A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Maekar Targaryen x Tyrell!reader
Rating: Mature (MDNI)
WC: 2.2k
AKOTSK Masterlist
Can be read as a standalone, but also partners with these: one, two.
Tags/Warnings: Oral, blow jobs, age gap (Maekar is in his early forties and reader is about twenty two) cum eating, implied spanking, overstimulation, semi public sex, a bit of exhibitionism, rough sex, marking/biting, hunting/mentions of dead animals, possessive!Maekar, Maekar loves his wife, motherhood, soft times, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader given, no beta we die like Robb Stark :(
A/n: For a request sent in by an anon, who asked for Maekar with Tyrell!wife where he finds out she's gossiping with ladies about their bedroom activities. Comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated!
Summary: You let slip a scandalous detail one afternoon to the ladies of court and gossip spreads like wildfire. Maekar devises a plan to truly give the court something to talk about during a hunt.
In the short span of two years, you had given birth to two healthy children, not long after your marriage to Maekar. While you had been concerned that you had not fallen with child soon after the wedding, those fears were soon quelled when two babes followed in quick succession. He was now the proud father of eight, and the court bristled with the excitement of a new prince and princess. Motherhood was a discovery, and you wondered how those younger than you handled it. At least you had an array of wet nurses and handmaidens at your disposal.
"My, the Gods have certainly blessed you and Prince Maekar," Lady Tarly cooed, fawning over little Elaena with her wide violet eyes and silver curls. She was a little delight, sweet-natured and fairly quiet, much like her slightly older brother, Vaekar, who favored you when it came to his features. Part of you was secretly happy to have a little one who looked just like you in the sea of Valyrian features which most of Maekar's children seemed to possess.
Lady Jena held Prince Vaekar in her lap; it was his second nameday, and the reason you and Maekar were at court. A celebration hunt was being held for Vaekar's nameday, though Maekar would use any excuse for a hunting excursion.
"He must keep you very busy, and chained to the bed," your cousin, Mina Redwyne, teased, giving you a playful wink that turned your cheeks hot.
"Now, now," Lady Jena scolded gently, wishing to spare you from providing details. The noble ladies at court could be fierce little vultures when it came to gathering gossip. Vaekar played with the enormous amethyst dangling from her silver chain.
"Well, I suppose the proof is clear as day," you replied demurely before biting into a cherry tart
Lady Aelinor held Elaena now, nuzzling the girl, nearly six moons old.
"Hmm, if his appetites are anything like Rhaegel's," Lady Alys said with a devious smirk before popping a grape into her mouth.
"He is…rather voracious," you admitted, letting the tasty tidbit fall from your mouth and watching them all eagerly gather up the treasured crumb. All eyes fixed on you.
"Now, my dear, you must give us more," Lady Ravella Swann demanded, and Jena gently swatted her arm. Ravella, Elinda Hightower, and Jessamyn Redfort had an edacious craving when it came to gossip, even more so than your dear cousin. Mina might have been the only one more delighted than you when it came to your marriage to Prince Maekar, as now she was kept informed of all the comings and goings of the court. Information she thrived on.
You twisted the ruby ring around your index finger, a gift from Maekar shortly after Elaena's birth. "Well…I…dragons have a preference for biting. It is a good thing my gown properly covers me."
A chorus of giggles filled the air as the women took sips of their wine with sly smiles on their faces. It felt nice to be so accepted by them, and you did not think this little offering was so scandalous. Though you did not realize how quickly word would spread around the court about how Prince Maekar loved to bite and mark his little golden rosebud of a wife.
You hid beneath the blankets that evening, pulled up around your nose to hide your heated, reddened cheeks while Maekar paced and scolded you for revealing such intimate details.
"It is one thing for my brothers to hear such…filth, but my father, the king, could certainly be spared knowing such details," he fumed, refilling his wine cup.
"I'm sorry," you squeaked. "I…Lady Alys shares details about her and Rhaegel, and Lady Ravella has many sordid stories; I did not expect it to spread like wildfire."
Maekar sighed, rubbing his creased forehead. "I know. You're merely trying to fit in, and I'm glad they have accepted you so well. Court is better managed with allies in your corner."
You inched the covers down. "You're not vexed with me?"
"Only a bit." His mouth softened into a smile.
You crawled out of bed, bare feet padding over the marbled floor, and reached up to cup his face and pull him down to kiss. There was an iron resistance at first, stubborn and not willing to give in so easily, but that melted in a smooth silk as his lips melded against yours. His arms circled your waist, but not before giving you a sharp swat to the backside as further reprimand. Though the movement only stirred heat in your lower belly. Your husband had helped you discover many desires hidden deep inside you.
"I didn't mean to upset you, nor to have such details fall into your father's ear," you said softly, yet you couldn't help but smile.
Maekar rolled his violet eyes, mouth twitching into a grin. "'Tis alright. Rhaegel started to remove his clothing while loudly singing a tune, and I believe my father has forgotten all about it."
"You should thank Rhaegel," you giggled.
Maekar scoffed before gently cradling your face in his large hands. "Let us to bed; we depart early for the hunt on the morrow." Before he let you go, he buried his face against the crook of your neck, suckling and biting your skin until it bruised plum and mottled cherry. Familiar colors tinging your skin. A tangled gasp mixed with a mewl toppled from your lips as you braced your palms against his chest.
"Something for the ladies to gossip about tomorrow," he purred into your ear.
"You beast," you teased before pulling him into the bed with you.
You were more than happy to snuggle against him in bed, head nestled against his chest. The wheels in Maekar's head began to turn while he stroked your hair. If the ladies were curious over the private doings in the bedroom, he would be delighted to demonstrate just how well he pleased his wife.
You helped the handmaidens dress Vaekar; his little body draped in crimson and black velvet and silk. The scarlet three-headed dragon stood out vibrantly on the black doublet, and you pushed back tears of pride. Next, you turned your attention to Daella, Rhae, and Elaena, helping the girls with their crimson silk dresses and black furs. Maekar's older sons had departed earlier with other members of the party and the servants to set up camp. Egg wore a similar outfit that matched his younger brother as he bounced Elaena in his lap, making her giggle. Once you were dressed to match the girls, you departed with the children and handmaidens in tow to the courtyard.
Vaekar was seated in the saddle with Maekar, and Egg mounted his horse while you got into the wheelhouse with the girls. You kept company with the ladies and the children while the men rode through the Kingswood.
"I see your good husband laid his mark last night," Alys whispered into your ear.
Your cheeks burned hot; while you had done your best to detract from the bruise, your efforts proved fruitless.
"Those Targaryen men do enjoy using their teeth. I believe Jena wears Baelor's on her hips," Alys assured you, patting your knee.
Now that comment had gotten your attention, making you raise a brow. You would have to seek your good sister's company later and seek her advice. Giggles surrounded you with ladies whispering behind their silk fans and cupped hands. Queen Myriah sat toward the front of the tent, and you only hoped such salacious gossip wouldn't reach her keen ears. Attention was turned when the men returned from the hunt, and Vaekar showed you the rabbit that his falcon had caught.
"Well done, sweet boy," you praised, kissing his cheeks.
"And for me?" Maekar smirked. You kissed his cheeks as well. You learned that he and Baelor had brought down a stag together. It was impressive and would no doubt join the collection at Summerhall once you returned.
The girls gathered around their father, tugging on his ringed hands for his attention, and Elaena reached out from her nursemaid's arms. He showered Daella and Rhae with his affections first before drawing Elaena into his embrace. The celebrations continued well into the hour of the ghost before guests began to retire to their silk tents for rest. The children had been settled earlier, even the nameday boy of honor with lemon icing smeared around his small mouth. You had moderated how much wine you enjoyed that evening, wanting to keep a clear head. That was a lesson you learned early on. One of your first, after Maekar had saved you from the nefarious Peake and Bracken men who wished to take advantage of you.
You held onto your husband's arm, looking around you and noting that Lady Swann, Lady Hightower, and Lady Redfort slipped into nearby tents with their husbands, with yours settled in the middle. "This is a most unusual placement for us, is it not, husband?" you asked Maekar.
A mischievous glint filled his violet eyes as he pulled open the flap to grant you entrance, giving you a playful swat to the backside. "A design of my doing, dear wife. If those gossipmongers wish to wag their tongues, I say we give them a good show. Not even their soft, feathery pillows will be able to drown out your moans."
You could barely respond as he swept you up into your arms, gathering you into a passionate kiss. It was a surprising turn of events, but you were excited. He tore the silks and furs from your body, freeing you from the shift until you were left in just your stockings and jewelry, which sparkled in the candlelight. You loosened his doublet, weaving him out of his clothing before stroking his cock until the tip was as red as his face.
"Mayhaps they would like to hear your moans as well, husband," you whispered as you dropped to your knees and wrapped your lips around his leaking tip.
He groaned, rolling his hips as you worked him deep into your mouth. Your cheeks hollowed out, eyes flicking up to meet his gaze. Those violet eyes burned intensely, hand coming down to wrap around your throat as he moved his hips faster, which drove his cock deeper inside your throat. Growls and grunts poured from his mouth, reminding you of a dragon ready to breathe forth fire. You sputtered as his seed spilled down your throat, and it felt slightly raw in the aftermath.
But that did not stop your moans and screams cutting through the chilled night air as Maekar took you. First, bent over the bed with his pelvis snapping against your plush arse, decorated with red handprints. Next, with his face buried between your thighs, worshipping your cunt and eating his seed that leaked from swollen flesh. You rode him after that, squeezing and milking his cock while your breasts bounced with your fervid motions. The final time left an aching, stinging burn across your shoulders and back as he fucked you on the woven rug with your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. You could barely speak by the end of it all, throat hoarse and sore. Maekar poured you a cup of Arbor Gold to help soothe it and wrapped you up in a red silk robe, sweat glistening off his lithe, muscular frame. Gods, his legs seemed impossibly long.
