β§ pairing: maekar targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
β§ content warning: dark/taboo themes, maekar is readerβs godfather, sort of dubious consent, age gap,Β reluctantΒ maekar is pursued by reader, (implied but not described) loss of virginity, overall filth.
β§ disclaimer: readerβs first time spending any actual time in maekarβs presence is only as an adult.
β¦ βΒ youβre forced to live with your godfather, maekar targaryen, after a misfortunate accident results in the loss of your last blood relative. now, he must bear the responsibility of wedding you into a proper noble house.
another day, another pile of letters professing their βunwavering devotionβ and βloveβ for you had stacked up, each awaiting their turn to taste the embers of the fire that warmed your chamber.Β
how foolish did the so-called noblemen of the realm think you to be? did they really believe a few scribbles of stolen poetry and false lies was all it took to capture your heart, or rather, your godfatherβs generous dowry?
as though he could read your mind, maekar slammed your chamber door wide open, sending it rattling into the wall and nearly off its hinges.
βwhy have I just been informed that you refused the lannister boyβs request to court you?β
you experienced his voice as a physical sensation, it evoked a hot shiver that coursed up your spine, leaving your thoughts scattered and vision glassy. despite this, you barely glanced at him as you continued to feed unopened notes to hungry flames.
maekar reached you in three quick strides. he grabbed your face with one hand, your mouth forming a puckered βoβ from the tight grip his fingers dug into your cheeks.
gods, he smelled soΒ good. a mixture of musk and leather and wood; you refrained, as difficult as it was, from leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his throat.Β
βIβm speaking to you,Β girl.βΒ
oh, he was truly cross with you this time.Β
βI couhldnβth pothiblyβ,β you mumbled, words slurred as your face began to feel numb from the pain.
βspeak up.β his hand lightened its hold, remaining as a warning to pick your next words very carefully.
βI couldnβt possibly marry a lannister.βΒ
maekarβs brows furrowed even closer together, a look of bewilderment setting across his features.
βand, why the fuck not?β he spoke through clenched teeth.Β
βfather forbade me from ever marrying a lannister.β you answered, heart racing as soon as the lie was spoken.
βyouβll marry whomever I tell you to marry.βΒ he had leaned in further, his cool exhale washing over your heated skin.
his loosened hold on your face made it easy to shake him off with a hard shove.Β
βyouβre not my father.β
βno, Iβm not.β maekarβs eyes flashed with a level of anger that he seemed to reserve only for you. βIβm the unfortunate one stuck here dealing with you.βΒ
the crackling fire in the background replicated the seething anger that drifted between the two of you, slowly stifling the room with the scale at which it continued to grow.
βif Iβm so much trouble, why not rid yourself of the burden of duty and send me to a brothel house?β as soon as the words left your lips, your stomach began to churn. there was nothing you feared more than becoming something men used as an object for their own sick pleasure.
βyou?β the side of maekarβs mouth curled up, easily seeing behind the facade. βyou?β he repeated, a laugh erupting from his throat. βthe girl who runs in the opposite direction the second a suitor appears?β
your face tingled with embarrassment, warmth spreading up your neck.
βis that what you want?β he hummed, cold eyes accessing yours. βto be fucked like a dog?β then, he nodded as if he had just made a decision. βif thatβs what you wish, I will arrange for it.β
you were frozen in place.
he took a step back and waited, most likely for you to beg for his forgiveness.
you wouldnβt let him win, not this time.
βof course you would agree.β your voice was low, barely audible.
βwhat theΒ fuckΒ do you mean by that?βΒ
βwould you be first in line, I wonder?β you pondered aloud, realizing as soon as the words were spoken that you had gone too far.
for the first time since you had met him, your godfather looked at a loss for words.
for several moments the room was veiled in silence.
maekar rubbed at his tired eyes with the tips of his fingers.
βgo to sleep,β the finality in his voice left no room for a rebuttal. βwe will discuss this tomorrow.β
you kept quiet, unmoving when his eyes opened to send one last disappointed look in your direction before he left, not bothering to close the door on his way out.
β
it had been five weeks since that night.
maekar, surprisingly, was the one who seemed to steer clear of you after the conversation in your chamber. he hadnβt sought you out the next day to force you to accept the lannister boyβs invitation, nor had he introduced you to any new prospects either.
you couldnβt help but scoff at the thought that what you said must have ruffled his feathers so much so, that he had abandoned his duty of fulfilling his promise to your parents.
this was the best outcome you could have hoped for, so why did you miss being on the receiving end of his disapproving glares, of him ordering you about, of his lack of tolerance for βchildish fooleryβ. you missed the way his heated gaze and the deep baritone of his voice would fan the white hot fire deep within your lower abdomen.
the longing to be within his presence again was your reasoning for wandering into his study.Β
it was a cold room; messily cluttered with scrolls and books, some opened and marked on a specific page, others stacked on top of one another in groups of four or five.
curiously, you picked up one of the open books, quickly losing interest when you realized it was about battle strategies and formations. you grabbed another, amused when you found it to be an informative guide on different types of flowers. who knew a man like him would be interested in something like that.
mindlessly, your hand reached for another open book, unprepared for the sexual nudity that appeared on the pages.
βoh.β you could feel your face heating, but you did not look away. of course, you had seen books like these before, but never ones that depicted lewd acts with such vivid detail.Β
your mind drifted to thoughts of maekar flipping through the pages and a sharp stab of arousal pitted in your lower belly. did he find pleasure in these images? did they aid him in finding release?
you had learned upon first arriving, from your maid, that he had never remarried after his wifeβs ill-timed death several years prior. you also learned, from ease dropping on the servants, that he never engaged in sexual endeavours outside of his marriage bed, not even after becoming a widow.
βwhat the fuck are you doing here?β
your stomach dropped as the book slipped from your fingers, falling to the ground still open on the page that you had been studying.Β
maekarβs eyes snapped from the book in front of your feet to your guilty expression several times.
βIβ,β you began, struggling to come up with a lie. βI got lost.βΒ I missed you.
βlost?β he echoed, bending as he snatched the book up from in front of you. βlost, and yet somehow youβve managed to appear in the one place you wereΒ explicitlyΒ told to never enter.β
βwell,β you knew you should really be on your best behaviour, but you couldnβt help it. βwhat do those rules matter to me now?β you grabbed the book in his hands and twirled on your heels.
βhave you gone mad?β
you plopped gracelessly on the nearby chaise, fingers returning to flipping pages.Β
βif I am to be sent to a pleasure house, I have to learn all that I can to ensurβ,β your hand froze on a page that visually demonstrated a man being brought to completion by way of mouth. you could only imagine how you must have appeared in that momentβeyes hazy as a new wave of hunger erupted in your abdomen.
maekar grabbed the book out of your hands and sent it across the room at a speed you barely processed. goodness, did he look exceptionally more livid than usual as he loomed over your sprawled form.
βyou areΒ notΒ going to aΒ fuckingΒ brothel house.βΒ
βwhy?β your head tilted to the side, staring up at him from beneath your lashes. βam I to be for your personal use, then?β
his mouth opened and closed several times as he took an uneasy step backwards.
βwhat did you say?β was his quiet response, jaw muscles ticking from the effort it took to stay calm.
you move from your reclined position into a more ladylike way of sitting, hands twisting in your skirts.
maekar seemed to construe your trembling for fear and turned his attention to the window across the room, a hand rising to cover his face as he shook his head in frustration.Β
βI am yourΒ godfather.β he spoke slowly, broad back facing you. βI would never defilβ,β
your hands rose to mindlessly tug at the belt around his waist, ignoring the way his body turned rigid.Β
his narrow hips were a sight that occupied your thoughts often, mostly when your fingers were easing their way between your legs in search of relief.
almost immediately, maekarβs calloused hands gripped yours with a speed and strength that reminded you of the tales you had heard of his prowess on the battlefield.
in a last ditch effort you knelt to the ground, as gracefully as you could manage in your skirts, and shamelessly mouthed at his crotch, replicating the position youβd seen in the book.
his hands tightened on yours, causing them to go cold and numb.
your cheek rubbed against the front, eyes staring up into his own as you did your best to convey how badly you wished to feel the heaviness of him on your tongue.
you laid open mouthed kisses against the heated area, a dampness collecting between your thighs when you realized he had started to harden and twitch under your exploration.
only, a moment later your hands were dropping to your sides as he released his hold on them and, without a word, left the study.
β
maekarβs eyes would no longerΒ meet yours as they once might have in fleeting acknowledgment, nor did he discipline you when you purposely said something out of line.
weeks went by, yet his cold demeanour towards you remained unchanging. you had ruined things with your debauchery, and there was nothing you could do to fix it.
still, you had to try.
βplease, my lord,β you called from behind his studyβs door, having been seated at its foot since early that morning. βI will do as you say, I will behave as you wish.β your voice had long ago gone hoarse.
the door opened.
the sight of him looking down at you made the ache between your legs return with a fervour that nearly made you retract your words. obediently, you remained seated and lowered your eyes to the floor.
βforgive my behaviour, my lord.β your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you waited for a response.
βvery well.β
your head shot up in surprise.
βyou will meet with the lannister boy.β
your stomach dropped, but you nodded in understanding.
βyes, my lord.β
an uncomfortable stillness settled in the air as both of you quietly regarded the other. could he sense how terribly you desired him in that moment?
βgodfatherβ,β you sounded dizzy with want, voice much too sensual to be considered appropriate when addressing a parental figure.
βthat will be all.β maekar interrupted, his hand tightening on the door handle.
βyes, my lord.β
β
the next two weeks consisted of you being courted by your soon-to-be betrothed, and nothing could have prepared you for the amount of dread you would feel every time his party of five would arrive.
it wasnβt truly him that irritated you, but the way his overbearing aunt would not stop touching your godfatherβs arm.Β you had succeeded in hiding the way it affected you for the first few days, but when maekar smiled at her on the final day, you crumbled.
you barged into his study after him, no concern for maintaining your image holding you back now.
βyouβre a hypocrite.β you all but shouted, certain you looked a distraught mess. βI thought you were different, but youβre just like the rest of them.β
your godfather looked genuinely puzzled and, had your heart not felt like it was shattering, you would have found it adorable.
βwhat on earth are you talking about?β was maekarβs reply as he settled into his chair.
βI refuse to marry that man.βΒ
his brows drew together as he surveyed you from head to toe. βhas he hurt you?β
βI have decided I am never getting married,β your hand wiped at a stray tear, βandβ,β you paused, chest tightening at the worry in his eyes. βI will be leaving.β
that snapped him back into his usual attitude, βwhat the fuck are you talking about?β he was standing in front of you now, eyes squinting in confusion.
βI refuse to marry anyone,β your breath caught, repressed desire and longing flooding back. βwho isnβt you.β
silence.
βI am yourΒ godfather.β his voice was strained as he repeated what he had said all that time ago to you in this very room.
βand I wish for youΒ toΒ fuckΒ me.β you couldnβt get more clear than that, delighting in the way his eyes widened and ears turned red.Β
βI made an oath,β maekar shook his head, βan oath toβ,β you had never seen him look so disoriented.
βif you do not, I will find someone who will.β you threatened, knowing that it was a lie but praying that your face was convincing enough.
βyou mean to ruinΒ yourselfΒ in order to punishΒ meΒ for not ruiningΒ you?β when he said it like that, it did sound rather ridiculous.
you nodded, chin tipping upwards with determination, and turned to exit his study in a manner that declared you had thought this through.
βstop.β maekarβs hand grasped your arm, grip surprisingly gentle. βit is clear that Iβ,β he paused, eyes uncharacteristically unable to meet your own. βI have somehow.. orchestrated you to feel affection towards me.β
wasΒ thatΒ what he thought this was? that he had influenced you into wanting him?
you laughed despite your hardest efforts to keep your expression neutral.Β
maekarβs eyes snapped to yours, a sneer already beginning to form from the frown that had been there just seconds prior.
βand what, pray tell, is so fuckingΒ amusing?β
βyou believe youβve seduced me?β
maekar removed his hand from you, deciding to remain quiet as he fixed his stare on a corner of the room. under different circumstances, you might have teased him for how docile he appeared in that moment.
instead, you approached him slowly.
βand so what if you have?β your hands reached up to hold the sides of his face, forcing him to look at you.
βit is unforgivableβ,β
βyouβve ruined me in every way, except the way in which I wish to be ruined.β you interrupted, a hand sliding down his torso to grip him by one of his belts. βwill you not ruin me wholly, godfather?β
maekar grit his teeth as the suppressed tendrils of desire he had kept dormant all this time began to uncoil deep within his body.
when had you begun speaking to him in such a sultry manner, he wonderedβor more importantly, when had he begun to anticipate it, long for it, crave it?
somewhere along the lines, feelings had blurred from chaste affection into a burning, hungry rage only to reveal itself to be the illicit depravity it truly was.
β
gods, how pretty you looked when he was plunging his cock into you, no consideration for whether or not you could take it becauseΒ of course you could. you would takeΒ anythingΒ he gave you.
maekar used his weight to hold you open as his hips pressed into your own with a level of precision that would have taken years to perfect. his grip tightened on your jaw, watching as unshed tears clung to your lashes and drool dribbled down the side of your face.Β
you could feel every vein and throb of him within your walls. a puddle of your shared fluids had soaked the rug beneath your bodies, and yet it still did not rival the mess that had gathered where both of your bodies met over and over again.
suddenly, he pulled out of you altogether before sliding all the way back in, and then repeating. it was cruel and filthy, and you couldnβt help but shake your head in embarrassment.
you had come three times now, and your forth orgasm was already beginning to wash over you.
βplease.β
βthis is wrong,β he mumbled against your mouth, eyes drifting over your face. βthis is notβ,β
your fingers tugged at his silver hair, pulling harder than necessary.
βgodfather.β you moaned, walls tightening around him when his cock jumped at the title.
βdonβtβfuckβdonβt say that.β maekar bent down, face hidden in your neck as his hips began to piston faster. he licked at the bruised skin of your throat, curtesy of his teeth nipping at the flesh until it was raw and sensitive.
βplease,Β godfather.β your mouth brushed against his heated ear, clenching tighter at the sound of his guttural moan.
barely a minute later, he came with a shudder, hands squeezing your flesh so hard you knew you would wear their colourful imprints for weeks to come.Β
βthat was wrong.β maekar started, even as his hips remained flush against yours.
βit was,β you agreed, twirling his silver strands between your fingers. you shoved him until he was on his back, his hands on your waist as you sat atop him. βand I intend to find out all the ways in which it is wrong.β
β€· During a feast, boredom emboldens you to tease your husband, Maekar, because he's not paying attention to you; you escalate things by smiling at another lord and Maekar has no other choice but to put you in your place.
β€· explicit sexual content, minors do not engage with this, rough sex, breeding kink, smut, porn with plot.
Eh, what can I say? I am a whore for this man.
The great hall of the Red Keep sweltered under the weight of autumn's last feast, the fire pit roaring at the center of the long room while torches guttered in iron sconces along the stone walls.
The air was thick with everything at onceβroasting mutton, dark ale, sweat from a hundred bodies packed onto rough-hewn benches, the smoke that curled lazy and grey toward the high rafters where banners hung in the dim.
You sat pressed against your husband's side, your amber silk gown warm against your thighs where it pooled across the bench, and you were not listening to Lord Harren Blackwood.
You had stopped listening approximately seven minutes ago, somewhere between "barley yield" and "and if you consider the oat rotation, my lord, the true cost isβ" and you had not been missed.
Lord Blackwood's attention was fixed entirely on Maekar's face, his ruddy cheeks flushed from wine and earnest desperation, his hands gesturing with the ink-stained cuff of his wool tunic as he charted numbers in the air like a septon casting prayers.
He did not see you.
He did not see how your fingers had begun to trace slow circles on your own knee beneath the table, or how your gaze had drifted from his tedious mouth to your husband's jaw.
Maekar's jaw.
That hard line of it, the close-cropped beard that did nothing to soften the cut of his bone, the muscle that worked beneath his temple as Lord Blackwood droned on.
He was being patient.
You could feel it in the way his hand had gone still around his cup of wine, the way his shoulders had settled into a posture of strained courtesy. He was letting the man finish.
And you were very, very bored.
βMy lord, as I was saying,β the elderly lord continued, oblivious, βthe western granaries produced nearly twenty percent less grain than expected.β
Prince Maekar nodded once. βThen import from the Reach before winter drives the prices higher. Waiting will only worsen the matter.β
You sat beside him, slowly dying of boredom.
Grain.
More grain.
An astonishing amount of grain.
βMy prince is wise,β the lord agreed. βThough transportation costs remain a concernββ
You leaned toward your husband. You shifted closer to him, letting your shoulder press against his arm, the silk of your gown whispering softly against his sleeve. He did not reactβnot visiblyβbut you felt the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his chest paused for half a heartbeat before continuing its steady rise and fall.He knew you were there.
He always knew.
βMaekar.β
His violet eyes flicked toward you briefly. βNot now.β
Lord Blackwood continued. βIf we could negotiate lower tariffsββ
A rather pleasant thought crossed your mind at that moment, humming beneath your breath as you took a sip of your wine and then smiled sweetly.
βDid you know,β you murmured into Maekar's ear, βthat I've spent the last ten minutes imagining how quickly you'd drag me out of this hall if I interrupted your very important discussion about wheat?β
The moment the words slipped from your mouth, Maekar froze, a brief moment long enough for him to send you a scalding glare, βTariffs,β he said evenly to the lord, staring straight ahead, βcan be renegotiated.β
The lord nodded eagerly. βYes, exactly, Your Grace.β
Your lips brushed the shell of your husband's ear, close enough that your breath was warm against his skin, and you let your voice drop to a low, honeyed purr that only he would hear.
βMy lord husband,β you murmured, your tongue tracing the ridge of his ear just once, featherlight, βI have been sitting here for the better part of an hour, listening to a man describe the moisture content of barley, and I have come to a decision.β
The muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes did not leave Lord Blackwood's face, but you felt the shift in the air between themβthe way his attention, that vast and careful attention he was giving the grain lord, fractured.
βIs that so,β he said, his voice flat, pitched for the conversation he was still technically having. Lord Blackwood, blessedly oblivious, continued talking about soil acidity.
βIt is,β you breathed. You hand slid from your knee to his thigh beneath the table, palm flat, pressing through the wool of his breeches. βI've decided that you are paying too much attention to oats and not nearly enough to me.β
The muscle beneath your hand tensed. Hard. His thigh was solid, all dense strength from years of riding and sword work, and you traced the edge of it with your fingertips, a slow exploration that stopped just short of where he would feel it most.
βAnd I've further decided,β you continued, your lips still brushing his ear, βthat if you do not find a way to end this conversation in the next minute, I will slide my hand higher. And I will find out exactly how much of your attention I can claim while Lord Blackwood explains the difference between spring wheat and winter wheat.β
Maekar's hand moved.
It dropped below the table and closed around your wristβfirm, his calloused fingers a band of heat around your delicate bones. He did not squeeze hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to stop you.
βWife,β he said, and his voice had dropped. Lower now. A growl that vibrated through his chest and into your shoulder where you leaned against him. βThat is not a game for this table.β
βI'm not playing a game,β you said, and you let your teeth graze his earlobe. Just once. Just enough to feel him shiver. βI'm making a point.β
Lord Blackwood took a breath. ββso you see, my lord, the adjustment would only be a few silver stags per bushel, and I assure you the yield increase wouldββ
Maekar turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that his mouth was against your temple, his breath hot against your skin, and his voice was a low, rough warning that only you could hear.
βIf you do not stop,β he said, βI will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of this hall like a sack of flour. In front of every lord here. In front of your Dornish friend, who has been watching you since you sat down.β
Your heart stuttered.
A flash of heat, sharp and bright, that traveled from your chest straight down to your core.
You knew that tone.
You knew the weight in it, the promise that was not a threat but a statement of intent. He would do it. He absolutely would do it.
You drew back.
Just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes catching the firelight, and you let your mouth curve into a slow, deliberate smile.
βYou wouldn't,β you said, and your voice was a challenge now, a dare wrapped in silk.
His violet eyes held yours.
βTry me.β
You should have stopped there. You knew you should have stopped there. The line was drawn, the warning delivered, and any sensible woman would have pressed her knees together, taken a sip of wine, and waited for the conversation to end with her dignity intact.
But you had never been sensible. And you were not done.
You let your smile widenβjust a fraction, just enough to show you knew exactly what you were doingβand then you turned your head.
