She's two steps behind him when he stops dead at the door, patting down his pockets in search of his fob.
Emma's seen him around before. Hard to miss, his considerable breadth carving through the ED often enough. He's the kind of man who demands attention, but would never permit eyes to linger. It was simply good to stay aware of his presence, if only so you could avoid it at all cost. Wherever Dr. Park went, you'd best not be.
Yet now here she was, trapped within the confines of the narrow hall, waiting for him to buzz them in with a key he seemed to have misplaced.
Emma waits patiently a few more moments, unsure if it would be wise to speak up. Her gut tells her it's not, but the instinct to be helpful wins out regardless. She tugs at the fob attached to her shoulder loop. It's on a retractable clip, something she takes advantage of now, pulling the key out as if to show it off.
"Do you want me to...?"
She trails off when Dr. Park turns to her, shrewd eyes narrowed as if offended by her very presence, before darting down to her chest where her hand still hovers awkwardly, the proffered key dangling between two fingers.
He doesn't hesitate to strike. Simply sees what he wants, and reaches out to take it. Emma squeaks when he snatches the fob out of her hand, stumbling forward as he tugs her closer to the receiver. She crashes against him but he seems unfazed, thick legs planted firmly enough that he doesn't budge an inch even as she has to wrap a hand around his bicep to regain her footing.
Distantly, she hears the quiet beep of the receiver accepting her credentials, followed by the snick of the door unlatching. Dr. Park releases her fob and the lead snaps back into position, causing her to flinch away from him when it whips the fob against her lip.
"Ow," she can't help but whine, two fingers coming up to trace the spot where it smarts. It feels slightly swollen, but no worse than she's done to herself when hurriedly dropping the fob too soon.
"Oh, don't be a baby," Dr. Park chastises, lingering in the doorway. Emma frowns up at him, surprised by the faint amused spark she sees in his dark eyes.
Dr. Park reaches out, pinches her chin between two thick fingers and cranes her neck up up up so he can assess the damage, tutting and she peeps. He probably mistakes it for pain but Emma simply doesn't know how else to express the mounting panic she feels behind her ribs. There's discomfort, sure, but more pressing is the instinct to flee, or call for help, or simply collapse into a puddle until he lost interest.
None of which were easy to do with such a firm grasp on her chin, dark eyes pinning her in place. He doesn't even pretend to assess her lip, simply forces her to meet his gaze as he stares for far too long, weighing.
"You'll be fine. No need to even ice it," Dr. Park determines eventually, and Emma nearly collapses in on herself when he releases her.
"T-thanks?" Emma presses her own hand to her jaw as if to massage away the lingering feeling of his touch, the apple of her cheek circling up into her vision.
Dr. Park notices too, his gaze catching on the fat there as if holding himself back from taking a bite. He doesn't even look at her when he answers. "Thanks for letting me in."
Bro, we are cooked. The knight that dogs the prince's shadow like a dark and silent wraith just knelt to press his forehead to the prince's hand. Yeah, now he's uttering a prayer whose recipient is ostensibly God but in reality is the deified version of the prince that exists only in his mind. Aaand the prince just caressed his cheek to preemptively grant him absolution. I gotta... I gotta get out of here.
@cranialpressure and I have been yapping about Daeron and Maekar and how mean Maekar is. Basically Maekar has a younger sister that's the same age as Daeron and they grew up somewhat close. Once she's like 19, King Daeron wants her to marry so she tries to trick a knight into getting caught in a compromising position with her so she can make the excuse that she can't get married. Except the knight doesn't show and it ends up being Maekar so Daeron forces them to wed.
They hate each other, like fully. They've been married a couple months and haven't consummated their marriage but have physically fought each other before.
She doesn't like that Maekar whips Daeron and fights him about it and often comforts Daeron afterwards. I haven't worked out their exact relationship but it just adds more tension.
It's a fresh WIP so I don't have much but this is what I do have. NSFW
They'd been riding for two days, Summerhall was only a few more hours away. She'd scarcely left the carriage and scarcely talked to her new husband. She didn't believe it would end up like this. She'd gotten too full of herself, too ego driven. In a moment, she went from her father's favorite to being married off.
Daeron was her favorite of her nephews, though he felt more like a cousin. They'd been born only a few months apart and had grown up together. He'd turn to a drunkard since then, one who always triggered his father's ire.
She could hear the sound of the whip coming from the other room and whimpering little cries of Daeron. Her brother, Maekar, was punishing him for letting one of his younger sisters drink from his skine. She didn't believe it, Daella was a clever one and likely stole it before lying when caught. She couldn't intervene, Maekar was also her husband.
They'd only been married a few moons and spent most of their days at Summerhall ignoring each other. Maekar did not want to wed her and she did not want to wed anyone at all. She had planned to give her maidenhead to a knight during Baelor's nameday tourney but instead Maekar had walked in on her naked, only for one of their mother's maids to walk in on them.
They'd both denied any fraternizing but the rumors were already spreading through the castle. Thirty year old Maekar had taken his nineteen year old sister's virtue. Their father had them wed quickly in the Red Keep's sept. Maekar refused to consummate their marriage that night and had every night since.
Her brother was a hot headed man, who's blood burned like dragon fire.
"Do not fight me." He growled, ripping her small clothes off. He shoved her dress and slip up to her waist and lifted her leg back over his waist. She writhed against him, his hand was still wet with her slick. Maekar laid a sloppy kiss to her neck as he pushed his cock inside her. She dug her nails into his forearm, whining loudly.
It felt good, a bit uncomfortable but good none the less.
He flipped her onto her stomach, wrenching her hips up to meet his. He laid himself over her shoulders like the cloak of their marriage.
"Useless fourth son." he spat, thrusting hard. Her nails dug into the carpet, trying to anchor herself to any point on the floor. "What will our children be? I already have six. You're young. I can breed another six into you before I die. Maybe more."
"All this trouble just for you to be my whore."
"Am I taking your maidenhead?" He breathed, slowing his thrusts. She nodded, bottom lip quivering.
He flipped her again, more gentle than before, his hand cradled the back of her head as he laid her down again. He kissed her for the first time, slowly and lovingly. He guided his cock back inside of her. All the anger he'd had seemed to dissipate slowly. Maekar's hand slid back between her legs and pinched at her nerves. His brow furrowed as he moved his fingers until her cunt clenched around him, finding the right pattern of pinches and rubbing.
Brandan Park x Emma Nolan meet"cute"
CW: implied stalking MDNI
He ought not waste his time.
There's a carelessness inherent to it, one that inspires anger more than any ill-advised notions of protectiveness. She doesn't deserve his anger, probably, but Park's an angry man, and aside from his cock, that's all he has to offer.
He's never been one of those surgeons who ascribe any level of heroism to his job. He cuts into people and rearranges them in his vision. Hard to confuse the two, in his opinion, but some men need that lie to cling to. He doesn't walk the streets of Pittsburgh tripping over his own dick as he tells himself all the people he shoulders past have a chance at a second chance because of people like him. Really, he couldn't give less of a fuck. If he didn't do his job, someone else would, and they'd be doing it for that pretty paycheck same as him.
Which is why he's so surprised at the surge of bitterness he feels when he finds the planner, and the dearth of personal information diligently filled out on the inside cover - please return to Emma Nolan. It's sitting just inside the hub, clutter taking up vital space when so much hardware has been wheeled out already. Park thinks it's yet more jarringly childish pictography he's supposed to be able to read at first, the cover boasting cartoonish hearts he wouldn't put it past hospital staffing to have once used as some sort of heart attack severity indicator. But the veritable bandollier of pens clipped around its edging gives him pause, something a bit too personal (expensive and well-maintained) about the neat, matching set. So he opens it, wondering if he'll be able to discern who he should be yelling at for taking up prime real estate when he comes up short. Name, number, street address. The school where she's (presumably) completed her program. Hell, she's even outlined a slew of socials where she could be reached.
For the first time, Park wonders why he bothers. He's not a general surgeon. Rarely involved in assault cases where knife wounds and GSWs necessitate more immediate intervention. He doesn't often find himself worrying about people's general safety consciousness. But this? Serving oneself up on a silver platter to anyone who happened to find her cute little book?
There's a debate - brief - about how best to approach it. He could ask Dana where her stupidest nurse is currently, but she's too busy in that moment to be bothered with something so asinine. So he pockets it, carries on with a sharp eye trained on the name tags of all the new nurses. If he's going to make one of Dana's new ducklings cry, he'd rather do it where she can't intervene anyway.
But then he sees her. Perky, babyfaced despite the general air of being overwhelmed. She's cute, a problem considering the type of information she's leaving out about herself. Park draws to a stop in the middle of the hallway, feels the crowd part around him as they continue on their way. The current draws her closer, little fish into big jaws. She's deep in conversation with McKay, hardly even looking where she's going.
She bumps into him with a quiet oof, her soft body pressing briefly against his own until McKay snatches her away with a wary look in his direction. "Doctor Park," she nods tersely, giving Nurse Emma a moment to right herself. When she does, the girl gives him a broad smile, chubby cheeks stretching around perfect, straight teeth.
