paper from his desk in one swift motion. In the parchments' wake, he hoisted you onto the oak desk, your dangling legs brushing against his.

“Are you aware of your own goodness? Hm? So faithful, so true of heart. I cannot recall the last time these halls were graced by a maiden of such spirit.“ 

“My Prince, you are drunk.“ You manage, eyes darting around the study to avoid meeting his blown pupils. You were weary of him bearing witness to your own, making it clear just how much you want him. 

“Only a glass. What you are seeing is not wine, it is how you affect me.“

“And how is it I affect you, your Grace?“ 

“Mm. Those eyes, when they look up at mine, eager to be of service. Your lips, and how they snag between your teeth when you are deep in focus. Or perhaps your neck, when your hair clings to it from the heat.“ You got the picture as his words trailed on, drawing nearer with each syllable. You did nothing to halt his advances, nothing to withdraw yourself. 

“Just tell me to stop,“ He murmured, a hair‘s length from your ear. His breath was warm against your neck as you reveled in the quiet debate of restraint. Your knuckles grew whiter than a sailboat as you fought against the idea of touching him. Once again, you shook your head bashfully, earning a small chuckle from Baelor. 

“Tell me with words. You‘re a smart girl, I'm certain you can.“

“Please, do not stop…please.“ 

Your words were a broken plea, a prayer against your better judgement. It was as though your restraint rang in your head like a cracked bell, and only would he relieve you of that sound.  

“Good. Now…tell me how much you need it.“ His silvery, hushed tone nearly made a mockery of you. You whined at the question, too undone by pleasure that has yet to even find you. Baelor took note of your lack of response, spurring him further.

“Shy so soon, hm?“ He hummed, maintaining his closeness to your neck, his chest flush against your heaving one. 

“Do you even know all the ways a lady can be seduced?“ The question came as a hot whisper against your ear, feeling slickness gathering between your thighs. His lips began to trace the expanse of your neck, not quite kissing, just lingering upon your skin with faint caress. The teasing wears your patience thinner than a beggar‘s purse after market day. You prevailed against your submission, and claimed his lips with yours with a fervor unbridled and dire. He groaned into your mouth as your hands made their way around his neck, beckoning him closer. It was as though a thousand unspoken vows gathered at once upon your lips, and spoken in a silence more thunderous than war drums. 

The kiss was not merely touch, but a claiming and a yielding, like crown and kingdom finding their rightful union after exile. It was a dance between two unrestrained forces. Nipping, sucking, licking, devouring. A passionate act of devotion between two souls who lost the battle of restraint. Your breath grew short in your lungs, your lips swelling entangled with this. 

You pull away panting, resting your forehead upon his. The study is a symphony of shallow breaths and the rustle of fabric. 

“May I- may I reward you…for your service?“ He pleaded through quivering breaths, eyes shut as he reclaimed his bearings. It was a rarity from him to fumble the words on his tongue, yet here he stood. The request vexated you, making your flustered mind dissect every possible act he may speak of. 

“Reward me how, your Grace,“ you paused to continue panting, “what do you wish for me to do?“ Your need for instruction draws a soft laugh from his chest. You amused him far more than he‘d care to profess. 

“I wish for you to lean back,“ he whispered hoarsely, planting a gentle hand on your stomach to recline you against his desk, “and enjoy yourself.“ He finished his thought, positioning you how he pleased. Though he provided you with simple instructions, your confusion remained the same as it was. He did not reach for the laces of his breeches, or fumble with the waistband. Instead, tentative fingers began to trail themselves from your calves to your thighs, drawing your skirts closer to bunching at your waist. The procession of his touch was agonizingly slow, a maddening pursuit of unraveling you as he pleased. With the faintest force, he beckoned your legs apart. They spread before him as you complied. You grew red at the thought of being in nothing but small clothes, quivering thighs spread before your prince. 

