warning: hurt/comfort, kissing, injury, mutual feelings, reader is married to Steffon, no use of Y/n
Summary: In another life, she would have been promised to Raymun, but in reality, he was only a side branch of the family. Their affection for each other becomes a concern when Steffon injures his cousin during training and the lady takes pity on him, their affection for each other superseding the demands of her marriage.
Word count: 1925
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An apple could be beautiful, it had many colors from shiny red to a bright, almost unnatural green. The fruit was sweet and juicy, highly edible, and came from a beautiful tree.
House Fossoway of Cider Hall was a lordly house, respected and, above all, for several months now, its heir Steffon had a woman by his side—the future of the house seemed glorious.
How long can the apple remain attractive before one notices its rotten core?
A question she had already asked herself many suns and moons after the wedding. Her husband was not bad looking, was excellent with the sword, and had made a good match.
One bite into the apple and the inside came to light.
Steffon was proud, too proud for her liking, he had ambitions more akin to a rich Lannister than a knight whose skills would be on display in the tournament arena.
In all the relatively short time he was away from her, it was his cousin who sought her out and vice versa, the apple on a distant branch of the main branch.
Raymun was younger, a squire with hair as curly as her husband's, but he had soft features, a balanced gaze, and a manner that spoke of joy and life.
The moment he happened to rush into the castle garden and his disheveled appearance met hers, it was love at first sight for both of them.
On that sunny day, as she sought peace and quiet in the garden with a book, she struck up a conversation with Raymun.
“I am deeply grateful to you for protecting me from my cousin” he confessed to her as he put down his training sword and tried to straighten his dirty clothes.
Even then, her husband loved to prove to his cousin where he belonged in the family hierarchy.
Closing her book, she took out her handkerchief, a dark red one, like an apple, with her initials embroidered on it.
“We are both seeking refuge from his ambitions” she replied, gently wiping the dirt and dust from his cheek with the handkerchief.
At the time, it may have been shyness in seeking help, but from that day on, something seemed to have changed in the Apple household. Steffon seemed to nag and bully his cousin Raymun more and more every day until she had to intervene.
As the sole heir, however, the claim was assigned to him - and to her.
No matter how hard she tried to see it in Steffon, to feel it when he kissed her and hoped her heart would beat as fast as it did with Raymun, it didn't happen, and no amount of praying changed that.
Neither during the day when she was with her husband, nor at night when they tried once more to produce an heir for the house...there was no devotion on her part in the union.
A fact between the three of them that dragged on season after season until the moment when Lord Ashford's raven arrived and her husband returned to the main hall.
“It's happened! Lord Ashford is holding a tournament for his daughter” he announced, placing the letter on the table for all to see, an invitation and a challenge - something he and his household immediately accepted.
Yet she had not forgotten Raymun's look; there was uncertainty in his eyes, for a tournament meant not only celebration and prestige for the winner. A tournament could also mean injury and death.
It had only taken about a day for the servants to gather everything for the tournament before the small but respected group from the House of Fossoway set off for the tournament in Ashford.
A journey during which she sat in the carriage with her husband, opposite Raymun, who was only there because of her good word, much to her husband's displeasure.
“Raymun can ride back on his horse, he has to earn it” was just one of the many jibes he directed at the squire, and all she could do was give him an apologetic look, as they were both virtually powerless against Steffon.
The group and their entourage moved quickly, stopping only once.
They were all glad when the large square and the many tents behind the hill appeared at noon, their stiff bodies and tense muscles from sitting glad to finally be able to get out of the carriage when it stopped.
“I will inform Lord Tyrell of my arrival” Steffon said as they stepped out of the carriage together and the arrival was announced, but whether anyone among the hundreds of houses cared was another matter.
They were not Lannisters or Starks; moving from a lordly house to a knightly one was a bitter blow for the Fossoways, and a glance into Steffon's eyes let her know that her husband intended to win honor and prestige for himself.
Apparently, this explanation was enough for him as he left her and Raymun behind, “He's always so harsh” she muttered and shook her head as she felt someone's gaze on her.
Turning around, she already saw the dark hair and the smile that made her smile herself. Steffon should pursue his dreams after all; she finally had time again with the much better apple.
While the servants set up the tents and took care of the horses and weapons, the two Fossoways decided to take a look at the place.
“So many houses, at least they can recognize you, my lady” he flattered her as they paused briefly in front of the Baratheons' golden yellow tent.
The size and color of the fabric spoke to the prosperity of the legendary house, and from inside they could now hear the laughter of the famous lord, but the other larger houses had also spread out, showing their wealth.
“People will surely recognize you soon, my sweet apple” she replied, and thought she saw a hint of pink on his cheeks next to his broad grin.
They had always been good at complimenting each other.
As she hooked her arm back into his, the two continued across the square, chatting a little with merchants and other knightly houses, sharing a sweet treat or two - the sugared apples were both of their favorites.
But every joy must come to an end, at the latest when evening fell and she had to go to her husband's tent while Raymun found his place in the smaller tent.
