my name is lys! (it’s a family nickname that i happen to share with a city in ASOIAF). i’m a girl, i am in my early 20s, and i love fanfiction. i’m here to read ASOIAF fanfiction, and i’ll probably write it. i’ve been in the fandom for about 7 years now and i’m just now getting around to making an account for this specific fandom. super super big into AKOTSK specially at this moment!!
my other two favorite fandoms are supernatural (big time destiel truther, been in that fandom since i was 12) and avatar the last airbender!
How do you think the men from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms would react if a female reader were very tight—let's just say, you know, she has a tight pussy?
Yes I know, posting twice in one day you guys are so lucky! Thank you anon so much for this request I hope that you enjoyed this. Don’t forget to reblog and comment if you liked it, enjoyed it, wanted more or just kind words. All of your opinions and support is greatly appreciated by me, and encourages me to write more. My inbox is always open so please fill it with whatever, and don’t forget you don’t have to send in anon asks if you don’t want💌 Tag list is always available too. Thank you guys again so much for all the love and support you’ve always shown me. Happy reading🌻💛 master list
Aerion:
At first it surprised him with how tight you were, and he was worried it wouldn’t be pleasurable for either of you. But then once he started thrusting it was a very delicious feeling, and he couldn’t keep his hands off you from then on. Constantly wanting to slip his cock inside you when you were lying down in front of him, or stick fingers inside you while seated at dinner. He was insatiable and loved the feeling of how tight you were around him.
“By the gods, you have the tightest cunt I’ve ever felt, and I want more.”
Baelor:
His only concern was he was afraid of accidentally hurting you during sex, and that you wouldn’t be able to handle him. But once little whimpers and moans left your lips that was all he needed to keep going. Finding new positions and angles that felt the best for you, and loving the feeling of how you slowly stretched around him. Kissing all over your face and whispering sweet things in your ear.
“The only thing I need in my life is this sweet tight cunt waiting for me.”
Daeron:
He absolutely loved how tight you were. Wanting to just stay still inside of you forever, and feel you clench your tight walls around him. He was shocked that you were still this tight, but thankful that he had the privilege to be the one to try and stretch you out. Constantly grabbing you and lifting your dress and slowly pushing inside you praying you were still tight for him. He never lasted long either, it would take just a couple of thrusts before he was spilling inside you.
“I’ve been blessed by the gods to have such a tight cunt all just for me.”
Duncan:
He had absolutely zero clue what to do the first time he felt how tight you were. Thinking that you weren’t real, and it was some sort of trick being played on him. He was terrified that he was going to hurt you and completely ruin sex, but once you cried out his name and begged for more that was all he needed to hear. Loving when you rode him at your own pace, and watching you try and hit the best angles. He couldn’t get enough of you, and found himself desiring sex more often.
“Never did I think I would be craving your tight cunt more than food.”
Lyonel:
He found it amusing and fun with how tight you were. It never bothered him or worried him in the slightest, and he would take you roughly and hard. It was just an excuse to always be inside you whenever he wanted. Constantly teasing you about it, and loving that he was the only one who got to feel it. Even bragging to his closest men about how he was the sweetest cunt to return to. He certainly was the happiest man in the whole kingdom.
“Only I can be the one to stretch out this tight cunt, and by the gods I will.”
Maekar:
At first he didn’t know if he wanted to be with someone who was this tight, but once he really felt you and watched your face he was obsessed. That man was always thinking about it, dreaming about it and imagining it. If you walked into a room full of people he thought about just taking you on the table. He couldn’t believe how tight you remained even when he took you roughly, and thought you were a blessing given to him.
“Your tight cunt is just an excuse for me to fuck you whenever I want.”
Valarr:
He wanted to remain sweet and tender with you always cautious not to hurt you in any way. Always watching as you gripped around him tightly, and watching in amazement how well you still took him. He was even amazed with how tight you would feel around his fingers. Studying you closely trying to see if maybe he was doing something wrong, but based on your screams of pleasure he knew he was doing something right.
“I don’t know how this tight cunt takes me so well, but it feels like magic.”
─ pairing: modern Aerion Targaryen x ex-wife!reader
─ summary: every time Aerion brings your son back to your house, the two of you find yourselves in bed. but this time is different. this time will be the last.
─ warnings: 18+ MDNI | smut smut smut | toxic relationship | divorce | angst | some fluff I guess | manipulation | gaslighting | Aerion being himself | girl, dump him like toxic waste
─ a/n: this has been swimming around in my head nonstop for weeks. like actually since i first saw these photos. kinda want to do all the akotsk/hotd men as ex-husbands but I cannot for the life of me imagine why on earth someone would leave Dunk. lowkey leaving Valarr would also be a red flag to me. anyway, thank you as always.
The doorbell rang.
You glanced toward the hallway. From where you stood you could see the edge of the entryway, the console table, the bowl for keys, the warm light of the sidelights pooling on the hardwood. The bell rang again, two short bursts, impatient.
"I'm coming," you called, already moving, bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor. You passed through the living room, past the hallway table with its fresh-cut peonies leaning heavy in their vase, and reached the door pulling it open.
Before you could say a word, before you could get out "be patient," a small body collided with your legs. Tiny arms wound around your knees. A face pressed into your thigh, white-gold hair slightly damp, smelling of chlorine and sunscreen and something warm underneath that was distinctly him.
"Mommy!"
Your hand came down to the back of his head automatically, fingers threading through the fine, silky hair, so much like his father's. "Hi, baby! Are you excited to see me?"
"I missed you." His voice was muffled against your shorts.
"I missed you too." You crouched down, knees on the hardwood, and pulled him into a proper hug. His little arms tightened around your neck as you held him close, your chin on the top of his head. He was bouncing slightly even while you held him, vibrating with the kind of energy that only children had. You pulled back, hands on his shoulders, and looked at him at eye level. "Did you have fun at daddy's house?"
He squealed, a high, piercing, delighted sound. "Yeah! Daddy let me swim every day!"
"Every day?" You raised your eyebrows, making your face wide with mock astonishment. "I bet you swam soooo fast."
"Mommy, I'm faster than a shark. Daddy says so."
You heard the chuckle before you looked up. A low sound, warm in the throat, familiar in a way that still affected you. You raised your gaze.
Aerion leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed to the dark trim, the light above him throwing amber light across the line of his jaw. He was in all navy, a color he knew looked fantastic on him. He held Maegor's weekender bag in one hand, hanging from his fingers like it weighed nothing, the leather strap swinging slightly. His violet eyes moved over your face, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
Maegor turned to look at his father. "Daddy, tell mommy I'm faster than a shark."
Aerion moved forward and bent to scoop Maegor up in one fluid motion. The boy went to his shoulder like he belonged there, like there was a groove carved specifically for him. Aerion pressed a kiss to his cheek.
"That's right. You're the fastest swimmer I've ever seen."
Maegor beamed. You looked at him and then at Aerion. "You must be exhausted. Say thank you and goodbye to daddy."
The smile dropped. Maegor's lower lip came out, and he laid his head against Aerion's shoulder.
"I don't want to."
You watched the way Aerion's hand came up to cup the back of the boy's head, fingers spreading across that small skull.
Maegor turned his face toward his father. "Daddy, why don't you live here again? Then I could see you every day."
Aerion pressed another kiss to his son's temple. His eyes did not leave the boy's face. "I'll see you next weekend. We'll do whatever you want, okay?"
Maegor's head lifted. "Promise?"
Aerion nodded. "I promise."
He looked at you. Violet eyes, cloudy and unreadable. The guilt was already there, sitting heavy in your throat.
Aerion set Maegor down. The boy's sneakers hit the hardwood with a rubbery squeak. He handed him the bag. "Can you carry that on your own?"
Maegor nodded, gripping the strap with both hands, the bag nearly as big as him. He looked up at his father. "Bye Daddy. Love you."
Aerion crouched, one knee on the floor. "Love you more."
You watched him rise. You reached out and ran your hand through Maegor's hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Put your stuff away and then go wash your hands for dinner. I made lasagna."
His whole body jerked with excitement. "Lasagna!"
He spun and took off down the hall, sneakers pounding on the hardwood, the bag dragging behind him with every step. You watched him go. "What did I say about running?"
"Sorry, mommy!"
He was not sorry. You could hear him still running, the sound of his feet moving through the hall and up the stairs.
You turned back to Aerion.
He was already looking at you. His gaze started at your face and moved downward slowly. The black tank top, thin cotton, fitted enough to show the line of your waist. The white shorts, hemmed high on your thigh. Your hair was down and your makeup was done. You felt exposed.
"Thank you for dropping him off." You crossed your arms, then uncrossed them, not knowing what to do with your hands.
"That's my job." He stepped forward.
"Right." You tucked a lock behind your ear. "Well, still. Thank you. Was everything okay? Is there anything—"
"You look good, baby."
"Aerion."
He stepped forward again. You took a step back. He was fully in your doorway now, his shoulders filling the frame. "What?" Another step. "I can't tell you you look good anymore?"
He gave you a smile. The lopsided one, the left corner of his mouth lifting higher than the right, the one that had gotten you into this mess, into the marriage, into the divorce, into the bed over and over again.
"We're not doing this anymore."
He tilted his head. The violet eyes held yours. "Alright." A pause. "If that's what you want."
"It is."
He nodded, but something behind his eyes sharpened. He shifted his weight. "Can I stay for dinner?"
"Aerion."
"What?" The word came out innocent. He was not innocent. "There's no food at my house."
You stared at him. "That is concerning to me, considering you just had our child for three days."
"It would make him so happy." His voice dropped. "Dinner with daddy."
You opened your mouth to say no, but at that exact moment you heard the pitter-patter of small feet. Fast. Coming down the stairs. Maegor rounded the corner, hands washed, shirt changed, hair somehow even more disheveled than before.
"Oh, daddy, you're still here!"
Aerion looked at you. His hand came to your hip, warm, heavy, as he moved you gently and stepped past. His hand stayed on your hip for one beat longer than it needed to.
"I'm staying for dinner." He turned his head and looked down at you. Daring you to say otherwise, to be the one to disappoint your son.
Your lips pressed together, eyes narrowed. You pushed the door shut.
Maegor grabbed his father's hand and tugged him toward the dining room. "Come on, daddy, mommy made lasagna, it's my favorite—"
His voice, speaking a mile a minute, echoed down the hall. You watched them go.
"It's just dinner," you muttered to yourself.
Three hours later, you were underneath him.
His cock was buried to the root. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the way your swollen walls clung to him and then released.
