Just Testing Something

You tense on instinct at the suddenness of his presence, forcing yourself to swallow down the immediate annoyance that swells in your throat as you turn to flash the staggering man an artificial smile over your shoulder.

“What brings you here, Ser Lyonel?” you ask politely. “Don’t you have guests to entertain?”

“Aye. I do,” Lyonel nods, greying curls wild and clinging to his sweat-slick forehead. “And these guests are growing quite curious about your disappearance, wife.”

“Well, I think most of them are aware that I have very little taste for weddings and all their— revels,” you mumble and turn away again, propping your head on your fist and shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

Your ornate wedding dress, embellished in colors of both his house and yours, drapes heavily over your form while your corset strangles your ribcage. The combination of both is borderline suffocating; a slow death you long for now.

“Oh, trust me, I heard,” Lyonel scoffs. His boots scuff the cobbles as he stumbles the short distance towards you, golden cloak trailing behind him. “Neither is dancing, apparently. Or feasting, or laughing, or— anything that requires any bit of fun…”

You refuse to argue with him now. You just roll your eyes and turn the page, punctuating your annoyance with the quiet swishing sound of the heavy parchment.

You flinch when he leans suddenly over you, warmer than a fireplace, and replacing the sweet scent of your floral aromatics with the heavier scent of leather and whiskey. His strong arm reaches over your shoulder while his ringed pointer finger scans the page before you.

“Except for… bloodletting,” he reads, tapping the word with the pad of his finger. “Riveting stuff, I’m sure.”

You glare daggers at the man as he rounds the small table. “I happen to find studying quite riveting, Ser Lyonel. In a just world, I would’ve been a maester, not a bride.”

“Then why not become a septa?” he wonders with a lazy shrug, fanning out his golden cloak before dropping into the cushioned seat across from you. He throws his long legs over the table with two heavy thumps, crossing one boot over the other on top of your scrolls and opened books. “Or a fucking— silent sister?”

“Because I don’t care about devoting my life to worshipping the fucking Seven,” you answer with a scoff, missing the amused smile Lyonel gives you at your suddenly foul language when you turn back to the book before you. “I want to heal the sick. I want to travel the world. I want to take care of people—”

“Starting with your lord husband, perhaps?” Lyonel quips with a lopsided grin, raising his brows behind his wild curls as he reaches across the table with a ringed hand to slide the book away from you.

You meet his smug grin with a hardened stare.

“Perhaps not,” you answer in a monotone. Your eyes narrow into slits as you curl your fingers around the edge of the leather-bound book to drag it back across the table again. “The Master of Whispers tells me you’re quite popular at the brothels you frequent, Ser Lyonel. I believe he said you were ‘a drunken, lust-filled beast.’”

Lyonel’s grin blossoms behind his greying beard at the compliment. “Most women would hope for such a trait in a husband, wouldn’t they?”

You glare at him from beneath your lashes. His smile ebbs in an instant.

He clicks his lips against his teeth, bounces his brows, and reaches for a scroll idling at his side. He twists the thing between his fingers, if only to have something to do with his hands.

“So… I presume the bedding ceremony is off the table, then?” he wonders aloud, half-sheepish.

Your mouth flickers in the faintest hint of a smile — more cynical than anything, but still the first time he’s seen you the least bit pleased. “Despite what the whispers say, you are quite perceptive, Ser Lyonel.”

He nods with a mournful sigh and forces out a smile he hardly means.

“And now my watch begins…” the man mumbles the sacred oath of celibacy from the soldiers up north, tipping his wild head back and shutting his heavy eyes.

Your eyes trace over the soft edges of his profile in the interim. He’s like a statue carved from delicate clay, far more beautiful than you give him credit for, perhaps — but prettiest when he’s quiet.

Your father holds a two-week-long tourney to celebrate your wedding — you can’t think of a more poetic way to spend your honeymoon than the blood and carnage of daily jousts.

You wake on the fifth day, like all the rest, in your study. The scent of leather and old books hangs in the warming air as the golden sun rises over the trees, turning the swirls of dust into sparkling rays of light. It is not the gentle touch of your handmaiden that wakes you this time, but rather a foreign one — a large, calloused, strangely warm palm that spreads gently over the length of your shoulder blade.

Your heavy eyes flutter slowly open. You recognize, first, the dull ache in the base of your neck from where you’d spent the night slumped over the desk. It isn’t until the haze of sleep has cleared that you spot the tall stranger crouched softly at your side. A gasped breath gets caught in your throat at the sight of him there.

“Who are you?” you wonder aloud in a voice gruff with sleep, with your cheek still smushed against the opened book you use as a makeshift pillow.

“Apologies, princess— Uh, my lady,” the man with the chopped strawberry-blonde hair and bright blue eyes stammers. He’s much too tall and much too burly to cower before you the way he does now. “I’m Dunk— Ser Duncan.”

A quiet groan rumbles deep in your throat as you sit up straight again, stretching the ache in your spine and peeling the heavy page from your cheek.

“I don’t mean to… intrude,” he apologizes, wide eyes darting between your sleep-worn face and the heavy book before you. “But it— It’s your husband, my land. Ser Lyonel, he’s… He’s grown quite drunk. And your father— He sent me so that maybe you could—”

“Seven fucking Hells.”

Duncan flinches at the suddenly brash language from such a quiet, delicate-looking girl. He thought Lyonel was just being drunk and dramatic when he said you’d sooner take the Night’s Watch oath than recite wedding vows; you’re hardly fit for a bride, much less a princess.

Your chair scrapes hard against the cobbles as you rise from your seat, still in your dress from the night before and your sleep-wild hair as you storm out of the library. Duncan follows close behind, stuck in the smoke the fire in your strides leaves behind.

“My father was right— the big oaf,” you mumble cynically to yourself as you bound down the set of spiral stairs, clutching your skirt in your fists. “I would’ve been better off becoming a fucking septa, considering I’m going to be spending the rest of my life chasing after my husband like he’s a child.”

Duncan trails behind you like a lost puppy. He’s not exactly sure how to respond, only that Lyonel once told him that, when a highborn says something, you agree.

“Aye, my lady,” the tall man nods and clears his throat. He flinches at the morning sun that hits him in the face when you throw the heavy door open, catching it before it can shut behind you. “He can be— quite the handful—”

Your rushed strides down the dewy grass never slow as you throw the stranger a curious look over your shoulder. Expansive tents of a hundred different colors pass by on either side of you.

“You’re the one who’s been looking after him, then?” you ask, then follow quickly when he gives you a puppy-like look of confusion in response. “The one who’s been making sure he’s not drinking himself to death, I mean?”

“Oh. Aye, my lady,” Duncan nods rapidly. “We met at a tourney a few months back. We’ve become quite good friends… I suppose.”

You bounce your brows and turn away. “When my brother said a long-legged lowborn with a pretty face was following my husband like an obedient hound, I assume he was talking about a whore—”

Your garish language stops the man in his tracks as you duck into the Baratheon tent, donned a vivid golden color, and already swelling with chaos and the overwhelming scent of steak and ale despite the early morning.

Sunlight peeks through in a golden-white sliver to announce your arrival. You can’t help but cower when the heads inside snap suddenly towards you, and then to the tall knight that enters just behind. The applause from surrounding patrons slows to a stop. Lyonel does, too, from where he stands on top of the center table — shirtless and shining with sweat — with one hand holding a cup of ale and the other hanging onto the dim chandelier above his head.

