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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
#extradirty
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Three Goblin Art
h
KIROKAZE
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Mike Driver
★
pixel skylines
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Origami Around
Stranger Things
titsay
Game of Thrones Daily
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Discoholic 🪩
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
🪼
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@chubby-unicornz
the concept of percy and annabeth watching a marine life documentary together and annabeth is sobbing because the narrator is discussing climate change effects while sad music plays and percy is giggling because the octopus and shark have been calling each other sea slurs in almost all the footage
To me, Rocky and Grace are like very alternate versions of Closet and Ken from Barbie life in the dreamhouse. Mostly in vibes.
I'm sorry but I have one draft that I never finished but I laugh every time I see it
Writing Tip
Neither do i
Unreliable everyone
Asexuals were always part of pride and it really fucking shows when people think it's a recent term.
Although not going by the term "asexual" yet, asexuality was spoken about alongside homosexuality as far back as the 1890s. Asexual history is just as vital to queer history as any other term and I'm so tired of watching us being treated like a new thing
This image is so so fucking important to me
Reblog this, cowards
“bits to use in everyday conversations”
heaven sent
Tags: established relationship; married couple; domestic fluff; pregnancy; having a family;
You need a little reassurance of your goodluck, and Valarr is more than happy to give it to you.
In the moonlit center-space of your bedchamber, no noise is heard but your shallow breathing, rapidly interspersed with your heavy footsteps. From the open windows, the summer-sweet air is drifting inside your room. It smells like the garden. You feel sweat break off on your forehead as you do the simplest task of walking, to and fro the corners of your room, as you count your steps. You are so engrossed in your endeavour that you do not hear the sound of your door opening.
“There she is,” Valarr says. There is a hint of wonder in his voice, that surpasses the brittle irritation in you.
Still, you keep walking, one hand bracketing over your swollen belly, the other holding the crutch you’ve only recently started using. You count your footsteps, one atop another atop another. Only when you hear your son’s giggle, just inches away from you, that you stop.
You look sideways to find both your boys looking at you with complete and utter infatuation.
“Look at mummy,” Valarr is telling your son, Aenar. He is perched comfortably on his father’s hip, arms around his father’s neck. His cherub-like face is centred on yours. At four years of age, he is only just developing the intricate eloquence of a child reading a room as it unfolds around him. His mismatched eyes—same coloring as Valarr’s, only lighter—blink at you. You know he understands you are distressed.
“Mummy,” he says, holding out his arms.
“She cannot take you right now, big boy,” Valarr soothes him. You smile and lean in to kiss his cheek. His hair—a silver-spun beauty. Apart from the hair, they look so much alike. Dressed in his white sleeping gown, he is a striking mirror. You wonder if that’s exactly how Valarr greeted his mother goodnight when he was a child.
“Because of baby,” he says, not a little too lightly.
“You are going to love her when she comes out,” you assure him. You take a soft sniff at his hair. He giggles adorably.
“Your mother needs rest,” Valarr tells him, kissing his other cheek. “Say goodnight to her.”
Ever the loving child, he nods. “Goodnight, mummy.”
You kiss his forehead, the tip of his nose, his mouth. “Be very good, and don’t keep Alyssane awake.”
As Valarr takes him away, you stare at the both of them. Aenar has rested his head on his father’s shoulder in complete surrender, his hair a silver light beside his father’s brown strands, watching you with a fond helplessness as he is taken away to his nursemaid. You worry—it’s an instinct, at this point—as you’ve subconsciously learned to after being a mother. You know he shall evade sleep for as long as he can. For all his quiet fascination, he is a willful child. Restless and full of imagination. He asks questions so much—too much. That is something which both exhilarates and exhausts his grandsire, Prince Baelor.
You are sitting on your bed when Valarr comes back, with a stash of parchments in his hand. He shakes off his doublet and settles all the papers onto his writing desk before coming directly to you. He takes a look at your whole body perched laxly against your headboard. His clever, sharp eyes flutter, assessing what you need even before you ask. After a short few seconds, he decides on the right approach.
“Scoot,” he says softly as he gets on the bed. He holds your arms by the side, holding you gently as he maneuvers your body in front of his. He brackets your hips by his own, settling your legs between his. Ever accustomed to his body, you lean back instantly against his chest. His arms cushion you and you rest your head against the crook of his neck. No words pass between the two of you, even after you have completely moulded yourself against each other. There is just this, silence that comes with a shared life, full of heavy, sticky sweetness—not unlike the fresh summer air permeating your bedroom.
After a while, he asks, “How many steps today?”
“Five thousand,” you answer. You nudge your nose against his neck. “Maester Wyman is in complete confidence it will quicken the delivery when time comes.”
“I pray so. You are toiling enough.”
You nod in childlike agreement. It’s the babe, you think, that’s made you hungry for acknowledgement, for sympathy. You have been faring in a completely dignified way through your first and second trimester. But somehow, as your belly swells more and more each day, the weight of your child makes your movements heavier, more difficult. You feel your mind pulled down by the weight as well. You doze off during daytime, your feet swell when you stand too much. Your body leaks, your breathings have become more tiresome.
“I feel so strange,” you tell your husband. “Bloated and leaky and tired. So tired.”
“I know, my love,” he says soothingly, rubbing his palms up and down your arms. “A few weeks more.”
“Your girl has been difficult today, too,” you say in accusation. Somewhere along the line, you both decided that it’s a daughter. And the image of a child with his smile and your face hasn’t left your mind since.
“How so?”
“She moved, so much. Jumped and kicked, basically treating my womb as her training yard. Wyland said she’s definitely going to be a mini-chaos.”
“Hmm. That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Your mother would like to differ.”
He kisses the side of your head. “Missed you today. I’d have come sooner, but Matarays was being a hard-ass.”
“Really?”
“He’s been too difficult since you left the court.”
You appreciate the change of topic. The mention of something apart from your oncoming labour is a breath of fresh air. “I had told you it was a bad idea to impose on him.”
“He has certain duties. Frankly, I don’t see what’s so bad about going to the stormlands and being a functioning royal member…”
“—While also wooing Lady Baratheon.”
“Records say she is charming.”
“He doesn’t want to be tied down.”
“He is of age to be tied down.”
“And how did that work out for you?” You chuckle. “When your father arranged your betrothal to Kiera of Tyrosh?”
“That’s different.” He humpfs. “I already had love for you. He is just being difficult. He won’t even listen to me…”
“He can’t take you seriously,” you say with an air of pity. “Not after he saw you crying at our wedding.”
He presses his chin on your shoulder. “If he’s half as lucky as we are, he’ll cry at his wedding too.”
“I know, dearest.” You kiss him sideways, at the base of his ear. “I love you.”
“Will you talk to him, please?”
You take a second to decide. You and Matarys have always had a good banter. You have to gauze just how much you can maneuver him. “I shall,” you conceded.
Valarr kisses your neck, softly at first. His lips are like feathers on your skin. You sigh contently, feeling his arms tighten around you, grounding you. You move against him for more contact, and the friction of your body against him sends a cool shiver down your spine. The kisses become deeper, greedier, as his lips trace a path along your shoulder. You pull against your nightdress, exposing more of your skin.
“So delicious,” he mumbles against your skin. “Missed you so much.”
“Missed you, too.” You hum. “How fares the court?”
“Dull.” He moves your hair for more access, attaches his lips to the mole on your neck. “Intolerable.”
“I heard the ladies are wearing blue again.”
You say that non-comitally enough, not really meaning it—but he stills instantly. You know, in some shadowy space in the juncture of your mind, that it’s been plaguing your head in a dull, thudding way of a headache. Last time when you were with child, at the end of your third trimester you noticed the sudden shift in the Red Keep. All kinds of lords and ladies had flocked into the palace. It looked genial, at first, before your lady Jeyne said that the maidens had a full wardrobe of the latest gowns and jewellries. That they had mild manners but sharp eyes. That they wore almost exclusively, all the known shades of blue. There weren’t the most obvious signs, no. But the subtle guessings were there. The soft smiles at Valarr, more lingering stares—stares at you, incapacitated as you were. It was a queer, almost shadow-like feeling, knowing that these great noble ladies wanted to claw at your husband if some unnameable thing happened while you bore your child. It was only when your mother in law called at your bedchamber to soothe your tired imaginations, you started to breathe more normally again. Valarr had been ready to disparage all guests, but you had calmed him down. It was all too subtle for a decisive action. After all, he could not ban the colour blue.
“Well,” he tries to say indifferently. “Because someone had started the rumor that I favoured blue.”
You smile, despite yourself. “In my defense, it was a decade ago, I was only your friend then, and the ladies cornered me to know of your preferred colour before I could even form a thought. You did favour blue.”
“No,” he says decisively.
“No?”
“I favoured yellow.” He pinches at the strap of your nightdress. “Tonight it’s white. And yesterday I preferred lilac.”
“You are a menace.”
“I favour whatever colour you chose for the day.”
You chuckle, feeling a helpless flush cover your cheeks. You stay like that, for a while, feeling the cool air brush over your bodies, feel his breath on your skin. Then you say, softly, “It’s just… unsettling. Knowing that all those ladies want what I have.”
“Everyone wants what we have,” Valarr says. He sneaks his hand inside your shift, his fingers tracing patterns on the swell of your stomach. You feel the baby move there in an odd, charged rhythm. You wonder if she realises that’s her father’s touch, if she can feel the unfettered adoration from inside your womb.
“Every sour-faced lord out there wants to be in love with their wife as much as I am in love with you,” your husband says, his voice breathy, oh so lovely. “Every tired lady wants to love their husband as much as you love me.” His hand skims up, touches your breasts, making circles against your nipples. The other hand stays on your belly, as if he’s soothing your child as well. “They want to feel the desire we feel. When I lay with you, beside you, inside you. They want it so bad it makes them look pathetic. They are jealous of our son, the way his face lights up when you enter a room. They crave what we have.”
“I meant,” you say softly, “the crown.”
“Plenty of people have had the crown,” he replies, undeterred. “Few have had this.”
You look down to find him still caressing your belly, with all the tenderness in the world. You think of your son in his nursery, so loved, so treasured. You think of how during the last trimester with Aenar, Valarr left all his royal duties for a month to take care of you himself. And at his birth, Valarr held your hand throughout the entire, gruelling ten hours, refusing to eat or sleep. You know it all sounds like greed, like pride—your life paints a picture you would never ask from the gods because it would be asking too much. But here it is, at your hand, tangible and dear.
“Yes,” you whisper as he soothes all the tiredness out of you. “Few have been so lucky.”
more Valarr stories
twenty long years
palindrome
first light
kismet
grief bodies
negative space (modern Valarr x dreamer reader)
yall.
YALL.
"and the stars look very different today..."
You Must Be His Nursemaid
Pairing: Prince Valarr Targaryen x Reader ( referred to as 'You')
Part 1: You Must Be His Nursemaid [You are here] | Part 2: A Prince and A Dragon | Part 3: Where Princes, Ladies, Lords, and Knights Gathered in Candlelight | Part 4: Silk Morning, Bloodied Field | Part 5: Where the Dragon Set Its Gaze and Bared Its Teeth
Word Count: ~3.8k
Summary:
Upon arriving at Ashford Keep, Ser Duncan the Tall mistakes Prince Valarr’s wife — and mother of his child — for a nursemaid. Unfortunately for him, he says so aloud. Fortunately for him, she does not take offence.
Reader addressed as “you” | Fluff | Established Relationship | Dunk Being Socially Catastrophic | Secondhand Embarrassment | Aerion Being… Aerion (arrogant, sharp-tongued) | Mild Canon-Typical Rudeness | Dragons (very real) | Setting: Ashford Tourney
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The gates of Ashford Keep yawned wide beneath a hard blue autumn sky, their ancient towers hung with green-and-gold banners snapping briskly in the wind. House Ashford’s sigil: the white sun-and-chevron blazing against orange, caught the light with almost defiant brilliance, as though determined to rival the dragon standards riding in beneath it. Our Sun Shines Bright, their words declared, and on this day it seemed they meant to prove it.
Within the walls, the courtyard churned like a struck anthill. Destriers stamped and snorted steam into the crisp air; grooms darted between iron-shod hooves with half-swallowed curses; squires wrestled bridles with reddened faces and thinning patience. Petals scattered ceremoniously across the cobbles were ground at once into damp streaks of colour. The air carried leather, sweat, hot iron, and the faint sweetness of harvested grain drifting from the fields beyond the walls.
Trumpets split the noise clean in two.
The herald’s voice rang from the steps of the great hall, gilded with importance. “Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honourable Baelor Targaryen — firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”
Fanfare burst bright and brazen. Heads bowed in rippling waves as the Targaryen procession rode through the gate beneath a forest of dragon banners.
Prince Baelor inclined his head with effortless grace, silver hair catching the sunlight like polished steel. “My Lord of Ashford.”
“It is a great honour to receive Your Grace,” Lord Ashford replied, bowing so low that the hem of his cloak brushed stone.
“It is a great honour to be received.”
Behind Baelor rode Prince Maekar, stern and hawk-eyed. And behind him—
Chaos.
“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.”
Prince Aerion’s voice cracked sharp as a riding whip.
Duncan the Tall, who had been staring perhaps a heartbeat too long at all that silver hair and dragon silk, started as if boards had clapped beside his ears. “I’m—I’m not a stable boy, m’lord.”
Aerion’s pale gaze skimmed over him with cool disdain. “Not clever enough?”
Dunk flushed the colour of boiled crab. “Um…”
“Well, if you cannot manage horses,” Aerion continued lazily, “fetch me wine and a pretty wench.”
“Oh, m’lord pardons. I’m—I’m no serving man either. I have—I have the honour to be a knight.”
Aerion inspected him as one might a bruised apple at market. “Oh. Well… knighthood has fallen on sad days.”
A horse screamed then, high and wild, hooves striking sparks from stone. The crowd jolted back in a flurry of silk and curses.
“Move away!”
Dunk was already moving. “Whoa, whoa. Easy now.” He caught the bridle with steady hands, his voice lowering to something patient and sure. “It’s all right, girl. Too many people. I don’t much like it either.”
The mare shuddered, then eased beneath his touch.
“I agree,” Dunk murmured when she nickered.
“The pretty ones are always temperamental,” came a dry voice behind him.
“He meant the princeling, not the palfrey,” another added.
Dunk turned to find two white cloaks observing him with faint amusement.
“Ser Roland Crakehall,” said the broader knight. “And this is my sworn brother, Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Gods, boy. Do you ride your horse into battle, or does it ride you?”
Donnel grinned. “Forgive Ser Roland. It is not often he must look up to cast his eyes down.”
“Yes, yes, I am quite the rascal,” Roland muttered. “Now tell me, Ser Duncan — is there a proper place to shit around here?”
Dunk blinked. “Uh… not really, no.”
“A man of such birth has never deigned to disturb his arsehole with hay.”
“He’ll deign before the week is out,” Dunk said with a crooked grin.
“Where are you from, man? You do not smell House-bred.”
“No place, really.” Dunk shrugged. “No place at all.”
“I know it. My family’s from there.”
“You’re not a Darklyn of Duskendale?”
“We were crabbers. Far back as it goes.”
“Ser Donnel?” someone called sharply, and Donnel’s attention snapped away at once.
Dunk hesitated. “May I ask, ser… how the son of a crabber came to wear white?”
“Same way we became crabbers,” Donnel tossed over his shoulder as he strode off, cloak stirring.
“‘Same way we became—’” Dunk began, too earnest to know when to stop.
“Are you Baelor Targaryen?” a stable hand called from behind him, dry as dust.
“N-no.”
“Then move the fuck out of the way.”
“Right. Yes. Of course. Apologies.”
As Dunk shuffled aside, the yard shifted again in waves of armour and colour. Near the far wall, away from trumpet and spectacle, something quieter unfolded — subtle enough that most missed it entirely.
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You stepped down from the wagon.
While princes traded pleasantries and lords measured bows, you withdrew without fuss — the practiced retreat of one long accustomed to spectacle and tired of its glare. Your gown of deep red silk brushed the cobbles, edged in black, simple but finely made. At your throat hung a slender gold chain bearing a small three-headed dragon — a gift commissioned by King Daeron himself after you bore Prince Valarr’s son and heir. The metal caught the light softly: modest to the unknowing, unmistakable to those who understood.
You crouched, skirts pooling around you, and brought yourself level with the boy at your side.
He bore his father’s stubborn jaw and serious mouth, though his hair was brown and wind-tossed rather than silver. Through it ran a single white streak at the center of his brow like a slash of moonlight. One eye blue, one brown. Both were far too solemn for six.
“Hello, sweet boy,” you murmured, straightening his collar. “It is rather stuffy with all these people, is it not?” Your thumb brushed his cheek, gentle even amidst iron and noise. “Father is busy with his duties. Shall we say goodbye to the horses for the day?”
He nodded gravely, fingers curling around your dragon pendant so the tiny heads knocked softly together.
Inside the wagon behind you, half-hidden in shadow, his dragon lay curled upon wool and straw. Not large — not yet — but real. Breathing. The only dragon hatched for House Targaryen since the last had died in smoke and memory. Its existence drew reverence and unease in equal measure. Even now, glances flicked toward the wagon, quick and hungry, like crows daring not to land too near.
Your son looked back toward it, frowning faintly.
“Just a moment,” you said gently.
You lifted him into the carriage and laid a steadying palm against the dragon’s flank, feeling muscle twitch beneath warm scales. “Easy. Too many eyes today.” It was meant as much for your son as for the creature.
Arms circled your waist from behind.
Valarr.
He leaned in to peer at the small beast as your son declared, “Papa, he wants to get out.”
Valarr smiled, brushing the boy’s hair aside and pressing a kiss to his temple. He followed it with a soft caress of your cheek and a brief, careful kiss to your lips — restrained, public, but unmistakably his. “We must complete the arrival procession first,” he said. “Your rooms are ready. We will move our things inside shortly.”
“We were going to say goodbye to the horses,” your son added. “Will you join us?”
“Not yet.” Valarr’s hand remained warm at your waist. “I must stand with your grandfather and speak to Lord Ashford. But go on. I am sure they would enjoy kind company after such a journey.”
Even from across the yard, Valarr’s gaze returned once, brief but certain, as if he counted wife, child, and dragon all in a single glance and found none of them worth leaving unwatched for long.
The family turned toward the dragon, who quieted beneath the touch of his young rider and his future king. Valarr watched a moment longer and murmured, almost to himself, “He grows.”
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It was not the princes or the banners that caught Dunk’s eye, but the small island of calm at the edge of the yard: a woman, a boy, and a wagon; everyone else seemed careful not to crowd too closely.
He saw you there, sleeves brushed with straw, posture unpretentious, your hand steady on horse and child alike. No crown. No glittering display. Only a woman soothing a beast and a boy speaking to it as though it were a friend.
The boy pressed his cheek to a stallion’s neck. “We shall not ride you into the lists,” he informed it solemnly. “You are far too noble for that.”
Dunk drifted closer before he quite realized it. “Aye?” he said, bending slightly in an effort to meet the boy on fairer terms, though he could not truly manage it. “And what if the horse disagrees, young lord?”
The boy looked up, stern enough to shame a bannerman twice his age. “Horses do not disagree with me.”
Dunk’s brows rose. “Is that so? Gods, I’ve been doing it wrong all my life. Mine disagrees every morning.”