"No doubt tongues will be wagging tomorrow," he smirked, sitting beside you on the bed and drowning his wine in one gulp.
"You never struck me as the type to care," you mused, voice rasping slightly.
"I don't, but if it helps you hold favor, then I'm glad to play the game. Besides, what man could be upset that his wife is so well pleasured?"
You held his face, kissing him softly. "I dare say some of the ladies might be jealous. I doubt Lady Swann has ever screamed herself hoarse before."
"Now that is a pity; it might relax her pinched face. Bring some color to her cheeks."
You gasped, swatting his chest before dissolving into giggles. "I daresay you might enjoy gossiping more than my cousin."
"Nonsense," he huffed before stretching out next to you in the bed, pulling you to rest against his chest.
In the morning, as food was laid out for the party to break their fast with, the ladies Swann, Hightower, and Redfort could barely meet your eyes while your cousin, Mina, looked like the cat that ate the canary. She hurried over and looped her arm through yours.
"My, cousin, you put on quite the show last night, I've heard," she grinned.
"Merely a wife enjoying the company of her husband," you replied.
"Well done," she hummed before passing you over to Maekar, who pulled you to sit on his knee and pushed a juicy, luscious strawberry between your lips.
You were delighted to sit in his lap and be spoiled, surrounded by whispers and inquisitive glances. But you paid them no mind. In that moment, you were lost in your husband's violet eyes and adoration.
Summary: You find a missing cat that belongs to a certain Targaryen. During the time which takes you to find the owner, Vhagar becomes attached to you, so now Aemond must deal with sharing her with you.
a/n: I had this in my drafts waiting for Aemond to come back in the show and him down and his dragon flying away was perfect for this!
The first time you saw Vhagar, she was a lump of storm clouds curled against the concrete base of your building, so still you almost mistook her for a discarded sweater. It was late autumn, that particular gray hour when the sun gives up and the streetlights haven’t quite decided to take over, and you were fumbling for your keys with cold-stiff fingers when the lump moved.
Not a sweater. A cat. A massive, ancient-looking cat the color of woodsmoke and iron, with a face like a disappointed dowager countess who had seen empires rise and fall. Her fur was thick and slightly ruffled, the way old velvet gets when it’s been stored wrong, and she was watching you with enormous yellow-green eyes that seemed to hold entire centuries in their depths.
“Hello,” you said, because you were the kind of person who talked to animals automatically, even when they looked at you like that.
The cat opened her mouth and yowled.
It wasn’t a meow. It wasn’t even a proper cat sound. It was a declaration, a demand, a rusty hinge of a noise that seemed to ask where you had been and why you hadn’t brought tribute. She stood up, stretched with the deliberate slowness of a creature that had never needed to hurry for anyone, and padded directly toward you.
“Do you belong to someone here?” you asked, looking at the entrance to your apartment building. The cat wound herself around your ankles with surprising force for something so elderly, nearly knocking you off balance. Her fur was cold from the outside air, and when you bent down to touch her, you felt the frail architecture of age beneath the thick coat, shoulder blades too prominent, a spine like a string of beads.
She had a collar. Good leather, emerald green, with what looked like real gold hardware. But there was no tag. No phone number. No name.
“Someone’s looking for you,” you murmured, scratching behind one ragged ear. The cat closed her eyes and leaned into your hand with the air of someone accepting their due. “Come on, then. Let’s get you inside.”
You opened the door and she walked in ahead of you like she owned the place, which was probably how she walked into every room she’d ever entered. The lobby was empty. You expected her to head for one of the apartment doors on the ground floor, to indicate somehow where she lived, but instead she sat down in the exact center of the lobby and began grooming her flank with the meticulous disdain of someone who had been terribly inconvenienced.
“Right,” you said. “Not helpful.”
You waited. The cat groomed. The elevator went up and came back down empty. Someone’s mail was sticking out of box 3B. The radiators clanked.
“Okay,” you said finally. “I have to go up. If you’re still here tomorrow, we’ll figure something out.”
She paused mid-lick to give you a look that said she had never been dismissed in her life and wasn’t about to start now.
She was still there when you got back from work the next day. Not in the lobby, outside again, on the same patch of concrete, curled into the exact same shape as if she’d never moved. The November dark had settled in thick and cold, her fur was beaded with the beginnings of frost, it made your chest clench.
“Absolutely not,” you told her, scooping her up before you could think better of it. She was heavier than she looked, a dense warm weight in your arms, and she made a sound like a creaking door as you carried her inside. “You’re coming upstairs. You’re eating something. We’re figuring out who you belong to.”
She didn’t struggle. She settled against your shoulder like she’d been doing this for a thousand years, her purr starting up low and rough like a motor that hadn’t been run in a while. Her claws kneaded gently into your coat, catching on the wool.
Your apartment was small. One bedroom, a galley kitchen, a living room that doubled as a dining room that doubled as an office. The cat surveyed it from the threshold with an expression you could only describe as politely appalled.
“It’s not much,” you said defensively, setting her down. “But it’s warm.”
She sniffed the baseboard. She investigated the corner where the radiator met the wall. She walked into the kitchen and sat down in front of the refrigerator with the clear expectation that it would open for her.
“What do you even eat?” you muttered, opening the fridge and scanning your meager contents. You didn’t have cat food. You didn’t have anything that seemed cat-appropriate. But you did have milk, and you did have a package of those cheap hot dogs from a supermarket.
“This is probably terrible for you,” you said, boiling one anyway and cutting it into small pieces, pouring a bowl of milk. “But you look like you’ve survived worse.”
She ate like she’d never seen food before. She drank the milk in laps. She looked up at you with a milk-white mustache on her gray muzzle and made a sound that resembled approval.
“You’re welcome,” you said, and sat down on the floor beside her.
You put up posters in the neighborhood: FOUND CAT, with a photo that didn’t do her justice and your phone number at the bottom. You posted in the local lost pet groups. You took her to a vet to check for a microchip, but there was nothing, which the vet found strange given the obvious quality of her collar.
“This is full-grain Italian leather,” the vet said, turning the collar over in her hands. “And the hardware is eighteen-karat gold plated. Someone spent a lot of money on this cat.”
“But no tag,” you said.
“But no tag,” the vet agreed. “Some people just assume their animals will never get out. Especially indoor cats. How’s she been eating?”
“Everything,” you said. “Anything. I gave her the crusts from my grilled cheese yesterday and she acted like it was a five-star meal.”
The vet laughed. “At her age, that’s a good sign. She’s healthy, just old. Very old. Probably fifteen, maybe older. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
So you did. You bought proper cat food eventually, the decent mid-range kind from the grocery store, and she ate it with the same enthusiasm she’d shown for the hot dogs and the milk and the leftover tuna salad. She slept on your bed every night. She sat in the window and watched the street below. You started calling her Lady, for lack of anything better, she ignored it with the same regal indifference she showed to everything else.
“You’re someone’s, aren’t you?” you said one evening, scratching under her chin while she purred like a broken generator. “Someone filthy rich.”
She closed her eyes and leaned into your hand, offering no answers.
You found the flyer on a Tuesday morning in early December, taped to a lamppost two blocks from your work office. The paper was thick and slightly glossy, the kind of paper that cost money, and the photo printed on it was clearly professional, the same gray cat, the same yellow-green eyes, but photographed against a dark background with studio lighting that made her look like a painting.
MISSING: VHAGAR, the flyer read. $7,000 REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN.
There was a phone number. That was all. No name. Just the cat’s name, the reward, and a number.
Vhagar. You tested the name in your mouth as you walked home, the flyer clutched in your cold hand. It sounded ancient. Mythological. Exactly the kind of name someone would give a cat who wore eighteen-karat gold on her collar and had professional photographs taken of her.
“Your name is Vhagar,” you told the cat when you got home. She was sprawled across your pillow in a pose of magnificent indolence, one paw draped over her eyes. At the sound of the name, her tail twitched. “That’s you, isn’t it? Vhagar.”
She lifted her head and looked at you, and for the first time since you’d found her, she let out a proper meow, short and declarative, as if to say finally, you’ve figured it out.
You sat down on the edge of your bed. Seven thousand dollars. That was two months of rent. That was the dental work you’d been putting off. That was breathing room, actual breathing room, the kind you hadn’t had since you’d moved to this city with its brutal rents and its casual cruelties and its complete indifference to whether you sank or swam.
But it wasn’t the money that made you pull out your phone. It was the way she’d been shivering on the concrete. The way someone had loved her enough to buy her that collar and take those photos and offer seven thousand dollars no questions asked, but not enough to put a tag on her. Not enough to think she might ever leave.
You typed the number into your phone before you could talk yourself out of it.
He answered on the second ring.
“Yes.”
Not hello. Not who is this. Just yes, flat and dry as old paper, a voice that expected the world to get to the point and not waste his time.
“Hi,” you said, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned what to say. “I’m calling about the cat. The flyer. Vhagar. I think I have her.”
A pause. Just long enough to make you check if the call had dropped.
“Proof,” the voice said. “Send me proof.”
“What kind of...“
“A video that shows she’s alive and unharmed and actually in your possession.”
The demand was clipped, almost cold, and you felt a spike of irritation. You were doing him a favor. You could have kept the cat. You could have ignored the flyer entirely. But you swallowed your pride because seven thousand dollars was seven thousand dollars, and you’d already decided.
“Do you have Whatsapp or something with this number?” you asked, “I’ll send a video.”
He said yes and hung up without saying goodbye.
“Charming,” you muttered to the cat. Vhagar yawned, showing a pink mouth.
You recorded a thirty-second video of Vhagar on your bed, demonstrating that she was indeed alive and unharmed and being gently scratched behind the ears by someone who was not a cat thief. You sent it to the number. Thirty seconds later, your phone buzzed.