Silhouettes of the two, dancing shadows, glances that silently wished each other good night as, at least for this night, the entire square fell into a shared sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~
A restful sleep was needed, as the tournament would begin in less than two days.
While the hearty breakfast was still accompanied by sleepy faces and tired murmurs in the morning, by noon there was a bustle of activity again.
Especially on the tournament grounds, which were still being set up, the knights practised with their squires and individual fighters.
To her dismay, her husband and Raymun were also among them, and even from the tent where she sat under the fabric, trying to concentrate on her books and embroidery, she could see the ambition in Steffon.
Each blow with the sword was stronger, the shield almost torn from his cousin's arms each time.
Raymun did his best, he was good, but perhaps it was the constant back and forth between the two that caused such turmoil between them. What were wooden swords and blunt weapons at home in Cider Hall were now hard and sharp steel.
Bruises and sore muscles were normal, but whenever she looked up, she saw how fatal the whole thing could turn out.
Until the moment when she heard the crack of wood and looked up just in time to see Steffon kick through the wooden barrier.
A dull, painful thud made her stand up and watch the two men, she saw the younger one crawling around on the floor, reaching for his hammer.
His dark eyes slid towards her, and in the split second they looked at each other, her hope in his courage met hers, and she felt relief when he got up again to attack Steffon.
Steel met steel, but the younger man seemed to have lost his focus, and a moment later she could hear the hard slap.
Raymun fell to the ground again, but this time all three knew he would not get up, “That’s enough! You have proven your superiority, husband” she called harshly and hurried over to the two, seeing Steffon pause.
The sword that threatened to come down on Raymun was put away as he spat next to his cousin, “He’s weak, hard to believe we’re related” Steffon grumbled and turned to his remaining men as they helped Raymun up.
“He’s a sweeter apple than you are” she replied and saw the older man’s punitive gaze, knowing that this would have consequences, instead, he just cursed again before going to his men.
Let him curse she thought to herself as she returned to the large tent with Raymun at her side and sat the squire down on one of the chairs.
While her maid fetched a bowl of water and cloths, she took care of the dark-haired man, “You didn’t have to do that, I’m just a squire” he muttered, holding his aching cheek as she sat down opposite him and gratefully accepted the bowl of water.
Even now, with his red cheek and battered appearance, he was so thoughtful and sensitive.
Soaking the cloth in water, she gently removed his bandage, “A knight like Steffon should be noble and just, but he isn’t even that as a husband” she began, and the man flinched as the cold touched his sore skin.
The slap hurt, but it would leave no marks, at least not on his face, “Besides, I stand up for everyone, from beggars to sweet squires like you...always for you” she admitted, feeling his hand reach for the fabric of her dress.
Soft fabric, a soft heart full of kindness and love, as both knew once again that in this life, duty came before love.
The cool water did Raymun good as she gently cleaned the dirt from him, “Your words are as lovely as you are, the protective leaf of the apple tree” he murmured, and she smiled, the comparisons fitting the symbol of his and Steffon’s house.
Before she put the fabric aside and stroked his messy hair, he took her hand gently in his and placed a soft, grateful kiss on the back of her hand. Panting, innocent, in the end he was just a squire – she was a lady.
A glance at the entrance to the tent told her that it was closed. She gently placed her hand on his unarmoured arm and gave him a brief but loving kiss.
It was wrong under the eyes of the seven, it was wrong because she was married, but love was stronger than that. Raymun returned the kiss and the two only separated after a moment.
Mischievous smiles played on both their faces as he rose, his hand stroking hers as she let him go. “You can win, my dear” she said goodbye, knowing that he had to return to training.
“I will win everything for you” Raymun replied, giving her a smile before leaving the tent.
When the quiet grace of a Lady of House Dayne meets the jagged temper of Prince Maekar 'The Anvil' Targaryen, she is caught between his cold silence and her growing fire. Finding a way to grab hold of the man behind the armor may seem harder than ever imagined. (one-shot)
pairings: Maekar Targaryen x (Dayne) Reader
warnings: Maekar is an asshole; age-gap ( • ᴗ - ); filthy smut (dragons are all dead but imma make sure ure gonna ride one alright);
words: 7k
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
You pulled your horse to a gallop as you reached Summerhall once more. The brown mare breathed out in protest but followed your lead as you trotted back to the palace you called home. The guards and servants of the house were all mingling about, half forgetting of your existence as your stable boy took Chestnut away.
The Redgrass Field was filled with the mangled corpses of the rebels and the Targaryens had won.
In the months following the master of the house’s leave, you could finally breathe the scent of freedom you longed for. The servants and maesters could finally rest easy knowing they will not be under the scrutiny of their lord, but under your careful guidance and grace for you were a Dayne, of the mighty Starfall. Many words and deeds were attributed to your house, many greater than the last, you were a people who believed in the righteousness of the soul, in the spirit of valor and the quiet power of words. You, as a Lady of the House, enjoyed the very same freedoms your brothers received, being trained by your father’s knights and taught the words of the common tongue as well as any poet or counselor.
