eve’s drop @evesdropnight - Tumblr Blog

Apr 25

With the winds of Summer

⚕ summary: shattered by the tragedies of his past, prince maekar is torn between his royal duties and his undying love for a dragonseed servant girl

⚕ word count: 18,4k

⚕ pairing: maekar targaryen x dragonseed servant!reader

⚕ cw: angst, significant age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Maekar is his mid to end 40s), daella and rhae do not yet exist in this timeline, power dynamics (reader is a servant), sad maekar, grumpy maekar, protective maekar, he's not doing well okay, maekar is a man who cries easily i will die on this hill, forbidden love, mentions of violence, smut (minors dni please), this one hurts i'm really sorry, maekar just loves reader so much

⚕ a/n: this idea came to me after watching this tiktok, enjoy

"Stay with me."

"I can't."

"Just a little longer, please."

"…"

"…Please."

***

Righteousness is a lie the few higher subjects of the world feed the many lower ones. This mirror reflecting reversed words, it has been digested for as long as the sun has known and loved the moon in the night sky.

It's a tool, woven from within the deep caves of manipulation, explored only by the select mighty ones. Not all managed to escape, the caverns still occasionally reek of bones and defeat. But those who did, those granted the privilege of forging their own weapons, they blithely dictate the world's malice since time was birthed into this tangible thing accepted by all.

The knights call it justice when they slay the thief who steals bread that feeds his pod of anchored hearts. Hands are dismounted from their branches, insides dirty the pavements' stones, their roots forever marked by hot, red ink. That night, the same knights who wielded their weapon of equity in the name of the law, they will corner the young maiden in the cold crevices of the marketplace where the bread was poached.

The citizens of this world could never be placed on a same and equal footing. The lie would never anchor, hard work gone to ashes for simple walking shadows who turn into dust every few years.

That is one of the few reasons royalty was carved into its place, this time up the hill in their tall, red castle. Some say the pungent smell of metal and molten swords flies in between the already putrid streets below. Dragons guarded this castle, but even they met the horrific fate of what men considered right.

A king, a queen. A princess, a prince. Do they know of this lie?

The mad ones, perhaps. The smart ones, the ones who live outside of fear. They enjoy their privilege, find lust in walking the floors built from others' sweat and blood. It's thrilling.

It's their right.

The higher ones like them best. They are easy to play like an instrument, their strings malleable and bendable to their will. To dictate what justice means, for duty is carved only by those who hold power.

The difficult ones, those who are liked the least, the queens and princes who question the ways of the court, they are often struck by tragedy. The higher ones do take to heart those who refuse to turn into melted wax inside their warm hands.

Then come the lower people, those not granted the blessing of deciding which side they wish to stand on. Righteousness is imposed onto them, it's forced down their throats before they can even question its taste. And that is the beauty of it—the lower people aren't even aware a game is being played at all.

Those who follow are the ones in between. Dragonseed, they call you. Too silver to be named a peasant of the pure blood, too low on the ladder of ambition to be considered anything but a seed planted in a dry field of wheat.

You are one of the dangerous ones. They will blame it on the ancient blood that runs through your veins, this hot liquid poisoned by sorcery. Mortals who stole the breath of gods, of course, you are gifted with sight that sees what really happened inside those caves. Others will blame it on the dirty clothes you always wore, the scrapes of meat you swallowed to keep yourself alive. Misery helps you see, the high ones say. Not always, but it happens.

When your path crosses that of a prince, one also gifted with the same sight you regrettably possess, you see light for the first time. Perception does not always mean you see everything.

This prince is not one of the mad ones. He is not one of the difficult ones, either. He is one in between, too. He is plagued by misery, broken and beaten. Lilac eyes that have seen too many horrors, your very being is a gentle relief to them.

He, too, is blinded by light the moment his silver meets yours. He does not care much for righteousness, his concern slowly shifting to one and only other thing. This fair and just world has taken enough of his fissured soul.

So, when he asks you to, you stay.

In the end, you always stay. *** You like his chambers best when it's lit by the many candles he's brought back from his voyages around the known world. He would deny it if you asked, you're sure of it, but you know for certain the pretty blue candle sitting above the shelf in front of you wasn't there before. From Dorne, maybe, or perhaps an exotic place like Volantis.

The room basks in a warm glow from the gentle firelight. Maekar sits at his desk, his broad back facing you. He's writing a letter to some lords in the Riverlands, the Freys you think you heard him say—you are too spent to ask.

Or maybe it is the distance that bothers you. Your respective duties kept you apart all day, and he suddenly sits too far away to your liking.

"I miss you."

Your voice is a gentle whisper in the warmth of his chambers. And Maekar's weakness is your voice when you use it so vulnerably. His weakness is you, wholly and entirely, and it scares him half to death.

So, of course, he puts down his quill and turns around to look at you. You look like sin and bliss altogether, your skin glowing from the milky liquid you bathe in. His body does not reason with his mind in these moments, never does. He approaches you, has to bite his tongue at the sight of your small frame, almost completely engulfed by the hefty tub.

You smile at him. It's hard not to when he's near you. Your big, green eyes look up at him, and Maekar really fucking dislikes the list of reasons he's come up with that compel him to stay dry.

He kneels next to you instead, his arms bracing the rim of the tub. The black and red of his official attire complement him well, you've always thought so. He looks princely, he looks royal. He looks beautiful.

Maekar gently holds your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, and you notice the dark ink that seeped into his skin there. You wonder if you'll ever stop reacting the way you do at his touch, no matter how intimately familiar you are with it.

He faintly caresses the plumpness of your lower lip, and your body knows him well, too. He smiles at your forethinking, pushes his inked thumb inside your mouth when you open it slightly, revels in it. He doesn't have to do much, doesn't have to say much—you suck his thumb as you would him. He's quick to replace it with his fore and middle fingers, pushing them in deeper to test your limits.

You have none with Maekar, but you indulge him anyway. You slowly swirl your tongue around them, famished for him, gagging when they reach too deep. Your eyes are wet and focused on him, always on him, especially in here. You'd give him anything he wants.

When spit begins to drool past his fingers, he removes them, watches it mingle with the ink on your skin. He's tainting you, he knows this—but he never was particularly noble and has surely always been fucking selfish with what is his.

"You're always so good for me." He murmurs it more to himself, transfixed by the inky mess on your chin. Maekar then dips his hand inside the cloudy, warm water, blindly finds your legs. The maps of your body are imprinted in his mind with vivid colours, he could easily draw them with unsighted eyes. He parts your thighs, opening so easily for him, always so pliant, and you gasp when his fingers lightly touch your folds.

It makes him delirious almost, how maddeningly soft you are down there. Because he knows what the finest materials in Westeros feel like—he's held the most delicate items in his hands, eaten the sweetest fruits in his royal privilege. None compare to you, none even come close. He practically hates himself for it, for sullying the silk between your legs with rough and tainted fingers.

But he is a weak man despite the title bestowed on him after his great battles, and he cannot help but bend at the pretty sounds you make. So he corrupts you further, explores the velvet skin of your folds once more. He pushes his middle finger inside you, your walls all too familiar with it. They suck it in deeper, desperate and hungry, want him closer. You're even softer on the inside, if that is even possible, and Maekar feels his cock swell in his breeches.

Another tainted finger soon follows, spilling more ink inside you. He pumps them leisurely, mesmerised by the way you look lying against the edge of the tub, by the way your hooded eyes fight so hard to stay on him. He curls his fingers at the spot deep inside you he knows makes you cry, a bit too addicted by the way you chew your lip and pinch your eyebrows in pleasure when he does.

You don't like being loud despite how much he says he loves hearing you. You've always been quiet, even more so when it means protecting this precious thing you've built with Maekar.

So, you stay modest. The moan you let out when he circles your swollen pearl with his thumb is soft, innocent almost. You feel him add a third finger inside you, your walls stretching impossibly, trying to feed your insatiable hunger for him. You grab onto his wrist then, gently rocking your hips against his fingers. The water spills, the warm liquid now covering the cold stones.

"Just feel, my love," Maekar anticipates your worries, knows you'll stop when you notice the mess you're making. "Leave the rest to me."

Your eyes are wet, not from the milky water, but you want to see him. The warm light does well in bringing out the softness of his delicate features, the ones hidden from the world but so openly vulnerable to you. You want them engraved in you, you want it to be the last thing you see before you perish.

Maekar's fingers curl inside you again and again, blinding your vision for a time. His hand gently cradles your head, his touch so innocent and protective compared to the sinful movements of the other.

You let him pleasure you, let him have his fill. When you come, it's intense and quiet and almost too much to bear in that moment. Maekar keeps moving inside you until it turns painful, and he wonders how much of the ink has tainted you this time.

A bit more than last time, a bit less than the next, he thinks. But he's selfish, is he not, so he kisses your forehead and strokes your wet hair.

"I miss you, too." He rests his forehead against yours, breathes like he's just come down from a high as well. "I always do." *** It's the cold that wakes you that night. It's uncomfortable, the way it crawls underneath your skin and settles around you like a cool winter blanket.

There's no warmth either when you blink your eyes open to find Maekar sitting at the edge of the bed, his head hung low between his shoulders. Time passes while the cold engulfs the room. You stare at his back, somber thoughts clouding the back of your eyes.

Because you know what day the morrow brings. It's never really left you, that late afternoon, Maekar breaking apart in your arms as he spoke of it. Of the time King Daeron II's court whispered of the many Targaryens living and breathing within the Red Keep, almost crawling like insects. The male heirs specifically—they made the court uneasy with their well-kept bodies and strong-willed minds. We must act swiftly before another Dance falls upon our heads, they had said.

The king bore the heavy task of telling Maekar. Not because it was forced onto him, but because he wished for it. Commanded that it be him. He was a good father to his sons, the Good King. He loved them fiercely. So, with a dripping heart and arduous effort, Daeron held Maekar's shoulder and bared his shameful weakness to him. Forgive me, my son, the king had said in a thick voice. He is to be sent to the Citadel.

You blink the memory away. Maekar looks cold from where he sits, maybe even colder than you, possibly so. He's fragile tonight, exposed and vulnerable, so you rise gently, the sheets still wrapped around you when you approach him. A small hand brushes his bare shoulder, your touch fleeting, testing almost. His skin is frigid, but then he leans into you, seeks out warmth you fear you cannot offer.

