— summary: no matter how far duty takes him, gwayne always finds himself crawling back to you.
— pairing: gwayne hightower x targaryen!female!reader
— word count: ~1.7k
— content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, afab!reader, established marriage/relationship, mutual pining, possessive language, he whimpers and cries, praise kink, body worship, gentle dominance, sub!gwayne, he is so pathetic for reader, happy ending.
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
“You believe I ought to let you go, hm?” you ask breathlessly, your hands hooked securely around his neck, your unforgiving hips bringing flashes of pleasure throughout his entire boneless body.
Neither of you have any knowledge of how long you’ve been there, nor how many times you’ve peaked. The evidence of your orgasm now making a sticky mess between your legs and spraying his thighs, creating a wet sound that’s nearly lewd each time you lower yourself all the way down onto his cock and bottom out, sitting all pretty on his lap.
A goddess hovering above him, mighty and glorious. And there he remains, but a servant at her mercy.
Gwayne is lost in the haze of your body and your cunt and the way you're making him feel—so lightheaded that he can hardly even comprehend your words. Though he does, for he was made to listen to you, to answer to you, to obey you, to receive whatever you choose to bestow upon him.
“N-no,” he babbles his reply, his lovely lips—all wet with sweat and his own spit—tracing a trail of sloppy kisses down your throat. His lean arms lock your body tight against him in an unavoidable cage, his hands molding to the outline of your hips and guiding you up and down on top of him, to ride him like a savage. “Never let me go, my love. I could not bear to be away from you any longer—hmm!—”
The dirt clinging to him, the fine dust of the trail ground into his skin, the smudges of earth dried against his jawline, temple and cheekbones from days of relentless travel, doesn’t diminish him. It fucking heightens him. Every sweat-streaked trace of soil on his flushed face and along the tense line of his neck only serves as a raw, tangible marker of how far he had pushed himself in the last days, how tirelessly he journeyed... just to reach you.
Seeing him like this; weary, filthy, and thoroughly pathetic, ignites something fierce and primal deep within you. It makes your blood run hotter, turning every harsh, heavy bounce of your hips into a claim over every inch of him.
“And what did you do all this time we’ve been apart?” you question him in a remarkably steady voice, considering just how utterly overwhelmed he's making you feel, tugging sharply at his reddish hair to force him off your neck so you can look him straight in the eye. “How many whores were you with while I was gone, husband?”
The sight of him—your sweet, perfect knight—now reduced to a ruined mess begging for your mercy, makes your insides clench even tighter. Your cunt pulses around the length of his hard cock, impossibly tight, sucking him deep inside, so deep that his swollen tip bumps up against that one special little spot inside you that lights up stars everywhere you look.
It’s a remarkable circumstance, that you two have withstood all these months away from each other. The only thing that could ever separate you would be death or war, and war has fallen in between you, unfortunately locking you into opposing sides. Your birth name and your dragon are what, months ago, dragged you away from the peace of Oldtown and back to Dragonstone, where you were summoned to take on an important role alongside your mother Rhaenyra, the true heir to the Iron Throne.
And Gwayne, by his family name, had to follow his sister's orders and swear allegiance to the Usurper.
Your husband shakes his head in despair, whimpers slipping from his half–open lips, and big tears welling up in the corners of his beautiful eyes, blue and sparkly like a sky full of stars. “N–none, my Princess. I could never be with anyone else.”
You know it’s true, and that someone like Gwayne—your Gwayne—could never even consider being with anyone other than you; he could never possibly betray you. His own values as the most righteous and honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms forbid it, and most importantly, he is simply much too in love with you to view anyone else with the kind of gaze that is only reserved for you.
His body belongs to you; his soul, heart, and mind are yours.
“No?” nevertheless, you question through a low whisper, taking full advantage of the fact that you’re performing a slow circular motion down his lap so you can lean toward him and kiss his lips. He moans into your mouth, making you breathe him in, his thrill, his pleasure, his appreciation.
The very moment your dear husband spotted the ominous silhouette of your dragon swooping down from the cloudy sky and onto him and Criston’s futile little army, he knew it was all over. He had endured so much over the past few moons, forced to follow that foolish man around. It was absurd—what other choice did they have? Nothing but to beg for the dragon’s mercy.
Fortunately for him, it was you who descended from the clouds, for if it had been anyone else, he would be as dead as Cole.
He keeps whimpering as your hips rise again, your velvety walls wrapping all around his cock, making him twitch inside you, as your tongue runs passionately along his cheekbone, wiping away the tears that have dampened his freckled, flushed skin.
“No one takes me the way you do, my beloved,” he claims, kissing your lips to seal it like a promise. He kisses you again and again before continuing to whisper sweet things to you. “No one feels like you—so tight and perfect. I—fuck—I am yours.”
He pulls you down hard against him, his hips snapping upward to meet your descent with an ungodly, wet slap that knocks the breath clean from your lungs. The tip of his cock buries itself ruthlessly against that exquisite, agonizing spot inside you, making the world behind your eyelids fracture into brilliant bursts of gold and white, of him, his soul.
“Yours,” he repeats, a broken, desperate prayer against the seam of your lips. His slender fingers dig brutally into the soft flesh of your hips, leaving bruises that will surely bloom tomorrow. “Always yours. Slice open my chest, my love... look inside, feel it... there is no room for a King or a crown or a throne. Only you. Only my wife, my sweet wife.”
Gwayne locks his arms around your waist and shifts his weight, rolling you both over in one fluid, breathless movement. In an instant, the tent spins, and he settles above you, his heavy, warm body pressing you back into the wrinkled bed and thrusting his hips into you.
He looks down at you through a veil of disheveled, reddish hair, his sky–blue eyes dark with emotion and body utterly undone by yours.
“G–gwayne...” you moan out his name, your hands moving up to the broad curve of his shoulder blades, your fingers digging into his freckled skin as he frames your face with trembling hands. “My dearest”
“Yours,” he pledges, the words rolling off his tongue and onto your lips like a prayer and he kisses you again, and again. “Let me give you everything. Take it all—all of me.”
He sets a relentless, desperate pace, driving both of you straight past the edge. Your back arches into him, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as the tension builds to an agonizing, exquisite peak.
When the wave finally breaks, it crashes over both of you at once—a blinding, overwhelming release that leaves you clinging to one another, gasping for air and crying each other’s names as your heartbeats clash against each other’s chests in tandem.
Gushes of his seed warm your insides, coating your walls in his color and laying claim to your womb.
The feeling is so familiar, the way he fills you right to the brim, so much that trickles overflow out the edges of your throbbing, abused cunt.
“Gods above...” Your lover sighs weakly against your collarbone, leaving a wet trail of saliva on your skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you...”
You stroke the soft, auburn hair at the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent of rain, leather, and him.
Your fingers trace appreciatively the familiar curve of his back as your chest heaves in time with his, the wet warmth between your thighs a quiet, lingering mark of the love he just poured into you.
“Gwayne,” you call out to him softly into the dark, your voice cutting through the heavy silence of the tent.
He shifts slightly, pressing a tender kiss onto the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. “I'm here, my love. I'm right here.”
You cup his beautiful face in your hands, forcing him to lift his head so you can look straight into those clear, desperate blue eyes. The tears have dried on his cheeks, but the vulnerability in his gaze is raw and absolute.
“Then come with me,” you say, the command laced with a quiet, pleading ache that makes his breath catch in his throat. “Leave all of this behind tonight. Fly with me to King’s Landing and bend the knee to my mother; she will grant you mercy and forgiveness.”
Gwayne freezes, his chest resting heavily against yours as the weight of your words sinks in.
“My love...” he begins, his voice thick with an ache so profound, for love and for you. He presses his forehead against yours, his warm, uneven breath fanning over your lips. “Would that truly make you happy? Is this what you need from me?”
“It is what I desire above all else in this world,” you answer without hesitation, your voice trembling with the full weight of your devotion. You kiss him tenderly, tasting the salt on his skin. “I want you by my side, Gwayne. I want you, alive, safe, and mine. I need you with me.”
A shaky, shuddering breath escapes his chest, and a brilliant, tearful smile bleeds across his flushed face.
“Then it is done,” Gwayne breathes out, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tastes like sweet relief and irreversible surrender. He pulls your body flush against his, resting his weight over you one more time. “Take me with you, my Princess. Where you fly, I shall follow.”
A dragon who wholly rejects House Targaryen, or any others for that matter. He's an outsider even to his own species; he feasts on dragons, sometimes swallowing them whole. The Cannibal has always had his back turned to humanity, and he fully intends on staying that way.
☆ The first time you happen upon him, you mistake him for a mountain of rocks. You had wandered off to the shore of Dragonstone, the sun dimming. You feel out of place in the castle, more used to the little cottage you lived in with your mother before Daemon brought you to Dragonstone.
You lean against what you think is just a giant rock, and you nearly jump out of your skin when it begins to vibrate, a deep growl emitting from the depths of The Cannibal's throat. You realize that you aren't leaning against a rock the moment a large, beady green iris pops open and glares at you.
☆ The Cannibal, surprisingly, does not kill you.
It would have been easy enough. You were small, and humans were incredibly weak, and he was a huge mass of destruction. However, The Cannibal finds a kindred spirit in you. The loneliness has never bothered him, but you're exceedingly pathetic, and for the first time in the many years he's been alive, The Cannibal takes a rider.
He does not have a saddle or any reins. Your first ride upon your mount is terrifying, your little bare hands gripping tightly against tiny horns that sprouted from his back. The Cannibal flies slowly the first time around, seemingly aware of your dangerous plight.
☆ That night, you returned to Dragonstone.
You feel a little less lonely.
BEHAVIORS
☆ There had been a phase of Daemon not allowing you to ride your mount, but that had been short-lived.
Cannibal waits impatiently; his large body perched on one of the many stairs leading to Dragonstone. He can smell you, the scent of sadness and isolation heavy on your person. It doesn't take long for him to start growling at the castle, his nostrils flaring in agitation.
It takes all of three days for Daemon to give up, something about your dragon tearing apart one of the guards, his teeth ripping through their weak flesh.
He purrs deeply once reunited with you, even as you try to avoid his bloody maw. He'd nudge you anyway, his green eyes narrowed at Daemon and Caraxes.
☆ He loves giving you gifts!
Not conventional ones, unfortunately.
The Cannibal has brought you the carcasses of knights and large horses alike. You're so small! Cannibal wishes to feed you, but he doesn't seem to realize that you cannot eat the things he brings you. It upsets him greatly, but he'll keep trying until you get a little bigger.
☆ The both of you have little spa days!
Cannibal is rather unkempt; he's overgrown and looks similar to an old cat that hasn't had a gentle hand in many years. His horns are long and pointed, dead scales stick out like thorns, and his wings bear the grime of being on his own for so long. You help clean him up, and despite his grumpy exterior, he loves being spoiled by his little human.
The purrs that leave The Cannibal when he's being groomed are so loud that everyone on Dragonstone can hear them.
—summary: as the only daughter of lyonel baratheon—and the most spoiled—you get everything you want. the only thing you want tonight is to get that big man. and the big man you shall have.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: pure fluff, shy!dunk, sassy & spoiled reader, sexual tension, love at first sight trope, lots of romance, height difference, protective/intimidating dad!lyonel, dancing, knight x princess vibes!!!
ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Night is just descending, bringing darkness to the world, and men are already stumbling around and fighting each other in drunken brawls. Some have even pulled out their swords—you don't know if they're just fooling around or if they're serious.
Your father has always been very permissive with you, often letting you have whatever you want, however you want it. You are his only daughter, after all. And as his only daughter, you are frequently his guest of honor at his feasts and gatherings.
This gathering... it's like every other gathering you've been to. There's not much of a difference. Lots of noise, lots of people you've never seen before, lots of stinking booze, and to top it all off, way too many arrogant men who are bold enough to ask you for a dance. You reject them all, as you naturally would. There's no one who stands out tonight for you.
That is, until your eyes fall on him. Clearly, he stands out from everyone else. Your eyes are pulled to his massive size and broad frame.
He's tall, the tallest man you've ever seen. You wouldn't be surprised if he could touch the ceiling of the tent if he raised his hand.
Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.
But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.
It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.
When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.
He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.
He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.
“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.
You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.
“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.
“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”
“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”
“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”
“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.
“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”
“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”
“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”
“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.
That's your call.
“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”
Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.
Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.
And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that.
His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.
Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.
“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.
“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”
“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”
“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”
Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.
“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”
The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”
“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”
“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.
You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.
The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.
“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”
Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy.
He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”
A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.
Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.
“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”
Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”
By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.
“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”
Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.
“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”
“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.
Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.
“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”
“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”
“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”
He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.
“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”
“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”
His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.
“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”
“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.
He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”
You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.
He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.
Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.
You notice eyes on you then.
Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.
“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”
You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”
He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.
Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.
His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.
“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”
You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”
You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.
“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”
You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.
You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.
Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.
His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.
You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.
“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”
Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”
“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”
“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”
He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.
“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”
He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”
You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”
He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”
Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.
“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
He is truly pathetic. And you love it.
You hum softly, amused.
“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”
He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.
“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”
“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”
Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.
It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.
“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”
Your expression softens.
“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.
You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.
“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.
“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”
He blinks. “M-my lady?”
“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”
His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”
You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”
His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.
“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.
You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”
He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”
That makes you still.
Your teasing fades, just a little.
“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”
Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”
“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”
Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.
You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.
“I must go,” you announce softly.
Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.
“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”
There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.
“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”
“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.
You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.
“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”
You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.
“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”
“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”
“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”
“Good night, my lady.”
You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.
Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.
He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚pairing*ੈ✩‧₊˚ aerion targaryen x amnesia wife!reader
*ੈ✩‧₊˚summary*ੈ✩‧₊˚ waking from an accident, you're told you've married into a family you have no recollection of
*ੈ✩‧₊˚author's note*ੈ✩‧₊˚ mother has served! This took me longer than expected lol... there's probably going to be one more chapter of this... but if you have any requests for future fics, please send them my way!
*ੈ✩‧₊˚playlist*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Come As You Are - Nirvana, Afraid - The Neighbourhood
“I’m telling you,” Aegon leaned forward across the dining table, “it was bigger than a horse.”
Maekar did not look up from his plate. “You were chased by a goat, Aegon.”
“It was not a goat,” Aegon snapped. “It had horns”
“Goats have horns.”
Daella giggled into her cup, nearly spilling it in the process. “You ran from it,” she added quietly.
“I did not run,” Aegon said, clearly offended. “I retreated strategically.”
“Into a tree,” Aemon supplied.
“You weren’t even there.”
“I didn’t need to be”
“You would’ve run too”
“I wouldn’t have climbed a tree and screamed for father,” Aemon replied smugly.
“I was not screaming,” Aegon’s voice lost some of its confidence. “And none of you were in danger, so I don’t see why it matters.”
Maekar glanced up. “The only danger was to the dignity of this family.”
You couldn’t help the small smile that slipped through. You involuntarily glanced towards Aerion, sitting across from you, to see he was already watching you. He held a relaxed expression with the faintest hint of amusement, quickly hidden the moment you noticed it.
Aegon, however, was not finished. “If I had my sword–”
“You don’t own a sword,” Daeron's voice startled you. You hadn’t even noticed he had risen from his drunken slumber.
“That’s not the point.”
Maekar set his fork down with deliberate patience. “Enough, eat your food.”
Aegon obeyed, thought not without muttering under his breath.
The conversation soon drifted towards Aemon’s studies with your cousin-in-laws, Valarr and Matarys, chiming in.
You take the distraction as your opportunity.
“If you’ll excuse me,” you say quietly, rising from your seat before anyone can question it.
It had been a moon since the accident that left your memory fractured, and you had begun to recognize the signs.
A tightness behind your eyes. A distant ringing in your ear.
You move quickly through the corridors, your hands brushing along the cool stone walls to steady yourself as the sensation builds.
You hadn’t told anyone about these small bursts of memories that would come without warning. Sometimes multiple times a day, something only twice a week. Most of them were insignificant– memories from your first meeting with the family, random literary discussions with your husband’s grandsire, Aegon demanding you accompany him into the city, mostly fragments of conversation.
You reach a quiet alcove beyond the main passage, the noise of the hall fading behind you.
The pressure sharpens at your temple, your breath catching as you press your fingers against it, willing it to pass.
It eases slightly and you take the opportunity to make it back to your shared chambers. The path is no longer unfamiliar to you.
The door closes with a soft thud. You barely make it halfway to the bed before the pain strikes again, sharper this time.
Your hands catch the bedpost, fingers tightening around the wood as you hunch forward. Your knees give out and you collapse to the floor as your head rests upon the mattress.
The room tilts and then your world shifts.
Aerion leaned forward, firmly pressing his lips to yours. You eagerly kissed him back as your hands reached up, tugging on his hair. His hands trailed down your sides, settling on your hips.
You sat onto the bed, tugging off your nightdress. He’d seen you naked many times by now, but never seemed to grow tired of the view. He climbed onto the bed, crawling on top of you.
“You’re eager today,” he murmured.
“Can you blame me?” You bit your lip, a small smile forming.
He nudged your thighs apart, slotting himself between them. Lowering himself onto his elbows, he braced himself on either side of your head.
“Aerion,” you whined, feeling his cock nudging your entrance. “Enough of the teasing.”
Aerion grabbed his cock and slid it through your wet folds before easing himself into you. “Your cunt is so fucking tight. It feels like the first time again and again.”
You whimpered, arching up into him. “My dragon, please.”
A manic grin twisted his lips as he pulled out slightly before he thrusted back in, watching your expression closely. You let go of the sheets to wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer.
He buried his face in your neck, his breathing sharp against your skin. Another moan tore through you when he started to pound into you faster, his excitement getting the better of him. He used one hand to hike your legs up higher onto his waist, allowing him to hit deeper.
Parting your lips, he kissed you roughly, allowing his tongue inside your mouth. His pace was relentless and the room filled with the sound of the headboard banging against the wall and skin slapping. You moaned into his mouth, the pleasure growing more intense.
Neither of you cared who might hear.
“Aerion–” you panted. “I’m going to–”
“Come for me, wife,” he rested his forehead against yours, his pace unwavering. “Milk my cock, baby.”
Your hands gripping his shoulder, your nails forming crescent moons onto his skin. You repeated his name again and again. You cried out as your orgasm hit, clenching around him.
He continued to pound into you as his own high approached. His body shuttered and he stilled, coming inside of you.
Burying his face into your neck, you could hear him muttering absolute nonsense.
“My little dragon… taking place… I’m sure of it.” He turned his head, looking down as he withdrew from you.
You basked in his warmth. The two of you holding onto each other as the exhaustion settled in.
The memory began to warp.
Aerion’s warmth lingered, but it was flickering, like a candle struggling. The weight of him shifted, the sound of his breathing began to echo.
The sheets beneath you no longer felt soft, but rough and cold.
You blinked and the ceiling above you was no longer there. Instead, you could see the tangled branches stretching overhead, blocking the sunlight.
The warmth vanished all at once and cold air rushed against your skin.
The bed was gone and you were standing.
You were back in the memory of your accident, the one you had the day after waking. You couldn’t move, reliving the memory but more aware.
In flashes you could feel the man’s grip tightening around your mouth. Your elbow driving back. You grabbed the dagger, embedding it into his side. Your vision was blurry, you could not make out the face clearly.
Startling awake, your skin is damp with sweat, the sheets clinging uncomfortably to your body.
Heat rises to your cheeks at the vivid memory that lingered, an outlier from the others you mind has resurfaced over the past moon.
Glancing around the room, something immediately feels off. It is completely dark. Normally, a few candles would be lit or the low burn of the hearth. You feel around next you and Aerion is not there.
As if conjured, his voice breaks through the room. “What were you dreaming of?”
You couldn’t make out his figure, your eyes still adjusting to the darkness, but his voice was coming from the foot of the bed.
“Where is the light?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended.
“Don’t change the topic,” his voice is sharper now. “What were you dreaming of?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
A long pause filled the room. Even in the darkness, you could feel Aerion’s anger seething off him.
You knew your husband had a short fuse and was often aggressive with his younger siblings, the servants, or anyone who tests his patience, but never directed to you.
“After abandoning me at dinner, I return to our chambers,” his voice low and controlled, “to find you writhing in pleasure.”
He continues, “I thought to myself that you had finally come to your senses.”
He steps forward “Instead to hear you calling out another mans name”
Your stomach drops, “What are you–”
“Don’t fucking cut me off.” His voice snaps. “So tell me- have you been warming another man’s bed?”
He takes another step, closer to you.
“A White Cloak, no less” he adds. “Ser Ronnel Darklyn? So below a dragon.”
“Ser Ronnel Darklyn?” The name hangs in the dark. You shake your head instinctively, even if he cannot see it.
“No,” you say, voice tightening. “No, that’s not–”
“I didn’t call out his name” you say carefully. “I don’t even remember doing that.”
Silence follows, thick with disbelief.
“Then explain it,” he says, his hands landing on your calves.
The motion was so sudden and unexpected that you let out a gasp. You could feel his body hovering over you.
“I have been seeing things,” you admit. “Like memories from before and I can’t control them. It starts with a pressure to my head and then I’m reliving the memory without any control.”
He doesn’t say anything so you continue. “Most of them are insignificant like random conversations.”
“But there is one that keeps returning.” A pause. “The woods the day of the accident. I keep seeing pieces of it and they don’t match with what I’ve been told.”
You continue. “I remember someone grabbing and threatening me. And tonight I remembered more details but it wasn’t clear.
You swallow. “But I remember the attacker wearing a white cloak.”
His palm shifts higher beneath my gown. At first, it is subtle and you barely register it, too caught in the weight of your words.
Your breath stutters as his fingers reach beneath your small clothes.
“Then why,” his voice low, “are you so wet?”
The question lingers in the air.
“Before… before the memory of the woods.” Your voice was unsteady, “After I excused myself from dinner. I had a different memory return, one I hadn’t seen before.”
His fingers kept stroking you, almost lovingly.
“It was.. It was us. Our coupling.” The words felt strange on your tongue. You didn’t know how to go about addressing this.
His fingers enter you without warning and he begins thrusting at a snail-like pace.
You gasp, “... and then it slipped away, and the woods came back.”
“Describe it to me.” He curled his fingers, eliciting a moan from you.
“It was daylight,” your voice shook, “And we were in this room. And afterwards you were muttering about a little dragon… about it taking place.”
He paused, withdrawing his hand abruptly. Through the darkness you could make out him sucking at his finger– the fingers that were just within you.
Aerion leaned back against the bed, pulling you with him, his arm wrapping around you as though nothing had happened.
“You always do that,” you snapped, wrenching yourself out of his grasp. “You use my pleasure as a manipulation tactic.”
He caught you again just as quickly, dragging you back down. His grip was tighter, preventing you from slipping away. “I told you,” he said, his voice low, “you have to beg.”
You huffed at his insistence, turning towards him, though the darkness still kept his expression hidden from you.
“I would never betray you. That isn’t who I am.”
“I know, little wife.” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “That memory happened right before the accident.”
“What?”
His fingers lightly tracing patterns against your lower back.
“We fucked the morning before the accident.”
His vulgarness startling you, he continued “You left for a walk in the Kingswood after I departed for a council meeting.”
“Rest assured, little wife,” he voice fading as sleep began to take over, “He won’t live long, but first I’ll cut off his cock and–.”
You lay awake, mind in shambles. The soft snore from beside you is a comforting distraction.
~
There was a feast the following evening in honour of Aelora Targaryen. It was the eve of her wedding and King Daeron had arranged a grand feast in honour of her union to Prince Aelor. On the morrow, the family was to attend a private ceremony at the Great Sept of Baelor in the city.
You wore a blood-red velvet gown that accentuated your figure, the bodice structured but comfortable enough to breath. There were golden embroidered dragons towards the shoulder of the gown. It was handpicked by Aerion, as most of your more formal attire was.
He was fond of dressing you in the house colours and showing you off.
You were seated on the opposite end of the table with Aemon and Aegon. They were rattling off about some elaborate retelling, Aegon’s hands moving wildly as he spoke.
“I’m telling you,” Aegon insisted, “if they let me ride tomorrow, I could reach the sept faster than any of them.”
“They won’t let you ride through the city at full speed,” Aemon replied, with practiced patience. “It’s a wedding, not a race.”
“You just don’t want me to win,” Aegon huffed.
“It’s not winning if you’re the only one competing.”
You glance towards the other end of the table, catching Aerion’s gaze for a brief moment before looking away again. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as though he had been watching far longer than you realized.
He is in no better position, surrounded by his father and uncle, most likely discussing diplomatic issues. You’d much rather be in the company of the little ones.
A shadow fell behind you.
“May I have this dance, sister?”
You turned, finding Daeron standing just behind your chair, his hand already extended.
You placed your hand in his, it was nice seeing him sober; he was much kinder than Aerion. “I would be delighted, Daeron.”
The rhythm of the dance was lively and chaotic, the hall filled with lords and ladies laughing as they stumbled through the steps. It was a nice change to dance without precision.
His hand settled lightly at your waist, spinning you around the room and easily shifting through the crowd.
“You seem more yourself tonight,” he remarked quietly, a soft smile gracing his face.
You laughed at that, “I’m not sure I know what that means anymore.”
You had been dancing for many minutes when the music began to slow. Without thinking, you rest your head against Daeron’s shoulder, swaying in time with the music.
You felt another pair of hands brush your waist.
“Brother, allow me to steal my wife back.” Aerion’s voice was smooth.
He twists you around, his hand resting at the base of your back, inching towards– you grab his hand moving it higher on your back.
“Behave yourself,” you seeth.
“You should behave yourself,” he murmurs back, his breath brushing against your ear. “You didn’t even save your first dance for me.”
“You didn’t ask me to dance,” you reply coolly, lifting your chin to meet his gaze. “Plus, Daeron is a better dancer than you.”
You hiss as his foot comes down on yours, his full weight landing your toe without apology.
Your grip tightens on his shoulder, “What was that for?” Shooting him a sharp look.
Aerion only smirks faintly, entirely unbothered as he continues the dance.
“You’re right, little wife, I am no good of a dancer.” he murmurs, his voice low and pleased with himself. “Should we retire for the evening?”
Something malicious sounded in his voice.
He started to guide you towards the corridor, you stopped abruptly, forcing him to halt with you. “Wait, I need to congratulate Aelora.”
“You can do that on the morrow.”
When you refuse to move, his patience snaps.
In one swift motion, he hooks an arm around your waist and lifts you clean off the ground, throwing you over his shoulder as though you weigh nothing.
“Aerion!” you gasp, startled more than anything. Your hands instinctively brace against his back. “Put me down!”
He doesn’t slow, making his way to your shared chambers.
“Release me, Aerion!”
Upon arriving at the room, Aerion tosses you onto the settee with a thud.
He stands before you, his fingers undoing the front of his breeches.
“Open your mouth.”
“What happened to making me beg?”
“This is about my pleasure, not yours.”
“I won’t repeat myself.” He fists his cock, the tip nudging at your mouth.
Keeping your mouth tightly shut, you look up glaring at him.
His pupils blown and seething, he grabs your jaw, prying your mouth open and forcing your attention onto him.
With the smallest opening, he shoves his cock down your throat, the force pressing you against the back of the chaise. His knee braces against the edge as he leans forward.
A groan escapes him. “You test me too often,” he murmurs.
His thick length fills your mouth and you gag, trying to move upwards.
“Gods you feel so good,” fingers running through your hair, loosening the pins.
When your movements turned sloppy, he grabbed a tight hold of your hair, moving your head up and down. His pace quickened as drool dripped down the edge of her mouth.
