Ghost

21 She/they Maekar’s controversially young wife

[ka4lina]

"How long do I have to wait?"

Modern AU. Men in suits are my weakness.

[aryaslittleneedle]

It's a way of life 😁

[lalalovelyly]

I love the idea of Aerion being a loser for his wife. I will read it whenever its published. But Valarr will always be the OG pathetic loser husband! 🙂‍↕️✋️

A little idea for ITIMMWAU (OG edition), Aelias definately takes after his father, he misses his mother just as much. Reader probably went to meet her brother for two days, and now Baelor has to deal with two sulking princes. Valarr, who has gone back to staring at his locket during the council meetings, and Aelias, who disturbs the said council meeting every 10 minutes or so to ask his sire and grandsire if his mother is back yet.

Two Sleeps

Valarr Targaryen X Reader "ITIMMW AU"

Summary: In which your son misses you

WC: 3k

AN: Sorry for the late answer it was in my notes and i forgot i had it😭

The raven arrived on a Tuesday, and Valarr's world collapsed. Not really. It was just two days. Forty eight hours. Less time than he had spent apart from you a hundred times before. But somehow, with Aelias now three years old and capable of expressing his feelings with words instead of just screams, the parting felt infinitely worse.

Your brother's wife had given birth again. Another girl. Healthy, screaming, perfect. And your brother, the fool, had written to say that he needed you there because his wife was "unwell" and he was "overwhelmed" and you were "the only person who could help."

You had read the letter aloud to Valarr at breakfast. Aelias had been sitting between you, smearing porridge across his face and the table and his father's sleeve.

"I have to go," you had said.

Valarr had opened his mouth to argue. Aelias had beaten him to it.

"No." It was a clear, firm, three year old no. The kind of no that came with crossed arms and a jutted chin and eyes that looked exactly like Valarr's own.

"Mama has to go help Uncle," you had said, wiping porridge off Aelias's nose. "Auntie is sick. The new baby needs her."

"I need you," Aelias had said, which was a devastating argument that Valarr wished he had thought of first.

"I will be back in two days."

"Two days is forever."

"It is two sleeps. You can count them. One sleep, then another sleep, then Mama is home."

Aelias had considered this. His little face had scrunched up in concentration. Then he had looked at Valarr, looked back at you, and sighed the sigh of a child who knew he was beaten.

"Fine," he had said. "But Papa has to do the voices for the dragon story."

"The dragon story is a Mama story," Valarr had said.

"Then you have to learn it." And that had been that. You had left that afternoon, and Valarr had spent the evening trying to memorize a story about a dragon and a knight and a princess who rescued herself, because Aelias had made it very clear that he would accept no substitutes.

Now it was the next morning. You had been gone for eighteen hours. Aelias had woken up three times during the night asking for you. Valarr had not slept at all. He had lain in your empty side of the bed, holding your pillow, staring at the ceiling, and missing you with a physical ache that made him feel like he was drowning.

The small council meeting started at nine. Valarr arrived on time, which was unusual. He arrived holding a locket, which was not unusual when his wife was missing. He sat down in his usual seat, opened the locket, and stared at your painted face with the expression of a man who had just received terrible news about his favorite horse.

Baelor watched him for a full minute before speaking. "Valarr."

"Yes, Father?"

"The locket."

"What about it?"

"You are looking at it."

"I am looking at my wife. There is a difference."

"You have been looking at it for the entire meeting. We have not started yet, but you have been looking at it for the entire time we have been sitting here."

Valarr tore his gaze away from your painted smile. He looked at his father. He looked at the Master of Coin, who was pretending to read a report. He looked at the Lord Commander, who was not pretending to be amused.

"My wife is gone," Valarr said. "She has been gone for eighteen hours. That is eighteen hours without her smile, without her voice, without the way she hums when she brushes her hair. I am allowed to miss her."

"No one said you are not allowed to miss her. But you are sighing."

"I am not sighing."

"You sighed three times since I started speaking. You sighed when I mentioned the grain shipments. You sighed when the Master of Laws asked about the roads. You sighed when the Lord Commander cleared his throat."

Valarr had not realized he was sighing. He tried to stop. He lasted approximately thirty seconds before his chest heaved and another sigh escaped him.

"There," Baelor said. "That is the fourth one."

"I cannot help it. My wife is gone."

"Your wife has been gone for less than a day. She has visited her family before. You have survived. You will survive again."

"This is different."

"How is this different?"

Valarr looked down at the locket. Your eyes looked back at him. Your soft smile. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to bury his face in your neck and breathe in your scent and feel your arms wrap around him.

"Aelias is three now," he said quietly. "He understands that she is gone. He keeps asking for her. He cried three times last night. He cried when I tucked him in. He cried when I gave him water. He cried when I tried to do the dragon story voices because I am not as good at them as she is."

Baelor's expression softened. Just a little. Just enough. "That is hard," he said. "But you are his father. You can comfort him."

"I do not know how to comfort him when I cannot comfort myself."

There was a pause. The Master of Coin shifted in his seat. The Lord Commander looked at the ceiling. Baelor rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed in a way that had nothing to do with missing his wife.

"Let us begin," Baelor said. "We have matters to discuss. Grain shipments. Roads. The situation in the Riverlands. Valarr, if you can manage to contribute without sighing, I would appreciate it."

Valarr nodded. He closed the locket. He set it on the table in front of him. He took a breath.

The door burst open. A small maid, no older than four and ten, stood in the doorway with her cheeks flushed and her hands twisted in her apron. "Your Grace," she said to Baelor, then turned to Valarr. "My prince. The little prince is asking for his mother."

Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. "Is he alright? Is he crying? Did he eat breakfast?"

"He ate his porridge. But he keeps asking. Every few minutes. He wants to know if she is back yet."

"Tell him two days. Tell him she will be back after two sleeps."

"I told him. He said two days is forever and he wants his mama."

Valarr looked at his father. Baelor looked back. The Master of Coin cleared his throat.

"Go," Baelor said. "Take him. Bring him here if you have to. We will manage."

Valarr did not need to be told twice. He found Aelias in the nursery, sitting on the floor with his dragon toy in his lap and his lower lip pushed out in a pout so dramatic that Valarr almost laughed. Valarr saw you. He saw you in the way Aelias wrinkled his nose when he was thinking. He saw you in the way he tilted his head when he was listening. He saw you in the shape of his hands and the sound of his laugh and the fierce protective love that burned in his chest whenever he looked at his mother.

"My baby," Valarr said, crossing the room and scooping Aelias into his arms. "My sweet boy. My little prince."

"I want Mama."

"I know. I know. I want her too."

"When is she coming back?"

"After two sleeps. You remember. We talked about this."

Aelias buried his face in Valarr's neck. His small body was warm and solid, his arms wrapping around Valarr's shoulders with a grip that would have been impressive in a child twice his age.

"I miss her," Aelias said, his voice muffled.

"I miss her too."

"I miss her more."

Valarr smiled against his son's hair. "You definitely miss her more. No one has ever missed anyone as much as you miss Mama."

"Not even you?"

"Not even me. You win. You are the champion of missing." Aelias pulled back to look at him. His eyes were red rimmed, his cheeks wet, but he was not crying anymore. He was studying Valarr's face with that serious expression that always made Valarr feel like he was being evaluated.

"You look sad too," Aelias said.

"I am sad. I miss her."

"Are you crying?"

"No."

"You look like you want to cry."

"I am being brave. For you."

Aelias considered this. Then he patted Valarr's cheek with his small hand, the way you did when you were comforting him, and said, "You do not have to be brave. You can cry. I will not tell anyone."

Valarr's throat tightened. He pulled his son close again and held him there, breathing in the smell of him, porridge and soap and something that was just Aelias.

"I love you," Valarr said. "You know that, right? I love you more than all the dragons in all the stories."

"I know. I love you too. But I love Mama more."

"That is fair. I love Mama more too. We have that in common."

Aelias nodded against his shoulder. "Can we go find her now?"

"She is far away. We cannot find her. But we can wait for her together. Would you like to come to the council meeting with me?"

"The boring meeting?"

"The very boring meeting. But you can sit on my lap and I will let you hold the locket."

Aelias perked up. "The locket with Mama's face?"

"The same one."

"Okay. But only if I can open it myself."

"You can open it yourself."

"And close it."

"You can close it too."

"Okay. Let us go."

Valarr carried him through the corridors of the Red Keep. Aelias was getting heavy, too heavy to carry for long, but Valarr did not put him down. He held his son against his chest and walked past the guards and the servants and the painted tapestries, and he thought about you, about the way you looked when you held Aelias, about the way your whole body softened around him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He walked into the council chamber with his son in his arms. Everyone looked up. The Master of Coin stopped mid sentence. The Lord Commander raised an eyebrow. Baelor looked at Valarr, looked at Aelias, and sighed.

"Valarr," Baelor said.

"Father."

"You brought your son."

"I brought my son. He is missing his mother. I am missing his mother. We are going to sit here together and miss her while you discuss grain shipments. Is that a problem?"

Baelor looked at the ceiling. He looked at the other men around the table. He looked back at Valarr and Aelias, who was now staring at his grandfather with the same stubborn expression that Valarr had worn at every council meeting since he was old enough to attend.

"No," Baelor said. "No problem. Sit down. Try not to sigh."

Valarr sat down. He settled Aelias on his lap and pulled out the locket. He opened it. Your face looked back at him, painted and golden and perfect.

"That is Mama," Aelias said, touching the portrait with his finger.

"That is Mama."

"She is so pretty."

"She is the prettiest. The prettiest in all the Seven Kingdoms."

"Prettier than the queen?"

"Much prettier. Do not tell the queen I said that."

Aelias nodded seriously. He took the locket from Valarr's hands and held it himself, studying your face with the same intensity that Valarr had seen in his own reflection a hundred times.

"Mama," he said softly. "Come home soon."

Valarr's chest ached. He wrapped his arms around his son and rested his chin on top of Aelias's head and stared at the locket over his shoulder.

The Master of Coin began speaking about grain shipments. Valarr did not hear a word. He was too busy watching his son trace the outline of your painted smile with his tiny finger, too busy feeling the weight of Aelias against his chest, too busy missing you with every breath he took.

Ten minutes passed.

Aelias looked up at Valarr. "Is Mama back yet?"

"No, sweet boy. Not yet."

"Oh."

He went back to studying the locket. The Master of Coin droned on. The Lord Commander asked a question about roads. Baelor answered. Valarr sighed.

"There," Baelor said. "That is the fifth one."

"I cannot help it."

"You are not even trying."

Valarr sighed again. Aelias looked up at him with concern.

"Papa is sad," Aelias announced to the council.

"We know," the Master of Coin muttered.

"His wife is gone," Aelias continued. "He misses her. I miss her too. We are both sad. That is why he is sighing."

"Thank you for the explanation," Baelor said.

"You are welcome, Grandfather."

Aelias turned back to the locket. He held it up to the light, watching the gold catch the sun, watching your painted face glow. He kissed it, right on your painted lips, and Valarr felt something crack open in his chest.

"I love you, Mama," Aelias whispered. "I will see you after two sleeps."

The meeting continued. The Master of Coin finished his report. The Master of Laws started talking about the roads. The Lord Commander added his thoughts about the Riverlands. Valarr sat in his chair with his son in his arms and his locket in his son's hands and his heart somewhere far away, wherever you were.

Fifteen more minutes passed.

Aelias tugged on Valarr's sleeve. "Papa."

"Yes?"

"Is Mama back yet?"

"No. Still two sleeps."

"I do not like two sleeps. I want zero sleeps."

"I know. I want zero sleeps too."

"Can we make her come back faster?"

"No. But we can wait together. That makes the waiting easier."

Aelias considered this. Then he nodded, leaned back against Valarr's chest, and resumed his study of the locket.

He asked again after twenty minutes. And again after thirty. And again when the Master of Laws started talking about the roads for the second time, which Valarr suspected was because he was bored rather than because he had forgotten.

Each time, Valarr answered the same way. Not yet. Two sleeps. She will be home soon.

Each time, Aelias nodded and went back to the locket.

And each time, Valarr held him a little tighter, kissed the top of his head a little softer, and sighed a little deeper.

By the end of the meeting, Baelor looked like he had aged ten years.

"Valarr," he said, as the other council members filed out.

"Yes, Father?"

"Take your son. Go do something. Play with him. Read to him. Anything. Just stop coming to council meetings with that locket and those sighs. I cannot take another day of it."

"Tomorrow is another day. She will still be gone tomorrow."

Baelor closed his eyes. "I know. That is what I am afraid of."

Valarr stood up. Aelias was asleep in his arms, finally worn out by the morning of missing, his cheek pressed against Valarr's chest, the locket still clutched in his small hand.

"Look at him," Valarr said softly, looking down at his son. "He looks so much like her."

Baelor opened his eyes. He looked at Aelias. The dark hair. The silver gold streak. The eyes, closed now in sleep. The narrow face and the long limbs and the stubborn jaw.

"He looks exactly like you," Baelor said.

"He does not. He has her nose."

"He has your nose. He has your whole face. He is a copy of you. Everyone says so. Your mother would have wept to see it."

Valarr shook his head. "You are wrong. He has her spirit. Her kindness. Her stubbornness."

"His stubbornness comes from you. You are the most stubborn person I have ever met."

"I am not stubborn. I am determined."

"Valarr."

"Fine. I am stubborn. But so is she. So is he. We are a family of stubborn people."

Baelor stood up and crossed the room. He looked down at his grandson, at the sleeping child in his son's arms, and his weathered face softened into something almost tender.

"He is a good boy," Baelor said. "You are doing well. Both of you. She will be proud when she comes home."

Valarr's throat tightened. "Thank you, Father."

"Now go. Take him to the gardens or something. Let him run around. Stop sighing in my council chambers."

Valarr carried Aelias out of the room. The baby woke up as they walked through the corridor, blinking and confused, still clutching the locket.

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Is Mama back yet?"

"Not yet. But soon. Come. Let us go to the gardens. We can look for flowers to show her when she comes home."

Aelias perked up. "Pink ones?"

"All the pink ones we can find."

"And yellow ones?"

"And yellow ones too."

Aelias wrapped his arms around Valarr's neck and held on. Valarr held him back. They walked through the Red Keep together, father and son, missing the same woman, waiting for the same homecoming.

And somewhere on the road between your brother's keep and King's Landing, you were already on your way back. You did not know that your husband was sighing in council meetings. You did not know that your son was asking every ten minutes if you were home yet.

But you would. Soon and when you walked through the door, Aelias would run to you with pink and yellow flowers clutched in his small hands. Valarr would stand behind him, watching, smiling, crying a little. And you would hold them both, and the waiting would be over.

Two sleeps. That was all.

They could survive two sleeps.

[rayveneyed]

— pity me, i need you | x.

maekar targaryen ii x reader wc; 11.6k summary; a day comes and passes. a celebration is had. things change -- for worse, before better. cw; grief, mourning, angst w/ happy ending, alcohol, marriage previous part / masterlist read on ao3!

Peace did not seem to last long where you were concerned.

It started as a small, niggling sort of feeling; a distinct feeling of wrongness that sat stubbornly in your chest.

The children — whom you'd spent almost a fortnight entertaining in secret, across cyvasse boards and naturalist tomes and (terribly poor) embroidery — slowly, surely, began to withdraw. You wondered whether it was somehow a fault of yours, but all you'd truly done was send for sweets and listened as they spoke themselves into a stupor… Admittedly, you still stumbled over certain interactions, acclimating slowly to the motherly role you would soon take; and thus, your table was soon empty, the gardens home only to the tweeting birds, the library as quiet as death.

It wasn't a worry you could bring to Maekar, for obvious reason; as Daeron had said, he was very particular about these things, and you had no desire to get the children in trouble with their father. Not only would it shatter the trust that you'd built with them, but besides that, Maekar had grown to be a problem of his own.

In truth, he'd done nothing of grand offence.

Of course, there was the matter of the missing proposal, which you gave some grace — it was to be, perhaps, the most politically pertinent alliance between Westeros and Essos of a generation, and thus there was much to prepare: correspondence to send across the Narrow Sea, dowries and settlements and resources to partition. It was not the proposal (or lack thereof) which vexed you most — it grated on you incessantly, but this you could forgive — no, it was the distinct feeling of distance which had descended on each and every interaction with him.

Slowly, surely, his mind had closed itself to you. The progress you'd made over many moons — prying his thoughts from him with a gentle hand and open ear and, yes, more than a little insubordination — seemed to be lost, fading with an imperceptible gradualness. There was no physical evasion, and for that you were glad at least: you could find him easily in his solar, or his apartments, or in the training grounds, and he had no qualms with spending time with you — but his mind had carried itself to a place you could not follow, and you were ignorant of how to bring it back. How to bring him back.

But no matter. It was clear there was some problem which you weren't privy to, but nonetheless you were determined to remain positive — when this odd period of retreat passed, you would be waiting. In the meantime, you did all those things a lady should do; read the appropriate books, wore the appropriate dresses, danced the appropriate dances to the appropriate music. You'd even begun hosting some of the courtiers in your apartments, having mixed properly with some at the tourney. There, of course, sprouted new problems.

Syrah was officially betrothed to Lord Yronwood. It was a development worth celebrating; you gifted her a fine spool of Braavosi silk with which to make her wedding dress, and took great pleasure in listening to her gush over her husband-to-be. The fact that Syrah was so quickly engaged, though, had become a point of some conversation in court — namely, in comparison to your own status of scandal and sin. It was no secret that you and Syrah were fond of each other; you imagined there was some spiteful humour in the fact that one of you — the less inflammatory one — was to be married without delay, while the other had nothing to show, apparently, for entertaining royalty.

(Though you allowed a litany of snide comments to roll off your back, you were able to concede that you were near green with envy. You'd waited a year. Never before had you exhibited such patience.)

Then, of course, there was the matter of—

"He wishes to marry me," Thoma said, hands wringing together. "Tyel, I mean."

The news sat between you for a moment.

Thoma had, apparently, struck up a romance with one of your guards.

This came as a great surprise to you — a great surprise, and a fair amount of hurt, no matter how much you pretended otherwise. It seemed you were missing more and more these days. Your sharp eyes and sharper tongue evaded you completely — it was all you could do to realise your mouth was agape, and close it.

Tyel and Thoma. You tried to imagine it. Thoma, who had never once insinuated her desire to marry, or anything more than a passing fancy; who turned her nose up at any who came close, and complained as easily as she breathed. Tyel, with his dark, curling hair, and bright green eyes, and mischievous smile. Thoma had, of course, spent more time with him than you ever would, and had obviously found something desirable; you knew very little about him, apart from his fighting prowess and talent with a flute. Sometimes you'd hear him on sunny days, playing when he was supposed to be guarding.

It was not an… unfavourable match. You were sure they'd be happy. It was only that there was a time where you would be the first to know such things. A time where Thoma trusted you to know. How much longer before you were a stranger to the woman you'd been a girl with? Before she disappeared into the ether to keep his home and have his babies, never to see or speak to you again?

"Only," Thoma said quietly, "he cannot afford to buy out my contract."

"Oh," you said smartly. "I… see."

Would she have told you about it, you wondered, if she had no need of your coin? It was a terrible thought, and you perished it.

"Well, of course it shall be dealt with — that should go without saying," you said. "I… congratulations, Thoma. Truly. Anything you might need, of course, I'll—"

Her mouth lengthened with a smile, a beaming thing, and she surged forward to take you in her arms. You had only just remembered to return the embrace — still shocked, really, at the news — when she pulled away, turning on her heel. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you!"

The door shut behind her. You blinked.

It seemed everything was intent on changing, and you were powerless to stop it. The thought infuriated you as much as it saddened you. You were to be married! You should be rosy with the light of love, glowing with youth, elated to begin a new chapter — instead, you were plagued by courtiers, hounded by your own loneliness, and grappling with your ineptitude.

Yes. Peace was an elusive mistress, it seemed. She did not come to you at breakfast, nor luncheon, nor in the gardens, or in dreams; you sat and waited for her to join you at your dinner table, idly prodding at your meal with a fork.

Maekar. Rhae, Daella, and Aegon. Syrah. The court. Thoma. A weary sigh left you — and as if called to action, a throat cleared.

"My lady," Zelma began, shuffling to stand before you. "If I may…"

"Yes?"

"I — well. I wonder if I might show you something. To raise your spirits."

"Oh?" It was comical in a way. Your spirits were not terribly low, but then you supposed they weren't at all high either. Clearly, your staff could tell. You wondered if it unsettled them, your uncharacteristic silence. The past few weeks had been spent in ignorant elation, after all, anticipating a proposal that hadn't yet come; then, a high-strung sort of annoyance as you realised the fickleness of the world around you. "Yes, of course."

Amused, you watched as she scampered from your solar and disappeared. She returned within a minute, something bundled in her arms — without realising it, you'd held out your hands, and she placed the item gently down.

It was a mask.

Made to cover the entire face, constructed entirely of cloth-of-gold; beaded from top to bottom in a swirl of cascading flowers, with loops of golden embroidery framing it, and tassels hanging from the sides as if to mimic earrings. It was familiar — and you'd never held it before, never seen this particular mask, but it was familiar in that way that certain things are, like the sea or sky.

Your throat suddenly tightened, and you cursed yourself.

In your hands was a piece of home, and it was small, and you knew the warp and weft of it as if it were the surface of your own skin.

The Unmasking of Uthero was a yearly celebration commemorating the revelation of Braavos to the world — a ten day masked soiree of revelry and food and dance. For those ten days, the city was awash with excitement; all petty squabbles and grudges could be set aside to drink and make merry. On the final day, at midnight, the Titan would sound his fearsome roar, and all masks would be removed. It was a unity you hadn't experienced since you'd left home.

Swallowing, you attempted a smile, though a pang of sadness soured your stomach. "You thought to bring masks? I… I didn't even realise what time it was."

"You've been otherwise preoccupied," said Zelma, not unkindly. "I thought, when we left, that it might make us feel more at home — though the first day came and passed, and I thought better of it. These westerners already think us strange."

Your mask last year had been a dark, bloody red, bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires. You wondered if it was still where you left it, in the trunk at the end of your childhood bed, beneath cloaks and dresses you'd long outgrown.

"It used to be my favourite festival." Your sisters had tried to trick you once by wearing identical masks, but you'd always been able to tell them apart, no matter how similar they looked or spoke. How long has it been since you'd received a letter from them? A few moons, no doubt. They were young girls steadily coming into their own, too busy to think of you. And you, in turn — disgracefully — had done the very same. Their eldest sister. "And I did not remember."

You seized your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from trembling.

"'Tis no fault of your own, my lady," Zelma rushed to say. "Though, er… it is the eighth day, today — we shan't have the full ten, but surely we could celebrate?"

You hesitated. She was right. It would unnerve the court to see you walking around, face shrouded, and so you'd have to sequester yourself away — but it would be nice to partake, even if the celebration would be short-lived and poorly-planned and not at all like it should be.

'Tis only two days, a part of you said. You can afford to disappear for two single, measly days, can you not?

You looked up at Zelma — eyes hopeful, hands clasped before her. She was waiting for your permission, and your guilt only worsened. Admittedly, you tended to forget that your staff had left their homes much like you had — that you weren't the only one yearning for a time and place that had surely changed in your absence.

"I… suppose so," you said finally. "But Zelma, we must stay between our quarters—"

"Oh, you shan't regret it!" she exclaimed. "I'll run to the kitchens and ask them to prepare a feast, my lady, and we'll have dancing—!"

Her excitement was infectious, and she began clearing away your plates with great zeal. You found yourself laughing, blinking away the beginnings of tears. "Was I the only one who didn't prepare?"

"Yes," she admitted. "But you've had more than enough to worry about, my lady. Sit tight! I shall be back, and with sweets and music and company."

Your smile lasted even when she left. You held the mask up, watching it shimmer even in the low, dreary light.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

To say it was the first day that you felt most yourself would be false. You had felt very much yourself in Maekar's champion's tent, hands upon his armour; in his solar, drinking tea and reading aloud; playing cyvasse and listening to his hissed curses when you stole a particularly important piece. Or walking with Syrah through the gardens. Looking after Rhae's birds, and following Daella's deft movements as she embroidered. Watching Aegon's brow furrow as he regarded his pieces upon the cyvasse board.

It wasn't that you had never felt yourself in the Red Keep — rather, it was that you'd left a certain version of yourself in Braavos, and hadn't worn her in many moons. She was even more carefree than you; she danced in circles with her handmaidens until fatigue forced her to stop; woke late the next day, and ate sweets for breakfast, and danced again. Beneath her mask, she smiled and pouted and grimaced and didn't bother to dim them. She danced herself into a tizzy and collapsed into a chair on her balcony, soaking up the sun.

The mask removed most of your periphery. It could be suffocating, at times — the hotness of your breath, and the incessant press of it against your skin, and the obstruction of your vision. But it also seemed to make everything brighter, too; you had a much greater appreciation for that which you could see, and the sun that heated your arms, and the freshness of wind through your hair.

The King held court as he always did, and you did not rush to join. Instead you opened all the windows and doors to your apartments and listened to the sounds of the city from your balcony. The rain had stopped through the night, a passed sadness, and the sky was clear and crystalline once more. You could hear everything: yelling from the harbour, smallfolk calling to each other in the street. Music from somewhere, light and lilting in the gentle breeze, carried in from a little street you'd likely never visit. A world far outside your purview.

You were reminded of Braavos in such a sudden jolt that a sickness twisted your stomach. You wished you could walk from this place like you would back home, traipse through the lanes and over the canals. You'd buy sweets from the first vendor you saw and sit with your handmaidens, eating with mannerless fervour. You'd pull Thoma into a dance with the performers on the street, and watch the young bravos peacock about with their swords with Zelma. For a few hours, you would be completely and utterly free — until you returned home, of course, and faced the tongue lashings of your mother. It was often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

You perked up suddenly.

"Zelma," you called. "Where is Neema?"

Zelma snickered, stretching her hands out like a cat. "Tucked away with a bottle of summer wine, I reckon."

"Hm."

"A curious hm if I've ever heard one."

"Yes. Say, if we were to go into town—"

She sat up suddenly. "Was it not by your own decree that we should stay inside?"

"Yes," you said smartly. "Inside my apartments. But if we go out — out there, where not a soul knows us—"

A snort. "Yes, and you can be stolen away for ransom."

"We shall take guards, of course. And masked and cloaked, who will recognise us?"

"I… suppose. Whatever's so important that it must be now?"

You thought of the night prior, blurred and muddled by wine and laughter. Now that you knew the nature of Thoma and Tyel's relationship, you couldn't miss it. Tyel had played his flute, and watched closely as she twirled and danced. He took every one of her requests with no complaint — The Fall of Racallio Ryndoon, which he'd played twice; The Maid Who Bathed in the Rhoyne; A Thousand Brides for the Father of Waters… And they had been playing dice together that morning, huddled together over two cups of tea.

You'd gifted them a necklace of rubies and garnets the size of your fist. It was enough to buy out their contracts, book passage across the sea, even build a house wherever they so desired. You hadn't asked what they planned to do. You supposed it really was none of your business, no matter how much the need to know niggled at you.

You shrugged, then. What could you say, really? Perhaps it was to satisfy a curiosity, or to experience life fully outside the court for the first time in moons — or to feel, for one moment, that you weren't being predated upon by an endless slew of treacherous families. Perhaps you wanted to experience something new, something novel, something that would take your mind off of Maekar and his brood and Thoma leaving and—

"King's Landing must have more to offer," you said eventually. A flock of gulls convened overhead, cawing as they descended towards the harbour, and you followed them until they disappeared from sight. "And when I marry, I will be carted away to Summerhall, only to return here upon matters of great importance. When will I have another chance to be as free here as I am now?"

If I marry, you thought dourly.

Your companion gave a hum of agreement, albeit a hesitant one, and within the hour you were bundled into a wheelhouse. Dressed in your mask and your most unassuming cloak, you painted a timid picture; Thoma and Zelma looked almost identical, chattering excitedly between themselves opposite you. The topic of conversation was, of course, Thoma's betrothal.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring out the window. It was a horrid thing, you knew; you should share in her excitement, but all their talks of marriage only turned your mind to Maekar. You wondered whether he missed you any, if he wondered where you were. It had only been two days since you'd last seen him, but your mood still worsened at the fact that he hadn't called on you since.

Sighing, you shook away such thoughts. Instead, you elected to focus on the land around you — this was why you were here, wasn't it? You'd traversed King's Landing twice before, and neither had satisfied.

The first came after almost a moon at sea, and you'd been in dire need of a solid bed to sleep on, conscious only through sheer power of will and nervousness. You remembered it the way one remembers bad dreams: in strange, blurred flashes. You'd entered through the River Gate, its opening like the maw of a great beast; beyond it was the never-ending clamour of King's Landing, beginning with Fishmonger's Square — and oh, you remembered that well. The stench of decaying, rotting fish. The incessant din of yelling and heckling. The streets had been chock-full; for at least an hour, your wheelhouse remained stagnant as Gold Cloaks attempted to clear the way of smallfolk and horses and carts and mules. It all seemed a bizarre apparition, a figment of your imagination.

Then there had been your short trip to the tourney. For the King's name-day a special route had been prepared, cleared of all any and all obstructions; the streets had been lined with pennons of black and red, muck shovelled from the road. A neat and pretty performance.

This time, you made a great effort to take notice of the city. The coachman took the wheelhouse down Shadowblack Lane. It was a quieter passage out of the Keep, twisting and steep, and soon left you at the foot of Aegon's High Hill; from there, the wheelhouse trundled onto a narrow street, pushing its way through little lanes and tight passages, splitting the sea of smallfolk like a hot knife through butter.

Even as your nose wrinkled, offended by the mud and dirt and ever-present stench, you found your excitement slowly mounting. How had you been here nigh on a year, and never thought to explore further than the Keep?

Well, it wasn't as if the thought had never struck you — it had, more than once, but you were easily dissuaded by the smell, and the danger, and a grimace from a certain pockmarked man with opinions that simply must be heard. Then there'd been the tourney, of course, and your curiosity had been momentarily sated — but this was a world away from the tourney grounds, the stalls and crates erected in the field. The streets were less manicured, the buildings tall and teetering; it seemed, in its vastness, a sprawling beast not even the King could hope to contain.

Eventually, as the shadow of the Keep grew more distant, the congestion worsened. The wheelhouse slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether, and there was a sharp knock on the door.

"Apologies, m'lady," said a Gold Cloak, peeking his head in. "The streets prove difficult to clear."

"That's alright," you said. "We can continue on foot from here, can we not?"

"On foot, m'lady?" he echoed.

You blinked. "Well, how close are we to our destination, good sir?"

"Er—" He cast a doubtful look at your handmaidens— "No more than ten minutes, I reckon, but—"

"Ten minutes by wheelhouse," Thoma interjected. "By foot, we'll be almost half an hour — it's dangerous."

"If it please you, m'lady," said the guard, "between your own guard and those of the City Watch, we number five. Two can stay to keep the wheelhouse, three can accompany you."

"Then it is settled." You glanced over at Thoma and Zelma — you could sense their hesitance, even behind their masks. "Oh, come now. We were to peruse the markets anyways. What difference does it make if we walk a little longer?"

"At least we're away from Flea Bottom," Zelma said. "And… not too far from the market, I suppose."

With a victorious grin, you took the Gold Cloak's proffered hand and ducked beneath the doorway — instantly, you're thrown into streams of smallfolk, moved back and forth as if pulled by the tide. Your shoulder was jostled, and you're pressed uncomfortably forward, side jutting into the sharp edge of his couter — but you reached out and seized Thoma's hand in yours, and she Zelma's, and the guards closed ranks around you.

"I don't believe your beloved will be very happy," somebody muttered behind you. You didn't deign to give them a response.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

The markets served their purpose. Of course, you garnered a fair number of stares (masked as you were), but between your guards' formidable stature and the relentless movement between stalls and shopfronts, the smallfolk left you alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, than ogle your strange group; hauling baskets, carts, and sacks, the world bustled past you in a blur of noise and colour.

It was refreshingly loud. You enjoyed the gentle sounds of the Keep, the music played in the ladies' solar, and water trickling from fountains, and the distant clang of sword-fight, but there was great liberty in knowing you could speak as loud as you wanted, and nobody would blink an eye. You wouldn't be heard over the woman crowing an unmissable deal on her Dornish lemons, which you believed were actually yellow-painted apples, or the man announcing the sale of his odds and ends.

Of course, it was dirtier than you were accustomed to. You were used to brick and tile and pavement, and canal-boats; mud and filth had soaked through the hem of your cloak and dress, and you knew it would have to be scrubbed in boiling water to save it. The streets did not smell of gold or roses, but the mask obscured enough to make it bearable, and if you ducked into a shoppe or two, you'd avoid it completely.

It was in one such shoppe that Thoma suddenly confronted you, standing between two bolts of velvet. Zelma was using her time to flirt with the Gold Cloak that had accompanied you — you could see her through the window, grinning and staring like the cat who got the cream.

"Are you very upset with me?"

You glanced over at her, brows furrowed. "Upset?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"I know my… involvement with Tyel came as a surprise... This colour dulls your complexion, my lady. This one will suit better."

She brought you instead to a bolt of fabric the colour of dark, red wine, and you regarded it curiously.

"Yes, it did," you said, sniffing. "In fact, I… was quite upset."

Thoma shot you a look. "No longer?"

"… Perhaps, in a way. I admit, I… I couldn't imagine a time where you might've fallen in love and not told me. It was this that came most as a shock."

"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I only wanted something for myself for a while. My life is yours, my lady — it has always been yours, since I joined your staff. It can wear, at times."

The fabric was as smooth as silk; when you lifted it towards the light, its sheen was a bright, burned orange, almost unnatural in its brilliance. You waved a hand, and the attendant scurried over; at your request, he carried the fabric away to cut a length from it, and you were left alone. You pretended to not be hurt by her words — in truth, there was nothing hurtful in them. She had every right to act as she had. It was you who craved more than most could give — you who expected full, unyielding loyalty, you whose gluttony could be surpassed by none.

"Should you wish to leave," you said, "I shan't stop you."

"I know." Whether it was pity or joy in her voice, you did not know; you imagined a sad sort of smile upon her pretty face, and dug in your cloak for your coin pouch. From this, you obtained a single silver stag.

"I would never force you to stay by my side."

"Yes, my lady. I know."

The stag sat upon the table. You could feel her eyes boring into the side of your face, and sighed.

"I've lived more than ten years by your side," you said quietly. "I have not learned, yet, how to be without you."

You did not imagine the shake in her voice, then; the tremble in her hand as she reached out and clasped it around your wrist. "You will learn, my lady."

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

Upon waking that morning, you had felt that things were coming to a head.

'Twas not a particular sense of doom that sat heavy on your chest; it was something different, a sick sort of anticipation, a foreboding that had you burrowing deeper into your blankets. Your head ached, but it was not the familiar dullness of wine-sickness.

The world had swollen with rainwater. You woke to the sound of it pitter-pattering through your open window, roaring and rushing with such power that you believed, for a moment, you were right beside the sea. Yes — you could see it. Rolling, navy waves crested by foaming white; a sky like blackened charcoal as far as the eye could see.

You opened your eyes and found your quarters dark, as if the sun hadn't bothered to rise. The curtains were drawn open, as you'd left them the night before after drinking yourself to sleep, and through the window you saw your imagination hadn't been too distant: the world was grey. The heavens had split open, and their fruits obscured all of King's Landing — the bright roofs, and the shadow of the Blackwater, and the spires and towers. It was all grey. All blurred. Yesterday, the sun had been scorching.

Yes, you thought, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something is amiss. Unsettled.

They said the Bloodstone Emperor ushered in the Long Night upon usurping his sister. A terrible darkness fell across the earth, bathing everything in blackness; his betrayal laid waste to entire generations, spreading famine and war and terror across the known world. You looked to your ceiling and wondered if you were being punished for something.

The door to your inner chambers creaked as it opened.

"Good morning," came Neema's familiar husk. A lit match in hand, she rounded the room, setting each sconce afire and casting the room in warmth. Her mask was missing. "Your breakfast has been set out, my lady. Up you come, now."

You sat up — pushed away the lethargy that desperately clung to you, wiping at your eyes. She had extinguished the match, but made no move to gather your garments for the day; instead, she stood at the foot of your bed, looking for all the world as if she had more to say.

Your stomach turned. Something was afoot.

"What is it?" you asked. You thought the worst. Had there been word from your father, displeased with the fourth prince's offer of marriage? Or was it Maekar? He'd discovered your clandestine meetings with his brood, and the disrespect was too much for him to accept— "Why… why are you looking at me like that? Where is your mask?"

Neema shuffled, the action so at odds with her usual confidence that you felt your throat tighten. "I… thought it important you know," she said carefully, "that this day is a sombre one. The anniversary of Lady Dyanna Dane — the day of her passing, that is."

Oh.

Your back was suddenly straight as a blade, the sheets clutched tight between your fingers. The weight of the Keep itself had pinned you to your bed, tossing you abruptly into awareness. You saw yourself, for a moment, as if peering down from the ceiling; sitting in the large expanse of your bed, wide-eyed and undone, hair still pulled back for sleeping. Ignorant that the man she would marry — that she expected to marry — was saddled with such mourning. Sleeping late on a day where she should be showing the courtiers that she, too, was mourning a woman she'd never known.

In the back of your mind, you'd known the day would inevitably come — that it existed — but it had always presented itself as a distant, intangible thing. The death of his wife. It happened, and it had happened before you, and it was brushed over in that way that one brushes over uncomfortable things, like bruised and tender skin.

Maekar hadn't said anything, you thought with a strange and sudden sense of shame. Neither had Rhae, nor Daella, nor Aegon.

It dawned on you, then, that this was the source of their strange behaviour, their withdrawal. You couldn't imagine what they might feel approaching the day they lost their mother, and preparing for a new one all the while — they were young, yes, and did not remember her as well as Daeron or Aerion or even Aemon, but they had known her enough to love her. Why would you expect them to have told you? To speak the words, as if they would not tear the throat from them?

But Maekar? Were you so untrustworthy? Too shallow or callous? Perhaps he thought you wouldn't care — or perhaps, worst of all, the idea simply hadn't struck him: you weren't significant enough to tell such things. Who were you? A young woman not yet betrothed. A foreigner in a foreign land. A conveniently ignorant confidant.

You released the sheets. Your palms were sore, your knuckles aching from the force with which you'd tensed them. You suddenly felt very tired, though you'd slept through the night like a milk-warmed babe.

No. No, don't be a fool. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, screwing your eyes shut.

Their mother was dead. His wife was dead, and you couldn't be so selfish as to overstate your importance in it all, as much as it pained you. You'd forgotten his reservation in the privilege of his company; it had taken many moons before he'd divulged more than surface-level pleasantries and indignation — memories of his mother, and Dyanna, and his fondness for his brothers, especially Rhaegel. The Blackfyre Rebellion and its bloody battlefield. Scars that marred his skin, pockmarks on his cheeks.

You'd forgotten, in the midst of your knowing him, how difficult it was for him to allow it. It was often — when faced with matters of particular sentimentality — that his tongue and countenance stilled, froze themselves into impenetrable barricades; he would rather swing a sword than speak to vulnerability, and of this you held no illusions.

Still. You thought you allowed him the space for it. You thought…

The shame deepened. You pressed your palms to your eyes, and sighed wearily. You'd expected Syrah would tell you, at least, but then she was all aflutter over Lord Yronwood. It wasn't her fault.

"Breakfast," you mumbled. "Breakfast, and then… we should pray."

"At the alter?" A note of surprise lifted her voice.

"No," you said. "Or, yes. I… I must be in the royal sept, with the rest of them, where they can see me. But later… later, I shall light candles..."

It was ironic in an infuriating sort of way. The courtiers held no love for their Dornish peers, and you can't imagine much was changed when Lady Dane was alive; but she was dead, and so they venerated her while scorning her compatriots all the while. Were she still living, they'd be the same vipers they were now, and nothing would change.

But if you dared to hide away today, to seek privacy and meditation, your reputation — which was already sullied, for obvious reasons — would be completely and utterly beyond repair.

"Modest clothing," you said finally. "Modest, and humble."

Your mask was left upon your nightstand.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

After breaking your fast, you dressed in a gown of dark, green silk. The collar fastened where your shoulders began, and it covered almost every inch of skin except your hands, face, and a sliver of neck. There was no grand ornamentation or jewellery, nothing that could be misconstrued as haughty or boastful. Even your hair was tied back simply.

You had been to the royal sept only thrice before — each time accompanied by Syrah, who was not particularly devout, but took the sept to be yet another meeting place where one could engage in courtly politics. This was, of course, her favourite pastime.

It was not as large as the Great Sept of Baelor, the grand domes and spires of which you could spy from a great distance, but it could quite comfortably seat hundreds in its rows of benches if needed; the ceiling was impossibly tall and pointed, and the walls impregnated by high crystalline windows. Had it been sunny today, they would cast rays of rainbow through the space, illuminating the pale marble in colour — but it was decidedly not, and the interior remained colourless, save for candlelight. It seemed fitting.

It was a pleasant place, familiar in that way that places of worship tended to be. A comforting stillness blanketed the interior, and the air was fragrant with incense and candle-wax. The only sounds to be heard were quiet, whispered prayers from the clusters of courtiers who came and went, and the constant hum of rain. You were glad for it. You were in no mood to talk, though you often felt the press of eyes against your spine.

Remembering what little you knew of the Seven, you lit candles before the Stranger and the Maiden, praying for Dyanna and yourself alike. You took a seat on a bench, and hoped your own gods wouldn't be too offended by your offerings.

In truth, you hadn't planned to stay long; you would light the candles, be seen with your head bowed in supplication, and leave to mull over your thoughts in your quarters. But your mind had been at war with itself since that morning, and the sept offered a certain breed of silence that tempered it.

You had wondered — from the very moment you'd discovered the importance of the day, really — whether you should seek to comfort Maekar. You were no stranger to his usual haunts, and could most likely find him with ease; whether he would appreciate it, though, was another conversation entirely. Maekar's feelings around Dyanna's death were not a topic you commonly stumbled into; he had shared some memories of her, you remembered, but both of you tended to give the reality of your relationship a wide berth, in that way one avoids uncomfortable truths.

(But was it not your right to offer such solace?

Had he need of it, he would have told you, said a distinctly petulant part of you. Instead, he left you to realise the importance of the day from your servants.)

He was most likely spending the day with his children. It wouldn't do to intervene where you weren't wanted. You were already praying for the woman he loved — praying to gods you didn't believe in for a woman who'd had everything you wanted. That terrible, no-good, jealous part of you shuddered at the thought of seeing him bereft over another woman. It was a terrible thought — it made you sick to your stomach. And yet, it was you.