His scruffy chest heaves with panted breaths as if he’d just been dancing, or singing, or both; and you assume the applause must’ve been for him. You’ve quickly come to learn that the applause is always for him.

Lyonel meets your scowling face with a wide grin, as lopsided as the antlered crown sitting crooked on his wild head. “Ah! There she is! My blushing bride!”

Your frown deepens as you watch him stagger off the table, using nearby hands to brace himself as he hobbles off the chairs. The droning of a thousand conversations fills the crowded tent a second later, along with the strolling minstrels playing in the center of the dance floor.

“It’s hardly break of day— How are you already drunk?” you ask him in a monotone.

“I fear I’ve not yet shaken the wine from last night, my lady,” Lyonel confesses with a smile.

“And the night before that?” you wonder rhetorically, squinting at the staggering man as he towers just ahead of you.

“And the night before that,” he concurs with a slow nod and a laugh he can hardly contain. “See? We know each other so well already, don’t we, wife?”

He knocks the wind out of you when he wraps you in a sudden embrace, careful not to spill his ale while knocking you back a few steps. He wraps a strong arm around your shoulder and presses you into his bare chest, reeking of sweat, sweet wine, and spiced oils.

Your stomach does a backflip for a reason you can’t name — the feeling is much too warm to be excitement, and far too sparkling to be disgust. You struggle to place it as he sways you in place, vaguely in time with the violin across the tent. You keep your hands balled into fists at your sides all the while.

“Can I tell you something, wife?”

The term spills from his mouth like he’s still getting used to it, like it still tastes a bit sour on his tongue.

He continues when you say nothing, jutting back his bearded chin to peer down at you with glassy hazel eyes.

“I heed not what the whispers say,” he confesses in a whisper, and you try not to flinch when his warm, whiskey-coated breath fans over your cheek.

“The court may prattle on that you are too homely— or that your affections are much better suited for women than men— or that you’d rather marry your dusty old books than any living soul… Yet here I stand… Trying hopelessly to catch your attention,” he murmurs, softened eyes darting back and forth between both of yours. “A strange fool I must be, hm?”

Lyonel looks at you then like it’s your turn to speak, though you’re not quite sure what an adequate response would be — or why, exactly, his words make the warm feeling inside you bloom.

“…Thank you?” you say, with an upward inflection and a confused glimmer in your gaze.

Lyonel goes to speak, but his attention catches something past your shoulder.

“Hedge Knight!” he greets with a newfound grin, cradling you to his bare chest as he urges you to face the man standing just behind you. You’re half-smothered in his pale shoulder while he talks into his cup of ale, right before he takes a lengthy sip. “When the hell did you get here, you fool?”

“Me?” Duncan asks, blue eyes darting wildly between the two of you. “I’ve— I’ve been here the whole time, my lord. You saw me just a few moments ago—”

“Ah, get in here, you big bastard,” Lyonel laughs with ale sparkling on his mouth and mustache, motioning wildly with his half-gone cup. “There’s room in here for one more.”

Duncan exhales an awkward laugh, smiling with his crooked teeth.

Lyonel’s smile fades in an instant. “I’m not kidding.”

Duncan’s face floods with a wordless look of shock.

“Yes, he is,” you grumble like a storm cloud, shoving the man off of you and letting your palms linger against his scruffy chest a moment longer than you needed to.

You stalk off again with a swirled look on your face, as if you’ve just tasted something sour. You’re only able to catch your breath again when you’re back outside, apart from the stench of sweat and ale, and away from Lyonel’s all-consuming touch.

You shut yourself away with your books, just like you always do, and let the written words swallow you whole. You abandon your studies on healing and medicine, and instead drag a dusty, leatherbound book from the depths of your shelves — A Compendium of the Varied Marital Postures of Procreative Union by Maester Vaellyn, from roughly a century or more ago.

The illustrations of sexual acts, and the descriptions of such sinfulness, stir within you the same warmth you’d had when you saw Lyonel in the tent that morning — in his stupid antlered helm, with that stupid look on his stupid face, and that stupid confession that took your breath away for a reason you still can’t name.

You settle into your reading nook with a foreign ache in your stomach — lounging on the cushions beside the large window overlooking the candlelit tents and glittering black waters outside — and delve into your book to relieve the aching.

“It is observed by certain learned men, that a wife’s fullest ecstasy is more readily attained when due regard is given to her most delicate seat of sensation—”

Your heart lurches into your throat when the heavy wooden entrance creaks open and shut again. You flare red-hot when Lyonel saunters in, already embarrassed for something you haven’t yet been caught doing. You slam the heavy book shut and squeeze your thighs together to soothe the dull pounding between them.

“I have been trying to amuse you— as my wife and all,” Lyonel starts through panted breaths, chest heaving beneath his golden, quilted gambeson as he leans against the door. He tilts his bearded chin down and peers at you with wild hazel eyes as he spits, “But my patience with this, dear wife, has begun to grow quite thin.”

“My sincerest apologies for wounding your pride, dear husband,” you spit back. “But I’m quite busy in here.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Lyonel says with an emotionless laugh as he closes the distance between you on long legs. “But I’ve been dealing with those cunts on my own all day—”

“That’s my family you’re speaking of.”

“—I have supped and I have smiled amongst the big oafs all morning, and they have near driven me to madness for it,” he continues, half-crazed, as he looms over you. With a sarcastic, sickly sweet smile, he hisses, “So, if it pleases the lady, come do your duty as my wife, and put me out of my misery—”

You go to make a joke, one about putting him down like a sick dog, but he’s jerking your book from your hands before you can.

“Lyonel!” you shout.

“What is it this time that’s been keeping you all day, hm?” he calls over his shoulder as he stalks off in the opposite direction. “Is it the herbs again? Oh, no, it’s the one about leeches, isn’t it? Or better yet, maggots—”

“Give it back!” you scold, scrambling from your nook to follow after him.

“Let’s give it a read, shall we?” he hums with a wide grin and rushes onto a nearby chair when you hurry suddenly towards him. He’s bounding up the table before you can reach him, and flicking through the thick parchment with his thumb. “How about… here.”

He clears his throat and starts to recite, while you stand underneath him and wait for the ground to swallow you whole.

“Let not a husband hasten to apply immediate stimulation to the wife’s clitoris—” Lyonel reads in a whimsical tone of voice, then cuts himself off with a pleased look on his face. “Oh, so it’s that kind of book, is it?”

“Give it back,” you spit.

“I’m not quite done,” he lilts and returns to the page. “—The initial attentions should be directed towards the breasts, whose manipulation increases warmth and quickens the pulse— blah, blah, blah— Only once general arousal has been well-established should focus be given to the petals of her womanhood, with soft kisses and patient devotion…”

Lyonel trails off with a crooked grin, shutting the heavy book with a loud clap that fills the suffocating silence of the study. You meet his smile with a hardened glower and fists that tremble at your sides, burning red-hot beneath your dress from embarrassment and rage alike.

“I know I have grown quite fond of teasing you, princess, but this…?” he clicks his tongue against his teeth. “This is truly invigorating, my lady.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you hiss through gritted teeth.

“I assure you, I am being uncharacteristically sincere at this moment,” Lyonel says as he climbs off the table again. The scent of leather and wine stained perpetually on his skin snatches the breath from your lungs for the second time when he towers over you again. “I, for one, am elated that you’re not focusing on your studies for a change. Though if you wanted a lesson on… release, you could’ve just come to me— I am your husband after all—”

“I don’t need a lesson,” you argue.