That’s her. Where can we meet?
You looked up the name attached to the number, of course. You weren’t stupid. You were about to meet a stranger from the internet to return a cat worth seven thousand dollars, and you wanted to know what you were walking into.
His name was Aemond Targaryen. The social media profile that came up was locked down tight: private, no profile picture, just the name and a cover photo of what looked like a dragon from some fantasy series. You scrolled anyway, finding nothing, until you thought to try LinkedIn.
His LinkedIn profile was not private.
The photo hit you first: a man in his twenties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and jawlines like cut glass and hair so pale it was almost silver, pulled back from his face. He was wearing a dark suit and looking slightly to the left of the camera with an expression of controlled impatience, like he’d been forced to sit for the photograph and was counting the seconds until he could leave.
Below the photo was a wall of text. Degrees. Certifications. Projects. Internships at companies you’d seen on the news. A master’s degree. A bachelor’s from some private university in Oldtown. Fluent in four languages. Currently serving as Vice President of Strategic Operations at Targaryen Industries, which a quick search revealed to be a multinational conglomerate dealing in everything from real estate to renewable energy to defense contracting.
Old money. Very, very old money. The kind of money that had its own Wikipedia page and several unflattering investigative journalism pieces.
“You belong to him?” you asked Vhagar, who had climbed onto your laptop keyboard and was slowly erasing several paragraphs of an email you’d been drafting. “You belong to a billionaire’s son with a dragon fixation and cheekbones that could cut glass?”
Vhagar purred smugly and stepped on the delete key.
The meeting place was outside a high-rise in city center that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated poor people. All black glass and angular steel, a lobby visible through the ground-floor windows that contained more marble than the average museum. A doorman in a uniform stood at attention by the revolving doors.
Aemond Targaryen was waiting on the sidewalk.
He looked exactly like his LinkedIn photo and nothing like it at all. The photo had captured his bone structure but missed everything else: the way he held himself like a blade, the way his one visible eye tracked movement with unsettling precision, the way the left side of his face bore a long, pale scar that cut through his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. He was wearing a long black coat that probably cost as much as the cat’s reward, and he was looking at the cat carrier in your hands with an expression you couldn’t quite read.
“Vhagar,” he said, and his voice was different now, still dry, still clipped, but with something underneath it that you recognized. You’d made that sound yourself, sometimes, when you came home to find Lady waiting for you on the pillow. Relief, maybe. Or something close to it.
“She’s fine,” you said, setting the carrier down. “She’s been eating well. Sleeping a lot. She’s very…opinionated.”
He crouched down, actually crouched, in his thousand-dollar coat on the sidewalk, and opened the carrier door. Vhagar emerged with the slow dignity of a dowager queen descending from her carriage, and when she saw him, she made a sound that was almost a chirp. She headbutted his hand. She allowed him to pick her up, tucking her massive gray body against his chest like she’d been doing it all her life. Which, you supposed, she had.
“Where did you find her?” he asked, not looking at you. His attention was entirely on the cat, his long fingers stroking through her fur with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him.
“Outside my building. She was sleeping on the concrete.”
His jaw tightened. “How long?”
“About three weeks ago.”
He didn’t say anything. His hand stilled on Vhagar’s back. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and your own phone buzzed in your pocket.
“The reward,” he said. “Thank you for returning her.”
You checked your banking app. Seven thousand dollars, transferred and pending.
“Right,” you said. “Well. Take care of her. And maybe…put a tag on her collar next time.”
He looked at you then. Actually looked at you, his single visible eye, the other was covered by a swoop of hair but seemed to be a glass prosthetic, you weren’t sure, fixing on your face with an intensity that made you want to step backward. His eye was violet. A pale, impossible shade of purple that you had assumed was contacts until you were standing three feet away from him and could see the way the light hit it.
“She has never run away before,” he said, and it sounded almost like an accusation. As if you had somehow lured his ancient cat away from her penthouse and convinced her to live on hot dogs and milk.
“Well,” you said again, because his stare was unnerving, “she’s home now.”
He didn’t thank you again. He turned and walked into the building, Vhagar draped over his shoulder like a fur stole, the doorman holding the door for him with a murmured “Mr. Targaryen” that you caught on the wind.
You stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer, the December cold seeping through your coat, and then you went home.
You assumed that was the end of it. You had your money, he had his cat, and your worlds had brushed against each other for exactly long enough to complete a transaction. You unfollowed the lost pet groups. You washed Vhagar’s fur off your pillowcases. You tried to ignore the way your apartment felt quieter now, emptier, the absence of her rumbling purr leaving a gap in the dark that you hadn’t expected to miss.
Four days later, your phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number.
What did you do to my cat?
You stared at the screen. You had not saved his number but you had not deleted the chat.
Sorry?, you typed back.
The response came immediately. Vhagar. She won’t eat. She refuses her food. What were you feeding her?
You tried to remember. Milk? Boiled sausages? Some tuna. The vet said she was healthy.
The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then your phone started ringing.
“Milk,” Aemond Targaryen said when you answered, his voice flat with barely contained outrage. “You fed a fifteen-year-old purebred Persian cat milk and boiled sausages?”
“She liked them,” you said defensively. “She ate them right up. What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” he said, “is that Vhagar’s normal diet consists of sustainably sourced Beluga caviar, free-range quail eggs, and a fish broth reduction that my family’s private chef prepares fresh every three days. She has never eaten processed meat in her life. She has certainly never consumed grocery store milk. And now she is sitting in front of her bowl looking at me as if I have personally betrayed her by serving her the same food she has happily eaten for fifteen years.”
You sat down on your bed. “She ate Beluga caviar? Like, the stuff that costs hundreds of dollars an ounce?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It kind of feels like the point.”
He made a sound of pure frustration, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. “The point is that she’s refusing to eat. She’s refusing to eat and she’s refusing to come when I call her and she spent the entire morning glaring at me from the top of her custom-built cat tower, which, I might add, has three separate levels and a water feature.”
You tried to picture Vhagar, your Lady, who had slept on a spare pillow and eaten crusts off your plate, in a climate-controlled cat tower with a water feature. The image wouldn’t resolve.
“Have you tried…playing with her?” you asked.
“She doesn’t play,” Aemond said, as if you’d suggested she do her own taxes. “I throw her the toy mouse from Hermès and she demolishes it. That’s not playing. That’s destruction.”
“What about cardboard boxes?”
Silence. Long, profound silence, broken only by the faint sound of Vhagar yowling in the background.
“Cardboard boxes,” he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
“Yeah. You know. The things stuff gets shipped in? Cats love them. She went absolutely feral for the box my Amazon order came in. I put an old towel in it and she slept there for three days.”
“You want me,” Aemond Targaryen said, each word precise and clipped, “to give a member of my family, a cat who has been passed down through three generations, who has her own room in our estate, who has been photographed for Architectural Digest, a cardboard box?”
“I mean, it can’t hurt?”
Another long pause. The background yowling grew louder.
“This is absurd,” he said, and hung up.
The cardboard box apparently worked, because two days later he messaged you again. Not a call this time, a text, long and oddly formal, like a business proposal that had been written through gritted teeth.
Vhagar has been eating again. The box was…effective. However, she seems to have developed an attachment to your presence during her time away. She has been restless. The veterinarian suggested she may benefit from continued exposure to you as a source of environmental enrichment, which is a phrase I cannot believe I am typing. I am prepared to offer you a weekly retainer to visit and spend time with her. The compensation would be commensurate with your trouble.
Attached was a number that made your eyes water.
You read the message three times. You thought about the seven thousand dollars already sitting in your savings account. You thought about the way Vhagar had looked at you when you handed her over, that yellow-green stare that had seemed to say this isn’t over. You thought about Aemond Targaryen’s voice on the phone, dry and furious and somehow, despite everything, deeply concerned about a fifteen-year-old cat who missed you.
“This is insane,” you said to your empty apartment.
But you typed back: When do I start?
The first visit was awkward. Aemond’s apartment, if you could call a space that occupied nearly an entire floor of a high-rise an apartment, was a cathedral of minimalist wealth, all pale wood and pale stone and pale furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Vhagar greeted you at the door with a yowl that seemed to say finally, you’ve arrived, and immediately led you to her custom cat tower, which was indeed three stories tall and featured a tiny chandelier.
“She’s been waiting by the door since this morning,” Aemond said. He was standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a library, dressed in a dark sweater that did nothing to soften the angles of his face. “I don’t understand why.”
“She’s a cat,” you said, sitting cross-legged on the heated marble floor while Vhagar climbed into your lap. “They’re mysterious.”
“She’s never sat in anyone’s lap but mine. And my mother’s. And occasionally my sister’s, though that ended badly.”
“What happened?”
“My sister is allergic. She found out when Vhagar sat on her face.”
You laughed. You couldn’t help it. Aemond was watching you with an expression that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t not one either, a slight softening around his mouth, a tilt to his head that made him look more like a person.
“Tea?” he asked, and it sounded almost reluctant, like the offer had escaped without his permission.
“Sure,” you said. “Tea would be great.”
Every Saturday, you took the train and spent the afternoon in Aemond Targaryen’s penthouse, ostensibly to entertain a cat who spent most of her time ignoring you in favor of her cardboard box. But Aemond was always there, hovering, appearing with cups of tea that grew progressively more elaborate, then plates of food that started as simple snacks and evolved into full meals.
“You said you’ve been eating bread and cheese for dinner,” he said one evening, setting a plate of something that looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant on the coffee table in front of you. “That’s not nutritious.”
“I’m aware,” you said, but you ate it anyway, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.
He started finding reasons to extend your visits. A new toy for Vhagar to try. A documentary about Chartreux cats he thought you should watch. An outing to a cat café that he claimed was for research purposes but that mostly involved him standing in the corner looking deeply uncomfortable while cats climbed all over you.
