The Keep was cold and dreary, a going on three day storm keeping it from having any sort of warmth. Prince Baelor’s chambers were overbearingly warm, a trait that held fast to his family. For this reason Jena insisted on sleeping in her own chambers, claiming his could beat the sweltering heat of the summers. She sat in one of the chairs across from his writing desk, chatting with him about Valarr’s funny little incidents of the day as she usually did before bed. He listened, chuckling at some of her retellings as he looked over the final ledgers he hadn’t been able to get to in the morning. One of the chamber maids came in quietly, leaving a pitcher of fresh water as he had requested. Jena stood up, giving him a kiss on his cheek. “I have some ravens I need to be sent with these,” he said to the chambermaid as he gave Jena a kiss back and told her goodnight. His wife left as Baelor rolled up the scroll, sealing it with the wax sigil. When the chamber door clicked shut, his fingers slowed. “I did not think she’d be here so late.” The chamber maid raised her head to look at him, her light brown eyes and dark freckled face revealed from beneath the white servants headpiece she was to wear.
“She is your wife, she may be here as late as she pleases.”
It was a simple response but it held a submissive weight beneath it that made his chest tight with hurt.
“You do not have to stay if you do not wish to.”
She shook her head, taking the headpiece off revealing her dark hair tightly braided and tucked away. He rose as she went to let it free and stood behind her, his chest pressed to her back.
“If I could, I would have you as my wife for the rest of my d-“
“Don’t,” she said coldly as her hair dropped around her shoulders. She went to untie her dress when he grabbed her hands.
starving faithful | ormund hightower x novice septa reader
summary: the Father's desires can only be satisfied by the Maiden (or: in place of whores, Lord Ormund Hightower prefers women of the faith).
content notes: reader insert (no y/n). afab/fem reader. porn with very little plot. power imbalance & therefore dubious consent. piv sex. vaginal & anal fingering. purity kink. loss of virginity. religious kink. daddy ("father") kink. religious extremism. misogyny. manipulation. unsafe sex. breeding kink. getting horny to religious iconography. reciting scripture during sex. religious mania. borderline insanity. reader is a religious zealot and so is ormund. PLEASE proceed with caution if you have any kind of religious trauma.
word count: 4.1k
author notes: i just wanted to have fun and write some freaky religious fucking. recommended ambience here. enjoy <3
do not copy or reproduce any of my work & do not feed my work to AI!
“Beauty is nothing
but desire to consume
What is consumed
ceases to be beautiful
Nothing you consume
will ever truly satisfy”
—Ellie Black, “Truisms”
“Pour me out for god.”
—Lisa Marie Basile, “saint of voluptuary”
They bathe you first. With warm water: an indulgence you thank the Mother for while they scrub beneath your fingernails and behind your ears. Blessed Mother, accept my prayer, your lips recite silently, for your comfort and your mercy, may my gratitude glorify you, may you use my humble flesh to enact your will. The heat of the cloth lathering your shoulders with soap is a stark departure from the cold baths you take with the rest of the novices twice a week. Discomfort humbles. Humility is holy.
Septa Jeyne flips your palm and tuts. “She’s scarred. He won’t approve.”
The puckered flesh, barely healed: your doing. An act of penance you thought just. Careless, unworthy girl, you’d tripped over your roughspun skirt on the way to evening prayers and dropped your copy of the Seven Pointed Star onto the cold stone floor. Such impertinence. You should have sooner broken a bone than disgraced the holy book. You’d held your palms over the candles at the altar, wept and begged forgiveness while your skin seared, until the Septon had found you and dragged you away, horrified.
“He will take what is given him,” Mother Superior mutters through her gritted teeth. “Choice is a luxury.”
They clothe you in a fresh dress. No frayed hems, no stains from serving soup to the poor. They dab lavender oil on your wrists and the base of your neck. Mother Superior manipulates you like a doll, sniffing at your underarms before she is satisfied that her work is done.
The sinner inside you wants to catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror. Surely you are more becoming now than you have been at any point in the last few months. Toiling from sunrise to sundown, scrubbing the floors of the Starry Sept and emptying the septas’ chamberpots, your training is quick to erase any notions of vanity. Still, it is easy to cling to that old vice. To wish for the Maiden to let her beauty shine through you.
Oldtown is quiet under the solemn dome of the dark sky. Mother Superior and Septa Jeyne shepherd you through the streets, past beggars and city watchmen and whores lingering in their doorways. The seven-pointed star that hangs around your neck is a soft, sure weight. The Gods know what path you walk, even if you do not yet understand your errand. You can feel them there, in the space between your breasts, where your heart flutters like a flag in the night breeze.
At the base of the Hightower, there is a gate. You cannot hear what Mother Superior whispers to the guards, but they allow the three of you to pass. Your mind conjures fantasies while you wind through the circling halls: perhaps this is a test. Perhaps you are here to tend to an ailing nobleman, to provide comfort and counsel in his final days. Perhaps he is an infidel; perhaps you must convince him to accept the Seven and save him from damnation. Excitement courses through your body. You will prove yourself. You will recite scripture from memory, repeat the wisdom from the Septons’ sermons. Mother Superior and Septa Jeyne will see what you know in your heart to be true: that you are one of the chosen, destined for a life of service. You will take your vows in the Starry Sept. You will be a good septa, a good girl, blessed beyond compare—
You come upon a large chamber, a servants’ hall. The hearths burn low, but there are still a few maids at work. One fusses over a tray laden with ornate jars and bowls. She seems relieved to see you and your companions.
“Good, they’ve just drawn his bath.” She wipes her hands on her apron. Even at a distance, you can smell herbs and floral oil emanating from the tray.
Mother Superior gestures you forward, puts her wrinkled hands on your cheeks. There is an odd look on her usually stern face. Pity, you might call it.
“The Gods demand trials of us all,” she tells you. “But only to strengthen our faith.”
You nod, ever obedient. “Yes, Mother.”
“You’d best be going up now. Don’t keep him waiting,” the maid sighs, setting the tray in your hands. Your palms ache, still bitter with the reminder of your sin. In the polished silver, you can see your reflection. Vanity whispers sin in the back of your mind.
“What is it,” you look up at Mother Superior, “I’m meant to do?”
“You are to attend Lord Hightower,” Septa Jeyne answers, impatience in her voice. “Hurry along now.”
“You will be a very good girl, won’t you? You will honor the Gods in all things, even this.” Mother Superior’s grip tightens.
You cannot help the eager smile that blooms across your face. “Yes, Mother. I will.”
“Up the back stairs with you, girl.” The maid ushers you through a doorway, leading to a staircase that spirals up and up and up, further than you can see. As you leave the servants’ hall behind, you can hear her speaking to Mother Superior: She’s prettier than the last one you brought.
You have seen the Hightower from a distance. Its astonishing height, surely the will of the Smith at work. Your pulse quickens as you ascend the stairs. There can be no greater demonstration of your faith than this. Even as your lungs strain and your legs burn with effort, you are giddy with anticipation. You have seen Lord Ormund in the Starry Sept. In the city square. Such a rare man: reverent, strong, radiating with the light of the Seven. Let these traitors be an example to you all, he had proclaimed when he took the heads of the lords and ladies who had pledged fealty to Rhaenyra, utterly severe in the sharp midday sunlight, that the King’s law is the law of the Gods. Your fellow novices had gasped and retched. Little fools, not recognizing the divine scene laid in front of them. The air felt thick. Holy. As if you were standing in the presence of the Father himself.
Higher, higher, gasping for breath, you keep climbing. The top of the tower might as well be the seventh heaven. Each step brings you closer to the Gods; you can feel it in the way your bones thrum like hummingbird wings.
At the summit: a door. You hesitate. Never before have you been in the presence of so noble a man. Surely the sweat on your brow and your plain garments are unsuited to the circumstances. But if this is where the Gods have called you to be, who are you to deny them? Who are you to eschew duty, refuse the opportunity for such honorable service? You balance the tray in one arm to knock on the door. Enter, comes a melodious voice, as you remind yourself of your vow to Mother Superior. You will be good.
Inside, a large chamber emanates golden candlelight. On the domed ceiling, figures of the Seven sparkle in gilded paint. Green drapery adorns the windows, the walls, the bed. Every surface is polished. Impeccably clean and orderly. Not a single wrinkle mars the plush blankets, nor do any stray crumbs dot the floors. So orderly. Rich. A lush paradise indeed.
And in a wide, ornate tub: the master of this otherworldly realm. Sunkissed hair damp at the ends. Strong shoulders recline in handsome repose. He regards you coolly. The water obscures his nakedness, but already you feel your words caught in your throat.
“Seven blessings,” you whisper, finding your voice, “my lord.”
His eyes narrow. Worry constricts your chest. The thought that he might be displeased by your presence—or by your appearance, that vain voice in the back of your head adds—turns your stomach. Silent prayers unravel like thread: Maiden, grant me grace, do not allow me to besmirch this sanctuary. Crone, grant me wisdom. Seven, watch over me, allow me to serve you, to bring you honor…
But he merely crooks a finger. “Come closer.”
Your body obeys before you even comprehend his command. Head bowed in deference, you draw to the side of the tub. He cocks his head. Murky eyes, blue as the mist that hangs over the city on a dark day, drink in the sight of you. Let him be pleased, you pray selfishly. You are at the mercy of his judgment now.
“Rosemary oil. And essence of moonbloom,” he says at last.
You stare down at the jars and vials on the tray. Damn your ignorance. You ought to have asked the maid what she was giving you. Lord Ormund gives you an expectant look while an amused smirk draws his lips taut.
“The Gods gave you wits, did they not?”
“Pardon, my lord,” you mutter, shame staining your voice. Setting the tray down on a nearby table, your hands flutter over its contents in a hurried attempt to satisfy his request. The rosemary’s familiar scent is easy enough to identify. Moonbloom, though… you sniff several vials, each just slightly different than the last. Lord Ormund’s gaze sears you while you try desperately to remember what moonbloom smells like.
Your final decision is mere guesswork. Trembling, you present him with a silver canister of dried rosemary and a blue vial of what you hope contains essence of moonbloom.
“Ah,” he reaches for the vial, “smart girl.”
Relief courses through you. A thousand praises to the Gods echo throughout your heart. You will spend hours on your knees thanking the Seven for this. The fleeting smirk on his face, that speck of approval, is too rich a reward for so humble a servant as you.
“Come,” he beckons, snapping his fingers and gesturing at the floor in the same manner one might call a dog to heel. You kneel by the side of the tub, eager to obey. He chuckles as he scatters droplets into his bath. A rich, sweet mist rises from the water, so fragrant and fresh it makes the back of your throat sting.
“The faith has you well-trained.” He draws a finger through the water absentmindedly. “Most girls make frightened fools of themselves in the presence of their liege lord.”
“You are a defender of the faith, my lord. It is my honor to serve you as I serve the Seven.”
“How inspiring to hear you say so,” he hums. You search the depths of your soul, trying to string together any words that might please him. There is a warmth that crawls along your skin like a spider. A feeling you cannot put a name to. Kneeling before him, you feel the same overpowering awe that the statues in the sept evoke, as if the Gods themselves are judging you through him.
“The Septons say House Hightower has ever walked in the light of the Seven, my lord. It is because of your patronage that we may spread the holy word.”
“It is a worthy cause,” he sighs, “even in these taxing times. We mustn’t lose sight of our higher calling.”
“No, my lord, never.” You continue, offering an appraising smile. “If I may, I saw you in the square. Dispensing justice to those traitors. You did the work of the Gods.”
“Oh? I should not have thought such an ugly deed suited for the eyes of a tender young maiden such as yourself.”
Hands clenching your skirts, you find yourself at a loss for words. There is an urgent voice calling to you now. A commandment you would be loath to ignore. Do not disappoint him, it says, do not offend him. This paragon of virtue, the man whose coin allows you to live a life of service… Mother Superior’s instruction has made itself clear. You will be good for him.
“No act done in service to the Gods could be called ugly, my lord,” you proceed carefully, daring to clutch the edge of the tub as you meet his gaze with pure sincerity. “It is a grievous sin to betray a king who was chosen by the Seven. You did what honor and faith demanded. You were a vessel for the Father’s will.”
A slow, catlike grin spreads across Lord Ormund’s face. Blindingly handsome. Beauty that could only be the light of the Seven shining through him.
“Pretty words. It is a grave offense to speak falsely, I do hope you mean what you say.”
“I do, my lord,” you swear, but he tuts his disapproval.
