it’s was kind of your fault, wasn’t it? you had purposely leaned too close to that knight at the feast. Smiling gracefully, giving him a perfect view of your low cut dress. Yeah it was your fault. Or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself while Baelor spanked your ass so hard it was read already.
You were leaning over the desk, skirt up and messy hair while a strong hand held you in your place. His other hand was grabbing your hips and a spank! From time to time while he talked behind you.
“Don’t take me for a fool, wife”
spank!
“You knew what you were doing”
spank!
“And now you’re dripping for me while I haven’t even touched you properly.”
You were a mess. He had pulled you, pressed you, bite you, but he hadn’t fucked you yet. And it was making you crazy.
“Please.. i need..”
He caressed you where he had hit before because after all, Prince Baelor Targaryen was a gentleman. His rings felt cold against your skin and you shuddered. He leaned towards you, kissing a mark he had made on your neck before.
“You’re in no position to make demands, wife”
His hand parted your legs a little, giving him a perfect view of your dripping pussy.
“But i’ll make an exception, since this pretty cunt needs me that much..”
His hand found your folds and you sobbed against the hard wood of the desk, he barely picked up your moisture when he pushed two of his fingers, curving them upwards as he knew you liked it. Hitting that spot over and over as he pumped his fingers in and out of your cunt. Letting you soak him in all your sweet juices.
The unexpected sensation made you whimper, it was always so hard to take him and his fingers when he was being rough.
His thumb found your clit, making small circles in it while his other hand kept your head pressed against the desk.
“Struggling, wife? I’m being gentle.”
Your mind was blurry. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of your pussy made you even wetter. And Baelor noticed. He always knew how your body worked and how much you craved for him. And right now, he knew what you needed most.
“Feels good but it’s not enough, hmm?”
You couldn’t answer. All your mind was only focused on his big hands working you open.
He slapped your poor cunt and you shivered immediately, a whimpering mess.
“It’s disrespectful not to answer your dear husband”
“Baelor…p-please!”
Another wet slap!
“Mmm your words love”
“I n-need you inside me!” You managed to say, and for the old Gods you wish you didn’t.
He thrusted into you in a swift move, his cock filling you up entirely. You were all messy and desperate as you’re being split apart by his cock, starting to ram into you with wreckless abandon. And you can do nothing but take it because he’s holding you still, arching you impossibly deeper into him.
He lifted your head enough for one of his arms of wrap around your neck, fucking you hard in a headlock.
“Ah Gods! s-so good!” Your whimpered eyes rolling back as his hips met yours with an animal intensity. Grip bruising on your arms and neck and he held you.
the bang bang of the desk against the wall mixed with your loud moans and his growling in your ear made you reach your high, knees trembling and juices soaking his cock as he kept pushing in you.
His own release came after, filling you up with his hot cum. Neither of you moved until your legs weren’t trembling and your breathing was steady, which took a while.
“I’ll never—i’ll never flirt with another man, my lord husband. I promise” you said, still with heavy breathing.
“My beautiful wife,”
He turned you to him, your back now on the desk and you finally saw his face.
“If this happened anytime i got jealous, we would have ten children running through the Red Keep”
Here are a list of my works. 💕🤭☺️I Hope you enjoy!!! I feel like there are more!! but here are @ least most of them. (**indicates series) Please just assume they are all NSFW and have smut.
Ivar The Boneless
Mine **
Game On **
Played **
The Alliance ** Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Careless**
Concubine Masterlist
No Saviors
The Pact
Shameless
I Had that Dream Again
Mr. Fix It
Banana Pancakes
All the Foul Things (Alex H. Andersen)
I’ve Wanted this for so Long
Routine
The Library
Admiration I, Admiration II
The Scout: Ivar/Ubbe
First Date, New Years with Ivar
Gratitude I, Gratitude II
Mr. Lothbrok
It was Just a Fling
Modern Ivar on Your Camera Roll
Loaded
Choked up
Dating the Youngest Lothbrok
Explanations Pt. 1
Untamed
All Hail Your New King
The Devil Wears Lace
Big Dick Energy
Ivar and The Mini Terror
Friends I, Friends II, Friends III, Friends IV, Friends V,
Kinks [X]
Ubbe Lothbrok
The Arrangement**
Thoughtless**
Gladiator Masterlist
Songbook Book: Friends
Fucking Ubbe
Settling
Anxious
Drunk in Love
Drunkard
Dinner is Ready
Can I have a Taste
House Party I, House Party II
King Ubbe , King Ubbe II
Lazy Day, Wedding Day
Griffenholm Confessionals: Teacher’s Pet
Modern Ubbe on Your Camera Roll
I Think that’s an A
Snow and the Prince
Again
Dirty, Sexy Ubbe
Bet
Bet Pt 2: Ante Up
Halloween with Ubbe
Sparring
The Punishment
The Spoils of War
Informalities
Maestro Ubbe
Kinks: [X]
Marrying Ubbe
Onlooker
Disgraced
My Woman
Hvitserk
Bus Trips
The Itch
Taste Test
Is there Somewhere
Don’t You Trust Me?
Modern Hvitserk on Your Camera Roll
Kinks: [X]
Bjorn
California Dreaming
Too Good at Goodbyes
Bittersweet
Ragnar:
Bound, Bound II, Bound III
Mandatory
Texting Stories:
Ragnar and Lagertha
Bjorn and Ubbe
Ubbe and Ivar
Ubbe and Hvitserk
HeadCannons:
Kitchen Nightmares
Walking Dead AU Headcannons
Meet the Daddies
Ragnarssons Proposals
Vacationing with the Ragnarssons
Shopping with The Ragnarssons
Third Wife Headcannon Ragnar
Drabbles and One Shots
The Escort: Harald Finehair Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
HI!!! i love your writing!!!
please could you write BAELOR AND MAEKAR TAGTEAMING BAELORSWIFE!READER!!!!!!!!!1
- BLISSFUL,
screw taking turns, why don't they just both have you.. all at once...
cw: smut 18+, tag-teaming, double-penetration, blow jobs, face-slapping (once), petnames (good girl, dear wife, etc.), breeding, squirting, cumming inside, praise, degradation, rough sex and soft sex (contradictory i know..) slight nipple play, throuple but you are baelors wife!
my brain requires a short break from thinking about professor baelor - smutshot coming soon, even though i said i would make it into a series-- shhhh, there will be one... alright bye love you
REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!
You knelt before Maekar, your lips wrapping around his thick cock, sucking with a hunger that made your pulse race – Your tongue swirled over the swollen head, teasing him.. Maekar's hand tangled in your hair, guiding you deeper with a firm tug. "That's it... good girl," he grunted, biting his lip as his head tilted back, a low rumble escaping his throat.
From behind, Baelor eased into your weeping cunt, his length filling you inch by inch until you moaned around Maekar's shaft, the sound vibrating through him. His hands settled on your hips, gentle yet unyielding, pulling you back to meet his steadybut deep thrusts. Each stroke struck that deep, hidden spot, sending sparks through your core. "Gods– you're... tight, my wife- ah… fuck," he breathed, teeth grinding together, eyes fluttering shut in bliss.
You moved with intent, hollowing your cheeks and taking Maekar deeper, saliva trailing down your chin as your body swayed between them. Baelor's rhythm urged you forward, impaling you on Maekar's cock. Maekar's grunts roughened, his stern gaze softening just enough to betray his hidden warmth. "Filthy girl, devouring me so," he growled, fingers tightening in your hair with restrained care.
Baelor leaned closer, his fingers finding your nipple, tweaking the sensitive bud until a whimper escaped you. "My beautiful wife," he murmured, voice soft like the finest silks. The sensation rippled through you, your walls clenching around him, drawing a hiss from his lips as he plunged deeper, every nerve singing from the relentless press.
They shifted then, Maekar's cock slipping free with a slick pop, glistening strands linking you still. You reclined on the furs, legs parting in silent plea as Baelor rose above your face, his thick cock hovering near your mouth. You craned your neck, lips parting to engulf him, throat relaxing to take him fully in a deep, swallowing pull that made his breath stutter. One hand braced against the wall, the other caressed your cheek tenderly as you worked him, muscles contracting around his length.
Maekar settled between your thighs, rough palms forcing them wider. He drove into your pussy with a forceful snap, the impact shoving Baelor's cock further down your throat. You gagged lightly, tears pricking your eyes, but pressed on, savoring the salt of him amid the fullness. Maekar's hips battered forward, grunts punctuating each drive, his grip bruising your flesh. "Swallow it down, you insatiable creature," he snarled, violet eyes flashing with desire.
Baelor rocked into your mouth with measured care, avoiding excess, his touch drifting to your cheek - placing a soft slap to it. "Such a devoted one, pleasing us both," he praised, tone laced with quiet adoration. The duality consumed you – Maekar's savage tempo making your cunt slicken and quiver, Baelor's soft glides in your throat weaving a delicious torment. Tension coiled unbearably, every slap and thrust pushing you toward the edge until it shattered.
Warmth gushed from you, drenching Maekar's cock as your body convulsed, cries stifled around Baelor. He eased back slightly, granting a ragged breath, but you pursued, sucking with renewed vigor. Maekar powered on, unrelenting through your flood, his breaths turning jagged. “Fuck," he muttered.
Baelor withdrew with a wet glide, fist encircling his cock as he knelt at your side. "Let me adorn you, my love." he said gently, directing his release across your chest. Thick ropes of seed spilled over your breasts, warm and claiming. “Fuck– thats it…” He moaned, sighing as his cock softened. You traced a finger through the essence before lifting it to your tongue, lapping it deliberately as heat bloomed in his eyes. He smirked before leaning down to kiss you.
Maekar drew back, his cock still rigid and throbbing with need. The brothers' eyes met in wordless understanding before they turned to you once more. "Be still, my love," Baelor murmured, his voice soothing as he guided you gently onto your side, his touch feather-light against your heated skin. They drew near, bodies pressing close, their hardened lengths nudging insistently at your entrance, slick and ready from your earlier orgasm.
You arched into them, a desperate plea escaping your lips. "Please..." you whispered, voice husky with want, your body trembling in anticipation at the thought of the two filling you all at once. The exquisite burn bloomed as they inched inside together. Every vein and ridge pressing against your inner walls in a plethora of new sensations.
A gasp tore from your throat, mingled with a moan of pure, unbridled lust, your pussy clenching greedily around them, drawing them deeper into your cunt.
Maekar's growl rumbled low and feral, his rough hands clamping onto your hip with bruising force, holding you steady as he surged forward. Baelor's fingers steadied your waist, his lips grazing your ear with soft encouragement, "That's it, my heart, take us as you were always meant to." They began to thrust in unison, a relentless rhythm that filled you utterly, the friction igniting a fire that consumed every thought, every breath. “Oh gods–” You gasped - followed by a far-too-loud moan.
"Taking us so bravely so perfect, my dear little wife," Baelor praised you, kissing your temple – Maekars rough fingers found your clit; plucking and twisting gently; sending jolts of fire through your body; all you could do is moan like a wanton whore. The pressure built relentlessly, a coiling storm within you, every plunge driving you higher, your whorish moans turning to breathless begs. "Cum inside me… breed me – please … m’ need it," you whimpered out, the words spilling forth in a torrent of lust, your walls fluttering wildly around their invading cocks. Maekar’s brows knotted, as he thrusted harder, and sharper. “How about you cum for us, hm?” He pulled your hair, baring your throat – a moan fell through your lips.
You tightened around them like a fist, the crest rising swift and merciless until it crashed over you in waves of shattering ecstasy, your body quaking as another gush of warmth soaked them both. Maekar bellowed then, “Good girl..” His own release surged deep with potent, hot pulses, flooding your depths with his seed. Baelor followed in the same breath, whispering fierce praises; his own essence joining in thick, claiming spurts that overflowed, trickling down your thighs as you trembled between them.
teasing your husband ends.. rather beautifully.
cw: aerion in himself is a warning, smut 18+, messy sex, alcohol mentions, blowjob, p in v, breeding, no plot just straight smut, bro really thinks hes a dragon..
reposts are open on my page ;) daeron smut coming soon!
The flickering light of the candles in your private chambers casts long shadows across the stone walls, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and distant sea salt. Aerion lounges in his high-backed chair, his tall, frame draped in a loose black tunic that clings to his elegant yet menacing form. His pale, luminescent skin glows faintly in the dimness, silver-gold hair falling in loose waves around his sharp features, those violet eyes fixed on the goblet in his hand. You could not quite help admiring your husband - for he was a Targaryen beauty in every sense of the word. He tips his glass back, the rich red wine sliding down his throat, but a droplet escapes, trailing from the corner of his mouth.
He wipes it away with his thumb, a low grunt escaping his lips at the interruption. But before he can pull away, you stupidly catch his wrist, your fingers wrapping around it firmly. Without a word, you guide his thumb to your mouth, pressing it against your tongue. The taste of wine lingers on his skin, tart and bold, as you suck gently, your eyes locking onto his.
Aerion's violet gaze darkens, a rumble building in his chest. He grunts again, deeper this time, his free hand clenching the arm of the chair. "Do you wish to worship my cock tonight, wife?" he asks, his voice a low, commanding growl that sends a shiver through you.
You nod your head quickly, your lips tightening around his thumb as you suck harder, swirling your tongue before releasing it with a soft pop. Easing yourself down, you kneel beside him, the cool stone floor biting into your knees through the thin fabric of your nightgown. Your hands trail up his thighs, feeling the hard muscle tense beneath your touch as you press kisses along the inside of one, then the other - soft, reverent presses of your lips against his skin.
He shifts slightly, parting his legs to give you access, his breeches straining against the growing bulge. You nuzzle closer, your breath hot against him as you lick a slow path down the length of his shaft through the fabric first, teasing until he hisses. Then, with trembling fingers, you free his cock, thick and heavy, veins pulsing under the pale skin. It springs free, already hard and leaking at the tip.
You lean in, your tongue flicking out to trace the underside from base to head, savoring the salty tang of his arousal. He tastes of salt and smoke, like the dragons he so obsesses over. Wrapping your lips around the head, you suck him in deeper, inch by inch, until he's filling your mouth completely. You push further, relaxing your throat to take him all the way, deepthroating until your nose brushes his silver-gold curls. Spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, dribbling down your chin and trailing wetly along your neck, soaking into your nightgown. Tears prick at your eyes from the stretch, spilling over to run hot tracks down your cheeks.
Aerion's hand fists in your hair, not pulling but holding you there as he groans, his hips twitching. But suddenly, he yanks you off with a firm grip, his cock slipping free with a wet pop, glistening with your saliva. You gasp for air, chest heaving, tears blurring your vision as you look up at him.
"Is my dragon pleased?" you whisper, your voice hoarse and lingering in the air like a plea.
He shudders, a visible tremor running through his imposing frame, his violet eyes blazing with possessive hunger. Leaning down, his warm breath ghosts over your ear, sending goosebumps racing across your skin. He sniffs at your hair, inhaling deeply—the scents of rosemary and lavender clinging to the strands, a soothing contrast to the fire in his gaze. "Your dragon wishes to fuck you tonight," he murmurs, his tone dark and unyielding, laced with that volatile edge. "And he will do so whether or not you agree."
Before you can respond, Aerion hauls you up by your arms, his grip iron-strong but careful, like a dragon guarding its most prized hoard. He doesn't bruise your skin, doesn't let his cruelty slip into harm against you - his treasure. With a swift motion, he throws you onto the bed, the feather mattress yielding beneath you as you bounce lightly. The impact jars a soft gasp from your lips, but there's no pain, only the thrill of his dominance.
He looms over you, shedding his tunic in one fluid pull, revealing the lean, sculpted planes of his chest, pale skin stretched taut over muscle honed from years of training. His silver-gold hair falls forward as he climbs onto the bed, caging you with his body. One hand shoves your nightgown up your thighs, bunching the fabric at your waist. The cool air hits your exposed skin, but it's nothing compared to the heat pooling between your legs. Your pussy is already slick, wetness lingering and threatening to trail down your inner thighs, a testament to how easily he unravels you.
You shudder as his fingers brush against your folds, confirming the evidence of your arousal. A moan escapes your lips, unbidden, your body arching toward him. Aerion lines his cock up with your entrance, the thick head nudging against your clit first, making you whimper. He grins, a sharp, predatory curve of his lips that shows his teeth, violet eyes gleaming with cruel delight.
"Scream for your dragon, wife," he muses, his voice a velvet command, before he groans low in his throat. With one powerful thrust, he plummets his cock into your heat, burying himself to the hilt in a single, forceful stroke.
The stretch burns sweetly, your walls clenching around his girth as he fills you completely. You cry out, the sound raw and echoing off the chamber walls - a scream that mixes pain and pleasure, just as he demanded. Your nails dig into his shoulders, scraping down his luminescent skin as your body adjusts to the invasion. He doesn't give you time to fully acclimate; his hips snap forward again, setting a brutal rhythm that has the bed creaking beneath you.
Each thrust drives him deeper, his cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. The wet sounds of skin slapping skin fill the room, mingled with your moans and his guttural grunts. The scent of rosemary and lavender from your hair wafts up as he buries his face in your neck, inhaling you like a beast claiming its mate.
"Mine," he growls against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point without breaking skin - possessive, but restrained, his dragon's fire tempered for you alone. "This cunt is mine to breed, to fill until you're swollen with my seed." His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, your pussy fluttering around him at his words; You can feel every ridge and vein of his cock as he pounds into you, the friction building that coil of tension low in your belly.
Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper. The physical sensations overwhelm you - the slap of his balls against your ass with each plunge, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit, sparking jolts of pleasure that make your toes curl. Emotionally, it's a storm: the fear-tinged thrill of his dominance, the shuddering vulnerability as tears well up again from the intensity, your body surrendering completely to his will.
Aerion's hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it roughly. The added pressure shatters you; you arch off the bed, a keening moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clamps down on his cock, milking him in rhythmic pulses, wetness gushing around him to ease his thrusts.
He doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His pace turns erratic, hips slamming into you with desperate force. "Take it," he snarls, violet eyes locked on yours, wild and unhinged. "Take my seed, darling wife. Give me my heir." With a final, deep groan that vibrates through his chest, he buries himself inside you and stills, his cock throbbing as hot spurts of cum flood your depths. The sensation of him filling you to overflowing, prolongs your climax, waves of pleasure rippling through you until you're trembling, spent.
He collapses over you, careful not to crush you with his weight, his breath ragged against your shoulder. One hand strokes your hair, inhaling that mixed herb smell once more, a rare moment of tenderness in his volatile nature.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ 𝕷𝖎𝖘𝖘𝖆. she/her. 30s. canadian. gemini. feminist. cat lover. artist and writer. lover of gentlemen vampires and morally questionable knights. elijah mikaelson’s wife. daemon targaryen’s whore. I write for tvdu and asoiaf ... mostly smut.
this blog is 18+ only
"Do you have any idea how rare love is? In a thousand years, I have found it but twice, and when I have, I have honored it."
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I got struck on an idea where reader tried to dominate Elijah but always fail so, she get Klaus help with some magical witchy rope or something to subdue him, which was successful.
Tho here's the thing, reader is inexperienced in doing something like that and not prepped enough to take him, cuz y'know Elijah is big.. hehehe😌🤭so she started tear up, and ask for his help. Elijah being a smug he is punish her happily after...can you added a sprinkle of daddy kink and overstimulation, pretty puh-lease with the cherry on top🙏🥺
Oh btw your story always superb 🤩 😁
Bindings
18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}
You ask Davina for help with creating something to tie up Elijah... only for you to get in way over your head. Luckily, he is in a forgiving mood.
♡♡ Thanks for the request anon! I decided to change it from Klaus to Davina, because I just can't see Klaus being okay with you essentially making a weapon against his family... Even if the reason behind it is just for some kinky fun ♡♡
4.9k words - Warnings: smut, *magical* bondage, dom!elijah, daddy!kink, spanking, choking, sex toys and a whole lotta praise...
You sat in Davina's greenhouse, looking around at all the various plants and flowers the young witch had collected. You had asked Davina to meet up with you to help with a problem, one that was a bit awkward to even say out loud, but you knew that she of all people would understand.
You watched her browse through her books, trying to find the spell you had requested. After a few moments, Davina had found the page and started gathering the items needed.
"Davina?" you said.
She looked up from the table and gave you a curious look. "Yeah?"
"You don't think this is a little crazy? I mean, it's a bit of a long shot."
Davina smiled. "Not at all. I may have.... tried it myself... with Kol," she replied, looking away with a light blush.
Your eyes went wide. "Oh, my God. It worked?"
She shrugged trying to appear cool, but her mischievous grin gave away her answer. You smiled back and the two of you quickly dissolved into a fit of giggles.
After the laughter had calmed down, you looked at her questioningly. "So, how does it work?"
Davina took a seat on the couch next to you and showed you the spell she had found.
"The basic binding is actually quite simple, it's the ingredients that are tricky," she explained, "luckily I have white oak ash, and the rest should be easy to find."
You nodded and listened intently as Davina read through the list of ingredients and their uses. She began by grinding the herbs and mixing them in a bowl, followed by the white oak ash.
Once the mixture was complete, Davina took a long silk rope that you had provided and dipped it in the bowl. She held the rope above the bowl, letting the excess liquid drip off as she chanted the incantation.
"Done," Davina announced, handing you the now-dry rope. "It will keep him bound and unable to break free. You can use it any way you'd like." She grinned, giving you a knowing look.
You couldn't believe how easy it had been, that you were so close to fulfilling a long-held fantasy of yours. "Thank you, Davina. You're the best," you said, pulling her into a hug.
She hugged you back, giggling as she pulled away. "One more thing, if you need to break the spell, just say 'confractus' and it will untie itself,"
You nodded, thanking her again before making your way home, the rope clutched tightly in your hand.
It was the most expensive piece of clothing you had ever purchased. It wasn't even something you could wear outside your bedroom, but damn, did it make you feel sexy.
The lingerie was a red, sheer babydoll dress with black lace trim, and it was paired with a matching thong and stockings. You had never worn anything so revealing before, but you knew Elijah would like it, and that was all that mattered.
You wanted to get him all worked up, break down the gentleman facade, make him want you so badly that he would do whatever you asked. You had been waiting for the right moment to try the rope Davina had created, and you were certain that tonight was the night.
You pulled a robe over your outfit, concealing it until the right moment. Then you sat back on your bed and texted Elijah.
"Are you free tonight?"
A few moments later, your phone vibrated.
"For you, always."
You grinned and quickly replied, "Come over."
He sent a thumbs up, and you tossed your phone aside, your nerves kept you from sitting still, and you spent the next ten minutes pacing anxiously around the room. When you finally heard a knock on the door, you jumped, startled by the sound. You took a deep breath and walked to the front of your apartment.
When you opened the door, you were greeted by a sight that made your mouth water. Elijah was dressed casually, in just a t-shirt and jeans, it was a rare sight, and one that had you practically drooling.
You stood there in silence for a moment, taking in the sight of him, until he cleared his throat and asked, "Can I come in?"
"Yes, sorry. Come in." You stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. You let yourself melt into him, enjoying the feeling of his arms wrapped around you.
"What's this for?" You asked, teasingly tugging on his t-shirt, your hands roaming across his broad chest. "Has your dry-cleaner gone and quit on you?"
He chuckled and shook his head. "I figured we would just have a quiet night in. No need for the formalities."
You nodded, your hands traveling down to his waist. You felt his body tense slightly when your fingers began to dance along the bare skin under the hem of his shirt.
"Well, I have a surprise for you," you said, looking up at him with a mischievous smile.
He raised an eyebrow and gave you a curious look. "A surprise? Well, now I'm intrigued."
You laughed and grabbed his hand, leading him to your bedroom. Once inside, you turned and faced him, taking a deep breath before you began to untie your robe. But then you stopped, looking at him with a naughty smirk.
"Take off your shirt," you ordered, your voice suddenly more confident.
He looked surprised by your words, but quickly obliged, pulling the t-shirt over his head and tossing it aside.
"Hmmm," you smiled as your eyes traveled down his body, appreciating his toned abs and muscular arms, lingering on where a trail of dark hair disappeared into his jeans. "Now the pants."
You watched as his hands moved to unbutton his jeans. He kept his gaze locked on you, his dark eyes filled with lust. Once the pants were undone, he slowly pushed them down, revealing his black boxer briefs and the outline of his half-hard cock.
Your mouth watered at the sight, but you knew this was just the beginning. As much as you wanted to rip his clothes off and fuck him senseless, you had a plan, and you were determined to stick to it.
"Get on the bed," you commanded, gesturing to the large mattress behind him.
He climbed onto the bed, sitting back against the pillows and watching you with curiosity. You untied the belt of your robe and let it fall open, revealing the sheer lingerie underneath.
Elijah's jaw dropped, his eyes widening as they traveled over your body.
"Do you like it?" You asked, teasingly running a finger along the edge of the lace trim.
He nodded, unable to speak, his cock already fully hard and straining against his underwear.
"Good, because I want you to do something for me," you said, your voice low and husky.
He nodded again, his gaze fixed on you.
"Take off your underwear and stroke your cock."
You watched him pull his boxer briefs down and wrap his large hand around his thick shaft, slowly stroking himself.
The sight of him pleasuring himself made your own arousal grow. You let your robe drop to the floor and climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs.
He groaned, his eyes never leaving your body as he continued stroking his cock.
"Darling, you are a vision," he breathed, his voice deep and raspy with desire.
You felt heat pooling between your legs, your nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of your lingerie.
You leaned in and kissed him, your tongues battling for dominance as you moaned into his mouth. His other hand came up to grab your ass, pulling you closer.
He was breathing heavily, his eyes dark with lust.
"Touch yourself," he growled, his lips brushing against yours.
"No," you smirked, "I have something else in mind."
You reached over and picked up the rope, which you had placed within reach on the nightstand. You watched his eyes widen, his hand stopping its movements as he stared at the rope.
"Do you want me to tie you up?" He grinned, his hand starting to stroke his cock again.
"I have something else in mind," you repeated.
Elijah raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.
"Hands up," you commanded, leaning back slightly to give him space.
He paused for a moment before lifting his arms above his head, resting them on the pillow behind him.
You brought the rope over his wrists, looping it around and tying them together. He chuckled, his eyes darkening as he realized what you were doing.
"I never took you for a bondage girl, darling."
"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," you replied, your tone playful as you pulled the rope tighter.
"Unfortunately I don't think this silk rope will hold me," he said, smirking as he tugged at the restraints.
You ignored him, continuing to tie his wrists to the headboard. Once you were satisfied with the knots, you sat back and admired your work, enjoying the way he looked helpless and at your mercy.
"Oh yeah?" You questioned, trailing a finger down his chest and abs, watching him shiver.
You slowly shrugged off one of the straps of your babydoll, letting the top slide down, exposing one breast.
His eyes fixated on your bare chest, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.
"Mmmm," you hummed, rolling the hard bud between your fingers, teasing him. Then you did the same with the other strap, pushing the top down until your breasts were completely exposed.
Elijah let out a low moan, his cock twitching against his stomach.
"God, you're so fucking beautiful," he growled, his eyes burning with desire.