The smell of vinegar hit your nose like a blow as you walked inside the main hall of the house, the servants had started preparing for tonight’s arrival, scrubbing every inch of happiness off the marble floor and from the walls. Your heart felt heavy. Gone will be the days you could bestow upon each of them the power of peace.
Even if today should be a celebration, you felt as defeated as Daemon Blackfyre.
Nymella, a Dornish woman, who was born not far from your own home was your personal apothecary. Her black eyes and copper skin reminded you of summer, and truth be told, you regarded her as more friend than employee. She smiled as you walked into her room. Your light lavender riding shirt and white leather pants half covered in the dust dancing from the air at the border of the Dornish mountains heavy on your clothes.
“Hello, Star.” She was pressing some sort of yellow herbs together. The air smelled of amber and sweet vanilla as you took a seat in one of the chairs she had in the middle of the room. You laid your head back on the pillow behind your head. Wondering. Thinking. What shall you say to him? Would he be changed?
“You look weary, is it because of the ride or the husband?” She took a seat next to your own, mortar and pestle on her lap covered in her dornish wear.
You sighed. Truly you wished this all would’ve been easier for you. Your sister Dyanna, should’ve been in your place, she was made of tougher steel. She could’ve handled this much better than you. She could’ve handled him much better than you. She always knew what to do. You shook your head.
Nymella could read you like an open book, for she had known far more people than you. You looked into her eyes and searched for words.
“Is it cruel and terrible of me to wish he wouldn’t have returned so soon?”
“Perhaps. But there isn’t anything we can do about it.”
You nodded and Nymella laughed.
“Gods above, Star, you look like you’re heading to war yourself, not in the arms of your Prince.” She giggled all the way through her speech.
“I am heading to war, Nymella. That's all he knows. Every time. He acts as if I am some sort of soldier he must command, not his wife. He treats these beautiful grounds like his own battlement he must order around.”
“Still, your husband is returning and he brings with him a fire in his belly, doesn’t that sound pleasant to your ears? It should.” Her eyes were mischievous, probably imagining herself in your situation, albeit with a more pleasant knight.
“No. I… I would rather not think of that.” Your ears felt ablaze with the usual shyness a girl of your experience showed. Memories of the night you became a woman flashed in your mind, your husband's body over your own and the pain between your legs. He left shortly after, the call of war greater than your marriage bed.
“You shouldn’t let him dominate you like he does some piss poor farmer on the road here. You are his wife.” Nymella rose once more, bringing forward a vial of crimson liquid that smelled like the sweetest flowers in your garden. “Maekar is a man, as all men are men. No blood of his will change that.”
You took the vial from her and held it in your hand as she took her seat again next to you. “That’s easy for you to say, you’ve known a lot more men than me.”
“Yes I have, so you must listen to the words I say. ” She didn’t understand you. Surely she didn’t see the way your husband filled any room he walked into, how he spread his legs like a Lyseni whore when he sat down, leaving all the etiquette of a Targaryen Prince out the door. How he spit on the ground like he was owed an apology. How he took you that night, and the following nights after, before he had to leave. His much larger hands moving you how he wanted, having you as much as he wanted, before turning his back and snoring like dying Balerion until the morrow. He would stare at you, and you would think to shrink as small as an ant before his gaze, your ancestors are probably turning over ten times in the crypt.
“I can see this brings a lot of thought in your mind,” She reached over, holding your hand in her own. She squeezed, once, for you to listen and twice, for good measure. "I’ve seen enough men and believe me, nothing unmans one faster than a wife who stops trembling and starts reaching. I’ve watched great generals shake like squires and heard of lords tripping over their own shadows just for a taste.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper “And that husband of yours? He’s just a man with a bigger name and a heavier hammer. He’ll melt, girl. I’ll wager my life on it."
“And what do you suppose I do?” Your voice adopted the same tone as her own.
“I want you to go to him. Don’t let him take you, have him first and then you can tell me if he frightens you so.”
You already imagined yourself on your knees before him as he sulked in front of the fireplace of your great chamber. His body a mountain before your own. The night in Summerhall allowed a cool breeze to drift through, and your husband preferred the breeze for his mighty blood ran hotter than the fires on Dragonstone. You quickly pushed that image out of your mind, for you had no idea where to even put your hands.
Would he even let you touch him where his attention would be physical without him making the first move?
“Besides,” Nymella started once more, seeing your sour disposition and wanting to see your eyes brighten up again “one look at that silver hair of his and you understand why some claim his kind are closer to Gods than to men. You should feel your belly as restless as his is, it’s not everyday a woman gets to ride a dragon.”
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
The day passed uneventfully afterwards.
You bathed then changed into the milk white dress your servants prepared, the soft silk easy on your clean skin. They braided your hair in the custom of your house and then you were left waiting.
Any sound outside would have the staff snap their heads to the grand oak doors and your heart beat a restless drum in your chest. The sun was leaving the sky to his sister as he painted the world outside in shades of bright orange which reflected off the terracotta hued marble from inside the house and created soft paintings over the walls of your home. You waited. They offered you dinner, but you could barely swallow your own emotions, let alone the roasted lamb your husband preferred.