Your moans and his echoed inside the room. Your hands wrap around him, gripping his ass. With one final thrust, he pushes your face completely against him until your nose reaches his pubic bone.
Your eyes locked onto him, he murmurs, “Swallow all of it. Don’t waste a drop.”
You collapse on the chaise as he releases your hair and tucks himself back into his trousers.
“Good girl,” his evil smirk plastered across his face.
Lifting you from the chaise, he carries you to the bed and lays you down more gently than expected. You turn onto your stomach, your face nuzzling into the pillow as exhaustion begins to settle in your limbs.
You could feel Aerion’s fingers at your back, working at the laces of your gown with practiced ease.
As the fabric loosens and slips away, cool air brushes against your skin, raising a fault shiver.
“That cunt left the castle last night,” Aerion murmurs.
“Which cunt?” your voice muffled in the pillow.
He turns you onto your back, pulling your nightgown over your head.
“Ser Ronnel Darklyn.”
Fatigue escapes you instantly.
“What do you mean?” you ask, blinking up at him, “Where did he go?”
“I’m not sure, yet. But I have people searching for him.”
~
You wake with Aerion’s weight pressed heavily against you, his arm slung possessively across your waist.
“Get off,” you mutter, your voice thick with sleep. “You’re crushing me.”
He only responds with a low, half-asleep growl, burying his face deeper into the curve of your neck.
You chomp down on his shoulder with no response.
Rolling your eyes, you pinch his pink nipple and twist sharply.
“FUCK!” Aerion jerks away, his hand reaches up to your breast, grabbing tightly in retaliation.
“Stop it, Aerion!”
“Next time I won’t be so kind,” he mutters, loosening his grip.
You dress quickly, the morning already in motion as servants hurry through the halls. Outside, a line of carriages waits before the Red Keep, prepared to escort the royal family to the Sept.
Aerion’s younger siblings are being ushered toward one of the larger carriages, their Septa hovering nearby, fussing over cloaks and ribbons as the children chatter amongst themselves. Aegon lingers at the steps, clearly uninterested in being hurried along, though he offers little resistance as he’s finally pushed inside.
You already know Aerion and the other men will ride ahead on horseback, so you don’t wait for him.
Stepping forward, you move to follow Aegon into the carriage, lifting the hem of your gown slightly as you approach.
“My Lady”
The Septa’s voice cuts in gently but firmly as she steps into your path.
“There is not enough room,” she explains. “You will need to take the carriage behind.”
You pause only briefly before nodding, turning without argument.
The second carriage waits just a short distance away and is much smaller.
Grasping the handle, you lift yourself inside, settling onto the cushioned seat as the door shuts behind you with a soft click.
The carriage jolts forward with a sharp snap of the reins, wheels grinding against stone as the procession begins its slow descent from the castle.
Through the small window, the Red Keep begins to fall away behind. For the first time in a long while, you are alone.
You let your head fall back against the cushioned seat, eyes slipping shut as sunlight filters through the narrow window, warming your face.
Then, the faint sound of shouting reaches your ears. Your brows knit together as your eyes open, the sound growing sharper.
The carriage jolts slightly and your hand grips the edge of the seat.
You lean forward, peering through the small window used to speak to the driver.
Your breath catches when you see a small group of men, maybe three, coming towards the carriage. None of the other royal carriages were around.
Without a second thought, you drop to your knees and rip back the velvet carpet lining the floor and lift the hidden hatch beneath it. The wood creaks softly as it opens, revealing the narrow space below.
You slip through without a second thought, lowering yourself carefully until your boots meet the ground beneath the carriage.
You could hear the clash of swords, but you already knew you were outnumbered as you were only assigned one knight.
You dart out from beneath it, keeping low as you put distance between yourself and the wheels. The last thing you need is for the horses to bolt and crush you where you stand.
You push forward, slipping behind a cluster of hedges, then drop into the thick brush of a nearby bush, forcing yourself still despite the pounding of your heart.
Branches scrape against your arms, leaves catching in your hair as you press yourself deeper into the shadows.
You planned to make your way back to the Red Keep, you couldn’t have been too far. Turning back for a final glance, the man you see opening the carriage door, where you should have been, makes you falter in your step.
or: you realize your nerdy tutor isn't as shy as he seems.
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(part 2)
warnings: nasty sex, modern au, nerd valarr, tutor valarr, ooc valarr, semi public? (in the targaryens personal library), finger sucking, fingering, boob sucking, cocky feral valarr, fucking on the desk, blowjob, unprotected piv (he finishes in her mouth though) thigh slapping, big dick valarr, cum swallowing.
disclaimer: this story contains mature content catered towards users of age. minors are discouraged from interacting with this content. ptolomia is not liable for the media you consume.
a/n: i love the idea of modern!valarr who's this shy loser but is secretly the world's best fuck. anyways enjoy!!!
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₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
the targaryen’s library was silent, save for the rhythmic scratching of valarr targaryen’s fountain pen. it was a vintage piece, likely worth more than your car, held between long, elegant fingers that never seemed to tremble. to the rest of the campus, valarr was a rich, brilliant shadow who moved through the halls with a soft-spoken, almost painful politeness.
he was the kind of man dreaded taking up space, strictly professional and impossibly shy. when other students approached him, he’d barely meet their eyes, his voice a quiet murmur as he pointed them toward the correct shelf. even with you, he had spent the last six weeks acting like a man made of glass, his posture stiff and his corrections so gentle they were almost hesitant.
valarr was the crown jewel of a dynasty that owned half the skyline, yet he spent his friday nights in a sweater vest, tucked into his private library, tutoring you. he was poised and utterly devastating to look at with those strands of pale blonde swept against his chesnut hair and those sharp, mismatched eyes hidden behind thin-rimmed glasses, but he was always so careful.
"you're...you're distracted again," valarr said, his voice barely above a whisper. he didn't look up from the textbook, though you could see the faint, nervous pulse in his neck. "if you fail this midterm, i'll feel quite responsible. i don’t like being a poor teacher, sweetheart."
the pet name was spoken with care, a slip of the tongue that made him flush a deep, frantic red. he looked like he wanted to swallow the word back down.
"it’s hard to focus on bonds and equilibrium when you’re talking like a textbook," you countered, leaning back and dropping your pen. you leaned in closer, watching his pupils blow wide. "don't you ever get tired of being the perfect targaryen heir? it's a bit boring, valarr. are you even in there?"
you reached out, your finger trailing slowly over the back of his hand. he flinched, a sharp, microscopic jerk, and then he went deathly still. the silence in the room stretched until it felt like a rope pulled to its absolute limit.
valarr didn't flinch as he usually would. instead, he slowly closed the heavy textbook. the thud echoed in the empty room with a finality that made your heart skip. he stood up, and while you’d always known he was tall, the way he loomed over the desk now felt predatory.
"repressed is what you meant to say, isn't it?" his voice had dropped an octave, the stutter completely gone, replaced by a low, dangerous resonance. he walked around the table, his movements suddenly fluid and expensive. he leaned down, hands gripping the edge of your chair, trapping you. "i’ve spent six weeks letting you mock me. i've spent six weeks watching you chew your lip and wondering how it would feelbetween my teeth. if you had any idea how much effort it takes for me not to ruin you right here."
the air between you turned thick, saturated with the scent of his expensive cologne and the sudden, sharp heat of his intent. when he kissed you, it wasn't the tentative, shy peck you’d expect of him. he was claiming you. his soft lips against yours and his warm tongue slipping into your mouth—deep, possessive, and tasting of bottled-up fire.
he moved you from the chair to the desk with an effortless strength that caught the breath in your throat, sweeping textbooks and papers onto the floor with a single, careless motion. the valarr you knew was dead; in his place was a man who handled you with a terrifying, cocky confidence.
his lips found your skin then, teeth scraping your neck and collarbone. he spoke arrogantly against the sensitive skin of your neck. “i’m done being a gentleman, sweetheart.” his voice a constant, commanding rumble that seemed to vibrate in your very bones.
"you really thought i was just some nerd, didn't you?" he hissed, his breath hot against your ear as his hands roamed your body with a practiced, steady rhythm. "you think all those centuries of dragon blood just... vanished because i don’t let it win?” he ripped your blouse open then, buttons flying into the air. “look at me. tell me who's in control right now."
his hands make their way to your shoulders, impatiently sliding down the straps of your bra, mouth rushing to lick the newly exposed skin. his teeth graze your nipple before he gently sucks the sensitive bud. he swirls his tongue around it tentatively, relishing in the whimper you let out in return. he moves his head back to your face, lips crashing onto yours, hands travelling beneath your uniform skirt, he single handedly rips the crotch of your tights open.
the wet spot against your panties is undeniable. you have half the mind to press your knees together and flee but his hand digs into your thigh, holding you open. “none of that, sweetheart.” his beautiful eyes burning into yours. “i can’t ruin you if you run from me.” he pauses, slapping your thigh lightly. “you do want me to ruin you, right sweetheart?” he teases.
you nod frantically, “more than anything, please valarr.” you say. the smirk on his lips breaks into a full smile. his hand moves from your thigh to your crotch, pushing the fabric of your underwear to the side. the fingers of his free hand pressed against your warm lips, pushing them open. “suck,” he commands. you obey immediately, swirling your tongue around the middle and ring. once he’s satisfied he retracts his arm.
he pushes his slender fingers into your core, deliberately pressing his thumb against the sensitive bud of your clit. he moves his hand at an agonizing pace, moving faster and deeper each time. you’re reduced to nothing but whimpers and sighs against his warm touch. “oh sweetheart, i’ve barely touched you and you’re already dumb for me.” he says, the rasp in his voice driving your pupils into the back of your head.
this is heaven, you’re sure of it, until your bliss is ripped from you. valarr rips his fingers away, recognizing the way your walls clenched around him. “if you’re gonna cum, it’s gonna be around my cock, sweetheart.” he says, lazily unbuckling his belt. even in your dazed state you can see how his hard cock strains against his boxers. the sheer size of him is enough to stun you, but when it springs free you realize you had no idea what you’d gotten into.
he was big, thick pale flesh wrapped with blue-green veins, the pinkish tip dripping with precum. he noticed the way you oggled him, the sight making him chuckle. “more than you expected?” he questions, “more than i’ve had.” you admit before you can stop yourself.
he laughs again, the sound rumbling in his chest, “you’ll have to get used to it, sweetheart.” he says plainly, rubbing his length against your messy slit. he pushes himself in slowly, each inch has you feeling impossibly full. once he’s bottomed out he kisses your forehead, “‘m gonna move now, okay sweetheart?” a small glimpse of the valarr you know slipping through the cracks of your pleasure. you nod against his lips, nails digging into his biceps as he begins to move in and out.
he was vocal about his pleasure, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged library carrel. he groaned your name like it was a victory, his confidence bordering on a beautiful, loud-mouthed vanity. when you tried to stifle your own sounds, he gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to his."don't you dare hide from me," he commanded, a dark smirk tugging at his lips.
"i want to hear exactly what i'm doing to you. i want the whole building to know you're mine tonight. you were so worried about me being boring—are you bored now? tell me, are you?"
his movements were deliberate, he moves in and out at an agonizing pace, each one designed to draw another sound out of you. his hips mocking the idea that you ever thought he was "just" a tutor. he was a dragon, after all. beneath the silk sweaters and the academic accolades, there was a fire that burned louder than anyone would have guessed.
"look at me," he gasped, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so you had to meet that violet gaze, now dark with unbridled ego. "tell me i'm better than those boys you usually talk to. tell me no one else touches you like this."
he pushed his hand into your stomach, feeling the way his bulge poked out against the skin of your stomach. “you feel that honey?” emphasizing the words with a brutal thrust. “Y’ feel how good i’m stretching you?” he pants, voice dripping with condescension.”f-fuck ‘m gonna cum.” you tell him, your walls clinging to him. “do it.” he commands, “cum for me sweetheart.”
you shatter against him, warmth pooling in your core as your release coats him. he pulls out then, the loss of him making you whimper slightly. he haphazardly buttons his pants. he’s about to fix his belt as you protest.“what about you?” you ask, panting. “don’t worry about me, sweetheart. c’mon i’ll go clean you up.” you shake your head, “wanna take care of you, please valarr?” you plead with him, rising to your feet. “you don’t have to, ‘s okay honey.” he says, cut off by your arms around his waist. you push him against the desk, urging him to sit. you fall to your knees beneath him. he’s barely settled before your hands work to free him from his pants. he’s still hard when you push his boxers down. you run your palm against his shaft once before you push his tip into your mouth.
he moans at the contact, hands flying to grab your head. you let him take control, drooling and gagging as he fucks your mouth. he’s warm against you, salt slicked and needy as he continues to take what he wants. “y’re doing s’ good for me, fuck sweetheart” he praises, fingers curling as he tugs you by your hair. “f-fuck g’na cum baby.” he says, hips stuttering frantically before his warm seed spills into your throat.
you look up at him, making sure he sees the satisfied smile on your face as you swallow. he guides you up on your feet so he can kiss you. pushing himself onto his feet after he releases you. by the time he was straightening his tie and putting his glasses back on, his hair was a mess and his smirk was lethal. he looked like he had just won a war and knew it.
"same time next tuesday?" he asked, his voice returning to that polite, academic clip, though his eyes remained fixed on your swollen lips and the flush on your chest. "i think we have a few more complex reactions to cover. try to be on time, sweetheart. i hate to be kept waiting."
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
TAGLIST:
synopsis. when the tournament for your hand and heart was announced, you expected to see lords from different houses who tried to win the throne through you, knights who saw it as a matter of honor. but what you didn't expect to see was the first and only person who broke your heart into a thousand pieces.
pairing. aerion targaryen x cousin! reader
contains. mdni! miscommunication trope, from childhood friends to lovers to enemies then to lovers again, betrayal, angst, tension, obsessive!possessive! aerion, reader has a typical targ. features, tba.
"so many princes and noble lords are waiting in line, my princess!" the maid exclaimed, her voice shook with excitement. "you are the most wanted bride in the whole kingdom. the castle did not see such a fuss since the time of the old king," she added, as she pulled the laces of the corset on your dress.
you rolled your eyes without a shadow of spite, only with a light tiredness. you looked at your reflection in the tall mirror and fixed the folds of the expensive fabric. "they do not want me, they want my closeness to the throne."
"you are too hard on yourself, my princess," nana softly argued. "everyone knows that prince valarr will become king one day, so it is not just about the crown. everyone truly loves you, from the small to the great. to be your husband is a true blessing from the gods."
and it was not flattery. you were the only daughter of prince baelor, the precious jewel of the castle. everyone spoiled you: from the king himself to the simple knights.
the only one in your branch of the family who inherited the classic targaryen look — hair that shined like silver and violet eyes — you combined this beauty with perfect manners and a gentle soul. it was simply impossible not to love you.
that was why, when you told your father that your heart was silent and there was no one you would marry by your own will, prince baelor decided to hold a great tourney. the winner got the greatest prize — your hand.
"and what if some old man wins?" you asked, as you pressed your lips together. you looked at her with fake disgust, but fun sparks danced in your eyes. "i do not think my patience is enough to wait for his natural death."
the maid laughed as she fixed the last pin.
"i am sure prince baelor has everything under control. your father is too wise and mature to let such a thing happen."
"father worries about me too much."
when she finished with the dress, nana carefully fixed your curls. she took a step back and looked at you with clear love. "i never saw anyone more beautiful than you, princess. you were charming as a child, but now… no one in these lands has a chance against your beauty."
a red blush touched your cheeks and you looked away shyly, not knowing where to go from such honest praise. this woman was with you since you were in swaddling clothes, she practically raised you and became a second mother and the most loyal friend.
"you are too generous with compliments," you said quietly.
you smoothed the dress once more, checking it, and said so low it was like you spoke to the heavens.
"i hope the gods send me a reliable husband. one who protects me and stays loyal. one who i can answer the same way."
you did not say love on purpose. there was only one man in your life who you loved with all your heart — and you were sure he would never be your husband.
the tourney field was noisy and bright: tents of noble houses stood everywhere, and flags waved in the wind above them. the air filled with the smells of roasted meat, dust, and grass heated by the sun.
you walked over the flattened grass and felt hundreds of looks on you. the dancers smiled kindly at you, and young lords and knights, when they saw you approach, gave dramatic bows and shouted compliments after you. you only shook your head with a forgiving smile and headed to the stands, where your brother already sat in the shade.
valarr watched the lords on the field closely, but as soon as you came near, his look warmed instantly. he looked over you with love and smiled gently. "it seems the number of participants will double or even triple today," valarr said, as he nodded at the crowd of knights. "spare the poor men, little sister, do not make them go to their death even more willingly."
you rolled your eyes dramatically as you sat down next to him. "it is not my fault that men are stupid enough to risk their lives for a woman they do not really know."
he raised an eyebrow merrily and, he could not stop himself, jokingly pinched your cheek. "a lady does not speak this way."
you caught his hand with a giggle and easily pushed it away.
he became silent and watched you for a moment, and then his tone became unusually serious. "special guests arrived today," he said quietly.
"who can be so special?" you asked, and your eyebrows rose in surprise.
valarr hesitated, as if he thought about whether he should tell the truth right now. he even opened his mouth to say something, but then he changed his mind. "you'll see soon."
however, soon your indifference changed into a dull anxiety. you could not look at it.
there was so much blood on the grass that a bitter lump rose in your throat. the whistle of blades cut the air, and the screams of the excited crowd mixed with the painful moans of the wounded.
men maimed each other for a ghost of a chance to one day touch the throne and get a sweet body in their bed.
of course, you saw tourneys before. but those were for glory, for fun, or to protect honor. and this? this looked like hell.
another knight fell to the grass, the blade of his rival went deep into his thigh. he moaned and screamed as he admitted defeat, but the winner had no time to enjoy his triumph — a sharp, loud sound of a bell cut the air. a cloud of dust rose over the field, and a cavalcade of riders appeared.
you froze when the flag of your own house flashed among the banners. your heart skipped a beat, and nausea rose in your throat.
the herald, whose voice spread over the quiet crowd, announced:
“welcome! the second son of the king, brother of prince baelor — prince maekar targaryen and his sons!”
this could not be true.
they did not step into your castle for many years. why did they show up now, at the very beginning, when only low-born knights and lords from poor houses fought on the field?
you turned your head sharply to valarr. his jaw was tight, and his look was fixed on the guests. he already stood up with father, as he prepared to meet the kin.
and then you noticed him.
aerion sat on his horse just as confident and easy as before. a familiar arrogant smirk played on his face, and his look showed such disdain, as if no one around deserved even a bit of his attention.
your heart pounded so hard that it became painful to breathe.
you did not see him for several years, and in this time he changed. the youth's softness disappeared and gave place to predatory, sharp features of the face.
he became broader in the shoulders, larger and more powerful — the result of grueling training that he, as you remembered, never missed. something dangerous, masculine, and scary appeared in his look. only his hair stayed the same — silver and always messy.
a memory hit you in the gut like a sharp blade.
you stood between his open legs while he sat on the edge of the bed, still hot after another fight with his father. you softly brushed his tangled locks and tried to calm his anger with your touches.
"do not be so angry with him," you whispered. "he just worries about his son."
he always came to your chambers right away, no matter what happened — a fight with his father, a bad day, or to brag that he beat daeron in training once again.
"and what happens if i go to a real tourney like a real man?" he growled, as he put his fingers in his hair again and destroyed your work. "dragons fear nothing!"
you hit his hand lightly and grumbled. "hey, i just brushed them! do not dare to ruin it."
he just rolled his eyes and snorted that he "is not a bloody cat to be brushed," but he obediently moved his hand and let you brush them when they become too messy. only you.
the sharp roar of the crowd pulled you from your memory and brought you back to cruel reality.
you knew your duty: you had to stand up, go down after your father, and let your cousins press a respectful kiss on your palm.
the thought of his lips touching your skin made you feel sick.
aerion's look wandered feverishly over the stands. he searched for someone until his eyes met yours. he looked at you for a long time, even from far away, you saw how he studied your face, focused on every feature, then moved from your hair to your dress.
for a short moment, something flashed in his pupils that you could not solve even up close, but the mask of indifference returned instantly. his lips curved into a predatory, triumphant smirk, and dangerous sparks shined in his eyes.
he was so familiar and at the same time a total stranger.
you looked at each other, separated by space and unspoken tension, until you broke the contact first and raised your chin.
you turned your head, gave a short nod to your father and brother, and turned around. you headed deep into the castle with your head held high, and you felt how his gaze literally burned your back.
you would never shed another tear because of him again.
you just started to take off your heavy gold bracelets when a knight entered the rooms. he bowed his head and told you that your father waited for you. you gave a quiet sigh and nodded: you could not hide from the inevitable.
you understood well that he wanted to discuss your behavior — how you left the stands in such a way, without even greeting your own blood.
but, to be honest, you did not care. father never knew how to be truly angry with you. you were his treasure, his favorite, and the most you risked was a soft rebuke for being too rude.
however, you simply could not do it any other way.
not when he was on the field.
even a passing shadow of his name in your thoughts caused such sharp pain, as if a hundred hot needles stabbed your heart at once.
aerion targaryen.
your cousin and only childhood friend, the man who once patiently taught you how to grip a knife handle and shoot a bow.
your first, most honest and only love.
and he was also the one who broke your heart into pieces, trampled it, and then calmly walked over the sharp shards without even looking back.
he became the man who clearly showed you what a naive and lovelorn fool you were, as you blindly believed his promises.
you outgrew these feelings long ago. the pain still lived somewhere deep inside, as a reminder, but not a trace remained of that bright, pure devotion. love burned and left only the bitter dust of hate in the very moment when he betrayed you.
behind your back stayed endless sleepless nights, full of tears and a silent question: what did you do to deserve such treatment? how did it happen that you meant nothing to him? but those tears hardened you, made you stronger and colder.
if aerion hoped to see the same little girl with an open heart and endless love — he was deeply mistaken.
you held your head high as you looked at your reflection for the last time. the dress of deep dark-red color wrapped around your legs in heavy folds, and the jewels on the bodice shimmered with every breath. your hair — a complex, thick braid that the maid worked on since dawn — still stayed perfect, and only a couple of silver strands broke loose near your face.
you were the first granddaughter of the great king, a princess of house targaryen and the favorite of all the people, and you did not plan to let anyone think you were less than you were.
when you left the chambers, you gave the knight at the door a quick, soft smile and followed the familiar halls to your father.
you knew every turn of this castle, every tapestry on the wall, but when you turned into the gallery that led to the rooms of the prince, your step slowed down against your will.
there, leaning against a stone pillar, stood the one you did not expect to meet so soon.
aerion.
his posture carried that same unbearable confidence and greatness you remembered since childhood.
his look slowly slid over you, as he carefully studied every detail of your image, and then a light smirk appeared on his face. "hello, cousin."
you did not even look at him, continuing to walk, intending to pass by. you had neither the time nor the desire to take part in his games.
however, as you came level with him, he suddenly leaned forward, trying to catch your hand. his fingers almost touched your skin, but you reacted instantly, calmly and quickly pulling your hand away.
“do not touch me.”
aerion stared at your face for a while, then, with his usual smirk, he pulled his hand away.
“you would not even greet me? how rude.”
"i have no time for you," you cut him off as you tried to walk past.
“that is exactly why you were rushing to your father?” he huffed, not falling behind a single step. "it is good to know that knights today are so easy to bribe."
this made you stop for a moment, and you turned around and looked at him with disdain. "it seems this is the only thing you are truly good at."
aerion slowly closed the distance between you. he loomed over you and leaned to your very ear, so you felt the heat of his breath. "you did not mind any of this, when we were children."
you slowly raised your look to him and smiled a bright smile with mockery. "what luck that we are not children anymore."
he became silent, just watching you. his look became heavy and greedy — it seemed he could not get enough of your emotions and your face, which he saw for the first time in so many years of separation.
"you did not change at all," he said quietly, as if he reached some inner conclusion.
"praise the gods that i cannot say the same about you."
you turned around and were already about to go back to your room when his voice, full of poison, made you flinch again.
"how is your little knight? is he still a crybaby, who is not able to do anything except hide behind his mother's cunt?"
you only rolled your eyes, as you remembered how he was always jealous of tristan when you were little. he said back then that tristan looked at you with more than friendly eyes and that he would kill him if he even tried to touch you.
it seemed this did not leave him even after three years.
"you do not even ask why i am here?"
you ignored him and walked further down the hall. you already imagined how you would take off this heavy dress and finally sink into your nightgown, as you washed away this whole day.
"i am in the tourney."
this made you freeze in place.
"you are lying," you breathed out, without turning around. your voice shook a little, but you quickly pulled yourself together. "father would never allow you to take a part."
you felt him come closer — so close that you felt the heat from him against your back. the air between you seemed to fill with electricity.
"he already did," he answered quietly right above your ear.
you turned around sharply. aerion stood too close, and now, face to face, you saw everything that the distance hid: small scratches on his forehead, a fresh wound on his cheek, and an old scar across his eyebrow. it was all so painfully familiar, as if these long years of separation did not pass at all. for a moment it seemed to you that the same boy stood before you, who once whispered promises to you and covered your face with kisses.
but you knew the truth. and this truth was much more bitter than your memories.
you narrowed your eyes and looked down at him, despite the difference in height.
"you think you are the best, do you not? you think every thing is a game that you must try?"
it seemed some memories hit him too, as he watched you and did not take his eyes off yours. his lips curved into a smirk as usual, but something shook deep in his pupils.
"i do not understand what you mean, cousin."
"you know well why this tourney was held," you hissed.
"i know. that is why i am here and i intend to succeed."
the absurdity of it all was so great that you could not stand it and gave a short, angry laugh. “and you do not even consider that you might die just because you grew bored?”
now this made him laugh — openly, merrily, with that same unbearable mockery that was always his armor.
“i will not die. i know that, because i will not allow any of those wretches to come even a step closer to you, let alone touch you.”
“i will never marry you.”
“you will,” he said, slowly closing the distance as your back met the wall. “you will, if i win this tournament.”
he leaned in even closer, until your noses almost touched, and a dangerous, victorious fire lit up in his eyes.
summary — when your sister is betrothed to marry a prince, it is only natural that you accompany her to king's landing. what you do not expect is for her betrothed's attentions to be focused so heavily on you instead. (10.4k)
featured — prince baelor "breakspear" targaryen / fem!stark!reader
content — no spoilers for akotsk, angst and fluff, hurt/comfort, tried and true kate sharma/anthony bridgerton dynamic, he falls first she falls harder, reader is a bastard and is called "lady snow," baelor loves smart women, forbidden romance, you know high valriyan, asshole!aerion (are we surprised?), your fictional dad is a major ass, i've rewritten this fic like 5 times it's time to commit
(cross-posted on ao3)
“I don’t think I like King’s Landing,” your sister says in her position across from you in the carriage.
She’s been quiet most of the way to the castle, staring out the small window to the throngs of people lining the city streets. Every once in a while, she’ll gasp as if she noticed something particularly strange outside—or in one instance, she caught a glimpse of the alley you immediately recognized as being the Street of Silk, where noblemen went to commodify sex and pleasure, and a scantily dressed Dornish whore waving to passerby.
“We haven’t even seen the castle yet,” you say to her, eyebrows furrowed at her split decision.
Lyanna is not really your sister. Not fully. Your father had her with his lady wife, he had you with a whore. You are not the same—far from it. Lyanna’s everything a Stark woman should be: beautiful, exotic, and strong-willed—the perfect match to a Targaryen Prince. You are lucky you were not shoved to the streets of Winterfell or left for the dire wolves to eat.
“I know cities,” Lyanna replies back simply, “and a city that has more people hungry than people fed is not a good city.”
