In which Gwayne accidentally invites his sister’s family on your getaway for his nameday.
“No.” You say eyes close while you relax in the hot springs, hearing your guard announce your husband’s arrival. Just wanting a moment of peace and relaxation before having to deal with the word again. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Please, I’ll be quiet I just need a break from everyone else.” Gwayne practically begs, having had enough of his family. His father, sister and her children unexpectedly joining you for your husband’s nameday trip. Daeron being the only one invited as he lives with you and was planning on spending a few days with your cousins children. Your cousin owning the property half a mile away. “I fear I’m going insane.”
“Fine.” You relent knowing your husband will just stand there looking all sad until you let him join you. “But it’s your fault they’re here anyway.”
“I didn’t invite them.” He reminds you, stripping before joining you in the water immediately relaxing from the heat.
“No but you told them where we were going.” You counter giving your husband a look when he pulls you into his arms.
“I thought Alicent deserved to know we were talking her son on holiday with us.” He say defending himself slightly. Regretting tell her as soon as the letter got sent.
“Then that is all you tell her, not that we’re going to be in Dorne between these dates at my wife holiday home in lemonwood.”
“I’m sorry.” He say feeling guilty he unintentionally ruined the little family getaway you had planned with him and Daeron. “I do feel as though I’ve been punished enough though.”
“How so?” You ask straddling his lap, having missed having your husband all to yourself.
“Father and Alicent keep asking when we’re having children and Aegon and Aemond have been causing issues with the servants.” He complains having had to apologise to the servants multiple times. “Helaena has also taken over the on of the spare chambers and made it into a bug room.”
“Ask your father why does he think we came on holiday and set up days where Daeron will be out and just leave Helaena to it, she’s happy.”
“You want me to tell my father that we were planning on making love the whole time we were away?” He asks you raising an eyebrow at you, the man refusing to call sex fucking thinking it’s demeaning. Him loving you no matter the type of sex you have.
“Yes.”
“I won’t be doing that.” He says with a laugh, picturing the shocked and disgusted look on his father’s face if he did.
“Boring.” You tease before kissing him.
-
“I love you.” Gwayne says absentmindedly playing with your hair while you cuddle on the sofa reading in your private solar.
“I love you too.” You respond, giving him a soft smile, you both getting interrupted as the doors get pushed open and your ginger boy is stood in the doorway. Looking so much like his uncle when he wants to hide.
“Aunt, uncle can I hide in here with you? Everyone is driving me crazy.” Daeron asks softly, having just been stuck in a very awkward conversation with his brother. Aegon wanting to visit a pleasure house.
“Of course sweetheart.” You say happy your boy wants to be with you and Gwayne. You having been friends for years before marrying. So you played a part in raising the boy when he moved to old town. “You can always join us.”
“Why did you tell them we were coming uncle Gwayne?” The boy say joining the cuddle pile, not happy that Alicent, Otto and his brothers have joined. Him having to problem with Helaena.
“Because I’m an idiot.”
“Next time can we not tell anyone?” He asks, just wanting an actual family holiday.
“Yes.” You and Gwayne respond in unison having already asked for a private dinner, with just Daeron and your husband. The servants happy to agree.
Half request half me and I was writing this when a request came through with the same concept. You’re Rhaenyra’s daughter but no description of what you look like apart from you’re female.
Content warning: 18+, smut, references to attempted sa (not Gwayne), slight Stockholm syndrome? But not really?, we hate the greens!, Cole 🤢, fears of death. Piv, Pussy pronoun’s, marriage kink?, switchy soft dom Gwayne, oral fem!receiving. They live happily ever after! Tell me if I forget anything!!!
“Does he ever shut up?” You ask Ser Gwayne Hightower, you having been taken hostage by them after the battle of rooks rest. You getting thrown of stormfrye by your dick of an uncle, Aemond trying to get Vaegar to eat you like he did your brother. Criston Cole not having shut up about how much he hates your mother and in turn you for your mothers ‘whoring’ aka she turned him down. “He’s giving me a headache.”
“You shut up before I take your tongue!” Criston Cole threatens knife to your throat while you sit leaning back in the chair you had been thrown onto.
“Is he always this annoying?” You ask Gwayne casually, not looking at the man holding the knife to you. Only focusing on the auburn haired man.
“Yes.” Ser Gwayne responds tightly, not agreeing with the way the hand of the king was behaving. You maybe the daughter of the enemy but you are still a woman and princess, you should be treated with respect.
“My condolences.” You say dryly, not caring if you get killed. You having come to terms with your death the moment you fell from your dragon.
“You little bitch, just wait till the men get their -.”
“My lord hand.” Gwayne interrupts, hating how unhonourable the man and his army are. They are knights, they should act like it. “We shouldn’t treat a woman as such.”
“Ser Gwayne as you seen so fond of our hostage you can be in charge of the whore then.” Cole snaps furiously before storming out of his own tent. Drama queen.
“I apologise for him calling you a whore princess.” Ser Gwayne says, hating the man who just left.
“He’s just bitter.” You say rolling your eyes, a part of you wishing the man had killed you. It being a kinder fate than living in the unknown. “Is it true?”
“What true?” Gwayne asks, unsure of what you could of heard given you haven’t spoken to anyone since getting captured. Not knowing you get mean when scared.
“That he’s been fucking your sister? If so it could explain the attitude.” You say crudely, looking the handsome knight up and down while he places his hand on his sword in anger. “Oh, jealous?”
“Don’t speak of the queen dowager in such a manner.” He snaps before taking a breath and releasing his grip on the sword. “Now tell me what you know.”
“Well I heard that they were fucking when her grandchild got murdered.”
“On your mother’s order.” He counters raising an eyebrow at you. Knowing you’re trying to get a rise out of him.
“My mother never gave that order, she would never want to hurt a child.” Especially after what happened to Visenya and Luke, you think. “Even after what your family did to mine.”
“What has my family done exactly?” He asks leaning against the table infront of you, wanting to hear your justifications.
“Where to start?” You ask rhetorically, giving a fake thinking face. “How about how your father has been plotting from the start to get his blood on the throne, or should I start with how your sister and father have been terrorising me and my family since before I was born?” You ask voice raising slightly as you continue, fury enveloping you while you remember your childhood. “How about the time your father spanked me during a counsel meeting for ‘misbehaver’ as the king was to weak to. Or when your sister made my mother walk through the keep moments after giving birth to torture her? Or even the time your supposed king tried to fuck me when I was crying after my father died! Take your pick.” You snap hating that you can feel tears building behind your eyes.
“King Aegon didn’t take your virtue.” Gwayne denies, not wanting to believe his nephew could be like that.
“You’re right he didn’t.” You reply with a fake smile, not understanding why you’re telling the man things you hadn’t told anyone before. Thinking maybe you just wanted someone to know before you die. “But not because of honor or any bullshit like that, he stopped because I kneed him in the dick and ran off. Is that truly who you want to rule?”
He doesn’t say anything in response just walks out, before telling the guards not to do anything until he returns.
-
“Eat.” Gwayne says offering you some food, you unaware it’s his. Cole refusing to waste food on a prisoner. You having been moved to Gwayne’s tent, you having been left to him.
“No.” You say crossing your arms over your chest, trying to keep a sense of power. Even if it’s just by refusing food. Your stomach betraying you when it grumbles.
“Please eat, I went through a lot of trouble to get you this.” He says placing the food down infront of you.
“Fine.” You say reluctantly, taking a bite of the bread.
-
“There’s a guard waiting outside so you can’t escape.” He says later that night, leaving you in his tent. “I’m going to find somewhere else to sleep.”
“Can you stay?” You whisper reluctantly, hating the fact you have to ask. But feeling safer in his presence.
“Why?” He asks thinking you would love a moment alone.
“I’m scared.” You admit, hating that amount of fear you have.
“Of what?” He thinks, knowing he’s put his most trusted soldiers outside the tent.
“I’m in an enemy camp full of men, you tell me.” You snap, knowing given the chance a lot of them men would take it.
“Fine.” He says making a small camp on the floor near the tent entrance.
-
“He’s such a dick.” You mumble sat next to Gwayne on a log while Cole gets himself a second bowl of food. Him having refused to let you eat again so you’re sharing with Gwayne. You having been prisoner for a fortnight. A very long fortnight.
“I know.”
“You’re not meant to agree with me.” You reply trying to hide your smile, hating that he can make you laugh. “He’s your ‘Lord hand.” You say making fun of Cole’s new position. Him nowhere near qualified. “But I suppose that’s what breaking your vows gets you.”
“Can we please not talk of my sister? I don’t like being reminded of it.” He says knowing what you’re insinuating, a deadpan look on his face. You unaware that’s what he looks like when trying not to laugh.
“I really don’t see the appeal of him.” You muse watching the insufferable man eat.
“Like I said, please stop.”
“I’m not just talking of your sister I’m talking in general.” You say thinking of your mother. “He’s good looking but the moment he opens his mouth I just want to bash his head in with a hammer.”
“I’m not responding to that.” He says taking a drink so you can’t see his smile.
-
“Ser Gwayne?” You whisper in the middle of the night, you shaking from the cold despite Gwayne letting you sleep in his cloak along with a blanket.
“Yes?” He asks, already awake. Unable to sleep due to the cold.
“It’s cold.” You state, not wanting to be the one to ask.
“What do you expect me to do about that princess?” He ask, smiling up at the ceiling, knowing exactly what your going to ask. You having been sat incredibly close to him earlier trying to steal his warmth.
“Can you lay next to me?” You ask reluctantly, knowing he won’t until you ask.
“Pardon?”
“It’s helps with warmth, sharing a bed.” You say factually, also just wanting the reassurance of someone next to you. “We don’t have to cuddle.”
“I’m only doing this because I’m also cold and I’d like my bed back.” He say lying, quickly getting up and slipping into the cot next to you.
-
“Stop squirming.” He complains trying to sleep.
“I can’t get comfortable.” You complain moving so your back is to him.
“Just.” He sighs before pulling you close and into his arms. Legs wrapping with yours keeping you still.“Come here.”
-
“How much longer do you think I have?” You ask a few nights later when cuddled up in bed together. His shirt and breaches hung up to dry after all the rain today, your dress beside it. Leaving you in just your shift and him his small cloth.
“What do you mean?” He ask, looking down at you while you rest your head on his chest. Pretending you’re cold.
“Until I die, how much longer do you think I have left to live?” You ask, wanting his honest opinion.
“You’re not going to die.” He says, not waiting thing about it. As that would mean he’d have to admit his feelings for you.
“Yes I will, I’m only being kept alive so Aemond can kill me himself.” You whisper as if saying it louder will make it happen sooner.
“No you’re not.”
“Gwayne.” You say looking up at him, seeing the pained look on his face. “I’m going to die, I’m at peace with it. I just hope my family will be ok.”
“You’re not going to die.” He says firmly, not willing to accept it.
“You know I’ve always wondered who I would marry if things had gone differently.” You muse, resting your head back on his hard chest. Savering the moment together.
“What?”
“I used to speak of it with Baela when we were little.” You say a reminiscing smile on your face. “This was before we found out her and Jace were betrothed, we’d speak of our dream wedding and husband’s.” You explain, thinking back to when you and your best friend/step sister would cuddle up in bed for a sleepover and talk. “Looking back she was just describing Jace, but I just wanted the perfect knight. Kind, honourable, a protector, a true knight not the fake kind who want the power for all the wrong reasons.”
“You put a lot of thought into it.” He says, wishing he could be that knight. “What of the wedding.”
“A pretty dress, I never minded if it was a Valyrian wedding or one before the seven or even the old gods of the north. All I wanted was the perfect knight while I wore a pretty dress.” You explain smiling now picturing Gwayne when you think of you make believe wedding. “What of you?”
“I’m a Man I don’t have an opinion on weddings.”
“Humour me.” You say drawing shapes on his chest.
“I wanted a wife who could make me laugh and be happy, I wanted love.” He admits, never having spoken about it before. “I’ve never wanted someone who blindly follows everything I say, I want my wife to have her own opinions.” He says simply. “As for the wedding it would be before the seven, I’d be in my best clothes and she could be wearing anything and I’d still think her the most beautiful woman in the realm.”
“I hope you get that one day.” You say quietly, wishing it could be you but knowing the fates won’t allow it.
“I hope you get your perfect knight.” He says kissing the top of your head. “You deserve a happily ever after.”
“Can I kiss you?” You ask, wanting one night of pretending he can be yours. “You can say no, it’s just I’ve never kissed anyone before and I’d like to know what it’s like.”
“What of your knight?” He asks desperate to kiss you but not wanting to push you.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to marry him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Kiss me Gwayne.” At your command he finally closes the gap and kisses you softly. His lips barely grazing yours before you pull him closer. Wanting a proper kiss not just a peck. Him happily complying, letting you straddle his hips as you deepen the kiss. You both lazy kissing for a while before you start grinding against him, waning more.
“Princess we shouldn’t.” He whispers against you, biting his lip to silence his moans while you move against him. Your lips not leaving his while you do so. “We’re not married.”
“In the sight of the Farther.” You whisper into him ear kissing just below it. “ The Smith.” You continue kissing down his throat. “The Warrior.” You say now at his chest, him just looking at you with an unreadable expression on his face. “Mother.” You kiss over his heart at that. “Maiden.” You continue kissing down him. “Crone and Stranger.” You say looking up at him, kissing just above his small cloth. Kissing just above before pulling them down, biting your lip at the sight of him hard cock, his hips bucking against you. “I am his, and he is mine from this day until the end of my days.”
“Come here.”
“Gwayne-.” You gasp not expecting him to pull you up and flip you so he’s now on top.
“Farther, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am her’s, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days.” He says quickly, looking at you with awe and adoration in his eyes. Trying to commit this moment to memory. “I don’t currently have my cloak.”
“Your cock will do.” You giggle, gasping when his hands slide between your thigh’s fingers running through your wetness. “Fuck, Gwayne.”
“Shh my wife.” He teases, bringing his fingers up to his mouth to taste you, closing his eyes momentarily, craving more of you. “We must be quiet for we don’t want a public bedding do we?”
“I need you.” You whine, desperate for him, needing him even more after he calls you his wife. “Please husband.”
“You have me, take this off.” He responds tugging at your shift. “Fuck you’re beautiful.” He whispers talking in your naked form, him biting his lip at the sight not sure where to begin.
“Fuck Gwayne.” You whimper when he finally decides what to do first, his lips finding your breasts. Hand squeezing and pinching at the one his lips aren’t paying attention to. “Fuck.”
“Good girl.” He groans against you, sucking and nipping at your nipple while you pull his hair. Not knowing what to do with your hands. “You’re so good for me.”
“Gwayne please fuck me.” You whine, despite for more bucking your hips up at him. Despite for friction.
“Let me eat you first.” He says kissing down you, nipping at bits of skin while he does so.
“What?”
“Let me eat your pussy, please my love.” He practically begs, face now inbetwen your thighs. Him licking his lips at the sight of your dripping lips. “Shes so desperate for me.”
“I,uh, yes.” You pant out not expecting that request. You quickly covering your mouth with your hand when you feel his tongue run through you, his moan sending vibrations through you. “Fuck.”
“You taste so good princess.” He says against you, tongue playing at your entrance while his nose knocks your pearl. “I could spent eternity down here.”
“Please.” You say grinding up at him needing more.
“Oh my needy princess.” He coos taking one last lick before moving his mouth to your pearl and pressing a finger into you. “Shhh be quiet, remember?”
“Gwayne.” You moan, hand going back to cover your mouth. Knowing you need to be quiet but the pleasure making it difficult. “I, fuck.” He just keeps sucking and drawing shapes in your pearl in response, a second finger entering you before a third quickly follows. Him groaning against you when you pull his hair, the pleasure to overwhelming you don’t know what to do. “Fuck, I think, I’m, fuck.”
“Cum for me wife.” He commands, keeping the exact same pace when your orgasm hits, him only pulling away when he can tell it’s getting a bit to much for you. “Good girl.”
“Gwayne I need you to fuck me.” You say pulling him back up to you, him smiling in response. His lower face wet with you. “Now.”
“Are you sure?” He checks, knowing oral is different and wanting you to be 100% sure in your decision.
“I’m sure, fuck me husband.” You demand wrapping your legs around his waist. To get your point across. “Please.”
“As you wish.” He smirks, giving you a kiss. You not caring you can taste yourself on him, to desperate for him.
“This will hurt a bit, but I’ll go slow.” He reassures hand going between you both so he can guide his hard and dripping cock along your entrance, tip nudging your pearl a few times before he pushes into you. Making you both moan at the feeling, him silencing you both with a kiss. “Good girl, almost there.”
“Fuck.” You whimper against him, feeling him stretch you, his cock reaching parts you didn’t know was possible. Whining when he bottoms out, feeling completely full of him.
“Are you ready for me to move?” He whispers, waiting for your consent before continuing. Him knowing if you told him to stop he’d do so immediately.
“Move, fuck me Gwayne please.” You beg trying to move your hips against his but him just following your movements.
“As my wife desires.” He says pulling out over halfway before thrusting back into you, you both gasping at the feeling. “You feel so good.” He whispers thrusting in and out trying to find a pace you both like when his hand finds your pearl and his thumb starts rubbing it.
“Gwayne.” You moan, him finding the perfect rhythm, you never having felt anything like it. Him hitting deep inside of you with every thrust, your not knowing pleasure like this possible. Him consuming you.
“I know baby I know.” He groans into you, feeling his orgasm grow closer but trying to fight it. Him wanting to cum at the same time as you.
“I’m close again.” You pant, feeling the familiar feeling creep up in you again. Feeling overwhelmed with all the sensations.
“Already? You are needy for me.” He teases knowing you’re close by the way you clench around him, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. Him not having had a release in weeks but trying his best to last for you. “Where do you want me to cum?”
“In me, please Gwayne fill me with you.” You beg, cuming around him, triggering his own orgasm him fucking you through the aftershocks. “Fuck!”
“Shhh.” He laughs tiredly not pulling out yet, wanting to say as close to you as possible. You just nuzzling into him when he moves you both to your sides. “I’ve got you.”
-
“Run away with me.” He says to you the next day, him having planed everything out this morning.
“What?”
“You heard me.” He says, your bags already packed with all the supplies you’ll need. Him knowing all the weaknesses in camp and already knowing when to leave.
“Gwayne-.”
“I know the consequences but we’re almost at Haranhall and I can’t bare to think of what could happen.” He interrupts, “So run away with me.”
“Yes.”
“Really?” He asks worried, you were going to say no.
“Really.” You confirm kissing him.
-
Bonus
“Do you have a whistle?” You ask a few days later, having disappeared in the middle of the night. Right after he asked you. You both now far away having covered your tracks and at the top of a mountain.
“What? Yes, but why do you want it.” He asks confused.
“Silverwing has been flying through here.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” You say using the whistle in the set pattern you taught your dragon years ago on the off chance you got separated.
“What the-.”
“Silverwing!” You shout excitedly as your dragon flys over, landing close so you could cuddle her. Her having missed you. Refusing to return back to dragonstone without you, waiting for your call. “I’ve missed you so much girl.”
Summary: Your husband has to go away for the war and you need a moment with him
WARNINGS: MDNI, morning sex, fingering, kinda pregnancy kink, p in v
A/n: I crave him yall don’t understand. Ik he’s a lil bitch but the actor is too hot. Hope you’ll enjoy this 😩
masterlist | wc: 3k
THE MORNING light streamed through the window in broad golden shafts, slipping past the sheer curtains and painting bright bands across the floor covered in Oriental rugs. The room slowly filled with that soft, gentle glow that comes just before full daylight, caressing the dark wooden furniture, the gilded carvings of the bedposts, and the great fireplace, now long since gone cold. Lord Hightower's bedchamber and that of his lady wife were as orderly as ever, kept with the meticulous care befitting the residence of one of the most powerful houses of the Reach. Yet here and there, a few details betrayed the night you had spent together. A cloak had been left at the foot of the bed, a leather belt hung carelessly over the arm of a chair, and your silk gown lay crumpled beside the rug alongside your small clothes, as though it had been forgotten in the haste of reaching your husband's embrace. The air still carried the scent of the spiced wine you had shared the previous evening, mingling with the sweeter fragrance of your hair oil and the salty breeze drifting in from the docks of Oldtown.
The two of you lay naked beneath the covers of the great bed at the center of the chamber, wrapped in the warmth you had shared throughout the night. Ormund Hightower, your beloved husband and Lord of the Hightower, had one arm wrapped around your waist with a possessive ease that had long since become familiar. Even in his sleep, he seemed incapable of letting you go; his fingers rested against your hip as though reassuring themselves that you were still there. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, his breathing deep and even. You sighed softly as a cool morning breeze slipped through the half-open window, brushing against your bare skin and sending a shiver through you. Instinctively, you curled closer to him, turning fully into his embrace in search of his warmth, pressing your face against his chest as you listened to the slow, comforting beat of his heart.
He murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, a word that dissolved against your skin, and his strong arm tightened around your shoulders, drawing you even closer. His face nestled into the crook of your neck, his warm breath making your eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. His lips barely brushed your skin as he spoke again, his voice thick with sleep. "What are you doing awake already?" he mumbled against your neck without opening his eyes.
A faint smile touched your lips as you traced idle circles across his chest with the tips of your fingers, following the contours of the muscles beneath his skin. "I don't know. My eyes just opened on their own." Your voice was low, almost a whisper, as though you feared breaking the stillness of the moment.
Ormund let out a slow breath and allowed his hand to glide gently down your arm, caressing you with a tenderness few would have imagined in a man of his size. For a moment he remained silent, his eyes still closed, but you knew he was listening to you with complete attention. "Something's troubling you. I can feel it." It wasn't a question. He knew you well enough to recognize the weight of your thoughts, even when you tried to hide them.