Before you could protest the closeness of his face to your core, he nipped at your plush thighs in gentle pinches. The mild bites drew stifled whimpers from your throat as you familiarize yourself with the foreign sensation. You were certain this act was a means of working you up, making you grow needy under his touch to prepare you. Your suspicion then worsened as he removed your small clothes, his teeth drawing the waistband down your thighs. They made a gentle sound as they became a drenched pile beside the desk. 

He drew closer to where you laid bare before him, to where you could feel his breath against the sensitive skin. You squirmed at the feeling, and also the vulnerability of the compromising position. His movements did not falter, growing closer and closer. Baelor was a refined, poised, crown prince. The next in line for the throne. Surely he was not going to-    

Yes, he did. He licked a stripe across your folds, earning him a startled gasp from you. He chuckled in response, sending vibrations down your spine. One lick turned to three, lapping at your pearl as your fingers carded themselves through his short dark hair. The feeling brought a warmth to the pit of your stomach, spreading your thighs further to his seeking. The lip between ur teeth had begun to bleed from your stifled moans. The pleasure was foreign, unbearable. 

“Mm, that‘s it,“ he rasped against your folds, “be a good girl for me and tell me how good my tongue feels.“ The last bit of your restraint dissolved through your fingers as you gasped and whimpered at the feeling. You were a squirming, wanton minx with his tongue on you, licking as though it was the only thing he knew. The joints of your knee soon met the broad expanse of his shoulders, smothering your leaking pussy against his tongue. 

“Please, Baelor…please—mmph, don‘t stop. Feels so good, baby, please.“ You listlessly pleaded into thin air as your words spurred him further. Fist tightening in his hair as his tongue worked your clit faster, you felt your eyes roll back in unadulterated bliss, unmindfully moaning at his reward. You paid no mind to how quiet you were, how you sounded. 

Just as you nearly felt the warm tension in your stomach snap, he prodded a slender finger through your neglected core, curling right against your sweet spot. The sensation made you cry out, a shiver racking through you in a wave. One finger became two as he continued suckling your clit, working you through the pleasure. You felt his mismatched eyes on you, the sight making you squeeze his thighs against his head in pleasure. 

“Your prince is good to you, isn‘t he?“ He murmured against your swollen clit as he worked his fingers with a new vigour. In response, you let out a needy, broken whimper, squirming in his hold. 

“Mmph—ah, yes…so good, fuck- so fucking good to me.“ He let out a small chuckle into your folds, amused by your attempt at a coherent sentence. Without warning, his free hand reached up, dragging the linen fabric down your chest. He kneaded your tits as they bounced, bouncing from the motion of your hips bucking against his face. Your free hand placed itself over the one he had on your breast, anchoring yourself to him as the pleasure grew relentless. 

“Bael- fuck, it‘s too much…“ Your words trailed off into needy whimpers. Baelor knew you were nearing the edge. His fingers burrowed themselves inside you at an unrelenting pace, brushing so sweetly against the spot that makes you cry. He groaned into your clit as his tongue lapped it, eager to feel your release coating his tongue. 

“Let go for your prince, be a good girl and soak my tongue.“ His muffled commands shattered the tension in the pit of your stomach, sending your body into surreal ecstasy. You shook in his firm grasp, quivering through the pleasure that snapped inside you. Moans met the stone walls in desperate mewls. As he worked you through your high, there was a shared quiet of shallow panting and raspy throats.

You felt his calloused palms find your back from under you, scooping you flush against his chest. Not a whisper stirred through the study, the shared stillness grounding you from a lustful-driven high. Despite the realm‘s decree and all surrounding circumstances, there was no shame dwelling in your heart. You laid against him, spent in the afterglow of pleasure. Cradled deep in a gentle bliss, only he could provide. 

“I hope I did not overwhelm you, pretty thing.“ He whispered against the shell of your ear, drawing a sweat-soaked strand of hair from your face. You couldn‘t suppress a blissful smile at his words, so engrossed in the endeavor of making you feel good. You shook your head in response, allowing your breathing to slow in his hold. As your arms entangled themselves around his neck, you placed lazy open-mouth kisses down the column of his throat, drawing pleased hums from deep in his chest.     