You can’t help but smile a bit at your sister’s naïveté. She knew as well as you did that isn’t how diplomacy worked. No king could snap his fingers and rid Westeros of hunger and strife. It is a nice thought, though.
“And your betrothed? What do you think of him?” you ask, your inflection curious but restrained.
“I suppose we will see, won’t we?” Lyanna tries to sound unaffected by the responsibility placed upon her slight shoulders, but you notice her hands threading the fur of her coat incessantly, the slight tremble to her fingers.
There’s a lapse in conversation as you look down at your lap as if it holds the answer to all your worries. Lyanna is not your full sister, but she is your sister nonetheless. You worry for her more than anyone else in the seven kingdoms.
“Perhaps he will surprise you,” you tell her this in earnest, but even you recognize that your words ring hollow.
In the farthest reaches of the north, whispers of the Targaryens were as commonplace as snow. One cannot wonder what the Red Keep is like without considering the people that live there. They have ruled on the Iron Throne since the time that dragons walked among people. Some were quick to call them “gods among men” whilst others claimed they were a stain upon the seven kingdoms
You cannot blame either side. It seems to be a bit like flipping a coin whether or not a Targaryen ruler would be corrupted by the weight of all it entails. You would never gamble on those odds.
“The castle,” your sister’s voice is tremulous and weak and it quickly shakes you from your thoughts. You look over at her and notice the widening of her eyes as she peers out the small window.
Your curiosity wins over your fear as you lean forward to take in the view. The castle is simultaneously beautiful as it is haunting. Landed on the precipice of an imposing cliff, your eyes slide down the brick side to the edge and your eyes make the jump over the rocky shoreline to the water below. You briefly wonder how many people had fallen to their deaths there. You shake your head to clear yourself of such thoughts.
The rest of the journey to the Red Keep moves slowly. Each rattle of the carriage has you clutching your gown in the hope you could steel your nerves. You are not the one being sold off like a breeding mare today, so why are you so nervous?
When the horses finally draw to a stop, you bite your lip so hard that you begin to taste copper. You release your lip when you meet Lyanna’s eyes from across the carriage; her eyes looking between yours in some semblance of comfort, some kind of bravery. You reach across the carriage to grasp her hand. Her palm is slick and trembling.
“No matter what happens,” you tell her softly, “I will be here for you. Always.”
Lyanna’s quivering lips pull into a soft smile at the corners. She averts her eyes.
“I know I have not always been the best to you.” She pulls at an invisible thread of her beautiful deep grey gown as she speaks, too afraid or embarrassed to meet your eyes. “But you have always been my closest friend.”
You purse your lips at the thought of you and Lyanna’s tempestuous relationship and nod. You squeeze her hand once and pull away just as the doors to the carriage open and a burst of light blinds you.
You lean back so as to escape the light’s reach and to show deference to your sister. Lyanna is the picture of elegance and beauty as she stands from her spot across from you and takes poised steps down to the path below. You move only once she has cleared herself completely out of the way.
You stand and grab the outstretched hand of a nearby guard to help escort you down. You squint your eyes to better focus on the outside as the light assaults your senses. In Winterfell, the sun is never this bright. And if it is, it is filtered through thick tree branches or clouds. This sun is aggressive and its light immediately heats your skin through your thick fur coat.
You keep your eyes respectfully averted as you join your sister and your father, but you allow them to trail upwards after you have taken your place and successfully escaped the spotlight.
Your eyes latch onto a feeble older man near the front of the line. You recognize him immediately by his deep red robes, violet eyes, and gold crown as King Daeron. His hair is white and his skin is aged and pale as the full moon on a deep starless night. His gaze sweeps across the dire wolves assembled in front of him like the round, intelligent eyes of an owl. When they reach you, his near-white eyebrows furrow only slightly. It is an imperceptible difference that not many would catch. A bastard always would, though.
It is the same expression that other noble ladies would make after hearing of your parentage. The same face that suitors of your sister would pull when they noticed the stark differences between you and Lyanna. It was the same face Lord and Lady Stark made every time they looked upon your visage as a child.
You look back down at the ground, content to trace the lines in the cobble beneath your feet as they spoke.
“Lord Stark,” the King’s voice is light and youthful as he speaks, a difference to his weathered face, “it is a pleasure to welcome you to the Red Keep.”
You look over at your father as he nods. His beard moves as a smile splits his face. “No words can fully capture our deep gratitude for you having us.”
The king nods once before he looks back at your sister. Your eyes unconsciously drift across the gathered faces.
Each one you recognize from stories and vague descriptions from your studies. Maekar Targaryen, the youngest son–the anvil, strong and capable. His eldest children; Daeron, Aerion, and Daella. Two other young children. And then… Baelor Targaryen.
You startle when you realize his eyes are already centered on you. His eyes, the most recognizable of his features, one violet-blue and the other a deep brown, are extremely intimidating. Something lingers there, behind those mismatched eyes. Something that you cannot quite place. You look away just as his own flit toward his father.
“And those you have brought with you?” the king beckons.
Your father’s head turns in your direction. You do not look at him, but you can feel his gaze burning holes in the side of your face. You know what he is feeling. The embarrassment at having to present his beautiful, perfect daughter and then the walking depiction of his sins on the other. He looks back to the king and you let out a breath as his gaze is removed from your face.
“These are my daughters Lyanna and–”
“You are Lady Snow,” a small voice interrupts your father. “You are the bastard.” Your heart pounds in your ears as your eyes seek to identify the speaker.
Your gaze meets the violet ones of a young boy across from you. Prince Aegon, you guess. He can’t be older than eight or nine, a small, genuine smile pulling at the edges of his lips. He was smiling… at you?
His father immediately grabs his shoulder and the boy falls silent under his disapproving eyes. You do not fault the boy. If anything, he made the whole thing a bit easier. Now, everyone is on a level playing field.
“My apologies,” the king says, and you are startled to find his gaze not on your father but on you. “The boy has yet to learn when to hold his tongue.”
You smile tensely. “It is quite all right, My Grace. Ae-the boy meant no harm.”
The king smiles at you, genuinely, and you think in that moment that perhaps you had judged his character too hastily.
Your father steps forward. “She will not be of consequence to you or your family, My Grace. She knows well her place.”
You swallow thickly and any happiness or feelings of acceptance you had been mulling in disappear.
“Hm,” the king does not say more. Silence settles over the courtyard like snow blanketing a valley.
You hear the sound of boots clanking against cobble and your eyes drift up from the ground to the figure approaching. Baelor’s deep black and maroon coat swishes across the paving as he takes long strides toward Lyanna. You watch from the side of your sister as he looks deeply into her eyes and a small smile curls at the edges of his lips.
“My lady,” his voice is soft. It sounds like the crackle of fire warming a room. The sound of the crunch of snow underneath heavy boots through an old growth forest. The sound of a lone dire wolf howling from afar, searching for its missing half.
Lyanna smiles gently and curtsies. Her dark hair slips from the thick coat and tumbles into her vision like the waves of a waterfall slipping off the edge of a cliff. Everything she does is carefully measured and planned, from the slightest gesture of her hand to the expression on her face. Your sister carries an effortless grace you could only hopelessly dream of. She offers her dainty hand and Baelor reaches forward to grasp it within his own. A small smile slips across your mouth as he bends his head down to plant a curt kiss across her knuckles. You notice your sister’s lips tremble with delight.
Their hands slip away from each other and Baelor takes a step back. You think he is going to go back to his spot with his house, but then he surprises you by stepping forward toward you.
He keeps a respectful distance as he nods his head in your direction. “Lady Snow.”
You hide your tremulous hands under your coat as you do your best attempt at a curtsy. His eyes wrinkle at the edges and a smile flirts at the edges of his lips. You do not return the gesture–it is already enough that he has singled you out in the way he has, no need to stoke the flame.
As he finally steps away, you realize what emotion it is he hid behind his mismatched eyes you saw before but could not place. Curiosity.
If Winterfell is a sleeping den of wolves, then the Red Keep is charged like a viper’s nest. Everywhere you turn, there is someone lurking. You cannot ever fully escape the stares that follow you regardless of where you are or what you are doing.
Suddenly, you find yourself seeking the most recluded spots in order to escape it. You find yourself backing out of arrangements and responsibilities more often than you ever have. Sometimes you sit in your chambers all day in the hopes that the quilts will simply swallow you whole.
Instead of your usual wallowing, that morrow you slip away with the first rays of light to the courtyard. You have traded your usual plethora of thick fur-lined gowns with airy dresses that you feel that you can actually move and breathe in. People pass you and give you cursory glances, but you realise that most do not recognise you as the Stark you are without your fur. You smile to yourself for a moment at the realization before your thoughts are shattered by the sight of your sister striding toward you.
“Lyanna,” you say, surprised by her appearance so early in the morning. She is one to not be so easily roused from her chambers, rather, she usually sleeps until the sun is high in the sky.
She is dressed in a beautiful fur-lined coat and a deep emerald gown that draws eyes from every corner of the courtyard. That, along with her striking northern beauty compared to your plain commoner beauty, is the reason you shrink in on yourself when you see her headed your way.
She smiles and grasps your arm, threading it across her own in a secure hold. “Walk with me.” The statement is less of a question than it is an order. You are used to following your sister’s bidding and so you simply bite your tongue and follow her as she leads you across the courtyard.
“How have you been, sister?” she asks. You startle at the title she only scarcely afforded you. Being called Lyanna’s sister–the acknowledgement of it–was not something that you were used to.
“Just fine,” you tell her, though it could not be farther from the truth, “and you?”
The smile that whips across your sister’s face makes you realize that the question had been less a genuine one and rather a formality. What Lyanna really wanted was to tell you about her day, but she had to get all the boring questions of your own out of the way first so she didn’t come across as a complete bitch.
“I have had the best few days,” Lyanna says in hurried excitement, “the gods have really smiled down upon me as of late.”
You bite your lip to prevent yourself from questioning her. The Gods? Which, those of the Old or of the Sept?
“I’m glad to hear that,” you say. You think you might actually mean it, but a part of you stews in jealousy. While your sister thrives like a flower underneath the oppressive sun of the Red Keep, you wilt and long for the wild outside the walls.
“Baelor is so sweet,” Lyanna continues unperturbed by your lackluster reply, “he took me on a walk around the gardens yesterday. He told me all about his duties as Lord Hand, which I mostly tuned out, but then he picked a flower and gave it to me and said that I was as pretty as a rose and I nearly cried.”
You almost laugh at the irony of the differences between you and Lyanna. You would have been thrilled to hear about the duties of a hand to the king–and probably extremely put-off by the cheesy flirting.
“So your betrothed is kind?” you say, thinking back to your conversation only a few days prior and the fear you had felt on her behalf.
“Yes, oh, I couldn’t ask for anyone better.” Lyanna’s grin stretches from ear to ear as she continues. Then, it slips away as she seems to recall something. “But I will say he is awfully busy. I do not see of him nearly as much as one should their betrothed.”
Your lips twist. “Well, he is the hand of the king. I’m sure he is very busy.”
“That’s what father said,” Lyanna groans. “But my mother always said that nothing should be more important than one’s wife, or in this case, wife-to-be.”
You look over at Lyanna in amazement at her naïveté. You had distantly remembered her mother saying that, but you do not think she had meant it in respect to the situation at hand now. Surely she realized that the fate of the kingdoms held some weight against the fate of one young woman?
“Oh,” Lyanna suddenly gasps. You follow her gaze across the courtyard where an older lady in bright red robes stands under a pillar. “I have to go. I forgot I had lessons.”
“Lessons?” you say, confused.
She looks over at you as if she suddenly remembered something. Her face turns from surprised to guilty in a flash. “Yes, er, father has me in studies to become a better wife for Baelor.”
You nod even though a pit has formed in your stomach. Father had considered it all for his true daughter, but left naught for you. You try not to take it personally. You were not the one getting married, afterall. But a bitterness sweeps over you despite it.
Lyanna runs toward the septa and you watch her as she goes. Passing noblemen watch her with wide, lustful eyes, before they snap away at the realization of her status. You ball your hands into fists, but you are not sure what you are more angry about. The impropriety of the men’s reaction to your sister or the jealousy that you had never once been looked at like that before.
You turn your head away before your thoughts further circle toward destructive tendencies. You try to remember exactly what it is you had planned to do for the day when your eyes get caught on a beautiful black stallion crossing through the courtyard, led on a lead by a young boy.
He’s all muscle and velvet. His long, wavy mane stretches past his forelocks down to the start of his legs, jumping and falling against his side in tandem with his heavy trot. You do not realize you are following him until you are led across the castle to the stables. The stableboy is busy removing his halter and he does not notice you as he does, hanging it up on the wall, and then crossing the stable and leaving through a small door.
You move as if in a trance toward the beautiful beast. His dark eyes are sharp and follow your every step as you inch closer. His velvet nostrils flair and a deep noise comes crawling out of them, a swell of hot, ashy air lifting your hair from your face.
He leans over his stall door curiously and you reach out a tentative hand toward his face.
“You are beautiful,” you whisper.
Suddenly, the stallion lets out a high pitched neigh and his ears pin themselves tightly against his skull. You step backward instinctually and draw your hand back to your side.
You are not sure what you have done to offend the animal. You watch him closely.
“...His name is Vaegon.”
You do not look to the unfamiliar voice, half-assuming it is the stableboy from earlier, as your eyes stay enraptured by the stallion. “Emā se brōzi hen iā rōvēgrie vala,” you whisper. (You have the name of a great man).
The horse seems to calm in the face of your fluency. His ears lift from their tense position into their upright form. He leans forward and you are able to lay your hand onto his snout. He does not only allow you, but encourages it by pushing his face wholeheartedly into your palm. You let out an amazed laugh at his eagerness to be stroked.
You smile. “Iksan biare īlon shifang tolie sir.” (I’m glad we understand each other now).
“Skoriot gōntan ao gūrēñagon bisa?” The voice breaks in again. This time, though, the change of language makes your head spin to look at him. (Where did you learn this?)
Your hand falls from its position back to your side at the sight of the man before you. Prince Baelor. You fall to your knees automatically and drop your head.
“Stand,” Baelor orders and you do not know why for a brief moment you believed him to be anyone else. His voice is completely unique and gentle in a way you had never known a man’s to be.
You follow his order but keep your eyes stubbornly on the silver broach in the shape of a dragon keeping his cloak together.
“…Kessa ao udligon nyke?” (Will you answer me?)
Your mouth suddenly seems dry as you go to answer. “I… taught myself.” You draw your hands across your gown. “Issa daor qopsa skori emā jēda.” (It is not difficult when you have time).
The prince lets out a laugh. It is not like his speaking voice. Rather, it is loud and sharp and contradictory in every way. You assume he must be amused by the thought of a young bastard girl teaching herself High Valriyan as a choice of pleasure. Admittedly, stated so plainly, it does sound quite absurd.
He stops laughing and when you look up, his eyes are soft, held together by deep crow’s feet that reveal to you his seniority to your own years.
You can feel your throat bob as you swallow harshly.
“Gaomas aōha mandia gīmigon ziry tolī?” his eyes continue to twinkle with amusement despite the laughter having fled far off his face. (Does your sister know it too?)
“Lyanna?” you say, even though you know who he speaks of. It is not often people refer to her as your sister. It is startling when put as plainly as the prince did. “Daor, gaoman daor pāsagon sīr.” (No, I do not believe so.)
“Hm,” Baelor seems to be considering something as his mismatched eyes draw down your face. “Pār iksā mēre hen iā sȳz.” (Then you are one of a kind.)
Your eyebrows furrow before you can prevent them from doing so. Your skin prickles with unease at the thought of the stableboy watching from slats in the wood. You nervously card your hands down your gown.
“My apologies, my prince,” you say, “I have to excuse myself. I had forgotten but I made some arrangements…”
If he is offended by your response, Baelor does not show it. His lips curl only partially at the corners, a hint at the amusement he had felt before.
He nods his permission and you hurry away, nearly tripping over your skirts in the process. You blame your pounding heart on the fear of getting caught in a compromising position with Lyanna’s betrothed, but even you are not sure how true that is.
You had thought that perhaps you may have a short reprieve from having to deal with the royal family, but that hope is shattered as quickly as it arrives when Lyanna bursts into your room later that evening.
“Why are you not dressed?” she says urgently, looking you up and down in your shift with thinly veiled contempt.
You frown from where you sit at your desk. You look down at yourself. “You mean why am I dressed to rest?”
“I told you,” she starts, “that King Daeron has requested we join them for dinner tonight...”
You startle and immediately you stand. “You did not.”
“I did,” Lyanna says angrily, “are you calling me a liar?”
You shake your head. No use in making her angrier than she already is. “Of course not,” you reply. “Just… I need to get dressed, can you step out?”
The fire that had been stoked in Lyanna’s eyes douses out like water being poured over her head. She smiles and nods and steps out of your room without any more ceremony.
And so this is how you find yourself in the midst of the dining hall and smiling, jovial faces and the celebrations of marriage and the bringing of families together. Unlike before, your sister is happy this time—joking with Egg and shooting coy glances across the table at her betrothed.
You cannot find it within yourself to share in the celebration and you hate yourself for it. You are lucky to be included, to be treated more of an equal and less like the bastard you were always treated like at Winterfell and yet a part of you longs for the simplicity of fading into the background like you could so easily back home.
You are not sure why you have been included. You are not adding much to the conversation or atmosphere. Really, if anything, you’re detracting from it.
You pick at the roasted duck in front of you in mild interest. You push around sprigs of parsley and thick marinate to see the strips of white meat underneath. You take a small bite and force it down.
The back of your neck suddenly prickles with unease. You lift your eyes and immediately they clash with the deep brown of your father’s across the way.
He’s looking at you like he might an animal. Or worse, an insect. You have to remind yourself that he does not hate you, he hates what you stand for, but even that seems like a lie now.
You look back down at your plate and you feel the weight of his gaze leave you as he gets involved in conversation with Prince Maekar, if you had to guess by voice alone.
“Lady Snow,” someone says from down the table.
You immediately meet their eyes and recognize the sharp violet as belonging to Daella. Even at her young age, she is already strikingly beautiful.
Most of the eyes at the table draw to you at Daella’s beckoning as if they only just realized you were there.
Daella continues to smile at you unperturbed by the stares. “What was it like growing up in Winterfell?”
You wonder why such a question was not aimed at Lyanna. As your eyes dart to your sister, you think she’s wondering the same thing. Your experience is not the average, and most of your memories are downtrodden by the fact of your existence being a stain upon Winterfell.
If you were to be honest with Daella, which you never would be, you would tell her that your childhood was strife with heartache. That from your earliest memories you remembered being ostracized, pushed to the side for the better sister. That you always felt bitter for how you were treated and took it out on Lyanna, causing her to hate you for much of your youth. That other noble girls would turn their noses up at the idea of even touching you, much less being friends with you and that noble boys would tease others by saying that they had a crush on you, as if the very idea of courting you was the worst their mind could conjure. That your own father and step-mother were your own worst enemies.
Instead, you smile pleasantly and say, “it is much colder than King’s Landing, that is for sure.”
That gets a few laughs from around the table.
“I’ve heard it’s all snow and wolves,” Daella continues innocently, “what did you do for fun?”
What should be a simple question makes you sweat. Your mind goes blank. What had you done? Embroidery? Weaving? Reading? They’re all trivial things that make your throat clam up and your palms slick.
Lyanna leans forward when she notices you struggling. “We enjoyed the things that all noblewomen did. We are no different than you.”
You meet her eyes and give a small nod of thanks for her quick response.
Daella smiles cordially, the picture of royalty, and nods. She turns her attention fully onto Lyanna and she begins to continue her conversation with the more social of the two Stark sisters.
A few minutes pass before King Daeron stands from his position at the end of the table, raising his goblet into the air. Your eyes get caught on Baelor’s face as he sits near his father. He watches him like he hung the very stars in the sky; his eyes wide and his lips pulled into a small smile. You feel a spark of envy at your chest at the evidence of the close relationship Baelor has with his father, a relationship you would never have with your own, but you force the feeling away as Daeron begins to speak.
“I am so happy to have the North and the South united as one again,” Daeron says, “and as much as I enjoy talking. It is time to dance!”
Your breath catches in your throat as from the corner of the room a few stewards begin to pluck at lutes. A beautiful song begins to play, the chords oddly familiar but still exotic and even harder to place. You watch as Lyanna jumps to her feet, excitedly gesturing to her betrothed to dance.
You notice Baelor’s eyes linger on his father’s for a moment too long before he grabs your sister’s hand and leads her to the middle of the room. You wonder if perhaps the prince was just as embarrassed by attention like everyone else was.
He wraps his arm around your sister’s waist and Lyanna’s hands climb up to hang around his neck. They begin to four-step around the room as the music climbs and climbs and becomes jovial and intense.
As they continue to dance, others begin to join them. Baelor’s son Valarr takes his cousin Daella to the floor. Daeron swings Aegon around the room with a burst of laughter escaping his lips. The youngest princess dances with her grandfather.
You watch with solemn eyes at the display because you cannot bear to look at your father sitting across from you in the fear that he might suddenly get sentimental.
“Perhaps you’d like to dance, Lady Snow?”
Your eyes shoot toward the sudden voice by your side and you nervously clutch your gown when you see who is standing there. Prince Aerion. He’s handsome, smiling, the picture of cordiality. But you have heard things about him that makes your stomach twist at the sight of him.
You do not have the power to deny the prince. You nod and stand and take his hand as he leads you to the floor.
Prince Aerion does not say anything for a moment. You try to focus on not stepping on his feet as he guides you around the room. You had taken lessons as an adolescent, but your skills were definitely rusty.
You keep your hands a few inches from actually touching his body, partly in the fear that he may react badly if you do.
“Lady Lyanna is beautiful,” he says suddenly. Your eyes dart from watching your feet to his staring eyes. His violet ones are not the comforting presence like his uncle’s, his are predatory. A smirk licks at the edges of his lips. “But she is no match to you.”
His eyes trail from your face to your bust and his wet tongue slips from his mouth to trail a line of spit across his teeth. You stumble at the words and nearly fall backward in your attempt at creating distance when Aerion’s arm tightens around your waist to prevent you from falling.
“Careful there.” His grin splits across his face like an open wound. His teeth are like maggots wiggling inside decaying flesh. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”
You don’t say a word as his eyes continue to trail over your body. You look over his shoulder and see your father staring at you with narrowed eyes. You clench your hands from where they sit frozen on Aerion’s shoulders, a well of helplessness coming forth from your chest.
“It is unfortunate you were born from a fleabottom whore,” Aerion continues, unperturbed by your horror. If anything, he seems fueled by it. “You certainly are not marriage potential by any means… but that does not mean you are not a good lay. Tell me, did your mother teach you any tricks—“
“Prince Aerion,” a voice startles your dance partner and his eyes widen and dart to the side. You follow his gaze to where his uncle stands, his eyebrows furrowed and his hands crossed behind his back.
At the opportunity given before you, you jump away from Aerion as if his very touch scalded your skin.
“Uncle,” Aerion’s response is deferential, but in it a touch of bite rounds off the word. No doubt, he is frustrated that his toy has been ripped from his hands.
You gaze at your unlikely savior with wide eyes. You can’t help seeking your sister from behind him, but find she seems to have been enraptured in conversation with Valarr across the hall.
“Perhaps I may dance with Lady Snow for a round?” Baelor asks, though you gather it is not as much a question as he tries to make it seem.
Aerion rolls his eyes, but does not argue. He does not say anything more before he turns his back and slinks away.
You stand, frozen, staring at the spot where he once stood.
“Are you okay?” Baelor steps closer to you as he asks this.
You swallow back the desperate emotion clawing up your throat.
“I am just well,” you reply after too long a moment of hesitation.
“He will not bother you again.” your eyes snap up to meet his, and you are surprised by the anger in his clenched jaw and set gaze. “I will make sure of it.”
You are intimidated by the seriousness inflected in his voice and center your eyes on his broach again. Why should he care? It is not like Aerion had said that to your sister. You are a bastard second daughter. Your only benefit to your father is to how much dowry he can gain from the highest bidder. Baelor should not care about you. And yet, inexplicably, he does.
His hand enters your periphery and for a moment you stare, stunned, at the raised veins in his corded muscle and the rings on each of his fingers.
“You do not have to dance with me,” you tell him in lieu of a reply.
Baelor’s lips twist. “And if I want to?”
“I would say that is incredibly improper,” you tell him. You watch for a moment as his face drops. Your heart pounds against your ribcage. He goes to lower his hand, but you intercept it and guide it to wrap around your waist.
The instantaneous brightening of his face makes you feel dizzy.
Unlike with Aerion, you place your hands gently on Baelor’s shoulders and the dance comes naturally to you. You tell yourself it is because Baelor is a good lead, but a part of you actually thinks it is something else—something deeper.
You smile despite yourself and avert your eyes. Baelor’s arm is warm around your waist. You tingle from where his fingers brush your exposed skin. You suddenly feel incredibly hot, and you chide yourself for feeling such a way with such a man.
“Why do you do that?”
Your eyes meet his, alarmed. You have to wet your lips before you can speak and his mismatched eyes dart to follow the movement. “Do what, My Grace?”
“Baelor,” he corrects quickly, “call me Baelor.”
You shake your head. “You must understand I cannot. My father would have my head.”
“In private then,” he says softly, and somehow that idea makes you even more uncomfortable. The idea seems like a secret shared between lovers, something fugitive and risqué.
You nod just to appease him.
“Why do you not meet my eyes?” he clarifies.
You frown, unsure of how to answer the question. Unconsciously, your eyes drift to meet his own. His lips curl into a smile when you meet them and your heart stutters.
“I… I'm not sure, My Gra-Baelor,” you say, “it is something I have just always done.”
“You are a lady,” Baelor says and your heart leaps up to your throat when his arm tightens. “You should not be afraid to be yourself.”
“I am not a lady.” A flash of anger rips across you, so sudden it is dizzying. “I am a bastard. They are not the same.”
Something like amusement clouds Baelor’s face. Frustration makes you dig your nails into his cloak, but he only looks more joyed at the feeling. Like he’s finally gotten some kind of real emotion from you.
“My mother,” Baelor says and your grip loosens, “do you know of her?”
You try to remember, but the memory slips from you like an apparition. Your jaw clenches as you shake your head.
“She was of Dorne,” Baelor tells you, “and I do not know what you know of Dorne, but I will tell you that they do not ostracize bastards there. Any child of a royal is simply that — a child.”
You try to hide your surprise but you know he notices, for a self-satisfied smile crosses his face. How had you never known that? Had you truly missed that in your studies? You look over Baelor’s shoulder and meet your father’s gaze. Or had it been kept from you?
“All that to say,” Baelor continues, “I do not think your being a bastard should define you. I think that you let it define you more than anyone else does. I think you use it as a shield to keep yourself from feeling. I think you feel safe with it because it means that you will never have to feel anything for anyone in the way you have never known.”
Your feet stop abruptly in their dancing and you remove your hands from him. Tears spring to your eyes before you can stop them. You notice through bleary vision Lyanna’s gaze from across the room. You drop your head.
“You know nothing about me,” you whisper, “you know nothing.”
You push past Baelor and weave through the room to the doors at the far end of the hall. You do not look back once because you knew if you did you would say something that you would regret.
Later that night, sitting in your bed, sleep evades you no matter how hard you chase it. Those words echo in your mind, relentlessly pursuing you. You know it is not true. It can’t be true. And yet your hands fist in the bed below you and your breaths come out in stuttered gulps as you try to recover from the hardest blow you have ever had to take.
“You look awful,” Lyanna says in lieu of a greeting as you step into the covered seating area at the edge of the garden.