“Father.” A damp hand comes to grip your chin, so swift that your heart leaps into your throat. Fear and uncertainty mingle. Were he any other man, you would protest. It is hubris to think oneself godlike. But he is no common man. Here, in his castle that touches the very domain of the Gods, you have no doubt of that.
“I do, Father,” you correct yourself.
He keeps your face clutched between his strong fingers. His body shifts. Leaning in. You stiffen, unsure of what to expect, closing your eyes out of some unknown instinct. The entire world seems to spin. But then you are freed, and you open your eyes to find him withdrawing, a cringe drawing his face taut.
“Such rags,” he coughs, reaching for the jar of rosemary, “are hardly worthy of such a pious girl.”
“Pray forgive me, my lo—Father, please, I—”
“Take it off.”
You are certain you cannot have heard him correctly. “Pardon?”
“Off.” He waves his hand. “Will you not heed your Father’s command?”
Perhaps you were right, this is a test. Perhaps Mother Superior is just outside, waiting to see whether you will obey an order that contradicts every lesson you have ever been taught. Piety, modesty, chastity: the very pillars of every septa’s training. Never before have you shown your naked form to a man. Nor have you succumbed to pleasures of the flesh. You pray to the Maiden every morning and every night to protect your innocence.
Protect it from what, though? From lust? From the tainted fingers of heathens? As you gaze upon Lord Ormund’s relaxed form, upon the muscles that line his arms and abdomen, upon the contours of his neck, you cannot help but think that he is not who you need protecting from. A man so holy, so just could not possibly seek to corrupt. Whatever his intentions, you must trust that obedience to him is obedience to the Gods. You are but a novice, after all. How could you claim to know better than a noble lord? To know better than the Father’s vessel?
Your hands tremble as you divest yourself of your garments. They pool on the floor, and you immediately understand his wisdom. How could you be fit to serve him in such drab cloth? Such an offense, to approach him reeking of wool and lye. This is better. So much more fitting. An honor, truly, to serve him as the Gods have made you, unadorned and humble.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, beckoning you closer once more. As you kneel again, he reaches for your breast, squeezing your pebbled nipple. You let out an undignified yelp, clapping a hand over your mouth, while he chuckles to himself. “The Gods certainly spent their time crafting you, little maiden.”
“Thank you,” you stutter, while shock reverberates throughout your body. The suddenness of the touch, the desire for more. “Thank you, Father. I am… blessed, indeed.”
“Surely I cannot be the first to notice such divine gifts.” Skepticism drips from his voice. “It would be a shame indeed if a girl of the faith were to harbor sullied secrets. The Father sees the truth in your heart. You would not lie to him, I hope?”
“No, never,” you swear.
“Then you are pure? If I look between those pretty legs, I will find your maidenhead intact?”
“Yes, Father. I swear upon the Mother, I have always been chaste. I would never debase myself.”
He cups your face, petting your cheek while he judges whether you speak true. His thumb circles your lips. Prodding, nails on skin, plying your jaw open so that his fingers can slide into your mouth. He tastes savory, herbal as he explores the ridges of your teeth and the pad of your tongue.
“The mouths of unholy women are treacherous pits.” Saliva spills down your chin as you try to keep from gagging. “Only an accursed man is wont to fall in.”
And then he withdraws, dipping his hand into the bathwater as if he has besmirched himself. You cough and wipe away spittle while you catch your breath. Already, you feel the heat of hunger rising within you. A form of desperation you have seen a hundred times when you ladle soup to the poor. Feed me, the voice inside you cries, throwing itself in front of the Gods, naked and needy, or else I will die.
“Suppose I shall have to see for myself,” Lord Ormund huffs, as if weary from the task of interrogating you. “Go. Lie on the bed. Be a good little maiden.”
Legs tingling, you have to try not to trip over your own feet as you stand. Mist, like the hot steam rising from the tub, clouds your mind. You feel as though you are far away from your body. Watching yourself, as if in a dream. Excitement courses through your blood as you lower yourself ever so delicately onto the velvet blankets that engulf the bed. An ocean of emerald. He will be so proud of you, so pleased, when he sees that you are pure. That you are unlike those wicked women that the scriptures warn of.
For a moment, there is silence. And then water sloshing. Wet footprints on the cold stone floor. Your breath quickens. But then you hear him crossing the room. Liquid being poured into a goblet. Not daring to move, you stare at the ceiling and listen to his unhurried movements. As if you are an item, one of the many decorations in his chambers, as trivial as the tapestries on the wall or the trim on the curtains. You would lie here forever, you think. If only to be in his presence. You would be a statue for him to cast a stray glance at and nothing more.
There is a soft thud of metal on wood. And then more footsteps, drawing near. When his hands perch on your knees at last, you let out an undignified gasp. It draws a rumble of laughter from him. Such a splendid sound. The very music of the Gods. Your chin lifts. Standing before you, a very statue of the Father, Lord Ormund’s naked body towers with such immense severity. The rod of his cock hangs half-hardened between his legs. It strikes fear and awe in your ribcage. You have never seen the male form so raw, so utterly perfected. The ridges of muscle. The angles of his cheekbones, his hips, his shoulders. Not a single flaw. The Father embodied.
“Let us see,” he murmurs, prying your legs apart, “if you are worthy.”
Night air laps at your cunt, a cold tongue that makes your toes curl in pleasure. Blunt fingers probe your outer lips. He brushes against a spot, a little nub, that makes your legs jolt as if lightning has passed through you. But the feeling is fleeting; his attention lies elsewhere. His knuckles slip past your entrance. You watch his face twist into bemused surprise.
“A rarity among women.” And then there is absence, his fingers withdrawing and tracing down, down. “Nor have you ever been touched here, I hope.”
“No!” You are quick to answer, mouth hanging agape as he traces the bud of your arse. “Never, I swear, I would not… Father, please…”
You are not entirely certain what you are pleading for. For him to stop? To continue? All your muddled mind knows is that his touch is sweeter than sunlight through the stained glass windows of the Starry Sept. The light of the Seven made material, given form. Would you deny the Gods entrance to the sanctuary of your body? Would you shirk the opportunity to worship them with all of you, in every way?
“Yet so eager,” he scolds you, bringing the flat of his hand down hard on your cunt. Yelping like a kicked pup, your body fights with itself, the desire to flee and the desire to stay at war with each other. A sloppy, wet sound echoes throughout his chambers.
You have felt this before, though it shames you to admit it. In the sept, at prayers, when the light illuminates the statues of the Seven just so. When you lose yourself in the fervor of faith. It burns through you. A fire you do not understand. It turns your whispered prayers into moaned exaltations. It liquifies your core, stains and slickens your thighs, transforms you into a creature beyond your control. A beast who yearns for divinity. So very near, yet so far from the Gods.
“Mortal flesh cannot escape the taint of mortal sin. But the Gods are merciful, are they not? Good, deserving maidens ought to be purified. Cleansed from within.” His grip on your thighs turns iron-strong. “Do you wish to be clean, little maiden?”
“Yes,” you whine, “please, Father, forgive me, make me clean, purify me, I want to be good. Please. Make me good, make me good, make me good…”
Pain, pressure, and pleasure split your body in one molten hot moment. Your vision blurs. Every fiber of your being burns. A wretched, ugly scream tears itself from your mouth. You dare to look down at the juncture of your thighs where Ormund’s manhood pulses, flushed and thick, spearing you open. It is utterly grotesque. A hell you could have never comprehended.
But as he grunts and shifts his hips, the fire transforms. You watch, enchanted, the way your body opens for him. Engulfs him. You were made for this. The sheath to his sword, the perfect being to accommodate his need. What better purpose could there be? What holier endeavor? Like a heretic burning, the pain washes away and is replaced by pure light. Your soul takes wing. Praise and nonsense spill from your clumsy mouth as delirium takes over.
Father, Father, Father. Your heavenly Father. Pawing at your breasts, squeezing and kneading while he thrusts, the heavy sac of his balls slapping against the flesh of your arse. The veins in his forehead go taut from the strain. Reality goes hazy, but amidst the otherworldly din you hear his strained voice reciting the holy book: The Maiden… brought him forth a girl as s-supple as a willow with eyes like deep blue pools, he chants, fierce and throaty, and Hugor declared that he would have her… have her for his bride.
Your own broken voice mingles with his. “So the Mother made her fertile, and the Crone, she… foretold that she would bear the king four-and-forty mighty sons—”
Cut off by the curl of his hand around your throat, you throw your head back and gasp for what little air you can manage while his thrusts grow faster. The faces of the Seven cloud into one. Revelation pours down on you like gilded rain. You see, as your cunt spasms and tingles, as your bones burst with thrill, that this is what you were always meant for. Not to serve the Gods as a simple septa. This is your higher calling. To be his vessel. Made pure by the holiness of his body. You will let him claim you as a king claims his throne, let him rule you, let him annihilate you. You will bear him a hundred sons. The world will bow to his holy word, and a purer dawn will rise, fecund and rich, with him as Father and you as his ever-pure Maiden.
“Take your Father’s seed,” Ormund hisses into the shell of your ear as he presses himself atop you, nipping and biting and rutting. “Fucking thank me for it, little Maiden.”
“Bless me, Father!” You cry out, rapt in bliss, while he growls and drives his cock deep, kissing the entrance to your womb. The flood of his seed is strange and sudden. A burst of radiant gold. Stronger than sunlight. The heat of it consumes you. It tears the veil between mortal and divine. You can feel the Seven themselves within you, bathing you in your new meaning, caressing your forehead and kissing your cheeks. Bless me, Father, you repeat over and over, until the words are only vibrations in your hollow throat. Thank you. Thank you.
end notes: The epigraphs can be found in Revelator by Ellie Black and saint of by Lisa Marie Basile (both incredible poetry collections!). "The mouths of unholy women..." dialogue that Ormund says is a paraphrase of Proverbs 22:14. The title is from "Take Me to Church" by Hozier because of fucking course it is. Thanks for reading <3
In a lot of discussions I see about Alys, some people are wondering what her motive is. She could have killed Aemond for Rhaneyra and gotten the castle/bounty but instead she keeps him hidden and alive. Others say that she wants him for herself.
Is it not because Alys has seen Daemon’s future/series of events and understands that she needs to keep Aemond there for things to play out the way they’re supposed to for everything to lead to Daenerys? She told Daemon he must see the bigger picture, wouldn’t she believe in the same thing? What do you think?
“my father is a boy and my mother is a girl so i’m mixed” is the funniest possible response to someone asking your gender and it came from 6’5 Viking footballer and notable weird little guy Erling Haaland on a Snapchat
Victor Frankenstein after achieving the impossible and building a fucking person from scraps of the dead: Oh god, ew, ew it's ugly! Yucky! Yucky! Gross! Ew! Ew! Yucky! Yucky! Gross! Ew!
literally crying at the line “that you bathe in the warm light of her gaze”, it’s giving “trampled under your pretty foot again” like oh my goddddd homotron 3000 we get it!!!! you’re obsessed!!!
I don’t care for grrm slander (re: his unfinished books) because that is my brother in arms. Any writer with an unfinished wip that haunts them day and night understands him. He could never in a million years earn my ire
You are a princess on the road, traveling through hills and forests that would swallow lesser women whole. Beside you walks Ser Duncan the Tall, a hedge knight larger than life, sworn to keep you safe.
He is your shield. He is your protector. He is your secret, your desire, the man who should never cross the line. Yet every stolen glance, every brush of hands, every quiet night beside the fire pulls him closer to it. One night, the two of you are forced to stay at a small inn together, and the firelight brings secrets, closeness, and desires neither can deny.
If the gods are kind, Dunk will only break his oath once.
The road has been empty for miles, and still Ser Duncan the Tall walks close to your horse, as if something might leap from the tall grass and drag you down.
He is too big for the path. His shoulders brush low branches, and his boots leave deep prints in the dust. Every so often, he glances toward the treeline, hand resting near the hilt of his sword. No one told him to walk there. He simply placed himself between you and the world.
“Ser Duncan,” you say at last, “you need not glare so fiercely at every bush.”
He startles, as though you struck him. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon. I only meant…” He clears his throat. “There are wolves in these hills.”
“I have never seen one.”
“That’s how they like it.”
You smile at that, turning in the saddle so your silver hair slips over your shoulder. “And you will fight them all alone?”
“If need be.”
The answer is too quick. Too sure.
You ride in silence after that. The sun warms your skin, and the wind tugs at your cloak. You watch him from the corner of your eye: the long stride, the creak of his armor, the faint scar along his jaw. He looks like a storybook knight, if the book had been written by someone who knew hunger.