"Do you want to touch them daddy?" You cooed, running your hands up and down your breasts.
"Yes," he hissed, his hips bucking up involuntarily.
"Go ahead, tear the rope and touch me."
"Gladly."
He tugged at the rope, once, twice, three times. It didn't budge, much to his surprise.
"How the..." he started to say, looking up at the knotted rope.
"It's just a bit of magic," you smirked, your confidence growing as you watched him struggle.
You knew the ropes wouldn't hold him forever, but you planned on making the most of the time they did.
"Now, where were we?" You leaned forward, bringing your breasts close to his face.
He craned his neck up, trying to capture one of your nipples with his mouth, but you pulled away, denying him.
"Uh uh," you scolded, "You can look, but no touching."
You moved forward again, brushing your breast against his lips. He eagerly opened his mouth, trying to suck on the hardened peak, but you kept it just out of reach.
"I will be free soon enough, little one," he growled, his eyes locking onto yours, "and when I am, you're going to be punished for teasing me."
His words sent a thrill through you, but you remained calm, refusing to show him any signs of weakness.
"Oh yeah? What are you going to do, daddy?" You asked, taunting him as you rolled your hips, your wetness coating his skin.
He groaned at the sensation, his dark, lust-filled eyes watched as you began to touch his body, teasing and tormenting him.
You raked your nails down his chest and abs, earning a hiss of pleasure. You licked a hot stripe up his neck, biting his earlobe before moving to his lips. You kissed him roughly, your teeth grazing his lower lip, and he moaned, deepening the kiss.
Your hand went to his cock, stroking it slowly as he tried to buck his hips into your touch. You pulled back, smirking at him.
"You're not going to come until I say you can, understood?"
"Yes, my dear," he breathed, his eyes closing in pleasure as you tightened your grip on his shaft.
"Good boy."
You kissed him again, your tongues dancing together as you pumped his cock. He moaned into your mouth, his hips thrusting upwards, desperate for release.
You broke the kiss, looking down at him with a smirk. You couldn't wait any longer, you had to have him.
You positioned yourself over his throbbing member, lining him up with your entrance. You felt a flash of nervousness, not knowing how well you would be able to take him, but the excitement overrode the anxiety.
You lowered yourself down slowly, his thick cock stretching you open, filling you inch by inch.
"Fuck, Elijah," you moaned, burying your face into the crook of his neck, the feeling of him buried so deep, making your legs shake.
He hummed, his biceps straining against the rope as he struggled to break free. You placed your hands on his chest, using him as leverage as you began to ride him.
You knew right away that you were in trouble. Usually Elijah would take the lead, getting you all wet and worked up, he always took his time, and the pleasure he brought was slow and delicious.
But this, being on top and having all the control, was something you hadn't experienced before. It was intense, and you weren't sure if you could handle it.
Your thighs were burning as you lifted yourself up and down, but you were determined to keep going. Your eyes met his and the sight of his pupils blown wide with desire was enough encouragement for you to continue.
You rode him faster, your breath coming in short gasps. You were getting close, so close, but it was somehow all too much and not enough. You didn't think it would be this much work, and you could feel your energy waning.
It was a terrible feeling, finally getting what you wanted and being disappointed by it. You had been so confident, but now your thighs were burning and you were struggling to keep up a steady rhythm.
You looked at the ropes, seeing that they were still secure. There was no way you would be able to finish this yourself. You were going to need help.
"Eli," you whimpered, your nails digging into his chest.
"Yes, my dear," he groaned.
"I-I'm not sure... If I can keep going," you admitted, panting as you struggled to continue, a frustrated tear rolling down your cheek.
"Well, I'm still quite enjoying myself. You look absolutely exquisite like this," he teased, his eyes roaming your body.
"Elijah," you whined, "please. I-I can't."
He gave you a knowing smirk. "If you can't keep up, maybe I should be the one in charge."
"Please," you begged, your face flushing as the humiliation of being denied what you wanted so badly washed over you.
"You created this problem for yourself, little one," he reminded, "but luckily, I'm in a giving mood."
You nodded, grateful that he was willing to help you, even if he did enjoy teasing you about it. You reached up and undid the knots, releasing his hands from their restraints.
As soon as his hands were free, Elijah gripped your hips, flipping you over so he was on top. You yelped in surprise, the sudden change in position leaving you breathless.
"You are such a good girl," he praised, his voice husky with desire. "So eager to please."
He kissed you hungrily, his hands exploring your body, his fingers tugging at the hem of your lingerie.
"And this," he murmured against your lips, "is very pretty. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to tear it."
Before you could protest, he ripped the babydoll in half, exposing your entire body to him. He tossed the torn fabric aside, his dark eyes roaming your naked form.
"But it was expensive," you half-protested, even though you were throbbing at the gesture of dominance and disregard.
He growled and pinched your nipple, earning a sharp gasp, then he soothed it with a swirl of his tongue, a wicked glint in his eyes.
"How much did that little magical rope cost you?"
You shuddered, already realizing this was the price you had to pay. You knew he would punish you for this stunt and it turned you on more.
"N-nothing, it was a favor from a friend," you muttered.
He didn't like the vagueness of your answer and took the rope and tied it around your wrists as he started kissing you again, your tongue clashing with his, while his large hand roamed your body, tweaking your nipples, earning a soft moan, and then traveling down south, running his fingertips along your skin, teasing and tickling you softly.
"You are going to do exactly as I say now, understood?" he mumbled against your skin.
"Y-Yes, Daddy," you whined, already desperately bucking against his hand.
Elijah released you, flipping you onto your stomach and dragging you to the head of the bed, tying the rope to the headboard so your arms are stretched high over your head. You were on your knees, and completely under his power.
You heard him rummaging around in his dresser and your heart began beating quickly from nervousness and excitement.
He kissed the back of your neck, the heat of his body warming you, and causing goosebumps to cover your skin. The smell of his cologne wrapped around you and you instinctively arched into his embrace.
"My sweet pet, are you ready to be punished?" he asked as he held one of his ties in front of your face, "Do you have a safe word?"
Your mind raced as he put the tie over your eyes. You quickly selected a word, just in case you needed it, though you sincerely doubted that would happen. Even when he was dominant like this, he always put your pleasure first, but you wanted him to believe you were scared.
"Coffee."
"Excellent," he replied as the smooth fabric was tied tightly around your head.
You tried to lean forward but couldn't move an inch with the rope around your wrists. This rope has successfully restrained Elijah, there was no way you were getting free until he cut you loose.
"I must say… that magic rope is quite a dangerous weapon, a threat to my family." He whispered against your ear, a hint of danger in his voice, sending an excited tingle through you.
You suddenly felt his strong hand wrap tightly around your neck. He wasn't squeezing yet but he was definitely letting you know who's in charge.
"You and I both know how I handle threats to my family," he said, pressing a kiss against your neck.
A moan escaped your lips and you could hear him chuckle. You were so wound up, you weren't sure how long you could take this.
"Stay quiet," Elijah commanded.
As if in punishment, he withdrew his hand from your throat, and you almost immediately missed the feeling of his warm hand against you. A sudden slap to your ass made your body jolt.
It burned from the force of it, his large, powerful palm practically covering your entire cheek. Every sensation was heightened by the tie around your eyes and you felt your whole body heating up, your blood rushing in anticipation of what was to come.
He hit you again, on the same cheek, harder than the last time. The sound of his hand hitting your flesh seemed to fill the room. Tears pooled in your covered eyes, the burning sensation making your body hum in pleasure, mixed with a bit of pain.
You weren't sure if you could handle one more of his heavy-handed swats. Your arms hurt from being pulled high above your head, and your wrists were already chafing.
You heard him reach into your night stand, searching for something that would bring you a different kind of pain. He found what he was looking for, trailing it down your spine. It was cold and smooth, and it made your stomach drop when you realized what it was.
"Eli- wait," you protested, none of this night was going to plan, but this? You had fantasized about it, sure, but this was-
Your mind went blank when he pushed it inside you, and without mercy, he switched it on. It buzzed to life and the sudden onslaught of the vibrations made your legs shake uncontrollably, your wrists burning slightly as you pulled on them.
It was like you were filled with electricity. And the noises you were making? They were a mix of moans and pleas for release, your body already nearing its limit.
His hand was gone, no more spanking and yet- the buzzing didn't stop, you had no release in sight and that's when you realized your mistake. He wasn't going to let you finish, the intention to drive you near your peak only to take you back down.
It was torture.
And you were absolutely loving it.
The minutes seem to tick by, maybe hours. Who knows anymore. All you're aware of is your trembling thighs, sweat glistening your back and your voice, cracking slightly as you scream and moan, writhing at the touch of his hand, then the hard buzzing once again.
"Hmm, we've never tried this setting before," he mused.
"Please Eli-"
He increased the intensity, a loud buzz echoing the room, and a series of vulgar curses escaping your lips, making him laugh.
The vibrator inside you was now pulsing at a rapid pace, the pleasure blinding, building, and there's nothing you can do to prevent the inevitable.
"Don't you dare come," he ordered.
"I can't-" you began, already starting to crumble under his control.
He gave the end of the vibrator a small twist and it hit a new spot that was pure euphoria. You tried to hold on, but it was impossible, your vision went white as an orgasm rocked through you, stealing your breath away, and all of the pent up tension that was burning in the depths of your core.
You let out an ecstasy-laced scream, every fiber in you igniting, every nerve firing at once as an immense surge of pleasure washed through your trembling body, shaking you to the core.
In that moment there was only bliss. The kind of sweet bliss that washes over your exhausted form, turning your limbs to rubber and melting your insides.
Your wrists ached, and you expected Elijah to untie you, but he had gone perfectly still behind you. Your heart began to race, suddenly filled with worry about whether he had become angered by your release. You honestly couldn't undergo another round of his erotic torture and live through it.
The silence and inaction was far worse than any punishment and you felt fear creep up your neck. Suddenly the vibrator turned back on at the max setting and his hand came down hard on your ass once again, leaving it stinging and burning, and tears brimming your lids, even as your body reacted with arousal.
You weren't even sure if your wrists could survive another round and it didn't help that the orgasm had made you sensitive to the point of numbness, but you can already feel your legs shaking, threatening to buckle underneath your exhausted form.
"Daddy, please I can't. I'll pass-" you started, the warning cut off with another slap.
You couldn't do it anymore, your wrists hurt more than the spanking. You remembered Davina had said that the rope could be undone with one word from you. Just as another spank was about to rain down, you rasped out 'confractus' and the rope fell off your wrists. You didn't waste a second, the moment you felt your hands free, you were tugging the blindfold down and pulling the vibrator out of you, tossing it across the bed and collapsing.
Elijah looked a bit shocked by your sudden escape, but that didn't stop him. With you no longer held in the bindings, he took it as another reason to keep punishing you and he grabbed your hips and pulled you underneath him.
His eyes were hard and wild, almost black, and his lips were curled up in a delicious smirk as he locked eyes with yours. The blindfold was held tight against your neck with one hand, keeping the pressure just enough to cause slight discomfort.
But then his eyes flicked to your wrists and the damage that had been done. The burns were deep, almost red and his demeanor changed instantly. His expression went soft, filled with remorse, but his dark, lust-filled eyes didn't change, still heated and primal, and needing release.
"I sometimes forget how delicate you are," he said softly, taking one of your wrists into his hand and giving a gentle kiss.
You flinched a little from the sting of it, watching his apology fill his eyes. You knew his guilt and self loathing was about to start, but before he could pull away, you reached up and grabbed the back of his neck and smashed your lips against his.
"I love when you get like this Eli," you admitted as the kiss broke, "Punishing me, fucking me, owning me. So don't start beating yourself up."
His response was an immediate hot sigh against your lips, relieved that he didn't hurt you.
"You do like the attention, do you?" he teased lightly, nuzzling your nose.
You nod, giving another kiss to the tip of his nose. "Always, but can you make this punishment worth it? It better end in a long, hot shower together or I might pass out," you whispered with a cheeky smile.
His shoulders shook from a silent laugh and his arms moved to either side of your face, caging you in with his warm presence, and you couldn't help the blush that spread through your cheeks as the emotion on his face flickered between the self-hating Elijah to the sweet one that you were in love with.
He ran his hand down your leg, then he lifted your thigh and held it against his hip and slowly, gently eased himself inside you. His lips were inches from and you couldn't look away. His eyes had softened now, and your heart melted at the devotion in them, only meant for you.
He slid his hand to the back of your neck as you clung to his shoulder, meeting him thrust for thrust as the pace gradually quickened. Your toes curled as waves of pleasure washed over you, but you held on this time, waiting for his permission, wanting to find release together.
His lips caressed your neck, his breathing ragged, and his movements became more erratic as his own control began to slip. The low, animalistic sounds rumbling in his chest nearly set you off, but somehow you managed to hang on.
Your mind is a fog, filled with everything Elijah; his smell, his warmth, the feeling of his skin against yours, the sound of his heavy breath, his low voice in your ear, his hips moving in a perfect tempo. It was overwhelming, dizzying, and intoxicating. You weren't sure how much longer you could hold out, especially with the way he was whispering your name like a prayer.
Your legs began to tremble again, Elijah knew you were close, and you were being so good for him. He could see the effort your restraint required in the furrow of your brow and the desperation in your eyes, he saw it in the twitching of your fingers and he felt the small spams from the place the two of you are joined.
"You've been such a good girl, come for me sweetheart," he cooed, nipping at your ear.
You closed your eyes and threw your head back. It felt like the earth beneath you cracked open and molten pleasure coursed through your veins, pouring into every cell and nerve, bathing you in absolute bliss.
Elijah kept rocking, dragging out your orgasm and making his own release finally explode throughout every part of him. As the both of you shook from pleasure, he didn't stop kissing you, kissing your cheeks, neck, and nose as the both of you tried to calm down. You clung to his biceps, relishing his touch, trying to calm down your raging heartbeat.
He released you and flipped onto his back, tugging you along, and making sure that you stayed close. You cuddled into his side, giving his chest small, gentle kisses.
He took your wrist, seeing the faint redness where the rope had burned your skin and gave it another tender kiss.
"Don't tell Klaus about the rope, he would not be very pleased to know you and Davina are making weapons behind his back, love."
You snorted and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, "how did you know it was Davina?"
He chuckled and rested his chin on the top of your head.
"Call it an educated guess," he teased and his hand playfully smacked your butt.
You both gave out a little chuckle before falling back into a comfortable silence. Your body had officially given out on you and exhaustion had taken over your form.
Elijah lifted you up out of bed and brought you to the shower, making sure that you were clean of any sticky sweat or traces of what had gone down moments ago. He wrapped his strong arms around you once you were dressed and both cleaned, bringing the covers around both of your bodies before kissing your forehead, and drifting off to sleep, holding you possessively against him.
This night didn't go as you planned, but you did not regret a thing.
Also! If you wish to be removed from the tag list just send me a dm, you won't hurt my feelings (it's okay if you got sick of me ~lol) I don't wish to hold you hostage ♡
I've gotten a few dm's about my tags not working (yay) so let me know if its still a problem, I just re-tagged all of you so hopefully that solved it ♡
(It may be the hearts causing the issue but I don't want that to be true, so I am in denial)
hellooooo I saw you were taking requests so may I request a ragnarsons headcannons?? (Because I read your ivar works)
Can you do how they would…yk… because I can’t find any works of them ANYWHERE!! Can you include, bjorn, ubbe, hvitserk, ivar and Ragnar!
please and thank youuuuu 🥲🫶
𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮
(Minors do not interact)
Master list
Including: bjorn, Ubbe, ivar, hvitserk and ragnar.
Warnings: SMUT, no use of the words 'length' we use proper autonomy here 🙂↕️, vulgar language.
Summary: how the Ragnarsons would fuck you. This is a FULL assessment, including positions, cock x-ray and there fuck rating.
A/N: Omg yessss of course I can!! Im always happy for new ideas and my ‘asks’ will always be a safe space for peoples ideas :) and I think i should just start a ragnarsons series tbh 🫣.
Bjorn:
Bjorn is a beast. In 99% of life and sex is definitely apart of that, I may never forgive him for being a shitty husband and father.
but..if I could I would.
When he fucks you it almost always after something has happened, it's never just spontaneous, (he's spontaneous with whores, not with you.) he's just got back after months away? Sex. just fought a battle? Sex. Just had an argument? Sex. Just finished a sacrifice? Sex...you get the point.
Positions: doggy, wall sex, matting press.
Cock x-ray: 7 inches, straight, veiny.
Rating: 8.9/10 he needs to work on the intimacy but everything else is good
Ubbe:
Oh my sweet Ubbe. Ubbe is a gentle yet feisty and protective man, a 'gentle giant' if you will.
but he is a freaky thing in the sheets, anything you want he's giving it to you, (we all know he's open to a threesome), you want him to eat you out like he's a starved man? just lay on the table for him why don't you, he isn't Just freaky in the sheets, in private when your not having sex he has no filter, once he outright asked you if you wanted to ride him when you were eating breakfast, (you can tell where that went).
he will do anything you want him to like some sort of dog (but don't think for one second he's gonna be submissive).
Positions: cowgirl, missionary, any position under the sun.
Cock x-ray: 8-9 inches, I definitely think he's bigger than Bjorn and he feels no need to flaunt it. His tip is only slightly pink but he has a curve to his and it got veins that his the right spots every time.
Rating: 100/10 🫡
Ivar:
Now...ivar..he is so difficult to write realistically for because of his legs so, ima try my best.
Ivar was rather insecure when you first started having sex, he didn't want another Margrethe situation and he didn't want to disappoint you (or have to kill you), but when he realise that he just needed a connection with someone before he could have sex with them?
Thor himself couldn't hold him back from you.
He was so desperate to make up for everything he missed out on, and best believe he is not waiting a single drop of cum.
When he fucks you he's a toucher, he's cupping ever since part of you as your ride him.
Positions: cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, 69, (occasionally missionary if he's feeling up to it)
Cock x-ray: thick thick thick thick.. at least 8 inches, he has one long vein on the underside of him and he is a bit more sensitive than others.
Rating: 9/10 when you...teach him...(he's a fast learner btw)
Hvitserk:
hvitserk is a gentle man. Hes an amazing fighter and an even better lover.
Im talking, fucking under moonlight.
im talking, making you fuck yourself on him.
im talking, making your voice horse from screaming.
Dat what im talking about. This man acts all soft and shit, in public..but when he gets his hands on you? This man is making you beg for more.
Cock x-ray: a firm 8 inches. Senstitive tip, just the right amount of thickness.
Rating: 10/10 this man cand bend me over any day
Ragnar:
Ok but disrespectfully i need this man to break my back and fuck me through the pain. (maybe that was a bit much...)
But you could not rip me from this man. He knows what he is doing. He knows
Hes a teaser, he will make you beg, just for the fun of it. And he dont need any help when it comes to it.
Hes up for it at any time, all day, from the kitchen to the bathroom sink type shit.
Open to all your kinks. (he has a lot tbh)
And i am a firm beliver in the hereditary ragnarson breeding kink. They all have it and ragnar is the sorce.
I can just image him saying something like “awe so desprate for me huh?“ as hes thrusting ever so slowly into you..
(Ima bout to start barking)
Cock x-ray: 9 inches. Thick everywhere. Lowkey has a scar on it from when he tried to shave with a blade ’down there’ (it ended badly).
summary: ramsay likes you best when you’re useful; the trouble is learning what he thinks you’re useful for.
pairing: ramsay bolton x reader
warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni), no use of y/n, afab reader, slight au (ramsay won battle of the bastards), dark fic, blood kink (menstrual blood, minor injury), mentioned major character death, power imbalance, dom/sub, manipulation, puppy play/pet dynamics, rough sex, choking, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation, slapping/caning, impact play, piv sex, breeding kink, fingering, hair pulling, stockholm syndrome, i hesitate to say happy ending but like… everyone’s chill?, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 9.1k
a/n: this fic is a sequel to a kindness, though it can be read as is, and part of a lil collab with some lovely mutuals centering around extremely morally questionable men that many of us get shamed for loving. i for one say let your freak flag fly ♥️
likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!
🦋masterlist
The voices reach the door before anything else.
At first they’re muffled by the thick stone of the corridor walls, nothing more than the vague hum of men talking somewhere beyond the chambers, but gradually they grow clearer—boots scuffing against the floor, the dull jangle of armor, the occasional burst of laughter that echoes faintly down the hall.
Still, you don’t move.
The bear skin beneath your knees is soft enough to keep the worst of the ache at bay, though the position has long since become familiar enough that you scarcely notice the discomfort anymore. Your hands remain folded neatly behind your back, fingers laced together just as he prefers, your spine straight and your chin slightly lowered toward your chest as you stare at the dark grain of the wooden door before you.
You’ve learned, you’re better now—certainly more than any of the others had been.
The thought slips through your mind, bringing with it a small pulse of pride that settles somewhere warm and uneasy beneath your ribs.
It hadn’t been immediate, of course. The first few days after the night you’d spent with him had been uncertain in a way that left you constantly watching him out of the corner of your eye, half-expecting the peculiar calm that had settled over you to break at any moment.
Instead, your days had eventually evened out into something of a pattern. Not comfortably—never comfortably—but you relish it all the same.
As always, he expects you to be waiting when he returns to the chambers you share; that thought sticks within you like a bur on fabric.
His chambers.
Your chambers.
All one and the same.
He always commands you to wait, to be ready, but not always to kneel. Sometimes he prefers you standing by the hearth or seated quietly at the long table near the windows, but ready all the same, alert to the moment he enters the room, your attention fixed wholly on him.
And when you do… he notices.
Not in a loud way. He’ll never freely give praise or empty reassurances, but you’ve begun to recognize the signs: the faint brush of his fingers through your hair, the way the corner of his mouth curls upward just slightly, a low murmur of good girl breathed so absentmindedly you almost miss it.
Things that belong only to you.
Another swell of voices rises in the corridor outside, louder now, and you recognize his among them instantly.
Ramsay’s voice cuts cleanly through the others, easy and conversational in a way that almost sounds warm to someone who doesn’t know him well. You can picture the expression that must be on his face even without seeing it—the polite smile, the relaxed posture, the careful sort of attentiveness that makes visiting lords feel welcomed rather than studied.
He can be charming when he wishes to be, courteous in a slightly unsettling way that keeps men guessing whether the politeness is genuine or something more dangerous.
“... quite the fortress you’ve made of Winterfell, Lord Bolton,” a heavier voice says somewhere beyond the door, the words clipped and precise.
Ramsay chuckles in response, the very sound of it making you straighten your shoulders just a bit more.
“Oh, it was a fortress long before I arrived,” he replies easily, amusement curling through the words the way a wolf bends easily through brush. “I simply made use of what the Starks left behind.”
The other men laugh.
You imagine them nodding politely, pretending not to notice the subtle thread of mockery woven in his tone.
The voices move closer, the sound of boots scraping along the corridor floor growing louder as they approach the chambers. Your heart begins to beat faster in your chest, though you remain steady—eyes lowered, shoulders squared, knees aching.
Soon.
Ramsay speaks again, his voice lowering slightly in that smooth, dismissive way he uses when concluding a conversation without making it sound like a dismissal at all.
“I’m sure my men will see you comfortably settled, my lord,” he says. “We’ll speak more of it at supper.”
A few more murmured pleasantries follow, accompanied by the rustle of cloaks and the shifting of boots against the stone floor, before the voices begin to drift away down the corridor.
Silence settles, though you know what comes next.
Footsteps approach the door—steady, unhurried, familiar enough that you could recognize them in a heartbeat.
For a brief moment, nothing happens. And then the latch turns.
The door swings inward with a soft creak, letting a draft of colder air spill into the room along with him, carrying with it the faint scents of leather, smoke, and the winter chill that stubbornly clings to Winterfell no matter how many fires burn in its hearths.
Ramsay steps inside and shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt into place with an easy flick of his hand. The pleasant smile he’d worn for his guests is already gone as his eyes find you.
For a moment he simply stands there, studying you in silence as though waiting for you to crack. His icy gaze moves slowly over the careful set of your shoulders, the neat position of your hands behind your back, the lowered tilt of your head as you remain perfectly still beneath his scrutiny.
A little bird trapped so prettily in a cage.
The faintest hint of amusement touches his lips. “Well,” he says at last, quieter now that he’s stripped clean of the easy charm he’d worn only moments before. “Look at you,” he murmurs, taking a slow step toward you, “You’ve learned.”
Ramsay’s gaze lingers on you for another moment, quiet and intent, the way he may study a hound he’s been training—looking not for affection, but for proof that the lessons have begun to take hold.
Slowly, he circles you.
The soft scuff of his boots against the stone floor is the only warning you receive before he passes behind you, and even though every instinct in your body wants to follow his movement with your eyes, you keep your gaze fixed firmly ahead, just as he’s taught you.
You hear the faint rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his cloak somewhere behind you, then, his footsteps again.
For a few seconds more, there’s only silence, until you feel the lightest brush of his fingers against the crown of your head.
It’s brief—so brief that someone less attentive might have mistaken it for accident rather than intention—but the touch is unmistakable all the same, his hand sliding slowly through your hair once before retreating.
Warmth flares in your chest and something inside you preens at the gesture, like a dog offered a scrap of meat after performing a trick. It’s hardly anything and a part of you burns hot with shame at that—at being so touched to receive so little.
You try not to think about things like that. You remember the way Myranda had complained and fretted and wanted and you remember the way her bones had crunched when Ramsay’s hounds had gotten to her.
“Good,” he says after a moment, the word so quiet you almost wonder if he’d truly said it at all. Still, the single syllable settles proudly in your chest, heavier than it has any right to.
The two of you stay still for another instant. You remain kneeling exactly as you were, your fingers still laced neatly behind your back, waiting in the way you’ve grown frighteningly accustomed to doing.
Ramsay watches you for a moment longer, as if silently testing your resolve.
Then, he huffs a faint breath through his nose, the sound almost amused.
“You can stand,” he says lightly, as if you were an idiot for not doing so already. “You’ll wear holes through my rugs if you insist on kneeling on them all evening.”
Relief flickers quietly through your chest and you unfold yourself slowly, rising to your feet and brushing your palms briefly against your skirts as you steady the faint tingling that prickles through your calves.
Ramsay’s already moved by the time you turn to face him, leaning easily against the table by the windows. The last of the evening light slants across the stone behind him as he pulls off his gloves and sets them aside. His movements are unhurried, practiced—first the gloves, then the slight tug at the belt fastened around his waist, loosening it after the long evening of hosting.
For a moment, you simply watch him while shifting your weight from foot to foot, not quite sure where he wants you—he’d only told you to stand. Glancing around the room, your mind spins and before you can stop yourself, a question slips easily from your mouth.
“Who was the lord you were speaking with?”
The words are plain enough, carried by the simple curiosity that had sparked them. After all, you’d been able to hear the conversation in the corridor clearly enough, and Ramsay had sounded almost… welcoming, in that easy way he adopts when entertaining guests.
The room falls silent and when you lift your eyes to glance at him, his eyes have narrowed. You avert your gaze quickly again, heart pattering in your chest.
A misstep. You should’ve known better.