"I fucking love this pussy." The words came out against your mouth, his voice wrecked. He kissed you. His tongue pushed past your lips, messy and wet, and you kissed him back. Your walls clenched around him and his hips stuttered.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You did not know what you were asking for. The words came out before you could shape them. "More! Please, Aerion, oh god!"
He pulled back enough to look at you. "More?" A breath of laughter. "You can't get enough of my cock, can you?"
He fucked into you faster. Your hips tilted to take him deeper as you tried to match his thrusts. You cried out, the sound high and uncontrolled. Your nails dug into the muscle of his back, fingers curling, leaving crescents in the skin.
His hand came over your mouth.
"You don't want to wake him, do you?" He grunted out between thrusts, his jaw tight. He snapped into you again, harder, and your eyes squeezed shut. "Is this what you want?"
You nodded. Desperately.
"Yeah, baby." His voice dropped. "So fucking good for me."
Your tongue darted out, dragging across the center of his hand. His eyes narrowed. The violet went dark, the pupil swallowing the color, and he pulled his hand back just enough to push two fingers into your mouth. They slid past your lips, pressing down on your tongue. Your cheeks hollowed, and he watched your mouth, the way you sucked him as he drove into you with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Dirty slut."
Your eyes went heavy-lidded, the warmth in them darkening. You moaned around his fingers. The sound vibrated through his hand.
"I've got you." The bed frame knocked against the wall. You were right on the edge. Your thighs trembled against his chest. Your walls squeezed him. "Fuck, Aerion! Fuck!" Your voice broke on the words, muffled around his fingers, and you sucked harder, your eyes rolling. "Fuck me like that—"
His thrusts went erratic. No rhythm now, just the desperate chase of his own pleasure, each stroke grinding his pelvis against your swollen clit. The friction was relentless, maddening, and you could feel it building, the tight coiling heat in your lower belly.
Aerion cursed again, said your name, and came deep. His hips slammed forward, burying himself to the root, and his body shuddered. You felt it, the hot pulse of him inside you, flooding you, the wet warmth of it spreading through your core. You followed in spasms that would not stop.
You were still shaking when he kissed you. Your hands came up and tangled in his hair, his weight settled onto you, pressing you into the mattress.
Aerion pulled out slowly, his hands still framing your waist. He rolled onto his back beside you, one arm folding behind his head, his chest rising and falling in long measured breaths.
You lay still for a moment beside him, thinking of how you had once again ended up like this. Then you pressed your palms flat against the mattress and pushed yourself upright, your arms trembling. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet finding the soft rug as you stood. Your thighs ached, your knees barely held as you made your way toward the bathroom.
You stepped into the glass-walled shower and turned the brass lever, flinching as cold water hit your skin before warming. Your hands moved mechanically, rinsing, clearing yourself of him, of the evening, of the thing you had sworn the last time would be the last time. The water ran warm between your thighs, and you pressed your forehead against the glass, breath fogging a small circle on the surface. Steam curled around you as you stepped out.
You dried yourself with a towel, wrung the water from your hair, and pulled an oversized T-shirt from a hook on the back of the door. It fell to mid-thigh, soft and worn thin from washing.
When you stepped back into the bedroom, the lamp on the far side was on, casting a low amber glow across the rumpled bed. Aerion was standing by the nightstand on your side of the bed, boxers and his shirt on. He was holding your phone, the screen's blue-white light washing across his face, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the hard set of his mouth.
You came to stand beside him, close enough to smell the salt and warmth still on his skin. Three texts sat in your notification bar, all from the same name. Looking forward to Thursday. I made reservations for 7:30. Can't wait to see you.
"Excuse me," you said, taking the phone from his hands and moving to sit on the edge of the mattress, pulling one knee up beneath the hem of your shirt.
Aerion turned to face you. His brows drew together, a deep crease forming between them, his eyes went dark. "Who the fuck is that."
You looked up at him. "A friend."
"A friend." He repeated it without inflection.
You stared hard at him and said nothing.
"How long have you been 'friends.'"
You moved away from him, rounding the foot of the bed to the opposite side, putting the wide expanse of tangled sheets and mattress between you. He reached down and pulled his pants from the chair where he had dropped them, stepping into them quickly, tugging the waistband into place.
"That's not any of your business anymore, is it?" Your arms folded across your chest.
He ignored that entirely. "I don't want all these guys here around my kid."
"Oh my god." Your head snapped toward him. "You are so ridiculous. It's one guy. He's never met Maegor."
Aerion did not blink. "Does he fuck you."
Your mouth opened, closed. "Excuse me?"
His gaze did not waver. "Are you fucking him."
"Get out."
"So that's a yes." He reached for his watch on the nightstand and buckled it around his wrist with a sharp click.
"I don't ask you about your girlfriends," you said, your voice rising despite yourself.
"I don't have any." He adjusted the watch face. "Because you are my wife."
You rolled your eyes so hard your head moved with the motion. "I'm your ex-wife."
He crossed to one of the armchairs near the window and sat down, pulling on his socks one at a time, tugging them up over his ankles. "I don't know why. This whole waste of time was your idea."
"Waste of time? Aerion, we're divorced because we're not a good couple."
"And I apologized for my shit." He stood. "What more do you want from me?"
You were momentarily too stunned to speak. Your lips parted, and nothing came.
"What more do I want from you?" You repeated it back to him, not as a question but as a kind of discovery.
Aerion stepped toward you, his hand extending, reaching for your wrist. "That's not—"
"No." You cut him off, pulling back from his reach. "That's exactly what you meant."
A hard laugh broke from your throat, ugly, involuntary, the kind that comes before tears. "You are still the same selfish, controlling, narcissistic man you were while we were together." Your voice cracked on the last word. You swallowed hard. "And I'm the idiot who keeps letting you back into my bed."
He scoffed. The sound was quiet, dismissive, a single exhale through his nose as he looked away. "Were you always so dramatic."
The tears spilled over, tracing a slow line down your cheek, before you wiped it away with the back of your hand. "I'm going to pick up and drop off Maegor at yours from now on. You're not welcome in my house anymore."
"It's actually my house." He said it without hesitation. "I pay for it. I pay for everything."
You nodded once, saying nothing further to him. What was there left to say? You walked to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and stood beside it.
Aerion stood by the bed, looking at you. His mouth opened. "Let's talk about this."
You refused to meet his gaze, your eyes fixed on a point on the wall.
He crossed the room and reached for you again, his hand settling on your hip, fingers curving over the thin cotton of the oversized shirt. "I love you," he said. His voice carrying something desperate, the thing he only showed when he was afraid you would actually close a door and mean it.
Your lips pressed together, trembling at the corners. Your eyes filled again, and you blinked, and a single tear caught the lamplight as it fell.
"Get home safe," you whispered.
His hand lingered, then fell to his side. He stood there a moment longer, the hallway light catching the edge of his jaw, and then he turned and walked past you through the door. His footsteps were quiet. They slowed as he passed Maegor's room. You heard him stop, push the door open a crack, long enough to see the small shape under the blanket, the stuffed shark clutched to his chest. Then the footsteps resumed, continuing down the stairs.
You stood in the doorway of your bedroom, one hand still gripping the handle of the open door, and listened to the silence that followed. The house settled around you. You closed the bedroom door, leaned your back against it, and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees drawn up beneath the hem of the oversized shirt.
Never again. This time, you intended to keep that promise.
omega!aerion imprinting on beta!reader and becoming the exact opposite of how he usually is but only with her…alpha!valarr being too shy to bed his omega!reader wife until her heat starts…omega!daeron needing omega!reader only and never being satisfied with an alpha…walk with me…
Dunk's kindness is especially hot because it is NOT born out of naivety. That man has lived a horrible life, seeing the worst of humanity, but still chose to believe in the inherent goodness of man. That's what makes him so appealing.
HARRY COLLETT and PHIA SABAN as JACAERYS VELARYON and HELAENA TARGARYEN
↳ HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (2022 - )
⤷ 3x01 "Salt and Sea, Fire and Blood", dir. LONI PERISTERE
⤷ 3x08 "The Treasons at Tumbleton", dir. ANDRIJ PAREKH
warnings: dead dove do not eat. non con. dub son. violence. stalking. smut. really dark and degrading thoughts. aerion is awful and enjoys hurting you. mentions of prostitution. breaking and entering. stalking. overworking. not processing trauma. oral (f receiving). p in v sex. pet names. aerion is his usual asshole self. vile men. shame and guilt. masturbation. reader enjoying it more this time. overstimulation. sort of stockholm syndrome vibes. 18+ MDNI
a/n: yes people. i love how this fic turned out. did i edit it? no. guys it's longer than the first part so im all done out from writing. need to get better at reading over longer fics.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
Every shift is the same. Stroll in when day is starting, find the bathroom and change into the dreaded uniform. Force on fake smiles before stepping into the dining area. Keep the kind and energetic girl in check. Try desperately not to shiver and glare at the leering men. Focus on positives and don’t count down each hour as it goes by. It doesn’t make it faster and as you become conscious of each passing second in your head, you become more aware of your surroundings, the people, the heat and the constant bell of the door as a new customer walks in. It’s like you’re waiting for him. The moment you step into your car, and realise you’ve escaped another day without seeing him, you feel like you can breathe again
He’s not visited since.
Possibly his routes have changed, maybe he’s grown bored and he’s keeping his distance. But your mind tells you otherwise and your body knows better. Your body remembers. The bruising grip on your hips, the hand in your hair as he yanked you back to him. His awfully beautiful face, deep purple eyes and white hair.
The sight of him isn’t what scares you, you barely saw him in the darkness of his truck. It’s his voice, the low tone as he tells you to relax over and over again as he assaults your body. The memory is so vivid, you relive it over and over again.
Relax.
You hear him still, in the darkness of your bedroom when you're home. When you’re wrapped between sheets, and you can faintly see a street light just at the corner of your window, peeking out the curtain. Your knees up, shoulders lifted by a few pillows, hand between your parted thighs and fingers deep in your pussy.
That’s the worst part. In the day you seek to forget and in the night, in the comfort of your room, you're desperate to remember.
Awful girl, you think. To be treated in such a way and to derive pleasure from the memory. For your body to betray your mind, to find yourself damp between your thighs and for a part of you to want to recreate it. To find pleasure in your trauma, and to only find that pleasure when you think of that. To force your fingers together, and try to reciprocate the thickness and length he filled you with, and to fail miserably. To weep after and lie in the bed, thighs still aching and slick still dripping onto the sheets below you.