Hunger, greed, spoiled as curdled milk. The worst of you. You wanted in a way that was unsavoury — and quite frankly, you'd been reminded of it far too many times in the past moons. You'd never given it deep thought before, but every time your limits were tested — by Lenila Lannister, by Thoma, by the ghost of a dead woman, or by Maekar himself— it presented itself, maw bared and bloody. Selfish.

You wished you'd been born twenty years earlier, been given the opportunity to meet him before he'd been given to anyone else, before he'd even laid his eyes upon another woman — that you could have stolen him away in his youth and seized his heart as Dyanna had, and claimed the same unfaltering ownership that she had. You wished he had never known any woman as wife, for the very thought of it soured something rotten in your stomach. You wished he only thought of you, that his mind was plagued by it, that it sickened and satiated him in the same breath — you screwed your eyes shut and imagined scrubbing his mind of all traces of her, of her touch, so that he only knew you and your skin and your scent and your voice and—

Your breath came trembling. Your disgust was a palpable thing, curling and churning in your stomach; it was the same sickening twist of shame that had grasped you early that morning, only you couldn't blame your weariness any longer. You were awake, wide-eyed and watchful; terrible in your jealousy, and your selfishness, and your envy. You didn't think it would ever leave you — it was sewn into your very being, entwined with your very sense of self.

In truth, you'd never given much weight to goodness or badness — on account, mostly, of never truly having to. But you remembered the storybooks of your youth, the tales of heroes and princesses, the black and white of it all. You had wanted to be those princesses, once. Your father had told you it'd never happen if you kept being so mean, the terror of a child that you were, and you had ignored him as you often did. Whether you or he was right remained to be seen — your aforementioned meanness had never left you penniless, only lonely.

The blank, knowing visage of the Maiden stared back at you. These gods could hear your thoughts sullying their land, their place of worship, spilling like brackish water across their pristine tile and marble. Perhaps it was they who sought to punish you.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

It was a strange mood that you found yourself in: somehow, despite yourself, you left the sept both lighter and heavier than you were when you first arrived. The rain had not eased — in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse — but it did not carry the same trepidation; you regarded it not as an omen of ill-will, but a simple, dreary day. Water for the crops.

You had missed luncheon and hardly noticed it, and the time for dinner was soon upon you. It had been a long time that you'd sat in the sept, silent, suspended in an odd sort of trance. There was some comfort in confronting that which plagued you, and that which you held great shame for; you sat in the malaise of it, stewed in your shortcomings, and the sky had not shattered upon you. The gods did not strike you down. You were covetous and invidious, and the world had not ended in darkness or flame or ice; apparently, your personal complications were to be the height of your penalty. You almost preferred the sky-shattering.

Upon returning to your quarters, you donned your mask again, hoping, absurdly, to salvage the last day of celebration; you ate a paltry meal, and then resigned yourself to your alter. It was a tiny thing shoved into a mostly-forgotten nook in a corner of your apartments. You never were very devout; the alter was mostly for your staff, who'd added their own pendants and figures.

It was cluttered. Your father and mother worshipped two different gods of the same pantheon, and thus you'd grown up somewhere betwixt the two. There was the Maiden-Made-of-Light, carved from pale, pearlescent stone — your mother's patron, who, upon witnessing the cruelty of man, turned her back upon the world; there was the Lion of Night in dark obsidian, then, favoured by your father. He who came forth to punish man's wickedness during the Long Night. Whether you favoured either more, you did not know.

You sat before that alter and stared. At the statues, the incense, and the offerings — jewels and precious things, from you; food and scraps of pretty fabric from your staff. It was a pity that you'd never been more pious; perhaps it could have made you a more graceful girl. But even with your gracelessness, you lit a candle for Dyanna Dane, and shut your eyes and prayed for her, even though your jealousy burned something fierce.

She had been his first wife. The mother of his children. A woman with hopes and likes and dislikes, much like you, and a stranger in King's Landing. You wondered whether she felt the Keep's walls tightening around her at times, as you did. Whether the sense of alienation ever fully went away.

You hated her. And yet you were her, in many ways.

A throat cleared. You looked up from the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and met Neema's gaze. How long had you spent on your knees? Your ankles ached, and from the window you could see the sky had become inky. Deeper in your apartments, you could hear the distant sound of music and merrymaking, cheers as rounds of dice were thrown.

"Oh. Hello."

"It has been a long time since I've seen you pray," she said, kneeling at your side. She bowed her head for a moment, and you imagined her lips moving beneath the mask in silent prayer. "It reminds me of when you were a girl."

"I did say I would."

"Saying and doing are often two very different things."

You hummed. You could feel the heat of her beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and you thought of a time before — before, when your mother would send you to pray after you'd been particularly horrid. You'd huff and puff the whole way, but sometimes, when Neema took pity on you, she'd sit by your side, silent and reverent as she completed her own worship. Back then, you were smaller. Kneeling together, the top of your head would barely reach her shoulders.

"To think," Neema mused, "there was once a time where you could only be dragged here."

A snort-like laugh left you. "It seems I've grown in more than height."

"So you have," she agreed. You felt her eyes upon your cheek, then, and turned your gaze to meet them. "I know there was some difficulty in today. And that Thoma's betrothal was… unanticipated."

"Yes, that goes without saying."

"I imagine you have a lot in that mind of yours," Neema said. "Speak, and I will listen."

She gently nudged her shoulder against yours, and you shook your head.

"I have made peace with Thoma. I was saddened, at first, of course, but there is more to life than I.

"The prince… at first, I didn't know what was worse," you admitted. "That he hadn't thought to inform me of the day, or that he had planned to, and thought better of it. Both ideas infuriate me."

You worried your skirt between your fingers. But there was nothing to fear, not from Neema. She knew you the way a mother knew her child.

"You know, I pitied myself this morning. Told myself that I wouldn't be wanted by his side. And then there was the thought of it, of seeing such sadness upon his face, pining for a woman long passed — I know myself. I know I couldn't handle it." You swallowed. "Even so, I… I wanted him to call on me, to seek comfort in me. And he hasn't, and so he has proven me right."

"Your pride has been wounded."

"'Tis not a matter of pride, but of… of…" You shook your head. You didn't know. Perhaps it was pride — but you knew pride, had walked alongside her your entire life. You'd felt her thorns and needles those weeks after you'd promenaded with Valarr, and had overcome it. This feeling, now, was edged with melancholy. Doubt. "And then I thought — how selfish of me! A woman has passed, and I pity myself. I covet her husband, and her children, and her life. I was disgusted by my own cruelty."

"Cruelty," Neema mused. "Is that what you call it?"

"What would you?"

"Fear, I think."

For a moment you stared at your hands in your lap, bunched up together and clutching each other; then you eyed the flickering flames of Dyanna's candle, the long shadows it cast over the cluttered table. The rain had eased to a gentle trickle, the night humid and muggy, tempered only by a light breeze. It stirred the curtains, and you listened to the whisper of wool against the ground. The music continued; Tyel was at the flute again, but somebody had brought a lute, and together they played a jaunty tune.

Neema groaned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her hips as she did. "I am not as young as I once was, my lady, and neither are you."

The soft scuff of her slippers against the floor neared the doorway, but—

"I do not know how to be unafraid," you blurted. "Not yet."

(I have not learned, yet, how to be without you.)

There was a pause, and she returned to you. A hand planted itself upon your head. You were seven again, pouting at the alter, refusing to pray out of spite. "It comes with time, and time alone."

(You will learn, my lady.)

Somehow, despite the ambiguity of it, you felt a sense of relief. As if, with those simple words and simple gesture, she'd given you permission: live, and you will learn along the way, and it is neither a shame nor a hindrance.

"Now, do hurry," she said warmly. "It won't be long until the unmasking, and wine to go with it."

You couldn't help the smile that overcame you. "Yes, of course. I shall."

With a final smile of her own, she left you to your devices, and you were alone once more.

For the first time that day, you felt oddly at ease. The tension you'd been holding simply seeped from you; you found yourself slumping, resting your weight upon a single arm. Your eyes fell shut, and you listened to the pleasant sounds of living around you.

It had been a long day. A heavy one. You'd be glad to put it behind you; you'd be glad to see your bed, in fact, but it wouldn't do to miss the celebrations. Yes, once you'd drank and danced yourself to sleep — and fastened your head correctly upon your shoulders — you would go to Maekar, and you would tell him quite plainly how much you appreciated being left in the dark.

You wondered how often Dyanna had to wrangle him into sense, like diverting a charging boar. It seemed a never-ending task, separating the man from the warrior. It wasn't that he was totally unpractised in the ways of sociability, either — only that, more often than not, he simply didn't care to engage in them. Who cared for niceties on the battlefield?

His was a blunt sort of love, fitting a blunt sort of man. You'd never trade it for anything, as unhappy as you presently were with him.

The door creaked behind you.

"Yes, yes," you called. "I'll be there in a moment. Surely you haven't drank all the wine already?"

"…That explains the behaviour of your staff, then," came a familiarly miffed voice.

Your head snapped to the doorway.

There, in his regular ebony-and-red, stood the very man of whom you'd been thinking. Maekar's hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded you with his usual frown — one not borne of any particular grievance, but simple habit. There was darkness beneath his eyes, though; a certain limpness to his hair, and a pallid sort of colour to his already pale cheeks.

He was standing there, as if it were a day as customary as any.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

The girl stared at him — he could see those eyes of hers, even beneath the mask, even in the candlelit room. He could find them in a crowd, he thought. She often had the habit of widening them — batting her eyelashes and rounding her gaze into something innocent and girlish, but now they were narrowed, like those of a cat. Fixed upon him with a similar sort of intensity.

Clasped in his hands was a letter. It had arrived that morning — miraculously dry, for the weather, baring a seal of emerald green. It had come at breakfast, and the arrival of it had pierced the tension at the table like a hot knife through butter. There was no mistaking the emblem: a golden key and coin. Daella's sharp eyes had followed its path through the room to Maekar's hands.

The courier had ridden and sailed non-stop through the rain, and was sopping with water, completely ragged. Maekar would have felt some modicum of pity for the man if he hadn't been awaiting him the past fortnight.

Of course, he thought, it would come to me today, of all days.

He did not look forward to Dyanna's anniversary. Sun or rain, wind or humidity — he dreaded the day like he dreaded the point of a sword, and the apprehension of it begun long before the day itself.

He disliked remembering her loss; he disliked the sullenness that overcame his children, the sadness that seeped all joy from living. He disliked the constant, unremitting introspection the day forced him into, the kind that would have his mind wandering without his permission. He disliked saying the words aloud — the my wife is dead words — and he disliked, especially, the idea of saying them to you.

Dyanna was no longer his wife. She hadn't been for a long time, and his heart had bloomed anew, softened into something he didn't think possible. But habit was habit was habit, and Maekar was a decidedly old dog. He hadn't said the words to you.

It was a selfish decision. An easier decision. Courting you had been maddening, yes — infuriating, rife with little squabbles and tiffs punctuated by the sharpness of your smile. Every disagreement could be ended by a simple wave of your pretty hand and a murmur of his name — damn him, it was true. But no matter how vexing, nothing yet had cut as deeply as this.

It was easier to not look you in your eyes — narrowed, widened, batting eyelashes or not — and tell you that Dyanna was dead, and the day was approaching, and there was no stopping it. And there would be no stopping it. For as long as he lived, the day would cut, and he didn't love you any less.

You would be angry with him. He anticipated this.

"The winds," the courier had wheezed, holding the letter out, "they were most unfavourable, my lord."

Fuck the winds. He knew you to be as impatient as he was, and his own tolerance was wearing thin. He'd rolled his neck to dislodge some of his tension.

He'd tore the letter from the man's hand and sliced the seal away with a bread knife — pretending quite well to not feel the weight of his children's eyes on him. His eyes traced the lines of Lord Manwoody's hand, and not for the first time, he was glad of the man's presence in Braavos; your father was incredibly vigilant where you were concerned — you, and his coffers. Had Lord Manwoody not returned to Braavos to mediate your betrothal, Maekar feared it would've taken thrice as long as it already did.

He read the words. Agreeable. More to discuss followed, but it mattered not. He'd seen all he needed to see. He held a future in his hands — a future he'd coveted, and wished for, and desired for the better part of a year.

The letter was placed down, and he leaned back in his chair, abandoning the plate he'd been idly picking from. It felt as if a great weight had been taken from him — and yet he couldn't move, couldn't make use of the nervous energy gathering in his legs. He had to remember what day it was — what was expected of him, and what was deserved.

He visited the sept — not the royal sept, but the Sept of Baelor, which he only found himself in once every decade, it seemed. It was where he had gotten married, and now it was where he mourned. Aegon couldn't stop squirming in his seat during prayer, and Rhae barely prayed at all — just stared at the candles and dipped her fingers into the wax when she thought he wasn't looking.

He dined with his father and brothers, then; a quiet affair, mostly, though Rhaegel had insisted on a song to brighten spirits. Maekar hadn't the energy nor heart to stop him. He stared into his wine and thought about the letter in his pocket.

He sent away the septas and maids and put the children to bed; extinguished the candles, read a story (Ten Thousand Ships, an account of Queen Nymeria's battles during the Rhoynish Wars — Aegon's favourite, it seemed) and tucked them in amongst their furs and blankets.

It felt like an apology of sorts; he wondered if they knew where he'd go, now that they were sleeping. If they had felt the warmth of the letter burning a hole in his pocket as they prayed and ate. If it felt as much a betrayal as it had to Aerion.

Unconsciously he took the letter from his doublet held it in his hands as he made his way to your quarters. His thumb traced the folds in the parchment, the wax of the seal. He could see the words in his mind's eye. Agreeable. Finally. He'd sent the first letter just after the tourney — that same night he made his choice clear to his father — and two more had followed since, each more pedantic than the last.

(Annoyance aside, he supposed he could admire your father's solicitude. He often felt the same.)

He held that letter in his hands now, clutched behind his back. Your stare had not abated.

"The Unmasking of Uthero," you said finally. "A celebration from home."

"That explains the masks," he said, on account of not knowing how to broach the obvious. Your frown deepened. "Your lady-servant said you've had them on since yesterday."

"They are to be removed at midnight," you said.

"You went to the markets," he added. He couldn't help the note of disapproval that made itself known. "King's Landing is dangerous."

There was a pause -- a scoff, and you shook your head. "You have no right to indignation, my lord."

Unconsciously, a scowl pulled at his face. My lord. You turned from him, then, lifting a matchstick to a candle. "How fare the children?"

"They... it is a difficult day."

A slow inhale. "Yes. I… thought it best to give you space today. I had no desire to intrude."

"You've never cared much for intrusion before. And I have always welcomed it."

"This is different." Your voice had sharpened. He despised it, he realised, not being able to see your face. Your eyes were most expressive, but there was much to know in the curve of your mouth, the tension of your brow. "You know it to be."

Silence reigned. Neither moved.

Then: "I am displeased, Maekar."

His jaw set. He deserved it, he knew, but it didn't make accepting it any easier. "Yes, I… know."

"Many times I have been angry with you, in fact, and I have held my tongue."

At this, he took pause — shifted in place, and replied with a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Today, he could admit. But others? He was not prepared for others. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Do tell."

Your glare was piercing. "I recall your punishment for my entertaining other men, though it was by your own suggestion—" He winced— "Or when you took Lenila Lannister's favour; or, perhaps, when you became distant and impenetrable over the past few weeks—!"

"Excuse me—" he tried.

"—but no anger I have felt thus far has matched that of today," you said. You had bunched up your skirt in your hands — grabbed the wool between your fingers as if to ground yourself. "To wake up and be informed of the day by my lady servant. To be completely and utterly clueless in the savagery of the court, as if they haven't enough reason to hate me already!"

His mouth snapped shut. A great well of pity rose within him.

He had assumed, admittedly, that you were much like him — open in your dislike of the court and its politics, its two-faced fellows and its cut-throat diplomacy, but willing to ignore it in the end. You often complained to him of ladies' luncheons and snide comments, and he, in turn, made clear his strained relationship with almost everyone; it was one of those inescapable things, the reason why he missed Summerhall more than anything.

He was not Baelor, who excelled in such places despite his own hatred for it; Maekar was not learned in the art of communication, and had never had to be. He had no need for charm or soft words on the battlefield, in the lists.

"I have been in this place for nigh on a year. You have known of my hatred for it, and you still — you still leave me to fend for myself at every turn."

Something like guilt sat in his stomach. He was not accustomed to the feeling. It was greatly uncomfortable — stuck his feet to the floor, and his frown to his face, and his hands tight around the letter.

"I have never given thought to what the court says or thinks. They're cunts," he said. He didn't know whether these words were the right ones — wincing, he continued: "And I — apologise, for that. For all I've angered you."

The discomfort remained, but he moved around it regardless; left the doorway and neared you with, perhaps, less caution than he should. He paused a moment at your side — waited for you to swipe out and push him away, forbid him from your quarters — but there was nothing to fear. You only watched, quiet. Maekar eased into the space beside you, huffing as he dropped. His old bones creaked.

He was face to face now with what he realised was an alter. He had paid little attention to it — his focus had gone straight to you. The table was awash with figurines and statues, bundles of colourful cloth, strings of jewels and beads. He imagined your head bowed in deference and felt inclined to raise it. He couldn't imagine your submission to anyone who was not him; he did not want to imagine it.

(He knew, in reality, that you were more likely to command him than the other way around.)

It was quiet again. Upon his entrance, your staff had quietened down some, but he could still hear the gentle strumming of the lute, the low thrum of chatter. The letter sat in his lap.

He grit his teeth.

"I have no talent with words. Forgive me," Maekar spoke. "I… had every intention of returning to the Stormlands within a moon of my coming here. I have little love for the Keep — if it were not my father's seat, I would be happy to never return."

"And yet, you stayed."

He nodded. "And yet."

Your fingers had released your dress. He watched as they slowly, surely made their way from your lap to his — hesitating over the letter, before moving to take his hands in them. Your skin was soft as satin, free of calluses and roughness. He couldn't imagine his hands were very pleasant to hold — large and unwieldy, callused and brutish. Made to hold a mace, not a lady. You cupped them gently regardless.

"You know that I care for you," he said quietly. "If I had not come across you that night, I would have returned to Summerhall. You have been infuriating, and maddening, and I have been ailed by the very thought of you, and I have stayed here for you."

A laugh erupted from you — and his eyes shot to your face, because the laugh was a warbling thing, thick with tears. Your eyes were glassy. "Infuriating. How romantic!"

He almost snorted. It would be the first time in years someone had called him that. Things were like that with you, he found; the first in years to touch him gently; to temper his vexation; to look at him not as the realm's prickly, impatient prince, but with a fondness he craved like air.

"Saying such things aloud — it has never been where I excel." His voice had taken on a note of pleading, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You know this."

You hummed, thumb smoothing over a tensed tendon along the back of his hand. Your eyes were downcast. He wanted to rip that infernal mask off and see your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your chin. "I thought, perhaps, that you thought me unimportant, or shallow. Unworthy of knowing."

The idea was almost offensive. Unimportant. He grimaced. Perish the thought. "Don't be a fool."

"Do not make a habit of it," you returned. Your eyes met again — and there they were. Widened and round, the picture of girlish innocence. "Do not close yourself to me again, Maekar. I couldn't bare it."

He swallowed. Traitorously, his hands twitched in yours, closing over your fingers. "I shan't."

"I will hold you to it. Now — what is it you've brought me?"

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

"The winds were unfavourable," Maekar said, peering down at the parchment. The seal — a sparkling, emerald green, emblazoned with the golden key and coin of your family — had been split from the parchment messily, as if he'd opened it with great impatience. "And your father has the fastidiousness of his daughter. The response took longer than anticipated."

You felt distinctly as if you were looking at your very own future — there, in his grasp, scrawled in dark ink in your father's hand. You knew what the letter would say. There would be no reason to deny that which you asked for, and yet fear persisted in that way it usually does: illogically, and foolishly.

"I can be patient," you heard yourself say, "when it suits me. Though I should scorn you, Maekar. You did make me wait terribly long."

A noise left him. "You have scorned me enough, girl."

The hush returned. You gathered your hands in your lap again — mourned the loss of his heat, and the feeling of his skin against you — and watched as his thumb worried the folded edge of the letter. A lump had formed in your throat.

"In truth," you said, before he could speak, "I spent the day in the sept, praying for a woman I did not know, unsure of my standing with you. I lit candles for her. Spoke to your foreign gods for her -- and for me, too."

You could feel his eyes on you. Yours remained resolutely on the letter.

"In those moments, I realised something terrible about myself; a gnawing, persistent desire I carry. I have tried to temper it — Neema says these things take time, but I fear it will never fully leave me. I've been this way since young."

"Are you trying to dissuade me? I shan't be."

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't allow you to be dissuaded -- you are mine to keep. But you know not of what I speak, Maekar. The thoughts I have."

"Desire," he echoed — and it was back again, you remarked fondly to yourself, that edge of annoyance he carried in his voice, as if wholly unimpressed by your lamentations. "Whatever desires plague you, they plague me thrice over—"

"I thought of devious things," you said quietly. "Graceless, unkind, selfish things, in that place of gods. I cursed them for placing me along your path so late, and I thought of all the ways I could keep you, as if you were a dog to be kept. I wanted you to… to… be tortured by the very thought of me, to ache as I have."

Air shuddered in your lungs. Whatever words you thought to say next died in your throat, and you could not bring yourself to look at him again. Instead you watched him twist the ring upon his thumb, the ruby catching candlelight.

"Do you think me a septon or eunuch?" he demanded. Your head shot up, and his gaze was already fixed on you. You were reminded, quite suddenly, of the proximity between you — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He eclipsed you almost completely, the King's Anvil, and he was bowed towards you now, shoulders hunched. If you hadn't had the mask, you might almost be nose to nose. His stare was intense. Desperate. Your heart thudded in your chest. "I am a man."

Your voice came as a whisper. "I know."

"You do not know the ways of men," Maekar said. "I promise you. You do not know the ways I have… have hungered."

Your mouth was dry. "What would you have me do? To… to ease it?" Quiet. Anything louder would shatter the space between you, delicate as spun sugar.

He stared at you for a second. "I—"

A raucous, piercing volley of cheers suddenly erupted — you jolted in place, head snapping to the doorway. There was nobody there, of course. The festivities had not reached you.

When you turned, Maekar hadn't moved. His eyes were still fixed on you, narrowed as if in annoyance. His mouth was screwed up, pursed. With a tilted head, you opened your mouth to ask what he was thinking — but his hands were coming up, and you didn't shrink from them. You watched them disappear from your view, but you could feel the heat of them as they neared your body — and then his fingers were on you, warm and thick, hooked beneath the chin of your mask. Your heart was rabbiting, now, breath stuck in your throat. You couldn't breathe — wouldn't breathe, rather, caught in the anticipation of his touch.

Suddenly your cheeks were being cooled by as he pulled the mask up and over your head, unfalteringly gentle. Strands of hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat, but you felt no embarrassment. His fingers were still splayed across your jaw — just as they had been, back in his tent at the tourney. You'd dreamed of them ever since — but in all those dreams, he had never looked at you like this. It was frightfully vulnerable, even with his jaw clenched as it was, and his eyes glaring as they were — there was something in his that had softened, had bared itself to you. How had you thought yourself second-fiddle? How could you, for one moment, see what he felt as anything less than what it was?

"Your father has given his permission," he said, and his voice was softer than you thought possible. Maekar Targaryen, the Anvil, was whispering to you with such fragility. Holding your face like something precious, his nose nudging against yours. "Marry me."

Oh, gods. You were not being punished. This could not be punishment, divine or otherwise. Your hands shook, and you squeezed them between your thighs — a grin so bright and satisfied pulling at your lips, and you hadn't the strength to dim it. They were the words you'd longed to hear. The affirmation your heart had long desired. To hear them spill from his lips -- to see his face contort in abashment, as if to say the words were a weakness that struck the very heart of him...

"I — I will, of course," you said, embarrassingly breathless. If you just leaned forward, you could… "I've -- only been waiting a year, you foolish man."

His laugh came in a sharp burst. "Yes, and you've been ever so patient."

"Only as much as you have," you said. "Though I shall warn you — I am horrendously jealous, and scornful, and spiteful, and I have tried terribly to shield you from it. If you marry me, I shan't be any better."

A pale eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"

"I may be worse, even," you added. "A wife must covet her husband, after all."

"You'll find no argument with me," he said — and, as if noticing for the first time how close he'd pulled you, released your jaw like it burned him. Maekar cleared his throat, sitting straight once more, though you didn't miss his eyes' traitorous path back to your mouth.

"Come," you said, shaking your head fondly. A giddiness took you over — you were tired no more, springing to your feet with zeal. "There is wine to celebrate, and we simply must inform everyone, of course, and — are you quite alright?"

With a pained groan, Maekar pushed himself to standing. He stretched tall, and you winced as you heard something pop.

"Fuck me," he cursed. "I'm not as young as I once was."

[ghost-heart34]

I desperately need to kiss that foolish man

[targlove]

Maegor's Holdfast

Part five of 'The Godswood Escape'

Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x female reader

Summary: Prince Valarr and his new princess have their first disagreement after the feast.

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: arguing, misunderstandings and angst (sawry)

A/N: aaaand I'm finally back! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and please let me know what you think! I already have a couple more chapters written, so I will be trying to stick to a consistent weekly release.

Cross-posted on AO3 (registered users only).

Soft silver moonlight poured over their figures as her new husband led her down the hallways of Maegor's Holdfast. His gentle hold on her hand had not seized since their departure from the Great Hall. The thought of his tender protectiveness, both at the feast and in that moment, made her stomach flutter.

She had never been on the upper levels of Maegor's Holdfast before, as those chambers were reserved for the royal family. I suppose that includes me now, she remembered suddenly. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Truthfully, she didn't have the faintest clue what it meant to be a princess. Nobody had thought to explain her new royal duties to her. Her wifely duties had been taught to her from a young age, of course, but nobody had ever expected her to rise in station in this manner.

Nor had she met any adult princesses who might be able to teach her how to bear this burden as of yet. Both King Daeron and Prince Baelor had been widowers for a long time, therefore leaving the realm without a queen for many years to come. She knew two of Valarr's uncles still roamed the castle, and that they were both wed, but she had not yet met either of them. Their carefully hidden absence at both the wedding and the feast had not escaped her notice, though she had not dared to ask Valarr for the reason. Servants and nobles alike often whispered harsh words about both of the princes in the halls, so she knew better than to address such a sensitive topic on a night like tonight.

She was pulled from her thoughts when Valarr stopped in front of the doors to his bedchambers. He had a timid smile on his face, though it did not seem to reach his eyes. She briefly wondered why, before realizing he must be nervous as well. He had admitted as much to her, though she had presumed that had more to do with the prospect of the marriage as a whole, and not necessarily the bedding. Perhaps he was inexperienced as well, though surely he knew more than her about their marital duties. She still had no clue about what exactly it was that was awaiting her in his bedchambers. She understood it was not likely to be a pleasant experience, going off of her sisters' overly vague stories, but she doubted Valarr would ever be cruel to her. Whatever was going to happen, he would surely do it with as much kindness and compassion as possible.

He briefly glanced at her face, his expression unreadable, before he opened the doors. He gestured with his hand for her to enter before him, and she walked in with awe clear on her face.

Where her old chambers had been filled with her house colors, these were covered in her own favorite color instead. Tapestries filled the walls here as well, though these were less in the Targaryen style and more in the style of her own home. They had entered into the solar first, though she could see the bedroom through a large door to her right. A large fireplace, already lit, bathed the the comfortable-looking sofa and chairs in front of it in soft yellow light. Bookcases that nearly reached the ceiling stood on the opposite side of the room, as well as a large desk that was already decorated with the keepsakes she had brought with her from home. To her left she saw a peek of the bath and dressing room. She took a couple steps to see into the bedroom, where a large canopied bed stood against the opposite side of the room. Valarr followed closely behind her, a soft smile on his face at her wonder. A sizeable vanity stood near the large windows on the other side of the room, and the mirror above it softly reflected the moonlight, bathing the room in silver light.

"These chambers used to be my late mother's. I took the liberty to fill the shelves with some books I thought you might enjoy. I also asked your father to bring some of his own tapestries, to make you feel at home. I hope you like it."

She took a moment to take in the sight before her, and what it meant. It was stunning, and a tender act of love that she did not feel she deserved. And yet, were they not supposed to go to his chambers on this night? Why was he showing her this now?

"T-thank you. It's absolutely perfect," she stuttered out. She quickly turned to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. He seemed shocked by it at first, but he recovered quickly, wrapping his strong arms around her waist, keeping her close.

"You're very welcome, my love," he murmured into her hair.

Her face was buried into his chest now, and she never wanted him to let her go. He smelled of everything she loved: the smell of fresh ink on paper, old books, a lit fireplace, the gardens in the spring. She did not think she could ever get enough of it. She closed her eyes as she took his presence in.

All too quickly, however, he gently untangled his arms from her. He took a careful step back, his warm gaze returning to the unreadable expression from earlier. He quickly cleared his throat, his eyes avoided her gaze. He took a couple steps out of the bedroom, to her confusion, and towards the exit of her chambers.

"Well, I shall leave you here. My chambers are just across the hall, and one of the Kingsguards shall guard your rooms at all times. Should you need anything, you need only ask them. Have a good night, my love."

It took her a second to process his words, not understanding them in the least. He had already turned his back on her and approached the door before she found the words to respond, quickly following after him.

"W-what? I-, I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand. So you shall spend the night in your own chambers?"

He reluctantly turned back to her, and she could see on his face that he had hoped, in vain, that she would not argue with him.

"Yes," he simply replied. His tone was painfully neutral, lacking all the warmth he had shown her before.

"It is our wedding night. Are we not meant to spend this night together?" She asked, her face clearly showing how puzzled she was by his sudden change in behavior. "My septa said that is what happens on a wedding night."

"Gevie, please, it is late. I think we should both get some sleep."

Dread was starting to pool in her stomach. Did he no longer want her? Perhaps he was starting to regret his decision to marry her. While she did not know exactly what was supposed to happen during the bedding, she knew one was not truly married if it had not been performed. She was suddenly reminded of a rumor she had heard around the Keep this last week. Valarr's uncle, Prince Aerys, had supposedly never consummated his marriage with his wife, the lady Aelinor Penrose. This failure to perform their duty would allow him to cast her aside one day, if he had cause to do so. Tears formed in her eyes at the thought. Is that what he intended to do with her? Wait until the excitement of the wedding had calmed down, only to then cast her aside?

"No, Valarr. We are supposed… We are married. Are we not supposed to do what married people do?" She could hear the desperation in her own voice as she felt a tear slip down her cheek. Gods, she had never wished to know what the bedding entailed as much as now.

Valarr clenched his jaw at her words. His stance had turned rigid and his expression was still unreadable. He had never once seemed eager to leave her presence until now.

"Have I done something wrong?" Her voice cracked, but she could not get herself to care. "If I have, please, please tell me. Whatever it is, I am truly sorry."

Those words made his nonchalant facade crack. She could see the hurt in his eyes, before he cast his eyes to the floor as he quietly spoke.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, my love. I just… I…"

"Then what is it?" She bowed her head in an attempt to make him meet her gaze. "Whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right?"

He clenched his jaw again, and he finally met her eyes, though he seemed almost angry now.

"Are you demanding I perform my marital duty to you?" He said harshly.

"What? No!" She replied quickly, another tear falling down her face as she took a step towards him in desperation. He did not let her approach, however, and quickly took another step back. "I-I am not demanding anything. I just…" She was truly lost for words now, and he took that as his opportunity to turn his back on her again, his face a blank canvas.

"I am truly sorry if I have hurt your feelings, but I promise you that this is for the best. I do not wish to hurt you further. We shall speak of this another time. Have a good night."

He took another step towards the door. Her anguish turned to exasperation now, and she quickly walked towards him, not allowing him to reach the door. She stood in his way, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"Valarr… Is this how our marriage is to be? Both of us living in separate chambers, never…"

Doing our duty, like your uncle Aerys, she thought, though she did not say it.

He took a deep breath, his mismatched eyes gazing at her tear-stained face with a painful expression on his face. His eyes had become damp as well, eyebrows knit as he looked at the pain he had caused his beloved.

"For now, yes," he said gently.

"Why?" She whispered, her gaze pleading. She did not wish anything of him except to understand. Why is this what he wanted, and why did he claim it was 'for the best'? She had felt out of her depth her entire time at court, but this was the thing that had confused her the most. Is this truly how their married life was going to start?

"I thought it… it would be easier." He muttered, anguish visible on his face now.

"For whom?" She quickly resorted. It would certainly not make her life at court easier, she knew that much. Nothing could hurt the precious Young Prince's reputation, of course, but she did not wish to end up as all the other ladies who had been easily disregarded by their husbands. Nobody would ever respect or forgive her if she failed at her duties in this manner. Even the eternal scorn she would have faced, had she actually successfully fled the Red Keep would have likely been better.

"What?" He said, confused.

"Easier for whom? You or me?"

The annoyance became visible on his face again, and he turned his face away from her.

"I will not be debating this with you tonight," he said, his tone final.

"This is not a debate, Valarr, I merely want to understand. You need to tell me–" She replied, exasperation evident in her voice.

"I do not need to do anything. I have decided! I am your prince!" He suddenly shouted out, his face turning red in anger.

She had never heard him raise his voice to anybody, let alone her. It immediately silenced her. She looked at him in disbelief, before she quickly managed to put a guarded look on her face. She took several steps back, folding her hands in front of her, as if to shield herself from his hurtful words.

It was evident that he immediately regretted his words, but she no longer cared. He put his hands up as if in surrender, trying to take a step towards her. This time, she was the one to take a step back from him. She put one hand up, a gesture for him to remain silent.

"My mistake. I thought you were 'just Valarr'. Pray forgive me, Your Grace."

His face crumbled at her cold words, a silent tear streaming down his face.

"Gevie–."

"I think it is best you retire to your bedchambers now, Your Grace, as you said."

He attempted to step towards her again, but she continued the cruel dance, stepping further back. His eyes begged for her to stop, but her face had gone carefully blank, her stare distant.

"My love… I promise you, this is what is best for both of us."

"Of course, Your Grace. Whatever you wish," She turned her back to him as she said, "Now, I kindly ask you to leave my chambers."

Her voice and eyes had lost all of its warmth. Where she had once thought him to be different from all of her previous suitors, he had quickly proven that his kindness was nothing more than a pretense to trick her into marrying him. For what purpose, if he did not intend to bed her, she did not know yet, but she supposed she never truly knew him at all.

Valarr seemed lost for words. He looked at her for a while, realizing she was being sincere. She no longer wanted him near her, as she always had before. He swallowed the lump in his throat before abruptly turning away from her, towards the door.

He did not look back before he softly closed the door behind him, but he did not have the courage to move from his spot for quite a while, either. He could feel the inquisitive gaze of Ser Roland Crakehall as he stood there, but he did not care to explain himself to the knight. When he suddenly heard her quiet cries come through the solid wooden door, however, he made haste across the hall and quickly entered his own chambers.

Gods, he was such an fool. He had only ever wanted to make sure she was safe, that she would never feel any pain, and yet he had been the only one to cause it. He hadn't expected her to react so strongly, as he would expect most women to be relieved that they were spared a bedding. Instead, his beloved had only seen it as an insult.

He had let his anger, his fears and his own insecurities get the best of him, and now he had hurt the very person he was meant to protect from harm.

He had watched his own mother perish in the birthing bed, and he had no intention of inflicting that on his love. He knew it was inevitable for him to eventually need heirs, but he could not bear to put her at risk. Not when he just got her. He wished to enjoy her presence for many more years to come. Now, he might have lost her now regardless, just in a different way.

He had believed she would understand that risk and the fear that came with pregnancy, but it seemed to him she hadn't considered it in that way. Perhaps she thought it was her duty and she did not believe she had a choice in the matter, simply facing her fate with her head held high. Well, he did have a choice, and he was not going to lose her.

He only wished he had not hurt her in the process. He had yelled at his wife, something he swore he would never do. If he had failed to be a good husband after less than a day, what does that say of his prospects as king? How could he be a just ruler if he could not even do right by his own wife? A true dragon for the first time, he mused to himself bitterly, burning down everything in its path.

In an attempt to distract himself, Valarr decided to busy himself with making his bed seem like it had witnessed a true bedding. He cut his own arm to bloody his sheets, watching the crimson stains spread out on the sheets. The blade hurt much less than seeing the heartbroken look on his beloved's face, he thought bitterly.

That night, the newlyweds both cried themselves to sleep, each wanting nothing more than to be by the other's side.

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[goonergigi]

The cool toned prince and his warm bride |

Valarr x reader

Your husband has always been a stickler for the rules, never wanting to cause more grief than necessary. You were the opposite and enjoyed pushing boundaries. One night you have your husband push himself and join you in swimming in Blackwater Bay.

You were known throughout the keep as a trouble maker. Even before Valarr and you had married, many knew that you would be his polar opposite for life. He was calm and collected even when goaded by his cousins or brother. You, on the other hand, were fiery and hot, always ready to pick a fight or argue over anything. Some said you were more dragon than your husband, but with a quick glare they would back down and retract their words. You two were a perfect pair, with you ready to defend Valarr at the slighted critic and him ready to smooth you afterwards.

You often would sneak out of the keep to see more of King’s Landing. Sometimes you brought a guard with you, both of you in plain clothes to fit in. If there was a festival or celebration to be held, you would find your way to it. And today the people of Flea Bottom were celebrating the name day of Baelor the Blessed, a widely celebrated day across the lands as he had been so generous with the royal vaults. The people would celebrate him and call for blessing from the Sept and from the Gods themselves.

You had begged Valarr to come down and celebrate his relative, saying it would show the strength between the crown and the realm. You're sure he would have joined you if his father hadn’t called him away for a council meeting at the last moment. You spent the rest of the day in your chambers, sulking over the missed opportunity that wouldn’t come again til next year. You laid in bed in just your night shift, scheming, when the door to the room opened. You turned, looking over your shoulder still laying on your stomach in bed. In walks Prince Daeron, your husband's cousin. You and Daeron have been drinking buddies since your betrothal announcement and your subsequent relocation to the Red Keep. The sight of the boy made you light up, hopping off the bed to reach him with a hug. He laughed and held you back.

“Good cousin! I’m so happy to see you! When I heard you would not be joining us for the festivities I was quite worried.”

Daeron had gotten into the habit of calling you cousin, worried that people would think he was being too close to his cousin’s wife. While it wasn’t uncommon for Targaryens to marry family, Daeron and Valarr did what little they could to ensure people did not assume that of you. You smiled at Daeron, letting out a small sad sigh before saying,

“My dear husband was to take me but was pulled away by his duties right before we departed. I couldn’t imagine seeing everything without him.”

Daeron knew you too well to fall for that. Valarr could lock you up in the hand’s tower and you would still find a way to get to the celebration. Daeron sighed, playing the role of unwilling chaperone for one second before smiling again.

“Well we can’t have that. Get dressed, I will take you to see only the finest of what kings landing has to offer!”

You both knew that was a lie. You were gonna get piss drunk in some shoddy little inn then stumble about back home or into the arms of a guard to take you two home. You giggled at him as he turned and stole some of the wine you had sitting out for Valarr when he came back from his duties. You quickly threw on a dress you had gotten for these visits, a rough spun one that did well to hide you in the crowd. It was a dark brown, barely reaching the floor to make sure no mud would get on it. You tugged on a pair of boots as well, thick ones to protect yourself from anyone drunkenly stepping on your toes. Finally you chose a cloak, enough to cover yourself and just be seen as a stranger passing through. Daeron was dressed similarly in clothes that would not catch attention. It had become a sort of uniform for the two of you on these night time outings.

Daeron knew the way to leave the castle without being caught or spotted by many servants. A few guards still saw you leave, a way of letting your husband know you weren’t being kidnapped and were instead left in fine health. The two of you walked arm and arm, passing a flask that Daeron kept on him between you two. The two of you were thoroughly tipsy by the time you arrived at any of the actual festivities. There were puppet shows and sword swallowers, market stalls and whores selling themselves. Everywhere you turned were dragon banners and seven pointed stars, and drunkards who cared little about you and more about getting their next drink. You and Daeron would be joining them soon.

You found a small tavern, one neither of you had been to before. You found a small table near the wall sitting close together as the room filled up quickly. You sat practically shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same air, trying to stay away from the drunk men surrounding you. You and Daeron had shed the cloaks you wore, not caring who noticed you as very little people would be looking for the future queen and a prince of the realm. And even if someone did recognize you, most of the citizens of Flea Bottom knew of Daeron’s love for wine and ale, and would assume he dragged his cousin's wife to join him rather than you joining on your own.

The two of you had already gone through one whole bottle of wine and four cups of ale each your own. You could never keep up with Daeron’s drinking, you were already much more drunk than he was. You were singing along to some song that a cobbler and blacksmith started. You got maybe every fifth word right, the rest coming out as a slurred mess. Daeron laughed watching as you stood on shaky legs, moving to join other singers in a sort of dance that only a bunch of drunks could manage.

During all of this no one noticed a white cloak enter the tavern, scanning the room looking for something or someone. The man turned back around and said something to another person outside of the tavern. Another kings guard entered the tavern with a figure standing between him and the first man. The new figure flipped the hood of his cape off of their head, revealing the heir to the throne and your husband, Valarr. The room went quiet except for you who kept singing even with no backing vocals. You twirled around, almost falling over, as you turned to see what caused the disturbance. You gasped, a happy noise, before trying to run to your husband. Your skirt got caught for a second making you stumble, almost falling, before you were able to shakily get to him.

“Husband! I missed you!”

You shouted, making everyone in the room wince. Valarr opened his arms for you to fall into, you did so happily giggling and telling him about the adventure you had been on. He held your waist, watching you with a fond smile. Daeron watched the two of you, hiding in the shadows, hoping that Valarr wouldn’t notice him and he could continue drinking for the night. Unfortunately for him, Valarr always knew that when his wife was drinking, his cousin wasn’t far behind. Valarr found him easily in the crowd and called out,

“Come cousin, let us return to the castle. We wouldn’t want your father to form a search party for you.”

Daeron flinched, feeling eyes all across the room turn towards him. He stood and joined the small party who would return to the castle together. As all of you turned to leave, Valarr pulled out three gold dragons, paying the two of yours tab and giving the rest to the people of the tavern.

“I thank you for celebrating the past king Baelor the blessed. In honor of him, everyone’s drinks will be paid by the crown tonight.”

Cheers went up across the room, calls of good health and a long reign to Valarr and his father. Some wishing blessing of the seven on him, others showing love to the dragon house. Valarr hoped that his little stunt would help cover up anything you and Daeron might have done to cause damage to the name of the crown. Valarr held onto you as the two of you stumbled your way towards the castle, your foot catching on a loose cobblestone, almost falling before Valarr held you up. Anyone walking by could see that Valarr was in love, he looked at you in a way that many of the people of Flea Bottom had never seen. Somewhere along the walk you had gasped and pulled Valarr towards the docks, wishing to see Blackwater Bay at night. He of course couldn’t say no to his lovely wife, allowing you to pull him. Valarr had told one of the kings guard’s to follow the two of you as the other escorted Daeron to the keep.