You lifted your gaze to his face and smiled faintly. His chestnut hair had fallen messily across his forehead in unruly waves, and without the stern expression he wore before his lords, he looked almost younger, closer to the man you had come to love. "I think I'm just... sad."
Ormund finally opened his eyes and looked at you with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. There was affection in them, concern, and that quiet tenderness he reserved for you alone. His hand came to rest against your back as he studied you in silence for a moment, as though trying to read every thought hidden behind your expression. "And why would my lady wife ever be sad?"
You let out a quiet huff and rolled your eyes, though the smile that escaped you betrayed how impossible it was to stay annoyed with him. "Don't tease me. You know why." Your voice caught slightly on the last word, and the silence that followed only made the truth you were both trying to ignore feel more real.
"Is it because I'm leaving for war?" he asked simply, though he already knew the answer. His fingers continued to stroke your arm, slow and patient, as though trying to soothe a pain he could never truly erase.
You lowered your eyes to his hand and gave a small nod. "What else could it be?" you murmured, pouting ever so slightly in a way that reminded him just how much younger you were than he was. You always carried yourself with impeccable grace, with all the composure expected of the Lady of the Hightower, yet in moments like these, Ormund could still see the young woman you had once been. The young woman you still are.
"This afternoon you'll leave, and I'll have to stay here, all alone. I wish I could come with you." The words spilled out faster than you had intended, carried by a sadness you had tried to conceal throughout the previous evening.
Ormund smiled faintly, a smile tinged with both weariness and affection. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, kissing away your pout with a sweetness that made you forget everything else for a moment. You smiled against his lips and slipped your fingers into his soft hair, keeping him close. When he finally drew back, he remained only a breath away, close enough for you to still feel the warmth of his breathing. "I'm not taking my wife to a battlefield, surrounded by soldiers who haven't seen a woman or had sex in weeks, sleeping in a foul-smelling tent." His tone was light, almost teasing, but beneath his words lay an unshakable resolve. You didn't deserve that, you deserved warm food, soft silks and the comfort of your shared bed. He would not have it in any different way.
You swallowed quietly, feeling his fingers continue to glide over your skin with infinite care. His touch had always been astonishingly gentle, a stark contrast to the strength of his hands and the reputation for severity he had earned among his bannermen.
"I know, but-" You tried to speak, but he interrupted before you could finish.
"You'll stay here, where I know you'll be safe, in the comfort of our home. You're the Lady of the Hightower. You cannot leave." His voice remained calm, but there was no room for argument. You fell silent, staring at the bedsheet gathered between your fingers as you fought the tightness rising in your throat. The reality of his departure suddenly felt much closer: the sound of horses' hooves in the courtyard, the men making ready to ride, the banners of House Hightower leaving Oldtown without him.
Ormund rested a hand against your cheek and gently lifted your face until your eyes met his once more. There was a solemnity in his gaze that made you understand just how much these words meant to him. "Promise me. Promise me you'll stay here, where you'll be safe."
You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of those words and of the love that accompanied them. At last, you gave a small nod. "I promise."
A satisfied, almost proud expression crossed Ormund's face, and his thumb gently stroked your cheek in reassurance. "Good. Now, how can I make up for my absence, my lady wife?" The question came with a firm squeeze of the fat of your ass.
A mischievous smile slowly spread across your lips. "I know exactly how."
He chuckled softly at your response, a sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your skin. "Oh? And pray tell, what did you have in mind, my dearest?" His voice was low and rich with amusement and anticipation. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip and coming to rest on your bare thigh, squeezing gently. The heat of his palm seeped into your skin, igniting a familiar spark at its path. Ormund leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can find a way to make it happen before I must take my leave." His other hand came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back slightly to expose the column of your throat.
You tilted your head back further, exposing more of your neck to his touch. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you felt his teeth graze your pulse point, sending a shiver down your spine to your very aching core. "Perhaps we could start by get warm. It's a little cold here." Your hand slid down his hairy chest slowly, fingers splaying across the hard planes of his abdomen. You could feel the heat of his naked skin, its hardness. Leaning in, you nipped playfully at his earlobe. "I want you to put a babe in me so I might have company until your return, my lord husband."
Ormund's breath hitched at your bold words, desire flaring hot and urgent in his eyes. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his passion and need into the heated press of his mouth against yours. His tongue delved deep, stroking along yours slowly as his hands roamed your curves with growing hunger. "Such a wanton request from my beautiful wife." he growled approvingly against your lips. In one swift motion, he rolled you onto your back, settling his muscular body over yours. The hard length of his hardness nudged insistently against your thigh as he gazed down at you with blatant lust. "I will gladly oblige and fill this womb with my seed. By the time I return, you'll be heavy with our child, a living reminder of my claim on you."
You arched your back, pressing your breasts against his chest as you wrapped your legs around his hips. The heat of his arousal brushed against your slick folds, making you burn at the mere touch. "Please, my lord." you whimpered, rolling your hips to grind against him.
Oh, how beautiful you were when you pleaded him so.
He would’ve give you the sky, stars and moon only if you asked to.
Your nails raked down his back as you pulled him closer, desperate to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies. The musky scent of his thickness mixed with the lingering traces of last night's wine, creating an intoxicating perfume that clouded your senses.
With a low groan, Ormund captured your wrists and pinned them above your head, holding them easily with one large hand. His other hand slid down the smooth plane of your stomach to cup your mound, unable to keep his hands to himself, fingers delving between your slick folds to stroke your sensitive flesh. His hand was cold against your skin, so cold it made you tremble in his grip.
"So wet for me already." he purred in your ear, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb. "My perfect, eager lady wife."
You shut your eyes closed, trying to get more friction from him. Your hips moved against his hand impatiently, rolling slowly, chasing that cold touch. You cried out a moan, your back arching off the bed as his fingers slowly entered in your wetness. Pleasure sparked through your body, making your toes curl against the warm sheets. Your inner walls clenched around them, sucking them in with a wet and disgusting sound that filled your chambers. You tugged at your restrained wrists, not really trying to escape but reveling in being held down, at his mercy. Your eyes locked with his, hazy with lust and adoration. "Please, Ormund."
Ormund's eyes darkened with hunger, watching you writhe beneath his touch, your desperate pleas music to his ears. He could listen to your whines all day and night without getting tired. He would gladly listen to only you for the rest of his life. Slowly and torturously, he pumped his fingers inside you, curling them to stroke that secret spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His thumb circled your clit in maddeningly light touches, stoking the flames of your desire higher and higher.
"Look how pretty you are like this." His voice was a low, seductive rumble. He added a third finger, stretching you deliciously. The obscene wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, punctuated by your increasingly high-pitched moans. "So greedy, so desperate."
Your head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, lost in the overwhelming sensations. Drool leaked from the corner of your open mouth as garbled cries spilled from your trembling lips. The pleasure was too intense, building to a peak far too quickly than you were used to. Your thighs began to quake and tense, signaling your impending release.
"Don't stop!" you wailed, grinding shamelessly against his hand. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You were so close, hovering right on the edge of blissful oblivion. Just a little more, and you'd shatter completely in his arms.
Ormund watched you intently, drinking in every twitch and shudder of your body, every broken cry that fell from your lips. He could feel your walls starting to flutter around his fingers, telling him just how close you were. With a wicked grin, he removed his fingers abruptly, ignoring your wail of protest. Before you could even process the loss, he settled himself between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging insistently at your entrance. He gathered your arousal on his tip, never sliding it into you.
"Not yet, my love. I want to feel you come undone around my cock." With that, he thrusted forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke. A guttural moan tore from his throat at the sensation of your tight heat enveloping him.
A loud moan ripped from your throat as you felt filled completely, your back bowing off the bed. Your nails dug into his wide shoulders, surely leaving crescent-shaped indents in his skin. The stretch of his thick length inside you bordered on painful but felt so incredibly good. Your walls spasmed and clenched around him rhythmically, trying to draw him even deeper inside.
"Oh gods, yes!" you sobbed, tears of pleasure finally streaming down your face. You could feel every throbbing inch of him, pulsing inside your most intimate place. The base of his shaft rubbed softly against your swollen clit with each tiny movement, pushing you rapidly towards your peak. Ormund kissed each one of your tears with care, planting his hands at each side of your face.
He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that shook the bed frame against the wall. The obscene slap of skin on skin echoed through the room, mixing with your wanton moans and his own grunts of exertion. It burned, you could clearly feel the sting of his force, but it felt so good. He angled his hips, driving into that special spot inside you with each thrust, determined to make you fall apart.
"I'm gonna give you a babe, my wife." His voice was strained, sweat beading on his brow from the effort of holding back his own release. One hand snaked between your bodies to rub tight circles on your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. "'M gonna give you so many babies to make you company."
Your world narrowed down to the feeling of him moving inside you, filling you up so completely. Each powerful thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your entire body, making your toes curl and your vision blur. The coil of tension in your lower belly wound tighter and tighter, pushed to the brink by his relentless stimulation.
"Yes! Yes! Give me your babies!" you begged incoherently, too far gone to care about anything but chasing your rapidly approaching climax. Your walls started to flutter wildly around his length, gripping him like a vice. With a final rub to your clit and a particularly deep thrust, you shattered. Your moan echoed off the chamber, the guards and the servants surely must've heard it, and your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your body convulsed violently, back arching nearly in half as ecstasy consumed you.
Ormund groaned deeply as he felt your walls clamp down around him, rippling and squeezing his cock. Your climax triggered his own, and with a grunt, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His cock jerked and pulsed as he emptied himself into your spasming cunt, flooding you with his hot seed. He ground against you, ensuring every last drop took root in your womb. "Take it all, my love." His words were punctuated by short pants as the aftershocks of his release shuddered through him. He collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you with his larger frame.
You clung to him desperately, your nails raking down his sweat-slicked back as you rode out the waves of your shared climax. Each spurt of his release painted your insides, marking you as his in the most intimate way possible. As the intensity began to fade, you went limp beneath him, utterly spent. Your chest heaved with each labored breath, and your heart raced wildly against your ribs. You turned your head to press a tender kiss to his jaw, savoring the salty taste of his skin.
"Come back to me, my love. I'll be waiting you here." you whispered softly.
He held you close, one hand stroking gently through your hair while the other traced soothing patterns on your sweat-dampened skin. As your breathing slowed, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and finally your lips, a gesture that belied the passion of moments before. "I will always come back to you, my dearest." His voice was low and fervent with decision. He shifted slightly, careful not to dislodge himself from your warmth. "Rest now, my wife. I will hold you until it's time for me to go."
How would AKOTSK men react if they're wife pulled their dagger (like Alicent did at Driftmark when she took dagger from Viserys) and tried to attack someone who insulted they're kids.
For Baelor, Maekar, Valarr, Aerion x fem!reader
Baelor
Baelor would be mad at his child being insulted and furious at them being attacked. But to him he has always seen a need to act judiciously. So despite his anger over your child being hurt he would want the offender to be tried and punished correctly.
But you, where he see a need for order and process you see a need to act.
One second you were beside him as he listened to the offender explain there actions the next rage festered in you and the dagger he kept at his side was missing and you were charging towards you child’s attack with the fury of the gods.
He would of course be concerned. Your rash decision had startled him. Worried him not only for you and fear of you getting harmed but the consequences of it.
He would hear you explain yourself, a soft sigh of disappointment on his lips but understanding on his face.
He too in angry at your child being hurt. But he would hate the rashness of the attack, hate that you forced yourself in danger from rage.
And though he understood “an eye for an eye” Baelor stood true in belief of a proper trial and would see it that if it ever happened again you would not do the same again.
Maekar
Makear would find the thing laughable. He is fiercely protective of his children and would no doubt do the same.
He would take his own revenge if you or his children were hurt.
So watching you raise a dagger, his dagger, to your child’s attacker, he is proud.
Though he would find the whole deal a joke, hence why he finds it laughable.
But he would do the same as you, would defend the honour of his children even if it meant taking the eye of a child. He see it’s as fair and though the image of you storming the halls, dagger in hand, he is proud and only scoffs when protests are heard too it.
Valarr
Valarr is shocked to say the least.
He like his father belives in proper order and judicial practices. So when he hears of your child’s injury and that another was to blame for it he calls a council to discuss the actions.
And you tired of hearing men treat your child’s attacker as if he were innocent, reach for your husbands dagger and march towards your child’s attacker.
Valarr is taken aback, shocked by your actions.
But he would also be worried he’d hate to see you harmed so would instantly march after you, pulling you back and holding you to him, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as the council agrees your child’s attacker is guilty.
He would after worlds make sure you never out yourself in harms way again, and make sure his dagger is always on the side opposite you.
Aerion
Aerion would be as angry as you. No one touches the blood of the dragon let alone hurts it.
In truth you beat him too it, attacking your child’s attacker with your full might.
And he just looks in with a proud smile, and if anyone where to pull you away he would knock the out cold and relish in the sight of his wife defending her kin.
And after such a display of dragon fury he would be sure to give you a night showing you just how pleased he is with your actions.
Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon
Summary: It starts as something almost laughable: a dragon who prefers his rider’s wife to his rider. But when a dragon decides something is his to guard, the world learns to step carefully around what he has chosen.
Warnings: 16+ morning after, brief nudity, possessive/protective Jace, pregnancy, control/protection, scary dragon and his rider who are both secretly softies, innuendo, non-graphic childbirth, huge time jumps
A/N: This got a lil out of hand, I admit. It was meant to be a short blurb, and yet here we are. Ik people wanted smut, so I added some morning after here, and I plan to write another smut-heavy fic next so dw.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.7k
The storm had burned itself out sometime before dawn.
Now all that remained was the steady drip of rain from Dragonstone's black stone walls and the distant crash of waves below the cliffs. Pale morning light slipped through the narrow windows in soft ribbons, washing the chamber in silver.
You wake slowly.
Not necessarily because you're rested, but because you're warm. Far warmer than you ought to be beneath a blanket that had long since been kicked to the foot of the bed.
Jace is wrapped around you as though sometime during the night he'd decided that simply sleeping beside you wasn't close enough. One arm is draped securely across your waist, his face buried against the back of your shoulder, his breathing slow and even. His dark curls are a complete mess, and one bare leg has somehow become tangled with yours beneath the sheets.
You smile to yourself.
"You'll complain about your shoulder later," you murmur.
A sleepy sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan, vibrates against your skin.
"I'll survive." His voice is thick with sleep and his grip tightens just enough to pull you impossibly closer. There's something almost boyish about the way he says it, as though it's a victory in itself.
You turn carefully within the circle of his arms until you're facing him. The movement earns another sleepy complaint, though he makes no effort to let go.
Up close, you can still see the faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the warmth of the room. A thin scratch is visible beneath his collarbone, your own fault no doubt.
You remeber is so clearly, how the rain had battered against the windows, how the candles had guttered low, how his forehead was resting against yours while the storm rolled over Dragonstone. But inside your bed chamber, you'd barely noticed.
"You look terribly pleased with yourself," you say.
One eye opens. "Well, I married you, didn't I?"
"Your point being?"
"It happens to be something I am very pleased about." He studies you for a long moment. "I was thinking..." He continues, thumb brushing lazily over your bare waist. "That I should arrange for more storms."
"Oh?"
"They appear to encourage you to stay in bed."
Outside, somewhere beyond the window, comes the deep, familiar rumble of a dragon.
Jace sighs dramatically without lifting his head. "He's awake."
He presses a kiss to your forehead before finally, reluctantly, releasing you. "If Vermax has flown all the way here simply to interrupt my morning," he declares, "I shall have to remind him who hatched him."
You grin as you reach for the discarded shift lying somewhere beside the bed.
By the time you're both dressed the castle has begun to wake around you.
You trail a step behind Jace, fingers loosely hooked around his sleeve more out of habit than necessity. To be honest, it is a habit you've only recently allowed yourself.
When you first arrived as his wife, you had been painfully conscious of every eye that followed you through the castle.
The princess, the prince's bride. Too young, some had whispered when they thought you were out of earshot. Too sheltered or too soft for Dragonstone.
You had smiled through every greeting, learned every name you could remember, and prayed no one noticed how often you got lost in the twisting corridors of black stone.
Jace had noticed.
Three days after your wedding, he'd quietly taken your hand before supper and walked every hallway, pointing out hidden staircases, quicker routes, which doors stuck in damp weather and which windows gave the best view of Blackwater Bay.
"I cannot believe you've spent an entire afternoon making sure I know my way around the castle." You'd said that evening in your chambers.
"Why can't you believe it?"
"You drew me a map."
"It was an excellent map."
"It had little dragons."
"So you wouldn't get bored."
You laugh. "You named one after Lord Celtigar."
"That one looked particularly grumpy." He grins, a quick flash of satisfaction that softens his usually princely composure, and reaches for your hand.
In your mind, the heir to the Iron Throne ought to be careful, composed, forever aware of watching eyes. But Jace rarely seems to remember, or perhaps he simply doesn't care.
A pair of servants step into the corridor ahead.
The moment they see the two of you, they bow hurriedly. "My prince. Princess."
You smile in greeting, Jace nods once, polite but distracted.
Only after they've passed do you realize he never let go of your hand.
Not even for a moment.
"You know," you tease quietly, "there are people who might think you're terribly devoted."
"They'd be right." He looks at you then with a familiar softness, so unguarded it almost steals your breath.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly across your knuckles. "And I'm not inclined to stop simply because people are looking."
Before you can answer, a deep, resonant rumble rolls across the courtyard outside.
Jace exhales through his nose.
"There he is."
You cross toward one of the narrow windows overlooking the inner yard. Far below, Vermax has landed.
The young dragon stands with his wings half-folded, emerald scales still glistening from the night's rain. A pair of dragonkeepers are speaking to him from what they clearly believe is a safe distance.
Vermax is paying them absolutely no attention. Instead, his great head is tilted upward.
Toward this very window.
You laugh. "I think he's looking for you Jace."
Jace joins you at the window. "No."
He follows the dragon's gaze for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitch. "I think," he says with theatrical resignation, "he's looking for you."
As though to prove his point, Vermax lets out another low, expectant chirr, quieter than his earlier call.
You blink. "Surely not."
Down in the courtyard, Vermax chirrs again.
It becomes impossible to deny by the end of the week. Vermax has decided you belong to him.
"No," Jace says flatly one afternoon, watching the dragon nudge your shoulder with surprising delicacy. "Absolutely not."
You laugh, scratching beneath the smooth ridge of emerald scales where you've discovered he likes it best. "What has he done now?"
"He is stealing my wife."
As if personally offended by the accusation, Vermax lowers his head another inch until the broad curve of his snout is pressed insistently against your side.
Jace stares. "You see?"
"He wants attention."
"I gave him an entire sheep this morning."
You can't help the laugh that escapes you, and it echoes across the training yard, bright enough that even a pair of dragonkeepers glance over with amused smiles.
You and Jace turn to go back inside, but only make it perhaps ten paces before heavy footsteps thud softly behind you.
The dragon has stood and started following.
"Vermax."
He stops, tilting his head.
"You can't come into the castle."
It doesn't stop there.
If you choose to read beneath the old weirwood overlooking the sea, Vermax appears within the hour.
If you wander the beach collecting shells after supper, a shadow passes lazily overhead before circling back toward shore. When you look up, the dragon is gliding against the afternoon sky.
The dragon dips lower, just enough that the rush of displaced air sends your skirts fluttering.
You laugh and wave. High above, Vermax answers with a delighted trill.
One morning you step into the gardens alone, intending only to cut fresh lavender for your chambers. You have barely even filled half the basket when a familiar shadow rolls across the flowers.
Then comes the gentle, unmistakable whuff of warm dragon breath.
You don't even look up.
"Good morning, Vermax." The dragon answers with a contented rumble.
He settles himself just beyond the garden wall, folding his forelegs neatly beneath him.
And there he remains.
When Jace finds you nearly an hour later, basket overflowing with lavender, he stops dead.
"You've got to be joking."
"What?"
He points.
Vermax, his great head rests on crossed forelegs, one eye lazily cracked open just enough to keep you in sight.
You walk over, unable to resist stroking the smooth scales along Vermax's jaw.
Jace follows, and you shake your head, laughing, and slip your free hand into his. Immediately, Vermax opens both eyes.
He watches the joined hands for a long, silent moment. Then, with another deep, satisfied rumble, he closes them again.
A couple weeks later, Dragonstone is hosting a small gathering of sworn lords from the Crownlands. Nothing particularly grand, just an awful lot of petitions, trade disputes, and endless discussions that leave Jace rubbing his temples by supper.
You escape the hall as politely as you can.
"I shall only be a moment," you promise him.
His hand lingers around yours before he lets go. "I know."
"You'll survive without me, Jace, I promise."
The sea air is cooler outside. Rain still clings to the black stone, leaving everything smelling of salt and earth. You breathe deeply, grateful for the quiet after hours of smiling at strangers.
You don't notice the shadow until it passes overhead.
A heartbeat later, Vermax lands beyond the outer wall with enough force to make loose gravel dance across the ground.
"You again?" you laugh.
His answer is a soft chirr as he lowers his head, inviting the familiar scratch beneath his jaw.
You indulge him. "You know," you murmur, "your rider insists you're abandoning him."
You continue scratching him anyway.
The interruption comes quietly. "My princess."
You turn. One of the visiting lords, a pleasant enough man whose name escapes you, has stepped into the courtyard. He offers a courteous bow.
"I hoped I might thank you for your kindness at supper."
"You are very kind, my lord."
He smiles. "I confess Dragonstone is rather less… welcoming than I imagined."
You glance at the dragon. "I imagine it has nothing to do with the fire-breathing beats circling at all times."
The lord laughs and takes a step closer.
Vermax's head lifts. The movement is slow enough that, for a moment, no one notices. Until the rumbling begins. It vibrates through the stone beneath your feet and the lord stops mid-sentence.
His smile falters.