He arches a heavy brow. “Is that so?”

Your eyes widen at the amused look he gives you, and you stumble hopelessly over yourself to get the words out. “I— I only mean that—”

Lyonel grins, eager to hear your excuse.

You frown.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you retort like a stubborn child, snatching your book from his grasp and clutching the leather to your chest.

Lyonel holds his gently calloused palms out in surrender.

“No, my lady, you don’t… But I fear you’d be lying to both of us if you said you weren’t at least a little aroused right now…” His smug smile returns as he scrunches the bridge of his nose. “Makes two of us.”

“Is sex all you think about?”

“Asks the girl reading a book on sex… Funny how that works, right?”

“I truly didn’t think I could regret marrying you more than I did on our wedding day,” you deadpan. “But, alas, you are finding new ways to annoy me.”

Lyonel laughs and turns on his heel to walk away. Only when his attention is off of you can you take a full breath in.

“Fine. I’ll leave. Even though we both know you don’t want me to,” the man argues as he ambles slowly back to the entrance. He pauses at the door, throwing you a mischievous look over his shoulder. “Though, to tell you the truth, I am not above consummating our marriage in this study, dear wife—”

“I thought you were leaving,” you say in a monotone.

“I’m going,” he assures, but takes his time twisting the knob and swinging open the door, just waiting for you to give in to what he knows you want.

You inhale slowly through your nose and swallow through the lump in your throat. “Where is your helm, Ser Lyonel?” you hear yourself ask him before he’s gone again.

His wild head snaps over his shoulder. His brows lower in a confused look because, by all accounts, he was not expecting your following words after such a carnal conversation to be about his goddamn ancestral headdress.

“W-What?”

“Your antlered crown,” you answer firmly. “Where is it?”

“At the… The feasting table,” he shrugs. “Why?”

“Retrieve it,” you tell him, and leave very little room for argument. “And return to me here. And then you can tell all your highborn friends that you’re the first lord to have his bedding ceremony in a study—”

Lyonel’s gone before you can properly get the words out, hurrying back to the throne room to retrieve his crown, and not asking another question as to why you want it so desperately.

You make a pliant, obedient boy out of the man they call The Laughing Storm, as you ride him in the reading nook — with his trousers unbuckled and his freckled shoulders pressing hard against the cool glass behind him. The antlered helm sitting crooked on his curls taps gently against the window with each pass of your hips over his lap, down his thighs and back up again.

You’re still getting used to the feeling of him inside you. The sharp stinging has since faded into a dull ache somewhere in the depths of your stomach, which is drowned out by a far more overwhelming pleasure stirring warmly somewhere much deeper.

“Go down a little,” you command, digging crescent shapes onto his pale skin as you brace yourself on his shoulders.

Lyonel’s glassy hazel eyes flit between your face and where his hand disappears under your bunched-up slip, struggling to maneuver his thumb exactly the way you want him to. The pad of his finger finds a pearl-like button there; he presses hard onto the delicate thing and awaits your reaction.

“There?” he wonders aloud, almost sheepishly so, then grins wide when you tip your head back with a parted mouth. Your soft moan fills the quiet study a second later, along with Lyonel’s breathless laughter. “Yeah… There you go…”

“Now… Put your mouth here—”

You grab a fistful of his curls and urge him towards your breasts, which stand at attention and wait to be kissed, like the book from before — left abandoned somewhere on the desk — said they might be.

“Full of commands tonight, aren’t we, my lady?” Lyonel quips, but leans forward to flick his tongue over your pebbled nipple anyway.

You twitch on top of him when his teeth scrape over the delicate skin there, which makes your hips buck harder into his hand, which makes his thumb press harder to your clit. Your fingers tighten in his hair and on his shoulder, keeping him pressed impossibly close against you.

“It’s coming,” you whimper in warning, when you feel a strange knot tightening in the very pit of your stomach.

“Wait for me,” Lyonel pleads through panted breaths, half-muffled against you, because he longs to feel you fluttering around him when he finally cums inside you.

“No,” you answer stubbornly.

“Alright then…”

He turns his head to pay attention to your unkissed breast and groans against you when he hears you whine. He presses harder to your clit to add to your pleasure there. You still suddenly on top of him a second later, pussy clenching as it gushes suddenly around his cock.

“Oh, fuck…” you whimper, half-frightened, when the high suddenly hits you.

Your features screw in a pained sort of look as the warm waves of an orgasm wash over you. You’re only able to take another breath in when it ebbs a few seconds later. Your eyes widen in a look of not-so-subtle shock down at Lyonel when he pulls off of your breast with a quick smack — eyes heavy and mouth swollen as he smirks up at you.

“Oh, fuck,” you repeat through panted breaths. “How are people not doing this all the time?”

“I presume some people do, my lady,” he laughs.

“…Can we?” you ask.

He grins wider at your naivety, which he didn’t think was possible for such a smart thing like you.

“Well, I don’t know about all the time, princess,” he pants with a lust-drunk smile. “But I do know we have the rest of the night.”

drabbles/headcannons/blurbs

Girl Dad (head cannon) @boyloveisnteasy

More Girl Dad Aerion (headcannon) @louloucake

༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻

one shots

The Odd Fifth (one shot) @catbayunthestoryteller

Silver Strand of Hair (one shot) @sansaorgana

The Dragon Prince (one shot) @targaryenstar

Septa (one shot, + Valarr) @sansaorgana

The Dragon's Treasure (one shot) @wolves-and-dragons

He Will Still be Half of You (one shot) @lostrealityr

To be His, Entirely (one shot) @icrawlhometoher

Baby Dragon (one shot) @weepingsparkles

Eyes that seem to Say 'Thank You' (one shot) @louloucake

Knights Earn, Dragons Take (one shot) @captainfern

Soothing Insanity (one shot) @blllllllllllllllllllue

Terrible Thing to Leave Husbands Lonely (one shot) @louloucake

Moth to a Flame (one shot) @boyloveisnteasy

Run it Back like a VHS (one shot, modern au) @bellesreverie

༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻

multiple parts/series

My Cruel Prince (series) @sagegreencat10

Growing Strong (series) @catbayunthestoryteller

Fossoway Reader Universe (series) @maidragoste

This week had been a slow-moving torture of missed connections. Maekar would stumble into your shared chambers long after the moon had reached its zenith, his face etched with the day's battles, only to find you deep in an exhausted sleep. When you woke, the space beside you was cold, his scent a fading ghost on the pillows. It was a chasm of silence and solitude, and you had grown tired of it. That morning, you had summoned Maekar's steward. "You will tell my husband," you instructed, your voice leaving no room for argument, "that his work ends today at the seventh hour. He will join me for dinner. He will not be late." The steward, a man who had seen the your husband’s frustrations at the constant near-misses, simply bowed. "Of course, my lady."

You spent the afternoon orchestrating the evening. The kitchens were a hive of activity, preparing everything Maekar favoured. You wanted to care for him, to wash the week's exhaustion from his bones with food and wine and quiet affection.

Dinner was a success. The tension in his shoulders finally unwound, and the lines around his pale violet eyes softened as he spoke of his day, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. He fed you from his own fork, his fingers lingering on your lips, a silent promise of what was to come. When you finally retired to your bedchamber, the air was thick with unspoken need. The week of abstinence had been a strain on you both; your life together was a passionate, physical one, and this dry spell had left an ache.