Valarr let you pull him into the night, towards the docks that wouldn’t have anyone at them at this time. These docks were specifically only for trade going to and from the castle, no random person would be here, And with the celebration going on, no servant or guard either.

You sit on the stairs into the docks, you start untying your boots then slipping them off. You took off your cloak next, folding it and placing it onto the dock. Your next move is to begin unlacing the rough spun dress, but Valarr quickly grabbed your hands stopping you.

“W-what are you doing?!”

“Relax! It’s only us out here anyways!”

“We are not alone! Did you forget about the white cloak with us?!”

You looked around Valarr at said white cloak, the man seemed embarrassed to even be acknowledged. He was blushing, turned slightly away from the two of you.

“Good Ser! Would you do me a favor and turn your back to us?”

The man nodded and turned around with no protest. Valarr gapped at you, you truly did not care of what people will say about you for this action. You then continued slipping off your clothes. In just your shift you turn to your husband and slip your hands under his overcoat. He blushed, turning to look at the man standing behind you two again. The kings guard had done as you said and kept his back to you. Valarr stalled a little, turning back to you with worry in his eyes.

“My love please, this isn’t smart.”

He held your wrists, not tight enough to truly stop you, just tight enough to remind you of his presence. You pouted looking up at him. You raised yourself onto your toes and brought your lips to his. He kissed you back, his body relaxing at the familiar feeling of you and your mouth. You deeped the kiss, gripping harshly to his shirt and pulling it up until it was untucked from his pants. You kept pulling til you got it all the way over his head. He held onto your waist as you bit his lip and pulled away from him with a smirk.

“Come, let’s swim.”

“Swim? We have not brought anything to swim in, beloved”

You began walking towards the water's edge, and slowly slipped the straps of your shift from your shoulders. You looked behind you at Valarr again as the dress fully slipped off of you. His breath caught in his throat. No matter how many times he saw you bare it took his breath away everytime. You turn fully around and reached for him, your hands meeting the top of his pants. You undid the lacing of them as you began scooting them down all the while keeping him distracted watching you instead of what your hands were doing. Once you got them down his thighs he helped you and took them off the rest of the way. He then kicked off his boots. You laughed and ran from him, going back to the water. He chased after you, a wide smile splitting his face. Once you were at mid thigh height water he caught up to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. He picked you up and twirled the two of you around. You let out a shriek of joy, wrapping your arms around his head. He looked up at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and if anyone asked him, he would say you had.

He let you down so your feet were on the ground again, you grabbed onto one of his hands and ran further into water. Valarr followed happily, he’d follow you to his death if it meant you’d smile like that at him. You were deeper now, up to your waist in the water. Valarr scooped you up into his arms in a princess carry, running the two of you further in the water. After a moment, he turned facing the shore again and fell back into the water, getting both of you soaked. You were laughing loudly, holding onto his neck. You kissed him again, a soft fleeting thing. You basked in each other's presence, enjoying the nearness. Here you weren’t a future king and queen, here you were just a husband and wife. You leaned back, letting your body float on the surface of the water. Valarr watched you, watching as your hair reached the water, how your arms moved slightly to keep yourself afloat. He turned to look at the shore again, seeing the king’s guard who was still turned away from you two, his two lives displayed before him. His life filled with love and happiness with his wife, one where his greatest concern would be ensuring she smiled everyday. And the other life, the one of duty, stood on the shore. He was to be the future king of the realm, kings couldn’t worry about their wives in the way he did. The thought brought a sad pit into his stomach, one he knew would never go away.

“My love, we should return to the keep, we’ll catch a cold staging out here much longer.”

Valarr wanted nothing more than to stay here forever, to watch as the water took in your form. How you bared yourself fully to him, unworried about what others would think, only worried about your sweet husband seeing you as you are. You let out a sigh and stood to face him, he smiled sadly before leaning forward to kiss you again. You turned back to the shore and began making your way in, Valarr could see the tiredness seep into your skin. After a moment, when you were further into the shore, Valarr pulled you back via your arm, pulling you into him. He kissed you again, starting soft before claiming more and more of you. You took one of his hands off your waist and pressed it to your stomach, right above your womb.

“My king, I want to give you an heir.”

He shuddered, looking down at his hand. He surged forward claiming your lips again before pulling away one more time.

“Let us return to the Keep and I will give you it.”

He leaned down, wrapping his arms around your thighs and picking you up. You wrapped your legs around him and your arms around his head as he carried you out of the water to return home, to get you back into the bed you two shared and make you a mother.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know if you liked it!

I do not consent for my work to be put into AI

[perkqularkreashions]

Girl Made in Riverrun

Description: Jamie Lannister is forced to marry a Tully, he didn’t expect to fall in love with Catelyn’s sister.

-anon- requested!

Warnings: Twincest (Jamie x Cersei cannon event), Smut p in v, oral F received, smut in public places, violence, mentions of death. Time skips (like a lot), it’s pretty lengthy.

Up Next:

Sandor Clegane x Reyne!Reader - requested

Daemon Targaryen x Greyjoy!Reader -requested

Tywin Lannister x Dorne!Reader

Petyr Baelish x Reader

Cregan Stark x Celtigar!Reader - requested

Young!Robert Baratheon x Targaryen!Reader - requested

Theon Greyjoy x Stark!Reader - requested

Credit to the owners of the pictures! I got them from Pinterest!

Tywin Lannister, Lion of the West, stood with one hand resting lightly on the carved lion-head arm of his chair, a satisfied glint in his pale eyes as he watched King Robert pace the length of the chamber. The king’s brow was furrowed, thick fingers raking through his beard as he weighed the proposition laid before him. Beside Tywin, Ser Jaime stood silent, his jaw locked and hand clenched into a fist at his side—whether from anticipation or fury, none could tell. The torchlight danced against the golden plates of his armor, the Kingsguard’s white cloak draped still across his shoulders, though it hung now like a relic from another life.

“He serves no purpose, not as he is,” Tywin said, voice calm and unyielding as steel. “His post was earned by convenience, not merit. But he can still be of use—your sworn sword, aye, but also a husband. Heirs, Robert. Sons bearing the lion’s name. That’s what he was born for.”

Robert halted mid-step, turning with a grunt. “You’ve a match in mind then? Or is this another ploy of yours, Tywin?”

“I do,” Tywin replied smoothly. “Lady Tully. The youngest daughter of Hoster Tully—sister to Edmure and Lady Stark. A proper girl, bred of good stock. Lord Edmure has already sent word of his approval. The girl is en route to the capital as we speak. They’ll wed here, before the royal party rides north. A festival, a celebration to set the tone, maybe she’ll even visit her sister. Gods knows you adore the Starks. It’ll do her good to see her sister again.”

Robert scratched at his chin, then shrugged. “A wedding might cheer the people. Put something warm in their bellies before the cold of the North sets in. Two weeks, you said?”

“Within the fortnight,” Tywin confirmed. “The preparations have already begun. Two week celebration.”

Robert nodded slowly. “Alright… alright then. Let it be done.”

Tywin inclined his head, already satisfied, his fingers brushing the fabric of his crimson sleeve as though dusting off the matter entirely. Jaime, however, remained frozen, his golden brows drawn tight, his shoulders rigid.

“You’ll take your new oath after the wedding,” Robert added with a smirk, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips. “And keep the armor, boy. Suits you. Might even distract the girl from your sour temper.”

“When does she arrive?” Robert asked, glancing over at Tywin once more.

“She’ll be here soon,” Tywin replied coolly. “And she’ll be yours to present at court.”

Cersei stormed down the corridor, the silk of her gown hissing like a serpent with every furious step. Servants scattered at the sight of her, heads bowed low, skirts gathered quickly out of her path. When she reached Jaime’s chamber door, she didn’t knock. She shoved it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.

“I found out through Tyrion—Tyrion, of all people!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. Her golden hair was unbound, wild about her shoulders, and her eyes burned with fury.

Jaime turned from where he stood near the hearth, already tense, his jaw tight. “Don’t look at me like that, Cersei,” he said quickly, raising his hands in something like surrender. “Please—it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then why didn’t you fight harder?” she snapped, advancing on him like a lioness with blood in her mouth. “You’re Tywin’s heir, his golden son. You could’ve refused—should’ve refused!”

He shook his head, stepping back just enough to keep distance between them. “You know how he is. It was already done before I was even told. The match was signed, sealed, and ridden for Riverrun before I could speak a word.”

“You’re marrying her,” Cersei snarled. “A Tully. One of Catelyn’s sisters. Do you know what they’ll say? What they’ll think?”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you think I haven’t already thought of that a thousand times?”

She turned away from him then, as if disgusted by the sight of him, hands curling at her sides. “You’re mine,” she said, voice trembling—not with weakness, but with rage. “You’ve always been mine. And now you’re just—giving yourself away?”

“I didn’t give anything,” he bit back. “He took it from me.”

Cersei rounded on him once more, eyes glassy with unshed fury. “Then take it back.”

Cersei’s breath caught as the silence thickened between them, heavy as smoke. Her fists trembled at her sides, but she didn’t move away. Not when Jaime stepped closer. Not when his voice lowered.

“I didn’t want this,” he murmured, gaze pinned to hers, the firelight flickering gold across his face. “I swear it, Cersei. I tried—I tried to make him see, but he wouldn’t bend. He never bends.”

Her lip curled, but the anger faltered just slightly. “You’re stronger than him,” she whispered. “You’re better.”

“I’m yours,” he said, voice raw.

His hands came to her waist—hesitant, almost reverent. She let him. Her body was taut with tension, but she didn’t resist when he drew her in. Her hands found his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic. He ducked his head, their foreheads brushing. His voice was a breath against her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to face you.”

And then she kissed him.

Her kiss wasn’t tender—it was a punishment. Her mouth crashed into his with the heat of a wildfire, angry and possessive, like she meant to devour the apology right out of his throat. Jaime grunted against her, stumbling backward as she pushed him, lips bruising, hands clutching fistfuls of his tunic like she wanted to tear it apart.

He didn’t stop her.

His hands gripped her waist, hard, dragging her against him as if he needed to feel her anger to believe she still wanted him. Her teeth caught his lip, and he hissed. She smiled into the kiss, wicked and breathless.

“You let him chain you,” she snarled, lips brushing his jaw as she bit at the skin there. “You said you were mine, Jaime—mine.”

“I am,” he gasped, kissing her again, sloppier this time—off-center, raw, all tongue and desperation. “I didn’t ask for her—I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Her hand tangled in his hair, tugging his head back so she could look at him—lips red, eyes shining, chest heaving like she’d just fought a war.

“Then prove it,” she whispered.

He kissed her again before the words finished falling, hands moving rough under her skirts, pressing her back toward the table, knocking over a goblet and not caring for a single heartbeat. Her thighs hit wood. His mouth never left hers.

“Say you still love me,” she said, half a breath, half a challenge.

“I do,” he said, panting, forehead against hers. “Gods, Cersei—always. Only you.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You arrived without fanfare, just as you preferred—no banners, no trumpets, no company beyond a modest escort of Tully men who said little and kept their heads down. The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the courtyard of the Red Keep was cloaked in shadow. A few lanterns flickered near the gates, their flames swaying in the wind. You dismounted with practiced ease, your cloak fluttering behind you in the night breeze, your blue silks catching only the faintest kiss of firelight.

Tywin Lannister was waiting at the top of the steps. Regal as ever, stone-faced and imposing even in silence. But when you smiled—softly, without pretense—it startled him. You were younger than he remembered. More beautiful than he’d expected. And far, far softer. There was no hard edge to you, no sharp tongue. Just river-steady grace and that keen, unbothered composure that made men underestimate you far too easily.

“Lord Tywin,” you said lightly, lifting a hand in greeting, fingers curled in a gentle wave. “It’s been far too long.”

“It has,” he replied with a nod, his voice unreadable. But his eyes did not leave your face.

You stepped forward, skirts whispering against the stone. “My brother didn’t come. He trusts me in your care,” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “For the wedding, I mean. I’ve not told my sisters yet either—though I suppose I’ll have to now, won’t I?”

Your smile widened, sweet as spring rain. “I trust everything is in order—your hands are known for order, after all. Robert, in his drunken ramblings, speaks of you often. Not all bad, mind you. He said the feasts would come after the ceremony. Then we ride north.” You paused, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “All very well planned. Very… Lannister.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment. And though he said nothing, there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—something between respect and concern.

Because you were not what he expected. You were worse. You were gentle. And that made you dangerous.

“Come,” Tywin said, turning with the authority of a man who expected obedience. “You shall meet Jaime.”

You froze. Hands clutched together before you, the lace at your wrists trembling faintly in the night breeze.

“Oh, gods—no, I can’t!” you said quickly, cheeks flushing as you shook your head. “It’s… against Riverrun tradition. I’m not to see him until the wedding. Bad luck and all that.”

Your voice was light, teasing, but your eyes flicked nervously toward the great doors of the Keep, as if the Kingslayer himself might come strolling out to catch you mid-sentence.

“Hopefully,” you went on with a breathless laugh, “he’ll find me beautiful. And not just another old, sour-faced Tully.” You scrunched your nose slightly. “You Lannisters have such strong features. I always worried the Riverlands bred girls a little too plain.”

Tywin paused at that, glancing back at you. His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. But not quite.

“He’ll find you pleasing enough,” he said. “You are young. You are lovely. And, more importantly, you are useful. That is more than most women can claim.”

You smiled, but the weight of his words pressed behind your ribs.

“I’ll have my steward take you to your chambers,” he added. “You’ll be presented properly before the court at the feast.”

You dipped into a polite, practiced curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

He watched you one last time before turning, the click of his boots fading into stone. And as you followed the steward through the quiet halls of the Red Keep, you touched your cheeks and whispered to yourself—

“Please let him have kind eyes.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Jaime paced the length of his chamber like a caged lion, his golden armor half-undone, the clasps at his shoulders hanging loose where he’d started to tear it off in frustration. His breath came short, sharp, like every step might somehow undo what had already been set in stone.

“She’s here,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s actually here. Gods, why—why did Father have to find her so soon?”

Tyrion lounged in a carved chair by the hearth, a goblet in one hand and a smirk on his lips, watching the dramatics unfold with barely veiled amusement.

“You knew this day was coming,” Tyrion said mildly. “Father made it quite clear you’d be married off the moment Robert gave permission. You should be thanking him—he could’ve saddled you with a Frey.”

Jaime spun around, eyes wild. “Lysa Arryn was a Tully. She was supposed to be beautiful too.”

“She was, once,” Tyrion said, swirling the wine in his cup. “Many say this one favors her—delicate, they claim. Polite. She has the hair. The eyes. That Riverlands charm.”

“If she looks anything like that sickly hag of the Eyrie I swear to the gods, I’ll—” he choked on the thought. “Her eyes! They were like a fish pulled too long from water. That awful limp hair. Pale as bone, and her voice—”

He shuddered dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest like he’d been stabbed.

“I’ll surely die.”

“You won’t,” Tyrion said with a sigh, setting down his cup. “She’s young. That much I know. And she’s no fool. She knows what this marriage means. You’ll get through tomorrow, and then you can return to pretending to hate politics.”

“I was fine,” Jaime snapped. “Content with life. My white cloak, my sword. Her. I didn’t ask for this.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “You mean Cersei?”

Jaime didn’t answer. He looked away, jaw clenching, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“She’ll be at the feast tomorrow,” Tyrion added quietly. “And by the look of things, she’s not what Father expected.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped to him. “What do you mean?”

Tyrion’s smile was slow, knowing. “You’ll see.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Morning came too quickly.

The halls of the Red Keep were transformed, the stone corridors draped in sweeping banners of Tully blue and burgundy, braided together with Lannister red and gold. The colors twisted in perfect harmony—rivers and lions bound in silk—a symbol of alliance, though few would dare call it love. It was beautiful, undeniably so, and that alone was enough to sour Cersei’s mood. She watched from her place near the dais, her jaw clenched behind a forced smile, envy roiling beneath the surface. You were all anyone spoke of. No one had seen the youngest Tully since girlhood, and now here you were—grown, radiant, untouched by time or scandal. Some whispered that your beauty rivaled hers. Others said it surpassed it.

Your hair was a striking Tully red—brighter than Catelyn’s, longer than Lysa’s—and it shimmered like copper fire in the sunlight spilling through the stained glass. Your eyes, soft sea-blue with a ring of storm grey, carried the hush of deep water. You looked like a memory come to life. And gods, you were perfect.

Jaime stood at the end of the hall, stiff and irritable beneath layers of polished gold. He looked like a knight carved from sunlight—handsome, proud, and visibly annoyed by the fanfare. But when the horns sounded and the guests rose, when the great oak doors creaked open, and you stepped into the light of the throne room—

Even he went still.

You walked slowly, unbothered by the weight of every eye in the hall. Your gown was a vibrant blue, soft but rich in color, stitched with fine silver thread. It hugged your form, dipping low across your chest where a silver trout gleamed at the center of your bodice. You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they were beautiful, but carried it like a secret rather than a weapon.

You paused when you saw him—your betrothed.

Your eyes met his across the distance. He was taller than you remembered. Sharper. Golden. He looked nothing like the boy you once glimpsed from afar.

“His eyes are… sorta kind,” you murmured to the maiden at your side.

“He’s the Kingslayer,” she whispered with a smirk. “And more handsome than I imagined.”

“He looks… bright,” you said softly, as if the word surprised you.

“Well, he’s your husband now,” she teased.

Jaime stepped forward as you neared, every movement rehearsed, mechanical. He reached for your hand, but before his fingers could graze yours, you laughed—low and warm, barely above a whisper, and yet it echoed in his ears.

“No need to be so formal, Ser Jaime,” you said, your voice sweet as summer wine. “You don’t need to kiss my hand.”

He faltered, blinking at you like you’d struck him. Something in your softness stunned him. You weren’t cold. You weren’t haughty. You weren’t what he feared.

You smiled at him—genuine and quiet.

And for the first time that morning, he didn’t know what to say.

“You grew,” Jaime said, eyes trailing over you with quiet disbelief, like he still expected the child from long ago to emerge beneath the silk and ceremony.

You tilted your head, grinning. “Well, I’m not the sniveling girl you saw clinging to Edmure’s leg at your sister’s wedding.”

You giggled then, the sound light and sweet. “Cersei looked beautiful that day.”

He smiled at the memory, despite himself. He remembered you now—the way you’d peeked out from behind your brother’s cloak, wide-eyed and wary, flinching every time the crowd roared too loud. A little thing in pale blue, red hair in tangled ribbons, constantly twisting your fingers. Barely old enough to speak in full sentences.

“And what were you so afraid of?” Jaime asked, amusement tugging at his lips.

You leaned closer, your breath brushing his shoulder, smiling too brightly—too kindly—for a girl about to marry a man the realm called Kingslayer.

“In truth?” you whispered. “Your steed. That damned horse of yours.”

He blinked. “My horse?”

A bark of laughter escaped him, far louder than he meant. Heads turned. The hall fell quiet. Cersei’s eyes narrowed from the dais. But you only beamed up at him, utterly unbothered.

“Gods, yes,” you said with a playful grimace. “A creature that large, able to kill me simply by twitching wrong? That is no friend of mine. I’ve never learned to ride. I don’t wish to. I’m quite sure they hate me as much as I hate them.”

“You hate horses,” Jaime said, still grinning, voice lowered now. “You’re marrying a knight and you hate horses.”

You laughed again, musical and unbothered. “I adore fish. Small, harmless, until they’re not. I grew up beside the river, not in a stable. A trout is a far nobler beast, in my opinion.”

He looked at you—really looked—and something in his chest shifted.

Because this wasn’t the marriage he expected.

You weren’t trembling. You weren’t bitter. You were soft and bright and quietly strange in a way that unsettled him and gods help him, he was starting to like it.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Jaime said with a short nod, offering his arm.

You placed your hand there softly, your fingers light against the hard muscle beneath his crimson sleeve. He began walking, slow and measured, the two of you moving through the corridor toward the sept, steps echoing beneath vaulted stone.

“The wedding,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter than before, “as you so adamantly requested, has now become a documented contract—signed, sealed, and quite literally paraded before the realm.”

You turned your face slightly toward him, your smile warm, but edged with mischief. “Well yes, I assumed your disdain at being plucked from the Kingsguard would sour any desire to celebrate being tethered to the trout girl.”

You said it lightly, teasing, but your voice never lost its softness. “Edmure told me—very firmly—not to mention cloaks, kings, or guards. I fear if I so much as say the word ‘oath,’ he’ll emerge from the stone itself to strangle me.”

That pulled the smallest laugh from Jaime, short and genuine.

“I’m a big boy,” he said. “I don’t need you to temper my mood.”

You smiled gently, eyes forward now. “I know. But still… it’s alright to grieve. To mourn what you’ve lost. I don’t fault you for that. I wouldn’t even blame you if you chose to walk away—if you rejected all of this. I wouldn’t be angry.”

The words hung between you for a moment, too tender, too real.

Jaime’s jaw shifted. He looked down at you, not with pity or coldness, but something quieter. Something harder to name.

“I would never dishonor you,” he said simply.

And in that vow, however soft, was the first crack in the armor he wore far beneath his gold.

“Ahhh! My little trout girl!” Robert’s voice boomed across the hall, slurred and far too loud for the closeness of the space. He barreled forward, flushed from drink and grinning like a man half his age, and before Jaime could so much as blink, the king had snatched you from his side.

You squealed with laughter, caught off guard by the sheer force of the man’s affection. “Robbie!” you gasped, eyes bright, arms barely catching around his barrel chest.

He hugged you tight, swaying slightly, then leaned back to grin at you as if you were some long-lost treasure he’d only just remembered. “Beautiful trout! Gods, look at you. Go on—go! Jon’s been begging to see you. Poor lad’s near chewed my ear off. You know how he gets.”

You looked past the king’s shoulder and saw Jon Arryn seated in the corner of the hall, watching you with a warm, expectant gaze. You nodded quickly, touched by the thought. As you moved to pull away, your eyes found Jaime’s again across the crowd—his smile small, real, and caught half behind his hand.

Robert clapped Jaime hard on the back—twice. The kind of blow that rattled armor.

“You married a good one,” Robert said, voice thick with wine and sentiment. “I thought for certain she’d be a Stark, you know. Madly in love with Benjen. Gods, he loved her too. Quiet boy, but fierce where it counted. I remember her first kiss to him—”

“I rather don’t care,” Jaime cut in, tone cool but even. “She’s my wife now. Whatever came before me is her own. Just as I had a life before her.”

Robert blinked, then let out a loud, wheezing chuckle. “Aye. Fair enough, fair enough.” He smacked Jaime’s back again, even harder this time, before staggering off toward another cask.

Jaime stood still for a moment, watching you slip through the crowd toward Jon Arryn. Your laughter trailed behind you, soft and clear.

And yet… Robert’s words lingered like smoke in Jaime’s chest. “The North has a way of bringing up old feelings.”

Now you both stood in the center of the hall, the contract signed, the rites spoken, the knots tied. A simple union, formalized before the realm with only the faintest brush of ceremony—no silken bedding speeches, no wild fanfare, no drunken debauchery. Just you and Jaime, side by side beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Red Keep, the air heavy with roses and smoke, the murmurs of lords and ladies still echoing along the stone.

You were now Lady Lannister.

A soft tune played from the minstrels’ corner, delicate and low, and he led you into the first dance with hesitant fingers resting at your waist. You moved like water—effortless, light. You smelled of wildflowers and river reeds warmed by sunlight, of quiet summer mornings along the banks of the Trident. You didn’t cling to him or press too close. Your hand at the nape of his neck was soft, steady—nothing like Cersei’s sharpened claws and possessive touch. It unsettled him, that gentleness. How it made him ache.

“You’d make a fine Lord Tully,” you said, eyes sparkling. “A golden-haired fisherman. A beard would suit you, I think. And longer hair to shield you from the summer sun.”

He snorted—an inelegant, surprised sound. “A Tully?” he repeated with a smirk.

You grinned up at him, spinning just slightly beneath his arm. “A quiet life. Far from court. Far from lions and crowns and whispered plots. It’s what most girls dream of when they marry, you know. Not power. Peace.”

Your words were sweet, light—but they landed heavy.

He looked down at you, your face tilted toward his, your smile still resting there like it belonged. You weren’t scheming. You weren’t pretending. You meant it.

And for one strange moment, Jaime found himself picturing it. A river keep. A slower life. Your hand still in his.

“And what do you dream of?” he asked, his voice low.

Your smile turned wistful, eyes drifting past his shoulder. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

The music lingered soft around you, the low hum of harp strings wrapping gently through the air as you turned beneath Jaime’s hand, laughing quietly at something only the two of you could hear. He was smiling—truly smiling—for the first time that night, the corners of his mouth soft and unguarded, as if, for once, he had stopped bracing for the weight of expectation.

Then she came.

Cersei moved through the hall like a storm cloaked in silk—green velvet clinging to every curve, golden hair piled high, eyes glittering with something colder than envy. She stopped just beside you, her hand gliding over Jaime’s arm with practiced familiarity.

“May I steal my brother for a moment?” she asked sweetly, her smile anything but.

You didn’t flinch. You turned to her, your face open and kind, too kind for someone so clearly being challenged.

“Of course, my Queen,” you said gently, bowing your head with grace honed from years at Riverrun. Before stepping back, you gave Jaime’s hand the smallest squeeze—a silent farewell, and perhaps, a warning.

You disappeared into the crowd, and the space between them collapsed like a trap sprung shut.

“Only one day,” Cersei hissed, stepping in close, her breath hot against his cheek, “and you’ve already forgotten you were in my cunt.”

Jaime stiffened, color rising to his face. “Stop,” he said low. “No one’s forgotten.”

Her hand slid across his chest, possessive, venomous. “Your hand was on her back, lower and lower. Her fingers at your neck like she already knows what makes you weak. And tonight, you’ll bed her, won’t you?”

Her voice cracked with restrained fury.

“Will you think of me?” she asked, voice quieter now. “When she breathes your name? When her legs wrap around you? When she gasps and you have to pretend she feels like home?”

Jaime closed his eyes for just a moment. And in the smallest, most broken whisper, he said “Of course. Of course I will.”

But even as he spoke it, he turned to look back through the crowd, trying to find the river girl in blue.

And he hated himself for how much he already missed your hand.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The fire burned low in the hearth, its golden light casting soft shadows across the stone walls of the wedding chamber. The room smelled of sandalwood and rose oil, and the silence that stretched between you both was fragile—heavy with unspoken thoughts, sharpened by expectation.

Jaime moved first.

His lips found yours with no warning, mouth hot and desperate, hands framing your face as if he feared you might vanish. It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t elegant. It was hungry, wild with need. He kissed you like a man drowning, like he needed your mouth to breathe.

“Jaime—Jaime,” you gasped between kisses, your palms pressing gently against his chest, breath caught somewhere between surprise and laughter.

He stilled, forehead brushing yours, panting.

“Wait,” you said softly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go slow. We have all our lives to be quick and hungry.”

Your fingers moved with care, tugging at the laces of his shirt, easing the fabric back from his shoulders until his skin was bare beneath the firelight. “Unless,” you said with a crooked smile, “you’re ready to get this over with?”

“No,” he said at once, voice rough. “No—gods, no.” He looked away, jaw flexing like he didn’t trust himself to say more.

You stepped back, wordless, and let your gown fall from your shoulders.

The silk pooled at your feet with a whisper, and the chill of the chamber kissed your skin. You stood bare before him, chest rising slowly, heart thudding, but you did not hide. There was something reverent in your stillness. Something brave.

“I am a maiden,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “And I wish my first time to be slow. Gentle. And full of love.” You paused, meeting his eyes. “Even if it is only for one night, Ser Jaime.”

Your smile was the kind that wrecked men—gentle, sure, and aching. Jaime stared at you like he’d never seen something so painfully real. And then, with trembling hands, he reached for you—not as a conqueror, but as a man humbled.

“Then slow,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “And gentle. And like love.”

He kissed you slow, the back of your legs meet the bed. Teasingly, you crawled back, your eyes low full of want. He grabbed your ankle, yanking towards him. “Let me taste you, River girl.” You bit your lip, nodding too eagerly.

His mouth was hot, reverent, and far too patient.

He kissed the inside of your thigh first—once, then again, slower the second time, his stubble scraping softly against your skin. His hands kept you open, gentle but firm, and he watched you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like awe. Like hunger smothered beneath restraint. When he lowered himself fully, breath ghosting over your most delicate place, you barely had time to brace before his mouth found you.

He kissed your clit like it was his, like he’d done it before in dreams and now meant to do it right—slowly. His tongue dragged across you, lazy and deliberate, not searching for the peak but drawing it out, warming you with long, wet strokes that made your thighs tremble around his head.

You gasped, spine arching off the mattress.

“Gods—” the word spilled from your lips in a breathless cry, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting tight in those golden strands. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

That made him groan—deeply—the sound sending a pulse through your whole body. He pressed his mouth harder against you, tongue flattening, circling, teasing the sensitive pearl with slow, worshipful flicks that had your hips lifting, grinding softly, needing more.

He didn’t give you more. Not yet.

He licked you through every twitch and gasp, lips dragging over the slick heat of you, soft and wet and sloppy, so soaked from his tongue alone that he had to drag his hand down and part you again, groaning when he felt how much you gave him.

“You taste like summer,” he murmured against you, voice thick, drunk on you. “Sweet river girl.”

Then he went back to it—louder now, messier. His mouth moved with open hunger, tongue pressing, sucking, flicking faster, then easing back just enough to hear you whine. You were soaked down your thighs, clenching at nothing, thighs quivering, head tossing back on the pillow.

You felt wild beneath him—shaking, panting, begging—but he just held you still, thumbs stroking circles into your hips like he had all night to ruin you slowly.

“Jaime—Jaime, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking, your hand reaching for anything, for him, dragging his name from your throat like a prayer.

And still—he didn’t stop.

His mouth was soaked with you—chin glistening, lips slick, breath ragged as he buried his face deeper between your thighs like he couldn’t get close enough. His tongue moved in filthy, wet strokes now, no longer gentle, no longer teasing. He was feasting on you, devouring every whimper, every twitch, every cry of his name like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

When he sucked hard—right on the clit—you cried out, body jerking like he’d struck some hidden nerve. Your thighs tried to close, to squirm away, but his arms locked you in place. His grip was tight now, possessive, dragging your hips closer to his mouth, forcing you to stay open for every soft, wet suck and every obscene lick he gave you. He was messy with it—his tongue flicking fast and eager, his nose pressed against the soft heat of you, and gods, he was moaning into you now, low and rough and wrecked.

“This your first time coming?” he groaned, voice muffled, lips dragging over your swollen pearl. “On my tongue?”

You nodded frantically, hands pulling at his hair, back arched off the bed, desperate and close and wild.

“Yes! Gods—yes,” you whimpered, your voice barely human.

That did something to him—broke something. He growled low in his throat and sucked again, harder this time, his tongue working you over like he wanted to brand the feeling of him into your body forever. Sloppy, filthy, perfect—his mouth sliding against your soaked folds, his tongue curling up to catch every drop of you like he was starving.

Your body locked up—legs trembling, belly tightening, breath catching in your chest—and when your release hit, it hit like a wave crashing over stone.

You screamed.

Your thighs clamped around his head, hands fisting tight in his hair as your hips bucked, and he didn’t stop. Not for a second. He moaned as you came, mouth still moving, still kissing you through it, drinking you down with feverish, worshipful hunger. He let you ride it, every spasm, every broken cry, until you were limp beneath him—shaking, gasping, soaked and ruined.

He pulled back slowly, face wet, chest heaving.

“Sweet gods,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “I could die with that taste on my tongue.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, your body still trembling from the force of it.

Jaime hovered over you, his body taut with restraint, golden hair tousled, lips still wet with your release. His tunic was discarded long ago, leaving him bare to the waist, muscles flexed as he braced himself on either side of you. But it was your movement—slow and sinfully deliberate—that shattered what control he had left.

Your legs curled around his hips, and your body arched, grinding up against the hot, heavy length of him—bare now, pressed against your soaked entrance but not yet inside. The heat of you dragged along him with every slow roll of your hips, and the friction made his breath stutter, made his arms shake.

“Gods,” he hissed through clenched teeth, dropping his head against your shoulder. “What are you doing to me…already ruining me with those sweet whines”

Your hands threaded into his hair, your lips brushing his ear as you rocked again, the tip of him dragging through the slick mess between your thighs. Not quite entering—teasing. Coating him. Driving him mad.

“I want it to feel real,” you whispered, voice trembling. “All of you. All of this.”

He grunted—deep, guttural—the sound scraping from somewhere low in his chest. You rolled again, slower this time, your clit catching just beneath the ridge of him, and his hips jerked like he couldn’t help it.

“Seven hells,” he groaned, breath shuddering against your neck. “I’ve never—”

He cut himself off, teeth gritting.

“Never had someone like this. Needy for me. Wanting me like this.”

Your mouth kissed along his jaw, soft and slow. “I need you, Jaime,” you whispered. “Please.”

He pulled back to look at you then, eyes burning, his hands moving to grip your hips like he was anchoring himself. The tip of him nudged against you, almost there, his breath ragged.

“Say it again,” he said hoarsely. “Say you need me.”

“I need you.”

“Then gods forgive me,” he whispered, and he pushed in—slow, every inch of him pressing through slick heat, stretching you open until he was fully seated inside, thick and deep and shaking above you.

Your gasp tore into his mouth as he kissed you—desperate, messy, teeth catching on lips, both of you groaning as your hips adjusted to each other.

He started to move—long, slow thrusts that dragged against every inch of your trembling walls. His forehead rested against yours, his hands everywhere—cupping your cheek, gripping your waist, brushing your breast, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.

“You feel like godsdamned heaven,” he groaned. “You were made for me.” He lost himself the moment he sank into you.

There was no grace left in him—not with how warm and soaked you were, how your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for him all along. His first thrust was deep, sloppy, too rough for the tenderness he’d promised, and your gasp shattered between his lips as his hips slammed flush to yours, the sound of it loud and filthy in the quiet of the chamber.

He moaned—loudly—his head dropping to your shoulder, golden hair clinging to his brow as he fought to breathe.

“Fuck—gods, you feel—you feel like sin,” he groaned, grinding deep into your soaked cunt, hips jerking as your walls fluttered around him, wet and eager.

You cried out beneath him, your nails digging into his back, your legs locked high around his waist as you pulled him back in.

He fucked you hard—messy and fast, every thrust sloppy with wet sounds, your slick dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Your skin slapped together again and again as he pounded into you like he couldn’t stand the thought of ever leaving your body. Sweat slicked between you. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, your breast—kissing, biting, claiming.

“You’ll only have me,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hands cupping his face as he fucked you through another wave of pleasure.

His hand slammed against the headboard, gripping it like a man trying to hold on to reason, while the other arm wrapped tight beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip, spreading you wider, deeper. His strokes were brutal now—filthy and fast, wet and relentless, your slick coating his cock, his thighs, the bed beneath you both. The sound of him inside you—flesh slapping flesh, the obscene squelch of every thrust—filled the chamber louder than the fire crackling at your side.

He groaned—loudly—his head dropping low as he watched himself disappear into you again and again, jaw clenched so tight it looked like pain.

He groaned like you’d struck him in the gut, his head snapping up, gold hair sticking to his sweat-drenched brow.

“It’s just you,” he growled. “Only you—gods, my wife—my sweet river girl.”

He bent low, lips finding yours, kissing you hard as he fucked you harder. One hand still braced on the headboard, the other still locked tight around your thigh, holding you in place as he drilled into you with fevered, soaking thrusts. You could hear how wet you were for him—hear it every time his cock slammed back in, thick and heavy, stretching you until your toes curled.

He was trembling now, breath stuttering, voice broken with need.

“So close—so fucking close—gods, tell me you want it—tell me you want me to fill you.”

You nodded fast, clutching at him, gasping against his lips. “I want it—I want you. Give it to me, Jaime—please—please.”

Jaime was shaking above you now—truly shaking, his muscles flexed and locked as he thrust into you with desperate, brutal rhythm, like every inch inside you dragged him closer to the edge of sanity. His hand stayed clenched around the headboard, the wood creaking with each slam of his hips, while the other hand gripped your thigh so tightly your skin ached. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, even as sweat dripped from his temples, even as his jaw tensed like he was in pain from holding back.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” he groaned, his voice breaking into something feral.

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, back arching, your hands clawing at his waist, at his arms, at anything. “Jaime—please—please give it to me.”

That ruined him.

“Gods,” he gasped, voice raw, wrecked. “You want it? My wife—my sweet, wet little thing—beg me.”

“I’m begging,” you sobbed, your thighs trembling, your body soaked and aching from how deep he was buried. “I want you—I want all of it—please, inside—inside me, Jaime—please—please—”

He slammed into you hard, once, twice, then froze.

And then he broke.

His whole body locked above you, his abs tightening, his teeth bared as the first hot, violent spurt of his release spilled into you. He growled—the sound harsh and stunned—like it hurt to finally let go. His cock jerked inside you, pulse after pulse, pumping you full, soaking you from the inside out as your walls clenched and fluttered around him, milking every last drop of him.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” he choked, trembling through it, voice high, nearly frantic. “So good—so good—I’ve never—never—gods, I can feel it.”

You moaned beneath him, body curling into his, your cunt so sensitive, so wet from everything he gave you that you could feel his seed leak out before he’d even stopped moving.

But he wasn’t done.

He kept thrusting—slow, now—shallow and filthy, pushing his cum deeper inside you, hips still twitching as his body rode the last waves of his climax.

“You wanted this,” he panted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You took it so well—so greedy for it—gods, I don’t want to pull out.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, your voice soft and ruined. “Stay in me. Fill me again.”

He kissed you—open-mouthed, messy, desperate—and nodded.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispered against your lips. “Everything.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The night crept in slow and heavy, the fire in the hearth reduced to a bed of glowing coals. Shadows danced faintly across the walls of the wedding chamber, long and soft, curling like tendrils across the stone. The air smelled of sweat and sex and sweet rose oil—the scent of a marriage not only sealed, but consumed.

You lay sprawled atop him, your cheek against his chest, his arm draped around your waist with the lazy weight of a man too exhausted to pretend anymore. His hand rested just above the curve of your hip, fingers twitching now and then, as if even in sleep he refused to let go of you. His other hand was tangled in your hair, thumb stroking absently over your scalp. Jaime’s breath was slow. Deep. Peaceful.

Neither of you stirred when the chamber door cracked open.

Cersei moved like a ghost. Silent. Cloaked in black. She had waited for hours. Waited until the moon was high, until the maester had finished his whispers and returned to the Keep, until the guards had yawned and shifted, their attention dulled by late hour and too much wine. She’d spoken to the maidens, all of them. Each said the same thing.

He never left.

She had demanded truth from the steward. From the servants who passed the chamber door. One claimed she’d heard laughter—low and warm—and then quiet murmurs, like lovers breathing each other in.

Now, here she stood. At the edge of the bed.

Watching.

Your red hair spilled like wine across Jaime’s bare chest, one of your legs curled possessively over his. The covers had fallen to his hips, revealing the flush of his skin, the shine of dried sweat still lingering across his abdomen. The mark of you.

Cersei didn’t blink. Her jaw clenched.

You looked soft in sleep. Disarmed. Not like the clever, smiling thing that had teased him in the hall or bowed so sweetly when she asked to cut in. No. Now you looked his. And worse still—he looked yours.

His arm was wrapped around you like instinct. Not habit. Not performance.

“You fool,” she whispered, so quiet it barely left her lips. “You gave yourself away.”

She didn’t cry. Not yet. She only stared.

Because for all the things she’d feared… nothing had prepared her for this. For the way Jaime held you in his sleep. Like you were peace. Like you were home.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You quickened faster than anyone expected.

The court had only just settled into the comfort of your union when whispers began to spread like ivy between pillars. At first, it was idle talk—sidelong glances at your fuller face, murmurs about how often Ser Jaime’s hand rested at the small of your back, the way his eyes trailed you when you left the room. But by the end of the second moon, the whispers grew teeth. By the third, your gowns—once effortlessly elegant—had begun to shift, your corsets laced looser, your silhouette softening in ways no feast could explain. By the fourth moon, it was undeniable: Lady Lannister was with child.

And Cersei Lannister hated you for it.

She hated you with a venom that festered behind her smile, behind every forced curtsy and every cordial greeting. She watched you across the great hall with wine in her hand and acid in her throat. Watched the way Jaime drifted toward you like gravity itself bent for your comfort. Watched how your hands found his without needing to search. How you smiled up at him, and he smiled down. Always down—softly, privately, like no one else was in the room.

She saw the way his hand slipped around your waist as you walked, how his thumb sometimes brushed over the small swell of your belly like he was trying to remember it, trying to feel the child even before it moved. She watched the way he kissed your temple, your cheek, your hair, in moments no one else seemed to notice—but she did. She always noticed.

It wasn’t just the touch. It wasn’t just the tenderness.

It was the quiet. She could live with passion. She knew how to match fire with fire. But what you and Jaime shared was worse—it was peaceful. It was domestic. It was real.

And then came the moment that undid her.

You were seated together, not even touching—just speaking in low voices, Jaime’s golden head bowed slightly toward yours. You laughed gently, tilting your head with that same unbearable grace you carried everywhere.

“Fisherman Tully,” you teased, a whisper she heard clear as bells. “Still no beard. Still no boat. I suppose I’ll have to keep you.”

Jaime’s smile bloomed slow and warm. He reached for you, fingers cupping your face like it was made of something delicate and rare. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, and he leaned forward until your brows nearly touched.

“Gods help me,” he said, “but I would fish for you.” You flushed, glowing like hearthlight.

Cersei flinched. Physically. She felt it—sharp and hot in her chest, like a brand pressed beneath her ribs.

She turned away quickly, biting down on her wine cup so hard her lip bled. The worst part? You weren’t trying. You weren’t flaunting anything. You were simply… loved. Gently, openly, and without need for performance. She had been everything to him once. And now she was nothing more than his sister.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

It was eight moons into your marriage, and you were round with child—visibly, proudly, undeniably his. Your walk had slowed, your steps heavy with life, but none of that stopped him. Not when you looked at him the way you did. Not when your voice dipped low and teasing, when your fingers brushed his wrist at supper, when you whispered something sweet behind your cup and he smiled like a man undone.

That night, you didn’t make it to the wedding chambers. You barely made it past the corridor.

Cersei had turned a corner in time to see it all—the two of you tangled against the stone wall, just past the curve of the gallery arch, torchlight flickering against golden armor and sapphire silk. Jaime’s hands were on you already—everywhere—gripping beneath your thighs, lifting you as if your swollen belly weighed nothing at all. Your skirts were bunched up around your hips, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, his mouth crushed to yours in a kiss so hungry it bordered on violence.