“You walk as if you expect the world to strike me,” you say softly.
He slows, then stops altogether. “It will, if it can, Your Grace.”
You guide your horse to a halt beside him. Up close, he is taller than you remembered, even from the saddle. When he looks at you, his face reddens.
“You do not speak to me like other men do,” you say.
“I don’t know how other men speak to princesses.”
“And how do you speak to me?”
He thinks for a moment. “As someone who must not fail you.”
Something tightens in your chest.
“You cannot guard me forever, Ser Duncan.”
“I know.”
“But you wish you could.”
His jaw works. “Yes, Your Grace.”
That is when you understand it is not only wolves he fears.
The sun was bleeding out across the horizon, painting the clouds in strokes of rose and gold when you finally stopped to make camp. As a princess, you were used to pavilions and featherbeds. Here, there was only the hard ground, a small fire, and the vast, indifferent sky.
Dunk moved with a quiet efficiency that spoke of years on the road. He unsaddled your horse, rubbed it down, and then began gathering wood for the fire, his large hands breaking branches as easily as you might snap a twig. He never once asked you to help, treating you as if you were made of precious glass.
You watched him, the way the firelight caught the planes of his face, the dust on his boots, the worn leather of his sword belt. There was a roughness to him that court knights lacked, something raw and real. It was… disarming.
“Ser Duncan,” you said, breaking the silence.
He turned, a piece of wood in his hand. “Your Grace?”
“You have not asked me why I travel alone.”
He hesitated, placing the wood on the growing pile. “It is not my place to ask.”
“But you must wonder.”
He looked away, toward the darkening woods. “I wonder about many things.”
“Such as?”
“If I’m gathering enough wood. If the wolves are truly gone. If the stars will hold.” He paused. “Not about princesses’ business.”
“I have no business,” you said, the words surprising even you. “I was… sent away.”
He didn't respond. He simply stood there, a mountain of a man framed by the last light of day, waiting for you to say more.
“My father wishes me to marry a prince from Dorne,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “I told him no.”
The fire crackled. A log shifted, sending a shower of sparks into the dark.
“Your Grace…” he began, then stopped, as if the words caught in his throat.
“You may call me by my name,” you said. “When no one is listening.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the intensity in his eyes made your breath catch. For a fleeting moment, you were not a princess, and he was not a hedge knight. You were just a woman and a man, alone in the night, with only a fire between you.
“I cannot,” he said, his voice low. “It would not be right.”
He turned back to the fire, stoking it with a stick, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched. He was fighting a battle with himself, and you were not sure which side was winning.
“Ser Duncan,” you said softly, “why were you in Flea Bottom the day you were found? You are not from King's Landing.”
He paused, the stick still in his hand. “My master, Ser Arlan, had business there. We were heading to the Tourney at Ashford.” He stared into the flames. “He died on the road. Before we got there.”
A silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken sorrow. You saw the ghost of the old knight in the young one’s eyes. The weight of a legacy he never asked for.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“He was a good man,” Dunk said, his voice rough. “Better than me.”
“I do not believe that.”
He finally looked at you again, and in the firelight, you saw something you had not seen before: a flicker of vulnerability. “Your Grace… a princess shouldn't be talking to a hedge knight about such things.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” He struggled for the words. “Because it makes me forget what I am.”
You leaned forward, the silver-gold of your hair brushing against your cheek. “And what are you, Ser Duncan?”
“Just a man,” he said, the words barely audible. “From Flea Bottom.”
His honesty was a punch to the gut. You had been surrounded by lies and half-truths your whole life. Men who said what they thought you wanted to hear, who offered you words false and polished. But this man… this giant of a man with the calloused hands and the honest eyes… he was as real as the ground beneath your feet.
And it was terrifying.
And it was wonderful.
“A man,” you repeated, testing the word. “Just a man, who walks for miles beside my horse, who would fight wolves for me, who calls me Your Grace like it’s a shield against a truth he doesn’t want to face.”
He flinched as if you’d struck him.
“A man who smells of leather and road dust,” you continued, your voice softer now. “A man who blushes when I look at him too long.”
He stood up so quickly he almost knocked over the fire. “I should see to the horse.”
“Ser Duncan.”
He froze, his back to you, a statue of a knight in the flickering light.
“Stay. Please.”
He didn’t move. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his breathing, see the tension in the set of his shoulders. He stayed because you asked him to. Because he would do anything for you.
The morning came gray and cool. Dew clung to the grass, and the air smelled of damp earth. Dunk was already awake, the fire rebuilt, your horse saddled and grazing peacefully nearby. He handed you a piece of dried fruit and a waterskin, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting second. You both pretended not to notice.
The path today was narrow, winding along the edge of a steep embankment that dropped away to a rushing river below. He walked even closer to your horse than before, so near you could feel the warmth of his body through your dress. His presence was a constant, solid thing, a wall of muscle and iron between you and the drop.
“You will wear yourself out, walking so,” you said.
“It is my duty.”
“It is not your duty to be tired on my account.”
He said nothing, but you felt the flex of his jaw as he clenched it.
Later, when you came to a fallen tree blocking the path, you foolishly attempted to guide your horse over it instead of waiting for him to clear the way. The horse shied, lost its footing on the slick moss, and for a terrifying moment, you were sliding sideways, heading for the embankment.
Then you were not falling.
You were in his arms.
One of his big hands was on your back, the other gripping your waist, holding you as easily as if you weighed no more than a feather. He had moved faster than you could think, stepping into the path of the horse, planting himself like an oak, and pulling you from the saddle.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the pounding of your own blood in your ears, the smell of leather and sweat and the cold river air, and the sheer, overwhelming reality of him. His face was inches from yours, his blue eyes wide with a fear that was quickly replaced by something else. Something that made your stomach clench.
“Are you hurt, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
You shook your head, unable to speak.
He set you down as if you were precious porcelain, taking a quick step back, his cheeks flushed. “Begging your pardon.”
“Don’t,” you said, your voice unsteady. “Don’t apologize for saving me.”
“I should have cleared the path sooner. I was not thinking.”
“You were thinking of my safety. That is enough.”
He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “The ground is uneven here. It would be better if you walked, Your Grace. I will lead the horse.”
You wanted to protest, to say you were not some delicate flower who could not navigate a little rough terrain. But you looked at the steep drop, at the way the horse was still nervously sidestepping, and you knew he was right.
You nodded, and he offered you his arm.
His arm was like a tree trunk, solid and strong beneath your fingers. The rough wool of his tunic scratched your skin, a startlingly real sensation after years of silks and velvets. You walked behind him, your hand on his arm, your other hand clutching the reins of your horse, feeling the warmth of him seeping into you.
The silence was thick with unspoken things. You could feel the tension in him, the way he held himself rigidly, as if he were afraid of breaking.
“You have strong hands,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
He stumbled, catching himself quickly. “They are just hands, Your Grace.”
“They are more than that. They caught me.”
He stopped, turning to face you. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling his face. “It is my duty to protect you.”
“And is it your duty to blush when I thank you?”
A deep red crept up his neck, and he looked away, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Seven hells.”
You laughed, a genuine, unexpected laugh that seemed to startle him as much as it did you. “You are not like the knights at court, Ser Duncan.”
“I am not a knight at court.”
“No. You are… better.”
He looked at you then, his blue eyes searching yours, and for the first time, you saw not just a guard, but a man. A man who was lost, and lonely, and so very good. And in that moment, you felt a pull towards him, a dangerous, irresistible pull that scared you more than any wolf or embankment ever could.
You reached up and touched the scar on his jaw, your fingers tracing the rough, puckered skin. He flinched, but did not pull away.
“Where did you get this?” you asked softly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering the memory. “A fight. In Flea Bottom. I was… younger.”
“Who did you fight?”
“A man. Much bigger than me.”
You smiled. “I find that hard to believe.”
“He had a knife.”
“And you?”
“I had my fists.”
You let your fingers linger, feeling the rough texture of the scar. “You must have been very brave.”
“No,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Just stubborn.”
Your fingers stilled on his jaw. “There is a difference between the two, Ser Duncan. Bravery is knowing the danger and facing it anyway. Stubbornness is… something else. Something harder.”
He finally met your gaze fully, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw a flicker of something you hadn't seen before. Not fear, not duty, but a spark of curiosity, of genuine interest. “What is it, then?” he asked.
“You don’t care for glory,” you said, your thumb gently stroking the line of his jaw. “You don’t care for praise or recognition. You care about doing what is right, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts you. That’s not stubbornness. That’s honor.”
He swallowed hard, and you watched the movement of his throat. “My master… Ser Arlan… he said a knight’s word is his bond. His shield is for the weak. His sword is for those who cannot defend themselves.” He looked away, toward the river rushing far below. “I’m not very good with words, Your Grace. I only know how to do what he taught me.”
“You are doing it beautifully.”
He blushed again, that deep, honest red that started at his neck and crept up to the tips of his ears. It was the most endearing thing you had ever seen.
As you walked, the path became even more treacherous. The ground was loose and gravelly, and your fine leather slippers offered little purchase. You stumbled, and before you could fall, Dunk’s other arm came around you, steadying you. His grip was firm but gentle, and for a moment, you were completely enveloped by him, your back pressed against his chest, his arms circling your waist.
“I have you,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Your Grace.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild, frantic beat. You could feel the solid strength of him, the warmth of his body, the steady thrum of his own heart against your back. It was more intimate than any dance, more thrilling than any kiss.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat.
He held you for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before slowly releasing you, but he kept one hand on your arm, a reassuring presence. “We should find a place to camp soon,” he said, his voice a little rough.
The road eventually led you not back to the wild, but to the lights of a small inn, a welcome sight after days of rough travel. Its sign, a weathered depiction of a crow perched on a branch, creaked in the evening breeze. The place was called The Blackbird's Rest.
The common room was warm and smelled of roasting meat and spilled ale. Dunk, with his imposing height and worn armor, drew every eye as he led you to a corner table. He was a wolf among sheep, but he seemed unaware of his own teeth, so focused was he on you.
He pulled out a chair for you, a courtly gesture that seemed at odds with his rough exterior.
“What will you have, Your Grace?” he asked.
“Whatever is warm,” you said, a weariness settling over you that had little to do with the journey.
He ordered a simple stew and bread for you both, along with a mug of ale for himself and a cup of wine for you. As he spoke to the innkeeper, you noticed the way he held himself, straight-backed and proud, despite the dirt on his boots and the worn state of his armor.
The stew was surprisingly good, and you ate with a hunger you hadn't realized you possessed. Dunk watched you as if your enjoyment gave him some small pleasure.
“After this,” he said, when you had both finished, “I will see if there are stables for your horse, and a place for me to sleep.”
“I will have a room prepared for you,” you said, assuming it would be a simple matter.
He shook his head. “That is not necessary, Your Grace. A bed in the stables is all I need.”
“Nonsense. You have been walking for days. You deserve a proper bed.”
He looked as if he wanted to argue, but then the innkeeper’s wife, a woman with a kind face, approached your table. “Pardon me, my lord, my lady,” she said, her eyes darting between you. “It’s a busy night, what with the harvest festival in the next village. I’ve only got one room left.”
Dunk’s face fell. “And the stables?”
“Full to bursting, I’m afraid.”
He looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. “We will take the room,” you said, before he could speak.
“Are you sure, Your Grace?” he asked, once the woman had gone.
He carried your small chest of belongings up the narrow stairs himself, despite your protests that the innkeeper could do it. The room was small, with a large bed taking up most of the space, and a washstand in the corner. He set the chest down by the door, then turned to face you, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I will sleep on the floor,” he said, before you could even ask.
“Ser Duncan, there is no need-”
“There is every need, Your Grace.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. “You will take the bed.”
You sighed, knowing it was a battle you would not win. “Very well. But at least take some blankets.”
He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible dip of his head. “I will see to the horse. And wash. The stables have a pump with cold water.”
“Do not be long,” you said, the words out before you could stop them.
He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I will be as quick as I can.”
When he was gone, you opened your chest, the fine fabrics of your dresses a stark contrast to the rough-hewn wood of the room. You chose a simple nightgown of soft linen, then a maid from the inn arrived with a large tub of steaming water, which she placed on the floor near the fire.
“My lady,” she said, curtsying. “My lady sent me up to help you.”
You thanked her, and soon you were sinking into the hot water, the steam rising around you in fragrant clouds. The heat seeped into your tired muscles, and you sighed, closing your eyes.