It’s sick. You’re sick.
You don’t want to work this job anymore and yet there’s nothing that’s close enough to home that is hiring. Nothing that offers you the same hours and promises that they’ll give you the extra shifts. You need the money as well. You can’t do without it.
How to get out of this vicious cycle?
How to not open your eyes after every restless night and be back in that parking lot again?
Working is bad, being at home is worse. It’s never ending.
“Maybe some time off can help,” Rollo offers up suggestions, flipping the bacon on the grill. He looks over his shoulder for a second, gives you a shrug and that warm boyish smile, all a boy that’s recently dropped out of school can offer. “Or change of scenery.”
“Yeah,” you nod, looking down at your shoes and scuffing them against the floor.
You don’t offer a reply, just simply nod like you do with the rest. —Because it’s all you can do. The suggestions come from everyone in the diner that crosses your path, noting the same tired expression and offering you the same ideas. Time off. More sleep. I’ll cover your morning to let you have a lie in. A holiday. Something big to fill you up. The list goes on and on and you smile and pretend to consider it.
How do you explain to them that you want to leave this place but you can’t? How do you say you wake up back in this place? How to say even when you're home alone at night in the darkness of my room you’re still in the parking lot with him?
You don’t truly understand it yourself. The parking lot is a maze of cars and trucks, a long road that cuts off to dead ends and new turns. You reverse, make another turn and there’s something else standing in your way.
How to explain you’re waiting? You’re stuck in limbo looking for distinctive violet eyes in a sea of brown and grey. How to explain that you can’t rest until you see him again?
You don’t see him though. Days blend into weeks and weeks blend into two months.
He’s forgotten about you but your body, even though healed, still holds the memory of him, underneath the skin, deep in the tissue. The feel of his hands as he tears the clothes from your body. The weight of his body pressed down on you. The shape of him inside your walls as he splits you open.
Haunting in ways that make you sick and paralysed in fear, but also make you shiver in some sort of disgusting delight.
Aerion has always been one to bore easily. Even as a child he found himself growing restless, surrounded by his brothers and cousins, endless things to do and finding no amusement in them. He punched, kicked and bit till he got an adult’s attention, or even better when one of the other children would fight back. He’s always been the same, finding everything unappealing and seemingly lacking.
He learned to suppress that side of him for a while. Learned to fill the void of endlessly picking and prodding for his own amusement with other ordinary things. Like every other teenager he played video games, joined sports clubs and dabbled in an abundance of drugs. Then he became an adult —a man is what his father wanted him to be. A man can’t make a sustainable living by shoving people to the ground or beating them up. Aerion played dirty and dirty, didn't get him a scholarship and none of his coaches wanted to keep him on past the ripe age of eighteen.
He needed a job.
He tried a few things, working for his dad as a mechanic was fun but apparently screwing the girls his age didn’t pay the bills. He stopped that. Got another job behind the grill at some fast food place, ended up holding the manager by the scruff of his worn down polo shirt and threatening to use his name tag to pierce his nose. He was fired and luckily enough didn’t get any charges. Aerion had enough evidence in his month of working there to sue that manager anyway.
This gig fell into his hands, literally speaking.
Some old dude managed to have a heart attack in his brother’s diner while he’d been there and coincidentally when the dude’s boss phoned to ask if anyone could haul his truck all the way back in his direction, he’d been the only one with the license required to drive it.
Money is good with this job. He didn’t really socialise with people long enough to get himself in trouble. The only problem that came was keeping himself entertained and any truck driver knows that hours behind the wheel can become mind numbly boring.
That’s when he met the girls, in every stop they were lingering around, standing under the low red lights of the parking lots, offering him the finest entertainment money could buy. If you enjoy that sort of thing, and a few years ago Aerion really did enjoy it.
He enjoyed it up until around eight months ago. Up until the boredom came back and his tendencies grew darker.
Aerion thought about biting them, choking them, forcing their mouth down on his cock till they couldn’t breathe and they were slapping his thighs for air. But not them, not really. He only thought about them when their faces were turned towards him, and they were underneath him waiting to be fucked.
He thought awful things. He thought, maybe if he just let it play out, he’ll be satisfied. But he tried that as well, but they never really reacted, just asked for more money afterwards and gave him a smile that said, we’ve seen worse.
He never wanted them anyway. Never really fantasied about doing it to them anyway. No, how fucking could he when all he fantasied about was you?
Because eight months ago oblivious to him you had served him at the diner.
You.
He remembers nursing a black eye and hiding in the corner booth, cap on his shoulder covering his eyes and his hair. He didn’t even mean to watch you, but it was pretty much impossible to do anything else.
You strolled over to his booth, wide smile asking in that sickly sweet tone if you could get him anything. You nodded at his curt answers and didn’t once stray to remark on his rude attitude. You who carried that same kindness across the rest of the diner, slightly forced and fake, but never faltering. It amazed him how you could put up a facade just like that. Just pretend that nothing ever bothered you.
A part of him admired it, and the other part… well, it wanted to break it. He wanted to break you.
By the time you came back to refill his coffee he had a cigarette dangling between his lips. You told him he couldn’t smoke it, and he returned back with something snide but clearly funny because you had laughed. Not some fake giggle that waitresses do before they awkwardly tell you that it’s the rules. No, you snorted— tried to stifle it even with a bite of your lip before the laugh took over and your chest shook with it.
Gorgeous, he thought. But what he said was he knew the manager, and you replied, so do I and I know he wouldn’t be happy with you smoking in here.
He smirked and he raised his head so you could see him underneath the cap.
You didn’t shiver, you just smirked back before walking away.
His lips curled upwards further, because he’d found it cute and he couldn’t wait to tear that smile off that face.
Eventually he did, after trying to fight back his fantasies with other women, he finally decided it wasn’t enough and he had to have you. Six months later.
—And from what he hears from his brother, you’re still not quite the same.
You force that pretty smile on your face, try to feign every bit of confidence around that diner but it’s not the same. The amount of times Daeron’s seen you jump, or take a five minute breather to cry in the bathroom, has gone beyond worth counting. Your eyes are heavy, and there’s times where you’re found gazing out the window into nothing. Like you’re not really there at all.
He did that and yet he doesn’t even get to reap the rewards of what he’s done. He doesn’t get to see it play out in real time.
Keep your distance, Daeron tells him. Give her time.
Give you time for what?
Oddly enough in the time you’ve been separated only hearing about you over the phone, on the days his brother bothers to pick up his phone, makes him feel empty. Him.
He’s picking again at that boredom, it’s like a weed in a garden that he pulls out but there’s still part of it stuck in the dirt. Some part of the root he can’t pick at and instead of digging, he picks at it, sitting in the back of his truck at different stops licking over his wounds. He wishes he videoed you, or something— anything to stop this constant numbing boredom from coming to an end.
He could find a girl— any girl really. The pit stops are full of them and he has the money. But each time one girl passes by the truck, his body freezes before he can call out and he’s stuck watching the girl go past onto another truck.
Each night he’s left with his hand and the thoughts of you.
These girls are endless, empty voids that he can pour money into. You have a beginning and an end. Pieces of you he can break and build up again.
They are a temporary solution. You are the root he needs to dig out. The answer. His answer.
He can’t keep his distance anymore. Can’t keep listening to his older brother to be patient and wait.
He has to see you.
You thought you could do this.
You thought if you just kept pushing through shift after shift you’d snap into place. Or at least the pure exhaustion from it would weigh you down and you’d finally have one peaceful night's sleep.
But you were wrong.
Daeron gave you all the shifts you wanted, even reluctantly calling you in when it got too busy or another person had called in sick. You took every shift with a pep in your step, forcing that over the top smile on your face and ran around the diner like nothing could touch you.
Till your legs burned.
Till your eyes drooped over.
Till all the noises in the diner began to jumble together.
Until you crashed.
You planned to crash at home, to just reach the very last long shift and crash in the comforts of your bed. But booth twenty-two had been your destruction, a family of five with a new born screaming at every interaction they were given. The screaming made your ears ring, the over demanding dad made your head spin and the next thing you knew you were stumbling with another sent back order, only to find yourself on the sticky tiled floor.
To say Daeron wasn’t pleased was an understatement, the man might not get angry, might not raise his voice at you but you could tell in the sheer disappointment laced in each word.
You need to get help, or you’re going to have to find another job.
Sleep came easy, not even in your bed, but on the cushions of your couch. The background noise of some lame cartoon on your tv had you dozing off in no time.
It’s the after that sucks. The long night, after sleeping for over eighteen hours and finding yourself more awake than you’ve ever been before.
You need water, it’s the first that comes to mind. You part your lips, finding them crusty and your mouth awfully dry. Only when you move, you feel the stiffness of your joints as well and struggle to make your way to the bathroom.
You shower, letting the steam untangle all the knots of your body before stepping out to chug a glass of water. When you look in the mirror, you barely recognise the person staring back at you. Still a bit rough around the edges, but the sleep has brought life back into your body that you desperately needed.
Some food would do you good. Possibly some more rest, if you could manage to get to sleep again. You pull yourself out of the bathroom, stepping into the kitchen with the towel wrapped around your body. Something easy—
Your feet stop, ears picking up to a shuffling sound close by.
It could be your neighbour, possibly upstairs with their cats. But then you hear it again, the soft padding of feet against the floorboard— creek— the wooden flooring of your bedroom.
Your body freezes, eyes shifting over to look at your doorway, it’s ajar, only slightly but enough you can see a shadow in the room. Your eyes flicker to the front door, measuring out the distance between your feet and the doorway. You could run for it, drag your ass out onto the street and scream bloody murder. You're half naked though and on this side of town, you’re certain people have heard worse.
Your eyes find your knife stand, all five of them slotted into the wooden holder.
You’re sick to your stomach at the thought, but it’s you or them, right? You or whatever mass murderer has decided to take occupancy in your home tonight.
The knife comes out louder than you thought it would, scraping against the wood and before you can even pull it out, a hand drops over yours, pushing it right back in.
“You don’t want to do that,” He hums, and you feel his breath on the back of your neck. It’s warm on your damp skin.
You can’t think, your words catch in your throat and you feel paralysed all over again. That fight response that was in you once has gone, and all that is left is this quivering mess.
Lips press to your shoulder, cold and oddly familiar before they move, gliding all the way up your neck.
He wasn’t like this before, he was rough and mean but as his hands fall onto your hips in a bruising grip, your body remembers him.
Aerion, that’s what Daeron had called him.