Vermax does not bare his teeth, he does not spread his wings, he simply fixes the man with one unblinking emerald eye.
The rumble deepens.
"My lady," the lord corrects takes an instinctive step backward.
The sound stops.
You blink.
"…That was odd."
The lord laughs a little too loudly. "I believe… I shall return inside."
You think little of it.
Until it happens again, and again, and again. Not only with strangers, but with servants and guards. Even dragonkeepers he has known since hatching.
If someone approaches you too quickly, Vermax appears.
If voices grow heated nearby, he materialises as though summoned by instinct alone. He has become a living wall of green scales between you and the rest of the world.
A fortnight passes.
The castle settles into its familiar rhythm, though Vermax never quite returns to his old habits.
If anything, he grows bolder.
By now, even the servants have stopped remarking upon it.
"Your shadow awaits you, Princess," one maid says one morning with a knowing smile.
You peer from the window. Sure enough, a pair of emerald eyes are already fixed expectantly on the tower.
You laugh. "I do believe I've been adopted."
That afternoon, the weather is fair.
Jace has escaped the council chambers looking thoroughly exhausted, finding you exactly where he expected, beneath the old windswept tree overlooking the cliffs, a book forgotten in your lap while Vermax dozes nearby.
Or appears to.
His eyes are closed.
One wing lies stretched lazily across the grass, shimmering green beneath the sun.
Jace watches while walking towards you, finally bending to kiss the top of your head. Then, without thinking, he reaches a hand toward you.
Vermax's eyes snap open.
The dragon rises in one smooth motion, slipping between you and Jace with astonishing precision. His great neck curves across the narrow space, not striking, not threatening, but blocking.
Jace freezes.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither moves.
The dragon's head turns slightly, one brilliant green eye fixed on his rider, Jace stares back.
"...Vermax."
The dragon lets out a low sound, as though asking something only he understands. Then, just as suddenly, he steps aside.
You blink. "What on earth was that?"
Jace doesn't answer, he is still looking at Vermax.
"I've never..." he murmurs.
"What?"
"He has never stood between us."
By evening, Jace has sought out the dragonkeepers; he wants an explanation.
The oldest among them is already waiting when Jace reaches the caverns.
He bows deeply.
"My prince."
"You've noticed." It is not a question.
The old man is silent for a long moment. "...Yes."
"Then tell me."
Another pause.
"There are tales." The dragonkeeper folds weathered hands before him. "And the tales are all I have."
Jace says nothing, but his jaw tightens.
The old man continues carefully. "Dragons know certain things before men do, sometimes."
"What things?"
"Danger." Jace nods once. "Weather." Another nod. "And..." The man hesitates. "Life."
Jace blinks. "...What do you mean?"
"There are old records. Rare ones. A dragon becoming unusually protective of a rider's wife. Of a queen. Of a princess."
"Protective?"
"They guard." The dragonkeeper's gaze drifts toward the mouth of the cavern, where Vermax sleeps beyond the fading light.
Jace remembers every strange moment of the past weeks and his heartbeat quickens.
"No."
"It is only a possibility."
"No."
"Has the princess been unwell?"
"...No."
"Has she been unusually tired?"
Jace opens his mouth. Closes it again.
"And..." the dragonkeeper says gently, "when did the dragon's behavior begin?"
Jace's mind races backwards until he finally remembers the storm. How Vermax had refused to leave the castle, had hovered outside their chambers, nudging him toward the tower when he'd intended to return to his studies.
He'd laughed. "Apparently, he has plans for us."
Three months, almost exactly.
The dragonkeeper watches the realisation settle over his prince's face. Quietly, he says, "I believe... it may be time to send for the maester."
Jace finds you in your solar not five minutes later. You look up from the embroidery in your lap, smiling the moment he steps through the door, but the smile falters almost immediately.
"Jace?"
His hair is windblown from crossing the castle at nearly a run, his expression unreadable in a way you've never quite seen before. He closes the door behind him without a word and simply looks at you, searching your face as though expecting to find something different.
"What is it?"
He crosses the room in three long strides and kneels before your chair, taking both your hands in his. "Have you felt unwell?"
You blink. "...No."
"Not at all?"
"A little tired, perhaps, but you've been working me through every feast and council dinner on Dragonstone." You smile faintly. "I assumed being a princess was simply quite exhausting."
His thumb traces absent circles across your knuckles. "And nothing else?"
"I've slept later than usual."
"You've always liked sleeping late."
You grin, leaning forward to whisper, "I do when my husband keeps me awake half the night."
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, though the smile never quite reaches his eyes. "When was your last moon's blood?"
You stare at him. "What?"
He doesn't repeat himself, and slowly, your own amusement fades. You set the embroidery aside. "I..." You pause, thinking. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I've never had reason to count the days so carefully, Jace."
Silence settles between you. You begin counting backwards in your head, tracing feasts, journeys, the passing weeks. Your brows knit together. "A couple of weeks, maybe," you murmur. "I'm not sure."
His expression answers before he speaks. "The dragonkeepers believe Vermax sensed it."
You let out a disbelieving laugh. "Jace."
"They've seen it before."
"Surely they haven't."
"They swear they have."
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it. "So... because Vermax has decided to follow me everywhere..."
"And because he stood between us."
"...he thinks I'm carrying a child?"
"Yes."
You both fall quiet.
"Oh."
It is the only word you can manage, and Jace squeezes your hands.
"I've sent for the maester."
"You've... already?"
"He'll be here shortly."
The maester, when he finally arrives, is kind and discreet, far too accustomed to royal nerves to comment on the tension hanging in the room. He asks a handful of careful questions, his expression growing steadily more thoughtful with each answer.
When he rises from his examination, he folds his hands inside his sleeves and smiles.
"My prince."
Jace has been standing by the window the entire time.
"So?"
The old man inclines his head. "My congratulations."
The room falls completely still. You look at Jace. He looks at you. Neither of you speaks.
The maester continues, almost gently. "If my calculations are correct, Her Grace is nearing the end of her third month."
He leaves you with instructions about rest, diet, and avoiding undue strain, but you hear almost none of it, too focused on the way the room seems to have shrunk around you.
The door clicks shut.
Then Jace crosses the room so quickly that you barely have time to stand before his arms are around you. He buries his face against your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
You laugh through the tears threatening your eyes.
"I think..." Your voice catches. "I think we're going to have a baby."
He nods once against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper. "I know."
Jace's spiral into overprotectiveness begins with the reasonable things.
"No more riding."
You open your mouth to argue, but are stopped before any sound escapes by a single raised eyebrow.
The maester, entirely unhelpfully, agrees with him.
Then come the stairs.
"If no one is with you."
"Jace."
"They're uneven."
"They have been uneven for a hundred years."
He insists on taking your arm every time you descend them after that.
By the time your gowns no longer sit quite as they used to, he has become impossible.
Servants carry anything heavier than a book. Meals appear in your chambers if the Great Hall is too crowded. Councils are moved rather than asking you to cross the castle, and if you so much as mention feeling tired, Jace is already leading you back toward your rooms before you've finished the sentence.
"You know women have been having children since the beginning of time?"
"I am aware, yes."
"They don't all require an escort to the library."
"I don't care, because you will have one.
Once, you disappear for nearly an hour.
Jace finds you asleep in the late afternoon sun, curled against the warm curve of Vermax's foreleg with a book lying open across your lap.
The dragon is awake. His head rests protectively around you, just close enough to shelter you from the wind without touching.
At Jace's approach, one emerald eye opens. For a long moment, dragon and rider simply look at one another. Then Vermax lowers his head again.
You stir at the sound of footsteps, blinking sleepily up at your husband.
"There you are."
"I've been looking everywhere."
"I was comfortable."
"I can see that."
By the eighth month, you start to begrudingly appreciate Jace's over-the-top efforts.
"I cannot reach my boots."
Jace looks up from the letter he'd been pretending to read. "You reached them yesterday."
"I was smaller yesterday."
He watches you glare down at the impossible curve of your stomach as though sheer determination might convince it to move. After another unsuccessful attempt, you huff dramatically and fold your arms.
"This child is already causing problems."
"Our child," Jace corrects.
"Our child," you sigh, "has stolen my feet."
A smile threatens at the corners of his mouth. With the patience of a man who has accepted this as his fate, he sets the letter aside and kneels in front of you.
"Oh, don't you dare."
"You said you couldn't reach."
"I did not ask you to-"
"You were about to."
He lifts one foot gently onto his knee and makes quick work of the laces.
"Jace, you don't have to do everything you know."
"I know."
"So why do you?"
He finishes tying the second boot before looking up at you. "Because I like taking care of my wife."
A number of weeks later the castle wakes before dawn to the sound of a dragon.
Not roaring; pacing.
The heavy scrape of claws against stone echoes through the courtyard, followed by a low, restless rumble that seems to vibrate through the walls of Dragonstone itself.
You stir beneath the blankets, still half asleep. "...He's at it again."
Beside you, Jace groans into his pillow. "If he has frightened another stableboy, I swear on all that is holy-"
Another rumble.
Closer this time. Longer, almost a whine in nature.
Jace sits up. "...That's odd."
For the past several months Vermax has scarcely left the courtyard beneath your chambers, but he has always been quiet. Content simply to stand and watch.
The windows rattle faintly as his tail sweeps across the stone.
Jace is already pulling on a tunic. "I'll see what's wrong."
You nod, pushing yourself upright with considerably more effort than dignity. He smiles over his shoulder as he ducks out of the room, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
The courtyard is in chaos.
Dragonkeepers stand well back from Vermax, speaking to him in soothing High Valyrian that goes utterly ignored. The dragon paces in tight circles, wings half-spread, head swinging constantly toward the tower above.
One keeper catches sight of Jace.
"My prince."
"What happened?"
"We don't know."
Vermax notices his rider. Instead of calming, the dragon lets out another deep, agitated rumble and immediately turns toward the tower again, toward your chambers. Then, he stamps a forefoot. Hard enough that dust shakes from the walls.
Up in the tower, you're sitting and waiting for Jace when pain tightens unexpectedly across your abdomen.
You stop halfway across the chamber, one hand finding the edge of the table. "...Hm."
The feeling passes as quickly as it came.
Outside, Vermax lets out the loudest cry you've ever heard him make. It rolls across the cliffs and back again.
You freeze before calling out. "...Jace?"
He is already taking the stairs two at a time. He bursts through the chamber doors moments later, slightly out of breath.
Before he can speak, another wave rolls through you. Your hand flies instinctively to your stomach.
Jace's face drains of colour. "What is it?"
"I..." You breathe carefully. "I think..."
Another pause. Then, despite yourself, you laugh. "I think Vermax has solved another mystery."
For one heartbeat Jace simply stares.
Then his eyes widen.
"No."
"I think so."
As if the universe itself objects to his denial, another wave steals your breath. You grip the bedpost but Jace is at your side before you can blink, one arm already around your waist.
"The maester."
His voice comes out far calmer than his expression.
"Someone fetch the maester!"
Outside, Vermax finally stops pacing.
He lowers himself heavily onto the black stone directly beneath your windows, refusing every attempt by the dragonkeepers to coax him away.
His head remains lifted toward the tower.
After hours of pain and effort the world slowly comes back into focus in pieces.
Sound first; soft voices, the distant rush of the sea, the occasional crackle of the hearth. Then warmth pressed against your side. You blink against the haze of exhaustion and find yourself surrounded by dim candlelight and movement that feels almost too gentle for how loud everything had just been.
Jace is here.
He’s sitting half on the edge of the bed, hair dishevelled, sleeves rolled up wrong, a smear of something dark on his cuff that you vaguely decide not to think about too hard. His eyes are fixed on you with a kind of stunned intensity, as if he’s afraid that if he looks away for even a second, this will all vanish.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur, though your own voice barely holds together.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
A beat of silence passes between you before he exhales and finally lets himself lean forward, pressing a careful kiss against your forehead.
“And him?” he asks, like he’s been holding the question in his teeth for hours.
You don’t even need to answer. The little bundle in your arms shifts slightly, a tiny sound breaking through the quiet and Jace goes utterly still. His gaze drops to the child as though he’s afraid it might disappear if he stares too hard.
“He's beautiful,” he says finally.
You adjust the blanket slightly, and the baby nestles closer, face scrunching briefly before settling again. Jace makes a sound that is halfway between a laugh and something dangerously close to breaking.
“I don’t-” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“You thought it would feel like what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand hovers near the bundle, stops short, then retreats again like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
“Louder,” he admits.
You huff a weak laugh. “I'm not sure it'll stay this quiet, so we should probably try to enjoy it while it lasts.”
He finally looks at you again, and there’s something undone in his expression that you’ve never seen before. “I need to see him,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been staring at him for an hour.”
“Alright, I need to hold him.”
You carefully shift the baby into his arms. It’s awkward at first, Jace holding himself too rigid, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong, like one wrong breath might undo everything, but then the child settles against him and something in his shoulders breaks open.
He exhales, slow and unsteady. There’s a long silence where he doesn’t say anything at all.
Jace looks down again, thumb brushing so lightly over the baby’s cheek it’s almost not there. “He looks…” He pauses, helpless. “He looks like he knows things already.”
“That’s probably just you projecting.”
Outside the window, a deep sound rolls through the cliffs. Jace’s head lifts instantly.
“Oh.”
Jace carefully adjusts his grip on the baby, like he’s handling something far more fragile than steel and fire could ever be.
“I should-” he starts.
You raise an eyebrow. “You should what?”
He’s already standing. “I should show him.”
You blink at him. “Jace.”
But he’s not really listening anymore. Not in the way he used to, at least. This is something else, instinctive and almost urgent.
“Jace, it’s freezing outside.”
“I’ll be quick.”
So you watch him wrap a cloak around himself and the baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then walk out of the room.
By the time he reaches the courtyard, Vermax is already there.
The dragon is enormous against the grey morning sky, wings folded, tail curled tightly around the stone like he’s been rooted there for hours. When he sees Jace, he doesn’t move at first.
Then Jace steps into the open.
Vermax’s head lowers immediately.
Jace stops a few paces away, breathing uneven, then lifts the bundle higher against his chest.
“This is my son.”
Vermax steps forward, so carefully. The ground still trembles slightly beneath the weight of him, but he is impossibly gentle as he lowers his head until he’s level with Jace’s arms. One massive eye focuses on the tiny face within the blanket.
For a long moment, he does nothing.
Then he exhales. Warm air, slow and careful, brushes over the child like a blessing.
The baby stirs, and Vermax freezes instantly.
Jace laughs under his breath, disbelieving and wrecked all at once. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “He’s yours too, apparently.”
The dragon makes a soft, almost questioning sound, then lowers himself further until his forehead rests against the stone directly in front of them, as if offering something wordless and absolute.
Jace finally looks up at him properly, smiling.
“Say hello,” he whispers.
Vermax answers with a quiet, reverent rumble that rolls out across Dragonstone.
this was too cute, idk where the idea came from but i needed some vermax jace fluff
BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, KIN OF MY KIN
─── ormund hightower
summary: a glimpse into the years you and ormund raised daeron before the war took its toll, and all the years after. (10k)
characters: ormund hightower / wife!reader, daeron targaryen, alicent hightower, viserys i targaryen, mentions of rhaenyra and daemon
contents: established relationship, found family, domestic bliss, angst, hurt/comfort, protective!ormund, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of pregnancy complications and miscarriages, brief mentions of blood and gore, canon typical manipulation and psychosis from ormund towards the end lol
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
115 A.C. / Oldtown
The bed is still warm from your blood on the morning the babe arrives.
It had not been quite two days since the maester had drawn the small, still shape of your daughter from you and told you, gently enough as not to break you further, that she had never drawn breath at all. You had told none of the household that you had been carrying her at all, save for the maesters and your closest of handmaidens — for you had learned, after the second loss, how courtiers feed on grief like vultures to carrion. So while you wept for days longer than your babe would ever live, the rest of Oldtown simply assumed that their lady had taken ill with a woman’s ailment, and kept to her rooms accordingly.
But today the King is coming, and your mother would surely turn in her early grave if she knew the lady she raised up planned to receive a king from a sickbed — pallid, unlaced, and undone.
“There is no harm in resting, my love,” Ormund coos from across the room, watching with attentive eyes as your handmaiden laces you into a gown of Hightower green. You keep yourself braced on the wooden back of a chair and grit your teeth with every tug, pulling carefully to conceal the subtle bump of your stomach.
The man tilts his head and crosses his arms over the chest of his emerald doublet, in a feeble attempt to extinguish the worry searing between his lungs. “Viserys is a king man. He will understand. Alicent, more than anyone, would understand—”
“And what has Alicent lost?” you argue, sharper than you intended. Your head whips hard to the side in time to find Ormund flinching beneath the bite of your words — a small flicker at the edges of his eyes; a brief lowering of his brows.
You soften with a sigh a moment later and remind yourself that Ormund lost something too, even if the loss was not pulled from his body to claim it.
“Forgive me, I… I only meant that… The Queen has four living children. And she carried each one with grace— There is no part of her that could possibly understand how I feel… And I wouldn’t wish it upon her besides.”
Ormund exhales through his nose and takes a step closer, boots scuffing the cobbles. “Then at least let me tell them that you are unwell—”
“No,” you dismiss with a shake of your stubborn head, eyes shutting briefly when the corset tightens again. “I refuse to be spoken of like some frail, ailing thing while the King sups at our table.”
Your gaze is wet with unshed tears when they open again, snapping to Ormund’s pale ones with a glimmering determination. “I am the Lady Hightower,” you tell him, brows raised and eyes firm. “So I will greet them standing. On my own feet. In my own home.”
Ormund’s chest, still heavy with grief, blooms with a distant sort of pride at your words. Perhaps because a part of him had long understood that you did not always dream of being the Lady Hightower. Your marriage was made of meetings and ledgers and alliances rather than any actual tenderness, as was true in most great marriages in Westeros. He knows, had you had it your way, you would’ve wed that gardener’s boy you grew up with — who you attempted to bring with you to Oldtown upon your betrothal, along with many of your household’s servants.
Ormund had the brawny, olive-skinned boy sent away within a fortnight — the moment he understood what kind of feelings the peasant boy had for you, and you for him. It was perhaps the first mad thing he ever did for you and, by Ormund’s later admission, the first time he realized that he might love you truly. (Though he had not thought it mad at the time, or love until many moons later, when he was struck with the sudden realization that the thought of Oldtown with you in it would be entirely unbearable.)
“Then we shall go,” Ormund nods in acquiescence as he plants himself just ahead of you. His gaze fixes into a sterner look a second later, as he tilts his chin to his chest and ducks into your eyeline. “But know I am not happy about this.”
“And yet Oldtown will remain standing anyway,” you joke in a softer coo. “I have faith that we’ll survive one of your unhappy mornings, my lord.”
The walk from your chambers to the gates of Oldtown is not long, but you feel every stone beneath your slippers as if the journey were some great pilgrimage across the whole of Westeros.
You brace Ormund’s strong arm with both your hands, fingers curling into the fine wool of his coat hard enough to blanche your knuckles. He slows his long stride to match your smaller, more careful one without a word shared between you — a wall of green and muscles at your side, shielding you from the curious eyes of courtiers wondering why their lord and lady moved so slowly. So close.
It’s the first time you’ve tasted fresh air in three days. The breeze smells of the sea from the harbor and fish from the markets — mixing with the sweet citrus of the orange and lemon trees blooming in the gardens. Their white petals scatter like snow along the pale stone with every gust off the bay. You breathe in deeply through your nose, trying hopelessly to clear away the metallic tang of your own blood stubbornly clinging to the inside of your nostrils.
“His Grace, Viserys of House Targaryen,” the herald calls as the royal party files in on fine horses and gilded carriages, black banners snapping in the wind. “First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”
Viserys is the first to exit when the caravan finally stills. He descends the steps a knight places down for him, portlier than you remember from your last journey to King’s Landing, some years before your marriage. His kind face has started to wither from fatigue and age alike. The crown seems heavier upon his head, though perhaps it’s only from where his silver hair has started to thin at the scalp.
Alicent follows out just behind him. She wears a black dress with drooping sleeves and a veil to cover her long auburn curls, fit for a funeral procession. A knight of white armor and long black hair helps her descend the steps as she cradles a small, dark bundle squirming in protest in her arms.
You sink into a curtsy. A white-hot pain swells from the pit of your stomach to the top of your spine — a lightning strike that burns for minutes after. You grip Ormund’s arm until your fingers tremble, though the polite smile on your face remains when you rise again.
“Ormund,” Viserys greets with an easy smile. He clasps your husband’s free arm with a genuine affection while his tired eyes drift along the white stone towers of the city. “My… Oldtown is just as fair as I remember it.”
“I agree, Your Grace, though I confess I am far more partial,” Ormund responds with a dry humor and a knightly smile. “I hear the view improves the longer one is forced to stare at it.”
Viserys laughs while, beside him, Alicent tries and fails to summon her own. Her elegant features are worn from the weeks of travel, many of which you imagine were spent balancing the fussing weight concealed against her chest just now.
“And my lady…” Viserys inclines his silver head towards you, studying your face with a pair of kind eyes. “You look well.”
You feel, in a word, like death dressed in Hightower green. You feel hollowed out and stitched together again, the farthest thing from well. But you nod once and thank the King all the same, profoundly grateful when your voice doesn’t shake.
“Truly. Marriage suits you both well,” Viserys nods. “Though, I admit, I’d hope Daeron might have had a cousin or two near enough in age to grow up beside him here. Once he’s old enough for such things, of course.”
Ormund tenses beside you.
His arm feels very suddenly like holding onto stone. His pale eyes turn glacial in a flicker; a withheld grief that he forces himself to swallow down the second it rises like bile in his throat. You say nothing at all. You just keep smiling and pray to whatever god will hear you that you do not weep in front of the King and all his men.