"You have missed your husband, I think," he teased, his voice a low growl as he pulled you into his arms. His silver-blond hair brushed against your cheek, and the faint, coarse scratch of his beard was a familiar, thrilling sensation against your skin.

You wound your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his. "And you, my lord," you murmured against his mouth, "have you missed your wife?" His answer was a kiss, deep and hungry. He backed you toward the bed, his hands roaming possessively over your curves, undressing you as he went, his touch igniting a fire low in your belly. You fell onto the soft furs, a tangle of limbs and growing urgency. His mouth moved from yours to your throat, nipping and sucking, and you arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

"Maekar," you breathed, your fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. "I did something… for you."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark with lust and curiosity. A slow smile spread across his lips. "Did you now?" he rumbled. "Show me."

You sat up and gripped the hem of your silky shift. In one fluid motion you pulled it over your head and cast it aside. The firelight kissed your skin, and you watched his face, your own breath held tight in your chest. His smile faltered. His eyes, which had been filled with a hungry heat, widened slightly. The look on his face was a flash of pure, unadulterated dismay.

"What is this?" He pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on the juncture of your thighs. "Who did this to you?"

A knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. "You… you do not like it?" you asked, your voice smaller than you intended.

The sound of your voice seemed to break him from his stupor. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, the slight tremble in your lower lip, and his expression immediately softened. He reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. "No," he said quickly, then corrected himself. "I mean, yes. You are beautiful, perfection, as always."He sat up fully, his muscular torso bathed in firelight. "But I love the look of you, all of you."

You could not help the small pout that formed on your lips.

He saw your disappointment and leaned in, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to your mouth. "You are spectacular," he insisted, his voice a low, earnest murmur against your lips. "But please, do not let that butcher touch you again."

A small, watery laugh escaped you at his dramatic choice of words. The tension in the room broke, replaced by something more complex, a mixture of your lingering disappointment and his overwhelming affection. He pulled you back down onto the furs, his mouth finding yours again. The kiss was different now, less frantic, more apologetic and tender. But the week of built-up need was a powerful force. His hands began to roam again, rediscovering your body, and the heat between you began to rebuild, slowly at first, then with a sudden, ferocious intensity. He rolled on top of you, and when he entered you it was with a groan of pure relief.

He began to move, his strokes deep and punishing, and as he took you, as he watched his thick, glistening cock disappear into your body, something shifted in him. He had been dismayed, yes, but now he was transfixed. Without the soft, neat curls he could see everything. He could see how the perfect, swollen folds of your cunt spread around his length, see how utterly soaked you were for him, your slickness coating him, shining in the firelight. The visual was filthy, intimate, and undeniably erotic. He could see every detail of your body's response to him, and it drove him wild with a possessive lust.

"Gods," he grunted, his rhythm growing faster, harder. He gripped your hips, pulling you onto him with each thrust, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing in the quiet chamber. "How long," he panted, his gaze locked on where you were joined, "until it grows back?"

"Four moons or so," you gasped, your hands clutching at his powerful shoulders, your body arching to meet his brutal pace.

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him. "Well, there is no point in waiting around." He drove into you, his hips snapping hard against yours. "We might as well make the most of this." The sheer, unexpected amusement in his voice, mixed with the power of his thrusts, sent you over the edge, and you cried out his name as your release tore through you. He followed you moments later with a hoarse shout, burying himself deep inside you and spending inside you, marking you as his.

You roused, eyes bleary and unfocused. You blinked a few times as the sun began to filter through the drapes. A familiar body was behind you, breathing slowed, his long arm draped over you.

You scrunched your eyes shut at the faint pangs of your head aching. A familiar throb resided within the apex of your thighs. Gods. You didn’t move, slowly coming to your senses.

You indulged in too much wine with Daeron last night. A rare occurrence as his ‘stuffy’ wife that had to manage Summerhall as Daeron couldn’t be arsed. Daeron nuzzled into your mussed hair, breathing slowed and occasionally hitching. His hand gripped your hip harder, long fingers digging into your flesh.

Seven hells.

You glanced down to his hand. Daeron was not awake, that was for sure. His eyes were closed, face blissful as he whined all tender and sweet, hips slowly rolling against your arse. Your cheeks flushed at feeling how dampened your shift was from however the hell long Daeron had been spending and leaking all over your arse. You’d kept him on a short leash lately— the prince was pent up.

Hm. Better than nightmares and tears. Even if this was a right mess.

Your cunt ached. You rolled back against his hard cock and earned a soft whimper of your name, his hips stuttering. Daeron gripped harder, voice soft and sleepy, “Love, mm- feel s’good. Need…” He broke off again as you gently rolled your arse against his throbbing cock.

Reaching down, you laced your fingers with Daeron’s. You hummed, brushing your thumb over his larger hand. Daeron huffed, jerked his hips with a desperate whimper. You indulged him a little longer before you had your own ideas surfacing. Your sweet, wayward prince was delightful like this. Not haunted, in the present, focused on pleasure and feeling good. You almost felt bad, you would’ve tended to his needs sooner. But Daeron’s sleepy mumbling and pretty moans threw that out the window.

Good things come to those who wait.

“Daeron.”

A jerk of his hips, his strong nose behind your ear.

“Daeron, sweetling, wake up.”

You reached behind you to give a gentle tug of his sandy hair— your husband gasping and going shock still. You peered over to meet his periwinkle eyes, a gentle smile on your heated face. This wasn’t the first time he’d needed to be locked away and worked out thoroughly— Daeron relaxed at your shrug and hum, looking less bewildered at the lack of judgement.

In a more conscious state your prince spoke, raspy and soft as he kissed at your throat. “Mm, I was having a good dream, albeit you were doing more than letting me rut at you like a green boy.”

His hand slipped up your shift, getting a good squeeze of your thighs. He moaned, lashes fluttering, pretty mouth hung open. Even with that dreadful scar from the accursed tourney, his sensual mood softened his edges, if he really had them much else besides to keep people at arm’s length.

“You needed it, green boy or not. You’ve soaked my shift beloved. That full up?”

He sighed, eyes closed as he murmured, breath fanning over your shoulder, his fingers fiddling with the ties. Daeron continued to rub his flush cock across the seed soaked fabric over your arse. He mumbled, “Mm, drags good, so soft, you’re so soft.”

Your lips quirked up as he whimpered, your hand adjusting his one feeling you up under your shift to your plush clit. You turned awkwardly to get at Daeron’s bitten lips, kissing, whispering, “Might drag better if you just slip in.” He whined outright as you pulled your defiled shift to your waist. You opened your thighs wide enough for Daeron’s leaking cock to nestle at the snug area where your thighs met and core leaked.

He whimpered, rutting a few times as Daeron gasped, moving faster.

“Fuck- dear- ah- ah- s’damn wet my love. Fuck, Gods.”

You slowed him down with a lazy kiss, tongues brushing against eachother in an age old dance. You stroked his arm as you hummed, “Take it in, no rush, it’s only the morn.” Daeron audibly swallowed, voice weak as he panted, “Wanna…mm, just stay here…” His eyes lolled.

Pretty boy.

Your eyes slipped shut as the blonde’s cockhead brushed your swollen bud. You cooed, gently leaning into his movements. “You can stay, we can lay here, make love, make a mess…my sweet prince.

Daeron’s hips slid back and forth as you lulled him into a state of mindless pleasure. Daeron kept it slow like you said— a few reminders now and then. He’d squeeze you, bury that handsome face against the nape of your name as he panted and mewled in dizzying relief.