“And here I thought you’d be kicking and screaming.” His tongue clicks against the side of his mouth before you feel his teeth, sharp canines running along the point where your neck meets your shoulder. “But you’re shaking at least.”
You should run, jam your elbow into his torso and break free from him. Should have called the police as soon as you realised who he was. Guess you can only blame yourself that this is happening.
He presses his chest into your back and you fall forwards into the countertop, trapping yourself between him and the marble. You can feel him like this, and he’s exactly like he was that night, hungry. His cock is hard already, and you tense at the feel of it, rubbing up against your back side.
“Not going to run,” Aerion asks, hands coming to your arms and running along your damp skin. “Thought we could play a cat and mouse game.”
His lips move, and so do his hands, grabbing your wrists and pulling you flush against him. The movement jolts you, head snapping back and your eyes finally get to see him in proper light.
“Miss me?”
It takes you a second, but the word bubbles in the back of your throat and as small as it is you manage to force it out.
“No.”
He chuckles at that, a low rumble pouring through his chest before smiling with his teeth. “But you’ve been waiting for me though.”
No, you could lie but you swallow, and the realisation hits you, tears clinging to the back of your throat like tar as you shake your head.
Liar. Liar.
You don’t miss him. No. But you have been waiting for him.
In the faces of each of your customers you look for him. Each time the door opens in the diner you’re looking back for him. In the maze of cars and trucks in the parking lot you search for him. Even in this home that he’s only just stepped into, you’re looking for him every time you shut your eyes.
Your eyes flutter, holding back tears that you can’t contain and your lips tremble.
He’s right, and the moment he realises his eyes widen and his lips fall open in awe.
“Fuck,” the word rings out, and he pulls you into him more. “ —and here I thought I was going to have to force you down into that bed all night.” His finger falls to your chin, turning your face to look back at him and his smug smile. “But I can already sense you’re going to be all pliant for me.”
He’s exactly right, and you hate it.
He doesn’t even need to grab a handful of your hair to snap your body back into his. His hand finds the back of your neck, a firm grip as he guides your body in the direction he wants you to go.
Your bedroom.
You should will your feet to move— to run in the opposite direction. Your feet move on their own accord, almost like they’re leading him into the confines of your room, inviting him in.
You can’t understand it. Maybe some part of you wants this over with, maybe the other part knows that you’ll lose in a cat and mouse game.
It becomes increasingly harder to understand when your back is pressed on the bed and his head is positioned between your thighs. Not just yourself, but him.
The man that forced himself on you two months ago, that forgot about you, is now licking and nipping at the skin of your thighs, like he’s teasing you— like some part of him wants you to enjoy this— and it’s working.
He sucks at the skin between the crevice of your thigh, licking the area before his teeth bruise and make a puncture. You wince, biting down on the inside of your cheek before you feel the blood spilling from the wound. It’s not the only thing spilling out of you though. You feel your slick, building between your thighs, oozing out of your when he begins to suck, cleaning up the blood.
The same wetness between your thighs that only grows when he looks up at you, purple eyes almost black, pressing soft kisses over the marks on your thighs until his lips, painted with your blood, are placing themself over your pussy. You sigh at that, lips barely over your folds and he chuckles before licking a tender swipe across your soaked clit.
You shouldn’t be this wet and yet when his tongue parts your slick folds, you can’t help but get wetter, a whimper falling from your throat that you can’t hold.
You cry, pathetic and weak. You’re not certain what you’re really upset about anymore, the pain, the humiliation of not fighting back or the fact you’re growing to enjoy this.
You waited for him didn’t you? You looked for him in every face in that diner. Day in. Day out. An endless cycle, aren’t you just glad that this can be some sort of end? Some sort of pinnacle in your endless misery.
Your hips buck up as his tongue circles your clit, slow in its movements, dragging the tip around lightly before pressing it down with a pressure that makes your eyes roll back. He’s barely even doing anything to you, taking his time in working you up and you’re enjoying every bit of it. By the time that he circles it the second time, your hips are being forced down by a firm hand and you snap out of your daze long enough to look down at him.
“I’ll give you what you want. Just relax.”
The word drips from his tongue like honey and you hear it repeated in the back of your head just like that night.
Relax.
It’s the only thing you can’t do, hips wriggling as his tongue slides down until he reaches your whole.
THWACK.
His hand comes down quickly against your pussy, tips of his fingers aiming at your clit and you cry out at the impact.
You look down but this time he’s not smiling smugly up at you, there’s a nasty look in his eyes as frowns at you.
“Behave,” he almost growls, face diving back down. “I want to enjoy this.”
His tongue licks at you, gathering bits of your juices and swallowing them with a loud groan. It honestly might be more enjoyable if it isn’t for his hands that have found your thighs, fingers wrapping around them to hold them in place and nails digging into the soft skin.
At least you don’t wriggle anymore, but you can’t help the whimper that escapes you when his tongue slides back up to your clit, licking feverishly at it before wrapping his lips around it.
He sucks like your clit is the end of a straw to his favourite milkshake and he’s struggling to get anything out. It’s mean and nasty, and you force your hips deeper into the bed to stop yourself from bucking up into his touch again. His mouth chases you, and his nails bury themselves deeper into your skin to stop you from moving, to keep him latched onto you.
Somewhere between all the moans that escape you as your toes curl and your stomach tenses unnaturally, you say something and you think it might be his name. You’ve not heard it on your lips before but as your orgasm washes over you, his name comes out of you.
“Aerion.”
“Mmm,” he lets out between a sharp breath, tongue slowing its movements to gentle circles. “You taste so good, doll.” He kisses then, pecks against your sensitive clit that has your thighs quivering with the remains of your orgasm. “Been waiting to taste this.”
“Waiting.” You barely register the word as you say it, eyes half lidded as you look down at him. The word floats in your mind and you can’t possibly comprehend that he’s been waiting.
“Yeah, doll,” he replies, and you feel the bed dip as he crawls over you. “Been waiting, doll.”
“No,” you mumble out, hands reaching out to push against him. None of this makes sense. “No.”
“Yes,” he whispers, lips descending over yours.
“Yes.”
He repeats as he tears off his own clothes as your hands finally try to shove him away.
“Yes.”
As he falls on top of you and cages you in.
His naked body is hovering above you before you can make sense of it and when he finally presses it against yours, he’s still whispering yes over and over again between pecks on your lips.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he answers, and the almost whiny tone in his voice makes it sound truthful. “Waiting and watching.” His hands wrap your legs around his hips, pulling you flush against him until your bodies are practically one. “And after all that waiting I’m going to get what I fucking want.”
You hiss at the intrusion of his tip at your entrance, no chance or warning as he slides within you. The first time felt so similar, and even with your walls soaked, there’s still an undeniably painful stretch to accommodate him. One that makes you bite back a sob, and one that makes him moan in your ear from pure delight.
Your body adjusts to it quicker this time, and the sob at the back of your throat turns into a pitiful moan as tears spill down your cheeks. It’s like your body registers him as he thrusts against you, pace not even giving you a chance to breathe. It’s been waiting for him, you think, like your mind. All those lonely nights in the darkness of this room, fingers delving into your hole, unable to reach the place that his cock reaches, it’s been waiting for this. For him.
“Kind of like you like this, doll,” he chuckles, the throaty noise being felt across your damp skin. “All pretty and pliant for me. Could mold you into any position right now and I think you’d take it?”
You want to bite back, to throw an insult that only you can think of but the feel of his thick cock dragging out of your walls slowly has you mumbling out, “Please.”
What are you pleading for? For this to be over, or for him to carry on.
You’re not completely certain yourself, toes curling as he slides all the way back into your walls. All you know is the intensity slowly growing in your stomach, the feeling that has you fluttering around his length, unable to do anything but wait for it to take you.
“I’ve barely been inside you for a minute,” he whistles lowly, pulling himself up so his lips sit directly by your ear. “And you’re already clenching around me like this.”
He doesn’t say it outright but you hear it in his tone and feel it in the way he smirks against your skin. Pathetic. A pathetic mess underneath your rapist, gasping into his mouth as he places his lips on top of yours, and making an embarrassing wet mess of your bed sheets beneath you both. You tense in horror at the realisation, and your hands come out to push against him.
—But Aerion’s quick to catch your wrists, pinning them above your head and deepening the kiss further before pulling away for just a second.
“Just relax.”
For the first time you do, losing yourself in the feel of his tongue circling your own and his cock sliding in and out of your walls with a pace that borders on brutal. You whimper into his mouth, and your name slips out from his tongue as your walls strangle him. It’s the first time you’ve heard him say your name, and it’s odd hearing the way it falls off his tongue so easily, as if it’s been sitting at the back of his throat for days on end. He says it again, and you come undone completely, eyes squeezing shut as his lips descend down to your chin, letting your lewd moans fill the quiet room.
After you ride out your high, it doesn’t stop though. There’s still a sensation that feels like your teetering around the edge again, like one push more of his hips could send you toppling over the edge again. It’s good in some ways, the overstimulating feeling of each thrust making you cling to him desperately, leaving you so fucked out that you can’t really think. But there’s a part of you that knows you’ll hate yourself afterwards, a part you can’t really bother to listen to now.
You can think about that part when the sun comes up, and the blonde man on top of you is long gone. For now this is the only bit of solace you’ve managed to find in months, and you’ll gladly be the subject of his perversions if it means being able to surrender your mind and find peace.
Who knows when you’ll get it again?
a/n: i want you to know that aerion is not done with you yet
please comment and reblog if you like my post, i like to hear what you think.
hiiii, any thoughts on dunk looking after his pregnant traveler companion (maybe the baby is his…maybe it isn’t *and maybe it’s even sweeter of him if it isnt*)
do i have thoughts... does a bear sh*t in the woods? LOL... thank you for the request i have many things to say on this topic! content tags for pregnancy, discussion of pregnancy symptoms, emetophobia, very brief mention of sex, dunk is incredibly down bad for reader and has breeding kink obviously
In the beginning of your term, Dunk in worried sick. Almost as sick as you. Like clockwork, you are nauseous in the morning, turning away any bit of food he offers. After loosing any breakfast you manage to force down, Dunk paces in front of you, hunched over as you heave. Dunk is about ready to do the same. He rubs your back, places a cold, wet cloth on your neck. "Oh little lady, 'm so sorry." He doesn't know exactly what he is apologizing for, but he wants to take away your suffering. He mummers comforting words into the back of your head, trying to do anything in his power to make you feel better. He bends to your whims of your cravings. One day you crave salty cured meats, then wave them away the next. Dunk is patient and understanding through it all. You are exhausted, your body going through so many foreign changes at once. Dunk lays down next to you, earlier than you would normally retire to bed. He will assume your chores, giving you ample time to rest. He does not want you overexerting yourself in the slightest.