You roll your eyes. “Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”
You cannot fault her statement. Your entire body pangs with exhaustion as you lower yourself into the seat across from her. The sun filtering through the leaves of the rose tree behind her gives a ring of gold around her figure that only further exemplifies her angelic demeanor.
Lyanna reaches over to pour you a cup of tea. You watch the dark liquid gather in the teacup with weary eyes.
You take a sip, and are pleasantly surprised by the warmth that immediately flows into your sore throat.
“This is lovely,” you tell her, “what flavor is it?”
She does not appear to have heard you as she stares out at the garden. You follow her gaze and jolt with surprise when you notice Baelor strolling down the path. Even though it is in the midst of summer, he wears at least three layers.
You shrink in your seat as you recall your interaction with him from the previous night. You take another generous gulp of your tea to hide the cringe that comes with immediacy across your face.
“May I confide something in you?” Lyanna says.
You put down the tea cup and watch her with wide eyes as she threads her hands nervously through her hair.
“Okay…”
“I do not want to marry Baelor.”
Your eyes widen. “What? Did you not just say the previous morrow that you cared for him?”
“…Yes,” Lyanna says, “but I was acting too hastily. Baelor is… how can I put this… boring.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose in between your fingers and try to will yourself to stay civil with your sister. She had always been this way. Lyanna would ask for a new dress one day, then it would sit rejected in her closet for years until it was eventually passed to you. Lyanna once asked for a horse and she got it, of course, but decided she did not like the way he rode and sold it as her earliest convenience. Why should she be any different with men?
“All he wants to talk about is politics,” she continues, “I mean, what man talks about politics with his betrothed?”
“I imagine the Hand of the King does a lot of those types of talks.”
“—And then he won’t even ask how my day is,” Lyanna says, “and he won’t kiss my hand or pick me flowers or compliment my dress. It is like he does not care for me.”
“Perhaps he is just not romantic,” you say to her.
“But I want romance,” her voice quivers with emotion as she conveys this to you, “I want to be swooned and to be cared for and to be looked for in a crowd. As it stands now, he looks more at you than he does at me.”
You frown at the last statement. “That is not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Lyanna scoffs, “if we do talk about me it is about you. I was too foolish to realize that before, but now I see it clearly.”
You sigh, too tired to argue with her. As you saw it, she was just making a load of assumptions about nothing.
“Well,” you say, “what are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do?” Lyanna rolls her eyes hard. “Nothing. I can’t do anything.”
“Maybe you could talk to father,” you offer, “he always listens to you.”
Lyanna looks amused by the suggestion. “Does he? What kind of fantasy world have you been living in?”
You bite your lip.
Lyanna lets out a soft laugh and shakes her head. “Father hasn’t listened to me since I was two and ten. Ever since I got my first bleed, it’s been about what I can offer him rather than what I can get from him.”
“I… didn’t know this,” you say to her, and you truly didn’t. You had always thought Lyanna to be her father’s biggest accomplishment in life, his biggest love. You did not know his misogyny extended even onto her. “I’m sorry, Lyanna.”
She nods, taking a deep breath. “It is fine,” she says, though you are not sure it is, “I should be grateful. Many women do not get as nice a man as I am afforded.”
You smile tightly. You do not argue with that, because it is very true. Many women would die to marry as honorable and intelligent and handsome a man as Baelor Targaryen.
A moment of silence passes as you take small sips of your tea and watch the microexpressions on Lyanna’s face warp and twist as she thinks deeply about her pressing issue. Suddenly, you notice her eyes dart to something behind your head. You go to turn when she stands abruptly.
“You will excuse me, sister,” she says, “I do not want to speak to him at the moment. Maybe you could?”
Your mouth gapes helplessly like a fish as your sister quickly takes her leave. You turn your head only to see Prince Baelor Targaryen headed toward you. He looks over at your sister speed-walking away for only a brief moment before his eyes look onto yours. His hardened expression softens so quickly you may have missed it had you not keen eyes. You suddenly feel quite nauseous, but for what you are not sure.
Baelor strides forward and stops a few feet from you. He keeps his hands crossed behind his back as his eyes sweep over your form.
“You look nice in that color,” his eyes are locked onto the periwinkle of your dress, and you smile without fully meaning to. “I have never been one to enjoy the Stark colors.”
Your throat suddenly feels very dry. You do not have the heart to say that you did not like the Stark colors either. “Thank you,” you manage to reply.
Baelor, by contrast, is in the colors he always wore. Black and red. You suppose you could say something about how handsome he looks underneath the rising sun, but knowing you, it would probably come off creepy rather than genuine.
“I… apologise my sister left in such a rush,” you force yourself to say, “she forgot her lessons.”
Baelor cocks a brow. “I do not mind.”
You notice as he draws closer a young kingsguard has accompanied him. He is far enough not to hear your conversation but close enough so he could quickly intervene should you get any funny thoughts. You nearly laugh at the idea of you attempting to overpower a man that went by the nickname“breakspear.”
“Gaomagon ao hae se rūklun?” he says, going to take a seat in the place your sister had just abdicated. (Do you like the gardens?)
“They are beautiful,” you reply with a tight smile, “as is most of the Red Keep.”
“Gaomagon ao daor ȳdragon eglie valriyan sir?” (Do you not know High Valyrian now?)
Despite his amusement at you pretending not to understand the language, you stay stoic.
“I do not find it appropriate to use it,” you tell him, “and I should have never learned it. It is not for common folk to know.”
“Qilōni vestras?” (who says?)
A flush of anger rushes over you at his continued questions. “Vestan. Sir keligon.” (I said. Now stop.)
A small smirk curls at his lips, but he listens and looks away. He seems to be watching a small butterfly flitting from flower to flower nearby.
You smooth out a wrinkle on your gown. You feel an inexplicable rush of guilt.
“...I apologise,” you tell him after a moment of silence. “I did not sleep well the night prior.”
His eyes draw back to your expression. He tilts his head slightly as he considers your weary expression. You stare at his mismatched eyes and wonder how in the Seven such an anomaly of nature could occur.
“Is there a reason you did not sleep well?” he says and you realise with a jolt that his voice sounds like concern. “Are your chambers not to your liking?”
“They are just fine,” you are quick to remedy, “I just had some things on my mind.”
Things that were put into your mind by Baelor. Things that you would never admit had a greater impact on you than you could have ever imagined.
As you watch Baelor sitting across from you, you realise he is turning one of the rings on his hand incessantly. He notices your gaze and he stops.
“I did not mean to offend last night,” he tells you and you think his voice sounds earnest, “I just wished to comfort you.”
You frown and pull at a stray thread hanging off your dress. “I do not need comforting.”
“No, I’m sure you do not,” Baelor says with a toothy smile. “But perhaps you would like a friend.”
Your eyes dart up from where you had been pulling at your dress. You stare at him for a moment in shock. You have never… Perhaps this is some kind of sick joke? Does he think you a fool?
“For what purpose?” you finally settle on saying. “If you want a quick lay, I am sorry to disappoint.”
Baelor’s eyes widen. You bite your tongue until copper fills your mouth.
“Is that truly…”
You feel sick at the pity that fills his expression in that moment so you avert your eyes.
“Do you truly believe every man that is kind to you wants to use you?”
The words hit like a slap against the face. Your blood runs cold.
“Baelor,” you say finally, “every man wants to use women. And those who do not believe that are fools.”
You notice him lean forward in your periphery. He gently places his hand upon where yours continually pulls at the fringes of your dress. Your hand stills, but you do not pull away. His hand is warm, kind. It is as gentle as his voice when he speaks to you, as intelligent as his eyes when he realises your emotion. You look up at him to see his eyes narrowed in contemplation.
“Not all men,” he finally says.
He pulls away and you can only hopelessly watch as his hand rejoins his other on his lap.
You begin to think about Baelor in your every waking moment. When you walk the gardens, you watch butterflies and wonder if Baelor had seen them before. When you read your few books on High Valriyan, you think of him and the conversations you shared. When you speak with Lyanna, your mind always drifts to him.
It is a terrible thing, you think, to become friends with someone who can never fully understand you. Soon, you are talking with him during family gatherings. You are seeking him out to ask about the history of his family. You discuss the endings of popular fables.
It becomes easy to like Baelor Targaryen. Contrastingly, it becomes harder and harder to acknowledge the fact that your relationship is only temporary until the wedding in a moon. You fear what will happen after it is all gone. Will you be able to recover?
You consider this as you weave through the hallways in the Red Keep, walking without a true purpose in mind. You keep your spine straight and your hands tucked behind your back as you walk. People watch you as you walk by with curious eyes. You do not flinch under the weight of the gazes anymore. They simply slid off you like water off a bird’s back.
As you continue to walk, you consider all that you have gained since coming to King’s Landing. You no longer shrink behind your sister and father and exist underneath the shadow of their impressively large fur coats. You do not try to hide your intelligence anymore, rather, you flaunt it to anyone who cares to listen. Most importantly, you do not think you are completely rotten anymore. You do not think you are doomed to a life of fear and ostracization anymore. Hope has sprung in your chest like blooming flowers at the start of spring.
“Lady Snow?”
A voice says from behind you. You pause in your steps and cock your head in the direction of the tremulous noise. It is a little serving girl, no older than five and ten, her eyes wide and glassy like she was preparing for a hit. She could have been you. You could have been her. You swallow thickly and put on a gentle smile. You can see the girl’s shoulders drop with relief at your aparent kindness.
“Yes?”
“Your father requests you in his chambers,” she tells you softly.
Your face hardens without you even realising. You watch as the girl drops her eyes and scurries away.
You begin your journey toward your father’s chambers with slow steps. You are not opposed to making him wait. Anyways, you could use the extra time to consider what he might say to you.
Your father, Lord Stark, is not a particularly kind man. He is gruff and hardened by years of living in Winterfell’s unflinching cold. He had always been worse to you. He never hit you or was particularly cruel, but it was the little things. You were always cast aside. Your sister was doted on, you were a brief consideration. For many years, you thought your jealousy to be born of a place of wrong, for you were much better off than many bastards in the realm. You were not living on the streets, selling your body for scraps, proliferating with more bastards to carry on your name. But you were not equal, either. As you later realised, the rejection wore worse on you than one could ever imagine.
Lyanna’s mother died when she was five and ten. She’d had a persistent sickness that eventually stole her breath. You had not cried for her. Your father and sister thought you were a monster for not. But why should you? She had never loved you, she had borne you like a responsibility, not as the impressionable child you were.
You did not cry for those who caused you pain. But you held Lyanna still and allowed her tears to soak your gown.
You stop outside the door of your father’s chambers. You had not been inside before, but you remembered it from the tour when you first arrived.
You place your knuckles across the mahogany door and rap them against it softly. A part of you hopes that it is quiet enough that he will not hear it. That you will have an excuse to escape before he notices.
The hopes are in vain, for he calls you in moments after you knock.
The chambers are quiet. Your father sits halfway leaned over a piece of parchment at his desk, a nearby candle casting great shadows across his face. You step closer. His eyes slowly draw up to your face and you are at once struck by the weariness in his expression.
He looks as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. Dark circles are under his eyes. His skin has an odd pallor to it. For a moment, you fear he might be sick like your step-mother.
Then his lips part.
“It took you long enough to get here.”
Your sympathy leaves you with the next breath that escapes your lips.
“I had not known you were searching for me.”
He gestures toward the chair across from his desk and you lower yourself carefully onto it. Your father’s eyes watch you closely.
“How have you been?”
Of all the questions you could have expected from your father, this was not one of them. You feel your eyebrows pinch together.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, how have you been?” he repeats.
“I have been… fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. Then, his eyes go back down to his parchment and he begins to write something down.
You scoff at his audacity after a few seconds pass in silence. “I’m sorry, did you need something from me, father?”
His eyes slowly trail back up to your face. Suddenly, you feel incredibly uncomfortable. He looks… sympathetic? You frown, tingling fear spreading through your limbs.
“What is the matter?” you say urgently. “What has happened?”
Lord Stark’s throat bobs as he considers your question. “I have been speaking with Prince Maekar often these past few days,” he begins. “And he has made me a very… generous offer.”
You freeze. “You did not.”
His eyes soften. “It will be a good match for you.”
Your hands tremble as they go to cup your head. Your eyes slide closed at the realization. He allows you a few minutes to process this. You finally open your eyes and look up at him.
“Which one is it?” you say, “please… do not tell me it is the youngest.”
“Maekar believes that you and his second son will make a good match.”
“Second son,” your voice sounds not like your own. Everything feels like it is happening from outside of your body. You tremble all over, your heart pounding in your ears. “Aerion.”
Your eyes dart to his. Fear flees to your lips. “You cannot… Aerion will kill me.”
Your father cocks a brow. “You are being dramatic.”
“I am not,” you say quickly, desperately, “have you truly not heard of his exploits in the Street of Silk?”
“Your future husband’s hobbies will be of no consequence to you,” your father replies, “you cannot find one nobleman in the seven kingdoms that does not seek the company of women outside the marital bed.”
Anger, hot and rare and real, sweeps through you.
“Just because you sleep with any woman that gives you the time of day does not mean every man does,” you bite back. You stand. Your father does too.
“You will not speak to me in that way,” your father’s face is flush with anger, “no matter what you believe of me, I have done more for you than any man would in my position. I have gifted you with this.”
“Gifted me?!” your voice is shrill. You thrust your finger into his chest, pressing hard. “You have given me nothing. You have cursed me with this… this life.”
“Do not say that.”
“But it is true, is it not?” you continue, unperturbed, “if you had not slept with that whore we would not be in this mess. Your life would be better. My life would be.”
“Do not speak about your mother in that way.”
You shake your head. “What the fuck do you care? She was a fucking whore!”
His hand shoots out before you can react and he grabs your arm in a tight, unflinching hold. Your breath turns stuttery. You are frozen, forced to stare into his dark, encompassing eyes.
“Your mother was not a whore,” he says, his voice quiet. “She loved me.”
You lean forward until your noses are but a breath apart. “Is that what she told you when you spilled inside of her? When you gave her two silvers for her trouble at the end of the night?”
You think the anger is about to spill over. You think he might strangle you, slap you across the mouth for the audacity. Then, the fire leaves him all at once like water dousing a flame. He releases your arm and you take three hurried steps back.
He drops his head and turns his back from you. “You will marry Aerion. End of discussion.”
You feel the tears before you can prevent them. Time moves in a blur as your feet take you out of the room and through the winding halls. You keep your head down, shrink in on yourself when people stop to look at you. You are ruined. Your life is over.
You turn into an empty corridor and place yourself against the wall. The tears overflow and flood your vision, falling in rivulets down your cheeks and neck and the front of your dress. Your mind spins with the realization you will never live freely again. Becoming Aerion’s wife will be an execution of you mind, body, and soul.
The tears do not stop even when you hear the sound of footsteps. You simply turn your back and continue to shake with sobs.
“Please leave,” you tell the approaching figure.
They do not listen. A hand falls on your shoulder and you finally turn.
Your sobs become intertwined with a gasp.
Baelor stands behind you. His eyes watch you with a mix of solemnity and understanding. His face is bathed in shadow from the ill-lit corridor, but even through it you can see his lips pulled into a soft frown. You watch him as his eyes trail slowly down your face.
“You knew,” your realization comes with another choked sob. “You knew and did not tell me.”
“I just found out this morning,” Baelor says. “My brother told me.”
You shake your head. “My life is over.”
“I will do everything I can to convince my brother and father it is a bad choice,” he says and your mouth gapes like a fish at the admission. “I will help you any way I can.”
“Why…” you feel like you could puke. “Why would you help me?”
His beautiful eyes dart between the two of yours. His jaw clenches and you trace the muscle as it disappears into his close-cropped shave.
“Because you are my friend.”
You watch him as he offers this as an explanation in stunned silence. You trail from his gentle mismatched eyes to the mole that rests just beneath his eye to the dark salt-and-pepper beard to the faint wrinkles that pull at the sides of his lips as he offers you a smile. You can feel his breaths as they hit your skin, as they fan across your face and heat your blood. Your eyes become locked fixedly on his parted lips.
You lean forward before you can stop yourself and you fully place your lips upon his. He is frozen for a moment and your heart stutters. You suddenly feel like the biggest fool there is. Then, his hand lifts from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck and he is suddenly returning the kiss with full force.
He tastes sweet, like the blueberry tarts served in the morrow. You feel like you are drowning in him. His nose scrapes against the side of your own. His hand lifts and cradles your cheek, softly stroking the saltwater-slick skin.
You kiss him like you are drowning and he is your oxygen. It is raw, passionate, and self-preserving. You drag a hand up from his neck to scrape against his thin hair and he lets out a soft moan into your mouth.
You go to tilt your head to kiss him harder when you hear something from behind him.
You start to pull away when you suddenly hear a gasp. You rip yourself away and Baelor spins to see who has witnessed your indiscretions.
You recognise the face immediately. Her dark, curly hair. Her wide, angelic eyes. Her mouth, which has fallen into an oval.
You immediately launch forward away from Baelor, but the damage has already been done.
You go to reach for her but she moves away.
“Lyanna, please–”
She turns her head from you and brings a hand up to stifle her shock. She stumbles away.
“Lyanna!” you call.
But she does not turn around as she runs off.
Your life is over. You are quite certain of that now.
put that thing back where it came from, or so help me!
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ summary: you find yourself in a world you thought was fictional (completely randomly), wake the dragon, and have no idea if you can survive to see another day.
or, put more clearly, reader is a modern university student who gets isekai'd to westeros, and wakes up in the worst place possible.
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ content: aerion targaryen, reader is female, second person pov, dragon eggs, reader is having a bad day, aerion is contributing to it, attempt at humor (a little), not beta read, i'm not very knowledgable about the asoiaf world, title is a mike wazowski quote bc he's iconic
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ notes: hii. so i just had an idea and i might continue this as a series if anyone is interested, i would also add moments with the rest of the characters too, of course.
please let me know if i need to add any tags! i hope you enjoy reading it! feel free to leave any comments as they always make my day and i love interacting with you!
english isn't my first language so be warned.
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ word count: 4.2k
Morning sunlight peeked through the gaps in your bedroom’s curtains and fell on your closed eyes, not letting you sleep peacefully. You turned and rolled in your bed until you found another comfortable position away from the light. It was around ten in the morning, which was still early enough for you to get some more sleep in.
You had taken your last final exam before coming back home, because professors enjoyed drinking student tears and making exams unreasonably early in the day, and now officially had nothing else to worry about for the rest of your life. At least until you heard back from one of the companies you’d applied to for a mandatory summer internship.
Regardless, you had been sleep deprived since the start of the finals week, and needed to hibernate for the entirety of summer like a… winter bear, if they existed? You would try to at least get rid of the burning sensation in your eyes before getting up, shake off the built up stress of The Week of Torture, and waste away the day doing nothing but changing positions in your bed. You wouldn’t change the comfort of your bed for anything else in the world right at that moment.
And so, buried deep into your pillow, under your soft blanket, with the relief of the end of your finals and no worries in your head for what tomorrow would bring, you drifted off to sleep, and dreamed of soft clouds with fire-breathing dragons gliding through them.
“…y…” a distant voice could barely be detected, echoing, “…ey!”
“Five more minutes…” you mumbled.
You felt a hand poke you quite harshly, “Hey!” said a man’s voice.
You jumped out of your slumber in panic and hit your head on something in front of you while trying to sit up before you could fully open your eyes. “Ow!” you yelped, sliding back on the hard and cold floor… that definitely was not your bed.
Your eyes widened as you looked around frantically, trying to comprehend where you were, and what was going on.
You were in a dark place, a room, with multiple fireplaces, yet filled with shadows and unseen parts, and dark enough to be eerie. The floor, cold stone; the air, suffocating heat. There were ivory black statues of weird fantastical creatures all across the room, the ones you could see out of the shadows having lizard-like aspects to their designs. The room was big enough that you couldn’t see most of what was inside, and it smelled of soot and dampness and other unpleasant things you couldn’t name.
“Who are you?”
You didn’t try to pick out the details you couldn’t see at a glace, as you held your hurting forehead, and turned to face the cause of your pain instead. You had hit your head on his when you’d jumped out of your sleep.
Upon taking a good look at his face, you realised that you recognized the man.
“Finn Bennett?” you asked in confusion. He looked angry and threatening, as if he were ready to attack you, had you made the slightest movement, so you decided to stay on the ground for a little longer, at least as long as he didn’t get closer to you than where he was standing a few steps away. He was in his Aerion Targaryen costume, you could tell, or this was a very successful look-alike. Where were you? How had you ended up here? What did this man want from you?
As the realisation of the situation you were in dawned on you and fear started to settle into your chest, you tried to stop your trembling hands and slow down your frantic breathing. The suffocating air didn’t help. You could feel your heart hammering against your bones, you had never felt your pulse so clearly before. Terror and anxiety spread from your fingers to your toes, circulating in your entire body as easily as blood, consuming all of your being.
You had slept in your room only to wake up in an unfamiliar, dark place with a stranger in front of you. What had happened? What about your mother, who was also home with you? What was going to happen to you now?
“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes while looking you up and down. You thought you could see suspicion and caution in them, like you were the offender, the unpredictable wild-card in this situation. “Your name is of no importance, what are you doing here? How did you get in?”
You looked at him in frozen stillness, other than the trembling in your hands that you couldn’t stop. You didn’t know what to say, what answer did he want? Who had brought you here? Who was this hostile man?
“Look,” he said, now slowly walking closer to you. “I have guards right outside that door,” he said like he was spitting poison, looking into your eyes with an intensity you’d never experienced before, making your hands grow cold in an instant. Shadows fell on the man’s face like paint on canvas, making him look even more dangerous. “And your next words will decide whether you’ll be thrown into the dungeons or killed here.” He took out a sword from the sheath he had tied to his belt, and it seemed real enough to send tremors of overwhelming fear into every cell in your body.
You stood up as instantly and quickly as you could, and started taking back steps at the same pace as the strange man. You hadn’t wanted to risk any sudden movements, but sitting down had seemed like a surrender to death. You didn’t know how your legs were still working properly, considering you could barely feel them, despite the unnaturally loud thumping of your chest.
Talk, you thought, force the words out of your mouth, say something.
“I…” you started, “I have no idea where this is, or how I ended up here. The last thing I remember is sleeping in my bed.” You had managed to say, holding back tears.
“Answer truthfully, woman,” he said in a threatening tone.
“I swear I’m telling the truth.”
The two of you had started orbitting each other, neither one took your eyes off the other one even for a second. He circled his tongue in his mouth in a reptile-like fashion, just like Aerion had done several times in the show.
“Who are you?” it was your turn to ask.
“You don’t know? You are in Dragonstone, yet you ask me who I am?” He had a mocking undertone to his voice, sounding like he was playing a game at your expense.
“What do you mean Dragonstone?”
So he was a cosplayer. Was this a prank? Or were you the first victim of a serial killer pretending to be in Westeros? Were we certain this wasn’t Finn Bennett?
He stopped abruptly, making you freeze again, and sighed. He assumed a bored expression.
“It won’t be any fun if you can’t even make up proper lies.”
You were getting more confused by the second.
“I genuinely don’t understand,” you started, you needed to ask questions while he wasn’t attacking you. “Who are you? Why am I here? Who brought me here? What do you mean Dragonstone, is this some sort of prop room?” Why me?
“Fine,” he said as he started walking away. “The guards will seize you and make you talk.”
Unlike your expectations, you didn’t feel any relief upon seeing him walk away. What did he mean by guards? More men? Make you talk?
“Wait!” you shouted. “I’ll talk.”
He turned to face you again, a smug smirk on his lips. You could play along if that were what he wanted, you weren’t an expert on A Song of Ice and Fire, but you assumed you knew enough to at least keep up. You could try to get information out of him at the same time, too.
“But I really don’t know who you are,” you said before he could make another insulting comment.
He looked at you intently for a moment before answering.
“Aerion Brightflame Targaryen, a prince in the flesh in front of you,” he said, still sword in his hand, “Now speak.”
“Okay,” you said, trying to think of a way out of this conversation. You swallowed your pride and decided to be rational, you could call him “Your Grace”, it wouldn’t hurt you. In the worst case scenario, you would be humiliated.
“How could I even get into the castle, Your Grace? There are guards everywhere. I wouldn’t even be able to find the next room if I stepped out of this one. I really just woke up not knowing where I was.” You tried to speak fast enough that he wouldn’t interrupt you. “You woke me up just now. Would I just sleep on the floor if I had sneaked in?”
“Then how can you explain being here?”
“Someone who can get in might have brought me? I mean, Your Grace, you can see I have no weapons, I’m visibly smaller and weaker than you. I can’t outrun or overpower you. I have no way of posing a threat to you.” You said as you realised he would have probably checked before waking you up, in a scenario like this.
“That is true,” he said. “But you are in the dragon egg nest of the castle, these eggs may not hatch, but they are still more valuable than your entire lineage.”
You broke the eye contact and looked at something other than the man since you’d first woken up. You looked deep into the shadows, trying to see the eggs he was speaking of. You wanted to ask where they were, but were afraid of pissing him off again.
“Exactly, so this room is very well protected. There is no way that I, a stranger, could just get in. I don’t know who brought me here, Your Grace, I can swear upon anything you want.”
He looked you over again, this time seemingly in somewhat deep thought.
“What manner of garment is that?” he asked.
You looked down, and were met with your favorite pajamas that you had worn after your exam in a feeling of whimsy. It was a completely green Mike Wazowski onesie. Very bad choice for sneaking in purposes, as he also must’ve realised, and a lack of shoes also supported your claim. The only onesie you had, and your pretty purple socks with emojis on them were now covered in dirt.
“Well,” you started, now upset, “my pajamas.”
He looked at you confused.
“My sleeping clothes, I told you I was sleeping in my bed before waking up here,” you said, then after a pause, added “Your Grace.”
“That is a strange nightwear,” he commented.
“It’s my favorite,” you added, unnecessarily.
“The guards will take you to the dungeons, Finn Bennett, and we’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said, as he slowly started to walk towards the side of the room where there were some stairs, without turning his body fully away from you.
The guards again? Your nerves had calmed down since the start of this conversation as he’d started seeming more and more human, but you were still cold in fear despite the warmth in the room.
“My name is not Finn Bennett, Your Grace,” you added, as you told him your real name.
“So you lied to me at the start.”
“I thought you were Finn Bennett. I was calling you Finn Bennett.” You could swear he looked and sounded exactly like the actor.
He stopped and looked at you intently for a moment, then said “You are possibly the strangest person I’ve met.”
After kidnapping you?? The audacity??
You started to look around the room more carefully while he walked towards the door, it really felt like a dragon nest in a castle. Other than the creepy statues, fireplaces, and the black stone floor, it was as big as your whole house, or maybe bigger. The room was lit by torches on the walls, which weren’t enough to cast light on most of the room. There were no windows. You turned your back, and finally saw the dragon eggs, all stationed in front of a wall, on weird stone structures. There were more than you thought there would be, definitely more than five. They were all sorts of mesmerizing colors, you didn’t know how you had managed to miss them this whole time when their bright scales popped off in the darkness. They truly did seem magical.
“Finally realised where you are?” asked the man, standing in front of the stairs. He had stopped to watch you instead of getting his guards, you realised. Perhaps he wasn’t done with you yet, maybe he was having fun. You tried to guess what he planned to do to you with every new move he made, yet you couldn’t come to a logical conclusion.
“They are beautiful,” you said, while getting closer to them to admire the intricacies of the paint on the shells. They were covered in many different colors, glimmer inside some of them. You were growing more curious about where you were every passing moment.