Outside, in the private gardens, your mourning doves had begun their low, rhythmic lament. Usually, the sound brought you peace, but this evening their crying felt like an omen. Still, you waited.
Nymella offered you some tea, a steaming cup of liquid gold, smelling of sun drenched fields and the deep, floral bite of saffron for “warming your womb” and calm your restlessness. You toyed with your silver bracelet. Truly, you wished he would just arrive already.
Leave it to him to make you wait and be miserable for hours. Mayhaps, something happened on the road. Bandits, or worse, mercenaries. But who would kill a fourth son? Your husband was so far from the line of succession, the only thing the crown needed him for was to break heads and hands. For he dearly enjoyed doing so.
When you looked up at the sky near one of the sandstone columns outside, you decided you had enough.
He won’t arrive tonight.
You walked to the grand library you had in your ancient home. Happy you could get to reading a book as you sprawled once more in your colossal bed without a man to ruin your peace. You picked a tome of green and gold, it was the story of a knight who was righteous and understanding, who fell in love with a Lady and wanted to marry her, despite what her destiny might claim. You held the book to your chest as you returned.
A servant passed you, running.
Then another one, a young boy, carrying a heavy towel.
Your heart pounded in your chest as the commotion from inside the house reached your ears.
So he did arrive home after all.
He had no want for royal protocol, nor for stupid announcers of his presence. You thought for a second you might slip away into the night, get on Chestnut and ride hard and fast past the Red Mountain and the eternal Torrentine to go home.
You rounded the corner and passed the heavy mahogany doors to see the servants, some having burned hands and fingers, pouring down buckets of boiling water in your copper bathtub to the edge of the room. He smelled of iron and burned leather. Simply overpowering any other scent you sprayed into your grand chambers, perfectly made to allow as much breeze into the room as possible.
Maekar had his back to you.
Dressed in the black leather and red fur of his house. He knew your light steps better than you.
“Our chamber smells like a Tyrosh brothel.” His voice traveled right to your ears in a clear, powerful tone. The same voice made for commanding armies, not for whispering sweet nothings into a woman’s ears.
He finally turned and you could finally see the face of your Prince once more. His hair, white as a bone, was swept back and he had a beard now. But it was still, unmistakably, Maekar. “The Anvil” they call him. And you could see no reason why they might call him anything else, for he definitely tried to shape you like iron on him during the last night you had together. His face, scarred from when he was ill with the pox, made his scowl even more terrifying.
Not that many would be brave, or stupid enough to look him in the eyes.
“Welcome home, my Lord.” You bowed your head in the custom you were taught a Lady should perform as she greets her husband. He moved to the great basin, and started removing his clothes. First he untangled the silk cord holding his tunic in place, dropping it to the floor so the servants would be reminded of their place. The two young boys you saw running approached him, reaching to help with his heavy boots, but he snarled at them and it was as if they were attending to a pointed sword.
"Fuck off.” he snapped "All of you. Out." They nearly tripped over themselves to flee and you had half the mind to turn around yourself and run to a dark corner he wouldn’t find you in.
Then he removed his tunic, then his undershirt and you, unfortunately so, looked away, even if it was for only a moment when you felt as if a stone was thrown towards your belly. The water was hot enough to blister human skin, yet he didn't even hesitate in swinging a strong leg over the tub.
“The road was long, I imagine.” Your voice sounded small against the splash of water as he lowered his body down with a groan, the sound traveled to your ears, then down between your legs but you didn’t wish to think of that.
“Was the weather kind to you, my Lord?”
“It rained for three days near Blackwater,” his voice was akin to grinding stones, “The mud was up to the horses' hocks and smelled like a dead man's shit.”
You winced at the crudeness, but tried to maintain the grace your mother had taught you as you tried to not cower before him. "Regardless, I am glad you are home. We have missed your presence at Summerhall."
He looked at you like you said the dumbest jest he had ever heard: “No you haven’t.”
No you didn’t, therefore you didn’t argue.
The chamber was thick with the scent of scalded copper and the sweet perfume that Maekar clearly loathed. His head was tilted back against the rim, his throat exposed with a thick, powerful cord of muscle that looked as though it could weather the strike of a longsword. His eyes remained closed, his face a mask of exhaustion. You thought to say something, anything-
“Well? You’ve had a tongue for the servants and yet with me you are as quiet as a fucking squire.” Of course he knew of your gentle behaviour towards the smallfolk tending to you in the months he was gone, this was, after all, his house. “What has been happening in this nest of silk and song while I was cutting necks for the crown?”
You swallowed hard, the humidity making your white dress cling to your back. All careful words seemed to evade you, any lesson your family had ever taught you useless: “It has been… quiet, my lord. We followed the instructions you left. The harvest was brought in, and the accounts for the winter stores are nearly complete.” Your voice was more mumble than words.