In the middle, Dunk is feral. Your stomach has started to pop, a noticeable swell in your middle making the perfect bump in your dress. Your clothes fit differently; your breasts have increased in size, straining at the fabric so much you've had to refit the seams. Your hips and arse take on a bit more weight too. Every time Dunk sees you, his mouth instantly starts watering in a pavlovian reaction. To him, you exude the most holy image of the mother, with your glowing skin and newly ample curves to grab onto. You and Dunk are stopping at an inn for the night, and he pulls a chair out for you to rest, while he speaks to the innkeeper. After a short time, he returns to find you holding a baby, he judges to be half a year old. Not your own of course, but the inn keeper's. You had offered to hold the child for a short time to give the frazzled mother a break. The babe bounces in your arms, smiling and cooing at you, delighted to be meeting a new face. The babe's pudgy fingers clumsily pull at your dress, searching for your breast to feed. The tiny thing is not fully capable in holding her own neck up, but follows the sweet scent of milk, and the warmth of your body to nuzzle into your chest. "Oh I'm sorry little one" you giggle at the baby's cheery gurgles and flailing limbs, "There's nothing for you there. Not yet anyways" Dunk chokes down a groan, all the blood rushing out of his brain and into his cock. He is rendered stupid and speechless, seeing you with the little babe. You look so nurturing and beautiful. The smile on your face is undeniable as the child clings to your softness. Dunk's face is tomato red as he tears his gaze away. If he looks any longer, his erection threatens to tear through his pants. He grumbles some excuse about tending to the horses, then exits the inn quickly. If you hadn't already been with child, Dunk would have put one in you that night.
In the end of your term, Dunk is protective. You are past walking, your stomach protrudes so much, it's more of a hobble now. You hold your belly-balance off center- as Dunk follows closely behind you. His hand hovers over your elbow, ready to catch you the moment he judges you to be unsteady. Dunk never lets you out of his sight for a moment, never letting you go into town or near the horses unaccompanied. He must make sure you are safe and looked after. Nothing could matter to him more than your safety. He rubs your aching back with his massive hands. It's impossible not to lean into his touch as he digs deliciously into your muscles. Dunk's hand rests gently on your middle at all times, but especially in the presence of others. A simple hand on you to let others know you are under his protection, and will be the subject of no prying eyes. The king's road can be a treacherous place, but you never spare a worrying thought when you know Dunk is watching over you.
Hi! I had a kind of silly request - Maekar Targaryen spanking his 2nd, younger wife and Dunk hears it/sees it and thinks that he's hurting her, storming in, when in fact... well, it's sexy times. Would love to see what you do with that!
a (k)night to remember
Maekar x Second Wife!Reader, feat. an oblivious Dunk
Note: I wasn't sure whether to make it smutty but this time I chose to stay on the silly side of things. Also, my first time really writing from Dunk's POV! Hope I've done well.
Tags/Warnings: Age Gap, Older Man/Younger Woman, Spanking, Dunk being a goof, Suggestive Themes (so I'm saying 18+ to be safe), Post Ashford, Baelor Lives AU
Words: 2k
One sennight had passed since they’d arrived at Summerhall, and Dunk had finally been assigned duties – real, actual guard duties.
He was to stand at the end of the corridor for the first shift of the night – hardly a glamorous task, but he vowed to give it his all just the same. Prince Baelor had trusted him enough to take him under his employ following the Trial of Seven – Dunk would not do anything to jeopardise that trust now that the maester had finally declared him recovered enough from his injuries.
Wine, not oil. Oil will kill him.
The Crown Prince had saved Dunk twice over, thinking of the well-being of a simple hedge-knight even before his own – his brother’s mace had given the prince a serious concussion, though they had not known it then. It had been only when Steely Pate had lifted Prince Baelor’s helm that the man collapsed, falling unconscious.
Dunk had caught him before his body could even touch the ground, and for a single horrible moment his stomach had plummeted, certain Prince Baelor was dead.
He had not been, thank the Gods. Though he had given everyone an awfully big fright. Later, Dunk had been told that he had whispered Up, up, ser, rise with the prince in his arms, though he could not remember.
Prince Baelor had not risen then. It had, in fact, taken three days for the Crown Prince to awaken, and three more for him to be steady enough to depart Ashford.
As part of the prince’s household, Dunk had followed, and Aegon – who insisted on staying on as his squire – in turn followed him.
Summerhall was to be a stop on their path to King’s Landing – they would stay for a fortnight, let the horses rest and stock up on food and rations for the Kingsroad.
Prince Maekar, Egg had mentioned, would join them instead of staying in Summerhall as had been originally planned – the King had summoned them all to explain why a Trial of Seven had taken place at a girl’s nameday tourney.
It was daunting to think that in a moon’s turn, Dunk might be standing in front of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Dunk just hoped he would not embarrass himself.
He shifted on his feet, trying not to think too hard on it – there was no sense, Ser Arlan had always said, in worrying about things you could not change.
Still…Dunk had put his foot in his mouth already – at least once that he knew for certain.
It had been upon their arrival in Summerhall, where he had discovered that the keep – contrary to what he’d believed – did have a Lady.
When Aegon had told him his mother was dead, he had just assumed…well, that Prince Maekar was unwed. He was not.
In Dunk’s defense, he had only remarried recently, barely six moons ago.
Though nothing could have saved him from his blunder.
When Aegon had spoken of having two sisters, he had always just mentioned that one of them was older than him, the other younger. Never their ages.
Daeron was a man grown, and he was Aegon’s brother. When he’d seen a young, noble woman in a black and red dress, Dunk had naturally assumed her to be the elder of Aegon’s sisters. Had assumed you to be another Targaryen.
Of an age with Daeron, his twin perhaps. Dunk knew that twins need not always look much alike.
You’d greeted the silver-haired prince with affection, a lingering kiss on his cheek. Dunk had not thought anything of it – you had surely only dearly missed your father.
He had mentioned as such – how nice it was for a daughter to be so concerned – only to be faced with Aegon’s laughter, a small, bemused smile on Prince Baelor’s face and a glare that had been so venomous that Dunk still awoke during some nights, sweating, remembering Prince Maekar’s hatred.
Confusing Prince Maekar’s young wife for his daughter – it hadn’t done much to endear himself to the gruff man. In fact, Dunk rather thought Prince Maekar despised him, blaming him for the whole mess in Ashford and now feeling insulted by his innocent remark.
Dunk wished he knew how to convince the prince that his older brother had not made a mistake taking him on as a knight.
He sighed, hoping Egg would know of something, when suddenly a noise broke through the silence.
It was quiet and muffled, but Dunk had a keen ear and Flea Bottom had taught him to pay attention to even the slightest of sounds.
For a moment, he hesitated. Investigating the noise meant leaving his post – though surely he would be forgiven, should it turn out that someone was in need of aid.
He heard it again, and this time he identified it as a woman’s voice. Calling out, though Dunk could not make out the words.
As he tracked the noise, striding further into the corridor, his countenance darkened. Dunk clutched his sword scabbard nervously, praying to the Gods that his grip would not slip.
Whatever it was, it sounded like–
Like a woman in pain. He had not been able to make out words because they were none, only gasps and whimpers. Then, he heard something else.
A sound that made him cringe, an instinctive flinch overtaking his body. It was the sound of a palm hitting flesh.
Someone is hurting this woman, Dunk thought, first in a panic and then with growing determination as he remembered that he was no longer a boy, helpless Dunk from Flea Bottom. He was Ser Duncan the Tall.
Upon his honour as a knight, he knew he had to intervene.
He knew that the castellan had told him who each of the chambers in this corridor belonged to, but Dunk, for the life of him, could not recall it clearly. It was not important. He could get names later – first, he needed to assist whatever lady was in distress.
He was proud to say he did not hesitate as he threw open the door, his sword in hand, raised and ready. “Unhand the lady at once!” he roared, putting all his strength into his voice, relieved that it did not shake.
But the accomplishment quickly soured. Everything curdled in his stomach as he beheld the scene he had stumbled into.
There was no maiden in distress – only a lady. A princess by marriage. Prince Maekar’s wife, a lady around Dunk’s age. You.
And you were not in distress, even Dunk could see it. Your head was thrown back in pleasure, your bottom bare and reddened by your husband’s hand. He had been spanking you, Dunk thought, and you were enjoying it.
A furious, dark blush spread from the tips of his ears to the tip of his toes as two pairs of eyes found him, one widened in alarm, the other alight with anger.
His sword dropped to the floor with a clatter, and he quickly averted his eyes from the sight of your nude body. “I–” he started, “I thought–”
The prince’s voice cut through his stutter. “Fucking imbecile!”
There was movement, though Dunk did not see it. The ceiling was his refuge; he was afraid to look down again.
“I should have you flogged,” Prince Maekar continued, sounding closer than before. Just once, Dunk’s eyes flicked down again, and he saw the prince’s form striding over to him, a pair of breeches hastily covering his lower body. Beyond his shoulder, you had sat up, the sheets wrapped around you. You looked alarmed.
“My love–” you began.
Prince Maekar shushed you. “Do not,” he interrupted flatly, “defend him.”
Softer, he added, “He saw you.”
I wish I didn’t, Dunk thought, then wavered, because that sounded like the sight of you had been unpleasant and it had certainly not been, you were quite comely, beautiful even, and–
He cleared his throat. Ser Arlan was right. I’m an idiot.
When the prince was almost upon him, Dunk realised he ought to do something. Not knowing what else to do, he dropped to a knee, his head bowed. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, not sure if he made any sense, “I meant no harm. I merely heard… I thought–”
“That I was mistreating my wife?” the Targaryen prince asked, brows raised.
“No!” Dunk yelled all too quickly, fear coursing through him at the thought of what Prince Maekar might do to him, “I couldn’t recall that these were the Lady’s chambers, I swear. I merely– I am a knight,” he said, as though it was an explanation.
“A fool is what you are,” Prince Baelor’s brother countered, his expression stern. Dunk wished the floor would just swallow him up. He was glad that at least he had not been struck yet. A clout in the ear, Ser Arlan had always called it.
“Maekar,” you said softly, “he did not know any better. He heard a woman cry out behind a closed door. He did what he thought a knight ought to do.”
