My proposed vision for our new Princess Saviour and her husband Baelor's grand tour.
Suggestion/requests are welcome for this new little drabble fiction set so if you want to see something or for the pair to go somewhere on their honeymoon please free to send some ideas.
chapter summary: one of the fossoway boys is acting strange. you don't know it yet, but the reason why will change yours and duncan's lives forever for the worst.
warnings: afab!reader, heavy catholic imagery/themes (quoting of scripture, crisis of faith, catholic prayers), period typical misogyny, mentions of child abuse, i am not irish but i did my best to research irish culture/this period in irish history (if there are any inaccuracies please lmk!), demonic imagery, subconscious messaging used against reader, allusions to sex, allusions to monsterfucking
word count: 5.6k
series masterlist
I. THOU BELIEVEST THAT THERE IS ONE GOD. THOU DOST WELL: THE DEVILS ALSO BELIEVE AND TREMBLE. JAMES 2:19
Déardaoin. Thursday.
You knew something was wrong when the Fossoway boy was quiet at choir practice.
Thomas Fossoway, the oldest of the Fossoway boys, was always one for mischief. Not enough to cause worry—the right amount of mischief for an eight year old boy past the age of hiding behind his mother’s skirts. He could never make up his mind on what he wanted to be when he was grown up: last week he’d wanted to be a sailor. The week before, he’d wanted to be a black bear, and would hear none of how it wasn’t possible. The worst thing he’d ever done was two months ago, when he’d yanked on Abigail O’Carroll’s blond hair when she had teased him for living in a “rickety old shack”. After a conversation with his mother where she’d threatened to yank on his hair, to see how he’d like it for a change, it had never happened again.
No, Thomas Fossoway was not who you would think of when you imagined a “quiet child”. When he walked into choir that chilly September day, he looked as though he was waiting for someone to yell at him for something he’d done. If you’d been alarmed, it had only been because you were wondering what he’d done to make him look so guilty. He did everything he was asked, and did nothing else but look at the floor, whereas the rest of the children of the choir were rambunctious as ever.
The children’s choir had been your endeavor ever since you’d arrived to the parish last spring. Here you would remain at the little parish until you were due to take your vows. Since then, you’d warmed up to many of the children and their mothers who you’d speak with after choir.
Mothers like Rowan Fossoway, whose son was currently acting as if he was about to take a long walk off of a short pier. It was not like him at all, brewing an uncertainty in your chest. Perhaps you would leave it for today, and wait until you saw him again. Children so quickly oscillated between lively and silent. He might have had a cold. His mother might have been cross with him earlier. It could have been anything.
It was halfway through choir practice during a moment of rest that an unexpected visitor entered the room. His presence drew the attention of the children, and briefly brought your rehearsal to a screeching halt.
“Father Duncan!”
To a certain extent, you didn’t want to fault him. It was near impossible for someone like Father Duncan to go unnoticed whenever he walked into a room, especially a room full of small children. To them, he stood as tall as an oak tree, a wondrous feat for the little ones. His warm, welcoming demeanor with them also contributed to their excitement at his entry. He was so gentle with them, so soft spoken and kind for someone as big and broad. He was like that with most everyone, you thought, stomach curling with shame and frustration.
Everyone except you. He hated you, it seemed.
Which was a shame. You, him, and Father Lyonel were the ones who oversaw the parish. You and Lyonel got along extremely well. When Duncan arrived in the summertime, it created the strangest schism in your daily life. Duncan was a ray of light until he came face to face with you. You could see the veil of disdain drape over his face. You couldn’t pinpoint why he disliked you so, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.
The little ones crowded around him immediately. It almost made you want to laugh, the sheer difference in size between him and the children. He grinned down at them, and you stood in front of the lectern, one hand crossed over the other at your front, unsure of what to do with yourself.
“Hello, children,” He said warmly once they had quieted. He was trying to get them to settle, but his smile was wide. “Now, now, calm down, all of ye.”
A moment later, he seemed to register your presence off to the side. He gave you a bland side glance, and gave a non-committal nod. “Sister.”
“Father,” You greeted awkwardly, forcing a smile, “Have you come to hear the children?”
“Aye, I have.” He gestured at the front of the room, where you had a lectern set up in front of a wall. “Will they be singing again this Sunday?”
“Yes, they will.” You turned to the little ones, smiling. “Alright, everyone, back to the front. Let’s show Father Duncan what you’ve been working on.”
After wrangling them, you turned the page on the lectern, and led them in song. They sang him two of the hymns you had been working on, and did lovely doing it. Children singing was often sweet, but could sound out of tune. You had known from the beginning that they could do well if they just worked hard, and your encouragement paid off well. It did you no good to be boastful, but there was an undeniable swell in your chest as they sang Be Thou My Vision to the priest, and their sweet voices mixed in the harmony you had arranged with them. It brought a smile to your face as you led them in song.
Duncan stayed through the rest of rehearsal. He sat in a chair in the corner, beaming at the boys and girls and brooding at you any time he had the displeasure of having to interact with him. You were used to this. The first few months, it had taken everything in you to not flinch at his rude demeanor. You had spent countless nights agonizing over why he might not enjoy your presence when he seemed to enjoy everyone else’s. He was from Cork, you’d learned. He’d never been to Sligo—there was no way he knew you or your family before either of you had arrived. There was no slight you could have identified prior to his arrival, and his distrust had been apparent since the first moment you met.
He was a mystery. A tall, soft-spoken, hateful mystery.
Now, you took it in stride. If one strike thee on thy right cheek, turn to him also the other, Christ had insisted. And so you did, even if the wrongdoing came from a man of the cloth. You included Father Duncan in your prayers, just as you included Father Lyonel and all the members of the parish. You prayed for his deliverance and salvation at night and remained cordial during the day. It was all you could do to be a good Catholic.
So you pushed his glowering to the back of your mind, choosing instead to beam at the children of the choir and offer firm but gentle correction.
All the while, Thomas Fossoway remained withdrawn. You tried to get him to join into the occasional laughter in between bouts of singing, but he didn’t want to meet your eyes. He acted this way until choir was over. Some of the children walked home by themselves, some walked with their friends, and some were picked up by doting mothers. Thomas was a part of the last group, and Rowan grabbed him by the hand with a haste that could either mean she had much to do at home or that she did not wish to speak with you or Duncan. You chose to believe it was the former, and made a mental note to mention their family specifically in your prayers that night.
“They sound lovely.”
You turned, eyes wide. Duncan had crossed the room. Closer, but still keeping a distance from you. You managed a nod, acknowledging his compliment.
“They’ve worked hard,” You said, “I only guided them along.”
He pursed his lip. “Guidance is a funny thing. It walks a fine line between the gentle and the harsh, wouldn’t you think?”
You blinked. “I do not push the children further than they can handle, Father. They’re only little, but I know they can accomplish something that will make them proud of their hard work.”
He stared at you like he didn’t believe you. After a beat, he stood up straight, towering over you more than he already was. “Do you remember Colossians? Chapter three, verses twenty-three to twenty five?”
You thought for a moment, before nodding. “Whatsoever you do, do it from the heart, as to the Lord, and not to men: Knowing that you shall receive of the Lord the reward of inheritance. Serve ye the Lord Christ…” You paused, trying to remember the rest of the passage. “F-for he that doth wrong, shall receive for that which he hath done wrongfully: and there is no respect of persons with God.”
He nodded in turn. “Do not promote pride to the children, Sister,” He huffed, “It does not serve them well.”
Frowning, you opened your mouth, hoping to retort. He was gone before you could, slipping past you and out the door. He left you alone, incensed at the accusation. There was a difference in pride in one’s self versus the efforts of hard work paying off, you wanted to say. Moreso when it involved serving Christ. How could he not see that was what you were doing?
A frustrated sigh left your lips, leaving the room. Your fingers twitched, and against your better judgment, you reached for the box in the pocket of your tunic as you walked toward an empty hallway. You would ask for forgiveness later, you thought bitterly, grabbing one of the cigarettes and holding it between your lips.
The smoke filled your lungs as you inhaled and danced around you as you exhaled. The dimly lit hallway felt a little less lonely as you imagined a friend within its coils. Present, listening.
“God is listening,” You mumbled to yourself.
Much to your dismay, you had a fleeting thought—is he really?
Dé Domhnaigh. Sunday.
It started after the evening mass.
The weather had been the same all week. Hazy. Wet. Nippy.
The evening mass had been uneventful. Father Lyonel’s sermon was well received. The children of the choir sang well. You and Father Duncan handed out the Eucharist to those who approached. After the service, wives approached you to ask for prayers for their children and husbands. You complimented the mothers of your little choir members, and made small talk about their schools, their homes, parish events.
Thomas Fossoway kept a wide berth, holding his youngest sister in his arms. His mother and father were at the altar for the Virgin Mary, deep in prayer.
From across the chapel, you could see him speaking with other members of the congregation, shaking hands, trying his best to make conversation. He had the nervous smile of a man trying to figure out how best to pet a dog he had just met.
“What do you think of him?” The mother smiled, looking back at him. “You’d not expect someone that big to be so gentle, like.”
Forcing a smile—though not too hard—you attempted an air of agreement. “I’m sure he is, but I’ve not gotten the chance to know him well enough just yet. We’ve both been busy, is all.”
That’s only a half truth, you thought, he hates me.
The woman, now shifting back and forth in an attempt to shush the fussing child in her arms, beamed. The woman next to her kept her green eyes trained on the tall priest. “Busy with studying, then? You must be so excited to finally take your vows.”
At this, your smile turned genuine. “I’m counting down the days until January.”
Finally, the other woman seemed to return to the conversation. She looked back at you, but when she spoke, she gave no indication she cared about what had just been mentioned.
“Is he something of a night owl, Sister?” She asked. Your smile disappeared as the topic returned to Father Duncan. You tilted your head, furrowing your brow.
“As far as I know, no, but I don’t typically see him after we’ve cleaned up after mass,” You explained, “Then it’s time for me to compline and go to bed. Why, Mrs. Connelly?”
She shook her head. “David said that when he was walking home from work last week, he saw someone who looked like Father Duncan out for a walk in the wee hours. He wasn’t sure whether it was really him or not, but David said he was rather tall, like. I was just wondering why he’d be out so late.”
Your eyes flickered towards Duncan, who was waving off some parishioners as they walked towards the door. The crowd was beginning to dwindle—likely off to supper or to prepare the children for bed. You frowned, looking back at Mrs. Connelly.