Across the table, Lord Anders Dustin sat lounging in his seat with the easy grace of a man who had no particular business at this feast and no particular care for who knew it. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, the silver scar on his brow catching the torchlight, and his sharp brown eyes had been watching you for some time.
You had felt his gaze on your skin like a whisper, like a question. And now you answered it.
You smiled at him. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of smile that meant somethingβor at least, the kind of smile that could be mistaken for meaning something.
Anders's mouth curved in response, a lazy, knowing tilt that acknowledged the game you were playing. He raised his cup to you, just slightly, a salute that said I see you, and I see him, and I am very curious how this ends.
Lord Blackwood was still talking. He had moved on to drainage. Nonsense words, water and silt and percentages that you did not hear because you were still smiling at the Dornishman, and because Maekar's hand had tightened around your wrist.
βThat,β Maekar said, his voice so low it was barely a vibration, βwas a mistake.β
And then you squeezed his thigh, palmed the visible evidence of his straining cock and grinned.
Hard.
The lord blinked. βAre you unwell, Prince Maekar?β
βNo.β
You squeezed once more and feeling quite emboldened by the wine and the fact that your husband hadn't paid you much attention since the feast began, moved your hand higher and slipped beneath his legs, fluttering your eyelashes when your husband quietly groaned beneath his breath.
βYou appear tense.β
βI am listening.β
βYou do not seem to be listening.β
βI assure you,β Maekar replied through clenched teeth, βI hear every word.β
You rested your chin on your hand. βHow impressive. A prince capable of discussing grain and tariffs while wondering whether his wife is about to behave herself.β
Maekar inhaled, slowly, dangerously and you smirked behind your cup, taking another sip as you tried to appear as innocent without making it obvious that you were now rubbing the evidence of his hardening cock beneathβas you promptly deemed it at that momentβtoo much clothing.
The lord frowned. βYour Grace?β
βThe harvest,β Maekar said, voice strained, βwas lower than expected.β a hiss tore from his lips as he rolled his shoulders, your fingers squeezing once more over the fabric of his breeches, grinning innocently at him, though he paid you now attention.
βYes.β
βAnd the grain must be moved before winter.β
βYes.β
βAnd if my wife says another word, I may personally carry her from this hall.β
Lord Blackwood blinked.
You grinned. βCarry me?β
Maekar finally looked at you. The stare promised consequences.
βBe quiet.β
You rose an eyebrow in challenge. βMake me.β The silence that followed was deafening. Across the table, one knight abruptly became fascinated by his wine. Another choked on his drink.
The lord looked between the two of you and wisely decided that perhaps grain could wait until tomorrow. βOn second thought,β he said, standing quickly, βI believe we have discussed the matter sufficiently.β
The moment he was gone, Maekar seized your wrist beneath the table.
βSeven hells,β he muttered as his head tilted back, violet eyes darkening as you looked entirely too pleased with yourself.
βAt least you're paying attention to me now.β
His jaw tightened.
βKeep smiling.β
βWhy?β
βBecause in five minutes,β Maekar said, rising from his seat, βyou are going to regret reminding me that I have been ignoring you all evening.β
For the first time during the feast, you were no longer bored. βIs that a threat, Your Grace?β
He leaned towards you, lips pulling back and then he did not unexpectedβyour husband's lips wrapped around your earlobe and then he nipped, βNo, sweet wife, it's a fucking promise. Now behave, or else I'll bend you over this fucking table and shove my cock so deep in your cunt that you'll be screaming my name,β and then he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself at the flustered look on your face, βand I am seconds away from doing so.β
You cleared your throat, but his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could pull your hand away, βI do not think I gave you permission to stop,β and then your lips parted, his violet gaze clashing against your own and then he grunted, βfuck it, we're leaving.β
You laughed.
It was a bright, ringing sound, the laugh you used when you knew you were being wicked and wanted everyone to know you knew it. It cut through Lord Blackwood's monologue like a blade, drawing his attention for the first time in minutes, drawing the eyes of the nearest tables, drawing Anders Dustin's amused gaze and the tilt of his scarred brow.
The lord, who knew better than most than to utter a word, glanced away and took careful interest in the plate of untouched food in front of him, βWe will continue this discussion on the morrow, I find that I must tend to far more important matters.β
You did not see the hear the scrape of Maekar's chair. You only felt the air shift, the sudden absence of his warmth at your side, and then his hands were on youβone gripping your arm, the other sliding around your waist as he pulled you up from your seat with a strength that left no room for resistanceβ
and then threw you over his shoulder, ignoring the several gasps that tumbled from the ladies huddled somewhere in the corner of the hall, gossiping most like, your husband paid them no mind and turned to face his brother, Prince Baelor Targaryen who looked far more amused at the lack of decorum than he had any right to be.
βMaekar,β Baelor murmured beneath his breath, βthis is not a fitting image of a prince of the realm to act,β Maekar grunted.
βFuck off, I've had enough of this fucking feast and talks of grain, now please excuse me, I have to teach my wife some manners,β and then Maekar did indeed keep promise to his words when he carried you the hall.
The world swung upside down, stone and torchlight and gasping faces tumbling past your vision as Maekar's shoulder drove into your stomach hard enough to steal your breath.
His arm locked across the backs of your thighs like iron, your crimson gown pooling around your ears, the silk of your skirts sliding against your face as the hall spun to a stop.
βMaekar,β you gasped, the word punched out of you by the impact, but your husband was already walking, boots striking the flagstones with the unhurried rhythm of a man who had nowhere else to be and no one to answer to.
Behind you, the hall erupted. A lady's shriek, cut short. The scrape of a chair pushed back too fast. And beneath it all, Baelor's laughterβlow, silken, utterly delightedβfollowing you past the doors like a ribbon of sound.Your hands found Maekar's back, gripping the leather of his doublet as you tried to right yourself, but the angle was wrong, your weight balanced on his shoulder with nothing to brace against but the broad span of his spine.
Your hair swung forward, strands catching in your mouth, and you spat them out with an undignified huff.
βPut me down.β His hand slid up the back of your calf, callused fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.
βNo.β
The corridor swallowed the torchlight. Damp granite chilled the bare skin of your arm where your sleeve had ridden up, and the echo of Maekar's boots flattened against the narrow walls, footsteps chasing each other into the dark ahead.
You heard the whisper of a servant pressing themselves against the wall to let the prince pass, heard the sharp intake of breath, heard the scurry of retreating feet.
βEveryone is staring,β you said, your voice muffled by the angle, by the fabric of his doublet pressing against your cheek.
βLet them.β His hand was still on your calf, thumb tracing the seam of your stocking, and the touch was deliberateβnot absent, not accidental. He was touching you like he owned you, like the corridor was his chamber and your leg was his to map in the dark.
Your face burned. βYou made a scene.β
His laugh was a grunt, barely a sound at all, but you felt it move through his shoulder, through the meat of his back where your hands still clung. βI haven't even started.β
The corridor turned. The air changedβcooler, damper, the smell of old stone and something earthier. The tower stairs. You heard them before you saw them, the hollow echo of a space that opened upward into darkness.
Maekar's hand left your calf. You felt the absence like a loss, the ghost of his fingers still warm on your skin. Then his palm landed flat on your arse, squeezing once, hard, and you yelped.
βThat's for smiling at the Dornish lord.β
βI didn'tββ
βYou did.β His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. βThree times. Once when he complimented the wine, once when he said your gown suited you, and once when he leaned close enough to touch your hand.β
Your mouth opened. Closed. βHe was being polite.β
βHe was being a cunt. You thought I didn't pay attention to you? You grabbed my cock, teased me and now you want to complain? Fuck that.β
The stairs began. Each step jolted through you, his shoulder driving into your stomach with every downward strideβno, upward. He was carrying you up, not down. The tower. The royal apartments. Your chambers.
His thumb hooked the top of your stocking and pulled. The silk snapped against your skin, sharp and stinging, and you gasped.
βYou should have thought twice before wearing red,β he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. βMakes me want to tear it off you.β
Your pulse hammered. βIt's the Targaryen color.β
βIt's my color. On you. In this light.β His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the bare skin of your inner thigh, and you felt the heat of his palm like a brand. βMakes me want to put my mouth on every inch you've covered.β
You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The stairs kept turning, the walls close and dark, and his hand was still moving, fingers tracing the edge of your smallclothes through the silk of your stocking, and you were wetβyou could feel it, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, the shameful, aching want that bloomed every time he touched you.
βMaekar.β His name came out wrong, too breathy, too desperate. βI was bored and you were talking about grain.β
He stopped walking.
The sudden stillness was worse than the movement. You hung over his shoulder, your blood rushing in your ears, your cunt clenching around nothing, waiting.
His hand left your thigh. βAnd you thought smiling at another man, teasing me like you didn't expect this outcome? Oh, no, no. You'll fucking learn, sweet wife.β
You heard the click of a latch. The groan of a door swinging open. Warmth washed over youβcandlelight, the smell of beeswax and dried lavender, the familiar scent of your chambers.
He stepped inside. Kicked the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock turning was louder than you expected.
He crossed the room in three strides, and then you were falling, the world righting itself as he dumped you onto the bed, the mattress catching your weight with a creak of ropes and feathers. You bounced once, your gown tangling around your legs, your hair wild across your face, and before you could push yourself upright, he was thereβone knee on the bed, his hands gripping your ankles, pulling you flat.
βStay.β
The word was a command, not a request, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up, your legs stilling, your hands falling to your sides.
He looked down at you. The candlelight caught the silver of his hair, turned his violet eyes to molten amethyst, and his jaw was set, his stubbled cheek shadowed, his chest rising and falling with the breath of a man who had carried his wife through the Red Keep and was not finished with her.
βYou're going to learn,β he said, βwhat happens when you smile at other men.β
So perhaps this wasn't because you had teased him, but rather assumed that he hadn't paid attention to you
Your throat tightened.
βIββ
βShut up.β He said it without heat, the way he said everything, and then he leaned down, his hands finding the neckline of your gown, and he pulled.
The fabric tore.
Not the careful unlacing of a maid's hands, not the patient work of a husband undressing his wifeβa rip, a surrender, the sound of silk giving way to force. Cool air hit your chest, your stomach, the tops of your thighs as he rent the gown down the middle, baring you to the candlelight in your shift and stockings and nothing else.
You gasped. Your hands flew up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinned them to the mattress above your head, and held you there with one hand while the other traced the line of your collarbone, the swell of your breast through the thin linen of your shift.
βPretty,β he said, and the word was rough, almost reverent. βSo fucking pretty like this. Spread out for me. Waiting.β
Your breath came in short, sharp pulls. βMaekarββ
βI'm going to fuck you," he said, his voice dropping, his thumb finding your nipple through the linen and pressing, circling, watching your face as you bit your lip. βI'm going to fuck you until you forget every man in that hall exists. Until the only name you remember is mine.β
He released your wrists. Stepped back. His hands went to his belt, working the buckle with the practiced ease of a man who undressed in the dark more often than the light, and you watched himβwatched the leather fall away, watched his fingers find the laces of his breeches, watched him free his cock.
It was thick.
Heavy.
The head flushed dark, already slick with something that caught the candlelight, and your mouth went dry.
βOn your knees.β
You moved before the words finished leaving his mouth, rolling off the bed, your bare feet finding the cold stone floor, your knees pressing into the rug at his feet. The torn gown pooled around your hips, your shift rucked up to your waist, and you looked up at him from the floor, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
His hand found your hair.
Wrapped around the tumbling waves, twisted, pulled until your head tilted back, your throat bared, your lips parted.
βOpen.β
You opened your mouth. He guided his cock to your lips, the head pressing against the soft heat of your tongue, and you tasted himβsalt and skin and the musk of his arousal, clean and sharp and wholly him. Your lips closed around him, and his hand tightened in your hair, and he pushed deeper.
Not rough.
Not gentle.
The weight of him filling your mouth, stretching your lips, sliding across your tongue until the head pressed against the back of your throat and you gagged, your hands flying up to grip his thighs.
βBreathe through your nose,β he said, his voice steady, his hips rocking forward once, twice, seating himself deeper. βYou can take it.β
You tried. Your nose burned, your eyes watered, and his cock was thick in your throat, pulsing against your tongue, and you wantedβgods, you wantedβto please him, to take all of him, to feel him lose control in your mouth.
Your hands found the backs of his thighs, nails digging into the leather of his boots, and you relaxed your throat the way you'd learned, the way you'd practiced in the dark when you were alone and thinking of him, and he slid deeper, his cock filling you completely, your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base.
He groaned.
The sound was low, guttural, punched out of him, and his hand in your hair tightened, holding you there, holding you still while his cock twitched on your tongue.
βGood girl,β he breathed. βFucking good girl.β
He pulled back, slow, letting you breathe, letting you gasp against his skin before he pushed in again, setting a rhythmβdeep and slow, each thrust pressing you open, each withdrawal leaving you empty and aching for more.
Your jaw ached.
Your throat burned.
Your cunt was dripping, slick and desperate, clenching around nothing as you knelt at his feet and let him fuck your mouth, let him use you the way he needed, the way you needed him to.
His breathing changed. Shortened. His hips stuttered, once, and he pulled out, his cock sliding across your lips, leaving a trail of spit and the taste of him on your tongue.
βMaekar...β you whined in protest.
βOn the bed.β His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. βFace down.β
You scrambled up, your knees weak, your shift clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, and you threw yourself onto the bed, face-down, your cheek pressed to the furs, your arse in the air.
You heard him behind youβthe creak of the bed frame, the rustle of fabric, the low, rough sound of his breathing.His hands found your hips. Gripped. Pulled you back until you were on your knees, your face buried in the pillows, your cunt bare and wet and waiting.
βLook at you.β His voice was almost wondering. βSoaking, just for me.β
You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. Your whole body was a prayer, a plea, a desperate, wordless begging for him to fill you, to take you, to claim you until you couldn't remember your own name.
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. βYou want my cock?β
βYes.β The word was a sob.
βSay it.β
βI want your cock.β Your voice broke. βPlease, Maekar, pleaseββ
He pulled back. His hand left your hip. And then he was there, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick and hot and thick, and he pushed.
The stretch was everything. The burn, the fullness, the way your body opened for him, swallowed him, gripped him like it had been waiting for this since the moment you met.
He seated himself to the hilt in one long, slow thrust, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the furs, your back arching, your cunt clenching around him.
βFuck,β he breathed. βFuck, you're tight.β
He didn't move.
Just stayed there, buried inside you, his cock throbbing, his breath ragged, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
βYou feel that?β His voice was low, almost tender. βThat's me. Inside you. Where I belong.β
You nodded, your face pressed to the pillows, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.
βSay it.β
βYou're inside me.β Your voice was muffled, broken. βYou belong inside me.β
He pulled out.
Slow.
Almost all the way, until only the head remained, stretching your entrance, and then he thrust back in, harder this time, the slap of his hips against your arse loud in the quiet room.
You moaned.
Lost.
Shameless.
He set a rhythm. βThis is what you wanted, isn't it? To fucking tease me, to test my fucking patience? Now fucking take the punishment.β
Hard and fast, each thrust driving you forward into the mattress, your body rocking with the force of him, his balls slapping against your clit with every stroke.
The sound of itβwet and obscene and perfectβfilled the room, filled your ears, filled your head until there was nothing but him, his cock, his hands, his breath, his voice.
βWhose wife are you?β
βYours.β
βWhose cunt is this?β
βYours.β
βWho do you belong to?β
You couldn't answer.
The pleasure was building too fast, coiling in your belly, spreading through your limbs like fire, and you were close, so close, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust, your body begging for the release it couldn't name.
His hand found your hair. Pulled. Forced your head back, your spine arching, your throat bared to the ceiling. βI asked you a question, woman.β
βYou,β you gasped. βI belong to you.β
βGood girl.β His hand released your hair, slid down your spine, gripped your hip. βNow come for me.β
Your orgasm hit like a wave, like a fall, like the world ending and beginning in the same breath. Your cunt clenched around him, gripping him in waves, and you cried outβhis name, a sound, a sobβas the pleasure tore through you, leaving you shaking, gasping, boneless beneath him.
He didn't stop. Kept fucking you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.
And then he stilled, his cock buried to the hilt, his body shuddering, and you felt itβthe hot pulse of his release, filling you, marking you, claiming you from the inside.
He stayed there.
Breathing.
His forehead pressed to the back of your neck, his weight heavy and warm, his cock still twitching inside you.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
You couldn't tell.
Finally, he pulled out. You felt the loss like a wound, the emptiness where he'd been, the trickle of his seed sliding down your thigh as you collapsed onto the mattress, your body spent, your mind blank.
The bed creaked. The candle flickered. And then his hand was on your hip, warm and heavy, and his voice was low in the dark. βNext time you smile at a Dornish lord, I'll make you suck my cock in front of him.β
You laughed, a broken, breathless sound. βYou wouldn't.β
His teeth found your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to sting. βTry me.β
His teeth stayed sunk in your shoulder, the sting of his bite a living brand, and you felt the low rumble of his approval vibrate through his chest against your back. Then his hand movedβslid down your hip, across the curve of your belly, and slipped between your thighs from behind.
You gasped as his fingers found the wet heat of your cunt, slick with your combined release, his seed already cooling on your skin. He didn't pause. Two fingers pushed inside you, gathering the proof of what he'd done, and you felt the stretch, the intrusion, the obscene wet sound of his touch.
βStill dripping,β he murmured against your shoulder, his lips brushing the mark his teeth had left. βStill hungry. I can feel it. The way you clench around my fingers like you're begging for more.β
You couldn't deny it. Your body was already responding, your hips pressing back against his hand, seeking more friction, more depth, more of him. The aftershocks of your orgasm still trembled through your thighs, and yetβgodsβyou wanted him inside you again. Wanted to feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you all over again.
His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you moaned, your face pressed to the furs, your hands fisting the bedding.
βThat's it,β he said, his voice rough, approving. βThat's my wife. Always ready for me. Always wanting.β
He withdrew his fingers, and you felt the absence like a loss, felt the cool air against your wet skin. Then his hand landed flat on your arseβa sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the quiet room, and you cried out, more surprise than pain, your hips jerking forward.
βThat," he said, his hand rubbing the reddening skin, "is for teasing me at that feast. For making me watch you smile at that Dornish cunt while I sat there with my cock hard under the table, imagining bending you over the dais and fucking you in front of the whole hall.β
Your breath caught. The image bloomed in your mindβthe cold stone of the throne room, the gasps of the court, Maekar's hands on your hips, taking you in front of everyoneβand your cunt clenched around nothing, desperate and aching.
βYou liked that.β His voice was flat, knowing. βYou liked the thought of everyone watching while I took what's mine.β
Another slap, harder this time, and you sobbedβa broken, shameless sound. His hand soothed the sting, his palm warm against your heated skin, fingers tracing the curve of your arse before dipping lower, finding the slick evidence of your arousal smeared across your thighs.
βLook at you,β he breathed. βWetter now than when I had my cock inside you. You're a wanton thing, aren't you? My wanton little wife.β
βYes,β you whispered. βYours.β
His hand left your skin. You heard the wet sound of him slicking his cock, and then the head was pressing against your entrance again, and you held your breath, waiting, aching.
He pushed in.
The stretch was sharper this timeβyour body still sensitive from the first fucking, still raw and open, and the sensation bordered on pain before it blurred into something deeper, something that made your toes curl and your back arch.
He seated himself slowly, deliberately, his cock filling you inch by inch until his hips pressed flush against your arse.
βFuck,β he breathed, the word a prayer. βYou feel that? The way your cunt grips me? Like it knows where it belongs.β
You couldn't answer. Couldn't think. His cock was throbbing inside you, and you felt stretched, full, claimed in a way that went beyond the body. He was inside you, and you wanted to stay like this foreverβhis, filled, possessed.
He pulled out.
Slammed back in.
The sound of skin meeting skin was obscene and perfect, and you moaned, your fingers clawing at the furs, your body rocking with the force of his thrusts.
βYou want to know what happens when you tease me?β His voice was low, dangerous, each word punctuated by a thrust. βI fuck you. I fill you. I put my seed so deep inside you that it takes root.β
Your heart stuttered.
βI want to see you swell with it.β
His hand found your belly, pressed flat against the soft curve of your stomach, and you felt his cock moving inside you through the pressure of his palm. βI want to watch your body change. Watch your tits grow heavy. Watch you round with my child.β
A sound escaped youβsomething between a sob and a moan, your throat tight, your eyes burning. The thought of it, of his child growing inside you, of being so completely his that you carried his legacy in your bodyβit undid something in you, loosened a knot you didn't know you'd been holding, because gods you understand now why the man had six children.