The maid began to wash your hair, her fingers working through the long, silver-gold strands. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the room, a luxury after days on the road. You let your mind drift, thoughts of your father, the Dornish prince, and the life you had left behind fading into a pleasant haze.
It was then that the door creaked open.
You opened your eyes, and through the steam, you saw him.
Ser Duncan the Tall, standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from his wash at the pump, his face clean for the first time since you’d met him. He had changed into a simple tunic and breeches, the worn fabric clinging to the powerful lines of his body.
And he was staring at you.
Not with the lustful gaze of a courtier, but with a kind of wide-eyed, breathless awe. As if he had stumbled upon a goddess bathing in a sacred pool.
Your own breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still, to meet his gaze without flinching. There was something in his eyes; something raw and utterly captivating.
“Thank you,” you said to the maid, your voice surprisingly steady. “You may go.”
The maid curtsied, her eyes darting between you and the knight, and then she scurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
You and Dunk were alone.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The steam rose from the water, cloaking you in a veil of white.
“Your Grace,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “I… I did not mean to intrude. I thought you would be… dressed.”
He didn't move, though. He stood there, a statue of a man, trapped between the desire to flee and the overwhelming need to look.
“I am not dressed,” you said, a hint of amusement in your tone.
A deep red crept up his neck, but he still didn't turn away. “I should go.”
“Stay.”
The word was a whisper, but it was a command nonetheless.
He swallowed hard, the movement of his throat a testament to his struggle. “It would not be proper.”
“Nothing about this journey has been proper,” you countered, your voice gaining strength. “You have saved my life, carried my burdens, and walked for miles to keep me safe. I think you have earned the right to stay.”
He looked down at the floor, at the rough wooden planks, as if they might offer him an escape. “Your Grace… a man should not see a princess… like this.”
“Then don't look at a princess,” you said, your voice softening. “Look at me.”
He looked up then, and the raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes stole your breath. He looked at you as if you were the only woman in the world, as if you were water to a man dying of thirst.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he took a step forward.
He didn't come close enough to touch you, but he was no longer in the doorway. He was in the room with you, a part of this private, intimate space. The air crackled with a tension that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
You watched him, your heart pounding in your chest. You saw the way his hands clenched at his sides, the way his breathing grew shallow.
The water sloshed gently against your skin as you shifted, turning your back to him slightly. The motion was small, but it felt monumental. You were offering him your trust.
“Ser Duncan,” you said, your voice soft, “would you… would you finish washing my hair? The maid left before she was done.”
For a moment, he didn't move. You could see the struggle on his face, the war between what was proper and what was suddenly, terrifyingly possible.
“Your Grace…” he began, his voice rough.
“You promised to obey,” you reminded him, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “That is not the kind of obedience I meant.”
“I know,” you said, your tone gentle. “But I am asking you. As a woman, not a princess. Please?”
He looked at you for a long, silent moment, and then, slowly, he nodded.
He knelt by the tub, his large frame folding with grace. His knees sank into the rough wooden floor, and you could feel the warmth of the fire radiating from him. He dipped his hands into the water, then hesitated, his fingers hovering just above your hair.
“You have beautiful hair, Your Grace,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“And you have gentle hands, Ser Duncan,” you replied, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers finally made contact with your scalp.
His touch was surprisingly light, almost hesitant. He had the hands of a warrior, calloused and strong, but he handled you as if you were the most precious thing. He worked the soap into a lather, his fingers massaging your scalp in a way that made you want to lean back into his touch, to lose yourself in the sensation.
“You are not looking at me,” you said, your eyes closed.
“I am,” he said, his voice strained. “I am looking at your hair.”
“Look at me, Duncan.”
He paused, his hands still in your hair. The use of his name, without the honorific, hung in the air between you, a bridge you had just crossed, and there was no going back.
Slowly, he raised his eyes.
He looked at you, really looked at you, and the world seemed to shrink to the small space between you. The fire crackled, the water lapped against your skin, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw a reflection of yourself that you had never seen before.
“Why did you refuse the prince from Dorne?” he asked, his fingers resuming their work in your hair.
“The same reason I refused the lord from the Reach, and the prince from the North,” you said, your voice soft. “They wanted a princess. Not a person.”
“What is the difference?”
“A princess is a prize. A thing to be won, to be displayed on a lord’s arm. A person has thoughts, and fears, and dreams of her own.”
“And what are your dreams, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice so low you could barely hear it.
“Call me by my name,” you said, turning your head slightly to look at him. “And maybe I will tell you.”
He swallowed hard, the movement of his throat a testament to his struggle.
You told him, and he repeated it, as if testing the shape of it on his tongue. It sounded different when he said it. Not like a name, but like a prayer.
He rinsed your hair, the water cascading down your back, warm and clean. Then he picked up a towel, and with a gentleness that brought tears to your eyes, he began to dry your hair, his hands moving with a care that spoke volumes.
“My dream,” you said “is of a life where I am not a prize. Where I am loved for who I am, not what I am.”
He stopped, the towel still in his hands. “Any man would be a fool not to love you, Your…,” he started, then corrected himself. “Any man would be a fool not to love you.”
“Would you?” you asked, the question hanging in the air between you, a challenge and a plea.
“I…,” he began, then stopped, as if the words were too heavy to speak. He simply looked at you, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw an answer that was more honest than any words could ever be.
Your fingers tightened around the rough edge of the soap as you held it out to him. His gaze dropped from your face to the offering in your hand, then back again.
"Wash my back, Duncan," you said, your voice a breathy whisper.
He took the soap, his calloused fingers brushing against yours. The touch sent a shiver through you, a current that traveled up your arm and down your spine. He knelt again, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and you leaned forward, presenting your back to him.
His hands were hesitant at first, tracing the curve of your spine with a gentleness that belied their strength. Then, lathering the soap, he began to wash you. His touch was firm yet reverent, as if he were touching something sacred. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the water, the slight roughness against your skin. It was intoxicating.
You leaned into his touch, a soft sigh escaping your lips. You could feel the tension radiating from him, a palpable thing that filled the small room. You knew this was as hard for him as it was for you.
"Have you been with many women, Duncan?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
His hands stilled on your back. "No, Your Grace," he said, his voice strained.
"I told you to call me by my name," you said, turning your head to look at him.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "No," he said, meeting your gaze. "I have not."
"Why not?"
"Knighthood… it's a vow. Not just to a lord, but to something more. Something higher. I have tried to live by that vow."
"And this?" you asked, your gaze drifting down to where he knelt. "Does this break your vow?"
He followed your gaze, and you saw the unmistakable evidence of his desire, a hard ridge straining against the fabric of his breeches. He blushed, a deep, mortified red.
"Your Grace… I am sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I cannot control… I am only a man."
"I know," you said, your voice soft. "And I am only a woman. Not a princess. Not a prize. Just a woman, in a tub, with a man she desires."
His eyes widened, and you knew your words had struck him with the force of a physical blow. He looked at you as if he were seeing you for the first time, not as a responsibility, but as a woman.
He finished washing your back, his hands moving with a new urgency, a new purpose. Then he stood up, the water dripping from his hands onto the floor.
"I should go," he said, his back to you.
"Don't."
He turned, and the look on his face was one of such raw, unadulterated longing that it made your breath catch.
"I am not good enough for you," he said, the words ripped from the depths of his soul. "I am a hedge knight from Flea Bottom. I have nothing to offer you but my sword, my shield, and my life. You deserve… you deserve better."
"You are the best man I have ever known," you said, your voice unwavering. "And that is all I have ever wanted."
He looked at you, a storm of emotions warring in his eyes. "You don't know what you're asking."
"Yes, I do," you said, rising from the tub, the water streaming from your body. "I am asking you to see me. Not as your duty, but as your equal. As your desire."
You stood before him, naked and unashamed, a goddess of fire. And he looked at you, and in that moment, you knew he saw you. Truly saw you.
He took a step toward you, then another, until he was standing before you, a towering monument of a man. He raised his hand, as if to touch your face, then let it fall to his side.
"Your…," he began, then stopped, the word catching in his throat.
You reached up and took his hand, placing it on your cheek. His skin was rough and warm, a startlingly real sensation. You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, and you felt him shudder.
"Dunk," you whispered.
He leaned down, his face inches from yours. You could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the clean scent of him, the faint trace of soap. His blue eyes were dark with a desire.
"May I?" he asked, his voice a rough whisper.
You answered him by closing the small distance between you, pressing your lips against his.
His lips were surprisingly soft, hesitant at first, then more demanding. It was a kiss of a thousand unspoken words, of repressed desires and a desperate, aching need. It was the kiss of a princess who had never been truly kissed, and of a hedge knight who had never allowed himself to truly love.
You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp brown hair. He was so warm, so solid, so real. You could feel the hard planes of his chest against your breasts, the rough fabric of his tunic growing damp with the water from your skin. He was so tall, you had to stand on your toes, and as he sensed your struggle, he lifted you, his hands cupping your bottom, pulling you flush against him.
You gasped into his mouth at the sudden contact, at the feel of his hard length pressing against your belly. He was huge, a powerful, virile man in the prime of his life, and the evidence of his desire was both thrilling and a little terrifying.
He carried you to the bed, never breaking the kiss. He laid you down on the soft linens, then stretched out beside you, propping himself up on an elbow to look at you.
"You are so beautiful," he said, his voice a whisper. He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, then the hollow of your throat.
The fur of the bed was a soft, warm cocoon against your naked skin. He knelt beside you, his gaze intense, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of you.
"Duncan," you said, your voice a breathy whisper.
He was a warrior, a man who had faced down death without flinching, but here, in this small room, with you, he was undone.
"I am not good enough for you," he said, his voice cracking. "You deserve a prince. A lord."
"I don't want a prince. I don't want a lord," you said, your voice unwavering. "I want you."
You reached out and took his head in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "You are good, Duncan. You are kind. You are the most honorable man I have ever known. And you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen."
He trembled under your touch, a fine shudder running through his large frame. He was completely, utterly at your mercy.
"Tell me what you want," you said, your voice soft but firm.
"You," he said, the word a choked sob. "Gods help me, I want you."
"Then have me," you said, and you pulled him up for another kiss.
This kiss was different. It was not hesitant or questioning. It was a kiss of a man finally giving in to a desire he had fought for so long. His hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts, the softness of your thighs.
You arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips. You could feel the heat building between you, a fire that threatened to consume you both.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.
Then he kissed a path down your neck, his lips trailing fire across your skin. He nipped at your collarbone, then moved lower, his mouth closing over one of your nipples.
You cried out, your back arching off the bed. He was strong, so strong, and the pleasure was almost overwhelming. He suckled you, his tongue swirling around the hard peak, sending the pleasure straight to your core.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, desperate for more. With your free hand, you fumbled with the laces of his tunic, your fingers clumsy with need. He helped you, pulling the garment over his head, and you gasped at the sight of him.
His chest was a landscape of muscle and scars, a testament to a life of hardship and violence. You reached out, your fingers tracing the jagged lines of an old wound.
"Duncan," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.
He captured your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft, lingering kiss. "It is nothing," he said, his voice rough. "They are just old hurts."
"They are a part of you," you said, your gaze unwavering. "And I want all of you."
He looked at you, a raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes. Then he kissed you again, stealing the very air from your lungs. His hands roamed your body, learning every curve, every hollow, every secret place that made you writhe beneath him.
He was a quick study. He learned the language of your body, the way you arched into his touch, the way your breath stopped when he found a particularly sensitive spot. He was a knight, and he was determined to master this new form of combat.
He moved lower, his lips and tongue tracing a path of fire down your stomach. You tangled your fingers in the fur beneath you, your hips rising to meet him, a silent plea for more. He understood.
He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. You were already so wet for him, so ready, and when his tongue finally made contact with your core, you cried out, a raw, primal sound. Pleasure.
He was surprisingly good at this, a natural. He explored you with a focused intensity, his tongue delving, swirling, and stroking. He found the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex, and when he sucked it into his mouth, your vision went white.
"Duncan," you cried, your hands fisting in his hair. "Gods, Duncan."
He doubled his efforts, his tongue working with a relentless rhythm, pushing you higher and higher, until you were teetering on the very edge of oblivion. You shattered, your body convulsing in a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful.
He didn't stop, not until you were a quiverin mess, your body limp and sated. Then he moved back up your body, his kisses hot and demanding. You could feel the desperation in him, the raw, aching need.
His breeches were still on, a final, flimsy barrier between you. You fumbled with the laces, your fingers clumsy with desire. His hips jerked against your hand, a choked gasp escaping his lips.