You hear the soft scrape of his boot against the floor as he pushes himself away from the table. “Who?” he asks, voice suspiciously light.
“The… the one you walked with just now,” you reply, keeping your gaze lowered. “The one who said Winterfell was a fine fortress.”
His footsteps approach, unhurried but maddeningly deliberate, each one carrying him slowly across the room until he stops in front of you. You lift your gaze once more, only to be met with his chilling stare.
“And why,” he asks mildly, “are you interested in that?”
You tilt your head just slightly in acknowledgement of the question, brows furrowing. “I only wondered,” you say. “You sounded… pleased with him.”
There’s a pause then, long enough for something uncomfortable to stir beneath your ribs as Ramsay studies you before stepping closer still. He lifts a hand and presses two fingers beneath your chin, angling your face slightly upward toward his as the faintest hint of amusement passes through his gaze.
“That little brain of yours has been busy again, hasn’t it?” he says softly.
Heat creeps faintly into your cheeks and you swallow against the sudden dryness at the back of your throat. “I was only asking,” you manage, hardly a whisper.
“Yes,” Ramsay agrees thoughtfully, thumb shifting slightly against your chin as though testing the shape of the words against you. “Silly thing.”
He looks at you for a second, blue eyes drifting slowly over your expression as though weighing something. Then he exhales a quiet breath that might almost pass for a sigh.
“You ask questions,” he continues in that same mild, almost bored, tone, “as though the answers would mean something to you.”
His fingers tap lightly beneath your chin, a slow grin appearing on his lips. “They wouldn’t.” The words are spoken without his usual sharpness, and yet they sting as they settle within you.
“Politics,” he adds, straightening slightly as he releases your chin. “Alliances, dull things… not the sort of matters that concern a mere puppy, are they?”
You lower your gaze again immediately, breath stuttering in your throat. “No, sir.”
He hums at that, apparently pleased.
Then, his hand drifts back into your hair once more, fingers sliding through the strands as though idly testing their texture. His touch lingers this time, slower and more thoughtful than before.
“Strange thing,” he murmurs after a moment, talking to himself more than to you, though that doesn’t stop you from replying.
“What is?”
“Your coloring,” he replies absently, pensive in a way that sends a faint prickle down your spine. “Reminds me of someone.”
Before you can say anything else, the moment evidently passes and he turns from you again, already moving back toward the table as though the thought has lost its novelty.
“Kneel,” he commands casually, draping his cloak over a chair before deftly undoing the laces of his trousers. “Mouth open; you’ll make yourself useful to me before supper.”
The candles have burned low by the time the two of you finally fall still. Their light flickers weakly along the stone walls of the chamber, softened by the heavy curtains drawn across the narrow windows. The air in the room has grown cozier with the lingering heat of the fire and the closeness of two bodies that had only moments before been tangled together in the furs.
Your breathing has only just begun to steady.
You lie half-curled against Ramsay’s side where the two of you had collapsed across the bed, your cheek pressed lightly against the hollow beneath his collarbone while the slow rise and fall of his chest moves beneath you. His skin is still warm with exertion and for a moment, neither of you speaks.
Outside, somewhere deep within the old castle, a door slams faintly, though Ramsay doesn’t move as the sound fades—disappearing just as quickly as it came.
One of his arms lies stretched lazily over your shoulders in the absent way he’s taken to doing once he’s finished with you. It isn’t quite an embrace—he’s never held you tightly enough to call it that—but it still sends a slight thrill through you.
Yet another thing that’s only yours.
“Do you know what tomorrow is?” The question makes you jolt a bit against his side; he’d been so quiet you were certain he was asleep.
“What?” you ask, lifting your head from his chest to look at him in the dim light.
His gaze remains fixed on the wood-beam ceiling above the bed, pale eyes half-lidded as if you were discussing nothing more than the weather. The only tell that his words mean something deeper is a barely there smirk on his lips.
“What day,” he repeats, slowly—the way one would to an unruly child, “tomorrow will be.”
“I… don’t know,” you murmur uncertainly, brows knitting together while you think over what he could possibly mean, “the… third day since the lord from the Vale arrived?”
Ramsay huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t mean that,” he says, eyes finally shifting toward you.
Your confusion only deepens; there’s something… off in his expression—not irritation, not even really amusement, but a thoughtful sort of attention. It reminds you of the way he watches his hounds while they train or his soldiers while they march.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, you see,” he says after a moment, studying you now with open interest. He lets out a slow breath before continuing. “Bodies are predictable things, once you learn their rhythms,” he lifts one hand and drags his fingers idly along the length of your arm where it rests against his chest, the touch absentminded, “yours is no different.”
His words are spoken plainly enough, but they still leave you feeling exposed as a faint heat creeps across the back of your neck causing the hairs there to prickle.
“And you’ve been… watching me,” you murmur, quiet and unsure.
“Oh, yes, and I’ve noticed things.”
“Things?”
“Mm,” he hums, fingers moving slowly along your skin, following the line of your elbow before drifting back to your wrist. “You become restless at certain times, more so than usual,” heat warms your face, “and you’re quicker to react.”
“To what?”
“To me,” his mouth curves faintly, like he’s savoring the thought. “You respond faster,” he goes on with such casual certainty that it makes your stomach tighten, “your breathing changes sooner, your skin flushes more easily…”
“You’ve… noticed all of this?” you ask.
“Of course I have,” his reply comes easily, like there had never been any possibility that he wouldn’t.
Your chest squeezes with something you can’t quite name—surprise, perhaps, but then that stupid flicker of pride that comes whenever you know you have his attention.
“You’re more attentive on those nights,” he continues on, “restless, eager…”
That last word lingers slightly in the air between you, making your gaze drop again.
“And then,” Ramsay adds, “a week or so later, you bleed.” He says it the same way he’d said everything else—plain and calm—but there’s the faintest thread of dissatisfaction woven somewhere beneath the words.
“I hadn’t realized you were… paying attention,” you finally murmur quietly, making him huff out another laugh as if it were the most idiotic thing you could’ve said.
“I pay attention to everything.”
The words settle into the steady rhythm of the room so solidly they may as well carry weight. You lie there for a long moment, turning them over in your mind again and again like a smooth river stone. A strange feeling stirs within you, not unease exactly but something close to it, like he’s in on some joke you know nothing about.
Just as quickly as that thought settles within you, though, it’s gone—swept away before you can linger on it too long and replaced with that faint, foolish warmth his attention always brings.
He never seemed to notice anything about the others.
“But, then,” you start after a moment, brows furrowing again, “what’s tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, the faint grin on his lips growing wolfish, “we can start trying to plant my heir in you.”
He says it so naturally, like it’s the most obvious next step to things, and yet it feels as if a bolt of lightning has gone through you. For a moment, all you can do is blink dumbly, speech evading you.
“Wha—”
“Hush,” he cuts you off, pointedly settling back against the pillows and closing his eyes while you balk at him, “sleep.”
You don’t speak again, knowing that doing so would only lead to trouble. Eventually, his breathing grows steady and deeper, the rise and fall of his chest becoming heavier as sleep claims him.
You remain awake, thoughts buzzing like a colony of bees has become trapped in your skull.
His heir. You. You carrying his heir. You.
Like clockwork, that dopey, stupid part of you preens. You think of all the times he forced Myranda to down cupfuls of moon tea and that foolish little spark in your chest dances.
Lifting your head just enough to let your gaze sweep over his face, you study him in the low light, taking in the way sleep smoothes him out—makes him softer. He looks peaceful like this—almost kind—and boyish in a way that makes you remember how he’d been as a child, hardly tall enough to peer out the high slit windows in the Dreadfort.
Perhaps a child would soften him, you think as you lie your head back against his chest. You don’t truly believe it—you’re not daft—but, still, it’s a pretty thought, like a window to someone else’s life.
You remain awake a bit longer—long enough to listen to the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth and the distant hush of wind against the castle walls, long enough for the warmth of the bed and the steady thump of his heart to begin pulling your own eyelids closed.
Eventually, sleep claims you too.
Morning eventually comes as thin grey light slips in between the gaps in the thick curtains and spreads across the chamber walls until the darkness begins to loosen its grip on the room. Outside there’s the faint bustle of the day getting started—servants waking and clattering about, dogs barking, murmurs that carry on the wind.
You wake gradually, content for a moment with the warmth still surrounding you. Beneath your cheek, his chest still rises and falls in a slow, easy rhythm. For a moment, you stay exactly as you are, savoring it.
Then, something changes—something feels… wrong. It’s not pain exactly, but there’s a familiar heaviness low in your belly that pulls you from the last vestiges of sleep. You frown slightly as you shift against the bed, the movement slow and careful enough that you don’t disturb the arm Ramsay has thrown lazily across your waist as you ease yourself away from him and raise the fur blanket.
That’s when you see it: a small smear of dark red against the pale linen beneath you, half-hidden in the folds of the blankets.
Your breath catches and for a moment, you simply stare at it as if your mind refuses to fully understand it.
No, the word flickers through your thoughts almost immediately as the back of your throat tightens, no, no, no.
You move instinctively, brushing a hand against the inside of your thigh and when your fingers come away stained, it feels as if the world tilts beneath you.
Blood.
Glancing quickly toward Ramsay, a quiet breath leaves you when you see he hasn’t moved and yet dread still settles inside you like a stone as the backs of your eyes sting with unshed tears. He’d been so certain last night, speaking as if everything were already decided, and instead—
Your gaze flits helplessly back to the stain as panic begins to creep in at the edges of your thoughts.
Moving quickly, you try your best to remain quiet as you carefully extricate yourself from the bed. The furs rustle softly as you push them aside and slide from the bed, wincing slightly when your feet meet the chilly stone floor, the sensation making goosebumps bloom over your bare skin.
Your heart thuds loudly in your chest as you cross quickly toward the modest dressing table against the wall and grab a spare cloth lying there. The water in the shallow wash basin is cold when you dip the cloth into it, but you hardly notice as you wring it out with shaking hands.
I can fix it, you think as you scurry back over to the bed, steps light against the floor, I have to.
Kneeling by the bed, you check that he’s still asleep one last time before you begin scrubbing at the stain as carefully as you can manage, pressing the damp cloth against the linen again and again in a desperate attempt to wipe it away. The insides of your thighs are sticky but you pay it no mind—that can be remedied much easier than this.
The water really only manages to smear it and your throat clicks as you swallow thickly and press the cloth down harder, scrubbing at the sheets until your wrist aches from the effort of it.
It’ll come out, it has to, you think, teeth digging into your bottom lip, because if he sees—
A small sound escapes you before you can stop it, something between a sniffle and a whine. You wipe quickly at your cheek with the back of your hand before scrubbing at the stain again, though it only seems to spread further.
And then the blankets move and you freeze, hardly even daring to breathe while you stare down at the linen.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low and rough with sleep. He’s calm and that, somehow, makes things worse.
Finally, you turn your gaze to him. Ramsay has pushed himself up onto one elbow, his own gaze fixed squarely on the dark red stain bleeding pink at the edges.
Something cold curls in your stomach and you scramble to answer, letting the words tumble from you before they’re even fully formed. “I—I was cleaning it,” you say hurriedly, voice clipped due to the tightness at the back of your throat, “I thought if I—if I washed it quickly—”
Your voice falters and you glance at the stain before looking back at him, surprised not to see anger on his face but something thoughtful, the same sort of distant calculation he’d worn last night.
“You’ve made a mess of my bed,” he says finally.
Swallowing thickly as you desperately try to blink away tears, still kneeling by the bed and uselessly clutching the damp cloth in your hand while your gaze drops back to the linens.
“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, whining like a misbehaving dog with its tail between its legs, “I didn’t realize—I thought if I cleaned it before you woke—”
“That you could hide it from me, is that it?”
“N-No! No, of course not, I…” your voice trails away as he shifts on the bed, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress before standing with a quiet finality. You flinch when he steps closer, lazily walking around to the side of the bed you’re at.
He stops behind you and leans forward and your shoulders stiffen as he reaches down and presses two fingers against the ruined linen, slow and deliberate. He lifts his hand again and studies the stain left on his skin, humming softly—considering something.
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make a mess,” you murmur, sniffling.
“No, I imagine you didn’t,” he says lowly, still towering over you, “most pets don’t.”
Your breath catches in your throat at that before finally tumbling from your lips in the form of a quiet sob.
You know what’s coming.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment as he moves around you again, striding to the hearth at the end of the bed. You can see him from the corner of your eye as you stay kneeling, pressing the cool cloth against the top of one thigh while your heart thumps noisily in your chest.
“You’ve made a mess of my bed,” he murmurs, stopping by the fire and grabbing an instrument you’re all too familiar with: a reedy thin wooden cane, the very same sort he uses to train his dogs, “you’ve made a mess of my plans.”
Another sob spills from you before you can do anything to stop it, making your chest ache. Whining, you twist the cloth in your hold as your hands shake. “I—I didn’t think—” you begin, hardly a whisper.
“Yes,” he interrupts, walking back over to the bed, cane in one hand, “you have a habit of that, don’t you?” The words aren’t raised, he doesn’t yell—doesn’t need to. You stare down at the floor all the same, suddenly aware of how small the room feels.
“I-I’m sorry—”
“It seems,” he starts again, studying the thin rod in his hands, “my pet still needs more training.”
A shudder goes through you at that and another sob wracks your body as a whine bubbles from your lips, your breaths coming quicker. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” he says lightly, cocking his head to the side while he peers down at you, “a hound doesn’t mean to soil its kennel, it simply hasn’t learned the discipline required to hold itself properly.”
Your chest tightens and your bottom lip wobbles while you suck in another shaky breath, vision swimming with tears. You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out, the words sticking in your chest.
Perhaps that’s for the best.
Ramsay’s gaze lingers on you for another moment before he straightens slightly, rolling his shoulders, though his jaw remains clenched. “Stand up,” the command is a gentle one—for him—but you obey all the same and rise immediately, still clawing at the cloth.
He smiles faintly at how quickly you move—how obediently. You hate your heart for the way it flutters.
“Come,” he says, gesturing to the foot of the bed.
The stone floor is still cool beneath your feet as you pad over, each step making you more and more aware of the mess between your legs.
“Down,” he orders, pale eyes gleaming with a cruel spark. He knows that you understand what he wants, what’s coming.
With a quiet whimper, you nod and finally drop the cloth to the floor before climbing onto the bed. Your knees dig into the mattress as you bend forward, backside in the air just like he likes it. The movements come easily now, familiar from the many evenings you’ve spent just like this.
You try very hard to ignore how the mess between your legs cools, growing tacky on your inner thighs.
Behind you, Ramsay lets out a quiet hum—almost one of approval.
“Lucky for you, pet,” he says slowly and you can picture the merciless smirk on his lips as you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for what’s to come, “a lack of discipline is something that can be corrected.”
He doesn’t strike you immediately—you know he won’t. Instead, the room falls into an odd, suspended quiet while he studies you, bent in just the way he prefers. For a moment, the only sounds in the chamber are the quiet crackles of the dying fire and the faint rasp of your own breathing.
His gaze is palpable on your skin—travelling down the length of your back, lingering where your shoulders tremble before drifting lower still, toward the curve of your hips and the bloody mess at the apex of your thighs.
“Good dog,” he finally hums, the words coming out breathy like an almost laugh. Your pulse stutters as a weak flicker of relief flows through you, stupid as it is.
You did it right, at least this much.
He shifts behind you, coming to your side before threading his fingers through the hair at the back of your head—something between a tug and a gentle caress.
“You know what this is for, don’t you?” he asks, softer than you expect.
Your fingers curl into the blankets beneath you as you nod quickly, forehead pressing slightly deeper into the bedding like you can hide from it.
The cane taps once, lightly, against the back of your thigh—not a true strike, just a reminder.
“Yes.”
“Yes…?”
“Yes, master,” you sniffle, nodding again for good measure, “it—it’s for making a mess.”
“And?” he prompts, smirking as you squirm.
Your brows furrow while you wrack your brain, searching for what he may mean. The pause stretches long enough to make panic begin prickling at the edges of your thoughts.
“For… ruining your bed?” you try again, whimpering when you hear him exhale beside you like a put-upon septa cajoling an unruly child.
“For failing to anticipate your own body,” he corrects calmly, making your chest squeeze.
“Yes, master,” you murmur quickly, the words muffled against the bedding.
The cane drifts slowly along your skin then, the thin rod tracing the curve of your backside with absent interest before lifting again, just to make you wince.
“Training requires rules,” Ramsay continues, “otherwise, the lesson never settles, does it?”
“No, master,” you say, shaking your head immediately.
“You’ll count them, out loud,” he instructs, waiting until you nod again to keep going, “and if you lose count, we’ll begin again.”
A soft whimper escapes before you can stop it when he taps the cane against you again, lightly swatting at your thigh when you squirm. You can hear him behind you, quietly moving about while he takes you in. Every so often, you can hear the faint swish of the cane cutting through the air as if he’s testing it out; the sound sends a cold shiver down your spine.
The silence stretches between you, becoming so thin that you feel as though you may break in two.
Then the cane whistles through the air and lands sharply across the back of your thighs, the crack of it ringing loudly in the quiet room. The sting of it immediately heats your skin, blooming in a bright line that tears a choked sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it.
“One,” you gasp quickly, the word tumbling from you on a shaky breath while your fingers clutch at the blankets beneath you in a desperate bid to ground yourself.
The cane lifts again and comes down with a sharp crack.
The second strike lands lower and burns all the more now that the nerves are awake; your back jerks at the impact, arching automatically.
“Two,” you grit, the word forming between clenched teeth.
Behind you, Ramsay doesn’t say anything—merely chuckling before raising the cane and bringing it down against your skin again.
“Three,” you whisper, pain prickling across your upper thighs, just below the curve of your bum.
He pauses for a moment, studying how you tremble against the bedding, the way your hips sway of their own accord. For a fleeting second, his gaze stops at your cunt, pale eyes taking in the way blood smears over the skin there and wets your thighs.
“Already squirming,” he remarks, smirking as he gets back to the task at hand and raises the cane again.
The fourth strike lands, then the fifth not long after it. The pain builds steadily now as he finds new places to strike along your hips and thighs, drawing it out as he pauses every so often to simply run the instrument over your skin.
You cling to the numbers like lifelines, choking out each one dutifully. Four and five spill from you, muffled against the furs, and then the strikes come faster—six, seven, and eight all hitting in quick succession. Each one leaves another burning line behind, the heat spreading beneath your skin until the sensation becomes a blur of throbbing warmth.
And yet still, still, your mind betrays you, even now.
With every strike, you remember the way he would keep Violet locked away with the hounds, forcing her out into the bitter cold.
Nine. Suddenly, the pain doesn’t seem so bad.
Another crack and you recall the sores Kyra had around her ankles when he would chain her up and offer her to his men like ale.
Ten. He doesn’t do that to you—he wouldn’t.
You cry out again and think of the way he used to chase Tansy through the woods, threatening to send his dogs after her until one day she bored him enough that he made good on his word.
Eleven. You’re different, though.
Tears soak the bedding beneath your cheek and you remember the bruises Myranda had around the pretty column of her neck, how he used to choke her again and again and again until her body threatened to give out.
Twelve. But for you, there’s only this—only numbers passing by in a blur of swishes and cracks and stripes of pain that steal the breath from your lungs.
His pace changes again, the strikes coming harder now as he directs his attention to the curve of your backside. Your voice grows thinner with each number, the words trembling as you force them out while the pain spreads deeper, settling into your muscles in throbbing waves.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.
By the time the cane lifts again, your entire lower body feels hot and alive, every nerve awake and howling.
Eighteen. He scolds you for being too loud.
Nineteen. Too soft.
You feel the shift of air as the cane rises one last time and for a heartbeat, the entire world seems to narrow down to the space between your shoulders and the bedding beneath your cheek.
And then it lands, a sharp strike that echoes through the chamber as pain flares across your skin.
“Twe—Twenty,” you manage, sucking in a desperate lungful of air.
Behind you, there’s a small thud against the floor as Ramsay drops the cane, a dangerous pride welling in his eyes as he takes you in. Your skin burns where the cane had struck, welts already rising in angry red lines across the backs of your thighs, along your hips, and over your backside.
Stepping beside you, he reaches down and lets his fingers skim over you—slow down the line of your spine before they press against one of the swollen spots as though he’s testing the shape of the marks beneath his hand.
“Mm, you always hurt so prettily,” his voice is quieter now than it was, thoughtful in a way that makes you shudder.
His hand drifts lower, meandering over a few of the welts that had split open slightly. He smirks at the way you flinch, savoring the stain of color over your skin until his attention is pulled to your center yet again.
You squirm, muscles taut as you try to stop yourself, and whine softly at the feel of a rivulet of blood streaking down your inner thigh and soaking into the furs beneath your knee, staining them crimson.
He watches it happen, eyes wide while he silently admires the slick of fluid on your skin, the way it moves and glistens in the low light. His fingers drift lower again, moving over your inner thighs until they reach the slick between your legs.
The touch is light, but you still whine at the contact and your breath catches sharply in your throat as you fight to not lean back into it as shame burns low within you.
“Messy little thing, aren’t you?” he teases, unceremoniously slipping two fingers inside you without warning. He groans at the feel of your tight heat around him, the passage made all the more easy by the blood coating his fingers.
A sharp gasp tumbles from your lips at the sudden sensation, muffled by the furs. Automatically, you press back into him and relish the deep groan that rumbles from his chest.
Behind you, his gaze is fixed solely on the way his fingers roughly thrust into you. His jaw clenches at the bright red stain you leave on his pale skin and the mindless noises that each touch seems to elicit. There’s something about you like this—vulnerable, shining with the evidence of what could be a fresh kill—that causes a dangerous thrill to shoot down his spine.
“Wha—” you huff softly in surprise when he suddenly pulls his fingers free. Your eyes go wide when you turn your head just in time to see him licking his fingers clean, the sight making your head spin. For a moment he looks less like a man than a wolf with blood on its muzzle.
“Such a troublesome creature,” he rasps, paying little mind to the red still staining his fingers as he tugs hastily at the ties of his breeches, the hard line of his arousal apparent beneath the fabric. “And yet you may prove very useful.”
He doesn’t give you much time to mull over his words before he grabs harshly at your hips and tugs you further back, until your feet dangle over the edge of the bed, knees still pressed to the blankets.
The motion pulls a pained hiss from you as his fingers dig into the welts striped across your skin, making him chuckle as he swipes the head of his cock through your slick folds. One of his hands stays pressed firmly against the small of your back, keeping you arched low against the bed, just like he likes.
“You remember what I told you last night,” he murmurs, almost conversational even as he ruts himself against you and groans at the sight of blood on his skin, “or has that silly little head of yours forgotten already?”
“I—fuck—I remember,” you manage to gasp, grabbing at the bedding when he presses the hard line of himself against the pearl at the apex of your center. The motion pulls high-pitched, pleased sounds from your throat and heat creeps across your face as you recall the time he’d teased you for whining like a puppy.
He hums smugly behind you and positions himself at your entrance, groaning at the way you flutter around him as he presses inside, filling you in one, relentless thrust. The stretch of it steals the breath from your lungs and you whine as his hips press against the criss-crossed wounds on your backside, your traitorous cunt squeezing him all the more for it.
“You’ll give me an heir,” he grunts, stopping long enough to admire the angry red lines, groaning at the way pinpricks of blood well at a few particularly harsh ones. “I’ll make certain of it.”
Ramsay hardly gives you a second to breathe before he starts moving, pulling himself from your blood-slick heat before roughly pushing back in. The pattern he builds is a harsh one, as it always is—he’s never taken you sweetly, never held you with any kind of reverence.
Yet you fall to pieces all the same.
His length stretches you enough on each thrust to have you gasping and quivering against the bed as he prods perfectly against that sensitive spot within you, making you see stars after only a few precious seconds.
“Ah, ah, ah,” you whimper with each push and pull of him inside you, the muscles along your back tensing in time with each smack of his hips against you. Your eyes squeeze shut as your fingers dig into the bedding, toes curling.
“You make the sweetest noises when you forget yourself,” he growls, huffing out a breathy laugh. His thrusts stall for a second as he leans over you, biting at your shoulder just hard enough to make you cry out, though that wicked part of you preens at the praise.
Suddenly, he wraps an arm around your chest and hauls you back against him, forcing your back to arch almost painfully as he starts moving again, panting against your neck. Your hands scramble for purchase against him and you grab at his forearm, mewling at the way it flexes beneath your touch.
Lips parting, you can hardly get a sound out as each rough thrust makes the air catch in your throat. You lean back against him heavily, muscles slack while he takes you. For a long moment, your chambers are filled with nothing but the sounds of your shared breaths, his occasional grunt or growl, and the shameful slick sounds of him moving inside you, blood smattering stickily against your inner thighs.
“You belong right here,” he murmurs darkly, trailing the arm across your chest up and up until he can wrap a hand around the column of your throat, the other one still planted firmly on your hip. “Such an eager thing,” he continues under his breath, whispering menacingly in your ear while he squeezes at the sides of your neck just enough to make your head spin, to make it all the more challenging to draw in a decent lungful of air.
Already strung out, your walls clutch greedily at him while you nod dumbly, eyes rolling back in your head. “Y-Yes—” you manage to eke out before inhaling shakily as he bites at your shoulder again, marking you the way he has so many times before.
“Thinking too hard again, are you?” he chuckles, leaving no room for warning before smacking a hand against your backside and grinning when you tense and jolt in his hold, crying out from the pain of it. “Careful,” he presses harder at the sides of your neck, leaving your breaths nothing more than pitiful rasps, “puppies that object too loudly get corrected.”
Nodding as best you can, you swallow thickly and whimper when he sniggers. A soft mewl spills from your lips when he lets up for a second, the rush of unobstructed air sending a bolt of pleasure down your spine. Sparks dance in the corners of your vision and your cunt clamps almost violently around him, though you know better than to let go without permission.
He groans at the way you attempt to milk him, thrusts faltering for a second before he resumes his punishing pace.
“You want my heir, puppy?” he teases, smirking at the way you nearly fall apart when he gives a particularly harsh thrust, “Tell me.”
He releases your throat then and you cough, sucking in air while you get your bearings. Already, you’re nodding, hopeless and sniffling.
“Please,” you whimper, crying out brokenly when he palms roughly at your breasts and pinches meanly at your nipples with calloused fingers, “I’ll take it—whatever you want.”
Pathetic, the coherent part of yourself thinks, though the shame of it only makes the fire in your belly burn brighter.
His thrusts speed up at that, making you gasp as he growls, evidently pleased. “Begging like a proper pet,” he pants, grabbing at your neck again—not squeezing, merely holding you tightly against him. “Not to worry,” he grunts, planting his feet more solidly against the stones and adjusting his grip on your hip, fingers digging into your flesh tightly enough that you’re sure he’ll leave bruises, “I’ll see that you’re put to proper use.”
He moves against you with abandon, then—pressing inside of you deeply enough to make you whine. Your cunt clenches around him eagerly while you hang on the precipice, squeezing your eyes closed in an attempt to hold off until he tells you—
“Come,” he commands, and you’re powerless to disobey.