“Speak up!” He snapped, and you, caught completely unaware and used to the grace of the staff, flinched as if he hit you. “I’ve spent almost a year with nothing but the roar of the catapults and the screams of dying men in my ears. I can’t hear your soft, palace whispers.”
“I said the accounts for winter are finished!” you said, forcing your voice to go louder, though it felt brittle and strange in your own ears.
“Good,” he grunted, his jaw tightening as if he were biting back a curse. A long silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the drip of water from his beard to the bath. Then, without moving a single muscle, he asked another question “And who did you have in my bed while I was gone?”
You didn't answer immediately. You couldn’t. The sheer crudeness of the accusation felt like a physical blow and you were left to stare at him as he fixed you with his scrutinous gaze.
Maekar’s eyes moved over your features like a commander inspecting a breached wall. He looked for a blush of guilt, a downward cast of the eyes, anything he could crush.
“No,” you stammered, the word catching in your throat. “Never. I would… I would never think to do such a thing. My lord, I have been here, waiting. Only waiting.”
His expression was unreadable and grim. He let out a long, ragged breath and closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the boiling water.
“Good.” he muttered.
He didn't move for a long time, looking almost like a statue of some ancient, vengeful king. Just as you thought he might have fallen into a trance, his lips moved one last time, the words falling like the blade of an axe.
“I’ll have you dead if I find anything of the sort. I don't give a shit for the songs they sing about your house. If you stain my name, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”
You were once again left speechless. Mayhaps he had been hardened by the rebellion in ways, his mind already looking for traitors at every moment. But you were, under all and every aspect, a good woman, you hadn’t lain with any man, besides the one now washing himself in front of you.
You didn’t hate him, but you surely didn’t love him either.
You moved to your vanity and placed your book there, promising yourself that you will finish it one of these days. You turned around as you heard the water splash once more and was greeted with the sight of your naked husband, your eyes traveled immediately between his thighs like an arrow and you averted your gaze to your massive ebony bed in the middle of the room, decorated with dragons and made out of the strongest wood in the Seven Kingdoms. He moved to dry his skin and commanded “Take your dress off and get on the bed, on your back.” like you were one of his soldiers.
You thought for a second about what Nymella said, your arms shaking as you untied your dress, about having him on his back and you on him, holding him there and reminding him that in these bedchambers, in this room and on this bed, you- not him, would be in charge.
You forgot about all of that and more as he grabbed you by your arm, placed you on the bed, raised your dress to your waist and your knees by your chest as he pressed himself between your thighs. You closed your eyes, cheeks aflame and heart in your ears as you grabbed the hand he had on your left outer tight. You much preferred when he took you in the night, where you could barely see him and his colossal shadow was the only thing to remind you that your husband was there.
The fire from behind him allowed for too much light and too many details. You gasped as he pressed himself in you, the feeling unfamiliar in the long months he was away. Maekar gasped too, albeit quieter as he positioned himself better, his breath quickened and his hands shook, pushing down your gown by your chest until he could see your breasts and grab at them like some boy with the apples in his mother’s garden while he dragged his manhood inside your body. You would remain quiet, not sure if he would like the noises you wanted to make. You didn’t know if that fact annoyed him, but he would drag himself out and push as much as he could inside until you would grab at his shoulders and push him away, moaning from the pain and the pleasure you would feel in your belly. He had you like that for what felt like an eternity and you were sure his guards outside could very much hear.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
The fire in the hearth had burned down to a dull, glowing orange and the room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Maekar’s breathing. He had fallen into a deep, unshakable sleep almost the moment he was finished, his back turned to you like a wall of stone. Your body felt heavy and distant, still humming with the ghost of his weight and the rough way he had you.
The scent of the "Tyrosh brothel" was gone, replaced by the smell of salt, lye, and the faint, metallic tang of the "Anvil" himself. You stared out at the moon hanging over the Dornish mountains, feeling the ache between your legs.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
The days after you tried to make sense of your husband’s presence in the palace. His will was iron and it seemed like even the air bent to it here. He had you every night, and once in his study, when he received a letter from Kings Landing that sent his anger sweeping through the house and finally finding you in the form of a young squire that trembled as he told you your Lord husband is expecting you.
Nymella remained the same. With the same advice.
Yet every night, when he bedded you, you could hardly bring yourself to make any action towards him, any sort of conscious thought left you while holding your eyes closed through the whole ordeal.
One blistering day, a messenger arrived from House Caron, the Lord and Lady wanted to join the Prince and Princess of the Iron Throne for dinner and you, a dear friend of Lady Jeyne Caron, accepted. The Carons were marcher lords from Nightsong and were famous for their singing and their history as the first line of defense against Dorne.
The lamb was well roasted, the vegetables freshly plucked from the garden and the bread was warm as they arrived. Hand in hand, bowing low before you and your stoic husband as the lord steward announced their presence. You hugged Jeyne before you sat and Lord Allun Caron began regalling you with stories. Maekar was drinking the dark crimsoned wine of Dorne. You thought you were above such indulgences, but as you saw the way the two interacted, joking and looking at each other like the other might disappear, you started drinking as well. The wine burned all the way down, but in that moment, you wished for something stronger.