"Please," he groaned, the word ripped from the depths of his soul. "Please..."
You finally managed to undo the laces, and you pushed the fabric down, your hand closing around his hard length.
He was magnificent. Hot, heavy, and impossibly hard, he was a testament to raw, masculine power. He was huge, a beautiful, intimidating sight that made your core clench with anticipation.
He was panting, his chest heaving, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. He spread your legs apart with his powerful thighs, his body trembling with a need so intense it bordered on pain.
You guided him to your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he buried himself inside you.
You both cried out, a shared gasp of pleasure and relief.
He was so hot, a living flame inside you, and you couldn't stop your hands from roaming all over him. You explored the hard planes of his back, the powerful muscles of his buttocks, the crisp hair on his chest. You felt a fire building in your lower belly, an ache that only he could soothe.
He was so big, and you were so small, and the sensation of him filling you, stretching you, was almost overwhelming.
He held himself still, letting you adjust, letting your body accept him. He looked down at you, his blue eyes dark with an emotion that went beyond mere desire. It was reverence, adoration, a love so pure it made your heart ache.
"Gods," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Gods, you feel... you feel so good."
You pulled him down for a kiss, your tongue tangling with his, tasting yourself on his lips. You moved your hips, a silent invitation, and he began to move.
His thrusts were slow at first, a deep, steady rhythm that built the fire in your belly until it was a roaring inferno. He watched your face, learning what you liked, what made you gasp, what made you cry out his name.
"Dunk" you moaned, your fingers digging into his back. "Please... harder..."
He obliged, his movements becoming more forceful, more demanding. He was a powerful man, and he was using every ounce of that power to pleasure you. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal rhythm that spoke of a need as old as time itself.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting all of him. He was so big, so strong, and the feel of him moving inside you was the only thing you needed.
You shifted, rolling him onto his back without breaking your connection. He looked up at you, a moan of surprise escaping his lips, but he went willingly, a knight yielding to his queen.
You sat up, straddling his hips, and the change in angle sent another jolt of pleasure through you. You began to move, a slow, sensuous rhythm that made his eyes roll back in his head.
"Gods," he groaned, his hands finding your hips, his grip tight. "Gods, you are... you are magnificent."
You rode him, your body undulating, your silver-gold hair cascading over your shoulders. You were in control now, a goddess of fire and moonlight, and he was your willing worshipper.
He watched you with a mixture of awe and adoration. He reached up, his hands covering yours where they rested on his chest.
"I am your knight," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Till the day I die. I am at your service... and at your mercy."
"Then show me," you said, your voice a breathy moan. "Show me how a knight serves his princess."
He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips hot against your skin.
"With my life," he breathed, his hips rising to meet yours. "With my sword... with my shield... with everything I am... I am sworn to you."
He kissed you, a deep, possessive kiss that claimed you as surely as any vow. His hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, thumbing your nipples, pleasure spreading through your core.
You rode him harder, faster, the fire in your belly building to an unbearable crescendo. You were so close, teetering on the very edge of oblivion, and you knew he was too.
He could feel it too. He could feel the tightening of your body, the desperate flutter of your heart. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close, and with a final, powerful thrust, he sent you over the edge.
You shattered, a scream of ecstasy tearing from your throat. Your body convulsed, wave after wave of pleasure washing over you, leaving you breathless.
He followed you moments later, a deep, guttural groan ripped from the depths of his soul. He held you tight, as he poured himself into you, a silent offering.
For a long while, you lay tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breathing ragged. He was still inside you, a warm, heavy presence that was both comforting and deeply intimate.
You shifted, trying to move off him, but his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Stay," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Just for a little while."
You relaxed against him, your head pillowed on his chest. You could hear the reassuring beat of his heart, a rhythm that soothed your frayed nerves. The fur beneath you was a soft, warm cocoon, the fire in the hearth a low, crackling glow.
This was peace. This was what you had been searching for your whole life.
You drifted off to sleep, feeling warmth in his arms, a contented sigh escaping your lips. He watched you, a faint smile on his face, as you slept. He had never felt so... whole.
He knew this was a dream, a fleeting moment of happiness in a world that was determined to tear him apart.
But for now, in this small room, in this inn, with you in his arms, he was the luckiest man in the world.
Author’s Note:
Hiiii! I was honestly scared I’d lost my ability to write, but I sat down today and this came out. It’s a little rough around the edges, but I’m just so happy to be here, putting words into the world again. Thanks for reading. ❤️🔥
Summary:In the shadowed halls of King’s Landing, love does not bloom freely—it lingers, forbidden and unspoken. Torn between duty to the realm and desire that cannot be named, two cousins find themselves bound in a devotion that threatens to undo them both.
Author’s note:This is my FIRST attempt at writing smut, so any inaccuracies or awkward phrasing are due to inexperience and writing in a non-native language. I appreciate your understanding.
WARNINGS:+18, smut, incestuous relationship (cousins), consensual but socially forbidden relationship, Targcest, political marriage themes, emotional distress, angst, jealousy, possessive love, explicit sexual language, oral sex, unprotected sex, rubbing, dirty talk.
When news of your birth spread across the realm, it was met with both shock and reluctant joy. Many had believed that Aerys had not even consummated his wedding night, so the arrival of a child had taken everyone by surprise.
Of course, some continued to whisper. Rumors spread that you were a bastard—that Aelinor had taken a vow-breaking knight or lord into her bed. The gossip grew and lingered… until your hair began to grow.
The gods may have given you your mother’s eyes, but your hair… your hair was unmistakably Targaryen silver. And yet, a few soft strands of brown—your mother’s—still wove through it, quietly refusing to disappear.
Despite everything, the lords of the realm had always loved such talk. Clearly. It never truly stopped—but you learned to stop listening.
One of the biggest reasons for that was Valarr.
Your cousin, a year older than you, had been by your side for as long as you could remember, especially when it came to this. He had always been a quiet anchor for you. Since your father Aerys resided in King’s Landing, you spent most of your days with your uncles Baelor and Rhaegel’s family—unfortunately, your uncle Maekar was far away. Being in Summerhall felt both comforting and isolating.
The good part was being away from Aerion. His unsettling attention, his whispers of “we must unite our dragon blood, cousin”—being free of those was a relief.
The bad part was missing your other cousins. You had different dynamics with each of them, but none were monsters like Aerion—and for you, that was enough.
Maekar was a different matter. There was no hatred, but like your father, he could sometimes ignore your presence. Then again… who did Maekar truly get along with? With whom was he ever at ease?
Still, you knew he cared for you in his own way. As much as he cared for your father.
In the suffocating air of King’s Landing, the greatest source of comfort you found was Valarr. Over the years, the two of you built something quiet… something hidden.
At first, you were just children—just cousins.
But as the years passed, especially in adolescence… feelings began to take shape, undeniable and real.
Valarr, like you, had reached the age of marriage—though by Westerosi standards, both of you were considered slightly late.
Suitors for Valarr were considered more quickly, yet more carefully. He was the heir to the heir, after all.
You, on the other hand… you could wait. A few more years would not matter. Eventually, the right match would present itself for political reasons.
In recent years, your father Aerys had begun to neglect you just as he had your mother, paying you little attention within the keep.
Though, at times, you still drew notice—especially when it came to your closeness with Valarr. After all, this city, reeking as it was, had a tongue that never tired of speaking.
You both knew what this was.
It was obvious.
And what you chose to hide, you kept alive behind closed doors—through fleeting touches, quiet kisses.
Valarr was an honorable young man.
But in the end, he was still a man.
And you were the only thing that disrupted the rhythm of his heart. How could he stay away from you—from your scent?
He was not cruel—he was gentle, a trait he clearly took from Baelor. But Valarr was still a prince of the realm. The heir to the heir… a Targaryen. Inevitably, there was pride in him. A certain arrogance. A touch of recklessness—not born of malice.
He carried a quiet indulgence within himself. Even if he appeared modest in the way his position demanded, it was impossible for someone like him not to be a little spoiled. Not in the way he crushed others—but in the way he held his own worth higher.
With the fire of youth running through his veins, how could he ever truly stop touching you?
Of course, he would never go so far as to dishonor you.
Never.
But he never denied himself entirely, either.
On the other hand, you were the more active one between the two of you. You were far from plain. Yours was a real kind of beauty. Striking, in its own way—and for Valarr, that was more than enough.
What drew him in was your boldness—your willingness. Or perhaps it was simply the recklessness of youth. Where the marriages within your family were cold and distant… yours burned with something far more alive.
Not in a way the septas would merely frown upon—but in a way far more sinful.
For him.
And that hunger only grew stronger, fed by touches that never quite crossed the line—but lingered close enough to make it unbearable.
You were in the solar chambers. Together with your younger cousin, Aelora, you worked on needlecraft while exchanging small, quiet conversations. Today, her twin Aelor—who rarely left her side—was absent. The boy was in lessons, being taught the history of the realm.
Though you had grown accustomed to Aelora’s quiet nature, at times it still unsettled you. Unlike her father Rhaegel, she showed no clear signs of madness—yet there was still something… peculiar about her. Just like her twin.
Her golden-silver hair shimmered under the midday sun, while you chose to remain seated in the shaded alcove. The summer heat was already warming your skin unbearably, and even with the windows open, the air that seeped inside remained heavy and warm—despite how high up you were.
“Are you interested in Valarr?”
The question broke the peaceful silence so suddenly that you nearly pricked your thumb with the needle. You managed to stop yourself at the last second.
You lifted your head to look at the girl, ready to scold her—because this was not something to be spoken of so freely.
But when you met Aelora’s soft, delicate features, you didn’t.
She was only a child.
You steadied the flicker of unease within you and spoke carefully, your tone firm yet not frightening.
“I do not know what you mean, cousin… but you should not speak of such things so openly. The wrong people could twist such words to their advantage in dangerous ways.”
Aelora slowly smiled, that gentle expression settling on her face. She set aside the small floral embroidery in her hands.
“I heard my Handmaid's speaking… some of them said you and Valarr cannot keep from looking at one another… like two lovers.” She hesitated slightly. “Still, if I’ve upset you, I am sorry… I was only curious.”
A knot tightened low in your stomach.
Not because of being paired with Valarr—nor being called lovers.
But because it had become so obvious that servants could speak of it so freely.
When had it become this loud?
When had it grown this careless?
Still, your anger was not for her. Your composure did not falter.
“People talk, Aelora. They enjoy inventing stories about us—about our family. Soon, when you come of age, they will speak of you as well. So you must learn not to listen… or rather, to listen without letting it guide you into recklessness.” You paused, lowering your gaze back to your work.
“They are only rumors.”
You softened slightly as you added,
“And you need not apologize to me, sweet cousin.”
The girl fell quiet for a moment—but eventually, she spoke again. This time, the same question… in a different form.
“And what about Aerion…? It is known that he is interested in you…”
Though she asked it innocently, the moment you heard his name, the needle finally pierced your skin.
“Ah—”
It was a small sting, but the discomfort that spread through you had little to do with it. You brought your finger to your lips, drawing in the small bead of blood.
Aelora looked at you with wide, apologetic indigo/violet eyes, clearly regretting her question.
You slowly pulled your finger away from your mouth.
“I have no interest in him.”
You did not use his name.
Not cousin. Not Aerion.
Not even prince.
He was nothing to you.
“Not now… nor ever.”
The words left you like a vow—one that felt as though it might reach the gods themselves.
Later in the day, before supper, you made your way to the library. You enjoyed reading beautiful stories—small things to stir the quiet excitement of the young woman within you. You were a romantic, but a realistic one. You preferred love stories written with sorrow… or the lost ones within your own history. The ones that had slipped away.
Every second spent in that silence was a clear, steady kind of peace. Of your family, only your father came here often—but you had memorized the hours he did not, which gave you more chances to be alone.
Of course, you had a prince who knew your habits just as well.
Your dearest Valarr.
Unable to see you throughout the day, he had come here in the hope of finding you alone, if only for a moment. Your seat faced away from the door, yet the rhythm of his steps—and the way his scent quietly filled the room—told you exactly who it was.
You lifted your head from the book resting in your lap and turned toward him, just to see him as he always was—effortlessly striking. That smile, the one he gave to no one but you, rested on his lips.
He dipped his head in greeting, hands clasped before him, every movement measured with princely decorum.
“My princess…” he greeted softly.
He always did this. Whether in public or alone, he remained formal. Even when he used your name, he never failed to place your title before or after it, preserving the distance.