“Love you, oh, oh- love, how I love you,” Daeron babbled and canted his hips upward. He whimpered and carried on as you made sure to draw his pleasure out. You got closer with every needy plea and whine from his lips. Such a cute little slut, all yours now.

You reached behind you, arching with a breathy moan, “Close, love you, keep going baby, keep going. Don’t you stop.”

He groaned, forehead pressing on your shoulder.

“I- nghhh- I dunno,” Daeron whispered, dark brows furrowing as he trembled, spilled more pre across your flushed lips. You had to turn back again, your husbands shaking hand at your cheek. You pecked his lips, amusement in your chest as he chased you with a displeased noise.

“Shh, I’m not going anywhere. Be a sweet baby and make me come, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he echoed, blinking glassy periwinkle eyes. His hair was messy, fucked truly. You smiled at him, instructing gently, “Mm, good boy, yeah, right there love, can you feel it?”

He groaned, circling his fingers.

“Can you feel me?” You asked again, more firm.

Daeron shuddered as you clenched around him, more of your own arousal and Daeron’s pre mixing together to create slick, heady noises. He rasped, eyes shutting with a mewl, tears welling in those lovely expressive eyes. He leaned towards your ear, voice wrecked, “So close, oh, I feel you, so tight baby, please don’t go…”

“Not going anywhere Dare.”

You smiled, feeling that precipice rise in your molten belly as Daeron lost more and more composure. You kissed him with heady intoxication, lapping into his warm mouth, tasting the spices lingering from that Dornish wine. His thumb continued to circle your most intimate parts, cock stimulating everything else. It was a tangle of limbs, moans, drawn out cries and euphoria in the morning haze.

Daeron huffed, holding you tight as he pled all sweet and saccharine. Nothing like an eldest prince, an heir. They were supposed to fuck and claim. Daeron was close enough to a boy whore from Oldtown who simpered and used his pretty cock for a lick of coin.

Well. He didn’t need coin. But your sweet prince loved affection and feeling bliss, not having to think so much.

“Please, longer, more, hurt s’all good,” Daeron slurred. His eyes were glassy, teary, his cheeks flushed and damp. You kissed his darkened lips again, arching as a line of pleasure rolled up your back.

Fine. Good things come to those who wait.

“Alright baby, yeah,” you breathed, meeting his eyes with delirious dilated pupils and a lazy grin, “We’ll sit here all afternoon until you’re crying for me to stop.”

He nodded, inhaling eagerly at the promise, cock spurting more against your heated flesh at the idea. You caressed his cheek, perfectly content with a day escaping the ever mounting friction outside of your chambers. Daeron pressed his lips to yours eagerly, tongue sliding in to lap for a few moments. He pulled back, the blonde breathing, “Yes, need that love, need you. Need you so bad.”

You cupped his cheek, eyes on his as you replied, “Go ahead darling, all you need. Wanna hear, feel, see how perfect you are. Do it for me.”

He whined ‘fuck’ before attaching himself to your throat— the day a reprieve and dedication to the pair of your own unfulfilled, long ignored needs. Daeron stiffened as you finally clenched hard as his oversensitive tip was caught in the vice of your cunt and thinks.. He sniffled, gasped, stiffened before crying out as hot spend splattered against your thighs and swollen intimates, flush and needy with arousal.

“Good boy, keep going, I think I’ll wait…”

Daeron laughed deliriously, pressing lush kisses to any exposed skin as the blonde returned to soft panting, moans, babbled and leisurely rutting.

✧ yes, daeron frequents brothels and lies with women, but it is all superficial. the touch he receives is paid for. the affection and caresses and sweet nothings do not feel real enough to sate the hunger in his heart for something real. at times, he tries to imagine that the woman servicing him loves him truly, that she is there, offering pleasure because she feels something genuine. when those moments come, he leaves the establishment feeling emptier than when he stepped through its doors.

✧ all those women lie with him because it is their job to do so, or they might want to curry favor with a prince of the realm. they do not touch him because of what resides in his heart or mind, just for what they can find in his pockets or the sigil sewn into his breastbone.

✧ when he feels helpless and the touch of another makes his skin crawl, he is ashamed to admit that he tries to give himself what he lacks. bringing his own calloused hand to his cheek and cupping it, trying to see how it would feel if someone treated him gently, cradled his face into their palms like he was something precious and treasured. tears always end up rolling down his cheeks, soaking his shaking fingers that are now digging into his face with sorrow and anger, furious that he cannot replicate what he so ardently craves.

✧ things change when he meets you.

✧ daeron needs to trust you implicitly to let himself go, to let you see the deepest parts of himself that he guards beneath the aloofness, the quipping jokes, and late-night escapades.

✧ at first, he is dead afraid of getting too close to you. he believes you are too good for a man such as himself. one so plagued by prophetic dreams that he resorts to drinking himself stupid and visiting pleasure houses to cope.

✧ you coax him slowly, offering him the patience and compassion that he only ever got from his mother when he was still a child. (daeron and his mommy issues go hand in hand for me)

✧ he cannot believe that you want to touch him, that your soft hand wishes to caress and stroke his skin, his hair. it unravels him completely, making him only wish for more, more, more. as much as you can give, and selfishly, even more than that, if possible.

✧ daeron becomes relentless in his pursuit of your affections, for your compassion and kindness. he soaks it all up like a sponge and feels his chest expand with warmth that threatens to burn him up from the inside.

✧ absolutely cannot help but melt when you cradle his face in both of your palms and stroke his cheeks with your thumbs as you speak to him. turns into a puddle at your feet every time.

✧ nuzzles you excessively. your skin is warm and smells nice, and daeron cannot help but press his face into whichever patch of skin is on display, like a dog seeking affection.

✧ daeron’s favorite places to nuzzle are the crook of your neck, your lap, the valley between your breasts, and the junction between your thighs. more precisely, the inside of your thighs, where it's warm and smells so much like you. he falls asleep with his face tucked there sometimes, so close to the heat of you but not moving to do anything about it. he is just happy to be there, cradled by your soft skin on each side of his head.

✧ doesn’t care about being judged for showing affection. he will hold your hand, kiss your cheek, nose your neck, kiss your knuckles, brush his fingers along your calves and ankles beneath the table at feasts. his hand is on your thigh or around your waist at such festivities, his chin hooked onto your shoulder so he can whisper in your ear, talking softly about the people around you.

✧ he gets vocal when it comes to his love for you. calls you sweetheart, dove, darling, my sweet, my love, my treasure, my flower, etc. when he feels playful, he adds silly nicknames, smirking as he says them, knowing how ridiculous they are.

✧ craves your praise like air. melts completely whenever you bestow the same pet names onto him. preens if you mention how strong he is, how good he makes you feel, how much his love means to you. whines if you praise him too much, flushing under your attention but secretly greedy for more of it.

✧ needs to hear “i love you” from your lips at least ten times a day, or he is not satisfied. but do not worry, he will reciprocate tenfold, his mouth forming the words by instinct every time he sees you.

✧ sleeps wrapped around you, cradled by your arms most nights, cuddling into your warmth with his face cushioned against your breasts. he’s out like a light as soon as he nuzzles into the soft flesh and feels your heartbeat.

✧ loves being pampered. adores when you pay attention to him and spoil him with touches and kisses. if he had a tail, it would be wagging incessantly as soon as you press kisses to his face and coo sweetly at him.