A pause — long and deliberate — and then the boy’s mouth twitched. A small, stubborn giggle escaped before he could swallow it.
You watched Dunk with faint amusement, curious what sort of man could be so tall and so plainly earnest. Men often mistook composure for harmlessness. It was an error you had seen before. He mistook your look for encouragement.
“You must be the Targaryen prince’s nursemaid,” he said warmly. “And doing a fine job of it.”
Your son stiffened at once. “I am not in need of nursing.”
Dunk chuckled. “Aye, I can see that. You’ve the look of a boy who’d bite anyone who tried.”
“I would,” the boy said promptly.
“Good. That is a proper princeling.”
The boy’s shoulders drew back a fraction, pleased despite himself.
“But princes tend to wander,” Dunk went on. “Best keep one close. They’re like cats, I’ve heard.”
“I am not a cat.”
“Worse,” Dunk said solemnly. “Cats don’t have men with swords following them.”
Your son’s gaze flicked briefly toward the wagon.
“Mine does,” he replied.
Dunk nodded. “Sensible. I’ve always said a prince ought to have men with swords.”
“I have a dragon,” the boy added. He said it without boast or wonder, as though stating something as ordinary as the weather, which somehow made it far more convincing.
Dunk blinked, then laughed warmly. “A dragon? Aye, of course. And I’ve a castle back in No Place.”
“It is real,” the boy said, unimpressed.
“Of course it is. What’s it called?”
“He does not like strangers.”
“That’s wise of him,” Dunk replied. “I don’t much like strangers either. Especially not those with teeth.”
The boy’s laughter slipped free again, brighter this time.
“And does your dragon breathe fire?” Dunk asked. “Or smoke and disappointment, like certain lords I’ve met?”
Your son snorted.
You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. There was something disarming about this enormous knight who did not yet understand he stood beside the future of his house and spoke of dragons as though they were kittens.
“And you are?” you asked gently.
“Ser Duncan the Tall.” He bowed, awkward but sincere. “At your service.”
“You are very tall,” your son observed.
“It seems to be my chief accomplishment.”
A smile tugged at your lips.
“Most fine ladies would scream at a startled horse,” Dunk continued, gesturing to the mare you had calmed. “Then the horse would scream, and then I would scream, and the whole yard would think dragons had come to eat us.”
Your son’s giggle rang clear this time — quick and bright as a coin striking stone — and he clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes shining despite his effort at dignity.
“And you believe I am his nursemaid?” you asked, your voice smooth as silk drawn over steel.
“Well,” Dunk said earnestly, “you’ve the look of someone sensible. Court ladies look like they’d faint at the sight of dung. You look like you’d clean it up and scold the horse for good measure.”
For a heartbeat, you went very still.
Dunk — blissfully unaware that he had just wandered to the edge of a cliff — smiled at you like a pleased fool who thought he had paid a compliment.
Then you laughed.
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It was low and bright and utterly unoffended, the sound cutting clean through the din of hooves and harness. A few nearby heads turned without knowing why.
Behind you, a white cloak shifted.
Ser Roland approached with the quiet inevitability of gathering storm clouds.
“Your Grace,” he said evenly.
The words struck like a dropped blade.
Dunk went rigid, as though ice had been poured down his spine.
Your Grace.
Your son’s fingers tightened in yours — small, sudden, firm — and in the space of a single breath, Dunk’s mind seemed to race backward over every word he had spoken. Nursemaid. Cats. Smoke and disappointment. Dragons. All of it lined up before him like men awaiting sentence.
You inclined your head, serene. “It is nothing. Ser Duncan was offering his… assessment.”
Your smile softened deliberately, saving him from the edge he had not known he stood upon. Your son studied Dunk with grave deliberation, as though weighing whether this enormous knight was dangerous or merely foolish. After a moment, having decided the latter, he gave a small, dignified wave — a princeling’s mercy.
Dunk’s face burned scarlet.
“M’lady,” he managed, bowing far deeper this time. “I meant no disrespect.”
“None taken, Ser Duncan,” you replied, amusement still warming your tone. “It is refreshing to be thought sensible.”
The kindness in your words was the only plank between him and drowning.
He bowed again, too fast, too deep, nearly folding himself in half. You saw it then — the dawning horror in him. Not fear of swords. Not fear of pain. But the realization that he had been joking with a woman who, in another life, might have seen his head mounted above the gate and thought little of it.
Beside you, your son looked up at him with all the solemnity he wore like armour.
And then he failed at it completely.
His mouth twitched. His mismatched eyes shone. He pressed his lips together so tightly his cheeks puffed, as if he could trap the laughter inside by force of will alone.
Ser Roland stepped nearer, white cloak settling about him like snowfall. He did not raise his voice. He did not scowl. He merely looked at Dunk as though measuring the precise distance between foolishness and death.
Dunk, who had faced charging horses and hunger and a hundred small humiliations, went as still as a penitent before judgment.
You felt the laugh rise again, sharp and bright, but habit swallowed it. A princess did not snort in front of the Kingsguard, no matter how dearly she wished to. Your shoulders lifted faintly with the effort, and your fingers tightened around your son’s hand — not to still him, but to steady yourself.
Your son, of course, interpreted this as encouragement.
A slight sound escaped him — half-hiccup, half-choked breath — that might have passed for a cough if anyone had been charitable.
Dunk shot the boy a desperate look. Please. Don’t.
The boy’s eyes widened with innocent delight, as if he had been handed a new toy.
Dunk’s face had gone beyond red now — it bordered on catastrophic. “M-my lady,” he stammered, the words strangled nearly beyond recognition. “I— I truly meant no—”
“I know,” you said gently, rescuing him once more. You did not let your smile sharpen. “Thank you for speaking with us, Ser Duncan. You were… a welcome distraction.”
Ser Roland’s gaze flicked to you — brief, restrained, the faintest question in it — and you met it with the calm that had been forged into you by necessity. Whatever you were within, you were composed without. That was the rule. That was survival.
Dunk bobbed another bow, puppet-like. “Yes. Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.”
Roland looked back at him.
It was not a threatening look.
It was worse.
It was the look a seasoned knight gives a nervous squire who has somehow wandered into a lord’s solar and knocked over a cask of Arbor gold.
What, it said without words, in seven hells are you doing?
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Dunk straightened an inch, caught the look on Ser Roland’s face, and immediately reconsidered the wisdom of straightening at all. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides — too large, too empty — as though he might somehow fold himself into something smaller if he only tried hard enough.
You gave your son’s shoulder the gentlest squeeze. “Come,” you murmured, the word meant for him but also for the moment itself — to move it along before it sprouted teeth.
You turned, silk whispering over stone, and the courtyard’s roar rushed back in at once. Iron rang against iron. Voices rose and collided. Horses stamped and snorted, leather creaked, and banners cracked overhead like sails straining in a stiff wind. Somewhere, a stable boy shouted for a room. The world did not care that Ser Duncan the Tall had nearly perished of embarrassment beside a wagon.
Your son behaved for precisely three steps.
Then, just as Dunk’s heart might have begun beating normally again, the boy twisted at the waist and called back with bright, sudden curiosity, “Ser Duncan!”
Dunk flinched as if his name were another whipcrack. “Y-yes, my… young lord?”
“Are you jousting?” the boy demanded, as though this were the most pressing matter in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Dunk blinked. His eyes flicked to Roland, then to you, then back to the child. “I—” He swallowed. “Aye. I hope to, my—” Every title in his mind seemed suddenly treacherous. “My prince.”
Your son nodded once, solemn as a war council. “Good,” he said. “I will watch.”
Dunk’s expression did something helpless and painfully sincere. He looked like a man being offered honour when what he truly feared was public humiliation. “Ah,” he managed. “That’s… very kind.”
“I like tall knights,” the boy added thoughtfully, as if this were a strategic consideration.
Dunk attempted a smile that wavered between pride and impending doom. “Then I’m likely to be your favourite, I suppose.”
Your son beamed.
Dunk leaned forward a little, lowering his voice as though they were conspirators instead of spectacle. “But you shouldn’t… ah… You shouldn’t cheer too loudly, Your—” He faltered again. “You might frighten my horse.”
Roland’s mouth did not move, but something in the quiet set of his jaw suggested he was enjoying this far more than any sworn brother ought.
“Your horse is frightened of me?” your son asked, eyes wide with delighted offence.
“No,” Dunk lied at once. “Of course not. My horse is frightened of… noise. And lances. And… glory.”
The boy stared at him for a breath, then giggled outright — bright and boyish and utterly unsuited to a yard thick with steel.
You drew in a careful breath, shoulders tightening as you wrestled your own laughter back into something dignified. “Come, sweet boy,” you said, attempting sternness and failing slightly at the edges. “Leave Ser Duncan to prepare.”
“I am preparing,” Dunk insisted quickly, as though he might be examined on the matter. “I always prepare.”
“By talking?” your son asked, delighted beyond reason.
Dunk nodded with grave conviction. "Talking is important. That’s how you convince the horse not to throw you.”
As though the world itself had chosen to join the jest, a low sound rose from within the wagon behind you.
It was not the sound of any horse in Ashford’s stables.
It was rough. Throaty. A rumble that seemed to carry weight in the air itself. Squires paused and looked toward the carriage, and Ashford knights and maids visibly stiffened.
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For a heartbeat, the world thinned around it.
Dunk froze mid-bow, eyes widening. His head turned slowly toward the wagon, like a man staring at a dark doorway he has just heard breathe.
“What—” he began, voice cracking. “What was that?”
You did not look back. Your hand remained steady on your son’s shoulder, as though deep, resonant growls were as commonplace as squeaking wheels or unruly squires. “Oh,” you said lightly, silk-smooth. “He’s just tired.”
Dunk blinked. “He?”
Your son, still grinning, answered with perfect innocence. “My dragon.”
Dunk laughed at once — too loud, too quick — the laugh of a man who assumes a child is inventing marvels. “Ha! Aye, right. Your dragon. Of course.”
The wagon shifted faintly. Straw rustled. Something heavy resettled.
This time, Ser Roland’s gaze moved before the sound had entirely faded. His eyes sharpened at once, not in surprise but in recognition, as though he had spent long enough near danger to know exactly what shape this one wore. A moment later, the look was gone, smoothed back into Kingsguard composure.
Dunk noticed none of it.
He only shook his head fondly at the boy. “Well,” he said warmly, “your dragon has better manners than most knights I’ve met. Growls once, then goes back to sleep. Doesn’t even demand wine.”
Your son’s laughter burst free again, delighted and bright.
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper.
Because if you laughed now — here, in front of Roland, with half the court already measuring your son’s shadow for greatness — you might never stop.
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That evening, when the yard had emptied of banners and bluster, and only the soft scuff of hooves and the low breath of horses lingered in the dark, Dunk sat cross-legged beside his mare, brushing her down by lanternlight. The glow turned her flank to warm bronze, leaving the rest of the world in shadow.
Across from him, Egg sat on an overturned bucket, polishing a helm with far more concentration than the task required.
“I made a bit of a fool of myself today,” Dunk said at last.
Egg did not look up. “That narrows it down very little, ser. Go on.”
Dunk scratched at his jaw. “Met a princeling. Mismatched eyes. Serious as a septon at a funeral. Claimed he had a dragon.” He huffed softly. “Nice lad. Said he’d watch me joust.”
“That sounds harmless enough.”
Dunk hesitated, brushing slowly. “Might’ve called his mother a nursemaid.”
Egg’s polishing stopped.
Very slowly, he lifted his head.
“Did anyone,” he asked carefully, “call her Your Grace?”
“…Yes.”
Egg closed his eyes.
“What was she wearing?”
“Red silk,” Dunk said, trying to remember. “Simple. Had a dragon pendant at her throat.”
Egg opened his eyes again and stared at him with something approaching despair. “Ser. That was Prince Valarr’s wife. Mother of his son.”
Dunk blinked once.
“And if the boy says he has a dragon,” Egg went on flatly, “then he has a dragon.”
Dunk blinked again.
Egg leaned forward, lowering his voice as though the very straw might carry it. “Please tell me you did not say any of this in front of her husband.”
Dunk shifted. “Well.”
“Ser.”
“He might’ve been nearby.”
Egg made a small, strangled noise and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Ser. Prince Valarr is not known for enjoying insults directed at his wife.”
“I didn’t insult her!” Dunk protested at once. “I said she looked sensible!”
Egg’s hand slid down his face.
Dunk paused.
“…Might’ve called his mother a nursemaid.”
Egg very slowly looked up at him.
“Ser.”
“It was complimentary.”
“Ser.”
Egg covered his face fully now. “Seven save us.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the steady rasp of brush through horsehair.
After a long moment, Dunk cleared his throat.
“…The dragon didn’t eat me,” he offered weakly.
Egg lowered his hands and fixed him with a long, measuring stare.
“Be grateful,” he said at last, “that the prince did not.”
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༺♡༻ 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ༺♡༻
They Called Me Your Wife Again
Pairing: Prince Aerion Targaryen (Modern AU) X Reader ("You" referred, she/her vibes)
Summary:
Daeron has stepped down. Maekar’s branch is shifting onto Aerion’s shoulders. The board is circling, the tower is tense, and she is supposed to be spending her day off buying groceries with Duncan on Aerion’s card. Then Maelor falls at school. Now she’s walking into Targaryen Tower with Aerion’s son on her hip, security is waving her through like they know better than to stop her, a new assistant mistakes her for his wife, and Aerion takes one look at her and forgets, very publicly, that anything else was ever supposed to matter first. If everyone already thinks she belongs to him, what happens when he finally stops denying it?
Warnings:
minor child injury scare but he is okay | school phone call from hell | modern Targaryen family business chaos | succession angst | Duncan being ride-or-die and annoying in exactly the correct way | mistaken wife allegations | quiet building-wide gossip | Aerion said one thing and now I need to lie down | Maekar secretly approving but refusing to act like a human about it | yearning | hand on waist disease | emotional repression in luxury tailoring | open ending but make it romantically devastating | Duncan is your bestfriend and Aerion has to deal with that as is | you guys got sad Valarr, now be prepared for this wife Aerion one idk
Her day off had not belonged to her from the moment Aerion handed over his card that morning.
He had done it in the same way he did most things when he was trying not to make care sound like dependence. One hand around his coffee, phone lighting up every few seconds on the kitchen island, tie hanging loose around his throat as if he had only remembered it existed halfway through dressing, he had slid the black card across the marble toward her and said, “Get whatever’s needed. For the flat. For Maelor. For tonight.”
Duncan, leaning against the opposite counter in one sock and no shame, had looked up from the shopping list on his phone. “You say that like I’m incapable of buying groceries.”
Aerion had not even glanced at him. “You bought sparkling water, the wrong rice, and dog treats.”
“We do not own a dog.”
“Exactly.”
You had taken the card, trying not to smile. Aerion finally looked at you then, and the expression on his face had done that quiet, dangerous thing it always did when he was exhausted and pretending he was not. Blue eyes sharp, mouth set, the whole of him wound too tightly beneath the surface. His jacket was still off, but the shirt he wore was a deep ember-red under the kitchen light, dark enough to look almost black until he moved. His hair had been pushed back from his face with impatient fingers, silver-gold and a little untidy at the front, and he looked far too beautiful for the amount of strain he was carrying.
There was still fire in him, even now.
He no longer wore it the way he once had, not openly, not in those shameless years when he had seemed to delight in setting himself ablaze just so everyone else would have to look. Gone were the loud reds and molten golds, the theatrical flourish, the silk and arrogance and the almost taunting way he used to move through rooms. But the thing beneath all that had never disappeared. It had only narrowed. Refined. Learned control.
In his youth, Aerion had been the kind of beautiful person that people spoke about with resentment in their throats. Silver-gold hair, pale skin, a high brow, hard cheekbones, deep blue eyes that could look amused, bored, or cruel with almost no warning. There had been something imperious in his face even then, something too aware of its own effect, too certain that the world ought to rearrange itself around him. And he had been cruel once. Capricious. Vain. Spectacularly difficult to love. The kind of man who could be all smiles and polished courtesy in front of his father, then turn around and show his teeth the moment the room changed.
That version of him had left damage behind.
He knew it.
So did the rest of them.
But he had changed, which in some ways made him more unnerving now, not less. The recklessness had hardened into discipline. The arrogance had become precision. The need to provoke had thinned into something colder and more useful. Even his temper had improved, which was perhaps the most alarming thing of all.
Men who stayed monsters were easy to understand.
Men who learned restraint were not.
And today, with Daeron stepping down and Brightflame’s internal structure shifting like a fault line under all their feet, he looked like a man being pushed toward power whether he wanted it or not.
Daeron had laid his portion down that morning. Publicly, it had all been phrased the way such things always were, private realignment, long-term stability, continuity, all the polished language wealthy families used when they were trying to keep fracture from sounding like weakness. But everyone who actually mattered knew what it meant.
Daeron was done.
He had too much going on in his head, too much damage gathering where none of them could pretend not to see it anymore, and he wanted to step back before it took the rest of his life with it. The family had agreed, begrudgingly, and only because his performance had been slipping for too long. It was no longer yielding the kind of results expected from a Targaryen son bred for inheritance and scrutiny. His drinking had become its own quiet scandal. Public enough to embarrass, private enough to bury, but only just. It had become surprising, frankly, that he had not yet been flagged for something uglier. A DUI. A formal incident. A case someone could not make disappear quickly enough.
So Aerion had been brought in next.
Not the whole family. That still belonged to Baelor’s line and all the glittering, cold authority that came with it. Valarr, golden and correct and built for rooms full of shareholders and cameras, stood closer to the center of the dynasty’s public face. But Maekar held a brutal amount of private leverage. Voting power. Quiet capital. Senior partnerships. The kind of internal force that never made headlines because it did not need to. When he moved, men noticed. When he withdrew support, people bled.
And now that Daeron had stepped aside, more of that burden was shifting onto Aerion, with the unspoken certainty that when Maekar was gone, the full force of that power would become his.
You had seen it in him for days. The tightness around his mouth. The shorter patience. The way he seemed already braced for impact before the first blow had even landed.
This morning, though, all he had said after sliding the card toward you was, “Don’t let Duncan decide anything that requires judgment.”
Duncan had put a hand to his chest. “That is deeply insulting.”
Aerion had looked at him then, deadpan. “You’ll survive.”
Then he had gone still for a second, like another thought had occurred to him too late. His gaze shifted back to you.
“Take Donnel with you.”
You blinked. “For groceries?”
“Yes.”
Duncan laughed. “Christ. We’re buying yogurt, not transporting state secrets.”
Aerion ignored him completely. “Take Donnel. Let him do the driving.”
“Aerion,” you started.
“No.” His tone did not rise, but it sharpened. “No argument. Take him.”
You stared at him.
He looked back at you for one hard, unblinking second, and there it was beneath the control. Not paranoia. Not quite temper. Calculation. The kind that had only gotten worse since the news broke that morning. Since finance pages started talking. Since social media had turned into a landfill fire of speculation, edits, slander, threads, and badly informed analysis from people who suddenly believed they understood the inner structure of the family because they had seen two headlines and a grainy board photo.
Aerion Brightflame taking on Brightflame Holdings.
Aerion stepping into Daeron’s place.
Aerion joining billionaire heir lists.
Aerion, the former family nightmare, now expected to carry a meaningful portion of Maekar’s side of the empire.