Your hand moves to his back then. It's covered in scars, some old and awfully healed. Raised lines of rough skin underneath your soft touch, they're marked by war and pain and death. Maekar wears them proudly, he'd told you once—they remind him of his brother. Of a time when he felt more at ease on a bloodied battlefield than in the comfort of his own bed. Of moments when they trained and fought in the courtyard of their father's castle, Maekar merely as tall as a sword when held upright, but eyes brimming with admiration as he stared up at the heir nonetheless.

Other scars were less imposing, not as visible to your sad eyes, but they were there. Tainting the skin as pure as ice that covered him, scars you knew hurt him more than the foul-looking ones. You try healing them, trace each one of them with your fingers, impossibly gentle.

"It's his name day tomorrow," he says. And if you did not know him so intimately, you would have believed the voice to belong to a stranger of the night. "Aemon's."

"I know, sweetheart."

Maekar's breathing shakes, it almost sounds painful. This simple act that keeps him alive, it hurts him. You keep your hand on him, beg for heat to return to you. To give you what you need, to offer what you can, to heal the noxious gash inherited by his past.

He's strong, of that truth you hold no doubt. Maekar is a strong man. But he's also barely holding on, the trembling under your palm tells you this. One more battle, he must think, this time fought not on a redgrass field but deep inside his mind. Where cold and darkness reign instead of his lost kin, where his eyes can barely see and his body scarcely fight from the frigid cramping of his limbs. He's doomed to surrender.

So, he does. He finally admits defeat. The words escape him in painful hiccups, they scrape his throat like sharp knives when he says, "They took my boy away from me…"

You feel them slice through you as well. They make their way inside your flesh with the intent to hurt, to maim, their blade cutting and terribly unforgiving.

"Oh Maekar…"

And he's lost already, he's accepted his humiliating failure. When he cries, you stand tall on your knees and reach for his head, your hands gentle on his scarred cheeks. You cradle him to your middle, an awful sigh escaping you when you feel his arms desperately circle your waist, clinging onto you with lost force. You drape the sheets around him then, around his bare back and weeping face. He's still so cold.

"I failed them all," he says—a whisper or a whimper, you cannot say. "Daeron lost to the curses of Valryia, Aerion exiled and plagued by evil. Even my youngest—my littlest boy, he'd rather sleep in ditches with a hedge knight than be here with me."

He speaks brokenly, and when his hold on you tightens, you're grateful. Thankful when he hides his face further into your chest, blinding him to the thick, hot tears that smear your own cheeks. His pain is heavy enough to carry, you think, how could you possibly add more to his suffering when all you've ever wished for was to steal it away from him.

So, your arms remain unbent when they hug him tighter against you, your small body fiercely shielding his broader one from the chilled air. You let him be vulnerable, give him space to mourn the illusion of his sons. There are no hushes when you endure his quiet sobs, only the soothing feel of your fingers brushing through his hair, gently scraping at his scalp.

When he grows quiet, you push back slightly to look at him. His violet eyes, now red and swollen, they're empty when they stare out the window. Bright moonlight shines through it, and it touches Maekar, exposes tragic beauty written all across his face.

Because he is just that. Prince Maekar is tragically beautiful, and his skin still feels like ice.

You kiss his forehead. Once, twice. And you beg the dragons to grant you fire. *** Anguish is an ugly thing. It’s dark, and it’s viscous, it clings to your insides like a stubborn old stain.

You've pictured it in your head, this misgiving feeling, given it different shapes throughout your life to soften its rough and unwanted presence inside you. Sometimes it's big and consuming. Other times, more quiet and cunning.

Mazu was your first teacher in the art of shaping it when he escaped for the first time. You were but four years of age, and you loved it dearly, the tiny black cat whose purrs were louder than the thunder in the skies. He ate bread and fish bones you left by the dockside every morning, his small, soft head lovingly bumping against your knees when he saw you.

Then, on one particular morning, he did not come. Nor did he show the next day, or the day after that. You watched the bread turn soggy underneath the rainfall for days on end. And then you felt it for the first time, that sombre and tacky feeling that slowly crowded your senses. Afraid, you closed your eyes, and you saw it—a dark shadow almost as black as the colour of Mazu's fur.

You were worried.

You quickly grew used to it. It was there, when your stomach protested in its ugly chorus, and you wondered whether you'd be blessed with another meal soon. Embedded in you as you caught a cough that lingered for weeks, and you asked yourself if this was it, the Stranger's destiny hand-picked just for you. The most ominous it's ever been—on your very first night in King's Landing, when three men, a tall one, a fat one, and a smaller one, cornered you in a dark alley. A cold knife to your throat and a bag of silver lighter after they left.

You’re familiar with it. It’s a part of you, of the life imposed on you until now.

So, when it's Maekar that steals your place in the midst of your worry, your world shifts. It's violently turned upside down, hits you with such force it renders you utterly and painfully lost.

It's been over three weeks now. Dawns following long and petrifying nights, more than you dare think of, spent agonising, alone and afraid in dark corners of the palace.

He is supposed to be back.

Maekar had promised you, he'd told you this as he held you tightly against his chest the night before he left. Hushed moans, desperate touches, foreboding confessions—it's all you had left of him before he disappeared as the sun rose, a tender kiss placed to your temple when he did.

A hunt with Kevan Lannister. He had no choice but to go, by order of the king. And maybe it was a flood that held them back, you told yourself. Or perhaps some of the men had fallen ill, taken camp to recover. Maekar had said this was fairly common. Maybe the prey flourished, it was hunting season after all.

Or, maybe, something had gone terribly wrong, and Maekar was wounded, a lost arrow aimed at a deer but destined for a dragon, and he bled to death in the woods, and his men were now on their way to announce the demise of the Prince of Summerhall. Maybe it was the Blackfyres, the knowing bastards, maybe they ambushed the men and slaughtered them in their sleep. Your man.

You nearly choke at the thought. At the possibility of a life without Maekar Targaryen in it—it seems void of any purpose, of any tangible reason for breathing if you can no longer feel him. You see the image behind closed eyes with faded colours, his pale skin drenched in blazing red blood. There's so much blood, it's splattered everywhere, unfiltered dread smothering you when you no longer recognise his eyes and—

"Watch it, girl!"

You jump at the sudden voice, one you know can only belong to Mistress Lena. The fine silks in your hands are ruined now, drenched in water.

"Can't do simple tasks anymore without your master?" A snickering voice, this time, calls from behind you. A small girl with unruly hair, her teeth yellow and broken as she laughs at you. Her sleeves are as wet as the linens she attempts to clean.

You look down at the bucket between your own legs, feel the silk in your hands. You hear them, the sneering laughs taunting you, they're ugly and vile, and they disagree with your desperate attempt to breathe properly again.

"I'heard she the prince's whore," another girl bites, aims for your fragile heart. "He fucks her in the kitchens when he's hungry."

You drown in another wave of depraved sneers, the air in the room you're trapped in turning tighter than what you can bear. It's not just your worry anymore—it's anger, it's frustration, it's utter despair. It's fear.

The girl is draped across a man's lap. You recognise him, one of Maekar's own guards. Ser Kraig, you think, the guard whose eyes you've caught pursuing you before. He chews on a wooden stick, his hand grotesque on her generous parts, and he looks at you again. Like he knows, or wants to know.

"It must hurt if he fucks the way he speaks, isn't that right, girl?" Ser Kraig's voice is cold as ice, it stings when it hits you. And his eyes, eyes cannot lie, he intends it to. "I bet he grabs you harshly," he says then, pushes the girl off his lap as he stands. "'You hiding bruises underneath those pretty little skirts of yours?"

You don't register his moves, barely see him lounge at you when he does. He grabs your legs from where you sit, tries to move your clothing to prove his point. Or do worse, to spit on Maekar's virtue, to taint you both alike. You weakly shriek, beg him not to. The water spills everywhere, the pretty silk now definitely ruined when you urge for help. Your heart cries for Maekar to come back to you, to wake you from this chilling nightmare. You cannot do this without him.

No one moves. You hear them laugh again, taking pleasure in reminding you how desperately alone you are, how easily they can crush you. You know they can, you know it's all they want.

So, you let them. You stop fighting eventually. You let Ser Kraig take what he wants, you let the other maids trample over you with their harsh heels. Maybe then you'll suffocate on your anguish no longer. Maybe, you'll see Maekar again.

There's a cold hand at your inner thigh when two guards appear at the door of the wash-house.

"The prince has returned from his hunt," one of the two says, words curt but eyes sharp as they stare down at Ser Kraig. "Everyone's presence is requested at the palace."

You feel like your heart is breaking. It shatters and tries to mend itself back together at the guard's words. You barely sense it when you're violently pushed back against the floor, the ache in your chest too overwhelming to care.

You're not sure how long you sit there, beaten down to your misery. Minutes. More than an hour, perhaps. When you stand and finally make your way back to the entrance hall, you cannot help but wonder if you had misheard the guard when he spoke. What if it were the dark spirits turned bored and picked you as their new victim to entertain?

But then, you see him. The object of your worry and unfiltered love alike.

And it's painful to breathe again.

You watch Maekar dismount his tall horse at the gates. His long black cloak engulfs his figure almost entirely, and he's surrounded by maids and stable boys, each expressing concern and delight for his safe return. It almost makes you vomit.

You cannot see him well. Too many vultures surround him, their wings spreading blinding dust that keeps you hidden from him.

Because he's looking for you. Maekar's eyes are frantic almost, they're scrutinising and impatient, they sweep across the courtyard like a hawk. You know they're seeking you out.

And it kills you. This heavy chain that imprisons your soul and body, forbids you from running toward him, to feel his flesh against yours once more.

You thought he was dead. You were sure of it, even if you refused to admit it.

But he's not, he's here and he's breathing and he's moving, and his eyes beg to find yours, and you cannot touch him.

So, you leave. You flee inside the palace, run towards the only place you know is safe to lay your torment bare. You pace the room with your heart in your throat, with the weight of the past weeks pressing heavily on your shoulders. The ends of your skirts are still wet, they cling to your legs like an ugly reminder.

When the doors to his bedchambers finally open a good while later, you stop breathing completely. Maekar drags himself inside, appears to carry just as much weight on his own shoulders. He sees you then, a little lamb, scared and scarred in the vastness of anguish itself. He looks surprised, his mouth slightly agape. You don't dare move.