Dunk was astonished that your words seemed to be working, placating the dragon that seemed only moments from spewing fire. The prince’s shoulders lost some of their tension, your husband swaying towards you as though drawn by a siren song.
“He ought have better discernment,” Prince Maekar grumbled, his jaw clenched.
“I am sure he will learn.” Your eyes brushed past the prince’s, locking with Dunk’s. “Won’t you?”
He nodded so fast he was almost dizzy with it. “Yes, of course, m’lady, I will, I won’t make this mistake again, I swear it upon my life–”
“I believe you,” you interrupted him with a giggle. “See, my love? He is as earnest as they come. Baelor chose well.”
Prince Maekar did not look impressed. “He still saw you naked.”
You sighed, drawing the sheets tighter around yourself and stepping up to them. Dunk tried not to look at the shape of your legs. He was still kneeling, his line of sight rather unfortunate – for his well-being at least.
“He did not do it on purpose,” you told your husband, one hand curling around his bicep.
For a moment Dunk thought Prince Maekar might shake it off, but he did not deny you.
Instead, the harsh prince allowed you to all but wrap yourself around him, and Dunk felt as though you were a wall, protecting him from the Anvil’s wrath.
But the Prince of Summerhall was not quite ready to give up. “That does not change anything,” he snapped. “He had no rights to your body.”
“The maester has seen me naked, are you going to punish him?” you asked with a small smile.
“That is different.”
You chuckled, your right hand cradling your husband’s cheek, turning his head your way.
“I fail to see how,” you commented. “I am not married to Maester Creyle.”
“Do not test me, wife.” It was phrased as a warning, but Dunk could see the prince’s mouth twitching, and he could detect no venom in the older man’s tone.
“But I do so love testing you,” you lilted. You traipsed back towards the bed, sitting down. Even Dunk could notice how charged the air had become – differently than before. Not with anger.
Prince Maekar immediately began following you like a hound on a leash, following its master. Halfway there, he remembered Dunk.
“Leave,” he ordered, not even bothering to look back at the kneeling knight. It was but one word.
Dunk had never gotten up faster in his life. He scrambled for his sword, sheathing it with clammy hands as he stumbled through the door, quickly closing it behind himself. He pretended he had not heard your squeal, the creak of the mattress.
By the time he retook his post, his face burned anew. He did not want to listen. Truly, he did not. But without beeswax to plug his ears, it was impossible to ignore what he now knew were the sounds your husband drew from your body.
When it was time for a change of guards, he did not say a word. He did not need to. Your pleasure was still clear for all to hear.
Dunk’s eyes met the other knight’s. “You just learn to disregard it,” the man said, a pained grimace on his face. “But it is astonishing, is it not?” Upon seeing Dunk’s puzzled face, he elaborated. “A man his age with a wife that young?” He whistled quietly.
“Dragon blood sure burns hot. Be glad you weren’t here for their honeymoon.”
“Helaena Targaryen, sister, wife, and queen to King Aegon II and mother of his children, threw herself from her window in Maegor’s Holdfast to die impaled upon the iron spikes that lined the dry moat below. She was but one-and-twenty.” — Fire & Blood
Phia Saban as Helaena Targaryen
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
S03E08 | "The Treasons at Tumbleton"
summary: in which, daeron finds himself longing for the baratheon heir even though it scares him half to death, maekar low-key berates himself for not traveling to storm's end w the kids sooner, and lyonel is a girldad!
words: 4,7k
c.w: mentions of blood, alcoholism, suggestive themes
a.n: so when i said this was gonna be posted yesterday i fucking lied. in my defense, i had a terrible migraine, but at least it's here now! also, no cats will be harmed in his fic
random disclaimer: reader may be a baratheon but there will be no physical description of her whatsoever besides having hair long enough to braid and her mother's appearance is not mentioned.
By the time the royal family is settled and they’re shown in their chambers, you find yourself thinking of them far more than you care to admit.
The air around them is eerie, as if the ghosts of long-dead dragons and gods from distant lands walk with them everywhere they go. You hope that’s not the case. Storm’s End had already faced the wrath of gods before, and managed to survive it. You did not think that the fortress would remain standing if faced with a war against Valyrian gods this time around.
You have seen people like them before, though not quite. You’ve seen lords far too proud for the halls they walk through, ladies who smile without warmth behind their eyes, heirs who’ve been taught from infancy that the world will bend itself to their will if they intimidate it enough.
Titles never impressed you much. Your father had made certain of it.
A crown, he once told you, did not make a fool any less foolish, and a dragon sigil embroidered over one man’s chest did not make him any less mortal. But still, there is something peculiar about them.
Prince Baelor is the easiest to understand. The Hand of the King. Firstborn son. A perfect prince. He carries himself like a man who has spent his whole life being watched and somehow learned not to resent it, not too much. You can see why your father likes him more than he likes other lords, more than he likes other knights. Baelor listens when others speak, remaining entirely present for conversations who would bore other people to death, your father included. He laughs when something amuses him, and does not consider the act beneath his dignity. He seems so steady, you think, like nothing could ever break him. He resembles the castle in a way, you laugh at the thought.
Prince Maekar is… another matter entirely.
He is his brother’s polar opposite. You cannot decide whether the man is perpetually irritated or if his face had simply decided to stay that way after years of never-ending disappointment. Though he also, like his brother, watches everything. It is a talent, you decide. To be able to pay enough attention to his surroundings, his three sons, his brother, his nephew, your father, and you. All that with just two eyes. Gods. Even as he says nothing, you have the uncomfortable impression that he is measuring the room and finding it lacking in a way.
His sons are stranger still.
Prince Aegon, the magnificent child who has not stopped questioning you regarding the castle or the cats he saw by the entrance since he dismounted his horse and all the way into the halls. If he had noticed the way his father glared at him with the intention of silencing him, he paid it no mind.
Aegon is easy enough, too young to have mastered whatever composure is expected of princes and far too curious to pretend otherwise. You suspect Storm's End will suit him perfectly.
Aerion is not. You decide it almost immediately.
Aerion is sharp and cutting in the way of broken glass beneath clear water. You feel the sting when it already drew blood. You had disliked the way he looked at you and further, you had hated the approval in his eyes when your gaze did not meet the ground and remained on his. You can make this work, though, there has to be something to him that could be… appealing enough. Or at the very least, something you could respect.
You have a new mission now. You are determined to enjoy your father’s nameday celebrations and no overly pampered, ill-tempered princes will ruin that. No matter how pretty they are.
You think of Daeron. You frown almost instinctively.
Your meeting with him had been odd, at best. Visibly uncomfortable for everyone involved at worst. And he had given you his name. You had spent enough time around noblemen to know that princes did not simply forget they are princes, if anything— they weaponize it. Men born into that kind of power ended up remembering it and using it even when everyone else wished they would not.
Unlike Aerion, his staring had not felt like a challenge. Unlike Valarr, it had not felt polite. Yet you could not place the emotion behind the lavender gaze. Was it dread? Perhaps recognition? The real question, the one nagging and eating you from the inside– what could possibly be the reason for him to look at you in that fashion?
Not that you minded much. You find yourself wishing to have his eyes on you again.
By the time supper is served, your father has already challenged some knights from the Vale to an arm-wrestling contest, accused a lesser lord of cheating in a game of dice, and loudly informed Prince Baelor that his refusal to participate in either activity is precisely why being the heir to the Iron Throne has made him boring, while the prince quietly laughs into his cup of Arbor gold wine.
You watch the exchange from your place at the high table, shaking your head as you keep an eye on your father, who had deserted his place beside you a few moments prior to honour his self-proclaimed title of the most entertaining host in the Seven Kingdoms by tormenting the future king without the slightest concern for whatever dignity either of them is supposed to possess.
Storm’s End has never been particularly good at dignity.
The great hall is packed tightly enough that you can scarcely make out the tables beneath the seemingly endless assortment of food, wine and ale. Music carries from one end of the hall to the other, apparently, the singers your father had spent the better part of the morning terrorizing had been forgiven for their early crimes against his ears. Servants weave through the crowds with practiced ease, dodging drunken knights, overexcited squires and tipsy lords and ladies, while cats wait beneath the tables for unattended pieces of meat to inevitably find their way to the floor.
The Targaryens, you observe, are considerably quieter.
Perhaps not Prince Baelor, who seemed perfectly content listening to your father, laughing at stories he has undoubtedly heard before, offering a few comments when Lyonel allows him enough time to speak. His brother Maekar, however, looks as though he has been seated in the middle of enemy territory. His back remains impossibly straight as he eyes your father while he grows his head back, laughing at something a lord from the Reach says. And every so often, his eyes wander towards his sons.
You wonder what he is looking for.
Prince Aegon has required very little convincing to participate in the festivities. Whatever shyness he possessed upon arriving at Storm’s End it appears he left it at the gates, before the impressive black stones and before the horde of kittens that caught his eye. He is currently engaged in an animated conversation with one of your younger cousins, waving a chicken leg around as he speaks and nearly striking Prince Aerion in the face with it twice.
The third time, Aerion catches his wrist, and Aegon freezes in place, chicken leg still held aloft like some ridiculous little war banner. You have to bite the inside of your cheek, though your face betrays you, you’re unmistakably amused.
“Aegon,” Prince Maekar warns from farther down the table.
“I did not hit him.”
“You nearly did.”
“But I did not.
“That is hardly the point.” Prince Maekar responds, sending him a stern look.
Aerion releases his brother with an irritated sigh and smooths the sleeve of his doublet as though he has narrowly escaped some grave indignity.
You glance between them. A thought crosses your mind. You want to disrupt them, you find yourself feeling as if you need to see them interact further. Surely they're not so well behaved in Summerhall, you've heard stories from servants who quit their station in order to escape the family chaos.
What better place for chaos than Storm’s End.
“I think the boy makes a compelling argument.” You state. Several pairs of lilac eyes turn toward you and Prince Maekar does not hide how his brow furrows, as Aegon does not hide the absolute delight on his face to have someone on his side, for once. “He, in fact, did not hit him.”
Aegon nods enthusiastically. “Precisely.” What a funny child, you ponder, you want to keep him here with you and feed him lemoncakes, take him as your squire on your hunting trips to the Rainswood to keep him entertained. You cannot keep him though, you would probably be hanged for crimes against the crown for endangering a prince, or something.
“He nearly struck me with a chicken leg”, Aerion says. Now properly glaring at you as if you have offended him deeply simply by opening your mouth, because how dare you do so in your own home, at your own table. You think he looks like an angry kitten, you find it cute.