✧ calls you “wife” even before you two are married. one day, it slips out while he is still courting you, and from that day on, it is sealed in stone.

✧ likes to be of service to you. it brings pride and makes him feel worthy when he eases your burdens, runs you a bath, or brushes your hair for you at night.

✧ allows you to admonish him about his drinking habits and help him moderate them, at least a little bit. will grumble but give up the moment your tone turns stern.

✧ adores your fingers in his hair. brushing his fringe to the side, scraping your nails against his scalp, soothingly carding and petting through his hair as his head is pillowed onto your lap. it calms him down. he leans into your touch for more, the second you dare to stop for even a moment.

✧ when the night terrors and visions are particularly bad, he clings to you so tight that he is afraid of suffocating you with his desperation. barely holds back tears when you just cuddle closer into his embrace and allow him to mold your bodies together beneath the blankets until his heart slows and his eyes dry.

✧ when you read in the armchair in front of the hearth, he curls up at your feet, kneeling between them, and fits himself there, his head pillowed onto your lap. his arms come around your waist to hold tight, nuzzling into the clothed warm flesh to his heart’s desire. he cannot help but press his face into the softness of your stomach as well, nudging lightly in an attempt to get your attention, to make you pay attention to him.

✧ daeron is not one to shy away from asking or demanding for your attention. he has this little nagging voice in the back of his head that what if one day you get sick of how much he needs you, how much he wants you, how much he craves you, but it ultimately crumbles under the ache in his chest and heart when he has not been given even a crumb of affection from you. it’s akin to a drug. he takes and takes and takes as much as you're willing to give him, and more.

✧ if it so happens that aerion does not have a betrothed when you and daeron are wed, daeron would take every opportunity imaginable to shove your marriage into aerion’s face. at feasts, at court, at family meals. every single time. daeron would get bold enough to kiss you where he is sure aerion can see, keeping his gaze half lidded so he can make eye contact with his brother while he kisses you, a small smirk on his lips.

✧ feels so proud when you wear something he got for you, whether it'll be jewelry or a gown.

✧ also loves when you wear any mark you get from him, sexual or not. hickeys, a little bruise on your collarbone from when he pressed his forehead too hard there one day, too eager in seeking your warmth, or wine-stained lip marks on your skin from when he cannot wait to wipe the drink off of his mouth before suckling at your skin.

⤷ sexual!!

✧ tits, tits, tits. daeron is obsessed with your tits. if it’s two things he cannot live without aside from you, it’s your cunt and your tits, in equal measure.

✧ he could do nothing all day but be cradled in your arms, onto your shared bed, with his mouth attached to your breasts, lazily mouthing at your nipples until they are aching and raw, muffling soft whines and moans into the tender flesh.

✧ daeron loves to suckle on your nipples. his eyes lower, half lidded with satisfaction, his mouth already parting to take a nipple into his mouth and suckle, sighing in content as his tongue circles the pebbled bud.

✧ he gets hard just from seeing your cleavage. wear anything that shows even the tops of your breasts, there it is, daeron is so hard he can barely think straight. he loves when you wear low cut dresses on purpose because he gets an eyeful of your tits all day, unashamed in his staring, although trying his best to hide his boner if there are people around.

✧ and yes, he loves to slide his cock between your tits, too. the first time it happened, all the blood went to his head so fast he swore he almost passed out.

✧ seeing your breasts squished on either side of his length as he rutted between them, smearing precum over the flushed skin, was more than he could bear. “f-fuck, gods, feels so warm, my love, please-” it didn’t even take five thrusts between your tits before he was moaning, whiny and pitched, cumming all over your throat and chin, mind so woozy he needed a few minutes to come back to himself.

✧ he begged to fuck your tits many more times after, never getting tired of how lewd it looked and how good it felt. not as warm as your cunt, or your mouth, but a very close third. the way the head of his cock peeked from between your breasts as he slid between them was a memory he came back to very often.

✧ if you happen to carry his child, and are lactating, you are in big trouble. daeron will be more relentless than ever. as long as you agree to let him suckle at your nipples, he will not stop unless you push at him or shove him away. he swears the taste of your milk is heavenly, and he might die if he goes even one day without.

✧ and even then, he is gentle. because you are the mother of his child and the most precious thing in his life. if your breasts ache, he will be there to suckle at them, to empty the milk ducts and ease your burden.

✧ he gets unbelievably hard from it, too. your hand often sneaks into his breeches to wrap around his cock and stroke him slowly and languidly while he drinks from you. it’s filthy and wrong, but it feels so good to see him unravel in the cradle of your chest, hips rutting into your hand while he whines and whimpers with his mouth full of sweet milk.

✧ daeron is also obsessed with your pussy. could spend hours between your thighs, mouth open, tongue licking and stroking through your folds until the taste of you sticks to the back of his throat. at times, he accidentally overstimulates you because he gets so pussy drunk he cares about nothing but the feel of his tongue lapping at your heat.

✧ when he’s had a bit to drink and settles between your thighs to eat you out, he’s lazy and slow, eyes barely kept open, glazed over with so much satisfaction and love. if he falls asleep with his mouth still open against your cunt, too tired and drunk to continue, he’ll apologize profusely the next day by pleading for you to ride his face as much as you wish.

✧ he thinks that there is no better view than looking up at you as you ride his face. your cunt is wet and sloppy against his mouth, grinding against it, slow at first, then humping it with fervor as you chase your high.

✧ wants you to use him. will stick his tongue out, keep it flat and still, letting you grind your clit and folds against it as you hump his face, not doing anything but offering himself to you. the tip of his nose bumps against your clit as well; he makes sure of it, the double stimulation enough to have you cumming onto his face.

✧ he’s always hard when you ride his face, his hips grinding against nothing, seeking friction desperately, the only relief being the material of his breeches rubbing against his cock again and again. he’s whining and whimpering into your folds as he cums into his pants, staining his clothes with his spent, so woozy and melty from the orgasm that he just opens his mouth more and lets you use his mouth to your delight.

✧ when it’s your turn to service him with your mouth, he can barely keep from crying when he feels your lips wrap around his cock, bobbing up and down, taking him to the hilt, and swallowing around him. he’s gentle then, too. fist against his mouth as he babbles and whimpers and praises you. how pretty you look, how good you are to him, how grateful he is that you’re sucking his cock for him so nicely. he’s a wreck. tries not to cum too fast, but cannot resist how good it feels.

✧ at night, when the visions become too much and his mind is clouded by death and blood, he seeks you out blindly, curling against your back and hugging you to him, needing to get his mind off things.

✧ he ruts against you desperately, face pressed into the nape of your neck, mouthing at your skin and breathing in the smell of your hair, getting lost in you. his hands frantically push up your nightgown, always finding you bare beneath.

✧ when daeron is too pent up, too shaky, and overwhelmed, he does not fuck you, apprehensive of hurting you in his haste. instead, he humps his cock between your soft thighs, sobbing from the relief into your nape, loving how you know when to squeeze your thighs together around his length, helping him reach his peak, the grind wet and sloppy, leaving the insides of your thighs marked with his cum.

✧ making love is all about making you feel good. if you feel pleasure, daeron will feel the same. your pleasure is his.

✧ usually, he fucks you slow, his cock grinding between your folds and head circling your clit before he pushes in, blanketing your body with his, a little lazy, but tender. the strokes are deep and slow, going faster when he knows one or both of you are close to your peak, his hips slapping your ass repeatedly as he moans and groans into the crook of your neck.

