If you're seeing this, I loved your fic!

Baelor had always been the most responsible of the three of you. He was the very image of what a king ought to be, honorable to a fault, steadfast in his duty, beloved by smallfolk and lord alike. The realm had been blessed the day the crown was set upon his head.

But, even so, together the three of you represent the perfect combination of kings and queen.

You love your Baelor for that, for being so good, so kind and gentle in his ways. But there are times when the Iron Throne snatches him from your arms in a way that drives you to exasperation.

In times like that, it leaves you with only fragments of him. A modest kiss on the forehead or the cheek, a quick cuddle in the morning just before he rushed away to another meeting.

This time, it had been worse than most.

Your poor husband had been immersed in scrolls, wax seals, and discussions with the Small Council. And when that was not enough, the Riverlands had called for their king, and Baelor—your dutiful, noble Baelor—had gone without hesitation.

He always did.

Maekar, however, had never possessed his brother’s patience for enduring such prolonged separation from you.

They joked that whenever Baelor was gone more than a sennight, Maekar took it as a personal challenge to ensure you wouldn't be able to fit into your favorite silk gowns by the time he returned.

And just in the ten days Baelor had been gone, Maekar had been relentless.

“He's serving the realm, Maekar,” you try to ease your husband, running your fingers through his silver hair as he holds you close, all tangled up in the satin sheets of your massive be. On your other side, Baelor’s place remains untouched, the pillows smoothed and cold. “Someone's gotta do it.”

“I have no love for the realm,” he hums contentedly, his face nuzzling your neck, pressing a path of warm kisses as he slowly makes his way down to your chest. “I prefer to serve you”

His hands slide down to your thighs, intimately familiar with every detail of your skin as if it were a carefully memorized map, effortlessly lifting you up so you can wrap your legs around his waist.

He rises from the bed with you, the atmosphere in the room quickly heating up in the mood of romance and passion, but you chuckle softly when he nearly trips over the sheets that are still tangled around your bare bodies. Your arms hug his neck, demanding his lips with your own in a passionate kiss.

Maekar lays you down gently on the oak table near the bed, sweeping aside the maps and goblets that are in the way with a swish of his arm, sending them clattering to the floor to make room for you.

“Six children, and I still feel like I haven't had enough of you,” he growls in between kisses, gazing down at you from above with worshipful eyes, darkened with desire. “I might as well fuck another into you while we're at it, hm? Just one more, my love.”

It’s a familiar lie. He had said the exact same thing the last four times, swearing it would be just one more time, insisting he just loved the sight of you carrying his baby. At this point, you are certain he won’t stop until every corner of the Red Keep is filled with little silver-haired versions of himself, scowling at the world.

You laugh, a breathy little sound that gets lost against his disheveled hair.

“You're a liar, Maekar,” you accuse him, arching your back when his lips find that sensitive spot in the hollow of your neck. “You said the same thing with Aemon, and with the twins, and— and with Aegon...”

“And I'll say it with the eighth, and with the ninth if the Seven allow me,” he sighs dreamily, kissing his way down your chest.

His warm tongue drags slowly over your abdomen, his lips lingering over your womb in a tender, worshipful kiss.

Baelor finally walks into the great hall of the Red Keep, wearing a look of exhaustion and the weariness of weeks of diplomacy pressing down on his shoulders. He is still wearing his traveling cloak, fresh from an unexpectedly long trip to the Riverlands.

He is expecting silence, perhaps a glass of wine, and the comfort of your loving arms.

What he finds is Maekar seating on the floor, frowning, trying—and failing—to keep little Matarys from crawling toward a pewter jug, while Aerion tugs at his doublet and the twins chase each other around.

“Welcome back, brother,” Maekar greets him, glancing up as he brings Matarys into his arms to end his misbehavior. He looks more exhausted than if he had been fighting in three wars in a row, but still, his furrowed expression softens into a hint of a tired smile—only for it to quickly wiped away when Aerion gives his hair a sharp, unforgiving yank. “Aerion, stop it!”

“Aerion, obey your father, love,” your voice falls like that of a divine, gentle being through the hall.

And Aerion instantly complies, his defiant spark replaced by a flashing smile so sweet it could hide a thousand crimes. “Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.”

You walk through one of the hallways of the children's chambers, cradling Aegon in your arms, your hair slightly disheveled from the day’s demands, yet with a radiance of joy as you finally see your other husband.

“Baelor, dearest, how was the journey?” You walk up to him with a warm smile,and Baelor's hand finds your waist to pull you into a deep, lingering kiss, greeting you properly.

He kisses you again before he pulls back only to shower Aegon with the same affection, he kiss the babe’s brow, coaxing a bright, bubbling giggle from him.

“Painfully lonely and boring without any of you,” he answers, letting out a sigh as he sets his crown down on one of the nearest tables.

The children erupt at his arrival, a tide of high-pitched squeals and cheers as they swarm him, cheering his name with joy.

Baelor can't help but burst into hearty laughter as he kneels on the ground, allowing the tide of children to symbolically knock him down. The twins cling to his shoulders like little burrs, while Aerion scrambles up his back as if conquering a fortress. Valarr is hugging one of his hands, grinning sheepishly.

“My sweet dragons,” Baelor chuckles, bestowing kisses on the tops of their heads and holding them with a tenderness he reserves only for this dear family. “I’ve brought sweets from the Riverlands, assuming you’ve been on your best behavior while I've been away.”

Maekar huffs at that as you help him stand up, having tucked Aegon safely into his crib. As he leans slightly into your touch, you can feel the tension in your husband's shoulders melt away as he watches his older brother. Understanding, like you, that there is a strange and perfect peace in this chaos.

Baelor stands up with some struggle, a lingering chuckle on his throat as the children scrambled away, their laughter echoing as they shared the spoils of the Riverlands. He brushes the dust off his knees and turns his gaze back to you, noticing the way Maekar is hugging you close to him, both gazing fondly at his interaction with the children.

His expression softens even more, taking on a more attentive stance. His eyes move down from your beaming face to the rounding curve of your belly, which the silk dress accentuates in a way that wasn't there a month ago.

A spark of amusement glints in his two-toned eyes as he raises an eyebrow, his eyes dancing between you and Maekar.

“By the Seven...” Baelor mutters, his lips curling into a lopsided smile as he walks over to you two to take advantage of the newfound moment of privacy. Still, he is careful to keep his voice down, in case any of the little ones are eavesdropping. “I see that while I was busy negotiating grain taxes and peace treaties with the Tullys, you two have been... far more productive.”

He comes to your side to place a gentle, protective hand on your belly, bending down once more to kiss you, his previous exhaustion turning into pure contentment. You can savor the bliss that the news brings him through his lips.

“Another one, Maekar?” he still teases, attempting to feign a seriousness he does not feel as he glances over at his brother, who is clinging to you on your other side. “At this rate, we’ll have to build a new wing in the Red Keep just for your brood.”

“Someone has to populate the realm you work so hard to rule, brother,” Maekar replies with a smug little smile, his arm tightening around you with quiet pride.

“I suppose I’ll have to be very diligent to catch up to your lead, then,” Baelor whispers, making you blush with anticipation

The birth of little Baena—Maekar’s seventh child and your ninth overall—had brought a brief, blissful lull to the Red Keep. For a few weeks, the chaos was muffled by the soft coos of a newborn. Maekar was insufferably smug, walking through the halls with the beautiful babe cradled against his chest, looking at Baelor with a silent, triumphant glint in his eyes that clearly said: Seven to two, brother.

Two moons had turned after the birth, when Baelor finally clears his schedule, dumping every responsibility onto Maekar’s shoulders. No Small Council, no grain taxes, no border disputes for him.

He walks into your shared chambers and found you relaxing by the hearth, finally free of the heavy weight of the pregnancy.

“You look radiant, my love,” Baelor whispers, leaning down to press a lingering, much more intense kiss to your lips.

“I feel lighter,” you laugh, your heart fluttering as you lean into his warmth.

Baelor pulls back jus enough, his hand sliding down from your waist to rest flat against your stomach—now soft and reclaiming its shape.

“Maekar has had his fun,” Baelor says, lifting you into his arms with a strength that reminds you he is the greatest knight of his age. “And as much as I love our brother, I think it’s time the next babe looks a little more like me.”

He carries you toward the bed, his intent clear.

“Baelor! The maester said I should rest a bit longer,” you tease, your hands, very contrary to your words, are already undoing the clasps of his pretty doublet.

“The maester doesn’t have to deal with Maekar’s smug face every morning at breakfast,” Baelor rolls his eyes, laying you down on the silk sheets.

He hovers over you like some god, his gaze treating you like the open gates to paradise.

Just as he begins to trail kisses down your throat, the door creaks open. Maekar stands there, holding a crying Baena, looking completely exhausted.

“She won't sleep,” Maekar grumbles, stopping mid-sentence when he see Baelor over you. He took in the scene and let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Oh. So the King has finally put down the pen to pick up the sword, has he?”

Baelor doesn't even bother to look back, too absorbed in the fantasy of kissing your breasts.

“Take the babe to the maids, Maekar,” he commands, his skilled fingers pulling down his trousers all the while his lips continue to cover your stomach with kisses. “And don't forget the mountain of paperwork currently piling up on your desk.”