“You’re not a cat person,” you observed, as a calico tried to scale his leg.
“I’m a Vhagar person,” he corrected, gently removing the calico and placing it on the floor. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“I’m beginning to think there might be,” he said, and then he turned away before you could ask what he meant.
Winter turned into spring. Your Saturday visits turned into Saturday visits plus occasional Wednesday dinners plus a standing invitation to a Sunday morning walk in a park, which Aemond claimed was for Vhagar’s benefit even though Vhagar never actually walked. He texted you articles about cat behavior and screenshots of Vhagar doing mundane things with captions like She sat in the box again. I don’t understand and The chef wants to know if she can have the sausage recipe.
“There’s no recipe,” you told him. “You boil them.”
“I told him that. He didn’t believe me.”
He started asking about your life. Your job. Your family. The things you cared about and the things you were afraid of and the things you wanted but had never let yourself reach for. He listened carefully, his pale eye fixed on your face, his sharp features softening in increments so small you almost didn’t notice them until one day you looked at him and realized you couldn’t remember why you’d ever found him cold.
Vhagar, for her part, seemed entirely unimpressed with the whole arrangement. She spent most of your visits asleep in her cardboard box, a new one now, because Aemond had his assistant procure them weekly, and only occasionally deigned to acknowledge your presence with a slow blink or a rumbling purr.
“She likes you,” Aemond said one evening, watching the cat knead her claws into an old towel.
“She tolerates me.”
“No.” He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Vhagar. “She likes you. She’s particular. She doesn’t tolerate anyone she doesn’t like. She bit my brother once. Drew blood.”
“What did your brother do?”
“Breathed too loudly, I think.”
You laughed, Aemond glanced at you, and the expression on his face was something you’d never seen before, open, almost unguarded, his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile that transformed his severe features into startlingly beautiful.
“I’m glad you found her,” he said quietly. “The cat. I’m glad you found her.”
“Me too,” you said, and you weren’t entirely sure you were talking about the cat anymore.
Vhagar yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, indifferent to everything but the warmth of the room and the comfort of her box.
You learned the layout of his penthouse the way you'd once learned the streets of your neighborhood, by heart, by instinct, by the slow accretion of familiarity that turns the unfamiliar into home.
You learned other things, too. That Aemond took his coffee black but would drink tea if you made it. That he read three books a month and annotated them in a spidery, elegant script. That he had a brother he never mentioned and a sister he mentioned only in passing and a mother who called him every Sunday at precisely eleven in the morning, which he answered without fail even if he was in the middle of a sentence. That his left eye, the one always covered, the one the scar bisected, was a wound he carried with him everywhere, a quiet grief he never spoke about directly but that shaped the way he moved through rooms, always keeping his right side to the door.
You learned about Alys by accident.
It was a Saturday in late March, the kind of day that pretends to be spring but still bites with winter's teeth, and you had arrived at the penthouse to find Aemond already pulling on his coat.
"Something's come up," he said, and his voice had that clipped quality it got when he was trying not to show frustration. "I have to go out of town. I'll be back Monday."
"Okay," you said, hanging your own coat on the hook he'd cleared for you weeks ago. "Do you want me to come back then, or..."
"No." He paused, his hands stilling on his scarf. "I was hoping you could stay with Vhagar. She gets…unsettled when I'm gone too long."
The last time he'd gone out of town, a business trip to Westerlands, three days, he'd called you twice a day with updates on Vhagar's mood and appetite. You hadn't minded. The money was good, and honestly, you'd grown fond of the old cat's cranky companionship.
"Sure," you said. "Where are you going?"
"Riverlands."
You waited for elaboration. None came.
"That's…specific."
He didn't meet your eyes. "Alys lives there. She doesn't like the city."
The name landed in your chest like a stone hurled. Alys. A woman's name, spoken with a familiarity that suggested it had been in his mouth many times before. You realized, with a strange hollow feeling, that he'd never mentioned her. Not once. In all those afternoons and evenings and Sunday walks, he'd never said a word about a girlfriend waiting for him in some small town hours away.
"I didn't know you were seeing someone," you said, and you were proud of how neutral your voice came out.
"It's complicated." He adjusted his scarf, still not looking at you. "We've been together for a while. She prefers her independence. I prefer…" He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It works."
"Right," you said. "Well. Go. Vhagar and I will be fine."
He finally looked at you then, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Thank you," he said, and left.
The penthouse felt different without him. Larger, certainly, all those minimalist rooms spreading out around you like a museum after hours. But also quieter in a way that felt less peaceful and more hollow. Vhagar seemed to sense it too; she followed you from room to room with more persistence than usual, her ragged meow punctuating the silence.
You did what you always did when you were catsitting: you sat on the heated floor with Vhagar in your lap, you watched your shows that Aemond pretended to disdain but always ended up commenting on, you ate from the refrigerator that his private chef kept stocked with things you couldn't pronounce. But your mind kept circling back to the name. Alys. The way he'd said it: flat, contained, like a fact he'd long since stopped examining.
On Sunday morning, the house phone rang at half past eleven. You let it ring. The answering machine beeped. A woman's voice which you assumed belonged to his mother, given the time, came through:
Aemond, I've spoken with the surgeon. He has an opening in April. Answer your phone.
Surgeon. April. Cold settled in your stomach.
When Aemond returned on Monday evening, he looked tired in a way that went beyond travel fatigue. His coat was rumpled, his hair escaping its usual careful restraint, his mouth set in a thin line that softened only slightly when Vhagar waddled over to greet him.
"Good trip?" you asked, gathering your things.
"Fine."
"How's Alys?"
The pause was a beat too long. "Fine."
"She must be something," you said carefully, "to keep you driving hours every time you have a free weekend."
He didn't take the bait. He just bent down to scratch Vhagar's chin, his expression shuttered. "She's very busy. Her practice takes up most of her time."
"Practice?"
"Traditional medicine. Herbalism. Holistic healing." He said it without irony, without skepticism, as if a woman who made her living selling tinctures and salves was the most natural thing in the world for a man with multiple advanced degrees and a vice presidency at a multinational corporation. "She's very skilled."
"I'm sure she is," you said, and left before you could say something you'd regret.
After that, you started noticing things.
The way Aemond's phone would buzz and he'd check it immediately, his expression flickering. The way he'd disappear into his study for hours, his voice a low murmur behind the closed door, emerging with that same tired look he'd worn coming back from Riverlands. The way he never texted Alys, or if he did, she never texted back, because every communication seemed to require a phone call, a ritual, a set-aside block of time he guarded fiercely.
"She doesn't like texting," he explained once, when you'd commented on the absurdity of him scheduling a two-hour call in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. "She finds it impersonal."
You thought about the string of unanswered texts on your own phone: friends from college, coworkers, the guy you'd gone on two dates with last month before he'd ghosted you, and wondered what it would be like to have someone so devoted to you that they'd carve out hours of their day just to hear your voice, while you couldn't be bothered to send a single line of text back.
"She must be very special," you said.
"She is." But he said it the way someone might recite a fact they'd memorized rather than a truth they felt in their bones.
The pieces assembled themselves slowly over weeks. Alys was older than him. Alys had a practice in a small town hours from the city. Alys refused to move, refused to visit, refused to integrate herself into his life in any way that required effort on her part. Alys gave him just enough to keep him coming back: a phone call, a weekend, a jar of something homemade that he'd place on his kitchen counter and stare at with an expression that made your chest ache.
He was too smart for this. That was the thing that got you, the thing that lodged under your ribs like a splinter. Aemond Targaryen, with his degrees and his four languages and his portfolio of accomplishments that would have been impressive for a man twice his age, was being strung along by someone who couldn't even be bothered to answer a text message. And he accepted it. He accepted it like it was all he deserved, like affection was a currency that could only be earned through suffering, like love was something you had to bleed for. You suspected he was taught to fish out flirts and gold diggers easily, but he hadn't been taught to examine his emotinal needs.
You saw it in the way he was with Vhagar, too. The cat tolerated him at best: she allowed his attention, accepted his offerings of caviar and quail eggs, but rarely sought him out the way she sought you. And yet he adored her. He planned his schedule around her meals. He commissioned custom furniture for her comfort. He spoke about her like she was a revered ancestor, which, in his family, she practically was.
And you. You, who had been hired as a catsitter and somehow become something more: a fixture in his home, a recipient of his cooking, his concern and his increasingly frequent glances that lingered just a moment too long. You, who he'd started looking at like you were precious, unexpected, something he hadn't known he was allowed to want.
The pattern was right there, written in the architecture of his life: Aemond Targaryen attached himself to people who barely tolerated him, and he called it love because he didn't know what else to call it.
The call came on a Thursday in late April.
"I need you to take Vhagar," Aemond said, his voice strained in a way you'd never heard before. "For several days. A week, maybe. Can you do that?"
You were at work, hunched over your desk with a spreadsheet blurring in front of your eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just...I have a procedure tomorrow, and I won't be able to care for her."
"Procedure?" Your stomach dropped. "What kind of procedure?"
A pause. You could hear him breathing, slow and controlled, the way he breathed when he was trying to keep himself together. "My eye. My mother found a surgeon. Another one. He thinks there's a chance."
The word another hit you like a punch. How many surgeries had there been? How many times had he gone under the knife, hoping for something that never came?
"I'll come to pick her up," you asnwered.
When you arrived at the penthouse, the doorman let you up without question, you were on the permanent access list now, a fact that still felt surreal every time you thought about it, and Aemond was waiting at the door.
He looked terrible.
His face was pale. His left eye, the one that was always covered, was visible now, hair finally brushed back. He was holding himself very still, very straight, the posture of someone who had learned long ago to carry pain without showing it.
"Before you say anything," he said, "I'm fine."
"You're having surgery."