She froze.

You moaned into his mouth, breathless and soft, and his groan followed—low, guttural, wrecked.

“I couldn’t wait—fuck, I couldn’t wait,” he gasped, pinning you harder against the wall, grinding into you, still fully clothed but undone just enough to thrust deep inside you with wet, obscene sounds that echoed off the stone.

“Jaime—gods, Jaime,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, head thrown back as he buried himself again. “You shouldn’t—someone could see—”

“Let them,” he grunted. “Let them see you like this. Round with my child, moaning for me, taking me like you were made for it.”

Cersei couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Her heart slammed in her chest as she stood in the shadows—watching.

You gasped when he shifted, lifting you higher, your hands flying to his hair as he thrust up into you, messy and deep, the wet sounds between your bodies so lewd, so filthy, it felt like a spell had been cast in the corridor.

“When you have this one,” he groaned against your neck, “my firstborn—you’ll give me another. Gods, I don’t care what it is. Boy, girl—doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s ours.”

You sobbed softly, legs trembling around his hips.

“You’ll give me three,” he growled. “Four. Fill this keep with little lions that look like you.”

His hand slid to your belly as he fucked you against the stone, reverent and obsessed, his moans growing louder with every thrust, every squeeze of your soaked walls around him. And Cersei—Cersei—stood there hearing it all.

Her fingers shook at her sides. Her mouth opened, but nothing came. Because he already had three children—her children. A son with her jaw. Another with her smile. A daughter named for a dead woman he never even loved.

And he had never said those words to her. Not once.

Not when Joffrey was born. Not when Myrcella wrapped her tiny fingers around his. Not even when Tommen cried in his arms.

“My wife,” he moaned into your mouth. “My sweet river girl.”

Cersei turned away, tears burning, rage swallowing her whole. She needs control, she needed him back.

The next morning came slow and gray, with a hush over the Keep as though the stones themselves were holding their breath.

Cersei waited in the covered walk outside the training yard, where the sun barely touched the stone. She wore no crown, no paint on her lips—only fur draped over her shoulders and her golden hair braided back from her face the way she wore it when she wanted to be disarming. A picture of softness. The illusion of warmth. But there was cold behind her eyes.

She had sent for him before breakfast, a single note with no seal. Jaime had hesitated, standing at the window with the parchment still open in his hand, your body asleep in the bed behind him, belly round beneath furs and sunlight. He didn’t want to leave. But old habits—old loyalties—dragged him from the room.

He found her as she always was when she meant to twist him—silent, poised, patient.

“You look tired,” Cersei said quietly as he approached. Her voice was gentle, too much so. “Is the little trout keeping you up?”

He said nothing at first, just clenched his jaw and stepped into the shadowed arch with her.

“She stirs often,” he said at last. “The child moves a great deal.”

“Hmm,” Cersei hummed, her eyes trailing to his chest, where the collar of his tunic was still crooked from your hands. “That happens in the late moons. They grow restless. Kicking. Turning. Demanding.”

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

“Has she ever tended a newborn?” she asked, voice light. “Has she seen one gasp for breath with blood still wet between its legs? Or does she think it will arrive sweet and silent, cooing like the doves in her window?”

He glanced at her, a flicker of warning in his eyes. “Why are you saying this?”

Cersei smiled, slow and tired. “Because I remember what it cost to be a mother. You forget. You weren’t there.”

“I wanted to be,” he said.

“And yet you weren’t.”

That silence stretched between them like a blade. She circled him slowly, fingers brushing his arm, his shoulder—touches she used to command him with. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean in.

“You were never made for this, Jaime,” she murmured. “Not for quiet. Not for softness. You are steel. You were born with a sword in your hand and a war in your name.”

He looked away.

“She’ll find out what you are,” Cersei continued, voice like honey and ash. “Not a father. Not a husband. Just a lion with his claws clipped, trying to play house with a girl who dreams of rivers and names her belly love.”

Jaime said nothing. He stared past her. Until her voice lowered, sharper now, closer.

“Will she still smile when she sees what you’ve done? Will she call you Fisherman Tully when the blood runs dry in her sheets and the babe’s cries don’t stop for nights on end? Will she laugh when your patience fails?”

He turned then, something shifting in his face, but before he could speak— A voice echoed down the corridor.

“Oh! My fish!”

Jaime froze. His body turned instinctively toward the sound, and Cersei’s hand slipped from his arm like it had never belonged there at all.

You stood at the far end of the hall, wrapped in a simple cloak, your hair half-braided, loose strands curling around your cheeks. You moved slowly, carefully, but your smile—your smile was bright enough to chase away the fog of her voice.

“I thought you were at Robert’s door,” you said, breathless from the walk. “I missed you, I hate waking up without you.”

You waddled forward with one hand cradling your belly, the other reaching for him. Jaime met you halfway. Without thinking. Without hesitation. His hand slid around your waist, his lips brushed your temple, and his other hand instinctively covered the swell of your stomach like it belonged there.

Cersei watched it all, silent. Stone.

“What’s wrong?” you whispered up at him, your palm resting over his heart.

He exhaled slowly, then smiled—small and broken and true.

“Nothing, my river girl,” he murmured. “Just spoke with my sister. She always knows how to damper a mood.”

You tilted your head and chuckled gently. “That is what siblings are for. Edmure would purposely ruin my mood before my favorite meal.” You giggled.

You pressed your face against his chest, and he kissed the top of your head like he couldn’t bear to let go. Cersei turned then, the hem of her cloak snapping as she walked away—not fast, but hollow.

She had three children by him. She had given him a dynasty in secret. But you? You had his peace.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The moons passed faster than anyone could hold them.

Your daughter—Elia Lannister—was born just after dawn on a morning soaked in gold. The air had been warm that day, and the bells had rung not for death, but for life. A bright, shining life. The halls of the Red Keep had swelled with laughter, the scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, Jaime’s joy so radiant that even the oldest servants said they hadn’t seen him smile like that since he was a boy.

She was beautiful from the moment she was placed on your chest. Dark strawberry-blonde hair, soft as down, skin warm and flushed, her little eyes squinting up at the light as if even the world dared not blind her. She was loud, too—cried fiercely when she didn’t like the cold water or the way her father took too long to bundle her. But in your arms, she softened. And in Jaime’s arms, she shined.

He named her himself.

“Elia,” he whispered, holding her so carefully, his hand cradling her entire back. “Elia Lannister.”

You had blinked in surprise, but when you looked at his face—at the guilt and softness and something mournful buried beneath the pride—you said nothing. You only kissed his cheek and said,

“Then Elia she is.”

The first moon after her birth passed in warmth and quiet joy. You healed slowly, the maester pleased with your progress, your appetite returning, your sleep only interrupted by Elia’s whimpers in the night. Jaime was often there, even when he had duties. He’d return to find her in your arms, asleep against your breast, and he’d kneel beside the bed just to press his lips to her hair.

“You’ve made me into something else,” he whispered to you once, late at night, when the fire had burned low. “Something I never thought I could be.”

But peace in the Red Keep never lasted long.

In the second moon, the winds shifted.

Whispers crept through the corridors—nothing certain, nothing official. Then came the messenger ravens from the Vale, then the locked doors, the urgent meetings. Then came the silence.

Jaime was called away more frequently. He never told you much when he returned, only that the King was restless, that Cersei had taken to pacing the halls again at night, that something was coming. And still, you tried to keep your world small. Focused. Your child. Your husband. The sound of Elia’s breathing as she napped on your chest. The smell of pine oil and old wood in the nursery.

Then, near the end of the second moon—

The bells rang again.

But not for life this time.

Not for joy.

They rang for death.

Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Warden of the East, was dead.

The announcement echoed through the Keep with a force that made the tapestries tremble. You had just laid Elia down in her crib when the thunderous chime struck, and you felt it in your chest before you even heard the words.

Jaime came to you that night with his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.

He looked older than he had the day before.

“He’s dead,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your nightdress, your hair braided loosely down your back. Elia stirred in the cradle, but did not cry.

“So it begins,” you whispered. And it did.

Everything moved quickly after that. Too quickly. Faster than a new mother could bear. Faster than a husband could stand.

Robert demanded a feast. He demanded new banners be sewn. He demanded Ned Stark. The North was to send its wolf to court.

And Jaime? Jaime didn’t leave your side that night. Not once. “The world is spinning,” he said, lying beside you, his hand on your belly where Elia once rested.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The corridor outside your chambers had barely gone silent when Jaime threw the door open without knocking. He was seething, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides from the moment Robert left the council room. His words echoing,

“Congratulations on your babe,” Robert had said, voice booming with false warmth, “even though our congratulations are short-lived. I need you to travel north with me. We leave at the turn of the first moon.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. And Jaime had no say in the matter.

By the time he reached your chambers, the wet nurse had taken Elia for her night feeding. You hated the arrangement, loathed the distance, but Jaime had begged you to rest. Promised it would only be for a few nights. Promised he’d be near.

Now, he was.

The door shut hard behind him. Jaime kicked off his boots like a man starved of gentleness and made his way to your bed, where you’d just begun to drift into the first real sleep you’d had in days.

“Jaime?” you stirred softly.

He didn’t answer—not with words. He climbed into bed and reached for you with a need that bordered on desperation, mouth already pressing against yours, hard and fast.

“My fish—” you tried to speak, but he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands were warm and trembling slightly as they cupped your face.

“I’ve been deprived,” he groaned against your mouth, every word drenched in want. “The maester said you’ve healed. Tell me. Tell me you want me. Tell me I have permission to enter you…to feel you.”

His forehead rested against yours, breaths tangled, golden hair brushing your cheek. There was something unsteady in his voice, like he was trying not to fall apart.

“Of course you do,” you whispered, fingers threading into his hair.

But before the sentence could finish, he kissed you again—hungrier now. Mouth slanted over yours, swallowing every word, every breath. His hands roamed slowly, reverently, like he was rediscovering you inch by inch.

“I need you,” he murmured, voice breaking as his lips traced along your jaw. “Before they take me from this. From you. From the only thing that’s ever felt like home.”

You felt the weight of it then—not just lust, not just need. It was grief for the time you wouldn’t have. Fury that Robert was stealing him away, that duty still dragged him by the throat. And love. Gods, so much love it hurt to breathe through it. “What’s going on Jamie?” You whispered

Your legs tangled beneath the sheets as you pulled him closer.

The breath he let out—gutted, raw—hitched in his throat like it hurt to hold it. Jaime buried his face in your neck, his weight sinking down over you, one hand braced above your head on the carved wood of the bed, the other sliding beneath your thigh to hitch it up around his hip.

He wasn’t patient tonight.

His movements were frantic, but reverent. The kind of aching that only came from nights spent watching, waiting, too afraid to touch you while you healed, while your body ached from the beauty you brought into the world. Now, he had you—cleared by the maester, no longer fragile in the ways that had terrified him.

“Mine,” he whispered into your skin, dragging his mouth down your neck like a man who’d been parched for moons. “You’re mine—gods, tell me—say it.”

Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling gently. “Yours. Always yours.”

That broke something in him.

He groaned so softly it sounded like prayer, hips rolling as he found you again for the first time in weeks. The stretch drew a gasp from your throat, your spine arching under him. He cursed under his breath, forehead pressing to yours as he held still, just for a moment, trembling.

“Gods, you’re still so—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, only whimpered against your lips as your name fell from him like a sin.

You kissed him through it. Softly. Desperately. He tasted like longing, like a man running out of time.

He moved with aching tenderness at first—hips rocking, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing you. Then faster. Messier. His grip on your thigh tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pushed deeper, overwhelmed by the sounds you made, the way your hand slid down to feel where your bodies joined.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he breathed, jaw clenched, voice shaking. “I’ll—gods, I’ll lose it.”

You smiled, breathless. “Then lose it. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

He kissed you again, but this time he broke apart mid-kiss, the rhythm of his hips faltering.

“Say it again,” he gasped, panting into your mouth. “That I’m not going anywhere. That I can stay here. With you. That you love me.”

“I love you,” you said between the thrusts, each one deeper than the last. “I love you, Jaime. I love you—I’ll wait for you, but gods, I wish they didn’t have to take you.”

He moaned so loudly at that, shameless and desperate, his fingers curling into the headboard as he held himself above you. “I’ll give you another,” he gasped, mouth at your ear. “Another child, I swear it—Elia won’t be the only one—”

Fucking gods—” he groaned into your mouth, voice hoarse and broken. “Missed you—missed this—missed you, my sweet girl, my fish—”

You whimpered into him, nails dragging down his back as he pressed you into the mattress, pace already desperate. He couldn’t hold still. Couldn’t think. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your breast, your thigh slung high around his hip as he ground deep, chasing that ache that had haunted him every night he lay alone in his chambers.

“Say it,” he gasped. “Say you missed me. Say you’re mine.”

“I missed you,” you whispered between moans, lips swollen, eyes wet. “I’m yours, Jaime—I’ve always been yours.”

His groan cracked in his throat. He kissed you too hard, too fast, teeth knocking together before he dragged his mouth down to your jaw, your neck, sucking until you gasped and clung to him tighter. Every thrust was sloppy, hungry, his forehead pressed against yours as he rutted into you like a man starving.

“Come with me,” he begged, voice shaking. “To the North—fuck—I’ll take you with me, Elia too, we’ll ride behind Robert—I’ll get a carriage, I’ll—gods, please.”

“Jaime—” you tried, but he didn’t let you finish.

“You hate the wet nurse,” he groaned, dragging his hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit. “And I can’t sleep without you, I—need you.”

You were pulsing around him now, your walls fluttering tight. He felt it, nearly collapsed from it.

“Say yes,” he moaned, losing all rhythm. “Say yes, fuck, please—I’ll keep you warm, I’ll build you a bath from snow and rocks if I have to, just—just don’t stay behind.”

Your lips trembled. “I’m scared to travel with her so young.”

“Then let me carry her. I’ll do it all—fuck, I’ll wear her on my chest like a milkmaid if it means you’ll come. Just don’t—don’t leave me here like this.”

He was close, so close, fucking into you like he could drag the answer from your body. You clung to him, kissed him, moaned his name with every breath.

“Please come,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his mouth crushed to your cheek. “I can’t leave without you.”

That was when you tightened, crying out his name as the pleasure crashed over you—hot and helpless, thighs trembling around his hips as he pushed as deep as he could and spilled into you with a moan that nearly broke you in two.

He didn’t move after. Just held you there, buried inside, shaking from the force of it.

“I’ll ask Robert,” he whispered, breathless. “I’ll beg him if I have to.”

Your hands brushed his hair back. Your legs were around his waist, ankles crossed behind him as he drove into you with rough, trembling thrusts. He was everywhere—breath on your neck, hand fisting the headboard, the other holding your thigh so tight it’d bruise. The bed creaked loud, rhythm uneven, like he’d been denied for years not weeks.

“Say yes,” he groaned again, panting into your shoulder. “Say you’ll come north with me—say it—please gods say it—”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, dragging him closer as your hips tilted up to meet every thrust.

“I—Jaime—” you gasped, words caught on a moan as his cock hit deep, too deep, just the way you liked.

“Say it,” he begged again, voice cracking. “You—you’re mine, not Robert’s court, not this castle—me. Come with me. Let me keep you close—fuck—I can’t breathe without you.”

He was shaking. Desperate. The wet sounds of your bodies filled the room, your slick soaking his cock as he rutted harder, rougher, hips slapping into you with no grace left. Just need.

“I’ll build a tent,” he whispered wildly, biting your jaw. “A whole fucking tower of snow if I have to, just—say you’ll come. I’ll take Elia. I’ll guard you both with my fucking life, I swear it—”

“Yes,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I’ll go—Jaime—I’ll go with you—gods, don’t stop—” He groaned like a wounded animal. Everything in him buckled.

“Fuck, fuck, my girl,” he choked, kissing you like he was drowning, thrusts suddenly frantic, pace ruined. “You’ll come with me—you’ll stay with me—say it again—”

“Yes—yes—I said yes!” you sobbed against his lips, legs shaking as he drove you toward the edge.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck—my wife, my fucking wife—” You fell apart with a cry, pulsing so hard around him he nearly collapsed, fucking through your high with curses and whimpers. He didn’t last another second. “Mine—mine—mine,” he moaned, voice low and broken as he spilled into you with a sob, burying himself as deep as he could go. “You’re coming with me, sweet girl—you’re mine.”

When it was done, he didn’t move. Just lay there shaking, still inside you, whispering your name over and over.

“I’ll tell Robert tomorrow,” he said against your neck. “You’re coming with me. Our daughter too. We ride north… as a family.”

Your thighs still trembled as you curled against him, breath hot against his chest, one hand draped lazily over his heart. His seed still inside you, sticky and warm, a mess neither of you cared to clean yet. His body hadn’t moved far, still draped half over yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he gave you space.

“When do we leave?” you murmured, voice hoarse and soft, edged with the ache of being stretched for the first time in moons.

He sighed, almost guiltily, as he brushed sweat-slick hair from your cheek.

“A moon. Maybe two.” His voice was low, gentle now that the desperation had passed. “Preparing to ride north is no easy feat. Horses, wagons, guards—it’ll take five weeks just to reach Winterfell.”

You shifted under him, heart skipping, and he saw it in your eyes. The flicker of doubt, the ache of new motherhood, the fear of leaving the only home you’ve known—of dragging a baby through snow and dirt and gods-know-what. Your face faltered, just a little.

And he panicked.

“No—my girl,” he said quickly, voice breaking as he cupped your face again, kissed your lips like a promise. “Don’t take it back. Don’t let fear ruin what we just—don’t, please—”

You blinked, but he kept going, nose brushing yours, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“It’ll be comfortable. I swear it. I’ll make it so. You won’t lift a finger. I’ll get a nurse for Elia, extra cloaks, furs, a litter if I have to carry you both like queens.” He kissed you again. “You’ll have your own tent, with a fire. With blankets. With me. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Jaime—”

“No more courts. No more hiding. I want to fall asleep with you every night and wake up to Elia’s cry. I want to sit by a fire and brush your hair. I want to be a father in front of the world and call you mine without shame.”

Your fingers curled against his jaw.

“You’ll hate the cold,” you whispered, smiling faintly.

“I’d eat snow if it meant I could have you beside me.” He kissed your forehead, a different kind of reverent now. “Just… don’t leave me there. Don’t let them take you from me.”

You leaned up, kissing him slow and certain.

“I already said yes, didn’t I?” His eyes shut like that yes was a prayer.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The morning air clung soft and cool against the stone corridors, the hush of a castle slowly waking. You stood in the sun-drenched gallery near the window alcove, swaying gently with your babe in your arms—little Elia curled against your chest, drowsy from her morning feed, her fingers clutching your gown with milky satisfaction. You hummed under your breath, a river song your father used to sing on storm-heavy nights.

Your other hand rested low on your belly, already heavy with your second child.

A moon ago, you’d begun to swell again. Three moons after birthing Elia, and the gods had quickened you once more—much to the shock of the midwives and the rage that roiled behind Cersei’s perfect smile. You’d hardly left the birthing bed before Jaime had put another child in you. And it showed.

Your cheeks glowed, your skin dewed with that soft fullness that came with being wanted, kept, loved. Every corner of you was bloomed and softened. Jaime hadn’t stopped touching you since.

Tyrion, leaning on the edge of a carved table, raised his goblet with a smirk. “You know, you’re becoming quite the legend in court. Some say you’re carrying the fourth lion already. Others say you’re a witch who’s bewitched my brother.”

You smiled over Elia’s curls. “Only a fool would believe it took witchcraft. I simply loved him. That was enough.”

Tyrion hummed and toasted your honesty. “And he worships you for it. That’s rarer than magic in this place.”

From the far end of the gallery, Jaime stood listening—half-shadowed, arms crossed, his eyes not on Tyrion but you. The way you leaned into the light. The way your smile bloomed just for his brother. He trusted you, but still, something curled hot and green in his gut.

“Talking to our brother again?” Cersei’s voice cut like a blade. She’d come from the other hall, her steps soft as a snake. “You’ll see her old lover soon enough.”

Jaime didn’t look at her.

“She loved him to death,” Cersei continued, soft, serpentine. “Benjen Stark. The one who took the Black. She cried when he took the oath. I remember—gods, the way she wept.”

He finally turned. “Stop.”

She smiled, too wide. “What? You’ve knocked her up again—twice in one year, Jaime. Shouldn’t you know who you’re breeding with? Or would you rather be surprised if the next one’s born with Northern eyes?”

His jaw clenched. Across the room, your laugh floated up at something Tyrion had said, and Elia cooed.

“You’re vile,” Jaime said low.

“She’s a Tully,” Cersei hissed. “They drown in emotion. You think she’s forgotten him?”

But her words melted away when you looked over your shoulder, catching Jaime’s eye. Your smile was soft, tired, glowing. You mouthed something to him.

“Come”

He was already moving before Cersei even blinked.

He left her there, fuming behind her perfect hair, her hands clenched so tight the knuckles went white. She needed him back, she needed him to see that it was only her.

[serdunkalot]

Through Stone and Shadow

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen Cousin!Reader (ft. Aegon)

Description: You're a Targaryen princess with a dragon, a seat on the small council, and a hole in your wall that looks directly into the Crown Prince's chambers. You should seal it. You should forget what you've seen. You should definitely stop watching your cousin fuck his way through King's Landing's noblewomen.

But you don't. And when Jacaerys starts looking at you like he knows, like he's been waiting for you to break—well. That's when things get complicated.

Genre: voyeurism, jace likes to fook, he definitely knows you're watching, fucking your cousin (it's targaryens what did you expect), why does everyone want to marry him, angst with your hand between your thighs, oblivious pining except he's not oblivious at all, im not sorry, SLOW BURN, VERY VERY SLOW, he hasnt even kissed you and its been 30k words, that type of slow, why do u want to fuck. every cousin........... porn with heavy plot

WC: 28k (100k projected) also on ao3 (where it will be updated!)

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

You hadn't meant to discover the hole in the wall—a gap where the stone had crumbled between your chambers and his. It was small, barely the width of your  index and middle fingers, hidden behind the carved wooden screen that stood in the corner of your room. You'd only found it when you'd moved the screen aside to retrieve a dropped pearl earring, and there it was, a sliver of forbidden sight directly into the heir's private quarters.

You stared at it for a moment longer, crouched onto the floor with the pearl still in your palm.

Rotted mortar, you thought. Old stone. The Red Keep is falling apart in places no one bothers to look.

The right thing would have been to call for the servants, have it sealed with fresh mortar. To forget you'd ever seen it, like a proper lady would. 

That first night, however, curiosity won. Just a glance, you kept telling yourself. Just to see if it truly looked into Jacaerys's room or if your eyes had deceived you in the dim candlelight.

They hadn't, and your breath caught in your throat as soon as your eye found the gap. His bed was perfectly visible—the heavy posts of dark wood, the deep crimson coverlet embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And there, tangled in those sheets, was your cousin.

Worst of all, he wasn't alone.

Turn away. The thought flickered through your mind even as you stayed perfectly still, silver hair spilling over your shoulder and onto the floor in waves as you leaned closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew what the right choice was. You simply weren't making it.

The woman beneath him was dark-haired, flushed, with her mouth open as Jacaerys pounded into her from behind, and you realized with a strange twist in your stomach that this was far from his first time. The rumors that swirled through the Red Keep were true, then. The Crown Prince, for all his duties and noble bearing in the daylight hours, was as much a creature of appetite as any Targaryen before him.

You, on the other hand, had never even been kissed. Never been touched. Good noble ladies waited for their wedding night, and common fucking was for the common whores—thank you for that wisdom, cousin Aemond.

His hand fisted in her dark hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her cunt with a rhythm that was almost borderline brutal. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by her breathy moans and his low groans of pleasure. You could see the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"Fuck," he growled, and the vulgarity of it—hearing such words from the lips of the Crown Prince—sent a forbidden thrill down your spine. "You take me so well."

The woman whimpered something you couldn't quite hear, and Jacaerys laughed—dark and satisfied. He leaned forward, pressing her face into the pillows as he changed his angle, and her muffled cry of pleasure made heat pool low in your belly.

Your hand had somehow found its way to your throat, fingers pressed against your racing pulse. This was wrong, so utterly wrong. You sat here, watching your cousin rut like a beast in heat, and worse—far worse—your body was responding to it. Your thighs pressed together on their own accord, seeking friction you had no right to want.

Leave. Now.

You started to pull back from the gap, but then Jacaerys pulled out suddenly, flipping the girl onto her back with easy strength, and you caught a glimpse of him fully—his flushed cock, hard and completely shameless. He spread her thighs wide and thrusted back into her cunt in with one smooth stroke, and a gasp tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Your hand flew to your mouth, palm clamping hard over your lips. The pearl earring—forgotten, still clutched in your other hand—slipped from your fingers and hit the stone floor with a soft clink that sounded deafening in the quiet of your chamber.

You froze, heart hammering, terrified the sound had somehow carried through the wall.

But Jacaerys didn't pause, didn't look toward the gap. He was too focused on the woman beneath him, and you—gods help you—you couldn't look away.

"Look at me," he commanded, and something in his voice—the authority, the certainty, the  want—made your breath catch. The woman's eyes snapped to his face. "Good girl," he murmured, and thrust deeper.

The words sent heat flooding through you, pooling low into your belly. You felt it between your thighs—a pulse, an ache, something you had no name for. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but you couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely breathe—

The sharp knock at your chamber door made you jerk back from the wall as though it burned you.

"My lady?" came Lysa's voice, muffled through the heavy oak. "We've come to prepare you for supper."

You stumbled back from the screen. Your hand pressed against your cheek—Seven Hells, you were boiling. "A moment," you called out, breathless, hating how your voice wavered in the otherwise silent room.

You smoothed your skirts with trembling hands and tried to compose yourself before crossing to open the door. Your three ladies-in-waiting filed in—Lysa, Maryse, and young Elaena, their arms full of silks and jewelry boxes. They were good girls, all of them. You'd chosen them yourself—daughters of minor houses who actually seemed to like you rather than seeing you as a political opportunity. The last thing you needed were the usual vultures, daughters of great lords who'd spend more time reporting back to their mothers than actually being useful.

"You look flushed, my lady," Maryse observed you with immediate concern, setting down the silks onto the dressing table. "Are you well?"

"Quite well," you lied, settling into the chair before your mirror. Your reflection was damning, your silver hair mussed, falling loose from where you'd been pressed against the wall. Your cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide and dark, emphasizing the violet haze. You looked exactly like what you were, a woman who'd been watching something she had no business seeing. "The fire was burning too hot. I've only just opened the window."

Lysa moved to begin unpinning your hair, her fingers gentle, yet ever so clever, as they worked. "I see my lady. The cook's boy told me the funniest story today," she began, and you felt yourself relax into the familiar rhythm of their chatter.

This was safe. This was normal. Unlike whatever madness had possessed you just moments ago.

Elaena brought forward the gown, it was a beautiful collection of pale red silk that caught the candlelight like dawn breaking over the Narrow Sea. The bodice was fitted, the neckline modest but elegant, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves that fell into drapes. It was a gown befitting a princess of dragon blood, though you sometimes forgot that's what you were.

As your ladies worked, Lysa plaiting your hair into an intricate crown of braids, Maryse threading deep crimson rubies on fine silver chains to weave through the silver, Elaena carefully lacing you into your gown—your mind wandered despite your best efforts.

You could still see it. The flex of Jacaerys's shoulders, the way his head had fallen back in pleasure. The sound of his voice, rough with need and desire. 

Seven hells. 

"Tilt your head, my lady," Lysa murmured, and you obeyed, watching in the mirror as she secured the final braid with a dragon brooch of white gold and rubies, its eyes tiny chips of garnet that seemed to glow due to the candlelight.

Your hair fell in a waterfall of silver down your back, nearly to your calves, the braids creating an ornate crown that framed your face. The rubies caught the light like drops of blood, and for a moment you understood why men wrote songs about Targaryen women. More specifically, why their chantee’s were filled with tales of you.

"Beautiful," Maryse breathed, stepping back to admire their work.

You were beautiful. You knew this, had always known it—it was simply a fact, like knowing the sky was blue or fire was hot. But beauty felt like a strange, useless disease when your mind was still full of images it shouldn't hold.

When your thoughts were consumed by your cousin, the heir to the Iron Throne, and the way he'd looked lost in pleasure with a woman who wasn't you.

The private dining hall was already warm and loud when you arrived, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of serving plates. This was your favorite meal of the week. no courtiers to impress, no performers to sit through, no need to smile politely while some lord droned on about his son and why he’s worthy of your hand. Just family. The table could have seated fifty people easily, but tonight it was just the twelve of you, which somehow made the hall feel bigger and emptier at the same time.

Rhaenyra sat at the head in a gown of black and red, her crown set aside for the evening, silver hair braided simply. Daemon lounged beside her, looking more like a dangerous cat than a prince consort. Down the table, Alicent sat with her children scattered among Rhaenyra's, Aegon laughing at something Jace had said, Helaena showing Baela her embroidery. A year ago, they'd been on the brink of war. Now they broke bread together like it had never happened.

"There she is," Aegon called out as you entered, already half in his cups despite the early hour. "Our lovely cousin, late as always."

"I'm not late," you replied, taking your usual seat between Helaena and Baela. "You're simply too eager for the wine, Aegon."

Aegon clutched his chest in mock offense while Helaena reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing—she rarely did in company—but her smile was soft and genuine. You squeezed back, wishing she'd been born your sister instead of your cousin. She understood silence, understood that sometimes you just needed to exist quietly in a world that never managed to simply shut the fuck up.

"You look beautiful tonight," Helaena murmured, so quietly only you could hear. Her green eyes—so unlike the rest of the Targaryens—studied your face with an intensity that only she had. "Red suits you. Like fire. Like blood."

Before you could respond, the servants began bringing out the first course, and your attention was pulled elsewhere. You reached for your wine, grateful for something to do with your hands, and that's when you saw Jacaerys sat across the table and down two seats, between Luke and Joffrey. He was dressed formally in a black doublet with red embroidery, his dark hair still damp as though he'd bathed recently. He looked every inch the Crown Prince—composed, attentive, laughing at something Luke said.

He looked nothing like the man you'd seen less than an hour ago, flushed and shameless, fucking a woman whose name he probably didn't know. Or didn't care to remember. 

Your cheeks heated at the memory, and you quickly looked down at your plate.

Gods, were you that much of a prude?

"How was your afternoon, my dear?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked you, her voice carrying easily down the table. She'd always been kind to you, treating you more as a daughter than a niece. Your father's sister, mourning the brother she'd lost, had perhaps seen something of him in you.

"Quiet, Your Grace," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "I spent most of it reading in my chambers."

"Always with your books," Daemon observed with amusement. "You're worse than the damn Maesters."

The conversation flowed easily after that—talk of the day's small council meeting, Aegon's latest exploit (falling asleep during a petitioner's complaint), Helaena's new collection of butterflies. You participated when required, but part of your attention kept sliding back to Jacaerys despite your best efforts.

He caught you looking, which was more embarrassing than usual. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrible second you were certain he knew. Knew what you'd seen. Knew you'd watched. Your stomach dropped and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and looked away. When you risked another glance, he was already talking to Luke again, the moment forgotten.

It wasn't until the second course that Rhaenyra cleared her throat in that way that meant an announcement was coming. The table quieted immediately, all eyes turning to their queen.

"I've been thinking," she began, glancing at Jacaerys with obvious affection, "that our heir is now two and twenty. More than old enough to take a wife."

Across the table, Jacaerys kept his expression perfectly neutral and composed. But you saw his jaw tighten, saw the way his hand clenched briefly around his fork before he forced himself to relax.

"It's time we began seeking suitable matches," Rhaenyra continued. "I've already received inquiries from several great houses—the Arryns, the Starks, even a letter from the Triarchy expressing interest in an alliance."

"The Triarchy?" Daemon barked a laugh. "What would they offer, a wife who smells of spices, counts coins and wouldn't know what to do with a cock if you handed it to her with instructions?"

"They offered three ships of gold and exclusive trading rights," Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Which is more than most houses can promise."

"I won't marry for ships," Jacaerys said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him once more. His expression was still composed, but there was a hardness around his eyes. 

"You'll marry where it serves the realm," Rhaenyra said, though not unkindly. "As I did. As all rulers must."

"You married for love the second time," Jace pointed out.

"The second time, yes." Rhaenyra smiled at Daemon. "But first I did my duty. And you will do yours."

The tension at the table was palpable. Alicent looked uncomfortable, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Aegon was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee—always happy when someone else was being pressed into marriage talk instead of him.

"We'll host a series of feasts," Rhaenyra continued, her tone allowing no argument. "Let the eligible ladies of the realm come to court. Let Jacaerys meet them, dance with them. Surely among them there will be someone suitable."

"How many feasts?" Luke asked, grimacing. "I hate feasts."

"As many as it takes," Rhaenyra replied. "We'll begin preparations the following morrow."

Your stomach dropped. Feast after feast, watching Jacaerys dance with simpering ladies who would fall over themselves for the chance to be queen. Watching him smile that charming smile, knowing what you now knew—that he was skilled at pleasing women, that he knew exactly how to make them fall at his feet.

"How exciting," Baela said beside you, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "More opportunities to wear uncomfortable gowns and make pleasant conversation with people who hate us."

"They don't all hate us," you murmured, though your heart wasn't in the defense.

Across the table, Jacaerys stared at his wine cup like it might provide him with answers. You almost felt bad for him. If anyone at this table had no chance of marrying for love, it was him. Not that he seemed particularly interested in finding one person to settle down with, but still, your point stood.

"Well then," Aegon raised his cup. "To Jace's upcoming nuptials. May his future wife have the patience of a saint and the deafness of a stone."

Despite the tension, several people laughed, and Rhaenyra shook her head with exasperated fondness. "Perhaps we should have music," she suggested, gesturing to the musicians who always waited in the shadows during these intimate suppers. "Clear some space. Let us remember we're still young enough to enjoy ourselves."

"An excellent idea," Daemon agreed, already rising. He offered his hand to Rhaenyra with a theatrical bow that made her laugh.

The servants quickly moved the table back, creating a space for dancing as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was informal, nothing like the rigid court dances you'd endure at the upcoming feasts—this was just family, moving together without judgment or ceremony.

Luke grabbed Rhaena's hand first, spinning her into the space with more enthusiasm than grace. She laughed, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. Joffrey tried to convince Helaena to dance, but she demurred with a gentle shake of her head, content to watch from her seat.

"Dance with me," Baela demanded, pulling you up before you could protest. "Before one of the boys asks and proceeds to step on our feet."

You let yourself be drawn into the movement, falling into the familiar pattern. Baela was a good dancer—all the Targaryen children were taught from youth that grace in the ballroom was as important as grace on dragonback. You switched partners as the song changed, first with Aegon, who was surprisingly light on his feet despite the wine, then with Luke, who apologized three times for nearly stepping on your hem, which you found adorable.

"You're doing fine," you assured him with a smile, and he grinned back, boyish and sweet.

When that dance ended, you found yourself passed to Jacaerys.

Your breath caught as his hand found yours, the other settling at your waist. His palm was large and warm against your back, steadying you. You could smell him now, clean linen and spice. Could see his eyes up close, brown with flecks of amber in the firelight. Could see, really see, how stupidly beautiful he was.

"Having fun?" he asked as he led you through the steps, his tone pleasantly neutral and polite. The exact same way he'd speak to any cousin at a family gathering.

"Yes," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "It's nice, having everyone together like this."

"Mm," he agreed, spinning you smoothly. "Rarer than it should be. Though I suppose it'll be even rarer once I'm shackled to some lord's daughter who'll expect me to sit through needlepoint demonstrations."

He was trying to make it sound like a joke, but it came out flat. Like he'd already accepted this was happening and hated every second of it.

"Maybe you'll find someone you actually like," you offered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

A laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe. Though I doubt the great houses are sending their daughters for love matches. They want a crown, not a husband."

"Then perhaps you should look for someone who wants neither," you said before you could stop yourself.

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, something that might have been interest flickering across his face. "And where would I find such a creature? They seem to be in short supply."

Before you could respond—before you could make an even greater fool of yourself—the song ended. Jace released you with a small bow, perfectly proper, and turned to offer his hand to Rhaena for the next dance.

You stepped back, your heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. He'd been so normal. So completely indifferent. There was no awareness in his eyes, no sign that he saw you as anything other than his cousin, someone to dance with at family gatherings and exchange pleasantries with at supper. Which was as it should be. You should be relieved and instead, you felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

"You look troubled," Helaena's soft voice came from beside you. She'd moved so quietly you hadn't noticed her approach. "Like a bird that's flown into a window."

You turned to her, finding those strange green eyes studying you. "I'm fine," you said automatically.

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured, her gaze distant in that way it sometimes got after one of her vision spells. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

"Helaena—"

But she'd already drifted away, drawn by something only she could see, leaving you standing at the edge of the dancing with her cryptic words echoing in your mind.

The spider watches from the corner. Seven hells, your poor, dear, earnest cousin knows you’re a pervert. 

You watched Jacaerys spin Rhaena through the steps, laughing at something she said. Watched him dance with Baela next, then with his mother, the perfect dutiful son. He never once looked your way again and you told yourself that was exactly what you wanted.

The dancing continued for another hour before Rhaenyra finally called an end to the evening. "Early council meeting tomorrow," she announced with apologetic warmth. "And I need at least some sleep if I'm to endure Tyland Lannister's complaints about the damned grain tariffs."

The group began to disperse—Aegon stumbling slightly as Aemond steadied him with the patience only a brother could have, Luke and Joffrey arguing about something as they headed toward their chambers. You walked back to your chambers with Helaena and Baela, their soft conversation a comfortable buffer against your own churning thoughts. When you finally reached your door, you bid them goodnight and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy oak with a shaky exhale.

Your ladies had been by earlier, the room was tidy, the fire banked low, your nightgown laid out across the bed. Everything was peaceful and ordinary. Your gaze immediately drifted, unbidden, to the corner where the carved screen stood.

You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. But your feet carried you forward anyway, your hands moving the screen aside with trembling, eager, perverted fingers.

Empty. Fuck. 

His room was dark save for a single candle burning on the bedside table. The crimson coverlet was smooth and undisturbed. The heavy curtains drawn back from the windows to let in the moonlight. No Jacaerys. No woman writhing beneath him. Nothing but silence and shadows.

You sat back on your heels, a strange mix of relief and something else—something you refused to name as disappointment—settling in your chest.

Where was he? 

It was late, well past the hour when most of the castle had retired. Perhaps he'd gone to the Street of Silk, unwilling to bring his entertainment into the Red Keep on a night when the family had gathered. Perhaps he was in someone else's bed entirely, some lady's maid or kitchen girl who'd caught his eye.

Perhaps he was being discreet, something he clearly hadn't bothered earlier today. The thought dissipated as quickly as it came, no, maybe he was being discreet. Thoughtful, even. Of course, he'd been perfectly discreet earlier too, it was your fault for being a creep. 

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, staring at that empty bed as though it might offer answers. The image from earlier was still burned into your mind—the flex of his shoulders, the sound of his voice rough with pleasure, the casual way he'd commanded that woman's body like he owned it.

Your cousin. The heir to the Iron Throne. The boy you'd grown up with, who used to let you win at cyvasse when you were children, who'd shown you how to skip stones across the fountain and laughed when you both got yelled at for it.

When the fuck had he turned into that? When had he learned to move like that, to take someone apart with his hands like it was easy?

And why, by all the Seven, couldn't you stop fucking thinking about it?

You pushed away from the wall, suddenly furious with yourself. This was madness. Dangerous, stupid madness that could only end in humiliation or worse. You needed to forget what you'd seen. Needed to seal that hole in the wall and pretend it had never existed.

Starting tomorrow. You'd call the servants first thing in the morning and have it filled with mortar. Tonight, tonight, though,  you would sleep, and you would not dream of your cousin's hands, or his voice, or the way he'd looked so beautiful while lost in pleasure.

You climbed into bed still wearing your red silk gown, too tired to call your ladies back to unlace you. The rubies in your hair pressed uncomfortably against the pillow until you pulled them free with impatient fingers, letting your silver hair spill loose around you.

Sleep was slow to come. When it finally did, you dreamed of dragons and fire, of flying on Cannibal's back while something nameless chased you through the clouds. And in the dream, when you finally turned to face it, it had Jacaerys's eyes.

You did not look through the hole the following morning.

The temptation was there—gods, it was there, a constant itch beneath your skin as your ladies dressed you. But you kept your eyes firmly away from that corner, focusing instead on the monotonous task of standing still while they laced you into your gown.

It was white today, or perhaps the palest blue, the color seemed to shift in the light like a sort of moonstone. The bodice was scaled like dragon armor, each piece of fabric layered and stitched to create the illusion of protection. Gold chains draped across your shoulders and down your bare arms, cold against your skin. More chains hung from your waist, swaying gently when you moved. The sleeves were sheer and flowing, doing little to ward off the morning chill.

"You look like a goddess," Elaena breathed as she stepped back to admire their work.

"I look like I'm about to freeze to death, thank you very much," you replied, though without any real complaint. 

Your hair was left mostly loose today, falling in silver waves down your back, with only two small braids pulled back from your face and secured with a dragon clasp of white gold. It was simple and appropriate for a small council meeting where you needed to be taken seriously.

The walk to the council chamber was embedded into your brain, your slippered feet silent on the cold stone floors. Guards nodded as you passed, servants stepped aside with murmured greetings. You were known throughout the Red Keep as kind, perhaps too kind for a Targaryen. You stopped to ask the head cook about her daughter's fever, remembered the name of the stable boy's new puppy hound, listened when the washerwomen complained about the state of the linens.

Your father had been like that, or so Rhaenyra told you. Loved by the smallfolk, remembered fondly even years after his death. You hoped it was true. You hoped you carried something of him beyond just his silver hair and violet eyes.

The council chamber was already half-full when you arrived. Lord Corlys sat at Rhaenyra's right hand, his age showing more each moon but his mind still sharp as any of the younger council members. Daemon lounged in his seat with typical irreverence, picking at his nails with a dagger. Grand Maester Gerardys shuffled through papers, and several other lords whose names you'd long since memorized filled out the remaining seats.

Rhaenys was there too, your mentor in all things draconic and strategic. She caught your eye as you entered and gave you a subtle nod of approval. She'd been instrumental in convincing Rhaenyra to let you train, to let you learn the ways of war despite your aunt's maternal protests.

"Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," you replied, ignoring the knowing look Daemon shot you. He always seemed to know when someone was lying, the bastard.

You'd earned your place at this table through years of study—history, law, trade routes, military strategy. While other noble daughters learned needlework and song, you'd buried yourself in the library, devouring every tome you could find. Knowledge was power, and you'd wanted to be useful. Wanted to matter beyond being another pretty Targaryen to marry off for alliances.