Maekar lets out a mocking grunt, shifting the babe to his other hip as he feasts his eyes in delight on the sight of your arching back, looking back at him with pleasure-filled pupils. “As you wish. Good luck to you catching up, brother—you’ve got a long way to go to reach seven.”

"t-three," you finally exhale with an impatient gulp. baelor chuckles once, mouth curling with a pleasant-looking delight. a sudden gasp jerks your lungs when he presses the pad of his thumb right into your clit, rubbing circles pressed into the button of nerves while the tips of his second and third fingers swipe at your messy folds.

"hm. feeling brave today, i see."

seven hells, you're seeping nectar, just like the fruit he had brought to your chambers this morn. the most important meal of the day, he reminded you, between feeding you wedges of fresh citrus. now here he prepares his most important spread, where he will feed and fill until you are soaked in sweat and stink of only him.

a beat stuffed full with anticipation passes. then baelor drools out long, slow-sinking lines of spit that ooze right onto your slit. he mixes the slobber with your mess, etching the your cry of his name as he glides a single digit inside your hole into his fondest memory. clenching around him, you breathe with tiny whines until he's knuckle deep.

"i…" you pant, lulling your head to the side to pout at baelor, who just raises an eyebrow. "three. i thought it was going to be three."

you feel drunk off the gentle bend of the finger inside you, slurring your words as the man pats your belly and throws a quiet tsk your way.

"none of that, now. i must take my time with someone as precious as you. just as the time before…"

he waits until you finally stop whimpering to slip in the second and third, curling them at a practiced angle. the cool of his rings sting nicely against your overheating skin, and his hand splayed at your hip to keep you from lifting to far from the bedding.

"see there, dear?" baelor pumps his hand with smooth strokes, reaching toward the depths of you with ease. the legnth of his touch can extend well past where the tips of your end during the nights when he is in counsel or away. your fingers feel nothing of the same as baelor's that your pussy threatens to swallow whole. the stretch forces your eyes to roll, and his palm grows sticky with a mess of your cream. "i told you i'd make it worth your while. everytime."

once you've fully lost your breath, baelor sinks his fingers entirely inside your heat, leaving his hand but stroking languid rolls right into a place that wells fat tears into your eyes.

"a-ah, your grace. it feels…" you pants, losing sight of the words at a sweeling build of pressure. "your sheets–sire."

a gush of liquid renders you into a mess of loud wails and clutches of the pillow behind your head. you lift into the air with a deep arch to your back, and it feels as if the only thing keeping you from floating to be one with the the gods is the arm baelor pins you with when you squirt for a second and third time.

your sounds echo, bouncing off the walls of his chambers and drowning out the even lines of reassurence baelor professes as you peak.

"that's it. that's it, empty yourself onto me. i've got you, just let it come."

you come until can no longer, your body giving out to sag with loose limbs. an inevitable twitch still jerks you every other moment or so, baelor enjoying your choppy gasps and thrown head with a surveil of poorly-contained fervor.

you, the poor thing, look as if you've been to another realm and have only just traveled back through the heat of the red waste. eventually lifting your head to blink at him through your wet lashes.

"…m-my apologies for the mess of your sheets, your grace," you croak, gulping because his hand is still weged inside you. "i've never done… anything like that before."

an easy smile warms the face of baelor, who shakes his head.

"never apologize for the soaking of my linens, my darling… just promise that, the next time, you will drench my beard instead."

tell me what u think :)

AERION

100% eye contact, he wants to watch what he’s doing to you.

because he is quite literally satan, he loves sadism. biting, slapping, choking.

drawing blood, yours or his. it turns him on to see it over your lips when he kisses you.

would definitely want you to crawl to him as he's sat on your bed, and have your eyes looking up at him with his hand gripping your jaw.

will absolutely flirt with other ladies just to get a rise out of you, and the night will end in you hate fucking.

is a selfish lover unless you begged him for it.

would edge you, no doubt about it.

VALARR

i think people forget he’s still a targaryen because he’s a sweetie pie but he still has that targaryen ego, so he definitely loves getting praised.

definitely a pussy eater

would take his TIME on you, spending hours at each part of your body to get it to react the way he wants.

he wouldn't seek to flirt with other ladies like aerion, but loves talking down your jealousy. proving to you he does not want another but you in his bed.

loves pulling or grabbing your hair, wrapped round his fist or bunched into his fingers. especially when he's receiving.

quiet, more on the whimpery side.

will bury his head in your neck when he's close, a string of curse words following.

BAELOR

#1 munch i know that’s right, this man would eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

spanking, and twisting his rings to the inside of his hand, so they leave a small imprint.

fingers in the mouth absolutely, either to shut you up or to watch your mouth work around them.

will mock you, not in a mean way, but more of a "oh, my poor girl" way.

a switch, leaning more toward soft dom.

foreplay king. will start as early in the day as he can, and lead you on for hours, until you just can't wait any longer.

brat tamer, oh my god. would let you act like such a brat all day, and fix your attitude all night.

MAEKAR

i think in his older age has become more of a bottom, though would never admit it.

loves when you piss him off, because the sex is just so much better with tension.

filthy mouth, would have you on your knees with just his words against your ear.

a little bit of a brat tamer like baelor, but he does not have the patience to let you act such a way all day. will dismiss staff from any room you're in to deal with you.

quiet, but not whimpery. more grunting and hissing, such a grumpy man even in intimacy.

will make you tell him what you want. will not do a thing to you until you ask beg him for it.

also loves hearing how he makes you feel, loves being praised for doing such a good job taking care of your needs.

DAERON

a bottom, loves when you ride him.

drunk sex oh my god.

definitely likes doing it outside, getting handsy against a tree because he just can't wait.

a softer lover, would praise everything you did, would do whatever you asked.

but is a receiver 100%.

loud, maybe to a fault, would traumatise the staff around his chambers with the sounds he would make. whimpery moans, words he thought he whispered to you but in fact didn't. he truly believes the world is yours whenever you're together.

He waits. He waits because he does everything the right way and this is no exception. He refuses to be the kind of man who loses himself before the wedding night. More than that, he is nervous. He has spent his life poised and certain, and you unsettle him in a way that is new and slightly terrifying. He desires you, and he is ashamed of the desire, of himself, of every unguarded moment when his eyes go somewhere they should not. He catches it and looks away and spends the next several hours conducting a quiet private prosecution against himself that he never entirely wins. On the wedding night, he is nervous and honest about it and that honesty is the most attractive thing you have ever seen from him.

He does not wait. Dragons do not defer to custom. The moment you give him any indication that you want him, he takes it. What surprises you is that he is gentle. Genuinely, attentively gentle, not tentative but careful with you. He pays attention to every sound you make and does not rush any of it; he wants you to beg, to need him. Afterward, he holds you and tells you quietly that now you are his, that now it is real. You understand that this was the claiming and that later he will show you what that word actually means to him.

He waits, and it's not that hard. His honor is simply who he is and he will not betray it or you. He has never hidden his desire, but he knows the difference between appetite and action, and he stays firmly on the right side of it. He is more conscious of your reputation than his own throughout; if anything came out before the wedding, it is your name that suffers more, and he will not allow that. He masters proximity, keeps his hands where they should be, though his eyes eventually wander and he stops pretending otherwise. On the wedding night, he moves unhurried and entirely certain of himself and you understand quickly that the waiting was never a hardship for him.

He intends to wait. He wants to wait. Honor matters to him in a way that is personal, and he would never jeopardize yours, but that doesn't mean it's easy. He is careful about it, deliberate, tries to avoid any situation where his thin patience might break. This is considerably hard for him because everything about you makes him want you; your laugh, the way you move, your hand brushing over his, the way you say his name, the particular look you give him when you think he isn't watching. He nearly doesn't make it on four separate occasions. He does make it, by a margin only he knows the true size of. When it finally happens, he is not rough exactly, he loves you too much for carelessness,  but it is passionate and overwhelming. Weeks of wanting come out all at once.

He tries very hard to wait and fails considerably sooner than he planned. One thing leads to another and then you are both looking at each other and the waiting seems genuinely absurd given how much you want each other. Afterward he is drowned in true Daeron guilt — thorough, vocal, slightly overblown. A few days later it happens again. He has made his peace with it. His father counts enough disappointments already and this will not be the one that breaks him. He loves you, you love him

He waits. It is not effortless but it is right. You are a lady, he is a hedge knight with only his word and his conduct to offer, and he will not compromise either. Beneath all the size and the easy physical certainty of a man who has never been afraid of a fight he is quietly shy with you in ways that genuinely surprise him, unsure how to manage what you do to him, so he leans on courtesy and caution and the occasional walk in the cold to get himself sorted. You figure this out fairly early and never tease him for it, which he treasures without saying so. On the wedding night he is gentle and checks on you so many times you start laughing. He goes red. You love him completely.

head thrown back in complete amusement as the table erupts in utter laughter upon recalling stories from earlier years. goblets of wine half full, utensils against porcelain plates and a fuming aerion across from you and maekar— rolling his eyes when valarr merely adds onto the ongoing jest against him.