βYou'd like that, wouldn't you?β His thrusts slowed, deepened, each one pressing against your cervix, pushing deeper than before. βBeing filled with my seed. Carrying my children. Walking through the Keep with my child in your belly, and everyone knowing exactly who put it there.β
βYes,β you gasped. βYes, Maekar, pleaseββ
βPlease what?β
βPlease fill me. Please put your child in me.β
The words tumbled out, broken and desperate, and you meant them, meant every syllable, meant the want that burned through your veins like wildfire. βI want to carry your children. I want everyone to see. I want to be yours in every way.β
Gods, had you imagined this would happen because you had teased him, well, you knew for certainty that you would have done so sooner.
He groanedβa guttural, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into your backβand his hand left your belly, found your hip, gripped hard enough to leave bruises as he fucked you harder, faster, each thrust driving you deeper into the mattress.
βI'm going to fill you,β he said, his voice ragged, frayed. βI'm going to fuck you until my seed takes, until you're so full of me you can't walk straight. And then I'm going to fuck you again and again,β his teeth sunk into your shoulder once more, every word muttered answered with a harsh, brutal thrust, βevery night until you are pregnant.β
Your orgasm was building again, coiling low and tight in your belly, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. The sensation was overwhelmingβthe fullness, the rhythm, the sting of his hand still warm on your reddened skin, the weight of his words sinking into your bones.
βYou're close,β he said, βI can feel it. The way you grip me. The way your breath catches.β
His hand slid between your thighs, found your clit, pressed and circled in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure spiked, sharp and blinding, tearing a scream from your throat.
βThat's it,β he said, his voice a growl. βCome for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart around me.β
You shattered. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave breaking against stone, your body arching, your cunt clenching in violent pulses around his cock, and you cried outβhis name, a prayer, a surrenderβas the pleasure tore through every nerve, left you trembling and gasping and utterly his.
He didn't stop.
Maekar fucked you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. And then he stilled, buried to the hilt, and you felt itβthe first hot pulse of his release, flooding you, filling you, spilling into the deepest part of you.
He kept coming, his hips pressing against you, his cock twitching as he emptied himself inside you, and you felt the warmth spread, felt the excess leak around his shaft and run down your thighs.
He stayed there, buried, refusing to let a drop escape, his hand pressing against your belly as if he could hold it in by will alone.
βBreathe, sweet wife. I am not done. Do not move, no drop is to be wasted. You wanted this, you knew exactly what you were doing.β
When the quiet grace of a Lady of House Dayne meets the jagged temper of Prince Maekar 'The Anvil' Targaryen, she is caught between his cold silence and her growing fire. Finding a way to grab hold of the man behind the armor may seem harder than ever imagined. (1/2)(complete)
pairings: Maekar Targaryen x (Dayne) Reader
warnings: Maekar is an asshole; age-gap ( β’ α΄ - ); filthy smut (dragons are all dead but imma make sure ure gonna ride one alright);
words: 7k
βΉβ Λβ«β«β«β‘β«β«β« Λ ββΉ
You pulled your horse to a gallop as you reached Summerhall once more. The brown mare breathed out in protest but followed your lead as you trotted back to the palace you called home. The guards and servants of the house were all mingling about, half forgetting of your existence as your stable boy took Chestnut away.Β
The Redgrass Field was filled with the mangled corpses of the rebels and the Targaryens had won.
In the months following the master of the houseβs leave, you could finally breathe the scent of freedom you longed for. The servants and maesters could finally rest easy knowing they will not be under the scrutiny of their lord, but under your careful guidance and grace for you were a Dayne, of the mighty Starfall. Many words and deeds were attributed to your house, many greater than the last, you were a people who believed in the righteousness of the soul, in the spirit of valor and the quiet power of words. You, as a Lady of the House, enjoyed the very same freedoms your brothers received, being trained by your fatherβs knights and taught the words of the common tongue as well as any poet or counselor.
The smell of vinegar hit your nose like a blow as you walked inside the main hall of the house, the servants had started preparing for tonightβs arrival, scrubbing every inch of happiness off the marble floor and from the walls. Your heart felt heavy. Gone will be the days you could bestow upon each of them the power of peace.
Even if today should be a celebration, you felt as defeated as Daemon Blackfyre.Β
Nymella, a Dornish woman, who was born not far from your own home was your personal apothecary. Her black eyes and copper skin reminded you of summer, and truth be told, you regarded her as more friend than employee. She smiled as you walked into her room. Your light lavender riding shirt and white leather pants half covered in the dust dancing from the air at the border of the Dornish mountains heavy on your clothes.Β
βHello, Star.β She was pressing some sort of yellow herbs together. The air smelled of amber and sweet vanilla as you took a seat in one of the chairs she had in the middle of the room. You laid your head back on the pillow behind your head. Wondering. Thinking. What shall you say to him? Would he be changed?
βYou look weary, is it because of the ride or the husband?β She took a seat next to your own, mortar and pestle on her lap covered in her dornish wear.Β
You sighed. Truly you wished this all wouldβve been easier for you. Your sister Dyanna, shouldβve been in your place, she was made of tougher steel. She couldβve handled this much better than you. She couldβve handled him much better than you. She always knew what to do. You shook your head.
Nymella could read you like an open book, for she had known far more people than you. You looked into her eyes and searched for words.
βIs it cruel and terrible of me to wish he wouldnβt have returned so soon?βΒ
βPerhaps. But there isnβt anything we can do about it.βΒ
You nodded and Nymella laughed.Β
βGods above, Star, you look like youβre heading to war yourself, not in the arms of your Prince.β She giggled all the way through her speech.
βI am heading to war, Nymella. That's all he knows. Every time. He acts as if I am some sort of soldier he must command, not his wife. He treats these beautiful grounds like his own battlement he must order around.βΒ
βStill, your husband is returning and he brings with him a fire in his belly, doesnβt that sound pleasant to your ears? It should.β Her eyes were mischievous, probably imagining herself in your situation, albeit with a more pleasant knight.Β
βNo. Iβ¦ I would rather not think of that.β Your ears felt ablaze with the usual shyness a girl of your experience showed. Memories of the night you became a woman flashed in your mind, your husband's body over your own and the pain between your legs. He left shortly after, the call of war greater than your marriage bed.Β
βYou shouldnβt let him dominate you like he does some piss poor farmer on the road here. You are his wife.β Nymella rose once more, bringing forward a vial of crimson liquid that smelled like the sweetest flowers in your garden. βMaekar is a man, as all men are men. No blood of his will change that.β
You took the vial from her and held it in your hand as she took her seat again next to you. βThatβs easy for you to say, youβve known a lot more men than me.βΒ
βYes I have, so you must listen to the words I say. β She didnβt understand you. Surely she didnβt see the way your husband filled any room he walked into, how he spread his legs like a Lyseni whore when he sat down, leaving all the etiquette of a Targaryen Prince out the door. How he spit on the ground like he was owed an apology. How he took you that night, and the following nights after, before he had to leave. His much larger hands moving you how he wanted, having you as much as he wanted, before turning his back and snoring like dying Balerion until the morrow. He would stare at you, and you would think to shrink as small as an ant before his gaze, your ancestors are probably turning over ten times in the crypt.
βI can see this brings a lot of thought in your mind,β She reached over, holding your hand in her own. She squeezed, once, for you to listen and twice, for good measure. "Iβve seen enough men and believe me, nothing unmans one faster than a wife who stops trembling and starts reaching. Iβve watched great generals shake like squires and heard of lords tripping over their own shadows just for a taste.β Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper βAnd that husband of yours? Heβs just a man with a bigger name and a heavier hammer. Heβll melt, girl. Iβll wager my life on it."
βAnd what do you suppose I do?β Your voice adopted the same tone as her own.Β
βI want you to go to him. Donβt let him take you, have him first and then you can tell me if he frightens you so.βΒ
You already imagined yourself on your knees before him as he sulked in front of the fireplace of your great chamber. His body a mountain before your own. The night in Summerhall allowed a cool breeze to drift through, and your husband preferred the breeze for his mighty blood ran hotter than the fires on Dragonstone. You quickly pushed that image out of your mind, for you had no idea where to even put your hands.
Would he even let you touch him where his attention would be physical without him making the first move?Β
βBesides,β Nymella started once more, seeing your sour disposition and wanting to see your eyes brighten up again βone look at that silver hair of his and you understand why some claim his kind are closer to Gods than to men. You should feel your belly as restless as his is, itβs not everyday a woman gets to ride a dragon.βΒ
βΉβ Λβ«β«β«β‘β«β«β« Λ ββΉ
The day passed uneventfully afterwards.
You bathed then changed into the milk white dress your servants prepared, the soft silk easy on your clean skin. They braided your hair in the custom of your house and then you were left waiting.
Any sound outside would have the staff snap their heads to the grand oak doors and your heart beat a restless drum in your chest. The sun was leaving the sky to his sister as he painted the world outside in shades of bright orange which reflected off the terracotta hued marble from inside the house and created soft paintings over the walls of your home. You waited. They offered you dinner, but you could barely swallow your own emotions, let alone the roasted lamb your husband preferred.
Outside, in the private gardens, your mourning doves had begun their low, rhythmic lament. Usually, the sound brought you peace, but this evening their crying felt like an omen. Still, you waited.Β
Nymella offered you some tea, a steaming cup of liquid gold, smelling of sun drenched fields and the deep, floral bite of saffron for βwarming your wombβ and calm your restlessness. You toyed with your silver bracelet. Truly, you wished he would just arrive already.
Leave it to him to make you wait and be miserable for hours. Mayhaps, something happened on the road. Bandits, or worse, mercenaries. But who would kill a fourth son? Your husband was so far from the line of succession, the only thing the crown needed him for was to break heads and hands. For he dearly enjoyed doing so.
When you looked up at the sky near one of the sandstone columns outside, you decided you had enough.
He wonβt arrive tonight.Β
You walked to the grand library you had in your ancient home. Happy you could get to reading a book as you sprawled once more in your colossal bed without a man to ruin your peace. You picked a tome of green and gold, it was the story of a knight who was righteous and understanding, who fell in love with a Lady and wanted to marry her, despite what her destiny might claim. You held the book to your chest as you returned.Β
A servant passed you, running.
Then another one, a young boy, carrying a heavy towel.Β
Your heart pounded in your chest as the commotion from inside the house reached your ears.Β
So he did arrive home after all.Β
He had no want for royal protocol, nor for stupid announcers of his presence. You thought for a second you might slip away into the night, get on Chestnut and ride hard and fast past the Red Mountain and the eternal Torrentine to go home.Β
You rounded the corner and passed the heavy mahogany doors to see the servants, some having burned hands and fingers, pouring down buckets of boiling water in your copper bathtub to the edge of the room. He smelled of iron and burned leather. Simply overpowering any other scent you sprayed into your grand chambers, perfectly made to allow as much breeze into the room as possible.Β
Maekar had his back to you.
Dressed in the black leather and red fur of his house. He knew your light steps better than you.Β
βOur chamber smells like a Tyrosh brothel.β His voice traveled right to your ears in a clear, powerful tone. The same voice made for commanding armies, not for whispering sweet nothings into a womanβs ears.
He finally turned and you could finally see the face of your Prince once more. His hair, white as a bone, was swept back and he had a beard now. But it was still, unmistakably, Maekar. βThe Anvilβ they call him. And you could see no reason why they might call him anything else, for he definitely tried to shape you like iron on him during the last night you had together. His face, scarred from when he was ill with the pox, made his scowl even more terrifying.Β
Not that many would be brave, or stupid enough to look him in the eyes.
βWelcome home, my Lord.β You bowed your head in the custom you were taught a Lady should perform as she greets her husband. He moved to the great basin, and started removing his clothes. First he untangled the silk cord holding his tunic in place, dropping it to the floor so the servants would be reminded of their place. The two young boys you saw runningΒ approached him, reaching to help with his heavy boots, but he snarled at them and it was as if they were attending to a pointed sword.
"Fuck off.β he snapped "All of you. Out." They nearly tripped over themselves to flee and you had half the mind to turn around yourself and run to a dark corner he wouldnβt find you in.
Then he removed his tunic, then his undershirt and you, unfortunately so, looked away, even if it was for only a moment when you felt as if a stone was thrown towards your belly. The water was hot enough to blister human skin, yet he didn't even hesitate in swinging a strong leg over the tub.
βThe road was long, I imagine.β Your voice sounded small against the splash of water as he lowered his body down with a groan, the sound traveled to your ears, then down between your legs but you didnβt wish to think of that.
βWas the weather kind to you, my Lord?βΒ
βIt rained for three days near Blackwater,β his voice was akin to grinding stones, βThe mud was up to the horses' hocks and smelled like a dead man's shit.β
You winced at the crudeness, but tried to maintain the grace your mother had taught you as you tried to not cower before him. "Regardless, I am glad you are home. We have missed your presence at Summerhall."
He looked at you like you said the dumbest jest he had ever heard: βNo you havenβt.β
No you didnβt, therefore you didnβt argue.
The chamber was thick with the scent of scalded copper and the sweet perfume that Maekar clearly loathed. His head was tilted back against the rim, his throat exposed with a thick, powerful cord of muscle that looked as though it could weather the strike of a longsword. His eyes remained closed, his face a mask of exhaustion. You thought to say something, anything-
βWell? Youβve had a tongue for the servants and yet with me you are as quiet as a fucking squire.β Of course he knew of your gentle behaviour towards the smallfolk tending to you in the months he was gone, this was, after all, his house. βWhat has been happening in this nest of silk and song while I was cutting necks for the crown?β
You swallowed hard, the humidity making your white dress cling to your back. All careful words seemed to evade you, any lesson your family had ever taught you useless: βIt has beenβ¦ quiet, my lord. We followed the instructions you left. The harvest was brought in, and the accounts for the winter stores are nearly complete.β Your voice was more mumble than words.
βSpeak up!β He snapped, and you, caught completely unaware and used to the grace of the staff, flinched as if he hit you. βIβve spent almost a year with nothing but the roar of the catapults and the screams of dying men in my ears. I canβt hear your soft, palace whispers.β
βI said the accounts for winter are finished!β you said, forcing your voice to go louder, though it felt brittle and strange in your own ears.Β
βGood,β he grunted, his jaw tightening as if he were biting back a curse. A long silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the drip of water from his beard to the bath. Then, without moving a single muscle, he asked another question βAnd who did you have in my bed while I was gone?β
You didn't answer immediately. You couldnβt. The sheer crudeness of the accusation felt like a physical blow and you were left to stare at him as he fixed you with his scrutinous gaze.Β
Maekarβs eyes moved over your features like a commander inspecting a breached wall. He looked for a blush of guilt, a downward cast of the eyes, anything he could crush.
βNo,β you stammered, the word catching in your throat. βNever. I wouldβ¦ I would never think to do such a thing. My lord, I have been here, waiting. Only waiting.β
His expression was unreadable and grim. He let out a long, ragged breath and closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the boiling water.
βGood.β he muttered.Β
He didn't move for a long time, looking almost like a statue of some ancient, vengeful king. Just as you thought he might have fallen into a trance, his lips moved one last time, the words falling like the blade of an axe.
βIβll have you dead if I find anything of the sort. I don't give a shit for the songs they sing about your house. If you stain my name, Iβll be the last thing you ever see.β
You were once again left speechless. Mayhaps he had been hardened by the rebellion in ways, his mind already looking for traitors at every moment. But you were, under all and every aspect, a good woman, you hadnβt lain with any man, besides the one now washing himself in front of you.
You didnβt hate him, but you surely didnβt love him either.Β
You moved to your vanity and placed your book there, promising yourself that you will finish it one of these days. You turned around as you heard the water splash once more and was greeted with the sight of your naked husband, your eyes traveled immediately between his thighs like an arrow and you averted your gaze to your massive ebony bed in the middle of the room, decorated with dragons and made out of the strongest wood in the Seven Kingdoms. He moved to dry his skin and commanded βTake your dress off and get on the bed, on your back.β like you were one of his soldiers.
You thought for a second about what Nymella said, your arms shaking as you untied your dress, about having him on his back and you on him, holding him there and reminding him that in these bedchambers, in this room and on this bed, you- not him, would be in charge.
You forgot about all of that and more as he grabbed you by your arm, placed you on the bed, raised your dress to your waist and your knees by your chest as he pressed himself between your thighs. You closed your eyes, cheeks aflame and heart in your ears as you grabbed the hand he had on your left outer tight. You much preferred when he took you in the night, where you could barely see him and his colossal shadow was the only thing to remind you that your husband was there.Β
The fire from behind him allowed for too much light and too many details. You gasped as he pressed himself in you, the feeling unfamiliar in the long months he was away. Maekar gasped too, albeit quieter as he positioned himself better, his breath quickened and his hands shook, pushing down your gown by your chest until he could see your breasts and grab at them like some boy with the apples in his motherβs garden while he dragged his manhood inside your body. You would remain quiet, not sure if he would like the noises you wanted to make. You didnβt know if that fact annoyed him, but he would drag himself out and push as much as he could inside until you would grab at his shoulders and push him away, moaning from the pain and the pleasure you would feel in your belly. He had you like that for what felt like an eternity and you were sure his guards outside could very much hear.Β
βΉβ Λβ«β«β«β‘β«β«β« Λ ββΉ
The fire in the hearth had burned down to a dull, glowing orange and the room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Maekarβs breathing. He had fallen into a deep, unshakable sleep almost the moment he was finished, his back turned to you like a wall of stone. Your body felt heavy and distant, still humming with the ghost of his weight and the rough way he had you.
The scent of the "Tyrosh brothel" was gone, replaced by the smell of salt, lye, and the faint, metallic tang of the "Anvil" himself. You stared out at the moon hanging over the Dornish mountains, feeling the ache between your legs.Β
βΉβ Λβ«β«β«β‘β«β«β« Λ ββΉ
The days after you tried to make sense of your husbandβs presence in the palace. His will was iron and it seemed like even the air bent to it here. He had you every night, and once in his study, when he received a letter from Kings Landing that sent his anger sweeping through the house and finally finding you in the form of a young squire that trembled as he told you your Lord husband is expecting you.Β
Nymella remained the same. With the same advice.Β
Yet every night, when he bedded you, you could hardly bring yourself to make any action towards him, any sort of conscious thought left you while holding your eyes closed through the whole ordeal.Β
One blistering day, a messenger arrived from House Caron, the Lord and Lady wanted to join the Prince and Princess of the Iron Throne for dinner and you, a dear friend of Lady Jeyne Caron, accepted. The Carons were marcher lords from Nightsong and were famous for their singing and their history as the first line of defense against Dorne.
The lamb was well roasted, the vegetables freshly plucked from the garden and the bread was warm as they arrived. Hand in hand, bowing low before you and your stoic husband as the lord steward announced their presence. You hugged Jeyne before you sat and Lord Allun Caron began regalling you with stories. Maekar was drinking the dark crimsoned wine of Dorne. You thought you were above such indulgences, but as you saw the way the two interacted, joking and looking at each other like the other might disappear, you started drinking as well. The wine burned all the way down, but in that moment, you wished for something stronger.Β
Maekar was chewing his lamb and swirling the wine in his chalice with a bored look on his face as you maintained the discussion with the Lady and Lord of House Caron.Β
Allun interrupted Maekarβs thoughts as he tried to make conversation with the man of many years and experience above his own: βI heard the mud in the Redgrass field was so thick with blood the horses couldn't find their footing. My cousin said the stench of the dead was enough to make a man pray for a head wound just to lose his sense of smell. Mustβve been a hell of a thing to watch the Blackfyreβs line break under that mace of yours, no, Prince? I bet the sound of that iron hitting plate was sweeter than any harp.β
Maekar didnβt look away from the wall with the fireplace casting warm shadows on his face βIt sounded like bone breaking,β he says flatly. βThereβs nothing sweet to it.β
You watch Lady Jeyneβs hand tighten on Lord Allunβs arm, not in fear, but in support, as if sheβs helping him weather the Princeβs attitude. You wonder if youβll ever have the courage to even touch Maekarβs sleeve when heβs like this, you moved your eyes away from the awkward exchange and stared ahead as Lady Jeyneβs voice cut through the silence and you made eye contact with her.
βThe songs donβt do your bride justice, my Lord. They say the Daynes have the stars in their blood and justice in their eyes and your beautiful wife is the clear embodiment of that. Why, you must be the luckiest man in all the Kingdoms.β Jeyne smiled and for whatever reason you felt tears prick at your eyes. You thanked her as Maekar fixed you with a long glance and nodded to Lady Jeyne. You tried to mask your emotion by eating some food while the pair tried to make conversation with the brooding Prince you called husband.