Then, he drops the weight from his back and loudly huffs in relief at the sight of you.

"Oh, my heart…"

You waste not a second more. You leap towards him, jump at his neck with strength you knew not you possessed. Maekar's arms instantly wrap around your frame, sweeps you off the ground when he crushes you against his chest.

"Oh gods, oh gods," you sob. "I thought I'd never see you again." It's uncontrollably flowing out of you now, and you let it. You hide your face deep within the safety of his neck, your arms tightening impossibly around him.

His own arm holds you at your lower back while the other gently cradles the back of your head. You think he needs this just as much as you do when you feel him press your face deeper into his neck, so you breathe him in, and you promise yourself you won't ever have to remember his scent again.

"I'm here, I'm so sorry, I'm here."

And he is, you know it seems real when you feel the warmth of him seep into your very being.

But it's not enough. You've been deceived by the cruel jests of life itself far too many times to trust words when spoken. It's hard, but you do it anyway, you remove yourself from his warmth. You look at him then. You know his eyes always tell the truth.

The hair at his nape feels soft in your one hand. The other maps every line of his face, and your gaze is dissecting, you look for signs, for wounds, for lies. But all you see are desperate and longing violet eyes staring back at you, begging you to believe them. You try to swallow the sob you feel shoot up your throat. You cup his cheek and trace his scars with your thumb, bid him to see the hole that grew inside you when he left.

He knows, because he doesn't move, gives you time to channel your fears and thoughts. And then, when you finally welcome the truth, you kiss him.

And it isn't gentle. It's urgent and it's frantic. It's water flowing through your veins after a long and painful drought, it’s fire rekindled in a heart that had almost forgotten how to burn.

He kisses you with equal strength, deep and desperate. "I won't leave you again," he groans into your mouth, swallows your soft cries like a man starved. He's moving then, wraps your legs around his waist as he walks to his bed, cannot fathom leaving any part of you untouched.

But when he places you above the soft mattress, you hear it. Another groan, this time drenched in the grim melody of discomfort.

You freeze.

"You're hurt," your cheeks are cold from the drying tears that sit there, but not as cold as the ice that suddenly laces your blood. Another aching moan escapes his lips when he sits beside you, his face slightly twisted in pain.

"Show me." Your hands are on him, on his face, his neck, his shoulders. They're searching, they're shaking, they fall victim to your dreadful fears, turning into tangible reality.

"I'm alright, my love," Maekar's hand cups your cheek, the other gently holding your wrists.

"You're not," you breathe harshly, vivid flashes of bright red blood and death blinding you almost. You can still help him, you can still make it better. "You're in pain, please just show me."

And you've heard tales of torture before. How men and women alike were stripped bare and poked into with hot blades. You imagine it must have felt like the suffering you're exposed to now, watching Maekar sigh in discomfort and slowly remove his doublet and tunic underneath.

He's going to bleed out in front of you. You know this, you'll kiss him one last time and watch the light vanish from his eyes—

"It's healing," he says quietly. "The Maester has been tending the wound for weeks now."

A deep cut runs alongside his ribs down to his stomach. It's covered in a paste, dark and thick, and you blame its sight for the bile that suddenly shoots up your throat. You practically feel the colour drain from your face.

You were right.

You feel Maekar's warm palms gently grab your face again, they want to quell your worry. "I'm alright, sweet girl, I promise." With his forehead against yours, he repeats these words until you swallow them, kisses your cheeks at the same time because he cannot help himself.

His lips move lower, they drag against your jaw, then your neck. The pleasure his touch brings is burning, it's blinding after so long. But then your eyes catch the fresh wound's reflection on his pale skin, one you now feel bleed at your own ribs.

Reluctantly, you push him away, gentle hands on his bare shoulders. "We can't, Maekar…"

"I swear I'll see the Maester later," his lips are instantly on you again, and they're hungry, addicted. "You don't understand," he says. "What it was like, being away from you, I—I almost forgot how to live."

And you do understand, better than he can ever imagine, your own will to live barely present as near as this morning. Your darkest fears came awake, and you want to run to the Maester, beg him to make Maekar whole again before you choke on your own desperation.

But Maekar doesn't let you, cannot be away from you for a second longer. "Please my heart," he says, his hands still at your face. "Just let me be with you."

You feel his lips once more, his breath wet and hot against the column of your neck, your jaw, the apple of your cheek. Finally, your lips. Maekar moans into your mouth, like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, presses you gently against the pillows covering his bed.

He touches you with hands softer than silk—they hold you no differently than they would a delicate flower. When he undresses you, his hands turn slow and prudent, they grant his eyes the gift of simply seeing you. Here, with him, bare and vulnerable and ever so trusting underneath him, Maekar caresses every curve of your body with such gentle love it nearly suffocates you.

His mouth is softer, even when famished, and he kisses you everywhere, paints your body with the colourful strokes of his lips. He treats it like a canvas, and Maekar likes this pretense of embodying an artist, keeps this secret concealed within him. The younger, more vibrant version of him, hidden inside his chambers with coloured quills and bright wooden panels before training sessions began. He often focused on one area only, gave it more colours than the rest of it.

And he does the same now when he reaches your belly, the soft skin there makes him delirious almost. He kisses and he kisses and he paints, groans against you when he feels your legs fall open for him. He takes his rightful place between them, not a fleeting thought for the rest of the kingdoms. His hands feel at your sides, his thumbs gently pressing at the dips above your hips. His tongue darts out and licks the small space hidden below your navel, kisses the slight swell of your lower belly again and again. He can't get enough of it, of you and the sounds you grant him, kisses you there like he's devouring you. He pushes dark thoughts away, the ones that have you swollen there, those that turn you rounder with each visit of the moon. Thoughts of his own seed doing this to you, filling you like you always beg him to. He's disgusted with himself, too, repulsed by his greed that would disfigure your body.

So, he moves lower, has to burn the drawing from his mind before he goes mad at the thought of his darkest desires doing this to you. His lips trail down to your inner thighs, to the mound of you when you open your legs wider for him. His tongue touches you again, this time your more intimate parts, the ones made just for him to feel and taste. With your hands in his hair, pulling slightly but never to hurt, he kisses your pearl like he would your lips. Food never went scarce during this gods-forsaken hunt, but he never indulged himself in sweets either. He knew nothing could rival this, the sweetness of you when his thumbs gently hold you open for his tongue to taste the deepest parts of you. He smiles at your soft moans, not out of pride, but out of pure bliss of hearing your voice again. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your swollen mound, then another, and another. He licks you everywhere, and he's awfully slow with it, takes his time memorising your scent again. Relishes in tasting more of you when you come so sweetly on his tongue.

He kisses the length of you again, soothes the light tremors that rake through your body. He whispers it against you, my girl, my beautiful girl, over and over again, I've missed you so much, wants to carve it into your skin, wants you to remember it for as long as you breathe.

He kisses the few bruises that cover your body as well, feels his heart pinch in agony at the sight of them. Some he recognises, older-looking ones, easily blamed on the honest silver of hard work and a stubborn spirit. Others, the fresher-looking ones, the ones he knows were inflicted on you, it takes a mountain of his strength to leave them be. So, he gives special heed to them instead, loves them with more care and purpose. He vows to find their bearer, already plots their demise in the back of his mind.

But he doesn't allow the burning fire of his rage overcome his commitment to you. His sensuous need to feel you, to be inside you. It's scorching, this need, as hot as his will to survive when cut open.

And survive he did, if you had any part in it. You plagued Maekar's thoughts throughout it all, all he could ever think of, and he confesses this to you when he finally pushes into you.

Time stops for Maekar. It slows, and then stops completely when his cock slides past your entrance, still wet from his mouth, until he is wholly and entirely wrapped by your dizzying warmth. He stills for a moment just to savour this, the feeling of you taking him, squeezing him, the heat of it almost burning him. The small whimpers you let out, they're sinful, they make him twitch inside you, they tell him this is real and not another jest of the night.

"I'm inside you, fuck, I missed you so much."

He hears you whisper the words back to him, swallows the small moans you let out when he starts rolling his hips against yours. Your small hands at his face, they cup his cheeks between your warm palms.

"I thought I had lost you," you speak in a voice so small he barely hears you. But the tears that slowly cloud your big, green eyes, they're enough to make him understand a thousand words.

"I'm here, sweetheart, I'm here," he's quick to say because he cannot stand the sight of you pained and hurt. He repeats it, with every slow thrust of his hips, every kiss at your temple, with every groan spilled against your skin. He's here.

And he's here because you refused to leave his mind. It blinded him, your face, your scent, your touch. He will tell you about the beast he was meant to kill, the one who lived another day because of you. That as his flesh tore apart, darkened sentiments murmured he would never come back to you. They showed him, the way you were swallowed by this other creature called life, whole and alone. How he fought not for his life but for you, because he needs you, because you need him—

"Tell me," he cradles your jaw with gentle force, pulls your gaze back on him. He stills inside you, his eyes brimming with unspoken pleas. "Tell me you needed me while I was gone."

You buck up and into him, you beg him to move again. You show him, just now, with the little strength left and embedded in your hips, you show him the way you craved his very existence.

"Every moment of every day," you whisper, the tremble of your lower lip almost uncomfortable.

A single more punishing thrust twins his question, a selfish one, one he's thought of more times than he dares to admit. "Did you pleasure yourself? My love, did you?"

"No," you whimper, because pleasured truth does not call for steady voices. "I only ever want your hands on me." Your own hands circle his face again, they feel at his beard, "It's always you."

He moves inside you again then, lips touching yours, moans against your mouth and the words it spills. And it's a maddening thing, the slow drag of his cock against the softness of your tight walls. You're even more sensitive than you usually are, he feels it, the incessant fluttering against every ridge and vein along the length of him. The way your thighs tremble and fail to fully wrap around his hips like you usually do.

When his movements slowly turn desperate, the very essence of his survival in this moment, the screaming wound on his side be damned, Maekar stifles the groans spilling out of him against the crook of your neck. He never stops touching you, the gentle swell of your breasts, the softness of your thighs shaking around him. The length of your silver hair, the gentle features of your face, twisted so beautifully in pleasured expressions. And when that isn't enough to satisfy his dire need for you, he laces his hand with yours above your head, palm against palm, heartbeat against heartbeat.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers into you, because his own will never equate yours. You feel it then, his free hand claiming the delicate skin of your throat—it wraps around it like a serpent circling its prey, possessive and starved. "Fuck tell me what you need. I'll give you anything you want, everything until your heart is full."