Your head tips back against his shoulder while you tremble in his hold, pleasure lighting up every part of you as he moves inside of you perfectly. Breathy, keening cries spill from your lips and a tear slips from the corner of your eye as wave upon wave of release floods over your body, making your vision white out.
“That’s it—fuck,” he groans, pressing himself tightly to you as he stills, spend flooding into you in a hot rush, warming you from the inside. He shudders against your back, tensing and growling like a kenneled beast. “Take it,” he says lowly, the hand on your hip coming to rest low on your belly instead, “You’ll carry my son before long.”
His grip lingers on your stomach for another moment, palm pressing lightly against the soft curve there as though he can already imagine the weight that might grow beneath it.
For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Your body still trembles faintly from the aftermath of release, muscles slack where you sag against him while your lungs drag in uneven breaths. Behind you, Ramsay exhales slowly through his nose, the tension gradually easing from his shoulders now that his purpose has been satisfied.
Then he shifts and the movement pulls a quiet sound from the back of your throat when he finally withdraws, the sudden emptiness leaving you feeling strangely hollow. A warm slick follows the motion of his hips as he pulls away, his hand sliding lazily from your stomach back to your hip to steady you when you wobble weakly on your knees.
He must care, the voice inside you whispers, otherwise he’d surely let you fall.
He studies the sight of you like that—spent, trembling, streaked with the evidence of him—and his mouth curls slightly. “You look good like this,” he murmurs under his breath, fingers brushing absently along the inside of your thigh where the mixture of blood and spend has begun to cool against your skin. He watches it with open fascination for a moment, thumb dragging slowly through the smear. “Full of me, leaking…”
You shiver at his words, the corners of your lips turning up into a faint smile despite yourself as you lower back down against the bedding, pressing your cheek against the furs once more.
“Mm,” Ramsay hums quietly, sounding all too pleased with himself. His gaze lingers a moment longer on the space between your legs before he finally steps back. “Stay,” he says, as though the thought of moving had ever even crossed your mind.
Your fingers tighten weakly in the blankets anyway, body still buzzing while his words settle over you. Somewhere deep inside your chest, that same foolish warmth begins to flicker again—even now, even like this.
You don’t pay much mind to him moving about the room while you come back to yourself, though when something cool and damp suddenly presses against your thigh, you jolt and let out a small yelp before his hand presses against your back once more, holding you in place.
“Hold still,” he grumbles, shooting you a warning look before wiping a cloth slowly along the streaks of blood along your thighs.
You do, heart fluttering stupidly in your chest while he cleans you. The cloth drifts methodically over you, running between your legs while he removes the worst of the mess with careful strokes, though you still flinch. He works slowly—efficient, almost gentle, though the attention carries none of the softness the gesture might suggest.
Ramsay tosses the cloth aside once he’s satisfied, looking you over briefly as though inspecting his work.
“You’ll stay in bed,” he says, nudging your hip and watching while you quickly comply—rolling onto your side with a slight wince. Your limbs feel heavy in the aftermath of everything, still aching horribly where the cane had struck earlier.
For a moment he studies you there—hair spilled across the bedding, skin flushed, thighs and backside marked with angry red welts that will certainly bruise by the evening.
“Careful with yourself today,” he says suddenly, making your eyes flick to him in surprise. He reaches for his discarded shirt where it lies draped across the chair near the hearth, pulling it over his head with a quick motion before fastening the laces with practiced ease. “If you’re going to be carrying my son soon enough,” he continues casually, as though the matter were already settled, “there’s no use damaging you before we’ve even properly started.”
His words settle over you strangely, satisfaction flaring within you despite the bluntness of them. He’s thinking of you still, even now.
He’s letting you have things they never got.
Ramsay ties up his trousers again, pulls his belt tight around his waist, and glances back toward the bed, sharp eyes lingering briefly on the slow rise and fall of your chest. The corner of his mouth curls faintly before he turns away again, readying himself for the day.
You watch while he moves about the chamber, orange rays of sunlight peeking in through the thin slit windows. He’s quiet, almost thoughtful, though still efficient and purposeful, never one to linger.
He finishes fastening the last buckle of his belt, attention already drifting elsewhere, and for a moment, it seems as if he intends to leave without another word when he suddenly crosses the room toward the door, fingers resting loosely against the pommel of the dagger at his hip out of habit.
But he pauses.
You notice the hesitation immediately, your gaze lifting from the tangled furs as he turns back toward the bed.
He crosses the chamber again without hurry and stops beside where you lie half-curled beneath the blankets before threading his fingers through your hair. The motion is uncharacteristically careful as his fingers slip through the strands, brushing a few away from your cheek and tucking them behind your ear.
You might’ve mistaken it for tenderness, and for a fleeting second it makes something stir within your chest. When you glance up at him, though, the expression in his eyes remains the same—cool, distant, already fixed somewhere beyond the walls of this room.
He straightens and grabs his gloves from the long table pressed against the wall before drawing them over his fingers as though returning his attention to something far more important than where you lie on the bed behind him.
“No one ever seems to ask too many questions,” he remarks, adjusting the cuff of one glove with a small tug, “once there’s an heir in the cradle.”
The comment is delivered in such a casual way that it almost slips past you entirely, though your brows furrow as your eyes follow him, watching as he paces by the bedside. You try desperately to piece together what he means, though the sense of it remains just beyond your grasp.
Always one step behind.
“A lord with a child is a very respectable thing, you see,” he adds, glancing briefly toward you. “People tend to like respectable things. It makes them comfortable.”
He smiles faintly as he finishes dressing, grabbing his thick woolen cloak from where he’d left it the night before.
“It’s remarkable, really,” he continues, laughing faintly to himself and seeming far too satisfied for the words to be as casual as his tone suggests, “how quickly people stop looking too closely once there’s a babe for them to admire.”
A small knot of confusion sits heavily in your chest, but before you can find the words to ask what he means, he’s already turned toward the door again.
“Lord Baelish will be waiting,” he says lightly, smirking as he reaches for the handle again, “I imagine he’ll be pleased to learn how quickly you agreed to be of some aid.”
The name tugs faintly at your memory and you blink a few times, mind forming a picture of some man you’ve seen before. It finally comes to you after a moment—the soft-voiced lord who had arrived weeks ago with the Stark girl, smiling easily at everyone he passed through the halls of Winterfell.
The same lord Ramsay had been speaking to days ago, and again and again since he’d arrived—their conversations always seeming to take place tucked into the shadows, well away from anyone who may overhear.
Before you can say anything, can ask any of the questions quickly forming in your mind, Ramsay tugs the door open and disappears into the corridor beyond, the echo of his boots fading quickly down the stony passage.
Silence settles heavily over the room once he’s gone, leaving you only with your thoughts.
You remain where you are for several moments afterward, fingers still curling and uncurling against the blankets while you stare up at the wooden beams crossing the ceiling.
Your skin aches from the cane. Your muscles still feel sore and stiff from last night, from this morning.
Yet beneath it all, saccharine and unsettling and difficult to name, one thought remains stubbornly stuck in your periphery—you may be carrying his son soon.
The idea takes root somewhere deep in your chest, filling it with a fragile, idiotic hope that refuses to fade. Because if you give him a son—if you do exactly as he wants—then perhaps you will finally be something more than a pet, more than something to warm his bed.
Perhaps even something he keeps.
thank you for reading! reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated!
warning: +18 | obsessive behaviour | cheating | smut | p in v | unhappy marriage | possessiveness | sadistic undertones | power imbalance | unhealty attachment | dubcon | dom aerion | he'd rather ruin you than lose you.
summary: aerion never wanted anyone the way he wanted you, his own father’s wife; the woman who taunted him, who was kin to him, who he desired for himself and would have.
author's note: this is my debut writing for tumblr and I should get no sleep were I not to write of that comely-faced wretch.
cr: gif and divider ᦸ @creloises / @honeyluvsw ٫٫ my cat also accept tiny treats. ٫٫ words count: ~9,5k
The boar upon your plate was cooking.
You had learned, in the first months of your marriage, that the tables of a feast were no place for eating. They were always places of battle, like any court, only armed with silver and Myrish glass. Your seat lay to Maekar’s left — not to his right, that was the place of honour, reserved for men and for the king — and it allowed you to see the full length of the hall without turning your neck.
It also allowed you to see Aerion.
He sat to the right of no one. Aerion claimed his place by birth, five seats below the king and one beneath his father, leaning upon the table as though the centre of all things were himself. Long fingers, stained with pomegranate juice, twirled an empty goblet. When he was not drinking, the ruby seeds cracked between his molars, the only sound breaking the silence of all.
You tried to look at your plate, but he waited. Waited until your eyes rose out of duty.
Then he smiled.
"Is it not so?" he asked, pointing the dagger in your direction.
You blinked.
"How so?"
A low laugh came from Aegon, your small stepson, exchanging a glance with Valarr. Beside you, Maekar did not even lift his head from his wine cup.
"Boys!" Daeron II chastised without raising his voice. The king turned to you, his eyes calm, the kindness almost weary. "Aerion says that my brother and you intend to have a child soon."
Then he spoke again.
"And I said…" Aerion tilted his head, the smile still clinging to the corner of his mouth. "that you seemed eager for it."
His gaze never wavered from yours, but his fingers crushed another pomegranate.
"Was it not always what you desired?"
Fear found you faster than you wished, for Aerion knew. He knew it was not Maekar’s desire to have another child; he knew that the desire he spoke of bore not the face of your husband.
Maekar’s fingertips clenched the goblet.
"Aerion!" he exclaimed. His hand upon the table curled into a fist.
In an effort to calm your husband, your fingers found his knuckles, seeking to keep him close, so that no further quarrel might arise with Aerion.
Maekar withdrew his hand, not abruptly, for he wished not to betray to his brother — who had invited you to the dinner in good grace — any sign of anger. You drew your hand to your lap and felt the embroidery of your skirt beneath your nails.
Aerion ignored him with the same ease with which he disregarded all that came from his father.
"He is right, my love," you spoke at last. Then you turned to Aerion. The smile you offered was yours, wholly yours, as sweet as gall. "A child such as Aerion would make me the happiest woman in this world."
The table fell utterly silent. Even the serving men froze midair, the wine jugs suspended above the goblets.
You lifted your chin and met Aerion’s eyes. Too bright. He tilted his head, curious, chewing more forcefully as his gaze descended from your lips to your bosom.
Then he ceased chewing.
His fingers, so occupied with splitting the pomegranate, stilled upon the embroidered cloth. The fruit dripped between his joints, and he did not wipe it away.
"As I…" he repeated, savouring the words. "Is what you say."
Maekar rose, and the chair groaned. Rhae and Daella, the girls, lowered their gaze to their plates. Valarr cleared his throat. Aemon suddenly took a great interest in the goblet of water.
Aerion remained unmoved. He stayed seated, posture languid, as if he feared neither father, king, nor god — or perhaps he feared only the wrong god.
"It is no sin to desire what is good," he said, still regarding you as though you were a feast and he had been famished for years. "It is no sin to desire the right Targaryen."
You felt the embroidery of your skirt beneath your nails, the coarse thread, the wrong side of the cloth. Maekar remained standing at your side, yet he did not defend you; he merely breathed, and even his breath seemed a favour he granted with reluctance.
Aerion inclined his head.
"I have made you blush, my father’s wife," he observed, and he did not restrain the cruel laugh that followed, his tongue wetting lips stained by the fruit. "You must agree with me as well, must you not?"
He rose slowly, with every eye fixed upon him, savouring that attention, that absence of scrutiny that belonged only to him. The chair did not creak. The pomegranates were left upon the silver plate, crushed and ruined, as he wished you to feel.
Maekar finally moved, half a step forward.
"Sit."
Aerion smiled.
"I was not rising for you, father… Y/N?"
He addressed you not by title, not “my lady,” not “princess,” not “my father’s wife.” Your name. A name he dragged across his tongue as though it were sweetmeats, as though it pleased him merely to hear it, as though it had lingered upon his tongue longer than that of any other man in the hall.
Maekar did not raise his hand against his son.
He should have. Any honourable man would have broken his son’s face for less. But Maekar was a prince, and princes do not strike blood in their brother’s hall, before the king, before small children who had already seen too much. So he merely clenched his fists and sat.
And you were left alone in that provocation.
Alone with Aerion’s gaze, now leaning over the table, over the untouched dishes, over the hands you had drawn to your lap and which he seemed able to see through the fabric itself.
The tip of his finger found a forgotten shard of pomegranate upon the cloth. He rubbed it against his thumb until the skin was stained red.
"The madness that runs in the veins of every true dragon." He lifted his gaze. "Do you want that in your womb?"
Aemon coughed at his brother’s words, and Daella dropped her bread.
But Aerion had eyes only for you.
"No," he answered for you at last. “You do not want a son such as me. You want the son you would have given him.”
The red-stained thumb pointed towards Maekar without so much as a glance in his direction.
"And it is not the same thing. It never is."
He turned away before you could answer — not that you knew what to say, not that you had a voice, not that the words were not all lodged in your throat like the seeds of that pomegranate he still ground between his teeth.
He returned to his seat. He raised the empty goblet to a servant.
And for the remainder of the feast, he did not look at you even once.
As though he had already taken what he wanted.
The boar was cold when the servants carried the tray away. The fat had congealed upon the meat, forming a pale, unappetising crust. You did not even notice. Throughout the walk from the great hall to the chambers you shared with Maekar, Aerion’s words still throbbed beneath your skin.
Maekar walked ahead of you, three paces in front, as though there were a distance between you that neither of you dared cross. The torches along the corridors of the Red Keep cast dancing shadows upon his armour, and you found yourself watching the rigidity of his back, the hand clenched around the pommel of his sword, the broad shoulders that had never once inclined towards you.
This was not how you had imagined marriage.
As a child, you had dreamed of a husband who would look at you as Aerion had looked at you during the supper. With hunger, with desire, with the certainty that you were the only woman in the room. But the dream had never borne Aerion’s lilac eyes. It had borne Maekar’s. The grey, severe eyes of your husband, which now refused to meet yours.
The chambers were silent when you entered. The fire crackled in the hearth, and a maid had already prepared the bath behind the screen, the water still steaming, herbs floating upon the surface.
"I shall take my bath," you announced, more to hear your own voice than from any hope of reply.
Maekar merely inclined his head, his fingers already working at the buckles of his armour. He did not look at you as he undressed, did not look as you moved towards the screen, did not look when the water began to sing against your weary body.
The bath should have been a relief. The hot water loosened your muscles, the scent of lavender and mint soothed the senses. Yet you remained tense, your eyes fixed upon your husband’s silhouette beyond the screen, upon the way he moved through the chamber with the efficiency of one fulfilling a duty, not with the intimacy of one who shared a life with another.
When you left the bath and dried yourself, you dressed in the finest nightgown you owned, of Volantene silk, near-transparent, a gift from your sister before the wedding. For the night of consummation, she had said with a smile. To drive him mad.
The wedding night had come and gone without Maekar ever touching you. The nightgown had remained at the bottom of the chest, untouched as you were.
But tonight, something had to change, and you put it on. The fabric slid over your still-damp skin, clinging here and there, tracing the curves Aerion had devoured with his eyes during the supper. You ran your fingers through your loose hair, freeing the curls the bath had coaxed forth, and drew a deep breath before stepping around the screen.
Maekar was already in bed.
With his back to you, of course. The coverlet rose to his waist, leaving his broad back bare, pale in the firelight. He did not so much as stir when you approached the bed, when the mattress yielded beneath your weight, when you lay beside him and remained there, staring at those shoulders that would never turn towards you.
"Maekar," you called, and your voice came out more fragile than you wished.
Nothing.
His breathing remained steady, controlled. Awake, you knew. Awake and pretending to sleep, pretending that you did not exist a hand’s breadth away, clad in silk and desire and a humiliation that had already begun to burn. You sat up in the bed. The coverlet slipped, revealing the nightgown, your breasts nearly bared, your skin still warm from the bath. You reached out and touched his shoulder.
He flinched as though your skin burned him.
"Do not touch me."
You drew your hand back as though wounded.
"Why not?" you asked, and the question rose from deep within, from every night you had slept beside that man without ever having him, from every morning you had woken to find him already risen, from every time you had reached for him only to be pushed away. "We are married. I am your wife. And you… you have never touched me. Not on the night of consummation, nor after."
Maekar moved slowly. He turned onto his back, his eyes fixed on the shadows above the bed, not on you. His profile was hard, jaw set, thin lips pressed into a line that promised nothing good.
"We did not consummate the marriage," he said. "And we shall not."
"Why?"
"Because I do not wish to."
"You do not want me?" The question came out as a whisper, and you hated the tremor in your voice, hated the tears already burning behind your eyes. "Am I not good enough? Not fair enough? I saw how Aerion looked at me during the supper, I saw it… Why can even your son desire me, and you, my husband, cannot so much as touch me?"
For the first time, Maekar turned his head to look at you. His grey eyes were ice, were steel, were all that Winterfell might be if it stood in the south.
"Aerion desires all that he cannot have," he replied. "He desires you because you are mine. Because I am your husband. Because looking at you is a way of stabbing me without raising his hand. But do not deceive yourself, woman. His desire is not for you. It is for the dishonour of taking from me what is mine."
"And yet you do not take me," you shot back. "If it is not you who possesses me, if there is no child, if there is no bed, what am I in this marriage?"
Maekar sat up. The coverlet fell, revealing his bare torso, the scars of battles you had never touched, never kissed, never been permitted to explore. He ran a hand over his face, and for the first time he looked weary.
"You will never be her," he said.
"Her?"
"My wife." The word sounded strange, as though he himself did not believe it. "The woman I married before you. The mother of my childrens."
He laughed, but there was no humour in the sound, only bitterness.
"I will not give you what was hers. I will not give you children. I will not give you the bed that was hers. I will give you nothing beyond this name and this roof. That is what you received. That is what you shall have."
"Then why did you marry me?" The question broke into a sob."If you did not want me, if you desire nothing of me, why did you bring me to this place?"
Maekar rose from the bed and began to dress in the garments he had left upon the chest, methodical, precise, as though he were preparing for battle.
"Because if it had not been me, it would have been Baelor."
"Baelor?"
"He needed a wife, and our father took a liking to you despite your lack of noble birth. Had I not taken you, he would have been forced to do so. And Baelor…" He paused, fingers working at the buttons of his tunic. "Baelor is too good for that. So I chose to bear the burden myself."
You opened your mouth to reply, but he did not give you the time.
"You have always been in love with me," he continued, and the way he said it, as though it were of no importance at all, tore something apart within you. "I know it. The whole court knows it. The woman who blushed when I passed, who invented excuses to be where I was, who dreamed of the prince with grey eyes and a warrior’s bearing."
He finished dressing and finally looked at you.
"Now you have what you dreamed of. You have the prince. You have the name. You have the roof. But you shall have nothing more. For there is nothing left in me to give. What there was, she took with her to the grave.”
He turned towards the door.
"Do not seek me tonight. Nor tomorrow. Nor ever, for that matter. Fulfil your role at court, be the princess they expect you to be, and do not ask of me what I cannot give."
The door opened and closed. You were left alone in the bed too large, clad in silk too fine, with tears too hot streaming down your face and an emptiness that seemed to swallow everything.
Time passed, and you could not have said how much. Minutes, hours, an eternity. The fire in the hearth had dwindled, the flames now licking lazily at the last embers, leaving the chamber cold. You lay upon the bed with your back to the door, eyes open, staring at the moon through the open window, your body exhausted while your mind refused all rest.
Maekar’s words echoed, echoed, echoed.
You had married him dreaming of love. Dreaming of nights of pleasure and days of companionship. Dreaming of children who would bear his grey eyes and his hard chin. And now you knew you would never have any of it, that you were no more than an occupied place, an important name, a duty fulfilled.
You closed your eyes, and the tears had already dried, leaving the skin of your face tight and salted. You drew a deep breath. Perhaps by morning things would seem different. Perhaps by morning you would find the strength to be the princess they expected you to be, hollow within yet perfect without.
The sound of the door opening made you shudder. Soft. Almost unheard. Had you been asleep, you might have thought it no more than the wind, or a guard brushing against the door while dozing, but the sound was far too careful for that.
Someone had entered the chamber, and your heart raced. Maekar. He had returned. Perhaps he had reconsidered.
You turned in the bed, a tentative smile forming upon your lips, his name already poised upon your tongue. And then you stopped. It was not Maekar.
Aerion stood by the door, his silver hair loose, his tunic open at the chest as though he had torn his clothes away along the way. Moonlight from the window bathed his face, and his violet eyes shone with a gleam that was not human, not sane, but everything the storytellers warned of when they spoke of dragon blood.
He smiled, and there was nothing sweet in it.
"It is not what you expected, is it, little princess?"
The manner in which he named you made you flinch; his insolence knew no bounds. Aerion stepped away from the door, and his long, pale hands reached back to close it gently, the lock sliding into place with care.
"What are you doing here, Aerion?" The question left you breathless, and you retreated upon the bed, pulling the coverlet up to shield your silk-clad body. "If they catch you—"
"They will not catch me." He continued to advance, his eyes never leaving you. Never. They lingered upon your nightgown, upon the breasts the silk barely concealed, upon the skin raised in gooseflesh by the cold, upon the loose fall of your hair across your shoulders. "And even if they did, what then? What could they do? Chain a dragon?"
He stopped beside the bed. His fingers found the edge of the feather mattress, stroking it as though it were your own skin. You tried to retreat further, but your back had already met the headboard.
"I heard everything," he said, and his voice was honey mixed with something sharp. "I heard the old man break his wife’s heart. I heard the way he told you there was nothing left to give. Poor little princess, wed to a man who prefers a dead woman."
His smile widened.
"But I, my dear… I do not prefer the dead."
"Aerion, please."
"Please what?" He tilted his head, the gesture so like the one at supper that a shiver ran down your spine. "Please, stop? Please, go away? Please, do not touch me? Is that what you asked of him?" His smile sharpened. "And he denied you."
His fingers slid up the coverlet. Slow. Deliberate. Torturous.
"I will deny you nothing."
You opened your mouth to scream.
"Scream," he dared, setting his jaw. "Scream as loudly as you wish. Call for him. Call for your husband who does not want you, for the king who sleeps on the other side of the keep, for the guards who saw me enter and pretended not to, because they know I am worse than they are when crossed."
His hand found your ankle beneath the coverlet. His fingers closed around bare skin, stroking it.
"Scream," he repeated, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the bone. "I want to hear you scream. I want the whole keep to know that I am here, in my father’s bed, touching the woman he will not touch.
His breathing quickened. His eyes darkened with something deeper, darker, more dangerous. Something you recognised from the books you had read about the Targaryens of old, about the Cruel, about Maegor, about blood that burned too hot and consumed all it touched.
"Do you know what I thought of all through the feast?" He wet his lips, admiring your breasts. "While you sat beside him, while you pretended not to see me, while you tasted that wine with your perfect mouth?"
His fingers slid up from ankle to calf, to knee, and the coverlet was pushed aside, exposing the silk that barely concealed your body.
"I thought of how it would be to taste you. Of how it would be to feel you writhe beneath me. Of how it would be to see those eyes he scorns burn for me."
His hand stopped at the curve of your thigh, the pressure increasing, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to hurt.
"He does not want you," Aerion spat, and within him there was ravenous hunger, volatile desire, and an uncontrollable fury, "but I do. I always have. From the first day I saw you, from the first time your legs tensed when I passed you by, from the first time you pretended not to see me and I saw everything in you."
He leaned over the bed, his body closing in upon yours, and now you could smell the wine and pomegranate upon him, clinging like sulphur.
"Do you know what it is to desire someone so?" His voice was near a growl now. "Do you know what it is to wake every night with a name upon your lips, your body aflame, knowing you will go mad if you do not have her?"
His free hand rose to your face, fingers tracing your jaw, your lower lip, the curve of your neck.
"I will have you," he promised. "Not tonight, if you do not wish it. Not tomorrow, if you continue to resist. But I will have you. You will come to me of your own will. You will open your legs for me of your own will. You will beg for me of your own will."
His lips brushed your ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Because he does not want you, but I do. And I am worse than he is, little princess. Far worse. I do not yield. I have no honour to restrain me. I have no duty to bind me. I am Aerion, son of Maekar, Brightflame, and when I desire something, it becomes mine. By good means or ill."
He withdrew at once, and the absence of his body was almost as violent as its presence had been. He stood beside the bed, looking at you, at the rumpled nightgown, at the marks his fingers had left upon your thigh, at the trembling you could not still.
"Sleep well," he said, and the smile that curved his lips was the cruelest thing you had ever seen. "Dream of me. Dream of what might be, for tomorrow, when you wake, you will remember this. You will remember my hand upon your skin, my voice in your ear, the promise I made you."
He turned toward the door.
"And when he denies you once more what you deserve, you will ask yourself: what if it were Aerion? What if it were he in the bed with me? What if it were the son instead of the father?"
The door opened, and you slowly raised your hand to your neck, where his fingers had been. Your skin still burned.
"The answer," he said, lifting one of his father’s goblets from the table beside the door and taking a draught, "is that it would be better. Much better. And you know it."
You lay still upon the bed, your heart galloping, the places he had touched burning as much as the hearth fires could ever burn you. Your mind screamed to let him go, to thank the gods that he had gone, to forget that any of it had happened.
But your body... it burned.
Your nipples brushed against the silk of your shift and each contact was a small death, a reminder of what his fingers had done, of what his voice had promised. Your legs pressed together involuntarily, seeking relief from an ache you could not name, had never felt, that Maekar had never awakened.
And then, before reason could prevent it, your mouth opened.
"Aerion."
The voice emerged hoarse, strange, nearly unrecognisable, but he heard it. The door, which had already begun to close, stopped.
"Aerion," you repeated, and this time it was a plea. "Stay."
The door moved slowly, reopening.
"No?" The word was a smile unseen. "And what do you want, little princess?"
You swallowed hard. Reason screamed. Honour screamed. Everything you had been taught about being a lady, about being a wife, about being a princess screamed in unison, but your desire screamed far louder.
"I want you to stay."
He did not move, however; he remained in the doorway, watching, waiting. The predator who had seen his prey offer herself willingly and savoured the moment before the slaughter.
"It is not enough," he said finally. "Say how you want me. Say what you want."
Your legs pressed together once more. The heat between them was nearly unbearable, a rhythmic throbbing that kept time with your beating heart. Your nipples ached from being so erect, marking the silk like two small buttons of sin.
"I want you," you whispered.
He moved then. Only one step, back into the chamber, and the door closed behind him with the same careful thud as before.
"That is not what you said at supper," he observed, and advanced another step. "At supper, you said you wanted a son like me, but you did not say you wanted me."
Aerion was closer now, close enough for the light of the dying hearth to illuminate his face.
"Lie to me again and I shall leave," he promised. "And I shall not return. I shall never return, and you shall spend the rest of your life wondering how it might have been, dreaming of this night, desiring what you never had. Because he shall never give it to you, and I... I give only to those who ask me properly."
Your body trembled. Not from cold. From desire, from a hunger you had never known existed until he awakened it.
"Properly?" The question emerged softly.