"This is Emma," McKay continues when the moment stretches long enough that her partner's smile falters. "Emma, this is -."
"Watch where you're going," Park barks, and the girl actually flinches. Someone's going to eat her alive, he muses, fingering the curled edges of the planner still stuck in his pocket.
"S-sorry," she stammers, big brown eyes lowered all the way down to his toes. He thinks about telling her to pick up after herself, or brandishing her carelessness in her own face and telling her about all the men in Pittsburgh who would love to use it against her.
But showing his hand - he'd be burning the very bridge he's suddenly thinking of crossing. No, the less known the better, he thinks; a notion he'll have to teach Emma himself.
CW: Sex work and associated misogyny. Cheating. Implied stalking. MDNI
Baelor's not above paying for it.
He's a busy man, long days spent running his father's company and rearing heirs. Keeping investors happier than a wife at home who takes more pleasure in his bottomless bank account than his company. He's long-since given up trying to coax companionship from her, his free time too limited to be spent on such a hopeless errand. But divorce - and further, dating - seem an even bigger imposition on his time, so he doesn't bother with those, either.
The problem is, while he's not above paying for it, he's entirely above being taken for a ride. Built a veritable empire upon it.
So, discretion. And nothing face to face. It's not ideal but at least it's easy. The world is full of men who would rather remain anonymous while paying whores to fuck themselves on camera and it's no great effort to find you, commission a few personal scenes and hide in his home office biting through his own fist as your moans in his headphones drown out the sound of his wife stumbling around the kitchen.
What is surprisingly difficult, however, is quelling the loneliness that has only seemed to have gotten worse since starting this tryst (It's not a tryst. Calling it one only furthers his delusions, he tries to remind himself.) because the thing is, he and Jena weren't always unhappy. He's not one of these men he deals with everyday who've replaced genuine connection for shared meals that invite more social media attention than they do conversation. His needs run deeper and sometimes, he thinks yours do too; when you go outside your own terms of the contract he pays for which outline something akin to a relationship experience just to ask him how some meeting he'd lied about being nervous about went.
(Because, while he doesn't believe in being taken for a ride, he's incapable of feeling attraction for someone who isn't clever enough to take advantage of sad old sods like him - but that doesn't mean he can't manipulate some extra attention from you either.)
Or when you open your latest presents on camera and he sees that flicker of apprehension mar your face when you eye the expensive new phone, MSRP proudly displayed on the box.
(It's gauche but you only accept gifts from a trusted third party supplier so clients can't request your information. Again, smart, but they do not offer gift packaging.)
Mostly, though, he feels it when he pulls up the app on his own phone which mirrors your gift, watches you move about your modest life, just a working girl doing her best. He imagines bumping into you on the corner by your place of (daytime) employment, or queuing up before you at your preferred coffee spot just so he can pay for it. A proper meet-cute, the kinds that spawn happy, lasting marriages.
But that's not who either of you are, so he'll settle for lingering outside your apartment, watching through the window as you put on shows for other men, exclusive events he feels entitled to. Serves you right for letting others see you in the set he bought.
CW: Sex work and associated misogyny. Cheating. Implied stalking. MDNI
Baelor's not above paying for it.
He's a busy man, long days spent running his father's company and rearing heirs. Keeping investors happier than a wife at home who takes more pleasure in his bottomless bank account than his company. He's long-since given up trying to coax companionship from her, his free time too limited to be spent on such a hopeless errand. But divorce - and further, dating - seem an even bigger imposition on his time, so he doesn't bother with those, either.
The problem is, while he's not above paying for it, he's entirely above being taken for a ride. Built a veritable empire upon it.
So, discretion. And nothing face to face. It's not ideal but at least it's easy. The world is full of men who would rather remain anonymous while paying whores to fuck themselves on camera and it's no great effort to find you, commission a few personal scenes and hide in his home office biting through his own fist as your moans in his headphones drown out the sound of his wife stumbling around the kitchen.
What is surprisingly difficult, however, is quelling the loneliness that has only seemed to have gotten worse since starting this tryst (It's not a tryst. Calling it one only furthers his delusions, he tries to remind himself.) because the thing is, he and Jena weren't always unhappy. He's not one of these men he deals with everyday who've replaced genuine connection for shared meals that invite more social media attention than they do conversation. His needs run deeper and sometimes, he thinks yours do too; when you go outside your own terms of the contract he pays for which outline something akin to a relationship experience just to ask him how some meeting he'd lied about being nervous about went.
(Because, while he doesn't believe in being taken for a ride, he's incapable of feeling attraction for someone who isn't clever enough to take advantage of sad old sods like him - but that doesn't mean he can't manipulate some extra attention from you either.)
Or when you open your latest presents on camera and he sees that flicker of apprehension mar your face when you eye the expensive new phone, MSRP proudly displayed on the box.
(It's gauche but you only accept gifts from a trusted third party supplier so clients can't request your information. Again, smart, but they do not offer gift packaging.)
Mostly, though, he feels it when he pulls up the app on his own phone which mirrors your gift, watches you move about your modest life, just a working girl doing her best. He imagines bumping into you on the corner by your place of (daytime) employment, or queuing up before you at your preferred coffee spot just so he can pay for it. A proper meet-cute, the kinds that spawn happy, lasting marriages.
But that's not who either of you are, so he'll settle for lingering outside your apartment, watching through the window as you put on shows for other men, exclusive events he feels entitled to. Serves you right for letting others see you in the set he bought.
family pet | drabble series | father!baelor enjoys watching your uncle!maekar ruin you
cw : noncon, dubcon, incest, father x daughter incest, dark, smut, reader is kept like a personal fuck toy for all the targ men in the red keep. 18+ MDNI
a/n: is it awful to say that i'd happily be passed around like a blunt between all the targaryen men
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
Baelor loves fucking you.
But a close second might just be watching his brother ruin you, just as you ruin him.
It starts off as an idea to Baelor at first. A morning dining with his brother and having you waiting on them was never meant to be anything really. Until he noticed his brother’s gaze lifting from the book in his hand to you leaning over him while you served him.
He noticed the way Maekar’s eyes travelled along the sight of your body, the way his jaw tensed as the slip came dangerously low at your chest and the way the thin material did nothing to hide what was underneath. The man looked starved and Baelor could tell it wasn’t for the food that was plated in front of him.
Maekar is a hard one to crack, Baelor knows he can’t simply just offer you up to him.
Baelor flaunts you like you're a meal Maekar can’t have. He has you tend to them at their joined breakfasts, always fucks you in places Maekar might see and even forces you out into the halls of the redkeep where he might find you, marks littering your chest and his cum dripping down your leg.
He knows what he’s doing and you’re none the wiser.
Not until you’re cornered by the younger brother one day, your uncle entering your chambers with a certain agitated look in his eyes.
Baelor finds you both, just as he pictured it.
You lifted upon a table, thighs spread for your uncle’s body as he thrusts his thick fingers inside your walls. You're clinging onto him, holding onto his arms to keep yourself from falling as your walls convulse around him and you come undone.
It’s then when you notice your father stood by the doorway, eyes catching yours with a victorious smirk on his face.
You can’t even say anything, only letting out stupid moans as Maekar replaces his fingers with his cock, not caring for how sensitive you are. You can only let it happen, nails digging into your uncles arms while your father remains by the door.
darkbaelorfreakanon here to deliiiiiver BABYYY y’all mind if a girl adds a little noncon to the mix 🫦
Because Baelor would pull the strings to have her married to him, making sure that he defiles her so he’s the only one left to take her
And really what can you do, a woman, a DAUGHTER of a fourth son, you have no power to speak against anyone let alone the prince of dragonstone
So when he lets his hand wander between your legs at under dining table all maekar can do is lower his head in shame
or when baelor pulls you into a dark corner of the hands tower, pressing you against the wall and lifting your skirts because ever since the injury his temper is just gone and his hunger insatiable
and i know he’d finally unleash his targaryen freak gene!!
pulls your undergarments down to fill them up with his seed and pull them up plush against your private parts then commands you to wear them like that all day
or has you under his desk to cockwarm him while he wtitts letters
and he doesn’t care who sees. matter of fact he delights in showing you off because who will stop him? his father? he is already basically ruling the kingdom by himself. if he wishes to pull you into his lap instead of letting you sit by his side then he will do that !!
Darkbaelorfreakanon, you’ve done it again.
Why am I now picturing Baelor taking his new young wife over the banquet table… only he’s commanded everyone to stay seated. Maekar’s sitting directly across from Baelor, and he can only look down at his plate in horror as he hears his brother lifting up his daughter’s skirts and thrusting into her unceremoniously. He hadn’t prepped her or gotten her aroused yet either, so she’s crying out in a twisted mix of pleasure and pain as Baelor’s hips rut against hers, with the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the dining hall.