You want to tell him, how your heart will burst if he gives you any more of him. What's left of him. You want him whole, and full, and breathing. You want freedom and you want love, you want to love freely, to claim him as your own for all capable men to see. You want to give yourself to Maekar, give him every part of you, make him entire again. You want to swallow his fears and crush his pain, to be his anchor, the very force grounding him amidst his most cruel storms. Because you would sink for him, without an inkling of a doubt—you would let yourself drown in the deep crevices of his undying devotion for you.

Later, when you are nothing but limp bodies wrecked by love, lust, and longing alike, you bury your face inside his neck. You press your lips against his pulse, strong and steady, an ointment for the damage caused to your heart in his absence. You fall asleep to the flutter against your lips, the same beat mirrored underneath the palm you placed above his chest.

But Maekar does not rest. He welcomes the luxury of having you near him again, every inch of skin touching his own. He watches the sun find refuge in the night sky, admires the moon claim it with its bright light that now covers you like a veil. His hand is in your hair, gentle strokes and drowsy kisses. He listens, and he thinks.

Then, he speaks, declares the words into the emptiness of the night. "You're all I have left," he says, whispers it against your dormant form. "My soul cleaved in half."

He sighs. The heaviness of his words, the constant fear he endures for you—they press on his chest.

But you hear him. You're here, too, alive and as healthy as you can be.

"If I am one half of your soul, then you are the entirety of mine."

He stills. Then, he breathes, your voice the only cure to the tightness felt in his chest.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

And for the first time in weeks, Maekar sleeps. *** When you return to the wash-house five days later, the same maid throws jarring taunts at you. Her legs hang from a guard's lap, and when her mouth doesn't foul about, it latches onto his lips, wet and loud.

Distasteful sounds flood the room.

But the guard's pleasure cries echo differently in your ears. His boots are larger, his sword by the chair he sits on, shinier.

When you look up, you meet a foreign face. One that doesn't belong to Ser Kraig. It's longer, fuller, and his eyes pay you no mind.

You never see Ser Kraig again. *** You thought time would become your ally after the first visit. Make it easier to bear. Less painful with each step you take in the dark halls that lead to his study.

Maybe it was a white lie you told yourself to make the first sip easier. Perhaps you were truly and utterly naive in that moment, too innocent to understand the meaning of your doings.

Because you're here now, sat in your usual chair, and the walk to get to this place, one of the many rooms of your own personal hell, was just as agonising as the first. You stare at the dark liquid that fills the cup in your hands. You can't stand the smell of it. The taste, even less.

"I've added honey this time," Maester Melaquin removes the small spoon from your cup as he speaks. "Should be easier on the tongue."

He stares at you with the same look he holds just for you, always the same one. A look of pity and perhaps even a little concern. It makes your skin crawl, turns your already burning shame into a reality you do not wish to bring to life.

You force a smile and nod lightly. Then, you take a deep breath, and you drink.

It makes you clutch your belly. You fight with might not to retch, not to let your humiliation be seen. The bitter taste burns your insides every time, and the honey does less to smooth the surface of your pain. It's a punishment, possibly, for your greed and lust. Not for intimacy, nor for pleasure—but for him.

"Have you bled recently?" The Maester's words grow slower with each visit. You know the man to be old, but they are still sharp, his words, still a stark reminder of your choices.

"Must you ask every time?"

And you don't mean to bite, try to soften the blow of your question with a lighter voice. But it stings, and you hate it, hate speaking of it.

"Yes," he states. "The tea is but a temporary solution, you know this. Taken for longer periods of time will cause irreversible damage to your already frail body."

Another punch in your already weakened gut. Because you dream of it, sometimes. On nights you feel lonely, on nights he makes you feel so loved you barely remember the life you led before him.

"I worry for you, child. If you would tell me—"

"No," you cut him off curtly.

Because it's not as if you do not wish to carry his child. Maekar's. It's a tale you have hidden in the deepest pockets of your mind, one you barely ever allow yourself to indulge in. You, Maekar, a little prince or princess. One who, you hope, would somewhat resemble you but carry the presence of their regal father with effortless pride.

Gods. Maekar, a father to your child.

In fact, you long for it. You crave it with such intense passion, you sometimes wonder whether the gods would punish you for your absentmindedness. If you forgot to visit Maester Melaquin—you could blame it on Mistress Lena, on the amount of work she throws at you. Fatigue makes you forget things, the old man has told you this.

But then, reason comes knocking at your door, and it isn't gentle with it.

You do it because the love you hold for Maekar is stronger than any of your selfish desires. You maim your body because you would rather suffer such wounds than sully his honor with a bastard child. And your mind, you don't care to harm it if it means Maekar is spared from being tied to a lowborn for as long as men are able to read of history and its muddied men.

You do it to keep Maekar safe.

You do it to hold your secret hidden, too. Your greed cannot fully be buried, it matters not how hard you try.

And Maekar, if he has his doubts and queries why you continue to bleed every moon despite your almost desperate beggings to fill you when he takes you, he keeps them to himself.

So you drink, and you swallow. And you never speak of it. *** "What's this?"

It's late tonight, later than you would usually finish your tasks for the day. You think Mistress Lena may have something to do with it. She looks at you differently lately. Looks like she might accidentally throw a hot pie at your face then smother you with false care and apologies.

You're holding a warm cloth to the back of your neck when you enter his chambers. The pain always feels especially worse after floor scrubbing duties, and you're far from being spared this evening.

"Sit." Maekar was pacing, you guess it from the way his shoulders stand. They're tense, and you practically feel the hard knots of muscles underneath your fingertips. The itch to reach out and remove the cotton blouse he wears to soothe the tension is there, buzzing under your skin.

But, if anything gives it away, it's his face. The stern look he often wears is different. He's deeply frowning, concern and frustration largely to blame for it.

You don't ask questions. You know him too well by now.

You look back at his desk, his usually messy desk. It often drowns in parchment and quills and ink and empty cups, and your nature makes it so that you cannot bear being blind to the oak wood underneath it all.

It becomes a game, almost, rearranging it when he is not hovering to rebuke you. There are other maids for that, he'd say, but the urge is stronger than his demands. You need to see the wood peaking through the mess, need this room to be well-kept.

You need something to hold on to when he takes you against it.

But tonight, there are no quills nor empty cups. No mess. The cups are full, in fact, almost small against the large plates of food that now cover the large desk. The smell of roasted mutton and duck hits you as you approach.

"Maekar, what is this?"

He sighs. He often does, it's almost become comforting to you. He stares at the cloth in your hand then, glares at it like it had committed the worst atrocities against him.

"Have I not been feeding you enough?" It's like a switch, a flash of light travelling at a speed greater than what men comprehend. He looks torn now, shattered by the looks of you. You almost don't feel it when he takes the used cloth from your hand and hides it in his pocket.

You frown. "Of course you have."

"Then why do you continue to look so fragile?"

Maekar, my love, all you are is fragile. It breaks me every day.

You almost speak out loud, but you see it in his eyes, feel it in his words. Tonight is not a night to poke his demons.

"Please just—" Maekar's voice cracks, your heart along with it, and he grabs your hand in his much larger ones. A soft and perhaps desperate kiss is placed on your knuckles. "Please, just sit and eat."

It's pointless to refuse him, you've accepted this. So, you sit, and you eat. You eat the mutton, you eat the duck, the roasted vegetables and the dark bread with the thick pottage.

Maekar sits near you. He looks tired, not more than he usually does, but still tired. He leans his temple against a closed fist and watches you in silence, his eyes sometimes shifting down to the food on your plate. You look back at him every so often, silently wondering when he'd find his hunger and thirst quenched.

"Just eat your fill," he simply says. You notice the tension in his shoulders ease as you continue to stuff yourself, now with the fruits and nuts filling the pretty silver bowls.

You still can't see the oak wood. *** Maekar won't lie. He likes being of royal blood.

He enjoys flocks of servants bowing at his feet at the snap of his fingers. Likes bathing in scented waters and dressing in the finest silks. He even finds certain thrill in watching hints of fear overtake the crowd's gaze when he enters a room or utters words at them. It's always the same fucking look. And he feeds off of it.

What he doesn't like, however, is the constant yet insufferable duties stuck to his royal privileges like vermin. Sat in the room with these fucking dullards, forced to entertain their tales that mean so little to him. He's bound to feign ignorance in the face of their false sense of duty for the good of the realm—it chokes him with rage. They all want a piece of him. He knows this, wants them to know he knows this. He is not his brother, the one he killed, wasn't blessed with patience and courtesy.

And that, especially on nights when they hold him hostage far longer than he should allow. It's dark outside, has been for a while. Yet he's still here, his ears bleeding from contradicting arguments that fly across the table. Bloodraven, his grandsire's bastards, the king's spendings, fuck if cares now.

Because all he thinks of is you. He can picture you in his mind, how you sleep in his bed. Your hand delicately tucked under your cheek. He thinks of your lips, so invitingly pink and soft, the way they pout slightly when you're in deep sleep. How he sometimes loses the battle against his greed and covers that pout with his own lips, steals it away.

He knows your body as well as he knows his own name, and that thought spurs him on. He knows how you'd feel in his bed right now, imagines your soft curves against his. He can smell you, always a hint of roses latched onto your delicate skin. He spends his time worshipping every inch of it on days he knows he isn't needed.

He's overly familiar with the way your body reacts to his touch, too. How your perked nipples turn a shade darker when you're aroused, how round and plump your breasts feel in his palms. The way you arch your back in a particular manner when he fucks you with his cock, knows your hands like to feel at his face when he takes you on your back. But when he holds your delicate wrists in a tight grip above your head, caging and restraining them, he's noticed the drag of him inside you become wetter, sloppier. Slips right out of you at times.

He also knows you enjoy having him in between your legs, though not more than he does being there. You blush at it every fucking time, too timid to ever ask, too diffident to even look at him. Gods, Maekar has never known such innocence to look so bloody tempting. He gladly succumbs to it, day and night alike, doesn't really care where he is when he does.