The smile he offered you was slow, cruel, perfectly sadistic. His eyes travelled down your body, lingering upon your breasts that the silk scarcely covered, upon your legs that pressed together, upon your bare feet that curled into the linens.
"On your knees."
Your breath caught.
"What?"
"On your knees." He did not repeat, did not explain, did not justify. He merely waited, his eyes fixed upon yours. "You want me? Then prove it. Kneel before me and beg."
Honour said no.
Reason said no.
The lady, the princess, the wife of Maekar Targaryen said no, no, no.
Your feet found the cold floor and your legs trembled as they took your weight. And then, slowly, you knelt before him.
Aerion's breathing changed. A hoarse, animal sound escaped his throat. His eyes darkened, lost their clear brightness and gained something far more dangerous. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, as though he needed to control himself lest he devour you right there.
"Say it," he commanded. "Say what you want. Say how you want it. Say everything."
Tears sprang forth, but they were tears of surrender, of yielding, of finally accepting what your body had screamed since the first moment you looked upon him.
"I want you," you repeated, your voice breaking. "I want you, Aerion. I want to feel you. I want you to touch me as you touched me at supper, as you touched me moments ago. I want..."
His hand found your hair and his fingers buried themselves in the strands, pulled back, forcing your face upward, exposing your throat.
"You want what?" he insisted. The pressure increased, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who held control. "Say it all. Every word. I want to hear you beg."
The heat between your legs was incendiary. Your thighs pressed together in a vain effort to ease the pressure that grew, that burned, that demanded. Your nipples brushed against the silk and you moaned, a small, shameful sound that he devoured with his eyes.
"I want you to ride me," the words escaped in a sob. "I want to feel you inside me. I want you to make me yours. I want..."
He pulled your hair harder, and the pain was delicious.
"More," he demanded. "Beg as though your life depended upon it. Because it does, little princess. If you do not beg properly, I shall leave and you shall burn the rest of the night, the rest of your life."
"Please," the word tore itself from your throat. "Please, Aerion. I cannot... I cannot bear it any longer. He never wanted me, never touched me, never looked at me as you look. But you... you look at me as though I were a feast, as though you would devour me, and I want it, I want it so much, please..."
The tears flowed freely now, hot and salty, and sobs shook your kneeling form.
"Please, do not leave me thus. Please, touch me. Please, stay. Please, Aerion, please, please, please..."
He smiled, and the smile was the most terrible and most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
His free hand descended, found your chin, lifted your face. His pale eyes traversed the tracks of your tears, your parted lips, the trembling that would not cease.
"Little princess," he murmured, and the word was both a caress and an insult. "My little princess. So beautiful on your knees. So perfect when begging."
The fingers at your chin tightened, forcing you to hold his gaze.
"I shall give you what you ask," he promised. "But I want you to know one thing."
He leaned in, his lips so close to yours that you could feel the warmth of his breath.
"From this night onward, you shall be mine. Not his. Never again his. Even if I never touch you again, even if you spend the rest of your life in his bed, you shall be mine. Because you shall wake every night dreaming of this. You shall close your eyes and see my face. You shall part your legs and wish it were my hands."
He lifted you by the chin, pulling you upward, forcing you to rise upon your trembling knees.
"And when he does not give you what you deserve, you shall remember this night. You shall remember how you begged. You shall remember how you knelt, and you shall hate him for not being me."
His hand released your chin and descended, slowly, so slowly, tracing the line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, the contour of your breast through the silk. When his thumb brushed against your erect nipple, you moaned loudly, an obscene sound that echoed through the chamber.
"Yes," he hissed, his eyes fixed upon your body's reaction. "Thus. I want to hear you thus. I want the entire red keep to know that it was Aerion who made you moan."
His hand squeezed your breast roughly.
"Now rise."
Your legs obeyed before your mind could command them. He kept one hand upon your body, guiding you, possessing you, while the other remained free. He led you to the bed, to the linens still rumpled where minutes before you had lain alone, where hours before Maekar had rejected you.
Then he pushed you, and you fell back upon the feathers, your shift riding up, revealing your thighs, your belly, the wet heat that the silk could no longer conceal. He stood above you, silhouetted against the hearth light, and he resembled a god. A cruel god. An ancient god. A god of fire and blood.
"I shall riding you," he announced, unfastening his belt. "I shall riding you as a dragon ride his female. As our ancestors ride when they still ruled this world."
His knees found the bed on either side of your body. He leaned over you, his arms on either side of your head, trapping you, possessing you without yet touching you.
"And when I am done," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. "I want you to beg me for more, and I promise I shall return come morning, or perhaps the next day, or perhaps I shall steal you away for myself."
His mouth found yours as though it had been starving for years.
It was a devouring. The lips, the tongue, the teeth — every part of him claimed possession, demanded surrender, took what he had watched from afar for so long. The taste of pomegranate still lingered on your tongue, sweet and tart, and it mingled with the flavour of the madness that ran in his veins.
His hands did not cease their roaming; they travelled over you as though they meant to discover every inch of skin, every curve, every secret your body kept. The strap of your shift gave way, then the other, and the fabric slid down your torso like water, leaving you fully bared to the dying light of the hearth.
Aerion drew back just enough to look, and what you saw in his eyes stole the breath from your lungs.
It was not merely desire. It was worship. It was hunger. It was the certainty of one who finally touches what he has always known would be his. His violet eyes traced every inch of your naked form — your breasts, your belly, the dark triangle between your thighs that pressed together in a mix of shame and excitement — and they darkened, darkened until they were nearly black.
"The gods know I have waited long for this," he murmured between heavy breaths. "A curse on them if I complain. It was worth the wait."
His fingers found your breast, traced the curve slowly, and when his thumb brushed against your already hardened nipple, a moan escaped your lips before you could contain it. He smiled. That cruel smile, that smile that knew precisely what it did to you, that revelled in every reaction he drew from your body.
"You like it, do you not?" The question was a rhetorical one, but he wished to hear it. He wanted all the words, all the sounds, all the surrender. "You like being touched by me. You like being looked at by me. You like being naked beneath me while the old man... where is the old man, my father's wife?"
"I do not know," you whispered.
"Of course, you do not." His hand descended, slow, torturously slow, tracing the line of your belly, circling your navel, drawing nearer to the heat that had already dampened the skin between your thighs. "He could be two chambers away, he could be in another woman's arms, he could be dead and you would not know it. You would not know, because he does not tell you, does not touch you, does not want you."
His fingers finally found your heat, parted your folds, delved into the wetness that had gathered there all through the night. The moan you released was too loud, too obscene, and he devoured it with his mouth in a second kiss, equally possessive.
"But I," he murmured against your lips, his fingers moving inside you in a rhythm slow, deliberate, meant to drive you mad. "I wish to know everything. I wish to know where you are, what you feel, what you think, what you desire. I wish to hear every moan, every sigh, every time my name escapes those lips."
His thumb found that place no one had ever touched, and your body arched against him as though struck by lightning.
"Aerion," the name escaped in a sob.
"Yes," he hissed, his eyes fixed upon your expression, upon the pleasure you finally offered him. "Thus. Say my name. Say it as though it were a prayer. Say it as though I were the only dragon in the world."
His free hand rose to your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, your lower lip, the curve of your neck. Then it descended, found your breast, squeezed hard enough to hurt, to mark, to remind you that you were his.
"Do you know what I thought every night since you came to this court?" The question came in a hoarse whisper, his fingers moving faster inside you, drawing you nearer to madness. "I thought of how it would be to have you thus. I thought of how it would be to hear you moan. I thought of how it would be to feel you tighten around me, trembling, begging."
His thumb pressed that tender spot once more, and the world narrowed until it was only this, only him, only the pleasure he built with such patience and such cruelty.
"I thought of how it would be to watch you fall apart for me," he continued, his voice growing rougher, drawing closer to losing control. "And now I shall see it. Now I shall watch you spend for me, little princess. Now I shall feel you tighten about me, calling for me, forgetting any other man exists in this world."
His fingers moved faster, deeper, drawing you closer. His thumb did not cease and you were so close, so close, the pleasure building like a wave about to break, your body trembling, your mouth open in a continuous moan that he drank in with his eyes.
"I wish to hear it," he commanded. "I wish to hear my name when you spend. I wish everyone to know. I wish him to know, even if he never discovers it."
The wave broke with the violence of one who had waited too long.
His name escaped your lips in a cry — not a moan, not a whisper, a true cry, loud, obscene, echoing off the stone walls of the chamber and surely passing through the doors.
"AERION!"
His fingers did not cease; they continued to move inside you, drawing out the pleasure, extracting every spasm, every tremor, every drop of surrender your body could offer. And he laughed. He laughed softly, a hoarse and triumphant sound, while he watched you fall apart beneath him.
"Thus," he murmured, his eyes fixed upon your expression of ecstasy. "Thus, little princess. Shout my name. Shout it so that he might hear. Shout it so that all may know whose you are this night."
When the spasms finally ceased, when your body fell back upon the bed like a rag, he withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately slowly, and brought them to his lips. He licked them one by one, his eyes fixed upon you, savouring you as though you were the finest of wines.
"Sweet," he remarked, and the smile that curved his lips was pure malice. "So sweet. And so quick. Was it good thus, little princess? Was it better than you imagined?"
You could not answer. Your breath was still too short, your heart still galloping, your body still trembling in the residual waves of pleasure, but he expected no answer. He never expected. He merely took.
His hand found your ankle, closed about the bone, and pulled.
He dragged you across the bed as though you were an object, without ceremony, without care, without anything save the certainty that you were his to do with as he wished. Your shift, already half fallen, tangled in the linens and was left behind as your feet touched the cold floor.
"Rise," he commanded.
You obeyed. Your legs trembled so much they could scarcely support you, but you obeyed. You stood before him, naked, trembling, your breasts still rising and falling with your gasping breath, your body marked by his fingers, your heat still trickling down your thighs.
He observed you for a long while, his eyes traversing every inch of skin, lingering upon the marks that were already beginning to form — the fingerprints upon your thigh, the involuntary scratches you had left upon your own back, your nipples still tender and erect.
"Look at you," he murmured, striking your face. "All wet, all trembling, all mine."
His hand rose, struck your face again. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to provoke.
"Do you think he would make you shout thus?" he asked. "Do you think he would make you tighten about his fingers as though you might die if he ceased?"
He struck you again. Harder. Hard enough to turn your face.
"Answer."
"No," you whispered, and your face burned, and your body burned, and everything in you burned for more.
"No, what?"
"No, he would not make me shout thus."
His hand seized your chin, forced you to look into his eyes. His were utterly dark now, the pale iris nearly vanished in the dilation of his pupils. He breathed heavily, his bare chest rising and falling, his erection evident beneath his breeches.
"Do you know what I shall do now?"
You shook your head, your eyes trapped by his.
"I shall mark you. I shall engrave upon your skin that you are mine. I shall ensure that every time you bathe, every time you don silk, every time he lays his eyes upon you, you shall remember this night. You shall remember how you knelt. You shall remember how you begged. You shall remember how you shouted my name."
His hand released your chin and seized your arm, pulling you behind him as he moved about the chamber. He stopped beside the side table, beside the candles.
Three of them, tall, burning since the start of the night, wax dripping slowly down their sides, forming pale stalactites. He took one, tested its weight, tested its heat, and when he turned to you with the flame illuminating his face from below, he resembled a demon. He resembled the very strange god the Targaryens had worshipped before coming to Westeros.
"On your knees," he commanded.
You bent your knees without hesitation. The floor was cold against your skin, but the heat that radiated from him and from the candles warmed you from within. You remained there, naked, trembling, your eyes fixed upon the dripping wax, upon the dancing flame, upon the man who looked at you as though you were the most precious and the most contemptible thing in the world.
"Do you know what men do to women in Lys?" he asked, playing with the flame. "They mark them, so that they never forget to whom they belong."
The candle tilted and the first drop of hot wax fell upon your thigh.
The heat, the sudden pain, the contrast between the cold of the floor and the fire of the wax — all merged into a stifled cry that you bit your lips to contain, but he saw. He saw your eyes widen, saw your body tremble, saw your nipples harden further.
"You like it," he observed, and it was no question. It was confirmation. It was discovery. It was the key to a new level of perversion. "You like pain. You like to feel. You like being marked."
Another drop, and closer to the inside of your thigh. This time the moan escaped, and he smiled.
"Do not contain it," he commanded. "I wish to hear. I wish to hear every sound I draw from you."
Another drop. Another. Another. The wax flowed hot, scalding, leaving small red marks upon the white skin of your thighs. And he observed everything with the attention of an artist, of a cruel lover who had finally found the perfect way to express what he felt.
"Open your legs," he commanded.
You obeyed. Your thighs parted, revealing your wet heat, your lips still swollen from the earlier orgasm, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh completely exposed.
He tilted the candle and the wax flowed in a continuous stream, tracing a red line from your knee to the inside of your thigh, close enough to the entrance of your womanhood. The cry you released was loud, was free, was everything he wished to hear.
"Thus," he hissed, his eyes fixed upon the red line the wax had left, upon the small blisters that formed, upon your body trembling, writhing, begging for more without words. "Shout. I want your husband to hear. I want the servants to hear. I want the gods to hear."
Another line, even closer. The wax nearly brushed your most sensitive lips, and the moan you released was of pleasure and pain merged as one.
"Do you want more?" he asked. "Do you want everyone to see the marks I have made upon you?"
"Yes," the word escaped in a sob. "Yes, please, yes, I want more, I want everything, I want all that you will give me."
He laughed. That low, cruel laugh that was so his own, so Aerion, so perfectly mad.
"So obedient," he murmured, and the candle tilted once more. "So mine."
The wax flowed, and flowed, and flowed. Red lines crossed your thighs, rose up your belly, circled your breasts without ever touching your nipples no matter how he provoked. He marked you as one signs a work of art, as one claims possession of a territory, as one who finally holds in his hands what he has always desired.
The candle hovered in the air for a moment, the flame flickering, the wax dripping slowly to the floor without touching you.
He stopped.
His violet eyes traversed the work he had made — the red lines that crossed your thighs, that rose up your belly, that circled your breasts without ever touching them. The expression upon his face was one of pure adoration, of sick pride, of hunger that had not yet begun to be sated.
"Perfect," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Utterly perfect."
The candle was set aside, the flame casting dancing shadows upon the wall. And then he straightened, standing over you, and his hands found the fastenings of his breeches.
"Look," he commanded. "I want you to look."
His eyes fixed upon you as his long fingers worked at the fastenings, as the leather gave way, as the skin beneath was slowly revealed. His breath was altered, gasping, but his movements remained controlled.
His breeches fell and he stood before you, naked, bathed in the dying light of the hearth and the trembling glow of the candles, and he was everything the blood of the dragon promised to be.
His body was sculpted. His chest was broad, his shoulders powerful, his arms marked by veins and muscles that tensed with each movement. Scars — small, old, witnesses to battles he had won — dotted his pale skin.
And between his legs...
Your eyes descended without your being able to control them. The desire you felt was so physical, so urgent, that it pained you. He was erect, hard, ready — and large. Larger than you had imagined, larger than the whispered tales of the ladies had led you to believe. The sight of him thus, naked and exposed, the humiliation of the position in which you knelt, the sting of the marks upon your skin — all merged into a moan that escaped before you could contain it.
He smiled that slow, cruel smile, perfectly aware of the effect he had upon you.
"Do you like what you see, little princess?" he provoked. "Do you like seeing what you begged to have?"
His hand descended, wrapped about his cock, stroked it slowly while he observed you, and he brushed it against your face. His eyes never left your face, drinking in every expression, every poorly disguised desire.
"Answer."
"I like it."
"You like it, what?"
"I like what I see."
"Say what you wish to do with it."
His hand tightened about his member, his fingers sliding along the taut skin, and the moan he released was low, the first truly uncontrolled sound you had heard from him.
"I wish..." your voice faltered. You swallowed hard, your eyes fixed upon him, upon his naked body. "I wish to feel you inside me. I wish to know how it feels. I wish for you to fill me. I wish..."
"You wish what?" he insisted, his hand moving faster, his breath quickening. "Say it all. Every word."
"I wish for you to ride me," the words escaped in a single breath. "I wish to feel you enter me. I wish for you to use me. I wish for you to make me yours, in every way, in every manner, until no one remains in doubt that I belong to you."
His eyes darkened further, his hand stilled its movement, and for a moment he remained motionless, merely looking at you, drinking in every word, every surrender, every proof that you were his.
His free hand found your hair, buried itself in the strands, pulled back hard enough to hurt, to expose your throat, to force your gaze upward.
"I shall ride you," he promised, his voice hoarse, nearly unrecognisable. "I shall ride you as no one has ever riding you. I shall make you forget the names of all the men who existed before me. I shall engrave myself inside you."
His mouth descended, his teeth found the curve of your neck, bit down hard enough to leave a mark. And while he bit, while he marked you there as well, his other hand guided his manhood to your face.
"Open your mouth."
Your lips parted, your tongue extended, and when the tip of his cock brushed against your palate, the moan you released was muffled by his skin, by his taste, by the reality of what you were doing.
He did not wait. He gave you no time to think. The hand in your hair guided you, forced you, used you while the other held the base, and you accepted everything — everything — with the same surrender with which you had accepted the wax, with which you had accepted his fingers, with which you had accepted kneeling.
"Thus," he hissed, his breathing quickening, his body tensing. "That... yes..."
His hips moved, slowly at first, then faster, deeper, drawing closer. And you let him, accepted him, worshipped him. Each movement, each time he buried himself deeper in your throat was a reaffirmation that you were his, that you would always be his, that there would never be another.
When he finally stopped, when he drew back gasping, his body covered in sweat, his eyes utterly mad with desire, he pulled you up by the roots of your hair.
"On your hands and knees," he commanded.
You crawled onto the bed, rose upon your knees, offered yourself completely to him. The marks from the wax ached at the contact with the linens, but the pain was sweet, was his, was everything you wanted.
He positioned himself behind you. His hand descended, parted your folds, felt your heat, your wetness, your readiness. His cock brushed against your womanhood, once, twice, teasing, torturing, delaying the moment you both desired.
"Aerion," you begged again.
"Quiet."
You moaned but accepted your fate, biting your lower lip hard as Aerion aligned himself with your entrance. You held your breath as he pushed inside, without gentleness, exactly as you had expected.
Immediately, he began to bury himself within you to the hilt, your walls pulsing around him as you struggled to accommodate his thickness. You had turned your head to the side to avoid his gaze, but Aerion had other plans for you, seizing your chin to force you to meet his blazing eyes.
"Do you feel that? Do you feel the ache in your little cunt? It is a fucking reminder of what happens when you claim a true dragon."
He sank in completely and then thrust back, his eyes narrowing and his breath catching in his throat.
"You are mine now, little princess. You are mine to command, to make do as I wish. You exist to serve me. You shall spend when I wish, wear what I wish, and leave this chamber when I wish. Now tell me, whose are you?"
You moaned, your hands gripping the sheets as he began to fuck you in a steady rhythm.
"I am yours," you managed to say, your cunt still refusing to accept the intrusion. But Aerion was clearly in a mood that night to go further, striking your cheek once more.
"To whom does this body belong? To me, or to my father?"
"To you. Only to you, and I know I am nothing without you," you whimpered in pleasure, scarcely able to distinguish his face through your tears.
When you felt his finger upon your neglected clit, it was the finest sensation you had felt again. Your lips parted, your eyes fixed upon where his hand worked between your legs, and you should have known in that moment that he was playing with you. Aerion meant to punish you, for not having chosen him, for having taken so long to beg for him.
And because shortly thereafter, when you felt yourself drawing near another orgasm, he stopped, of course, removing his hand from your clit and instead delivering a sharp slap to your cunt that made you jump.
"N-No, Aerion, please..." you moaned and lifted your hips.
"Little princess, you must kneel and beg."
He slapped your cunt again, a little harder this time, and the burning pain brought tears to your eyes. By now you knew exactly what he was doing. He was teasing you, likely wanting to see you beg and then break for him, and it seemed his plan was working perfectly. You could not control yourself, pleasure clouding your senses, the need to climax soon being the only desire in your head. You were no longer afraid of your husband seeing you or of desiring even more come morning, too eager to finally reach your peak, but Aerion shifted quickly, pushing two of his fingers into your mouth, reminding you of your sore throat.
He continued thus, denying your climax repeatedly while bringing you to the edge with his two thick fingers in your mouth, and soon you were a trembling mess beneath him who could no longer even vocalise your need to finish. You moaned and whimpered, wept and begged with your eyes, but Aerion was immune to all of it.
He seemed to want to push himself further as well, slowing inside you from time to time, as though to tease himself a little, until eventually he spent himself for the first time that night. Aerion collapsed upon you, wrapping his hand about your throat not only to keep you still, but to silence any complaint about your ruined orgasm, and then he took his time savouring the divine release.
He breathed heavily against your jaw, his nose nestling into your skin that burned with heat, and he gasped when he withdrew his cock from you. You, on the other hand, writhed, feeling exquisitely sensitive to every touch, and prayed that he might do something to give you some relief as well.
Your entire body was aflame, your limbs aching and your cunt strangely overstimulated and swollen, pulsing greedily with lust all the while. But Aerion made no attempt to do you any favour, donning his breeches without even looking at you. You were definitely too exhausted and messy to do anything, lying upon the bed awaiting your stepson's next move, but when he was fully dressed once more, he merely raised an eyebrow arrogantly, observing your naked form.
"I shall return when you beg me for it. I have not finished with you yet. Until then, I trust you shall begin to regret having wed my father, and if I discover you doing anything you ought not, such as touching yourself or begging to have me sent away, I shall not go easy on you, little princess. When I next give you what you beg for, you had best behave yourself properly, for if you are fortunate, I shall fuck your throat, and if I am not feeling merciful, it shall be your arse."
Ი𐑼 . . . - continue on to my…. main masterlist ❜❜
۶ৎ sweethearts this is my first bit of smut here, and I’m still a little unsure about how it turned out hihihi but I already have so many other ideas in my head featuring Valarr, Aerion (again), and Daeron ... part two?
masterlist ⋆˚ I write (and sometimes just doodle little ideas) mostly about things that give me shivers. I’m always updating, so stay tuned for more goodies. ♡
Just so you know, pretty much all my content is 'character x reader/you' unless I say otherwise. A lot of it is NSFW, so strictly 18+ only please! Make sure you always check the warning notes before diving in. Happy reading! ✦ ☁️ ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱
I’m multifandom, so please feel free to ask for any fandom! ♡ I’m probably in it, but for now I mostly post about 'a knight of the seven kingdoms' . . . ✦ ☁️ reqs open.
angst/comfort - Ი𐑼 smut - ۶ৎ
a song of ice and fire archive .ᐟ
a knight of the seven kingdoms ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱
devil like me ✶ aerion targaryen | 9,5k words | stepmom! reader ۶ৎ ━━━ aerion never wanted anyone the way he wanted you, his own father’s wife; the woman who taunted him, who was kin to him, who he desired for himself and would have.
seed sown in fire ✶ aerion targaryen | 8,5k words | wife! reader ۶ৎ ━━━ after the wedding, you begged for heirs, begged for him to take you, to fill your womb with the seed of the dragon. Aerion listened. And when he finally decided to answer your pleas, he fucked you night after night, spilling inside you every drop of his seed, every time he could, until you were truly satisfied.
what must be earned ✶ valarr targaryen, aerion targaryen | 10,2k words | ashfordian! reader ۶ৎ ━━━ at the tourney ashford meadow, you, the eldest daughter kept distant by lord ashford, sneak away to seek prince valarr up close… and catch the attention not only of him, but also of aerion brightflame, who now both desire you as the reward of the tournament.
[coming soon . . .]
lover, please stay ✶ baelor targaryen | wife! reader
━━━ [release at 6pm London time on 22/02]
lust for life ✶ valarr targaryen | stepmom! reader
━━━ [release at 6pm London time on 24/02]
pretty when you cry ✶ valarr targaryen | unknown! reader
━━━ [release at 6pm London time on 26/02]
fatal flaw ✶ daeron targaryen | septa! reader
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warning: +18 | smut | p in v | breeding | slight angst | riding | multiples creampie | dubcon | kneeling/begging | power imbalance | obsessive behavior | aerion is the biggest warning.
summary: after the wedding, you begged for heirs, begged for him to take you, to fill your womb with the seed of the dragon. Aerion listened. And when he finally decided to answer your pleas, he fucked you night after night, spilling inside you every drop of his seed, every time he could, until you were truly satisfied.
author's note: wrote this oneshot based on this ask, and I gotta admit, I was so hyped writing this hehe
gif by ᦸ @notbuckybarnes ٫٫ words count: ~8,7k
You married Aerion Targaryen because your parents deemed it fitting. They considered it proper that they should cast the dice to capture a dragon, so that, with its claws, you might enrich the family name. And Aerion was a dragon, of that there was no doubt — not one of the great ones that once ruled the skies of Valyria, but a hungry dragon, with eyes that burned and fangs always bared. On the day he went out to hunt, you offered yourself as sacrifice.
You weren't noble, no. Your family possessed some wealth, gold enough to clothe you well and fill your belly, but they'd no standard, no sworn swords, no tower of stone to call their own. Still, noble blood ran in your veins, though diluted like watered wine. You were descended from cadet branches that had once been Arryn and Tyrell, and your parents, in their ambition, believed this remnant of noble blood would suffice to make you fly. They believed you could give the family an important name, a name feared throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
And you fought for this with the few weapons you had. You drew close to Prince Valarr, the heir's heir, who was as generous and kind as rare (even almost none) boys in Westeros. He had you as a good friend, as a sister that the court had never truly given him — for Matarys was far younger and he couldn't have with her what he had with you — and King Daeron II, the boy's grandsire, permitted you to remain at his side. He saw in you a beneficial influence, someone capable of teaching his grandson the ways of common men, of showing him a world beyond battles and blood.
And then, on one of the days when the sun bathed the Red Keep, you saw him.
He wasn't a dragon of scales and giant teeth, he didn't spew flames nor have wings to cover the sun. But his eyes burned with a fire not of this world, and from him emanated a terror similar to what Balerion once spread across Westeros. He saw you the very instant you saw him, and in that moment, both of you knew something had changed.
Aerion had found his prey.
Some days passed since that first glance. Enough for summer to deepen over King's Landing, for the roses in the gardens to bloom in profusion, and for your mother to lose sleep counting the imaginary coins your marriage would bring.
You came to know each other better at dinners, as was proper at court. He watched you over his goblet of wine, his violet eyes darkened by something you preferred not to discover. You spoke of the unusual heat, the court gossip, the dances planned for the next tourney. But behind the words, there was another conversation — one of carnal interest, made of glances, of the way his fingers brushed yours when passing the bread.
Then, one night when the stars seemed more distant than usual, he led you to his chambers. Aerion could be seductive when it suited him, and you let yourself be carried away by his charm after a few goblets of wine with Valarr.
The door closed behind you, and he drew near, so close you could feel the heat of his body, the smell of ashes and something sweet that always accompanied him.
"Stay this night," he murmured. It wasn't a request.
You stepped back one pace… only one.