“But there’s still time— You’ll have one of your own before long, I’m sure of it,” the older man continues, possessing no notion of what had happened behind these walls hardly two days past. If he notices anything amiss, he does not dwell on it, and turns instead to Alicent. “Go on. Let them see the boy.”
Alicent’s arms tighten instinctively around the bundle in her grasp and inhales sharply through her nose. It had been her own decision that Daeron be sent to her family’s ancestral home. Her last child was not quite six months when she counseled her King to send him to ward, far from the chaos of King’s Landing. But she finds herself suddenly plagued by the harsh realization that this will be the last time she will hold this baby as he is now. The next time she’s like to lay eyes on him again, he’ll be an unrecognizable young boy, and not nearly the small thing fussing against her collarbone now.
“He hasn't slept," Alicent warns as she steps closer. Her green eyes are warm and weary when they flit to you. “He didn’t take well to the carriage. Or the ship. He’s cried the whole way from Blackwater, I think. Poor thing…”
“I’m sure we can manage a crying babe, my Queen,” Ormund says gently, though there’s a distant aching in his voice disguised as good humor that only you could recognize. “I grew up with Gwayne, if you remember. I’m more than acquainted with wailing boys by now.”
Alicent musters a small smile and closes the distance between you to settle her son in your arms.
He’s warm — that’s the first thing you notice — he’s a small furnace swaddled in Targaryen black. He stirs briefly at the transfer from one chest to another, round face screwing tight in the prelude to a wail. Your heart clenches to brace yourself for that sound. It never comes.
The babe turns his face into the curve of your throat and settles into stillness with one small fist curled into the fabric of your gown. The tiny sound he makes isn’t a cry, but it isn’t quite a coo either. He sleeps, finally, in your arms — not even two days after you held your daughter between them, who had never awoken at all.
Ormund’s wide hand settles at the small of your back. Even in its steadiness, you feel the subtle tremor of his fingers against your spine. His throat tightens with the sudden urge to cry at the sight — of you, still frail and yet so bravely composed, cradling another woman’s child after laying your own to rest in the sept. He swallows through the hands of grief strangling his throat and feels a warmer feeling settling in its wake.
“Well…” Viserys hums, watching the baby sleep against you with a proud look in his weathered eyes. “It seems the boy’s found his corner of Oldtown already— Isn’t that lovely, Alicent?”
The woman nods, though shock still etches slightly in her pale features and behind the dark green of her eyes. “Of course, Your Grace,” she says and clears her throat, blinking back her tears with a queen’s practiced grace. “Thank you both for taking him.”
“He'll want for nothing here," Ormund swears with a firm nod. “You have my word. We'll raise him as if he were our own trueborn son.”
You pull the blanket gently back to peer at the sleeping baby swaddled within it. He’s practically all cheeks, with his mother’s mouth and nose.
You had been certain, two days past, that your life had surely ended with your daughter’s. That there would be nothing more to life than a hollow, vacant silence. But now, there is warmth — and a babe’s slow breath fanning along your collarbone.
You do not yet have a name for the foreign feeling swelling inside of you. It’s not joy, not yet, but it isn’t grief either. Or, at least, not only grief. And for now, that would have to be enough.
127 A.C. / Training Yard
The sound of clashing steel finds you before the sight of it does. The ring and scrape of blade on blade carries across the bustling courtyard, where you’ve gone to look for a young prince who was, as Maester Yorrick informed you with a palpable impatience, nearly an hour late for his lessons. You find the boy exactly where you imagined he would be — sword-training with his uncle, who has since stripped down to a pale tunic now darkened with sweat from the exercise.
Daeron, now thirteen years of age, is all knees and elbows from a sudden growth spurt that had taken him seemingly overnight. He presses a defensive attack upon his uncle with all the fierceness of a knight, but with the gracelessness of a teenage boy. Even you could tell from where you stood that his swing had no hope of landing. Ormund turns the blow aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, no more troublesome than swatting a fly from the air.
“Awful,” you hear the man scold from afar. When Daeron grits his teeth and presses forward once more, Ormund steps back and lets the boy’s momentum carry him a half stride too far. His blade misses his mark by inches. “Gods, that’s even worse—”
Daeron lunges a third time, fuelled now by a boyish rage that twists his freckled features. Ormund steps inside the overextended reach, hooks a boot around the boy’s ankle, and trips him onto the dirt with his blunted blade pressed to his ribs. Daeron hits the ground with a thud, red-faced and breathing heavy. His long auburn tendrils cling to his sweaty temple when he whips his head to glare up at his uncle.
“Dead,” Ormund proclaims from where he stands over the boy, flat but not totally unkind. He raises his brows and tilts his chin to his chest. “If this were a real sword, I’d have had your head before the thought to swing finished forming in that head of yours.”
Daeron twists himself upward and shoves the faux blade away with a boyish scowl. “You always say that,” he grumbles, refusing the hand Ormund extends to help him up. He rises to full height on his own and swipes dirt from his pale palms.
“Yes. I always say it because it's always true. You're thinking with your temper again— I can see it in your shoulders before you’ve even moved,” the older man lectures as he turns on the heel of his boot and walks off a few paces. “Again. And this time, think before you swing. Not after—”
“I think that’s enough for this morning,” you call to them as you step further into the yard, dress skirts rushing around your ankles in the summer breeze. “Maester Yorrick has been waiting all morning. And his patience, unlike yours, my lord, has its limits.”
Daeron nods once, shoulders sagging with an absent relief. “Yes, ma’am—”
“Give us a few more minutes,” Ormund dismisses simultaneously. “He’s close to getting his footwork right. I can feel it.”
You flash the man a look — one slight lift of your brow, one flicker of dullness behind the eyes. Years of marriage have honed that wordless look to a firm edge, one which finds Ormund like a blade. He nods in concession with a heavy exhale through his nose.
“You heard her, boy. Go on,” Ormund says, jerking his chin toward the tower and extending his hand out for the practice sword.
Daeron obeys without question. He passes the dull blade over and crosses the yard to you. You see the sweat and dirt streaked across his freckled face the closer he gets. “Come here to me,” you sigh and catch his round chin between your thumb and forefinger when he plants himself ahead of you. You swipe the filth from his cheeks with the hem of your sleeve like you’ve done since he was small enough to fit in one arm.
“I’m not a child anymore, you know," Daeron reminds you with a childish grimace as he suffers your motherly affections. “I’m a squire now.”
“Oh, a squire, are you?” you croon in response with an obvious air of sarcasm. You smooth wild auburn hair from his temples before pressing a chaste kiss to his hairline. “Go on now— before Maester Yorrick decides to make you study your histories until sundown.”
Daeron nods and ducks past you towards the tower stair, though you catch the corner of his pink mouth twitching upward into a grin before he’s turned away. You watch him leave with an attentive stare as Ormund discards the training swords at their posts. He approaches you in long, slow strides, allowing you to see the mark that training has left upon him — the way the sweat dampens his dark curls and the collar of his tunic, making the fabric stick to his broad shoulders and toned chest.
He smells of sweet wine, musky bathing oils, and salty sweat when he towers just before you. He tips his chin to his chest and raises his brows to his hairline, pale eyes glimmering with an expectant look.
“…Well?”
You blink up at him with a feigned innocence. “Well, what?”
“My kiss,” he answers with a shrug like it’s obvious, like he were a man coming to collect his debts. “You gave the boy his, and I’ve spent half the morning training him— I should think that I’ve earned at least that much.”
“Oh, really?” you squint. “After you told the boy he’s like to lose his head?”
“I told him the truth,” Ormund argues with an unrepentant laugh and takes a slow step closer to you. “Is the truth unkind merely because it stings a little going down?”
His hands splay along your waist, wide and warm along the edges of your corset. It takes everything in you not to cave for him right there, in the full view of the crowded courtyard. You cross your arms over your chest instead. “If you keep being so hard on him, he’ll grow to hate sword training altogether—”
“May be. But he will go on alive a good deal longer for having learned it the hard way now— instead of on a real field, with real steel, without me there to guide him.” Ormund ducks his head to catch your eye, pale gaze glimmering in time the pink smile tugging at his lips. “Surely you are not truly cross with me, my love…” he croons quietly.
You shrug with a raised chin, unwilling to concede so easily. “Perhaps I am.”
“Well, then, it’s hardly my doing,” he chuckles, a sound far warmer than the silver-gold sunshine sprawling over the courtyard. The pads of his thumbs smooth over your ribs in an absentminded affection. “You've gone so soft on the boy that you can scarcely bear to watch him lose a practice bout, without petting his hair over it after."
“Well, someone in this household has to be soft with him," you argue lightly, more teasing now than truly cross. Your slipper scrapes the dirt as you take a short step closer to him. What little distance remained between you closes now in an instant; each rise and fall of his chest brushes your folded arms. “You spend your mornings convincing the poor boy the world means to kill him, and I spend my nights convincing him that he could rule the world entire if he wished... Perhaps he’ll come out well-balanced for it, in the end.”
“Assuming one of us doesn’t kill the other over the method first,” Ormund quips.
“Precisely,” you nod.
“Well, I think it’s a fine system,” the man agrees gravely, drawing you an impossible inch closer by the hands still on your waist. His breath fans warm across your jaw as he leans in closer, still smelling of the mint leaves he’d chewed after breakfast. “And one I certainly intend to go on employing indefinitely… If my wife forgives me long enough to let me kiss her.”
His low voice glitters somewhere in the center of your chest. Your eyes narrow despite the small smile curling hopelessly at your mouth. “I don’t think I’ve yet decided,” you lilt.
“Well, I have,” he croons quietly, and does not wait for your retort before leaning down to press his lips against yours.
His broad nose flattens into the side of yours under the weight of his kiss, a slow and languid thing — as natural as the white waves ebbing and flowing against the pale stone tower of Oldtown. Your hands twist in his pale tunic billowing in the sea breeze, dissolving into the man like salt in water.
There is nothing you would not forgive this man for, you think distantly to yourself. There is no madness he could not lead you toward, not if he kisses you like this the entire way there.
130 A.C. / Ormund’s Solar
The raven arrives like all the rest — unceremoniously, on a sunless grey morning, from the trembling hands of the weathered maester. You tend to your needlework by the crackling hearth, burning low to fight off the morning chill blowing in from the sea, while Daeron reads in the opposite chair with one leg slung over the arm of it — both of you still waking with the early morning.
Across the room, Ormund sits at his desk and breaks the seal with a dull crack. Your gaze drifts to the man as he unrolls the letter, parchment whispering beneath his ringed fingers. You watch his pale eyes flit across the words once, and his brows lower in confusion a moment later. He shifts in his seat and reads it again, slower this time. His spine straightens with a soldier’s subconscious instinct as he draws a deep breath in and forgets to let it go.
The quiet feels loud as it swells within the solar. The popping fire startles you briefly, as you get lost in Ormund’s wordless dread. You feel his silent panic as if it were your own. You rise from your seat and lay your needlework on the cushion behind you, careful not to trouble Daeron’s reading as you stroll to the man’s side.
“Ormund?” you call quietly to him. “Ormund— What does it say?”
He says nothing in response; he just lifts his ringed hand and passes you the parchment curled between his middle and forefinger. His eyes remained fixed on a negligible chip in the cobblestone wall across the room as you pluck the paper from his hand. His silence is not convincing; his silence, as you’ve learned in years of marriage, is far more frightening than any voice he could raise.
Your eyes dart over the scrawled ink thrice over, just as he had, because your mind refuses to process the words on the first two passes.
“By the time this reaches you, the city has already fallen. Rhaenyra Targaryen holds King’s Landing and names herself Queen upon the Iron Throne. She has taken the Queen Dowager prisoner, as well as the King’s wife and last living heir. Send word of your household’s safety. Guard the boy.”
The letters blur and steady and blur again, swimming before your eyes. Your blood runs cold while the glowing hearth simultaneously fills the room with a near-unbearable heat. As your breaths come faster and shallower to you, you hear a small voice call from behind you.
“Is something wrong?” Daeron wonders aloud as he glances up from the heavy novel in his lap. His auburn brows knit low over his green eyes, casting a faint shadow over his freckled cheeks, which are slowly starting to lose the softness of boyhood.
“Go on to your chambers, Daeron,” you tell him in a voice strangely steady compared to how shaken you feel. “It’s time to break your fast. I’ll have the servants fetch it for you.”
“I’m not hungry,” the boy insists as he rises slowly from his chair, setting his book aside and walking slowly from the hearth. His eyes dart back and forth between your profile and Ormund’s when both of you refuse to look at him. His shoulders straighten with a strangling tension. “What’s happened? What does it say—?”
“Daeron,” Ormund snaps, voice cutting through the quiet room like a blade. His eyes are similarly sharp when they snap finally to the boy’s pleading once. “Listen to your mother, boy. Go.”
Mother, he says. The word lingers and hangs in the air for a long moment. Even in his newfound worry, Ormund’s eyes still flicker with a startled awareness at how easily the slip-up had escaped him, though there is little time to dwell on it now.
Daeron's pink mouth parts with some half-formed protest at the ready. Whatever words he could conjure up on such short notice turn to dust on his tongue at the look his uncle gives him, chiseled features hardening into an unfeeling sort of look. Daeron exhales a held breath, gathers his book from his seat, and heads for the door without further argument.
Ormund’s knowing voice follows him out: “And don’t stand outside the door eavesdropping, either. Straight to your chambers. I'll know if you've stopped on the stair."
Only when the door shuts behind the boy with a soft click do your teary eyes lift from the parchment in your trembling hands. You say nothing for a long moment. The muffled sounds of the bustling castle fill the silence — the sounds of an oblivious world still living, though it feels a little like yours has stopped.
“I know," Ormund says before you’ve spoken, before you’ve needed to speak. “I know.”
“Okay,” you nod once. “So what are you going to do?”
He huffs a not-quite laugh. “I’ve only just found out about this. As have you,” he answers, a little sharper than he means to. “I’ll need a moment to think about the problem before you ask me to solve it, my love.”
“A moment is no longer a luxury we have,” you argue, voice rising despite yourself and wavering on every syllable with a palpable fear. “Rhaenyra has dragons, Ormund— she has Daemon and three new bastard riders sworn to her besides. She does not need a moment to bring any of them to our door.”
Your dress skirt spins around your ankles when you turn suddenly in place. Ormund’s pale eyes follow your form as you storm back towards the hearth, ranting the whole way there.
“She will come for him, Ormund— not if, when. She will stop at nothing to silence any claim that challenges her own,” you continue, voice cracking under the weight of your unshed tears. “Daeron is a threat to her! Simply by breathing, he is a threat to her, and she will not leave him idling here out of some… familial courtesy for some half-brother she’s never met.”
The flame crackles quietly when you toss the letter into it. The wax seal blackens and weeps; the ink turns slowly to ash. You’d hoped that destroying those words might, in turn, settle the uneasy feeling they’ve brought you; but to no avail.
“I know that,” Ormund nods with a jaw clenched tight, ringed fingers curling into fists over his thighs beneath the desk.
“Then think!” Your shout bounces off the cobbled walls as you turn to face him once more. His face blurs behind the burning tears clouding your vision. The swelling emotion thickens your voice as you yell to him, half-wild with a preemptive grief. “I have already buried children who never got to draw breath— I will not bury another who has drawn fifteen years of them under this roof! Do not let them take him, Ormund— I don't care what it costs. Do not let them our boy!”
Ormund’s chair scrapes the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height. He crosses the solar in slow, silent strides. Your glassy eyes stay locked with his as he nears. You peer stubbornly up at him from beneath your lashes, clumped with unshed tears; but you do not protest when his palms smooth over the outsides of your elbows to pull you into his arms.
You melt hopelessly against his chest, fisting the back of his doublet in both hands, and trembling slowly as you choke down a sob. Ormund’s wide hands smooth along your back and feels his chest tighten with a striking, familiar ache. He thought once there was no worse sound in the world than hearing your weeping over a lost child; but he knows, now, that there is something equally as troubling: your weeping over a child you fear you’re about to lose and feeling like there is no time yet to stop it.
“I will not let anyone take him,” Ormunds promises evenly, with a distance that suggests he’s already assembling a plan in the depths of his mind. His arms curl tighter, pressing you harder against him. “I swear it to you. By the gods, they will not have our son.”
You pull back from him, just far enough to search his steady gaze with your wearier one. “But how?” you press weakly, more of a demand than a real question.
Ormund ponders for a long moment. The shadow of his adam’s apple rises and falls in his throat as he swallows. And when he speaks again, the words fall from his tongue flat and even, as if he were testing each one the moment they left his mouth.
“No one at court has laid eyes on the boy since he was a babe in arms…” he answers lowly, brows lifting to his hairline. “Alicent hasn’t seen him in years… There is no one outside these walls who would know what he looks like… So if they come— when they come… I suppose Rhaenryra would presume any silver-haired boy as Viserys’ heir.”
Your brows furrow as confusion twists slowly across your face.
“We’d only need enough lye and patience,” Ormund continues with a shrug. “And a boy willing enough to answer to a name that isn’t his, and to go with Rhaenyra, should her dragons come calling.”
You tense within his hold as the words run through you like ice-cold water. “You mean to… to send a different child in his place?”
“Yes,” Ormund answers instantly and without apology. “It isn’t a kind plan, I know. And I won’t pretend that someone else’s son won’t have to suffer for it, if it comes to pass, but… You did not ask me for a kind plan.”
You grieve the heat of his hands when he lifts them from your back, just to smooth his gently calloused palms over your jaw a moment later. He rubs the rough pads of his thumbs along your burning cheeks. You melt into his touch of warm velvet and peer up at him with teary eyes. Ormund’s gaze softens around the edges as his mouth lifts into a sad sort of smile.
“You asked me not to let them take our boy,” he continues lowly. “And however cruel it may be… this is but the only coin I have to buy that promise with.”
You know that a part of you should be horrified. You know what he is describing is a monstrous thing — an innocent boy’s whole life offered as a shield for another’s. You search deep within yourself to find that terror, but cannot seem to locate it. Instead, you find relief, like a crack of sunlight peeking through storm clouds — the very hint of a promise that your family was not long in the dying just yet.
“Do it,” you hear yourself say, shaking your head between his hands. “Whatever it costs… Whoever it costs… Do it.”
Ormund nods with a deep inhale through his nose, leaning forward to press his mouth to your hairline — to seal his promise with a kiss.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Sept
Rhaenyra's dragonriders come for Daeron not nearly a fortnight into the army's march. Ormund sends the son of a merchant in his place — a boy of the right age and the right pale coloring, plucked quietly from Oldtown and dressed in borrowed finery before anyone thought to look twice. “Be brave, young prince," Ormund had said to the blanch-haired boy, only for show, though what he really meant was: “I will have your family hanged if you do not play your part.”
Ormund knelt before Daemon Targaryen and swore his fealty to the Queen, but marched on for Tumbleton the second the dragons took flight, all the shame.
The chaos follows them there, too.
Daeron attempts to seek a momentary refuge in the foreign castle’s candlelit sept. A cramped chamber made of brown stone and hazy smoke from the flickering candles, where Tessarion grumbles in protest of captivity. The lack of sunlight has dulled her fluorescent blue scales, and has made her ill-tempered due to the lack of exercise. Daeron alone she allows close, pressing her great head into the boy’s small neck, and momentarily forgetting about the heavy chains around her throat when he pets her stony scales.
Ormund finds him there. Ormund has a way of finding him anywhere. It is a gift and a curse, perhaps — comforting when Daeron was small and frightened of the dark; but less so now, when Daeron’s every attempt at solitude is interrupted by his uncle, constantly watching him as if he were a traitor to be surveilled and not his kin.
“I have warned you against indulging in affections for the best,” Ormund says as he approaches. The man cradles the boy's freckled cheeks in his wide, calloused palms despite Tessarion's low growl of warning.“You are a good boy,” he says, and in the very same breath, without losing the tender smile on his face: “You have a taint in your blood,” and “You must be king.”
Ormund makes less and less sense to him these days — the throes of war, Daeron supposes, though a part of him is frightened that it began long before that.
Sometimes he thinks Ormund only makes sense when you’re near enough to translate his tangled, wild emotions back into something grounded and real. You’ve always had a way of gentling the man; usually with nothing more than a steady hand along his wrist to calm whatever storm had been moving within him.
Daeron has seen you do it a hundred times over without ever quite understanding how. But he prays now for your swift return from the city, so that you might do it again — so that you might soften whatever unfamiliar thing has taken root in his uncle when he commands his soldiers to drag in the peasant man from earlier that afternoon. The one who broke Ser Garrick’s nose defending against his own wife’s assault; an act any decent lord would have called simple justice.
Ormund draws his sword from its sheath at his hip. The hiss of the steel leaving the leather fills the small stone sept, loud enough to echo off the old walls that have likely seen a great many prayers and, Daeron suspects, not so very many murders. The older man turns the blade and offers the embellished hilt to the boy, pale eyes hardening when he hesitates.
“We have risked much and more to raise you up,” Ormund says, strong features twisting into something resembling offense. “Surely, you do not wish to disappoint us now.”
Us. Daeron is pulled into his uncle’s orbit at that single syllable alone; the unbearable thought of failing the only two people in this world who have ever troubled themselves to love him — one standing before him with a blade held out like a peace offering, and the other somewhere in the depths of the dark city but still steady on his mind all the same.
Daeron lays his palms out flat before his brain has fully comprehended the motion. He prays Ormund doesn’t notice how they tremble when he rests the sword upon them — the weight of the blade cold and heavy upon his fingers.
Daeron’s hands tremble around the ornate leather hilt of Ormund’s sword. His misty eyes find the prisoner kneeling just before him on the cold stone — bloodied and chained for a crime any noble man in Westeros would surely commit with honor — before glancing slowly to where his uncle looms behind him. Candlelight flickers in shades of orange-gold upon the man’s chiseled features, pooling a deep black in the hollows of his eyes.