‘’i remember quite vividly even now— was his name not ‘bright boy’ before it was ‘brightflame’?’’

daeron cackles which causes aerion to instantly hit him upside in the head. the entirety of the table lighting up in laughter, even your father maekar beside you— sporting an unusually lighter expression in front of every other amused targaryen. it goes on, the jesting and collective recollection of memories from the past. chewing on a piece of roasted potato, eyes glancing around before furtively placing a hand on maekar’s lap. back straightens up slightly at your touch, he gazes for measurements first then sets the goblet down and takes your hand beneath the eyes of everyone else. you ease at that, content even if it meant the need for covert.

as quickly as suns past, it had been an entire moon and a half since you’ve arrived in the keep with your family, a fortnight when the blissfully disguised affair bloomed in connection to maekar— your father.

nights spent in hushed moans and uttered oaths of sentiment beneath the safety of his covers; the four walls of maekar’s own chamber offering a sheltered space for each to voice the tenderness carried in beating synced hearts. if he adored you before, worship would be the proper description now as his arms pull you into his embrace, falling into slumber just until he murmurs how you’ve completely bewitched him.

giggling as his hand tugs you into a secluded hall after a particularly tensive meeting with the small court; feet attempting to catch the rhythm of his walk towards the edge of the hall where maekar corners you with a smirk— hand cupping your waist before he leans down to your still giddy smile.

‘’does this amuse you, dearest? seeing me at the ends of my wits?’’ lips murmuring against yours curled with humor, hand holding onto his chest now as you slowly nod. to that, maekar returns the amused look you sported, whispering again.

‘’cruel girl you are.. what shall i do with you, hm?’’

‘’..a kiss would be recommended— midnight is far too long, i crave you now, please.’’

maekar humms to the sound of your silent pleading, chest warming in true adoration you have entirely taken him with— kissing you for a second, pulling away for space at the sound of footsteps. inhaling deeply into composure as he turns to the source of interruption, clearing his throat upon catching sight of your uncle baelor— face unreadable.

‘’brother. sire requests our presence in the court chamber at this instance.’’

your eyes lands away with a look akin to a child caught between acts worthy of retribution, ears picking up the sound of the brothers leaving you with a pounding heart.

their father daeron occupies the seat just ahead of the council table, setting his goblet with a nod to his sons for their own proper seats.

‘’lord redwyne has sent a raven with the subject of proposal.’’ daeron speaks, regarding the two who sat across the other.

‘’did he now? what— has the supposed marriage between his daughter and some tully boy diffuse?’’ maekar slumps against the wood of his seat, much irritated upon the interruption of having you.

baelor eyes him with an acute look, fingers circling the band he wore before lifting his brows in an almost pull of mirth.

‘’no, brother. it has not.’’

‘’what now then? he’s a new a babe to send off in wish that one of our boys to take? mine own are not an option— neither are yours, valarr or matarys.’’ maekar scoffs with a look of insouciance, rather bored of the subject already.

‘’it is not his daughter at the end of the offer.’’ their sire quirks with the same calmness that reflected baelor’s— this odd tranquility furrows maekar’s brows.

‘’then whose hand does he wish to take from our blood?’’

silence that topples between the four walls of the chamber and over the three men plummeted maekar’s heart to his stomach in a sickening count. an instant scoff of disbelief rang almost like laughter before he sat straight with a deep clawing glare.

‘’she is of age—‘’ baelor attempts before his brother’s answer cuts him off before end.

‘’out of question.’’

‘’twenty and one, your daughter and she’s yet answered a single proposal. this is a disgraceful picture for her and for our family, maekar.’’ his sire argues but he was already sporting an even more guarded grip.

‘’she is my daughter. i will decide when she’s to marry—‘’

‘’and when do you plan that is?’’ maekar’s eyes land on his brother from across who regarded him in a glint of pressing tone. he squints slightly when a corner of his soul tugs hims with a faint warning, the kind you feel when the wheels of your fortune meets the primrose path. gripping his tunic without breaking gaze, he leans forward into baelor before uttering in a shade of possession:

‘’the affairs of her does not need neither your concern or father’s— but mine own.’’ he underlines with certainty that baelor can not help but to feel the crack of his neck with a restrained ragged sigh, watching his brother march out of the council chamber, leaving only the slam of closing wood and a lingering feeling of utter bitter spite in baelor’s chest.

the rise of moon over the realms brings an even somber bubble to maekar that pops upon hearing the sweet startling noise from yours when he drags the lock on your door. silk nightshift hugging your form he can not but find himself burying his head to the curve of your neck, arms holding you in proximity before your ears picks up his heavy sigh. that alone softens you into maekar’s preferred tone of speaking— his silver hair brushed gently by fingers.

‘’what troubles you, my heart?’’

he inhales, tightening embrace answering your question without word, and you’d allow it— allow him for the kind of comfort he rarely demands. the bed adds onto maekar’s ease, still mute with closed eyes you could have mistaken it for slumber; still brushing his hair feebly while your lips whisper against his temple in soft pecks. it’s only when you feel fingers pulling down a strap of your silk that announces his very conscious state, lips wrapping around the expanse of your breast that it slips your mind out of worry in replacement of a faint moan. maekar sucks on the pillow of your chest, mewling when he tugs you even more with his own small grunts. he does so for however long he desire, realizing quickly he regresses upon sensing your gentleness— in which maekar’s able to be anything but a man baring anchored shoulders.

limbs tangled in a sort of twisted innocence in rest that night. the gods above watch how one brother dreams of you with a curated motivation in subtlety while the other has your arms around in true affection— they flip a coin instead.

the keep is much hotter now that summer settled in complete much to your despite, eyes rolling and quite irritated as your maiden ushers a shawl to drape over barely covered shoulders— shrugging it off with a sigh that she quickly nod her head to in obeisance. the gardens were no alcove from the beaming heat that takes over the realm. hearing voices as you near, catching sight of your cousin valarr picking from a tray of delights served by a maid.

‘’is it cherry pastries you still flock to?’’ a smile on your face as you pick up a small bar of sugared apples, humming in content as he returns your gaiety through words.

‘’when has it changed? i am a man now with preference to childlike flavors.’’

that causes you to laugh, taking more of the apple to bite before both feet lead towards a walk.

‘’betrothal treats you well, i see.’’

‘’kiera is lovely.. she is, without demands.’’

the sea breeze surrounds your lungs in freshness, a kind wind blows in relief gesture from the torturous almost sun save from the clouds. you nod your head to valarr’s words, a small smile curls your lips to response— glancing at him.

‘’that pleases me, cousin.’’

‘’i wish to say the same for you.. soon, i hope.’’

it’s there, the implication of both the reminder of age and stationary responsibility to have your hand taken for some lord of the realm to kiss and to devote and possibly express what you could only grimace in thought— sickening contrast to the man you had in head.

you merely glance away and decide the lemon bars on the tray were much easier to digest in flavor instead of valarr’s innocent words— both of your heads turning at the sound of a familiar voice.

‘’my son.. leave me with her.’’ baelor nods, both the maid and your cousin following while you slowly chewed the pastry— wide eyes watching them inching away.

‘’your grace.’’

‘’uncle. that is twice now.’’ he humms, beside you by the overlooking part of the greenery.

‘’apologies.. it slips my mind at times.’’ swallowing the citrusy on your tongue in reply.

for a few heedless moments, baelor takes in your features beneath the sun, eyeing exactly the beauty you emitted without effort; touched by the light, kissed by the wind and enveloped by the blue of your gown. you do not notice, much occupied with the lemon bar you finished by sucking fingertips clean to savor— unbefitting for a regal member but so thrilling for his deviant flutters.

turning your gaze to him, shying away in realization of your action— laughing softly before smoothing the fabric of the gown. unaware that he was devouring you entirely in his mind.

‘’you are pleasant in the eyes, niece.’’

you blinked with slightly parted lips, stunned by the suddenness of compliment from your uncle— whom had been recognized as a man of honesty.

‘’..that is twice now, uncle.’’ mirroring his previous words with jest, your arrival in the keep flashing in both heads causing a collective genuine chuckle out of the two. baelor swallows the abhorrent thoughts in replacement of a hand lifting to brush a few crumbs away from your lips.

‘’i’d like for you to join me in my readings. i find your voice soothing for aid in regards to books— perhaps you may learn a thing or two.’’

the lilac eyes he holds himself back from kissing follows the movement of his hand after, he sees how they flash with hesitation. so before you could utter a response of possible decline, he takes it upon himself to decide— using his power in his favor, walking away after one finality.

‘’after supper, my study.’’

and supper arrives, the whole of family once again in a meal where light conversation flows in an attempt to grasp at normality above all the surrounding tragedies of shadowed whispers— baelors eyes never strays from you for long, itching the end of the gathering but remains calm regardless. meanwhile, maekar remains mostly silent, saving himself from even a chance of vexation because he can not— will not admit the truth of ire stringed from how his brother had taken in look when they’ve last spoke in the council chamber. then the gods seemed to decide which brother attains favor when everyone begins to stand and baelor nods his head to you— maekar already piqued darkly upon your marches beside his brother out of the banquet.