“My darling wife… tell him how much you like it,” Baelor commands, and to his glee she’s choking out a garbled cry of the words that makes Maekar physically recoil, a heaving gag leaving his body at the sight of his little girl being defiled.
He keeps the rest of the family seated at the table until he finally spills into her, groaning deeply and praising how sweet her cunt is, for all to hear. To their disgust, they watch him pull up her small clothes and whisper to her to keep it all in, lest her be forced to take her again to ensure it sticks. He’s telling her that he wants a daughter - a chubby little babe with his wife’s features, and Maekar’s gritting his teeth so hard he swears he hears a crack.
(Also at their wedding he 100% ordered a public bedding ceremony and made Maekar watch, plus the young lordling he’d once heard his brother grumble about, saying his daughter had a fickle crush on him. He makes them all watch as he absolutely ravages her for hours, her body growing pliant and floppy beneath his frame as she becomes weary from the constant pleasure he forces through her body. She can’t move from the bed in the morning without the assistance of her maids.)
The Lady of Summerhall - Chapter 2 (Maekar Targaryen x Reader)
Masterlist | Chapter 1
Summary: Widowed and reluctant, you are wed to Maekar Targaryen, who is still haunted by the death of his beloved wife. At Summerhall, you expected distance, cold civility and duty-bound nights. What you do not expect is to fall in love with him anyway.
Word count: 8K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, explicit smut, unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, age gap (reader is in her mid 20s, Maekar is in his early 30s), widowhood/recent loss, grief, mature themes, grumpy man x sunshine woman, domestic intimacy, English is not my first language, rustic af writing, proof-read only twice
Will add more tags as the story progresses. Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
A/N: For the sake of this story, I imagined that Dyanna passed away sometime around 201-202 AC, which would set the timeline to be around 206-207. Hope you all enjoy! Leave a like, reblog or comment if you do :)
The road south is colder than you expected.
The wind was howling and cold air slipped through the seams of the door, biting sharp against your cheeks, as the procession passed through Kingswood.
You were sitting beside Maekar in the carriage, not touching, not quite speaking either, the silence between you still an unfamiliar ground. The wheels suddenly jolted over uneven terrain, and your hand tightened against the velvet seat. Muttering something under your breath, you glanced at him. He was staring out the window, his expression as stern as ever, but his arm shifted, subtly, giving you more room.
The wind howled harder when the carriage slowed to cross a narrow rise. You failed to suppress a shiver.
“Hold still.”
Before you can respond, Maekar leaned towards you, pulling the black wool cloak tighter around your shoulders. Fingers worked the clasp at your throat with surprising care, fastening it securely. The backs of his knuckles brushed the underside of your jaw.
“There.” He muttered. “The wind is sharper here.”
You swallowed, your eyes not leaving his face. “Thank you.”
He nodded once, and returned to stare out the window once more.
“Have you always preferred silence?” You asked, mimicking him by looking out of the window too, your hands absentmindedly touching the clasp.
“Yes.” He sighed.
“That is unfortunate. I prefer conversation.”
“Hmm… I wouldn’t have guessed.”
There is the faintest trace of something in his voice, almost like sarcasm, and that made a breath escape you, half a laugh and half disbelief. Your eyes moved back to him, and you twisted your body in a better sitting position.
“Do you mock me, husband?”
“I simply made an observation.”
“Then let me tell you, you observe poorly.”
He huffed loudly, incredulous. “And what would you prefer to converse about then?”
“Anything.” You replied, your eyes smiling. You could see the wheels turning in his head. He was considering your request like a challenge.
“The garrison at Summerhall will require reorganization.” He said finally. “The western tower has been undermanned for a while now.”
You stared at him. “I see you are determined to make this difficult.”
“I am determined to make this efficient, wife.”
“Efficiency does not always make friends, husband.”
He went quiet at that, the word “friends” lingering in the carriage. You did not mean to say it out loud, it just slipped. There was hope in you that, at least a friendship could stem from this marriage, but you had not voiced it aloud while you were in King’s Landing. Before you could pivot to another topic, the carriage jolted again, sharper this time. Instinctively, your hand shot out to steady yourself and it landed on his thigh.
You froze, and he looked down at your hand, then back to you. Neither of you moved immediately, but then you withdrew first, muttering your apologies.
“It was the road.” He explained, adding while a smirk played on his lips: “You may leave your hand there if it is steadier.”
You gave a small laugh, ignoring the way your pulse quickened.
Outside, the trees began to thin, the road curving upward. In the distance, Summerhall rose against the pale sky. Maekar studied it with an expression you could not quite decipher.
“You do not need to prove yourself there.” He said suddenly.
You understood what he meant. His household most certainly remembered the former lady of the house, and would be loyal to her memory, as they should be. Resentment, you had learned harshly, could rot a woman faster than grief ever could, hollowing her out from within. But you would not allow that fate for yourself. You straightened your shoulders, resolve already settled in place. You would not become a ghost haunting another woman’s place, but you also would not stand as a silent ornament at Maekar’s side.
“I understand. I do not intend to replace her.” You assured him. “I intend to be myself.”
He looked at you, his blue eyes unreadable.
“I would prefer that.” He said.
Nodding, you understood that there was no cruelty in his preference. You too would prefer for Maekar to be himself, instead of mirroring your late husband.
You spent the rest of the ride in silence, his knee lightly brushing against yours in the tight space. When the carriage finally halted at your destination, the doors opened to a rush of cold air and waiting faces.
Maekar stepped down first, and as you made your way out, he turned and offered you his hand. When you placed your hand in his, his grip tightened slightly. You could not tell if it was a silent reassurance, or perhaps a warning.
But as you walked forward to your new home, your arm loosely around his, you realised that something small had shifted. Perhaps, he had begun to make space beside him.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The first weeks were all stone and echo, footsteps that did not yet sound like yours, doors that opened a fraction too slowly, meals where conversation thinned when you entered.
But time, like water, wears down even the hardest surfaces. And so did you.
By the second month at Summerhall, you no longer felt like a guest. Presiding over a household of this size was not an easy task. Everything was expected to be run strictly, and accordingly, to flow with the routines of your new husband and family. And thus, you were expected to mold yourself into it, to fit like a perfect puzzle piece.
It was challenging in the beginning, but you threw yourself into it. You now knew which corridors caught the morning light, and which ones needed candlelight even at noon. You learned which servants preferred instructions spoken plainly, and which responded better to quiet praise. That the kitchens were busiest before dawn. That the silence settled most easily between dusk and candlelight. You learned which foods were the children’s favourite, and what hour they preferred to eat them.
The children…
You had met them after the ceremony at the Sept, but had not had a chance to spend more time with them before coming to Summerhall. They had stood in a careful line, solemn and observant, their expressions too composed for their age.
You had no children of your own, the Seven had not granted that chance to you and your late husband, but you tried your best to befriend them. It was not affection you sought at first, only ease.
Daella and Rhae took to you easily, or at least more easily than you had dared hope. They were happy to have another female presence in a family full of men, because you seemed to offer them something softer, something familiar maybe… When you showed interest in their lessons or favourite pastimes, both girls brightened at once. Rhae introduced you to each of her dolls in a solemn ceremony, quite reminiscent of her father, explaining their names and temperaments as though they were courtiers at the Red Keep. She delighted whenever you asked a question about them, as if surprised that you had listened in earnest.
Daella, who was more composed as the eldest daughter, preferred to sit beside you with her needlework. She would display her newest stitches with pride, or tell you fragments of any new lesson learned: a step from a dance she was mastering, a new phrase in High Valyrian, or a line of poetry. Poetry was not your strongest subject, but you listened to it as though it was, and offered praise where it was deserved. High Valyrian, on the other hand, was foreign to you, but through Daella, you had started to pick up a word or two, here and there.
Aemon and Aegon were slower to yield. Both had been close to their mother, and their watchfulness carried the weight of loyalty rather than childish suspicion. At first they regarded you as one might regard a stranger passing through a familiar hall. However, watching their sisters warm up to you, laughing in your presence, when they saw you kneel to mend a torn ribbon than summon a servant, they approached you with a cautious diplomacy of their own. They asked you if you might play the damsel in distress while they rode to your rescue with wooden swords. You obliged of course, and after your first act was successful in their eyes, your roles expanded in time. You even became a Blackfyre witch one afternoon, your cackles echoing through the walls as Aemon, Aegon and even Daella, the children of the mighty Anvil, rushed to defeat you.
Only once, you sensed movement from the corner of your eyes and looked up. Maekar stood there, silent as ever, watching, his expression was unreadable. He did not interrupt.
The youngest were easy to make headway with. The eldest ones however…
You did not fully understand what plagued Daeron, only that some restlessness flickered behind his eyes. You tried, in quiet ways, to ease whatever shadow followed him, though your efforts rarely reached as far as you intended.
Aerion on the other hand… how such a boy, such a temperament had been born of what you had been told was once a very loving union, it baffled you. It seemed true that whenever a Targaryen was born, the Gods flipped a coin… There was a sharpness to him, a pride that curdled too easily into cruelty. You could not fully avoid him, and nor would you, but you learned to measure your words carefully in his presence.