The man came to stand by your side. You didn’t know why he let you get close to the eggs or even stood next to you if he were impersonating Aerion Brightflame. The cruel prince would not let any common folk near anything he deemed important. Based on what you knew. Maybe you seemed harmless enough that he would, to enjoy a peasant’s awe at seeing a dragon egg? He thought himself a dragon, after all.
One egg was pitch black with yellow lines forming abstract paths on the shell. One was green, but not just one shade, it had specks of many shades of green all at once. One was pearly white with dark blue whorls on it. That one was your favorite. You felt as if it was calling to you, urging you to get closer, to touch it.
All of this felt and looked extremely real. Too real. You supposed people rich enough to waste their money like this and actually make it feel realistic did exist, and vast secret criminal networks to kidnap people to make them a part of their weird theatrics must’ve also been a thing. What had you gotten yourself into? You were just a university student trying your best. Most of the time.
The fireplace closest to where you stood suddenly roared, flames rose up enough to touch the high ceiling. You gasped, taking a step away from it, looking up in surprise, then you looked at the man. He seemed just as surprised and taken aback, was it not a part of his game?
Before either of you could take another step to escape, the fire spread around you, engulfing all that was in the room in flames, forming a circle of burning heat turning around you, its movements causing a scorching wind, stinging your face and eyes. You reflexively moved closer to the man, and then had to stop yourself from grabbing his arm; he was still dangerous. You were alone here.
“What is going on?” he asked, yelling over the noises the explosion was making. The strong wind was threatening to make you lose your footing, fire was cracking all around you, sometimes beneath your feet.
“It’s your castle, how am I supposed to know?!” you yelled back.
“Are you a witch?!”
“If I were a witch, I would be gone before you could draw your sword!”
The fire finally spread enough to encompass the dragon eggs, and closed in on the two of you, leaving you nowhere to move. The man yelled for the guards outside, but nobody came in.
You then heard a strange voice, barely a whisper. It echoed your name over and over again. It sounded like neither man nor woman, yet both at the same time.
“What’s that voice?” you asked the Finn Bennett look-alike next to you.
“What voice?”
“The one that’s repeating my name!” your own voices could barely be heard.
“Are you sure you are not a witch?”
“Aerion, be serious!”
“I’m not hearing anything, witch,” said Aerion, as you’d decided to think of him for now, even though that was most definitely not his real name. It was hard to breathe, your lungs and nostrils burned, soot got into your nose and mouth, the heat pressure pressed on you from all sides. Your eyes teared up, everything was stinging.
The voice started to speak in cryptic sentences you could not grasp. You tried to make out the words, but realised they were in a language you did not understand. “Child of two worlds,” said the voice, more clearly now, and you felt your head spin while you tried to keep your feet steady.
Then the voice stopped.
The wind stopped, flames faded out, the fireplace turned back to the way it was before. Nothing seemed to have burned, the dragon eggs looked exactly the same as before, so did the statues, so did every piece of stone in the room. You grabbed one of the weirdly shaped rocks that were holding the dragon eggs and started taking deep breaths, finally able to properly inhale. You wiped the sweat on your face with your poor pajamas.
Aerion grabbed your arm. “What was-”
One of the eggs moved. The white one. It wiggled.
Both of you took a step back at the same time, gasping. Were these actual eggs? They had painted real eggs? Which animal lay eggs this big? Emus? But why was it moving, shouldn’t it be thoroughly cooked by now? Why hadn’t the fire burnt anything?
A crack formed on the egg, and then it expanded until the baby inside made its way outside. A… huge lizard? It was white, and when it opened its eyes, you saw they were dark blue. A mesmerizing blue, looking like it was straight out of a fantasy novel. You had no idea what kind of weird exotic lizard this was, or why, as a baby, it was so big.
Aerion exhaled next to you, and when you looked at him, you could detect many emotions in his eyes; awe, shock, doubt… Either he was a very good actor, or he truly cared about… whatever was happening with the eggs.
“What-” you started, but couldn’t finish your question when the lizard leapt towards you, and stuck straight to your face, obscuring your vision.
“Aaaahhhh!” you yelled as you tried to run away and shake your head, but the lizard was holding on without any problems. You brought your hands up to grab and yank it off, but you really didn’t want to hold it.
“Aerion!” you yelled as you tried to find him, he had come next to you anyway, even though you were restless. You grabbed him without knowing where. “Get it off! Take it!”
He gripped both of your arms and made you stand still in front of him, you could feel him leaning down to look at you —or more so, the baby lizard.
“Incredible,” he murmured, sounding astonished.
“Aerion,” you said, “please get it off me.”
He didn’t seem to hear you, he didn’t respond.
“Aerion!” you yelled, then remembering, “Your Grace!”
“This is a miracle,” he said, “It’s the first dragon egg that could hatch since-”
“It’s moving on my face, Aerion! At least let me go!”
You could hear an annoyed sigh leave his lips, he was finally hearing you. Annoyed?? A lizard, right after being born, still in its egg juices or whatever, had glued itself to your face. He had no right to be annoyed.
“Do you not know what an honor it is, that the first alive dragon in fifty years is even touching you?”
The lizard sneezed. You felt a burn at the top of your head.
“What did it do?!” you shrieked, “I will kill myself!” you started to shake your head and kick his legs.
“Stop whining,” he said loudly and audibly irritated, “stand still.” He released your arms and grabbed the lizard, pulling it off your face. You stumbled backwards, and immediately put an adequate distance between you and the animal.
The lizard wriggled and thrashed about in Aerion’s hands, trying to set itself free. And then it breathed fire. You saw it, there was no mistaking it, fire came out of its mouth and almost burned Aerion’s hands, but he let it go before that could happen.
The lizard sprinted towards you in a speed no baby of anything should be capable of, and you started running away. You had to admit it was the most beautiful lizard you’d ever seen, it had scales like starlight and eyes like ocean depths, but the trying-to-eat-you-alive bit really made it hard to appreciate its beauty.
“Aerion!” you yelled again, knowing he would not help you, and started running towards him.
He looked baffled and confused, he just stood there, watching.
At that moment, you hated everything. And this room, you hated the most. It was suffocatingly hot, frusturatingly dark, the only source of light, flames, distractingly yellow and unreliable and dangerous, the only other person inside, unpredictable and uncaring. Your chest had been tight since you had woken up here, the ceiling was coming down on you to crush you every passing moment, the walls were closing in on you, the creepy statues were watching you like prey, you were actually being hunted like prey.
You needed to get out. You changed your trajectory towards the stairs, and then started climbing up. The door was heavy, but you managed to open it, and barely closed it back in time to keep the weird lizard inside.
You let out a deep breath, there was some light outside. It was morning. Or noon.
There really were other men positioned outside the room, and they really did have armor. They looked at you questioningly, but didn’t do anything. You looked around to see where the room was connected to.
You were standing in a long hall, the end of it barely seen, the ceiling so tall that several floors would fit inside the hall. A red carpet underneath your feet, the walls were made of the same ivory black stone as the room.
You made your way to the nearest window, you needed to see where you were. When you looked outside from the window, however, you couldn’t believe your eyes. You stuck out your head to feel the wind, smell the salt and smoke, look at the sun until your eyes teared up, to see if you were still alive, if this was truly real.
You saw the sea stretching towards the horizon, neverending. You saw the steep cliff the castle you were in was standing on, right next to the sea. You saw how the castle looked from outside, enormous, completely black, and adorned with dragon motifs and sculpture, resembling multiple giant dragons. Hundreds of gargoyles were placed upon the outer walls, and you were too high for your head to stay stuck out without worry. You could see the ships sailing the sea, many people busy with their work. They wore outdated clothes, and the ships, too, seemed like they had come out of a history museum. The everyday people bustling about in their soft and colorful clothing served a sharp contrast to the nightmarish castle with horrifying gargoyles perched on its walls.
You turned back to face the guards. “Where are we?” you asked them, dread slowly growing in your chest.
“Dragonstone Castle, My Lady,” said one of the guards, clearly confused.
You looked back outside, trying to comprehend all of it. This was real. It was exactly how it was described in the books. Aerion Targaryen looked exactly how he did in the show. The weird lizard had breathed fire.
You touched the top of your head and felt the part of your hair that had burned.
Were you really in Dragonstone? But how? Did that mysterious voice you heard have something to do with it? Had someone brought you here somehow?
But how could any of this be possible? Were you dreaming, in a coma? No, you knew how a dream would feel, this was real. And even if it weren’t, that would not matter. It was real as long as you were living in it. It was just logical to treat it so just in case.
So you truly were in Westeros, in the castle of the Dragonlord’s heir, as a completely random stranger. You had woken up in the room where they kept the unhatched dragon eggs, and Aerion Brightflame had found you. He really was Aerion. The Monstrous.
A dragon had actually hatched, when it never had in the story you knew, and you were there to witness it. That meant things would be different from how you knew them, so you didn’t even have the armor of knowledge.
You were in Westeros of all places. In your Mike Wazowski pajamas. With no shoes on. Completely out of your depth. Westeros was a nightmare to live in even without being a palace intruder, let alone being caught transgressing into the room with the most precious possessions of the royal family.
Summary: Years ago, Maekar chose another woman and you both went your separate ways, your brief love story ending before it ever really had the chance to begin. You hadn’t seen him in years and hadn’t thought much about him since, but when he sees you again, he starts to wonder if he made the right choice after all.
Pairing: Regretful! Maekar x Unavailable! Stark! reader
WC: 6.1k
Warning: 18+, non-canon, dragons are still alive (maekar rides vermithor and baelor rides meleys), reader has a direwolf and so do her siblings, council drama, smut, betrayal, maekar is questionable, dyanna is still alive and so is jena, arguments, mentions of violence, talks of depression, hurt, angsty, unresolved feelings.
Part 1/?|
When you were younger, your family left Winterfell and went to King’s Landing for matters that your father needed to handle. Nothing about the trip seemed pleasant or anything that you were interested in, but you had to go. Your father and mother wouldn’t accept any other answer.
It was absolutely dreadful to you and you couldn’t bring your direwolf, Greywind either. He’d be tended to by staff, but without you for a few moons.
Once you reached the city, you could see a few of the dragons flying overhead. The big, God-like creatures that you’d heard tales of. You often wondered if they had ever heard about the Direwolves that you and your family had.
Most of the time while you were there, you tried keeping to yourself. You weren’t interested in making friends, needlepoint, or walking around the gardens. You wanted to go home to Greywind and a place that didn’t smell like shit.
It wasn't long before you were no longer able to secretly hide. Jena Dondarrion set her sights on you and the two of you became friends rather quickly— quicker than you expected. Jena was funny, shared similar sentiments to you, and was very outspoken. She was just the kind of person that you needed to keep yourself busy and from sitting in your chambers everyday.
Jena introduced you to her betrothed, Baelor. A sweet young man with eyes that you could get lost in. He didn’t have the traditional Targaryen looks, he looked more like the queen than his father. With Baelor was his brother, Maekar. Maekar was tall, his face scarred, bright silver hair, and deep violet eyes.
He was not welcoming like his brother, instead he had very few words for you at first— just merely grunts. Despite the two of you having such little conversation, he often found himself near you and Jena. If Baelor was around, then so was he. You didn’t mind as he was very handsome and interesting in some ways.
Eventually, he started to talk to you more often and wanted to spend time with you alone. You had started to smile more often with him and experience flutters in your stomach at the sight of him, feelings that you couldn’t explain. When you told Jena, she laughed and said that she had seen it coming. She mentioned that she had never seen Maekar smile until he had gotten close with you.
He introduced you to his dragon, Vermithor. The two of you took a night ride on him and enjoyed being high in the night sky. After the ride, the two of you shared your first kiss together and you knew that you were smitten.
Over the course of the time that you were in King’s landing, you had fallen in love with Maekar as he had with you. He was not hard with you or dismissive, he was the exact opposite. There was a softness to him that most wouldn’t know existed. Maekar had serious conversations with you about a marriage betrothal, bringing the north and royal family closer together.
As your time had winded down, you lost your maiden hood to Maekar. You loved him so much that it was such a small thing to you, especially with the two of you wanting to marry each other.
He pressed kisses onto your back as his hands gripped your hips, his cock snapping into you.
“You are so perfect.” He groaned.
Your fingers gripped the silk sheets on the bed, your moans muffled into them.
His cock was so deep inside you, the head dragging along your sensitive spot.
“Maekar.” You whined.
He smacked your ass, completely captivated by the view of you taking every inch of him.
“That’s it, my love.” He murmured.
You buried your face in the sheets as your moans and pleasure intensified. Your peak fastly approaching.
“You are so close, my love. I can feel it.” He growled.
“Please, Maekar.” You whimpered.
You weren’t even sure what exactly you were begging for, but the words fell out of your mouth with ease and he loved hearing you beg.
“Fuck.” You rasped.
Maekar’s name spilled from your mouth repeatedly as you reached your peak.
His thrusts got faster and harder as he got close, your cunt still clenching around him.
“You are so fucking tight.”
Within a few more thrusts, the grip on your hips tightened as he threw his head back in bliss — filling you with his warm seed.
“I love you.” He mumbled.
“I love you too, so much.” You replied.
He pulled out of you, trying to catch his breath and got a towel to clean you with.
The two of you cuddled up with each other, the moonlight shining on the sheets.
“I’m so glad to have met you, you have brightened my life in so many ways that I didn’t think possible.” Maekar confessed.
He made you smile, made you feel warm inside, and just made you feel seen. He was the best thing that had happened to you.
You looked up at him, into his beautiful eyes.
“You make me so happy, Maekar.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, the kind you give when you want to savor the moment as you know it’ll never happen again.
His eyes looked sad after the kiss, a sadness that you had never seen before.
“I need to talk to you.” He spoke softly.
“Is something wrong?” You asked as you got out of bed to pour yourself some water.
“I..”
“I cannot marry you.” He confessed.
Your movements stopped as if your heart had stilled in your chest.
“What are you talking about, Maekar?” You questioned.
He struggled to look at you, your nervousness all over your face.
“I will be marrying Dyanna, from House Dayne.”
You stood there silently, blinking your eyes and almost unable to formulate a sentence or complete thought. Your mind took you elsewhere, flashes of your memories with him filling your mind.
He called out to you, his voice bringing you back into the moment.
Your eyes were glassy, a single tear streaming down your cheek.
“What about us?” You asked, your voice shaky.
“There cannot be an us anymore. It is not what I wanted—“
You didn’t bother to listen to anything else that he had to say. You frantically grabbed your clothes and began to put them on.
“Please.. talk to me.” He begged.
You stood up, facing him after lacing your boots.
“I shall bid you goodnight, my prince—“
“Congratulations on your betrothal. I hope that it goes well.”
He sighed, getting out of the bed and walking over to you.
“Don’t be like that, not with me.”
You looked at him, your face wet from the tears that fell.
“You are not who I thought that you were. All of those words meant nothing—just something to get me into your bed, hmm?”
He grabbed your hand with a scowl on his face.
“Don’t say that, because it is not true.”
You scoffed. “You knew that you were betrothed to her before you slept with me tonight, didn’t you?”
He hesitated, his excuse caught in his throat.
“Exactly what I thought.” You replied, yanking your hand from him and leaving his chambers.
You felt like a complete fool, falling in love with a prince and allowing yourself to be bedded. You never saw any signs that would have given you the notion that you wouldn’t get married to Maekar. You embarrassed yourself and your house, you knew better.
After that night, you counted down the days until your departure and avoided him. You had basically turned into a shell of yourself, you just stayed in your chambers.
The one day that you did find the courage to leave and get fresh air, you saw Maekar with Dyanna walking around the gardens. He saw you and left her side to get to you, but he could not catch up.
Jena came to you and apologized as if she’d done something wrong, but you reassured her that there was nothing to apologize for. It just simply was not meant to be, is what you said and those words were bitter in your mouth.
You promised her that you’d stay in touch and wished her the best.
When you finally left, you felt a sense of relief— a weight off of your chest. You could put all of this behind you and act like it didn’t happen.
Once you were back at home, things for you had returned to normal. You spent a bunch of time with Greywind and tried to clear your mind,
Three moons later, Maekar flew Vermithor to winterfell a few days before his wedding.
“What are you doing here?” You snapped.
He looked anxious as if he’d seen a ghost, struggling to look you in the eye.
“I needed to see you.”
“Maekar, I am trying to move on with my life. I cannot deal with this.. with you.”
He grabbed your hands, his violet eyes scanning your face.
“I made a mistake.” He blurted.
Your brows furrowed as you pulled your hand from his grasp.
“What?”
“I don’t want to marry her, I —“
“You should not have come here. It is not a good look for me or you.” You reminded him.
“I don’t care! I want you and I cannot stop thinking about you or what we had.. I just miss you.”
You scoffed, in disbelief at his audacity. Greywind came to your side and began to growl at Maekar.
“I do not know what it is that you wish for me to say. Our time is over, it was a lesson learned. I do not wish to revisit it.”
Maekar stepped forward and so did Greywind. You rubbed Greywind’s head.
“Easy, boy.”
“Just tell me not to and I won’t do it. I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to you, I only want to marry you.”
Your lips were pursed and facial expression unchanged as you listened to him. His words did make you feel weak, but you couldn’t accept them. He had caused far too much damage.
“You need to fly back to King’s Landing and do us both a favor, forget about me.” You spoke plainly.
His facial expression softened, on the cusp of a frown.
“I love you.” He mentioned.
Your lips instinctively started to curl into a smile, listening to the words that you had missed hearing.
“I wish you the best of luck on your marriage to Dyanna.” You replied as you began to walk away, signaling for Greywind to follow you.
You left Maekar standing in that spot alone with the snow falling around him. There were so many things that you could’ve said, but you decided not to. He chose someone else over you and that was his right, as was yours to not accept his feeble apology.
Maekar so badly wanted to run after you and beg for your forgiveness, even though he didn’t deserve it. He never wanted to hurt you or lose you, but he did just that. Dyanna was a good woman and would make a fine wife, but she wasn’t you.
Him flying to you was unfair and a terrible idea, but he had to try. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t and even though he did, he’d still struggle to live with himself.
His stupidity cost him a great deal and maybe it hadn’t completely sank in yet, but it would.
Your house had been preparing to host the royal family. They were going to be arriving at any moment and would be visiting for an undecided amount of time. There would be two noble families joining as well, more visitors than you liked.
They were visiting to discuss issues with the wall, the wildlings, debts, and other matters. Ultimately, things that you did not plan on concerning yourself with.
You planned on keeping yourself out of sight while they were visiting as it just seemed like the easier option. The servants were working extraordinarily hard to prepare food, chambers, and everything that was needed. They were informed that at least two dragons would be present, so they had to make sure that there was an abundance of meat available to feed them.
While you were in your chambers preparing for a nap — you could hear the sound of dragons flying above. A sound that you hadn’t heard in years.
The horn sounded as the carriages and horses arrived below.
You shut the shutters to your window and lit a candle, giving the room a flicker of light.
You laid on the bed and allowed yourself to drift off, Greywind asleep on the floor. Your nap lasted a few hours and it felt completely necessary, you felt better rested than you were earlier.
The flame on the candle had begun to flicker, so you blew it out and opened your shutters. There was noise bustling below and the sun had begun to set, but no sign of the royal family— which meant you were in the clear.
You put on your boots and walked with Greywind to the kennel master. Once you visited him, you grabbed the two large buckets of fresh and raw meat.
Snow and ice crunched under your boots as you approached them in the empty field— Vermithor and the beautiful Meleys. Meleys watched as you approached, meanwhile Vermithor continued to sleep. Most people would be terrified to approach them, but you weren’t and neither was Greywind. You had been around them plenty of times and figured that they would both remember you from years ago. If not, then it would no longer be your problem.
Vermithor opened one of his eyes as you got closer, scanning your every move. Meleys moved closer as they could smell the meat and you.
“I know, both of you are probably starving.” You mumbled.
You walked up to Vermithor and rubbed his nose, big breaths of air leaving his nostrils.
“It’s been a long time, old friend.”
Meleys nudged you, slightly pushing you back onto your heels.
“I brought both of something to eat.” You mentioned.
Greywind moved with your every move, watching the dragons and wanting to protect you from any incoming threat.
You poured the meat out of the buckets and onto the snow in front of them. Vermithor hesitated to eat, while Meleys began to lightly char her meat. While waiting on Vermithor to eat and watching him, you absentmindedly picked up a few chunks and fed them to Greywind as he stood beside you.
“I’m not sure why you’re being picky today.” You groaned.
Beside you, Greywinds ears turned to the sound of footsteps approaching. He turned to face behind you and began to growl.
“You are the only person outside of ourselves and the dragon keepers who can safely feed them this way.” A voice spoke.
A voice that you hadn’t heard in years, but you recognized it all the same. You didn’t bother to turn around, you only continued to watch Vermithor as he had started to show interest in the meat.
“I must be lucky then.” You responded.
The footsteps inched closer, but Greywind was not agreeable as his growling intensified.
“Greywind, enough!” You spoke, causing him to whine.
You slowly turned around and your eyes met his. He looked the same, just older with a few more scars. A face that you hadn’t dreamt of or thought about in years. It was an odd feeling to see him after such a long time.
“Wow, you look—“ the words caught in his throat like a dry piece of bread.
“It’s been so long.” He stammered.
You nodded your head, your grip on the bucket handle tightening.
“Aye, it has.”
He seemed nervous which was unusual as Maekar was never nervous. He slowly stepped a bit closer to you.
“How have you been?”
“I’ve been alright, nothing worth complaining about.” You replied.
He looked as if he wanted to ask so many questions— as if things were plaguing his mind, but he couldn’t say them.
The conversation was interrupted with his son Aegon, Daeron, and Dyanna approaching.
Dyanna walked up to Maekar’s side, a smile on her face as she acknowledged him.
“My love, what are you doing out here?”
He seemed defeated like he didn’t know how to honestly respond.
Aegon waved at you, an excited smile on his little face as he and Daeron stared at Greywind.
“Is he friendly?” Daeron asked.
You nodded your head slightly. “He won’t bite, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Aegon looked at Maekar, “can I?”
You commanded Greywind in High Valyrian to stay calm and be still as Aegon approached. Maekar’s brow raised, he was surprised that you were still fluent after the lessons from years ago.
Dyanna tilted her head in confusion—because she knew it was High Valyrian, but she did not understand what was being said. It was not lost on her that you and Maekar once shared something special, but she was his wife now. None of that mattered.
Aegon giggled as he tried playing with Greywind.
“Father, she looks like the woman.. the woman that you have the portrait of.” Daeron blurted, causing Maekar to scowl.
Dyanna laughed, looking at her husband.
“What is he talking about?”
Maekar rubbed her arm, “I don’t have the faintest notion.”
You waved at Aegon and signaled for Greywind to follow you.
“It was lovely seeing you, my prince and princess.” You spoke.
Maekar watched as you walked away, the feelings from years ago creeping up into his stomach and twisting in his chest. He needed to talk to you and get to know you again, he could not lose the opportunity.
Once you got back into your chambers, you had to take a deep breath. You felt confused for the first time in years, as if you suddenly didn’t remember your own feelings. Your stomach knotted at the sight of him, his wife, and his children that looked exactly like him.
He had the family that you had once dreamt of yourself, putting actual details to things that you had envisioned. Although, things did not go that way— you were happy for him.
He got everything he wanted.
Time for supper was fastly approaching, which meant that you needed to change. You had a hot bath prepared, so that you could relax beforehand.
This dinner with the royal family wasn’t exactly what you were looking forward to. It would be awkward and you had nothing to contribute, but your father insisted.
Once you were finished, you took your time and got dressed. You hated this, seeing him again and having your sad feelings come back to the surface.
You left your chambers and made your way to the dining hall with a pit in your stomach.
Your family along with the royal family gathered in the dining hall, the candles lit and illuminating everything perfectly. Jena ran over to you and pulled you into a big hug.
“You liar! You did not keep in touch as you promised.” She taunted.
You hugged her back, internally overjoyed to see your old friend again.
She held your hands in hers, her eyes glassy.
“I suppose the north has not turned you cold, has it?”
You both shared an in sync laugh. “You know that it hasn’t,”
King Daeron and Queen Myriah approached you with smiles on their faces.
“Daughter!” The king laughed, pulling you into a hug.
“It is wonderful to see you again.” He added.
Despite the fact that you never married his son, he still always called you daughter. He loved Dyanna, but he hated Maekar’s decision to not marry you.
“It is wonderful to see you too, your grace.” You replied.
He waved you off, “no need for such formalities!”
You hugged Queen Myriah, her warmth and touch reminding you of your own late mother.
“I suppose there are no children for me to meet?” She asked softly.
You shook your head and tried to hide the flicker of embarrassment that brewed inside you. Even though the realm demanded it of young women— you did not marry nor did you have any children. It was of little interest to you and your father spoiling you the way that he did, meant that he wouldn’t force you.
Besides, you had five other brothers along with several nieces and nephews— you being wed was not necessary. Your father allowed you to continue to live at Winterfell, helping him with certain political duties and keeping to yourself.
Everyone took their seats at the table, you were seated beside Daeron with your father on the other side of you.
The hall buzzed with small conversations, eating, and laughter. You did not engage much as you were uninterested and ready to return to your chambers.
Maekar stared at you from his seat across the table, a stare which you paid no attention to— but Dyanna noticed.
She called your name, bringing your attention from the vegetables on your plate.
“It is so wonderful to finally meet you and put a face to the name. I couldn’t recall meeting you all those years ago.” She spoke.
You awkwardly smiled back, setting down your fork.
“It is nice to meet you as well, Princess.”
She raised her brow, glancing around the table.
“Are your husband and children around? I’d love to meet them.”
Your spit was caught in your throat as she feigned ignorance. She knew bloody well that you were not married, but she asked anyway— a weird jape.
Your brows furrowed, even though you tried to hide your reaction. Her question caught the attention of everyone at the table, including her husband right beside her.
“Forgive me, but you must have someone else in mind, princess. I am not married and I do not have children.”
She was shocked by your statement, her hand clutching her chest.
“Apologies! I meant no offense..”
“It’s just not often that I see a woman of your stature and beauty being unwed.”
Baelor glanced at Maekar, signaling for him to stop Dyanna from potentially insulting you.
Maekar placed his hand on her thigh, grabbing her attention.
You pursed your lips, picking up your goblet.
“That is quite alright, no need to apologize.”
Before the conversations at the table could resume again, she kept speaking.
“Why is it that you are unwed, my lady?—“
“I know plenty of young noblemen who’d be honored and lucky to have you as their wife.”
Maekar leaned closer to Dyanna’s ear, his patience gone.
“Stop it, now.”
You hesitated, drinking some of your wine and embarrassment filling your body.
“I had no interest in that kind of duty and lucky for me, my father understood and did not force me.”
Your father smiled, raising his goblet.
“Yes! My daughter is a fine woman, but her help and focus was needed here. I’m grateful to have her here as she is happy to be here.”
You nodded your head.
“Thank you father.” You muttered.
She smiled, her hand touching Maekar’s.
“That is lovely!—“
“I just hope that if you do change your mind that you experience a love match like I did.”
King Daeron and Queen Myriah exchanged looks.
You looked at Maekar, the embarrassment all on your face.
“I’d like to thank this family for allowing us to convene here, taking us into their home for political matters.” Baelor stood, raising his goblet and trying to redirect the conversation.
All of you raised your cups in the air.
The conversations around you continued as they were, no one thinking about the words from Dyanna.
Daeron sat beside you on his fifth goblet of wine and barely able to hold his head up.
“I dreamt of you..” He slurred.
You leaned closer, hoping to hear him properly.
“What did you say?”
He wiped the spit that pooled at the corner of his mouth.