‘’..whose name they deemed ‘realm’s delight’ far before it veered into much dimmed light upon the following events of her brother’s own usurping.’’ you read aloud in tone that rises goosebumps in climbing to baelor’s spine— he sleeves them in the way his fingers grip the quill in writing.

‘’go on.’’

‘’princess rhaenyra targaryen was king viserys’ first born child— thus earning her inheritance of both the throne and the title ‘queen’ which sparked controversy throughout the realm. it is said that her husband, daemon targaryen, her father’s brother and her own uncle that set the crown upon her head after the passing of her predecessor.’’ eyes scanning line to line beneath the flickering light of the candles swaying, lashes fanning in soft blinks before your turned your head upon baelor’s low murmur:

‘’our ancestors— the two, did you know?’’

slowly, you shook your head yes with returning low response.

‘’yes.. i have read in a book before— aerion’s interest in our ancestry helps for he’s taken with dragons.’’

‘’that he is.’’ baelor continues to write, dipping back to ink before setting it aside to lift his gaze across to you— two colors, but one prey.

‘’tell me what you think of them.’’

‘’of rhaenyra and daemon?’’

‘’of their marriage.’’

it’s charging, the air around the room, baelor’s look does not offer aid in any manner— so you bestow your eyes back to the page with a whisper, almost.

‘’..i suppose i know too little to form my own sayings.‘’

‘’tell me.’’

you glanced back to him after his persuading, inhaling sharply with a small nod.

‘’..i’ve read their marriage of old valyrian tradition. how it is done with their blood conjoined through a kiss before the gods— that it seals their souls for eternity.’’

‘’and what of them?’’

‘’..i am not following, uncle—‘’

‘’their relationship.’’ he sets in clear, head tilted slightly as baelor regards you with the patterned thrilling look that sets you uneasy.

‘’..we’ve certain particularities in contrast to the other houses of the realm. they say we’re closer to gods than to men for our dragons.. only our features left now.’’

‘’that is right. and the other factor that excludes us— name it for me.’’

the furrow of your brow reminds him of maekar, softer than a scowl but still guarded like his brother was— it makes baelor grip the rings on his fingers slightly, lips wet from licking.

‘’..we marry within the family.’’

he humms, allowing you a second to breathe away from the eyes that chained you to the seat across from his— it is momentarily, for he rises from his own and circles around to stop until to grasp the curve of your jaw where it meets the skin of your neck. baelor reminds himself of constraint, lacking slightly but there nonetheless.

‘’i want you here again in the morrow. and the days that follows— your company is necessary for my thinking. you wish to help your uncle, do you not?’’

‘’but my responsibilities to my younger siblings—‘’

‘’the maidens will help.’’

‘’and of my station? i am a princess—‘’

‘’you are, and by being here will shape you so.’’

‘’but my father—‘’

there it is. the very reason he can not stomach hearing from your lips he desire.

baelor’s a half-second flash of restraint, exhaling the bile of envy in his throat for a show of practiced quietude that he performs by caressing the cheek of yours.

‘’my brother will not be deprived of your care, niece. but i demand you here not as your uncle, but as your prince.’’

to that you stared back in a state of shielded shock, unable to control the broken gasps of air, nodding instead for careful stepping.

‘’understood, your grace.’’

‘’good. now rise, i will walk you to your chambers.’’

it’s less and less moments together, more and more increasing irritability maekar handles each day that he senses what he deems can not be. baelor, his own brother, it seemed has grown a sort of not-so-unpremeditated habit to tear away the strings of his sole column left— his last drop of elation where glass is now marked inch by inch by a hand that is not his own. it’s unpleasant, both feeling and sight to have you stripped away by his own brother— and maekar is reaching the sharp edge of his forbearance. specially now that an entire week had been stolen from him in your embrace.

a view into those days could have maekar’s dagger near pressing baelor’s throat in utter dominion: eyes swallowing every movement of your breathing chest, lips that reads the words written in pages and temple kissed every night he sends you off to your chamber. baelor furtively take great pleasure in having your company to himself— much aware that his time was ticking both from above the gods and with his own brother.

it is not as if baelor’s subtle advances had not meet acknowledgement, in fact, it is the latter. a rather revolting indulgence in your part for his stares rend you always in flushed skin, his tracing touches that prolongs with unencessity welcomed through fluttering blinks and his inconspicuous whispering met with your own prudent ones— curiosity is what you’ve named it, a dip below dark murky waters. all innocent, as you’d described: but you are a smart girl, far too wise to distinguish that this curling interest is fleeting while maekar was lasting. how noble.

it does not take long until maekar’s first retaliation to pursue, a short away from utterly forgetting his own self retained poise if he was to be nicked another day from his beloved.

it’s comical in this sort of setting, having both brothers unknowingly step into the garden where you stood admiring the collection of swaying petaled beauties with an apple to snack. you’re far too drawn in both the taste of sweet and the lulling atmosphere a sunny day offered in your preferred locale to note that maekar steps foot before his brother could in your direction— face almost vigilantly veiled until he speaks:

‘’i have seemed to find you much taken by my daughter these days.’’

‘’i require her assistance in between sittings in my study. a way to prepare her for stationary demands.’’

‘’she needs not devising this early, nor a time soon to come. it is unnecessary for she is far from regal duties much like ours.’’

‘’it is not what i said—‘’

‘’but your fucking implication of her time is. her siblings requires her more—‘’

‘’do you speak for your children or for your own?’’

baelor cuts quite sharply with a reciprocated indignation, both their eyes mirroring a sort of ill-tempered provocation for the other to speak what remained a mere scalding veracity of collective impulse to grasp what belongs entirely to no one but merely favors a side more.

your eyes take in the suffocating measure between the two as your steps break their momentary quiet rivalry. maekar’s fast with a hand on your wrist, pulling you for him until baelor takes the other for the same reason.

‘’i— what is the matter?’’ you voiced at the two men who continued such childlike childishness as if you were a toy to possess. they do not reply for a second, only cold stares sent to themselves until baelor breaks first:

‘’let us be on our way for my study.’’

‘’i wish your company in a walk.’’

the gods above were surely laughing at how pathetically ruined it begins at the ends of these men as brothers, it does not help that you’re regarding them in such keenness that it resembled a mother— their mother’s disapproving gaze upon catching them battle as boys. how completely entertaining. but alas, their mother may have preferences in her children, with baelor— but you were not myriah in any concern.

freeing your wrist from your uncle’s hold, maekar pulls you with him with haste in steps. clasped hand around the tiny of your wrist much gentler now that distance takes in place from his brother baelor and diminishing towards his chamber.

baelor stood with an eery shade of calmness, kneeling for a second to pick at the fallen apple of yours before he rises back to his posture— thumb tracing the proof of you before he takes it upon himself to bite exactly where your lips had pressed. filthy, bitter musing while he allows the sweet flavor to seep through with sordid telling of what his rotten craving intel’s— a sickening view for anyone to see but he cares not, only watches you gone with another man. such description to express, but ‘brother’ was no longer pleasant for baelor to whisper.

the wood of the doors creaks in a groan mimicking maekar’s when his lips meets yours in a kiss, hand already stripping you of fabric the second the lock takes in place. and you kissed him back with the same tone of hunger, days of deprivation completely tipping over the glass of rimmed need that spills entirely in moans like yours when he sets your bare form atop of the sheets— head descending into peppering your skin with his lips just until he meets your core with a growl.

and your moans, gods above help maekar from utterly descending into madness like a true targaryen. his tongue was relentless in ways he knew you’d enjoy, perhaps a tint more selfish that it seemed as your pleasure was his own to feel. fingers pulling at his silver strands, back arched into a familiar curve while his hands fondle with your breast and grip onto the softness of your hips. obscenity in show of true perversity— both you and maekar.

two highs, he notes. two before you pushed at his shoulders with a whine akin to sobbing— glossy pleading gorgeous eyes and tinted cheeks and kissable lips entirely melting him into a man too captivated by his beloved to refuse. pretty pretty face of yours cradled by his hands, a smile on his wet lips before his kisses you again in a light of benignity.

‘’my sweet girl— you have beguiled me truly.’’

the positions switch and so does your hunger, because one second you were wanting more in a state of submission, the next he was beneath you in bare giving— holding onto his broad shoulders you so wanted in vile honesty. maekar’s head digs into the pillow when you sheath into him, his moan urges you to move your hips out of sheer lust fueled by time stolen from both of you having this feeling again.

it’s filthy, it’s prurient, it’s indecent, lewd and absolutely raw the sounds that both of you produced. wet slicks from where you connected emitted a kind of pleasure that’s dizzying in an unearthly feel. maekar’s greed possess him by pushing you into the sheets, back into him while he fucks his cock into your needy cunt— moans mixing in an unholy melody. an arm to balance himself while the other wraps around to grip your turned blissed face to his.

‘’did he touch you? baelor, did he—‘’

‘’no! not more than a kiss to my head!’’ you mewled, feeling the entirety of his thrusts deepening at the question— you welcomed it with wetness. his hips against the curves of your ass sets him ablaze, losing himself in the pleasure your body offered willingly.