Reddit was calling it a disaster in a good suit.
TikTok had already made edits of him leaving the tower the week before, slowed down under music so dramatic it should have come with a government warning. Clips of him in dark tailoring. Clips of him ignoring cameras. Clips of him walking like he was carrying violence in his pocket instead of documents and legal briefings.
And not just him.
There were edits of you and Aerion with Maelor wandering through the expensive side of downtown, his little hand in yours, while Aerion carried the bags and looked annoyed enough to make the comments lose their minds. Gala photographs where you stood somewhere in the frame, not centred but never accidental either, surrounded by the Targaryen family, like you had always belonged there.
Photos in the background of Egg’s stories and posts, boating weekends, polo matches, horseback riding, long lawns and old-money sunlight, where you were simply there. Sometimes with Maelor on your hip. Sometimes beside Aerion. Sometimes in the distance, speaking to Maekar about God only knew what. No one ever filtered you out. You were not a one-time guest or a rumour. You were a constant. A familiar one. A welcome one, if the outside world were any judge of it.
The only thing most people ever seemed to know for certain about you was that you and Aerion had met in the first year at university, when you both took the same required course that happened to overlap between your degrees. He had started in mechanical engineering before he pivoted, surprisingly and irritably, toward actuarial work and eventually the financial structure of the family empire. You had stayed the course, moved into software engineering, and actually finished it.
Through your friendship with Aerion, you had later secured a role within the wider Targaryen business structure as a software engineer, but even that had been positioned carefully. Not under Maekar’s office. Not under Aerion. Under Baelor, Maekar’s elder brother, after the same interviews, the same coding assessments, the same technical screening everyone else sat through. You had not ridden Aerion’s coattails into the building, and everyone who mattered knew it.
You had earned your place.
Both in business and, increasingly, in their lives.
When Maelor had been announced, the public never learned who his mother was. Only a select few knew the truth, that it had been a fucked-up one-night stand Aerion regretted deeply, though never once his son. The arrangement had been swift, ugly, and buried almost as quickly as it had surfaced. NDAs. A private agreement. Full custody to Aerion. A lump sum to make the woman disappear from the story before the story ever really began. No public war. No custody battle. No damage that could not be covered over with money, silence, and the family’s usual efficiency.
Half the comments online called Aerion dangerous.
The other half seemed to think danger was the point.
And a select few were simply appreciative of his face.
And all morning, his name had been climbing.
You understood then.
Not groceries.
Exposure.
So you only nodded. “Fine.”
His jaw eased by a fraction. Then he kissed the top of Maelor’s head, brushed two fingers lightly over the back of your hand where it rested near the card in one of those thoughtless, intimate gestures he never seemed to realize were more dangerous than open flirting, and said to no one in particular, “Good.”
Donnel drove.
He was one of the older security men, broad-backed, quiet, and so immaculately unruffled he gave the impression of having been born in a black suit with an earpiece already in. Duncan rode with you, still in full grocery-errand mode, while Donnel took the wheel like he had been expecting this all morning.
At first, it really did feel stupidly domestic.
Pasta sauce. Cereal arguments. Duncan holding up two jars like the fate of nations depended on your answer. Donnel saying almost nothing from the front except once, very dryly, when Duncan asked if he wanted to weigh in on pasta shapes.
“I like whichever one gets us home fastest, sir.”
That made Duncan bark out a laugh.
Then your phone rang.
The screen made your stomach drop.
Summerhall Private Academy
Duncan saw your face change instantly. “What happened?”
You were already answering. “Hello?”
The woman on the other end sounded calm in the careful, professional way that always meant the opposite. “Hello, is this Maelor’s mother?”
Your eyes shut briefly.
Of course.
Of course that was how they still had you listed.
“Yes,” you said automatically, then corrected yourself too late. “I mean, I’m his emergency contact. What happened?”
“Maelor is alright, I want to make that clear first, but he had a fall during recess. The nurse has seen him, there are no immediate signs of anything more serious, but he’s upset and asking for you. We attempted to reach his father, but his office told us he was unavailable in meetings.”
Unavailable.
No shit.
Not today. Not when half his future had just been dropped in his lap and the other half was being measured by men who still thought his sins at twenty-two mattered more than his competence now.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” you said.
“Thank you. He’ll be very relieved.”
The call ended. Duncan took the cart from your hands without being asked.
“How bad?”
“He fell. They said he’s okay, just shaken.”
Duncan nodded once. The humor had gone from his face. “Go.”
“What about this?”
“I’ll finish.”
“You bought the wrong detergent last time.”
“I’ll call you from the detergent aisle and let you supervise me like the tyrant you were born to be.” Then, softer, “Go get him.”
Donnel was already moving.
By the time he had pulled the car around to the front curb, the whole shape of the day had changed.
He met you at the entrance with the rear door already open. “School?”
You nodded once. “Maelor fell.”
Donnel’s expression did not change much. He only said, “Understood,” and got you moving before the first question could fully settle in your throat.
The drive to Summerhall was quiet in the front and too loud in your own head. Duncan texted twice. Once to ask if Maelor was okay. Once to send a photo of two detergents with the caption:
choose wisely, my tyrant
You almost laughed.
By the time you reached the school, your pulse had worked itself into a tight, aching knot. The place looked exactly the same as always, all polished glass, private funding, and landscaped discretion, but you barely noticed any of it beyond the doors.
The first thing you did notice when Donnel opened your door was the black SUV idling half a block down.
Then another.
Then a man with a camera pretending not to be facing the entrance.
Donnel noticed them too.
His jaw tightened once. “Right.”
Inside, Maelor was sitting outside the nurse’s office with his backpack in his lap and his cheeks still pink from crying. There was a bandage near his temple, and the sight of it made something in you drop hard and fast. The second he saw you, he sat up so quickly his shoes knocked the edge of the chair.
You crossed the floor and crouched in front of him. “Hey, sweetheart. Let me see.”
His eyes went glassy all over again. “I fell.”
“Oh, baby.”
That was enough.
He came straight into your arms, and you held him close while the teacher, already half-apologetic, explained what had happened. A kite had gotten stuck high in one of the trees, and Maelor had tried to help another student get it down. He had climbed higher than he should have, slipped coming back down, and scared himself badly in the process. The nurse was confident it was more fright than true injury. No vomiting, no dizziness, no blackout, no confusion. Just a scraped temple, a hard cry, and a little boy who wanted someone familiar.
You signed the forms one-handed, kept one palm steady against his back, and listened with the kind of focused calm that was really just worry in cleaner clothes.
Then the teacher smiled and said, “He was so happy when we told him his mum was coming.”
Your pen paused for the smallest second.
You should have corrected her. You did not.
Maelor tucked his face harder into your neck, and that settled the matter more than words could have.
The problem started the moment you stepped back outside.
The cameras saw you first.
Or rather, they saw Maelor in your arms, saw Donnel immediately changing course toward you, saw the school doors open, and understood at once that something had happened and they were about to get more than they had expected.
“Ma’am, can we get a comment?”
“Is Aerion prepared to take on Brightflame now that Daeron’s stepped down?”
“How is he handling the transition?”
“Has Maekar formally backed him for a bigger role?”
“Is he expected to join the top-earning heirs list this quarter?”
“Is the family worried about optics?”
“Is Aerion ready to lead?”
“Can you comment on the market reaction?”
The questions came fast and ugly, colliding into one another as more of them surged toward the pavement.
Maelor jolted against you.
That was the only thing you registered clearly.
You pulled him tighter instantly, one arm locked hard around him, the other hand spreading over the back of his head and pressing his face into your neck. He hid there at once, small body curling inward. You could feel his breath against your throat, too fast, too shallow.
Donnel stepped in front of you like a door slamming shut.
“Back the fuck off,” he snapped, voice carrying clean across the entrance. “Back. Up.”
The nearest photographer kept moving.
Donnel took one step toward him and said, colder now, “Do not make me repeat myself.”
It worked.
Not because they were decent, but because they knew who employed him.
Still the shouting continued.
“How does Aerion feel about taking this on when Daeron was supposed to carry it?”
“Has Maekar chosen him?”
“Is the family united on this?”
One idiot with a phone shouted, “People online are calling him the dark horse of the family. Is that fair?”
The flashes started going off. White, sharp, ugly.
Donnel opened the rear door of the car without ever fully turning his back on them.
“In,” he said.
You did not waste a second.
Once inside, you pulled Maelor properly into your lap in the back seat, even though he had technically outgrown that years ago. He pressed himself against you without complaint, face buried in your neck, your hand still firm over the back of his head while the other rubbed slow circles between his shoulders.
Donnel slammed the door, rounded the car, and got behind the wheel in three long strides.
By the time the vehicle pulled away, the shouting had dulled into muffled noise behind tinted glass.
Maelor did not lift his head.
You kissed his hair and kept your voice low. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
His fingers clutched harder at your coat.
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside the car, your phone would not stop vibrating.
Notifications.
Messages.
News alerts.
Three missed calls from an unknown number.
A trending clip somewhere of the school entrance, probably, or the tower from that morning, or one of those edits people kept making of Aerion walking into buildings like he was carrying a knife between his teeth and not a tablet full of merger documents.
You did not look.
Not yet.
Donnel did, once, in the mirror.
“I’ve already called ahead,” he said.
You looked up. “To the tower?”
“Yes.”
That made something in your chest loosen, just a little.
The drive into the city felt different after that. Less like panic. More like bracing.
You got Maelor buckled in again when he finally let you, wiped the last dried tear-tracks from his cheeks, gave him water, and turned the music down so low it was more background than sound. He spent most of the drive looking out the window, little face reflected in the glass, watching traffic lights streak red and gold across it.
Then, somewhere between the expressway and the downtown turn, he said softly, “Papa’s going to do the forehead thing.”
Despite the knot in your chest, you almost smiled. “The forehead thing?”
Maelor pressed two fingers between his brows and dragged them down into a dramatic, severe frown.
“That one.”
A soft laugh escaped you. “Yeah. He probably is.”
He nodded, pleased you understood. Then, after a small pause, he added, “I like when you come better.”
That one landed.
Your grip tightened on the wheel, and the rest of the drive passed with a different kind of ache sitting in your ribs.
By the time Targaryen Tower rose into view, black glass and dark steel against the grey afternoon, you were braced. It looked less like an office building than a modern keep, built by a family that no longer needed crowns because voting power, private leverage, and controlling interest did the same work with better press.
Security recognized your car before you reached the barrier.
The guard at the entrance barely glanced at the screen before lifting it. “Afternoon, ma’am.”
No pause. No check-in. No delay.
Nobody in that building was stupid enough to delay you when you had Maelor with you. More than that, nobody wanted to be the person Aerion discovered had made your day harder than it already was. The fact had become something close to legend over the last year. He had once reduced a junior assistant to tears because she left you waiting in reception for eleven minutes while he was in a call. Another time, a security contractor had tried to insist on protocol while Maelor was sick and half-asleep in your arms. He had not lasted the week.
People learned.
And if Aerion’s temper did not teach them quickly enough, Maekar’s colder displeasure usually did. That surprised outsiders more than it should have. But the old man noticed everything, including who mattered to his son and grandsons. Anyone who made life difficult for you had a way of finding the tower less welcoming after.
So the staff let you through.
Not because they pitied you. Not because they were indulging some unofficial favorite.
Because they knew better.
The tower entrance was already prepared when you arrived.
Two security men were outside before the car fully stopped. The doors were opened for you instantly. The small crowd clustered beyond the outer barrier barely had time to surge before one of the guards stepped forward and cut them off.
“Back.”
There were shouts immediately.
“Can we get a statement?”
“Is Aerion inside?”
“Was that Maelor?”
“Is the family responding to market speculation?”
But you were already moving.
One hand on the back of Maelor’s head. One arm tight around him. Donnel half a step ahead of you and one of the tower guards at your shoulder, clearing a path so efficiently it felt almost choreographed.
Inside, the lobby shifted the second you crossed the threshold.
Not subtly.
Immediately.
A receptionist was already coming around the desk. One of the assistants near the lifts straightened so quickly she nearly dropped her tablet. The new girl at the secondary desk, clearly not yet trained enough to hide her nerves, stared at you, then at Maelor, then at Donnel, and went pale.
No one asked you to sign in.
No one stopped you.
No one was stupid enough.
Because everyone in the building knew what happened when you arrived carrying Aerion’s son and looking like that.
And because if the crowd outside thought they could get a statement from you here, they were about to learn what the inside of this family actually looked like when its own were involved.
Inside, the lobby was all dark stone, brass, and hush. Old money. The kind that did not need to prove itself. Heads turned the moment you stepped inside with Maelor on your hip, but not in a gawking way. More like the floor itself had adjusted to your arrival.
One of the newer assistants stood from behind the secondary reception desk the second she saw you. She looked polished, young, and just uncertain enough to give herself away as new. Her eyes moved from you to Maelor and widened slightly.
“Oh,” she said quickly, smoothing her skirt, “I’m so sorry, ma’am, he’s still in strategy, but if you’d like, I can let him know his wife and son are here?”
You blinked.
Maelor, little menace that he was, said nothing at all. He only settled more comfortably against you and curled his fingers around the necklace at your throat, the gold pendant Aerion had given you, two dragons entwined to signify him and Maelor.
Before you could correct her, the older receptionist beside her made a strangled sound into her throat that was suspiciously close to a laugh and rose to her feet. “I’ve already called Ellyn.”
The new assistant went pink.
You did not correct her.
Not because you were trying to claim something. Not even because some quiet, shameful part of you liked the sound of it more than you should have.
Mostly because correcting it with Maelor in your arms and the whole lobby listening would have made it something larger than it needed to be.
A moment later, the private lift opened.
Ellyn stepped out in charcoal and silk, tablet under one arm, expression composed. She took one look at you, one look at Maelor, and one look at the new girl’s face, and understood everything instantly.
“Well,” she said dryly, coming toward you, “I see we’re having a day.”
“I fell,” Maelor told her with grave dignity.
“I can see that.”
Then, lower, to you, “He’s on the edge. The meeting’s gone on too long, Daeron’s papers are finalized, and three directors have already said the phrase fiduciary continuity like it means anything worth hearing.”
That made you huff the smallest laugh.
Ellyn’s mouth twitched. “The building is still standing, which counts as success.”
She turned to the new assistant. “With me.”
The girl looked like she wanted the floor to open beneath her.
Upstairs, the executive level was all frosted glass, muted light, and the oppressive quiet of expensive places where men with power preferred their panic to happen softly. Ellyn crossed to the boardroom and knocked once before stepping inside.
Voices. Low, clipped, tired.
Then Ellyn’s voice, smooth as polished stone.
“Sir,” she said, “your wife and son are here to see you.”
Silence hit the room so hard it was almost audible.
Then the door opened.
Aerion came out like the room had failed him personally.
His tie was gone. His collar was open. His jacket was still on, but only just, like he had kept it there out of spite. The color beneath the black of the suit was dark and ember-red, visible only when he moved, and it made him look like what he had always been at heart, a man with fire banked beneath control. His hair had been pushed back too many times already, silver-gold disordered at the front. Exhaustion had deepened the violet of his eyes until they looked almost bruised.
Then he saw Maelor.
Everything in him rearranged.
The boardroom vanished from his face. The directors, the votes, the transition, Daeron’s absence, Maekar’s pressure, all of it dropped back the second his attention landed where it mattered.
He was in front of you in a heartbeat, too close, too fast, one hand going first to Maelor’s cheek, then to the back of his head with a tenderness that never failed to catch you off guard because of how complete it was. Not performative. Not careful for witnesses. Just real.
“What happened, little dragon?”
Maelor blinked at him. “I fell.”
Aerion’s gaze swept the bandage, the faint puffiness around his eyes, the dried traces of crying you had not quite managed to wipe away. His jaw tightened. The line appeared between his brows exactly where Maelor had predicted. But his hand stayed gentle, thumb brushing once, carefully, below the bandage.
“I can see that.”
“He was checked by the nurse,” you said quietly. “No dizziness, no nausea, no confusion. He mostly scared himself.”
Aerion looked at you then.
That was the dangerous part.
Not the temper. Not the name. Not even the history.
The way he looked at people he loved.
There was nothing casual in it. No half-measures. No polite distance. Aerion had once been a man who burned through things out of boredom, arrogance, and sheer appetite. Now, when he cared, he did it with terrifying focus. Enough to make a person feel pinned where they stood. Enough to make the room around you both feel briefly irrelevant.
His hand stayed cupped at the back of Maelor’s head.
The other slid around your waist, low and sure, like it had every right to be there and had long since stopped asking permission.
“Thank you,” he said, and the words came out rougher than they should have, quiet enough that they felt like something meant only for you.
It would have been easy, in that moment, to forget the room behind him entirely.
Easy, if Maekar had not risen.
He stepped into view at the far end of the table, broad and severe and unmistakably built from some older, harsher world. Thick through the chest and shoulders, beard cut square, hair silver touched with gold, pox scars faint on his cheeks, he carried himself with the dense, immovable force of a man who had never needed charm because he had always had authority instead. Even in a modern suit he looked like he ought to have been wrapped in black velvet and dragon teeth, one hand on the haft of a mace.
His gaze went first to Maelor.
Something in it softened.
Not enough for anyone outside the family to catch. But you saw it. Aerion saw it. Ellyn certainly saw it.
Maekar loved his grandson in the manner of hard men who had never learned softness and considered that a private failing, not a public one. He did not coo over them. He did not fuss. But rooms shifted for them. Schedules bent. Tempers were reined in. The world, where possible, was made safer.
Then his gaze moved to you.
He did not smile. He probably had not smiled properly in twenty years.
But the look he gave you was not neutral either.
It was that same stern, grudging approval he had never spoken aloud but never really hidden from you, either. The look of a man who thought you were good for his son, knew it, and resented his own inability to say so in a way that did not sound like an operational briefing.
If Maekar had been made with gentler language, he would have said that you steadied Aerion in ways the rest of them could not. That you had never asked anything from the family but had somehow become essential to it. That you made his son less reckless, his grandson happier, and the building itself calmer when you walked through it.
Instead, he said, “I assume the tower can survive ten minutes without you.”
Aerion did not look away from you. “It will have to.”
Maekar’s gaze dropped once to the bandage, then back to you. “Take him into the office.”
It was not really about the child.
It was Maekar’s way of saying go, of making space for Aerion without dressing it up as kindness, of choosing you both openly enough that anyone in the room with half a brain would understand.
Then Maelor, because children were born to betray the adults who loved them most, tucked his face against your shoulder and said, “They called her your wife again.”
The silence that followed was glorious.
The new assistant at the back of the room looked like she might pass out.
Ellyn’s eyes lowered at once to hide her amusement.
Something flickered at the corner of Aerion’s mouth.
He looked at his son first, then at you, and some tiny fraction of the strain left his face.
“There’s my honest boy,” he murmured.
Maelor blinked up at him. “I didn’t tell them no.”
That got you. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Aerion heard it, and the look he gave you after was enough to make your pulse stumble.
Then, still holding your waist like letting go would be an error in judgment, he said quietly, “Come upstairs with me.”
Not a request.
Not really an order either.
Just the truth in its most controlled form.
You went.