"Another surgery. They're all the same." He stepped aside to let you in. "My mother is optimistic. She's always optimistic. The surgeon says there's a thirty percent chance of partial vision restoration, which means there's a seventy percent chance of nothing at all. I've made my peace with it. She hasn't."
You followed him into the living room, where Vhagar was sprawled in her cardboard box, a new one, large and rectangular, with a towel that had been arranged just so. She blinked at you slowly and didn't get up.
"When is it?" you asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Early. I have a car picking me up at five."
"You're going alone?"
The question seemed to confuse him. "Yes. Who else would go with me?"
You thought about Alys, somewhere in Riverlands, mixing her herbs and ignoring her phone. You thought about his mother, who had arranged the surgery but apparently not her schedule to be there for it. You thought about his siblings, who he never spoke about.
"I could go with you," you said, before you could stop yourself.
Surprise flickered across his face. "That's not necessary. You're here for Vhagar."
"Vhagar can come. She's a cat. She'll sleep through the whole thing."
"Vhagar in a hospital waiting room?"
"Fine, not in the waiting room. But I can still go. You shouldn't be alone."
He looked at you for a long moment, his good eye searching your face. "Why?" he asked finally. The question sounded genuine, as if he truly couldn't fathom why anyone would offer him comfort without being asked.
"Because that's what people do," you said. "They show up for each other."
"Ah." He turned away, busying himself with a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. "I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I've been doing this alone for a long time. I know how to handle my own treatment. Take Vhagar. I'll call you when I'm home."
You took Vhagar. You packed her into her carrier, which was, of course, custom-made leather with a monogrammed cushion, and you carried her down to the lobby and out to the street, and you stood there on the sidewalk for a full minute before you turned around and went back inside.
Aemond was still in the kitchen when you walked back in, Vhagar's carrier swinging from your hand. He looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion to what that looked almost like relief before he shut it down.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm staying," you set the carrier down and opened it. Vhagar emerged with an indignant yowl and immediately headed for her cardboard box. "You shouldn't be alone, and I'm not letting you send me home just because you're too stubborn to admit you need help."
"The guest room is made up," he said, his voice was very quiet.
"Good. I'm ordering takeout. What do you want?"
"I have a list of approved restaurants in the drawer."
"Of course you do."
The surgery happened. You didn't go with him, he insisted, and you could tell it was important to him, this one last bastion of self-sufficiency, but you were there when he came back, pale and shaking and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't. The bandage was fresh, the swelling worse, and he walked through the door like a soldier returning from a battle he'd already known he would lose.
"Thirty percent," he said, lowering himself onto the couch carefully. "We'll know in a few weeks."
"The guest room is very nice," you said. "Also I made breakfast."
"You made breakfast?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I can cook some things. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. The basics."
He ate the eggs and the toast. He drank the coffee. Then he fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, his bandaged eye turned toward the ceiling, and you covered him with a blanket and sat in the armchair across from him and watched the afternoon light move across his face.
Vhagar jumped onto his lap and settled there, a warm gray weight, he didn't wake up.
You stayed longer. Aemond was supposed to be resting, but resting turned out to mean pacing the penthouse at odd hours, staring out the windows, picking at the meals you ordered from his list of approved restaurants because apparently your culinary skills didn't extend past breakfast.
"I can make pasta," you offered on the third day, when he was eyeing a container of takeout Thai with the expression of someone who had eaten too much takeout Thai. "It won't be good pasta, but it'll be pasta."
"I don't trust your definition of pasta."
"It comes from a box. You boil it. You put sauce on it."
"Sauce from a jar?"
"Sauce from a jar," you confirmed.
He looked genuinely pained. "Order from the place on 57th. The one with the green awning. They know my order."
"Of course they do."
That evening, as you were eating pasta that had definitely never seen the inside of a jar, you decided to ask the question that had been sitting in your throat for days.
"Does Alys know you had surgery?"
Aemond's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I mentioned it."
"You mentioned it."
"We talked last night. She's sending a jar of her salve. For the inflammation." He said it matter-of-factly, as if this were a perfectly normal response to your partner undergoing eye surgery. "She says it's very effective. Arnica, mostly, with some other herbs. She grows them herself."
"She's not coming to visit?"
He set his fork down. "She doesn't like the city. I told you."
"She doesn't like the city enough to visit her boyfriend after surgery?"
"It's not that simple."
"It seems pretty simple from where I'm sitting."
His jaw tightened, the familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Alys is…she's not like other people. She has her own life, her own practice, her own way of doing things. I knew that when we started this. I accepted it."
"What does she accept about you?"
The question landed harder than you'd intended. His good eye fixed on your face, sharp and suddenly very violet, and for a moment you thought he was going to snap at you, tell you to leave, remind you that you were just the catsitter and this was none of your business.
Instead, he muttered, "I don't know."
You ate in silence after that. Vhagar, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, climbed onto the table and tried to stick her face in Aemond's pasta, and he let her.
At three in the morning, you found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with Vhagar in his lap and the lights of the city spread out below him like a carpet of stars. His bandage glowed white in the dimness, he didn't turn when you came in, just kept staring out the window with an expression that made something twist painfully in your chest.
"Can't sleep?" you asked, settling into the armchair beside him.
"The pain medication wears off around two. I'm used to it."
"That's not what I asked."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I keep thinking about what you said. At dinner."
"I said a lot of things at dinner."
"About what she accepts." He turned to look at you, even in the darkness, even with half his face covered in gauze, the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. "I don't think she accepts anything about me. I think she tolerates me. And I've spent so long thinking that was the same thing."
"It's not," you said.
"No. It's not." He looked back out the window. "Vhagar tolerates me. But she chose you. When she ran away, she found you, and she stayed. She doesn't do that for anyone."
"She stayed for the hot dogs."
"She stayed for you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I understand why now."
Vhagar purred in his lap. The distance between your chair and the couch felt impossibly vast and impossibly small all at once, a gap that could be crossed in two steps or two years depending on whether either of you had the courage to move.
"She's not coming," Aemond said. "Alys. She's not coming, and I don't think I mind as much as I should."
"How do you feel about it?"
He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw, the voice of someone admitting the truth against his will.
"Relieved," he said. "I feel relieved."
You sat in silence, keeping him company in the small hours of the morning until the sky began to pale and Vhagar yawned and stretched and demanded her breakfast.
Part 2: coming soon...
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.
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Warnings: Overstimulation, restraints and gages, Rough sex, tears, dom Maekar, lots of aftercare, PnV, mentions of facial, pee, creampie
WC: 1.4k
Summary: Maekar makes your birthday quite memorable!
You were struggling so fiercely under him that your hand had reached back and started to pull at his hair.
The struggle. Your struggle. It egged him on more, made his hips hit harder against your ass and eventually when your knees started to wobble against the bed his palm pushed harshly against your lower back until you crumbled and were flat under him.
“UGH!!” You cried around the gage in your mouth. The poor red ball probably would have deep indents from your teeth by the end of this.
“you want this-you need this don’t you baby.” It made his cock throb when he used that term of endearment when you were in those sort of position. He liked using slut of whore too but there was something about using such a innocent nickname while you were in such a compromised position that made his fucking balls ache.
You nodded into the mattress, whimpering when he tore one of your hands down so you couldn’t rip out his hair and he pinned your wrist to the middle of your back. You squirmed at the stretch in your shoulder that it caused but honestly you were too spent to move around much at all and the pressure of his weight above you made what little strength you still had impossible to use.
Maekar pounded into you and the prone position had your thighs shaking as your cervix was battered against. He was so big and felt even larger now than he did when the sex had started tonight because you were raw and swollen now.
“oh…good girl.” He nodded, sweat dripping down his temple and more lingered on his chest from exerting himself so much. “I feel that-feel you coming.” He leaned down and growled in your ear. “Can’t control it can you baby?” He sounded feral as you gushed around him again and cried into the mattress.
Your face squished against the damp sheets, wet from your tears and drool and some of the cum he deposited earlier onto your face and let seep into the small space between your lips and the gag. You’d been at this for hours now, Maekar had taken a little blue pill while you ate the dinner he made for you, it was your birthday, his gift to you was going to be mind numbing sex.
Marathon sex.
Rough sex.
He had delivered, more than delivered by this point. You had no idea what the number was but it had to be over ten times that you’d climaxed, he’d cum in your mouth, in your cunt and painted your ass licking it into your clenched hole.
You were on the edge of what you could be able to handle. It felt so good, but also too good in a way that felt out of control and frightening. In the way where I’d him cock or hand or even the sheets brushed your clit you were losing your mind and another orgasm was around the corner. Each climax just built in the remnants of the last one and so you never really got a break. Your stomach ached from straining and your cunt was a swollen mess and even Maekar knew it was rapidly approaching a state of rawness that he wouldn’t be comfortable playing with any more.
“nooo! No no I can’t-I” Your feet attempted to lift up a bit but there were belts secured around each of your ankles and the end of the bed. Keeping you from kicking them up, keeping you from being able to do any thing but ease back against him more.
Maekar’s one hand left the small of your back and he pushed your hair to one side so he could see your face and that let him make out your slurred speech a bit better.
“you can…” he slammed his strong hips against your plush ass with newfound force and he felt the air push right out of your lungs. As if he was fucking it from you. “Don’t run from it…hey?” He could feel you losing focus, drawing away from the moment mentally. He stopped the thrusting motion just long enough to feel how desperately your walls were clenching around him.
“Don’t be scared baby.” His hand ran up the length of your sweaty back and when he held the back of your neck and turned your head to the side he kissed your wet cheek, just a soft peck, pounding himself deeper against your cervix as he lingered there. Feeling your hold body jolt. “Shhh…if you let go I’m going to cum so hard…you want to be filled up don’t you?”
You nodded but your voice, just a whine, sounded nervous. Markers other hand slipped under your prone body and you shook your head when his palm pressed up against the low spot of your belly. It was so hard when normally it was soft to the touch.