But you noticed how disappointed Maekar was whenever something happened because of his eldest sons. And that disappointment was far quieter than anger, and far heavier.
Maekar… In all these weeks he simply remained Maekar. Distant, correct, present in the ways that mattered, and absent in the ones that did not. He always dined with the family, his trademark scowl only softening a little when his daughters asked for his attention. He spoke to you with a courtesy that never really slipped into any sort of ease.
At first, you told yourself that was enough. Friendship, if it came at all, would come slowly, built in shared glances across the table, in brief exchanges after the children had been dismissed, in the quiet understanding that might grow between two people bound by duty and circumstance. You had thought perhaps you might find something companionable in him, a partner in the running of Summerhall, a mind to match your own in private conversation.
There were times when he lingered after supper, dismissing the servants with a flick of his hand and remaining at the table while you told him of the day’s event.
“He believes the river itself conspires against him.” You had said of a particularly dramatic lord one time.
Maekar did not look up from his cup. “If the river wished him fucking drowned, it would not bother with conspiracies.”
You laughed, actually startled into it, and his blue eyes flicked to your face, faintly curious, as though the sound pleased him despite himself.
Once, he poured your wine without calling for a servant, his fingers brushing yours when he passed the cup. He did not immediately withdraw. The contact lingered a breath too long before he seemed to remember himself.
Another afternoon, he had stood beside you in the main hall while you instructed the steward, your voice steady. Maekar only stepped in with a clarification that reinforced your authority as the Lady of the house, rather than undermining it.
And later, after the steward had left you both alone, he said simply. “You handled him well. He respects strength.”
“So do you…” You replied without thinking.
A pause lingered between you, as his gaze intently roamed your face.
“Yes…” He said at last.
In those moments, something in him softened, and he became present, not warm though, never warm. And thus, you began cautiously to warm in return, wishing for that sort of friendship to occur. You found yourself seeking his opinion on various matters, from the most serious to the most trifling. You found yourself leaning closer beside him during dinners. You allowed your shoulder to brush his, without pretending it was accidental.
Sometimes he responded, a remark only meant for you, a glance held for a fraction longer than propriety required. But, oftentimes he did not.
And then, desire complicated matters as well.
The first nights in your new home had not been cold. He would not come to you as a distant lord and husband fulfilling his duty, but he would approach you with a restraint that only frayed when you pulled him nearer instead of yielding. You felt the shift in him each time, the steadiness faltering, the careful composure giving way to something far less guarded.
You learned the weight of him, the warmth of his breath against your throat, the low break in his voice when pleasure broke through discipline and left only the man beneath it. And in those moments, you remembered what it felt like to be wanted again.
And that knowledge lingered.
Then came other nights, where movements were measured, his touches efficient, with a careful attentiveness that ensured you satisfaction in your coupling, but that would be it, duty completed. He would leave before sleep even claimed you. After a while of such nights, he began to sleep exclusively in his own chambers, not visiting yours anymore.
He did not announce the change, he simply made it.
You noticed of course, you noticed everything. And it took you by surprise how hurt you were. It unsettled you how much Maekar’s choice stung.
You had begun, foolishly perhaps, to think that the space between you was narrowing, that the warmth he had begun to bestow upon you would blossom into friendship. Instead, he retreated, from you, from your bed, into himself. He had grown distant, and although he had not become cruel towards you, you felt that it was cruel the way he was with you now. Because this distance, after the warmth, wounded in a way cold never could.
After the sudden death of your first husband, you had taken no lovers. You had told yourself that widowhood suited you, that the peace and solitude it offered were mercies. You had even resented being forced into marriage again, had resented your father for placing ambition above your peace. So, in that sense, you should be grateful for the peace that this distance could offer you now.
And yet… you missed Maekar.
You missed the weight of his presence, the quiet steadiness of him at your side, the low grumble of his voice in the dark, the heat of his body beside yours. Even the weight of his arm thrown carelessly across your waist in those rare, unguarded moments before he remembered himself.
Many times late at night, you laid awake, staring at the canopy overhead, aware of an ache that had little to do with your body, but rooted somewhere dangerously close to pride. You tried to convince yourself it was simply just lust. Only the simple, selfish craving to be wanted by a man again, to feel chosen rather than assigned. It was easier to believe that, easier than admitting how much his withdrawal unsettled you. You did not allow yourself to consider that perhaps he had felt the shift too, that perhaps he retreated not not because he felt nothing, but because he felt something.
So, you did not confront him immediately, your pride would not allow it.
Instead, you continued to fill your days. You sat with the girls while they embroidered or practiced their letters, offering gentle corrections and softer praise. You listened to the boys’ stories of imagined battles and future glories, allowing them to boast without mockery. You let them talk when they wished, leaving space for when they did not. And when one of them cried for their mother in the night, you did not hush them into silence. You comforted them, and you stayed with them until the tears were spent, their breath evened and sleep returned.
You made yourself steady, reliable, present in the ways Maekar was not with you.
He watched all these moments from a distance, believing himself unseen. He noticed how his youngest sons and daughters leaned into you without realising it, how their laughter returned more easily, how the household, once grim, began to breathe. And yet still, he withdrew.
But, after two, then three weeks of polite distance, of nights spent alone, of conversations that never deepened beyond civility, you found that you could not endure it much longer.
One late evening, you made your way towards his chambers. You did not knock before entering them. You found him seated at the small desk, reading a stack of letters from the capital. The fire had burned to embers, casting his face in low, shifting light. Maekar looked up as you entered, a brief look of surprise flickering on his features before discipline smoothed it away.
“It is late.” He said. “You should be resting.”
“So should you.” You replied, shrugging. “Yet… here we both are.”
He let the letter fall from his hand, his eyes not leaving yours. “If you’ve come to discuss household matters -”
“I have not.”
That made him pause. You stepped closer, stopping just in front of him. Your hands clasped loosely before you, posture steady despite the quickened rhythm of your pulse. You were wrapped in a soft, form-fitting robe, modest, but hardly severe. Yet you noticed the way his eyes roamed over your body before returning to your face, his nose flared. You tried to ignore how that made you feel.
“You have begun to sleep apart from me.” You said simply instead.
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“You did not ask my opinion on it.”
He looked at you sharply, brows furrowed. “I did not think-”
“No.” You interrupted him gently. “You did not.”
No words, no retort came from him. You knew you had stumped Maekar for just a little, and you suspected that alone unsettled him.
“This, our marriage, will not work.” You continued, trying to keep your voice calm and steady, not angry, not pleading. “Not as it is going.”
His familiar scowl returned. “You misunderstand my intentions.”
“Then explain them”
“Wife-”
“Husband.” You interrupted him again. “From where I stand, you are both warm and cold in the same breath.
“You sought my presence, poured my wine yourself. You stood beside me in the hall and strengthened my word before others. You even came to my bed not as a stranger, but as a man who had thought of me during the day.” Your throat tightened, but you did not falter. “And then, just as I began to believe that we might have found common ground in this marriage, something like respect or even friendship, you retreat. You withdraw, you close your door. And now you do not come at all!”
His expression hardened, nostrils flaring, not in anger, but in defense.
You sighed, adding. “So, please explain your intentions to me. You promised me honesty. ”
He leaned back slightly, as though bracing himself. When he finally spoke, it was slower, less certain.
“I believed…” He began slowly, after a few moments of silence. “I could spare you.”
“From what?”
“From me.” The answer was immediate, unadorned. “Of any expectations you may feel obliged to meet.”
You stood there, momentarily stumped by his answer, for you had not expected it, had not expected the raw honesty from him.
“You speak of warmth, of companionship, of friendship…” The last word seemed foreign on his tongue. “I have buried a wife. I have watched grief hollow my children. I know what attachment fucking costs.”
His voice did not waver, which almost made it worse. He looked at you, his eyes unreadable.
“When you began to settle here, when the children began to look to you, I saw what might grow.” He paused. “And I saw what might be lost.”
You watched the rigid line of his shoulders, your brows furrowed.
“You think I do not notice?” He asked. “The way you steady the household. The way they laugh more freely. The way I…” He stopped himself.
“The way you what?” You pressed, going to stand closer to him.
“The way I find myself seeking you.” He finished bluntly, his tone harsher.
“My lord husband… Maekar…” You said quietly. “I was widowed before you knew of my existence, before you knew my name. I am not frightened of closeness, nor its loss. What I will not accept is absence masked as courtesy to me.”
Maear’s gaze wavered just slightly, but he said nothing.
“I am not asking you to forget.” You sighed. “Nor to replace with me what you’ve lost. That would be overly hypocritical of me.” You could not help but chuckle. “I, too, will not erase my late husband from my heart. All I am asking you is to not retreat from what you have, from what you can have. I will not retreat from what stands before me either…”
You hesitated only briefly, before adding: “I thought we might at least be friends…”
“You ask much.” Maekar muttered. He rose slowly, as if his body resisted the motion. He crossed to the window, looking out into the night. You followed him, standing close enough to feel the heat emanating from him, though you did not touch him.