His office was dim compared to the corridor beyond, all dark wood, low lamps, and glass running from floor to ceiling behind the desk. The skyline looked cold through the windows, the city blurred silver and slate beneath the weather. Maelor was settled onto the long sofa with juice, crackers, and one of the wooden puzzles Ellyn kept in a cabinet for emergencies that were never officially called emergencies.
By the time the door shut behind you, the hush in the room felt different from the hush outside.
Aerion took his jacket off and dropped it over the back of a chair. He crouched in front of Maelor first, checked the bandage himself, pressed a kiss just beside it, brushed the hair back from his forehead, and asked the same questions the nurse had already asked because he needed the answers from his son’s mouth, not anybody else’s.
Only when he seemed satisfied did he stand.
He dragged one hand over his face, exhaled, and turned toward you.
You leaned a hip against the edge of his desk, watching him. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The city glowed beyond the glass. Maelor rustled softly on the sofa behind you.
Then you said, “They called me your wife, Aerion. What is that?”
His head lifted slowly.
For one suspended beat he only looked at you.
Then he crossed the room.
He stopped close enough that your knees nearly brushed his, one hand coming to your waist again, the other braced beside you on the desk. The position turned the question into something hotter than you had intended, though perhaps not hotter than you had feared.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and then rose again.
“The first sensible thing anyone’s said to me all day,” he said softly.
That would have been enough.
It was not all he did.
His thumb moved once against your waist, slow and deliberate, and then he leaned in just enough for his forehead to touch yours for the barest moment, like a confession he had no intention of offering anyone else.
Behind you, Maelor gave a sleepy little sigh from the sofa.
Aerion did not look away from you.
“Stay close,” he murmured. “I’ve had enough of everybody else deciding what matters today.”
Because there he was, a man with half a branch of the family settling onto his shoulders, a boardroom full of directors waiting, Maekar watching, Daeron gone, Brightflame shifting, the whole goddamn tower braced for him to become something harder, and still he was standing there with his hand at your waist like the only thing in the room he trusted not to fail him was you.
Dragons Caught in the Storm (Part 2)
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1)
Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's.
Valarr did not leave when you gave your answer. He stood as though he expected you to laugh, to say it was a jest, that you were merely amusing yourself at court’s expense. When you did not, when you held his gaze with a steadiness you had never quite used against him before, something unsettled flickered across his face.
“You cannot be serious,” he said.
“I am,” you replied, evenly.
Daella shifted beside you, arms crossed, chin lifted defiantly. Rhae hovered nearer the window, trying and failing to look inconspicuous.
Valarr looked between the three of you, his confusion becoming probing.
“When did this happen?” he pressed. “You never spoke of him. You...” He stopped, frowning faintly. “You do not even like him.”
“That is not your concern,” you said.
It was colder than you had ever spoken to him.
He stepped closer. “It is my concern if...”
“If what?” you cut in, your voice tightening despite your control. “If I make a poor match? You did not seem concerned when yours was announced.”
That struck. His mouth parted, then closed again.
Daella seized the moment. “Perhaps you should leave,” she said, sweetly sharp. “You are upsetting her.”
“I am not...” Valarr began.
“You are,” Rhae chimed in, far too quickly, her nerves making her bold. “And she is to be married. You cannot simply barge in and question her like...like...”
“Like what?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
Rhae faltered.
You stepped in before she could unravel the entire truth with one poorly chosen word.
“Unchaperoned,” you said.
Valarr’s expression shifted, hurt, unmistakably so, though he tried to mask it.
“…I see,” he said quietly.
He did not, you thought.
He bowed his head, stiffly, and turned to leave.
At the door, he hesitated.
“You could have told me,” he said, without looking back.
Then he was gone.
The moment the door shut, Rhae burst into motion.
“I can fix it,” she said, already rummaging through her things, knocking over a small vial in her haste. “There must be a counter-potion. Something to reverse the binding, perhaps a dilution, or...”
“Rhae,” Daella said, rubbing her temple, “you do not even know what you made.”
“I do!” Rhae insisted. “It is a love draught. A very potent one, clearly.”
“That you made by guessing,” Daella replied dryly.
Rhae ignored her entirely, muttering to herself as she began sorting through herbs and powders.
You watched her for a moment. Then you turned away. There were more immediate problems.
You wrote to your uncle Lyonel that same day.
You did not mention potions or spells or foolish drunken decisions. You were not that reckless. But you told him enough.
You told him that Aerion had been improper with you, rude, lewd in a way no lady should tolerate. You told him that his sudden declaration of love felt unnatural. That you did not trust it. That you feared being made a spectacle of, a laughingstock at court if this proved to be some cruel whim.
You did not exaggerate. You did not need to.
You sealed the letter and sent it off with steady hands.
If nothing else, Lyonel Baratheon would come.
And Lyonel Baratheon did not take kindly to anyone slighting his family.
The reply came swiftly. Not to you. To Maekar.
A short, brisk message, delivered with all the subtlety of a storm breaking over the Narrow Sea.
He would come to King’s Landing personally to discuss the matter of his niece’s betrothal.
If there had been any hope that things might quiet in the meantime, it died quickly. Because Aerion did not leave you alone.
You were walking through the gardens when he appeared at your side, as though conjured.
“You did not come to break fast,” he said, his voice softer than you had ever heard it.
You did not slow. “I was indisposed.”
“You should have sent for me.”
You stopped then, turning to him with a sharp look. “Why would I do that?”
His expression softened, as though you had asked something terribly gullible.
“Because I would care for you,” he said simply.
It unsettled you more than his usual arrogance ever had.
“I do not need your care,” you replied.
“I know,” he said quickly. “But I wish to give it.”
You resumed walking. He followed.
You tried to be rid of him. You truly did. You snapped at him when he grew too close. You cut your words sharp and precise, hoping to pierce through whatever madness had taken hold of him.
“You are insufferable,” you told him once, when he would not stop hovering at your shoulder.
He only smiled.
“You may insult me as you please,” he said. “It does not change what I feel.”
“It should,” you retorted. “Any sane man would reconsider.”
“I am not any man,” he said lightly.
That, at least, was true.
You cornered him once, away from the others, your patience fraying.
“This is absurd,” you told him, your voice low and cutting. “You do not know me well enough to love me.”
“I know enough,” he replied.
“You knew enough to pinch me like a tavern girl,” you snapped.
He stilled. For a moment, you saw something flicker across his face. Regret? Shame? It was gone too quickly to be certain.
“I will not do that again,” he said, quieter now.
“That does not undo it.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I will spend the rest of my life making amends, if you allow me.”
You stared at him. He stepped closer, too close.
“You may hate me,” he continued, his voice dropping, something almost desperate threading through it now. “You may strike me, curse me, turn your back on me in public and private. I do not care. Only...” His breath hitched, just slightly. “Do not refuse me.”
“This is not love,” you said.
“It is,” he insisted.
“It is obsession.”
“Then I am obsessed,” he said, without hesitation.
You recoiled. He did not falter.
It worsened.
He began to trail after you openly, no longer caring who saw.
At feasts, he sat too close. In halls, he appeared at your side as though tethered to you.
“Do not send me away,” he murmured once, catching your wrist lightly when you turned from him.
“I will give you anything,” he said, his voice low, almost unsteady. “Anything you ask.”
You pulled your hand free. “I want you to leave me alone.”
Aerion shook his head, as though the very idea was impossible.
“Ask something else,” he said.
You stared at him, incredulous. “You cannot simply decide which of my wishes you will grant.”
“I can if one of them is to lose you,” he replied.
You had no answer for that.
He spoke endlessly.
Of things that made your skin crawl. And things that, against your will, made something in your chest ache.
“I will give you the finest gowns,” he said, pacing before you as you sat, utterly exhausted by him. “Silks from Lys, jewels from Volantis, whatever you wish.”
“I do not care for such things.”
“Then I will build you something better,” he said immediately. “A palace. Not here, somewhere grander. Somewhere worthy of you.”
You scoffed. “You cannot simply build palaces on a whim.”
“I can,” he said, utterly serious. “For you, I will.”
You rubbed your forehead.
“I will fill it with anything you desire,” he continued, relentless. “Books, if you wish. Gardens. A place where storms rage, if you miss them.”
Your breath caught, just slightly. You hated that he noticed.
“I will give you sons,” he went on, softer now. “And daughters. They will have your strength.”
You looked away.
“You will never be overlooked again,” he finished.
That, more than anything, got stuck in your mind. You hated him for it. Well, you tried to. You truly did. But it became…complicated.
Because beneath the madness, beneath the unnatural devotion, there was something else. It was not like he could control it. His voice softened when you spoke, even when your words were sharp. He faltered not in arrogance, but in uncertainty when you pushed too hard. He had not asked for this. He had not meant for it. And still he bore it because he had no choice.
You softened. Not enough to encourage him but enough that your cruelty dulled. Enough that, when he leaned too close, you did not always push him away immediately.
Valarr did not let it rest.
He returned the next day, and the next, and the next after that, each time with the same restless air about him, as though something had shifted beneath his feet and he could not quite understand where the ground had gone.
It was never a single question, never a simple inquiry. He circled the matter, as though careful probing might reveal a crack.
“You must see how sudden it all seems,” he said one afternoon, standing before you while Daella idly flipped through a book and Rhae pretended very poorly to be absorbed in her notes. “Aerion has never shown you any particular…regard before. Not of this kind.”
You folded your hands in your lap, posture straight. “Men are allowed to develop affections.”
“Yes, but...” He hesitated, frowning slightly. “Affections do not usually bloom overnight. Not like this.”
Daella snorted softly, not looking up. “Perhaps you simply never noticed.”
Valarr’s eyes flicked toward her, briefly annoyed, before returning to you. “And you,” he continued, “you never spoke of him either. Not once. You spoke of…many things. But not him.”
You tilted your head faintly, as though considering. “Must I report every passing interest to you?”
“That is not what I meant,” he said quickly, though his composure was beginning to fray. “I only mean that I thought I would have known if there had been…something.”
There had been something, you thought.
Just not what he imagined.
Rhae suddenly interjected, far too brightly, “People can be very secretive about matters of the heart.”
Daella shot her a look.
Valarr’s gaze sharpened. “Secretive? Since when?”
“Since always,” Daella said lazily, closing her book with a soft snap. “You are not entitled to every detail of her life, cousin.”
Valarr exhaled through his nose, clearly dissatisfied, but there was nothing he could press that would not make him seem...what? Petty? Possessive? Something he had never allowed himself to be.
And so he left again, though this time more slowly, as though reluctant to turn his back.
You watched him go. You felt something like vindication. It did not taste as sweet as you had once imagined.
Rhae hadn't slept properly since that fateful day.
At first, it had been frantic scribbling, muttered theories, a scatter of ingredients that grew more chaotic with each passing hour. But as the reality of the situation dawned: Lyonel on his way, Maekar already in agreement, Aerion growing only more attached, her efforts shifted from frantic to feverish.
“This is not simply infatuation,” she insisted one night, pacing the length of your chamber while Daella lay sprawled across your bed, watching her with half-lidded eyes. “It is binding. There must be a way to break a binding.”
“You do not even know how you made it,” Daella pointed out for the hundredth time, already resigned to what fate had willed.
“I know enough,” Rhae snapped, whirling toward her. “There were elements of suggestion, of amplification, of desire already present...”
You lifted a brow. “Desire?”
Rhae faltered for half a second, then recovered. “Perhaps not conscious desire. But something. The potion does not create from nothing, it enhances...”
“Then you have enhanced something deeply unfortunate,” Daella muttered.
Rhae ignored her again, turning back to her table, hands moving with increasing precision now. “If it binds, it can be unbound. It must. Otherwise…” She trailed off, her mouth tightening.
Otherwise, Lyonel would arrive to find you entangled in something unnatural, Maekar would defend his son, and neither man was known for yielding.
Aerion did not give you much space to think.
He found you everywhere. In the corridors, where he would fall into step beside you as though summoned by your presence alone. In the gardens, where he would appear at your shoulder, speaking your name with a familiarity that still felt jarring. At meals, where he abandoned his place without hesitation if it meant sitting closer to you.
“You did not come to the yard this morning,” he said, falling into step beside you as you walked along the outer gallery. “I looked for you.”
“I did not know you kept such careful watch over my movements,” you replied, not slowing.
“I would, if you allowed it,” he said, entirely serious.
You glanced at him, irritation flaring. “I do not.”
He smiled faintly, as though indulging you. “Then I will settle for watching from afar.”
“You are not watching from afar,” you pointed out.
“No,” he agreed, and there was something almost pleased in it. “I am improving my position.”
You huffed a quiet breath, shaking your head, but you did not send him away.
You had learned by now that cold rejection did not deter him, it only twisted into something softer, more pleading, more difficult to withstand.
“You should not encourage me,” he added after a moment, his voice lowering slightly as he studied your expression. “You look at me as though you are considering something unkind.”
“I am considering many unkind things,” you said dryly.
“Will you tell me?” he asked, almost eagerly.
“No.”
“Then I will imagine them,” he said, and for once there was a flicker of something like amusement in his tone. “I suspect they will be worse.”
You sighed and bit back a frustrated scream.
“I have been thinking,” he said, sitting down too close beside you on a bench as you tried unsuccessfully to read. “If you do not wish to remain in King’s Landing after we are wed, we need not. We could go elsewhere.”
You did not look up from your book. “Where would you go? You are a prince.”
“I would go where you are,” he said simply. “The rest can be arranged.”
“That is not how kingdoms work.”
“It is how I would make them work,” he replied.
You sighed, closing the book at last. “You cannot bend the world to your will simply because you wish it.”
His gaze softened, unbearably so. “Not the world. Only my life. And you are part of it now.”
You looked away. He leaned closer.
“Are you unhappy?” he asked quietly.
The question caught you off guard. “…what?”
“You seem…” He hesitated, as though searching for the word. “Distant. When I speak of these things.”
You swallowed. “I am not accustomed to them,” you said carefully.
“I will give you time,” he murmured.
You almost laughed at that.
Time was the one thing you did not have.
The days slipped by too quickly. Lyonel would arrive soon.
Rhae worked relentlessly. And finally, she came to you with something that did not look like a disaster waiting to happen. It was a small vial with clear liquid inside with faint lavender hue.
“This will work,” she said, with a conviction that made even Daella sit up straighter.
Rhae thrust the vial toward you. “This is different. It is not a draught, it is a dissolving agent. It will break the binding. I am certain of it.”
You took it. It felt far too light in your hand for something that might decide the course of everything.
“You must give it to him,” Rhae added, her voice dropping. “Soon. Before your uncle arrives.”
You nodded. Because what else could you do?
It was not difficult to get Aerion alone. You sent for him, and he came immediately as though he had been waiting for the summons.
He entered your chamber with an ease that still felt inappropriate, his gaze finding you instantly, softening in that now-familiar way.
“You sent for me,” he said, and there was something almost pleased in it, like a man rewarded.
“I did.”
You had prepared for this. You had rehearsed it in your mind. It should have been simple. Offer him the drink. Watch him take it. Wait.
Instead, you found yourself hesitating.
Because he was looking at you. He looked at you as though you were...everything. It was too much.
“You seem troubled,” he said, stepping closer. “Has something happened?”
You tightened your grip on the vial, hiding it within your sleeve. “No.”
“You are a poor liar,” he murmured, and there was no mockery in it., only concern.
“I am not lying.”
“You are,” he said gently. “And I do not like it.”
You exhaled slowly. “I am merely…tired.”
“Then you should rest,” he said at once. “You should not be standing. Sit...”
“Aerion,” you interrupted, more sharply than intended.
He stilled.
You softened your tone, forcing steadiness into it. “I asked you here for something else.”
His attention sharpened immediately. “Anything.”
You reached for the goblet you had prepared, pouring the contents of the vial into it.
“For me?” he asked, watching you curiously.
“For you,” you said, offering it to him.
Aerion took it without hesitation but did not drink.
Instead, he looked at you longer than necessary.
“You are sad,” he said softly.
Your throat tightened. “I am not.”
“You are,” he insisted, stepping closer, the goblet momentarily forgotten in his hand. “You look as though you are about to send me away.”
Something in your chest twisted. “I am not sending you away.”
“Not yet,” he murmured.
You swallowed.
He reached up slowly, and brushed his fingers along your cheek, as though testing whether you would pull back. You did not.
“May I kiss you?” he asked tentatively.
The question struck harder than any demand could have.
For a moment, just a moment, you wavered.
Because this...this gentleness, this asking, this was more than you had ever been given. More than Valarr had ever offered.
And it was not even real.
You forced yourself to move. You closed your hand lightly over his, guiding it down, pressing the goblet back toward him instead.
“Drink first,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. “Please.”
He studied you.
Then, because it was you and he was bewitched, he obeyed.
He drank all of it without question.
You looked away.
Because you could not bear the way he would be looking at you when he finished.
The potion did not work.
At least, not as Rhae intended.
Aerion's expression shifted, his mouth twisted.
He doubled over violently.
The goblet slipped from his hand, shattering against the floor as he staggered, one hand bracing against the table, the other clutching at his stomach.
“Aerion...” you started, alarm flaring.
He did not answer.
He was already retching.
part 3: pending...
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Dragons Caught in the Storm
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen
Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's.
The first thing your uncle ever told you about the Red Keep was that it was full of lizards.
Not the small, harmless kind that skittered across sun-warmed stone in the Stormlands, but the silver-haired, violet-eyed kind that wore crowns and called themselves dragons.
“You mind me,” your uncle, Lyonel Baratheon had said, gripping your shoulders with wine-warmed hands, his laugh already rumbling in his chest as if he could not help himself, “you don’t let any of those Targaryen lizards sit on your head. We were kings before they ever sailed their pretty ships over.”
You had nodded solemnly, though you had been too young to fully understand what he meant.
Lyonel had loved in every way a man such as him could love his dear departed brother's only child: fine dresses when he remembered, sweetmeats by the handful, a pony that threw you twice before you learned to master it, but there had always been a certain…gap. He did not know what to do with a girl. He did not know how to teach you the delicate, invisible rules that governed courts and queens and the careful dance of words.
So he sent you away. You remembered the day clearly, the wind whipping through your hair, the smell of salt and storm lingering even inland, his hand heavy on your head for once, not careless.
“Go on, then,” he had said, softer than you had ever heard him. “Learn your letters. Learn your courtesies. But don’t you forget what you are. You carry storm in your bones that can extinguish any fire.”
A Baratheon. Proud. Unyielding. You carried that with you into the Red Keep like armor.
At first, the court had been overwhelming.
Too many people, too many rules, too many eyes watching to see if you would stumble.
But you did not. You learned. You sat in lessons with princes and princesses, your back straight, your voice steady even when you stumbled over the words. You learned how to move through halls without drawing attention, how to speak just enough and no more, how to listen.
Somewhere along the way, you found him.
Valarr. He had been just a boy with careful manners and a softness that the others did not always notice. He had been kind to you when others were merely polite. He had shared books with you, helped you through lessons, laughed quietly at things no one else seemed to find amusing.
You became inseparable without meaning to.
When his mother died, you were there.
You remembered that night. He had sat too still, hands clenched in his lap, as if grief might shatter him if he moved too suddenly.
You had not known what to say. You barely remembered your parents. His grief was different. So you had simply sat beside him. Close enough that your shoulders touched.
He had leaned in to you, and so you had stayed.
When he grew older and was expected to speak before the court, it was you he came to. Nervous, though he tried to hide it.