✧ but there are times when he feels a little insecure in his manhood, and takes you harder. his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave indents behind, purpling by morning. whether it’ll be on your hands and knees or with him above you, he makes sure the bed creaks with how hard he grinds his cock into your pussy, groaning like a wounded animal at how hard you’re squeezing around him. “s-sorry, my love, fuck, you feel so good like this. want to give you more. can you take more? harder? please, my sweet, please. i need it, i need it-”

✧ the times you ride him, he loves to hold you close and let you use his cock for your pleasure. the way your tits bounce in his face makes him go cross eyed, his mouth parting open for his tongue to lap at your nipples as you continue to grind onto his length. he tries to suckle at them, but its quite hard when you’re moving so much, your breast falling from his mouth each time he tries, leaving a string of saliva between his lips and your nipple, making him whine at the loss.

✧ daeron came from making out with you the first time you lip-locked. you, on his lap, your fingers into his hair, tongues tangling and lips sucking at each other’s lips and tongues. your moans and sighs into his mouth, the way you only pressed closer against him. it was too much to bear at the time, his hips stuttering once, twice, before he was cumming into his pants after a few feverish minutes of heavy kissing.

✧ circling back to aerion. daeron would make sure that you two would be caught fucking at some point by his brother. after so many years of being made to feel inferior to his own sibling, daeron needs to get this one thing out of his system. needs to show aerion that he, too, can pleasure a woman as much as his brother can, if not better.

✧ maybe one time where they’re all traveling, and he knows that aerion is wall to wall with your shared room. daeron will make sure you will not be able to moan anything but his name for hours. he would be relentless in his pursuit, devouring every bit of your pleasure like a man changed. the headboard of your bed would rhythmically knock into the wall separating your room to aerion’s at the inn, coupled with the sound of you mewling daeron’s name. a litany of how good it feels, how good daeron is being, how much you love his mouth between your legs, how his cock feels heavenly when it hits that one spot inside you that makes your vision blur with tears of ecstasy.

✧ it would make daeron preen with pride, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach knowing that his brother might have some whore from a pleasure house nearby in his bed, but he does not have a wife, spread open onto his bed, mewling his love for him, and only asking for more. more of his mouth, his touch, his cock.

✧ daeron would hold you down, hips slapping soundly against your ass, crooning about breeding you, loud enough for aerion to hear through the thin walls. “wan’ me to fill you up again, my love? have your womb be mine for the night? can i, my sweet wife? wanna have you full of me.”

✧ and your only response is to part your thighs more, welcoming him deeper inside you, little “ah, ah, ah” sounds falling from your lips as you nod feverishly, pleading for daeron to cum inside you, eyes teary and soft.

✧ the next day, aerion’s gaze burns into the back of daeron’s head. it only makes the older smile, and lean in to press a soft kiss to your temple, while one of his hands places pointedly onto your stomach, sneaking a glance at aerion, winking. there will be a little dragon heir coming, and it will be daeron’s.

aerion targaryen, terror of battlefields and a man who speaks of fire as if it were kin, sits unnaturally still on a cushioned stool, shoulders squared as though preparing for war rather than whatever this is.

"you do realize," you murmur, amusement already curling at your lips, "that you could simply refuse."

aerion huffs, not even glancing your way. "a dragon does not refuse its own blood," he says firmly, "nor does it cower before hair."

"you must not move, father," she insists, her voice carrying the kind of authority only a child can wield without question.

aerion inclines his head ever so slightly, indulging her, though his eyes flick briefly toward you as if silently asking how he has found himself here. "i will not be bested by a few strands of my own hair."

her fingers sink into his silver hair almost immediately, attempting to part it into sections far too ambitious for its length, and you can already see the inevitable failure in the way the strands slip free.

she frowns, lips pursed, trying again with greater care, only to have the same result unravel in her hands. aerion remains still, though his shoulders tense just slightly when she tugs a bit too hard, betraying that this ‘endurance’ may not be as effortless as he pretends.

"it is a delicate craft," he begins, voice lowering into that familiar, grand cadence, "braiding requires discipline, precision, and the patience of one born of fire and—"

he pauses when she huffs, clearly unimpressed by his speech, and reaches for something behind her. you notice it at the same time he does.

the glint of ribbon in her tiny hands.

aerion's reaction is immediate, subtle but unmistakable, as he slowly, carefully leans his head forward and just out of reach, like a man sensing danger yet refusing to acknowledge it outright. his posture remains composed, but there is a clear, strategic retreat in the way he angles himself away from her grasp.

you bite back a laugh, watching the great, unyielding man of house targaryen attempt to evade red ribbons with the same caution one might use facing a blade.

"i do not believe such… adornments are necessary," he says, voice measured, as though negotiating terms of surrender without actually surrendering.

your daughter narrows her eyes, tracking his movement with surprising accuracy, her little brows furrowing at his quiet rebellion. "stop moving," she commands, reaching again.

at the last possible second, she pauses.

the ribbons are forgotten as quickly as they were chosen, dropped carelessly onto the floor as something far more important catches her attention.

his hair itself, stubborn and short, yet still the true challenge before her.

aerion who's mid-retreat, freezes, clearly having expected the worst, only to find small fingers instead grabbing hold of his hair once more. he blinks, caught between relief and confusion, before slowly, cautiously straightening again.

you cannot help it this time. the laugh escapes you, soft and warm, filling the space between them. "you see, my dear husband," you tease gently, "even your fears are premature."

he exhales quietly, dignity barely intact. "i do not fear," he replies, the faintest hint of defensiveness lingers, "i merely assess threats."

your daughter hums as if she understands none of this and all of it at once, resuming her work with renewed determination, fingers weaving strands that stubbornly refuse to stay put. she tries once, twice, three times, each attempt ending in loose pieces slipping apart the moment she lets go.

"mama's hair listens," she mutters, tugging slightly. "yours does not."

"my hair," he says carefully, "is not meant to be tamed."

"of course," you reply, voice light, "even your hair must be fearsome."

he shoots you a look, one that promises retaliation later, but it falters the moment your daughter speaks.

"we will make it listen," she insists.

aerion endures it all with a rigid sort of patience, his jaw tightens slightly every time she tugs too firmly.

"a true targaryen does not falter," he begins again, clearly unable to resist his own dramatics, "we are forged in flame, unyielding in the face of any—"

a sweet is pressed into his mouth before he can finish.

the interruption is swift and absolute, your daughter's solution as effective as it is predictable, and aerion falls silent in the middle of his declaration, blinking as he instinctively chews.

you cover your smile with your hand, shoulders shaking faintly as he processes what just happened, pride momentarily set aside in favor of honeyed surrender.

"no talking," she reminds him firmly, patting his cheek this time as if to ensure compliance.

he swallows, straightening once more. there's softness creeping into his expression, something gentler beneath the warrior's composure. "i shall remain silent after i say this: a true targaryen does not yield. we are of fire and blood, unbreak—"

"hush! father, i am growing weary of your speech, and i am only small."

minutes pass in a mixture of quiet concentration and occasional failed attempts, until at last she leans back, admiring what can only generously be called a braid. it is uneven, fragile, and already threatening to come undone, but to her it is perfection.

"done!" she declares proudly, clapping her hands once, eyes shining as she looks between the two of you.

you rise, stepping closer, fingers brushing lightly over the small, crooked braid before smoothing a strand back into place. aerion stands as well, tall and composed despite the evidence of her efforts woven into his hair.