He chuckled realizing what was making you so uneasy. “Your going to pee if you cum again? That’s okay…that’s okay baby.” He kissed your shoulder and began to move his hips, not fall, just deliberately deep hitting that special spot in you over and over. “I’ll take care of you, clean you up, it’s okay baby. I promise. I want you to make a mess.”
He stayed over you. Chest warm and stomach strong as he melted himself into you, his hand slipping down lower and he rubbed at your clit knowing that it would tip you over the edge. If Maekar was another man, less strong and dense you probably would have bucked him off simply because of how powerful this orgasm was and how it made your body jolt and try and crawl in on itself.
“good girl! Fuck-fuck good girl let go for me-gods!” The moment he finished inside of you your body eased and you pressed fore cheek harder into the mattress, the rubbed of the ball gage squeaking from how hard you bit it as you released your bladder and panted because that felt like a climax itself!
Maekar had to catch his own breath for a second before he could deal with you, your shaking and wetness and all the comfort and reassurance he knew you needed. When he felt blood return to his head he first undid the gage. Hand wiping your sloppy swollen lips and he kissed you softly. Whispering how perfect you were as he pulled himself out of your raw cunt. Soft shushing as you winced at the feeling of it.
“I made a mess…I’m sorry.” You were still in a whiny haze when he stopped kissing you.
“I asked you to do that, don’t apologize. No apologizing. Right? You did so so good, no sorry my love.” He remainder you as he undid the belts around your ankles and rubbed them soothingly for a moment. “Don’t move, give me one minute.” He instructed. You obeyed. You liked obeying him, he did always look after you.
When Maekar returned it was with wet wipes, a few towels and some clothing for you.
“I love you, you felt so good. Did that feel good for you?” He asked after wiping your lower half clean and then shifting you up to a clean spot on the bed to dry you.
“y-yes, really good.” You were still shaking, which was normal. It took you a long time to come down from something that intense.
“good,” he rubbed your cheek and then applied some Vaseline to your lips and the spot where the connector on your cheek was pinched the skin a bit. “Let gets this on.” It was a shirt of his, one that was enough you wouldn’t feel constricted at all, but it also let you feel very covered. “And these,” he knelt down and guided your feet into the boxers legs and slowly pulled them up until they rested around your hips. “Arms up.” He urged you and then scooped you up off the bed completly brining you into the living room and setting you down on the soft couch.
You weren’t sure exactly how long had passed but when you next opened your eyes you were snuggled in his lap and he was holding a straw to your lips urging you to drink some water. You complied and then gave him a soft smile because he’d rubbed your back as confirmation that you were doing good. “Just this and then you can sleep baby.” He whispered in your ear and held up a little jam sandwich for you.
“your so nice…” you murmured mouth half full of your first bite.
Maekar chuckled and kissed your forhead “you’re the only person that ever says that about me.”
relationship: maekar targaryen x f! single mom reader
summary: when Aegon's nanny gets sick Maekar finds himself at school drop-off.
author's note: this idea has been on my mind for a while! it's not exactly how I envisioned it but I still had a lot of fun writing it, hope you all enjoy this and apologies for the delay lol
content warnings: swearing, husband and wife death mentions
Maekar was having a bad day. And it wasn't even 7am yet.
It had started at the exact stroke of midnight because he had found himself still at the office when he could have been home. Asleep.
He got back at 3am.
Then everything kicked off at 6am. When his phone blared, not with an alarm but a frantic phone call from Aegon's nanny. The one that always dropped him off and picked him up from school.
She was ill. The kind of illness that had her slurring her sentences as she apologised profusely. It made even Maekar's usually cold heart twist a little for making anyone feel that guilty for missing work. What kind of boss was he?
But the existential crisis had to be put off because he suddenly realized that he had no clue what he would do with Aegon.
So Maekar laid in the king bed staring at the ceiling trying to figure out how he could get his child to school. And he didn't even have a coffee in his system yet.
Aerion was on his go abroad year in Essos. Aemon was off in the citadel getting his doctorate. He wasn't sure if Daeron was even home. The girls were at boarding school. There was no backup.
"Fuckkkkkk." Maekar dragged a hand down his face and closed his eyes again. His alarm was set for 7am. He could sleep for an hour and figure it out then.
He jolted up in his bed again with the sound of the alarm. Maekar still had no clue what he was going to do. So he just got ready for the day as usual and then walked over to Aegon's room.
He knocked three times. Loudly. And he heard the scurring of feet on the other side before the heavy wooden door swung open. Revealing his son, already dressed in his uniform and holding a book in his free hand.
His freshly bald head (which Maekar was not dealing with again) shined slightly under the warm light of the rising sun.
"Father."
"Aegon. Tilly is ill so I'll be taking you to school today."
"Okay. Can I have some breakfast?" Maekar nodded tersely as he spun around and made his way down the long hallways and the large set of stairs to the rarely touched kitchen. He heard the quick steps of Aegon behind him a few moments later.
Maekar rummaged through the shelves until he found a box of cereal and the carton of milk. He placed them on the cold marble of the kitchen island and then went about fixing himself his morning cup of coffee.
The staff wasn't due in until lunchtime so it was up to him and Aegon to fend for themselves. It felt strangely domestic to watch his youngest son eat his cereal and read his book while he took slow drags of coffee. He hadn't done this since before Aegon was born. Before Dyanna.
The drive to the lower school he rarely visited was quiet. Maekar had always preferred to drive to work, unlike his other children that seemed to demand private drivers. But it seemed like Aegon didn't mind. He sat silently in the passenger seat and stared out of the window. He would have liked to turn on the news or maybe even some music but the mood went against it.
Maekar also wasn't sure if his son even knew he listened to music.
The large imposing building with its doric columns and long drive came into view steadily. He slowed down as he got into the long line of cars that were crawling steadily to the car park.
"Do I have to drop you off or are you alright to walk?" Maekar suddenly asked, making Aegon jump a little in his seat as he turned to face him.
"Tilly usually walks me over. The Year Sixes are the ones that get to head over by themselves."
"Very well."
Maekar had never felt more out of place. Maybe it was because he was the only one in a full suit or maybe it was because he was surrounded by young mums (mostly in yoga attire) that kept gawking at him and then Aegon and then turning to whisper to their friends.
Why did this incredibly expensive school make parents wait outside for their children to head into class? It was like a humiliation ritual. Especially as Aegon was also actively trying to look at anyone other than him.
But then he heard a small voice.
"Aegon! Aegon! I finished the book!" Suddenly a bullet of hair and multiple keychains and girl flew passed him and started jumping up and down next to Aegon. What.
"Cami! Darling! Slow down, you don't want to terrorize the poor guy." Maekar felt like he was frozen. The gentle voice of a woman filled the hallway and his head. IHe turned his head slightly and saw a radiant woman slightly running over to stop what he assumed was your daughter from running over his son. You weren't exactly successful.
"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. She gets like this sometimes." You said once you reached the group. Maekar was still having a bit of a hard time processing everything around him. "Cami. Say sorry."
"Sorry." The little girl stared up at him from her place next to Aegon. His son looked up at him with wide eyes and a slightly terrified expression. Like he didn't want him to know that he knew anyone outside of the family.
"It's okay. I'm Aegon's father. Maekar Targaryen." Maekar said as he directed his gaze to you. One of the most beautiful women he had seen. You offered back your name and smiled down at Aegon, whose face visibly eased at the expression on your face.
"Oh and this is Finley." That was when Maekar noticed that you had also been holding a baby carrier. He was actually kind of in awe of the fact that you had managed to stay caught up with your daughter while carrying a whole child.
"Hello." Maekar said shortly, staring down at the face of the baby that gurgled slightly up at him.
"He likes you!"
Now that surprised Maekar. He wasn't usually a hit with anyone really. Unlike Baelor who seemed to have charisma woven into his DNA.
"Huh. That's a surprise."
"Oh nonsense. He's usually rather picky, it took him a while to even warm up to Camilla." You motioned over to the two kids who were now chattering happily amongst themselves. Aegon even looked happy as he pointed out different scenes in the comic book Camilla had been holding up. "Is Tilly okay by the way?"
Maekar felt slightly taken aback by the question, he had never realized just how social these drop off sessions were.
"Yes, she was just feeling rather ill this morning so I had to drop Aegon off last minute."
"Oh no. I hope that she feels better soon. We would have been happy to drop off Aegon by the way. Cami is always raving about her best friend at home." You shot Maekar a smile that could have launched a thousand ships. He was taken aback by your words once again. Not like this whole situation was in any way normal.
"I really wouldn't want to inconvenience you like that."
"Not at all. Here let me get you my number!" At that he noticed how Aegon slightly turned to stare at him like he had grown a second head. Maekar felt frozen, you were about to give him your number. Totally unprompted. He felt slightly sick thinking about the fact that you probably had a husband, someone not ridiculously older too and here he was about to take your number.
"Uh wouldn't your husband not like that?" Maekar just had to make sure. He couldn't see a ring on your finger but there was one clearly hanging from your neck on a silver chain.
"Oh umm he passed last year. Motorcycle accident. Before Finley was born." You muttered out as you continued to rifle through your hand bag. Maekar felt like the biggest idiot. Not only was he being a bit of a creep but now he made you remember your dead husband. At least he understood how other people felt on the other end of him telling them about Dyanna.
"I'm sorry." He said earnestly. "I know a lot of people say they understand but I do actually. My Dyanna passed away right after Aegon was born." He saw your face fall as well and then you nodded sympathetically.
"I'm so sorry Maekar. I should have known."
"No, I should have known about your husband as well. I guess I'm not as involved in Aegon's school life as I would like to be." Maekar surprised himself with that last sentence, because it was true. He had barely been around to see Aegon grow up. It had been hell trying to mourn Dyanna and then Daeron and Aerion had gotten older and everything had slipped out of his hands so quickly.