“I’ll forget,” he had muttered, pacing before you. “I know I will.”
“You won’t,” you had said, seated with your hands folded neatly, though your heart had been strangely tight in your chest. “And if you do, no one will dare laugh.”
He had huffed a soft, disbelieving breath. “They will.”
“Then they’ll answer to me,” you had replied, and something in your voice had made him stop.
He had looked at you then, not as one looks at a friend, but something searching. Something warmer.
He had smiled.
He had rehearsed the speech in front of you until his voice stopped trembling.
You had clapped for him when he finished, grinning despite yourself.
When he had his hair cut short for the first time, he sought you first immediately, asking if you thought it suited him well.
So after a few years of residing in the Red Keep, you had fallen in love with him. It had been gradual. Certain. Inevitable. Like realizing the tide had come in only when you were already standing in water. How could you not fall in love with Valarr?
You had thought, foolishly, perhaps, that he might feel the same.
Or that even if he did not, your bond would be enough. That the closeness you shared would naturally lead to something more. That when the time came for him to wed, he would look at you and think...Her. Of course her.
You had not entertained other offers. Not seriously. Not truly.
Why would you, when your heart had already chosen?
The news came to you from court whispers, not even from Valarr's own mouth.
A merchant’s daughter from Tyrosh.
You remembered the way your stomach had dropped, though you had kept your face perfectly composed.
You had gone to him, trying to not let what you felt show on your face.
“Is this what you want?” you had asked.
He had looked at you, surprised. Then shrugged.
“I don’t mind.”
You had waited for more. For something. A hesitation. A confession. A flicker of regret.
There had been nothing.
Not even the consideration of you. Not even the thought.
And in that moment, something in your chest had cracked, fractured and ugly and devastating.
You, who had not even looked at another man.
You, who had shaped your future around him without ever saying it aloud.
You had not even crossed his mind.
You decided to leave.
You did not belong here if you could be so easily overlooked.
If all your careful learning, your presence, your loyalty meant nothing in the end.
But you had made a promise. And Baratheons did not break their promises. Maekar Targaryen was coming to court with his children, and you had sworn to his daughters, Daella and Rhae, that you would spend time with them when they arrived, given you had not seen each other in so long.
So you stayed. Just a little longer.
They were a welcome distraction.
Daella was bright and warm, quick to laugh and quicker to pull you into mischief. Rhae was something else entirely: intense, forever hunched over some scroll or mixture, convinced she possessed the makings of a great Valyrian sorceress.
Most of her potions smelled terrible. None of them had ever worked.
One evening, you found yourselves tucked away in a smaller chamber, far from the prying eyes of the court.
Wine flowed freely. Too freely.
Daella leaned against you, laughing, her cheeks flushed. You felt warm, pleasantly untethered, the tightness in your chest dulled by drink.
Rhae sat nearby, entirely sober, muttering to herself as she carefully stirred something in a small vial.
“I swear,” you said, your words loosening before you could stop them, “it is an insult.”
Daella turned toward you, blinking. “What is?”
You laughed, though it came out sharper than you intended. “That he did not even think of me.”
The words spilled out after that, messy and unrestrained.
“I have been there for him for years, Daella. Years. And he chooses...what? Some merchant’s daughter from across the sea? Not even a noble house here, not even...” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together before continuing, quieter but no less bitter. “Am I so little in his eyes?”
Daella’s expression softened, but before she could speak, you pressed on.
“I wanted to be a princess,” you admitted, the words heavy with something raw and proud and wounded all at once. “I am a Baratheon. I am not meant to be overlooked. I will not be some…forgotten lady, passed over like I was never even a possibility.”
Rhae’s head snapped up.
Her eyes gleamed.
“I have something to remedy your anguish,” she said.
You and Daella both turned to her.
“The potion,” she continued, holding up the vial triumphantically. “I made it for Egg. So he would fall in love with me.”
Daella snorted.
You laughed outright.
But Rhae only frowned, stubborn.
“It works,” she insisted. “I know it does.”
“You say that every time,” Daella said, waving her hand dismissively.
Rhae ignored her, her gaze fixed on you.
“I will give it to you,” she said. “For Valarr.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. “No. No, that is not necessary...”
“It will make him love you,” Rhae said simply.
The wine dulled your better judgment.
The hurt in your chest sharpened something reckless.
Daella rolled her eyes. “Fine. Fine. Let’s do it. For the story, if nothing else.”
You should have refused.
You found Valarr in his chambers, already half in disarray.
Daeron was drunk out of his mind, slumped in his chair as Matarys tried, with questionable success, to tie his hand to the table leg.
“Stay,” Matarys muttered, as if Daeron were a particularly unruly animal.
Valarr stood beside, looking faintly amused, though he made a half-hearted attempt to intervene.
“Perhaps you should let him go...”
Rhae moved silently, unnoticed. You barely paid attention as she poured the contents of her vial into a goblet of wine.
She handed it to you.
Your heart beat a little faster as you approached Valarr.
“Here,” you said, as casually as you could manage, offering it to him.
And in the very next moment, everything went horribly wrong. It happened so quickly that you struggled to recall it afterwards.
A hand. Sudden, uninvited, pinching your hip hard enough to startle, to make you jolt.
You turned sharply, heat flaring in your cheeks.
Aerion. Who else would've done such a thing.
He had always unsettled you. From the moment he arrived, the way he had looked at you: openly, boldly, his tongue dragging slowly across his lip in a gesture so obscene it had made your stomach twist.
Now he stood far too close, smirking.
“Tavern girls serve better,” he said lightly, though his eyes lingered on you in a way that made your skin crawl.
Before you could react, before you could even gather your thoughts, he snatched the goblet from your hand.
“Waste not,” he added.
And drank it.
All of it. In one swallow.
You stared. Rhae made a small, horrified sound behind you.
Aerion did not notice.
He grabbed Daeron by the arm, hauling him up with ease.
“Come,” he said sharply. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The goblet gone with him.
The potion gone with him, now in his stomach.
You stood there, stunned. Then you laughed. Because what else could you do?
“It would not have worked anyway,” you said, dismissing it, even as Rhae looked like she might faint.
Daella laughed with you.
The matter, you thought, ended there.
You woke late the next morn, your head pounding, your mouth dry.
You missed breaking fast. Your handmaidens had long since learned to not wake you the morn after you had drunk the previous night unless the King himself would be present at the table. You would have slept longer, if not for the sudden, frantic burst of noise as your chamber door flew open.
Daella rushed in first, breathless. Rhae followed, nearly bouncing with barely contained excitement.
“You will not believe...” Daella began.
“Aerion...” Rhae interrupted.
You groaned, pressing a hand to your temple. “If this is about last night....”
“He is in love with you,” Rhae exclaimed.
You froze. “…what?”
“He has been asking for you all morning,” Daella added, eyes wide with disbelief. “Praising you. Your beauty, your wit...everything.”
“And then,” Rhae said, almost vibrating, “he told his father.”
Your stomach dropped. “What did he tell him?”
“That he wants to marry you.”
Your ears rang.
Daella and Rhae continued talking over each other, though you could barely register the following words.
Maekar had agreed. A raven had already been sent. Your uncle would be receiving the offer.
The room seemed to tilt.
“This is not...” you began, shaking your head. “This is not real.”
“It is!” Rhae insisted. “My potion worked!”
“Do not say that again,” Daella snapped, grabbing her arm. “To anyone.”
Your head swam.
Marriage. To Aerion. The very thought made your insides chill with dread.
A knock sounded at the door.
Before you could respond, it opened.
Valarr stepped inside. He looked unsettled, confused, almost hurt.
That made your blood boil. He had the audacity to look like he'd been betrayed and left in the dark when he had done the exact same thing with a mere shrug.
“Is it true?” Valarr asked.
You met his gaze. And for the first time, you did not soften for him.
“Is what true?”
“That you are to marry Aerion.”
There was something in his voice. Something you had once longed for.
Too late.
You straightened, lifting your chin. “Yes.”
A flicker of something crossed his face.
You held his gaze. Let him feel it. Just a fraction of what you had.
“Yes, I am,” you repeated.
a/n: Okay, I know there hasn't been much of Aerion here but there will be in chapter 2!
part 2: see here
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─ summary: You and Aerion do your best to convince Valarr to stay in bed with you.
─ pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Targaryen!reader x Aerion Targaryen
─ word count: 1.5k
─ content: 18+ MDNI | smut | filthy filthy smut | established relationship | targcest (cousin and sister) | p in v | throuple | poly| the boyfriends are boyfriends | fluff
─ a/n: I have been telling you all forever that Valarr and Aerion are in love. This is my proof. This is going to be a little three-part series. Thank you as always for the likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. Much love. 🖤
The light came in slowly, creeping through the gaps in the heavy curtains in thin gold lines and fell warm across the tangled sheets. You registered the warmth first, the deep, settled heat of a bed that had learned the shape of three bodies. They had not noticed you wake.
You were where you always were, in the middle, your long silver-gold hair spread wide across the pillows like a spilled halo. Aerion was to your left, Valarr to your right, and they were leaning over you, kissing above you in the early light. Both of them were shirtless, their lines gilded by the morning sun. The broad planes of their shoulders, the sharp lines of their throats, the easy strength of them so close you could have reached up and touched either one without trying.
Valarr's hand rested at the back of Aerion's neck, his fingers possessive and unhurried. Aerion's fingers were curled loosely in the fabric at Valarr's waist, a soft sound escaping him in the kiss of people who knew each other completely, who had learned every inch of one another slowly. You watched the slide of their lips, the wet parting, the way Aerion tilted his head just so to deepen it.
You did not look away.
These are my men, you thought, a possessive thrill curling low in your belly. How lucky am I to have found them both?
You must have moved, a shift of the hips or a rustle of the linen, because Aerion's eyes opened. They found yours immediately, violet to violet, unerring as always. The corner of his mouth curved, a wicked, knowing thing.
"Enjoying the show?"
"Always," you said simply, your voice rough with sleep.
Aerion made a sound of satisfaction and dropped down beside you with absolutely no regard for grace, and then his mouth was on your cheek, your jaw, your lips, wet and entirely too much. You were laughing, both hands pushing against his firm chest, feeling the hard thud of his heart under your palms.
"Aerion," you protested, breathless.
"Good morning to you too," he said cheerfully, and kissed your cheek again for good measure, his white hair tickling your nose.
You were still laughing when Valarr leaned over you. He looked at you with a warmth he kept only for closed doors and these two people. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair from your face.
"Good morning, princess," he said, and kissed you.
It was slow and tender, a stark contrast to Aerion's chaotic energy. You felt Aerion go still against your side, paying attention, his gaze heavy on you both. When Valarr pulled back, he looked at Aerion over you, and something passed between them that needed no words. Then he kissed him again, briefly, and sat back.
Aerion recovered in his own time. He turned his wrist over in the early light, studying the faint marks still there against his pale skin, remnants of the night before.
"You are becoming quite skilled with knots," he said to Valarr conversationally, flexing his hand.
"That is because you never behave," you interjected, trailing a finger down Aerion's arm.
Aerion turned to you with an expression of profound offense. "I behave perfectly."
"He is quite the brat indeed," Valarr said pleasantly, already reaching for his shirt at the edge of the bed, his muscles shifting as he moved.
Aerion was pouting, a genuine, lower-lip-thrusting pout that made him look years younger. You leaned in to kiss it away.
He pulled back, just out of reach.
You blinked. You looked at him, letting your expression do the work, arching a brow.
Two seconds, then he pressed a single tender kiss to your mouth, quick and soft, the kind that meant things he didn't always say.
"Insufferable," you informed him against his lips.
"And yet," he murmured, "here you are."
Valarr pulled his shirt over his head and looked at the two of you. "We need to get up," he said, though he made no move to stand.
Nobody moved.
You and Aerion locked eyes in a conspiracy of laziness and lust. You sat up, the sheet pooling at your waist, and swung yourself over. You settled into Aerion's lap, straddling his thighs, your hands on either side of his face. You kissed him warm and slow. You felt his hands find your waist, his fingers digging in, pulling you closer, and heard the small sound he made against your mouth that he would later deny.
Behind you, the sound of Valarr getting dressed stopped.
"That," Valarr said, after a moment, "is extraordinarily mean."
Aerion smiled against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips.
You turned and looked at Valarr over your shoulder, your hair falling around you, your expression entirely innocent. "Stay," you said.
It was not really a request.
Valarr came back to bed. You felt the mattress dip as he knelt behind you, the heat of his chest pressing against your back. His hands came around to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebbled under his touch. Aerion shifted beneath you, his cock already hard and thick against your inner thigh. You reached down between you, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking him slowly, feeling the velvet of his skin over the hard heat of him.
"Gods," Aerion hissed, his head falling back against the pillows.
You rose up on your knees and guided him to your entrance. You were already wet, aching for it. You sank down on him, taking him inch by inch, the stretch exquisite. He filled you completely, his cock hitting deep inside you as you bottomed out.
"Gods, you are tight," Aerion groaned, his hands gripping your hips bruisingly.
You started to move, riding him. He fucked into you so deeply, his hips snapping up to meet yours, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. Valarr's mouth was on your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks that would bloom later. His hands roamed down your body, one slipping between your legs to find your clit.
"You take him so well," you heard Valarr whisper in your ear, his voice dark. "Such a good girl."
He circled your clit with firm fingers, matching the pace of Aerion's thrusts. The dual sensation was overwhelming — Aerion filling you, Valarr playing your body like an instrument. You leaned back against Valarr's chest, your head resting on his shoulder, losing yourself in the rhythm.
"Harder," you gasped.
Aerion did not hesitate. He pounded up into you, his grip on your hips tightening, driving into you with a desperate need. You felt the tension coiling in your belly, the pressure building. Valarr pinched your clit and you cried out, your body shattering.
Your release ripped through you, your cunt clamping down around Aerion's cock. He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own. With a final deep thrust he buried himself inside you and spent, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into you.
Before you could recover, Valarr pushed you off Aerion and onto your back. You landed on the mattress breathless and trembling, legs spread wide. Valarr moved between them, his eyes locked on yours. He lined himself up with your entrance, slick and spent.
He entered you slowly, his hard cock stretching you further. He made slow, languid love to you, a stark contrast to Aerion's frantic pace. He kissed you as he thrust into you, deep and slow, his tongue mimicking the movement of his hips. He drew back only to pull you flush against him, changing the angle so he hit that spot inside you that made you see stars.
Aerion, who had recovered, sat up. He watched for a moment, his violet eyes dark, before leaning in to kiss Valarr. Valarr continued his deep thrusts, his rhythm never faltering even as he kissed Aerion. Aerion pulled away from Valarr's mouth to close his lips over your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. He left little bites across your skin, marking you. The feeling of Valarr so deep, combined with Aerion's mouth on your breast, was all too much.
"I am going to—" you started, but the words cut off in a moan.
Your second release crashed over you, harder than the first. Your back arched off the bed, your toes curling, your vision whiting out. Valarr groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he followed you over the edge. He buried his face in your shoulder as he spent, his cock pulsing inside you.
The three of you collapsed together, a tangled heap of limbs and heavy breathing. You lay there, your chest heaving, feeling the combined weight of your lovers pressing you into the mattress. The room smelled of sex and something uniquely them. You closed your eyes, a satisfied smile on your lips, listening to the slowing beat of their hearts.
A perfect morning.
STORMS AND DRAGONS
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x Targaryen! Reader
divider by: @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics word count: 4.1k synopsis: You sneak away for one reckless night of freedom, only to wake in the bed of Lyonel Baratheon— who is now very much besotted with you. a/n: I got more to this story but without the next episode as a guideline to where I could go with this, I decided to end it where it was. Let's see what sunday brings! warnings: Possible major to minor spoilers depending how much you've seen and know about the book and show.
You woke with a groan, your head pounding as if your septa had taken a rod to it without pause. Worse still was the unfamiliar sensation beneath your fingers—thick furs, not the soft silks of your own bed.
Your eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut again against the cruel stab of morning light leaking through canvas.
It had been an unruly night.
You had slipped away from the royal festivities, offering up silent thanks that your father, Maeker and Aerion would not arrive until the morrow. If they had seen even a whisper of what you’d planned, you’d have felt the lash before the night was through.
Your thoughts drifted back to the night before…
Torches guttered in the dark, casting warm light over silk tents and roaring fires. Laughter spilled into the night air, mingling with music and the sharp scent of wine.
You were meant to arrive with the rest of your family on the morrow, in a proper royal procession, to observe the tourney as a princess of House Targaryen ought.
Instead, you had slipped away days early with your cousins, Daeron and Aegon, chasing the promise of excitement like any common girl with too much curiosity and not enough patience.
The three of you had taken rooms in a shabby inn not far from Ashford. Daeron, as expected, cared more for his drinks than for tourney lists, and Aegon—sweet, earnest Egg—would have fell to his brother in neglect if you had not pressed a pouch of coins into the innkeeper’s hand and made her swear to keep an eye on him.
Only then had you slipped away on your own.
Ashford had been alive with merriment when you finally arrived, far removed from the rigid hush of court. You’d fallen in with a pair of painted whores who had laughed at your careful speech and noble posture before gleefully taking you in hand. They laced you into borrowed silks cut scandalously low, dusted your cheeks with colour, lined your eyes in kohl, and declared you ready for the festivities.
And then there had been the wine.
Someone pressed a cup into your hand. Someone else caught your wrist and spun you in a careless circle as you danced around the fire. The music swelled around you—drums pounding, fiddles shrieking, hands clapping in time—and when you laughed, the sound startled even you, bright and unguarded.
Cup after cup you indulged, until you were past the point of sensible. Feeling gloriously untethered from duty, expectation, and the careful posture drilled into you since girlhood.
Eventually, the night began to blur.
The fires smeared into streaks of molten gold. The tents lost their distinction, one silk wall bleeding into the next. When you stumbled into a tent at the edge of the grounds, you assumed it was your own and sighed in relief at the warmth.
A shout of laughter rang out.
You blinked, frowning faintly as you remembered—you didn’t have a tent at all. Meaning you had just entered a strangers.
The space was enormous, even through the haze of wine, and some distant, sober part of your mind registered that it must belong to a greater house. Thick furs covered the floor. Tankards crowded every surface. Half a dozen men and women were already deep in their cups, dancing and laughing and drinking.
You took a hesitant half step back—but a hand caught your arm and tugged you forward instead. Laughter surrounded you, warm and infectious, and before you could protest, a goblet of wine was once again pressed firmly into your hands.
Your already-drunken mind forgot whatever reason you’d had for leaving. The music swallowed the thought whole, and you let yourself be swept into the crowd, laughing and dancing without a care in the world.
You were drawn deeper and deeper into the press of bodies, into the heat and noise at the heart of the tent.
And there—at the center of it all—danced the handsomest man you had ever seen.
He towered over nearly everyone around him, broad as an ox, dark-haired, clad in fine silks that strained across powerful shoulders. When he laughed, the sound boomed through the tent, rich and unrestrained, as though the world existed solely for his amusement.
It seemed you were not the only one whose attention had been caught.
His gaze found you mid-spin. Hungrily taking in the way you moved, the careless grace the wine had gifted you. Heat crept up your spine under the weight of it.
Purposefully, you looked away and kept dancing, though you had to fight back a smirk. You did not miss the way he began to move through the crowd, nor the subtle way others made room for him.