You're timid because you don't enjoy being loud, but he knows your voice betrays you when he laps at your folds like a man starved for your pleasure. There's a sound you make, one he thinks of when he allows his lustful cravings on nights he is away from you. You only permit it when he pins your thighs apart and fucks his tongue slowly inside you. You're especially generous with these sounds when he purposely rubs his nose against your pearl as he tastes you, knows how much you like it. His nose, you've told him, more times than he can count.

Your body no longer holds any secrets from him, it's exposed and vulnerable to his eyes, and he relishes this knowledge. Feels sick pleasure in knowing that no other man realises this about you. Even now, he looks at the pitiful men surrounding him, and he thinks this—thinks how they won't ever find out what it's like to have you come apart from their tongue alone, over and over and over again, until your body goes so limp you can no longer move. They'll never know how you taste, what it feels like to have you pinned underneath them, so small and vulnerable and trusting. To have you on your knees, this precious and fragile little thing, looking up to them with glossy eyes big enough to hold the vastness of the world. To feel the heat of your mouth wrap around them, they'll never know how fucking dizzying it is to have your tongue smooth around the edges of their cocks like it's the most pleasurable thing you've ever done. To watch you work so hard to fit all of them in your mouth, to trace your soft lips stretched wide around the girth of them with their own fingers, see you coon and whimper at the same time when they scrape at your scalp, praising you.

He thinks of you. Prays to these fucking gods above you are in his bed right now, waiting for him, and not in your own sleeping corner by the kitchens. He hates it when you retreat there on nights he is late or absent, makes his blood run cold just thinking of it.

With this thought in mind, he finally tells his small council to fuck off. Because his day has been long and exhausting, and the throb behind his eyes almost turns him blind, and he fucking needs you.

So, when he opens the doors to his chambers and sees your sleeping figure half covered by his sheets, temptation itself dressed in your delicate features, he almost loses his sanity.

He can't get rid of his clothes quickly enough. In his bed, he reaches for you instantly, and his hands are greedy, they want and they take, and they're shameless about it. They've always been. They reach for you, slot your back against him. They feel at your neck, your chest, your stomach. They just feel. He can't touch you enough, he'll never touch you enough.

So he buries his face in the back of your neck, in your hair, tries to become one. Your silver hair that mirrors his, seven hells, he'd die to see you wear braids in the traditions of his house. He knows you were meant for it, and it drowns him in possessiveness, these traditions. Because you're of his blood, his to take, he knows it. He inhales you in, your summer scent—it eases him instantly.

He knows you're tired, sees it from the way you sleep. But who is he if he does not take, so he marks the skin of your neck with soft kisses and light bites, moves down to your shoulder.

"Maekar?" Of course he'd wake you, he knows this. But fuck, he'll never grow used to the way his name sounds on your tongue. Your voice, so small and drenched in sleep, it makes him ache. "What's wrong?"

"S'fine, I just," He kisses your skin more, tastes it even, feels you the way he imagined earlier tonight. His hand moves from your top to your legs, moves your gown away, practically feels offended by it. And because he lacks any patience tonight, he forgives himself when he rubs the throbbing head of his cock against your entrance, already slick and ever so soft. He's so painfully hard, he's hot and he's wet, and you are too, and it makes him utterly mad. The way you're always wet for him, he's noticed it, always so ready for him to take you. Molded above just for him.

So, he pushes in. Groans at the heat taking over him, eating away at all his pent-up frustrations. You're tight, and you're warm, and breaching you this way just—

"Oh Maekar…" your moan is soft. Tired. Maekar thinks he may just finish this inside you before he can even take what he needs from you.

"You're too far away," he complains because he cannot take it. Cannot take the distance, cannot stand the absence of your smell, of your warmth, despite how close you are. He pushes up into you then, as much as he can, until he's entirely lodged inside you. He's deep, and he knows you can feel how deep inside he is, knows you can feel him in your belly. He presses on it.

Your whines are quiet but many, crying almost.

"I know," and he's breathing against you, tries to suppress his groans. He feels your walls pulse around him. "I know, sweetheart. Just need this—fuck, just need to feel you."

You nod, understanding, always so pliant for him, always wanting to help him in whatever way you can. His servant, his master, his maiden. His girl.

But he's fucking drained, too. So he locks himself away against your skin, kisses your shoulder again. His hand is on your heart where he can feel the steady thump, his chin resting above your head.

He moves inside you once, just a little, just to steal those small, sinful sounds you make. Then, he stills, and he feels. Feels your aching heat all around him, pulsing, sucking, and you feel so good.

He breathes.

And only when you're so full of him, and him of you, can he finally rest.

Because he knows. *** On days you think he needs it most, you enjoy baking for Maekar. Something sweet, something you hope reminds him of older days and brighter times.

The apples you carry in your basket were picked just now from the gardens at the back of the palace. Maekar swears they share no difference in flavour with their red cousins, but you're fonder of the green ones. Think they taste sweeter.

It's still dawn. You choose the small kitchens to make the baked apples, and you decide to cut the green ones just to prove a point.

You listen to the rest of the castle sleep.

"I don't suppose you know where they hide the Arbor Gold wine around here, do you?"

Your knife slips at the sudden voice. A thin but dark drop of blood trails down the side of your hand almost immediately after.

"My prince?" You gasp as you take him in, hide your bloodied hand behind your back. He doesn't need to see it. "I—We weren't expecting you until the end of the month?"

"Believe it or not, I do not particularly enjoy the taste of sweet Dornish Red."

Prince Daeron walks further into the tiny room. His eyes wander, intent on finding what they seek. That is, until they land on you.

"You…" He hums softly. "I've dreamt of you."

And you've heard all about Maekar's eldest and his cursed dreams. How they drown the prince in an endless pit of darkling suffering.

You still frown.

"You're of the blood of the dragon, are you not?"

You stare at him, your mouth slightly agape.

"In another life, perhaps."

"You could very well be a sister of mine in this one by the looks of you." The prince speaks in a gentle voice, soothing almost. He unclasps his cloak, takes a seat in front of you. "Are you from here?"

"Lys," you believe. The years have thinned your memories. "I was born there."

"Ah, that explains a lot." You can feel your cheeks warm at his insinuations, even more so when he adds to it, "And I am not referring to your silvery hair."

You had seen him before, Prince Daeron. Brief visits at the castle before drifting off to his next conquest, seeking out the best wine in Westeros. You've always avoided him, too afraid to expose yourself, too much of a coward to face him. But, he's here now. And he's speaking to you.

He's Maekar's son.

"I also know you aren't just my father's personal maid."

And suddenly, you freeze. You clench your fist, the bloodied one, hope it doesn't show on your face. You beg your voice to stay true to you.

"Did your dream tell you that as well?"

"It did not," he chuckles. "But my father would never allow a simple servant girl to wear his cloak on her shoulders."

You stare at it then, the heavy black cloak that lies on the table near Daeron. The one that smells most like Maekar. The one he tells you to keep because he worries the harsher winds outside won't be kind to you.

"I may drown in my cups most of the time, dear girl, but I haven't yet lost all my senses," he speaks again when he notices your gaze stuck on the cloak. "I've seen the way he looks at you."

You feel your body go rigid. Your hands begin to tremble, still clenched and hidden behind your back. The blood has slightly dried now, uncomfortable on your skin. Hundreds of reasons urgently flood your mind, and you want to pick one, speak it into reality as if defending your word at trial.

But can you truly fool one who sees it all?

"There is no need to be afraid of me, little one."

You unclench your right hand, grab onto your left wrist. You think he notices it, notices your uneven breath. Think if this secret had ever lived within the walls of these small kitchens, it was now long dead.

"I mean you no harm, that I promise you." The prince lowers his head slightly, tries to catch your gaze. And he does, he catches it, and you find it easier to breathe then. His eyes are gentle, they're kind. They hold the truth, you think, a semblance of it at least.

You nod once.

"Do you love him?"

And it's such a simple question, or perhaps one not meant to be answered at all. You desperately want to pretend its answer doesn't latch onto your skin the second it's uttered anyway, want it to be burdensome to think of. Maybe this way agony wouldn't be so familiar to you, anguish sculpted by this very answer, because you would be too distracted seeking it out.

It would be so much easier if it were difficult.

But it isn't. It's simple. Possibly the simplest truth you've ever known.

"More than I should."

Prince Daeron nods to himself this time, then sighs, long and loud. His skin glows, a shiny veil of sweat covering his pale skin. He looks uncomfortably tragic, and you cannot help it, this feeling spreading all the way to your gentle hands. The tiniest urge to press a cool cloth to the prince's forehead.

"My father appears to be a stern and fierce man, but the truth of it is he holds so much care inside his heart I fear it may consume him whole one day."

His eyes are distant now, pensive. Not a prince drunk on despair but a son who mourns his live father. You feel an ache begin to bloom inside your chest.

"He's always been tragic but he lost himself further when my mother died."

Your breath hitches at the mention of her. Maekar's wife.

"He—" your voice cracks, once. "He never speaks of her."

"Like with many other things, my father blames himself for her death." Daeron laughs bitterly. "I believe he was afraid, too. My mother was older than he was, always knew the right thing to do and the proper thing to say. A fierce woman herself. He relied on her a lot in that sense."

The ache inside you spreads out evenly while you cling onto every word the prince allows you to hear. You softly smile at him, a look of sorrow no doubt clouding your eyes.

"But then suddenly, she was gone, and my father was left alone to deal with four very unruly sons. Granted, my brothers and I haven't made it easy for him." He looks down at his hand, flexes his right fingers. "I think he resents us for it."

"He doesn't," you're quick to defend him, to defend the truth. "Your father loves you, the four of you. More than you can imagine."

"Perhaps," another bitter chuckle. "I like to think he loved my mother, too. That version of my father, at least. He grieved for her, we all did."

You can picture it. The shocking loss of a mother, of a wife. You suddenly feel strangely out of place from where you stand.

"Then came my uncle's death," he looks up again, and you notice his bloodshot eyes appear redder. Sadder. "If anything, I blame myself for it. I had seen it, the dead black dragon, I saw it with my own eyes. And I failed to do anything about it."

"You couldn't have known."

"I should have. I knew these dreams were cursed. They're cursed because they come true, yet I poured myself more wine, hoping they would simply just—go away."