‘’and you enjoy them? tell me—‘’ his groan rumble from his chest to your pressed back, eyes closing in complete pleasure and perhaps.. truth. because indeed you had not mind them, maybe even liked the attention your uncle showered you with but baelor was not your father; he could never be in any sense that exists— and so you shook your head with a whimper.

this undoes maekar’s last possessive control, marking your shoulder and neck with his bites before you feel his warm hand press against your womb— his next murmur sending a sick permitted shiver in the crevices of your being.

‘’i ought to fill you with a babe, shouldn’t i? reminder enough that it is i you desired first.’’

such perversion compels ruin to both of your sweaty forms, his chamber a witness to the exact certainty on which maekar fills himself into your flesh in white oath that he renews with more fueled lust that leads to more sinful rounds.

syncing hearts and panting echoes the walls when he slithers your form close, lips loving on the flushed pretty skin of your expanse until they meet your parted lips in a single whisper— paralleling a jagged reminder.

‘’you will always return to me.’’

because maekar may not have felt the loving caress his brother reveled in during their youth, he may not have received the equal footing caused by his features as boys— but he loved his brother baelor regardless. enough to pardon the mistreatment, but insufficient in regards to you.

maekar does not need knowing, not when it is bliss he feels at the ease of your arms around his form after the particularity of your acts that bounds you to his soul unneeded of words.

but the other brother recalls exactly how you’d allow his lips to near yours one night before the doors of your chamber. baelor relishes to the memory of the hesitance you showed when he takes almost the feel of ownership maekar must sense in his chest every night at the kisses shared. it’s devine, the look on your face upon pulling away just a feather from baelor’s lips— loyalty to your beloved father far too anchored in the depths of your true heart. yet, he keeps it safely in the corner of his mind. baelor replays such souvenir while his hand wraps around his own cock seeking for relief. but you were merely a lady grown, and such pursuing from a man may not have taken roots, but it surely has sprouted into a kind of thought in shades of hedonism.

the gods must be truly delighted now as the coin lands on their final virtue: a bitten apple is saccharine to hands it falls ripen to— and you were nothing but maekar’s sweet girl and baelor’s fragrant resolve.

fin.

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baelor "breakspear" targaryen

physical

— he rests a steady, heavy hand on your shoulder to anchor you in a crowd. it is the touch of a man used to the weight of plate armor, yet it is never overbearing—simply a constant reminder that he is standing right beside you.

— always presses a lingering, chaste kiss to your temple before he leaves for the small council. it is a brief moment of softness, sustaining him through hours of grueling bureaucracy.

— often seeks out your hand under the table during long, exhausting feasts. while the high lords drone on about grain yields and border disputes, his calloused fingers lace through yours, grounding you both in the shared secret of your proximity.

— he pulls you into his side during private walks in the gardens, instinctively matching his long stride to yours so that you never have to struggle to keep pace with him.

— he lets his head drop onto your shoulder when he is finally away from the public eye. in that quiet slump of his shoulders, the prince finally lets go of the realm's weight, trusting you to hold him up for a few stolen minutes.

— when you cuddle, he sits against the headboard with you tucked between his legs, your back to his chest, as his arms form a heavy, warm circle around your waist.

— he’d rest his chin on the crown of your head, his breath steady and rhythmic against your hair.

— his hands, scarred from tourney lances, remain still and grounding against your stomach.

— he speaks in a low, tired murmur about the day’s peace, treating the moment like a rare sanctuary.

— occasionally presses his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if recharging his soul.

— he stays awake until he is certain you are asleep, unwilling to let go of the vigil even in rest.

non-physical

— he shares his heaviest political burdens with you, laying out the complexities of the blackfyre aftermath and trusting your sharp mind to navigate the nuances as much as he trusts your heart to guide his conscience.

— remembers the smallest, most granular details of your comfort, like ensuring your favorite tea or vintage is always stocked in your chambers without you ever having to ask a servant.

— he gives you his full, undivided attention when you speak, physically turning away from sycophantic lords and ambitious knights to signal to the entire court that your voice is the only one that truly matters to him.

— defends your reputation fiercely behind closed doors; even among his closest advisors, he never lets a single slight or dismissive comment pass, always guarding your honor.

— he views you as his genuine equal partner in the daunting, often thankless task of ruling the seven kingdoms, never patronizing you but instead seeking your counsel as the pillar of his prospective reign.

maekar targaryen

physical

— he offers a stiff but protective arm for you to lean on whenever you are in public; his muscles are like coiled springs, ready to move at the slightest hint of trouble, yet he remains an immovable pillar for you to rely on.

— gives your hand a single, bruisingly tight squeeze when he is feeling overwhelmed; it is a brief, silent confession of his internal storm, a moment where his iron composure slips just enough to let you feel how much he needs your presence.

— he allows you to lean against his chest while he reads over war maps or ledgers. the rhythmic thrum of his heart provides a steady cadence to the scratching of his quill, turning a cold room of strategy into a private sanctuary.

— brushes soot or dust off your clothes with a hand that is surprisingly light. the same fingers that can crush a mace handle move with an unexpected, reverent gentleness as they trail across your shoulder to ensure you look your best.

— always keeps a firm, proprietary grip on your waist while guiding you through a dark or narrow corridor; he steers you with the precision of a commander, ensuring his body is always the first to meet whatever might be lurking in the shadows.

— when you cuddle, he lies on his back like a statue, and you drape yourself over his side with your head on his chest and an arm thrown across his torso.

— he doesn't move a muscle, fearing that any shift might disturb the fragile quiet between you.

— his hand rests heavily on the small of your back, his fingers twitching occasionally as he relaxes.

— he listens to the contrast between your soft breathing and the hard thumping of his own heart.

— grunts softly when you pull closer, a sound of gruff approval he would never admit to aloud.

— e keeps his jaw tight until the very last moment before sleep, finally letting the tension melt away.

non-physical

— he expresses his love through hyper-vigilance, constantly checking your surroundings for threats; his eyes are always scanning the balconies and doorways, treating your safety as the most vital campaign he has ever overseen.

— handles all the "ugly" chores of the household so you never have to deal with them. from settling disputes with disgruntled servants to managing the gritty details of the accounts, he quietly removes every thorn from your path before you even know they exist.

— he listens to your advice with a gruff, singular nod, which serves as his highest form of praise. in a world of silver-tongued flatterers, that silent acknowledgement proves he values your mind above all the lords in the realm.

— carves out "fortified" time for just the two of you, away from the clamor of his many sons; he treats these hours as sacred ground, defending them against the intrusions of the court as if he were holding a castle under siege.

— he shows his deepest vulnerability by admitting his fears of failure only to you; beneath the mask of the stoic prince, he reveals the heavy burden of his own expectations, trusting you alone with the parts of himself he deems "weak."

duncan the tall

physical

— lets you use his arm as a literal pillow while you sit by a campfire; despite the strength in those muscles, he remains perfectly still for hours so as not to disturb your rest.

— he instinctively ducks his head and shoulders down so you can easily reach to adjust the clasp of his cloak or touch his face, never wanting his height to feel like a barrier between you.

— holds your hand with such extreme, focused gentleness that you would think you were made of the finest glass, his large fingers curling around yours with a reverence that masks his true strength.

— would give you a sudden, bone-crushing hug when he is overcome with happiness, lifting you entirely off the ground and spinning you around as if you weigh nothing at all.

— always rests his chin on the top of your head while you stand together, finding a rare sense of peace and quietude in the way your smaller stature fits perfectly against his chest.

— when you cuddle, he lies on his side and curls his frame around you, making you feel entirely shielded from the world.

— he worries about his own size, constantly adjusting his long limbs to make sure he isn't crushing you.

— tucks his hands under his own chin or rests them gently on your shoulders.

— he’d let out a long, whistling sigh of relief, glad to be away from the prying eyes of everyone.

— often nudges his nose against your temple, offering clumsy but sincere affection.

— he feels a bit like a great dane, taking up most of the bed but wanting nothing more than to be near you.

non-physical

— he spends his quiet hours on the road carving small, intricate wooden trinkets or gathering a handful of wildflowers for you, offering these humble gifts as a silent testament to his devotion.

— tells you rambling, honest stories of his childhood in the gutters of flea bottom, sharing the raw and hungry parts of himself that he hides from the high-born knights of the realm.

— he asks for your permission and insight before making any big decisions, genuinely valuing your "common sense" over the convoluted logic of lords and maesters.

— worries constantly and vocally about your hunger, thirst, and fatigue, always ensuring you have the best of the rations and the warmest spot by the fire while putting his own needs last.

— he views you as his only true "home," carrying the feeling of belonging with him across the seven kingdoms as long as you are by his side, no matter where you happen to be sleeping that night.

valarr targaryen

physical

— he enjoys the slow, methodical process of brushing and braiding your hair; he treats every strand with a ritual of devotion, his fingers moving with a practiced grace that turns a simple task into an intimate ceremony.

— he maintains a quiet, constant sense of contact whenever you are seated together, whether it is a foot hooked over yours under a table or a hand resting warmly on your knee to keep you grounded in his presence.

— kisses your palms and each of your fingertips with a refined, courtly grace; these are not just gestures of affection, but silent vows of service that he offers up as if you were his only sovereign.