Moments later, strong hands settled at your waist.
A warm breath brushed the shell of your ear, close enough that you could feel his heat seeping through the thin silk at your back.
“Well,” your mystery man drawled, voice rich with amusement, “either I’m drunker than I thought, or someone’s wandered into the wrong den.”
You grinned back at him, fearless in your wine-soaked courage. “Then you must be far drunker than you realized.”
A husky laugh rumbled out of him, low and pleased. With an easy strength, he spun you around until you faced him fully, your skirts flaring with the motion.
“Is that so?” he murmured, eyes bright, a challenge dancing there. “Well then, there’s only one solution for that.”
He plucked the empty goblet from your fingers and replaced it with a brimming one in smooth motion. “We must drink more…and dance!”
He seized another full cup from a passing reveller to take for himself before clinking it against yours, and tipped it back in one long swallow. You followed without hesitation, the wine burning warm all the way down.
Then his hand found yours again, and he drew you into the center of the crowd, spinning you beneath the torchlight as laughter and music crashed around you. The wine thrummed warmly in your veins, loosening every careful thread of restraint until you no longer felt like a princess at all.
You did not dance like someone trained to glide through courtly steps beneath a hundred watchful eyes.
You danced wildly and freely.
You laughed too loud, let him spin you too fast, and let the music pull you wherever it wished. Your hair slipped loose, your cheeks flushed, your breath coming quick with joy you had never allowed yourself to show in gilded halls.
And in that careless happiness, you didn’t notice the way he watched you.
Not like a courtier assessing a match. Not like a knight admiring a lady.
He watched you like a man witnessing a storm roll in over open sea—awed, thrilled, and not entirely certain whether he meant to stand still or chase it headlong.
By the time the fire burned low and the musicians’ hands grew tired, the tent had begun to empty. Laughter faded into murmurs, then into the hush of dying embers.
You were flushed, breathless and still in his arms.
Your eyes widened in horror as more fragments of the night crashed back into you.
The press of his hungry mouth against yours
His hands wandering along every inch of your body.
Your own fingers tracing the hard lines of him, the ridges of old scars beneath warm skin.
Breathless moans as the two of you lost yourselves into the pleasure of each other’s body.
You froze—dread pooling in your stomach—you became aware that your cheek was not resting on a pillow.
It was resting on a broad, solid chest, which was warm and very much alive beneath your skin.
You gasped and shot up, clutching the furs to your chest as if it could restore your honor by sheer force of will.
Your gaze slid—hesitant, disbelieving—to the man beside you. Dark hair fell across his brow. One massive arm was thrown carelessly over his face, as though even the morning sun did not dare disturb him.
“Oh fuck,” you whispered turning away and running a stressed hand through your hair at what you had carelessly done. Then, another louder, more horrified, “Fuck,” came past your lips.
Memories continued to strike in disjointed flashes—your boldness, the way you had met his touch without hesitation. Heat rushed to your cheeks as you buried your face in your hands, mortified at how utterly unabashed and shameless you had been.
From beside you came a lazy chuckle.
“Good morrow to you too,” a voice rough with sleep and amusement said. He peeked at you through his fingers. “I didn’t think you would be up for another round so soon.”
He pushed himself upright, a roguish grin already tugging at his mouth—
—and you slapped him.
The sound cracked through the tent like a whip.
For a heartbeat, he only blinked at you.
Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a grin as he rubbed his cheek, eyes alight with unmistakable amusement.
“Well,” he drawled, far more entertained than offended, “I think I like you better sober.”
You leapt from the bed, dragging the furs with you as you began to pace the tent like a caged dragon.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” you demanded. “I am ruined. Absolutely ruined. I was drunk, I thought this was my tent—”
“If I recall,” he interrupted easily, utterly unbothered by his state of undress as he lounged back against the pillows, watching you with lazy interest, “you were an equally enthusiastic participant in last night’s activities. Hardly looked ruined to me.”
You spun on him, fixing him a scathing glare. “I am betrothed, you oaf!”
He shrugged. “As am I. What of it?” Then he paused in thought, brow furrowing slightly as his gaze swept over you. “Wait… are you not a Lyseni whore?”
“No!” you snapped, colour blazing in your cheeks. “If my lord husband-to-be finds out what we’ve done, we are both dead.”
He rolled his eyes. “And who is this fearsome lord husband-to-be?”
You stalked closer until you stood over him, furs clutched tightly around yourself like armour. “Lyonel Baratheon.”
He blinked and much to your surprise a slow catlike smile spread across his face. “Well,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “that’s a fortunate turn of events… for he is I.”
It was your turn to blink. “What?”
Then you laughed. Sharp and disbelieving.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Have a look around if you doubt me,” he said lazily, gesturing about the tent. “The sigil of my house is all over this tent.”
And when you did, your stomach dropped.
The crowned stag was everywhere—stitched into the heavy hangings, tooled into leather, stamped into the brass of discarded goblets. You had not stumbled into just any knight’s tent in your wine-blind wandering…
But into the tent of your lord husband to be.
Lyonel only leaned back against the pillows, looking far too pleased with himself. “At least we got the awkward part out of the way early.” His gaze flicked downward for the briefest moment where there was a stain of red before returning to you, a knowing glint in his eyes that only deepened your mortification.
You stared at him, torn between horror and fury and the undeniable, traitorous spark curling low in your chest.
With a noise of pure outrage, you grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him.
He laughed, catching it easily, meeting your glare head-on with a grin that was entirely unapologetic.
“I’d heard Targaryen women were made of fire,” he said. “And you, my lady wife, have certainly proven the tale true.” A slow grin spread across his face. “I’ve always preferred a woman who knows how to throw a slap.”
Despite the disastrous turn your morning had taken, Lyonel proved—much to your surprise—to be a decent enough man.
He sent for garments more befitting your rank, replacing the borrowed silks of the whores with fine fabrics that restored at least the appearance of dignity. He kept his voice low, his men dismissed, and when all was ready, he guided you quietly from the tent at an hour when most of the camp still slept off their cups.
He protected what remained of your ruined honour as carefully as if it were his own.
And though he still infuriated you—still smirked too easily, still carried himself with that infuriating Baratheon swagger—you felt something in you soften.
Because what other man, upon realizing he had bedded not a nameless camp follower but the highborn lady promised to him, would move so swiftly to shield her from shame rather than revel in the scandal.
Especially after the evidence of your passion had not been entirely one-sided. Because when Lyonel dressed earlier, he’d finally took notice of all marks you had left on him during the night you spent together. His expression shifted into one of unmistakable pride at the sight of them… The absolute rascal.
Ashford was far less charming when viewed through sober eyes, and you had to bite back a grimace as you trudged along the muddied paths between the tents. What had felt lively and inviting the night before now seemed loud, cramped, and distinctly unpleasant beneath your boots.
A swell of excited chatter caught your attention, drawing you toward the edge of the grounds. There, a makeshift tug-of-war had been set up, two teams straining against one another as the crowd roared its encouragement. Laughter and cheers rang out, raw and infectious, and despite yourself, a small smile crept onto your lips at the sheer energy of it all.
Not far from the contest stood a larger tent, its flaps pulled wide. Tables had been dragged out front, crowded with spectators who drank, wagered, and watched the spectacle unfold. Your gaze drifted idly over them—
Then snagged.
A large man sat among them, broad shoulders unmistakable even at a distance. And perched nearby, far too recognizable to be mistaken, was a tiny bald head.
You blinked, brows knitting as you leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the boy’s face.
He mirrored you exactly—same squint, same tilt of the head—and then, at the same moment, both of your eyes widened in recognition.
“Egg?”
The boy gasped and promptly ducked behind the large man beside him.
You were already marching across the churned grass. “Egg!”
The big man looked up at your approach, eyes widening in surprise as he scrambled halfway to his feet. “Milady?”
You barely spared him a glance.
“Egg! I see you hiding!” you snapped.
Slowly, your cousin stepped out from behind the man, a sheepish expression plastered across his face, hands clasped behind his back like a boy caught stealing sweets.
You threw your hands up. “What in the Seven Hells—”
“Milady, I beg your pardon if the boy caused any offence,” the big man blurted, bowing his head quickly. “He’s well-meaning, but I’ll give him a good clout in the ear to make sure he behaves proper.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What—?! You will do no such thing!”
“Please, milady,” the man rushed on, clearly flustered. He failed to realize your indignation had nothing to do with leniency and everything to do with the fact that he had just suggested striking a Targaryen prince. “Punish him not. I will take the blame—he is my squire.”
Your gaze snapped to Egg.
He offered you a nervous, lopsided grin, shoulders hunching as though bracing for impact.
“He’s your what now?” you demanded.
“Squire, my lady,” Egg said quickly, meeting your gaze with a pleading look. “Ser Duncan has taken me in—just for the tourney, you see.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes moved between the two of them, taking in the size of the knight, the earnestness of the boy.
“So it seems I do,” you said at last. “And has the ser been treating you well?”
“He has!” Aegon answered at once, a little too quickly, nodding with fervour.
“Wait—hold on,” Duncan blurted, spinning toward Egg in sudden alarm. “Do you know her?!”
Egg ducked his head for a heartbeat, then looked up at the knight through his lashes, eyes wide and artless. “My lady is a kind woman,” he said solemnly, “who took pity on an orphan child.”
You closed your eyes.
Just for a moment.
Seven save you from dragons with silver tongues.
Your eyes opened just in time to catch Duncan looking to you for confirmation.
You offered him a tight smile and nodded. “Yes,” you said smoothly, the words slipping through gritted teeth.
Then you turned your gaze to Egg, narrowing your eyes in silent warning. “And I distinctly recall leaving you at the inn—in capable hands.”
Egg winced, the picture of contrition.
“I will return him at once, whence the tourney is over,” Duncan said at once, clearly eager to make amends.
You sighed. “In the meantime—” You reached into your sleeve and produced a small pouch heavy with coin, tossing it into his hand. “Take this. Make sure you take proper care of the boy… or I’ll have your balls.”
“My balls…?” Duncan echoed faintly, confusion knitting his brow—then his eyes widened as he registered the weight of the pouch. “Oh—no, milady, I couldn’t—”
Before he could finish, a familiar, infuriatingly pleased voice rang out behind you.
“Ah—there she is, my bride-to-be!”
You barely had time to turn before Lyonel Baratheon strode up and slipped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you effortlessly to his side as though he had every right to do so.
Duncan stared.
His gaze flicked from Lyonel to you and back again, his expression caught somewhere between awe and sheer disbelief.
Egg, on the other hand, merely raised an unimpressed brow, his look saying plainly: this is him?
You shot your cousin a sharp glare before rolling your eyes, resisting the urge to sigh.
“Yes,” you said dryly, even as Lyonel grinned like a man thoroughly enjoying himself. “What brings you by?”
He flashed you a bright, unapologetic smile. “Unfortunately, it’s not your beauty this time.” Then he jerked his chin toward Duncan. “I’m here for him. Yes—you, hedge knight.”
He slipped away from you and reached Duncan in two long strides, plucking the man’s cup straight from his hand. Lyonel took one sniff, grimaced, and promptly tossed it aside.
“What is this piss froth?” he muttered.
Without further ceremony, he grabbed Duncan by the back of the neck. “I need muscle.”
“Why?” you shot back, arching a brow. “Are yours not enough? Too small?”
Egg failed to suppress a snicker.
Lyonel only grinned wider, turning his head just enough to wink at you. “Come join me in my tent later and I'll gladly remind you how big they are.”
Your eyes flew wide. You shot him a sharp glare and stepped forward, arm already lifting with clear intent.
He anticipated it.
In one smooth motion, Lyonel shifted, placing Duncan squarely between the two of you. He rested a heavy hand on the startled knight’s shoulder and leaned around him just enough to look back at you, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
Then he turned his attention fully to Duncan.
“Will you heed my call to war?” Lyonel asked solemnly.
Duncan blinked.
That, it seemed was enough to satisfy him.
“Aha! Good!” Lyonel declared, giving Duncan a light, approving slap to the cheek before clapping his hands together. “We march.”
You crossed your arms, scowling, while Egg snorted softly beside you.
Gods help you.
You were to marry a menace.
Unfortunately, he was to be your menace.
And with Aegon insisting on participating in the game as well, you found you lacked the heart to deny him—especially when you saw his gaze brimming with excitement. So you followed after them and stood to watch, a cup of wine in your hand, offering silent support as the noise of the crowd swelled around you.
Duncan was ordered to the back, the thick rope cinched securely around his waist, while Aegon was placed at the front. He was the smallest of all the participants by far, dwarfed by the men beside him, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips at the sight of his fierce little frown and squared shoulders. Determination burned bright in him.
You smiled proudly. He was dragon blood, no matter how small he was.
“If we lose this, I’ll be drowning your firstborn!” Lyonel bellowed over the din as he and the others dug in their heels and hauled with all their might. “Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions!”
The crowd roared.
Your grip tightened on your cup as you watched the line strain, boots sliding in the mud—then inch, inexorably, forward. Lyonel’s team was winning.
Good.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across your face.
You absolutely refused to marry a loser.
But your smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared when you saw your oaf of a future husband abruptly let go of the rope.
“I’ll be back, I’ll be back,” Lyonel muttered, ducking beneath it and striding toward you as though abandoning the line mid-pull were perfectly reasonable. “I’ll be back.”
“Lyonel!” Duncan shouted in alarm.
“I’m thirsty!” Lyonel huffed.
“What are you doing, you oaf?” you cried, smacking his shoulder as he reached you. “Go back out there and help them!”
“I’m thirsty,” he repeated stubbornly, swatting your hand away—
—and then, to your utter outrage, he plucked your cup from your fingers and took a long, unapologetic drink.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighed contentedly, and grinned at you like a man who had committed no crime at all.
“Much better.”
“I will have our marriage annulled,” you hissed, gripping the collar of his tunic.
He only laughed, brazenly pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before shoving the cup back into your hands. “Quite fortunately, we aren’t married yet—so that’s not possible.”
“Lyonel,” you snapped, warning sharp in your tone.
He lifted both hands in surrender, still grinning. “Relax. I’m going back.”
And before you could strike him again, he ducked away, already laughing as he sauntered back toward the rope, taking a moment to smack Duncan on the arse as he passed.
“Looking good.”
In the time he’d been gone, the opposing team had gained ground. Little Egg was no longer firmly planted on the earth, but instead clung to the rope with both hands and feet, every scrap of determination in his small body holding him there.
Lyonel slid into place at the rear, seized the rope, and planted his heels.
“Fucking pull!” he roared.
With renewed vigour, his team heaved as one. The rope jerked, the line shifted, and then the opposing side went stumbling forward in a mess of flailing limbs and curses—straight into the mud.
The crowd erupted.
And so did you.
A triumphant roaring cheer tore from your throat before you could stop it, loud and wholly undignified for a princess—but in that moment, you didn’t care in the slightest.
You squealed as strong arms scooped you up and spun you around, laughter bubbling free as you came face to face with Lyonel’s broad, victorious grin. The world blurred for a heartbeat before he finally set you back on your feet.
Almost immediately, a smaller body launched itself into your arms.
Another laugh escaped you as Aegon clutched at you, eyes bright with excitement. “We did it!” he exclaimed. “We won!”
“Of course you did,” you said, smiling as you tapped his nose and leaned in closer. “Targaryens always come out on top.”
The words were soft, meant only for him, and you shared a secret little smile at the truth that passed between you like a hidden spark.
With a wink, you set him down and let Duncan sweep him back into the celebrating crowd.
“Darling…” Lyonel began as he stepped up beside you. He paused, and you braced yourself for whatever nonsense might tumble from his mouth next. “Do we now have a child I’m unaware of?” he asked, gesturing toward Egg.
“What? No!” you sputtered. By the gods, this man—he knew full well you had been a maiden until last night.
A night you had spent with him.
He waved you off. “Bah, it matters not. He’s an entertaining child. We can keep him,” he declared decisively.
“Lyonel—!”
“Anyways!” he cut in loudly. He leaned in until his face was inches from yours, grinning like a fool. “I won.”
You snorted and pushed his face back with your palm. “Barely.”
“A win is a win, my fiery lady wife-to-be,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself. “So—what’s my prize?”
You arched a brow. “And what is it you want?”
He leaned back in, his voice dropping low near your ear. “Well, I can think of one rather enjoyable—”
You smacked him instantly.
“Ow!” he yelped, clutching his arm. “You are a violent little creature…” He breathed, his grin only widening. “I love it!”
You rolled your eyes.
He wasn’t done. Tugging you a step closer, he continued, “As I was saying—since that’s clearly off the table—then… a kiss.”
“A kiss?” you repeated, suspicious.
He nodded solemnly. “A kiss.”
You studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Alright. Fine.”
His eyes lit up with victory—
—but before he realized what you were doing, you pressed a kiss to your own fingertips and promptly smacked it against his mouth.
“There you are, darling,” you said with a sickly sweet smile, already turning on your heel.
You didn’t look back as you walked away.
Behind you, Lyonel stood stunned for half a heartbeat before turning to find Duncan and Aegon watching him with varying expressions.
“Gods,” Lyonel breathed, awe softening into a grin. “I think I’m in love.”
And then he was hurrying after you.
Egg only shook his head, glancing up at Duncan. “She’s going to eat him alive.”
⋆˙⟡ A MOONS PASSING — baelor targaryen
⋆˙⟡ summary your husband has been tormented with jealousy at your new sworn shield.
⋆˙⟡ notes this was fun and hot.
⋆˙⟡ warnings sex 18+, p in v, riding, possessive and jealous baelor, dirty talk, pussy eating, implications of a biting kink
MASTERLIST
Baelor knew of your standing amongst the many folk of the Realm. They looked upon you, his second wife, as a young beauty. It seemed both Lords and Ladies alike got lost within your gaze, stammering their House names as you greeted them. Your beauty gained you a vast amount of attention, the good in hand with the bad. Perhaps this was why your guard must double on your tours of the Realm, or why you followed after your Husband as he walked through the Keep.
"Husband," you called out, his pace swiftly outdoing your own, "you must think it as silly as I. A sworn shield?"
"Yes, my dear wife." He did not halt in his trail toward the small council room, wanting this conversation to be brought to an end, though that did not seem likely. The death of most conversation was when you willed it so, not him or anyone else. You had that effect on people, and what was worse, you were aware of it. Used it to your advantage, in fact.
"I am not a Queen. Merely a Princess save by marriage." You reasoned.
Baelor finally stopped, eyes closed to refrain from talking to you as he did his many small council men when they would not listen to him. He held the patience of many Houses of men in his body alone, that would not falter with you. You had picked up your skirts to chase after him, finally stopping as you reached his chest.
A familiar scent. A very familiar scent.
You craned your head toward his neck, standing on your toes to better reach him. "Is that… lemon?"
Baelor felt his cheeks heat at your observation, wanting to run from his sweet wife as you stared up at him, a challenging smirk stuck to your face. "I miss you during my day of many duties, I carry your scent as a reminder."
He said it so casually, as if this was not such a grand declaration of love toward you. Your knees nearly buckled at his admission.
"Baelor Targaryen." You gasped, hands clutching your chest. "I will find this marriage annulled to wed you all over again, if you are not careful with your words."
He breathed out a laugh, reaching his hands to grasp your cheeks within them. "Must I be so careful? I am enraptured by you, even after our many years of marriage."