“I ask for honesty.” You retorted. “And presence. But do not offer me warmth and then leave me in the cold. Do not come to me as a man, and leave me as though I were only duty. If you want distance, say it plainly, and say it now. I can endure the truth. I can even endure the space between us… What I will not endure is uncertainty.”
You whispered the last part.
The words struck Maekar harder than expected. You saw it in the tightening of his shoulders.
He thought of his daughters’ laughter drifting more freely through the halls. Of Aemon lingering less warily at the dinner table. Of Daeron’s recent, fragile calm. Of warmth returning to corners long surrendered to cold. He closed his eyes briefly, before turning towards you. Something in his expression shifted, not softened but less guarded.
“You are difficult.” He finally said.
You smiled, small and unoffended. “So I’ve been told before."
A long breath left him, and he looked at you deeply. “Very well...” He said at last. “I will not retreat without cause. I will seek your company. I will not hide behind distance.”
It was not poetry, or passion. It was honesty. It was simply Maekar. And that was enough.
Smiling, you stepped forward, brushing your lips gently against his cheek, your fingers squeezing his arm.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and you turned to leave him with his thoughts.
Your chest felt lighter as you walked back to your chamber. Something had shifted again, and this time, it had been you who moved it.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
A week later, the corridors of the family quarters were silent and settling into the night, when Maekar finally left his son’s chamber.
The talk with Daeron had been necessary, but long and exhausting. Duty, expectation, the weight of a name too large for any boy, let alone one boy, to carry. Daeron had listened with a clenched jaw, his eyes red rimmed, cheeks pale, trying so hard not to disappoint more. The sight of his eldest son looking like that sat heavy in Maekar’s chest.
When he turned the corner toward his own chambers, a thin line of warm light caught his attention, slipping from beneath your door.
For a moment, he stood there, watching it, as though the faint glow required deliberation. He had not crossed that threshold since your conversation. He had not sought you out in days, not at dinner, not in passing, and certainly not at night. But now, the light beneath your door drew him forward before he had fully decided to move. His hand lifted, knocking once firmly, as though announcing something to himself as much as to you.
Then he entered.
You had been sitting under the covers, reading. So when the knock came at your door, it startled you enough that you were already on your feet by the time he crossed the threshold. The room was warm, but a different heat spread across your chest when you saw he was only in his shirt and breeches, hair slightly disheveled. Smiling at him, you moved to the table and poured him wine without asking, pressing the goblet to his hand.
“You look exhausted.” You noted. “Is it because of Daeron?”
You had heard the whispers from the servants, how Daeron had once again sullied the Targaryen name with his vices.
“Yes…” Maekar took a large gulp of the wine, noting briefly how it tasted, spiced, and honeyed. Your favourite. “I told him what he needed to hear. Whether he fucking listened, is another fucking matter.’
You hummed, lips pursed, studying him for a moment over the rim of your own cup. Then gestured to the chairs near the hearth.
“Sit.”
He hesitated at first, then obeyed.
“You carry more than you admit.” You said, coming to stand behind him, close so that he felt your presence before your touch. Your hands settled on his shoulders.
“You are tense…” You whispered above the sound of crackling fire. “Though, hmm… I wager you are always tense.”
Maekar grumbled under his breath, preparing some dry retort when he groaned loudly when you started kneading his tense muscles. A breathless “fuck” escaped his lips, your thumbs pressing gently into muscle, made rigid by years of stress and expectations. He exhaled loudly, his head tipping forward, and before he could stop himself, a low noise escaped him. The sound surprised you both.
“You do this for the girls,” He said gently, quietly, trying to change the subject, lest you mention the noise he had just made. “After their lessons…”
“Mhmm, yes.” You were pleased he had noticed, the hint of it in your voice. “They are young. Beautiful princesses should not have tense shoulders.”
Your smile waned a little when he said. “You should not have to do the same for me.”
You leaned down, closer, lips barely touching his ear. “I want to.”
The words settled deep in the air. He turned his head towards you, his blue eyes flitting between yours and your lips. “You give me too much.”
“I choose what to give.” You replied. “Just as you have chosen when to withdraw.”
Maekar looked at you, holding your gaze, and when he saw the resolve, the warmth, the refusal to be cast aside without a fight, it undid whatever resistance he had left. You were not pleading, not bargaining. You were choosing him.
“I did not ask you to come back to me out of pity, or a sense of obligation.” You said softly, not taking your eyes off of him. “I asked you to come because I want you here. I hope that it is enough for you.”
He rose, closing the distance between you. His hand came up to cup your cheek, warm, rough, certain.
“It is enough.” He said, rough and honest. “More than enough.”
He did not kiss you. Instead, his forehead lowered to rest against yours, a gesture more intimate than hunger. His breath mingled with yours, slow and measured, as though he were committing the closeness to memory rather than consuming it. You let your hands settle at his waist, not pulling, not urging, but simply holding.
“Stay.” You whispered, though you knew he would, you just had to say it. His thumb brushed once along your cheekbone.
“I will.”
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
After that night, Maekar came to your chambers only when night fully settled in Summerhall. But not for the reasons he once had at the beginning of your marriage.
He would arrive without much pomp or fuss, the latch would lift softly, and he would step inside as though continuing something already decided. A quiet rhythm formed between you. You would help him from his doublet or tunic, and boots. He would sit by the hearth while you worked the tension from his shoulders or pressed careful circles at his temples. Conversation, when it came, was low and unhurried, about fragments of the day, a dry remark, the faintest edge of humour.
He would leave you before you slept at first. And when he did, you would walk him to the door, or he would pause with his hand on the latch, looking at you as though weighing something unspoken.
“Goodnight.” You would say, smiling. And he would simply grumble in return.
Other times, when he stayed long after the candles burnt out and the fire had died out, he would rise before dawn, slipping away with the same restraint that followed all of his movements.
Soon, however, he started coming earlier in the evening.
He began to come before the castle had fully surrendered to the night, before the last servants had withdrawn. Sometimes he arrived even before you had finished your own preparations before sleep.
“You are early…” You observed one evening, catching his reflection in the mirror as he closed the door behind him, as you were removing the pins from your hair. It was a ritual you liked to do yourself, as you settled in for the evening.
“It is my fucking castle.” He replied dryly, taking a seat by the hearth. “I cannot be early within it.”
“And yet you are.” You said smiling, removing the last pin and picking up the brush.
He ignored your remark, though you saw the faint twitch of restraint at the edge of his expression.
“You stare.” You said lightly, voice lilting with playful accusation as you caught his reflection lingering in the mirror.
“And you shed.” He retorted, gaze dropping pointedly to the strands caught in your brush.
You gasped softly in mock offense, turning towards him and pointing the brush at him. “If you dislike the way I do it, you may brush it yourself.”
Maekar rolled his eyes, but nonetheless rose with a loud groan and stepped closer. He took the brush from your hand with deliberate calm, his fingers brushed yours as he did.
“I did not say I disliked it.” He grumbled, running the brush softly through your hair. He was gentler than you expected.
“No…” You agreed softly, watching him in the mirror, still surprised. “You simply implied it.”
Another pass of the brush, careful and unhurried, his movements were far gentler than his tone suggested. You ignored the way heart raced, but this side of your husband was new, it was different from what you had experienced so far.
“For the record…” He said after a moment, voice lower now. “I find no fault in it.”
You smiled to yourself as Maekar continued, patient and surprisingly attentive, as though the simple act required more focus than any battlefield ever had.
Another night, when he came, you had yet to change from your gown.
“Am I intruding upon some grand transformation?” He asked, eyeing the laces at your back, your lady’s maids having stopped their work to curtsy to him.
“Only into something far more comfortable.” You answered, turning to him. “Unless you object.”
“I have never objected to comfort.”
“No.” You agreed lightly. “Only to admitting you enjoy it.”
He scoffed loudly, taking his usual seat into the chair near the hearth, watching as your lady’s maids undressed you and helped you into a flowy chemise, which accentuated your neckline. Once they left, he would accept the cup of spiced wine you poured for him.
“Why do you keep giving me this?” He muttered, studying the spices swirling in the cup.
“You look perpetually one inconvenience away from declaring war on something…” You replied, pouring a cup for yourself. “It is a preventative measure.”
“I have not declared war before.” He skulked, rolling his eyes.
“True…” You answered mildly, taking the seat opposite him. “But if you had too tonight, let it be against cloves and cinnamon.”
That earned you a low sound that might have been a laugh, had he allowed it to be.
And so you spoke more of the mundane things, the children’s lessons, a stubborn bannerman, the way Summerhall caught light in the dusk. Sometimes, you spoke of nothing at all, content to share the silence with each other. And when this happened, his gaze sometimes held yours longer than necessary.
And he lingered more, over his wine, over your voice, over the simple act of sitting beside you while you prepared for bed. Without either of you naming it, those earlier arrivals became something less like habit, and more like inclination.