Because his respect was real—and because he refused to give others reason to think otherwise.
To him, you were not simply a cousin. You had not grown as siblings, and you were not siblings.
You were his princess.
But behind closed doors—only at night—you were his. And he was yours. In those moments, Valarr would abandon titles altogether, speaking only your name as he gave you everything you desired.
You inclined your head in return, mirroring him.
“My prince…”
You closed the book slowly but did not rise. Though his presence stirred something deep within you, you hid it just as skillfully as he did.
How easy it would have been to kiss him now…
“You should not sit with your back to the door. I do not know how many times I must remind you—but in dangerous situations, you may need to protect yourself, princess.”
His tone carried the same authority you might have heard from uncle Baelor, yet there was unmistakable mischief in his expression.
He stepped closer—but never crossed into your space. Each step tightened something in your chest, and you swallowed quietly. He noticed, and his smile deepened.
“Do not worry. Next time, I shall follow your command, Prince Valarr.” You spoke his name with the slightest shift in tone. Though he did not favor the hierarchy in your words, he did not dwell on it.
“You know I do not like giving orders to ladies… it is merely a suggestion. If the realm were to lose a princess such as yourself, it might collapse.”
The realm—or him?
“Why are you here?” you asked, brushing past his small attempt at flirtation—though you already knew.
Valarr let out a quiet breath and moved to sit in the nearby chair. His posture was as elegant as ever as he turned toward you, meeting your gaze with those mismatched eyes.
He was not here as he had been before.
This time, it was something heavier.
He remained silent for a few moments, simply looking at you—as if trying to take you in.
“A few names have been considered,” he said at last, carefully steadying his voice. By names, he meant suitors. For him. The inevitable.
A sharp discomfort settled deep within you. You looked away, focusing instead on the cover of your book. Your fingers pressed lightly against its firm surface as your heart quickened—not with love this time, but with a quiet, growing sorrow.
“And who are the fortunate ones?” you asked, your tone low—your interest hollow, almost ironic.
Valarr knew what you felt. He felt it too. Their grandfather, King Daeron II, had always kept his distance from such unions, intent on binding each of his grandchildren to different houses.
“One is from Tyrosh… the others from Houses Blackwood and Tyrell.”
He did not give you their names. He knew they would linger in your mind, disturb you in ways neither of you could bear.
As your thumb traced the edge of the book’s cover, your gaze drifted to the faint mark on your finger—the small wound from earlier. Unease settled deeper into your chest. You were about to speak—
“—May I come tonight?”
The question came too quickly, too openly. You lifted your head at once, your brows knitting as you looked at him, almost scolding. Regret flashed across his face immediately. He swallowed and looked away.
The burdens of the realm weighed on him as heavily as they did on you. He only needed a moment of peace.
“If it please you, should you have the time, I would be honored to join you for your evening readings, my princess. We might… discuss the affairs of the realm, if it suits you.”
Of course, that was not what he meant.
You were angry with him. Angry at this cursed order that would never allow you to marry him. The unrest and sorrow within you turned, unfairly, toward him—even though it was never his choice.
And yet, when he looked at you again—softly, carefully—you faltered. The prince held far too much power over you.
“I am free this evening for readings.” you said, your tone composed and formal. “But I do not feel steady enough to discuss matters of the realm.”
Having received the answer he wanted, Valarr seemed, for a moment, to forget the names prepared for him. That beautiful smile returned to his face.
In moments like these, you were both so defenseless. So helpless—for one another.
You wished that fragile, electric moment might last—but the door suddenly opened, cutting through it. Like two children caught doing something forbidden, you both startled and turned toward the sound.
A servant.
She had likely come to clean.
The moment she saw you, she bowed quickly.
“M—my apologies, my prince, my princess… I thought the room was empty. I will leave at once.”
You rose before she could go, the heavy book still held in both hands. You faced the middle-aged woman calmly.
“It is no matter. We were just leaving,” you said evenly.
“You may continue your work.”
Though irritation stirred within you at the interruption—and a single glance at Valarr told you he felt the same—you did not direct it at her.
She was only doing her duty.
“Prince Valarr,” you said, inclining your head in farewell.
He returned the gesture with the same measured respect.
You were uneasy because of the whispers spreading through the court. Valarr’s upcoming marriage only made it worse, and for a brief moment, you felt small again—like a child caught in something far too large for her to understand. After Valarr, it would be your turn. They would look at you the same way. You would one day watch the man you loved belong to someone else, just as you would be expected to do the same to him. A life sealed inside a golden cage, always close enough to see, never close enough to hold.
In times like these, your mother had always been the only place you could fall apart.
She never asked for explanations. She never needed them. Aelinor would simply pull you close, fingers moving through your hair with a steady, absent kindness that somehow made everything inside you loosen at once. She was your mother—there was nothing more complicated than that, and nothing more certain.
That night, before sleep, you had gone to her.
Your father, Aerys and your mother did not share a room, and so hers had always felt like something separate from the rest of the Red Keep—quieter, dimmer, untouched by the weight of the court. A place where sound softened before it could reach you.
She had just finished her evening prayers when you came in. Without a word, you lowered yourself at her feet and rested your head in her lap.
Aelinor did not react in surprise. She only shifted slightly, making room for you, and resumed her gentle strokes through your hair, humming under her breath—old lullabies that weren’t meant to impress anyone, only to soothe. Outside the window, the day’s heat was finally giving way to a thin, cool breeze that brushed against your skin like relief.
And then it hit you all at once.
It always did, with her.
Something inside you gave way—quiet, inevitable. A tear slipped free before you could stop it, then another. You didn’t sob, you didn’t break in any loud way; you just… fell apart in silence, staining her dress as if even your grief refused to make noise.
Only when it became impossible to hide did you finally look up.
She looked exhausted too. Not distant, not absent—just worn in the way women become when they carry too much for too long and still choose gentleness anyway.
In a strange way, you were both grieving love. Just not in the same shape.
Yours still had a name you could hold onto.
Hers had long since turned into something quieter, heavier.
At least you had Valarr.
And yet—
What did she have left of hers?
An arranged marriage she had tried, in her own way, to survive. A husband who had given her little warmth, and even less attention. And still, somehow, life had allowed her one fragile mercy: you.
The only thing she could truly call hers.
Her hand moved to your cheek, wiping away your tears with a tenderness that felt almost practiced—like she had done it so many times she no longer needed to think.
“No tear in those beautiful eyes is worth this world,” she said softly.
Her thumb lingered just a moment too long, as if she could press the pain out of you by force of will alone.
“One day, what hurts you now will close over. It will become something you can touch without bleeding.”
A pause.
“And then it will only be a scar.”
Not gone. Never gone. Just… bearable.
Your voice trembled before you could stop it.
“What if it doesn’t close?”
For the first time, something like a tired sadness crossed her face—not for you alone, but for everything she already knew about life and what it takes and what it refuses to give back.
Then, after a beat. “In the end, there will always be another wound waiting for us, my dear… until all that remains is a quiet pain, a grief that has been slowly forgotten.”
By us, she meant women. Not just you. Not just herself.
All of you—born into roles where love was never allowed to be simple, only survivable.
You didn’t answer.
You just turned your face into her dress again, breathing in the only kind of safety that had ever truly been offered to you.
And Aelinor held you there—wordless now, steady, as if silence itself could be a form of protection.
Your gaze moved restlessly between your untouched bed and the door. A knight stood guard outside, and Valarr—who knew the rhythm of the shift changes by heart—would slip inside during those brief moments of quiet. You wore a thin nightgown, light enough for the summer heat, and you hadn’t bothered with a robe. Perhaps you hadn’t thought of it… or perhaps you wanted him to see you like this, your body only faintly hidden beneath the fabric. Your handmaid had brushed your hair and left it loose at your request. Valarr loved your hair—loved to run his fingers through it, to tug at it gently as he kissed you. And you loved his as well, especially that silvery streak threading through his light brown locks.
Even with the anticipation coiling in your chest, the weight of the day lingered faintly, dulling the sharp edge of your excitement. You were his only in stolen moments—brief, fleeting moments—and the thought of what that meant, of what would come one day, pressed uncomfortably at the back of your mind. That another woman might stand where you could not.
The thought barely had time to settle before he arrived.
As always, he knocked softly before entering—a quiet courtesy that never failed. You rose quickly, your bare feet meeting the cool stone floor, and opened the door just enough to let him slip inside before locking it again. When you turned back, he was already there, standing a few steps away, still in his clothes, breath uneven as his eyes found you.
There was no mistaking the look in them.
Longing. Hunger. Something deeper that neither of you dared name too easily.
He never rushed you. Never closed the distance all at once. His restraint only made everything feel sharper, heavier. You, however, were less patient. You stepped toward him, drawn in by the way his gaze seemed to take you in completely, as if he could memorize you in a single breath. You stopped just in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth of him, tilting your head back slightly to meet his eyes. The intensity there was almost overwhelming, something fierce and consuming, like fire waiting just beneath the surface.
“I spent the whole week counting the seconds, my love,” he murmured at last, his voice softer than usual, touched with something fragile beneath the desire. His gaze moved over you slowly before returning to your eyes. “You look… unbearable like this. I don’t know how much longer I can endure it.”
Neither of you moved closer. Not yet. The tension stretched between you, almost deliberate, something you both seemed to savor even as it bordered on painful.
“Sometimes,” he continued, his voice lowering as he leaned in just slightly, still not touching, “I want to pull you close in the middle of a feast and kiss you in front of everyone. I imagine it more often than I should.” A faint breath brushed against your lips as he hovered there. “I hold myself back, though it takes more strength than I care to admit.”
He shifted closer, his nose grazing yours without quite touching, his presence overwhelming in its closeness. “And sometimes...” he added more quietly, “I think about what’s beneath those dresses… and how much I want to know it again.”
Your breath caught as he moved, slow and deliberate, until his lips hovered near your ear. “Tell me,” he whispered, “how many nights have I held you, wanting more?”
“It’s been three years,” you answered, the words leaving you almost automatically.
A quiet breath escaped him. “And still… I can’t get enough of you.”
This time, he touched you. Lightly at first—his hand finding your waist, then sliding to your ass, drawing you closer as his lips brushed against your ear. The contact sent a clear reaction through your body, your hands rising instinctively to the back of his neck as you leaned into him, closing the last of the distance between you.
“You undo me,” he murmured, his voice softer now, roughened at the edges. “Even if I had you completely… I don’t think it would ever be enough.”
You whispered his name—just Valarr, without title—and the effect was immediate. His hold on you tightened, his face pressing closer to your neck as if the sound itself had undone whatever restraint he had left.
“My love,” he breathed, almost pleading now, “tell me what you want tonight. Tell me how to make you happy.”
A faint smile touched your lips despite everything, despite the weight of the day still lingering somewhere far behind you. For this moment, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.
“I want you closer,” you said quietly, leaning in so your lips brushed near his ear. “I want to feel you… even if you don’t go all the way. Just stay there. I just want all of you"
The words clearly stirred something deeper in him, something immediate and sharp, yet he held himself back, his restraint still intact even as his grip on you tightened slightly.
“Not yet,” he whispered, his voice low and steady despite the tension beneath it. “Let me take care of you first.”
And you didn’t argue.
You couldn’t.
The moment you accepted it, he didn’t hesitate—he pulled you into his arms and carried you straight to the bed, urgency in his movements but care in the way he laid you down, as if even in desire he couldn’t bring himself to be anything less than gentle with you. He barely took the time to kick off his boots before his lips found yours, one hand sliding behind your head to keep you there while the other cradled your face, holding you in place as if you might slip away.
Settling between your legs, he shifted his weight carefully, close enough for you to feel him, but never enough to overwhelm you, and the kiss that followed was immediate, deep, breathless—so consuming that you didn’t even notice the strength in his grip as his fingers tightened around you.
There was no practiced ease in the way you moved together, no learned rhythm from elsewhere—everything between you had been discovered slowly, together, built through stolen moments and quiet curiosity.
Valarr had never sought out other women, never lost himself in passing touch or empty affection, and you had never given your attention to anyone but him, so every kiss, every brush of skin carried a weight that made it feel new every time.
He knew you now—knew how you responded, how you softened, how to pull those quiet sounds from you—and you gave him everything in return, more than he ever asked for, more than he even seemed to expect.
Between kisses, he pressed himself against you through the thin fabric of your nightgown, a reminder that lingered there, insistent and warm, and when he murmured “I love you.” against your lips, the words came out broken, almost lost in the rhythm of his breathing.