The scarce moment between you was sweet, innocent, free of any duties that you were both bound to, you did not want to sour it with digging your heels in on the matters of your protection. But you did anyway, you were nothing if not a vessel to keep Baelor on his toes.
"Must it be? A sworn shield for me sounds like utter nonsense." You pleaded, your hands shifted from your chest to his. Your touch waged war between his mind and body, he had little option than to submit.
"You sound much like Maekar." His tone was amused, light, hopeful to sway his decision on this sworn sword. "But your protection is paramount to me, I will not risk your life because you wish to wander the halls alone."
You huffed, stomping your foot like a sulking child not getting their way, before shuffling away from your Husband. "Nonsense."
You were not even permitted to choose your sworn shield. Not a grand moment of the Kingsguard lined before you, pointing below to a particularly beefy one. No, in stead, you had been woken and summoned to the gardens by your Husband, the cloaked guard stood beside him.
"My dear wife," Baelor greeted you, taking your hands into his and bringing them to his lips. His kiss was soft, any firmer and you would be dragging him to your bedchambers. "This is your sworn shield, Ser Caine."
The knight bowed his head before you, your polite smile convincing enough to have him smile back at you. Baelor was contented with his decision as he looked at you, accepting the protection, being safer for it, settling Baelor's heartbeat during his routinely duties. But as he looked at Ser Caine, a familiar sight as he had seen before in most Lords that met with his wife. He had been damned.
You were beautiful, Baelor knew that. He was more than happy with it, to have a wife that was so easy on his eyes, it made his duties as a Husband simpler. But he could not cage the chill in his bones, as it swept through his chest like a wind from the North. Ser Caine's gaze had not left yours, as you rambled innocently about something only you thought so fondly of.
Baelor spent many a day and night listening to your words, how they fell from your mouth in a ramble completely separate from your mind. He entertained it, encouraged it, you were a person of your own will, and felt natural enough with him to carry yourself in such a way. It felt foreign to see it happen so quickly with this Ser Caine.
But Baelor was nothing if not dutiful. This was the happenings from this moment forward, there was little to be done with it.
Baelor could not fault the poor knight, he was exceptional at his duty. He spent every moment at your side, or at the door of the rooms you occupied. Some nights even guarded your bedchambers. He was simply performing his duty, doing as he had sworn to do. So why did Baelor feel so… vexed? He was a busy man, though he wished he was not. When not in small council meetings, he would be at the King's side, aiding him on his authority over the Realm. He did not have the time to give you, even if he yearned for it, so you mostly existed in thought.
He would pass the library, dragging himself to yet another called upon meeting, catching you drifting between the shelves, Ser Caine closely behind you, his own eye upon you. As if the books that surrounded you were any threat. He simply continued on his path, shaking his head free of his poisoned thoughts.
He would venture outside to locate his sweet wife, to take a moment at your side to look upon you fondly, to relax the stiffness in his shoulders. And would see you, blunted steel in hand, sparring with Ser Caine. Albiet lightly, the knight was not a fool. He did not clash your swords, did not attack, only defend from your strikes. His lip firmed, bordering a sneer, at the sight of you both.
Your laugh echoed through his chest, only lifting the smile of your sworn shield. You engaged in your laughter, the swords clattering to the ground beneath you as you played the victor. Baelor was controlled by envy, jealously, this feeling had not yet been named. He had not felt this with Jena, his late wife, only with you, his younger, prettier wife.
"Husband." Your voice was smooth against his ears, melting whatever hardened, sour feelings had gathered within him. You approached him with a simple kiss to his cheek. "Did you see my technique? I feel my call to war is imminent, I must be armoured and horsed immediately."
Ser Caine laughed behind you. Stolen the laughter from Baelor's throat.
"If only, dear wife." He spoke, his fingers reaching to fiddle with your necklace, the gem he had gifted you settled on the hollow of your throat. "The Realm would not lift a sword toward you, for you are too kind."
"And pretty, I hope." You added, allowing Baelor's eyes to shift over your body. Awaiting his answer.
"I need not say it, for you already know what I think of your beauty." He answered, taking hold of your heart as he did every time you spoke. It was simple for him, he need not do much to have you a mess in his hands.
He was not oft so affectionate with you in public view. He saved his sweet words and sweeter touch for the privacy of your chambers, but he was a man at his core, he would not be mistaken for his place at your side. He allowed your hands to rest on his chest, he allowed his hands to cradle your cheeks. He yearned to kiss you, touch you, have you come undone around his fingers. But duty had called him away once again.
"Your Grace," a serving man stood behind him, taking him from your grasp, "The King summons you to his solar."
"At once, Husband." You bowed your head, stepping away as he drifted away from you. Scarcely a look over his shoulder at you, and your heart retired to its sunken place in your stomach. With a deep sigh, your chest felt hollow.
"Ser Caine," you spoke, eyes stuck on the wall your Husband just disappeared behind, "I wish to visit the gardens this afternoon."
"Of course, my Lady." He spoke, taking his place ahead of you and taking the lead toward the gardens.
You would not dare admit it to your Husband, but you were delighted of his appointment of Ser Caine as your shield. He was dutiful, but kind, indulged in your humorous remarks. Made your days less hollow. Of course, when Baelor had appeared to see you between his day, he retired to his role as Guard. Or when Valarr and Matarys would bombard you with excitable happenings of their days. But when your Husband and sons-by-marriage had been stolen by responsibility, you found a friend in Ser Caine.
You sat opposite each other in the library, books open between you. You had reached such new depths of boredom, you had made a game between you. The first to find spilt ink on a page won. Won what, you had not yet gotten that far. But it evolved into a race, who could find the splotch of ink first?
Your fingers dragged over the rough page, assessing between the lines of words for any abnormalities. Ser Caine contained as much vigor as you, flipping between pages faster than you had. You were both so lost in your fun, you had not noticed your Husband enter the library.
Ser Caine raised from his chair with haste, spine straightened and hand atop his pummel. Only then did you look up from your book.
"Do not tighten your guard on my account, Ser Caine." Baelor commented, reaching for his wife to raise you from your seat. "You are at my wife's service, not my own."
The knight did not move.
"Husband." You cooed up at him, an affectionate hand on his cheek. "To what do I owe this visit?"
"I missed you. That is all." He spoke, his next words quieter. "I must speak with you."
As you followed your Husband's path, Ser Caine had shuffled to folow you.
"Stay, Ser Caine." He ordered.
Baelor had taken you through the library's doors leading toward the gardens, seating you before himself on one of the many benches that aligned with the rows of foliage. His hands held yours, cradled them in their vast size over your own, smoothing his thumbs over your knuckles.
"What is the meaning of this, Husband? You concern me." Your eyebrows knotted where they separated, eyes glassy as you looked upon your Husband's uncomfortable face.
"I must go to Oldtown." He declared. "There are trade disputes I must settle."
"And why must I stay here? I can accompany you." You argued softly,
Baelor just shook his head, only tightening his grip on your hands. "There is little need, sweetheart. If I bring you, we would only stop along the roseroad more. It is much swifter this way."
He was right. It would be quicker had you remained here, but you would not be happy. Your heart would be ripped from your chest as he rode from the gatehouse. You knew he would take Valarr and Matarys, too. The boys were ripe for learning responsibility. So you would be utterly without your family.
"I will be back with haste." He assured you, freeing a hand to pull your shoulders into him. "Scarcely a moons passing."
He peppered kisses into your hair, marking you with his love as he prepared to leave. You would feel hollow until his return, it sickened you with grief. You kissed the boys cheeks, cradled them against you to wish them a safe journey. You could not see their horses leave, you could not be near the gatehous as they rode off. In stead, remaining in the gardens, where Baelor had told you of his departure.
You turned blue in their absence. In Baelor's absence. Your bed was a vast wastland of fabric, unnessary for the little room you took up. You did not feel his affection on your shoulders come the morn, nor did you feel it between your thighs. You ate supper alone, duty says not even Ser Caine could be seated with you.
It gave you little option but to spend your efforts talking with Ser Caine. You had grown fond your sworn shield, the knight vowed to make you laugh as much as he did to protect you. He would walk aside you around the gardens, around the Keep, would talk with you through your chamber door as you bathed. It passed the time until your Husband would return.
Baelor was reeling with your absence from his side. His temper was shorter than usual, though still more evident than Maekar's ever would be. He could not believe a moons passing was wasted on journeying to Oldtown to slap the wrists of some Lords, and journeying back. Time wasted away from you, your beauty, your kindness, your touch. His mind would wander to Ser Caine, how he was undoubtedly fawning over your every breath. His gaze steadfast on the curve of your waist, or the bare skin of your sternum. Laced with his jewels, as the knight looked at his wife.
He knew your difference in age was something oft mentioned in his leave, how you were young and beautiful, yet handed to a once-before married Prince of the Realm. He was tormented by how softened the Lords and Ladies gazes upon you were, how sweetly they spoke to you. Of you. His ego was of no concern to him, he took pleasure in the Realm looking so kindly upon you. A match well made for the goodness of your Houses. But seflishly, he wanted you entirely for himself. Only he would be admitted to look upon your beauty.
He nigh on exerted the energy of his horse on the return to King's Landing, the horse scarcely halting before he dismounted. He did not conform to waiting until nightfall for you, the thought of being envious of the fabric you wore had decided it for him. You were to be reclaimed by him. Now.
Not a moment wasted.
He found you, walking aside your sworn shield, and advanced toward you. His footing was firm, his hold on you the opposite.
"Allow me to see my wife, Ser Caine." Baelor was rigid in tone, eyebrows raised in search of defiance, but was met with none. "In fact, you must guard our bedchambers from any person requiring my presence."
You could scarcely keep the pace of your Husband's, who held your hand in his on your movement toward your bedchambers. You were ravenous for him, your mind and body yearned for this very moment. Whatever conversation you held with Ser Caine now forgotten, laid to rest the moment you saw your Husband in his approach.
Baelor closed the door after ushering you inside, a passing glance at your sworn shield as he disappeared behind it. You were already tugging at the fastenings of your dress, cursing your maidens for tying it with such force this morn.
Baelor was busying his hands with his own garments, eyes remained on your frame as it lost your skirts, revealing more of your skin to him. He felt his mouth water, hungry for the taste of your flesh coated in lemon scented oil.
"Did you settle the trade disputes, Husband?" You questioned him, climbing onto the bed on your hands and knees, crawling like an animal over to where he laid.
"I do not wish to talk of the Realm with you." He grunted, taking firm hold of your hips as they settle atop him. He was already hardened beneath you. "I only wish to hear your pretty little sounds."
You giggled, placing your hands onto his bare chest as you lowered onto him. The feeling was familiar, made your toes curl as they settled on his legs. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, guiding you as you moved against him. Even as you mounted him, taking most of the range of movement, he still controlled you.
"I have longed for you around me, sweetheart." He breathed, not daring to close his eyes in fear of missing how your eyes rolled back. "So soaked for me, sweetheart?"
You only nodded, fastening your pace as you took him over and over again. The sounds coming from your cunt were just as the ones he dreamt of, in the many nights spent away from you. But the sounds coming from your mouth were new, desperate, whiny. He would not last under you.
He protected your frame against him, turning you both so your back hit the bed beneath you. "So beautiful." He sighed, kissing down your chest, giving his attention to your breasts and how they firmed under his touch.
"The Realm knows it," he kissed down your ribs, your breath shallowing, "I know it."
"But you are all for me." He paused at your hipbones, ghosting kisses at them before lowering himself further. "Isn't that so?"
You nodded, his tongue delving deep into you. The way it danced over you had your stomach tensing, you nigh on pushed him away. But you would not dare do such a thing, when he was so skilled at finding your release. Better than you ever had yourself.
"Say it." He moaned, pausing his tongue just to order it from you.
"I am all for you, Husband." You whimpered, your fingers shook as they cradled the back of his head. He could not be any further inside you, but you wished him to be.
"Louder." He ordered, lifting his head to insert two fingers and to watch your face as they entered you. "I want the Keep to remember that regardless of your beauty, you remain my wife."
"I am your wife, Baelor." You cried, his fingers curling inside you to further chase your release. You felt tears build in your eyes, lost in the haze of desire that Baelor had called upon. He knew your body so well, knew what you did and did not respond to. No other could do as he did. He would remain confident in that fact.
But his gaze was dark, that chill not yet satisfied. He must enstate himself further, in a manner no man would forget.
He tore his fingers from you, and in his gaze was not the soft Husband you were so used to. You saw dancing flames, ash, dragonfire within him. You would hunt it down, find it, assess it, take it for yourself. You hungered for him in this moment.
He gestured you to the edge of the bed, taking you in his arms and lifting you. With a strength you seldom witnessed, the Hand scarcely finding a moment to show such a feat. He carried you to your chamber doors, and your heart quickened as he pressed your back against the engraved oak.
His lips found yours once more, grunting into your mouth, the sounds undoubtedly echoing through to this sworn shield of yours. The worst had not yet come for that poor, lovesick knight. Baelor slammed into you, jolting your bodies against the door, only forcing your moans out of your chest with a volume so unladylike.
"Louder, my wife." He instructed, his forehead colliding with yours. "They all must know. You are mine."
His venomous words in your ear, the oak against your back, the way he thrusted into you, it had all mixed into a mighty charge for your pleasure. He was hunting for it, you could see the embers in his eyes heighten, taken completely by desire. He built a vengeful rhythm against you, his grip tighter than it oft was when he fucked you, consumed by something darker, twisted. You invited it, regardless.
"That's it." He grunted against your jaw, flexing his jaw to refrain from biting at you. Lost in hunger, pleasure, jealousy. "All mine."
His words sent you over the edge, your entrance tightened around him as you welcomed his seed within you. A collision of your pleasure with his, erupted from your mouths against the thick door. You had no concern with who heard you be undone, only the man that cradled you, restored your soul to what it had been before he left.
He chuckled as he held your sweltering skin, lips flush against your cheek.
"What has taken you, my Husband?" You breathed against him, the throes of desire still biting at you. He remained inside you, not wanting to part with the pleasure he brought upon you both. And the satisfying heat he felt sweep across his chest.
"I missed you, my wife. That is all."
Request for Maekar getting emotional seeing his daughter get married (you can choose to whoever) because she looks so much like Dyanna Dane and doesn’t want to see her go? 👀
ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ summary: Maekar isn't ready to give away his little girl. The emotions are only compounded by the fact that she is the spitting image of her mother.
─ word count: 1.2k
─ content: fluff | light angst | tears for both the characters and me, the author | canonical character death
This day was a day of ceaseless motion, a current of silk and laughter that swirled around the center of the room where you stood. Your ladies moved like a flock of brightly colored birds, adjusting the fall of delicate fabric, smoothing the intricate embroidery of your sleeves, and tucking stray wisps of dark hair into the elaborate pins glittering in the light. Voices overlapped in a bright cacophony, exclamations of how the color suited you, how the lace lay perfectly against your skin, how you had never looked more radiant. You bore it all with a patience that belied the occasion, turning your head this way and that at their gentle commands, your reflection in the large mirror showing a woman who was glowing from somewhere deep within.
The heavy door creaked open. The room did not fall silent, but the rhythm of it broke as heads turned. Maekar stepped across the threshold, his boots thudding dully against the rug. Your ladies-in-waiting curtsied and stepped back, creating a wide aisle of space between him and the bride. He barely registered their presence. His gaze was fixed solely on you. Standing there in the red of your wedding gown, you were the ghost of a memory made flesh. For a heartbeat, the years fell away, and he was looking not at his daughter, but at the wife he had loved and lost. The resemblance was so striking, so absolute, that the air left his lungs.
You saw him in the glass before you turned. Your face transformed, the polite smile of a hostess giving way to something brilliant and unreserved. You pivoted on your heel and beamed at him. It was a smile that had always disarmed him, a flash of white teeth and joy that could melt his iron resolve. He stood frozen, unable to force a single word past the lump that had formed in his throat.
You glanced around the room at the silent women, then back to him. "Everyone, out," you said softly. "Please. Give us a moment."
There was a shuffle of satin and a murmuring of assent as the ladies gathered their skirts and slipped past him into the hall. The heavy door clicked shut, and the silence of the room rushed in to fill the void. Maekar crossed the space between you. When he reached you, he saw that two gold pins had not yet been set, lying loose on the vanity table.
He picked them up and positioned the first pin with the same care he had used when you were a toddler and he had been terrified of pricking your soft skin. He slid the metal into the dark coils, securing the weight of the style, then repeated the motion with the second. You stood perfectly still, watching his hands in the mirror.
"You are beautiful," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. "I am proud of you. More than I can say."
He paused, his eyes meeting yours in the glass. "Your mother—"
The moisture gathered in the corners of his eyes before he could command it away. He blinked rapidly, annoyed with himself. He was a warrior, a prince, and here he was, undone by a few words and a dress. He felt ridiculous, an old man cracking apart at the sight of his child grown. He saw you notice the sheen of tears in the reflection, your brow furrowing slightly in concern.
"Father," you said.
You turned and stepped into him, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face against his doublet. He enveloped you, his large hands spanning your back, pulling you tight against his chest. He held you harder than he intended, a desperate, clinging pressure. In his arms, you felt small again. He could feel the ghost of the little girl you used to be — the child who would curl up in his lap as he worked, falling asleep to the scratch of his quill, the girl who had trailed him through the castle corridors with a thousand questions about the world, the sweet, stubborn girl who insisted he take her riding. The weight of all those years, the speed with which they had passed, crashed down on him all at once.
You pulled back slightly, looking up at him, your own eyes bright but unspilled. "No tears," you said firmly, reaching up to pat his chest. "Today is a happy day."
Maekar nodded, swallowing hard and clearing his throat. He straightened his spine, trying to reclaim his wits.
You smiled again, that radiant expression that was entirely your own yet carried the echo of your mother's spirit. "He is kind," you said, your voice taking on a dreamy quality.
Maekar nodded. Kindness was good and necessary.
"And he is handsome," you added, a playful lilt in your tone.
Maekar let out a low, noncommittal grunt. "Ugh."
You laughed softly. "He makes me laugh, Father. Truly."
The hard lines around Maekar's eyes softened. A man who could make you laugh was a man who could keep your spirit whole.
"He is obscenely wealthy," you whispered, as if sharing a secret.
"Of course," Maekar said, a faint, proud smirk touching his lips. "Only the best for you."
The playfulness faded from your face, replaced by a look of profound sincerity. You looked him in the eye, your gaze steady. "And I love him."
He had steeled himself to give you away to a stranger if it secured your future. But this was something else entirely. His princess would not just be a wife — she would be a partner. He thought of everything he had tried to give you in a match — safety, stability, security. Love was the one thing he could not create. You had found it yourself.
"He is everything I have ever wanted," you continued, your voice trembling slightly. "I can only hope to be as happy as you and Mother were."
His tears returned, hot and fast, tracking down through the beard on his cheeks. Your eyes shimmered in response, the emotion reflecting back at him. Maekar took a shuddering breath and pulled himself together, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face.
"None of that," he grumbled, though his voice was thick. "We cannot have you crying and ruining your maid's work."
He looked down at you, really seeing the woman you had become, and felt a hollow ache in his chest. "I do not think I am ready to lose you yet."
"You are not losing me," you said, squeezing his hands. "I will not be far. I will come visit any time you ask. You will be sick of me."