Daeron takes a moment for himself, relives the dream. He must do it often. A form of self-punishment, perhaps. Or one more reason to pour himself another cup.

"A part of my father died that day," he says, and your mind goes to it. Maekar, the man you love more than life itself, dead and alive at the same time. A piece of him, a fraction of his soul—gone. You know it to be true, and it haunts you. "He loved his family, but he never loved as fiercely as he did Baelor."

Your eyes burn. You believe the prince when he speaks of his father partly fading away as he took his brother's life. It's always the ghost of Maekar's fragmented soul that speaks when the fallen dragon prince is mentioned. Short words, somber eyes. It broke him.

For a moment, there is nothing. Just the sound of his uneven breath, the heaviness of his words.

"If you've ever doubted your Valariyan heritage, don't." Prince Daeron looks at you again, a ghost of a smile now decorating his lips. "I've seen it."

"You've—seen it?"

"I told you I dreamt of you, did I not?" His smile spreads when he huffs the question. He's handsome, the prince, you think. He looks like his father. "And the dragon does not lie."

You don't know what that means. It may not mean anything at all, because suddenly the soft look on his tortured face vanishes.

"So I ask this of you, kin to kin," He stands then, approaches you slowly. You curl your bloodied fingers into your palm again. "Please, take care of my father."

It's a plea. A frantic prayer uttered in an even more desperate voice.

"He was only a boy himself when he had me." The smell of wine invades your space when Daeron gently reaches for your hidden hand. "Sometimes I feel like he's been more of a brother than a father to me. I took care of my brothers when my mother died, you know? Shared the role, he and I." And you let him. There's no resistance when he takes your hand in his, undoes your fingers, exposes the false blood for his eyes to see.

"What I mean to say is I know him better than most. He feigns not needing anyone, but he yearns to love—to be loved, to protect." A small piece of cloth is removed from his pocket then, gently dabs where you bleed. "You bring that out in him. I've seen this, too—how he doesn't fight the gods and pretend otherwise when you are near him." It's lightly wrapped around your hand now, makes your teeth grind when he seals the cloth above the cut in a small knot.

He looks at you, lets go of your hand. Begs you with deep violet eyes, eyes scarred by life's horrors. "I may bind you to a life of misery by asking this of you, and for that I am truly sorry." You blink up at him, ready to take a vow if ever needed. "But I ask it anyway. Save him, I beg this of you. From himself, from the crows that fly above his head. Before it is too late."

"I promise," you offer softly. Because it's the most effortless vow you can make, one you would gladly bind in blood if it meant it would seal its meaning to the beating of your own heart. Words uttered in the presence of a prince, of a son, meant for a man too broken to see past his pain. They're easy to speak when you're ready to lay down your life for them.

Then, in a voice as gentle as a summer breeze, "I'm sorry."

The prince isn't accustomed to warmth, you think. The look on his face says as much, lost at the kind words you grant him. Longing even.

"About your mother." And he looks more sober, suddenly. No longer entirely gripped by the claws of his drink. "You lost her, too." *** "I want you to stay inside my chambers this evening."

You're tightening the laces of his doublet when he speaks. You made this one yourself, and you're particularly proud of the way the red of his house shines through it. He says you have a talent for it, seen how much you enjoy sewing. It's difficult to ignore the warmth inside you every time you notice the large stacks of silk and satin and velvet pile up by the small tailor station he's arranged in the corner of his room for you.

"Mm?" You're too focused. This one lace just won't—

"I need you to stay here until I get back," he speaks more urgently this time. He gently grabs your hands as he does so, fixes the lace himself.

"Why?"

"I'm to host the Freys tonight." The scowl on his face is deep, the displeasure in his voice even more so. You reach for his belt behind you, fix his Valyrian steel dagger in its place. "They are the only house with full control over the major trade routes in the Riverlands. No one is better positioned to observe potential Blackfyre movements than they are, unfortunately."

"I know," you smile gently. "That's a good thing, is it not?" You tie the belt around his waist, twist the ends of it sideways in a large knot. "Why can't I be there?"

"Because I need to be focused if I wish to ensure the Frey forces stay loyal to the king, but I cannot do that if those lust-driven perverted cunts are ogling you all night long while you're serving them my wine."

Finally, you look at him. He looks paler than usual, the fear and discomfort in his eyes evident.

"I don't want you there tonight, alright?"

You sigh softly, turn to grab his cloak. "I understand what you're saying, Maekar, but I cannot."

"And why the fuck not?"

"Mistress Lena has asked that I specifically head the service tonight." You stand on the tip of your toes to clasp the cloak around his broad shoulders. "She'll ask questions if I do not show."

"I think I can deal with the matron of my fucking castle."

"I do not doubt that," you slide your hands across his chest, hope your touch will soothe the tense muscles there. "But she's been asking questions. Others have as well, I don't—I cannot have more attention drawn to me, to us."

Maekar sighs heavily, and you can feel his body slightly hum in anger. So, you cup his cheeks, your touch always so maddeningly gentle, and pull his face down to place a soft kiss against his lips.

"Nothing will happen to me, my love, not while you're there."

He knows your gentle smile is meant to be a reassuring one, tries to feel it. He circles your wrists with his larger palms, pulls you closer, kisses you more intently this time.

Not while he's there.

The feast is a pain, it always is, especially when the company at the table is as greedy and as repulsive as House Frey. But if the rumors speak any truth, if another Blackfyre rebellion is well underway, then Maekar needs to secure this bloody alliance before any damage is done.

The talks go fairly well and the plates empty rather quickly. He can breathe better now, is almost disgustingly amused by the number of heads sitting at his table. The Freys are indeed numerous.

That is until you enter the room, a silver jug nestled in between your hands. He sees Lord Frey's eyes find you instantly, that old dirty cunt. His body goes rigid.

Three other maids, most likely as young as you are, clear the table of the empty plates. Maekar notices how the sons look at them, like the girls are meant to be on the table next to the roasted goose. But the old man has another prey tonight.

You round the table, and Maekar realises in sheer horror that you are approaching him. You pour red wine into the old lord's cup, keeping your eyes down, and he knows you're trying to make yourself small. He's barely breathing, his body turned to stone almost, his eyes fixed on that last drop of red liquid falling into the cup.

But as you are about to leave, he hears it, the ugly sound of Lord Frey's stained hand hitting your behind. No one else notices, no one really cares.

Maekar doesn't think, is quick to grab the dagger latched onto his belt, wants to jump on the man and gouge his fucking eyes out so that he can never lay them on you again. But then his own eyes find yours before he can move, and he reads it in your gaze. Don't.

"How much for this pretty one?"

"She's not for sale." Maekar's voice slithers. It's stern and it's cold when it escapes his gritted teeth. He looks at you then, a curt tilt of his head.

"No? Pity," he watches you escape, like a hunter losing sight of its prey. "She looks like a princess."

Maekar is on high alert for the rest of the evening, doesn't recall the last time he's been this tense. The few times he does catch your eye, he tries to be as clear as possible—Stay the fuck away.

But then he sees you speak to that older woman near the entrance, the one he knows has been pestering you lately. The one he plots to have secretly removed without raising too many suspicions.

The one he will grab by the neck himself and drag outside the palace once this pathetic excuse of a dinner is over. Because he sees it, watches her press on your back a bit too harshly, and suddenly, you're walking towards Lord Frey once more.

He witnesses it all from where he sits. You're standing near the old man, whose mind is now poisoned further by the barrels of wine he's drunk, and Maekar has to endure the agonising thump against his chest at the sight of your trembling hands.

Lord Frey looks at you like a man starved, bares his rotten teeth when his gaze falls to your waist. Then, as you are pouring him yet another cup, he grabs you by your middle and forces you into his lap. The red wine spills all over your dress, stains you and the man behind you.

Maekar stops breathing completely, feels his food shoot up his throat. He looks at you, sees the distressed look on your face, one he swears to himself in that moment you'll never wear again. He watches you wipe away at your dress, sees how you desperately try to loosen the arms that hold you roughly.

"How about I just have you for the night then, mm? Always wanted to taste a princess, but you'll do just fine." The man sticks his face in the crook of your neck, inhales your scent. He looks at Maekar then, "You want our intel on those bastards cunts? Give me this one to keep me company while I'm here and it's all yours."

Maekar is violently thrown back to his days as a warrior, when all he could speak of and live for was death and destruction. Because when he sees the man's hand grope your breast, his other touch you below, when he sees the sheer panic in your eyes, his mind freezes in place.

He sprints towards you then, his steps heavy and loud, hand firm on his blade. He grabs you roughly by your arm, yanks you out of Lord Frey's grasp. It makes the old man stumble back in his chair.

"You dumb girl, can't you see you're distracting my guests?" Maekar spits out, and he hears you whimper at the way he's holding you, tries desperately to speak to you through his touch.

"She wouldn't be a distraction if she just obeyed like a proper bitch."

"Pick another, you'll likely catch the pox from this one." Maekar growls almost, drags you out of the room with a sort of urgency he's rarely ever felt before. He's cursing at you as he does so, knows those who are listening can hear him.

His hand is closed around your arm in a vice grip, and he almost runs in the dimly lit hallways. When he reaches a quiet corner, one he deems far enough away from the dining hall, he turns around like a mad guard. Looks for anyone who may have followed you.

"Oh gods," he finally releases you when he's confident you're alone, holds your face in his palms. "Oh gods, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He's breathing harshly, can almost taste blood in the back of his throat from how violently his heart beats. It tastes like something had ripped inside of him.

You look distraught, he can feel you tremble in his hands. "Fuck, tell me you're alright," Maekar moves your face sideways in a gentle hurriedness, checks for any injury he may have missed. "I'm sorry, please forgive me, I just—I had to get you out of there, I—"

"I know," he hears you say. You grab onto his hands on your face, squeeze them gently.

"Fuck," Maekar cradles your head against his chest then, his arms wrapping around you protectively, shielding you from this night. "I fucking knew this would happen."

"I know," you say again. Your voice sounds small, vulnerable, and, "I'm sorry." It fucking breaks him.

He releases a loud sigh then, almost sounds like a pitiful whimper. He cups your face again, "Go to my chambers. I'll dismiss the Freys for the night and I'll be with you, alright?"

He ignores who looks more distressed between the two of you. You look calmer than he does, but he knows you too well, knows you're more concerned with the way he came across tonight.