Your banter did not soften, or disappear. If anything it was sharper, more familiar, less guarded.
“You take up too much space on the bed.” You told him one evening, the candles burning low, your nightgown wrapped between your legs.
“I am not the one who migrates in her sleep.” Maekar retorted, seeming annoyed, but his eyes soft. You were facing one another, your breath intermingling, his arm tight on your waist in a possessive way.
“I migrate strategically.” You pursed your lips. “You radiate warmth like a forge.”
“Is that a complaint, dear wife?”
You rolled your eyes now. “It is a compliment.” You snuggle closer, his arms lightning.
“Your own personal forge.” Maekar grumbled.
“Do not grow vain on me now.”
He snorted softly, before pressing his lips to your forehead, missing the slight blush on your cheeks.
Afterwards, he began to linger in the morning as well.
One morning, while light crept in unhurried, touching the edges of the room, you woke up to warmth beside you, the solid presence of another body. For a moment, you did not move, wondering if you were dreaming. Instead, you listened to the rhythm of Maekar’s breathing.
You slowly turned to the side, studying him. He slept on his back, one arm resting on top of his stomach, the other resting between you. It was close enough that you could feel the brush of it, if you just shifted a little.
Your eye moved to his face, and noticed how he looked younger in sleep. The lines of strain eased from his brow, his aw unclenched. You could not stop the smile spreading in your face. He, Makear, had stayed.
When he stirred, it was subtle, unlike him, a breath drawn deep, a shift of muscles beneath the covers. His eyes opened, alert, then softened when he saw that you were watching.
“Well, well…” You could not help but tease. “Look who is finally awake.”
His eyes went towards the windows, looking at the light. A small groan escaped him. “I did not mean to sleep so long.”
You smiled still. “Just to inform you, the world has not ended in your absence this morning.”
He huffed, almost a laugh, but did not move away from you. His eyes followed the light creeping across the ceiling, his trademark scowl creeping in.
“Must you scowl even in the morning?”
“What?” He shut his eyes tight before glancing at you. “I am not scowling.”
You shifted closer, your body pressing against his arm. “You are. Your brows are furrowed already.”
He turned his whole boy towards you. “You study me too closely, wife.”
“Occupational hazard.” You retorted. “I do share a bed with you more now, husband.”
That earned you an undignified snort from him and an eye-roll, but when he looked back at you, there was warmth behind his eyes.
He leaned over and pressed a kiss on your lips then. His hand moved to cup your face, as you hummed in surprise, melting to his touch. This kiss was different from the other ones you had shared. Whereas they had initially been chaste, small, testing, or lustful during the dark, this one was slower, deeper, deliberate.
Your lips molded perfectly against another, his mouth moving against yours with more than just hunger alone, as though he was learning you again. And when your tongues briefly touched, you felt the shift, not just desire, but decision. You moaned when he dove his tongue deeper in your mouth, fingers clutching the font of his shirt. He pulled you more towards him, rolling a little to be on top of you, as his hand slid up your thigh, moving your light nightgown up with it. You could feel the press of his cock against your thighs, hardening, and you groaned in his mouth as his tongue invaded yours.
When you parted, your breaths were uneven, lips swollen, his forehead resting against yours. His hand slid down your waist, fingers tightening slightly at your hip.
“Don’t just look at me like that.” He murmured, voice low and rough with restraint. “Fucking tell me.”
Your pulse fluttered wildly beneath his touch.
“Tell me you want this.” He said, quieter now but no less intense. “Tell me you want me.”
You swallowed, fingers curling into the fabric at his chest.
“I do…” You breathed. “I want you Maekar… I have missed you...”
His eyes darkened at the confession, not triumphant, but relieved, as though he had been holding himself back from something dangerous.
“Fuck… Say it again.” He all but pleaded, thumb brushing beneath your jaw, urging your face up to his.
“I want you…” You repeated, steadier this time.
Maekar surged forward, capturing your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. His lips pressed firmly against yours, tongue slipping in to tangle with your, tasting the sweetness of your mouth. You gasped into the kiss, hands moving into his hair as you kissed him back with equal fervor, the playfulness from before giving way to raw desire.
He broke the kiss with a low growl, gaze locked on yours, his eyes almost black with unrestrained hunger. Removing his shirt in one firm movement, he placed open mouthed kisses on your jaw, he dragged his lips down the column of your neck, teeth grazing the pulse point that fluttered rapidly under his touch. Your back arched off the bed, soft whimpers escaping from you as he continued to leave a trail of hot kisses along your collarbone. His hands roamed your sides, grabbing the edge of your nightgown. You moved with him, helping him remove the offending item before you settled back to bed. He followed you, cupping your breasts with both hands, squeezing tight. The firm pressure sent jolts of pleasure through you. His thumbs brushed against your hardening nipples, circling them into tight peaks before pulling one of them in his mouth. He sucked hard, tongue flicking the tip while his teeth grazed lightly, making you arch off the bed with a gasp.
Releasing your nipple with a wet pop, he lavished the other one with the same attention, kneading the soft flesh as you writhed beneath him.
“Gods… Maekar…” You moaned, voice breathy. He smirked against your skin, trailing kisses between your breasts, his stubble scraping deliciously over her ribs.
He moved downwards, nudging your thighs apart, settling his broad shoulders between your legs, exposing your slick folds to the cool air and his hungry stare.
You whispered his name, as his warm breath fanned over your heat, sending shivers up your spine. He looked at you with unconcealed hunger.
“You do not need to…” You started, your voice thick with a mix of embarrassment, surprise and lust. “No one has ever done this for me…”
Your husband’s eyes flicked down to your folds, before moving back up to your eyes.
“Then allow me to show you…” He said, low and measured, his voice carrying that calm authority that brooked no argument. “Of what you have been missing.”
He lowered his head, his tongue extended, flat and broad, pressing against your entrance in a long, slow lick that gathered your arousal. Your head fell back with a sharp cry, body jolting at the direct contact. He savored your taste, salty and sweet, humming in approval as he repeated the motion, lapping upward to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue.
Your hips twitched involuntarily, seeking more pressure, and Maekar obliged by hooking his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth. He sucked your clit between his lips, alternating between gentle tugs and firm pulses. His tongue then delved lower, thrusting inside you in shallow, teasing strokes. Your moans grew louder, uninhibited, your fingers clenching the sheets before one of your hands reached down to tangle in his silver hair. You tugged experimentally at first, the strands slipping through your grip, but when he responded by flattening his tongue against your clit and vibrating it with a deep groan, you naturally pulled harder.
What you did not know was how much the tug of your fingers in his hair stirred something primal in Maekar, igniting one of his deepest cravings, the pain blending seamlessly with pleasure, his body straining with need, as his hard cock pressed insistently against the confines of his breeches and the mattress beneath him, throbbing painfully.
He released your clit with a wet pop, only to plunge his tongue deeper into you, claiming you with it in rhythmic thrusts while he pressed one finger in, curling upward to stroke your most sensitive spot. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, heat built steadily through you, coiling tighter with every deliberate movement of his tongue.
“Maekar…” You moaned loudly, yanking his hair in time with his movement. “Oh gods, right there… please.”
He growled again, the sound rumbling through your core, pushing you even closer to the edge. He added a second finger, stretching you slightly, thrusting them in and out while his mouth latched back onto your clit, sucking hard and flicking relentlessly.
The overload shattered you, your thighs clamping around his head as her orgasm ripped through you, your walls clenching around his fingers in pulsing waves. You cried out his name, pulling his hair so fiercely it bordered on pain, but Maekar reveled in it, drinking down your release with eager laps. He did not stop until your tremors subsided, easing you through the aftershocks with slightly softer licks, until you fully collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, skin flushed and dewy.
Maekar lifted his head finally, lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk on his face as he crawled up your body. Your eyes were hazy, sated, him hovering over you, his body heat enveloping you in a blanket of fire. You rushed up to meet him, lips pressing together in a messy kiss where you tasted yourself on his tongue, the intoxicating taste overwhelming you. Your hands roamed his back, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss in your mouth, his cock pressed tight against his breeches, hard and leaking from the torment of pleasuring you without relief.
He made short work of them, sinking back between your legs.
“Tell me what you need…” He ordered, tongue tracing the junction where your shoulder met your neck, sucking it harshly.
“I need you… Maekar…” You begged against his mouth, voice husky with demand.
“Need what?” He braced one arm, beside your head.
“I…” You faltered a little, before pleading. “Fuck me, please…”
He did not hesitate, shifting his hips and dragging his cock against your folds, coating them in your slick. He thrusted forward in one smooth motion, burying his thick length deep in you. You moaned loudly, your inner walls fluttering around him, still sensitive from your release. He filled you completely, stretching you in the best way.
He started slow, pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in, savoring the wet heat that gripped him like a vice. Your hands clutched his shoulders, breaths syncing with his deliberate pace.
“You are taking every fucking inch of me like you were made for it.” He groaned loudly, sinking deep within you.