You wanted to answer, but he didn’t give you the space to speak, so instead you answered with your hands, letting them move from his arms to his shoulders, then up into his hair, your fingers threading through the soft strands as you held him closer, and the reaction it drew from him was immediate, a quiet shudder that only deepened the way he kissed you.
His thumb traced your cheek slowly, almost absentmindedly, while the kiss grew heavier, wetter, mirroring the warmth building between your legs, and when you finally drew your lip between your teeth before meeting him again, he let out a low sound against your mouth, something caught between restraint and want.
Time pressed in around you, unspoken but understood, eventually he pulled away, though only just, your noses brushing, his forehead resting against yours as both of you tried to steady your breathing.
“Seven hells…” he murmured, voice rough and quiet, “I could die like this—with your lips on mine.”
A small smile broke through despite everything. “For someone who insists I keep you alive,” you whispered, “you speak of death far too easily.”
That earned a soft, fleeting laugh, but it faded as his hand slid beneath your nightgown, fingers brushing along your thigh with slow intention, his gaze lifting to yours.
“Maybe I want both of them to come from you." he said quietly, almost as if the thought had surprised even him. The words settled deeper than they should have.
“Valarr…” you breathed, but it came out weaker than you meant it to, because there was truth in it that hurt—truth in the way these moments could feel like everything and still not be enough.
He saw it, of course he did, and instead of answering, he kissed you again, softer this time, less desperate, as if trying to take that weight from you before it could grow. “Don’t think,” he murmured against your skin as his lips drifted from yours to your jaw. “Just feel.”
And for a moment, you did.
His mouth moved lower, slower, along your neck, behind your ear, every touch careful, measured, leaving no mark even as he lingered in all the places that made you soften for him, as if even now he was holding something back—not his want, never that, but the part of him that refused to let you be hurt by what this was.
You let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet safety of the room where the world outside didn’t exist, where the weight of everything waiting beyond those walls couldn’t reach you.
Because out there, nothing was simple.
But here, with him—
it felt like it could be.
As he slowly moved down from your collarbones, his lips reached your soft, curvy breasts through your nightgown and he sucked tightly, wetting the delicate fabric with his lips. With his other hand, he kneaded your other breast gently, focused entirely on pleasing you.
You simply held onto that feeling for a while, letting your beloved cousin drown you in love inside your locked room in the castle, where the weight of politics always watched over you.
As the subtle movements of your lips continued, you slowly tilted your head and looked at him—the young man who gave you nothing but love and care.
He shifted and began to lift the hem of your nightgown. You waited for him to remove it while opening your legs slightly, making things easier for him, but he didn’t.
“It will stay,” he said in a more authoritative voice than he usually used. That tone sent a faint shiver through you. Sometimes you liked that balance in your relationship—sometimes he was dominant, sometimes you were—but the difference was that you could be stronger, you could even turn him into a little puppy.
He held his authority gently, never cruelly, though he could be firmer when you wanted. “Although seeing you like this is a gift to me, tonight I want you to feel good in this beautiful nightgown, my darling,” he added in a softer tone.
You didn’t object. On the contrary, you were glad he liked the nightgown, because you had worn it for him.
With a small smile, you spread your legs a little further and looked at him playfully, your arousal visible in the dim light of your room.
Valarr laughed softly in excitement and reached for a pillow. You lifted your hips to help him, as you always did. He placed the pillow under your lower back so you could relax more easily. Then he leaned down and began kissing your inner thigh.
“I can smell you,” he whispered against your skin.
As he moved closer to where he intended to go,
you stopped him. “All for my sweet cousin,” you said.
He paused immediately. He was lying forward, holding your ankle, his legs half hanging off the bed. He didn’t like the word cousin. And you knew that when you used it.
“You shouldn’t…” he warned in a low, serious tone, but still pressed another kiss to your inner thigh. “You don’t like this… so what should I call you? Would 'brother' be better?” You were playing with him now, knowing it would provoke him even more, since everyone around you treated you like siblings.
Valarr reacted by biting your inner thigh—not enough to hurt, but enough to be felt.
“A-ahh!” you gasped, half in pain, half in mischief, pulling his hair instinctively.
He grinned against your skin and kissed the spot he had bitten. “You know… at times, I almost don’t see the harm in calling you my sister,” he teased. “After all, we are Targaryens, aren’t we? The gods themselves are witnesses to it.”
You laughed, though something in his words made you falter for a moment, thinking of Aerion. He noticed immediately, softening again.
“Hey… stay with me, baby,” he said gently. It was so easy for him to pull you back.
As a smile slowly spread across your face, your attention was distracted once again by the interest in his eyes.
To lighten the mood, you added, “—Ah...or maybe I should call you my whore. Right now you look more like an eager brothel whore than a cousin or brother.”
That made him laugh.
“My princess,” he said warmly, “it is my duty to fulfill your desires. So go ahead… Name it as pleases you want, my love.”
And with that, he finally buried his face where he wanted.
As his warm mouth moved toward you, he began to kiss your slightly hairy outer lips with torturous softness. It always started with compassion. Without missing a beat, his hands caressed their way from your ankles to your hips. Once they settled just beneath them, he squeezed the soft flesh. Even though the light kisses around your crotch and vulva were short-lived, you didn’t care when he began using his tongue.
“I’m going to taste heaven...” You weren’t sure whether he said it to you or to himself, but his voice sounded deep.
Licking your wet cunt from your hole to your clitoris, he opened you with his tongue as if he were turning the pages of a book. Just before you could fully shudder at the touch of his hot tongue, he sucked your clit, pulling it back slightly—with clear pressure—before slowly releasing it.
“—Mhmmhh... don’t stop.” The words slipped quickly and quietly from your lips. He noticed immediately when you involuntarily lifted your hips toward him again. His grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt you, but enough to keep you from slipping away.
Valarr had never been reckless with affection. Even now, there was something so careful about the way he touched you; as if you were made of glass that might shatter under too much pressure. Every movement of his tongue was deliberate. He wasn’t rushed or frantic, but slow and indulgent.
He enjoyed the way your body reacted to his touch; every sensitive tremor told him he was doing something right. His hands squeezed your hips gently as he deepened his mouth against you—he wanted more of those beautiful sounds you made for him.
When Valarr began to eat you like a starving man, you unraveled even more. Your toes curled into the sheets while your hands tangled in his hair, pressing him closer. “Ahhh...! Seven... bless you... Val—my Val...”
You melted further with every second he played with your hole. When he pressed his nose against your clitoris, your voice thinned. In that moment, he lost himself.
As you leaned into his touch like a flower turning toward sunlight, his right hand moved slowly along the curves of your body and slipped beneath your nightgown to your left breast.
He kneaded it carefully, brushing the tip with his thumb before pressing the hardened peak between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah... yeah, just like that...” the words slipped out softly.
You were like lemon cake to him—slightly sour, but irresistibly good.
As you silently thanked the gods for his mouth returning to where it belonged after a week, you savored every second of this sinful moment. You surrendered to him completely, encouraging him with a soft, pleased murmur. “Mmhmph... keep going, Val.”
You were certain Valarr was grinning at your reaction, but in that moment, you were focused only on the pleasure his tongue gave you. He parted and rolled your inner lips with his tongue again and again, making everything wetter, before returning to the same spot—starting softly, then harder—as he sucked your clitoris.
Then he continued, leaving behind wet, breathy sounds. Lowering his head further, he pushed his tongue inside you, then sucked your inner lips tightly once more, sending a wave of pleasure through you.
With that, your back arched as you lifted from the bed, unable to stop yourself from moaning his name like a prayer.
“—Valarr!” As if sensing you slipping away, he pulled you closer with the hand on your hip. His other hand remained where it was. “Shhh... you must be quiet, my love...” he warned, his voice muffled between your thighs.
But he was devouring you, doing everything to keep you quiet. The low, masculine sounds he made only aroused you more. He felt as if tasting you like this could consume him entirely. His cock was already hard inside his trousers, but you were his priority.
He was merciless. You writhed as his tongue, with devilish softness, claimed you. You bit your lip, struggling to suppress the loud moans threatening to escape. Your gaze blurred, your head resting sideways against the sheets, shadows dancing along the walls.
“You’re so sweet...” Valarr’s muffled murmur reached you softly. He was so lost in you that he didn’t even notice the trembling of your body.
His hand on your breast slowly moved downward, gripping the sheets instead. Now both his hands held your hips firmly again, but this time he buried himself fully between your thighs. He didn’t care whether he could breathe or not.
You could feel the shape of his face against you.
He was hungry—desperately so. After tracing the edges of your inner lips with his tongue, he took them between his lips and sucked, refusing to let go. He wanted you to feel that overwhelming sensation as he pressed himself against you.
“Ahhmm... ahh... Val... please—” your voice trembled. The pleasure cut straight through you. You tried to stay quiet—so the knight at your door wouldn’t hear...
But it was impossible. The sounds of Valarr’s mouth were louder than your own voice. You were soaked, teetering on the edge. When his mouth met you again, a deep, lewd sound filled the room.
The knot in your stomach tightened further when his eyes met yours for a brief moment. Those mismatched eyes were fixed on you with unmistakable hunger—like a hunter.
You were his prey.
You weren’t sure how tight his grip was, but Valarr didn’t care—you could pull at every strand of his hair if you wanted. “Please... please...” were the only words that left your lips.
Valarr’s lower face glistened as he pulled back slightly, shifting himself to bring you to your final edge. He pressed his nose against your clitoris, then twisted his tongue toward your opening, curving it downward—and with that sensation, your eyes shut.
A sharp warning from your mind made your body jolt, and you bit your lip until it bled, trying not to cry out. The knot in your stomach slowly unraveled, yet your breath refused to steady. You surrendered to it, taking in every wave as it washed over you.
As you let yourself go, your eyes remained closed, and your grip on his hair loosened. Valarr gave you time. He could sense the exhaustion settling into your body after your release. Knowing you were still sensitive, he leaned in and placed a warm kiss against your slightly hairy outer lips before pulling back.
His kisses trailed along your lower abdomen, brushing over your nightgown as they moved up to your cleavage, while his hands slid from your hips to your upper thighs in a slow, gentle caress.
When he reached your neck, he pressed a small kiss to your earlobe. “You were beautiful, my darling...” he murmured. Another soft kiss followed. “You were so divine...” he continued, his voice low, as if wanting to soothe you further. “Your taste was so good... I felt like I could drink it from a glass every night.” The words came out a little awkwardly, but he didn’t seem to mind.
He brushed his cheek against yours, then kissed your cheeks, and the tip of your nose. You could feel the warmth of his damp skin, the softness of his lips. “Look at me, my love. Let me see those beautiful eyes,” he murmured.
Slowly, you opened your eyes and found him already looking at you with a deep, quiet calm.
His face seemed almost to glow—and it was because of you. A soft, princely smile spread across his lips as he held your gaze.
His right hand slid up to your waist, his thumb brushing over your skin, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “You were made for me.”
You wrapped yourself around him, accepting him completely. In the kiss, you wanted to taste yourself—that same sweet-and-sour flavor. His tongue filled your mouth. “Mhhm...” he let out a low, pleased sound, and you immediately felt his hard erection pressing against your stomach.
He needed you—just as much as you needed him.
As the kiss deepened, one of your hands slipped down to the drawstring of his trousers. It took you a moment to untie them, your hands still unsteady, your emotions lingering—but Valarr waited patiently, focused only on your lips.
When the ties loosened, you slipped your hand inside and wrapped your fingers around his cock, thick and curled toward his stomach, stroking it slowly in your palm. At the sudden contact, Valarr pulled his lips away. Resting his forehead against yours, he shut his eyes, let out a guttural whine. “Aghh... fuck...”
You felt his grip tighten around your waist and thigh.
You immediately brushed your nose against his cheek and, without stopping the movement of your hand, continued stroking him through the slick pre-cum. “You’re hard as a rock. It’s making me wet all over again,” you murmured playfully, letting out a half-fake moan in the tone he liked.
You wanted to push him further.
Valarr grinned despite himself at your teasing. As he pressed his forehead more firmly to yours, the hand on your leg shifted, gripping your wrist tightly to stop you. You tilted your head back slightly, looking at him in confusion.
“If you keep touching me like that, I won’t be able to hold back for long, my love...” he said, his voice strained with both frustration and desire.
Still, there was something else in his eyes—something eager. He wanted to try something different.
Pulling away, he moved to the edge of the bed and began undressing, your gaze fixed on his disheveled form. There was nothing crude in the way he did it—it was slow, deliberate, almost graceful. Exactly the way you liked to watch him.