“I dreamt of you.. you and the small child.”
You were completely confused as you didn’t have a small child and how could Daeron possibly dream of you when he’d never met you before? The entire family confused you, more than you’d like to admit.
While the dinner continued with no end in sight, you asked your father to be excused as you had grown tired.
You got up from the table and made your way out of the dining hall. The wind blew against your cheeks as you walked outside, taking the long way to your chambers.
Maekar was following behind you.
“Wait—“
You turned around with a frown on your face and rolled your eyes.
“Why are you following me?” You questioned.
He seemed as if he struggled to come up with the right answer to your question, because there was truly not just a single answer.
“I’m sorry for what Dyanna said—“
You held your hand out, stopping him mid sentence.
“I do not need apologies for your wife, Maekar. I am fine.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have said those things.” He replied.
You let out a small chuckle. “You’re right, she shouldn’t have but she did. I’m unsure as to why she wanted to embarrass me, though.”
Maekar pulled his shoulders back, seeming offended.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No, you don’t be naive. She knew the answers to those questions, everyone in the fucking realm knows that I’m unwed—“
“Her pointing out that the two of you have a love match, it was all a jab.” You chided.
“I don’t know why she would think it necessary to do that.” He mumbled.
You scoffed, almost bordering a laugh.
“I’m glad we’re confused together, but I am retiring to my chambers. Please, inform the princess that I will be out of her way for the duration of her stay.”
You walked away from Maekar, leaving him cold and speechless.
Later that night, as Maekar and Dyanna prepared for bed— he was silent. He didn’t have much to say as he’d thought of what you said and he realized that there was probably more truth to it than he wanted to give.
He did not want his wife being rude to you or to anyone in Winterfell for that matter, as it would reflect poorly on the royal family.
“Husband?” Dyanna spoke, shutting the shutters on the window.
Maekar just stared at the fireplace, his mind elsewhere— thinking of things that he shouldn’t as a married man.
“Husband, do you ignore me?” She giggled.
Maekar scowled.
“Why did you have to act that way in front of everyone?”
She glanced at him as he sat in the bed, a look of confusion on her face.
“I did not act in a particular way to my understanding.”
He gritted his teeth, his patience thinning.
“Please, give me the dignity of being honest, wife!”
She was startled at his reaction, not expecting him to be upset over her reasonable questions.
“Is there a reason for your behavior tonight? Something I missed?”
“You meant to humiliate her tonight and you did not have to do it, it was cruel!” He spat.
Her frown became prevalent on her face.
“Why are you defending her?”
His brows furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening.
“Defend her?—“
“It is about respect, Dyanna! We are the royal family and in their home. How do you think her father would respond, if he sniffed out your disrespect?”
She rolled her eyes, walking towards the fireplace.
“She should be married, it is odd that she is not.”
He rubbed his hand against his face. “Her marital status is not of your concern.”
“I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.. or any ideas at all while we’re here.” She confessed.
“Ideas?—“
“Dyanna, what are you on about?”
“Everyone knows about the two of you, how much you two loved each other—“ she mumbled.
“For fucks sake!” He growled, interrupting her.
“You are the only one with your mind on that petty gossip from ages ago, let it go and do not embarrass me!”
He felt a sting in the back of his throat calling your love petty, minimizing the impact of your relationship. He needed to stop Dyanna, but he could never admit to his wife that he still loved you.
What kind of man would that make him if he admitted that he made a mistake?
Dyanna waves her hand in front of her face, creating a small amount of wind to stop from crying.
“I will not have your whore from years ago ruin my family!” She yelled.
“My what?—“
“Have you lost your senses?” Maekar inquired.
The royal family had only been present for a few hours, yet Dyanna was losing her mind about you. You hadn’t even done anything or said anything of note, but she had come to the conclusion that you would ruin her family.
Maekar did not want his wife to cry as she had nothing to worry about, nothing would happen between the two of you— whether he wanted it to or not.
His rash decision to not choose you had tormented him since that day— remembering how you cried, how you withdrew from, how those were the worst words to ever leave his mouth.
Dyanna crawled into bed beside him, her face wet from crying. Maekar held out his open arm to embrace her and have her come close to him.
She laid her head on his chest.
“I love you, Maekar. I just get beside myself sometimes.”
“I love you too.” He muttered.
As the days had passed by, you had avoided the royal family at all costs. You hadn’t even attended the first three meetings, prompting your father’s worry. In order to ease his mind, you told him that you were feeling unwell— and that you’d be at the next meeting.
Dyanna’s eyes scanned the halls for you, every time she left her chambers. Even when Jena told her to quit worrying as she was Maekar’s wife and not you— but she could not ease her mind.
She hated you, she hated that you had him first, that he defended you a few nights prior. She didn’t understand why her heart towards you was so cold, why jealousy would overtake her.
It was starting to snow again and the light was fading, so you decided to go visit the weirwood tree before it got too dark. Greywind stayed in your room where it was warm, near your fireplace.
The snow and ice crunched under your boots, but there was still a loud silence as everyone was inside.
You sat at the weirwood tree, your mother’s favorite place. You’d find yourself coming to the tree to talk to her as if she was still here, like she’d respond back.
Amidst the silence, you saw a tall looming shadow out of the corner of your eye.
It was Maekar.
“Must you find me everywhere I go?” You grumbled.
“I did not mean to intrude.. I was on my way to take Vermithor out.” He admitted.
You rubbed your gloves against the tree, not paying him any attention.
He stood there, watching you— not sure if you needed company or if he should leave.
You stood up and walked towards him, almost walking past him.
“Have a good night, my prince.”
He grabbed your hand, which shocked you.
“Stop it!—“
“Stop that. You don’t have to be that way.”
You yanked your hand away from his grasp, a scowl on your face.
“What are you on about?”
He sighed.
“You don’t have to give me the cold shoulder, treat me as if I’m some prince and that’s all.”
Your head instinctively tilted, amusement on your face.
“That is all you are, a prince of the realm.”
“You know what I meant.” He remarked.
You scoffed.
“I don’t actually, I’m unsure of how you want me to treat you.”
He threw his hands up in defeat and began to get annoyed.
“Don’t act like we’re strangers, avoid me like I’m a plague.”
You took a deep breath, your emotions starting to get the best of you. Feelings that you had hidden for so long were starting to creep to the surface.
“Your wife would have my head, if she saw me close with you! She does not like me and with your behavior, I don’t much blame her.” You growled.
He looked at you with his deep violet eyes, giving you the look that he’d always give you years ago.
“I would never allow her the satisfaction of harming you.” He murmured.
You stood there in disbelief at this conversation. You never thought that you’d see him again, let alone have this conversation with him years later.
“You should stop while you’re ahead.” You spoke.
“I can’t.. I cannot.” He conceded.
“I think about you all the time, about what we could’ve been, that this could have been our family.”
You walked over to him, rage burning in your veins.
“How dare you?—“
“You made your choice years ago. Why would you come here and rob me of my peace and my choice?”
“Because you feel the same way.” He stammered.
His response got under your skin more than it should’ve, more than it would’ve if it weren’t true.
“I don’t! I am happy here with my life, I do not wish for anything else.”
He snickered in disbelief.
“You are a terrible liar. You are not happy here.”
“I am!” You protested.
“Why didn’t you get married? Why didn’t you have kids?—“
“Why didn’t you move on?” He asked.
His questions immediately cooled your anger, bringing a punch to your stomach. You hadn’t moved on, you were still stuck in that moment years ago when he chose Dyanna.
His world ending words left you unable to move on, you could not seek happiness with another.
“Fuck off.” You bit back at his question.
“That’s not an answer.” He spoke softly.
Tears began to well in your eyes, because he just had to come to your home and speak his stupid words. Add his regret to your shoulders.
“What more do you want, Maekar? Hmm?—“
“You got everything that you wanted! The wife, the kids, the happy home.”
He looked at your face, your eyes glassy and skin probably hot to the touch as it always would be when you were overwhelmed.
“I was wrong.” He admitted.
His words stopped you dead in your tracks, making you lose your focus.
“What?”
“I was wrong! I made a mistake!” He argued.
“You were supposed to be my wife and I have thought about that everyday of my life. I thought about it when Daeron was born, when I’d have sex with her, when I’d lay down in bed.”
He walked closer to you, closer than he should be to you.
“You are disgusting!” You hissed.
“I know.”
“She deserves better.” You pointed out.
He took another step closer. “She’s not as innocent as you perceive, but she does deserve someone who looks at her the way I do you.”
A tear fell down your cheek, your mind screaming at you to walk away from him— but somehow you were stuck there letting him get close.
“I ruined us and for that I’ll always be sorry.”
“I hate you.” You mumbled.
He closed the gap between the two of you, pushing your hair out of your face.
“No, you don’t.”
He leaned in—pressing his lips to yours in a deep kiss, a kiss full of passion and old feelings. A kiss that you almost completely welcomed, but you stopped yourself.
You pushed him away from you, wiping your mouth.
“What we had is over! It’s a dream that faded years ago—“
“Stay the fuck away from me, Maekar.”
Baelor who had been standing there the entire time, cleared his throat— catching the attention of both of you.
You were awaken from deep sleep by the feeling of soft fingers parting your folds, followed by the wet slide of a tongue. You gasped, your eyes flying open to see Rhaenyra’s silver hair between your legs.
"Nyra…” you moaned, your hand reaching down instinctively to touch her.
She caught your wrist with one hand, pinning it easily down on mattress while her other hand stayed pressed on your stomach. Rhaenyra looked up, licking her lips.
"Good morning, my sweet girl” she purred, her lips slick with your wetness .”Did you have pleasant dreams? i intend to make waking up much better."
She dove back in, her tongue swirling and lapping hungrily making your toes curl. She hummed as she sucked hard on your clit until you were writhing beneath her, desperately trying to close your legs. She didn't let you, her grip on your wrists tightening.
"You are so beautiful when you fall apart for me” Rhaenyra whispered against you, her breath hot. "Give it to your Queen. Now."
You didn't have a choice, you climaxed letting out a cry. Rhaenyra swallowed your whimpers, her tongue flicking until you were drained.
She crawled up your body, satisfied smirk on her lips as she hovered on top of you.
"If you continue to let out such a sweet sounds" she murmured, leaning down to bite your lower lip playfully”I may just keep you in my bed all day."
➥ Baelor Targaryen
You were pulled from your dreams by feeling of a sudden, cool air as your night gown was gently pushed up to your waist. Before you could realize what was happening Baelor’s hands were parting your thighs. You gasped, eyes flying open just as he slid his tongue between your folds.
"Hush, my love”Baelor murmured softly, He reached up, his hands sliding inside your gown to grasp your breast squeezing it gently.
You couldn't help the whine you let out as his tongue swirled circles around your clit. He knew your body perfectly. His thumb rubbed slow circles around your nipple as he worked his mouth between your legs.
"Gods, Baelor..." you arched your back, your breath hitching.
"Right there”he murmured softly, his breath hot against your clit before he sucked hard “cum for me, give it to me."
You cried out, as you orgasmed ,your legs trembling against the sheets. Baelor drank you in, not pulling away until your hips finally stopped shaking. He crawled up the bed, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
“You did so good my sweet girl “he whispered softly caressing your hair,”now go back to sleep, you need to rest“.
➥ Valarr Targaryen
You were awaken by a sudden pleasure between your thighs, a gasp leaving your lips as you looked down. Valarr was propped up on his elbows between your spread knees, looking too smug for this early in the morning.
"Well look at that” Valarr smirked, watching you blush with amusement ."Barely awake and already melting for me."
"Valarr, you-oh!" Your insult turned into a moan as he suddenly sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue lashing against it.
He loved the power he had over you. He used his fingers to spread you wider, lazily tracing the folds of your pussy. Whenever you tried to close your legs, he chuckled, his grip on your thighs tightening .
"Don't fight it, my love " he teased"I want to watch you cum for me before the sun is up."
You couldn't stop yourself. He knew exactly how to push you over the edge, and within moments you were crying out, your fingers twisting in the bedsheets as you climaxed. Valarr swallowed your release with a hum.
after you finally calmed down ,he dragged himself up your body, smirking as he hovered over.
"See?" Valarr whispered softly, stealing a kiss to share your taste with you. "I always know exactly what you need to start the day right."
➥ Duncan The Tall
You stirred in your sleep, with a wonderful feeling between your legs. You opened your eyes slowly, only to find the covers thrown back. Dunk was kneeling on the floor at the edge of the bed, his face buried between your thighs.
"Dunk?" you breathed, your heart stuttering in your chest.
He paused, looking up at you with guilty eyes, his face flushed. "My Lady... i-i didn't mean to wake you. i just couldn't help myself."
"Don't stop” you begged, reaching out to stroke his cheek.
Dunk swallowed hard, his eyes darkening,letting out groan as he went back to work. He was a giant of a man but he was so gentle. His hands held your hips down, his thumbs gently stroking your hip bones.
"You taste so good” he rumbled, the sound vibrating against your pussy "Like honey, i could stay down here forever."
You arched your back,letting out whine as Dunk continued sucking on your clit. He was so focused on worshipping you .The feeling was too much, and you were quickly pushed toward the edge, your hands tangling in his hair.
"Let go for me, my lady”he murmured softly, his tongue flicking faster. "I’ve got you."
You climaxed, crying out as your muscles spasmed. Dunk held you through it, taking his time before he finally pulled back, looking pleased with himself.
"If i had known mornings could feel like this” Dunk mumbled, kissing your thigh gently before standing up "I would’ve done this a lot sooner. You stay right there, i’ll bring us some water."
➥Daeron Targaryen
You were used to Daeron’s restless nights, the way he tossed and turned to fight off his dreams. But this morning, you woke to the feeling of his face buried between your legs.
"Daeron?" you choked out, your hands instinctively flying down to tangle in his messy hair.
He didn't answer. He was too busy feasting. He was so eager, his hands gripping your thighs hard as he lapped at you hungrily .
"You're so sweet”he groaned, his voice rough with sleep, his breath ghosting against your wetness. "Better than any wine in the cellars. let me have it all."
You whimpered, tossing your head back as his tongue thrust in fast. You dug your nails into his shoulders as the pleasure built too fast to control, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth.
"Cum for me” murmured , looking up at you from between your legs "let me hear you."
You came hard, sobbing his name as Daeron hummed in satisfaction, staying exactly where he was to lap up every drop before he finally slumped his body over yours.
Daeron sighed, resting his chin on your chest and looked up at you sleepily"I think i’m going to need this for breakfast every day."
➥ Gwayne Hightower
He was usually gone before dawn, his armor already on. So, waking up to the feeling of his lips pressing between your legs was a pleasant surprise .
"Gwayne?" you gasped, your hands flying down to grip the sheets.
Gwayne didn't stop, he had your legs draped over his shoulders, his hands gripping your waist firmly to keep you pressed against the mattress ,your hips bucking helplessly against his mouth.
"Hush, sweet wife”Gwayne murmured "Let me make you feel good."
He didn't let you set the pace. When you tried to grind closer, he held you still, forcing you to take it all . He sucked, he licked, he bit gently at your inner thigh, making sure every inch of you was marked before he even considered letting you finish.
"Please” you sobbed, your head thrashing on the pillows. "My love, please."
"Take it” he murmured "Show me how good you can be."
The orgasm finally hit you, your vision whiting out as you screamed his name. Gwayne held you down, drinking in your release greedily.
He moved up the bed, looking down at you with affection.
"A perfect start to the day”he murmured pressing soft kiss to your forehead. "I shall have the servants bring up breakfast, do not move from this bed."
two can play at being stubborn. lyonel has said some unkind words so why should you be the one to apologise? instead you decide to give him the silent treatment and see how long he will last.
wordcount: 2.3k
content: angst with a happy ending, very light sexual themes, dual pov, no first name mentioned, english is not my first language i apologize in advance
a/n: thank you anon for the request! do not trust this man he will do it again
─────────────── .✧. ───────────────
"You bore me.", he had said, hand leaving his beard in a wave of dismissal.
He hadn't even looked at you as he'd said it, yet his face had been a closed door. Eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed in annoyance. You had seen the grimace directed at others before. You had even laughed at it on many occasions. But you were not laughing that night, not when it was you he did it too. His own wife.
You felt all the blood drain from your face. Such a small slight and yet such a colossal impact. He had always known how to twist the knife. Lyonel was an adoring, blithesome husband and a charmer. He had always been. Yet his moods were often changing and always at extremes. He didn't dislike something, he loathed it. He didn't find something amusing, it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. For you to be thrown this insult cut like a jagged blade.
Without a word, you drained the rest of your wine from your cup and rose from the banquet table. Better to leave with your dignity in pieces than no dignity at all. Better to be away from the revels than be called boring again.
It took Lyonel two hours to notice your absence from the feast. He turned to whisper something salacious in your ear but found your seat besides his vacant. His eyes darted over the crowded hall, curious at first then irked. The host's wife was supposed to stay by his side. Yet you had wandered off... What could possibly be keeping you from him? When he couldn't find you in the throngs of people, he simply assumed you had gotten bored and told him you were retiring to bed. Perhaps he had simply forgotten about it.
He would regret this assumption for the days to come.
When the party had died down and he had retreated to your marital bed, you had already been asleep. Rather than waking you, he chose to lay beside you and throw his limbs across your body as was his habit. Sleep came quickly after that, the comfort of your flesh a calming presence for his spinning head.
But you hadn't been asleep. The pillow was wet at the corners of your eyes where you'd spent the better part of an hour crying with sadness and frustration at your own emotions. What a silly thing to cry over. What a small word and yet... Your moods were just as volatile as his own, really. Exhaustion hadn't yet claimed you when you had heard him come into the room and bang around the furniture like a drunken stag. You froze, back turned to him. When he climbed in bed and draped himself over you, you shuffled away from his overwhelming clammy heat. Prick, you thought with venom.
In the late hours of the morning when Lyonel woke, he found your side of the bed to be cold and empty where it should have been filled by your warm body. Ready to welcome him with open arms and open legs. There was nothing he loved more than to close off an evening of mirth by taking his time with you the next day. His quiet reward for a successful night of debauchery.
"My love?", he called out drowsily as he turned his head towards you.
You lifted an eyebrow at him from your seat by the fire, flipping a page of your book. You had been up for an hour now and had taken the time to eat and get dressed. While he snored away his drunkenness, you planned your silent revenge.
"Come back to bed.", your husband purred, his arm reaching out in your direction.
When you rose from your chair so did his lips, parting in a wide toothy grin. Your husband and his big, molten brown eyes. His dazzling smile. His soft, greying curls. His looks had been the first thing you had been drawn to, as many other ladies had been. But his humour and challenging attitude had been what had kept you by his side throughout the years. He didn't care for the Gods or for anything besides the two of you remaining content and amused. And besides, he never failed to make you feel worshipped. Especially in bed. Yet he was thoughtless enough to say what he had said...
One look at his open arms and you almost caved right then. Almost.
Instead, you left him in bed by his lonesome. Quietly, you made for the door which slammed behind you. You weren't there to see his beckoning hand fall flat onto the sheets and the confusion that replaced his joy. But you weren't too far to not hear him shout after you.
"Where the fuck are you going?"
─ .✧. ─
You managed to avoid him for the day but once evening came, he found you at your vanity, brushing through your hair with a comb. You were already dressed in that almost transparent shift he loved. The one he had bought for you from a merchant from Pentos. The very same one he had almost torn to shreds the first time you had worn it to bed. Years had passed and yet the effect of the garment was just as potent. It made him crave you in a illogical, pitiful way. Like a stray dog after its next meal.
"There you are! I almost sent guards to fetch you..."
You watched him in the mirror as he crossed the room and placed his hands on your shoulders, bending to kiss your temple. You recoiled from him, jaws clenched and eyes set forward to watch your own reflection this time. His touch felt like a jolt of pure lightning, burning and shocking at once. You almost hissed at him. Throughout the day, your anger and sourness had only grown, threatening to overtake you.
"What is the matter with you today?", your husband asked with surprise.
"Nothing...", you whispered tiredly.
How like him to move on to another subject like water off a duck's back, the matter settled in that thick head of his. No, not quite. It was as if nothing had ever happened. A passing storm cloud, never low enough for rain. The rumbling of thunder far off in the distance. Just once you would have liked to make him feel like you were feeling right then. Small and pathetic.
"No? Then stop being so fucking, so... so ghastly."
"Boring, you mean.", you said under your breath.
"What?"
"You don't even recall, do you? Too deep in your cups, as it were, to even notice your wife was gone."
"What are you talking about?"
You rose, crossing the room and pacing like a trapped animal. It felt too stuffy, suffocating. You were bursting. Your rage barely restrained. It was stupid of you to have assumed he would rush after you as soon as you had left, to assume he would know why you had been upset.
"Stop gaping at me like a fish! What you said last night, Lyonel.", you hissed at him.
"I said a great deal of things last night if I recall."
He stroked his beard thoughtfully, pouring himself a cup of wine. Your nostrils flared in disbelief, your vision flashed red. Was he really going to act like this was a casual matter? Was it a casual matter to him? Could he not have opened his eyes to the turmoil of emotion you were going through in front of him?
"Yet you don't recall the one thing that seems to upset me at present."
"No, I do not, because clearly I didn't fucking mean it!"
His tone was rising to meet your own. Your voices bouncing off the stone walls. You cringed internally as you knew this was far from the first fight your servants had heard. On one occasion you had even thrown a few cups and shattered a carafe. It was almost as if Lyonel liked to fight you the way he fought on a battlefield or at a tourney, only with words instead of weapons. There was too much love between the two of you for him to ever raise his hand at you, but you could take it out on the furnishings of your home. From the twinkle in his eye after a fight, he clearly delighted in it.
"How can you say you didn't mean it if you can't remember?"
"Because it didn't matter!"
"It matters to me!", you bellowed.
Tears were threatening to leak out of your eyes. His face fell as he saw it, a pressing quiet descending upon the room. Just as quickly as he took a step towards you, ready to fold you into his arms, you scurried from the room. Lyonel ran a jeweled hand through his hair in frustration, a long sigh leaving him. The issue would never be resolved if you refused to face it head on. You noted with bitterness, but no shock, that he did not follow you out.
─ .✧. ─
"Won't you tell me what it was?", Lyonel whispered against the skin of your inner wrist.
You had spent the day glaring at each other whenever you entered the same room. The sight of him made your blood boil, fists clenching on themselves as to not reach for his neck to choke the life out of him. For his part, he was angry that you were angry at him. With such a sour mood, he hadn't been afforded a single kindness, a single kiss in almost two days. And he did not even know or understand the reason why. What a stupid fucking thing!
You had sent servants back and forth to relay messages and make demands of each other. But he had finally worn down your resolve when he had come to you with a bouquet of flowers and a cup of wine late in the afternoon, looking sheepish and desperate like a kicked puppy. Curse that bastard and the way he played with your heart. Curse him for being a romantic, for good measure.
While you mulled over whether to tell him the reason for your silent mistreatment of him or not, he was on his knees, pleading as you allowed him to kiss your hands and caress your palm. You recognised the signs of him knowing he had made a mistake. But you would not let his self inflicted misfortune sway you quite yet. No matter how his miserable face tugged at your heartstrings.
"You said I bored you.", you murmured quietly as the words stung in your mouth.
"...Is that it?"
You snatched your hands away from him at the first sight of his smile. He realised his mistake only a beat too late, grabbing you by the waist and pushing you back down onto your cushion as you made to rise. He would not allow you to run from him in the midst of an argument again. Gods knew he could not stand one more day of sulking and solitude.
"I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to upset you--"
"But you meant those words?", you cut off before he could try to soliloquy is way out of your ire.
"No, of course not my sweet. I cannot even guess why I said them."
"In jest, then?"
"Yes! Precisely, in jest.", he concurred.
"And you are sorry?", you asked dubiously.
"Deeply so."
"You're dishonest as well as careless."
This time, his hands could not hold you down. You rolled your eyes and moved to the window, distracting yourself with the rain that had begun to pelt against the glass. Lyonel followed you with slow measured steps as if he were approaching a wounded prey for the killing blow. In truth, it was not dissimilar to it. He felt you stiffen when he wrapped his arms around your middle and buried his face in your neck. Knowing better than to kiss you and lavish affection upon you yet, he used his hidden position to speak his truth. No matter how disarmed and bare it made him feel. You had made him feel as such most your marriage. As uncomfortable as it still was for him to open his heart to you, he knew how much it mattered.
"Please. I need... I need you. Every fucking day I wake up feeling like the world is dull until I remember you're my wife.", he breathed against your skin.
"Even if I bore you?"
"In truth? You're the least boring person in the Seven Kingdoms. It's why I married you. It's why I keep you with me at all times, my love."
At last, he placed a kiss upon the column of your neck. You relaxed in his arms, leaning your head back against his shoulder. A single kiss from him could melt away all the ice that had wrapped around your heart. Whether he knew it or not, Lyonel had a soothing effect on you, like a balm on calloused hands.
"I love you."
You turned in his arms, wet steaks upon your cheeks where your tears had fallen. His eyes searched your face to ascertain whether you would strike him or concede to let him console you. You chose the latter.
"I married you for your looks.", you sniffled, allowing him wipe your cheeks free of tears.
He laughed, the sound loud and boisterous in the quiet of your rooms. The Laughing Storm returned. Your husband again. The very fabric of your soul.
"Are my looks enough to be forgiven then?"
"No," you said after a moment, "they are not."
"Tell me what to do.", Lyonel whispered, lips brushing yours.
Okay but when Daeron’s wife returns from visiting her family he’s not leaving her side for at least a week. And the first few days after her return the couple don’t leave their bedroom.
Egg tries to come in for their regular cuddles, only to have Daeron shout through the door to bugger off. He keeps pleading, because,
"I know you're in there! Let me in, Daeron!"
He can hear the rustling inside their chambers, and he's annoyed his brother won't let him see his 'sister' (she's his sister-in-law, but she tells Egg to call her sister the first time they meet). He starts pounding on the door, only stopping when Daeron, naked and holding only a loose item of clothing over his crotch, rips open the door.
"Shut it, Egg. You can come back later!"
"You've hogged her for days! Let me see her!"
"She's my wife," Daeron exclaimed, annoyed that his little brother was keeping him away from his very beautiful, very bare wife who was waiting for him in their bed.
"Then you can see her later! Sister! Let me in," Egg retorted, moving to push past his brother, only to be pushed back with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Listen here, you little weasel. You–you are going to go off to god knows where, as long as it's not here, and I..." Daeron paused, sighing exhaustedly, "I am going to go back inside and fuck my wife."
A horrified shout came from the room behind him.
"Daeron!"
Egg felt a blush rise to his cheeks, looking wide-eyed at his brother.
"Oh," he squeaked, watching his brother roll his eyes before slamming the door shut. A pleased squeal followed shortly after, and Egg realised what they'd been doing before, scurrying off down the hall in horror and embarrassment. Maybe next time he'd find her in the library instead.
summary: tourneys and feelings and dragons, oh my!
tags: canon-typical violence, tourneys and jousting, descriptions of injury, jealousy, canon-typical prejudice, slight hurt/comfort
previous part / masterlist
read on ao3
Maekar was decidedly not angry.
He was not angry in the way that Aegon was not discovering the hidden tunnels of the Red Keep, and Daella was not sneaking from her bed to the library most every night, and Rhae was not pestering her septas past sanity — in that he very much was angry, and was hiding it poorly, and making it everyone's problem.
There is no shortage of good men in the Red Keep. He had meant it, damn himself, and damn you for agreeing, and damn your father for sending such a letter, and damn you again for opening it in front of him. It took an irritating place at the forefront of his mind, and between that, and the tourney, and his brood of trouble-making miniatures, and that godsforsaken night in the bath — and Valarr, fucking Valarr, Maekar was at his wit's end.