— dances with you far longer than court etiquette or social obligation requires, ignoring the whispers of the great hall just to keep you spinning in his arms for one more song.

— he pulls you into a slow, quiet embrace at the end of every grueling day; he holds you until the tension leaves your shoulders, claiming that your presence is the only thing capable of "washing away" the grime of the court.

— when you cuddle, you lie face-to-face, fingers intertwined and foreheads touching in the center of the pillows.

— he traces the lines of your face with his thumb, memorizing you with a soft, focused intensity.

— whispers small, private jokes about the court to hear the vibration of your laugh.

— he keeps his touch light and graceful, as if he is afraid you might vanish if he grips too hard.

— closes his eyes and hums a faint valyrian melody until you both start to drowse.

— he always looks at you with a mixture of adoration and the heavy weight of his future crown.

non-physical

— often writes you poetic letters filled with high-flown metaphors and earnest longing, sending them by page or placing them on your pillow even when he is only in the next room.

— he plans elaborate, breath-taking surprises to brighten your mood, ranging from hiring private lysene musicians to play beneath your window to sourcing rare, sugared delicacies brought across the narrow sea from essos.

— he‘d talk openly and vibrantly about your future children, weaving a shared dream of a perfect family and a legacy built on the same love that anchors your lives together.

— treats your opinions on court fashion, music, and the arts as the ultimate authority, deferring to your taste above that of the most celebrated masters and curators in the Seven Kingdoms.

— makes you feel like the most beautiful and significant person in the world simply through his constant, unwavering gaze; even in a room full of the realm's highest nobility, his eyes never seem to land on anyone but you.

lyonel baratheon

physical

— he pulls you onto his lap without a moment’s warning, letting out a booming laugh at your startled expression while holding you steady against his broad chest.

— gives you playful, affectionate nudges that are meant to be light, though they carry enough strength to nearly knock a lesser person over if they weren't expecting his touch.

— he keeps a heavy, proprietary arm draped firmly over your shoulders in every social setting, effectively marking you as his own and drawing you into the center of his orbit.

— finds joy in the physical closeness of movement, often initiating lighthearted wrestling or play-fighting just to feel the strength and agility of your body against his.

— kisses you loudly and firmly with a grin on his face, entirely uncaring of which lords, ladies, or servants might be watching his exuberant display of affection.

— when you cuddle, he pulls you into a chaotic, exuberant sprawl, usually with his limbs tangled messily with yours.

— he shakes with quiet laughter as he recounts his latest tournament victories, his enthusiasm radiating off him like heat from a fire.

— his grip is boisterous and firm; he might suddenly squeeze you tight just to hear you gasp or laugh along with him.

— he makes sure you are warm, dragging every available fur or blanket over the both of you until you’re in a literal nest.

— cuddling with him feels like being caught in a summer storm—intense, loud, and full of life, leaving you feeling invigorated.

non-physical

— he makes you the undisputed guest of honor at every feast he hosts, literally shouting your praises to the rafters until every soul in the hall is raised in a toast to you.

— shares his tireless, boisterous joy with you at all times, making it his personal mission to ensure that you are always laughing and smiling by his side.

— brings you "trophies" from every hunt or tourney tilt he enters—offering up massive antlers, silken favors, or gleaming golden cups as tributes to your influence.

— he trusts you implicitly to keep his legendary temper in check, knowing that a single, grounding look from you is the only thing in the seven kingdoms capable of calming his fire.

— he views your entire relationship as one grand, sweeping adventure, frequently telling you how lucky he feels to have a partner like you for the wild ride of his life.

daeron targaryen

physical

— he clings to you with a desperate intensity when he wakes from a harrowing nightmare, pressing his ear against your chest because he needs to feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of your heartbeat to ground him in the waking world.

— holds your hand tucked securely under his chin while he rests, using the familiar warmth of your touch as a natural sedative to quiet the storm of thoughts that usually keeps him from sleep.

— hides his face in your lap to block out the harsh light and the noise of the world, seeking the darkness of your shadow as the only place where he can truly let his guard down.

— would trace the intricate lines of your palms with his thumb for hours, lost in a deep, melancholic thought as if he is trying to read a different kind of destiny written in the skin of your hand.

— often leans his forehead against yours in a long, silent moment of shared breathing, closing his eyes and letting the rest of the seven kingdoms fade away until there is nothing left but the two of you.

— when you cuddle, he collapses into you, his head in your lap or his face buried in your shoulder, seeking a shield from his own mind.

— clings to you with a slight desperation, his fingers hooked into your clothes.

— he mutters half-remembered dreams and worries, seeking the comfort of your voice to drown them out.

— he smells faintly of wine and old parchment, his movements slow and lethargic.

— finds peace only when you run your fingers through his hair, smoothing out his constant frown.

— often falls into a heavy, dreamless sleep only because he feels safe in your presence.

non-physical

— shares the heavy, terrifying burden of his dreams with you, trusting you with the secrets of his subconscious and believing that you are the only one who won't view his visions as madness.

— makes soft, self-deprecating jokes just to see a smile cross your face, sacrificing his own pride to lighten the mood even when he is feeling the weight of the world at its lowest.

— he gives you his "real" self when you are behind closed doors, stripping away the cold, polished armor of a prince to reveal the vulnerable, weary man who exists beneath the titles.

— creates a "secret world" for just the two of you—a mental and emotional space where the pressure of ancient prophecies and the demands of the throne simply do not exist.

— he values your presence as the single most important thing in his life, often confessing that your love and companionship are the only things that make his difficult, haunted existence truly worth living.

aerion "brightflame" targaryen

physical

— he utilizes a sense of "ownership" as his primary form of intimacy, often maintaining a firm, bruisingly tight grip on your arm or waist to ensure everyone in the room knows exactly where you belong.

— he demands that you perform the most basic tasks for him, such as feeding him grapes at a feast or helping him dress in his finery, perverting these simple acts of service into a public display of your total closeness to him.

— forces unwavering eye contact during your most private moments, physically holding your face between his hands with a demanding pressure until you look at him—and only him.

— kisses you with a frantic, desperate hunger that frequently borders on aggression, as if he is trying to consume your very essence to fuel the fire he believes burns within his own blood.

— he has a strange, recurring habit of pressing his fingers against your throat or wrist to feel your pulse, watching you with a detached fascination as he studies what he considers your "mortal" warmth.

— when you cuddle, he pulls you back against his chest with a sharp, sudden tug, his arm snaking around your waist like a heavy iron band.

— he rests his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing hot and uneven as he mutters about his enemies and his divine right to rule.

— he hooks his leg over yours to pin you down, ensuring you cannot shift or create even a sliver of space between your skin and his.

— his fingers twitch against your ribs, tracing the line of your bones with a frantic energy that never truly settles into peace.

— demands your total stillness, treating your body as a silent, warm anchor for his own chaotic and high-strung mind.

non-physical

— he frequently whispers that you are the only soul in the seven kingdoms worthy of standing beside a "true dragon," isolating you from others by elevating you to his own delusional pedestal.

— he shares his grandest and darkest ambitions with you, laying out his visions of power and transformation while expecting you to serve as his silent, loyal co-conspirator against the rest of the world.

— he buys you the most ostentatious and expensive jewelry in the known world—heavy gold and rare gems.

— becomes intensely, dangerously jealous of any person or hobby that dares to take your attention away from him, viewing any interest outside of his own needs as a personal slight against his divinity.

baelor "breakspear" targaryen

— he avoids heavy displays because he respects your privacy as much as his own.

— values his public image as a future king but finds your presence grounding.

— he keeps the gestures kinda subtle.

— might rests a heavy, protective hand on the small of your back during walks or takes your hand under the table where no one can see.

— he uses a firm grip on your hand to guide you through crowded feasts.

— gently brushes a stray hair from your face.

— forehead kisses.

— he offers small, knowing smiles that are meant only for your eyes.

— sometimes he leans down to whisper something in your ear, lingering just a second too long.

maekar targaryen

— he hates pda.

— views public displays as a distraction from his duty.

— he feels a sense of discomfort if the attention of others turns toward him.

— allows you to tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow during formal events.

— always tenses slightly when you touch him at first but relaxes once he realizes it is just you.

— would give your hand a single, sharp squeeze when he thinks no one is looking.

— he hates the idea of being perceived as "soft" by the court.

— looks away with a faint scowl if you try to steal a quick kiss.

— he does finds comfort in your touch but only fully lets his guard down behind closed doors.

duncan the tall

— he turns bright red the moment you initiate any contact in front of others.

— he feels incredibly clumsy, afraid of hovering too much.

— he is ducking his head to hide a grin when you hold his hand in a market.

— he worries that high-born onlookers might judge your closeness to a hedge knight.

— subconsciously moves his body to block you from the wind or rowdy crowds.

— he pats your hand awkwardly when he is nervous, though his touch is gentle.

— he thinks he is being discreet, but his constant glancing at you gives it away.

— he feels a rush of heat to his ears if you mention how much you like his company and his touch.

— he cherishes the contact because it makes him feel like he finally belongs somewhere.

valarr targaryen

— always holding your hand.