Was it the wine? Mayhaps. But in that moment you felt like reaching over and slapping him so hard he wouldβve seen the stars standing mighty over your ancestral seat. How dare he? He couldnβt even agree with her, he couldnβt even say that βyes, she is beautifulβ or pretty or comely or whatever else he found in that thick head of his.
You brushed another tear that fell and before you knew it you chin wobbled.Β
You really shouldnβt have drank.
The chair scraped over the marble floor as you stood, excusing yourself as your voice broke. You must send a raven to Lady Jeyne, apologizing, tomorrow. But for now, you had to get away. Your feet echoed into the vastness of the great hall, as you rounded the corner and sobs rocked you into two. You cried like youβve never cried before and you were sure in that moment that you hated him.Β
You hated him and his silences and his crass way. You hated that he was more mercenary in expensive leather than Prince of the Blood. You entered your chamber and undressed, laying in your bed and holding your pillow to your face as you felt your sobs rocking you to sleep.Β
You heard the grand balcony doors, facing the Red Mountains, open. And yet, you couldnβt be bothered to look at him.Β
You hated him, no, you despised him.Β
He was undressing. Maekar took the grey fur from the bed you two shared and threw it on the ground as he laid next to you. The bed creaked and the sound of hooves were heard in the distance as your husband sighed.Β
He laughed.Β
Maekar Targaryen laughed, no, breathed out a noise that was akin to laughter through his nose and you wondered what was it that brought him to this point. You wished to turn and see what the great fuss was about-
βI know youβre awake.βΒ
You let a moment pass. The moon cast a white light in the room from the window and you turned, opening your eyes as if his rough voice awoke you, not your thoughts. Your eyes were bloodshot and your throat was scraped from all the crying.Β
You hated him and you hated your silence and careful words of respect towards him. Maekar Targaryen didnβt deserve them.Β
βWhy must you be so cold?β you felt a fresh rush of tears to your eyes, and you let them fall, not caring he saw them, βYouβre cold and uncaring, has anyone ever told you that?βΒ
His back was to the ebony headboard he was usually repeatedly slamming to the wall by this time of night. Maekar blinked once, like he was trying to make sense of your words and your boldness.Β
You didnβt care what he thought of you anymore βWhen I was a little girl, I hoped that the Gods would bring me a man like Lord Caron, for he is sweet and caring. But they brought me you- and you are as crass as a mercenary and as unbecoming of a Prince as any soldier is.β You spit out the nearest insult you could find. Words tumbling out as fast as rain with the help of that sweet summer wine you drank. Your head was beginning to hurt, a pounding pain that settled in your skull. βYou can barely see me as your wife so why, I ask you-β you hiccuped β-why have you made me so, if you would be uncaring with my soul and my body?β
Emboldened by the fire burning in your belly at finally speaking your feelings towards the stone wall you called husband you continued βWhy do I, out of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms get to be with someone like you, while others can get to laugh and kiss their Lords when they please, how often they please- there are others who hold their wives, did you know? They donβt have to take them like some whore on the road.β Hot tears streamed down your face and you hiccuped all the way through your speech.
βIs that what you want me to do? To hold you? And kiss you?β His white hair and beard caught the light from outside and he looked every bit like the Valyrian lords of old he was descended from.
βNay, my lord, you can keep your embraces to others, I clearly donβt wish for them.β You turned your back to him, still crying. He wouldnβt change for all the might of Valyria or the Iron Throne.
You could feel his presence beside you. He didnβt say anything else afterwards. Your sobs were the only thing heard in the colossal room.
You thought sleep might claim you again as you heard his voice.
βI donβt know how to act towards you so you may not be frightened of me.β Your belly hurt from all the sobs you put her through. Still, you listened. βI find it hard to find words to say to you, or to hold you- Gods know I havenβt been held in my life as you wish to be.β He scoffed at the last part and you realized you didnβt know much of his past. You took a deep breath, scared that any words might frighten him into solemn silence.
βIf you wish to be kissed, you can act upon it yourself.β At that, you turned.Β
You raised your bum to sit upright, back to the headboard as well.Β
βYou donβt wish for a husband like Lord Allun, trust me when I say so.β His voice was a whisper and you realized you never heard this hushed tone from him. βHeβs had about a hundred whores and has bastarded half his servantsβΒ
You gasped, βYou lie!β your tone was a whisper as well. Memories of gossiping with your fellow Ladies came back, though this was surely different.
He shook his head, something akin to a smile forming on his face βIt is truth what I speak.βΒ
You thought to turn and sleep, for you dearly wished to rest, but that godsdammed Dornish wine overpowered you before you could remember your manners before your Lord.
βHave you ever fathered any bastards?βΒ
A sound came out of him. A sound you never heard before from your man. You had half the mind to call Nymella and the Maester to find a cure. The sound was like that ofβ¦of laughter? He was laughing!
βNo, Iβve not fathered any bastards. At least none that I know of.β You smiled with him, happy that you could see him happy. You half forgot what you were crying about.Β
The dark covered you both in its embrace and maybe thatβs why you were so brave.Β
βYou should sleep, before you bring me any more questions I may not know the answer to.β He laid down and sighed.
Yet, you were not done. No. What did Nymella say to you?
You rested your head once more on the warm pillow as he turned his back to you. You closed your eyes. Nay, maybe not tonight. Though, when else could it be if not tonight? Your heart thrummed in your chest as you lifted your hand.
Only for you to bring it down once more between you two.
You imagined him coming to your bedchambers, sitting down with a groan for his bones were weary, he was not as young as he used to be. You imagined yourself, sitting down on his lap of burned leather and expensive furs and kissing him. Not the closed mouth kissed you bestowed upon him once in a while, when he wanted you to, but open and hungry, like the ones Nymellaβs books wrote about. You imagined him grabbing you with his strong hands and not rushing anywhere for once.Β
You rubbed your thighs together and for the first time since meeting him you wondered: What in the Seven Hells were you so frightened of?Β
You grabbed his shoulder and turned his much bigger body around with a definite pull to sit on his back.
You shuffled closer to him, closing your eyes as you often did when you were near him in such a situation. You opened them back up as you felt the smell of sandalwood and cedar and his broad shoulder land in the middle of your chest.Β
He opened his eyes and thatβs when you were expecting a remark, a curse, anything. You braced. Nothing came. Only his eyes. And yet, you didnβt cower like a flower in winter.
You touched the left side of his face and grabbed hold of his beard, forcing him to come closer and respond to your kiss. His lips were soft and careful as your own grabbed his upper lip and held it. His mouth tasted of summer wine and you were sure yours did too. You turned your head to the side, see if he tasted sweeter from there and your lips made a sound as they broke apart and then collided again that traveled right to your stomach and between your thighs. Maekar was surely feeling your heart beating out of your chest but you didnβt care for that.Β
You moved your body to sit half on top of him as he grabbed your leg and put it across his thighs, legs moving on their own to find any friction between them that may ease the heat you felt. In a moment where you thought he would bring himself above you, as was his rightful place to be, he did the opposite.
Maekar grabbed your behind and pulled you on top.Β Β
With his strong hands, more used to a mace than the soft skin of your waist beneath your nightshift. He settled your heat on top of his growing one as you placed both hands near his head and kept kissing him with as much need as any girl might towards her lover. You found all the long weeks spent dreaming of this moment and longing for it to happen to come crashing down all at once. So it could happen to you too. This wasnβt just books and whispers by friends in court.
He rose up to meet your feverish kisses and you found him pressing his hot mouth to your neck as he held your hair back. The noises that left you were so unlike you that, on any other day, with much less wine drank, you wouldβve bowed your head in shame. But it was he who must be shamed, for he had treated you so unkindly.
You touched his broad chest and looked down upon your dragon husband. He looked smaller this way, much less royalty and more man. He grabbed your soft nightshift, raising it, and you threw it over your head and away from the both of you. His gaze swept across your body, to your breasts and waist, towards your thighs and the place he wished with ardent desperation to be inside of.Β
You swung your leg off him and took his pants off. He needed the help, for his eyes never left your body. By the time he was in an almost-comfortable position you got on him again, feeling his heat on your own for the first time without rushing, and without closing your eyes so you may not die in shame.Β
Your folds parted slightly as you took him beneath you and rubbed down on him. Moaning and looking down at him as he looked away to the canopy above you, lips parted and groaning all the way under your affection. His hands rested on your hips, but he barely commanded you to move.
You smiled. Then you grimaced in pleasure, and then smiled again. For this is what you wanted, no, needed. He looked into your eyes as you stood on your knees and brought him before your already wet entrance. His brows were furrowed and you felt his heart beat fast beneath your palm on his chest. You lowered yourself down and his moan was like that of your own.Β
He brought his hands up to your breasts and closed his eyes as you tried to find a pace and a movement that might bring enough pleasure. At one point you stood too straight and a feeling like that of being impaled shot through your flower and towards your belly, you lowered down on him. Elbows on both sides of his head and kissing him like you did before as he rose up to meet your thrusts. The old bed croaked after each press of your body to his.Β
The one stoic Maekar was groaning like youβve never heard him before whenever you would meet him halfway. The only sounds in the room were your wetness and the feeling of damp skin pressing against each other time and time again as you cried into your husband's mouth.Β
You rose again as he told you βSlowerβ, voice smaller than he ever used, but you couldnβt even begin to think about caring for any of his requests as you shoved yourself down on him time and time again. He didnβt seem to mind your pace either as he closed his eyes, and held your hips, grabbing you like you might disappear between his fingers.Β
Your most sensitive spot rubbed against his own body time and time again and you grabbed fistfulls of his undershirt as you came. Squeezing him time and time again as he pulled you down once more on him. You wet your throat as he grabbed the back of your head and held you there. He didnβt stop until his thighs were shaking from beneath you and you felt the familiar pulse of his manhood, pressed as deep as he could in you.Β
You remained laid with your head on his chest. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it beneath his hot and damp skin.Β
After a moment, you looked at him. His cheeks, even in the soft light of the moon, looked impossibly rosy, like a maiden on her wedding night. And his once careful swept back hair was because of your hands, restless and wanting something to cling to, tangled and unkept.Β
You kissed him again and he smelled of you.
βΉβ Λβ«β«β«β‘β«β«β« Λ ββΉ
You couldnβt say things remained the same afterwards.Β
Meakar wanted you all the same, and yet you found yourself wanting him too. Nymella smiled whenever you came into her chambers with a knowing look.
βYour husband smells like a βTyrosh brothel'Β from neck to feet, any wonder why that is?β
The changes were subtle at first, like the slow turning of a season. It wasn't that Maekar suddenly became a man of poetry and flowers, but rather, the sharp, jagged edges of his temper had been filed down. He still scowled, but now, when his eyes caught yours, there was a flicker of something that looked like a secret shared between the two of you. A secret that set your heart on fire and pooled low into your stomach and beneath your thighs as you would be the one to call him to bed when he spent too long in his study.
You knew that his attitude would never touch you again, nor would his words make a dent into your humors as you regarded him as soft as summer air when you two were alone. Gone was the man who towered over you and you shivered in his shadow. He still existed, though you liked to imagine him with those silver locks of his buried beneath your legs as you held him there.Β
You found that he loved the tartness of pomegranate juice one of your maids made and that he enjoyed the smell of jasmine. That he would much rather prefer staying in silence, each of you doing something of your own devices as you would often catch his gaze, though it wasnβt scrutinizing, you knew it was, in his own way- the only way he knew. His confession that he cared for you. He cared for you passionately as he extended your library and ordered Chestnut to be brought a wonderful saddle, made of fine leather from his own home, Dragonstone.Β
His booming voice regaled you with stories of old, stories from his own family and how cruel he found life in the Red Keep, overshadowed by his brothers. He was glad he would never have to return there.Β
He once told you, after you were both spent, with your back to him and his strong arm holding you, that he loved you, that he wished for you to love him back, if you could find it in you. You laughed. How dull could this man be?Β
βΉβ Λβ«β«β«β‘β«β«β« Λ ββΉ
You looked ahead into the horizon as you waited for the Carons to arrive, you had to make amends for the way you treated them last time they visited you, Maekar had no choice but to obey and scowl at the sun.
βMaekarβ You turned your purple silk dress towards him βplease try to be pleasant- smile, at least.β
βI am smiling.β His face hadnβt moved from a scowl.
βLook at me. Smile,β your face was brought to a grin while you pointed at it βlike this, see?β
He looked at you and tried his hardest to replicate your face, yet he looked like a sneezing tiger more than Lord. You doubled over in laughter as he looked away- this time, with a real, genuine smile on his face that made him look a decade younger.
He could be funny when he wanted to be.
βI canβt believe youβre making me do this.β
βΉβ Λβ«β«β«β‘β«β«β« Λ ββΉ
Chapter two
Authors note: Yall I had to. I love a man who is emotionally constipated and I tried to bring him in this story as much as I could. UGH Maekar I've liked u since u had that fuck ass bob in the Snow White and the Huntsman. THANK YOU FOR READING this was longer than I intended at first but if you find it in you to write a message to me that u enjoyed this story- it will make my whole day. Have a great day loves <3 imagine how he's gonna act when u die in a few years after birthing 6 kids
Summary: Foolish and afraid, you flee from your new husband. He does not let you get far.
Warnings: 18+, Maekar was plotting on reader from the moment he saw her, chasing, possessive Maekar, virginity mentions, female masturbation, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, brief breeding kink mostly unedited
Word Count: 4.8k+
targaryen masterlist
There was no higher privilege than marrying into the royal family. To bear royal children, Targaryen children. It was an honor.
At least, that was what you had been repeatedly told for the last few months.
Hard as you tried, you could not make the sentiment stick. No matter how many times your family told you of the honor you would bring them, no matter how much they praised you and talked smugly about you to others, you could not see it that way.
Not when the maids gushed about Targaryen beauty, and fantasized about how many white-haired children you might bear. Not when your father spent lavishly on you, paying attention to you for what felt like the first time in your life. Not when your mother cupped your face and told you about the secrets of the bedchamber, and how it wasnβt that bad, in fact, it could even be enjoyable.
No. Especially not then.
In the end, a mere three weeks from the wedding, you realized it did not matter how you saw it. As depressing as the thought was, it also bought a sense of freedom. The wedding was happening. There was no changing that. But you could change your feelings.
You resigned yourself to the reality of impending married life.
Aerion Targaryen did not have a good reputation. You had attempted to bring it up with your father several times, only to be hushed and scolded.
Aerion had a proclivity for cruelty and was rumored to be quite the brute. You got yourself used to the idea of him that way. Used to the idea of grabbing hands and blank eyes. You ran over it all again and again until you felt nothing more than a dull disdain.
You could handle the cruelty of a stupid boy, you decided. Even if he was a Targaryen prince. You would do your duty, no more, no less, and survive.
Two weeks before the wedding, your family journeyed to Summerhall. The journey was long and tiring and you hardly registered a moment of it.
The castle was grand, the grounds larger than comprehension and well kept. You had never seen so many staff, nor larger rooms and nicer furniture. You noticed it all with dim interest, your mind focused on the task at hand β marry the Targaryen prince. Bear him children. Live.
Aerion Targaryen was beautiful. They all were, of course. He had a rather delicate look about him, despite all the rumors that whirled around him. For a moment you thought you had been wrong in your assumptions β and then you saw his eyes. They looked like the eyes of a dead man, cold and distant and greedy.
Then and there, you made the choice that whatever children you would bear, would never grow up to be anything like him.
You were not sure what to expect of his siblings. The youngest, Aegon, stayed mostly out of the way. You wished you could have done the same.
His father, Maekar, had a habit of worming his way into your eyeline, into your mind and conscious. Tall, white-haired and stoic. You had met him for the first time on the day you had arrived, before you had even met Aerion.
He had looked at you intensely. It had made you want to scream. He knew what his son was like, more so than anyone else. How dare he drag you here as a sacrifice to placate the dragon?
Maekar had held your hand with surprising tenderness and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His beard had scratched at your skin, breaking the panic building in your chest. You had inhaled then, loud and clumsy, and he had held you for a beat longer than appropriate. The air had been heavy as you awoke from what felt like a dream, blinking as sensation seemed to flood back into your body. He had let you go then, but you had felt him watching you as you disappeared with the rest of your family.
With your mind practically turned into mush, you did not deign to notice much else. Aerionβs brothers were nice enough, even the one who was with a cup of wine more often than not. His youngest brother looked at Aerion with something that you did not care to name. If he was cruel to his family members, what hope did you have?
Marry the Targaryen prince. Bear him children. Survive.
But when the ceremony came, and you were stood opposite your betrothed, it was not Brightflame who lifted your veil and slid a ring onto your finger.
In your mind, Summerhall had been drenched in heat and stickiness. Always green grass, fresh fruit and long hours of daylight. No matter how you felt about your husband-to-be, youβd never been able to shake the fanciful image of a place suspended year-long in the peak of Summer.
Nestled in the window nook of your room, you laughed quietly to yourself. The weather outside was grey and dreary, and it had been drizzling for days. Not a proper rain, just a pathetic spattering that made you cold to the bone and lazy.
You twisted the ring on your finger, as you had been wont to do ever since the wedding. It fit you perfectly, despite supposedly being a family heirloom. It was an elegant thing, gold and studded with tiny, blood red jewels than glittered even in sparse lighting. You ran your fingernail over them, wondering who had owned the ring before you.
It had been your husbandβs own pick. You liked it more than you cared to admit and had felt a little ashamed of the plain gold band you had shakily slid on your husbandβs wedding finger. If he noticed the difference, or cared, he did not say. He had only watched you with the same intense eyes as the day you had first met him.
Aerion Brightflame would have cared. You could imagine it even now; the curl of his lip as he scoffed at the plain gold. He probably would have made some ugly comment right then and there, determined to get in one last public jab against you and your family.
Luckily your husband, his father, was not like that.
Maekar had pulled his hand away from yours as though he thought you might snatch the ring back. Maybe you should have. At the time, you had been startled by the man standing before you and had fallen into a shock you werenβt entirely sure you had recovered from, even now, a month later.
You had glanced over at your father, only to meet his encouraging, greedy eyes. No explanation, no apology. You had shut down then, following along with the rest of the ceremony as though your body was not yours. It wasnβt, really.
You had been prepared for a spoiled, callous prince. Not a man who had looked at you in the way Maekar Targaryen did. Like he was intent on peeling back every defence you had until he could touch the real you.
There had been one small relief in the back of your mind. It was unlikely that the expectation to bear him children would be quite so crushing. Maekar had been married before and had several healthy sons and daughters. Was there really need for more?
It seemed not, for the marriage still remained unconsummated, one whole month later.
You watched idly as rain spattered onto the stone and glass. You thought about that night often. With Aerion you had expected brute force and pain.
When Maekar had closed the door behind him, leaving the pair of you alone in his chambers, your heart had been on the verge of working its way up your throat.
The look in his eyes had been so heated that you could have sworn you felt fire burst along your skin. You had stood there, wide eyed and shivering, vulnerable in a way you did not know how to be.
He had approached you then, hand rising to hover next to your cheek as though he would cup your face and make you hold eye contact. It had remained there for a beat before dropping to the laces on your dress.
You had assumed that would be it. The marriage would be consummated. You had been wrong. Maekar had undressed you with a tenderness that had you near tears, and then redressed you in a nightgown and ushered you to his bed.
Never in a million years did you think you would have been able to sleep. Not when your new husband undressed and joined you, warm skin brushing against yours beneath the sheets. Sheer exhaustion must have kicked in at a certain point though, because you slept deeply, and when you awoke, he had been gone.
You had slept in his chambers for several nights after that. It was only after the third that you began to realise, he had no intention of touching you. Sometimes his hand would hover above your skin, fingers clenching and unclenching, but the only time he touched you was when he would help you dress in your nightgown.
It had made you angry. Angry then and angry now. His restraint was admirable and you held nothing against him for that. It was miles better than what you had built yourself up to expect.
You hated the way your stomach would clench in anticipation. The first time you had realised you wanted his hands on you, the room had seemed to spin. When you lay awake next to him, thighs clenching, nipples hard, you were furious. And afraid. This was not what you had prepared for.
At some point you had realised that was what he was waiting for. Reciprocation. So you hid your desire behind blank faces and shaky legs and tried to pretend that you did not want your husband. It was foolish and torture but you just could not make yourself take that step.