He had thought, upon seeing you round the corner of the gardens his quarters overlooked, that you had come to see him — or perhaps, your walk had brought you there, as if you were tethered to the very shape of him. Then Valarr had appeared at your side, dark-haired and kind-faced and as quiet and thoughtful as Baelor was, damn him, and you'd looked like something terribly prepossessing in the sun, dressed in a soft, gentle sort of green. Maekar had felt his fingers tighten around his smoke pipe, and something hot and burning arise in his chest — and it worsened, of course, as that flower was tucked behind your ear, butter yellow and blossoming. He wanted to burn it.
He was reminded of your youth, in that moment. He was reminded of his age. And he was reminded that Valarr — that chubby-legged baby he'd held all those years ago, with his father's mismatched eyes and enviably easy personality — was a man now, with all the graces of his father. He watched as that very man turned and left, and as you stared after him.
It stirred something foul within him — something acrid and unpleasant — but he did not move. No, not yet. The watching was as pleasurable as a bruise that he couldn't help but press. What had he hoped to see? A frown of annoyance? A love-struck stare? He didn't know, and largely, he did not care to know. He puffed from his pipe and trailed the stiff set of your shoulders — and it was only as your head turned towards him that he came to know that which he craved: that jolt of astonishment at the sight of him, a hesitation like a child caught sneaking cakes before supper. It was a sick sort of satisfaction, though there was less in him than he would have liked.
It was not jealousy, of course; and that went without saying, as he was not a child, and hadn't felt such idiocy since the throes of his youth. No, it was a sort of disrespect that offended him — an unabashed flaunting of disloyalty in the face of the entire court. He was not entirely ignorant to what they thought of your relationship — and, if he had been, he surely would have caught on, what with your strange posturing about it all. You shouldn't find yourself here so often, my lord. Perhaps it's best if I do not come tonight, my lord — peering up at him all the while, that terribly fake bashfulness upon your face, waiting for him to deny you and insist you stay.
(Seven, but your manners had bettered in the last few moons, hadn't they?)
It mattered little. It was his father's name-day celebration, and the rest of his brood — the two eldest — had made the journey from Summerhall to celebrate. It was a time for family, and joy, and togetherness, and Maekar was glad to have them under his watchful eye. The three youngest were always excited for a tourney, and Aerion would take any chance to prove his skill; Daeron looked forward to the wine, as he was wont to do. There was truly no reason for Maekar to be as distracted as he was.
(It was made worse by the imperturbable visage of one Valarr Targaryen at the end of the table, seemingly unfazed by — or ignorant of — his uncle's umbrage.)
"Father, I do not like this one!" Rhae's voice came, clear as a bell. She was stood in the middle of the apartments she shared with Daella, her hands out at her sides, the seamstress poking and prodding to tailor her new dress. "It's ugly. I want one like Daella."
Maekar had done as he often did, that morning; he broke fast with his children, except for Daeron, who tended to wake late; the little ones went to their lessons while Maekar and Aerion spent the morning training before the tourney, which was set to begin properly on the morrow. He'd donned his armour, and his mace, and bested three or four men in close combat before he'd decided that he was finished.
(He did not notice your presence by the stands where the ladies fanned themselves and watched, giggling, at the peacocking of knights and the overconfidence of young sers. He very much did not take heed of the shade of blue you wore today, or the way your eyes did not meet.)
He was tired. A bone-deep sort of lethargy that had him dissolving into snores upon this very couch, uncaring of the seamstress or her attendant. He had spent the past moon drafting missives and riding out to vassal houses and organising his sons' expedition north, and now the tourney had arrived, and the work hadn't ceased. Now the work was training to unseat lords as old as he (and quite a few younger ones, to be sure, all very excited to test their mettle against the Anvil), and wrangling his children, and very pointedly not seeking out the comfort he had acclimated himself to over the past year.
"Daella is your elder," grumbled Maekar, blinking his eyes open. "When Daella was your age, she wore much the same as you do."
He didn't need to look to know that Rhae wore that terrible scowl upon her face. A carbon copy of her father she was, usually to her father's detriment.
"Father," came Aegon's voice from the door, which had opened with such silence that a less-accustomed man might have jolted, "Ser Loreddy says I'm too skinny to hold a sword."
He felt a headache behind his eyes. He hadn't even treated himself to a flagon of wine, yet.
"Seven deliver me," he muttered to himself.
"And Daeron's soiled himself and his bedsheets," said Aegon again. "I heard Maester Yormwell tending to him. He said he's wine-sick again."
The headache worsened.
"And Aerion—"
"Father, who will be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty?" interrupted Daella. Her dresses had long since been tailored, and she sat upon her seat with a book, though she barely read from it. She had instead delegated herself to overseeing Rhae's fitting, to what Maekar was sure was the seamstress's chagrin. "Since it is grandsire's name-day, it should be one of his kin, no? Daenora is too young, and Aelora too strange, so it should be Rhae or I. And since I'm the eldest betwixt us, I do believe it should be me—"
"Shut up," said Rhae, scowling.
A gasp. "Father!"
"Gods above, I cannot take this." He stood with such suddenness that the seamstress startled, and pointed to Rhae and Daella. "Cease this infernal bickering. I haven't an answer for you — and if I hear you insult your cousin once more, there will be no tourney for either of you."
He jutted a finger at Aegon, then, who had been clever enough to linger by the door. "You must grow before you swing a sword as well as Ser Loreddy, boy. And—" He paced forward, and reached out to tug on his ear— "stop your eavesdropping!"
It took an absurd amount of strength to stop himself from cursing. He swore around (and at, most like) Daeron and Aerion, but not the little ones; Dyanna would curse him thrice over from the beyond if he did. It seemed he was sentenced to bear the weight of five children insistent on sending him to an early grave — Aemon, bless him, was more interested in his books than his father's nerves.
As the children sulked, he felt his energy wane. He thought at once to send for you. It was more instinct than anything, and the idea of it sat like something sweet and warm in his stomach; he thought of the fire in his apartments roaring, and the smell of your perfume; the lavender and honey that warmed your skin and floated from your hair; the tangle of your tongue as you tripped over High Valyrian, and the quiet curses in Braavosi that you would try to hide, as if he could not understand them. He thought of your absolute disregard for his station, and the petulance you found no error in displaying.
But then he thought of you in that garden, staring after Valarr, and the urge was accompanied by such an innate sense of sourness that he quashed the idea immediately.
He made for the door, then, and looked at his youngest son, whose pout was much like his mother's, and destroyed Maekar much the same.
"Return to your studies," he ordered Aegon. "You will grow yet, boy. There's no need to sulk." Then, to his daughters, who wore twin glowers: "Sit still for the seamstress, or you'll be wearing your old gowns, and I'll hear no complaints!"
That Daeron preferred the company of wine to most everyone else seemed like a blessing in that moment — that Aerion had seemingly disappeared from sight served to nullify that same blessing almost completely. His son was charming, near princely, but Maekar knew what he could become when his father was not near; the boy savoured trouble with a zeal he hadn't carried in his youth, and with such a large gathering of nobility, he could only hope that his second eldest would be on his best behaviour. Aerion was no longer the toothy, harmless boy he once was, though; and the pride Aerion now wielded, Maekar understood, for he wielded much the same. That pride could be dangerous.
With a wearied sigh — and a kiss to their heads, though they were still in a poor mood from his scolding — he left the girls to their governesses, and led Aegon far enough to the library that he could be sure he was attending his lessons. He knew too well his youngest's proclivity for weaselling himself out of his duties, even with his guard in tow.
He checked with Maester Yormwell, then, and found Daeron bundled in his bed like a swaddled babe — mostly fine, except for the wine-sickness, which seemed to live in his eldest son in near-perpetuity, and Maekar had long since stopped badgering him over. He felt the heat of his clammy forehead against the back of his hand, and left his son to nurse his sickness with medicine and plain bread and watered down wine.
Then, he set himself on the path to Aerion, and found it mostly lacking: from the training grounds, to the library, to the gardens and drawing rooms that had become a breeding ground for consorting nobles, his son was nowhere to be found. Maekar ignored most every greeting that came his way, and offered a begrudged nod to the rest of them, and did not look for blue silk or an accented voice. His son was not in those drawing rooms, or those gardens; most like, he thought, he was entertaining himself with a wench or two, and that was preferable to the alternative.
(Maekar wondered if Baelor ever had to run after his sons like this — but no, Valarr and Matarys were well-behaved. The thought worsened his mood.)
His fatigue worsened quickly as the sun began to set. He was not as young as he once was; a day of fighting and herding and searching had worn him down, and so he returned to his apartments world-weary and feeling, admittedly, like a man who hadn't a handle on anything.
His anger was the sort that sat beneath everything, like a hearth of smouldering coals; persistent, and long-lasting, yet weak enough to have him wanting to stoke it. He sat upon his chair beside the fire, and looked into the dancing flames, and wondered if his anger had yet eclipsed his pride.
No, he decided quite quickly, no, it hadn't.
Some part of him was satisfied in this respect, in that way that one is often satisfied by their own shortcomings — a comforting sort of familiarity in its presence, almost. Still, it was maddening: he was no stranger to anger or its tenacity. From young, their dispositions had been set in stone: Baelor the Heir, with his charm and easy speak; Aerys, the Scholar, who preferred his books to the company of others; Rhaegel, the Madman (though the thought always set Maekar's temper aflame); and Maekar, the youngest, had been all one could wish for in a knight — prideful, and strong, and aggressive — but perhaps, not all one could wish for in a prince. His childhood septas could attest to it.
He cared little for what others thought, in that regard; he was stubborn, yes, and prideful, and lacked all the charm that Baelor had been born with, but it had gotten him far. He had six children, a wife whom he had loved, and glory borne from his prowess in battle. Charm be damned. At times, it was better to be cold — necessary, even — and he had made his peace with it.
But in the silence of his apartments — not a soul present, bar the maid and a few guards at the door, all silent and awaiting his next move; no lavender and honey, or unlearned High Valyrian, or muttered curses, or pointed jabs that only served to annoy him — the anger felt more like a detriment. The coldness was punishing, not necessary.
And yet he burrowed himself in it, like an old, well-worn blanket; it was an old friend, a companion he knew better than any other — and these days, it was all he cared to know.
The tourney approached with such speed that one couldn't help but be enchanted by it. Even you, in your sulking, were swept away by the excitement of it all; with the celebrations came hordes of nobles from all over the Seven Kingdoms, all in their best silks and steel, all posturing to impress and curry favour with the royal family.
The tourney lists had been erected just outside the city, in the distant shadow of the King's Gate, along the banks of the Blackwater. It was your first time outside the city, and the air here was fresh with grass and water. It was a welcome discovery — the air in the Keep was humid and heavy with perfume, and dry and dusty in Braavos.
It was larger than you expected, the tourney; there was not only the lists, which were tall and wide and fenced off, the earth muddied in preparation for the knights and horses; to the north of the lists there were pavilions assembled for at least half a league, bearing all sorts of colours and sigils; to the southwest, an explosion of stalls and merchants and dancers and puppet troupes. It was almost as if, overnight, an entire city had fruited in the shadow of King's Landing — though you remembered Maekar's ire, and thought of all the work that had been done to prepare it all.
No elephants or lions, you noted dryly.
Your own pavilion had been put up just alongside that of House Manwoody's; it was a jewel-like green with white pennons hanging from the roof, and your family sigil flew high from its peak. It had been long since you'd seen the golden key and coin upon a flag, and not a wax seal. Here, Lord Manwoody was kind enough to act as a sort of chaperone; he was a family friend, learned in the ways of the west as a Dornishman, and had promised your father to offer you some measure of council for things like this. It was a strange western custom, after all, and what you had read in books was hardly applicable — after all, your books did not speak of the parties that lasted till dawn, or the drunken dancing and singing, or the open debauchery with which some of them acted. For a moment, you felt almost at home. Though, home would surely have better wine.
"Selma," you called. "I am sure there is an easternman or two selling his wares at the markets. I need wine — sweet wine, good wine. This western stuff is too bitter."
"You've drank enough of it," Selma muttered to herself.
You glared at her through your looking glass. "Your tongue has grown far too loose. Come, while Neema is out."
"The markets are no place for you, my lady."
"Oh, come now. We sit amongst swathes of knights and gold cloaks. There shan't be anywhere safer."
There was a sigh that was more like a huff. "Neema will give me a clatter."
"She will not. And if she tries, she will have to get through me first." But Selma did not look convinced. She was dutifully refolding the clothes you hadn't decided to wear that day, looking for all the world like she would rather be doing anything else, and yet the idea of Neema was enough to quash her dreams.
"We can stop by the training grounds," you added, catching her eyes in the looking glass again. "I know you like to watch the men fight."
It was enough for her. You grinned victoriously as she shot up, haphazardly folding the rest of your clothes and shutting the chest. You were lucky enough to already be ready to go — she would have left you behind otherwise, you think. Settling your hand into the crook of her elbow, you took off in the direction of the markets with all the zeal of two women who were doing exactly the opposite of what they should be.
The tourney grounds were an intoxicating madness. Knights and guards and servants walked with purpose through the rivulets between pavilions, hauling all manner of shields and spears and sacks — as the distance between you and your temporary home grew, so did the smallfolk. There were fruiterers and cloth merchants and a blacksmith, already hard at work over his smithy; there was a pavilion where a woman advertised a nightly puppet show, and another where dancers invited in all who passed; a woman selling thick, grilled sausages, greasy and cooked with herbs, and a man selling flagons of ale and cider and wine. There were pastries and cakes — the lowborn kind, hearty and delicious and made to fill one up, all golden brown and handled with little care. There were jewels, even, and swords and daggers for sale.
It seemed every corner bore a new path, and you very nearly forgot what you had come for — Selma was no better, and more than once you'd had to urge the other along — but the sun caught on the blue beard of a Tyroshi trader, and you knew you'd found what you desired.
In the end, the wine cost you a pretty penny, but you had no need to bargain. It was sweet, and lightly tart, and would barely burn as you supped; and though your coin purse was considerably lighter, and Selma two wine-bottles heavier, it was with great satisfaction that you trundled the way back to your lodging. Of course, though, you couldn't properly retire to enjoy your boons before granting Selma her wish — and grant it you did.
The training grounds sat just between the noble pavilions in the north and the lists in the west. They had been teeming and swarming every day since the moment the first knight set foot upon the tourney grounds, and this day was no different. You did not look for a particular face or set of shoulders or shock of white hair, because you had little desire to.
"Is there one you particularly like?" you asked curiously, wrinkling your nose as one man went stumbling straight into the sand.
"No," said Selma. The basket of wine seemed lightweight, now, with the ease she leaned against the fence and sighed. "Isn't there something about it, though? The strength, the valour?"
"Not particularly." (Against your better judgement, you thought about it, then — the way Maekar's shoulders might fill out his armour, the swing of his mace with one terribly adept arm. The snarl on his face bolstered by competition and pride.) "Well, perhaps."
"I would not be angry if we adopted such things in Braavos," Selma was saying. "In fact, I—"
"Hold on," said a new voice, and a figure upon horseback blotted out your sun. "I know you."
You peered up, unimpressed. The man was — well, you did not need to think much. His hair was a shocking white and cropped short; his eyes light, somewhere between blue and purple. From this alone, you could guess his lineage — but he also wore armour of red-tipped black, and a shield with a three-headed dragon. His grin was remarkably unkind.
Let us see, you thought. A Targaryen male who could not be more than a a few years your younger; he was not of Baelor's brood — of that much, you were sure — and Rhaegel's son was far too young. That left Daeron and Aerion, Maekar's sons — and from what you knew from Maekar's own mouth, this was decidedly not Daeron, on account of the fact that he could sit upright upon his horse.
Just your luck.
Aerion Brightflame was not a man chased by tales of kindness.
"Your Highness," you said — perhaps a little begrudging. It was a title you rarely used with Maekar. It felt wrong to grace his child with such an honour — but then, the worst of Maekar was his stubbornness. The worst of Aerion was his savagery, if courtly whispers were anything to go by. "Apologies, my prince. I don't believe we have ever met."
"Oh, we haven't," said Aerion, shooting you another grin that was all teeth. "I've only been here a few days, see, but it has been long enough. The Keep speaks, and I listen."
You hid a wince. It was hard enough to know your father was entertaining a woman after the death of your mother — it was far worse to come to realise it through courtly gossip. You didn't believe Aerion would hurt you for this, but the beady, unwavering stare he fixed you with was surely not one of companionship — it was the look of a cat pawing at a mouse, a bird pecking at a worm. Interest, but only for the damage he may cause.
"How… interesting, my prince," you managed. Selma shuffled uncomfortably at your side. "A talent that will serve you well upon the tourney field, I am sure."
"Braavosi, is it?" Aerion continued, cocking his head to the side. "No need to look startled. I heard you speaking."
"Yes, my prince."
The man's lip curled, and it was strikingly familiar, but edged with far more malice than you were accustomed to, and far more than you were comfortable with, in truth.
"My ancestors once owned your people. It is a dirty language — an improper one. A bastardisation of noble Valyrian," he said. Your hands felt icy cold where they clasped one another, but your heart was fiery and drumming loud in your chest, and all you could do was still yourself. "But you speak it prettily. Give the dragon your favour, girl."
The feeling that settled across your stomach was not in any way pleasant. It was a sickening, sore tenseness, bolstered by what you were sure was fury, and offence, and some amount of fear. Girl? Who was he to call you girl? Who was he to disrespect where you had come from, the language you thought and dreamed in?
He watched you with a certain closeness that unsettled you. Watching, you realised, for any glimmer of insubordination, any excuse to put you in your place — he would do so gleefully, you knew, for there was nothing but cruelty in his eyes beneath the smiling, princely facade.
(Vaguely, you wondered where such a disposition came from. His father was prickly, yes, but not completely unkind, though perhaps it was a symptom of this exactly that had caused Aerion to behave this way; in a strange turn of events, Maekar was too soft on his son. )
"I… I did not bring it with me, my prince," you said eventually. "I do so apologise."
The grin — fake as it was, malicious as it was — dissolved into a sneer, and you were almost sad to see it go. The grin meant he was trying to appear benevolent, at least.
"Are you a fool?"
"Perhaps, my prince," you said. "It is my first tourney, and I am not accustomed to such things."
For a moment, he just stared. It was with such an intensity that you almost expected him to dismount and strike you across the cheek just for your little failing, but eventually he scoffed. Rolling his eyes, he nudged his horse away — hopefully, off to bother some other lady, where he would forget about your favour. There was only one you wished to bestow it upon.
The breath returned to your lungs, and the warmth to your hands, but the tension remained.
"I would like to return now, I think," Selma said, shivering as she tugged on your sleeve. "I do not like that man."
"You and I both," you muttered, turning on your heel. "… Er, perhaps it's best that Neema does not know about this."
"…My thoughts exactly, my lady."
The first morning proper of the tourney dawned with a shock of sun. You'd spent the past few days exploring and consorting and very pointedly ignoring the tents of black and ruby that, in your opinion, sat far too close to your own. In the bustle of the tourney, it seemed the courtiers had forgotten your scandalous misgivings — or, perhaps, had forgotten to divulge them, for these new lords and ladies treated you with a normality that conveyed their ignorance. You particularly liked the northern host — Lady Berena Stark, and her eldest brother Donner. They spoke with a plainness that was refreshing, and you told them as such.
"Selma," you heard Neema say. "If you have nothing else to do, run to the market and fetch a bushel of good fruit — don't give me that look. Go on. You've been squirming about all morning."
Despite the novelty of new faces, there was only one person you truly desired to see — but Maekar had not called on you since your promenade with Valarr. You had thought, at first, that it was a symptom of his busyness; five of his children were at court, now, and there was the tourney, and all manner of things to organise and plan. But time stretched on, and you had not seen him in almost a fortnight. There had been no dramatic entrance, or impassioned declaration.
He would be jousting today, you knew. Syrah had explained far better than the books: the King's sons (and grandsons), being of the highest station and thus charged with protecting their father's honour, would be first to compete. They would challenge and be challenged by other knights to dismount one another, and engage in close combat; upon losing, one would forfeit his horse and armour. He who won would be crowned victor, and was tasked with choosing his very own queen of love and beauty from amongst the ladies.
"It is a romantic notion, isn't it?" you mused, watching through the looking glass as Neema approached, her hands heavy with gold and jewels. "That a man might fight so viciously, only to deem you his reason for winning."
"You sound awfully sullen for a woman so young. I take it your exploration was unfruitful," Neema noted. "Lift your hair for me, now."
You did as you were told, and watched as she clasped a heavy chain of gold and garnets across your neck. "The markets? Well, a market is a market, no matter where it is."
She gave you a look that told you she knew better. "Do not take me for a fool."
"…Maekar has not sent for me in a fortnight," you said, feeling distinctly as though you were sulking — and in truth, you mostly were. The consequences of your actions had pivoted in such a way that you almost regretted them entirely — almost, because to be sure, if you'd done nothing, you would have remained in that limbo with Maekar forever, you think. Some part of you wouldn't have minded — that couch, that fire. Wine and books and lingering touches, chaste enough to avoid disgrace… Reality was not so kind, though. You were of too high a status to go unwed. "Surely you've noticed."
"I did not want to presume."
"I… I expected more fire from him." Then, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth: "Or perhaps I expected exactly this amount, only he's chosen to simmer in it."
It felt like a punishment. Whether you deserved it or not, you would not say — you had a particular proclivity for avoiding responsibility, after all — but you had no doubt of what his answer would be.
Gods help you, you felt a fool. Of course Maekar would not rush after you, a grand declaration of love upon his lips — he had lived your life twice over, and had loved before, and he was above this, wasn't he? You had flaunted yourself before him on the arm of his nephew. He hadn't the time nor energy to entertain your childishness.
Your lips pursed. Perhaps it hadn't been the best course of action, after all.
"You hoped it would push him to action."
"Well, he's so entirely aggressive in every other facet of living," you complained. "But all it's served to do is make me invisible, apparently. He's not called on me, nor looked at me at any chance — and he has had the chance, I might add, for I paraded myself before the training grounds more than once. You know, I had half a mind to make a fuss about it, but I shan't—"
"You shan't?" said Neema, amused.
"—for I've decided to do the same, now. I will not seek him out, or look for him in crowds, or care even half a moment for what he thinks."
She clipped a set of golden chains to the bun in your hair, and let them hang down your shoulders with the rest of your hair. "It sounds like you still very much care for what he thinks."
"Why should I?" you muttered. "I shan't make a fool of myself chasing after a man as stubborn as he."
"You said it was love."
You deflated. "It is."
"Well, love must surpass pride." She hummed, then. "'Twas foolish, what you did."
Your mood soured even further. "Yes, yes, I know."
"And if he does suddenly call on you?" Her fingers began to handle the numerous ribbons upon your back, tying with a deftness you could not hope to copy. "If his mood suddenly shifts?"
Ah, the thought was sweet. But Neema had not met Maekar, and had not dealt with his bullish ways. He would not forgive you of his own volition, for it had not been him who had done wrong — you would have to drag it from him, kicking and screaming.
(Perhaps, a part of you said, he only needs another push. Perhaps the fear has not settled in him. The promise of your leaving for good may spur him to action!
Shut up, you thought. You got us into this mess.)
You slowly settled at a point of obstinacy that perhaps rivalled Maekar's. Even as you sulked and pouted, you could not quiet your pride long enough to grapple with humility. And anyways — why should you be the one to mend things, when you had only done what was expected of you? Who were you to chase after this prince like a… like a lesser lady? In Braavos, you had suitors who travelled for leagues for a mere glimpse of you, and—
Neema's fingers caught your war, and tugged.
"Neema!"
She fixed her dark eyes upon you in the looking glass, and there you were held. "Do not be a fool, girl," she spoke carefully. "We are not in Braavos any longer. You have had your fun, and fun it was — perhaps it is love, as you say. But there is an end to this, you know. You shall find a husband here, or return home."
You knew it, and had sat with the reality of it in that way that one sits with the unchangeable — knowing it to be set in stone, but not believing it to be approaching. It had been nearly a year of entertaining this man, of entertaining yourself alongside him, learning the patterns and textures of this place and these people. You had grown into something different at his side. You thought — perhaps foolishly — that it was much the same for him. It felt like a betrayal to relinquish him now.
And in any case, were you not owed what you desired, as a daughter of the Iron Bank? You had settled upon Maekar, bull-headed and foolish as he was, and you would have him. But not like this, you thought. Debasing yourself in such a way was entirely beneath you.
(Is it debasement? another part of you whispered. You did wrong. Surely you must right it.
You did not dignify that part of you with a response.)
"I do not mean to be cruel," said Neema, gentle once more. "But should this… dalliance continue as it is, you will get nowhere. You must face this."
"…I know."
"As long as you do." She smoothed her hands over your shoulders, then, and sighed. "Go, now. I can see you poised to run."
Feeling very much like a hound that had been kicked, you stood with your proverbial tail between your legs, and pretended to be very unbothered by Neema's declaration. 'Twas best not to think on it. It was the first day of celebrations. It was a time for amusement and gladness, not… not this.
"Come, Thoma."
Mornings went much the same each day. After breaking your fast with the Manwoodys, you gathered with the rest of the ladies to do as ladies did: flaunt new silks, parade new jewels, and whisper and titter about the latest goings-on. As of late, the place to be was the pavilion of one Lady Cerissa Lannister, wife to the Grey Lion of Casterly Rock, who seemed to enjoy hosting more than the company of her husband.
The Lannisters were a family of renown — tangled quite thoroughly with the Iron Bank, though you had never met one before a few days ago. Cerissa Lannister carried herself with all the pride and pomp of a Lannister, despite being born a Brax; her daughter Lenila (your elder by, at most, five years) was the only girl in her father's brood, and had apparently been spoiled and indulged at every turn because of it — all according to Syrah, of course. Perhaps foolishly, you thought you'd find some kinship in her — but her smile, beneath its beauty, was one of mockery and belittlement. She could not disparage your wealth, nor your looks, but she'd fixed you with such a pointedly self-important gaze that there was little room for misinterpretation — she did not care for you, and would not entertain you for more than she absolutely had to.
She had hair the colour of gold and a slim, pale face, and her eyes were as green as the grass that grew underfoot. Stunningly pretty, to be sure, and her hand had long been a point of contention amongst the highborn lords. Apparently, her father hoped for a royal wedding: Baelor was Syrah's guess, but she imagined Lenila might settle for Valarr.
The sun was hot enough to split stone that day, and you squinted through it as you were thrown straight into the din and clamour of tourney-day. The jousting was set to begin in a few hours, and the excitement was something palpable — even you, in the aftermath of Neema's scolding, could hardly stop a smile from pulling at your lips.
The cluster of Lannister marquees were not hard to find; they were gold and red, with the proud lion of Casterly Rock flying high upon their peaks. The centre-most pavilion was your destination, and its walls had been pinned up to reveal the insides, which were suitably decorated; the centre was a pile of rugs and carpets, upon which seats and cushions had been splayed for the ladies to lean on. Serving girls held golden trays of fruit and cakes, and flagons of wine and water. Though the sun had not yet reached its pinnacle, the tent was near full.
"Good morrow," you said, nodding to Lady Lannister. She smiled at you with that smile you had already come to know was hers — tight, and barely reaching her eyes, but somehow still entirely pleased. It would look like a grimace on most everyone else, you thought.
"Well met, my girl. I hear it is to be your first tourney?"
"Yes. Lord Manwoody has been incredibly dutiful in preparing me." Had he not, you would be sleeping under the stars, not a pavilion, and you'd be the only noble lady without a favour to give. You elected not to say this.