Maekar was chewing his lamb and swirling the wine in his chalice with a bored look on his face as you maintained the discussion with the Lady and Lord of House Caron.
Allun interrupted Maekar’s thoughts as he tried to make conversation with the man of many years and experience above his own: “I heard the mud in the Redgrass field was so thick with blood the horses couldn't find their footing. My cousin said the stench of the dead was enough to make a man pray for a head wound just to lose his sense of smell. Must’ve been a hell of a thing to watch the Blackfyre’s line break under that mace of yours, no, Prince? I bet the sound of that iron hitting plate was sweeter than any harp.”
Maekar didn’t look away from the wall with the fireplace casting warm shadows on his face “It sounded like bone breaking,” he says flatly. “There’s nothing sweet to it.”
You watch Lady Jeyne’s hand tighten on Lord Allun’s arm, not in fear, but in support, as if she’s helping him weather the Prince’s attitude. You wonder if you’ll ever have the courage to even touch Maekar’s sleeve when he’s like this, you moved your eyes away from the awkward exchange and stared ahead as Lady Jeyne’s voice cut through the silence and you made eye contact with her.
“The songs don’t do your bride justice, my Lord. They say the Daynes have the stars in their blood and justice in their eyes and your beautiful wife is the clear embodiment of that. Why, you must be the luckiest man in all the Kingdoms.” Jeyne smiled and for whatever reason you felt tears prick at your eyes. You thanked her as Maekar fixed you with a long glance and nodded to Lady Jeyne. You tried to mask your emotion by eating some food while the pair tried to make conversation with the brooding Prince you called husband.
Was it the wine? Mayhaps. But in that moment you felt like reaching over and slapping him so hard he would’ve seen the stars standing mighty over your ancestral seat. How dare he? He couldn’t even agree with her, he couldn’t even say that ‘yes, she is beautiful’ or pretty or comely or whatever else he found in that thick head of his.
You brushed another tear that fell and before you knew it you chin wobbled.
You really shouldn’t have drank.
The chair scraped over the marble floor as you stood, excusing yourself as your voice broke. You must send a raven to Lady Jeyne, apologizing, tomorrow. But for now, you had to get away. Your feet echoed into the vastness of the great hall, as you rounded the corner and sobs rocked you into two. You cried like you’ve never cried before and you were sure in that moment that you hated him.
You hated him and his silences and his crass way. You hated that he was more mercenary in expensive leather than Prince of the Blood. You entered your chamber and undressed, laying in your bed and holding your pillow to your face as you felt your sobs rocking you to sleep.
You heard the grand balcony doors, facing the Red Mountains, open. And yet, you couldn’t be bothered to look at him.
You hated him, no, you despised him.
He was undressing. Maekar took the grey fur from the bed you two shared and threw it on the ground as he laid next to you. The bed creaked and the sound of hooves were heard in the distance as your husband sighed.
He laughed.
Maekar Targaryen laughed, no, breathed out a noise that was akin to laughter through his nose and you wondered what was it that brought him to this point. You wished to turn and see what the great fuss was about-
“I know you’re awake.”
You let a moment pass. The moon cast a white light in the room from the window and you turned, opening your eyes as if his rough voice awoke you, not your thoughts. Your eyes were bloodshot and your throat was scraped from all the crying.
You hated him and you hated your silence and careful words of respect towards him. Maekar Targaryen didn’t deserve them.
“Why must you be so cold?” you felt a fresh rush of tears to your eyes, and you let them fall, not caring he saw them, “You’re cold and uncaring, has anyone ever told you that?”
His back was to the ebony headboard he was usually repeatedly slamming to the wall by this time of night. Maekar blinked once, like he was trying to make sense of your words and your boldness.
You didn’t care what he thought of you anymore “When I was a little girl, I hoped that the Gods would bring me a man like Lord Caron, for he is sweet and caring. But they brought me you- and you are as crass as a mercenary and as unbecoming of a Prince as any soldier is.” You spit out the nearest insult you could find. Words tumbling out as fast as rain with the help of that sweet summer wine you drank. Your head was beginning to hurt, a pounding pain that settled in your skull. “You can barely see me as your wife so why, I ask you-” you hiccuped “-why have you made me so, if you would be uncaring with my soul and my body?”
Emboldened by the fire burning in your belly at finally speaking your feelings towards the stone wall you called husband you continued “Why do I, out of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms get to be with someone like you, while others can get to laugh and kiss their Lords when they please, how often they please- there are others who hold their wives, did you know? They don’t have to take them like some whore on the road.” Hot tears streamed down your face and you hiccuped all the way through your speech.
“Is that what you want me to do? To hold you? And kiss you?” His white hair and beard caught the light from outside and he looked every bit like the Valyrian lords of old he was descended from.
“Nay, my lord, you can keep your embraces to others, I clearly don’t wish for them.” You turned your back to him, still crying. He wouldn’t change for all the might of Valyria or the Iron Throne.