“There’s not many as tall as he, but I don’t think he’d just up and leave the rectory. Could it have been someone else he saw?”
Mrs. Connelly nodded, eyes narrow in a manner that indicated she didn’t fully believe you. “Maybe... Well, Sister, I must be off. David has the children waiting over there and they’ve got school in the morning. Have a good night, and God bless you.”
“God be with you, Mrs. Connelly,” You bade drily as she began to walk away.
The rest of the crowd shuffled out of the chapel, and soon it was just you and the two priests. You exchanged pleasantries, complimenting Lyonel’s sermon, and him thanking you both for your help.
You smiled in return, before pointing towards some chairs that needed readjusting. “Of course. Now, should we—“
The door to the parish opened, the sound echoing across the now empty space. Both of you looked up to see a familiar man making his way down towards the altar. His face was somber and almost bewildered.
“Fathers. Sister. I’m sorry for the interruption.”
You shook your head. “No worries, Mr. Fossoway. Did you forget so—“
Raymun Fossoway waved his hands dismissively, before turning to Lyonel. “No. Father, I need a blessing performed in my home.”
A blessing. Not uncommon. But not typically requested with such an urgency that it shifted the air around you all. Certainly not when you knew Raymun and his wife had been in the same home since their eldest son had been born nine years ago. You recalled Thomas’s behavior and looked at Lyonel, who contemplated the combination of Raymun’s demeanor and request. Duncan cleared his throat awkwardly.
“…Of course, Raymun,” Father Lyonel finally declared, albeit reluctantly, “I can pass by tomorrow when—“
“No,” Raymun sounded more insistent now. The fear in his eyes shone like that of a cornered animal. “Now, Father. Please.”
“Is everything alright, Mr. Fossoway?” You interjected. “Are Rowan and the baby—“
“My wife and the child are fine as can be, under the circumstances, Sister,” Raymun interrupted, “It’s the house. Something… There’s something in it.”
“Some… thing?” Duncan asked. Raymun nodded, eyes verging on frantic.
“I don’t know what it is. I couldn’t tell you. Rowan—she didn’t believe me at first. But we’ve all since resorted to sleeping in the baby’s room. It’s the one room where it doesn’t follow.”
Unease rippled through the now empty church. You placed your hand in your tunic pocket, reaching for the rosary beads placed inside. Duncan clenched his jaw, and Lyonel frowned.
“You believe it to be a spirit?” Lyonel asked, looking between the three of you. “When did it begin?”
Lyonel’s hands squeezed into fists at his sides. He shook his head. “A few weeks ago. The boys went playing in the woods as they always do when their chores are done. They came back in tears. S-said something spoke to them. Rowan thought it was all nonsense, just the children’s imagination acting up.”
“And then?” You asked. His face darkened in the candlelight.
“Things started moving to where they shouldn’t be. The children started waking up, saying something was in their room. Then… Then I heard it. A voice, in the walls. Saying all sorts of hideous things. Things I can’t be saying here, in the Lord’s house. And then Rowan heard it. We haven’t seen it. But we know it’s there. Waiting. Getting ready.”
The air in the church felt colder now, and you held back a shiver. You chose to bless yourself instead, making the sign of the cross with one hand, gripping your rosary in the other.
The three of you, still at the foot of the altar, exchanged a look. A moment later, Lyonel spoke. His tone left no room for argument.
“Sister Y/N, would you be so kind as to fetch a brown calfskin leather bag from my office in the rectory. It should be in the second drawer of the desk. Father Duncan… let us say a prayer with the Fossoways, and all of us will return to his home to perform the blessing.”
The Fossoway house was at the end of a cobblestone path, a modest home just big enough for a family of newly six. Rowan had given birth to the youngest almost two months ago, and had been members of the parish since before their oldest was born. The entirety of the family led you back to their home, Rowan holding hands with Rupert, her second youngest, while bouncing baby Kerry on her hip. The other two walked hand in hand, neither of them meeting your eyes.
From outside, the house looked normal. Abigail O’Carroll was not entirely wrong when she told Thomas Fossoway that he lived in a rickety old shack. The house was old, and beginning to ever so slightly lean to the left. For six, it was cramped. Three boys to a bedroom where they slept on the floor. The nursery. Rowan and Raymun’s room. A small kitchen with a fireplace and a small dining table.
The moment you crossed the threshold, it felt as if someone breathed dread into you. It settled over you like an exhale, blanketing your being in a manner more suffocating than comforting. Perhaps it was how convinced Raymun seemed to be, how he seemed to cower back behind Lyonel and Duncan, and how the children seemed to cower behind him and Rowan. You stood at Lyonel’s side, peering around the house, now dark as night fell. The darkness surrounding you immediately registered to you as different. You were not one to entertain the idea of spirits or ghouls, but everything about tonight felt fundamentally wrong.
As soon as the sensation rolled down your spine, you felt your body lock up. This was some deep animal instinct, something primal, that was causing your limbs to stiffen and telling you to run the other way. Out of the corner of his eye, Duncan visibly tensed. Lyonel crossed himself, but his posture remained
“Boys.” Lyonel’s voice was dangerously quiet. “What did you do—that day in the forest?”
The three of them were silent. Rowan scowled. “Tell him. Tell Father Lyonel what you told me, boys.”
Thomas’s lip wobbled. James seemed to curl in on himself. Sworn to silence, it seemed. It was little Rupert who cracked first. The youngest of the boys, only 5. He got very quiet, before saying, “Someone spoke to us. We didn’t see him, but he asked if we wanted to play a game.”
You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Lyonel sighed. “Mary, Mother of God. And you said yes?”
“We wanted to play. He said he would chase us. And he did, and it was fun. But now it’s not fun no more. He didn’t stop chasing.”
Lyonel made a soft noise of disgust. His lip curled a little. “Oh,” he tutted, “Oh, I hated that. Never do that again.”
Rupert nodded, eyes welling with tears. Rowan growled at Thomas and James. “Boys.”
They nodded in agreement, and mumbled similar promises. They seemed as ashamed as they did afraid. You remained silent the entire time, trying to keep your breathing steady.
“Sister Y/N,” Lyonel murmured, turning to you, “Stay here with the family. Pray a rosary with them. Duncan and I will bless each room in the house.”
He and Duncan parted, heading for the boys’ bedroom. You sat with the Fossoways at their dinner table, at Rowan’s left. The moment you pulled out your rosary from your tunic pocket, the darkness seemed to deepen. If any of them noticed, they didn’t say anything, and neither did you. Why would you? They were terrified enough. You would not fill their heads with more dread, would not hand them more fabric to cut their nightmares from. You wanted so badly to believe there was nothing there.
So you would believe it, you resolved. The boys had overactive imaginations. What child didn’t imagine monsters under the bed? Rowan and Raymun were likely tired. Kerry was two months old, and they had three other rambunctious children to look after. This had to be part of the reasoning behind it. Never mind the creeping darkness. Yes. Yes, this was the work of vivid childish nightmares and parental exhaustion.
You licked your lips, throat feeling dry. “I… Close your eyes. Let us pray.”
The sign of the cross. An Apostles’ Creed. Three Hail Marys. You let your eyes fall shut, leading the family in prayer. This was a familiar ritual of yours. The only difference was that tonight, you were sitting at the Fossoways’ dining room instead of in your little room in the rectory. Instead of silence, you could hear the family praying along with you. At your side, Rowan’s breathing was a bit loud. You were not alone in your prayer tonight, joined by this little family and their soft prayers.
An Our Father. You began the First Mystery. Ten Hail Marys. Rowan’s breathing grew louder. Your eyes remained closed. A Glory Be. The Second Mystery. You could hear Duncan and Lyonel in the room right over, murmuring prayers as they blessed its corners with holy water. God and Christ to protect the members of the family. Children of God, lambs led by their shepherd. Ten Hail Marys. A Glory Be. You kept the rhythm, words flying from your lips like second nature. You certainly couldn’t tell Rowan her breathing was too loud right in the middle of your prayers.
And then her breathing grew closer. The Third Mystery. Ten more Hail Marys. Duncan and Lyonel shuffled into the next room in the distance. The devil was not welcome in this home. Not now, not ever. Your grip over the rosary beads tightened, face scrunching as you tried to pray this darkness away. Your shoulders had risen up to your ears since you’d started. Why was Rowan breathing so loud? A Glory Be. Why did it feel like she was leaning closer to you?
The Fourth Mystery. You could not take it anymore. You opened your eyes, ready to shift away from her. You began your first Hail Mary. Your eyes landed on her copper hair.
She had not moved, glued to the chair next to you. Her eyes were closed, lips pursed in preparation to follow you. The breathing against your cheek did not stop. The prayer died in your throat, eyes widening, and your fingers went cold.
Silence. Other than the breathing. You looked to the left. Christ, those heaving puffs of air that came from no one at all, but still landed on your cheek, hot and insistent. Rowan’s brow furrowed, and her eyes cracked open.
She looked at you, saw the horrified expression on your face. Immediately, she looked behind her, wondering if you were seeing something behind her. When she saw nothing, she looked back at you, looking gravely concerned. You shook your head desperately, before looking down. You began praying again. It was all you could do.
You forced yourself through the Fourth Mystery. Whatever it was, it trained its breath on the apple of your cheek, wet, hot, rancid. Beads squeezed between your fingers in one hand, blunt bitten fingernails digging into the palm of the other. This could not be happening. Whatever hysteria had taken the Fossoways, it had now taken hold of you too. Burning. Heating your cheeks while the rest of you was ice cold. Somewhere, in another one of the rooms, you could hear Duncan and Lyonel.
You finished the final Glory Be as the breath moved from your cheek to the back of your neck. Never touching, never landing. Always hovering close enough to disturb and disrupt. You took a shaky breath as you began your fifth and final stretch of Hail Marys, and realized that whatever it was, it was not touching you because of your prayer. These beads, the strength of your savior, was what was keeping it at bay. And when the two priests entered this room, simultaneously blessing the room as you continued leading the Fossoways, the breathing got lighter.
The unease began to fade, unlocking your shoulders and knuckles. Hearing Lyonel and Duncan nearby and knowing you were near the end of your prayer had you settling back into your body. The air no longer felt heavy or oppressive. When you finished the prayer and you opened your eyes, the darkness did not seem as foreboding. The candlelight seemed to stretch further, and your body fully relaxed.
All of you, Duncan and Lyonel included, did one final sign of the cross to close out the prayer. Then, Duncan and Lyonel went around the table, blessing each member of the family.
“Please let us know if anything changes,” Duncan said softly, “We’re happy to come back.”