Her smile widened. "There is a reason the King trusts him so. Please, help yourself — there is wine, and cakes, and all manner of fruits. It is best to eat now, before the jousting begins."
With that, you happily turned and searched for a particular head of blonde curls — it was not difficult, for Syrah had chosen to sit with her countrywomen, and they laughed and made merry more than anyone else. They smiled as you joined, nodding their acknowledgement; notably, they were bundled together in their own corner, though it didn't seem to curb their spirit, and it surely didn't matter to you. Each had their own favour tied to their arm, much as you did: embroidered and laced and all sorts of colours and fabric, each a hopeful declaration of desire. Those already missing theirs were proud in revealing they had already bestowed it upon someone. You tried not to feel envious. It did not work.
"Are you excited?" said Syrah.
"Yes, quite."
"Your first tourney." She sighed, then. "I wish I could relive my first tourney."
"If you have seen one, you have seen them all," interjected one lady. "How many times can you watch a man knock another from his horse?"
"That's foolish," said another. "At the last tourney I attended — Lemonwood, don't you remember? That knight swung his sword with such strength, it cut through his opponent's armour like butter. His arm was sliced in two."
You thought of that clunky, thick, western armour. The thought of a sword doing any significant damage to it was as implausible to you as the grass suddenly growing purple.
Another lady's nose wrinkled. "That is unbecoming, Selyn."
"Apologies."
"But it is the King's name-day, is it not?" you said, blinking. "Surely it would be inauspicious to slay one another for the occasion."
"This is one thing to learn," said another woman sagely, "these men will take any excuse for bloodshed."
And they all laughed, and you laughed too, and were certain that they were joking. You gorged yourself on strawberries and cream cakes, and thought little of armour, or bloodshed, or maces or anvils.
Around noon, a horn was blown — and like moths to a flame, near every soul rose and began towards the lists. It was a veritable river of people, chattering and tittering and placing bets, and you were swept away by it all, Thoma's hand ironclad in yours. At some point you simply squirrelled yourselves away between two pavilions and let the stream pass you by, giggling together at the intensity of it all.
"Even if the jousting is terribly tedious, I think I rather enjoy tourneys!" you exclaimed over the noise. "I've never seen such excitement!"
When the crowd thinned to an agreeable level, you began towards the grandstand where the rest of the nobility had been directed to sit. Even from afar, you could spot King Daeron — as noble and dignified as ever, banners of Targaryen regalia hanging from the posts below him. Beside him no doubt sat wise Aerys, and Rhaegel, who was joined by his wife and his own brood of young Targaryens. There would be members of the Small Council, too, and all those attendants and guards standing behind, expected to serve wine and run messages and… whatever else one would need during a tourney, you supposed.
You meant to join them — really, you did. But as you began to approach the grandstand from the side, there was a sharp neigh, and your head instinctively turned to find it, as one tends to find any loud noise. It was only that, upon turning, you caught upon a familiar head of white-gold hair. You had paused before you realised it.
"My lady?" Thoma stopped, and peered back at you.
He was armoured in dark black iron rimmed with gold. Spikes rose from the pauldrons, and a cape of deep red hung from his shoulders. The armour had bolstered that which he already possessed — an innate broadness that made him an intimidating opponent, and a formidable foe. You were not his opponent, nor his foe, but you stared regardless. It was your luck that his back was to you — but his squire, a young boy who was tending to the numerous buckles and clasps upon his charge's armour, spied you easily. In your purple and white, standing there and staring, you no doubt stood out from the mud and grime.
"My lady?" asked the squire — and Maekar's head shot around, and you found your eyes meeting, and you hadn't prepared for it. You had done something you shouldn't have, and had not prepared to apologise, and had not prepared to meet his eyes so suddenly, and certainly, you had not meant to stare so intently. It was unbecoming. It was embarrassing.
"What the fuck are you doing here, girl?"
He sounded angry. He always sounded angry—
(Not always, your mind supplied. His voice can soften, and his frown can ease, and you have seen it, and you have known it.
Silence, you responded.)
— and you couldn't imagine the commotion of the tourney was helping. 'Twas a lot of pressure, you thought, to perform before what was essentially the entirety of the realm, where all your mistakes and mishaps could be bet on and talked about for years to come. One could build themselves into legend, or crumble into obscurity.
He didn't look nervous, though. No, there was a certain surety in Maekar brought on by this armour, and this noise, and the weight of a mace in his hand — this was a side that you hadn't been privy too. You were used to doublets and silk and soft cotton, and the hard press of muscle beneath it, and a solemness borne from politics. Those were the lines and curves of Maekar that you knew intimately; this man before you, however, was Maekar Targaryen. First of his name, fourth prince of King Daeron the Good. A warrior.
A sudden urge came over you, standing in that mud: to abandon all pride and step as close as you would usually dare, to whisper an apology and make amends. To place your hands upon his armour, and press your lips to the head of the dragon that curved along his chest plate. There was something in his stare — a raw sort of frown — that struck the very centre of you. Your hands trembled with the force of suppressing the absurd impulse.
"You're hard at work," you said instead. You swallowed around the lump in your throat, and watched as his face shifted — disbelief, exasperation, annoyance, and back to exasperation once more.
"Was there something you needed?" His voice came as an impatient sort of snap, and you thought of your answer. Was there something you needed? No, not particularly. You weren't meant to be here. There was a seat upon that grandstand waiting for you, and had it not been for that horse's poor temper, you would have missed him entirely.
You opened your mouth to say something — anything, really — but his eyes had suddenly found your arm. They locked upon the ribbon there: a rich emerald green, embroidered with gold thread and beading. His lip curled. "Off to throw your favour at some little lordling?"
It was said with a certain bitterness. This was far more comfortable than your guilt, or your sudden empathy, or his well-placed anger; you had dealt with this flavour of bitterness before — and this envy, or jealousy, or whatever it was that made the thought of your favour upon another man's helm sound like a grave insult, was rewarding. This was what you had wanted, wasn't it? This was why you had taken Valarr's arm that day. You had hoped to stir something in him, and stir it you had.
(You were not satisfied. This feeling was markedly not satisfaction. Its shape curved more like shame, and you did not like it at all.)
"I shall give it to he who impresses me most," you said, and his scowl deepened. "There are many knights here. I am sure one will please me."
"Begone with you, then."
"If you insist. I shan't wish you luck."
He laughed, and it was more a mockery than anything. "I shan't need it." And he turned his back on you once again, and you pretended that you were not angry that he had.
Thoma was open-mouthed and gaping when you returned to her.
"Is it a good idea to speak to him in that manner?" she hissed. "It's — it's different with Selma and I, my lady — we all grew up together, but he—"
"I have not lost my head yet," you said shortly. "Come now. The jousting is about to begin."
Up the wooden stairs of the grandstand, you stopped to greet the King, as all must, and wish him a happy name-day. The man spared you a solemn smile before he dismissed you, and you took your place some rows back between Syrah and a minor lord from the Stormlands.
"You've given away your favour," you noted with some envy, peering around at Syrah's arm. "Who?"
She avoided your eyes, flushing. "Oh, well…"
"Lord Yronwood, then," you said.
"Hush!" she hissed, seizing your hands. "Not so loud."
"When did you get the time?"
"He was waiting by the side of the grandstand as we approached," Syrah said, quiet voice belying the uncontrollable smile upon her face. "Just — standing there, in his armour. Lady Westrush tried to give him her favour, too, but he denied her — kindly, that is. Kindly. He's always been kind. I had thought to give him mine, but when I saw Lady Westrush rejected, I thought better of it — but he called out to me as I passed, can you believe?!"
"Yes," you said honestly.
She pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks, and exhaled. "He asked if I had a man in mind to wear my favour. I lied and said no, and — he asked me, then, if I would do him the honour, and…"
You sighed, and looked back upon the tourney-field. The knights were beginning to circle the field, parading themselves for the screaming masses. A man in black and yellow, crowned by a horned helm, caught a string of flowers with a hearty laugh. "That's lovely, Syrah. Truly."
"You haven't given yours?" she asked then, blinking. You avoided her gaze. "I thought you'd… well…"
"No."
Prince Baelor, atop his inky-black charger, stopped before his father, nodding his respect. His favours came by way of his nieces — red and black and silver ribbons that he wore proudly around his arm. No lady bothered to try her luck with him — such a blatant show of desire for the Crown Prince was a political nightmare, though you were admittedly surprised that Lenila was not daring enough to do so.
Then came Prince Valarr, atop a steed of dappled grey. He did as his father did, and bowed his respect to his grandsire. There was no favour upon his arm, nor his helm. You eyed Lenila in her seat a few rows in front of you, but she stayed affixed in place.
There was Lord Baratheon (the fellow in yellow and black), and Lord Beesbury, and Ser Greenfield and Ser Drinkwater — names you only knew because of Syrah, who seemed to take pity on your still-decorated arm, and had elected to comfort you the only way she knew how: whispering house scandals and tidbits in your ear as each man passed. How she knew as much as she did, you did not know, but she was markedly silent when Lord Yronwood passed.
When Maekar made his approach upon a midnight warhorse, as stony-faced and serious as one man could be, you affixed yourself with such a facade of perfect stillness that, in truth, you did not react when Lenila stood from her seat, and reached her pretty yellow ribbon out for him to take; you did not react, and you did not watch the face he made before he took it, and you did not hear the sharp intake of breath from Syrah, and you did not feel the unsure glances of your fellow courtiers as they, in that moment, recalled their reason for disliking you.
(It was not anger you felt. No, it was decidedly not; it was something else entirely that had you imagining ripping the ribbon from Maekar's hand, and taking a blade to Lenila's pretty hair, and yanking Maekar by his spiky pauldrons to kiss you in front of the entire realm's nobility.
Would he have taken your favour, you wondered, if you were on better terms? If you had not blundered so terribly with Valarr, and nothing had changed, would have worn your emerald silk upon his arm? He did not care for what the courtiers thought — he'd said as much before. But he had never taken your arm to promenade, or invited you to dance at feasts, or did any of those things a man would do with a woman he desired — but he had accepted that favour from Lenila. The Lannister girl. The girl with the sunny hair and the green eyes and the utter confidence to stand before her peers, and offer a man her favour.
You had no reason to be mad, you realised, for you had done much the same.
It was a humiliating, maddening, humbling realisation.)
You hardly noticed Aerion's circuit, though Syrah had noted that his gaze seemed to needle at you — no doubt cursing you and your favour. Several more knights completed their rounds, accepted ribbons and flowers, and praised the King. You couldn't bring yourself care. Your mind had tripped and stuttered and remained there still, in that moment, in the hush of the crowd as Lenila stood, a smug smile upon her face; in that second of hesitation before the man you loved accepted her token.
'Twas only upon the blow of the horn that you returned to the present: the jousting had begun, and despite yourself, you attempted to focus. It was your first tourney, damn everything else. You would at least find some distraction in it — or so you thought, before the knights collided on the first pass.
You had thought, in your naiveté, that the Dornish ladies had been jesting — surely there would be no bloodshed at a tourney celebrating the King's name-day. Surely those heavy layers of steel and iron would serve their purpose and protect their wearer, especially with the wooden poles they wielded— but the horses' hooves clamoured against the ground, and they dashed the length of the lists with such speed that you found your fingers digging into your thighs. And when they collided — gods, the sound was like a clap of thunder, and there was a sickening crack, and the audience gasped and yelled and cheered, and someone had fallen from their horse, and was stumbling as he unsheathed his sword—
But the second pass was beginning for those who had not been dismounted, and it roared in your ears. Your heart was in your throat. The man who had fallen from his horse was now engaged in fast, brutal swordplay with his foe; these were not the quick, playful passes exchanged at the training grounds with practice swords — these were savage swings of the arm, the type that one put their entire weight behind — the type that could cut through chinks in armour easily.
The second pass had left another few men from their horses — by the third, most everyone had been toppled from their steeds, save a few at the far end. The battle was steadily moving to the mud, and the brutality of their fighting was just as nauseating as the charging. Grunts and roars and the sharp clang of steel against steel filled the air, and the braying of horses continued, and the crowd had become a constant, numbing rumble in your ears — you could hardly figure out who was who, despite the differences in their armour.
Where is he? Where is he?
Your traitorous eyes flitted across the field. Baratheon. Drinkwater. Tyrell. Karstark. Where was he, gods damn him? A pained yell pulled your attention to where a tourney pole had penetrated someone's side — you gasped, and felt your throat close, but forced yourself to continue your search. Targaryen armoir — but that was not Maekar. They were too slim, too small. Perhaps Valarr. Santagar. Greenfield — there.
There he was, yellow ribbon stark against his armour. Mace in hand, swinging with such dangerous ease, you could imagine it to be made of feathers. His opponent wielded a battle-axe, and the curve of it glinted in the sun, and you winced with each hit of it against Maekar's shield. Every thrust of his shield meant to protect him felt far too slow to your unlearned eye.
"I cannot watch," you said suddenly, feeling your throat tighten. Your hands were shaking. The mace made an arc through the air, and you screwed your eyes shut. "Syrah, I cannot watch."
She grasped your hands between yours, and the roaring continued, and that yellow ribbon was behind your eyes, and that axe was shining silver in the sun.
The first round of jousting had concluded, and you had never felt relief quite like it.
The injured were carted off to the maesters, and Maekar was not among them. Your eyes were stinging by time you opened them, and Syrah cooed over you like a mother hen, petting your hand.
"There, there. Have they nothing like this in Braavos?"
"If they do, I have been lucky enough to miss it," you said, feeling very much like your throat had been filled with sand. Maekar — and you knew it was him, for he'd ripped off his helm and passed it to his squire — was walking off the field with Aerion. You watched as they split, and entered separate tents. "I do not think I like tourneys."
"You'll grow accustomed," said Syrah. "Do not think me too forward — but do you think it would be brazen of me to ask Lord Yronwood to luncheon?"
You blinked. You were not thinking of luncheon. In fact, in the aftermath of your jittering fear, and the ringing in your ears from the noise, and the irritation of that yellow ribbon upon Maekar's arm catching the light with each move he made, you were thinking of little more than the ways you were about to humiliate yourself.
It all seemed so foolish, now: your pride and your comfort, that is. You had watched those men trample and stab and slash at each other, maim each other — one man had been speared, and another had lost a hand, and what good was your dignity when the man you loved was partaking in these games? How could you live with yourself, if it had been him? How could you live knowing that you had betrayed his trust, and let another woman stake her claim on him, and hadn't had the courage to ask his forgiveness, and he had been speared?
You had grown comfortable in your relationship with Maekar. His curt, waspish ways meant that you'd been able to weasel your way out of most every confrontation with ease, for he did much the same; but this was not a spat about your need to marry, or a disagreement about a book, or an argument about the amount of honey you put in his tea. This was real. Lenila Lannister was real. Those swords and axes and maces were real.
You swallowed.
You had done wrong, hadn't you? You had. It was an offence you would not have tolerated yourself. Then, it was your duty to right it. Love must surpass pride — isn't that what Neema had said?
The crowd was dissipating, now — running off to the markets for ale and pies and roasted meats, or to the pavilions of those noble families who had the means to host any guest who stumbled upon them. House Targaryen would surely be amongst those hosting and making merry — but if you hurried, if you ran…
"No," you said, and you shot up. "No, Syrah. It is not too brazen. Go and find him, in fact, and demand him to dine with you."
"Well," she said, flushing. "I do not think I'll do quite that—"
"Don't be afraid," you said. "He has your favour. He asked for your favour."
"Yes, but—"
"Thoma," you said, already turning to leave. Your attendant had learned, it seemed, to allow you your impulses, for she did not argue when you said: "Help yourself to the coin purse. I shall meet you back here upon the resumption!"
The herds of people had thinned to such a state that you could dash quickly down the stairs with neither preamble nor attention — you ducked behind the wooden skeleton of the grandstand, and darted along the empty length of it. It was almost as long as the lists themselves, and you were panting by its end, mind and heart racing. At that point, you were already nearing the champion's tents, and felt some apprehension at the sight of them — you had hoped, idly, for a little more time to think; but they had been erected directly on the east side of the field, chairs and tables and trunks spilling out around each.
There were quite a few knights and squires and servants lingering about, but you paid them no heed; you felt no need to take the same level of care as you did in the Red Keep. Here, everyone was high off the tourney's energy, and half-drunk — and even disregarding it all, you truthfully had no interest in whether these men saw where you were going. You were not planning to pursue any other, so why should you care?
Maekar's tent was almost indistinguishable from that of his son, or his nephew, or his brother; black and silver, with red pennons hanging from the roof. The only difference was his personal sigil — the three-headed Targaryen dragon, quartered — which stood from the roof's peak. In your rush, you hadn't given much thought to how you'd gain entrance; vaguely, you thought to slip beneath the canvas, or pay your way inside, but there was no difficulty. The knight standing guard recognised you immediately, and simply stood aside, lifting the flap of the tent.
You paused for a moment in the entrance. It was dark inside, candle-lit. He stood with his back to you, and you realised with a sudden startling clarity what you were doing, and what you were planning to do, and knew with disturbing coherence how everything could go wrong.
There was no reason for Maekar to forgive you. There was no reason for him to entertain you at all, really, apart from the knowledge that you would pester him until he did. And perhaps, in the end, he would feel your behaviour was beyond his years — that he had no time nor patience for your childish ways, and your petulance had lost its charm, and—
"What are you doing here?"
The jousting had been the easy part. The mace was an extension of his arm, a trusted companion that had served him well through war and rebellion and tourneys alike. It was the thinking that had slowed his swing — his mind was between Aerion, and the Lannister girl, and the infuriating Braavosi whelp who seemed intent on antagonising him at every turn.
What had you been thinking, provoking him before the joust? Standing in the mud with your gold and your jewels and your pretty fabrics, your favour wound around your arm as if to taunt him? I shall give it to he who impresses me most. He had imagined Leo Longthorn with it upon his helm, then, and it had curdled like something sour in his stomach.
For a moment it had looked as if you had more to say, but he would not hear it. It was bad enough that you were present, and as stubborn and dismissive as you always were. It was bad enough that your gaze was a persistent thing upon the back of his neck — it would be made monumentally worse by whatever it was that you had wanted to say, and he meant to win.
It was a skin-crawling thing, your gaze. He had felt it all through the joust — had felt it in the moment that Lenira Lannister had risen from her seat, a smile upon her lips and her favour dangling from her fingers. He had half a mind to refuse it, because gods know he had enough problems without Lannister interest, but they were a family as prideful as his. They wouldn't take kindly to such public rejection.
(He wondered what you had thought as it happened. Had you burned as he had, watching you on Valarr's arm? Did you grit your teeth and curse him and turn your nose up at the Lannister girl? That part of him, the juvenile part of him, the part that had been green with jealousy, felt some satisfaction at this. And it had been jealousy — he could admit it now in the quiet of his tent, alone and still battle-high.)
He eyed the ribbon upon his forearm, and felt the frustration sit behind his eyes like a headache. Fucking Lannisters. Fucking woman insistent on plaguing his every thought — and fucking Drinkwater, who'd swung at his shield at such an angle it had left Maekar's wrist aching. He'd been in such a piss poor mood upon the fight's end that he'd told his squire to fuck off, and was left in his armour. He'd deal with it later.
He scrubbed at his face, wiping the cloth across his forehead. It was calm here, at least. He'd rather the fire in his apartments, or better yet: his quarters at Summerhall, far from the tension and politicking of the Red Keep, where he could let his children run free. He would settle for this tent for now. Soon he would be expected to present himself at the feasting, and there would be much of it — twice daily for an entire sennight in his father's honour.
He exhaled. Despite himself, he wondered if you would be there.
Seeing you so clearly after that purposeful period of avoidance had dislodged something in him he did not want dislodged. The annoyance was still there, of course, but he had been struck with a sort of begrudging acceptance that was beginning to grow on him. Infuriatingly so. He took great comfort in his outrage.
But you were still young, he knew. And it was expected of you to entertain other men in your search for a husband. That it was Valarr should not have bothered him as much as it had, when Maekar had no true claim on you. And hadn't he urged you himself? Told you of the noble, war-hardened men in the Keep? He was a fool.
He grit his teeth, squeezing the cloth out with far more force than necessary. He had no claim on you. It infuriated him to no end, for in every way that mattered, he was yours — and it was a reluctant admission, one he pulled from himself with no small amount of strength. Maekar had denied it as far as he could — but there had been that night in the bath, and those days spent in your company, and you standing before him with your favour tied to your arm, and the sudden anger that had ignited at the thought of it upon another man's helm.
Perhaps it was love. Perhaps it was possession. All Maekar knew was that the thought of you in another man's solar or on another man's arm had made his stomach turn; and you could return to Braavos unwed, but it would not be far enough, for he would find himself just as maddened as if you were stood shoulder to shoulder.
In any case, wasn't he owed what he desired as a Prince of the realm? He had bled for this land. He had married for this land. He had lived and killed and devoted his life to this land. If he could not be selfish in this — in his devotion to a woman he desired — when could he be? It did not feel like a betrayal anymore. To his children, or to Dyanna. He understood that now — that it had been him digging his feet in the sand, and no other.
Nearly as soon as the thought arrived, he heard the rustling of the tent's opening. He steeled himself for what (or who) may come: his brother, or perhaps Aerion, with his bloodied teeth and puffed chest, or the squire he had dismissed. He took the cloth to his eyes, and his cheeks, and his lips, and waited — but no noise came, and that tingling had begun at his nape again. He knew then who had disturbed him, in that way that one knows their own infirmities.
He peered over his shoulder.
There you stood, in his doorway as naturally as you'd ever been.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, and it came out gruffer than he intended. "If you're here to badger me—"
"I am not." It came as a brisk, prompt interruption, and he saw the bob of your throat as you swallowed — a certain uncertainty in how you shuffled from foot to foot. "I am not. It… it's, er… In truth, I had not realised tourneys were quite so violent."
Maekar turned fully, discarding the cloth in its bowl, and regarded you with narrowed eyes. He hadn't noticed it at first — but yes, he thought, tilting his head, there it was; an uncharacteristic wideness to your eyes, and a tremble in your clasped hands. Even your shoulders hunched in a way he had never once thought to associate with you.
You were decidedly shaken. A tension gathered in him, a sense of innate wrongness, for it was not a look he was accustomed to seeing — you were many things, but unsettled did not tend to be one of them. Still, despite it, despite the glassiness of your eyes, you stared with such steel. He could not understand you. Or perhaps he understood you far too well.
You swallowed again.
"Please," you said, "do not speak, as I am about to embarrass myself, and would rather do so in silence."
He frowned. "What—"
"Silence, please."
He bristled, but against his better judgement, he did as you demanded. It was always the way, wasn't it? He was a dog. You were his master. He watched as you took some tentative steps in — hesitant, as if he hadn't laid his head upon your lap, and felt your fingers coast through his hair, and confided in you. It set his nerves aflame almost as much as this utterly abnormal meekness — but there was satisfaction, wasn't there? To see you return to him, the others you'd entertained found unappealing and unworthy.
"I fear that… that I have hurt you terribly," you said, casting your eyes at the floor. His fists tensed instinctively at his side. Oh. "No, don't speak, please, or I shall lose my courage entirely. I fear that I have hurt you terribly, for I… I have been hurt terribly, and it would not be inaccurate to say I have deserved it."
If he deigned to speak, he would tell you how preposterous the notion was — your taking offence, that is, when it had been you who'd first shattered the peace that had settled. He would have been satisfied in those apartments with you until the end of time, had you been willing; just the fire, and the wine, and the silence that sat like a blanket. If he were a better man — more adept at matters of the heart — he would have told you this. Or perhaps, he would have admitted that there was no punishment to dole out; that it was he who had been a fool, and jealous, and as short-tempered as an unbroken stallion. But he was not Baelor, and so he kept his mouth closed.
"When the horn sounded, and the horses charged, I realised the danger in it." A laugh, then, but it shook in your chest, and there was little humour in it. "I should have realised sooner. But I saw you in the mud, with your mace and shield — and that ser who was gouged with the tourney pole, and the fellow who lost his hand, and felt for all the world as if I had been a fool."
You were closer, now. Almost near enough to touch, but not quite, and he could see you clearer than he had before. Your dress was a deep, rich blue, extravagant in its design — he had not looked any more intently, earlier, no matter the urge, and he was glad for it: the fabric smoothed over your bosom in such a way that would have plagued him something terrible, and jewels of bloody red and gold caught the candlelight. You were divine. If his fingers twitched by his side, none would be the wiser.
Your eyes remained downcast, even as you reached a hand up and, with little warning, untied the ribbon around your arm. It sat bundled in your hands, then, and his heart was beating in his ears. All at once he was younger and older than he was — a green boy, and a world-weary wise-man, and your token was in your hands, and you were staring down at it as if it held every answer to every question you'd ever had.
You raised your gaze to his. He realised he was glaring — a glare of disbelief, of concentration, of anything but anger. He had had his fill of anger. He did not need it, here — not when you had replaced your own with humility, when your bottom lip trembled and your eyes had gone soft, and—
(He wanted to take you in his arms, he realised. He wanted to feel the weight of you against him, and feel the give of your soft flesh against his, and the shakiness of your breath against his skin — he wanted you to seek comfort in him, to burrow your nose in the crook of his neck. To condemn any man who was not him, and declare yourself his.)
Closer, and closer still — and even further, until he could smell your skin-warmed perfume, and your fingers were outstretched, and they were drifting across his armour, and he could not feel them, but he knew them to be warm and soft. They trembled as they reached for him. They had never trembled before.
"'Tis an ugly shade of yellow," you muttered. You spoke at such a low volume that he had to bow his head to listen, and he did not think of how his nose brushed your forehead, or how — if you simply stretched yourself up — your petal-soft lips would brush his. He did not think about the hush that fell over the two of you, the air that seemed to thicken and block out the rest of the world.
You tugged upon the knot in the Lannister favour, and it came undone with ease; it fell to the floor where it was promptly ignored, and you began to wind your own around his bicep with a slow sort of reverence. Something as foolish and simple as boyish pride came and settled itself upon him — the richness of green against black, and the downturned pout of your lips at the sight of yellow — but he was old, he thought, and he was allowed this satisfaction at least.
You peered up at him through your lashes, hand still upon his arm. His jaw clenched with the force of his restraint. Your voice was quiet when you said: "Do not wear the favours of other ladies, my prince."
Fuck. He swallowed. Had he any need to be vindicated, you had done just exactly that.
"Do not promenade on the arms of other men," he returned. He aimed for petulance, but it came out flat. Serious. Hushed in a way all important things are, as if speaking too loud could shatter them.
"I threw that flower off the side of the cliff," you said, and a jolt of pleasure went through him. "Though, you left before you could see it."
He grunted. "I had seen enough."
"You should have stayed." Your touch moved from his arm, then, to his chest — which was far worse, he thought, because his armour was still an irritating fucking barrier between you, and it had been long since you had touched him. Him, his skin, not armour. He wondered if you could feel his heart thundering beneath the steel. "Perhaps it would have spared me the past fortnight."
He harrumphed.
"I missed you quite terribly, you know," you added, as if to placate him.
That pleased him. He was sure it showed on his face. He had never been the best at performing indifference.
"Next time, you shall promenade with me," you said.
"You test both your luck and my patience, girl."
It was, apparently, the right thing to say, for a smile more brilliant that anything lit up your face. He shook his head at your fickleness of your temperament — but yes, he was pleased, and he was just as fickle where you were concerned.
You patted his chest plate. "As is my duty, my prince."
As was your duty. Fuck him, you'd have him in an early grave.
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