"You're trying your best. Just like I am. That's all the world can ask of us. Here, just take my number alright?"
Maekar nodded and then he noticed that one of the classrooms had opened and a tall blonde woman was ushuring the children into the room. He shot a glance at Aegon and nodded once in goodbye. Aegon nodded back and then disappeared into the classroom.
You and Camilla had a bit of a more loving goodbye as you kissed her forehead and gave her a hug before she headed into the classroom - her numerous keychains twinkling behind her.
"See you at pick up?" You suddenly asked as you went to pick up Martin's carrier. Maekar suprisingly felt like saying yes. Even if that meant leaving work early and probably dealing with the consequences tomorrow.
"Yes. I'll see you at pick up."
"Awesome! Text me later, yeah? Cami has been begging for a play date!" You twirled off, leaving behind a slight scent of earth and chocolate.
Anyone else got a degredation kink? Maekar tying up his pants after he's done with you "you werent even worth the fuck, i've had better cunt in the street of silk" 🤣
ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOUR
✧ |pairing: maekar 'the anvil' targaryen x reader.
✧ | tags: mdni (+18), maekar fucks you hard !! he is mean he is rough, degradation kink lowkey, maekar refers to himself as dirty and gross (yummy), spit and face slapping, not beta proofed!
✧ | note: i wrote this in 2 hours !! the author's poorly disguised fetish......
“Be welcoming to the princes, and on your best behaviour” your father said.
You had poured prince Daeron’s cup multiple times, you had engaged with prince Aerion’s fantasy of having a dragon (and having to hear how he would burn the fields of flowers outside of your home), helped prince Aegon from coming down of a tree with prince Valarr’s help and ultimately you had successfully delivered all books that prince Baelor wanted.
But Prince Maekar, you welcomed differently.
“Fuck” He grunts.
The drawing room was very luxurious and overly decorated now that princes were visitors, the fanciest curtains and all the small trinkets and collections that your parents were proud of. The sofas that your mother had cleaned relentlessly beforehand, fancy pillows on the ground as prince Maekar had you pinned against it, pounding relentlessly against your cunt.
“Look at how you grip me darling, fuuuuuck” Maekar whispers roughly against your ear, each of your legs resting against his shoulders. You were so un-flexible, but the burn of the stretch behind your knees was nothing compared to the sweet stretch of his cock inside your pussy.
You had never been fucked messier, you felt like a toy for him. Not lovers, you just managed to make him fuck you now, but felt totally captivated by the Anvil. You’d love to leave your father’s castle, follow him home and be his mistress. You’d warm his bed every night and keep his balls dry.
“What was that?” He asks with a grin, as he moves his hands behind your thighs, pushing your legs against your chest, to pull himself upwards. Maekar rarely smiles, but you learned that he smirks when he feels smug, just like now. “Use your words, darling, come on…”
“Want you to fill me…” You whine, trying not to drool as he fucks his cock pounds into your pussy.
“That’s what you want, hm?” He asks, in that condescending tone he has used since the moment he met you. “Then we must make haste and give you what you want, isn’t that right? Just like your dear Papa does everytime you want something”
Your brain is too mushy to process his patronising words, and you simply look up at him, nodding softly. If you wait for prince Maekar to kiss you, you are once again disappointed, as pats your cheek with his left hand. “Open up”
His spit falls on your tongue, and you eagerly swallow it, the taste making you dizzy in your pleasure. You want to beg him, to be his whore toy, to take you with him to Summerhall, keep you naked in his chambers.
“Seven fucks, you are dirty” he says breathless, as his hands falls down to slap your cheek. Not as hard as he could, but enough to make your head turn. “All dirty and gross for the old prince, aren’t you?” he asks amused, once again slapping your cheek. “Answer me”
“Yes, yes, my prince, I am… soooo gross”
The wet slaps filled the room, and you begged that the big drawing room swallows the sounds inside, or everyone in the hall would hear you both fucking like animals.
“This pussy is gushing, squeezing me so hard” He says, looking down to meet your eyes, almost physically forcing you to meet his gaze. “You wanted this so bad, hm? Since the moment I stepped foot here, you have wanted me”
“Yes, yes…” Crying out to him pathetically, you bite your lip, feeling his big warm hand moving down to press against your lower stomach.
“You feel me all the way here, don’t you, sweetheart?”
The patronising ekenames that men often used to you, belittling you in a way that it was not blatant disrespect, in his lip were like heaven.
“I wanna cum…”
“Do you? Will this pretty cunt gush my cock? Hm?” He says, one of his hands moving to cup your face, moving it to face him directly. “Yeah?”
To your soft nods, as if hypnotized by him, he looks like a man drugged. The same hand pressing against your abdomen moves down, finding your clit with no effort, knowing exactly what moves to do to have your moaning way too loud for two people that are not supposed to do this.
“I’m going to make this cunt cream all over my cock” Maekar grunts, pounding harder as you cum all over him, high-pitched noises that you wish to muffle.
His fingers circle your clit, making your legs tremble, like the force of being wide open and all fucked out for him it is too much. Your brain is all mushy, simply laying back and staring dumbfounded as you watch Maekar have his own orgasm.
As predicted, he was sort of vocal. Groaning and grunting, like the old man he is. You remember thinking how grumpy and whiny he was with prince Baelor, and he does not disappoint now.
His cock thrusts inside, your juices making him all sticky and kinda gross. You love it.
And Maekar truly allows your cunny to milk his balls dry, you feel so much of his cum inside you, truly full of him. What a delicious feeling, making you bite your lip as you wish to feel like this always, not having any thought on your head; only this feeling.
“Mmmm…” You say, a bit tired and sleepy.
Maekar leans back, moving back up to stand as he pulls his breeches up, moving his cock inside his small clothes. Not fair, you think, disappointed it was over.
As he ties up his breeches, his movements lazy but at the same time, annoyed as always, he grunts “Wasn’t even worth the fuck.” He says, not even giving you the dignity to look at you while he makes sure his pants are properly secured. “I have had better cunts in the street of silk.”
How dares he, you think, all alone in your chambers as you comb your hair quietly before bed. If he wasn’t as hurried to leave you, he might as well have thrown you a bag of golden dragons. How dares he!
Your mother had said that he spent the afternoon seeking for his youngest son, but you just rolled your eyes at that. When she said that he might be stressed, you thought that it was well deserved.
He had been stressed by the morning, since he had to pick Daeron up in a tavern once again. Now with his little son, perhaps he was as stressed.
Your maid had prepared a bath with milk plus a fragrance that smelled just like lavender. Not too much, but a perfect touch of it.
“My lady” You don’t recognise the valet by your door.
“Yes?”
“Prince Maekar, he has sent me… to hand you over this.”
You raise one eyebrow, taking the small envelope. If he had sent money alongside this… Before the valet is dismissed, you say “Wait.”
He was asking for you again. In not too many pretty words, like the songs the bard sings. But his message is clear, and private. He wants you again, to use you like in the evening.
You move to fetch some small piece of parchment and… What are you even doing?
“Tell the prince” you start, handing the valet the letter back, as if outright refusing the request. “That if he desires to fuck someone, he can either come to my chambers or seek a whore in the Street of Silk.” You turn around and add “In those exact words.”
May i bother you with some perv thoughts? Screaming and moaning "Maekar, its so big-!" Everytime he's in you both annoys and puffs up Maekar 🤭 its like youre acting like its the first time his cock is in you while also proud because every poor servant and guest knows just how huge it is 😆
BIIIIIIG STRETCH
✧ | tags: MDNI (+18) Maekar has a big cock !! oral (m receiving), headlock, very loud sex, everyone knows their business lol
✧ | note: at the end i tried to do lowkey a insight of how servants would know their lord's business (bridgertong inspired i guess...) if you hate it anon throw tomatoes at me
You loved being on your knees for your man. You loved being around Maekar all the time. Summerhall was different with you on it, and Gods know that if it was up to you, and the kids weren’t here, you two would fuck like rabbits on every room.
Not that you haven’t tried. Or done.
“You’re so big” you say to him, your hand stroking lazily the base of his cock.
“Am I?” He asks softly, chuckling. His hand on your hair, fistful full of loose hair, as you never got them properly braided. He didn’t care, as Summerhall was his, and if his wife wanted to be indecorous… let her be.
“Yeah. So big” your tone is practically drunk, the tip against your mouth as you speak, moving to suck him.
His cock was heavy and leaking, you’d always found him like that when you undid his breeches; Hard, leaking precum and his balls full of cum. Make your mouth water.
Maekar groans, seeing you bob your head against his cock, not having a single drop of decorum.
“Get up.” He says, pulling you out of his cock by the hair, and you love it when he pulls your hair.
At this hour, after having midday meal with all of Maekar’s children, he had sent them off to the yard for training , even if it was unreasonable, and welcomed both Daella and Rhae to train if they wished as well. No wonder why, as he wanted you all to himself for a few hours.
“Come here” His mouth has a smirk as he pulls you closer to the bed, your back against his chest as he moves you whoever he pleases. “So wet already” He grunts against your neck, undoing the laces of your nightshift. “Tryna make me fit inside your pretty pussy, hm?”
“Yeah, yeah” you murmur slightly dizzy from the pleasure.
Maekar always prepared you first, realising that you needed to be a bit stretched before taking him properly so it doesn’t hurt. Even if it was a quickie.
You cannot resist your husband. He had been complaining and grunting, being all grumpy about something that Aerion had done, coming to your chambers to take a break.
He had groaned as he sat on the chair, leaning back lazily as his legs spread wide to be comfortable, as if the bulge on his breeches would go unnoticed by you.
“Fuck, you’re always so tight” He groans, hugging your waist as he slides himself inside your warm cunt, his chest moving to press against your back.