And then there was Cannibal. Your sweet baby boy, Cannibal. 

You'd claimed him at two and ten, a feat that had shocked the entire realm. The wild dragon, the one who'd killed and eaten other dragons, who'd never been ridden—you'd walked up to him on Dragonstone's smoking beaches and simply asked. And he'd lowered his massive black head and let you climb onto his back.

The bond between you was unlike anything the Dragonkeepers had seen. You could feel him, always, a presence at the back of your mind, dark and fierce and free. Sometimes you knew his thoughts, or at least his intentions. When he wanted to hunt. When he wanted to fly far from the castle and its confining walls. When he missed you, though he'd never admit it, that damned proud creature.

He was out there now, somewhere over the Bay of Blackwater or perhaps the Kingswood. You could feel him, distantly, content in his solitude.

Vhagar was different—ancient, massive, slow with age but no less deadly. Aemond insisted he had full control of her, but you'd seen the truth when you flew near them. Vhagar tolerated Aemond. She hadn't fully accepted him, not the way Cannibal had accepted you. It would take years, perhaps decades, before that bond truly solidified.

If Aemond lived that long. Vhagar was known for her temper.

And Cannibal—Cannibal was larger still. Nearly the size of Balerion the Black Dread himself, or so the Dragonkeepers whispered when they thought you couldn't hear. Black as a night sky with none of the stars, with eyes like green flame and teeth as long as swords. He'd never accept the Dragonpit even if he could fit, which he couldn't. He roosted where he pleased, in sea caves along the coast, in the ruins of old Valyrian outposts, anywhere that gave him space and freedom and solitude.

"Shall we begin?" Rhaenyra's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She waited until everyone had settled, then gestured for Grand Maester Gerardys to start with the day's business.

The first hour was tedious, grain shipments from the Reach, trade disputes with the Free Cities, a complaint from House Royce about border incursions from mountain clans. You paid attention, offered your thoughts when asked, but your mind kept drifting.

Don't think about it. Don't think about him.

"There is one more matter," Rhaenyra said as the meeting drew toward its close. She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before moving on. "I've decided that Jacaerys should begin attending these meetings regularly. Starting the following morrow, he'll be joining us."

A few eyebrows raised, but no one protested. It made sense, he was two and twenty, the acknowledged heir, soon to be married. He needed to understand the workings of the realm he would one day rule. 

"Will he be given a formal position?" Lord Corlys asked, ever practical, ever scheming. 

"Not immediately," Rhaenyra replied. "Let him observe first. Learn our ways, then we'll see where his talents might be best utilized."

Daemon snorted. "His talents are best utilized in the training yard and the—"

"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut him off with a warning look, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

You felt your cheeks heat and kept your eyes fixed firmly on the table. In a week’s time Jacaerys would be here, sitting in one of these chairs, probably directly across from you. You'd have to see him regularly, maintain professional courtesy, pretend you hadn't watched him fuck a woman senseless.

Gods have mercy.

"Any objections?" Rhaenyra asked, looking around the table.

Silence. What could anyone say? He was the heir and none of you were about to tell the Queen that her son wasn't allowed in the Small Council. That seemed like a great way to lose your head.

"Good. Then we're finished for today." She stood, and everyone else rose with her. "Same time in three days. Try not to let the realm burn down before then."

The council members began to file out, but Rhaenys caught your arm as you moved to leave.

"Walk with me," she said, and it wasn't really a request.

You followed her out into the corridor, down a side passage that led into the city and the Dragonpit. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never quite lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem distracted," she finally said.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying." She stopped, turning to face you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"

For a wild moment, you considered telling her. I accidentally discovered a hole in my wall that looks into Jacaerys's chambers, and now I can't stop thinking about what I saw, and I think I'm losing my mind.

Instead, you said, "I'm just tired. The dancing went rather late last night."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but eventually she nodded. "Very well. But if something is bothering you—truly bothering you—you know you can come to me."

"I know," you said softly. "Thank you."

She squeezed your shoulder once, then continued down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of dragons roaring in their pit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondered how in seven hells you were going to survive sitting across from Jacaerys in council meetings. Wondered if he'd look at you the same way he'd looked at you while dancing—politely indifferent, completely unaware of the effect he had.

Wondered if that was better or worse than the alternative.

You found yourself wandering toward the kitchens, drawn by the familiar sounds of clattering pots and raised voices. The rest of the castle felt too quiet after council meetings, too full of people watching their words. The kitchens were honest, they were steaming hot, loud and smelling like fresh bread and meat.

"My lady!" Jessamyn looked up from the massive hearth, her round face flushed from the heat. She'd been head cook for as long as you could remember, ruling her domain with an iron ladle and a sharp tongue. "What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be off doing princess things?"

"Princess things are dreadfully boring," you replied, stealing a piece of candied lemon from a nearby tray. "I'd much rather be here."

"Oi, those are for tonight's supper!" But Jessamyn was smiling, swatting at you halfheartedly with her wooden spoon.

The kitchen staff had long since grown accustomed to your presence. You'd been sneaking down here since you were a child, preferring the warmth and chatter to the formality of the upper floors. Here, no one cared that you were a Targaryen. Here, you were just the girl who always burned her tongue on the stew and asked too many questions about how to make proper gravy.

"How's Mara's fever?" you asked, hopping up onto a cleared section of the work table.

"Broke this morning, thank the gods." Jessamyn's expression softened. "That tea you brought from the Maester helped, I think."

"Good. I'm glad." You watched as two scullery maids argued over the proper way to pluck a chicken, their debate growing increasingly heated. "Should you be concerned about that?"

"They'll sort it out," Jessamyn said dismissively. "Or they'll stab each other with the bloody kitchen knives, and I'll have two fewer girls making my life a misery. Either way."

"You staying for midday meal?" one of the kitchen boys asked hopefully. "We're making that venison stew you like."

"Can't today. I'm going to the Dragonpit."

"Your beast finally coming back?" Jessamyn asked, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. "Haven't seen him in what, near a fortnight?"

"Twelve days," you confirmed. Cannibal preferred his freedom, and you'd never been one to cage him. He came when he wanted, and you would not have it  any other way. "He's out past Blackwater Bay somewhere. I can feel him."

"Feel him," one of the maids muttered. "Still sounds like madness to me, my lady."

"It is madness," you agreed cheerfully. "But it's a very useful madness."

You stayed a while longer, listening to the kitchen gossip, who was bedding whom, which lordling had insulted which servant, the general consensus that the upcoming feasts were going to be a right fucking nightmare to prepare for. Apparently, Rhaenyra had requested swan for one of them, and Jessamyn was already composing angry speeches about the impracticality of cooking swan.

"Tough as old leather and mean as sin," she complained, gesturing violently with her ladle. "But does Her Grace care? No. She wants swan because it's elegant. I'll give her elegant—I'll serve it so tough she'll break a tooth on it."

"I'll speak to her," you offered. "Suggest something else."

"You're a good girl," Jessamyn said, patting your cheek with a flour-dusted hand. "Too good for this lot of pompous cunts, if you ask me."

Eventually, you took your leave, stealing one more piece of candied lemon on your way out just to hear Jessamyn's exasperated shout behind you.

The walk to the Dragonpit took you through the city streets, and you pulled your cloak up to hide your distinctive hair. The smallfolk knew you by sight anyway—you came this way often enough—but it was easier not to draw any attention. A few people nodded as you passed, and you nodded back, trying not to think about how different you were from most nobles who never set foot outside the Red Keep's walls without a full escort of gold cloaks.

The Dragonpit loomed ahead, ancient and crumbling in places despite the best efforts to maintain it. The Dragonkeepers bowed as you approached, their respect tinged with something like awe. They still spoke in hushed tones about the day you'd claimed Cannibal, about the wild dragon who'd finally accepted a rider.

You came here even though your dragon never would. Cannibal was too large. He'd never fit through the Dragonpit's entrance even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not.  But you came anyway, to see the other dragons, to speak with the Dragonkeepers who understood what it meant to be bonded to such creatures.

"My lady," the eldest keeper greeted you. "Still no sign of your beast?"

"He's hunting in the Kingswood," you replied, moving past them into the cavernous space. 

Some of the other dragons were here, Vermax in his usual corner, Arrax further back, Syrax sunning herself near the entrance where the light streamed in. They all shifted as you entered, great scaled heads turning, sensing you the way dragons always sensed Targaryen blood.

But none of them called to you the way Cannibal did. None of them were yours.

You could feel him now, distant but present in your mind. He was flying over the Kingswood, hunting deer or perhaps wild boar. Satisfied. He sent you an impression—not words, but feeling—of wind and height and the joy of the chase.

Umbās lenton, ñuha riña, you thought at him in High Valyrian, not knowing if he could truly hear your thoughts the way you felt his intentions. Māzigon lo jorrāelagon. 

Stay free, my boy. Come if needed.

You stood there in the Dragonpit for a while, watching the other dragons, feeling the heat of their breath and the weight of their ancient eyes. Vhagar wasn't here either—she was too massive, kept in the fields outside the city where she had room to spread her wings without crushing half the buildings in King's Landing. But even Vhagar was smaller than Cannibal. 

"He burns green, doesn't he?" one of the younger keepers asked, approaching cautiously. "Your Cannibal. Green flame."

"Yes," you confirmed. "Like poison made fire."

The keeper shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. Most dragons burn orange or red, sometimes gold. But green and his size. Seven hells, my lady, he's near as big as Balerion was."

"Bigger, perhaps," you said softly. "He's still growing."

The thought should have terrified you. Instead, it filled you with something like pride.

Supper that evening was a grander affair than the intimate family meal from the night before. The great hall was filled with lords and ladies of the court, the high table crowded with Targaryens and their most favored bannermen. Musicians played from the gallery, servants moved between the tables with platters of roasted boar and honeyed duck, and the wine flowed freely.

You sat between Baela and one of the Velaryon cousins whose name you could never quite remember, making polite conversation and trying not to let your gaze wander too obviously across the hall.

Jacaerys, much to your surprise, wasn't there.

His seat at the high table sat empty, and when you'd asked Rhaenyra about it as casually as you could manage, she'd simply said he was indisposed. Daemon had smirked into his wine cup at that, and you'd felt your cheeks burn.

Indisposed. Right, your arse.

The meal dragged on, course after course, toast after toast, Lord Whoever droning on about trade agreements until you wanted to scream. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, all while your mind churned with thoughts you had no business thinking.

Where was he? Out in the city again, finding another willing woman to warm his bed? Or perhaps he'd brought someone here, to his chambers, and simply hadn't wanted to risk being seen at supper with the smell of sex still clinging to him.

Gods, you needed to stop. This needed to stop, permanently, and immediately. 

By the time Rhaenyra finally dismissed the court for the evening, you were wound tight as a crossbow string. You said your goodnights to Baela and Helaena, declined Aegon's slurred offer to continue drinking in his chambers, and practically fled back to your own rooms.

Your ladies had already been by, the fire was lit, your sleeping shift laid out. You should call them back to help you out of your gown. Should prepare for bed like a sensible person and get some actual sleep before tomorrow's duties.

Instead, you found yourself moving toward the corner where the carved screen stood.

Don't, you told yourself firmly. Don't be a fool.

But your hands were already pushing the screen aside, your knees hitting the cold stone floor as you pressed your eye to the gap.

Empty. Again. Damn, damn, damn.

The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through the windows. The bed undisturbed, the coverlet smooth. No candles lit, no sign of life. You sat back, frustration coiling in your chest. Where in the seven hells was he?

You should go to bed. Should stop this madness before it consumed you entirely. But instead, you paced. Back and forth across your chamber like a caged animal, your silk skirts swishing against the floor. Every few minutes you'd stop, kneel down, check the hole again.

Still empty.

This was pathetic. You were pathetic. Waiting like some lovesick girl for a glimpse of a man who didn't even know you existed beyond being his cousin at family suppers.

He danced with you, a small voice whispered in your mind. He smiled at you.

He smiled at everyone. That was what princes did. And once again, you checked.

Empty.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead against the cool stone. This was going to drive you mad. You needed to seal this hole, needed to forget you'd ever found it, needed to—

The door to his chamber opened and you froze, eye pressed to the gap, heart suddenly hammering.

Jacaerys entered first, and he wasn't alone. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you told yourself to look away, to be decent for once. Instead, you pressed harder against the gap, like that might somehow get you closer.

The woman who followed him through the door was decidedly not a servant or a whore from the Street of Silk. Her gown was fine silk, deep green with gold embroidery at the sleeves. This was expensive, well-made, the kind only highborn ladies wore. Her dark hair was pinned up elaborately, though a few strands had come loose, and when she laughed at something Jace said, the sound was refined. 

You recognized her after a moment—Lady Cassandra Baratheon, one of Lord Borros's daughters. She'd been at court for the past month, ostensibly to foster closer ties between Storm's End and the crown.

Apparently, she'd been fostering ties of a different sort.

"Wine?" Jace asked, moving to the table where a pitcher sat waiting.

"Please," Cassandra replied, and there was an ease between them that spoke of familiarity. This wasn't their first time together. Not even close.

Something hot and ugly twisted in your chest. Jealousy, perhaps, though you had no right to it.

Jace poured two cups, handed her one, and they stood there for a moment just talking. You couldn't hear the words through the stone, but you could see the way Cassandra touched his arm, fingers trailing down from shoulder to elbow with the intimacy of someone who'd done it before. The way Jace leaned in closer, his head tilted as he listened to whatever she was saying, a small smile playing at his lips.

And then he kissed her, and you inhaled sharply, pulse suddenly pounding everywhere, your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

It started slow—almost tender, really. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw as their mouths moved together in a way that suggested they'd learned each other's rhythms. Cassandra made a soft sound, stepping into him, and her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging slightly.

Pervert, pervert, pervert.  

Your eye stayed pressed to the gap in the stone. Your hand, seemingly of its own accord, had drifted to press against your stomach, just above where heat was beginning to pool low and insistent. 

Jace backed her toward the bed, still kissing her, his hands starting to work at the laces of her gown. She helped him, both of them fumbling slightly in their eagerness despite clearly having done this dance before. You watched as layer after layer of silk fell away and onto the floor, first was the overdress, then the underdress, then the stays—until she stood in just her shift, the thin fabric clinging to curves that made your throat go dry.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jace murmured and you could read the words on his lips even if you couldn't quite hear them through the stone.

Cassandra smiled, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. "You say that to all of them, my grace."

Your jaw clenched. So you were right. There were others. Many others, probably.

"I mean it with you," Jace said, and you wanted to scream at Cassandra not to believe him, that those were just pretty words he knew how to wield. 

But Cassandra seemed to believe him, or at least didn't care if it was true. She pushed his doublet off his shoulders, her hands running over his chest, fingernails scraping lightly over skin, and Jace groaned—a sound you felt echo between your own thighs. He pulled her shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was naked before him.

She was beautiful, that you could admit that even through the haze of jealousy burning in your chest. Full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that Jace's hands immediately claimed, skin like cream in the candlelight. Dark hair spilled down her back as Jace turned her around, pressing kisses down her spine, and you watched his mouth trace the path of her vertebrae one by one.

"Jace," she breathed, arching back against him, pressing her bare arse against where you could see he was already hard beneath his breeches.

Your own breathing had gone shallow. Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, wanting to move lower but not quite daring. Not yet.

Jace took his time with her. His hands mapped every curve, every dip and swell of her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked and she gasped. Kissed the side of her neck, teeth scraping against the tendon there in a way that made her shiver. Slid one hand down her stomach, between her thighs, and even from here you could see how she bucked against his touch.

"Please," Cassandra whimpered, and the desperate edge to her voice made your breath catch.

"Patience," Jace murmured against her skin, but there was dark amusement in his tone. He was enjoying this—enjoying making her wait, making her beg.

When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went willingly, eagerly, spreading herself out on the crimson coverlet like an offering. Her thighs fell open without prompting, shameless in her want, and you could see the glistening evidence of her arousal even from your hidden vantage point.

Jace shed the rest of his clothes—unlacing his breeches with quick movements—and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. You'd seen him before, that first night, but somehow this felt different. More intimate. You could see every line of muscle in his stomach, the dark hair trailing down from his navel, the thick length of his cock jutting proudly from his hips as he climbed onto the bed.

Your hand finally, finally, slipped beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.

Jace settled between Cassandra's thighs, bracing himself above her on his forearms, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then he pushed his cock deep inside her—slow, so agonizingly slow—and Cassandra's head fell back with a moan that you felt echo through your own body.

“Your grace—-hhhhh,” she moaned.

Your fingers found the wet heat between your legs, already slick and aching. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.

"Fuck," Jace groaned, his hips rolling in a steady, measured rhythm. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet for me."

"Harder," Cassandra gasped, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red marks. "Please, your grace, I need—"

He gave her exactly what she wanted.

The gentleness evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something raw and almost brutal. Jace pulled nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her, and Cassandra cried out—pleasure and pain mixing in her voice in a way that made your fingers circle faster over your clit. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat, and his teeth found the skin there, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jace growled, his voice low and dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. Not gentle, princely Jace. This was something darker. "This what you've been thinking about all through supper? Sitting there with your father, making polite conversation, while all you could think about was having my cock inside you?"

"Yes," Cassandra sobbed, her body arching to meet each brutal thrust. The obscenity of the words, the rawness of it, sent liquid heat flooding through you. "Gods, yes, don't stop—please don't stop—"

Your fingers worked faster, your other hand coming up to muffle any sounds threatening to escape your throat. You could feel your own wetness coating your fingers, could feel the tension building low in your belly as you watched Jace fuck Cassandra with single-minded intensity.

"Greedy little thing," Jace muttered, but there was dark satisfaction in his tone. His free hand moved between their bodies, and you knew exactly what he was doing when Cassandra suddenly cried out sharply, her whole body going rigid. He was circling her clit with his thumb while he pounded into her, giving her pleasure from two directions at once, and the thought of it—the thought of him doing that to you—made your legs tremble.

"Jace, I'm going to—oh gods, I'm going to come—"

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you, sweetling."

She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer. You could see the way her cunt clenched around him, could see the exact moment the pleasure crested and broke over her.

Your own fingers moved desperately, chasing the same release, imagining it was Jace's hand between your thighs, Jace's cock filling you, Jace's voice in your ear telling you how good you felt. But Jace didn't stop. He kept fucking Cassandra through her peak, relentless, using her body to chase his own pleasure as she whimpered and clutched at the sheets beneath her. Her sensitivity must have been overwhelming, but he showed no mercy, just kept driving into her with brutalness. 

He was so undeniably good at this, at fucking whores, noble ladies, at driving his cock into their cunts and making them squeal beneath him from the pleasure.

"Too much," she gasped, but her hips were still rising to meet his, her body betraying her words. "Y-your grace, it's—fuck—it's too much—"

"You can take it," he said, and there was something almost cruel in his certainty. "You always take it so well for me."

His rhythm grew erratic, desperate. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his arse flexing with each thrust. He was close—so close—

Your own pleasure was building, that familiar tightening, that pressure mounting—

Jace pulled out suddenly, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking once, twice, before he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. His seed spilled across Cassandra's stomach in thick ropes, marking her, claiming her, and the sight of it—the raw, animalistic possession of it—sent you tumbling over the edge.

You bit down on your palm hard enough to taste blood, muffling the sound threatening to tear from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your fingers didn't stop, working you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and barely able to see through the haze.

When you finally came back to yourself, gasping and trembling, Jace was cleaning Cassandra with gentle touches that seemed almost absurd after the brutality of moments before. She was boneless against the pillows, looking thoroughly debauched, her hair a tangled mess and her skin flushed pink.

"Stay," Jace said quietly, pulling her against his chest.

"I shouldn't," Cassandra murmured, but she was already nestling into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "If someone finds out—"

"Let them find out. I don't care."

You wanted to laugh at the lie of it. Of course he cared. He just didn't care enough not to fuck her. Within minutes, Cassandra's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body going lax in his arms. Jace stared at the ceiling for a long while, his expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand stroked absently through her hair, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.

Then he turned his head slightly—and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to land exactly where you knelt. Directly at the wall. Directly at your hiding place.

But that was impossible. He couldn't see you through solid stone. Couldn't know you were there, hand still between your thighs, lips swollen from biting back your moans, watching him like some desperate, pathetic creature.

You jerked back from the hole anyway, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. Your whole body was trembling—from the release, from the fear of discovery, from shame so acute it felt like it might choke you. You'd just brought yourself to peak while watching your cousin fuck another woman. While imagining it was you in that bed, you he was whispering filth to, you he was making come apart on his cock.

This was sick. Wrong. You were sick and wrong and yet, deep down, you knew, with terrible certainty, that you'd be back tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until this madness either consumed you or destroyed you entirely.

You barely slept that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his shoulders, his body, his thick cock, the way his hand had fisted in Cassandra's hair, the rough timber of his voice as he'd commanded her to come. And beneath it all, the shameful memory of your own hand between your thighs, chasing pleasure you had no right to feel.

When dawn finally broke, you were grateful for it.

Your ladies dressed you in silence, perhaps sensing your foul mood. The gown today was the palest blush pink. The bodice was fitted with embroidered silver thread in delicate patterns that caught the morning sun. The neckline dipped low, modest enough for court but still flattering, drawing the eye. Long flowing sleeves of sheer silk hung from your shoulders, gossamer-thin, moving like water with each gesture. The skirts were layers upon layers of the same pale silk, creating an almost dreamlike effect as you walked, the fabric seeming to float around you.

The walk to the council chamber felt longer than usual. You nodded to the guards, smiled at passing servants, and tried not to think about the fact that Jacaerys would be here today. His first small council meeting. Sitting across from you for hours while you pretended you hadn't watched him fuck Lady Baratheon into the mattress last night.

Gods give you strength.

The council chamber was already filling when you arrived. "Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat.

"Your Grace." You settled into your chair, arranging your skirts, trying not to look at the empty seat that would soon be occupied.

Others filtered in quick waves, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Master of Coin; Ser Steffon Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch; a handful of other lords whose presence was required. The table filled, voices murmuring in low conversation.

Then the door opened again, and Jacaerys entered.

He looked... gods, he looked perfect. Rested and put-together in a way that seemed deeply unfair given what you knew he'd been doing until late into the night. His doublet was his usual black with red embroidery, his dark hair neatly combed, and when he smiled at his mother, it was warm and genuine and completely utterly unbothered.

"Apologies for my lateness," he said, taking the empty seat directly across from you.

Of course. Of course he'd be directly in your line of sight.

His eyes met yours for a brief moment—polite, pleasant, utterly indifferent—before moving on. No recognition. No awareness that anything was amiss. He had no idea what you'd witnessed. No idea that you'd spent the night with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was you in Cassandra Baratheon's place.

"Let us begin," Rhaenyra said once everyone had settled. She gestured to Grand Maester Gerardys. "The reports from the North, if you would."

Gerardys cleared his throat and began reading, something about increased wildling activity beyond the Wall, requests from the Night's Watch for additional men and supplies. You forced yourself to pay attention, to nod at the appropriate moments, to look anywhere except at Jacaerys.

It was going to be a very long meeting. The discussion moved from the North to the Stepstones, where Daemon's efforts to hold the islands remained precarious at best. Then to trade disputes with Pentos, grain shortages in the Reach, and a particularly tedious debate about tax collection methods that made you want to throw yourself from the nearest window.

Jacaerys contributed thoughtfully when asked, his observations intelligent and well-reasoned. He'd been well-trained for this, you realized. Rhaenyra had made sure her heir would be ready to rule, ready to navigate the complexities of statecraft. Of the Realm. 

Ready to be the perfect prince while fucking half the women in King's Landing in his spare time.

"There is another matter," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. She was looking at you, and there was something in her expression that made your stomach clench. "The matter of our dragons and their war-readiness."

The table went quiet.

"The realm is at peace," Lord Corlys pointed out carefully.

"For now," Rhaenys replied. "But peace is a fragile thing, as we all learned during the—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—recent troubles. We cannot afford to be complacent."

"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

"That we ensure our dragons are battle-ready. That we train them for war, even if we pray that war never comes." Rhaenys turned her sharp gaze fully on you. "Cannibal, in particular, has never been tested in true combat. He's large, powerful, but wild and untested."

Your jaw tightened. "Cannibal doesn't need testing. He's—"

"A wild dragon who's only known freedom," Rhaenys interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not questioning your bond with him, child. I'm suggesting that bond needs to be forged stronger and that will only come through discipline."

"You want me to train him for war," you said flatly.

"I want you to prepare him for the possibility of war." Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. "With drills and formation flying with the other dragons. Learning to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. These things take time and practice."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Cannibal would never tolerate such constraints, that he'd sooner eat the other dragons than fly in formation with them. That forcing him into drills and formations would break something fundamental in the bond between you, the trust that came from respecting his need for freedom.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you said carefully. "Cannibal isn't like the other dragons. He's larger, older in his ways. Trying to force him into formations could be potentially dangerous."

"Dangerous for whom?" Daemon asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than mocking. "For you, or for the other dragons?"

"Both," you admitted. "Cannibal doesn't play well with others. He never has. That's why he lived alone on Dragonstone for so long, why he—" you stopped yourself before saying ate the other dragons, because that seemed impolitic in the moment. "Why he prefers solitude."

"All the more reason to socialize him now," Rhaenys countered. "Before we're in the middle of a battle and he decides another dragon looks appetizing."

A few uncomfortable chuckles around the table. It wasn't really a joke, not one you found particularly funny. 

"What about Vhagar?" you asked, grasping for any argument. "She's larger, older. Is Aemond expected to fly formation drills with her?"

"Vhagar is already battle-tested," Rhaenys replied. "She fought in Aegon's Conquest, in the wars since. She knows what's expected. Cannibal has only ever known hunting sheep and being left alone."

It stung because it was true. For all his size and power, Cannibal had never been to war. Had never been asked to do anything more demanding than fly when you called and let you sit astride him while he soared through the clouds.

"What does Her Grace think?" you asked, turning to Rhaenyra. Let the Queen make this decision, let it not be your choice to potentially damage the one pure thing in your life.

Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment, her expression deep in thought. "I think Rhaenys makes valid points. But I also trust your judgment when it comes to your dragon. If you truly believe this would be harmful rather than helpful, I'll take that into consideration."

It was a careful, political answer. She was giving you an out, but also making it clear that refusing would require solid justification, not just childish objection. 

"I'll think about it," you said finally. "Perhaps we could start small. Test his tolerance before committing to full formation drills."

"A reasonable compromise," Rhaenys agreed, though she didn't look entirely satisfied. "We'll begin in a week's time. Simple exercises first."

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you nodded anyway.

"What about Vermax?" Daemon asked, his gaze sliding to Jacaerys with lazy interest. "The heir's dragon should certainly be included in this training."

"Vermax and I train regularly," Jace said, and there was the slightest edge of defensiveness in his tone.

"In the training yard, yes," Rhaenys replied. "But have you ever taken him into simulated combat? Flown him through fire and smoke? Tested his response time when startled?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "No."

"Then you'll join us as well," Rhaenys said, brooking no argument. "All dragonriders of fighting age. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon if we can pry him away from his cups long enough."

"Then it's settled," Rhaenyra said, her tone making it clear the discussion was closed. "Rhaenys will oversee the training regimen. All dragonriders are expected to participate." Her eyes found yours. "Including you, niece. I know Cannibal prefers his solitude, but this is necessary."

You bit back a dozen more arguments and simply nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, more reports, more discussions, more decisions that needed to be made. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Jacaerys sitting across from you. The way he listened intently when others spoke. The way his fingers drummed absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he looked so effortlessly princely while you sat there trying not to remember the sound of his voice, rough with pleasure, commanding Cassandra to come for him.

Finally, finally, Rhaenyra called an end to it. "Same time in three days. Try not to let anything catch fire before then."

You stood quickly, eager to escape before—

"Walk with me?" Rhaenys said, appearing at your elbow.

Of course because the gods clearly thought you hadn't suffered enough today. You fell into step beside her, following her out of the council chamber and down a side corridor. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem troubled," she finally said.

"I don't think Cannibal will take well to this training. I'm worried it will damage our bond."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced that was the whole truth. "He'll adjust. The bond between you is strong enough to weather some discomfort."

"It's not just discomfort. He's not like the other dragons. He's—"

"Wild. Yes, I know. But wildness can be channeled, shaped, without breaking it entirely." She squeezed your shoulder gently. "Trust me, and more importantly, trust him. Trust that your bond is stronger than a few training exercises. He did choose you, at the end of the day."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

"Now," Rhaenys said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I believe Helaena was looking for you earlier. Something about her insects?"

Right. Helaena. Safe, sweet Helaena who wouldn't ask probing questions about why you looked like you hadn't slept properly in days.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For everything, Aunt."

Rhaenys smiled, though there was something sad in it. "Go. Spend time with your cousin. The gods know there are precious few people in this world who'll love us without wanting something in return."

You found Helaena in her chambers, which were somehow both cluttered and organized in a way only she could manage. Jars and terrariums covered every surface, each containing some specimen or another, there were butterflies, beetles, spiders, things you couldn't even name. It was entirely Helaena. 

"You came," Helaena said, looking up from where she was carefully transferring a large iridescent beetle from one container to another. Her silver-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of pale green that brought out the unusual color of her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course I came." You settled onto the cushioned bench beside her workspace, careful not to disturb anything. The layers of your pink gown pooled around you like flower petals. "What have you found, dear cousin?"

Helaena's face lit up in that rare, genuine smile she reserved for the things she truly loved. "A stag beetle. Look at his mandibles, aren't they magnificent?"

You looked. The beetle was indeed impressive, its horn-like mandibles nearly as long as its body, gleaming black with hints of deep purple when the light hit them right. "Beautiful," you agreed, and meant it.

For the next hour, Helaena showed you her collection, explaining in her soft, sometimes disjointed way about each specimen's habits and characteristics. You listened, grateful for the distraction, for the simplicity of her enthusiasm. Here, there were no council meetings or dragon training or inappropriate thoughts about cousins. 

"Lord Cregan Stark sent me a letter," Helaena said suddenly, interrupting her own explanation about moth wing patterns.

You blinked. "Did he?"

"Yes. He's coming to court for the feasts. The ones for Jace." She was studying a moth wing with intense focus, not meeting your eyes. "He asked if he might call on me. To discuss insects."

Something in her tone made you pause. "Ah, I see, insects."

"He's interested in the wildlife of the North. The creatures that survive the cold. The ice spiders." Helaena finally looked up, and there was something almost vulnerable in her green eyes. "Do you think that's really why he wants to call on me?"

Oh. Oh.

Cregan Stark was young, newly Lord of Winterfell after his father's passing two years past. By all accounts he was honorable, strong, kind, everything a northern lord should be. And if he was expressing interest in Helaena...

"I think," you said carefully, "that Lord Cregan would be very fortunate if you agreed to speak with him. About insects or anything else, dear cousin."

Helaena's cheeks flushed pink. "He's very kind in his letters. Patient and he doesn't mind when I ramble about things most people find boring. He even sent me a preserved ice spider specimen from beyond the Wall. Said he thought I might like to study it."

Your heart softened. A man who would hunt down rare specimens for Helaena's collection was a man worth considering. "That's incredibly thoughtful, Hel."

"Mother says I should consider marriage eventually. That I can't hide in my chambers with my insects forever." Helaena's voice was quiet, tinged with something like resignation. "But most lords look at me like I'm mad. Like I'm something to be pitied or fixed."

"Then they're fools," you said firmly. "You're brilliant, Helaena. Anyone with half a brain can see that."

"Lord Cregan doesn't look at me like that. At least, not in his letters." She turned back to her moths, a small smile playing at her lips. "He asks questions. Real questions about my observations and theories. He doesn't just humor me."

"Will you see him when he arrives?"

"I... I believe I might." She looked back down at her specimens, fingers gentle as she adjusted a butterfly's position in its case. "It's strange. I never thought—I mean, I never imagined someone might actually want to court me. Not really."

"You're a princess of the blood," you pointed out. "Half the lords in Westeros would trip over themselves for the chance."

"They'd trip over themselves for the crown and the alliance," Helaena corrected softly. "Not for me. But Lord Cregan, he talks to me like I'm a person. Not a prize to be won or a madwoman to be managed."

You reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then I hope he lives up to his letters. And if he doesn't, I'll feed him to Cannibal."

Helaena laughed, a rare, bright sound that made you smile despite everything. "The wolf meets the spider in the dark. The spider weaves while the wolf watches. But which one catches which?"

Another one of her strange pronouncements. You'd long since given up trying to decipher them.

"What about you?" Helaena asked, suddenly aware of her surroundings again. "Will you dance with any lords at the feasts?"

Your stomach dropped. You'd almost managed to forget about the upcoming feasts, the parade of eligible ladies who would be throwing themselves at Jacaerys while you watched from the sidelines.

"I doubt it," you said lightly. "You know I prefer the edges of the room to the center of attention."

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured again, and something in her tone made you look up sharply. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

Helaena suddenly moved on, returning her attention to her beetles, humming softly to herself. Leaving you to wonder if she'd just made an innocent observation or if she somehow knew exactly what you'd been doing in the dark corners of your chambers.

You stayed with Helaena until the sun began to set, letting her soft voice and gentle presence soothe the jagged edges of your thoughts. Here, at least, things made sense. Here, you could almost forget the madness consuming you.

Almost.

When you finally took your leave, pressing a kiss to the top of her silver head, she caught your hand.

"Be careful," she said quietly. "Webs are sticky things. Hard to escape once you're caught."

You had no answer for that. The walk back to your chambers was quiet, most of the castle beginning to prepare for the evening meal. When you reached your door, you found your ladies already waiting.

"We've prepared a bath, my lady," Lysa said with a smile. "Thought you might want to wash before supper."

Gods, yes. Perhaps hot water and lavender oil could wash away the tension coiled tight in your shoulders, the restless energy that had plagued you all day.

"Thank you," you said, letting them usher you inside.

The tub had been set up near the fire, steam rising from the water in lazy curls. Your ladies helped you out of the elaborate pink gown, unlacing the bodice and lifting the layers of silk away until you stood in just your shift. Then that too was removed, and you stepped into the blessed heat of the bath with a sigh.

"We'll be just outside if you need anything, my lady," Maryse said. "Call when you're ready to dress for supper."

You nodded, already sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover you up to your shoulders. The heat seeped into your muscles, and for the first time all day, you felt some of the tension begin to ease.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of lavender, trying to empty your mind of everything, council meetings, dragon training, Helaena's cryptic warnings, and most especially the memory of brown eyes and dark hair and hands that knew exactly how to make a woman fall apart.

Stop, you told yourself firmly. Just stop.

For a few blessed minutes, you succeeded. The water, the warmth, the quiet—it was almost peaceful.

Then something moved at the edge of your vision. You opened your eyes and looked toward the rim of the tub. A spider. But not just any spider, this thing was massive, easily the size of your palm, with thick hairy legs and a body that seemed to pulse as it crept along the wooden edge of the tub. Moving toward you.

The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it, pure, primal terror that echoed off the stone walls.

You shot to your feet, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, your whole body shaking as you tried to scramble away from the creature. But the tub was slippery, your feet finding no purchase, and you nearly fell before catching yourself on the edge.

"My lady!" You heard Lysa's voice, muffled through the door, and then—

The door burst open, but it wasn't your ladies who came through first.

It was Jacaerys. He must have been passing in the corridor, must have heard your scream and thought, what? That you were being murdered? Attacked? He rushed in with his hand on his sword hilt, eyes wild, clearly ready to face down whatever threat had made you scream like that.

And then he froze. Because you were standing there, in the middle of the tub, completely and utterly naked. Water streaming down your body, your silver hair plastered to your back and shoulders, every inch of you exposed in the firelight.

For one endless, horrifying moment, neither of you moved.

His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly as his gaze traveled down and then snapped back up to your face. You could see the exact moment his brain caught up with what he was seeing, the way his cheeks flushed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

"I—" he started, his voice rough. "I heard you scream, I thought—"

"SPIDER!" you shrieked, pointing at the creature that was still making its way around the rim of the tub, seemingly unconcerned with the chaos it had caused. "There's a massive fucking spider, Jace!"

Jace's gaze followed your pointing finger, and you watched him take in the admittedly impressive specimen currently terrorizing you.

"That's, yes, that's a spider," he said, somewhat stupidly.

"I KNOW IT'S A SPIDER!" you yelled, still frozen in place, acutely aware that you were naked and he was staring and your ladies were probably right behind him in the corridor and this was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to you.

Your ladies burst in then, Lysa and Maryse and Elaena, their faces panicked, clearly thinking you were dying. They took in the scene, you, naked in the tub. Jacaerys, standing there looking like he'd been struck by lightning. The spider, innocently crawling.

"My lady!" Lysa gasped, immediately grabbing a linen cloth and rushing forward to wrap it around you.

But the damage was done. Jacaerys had seen everything. Every curve, every inch of skin, every part of you that should have remained hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety. 

Damn the Gods. Damn you, this is your punishment for being a pervert. 

"I'll just—" Jace stammered, backing toward the door, his face now bright red. "I'll—the spider—sorry—I thought—"

He practically fled, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, wrapped in the linen cloth, shaking for entirely different reasons now.

"Oh gods," you breathed. "Oh gods, he saw me. He saw—"

"It's all right, my lady," Maryse said soothingly, though she looked rather scandalized herself. "It was an accident. He heard you scream and thought you were in danger."

"I AM in danger!" you gestured wildly at the spider, which had now made it halfway around the tub. "That thing is massive!"

"It's just a spider, my lady," Elaena said gently, moving toward it with a cloth. Within moments she'd captured it and was carrying it toward the window. "See? Harmless."

Harmless. Right. Unlike the memory now burned into both your and Jacaerys's minds of you standing bare-arsed naked in a bathtub while he stared at you like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

"We need to get you dressed," Lysa said firmly, already moving to pull out clothes. "Supper will be starting soon."

"I can't go to supper," you said, your voice rising. "I can't face him after—after he just saw me naked."

"You have to go to supper, my lady," Maryse said, not unkindly. "If you don't, everyone will wonder why. And rumors will start."

Worse rumors than "the princess screamed bloody murder over a spider and her cousin saw her naked"? You doubted it. But she was right. You had to go. Had to face him. Had to somehow sit through an entire meal pretending that nothing had happened while knowing that Jacaerys now knew exactly what you looked like without clothes. While knowing that you'd seen the look in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something heated that had flashed across his face before embarrassment took over.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath.

"Language, my lady," Lysa chided gently, but she was already helping you out of the tub.

This was going to be the longest supper of your entire life.

The great hall was already filled with lords and ladies when you arrived, late enough that most people were already seated. The musicians were playing something lively from the gallery, servants moved between tables with wine and platters of food, and the general hum of conversation and laughter filled the space.

You wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.

Somehow you made it to your seat at the high table without tripping over your own feet, a minor miracle considering how unsteady you felt. You'd been dressed in a gown of deep purple silk, your ladies working quickly to make you presentable. Your hair was still slightly damp at the ends, but they'd managed to braid it back in a way that hid the worst of it.

Baela was already seated beside you, laughing at something Rhaena had said. On your other side, Helaena was staring at her plate with that distant expression she sometimes got. And across the table Jacaerys sat beside Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

He was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh, that refined, ladylike laugh you'd heard through the stone wall. His hand rested on the table close to hers, not quite touching but near enough to be intimate. He looked perfectly composed, perfectly at ease, like he hadn't just seen his cousin naked less than an hour ago.

You grabbed your wine cup and drank deeply.

"You have no idea," you muttered into your cup.

The meal began, course after course of roasted meats and honeyed vegetables and fresh bread. You pushed food around your plate, barely tasting anything, hyperaware of every movement Jace made across the table. The way he smiled at Cassandra. The way she touched his arm when she spoke. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of more than one night together. 

"All right, what's wrong?" Baela asked finally, setting down her fork and turning to face you properly. "You've been sulking since you sat down. Did something happen at council?"

"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.

Baela's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

You glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. Then you leaned closer and whispered, "Jace saw me naked."

For a moment, Baela just stared at you. Then she burst out laughing—loud enough that several people turned to look.

"Shut up, this is not funny!" you hissed, your face burning with shame. 

"It's a little funny," Baela managed between gasps. "How in the seven hells did that happen?"

You covered your face with your hands, mortified beyond measure. "There was a spider. A huge one. He was in my bath and then I screamed and he must have been in the corridor and he came running in thinking I was being murdered or something and I was just—standing there—completely bare-arsed—hh"

Baela was practically crying with laughter now, her hand pressed to her stomach. "A spider," she wheezed. "You're telling me the mighty dragonrider who claimed Cannibal, who sits on the small council, screamed loud enough to bring the heir running because of a spider?"

"It was a very large spider," you said defensively, though your own lips were twitching despite your mortification.

“And, so, he saw everything?"  Her voice went low and suggestive, bringing a finger to her mouth and biting the tip of it as her lips curved into a smirk.

"Everything," you confirmed miserably. "Full frontal view. Nothing left to imagination."

"Oh gods," Baela wiped at her eyes. "And what did he do?"

"Stood there like a fish for about three seconds, went bright red, stammered something about the spider, and then fled like the castle was on fire."

"That's amazing," Baela said, still grinning. "That's the best thing I've heard all week."

"I'm glad my humiliation amuses you," you said sourly, but you couldn't quite hold onto your irritation. It was sort of funny, in a horrifying, want-to-die sort of way.

"Look at the bright side," Baela said, taking a sip of her wine. "Now you know he's definitely seen you naked. That's more than most ladies can say about the heir before marriage."

You kicked her under the table.

"Ow! I'm just saying—"

"Well don't," you muttered, risking a glance across the table.

Jace was still deep in conversation with Cassandra, his attention completely focused on her. He hadn't looked your way once since you'd sat down. Was probably trying very hard not to look at you, considering what he'd seen.

Your stomach twisted, he'd seen you naked—completely, utterly exposed—and less than an hour later he was here, flirting with the woman he'd been fucking just the night before. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Which of course you didn't. You were his cousin, a political piece on the board, same as everyone else.

The fact that you'd watched him through a hole in the wall, that you'd brought yourself to come while imagining his hands on you instead of Cassandra—that was your problem. Your shame to carry, your degenerate shame.

"You're doing it again," Baela said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Looking like you want to kill someone, dear cousin." She followed your gaze across the table. "Ah. Lady Cassandra."

"You know she's not the only one, right?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Jace." Baela kept her voice low, casual, as she cut into her meat. "He's got quite the appetite, from what I hear. Half the ladies at court have warmed his bed at some point or another."

Your stomach twisted even though you already knew this. Had seen it.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Baela shrugged, a wicked grin playing at her lips. "Just saying, if you ever wanted to... you know. Sample the goods before he's shackled to some boring highborn wife, now's your chance. He's not particularly discriminating."

You nearly choked on your wine. "Baela!"

"What? I'm just saying.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm told he's very talented, Lady Cassandra certainly seems satisfied."

"I am not having this conversation with you," you hissed, your face burning.