"Why would I stay, my prince?"
His eyes narrowed, surprised. Maekar's son wasn't accustomed to being questioned.
"I'm not asking for this," he said, with the calm of one who'd never needed to ask for anything. "It's my will, and my wishes are usually granted."
"Of course, my prince…" you interrupted him, letting the ghost of a smile escape. "What do you think I am? A whore to warm your bed at your convenience?"
"I didn't say that."
"You said it with the way you look at me, as if I were the same as the women you send for when the night grows too long for you."
Aerion frowned, visibly disconcerted. He wasn't used to resistance, much less from someone he desired.
"Then why did you come with me?"
"Because I wished to be desired by a man who doesn't flee from what he feels, or so I thought you were. I want a husband, not a lover who'd have me this night and tomorrow scarcely know my name."
"I'd still remember your name, darling." He laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. "But you must know what you're asking of me, and you must know you've no such claim upon me."
"Well, my prince, I ask for what every woman should have the right to ask for." You held his gaze. "And if you're not man enough to give me that, I'll wait for someone who is. Perhaps your cousin, Valarr, understands the meaning of honour better than one who calls himself a dragon."
Aerion stared at you for a long moment, and for the first time, you saw something beyond the fire in his eyes; as if he were relishing the provocation, as if he now had respect for you, or something close to it.
"You're more dangerous than you appear," he said at last. "Brave… or completely senseless. I've not yet decided which of the two disturbs me more."
He stepped forward. Then another. The space between you closed further, leaving only the warm air of his breath against your neck when he leaned in, smelling you and tucking away a lock of your hair that had come loose after the dance with Matarys.
"Mind your tongue, darling," he whispered in your ear, his fingers trailing down your collarbone to the silver necklace at your throat. A gift from your family.
"Don't call me darling." You retorted, your eyes meeting his.
"Of course, sweetling." He smiled cruelly when your brows drew together in displeasure. "There are men in this realm who lose their heads for less."
"Then you'll have to put mine on the walls as well, my prince," you riposted, lifting your chin as your eyes descended to his lips. "I'd rather face death than live as a shadow of your will."
For an instant, you thought he'd touch you, would pull you to him, or worse, would order you removed from there when his hand slowly closed, as if containing an impulse too difficult to tame. However, he tilted his head, looking at every detail of your face, drawing near your lips, but not touching them, merely leaving the ghost of a kiss there.
"They all want something from me," he said, his lips brushing yours as his violet eyes slowly rose to meet yours. "Power, name, blood, but none of those women would dare speak to me as you do."
"Because none of them believe they're worth more than a whim."
"Men of my house don't survive by being gentle."
"A pity."
The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but neither was it anger.
"Do you know what happens to women like you?" he asked, drawing back slightly to look at your whole face. The heat of his body made your heart leap in your chest, above your neckline.
"I know what happens to those who kneel," you answered. "And I shan't be one of them."
For a moment, you thought he'd advance, would crush your resistance as he did with everything else. Instead, Aerion brought his hand to your chin, lifting your face with two firm fingers. It wasn't brutal, and, strangely, that unsettled you even more.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You obeyed. His eyes were living fire, but now they held a pure desire, something he rarely allowed himself.
"You ask me to be your wife," he said slowly. "Yet you speak to me as if you were already my equal."
"Because I'd only lie with a man who saw me as such."
His fingers tightened for a second longer than necessary. Pride, fury and desire seemed to war within him.
"If I wanted you only for a night," he said, his voice hoarse, "you'd already be in my bed."
"And if I wanted only a night," you retorted, "I wouldn't be here now."
He released your chin slowly, as if the gesture required effort.
"Be careful," he warned. "You're playing with something you don't know how to control."
Aerion turned and walked to the window, as if he needed distance to think.
"The gods are cruel," he murmured. "Just when I thought the whole world belonged to me, a woman appears who dares to deny me…"
"The world may belong to you, but I do not," was all you said.
He stood there, thinking on your words, and didn't look at you again, not even when he walked to the door and left. Something seemed to have disturbed him, perhaps the fact that you weren't what he thought you were, perhaps because he found it would be easier than he intended.
The next morning, he went to speak with your father. He took Maekar as witness to the promise he made to your father, to protect you, to care for you, to make you part of him, and then he asked for your hand in marriage, without Maekar himself expecting it, he knelt and asked your father, and there was only a nod, permitting him to make you truly his. And even if your father didn't permit the union, Aerion would marry you. He hadn't knelt to beg for your hand, but to ask the gods that your father might forgive him if he'd to act otherwise.
The wedding was small by court standards, almost discreet for those accustomed to excess and rumour. Still, it seemed too grand for someone like you who'd never dreamed of setting foot in the halls of the Red Keep without lowering their eyes. You dressed in the colours of your new house: red and black. The heavy fabric flowed over your body, marking more than was usual (because it had been Aerion's demand to eliminate any remnant of purity in you). Upon your hair, the crown of silver flowers rested too delicately for the family you now belonged to, as fragile as the fortune that had led you there.
When they placed you before him, you felt his gaze first before even raising your eyes. Aerion wasn't smiling. He watched you as he'd done that night; as if he were still deciding whether this was a conquest… or whether you were still challenging him. His hands touched yours, there was an instant when the hall seemed to disappear. The touch wasn't tender, nor was it cruel. It was possessive. Warm. A warning that this marriage wouldn't be made of your wills, but of Aerion's.
"You're mine now," he murmured, so low that only you could hear, while the septon intoned the blessings.
"I'm your wife," you answered, also in secret. "There's a difference."
His lips curved into a delicate smile, sufficiently capable of making you respond while he held your face; you admired the dimple in his cheek showing almost imperceptibly, which for a few moments made you forget how cruel he could be, whether touching you or not.
The bedding came with sunset. The ladies led you to the chambers you were to share, and this time the doors closed with the gods' blessing upon the union. Aerion moved towards you with the same confidence as always, but something was different now, you had become his territory, and that dragon had always been fierce in defending what was his. And for a moment you prepared yourself for the touch, for the consummation that every wife must endure after marriage.
You didn't retreat when he closed the distance, but he stopped, making you feel the ghost of his hand lowering the strap of your dress. Aerion halted, and his eyes travelled over your body as if he were grasping you, as if they could touch where he refused to go with his hands, pondering, torturing you slowly.
"Take off the dress," he commanded, wetting his lips.
It wasn't a request.
You obeyed, because that too was your choice, and he knew it. The fabric slipped over your shoulders, your waist, forming a red and black pool at your feet. You stood before him in only your skin, the warm blood rushing to your cheeks and the air seeming to fail you a little more.
Aerion said nothing, took a goblet of wine from the nearest table while leaning against it, sipping and watching you entirely as if appreciating a work of art that finally belonged to him.
"I lied when I said I didn't want you," he murmured, clenching his jaw. "My brother's the one who dreams, but it seems you're the gods' vision sent to torment me."
"Torment?"
"Yes." He set the goblet back on the table and stepped forward. Then another. The distance between you shrank until the heat of his body was almost unbearable. "Because I wanted you in that instant. I wanted to take you right there, before the septon, before my father, before everyone. I wanted to tear that dress off with my teeth and show every one of them that you were mine."
His hand rose, finally. His fingers brushed your shoulder, so light they seemed a question.
"In a short while, you'll forget how we should be," your voice came out hoarse.
"I know, but now…" He traced the path from shoulder to wrist, slowly, studying each of your reactions. "Now I wonder if you know what you've done."
"I married you."
"You gave yourself to me." His fingers tightened on your wrist. "There's a difference."
He pulled your wrist, drawing your body against his. His breath warmed your face, those violet eyes burning into you.
"I'm going to fuck you tonight," he said, and the words were such a shock you lost your breath. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name. Until you forget there was a world out there, before me."
"Aerion…"
"No." His free hand covered your mouth, gently, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm going to fuck you tonight, and tomorrow, and every night after that. Not because the law allows it, not because a septon blessed it, but because I want to and because you want to. Say you want to."
He removed his hand from your mouth, but held your gaze.
"I'm too good for you."
"And that makes me need you even more." He slid his lips along your jaw. "I'll never be gentle enough for you, but tell me you want me too."
"I want to," you whispered.
"You want to what?" he provoked, his mouth so close to yours they almost touched. "Say it. Say exactly what you want. You want me to fuck you? You want me to devour you? You want me to fill you until there's room for nothing else?"
"I want you to fuck me," you repeated, and the words came out firmer than you expected. "I want…"
You hesitated, but his eyes didn't let you escape.
"You want what?"
"I want your child."
Aerion smiled against your neck, that seemed to excite and amuse him because the hand that held your wrist rose to your nape, pulling you into a kiss that wasn't a kiss. His mouth pressed to yours with a hunger that seemed accumulated over years, not weeks. His tongue invaded, took, claimed, and you clung to his shoulders as if you were drowning.
When he drew back, both of you were gasping.
"A child of mine won't be like other children," his voice was torn, unrecognisable. "He'll be… like me."
"You think I'm afraid of that?" you answered, and your hand travelled from his shoulder to his chest, to his womb, to his belt buckle. "It's precisely why I ask."
"My grandsire told me about you before I saw you that day, he said: the boys never tire of her, nor of her sweetness. And I didn't know why, until I saw that 'fuck me' look in your eyes."
He guided you to the bed without ceremony, your back meeting the sheets with a push that drew a smile from you. Aerion hovered over you, his arms on either side of your head, his pupils dilated with desire.
"I'm going to fill you," he promised, his voice a growl. "I'm going to fill you with me, night after night, until there's no doubt in your mind, in the mind of the entire court, that you're mine. That what grows here" His hand descended, fingers spread over your bare womb. "Is mine. Is ours."
"Then do it," you challenged, lifting your hips to meet his. "Show me the dragon you claim to be."
The smile he gave you was the most dangerous thing you'd ever seen.
He leaned in to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin, while his hands worked to rid himself of what he still wore. And when finally you were skin against skin, warmth against warmth, he paused for an instant.
"Say you're in love with my body," you murmured against his ear. "and that's why you're fucking it."
"Sweetling, if it feels good then it can't be bad," he answered in a half-sigh. "I'm something they all want, but only you can have."
His hand descended slowly, tracing in the air the contour of your neck, your shoulders, descending to the curve of your waist without touching. And each imaginary movement drew from you a shiver that he saw, that he knew he provoked. Aerion stepped back again, one pace, then another, and you stood there, still, feeling the emptiness where his warmth had been before, not understanding.
"But you'll wait," he said, fastening his belt while displaying his abdomen with some scars. "You'll wait and desire and imagine. You'll lie in this bed every night thinking of how it would be and when I finally take you, if ever I do take you, it'll be because I decided it, not because you demanded it."
"You want to fuck me now, Aerion. You want to see me on my knees. You need to consummate this marriage for us to be truly wed," you said, taking a step towards him. "The gods decide these things," you answered, bringing your hand to your womb.
"The gods have nothing to do with it, sweetling."
So he left the chamber and left you alone on your wedding night, as should not have been.
The months that followed were a constant lesson. You learned Aerion's humours as one learns to read the signs of an approaching storm; by the scents in the air, by the tension in his shoulders, by the cruelty that took his eyes when something displeased him. There was sweetness in him, yes, but it was a treacherous sweetness.
There were nights when he sought you with an urgency bordering on desperation, nights when his hands trembled touching you and his mouth whispered things you'd never repeat to anyone. And there were days when he scarce looked at you, building walls so high that not even your love — if that was what you felt — could scale them.
The court watched. The court always watched.
"Be careful of him," his mother, Dyanna Dayne, once advised in a rare moment when you found yourselves alone. "My son has too much fire in his veins."
"I'm his wife," you repeated, as if that explained everything.
She smiled, a sad smile that made you shrink inside.
"Being a dragon's wife is not the same as taming one, child."
You didn't understand then, but you would, in time.
Aerion remained by your side at dinners, at walks through the gardens, at court obligations. His eyes always found yours. He'd draw closer than necessary, his warm breath brushing your nape, his hand hovering over yours as it had once hovered over your body.
"Did you dream of me last night?" he asked one morning, with a smile that knew exactly what it provoked.
You denied it, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed you.
"I dreamed…" he confessed, leaning in to whisper in your ear. "I dreamed I finally touched you. That I heard your moans, that I felt your nails in my back. I woke hard and furious that it was only a dream."
He drew back before you could answer, leaving you with your heart racing and your legs weak. Thus he tortured you. With words, with glances, with the eternally delayed promise of a touch that never came. And you, fool that you were, discovered that desire can be as painful as any wound. Your body burned for him in ways you'd never imagined, and he knew. He knew and delighted in your torment.
"Why do you do this?" you asked one night, when he'd accompanied you to your chamber door and remained there, so close you could feel the warmth of his body, yet so far you could do nothing.
"Because I can," he answered simply. "Because it's the only thing you still don't have of me. You've had my name, you've had my oath, you've had my respect, but my body is still mine. And until it's your choice, not my gift, you won't have it."
The next morning, he left for Lys.
There was no farewell or explanation, only a servant who came for his clothes, a ship that departed the harbour, and you remained in the Red Keep, with your belly empty and your hands trembling because you still hadn't had him, because the marriage was called ill-starred for not having been consummated.
The months that followed were long as winters. The letters you sent went unanswered. The rumours that arrived from Lys spoke of feasts, of women with silver hair and dark eyes, of whole nights awash with wine and forbidden pleasures. And you imagined, and imagined, and each imagining was a knife he drove into your chest without being present.
The court whispered, the ladies looked at you with ill-disguised pity. Your parents wrote increasingly desperate letters, asking after heirs, after assurances, after anything that might justify the sacrifice they'd made in giving you to a dragon.
And you had no answers.
Until, one autumn morning, the news that Maekar had summoned his son back echoed through the corridors. It wasn't a request, but a command. Dragon's blood or no, Aerion was still a son, still a subject, still owed obedience to his father.
And he obeyed.
The ship docked at King's Landing's harbour beneath a grey sky threatening rain. You stood on the quay, because pride forbade you waiting in your chambers like a patient wife. You stood on the quay so he'd see you, so he'd know you hadn't bent, hadn't withered.
When he disembarked, you saw the months in Lys had done him good — or ill, depending on perspective. His face was more lined, his eyes darker, his mouth crueller. He wore silks of vibrant colours, and round his neck hung a golden collar you'd never seen before.
"Wife," he greeted, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "How good to be received by such a fair sight."
"Husband," you answered, and your voice came out as cold as you'd wished. "It's good to have you here."
He drew close, and for the first time in moons, you felt his true warmth, not merely the memory of it. So close you might touch him, if you dared.
"Did you miss me?" he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.
"I missed a husband I never had."
"You've still got a tongue, I see. Good. It'd be a shame if the months had tamed it."
He drew back before you could answer, and offered you his arm with a courtesy so perfect it almost hurt.
"Come, my father awaits me. And afterwards… afterwards we've much to discuss."
You took his arm because there was no choice, and as you walked through the streets of King's Landing, with the people bowing at the prince's passing — not from respect, but from fear — you felt his gaze upon you.
The rumour reached her ears through a trusted handmaiden, a whisper that made her blood boil and freeze all at once. King Maekar, in conversation with his son, had supposedly said that she'd grown weary of the local lands and customs, and would soon be returning home. But it was Aerion's reaction that set the court tongues wagging — the dragon had flown into a rage, bellowing at his father that she belonged to him. Not to another kingdom, not to another life — to him. Maekar, pragmatic and generous as he was, had supposedly just shrugged and reminded his son that she wasn't his. Not until the marriage was consummated. And it wasn't.
Aerion fell silent then, because in that moment, he understood; even married to her, even with her name inscribed beside his in the parchments of the Seven Kingdoms, she still wasn't his. Not the way he wanted. Not completely.
And you? You desired him. You desired him to look at you again like he did that first night, when his eyes burned your skin before any touch. You desired him to touch you, to finally slide his hands where they'd never been, to murmur your name against your neck as the night swallowed the room. You desired him to take you. To claim you.
But Aerion was cruel. He could smell your desire like smoke. He saw the way your body changed when he entered a room, how your breath caught, how that wetness gathered between your legs where no one else could see. And he delighted in it. In your exposed hunger, in the power of keeping you on the edge, in the knowledge that you waited… waited like a virgin wife who was no longer virgin in thought.
He knew you wanted him and so, he waited for you to beg.
When he returned to the chambers, the door closed with a thud that made you startle as you brushed your hair before the window. You felt his gaze before you saw him; he watched the golden robe you wore, slipped over your shoulders and you knew it wasn't yours. You'd taken it from his clothes, from those he'd brought from Lys, and the fabric held not just his scent, but the audacity of your gesture. Provocation or necessity, you no longer knew.
He sat down. The chair creaked as he leaned back, and you stayed there, turned away, your fingers pretending to fuss with your hair. But your eyes, in the window's reflection, devoured his every movement. You saw when he took a grape, deliberately. You saw when he brought it to his lips and bit. And he admired you.
Aerion bit another grape slowly, and you heard the wet sound, imagined his tongue gathering the juice from his own fingers.
"Come here." His voice broke the silence, but it wasn't a request. It never was.
Your fingers stopped in mid-air. The comb slipped, falling on the stone floor with a clink that echoed louder than it should have. You turned, slowly, and he was still there, reclined in the chair as if all the world could wait. His legs slightly apart, his free hand resting on his thigh, his eyes devouring you from head to toe and climbing back up, slower still the second time.
Because the shift you wore was thin. Diaphanous. Almost transparent in the room's half-light, but cruelly revealing where the hearth's light danced over your body. The fabric, a thread of pale silk that barely deserved the name of clothing, clung to you like a second skin, and the orange glow of the flames outlined every curve.
Your breasts, round and full, were warm from the hearth's heat, and the flush spreading across your skin was from desire. Your nipples hardened under his gaze, marking the silk with two dark buds that seemed to beg for — no, demand — his mouth. You saw when his gaze fixed there, when his jaw tightened, when the fingers on his thigh squeezed slightly.
He said nothing. But the hand that had rested idle began a slow, almost distracted movement, his fingers tracing circles on the cloth of his breeches. Beneath the dark fabric, something stirred. Hardened. And he made no effort to hide it, to disguise it — on the contrary, he shifted in the chair, his legs opening a little more, as if offering you the view, as if to say: do you see what you do to me? Do you see what you want?
You swallowed hard. Saliva scratched down your throat, because your mouth was dry, because your whole body was a single point of heat concentrated between your legs. The shift, too thin, hid nothing and you knew he saw. Saw the dark of your nipples, saw the tremor of your breath, saw likely the contour of your hips, your belly, and further down, where the triangle began to show beneath the silk, because the shift was short, because the fabric rode up when you moved, because he had commanded you to come and you had come to him and now you stood there, exposed, offered, devoured.
His eyes travelled down. Slowly. Following the line of your neck, the valley between your breasts, the curve of your waist, the parting of your legs — because you, without realising, had slightly spread your feet, as if your body already knew what your mouth dared not ask.
"I won't ask again," he said, his voice like velvet rasping over goosebumped skin.
You took a step. Then another. The distance between you shrank, and now you could see his eyes up close, their violet almost melted by the darkness of his dilated pupils. You could see his hand, still on his thigh, his fingers so close to the bulge pushing against his breeches.
"Closer."
One more step and you were between his legs now. His breath warmed the silk over your belly, and you could smell him, that strange perfume from Lys still on his clothes, the heat of his body, the almost solid desire that emanated from him like smoke.
Aerion raised his hand and his fingers touched the hem of your shift, brushing the bare skin of your thigh, and you trembled, but he didn't move higher. He stayed there, tracing slow circles on the inside of your thigh, each circle closer, each circle higher, until his fingers were a hair's breadth from where the silk was damp, where the heat seemed most intense.
"You're wet," he said. It wasn't a question.
You closed your eyes. Shame and desire twisted in your chest in a knot so tight it hurt.
"Look at me."
You looked.
"Say it."
"Yes," you whispered. "I am."
He smiled again, but the smile died quickly, replaced by something deeper, darker. His fingers finally moved higher, pushed the silk aside, found the wet heat of your cunt, the soft, open flesh, and you moaned — a small, hoarse sound that seemed to come from somewhere very deep.
He didn't touch you as you expected, just ran one finger, slowly, gathering the moisture, bringing it to his mouth afterwards, his eyes fixed on yours as he tasted.
"Sweet," he murmured. "Mine."
His fingers, still gleaming with your wetness and the saliva from his mouth, closed slowly, as if saving for later the taste his mouth had already known.
"Do you want something?" The question came sweet, almost mocking, and you knew he already knew the answer.
You swallowed hard.
"Yes."
He smiled, not with his whole mouth, just one corner, a half-smile that made your belly clench.
"What do you want?"
Bastard. He knew. He knew and wanted to hear, wanted you to confess, to humiliate yourself in your own need. You wanted him to take you. To fill you. To do what no words on marriage parchments could... mark you inside, fill you with his seed, make you his in a way no king could undo.
"I want you to touch me," you whispered.
He laughed softly, a sound that vibrated in his chest and echoed in your belly.
"I've already touched you... you want more."
It wasn't a question, it was an accusation, a provocation, the taut rope between what you dared ask and what he demanded to hear.
"Yes," the word escaped like a moan. "I want more."
His hand moved then, not to your body, but to his own lap. His fingers slid over his breeches, over the bulge that grew there, hard, hot, almost aggressive beneath the dark cloth. He squeezed, slowly, and you saw his jaw tighten, saw his head tilt back for an instant, his eyes closed.
"Do you see what you do?" he murmured, his eyes opening again, locking onto yours. "Do you see what you do to me, little whore?"
The name pierced you and you shuddered, your hands clenching at your sides, your nipples so hard they hurt against the thin silk.
"I see," you whispered.
"And do you want it?"
"I want to feel it inside me. I want to feel every vein, every pulse, every drop that comes from there. I want you to fuck me until I forget my own name, until I only know how to say yours," you replied, your knuckles white, trying to strip yourself of all dignity.
He stood then — the chair scraped back, pushed away — and suddenly he was before you, his free hand gripping your nape, pulling you close until your face was a handspan from his.
"Is that really what you want? For me to fuck you like a bitch? To mount you until you're completely wrecked, full of me, dripping my seed wherever you walk?"
"Yes," you answered without hesitation, your eyes fixed on his. "I want that and more. I want you to fill me so much I get pregnant the first time. I want to walk through this castle with your seed inside me, with your get in my womb."
His hand tightened on your nape, his fingers digging into your skin.
"Then beg. Beg as you should. Beg like the whore you are, who spends the night soaking the silk for me, who wears my clothes, who burns in my absence."
His hand moved down, found the thin strap of your shift on your shoulder, pushed it down. The silk gave way, slid, freeing one breast, the red, hard nipple meeting the cool air of the room. He looked, lingered, but didn't touch.
His hand moved down, found the thin strap of your shift on your shoulder, pushed it down. The silk gave way, slid, freeing one breast, the red, hard nipple meeting the cool air of the room. He looked, lingered, but didn't touch.
"Beg."
You opened your mouth and the words were there, all of them, dirty and sweet and desperate.
"I want you to fuck me. To claim me. To fill me with your seed until it runs down my legs, until there's no doubt in anyone's mind who I belong to, who possessed me, who made me his."
His eyes burned, burned so much you could almost feel the heat in his pupils.
"I'm going to fuck you against these walls until you can't stand. I'm going to fill you so much you'll dream of my seed. And tomorrow night I'll want you again. And again. And again. Until I'm certain it's done."
"Then do it," you challenged, your hands moving down, finding his breeches, undoing his belt with agile, impatient fingers. "Do it. Fill me. Put your heir in me. Show this whole damn kingdom that I'm yours and you're mine."
He pushed you against the wall — you felt the cold stone on your back, his heat in front — and then his breeches fell and he was naked, hard, enormous, the tip of his cock already wet, brushing your thigh.
"Look," he commanded.
And you looked down. You saw his cock, thick, long, the tip red and glistening, veins pulsing beneath stretched skin. You saw and your mouth watered, your hands moving down, wanting to touch, wanting to feel.
"It's beautiful," you murmured. "It's mine."
His hand found your cunt, his fingers parted your lips, felt the heat, the wetness, the opening that dripped, begging for him, throbbing indecently.
"This is how you beg," Aerion murmured, and finally his mouth descended on your breast.
The shock of wet heat against sensitive skin made your legs weaken. He bit, pulled, sucked with a hunger that seemed to come from somewhere very deep, while his hands tore at the thin silk, pushed away what remained of your shift, left you naked before him, before the hearth, before everything.
When his mouth released your breast, the nipple was red, throbbing, marked by his teeth. He looked, satisfied, and then his hands gripped your hips, pulled you against his body, and you felt his hard cock pressing against your belly.
"I won't be gentle," he warned, whispering in your ear. "I won't be sweet. I'll fuck you until you forget your own name, until you only know how to say mine. I'll fill you so much you'll feel my seed inside you for days. You'll walk through this Keep with your legs apart, dripping, and everyone will know."
You moaned, a loud, lost sound, as his hands turned you, pushed you against the nearest wall. Aerion brought his cock near your cunt and you saw; your whole body responded, a spasm that made more fluids run, that made your cunt open, empty, starving.
"Is this what you want?"
"Yes," you moaned. "Fill me, make me yours, fuck me until I can't walk..."
He lifted one of your legs, aligned his cockhead with your soaked cunt and pushed.
The moan that came from you was primal, animalistic, because he was big, because he filled you, because every inch that entered seemed to open a path to somewhere no one had ever been. He pushed more, more, until his hips met yours, until he was completely inside, so deep you felt your heart beating in your throat, in your eyes, in every pore.
"Deeper," you begged, whimpering. "Fill me completely. I want to feel you in my throat."
He buried himself deeper, his hips flush against yours. You wanted him to move, to fuck you, to fill you, to fulfil every damn word he'd spoken.
"Move," you begged. "Please, Aerion, move, fuck me, I want to feel..."
He moved with a slow, deep thrust that made lights explode behind your eyes. Then another. Then faster, harder, his hips slapping against yours, the wet sound of bodies meeting filling the room along with moans, curses, the filthy words he murmured in your ear.
"You're mine, sweetling. Mine. This cunt is mine, this arse is mine, this womb is mine. And I'll fill it. I'll fill you so much you'll get pregnant tonight, you'll have my child inside you, you'll walk around heavy, full of me, and everyone will know it was you who managed to tame the dragon, and when this one's born, I'll fuck you as many more times just to carry other children, isn't that what you want?"
"Y... yes," you moaned, your eyes rolling back.
The thrusts were fast now, desperate. You felt his cock sinking into your cunt, every inch, every time he buried himself to the hilt and seemed to touch your soul. Your legs faltered, but his hands held you, supported you, fucked you against the wall like you were a doll, like your body's only purpose was to receive that cock, that seed, that essence.
"I'm going to come," he warned, his voice a snarl. "I'm going to come and I want you to feel everything. I want every drop to go inside you, to swim, to find your egg and fertilise it. I want to see your belly grow. I want to see you birth my children. I want you to be the mother of my dragons."
"Yes," you screamed. "Yes, fill me, Aerion, make me yours, give me your seed, I want it all..."