Raymun gave a sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair. The dark circles under his eyes were much more prominent in this light. He gave Duncan a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Father. We’ll let you know.”
“I must say,” Lyonel added, “I didn’t feel anything. The house felt a bit dark, yes, but I didn’t… I felt no presence here.”
“Have you dealt with these presences before, Father?” Rowan asked, a current of skepticism beneath her curiosity. Lyonel tilted his head back and forth, seemingly unsure of how to answer. He licked his lips, before giving the woman an earnest look.
“When I was sent to Rome,” he began, “I witnessed the exorcism of a young woman. I did not participate. But I learned things about Christ and Satan that week that I would not have learned in any ordinary seminary. Things I will not explain now, when your family is this… vulnerable. But I did not feel those things here tonight. And our work here tonight will hopefully expel anything that remains.”
She didn’t respond, but her features eased ever so slightly. You wondered how much of it she believed. You did not know how much of it you believed. At his side, Duncan said nothing. His eyes were trained downwards, brows creased. He seemed deep in thought, mulling Lyonel’s words over. Then, he asked Lyonel to speak privately.
Lyonel turned to look at you and Duncan. “Wait for me outside,” he said, “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
You bade the family goodnight, offering Thomas a hopeful smile as you exited. You weren’t sure who needed it more, him or yourself. He didn’t smile back.
The two of you waited in mostly silence. The wind was strong enough to whip at the mantle draped over your head. You were glad you’d left the box of cigarettes under your pillow in your room. You’d have gone through two the second you stepped out and started on a third, nerves still whipping around your chest. You were staring straight ahead, past the Fossoways’ gate and towards the path that had led you here. Lost in thought, you didn’t notice Duncan staring at you.
Lyonel had several years of clerical training ahead of you. He had trained in the finest seminaries in Rome, and by virtue of his being a man, was permitted to participate in spiritual exercises you would have been barred from otherwise. If Lyonel had felt nothing in the house…
You swallowed the lump in your throat. The human mind was fickle, especially when afraid. It could have been anything.
“...Are you alright?”
Slowly, you turned to look at him. He was looking at you with the same hardness in his ocean-colored eyes, but the usual downward curl in his brow was absent. You would almost call the expression indifference. Asking only because he had to. Not because he cared. You pressed your lips together, before offering a small smile.
“Fine, thank you. Just a bit hard to see the whole family affected so.”
He nodded once. He looked back at the house, then back at you. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I did not know Father Lyonel was so… versed in these kinds of matters.”
You hummed, trying to remember what he had said. “It was a very brief time when he was in Rome, or so he’s told me. I believe they offered him an exorcism apprenticeship, but he said no.”
Duncan blinked. “It’s a highly selective path. Why would he say no?”
You shook your head. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
He said nothing. You kept your silence until he broke it again. “He didn’t feel anything.”
You nodded. “I… I trust his word,” You mumbled, looking at a patch of grass next to your feet. Duncan hummed non-committally. The mantle blocked your view as you looked down. You didn’t see him open his mouth, before gritting his teeth.
Finally, he closed his mouth. He frowned, putting his hands on his hips. “Aye. As do I.”
Lyonel and Raymun came out a few minutes later. “I cannot thank you enough for what the three of you have done tonight. Even if you felt nothing, Father Lyonel. Your prayers are reassurance enough.”
“Sometimes, prayer is the biggest shield,” Lyonel told him.
The walk back to the rectory was quiet. You walked behind them, trying to silently talk yourself down from the unease. When Duncan tried to speak, Lyonel cut in.
“Let us discuss this tomorrow, Father Duncan,” He said, “After tonight, we could all do with some prayer and peace.”
His decision did little to soothe you.
When you returned to your room, you took off your mantle and your habit. You undid your hair, which you had tied up to be out of the way this morning. The tension releasing from your scalp brought a sigh from your lips, shoulders finally dropping. You hadn’t realized how drained you were.
You bathed, then brushed out your hair. When you said your prayers, you took extra care to include each member of the Fossoway family by name in your intentions. Raymun. Rowan. Thomas. James. Rupert. Baby Kerry. You prayed for their safety and salvation. You prayed for their peace and protection. It wasn’t until after you had finished, and gotten under the covers, that you realized you had forgotten to include yourself.
Maybe that was why it came to you.
When sleep finally found you, something came to you in a dream. You could not say what it was. Perhaps it was something you had carried back to this room. Perhaps it existed deep within you long before tonight. It could have even been both.
Whatever it was, wherever it came from, the memory would be gone by morning. What would remain was the sensation, the ache, the emptiness a drunk feels when deprived of the bottle. It had black, bloodied talons that scratched at your breasts and left indents in your thighs. White, spiky hair. Wicked violet eyes. A long, silky, forked tongue that reminded you of the snake’s in the Garden of Eden, pulling Eve towards perdition. One that lapped at your tears before it coiled around your own, muffling your pleas for more.
And a voice. A voice soft and smooth on one side, that so quickly turned jagged and cutting as your eyes rolled back into your head. That growled from behind grinning, too-sharp teeth, words that had been whispered against your skin at the Fossoway house. You had heard them then, jumbled amongst prayer, but only understood them now, tangled together as he placed them at the base of your throat:
Let me in.
You want me.
Let me in.
I want you.
On the floor above yours, in a room down the hall from Lyonel, Duncan also dreamed. But he did not dream of sins of the flesh, brought on by something born of hellfire. No. That would come later, though he had no manner of knowing it now.
Duncan dreamed of a boy.
A little boy in the woods, peering from behind a tree trunk. Draped in a scratchy, olive colored tunic, with pale eyes and no hair. He looked afraid as Duncan approached. As if Duncan would reprimand him, or worse. A look Duncan had worn at this boy’s age, once. He felt his chest ache at the sight.
After what he had endured, he had vowed never to lay hands on anyone. Duncan raised his hands, and knelt a few feet from the tree. It seemed to be dusk. The woods were covered in fog, and tinged in a pale, blue light that evoked early mornings.
“You have nothing to fear from me, lad.”
The boy shook his head, shrinking into himself. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. As if he were worried he would wake someone. “It’s not you I fear, sir.”
Duncan froze. “Who, then?”
“He’s here.”
“Who’s here?”
The forest darkened. The boy’s eyes widened.
The last thing he said before fading in front of Duncan’s eyes, before the darkness swallowed the forest, before swallowing Duncan himself, made the hair on Duncan’s neck stand straight up.
“Evil is afoot.”
thank you for reading, i hope you liked it!!! if you'd like to be included in future updates for this fic, pls let me know <3 please note: i will not tag you if you are a blank/ageless blog.
A/N: I’m taking real liberties with Tanselle’s characterisation here. I know this and yet i persevere. Also Realising i can never get away from my desire to be part of a psychosexual Challengers situation, from either the Tashi or Patrick perspective. Naturally, this is bc of my perpetual attraction to the Art archetype. LMAO look at me always making it abt Challengers…#autism | Summer Camp AU masterlist | Tanselle's playlist
It’s already been three hours, and by now you’re actually forgetting what you came to the art cabin for. On the table beside you, an open palette of face paint sits cracked and drying. Periodically, Tanselle sprays it with water, but then you get sidetracked talking about nothing, or by the silk-voiced soul music coming from her pocket-sized speaker, that sits on the windowsill and hums through the room. Neither of you notice until you try dipping your brush and it comes up barely dusted with pigment and by then, you’re already distracted again.
Tanselle’s sketchbook is closed and by her elbow. At one point, she rested a protective forearm on top of it but gradually, she seems to be trying to shuffle it completely out of sight. Of course, that only serves to make your curiosity burn brighter.
“You’re not even gonna let me take a small peek?” you practically whine. Tanselle’s posture only gets more protective. “I promise I’ll be nice.”
“I know you’ll be nice.” As your hand creeps towards the book, she swats it away. She isn’t really annoyed and you aren’t really trying to get a look; by now you know that Tanselle would rather die than let just anyone look inside her sketchbook. It serves her more as a journal, and you’re more than willing to earn the privilege of combing through her deepest inner thoughts. If anything, the challenge excites you. What excites you more is the bashful way she looks away when you threaten her with hypothetical compliments, and the way she grips you when you get too close to actually opening it.
“We’re in here,” she says, the gold stack of bangles on her arms chiming as she wrestles your arm away from the table. “To work.”
“About that.” At your smirk, she’s already rolling her eyes. “If we’re practicing the designs that you came up with, won’t we need your sketches for reference? Just putting it out there.”
She jabs a finger at the cabin door. “I’ll put you out there if you don’t shut up.”
You’re grinning at each other again and still not getting any work done, until Tanselle claps and sprays the face paints one more time.
“Okay. For real this time. Come here.”
There isn’t any closer you can get without being on top of her but you refuse to point this out, hopeful that as long as you hold your tongue, she might actually let that happen.
You flinch at the smooth, cool feeling of wet paint on your skin. Tanselle chuckles and leans closer, grabbing you by the chin to hold you steady. Without permission or intention, your breath also stills, only to come out in a nervous rush after a few too many seconds of silence. Again, Tanselle laughs under her breath at you; your stupid schoolgirl crush must be written all over your face.
When she’s done, she leans back and surveys her work, which means staring straight at you for what feels like hours. You squirm a little and she chides you.
“Sit still.”
“I’m trying.” You bite your lip and swear at the paint’s chalky taste. “You’re staring.”
Turning her hands up in sarcastic disbelief, she narrows her eyes as if to say ‘duh’. “I have to.”
She goes back to painting, more careful now as she fills in details. One hand still hovers by your head, then settles at the nape of your neck, tugging gently at your hair for purchase. As she finishes up, she begins whispering to herself. Halfway between studious running commentary of her own work and singing along to the music, her breath flutters gentle and warm against your face.
“Alright,” she announces, standing. “I’m gonna take a piss. Don’t touch your face.”
You don’t but of course, if you’re going to follow one instruction, you just have to break another. In the time it takes Tanselle to slip off to the toilets, you’ve already flipped through half her sketchbook. Splotches of green that could be watercolour or algae, vast sweeps of charcoal and smudged pencil notes give way to more coherent sketches. Some of them are what you expect: different animals contorted into face-paint-worthy shapes, drawings of the lake in crayon and colored pencil. Towards the middle, though, the pages get more crinkled with water damage and the portraits get specific, more familiar, until you realise you’re looking at your own face, your body.