"Your loss." Baela sat back with a laugh. "Though honestly, I don't blame you for looking. He's annoyingly pretty for someone with such common blood. Those brown eyes, that hair, he’s very brooding hero of a song, isn't he?"

"You're drunk, Baela."

"I'm tipsy," she corrected, "and you're deflecting."

"I'm not interested in Jace," you said firmly. "Not like that anyways."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You weren't interested in romancing with Jace. You didn't want his love or his devotion or whatever pretty words he whispered to the hoards of women in his bed. You just wanted, gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. To stop thinking about him, probably, most likely. And certainly to stop seeing his fucking gorgeous face every time you closed your eyes.

"Whatever you say," Baela said breezily, clearly not believing you but willing to drop it. "I'm just saying, the man's going to be married off soon. If you wanted a taste, the window's closing."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "You're impossible."

The conversation moved on, Rhaena leaned over to tell you both about some drama involving a lady-in-waiting and a stableboy, and you forced yourself to laugh, despite your gaze kept drifting across the table.

You didn't look through the hole that night.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed, but you left that carved screen exactly where it was and climbed into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even call your ladies back to help you undress properly. Sleep came fitfully, plagued by dreams of brown eyes and smirks and the memory of standing naked in a bathtub while your cousin stared.

When you woke, sunlight was streaming through your windows and someone was pounding on your door.

"My lady!" Lysa's voice, urgent and harried. "You need to wake! The lords are arriving and you're expected in the courtyard within the hour!"

Right. The festivities. The celebration of Jacaerys coming of age, of finding him a suitable bride. A full day of feasting and tournaments and watching eligible ladies parade themselves in front of the heir to the throne. Wonderful, just wonderful. Despite yourself, you managed to drag yourself out of bed and let your ladies descend upon you like a flock of determined birds. They stripped away yesterday's rumpled gown, scrubbed you with rose-scented soap, and set about the elaborate process of making you presentable as they did every morning. 

The gown they'd chosen was magnificent, it was a midnight blue silk that seemed to shimmer between black and deepest sapphire depending on how the light hit it. But you shook your head.

"No. The white one with the gold and red."

Your ladies exchanged glances but didn't argue. They brought out the dress you'd requested, white as fresh snow, with gold embroidery that traced patterns of dragons and flames across the bodice and down the flowing sleeves. Red accents caught the light like drops of blood, rubies sewn into the neckline and waist. The skirts were layers upon layers of silk and gossamer that moved like water, the train long enough to pool behind you like a bride. 

It was a statement, really, like Alicent’s green gowns. A reminder of who you were, a Targaryen, a dragon rider, not someone to be overlooked even as every other woman at court tried to catch the heir's eye. Your hair was left mostly down, falling in silver waves to your calves, with elaborate braids woven through and secured with gold and ruby pins shaped like dragon claws. By the time they finished, you looked like something out of a song. 

You barely heard the compliments ringing from your ladies tongues. You were already moving toward the door, trying to steel yourself for whatever fresh hell today would bring.

The courtyard was flooded when you arrived. Banners from a dozen different houses snapped in the morning breeze, there was Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, more. Lords and their retinues filing in through the gates, their daughters dressed in their finest, all of them here for the same purpose.

To win the favor of the Crown Prince.

You spotted Cregan Stark immediately—he was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. He was a gorgeous man, and currently  he was speaking with Rhaenyra, his manner respectful but not obsequious. A good sign, if Helaena was genuinely considering him. But it wasn't Cregan who made you pause. It was the way every male head in the courtyard seemed to turn as you descended the steps.

Lords, knights, visiting dignitaries, they all looked. Some with open admiration, others with more subtle interest, but they looked. You were used to attention, had grown up beautiful and aware of it, but this felt different. Or perhaps you were just more aware of it now, after everything.

"Seven hells," you heard someone mutter—one of the Tully boys, you thought. "Is that—"

You kept your chin high and your expression serene as you made your way through the crowd. Lords bowed as you passed, their sons stared, and you pretended not to notice any of it. Rhaenyra stood on the dais with Daemon beside her, already holding court. Jacaerys was there too, looking infuriatingly well-rested in black and red, his attention on whatever Lord Corlys was saying to him.

"Cousin," Aegon appeared at your elbow. "You're causing quite the stir. I think Lord Tyrell's son just walked into a pillar because he was too busy staring at you."

"Good," you said flatly.

Aegon laughed. "That's the spirit. Make them all suffer, my dear cousin. "

"Come," Aegon said, tugging at your elbow. "We're expected to stand there and look pretty while Father's old bannermen parade their daughters like prize mares. Should be entertaining enough."

You let him guide you to where the rest of the family was gathering. Rhaenyra sat in the place of honor with Daemon beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Helaena was tucked between Baela and Rhaena, already looking overwhelmed by the crowd. And Jacaerys stood at the center of it all, the sun around which this entire day revolved.

"How many do you think there are?" Aegon asked, settling in beside you with his cup. "I'm counting at least fifteen eligible ladies, and those are just the ones I can see from here."

"Shouldn't you be paying attention?" you asked. "You're supposed to be looking for a wife too."

"Gods, don't remind me." He took a long drink. "Mother's been at me for months about it. Apparently being six and twenty and unmarried is some sort of tragedy."

"Is it not?"

"It's called having standards," Aegon replied airily. "Low ones, admittedly, but standards nonetheless."

Rhaenyra stood, and the courtyard quieted. "Lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying across the space. "We are honored by your presence here today as we celebrate my son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, and his coming of age. Many of you have traveled far to be here, and we welcome you all to King's Landing."

Polite applause. Jace smiled that princely smile, gracious and warm.

"Today marks the beginning of festivities that will last the fortnight," Rhaenyra continued. "Tournaments, feasts, and celebrations in honor of the Crown Prince. And perhaps, by the end, we will have even more to celebrate."

Meaning a betrothal. 

"But first," Rhaenyra gestured to where several young ladies stood with their fathers, all of them dressed in their finest, "we have been honored by requests from several noble houses to present their daughters to the Prince. We welcome them now."

"Here we go," Aegon muttered. "The parade of the desperate."

"Aegon," you hissed.

"What? I'm not wrong."

The first girl stepped forward, a Lannister, judging by her crimson gown and golden hair. She was beautiful in that polished, perfect way. You’re certain her Father, and all the other lords of Casterly Rock  told her she was destined for greatness. She curtsied deeply before Jace, her father presenting her with all the pomp and circumstance House Lannister could muster.

"Lady Cerelle Lannister," the herald announced. "Daughter of Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock."

Jace took her hand and kissed it, saying something that made her blush and smile. You watched him be charming, watched him perform the role of interested suitor with practiced ease.

"She's pretty," Aegon observed. "Bit too much like looking in a mirror for my taste, all that gold hair and self-rightesnous."

"She seems nice enough."

"Nice and boring are often companions," Aegon replied. "Trust me, I know from experience."

The next girl was from House Tyrell, tall and willowy with dark curls and a nervous smile. Then a Tully girl with auburn hair and freckles. Then another, and another. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one curtsying and smiling and trying desperately to be memorable.

"This is torture," Aegon said after the sixth introduction. "How is Jace keeping that smile on his face? I'd have run screaming by now."

"It's called duty, you idiot."

"It's called martyrdom." He drained his cup and gestured for a servant to refill it. "You know what the problem is? They're all the same. Pretty, accomplished, perfectly trained to be queens. Where's the personality? The fire?"

"You want fire, marry a dragon rider," you said absently, watching as yet another lady—this one from the Stormlands—was presented to Jace.

"Excellent idea. Marry me."

You turned to look at him, startled. "What?"

"Marry me," Aegon repeated, gesturing expansively with his cup. "You're a dragon rider, you're beautiful, you already know all my worst qualities so there'd be no nasty surprises. We could get drunk together and ignore all our duties. It'd be perfect."

"You're not serious."

"I'm never serious. But the offer stands." He took another drink. "If all else fails, if the realm goes to shit and we're all desperate—you and me. We could do much worse."

You studied him for a moment. Aegon was handsome, you could admit that. Pretty in the way Targaryens often were, with his silver hair and sharp features. The drinking was a problem, and the complete lack of ambition, but he was kind in his way. Honest, at least, which was more than most lords could claim.

"If all goes to hell," you said slowly, "and we're both desperate and alone. I suppose I could do worse than you."

"High praise," Aegon said with a grin. "I'm touched. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm already planning our wedding. We'll serve nothing but wine, scandalize the Faith, and let our dragons eat anyone who complains."

Despite everything, you laughed. It felt good, like releasing some of the pressure that had been building in your chest since yesterday. Then, another lady was presented, a Manderly girl from White Harbor, plump and pink-cheeked and clearly terrified. Jace was gentle with her, you noticed. He was patient and kind.

"He's good at this," you said quietly.

"He's had practice," Aegon replied, and there was something almost bitter in his tone. "Perfect Jace. Perfect heir. Does everything right, fucks everything that moves, and somehow still manages to look like a hero from a song."

"Jealous?"

"Absoloutely." Aegon studied his cousin across the courtyard. "I love Jace, don't get me wrong. But he's playing a game he doesn't even realize he's in. All these ladies throwing themselves at him, and he thinks it's because he's charming. Because they like him."

"That's not why?"

"They like his crown," Aegon said flatly. "They like the idea of being queen. Jace himself? He's just the pretty vessel holding the thing they actually want."

You said nothing, watching as Jace smiled at the Manderly girl, made her laugh despite her nervousness. Was Aegon right? Did all these women only want the crown?  Did you? No. You wanted—gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. But it wasn't his crown. It was him. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he looked when he was lost in pleasure. That had nothing to do with thrones or politics.

Which somehow made it worse.

"Lady Floris Baratheon," the herald announced, and your attention snapped back to the courtyard.

Another Baratheon girl, younger than Cassandra but with the same dark hair and sharp features. She curtsied beautifully, and Jace took her hand with the same courteous attention he'd given all the others.

"How many fucking Baratheon daughters are there?" Aegon muttered. "Lord Borros must spend half his time just keeping track of them all."

"Four, I think."

"Four. And they're all here trying to land the heir. Ambitious bastard, isn't he?"

You watched Floris smile up at Jace, watched him be charming and attentive. Was Cassandra here somewhere, watching this? Did she care that the man who'd been in her bed two nights ago was now entertaining her younger sister?

Did Jace care?

"This is going to be a very long fortnight," you said.

"Agreed." Aegon raised his cup in a mock toast. "To surviving it with our dignity intact."

"I'll drink to that."

He grinned and passed you his cup. You took it and drank deeply, letting the wine burn down your throat. It was going to be a very, very long fortnight indeed.

Several torturous hours later, you and Aegon were both well into your cups and had devolved into something resembling badly behaved children.

"I'm sorry," Aegon wheezed, barely containing his laughter, "but did that last one actually curtsy to his horse first before approaching Jace?"

"She did," you confirmed, your own shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. "She absolutely did. I saw it, cousin."

"Maybe she thought the horse was the heir. Can't blame her—Vermax has better hair than Jace does."

You snorted wine through your nose, which only made Aegon laugh harder.

"You two are being disgraceful," Baela hissed from your other side, though her lips were twitching. "Show some decorum."

"Decorum is for people who aren't dying of boredom," Aegon replied, reaching for another cup from a passing servant. "We're performing a public service, really. Someone has to make this bearable."

"By getting drunk before noon?"

"Exactly. See? She understands."

You were about to respond when movement at the courtyard entrance caught your eye. Another arrival, late enough that most of the formal presentations had concluded. But this wasn't some minor lord with a daughter to parade. This was someone who commanded attention simply by existing.

He was tall—taller even than Cregan Stark—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that came from actually using a sword rather than just wearing one for decoration. Dark hair, though not as dark as Jace's, fell to his shoulders in waves that somehow looked artfully disheveled rather than unkempt. And his face—

"Oh no," Aegon said, following your gaze. "Oh, that's not fair."

"Who is that?" you asked, unable to look away.

"Trouble," Aegon replied. "That's Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken himself."

The Red Kraken. You'd heard stories, of course. The young Lord of the Iron Islands, who'd claimed his seat at six and ten after his father's death and had spent the years since becoming a legend. A reaver, a warrior, and by all accounts, devastatingly effective at both. He was dressed simply compared to the other lords—dark leather and salt-stained cloth rather than silk and velvet—but he wore it like armor. Like he had nothing to prove. Salt-and-pepper scruff covered his jaw, and when he smiled at something Daemon said, you caught a glimpse of white teeth.

"He's supposed to be in the Iron Islands," Aegon muttered. "What's he doing here?"

"The same thing everyone else is doing here," Baela said dryly. "Paying homage to the Crown Prince."

But Dalton Greyjoy wasn't looking at Jacaerys.

He was looking at you. His eyes—grey-green like storm-tossed seas—found yours across the crowded courtyard, and he didn't look away. Didn't pretend he hadn't been staring. Just held your gaze with the kind of bold confidence that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't.

Then he smiled. Slow and deliberate and knowing, like you'd shared some private joke.

"Oh, dear cousin, he's definitely trouble," Aegon said. "Look at him. Looking at you like—well, like Jace looks at literally every woman who crosses his path."

"Shut up," you muttered, but you didn't look away from Dalton.

"The Red Kraken," Baela mused. "Now that's interesting. He doesn't usually come to court. Prefers his islands and his ships from what I hear."

"And his salt wives," Aegon added. "Rumor has it he's got three. Or is it four now? I lose count."

"Salt wives aren't real wives," you said absently, still holding Dalton's gaze.

"Try telling him that."

Dalton was moving through the crowd now, making his way toward the dais where Rhaenyra sat. Lords parted for him—whether out of respect or wariness, you couldn't tell. Maybe both. There was something dangerous about him, something wild that expensive clothes and courtly manners couldn't quite hide. He knelt before Rhaenyra with surprising grace for someone so large. You couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was made Daemon laugh, actually laugh, which was rare enough to be noteworthy.

Then Dalton stood, turned, and those storm-grey eyes found yours again. And the huge bastard, well, he started walking toward you.

"Oh shit," Aegon said gleefully. "Oh this is going to be good."

"If you say one embarrassing thing—" you started.

"Would I do that?"

"Yes. Regularly, you arse."

Dalton Greyjoy stopped in front of you, and up close he was even more imposing. Taller, broader, with the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier. 

"My lady," he said, and his voice was rough, like he'd spent too many years shouting orders over storm winds. "Lord Dalton Greyjoy, at your service."

He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. Just stood there looking at you like you were the only person in the entire courtyard.

"Lord Greyjoy," you managed, trying to remember how to be polite while several cups of wine deep. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Is it?" He glanced around at the crowd, at the elaborate decorations, at the general excess of it all. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a party."

"It's a celebration, my lord," you corrected.

"Of the Crown Prince coming of age. Yes, I heard." His lips quirked. "Eight and ten years to grow up. We do it much faster in the Iron Islands."

"Everything's faster in the Iron Islands," Aegon interjected cheerfully. "Living, dying, marrying your cousin, certainly fucking your cousin."

"Aegon," you hissed.

But Dalton just laughed. "Your cousin speaks truth, if not tact. We're a practical people."

"Practical," Aegon repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things." Dalton's attention returned to you, and the intensity of it made your breath catch. "I've heard stories about you, Princess. The girl who claimed Cannibal."

"They're just stories."

"Are they?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I heard you walked up to him and asked him nicely. That he bowed his head and let you climb on his back like a trained horse."

"More or less," you admitted.

"Terrifying or impressive. I haven't decided which, my lady."

"Can't it be both?"

That smile again, sharp and interested, like a predator seeking its prey. "I suppose it can. I like that."

There was something in the way he looked at you—direct and unashamed—that felt different from the courtiers with their careful glances and veiled intentions. Dalton Greyjoy looked at you like he knew exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Are you here for the tournaments, my lord?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"Among other things." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked casual but somehow seemed coiled, ready. "I'm here to see what all the fuss is about. The perfect prince, the eligible ladies, the great game of marriage and alliance." His eyes glinted. "And to see if the Dragon Princess lives up to her reputation."

"And does she?"

"I'll let you know," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "May I have the honor of your company at the feast tonight, my lady?"

Before you could answer, Aegon cut in. "She'd be delighted. Wouldn't you, cousin?"

You shot him a look that promised murder, but Dalton was already bowing, actually bowing this time, though it looked faintly mocking. "Until tonight, then."

He walked away, and you could feel his absence like a physical weight. You were certainly going to kill Aegon, kill him and feed him to Cannibal. 

"Well," Aegon said into the silence. "That was something."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. I just got you a dinner companion who isn't boring. You should be thanking me."

You should probably be worried, you thought. Dalton Greyjoy had a reputation that made even Daemon look respectable by comparison. But, nonetheless, instead you felt intrigued.

Which was probably dangerous. Definitely dangerous. But after days of watching Jace parade around with other women, of feeling invisible and foolish and consumed by wanting something you couldn't have. Maybe dangerous was exactly what you needed.

The remainder of the day had been a blur of increasingly bold lords and their sons trying to catch your attention. You'd smiled politely through it all, deflected propositions both subtle and explicit, and tried not to drink so much that you'd embarrass yourself at tonight's feast.

You'd failed at that last part.

The great hall had been transformed for the evening, there were now thousands of candles which casted everything in warm golden light, musicians played from the gallery, and long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits and wine from across the known world. The air smelled of smoke and spices and the musk of too many sweaty bodies pressed close together. You'd kept the white gown from earlier, the gold and red embroidery catching the candlelight as you moved. Your ladies had refreshed your hair, re-pinning the braids and adding fresh ruby clips, but otherwise you looked much the same as you had that morning.

Which apparently was more than enough, judging by the way heads turned as you entered. Dalton Greyjoy was already there, lounging at one of the lower tables with a cup in his hand and that same confidence he'd worn earlier. He saw you immediately—like he'd been watching the door—and stood.

"Princess," he said as you approached. "Come, sit. I've claimed the best seat in the hall."

"Have you?"

"Good view of the wine." He gestured to the seat beside him. "And now a better one."

You sat, aware of how he took up space without apology, all broad shoulders and long limbs sprawled in a way that suggested he'd never learned courtly posture and didn't particularly care to either. A servant poured wine, and Dalton took his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with more force than necessary. "Seven hells, that's good. Better than the piss we brew on Pyke."

"I'm sure."

"You've never been to the Iron Islands." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Good. It's a miserable place. Cold, wet, smells like dead fish and shit." He grinned. "But it's mine."

There was something about the way he said it, simple pride, no need to justify or explain. Just fact that sprung a buzz in your chest. 

"You're far from home," you observed.

"Aye. Your aunt summoned, so I came." He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his hands. "Hadn't planned on it, but then I heard about the festivities. The Crown Prince coming of age, all the pretty ladies competing for him." His eyes slid to you as he brought the bread to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "Thought it might be entertaining."

"And is it?"

"Getting better." He popped the bread in his mouth, still watching you while he chewed. "Tell me something. That dragon of yours—Cannibal. Is it true he ate three dragons on Dragonstone before you claimed him?"

You reached for your wine. "Two that I know of for certain. Possibly three."

"Fuck me." But he sounded impressed rather than horrified. "And you just walked up to him?"

"More or less." You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your cup.

"You're either the bravest woman in the Seven Kingdoms or the maddest." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you."Probably both."

"Most people say it was foolish."

"Most people are cowards."  He picked up his wine again, draining half the cup in one go. "I respect it. Taking what you want, consequences be damned. That's how you survive in this world."

The food kept coming—course after course. Servants appeared with platters of roasted duck, honeyed figs, spiced lamb. Dalton ate like a man who wasn't sure when his next meal would be, unbothered by the elaborate presentation. You picked at your own plate, more interested in the conversation than the food.

"You fight in the tournaments tomorrow?" you asked.

"Planning on it. Need to work off some of this." He gestured at the feast. "Can't spend all day drinking and eating without swinging a sword eventually. I'll go soft."

You doubted that. There was nothing soft about Dalton Greyjoy. You let your eyes drag over him, shoulders, arms, the way he took up space.

"Who do you think will win?" you asked. "The tourney, I mean."

"Not me," he said with a shrug. "I'm a better sailor than jouster. Give me a deck that's moving under my feet and I'm deadly. Put me on a horse in full plate and I'm just another idiot hoping not to fall off." He paused. "Your cousin, probably. The pretty one. Jacaerys."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Jace is skilled."

"Aye, I've heard. Trained by the best, naturally." There was something in his tone—not quite mocking, but close. "Born with every advantage. Dragon, crown, looks that make ladies go weak. Must be nice."

"It has its challenges."

"I'm sure." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. "Still. I'd take his challenges over mine any day."

A commotion near the high table drew your attention. Jace was standing, Lady Cassandra Baratheon beside him, her hand on his arm as they moved toward the dancing. You watched them go, watched her lean in to say something that made him smile, and your stomach dropped. Your hands curled into fists in your lap. 

"There's a look I know," Dalton said quietly.

You turned back to find him studying you, those storm-grey eyes too sharp. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back of it, completely relaxed.

"What look?"

"The one that says you want to set something on fire but you're too well-bred to do it." He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "What's he done to earn that?"

"Nothing. I don't—"

"Right." He drained his cup in one swallow and stood, extending his hand across the table. "Come on then."

"Where?"

"To dance. You're sitting here stewing and it's making me uncomfortable." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He stepped closer, hand still out. "And if I have to watch you watch him dance with that Baratheon girl for one more second, I'm going to start breaking things." His fingers curled slightly, beckoning. "Dance with me, Princess. Give the court something else to gossip about."

You shouldn't. You really, truly shouldn't.

You took his hand.

He pulled you up—quick enough that you stumbled slightly—and steadied you with a hand at your elbow before leading you onto the floor. Other couples were already moving, swirling past in a blur of silk and jewels. His hand settled at your waist, lower than was strictly proper, fingers spread wide against your back and he pulled you into the rhythm without missing a beat.

He moved with surprising grace for someone who'd just claimed to be better on a ship than a dance floor.

"You lied," you said, looking up at him. "You're good at this."

"I said I'm better on a ship. Didn't say I was shit at dancing." He spun you, sudden enough that you stumbled into his chest. His hand tightened on your waist, steadying you. "My mother made sure all her sons could dance. Said it was the one civilized thing we'd learn."

"Was she right?"

"Aye. Rest of it's all fighting and fucking and sailing." He said it casually, leading you back into the steps. "Not much call for poetry and courtly manners on Pyke."

You shouldn't have laughed, but you did, it was sharp and genuine, the sound surprising you. Something about his bluntness cut through all the careful political bullshit you'd been drowning in for days.

"That scandalize you?" he asked, grinning down at you. His teeth were very white against his tanned skin.

"No."

"Good. I'd hate to waste time pretending to be something I'm not." His thumb pressed against your waist, and you felt it through the silk. "Life's too fucking short for that."

The music swelled around you, violins rising. He pulled you closer, definitely too close now, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your dress, definitely crossing into improper territory. But you didn't pull away. Just let him guide you through the steps, let yourself focus on the pressure of his hand, the solid weight of his shoulder under your palm. Anything other than Jace and Cassandra somewhere else on this floor.

"Better?" Dalton asked, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music.

"What?"

"You stopped looking like you wanted to commit murder.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'm taking that as progress."

"I never—"

"You did." He spun you again, pulled you back in. The smile on his face had an edge to it now. "Whatever he did, whoever he is, he's not worth it, Princess."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to defend something you couldn't even name, couldn't admit to yourself. But Dalton's hand was warm and steady against your waist, his grey eyes fixed on yours like you were the only person in the room, and for just a moment, just this one dance, you let yourself pretend. That you weren't obsessed with your cousin. That you hadn't spent the last three nights watching him fuck other women through a crack in the wall. That you were just a woman dancing with a man who looked at her like she mattered.

The song ended far too soon.

Dalton stepped back, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering, his fingers flexing once against your ribs before he let go. "Thank you for the dance, Princess."

"Thank you for asking." Your skin felt cold where his hand had been.

"I'll be fighting tomorrow. In the melee, not the joust, I told you, I'm shit on horseback." That grin again, cocky and so sure of himself.  "Come watch me get my ass kicked by men in fancy armor."

"I might."

"You will." He said it like it was already decided, so much so, that you almost believed him. Then he bowed, properly this time, deep and formal, and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.

You stood there for a moment, heart still racing from the dance, or maybe from the way Dalton had looked at you, all that damned confidence and heat and completely unbothered by the surrounding propriety. Your skin still tingled where his hand had been, that deliberate pressure at your waist.

He was handsome. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Rough around the edges in a way that was completely unlike the polished princes and lords you'd grown up around. Dangerous-looking. The kind of man your mother would warn you about. The kind you apparently couldn't stop thinking about for entirely different reasons than you should.

You pressed your fingers to your waist briefly, then dropped your hand. This was stupid. You were being stupid about two different men now, which seemed like an achievement in poor judgment.

When you finally turned to head back to your seat, you found Aegon waiting, leaning against a pillar with that knowing smirk plastered across his face.

"Well," he drawled, pushing off the pillar to stand beside you. "That was something."

"It was a dance."

"That wasn't just a dance." Aegon took a long drink from his cup, eyes gleaming with amusement. "That was him fucking you with your clothes on."

Heat flooded your face. "You're drunk."

"I'm always drunk. Doesn't make me wrong." He gestured with his cup, sloshing wine dangerously close to the rim, toward where Dalton had disappeared into the crowd. "Be careful with that one. He's not like these simpering southern lords. He takes what he wants."

"I'm not."

"I know. I'm just saying." Aegon leaned in closer, lowering his voice even though no one was near enough to hear. "The Red Kraken's got a reputation, and certainly not the fun kind like mine."

You looked back toward where Jace was still dancing with Cassandra, her head thrown back laughing at something he'd said.

"Maybe I need a reputation," you muttered.

Aegon raised his cup. "Now that's the spirit."

"Come on," Aegon said, tugging at your sleeve like a child. "Let's get out of here before someone tries to make us be social again."

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already pulling you toward the edge of the hall.

It didn't, not really. The hall was too hot, too crowded, the air thick with wine and perfume and the cloying smell of too many bodies pressed together. Too many people pretending to be things they weren't. You let Aegon pull you through a side door, the sudden quiet of the corridor making your ears ring.

Down one hallway, then another. Your footsteps echoed off stone. Up a winding staircase, too narrow and steep, the kind that hadn't been used in years. You recognized it dimly as leading to one of the old watchtowers, the ones that overlooked the bay.

"Aegon, we're going to break our necks," you said as he stumbled on a step, catching himself against the wall.

"Good." He kept climbing. "Better than dying of boredom down there."

The tower room at the top was small and forgotten. Dust motes floated in the moonlight streaming through narrow windows. There were  a few old weapons which hung on the walls, all rusted, decorative, and completely useless. The windows looked out over King's Landing, the city spread below like a carpet of flickering lights.

The sounds of the feast were distant here, muffled by layers of stone and height. You could barely hear the music anymore. Just the wind, and the sound of your own breathing still coming fast from the climb.

Aegon collapsed onto a bench beneath one of the windows, wine cup still in hand, sprawling back against the stone. You leaned against the opposite wall, pressing your shoulders into the cool stone. The breeze coming through the window felt good against your flushed skin, cutting through the wine-warm haze in your head.

"This is better," Aegon declared, gesturing broadly with his cup. "Much better. No one up here but us and the ghosts."

"Are there ghosts?"

"Probably." He took another drink, throat working. "Old tower like this? Someone definitely died here. Hopefully doing something more interesting than attending a feast."

You laughed, the sound strange and too loud in the small space, bouncing off stone. Your head was spinning pleasantly, everything soft and blurred at the edges. The wine had settled warm in your stomach, making your limbs feel loose and heavy. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, your dress pooling around you. The stone was cold against your back even through the silk.

"You danced well with the Kraken," Aegon said after a moment.  His eyes were on you now, sharper than they should be considering how much he'd drunk. "He looked like he wanted to eat you."

"He looked like he wanted to dance."

"Same thing, with that one." Aegon tilted his head, studying you. His usual smirk had faded into something more serious. Almost sober. "Do you like him?"

"I barely know him." You picked at a loose thread on your dress.

"That's not what I asked."

You considered it, head tilted back against the stone. Did you like Dalton Greyjoy? He was attractive, certainly. Bold. Honest in a way that cut through all the bullshit.

"I don't know," you said finally. "Maybe. Does it matter?"

"Suppose not." Aegon was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his cup, watching the liquid catch the moonlight in wave-like ripples. Then, without looking at you: "Can I kiss you?"

You blinked, certain you'd misheard. "What?"

"Can I kiss you?" He did look at you now, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression beneath the wine-flush. "I want to kiss someone. And you're here. And you're pretty. And you won't make it mean something it doesn't."

You should say no. Should laugh it off, make a joke, change the subject. This was Aegon—your cousin, your friend, the perpetually drunk prince who took nothing seriously.

But your head was spinning and your chest still ached from watching Jace with Cassandra, and Dalton's words kept echoing in your mind—life's too fucking short.

"Fuck it," you said, the words coming out steadier than you felt.

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a fuck it." You pushed yourself up slightly, meeting his eyes.

Aegon set his cup down on the bench and stood. He wasn't quite steady on his feet, swaying slightly as he crossed the small space to where you sat against the wall.

You had to tilt your head back to look up at him as he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, the faint scent of whatever oil he used in his hair. Up close like this, you could see everything. The wine-flush high on his cheekbones, the slightly glazed look in his purple eyes—Targaryen eyes, the same shade as your own. The way his chest rose and fell, breathing faster than the short walk across the room warranted.

He was handsome. The thought came to you clearly, like you were seeing him for the first time. When he wasn't making an ass of himself, when he wasn't performing for the court or drowning in his cups, when you actually looked at him, Aegon was undeniably, unfairly handsome.

"You're sure?" he asked, and his voice had gone quieter. Careful. Like he was giving you one last chance to back out, to laugh this off and pretend it never happened.

Your heart was pounding. "Stop asking and just—"

He dropped to his knees in front of you.

The movement brought him to your level, purple eyes locked on yours. His hand came up, hesitant at first, then surer, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you realized you were holding your breath.

Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like you'd imagined kissing would be. Not that you'd spent much time imagining it, or maybe you had, late at night, alone in your bed, but those fantasies had been vague and shapeless. This was real. This was Aegon's mouth on yours, warm and wine-sweet and surprisingly gentle. His other hand found your waist, steadying himself, or maybe steadying you.

For a moment, you froze. Didn't know what to do with your hands, with your mouth, with any of it. Then something in you gave way. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders, solid, real, there and you kissed him back.

Aegon kissed like he did everything else, without any restraint, without second thoughts, just pure unfiltered fucking want. His mouth was hot against yours, tasting like wine and something hungrier, and his hands cupped your face like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. He pressed closer, and you made a sound, and his tongue swept into your mouth.

Oh.

Your hands gripped shoulders because you needed something to hold onto, needed to ground yourself before you floated away entirely. He was solid under your grip, all lean muscle and warmth, so much warmer than you'd expected. When he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, something low in your belly clenched hard enough to hurt. 

This was wrong. This was Aegon. Your cousin. Your friend who you'd watched get drunk at a hundred feasts, who you'd laughed with and plotted with and shared secrets with. Who you'd never, not once, not ever, thought of like this.

But his mouth was moving against yours with a desperate kind of hunger, and his hands had slid from your face down to your waist, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, pulled you against him. And your body was a traitor. Heat was pooling between your thighs, your breath coming in short gasps, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his doublet like you needed him closer, needed more.

One of his hands moved lower, gripping your hip, and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, kissed you harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.

When he finally pulled back, breaking the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed against yours, you were both panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were red and swollen.

"Well," Aegon said, his voice rougher than usual. "That was—"

You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. His breath warm against your lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing along your jaw in a way that made your knees weak. 

"I'd like to do that again," he murmured, and there was something in his voice, something hungry and real beneath the usual bravado.

Your heart was pounding. His thumb was still moving against your skin, slow and deliberate, and you could feel the heat of him everywhere he touched. He was everywhere at once, and for the first time in your life you weren't looking at your cousin Aegon, you were staring at someone with pure, unfiltered want.

"Yes," you breathed.

He kissed you again—harder this time, more certain. His hand tightened on your waist, yanking you fully against him, and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest, the lean muscle of his thighs, and—gods—the unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed against your hip through layers of silk and leather.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding hot and slick against yours. His hips rolled forward, slow, deliberate and the pressure of him grinding against you sent heat shooting straight between your legs.

Your knees actually went weak. If he wasn't holding you up, you'd have collapsed.

Your hands found his hair—silver silk between your fingers—and you pulled. Hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, and ground against you harder in response. You could feel yourself getting wet, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, soaking through your smallclothes. The knowledge that he was hard, that you'd made him hard, made you clench around nothing.

"Fuck," Aegon panted against your mouth before his lips dragged to your jaw, your throat. His hand slid down from your waist to your ass, gripping hard, pulling you tighter against him. "Fuck, you taste so good. Smell good. Feel so fucking good."

He thrust his hips forward again, the thick length of him dragging against your belly, and you both made sounds that were almost pained. 

You should stop this. Should push him away before this went too far. This was Aegon, your cousin, your friend who you'd grown up with—

His teeth scraped the sensitive spot below your ear and you whimpered. Actually whimpered like something desperate and needy, your hips rolling forward to meet his next thrust without your permission.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin, doing it again, sucking a mark into your throat that you'd have to hide tomorrow. His hand on your ass squeezed, angling you so when he ground forward again, the pressure hit directly against your aching cunt. "Gods, feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Aegon," you started, voice breaking, but you couldn't finish because he was kissing you again, deeper, filthier, his tongue fucking into your mouth while one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat and the other kept your hips pinned against his.

He found a rhythm now, rolling his hips against yours in steady, deliberate thrusts that had you panting into his mouth. Each movement dragged the hard length of his cock against you, the friction even through all the layers making you want to scream, want to hike up your skirts and feel him properly, skin to skin, want things you'd never let yourself want before.

You rolled your hips back, meeting him, matching his rhythm, and he groaned like you'd hurt him.

"Fuck, yes," he panted. "Just like that. Gods, you're so, I can feel how wet you are even through—"

He thrust harder, and you felt it, the heat of him, the thick ridge of his cock grinding directly against your clit through the soaked silk between your legs. The sensation made white spots burst behind your eyelids.

This wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things you'd imagined in your naive fantasies. This was pure animal want, raw and desperate and hungry. Fueled by too much wine and too many things neither of you wanted to think about. His body moving against yours like he wanted to crawl inside you, like he couldn't get close enough even though you were pressed together so tightly you could barely breathe.

Your hand slid down from his hair to his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palm, then lower, reaching between your bodies toward the hard heat of him—

He caught your wrist. Held it. Both of you froze, breathing hard, hips still pressed flush together.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, flushed, his hair completely destroyed from your hands and your lips kiss-swollen and red, Aegon let out a shaky laugh against your neck.

"Gods," he breathed, forehead pressed to your shoulder. You could still feel him hard against your hip, could feel the answering wetness between your own legs. "We're idiots."

"Probably," you managed, your voice coming out hoarse. Wrecked.

"Definitely." But he wasn't pulling away. His hands were still on you, his body still pressed close, and you could feel him, still hard, maybe harder, against your hip. The evidence of what you'd just done. What you'd almost done. "This is a terrible idea."

"The worst."

"We should stop."

"We should." But your fingers were still twisted in his doublet.

His hand flexed on your hip, thumb pressing into the bone. "One more?"

You pulled him down by his hair and kissed him again. This time there was no hesitation. There was no pretense of this being innocent or simple. Just heat and hunger and his hands sliding down to grip your ass through your skirts, hauling you against him so hard you felt the breath leave your lungs.

You could feel the thick, insistent pressure of his cock grinding against your belly. He rolled his hips, slow and filthy, and you whimpered into his mouth. You wanted release.

"Fuck," he groaned against your lips. "You're going to kill me."

Your back hit the wall—you didn't even remember moving—and suddenly he had leverage. His thigh pushed between yours, spreading your legs, and when he ground forward this time the friction was devastating. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed directly against your cunt through the layers of silk, and you were so wet you knew he could feel it, knew the fabric had to be soaked through.

"Oh gods," you gasped, head falling back against the stone.

Aegon's mouth was on your neck immediately, sucking hard enough to mark, teeth scraping. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you down harder onto his thigh, helping you grind against him.

"That's it," he panted against your throat, moving his leg in rhythm with your desperate rolling hips. "Fuck, you're so wet. I can feel you through everything. Can feel how much you want this."

You should care about the bruises he was leaving. Should worry about questions and propriety and what this meant. You didn't care at all. You just needed more, more, and more.

"Aegon," you gasped, and his name coming out of your mouth broken and desperate seemed to undo something in him.

He kissed you again, dirty and deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth, while his hips pressed forward, grinding his cock against your hip in time with how you were riding his thigh. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you deeper, the other still gripping your arse and guiding your movements.

"Could fuck you right here," he groaned into your mouth, hips thrusting harder. "Pull up these skirts, sink into you against this wall. You'd let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking wet you'd take me easy."

The image, Aegon inside you, filling you, fucking you against cold, dirty stone, made you moan and grind down harder. You were drowning in sensation, the taste of wine on his tongue, the heat of his body burning through the fabric, the devastating pressure between your legs, the thick hardness of him grinding against your hip.

"Yes," you heard yourself gasp. "Yes, Seven Hells."

Reality as sudden as a wave crashing against rock, rippled back through you.

What the fuck were you two doing? What were you saying?

You must have tensed because Aegon pulled back, really pulled back this time, stepping away and putting actual space between your bodies. The loss of contact left you cold and aching. You were both wrecked. His lips were swollen and red, his hair completely destroyed, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. There was a wet spot on his thigh from you. You could see the obvious bulge straining against his breeches.

You probably looked worse. Your lips tender and kiss-bitten, your smallclothes absolutely ruined.

"Yes. Back. To the feast." He ran both hands through his hair, dragging it back from his face, somehow making it look even more fucked. "Where we've been having perfectly appropriate cousin conversations."

"Very appropriate."

"The most appropriate." But he was looking at you like he wanted to shove you back against that wall and finish what you'd started. His eyes dragged down your body, lingering on your swollen lips, the marks on your neck, the wrinkled silk of your dress, before snapping back up. "Fuck, your hair's a complete disaster."

"So is yours."

"I'm always a mess. You're supposed to be the put-together one." He reached out, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to tuck a few loose strands back into place. The touch was gentle now, almost tender, so different from five minutes ago when he'd been fisting his hand in it and pulling. "There. Almost presentable."

You caught his wrist, held it. His pulse was still racing under your fingers. "Aegon, please."

"Don't." He pulled away, stepped back entirely, hands dropping to his sides and curling into fists like he didn't trust himself not to reach for you again. "Don't make it something. It was just—we're drunk. That's all."

"Right. Drunk."

"Very drunk." He looked around, spotted his abandoned wine cup on the bench, picked it up and stared at it like he'd forgotten what it was for. Then set it back down. "We should go. Before I do something even stupider."

"Like what?"

His eyes met yours, and they were still dark. Still wanting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered, cousin."

Your breath caught. Heat pooled low in your belly again, that ache between your legs flaring back to life.

He saw it on your face—saw the want there—and made a pained sound. "Gods, don't look at me like that. We need to leave. Now."

"Okay," you managed.

"Okay." But he didn't move. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, hands still clenched at his sides.

Finally, with visible effort, he offered you his arm, the gesture exaggerated and courtly in a way that didn't quite hide how badly his hand was shaking. "Come on. Let's go back before someone sends a search party and finds us looking like we've been—" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Just. Let's go."

You took his arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm, and you could feel the tension in him. The muscles were tight, coiled, like he was holding himself back. Together you made your way back down the winding stairs. The descent was precarious,  both of you still drunk, still unsteady, but now for different reasons. Your legs felt weak. You could feel the slickness between your thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how close you'd come to, god, fucking your cousin. The cousin that was right there, is still right there. 

You stumbled on a step and Aegon caught you, arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The touch lasted a second too long. His fingers pressed into your hip,  right where he'd gripped you before and you both froze.

"Careful," he said roughly, then let go like you'd burned him.

"Are we going to be weird about this?" you asked as you reached the bottom, voices from the feast growing louder.

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then neither am I." He squeezed your hand where it rested on his arm, the pressure firm and grounding. "It was just kissing. Doesn't have to mean anything."

"Doesn't have to mean anything," you repeated.

Liar, something whispered in the back of your mind. You could still feel him hard against you. Could still hear him saying he wanted to fuck you against the wall. Could still taste wine on your tongue. But when you made it back through the side door, slipping into the edges of the feast and immediately caught sight of Jace across the hall, still with Cassandra, his head bent close to hers as she whispered something in his ear, and you felt that familiar twist of want and jealousy knife through your chest.

And beneath it, something new. Something confusing.

The memory of Aegon's mouth on yours. His hands on your body, gripping and pulling and claiming. The way he'd made you forget everything else, forget Jace, forget propriety, forget your own name, for those few desperate moments.

And worse of all, the way you'd liked it.

You slipped away from Aegon as soon as you entered the hall, murmuring something about needing the privy. In truth, you needed a moment. Needed to look at yourself, assess the damage. Your chambers weren't far. You practically ran there, heart still pounding, skin still flushed.

Your ladies were waiting, they'd been dismissed earlier but Lysa had stayed, dozing in a chair by the fire. She jolted awake when you burst in.

"My lady! Are you—" Her eyes went wide, taking in your disheveled hair, your swollen lips, the very obvious marks blooming purple on your throat. "Oh."

"I need—" You gestured helplessly at your neck. "Can you please?"

"Of course." But she was grinning as she hurried to mix a paste, calling for Maryse and Elaena.

They appeared quickly, and the moment they saw you, the reaction was immediate.

"Ohhhhh," Maryse breathed, eyes sparkling with delight.

"My lady!" Elaena giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth.

"Don't," you warned, but you could feel yourself flushing deeper.

"Was he handsome?" Lysa asked, dabbing the paste carefully on your neck to lighten the marks. It wouldn't hide them completely, but it would help.

"I'm not discussing this."

"Ohhhhh, he was," Maryse decided, starting to fix your hair with deft fingers. "Look how red she is."

"Was it romantic?" Elaena asked dreamily, adjusting your dress, smoothing the wrinkles.

"It was—" You stopped. What could you even say? "It was nothing. Too much wine."

All three of them made knowing sounds, soft "mmhmms" and "of courses" that said they didn't believe you for a second.

The rest of the night blurred together in a haze of wine and music and laughter. You danced with Aemond, too stiff and proper, unlike his brother, but surprisingly skilled. He didn't speak much, just guided you through the steps like an ever-so-graceful swan, his one good eye tracking everything in the hall like he was cataloging threats.

"You're drunk," he observed.

"Very."

"Good. You're less insufferable when you're drunk.”

"You're a delight as always, cousin."

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you'd ever seen from him. "Enjoy your evening, Princess."