“What are you planning to do with all that parchment?“ You jest against his neck, accompanied by his soft chuckle. You both glance at the heap of papers from askew, coating the stone floors. Then, your gaze meets one another‘s. A hitch of silence passes till you both share an exasperated laugh. It felt strangely domestic, for something so forbidden. For all he knows, you‘d arrange page, after page, if it meant a glimpse into the life you could‘ve had. 

Pairing: Boxer!Ser Duncan x fem!reader

Summary: Modern AU boxer Dunk stumbles home after losing a fight, in need of mending from the worst person to ask (his squeamish girlfriend)

Warnings: Vague descriptions of wounds, stitching, bruises, vomiting (no one throws up) and boxing in general. No first name mentioned.

Word Count: 1.3k

note: first fic I hope u enjoy!! boxer dunk has me in a chokehold and I had do write a drabble on it- ALSO I have absolutely no experience with medical things whatsoever, so pls forgive my inaccuracy

Stumbling through the sleeping house like a bruised ghost, Dunk staggered through the entry with the slow sway of a fighter still hearing the crowd roar in his skull. Battered by invisible tides of ache, he made his way to your room, praying to himself that sleep had yet to take you. He needed you when his body felt like giving up. When he’s hair’s length away from crumbling beneath his own weight. You were the steady anchor he clung to, when he’s cast into troubled waters. Or in other words, the ring. Under the cold glare of arena lights, you remained etched behind his eyes, a reason to keep swinging when his body begged him to stop. The thumping in his ribs slows as you wrap his knuckles before each fight. Every cheer, every word of encouragement. You anchored him to reality whenever it threatened to dissolve between his battered hands. Except for when it involves the sight of blood. 

Sleep took you in ephemeral phases, never finding the stasis of slumber. It was arduous to sleep without him. Sluggishly, you grabbed an extra pillow, draping your arms across the cushion. You sighed, disappointed in the lack of warmth the pillow provided you with. Shutting your eyes once more, you anticipate the release of sleep. Instead, your senses are met with a clumsy attempt at stealth. Heavy footsteps, things falling. The room was shrouded by nightfall, though you had no need for light. You stirred slightly, rubbing your eyes. Before you could call out his name into the void of blooming midnight, you felt a fleeting kiss on your brow. 

“Dunk?”

”Go back to sleep, love. M‘alright.”

You pushed the heavy sheets askew, feet meeting the hard wood floor. You stand slowly, adjusting your slip. Your eyes soon adjusted to the thick, sightless dark, making out vague static images. You followed the light emitting from the bathroom, arms crossed tensely across your chest. 

”I can’t go back to sleep. I wasn’t to begin with.” You quip, approaching the doorway’s threshold. You watched as he prepared alcohol, needles and sutures with his back turned. It bore a map of dried blood and blooming purple. The sight disheartened you, leaving a frown on your lips. He paused upon finishing, hesitant to turn around. Dunk hated inconveniencing you, especially when you‘re meant to be sleeping. He carried the conviction that you belonged to gentler hands than his own, and the thought of burdening you curdled something inside him. As your relationship progressed, he became more and more acquainted with your aversion to blood. More specifically his, when it‘s leaking from places it shouldn't.  

”I’m not gonna throw up. Just turn around.”  

He turns gradually, broad shoulders slumped, anticipating a lecture and maybe some dry heaving. Your gaze finds a gash above his brow, not bloody enough to lose dinner, but enough to draw a wince from you. With a shallow sigh, you shake your head. 

°°°

Your legs bracketed the dense muscle of his thighs, a suture needle in one hand, the side of his head in the other. As you breathed through squeamish disgust, you stroked his cheek as you cradled his head. The act was more to comfort you than him, something he took note of as soon as you began. 