That’s your silhouette, drawn in profile at a campfire, hunched towards the flames while Aerion told ghost stories. You, sat cross-legged in the grass, hands resting on your stomach as you doze. Those are your clothes, bunched in a heap on the lake pier. You remember stripping them off to jump in, remember thinking, all day, about how terrible those shorts looked on you. In Tanselle’s sketchbook, they fit you perfectly. Your laugh looks pretty, your hair looks amazing and in some of them, she’s even managed to make the rolls you usually try to hide in pictures look sculpted onto your body. Every bit of you, made not flawless but intentional. As if, when Tanselle looks at you, it’s not just beauty she sees, but it’s not just beauty she wants to see.
You’re only just deliberating whether you should look at the second half or refresh your memory of the first, when she comes back in, patting her hands dry on her skirt. Her eyebrows raise but the panic you expect to see never materialises.
You shuffle backwards, hands held up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to look.”
“Really,” she deadpans.
“I was just…” You fumble, tracing a finger over the buckled surface of a page of lilypads. It occurs to you, too late, that this is a pretty incriminating look, and what ends up happening is that you slam your palm down on the open page, too panicked to realise you aren’t actually closing it. Both of you watch your hand as it rests in exactly the same spot Tanselle caught you in, and she smirks.
“You look spooked.” Her smirk falters. “What did you see?”
“Nothing,” you answer too quickly. When the concern doesn’t lift from her face, you try again. “Why? Did you draw me naked?”
The thought makes you grin wildly, and you find yourself fidgeting with the corner of the nearest page, just itching to turn it. Of course, Tanselle notices and strides forwards. You expect her to snatch away the book, but she grabs your face instead. By the chin, she forces you to look up at her. She’s smirking again.
“Did you want me to?”
You blink, lips parted by Tanselle’s grip but eyes widening all on their own. She’s touching you. Really touching you. As she narrows her eyes down at you, her grip loosens and she sits. It’s a little easier to think back in your familiar, platonic posture, but you still can’t think of anything to say.
“I can’t believe that’s all it takes to shut you up.” She gathers up her paints again and moves as if to keep going with your face. As the realisation hits you, you groan. “What?” she says through a laugh.
“I’ve got a fucking octopus on my face.”
“So?”
She holds your chin again, resuming the light posture she used to keep you in place before, her brush poised in deliberation. You sigh and pout, speaking mostly to yourself, mostly kidding. “No wonder you didn’t kiss me.”
Tanselle pauses. “You wanted me to kiss you?”
“Hm,” you jut your lip out, nod slowly. “Past tense, interesting.”
“Oh my God, can you be serious for one second?”
“No, not likely.” You point at your face. “Remember this guy?”
She rolls her eyes and drops her brush. You’re distracted, midway through trying to come up with another quippy, evasive thing to say. The kiss nearly winds you, Tanselle’s hands instantly at your waist, then the nape of your neck, tangling into your hair as she slides further between your legs. Eventually, you just lift them, so your thighs are resting on hers, legs spread so wide the seam of your shorts is pressing right against the growing wet spot in your underwear.
“Holy shit,” you say when she pulls away.
“Good ‘holy shit’?”
You choke on your words, steadying yourself with a swallow. “Holy shit. I can’t believe that happened.”
Tanselle wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing streaks of lilac and dark purple across her face. It should be funny, the kind of thing that makes the jokes come easily, but you’re dumbfounded. A primal urge to lick her face clean makes your mouth hang open and you track every move she makes with a heavy-lidded gaze.
“Are we gonna fuck?”
Her gaze snaps towards you. She scoffs. “Do you know that this is the most straightforward you’ve ever been with me?”
She shakes her head and leans back, giving you a once over. Takes her time, eyes roving at a deliberate pace, that smirk unshakeable. Her skirt is pushed up, your hands rest on her thighs. A thin layer of sweat grows between them; when she shifts slightly, your legs slide together easily. Your breathing picks up and, lips still parted, your gaze darts to the centre of her legs.
She tilts her head. “You really want to, don’t you?”
“Uh–” Your lips open and close. “Um…”
“Wow,” she blurts, laughing in your face again. If your brain was still working, it might embarrass you. She pulls you even closer and cradles your face. Instinctively, your eyes close, head tilting into her palm as her thumb swipes on our cheek.
A long, tender silence stretches between you as she waits for a response.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I don’t know what to say.”
Her laughter fans across your face. “I had no idea you came with an off button.”
You hum in response, something between a laugh and a moan as her hand travels from your face down to your chest, squeezing and groping down your waist, ass, thighs.
“So, you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” you moan, because she’s already rubbing her palm against you, pressing two fingers over your shorts each time she reaches the most sensitive parts. Even when you try to speak, you can’t seem to stop moaning. It’s all that comes out, stupefied, panting pleasure. You clutch the back of her head and kiss, kiss, kiss, as her hands slip into your underwear.
“On the table,” she orders, speaking right into your mouth.
Once you’re on your back, she takes her time with you. Hands swiping up and down your thighs, pushing them apart only to stand between them, leaning down to kiss a haphazard path to your clothed chest. You try pushing your shirt up for her, but she pulls it down.
“Oh come on.” She plants a smacking kiss right over the nipple, sucking through your t-shirt. As she pulls away, you both look down at the wet spot she leaves behind, her lips curling upwards and yours agape. “You’re not gonna rush me now.”
“I mean, I could rush you a little, right? Like, a small amount of rushing. A slight hurry.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re being funny again.”
You give her a pleased, lopsided smile. “I am?”
She gives your shorts a harsh downwards tug and spreads your legs even further apart. Through your underwear, she presses long, nuzzling kisses.
“Oh my God,” you breathe.
With her teeth, she tugs the fabric to the side, just enough to lick a thin line up and down, letting you wet her tongue as she moans at the taste. She doesn’t stop to pull them off, just pulls them even further to the side so she can bury her face in you, tongue lapping in hungry strokes now. Your mouth stays held open, head thrown back in one long, silent moan. When she pulls back, it’s only to make fun of you for a second.
“There we go,” she sighs. “Another off button. Who knew?”
“Fuck you,” you whisper.
She hums then stands, leaning in to whisper back. “You first.”
Still standing over you, one hand cups you, and the other grips your hips. Her thumb circles your clit in slow, dizzying circles and her hips roll forward, as if she’s sliding into you. When she actually does, with her fingers, you have to bite down on your lip.
Once she’s inside you, she doesn’t move until your eyes open. You make eye contact and she giggles. “Hi.”
“Hey,” you pant.
“Feels good?”
“Oh my God, you have no idea.”
Adjusting, she pulls you forward and sends herself even deeper into you. The spot she hits sends a strangled groan escaping from your throat.
“Fuck,” she whispers, “I can’t wait to see you cum.”
For a second, your eyes blink open, another realisation slowly dawning. “Wait, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What–Mm–When do I do you?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Her voice stays light and casual as she slides her fingers deeper and curls. “Maybe I’ll get Dunk to take care of it.”
You groan, practically growl, at the sound of his name. It doesn’t stop your hips from lifting, desperately trying to let Tanselle in deeper.
She grins. “Fuck, you liked that, didn’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“Maybe I’ll tell him about this. Tell him how I had you writhing under my hands.”
“Shut up.”
“He’s just like this, y’know.” She leans closer to speak into your mouth. “Eager and whining. Goes so stupid, so easily. God, I wonder what it would be like to actually have both of you.”
At that, you can only let out a droning moan. You had no idea that she and Dunk had ever fucked. Just the idea makes you clench around her fingers, head spinning and breath shortening.
“Fuck, I’m–”
“Yeah? Feels that good?”
You nod, whining.
“Show me, baby.”
“Fuck,” you sigh again. As you cum all over her fingers, your back arches and your legs spread even wider, hips bucking as she fucks you through it. Even when you’re coming down, her fingers keep up a languid pace, Tanselle’s heavy-lidded eyes trained on the way you clench around her in strained bursts.
Only when you sit up does she pull out of you, sucking her fingers clean as she picks your shorts up from the ground and tosses them to you. She seems insistent on getting every drop of you in her mouth, because she keeps on licking and sucking her fingers, while she douses the face paints in water again. All casual, like she’s spilled some food or is sucking the blood out of a cut. When you’re dressed, she holds out her paintbrush and turns to you.
“Alright,” she says, sitting. “Your turn.”
“You–” you splutter. “You were serious?”
At her confused frown, you blanche. “I’m not gonna do you?”
Her face twists into a mischievous smile and she shrugs. “I told you, I’ll take care of it.”
“That is not what you said,” you grumble, joining her on the bench.
“What’s the matter?” she nudges you with a gentle kick, because now you’re back to sitting with plenty of platonic space between you. “Jealous?”
I swear to fucking god. I would claw out OneDrive from my computer if I could. I would burn down their servers if I could. I would run down their stocks to the ground if I could. I hope every single one of their workers gets a better offer from a competitor in the next 24 hours. I hope every single one of their light bulbs explodes at the same time. I hope every single carton of milk in their fridge will always be expired.
Stop backing up my fucking files.
Stop asking me to back up my fucking files.
Stop taking my fucking files off my fucking computer.
I don't want a fucking reminder in three fucking days. Let me fucking say no.
Maekar Targaryen would wear wrath and pride most openly, hide lust and envy behind restraint, and reveal gluttony, greed, and even sloth only in the quiet intimacy of a husband who cannot quite bear to be far from his wife.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒; explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, maekar smut, mature content, not meant for minors. DNI.
LUST.
Maekar is not a man of grand flirtations, as his desire appears in lingering touches, a hand at the small of your back, the way he keeps you close when no one is watching. Behind closed doors, his restraint gives way to a hunger reserved only for you.
The transition from the public eye to the privacy of the bedroom is always a violent shift in atmosphere. In the ballroom or the council chambers, Maekar is a pillar of stoic composure, his affection limited to the ghost of a touch or the possessive weight of his hand pressing you against his side. But the moment the heavy oak doors click shut and the lock turns, the mask doesn't just slip, it shatters.
He doesn't waste time with gentle words or slow build-ups. The hunger he’s been suppressing all evening erupts the second you are alone. Maekar slams you against the door, the impact rattling your teeth, his mouth crashing onto yours in a kiss that tastes of desperation and raw need. There is no hesitation, only a frantic urgency to strip away the barriers of fabric between your skin and his.
His hands, usually so controlled, are now rough and demanding. He rips your clothes aside, the sound of tearing fabric punctuating the heavy silence of the room.
He doesn't ask, but instead he takes. He hauls you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and he pins you to the wall, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.
“I've been thinking about this since this fucking morning,” he growls against your neck, his voice a low, guttural rasp.