After a full week in Maekarβs chambers, you had finally built up the will to ask the maid to sleep in your own. You had had one full night to yourself before Maekar reappeared, now familiar hands helping you into your nightgown before falling into bed next to you. You had not had the heart to ask him to leave. Still, he did not touch you. Not in the way you wanted.
βMy lady?β
You jumped at the sudden intrusion, near falling from your window seat as you whirled to face your maid.
βMy apologies, my lady,β she continued, βdinner is ready. Your husband is asking after you.β
You got to your feet, brushing off imaginary dirt from your dress. Another of Maekarβs strange demands; every meal had to be taken together.
βThank you, Mary, I will come now,β you said.
Your voice shook a little. Mary pretended not to notice.
The table was set beautifully, as always. More food and wine than your entire family could consume. Maekar did not sit at the head of the table; at least not when it was just the pair of you. Instead, he sat opposite you.
You curtsied and he waved you away. A little routine of yours. Mary pulled out your seat and you sat, eyed glued to the table. The servants left then. The first time that had happened, you had been entirely bewildered. Who would serve you, then? You had grown even more concerned when Maekar had been the one to fill your plate and top your cup.
He did so now, not stopping until there was more food piled on your plate than you could eat. You would have to finish most of it or he would look at you in that disapproving way of his. At first you had been mortified. At some point that had changed to mild amusement.
βThank you,β you said quietly.
βEat,β he said.
The two of you had fallen into a routine of sorts. Nerves still buzzed in your stomach every time you saw him but you were not afraid. No, very much not afraid.
Some part of you warmed at the gentle command in his voice. There was some concern there. After the ceremony, you had eaten very little for two or so days. Still numbed by the shock of the sudden change in groom and the absence of your family. Maekar had sat with you for every meal, watching you carefully until you ate to his satisfaction.
Aerion probably wouldβve shoved the food down your throat, if he cared at all.
βDo not think of another man when you are with me, wife,β Maekar said lowly.
You blinked. βI was ββ
βEven when that man is my son.β
You inhaled sharply. It was uncanny how he sometimes seemed to read your mind. Embarrassed, you shot back, βI was his betrothed first. It is normal that I should think of him on occasion.β
βYou were never his,β Maekar spat.
Was I yours, then? The words sat heavy on your tongue, almost spilling over. Scowling, you shovelled a forkful of potatoes into your mouth. If you asked that question, you were not sure you would be ready for the answer he would give.
Maekar always appeared in your chambers exactly when you began to get tired. You still hadnβt figured out exactly how he knew. You suspected he had maids reporting on you but you had never been quick enough to catch them in the act.
He always waited until you were sleepy and pliant. You did not mind.
It was easier, then, to allow him to maneuver you to your feet. To allow him to deftly unlace whatever lace held up your dress, to slowly peel layers from you until you were stood bare before him.
You liked it like this. When you were tired enough to be able to pretend your own fatigue was why you let him position you like a doll, raising your arms and nudging apart your legs as he admired you.
Your nipples stiffened under his gaze. Heavy lidded and near panting, you let him see you. His eyes focused on the tips of your breasts, hands fisting at his sides.
They dropped lower, then, to the tuft of curls between your legs. You were thankful for the slight coverage; that way he could not see how his gaze caused your cunt to leak, smears of arousal threatening to coat your upper thighs.
You kept still, core clenching. Any sign that you wanted it, wanted him, and it would be over. You knew he would not hold himself back.
You raised your arms as he lifted your nightgown over your head, sliding it down over your body. You hissed when the material caressed over your nipples, stepping back before Maekar could examine the sound.
You turned away from him and crawled into the bed, arranging yourself beneath the sheets as Maekar blew out the candles. You could still see a vague outline of him in the darkness. You hoped he could not see you, for you could not tear your eyes away as he undressed. He turned to the side and you nearly gasped out loud. You could see the hard shape of his cock bobbing before him. The image seared itself into your mind before he pulled on his own sleep clothes.
He joined you in bed and got comfortable. There was no telling how much time passed before soft snores echoed around your chamber. You relaxed at the sound.
Sleep refused to come. Instead, there was only a persistent throbbing between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together, breathing heavily at the sensation it provided. But it was not enough.
You glanced over at Maekarβs side of the bed. In the dark, you could only make out the vague shape of him beneath the covers. He was still snoring.
Emboldened, you let your legs part. You had touched yourself before but that had been leisurely, with the knowledge that you would not be discovered. Now, you let your fingers slide down to your swollen clit, teasing gently at it, all while your husband slept next to you.
There was no time for teasing, you realised. You spread your legs as far as you dared and began to rub in earnest, nearly crying out at the relief that enveloped you. You needed to get rid of the desperation, to take the edge of, else you were at risk of climbing atop your husband and taking what you wanted like some common whore.
The slick sound of your own fingers on your cunt was almost too loud. You bit down on your lip so hard that you felt blood well. You could taste the coppery slide of it on your tongue as you squirmed beneath your own ministrations.
Your orgasm shot through you, hard and fast. You clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your cry, yanking your other hand from between your legs as it became too sensitive to bear. Your toes clenched as the sensation wracked through you. You could feel the sweat on your upper lip and forehead, though the room was on the cool side.
It took a moment for you to regain your senses. Pleasure curled lazily around your bones, wanting to drag you down into your sleep. You almost nodded off, but then you noticed something. Or rather, the absence of something.
At some point, without your realising, your husbandβs snoring had stopped.
Before you could panic, you felt a rough hand close around your right wrist. You yelped at the sudden contact and tried to pull away, but Maekar held fast, bringing your hand up to his face.
You realised your hand was still sticky. βNo, wait ββ
All protests died as Maekar slid those fingers between his lips. You felt your cunt clench around nothing as he used his tongue to thoroughly clean your digits, licking over and between them until he had chased down every bit of your arousal.
When he was done, he pulled your fingers from his mouth and pressed a wet kiss to your knuckles. Shock and arousal kept you silent.
βSleep, wife,β he murmured.
There was no anger in his voice. It was something worse. A promise that he would not forget what had happened tonight, and your games would no longer be tolerated.
Maekar did not let go of your hand for the rest of the night.
Unlike other mornings, Maekar was not gone when you awoke. He pressed a meaningful kiss to your hand, the same one from before, the same one he had been holding all night, and did not leave.
He stayed when your maid came, who squeaked with surprise to see him sitting at a table in your chambers eating breakfast. He stayed when she ushered you behind the room divide and helped you wash and then dress. He did not leave until your heart was pounding with enough force to make you dizzy, and he told you that he would be seeing you later.
Later.
Dull panic lit a fire in your chest. With every intake of breath, your cunt pulsed. You spent the morning attempting to read a book, only to end up launching it at the wall with enough force that you bent the spine.
Your maid watched the incident with raised brows. She scurried from the room before you could say anything. You swore. No doubt she intended to report to Maekar.
It was a blessing for married couples to find one another desirable. Noble pairings, specifically, for they were so often formed out of duty and decades-old promises. It was a miracle to find love under such conditions.
But that was not what you had planned for. And your fragile state relied upon everything going to plan. Already things had changed when Maekar had been the one to put the ring on your fingers β and now for you to actually want him? It felt like your world was crumbling beneath your feet.
Then you would have to confront the fear that still lingered in your chest every time you so much as thought of the name Brightflame. You would have to think about the betrayal of your family selling you off to someone who was known to be a senseless brute. You would have to think about your siblings, who you missed dearly, and the fact that you might one day have children of your own and not hate the man who made up half of them.
Maekar Targaryen was kind, handsome, and gentler than you had ever expected. You had not prepared for that! He had wormed his way into your heart and you had been too preoccupied with the possibility of Aerion to see it coming. You were angry, betrayed, and now you were afraid.
The weather still hadnβt let up. If anything, it had begun to rain heavier. You tilted your head back, letting the fat drops fall on your face. They were ice cold.
You had used the opportunity of Maryβs absence to leave the castle. At no point had your brain kicked in and steered you back to the warmth of your room. Panic had full control over you.
You glanced over your shoulder to see if anyone was around. The grounds were clear. Chest tight, you began walking. You did not have a destination in mind β only away. Away from the man who made you dizzy and wet and desperate.
Summerhall was surrounded by dense forest that held all manner of beasts. The trees were packed so tightly that little light was able to get in, thus is remained in nearly year-round darkness. You did not think. You headed for the treeline and entered as though you knew where you were going.
Instinct still did not kick in. You picked up the pace, walking one hundred, two hundred, three hundred feet in. You stopped then and looked back. You could see the light of the treeline. You could just about make out the path you had taken.
Then, in the distance, you heard dogs. It wasnβt unusual. Maekar employed hunters who used dogs regularly when stocking the castle with meat.
They sounded different this time, though.
You could hear people in the distance, too. Back toward the castle. You began slowly walking forward again, put off by the noise. And then, you heard him.
βWhere the fuck is she?β
You did not think. You only ran. Your shoes were not suitable for the terrain. Roots sent you sprawling before you regained your footing, only to nearly slip every few steps as you charged deeper into the forest.
A wild laugh bubbled through your lips. Rain pasted your hair to your forehead and trickled icily down your back. You felt crazy. You had felt that way for a month, now, and now you were acting in a way that matched your inner turmoil. Youβd come too far to turn back now.
Suddenly, a hand was fisting in the fabric of your cloak. You gasped at the pressure against your neck as you were yanked back against a hard chest.
You were not sure how far you had gone. Not far enough.
Your chest was heaving, breasts near spilling from your dress. You did not need to turn to know that it was him. You could feel his heart pounding against your back, even through all the fabric of your clothes. Finally, you thought, he feels a little of how I feel.
βWhere,β he said slowly, βdo you think you were going?β
βAnywhere,β you answered, turning to face him. βIt doesnβt matter.β
You placed your hands on his chest, intending to push him away, only to find yourself simply resting them there.
Β Maekarβs cheeks were flushed in a way that made him look almost youthful. He grabbed your hands, keeping them in their position on his chest. He exhaled, warm air caressing over your cold cheeks. You shivered at the temperature difference.
βYou make me feel crazy,β you finally admitted.
The words were heavy. You felt relief when they finally rolled off your tongue. Maekar stilled, eyes flitting around your face. The silence lasted only a beat longer before being broken by a laugh, of all things. His. It echoed through the surrounding area, raspy and loud.
βI have felt like that from the moment I first saw you,β he said lowly, bringing your hands to his face and pressing kisses to your frozen fingers.
βSince I first arrived here?β you asked. You had to know.
Maekar closed his eyes for a moment. βNo,β he murmured, βbefore. It was perhaps a year ago.β
βWhat?β you choked.
βI saw you then,β he continued, βat the tourney. I knew my father had suggested you might be a good match for my son but I β I coveted you. I thought I might be able to bear it. Until you arrived here, and I realised I could not stand to see you by any other manβs side.β
It should have scared you a little. The idea of being on his mind for so long. The knowledge that, from the moment you had arrived at Summerhall, he had never intended for you to marry his son.
Your breathing was still heavy, but it had nothing to do with the running. Maekar still hadnβt let go of your hands. He continued pressing kisses to them before stopping on your right, gently squeezing.
His eyes met yours. βYou touched yourself last night, wife.β
Your knees went weak. βI did.β
βYouβll never have to do that again.β
Maekar backed you against a tree. The damp from the bark immediately began seeping through your clothes, chilling your skin, but you hardly noticed. His words had turned your core into a molten ball of need, and the denial of the past month was quickly catching up to you.
βPull up your skirts,β Maekar commanded. βI β I wonβt have you here. Not like this. But I canβt leave my wife feeling needy. Not any longer.β
Each word made your temple pulse. Trembling, your fingers curled in your skirts and you began to pull until they were bunched around your waist. There was still the physical barrier of your undergarments. Maekar nudged your legs apart with a single foot, nestling his thigh against your core with a confidence that made you sway.
His fingers worked their way down the front of your undergarments until they found the thatch of curls above your core. He caressed you there.
βYouβre so soft here,β he said, eyes narrowing. βIt is a crime that you have kept this from me.β
It was still raining. You could not decide what sensation to focus on. You were torn between the water trickling between your breasts and the fingers stoking the fire at your core. You whined a little and tilted your hips, eager for his touch to delve deeper between your thighs.
βPlease,β you paused for a beat, βhusband.β
Maekar swore. His lips met yours at the same time his finger finally swept across your clit. You gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound, licking into your mouth with a practised move that had your knees weak.
He stayed there, tasting every sound you made as his middle finger began to circle your swollen flesh. Each swipe had you seeing stars behind your eyelids. It felt more intense than anything you had ever done to yourself.
He paused only to dip a finger into your hole, swiping up more arousal to lave over your clit. You let your head fall back against the tree, dimly blinking up at the canopy of trees above. Maekar pressed his lips to your neck, teeth grazing over your pulse point before settling onto the flesh between your neck and shoulder.
He bit down at the same time he pressed with his fingers, making you mewl as he rubbed your clit.
βFuck,β he rumbled, βI could hear you last night. Every godsdamned minute of it. You were wet then but I think you might be wetter now.β
You nearly sobbed as your orgasm began to build. You could feel your cunt convulsing, eager for your husband despite being out in the open. This was what he did to you, and there was no hiding from it. Not anymore.
Your orgasm hit so suddenly that your back arched off the tree, pressing your breasts into Maekarβs chest as caressed you through it. You were babbling through it, apologies and promises and pleading. Maekar kept his fingers on you until you were squirming, too sensitive and aching to withstand his touch.
Still, he did not remove his hand. He cupped your soaking flesh, gently rubbing his fingers over you until you were shuddering and speechless.
βI intended to see you round with my child,β he whispered into your cheek, βthen you will understand that you are mine.β
βYours,β you mumbled, delirious and soaked. You still could not feel the cold from the rain, only the heat the pulsed out from your cunt.
βMine,β he agreed.
He pressed the hard line of his cock against your hip, reminding you of his earlier promise. Later.
a/n - so this is basically when youβre so horny for your husband itβs scary I hope you like it lol
reblogs/comments/likes mean the literal world to me, please donβt forget to leave them if you enjoyedβ₯οΈ
βͺ ππππππ πππππππππ possessed hands that had reshaped kingdoms. They had held sword and shield, dragged wounded men from battle, broken rebels, and delivered death when duty demanded it.
He just never expected you had other things on your mind when you looked at them.
warnings; hand kink, rough sex, breeding kink, baelor fucks you from behind, sinful thoughts, minors do not react.
Eh, I'd like to volunteer as tribute to have his hands wrapped around my throat. Gosh, please tell me I am not the only one.
ππππππ πππππππππ possessed hands that had reshaped kingdoms. They had held sword and shield, dragged wounded men from battle, broken rebels, and delivered death when duty demanded it.
Broad-palmed, calloused, and scarred by years of war, they were hands forged for command, not tenderness.
Yet for all they had accomplished, for all they had taken and protected alike, never, not once, had Baelor imagined that his own wife would become so utterly, hopelessly captivated by them.
He would catch you staring whenever his fingers drummed against a table, tightened the leather of his gloves, or absently turned the pages of a book, your gaze lingering with such shameless devotion that it left the Prince of Dragonstone wondering what, in the Seven Hells, possessed you to look at his hands as though they were the finest treasure in the realm.
It had begun with little things. Your gaze would drift toward his hands whenever he spoke at council, whenever he signed decrees, fastened the clasps of his cloak, or absently rolled the heavy rings upon his fingers with the idle habit of a man deep in thought. At first, he dismissed it as coincidence.
Then he noticed you did it constantly.More often than not, Baelor would lift his eyes from whatever occupied him only to find you staring intently at his hands as his thumb lazily turned one ring after another.
The instant he caught you, your cheeks would bloom crimson. You would sputter the most dreadful excusesβclaiming you had been admiring the craftsmanship of the rings, or wondering whether the metal pinched his fingers, or insisting you had merely been lost in thought. Neither of you believed a single word.
He had faced charging cavalry without flinching, had stood firm before rebellious lords and seasoned warriors alike, yet there was something profoundly bewildering about the look in your eyes whenever they settled upon his hands. It was not mere admiration. It was fascination, tender and unguarded, as though the very hands that had known bloodshed and battle were, to you, the safest thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.
It happened, as most things between you did, in perfect silence.
Baelor sat across from you, the afternoon sun spilling through the windows as he reviewed yet another stack of petitions. One broad hand rested upon the table while the other idly turned the signet ring upon his fingerβa habit so deeply ingrained he scarcely noticed he was doing it.
You noticed, you always fucking noticed.
Your book remained open in your lap, unread for the better part of five minutes, your eyes fixed shamelessly upon the slow roll of gold beneath his thumb.
Baelor sighed without looking up. βAgain?β
You blinked and frowned, βHm?β
βMy hands.β
Now he looked at you, one dark brow lifting in quiet amusement. βYou are staring at them.β
Heat rushed to your face. βI am not.β
He leaned back in his chair, βYou are.β
βI was thinking.β
βAbout my hands.β
You lowered your eyes to your book with all the dignity you could muster. βHmm, they are very nice hands.β
A smile tugged at the corner of Baelor's mouth. βWhat,β he asked, setting the parchment aside at last, βdo you find so fascinating about them?β
You looked up from your book, your gaze driftingβas though entirely of its own accordβto those same broad, scarred hands. Your shoulders rose in a helpless little shrug. βI can just imagine them wrapped around my throat.β
Silence, absolute in it's infinite presence, lingered as Baelor simply stared at you, gaze darkening as amusement lingered beneath them. βOh, is that so?β
You blinked and then, very slowly, the realization of what you had actually said caught up with you.
Your eyes widened. βOh, Seven Hells.β
The book snapped shut over your face. βI did not meanβthat isβI wasn'tββ
Your words dissolved into hopeless spluttering and across the table, the Prince who had negotiated with quarrelsome lords and commanded men in battle found himself utterly speechless for perhaps the first time in years.
βMy sweet lady wife,β he said at last, his voice unusually measured, βthat is not the answer I expected.β
You blushed, βJust pretend I didn't say anything, you are good at that.β
Gods, the sight of your flushed cheeks threatened to undo him, because now he knew he needed to know more, βAnd what else do you imagine when you think of my hands?β
βNothing, my dear husband,β you replied as you tried to return to the book in your hands, looking everywhere else but him.
He groaned and rose an eyebrow, βI see,β but then he pushed back, the scrape of the chair shattering the silence that lingered and your eyes widened when he walked around the table, fingers wrapping around the book and with a careful snap, he pulled it from your grasp, placed it on the table and leaned over youβ
arms bracketing you as he placed them both on the armrests, βLook at me, sweet wife,β you did not, and the breathless hitch that tumbled from your lips as his left hand rose, fingers wrapping perfectly around your throat as his thumb then pushed your head back and then up, βthat is not a nothing reaction.β
βIβI,β you murmured, βit is nothing, I promise.β
But Baelor Targaryen found himself incapable of letting this slip, βNo, no more lies, you know how much I despise it. Tell me, or I will pull it out of you,β and then a sinful thought crossed his mind and his fingers tightened briefly around your throat, thumb pressing between your lips as your entire body shuddered, βslowly, quietly, until you are nothing but a squirming mess beneath these hands you admire so fiercely.β
He pushes his thumb forward, your lips parting and he groans as your mouth then wraps around the finger, pressing down on your tongue, βTell me,β and then he releases you, but just enough to pull you flush against his chest, βor I'll fuck it out of you. Tell me what you imagine, tell me of what you desire.β
Your mouth opened and closed, and the desire he saw reflected in your eyes as you trembled before him, no coherent thought within his mind remained as honourable as he would have liked them to be, βI often think,β you blush further as he pulls you closer, fingers digging into the supple flesh of your hips as the other grips your chin, βof them wrapped around my throat as you fuck me from behind.β
βHmm, such sinful things that occupy my wife's mind, and have you often imagined this whenever these hands of mine distract you?β
You could feel an insistent heat press between your thighs, βNot often, Baelor,β and then you uttered the word that had broken the carefully woven thread that kept him composed, βalways.β
He kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was hungry and desperate and tasted like salt and years of silence, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand fisting in your hair, tilting your head back so he could take your mouth the way he'd wanted to since the moment the words had slipped from your mouth.
You made a soundβa whimper, a moan, you didn't knowβand he swallowed it, pulled you closer, pressed you against his chesty until the warmth of him pressed through your dress.
His hands moved. Down your sides, over your hips, gripping the fabric of your skirts and pulling them up, bunching the wool in his fists until he could slide his palm along your thigh. The skin there was bare, pale and warm, and he groaned against your mouth when he felt it.