"Faster…" You urged, nipping at his jaw and neck, and Maekar obliged, his thrusts gaining speed. The bed creaked under you as he drove deeper into you, sparks of pleasure radiating through your core.
Your bodies moved in rhythm, the sound of his hips meeting yours, your moans and his groans filling the room. You arched your back, pressing your breasts against his chest, nipples scraping deliciously against the coarse hair there. Maekar's mouth found your neck again, sucking marks into your skin as he fucked her harder, the headboard thumping against the wall.
This was raw, consuming passion that made you feel alive, desired, wanted.
But Maekar craved more, more control, and with a grunt, he pulled out suddenly, and you whimpered at the loss of him. But, he flipped you onto your stomach before you could protest, pushing you up to your knees, your buttocks presented to him like an offering. Gripping your hips, he sunk into you easily thanks to your slick, the new angle allowing him to go deeper.
“Fuck…” He groaned loudly, his voice rough with need. “You are tight… so good…”
Bracing on your forearms, you pushed back to meet his brutal pace, clenching around his cock with every thrust and withdrawal. His body covers yours partially, one hand sliding up your spine to grab your hair, not pulling just holding. You moaned, the fullness overwhelming, pleasure building anew from the friction against that sensitive spot inside you.
Feeling your walls tighten against him, Maekar leaned forward, chest pressing against your back. His hand snaked from your hair to around your throat, fingers wrapping lightly in a possessive choke, not to hurt, but firm enough to make your pulse race under his palm. Your eyes widened and you let your head fall against his shoulder. It was a strange feeling, but you trusted him. You felt claimed, vulnerable yet safe in his grip, moaning his name.
He tightened his hold just a little at that, thumb pressing into the side of your neck as he thrust into you relentlessly. His hold on your neck and the restricted airflow heightened every sensation, the way his cock was splitting you open, the way your clit throbbed untouched. Feeling how your walls tightened around him, edging towards release, he reached down from your throat to your clit, fingers pressing hard in rhythm with his thrusts. You cried out as your orgasm crested, intense and all-consuming, your body quaking as you clenched around him, leaving you trembling and breathless.
The sight and feel of you coming undone pushed Maekar over the edge. He thrust erratically, his fingers still pressing on your clit as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside of you, your name a ragged chant on his lips.
“Fuck…” He rasped, grinding against your cheeks to prolong his release as much as he could, filling you deep.
Both of you breathing hard, you fell together into the quiet that was left behind.
Maekar turned onto his side and drew you with him without hesitation, your body settling naturally against his. Breath still unsteady, skin warm and damp, you rested your cheek against his chest and listened to the strong rhythm beneath it.
His hand found your hair, not with hunger now, but with care, fingers moving through the strands in slow strokes. The gentleness was a quiet contrast to the intensity that had come before, as though he understood the difference between taking and keeping.
Morning light spilled softly across the bed now, gilding the edges of tangled sheets and bare shoulders, washing the room in a pale glow.
Maekar did not rise, nor did he withdraw. He held you there, in the hush that followed, basking in the quiet silence of the morning.
What would the daughter in laws do when they have an argument with their “father”?
Would they then cling to their husbands to make them feel jealous? 😁
I just wrote something about them threatening to sleep with their husbands when they get angry at "Father" but I couldn't not write something for this as well.
I definitely see this as a revenge tactic if they ever felt "Father" was being too unfair. Like I imagine "Father" was really tired in the evening, D-I-L!reader chose the wrong time to request something from them and they snapped at them a little like "we do not have time for a journey to dorne because you wish to gallivant. There are matters of the realm to attend to. Do not bring this up anymore."
And D-I-L!reader is actually really hurt because she's been seeing how stressed Father is and wondered if a little trip to Dorne under the guise of diplomacy may not help him relax a little (Westerosi version of a vacation lmao). (Like obvi the whole fam would go and then she could shirk her husband and spend all her time with "Father" and they could soak in the sun and just be happy without courtly duties on them all the time).
But he was just really tired from the day and did not want to hear her nagging about something he thought was frivolous (tbh he didn't even really hear the request) so he just snaps at her and tells her to hush, and she hatessss it.
Maekar Targaryen
"Cease this at once!" He snapped, glaring at her in a way he had not done before. "Now, get into bed, hush, and go to sleep," he ordered, turning away from her to chug from his wine.
He heard no movement, and when he turned around, she was glaring at him fiercely, with just a touch of water in her eyes. She huffed, uncrossed her arms, and stormed out of the room, robe fluttering a little behind her, slamming the door.
Maekar was too tired, and he just sighed and shook his head, pressing a hand to his eyes for a moment before scowling and going to bed. He could not deal with it that evening, and he would handle it after a good sleep.
But the next morning at breakfast, you completely ignored him. You sat beside Aerion, hung onto his arm, acted like a dutiful little wife, and completely ignored Maekar. He was absolutely fuming.
Usually when Aerion got up to leave breakfast to go train or do whatever he did during the day (terrorise children) ,you stayed back and finished your breakfast with Maekar. This time, you stood with him, ignoring the incredulous look Maekar shot you, and you walked out quickly.
He was absolutely irate, practically vibrating with rage, and it did not ease by the time dinner came around. Even then you stuck close to Aerion, ignoring Maekar and focusing on your husband. He practically cut through his plate with how angrily he sliced the knife.
That evening, he could take it no longer, and stormed to your chambers. Though Aerion never slept in your chambers, you usually still went to Maekar's rooms, preferring them. This time, he did not care to wait because he was sure you would not make your appearance.
He stormed through the door only a short while after you had dismissed your maids, and found you just about to clamber into bed, clad only in one of your (many) scandalous nightgowns. You peeked over your shoulder to see who had made such an intense entrance, and when you noticed that it was him, you simply hummed and continued getting into bed, wiggling to get comfortable against the headboard and settling the sheets around your lap.
"Cease this foolish behaviour at once," he ordered, voice low, walking over to your side of the bed where you had settled calmly. You looked up at him and raised an eyebrow in defiance.
"Did you not say those same words last night? I ceased that behaviour, now I have no idea what you speak of." You shrugged nonchalantly, humming as you reached out to your sidetable for your jar of beeswax balm. He snatched it from your hands, then reached forward and gripped your chin tightly, forcing you to look right at him.
"If you wish me to apologise for being terse with you then say so," he growled, "but do not act so disrespectful."
You smirked, leaning in close, chin still in his grip, one hand coming down on his thigh to steady yourself. You brushed his nose with your own, and looked him right in the eye.
"Are you this angry because you believe I disrespected you, or because I spent my day at Aerion's side and not your own?"
You could see his neck turning red, his entire body practically vibrating with his anger, and to top it all off, you placed a soft, sweet, kiss to his mouth, then leaned back and settled yourself into bed.
Safe to say that the next day it was announced that the occupants of Summerhall would be making a trip to Dorne to visit the Prince's distant relatives...
Baelor Breakspear Targaryen
Even when Baelor was angry or annoyed, he was never rude. It was just a certain authority to his voice that did not allow you to argue further, and it really annoyed you.
"Enough, I do not wish to discuss this any further," he told you, voice firm as he poured himself a cup of wine, one last one before he got into bed.
"But I only-"
"Enough." And this time his voice was stern, harder than you had ever heard it, and he looked you right in the eye with a gaze that said not to attempt opening your mouth to argue any more. He had never looked at you like that before, never spoken to you in that way before. He was supposed to have endless amounts of patience for you.
You chewed on your lip and gave him a single nod, crossing your arms over yourself as you stewed in your anger. You stayed in his room and in his bed, allowed him to cuddle you close and sigh in satisfaction against the top of your head, but you were stiff with your rage, and he knew it would not go away easily.
Usually he would wake first, dress and attend to some governing matters, then return to his chambers as you woke cozy and slow in his bed. You would have a lovely morning together before you found your way back to your chambers to ready for the day. But this morning, after he pressed a kiss to your head and left for his study, you got up early and made your way back to your chambers.
You refused to breakfast with him in his solar like you usually did, and rather than finding him to force him into luncheon with you, you managed to convince Valarr to have his with you instead. Then, you begged him to walk with you in the gardens, and it just so happened to be at the same time Baelor usually took his stroll there as well (and usually it was with you on his arm...).
He watched it all with a heavy heart, laughing a little to himself about how blatant your efforts were, but still feeling the effects. At dinner you stuck to Valarr, and in the evening you did not come to find Baelor in his study, nor in his bedchambers.
This went on for three days, you ignoring his presence like he no longer existed, and him allowing you to do it. It only ended when on the fourth day you came into his solar to grab one of your books, not expecting to find him there, but he was sat all on his lonesome with that exact book and what just so happened to be a jug of your favourite orange-infused wine.
When you caught sight of him, you huffed and turned around, readying to make your exit, when he called you to return.
"Dearest, sit with me a moment," and even though you were angry and wanted to disobey his order, you stomped back and sat beside him on the chaise longue. He smiled a little when you turned your body away from him, and crossed your arms, glaring at some distant spot in the room.