He doesn't use lubricant or a slow entry; he simply aligns his thick, pulsing cock with your soaking wet pussy and drives himself inside you in one brutal, devastating thrust. You gasp, your head snapping back against the wood, as he fills you completely, stretching you to your absolute limit.
Maekar fucks you like a man possessed, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythmic, punishing force. Every thrust is deep and violent, bottoming out against your cervix, sending shocks of intense pleasure and pressure through your entire body. He isn't looking for romance but the burning desire to claim you, venting every ounce of the restraint he maintained in public through the sheer friction of his cock sliding in and out of your tight heat.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with a primal, predatory lust. He reaches down, his thumb grinding hard against your clit while he continues to hammer into you, the combination of the internal pounding and the external friction pushing you toward the edge.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick. “Tell me how much you want it. Tell me you're mine.”
As you sob out your surrender, he accelerates, his movements becoming a blur of friction and sweat. He grunts with every impact, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. He drives himself deeper, harder, determined to leave his mark on you, until he finally hits his breaking point. With a final, guttural roar, Maekar thrusts one last time, burying himself as deep as possible as he erupts, pumping hot, thick loads of cum deep inside your womb, shaking with the intensity of a release that has been building for hours.
GLUTTONY.
He would indulge in your company more than any feast. After long days of duty, he seeks the quiet of your chambers, another cup of wine shared with you, another moment beside you before sleep. If he is greedy for anything, it is your presence.
The heavy oak door of the chambers clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the court and the suffocating weight of his duties. Maekar didn't even pause to remove his cloak before he was across the room, his eyes locked on yours with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He had spent the day playing the part of the composed prince, but here, in the dim amber glow of the hearth, that mask shattered.
He poured two cups of wine, but as he handed one to you, his fingers lingered, brushing against your skin with a desperate sort of tenderness. He didn't want the wine, but rather he wanted the taste of you. He set his own cup aside, untouched, and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He breathed you in, a low groan vibrating in his chest as he pressed his lips against your pulse point.
“I have thought of nothing else since dawn,” he murmured, his voice husky and thick with longing.
Maekar didn't waste time with slow build-ups tonight. His greed was on full display. He guided you toward the edge of the bed, his hands roaming your curves with an urgent possessiveness. With a swift, fluid motion, he stripped you bare, his gaze devouring every inch of your skin as if he were memorizing you for the first time.
He dropped to his knees before you, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. He didn't hesitate. He dove in, his tongue finding your clit with a precision that made your back arch and your breath hitch. Maekar ate you out like a man who had been wandering a desert for years and had finally found water.
His tongue was broad and insistent, licking deep into your pussy, swirling around your nub with a relentless rhythm. He sucked your clit hard into his mouth, creating a vacuum that sent jolts of electricity straight to your core. He was greedy, drinking in your juices, his face smeared with your wetness as he licked from your perineum up to your hood, over and over again.
You gripped his hair, pulling him closer, but he was already as deep as he could get. He used his fingers to stretch you open, sliding two fingers inside your tight heat while his tongue continued to pummel your clit. The combination was overwhelming. He groaned against your skin, the sound muffled by your folds, his breath hot and erratic.
He didn't stop when you started to shake, he pushed harder, his tongue flicking faster and faster, driving you toward the edge. He wanted every drop of you, savoring the way your muscles clamped down on his fingers and the way you cried out his name. When you finally peaked, your orgasm crashing over you in violent waves, Maekar stayed right there, licking every last drop of your cum from your pussy, refusing to let a single bit of your pleasure go to waste.
GREED.
Maekar is not greedy for gold, but he is possessive of what he loves. He guards your safety, your comfort, your reputation with the vigilance of a dragon over its hoard. No slight against you goes unanswered.
Maekar didn't care for the glittering trinkets of the world; gold was cold, stagnant, and bore no warmth. His true hoard was you. He guarded you with a fierce, suffocating intensity, his eyes always scanning for any perceived threat to your safety or any whisper that might smudge your reputation.
To the world, he was a shield, unyielding and protective. But behind the closed doors of his private chambers, that protection morphed into a demanding, hungry possessiveness.
He didn't want you safe and quiet here. He wanted you undone.
Maekar gripped your hips with bruising force, his large hands digging into your skin as he shoved you forward. The mahogany surface of the heavy table was cool against your palms as he bent you over, forcing your spine to arch and your ass to tilt upward, offered brazenly to him.
“Look at you,” he growled, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your ear. “Perfect. Mine.”
He didn't waste time with gentleness. He reached down, parting your cheeks with one hand to expose your soaking wet pussy, his thumb rubbing harshly against your clit to make you whimper. The sound sparked something in him, a predatory glint entering his eyes. He lived for those sounds, the gasps, the broken moans, the way your voice cracked when he pushed you too far.
He lined himself up, the broad head of his cock pressing against your entrance. With one powerful, possessive thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, filling you completely.
You let out a sharp, loud cry that echoed through the room, and Maekar groaned, the sound guttural and satisfied. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity, his pelvis slamming against your backside with a wet, slapping sound. Each thrust was designed to claim you, to remind you exactly who you belonged to.
“Louder,” he commanded, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder. “I want to hear every single sound you make for me. Scream for me.”
He reached around, his fingers gripping your throat lightly, not enough to choke, but enough to make you feel his absolute control. As he hammered into you, hitting your cervix with every deep drive, you began to sob and moan, your voice rising in a crescendo of pleasure and desperation.
Maekar leaned in, his breath hot against your neck, listening intently to the way your breath hitched and your voice wavered. He was greedy for it, drinking in your vocal surrender as if it were the only thing that could sate him. He increased the pace, his cock sliding in and out of your tight pussy with friction that set you both on fire.
“That's it,” he hissed, his grip tightening on your hips as he felt your walls begin to squeeze him in the throes of an orgasm. “Give it all to me. Every moan, every scream. You're mine.”
As you peaked, your voice breaking into a high, shattered wail, Maekar let out a roar of his own. He lunged deep one last time, pinning you hard against the table as he erupted inside you, filling your womb with hot, thick cum. He stayed buried deep, holding you there, listening to the fading echoes of your cries with the satisfaction of a dragon who had finally claimed his most precious treasure.
SLOTH.
Duty leaves him little room for idleness, yet with you he permits himself rare stillness. On cold mornings he lingers a moment longer in bed, one arm around your waist, pretending the realm can wait another heartbeat.
The dawn light was a pale, freezing grey, filtering through the heavy velvet curtains of the bedchamber. Outside, the realm demanded his attention, council meetings, border disputes, and the endless weight of leadership, but inside the warmth of the furs, Maekar existed in a rare, stolen silence.
He lay on his back, one massive arm draped possessively across your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His skin was a furnace against your back, his heartbeat a steady, thrumming drum that drowned out the distant sounds of the castle waking up. For a few minutes, he allowed himself the heresy of idleness, his face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of sleep and skin.
But the stillness was a lie. Beneath the sheets, his cock was already hard, a thick, pulsing length pressing firmly against your backside. He didn't want to get up, but he wanted you.
With a low, guttural hum, Maekar shifted, his hand sliding from your waist down to the curve of your ass, squeezing the flesh firmly. He rolled you over with effortless strength, pinning you beneath him for a moment just to see your eyes, before he shifted again, settling back against the pillows and guiding you upward.
You straddled him, your knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips. The air in the room was biting, but where your bodies met, it was scorching. You looked down at him, the man who held the fate of thousands in his hands and saw only the hunger in his eyes. He looked stripped of his duty, reduced to a man who wanted nothing more than to be filled by you.
Slowly, you lowered yourself, the broad head of his cock parting your wet folds. Maekar let out a sharp, hissed breath, his hands flying up to grip your hips, guiding you down with a possessive urgency. As you sank onto him, taking every inch of his thickness, your head snapped back and a loud, needy moan escaped your lips.
Maekar’s eyes darkened. He didn't move his hips yet; he simply stayed still, letting you feel the sheer size of him stretching you open. He wanted to hear you. He wanted the sound of your pleasure to be the first thing that filled the morning.
“Ride me,” he commanded, his voice a rough, sleep-heavy rasp. “I want to hear how much you want this before I have to leave you.”
You began to move, lifting yourself up and slamming back down onto him. The friction was immediate and intense, the wet slap of your pussy hitting his pelvis echoing in the quiet room. Maekar groaned, his fingers digging into your hips, bruising the skin as he helped you find a rhythm that hit your clit with every descent.
The more you moved, the louder you became. You weren't just moaning, you were sobbing with pleasure, your voice echoing off the stone walls. Maekar watched you with a predatory intensity, his chest heaving. He loved the contrast, the cold morning air hitting your damp skin and the hot, wet sounds of your body sliding over his.
“Yes... just like that,” he growled, his hips beginning to thrust upward to meet you, driving himself deeper into your womb. “Scream for me. Let the whole castle know who you belong to.”
He reached up, his large hand wrapping around your throat, not to choke, but to anchor you, forcing you to look at him as you peaked. As your orgasm crashed over you, your voice broke into a high, shattered wail of surrender. Maekar let out a guttural roar, his body stiffening as he surged upward one last time, pumping thick, hot loads of cum deep inside you.
He held you there, pinned to his chest, the silence returning to the room. He didn't let go immediately. He lingered in the afterglow, listening to the ragged sound of your breathing, savoring the rare, stolen moment of peace before the world demanded the dragon return to his throne.
WRATH.
This is the sin he knows best. His anger is cold, controlled, and frighteningly precise. But never directed at you without cause. If someone harms or humiliates you, Maekar’s fury becomes a promise: they will regret it.
Maekar knows the true meaning of wrath as intimately as he knows the weight of a sword in his hand. His rage is never loud, never reckless. It settles over him like winter, quiet enough to make seasoned knights hold their tongues. He does not shout. He does not threaten. He simply decides, and once he has, there are very few in the realm who can escape the consequences.
Never are you the target of that fury without just cause. He is stern with you when necessary, expecting honesty and accountability from the woman he loves, but blind anger has no place in the chambers you share. Even at his most frustrated, he would sooner walk away to master himself than speak words he could never take back.
But if another dares to insult you, threaten you, or lay hands upon you, something ancient awakens behind his violet eyes. His expression hardly changes, which is somehow worse. The court quickly learns that the quieter Prince Maekar becomes, the closer someone is to ruin.
He does not make dramatic declarations before the hall. He merely rests a hand upon the pommel of his sword, draws you a fraction closer to his side, and says in a voice devoid of warmth, “Remember their face, my sweet wife. You shall not have to suffer it for much longer.”