You could feel his presence beside you. He didn’t say anything else afterwards. Your sobs were the only thing heard in the colossal room.
You thought sleep might claim you again as you heard his voice.
“I don’t know how to act towards you so you may not be frightened of me.” Your belly hurt from all the sobs you put her through. Still, you listened. “I find it hard to find words to say to you, or to hold you- Gods know I haven’t been held in my life as you wish to be.” He scoffed at the last part and you realized you didn’t know much of his past. You took a deep breath, scared that any words might frighten him into solemn silence.
“If you wish to be kissed, you can act upon it yourself.” At that, you turned.
You raised your bum to sit upright, back to the headboard as well.
“You don’t wish for a husband like Lord Allun, trust me when I say so.” His voice was a whisper and you realized you never heard this hushed tone from him. “He’s had about a hundred whores and has bastarded half his servants”
You gasped, “You lie!” your tone was a whisper as well. Memories of gossiping with your fellow Ladies came back, though this was surely different.
He shook his head, something akin to a smile forming on his face “It is truth what I speak.”
You thought to turn and sleep, for you dearly wished to rest, but that godsdammed Dornish wine overpowered you before you could remember your manners before your Lord.
“Have you ever fathered any bastards?”
A sound came out of him. A sound you never heard before from your man. You had half the mind to call Nymella and the Maester to find a cure. The sound was like that of…of laughter? He was laughing!
“No, I’ve not fathered any bastards. At least none that I know of.” You smiled with him, happy that you could see him happy. You half forgot what you were crying about.
The dark covered you both in its embrace and maybe that’s why you were so brave.
“You should sleep, before you bring me any more questions I may not know the answer to.” He laid down and sighed.
Yet, you were not done. No. What did Nymella say to you?
You rested your head once more on the warm pillow as he turned his back to you. You closed your eyes. Nay, maybe not tonight. Though, when else could it be if not tonight? Your heart thrummed in your chest as you lifted your hand.
Only for you to bring it down once more between you two.
You imagined him coming to your bedchambers, sitting down with a groan for his bones were weary, he was not as young as he used to be. You imagined yourself, sitting down on his lap of burned leather and expensive furs and kissing him. Not the closed mouth kissed you bestowed upon him once in a while, when he wanted you to, but open and hungry, like the ones Nymella’s books wrote about. You imagined him grabbing you with his strong hands and not rushing anywhere for once.
You rubbed your thighs together and for the first time since meeting him you wondered: What in the Seven Hells were you so frightened of?
You grabbed his shoulder and turned his much bigger body around with a definite pull to sit on his back.
You shuffled closer to him, closing your eyes as you often did when you were near him in such a situation. You opened them back up as you felt the smell of sandalwood and cedar and his broad shoulder land in the middle of your chest.
He opened his eyes and that’s when you were expecting a remark, a curse, anything. You braced. Nothing came. Only his eyes. And yet, you didn’t cower like a flower in winter.
You touched the left side of his face and grabbed hold of his beard, forcing him to come closer and respond to your kiss. His lips were soft and careful as your own grabbed his upper lip and held it. His mouth tasted of summer wine and you were sure yours did too. You turned your head to the side, see if he tasted sweeter from there and your lips made a sound as they broke apart and then collided again that traveled right to your stomach and between your thighs. Maekar was surely feeling your heart beating out of your chest but you didn’t care for that.
You moved your body to sit half on top of him as he grabbed your leg and put it across his thighs, legs moving on their own to find any friction between them that may ease the heat you felt. In a moment where you thought he would bring himself above you, as was his rightful place to be, he did the opposite.
Maekar grabbed your behind and pulled you on top.
With his strong hands, more used to a mace than the soft skin of your waist beneath your nightshift. He settled your heat on top of his growing one as you placed both hands near his head and kept kissing him with as much need as any girl might towards her lover. You found all the long weeks spent dreaming of this moment and longing for it to happen to come crashing down all at once. So it could happen to you too. This wasn’t just books and whispers by friends in court.
He rose up to meet your feverish kisses and you found him pressing his hot mouth to your neck as he held your hair back. The noises that left you were so unlike you that, on any other day, with much less wine drank, you would’ve bowed your head in shame. But it was he who must be shamed, for he had treated you so unkindly.
You touched his broad chest and looked down upon your dragon husband. He looked smaller this way, much less royalty and more man. He grabbed your soft nightshift, raising it, and you threw it over your head and away from the both of you. His gaze swept across your body, to your breasts and waist, towards your thighs and the place he wished with ardent desperation to be inside of.
You swung your leg off him and took his pants off. He needed the help, for his eyes never left your body. By the time he was in an almost-comfortable position you got on him again, feeling his heat on your own for the first time without rushing, and without closing your eyes so you may not die in shame.
Your folds parted slightly as you took him beneath you and rubbed down on him. Moaning and looking down at him as he looked away to the canopy above you, lips parted and groaning all the way under your affection. His hands rested on your hips, but he barely commanded you to move.