Then Daemon cut in, stealing you mid-step with the kind of casual arrogance only he could manage.

"Having fun?" he asked, spinning you perhaps a bit too fast.

"Trying to."

"That Greyjoy boy's been watching you all night." Daemon's grin was sharp. "Wondering if he's going to do something stupid."

"Aren't we all doing something stupid tonight?"

"Fair point." He laughed, and for a moment you could see why Rhaenyra loved him despite everything. "Don't get yourself killed, niece. Your aunt would be very put out."

"I'll do my best."

Even Rhaenyra danced with you—a slower song, her hands gentle as she guided you through it.

"You look happy," she said softly. "That's good. I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm fine, Your Grace."

"Rhaenyra," she corrected. "When it's just us, I'm Rhaenyra. Your aunt who loves you."

The wine made your eyes sting. "I love you too."

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Go enjoy yourself. You're young. These nights don't come often enough."

So you did. You drank more wine, letting the warmth of it blur the edges of everything. Danced with lords whose names you didn't remember and didn't care to learn. Laughed at Aegon's increasingly ridiculous jokes, though you were careful not to stand too close to him, careful not to let your eyes linger.

Every time you saw him across the hall, you remembered. His mouth on yours. His hands gripping your ass. The way he'd ground against you like he couldn't help himself. The things he'd said, could fuck you right here, that still made heat pool between your legs when you thought about them.

And every time you saw Jace, still orbiting Cassandra Baratheon like she was the sun and he was caught in her gravity, you felt that sick twist of jealousy. But now it was complicated by guilt. By confusion. You'd dry-humped Aegon in a tower. You'd been ready to let him fuck you against a wall. And part of you had liked it. Had liked the way he looked at you like you were something he desperately wanted. Had liked feeling wanted, period.

But you still couldn't stop watching Jace. Couldn't stop wondering what his hands would feel like instead of Aegon's. Couldn't stop thinking about the hole in your wall and the things you'd seen through it.

You were a mess. A complete disaster of a person. So you drank more. Let yourself forget, just for a few hours, about holes in walls and wanting things you couldn't have and the fact that you'd apparently developed an extremely inconvenient attraction to not one but two of your cousins.

By the time you decided to retire, the hall was spinning pleasantly and your feet ached from dancing. You waved off your ladies, they were enjoying themselves too, giggling with guards and flirting with servants and made your way through the corridors alone.

The castle was a maze at the best of times. Drunk, it was nearly impossible.

You climbed stairs, turned down hallways, all of it familiar but also somehow wrong. Your chambers should be here? No, maybe down this corridor. Or was it the other way?

Finally, you found a door that looked right. The wood was the same, the handle in the same place. Close enough. You pushed it open, stumbled inside, and didn't bother with candles. The room was dark and quiet. Just kicked off your slippers, fumbled with the laces of your gown until they loosened enough to breathe, and collapsed onto the bed.

The sheets smelled clean. Felt soft. Maybe a bit different than usual but your wine-soaked brain didn't care enough to question it. Good enough, you didn’t give a god’s damn.

You were asleep before your head fully hit the pillow.

Jacaerys was tired, wine-warm, and ready for bed when he finally escaped the feast.

Cassandra had wanted him to stay longer, had made that very clear with the way her hand kept finding his arm, the lingering touches, the invitations in her eyes that he'd politely ignored. He'd begged off with excuses about an early morning. The tournaments started tomorrow, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep before climbing into armor and trying not to get killed in front of the entire court.

He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his thoughts already on collapsing into bed. Maybe he'd been too indulgent tonight. Too much wine, too much dancing, too much of Cassandra's cloying perfume that now clung to his clothes and made his head ache.

He pushed open his door, stepped inside, and froze.

Someone was in his bed.

His hand went to the dagger at his belt, pure instinct, trained response, his body tensing as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The figure was small, curled on their side facing away from him. Too small to be a real threat. Too still.

Then he saw the hair. Silver. Spilling across his pillows, catching what little light came through the window. Long and unbound, the way he'd never seen it during the day when it was always properly pinned and braided.

His heart stopped. Started again, too fast.

It was you.

"What the—" The words died in his throat. He stood there, hand still on his dagger, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You were in his bed. His bed. Fast asleep from the look of it, your breathing deep and even, completely unaware of his presence. Jace's eyes adjusted further, and he could make out more details now. Your slippers discarded on the floor near the foot of the bed. Your gown was unlaced and loose around your body.

Very loose. His breath caught as his gaze traced the line of your form. You'd clearly tried to unlace the gown yourself, drunk fingers fumbling with the ties, getting it open enough to breathe easier before collapsing into bed. But you'd only managed to loosen it, not remove it, and now the fabric had shifted in your sleep.

The neckline had slipped down your shoulder. Lower. Low enough that he could see—

Jace's mouth went dry. Your breast. Half of it bare, skin luminous in the moonlight, the curve of it visible where the silk had fallen away. If you shifted even slightly, if the fabric slipped just a bit more… stop, stop right fucking  now. 

He looked away quickly, heat flooding his face, his chest, lower. His heart was hammering now.

Don't look. Don't be that person. She's asleep. She's drunk. She doesn't even know where she is.

But his eyes were drawn back like a lodestone to true north.

Your leg had escaped the tangle of silk too. One bare leg stretched out across his sheets, the gown rucked up to mid-thigh, higher on the side where you'd rolled slightly forward in sleep. Smooth skin, the elegant line of your calf, the curve of your knee. If he looked, and gods help him, he was looking, he could see almost to your hip where the fabric had bunched.

He could see the shadow between your thighs. Jace's cock stirred in his breeches, and he felt shame burn through him immediately after.

Stop. Stop looking at her like this.

But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. You were sprawled across his bed like some kind of vision, your lips were parted slightly, your breathing deep and peaceful. You looked nothing like the proper, put-together princess he saw every day. Nothing like his cousin who barely spoke to him, who avoided his eyes at dinner, who seemed to go out of her way not to be alone with him.

You looked undone and vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that made his chest ache and his blood run hot.

He took a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed, looking down at you.

This close, he could see more. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, your bare chest, your nipple was just barely hidden by a fold of silk, the fabric draped across it so precariously that each breath threatened to expose you completely.

Jace's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing had gone shallow.

What was wrong with him? This was you. His cousin. A princess. A woman who clearly had no idea where she was or what she looked like right now. And he was standing here staring at you like some kind of pervert, getting hard while you slept completely unaware.

He needed to—he should—

Wake you. Get you back to your chambers. Cover you with a blanket at the very least. Do something other than stand here like an idiot with his cock half-hard and his mind conjuring images of what it would be like to slip into that bed beside you, to pull you against him, to—

No.

He forced himself to step back. To look away. To think like a rational person instead of a man who'd drunk too much wine and found a beautiful woman in his bed. You shifted in your sleep, making a small sound and rolled slightly onto your back.

The movement made everything worse. The gown slipped further. Your breast was fully exposed now, pale and perfect in the moonlight. He could see your nipple, could see the way it had hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. The silk had ridden up higher on your leg too, and now he could see the dark shadow at the apex of your thighs. Gods.

Were you even wearing anything under that gown?

Jace turned away sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like he could scrub the image from his mind. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his breeches, and he felt like the worst kind of person. You were drunk. Asleep. Completely vulnerable. And here he was getting hard looking at you, thinking thoughts he had absolutely no right to think.

He needed to cover you. That was the first thing. Before he did anything else—before he even tried to figure out what to do about this situation—he needed to make you decent.

Jace grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, hands shaking slightly, and carefully, so carefully, draped it over you. He tried not to look. Tried not to let his eyes linger on all that bare skin before the fabric covered it.

He failed. The image was burned into his mind now. Your breast. Your leg. The shadow between your thighs. The way you looked spread out in his bed like some kind of offering.

Stop it. She's your cousin. She's drunk. This is wrong.

But his body didn't care about wrong. His body only knew that you were here, barely clothed, looking like every fantasy he'd never let himself have. And you had been a fantasy. He could admit that now, alone in the dark with you unconscious and unaware. He'd noticed you. Had tried not to, had told himself it was inappropriate, but he'd noticed. The way you moved. The rare times you smiled. The intelligence in your eyes during council meetings when you thought no one was watching you listen.

He'd just never let himself think about it. About you. Not like that. Now he couldn't think about anything else.

Jace ran both hands through his hair, gripping it hard enough to hurt, trying to ground himself. Trying to think. Okay, good. You were covered now. That was good. Next step was to figure out what the fuck to do.

He should wake you. Should get you back to your own chambers before anyone found out you'd spent the night here. Before servants came in the morning and saw you in his bed. The scandal alone would destroy you. Would destroy any chance you had at a good marriage, would ruin your reputation entirely.

He couldn't let that happen. But waking you meant... what exactly? Touching you? Shaking your shoulder? Explaining that you'd drunkenly stumbled into the wrong room and passed out half-naked in your cousin's bed?

Gods, you'd be mortified.

Maybe it was better to just let you sleep. You were clearly exhausted, clearly drunk enough that you'd mistaken his chambers for yours. In the morning, when you woke, he could pretend he'd just arrived. Could act surprised to find you there. Give you a chance to slip out quietly, save you the embarrassment of a confrontation.

Yes. That was better. Kinder. It had nothing to do with wanting to keep you here a little longer. Nothing to do with the selfish, possessive part of him that liked seeing you in his bed, wrapped in his blankets, surrounded by his scent.

Liar, something whispered in the back of his mind.

Jace ignored it. He'd sleep somewhere else. The chairs by the fire, maybe. Or, there, is eyes landed on the small couch in the corner near the window. It looked deeply uncomfortable, probably meant for sitting and reading rather than sleeping, but it would have to do. He couldn't exactly climb into bed next to you. That would be, well, he didn't let himself finish that thought.

Decision made, he moved quietly toward the corner, trying not to make any noise that might wake you. He'd need to grab a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, maybe a pillow. 

Something caught his eye. A small gap in the wall near the floor in the corner. He'd never noticed it before, why would he? It was just a shadow among shadows, easy to miss. But now, looking directly at it, he could see it clearly.

A hole. Small, where the mortar had crumbled away between the stones. Jace frowned, crouching down to examine it. Old damage. The kind of thing that happened in castles this ancient, centuries of settling stone.

He should probably mention it to someone. Get it sealed up. Curious, he leaned closer, peering through the narrow gap to see where it led.

His breath caught. It was a room. Your room.

He could see the edge of a bed with a distinctive purple coverlet—the same one he'd seen when he'd accidentally walked in on you in your bath. A dressing table with jewelry scattered across its surface, glinting in the moonlight. Books stacked on a side table. A carved wooden screen positioned in the corner, partially obscuring his view but not completely.

The hole looked directly into your private chambers.

Jace sat back slowly, his heart starting to pound for entirely different reasons now.

This gap in the wall—it went straight through to your room. A perfect line of sight from his corner to yours. Which meant theoretically, someone could look through it. Could see into your private space. Watch you dress, sleep, bathe, lord knows what else.

His jaw clenched hard, a surge of protective anger rising in his chest. Had some servant discovered this? Some guard with ill intentions? The thought of someone watching you while you were vulnerable, unaware, made his blood run hot.

But then again you'd never mentioned it. Never complained about feeling watched or unsafe. Never called for anyone to repair the wall. Which meant either you didn't know about it.

Or you did know, and you'd chosen not to say anything.

Jace turned slowly to look at you, sleeping peacefully in his bed, utterly unaware of his racing thoughts.

The hole was low in his corner. Easy to miss unless you were looking for it, unless you happened to be right here in this spot. But on your side you'd have that screen. Would have moved it at some point, maybe looking for something, and found the gap.

Would have realized where it led. His heart was pounding now, thoughts spiraling.

No. That was insane. You wouldn't. You barely looked at him most days, avoided him at meals, seemed to go out of your way not to be alone with him. But you'd also been acting strange lately. He'd noticed it, couldn't help but notice. The way you flushed when he was near. How you avoided his eyes, like looking at him directly was too much.

And this morning. Gods, this morning when he'd walked in on you in your bath. You'd screamed, yes, but there had been something else in your expression. Something beyond just shock. You'd looked almost guilty, almost. At the time he'd thought he was imagining it. Had assumed you were just mortified at being seen naked. But what if it was more than that?

What if you'd been watching him through this hole, and suddenly he'd burst into your room, and you'd realized how close he was to discovering your secret?

Jace's breath came faster. He thought back over the past few days. The way you'd been flushed at dinner after he'd brought that woman back to his chambers. The way you couldn't meet his eyes the next morning. How you'd seemed distracted, distant, like your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Had you been watching him fuck her? The thought should have made him angry. Should have felt like a violation, an invasion of his privacy.

Instead, heat shot straight to his groin.

His cock, which had softened slightly while he'd been trying to figure out the logistics of where to sleep, was suddenly achingly hard again. He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock through his breeches, trying to will it down, but it was useless. The image was in his head now and wouldn't leave.

You. On the other side of that wall. Eye pressed to the gap. Watching him with some nameless woman, watching him fuck her, watching every thrust and hearing every sound.

Getting wet while you watched.

Fuck. Because you would have, wouldn't you? If you'd been watching—and gods, everything pointed to you watching—you wouldn't have kept coming back to that hole unless it was doing something for you. Unless seeing him like that, uninhibited and raw, was turning you on.

His proper, untouchable cousin. Getting yourself off while spying on him through a crack in the wall. Jace's hand tightened involuntarily on his cock and he had to bite back a groan.

He looked at you again, sleeping peacefully in his bed, completely unaware that he'd figured it out. That he knew. How many times? How many times had you watched him?

That first woman, the dark-haired serving girl. Had you seen that? Seen him bend her over the bed, seen the way he'd made her moan? And the one after. The minor lady whose name he'd already forgotten. Had you watched him spread her legs and bury his face between her thighs?

Gods, had you touched yourself while you watched? Slipped your hand beneath your nightgown, fingers finding your clit while you watched him make other women come? His cock throbbed and he had to close his eyes, had to breathe through the wave of lust that crashed over him.

This was wrong. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this. Shouldn't be getting hard imagining you watching him, wanting him, touching yourself to the sight of him with other women.

But he couldn't stop. Because if you had been watching—and everything in him said you had been—what did that mean?

It meant you wanted him. Maybe didn't want to want him, maybe fought against it, but you did. Why else would you keep going back to that hole? Why else would you watch him fuck other women if not because you wished it was you?

The thought made him harder, made pre-cum leak from the tip of his cock, dampening his smallclothes. He tried to remember the past few nights, tried to think through the wine-haze of who he'd brought back and when.

 He'd also been with Cassandra. Right here in this room, in this bed where you were sleeping now.

Had you watched that? His breath came out shaky. He'd been showing off tonight, he could admit that now. Cassandra had been impressed by his title, his dragon, the crown he'd someday wear. She'd made that clear. And maybe he'd wanted to impress her in other ways too. Had made it last longer than usual, had made sure she came twice before he'd let himself finish.

Had you been on the other side of that wall, watching him with her? Watching him kiss her, touch her, spread her legs in this very bed? Watching while your heart twisted with jealousy?

The idea shouldn't thrill him as much as it did.

Jace pressed his palm hard against his cock, trying to calm down, trying to think past the lust fogging his brain. His hand came away damp, he was leaking badly now, his cock throbbing with need.

Stop. Get yourself under control.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow, deep breaths. Forced himself to look away from you sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, still half-exposed despite the blanket he'd draped over you.

This was insane. He was standing here hard as iron, thinking about his cousin watching him fuck other women, getting off on the idea of you wanting him. He needed to calm down. Needed to think rationally about what this meant and what, if anything, he was going to do about it.

Jace forced himself to turn away from you entirely. Grabbed the blanket he'd originally intended to use and moved to the couch in the corner, as far from the bed as he could get in the confines of his own chambers. He stretched out on the too-small surface, the blanket pulled up to his chin, and willed his body to calm down. Willed his cock to soften. Tried to think about anything other than you watching him through that hole.

It didn't work.

Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured images. You with your eye pressed to the gap. Your hand sliding beneath your nightgown. Your lips parting as you watched him fuck someone else, wishing it was you. His cock throbbed, still achingly hard, and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

This was impossible. He couldn't sleep like this. Couldn't lie here all night with his cock straining against his breeches and you barely ten feet away, half-naked in his bed. He sat up, running both hands through his hair in frustration.

He needed to leave. Needed to get out of this room before he did something monumentally stupid. Like climb into that bed with you. Like wake you up and ask if you'd been watching. Like find out what sounds you'd make if he gave you something real to watch.

Fuck.

Jace stood, moving as quietly as possible, and grabbed his cloak from where it hung by the door. The Street of Silk would still be busy at this hour. He could find someone, anyone, to take the edge off. To fuck this desperate need out of his system so he could think clearly.

He paused at the door, looking back at you one more time. You'd shifted again in your sleep, the blanket slipping down to your waist. Your silver hair spilled across his pillows like you belonged there.

Tomorrow. He'd deal with all of this tomorrow. Would help you back to your chambers, act like the perfect gentleman. Would decide what, if anything, to do about that hole in the wall.

But tonight, he needed to leave before he lost what little control he had left. Jace slipped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him, and headed for the castle gates.

To read the remainder of part one (I ran out of space on here), please go to AO3 end of this part is Chapter 5: Consequences. Thank you for reading!

[serdunkalot]

im alive, plane did NOT crash, and heres 7k words as an apology click ME to read chapter 8: gambit

[myladyship]

I love the scenario of Maekar being in his late 30s and not participating in joust. Not because he's old or his body is not what it used to be.

It's because he thinks these new knights are "too fucking green".

So imagine everyone's shock when Maekar Targaryen enters the list all of the sudden.

He goes to the stands and asks you for his favour, which you gracefully give.

He manages to win a few tilts and goes his merry way.

When Baelor asks him why he joined the tourney, Maekar just says he wanted to let some steam out.

In reality he overheard some knight saying he was going to ask you, Maekar’s crush, your favour.

And Maekar would not let that happen!

[feral4youu]

ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɢɪʀʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ʙᴀᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ

Summary: Friends with benefits worked perfectly for you and Maekar right up until you came over before the rodeo in an outfit that made his jaw tighten instantly. The problem isn’t that he notices—it’s that he suddenly can’t stand the thought of anyone else noticing too.

Pairing: Country! Maekar x Fwb! reader

WC: 1.6k

Warning: 18+, possessive! maekar, smut, arguments, maekar is a dick, manipulation, age gap, they are toxic, bimbo! reader

The fling between you and your grumpy neighbor started by accident, at least that is what you forced yourself to believe. So, when he offered to mow your yard— of course you had to repay him with dinner.

That’s all it was supposed to be, just dinner. However, that idea was lost in translation somewhere when you ended up in his bed.

Since then, the two of you have been on and off— more on than off.

The summer heat had been relentless, the kind of heat that made you feel sticky as soon as you walked out of the house.

You had gotten dressed up for the rodeo, planning to meet a few friends and get out of your house for the night. Before leaving, you had to walk over to Maekar’s to grab your wallet that you had left over there a few nights prior.

The bugs buzzed around you as you walked through his yard, sipping on the cherry limeade that you had in your hand.

You rang the doorbell, standing there— waiting for him to answer.

He finally answered with no shirt on and his phone up to his ear.

“Yeah, I’ll call you back in a few minutes.” He mumbled, eyeing you through the screen door as he unlocked it.

“I need to get my wallet.” You spoke.

You walked into his house, glancing at the episode of Sons of Anarchy on the tv.

“Your wallet is in my room, on the dresser.” He mumbled, walking past you.

You handed him your cup and walked down the hall to his room.

His room looked the same as it always did, his silk red sheets in disarray on the bed and the lingering smell of your perfume in the air.

On his dresser he kept items of yours there— perfume, your thongs that he’d rip off, a necklace of yours, and the wallet that you left. He allowed you to have your own spot, even though he claimed that he wasn’t looking for anything serious.

You grabbed your wallet and headed back down the hallway into the living room, glancing at him as he stood in front of the tv sipping down the rest of your drink.

“Did you put coke in this?” He grumbled, his brows slightly furrowed.

“I did, because it was my drink.” You replied, grabbing the cup from his hands.

His eyes roamed your body, taking note of the skimpy shirt that you had on along with the insanely short shorts— leaving very little to the imagination.

“Where are you going dressed like that?”

You put down your cup, realizing that it was completely empty now.

“I’m going to the rodeo with a few friends.”

His brow raised, “dressed like that?”

You smirked, “this is how I always dress.”

He scoffed, walking towards his kitchen to grab a beer.

You bent over in the doorway, “can you see my thong when I bend over like this?”

He snapped his head in your direction, a scowl on his face.

“What fucking thong?”

You giggled, a big smile on your face.

“Perfect.”

His skin was red, red like he’d been in the sun too long. The same exact red that he’d always get when you’d gotten under his skin or if he was jealous.

He walked back into the room with a cold beer in his hand.

“What’s the goal with you being dressed like that? To bring home some wannabe cowboy?”

You laughed, your hand on your hip.

“You jealous, Maekar?”

He sipped the beer and his eyes flickered over to you.

“No, it’s just that if you’re dressed like that— you might as well put an open for business sign on your back.”

Your smile dropped, a frown on your face.

“You’re a fucking asshole, I don’t know why I bother with you in the first place!”

He loved to say things like that, things that would be hurtful— things that would be wrong. He wanted to get a rise out of you, because getting a rise out of you meant that you’d stay at his place longer and that you’d argue— which meant he could make it up to you by fucking you.

“You say that every time.” He muttered, gulping down the rest of his beer.

“You know, there’s a reason that you’re alone and that your ex-wife left you for another man.” You spat.

His eyes widened, his shoulders pulled back as he set down the now empty beer bottle.

“I’d assume there’s also probably a reason that you’re fucking a man almost twice your age and not someone closer to yours.”

You gritted your teeth.

“Maybe I will bring home a man tonight—bring home a man that will appreciate me, a man that doesn’t occasionally need a little blue pill to keep up with me.”

He was standing over you, his body pressed against yours by the time that you could finish your sentence.

“You love to test me.” He grumbled, his hand holding your cheek.

“You didn’t have to be rude.” You replied, your voice coming out soft.

His thumb swiped your bottom lip.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have been—“

“I’m sorry.. I just don’t want other men all over you, I know how they get at those rodeos after a few drinks.”

You pulled your head back slightly.

“You weren’t looking for anything serious, remember? This was just fun.”

He sighed, “maybe I was wrong.”

“Then, why’d you push me away?”

He looked at you, a flicker of embarrassment behind his eyes.

“Because, a woman such as yourself deserves a far better man than me. I’m older than your father, divorced, and I have six children. I’m too old for this shit and you deserve more.”

“I want you though.” You responded.

“I want you too.”

His body pressed against yours, made your feet stumble back some— your boots pressed against the couch.

“You’re just saying that.. saying what you think I want to hear.”

He shook his head, his eyes stuck on you.

“I’m speaking the truth, honest to God. I don’t want to share you with anyone else or.. lose you.”

“Then, why are you always being a dick?” You questioned.

His expression softened.

“Baby, you know that’s how I always am. You know I don’t mean nothing by it.”

You felt your heart flutter in your chest, a knot building in your stomach. Maybe he was being sincere that time and finally admitting what he’d kept hidden.

“Let me make it up to you, sugar.”

He placed his hands on your hips, his lips brushing against yours before he finally kissed you. He kissed you slowly, taking his time like the kiss was part of his apology.

He gently pushed you back onto the couch, getting on his knees in front you.

“Maekar?”

“Just let me take care of you, baby.” He replied.

He unbuttoned your shorts, pulling them down and completely off you— leaving your boots on.

His tongue swiped his lip as he stared at you, completely bare in front of him— slick already coating your lips.

He placed both of your legs across his shoulders, pulling you to the edge of the couch.

Before you could say anything, your mind was clouded with pleasure— his tongue swiping against your slit.

“You taste so fucking good, sweetheart”

Your fingers gripped his hair, your mouth open and eyes rolling back into your head while he lapped at your pussy like a starved dog.

He pushed two of his thick, calloused fingers inside you.

“That’s it baby, take all of me just like that.” He groaned.

He spit on your pussy, watching it drip down as his fingers curved inside of you—slowly pumping in and out of you.

“Fuck.” You whined, your hips bucking.

Maekar’s cock was harder than ever in his pants, his hips bucking unintentionally against the couch for any friction.

Hearing your whimpers and moans drove Maekar wild, almost to the brink of cumming untouched.

“You’re doing so good for me, sugar. I want you to cum for me.”

You pulled his head back, the pleasure overwhelming you.

He chuckled, staring at you— your chest rising and falling fast.

“You’re close? Hmm?”

You breathlessly nodded.

“then let me finish my job.” He sweetly demanded.

Heat swirled your body, looking at how your slick coated his face. God, he could be such an ass— but you couldn’t resist him. He knew just the right things to say and how to make you cum quick.

His tongue flicked against your clit, your moans coming out louder than you intended.

The knot in your stomach coming undone, your orgasm so close that you could touch it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—“

“I’m gonna—“

“Cum for me baby, give it to me.” He hummed.

Your orgasm washed over you, your legs shaking against him— your grip on his hair tighter than intended.

He grinned from between your legs, looking up at you.

“So much to say earlier and now look at you, a complete mess.”

You let go of his hair and moved your legs, reeling from your orgasm.

You didn’t intend to be at his house longer than a moment to get your wallet, but he’d somehow managed to suck you back in.

Maekar licked his lips and slowly stood up.

“I’ll go to the rodeo with you, if you want.”

A smirk tugged at your lips, “really?”

He nodded, already internally regretting the suggestion.

“Yes, but we’re not staying all damn night.”

You got up from the couch, still smiling and giving him a deep kiss.

“Thank you, baby.”

“Uh huh.” He grumbled.

You grabbed his hand, leading him to the bathroom so that you could fuck him in the shower before the two of you left.

reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated.

[demiene]

𐔌 cw: modern setting, sex with a stranger .ᐟ

the car died halfway through, shuddering to a halt at the roadside and refusing to roar back to life no matter how many times you frantically twisted the key in the ignition. outside, the not so darling landscape was trapped in a dead silence, no cars passed, and the vast, empty fields were covered only by sparse, yellowed grass under an impossibly stifling heat.

you struck the steering wheel, letting out a loud, frustrated groan as your head rolled back against the seat, forcing you to contemplate your bleak options now that your earlier plans were utterly ruined. turning to the side, you flung the door open and stepped out into the sweltering air, shielding your eyes as the blistering sun immediately scorched the earth beneath your feet, radiating upwards.

just past the roadside fence stood an abandoned garage, a desolate structure that looked like the perfect lair for a serial killer to keep his prey. a shabby, decades old sign bearing a faded dragon hung precariously over the entrance. propping open the hood, you quickly realized you had absolutely no idea what you were looking at, nothing steamed, leaked, or made any strange noises, it was as if the vehicle had died out of sheer malice just to taunt you.

you bent over the engine bay, spine curved in an arch and hands braced firmly down, taking a deep, stabilizing breath in a desperate bid to keep from losing your temper completely. but the quiet shattered, breaking your forced meditation. a stranger's voice cut through the heat, heavy with an amusement that was mirrored in the broad, toothy grin stretching across his angular face.

“can i help you, princess?” he downright purred, and your eyes rolled so high that, luckily, the world vanished for a fleeting moment. you eyed him, maintaining a deliberate silence just to watch him squirm, though it was a daunting task to compete with the sheer narcissism you could practically smell on him. he was a guy of lean muscle and silver bleached hair, cropped short enough for him to casually run a hand through.

his cerulean blue eyes were far more striking than the clear sky above, effortlessly demanding that he remain the center of attention. he wore a shirt that seemed cropped and loose fitting jeans with knees worn to a faded white, his skin giving off a warm, spicy note of sweat. long arms were smeared with a tracing of grease that contrasted sharply with his ivory pallor, though the sight offered a silent understanding of exactly where he had come from.

“if it wouldn't cost me a kidney, sure” you hummed, taking a cautious step back. a low chuckle escaped him as he stepped into your space, his smile dazzling under the hot sun. from behind the roadside fence, his lower half had been obscured, but now you noticed the tool belt resting heavily on those narrow hips, various wrenches clattering softly with his movements. a mechanic, then.

he made no effort to hide the way his gaze dragged down your legs, mapping their contour and the exposed skin before rising to where your denim shorts began. then, he winked. you watched the slow flutter of his long eyelashes and the slight furrow of his brown brows in mild concentration, his plump lower lip caught between straight teeth as the sinew in his straining biceps rippled.

he knew full well that you were watching, and he played along flawlessly. voice emerging a bit gravelly, dropping into a deliberate flirt “i'll give you a good discount, beautiful”

the car obeyed his lithe fingers, and after less than an hour, he finally pulled away, wiping his hands on the grease stained cloth dangling from his belt. then he motioned for you to see his handiwork. turning the key still resting in the ignition, you listened as the engine purred to life, loud, steady, and healthier than it had sounded in ages.

cat that ate a canary looking grin on his face said it all, his defined jawline tightened, legs spread wide in the seat, and his eyes narrowed in a way that screamed how desperately he wanted to be praised. you did not hesitate as you leaned into his space, movement anchoring his gaze to the swell of your cleavage, pupils blowing wide.

by the time you murmured your innocent question “so, what should i call my hero?” his throat bobbed with a dry swallow, a flash of fangs gleaming as his voice dropped into a raspy low “uh, aerion. .” and you could swear his earlobes burned a deep, ruddy red.

it was remarkably easy to fluster him, and the blush had deepened to crimson as he railed you into the backseat. your ass curved high, meeting every relentless forward snap and bouncing off his pelvic bone. he's white even down there, which is arousing, your slick leaving a shimmering sheen over coarse hairs. aerion's hips clawed raw with nail thin lines.

car's warmth suffocating, your tits squished down and cunt stuffed full, as his long cock plowed in and out your clenching, drenched hole, ass bruising at the force. you whined and moaned, tightening just to hear him groan, cursing “gods — so tight, perfect pussy” and helping your hips roll, grabby fingers sunk into their curve. kneading the flesh and relishing in how your gummy walls fluttered in repsonse to quickening pace, turning sloppy and rutting.

breaching you on further, swollen tip hitting that sensitive spot deep, one hand sneaking between your shaking legs to thumb at the pulsing, puffy nub until you hiccup. you blabber his name all the while, and aerion enjoys it even more than the gushing confines of your pussy. cock throbbing the louder you moan for him, sweat running down his rippling abdomen.

aerion had left his number as a fresh contact in your phone while you cleaned him, nostrils flaring and breath hitching as your throat worked around his cock. licking away every drop of cum that had scattered down his girth in pearly beads when he pulled out to spill on your lower back.

cheeks hollowed, your tongue tracked the bulging veins and weeping slit, teasing a low, sharp hiss from his lips as his hips bucked instinctively against your mouth. you paid no mind to the fierce bruises he had painted across your shoulder blades, his thumb stroking them idly as he leaned down to nuzzle for a kiss. rough palm framing your jaw to force your mouth wide as his tongue tangled around yours like a serpent.

he was a weird one, unpredictable, yet your mind swam with a pleasant lightheadedness. dabbing you clean between your thighs with his own sweaty shirt before tucking it into the belt, helping you pull your denim shorts back on. calloused hand lingering to palm one asscheek before he pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead, whispering “you still owe me”

main masterlist. quidelines.

[julez-5]

just thinking about like father, like son!reader having to interact with aerion

modern!maekar x fem!reader

The cool metal of your engagement ring runs against your face as you move, swiping the stray bead of sweat beginning to drip. Maekar’s four youngest children sat patiently on the counter tops swinging their legs back and forth. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” a harsh voice called out. 

You rolled your eyes turning toward the entry to the kitchen, but before you could reply someone else had.

“We have a bake sale for school and forgot to tell dad,” Aemon answered.

Aerion’s brows pinched together, “That doesn’t explain what the fuck you’re doing.”

“I am baking, you fucking idiot,” you told him. 

“Why?”

You rolled your eyes pinching the bridge of your nose, “I am going to be your father’s wife in less than a month in case you have forgotten. Now, if you don’t stop asking stupid questions I am calling your father,” you threatened leaning against the counter. 

“Listen here you fuck–” a hand moved connecting with the back of his head rendering him silent. 

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Maekar hissed, pushing his way past his second son into the kitchen. 

You smiled brightly as your eyes locked on him, as he moved toward you cupping your cheek. He leaned down pressing his lips to yours in greeting just like he did every day when he arrived home.

Rhae and Daella both let out small giggles, as Aemon and Aegon looked away. Aerion behind him let out a loud sound of disgust causing you to flip him off as you continued to kiss his father. 

You finally pulled away glancing up at the man, as he continued to elt his large hand rest against the side of your face, “How was your day?” you asked. 

“Better now.”

He then turned from you to his son, “Go to my office we are going to have a chat about how you talk to my future wife,” he hissed, his eyes pointed in a glare. 

Then he turned back to your face immediately softening, “Save me some,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before turning to his younger children to greet. 

Aerion glared at you as you raised a brow, “I believe your father told you to go wait in his office,” you told him with a sickly sweet smile. 

He let out a huff, and he opened his mouth to no doubt mutter some angry remark, but it slowly died in his throat as his eyes wandered behind you finding his father standing behind you like a large over bearing shadow. 

“Go to my office, Aerion,” he warned, and the young man swallowed before finally turning away. 

Maekar then followed after him leaving himself and his four youngest in the kitchen again. “I am going to leave eggs in his bed again,” Rhae suddenly declared, causing Aegon to nod in agreement as the pair began to plot against their elder brother. 

You turned to the oven as the timer went off, “Don’t let your father catch you,” was all you said with a shrug.

[kaz3tora]

SWEET AS HONEY

There wasn't much that was able to settle the dreams that ailed him, except a good arbor red and the occasional dreamwine. That is, until, he tastes you.

ft. daeron x whore!reader genre/warnings: prostitution (obviously), crying, mommy issues, no use of y/n (honey as a nickname), 69, sub!daeron, overstimulation, face sitting, oral (f and m receiving), bush lover!daeron, silk fetish, mentions of grooming, mentions of familial rape, mentions of underage sex and mentions of daeron seeing his parents have sex. song at the end is hildegard von bingen - favus distillans. wc: 7.5k. not proofread.

exclusively 18+.

"Oh, fuck." Daeron groans, his hand reaching up to push his sweaty locks away from his forehead. "So loud."

"It's a feast," Aerion snorts. "It's going to be loud. If you don't like it, fuck off to your chambers, brother." He slams his goblet onto the table, only making the pounding in Daeron's head get louder.

The elder groans again, scrunching his eyes. Part of him hopes that if he tries hard enough, he could will his brother away with his mind.

The hall was filled with lords and ladies, the whole spectacle arranged as a marriage mixer. Apparently, noble houses across Westeros had gathered to negotiate alliances and secure matches for their sons and daughters, each hoping to earn favour, power, or secure their family's standing for another generation.

Daeron isn't entirely sure why he or Aerion got an invite, or why their father insisted they go, but he sensed it mattered, some silent test or reminder that he was expected to shape the family's legacy with every move. Expectations hung over his head like a sword, sharp and ever-present, the urge to rebel clashing with the heavy pull of duty.

Sometimes he resented being a pawn in their family's endless strategies, even as he understood that he was more than just a son—he was currency to be spent for power, favour, or a tenuous sort of love he was never sure he'd earned. Still, maybe he’d only been brought here to give Aerion someone to bother instead of leaving him to take out his frustrations on some unfortunate lord’s daughter.

Despite his previous prayers, Aerion lingers. "Whose idea was this?" He scoffs, cracking open a nut with the butt of his dagger. "No entertainment. I may just join you in your drinking."

Daeron leans forward, resting his head on the wooden table. "The entertainment is dancing."

"Was that your attempt at a joke? I would rather choke than dance with any of these…" Aerion looks around the room with a disgusted expression. "These foul-blooded ladies."

"Then choke."

"Funny. Perhaps I should take myself to the Green Dragon and find myself a dragonseed whore to fuck. Care to join me?" Aerion gulps down the remaining wine that was in his goblet. "Ugh, disgusting."

Daeron contemplated his offer. It had been a while since their family had travelled to King's Landing, and lately, the weight of duty, the endless expectations, and the constant noise in his head had pressed heavier than ever. He ached for a distraction, something to pull him out of himself, if only for a night.

Maybe a partner would do him good, or maybe just the illusion of being wanted; he wasn't sure which he craved more. Sometimes it felt like there was a hollowness inside him, a quiet ache that never left, no matter how many times he told himself it didn't matter.

It wasn't about the act, not really—it was something deeper, a need to be held and seen, to feel desired even for just a fleeting hour. The whores near Summerhall had all been sent away by their father, and the maids knew him far too well to ever think about sleeping with him.

Loneliness clung to him like sweat, sharpest in the moments after laughter faded and he was left with nothing but silence and a pounding headache. "Mmh, I'll join you." He mumbles, pushing himself up with a grunt.

The evening had been slow, even for the Green Dragon. Knowing how King's Landing is only meant that the busyness would kick up just after the hour of the bat.

Aerion had been quick to swipe a silver-haired girl from the floor, dragging her to who knows where. Daeron, however, found himself relaxing into the pillowed seats. There were half-naked girls sashaying across a small stage, shy smiles on their cheeks as they teased glimpses of their bodies.

He let his head fall back, exhaling as he sank into his seat. The smell of incense and sex melted his brain, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"You'll get robbed if you're not careful, m'lord." A sweet voice curls into his ear, making him sit up properly. He groans, palming his temple as he gets a little dizzy from the speed at which he moved. "Oh! I'm sorry, did I scare you?"

Daeron turns his head, eyes landing on the girl at his side. You're young, and honestly, he isn't entirely convinced you look old enough to be in a brothel. Eyes round like a fawn, skin unmarred by age or scars and… Oh, you were certainly a woman, he thinks as his eyes travel down your body.

"M'lord?" You question softly, genuine worry in your eyes.

"Ah… Yes, I'm fine." Daeron clears his throat, adjusting his seat. He watches as you relax, sighing in relief. He takes the moment to look at your body again, the sheer Qaarthen silk leaving little to the imagination.

You tilt your head, catching his gaze with a giggle. "Were you looking for company tonight, m'lord?" You lean into him, fingers grazing his thigh.

He finds himself humming, reaching up to thumb your cheek. "You're very lovely," he murmurs, watching you lean into his palm like a kitten. "You're going to cost me a pretty penny, aren't you, darling?" His eyes draw over your figure again. Silk wasn't uncommon among more popular whores, but yours in particular was… expensive.

"Don't you worry 'bout that," You nuzzle into his hand. "Shall I show you my room? I think you'll love it." You grin, hands finding his and squeezing. You pull him up, giggling as he stumbles after you. "Oh, are you drunk?"

Daeron finds his lips curling at your airy laugh. "Is that against the rules?" He feels as though he is ablaze, inhaling deeply through his nose and nearly audibly reacting to your scent. It's the incense from before mixed with something sickly sweet, like spiced honey biscuits or a fruit tart that had been drenched in sex.

"No," you breathe, tugging him through a beaded curtain and up the stairs. "There are no rules, m'lord. So long as you don't fall asleep with your cock in me."

Daeron has to hold back a laugh as you turn, giving him a cute smile as you walk the pair of you backwards into the room.

It's lavish, a large bed draped in a dark red lace canopy in the middle of the room, covered in pillows and blankets. The glow of numerous candles casts a sultry ambience, while the familiar incense lingers, filling the air.

He blinks slowly, feeling as if his body was moving seconds behind his mind, exhaling as he falls back onto the bed and letting his eyes fall shut. There's heat on his thighs; a pressure he recognises as someone on top of him.

"Hey, don't leave before the fun has started," Daeron's eyelashes flutter, his eyes opening to see you inches from his face with a soft pout. Gods, you were even prettier up close. "You'll stay right, m'lord?"

"Daeron," he corrects you, his voice gravelly. He watches as you pause, recognition flashing through your eyes with a pre-speech inhale. "Please," he sighs, stopping you before you can address him with his proper title, "just Daeron. None of that."

You soften, your lips pursed together as you reach up to cup his cheek. "Course. Daeron, s'a fitting name for a handsome man like you." He almost rolls his eyes when your hips roll into his, forcing a hiss from his throat. "How do you want me?" You lean forward to whisper into his ear, goosebumps rippling on his body.

"This is good," he almost moans, his hands finding your hips as you start peppering kisses on his jaw. "What's your name, sweet girl? Surely there is something I can call you."

You grind down into him again, sitting up properly and leaning on his stomach. His tunic had risen a little in his descent to the soft sheets, allowing you to worm your fingers under the material to graze his bare skin. He inhales sharply as you slide your hands up, nails grazing over the soft skin and fair hair, intending on stripping him.

"You needn't worry about my name," you grin, "but if you must, I suppose honey'll do."

Daeron lets you pull his clothes off, entranced by your silky-smooth voice. He is quick to sit after, hands finding your waist and creeping up under your silks. His calloused fingers grace the underneath of your breast. "Honey?" He questions, breath hot on your neck.

Your fingers are quick to tangle in his hair, using it as leverage to grind against him. "You don't like it? It's- it's what everyone calls me around here." You stutter, nipples pebbling under his touch. He watches your reactions with blown pupils, tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip.

Daeron’s eyes roll back at a particularly slow thrust, his cock throbbing in his breeches. “Gods, you’re making me feel as if my blood is aflame.” He moans, tilting his chin up to kiss you.

You are quick to turn your head, his lips finding your cheek instead. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you as you accept the movement.

You found yourself surprised that the prince wasn’t forceful—he allowed you to move at your own will, allowed you to stay above him.

Your fingers press against his chest, giving him a lidded stare as he lowers to the bed again. “Let me take care of you, Daeron.”

He could’ve died a happy man hearing his name roll off your tongue.

You toy with him, licking over his chest and stomach and grinning at the shaky, half-muffled whimpers he tries to hold back. Daeron can only watch as you move down to hover over his clothed cock, a hand coming up to caress your cheek.

Your gaze is intoxicating, your skin soft against the palm of his hand as you kiss him through his breeches.

“Oh, fuck-“ he chokes out. He reasons insanity: no other person had lit him up like this, you hadn’t even gotten his cock out yet, and he felt like he was ready to burst.

Daeron paused. As a child, he had walked in on his parents often before his mother died, and one time in particular stuck in his head. His mother is hovering over his father, his head between her thighs and her head bobbing.

He swallowed, looking down at the sweet girl whose cheek was pressed against his prick.

Expensive girls meant clean girls.

“Come here,” His voice is raw, “up, please.”

“Up?” You question, not sure what he means.

“Please,” he repeats, throat bobbing. “I want your cunt on my mouth while you swallow me down.”

It wasn’t an unusual request—you just hadn’t expected a prince to be interested in it. You slide up his body again, coiling your fingers up and around his arms like a serpent.