He kisses your forehead when you nod, and you instantly feel like crying at the feeling of him against you. Because this is your safe haven, he is the only one who will ever make you feel protected.

"Go," he whispers against your skin, kisses you again for his own sake. "Go, I'll have a guard stand outside the door."

When he joins you but an hour later, you're sitting on the edge of the bed, your hands cradled in your lap. Maekar sees you startle at the sound of the door opening, curses the gods for ever making you feel afraid in this room. Supposes he can live with it when he sees the relief swim in your eyes once they recognise him.

He carefully shuts the door, mindful of not scaring you further. When he kneels in front of you, looking this small and fragile, Maekar fights the urge to scoop you up and keep you hidden for eternity.

"Here, drink this." He places a small warm cup in your hands. You slowly take a sip, instantly hum in distaste. It's bitter, almost as bitter as the moon tea you force down your throat every other morning.

"I know, sweetling, but it will help you."

He tucks a stray hair behind your ear, then gently caresses your cheek, encourages you to drink more of the warm liquid. You feel his fingers tremble against you.

So you force yourself to swallow, not because you believe it will help you, but because you know it will soothe him.

"Did Lord Frey…"

And he hates that this is your first thought. Hates that you worry more about his dealings rather than the marks on your skin and the stains on your garments.

"Do not worry about him," he says as he takes the cup from you. "He was far too drunk to remember any of it by the time I returned."

You nod at that, knowing he might be hiding the truth of it. So you look down at your hands again. They're pink and tacky from the spilled wine.

"Did he hurt you?" His voice is forced and quivering when he lightly tilts your chin up. Your green eyes, now hidden behind a veil of tears, they look at him. They speak, they try to. You shake your head.

"Were you hurt?" He whispers, wants so badly to be the one to catch your tears when they finally fall.

You nod slowly.

And Maekar should be strong, mighty like he pretends to be. Knows he should sit by your side and hold you in his arms until you fall asleep. The Anvil still lodged inside him, albeit dormant, he knows he should wield it once more and feign the Hammer's presence.

But he's tired.

Gods, he's so tired. Exhausted from wretchedly failing all those he's held imprisoned in his blackened heart. Drained of shattering everything he dares touch with his bestial hands, even when he tries to do good, especially then.

Tonight, he witnessed a despoiler touch and maim the one reason for his breathing, did so within the cold walls of his own home. He watched you get hurt while he remained chained and worn down by the heavy manacles he wears every day, barred from doing what love and duty require of him. The blood of the dragon is thick, they say, yet he's never felt so empty.

He cowers in shame when they call him a dragon.

So, Maekar won't be strong now, cannot be. He takes your tainted hands in his, rests his forehead against them in your lap. And he weeps.

You join him in his sorrow, your own too heavy to carry alone. And when the veil holding your tears back finally drops, you don't cry because you're afraid. Wandering hands and punching words are not foreign to you, you know them well.

You cry because you know the taste of being loved, savoured it with your own tongue. You've been touched gently, fed to your fill, held in between arms so powerful they make you forget the darkened and stinking violence that roams outside of Summerhall.

But then a man enters these walls, those you now dare call home, and he tramples all over this pretty delusion you manage to live in. Revels in destroying it even. He sullies your body with his spoiled hands, strikes you violently with the harsh reality that you'll never be this soul it tricks you into believing you are. Hope, this ugly little thing hidden deep inside you. It's crushed by this man. And it hurts you.

You're just the servant. No more than a seed, disposable and insignificant to the realm.

And yet, he's here—the prince, your prince. He kneels in front of you, strips himself bare for you.

"You were there," you try to speak in between your tears. Your fingers now comb through his soft hair, caress the soft skin of his nape. And you're gentle with it, you're always so gentle with him. "I'm alright because you were there."

You give him what he needs, offer his heart time to rest. So you kiss the top of his head who still faintly shakes, rest your own against his in your lap.

Later, he helps you stand, and so do you when you feel him unintentionally lean against you. He removes your soiled dress with careful hands, throws it by door. You think you will never see it again, soon to be burnt and turned to ashes.

Maekar comes back with a warm cloth, starts with your hands, then tenderly kisses your palms when they're clean. He does the same everywhere else, with the slender dip of your shoulders, the softness of your stomach, the smoothness of your thighs. He cleans every part of it. Isn't afraid to get on his knees again for you. Removes the stains and the stench from earlier, kisses your skin to purity again.

You blink slowly when he cleans you, delicately hold his face in your hands with every kiss. It's gentle, the pressing of his lips against your skin. He's intimate with his healing, the purest form of love you've ever felt.

Your legs feel heavy, almost too heavy to move, so he guides you into a fresh night gown, into his bed. Maekar sheds his own clothes, blows out the few candles that light the room. Not being near you, it feels particularly daunting tonight.

So he rushes to your side, hides underneath the heavy fur blankets. You feel cold, much colder than you usually do. He suddenly regrets killing the fire in his chambers. Instead, he pulls you against his chest, covers your trembling body with his own, shields you from all evil that dares come knocking at his door tonight.

"I'm here," he whispers in your hair, holds you tighter. He feels your hand wrap around his own, the one he placed across your stomach, and finally, for the first time this evening, his heart rests. *** If King's Landing serves as the repulsive royal capital of the known world, then Summerhall is its gentle, golden shadow.

Its gardens are vast and especially green this time of year. The gentle, warm breeze that now kisses your skin carries your favorite scent, the one that comes with the colourful flowers scattered across the palace.

It's breathtaking.

And it's a prison to your love.

"If dragons still roamed the sky today, which one would you have claimed?"

Maekar stands beside you. He stares ahead of him, towards the east. And if you are a prisoner of this castle, then he is a prisoner of his own torturous mind. You aren't truly a woman of faith, but you've asked this of the gods, more than once. You've begged them to share his burdens with you, to endure some of his pain yourself. Just enough for Maekar to swim afloat, to know what peace feels like again.

He looks back at you, a faint furrow latched onto his brows.

"The Targaryen dragons," you speak softly. "Which one of them would you have liked to call yours if they had lived?"

And you've seen him get lost in his mind, he often does, but he looks pensive today. More than yesterday, even more so than the day before. He seldom looks like he isn't burdened with carrying the entire realm's darkness on his own.

"You know them all?"

He stands tall beside you, even taller when he turns towards you. Much taller than you, endlessly bigger than you. You wonder why you need ever worry about anything again, so long as he honours you by being your shield. Ponder how much you could protect him in comparison.

You nod shyly. You know he knows this—you've spent evenings devouring the history books he's brought back from the capital for you. The ones detailing his family's ancestry, especially those about the dragons. You'd never been more grateful for the woman who took you in as a child, the one who taught you how to recognise letters and form sounds with them.

"Then, you tell me."

The soft winds hit Maekar's face, his bright silver hair, meant to meet. You openly stare at him, and gods do you hold so much love for him. It suddenly hits you just how much.

"Vermithor," you state after humming in thought for a while.

Maekar smiles. The first you've seen today, the first you've seen in days. "Why the old savage?"

"Because Vermithor was a strong dragon. He was dominant and imposing, and he carried a simmering intensity with him wherever he flew," you say. "I imagine being near him would have felt less like facing an old beast and more like standing before something godly that's quietly deciding whether you are worthy of its attention or meant to be destroyed."

Maekar looks at you, truly looks at you. And if his thoughts were stolen away moments before, they are now entirely focused on you. They often are.

"Vermithor wasn't a savage, he was controlled power." Then, with a teasing smile at your lips, "And I am certain your natural brooding natures would complement each other well."

He nods his head, agreeing with your words, and you hear it then. The soft puff of air that escapes his throat, almost a laugh. Your heart swells.

"Which would you claim?"

And he sees your reluctance coming on when you look away, decides to strike it down before it can fully take form. "If you studied the books as well as I know you have, then you are aware of who claimed those dragons later in time."

He reaches for your face, his fingers lightly tilting your chin up. He wants your eyes on him again.

"You would claim Silverwing," he says, another soft smile decorating his lips, though it does not reach his soul. "She was far from naive or harmless if the history books tell the truth, but she was softer in temperament. A beautiful, curious and loyal dragon." You feel Maekar's hand at your cheek now, his thumb gently stroking it. You instinctively lean into his touch, your eyes closing for a stolen moment. "Silverwing was gentle strength."

You want to stay here, you want to speak of the dragons and the magical blood he shares with them. You want to tell him how you feel, how his words make you feel. You want to describe the fire they ignite inside you, want him to touch it himself, make him truly understand what he does to you, what his words do to you.

But the gentle summer light can be cruel sometimes, because it distracts you, steals your focus away in a heartbeat. It lands on Maekar's fragile features, and it fits like a puzzle in your mind, the reason why his destiny was written to be a master of dragons. You recognise it, his violet eyes that shine so brightly in the light of the sun. His silver beard and hair that shame other mortals' looks. You take it in, the reason why someone like him, and him alone, could mount and tame such fearful and formidable creatures, bend them to his will.

Because Maekar does look closer to gods than to men.

He looks beautiful.

He looks ethereal. *** "What's troubling you?"

It's a recurring question. One you find yourself asking him often, one you would like to keep to yourself most of the time, too afraid to face its answer.

It's late. You're lying on his bare chest, one arm holding you protectively against him, the other bent underneath his neck. You should be asleep, the moon now long awake in the night sky.

You need not look at him to know his mind is racing. You hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his heart works a bit quicker than usual. You trace your fingers gently over the white hairs there, hoping to soothe its uncomfortable race.

"I wish to go to King's Landing," he says after a while. Your soft touch on his chest falters at his words, and a slight sense of panic overtakes you at the thought of him leaving again. You hate it when he leaves you, hate the harrowing feeling of being ignorant of his well-being.

It feels like dying.

"Why?" Maekar's touch shifts from your middle to your arm, strokes it gently.

"I want to speak to the king," he says plainly. Then, "I want to ask him to legitimise you. Make you a lady of House Targaryen."

At that, you falter completely. The absurdity of his words forces you to sit up, your palm still warm on his chest.

"Have you gone mad?" You almost chuckle. "The last time a bastard was legitimised by the king, a bloody rebellion ensued."

Maekar frowns at you from underneath your eyes. "Do you intend to gather men and overthrow the crown?"