And you never do.
Whether justice comes by stripped titles, broken alliances, exile, or a blade upon the battlefield depends entirely on what was done to you. To harm Maekar himself is survivable. To harm his wife is to invite the full measure of a prince's wrath, delivered with ruthless patience and absolute fury.
For Maekar Targaryen, vengeance is never an outburst, but it is a promise kept.
The air in the room shifted the moment Maekar stepped inside, the temperature seeming to drop several degrees, for the silence that followed him was heavy, suffocating, and laced with a lethal fury. His eyes, usually like frozen steel, were now shards of ice, fixed on the person who had dared to speak ill of you, who had dared to make you feel small.
He didn't rush to your side, as every step was measured, a predator closing in on prey that didn't yet realize it was already dead. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous velvet, devoid of heat but brimming with a promise of absolute ruin.
He dismantled the other person with a few surgical words, his cold fury stripping them bare until they were trembling, reduced to nothing by the sheer weight of his presence.
Then, as quickly as the storm had gathered, he turned to you.
The ice in his gaze didn't melt, but it transformed. The wrath remained, but it was no longer a weapon to be used against an enemy, it was a possessive, starving hunger. He didn't ask if you were alright as he could see the lingering distress in your eyes, and it drove him wild.
In one fluid, assertive motion, Maekar reached out. His hand clamped firmly around your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a grip that claimed you entirely. Before you could draw a breath, he hauled you backward, the sudden momentum slamming your back against the cold, hard surface of a secluded stone wall.
The impact knocked the air from your lungs, but he was there instantly, crowding into your space. He pinned you there, his large body acting as a living shield, blocking out the rest of the world. He pressed his chest hard against yours, his thighs forcing their way between your legs to lock you in place.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a rough growl against your ear.
He didn't wait for you to obey. His hand slid from your waist up to your throat, not squeezing, but cupping your neck with a possessive firmness that made your heart hammer against your ribs. He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin, contrasting sharply with the coldness he had shown moments before.
“No one touches you,” he hissed, his lips brushing your earlobe. “No one humbles you. You belong to me, and I will burn everything to the ground before I let another soul make you feel anything but mine.”
His hand shifted, sliding down from your neck to grip your chin, forcing your face up to meet his. The controlled anger was still there, but it had morphed into a raw, erotic tension. He stared at your lips, his pupils blown wide, his possessiveness radiating off him in waves.
Without another word, he crashed his mouth onto yours, the kiss not a request, but a conquest, hard, demanding, and desperate to erase every trace of the world outside of his hold. “You are my woman.”
ENVY.
He envies those who can claim your attention when he cannot. A lord who keeps you laughing too long at a feast earns a narrowed glance. He says nothing, but later draws you closer as if to remind himself you are his wife.
The feast had been an exercise in endurance for Maekar. Throughout the evening, he had remained a statue of cold nobility at the head of the table, but his eyes, those shards of frozen steel, never truly left you. He had watched the young lord from the Reach lean in too close, watched the way the man’s laughter echoed a bit too loudly, and most of all, he had watched the way you smiled back, your attention captured by a charm that Maekar found utterly trivial.
He simply narrowed his eyes, a silent, lethal promise forming in the depths of his gaze. Every time the lord touched your arm or whispered a joke that made you giggle, Maekar’s grip on his wine goblet tightened until his knuckles were white. He didn't want the man's head on a platter, not yet, but he wanted the memory of that laughter scrubbed from your mind.
The moment the doors to your private chambers clicked shut, the facade of the composed princ vanished.
He moved with a predatory urgency, his hand snapping out to grab your wrist and yank you flush against his chest. The air in the room seemed to ignite, the coldness of the feast replaced by a suffocating, possessive heat. He backed you up until your calves hit the edge of the massive canopy bed, his eyes dark and blown wide with a hunger that bordered on aggression.
“You enjoyed yourself tonight,” he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. He didn't wait for an answer. His hands moved with ruthless efficiency, ripping at the fine silk of your gown. The sound of fabric tearing echoed through the room, a violent punctuation to his silence.
He stripped you bare in seconds, tossing your clothes aside as if they were obstacles in his way. He didn't bother with his own clothes for long, shedding his tunic and breeches until he stood before you, his cock already hard and pulsing, thick and demanding.
Maekar grabbed your hips, his fingers digging deep into your flesh, and flipped you around with a sudden, forceful motion. He slammed your chest down onto the mattress, pinning you face-down, your ass arched high in the air. The vulnerability of the position made your breath hitch, but before you could gasp, he was there, his heavy weight crushing you into the furs.
“Let them look,” he growled, his mouth pressing hard against the nape of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “Let them try to keep your attention. But when the sun sets, you remember who owns every inch of this skin.”
He didn't use any lubricant as he didn't need to. He reached down, his fingers roughly parting your cheeks to expose your soaking pussy, Maekar gripped the base of his cock and drove himself inside you in one singular, brutal thrust.
You screamed into the pillows, the sheer size of him stretching you to your absolute limit. He filled you completely, hitting your cervix with a force that made your entire body shudder. He didn't give you time to adjust. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity, his hips slamming against your ass with a wet, slapping sound that filled the quiet of the room.
Each thrust was a claim. Each plunge was a reminder. He wasn't just seeking pleasure, he was marking you. He reached forward, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back so he could see the expression of overwhelmed pleasure on your face.
“Whose are you?” he demanded, his voice a guttural command.
“Yours,” you sobbed, your voice breaking as he hammered into you, his cock rubbing against your walls with a friction that threatened to set you on fire. “I'm yours, Maekar!”
“Say it again,” he hissed, increasing the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and more violent. He was driving himself into you as if he wanted to merge his very soul with yours, to leave a mark that no amount of time or distance could erase.
The friction built to an unbearable peak. Your pussy clamped tight around him, milking his length, and Maekar let out a low, animalistic groan. He shifted his grip, hooking his arms under your chest to lift you slightly, driving even deeper, bottoming out inside you with a final, devastating surge.
He let out a roar as he came, his cock pulsing violently inside you, flooding your womb with hot, thick ropes of cum. He didn't pull out. He stayed buried deep within you, his chest heaving against your back, his sweat dripping onto your skin.
He leaned down, whispering into your ear, his voice now a possessive purr. “Never forget, my love. You can smile at the world, but you belong to me.”
PRIDE.
Maekar would rarely praise you in public. He is not a man who believes affection should be displayed before a court eager to mistake tenderness for weakness. Instead, his pride reveals itself in quieter ways. He seeks your counsel before making difficult decisions, trusts your judgment without hesitation, and ensures every lord and lady understands that to slight you is to slight the Prince himself.
When you speak, he listens.
When you enter a room, his gaze follows.
When others praise your wisdom or kindness, the smallest lift of his brow betrays a satisfaction he would never put into words.
Only behind the safety of closed doors does the iron around his heart soften. His rough hand settles over yours as he studies you with that steady, unwavering gaze. There is no court to impress, no armor to wear, only his wife.
“You honor my house,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to belong to you alone. His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles before he adds, with unmistakable sincerity, “And you honor me.”
For a man like Maekar, there is no greater praise he could ever give, unless it's to praise you for you fucking good you take him.
Maekar’s breath still ragged against your ear, his chest heaving as the last throbs of his orgasm faded. He lingered buried deep inside you, the heat of his cum slick against your walls, each pulse a reminder of the claim he’d just stamped upon you. His hands, still tangled in your hair, tightened just enough to pull your head back so he could stare into your dazed, flushed face.
A low, almost reverent growl rumbled from his throat, the sound more a promise than a threat. “You… you took me like you were made for it,” he whispered, his voice rough with awe and possession. “Every inch, every thrust...you opened for me, you clenched around me like you wanted to keep me forever.”
His thumb brushed the sweat‑slick line of your jaw, then trailed down to trace the curve of your throat, feeling the rapid beat of your pulse beneath his fingertips. “Look at you,” he murmured, eyes locking onto yours, pupils blown wide with a hunger that had softened only just enough to reveal genuine admiration. “Your pussy grips me like a vice, hot and wet, sucking me deeper each time I drive into you. You fuck me good, so fucking good, that I could lose myself in you and never want to surface.”
He shifted his weight, lifting you just enough to change the angle, his cock still throbbing inside you, now slick with both of your essences. The new tilt sent a fresh wave of pleasure spiraling through your core, making you gasp and arch against him. Maekar seized the moment, his lips crashing onto yours in a fierce, claiming kiss that swallowed your moan. His tongue plunged deep, demanding, as if he wanted to taste the very proof of how well you’d taken him.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “You’re perfect,” he breathed, each word a ragged affirmation. “The way you moan when I hit that spot, the way your walls flutter around me, it’s like you were made to worship my cock.”
His hands slid down to grip your hips harder, pulling you back onto him with a deliberate, grinding motion. “Again,” he commanded, voice low and guttural. “Let me feel you take me all the way, let me hear you scream my name as I fill you up.”
He began to move once more, his thrusts deliberate and powerful, each plunge sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the quiet chamber, a wet, slapping rhythm that matched the frantic beat of your hearts. Maekar’s eyes never left yours, watching the way your lips parted on each gasp, the way your eyes fluttered with overwhelming sensation.
“You’re doing it so well,” he growled, his voice edged with both pride and primal need. “Every time you clamp down, every time you arch to meet me, it’s the best fucking praise I could ever receive.”
His pace intensified, hips snapping against yours with a ferocity that made the bed frame creak. You could feel the pressure building again, a tight coil low in your belly, ready to snap. Maekar sensed it, his own arousal rekindling by the sight of you unraveling beneath him.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his tone a mix of command and reverent plea. “Let me feel you shatter around my cock, let me know you’re mine in every way.”
Your body obeyed, a shudder tearing through you as your orgasm crashed over you like a tide. Your inner walls clenched violently around his length, milking him with desperate, rhythmic pulses. Maekar groaned, a deep, animalistic sound as he felt your climax ripple through you, his own release building in tandem.
He drove into you one final, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt as his own orgasm erupted. Hot jets of cum flooded your depths, mixing with your own essence, the sensation overwhelming and intimate. He remained buried, his chest pressed against your back, his breath ragged as he whispered against your ear, voice thick with satisfaction and awe.
“You… you fuck me good,” he murmured, each word a reverent affirmation. “No one else could take me like you do. No one else could make me feel this… this complete.
His hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the tears of pleasure that had escaped your eyes. He pressed a lingering, possessive kiss to your lips, then pulled back just enough to gaze into your soul.