βTell me more,β he growled against your lips, turning you around as the back of your knees bumped against the desk.
βI dreamed of this.β He dragged his lips along your jaw as you spoke, down your throat, over the curve of your shoulder where your dress had slipped. βI dreamed of your hands touching, claiming and not stopping.β
You felt the scrape of his nails against your neck as his hand other hand slid lower, fingers finding the wet heat between your thighs, and you gaspedβa sharp, broken sound that he answered with a growl against your collarbone.
βYou're soaked.β His voice was thick, reverent, his fingers pressing against you, through the fabric of your smallclothes. βIs this for me?β
βYes.β You couldn't breathe. βAlwaysβonly youββ
He made a sound that was almost pain, and then his hand was gone, and you heard the tear of fabric, the rip of your smallclothes giving way under his fingers, and you didn't care. You didn't care about anything except the heat of his hand returning, bare skin against bare skin, his fingers sliding through your wetness, finding your entrance, pressing inside you with a single, desperate thrust.
You cry out, your head falling back as he watchesβwatches your face twist with pleasure, your mouth falling open, the way your body arches into his hand. His thumb circles your clit, rough and perfect, and youβre already too close, the weight of what you had just revealed to him something that he intends to fulfill.
βNot yet.β His voice is ragged, strained with need. βNot yet, I needββ
He pulls his hand back, and you sob at the loss, desperate for him. But then his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your protests, while his other hand fumbles urgently with the laces of his breeches. βI need to be inside you. I need to feel youββ
You reach down, finding him through the fabric, feeling the heavy heat of his cock straining against his trousers. He shudders, his forehead dropping to yours, breath mingling with yours in the tight space between.
βIβm not going to last,β he warns, voice rough and low. βGods, you have ruined me, you little minx. I needβfuck, you thought of these hands and thought sinful things.β
βYes,β Your fingers clumsily pull at his laces, desperate and urgent, until you can wrap your hand around the length of him. He is hot and hard, leaking, and the sound he makes when you grip him is broken, raw, almost animalistic.
βI want to feel you. I wantββ he grabs your wrist and shakes his head, grinning against your lips as he kisses you once more.
βYou wanted my hands, sweet girl, you are going to get them.β
Baelor did not waste time, nor did he waste his words, he did not waitβhe simply pulled you flush against his back, wrapped the fingers of his left hand around your throat, turned you both and pressed the other against your back and promptly bent you over his desk. βIs this what you imagined?β
βFuck, yes.β his fingers tightened around your throat and then he hooked two of his fingers into your mouth, pulled your head back and grinned.
βThen what husband will I be not to indulge your desires,β His hand found your hip, pulled your arse flush against him and you felt the head of his cock press against your entrance, the slick heat of your body welcoming him, and he paused.
He pushed inside you in one long, desperate stroke, you felt it everywhere.
The stretch, the fullness, the way he filled you completely, pressing deeper than you'd thought possible. Your back arched against his chest, fingers curling around the edge of the table, and he groaned into the air, his mouth opening and closing as he removed his hand from your hip, thrust forward and then growled.
βFuck,β he moved, pulled out and thrust back in, harder this time, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the quiet solar.
The candlelight flickered.
And you, pinned beneath him, gripping the table as if your life depended on it and voice muffled as his fingers delved deeper into your mouth, gods, what else had you kept hidden within your mind?
βSo this is what you imagined,β he murmured, βwhenever you looked at my hands.β
Baelorβs grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm. He kept two fingers hooked deep in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue while his hips snapped forward again, burying every inch of his cock inside you in one brutal stroke.
The desk creaked under the force. Your muffled moan vibrated around his fingers as he fucked you harder, each thrust driving you forward until your hips slammed against the wooden edge.
He leaned over your back, chest pressed hot against your spine, and growled low in your ear. βYou wanted thisβbeing bent over and used like a whore in my solar.β His fingers slid deeper, almost gagging you, saliva dripping down your chin onto the papers scattered across the desk.
He pulled out until only the head remained inside, then slammed back in, the wet sound of your cunt taking him filling the room.
Baelorβs hand left your hip to reach beneath you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in rough circles while he kept pounding into you. βLook at how wet you are,β he rasped, voice thick with lust.
βDripping down my cock every time I fuck into you.β He thrust again, deeper, grinding against your cervix, and the pressure made your legs shake.
He released your throat only to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so your spine arched sharply.
His fingers stayed stuffed in your mouth, forcing you to suck on them while he railed you from behind. The slap of skin grew louder, faster. Sweat beaded on his chest and dripped onto your back as he used you, hips pistoning without mercy.
βTell me what else you want,β he demanded, voice hoarse. βBecause Iβm not stopping until this tight little cunt is overflowing with my cum.β He angled his thrusts to drag against that sensitive spot inside you, each stroke deliberate and punishing, pushing you closer to the edge with every brutal snap of his hips. βI will not repeat myself,β he growled, βtell me.β
βFuck, BaelorβI, I only ever thought of you taking me like this, your hands claiming every inch of me, gods, I imagined that perhaps if you fucked me like this long enough, I'd be able to give you a child.β
Baelorβs rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then slowed into deep, rolling thrusts that dragged every thick inch of his cock through your soaked walls.
He eased his fingers from your mouth, sliding his palm down to cup your throat instead, thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. His chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick skin sliding together as he curled over you, mouth brushing your ear.
βKeep talking,β he murmured, voice low and velvet-rough. βTell me how you picture my hands on our child.β
His free hand slid beneath you, palm splayed wide across your lower belly, fingers spreading as though already imagining the swell there.
Each measured thrust bottomed out, grinding against your cervix, filling you so completely you could feel the heavy pulse of his cock inside you.
βI'd like to give you a daughter, and I can't help but imagine how you'd hold her.β
He huffed a breathless laugh. βIβd hold her the way I have always held you, not in the same manner I have done now,β he breathed, lips tracing the shell of your ear. βGentle. Careful. But these same hands would never let go.β
His hips rolled forward again, slow and deliberate, the head of his cock nudging that tender spot with each pass.
βIβd cradle her against my chest while you rest. Kiss her tiny fingers. Watch her sleep between us.β
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another, softer, as his thrusts stayed deep and unhurried, letting you feel every ridge and vein.
βA daughter,β he repeated, almost reverent. βOurs. Iβd teach her to be strong, but Iβd also be the one she runs to when sheβs scared. And every night Iβd come back to you and put another one inside you if thatβs what you wanted.β
His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make you feel owned, while the hand on your belly stroked in slow circles, matching the steady rhythm of his cock claiming you.
βSay it again,β he whispered. βTell me how badly you want me to breed you until youβre carrying my child.β
LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING HANDS! LOOK AT THEM! SOMEONE SUFFER WITH ME.
summary: you thought you could leave baelor targaryen. you had the lawyer, you had the papers, you had every reason in the world. what you didnβt have was any idea how far he was willing to go to make sure you didnβt. (6k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
contents: modern au, canon divergent, age gap, established marriage, jealousy, toxic!baelor, obsessive!baelor, dark!baelor, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, he loves you badly but he loves you completely cw: toxic relationship dynamics, manipulation, blackmail, threats, dubcon elements, baby trapping, smut 18+ (MDNI): unprotected sex, possessive sex, he will not let you leave and your body is a traitor about it, don't like the tags don't read it.
part II: βwhat staysβ
You had been sitting in the dark long enough to finish two glasses of wine and start a third, long enough for the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows to stop being beautiful and start being just light, long enough to rehearse what you were going to say so many times that the words had stopped feeling like words and started feeling like something final, and you were still sitting there, in the dark, on the couch you had picked out together, wondering where it had gone all wrong.Β
Your family had no name and no money, not the kind that mattered in this city, not the kind that got you into rooms like this one, and Baelor Targaryen had both in quantities that other people spent their lives chasing and never caught, and you had never understood, not when he first looked at you across a room and decided, with quiet certainty of his, that you were the one he wanted, and not in the years since what it was he had seen in you.
You still didnβt. You had turned that question over in your mind for years now and still had no answer for it, and maybe that was the problem.Β
Or maybe the problem was something else entirely, something that smelled like Chanel No.5 and worked the front desk on the forty-second floor of Targaryen Group and had absolutely no business being the reason your three year marriage was falling apart.
You had tried for longer than you wanted to admit, not to believe it. Had told yourself it was nothing, that you were merely just being foolish, that Baelor Targaryen was many things but he was not that, he had never been that. You tried telling yourself that he was just busy, that the acquisition was demanding, that the late nights were the industry and not the woman, that the business trips were exactly what he said they were. You had told yourself that story so many times it had almost started to sound true.
And then there was the office party.
He had wanted you there, had said it was expected, had kissed the top of your head and said he didn't want to go alone, and you had gone because you loved him and because saying no to Baelor when he looked at you like that had never been something you were particularly good at.Β
The venue was the kind of place that made you very aware of your own posture, all clean lines and open bars and people who wore their money, and you had been standing beside him, his hand at the small of your back, feeling almost like yourself, until she appeared.Β
She had smiled at you first, which was the thing you remembered most. That smile, bright and deliberate, her red lipstick immaculate, her eyes moving over you with an assessment so quick and so thorough you almost missed it. βYou wouldnβt mind if I steal your husband for a few quick minutes,β she had said, and her hand had gone to his upper arm as she said it, her red nails against his sleeve, easy and familiar, the touch of someone who had done it before. βSomething just needs to be checked in the office, urgently.β
Baelor had given nothing away. He had looked at you, said heβd be right back, and followed her, while you stood there with your drink and your smile, and your very well-practiced composure and told yourself it was nothing.
Seconds became minutes, minutes became an hour.
You had found daeron at the bar, Baelorβs nephew, who was good company in the uncomplicated way of someone who wasnβt trying to be anything other than he was, and you had drunk more than you intended to and not questioned out loud why an hour was somehow still a few minutes, but when Baelor eventually reappeared you had let him put you in the car, and take you home and you said nothing, because what were you going to say, because you had no proof, because you were his wife and you trusted him.
You told yourself that too. For months.
There were always secretes, you had come to understand, in lives like this one. Wealth like Baelorβs didnβt come clean, it never did, and you had known that when you married him, had chosen it anyways, had told yourself that the way he looked at you when it was just the two of you made up for everything else that came with his name.Β
But now you werenβt sure you still believed that.
And so you sat in the dark, and you drank, rethinking the choice of getting married to a guy who was a widow for years, and waited for the sound you had gotten very good at waiting for.
His key in the door.Β
It came at two forty-seven am, because you had been watching the clock the way you had started watching everything lately, tracking the evidence, and the lock turned and the door opened, the light from the hallway came in first, a rectangle of it falling across the floor, and then Baelor, still in his suit blazer, his tie loosened, looking down at his phone as he came in, the way he always looked down at his phone.
He reachedd for the light switch without looking up.
The lamp came on.Β
He saw you.
βWhatββ He stopped. Looked at you properly for the first time, at the glass in your hand and the bottle on the coffee table and whatever was on your face, and something shifted in his expression, the phone coming down to his side. βWhatβs going on?β
You looked at him from across the room, this many you had married, this man whose shirts you wore on a regular basis, whose coffee order you could recite in your sleep, whose laugh you had not heard properly in months, and felt the words that you had been repeating sitting in your chest like stones.
βWhere have you been,β you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended, the kind of soft that wasnβt calm at all, the kind that came from trying very hard to hold something together.
He heard it. You could tell he heard it by the way something in his face settled into a careful expression, the one he put on when he was deciding how to manage a situation.
βWork,β he said. βI told you I had a late meeting, I sent you aββ
βYou sent me a text at seven saying youβd be home by nine.β You kept your eyes on him, and kept your face as still as you could make it, βItβs nearly three in the morning, Baelor.β
He set his phone down on the console table by the door with quiet deliberateness, and came further into the room, loosening his tie the rest of the way, and you watched him move through your home like a man with nothing to answer for and felt something tighten in your chest.
βHow much have you had,β he said, glancing at the bottle.
βThatβs not what I asked you.β
βIβm asking you something first.β He said it the way you said things to children, patiently, reasonably, and you felt your jaw tighten. βHow much wine have you had tonight?β
βEnough,β you said.
βClearly,β he said, the word landed with a lightness that was worse than if he had shouted it, and he draped his jacket over the back of the chair and turned to look at you with a patient expression, one that made you feel like a problem he was calculating how to solve. βCome to bed.β
You felt something flicker across your face that you couldnβt quite stopβ something between disbelief and the exhaustion of a woman who had been having this conversation in her head for months and was only now having it out loud. βI don't want to go to bed.β
"You've been sitting in the dark drinking by yourself," he said, evenly, "which means you've been in your head all evening, which means whatever you've decided to pick a fight about is going to seem considerably less significant in the morning." He said it like he was being reasonable. He said it like he was doing you a favour. "Come to bed."
"The phone calls," you said. Your voice was steady. You were proud of that, how steady your voice was. "The ones where you leave the room."
He looked at you and said nothing, and you looked back at him and kept going.
"Every time," you said. "You look at the screen, you get up, you go to the kitchen or the hallway or wherever it is that you go, then you come back, kissing me like nothing happened and sometimes you say you need to go back into the office and you leave. Every time." You swallowed. "Who are you talking to."
"Work," he said, simply, like the word was self-evident, like you were being slow.
"At ten o'clock at night."
"I'm the CEO of a private equity firm with holdings across three continents," he said, still in that patient voice that was going to make you lose your mind, "yes, sometimes at ten o'clock at night. You know this."
"The business trips." You pressed on because if you stopped you would lose your nerve. "Four in the last two months. You used to go twice a year."
"The Essos acquisitionβ"
"The dinners." Something in your face shifted, something you couldn't help, the particular look of a person trying very hard not to feel what they were feeling. "Date night, three weeks ago, you cancelled an hour before. Our anniversary dinner, you were two hours late and you smelled likeβ" your voice caught on the word and you pushed past it, "you came home and you kissed me and you smelled like her perfume, Baelor, and you said you needed to go back in, there was something you forgot, and you left, and I sat hereβ"
"The wine," he said, "is clearly getting to you."
You stopped.
You looked at him, at the calm of his face, at the patient set of his mouth, and felt something that had been soft in you go very quiet and very cold.
"I'm serious," he said, and his voice had gone gentle in the way that made it worse, the way that said I am the reasonable one and you are not, "you've been sitting here alone for hours working yourself up into something and I understand that you'reβ"
"Don't," you said.
"I understand the last few months haven't been easy, I know I've been distracted, I'm not dismissing thatβ"
"You're doing it right now." Your voice came out harder than you planned. "You're making it about how I'm feeling instead of what I'm asking you. You're making me the problem."
βBecause how youβre feeling is relevant,β he said, and glanced at the bottle, βwhen youβve had most of that by yourself and youβre sitting in the dark waiting toββ
"I'm waiting for my husband," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word, just slightly, just enough, and you saw it land on his face, saw something move through his expression that you could not name, and you looked away from him because you were not going to cry in front of him tonight, you had promised yourself that, "who told me he'd be home hours ago."
The room was quiet.
He crossed to the coffee table and sat down in front of you, close, closer than you wanted, close enough that you could see his eyes clearly in the lamplight, one brown and one blue, both of them on you with attention that had made you fall in love with him and was now making you feel like a witness being cross-examined, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and said, low and even, "I am not cheating on youββ
"I want a divorce," you said suddenly.
Something moved across his face. Raw, just for a moment, before the composure came back down like a shutter.
"No," he said.
βBaelorββ
"No." Flat, absolute, the voice of a man who had made a decision and was not interested in discussing it. "We are not doing this."
You stood up. Your legs were steadier than they had any right to be. "I'm getting a lawyer."
He stood too, and he was broader than you forgot sometimes, his bearded jaw set, something in his face that was no longer the patient composure, no longer the careful evenness, it was something that had dropped its mask, and his hand closed around your arm, not hard but firm, and he said, "Stop. Justβ listen to me for one minuteβ"
"No." You pulled your arm away, sharply, and the sharpness of it surprised you both. "I have listened to this bullshit for months! Every single excuse, every single reasonable explanation, I am so done with listening, I'm getting a goddamn lawyerβ"
βA lawyer.β He let out a short sound that wasnβt quite a laugh. βYou think itβs going to be that simple.β His voice had gone low again, and he looked at you with those mismatched eyes and said, βI know every lawyer in this city. Every single one. You think one of them is going to take a case against me because my wie has had too many glasses of wine and decided Iβm cheating on her.β
You went still.
You looked at him, at the cold certainty of his face, and felt something move through you that was not quite fear and not quite fury but lived somewhere between the two.
You let out a short laugh, humourless, and shook your head. "Of course," you said, quietly, more to yourself than to him.
βIβm seriousββ
"So am I." You turned away from him and started toward the bedroom. "I'll find someone. I don't care how long it takes, I'll find someone who will make you sign the papers."
"You're drunk out of your mind." He was following you, his voice behind you, still with that controlled edge that was unravelling at the seams. "You're not thinking straight. I'm telling you it won't go the way you think, I'm asking you to stop and talk to me properly, we are not getting aβ"
You slammed the bedroom door in his face.
The force of it shook the frame, and you turned the lock before the sound had finished echoing, and stood there with your hand still on the handle and your chest heaving and the silence on the other side pressing back against the door like something solid.
"I'm getting a lawyer, Baelor." Your voice came out steady, which was the only thing you had left. "I mean it."
Nothing came from the other side. Then, after a long moment, his footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving away down the hall.
You stood there in the dark for a long time after that.Β
Eventually you lay down on the bed, still dressed, and looked at the ceiling, and did not cry, because you had been crying alone in this penthouse for months and you were finished with it. You were so finished with it.
He had started coming home early.
That was the thing you hadn't anticipated, the thing that made the week after considerably harder than it should have been, because you had built your anger on a foundation of absence and he had removed the absence, which left you standing on something that felt less solid than it had.
You avoided him at all costs. You lay in bed and listened for the sound of the front door closing, and only then, only when you were sure he was gone, did you come out. You padded around the flat in one of his shirts, which was too big for you and which you had grabbed in the dark one morning without thinking and then refused to acknowledge the irony of, and you made yourself coffee and ate whatever was in the fridge then moved through the rooms like you were the only person who lived there.
He had tried to talk to you the morning after. You had heard him outside the bedroom door, and when you opened it he had looked at you with something on his face that you didn't want to name and started to say something careful and measured and you had cut him off before he got three words in.
"I want the divorce," you said. "It's not changing."
He had looked at you for a long moment and said nothing, and you had closed the door again, and that was that.
The days that followed had their own particular shape. He came home earlier than he had in months, which you noticed and did not comment on. The late calls stopped, or became shorter, or moved somewhere you couldn't track them. He left coffee for you one morning before he left, made exactly the way you liked it, and you stood in the kitchen in his shirt looking at the cup and felt something complicated move through your chest and then put it away and went back to looking for lawyers.
Because that was what you spent your days doing. Searching, calling, being passed from one firm to the next, each one either conflicted out or quietly unwilling the moment you said the name Targaryen. He had not been exaggerating about that, which made you furious in a way you had not expected, a cold and very specific fury that had nothing to do with the perfume or the late nights and everything to do with the fact that even trying to leave him was something he could make difficult without trying.
You found one on the ninth day. His name was Gerold Hightower, a small firm, old school, the kind that had been around long enough not to be impressed by anyone, and he listened to everything you said without writing anything down and then looked at you over the top of his glasses and said he'd take it.Β
You had explained everythingβ the trips, the calls, the hours, the perfume, the office party, the hour that was supposed to be a few minutesβ and he had listened to all of it and nodded and handed you the papers and told you they needed Baelor's signature, and that if Baelor declined, they were going to court.
You had signed your name on the line and felt, for the first time in weeks, like you could breathe.
You did not go home first. You drove straight to Targaryen Group.
The building sat in the middle of the city the way everything Targaryen satβ like it had always been there and always would be, like the city had been built around it rather than the other way around. You had walked through those lobby doors on Baelor's arm more times than you could count, had smiled at the staff and taken the private elevator and sat across from him at his desk while the city spread out below the floor-to-ceiling windows and thought, more than once, that you would never entirely get used to the scale of it.
Today you walked in alone, in a baggy tracksuit, your hair barely done, the red folder under your arm, and you didn't care even slightly about the way the lobby staff clocked you and looked away. Who were you trying to impress? You were here to end a marriage, not attend a board meeting.
You pressed the button for the lift and waited, and that was when you heard it. The click of heels on marble, and underneath it, the obnoxious rhythmic sound of someone chewing gum, and you turned your head and there she was.