You smiled. Then you grimaced in pleasure, and then smiled again. For this is what you wanted, no, needed. He looked into your eyes as you stood on your knees and brought him before your already wet entrance. His brows were furrowed and you felt his heart beat fast beneath your palm on his chest. You lowered yourself down and his moan was like that of your own.
He brought his hands up to your breasts and closed his eyes as you tried to find a pace and a movement that might bring enough pleasure. At one point you stood too straight and a feeling like that of being impaled shot through your flower and towards your belly, you lowered down on him. Elbows on both sides of his head and kissing him like you did before as he rose up to meet your thrusts. The old bed croaked after each press of your body to his.
The one stoic Maekar was groaning like you’ve never heard him before whenever you would meet him halfway. The only sounds in the room were your wetness and the feeling of damp skin pressing against each other time and time again as you cried into your husband's mouth.
You rose again as he told you “Slower”, voice smaller than he ever used, but you couldn’t even begin to think about caring for any of his requests as you shoved yourself down on him time and time again. He didn’t seem to mind your pace either as he closed his eyes, and held your hips, grabbing you like you might disappear between his fingers.
Your most sensitive spot rubbed against his own body time and time again and you grabbed fistfulls of his undershirt as you came. Squeezing him time and time again as he pulled you down once more on him. You wet your throat as he grabbed the back of your head and held you there. He didn’t stop until his thighs were shaking from beneath you and you felt the familiar pulse of his manhood, pressed as deep as he could in you.
You remained laid with your head on his chest. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it beneath his hot and damp skin.
After a moment, you looked at him. His cheeks, even in the soft light of the moon, looked impossibly rosy, like a maiden on her wedding night. And his once careful swept back hair was because of your hands, restless and wanting something to cling to, tangled and unkept.
You kissed him again and he smelled of you.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
You couldn’t say things remained the same afterwards.
Meakar wanted you all the same, and yet you found yourself wanting him too. Nymella smiled whenever you came into her chambers with a knowing look.
“Your husband smells like a ‘Tyrosh brothel' from neck to feet, any wonder why that is?”
The changes were subtle at first, like the slow turning of a season. It wasn't that Maekar suddenly became a man of poetry and flowers, but rather, the sharp, jagged edges of his temper had been filed down. He still scowled, but now, when his eyes caught yours, there was a flicker of something that looked like a secret shared between the two of you. A secret that set your heart on fire and pooled low into your stomach and beneath your thighs as you would be the one to call him to bed when he spent too long in his study.
You knew that his attitude would never touch you again, nor would his words make a dent into your humors as you regarded him as soft as summer air when you two were alone. Gone was the man who towered over you and you shivered in his shadow. He still existed, though you liked to imagine him with those silver locks of his buried beneath your legs as you held him there.
You found that he loved the tartness of pomegranate juice one of your maids made and that he enjoyed the smell of jasmine. That he would much rather prefer staying in silence, each of you doing something of your own devices as you would often catch his gaze, though it wasn’t scrutinizing, you knew it was, in his own way- the only way he knew. His confession that he cared for you. He cared for you passionately as he extended your library and ordered Chestnut to be brought a wonderful saddle, made of fine leather from his own home, Dragonstone.
His booming voice regaled you with stories of old, stories from his own family and how cruel he found life in the Red Keep, overshadowed by his brothers. He was glad he would never have to return there.
He once told you, after you were both spent, with your back to him and his strong arm holding you, that he loved you, that he wished for you to love him back, if you could find it in you. You laughed. How dull could this man be?
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
You looked ahead into the horizon as you waited for the Carons to arrive, you had to make amends for the way you treated them last time they visited you, Maekar had no choice but to obey and scowl at the sun.
“Maekar” You turned your purple silk dress towards him “please try to be pleasant- smile, at least.”
“I am smiling.” His face hadn’t moved from a scowl.
“Look at me. Smile,” your face was brought to a grin while you pointed at it “like this, see?”
He looked at you and tried his hardest to replicate your face, yet he looked like a sneezing tiger more than Lord. You doubled over in laughter as he looked away- this time, with a real, genuine smile on his face that made him look a decade younger.
He could be funny when he wanted to be.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
Authors note: Yall I had to. I love a man who is emotionally constipated and I tried to bring him in this story as much as I could. UGH Maekar I've liked u since u had that fuck ass bob in the Snow White and the Huntsman. THANK YOU FOR READING this was longer than I intended at first but if you find it in you to write a message to me that u enjoyed this story- it will make my whole day. Have a great day loves <3 imagine how he's gonna act when u die in a few years after birthing 6 kids
"I need you to make a companion for me. One like me."
"Who am I supposed to love?"
The Creature, Frankenstein (2025) and The Vampire Claudia, Interview With The Vampire (2022)
•
the similarities and parallels between Creature and Claudia are somethings that i am obsessing over. i don't post on here but my friend said i should share this art i made here.
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
2087
discoholicmusic
areudirty
baratheonpilled
izzy806
andulkaphoto