“Nearly being an important word.” You respond, now with an open smirk. You take your time looking at Aerion. He has fire in his eyes. Not due to the mild rage he seems to be experiencing courtesy of your unwanted comments, but it seems to be a fixed state for him, as if he’s been inhabited his whole life by one of the dragons his family used to ride into battle centuries ago. You wonder if he would dare to insult you in front of his family and yours. Gazing into his eyes, you can definitely discern that he wants to. “And if Prince Aerion is quick enough to catch his brother’s wrist every time, then clearly no lasting harm has been done.”
Aerion seems either at a loss for words, or is mentally evaluating the possible consequences for jumping across the table and throwing you to the ground. He chooses silence, and when you notice and seem pleased by the fact, he opens his mouth–
You do not let him speak, though.
“Besides, Your Grace, I would think being bested by roasted poultry would be far more embarrassing than being struck by it.”
There is a brief silence, Prince Baelor’s attention is now solely concentrated in what's transpiring between you and his nephews. He sees you notice, just as he sees you glance at his son, and directs his gaze towards him just in time to see him lowering his head, and to catch the unmistakable shake of his shoulders. Baelor looks at you once again.
Too late.
You point at Valarr once. “See? Prince Valarr seems to agree with my statements.” To this, he looks up, caught entirely unprepared, mouth opening and closing while struggling to form a sentence. Little fish, you think.
“I said nothing of the sort.” He answers, glancing at his father with an expression that betrays the fact that he’s struggling to contain his amusement and is equally frustrated at his own failed attempts.
“You were laughing.” You respond.
“I may have breathed somewhat forcefully” He states, his defence poor. There is no anger in his face, his expression is open, and looking at you as though he is evaluating what he believed he knew about you and your character. Finally, he appears to accept this is a lost battle, and surrenders with a small smile directed your way. You may start to like him more, and you wonder what it would take to make him laugh in an undignified manner, another small task added to your list of things to keep yourself entertained during this event.
But that's for later. You’ll leave him be for now.
A boisterous laugh is heard echoing in the hall, obviously belonging to your father. He makes his way back to his seat at your side and continues his previous conversation with Prince Baelor, and everyone at the table welcomes the interruption. You take the opportunity to throw a small piece of bread to Aegon’s plate in order to catch his attention, and offer him a big smile when his gaze finds yours. He offers a smile of his own.
Across the table, someone shifts. You are immediately drawn to the sound of movement. Daeron.
He is staring at you again, and you find yourself staring back. Ignoring seems impossible now, it would be considerably easier to do so if the prince were not so terribly pretty. The thought comes so suddenly that you almost resent yourself for it.
He’s beautiful. Annoyingly so.
His brother and cousin are handsome men in their own ways, certainly. Valarr possesses the sort of beauty singers would compose the most tedious songs about, every feature placed exactly where the gods intended it. Aerion is pretty and alluring in a sharper fashion, something somewhat dangerous lurking beneath the silver hair and lilac eyes.
Daeron is different.
He looks as though someone had taken all the Targaryen beauty and then refused to polish it. His hair is golden instead of silver, slightly too long and perpetually untidy, falling around his face however it pleases. There are shadows beneath his lavender eyes that ought to make him look sickly and somehow only succeed in making you wonder what he looks like after waking.
Oh, that is an unfortunate thought.
You are no blushing maiden, you are well past the typical age when ladies marry, and you are no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh. Partly because your father’s moans can sometimes be the reason you fail to rest properly at the hour of the owl. Partly because you have had your share of scandalous paramours yourself. You were not like Lyonel, you were careful, chose your men –and the occasional lady– wisely. Made sure they would not speak of it afterwards, few of them you would now consider good friends. You made certain that type of reputation would not follow you, even if your father insisted there was no need for you to marry, since once he passed, Storm’s End would be yours to rule. So, the wanting is not what spooks you–
It's wanting a prince. You reach for your wine. No longer lost in thought, you gaze at him again. Perhaps you should stop looking. You take a sip. You look at him again. He's still staring.
Strange man.
Handsome, though.
Very handsome.
Unfortunately.
You wonder whether he knows it. Of course he does, men who look like that always know– and princes? Even worse. Yet there is something about the way Daeron watches you that does not feel particularly arrogant. Which might be what bothers you the most. There is no smugness in it, no lazy appraisal of your body, no self-satisfied smile of a man waiting for you to notice his attention.
He simply looks. As though he cannot help himself.
And the wine is already catching up with you, head tilted backwards, resting against the back of your chair. Most undignified for a lady. You’re not really a lady, at this moment.
Now, you feel as if you’re just a woman, looking at a man, who is just a man.
You raise an eyebrow at him, his eyes immediately drop to his plate.
Your mouth twitches. Interesting.
Daeron has been with enough women to know when one is looking at him. And enough men, for that matter.
There is usually a pattern to these things. A lingering glance. A smile held for too long. Fingers brushing his wrist while passing a cup. Finding an excuse to stand closer than necessary. It’s a simple game, comfortable, and predictable. He likes predictable, he knows exactly what to do when desire is uncomplicated.
He would smile. He would lean closer. Perhaps say something improper enough to make them laugh, let them decide whether the rest of the distance should disappear. There have been serving girls, and tavern girls, daughters of merchants, widows who knew exactly what they wanted from him, young lords who had a preference for dark corners and discretion. He has woken in enough unfamiliar beds to have long since stopped pretending he remembers every name attached to them.
This should not be any different.
Lady Baratheon is looking at him.
And she’s so beautiful, painfully so. And it should make everything easier. But he remembers the dream, and he feels the same eyes on him now, as the ones he felt when he was getting swallowed by a blood lake and he has yet to know how he feels about it, nevermind what it all actually means.
She catches him staring. One eyebrow raises. He feels almost compelled to look down.
Coward.
Gods, he almost scoffs at himself.
When has he ever looked away first? Perhaps the problem is the wine, or rather, the lack thereof. He is too sober and his fingers begin to shake when they curl around the cup. The conversation between the families has long been resumed, and across the table, you laugh at something Valarr says. He finds his attention snapping back without willing it to, and before he can stop it.
You look at ease with Valarr. Worse. Valarr looks at ease with you. Which is absurd, he has known you for less than half a day, surely he is just being polite, it would be rude not to entertain a conversation with the heir of the host and with– in all ways that it matters, the actual head of the household. You must be merely being polite yourself. There is absolutely no reason for the sight to irritate him.
It does so anyways.
And you are not helping the situation. You seem intent on making Valarr laugh again, over-articulating with your hands as you tell some random story, accompanied with some quips from your father here and there. Of course you like Valarr. Everyone likes Valarr. He is handsome and courteous and knows how to properly introduce himself to a lady without staring at her like some half-witted stable boy who has never seen such a pretty face before in his life.
He must have been staring daggers at his cousin, causing him to turn his attention from Lyonel to himself. “Are you well, Daeron?” He says, as he looks at him with a strange look on his face.
“Perfectly fine. Thank you, cousin.” He answers. Gods, make him shut up.
Valarr says nothing, he merely smiles that little smile of his when he’s being a polite little shit, and tilts his head sideways while he continues to look at him. After a moment, he looks away, paying attention to Lyonel and yourself once again.
Insufferable cunt.
You have stopped pretending not to watch Daeron. At least not openly. You do possess some dignity, regardless of what your father has taught the realm to expect from House Baratheon. But curiosity has always been among your more persistent weaknesses, and Prince Daeron Targaryen has become something of a question you would very much like answered.
Why has he looked at you that way in the courtyard? You doubted he had not seen his fair share of pretty ladies, and his look was no one of a flustered boy.
And why does he keep doing it now?
Why had he given you only his name?
Why does he look so exhausted? And why does he keep drinking?
And why, by all Seven gods, does he look so lovely when irritated? This last question being considerably less important than the rest.
His cup is empty once again, and you are not the only one who noticed. A servant approaches with a flagon of Dornish red. Daeron glances towards it. For the first time all evening – and unbeknownst to you, probably his entire life– he hesitates. He places two fingers over the rim.
“No, thank you” His eyes are not on the servant, rather on the table. The servant pauses before bowing and moving away. You blink.
Suddenly, from beside you, comes a yell that makes your ears ring. “You are too quiet!”
You close your eyes. There is no need to look, you know precisely whom your father is addressing. He entirely seems to know.
Daeron slowly raises his head, and looks at your father. “Am I, Lord Baratheon?”
Your father responds immediately. “Yes!” He points accusingly at him from several seats away. “You’ve been sitting there looking miserable and barely saying a word for half the night.”
“Father,” you murmur. “You cannot just tell that to a guest.” You spare a glance to Prince Maekar, who had seemed about ready to jump at his son’s defense, even if you suspect he had thought the same thing himself.
“I can if he looks miserable.” Your father replies without even looking at you. His eyes still fixed on Prince Daeron.
Daeron stares back. For one terrible moment, you wonder whether you are about to witness a diplomatic incident over roasted boar. But then Daeron’s mouth twitches.
“I assure you, Lord Lyonel, this is simply, and unfortunately, my face.”
For a second, everyone is quiet at the table. Unbeknownst to you, due to your lack of overall assessment of the members of the royal family, you notice entirely too late that Prince Baelor seems flushed, slightly red in the face, and his eyes are a bit glazed over.
It is him who laughs first. And it’s as polite a laugh as he can manage without making an absolute fool of himself in front of the guests, who are about almost all of the most important lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms.
Baelor’s laugh, though not the loudest, triggered a chain reaction from everyone at the table, including yourself. Perhaps excluding Maekar. And Aerion was… nowhere to be found, for some reason. You’ll make sure the servants and the knights keep an eye on him.
Your father slams one enormous hand against the table and you quickly grab your wine cup in a panic, to stabilize it. “I knew I liked you!” Once again, yelling in your ear while gesturing at Daeron, who almost looks regretful. When you glance towards him, his eyes find yours at the same time. He smiles this time.
There it is. You had wondered about that mouth. A mistake, apparently. He looks much prettier when he looks happy.
Terrible. You are going to have to do something about this fascination before it becomes embarrassing. Yet you refuse to be the one who looks away first. His smile slowly fades, though he does not look displeased. Quite the opposite, if the sudden flush creeping towards the tips of his ears is any indication.
Oh.
Your amusement deepens. How easy it is to gain a reaction from the prince, you find yourself wanting to explore more, to push, to see how far this goes, even if it's unwise. You tilt your head.
Daeron swallows.
She knows, Daeron realizes with mounting terror.
She knows he finds her attractive, even worse, she finds it amusing.