He thrust one last time, deep, so deep it hurt, and then you felt it. You felt the first spurt, hot, thick, jetting inside you as if it would never end. Then another. Another. He trembled all over, roaring against your neck, while his seed spilled, filled, overflowed at the edges where your bodies met.
And you came too. Your whole body a spasm, your nails raking his back, your mouth open in a silent scream as your inner walls clenched, gripped, sucked every drop of that hot seed inside, deeper, to the very place where life began.
When he stopped spurting, he stayed inside you, still hard, still trembling. And you smiled, exhausted, empty, full, as you felt his seed running down your leg and his cock hardening again inside you.
"How long have you waited for this?" he asked, brushing your entrance. "How many moons have you knelt before me?"
"Many," you whispered, pushing back the hair that stuck to your face. "Many moons. Many nights."
"And what do you want, wife? Tell me again."
"I want your child," the words escaped in a single breath, as if you said it all at once. "I want to be the mother of your children, Aerion."
"You will be. I'll plant my heir in your womb and then I'll plant another, and another, until your body can no longer hide what we've done."
His hands found your face, and he grabbed you.
"You want to be the mother of my children? You want everyone at court to see your belly grow and know it was me who filled you?"
"Yes," you answered, and the word was a moan. "Yes, my prince."
Aerion kept moving inside you, prolonging your pleasure, taking you to higher and higher peaks.
"Now," he said when he felt you were ready again. "Now I'll fill you again. I'll give you everything you asked for."
His thrusts grew deeper, more urgent. And when you felt another spurt of his seed inside you, when you felt the heat spread through your entrails, a new orgasm took you, even more intense than the first.
He kept spilling inside you for a long time, each pulse a promise kept. And when he finally quieted, when his weight on you was a blessing instead of a burden, he kissed your forehead with a tenderness you didn't know existed in him.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured, still inside you. "Tonight I'll fill you as many times as I can. And tomorrow we'll do it again. And the day after. Until there's no doubt."
And he kept his word.
That night, he took you more times than you could count. In every position you'd imagined, in every way you'd dreamed. And each time, when he reached his end, he spilled inside you with a moan that echoed your own pleasure.
"I want to see you heavy with my child," he said the fourth time, when he had you on all fours, buried deep inside you. "I want to see your breasts swell, your belly grow. I want to feel your body change because of me."
"You will," you promised, arching back against him. "I'll give you many children. As many as you want."
"All of them," he agreed, quickening his pace. "I'll fill you so many times you'll lose count. You'll be the most fertile wife in the Seven Kingdoms."
His hands found your face, and he slapped you — a sharp, dry crack that made your head turn and your skin sting, but you smiled. His smile widened when he saw the gleam in your eyes, the way you tilted your face back, offering the other cheek.
"You want to be the mother of my dragons?" he repeated, and his hand came again, harder, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "You want everyone at court to see your belly swell and know it was me who filled you?"
"Yes," you answered, and the word was a moan, your eyes brimming but fixed on his. "Yes, my prince. I want everyone to know I'm your whore, your wife, the mother of your dragons."
He spat in your face and the warm liquid ran down your cheek, mixing with the tears that had already begun to fall, and you moaned, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer.
"You're a bitch in heat," he murmured, his voice thick, his hips beginning a slow, deep movement that made his seed spill even more, that soaked the bed beneath you. "A bitch who only wants cock, only wants seed, only wants to be mounted by a dragon until she can't take any more."
"I am," you confessed, your voice breaking between sobs and moans. "Ride me like a dragon, make me drip..."
He spat again, and then his hands found your breasts, squeezing, twisting your nipples until they tore a scream from you — pain and pleasure mingled, confused, you no longer knew where one began and the other ended.
"Quiet!" he ordered, and his hand came again, another slap, and another, and you felt your face sting, the hot tears falling, but you didn't shut up, you didn't want to be silent, you wanted everyone to hear, everyone to know.
"I can't," you whimpered, your voice loud, uncontrolled. "I can't be silent when you fuck me like this, when you're so deep, when you're so big..."
He covered your mouth with his hand, his fingers pressing, almost suffocating, while his thrusts grew stronger, more brutal, the bed banging against the wall in a rhythm that must have been echoing through every corridor.
"You want them to hear?" he snarled in your ear, his hand still covering your mouth. "You want the whole bloody court to hear how the princess moans? How the princess cries? How the princess begs for more cock?"
You nodded, your eyes wide, tears and spit running down your face, and he laughed, a cruel, delighted sound.
"Then scream," he said, removing his hand. "Scream like the whore you are. Scream so everyone hears who you belong to."
And you screamed. When he thrust deep again, when you felt his cock pulse inside your cunt, ready to spurt again, you screamed his name, loud, desperate, a sound that wasn't human, that was pure instinct, pure hunger, pure need.
"Aerion! Aerion, fuck me, fill me, give it to me, give it to me, give—"
The spurt came before you finished the sentence. Hot, violent, jetting as if he were breathing fire inside you. Then another. Another. And you came with him, your body arched, your nails raking his back, your mouth open in a scream that must have woken half the castle.
He kept pumping, each thrust making his seed run, spread, soak your thighs, the sheets, everything. And when he finally stopped, when he lay still inside you, gasping, you felt the hot seed running, dripping, forming a puddle beneath you.
But he didn't pull out. He stayed there, still hard, pulsing inside you.
"More," you whispered, your voice hoarse from screaming. "More, Aerion."
He looked at you and saw your face swollen from crying, the marks from his slaps, the dried spit, your eyes red but bright with desire. And he smiled.
"You'll have it," he promised, and began to move again. "You'll have it until dawn. Until you can't take any more. Until you only know how to say my name."
He took you more times than you could count, in every position you'd imagined, in every way you'd dreamed. On your belly, your face buried in the pillows while he fucked you from behind and pulled your hair, wrenching screams from you that you muffled in the bedclothes. Riding him, his hands on your hips guiding the rhythm, squeezing until they left purple marks. Against the wall, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies slipping with sweat and seed that covered you like a second skin.
Each time, when he reached his end, he spilled himself inside you with a groan that echoed your own pleasure. And each time, you begged for more, wept for more, screamed for more.
"I want to see you heavy with my son," he said, when he had you on all fours, buried deep inside you, one hand tangled in your hair pulling your head back while the other slapped your arse, leaving the skin red and hot. "I want to see your breasts swell, your belly grow."
Aerion smiled, quickening his pace, his thrusts so strong you no longer had strength to hold yourself up — you collapsed onto the bed and he continued, mounted on you, fucking you like an animal. By the seventh time, you could no longer speak, only hoarse moans, silent tears, your body aching but hungry, always hungry. He laid you on your side, lifted your leg and entered again, slow, deep, and you felt every pulse.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured, his mouth at your ear. "Do you feel how hard I still am? How I still have seed to give you?"
You nodded, a sob caught in your throat.
"I'm going to come again," he warned.
"Please," you whispered, your voice thick with want. "Please, my prince, fill me again. Please don't stop. Never stop."
He groaned and thrust deep, one final time, and the seed spilled, hot, abundant, filling you once more, overflowing, running down your legs, mingling with everything already there. And when he finally quietened, when his body settled on yours like a dead weight, you still felt hunger. You still wanted more.
"Tomorrow," you murmured, your eyes closing, consciousness slipping. "Tomorrow I want more."
He laughed, tired, and kissed the nape of your neck.
"Tomorrow," he promised. "And the day after."
The next morning, you woke wrapped in his arms, with his cock still inside you — he'd stayed there all night, as if afraid the child might escape if he parted from you.
"You're still empty," he murmured, moving slowly inside you when he noticed you were awake. "I still need to fill you more."
And he filled you. And filled you. And filled you.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of pleasure and exhaustion. Aerion rarely left you, and when he did, it was only to fetch food or wine, to strengthen you for the next attempt. Your body ached in ways you'd never imagined, but each ache was a reminder of what you were doing, what you were creating.
"You're fuller today," he observed on the third day, his hand resting on your still-flat belly. "Or is it my imagination?"
"It can't be that quick," you laughed, but your heart leaped at the possibility.
"It can. We're dragon's blood… we do everything quicker."
On the fifth night, as he took you against the bedroom wall, your legs locked around his waist and your moans echoing off the stones, something changed. He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide.
"Do you feel it?" he asked, and his voice sounded strange.
"What?"
His hand moved down to your belly, pressing gently.
"There's something different."
You looked down, to where his hand touched, and for the first time you noticed a small protuberance, almost imperceptible, but there. A curve where there'd been flatness before.
"It can't be," you whispered. "It's too soon."
"I told you," he murmured, and there was triumph in his voice. "Dragon's blood."
He withdrew from you carefully and carried you to the bed, laying you on your back. His eyes never left your belly, his hand settling again on that small curve.
"My son," he murmured. "My heir... my seed growing inside you."
"Our son," you corrected, as you had so many moons ago.
This time, he didn't argue. This time, he simply nodded.
"That should have solved the problem," he said with a light laugh, his hand rubbing your belly gently. "Now you already have a child of mine."
You nodded, smiling, exhausted. He'd fucked the life into you trying to put one inside you, and they'd been the best nights of your life — nights that would soon repeat themselves.
Ი𐑼 . . . - continue on to my…. main masterlist ❜❜
۶ৎ sweethearts I hope this pleased whoever suggested it on ask, because it certainly pleased me heheh I hope everyone enjoyed it. Send me more reqs/prompts, and I also accept tips on my ko-fi.
✧Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader x Aegon II Targaryen
✧Rating: +18 mdni explicit
✧word count: 3.1k
✧gif credit: aegon ✧ aemond
-ˋˏsummary: Dragons are greedy, and both of your brothers have perverted desires that you take no issue on entertaining.
✧Warnings: : MDNI 18+, mummy kink, lactation kink, breastfeeding, threesome (f/m/m), aegond, targcest, polyamory, oral (f and m receiving), masturbation (f and m receiving), aegon is the most submissive to exist, switch!aemond.
✧ this is a part from @targaryen-dynasty 's 3k celebration ! check all the other works too, and as always a pleasure to participate with my silly things and congrats to her ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
✧ note: i added my own spice. it didn't say anything about aegond but i am... weak... #i tried
By no means had you known what being alone was like.
After Aemond, you were the fifth child of king Viserys to survive childhood. Daeron was your youngest by two years, and like your sister, you were dotted and cared for by your mother and father… unlike your brothers.
Your mother had a weird way to demonstrate affection to them, you always thought. With Aegon was non-existent, and Aemond had this burden to be the reliable sibling amongst them all.
When Aegon had to marry Helaena; you married Aemond. It was how the tradition dictates, and it was under your father’s wish, much to your mother’s dislike.
And just like Helaena, you recently had a daughter with Aemond, Rhaelle, who was the apple of his father’s eye. Yet, the only difference between your duty and Helaena’s is that she wasn’t the one who had to take care of Aegon. Instead, you took care of Aegon’s whims, alongside your husband’s.
Aegon was greedy, whiny and clingy. He searched you whenever he wanted, following you around like a puppy for your attention. Whereas Aemond was quiet, reserved and embarrassed, but not less greedy. He often wanted comfort, praise for his action and the reassurance that he was doing no wrong in his desires.
Both of them accepted the other, in a quiet agreement. You were a petulant person, and if you wanted, they knew this, all of it, would be over. So they shut up their differences for the sake of it.
Aegon was curled by your right side, lying on the bed of your chambers. Post coital bliss at its finest, as he was slightly sleepy, and even a bit grumpy when bothered. It had been some cold days, but the fire made it more bearable, and it gave some sense of cosiness to both. He was just resting, a bit sleepy, his head on your stomach as you read some silly book about Valyrian fashion, as his legs were pressed against your shoulder, as you slowly caressed his leg, soothing him like that.
You hear his soft yawn, as the laziness of the evening consumes you both as you are cuddled against the other for the warm. As Aegon draws slowly patterns upon the lower part of your chest, you feel the door of the chambers opening knowing it was your husband
You lower your book, caressing Aegon’s heel and calf, as you look at Aemond, walking closer to the bed as he makes a slight face at seeing Aegon here, as if he wanted you all for himself. He takes his boots quickly, moving to take off his leather jerkin.
“Hi” You say, softly, and he hums. You can see it in the slight frown on his face.
Aegon stirs a hit, not greeting Aemond as he sits on the bed, closer to you. Like a lazy cat, he yawns, and you feel his muscles stretching a bit.
“Did you tuck Rhaelle?” Aemond asks, his shoulders tensed up as he takes off his eye patch and loses up his hair. He was tired, you could see.
“Yes, she is sleeping in the nursery…” You say softly, looking at him. “What is it?” You ask, seeing how Aemond wants something, yet he doesn’t know how to say it, looking at you a bit unsure.
“Mummy” He whines softly, frowning as his tone was a bit sheepishly, sitting closer to you, by your left side.
You press your lips together, looking at him as he seems so vulnerable, and tired, for whatever reason he probably will tell you later. Aegon nuzzles your stomach, his interest piqued on Aemond’s word, because if it involves Aemond, it will involve him as well.
The unspoken words between you and Aemond are no obstacle to knowing what he wants. You know your brothers, surely, but Aemond was different. Aemond was your husband, and you knew him like the palm of your hand.
Aemond nods shyly, as if agreeing with the thought on your mind, and he scoots closer once you sit better on the bed, leaning back properly on the pillows. Your nightgown is easy to untie at the front, more so when you are lactating and need an easy way to open the dress. Rhaelle would fuss and wail her little lungs out, so your clothes were always easy to undo.
Now, if Rhaelle’s father and uncle enjoy the same, is another thing.
You undo the laces in the front of your dress, and you know how Aegon reincorporates to sit, suddenly all woken up and interested in this. The dress is pure cotton, and it is comfortable to wear. You pull the fabric out of the way, and with their gazes following your each movement, you know it is a matter of time for them to hungrily latch onto you.
Aegon curls up to your right side, whereas Aemond does the same on your left. He always preferred your left, since the blind spot faces Aegon, so he doesn’t have to bear seeing him too. Aegon is much more shameless, clinging to you and moving his hips softly against your right side.
You feel both men getting closer, and their breaths hit your nipples as they nuzzle your blossom, in hopes of sucking hungrily.
“Aegon…” you say softly as he was growing impatient, moving a bit as he pressed his face closer to your breast, restless and eager.
Aemond is never restless; he stayed still as he loved, caring. He always pressed faint kisses, around your tits, before suckling calmly. His left arm always found its way to wrap your waist, keeping you close to him as he delighted himself with soothing milk.
Instead, Aegon immediately latched onto your breast, suckling and trying to get all the milk he could, eagerly as he always seemed relentless, always craving more and more. He’d watch you with bright, purple eyes as he craved for your attention.
You comb their hair with your fingers, kiss the top of their heads and rub their back. They were your older brothers, but behaved like hungry little kittens that needed their milk.
Always was a bit strange, as they weren’t always amicable. It took a long time, for Aemond, at least, to join in. It was mainly due to the fact that Aegon rarely left you alone, even if you were Aemond’s wife. Little by little, they learned how to warm up to each other, and sometimes to your request, they’ll kiss.
The suckling sounds are loud, almost obscene, as you feel both swallow each drop from your leaking milk. Aemond had probably been tasting it since the end of your pregnancy, yet it didn’t tire him at all. And Aegon? He was always hungry, and he suckled and his tongue lapped your breast, milking more and more.
You can feel how they swallow the milk, both eager. Aemond has a hand around your waist, as Aegon has his hand around your breast and squeezes it slightly as if to have more.
“Mummy” Aegon murmurs, pulling back as he looks at you, and he has wide purple eyes “are we being good?”
The reassurance is a must, you realise with time. “Yes, baby. You both are my good boys” you murmur, caressing the top of their head “Both of you, my best boys…”
They delight themselves in the praise; you hear Aemond’s faint moans, as you feel his body at ease. You caress the back of his head, feeling the loose hairs on your fingers.
It always made you feel the arousal settle in the lower part of your belly, and feeling so turned on you had to press your thighs together a bit. Aemond loved when your breast grew larger, and full of milk. Aegon was not behind that feeling, as he was the one to propose the idea to ‘help you with the heaviness of them’.
Aegon gulps on the milk like a glutton, and his eyes are closed in the delight of nursing. You feel his cock hardening little by little by your side. Aemond instead, looks at you. His eye is deep and intense, watching your face as his mouth is still working on your nipple, his tongue pressing against the nub getting more milk. His hand on your waist loosens up slightly, slowly moving down all the way to your stomach, and little by little, makes its way to your centre.
Aegon is oblivious to that, as he suckles and slurps loudly, with not a care for the world, nipping and licking all of the sweet milk that your breast can produce. He whines a bit, scooping closer and closer as he tries to get more and more.
“Doing such a good job for mummy, darlings…” You say to both, as you feel Aemond’s hand almost innocently brushing against your womanhood. “So good…” You murmur dreamily, sighing as Aegon nuzzles his face closer to your right breast, his nose brushing the skin as his mouth slightly presses a bit harder, eager for more.
They could feel you moving under their touch, almost possessive as they fed from you, keeping you right there at their mercy. The sound of your praise stirred something in both of them, yearning more of your affections, more of mummy’s affections.
Aemond is the first one to pull away from your breast, beginning to shift as his body moves higher, his mouth kissing all the way up to kiss you in the lips. You hum, feeling the taste of your own milk on his lips.
“Mummy” Aegon protests, not wanting to be left out as always, as he pulls away from your breast, an obscene sound from it as he moves his head to nuzzle your cheek, kissing lazily to keep on worshipping your body.
Aware of how his hand was still between your legs, Aemond pressed it harder against your core, rubbing more firmly. As if wanting to draw more sounds from you, Aegon moves his hand to grope softly, carefully your breast, not wanting to leave a part from you unattended.
“You are such good boys for me, always wanting to please me, hm?” You say, panting a bit from how good your husband's hands on your pussy feels.
“Yes mummy” Aemond murmurs, and Aegon nods in agreement.
It’s as if Aemond knows your thoughts, because he turns to watch Aegon, moving slightly his other hand to place it on the back of his neck, pulling Aegon closer to share a slow, yet passionate kiss between both of them.
They could feel the milky taste in the other’s mouth, and you could see how their tongues crashed against each other, making it as sloppy as possible as they made out for quite some time, as Aemond’s fingers tried to pry into your clit and pussy.
You know that at the beginning it was more to put on a show for you, for your delight that they agreed to do as well. If they enjoyed it, you could never know. But now it’s different, watching how they hungrily seek each other’s mouth, and if one tries to pull away, the other is quick to lean, following their mouth to keep on kissing.
It’s hot, to say the least, and it makes wonders for your arousal to see both of them kiss like this. You think, for a moment, if you could maybe propose the idea for them to follow this lust for each other further. Maybe for another occasion.
As Aemond’s lips move to kiss Aegon’s neck, you see how your baby seems so aroused, you could always see it clearly with Aegon, how his cheeks turned pinker and he had that blissful expression. You feel Aemond’s hand moving away from your core, and before you could ask anything, they both pulled away from each other.
Aemond probably murmured something in Aegon's ear, because they shared a look before the eldest slowly turned to you.
“Mummy, can we please you…? We wanna taste your pussy… please…” he asked, and you see how Aemond looks at you, awaiting your answer, as his hand caresses your thigh softly.
You caress Aegon’s thigh softly, as they both almost look at you with puppy eyes.
“Yes, my darlings. Please mummy with your mouths”
It does not take them long to accommodate between your legs, Aemond presses one hand to your left leg, keeping it still. Aegon does not bother to do the same for your left thigh, as he has other priorities.
You feel Aegon’s mouth first, his tongue tracing along her slit. Aemond moves his hand to the back of Aegon’s head, pushing his mouth further into your cunt, as the eldest savours your wetness. And at the sound of your moans, he doubles his efforts.
Then it’s Aegon who pulls your husband’s face down to join his mouth, both of them licking and sucking your wet cunt. You can see both of them, their cheeks pressed together as they pleasure you with their mouths at the same time, licking and slurping in unison.
“Fuck, f-fuck, gods…” you moan, your hips moving closer, grinding against his tongues, grabbing Aegon’s hair, short and easy to grab (unlike Aemond’s)
Aegon seems delighted at that, and you feel his tongue darting out to suck your clit eagerly, and you feel your jaw moving at the motion, and he whimpers with need. Aemond is, as always, focused as he slurps and sucks on her entrance, obscene sounds fill the room as his expert mouth works on you.
They both clearly relish both the taste and the privilege of having their faces buried between your thighs, moving to please you, and their tongues crashing together as they do so.
“Mummy, you taste so good” you don’t even recognise the sound, the sound muffled by the little space between his mouth and your folds.
“Fuck, so good…” the other agrees, and your legs tremble, as your hips try to get more and more of their wicked tongues.
Aegon is the one whining, you know that. As you pull his hair, you see his needy eyes looking at you. You press your heel on his back, as if pushing him closer to your cunt. He moans, closing his eyes as he goes back to feasting on your pussy.
Aemond moved to your clit now, and you can see how the sapphire glints on the dim lights. You imagine that both of their cocks are rock hard, throbbing impatiently.
Maybe it’s Aegon or Aemond (maybe both) the one who drools, while the muffled moans still come and go. You, on your side, are a mess, as you try to keep both of them close to you, feeling Aemond’s hand caressing your breast. Your pussy can’t take longer, and your hips grind against both of their faces, as you roll your eyes back and lean your head back in the pillows, as you feel your orgasm so close.
“Fuck, babies, so good for mummy, fuck…” you mean it, moaning loudly as you feel them whimper.
“Wanna make you cum so hard, mummy…” Aegon’s raspy voice is a bit clearer, as you clench on his hair.
“Hmmmm” Aemond hums, not separating one bit from your cunt.
As you start cumming, both of them press their mouth against your pussy, wanting to taste your cum as they try to be the one to get more. You are cumming hard, and their greedy tongues only fuel your orgasm even more.
Feeling your pussy quivering and pulsing around their tongues it's probably one of their favourite things, along with the rest of you. The feeling of your creamy juices made them greedy, and they share it all
Their faces are shiny with your arousal, and even when you retreat, they lick their lips as if wanting more. You can’t exactly see in the faces of your brother’s what they are thinking, but you feel tired to think about anything but the great orgasm you just had.
You are not exactly sure who started the kiss, but it's messy and sloppy, as you see their tongues sharing the last tastes of your cum, as their hands clenched to the other to keep him close, and keep on the passionate kiss.
It’s Aemond who groans, Aegon pressing his body to his, almost humping his cock to any part of your husband’s skin, who holds him close, one hand on his jaw and the other moving down to the eldest hips.
You move a bit, sitting better on the bed, yet your back still leans on the pillows, body relaxed as you accommodate to watch them devour each other as one does sit to watch men fighting in a tourney. But both of them were involved in different practices, which was a show for you to see and most importantly- enjoy.
You can see their tongues pressing together, their heads moving to not break the sloppy kiss, messy and passionate. They surely are doing this out of passion and lust, rather than rational thought, but you are not complaining.
Aegon’s hand comes to caress the firm abdomen of Aemond, like you enjoy doing. Your husband is a creature of many sides, and he can be as submissive as he can be dominant. He moves the hand on Aegon’s hip to grip his short hair, and keeps him in place to keep on kissing him.
“Aem… mummy” Aegon’s little whines come in a low tone, and a bit slurred, as Aemond does not give his mouth a break.
It takes you a while to notice that Aegon is using his hand to stroke Aemond’s cock, using the side of his thigh to hump and grind his own cock. He was needy, but he was too much of a needy baby to fight for dominance. Aegon relished on being submissive, either with you, or Aemond.
Aemond breaks their kiss, his head falling back to pant, groaning slightly as Aegon uses his hand on his cock. You know Aegon is the most lustful creature since he discovered pleasure, and he was always good with his hands.
“Mummy…” Aegon whines, wanting you to help him with his cock, and you move on your knees closer to where they were having this exchange of pleasure, because both of them wanted to cum very badly.
Your hands on Aegon’s cock make him go weak, whimpering as he leans closer to Aemond, moving his lips down on his body, his abdomen and the tip of his cock.
“Good boys, hm? You both are such good boys for mummy, pleasuring yourselves…” You say, that sweet tone of yours makes Aemond’s arousal explode.
“Fuck-” Aemond mutters, groaning and whimpering as he cums one of his hands moving to grip your shoulder, and as your hands stroke the eldest’s cock, your hand over stimulating movements on his cockhead, as if trying to replicate his tongue movements on Aemond’s tip.
Aegon is greedy, and he whimpers, still pleasuring Aemond, his hips bucking on your hand, as his own orgasm hits hard. Aemond is the one holding him, as your baby’s orgasm hits him hard, trying not to fall on the bed, panting loudly and whimpering.
He makes a little sound when you kiss him, wanting to taste Aemond’s cum on his tongue. It was delightful, and you feel his body melting on your touch. You feel how your other brother moves to caress the back of your head, nuzzling your shoulder and kissing it tenderly.
just a comprehensive list because it was too many to put in my account descriptor !! none of these works belong to me and i do not intend them to be seen that way, i merely admire them and wish to praise them for other people to see!! if any authors want me to take their works off the list i obviously would asap with full respect and credit to them!!
wizarding world:
the salt and the sea, mannakell.
dirty old town, mannakell.
the boy who had no choice & the girl who lost it all, nyx-malfoy,
the sweetest con, nyx-malfoy.
how to be a heartbreaker, alishawrites.
training wheels, alishawrites.
the girl who lived, missingn0te.
philophobia, iloveseattleellie.
bloodshed, 90sgore.
forced, gisadu.
strange benefits by hesvngrs.
joelle, dracoandfredownme.
house of the dragon:
every single work by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew
↳ my favourites are 1968, north to the future (for aegon), comet donati and napoleonville (for aemond).
they say i killed you (haunt me then) by foxinthegodswood.
sonnenblumen by slaginsecret.
cold front by eggfruit.
we’ll forever have the scars by reireichu.
the god of wine and rainbow lamps and burning jasmine by @daisypreaker
the golds and lavender's blue, lavender's green by @presidenthades
i kept you like an oath by @fkevin073
the last of the dragons , under the god's eye and fire and water by @undertheorangetree
anything by @sapphire-writes
The list received a makeover. There is no longer a second one. All is here, in one place.
I don't give permission to others to use my original ideas for their works (that includes any form of art). I also don't give permission for my work to be copied or translated into another language and posted somewhere else. This also applies to anything regarding an AI. You have been warned.
You can buy my original book here.
Requests are CLOSED FOREVER! Please stop sending them to me!