Elizabeth. You had learned her name somewhere along the way, in the particular grim investigative way you had learned a lot of things over the past months. She was dressed the way she always seemed to be dressed, like she had given the morning a great deal of thought, her red lipstick already immaculate, and when she saw you her jaw slowed on the gum and something moved across her face that she recovered from quickly but not quickly enough.
"Mrs Targaryen," she said, and her voice came out bright and smooth, the voice of someone who had done customer-facing work long enough to smile through anything. "What a pleasure, I wasn't expecting youβ"
"Can't say the same," you said pleasantly, and watched the smile flicker.
The silence that followed had an uncomfortable quality that she tried to fill. "How have you been lately?" she asked, and she was clicking the heel of one shoe against the marble now, a small unconscious tap, her eyes moving briefly to the closed lift doors and back.
"Honestly?" You tilted your head, like you were considering it. "Really quite good. Better than I've been in a while, actually. I'm getting a divorce, which I think is going to suit me very well."
Her mouth opened then closed, then the hell stopped clicking. βYouβreββ
The lift doors opened.
You stepped toward them and then stopped, and turned back to look at her, and held out the red folder. "You're going up to his office, aren't you."
"I have some paperwork toβ he didn't say anything about aβ"
"He wouldn't." You pressed the folder to her chest, and she grabbed it before it could fall, both hands closing around it with a startled instinct, and you looked at her very directly and said, "Be an angel. Before you get up to whatever it is you both love getting up to after everyone else goes homeβ tell him to sign those papers. Tonight. Or I'm dragging him to court, and I have a very good lawyer who is very much looking forward to it."
"Mrs Targaryen, I genuinely don't know what you think isβ"
You left her alone as you walked back out from where you came from, and ignored the doubt that settled into your gut, as you recalled her confusion.
You did not look back, you didnβt dare to.
You came home later than him.
You knew before you even opened the front door, some animal awareness of the changed quality of the air, the particular stillness of a space that had someone in it waiting, and you turned your key slowly and pushed the door open and reached for the light.
He was sitting on the couch. Just like you had, days ago, except he had already turned the lights on, and his blazer was off, his tie was loosened all the way and he was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, with the red folder that was open on the coffee table in front of him, the papers spread out, looking at them when you walked in.
He looked up at the sound of the door.Β
"You signed them?" The surprise in your voice came out before you could stop it. Maybe Elizabeth had finally gotten what she wanted. Maybe the mistress had made her case in person and he had decided the easiest thing was to just let you go, so that he could finally be with her, without any complications.
He looked at you for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away, and then looked back at the papers.
"No," he said.
Something dropped in your chest. "Baelorβ"
"I'm not signing this." He sat back, unhurried, and looked at you, the corner of his mouth moved into something that was almost a smile, small and certain, and the sight of it made your blood run hot.Β
The absolute audacity of him, sitting there smiling at you like this was amusing, like you were amusing, like three years of marriage and a week of silence and a folder full of divorce papers were something he found faintly entertaining.
"Just sign the damned papers." You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop to the floor, as you looked at him across the room and felt the desperation of it, how tired you were, how much you just needed this to be over. "Please. Sign them and let us both out of this."
"Let's talk about what happens if I don't." He tilted his head, still with that smile, and there was something in his eyes that was cold in a way you hadn't let yourself see before, or hadn't wanted to.
"You take this to court. These people, in this city, outside of this cityβ they kiss the ground my family walks on, the ground I walk on. You know that. You've seen it. You think a judge is going to look at you, at where you came from, at what you had before me, and side with you?" He paused, letting it land. "You leave me, you leave with nothing. Your family leaves with nothing. Everything you have, everything they have, it all came through this name. You know that's true, beautiful, so stop playing stupid."
"Sign the papers," you said, and your voice had gone flat.
"And then there's the other thing." His voice dropped into something quieter, and he picked up one of the papers and looked at it like it mildly interested him, like he was reading the weather and not dismantling your life. "The video."
You went still.
"Few months back. You came to the office after hours." His eyes came up to yours, slow and certain.Β
"Security cameras in that building are thorough. Very thorough that they got a clear shot of you coming in. Got a clear shot of you going to my office. Got a very clear shot of you on your knees under my desk with your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock." He said it the way he said everything, evenly, without drama, like it was simply a fact he was presenting. "My face isn't in the frame. The angle never catches me. But yours is. Every second of it, your face, perfectly clear." He set the paper back down.Β
"You want to think about what a courtroom makes of that. The Targaryen heir's wife, caught on her own husband's office security footage, on her knees for someone whose face the camera never caught." The smile returned, small and dark. "They won't know it's me. That's the part that's going to be very difficult for you to explain."
"You sickβ" Your voice broke on it and you hated yourself for it, hated the burn behind your eyes, hated that he could still do this to you, that after everything he could still make your hands shake. "You would actually use that. You would stand there and threaten me with that."
"I'm not threatening you." He looked at you patient and cold and entirely focused. "I'm telling you what exists. I'm explaining the situation clearly, the way you've always said you wanted things explained." He stood up slowly, and crossed to the coffee table, and looked down at the papers spread out across it. "You walk into that courtroom and I promise you, you will walk out with nothing. No settlement, no name, no dignity, and that video somewhere it cannot be recalled. And I will be very, very sorry about all of it." The corner of his mouth moved. "Seems like a great deal of trouble for a divorce you don't actually want."
"It's blackmail!" The word tore out of you and your voice cracked on it and your tears fell and you didn't even try to stop them, because you were past that, you were so far past that. "That is blackmail, that is a threat, you are threatening me, and you have the absolute audacity to stand there and do this when you've been the oneβ" your voice broke again and you pressed your hands over your face, your fingers shaking against your cheeks. "When you've been cheating on me. You've been cheating on me this whole time and you're standing there threatening me with a video of me and acting like I'm the problemβ"
"That," he said, and something shifted in his voice, the coldness dropping out of it entirely, replaced by something that sounded almost like frustration, like genuine frustration, like a man who had reached the end of something, "is where you are completely wrong."
You looked at him through your hands.
"I never cheated on you." He said it simply, without the performance of it, without the careful evenness, just the words. "I never did. Not once. Not even close."Β
He stood and walked toward you slowly, and you watched him come and couldn't make yourself move, couldn't make yourself do anything, your hands still pressed to your face and your tears still falling and all of it, the whole terrible weight of the past weeks, sitting on your chest. "I know how it looked. I know what the late nights looked like and the calls and the trips, I know exactly how it looked, and I should haveβ" he stopped. His jaw tightened. "I should have seen what it was doing to you and I didn't, and that's on me. That is entirely on me."
He reached up and took your hands away from your face, gently, and held them, and then his hands moved to your face, cradling it, his thumbs moving across your cheeks and catching your tears, you looked up at him with all of it written on your face, the hatred and the hurt and the desperate exhausted want for any of this to make sense.
"I'm not lying to you," he said, low and close, his eyes on yours. "I have never lied to you. Thisβ" he glanced briefly toward the papers on the coffee table, "this is how far I am willing to go to stop you from throwing away something real because of something that isn't. You made me come to this point. You pushed me here."
"Don't you dare," you said, and your voice came out wet and furious, "make this my faultβ"
"I'm not." His hands tightened slightly on your face. "I'm saying I love you. I'm saying I am not letting you go. Those are not the same thing."
You looked at him, at those mismatched eyes close to yours, at the particular quality of his certainty that had always undone you and was undoing you now in a way you resented completely, you felt something pull in your chest that you did not want to feel, and so you reached up, pushed his hands away from your face and stepped back and shook your head, you turned and walked to the bedroom with fury carrying your feet because if you slowed down you were going to fall apart.
"Do whatever the fuck you want," you said, shoving the bedroom door open hard enough that it swung back against the wall. "I'm leaving."
You went straight to the wardrobe and grabbed the first bag you could reach and started pulling things off hangers, off shelves, underwear, shirts, whatever your hands found first, not folding anything, not thinking, just moving, because moving was the only thing that was holding you together.
"I'm talking to you." His voice from the doorway, and then his footsteps behind you.
"I'm not listening," you said, and grabbed another handful of clothes.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Lookβ"
His hand closed around the bag and yanked it out of your grip and threw it across the room and it hit the floor with a dull thud that landed in the silence like a full stop.
You spun to face him. He was right there, closer than you'd realised, and he looked at you with something that was past cold now, past the boardroom composure, past all of it, something that was just raw and furious and desperate all at once, the face of a man who had run out of patience and hadn't found anything calmer underneath it.
"You're not getting this," he said. "Are you? You genuinely don't understand that I am not letting you walk out of here."
"Just let me go!" Your voice came out ragged, and you meant it, you meant every word of it, and you tried to move past him but his hands found your arms and held you, not hard, just immovable, and he walked you back slowly, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sat down hard and looked up at him.
"Tell me what you need," he said. "Anything. You name it, it's done. You want me home every night, I'm home every night, no exceptions. You want the trips stopped, they stop. You want Elizabeth out of that building by tomorrow morningβ" something moved across his face, "she's already gone, I'll call it in tonight, I don't care." His hands tightened around yours. "You want me to prove it to you, I will spend however long it takes proving it. Whatever it is. Just tell me."
You looked at him, at his face this close to yours, and felt your chin tremble and hated it.
"You can't just say that," you said. "You can't just say whatever I want and expectβ"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." His voice was low against your skin, as he laid you back against the bed slowly, his hand pressing into the mattress beside your head, and pressed his lips to your jaw, your neck, moving down with unhurried patience, the patience that had always undone you, that you had spent months missing without letting yourself name what you were missing.
"Baelorβ" His name came out unsteady and you hated how unsteady it was, hated what it gave away.
He didn't stop. His mouth moved to your collarbone, your neck, and then lower, to the neckline of the shirt, his shirt, one of the many you had been wearing around the flat for a week without acknowledging why, and he paused there with his lips at the edge of the fabric and looked up at you, and his eyes in the low light of the bedroom had that quality they sometimes had, the one that made you feel like the only thing in the room worth looking at.
You tried getting up, but it was to no avail as he pushed you further into the bed, his weight shifted and you werenβt going anywhere, and some part of you that you werenβt proud of didnβt entirely want to.
"Have I not given you everything," he said, his voice dropping against the slope of your neck, his lips finding the skin there, slow and deliberate. "Have I not given you all of it."
You had no answer for that. Because the honest answer was yes, and you both knew it was yes, and the yes of it didn't make any of the other things less trueβ the manipulation, the threats, the cold certainty of a man who had decided you belonged to him and acted accordinglyβ but it sat in your chest anyway, heavy and real and deeply inconvenient.
"You didβ and I know that," you said, and your voice came out shaky in a way you couldn't help, and your eyes were burning again, and you were so tired of your own tears at this point, so tired of how easily he could bring them out of you.
His hand found your throat.
Not hard. Not hurting. Just the weight of it, warm and certain, fingers curving lightly at your jaw, and your hand came up without thinking and rested over his, and his eyes moved to yours and stayed there. His breathing had changed. Something in his face had dropped every last layer of the composure, every last bit of the boardroom and the cold and the careful patience, and what was underneath it was something rawer and considerably more dangerous.
"You say that, my love," he said, very quietly, "and then you spend a week locking doors and walking around in my shirt like I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice." His thumb moved once along your jaw. "I think it's time I reminded you what you keep trying so hard to forget."
"Baelorβ" His name came out wrong again, too soft, not enough warning in it.
His lips came down on yours and it wasn't gentle. It was hungry and certain and relentless, the kiss of a man who had been patient for a week and was completely finished with patience, and you felt it move all the way through you, your hands coming up to his chest without quite managing to push.
Β He followed when you turned your face, his mouth finding your jaw, your neck, and then back again, and his hands were warm and certain on your skin, pulling the shirt over your head before you had entirely decided not to stop him.
The cold air hit you and you pressed into him without meaning to, and he was already there, arms pulling you in, and his lips were at your throat and his hands were everywhere and you felt your thoughts go quiet one by one, the lawyer and the papers and the week of locked doors and all of it dissolving under his hands until there was nothing left but the warmth of him and the dark of the room and the specific, devastating patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had all night to do it.
"Baelor," you said, against his shoulder, and it didn't sound like stop anymore.
"I know," he said, low against your skin. "I've got you."
You hadnβt even realised when your pants had been pushed down and discarded somewhere on the floor. The only thing that made it register was the sudden pressure of Baelorβs knee sliding between your thighs, forcing them apart with a quiet insistence that made your breath catch.
He didnβt rush.
That was the worst part of it.
Baelor moved slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. His mouth trailed down your body in unhurried kisses, each one lingering just long enough to make you tense, waiting to see where heβd go next. There was something restless in the way he touched you, an impatience buried beneath control, like he was holding himself back by sheer force.
You watched him through a haze as he straightened briefly, unbuttoning his top and letting it fall somewhere beside the bed. The movement was quick, careless, his attention never really leaving you.
When he leaned over you again, his gaze was darker.
βLook at you,β he murmured, voice low and rougher than usual. His hand slid up your side, slow enough to make you shiver.Β
The shift of his weight stole the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred again as you clutched at his shoulders, tears slipping past your temples from the intensity of it.
Baelor let out a strained groan under his breath, the sound deep in his chest. For a moment he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight like he was trying to keep himself composed.
βGod,β he muttered quietly, almost to himself. His hand tightened slightly where it held your hip. βYouβve no idea what you do to me.β
The restraint didnβt last.
His grip grew firmer, movements more certain, like the control he normally carried so carefully was beginning to slip. Each breath he took sounded heavier than the last, his composure unraveling piece by piece.
βYou want to leave?β he said quietly, his voice rough now, but still controlled enough to cut. βYou think you can just walk out and untangle yourself from me like Iβm a bad investment?β
His hand slid down your side, slow, deliberate, possessive.Β
βYou donβt understand,β he continued moving inside of you, eyes locked on yours. βThere is no version of this where you and I end separately.β
Your heart was beating too fast. Too loud. You hated that your body still reacted to him, hated that even now he could make your thoughts blur.
His forehead pressed to yours again, but this time there was no softness in it.
βIβll never let you go.βΒ
βI promise Iβm going to be good to you,β he said softly, like he was offering you something generous. βItβs going to be usβ¦ and a baby.β
Your eyes widened instantly, panic breaking clean through the haze.
The word landed heavier than the threats had. He felt it. You knew he did.
βBaelor, no what are you talkingββ you said, your voice sharp with fear now, hands pushing at his chest.
He caught your wrists easily. Not hurting. Just immovable.
βYes,β he corrected, calm as ever.
βYou wouldnβt leave then,β he continued, quieter now, studying your face like he was already seeing the future play out. βYou wouldnβt take my child away from me. You wouldnβt drag this through court when thereβs something tying us together.β
His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye where tears had gathered again.
β§ Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
β§ Content warning: yearning, reserved and guilt-ridden Baelor, age difference, boot humping, subtle daddy issues, drunken confession, masturbation, loss of virginity, combat-induced arousal, slight hand kink.
β¦ β Thrust into a politically arranged marriage to the widowed heir to the throne, you spend your days desiring the attention of a man who views you only as a fulfilled duty.
Your heart tinged painfully at the sight of your husband throwing his head back in laughter, the sound falling on your ears with a clarity that easily reached you from where you were seated some distance away.Β
It left you feeling inexplicably hollow.
Baelor was sparring with his sons, as he often would the first chance he had to escape both the watchful eyes of the court and his duties as hand.
You wondered if he was upset that you would often pry on the private moments, frequently planning your time on the balcony overseeing the training yard with his own arrival. Each time, his eyes would brush over you before his attention would return to his sons, never landing in your direction a second time for the remainder of the session.
Despite this, you would return, watching the way his lightly tanned skin would glisten from sweat in the sun, whilst wishing you could tangle your fingers within the grey-flecked, charcoal hair matted to his forehead and nape. He had stopped cutting it so short, instead allowing for it to grow to a length thatβ
Suddenly, he was leaving the yard.
You leapt to your feet and raced through the halls, ignoring the disapproving glances from both nobles and their working attendants.
You reached the secluded area that you had discovered had the best view of the washbasin adjacent to the training yard just as Baelor was removing his arming doublet; the shelter provided an unobstructed line of vision for you to watch as he washed the grime and sweat that had gathered from combat, whilst also shielding you from onlookers.Β
Unexpectedly, he pulled off his training tunic and undershirt in one move, leaving him bared from the waist up.
Oh.
Your mouth parted as your breathing quickened.
The flush that had made its way over his skin from exertion was beginning to fade, but the sweat that had accumulated dripped down his back. Your nails dug into your palm as a desire to trace your fingers against the many scars that marred his skin surfaced, the passing years turning their colour lighter than the unblemished flesh around them.
Baelor cupped his hands together and tossed water over his face, droplets trickling from his beard to drip down his thick torso. The dark and grey hair that covered his chest and lower abdomen were matted to his skin, just as the hair atop his head was.Β
βFather,β a voice called from behind, drawing Baelor's attention with a partial turn of his head.
Matarys approached, standing close to the older man as they spoke in a low tone.
You could scarcely hear what Baelor was saying, broken words of, βnext time,β and, βmore difficult to deflect,β was all you were able to make out of their conversation.
Then, Baelor ruffled his son's hair with a wet, ring adorned hand and you were recalling what that same hand had felt like on you. A heated flutter travelled through your belly and down the length of your legs as images of the night you and the older prince had consummated your marriage flickered through your thoughts.
Baelor had been so gentle, fingers coaxing you open, patiently bringing you to completion multiple times before pulling your body down to the edge of the bed.
He had loomed over you, still clothed, and then as he remained standing, aligned himself with your core before finalizing the union of your houses with a firm, but slow, thrust into you.
You had gasped, hips involuntarily twisting away from the piercing length penetrating you but Baelor's hands held you in place with a firm, secure purchase on your hips.Β
You had found bruises the morning after, wide, colourful marks that you had traced over with a flutter in your abdomen and a tingle between your legs.
Only when you had ceased wiggling and settled into the slow but steady rhythm he maintained, did Baelor move a hand to the top of your mound.
Without warning, he pressed down, the ring upon his finger forming a tiny indent as the pressure increased, his other hand moving so that his thumb was brushing against your sensitive bud. Your own hands were pulling and twisting in the silken sheets beneath, back arching when another release crashed through you.
Baelor allowed you to ride through the waves, uttering words of comfort as your body trembled and walls hugged the length of him tighter, sucking the last remaining inch of him inside.
Your cheeks had burned when you felt a fresh wave of wetness coat his hardened appendage.
Once you had relaxed, your eyes opened to find him staring down at you, hips still flush against your own before he was slowly pulling out, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin when you hissed at the emptiness.
βBut,β your voice was shaky from the aftershocks of your release, βyou have not..β
Baelor smiled, appearing the very image of poised royalty and duty.
βRest.βΒ
Worried that you had done something wrong, you nodded and remained still when he cleaned between your legs, even as you insisted that he neednβt do that, and helped you into a nightgown.
βSleep well,β Baelor had said and then opened your bedchamber door and left.
You were shaken from the arousing memory at the sound of Baelor and Matarysβ fading steps. Now, you were once again left alone with only your whirling thoughts for company.
For the first time since he had draped his cloak over you in a gesture that represented bringing you under the protection of his name and house, you had been invited to accompany the older prince on a trip to a tourney.Β
Baelor was perched atop his large steed, heavy-handedly patting the side of the beastβs neck.
He had only moments ago unhorsed Lord Baratheon, taking his sonβs place under the guise that he mustn't allow himself to get too soft in his mature age.
Gods, you thought with a sigh, he looked regal in his armour, with his cape billowing behind him as he rode.
It was not often that you were fortunate enough to be graced with such a sight, at most it had been a handful of times and only from a distance much too far for you to appreciatively absorb each and every detail. Now, you were able to watch the way Baelor's hips moved with a confident precision that showcased years of practice, undeterred by the unspoken courtly etiquette that hindered you from openly gaping at your husband.
His thighs were built robustly, every powerful thrust of his hips sending a rippling of muscles. Images of those very hips tenderly thrusting into you sent a tendril of sparks up and then down your spine, settling pleasantly at the base of your back.
Sweat had collected at his greyed temples, causing the hair to glisten in the sun before it dripped down the side of his face. He looked beautiful, the lines etched over his features from age and experience enhancing his features in a way that had your eyelids lowering from the ache that pulsed between your legs.
Just then, Baelor turned his head, his odd-coloured eyes trailing over the field until they settled on you.Β
Your thighs tightened further at the intensity of his gaze, his eyes passing over your form like an intimate caress.