"Did you enjoy your time with Valarr?" He asked softly, pouring you a cup of wine and nudging it in your direction. You ignored the wine but smirked with satisfaction.
"Yes, I did actually," you finally spoke, "he was very lovely to me."
Baelor grimaced a little and nodded, but he did not lose his composure. Instead he reached out and gently took your hand in his, caressing along the back of it. You were about to rip it from his grasp, but you had begun to miss his touch, his calloused fingertips and the cold touch of his rings.
"I do not care that you spend time with him," and when he said that you frowned angrily and began trying to pull your hand back, but he held on firm until you looked at him with a huff of frustration. "He is your husband, after all, and it is good to show a united front. However, I do care that you do not spend any time with me at all."
"Hm, I wonder why," you bit out sarcastically, returning your glare to him.
"I should not have snapped at you, dear," he told you calmly, caressing the back of your hand. "I was only tired and did not wish to think too deeply."
You turned and finally looked at him fully, pouting now as you listened to his apology. You gripped his hand back, shuffling a little closer.
"It is only because you have been so tired so often that I had suggested the trip in the first place," you mumbled, bowing your head and tracing patterns on his knee. "But you just got angry."
He cupped your cheek, lifting your head a little and nodding with understanding.
"I know, sweetling, but you should know when to leave alone and try again at another time. You could see that I was impatient, could you not?" He raised an eyebrow at you, and though you did not wish to take any responsibility, you chewed on your lip and nodded apologetically.
Baelor leaned forward and kissed you on the mouth, soft and sweet, and full of all the longing from the past few days.
"Now, I shall attempt to convince the King that he can spare his Hand for a while so that he may take his spoilt girl to Dorne."
“I do not want it. Is the type of shit Maekar croaks out through clenched teeth as his hands shake while unlacing your dress and getting too impatient for it so he just yanks hard to rip the material—“
Good woman, I beg thee, spare some of this delicious sacred texts in a longer version
⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ maekar/ls marry!verse. sexual content/18+. mdni. bear with me, I’m having to do this on my phone and it’s taking years off my life 😭
“I do not want it.”
Maekar’s voice cracks like ice under a warhammer, low and raw, forced out between teeth clenched so tight the muscle jumps along his scarred jaw.
His hands—those same battle-hardened hands that have split helms and shattered shields—shake violently at the laces of your gown. The thick northern wool resists him, the cords rough and stubborn against his calloused fingertips, each tug sending tiny vibrations through the fabric and straight into your spine. You feel every tremor, every frustrated hitch in his breath against the nape of your neck, hot and uneven, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke, steel, and the dark, musky salt of a man who has been fighting himself for hours.
The fire in the great hearth snaps and pops, orange light flickering across the direwolf tapestries and the heavy canopy of furs piled on the massive bed. Outside, the northern wind howls through the godswood, rattling the shutters like it wants to claw its way inside and freeze the heat rising between you. But the cold cannot touch this chamber. Not when Maekar’s body radiates fever behind you, his chest brushing your shoulders with every ragged inhale he takes in.
“I do not want it,” he repeats, the words a desperate snarl, as if saying them louder might make them true. The laces snap taut under his hands. His patience, already frayed to nothing, shatters with near audible crack.
With a guttural sound torn straight from his chest, he seizes the back of your gown in both fists and yanks. The wool and silk scream as they tear, a violent rip that splits the fabric from neckline to waist in one brutal motion. Cold air rushes over your bare spine like a slap, raising gooseflesh in its wake, but Maekar’s heat is already there. His palms shove the ruined gown down your arms, letting it pool at your hips in a grey-and-crimson heap that smells of faint lavender you crushed into the folds that morning.
You stand exposed in nothing but thin smallclothes, nipples pebbled tight from the sudden chill and the raw hunger rolling off him in waves. He spins you around so fast the room blurs around you, a hitch rising up your throat. Violet eyes—storm-dark, pupils blown wide—lock onto yours with something halfway feral and broken. His silver hair has come loose from its tie, strands sticking to the sweat already beading at his temples. The broken line of his nose casts a sharp shadow across his cheek in the firelight.
“I do not want to need you like this,” he rasps, backing you toward the bed until the edge of the furs hits your thighs. His hands are everywhere at once—rough, trembling, something possessive in the touch—cupping the heavy weight of your breasts, thumbs dragging over the sensitive peaks until sparks shoot straight to your core. The coarse hair on his forearms scrapes your skin, the heat of his palms branding you. “I do not want to wake every dawn wondering if you close your eyes and see him.”
The back of your knees buckle. You fall onto the furs—thick, soft, smelling of wild bear and wolf and the lingering musk of every night you’ve spent tangled here. Maekar follows like a man possessed, caging you beneath the solid, heavy weight of his body. He tears at his own tunic; seams rip with a sharp sound, dark wool splitting to reveal the broad, scarred expanse of his chest—old silver lines from tourneys and battles, pale hair dusting down to the hard ridges of his abdomen. His Breeches follow, shoved down just enough to free him. His cock springs into the air, thick and flushed dark, the head already glistening with precum that catches the firelight like liquid gold. It slaps heavy against your stomach, hot as a brand and your mouth parts in anticipation.
“But I do,” he growls, voice cracking on the confession. “Gods help me, I do.”
He does not bother with the rest of your smallclothes. Two thick fingers hook into the damp crotch and rip. Linen tears like parchment under his strength, baring your slick, aching folds to the cool air and his starving gaze. The scent of your arousal blooms sharp and musky between you, mixing with the smoke and his own dark musk. One large hand grips your thigh, spreading you wide, the calluses rasping deliciously over sensitive skin. The blunt head of his cock drags through your wetness—once, twice, thrice; eyes hard on your face—coating himself in the slick evidence that your body has never once lied to him.
Then he thrusts in to the hilt.
One single, punishing stroke that stretches you open so wide you feel every thick inch, every vein, the burn blooming deep and perfect. A broken cry tears from your throat; your back arches clean off the furs. He stills there, buried to the root, forehead pressed to yours, breath sawing hot and ragged against your lips. You can taste the salt on his skin, feel the thunder of his heartbeat against your breasts.
“I do not want it,” Maekar whispers again, the lie trembling as his hips begin to move—slow, grinding, then harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls louder than the wind outside. Each thrust drags the thick head of his cock against that devastating spot inside you, sending sparks exploding behind your eyes as your nails dig into his back hard enough to leave him marked. Sweat beads between your joined bodies, slicking the coarse hair on his chest so it slides against your nipples with every snap of his hips.
Maekar’s large hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back so he can bite at the tender column of your throat—sucking hard, teeth scraping, leaving marks that will bloom dark by following morn. The other hand reaches between you, calloused thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing in tight, merciless circles. The sensation hits like lightning; your first climax rips through you without warning, walls clamping down around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters and a curse in High Valyrian spills from his lips like prayer and profanity at once.
Still he doesn’t stop.
Maekar fucks you through the peak, hips snapping with all the restrained fury of a man who has spent moons pretending he feels nothing, wants nothing. The furs beneath you grow damp with sweat and slick, the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into you filling the chamber. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red lines that sting and make him groan deep in his chest. The guilt flickers somewhere deep—Baelor’s golden smile, the love you once carried for him—but it drowns beneath the heat of Maekar’s body, the way he fills you so completely it feels like he’s rewriting every memory inside your skin.
“Say my name,” he demands, voice hoarse and wrecked, thumb never slowing against your core. “Not his. Mine.”
“Maekar,” you gasp, legs locking around his waist, heels digging into the sweat-slick small of his back to pull him deeper. The second climax crashes over you harder than the first, a sobbing cry tearing from your throat as your walls flutter and milk him.
Only then does his control snap completely. His thrusts turn brutal, deep, grinding, chasing his own release with single-minded hunger. The hand in your hair tightens; the one between your bodies presses harder. When the third peak rips through you—sharp, blinding, leaving you trembling and boneless—he buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan right against your ear. Hot pulses flood you, thick and endless, spilling out around his cock to soak the furs beneath your ass. His entire body locks above you, muscles trembling, violet eyes wild and raw in the firelight.
For a long moment the only sounds are your ragged breathing, the crackle of the dying fire, and the distant howl of the wind. Maekar’s arms give out. He collapses half on top of you, face buried in the sweat-damp curve of your neck, silver hair sticking to your skin. His cock is still buried deep, twitching with aftershocks. The fight drains from him all at once, leaving only raw honesty in its wake.
“I do not want it,” he whispers against your throat, voice small and cracked and utterly defeated, breath warm and shaky. “But I cannot stop wanting you.”
Your fingers thread through his hair, holding him there as the fire settles to embers and the cold rages on outside the walls. The guilt still lingers in the quiet spaces between heartbeats—Baelor’s ghost in the shadows, watching you over you both—but so does this: raw, messy, undeniable, burning brighter than any hearth in the coldest keep in the realm.