“Remember this,” he said, voice soft yet edged with the steel of his Targaryen blood. “When the world tries to steal your attention, when others think they can claim a smile or a laugh, you’ll know, you belong to me, and I will never let you forget how good you take me.”
He stayed entwined with you a while longer, the afterglow wrapping around both of you like a warm, dark blanket, the echo of his praise lingering in the air as tangible as the sweat on your skin.
Synopsis: An amber dawn, a soldier’s armor cast, where rowdy dreamers interrupt the night; a midnight kiss, a secret taking hold, to fill the quiet womb with summer's light. Five distinct streams from one high mountain crest, the bitter court and bloody wars resigned; the rugged Anvil finds his perfect rest, within the madness of a house aligned.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Mild Breeding Kink, (Early) Pregnancy Sex, mentioned Pregnancy & Childbirth, Mild War References, the Traits of the Reader are not described
Word Count: 4k
The dawn over the Marcher hills did not burst with the violent crimson of the Capital; it crept into the valley like spun amber, warming the pale limestone walls of Summerhall until the fortress seemed to breathe with the morning light.
Through the high, uncurtained arches of the eastern pavilion, the breeze smelled of dew-soaked clover, wild chicory, and the cool, clean stone of the highlands.
Inside the master bedchamber, the world was reduced to the space between two heartbeats.
The massive oak bedstead, draped in heavy fabrics of plum and charcoal, remained a territory entirely untouched by the burdens of the Realm.
Here, the armor of the Prince lay scattered in the shadows—a dented gorget resting near a velvet chair, a split leather belt unbuckled on the floor—leaving only the raw, heavy reality of the man beneath.
Maekar lay shifted on his side, his large frame casting a long shadow across the linen sheets. His silver hair was a stark tangle against the white pillows. Even in the profound quiet of the morning, his body retained the hard, defensive geometry of a soldier; his wide shoulders were subtly squared, his jaw tensed against the lingering ghosts of old campaigns.
Yet, his massive, calloused hand was anchored possessively over her hip, his thumb tracing a slow, repetitive circle against her skin with a familiar, heavy warmth.
”You are awake,“ she whispered, her voice a quiet Dornish rustle in the still room.
Maekar’s dark violet eyes blinked open, midnight-dark and heavy with sleep, but the moment they locked onto her features, the turbulent sea inside them softened.
He did not speak—he had never been a man for morning pleasantries—but his grip tightened on her waist, hoisting her body closer until the bare expanse of her chest pressed flat against the dense, hair-dusted muscle of his torso.
”The sun is too early,“ he grumbled hoarsely, his thick voice vibrating directly against her collarbone as he buried his face into the sensitive crook of her neck.
His silver beard, thick and rugged, scraped delightfully along her jawline, causing a soft, breathless laugh to escape her lips.
”The sun answers to no Prince, Maekar,“ she murmured, her fingers lacing into his hair, pulling him down to meet her mouth.
The kiss was slow, deep, and utterly thorough, tasting of the lingering warmth of the night and the clean scent of skin.
Maekar’s tongue parted her lips with an easy, practiced dominance, exploring the cavern of her mouth with a heavy reverence that held no courtly restraint.
He cupped her cheek with his palm—the rough, scarred skin of his knuckles a stark contrast to her soft flesh—before his hand slid downward, mapping the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her waist, and the broad swell of her hips.
The familiarity of his touch was an intoxicating drug, a routine of survival that had turned into absolute devotion over their years away from the court.
”Let me,“ he growled hoarsely against her lips, his thick fingers trembling with an urgency he rarely showed outside their walls. He unlaced the heavy cords of his breeches, freeing his rigid, pulsing length into the warm air of the room.
Before he could shift his weight to loom over her, she placed her palms flat against his tensed shoulders, anchoring him to the mattress. With a fluid, deliberate grace, she swung her leg over his broad hips, straddling his waist. The sudden, direct heat of her bare thighs wrapping around his flanks made Maekar let out a low, guttural grunt, his tensed abdominal muscles rippling beneath her knees.
He did not wait to guide her. His massive hands slid up to grip her waist, his thumbs digging firmly into her skin as he lifted her slightly, his dark violet eyes burning up into hers from the pillows.
Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself onto him, burying his rigid length inside her in one deep, unyielding sink.
Her eyes snapped shut, a sharp cry of pure pleasure caught in her throat as she accommodated the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. She stretched tightly around his length, her internal walls clamping in a desperate rhythm that made Maekar freeze, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his scarred cheeks.
A low, animalistic groan vibrated deep in his chest, his hands locking onto her hips to hold her perfectly still, waiting for the initial, suffocating wave of heat to pass.
”You wrap around me like a vice,“ he muttered thickly, his breath hot and frantic as his hands slid up her spine, his palms tracing every vertebra with a rough, desperate heat.
”Move with me, my Prince,“ she breathed, her hands sliding down to tangle in his silver hair, her hips beginning a slow, rolling grind that drove him deeper into her core.
Taking control of the pace, she set a relentless, agonizingly sweet rhythm, rising and falling against him while her thighs clamped tightly around his waist to pull his solid weight closer.
The mattress creaked beneath them, the space filling with the frantic cadence of their breathing and the wet sound of their bodies meeting.
Maekar’s tensed shoulders broke, his hands sliding down to cup her bottom, squeezing and tilting her hips to meet his upward thrusts as he began to drive back from below, his breath turning into jagged, desperate gasps.
The tension built to a fever pitch, a blinding, desperate need pushing them both toward the precipice as she arched her back, completely consumed by the white-hot friction coiling violently in her lower belly.
Then, a sharp, scraping sound echoed from the outer corridor.
The heavy oak door of their bedchamber did not slam, but it unlatched with a slow, hesitant creak that cut through the quiet room like an iron blade.
Maekar froze instantly. His muscles went rigid as stone, his chest heaving violently against her own as he held himself deep inside her core, his head snapping toward the doorway with the sharp, defensive instinct of the Vanguard.
She scrambled off of him at the sudden interruption, pulling the blankets up. Any servant would have knocked or announced themself at this early hour of the day.
This could not be a servant.
Through the widening gap of the door, a tiny, pale silhouette appeared against the golden light of the hallway—confirming her suspicion.
Little Prince Daeron, now nearly nine years of age, stood in his linen nightshirt, his sandy brown curls a wild tangle around his forehead. He was clutching a small, frayed woolen blanket to his chest, his large, timorous violet eyes ringed with dark shadows, his small face pinched with absolute, fragile misery.
”Mother?“ the boy whispered, his voice trembling so lightly it barely carried across the rug.
”The dragons under the floorboards... they were roaring again.“
A heavy, ragged sigh tore from Maekar’s chest, the fierce, passionate heat in his dark eyes instantly fracturing into a mixture of profound frustration and paternal weariness. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his forehead dropping against her shoulder as he let out a low, gravelly groan that vibrated directly against her skin.
”The boy is eight,“ Maekar muttered hoarsely into her hair, his voice thick with unfulfilled tension.
”Eight years old, and he still fights the shadows in his sleep.“
”Hush,“ she murmured, her fingers gently stroking the silver hair at the nape of his neck, comforting the man before she attended to the child.
”He is a dreamer, Maekar. You cannot fight a nightmare with a broadsword.“
With a careful, reluctant slowness, Maekar disengaged from her body, the loss of his warmth leaving her skin shivering in the morning breeze. He shifted back onto his side of the bed, pulling the heavy velvet quilt up to his chest to cover his bare form, though his jaw remained set in a hard, stubborn line.
She slid out from beneath the blankets, her bare feet silent against the cool flagstones as she pulled a loose, plum-colored velvet robe over her shoulders, tying the silk cord around her waist in one fluid motion. She stepped into the space between the bed and the doorway, falling to her knees on the rug to meet her firstborn at eye level.
”Come here, my sweet,“ she said softly, opening her arms wide.
Daeron did not hesitate. He bounded forward, his small bare feet padding softly across the stone before he buried his face into the rich fabric of her shoulder, his tiny fists bunching her robe as his frantic breathing began to slow under her touch.
”They were burning the hills, Mother,“ Daeron whimpered, his small body shivering against her chest.
”The black ones. They had teeth like swords.“
”The hills are safe, little bird,“ she whispered, smoothing her hand over his fine curls, casting a quiet, warning look back toward the bed where Maekar sat propped against the pillows.
The Prince looked formidable even in the dark, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his brow furrowed deeply. Yet, as he watched the earnest way she held the trembling boy, the hard edge of his frown began to thaw, replaced by that hidden, protective anxiety that only defined him as a father.
Before Daeron could be fully soothed, a sudden, heavy thud rattled the balcony doors.
”Out of the way, craven!“ a sharp, high-pitched voice barked from the corridor.
Aerion, barely seven years of age, marched into the room like a conqueror reclaiming a lost province.
He wore no nightshirt; he had managed to don a small, mismatched velvet doublet over his undergarments, and in his right fist, he gripped the wooden dragon Maekar had carved for him with a white-knuckled intensity. His silver-white hair stood up in wild, chaotic spikes around his bright, unblinking violet eyes.
”The dragons were not under the floor, Daeron!“ Aerion declared loudly, stamping his small leather boot against the stone rug.
”They were in the courtyard! I went to find them, but the guards barred the gate!“
”Fuck’s sake– Aerion,“ Maekar’s gravelly voice cut through the room like a heavy shield. The Prince sat up further, his large hand rubbing his temples as he looked down at his second son.
”The hour is fresh. Why are you out of your chambers with a wooden toy?“
Sometimes he wondered if he had fathered too many children. They were loud—unbearably loud—throughout every stage of life. He had hoped that it would become quieter once they grew.
But none of that.
His children were a loud force of rascals. Especially here within their sanctuary, far from King’s Landing and the suffocating expectations of children. Summerhall was never quiet, not during the day, not during the night. One of his four godsdamned children was always screaming.
But his children were happy here, happier than Maekar himself ever had been during his own childhood.
How could he be mad at them?
How could he stop breeding his wife if he was unable to keep his damned hands off her?
There was no other way. Makear had to endure his own doing. He was the only one to blame and if he was being honest, there was nowhere else he would rather be but his beloved wife and his rowdy children.
”To fight, Father!“ Aerion marched directly to the edge of the mattress, thrusting the wooden dragon forward until it brushed against Maekar’s knee. His tiny jaw clenched in a flawless, stubborn mimicry of the Prince’s own expression.