“What would Mother think of this?” Daeron hears himself ask, voice cracking under the weight of the tears burning hot in the backs of his eyes.
It is his last and most desperate attempt to reach for his uncle, just as he has seen you do, and to pull him back from the dangerous ledge he stands upon. But he knows the man has already made up his mind; and he knows that there is no version of him that walks out of this sept without spilling blood.
Ormund’s face softens slightly, though there is little tenderness in what he asks of the boy now. “Alicent would understand,” he coos in a gentle voice. “War asks difficult things of every great house—”
“I didn’t—” Daeron swallows hard, smaller now than moments before. “I did not mean the Lady Alicent…”
Realization flashes across Ormund’s face — a visible recognition of exactly which woman the boy had meant, and has always meant every time the word slipped accidentally from his mouth and was never corrected for it after. Daeron was not yours by blood, but he was yours in every other way that matters. The small, warm weight of him stopped crying the moment he was placed into your arms fifteen years ago, and never truly stopped being yours since.
Still, Ormund does not soften for it. If anything, something in him hardens further as he takes a slow step closer to the boy.
“Your mother would be proud,” he answers, brows lowered as if the answer was the plainest thing in the world. “Don’t you see? Any strike against this army is a strike against her, against everything she’s built to keep you safe… Any man who raises his fist against our men raises it, in the end, against her… And do you not want to protect her, just as she has spent every day protecting you?”
Daeron swallows hard. The weight of Ormund’s words feels heavy in his throat, heavier than the blade in his hands as his trembling fingers tighten around its hilt. His teary green eyes linger on the steel, flickering shades of gold in the candlelight.
“No, please, I beg you,” the battered prisoner rasps, dried blood matting at his curls from whatever rough handling had brought him here. “I have a family, my lord. Please—”
Daeron’s eyes lift to find the man’s pleading gaze and linger upon him for a long while. He sees your face in the very back of his mind, the only real mother he’s ever truly known, and hears Ormund’s disappointed voice layered over it as he draws the heavy blade back.
Then he strikes.
The cut is not clean. The blade lodges at an off angle in the man’s corded neck and sticks somewhere deep between flesh and bone. The man’s pained shout comes out wet and gargled, bouncing off the cobbled walls and in the depths of Daeron’s mind.
The boy’s body flinches from what his own hand has done as bright crimson blood spouts from the gaping wound and splatters along the old stone.
His face crumples as he removes the blade. It takes a world of strength in his thin arms to wrench it out again. A quiet whimper sounds in his throat when the blade drags against bone and stumbles backward when the man’s limp body collapses at his feet with a dull smack. Dark blood spreads slowly across the stone in a widening, glistening pool that catches the candlelight like moonlight on the bay.
Daeron looks down at the crimson dripping off the steel blade. He does not notice his uncle’s approach until his broader hands are gently guiding the sword from his fingers — fingers that no longer feel like his own.
Ormund wipes the steel clean against the dead man's tunic, one side and then the other, with the methodical care of a man cleaning a hunting knife after a kill. He sheaths the blade back into its hilt and closes the remaining distance between him and the boy.
When Daeron’s mind finally returns to his body — ears still ringing, vision still hazy — his wide eyes snap to his uncle’s face and sees a quiet pride swimming in his features once more. It’s as comforting as it is horrifying. And when Ormund's strong arms wrap around the boy’s shoulders and draw him close to his chest, that feels like a dizzying concoction of the two even more so.
“I am proud of you, boy…” Ormund tells him as he leans in close, pressing his mouth to the boy’s hair in a near-kiss, though he whispers to him instead: “Do not tell your mother of this. Understood?"
Daeron does not answer, though Ormund does not ask him for one now.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Castle
You return to the castle late in the evening, weary down to your bones from the long day.
You had gone into town with what coin and grain the army could spare, and found Lady Kat there among the frightened smallfolk, tending to the smith's wife, whose arm still sat bound in a rough splint. The woman's round face was kind, but you knew that no amount of offered bread or soft words could cure what comfort had been taken from her.
“Do you know where my husband is?” she had asked you before you left, with something desperate in her voice that made you wish you had a better answer than the only truthful one you could give.
“I’m sorry. I do not know," you told her, smiling in what sympathy you could muster, honest in your ignorance if nothing else.
The question sits strangely in your chest on the ride back to the castle, though you struggle to place exactly why.
Dinner is already laid out by the time you arrive. The long table is embellished with more food than Tumbleton's starving smallfolk have likely seen since the war began. The notion sits heavy in your stomach before you’ve even entered the dining hall, where Ormund rises from his seat to greet you.
His warmth is striking, a shade too bright for the late hour. He presses a jeweled chalice of ale into your hand with a tender grin and a pair of soft eyes, asking after the wife and the town's wounded with an attentiveness he doesn’t usually spare for such small domestic accounts.
“Sit,” he tells you with one wide hand along the small of your back to urge you the short distance to the table. “You've had a long day, my love. Eat something before it goes cold."
Confusion floods your face at the emptiness beside your usual seat. “Where's Daeron? He hasn’t missed out on lemon cakes since he was old enough to chew them.”
“He's not feeling well. Best to let him rest,” Ormund answers with a polite smile as he pours himself a goblet of wine. His soft eyes flit between you and the glugging flagon. “Sit with me, love. I’m sure you’re half-starved yourself."
He sits down in his cushioned seat at the head of the long table and gestures for you to take yours. You remain stubbornly in place, because you know him far too well for anything else. Years of marriage have taught you every register of his voice; every flicker behind his eyes; every twitch in his features. And this one, all warm and careful and slightly too eager, is one you’d learned to trust least of all.
“What have you done?” you deadpan.
Ormund scoffs a breathless laugh, bouncing his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Why do you insist I’ve done something?”
“Because I can hear it in your voice.”
Ormund huffs again, though it’s more of a sound of surprise than true laughter this time. “Well, I assure you, dear wife, I have done nothing at all.”
“Is that what will Daeron tell me?” you press. “When I go to his chambers and ask him myself?"
“He will tell you that I'm an excellent uncle and an even better husband," Ormund quips with his elbows propped on the table and his pointer fingers steepled together. “And also that you ought to sit down and eat your supper with your poor husband, before you go making a production out of a boy's upset stomach.”
You leave despite his words, led purely by the intuition swirling in your stomach that drags you directly to Daeron’s chamber door. You knock once and receive no answer — when the silence holds on the third try, you let yourself in and find the boy alone in his room, curled small on the edge of his bed in a way that strikes you deep in the chest; a reminder of that swaddled babe curled against your chest fifteen years past.
He does not look up when you enter, nor when you lower yourself gingerly onto the edge of the mattress beside him without a word. His shoulders shake in small, tight increments as he struggles to choke down his own sobs. He drags each breath in through his nose and holds it for a beat too long until it shudders out of him again.
He freezes when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, going rigid against whatever emotion he’s trying not to shake loose.
“What's happened, my love?" you coo to him, gentling your voice the way you might for a much younger child. “Tell me."
He shakes his auburn head against the pillow and sniffles to himself. “He told me I couldn't…"
“Who? Ormund?” you press and feel a preemptive anger kindling hot in your chest before you’ve even heard the whole of it. “Well… Your uncle tells me a great many things that I’ve long since learned to ignore. So I imagine he can spare us the indulgence of a secret or two.”
After another shaky breath, Daeron pushes himself up from the mattress. He snivels wetly and wipes his flushed cheeks with the back of one hand. You smooth down his wild flaming tendrils until he finds the words to speak.
“The blacksmith…” he wavers. “The one who struck Ser Garrick this morning…”
Your stomach swirls with a sick feeling when he trails off. Your blood runs cold with a fear of what he might say next. You think instantly of the woman with the kind face and the splinted arm, asking so gently if you knew where her husband had run off to. You have to remind yourself to breathe again as you ask, “What of him?”
“Ormund made me…” Daeron’s breath catches in his throat with a horror reignited in the pit of his chest. “He said any strike against the army was a strike against the crown. Against me. Against you.” He forces each word out through unshed tears and feels half-furious at himself when his voice shatters. “He told me it would be a king’s justice. That it— that it would make you proud.”
The boy’s eyes lift to yours then, glassy and green and rimmed red. They dart back and forth over your face, searching for an ounce of comfort within it.
“Are you?” he asks in a voice barely above a whisper. “Proud of me, I mean.”
You nod until the words have climbed through the fear swelling in your throat.
“Of course I am,” you answer breathlessly, but with no hesitation at all despite the dread searing in your chest. “I have been proud of you since the day I met you. Nothing you could do— Nothing of what your uncle made you do could change that. And you did it, I have no doubt, because some part of you believed it would keep our family safe. Protecting the people you love, even when doing so costs so much, is no easy feat, my love. I know this better than you might think…”
Your mind drifts to the pale-haired boy — the merchant’s son who was brown of hair before you found him. The boy who was borrowed and dressed up in a prince’s wardrobe and sent off to whatever fate Rhaenyra’s justice had in store for him. The boy who is very likely chained or worse for a crime that was never truly his, simply because you and Ormund decided his captivity was a fair trade for Daeron’s freedom.
Daeron watches your eyes well with tears of your own, and his freckled face crumples further at the thought of hurting you further. “I did not mean to make you sad…" he mutters with a wet gaze that flits between yours.
“You haven't," you tell him firmly, though your voice remains steady. You gather the boy into your arms and press your cheek against his hair, feeling his tear-stained cheeks wet the skin of your chest. “I’m not sad, my love. I promise. I only love you. That's all….”
You sit with him for a long while after that — until his breathing steadies and his shoulders lose their edge. Only then do you rise, with one last kiss to his forehead, and leave him to whatever uneasy slumber he can manage after what the long day had done to him.
You run into Ormund on your way down the long corridor. His broad form towers in the narrow passageway as his wide hands splay before him in confusion. “What’s taken you so long? Your dinner’s already gone cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Your shoulder scrapes along his arm as you shove by him with little affection. Ormund huffs and falls easily into step with you on his much longer legs. The two of you move through the stony corridors in a silent tension that grows with every step you take, torchlight guttering along the damp walls as you pass them. The words of an argument well in your throat the whole way to your chambers and refuse to break free until the door has shut finally behind you.
“I cannot believe you!” you shout, features twisted in anger. “How dare you tell my son to lie to me! After everything—"
Ormund shakes his head. “I only told him to spare you a grief that serves no purpose—"
“You told him to kill a man, Ormund! A smith. A husband.” The words come out through a jaw clenched tight. Your eyes glitter in the flickering candlelight with every one that spills from your mouth, hands gesticulating wildly at your sides. “I stood in that town not an hour ago and told his wife I didn't know where he was. And I didn't know, because you hadn't thought to tell me you hadn’t let him go at all! And now I have to carry that too, on top of everything else because you've decided I didn’t need to be troubled with it—”
“It’s war!” Ormund shouts, voice ringing through the cobbled walls. His handsome features harden instantly as he stares you down with emotionless pale eyes. His long fingers curl into fists before relaxing once more in a repeated cycle intended to calm him. “I will not apologize for teaching that boy what war requires of men who mean to survive it. For now, it’s only Ser Garrick’s broken nose, but we will have far worse than that done to us before this war is through. If Daeron doesn’t learn that now, he’s as good as dead—”
“He’s sixteen—”
“He’s the King's last trueborn son, with any righteous claim to the throne!” Ormund thunders over your teary retort, approaching you with long strides. “He is the rider of a dragon that is the only thing standing between this army and total ruin— What don’t you understand about that?”
Ormund towers over you at once. His firm hands close hard around your arms, keeping you close and unmoving before him. He ducks his head to your height, eyes darting wildly between yours.
“Do you think I enjoyed putting that sword in his hand?” he continues, quieter now. “Do you think I've slept easy a single night since we left Oldtown, knowing what I'm shaping him into— why I have to?”
You swallow hard through a tight throat, peering up at him through the tears clouding your vision. “I think you’ve decided his suffering is a fair price for war,” you waver. “And I think you decided that without asking me.”
“Yes,” Ormund nods without reservation. “I have decided a great many things without asking you first— I did not ask you first when I decided to blanch that stranger’s hair and send him off in Daeron’s place, did I? And yet you still thanked me for it with your words and body when it kept our boy breathing.”
His words tear right through your chest. You shake your head in protest of them even though you know that he’s right — that you are no better than Ormund even in his madness; that you would do worse and more for Daeron if the war called for it, if you were brave enough to do it.
“Did I complain, all those years, when grief after grief left this house without an heir of its own blood?” Ormund goes on, quieter now but no less harsh, as his features twist in a stifled sort of anguish. “Did I complain when courtiers wondered in whispers why a man would stay wed to a wife that could not give him an heir?”
You flinch at his words like you can feel them physically, tearing you from the inside out, though his long fingers caging you force you to stomach them.
“I never complained. Because I love you and because I understood it was no fault of your own,” Ormund continues. “So I have earned, I think, the right to make one hard choice without you looking at me as though I’ve become some monster for it.”
Anger pricks your skin beneath your heavy gown like needles.
It is not the unfairness of the blow of his words that sends you reeling, but rather the sheer astonishment at how low he has stooped in his fury — in his grief. It is, perhaps, the cruelest thing he’s ever said to you; made crueler still for how plainly he does not seem to recognize his own cruelty at all.
“Say that again,” you tell him in an emotionless monotone. “Say it plainly, exactly how you mean it— that you think I am some monster—”
“I didn’t mean…” Ormund huffs and hangs his head, tense shoulders dropping as the lingering anger slips from his skin like rain. “I am not saying this to be cruel— Gods know, I’d sooner cut out my own tongue before I meant any cruelty to you.”
His pale eyes are wet and soft again when they lift to meet yours. His hands loosen their grip on your arms as they lift to cradle your cheeks, softly calloused and warm like velvet along your blazing skin.
“Daeron is the only child either of us has been permitted to keep,” the man continues, softer now. “He is not merely a boy I love, though gods know I do, but he is the only proof that we were ever meant to be parents at all… After everything this life took from us in the trying… Do you understand what I’m telling you?"
“So what?” you press, voice breaking. “The only way he gets to stay ours is if he survives long enough to sit a throne? Is that the only way to remove the taint from his blood— that’s what you called it, right?”
Ormund softens further in the face of your anger.
“Without Aemond, without Vhagar, this army has no dragon to answer to whatever Rhaenyra sends against us next… But Daeron has Tessarion, and Daeron has a claim that half this army would follow into the fire itself,” he coos gently to you, as if anything louder might break you entirely. His thumbs smooth gently along your cheekbones, wiping away a tear that clings stubbornly to the burning skin there. “The war is coming here, my love. It is not a thing we can shield him from any longer. He is our only hope of surviving what is coming, and every bit his birthright to lead it."
“Surely…” you trail off in disbelief, wild eyes searching his bluer ones. “Surely you do not mean to make our child fight in this war."
“It is the will of the gods,” Ormund croons as if it were that simple.
Something in you knows, as each word spills from his mouth, that this is not a man reasoning clearly. You can hear it in the smoothness of his voice and in each too-quick answer on his tongue. And yet, you want more than anything for him to be right. You want it so badly it frightens you — for the gods to will this war’s end, for Ormund’s victory, for your son’s survival.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Ormund draws you fully into his chest with one wide hand along your back and another cradling the back of your head. Tears fall from your lashes and wet the front of his emerald doublet.
“Listen to me…” he mutters into your hair. “If he sits that throne, no one in this realm could ever call him anything but ours. He is Viserys’s heir, yes, but he became a Hightower the moment you held him— and if he rules, no man will ever again whisper that he is not truly yours. He will restore ancient order to the throne. That is how we keep him.”
You shake your head in protest as you lean back from him again, just far enough to peer up at him with tear-heavy eyes. “Just bring him back to me,” you plead fiercely to him. “When this battle is done, I don't care what it costs you to manage it. Bring him back—”
“I will," Ormund nods with the same iron certainty that has carried you through every hard year of your marriage. “I swear it to you. I’ll bring him home—”
“And you,” you remind with a stern finger jabbed into the center of his chest. “You come back to me, too— I have buried enough of what I love in this life, Ormund. I will not bury another. You come back to me. Both of you.”
He nods and leans down to press his forehead against yours. Each of his heaving exhales through his nose fans warm across your chin.
“I will,” he breathes against you, thumbs sweeping again along your cheekbone. He shifts against you to brush the smallest of kisses to the bridge of your nose — so gentle that it makes you feel like crying. Your hands curl hard around his wrist to keep him close. “The gods owe us a debt. And we will see it repaid in full before this war is through, I promise you.”
You cling to the certainty in his voice the way a drowning woman clings to driftwood; the way a starving woman clings to the memory of her last full meal — you cling to him the way a grieving woman clings to the gods themselves.
Could you write about Gwayne x reader where she is Rhaenyra’s sister, is his wife. She is pregnant around the same time that Joffrey is born. They are visiting King's Landing with Daeron who calls her mom since she has raised him, so Alicent hates her, when she gives birth Alicent calls to see the baby as she did with Rhaenyra thinking that Gwayne wasn’t with her, so he and Daeron go all protective and stand up to Alicent.
My wife
Gwayne being the man you and your sister need. Sorry this has taken longer than I planned I’ve been busy but I hope you enjoy xx
Content: labor, cute children and a dream husband
“You’re doing so well my love.” Gwayne says brushing your sweaty hair out of your face. Him refusing to leave your side while you give birth, you and Rhaenyra’s labors starting at the same time. “You to Rhaenyra.” He says to your sister, her wanting to be by your side given this is your first labor. Her own not stopping her. “You’re both doing so well.”
“Get this baby out of me!” You cry just wanting the pain to stop and to be able to hold your baby in your arms. “You are never touching me again!”
“Fuck!” Rhaenyra interjects shouting at the midwives. “You’re such a cunt!”
“As you wish my love.” Gwayne says knowing you’ll change your mind but willing to do anything you ask.
“One more push princess.” Both you and Rhaenyra’s midwives say in unison. Both you and your sister screaming while you push Gwayne between you both. Both of his hands being squeezed beyond belief.
“It’s a boy.” Rhaenyra’s midwife says wrapping the crying babe in a blanket before passing him to his mother.
“It’s a girl.” Your midwife says not even a moment after, doing the same with your babe. Gwayne being given both baby’s while you and Rhaenyra deliver the afterbirth.
-
“Princess’? The queen wishes to see the babes.” An apocalyptic servant says from the doorway, feeling guilty for just following orders. Her having waited a few more minutes after the screams stoped before entering. “I can take them.”
“No I’m taking my son myself.” Rhaenyra responds stubbornly, sharing a look with the midwives at the queens audacity. Just about to attempt getting up when Gwayne stops her.
“Rhaenyra don’t you dare get up.” Your husband commands, not willing to let any of this slide. Consequences be damed. “Tell my sister that if she’s so desperate to see them she can use her legs and walk to us.”
“Ser-.” The maid attempts to interject before getting interrupted by Gwayne. Him giving the girl a look, almost as if daring her to test him.
“Go.” He demands not giving her an opinion to argue back. “And send Daeron in while you’re at it I know he’s hiding behind the door.”
“Muña! Nyra!” Daeron whisper shouts having been told multiple times that when he sees you after the birth he has to be quiet. Him claiming up into bed with you and your sister. The sheets having been changed and most remnants of labor cleaned up.
“Hello darling.” You say softly to your eldest, he may be your brother by blood but he’s your son by love. “Do you want to see your sister?”
“You know the queen won’t be happy?” Rhaenyra says to her brother by law, noticing him poke his head out the door and send a servant away. Before he makes his way back to her side, leaving Daeron to talk with you while he checks on your sister.
“My sister should know better than to make a woman who’s just giving birth walk that far or at all.” He says back, disappointed in his sister. She used to be kind, but that’s what living with Otto will get you he thinks. Knowing if not for his father his sister would be much better off.
“She’ll say she gave the option of a servant taking the babe.” Rhaenyra counters worried about the fall out.
“And I will say just because she’s fine not caring for her child doesn’t mean we are.” He whispers into Rhaenyra’s ear, not wanting Daeron to overhear. “He’s adorable, boy number three.” He says more loudly, making your son think he was just talking about the new babes. “He’ll make a remarkable knight one day.”
“Thank you.” Rhaenyra smiles happy her sister has such a kind and loving husband.
“Are you ready to move to your apartments?” The midwife asks you and Rhaenyra, thinking you’d both be more comfortable there than the birthing chamber.
“I’ll help muña.” Daeron offers wanting to help in anyway he can.
“Thank you darling.” You say softly knowing there’s nothing your son can really do apart from just be with you but that’s more than enough.
-
“Laenor is helping Rhaenyra back to their apartments.” Gwayne tells you as soon as he enters yours. Him knowing that’s the first thing you’ll ask, you loving your sister. “I’ve also made it clear I’m the one who denied Alicent her ‘request’ so Rhaenyra shouldn’t get in too much trouble.”
“Thank you my love.” You say giving him a quick kiss when he bends down to look at the babe in your arms. Daeron having been telling you some of the things he did with his cousins, him being a similar age to Luke.
“Have you thought of a name yet?” Gwayne asks the boy, you having agreed he can help name your newborn. Wanting Daeron to be reassured that he’s still important to you.
“Aemma.” Daeron says having been speaking with Jace and Luke about ideas. All three boys thinking their mothers would like that and Rhaenyra confirming that would be a good choice.
“I love it.” You say, looking down at the little girl in your arms, her having little tufts of sliver and copper hair already on her head. “Princess Aemma Hightower.”
You’re intrupted from continuing your conversation when the guard opens the door and announces your father and his wife. “The king and queen.”
“Father.” You greet offerings him a weak smile, still unsure how to act around him all these years later after he caused you mother and brother’s death.
“A girl I hear!” He says excitedly, having just come from meeting baby Joffrey. “Marvellous news, have you picked a name?”
“Aemma, after mother.” You explain letting him look at the girl.