— always presses a formal kiss to your knuckles whenever he greets you in public (or anywhere else for that matter)

— he would feel a sense of duty to show the realm that his union is happy and strong.

— keeps a light arm around your waist while chatting with lords.

— loves to kiss your cheek.

— would never touch you inappropriately in public.

— don’t judge him but he thrives on the envious glances of others when he touches you.

— uses his touch to reassure you if he senses you are overwhelmed by the court.

lyonel baratheon

— he laughs loudly and pulls you into his side with a boisterous energy.

— doesn’t give a fuck what the other lords might think about his affection.

— kisses you everywhere.

— always touches you somewhere.

— beams with pride, wanting everyone to see how much he adores you.

— he loves the spectacle of a grand entrance with you on his arm.

— sometimes you’re a bit embarrassment by him but that just endears him and he usually responds with a wink.

— he thinks life is too short to hide how much he enjoys your company.

daeron targaryen

— he leans on you for physical support as much as he does for emotional comfort.

— uses touch as a way to tether himself to reality when his head is foggy.

— will slump head onto your shoulder in the middle of a crowded hall.

— always holds your hand with a desperate, clinging grip under the table.

— he feels a sense of safety when you are close enough to touch.

— often hides his face in the crook of your neck to avoid the gazes of his family.

— he will give you small, tired smiles that suggest he’d rather be alone with you.

aerion "brightflame" targaryen

— he loves pda.

— he absolutely craves the spotlight.

— he loves the shock factor of being overly physical in front of his father (he’d roll his eyes and scoff) and would definitely make out with you in front of everyone.

— kisses you deeply and performatively just to see the court's reaction.

— he keeps his hand firmly on your neck or waist to show everyone you are his.

— he demands your constant attention, pulling you back if you drift away.

— he stares down anyone who looks at you for too long while he holds you.

— he feels like he can do whatever he pleases with you.

— mostly uses touch as a claim of ownership rather than a simple gesture of love.

— he finds the boundary of "appropriate" and crosses it every time.

baelor "breakspear" targaryen

— baelor loves his brother, but he knows maekar is a hard, prickly man.

— he actually spends the weeks before the wedding trying to "soften" maekar, telling his brother of your favorite things in hopes of ensuring your future home is at least peaceful.

— he accepts the match as "stable".

— he puts his duty to the realm and your family’s alliance above his own heart every time.

— stands tall and stoic at your wedding, offering a perfectly composed toast that never betrays his private grief.

— ensures that your husband treats you with the absolute highest respect. even if it is his own brother

— avoids being alone with you to prevent any "dishonorable" lapses in restraint.

— he becomes strictly formal.

— he calls you "princess" before the vows are even said, using the title as a shield to keep his own feelings from leaking out.

— if he sees you unhappy, his eyes go dark with a quiet, helpless fury he can never act upon.

— when dunk hears you are to marry aerion, he physically recoils. he knows the prince’s cruelty better than anyone and feels a crushing sense of failure for not being able to "rescue" you from a monster.

— he thinks himself a fool for ever thinking a knight of his station could keep you.

— on your wedding day, he stands at the back of the sept, looking down at his boots because he can't bear to see you in another man's colors — especially when it is the red cloak of house targaryen belonging to aerion

— avoids looking at your silk gown, remembering you instead in the simple clothes you wore when you first met in the rain at ashford.

— if you try to comfort him, he’ll just ruffle his hair and tell you that "a lady belongs in a castle, not on the dusty road."

— he spends more time training or with egg just to keep his mind from wandering to what could have been.

"my lady, if he ever... if he lays a hand in anger... you send for me. no matter where i am, i will come."

maekar targaryen

— maekar has spent his life in baelor’s shadow; losing you to him is the final, bitterest blow. he becomes even more reclusive, snapping at any servant who mentions the wedding.

— but he’s so mad. ofc his brother baelor got the wife he always wanted. ofc you’d be arranged to marry the heir of the iron throne.

— he hates that he begrudges his brother’s happiness, but he hates the "perfection" of the match even more because it leaves no room for him to protest.

— he still views the marriage as a cold necessity that took you away from him.

— he offers a stiff, formal nod to you both, his eyes like flint. he won't look at baelor’s face for a month.

— stays far away from the festivities and rather sits alone on the battlements of maegor’s holdfast, preferring to drown his frustration in wine, staring at the stars and drinking until the sun rises.

— he never speaks of his feelings, but he watches you from across every feast with a heavy, longing gaze.

— he finds reasons to visit the court more often, claiming "official business" just to see you’re well.

"you'll be a great lady, and he’ll be a great king. you’ve won the prize. why do you look so miserable?"

valarr targaryen

— he is heartbroken in a very visible way, though he tries to maintain his dignity.

— he would actually go to his father to beg for the match to be broken, only to be told that the alliance is essential for the realm’s peace.

— he genuinely wants you to be happy, even if it kills him to know he isn't the cause of it.

— he tries to spend every waking moment with you before you leave, dragging out "lessons" or "walks" just to steal time from your future husband.

— when you prepare to leave, he gives you a book of valyrian poetry, his fingers trembling as they brush yours.

— tries to be "friends" with you and your husband, though the tension makes it incredibly awkward.

— he spends a lot of time sighing or looking wistfully at tokens you might have given him in the past.

— will still dance with you at every ball, holding you just a few seconds too long before handing you back.

— writes you letters that are technically "proper" but filled with subtext and nostalgia for your time together.

— the laughing stops for a while; he becomes uncharacteristically somber and prone to outbursts.

— "that sot? that wine-soaked dreamer? you know that i like to drink as well but i’m no drunkard like him," lyonel roars. he thinks it’s an insult to your beauty to be paired with someone who prefers a bottle to a bride.

— he begins to openly mock daeron.

— he treats daeron with a terrifying, patronizing "friendship," essentially warning the prince that if you aren't treated like a queen, the stormlands will march.

— at the wedding feast, he claims the longest dance with you, twirling you until you’re breathless, laughing loudly to hide the fact that he's heartbroken.

— he remains a fierce friend, often showing up at your new home with gifts just to check on you.

— he tells you that storm's end will always have a seat for you at the table, "should the wine in king's landing ever run dry."

— daeron doesn’t hate lyonel, which almost makes it worse. "at least he's a man of action," he’ll mutter. "better than a man of bad dreams like me."

—he drinks even more than usual, claiming he saw this tragedy coming in one of his dreams.

— becomes a fixture in the darker corners of the tavern, avoiding the wedding preparations.

— he’ll joke about how you're trading a "shaking dragon" for a "roaring stag," but his eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

— he shows up late for the feast, looks at you once with a heartbreaking smile, and disappears back into the shadows before the cake is even cut.

— shares his wine with you whenever the pressures of your marriage become too much.

— he apologizes for not being "man enough" to be the one the father chose for you.

— he’ll never try to "win you back," believing himself to be too much of a mess for you anyway.

"he's loud, but he's true. there aren't many true things left in this world."

— he reacts with pure, narcissistic rage, viewing your marriage to someone else as a theft of his property.

— he views valarr as "weak" and "unworthy" of the dragon’s blood—and certainly unworthy of you.

— would throw a tantrum and even tries to convince his father that he would be a better choice than valarr.

— acts incredibly possessive of your time and attention whenever you are in the same room.

— will try to force his way into your company, acting as if the engagement doesn't exist.

— during a squire's match or a hunt, he’ll try to "accidentally" hurt valarr, hoping to prove his cousin's weakness in front of you.

— makes cruel, public remarks about how you would have been better off with a "true dragon."

— creates a toxic environment where you feel like you have to manage his ego to keep your husband safe.

— he’ll whisper to you in the halls about how valarr will never satisfy you, and how you’ll eventually grow bored of a "perfect prince."

— on the wedding day, he is standing in the front row, staring you down as if challenging you to change your mind at the altar.

"he might wear the crown one day," aerion hisses, "but even kings can die. you made the wrong choice."

baelor "breakspear" targaryen

— he actually appreciates the lack of political chatter and finds your silence deeply restful.

— would learn to read the slight tilt of your head to understand your mood.

— he ensures that court functions have a quiet corner specifically for you to retreat to.

— he speaks for you in public with a gentle "my lady wife prefers to observe rather than speak."

— finds it incredibly intimate when you finally share your thoughts with him alone.

— he never pressures you to be the "life of the party" at royal feasts.

— definitely communicates through small, grounding touches—a hand on yours under the table.

— he values your observant nature, often asking for your quiet take on a shifty lord.

— he feels a strong urge to protect your peace from the chaos of his family.

— and he treats your rare, soft-spoken words like precious gems to be guarded.

maekar targaryen

— finds your quietness "sensible" compared to the loud-mouthed fools at court.

— he feels less defensive around you because you don't poke at his insecurities and you don’t annoy him like the others.

— he enjoys sitting in the same room as you for hours without a single word spoken.

— he considers your reserved nature a sign of dignity and strength.

— would tell everyone to fuck off if anyone implies you are "too dull" for a prince.

— he shows affection by handling all the social talking so you don't have to. even tho he hates to hold conversations as well.

— he watches you from across the room, finding comfort in your calm presence.

— likes that you don't demand constant emotional displays from him.