“You really don‘t have to, love. I mean it. I can jus-“

“No no, I…I can do this. Can‘t have you putting a needle to your face with those hands.“ You gestured to where hands grasped your waist, feeling the beaten quiver in his palms. With a defeated sigh, he reclined slowly, yielding his battered skin to your *also* shaking touch, as he watched you drift nearer in the dim light.   

“Just um…walk me through it. I’ll be careful.”

“Stick it in at the edge, then flip the needle through the skin, yeah? It should pop out the middle, and then you go through the other side.”

“Ok, right, yeah. I can do that.”

Through your terror, you comply, biting back sounds as you begin mending. You began to work the suture through the departed pieces of skin, engrossed in your pursuit. It was an added stressor you were fixing his face. Something you covet like heaven by the damned. Still, you couldn’t suppress a cringe every time the needle punctured the tender skin. But you’d take this over letting him bleed all over your sheets any day of the week. Your lip caught between your teeth, brows drawn together with something between repulsion and terror. Meanwhile, Duncan breathed through the agony with practiced grace, concealing every fraction of discomfort behind softened eyes. Any visible crack in his restraint would alarm you, in his eyes. As his hands rested on your waist, his fingers moved in small circles designed to calm your fear.

“Are you alright? How is it? Should I stop?“

“M‘fine, you‘re doing fine. Jus‘ breathe for me, love.“

The breath caught tight in your chest escaped, soft and trembling, as your shoulders slowly surrendered their tension. Your eyes bored into his swollen softened ones, and felt absurdly foolish to grieve pain he seemed to practiced at enduring. He loved being in the ring, cherished the feeling of gloves on his knuckles. And that was a pain you would have to endure alongside him.

“Did you win?“ You choke out through unwavering focus. He gives a small huff, accompanied by a wounded grimace. With a small huff, he shook his head.

“Came pretty close.“ His words came stained with disappointment, a bitterness that clung like ash on the tongue. You could see it in the way his shoulders dipped, in the subdued rhythm of his speech. He wore guilt strangely- rarely, but intensely. 

“Rigged.“ You murmur, swallowing disgust as you continue the gentle assault on his brow. He lets out a breathy laugh, planting a clumsy kiss on the inside of your wrist. As you neared the end of your pursuit, his eyes fluttered shut with a quiet tide, overcome by fatigue. The final suture tightened as you pulled the string, the wound making a uniform line. You tie it off, fulfilling the self imposed task as you exhale a restrained breath. Your chest eases from unadulterated focus, pausing, allowing your posture to go slack. A mix of relaxation and sleep depravity plagues your eyes. They settle on him, through half lidded vision. He opens one eye, checking to see if you had finished, watching as you gaze upon his features in the comfort of his lap. You met in a tender, exhausted stare, suspended in weary silence. The world around you fell into a deliberate hush, as though it had paused to witness you. Then his coarse hands closed around your back, drawing you into his chest and settling you beneath the steady rise of his breath.

“Y‘take such good care of me, sweet girl.“

“I try. I‘ll be a surgeon by the time you retire.“ You mutter into his neck, still fighting the nausea from the last fifteen minutes. He chuckles, running his finger tips along your sides. You hummed at the feeling, nuzzling into the salty skin of his neck. There were scarcely any lives you would have chosen over this one, if any at all. In the shelter of his hold, it became easy to feel sorry for those who measured existence only in money, never in closeness. What you shared with Dunk was a tender knot of ache and devotion, binding you in something quietly unbreakable.

“Let‘s get you to bed, hm?“ He rasps, as you whine out of somewhere between protest and acknowledgement. Despite being beaten to a bloody pulp, you feel yourself being scooped in arms, draping yourself across him in dramatic fashion. 

The two of you settled beneath the comforter as sleep drew you both under, you felt the quiet rhythm of each other‘s breath. Soft, steady, and entirely human. The relentless thrashing inside his skull faded into silence beneath your weight. The stadium's shrill cries and the echo of impact against his face went still. There was only you and him now, and in that small, still world, peace finally learned its name.