There is something almost challenging in the way she stares at him now, as though she has discovered some secret about him and intends to poke at it simply to see what happens. He should dislike it.
He does not.
He has flirted with women far more forward in their approaches than this. Women who have climbed into his lap before bothering to ask his name. He has been propositioned in taverns, corridors, gardens, once rather memorably during his grandfather’s nameday feast by someone whose husband had been sitting less than a table away. None of them had made him nervous.
The only thing Lady Baratheon did was to raise one single eyebrow and suddenly he cannot remember where to put his hands. Ridiculous.
Their staring contest continues a few seconds more and at last, he looks away. When he spares her one more glance, she is already looking away. He exhales, he did not notice he was holding his breath in the first place. He looks at Lyonel now, he is speaking with you in more hushed voices. He watches the way you answer to him without hesitation. The manner in which you interrupt him when he talks. The way Lyonel interrupts you back. Neither appears offended.
At one point, he reaches and steals something directly from your plate.
You slap his hand away.
And Daeron holds his breath.
“You have your own,” he hears you say “why do you always have to take things from my plate?.” You do not sound angry, not really. Vaguely irritated, perhaps. This seems to be a recurring thing.
“Your food always looks better!” Lyonel tells you with a big smile, while he chews whatever food he was eating. He seems to be trying to irritate you purposefully, he notices. He wants to keep watching.
“It is the same fucking pie!” You answer him, now more indignant, but with a smirk still.
“Then you have lost nothing.” He’s beaming now, as he appears to have outsmarted you.
An impressive feat, Daeron thinks.
You take a second to glare at your father, while Daeron cannot seem to look away from the two of you. What a peculiar relationship the two of you have, he ponders, almost sadly. He had never seen anything like it.
You take a piece of your pie and place it on your father’s plate. You look at him now, no longer vexed at him. In your eyes, he finds a warmth he had not seen in his siblings, or in himself, for a long, long time.
Something uncomfortable settles beneath Daeron’s ribs, and his chest begins to ache.
He cannot remember the last time he touched his father without being instructed to.
The feast grows louder as the evening wears on. Ale loosens tongues. Music becomes faster. Somewhere below the high table, two knights begin arguing over which one of them has the better singing voice, despite neither possessing any evidence of having one at all.
Your father is delighted. Prince Maekar looks less horrified than he had an hour ago, which you consider remarkable progress. Baelor has surrendered entirely, though he had not drunk any more wine after the incident. Aegon has acquired one of the cats, it’s the white one with orange and black spots, a fluffy one, it's one of your favourites. Aerion has disappeared. Valarr has relaxed enough to lean back in his chair.
Daeron is watching you once again.
And for all the times the two of you have played this little game in the course of the evening, it has yet to lose its novelty.
You catch him staring, he does not look away. Good. You give him a smile, not the smile you offer guests, nor the polite curve of the mouth that is expected of Lady Baratheon. You offer him something smaller. More intimate. You decide to do something different this time around.
You lean forward. He mirrors you immediately.
“Prince Daeron” you say to him.
Daeron’s eyebrows raise, surely he must not have been expecting this. You do not blame him. “My lady?”
Finally, a conversation. You had begun to think you might have to drag one out of him. “Are you enjoying Storm’s End, my prince?”
You observe as his eyes flicker briefly onwards the chaos surrounding the both of you. A serving boy is currently attempting to retrieve a sausage from beneath the table while being thwarted by three cats. Daeron appears to consider his answer.
“I haven’t decided, my lady.” He says.
“Oh?,” you respond. “You have been here for hours.”
“I like to be thorough.”
Oh, I’d wager, you think.
“And what have you discovered, your grace?” You place a hand beneath your chin to support yourself, as you stare at him with nothing short of want. Gods, this fucking wine.
His eyes return to yours. “That Baratheons are loud.”
You do not know half of it. You smile. “Took you hours to discover that?”
His mouth twitches once again. “And impertinent.”
Fuck
“That one took you longer?” you ask him.
“Only slightly.”
You laugh at that. Lazily.
He watches you do it. Once again, that strange intensity. As if he knows all about you already, every one of your secrets, and he’s just waiting for you to tell him. You can recognize his own want beneath it, as well. He is not a subtle man. Your stomach tightens pleasantly.
You know that type of look. But there is still something else behind it, something that does not belong to simple attraction. You need to know what it is.
Odd man.
Pretty, though.
Gods, so very pretty.
a.n: fuck i need himmmm. give it up for these two who managed to have an entire conversation without bursting into flames!!!! woohooooo
get ready for the insane amounts of aura farming that reader is gonna be doing next episode when she leads the hunting party into the rainswood, daeron won't know what fucking hit him omg
also there's some of u that i tried to tag and couldn't:( hopefully u see the post anywayss
that specific time frame in spring 2026 when baelor maekar and dunk were on my screen on sundays and jack abbot was on thursdays and everyone was making edits to fire in my heart... take me back
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x Stark!Reader
Summary: You’re the widow Stark, bringing your only son to his first banquet and ending up having a unique conversation with Maekar.
Warning(s): None in particular. Maekar is a jealous father, attempt at humour, awkward moments, fluff, feelings realisation, short one-shot.
AN: I made something similar for a request in the past, but the conversation was different, and this version wouldn’t leave my brain, so here we are.
No use of y/n, the reader has no physical description.
No AI involved, all of my garbage is mine, and I'm still human.
English is not my first language; my apologies for any eventual mistakes.
Don't copy, translate, upload, or use my works anywhere.
Tag: @orson-pope @californiablues88 @risefallrise @ghostlybfgf @moonlights-muse @aryaslittleneedle
Divider by: targaryen-dynasty
Likes, comments and reblogs are always welcome :D
Denied Dance
You couldn’t stop smiling as you watched your son dancing with Princess Rhae Targaryen. It was his first banquet and his debut in society as Lord Stark. He was still a kid, but witnessing how gentle and respectful he was toward the young lady made you a proud mother.
“Rumours say the boy dancing with my daughter is your son.”
Your smile turned into surprise when you realised Prince Maekar Targaryen in the flesh was speaking with you. It was rare seeing the Prince entertain with guests; it was less rare seeing him sitting behind the Royal table with a judgmental frown.
“He is, Your Highness.” You answered after a quick bow.
“They are too young.”
“Too young for… dancing? Your Highness?”
“To propose to my daughter.” He snapped back with a gnashing tone, without even looking at you. He was too busy checking on his daughter to care about the offence caused by assuming your intention.
“It is not my son’s plan and neither mine.” You said with the same tone, leaving his title on the back of your tongue.
“Good.”
“Good.”
A thick silence fell between you as you both stood side by side, carefully ignoring each other. You were visibly annoyed by his assumption, but he didn’t care or didn’t realise it. Unable to put his position before his arrogance, you tied to the finger.
“Is your husband somewhere?”
“Would you like to ask him to stop my son from dancing with the Princess?”
“It was not my intention, but your suggestion is tempting.”
“I’m sorry, but it is not possible.”
“And why is that?” He asked sharply, frowning at you.
“My husband is at the family cemetery.” You served, meeting his gaze and enjoying the renewed thick silence, this time filled with the Prince’s embarrassment.
“My condolences.” He quickly said, moving his attention elsewhere.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
From time to time, some guests walked by and bowed at Maekar’s presence. He could hear them murmuring as their thirsty eyes tried to catch something from you two. The message sent was clear; Prince Maekar was caught by Lady Stark. It wasn’t his purpose, and neither yours, but it didn’t matter. He was entertaining himself with you for a long time now, and withdrawing could only confirm their suspicions.
“I can ask my son to stop dancing with the Princess if Your Highness desires.” You said then, satisfied with your little revenge and not wanting to make things worse.
Maekar considered it. It would have been her last banquet for years, and most likely, she would have left Summerhall only on her wedding day, if there ever was one. Her smile, though, and her belly laugh as she was having fun with that boy melted his daddy heart.
“No. Let them.” His jaw tightened as he spoke, but he felt strangely good in seeing your tiny smile.
The tension between you two eased enough for your boldness to come out with a question. Or better, half of it.
“Do you danc…”
“No.”
The speed with which he responded turned off your affability toward him, and the silence that fell among you once again was for the awkwardness that followed your half-question. You wanted to go away, but you couldn’t, not without the Prince’s dismissal. Unlucky you, Maekar was having his little revenge, or maybe — deep inside him — he was just glad of your company.
Your eyes, all for your son until that moment, moved casually around the hall, noticing the small groups of guests pointing their attention at you. Some of them were smiling, while others were shaking their heads in disapproval. You knew the reason was the Prince's presence next to you, but you couldn’t do otherwise.
“The party is magnificent. I wish His Highness Prince Daeron a happy life with the princess.” You said then, to distract yourself from the gossiping.
“Thank you… Lady Stark.”
It was the first time he used your title and your name, not to mention the tone of voice with which he thanked you. He sounded soft, or at least respectful. Very different from the beginning. You couldn’t help but stare, in surprise at first, but then you found yourself appreciating the little details of his face, the elegance of the outfit and his bearing, half from his military experience and half from his Royal origins.
You were still staring at him when another Lord approached bluntly.
“My Lady, spare me a dance?” He bowed and offered his hand.
Maekar’s reaction was instant. “Are you blind? Lady Stark is busy. Go away.” He barked.
“Yes, Your Highness.” The man bowed and disappeared.
It was a matter of seconds, but his little show dragged even more attention. The turmoil that it caused inside you was impossible to ignore, though. It’s been a while since you felt at the centre of someone’s attention, and it was pleasant… very much pleasant.
“Presenting themselves as if I weren’t here. Unacceptable.”
“Indeed, Your Highness.”
Your approval was enough to calm him down and focus on you again. Maekar was slowly realising how pleasant your company was, and the attraction he felt was most likely for your not-so-submissive behaviour.
“I do not dance because I think it’s a foolish and useless activity.” He said then, as if he wanted to justify his earlier rejection.
“Agree. But it is a good, harmless way to have physical closeness. Especially if there is a certain interest.”
Maekar frowned and snorted. “Ridiculous.”
“Is it, Your Highness?” You smiled widely.
The question remained unanswered because your son and the Princess stopped dancing, and now he was looking for you. You walked away, without the Prince’s permission, without taking leave, without greeting him properly.
Maekar stared at you for long moments, observing how you smiled at your son, how you listened to him and how you moved a lock of his hair from his sweaty forehead. Everything about that chance encounter led him to invite you and your son to court a few days later, using the excuse to let the Princess meet the boy again.