“She’d like that.” He says softly, looking at the girl who’s already the perfect mix of you and Gwayne.“Alicent what do you think?”
“Lovely.” She says tightly, silently seething after what you, Rhaenyra and Gwayne did. It ruining her plans of humiliating you both. “Gwayne may I speak with you?”
“Now isn’t a good time, my wife having just given birth and all.” Gwayne says passive aggressively, not having looked at his sister since she entered.
“Muña do you want a cupcake?” Daeron asks innocently, him thinking you might be hungry. Completely forgetting he’s in the presence of his birth parents. “I did them with Luke and Jace after getting the egg!”
“Ohh cake can I have one?” Your father asks the boy, only thinking of cake.
“Yes grandsire.” Daeron says sweetly taking two cakes from the table and giving you the best looking one.
“He’s your father remember darling? Like Alicent is your mother.” You correct, not wanting anymore issues today. Taking the cake of the boy and offering him a thank you.
“No, you and Kepa are my mother and father.” He responds, tilting his head to the side. Knowing it’s true but viewing you and Gwayne as his real parents.
“Daeron-.”
“I’m fine being the boys Grandsire, you two have raised him.” Visarys says interrupting his wife without realising or caring. “Now about this cake.”
-
“How dare you.” Alicent shouts at her brother, him having been ignoring her for the past few days. Him refusing to leave your side. “I’m your queen!”
“Yes, but before that you will always be my little sister who’s treating my wife and her sister horribly!” He shouts back, not caring that Cristian Cole is in the corner glaring at him.
“You don’t get to speak to me that way!”
“I apologise for speaking facts your grace, however I do not apologise for protecting women as that’s part of my vow as a knight and husband.” He snaps, fed up with the whole thing. Looking forward to when you’re healed and you can go back home to oldtown.
“Leave, you’ve turned my son against me!” Alicent screams, hating that her son loves you so much. Not thinking about the fact you’re the one who’s raised him while she was busy plotting with her father.
“No, you turned him against you by sending him away in the first place! And even then you could have written or tried to visit! We’re only here because Rhaenyra asked us to! You haven’t written since his 2nd name day!”
“You can’t speak to the queen like that.” Cristian Cole says in an attempt of a threatening tone, instead Gwayne just finds him pathetic.
“Oh fuck off Cole.” Gwayne snaps rolling his eyes while he leaves not bothering to ask his sister’s permission.
-
“We’re going back to oldtown tomorrow.” You say to Rhaenyra while you sit together having tea, watching the boys play outside. Joffrey and Aemma both sleeping in their mother’s arms. “He loves being with you and the children but, Alicent and her sons just upset him.”
“I understand that.” She says a selfish part of her wanting you to stay but knowing it for the best. You deserving to be happy. “I’m thinking of moving to dragonstone but I don’t wish to leave father and laenor wants to stay.”
“That’s understandable, I hope you two can come to an agreement.”
“Me too, we’ll come and visit you soon though.” She says changing the subject, not wanting to dwell. “The boys adore Daeron and Gwayne.”
“Me to.” You say cheekily, smile one your face as you watch the young boys play in the gardens. “My boys love yours as well.”
Tags: post sex (there are mentions of it), lack of aftercare (for a brief moment), arranged marriage
The Septas say that a wife’s duty in the marital bed is to stay still and receive her husband’s seed without complaint. To silently pray to the Mother so that it may take root. They don't tell you how to deal with the aftermath. When you feel your husband's seed sticking to your thighs. When your heart is about to leap out of your chest. When your body shakes with the remaining pleasure. When he moves his body away from you, you feel compelled to grab him and have his body against you again.
Your husband is kind.
He cares about your pleasure.
He makes sure you're prepared before he inserts himself inside you.
You wonder if he feels the same way. The same shudders. The same desire to touch. You don’t dare to ask. It scares you. This union isn't based on love. It's a political union. Only the production of healthy heirs is expected.
Your husband lets out a groan as he removes his cock from your body. Sweat is running down his face. He sighs as he moves away from you. You remain in bed, breathing heavily, and for some reason, you want your husband's body to be against you once more. Not to repeat what you just did, but to feel his warmth and skin.
When you finish coupling, your husband bids you goodnight and leaves the chambers to go to his own. He is about to do that. He had already put his tunic on, and he was about to put his shoes on when you broke the silence with one question you wanted to ask but felt anxious to.
“Can you hold me?”
Baelor Targaryen
He stops when he hears your request. He looked over his shoulder, and your eyes looked away when his found your figure.
You lay in your bed wearing your nightgown, and a sheen of sweat made your body shine in the dark. Your hands tremble as you hold on to your nightgown as if you're a frightened child facing the monster in the dark.
Baelor takes off his tunic and returns to your bed. Your eyes widen as you gaze at him.
Did you think he would say no? Why would he say no? You asked him a simple request, and as your husband, he would gladly comply with it.
He grabs you by the middle and pulls you towards him.
Your cheek rests against his chest, causing your body to tremble pleasantly.
You have no idea what to do with your hands.
He places his hands on your back and uses the tips of his fingers to gently massage your skin.
You move your hands as you gradually feel the tension in your body release.
You raise your body and press your face to his neck.
You hear it just as you're about to nod off. "Would you like me to spend the night here?"
With a drowsy groan, you tuck yourself further into his neck. You respond without hesitation.
“Stay forever.”
The last thing you recall is Baelor kissing your head and laughing.
From then on, after doing your marital duties, Baelor remained in your bed and held you.
Maekar Targaryen
He leaves the room, acting as though he didn't hear you.
He did not want to remarry, but his brother and father insisted. He had to ensure that House Targaryen remained strong. His children required a maternal figure.
Maekar, being the good son he is, swallowed his pride, married the girl they chose for him, and bedded her while the fertility window was still open. He has no complaints about you. You looked after his household and children. You welcomed him into your bed without hesitation.
He wanted to scoff at your request.
This is a political union. They don't need to pretend they were a loving couple. They need to have at least one child to satisfy their families and nothing else.
He was about to return to his chambers when he heard a sob.
He came to a halt right there.
The sob was quickly muffled, and he heard nothing more.
He is overcome with a sense of shame.
You have done nothing wrong.
You didn't ask for gold.
You didn't ask for jewels.
You didn't ask for silk.
You just asked to be held.
Maekar turns his heels and walks back inside.
You are curled in your bed, feeling ashamed to have asked that question. You went stiff when you heard the door open again. You closed your eyes and waited. For what? You didn't know.
He stops next to the bed. His gaze is heavy on you. He’s the one who breaks the silence. “Do you still want me to hold you?”
You opened your eyes and looked at Maekar, baring your red eyes to him.
“Yes.” You whispered.
Maekar removes his tunic and lies behind you.
He puts his arm on your waist and pulls you closer to him.
Goosebumps appear in your body when you feel his warmth.
“Go to sleep, wife.” He orders you, gently.
You feel his breath at the back of your neck and start to fall asleep. The last thing you remember is Maekar kissing your neck.
It'd been five months since you told Aerion you couldn't do it anymore and left for the house your grandmother left you. It'd been three months since he stopped coming around asking to "talk about it." And it was still raw. Like sticking a band-aid on an open wound and pretending it didn't still bleed.
You'd promised you'd come; it was Daella's birthday. Maegor had been talking about it for weeks—about the cake, about seeing Papa. You couldn't say no. He was just a month shy of turning two, and he'd asked, in that tiny voice that broke your heart, if Daddy would be there too. You'd said yes. Because it wasn't about you and Aerion anymore. It was about Maegor.
Maekar's backyard was chaos, as always. Kids screaming, adults drinking cheap beer, someone grilling burgers while someone else argued about lawn games. You'd barely stepped out of your car when Maegor was already wiggling in your arms, pointing at the swing set.
"Mama, swing!"
"Yeah, baby, we'll go swing," you murmured, adjusting him on your hip. Your stomach tightened as you scanned the crowd and saw Aerion by the cooler with a cigarette in his mouth. He hadn't seen you yet; he was laughing at something Daeron said, but you knew the second he did, it'd ruin whatever peace you'd managed to scrape together.
You set Maegor down, holding his hand as he dragged you toward the swings. You could feel eyes on you—Maekar, Daella, maybe even Egg. They were good people, but they were loyal to Aerion first and foremost. You didn't blame them. You just hated the pity.
You got Maegor settled on a swing and began pushing him gently while trying to ignore the way your skin prickled. Then you heard the crunch of boots on grass and inhaled the smell of smoke.
"Baby. You came."
"I said I would."
"Still... thanks. For bringin' him."
"Aerion, he's our son. I'm not keeping him from you."
You sounded tired. You were tired. You pushed the swing again, your focus on Maegor, who was giggling and completely oblivious.
Aerion moved to stand closer. He stood just behind you. You could feel the heat of him, the way he always seemed to take up all the air around you. "You look good."
You laughed under your breath and shook your head. "Don't."
"Don't what? Tell you the truth?"
"Just... don't."
He didn't listen, of course. He was never good at that. He just stepped around you to lean against the swing set pole, always watching you with those damn eyes. "You been okay?"
"Peachy. You?"
"I've been better," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh, got my dad to give me more hours at the shop. And I stopped goin' to the bar as much."
"That's good. I'm... I'm glad."
"Baby, can we—"
"Mama! Higher!" Maegor's voice cut through the tension, giving you a moment to finally let out the breath you'd been holding since you heard him approach.
You gave him one more push, then turned to face Aerion. "I'm not doing this here, Aerion. Not today."
He sighed, looking like he wanted to argue but didn't know how without you slapping him or upsetting his son. "Alright. But later—"
"There is no later. There's just Maegor. That's it."
You left him standing there, going to grab Maegor when he started whining about being hungry. The rest of the party went by in a blur. You smiled when you had to, made small talk with Daella, let Maekar hold Maegor while you got a plate of food. Every time you felt Aerion's eyes on you, you ignored it. Because if you didn't, you'd break.
By the time it was dark and Maegor was asleep in his car seat, you were exhausted.
You didn't realize Aerion had followed you to your car until you rounded it to open your door and saw him leaning against the back bumper. "What, Aerion?"
"Just let me talk to you, fuck... Please."
"What is there to talk about? We're not together. We're not getting back together. We have a son together, and that's all."
His jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed with that familiar stubbornness that pushed you away in the first place. "You don't mean that."
"I do," you insisted, even though part of you didn't. "We were awful for each other, Aerion. You know it."
"I know I wasn't perfect, but you—"
"I wasn't either; I get it! But that's not the point. The point is, we broke up for a reason. And I can't keep doing this back-and-forth shit with you. Not when Maegor's involved."
"So that's it? We're just... what? Fuckin' co-parents or whatever you call it, who see each other at birthdays and holidays?"
"Isn't that what you wanted? Your freedom? No 'ball and chain'?"
"Fuck you. You know that's not what I wanted."
"Then what did you want, Aerion? Because I can't do this anymore. I can't keep hoping you'll change and then being disappointed when you don't."
"I'm tryin'. I am. I just need you to give me a chance—"
"I gave you a chance. I gave you a million chances, Aerion. I'm done doing that for you."
You turned to get in the car, but he grabbed your arm, spinning you back around. "Please, baby. Don't do this."
"Don't," you warned. Your voice and your hands were already shaking, and you just wanted to go. "Don't make this harder than it already is. I need to get Maegor home."
He didn't listen. He kissed you. It was desperate, rough, as if he thought he could change your mind if he just kissed you hard enough. And for a second, it almost worked. You could smell the beer on his breath, the smoke in his clothes; you could feel the way he was trembling just a little. For a second, you were back in his trailer, letting him kiss you like he'd die if he didn't. But then you pulled away.
"Stop it."
He didn't, just kissed your jaw, your neck. His hands gripped your waist and stayed there. "I love you, baby. Please. I love you."
"You don't get to say that. Not now."
But his mouth found yours again, and this time you kissed him back. Because you were weak, because you were sad and your frontal lobe hadn't developed enough to fully deny him. The kiss turned messy, needy, his hands started moving up under your shirt, and you knew you were making a mistake.
"Come home," he muttered against your lips. "Just... come home. We'll do better. I'll be better."
You shook your head, even as your fingers tangled in his hair. "I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"Aerion—"
"Please, baby. I swear to God, I'll do whatever you want. Just... don't say no."
"Aerion..."
You didn't finish. Instead, you cradled his face with your hands and kissed him again, softly. He kissed you back like it was the last time he would get to, because it felt like the last time. When you finally broke apart, you didn't say anything. Just got in the car and drove away.
He didn't call that night. Didn't show up at your door, either. But the next morning, there were fresh flowers on your porch, and a new box of crayons for Maegor. And even though you knew it didn't fix anything, it was enough to make you remember the first time he gave you a flower after making you cry about running over a parking curb when he was teaching you to drive.
"I don't know about this shit. But you're real pretty and I feel like an asshole for makin' you cry, so... here," he'd said. "You like yellow, right?"
Because that's the thing about Aerion—he was always trying. And even if it wasn't enough, it was always something.
You grew up in fire and blood, taught that love would always burn red. Then came a Hightower knight who carried steel at his hip and gentleness in his smile that felt like sunrise. Getting to love him came easy...but some blessings arrive already carrying the shape of their own curse.
݈݇—Themes/Warning: This is a love story with a tragic ending. Slow burn-ish. Swoon-worthy. Eventual Smut. MUTUAL PINING. YEARNING. LONGING. Courtly romance. Strangers to lovers to forced-enemies. Political marriage. Gentleman Gwayne Hightower. Touch-starved. Emotional terrorism. Happy moments that make the ending hurt worse. S1–S3 HOTD canon divergence. Inspired by "DAYLIGHT" by Taylor Swift & "PROVIDER" by Sleep Token.
Author’s Note: This is my take Gwayne Hightower if he were to have any romantic interest, mainly rooted because of his principles he showed in S3E1. I HAVE FINISHED THIS FANFIC...IT'S JUST A MATTER OF EDITING AND POSTING.
× × × ×
Prologue 𑣲. Part I 𑣲. Part 2 𑣲. Part 3 𑣲. PART 4 𑣲. END
Can I please have King Maekar Targaryen + heavy degradation/praise with prompt 33? ❤️🔥
𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
When King Maekar Targaryen overhears you defending him when a very ladies wish to know whether he can still perform as any young man ought to, Maekar has no trouble in showing you exactly what he can do.
Requested: King Maekar Targaryen.
69 ENTWINED SHADOWS:
Heavy Degradation + Praise.
Prompt: 33. “I’ll be your devoted monster — let me fuck you slow and deep.”
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: high degradation, high praise, gentle sex, headlock position, explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, maekar is most definitely in his late fifties, I said what I said because he and Baelor are aged up in the TV series), minors dni.
I cannot always write what anyone has in mind, so hopefully this leans towards what you wanted, cause I might have gotten carried away a bit here, emphasis on monster and emphasis on Maekar reminding you just what a good little whore you I mean we are.
The solar smelled of beeswax candles, myrrh incense, and the faint floral sweetness of the ladies’ perfumes, rosewater, lavender, and crushed violets. Soft laughter floated on the air like silk.
You sat among them, your young body draped in a gown of deep crimson silk that clung to your curves, the fabric whispering against your skin with every shift. The hearth crackled warmly, casting flickering golden light across the Myrish rugs and tapestries.
Lady Merryweather’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, her fan snapping shut. “Tell us truly, Your Grace… the king is a man of certain years. Does his age ever give him trouble in the marriage bed? Can he still perform as a younger lord might?”
Heat bloomed across your cheeks, a flush that prickled down your neck. The other women leaned in, silk rustling, eyes bright with curiosity. You stammered, voice soft yet defiant, the words tasting like loyalty on your tongue. “N-no, it doesn’t trouble him at all. The king is… vigorous. More than any man half his age could dream of. He leaves me trembling and sated every night.”
You didn’t see him at first, the tall, broad shadow just beyond the half-open oak door, the faint gleam of torchlight on black iron and red gold. Maekar had come for you after the council, his heavy boots unusually quiet on the rugs.
The scent of him reached you later, polished steel, aged leather, woodsmoke, and the sharp, distant promise of untamed dragonfire. He heard every word.
The doubt.
Your stammering defense.
His jaw clenched, violet eyes darkening like storm clouds over the Narrow Sea.
That night, the chamber doors thudded shut behind him with finality, the iron latch clicking like a judgment. The room was dim, lit only by a few candles and the low fire in the massive hearth. Shadows danced across the tapestries of ancient Targaryen victories.
The air was thick with the scent of beeswax, warm furs, and the faint metallic tang of the king’s presence.
Maekar filled the doorway, tall, powerfully built, the years only adding to the heavy, unyielding strength in his shoulders and chest. His warlike crown was set aside, but the authority clung to him like a second skin.
He crossed to you in measured strides, boots thudding softly. One large, calloused hand, rough from decades of sword and mace, cupped your jaw firmly, thumb pressing against your plush lower lip, tasting faintly of salt and ink from the day’s letters.
“I heard you today, little wife,” he growled, voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones, rough as grinding millstones. “Defending my cock to those twittering hens like a loyal little bird. Stammering so prettily while they questioned whether your old husband can still fuck you properly.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering. The heat of his body radiated against you, solid muscle, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin from the day’s labors. He yanked your gown up with impatient strength, the silk tearing slightly at the seams with a sharp rip, his rough palm sliding up the smooth, sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of his touch.
“I am no green boy,” he continued, lips brushing your ear, hot breath sending shivers cascading down your spine. His scent enveloped you, leather, smoke, clean sweat, and that dark, intoxicating growl that accompanied his words. “But you… gods, you’re so fucking young. Soft. Sweet. This tight little cunt still flutters like a virgin’s every time I claim it.”
He backed you toward the great canopied bed, the furs thick and luxurious against the backs of your knees. With a firm push, you fell back into them, the pelts cool and silky at first, then warming rapidly beneath your heated skin. Maekar loomed over you, stripping his black tunic away.
The firelight gilded the hard planes of his scarred chest, the corded muscle of his arms, the silver hairs that trailed down his abdomen. His breeches followed, freeing his thick, heavy cock, already rigid, flushed dark, the head glistening with a bead of precum that caught the light.
He descended on you like a conquering army. His mouth claimed yours in a bruising kiss, tasting of spiced wine and dominance, tongue stroking deep, teeth nipping your lower lip until it throbbed.
He tore the rest of your gown open, the fabric whispering apart, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His calloused palms cupped them roughly, thumbs circling your hardened nipples, pinching just hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from your throat.
“Listen to those pretty sounds,” he murmured against your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, the sting blooming into heat. One thick finger dragged through your slick folds, the obscene wet sound filling the chamber as he teased your entrance. “Already soaked for me. Dripping like a desperate whore for your king’s old cock. So eager to prove them wrong, aren’t you?”
He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, stretching, curling, stroking that sensitive spot with ruthless precision. The wet, rhythmic sounds of his hand working you mingled with your moans and the crackle of the fire. His thumb pressed firm circles on your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core. The scent of your arousal thickened the air between you.
Maekar withdrew his fingers, bringing them to your lips. “Taste how much you want this monster,” he commanded. You obeyed, tongue swirling around his digits, tasting yourself, tangy and sweet. He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest.
Positioning himself, he rubbed the thick head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your slickness, the friction delicious and torturous. His violet eyes bored into yours, dark with lust and possession. “I’ll be your devoted monster,” he rasped, the words heavy with promise and filth. “Let me fuck you slow and deep.”
Then he pushed in, inch by thick, veined inch. The stretch burned sweetly, your walls fluttering and yielding around his girth. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as he sank to the hilt, hips flush against yours, heavy balls pressed tight to your skin. You felt full, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the way he throbbed deep inside, the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickling your sensitive flesh.
He held there, letting you adjust, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone. Then he began to move, slow, rolling thrusts that dragged every ridge and vein along your inner walls, hitting that perfect spot with devastating accuracy. The heavy slap of skin on skin was muted by the deep pace, replaced by wet, filthy sounds and the creak of the ancient bedframe. His weight pinned you deliciously, chest hair rasping against your nipples, sweat-slick skin sliding together.
“Seven hells, you’re still so fucking tight,” he praised, voice hoarse with pleasure, laced with degradation. “This perfect royal cunt clenching around an old man’s cock like it was made for me. Younger lords would spill the moment they felt this heat. But I… I will ruin you for hours.”
His hand pinned your wrists above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into soft flesh. He hooked one of your legs higher, changing the angle so he drove even deeper.
The new depth made you cry out, the pressure intense, bordering on overwhelming. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto your breasts as he moved, slow, deep, relentless.
“Such a good girl,” he growled, nipping your earlobe, breath hot and damp. “Taking every inch so beautifully. My loyal little wife, defending my cock by day and milking it by night. But you’re also my filthy secret, dripping and moaning for a man old enough to be your father.”
The praise and degradation wove together, pushing you higher. The scent of sex, musky, salty, primal, filled the room. Your moans grew louder, unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls. Maekar’s rhythm faltered only slightly as his own pleasure mounted, but he mastered it, grinding deep and slow, hips circling to press against your clit with every thrust.
“Come for me,” he commanded, voice rough as gravel. “Let me feel this tight cunt squeeze my cock. Show your king how well he performs.”
Pleasure crashed over you like dragonfire, your body arching, walls pulsing rhythmically around him, a gush of wetness coating his length. The sensation tipped him over and with a deep, animalistic groan that reverberated through your joined bodies, Maekar buried himself to the hilt and spilled. Hot, thick ropes of his seed flooded you, pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock, trickling down your thighs in warm, sticky trails.
He stayed buried deep, rocking gently through the aftershocks, the wet sounds obscene and intimate. His weight was comforting now, heavy and protective as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to your sweat-damp skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of your perfume. One large hand stroked down your side, soothing the marks he’d left.