Maekar leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair, sweet and familiar. Then he shifted and kissed the tip of your nose, a gesture he had performed a thousand times when you were small to chase away a frown.
You giggled. It was a light, bubbling sound, the exact same giggle you had possessed at four years old, and it nearly broke him completely. He closed his eyes for a second, anchoring himself.
You took both of his large, rough hands in your smaller, softer ones and looked up at him. "Are you ready?"
He nodded. "Yes."
He pulled you into one final embrace, squeezing you until you let out a small, breathless "oof" against his chest. He loosened his grip immediately, but did not let go.
A sharp knock sounded at the door. The moment stretched, suspended in the golden light, before the reality of the hour intruded.
It was time.
Maekar stepped back, offering his arm to you, his posture straightening into the role of the prince giving away his most precious treasure. You took it, your hand resting lightly on his forearm, and together you turned toward the door.
the jack abbot fan club
you loved jack…but the ladies of water aerobics at the allegheny ymca apparently loved him the most.
content: old women who ADORE jack abbot, the YMCA, wife!reader, sex/sexual activity comments, jack the bashful king, fluff with a dash (dousing) of comedy, and big thanks to addingtoneats on tt for the headcannon!
[jack abbot x fem!reader. wc: 3.7k ]
Masterlist | Other Jack Fics
Behind the door, the smell of chlorine was pungent.
Yet it wasn’t the sterile antiseptic he was used to, so, Jack breathed it in. It filled his lungs knowing he was free for the next several hours to decompress and while it may have only been a Wednesday, it was still a Wednesday.
And those were his favorite—not that he would ever admit that out loud. Who the fuck liked Wednesdays? Jack. Except maybe it was okay for him to, at least he considered it to be because he was already a little fucked up.
Jack heaved in another smell that lingered underneath all the chlorine. Florals, too many of them, that reeked of stale potpourri and lipstick that expired 8 years ago.
On Wednesdays? He liked the smell.
It meant his fan club was there and well, sometimes, Jack just needed the attention of 6 elderly women over the age of 80.
Attention was a word Jack had gotten used to in the last two decades of his life. There were inevitables when he was out in public and decided to wear shorts, or when he was in scrubs picking up milk from the gas station on his way home. The awkward, less frequent words of “thanks for your service” he’d get from older men and the very frequent, immensely awkward stares he’d get from the women.
Those were things he didn’t ask for.
When women ogled him, it hadn’t been an inevitability all of his life—even if you told him, time and again, that he was attractive and handsome.
He believed you. You and only you for the longest time. Jack had a hard time believing that many other people shared your same opinion. That was until he met the 6 ladies of the Allegheny YMCA’s 8:00 AM Water Aerobics class.
It had all been harmless at first.
Initially, he sought out the practice of swimming at the suggestion of his physical therapist three years after his amputation. The water helped him say afloat without many supports and as his muscles grew stronger and his confidence of being a BKA increased, the number of laps he did after a shift were a testament to his determination.
The repetitiveness of laps helped ease Jack’s mind before he went home too. The consistent back and forth of the strokes leveled him out from a difficult night. It functioned as an additional therapy to one he did four times a month and you let him have his space.
Most days the pool was relatively empty. Modern exercise eliminated most water activities from a daily routine and early morning runs to the gym often excluded getting one’s hair wet. Chlorine and its drying effects came second to the avoidance of swim time. It wasn’t feasible for everyone, but on Wednesday’s there were 6 others who simply didn’t mind.
And he could hear it through the door as he reached for the handle.
Paula Abdul’s voice rang loudly against the brick interior of the pool room. It bounced off the walls, cannonballing into the deep end to keep the women on beat as they did their buoyant repetitions.
With their weights in hand, the fifteen minutes since they began felt like seconds.
“Alright ladies,” their instructor, Susan, called out to them in an echo. “Now we are gonna take those weights and put them high above our heads.”
Susan mimicked the movement to which all the ladies copied to the best of their abilities. However, as people got older, the arthritis that plagued wrists and elbows and shoulders kept them from reaching as high as her. It didn’t kill their motivation, nor did it distract them from the men’s locker room door creaking open just like it did every Wednesday at the same time.
8:15. Susan glanced at the clock across the pool.
Like a well-oiled machine, the women began to drop their arms and their heads turned toward the door.
Mary-Ann was the first to pipe up today.
“Hi Dr. Abbot,” she called out immediately in a sweet tone. Jack’s face blossomed into a smile. With one hello, a plethora of them followed.
“Ladies,” he greeted back just as nicely. “Looking lovely as always.”
“You too, Jack!” Cheryl swooned. “You’re as handsome as always.”
“Are you tryin’ to make me blush, Cheryl?”
“I can make you feel a lot of things!” She laughed, loudly and only egged on the other women.
Jack’s eyes pinned themselves on the pool deck in case of splashes or puddles as he knew the risk of walking out on his prosthesis. In another world, his insurance, or the VA, would kindly provide him an Össur-pro so he could save himself time.
But it also gave him an escape from the redness working its way up his neck. Without a shirt on, he was bare to show off just how much flattery worked on him. He kept an eye on his leg to distract himself.
The women never made a deal out of him taking off his prosthetic. They didn’t stare, they didn’t jeer, and for that, Jack was more welcoming to Wednesdays. As he rounded the corner, he picked up a chair with his free hand and carried it with him to the end of the pool. Sharon whistled at him.
“We’re working on our biceps too, Jack. You should feel mine—they’re like steel!”
Jack scoffed, shaking his head at the floor. “Maybe another day, Sharon. But good for you. That’s a really important thing to work on.”
“Did you have a good shift today?” Mary-Ann asked. She was the only one to really care about his job.
No. He didn’t. But he didn’t want to ruin their mornings with tales of a two victim MVA, a meth overdose, or a GSW to the head.
“Oh,” he shrugged. “Same as it always is.”
“Deflection,” one of the ladies said as he passed. “Must’ve been bad.”
Their heads followed him comically to the lane closest to them. Jack settled his stuff onto the ground and used the chair to help him slip his prosthetic off before doing a couple hops to sit on side of the pool. As he fumbled with his goggles, Lisa waded over to him.
“So, Jack, I was wondering if maybe after our session today you could take a look at—”
“Lisa!” Susan called from the deck. “Stop propositioning Dr. Abbot during the session.”
“I’m not!” She defended. “I’m just asking him to look at my—”
“Yeah,” Cheryl nagged. “That sounds a lot like a proposition to me.”
“Don’t you think if he was the slightest bit interested in you he would have said something by now?” Sharon backed up Cheryl. “Jack’s not interested!”
“Hey,” Jack scolded Sharon jokingly. “I never said that…”
“Didn’t you just ask him to feel your arms?” Lisa accused and Jack slipped fully into the pool.
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s really not.”
“Ladies!” Susan yelled out and Jack gave her a thumbs up as if to say, “it’s alright.”
“You know,” Trudy paddled up beside Lisa. “My daughter is in town for the holiday and she’s single looking to mingle.”
“Is she?” Jack laughed. “I think I have some friends that might be interested. She can have her pick: doctors, nurses, police officers, vets… a few firefighters.”
Trudy shook her head with a smile. It was the same wide, pearly grin he got from all of the women of the class except for Susan who just wanted to teach.
“You’re too humble, sweetheart,” she replied. “I’m talking about you. What do you say? Can I give her your number?”
“I’m flattered, Trudy.”
Jack turned around, reaching for his bag to grab his hand paddles when he paused. Where the hell was his bag? Shit. He must have left in the car.
“She’s a nice girl. She just turned 37—is that too young? I know you just had a birthday.”
“Tru—” Jack started but she kept going. Persistent was Trudy Davis’ middle name.
“But she lives in Reading with her son. He’s 10. Do you have a problem with kids? Oh!” She laughed at herself. “Of course not. You’re a doctor.”
“The ones that are good with kids are called pediatricians, Trudy,” Lisa clarified. Trudy shook her off.
“I wouldn’t mind having a little eye candy for a son-in-law. I’d bet you would make a mother-in-law very happy.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jack murmured. “I think mine sees me a little differently.”
While Jack thought back on his bag, the ladies paused. Their eyes caught one another in a wide revelation that opened a new door of knowledge about their weekly friend. Lisa put her hand on Trudy’s forearm, aghast at the news that their silver fox doctor was married.
Somewhere in the distance between the water lapping and the music changing over, Francis, the oldest woman of the group at 92, held a hand by her ear and asked:
“What did he say?” She couldn’t wear her hearing aids in the water.
“He’s married,” Sharon informed her.
“Yeah,” Francis smiled. “To me.”
“Jack?” Sharon called out to him. He pulled his goggles onto his head but still looked over at the woman.
“Are you married to Francis here?” She asked.
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I’m not.”
“We didn’t know you were married.” Trudy was slightly offended that no one did.
This was their Jack. The same one who, every class, made sure to say hello and goodbye and let them make their silly jokes about him and took it with a brave face. Jack never wore a ring—or at least none of them had ever noticed. Many of the women themselves were married to partners for decades and thought they had a grasp in knowing when someone else was.
“You never asked.” Was Jack’s simple answer.
“Does she get mad you don’t wear a ring?” Lisa followed up and felt suddenly like she didn’t understand his generation at all.
“I do.” He rose his left hand and the smallest, tiniest, tan line reflected a thick band. “I don’t want to lose it in the pool.”
“Why haven’t you ever said anything?” Mary-Ann spoke up after having been uncharacteristically quiet. She had a glimmer in her eye, mischievous one that sent an invisible string glowing between herself and Jack.
Jack shrugged, his leg bending as he got ready to set off the wall.
“Like I said, you’ve never asked about her.”
Twenty minutes from the YMCA, you scrambled in the kitchen trying to butter toast and rush out the door.
The middle of the week always felt a little chaotic—especially when Jack wasn’t there to help in the morning. You’d gotten used to it, no choice but not to be, but it didn’t help ease the stress of trying to make sure the house was in order before you left.
You stuck the piece of toast between your teeth, shouldered your bag, and rushed to the door when your feet caught a bag at the bottom of the steps and tumbled.
Your hands fumbled for the banister as your feet twisted. The piece of toast you were excited for fell onto the floor, butter side down, and your eyes landed on Jack’s work out bag as the culprit.
“Oh, come on,” you whined to no one. “Just one fuckin’ day, I swear to God.”
You hated Wednesdays. They were the bane of your existence.
There wasn’t a day longer than it. It dragged, unceremoniously, to the two days that always gave you better hope that the weekend would be relaxing and with Jack off the next few days, it would be. You just had to get through Wednesday first.
You bent down to pick up the toast only to notice that Jack’s gear was still in the bag. He hadn’t simply just left the bag, he didn’t take any of his supports with him. His paddles, the buoys, his goddamn kickboard.
But like Wednesdays were bad for you, sometimes his night shifts were too.
Jack forgot. It happens.
Digging out your phone, the last exchange you had with Jack was an hour ago where he replied “K” to a “don’t get hit by a car” from you. It was fruitless trying to call him because he was bound to already be inside and he wouldn’t answer if he was in the pool. But you peered back at the paddles and knew Jack needed those supports. Your peace of mind would depend on him having them, even if he never ended up using them.
You swiped both the bag and toast off the floor and sighed.
“What would he do without me?”
For fifteen laps, the women of water aerobics minded their business and listened to Susan’s instructions.
They still talked, however.
“What do you think she’s like?” Trudy asked.
“A nurse,” Francis said shakily as her exertion was starting to show. “Like one of those old war movies. A soldier and a nurse… how cute!”
“He’s not a hundred, Francis.” Cheryl shook her head. “I don’t think she works in healthcare. Probably in an office, maybe a teacher, or a manager of some kind.”
“Do you think she bosses him around?”
All the ladies looked back as Jack swam past the last 15 meter marking down on the opposite end. They thought on it, imagining what a domestic Jack looked like but the man they knew and created an image for wasn’t domestic. He was just a charmer. A kind hearted night shift doctor who listened to their problems.
“No,” Mary-Ann said. “I think they probably have a really nice relationship.”
“Women can be bossy too,” Cheryl defended.
“Yeah it’s kind of… what’s that thing they say? Kinky.” Francis laughed. Her face lit up in red as a result.
They turned back to Susan who changed out the weights for foam tubes. The sea of colors changed the space as they held them in arches above their heads.
Lisa sighed disappointedly. “Is it bad that I’m kind of sad he’s married?”
“Yes,” Sharon deadpanned. “He’s young enough to be your kid.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a cougar, Sharon. I can provide a really nice life and hey! I’m a really good cook too!”
“Keep telling yourself that, honey.”
Susan cleared her throat and demonstrated an exercise with the tube. She counted them down like dancers as they began another set to round out their session.
“He’s just such a nice man,” Lisa continued on.
“Then we should be happy that someone found him,” Mary-Ann concluded. “Not everyone gets to find their special someone and we know he deserves one.”
The women agreed in staggered murmurs.
As they let the music carry their repetitions away, the women’s locker room door opened with a sharp squeak. The music was almost deafening as you entered the room but a lifeguard perched on their towers blew a whistle in your direction.
You looked up, the old women in the pool stopped, and Jack paused halfway down the lane thinking the stoppage was his fault.
“Ma’am,” the lifeguard spoke. “You can’t be in here.”
You chuckled nervously. “I’m just dropping something off—I am not staying.”
The lifeguard pointed to the sign beside the doors you barely moved away from. “You must be wearing swimwear and appropriate footwear while being on the pool deck.”
“Can I just take off my shoes?” You asked. “I’m just dropping off his bag.” You pointed to Jack who clung to the lane divider.
“Go ahead.” The lifeguard returned their attention to the pool and so did you.
But no one was looking at him. They were all looking at you.
Jack treaded water in the middle of the lane with a small smile fighting its way onto his face. With his bag in your hand, he was happy to have a few unexpected minutes with you before you were whisked away for the day. His chest was rising and falling rapidly but he lifted his hand in a single wave, pointing to the chair at the end of the lane.
You slipped off your shoes and followed along the edge of the pool.
“Ladies!” The aerobics instructor called out to them. “Why don’t we take a break, huh? You’ve earned it, great job.”
Like a thousand eyes piercing your body, all the old women in the pool stared at you as if you were a vision. You gave them a polite nod in return and kept going out slight embarrassment for getting called out by the lifeguard.
“Hey,” Jack reached the edge and tugged off his goggles. “I thought I left that in the car.”
“It almost killed me this morning, actually.”
“Well I’m glad you’re still here.” Jack swiped a hand over his hair before shaking it out. The water made the color go darker and it reminded you of what he looked like before he went gray.
“Thanks me too,” you said slyly and put the bag down at the base of the chair. “How was work?”
“Pretty bad,” Jack sighed, folding his arms in front of him and leveraging himself on them.
“I can tell.”
There was a gaze Jack fell into when the days turned sour. A light that never caught his eye, devoid of true amusement you could feel across a room. He looked drained.
“I’m only gonna do a few more and then I’m heading out. Can you text me what you want for dinner? I’ll go to the store after I sleep.”
“Sure,” you nodded and bent down in front of him. “Are you okay?”
Jack’s mouth got smaller, pinching onto one side of his face in thought. “I will be.”
“I can stay until you’re done,” you told him. “I can be late.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Mmm…” You titled your head. “I think I can.”
“Honey.”
“Jack.”
Your audience grew every second you stayed. Holding out your hand to Jack, he accepted it and held your hand over the end of the pool.
“You know, I was goi—”
“Excuse me?”
The interruption made Jack’s shoulders tense. Trudy led the women to the divider that started Jack’s lane and they hovered like animals preparing to be fed.
“Hi,” you replied. “Yes?”
“Are you his wife?”
Your eyes flicked between Jack and the women and your husband’s bashful avoidance peeked your interest immediately.
“I am. Jack didn’t tell me he made friends here.”
You swung his hand gently in yours.
“Have you known him long?” You asked them and a couple of the ladies nodded.
“He’s our Wednesday snack,” the oldest one said. “Jack the Snack.”
“Jack the Snack?” You beamed with hilarity.
“Oh yeah,” she continued. “He’s the only reason we keep coming to this class so early in the morning.”
“That’s pretty good motivation if you ask me.”
“Please don’t encourage them,” Jack said lowly and the women immediately complained. Their words muddled together in one giant, half-hearted complaint that was ignored. You winked, squeezing his hand in yours.
“He is a snack, isn’t he?” You agreed. “He’s tolerable, though, right? Sometimes he’s a real pain in my ass.”
“I knew I would like her,” one of them said to another.
“He’s a wonderful man. You sure got lucky, sweetheart. Jack’s a keeper.”
“Good.” You said definitively.
And then, the comments just went flying.
“Did you know he answers all of our questions about our ailments?”
“He helped me connect my phone to the WiFi here!”
“Sometimes, he helps me out of the pool when my knees give out.”
“Jack referred me to an Ortho for my broken finger once!”
“He’s the one who made management increase the pool temperature for us!”
“He changed my tire in the parking lot when I got a flat!”
Every comment they made, Jack had to look away. It’d been months since he started coming on Wednesdays consistently and he never thought to keep track of all the things he’d done for them. It was never a hassle, it was just another part of his day.
“Ladies,” Jack spoke up. “Can I have a minute with my wife alone please?”
“You get her alone all the time. We barely know anything about her. We don’t even know her name!”
“Well you weren’t asking about her just now.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lisa brushed him off. “What’s your nam—”
“Lisa,” he said firmly. “If I get just a minute with her, I’ll look at what you wanted to show me.”
“Susan!” Lisa shouted. “We’re ready to continue!”
One by one, the ladies of the aerobics class returned to their spots in front of their instructor and Jack’s shoulders deflated.
“Jack,” you hummed and he knew what was coming next. “Do you have… a fan club?”
“I think so.”
“Did I see Mary-Ann here? From next door?”
“Mhm,” he hummed. “She’s the only tolerable one.”
“You love it.”
“They love it—or me, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe they just like my muscles.”
Your laugh made some of the difficult night harbored inside of him chip away. “Oh my. I might need to come here on Wednesdays.”
“No.” Jack shook his head harshly. “I cannot handle any more comments from them. They’re insane. Do you know how sexual those women are?” He said it like it was some dirty secret. “They say the most absurd things.”
“Like the absurd things we did after I got home from work yesterday?” You lifted a brow. “I bet they’d love that hot gos.”
“I think you’re going to be late for work.”
“Maybe.” Your eyes trailed over his tired face again. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah. I’m glad you came.”
“I can’t have you drowning on me, sweetie. How could I live with myself knowing you left kickboard was at home?”
Jack rolled his eyes at your joking tone and dropped your hand. “Okay, goodbye.”
“Jack,” you laughed.
Before he plunged back into the pool completely, he lifted up on his arms and placed a quick, soft kiss on your lips without warning.
The chatter of the women struck up again.
“I’ll see you at home.”
“Could we ask them all to come for dinner?” You whispered and he kissed you again. “I think they’d all really like that. What do you say, Jack the snack?”
“Never.”
Yet when summertime came, those same six women sat in Jack Abbot’s backyard listening to stories of your marriage and knew that the man they had silly, schoolgirl crushes on, was simply perfect.
a/n: i would bet good money that the old ladies in the water aerobics photo never thought they’d be featured on a jack abbot fanfic.
sorry grandmas!
reblogs, comments, and likes are so greatly appreciated!