"I refuse to put you in a position that could harm you, Maekar." You shake your head, pay no attention to his provoking question. "I won't have the realm turn against you for inspiring another rebellion, especially in times like these."

"And so, I ask again, will I be forced to pick up my mace once more and fight you on a field?"

"Of course not," you stare at him. "I could never—why would you even ask that?"

"Then let me speak to my brother," he grabs your wrist from his chest, his hand engulfing it. His voice is a loud whisper, a desperate one almost. "Let me help you, let me give you the life you deserve."

You're stunned. Let silence settle between you.

"I don't—I'm not even a bastard, I'm just an orphan from Lys. I don't know who my parents were, how could I ever prove my link to your house?" You try to pull your wrist away. You need clarity to think. But, as with many things, Maekar refuses. He pulls your wrist back towards his heart, hammering at a quicker pace now.

"You do not need to do anything, your looks speak for themselves." And it's an odd thing, you think. This silver hair you wear, a stark reminder of your seedy blood, your penance—seemingly turning into your saving grace. "Dragon blood is what keeps you alive," Maekar speaks with so much conviction you almost believe him. "Aerys will understand if I speak to him."

The king may understand. He does not care much for ruling or its hardships, that much you know, prefers the company of his books. Maekar says his brother would have gladly been born a Fossaway or a Tully as long as his bookish nature was not disturbed.

So, you naively wonder, "Is this…am I not enough for you?"

You hate the question, hate how vulnerable you sound asking it. You don't doubt Maekar's fondness of you, but your lack of a proper education has never blinded you to the brutality of common sense.

You're a servant to Summerhall. He—a prince of the realm, brother to the king.

"Of course you are," he snaps. He sits fully straight now, his movements sudden and frantic to match the look on his face. He keeps his hold on your wrist, smooths over your hand to lace his fingers with yours, clutches hard. "I would happily spend the rest of my life in this fucking bed with you by my side, but you aren't safe here!"

His voice startles you. Not in the way he speaks, but in the subtle yet impending reality that hides behind it. You feel it creep up on you, slow and steady.

Maekar sighs, rubs his temples in harsh circles with his free hand.

"This is the right way," he says when he looks at you again. "You'll be a lady of the realm. You'll be looked after, I'll make sure of it."

Still so slow and steady, but it's moving, from your soles to your legs to your chest. You frown at him, the question almost slipping from your lips. Maekar anticipates this, he already knows. He always knows.

"You'll be on your way to Essos then," he says. And it's there, this cold impending reality that finally reaches and engulfs your heart. It knocks the breath right out of you, unable to speak a word. You try so hard to focus on the pain coming from your hand, the one being crushed in his own.

"You'll meet some—some younger lord there, have a family of your own." He spits the words out like venom. You can almost hear his teeth grind. "You'll be safe, you'll be happy."

Silence slaps you in the face, hard and cruel, your words failing to come to your aid. You feel your insides tremble, know it won't be long before it takes over your body completely. So you search deep inside you for your voice, force it to do its duty by you before it's too late.

"Maekar, where—where is this coming from?"And fuck does he hate himself for being the cause of your pain. He'll always be just that, a robber stealing your colours away, who takes and takes and takes until you're nothing but a pale trembling mess.

"I can't protect you while you're here," you hear the crack in his voice, feel the trembling in his limbs, too. "Even if you came with me everywhere I went, that wouldn't be safe. How long 'til some fucking visiting lord does as he pleases with you in my absence? How long 'til that old envious wench pours poison in your cups when you aren't looking? What if, gods forbid, the crown falls on my fucking head, and I am sent away to that stinking shit hole of a capital. Do you really think the court will allow you near? How can I protect you then?"

You process his fears, you understand them. You're not entirely stupid. You just don't care.

"I don't care about my safety, I just want to be with—"

"But I care!" He almost shouts. He pulls on your hand again, the one so deeply intertwined with his. You wonder if they could ever separate you from him.

"That's all I think of. You deserve to be with a man your own age, a man who can publicly protect and defend you. The mere thought of it burns my insides, it makes me want to slit my throat with my own fucking blade, but it's what you deserve." His face crumbles, and it cuts you so deep. Shackled and barred from soothing his pain. "Please, my heart, please let me do right by you. Let me not be selfish for once in my life."

You know Maekar to be a broken man, but you don't believe you've ever seen him this wretched. His glossy eyes, wild and looking back at yours—they're completely void of any hope there ever was.

And maybe that's your trigger because suddenly panic is overtaking your senses completely. It hits you hard, slithers its way around your body, and you claw at your throat with a trembling hand. You can't fucking breathe.

He's going to send you away. He will place you on a boat and ship you off to an unknown land and you will never see him again. You will never touch him again, you will never feel him against you again, you will never love again.

If he speaks other words you do not hear them, because suddenly you're moving, quickly and blindly. You still can't fucking breathe.

You reach out for him. You don't know how, but you free your hand from his, circle your arms around his neck immediately after. You straddle his lap then, your legs on either side of his hips, and you hurriedly press your lips against his.

You kiss him deeply, desperately trying to find your breath back. You feel his palms cup the sides of your ribs then, gently pushing you off. "Stop—"

But you won't have it. You cannot let him win. You crash your lips onto his again, and of course he responds. Maekar is many things but a fool isn't one of them, won't pretend he could ever resist you.

"No," you repeat like a madwoman, shaking your head. "Don't do this to me, don't send me away."

Maekar grabs your face in between his hands. Uses a bit of force to keep you still, your trembling now turning uncontrollable. "I don't want to do this," he says, and you see the tears in his eyes threatening to spill. "But you're still so young. Beautiful, gods you're too painfully beautiful, too pure for this fucking miserable life." And if you trusted your voice now, you would have screamed, yelled that you are anything but pure. You would have cut yourself open just to show him how filthy you bleed.

"I'm just an old brute," he belittles himself, twin tears finally escaping his dark purple eyes. Your thumb wipes them away, you refuse to see them, refuse to hear him. "I'm spent, I have nothing left to offer."

So you kiss him again, you seal his mouth shut with your own, and you're utterly fierce with it. "I don't want anyone else," you say in between your desperate assault, swallow his doubts and fears whole. "You own my heart, I cannot want anyone else."

Maekar whimpers against you, hates that he's crying. He's exhausted of feeling so pathetic every second of every day, tired of agonising every time he takes a breath. Cries harder when he realises he now feels this way with you, too, his last remaining safe haven.

He kisses you back with just as much devotion. He gives in, lies back against the soft pillows, holds onto you like his fucking life depends on it.

Your movements become hurried, frantic almost. Your lungs are still burning—you're drowning, you're hurting, you feel so empty. Empty of air, empty of him.

You pull at his breeches with shaking hands, try to hike up the hem of your nightgown at the same time. Maekar doesn't know when he got hard, supposes he's always slightly hard whenever he's around you. You hold him in your hand before sinking onto him, and you finally, finally, release the painful breath you were holding in.

Maekar groans, closes his eyes, too weak to fight. You don't ride him, you grind into him. You want to drag this for as long as you can, need this to never end. Because this isn't pleasure, it's survival. You need it, carnally and brutally, need it to breathe and live. You fall against him, your chest kissing his, cradle his head between your arms.

You can breathe now, you can focus on the turmoil happening inside you, and it hurts. An ugly sob rips from your throat, tears spilling uncontrollably. You find refuge in the crook of his neck, engrave his smell inside your mind. You know this may be the last thing you'll have of him.

"Please don't make me go, Maekar," you cry against his skin. "I'll die, it won't matter if I'm safe because I'll be dead."

And the way you cry out his name, this time broken and in despair, it shreds him apart. He tightens his arms around you, tries to pull you in closer than you already are. Bucks his hips upwards to match your grinding.

But he doesn't fuck you that night; he brands you.

He claims your most intimate parts, ruins you for that fucking lord or foreign prince he's already imagined in his head, the one who will steal you away from him. His love for you is consuming, it's painful, and he fights so hard to kill his selfish nature with this one act. He will let you go, he has to, for your own good. But then he feels your heat surround him, grip him to the point of suffocation, and it suddenly dawns on him that even for you, he cannot be entirely selfless.

So, he brands you. Pushes up into you, imprints his name everywhere, on every fucking inch of skin he can get his hands on.

"Mine," he growls in your ear despite everything. He sounds animalistic, almost, a beast claiming his territory. He cannot help himself. How can he, when your soul embraces his so desperately, when your bodies are so closely intertwined they become one. Dragon and dragonseed, pure blood and sullied blood—one and whole in the end.

Of course, you're his. You'll always be his. They can take you, but you'll always be his.

"Yours, I'm yours," you tell him. You grind back into him, wrap your arms tighter around his neck. "I will always belong to you."

Your tears flow and your hearts bleed. Later, when you're finally asleep, lying on your side but entirely pressed against him, he breathes. Your leg is in between his, your chest and middle glued to his as well, your head tucked underneath his chin. Your arm grips his back, your hold strong despite your current state.

Maekar holds onto you just as fiercely. He thinks of Baelor, of the brother he loved so deeply it cost him his life. He thinks of his sons, how he drove them all away. Cowers at his miserable failure at carrying the heavy but sorely beautiful mantle of fatherhood when it was dropped on his shoulders at such a tender age. He thinks of his own father, how he killed him, too, when he took his first born away from him. Of his kind nephews, he thinks of the way he could not save them while he sulked away in his forsaken summer palace that held no sun.

He's failed all those he's loved. He cannot love, he cannot provide, he cannot protect.

But, "I'll protect you," he whispers in your hair anyway. He cradles the top of your head in his large sullied palm, places a long and aching kiss against it, presses you further into him. "I swear, I won't let anything happen to you."

Because even if the failures of his past have left him broken, he knows he will do right by you. He whispers these words within the secret walls of his chambers, the moon serving as his witness, promises them against your sleeping figure.

He will stand by them. He knows there won't be anything left of him if he doesn't. Knows that failing you, too, means he will lose grasp of the last remaining sliver of hope he has.

So, he will stand by them.

He has to stand by them.

#maekar targaryen #maekar the anvil #maekar targaryen x reader #maekar targaryen x you #maekar x reader #maekar x you #prince maekar #maekar targaryen smut #maekar targaryen angst #maekar x dragonseed!reader #dragonseed #a knight of the seven kingdoms #akotsk fic

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