“Never doubt it again,” he whispered, voice softening with rare tenderness beneath the dominance, his breath warm against your ear. “Age be damned. This devoted monster will always fuck his young queen slow and deep… until the only sound in the Red Keep is you screaming my name.”
The fire crackled low as he held you close, the mingled scents of sweat, sex, and spent candles wrapping around you both like a claim.
The fire had burned lower, casting long, flickering shadows across the furs and your sweat-slicked bodies.
Maekar’s cock was still buried deep inside you, softening only slightly, his thick spend leaking warmly around him with every tiny shift of your hips. His large frame blanketed yours, chest heaving against your back, the coarse hair there damp and rasping deliciously over your skin. The heavy, musky scent of sex hung thick in the air, salt, slick, and the faint metallic edge of his skin.
But the king was far from finished.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated through his chest as he stirred. Strong arms shifted you with effortless power, pulling your back flush against his front.
One thick, corded arm slid around you, locking you in place with unyielding control, his bicep and forearm caging the side of your neck and shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted while his other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise.
You were utterly enveloped by him: the scorching heat of his body, the relentless strength in every muscle, the way his breath, hot, ragged, scented with wine and dominance, ghosted over your ear and the sensitive skin of your throat.
“Still so full of me,” he murmured, voice a deep, gravelly rasp that sent fresh shivers racing down your spine. He rolled his hips forward, sinking back into you with that same devastatingly slow, deep thrust. The stretch reignited instantly, your walls fluttering around his thickening length as he dragged every thick inch along your sensitive inner walls. “Greedy little cunt won’t let me go, will it? Even after I’ve flooded you like a claimed broodmare.”
The wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding through the mess he’d already made filled the chamber, filthy, slick, rhythmic with every unhurried grind. He kept the pace torturously deliberate, pulling back until only the fat head remained inside you, then pressing forward until his heavy balls nestled tight against your soaked folds.
Each deep stroke pressed you harder into the cage of his arm and body, the coarse hair on his thighs rubbing against the backs of yours, his sweat-slick chest sliding against your spine.
“Fuck… listen to that,” he groaned, the praise rough and filthy. “Such a perfect, sloppy little wife. Taking your this old cock so beautifully, milking every inch like you were born for it. Younger men couldn’t last a minute in this heavenly cunt—tight, hot, and dripping like a common whore for an old monster twice their age. But you are my good little whore, aren't you?”
His arm flexed subtly around you, pulling you even closer, the powerful muscle pressing firmly against your neck and shoulder as he drove deeper.
The position left you completely at his mercy, arched back against his solid chest, unable to do anything but feel every slow, grinding thrust that rubbed relentlessly against that sweet spot inside you. His free hand roamed, palming your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple until it throbbed, then sliding down to circle your swollen clit with calloused fingers.
The dual sensation, his thick cock stretching you open and those precise, firm strokes on your clit, made your moans rise uncontrollably, breathy and desperate against the heavy weight of his arm.
“You hear that, my sweet slut?” he growled, lips brushing the shell of your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “The way your cunt squelches around me? Soaking my balls because your old husband still fucks you better than any boy ever could. Defending my vigor to those court bitches by day… and creaming on my cock like a devoted cock sleeve by night. That’s my good girl. My perfect, filthy queen.”
He kept the rhythm slow and devastatingly deep, hips rolling in powerful, controlled waves that made the bed creak softly beneath you both.
Every thrust pushed a fresh gush of his earlier seed out around his shaft, trickling hot and sticky down your thighs. The friction was exquisite, burning pleasure bordering on overwhelming, the drag of his veined length against your fluttering walls sending sparks through your entire body.
His scent surrounded you completely: sweat, leather, and raw masculinity, growing stronger with every flex of his powerful frame.
“Gods, you’re exquisite,” he praised, voice dropping into a reverent growl as your walls clenched tighter around him. “So young, so tight, so fucking mine. This body was made to be ruined by me...stretched wide on a battle-hardened cock, marked and filled until you can’t walk without feeling where I’ve been.”
His fingers on your clit sped up just slightly, matching the deep grind of his hips. “Come for me again, little one. Let me feel this royal pussy worship its king. Show me how well this old anvil still hammers you into the furs.”
The combination of his degrading filth and soaring praise, the relentless slow-deep thrusts, the unyielding cage of his arm holding you helpless against his body, and the skilled torment of his fingers pushed you over the edge once more.
Pleasure crashed through you like wildfire, your body seizing, walls pulsing and fluttering wildly around his thick length as you cried out, the sound muffled against his sweat-slick skin. Fresh slick gushed around him, coating his cock and thighs.
Maekar groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back. He fucked you through it, slow, deep, possessive strokes that prolonged your orgasm until you were trembling and whimpering in his unbreakable hold.
Only then did his own control fracture once more and with a guttural snarl, he buried himself to the hilt one final time, hips grinding tight as he spilled again, hot, thick pulses flooding your already full cunt, so much that it overflowed immediately, dripping messily between your joined bodies.
He held you there, locked against him, both of you panting in the heavy, sex-scented air. His arm remained firm around you, not releasing you from the intimate cage, lips pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck.
“My devoted little monster-fucker,” he whispered, voice hoarse with satisfaction and dark affection. “Never doubt what this king can do to you.”
hold the line, love isn't always on time (masterlist) | dilf! maekar x f! reader
asoiaf masterlist ᯓ ao3 ᯓ spotify playlist link
ᯓ word count: 4.1k
ᯓ series description: Prince Maekar Targaryen was more than content with his life. Well.. content is a strong word.. Nonetheless, he disagreed with his father's insistence upon his remarrying. Something foolish like "securing the realm's future", is what his father had said. To which, he had naturally stormed out of the room, with his older brother trailing after him. "Married. Married, again? Really?" But what happens when his wife is just as headstrong as him, and incredibly sexy annoying?
roe speaks: maekar targaryen,,,, maekar targaryen won the poll (i am posting this slightly early but i have to leave to get groceries guys sorry),,, let's be honest gang this was gonna happen sooner or later lol <3 i need you all to know the original moodboard i made had a picture of maekar that when my friend saw it, he went "count dooku?" and i almost cried ANYWAYS i hope this is good <3
chapters:
ᯓ★ Chapter One: "Am I some fucking prize cow, to be married to whoever at your insistence?"
content tags are extreme diabolical yearning, fluff, canonical views of gender and marriage, canon divergence, reader uses she/her pronouns, discussions of sex but no smut, pet names, reader walks him like a dog, no physical description of reader, this is my first time writing for gwayne so i hope you like it :) thanks for reading <3
Marriage was duty. Marriage was merely a political strategy. An arrangement to be struck between families; marriage had no place for matters of the heart. That is what Gwayne Hightower told himself before he met you, his betrothed. He told himself it did not matter if he found you beautiful or not. It only mattered to produce viable heirs and that you become a capable Lady of House Hightower.
He corresponded with you via raven weeks before your wedding day. In your letters, he found you were friendly, a little erratic in your sentence structure, but prompt in your replies. He wrote to assure you that he intended to give you a good life as Lady Hightower. You would be well cared for in Oldtown; the Reach would offer a climate that you would find very enjoyable. He promised that he would not rush you into marriage consummation, or sharing a marital bed, since you were only meeting for the first time on your wedding day. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable in your new life, as he could hardly imagine being in your shoes. He hoped you were pretty, or at least kind, but did not let himself hope for much. Marriage was duty, nothing more.
Standing at the alter in the Starry Sept, Gwayne mentally cursed and kicked himself a thousand times over. When he lifted your veil, he was met with the most dazzling girl he'd ever seen. Your bright eyes shone under the candlelight, the air around you seemed to sparkle, aided by the twinkling jewels pinned in your hair. Your mouth quipped into a half, nervous smile, that made is knees turn to jelly. He could tell you were accessing him back, brow furrowed in concentration. The crinkle that formed between your eyebrows was downright adorable. And with your wide eyes blinking up at him, you reminded him of a deer wandering a forest. When the Septon asked Gwayne to repeat the sacred words And I take you for my lady and wife, his mouth felt impossibly dry and disconnected from his body. He tore his eyes away from you, to look at the Septon instead, so he could concentrate. "And I t-take you for my lady and w-wife" Maybe he had been wrong about marriage before.
Honor? Duty? Where did it get him? Now, it seemed like those things, once upheld in his family's name, had doomed him. Gwayne had already put you at an arm's length by telling you that he did not expect you to share his bed. So all he could do was be a kind, doting husband, hoping that eventually you would feel comfortable enough to desire him the way he already did.
Gwayne observed you and helped you as you settled into life at the Oldtown. You were acclimating well, greeting everyone you met with a warm smile. You made an effort to learn each servant's name, offering genuine compliments on their work. Gwayne decided that he adored your smile, and you were as beautiful as the Mother, herself. Before he met you, he had faintly hoped that you were beautiful. But now, he wasn't sure if your beauty was a blessing to his eyes, or a curse that he had suffer to look upon you at a respectful distance. You were practically skipping through the corridors. Gwyane noticed you always moved so quickly, never simply walking, always seeming to be in a hurry to get to the next place. Suddenly, the ribbon tying your hair back slipped free and onto the floor. You bent down to pick up the ribbon, the fabric of your dress straining against the swell of your breasts. He’d always thought that a woman’s thighs were the asset he favored the most. But when he noticed the curve of your breasts, he wanted nothing more than to squeeze them, knead them, commit the softness to memory. Your nimble fingers twirled the ribbon, hands so petite and pretty. Perhaps one day they would intertwine with his? He could hold your hand and guide it along his cock, showing you how to stroke it and-
Then you were gone. Scurrying away and out of sight. Only the aroma of your rose scented soap was left for him to bask in, and replay over and over the time he had written that you were not expected to share his bed, and hate himself for it.
The day you came into his solar to show him your new dress, a part of him died inside. He was scribbling a letter to his father when you entered. When he looked up at the disturbance and saw it was you, he stood up so fast he almost sent his chair falling backwards. "My dear wife. What do I owe this pleasure?"
"So formal" you tease, your twinkling laugh lighting up the dim room "I just came to show you this!" You hold out your arms to display your attire, causing Gwayne's breath to hitch in his throat. You were wearing a rich green gown, with gold beading and embroidery all down the length. The design curled around your hips and torso, clinging to all your curves. The candlelight reflected off the gold shimmer, making you look like an angel dripping in Hightower colors.
"Do you like it?" You step closer to Gwayne, always on tip toe, and quickly, like a graceful doe. “Do I look comely?”
Your husband chokes on the words, watching you move closer to him- closer to his grasp. You are so near, he can count each if your eyelashes. “Come-? Comely?” Gwayne’s ears burn red at his misunderstanding. A feeble cough, then he manages to speak. “Yes. Very.”
"The seamstresses fastened the dress itself, but I did most of the embroidery work. See?"
Tentatively, he reaches out to graze his fingers over your hard work. He brushes the gold embroidery at your hip. You're babbling about the time that it look, and the technique you practiced, but Gwayne is zoning out. Only focusing on the warmth of your skin he can feel under the velvet. Your backside, that he had admittedly gawked at whenever you walked in front of him, was under his hand, splayed over your hip.
Your voice fades into the background as his hand, on it's own accord, moves up to your elbow, your shoulder, then brushes against the ends of your hair ever so slightly. It was so much softer than he thought possible. And when he brushes the tips of your hair, the smell of your rose soap wafts up to his nostrils. He watches in anticipation as his hand, seemingly pulled by an invisible force, moves to rest on the small of your back. You do not falter or pull away. In fact, you don't react at all. You just continue smiling, talking about your dress. Then you hold up the fabric of your skirt.
"Here, feel." You instruct, and Gwayne tentatively runs his hand over the gold beads. "I stayed up half the night to finish it. But I think it's worth the trouble." You laugh softly. "What do you think?"
"It's beautiful." He swallows, and meets your eye. "Like you."
Playfully, you roll your huge, doe eyes and there it is again - that laugh that makes his heart flip inside his chest cavity. Your lips brush his cheek so quickly, he thought he might have imagined it. But it was real. You kissed him. The dampness of your lips leave the irrefutable proof on his skin. Just as soon as you entered, you are moving away, towards the door, and out of his reach. "I think I will lay down to rest now. I am weary after staying up so late."
Gwayne must be unwell. He must see a maester. He feels unsteady on his feet and his heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. Because after you leave his solar, his legs jerkily pull his body towards the door. You're fast. Much more agile than a young lady should be. Because you're leagues ahead of him, already out of sight down the castle corridors. He walks in a trance, following the trail of rose, stumbling after you. His cock jerks in his pants, half hard simply from touching you and the green fabric of your damned dress. Feverishly, his skin burns hot under his clothes. You're ill, you're reverting back to being a green boy, he tells himself. He wills himself to gain some sense, and stop following you like a lunatic, but his legs still carry him the way to your bed chambers.
When he arrives at your chambers, he enters without ceremony. He falls against the door and stumbles inside. It looks like you are getting ready to leave, having changed into a simple grey dress, and clutching your prayer book with a startled look on your face.
“Gwayne? Are you alright?” You ask, concerned for your husband’s current state- looking dazed in the middle of your bedchambers.
He does not answer your question. “I thought you were going to lie down and rest.” He blurts.
You were supposed to be getting ready to rest, he thinks, wearing your soft nightgown that I know you own because I've seen the servants filling your closet with clothes before you moved here. And you're supposed to be rubbing your eyes, sleepy and soft. I know you get like that when you're tired because once we dined together early in the morning. And I adored how you looked, one foot still in slumber, the other in wakefulness.
You smile, helpful, but so infuriatingly oblivious to his torment. “I was, yes, but then I remembered I am meeting the Septons this afternoon. We are discussing aid for the poor.” A pause. “Are you alright?” you ask again.
A broken sound emanates from your husband. A mixture of a groan and whine. He falls to his knees in front of you, hands clambering, pulling at your skirt. Gwayne knows he is a knight of the realm, but in this moment he does not care. He is a beggar at your feet. “Sweet girl. My sweet wife, please. Please do not leave.” His fingers fist tighter on your skirt.
Oof. You grunt, tugged off balance by your imploring husband. “I must go. I am new to my duties as Lady Hightower. And I can’t be seen shirking them so soon.” You rake your fingers through his auburn hair, as he presses his face firmly into the junction of your thighs. Gwayne’s hands have lost all restraint, pawing at your arse, tugging your cunt even closer into his face. With every trace of your fingers through his hair, his cock grows stiffer, straining uncomfortably into his pants. This surprises him, the reaction to your touch in his hair. All these new discoveries, particularly the unlimited bounds of his yearning, has his mind reeling.
You sigh. "By the seven, I really am late." You thread your fingers at the top of his head, and pull his gaze up to meet yours. "Oh Gwayne, what am I going to do with you?"
He strains, gazing up at you with watery eyes, "Oh dove, I-"
"Later." You tighten your hold on his long hair, secretly enjoying how much there is to tug on and manipulate in your small hand. You could feel his hot breath against your cunt, panting, building on the dampness that already gathered the moment he fell to his knees. You smile, giggling at the second whine that escapes his lips, "Have some propriety, husband." What were you going to do with him?
summary: Reader is Jacaery's younger sister, born a year after him. The only exception is that you were born with typical Targaryen features. Now, that you're finally old enough your mother decided to marry you off to your uncle - Aemond Targaryen. Except, your sweet older brother is not pleased with this decision.
taglist: @claerysa
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"So, that's your brilliant idea? To give away your only daughter to this absolute monster?" Jacaery's angry voice echoed the walls of Dragonstone. The rain pelted against the windows, it was already late at night and Rhanerya was still working behind her desk. Until her oldest son interrupted her.
"That's what the king wishes to happen, Jace. He believes the marriage will reunite our families." She said simply, already tired of this conversation.
"With the cost of her own happiness?" Jace started walking towards her, the candle light catches his face.
"It's marriage, Jace." Rhanerya snapped. "A political duty to strengthen our house. I didn't have a choice either, a lot of people don't have a say in this matter."
"Well, you quickly find your way out of your marriage." He said with a scoff.
Rhaenyra's breath hitched at this sudden strike. "Jace, don't start this conversation again." She said in a low, steady voice.
"Aemond thinks we're bastards. He even thinks this about her, even though she inherited the Valyrian look. He's been teasing us about this since we were kids, and this never stopped. You think now this will change?"
"And you think we can prevent war, just like that?" She stood up, her jaw and fists were clenched.
He didn't say a word, just shook his head and looked at his feet with disbelief. How could she do this? Marry his sweet girl off to the Greens? She belonged to him. Her body, her soul. They were destined to be with each other.
Rhaenyra like she was reading his mind walked up to her first born and grabbed his shoulders. "I know you thought I would marry her off to you... but she's your sister, maybe it's better to keep your relationship this way?"
He didn't look at her. He couldn't. "Your grace" he said before bowing slightly and leaving this goddamn room.
Rhaenyra had no idea that your relationship now was far from 'being only siblings'. Only Daemon knew, but he knew everything. He saw when you two showed up late for dinner. Hair still messy and lips swollen from making out somewhere in the corner of Dragonstone. But he didn't say a word, only smirked like he always did. He saw when Jace sneaked out to your chambers late at night, and then he heard muffled moans and gasps filling your bedroom. But he never said a word to his wife.
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The next evening Jace wanted to visit you. He made a signal during breakfast. He tapped your foot under the table and gave you the look: I'll come visit you today. After fulfilling his duties he didn't make his way to his chambers, but to yours. It was already late and the moon started shining across the dark sky.
Jacaerys knocked on the door 3 times. This way you knew it was him. It was always three times. Three squeezes of your hand during council, meaning three words 'i love you'. Three kisses on your face: Two on your eyelids and one peck on your lips. Like you were something sacred.
That was how he had always treated you. To him, you were someone truly extraordinary. The fact that, out of all your siblings, only you possessed the unmistakable features of House Targaryen only reinforced his belief. He always said he thought you had been blessed by the gods themselves.
Since childhood, Jacaerys had always been fiercely protective and possessive of you. He never allowed other boys to touch you or even speak to you without his watchful eye. To him, you were someone to be cherished—he practically worshipped the very ground you walked on.
He constantly admired your grace, your spirit, and the way you carried yourself with quiet confidence. What he loved most was that you always knew your worth. You understood that Targaryens were not like other people. They set themselves apart not only through their striking appearance, but also through the dragons they rode.
And now? His mother expected him to simply accept giving you away to another man? He had always believed the two of you were destined to be together. Two siblings, meant to rule the realm side by side. The future King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
In his mind, the Targaryen line was always meant to continue through you and the children you would have together.
You opened the door, only a few inches for him to walk in. You looked past him to see if the hall was clear, if nobody was watching. He closed the door with his back and looked at you. His eyes shining with darkness and urgency.
"I spoke to mother. Her decision is final."
"I didn't expect her to change her mind anyway.." His lips crashed against yours with quite urgency. He wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you closer, so now there's no space between the two of you.
"If she refuses to change her decision..." he murmured, breaking the kiss just long enough to brush his thumb gently across your lower lip. "Then I will."
You had no idea what he meant—or what he was planning to do. For the first time, you found yourself at a loss for words.
He simply looked at you, his gaze lingering as though he were committing every detail of your face to memory. Then, without another word, he leaned in and kissed you again, deeper than before. "Lay on the bed." He murmured.
You obeyed, settling comfortably against the pillows. He lowered himself over you, supporting his weight on his elbows so he wouldn't crush you beneath him.
"You're mine," he murmured, his lips brushing against the soft skin of your neck before he nipped at it gently, drawing a quiet, breathy moan from your lips. His fingers moved to the laces of your gown, slowly loosening them. "And no one is going to change that."
He removed your garment first, taking his time as though he wanted to savor every moment. His gaze lingered over every inch of your skin—a sight he had admired countless times before.
Then you helped him out of his own tunic and underclothes, sharing lingering kisses after each piece of clothing was discarded. Soon, your garments lay scattered across the floor, and your eyes were drawn to his hard, already leaking length.
"Be a good sister and lie on your stomach," he whispered against your ear after you had wrapped your hand around him and given him a few slow strokes.
Without hesitation, you did exactly as he asked, settling onto your stomach.
"Jace—" The word dissolved into the pillow as his fingers found their way inside you, slow and deliberate. Your breath caught. "Gods, already so wet for me." His lips brushed the curve of your ear.
His chest was solid against your back, his weight anchoring you to the mattress as his fingers began to move. "Are you alright?" He asked, his voice strained.
"Mhmm" That's the only muffled sound you were able to make. You didn't trust your voice to speak full sentences.
"Lift your hips for me, my love." You obeyed with a loud groan, this angle making his fingers slide into you even deeper. "That's right, so perfect."
You felt his thumb circling your clit. This spot was so sensitive, that even a slight brush of his fingers made you twitch with need.
"Jacaerys I-" Your words were caught in your throat when he applied even more pressure, his movements quicker.
"It's alright. Are you close, sister?" His fingers curved right back into the deepest part of you.
"Yes, Gods." You heard your voice trembling. He diabolically removed his fingers out of you and stopped his movements.
"Jacaerys... please, please don't stop," you whimpered, turning your head to look at him. His chest glistened with sweat, rising and falling with every breath. His eyes were fixed on you, filled with unmistakable admiration, yet beneath that tenderness lurked something darker—an insatiable hunger that refused to be hidden.
"Shh, don't worry, my sweet girl." He began to stroke himself, slowly moving his hand.
Suddenly, you felt the tip of his cock at your entrance. You wanted to sink him deep inside you in one swift move. "You ready?" He asked, his chest pressed against you, no space left.
You only nodded, and that was enough for him. He watched himself disappearing into your welcoming heat. Inch by inch, slowly memorizing this moment.
When he was fully inside you, you let a strangled moan, louder than before.
"Shh, be quiet. You don't want anyone else to hear you, hm?" He whispered against your ear, his hot breath making your head dizzy.