Aegon II Targaryen
Helaena Targaryen
Aemond Targaryen
Daeron Targaryen
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Jacaerys Velaryon
Daemon Targaryen
Baela Targaryen
Otto Hightower
Gwayne Hightower
Alicent Hightower
Cregan Stark
Harwin Strong
Criston Cole
Jason Lannister
Tyland Lannister
Jason and Tyland Lannister - The Golden Court
Davos Blackwood
The List Of My ASOIAF Reader Inserts Works:
Oberyn Martell
Aerys II Targaryen
Rhaegar Targaryen
Daenerys Targaryen
Grey Worm
Arthur Dayne
Robb Stark
Sansa Stark
Arya Stark
Jon Snow
Edmure Tully
Euron Greyjoy
Theon Greyjoy
Margaery Tyrell
Tywin Lannister
Cersei Lannister
Jaime Lannister
Tyrion Lannister
Robert Baratheon
Eddard Stark
Brandon Stark (The Wild Wolf)
Lyanna Stark
Roose Bolton
Ramsay Bolton
Jojen Reed
Petyr Baelish
Jaqen H'ghar
Sandor Clegane
Khal Drogo
Ser Bronn of the Blackwater
Beric Dondarrion
Styr the Thenn
Oswell Whent
Ser Duncan the Tall - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary ♢ While touring the Seven Kingdom, Prince Aegon meets his intended, Aryana of House Stark. While he expected an austere woman, he instead finds a fiery young lady with an unexpected affinity for dragons. However, he isn’t the only Targaryen prince to take an interest in her…
“Mortals may age, but the gods are prisoners of their own infantile whimsies, never capable of change and never knowing what it is to love because they dare not risk the suffering of loss.”
― Jennifer Saint, Ariadne
Chapter 1 ♢ The Heart of a Prince
3,705 words
Chapter 2 ♢ The Godswood
4,065 words
Chapter 3 ♢ The Hunt
4,060 words
Chapter 4 ♢ Sunfyre the Golden
4,275 words
Chapter 5 ♢ The Dragon Princes
4,530 words
Chapter 6 ♢ The Fire of Envy
4,260 words
Chapter 7 ♢ The Old Gods
4,320 words
Chapter 8 ♢ On the King's Road
4,275 words
Chapter 9 ♢ Riverrun
4,555 words
Chapter 10 ♢ Time For Young Men
3,680 words
Chapter 11 ♢ The Root of Jealousy
3,720 words
Chapter 12 ♢ Casterly Rock
4,860 words
Chapter 13 ♢ Fashioned for Love
5,015 words
In progress ♢ 13/20
Wordcount ♢ 55,705
Comment to be added to the taglist. Reblog to show love.
saw that you're in your got era so perhaps jealousy headcanons for the got or hotd characters? 👀 literally anyone from these characters - robb, jaime, margaery, oberyn, theon, cersei or ramsay, I'd love to see your interpretation on any of them ! ( or aemond, alicent, aegon, gwayne, OTTO !!, larys, daemon or mysaria for hotd, again whichever era you feel like it !!) and just for future reference, do you write for asoiaf characters or mainly the shows?
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; jealousy, and how some characters deal with it ;)
⋆ tags/warnings. GOT and HOTD!characters x female reader. SFW! But naturally, some of these characters get a bit suggestive! Possessive behavior, canon typical violence, etc. Please send in more GOT/HOTD requests! Apologies this took so long, this is more characters in a post than I've ever done lol. Unfortunately I'm not super familiar with Otto, Larys, Theon, or Mysaria, so I decided to pick some characters I'm more familiar with! (Joffrey is my #1 favorite of all time, my sincerest apologies.) Whew, 14 characters ! For right now I'm only writing for the TV shows! (i've only read book 1, lol)
𝑅𝛰𝐵𝐵 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐾
♫ “I wasn't thinking when I told you to stay.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
With Robb, it's all about the body language. And boy, he's horrible at hiding it.
He can have a hard time placing the feeling as jealousy. He was raised to be honorable. But feelings of...neglect run deep with him. Oldest child syndrome, if you will.
Which is why his jealousy most likely manifests in subdued, quiet behavior. Part of him will recognize he's being ridiculous, while another part of him is silently fuming. Fists clenched, he'll send you an intense stare as he watches you converse with another lord.
His emotions leak through his expressions. When he catches you staring back, his gaze will flit down, and he'll wait patiently for you're time. Or...in most cases...he'll march right up, placing himself between you and the man. Maybe a small, "I'll take it from here." If the lord is offering to help you with something.
A subtle touch on the small of your back. It's a small claim, a subtle "back-off."
A lot of his jealousy also transforms into protectiveness more than anything. He'll offer to accompany reader to places he wouldn't normally be concerned about. He's close by, and he's reminding her wordlessly, he's watching over her and any threat.
Finally, when you two are alone, will he drop down that guard of his. Covering up that burning pit inside him with casual humor, you can sense the underlaying seriousness of his voice in his light teases.
"You’re quite popular these days. Should I be worried that I’m not your only admirer?"
He certainly beds you, having something to prove. And only afterwards when you are in his arms, sweaty and warm from the candlelight, wrapped in furs...will he calm down.
"It’s not that I don’t trust you… It’s them I don’t trust. Some men don’t know how to keep their place." He'll whisper, holding onto you firmly.
𝐽𝐴𝐼𝑀𝐸 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅
♫ “You don't know that you're in over your head.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Jaime's jealousy is burning. It's simply the way he was raised. And gods, you are his.
Numerous sarcastic remarks flow between the two of you and the man who he believes has essentially stolen your affections. His taunts are offhand, dry remarks, often directed towards his "opponent" or even you, if he's feeling bitter enough.
"I didn’t realize he was such a comedian. Maybe I should ask him for pointers." He'll say, with that sarcastic drawl. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make me jealous. Not that it would work, of course." He chuckles, but his gaze is sharp.
Depending on the offense, Jaime's reactions differ. If you simply have an admirer, a few...well chosen words are directed towards them. His confidence allows him to not be too bothered. Maybe standing closer, clearly showing off to whatever poor soul thought they had a shot with you.
It's a different story if you are friends with the person involved, or entertain their advances even mildly or jokingly.
That's when the uncharacteristic tension comes out, full of small twitches in his jaw and curt, smug responses. His visible annoyance is uncontrolled.
We saw how he was with Loras when it came to Cersei. If he feels truly threatened, whether it's by another pretty boy, or just someone he feels could...hypothetically...have the upper hand...He'll corner them when you're off somewhere else. And give a small warning, from the Kingslayer himself.
"You seem to have forgotten who you're dealing with, so let me remind you." He leans in just close enough for his words to sink in. "Whatever you think you might be to her… you’re not. Let’s keep it that way, hm? I'd hate to see you make any...lasting mistakes."
𝑀𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝐸𝑅𝑌 𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐸𝐿𝐿
♫ “It was just too hard to push you away.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Margaery is smart with her feelings. She knows how to play the game, and play it well. Instead of showing her jealousy openly, she's a touch more composed than most characters on this list.
She recognizes just how precious you are, and admires that. She doesn't necessarily blame others when they become...attached to you.
When jealousy arises, she views it more as a small problem in need of being handled. And she knows how to handle things.
She embraces the graceful competition, subtly outshining anyone who seems to get in the way of her goals. Her goal being you're affection, of course. You're already hers, and she sees no problem in working to keep it that way.
This appears in gestures of strategic sweetness to keep you close, perhaps wearing your favorite gowns on her, and offering that charming smirk. She doesn't shy away from manipulating you, just a teeny bit.
"They’re certainly captivated by you. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to keep your attention." She teases, "Besides, who could ever compare to us?"
Her words carry a playful undertone, but she makes her point clear. Laughing charmingly, threading her arm through yours.
Very rarely does she think she's in any serious danger. She prides herself on being yours and knowing how to keep you on a tight leash. Though...if she feels genuinely worried, she expresses her feelings quite clearly but still gently. She reminds her lover of their shared goals, and all that they've built together.
"My, you do attract admirers easily, don’t you? I’ll have to start guarding you more closely." She gives you a playful look, though her touch on your arm will linger just a bit longer than usual.
𝛰𝐵𝐸𝑅𝑌𝑁 𝑀𝐴𝑅𝑇𝐸𝐿𝐿
♫ “Let me go, but you won't let me go.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Oberyn doesn't feel insecure. How could he? He knows, deep down, that you're his. Jealousy isn't something he confines himself too, he views it as an ugly emotion, capable of getting rid of the true wonders love has to offer.
That being said...he is only a man. And he is fiercely protective. If anyone were to flirt with you and you were clearly uninterested, it would be a swift death, or at the very least, he'd make his point clear with a blow or two and a cutting edge remark. Especially if they are a Lannister. He enjoys you being admired, but only to a certain extent.
"Your efforts are wasted, they’re far too captivating for someone like you. I’d suggest you find someone more... suited to your charms." He begins, hand itching for his spear, "Consider this your first and last warning."
Yeah, he means business.
Most of the time, he spins the situation to show-off. Showcase his own passion and devotion to you. If it's simply a friend of yours, he may even offer them to join in. If not, he'll spend the entire night practically worshipping you, promising that he's the only one who could ever make you feel like this.
Similarly to Margaery, he teases you lightly.
"You have a lovely laugh. But I must admit, it’s much better when it’s for me alone."
Oberyn doesn't shy away from PDA either. It's that assertive reclaiming he seems to favor, pulling you close, whispering something that affirms your affections for each other. He'll revel when he watches the other mans face fall in dismay.
He might get cocky, and push it a bit far. By the time he's done, the 'competition' will be utterly humiliated and embarrassed. He'll be smirking at his own quips.
"I assure you, my friend, my lover favors...more substantial things." He motions to the poor mans crotch.
You're gonna have to give him a slap on the arm.
𝐶𝐸𝑅𝑆𝐸𝐼 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅
♫ “Consequence of loving me can be cruel.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Cersei's jealousy is intense and multifaceted, to say the least. It manifests in a mix of cold fury and harsh threats, channeling that anger into much more controlling behavior.
Deep down, she is terribly insecure. Once another man or woman as your attention, and she catches on, she's coolly lashing out. And she catches on quickly.
At first she may appear indifferent, but if you look close enough, you can see the subtly giveaways. The way her lip curls, her nostrils flare, and her knuckles go white gripping her wine chalice.
If you're the first one to confront her, and attempt to reassure her, you'll save yourself some trouble down the line. Guaranteed, she'll deny it, but still make a passive-aggressive remark here and there. But eventually she'll calm down, edges softening.
That rare moment of vulnerability that you're not sure is manipulation or not. She'll look towards the ground, running her thumb over you're hand on her cheek. She'll sit on the edge of her bed, jaw clenched.
Now, it's a whole different story if you don't catch on to the early signs. If you don't manage to reassure or call her out in time, that jealousy implodes.
She may confront you first, anger bleeding through her. She runs on it. She may even threaten you, oblivious to the potential consequences her words might have.
“You think you can charm your way into my affections by paying attention to that little fool?" She's standing up, loathing distorting her features. Her voice raises. "Perhaps I should throw a feast in her honor. Let’s see how charming she is when surrounded by my people."
It's threats and threats and more and more threats...which can be especially worrying if the person she's jealous of is a friend of yours.
Almost every scenario ends with you having to comfort her, treading carefully with the words you say.
Now, when it comes to confronting the competition, she makes it very clear. Though, these threats are often much more impulsive. A swig of wine, and she gracefully moves towards them when you're out of sight.
A faux compliment or two, before she whispers, close.
“You’ll find that my guards are quite loyal to me. A simple command, and they’ll ensure you never breathe the same air as her again.”
It only makes her feel a bit better. But, regardless, she's smiling smugly, feeling proud of herself when the offenders face turns white.
𝐽𝛰𝐹𝐹𝑅𝐸𝑌 𝐵𝐴𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝛰𝑁
♫ “Too much love can kill.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Oh, Joffrey. I'm obsessed with him.
Yeah. He has the worst jealousy issues out of everyone on this list. It's baaaaad. It's a cocktail of insecurity, possessiveness, and entitlement. As someone who has been raised to believe he is above others, and has been coddled his entire life...it infuriates him.
It's the same feeling you get as a child, when someone steals one of your toys. You belong to him. He never grew out of that mentality, or that feeling.
Be prepared for plentiful outbursts of anger. He's a tantrum personified, especially if he feels disrespected. Insecurity grips him tight and refuses to let up until he's either been heavily reassured...or the other person is... taken care of.
And even then, after reassuring him for hours, it may not be enough. You know how he hired a knight to take out Tyrion in the Battle of Blackwater? Yeah. That person will be paid a little 'visit.'
When reassuring him, similar to Cersei, you really have to be careful what you say, or it might make the situation even worse. At that point, he's seeing red.
"I’m the king! You should be grateful for my attention, not chasing after scraps!" He's huffing, pointing to himself as his breathing increases. He'll look at you with an ice cold glare, nose wrinkled in distaste.
He might even force his hand around your face, harshly grabbing you. He looks dead into your eyes, voice clear and low. "You're mine. You belong to me." He's seething.
If he notices you simply looking at anyone else too long, he'll feel beyond threatened in both his masculinity and position as king. Especially if you laugh at another mans jokes, or simply attempt to be friendly with a commoner or lord.
"What’s so amusing? You’d think you’d find better entertainment than that fool." He mutters under his breath harshly, bad habit of picking at his fingers. He'll shuffle uncomfortably. He'll look to you expecting agreeance. It's 100% that mentality of 'Friends? You don't need friends. You have me.'
Yeah, he keeps the very blunt insults coming. Petulant name calling is not above him. Includes, but is not limited too, "Degenerates, Idiots, Commoners, Peasants, or Cretins" which he may describe as being "Stupid, Disgusting, Repellent, Sickening, or Revolting." He's got a LOT of those angry remarks in the bank.
While he may not directly confront the offender, (he doesn't have time for idle threats.) He has his own ways of dealing with them. And that is a public humiliation ritual, making a mockery of any rival. And if they disobey ANY whim of his, they're gone. That one scene with Tyrion at his wedding? That "Kneel!"? He's commanding the same of any man unlucky enough to have threatened his claim on you. Oh, and they're going to be his cupbearer.
Even if they do as he asks, by now his anger will have transformed into that renewed sense of cruelty. "You're fingers or your tongue?...Or I could just cut your throat."
𝑅𝐴𝑀𝑆𝐴𝑌 𝐵𝛰𝐿𝑇𝛰𝑁
♫ “You're gonna suffer now, whatever you do.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
His jealousy may not be as overtly intense as Joffrey's, but it certainly is the scariest.
In his own words, he prefers being an only child. That same kind of mentality certainly carries over to his relationship with you. He prefers to be the only one you see that way.
He loves a good game, and that's what this is. If anything, it's quite exhilarating for him. Though, he is a huge hypocrite. For a man who thinks jealousy is boring coming from you, he feels it quite freely.
Sees it as a means of asserting dominance, whether that be through intimidation or overt manipulation. He doesn't deny it like most characters on this list. When he's feeling jealous, he says it. It's a small warning for you not to go any farther, lest worse things occur for you or the perceived threat.
He'll go up to whoever you are talking too, saccharine and honorable smile on his face. He'll casually interrupt, introducing himself as Lord Bolton's successor. Despite his calm demeanor, there is a tightness in his face, and a wicked look in his eyes, that only you can recognize. It will make you shiver.
If the rival persists, he'll find it all too amusing.
"You're bold, I'll give you that." He says with a boisterous laugh, and you already know the mans fate is sealed.
Looks like his hounds will be having another meal tonight. He'll have his men go out looking for the man, and he'll question him more...privately, when you aren't there to witness his tortuous taunts.
But for now, his focus is on you, and your loyalty to him. When he excuses the both of you, his hand is gripping yours painfully tight.
By the time you're in his chamber, he's on you, ripping your clothes off with a harsh intensity and pushing you to the wall. His nose is twitching in barely kept anger, forcing you to look at him.
We all saw that scene between him and Myranda when she threatens to marry someone else, and it was not pretty. His eyes are borderline bloodshot, and he can't keep his hands off you or your throat.
"You're mine." He leans forward, through gritted teeth. It's better you don't put up a fight, because he'll be having you and your attention one way or another.
Que the numerous kisses and bite marks soon to follow. And he is not gentle when he's inside you.
You'll never hear from the flirtatious lord again...and if you do, it's only in the prayers of his grieving family.
𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐼𝛰𝑁 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅
♫ “My love, you are not safe with me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Now, Tyrion's jealousy is more subdued and introspective versus some characters on this list. He has a good sense of self-awareness, and he's intelligent to figure out what he's feeling quite quickly.
At first he'll dismiss it as nothing more than an annoying feeling of insecurity he attempts to cover up. But...it doesn't last long. Especially when someone else makes you laugh. Or when Bronn makes a taunt with a half smirk, that some other fancy lord has taken a keen interest in his lady. (Bronn, you instigator!)
As such, Tyrion resorts to his usual humor to deflect any unpleasant feelings he may have when he's jealous. Similar to his brother, these witty remarks are are subtle intimidation technique, meant to dryly convey his displeasure.
"Ah, the sound of laughter. How quaint. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to earn your amusement." He forces a smile, masking his discomfort. "I didn’t realize I was competing for the title of Court Jester."
These feelings of inadequacy manifest in more self-deprecating ways for Tyrion, given his anger is more controlled. He might opt to drown his sorrows, so don't be surprised if you catch him drunkenly waving his chalice around, doing poor impressions of the so-called-lord that had your attention.
This doesn't mean he won't confront the rival, though. Quite the opposite. While he won't seek the man out, (For his sake, he isn't privy to seeing the tall handsome lord in person. He's not a masochist.) If he happens to come across him flirting with you first hand, or sees him during a feast, he'll make sure to throw one or two gibes out there.
"Desperation looks unflattering on you, my friend. Perhaps you should tone it down a notch." He speaks carefully, nodding to Bronn as a subtle warning. "Or at least the best you can manage..?"
If the rival flirts with you blatantly and in front of him, I can 100% imagine him putting them down. After a flirtatious remark directed towards you, he'll make a dry comment, "Flattery is wasted on me, but do go on; I’m always entertained by those who think they can win my affection." As if it was directed towards him. Probably shuts the man up for a moment.
When the two of you are alone, he'd be very grateful if you could just hold him. Give him that reassurance he craves when his carefree facade breaks. That moment of vulnerability means the world to him.
𝑆𝐴𝑁𝐷𝛰𝑅 "𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝛰𝑈𝑁𝐷" 𝐶𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐴𝑁𝐸
♫ “I need you to go, don't fight me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Listen up, Sandor doesn't take shit.
Jealousy isn't an emotion Sandor is particularly used too. In fact, he didn't think he'd find anyone to love in his lifetime, so the feeling is foreign and unpleasant. And, like a mean dog, Sandor's first reaction is to growl.
He doesn't like it. Says it's constricting, and it pisses him off. Not just the pretty boy lord flirting with you, but the whole situation in general. Makes him feel vulnerable, and weak.
Naturally, his first reaction is to distance himself. He may avoid you, grumbling, spitting out vile and vulgar comments to get you to run with your tail between your legs. It's better for the both of you that way.
"You think they’re worth your time? Just a pretty smile to distract you?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "You could do better. But then again, you always choose to suffer." He motions at himself, and it's a glimpse of that self-depreciation he buries.
But you love him for a reason, and you know that won't end well. Best way to handle him when he's jealous is to be gentle, and to listen.
He doesn't want empty reassurances. He's complicated that way, even if they are genuine. He isn't one for flowery words or overt displays of emotion, so the best way to comfort him would be to give him some space, but continue to take care of him.
It will still frustrate him, but eventually he'll cave. He'll rejoin you, silently, eventually. Won't offer any apologies, but maybe a gruff nod, and you two will commence whatever it is you two have.
In future instances, he becomes much more brutally honest with how he feels. Doesn't sugarcoat it. If he doesn't like someone, even if they are a friend, he expects them gone- or he'll take care of them regardless. That kind of possessive behavior is just something you'll have to work through.
I can imagine him silently brooding if he witnesses someone flirting with you first hand. Typically his size and reputation is enough to scare whoever away. He's looming over them, eyes dark, and ready to defend what's his.
When you take your leave, he'll confront the person with a very explicit threat or two.
"If you don’t back off, I’ll find a nice dark corner to stuff you in- preferably with a pile of shit." Or, "Get any closer, and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat."
𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁𝐷 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁
♫ “Get swallowed by the weight.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Aemond has the most...complex jealousy out of everyone on this list. It's layered, and the outcome may be unpredictable. It's an emotional and volatile nature that's been building up for years since he was a child.
He often had feelings of jealousy for his brother, his nephews, etc. That trauma is deeply rooted in him, and it's hard to let go of old habits, given it's been present all his life.
You'll watch his head bow in distaste when you make small conversation with other lords. How his eye will gaze at you, almost warningly. His jaw will be clenched tight, and he'll avoid eye contact, looking off to the side in anger. He doesn't want to watch.
If it's a friend of yours, he can be a bit mean, questioning your loyalty a bit harshly.
"Friendship? Is that what you call it?" He speaks, angrily. A thinly veiled threat is directed to you, "It seems more like a prelude to betrayal."
He'll brood in the corner, silently waiting. That is, unless, he deems the man goes too far.
In the scene where he gets his eye put out by Lucerys, the conversation that starts before it happens pretty much sums his jealousy up. He's firm with his claim to Vaghar, and the same goes for you.
When Rhaena states that Vaghar was hers to claim, Aemond responds in kind, "Then you should've claimed her." And puts up a hell of a fight to prove his point. That same possessiveness carries over to his relationship with you. He doesn't back down. You're his.
He has no problems getting in between you and the man he feels threatened of. He offers a blunt threat.
"I could have you torn apart, limb by limb, and I’d sleep soundly at night. Be certain of that."
Guaranteed, mixed feelings of insecurity will rise to the surface. When you two are alone, he'll continue to brood silently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and body language tight.
Please do reassure him. He needs it. His eye will soften, and he'll place his hand over yours, leaning into your touch. With a soft huff of an air, a final warning slips past his lips.
"Don’t make me remind you why I’m the only one worthy of you."
𝐴𝐸𝐺𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁
♫ “I wanna hold on tightly.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Aegon handles jealousy poorly, much like he seems to handle everything else.
It's like throwing gasoline on a fire. Once that feeling in his chest flares up, it's shown through erratic behavior, sarcasm, and attempts to assert his claim in juvenile, insecure ways. Unlike his brother, he lacks the restraint to simply brood.
No, be prepared for plenty of mocking comments directed towards the man he's threatened of, and showy displays to prove he's the better choice.
Everyone knows he is unpredictable and reckless, and possessiveness drives him to act out. He certainly overindulges to cope with his insecurity, (getting shitfaced) and will gladly push your boundaries to get your attention back on him.
Not to mention the belittling comments he'll make.
"Oh, is that who you’ve chosen to entertain now? I didn’t realize your taste had grown so dull."
Prone to acting overtly clingy, almost like a restless cat. He will attempt to slide over into the conversation, resting an arm around you, or even pulling you away. He doesn't care if it's 'improper.' He probably brings up his status, his bloodline, acting over-the-top.
He's also no stranger to outbursts. His temper may make him lash out impulsively, whether that be towards you or the man whose got your attention. If he's in a particular mood, be ready to deal with a screaming Aegon, threatening to slaughter and burn said rival. His fist will come down hard on the council table.
He also doesn't care if he's making a show of it in front of the council members. Que Alicent or Otto attempting to placate him. He needs to have a cooler head if he's going to be ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and this type of behavior isn't very becoming.
He definitely thinks he's owed some make-up sex, if only to quell the insecure storm raging inside him.
"You think they could satisfy you? Truly?" He says, firmly, as he steps closer. Anger is burning in his words, volume raising. "They wouldn’t even know where to begin."
And he plans to show you that he's right.
𝐴𝐿𝐼𝐶𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅
♫ “I'm afraid I'll pull you over the edge.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Alicent experiences jealousy complexly, just like Aemond. It gnaws on her until she's at her breaking point. Rather than overt displays or confrontations, she attempts to employ more strategic distance...but it always ends up resorting in icy politeness.
She's making her displeasure known through restrained, pointed remarks. Out of duty and pride, she'll attempt to avoid direct confrontation, but she wears her jealousy on her sleeve.
I imagine her withdrawing from the situation at first, if not for anything but her own sake. Her gut reaction, out of insecurity, is to escape the situation. It honestly makes her feel sick.
Unless she's forced to stay...then she'll begrudgingly offer a tight smile. Her responses are carefully measured, and she slips into that role of "queen" rather than a lover.
A part of it stems from passive aggressiveness, and another part of it is purely subconscious.
Speaking of passive aggressiveness, she'll make some pretty cutting remarks, either questioning your loyalty or purposely feigning ignorance to the situation.
"Perhaps I’m mistaken. But I know loyalty when I see it. Or when I don’t."
It's an all bark, no bite threat towards you. But it serves as an aggressive reminder of your connection with her, and that you are now apart of her duties.
If she does interfere beforehand, she'll make indirect remarks about the person causing her jealousy, but will most likely frame it as merely her own curiosity.
Maybe just a touch of self-depreciation, unintentional manipulation. Years of Otto's techniques have rubbed off on her.
"It’s of little consequence, truly. I simply thought I was the one you preferred to spend your time with. I may have misjudged."
𝐺𝑊𝐴𝑌𝑁𝐸 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅
♫ “Hurts to say it over, over again.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
In contrast to Alicent, Gwayne has no problem when he feels threatened to step in. He's a member of a powerful house, and a knight no less. Those two things have taught him to be prideful and honorable.
He will defend your honor whenever he deems in necessary, and there are no exceptions. He certainly has a flash of a temper, but he believes he's much more restrained than others, given his training.
If he thinks someone is crossing a line, he'll interfere. He'll position himself quite closely to you, making his presence known.
He offers the man a silent warning, offering a cool, assessing look. It would be enough to communicate his disapproval.
And if the man persists...well...they'll end up with the end of a sword pointed at them.
Similar to Robb, Gwayne's jealousy appears more in his heightened protectiveness. He insists on staying close for your safety.
"Do they need to be reminded that you’re already spoken for?"
Obviously, his noble pride carries on. If he gets pushed, his jealousy will show more openly, taking the man aside, and telling them that he is more worthy of her time and attention. Might throw in a comment about his noble standing.
He'll take you aside when everything is said and done, reminding her his intentions are honorable. Everyone else is just...unworthy.
"You may not see it, but I know men like him. If he truly respected you, he wouldn’t need to linger around someone else’s beloved."
𝐷𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁
♫ "No matter how you feel." Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Oh boy, you'll have to keep this man on a tight leash when his jealousy flares up. It's as intense as he is, and he shows it openly.
He'll deny it, or embrace it, depending on the severity of the perceived offense. It's closely tied to that desire for power within him he can't seem to shake. Any affront to your loyalty is an affront to his own standing.
He switches from possessive protectiveness to outright hostility. There's really no in between. It's a raw and unfiltered fury that makes his hand shake and his eye twitch.
He doesn't tolerate rivals, and he's very upfront that he's the only one fit to be by your side. This comes through when he has you all to himself on his bed...
He'll confront the person whether you want him to or not.
"If they value their limbs, they’d remember you’re mine." He mutters casually, pacing around the room.
He carries that hard glint in his eyes. He may even mildly appreciate the sheer balls of the man stupid enough to attempt to flirt with you, but he'll shut it down quicker than anyone on this list.
"You’ve got a bold tongue. I wonder if I should cut it out..?" He'll look to you for permission. It's up to you if you wanna let the dragon loose!