”Daeron always weeps when the wind blows. I do not weep. I am the Dragon. Tell him, Father! Tell him the craven gets no egg!“
”Enough,“ she said firmly, rising from the floor with Daeron still clutching her hand. She stepped into the space between the two brothers, her grounding presence a shield against Aerion’s volatile spark.
”There will be no yelling in this chamber, Aerion. And your brother is no craven; he has the sight of the mountains in him.“
She led both boys toward the massive bed, lifting Daeron effortlessly onto the wide mattress where he immediately scrambled to the center, burying himself under the heavy down quilt near his father’s side.
Aerion, refusing to be left behind, scrambled up the heavy posters like a wild cat, settling himself at the foot of the bed, his bright eyes scanning the room as if looking for an invisible enemy to vanquish.
Maekar looked at the two boys occupying his private sanctuary. Daeron was curled into a small ball, his pale forehead finally smoothing out as he clutched Maekar’s large pillow, while Aerion was fiercely chewing on the wooden wing of his toy, his face twisted in a look of territorial anger.
”You see what you have built?“ she murmured with a soft, tired smile, climbing back into the bed beside her husband. She leaned her head against his wide shoulder, her hand sliding down to lace her fingers through his rough palm.
”A castle of soldiers and dreamers.“
Maekar let out a low breath that was almost a laugh—a sound so rare and precious it made her heart leap. His large fingers uncurled, wrapping tightly around hers as he looked down at his family.
”They are a madness,“ he muttered softly, his thumb tracing the back of her hand.
”But they are mine.“
The passing moons did not cool the raw, physical language that existed between them; if anything, the isolation of Summerhall only intensified it. By the onset of the year’s second season, a new secret had taken root within the fortress walls—one that was still hidden from the Maesters and the court, known only to the two of them in the deep of the night.
It was during the early, tender weeks of her fifth pregnancy, when her body had only just begun to change, that Maekar’s possessiveness became an almost suffocating force.
On a midnight when the Marcher winds were howling against the limestone turrets, Maekar dragged her into the shadows of his private solar. He had spent the afternoon arguing with Reach lords over boundary markers, his temper a jagged, volatile flint.
He had not even allowed her to make it back to the bedchamber before his heavy hands were unpinning the silver brooches at her shoulders, his movements thick with a desperate, heavy hunger that always overtook him when the burdens of the Realm grew too loud.
”Maekar,“ she gasped softly as he backed her up against the massive walnut desk, the cool wood pressing through the thin linen of her shift.
He did not answer with words. His dark violet eyes were midnight-black, burning with a fierce, territorial heat as he dropped to his knees before her. His massive hands slid up her thighs, bunching the fabric of her skirts until they rested around her waist.
Her body was still outwardly unchanged—her belly flat, her waist narrow—but Maekar handled her as if she were made of the rarest glass. His calloused palms spread flat across her lower stomach, his thumbs tracing the invisible, sacred arc where his fifth child was only just beginning to form. The knowledge that his seed had taken hold once more inside her was a drug to him; it turned his rugged features into a mask of pure, adoring worship.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her navel, his hot breath soaking through her remaining shift. He kissed her lower belly over and over again, his thick silver beard scraping delightfully against her skin, making her arch her back with a sharp, breathless sigh.
”You are a well that never runs dry,“ Maekar growled hoarsely, his voice vibrating directly against her skin as he rose to his feet, his massive frame towering over her in the amber firelight.
He unlaced his heavy leather breeches with trembling fingers, freeing his rigid, pulsing length. He did not wait. Gripping her by the hips, his large thumbs digging firmly into her flesh, he lifted her slightly onto the edge of the high desk.
With one heavy, unyielding thrust, he buried himself inside her core.
Her eyes snapped shut, a sharp, choked cry escaping her lips as her internal walls instantly clamped around his massive length. The sudden, overwhelming fullness of him made her fingers claw at his broad shoulders, her nails digging into the dense muscle of his back.
Because of the early pregnancy, her body was hyper-sensitive, pulsing with a tight, desperate friction that made Maekar freeze, his head dropping into the crook of her neck as a low, animalistic groan tore from his chest.
”Move, my Prince,“ she breathed, her legs wrapping tightly around his broad flanks, anchoring him closer as her hips began a slow, rolling grind against him.
Maekar took control of the pace with a heavy, relentless dominance. He set a slow, deep rhythm that made the heavy walnut desk creak beneath them, his upward thrusts driving him to the very root of her body. His hands slid up her ribcage, his calloused palms cupping her breasts, testing their new, heavy fullness with a rough reverence that left her completely breathless.
The space filled with the frantic cadence of their breathing and the wet sound of their bodies meeting. The contrast was stark—his scarred, battle-hardened geometry crushing her soft, fragrant flesh into the dark wood.
The tension built with an agonizing, sweet speed. She arched her back, completely consumed by the white-hot friction coiling violently in her lower belly, her core contracting around him in a desperate, frantic rhythm that pushed them both toward the precipice.
The year turned with a sudden, heavy heat that seemed to bake the rolling meadows of Summerhall into fields of pale gold. The pale stone castle had become a hive of chaotic, vibrant life, fully established away from the suffocating politics of the Capital.
The household was no longer the quiet refuge of their first year. It was a domain of roaring children, clattering wooden swords, and the high, sweet laughter of little Daella, who was now a doted-upon infant of one. She spent her days trailing after her older brothers like a small, colorful bird, her tiny velvet slippers patting loudly across the sunny galleries.
But the true focus of the summer lay within the heavy, shadow-drenched privacy of the nursery.
The fourth son, Aegon, had been born on a morning when the Marcher winds were perfectly still, his first cry a sharp, demanding note that cleared his tiny lungs before he settled into a quiet, alert focus.
Now, three moons later, the youngest prince sat securely in his mother’s arms within the sunny alcove of the solar. Aegon—whom the household had begun to call 'Egg' due to his perfectly round head—was a robust, heavy infant.
”Softly, Aerion,“ she warned, her hand rising to gently block a blunt wooden practice sword from swinging too close to the nursing chair.
Aerion, now seven and wearing a rich doublet of black and scarlet velvet, let out a fierce, territorial grunt. He was currently stalking around the perimeter of the rug, his violet eyes bright with a restless energy that the summer heat had only amplified.
”He does not even move, Mother!“ Aerion complained, thrusting his wooden blade into the air.
”I will teach him to strike! He must hold a shield!“
”He is three moons old, Aerion,“ she replied with a quiet, patient laugh, shifting Egg against her breast. The infant did not flinch at his brother’s shouting; he merely scrunched his little nose, his tiny fists bunching the linen of her kirtle.
”He has plenty of time to learn the weight of iron. For now, he prefers the quiet.“
Beside the large arched window, little Aemon, now nearly three years of age, sat quietly in a square of golden sunlight. He was a beautiful, calm child, his dark indigo eyes fixed on a small wooden bowl filled with wild daisies he had plucked from the courtyard.
”Look, Mother,“ Aemon babbled softly, holding up a single yellow flower with a rare, contented smile.
”The sun-pieces.“
”They are beautiful, Aemon,“ she murmured, her heart swelling with a profound warmth as she watched her third son return to his quiet task.
”The smallfolk in the lower village are complaining about the timber rights,“ Maekar announced in a loud, gravelly command as he strode into the room, his heavy boots thudding against the flagstones.
”The Reach lords are pushing their boundary markers past the stream again. They think because we are far from King’s Landing, we will not notice the theft of three leagues of oak.“
”Let the timber wait for an hour, Maekar,“ she said softly, her eyes locking onto his with an unyielding, warm amusement.
”The Lord of Summerhall has more pressing duties in this room. I can count five.“
Maekar stopped abruptly in the center of the rug. His turbulent violet eyes scanned the domestic chaos before him—Aerion currently hacking at the leg of a walnut table, Aemon quietly stacking daisy petals, and little Daeron sitting hesitantly in the corner, reading of the old Dragonlords of Valyria.
From behind Maekar’s massive velvet cloak, a tiny hand reached out to tug at his scabbard.
Little Daella looked up at her father with a pair of bright, fearless violet eyes. She did not see the grim Prince who had broken the rebel line at the Redgrass Field; she saw only the giant who carried her on his shoulders through the rose gardens.
”Up, Papa,“ the yearling princess demanded, her little arms reaching toward the sky.
”Up!“
The transformation was instantaneous.
The hard, defensive armor of the Prince completely melted away. The permanent frown etched into Maekar’s face vanished, his lips parting into a soft, genuinely breathless smile that was filled with a warmth he reserved for his family alone. He dropped his heavy leather gloves onto a table and fell to one knee on the rug, his massive, scarred arms reaching out to lift the toddler effortlessly into the air.
Daella shrieked with pure, unadulterated joy as Maekar settled her securely against his broad shoulder, his thick silver beard brushing against her cheek until she giggled frantically, her tiny hands tangling in his hair.
He walked toward the nursing chair and sat down heavily on the low stool beside her, his massive frame casting a protective shadow over her and the newborn infant.
”He has been waiting for you,“ she whispered, shifting her position so that Maekar could see the baby’s face.
Egg chose that exact moment to let out a soft, tiny sneeze, his little legs kicking beneath his swaddling blankets. His large eyes snapped upward, locking onto the scarred, weathered face of his father.
The warrior who handled heavy broadswords looked entirely terrified as he reached down with a single, massive finger, his rough, calloused pad gently brushing the baby’s impossibly soft cheek. Slowly, deliberately, the infant’s tiny hand flailed upward, his small fingers wrapping around Maekar’s rough thumb with a surprisingly firm, iron-like grip.
The Prince’s breath caught in his throat. He looked down at his fourth son—his fifth child overall—with an expression of such pure, adoring worship that his entire silhouette seemed to soften in the amber light of the solar.
”He has a strong grip,“ Maekar muttered, his voice cracking slightly with an emotion so raw it made her own throat tighten.
”A proper Targaryen hand.“
”He will need it to survive his brothers,“ she laughed softly.
”Look at them, Maekar. They are four streams from the same mountain, but they are all flowing to the same sea.“
Maekar looked up from the infant, his dark violet eyes scanning the room once more—wandering over his lively offspring.
The foul air of King’s Landing, the bitter neglect of the court, and the bloody memories of the war felt a thousand leagues away—buried forever beneath the pale, warm stone of their summer palace.
Maekar leaned sideways, his rough lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the crown of her head, his massive arm wrapping around her waist to hold her close against his chest.
She smiled, closing her eyes as the quiet dark of the summer afternoon settled around them, fully content in the warmth of the Anvil’s hearth.
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