"do i resemble your mother now?" he asks, voice softer, glancing down at her.

she nods eagerly, completely certain. "yes. now you match."

he looks at you then, something warm and unspoken passing between you, before the faintest smile touches his lips. "perhaps it is a battle worth losing."

aerion opens his mouth again, no doubt preparing another speech about fire and blood and unyielding strength.

Baelor

Baelor is definitely a very secure man. He is the definition of a confident, secure man and a walking green flag.

When you leave, or one of you goes away for a few days without your company, I definitely feel like he gets a little anxious and worries about how you are, but nothing too crazy. He just wants to make sure you are happy and comfortable, and you are not being there or away for a time; he worries for your well-being.

He is big on communication, so if he feels anxious or unsure about something in your relationship, he will speak up, and if he sees you feeling anxious or worried will definitely sit you down to talk through it.

He doesn't want anything left unsaid, especially if it hurts him or you.

His love language to you is definitely gift giving. He loves to spoil you and will not hesitate to buy you whatever you want. He doesn't do it to buy your love, but from the simple fact that he just loves to spoil you and deck you in all the best jewels and silks and whatever else your heart desires.

The love language he definitely loves from you is acts of service. He loves it when you help him or offer to do something for him, he mentioned in passing. whether it was mending a shirt he kept forgetting to send to the seamstress, or putting his books away after he left them askew over his desk. or making sure he eats when he gets stuck in endless meetings.

Maekar

Maekar at first is pretty avoidant. He's learnt to be over the years, and suddenly having you there caring for him and asking him if he's eaten or wants any help definitely throws him through the wringer. And definitely after he falls for you, he grows very fearful and tries to push you away out of fear of losing you. It's just who he is - but as he grows used to you, forcing your presence on him every day, he grows a little more secure, but is still definitely in the category of Avoidant fearful.

Being the youngest and always in the shadow of Baelor and always finding himself looking after his brother Rhaegal and fighting for his mother's attention, he was definitely pushed to the back burner of his mother's affections and as a result, he is very independent and has low self-esteem.

He doesn't get what you see in him, even if you spend your days telling exactly what you see and love in him.

He is definitely anxious. When you are away or angry at him, he definitely punishes himself and worries; he overthinks everything when it comes to his relationship with you, because he is definitely someone who falls slowly but hard, but does not communicate how he feels.

His love language with you is quality time. He loves spending hours with you completely uninterrupted. He always makes sure to spend every meal, every tea, and every day where you just wish to spend hours in the gardens of Summerhal together. He wants to spend every moment with you, to the point that he has to be physically torn away from you at times.

You with him always give him words of affirmation. He loves to give them to you, praising you and complimenting every aspect of you. But he really preens when you do it to him. It's the only time he blushes when you call him "handsome" or compliment his physique and skills. He tries to act tough, and those words don't affect him, but he definitely strops when you don't compliment him somehow.

Valarr

Valarr, of course, in anxious and needy. He needs affection nonstop and is the type to pout whenever he has to go days on end without you (the days being the time between lunch and dinner). He needs constant reassurance, and he finds that with you, he gets very jealous. not in a possessive sense but in a longing sense. he can be possessive, of course, I definitely see that with him. But his jealousy can be ov little things like spending time with his little brother Matarays, when he is right there (he wouldn't be, but he is the type to say "you could have come and found me" with a pout on his face)

It's not that he isn't secure - he is, his father made sure of it, but he also worries about all the weight of the realm on him and pleasing his father, that whenever you are away from him, he worries he isn't doing everything he can to make you happy.

His love language is definitely physical touch. He wants to be touching you constantly. if your next to him, he his holding you somehow, kissing you, whether he can. He is big on PDA. He doesn't care where they are; if he wants to hug you or kiss you, he will.

He also loves words of affirmation, from you and him. he loves to give you praise. You are perfect to him, and he makes sure you know it.

He also always makes sure to spoil you, you need never ask for everything because Valarr expects your every need and fulfils it before you even realise you need or want something.

Dunk

Dunk doesn't get what you see in him; you could have anyone you wanted, and yet you choose him. So, as a result,lt he is quite anxious. He wants to make you happy in any way possible, and since he has low self-esteem (seeing as Peter Claffey has never looked in a mirror and doesn't belvie him self to be conventionally attractive). He is definitely worried he'll lose you to someone better, no matter how much he reassures you.

He struggles to communicate his fears, not because he doesn't want to, but just because he knows you won't understand them. To you, Dunk is everything you ever wanted, and no matter how much you reassure him, he knows if he speaks up, you'll leave him a blushing mess as you praise him.

Your love language with him is definitely words of affirmation. All you do his praise him, reassure him and express your love to him, and he loves it, even if it makes him stutter and blush.

With you, his love language is definitely acts of service. He will do anything and everything for you. can't reach something? He's grabbing it. Don't like a particular chore? He's doing it from now on. Do you need anything? Even if its juts killing a spider or speaking to the merchant at the market, he is doing it for you.

Lyonel

He is the definition of a secure man. He is confident in himself and your relationship. He knows what he wants, and he's worked hard to know what you like. He might not be a walking green flag like Baelor, but he is extremely secure in your relationship and communicates his needs clearly.

But despite this, he is a needy guy. he needs touch, and he needs you. When he travels, you are travelling with him. if you need to do something, which means leaving his company, he wants to come with you. It's not from a lack of self-esteem or a need for reassurance and approval in your relationship, but from a sheer want to touch you and be close to you. Your constanlty sat on his lap in feasts. Not a night goes by where he doesn't wrap himself around you entirely in bed.

He doesn't have a set love language. He loves to praise and tease. He loves to touch and hold you. he loves spending his time with you, and he loves spoiling you.

When it comes to your love language with him, he loves acts of service with quality time. He loves it when you go to every part he throws, loves it when you help him plan them. And he loves it when you watch him train for tourneys. He just loves it when you watching him.

Daeron

He is definitely the most needy. He needs your attention. he needs your focus and your love. He adores you and is so anxious every time you leave him, every time he messes up or gets drunk, he worries how you'll react, and worries that you won't take care of him. But of course you do, and he loves it.

He loves it when you take care of him, and it definitely makes him more needy. He needs to touch you, and he needs your words of affirmation. He loves your praise, even when it's sprinkled in with a little degradation.

In your relationship, he is definitely very anxious. He needs constant reassurance and love, and you're more than happy to give it to him, especially as his love language is touch. He is always holding you, hugging you and burying himself in your body.

Aerion

He tries to be avoidant, acts like it, but he isn't. He's actually very needy. in an entirely possessive way. He needs you to know that you are his and only his. It drives him insane and angered when you act like you aren't, he needs to reassure you that he has you. And once he has it, he acts like he does not care. He hates when you check on him, make sure he's eaten and taking care of himself. But when you don't do it, he definitely throws a tantrum and demands you cater to his every need.

His love language is definitely acts of service, and he makes sure you thank him for it. He gives you everything you want or need, and he makes sure you know he is the only one who will do that for you. he is definitely the time to go to the lengths of ordering staff not to listen to you, just so you have to come to him for anything you need.

When it comes to your love language for him, its defienlty words of affirmation. He insists upon it. You have to praise him and compliment how much of a dragon he is. And when he doesn't provoke you to praise it, and you do it of your own accord, he gives you a quick nod of approval, but you know his possessive personality is eating it up.

He's also extremely jealous and will show it through anger and avoidance of you. but hes alwyas the first to come crawling back.