“No, it’s that– you’re just too big!” You say trying to gain your breath, your hands flat against the mattress as if to keep your head from being buried against the mattress.
He reaches for one of those tedious and nerve-racking (in his opinion) small velvet cushions, placing them under your head, and a bigger one under your hips.
“There” he grunts, moving back in. “You lured me into fucking you”
You nod softly, feeling his cock slide inside once again. You feel so full, stretched against his cock in a way you can’t think of anything else.
The first few sways of his hips were always a bit numbing to you, because it felt like too much at once. Yet Maekar always made sure the servants prepared a bath for you afterwards.
“You can feel me all the way in, hm?” Maekar says, moving your hair to press a kiss on your shoulders. “Real deep”
“Yeah…” you say breathlessly, feeling how he starts swaying his hips. “Fuck‐-”
“That’s it…” he soothes you, his hand moving to press down your lower back, as he starts pounding into your cunt.
The gushing sounds were loud, as his balls slapped against your flesh, you could hear his grunts behind you, as if the task took him tremendous effort.
Earlier on the day, before Maekar went away for his duties and his children woke up to start whining at him, he had eaten your pussy under the sheets.
“Can’t take it, too much” you say to him, as his cock filled you to the brim. It was a delicious stretch, but overwhelming all the same.
“Hm?” He asks, not clearly listening to your words.
“I can’t take it” you whine.
“You can take it” He assures you, stopping for a second, kissing the side of your face. “Hm? You can, don’t tell me you can’t baby”
“It’s too big…”
“We’ll make it fit” He promises, and he always has.
His hands move from your skin, from your stomach to your pussy, his fingers in your folds, as his middle finger quickly finds your clit, circling it just the way you like it.
His left arm moves to wrap itself around your throat, just as you always beg Maekar to do. He doesn’t squeeze, he simply lays it here as both the movement of his fingers on your clit and the feeling of being full by his cock overwhelm you.
When he thrusts again, you don’t feel like you can’t take it, but feel like you want him to make you cum again and again, until you can’t think.
“There you go…” He grunts, his fingers working nonstop. “You’re always take me so fucking well”
You nod senselessly as you feel the head of his cock hit your cervix, the simple way he slides himself in makes you shake in pleasure at the feeling; you can’t help the way your eyes roll back, how your legs slightly shake and how loud you are.
“It’s so big!” You moan loudly, “Fuck me harder, harder”
His arm squeezes your throat slightly as he moans as well, his hand moving away from your clit as he needs to support himself to change the angle. You know he will be pissy about his back later, but you cannot care now.
“Gods, yes. Maekar, fuck, fuck, it is so big”
His hips never falter, the pace of his thrusts become more animalistic, allowing himself to do it however he wanted as you were stretched for his cock.
You feel his arm under your chin, as you were quite trapped by Maekar. As his thrusts push you forward, his arm stops you, keeping you in place as if you were a toy for his cock. You absolutely love it.
“Harder, harder”
“As you wish, wife”
The ring of the bell is what fills the silence below the stairs..
“Oh. Thought they would take longer” the valet, Grenn says, frowning as he looks at his cards.
“Nay, she never lasts when the prince does…” the maid, Violet, says, receiving a stern gaze from the housekeeper. “Nevermind, I shall mind my tongue.”
“And you better fetch the oils for the missus, they are in the back” the housekeeper says. “I have prepared the water so we better be quick, I’ll ask the manservant to bring the tub”
It was quite the routine, and every servant at Summerhall knew; as soon as the Prince and his wife started with their martial duties, the bell would ring requesting for a warm bath. Now, they simply arrive with the water and the linens instead of waiting for them to ask for it.
“But I have the winning hand”
“I’ll fetch it” another of the maids said, as she moves to the back “But it is your turn to wash the lady, I washed her in the morning”
“Fine.”
Even if everyone worked quickly, the ring rang again, longer and more persistent.
“That’s the prince” The valet speaks loudly, trying to be heard above the ring, standing up and leaving his cards on the table. “I was going to lose anyways”
As they all walk upstairs, holding the chest with multiple oils for baths and the linens for the couple, Violet asks “You think the prince is actually big?”
“Watch yer tongue!” The other maid says chuckling, and adds “Wives always exaggerate, y’know what men want to hear.”
“Well, Grenn dresses the Prince” both pairs of eyes turn to him “Is he quite big as the lady says?”
“None of your business” The valet says, not saying a word about it as he carries the chest.
When you open the door, wearing a deep green robe, you see your handmaidens ready for a bath before you even ask for it.
“Oh, how did you know…” You ask as the maids bring the tub inside your rooms, next to the fire.
You see two of your handmaids giggling softly, a bit puzzled.
“We are always prepared m’lady”
You see Maekar roll his eyes as he lays back against the pillows, not worried about anything, but already grumpy about their ‘delay’ as he always grunts. You were a bit shy to have maids for anything, but he was used to it, not caring if they saw him naked or not.
“What oil do you wish for today?” Violet asks softly. “We used lavender by the morning, perhaps you wish for something new, m’lady?”
“Oh… yes, I…” you feel your cheeks redden. “What would you like, my love?”
Maekar grunts “Whatever fucking smell works faster” He says, one oh his arm around his abdomen as the other moves behind his head.
You watch as they pour the water, working easily as you wait for them to do all of the work.
“Have my children finished training?” Maekar asks the housekeeper.
“No, my Prince. I believe they were fighting to see who could… shot an arrow more far away.”
He closes his eyes as he lets out a deep sigh. Those children…
“Fine. Go away, all of you”
“My prince?”
“I will bathe my wife, so leave all those shit there, I’ll take care of it” He waves a dismissive hand, before adding “And do not bother us , unless one of my children gets fucking shot by the other. Or if Aerion tries to challenge Daeron to a duel, again.”
Can be read as Family p2 but all you need to know is you’re Viserys’ daughter, you have two daughters with Gwayne and Daeron is your son.
“Kepa can you pass the potatoes?” Daeron asks at the family dinner your father insisted upon, him wanting to spend time with you all given his declining health. You sat in between Rhaenyra and Daeron, Gwayne sat next to his father and sister. The potato’s right in front of him. “I uh, I mean uncle Gwayne.”
“I haven’t been called Kepa in years.” King Viserys muses, trying to remember when you and Rhaenyra stoped calling him that. His children with Alicent only ever calling him father. “It can also be used as uncle, so you are correct.”
“He clearly didn’t mean it as in uncle.” Aemond says wearing a stupid eyepatch after the incident in driftmark. You never more thankful you couldn’t attend given all that went down.
“It was a slip of the tongue, we’re trying to get the girls to call Gwayne Kepa as they’ve been copying me and Daeron by calling him love or uncle.” You say quickly, knowing it wasn’t a slip of the tongue, you knowing your son.
“How are my grandchildren?” Your father asks having spent the first half of dinner talking to Rhaenyra and her children. Your daughters having fun with their cousin, Rosie having been drawing with Joffrey. Lily playing with Jaces hair.
“Tell your grandsire what you’ve been up to Rosie.” Gwayne says to your eldest daughter, him happy for the opportunity to stop talking with his father.
“Rosie?” Viserys asks, Rhaenyra already knowing what all the children go by as you two write each other often.
“All of us have nicknames.” Rosie says perking up, the girl loving to talk.
“Do you?”
“Yeah, muña is darling, kepa is love or handsome but only muña call him that.” Rosalind says unintentionally exposing you before continuing. “Daeron is dae and Lillian is lily.”
“How is it living with your uncle?” Otto asks the young girl, clearly trying to make issues. Why? You don’t know. Probably to try and upset Gwayne.
“We don’t live with our uncle?” Rosalind responds tilting her head to the side in confusion. Not knowing what her grandsire is talking about.
“But you live with Daeron don’t you?”
“Yeah but he’s our brother.”
“No he’s your mother’s brother.”
“No, he’s mine.” Rosie denies, Daeron being her big brother no matter what some man says. “Muña even said it to the old lady.”
“What old lady?” Gwayne asks trying to think of an old lady you could have spoken to recently.
“You know, the old lady! With the hat!” She explains as of her fathers dumb.
“Are you talking about the women who owns the tavern we stoped at?” You ask, happy for the slight change in topic knowing you can distract everyone from the topic of Daeron being your son.
“Yes! The old lady!”
-
“I’m sorry.” Daeron says later that night after you’ve tucked the girls into bed, Daeron cuddling into your side while you read. Gwayne getting ready for bed.
“Why are you sorry sweetheart?” You ask, placing the book in your lap so you can give him your undivided attention.
“I deliberately called uncle Gwayne Kepa in front of the king and queen.” He responds feeling guilty, worried you might get in trouble for his actions.
“We know you did.” Gwayne says stopping unbuttoning his shirt to look at the boy.
“You’re not mad?” The boy asks quietly, not wanting you to be upset with him.
“Why would we be mad? You heard Rosie your her brother and our son.” You reply brushing a stand of hair out of his face, the boy trying to copy Gwayne with his hair.
“But I did it to try and upset them, that’s not right.”
“You are right, it might not of been the best thing to do.” You say, happy he’s taking responsibility but also knowing why he did it. “But, it makes sense that you did.” You comfort, cuddling your boy closer to you while kissing his face making the boy laugh. “We love you sweetheart, do you ever forget that.”
“I love you too.” He laughs noise scrunching up as he does. “Uncle Gwayne, are you going to join the hug?”
“Sorry who’s uncle Gwayne?” Gwayne asks Daeron a smirk on his face, not bothering to hide it. Feeling a mass amount of happiness when Daeron called him Kepa.
“Kepa.” Daeron whines holding his arms out to the man. “Please.”
“I love you my little dragon.” Gwayne says falling onto the bed, bringing you both into his arms.
“I’m not little, I’m the eldest.” He giggles while you and Gwayne shower the boy in attention and love, looking forward to going back home.