A pleased expression lingered on his face as he shed each layer, revealing the body shaped by years of training. He could see it in your eyes—the hunger, the way your lips parted slightly.
In that moment, you hated him. For being so beautiful. For not truly being yours. In some ways, he was—but in the eyes of the gods, you were nothing more than cousins.
His cock brushed against his stomach, the tip flushed and damp with pre-cum.
“Despair doesn’t suit you,” he teased.
Then he climbed back onto the bed, bare, your hands immediately finding him again—resting against his chest, pressing gently, roaming as if you couldn’t get enough.
“There’s someone here more desperate than me,” you shot back, your gaze flicking his cock. “Like a green boy...”
Valarr leaned closer, bracing his hands beside your head, his hips deliberately held back, avoiding the contact you both wanted.
“That shouldn’t amuse you...” he murmured.
He buried his face in your neck again, drawing in your scent, before brushing his lips behind your ear in a soft kiss.
He was positioned between your legs—but still holding back.
“To control the dragon, you must guide it... not provoke it.”
You drew him closer, one hand sliding to his shoulder, the other tangling into his hair, giving a soft tug. “I’m a dragon too,” you reminded him, your lips hovering just shy of his. There was heat in your voice—something fierce.
Valarr’s answer came with a slow, wide smile. He licked his lips before speaking, his tone low and full of heat. “Then there’s no escaping this without being completely consumed by fire, my princess.”
And then he kissed you.
This time, it was harder. Deeper. Hungrier.
There was no hesitation left—only heat.
You melted into him instantly, chasing his mouth, demanding more. Your hand tightened in his hair as your bodies pressed closer, your breaths mingling between stolen pauses. The air between you grew heavy, charged, as if the world outside no longer existed.
Your tongues moved together, slow at first—then with urgency, with need—until there was nothing left but the two of you, caught in the pull of it.
Sometimes, you wondered if you were doing it right. You had never kissed anyone but him, and finding your way had been a long, uncertain journey.
But in that moment, you didn’t care. It didn’t matter. As long as it felt good—nothing else did.
Perhaps it was wrong. But what in this damn land had ever been right? So why should something as harmless as your intimacy be expected to follow the rules?
He kept kissing you—one hand tangled in your nightgown, the other brushing over your lower lip—while his hardened length, slick with pre-cum, pressed against your wetness. He guided it with his hand, dragging the tip slowly along you.
The sensation sent a sharp shiver through both of you. A soft moan slipped from your lips between kisses, but he didn’t stop. He rubbed the tip against your inner lips with a rough insistence, moving back and forth, pressing harder whenever he reached your entrance—but never pushing inside.
He couldn’t.
“Immh... a little more...” you breathed, pulling away just enough to speak, your voice unsteady.
He leaned into you again, pressing his face close, leaving damp, lingering kisses along the corners of your swollen lips as he increased the pressure—right there, at your entrance... as if he might give in.
The teasing closeness blurred your thoughts, sending mixed signals through your body. You were both aching for more.
“Gods... I wish I could,” he murmured, dragging himself up to your clit, the friction almost overwhelming. When he paused there, he pressed his hips closer still, your bodies slick, heated between you.
“If only I could cast aside my pride and truly have you,” he added, his voice lowered so only you could hear.
One of your hands slid to the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, mirroring the way he held you.
“Don’t say that...” Your voice trembled as it reached him. “We both know why you can’t.” Softer now—touched with something sad.
Regret flickered across Valarr’s face, deep and unguarded. He wanted nothing more than to make his love undeniable—despite everything.
Still, he moved against you again, firmer this time, as if trying to lose himself in the feeling. Pressing his nose to your cheek, he held your gaze.
“Ohh—I love you so much... and it’s tearing me apart, my darling.”
He pulled you back into a kiss, deeper this time, his movements below falling into a slow, aching rhythm.
He did love you.
And that was the cruelest part of it all.
Because no matter how much he might have been willing to give, there was still a line he refused to cross.
Years ago, you had almost convinced yourself you could surrender that final piece of yourself.
But he never allowed himself to consider it.
The power to truly ruin you—to take something that would cost you everything in the eyes of this merciless world—was something he could not bear.
He knew exactly what it would mean for you.
And still...
He was here.
Still touching you. Still wanting you.
Still finding ways to deceive himself.
You kissed him with the same hunger. The slick press the head of his cock along your folds made you flinch slightly, and he tightened his hold on you.
“—How perfect it would be...” he murmured, breaking the kiss for a fleeting moment, guiding the swollen, wet head of his cock toward your entrance. He dragged it there again, just to feel it—just that faint, aching pressure.
“...to belong there... to belong to you... only to you...”
The words left his lips with complete conviction, the quiet intensity in his eyes striking something deep inside him.
Your hands rose to his face, holding him firmly as your foreheads pressed together.
“You belong to me,” you whispered, as if reminding him—your voice trembling.
Valarr seemed to unravel at that, the weight of your words settling deep within him.
“Say it again.”
“You belong to me. Only to me. You belong to my heart...” you said, softer this time—more tender. But the emotion caught in your throat, stealing the rest of your breath. Even as his movements slowed, the rhythm between you only deepened.
A sharp sound left him, and he buried his face in your neck again, as if he could disappear there—stay there, forever.
You felt the steady brush of him against you, the tension between you coiling tighter with every movement. And still—whatever this was, however incomplete—it felt perfect.
Almost without thinking, you wrapped your legs loosely around his hips, drawing him closer. The contact deepened—not the same as before, not as consuming—but enough. Just knowing he was there, pressed against you, was enough to send a quiet thrill through your body.
A fragile illusion.
But it kept you alive.
Valarr’s low sounds spilled against your throat as his lips followed—kisses, then the soft pull of his mouth against your skin, sending shivers racing down your spine. His free hand rose to your lips, covering them gently—not to silence you harshly, but to soften the sounds you couldn’t hold back.
“I know... I know...” he whispered, almost helplessly, against your ear.
His hips moved faster now, more urgent. Then—just for a moment—he pressed himself more firmly against you, right at that same place, as if this time he might truly give in.
As if he could.
Your eyes shut tightly, your body arching away from the intensity as broken sounds escaped into his palm. Your hands clung to his back, nails pressing into his skin—and he didn’t stop you.
He turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple.
“You smell so good...” he murmured, breathing you in, burying his face in your hair.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me...” His voice was muffled, distant—but you barely heard it.
All that mattered was this feeling. Holding him. Being held like this.
He found your ear again, whispering your name—over and over.
As if he were trying to memorize it.
As if it were the only thing he wanted to know.
“Val... I... more—” Your voice broke against his hand as the tension inside you tightened again, sharper this time. It wasn’t enough. Not yet.
Your eyes opened, glassy, meeting his.
He pulled his hand from your lips, letting it rest instead against your cheek.
“Tell me, my love...” he said, wholly present, ready—whatever you needed.
“I just need more touch—ahhhm... please...”
For a moment, he hesitated—uncertain. Then, trying anyway, he pressed a soft kiss to your head before shifting away, lying back beside you. His hand tapped lightly against his thigh in invitation.
“Come here.”
A shiver ran through you at the quiet command.
You moved quickly, lifting the fabric of your nightgown as you swung your leg over him, straddling his hips. His cock rested against his stomach as you settled over him, your thighs bracketing his body.
His hands found your hips instantly, steadying you, while yours braced against his chest as you leaned over him—both of you caught in the same breathless pull.
You were moving against him, your soaked cunt sliding over his cock as it lay stretched along his body. Everything felt slick, almost overwhelming—and he was already on the edge. You could feel the tension in him, the way his hardness waited for you, as if it belonged there.
You pressed yourself down, moving as though he were truly inside you, finding a steady rhythm and holding onto it. Your lips stayed sealed, your moans trapped in your throat—just like the tension building inside you. It was better this way.
You had done this before—against pillows, against blankets, imagining him. But this… this was real. His skin, his warmth—it was everything.
The motion dragged against something deeper, something you couldn’t ignore, something that made your body ache for more. Still, you let yourself stay in the moment.
Your hands slipped beneath your nightgown, gliding from your hips down along your thighs, then back up again, gripping your own flesh as if grounding yourself.
“Yes… like that… you’re doing so well, darling—fuck… don’t stop… just like that…” your voice broke out louder than you intended.
You didn’t silence him the way he had silenced you—you couldn’t risk it. Instead, you leaned down, cupping his face, pulling him into you.
When your lips met again, your shared breaths, your soft cries, blurred together. You could feel everything—every subtle movement, every shift of him beneath you—the way it sent small, electric sensations through your body, making you even wetter.
You moved faster.
Your hips rolled more deliberately now, chasing the friction, angling yourself just right to feel it where you needed it most.
“Mmhmph…” was all you could manage.
Valarr.
Valarr.
Valarr.
His name echoed through your mind, the only thing that existed. Whispering it only made everything sharper, more intense. Every glide against him sent a tremor through you, making your body react in ways you couldn’t control.
When he finally pulled away from your lips, breathless, you straightened, your head falling back, eyes closed. All you could feel was him.
Soft, broken sounds left your lips as you lost yourself completely in the sensation.
Valarr was unraveling beneath you.
“My love… tell me you’re close…” His voice was strained—he needed to know. He had been holding himself back for too long.
But you barely heard him.
He understood anyway.
As you pressed your face deeper into his neck, his hand tightened on your hip, guiding you, pressing you down so the contact deepened. He moved with you now, helping, controlling the rhythm just enough to push you further.
Your skin burned with the friction, both of you teetering on the edge.
Your hand slipped between your bodies, wrapping around him, lifting slightly as you adjusted, pressing yourself down again. The added contact sent a sharp wave through both of you.
“Val—Val… I—I’m close…” you finally managed, your voice breaking as you looked at him.
Relief flickered across his face.
“Come, my love… come for me…” he urged, sitting up quickly, pulling you into him. One hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you close as his forehead rested against yours.
His voice dropped, rough, intense.
“Don’t stop… just like that… let go… let me feel you…”
He held you steady, supporting you as your body began to tremble, his other hand guiding your hips, keeping that same relentless rhythm.
“I’m—ahh… I’m coming—” you gasped, your body tightening as the sensation finally broke over you.
It hit hard.
You clung to him, pulling him close, your voice spilling into his ear as your body gave in completely.
That was all it took for him.
Valarr lost himself with you, overcome by the same intensity he had been holding back, his body finally giving in.
For a moment, neither of you could move.
You were shaking, breath uneven, overwhelmed by everything—his warmth, his scent, the lingering sensation still coursing through you.
He held you there, not letting go.
Only when your breathing began to slow did he ease you down beside him, pulling you into his arms. Your head rested against his bare chest, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his skin.
He was still catching his breath, low sounds leaving him as he held you close. One hand stroked your hair, the other drifting along your back beneath your nightgown.
“My one and only… my love…” he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to your head.
“My peace…”
It wasn’t just what had happened between you.
It was this—being like this. Together. Close.
That was what stayed.
His fingers moved gently through your hair, lingering, as if memorizing every strand. He loved it—more than he ever admitted. The silver, the softer tones beneath it—it was all yours.
You melted against him, your eyes slipping closed, your body finally relaxing. One of your legs draped over his, pulling him closer.
In that moment, everything else disappeared.
There was no duty. No world beyond this.
Only him.
“I should call you my wife.”
The words sent a sudden shiver through you. Your eyes snapped open as you lifted your head, searching his face to make sure you had heard him right.
Valarr looked at you with something deep, unwavering. A soft, almost wistful smile touched his lips.
“After everything… if I belong to you, then that’s what you are to me,” he said quietly. “Even if the gods would deny it… you are the only truth I have.”
You didn’t know what to say.
He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before pulling back again, meeting your tear-filled eyes.
“Whatever happens… I will endure it, my love.”
Then, more firmly—
“If I must, I will speak to my father. I will end this distance between us. But I will not give my heart to anyone else. Not while it beats for you.”
He didn’t wipe away the tear that slipped down your cheek.
He let it fall.
Your hand rose to his face, fingers tracing along his jaw as your voice barely formed the words:
“Promise me…”
You needed it.
Valarr pulled you closer, shifting until you were fully facing him.
“I swear it,” he said softly. “Before all the gods—one day, you will be my wife.”
For a moment, it felt real.
Too real.
And yet… beneath it all, there was still something that hurt.
Because no matter how beautiful his words were… a part of you knew the truth.
Valarr was a man bound by honor.
And you weren’t sure love alone would ever be enough.