You groaned against the pillow. With this muffled sound, he started thrusting, trying to create a pace that would satisfy both of you.
"Gods, you're clenching around me so hard." He grunted between deep and slow thrusts.
You could only let out a soft moan as the overwhelming pleasure washed over your entire body. He gently squeezed your hand, trying to ground and comfort you, but you were already too lost in the moment to notice anything beyond the sensations consuming you.
His movements grew increasingly unsteady, the bed creaking beneath the two of you with each deliberate motion. Every shift of his body sent another quiet protest through the wooden frame, matching the frantic rhythm between you.
That was love. That was a kind of intimacy only the two of you could share. It was nothing like a bedding ceremony, something you knew would happen soon at your wedding night—a hollow ritual meant to prove the consummation of a marriage, stripped of tenderness and reduced to obligation. This was different. This was something deeper, something real. Something that truly meant everything.
With only a few more movements, you cried out into the pillow, your fingers clutching the sheets as waves of emotion and sensation swept through you. For a fleeting moment, everything else faded away, leaving only the overwhelming intensity of the moment you shared.
Jacaerys was not far behind. Sitting up, he pulled you closer, his hands resting firmly against your waist. "Fuck, you feel so good- I'm gonna-"
After a few final thrusts, he collapsed against your back once more, pressing his cheek to yours as a deep, ragged groan escaped his lips. His warm breath fanned across your skin while he lingered there, reluctant to let go.
The two of you remained like that for a long while, your breathing gradually slowing as the silence settled around you. After a moment, he carefully turned you onto your back, one gentle hand guiding you while the other steadied you. Your hand came to rest on his shoulder as he leaned over you, his dark curls brushing against your forehead in a soft, ticklish touch.
"I love you," he whispered.
In the darkness of your chambers, you felt the warmth of his breath against your skin. He brushed a tender kiss across each of your eyelids before stealing a quick, gentle peck from your lips. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his gaze soft and full of quiet devotion.
"I love you too," you whispered, your fingertips gently tracing the freckles scattered across his cheek. A soft smile tugged at your lips as you held his gaze. "So much that, sometimes, it almost hurts."
He swallowed, as if trying to convince himself that you were truly there—that you were real. That somehow, the gods themselves had blessed him with you, with a love so rare and precious it felt almost impossible to believe.
For a moment, he simply looked at you, overwhelmed by the warmth of your affection and the quiet miracle of being loved so completely.
"I won't let them take you from me." He said with a stern voice.
"Jace, you know there's nothing we can do to prevent this-"
"We can stop this," he interrupted, his voice carrying a mixture of hope and determination.
When something needed fixing, Jacaerys had always been the first to search for a solution. He was the kind of person who faced every problem head-on, refusing to stand by when something—or someone—he cared about was at risk.
"You know the story of Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys? Our own ancestors." He asked and you only nodded looking into his eyes.
"They were brother and sister, just like us. But they married in secret. On Dragonstone," he continued. "The very same place we're living in now."
A slow smile spread across his face as the vision took shape in his mind. To defy everyone, to choose your own path, and to finally set things right. For the first time, it seemed as though he could see a future where everything fell into place.
"If we are bound by blood, then no one has the right to tear us apart," he said, his voice steady with conviction.
"And then?" he continued, his voice filled with a quiet certainty. "We will become the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We will rule together—just as they once did."
The thought seemed to ignite something within you, a vision of a future where you stood side by side, united against the world that had tried to keep you apart.
"We will have an empire unassailable..." You said with a sly smile.
"And our children will rule it forever and a day." He added, stroking your shoulders.
"What do you say, my sweet sister?" he asked, noticing the smirk slowly forming on your lips.
It was the same smirk he knew so well—the one that appeared whenever a dangerous idea began taking shape in your mind.
Summary: Gwayne notices early on in the marriage that his shy wife is rather quiet in bed, and decides to encourage her to let out those noises she's been keeping in, or as in his much kinder words, make her sing like a song bird.
Contents/Possible Warnings: PIV Sex, Unprotected sex, Breeding kink, Cunnilingus, era-typical misogyny (kinda?), Creampie, Fem!Reader, Established relationship, Reader's a Targaryen but physical description/features are not specified or described, SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, MDNI
The very first thing Ser Gwayne Hightower had ever noticed about you, all those many moons ago, was your quiet nature, a gentle shyness rarely seen within the other members of your house. While the other Targaryens burnt with the flame of fire and blood, you held yourself more with the patience of the cool, still waters he'd grown with and cherished back at Oldtown. How'd you been bred from a line of blood that hosted fearless conquerors and madmen alike, he'd never truly grasp, but not a day passed where he didn't give thanks to The Seven for blessing him with you in the world, and by extension, your marriage.
On the rare occasion when you'd speak and make yourself known, Gwayne found himself growing weak with a warm infatuation for you, a feat no other he had met before could achieve. Your voice was like the sweetest honey to him, the kind he could never get enough of, and he yearned desperately to hear it more, especially during your most intimate moments. Yet, you remained silent during your shared displays of passion. It was humorous, almost, to Gwayne the lengths to which you'd go to prevent yourself from letting out a sound as he drove into you. Bearing down on the pillow with a strong bite, digging your fingers into the sheets or even his arms, and clamping a hand over your mouth when neither was an option.
"What a most wondrous voice my wife has, doesn't she?" Gwayne asked aloud to no one in particular upon finding you in your shared bedchambers, sitting on the bed as you worked away at a piece of embroidery in your hands, absentmindedly singing a small song to yourself as you concentrated.
"Gwayne!" You squeaked, jumping slightly at his voice, not having heard him come into the room. "Please, do not scare me like that again!" You scolded with a frown, your voice still soft despite the nature of your words. Gwayne smiled in response, moving to sit beside you.
"You sing beautifully, my love," Gwayne complimented. "Just as if you were a little songbird. Mayhaps the Gods will bless me with more of your heavenly voice if I speak enough prayer." His hands slipped down to yours, holding them in his own. "You know, I came here to have a discussion of much relevance to which we've just spoken, given that you'll indulge me with your time."
"As you wish, husband," you replied, giving his hand a squeeze, earning another smile from him.
"I suppose I should first apologize for the coarse subject matter," He began, "but I couldn't help but wonder a thing or two regarding our more... intimate marital duties." You felt your face grow hot at the sudden mention, averting your gaze as your mind began to race with every worst possibility.
"Don't look away from me, sweetling. There is no need." Gwayne murmured, reaching up to grasp you by the chin gently, turning your face back towards him.
"I have not displeased you, have I, husband?" You blurted out, pulling yourself from his grasp, your face growing warmer as you looked at him, scanning his blue eyes for any sign of displeasure. Perhaps the knight had finally grown tired of your timid nature, you feared. "I do my very greatest to ensure I perform my wifely duties to the best of my abilities, but mayhaps I haven't been—"
"No, no– Heavens no—" Gwayne spoke quickly, hoping to avoid your further panic. "I wished to ask the same question. I find myself growing with worry that I mayhaps be falling short of pleasing you. You, my dearest, have no fault." He reassured, pressing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. "I find I am no stranger to your quiet disposition, but I'm not quite accustomed to it during our moments of passion," Gwayne confessed, looking into your eyes. "I cannot help but find myself pondering if I'm not satisfying you enough to earn your voice, to make you 'sing', if you will."
Your face burned as you took in his words. "Ah– You need not hold concern for me. It is a wife's duty to please her husband first and foremost, is it not? Silent or not, if you are pleasured, then I am greater than content." You replied with a nervous laugh, heart hammering in your chest as you watched him frown.
"And it is a husband's duty to care for his wife," Gwayne retorted. "I beg of you, if I am unable of being able to please you, tell me what I can do to remedy it. Nothing brings me greater pleasure than your own." The knight pleaded in an act rare for him. You let out a long sigh, melting at the sight of him, looking at you almost as if he were a sad puppy in pursuit of putting you before himself. You couldn't have been more fortunate in your choice of husband.
"I'm afraid of making myself a fool," you admitted, looking away. "You are nothing but kind when you shower my voice with compliments and tell me of your desire for it, but I do not wish to harbour your distaste with what absurd sounds I may make."
Gwayne let out a chuckle, leaning in and allowing his lips to find your neck, pressing languid kisses to your skin. "You could never upset me, my love. Not even once. Especially not with this pretty little voice." He purred against you. Your hands found his green tunic, fingers digging into the fabric as his kisses turned to soft nips.
"G-Gwayne," you whimpered out in a small mewl. The noise he made in reply, one of pure and adulterated wanton need, made you weak, wettening at his continued touches.
"You're such a good wife for me, aren't you?" He said, voice sultry, hands moving to bunch your skirts up to your hips before moving down to press a hungry kiss to your inner thigh. "Always so eager to please your husband." He pressed a kiss to the other thigh. "Let me take care of you this time, hmm?" Then he dove in, licking and sucking at your wet heat. Your hands fell to his hair, tightly grabbing at his red locks as you cried out due to the sudden pleasure. He moaned at your cry, sending vibrations rippling against your soaked cunt. The bridge of his nose bumped against your clit as he ate, tongue slipping into you briefly before he moved up to your clit properly, sucking at the sensitive bud.
"That's it, my little songbird, sing for me," he encouraged, panting before diving back in, drawing out the exact sounds yearned to hear from your honeyed lips. No choir nor musician could sing as you could; he was sure of it.
"Gods! Gwayne!" You moaned, pulling him by the hair just where you needed him. "Don't stop! I beg, please don't stop!" You could hardly believe the words falling from your lips; once so quiet and cautious, you were now sure the rest of the Hightower could hear you from halls away. "I-I'm so close! Gwayne!" You warned, orgasm barreling towards you.
"Fuck," he groaned against you, pulling away from your cunt, chin drenched in your slick. You hissed his name as he moved further from you, cunt aching for his touch in hopes of reigniting your once impending climax.
"Not so fast, wife," he smirked, freeing himself of his clothing before moving onto yours, both pairs of your hands working to rid yourself of the bothersome fabric. "Surely you can't forget of your husband in this matter?" The knight teased, guiding his cock, hard and dripping with pre-cum at the tip, to your waiting heat.
"Oh! Fuck, Gwayne!" You gasped as he entered you, followed by him groaning out your name in bliss. He moved slowly, setting a pace that eased you both into soon wanting more. His mouth fell open, red, sweat-slicked hair mussed as he looked down at you like beauty incarnate.
"I love you," He moaned, pressing his forehead to yours before pulling you into a messy kiss. "I love you so much." His hands grabbed at your hips, pulling them closer and angling you both just right enough to thrust inside of you even deeper, the lewd sound of smacking skin-on-skin filling your shared bedchambers. "Such a sweet wife, so devoted to her husband," he praised, fucking into you faster. "You're going to give me a son, aren't you? A little Hightower with his mother's eyes and his father's courage. You'll be a good wife and do that, won't you, darling?"
You could only let out a mewl in response, legs wrapping around his waist as he fucked you, the head of his cock hitting your sweet spot with every movement. "Yesyesyes— just for you, Gwayne, all for you—"
"I'm going to cum— Fuck, you're going to make me cum," he announced, thrusts losing rhythm, bucking into you with wild abandon. One of his hands moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he pounded into you. "Gonna fill you up, yeah? Fuck this cunt full with my cum."
"Yes! I'm cumming! Gods!" You moaned, climax crashing over you as he fucked you through it, helping you ride out the waves of overwhelming pleasure. He followed close behind you, the feeling of your cunt spasming around him sending him spilling deep into you, warm cum flooding your insides as he bred you.
Your legs trembled as he stilled against you, his head buried in the crook of your neck as you both came down from your highs. You let out a whine as he pulled out and lay beside you, white cum spilling out of you and dripping onto your thighs.
"You know, we won't get our babe in just one attempt," he smirked, fingers combing through your hair. "That's all the more opportunity for you to sing for me, darling."
Aemond Targaryen x Lady!Reader (house not specified)
Summary: you feel ignored by Aemond at a feast and storm off. He comes to retrieve you
Warnings: smut with very little plot, clothed pussy kissing, missionary, PiV, doggy style, clothed sex, public sex, reader is a brat, finger sucking, dirty talk, praise, a little aftercare
2K
You and Aemond both hated feasts. Well, until tonight, apparently. You had been waiting for him for over an hour, standing near the wall like a delicate wallflower.
You were annoyed. Impatient.
Aemond was moving through the feast, some approaching him, some bowing, some simply moving out of the way as quickly as they could. And finally, he spotted you. He nodded politely to a few lords and tried to force a polite smile to women who were clearly searching his favor. And though his smile was obviously forced, you still narrowed your eyes.
The second he was with you, his shoulders eased a bit, the tension bleeding out.
“Took you long enough,” you spoke annoyed, curt. You took a sip of your wine, eyeing him up and down. He hated when you did that. Had hated it ever since he was around fourteen years old. It was too searching, too exposing. His eye never left you, though he clenched his jaw for just a moment. “I was beginning to believe you forgot about me.”
You pouted as you said that, and he finally took a step closer. Still far enough to be appropriate, but close enough for you to feel that flicker of tension between you both.
“Forget you?” He spoke in his gentle voice, a silent warning behind it. “I would never be able to do such a thing. You… command the room. Or except just me.”
“Do not jest-“ you replied, feeling some more annoyance bubble up inside of you. “You were ignoring me. I caught your eye twenty minutes ago. You kept your post. You didn’t even smile at me-“
Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly as he listened to your complaining, staying quiet until he was certain you were done rattling on.
“I am still a prince, my lady,” he said, “such conversing is expected of me. Besides, twenty minutes is not that long, my dear friend.”
The word friend was enough to make you nearly angry. How dare he call you his ‘friend’. You were more than that. So much more.
“Well,” he started, an amused glint in his eye, “I am here now. You have my undivided attention. Shall we talk of the weather? Or perhaps take a turn around the room and speak of gossip and-“
“You-“
“Or,” he said, fully cutting you off, “will you punish me even more for simply… performing my duties?”
“I shall punish you,” you said, the words coming out breathier than expected. Aemond’s eye darkened for a moment, his lips parting as he listened to your threat.
“I mean—I meant as in, next time I shall ignore you, too.”
You watched his tongue poke his cheek. You were being a brat, as usual, but the thought of you ignoring him sent a spark of annoyance through him. He didn’t want you to ignore him. Ever. He wanted you to only look at him.
“Ignore me?” He stared down at you, noticing every small detail of you, even the flecks in your eyes. “A bold strategy. But you certainly lack the discipline to do such a thing.”
He took your wine then, finishing it in one gulp.
“Tell me,” he said, a clear challenge in his voice, “how long do you truly believe you could hold out before you seek me out again?”
You scoffed. “Well,” you said, “let’s see.”
And you walked off. You walked out of the great hall, down the quiet corridors, right towards the gardens. Aemond stood frozen as he watched you walk off. Some men wouldn’t have chased you, simply deciding to ignore such an insolent lady. Another might have run after you, desperate and shouting and causing a scene.
But Aemond was still a prince of the blood. He didn’t rush after a woman, but he definitely wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being left alone. Though he knew you wanted him to follow you.
He waited a few minutes before he walked towards where you disappeared. He moved silently through the corridors, and found you in the cool night air of the gardens.
He approached you from behind, seeing the way the moonlight lit up your appearance.
“A coward’s retreat, my lady?” He spoke, making you turn around immediately, nearly hitting his chest. “Fleeing the moment a challenge arises? I believe you to possess more courage than that…”
“I am not a coward,” you hissed back. You didn’t take a step back, refusing to back down. Refusing to be further away from him. Aemond took a step forward, backing you up behind a thick bush.
And you let him.
“You speak out of line, my prince,” you warned him.
“I speak exactly as the truth demands..” he purred back, a familiar shiver going down your spine. “You ran away, to a very quiet place indeed. Quiet and private.”
He stood so close now, you could smell the scent of him, feel the heat of him. You looked down, seeing his fingers twitch.
“And if you truly wished to ignore me.. you would have gone to your chambers. Had your knight keep everyone, including me, out. But no… the lady had to run outside, hide away where no one would pass, waiting for the big, bad dragon to find her-“
You were nearly trembling now, his low, raspy voice sending shivers down your spine straight towards your core.
You raised your hands, touching his doublet, staring up at him with nearly glassy eyes.
“Just fuck me-“ you spoke, and the sheer bluntness of your words caught Aemond fully off guard.
And then the words registered.
He grabbed your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of the gown, and tugged you so close your bodies were pressed together.
“Fuck you?” He whispered, “careful, my lady. Such words are awfully wanton for a lady of noble breeding..”
He didn’t even let you reply. He leaned down, closing the gap between the both of you. He kissed you hard, deep, needy. He wasn’t soft, he wasn’t careful. He just took, and took, and took. And to his surprise, you matched his need. He felt you kiss him back, your tongue, soft and wet, sliding against his. Your teeth dragging his lower lip down.
His hands wandered over your body, grabbing your waist, sliding up to grab your breasts, moving further up to tug on your hair and force you to tilt your head back so he could bite and kiss at your throat.
“Gods,” he moaned quietly, his hand grabbing your throat, forcing you to look at him. “You are maddening.”
You whined, a sound from deep in your throat, and he could feel the vibrations underneath his palm.
“If you do not stop now,” he breathed out, “I won’t have the patience to carry you upstairs. To my chambers-“
“I do not care,” you cut him off. He could take you right here in the gardens for all you cared. You just needed him inside, no matter what he decided to give you.
He let out a breathless laugh, a sound of pure disbelief at your wantonness.
“Then let us not waste another second,” he hissed, and within seconds, he had you down in the grass. You stared as he hitched your skirts up with rushed movements, exposing your stocking clad legs and the cotton undergarments you wore.
“Soaked,” he commented, which made your skin flush.
He pressed your legs wide open, a small whine escaping you when you felt the stretch.
He ignored you. He leaned in, pressing his mouth right against the wet fabric, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your clothed mound.
You jolted, a moan escaping you. Aemond’s eye flicked up at the sound, his pupil so dilated his eye seemed black. He moved to remove the fabric, leaving your cunt bare.
“Watch me,” he breathed, undoing his breeches and shoving them down just enough to free his hard cock, “look at me as I take what is mine, and only mine.”
He entered you after three teasing grinds against your clit, his length stretching you out. You let out a loud moan, your back arching off of the grass. The sound of your moan sent another jolt down his spine, making his cock impossibly harder.
“Gods, you are loud-” he said, “Do not forget where we are, sweet lady..“ he teased, the grin on his face making you want to pull his hair. Hard.
You just grabbed his hand that hadn’t left your throat, sliding two of his fingers between your lips to suck on. Aemond stared with wide eyes as your cheeks hollowed, the feeling of your tongue sliding against his digits making his head spin.
He never would’ve guessed you would be so… eager.
“You ruin me,” he said in a broken moan, picking up his thrusts again. He fucked into you, again and again, the sound of skin hitting skin and the sound of your wet cunt wrapped around his cock sounding awfully loud in the quiet night.
“Mmh-“ you moaned around his fingers, your legs wrapping around his waist. He was so deep, so thick. You felt like you were losing your mind. He slid his fingers out for a moment to grab your waist, which gave you the opportunity to speak.
“Next time,” you panted out, “it will be your cock between my lips-“
Aemond growled, a smirk forming on his lips at your words. “Is that a promise?” He said, looking utterly pleased. He pulled out, manhandling you roughly so you were on your hands and knees. He took a moment to watch you. A pretty, bratty princess on her hands and knees, skirts gathered at your waist, exposing your legs and core. His hands touched your warm skin, a soft hum escaping him.
“Next time..” he murmured. “Now that I do hope is a promise.”
He grabbed his cock, sliding the tip teasingly between your soaked folds. It was maddening, enough to make you whimper and arch your back even further. His hand touched the skin on your back, seeing goosebumps appear.
“Give me more-“ you whined, “just—I need more-“ your whimpers were cut off when he entered you in a single, hard thrust.
“As you wish,” he gritted out, his hands grabbing your hips tightly, groaning when he felt you bounce back against him. One of his hands slid up your back, between your shoulder blades, forcing you to arch deeper, pressing your face into the soft grass.
“There you go..” he purred, speeding up his thrusts. “Fuck, that’s it-“
All you could do was gasp and whimper into the grass, his cock stretching you to the limit as he pounded into you.
“Touch yourself, my lady,” he barely managed to pant out, and you had half a mind to reach down and rub at your clit. He felt you tighten up, a low rumble sounding from deep in his chest.
“Pretty girl… my perfect girl..”
“Aemond-“ you gasped, “oh—oh, Gods-!” Your movements on your clit were rushed and sloppy, but precise enough to push you that final bit over the edge. “Aemond-!”
The second you came, clenching around Aemond’s cock like a vice, he came as well. Thick, hot cum flooded inside of you, and he stayed deep inside until both of your orgasms had subsided. He pulled out shakily, watching as his cum dripped out of you, and he let out a shaky laugh. “You are…” he spoke softly, “such a brat.”
You only whined in response, your body utterly spent.
“I know, I know…” he said softly, grabbing his handkerchief and trying to clean you up as best as he could. He was careful, shushing you whenever you would whimper when he grazed a sensitive bit. “Did so good, darling,” he murmured, helping you upright. When he saw your face, flushed and covered with some dirt from where your cheek was pressed against the grass, he smiled. He wiped the dirt off, then kissed your cheek.
“Look at you…” he murmured, “a lady of the blood, covered in dirt from the gardens. You should be ashamed, my lady,” he teased, though there was no heat behind his words.
"But perhaps," he added, "I am the one who should be ashamed. For I find I have no desire to be anywhere else but here, at your feet."
You nuzzled into the hand that was now cupping your cheek. “I hate you…” you murmured, your eyes looking up into his. “Never ignore me again.”
He leaned down to press a soft kiss to your lips.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
can you believe I actually PROOFREAD this I know its unheard of honestly;
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