— some even wonder if you even have conversations with him in private. but he feels that your shared silence is a language no one else can understand.

duncan the tall

— initially worries that you are bored or unhappy because you are so still.

— tries to fill the silence with ramblings about his day until he realizes you enjoy listening.

— he finds your quiet nature "high-born and elegant," even if you aren't a lady.

— always leans down to catch your quietest whispers, looking like a giant listening to a bird.

— he feels a sense of calm wash over him the moment he returns to your side.

— he constantly asks "are you alright?" until he learns to trust your peaceful expressions.

— he loves that you are a "safe harbor" away from the noise of the road.

— becomes very shy himself when it is just the two of you in the quiet.

— he thinks your reserved way of moving is the most graceful thing he's ever seen.

— he considers it a massive victory whenever he makes you give him a small, silent smile.

valarr targaryen

— he views your reserved nature as "ethereal" and "mysterious" to the court.

— he loves to "show you off" as a poised, calm jewel at his side.

— often fills the silence with his own charming chatter, assuming you enjoy the melody. (you certainly do)

— he checks in on you frequently with a soft "are you tired of the noise, my love?"

— thinks your lack of gossip makes you the most trustworthy person in the red keep.

— he enjoys the contrast between his bright public life and your quiet private life.

— often brings you small gifts—books or fine silks—to enjoy in your solitude.

— he tells his friends that your silence is actually "deep wisdom."

— he feels a surge of tenderness when you tuck your head into his shoulder.

lyonel baratheon

— he finds your quietness a hilarious and charming contrast to his own booming voice.

— he tries (and often fails) to be "quiet" for you, which usually results in loud whispering.

— thinks you are the "calm in his storm" and tells everyone so at the top of his lungs.

— he gently teases you, trying to get a rise or a laugh out of your stoic face.

— he is fiercely protective of your right to stay silent in the face of nosy lords and ladies.

— pulls you into his side, letting your quiet energy balance out his wildness.

— he often interprets your small nods as total agreement with his boisterous plans.

— he values the way you can calm him down with just a single, steady look.

— he likes that he can be his "loud self" without you judging or competing for airtime.

— treats your rare, soft laughter as the ultimate prize of his day.

daeron targaryen

— he finds your quietness incredibly soothing for his frequent headaches.

— thinks you also understand the desire to disappear.

— he likes to hide away with you in darkened rooms where words aren't needed.

— feels less like a failure when you just sit with him without giving advice.

— finds your reserved nature "honest" in a world of screaming lies.

— he often falls asleep with his head in your lap while you silently stroke his hair.

— he worries that he is "too much" for someone as peaceful as you.

— loves that you don't nag him, even when he knows he deserves it.

— he looks to you for a "silent signal" when he needs an excuse to leave a party.

— he feels that your quiet love is the only thing keeping him grounded.

aerion "brightflame" targaryen

— he interprets your silence as "submission" and "total devotion" to his greatness.

— he likes that you don't interrupt his long, dramatic monologues about his destiny.

— treats you like a beautiful, silent statue that belongs exclusively to him.

— often finds you lack of interest challenging and tries to impress you.

— he demands that you stay by his side as a silent, elegant shadow.

— he feels that your reserved nature makes him look even more "vibrant" by comparison.

— he hates it if you go "too quiet" when he's angry, sensing a lack of control.

— he uses your silence as a canvas to project whatever he wants you to be thinking.

— he loves the "mystery" of you, as long as that mystery revolves entirely around him.

baelor "breakspear" targaryen

— is a pragmatist. when he sees the hatchling, his first instinct isn't "glory," it’s "danger."

— he stares at the hatchling with a mixture of political dread and genuine awe.

— he moves to stand between you and any possible witnesses to shield you from the immediate chaos.

— would brush the soot from your cheek with a hand that trembles just a fraction.

— he wonders if the histories were wrong about the necessity of "fire and blood."

— truly believes your "tender love" is what did it. he’s always told you that your heart was your greatest strength; now he has living, breathing proof.

— he’ll spend his nights digging through dusty scrolls to find out how to keep both you and the hatchling healthy, often reading aloud to you while you nursery-sit.

— he becomes twice as protective. he knows the rest of the family (and the realm) will look at you differently now. you aren't just his wife anymore; you are a miracle.

— would pull you into a tight embrace, whispering that he will keep you safe.

— begins calculating how to announce this without making you a target for the small council.

— listens to the dragon’s chirp and realizes the power balance of the realm has shifted.

— he feels a deep, quiet pride that the dragons returned for someone as kind as you.

— he’d keep his eyes on the dragon but his heart stays entirely focused on your wellbeing.

— won’t try to claim the dragon. he’ll stand back with a proud, tired smile, content to let you be the one the realm whispers about.

— worries about madness so he watches the bond closely, praying the dragon brings you joy and not the obsession that claimed his ancestors.

maekar targaryen

— he stands frozen, his usual scowl replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated shock.

— for a man who expresses himself through grunts and stern looks, he is utterly speechless.

— he’ll stare at the creature, then at you, then back at the creature for a full minute.

— maekar’s immediate reaction is to double the guard. he knows his son. he knows the court.

— deep down, he’s smug. his wife did what none of his other family member could do. he’ll carry himself with even more pride at the next small council meeting.

— he won’t admit it’s cute, but you’ll catch him touching its scales and watching the dragon sleep while he thinks you’re napping.

— he grunts in disbelief as the small creature crawls toward your hand for warmth.

— warns you to be careful, even as his eyes soften at the sight of you cradling it.

— feels the heavy burden of the targaryen legacy.

— it would soften his rough edges. he’d treat you with a new level of reverence, realizing that there is a primal, ancient power in your kindness that his sword could never match.

— he finds it strangely fitting that your warmth, not fire, was what the egg needed.

— he vows silently that no one will take this from you.

valarr targaryen

— is the most openly delighted.

— he captures your face in his hands and kisses you with a joyous energy.

— he falls to his knees beside you, his eyes wide and shimmering with tears.

— he’ll smile with genuine joy, holding you and spinning you around.

— to him, this is a sign that his future reign will be a golden age.

— he envisions a future where you sit beside him on the throne with a dragon waiting for you outside.

— kinda sees this as a sign that your marriage is blessed by the fourteen flames.

— he feels a rush of validation that his choice of wife was more than just a preference.

— sees this as a way to solidify your place in the family tree, silencing any critics who said you weren't "valyrian enough."

— he’ll be constantly asking if you’re tired or if the dragon bit you. he’s terrified that the heat required to hatch the egg might have hurt you.

— he’ll use this as an excuse to be even more affectionate, claiming he needs to stay close to you.

— he is remarkably gentle with the creature, treating it like one of your children.

— he’d stroke the hatchling’s wings with a quiet wonder.

— always talks excitedly about the songs that will be written about you.

— he boasts to everyone within earshot that his wife is the true blood of the dragon. and he would definitely use it to make aerion jealous and mad.

daeron targaryen

— probably saw this in a dream and tried to drink it away.

— he drops his flagon of wine, the liquid staining the floor as he stares in silence.

— he reaches out to touch your hand, checking if you’re actually made of flesh and bone or if he just reacted a new level of drunkness.

— he clings to your skirt, looking at the dragon like it’s a beautiful, terrifying omen.

— he whimpers slightly, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the moment.

— once the initial fear passes, he’s relieved. if you have the dragon, maybe the dreams will stop haunting him.

— he sees you as his protector now.

— might be hesitant to touch the creature at first. he’s spent his life running from the "targaryen legacy," and now it’s sitting on his wife’s lap.

— he’ll watch you interact with the hatchling and realize that you are the only thing in the world that isn't broken. he’ll cling to you even tighter at night.

— sobers up just enough to whisper one serious thing: "don't let my father see. don't let aerion see. keep it secret as long as you can."

— he kisses your palm, looking at you with a mix of worship and absolute terror.

aerion "brightflame" targaryen

— he stops his posturing and looks at the dragon with a obsessive intensity.

— would also be a bit jealous and bitter because his "plain" wife did what kings failed to do for decades.

— why didn’t the dragon hatch for the dragon in human form? the man who was a targaryen and had dragon blood running through his veins?

— he demands you give the dragon to him immediately so he can "tame" it.

— feels a surge of ego, believing your "magic" is actually a reflection of his greatness and that his presence near you is what allowed it to happen.

— or he’ll assume that you’re with his child so that’s the reason it hatched because you were carrying his blood inside you (you weren’t with child)

— he’d paces the room like a caged animal, muttering about his own divinity.

— but he’s also kinda smug that his family now has its own dragon.

— he treats you with a new, terrifying level of respect, bordering on fanaticism in a way that feels suffocating.

— becomes incredibly possessive, refusing to let you out of his sight for a second.

— he sees the dragon as a weapon and you as the most valuable "tool" in his arsenal.

— tries to command the hatchling, becoming frustrated when it only wants your warmth.

— you’ll have to constantly steer him away from doing anything reckless or cruel to the creature.

— if anyone so much as breathes a word against you, aerion will use the idea of your dragon to threaten them. he’s your most devoted—and most unstable—defender.

— he brags to the court and everyone else about the dragon.

— feels like a true god now, with a wife with a dragon to prove his status to the world.