He approached slowly, appearing all too much like a dragon stalking his prey.
"My lady," he greeted, sounding not at all like himself; his voice was too breathy and deep, eliciting a hunger in you that not even the most decadent of treats would satisfy.
"Your grace," you responded in turn, eyes drifting from his straightforward stare to the ground several times, unable to tolerate the fervency of his attention.
Baelor reined his horse towards his tent, waving a dismissive hand at his temporary squire when the boy inquired if the prince required assistance removing his armour, explaining that he chose to do it alone as a means to ground himself after combat.Β
"I will rest before resuming," Baelor proclaimed afterwards, barely loud enough for you to catch.
"Of course, your grace," the squire replied with a bow, swiftly moving to alert others to not disturb the heir.
You waited until eyes were no longer hovering over you, then walked slowly towards your husband's tent. The sound of blood rushing in your ears intensifying with each step you took, so much so that you feared you would fall unconscious before you had even reached your destination.
Once you arrived, you peeked inside, barely moving the fabrics surrounding the structure.
You could see that Baelor's head was bent low, his armour remaining laced to his body, excluding his gloves and the portion protecting hisβyour breath caught.
One of his hands was gripping the edge of the table at the centre of the tent, knuckles white from the strength he used to stabilize himself upright. His other hand was rapidly stroking his own heated flesh with precise, harsh tugs against the length.
His thumb pressed against the tip, spreading the liquid that oozed out over the rest of himself repeatedly until an obscene squelching had filled the tent.Β
"Gods," Baelor choked out, squeezing the base of his cock harshly, stopping his release from passing over him too soon.Β
You felt your smallclothes dampen and bit your lip hard enough to draw blood to suppress an echoing moan to every groan he drew from himself.
Your eyes widened as Baelor began to brutally thrust into his own grip, the sound of his armour clashing and ringing loudly startling you out of your stupor.
Using the little speck of clarity you had remaining, you pulled the fabric of the tent back together and turned, racing back to your seat.
During the banquet supper, you could not stop your eyes from wandering between your husband's hand, the very one that had only hours prior been gripping himself with familiarity, and his undecipherable expression.
After the initial wave of dumbfounded arousal had passed, you found yourself overcome with a deep sorrow knowing that he hadn't sought you out in his time of need, but had preferred the pleasure of his own hand.
It was humiliating and disgraceful towards you and the sanctity of your union.
Amidst your decision to lament over the fact that you had only partially laid with your husband once, you found yourself eagerly consuming your fourth cup of wine.
"Oh, you did, my lord," you giddily responded to Lord Baratheon, who had inquired if he had still looked dashing after being unhorsed by your husband.
A soft buzzing thrummed through your veins, leaving you feeling lightheaded yet freeβfree of the worry of what the court thought of you, of your husbandβs negligence, and, most importantly, free of your own self-inflicted shame.
βYou looked absolutely gallant,β you continued, feeling a heat spread across your face at the sound of Lord Baratheonβs pleased laugh.
βDo tell,β he spoke low, leaning nearer so that the cuff of his sleeve was brushing against your own, βhow gallant did I look?β
You feigned a thoughtful look, bringing the nearly empty cup to your lips to take a final, large gulp before you answered.
βEven more gallant than he who had unhorsed you,β was your foolish reply, a giggle leaving your lips.
βIs that so?β Baelor's serene voice cut through the friendly chatter, an uncharacteristic acidity lacing his tone as his attention drifted between yourself and the lord.
When you gave no indication that you were going to respond, Lord Baratheon opted to instead.
βIt appears so, your grace,β he answered with faux politeness, eyes twinkling devilishly in the candlelight, βI fear I am the more gallant knight of the two of us, as was declared by your sweet lady wife.β
You remained silent, eyes focused on the twiddling fingers that rested in your lap.
Baelor offered no rebuttal, the lack of a response somehow weighing heavier than any word he could have uttered in retaliation.
βI believe we may have upset your husband,β Lord Baratheon mumbled tauntingly, pretending he hadnβt noticed the older princeβs gaze repeatedly drifting over you long before he had even initiated a conversation.
You smiled at him, feeling a warm drowsiness begin to settle over you, βThatβs impossible,β you hiccupped.
βWhy is that?βΒ
βBecause he would have to care in the first place,β you murmured with a shrug, unaware of the way Baelor had stiffened at your words.
βCome,β the lord commanded, standing up with an outstretched hand, βlet us dance.β
Just as you were rising to clasp his hand, Baelor appeared beside you. He placed your hand in the crevice of his elbow and turned to address Lord Baratheon, as well as the swell of onlookers who had been keenly observing the entire spectacle.
βWe will be retiring early,β he spoke with finality, and then immediately strolled across the floor with you clumsily trailing beside him.
βYour grace,β you started, staring at the side of his face with blurry vision, βI do not wish to retire,β you angrily mumbled, even as you allowed him to continue leading you to the shelter of your shared tent.
βHow unfortunate that you have, then,β was Baelor's dry reply, his fingers immediately moving to unlatch his doublet until he remained only in his boots, breeches, and undershirt. He unlaced the top of his thin shirt and turned to face you.
You looked away at the sight of his chest hair peeking through, face burning from a combination of intoxication and, against your will, arousal at the state of his undress.
βDo you require assistance?β he asked after you hadnβt moved for several minutes, voice having returned to its tender timbre.
βNo,β you spat, unshed tears fogging your vision.
Baelor moved to stand in front of you, hands rising to unlace your corset with nimble, expert fingers.
βWhy will you not touch me?β
Baelorβs mismatched eyes swept over your face, his only reaction to your words was a subtle lift of his scarred eyebrow.
You leaned forward, crowding his space, βI have tried,β you began, pressing your face against his neck, inhaling deeply as you littered a line of kisses up the side of his throat, βbut I cannot bring myself to completion as you did.βΒ
Baelorβs hand tightened on the laces at your lewd confession, his breathing deepening as you moved to suckle his earlobe.
βYour fingers are so much longer, and thicker,β your tone was dreamy, as though you were imagining them inside of you at that very moment.
βWhy do you not smile with me as you do with Valarr and Matarys?βΒ
Your question hung loudly in the air and, had you not been inebriated, you would have noticed the way he stiffened at it.
βThey are my sons,β he answered after a moment.
βYes but,β you brought your shaky hands up to hold the sides of his neck, βam I not deserving of your smiles?β you leaned forward to press a poorly aimed kiss against the side of his mouth, βAm I not worthy of your time?β
βYou are not yourself,β he began, sounding as though he were addressing a member of his council and not his wife.Β
You, who had surrendered yourself to him in an effort to receive a small portion of the warmth you knew he was capable of, were being treated like a nuisance. An unwanted thorn in his side, one that he had thought himself rid of after he had taken your maidenhead.
A fresh wave of tears sprang to your eyes, the wine in your system having nothing to do with the fact that you never were proficient at hiding your emotions in a court made entirely of accomplished liars.
"You are cruel, your grace,"
The heat you had felt was extinguished, now replaced by an ice cold void that grew the longer you remained in his presence.Β
βI am going back,β you declared, gracelessly pushing his hands away from you.
Baelor stepped in front of you, blocking your only route of escape.
βYou are not,β he stated firmly, the same edge from earlier returning to his voice.
βLord Baratheon offered me a dance, and I wish to dance.β
As soon as you had spoken the words, you knew you had overstepped.Β
Baelorβs jaw clenched beneath his beard, eyes narrowing with a sternness that you had never been on the receiving end of before.
βYou are intoxicated,β he guided you by the hand to sit on the makeshift bedding, his hold steady when you tripped. He crouched to face you levelly, the scent of the sweet wine he had drank earlier fanning across your face as he leaned forward.
βNow,β he started, eyes darkening, βI am going to tell you this once,β his fingers returned to your corset, making swift work of removing you from it before he continued.
βI will not be made a fool of,β Baelor said finally, lightly holding your chin between two digits, βI will not have you embarrass our house.β
Your breath hitched as he stood to his full height, using the disparity of your stances as an unspoken declaration of where your place was in this marriage. The hierarchy of your own wants and needs were stationed below what he wanted and needed of you, and they always would be.
βI amβ,β you started, feeling a wave of unwanted heat return to your abdomen, βI wish to..β
Baelor remained looming over you, focused on your face with a severity that would have sent another to their knees in a plea for mercy.
So, you kneeled.
Your fingers clasped at the sides of his breeches, face pressed against his solid thigh as you rubbed against his boot.
Baelor made no sound aside from a startled intake of air.
Your hips quickened, the wine and buildup of the past several months making it feel as though your release had been dangling over you much too long, waiting for the moment it could finally erupt.
"Is this why youβve made such a spectacle of yourself?" he accused softly, a hand resting atop your head as you continued to seek out your pleasure.
He lifted his boot the tiniest fraction, eliciting a moan from you as the angle allowed for you to press your clit directly against the base of it.
"Feels soβ," your voice slurred, "I want to make you proud."
The weight of his hand moved from your crown to your cheek, pressing you further against his thigh as he bore your slumped weight against him with ease.Β
He was warm, and he smelled so good.
A distinct and unique scent that was a mixture from the time Baelor had spent in the sun, as well as his own musk, and the oils that lingered over his fingers from when he had combed them through his beard.Β
Your face turned, pressing against his crotch as your hips hastened their rhythm, desperate to feel the sparks of pleasure that he had wrought from you before.Β
You wished to look up at him, inspect his face for disgust or anger, but found yourself unable to open your eyes, as well as uncaring of what he thought at that moment. He had taken his own pleasure within the privacy of his tent and now you were going to do the same, even if he was an essential tool you required to reach your release.
You nuzzled your face against the expanse of his bulge.
"Taking what you want," his words sent you spiraling over the edge and deep into the throes of a satisfying release, leaving you panting against his leg like a dog in heat.
You pressed further into him, arms locking around his leg.
βPleaseβoh, please, look at me,β you tipsily mumbled between an array of moans and whimpers, βI want you to look at me as you do Valarr,β
Baelorβs hand moved to the curvature of your neck, causing an eruption of goosebumps to rise over the scorching flesh.
βLaugh with me as you do with Matarys.β
You came again with a startled moan, a slick wetness soaking your smallclothes; you were certain that if you stood, your wet release would be evident on the leather of his boot.
Your hands fell to the rug lining the floor of the tent, now numb from the strength you had gripped his leg with, just as your head lulled forward, Baelor's hand keeping you from falling over.
His presence encompassed you until every one of your senses was full of him.
You breathed in short gasps, burrowing further into the center of his breeches.
βI like it.. very much,β you disorientingly mused, βI like it.β
βWhat do you like?β Baelor rasped, the cool metal of his ring a pleasant sensation as his palm caressed the side of your face.
βThe grey in your hair,β you began, voice muffled by the fabric but still discernible, βthe hair on your chest,β you continued, praying he hadnβt heard the tremble in your voice, βthe lines around your eyes.. the way you look when youβre nearing release.β
Baelorβs hand stopped moving.
Oh, you weren't supposed to reveal that.
A moment passed with neither one of you speaking, remaining quietly interlocked in your shared, strange embrace.
βWhat else do you like?β he asked finally, fingers resuming their light movement across your features.
βThe way you smell,β you admitted, voice laced with sincerity, βand speak.β
Baelor let out a pleased hum, the sound moving down his chest and settling in between your legs.
You leaned back to find his eyes, heart hammering harder when he returned your gaze with a darkened look of his own.
βPlease, look at me,β you mumbled, fingers grasping the belt around his wide waist, βI wish to be seen by you.β
Baelorβs hand moved from your jaw to your throat, a finger trailing over the expanse of it. His lips parted when you laid a kiss over his bulky, clothed cock, eyes remaining locked with his own as your lips clumsily moved over the partially hardened, heated flesh.
βThe reason you were chosen,β he hesitated, thumb swiping a stray tear from your cheek before he continued, his voice laced with guilt, βis because all I did was look at you, then it was decided and you had no say in the matter.β
Tomorrow, when you were clearer in the head, you would grasp the full meaning behind his wordsβif you remembered them.Β
However, now, as you listened, a laugh erupted from your chest, inciting the corner of his mouth to turn upwards a fraction.
βI want you to look at me, always.β
βI doβI will,β Baelor responded softly.
You laid your cheek against his thigh, eyes drifting closed as you vaguely felt him moving to lift you into his arms.
β§ pairing: baelor targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
β§ content warning: oral fixation, reader is enamoured and needy, gentle but unintentionally intimidating baelor, baelorβs slutty rings, hand/finger sucking, orgasming via mouth stimulation and yes itβs possible I did my research πββοΈ, reader doesnβt know what she wants until she does.
β¦ β youβre infuriatingly infatuated with your betrothedβs hands, especially his long, thick fingers.
during the entirety of your courtship with baelor, he never pushed past the boundaries of what propriety allowed. the occasional light, and wholly formal, touch of your hand had been the most physical contact he partook in during your joint, and always supervised, gatherings.
even so, against your better judgement, your gaze would often drift to his hands the very moment you were within his vicinity.
you noted the way his long fingers would frequently fiddle with his rings, wishing you might try them on your own digits to compare the fit. other times they were laid interlaced upon his lap, offering you the opportunity to regard his knucklesβthe thick pointedness to them. the sudden thought of them dragging against your lower area sent a sharp jolt down your body. you nearly clenched your thighs around the frontal fabrics of your skirt, desperate for any form of friction to soothe the immoral images that plagued your mind.
when you were in a particularly needy state you would follow him to his private library in hopes of catching a glimpse of those long fingers turning a page, or caressing the spine of a book.Β
as, to your delight, they presently were.
baelorβs neatly trimmed nails dragged against the dyed leathers, handling each book with a touch so careful it made you ache. periodically, he would withdraw one from its place on the shelf, using his index and middle fingers to run down the middle section of the pages to separate them.Β
depraved thoughts of how those nimble fingers would separateΒ youΒ flashed across your mind.
luckily, he could not see you from where you stood, on shaky legs, having purposely chosen an unlit area far back enough to hideβ
βhello,β baelor greeted suddenly, his silky tone sending a hotter wave of heat over your face. he turned slowly until he was facing you, a curious tilt to his head. his odd coloured eyes trailed over your features before flickering behind, likely heeding both your flustered exterior and the fact that you were unchaperoned inΒ hisΒ private space. though, he kindly chose to make no remark on either observation.
under different circumstances you would have returned his greeting with ease, perhaps even have made a lighthearted joke to dissolve the tension. however, as your fingers clutched at your skirts, you struggled to force a reply from your throat, brain scrambling to formulate an excuse that would hide your true, twisted intentions for being there.Β
how on earth could you speak when a flutter swirled deep within your abdomen, leaving you breathless and dazed.Β
instead, to your embarrassment, the only action your body decided was appropriate at that very second was a swift turn and hurried escape.
even now, as you sat on the floor of your chamber, back pressed against the wall, your face burned with humiliation as you recalled the interaction in detail.Β
gods, how strange he must have thought you to be.Β
the only option left was complete avoidanceβuntil the wedding, that is. no more lingering stares, no self-indulgent visual imageries, no more dreams that left you feeling unfulfilled.Β
and so, now you must ask yourself how you ended up at the entrance to his personal gardens.
the avoidance lasted a mere four days.. it was pathetic really.
baelor was settled leisurely against the cushioned seating area, his attention focused on the contents within the leather bound book resting atop his lap. oh, how you wished you were on the receiving end of his fixed gaze. with each slow turn of a page, your breath stuttered.
βwill you not accompany me, my lady?β you jolted at the sound of his voice.Β
how did heΒ consistentlyΒ appear to be aware of your presence now?
your legs moved of their own accord towards him, as though he had spoken to them directly instead of you. in a desperate attempt to hide your trembling you lowered yourself to the grass below, your skirts brushing against the side of his leg as you settled. you knew that, that was no proper way for a lady to sit, especially when alone with your betrothed. however, at this very moment, you wished for nothing more than to receive the same undivided attention that he seemed to only bestow upon his books.
baelorβs form became rigid.Β
neither one of you spoke, not even as you gazed up at him or as he placed the now forgotten book on the table to his other side.
from this angle, his handsome features struck you sharper than before. the silver strands that were heavily mixed throughout the darker ones of his beard and hair shined majestically in the morning light. his broad shoulders seemed even wider from where you sat, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
he remained unmoving for a long time, lips parting in deep thought, his eyes roaming as he studied you in ways that youβd only been able to conjure up in dreams.
then, the palm of his right hand reached down to cover the side of your face in a tender cradle. your eyes fluttered shut as the heat of his skin against your already warm cheek seeped in, feeling as though you were pressing against a torch.
βforgive me for not providing you with the attention you deserve.β the earnest, velvety way in which he spoke, coddling you in a way that would have been humiliating under different circumstances, evoked an embarrassingly powerful reaction within your lower abdomen.
βhave you been sleeping well?β how cruel of him to inquire after your sleeping schedule, even if he did not know that he was the reason behind many restless nights of tossing and turning.
βI have not, your grace.β you confessed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. having already behaved in a wanton manner, what good would come of also being a liar.
baelorβs thumb stroked the side of your mouth so lightly, you would have thought you imagined the touch had he not repeated the motion once more.Β
both of your hands rose to lightly grasp his wrist just as your face turned towards his wide palm. all thoughts of what was appropriate slipped from your mind the second you pressed your lips to his thumb.Β
there was a sharp intake of breath, followed by a deafening silence.
nothing moved, not even the branches that only moments ago had been fluttering in the wind.
surely, now was the moment you would open your eyes, remove your lips from his skin, and apologize for behaving so debauched.Β
instead, you placed another kiss to his palm, this time with an open mouth, and then another, and another. one to the pad of his middle finger, then his ring, and then your lips were against the back of his hand, softly brushing against his knuckles.
your eyes fluttered open just as you turned his hand back around, both of your gazes colliding the second his thumb made contact with your tongue.Β
baelorβs mouth had parted further now as short breaths escaped in tandem with the rise and fall of his chest. his brows were drawn together, almost making him appear angry. however, it was his odd coloured eyes that were the most fascinatingβnow nearly identical to one another, the blown pupils concealing most of their colour.
you manoeuvred his hand so that his middle and index fingers could slide into your mouth, the drool that had collected there allowing for easy passage.
βgods,β was baelorβs only response to the obscene sound of your mouth suckling him. saliva had begun to drip down the corner of your lips and the side of his hand.
you could taste the book he had been holding on his fingers, and something else that was entirely him.Β
just then, his upturned fingers brushed against the roof of your mouth, eliciting an electrical jolt through your body. a soft hum escaped your throat, encouraging him to repeat the movement until your hips were jerking clumsily in unity with the motion of his fingers.
the expression on your face must have alerted him to what was happening before you even realized. he was suddenly in front of you, free hand coming up to support the back of your neck, his knees pressed into the grass on the outer sides of your own.
then, you felt it. a deep fluttering from between your legs, one that evoked ripples of pleasure to each limb in a way that made you lightheaded. you were shaking, maybe even crying, at the clarity and fulfilment your release brought after being so wound up for months.
baelorβs arms held you against his chest, admiring the way his wet fingers glistened in the sunlight. he murmured soft words of reassurance and, though you could not hear them due to the ringing in your ears, the deep vibrations of his chest pressed against yours was comfort enough.
βare you angry?β you asked finally, once your breathing had stabilized and body settled. your voice laced with guilt and embarrassment.Β
βwhatever for?β was his faint response, his unsullied hand continuing to massage circles into your lower back.
your face shifted from his chest to his face, eyes searching his features for an ounce of disgust.Β
baelor immediately understood what it was you were in need of, understandably afraid of the consequences of your actions.Β
his eyes met yours, gaze somehow both heated and soothing. the corner of his mouth had upturned, and it was in that moment that you realized he had known, he hadΒ alwaysΒ known.
βnothing happens within these walls that I do not allow.β baelor stated simply, a mischievous glint in his eyes. βI am aware of all, and more.β
β’ Maraviglioso Boccaccio | Wondrous Boccaccio (2015)
β’ ΠΠΎΠ΄ΡΠ½ΠΎΠ² | Godunov (s01, 2018)
β’ Un peuple et son roi | A People and Its King | One Nation, One King (2018)
Spring Spreads One Green Lap of Flowers (1910) / The Soul of the Rose, aka My Sweet Rose (1908) / Thisbe (1909) / Undine (1872) / Cleopatra (1888) / Windswept (1903) / Psyche Opening the Door into Cupid's Garden (1903) / Ophelia (1894) / Circe Invidiosa (1892) / Lamia (1909)