“You wish to taste me?” You whisper, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Where did you learn of such a thing?” You begin to peel the silks from your body, the thin skirt being the last thing to go.

He tries to look down, but you tip his chin up, cupping his cheek. “I asked you a question.”

“My mother…” Daeron swallows, eyes drawn in by your gaze again.

You have to purse your lips to hide your smile. “Oh, I see. Is that why you came with me? Do I look like her?”

“What?” He blinks. “No, I-“ he almost chokes as you crawl up, leaving him face to face with your cunt. He has to swallow a sob as you move away from him, turning and straddling his face.

Daeron is on fire. He's sweating, panting, trembling. Something must be wrong with him- perhaps the wine at the feast was off.

Gods, your cunt was gorgeous, coarse hair framing your folds, wetness peaking out from between them—he has to close his eyes, the sight of your pussy almost too much for him.

Your fingers find his hips again, pushing his trousers down just enough for his cock to come out. The tip is a furious red, foreskin pulled tight around the glans. He’s pretty, hay coloured hair framing his pinkened skin, a vein throbbing on his underside.

Daeron can feel you. The heat of your wet cunt, can taste you in the air, nose mere inches from burying in your folds. The heat of your breath on his tip and- “Oh, fuck,” he whines, shaking under you. “Wait, wait- please. Gods, I’m-“

“You said you wanted to taste me, Daeron.” He keenly listens to his name on your lips.

“I did, I- I do.” He opens his eyes, met with that delicious sight again. He moves out of instinct, using his thumbs to pull your folds apart.

His breath is hot, fanning over your wetness, making you clench. It prompts a moan out of him, seeing your hole close up around nothing.

Daeron licks through your cunt, starting at your clit and dragging all the way up, dipping slightly into your hole. The taste on his tongue is nothing he has ever known. He does it again, this time taking a moment to circle your button once, twice, then swiping up.

Your own mouth finds purchase at the base of him, licking and lavishing where his balls meet his length, dipping down to suckle on one gently.

His stomach tenses under your tits, cock throbbing against your cheek as he whines into your cunt. It vibrates through your body, your skin feeling like it was tingling from every noise he made into your folds.

A crude slurp echoes through the room, his lips suctioning around your clit and sucking. Daeron feels like a man possessed, nose digging into your heat while he works at your nub, hands tight on your hips to keep you pressed against his face.

“Do you think you could find your release like this?” You ask shakily, finding that vein and lapping over it. All Daeron can do is whimper into your pussy, nodding. He would rather die than part from your wetness, would happily drown down there.

All it takes is the flick of your tongue at his tip for him to crumble. The first bit of his orgasm surprises you, spurting against your cheek before you wrap your lips around the head and suck. Your arms are around his thighs and hips, keeping him from bucking up into your mouth.

Daeron’s vision goes blank, stomach cramping from the intensity of his peak as he cries into your cunt, unwilling to part with it as you grind your hips against his face.

You swallow him down eagerly, riding him through his orgasm. His eyes are rolled back, tongue impossibly deep in your hole, when one of his hands parts from your hip to find the back of your head, tugging on your hair to pull you off.

“Seven fucking hells,” Daeron wheezes, finally pulling back from between your thighs to lay his head on the silk pillow beneath him. You go to move, wanting to turn and face him, but his trembling hands find purchase on your hips again, tugging you back to almost be seated on his face. “No, I am not done.”

“Oh, you do not need to-“

“I will be paying you, will I not? So I will do as I like.” He grumbles before pulling you down, slurping at your heat again.

He could never imagine such a thing could exist, such sweetness, such addiction. He realises this is how men must have gotten swept away in war, not lost to battle but lost to foreign cunts that tasted finer than any wine he had drunk.

His soft cock twitches against his stomach, between your moans and the noise of his tongue fucking you, there's no shock he can get hard again, even if the air felt like it was prickling his skin. He licks into you like a man starved, as if your pussy would bring him some sort of relief from the tortures of his mind. He almost sobs when you fall forward, moving away from his mouth.

“What are you—” Daeron pants, palming your thighs. “Did you…?” His gaze drifts down.

You were trembling, your whole body heaving with breaths as you tried to recover from his ministrations.

He can’t help but bring a hand up, spreading your juices over your mound and parting your folds again. “Gorgeous,” he mumbles, head still fuzzy. He steadies you with his hand as you move, turning to face him while straddling his thighs.

Your hands glide up and down his stomach, catching your breath. You do not miss the tensing of his muscles, his own body still wired. "If I did not know better," you purr as you steady yourself on his chest, his heart racing beneath your palm. "I might think our positions flipped." Your head tilts with a soft smirk, reaching up to drag a nail along his jaw.

Daeron has this almost… begged expression, clinging onto every word that came out of your mouth like it was a scripture from the Gods. He's incredibly pliant, melting at your touch and receptive to the slight adjustments you make to his form. His fingers squeeze your hips, one hand drawing down to your mound and cupping, thumb swiping over the hair that lies at the peak of your thighs.

"How is it that every part of you is so soft?" He whispers. "And sweet. Mmh, I am seeing now why people have likened you to honey."

The hesitation you felt about kissing him earlier seems to have dissipated as you let him lift his head to yours, taking your bottom lip between his teeth with gentle pressure. His tongue is next, and you can taste yourself as he licks yours with a gentleness you have never experienced. Every part of you takes him incredibly well, your mouth soft as his fingers creep down to your cunt again.

"No," you whisper against his lips. "I want your cock, Daeron."

He wheezes at your words, kissing you once more before burying his face into your neck, planting a few kisses there. "Take me then, honey." His slide down to your thighs, lying back against the bed to watch you.

Your body is lit up by the few candles around the room, casting a golden glow onto your skin. He watches as you lift yourself, a slight shake in the muscle of your thigh from the previous exertion, delicate fingers reaching down to hold his length steady.

You take a moment to rub him against your slit, a quiet moan on your lips as his tip presses to your clit. You repeat that a couple of times before letting his cock slip into your warmth.

Daeron's reaction is instant, his hips bucking with a gasp. "So hot," he chokes, fire burning through his veins, feeling like he was melting. "Ah, wait a second- please…" He whimpers, nails leaving definite crescent moon-shaped indents on your thighs.

You lower yourself further, letting out a satisfactory sigh once you have taken him all the way. His tip just about grazes a spot at the front of your walls, and if you grind down harder, it's enough to hit it fully.

You find yourself distracted, focusing on your own pleasure. He has a good length and thickness, the vein on the underside rubbing deliciously inside of you. You move faster, chasing the heat that rises within your loins.

A warmth spreads in your stomach, followed by a sudden cry that jolts you back to reality. Daeron's back arches beautifully beneath you, an arm thrown over his eyes, his bottom lip between his teeth. You slow your hips, and his arm moves, revealing wet lines from his eyes to his temples.

Daeron is breathtaking like this. A little pathetic looking, wet eyelashes and a bitten lip to go with his flushed chest. You rock forward, and he sobs, one hand flying up to grip your waist. "Please," he sniffles, "just- a moment, please. I'm sensitive."

You hum, reaching down to wipe away a tear. "Too much for you?" You coo, slowing your pace but still moving. He hiccups through a whine, scrambling to halt your hips, but he doesn't have the strength in him.

His second orgasm had taken a lot out of him, and you were pushing him through to a third. "I know," you whisper, a bead of sweat rolling down your forehead. "S'okay, let me make you feel good."

Daeron's whole body hurts.

He groans, lifting his head from the pillow and blinking. The sun was ruthless, pouring in through the window and warming his arse. He rolls over with a huff, reaching up to rub his sore jaw. His free hand pushes on the bed, straining as he sits up. He doesn't remember exactly what happened the night before, but his muscles sure did.

He rubs his face and looks around the room. His clothes are all over the place, and part of your clothing was tied around his wrist. Fucking hell, he could feel his prick stiffening despite his soreness, the silk soft against his skin.

Daeron stumbles out of bed, limping as he gathers his clothing and dresses himself.

Of course, you had helped yourself to his gold pouch, but he couldn't blame you. Whatever you had done to him was enough to offset his nightmares for the night, and that to him was worth way more than 3 gold dragons.

The door to the room had slammed open as Daeron pulled on his boots.

"Brother," Aerion speaks. He opens his mouth to continue before pausing and tilting his head, looking his elder up and down, noticing the strange gait he had. "Did you get beaten?"

Daeron scoffs, plopping back down on the messy bed. "No, I did not get beaten."

Aerion frowned, confused. "Then what? Did you take a man to bed instead of a whore?" He scoffed.

"Gods, Aerion. No, I did not- I did not bed a man." Daeron hissed, rubbing his forehead. The younger brother looked him up and down once more before inhaling.

"Right. Well, hurry. Before we are late to break fast and have to explain to Aegon what a whorehouse is."

Two days. That is how long it took for Daeron to recover after you fucked him to near-death. Even then, he wasn't fully sure he had recovered. He felt like a degenerate, his eyes lingering on any silken dresses worn by court ladies that he passed by, having to pinch himself to keep down the bubbling feeling in his blood.

At least he was walking normally now, your… expert skills having left him feeling like he had ridden a horse for a week straight. That morning, he’d slipped a silken sash from your room into his pocket, later tucking it under his pillow to reach for in the still hours, pressing it to his nose as he ground his aching hips into the bed.

Gods, he was a fucking pervert.

Even now, just thinking about it, he could feel himself stiffening in his breeches, having to shuffle uncomfortably in his seat.

Dinner that evening had been incredibly long; his knee shaking as he waited for the opportunity to excuse himself for the night. He had gulped down the remainder of his wine and parted from his family. They were due to leave for Summerhall on the morrow, and Daeron could not leave without seeing you once more.

He’d spent much of his youth wandering the Red Keep before the move to Summerhall, and even after that, they visited often. So it was fair to say Daeron knew the unguarded ways out of the keep. All he needed was a hooded cloak to hide his face, and he headed straight for the Street of Silk the moment he was free.

The Green Dragon was busy, to say the least. Daeron caught too many glimpses of common cock for his liking, darting for the familiar face of the madame.

"My prince," the older woman smirks. "How may I help you this fine night?"

Daeron swallows, a hand smoothing over his stomach. "Honey."

The madame arches her eyebrow, leaning back into the wall. "What about her?"

He let out a quiet breath, grateful to his past self for managing to get her name. "I need to see her. Please." He grimaces at his plea, fearful of looking desperate. "I have something of hers that I would like to return."

"If that's all there is, I'm sure I can pass it on to her. Unless you plan on staying longer?" The older woman questioned, crossing her arms.

He let out a sigh, glancing around to make sure no one had recognised him. "Yes, that is the plan."

With a smirk on her face, she juts her chin at the stairs. "Go on. Last door at the end of the left hall, if you don't remember." She snickers as Daeron darts off, already feeling a pinch in his head.

He lets his feet carry him through the familiar corridor, swallowing as the memories from two days ago swarm through his head. He's at your door before he realises it, hand raised to knock when it opens.

A girl- not you- scurries past him, darting her head down with a murmured apology on he lips. He takes the moment to step into the room, breath shuddering at the sight of you lounging effortlessly on the bed.

Silk, again. He had to resist the urge to hit himself.

"Well, look who it is." You smile and roll over, settling comfortably on your stomach. "What a pleasure it is to see you again, my prince."

Daeron closes the door behind him and takes a couple of steps toward you. "I… yes, hello." You grin at his awkwardness, giving the bed beside you a friendly pat.

"Relax and come and sit. I don't bite, in fact, I believe the biting was all you." You tease, giggling as he flinches, yet complies, settling in beside you. "How are you? Sore, I imagine. I am quite shocked you lasted so long, honestly." You poke his thigh, leaning your chin on your free hand.

"I am fine, not- not sore. Not anymore, anyway." He clears his throat. Gods, what is wrong with him? He was a man grown, yet here he was stuttering before a whore like a maiden. "I… must confess that I did not leave empty-handed." Daeron reaches into the pocket of his doublet, pulling out the silk sash.

Your eyes widen slightly in disbelief. "Oh, I was wondering what happened to that. It served you well, I imagine?" The wink you shoot his way makes him swallow rather loudly.

"I am a little surprised you were bold enough to bring it back. Or, perhaps it has served its purpose, and you wish to find another keepsake?" You tease, gently tugging the sash from his grip.

"If not to return the sash, I fear I may not have had an excuse to see you again," Daeron speaks before he can even stop himself. "Is that okay?"

You hum, leaning forward to rest your cheek on his thigh with a soft tilt of your lips. "You do not need an excuse to see me, you know. I am a whore, not some lord's daughter." He finds himself a little taken aback by the forwardness of your words, but you speak the truth.

"Perhaps so," Daeron says quietly, swallowing as he reaches forward to thumb at your earrings. Pretty things, they were. Suited you well. "But an excuse makes me feel at ease." He finds himself relaxing in your room, the incense from the previous night still lingering in the air, as if you hadn’t lit it fresh for the evening.

You hum, amused. "Let's you pretend this isn't a brothel, hm?" Your fingers find his hip, poking at the bone. "Shall we do some more pretending?" Rolling onto your side a bit more, you playfully tease him. "What shall it be? Perhaps… us as King and Queen?"

"That is treason, honey."

"You bore," you huff. "What about newlyweds?"

Daeron pinches your cheek with a deadpan expression as he looks downward at you. "Stop that. I did not come here to… pretend. I came to see you." He watches as your eyelashes flutter slightly.

"Wow, if I were your future lady wife, I'd have demanded to marry you on the spot for that." Daeron shakes his head at your jest, the corner of his lip curled up.

“What if I wanted to talk?” He says next, finger curling to rub at your jaw.

“Talk? To me?” You ask. “About what?”

“Anything.” his hand finds your hair, brushing through the strands.

You purse your lips, rubbing circles into his hip. “Okay, why do you drink?”

“Oh, straight to the point.” Daeron snorts. “Well, if you must know, I tend to have horrible dreams. They haunt me, showing me Summerhall in flames and my brother burning green.”

You hadn’t expected such an answer, so you sat up and crawled onto his lap. “Sounds awful.” You hum, reaching up to card through his hair. “Does it work?”

“Oft enough for me to keep doing it, yes.” He can’t help it as his gaze is drawn towards your lips, the soft pout you always wear making you look just the sweetest.

He finds his hands on your back, stroking through your scant clothing. “Am I interrupting your work?” He whispers, the silk beneath his hands making him sweat a little.

“Not unless you plan to leave with your coin pouch intact.” Your voice has a teasing lilt to it as you lean in to kiss the bridge of his nose. “Which I hope isn’t the case, my prince. You are the most fun I’ve had in years.”

At times, Daeron looked like a child walking through a sweet shop, now especially. Even with the dark under his eyes, you can see his anticipation, the excitement in his eyes and in his shaking breaths.

He lets you push him back, falling upon that familiar bed that had brought him such a pleasant night only two days prior.

The kiss starts slow, wanton and teasing until you lick over his bottom lip. He shivers, whining when your tongue intrudes into his mouth, tangling with his own. He tastes of arbor red, you of a cheap ale common among smallfolk.

His palms slide down to your behind, pulling your hips tight against his. "Need to- to taste you again," he pants into your mouth, already trembling under your touch. "Like before, please."

You pull back from the kiss with a breath, fingers running across his cheekbones. "So sweet, aren't you?" Your voice is quiet, so much so that he fears he is imagining your praise. You plant one more kiss on his cheek before pulling back and climbing off him, tugging at his clothes. "Take these off, and I'll let you do whatever you like."

Truth be told, you’d never seen a man undress so fast. With a teasing smirk, you hooked your thumbs into your clothes, sliding off your silky bra (not that it had covered much) and had just started on your skirt when he caught your wrists, stopping you.

"Wait…" Daeron whispers, chest already flushing pink. "Leave it." He drags you closer once more, fingers bunching the silk as he trembles, eyelids flittering.

You let him pull you down, kissing once more. One hand of his is palming a tit, the other reaching down to find its way under your silken skirt. The moan he lets out into your mouth when he touches your cunt is sickening, the noise of a desperate man who has finally found salvation.

He hadn't expected you to be so wet, slick folds parting as he thumbs at your clit, his other hand at your chest pushing, forcing you upright so he can lean in to wrap his lips around a nipple. Such actions together make you gasp, head thrown back.

You were so beautiful, a silken dream for him to drown in, salvation. He rolls the two of you, peppering your sternum with kisses and nips, trailing down to the hem of your skirt. He licks a line over the silk, nibbling on your hip through the fabric.

"Daeron-!" You gasp his name as he ducks his head, nuzzling into your mound. He inhales with a groan and rolls his hips into the bedsheets, your smell sending ripples of pleasure down his spine.

His hands find their way around your thighs, keeping them tight to his ears. He licks at your clit, nose still buried in the soft hair just above. Sucking, licking, drooling into your cunt like it was his last meal, eyes rolling back as your hands found his tawny locks. You tug, a moan vibrating into your folds as he lowers his lead, tongue finding your entrance.

His head is throbbing, all of the blood in his body having gone south. His hips are wild, all of his senses overwhelmed. The silken skirt under his fingers, the brush of your pubic hair against his face, the taste of your insides as he tongue fucks you, the smell of your skin, your moans and cries muffled by your thighs.

Daeron isn't sure exactly when he reaches his peak, only that his chest feels like it is caving in from lack of air, his hips stuttering into the bed. His nails dig into your thighs, and his vision becomes starry, his hearing dull. He has to pull himself back, fearful he would pass out if he left himself buried in your cunt any longer. Two fingers replace his tongue as he rests his cheek on your thigh, watching you with lidded eyes.

The trembled hand that was in his hair falls upon his face, stroking his cheekbone before finding your clit and rubbing, your other pinching at your own nipple. Your cheeks were red, chest heaving as you approached your own peak at his actions.

"Curl your- ah…" You choke out, your back arching and hand falling away from your chest in favour of fisting a pillow beside you. He does exactly as you ask, curling his fingers upwards while still attempting to catch his breath.

He nudges his head closer to your mound, breathing your smell in again, while his free hand creeps down between his body and the sheets, finding his sticky cock.

If he were anywhere else, with anyone else, he might have had a little shame. But with you, he just cannot seem to help himself. He's so sensitive, almost painful, but unable to stop his fingers from rubbing his tip.

Your fingers cramp, thigh tensing under his cheek as you arch, sobs filling the air. He feels your cunt clamp around his digits, eyes shooting up to watch you fall apart. Your vision flashes white, gasping for air into your lungs as your release crashes over you, your hands and feet curled.

You barely register as Daeron crawls over you, gently kissing your neck and face. "So beautiful," a voice whispers in your ear, low and gravelly. A palm presses to yours, intertwining your fingers and lifting, a kiss pressed to the back of your hand before it's brought down, wrapped around a twitching cock. "Fuck," a choked sob is muffled against your throat.

Your eyes open, meeting his pale shoulder. Your neck twists, fingers flexing. He sobs again, shaking above you, before you feel a warmth on your stomach.

You're gentle, letting him grind erratically before he shooes your hand away, trembling so much you fear he may fall apart before he collapses onto your chest, sniffling and catching his breath.

Neither of you are quite sure how long you’ve been lying there, the only clue being the candles burned low and ready to be replaced.

You hold him, one arm around his shoulders to scratch his back, and one hand brushing through his sweaty hair.

He moves slightly, nose, grazing your throat. "Tell me," he whispers. "How did you get here?"

"Are you asking for my life story?" you whisper with a grin.

Daeron lifts his head to look at you, leaning on his elbow with a hum and a nod. Your hairline was damp, cheeks still a little pink from the earlier endeavour. "Go on, I'd like to know."

Your grin softens into a purse. "It is not as pretty as I." This makes him stifle a laugh, reaching up to touch your earrings as he did earlier. "My mother caught a sickness and passed in her sleep," you start. "My father oft said I looked like her." Daeron's jaw tenses. "He was a drunk and did not notice the shard of glass I had in my hand one evening. After, I snuck onto a ship, and ended up in Blackwater Bay, and then Flea Bottom."

"How old were you?" He whispers.

"Three and ten," you reach out and curl a stray piece of his hair around your finger. "The madame saved me from getting my hand chopped off by gold cloaks after I pinched a drunk's copper pouch." You reminisce, smirking. "Worked the bar downstairs for a year and then started doing… this."

Daeron gives you a look that you can't quite discern. "Do not look at me like that," you exhale, letting his hair fall away from your finger.

"I am not looking at you any particular way." He is quiet when he speaks.

"You feel sorry for me. I could've left, but I chose not to. I make good money." Your argue.

"I did not say otherwise." His thumb moves away from your lobe to your bottom lip. "What did you buy with what you took from me?"

"You speak as if I did not deserve what I took."

"You do a lot of assuming, honey." Your breath hitches, forgetting for a moment that he only knew your work name. "Answer my question, I find myself to be a curious man when it comes to you." His thumb smooths from your bottom lip and down, finding its resting place at the base of your neck.

"I have yet to spend it," you admit reluctantly.

"Why?"

"Because, if you must know, I am a responsible woman and I am saving."

"For what?"

"Goodness, I don't think there is another man in the whole world that is as curious about a whore he has only met twice as you are." You snort, poking his forehead. "I do not know what I am saving for, perhaps to buy myself a fancy horse and tour the realm. Is that good enough for you?" A laugh ripples up from your chest.

He gives a half-smirk, leaning in to kiss your jaw. "A tour of the realm?" Kiss. "Where would you go first?" The next kiss is on your neck. "Dorne?" The next is on your collarbone. "Could come visit me at Summerhall."

"Mmh, I was thinking somewhere further north." Daeron scoffs at that, biting at your skin before descending to your chest.

He mouths at your nipples, letting his teeth graze the sensitive flesh before moving to kneel, your thighs resting on top of his. Hands smooth up your skin, his fingertips grazing at your pelvic bones- petruding from the angle he had your hips at.

"If you came with me to Summerhall," he begins, voice barely above a whisper, "you'd need not worry about gold."

He can only watch as you slide a hand down your stomach, finding your apex and spreading yourself with two fingers. "And what is there for me in Summerhall?"

He swallows hard. Has to fight to tear his eyes away from your centre, his mouth twitching. "Me."

Your hand falls to the bed beside you, seconds passing before you push yourself up, inches from his face. "You?"

His nails bite into your flesh again, mirroring the past marks he had made, gaze drawn to your swollen lips. "No one would blink if I were to take you as a paramour."

Your head tilts, eyebrows slightly raised. "A paramour."

Daerons eye twitches, huffing through his nose. "Stop repeating me and give me a real answer."

An amused expression washes over your features, and he feels a hand on his neck, your thumb stroking his jaw. "I would prefer it if you buried your cock in my cunt, my prince."

He nudges forward and you lean back on your remaining hand, watching as he slots himself through your folds. You exhale, lifting your hips slightly to make it easier for him. The hand on his neck slips down to his chest, the pounding beneath his ribs serving as a grounding.

A choked moan fills the air, your warmth finally swallowing him as he buries himself balls deep. Your feet dig into his spine, keeping his hips pressed snuggly to yours.

You can already feel him trembling inside of you, his eyes closed and mouth open, a pinch in his brow as he tries to focus on not releasing.

You know it's cruel, but you can't help it when you clench around him. You can only watch as he bows forward, one hand squeezing your waist while he keens and the other landing on the bed beside yours, shaking. "You- hah…" Daeron pants, his chest flushing that pretty pink for the second time this night. "You are evil," he whispers, "the most wicked woman in the seven kingdoms."

"You may find your peak within me if it tortures you so," you whisper back, an amused lilt lingering on your tongue. Your fingers find the back of his head, gripping and pulling him up to look at you. Or I could leave you to find it with just your hand, if you would like."

"No," he rushes out, swallowing down a whimper, "I would like to… inside. Please." He whispers the plea, tongue flicking out to lick over his bottom lip.

You roll your hips again and he whines, eyes rolling back into his head. "Please," he whines, shivering as your grip in his hair only gets tighter. "I- I made you feel good, did I not? Please, let me…" he cuts himself off with a choke, hips twitching uncontrollably.

Tears prick at his eyes again, wetting his lashes. He was truly beautiful like this, teetering on the edge of sanity. You dig your feet further into his back, making him arch. His nipples brush against yours as he sobs, whole body shaking. You lessen your grip to cup his cheek, brushing over a wet eye.

"Let go, Daeron."

It's all he needs to crash, head buried in your neck as he comes deep within you, cries of gratitude muddled onto your skin. You lower both of you to the bed, legs relaxing from his back to rest over his again, hands coming up to rub his back.

Daeron feels for a moment as if he would die, enveloped in flashes of hot and cold like a plague-ailed man. He is brought back by the circular shapes you trace on his shoulder blades and the smell of your skin, tremors slowing down to the occasional quiver.

If he had any sense, he might feel a lick of embarrassment for releasing as soon as you had given your word, but he is exhausted. His hearing is the last thing to clear, a hummed tune vibrating through your throat.

You are warm- impossibly so, and he is hesitant to move in fear of losing the moment.

"Think about it," he whispers, voice broken. "About Summerhall."

"I will think about it." You murmur into his hair before humming again. It rings familiar through his mind, but he isn't sure where from. It takes him drifting off, a memory nipping at the base of his skull.

"Again, mama!" He giggles, fingers clutching his mother's silken dress. "Please, it is my favourite song!"

Dyanna smiles, reaching down to brush his messy hair back. "Is five times not enough to sate you, sweetling?"

"No!" he whined beneath his laughter. "Please, please, mama! Just once more!"

"Okay!" The woman laughs, picking up her son and putting him on her hip as she begins to sing, swaying.

"Honey and milk beneath her tongue, for she gathered around her, in a crowd of virgins, a fruit-bearing orchard and a garden in bloom. Therefore rejoice in the noblest dawn, O' daughter of Sion."

© original content on this blog belongs to @kaz3tora and any reposts/copies, unconsensual translations and modifications are strictly prohibited.

taglist: @ladythedrunken @thorins-queen-of-erebor @purple-1995 @baby-i4n

[nastyakotsk]

#397

[sadesluvr]

Has someone written this.

[captainfern]

Maekar headlock fucking? Anyone??

oh absolutely

18+ (smut, dirty talk, breeding!!!)

evening light came streaming in through the windows of your chambers, lighting the space in a soft yellow glow as the sun begins its journey behind the distant hills. dappled sunlight catches in your eyelashes as you blink from where you hunch over on the bed, writhing on your hands and knees.

your husband’s hands are tight on your hips, gripping the flesh as he splits you apart on the thick of his cock, grunting little obscenities as he ruts you deeper and deeper into the feathered mattress, your hands and knees pressing indents into the silk.

but you’re wriggling too much. you can’t help it. pleasure sits hot in the pit of your womb, a sticky sort of pressure in the base of your spine too, and you just can’t help the way you wriggle your hips to chase it away, or tremble on your hands and knees when it starts to be too much.

you can’t help it, but maekar can.

you pitch a whine from the back of your throat as his cock spreads the wet clutch of your pussy apart, dragging deep towards the plug of your cervix as he ruts into you, hips smacking against the flesh of your arse. but that’s when you feel it—the solid mass of his chest and abdomen as he leans over you, crowds you, then the thick, scarred column of his arm as it wraps around your throat.

you yelp when he hauls you up until you’re kneeling with him, your sweat-slick back flush with his chest. the corded muscles in his arm contract as he pins your neck into the crook of his elbow, his head coming to rest directly beside your ear.

you suck in a gasp at the new angle and the way the head of his cock pushes up deep inside you. the pressure makes you keen, moaning his name as he traps you against his chest. your hands find his arm, nails dimpling the sun-kissed skin, as he noses at the shell of your ear, his hips rucking upwards.

“you’re restless today,” maekar mutters, tip of his cock nailing that perfect spot inside you. you mewl, clutching his arm as your pussy flutters around him. he pants against the pulse point below your ear. “you just couldn’t kneel there and take it, could you? were you waiting for this, sweet girl?”

his cock hits deep, the velvet ridges along the length rubbing against the slick walls of your cunt. you take him so well, squeezing tight each time he thrusts in and out, slick dribbling from you as he takes what he needs.

you whine in response. “no, maekar, i’m—”

“s’alright, s’alright…” maekar coos, his other hand curling around your waist to press flat to the mound of your lower belly. “i’ve got you, sweet girl. can’t go anywhere now, can you?”

the strong mass of his arm presses tighter to your throat, and you suck in a sharp breath. you hold his arm too, anchoring yourself as he fucks you, your entire body shifting with each of his movements. he’s grunting in your ear, and a couple of damp, white strands of hair fall across his forehead and rub near your temple.

“that’s a good girl, that’s it,” he whispers, feeling your pussy flutter around him. he’s holding you firm against him, the space between you nonexistent and boiling hot. the hand on your belly presses in, the added pressure making you cry out his name. he kisses your cheek softly. “s’alright, don’t fuss, sweet girl. just take it—just fucking take it.”

you can’t do much but take it, really. you’re pinned to his body, heat radiating from him. the bed creaks softly as his hips slam up against you, and he groans right in your ear. you moan his name in response, the vowels stretched around a whine, and he kisses the heated skin of your cheek again.

“my sweet girl, my best girl,” your husband rambles, breathing harshly as his cock ruts in and out of you, the wet heat of your cunt sucking him in. he groans, “i think you’ll take my seed just as well as you take my cock, won’t you?”

you whimper, gasping through the sound as the head of his cock grinds up against that spot inside you that has stars exploding behind your eyelids. the heat in your belly and the pressure in your spine threatens to shatter within you, and you clutch maekar’s arm in support as he fucks you. he groans, revelling in the tight squeeze of your pussy and the way slick dribbles from you, wet across the seam of his balls as he moves.

“she’s begging me for it,” maekar utters, holding you tightly as you flutter around him. “she wants me to fill her, doesn’t she? she wants me to fill her, sweet girl, i can feel it.”

you moan. “maekar, please, please, please—”

“i know, i know, i’ve got you,” your husband mutters, kissing your cheek as the heat and pressure inside finally overwhelm you. he feels your body seize up, your cunt clenching vice-like around the thick of his cock, and he knows you’re on the edge. his hand on your lower belly presses down even firmer. “let me feel you.”

you splinter from the inside out, orgasm racking through you as heat bursts like stars in your veins, and the pressure in your belly dissolves into the marrow of your bones. you come with his name on your lips, moans filling your chambers as your body trembles against his, nails digging into the scarred skin of his forearm. he fucks you through it, trapping you against him as you tremble and whine, pleasure flushing through your veins.

“good girl, there we go,” he mutters, practically bouncing your spent body back onto his. your head rolls back onto his shoulder and he plants a wet kiss to the junction of your jaw. his hips snap, then snap up again, and he growls where he kisses you, his balls drawing tight. “gods above, you’re so fucking tight. she’s begging for a babe, isn’t she? cunt’s pitching a right fit—doesn’t want to let me go.”

you mewl softly, eyes closing as maekar barrels towards his own release. there’s a sharp pressure in the base of his spine, and you can feel the desperation of his movements as he chases that pressure towards its breaking point.

maekar groans, thick and rumbling. “i’ll spill inside you, alright, sweet girl? fill you with my babe—fuck, you always look so fucking good when you’re with child, when you’re round with my babe. yeah, fuck—fuck, my sweet girl, my perfect girl—”

he’s rambling now, and that’s when you know. maekar groans your name right against the shell of your ear as his hips stutter, the arm around your throat pinning you back as he spills inside you. the pressure in his spine snaps and spreads, and he moans deep from his chest as the heat of his orgasm crashes over him. his cock nudges deep inside, right at the base of your cervix, and paints you in thick, hot ropes.

being filled has you leaning back into his hold, whimpering across a sigh as he ruts a few more times, emptying himself completely as your pussy pulls tight, milking him. he kisses along your jaw, cradling you as his cock jerks, then softens where he’s buried, slick and seed drooling slowly from where you connect.

“there we go…” maekar whispers, large hand rubbing across your belly as if that’ll help the taking process. he kneads the soft fat there with calloused fingers. “nice and full, sweet girl.”

you whine, pliant in his arms, blinking the setting sunlight from your eyes.

he kisses your cheek. “always do so well for me—” another kiss, then another. “—i love you, sweet girl.”

[hayatistic]

nsfw content. face sitting.

baelor moved to lay down on the rug of his solar, close enough to the hearth to feel the warmth of it against his sprawled form, and intertwined his fingers over his stomach expectantly.

“are you certain?” you find yourself asking once more, face weary as you peer down at him. 

you had arrived only several minutes prior, in your nightgown, to keep him company through the hours of the evening that he would often spend assessing scrolls or writing correspondences.

baelor gave an assured nod of his head, his hips canting upwards as you moved closer towards him.

“but,” you began, a wave of heat spreading across your face, “what if I suffocate you?” concern was woven into your tone as you kneeled beside him.

“then, I will have passed a pleased man,” was his reply, evoking a humiliated gasp from you.

“husband.”

“come.” baelor persisted, a hand rising to hold yours. 

your skin buzzed when it came in contact with his, the nervous jittering within your belly turning into an excited swirl as you pulled your sheer skirt up before you sat atop his abdomen, your thighs pressing into either side of his torso.

“there, that was not so difficult,” he murmured, the colouring of his mismatched gaze nearly entirely absorbed by his widened pupils, all that remained of their hue was a thin circle of blue and brown.

you began to rise, “I cannot–,”

“I promise,” baelor interrupted, hands rubbing soothing circles into the expanse of your waist, “I will notify you the moment I feel discomfort.”

you stared down at him, deciding to accept his vow despite not believing his words in the slightest.

distractedly, you noted the length of his beard and the shininess of the hair; he must have trimmed it shorter than usual that morning as well as have oiled it before you had arrived.

was it in preparation of this request, you wondered, a fond affection filling your chest at the reminder of the consideration he held towards you and your comfort at all times.

“are you truly sure?” you question again, hands gliding up his torso until your fingers were combing through his greying beard. 

“yes, my dear.”

he had freshly oiled it, you mused bashfully, the usually coarse strands were now much softer to the touch. your breath quickened at the realization that your husband never decided anything on a whim, and so this must have been a fantasy he had been entertaining for quite some time.

“absolutely certain?”

“oh, most definitely,” baelor relayed once more, the rumbling from his chest vibrating between your legs as his hands dragged you further up. 

he paused, allowing you to close the remaining distance, not only as confirmation that this was something you were willing to try, but to ensure you were aware of the control you had in this position.

after several beats of stillness, you lifted your hips until your bare core was directly above his mouth, your head hanging low to observe his next move.

immediately, baelor’s head sprang forward, mouth opening wide to swipe at your cunt as his odd-coloured eyes remained attached to yours. messily, he dipped his tongue within you, the wet appendage exploring with a familiarity that had you nearly toppling over.

you were already dripping onto him, the smell of your arousal filling the solar.

“baelor, it’s–gods, it’s too much,” you squirmed, accidentally rubbing your swollen clit against the tip of his sharp, twice-broken nose, eliciting a startled moan from deep within your throat.

“like that,” he mumbled against your wet flesh, his hands rising to grip your hips, pulling you harder against his face, “take what you need, anything–all of it.”

your first release hit you embarrassingly quickly, a flood of wetness gushing against his face and down the expanse of your inner thighs. your eyes rolled into the back of your head as pure ecstasy shot up your spine, settling at the base of your neck as your inner walls repeatedly clenched around nothing except for the tip of his nose.

your hips moved frantically back and forth, fingers tugging painfully at the short, greying strands atop his head with a surprising amount of strength. 

yet, baelor did not complain; he remained focused on your body, his hands kneading into the flesh of your backside as he assisted you with your frantic rocking movements. 

instinctively, your thighs tightened around his head when he continued to sloppily lap at your sensitive clit, a shiver passing through you when his lips enclosed around the enlarged bud.

“baelor, please..”

he ignored your pleas, languidly licking at your cunt until you were on the edge of another, more intense release.

“oh!” you cried, an embarrassed flush travelling up your chest as you felt a stream of fluid escape your convulsing passage, a loud moan leaving your body at the same time the liquid did.

baelor’s arms moved to wrap around your waist, holding you in place as your body convulsed pleasurably on top of him.

he mumbled incoherent words against your heated flesh, his low-lidded eyes fixated on the little of your face he could see as you continued to tremble and shiver from the force of your orgasm.

once you had come down from your second release, and finally stopped quivering, you flung yourself backwards, landing clumsily atop his stomach.

“you–,” you were breathless, fingers tightening over his clothes as you struggled to breathe properly, “that was..”

you trailed off, attention drifting to the wetness that dripped down the side of his face; most of his beard was drenched in your scent and arousal.

baelor’s hands moved to help you stay upright even as his eyes remained glued on your swollen core, his tongue swiping against the remnants of you on his lips.

“how was that, my love?” he asked quietly, his mismatched eyes twinkling like he already knew the answer.

instead of replying, you exhaled deeply, straightened your back, and moved to sit back atop his face.

[ildico-the-golden]

Hi Dov can you do another story/stories where Maekar and Baelor are in an arranged marriage with the reader and then it’s either love at first sight for them or they have a long drawn out courtship. I would love lots of fluff, romance and if you want a tiny bit of angst .

Strap in, because these stand as short one-shots each! I wanted to write them right, so I took a bit of extra space (hope you don't mind!)

the unexpected happiness of arranging

Includes: Baelor Targaryen x arranged wife!reader (3.4k) / Maekar Targaryen x arranged wife!reader (4.7k)

Warning(s): fluff, a tiny bit of angst, but overall happy ending

The wheelhouse had been travelling for six days.

You had counted them with the particular attentiveness of someone trying to manage a large and complicated feeling by measuring its duration. Six days since your father had kissed your forehead at the gates of your family's seat and told you to make him proud. Six days of watching familiar landscape give way to unfamiliar, of your maid chattering cheerfully about King's Landing while you sat with your hands folded and your face composed and tried to locate the version of yourself that was equal to what was coming.

You were to marry a prince.

Not just any prince. Baelor Targaryen — the one they spoke of in the same breath as words like honourable and just and, with particular frequency, perfect. The Crown Prince. A man who was, by all accounts, precisely what a prince ought to be and therefore precisely the sort of person beside whom you were likely to feel the specific inadequacy of being simply and ordinarily yourself.

You had told yourself, firmly, on at least four separate occasions during the journey, that this was an enormous opportunity and you were going to meet it with grace.

You were still trying to convince yourself when the wheelhouse slowed.

"We are here," your maid breathed, with the reverence of someone beholding something magnificent.

You looked out the window at King's Landing and felt, beneath the nerves, a genuine and helpless flicker of wonder. It was so large. You had known it would be large, but the knowing had not prepared you for the reality — the sheer accumulated weight of it, buildings piled upon buildings, streets running in every direction, the Red Keep rising above it all against a sky the particular pale gold of early autumn.

You straightened your spine. Grace, you reminded yourself.

The wheelhouse stopped.

The welcoming party in the courtyard was larger than you had expected.

You descended the steps with your father's voice in your head — chin up, eyes forward, smile but not too much — and took in the assembled faces with as much composure as you could manage, which was moderate at best.

Lord this. Lady that. A maester. Several knights. A man you recognised from descriptions as Lord Hayford, something in the way he held himself suggesting mild impatience with ceremonial occasions.

And then—

He was standing slightly apart from the others, which you noticed first, and then you noticed everything else in rapid succession: the composed features, the dark hair with its threads of silver catching the autumn light, the mismatched eyes that were—

Were looking directly at you.

Not with the polite interest of a man performing the duty of greeting his betrothed. With a focused attentiveness that arrived so immediately and so completely that it momentarily disrupted your careful composure.

You held his gaze for one second. Two. Then you remembered yourself and dipped into a curtsy.

"Your grace," you said. "I am honoured to—"

"The honour is mine." His voice was even and warm and he was already moving forward, one hand extended to assist you from the last step with a naturalness that suggested it had not been calculated. "You must be tired from the journey. Six days is considerable."

"It was comfortable enough." You took his hand and felt the steadiness of it and focused very hard on not reacting to that. "The roads were kind."

"They are better maintained in the south." A brief pause in which those mismatched eyes moved over your face with a care that felt less like assessment and more like— attention. Genuine, specific attention. "Are you well? Truly. The question is not ceremonial."

You blinked.

"I am well," you said. "Truly."

Something moved at the corner of his mouth.

"Good," he said quietly. "Then let me show you your home."

Your home.

The words landed somewhere unexpected in your chest.

You allowed him to draw you forward into the courtyard, into the welcoming assembly, into the beginning of a life you did not yet know the shape of — and told yourself very firmly that the warmth spreading through you was simply relief at arriving safely after six days of travel.

You were almost convincing.

Autumn settled over King's Landing like something deliberate.

The leaves in the castle gardens turned gold and amber and the air took on that particular quality of cool clarity that made everything feel slightly more significant than it might in other seasons. You learned the rhythms of the Red Keep slowly, the way you learned most things — carefully, thoroughly, trying to miss nothing.

You learned that the small council met on Tuesdays and that Baelor emerged from those meetings with a specific quality of contained exhaustion that he would not mention unless asked and would understate if he was. You learned that he took his evening meal late when the day had been complicated and earlier when it had not and that this was a more reliable indicator of how court had gone than anything he said about it. You learned that he kept a book in his solar that had nothing to do with governance or war — poetry, you had glimpsed once, though he had not drawn attention to it — and that he read it in the half hour before sleep with the quiet privacy of a man who did not expect anyone to notice.

You noticed. You were not certain what to do with any of it.

The betrothal was formal and the wedding was set for three moons hence and in the meantime, you existed in the particular suspended state of someone who is almost something but not yet entirely. Almost his wife. Almost at home. Almost certain of what was happening between you, in the small moments, in the spaces between ceremony and duty.

The first thing that made you pay closer attention happened three weeks after your arrival.

You had mentioned, in passing, during a walk in the gardens — mentioned, not emphasised, barely lingered on it — that you found the castle library somewhat overwhelming in its organisation and had not yet managed to locate the histories of the First Men that you had been intending to read.

Three days later you found them on the table in your chambers.

No note. No ceremony. Simply the books, stacked neatly, with a small piece of parchment bearing only the relevant shelf location in the library so you could return them when finished.

You had stood there looking at them for a long moment.

Then you had gone to find him.

He was in his solar, predictably buried in correspondence, and looked up when you entered with an expression that arranged itself into welcome so naturally you wondered sometimes if it was simply his default when he saw you.

"The histories," you simply said.

"I thought you might want them sooner rather than later." He said it simply, returning his attention briefly to the parchment before him. "The library organisation is genuinely counterintuitive. I have lived here my entire life and still find myself in the wrong section occasionally."

"You did not have to—"

"I walked past the shelf." A slight pause. "It was not an inconvenience."

You looked at him for a moment. At the composed profile, the careful hands, the complete absence of performance in the gesture — it had not been done to impress, you understood that with sudden clarity. It had simply been done because he had thought of you and acted on it.

"Thank you," you said quietly.

He looked up.

"Of course," he said. Simply. Like there had been no other possible outcome.

You went back to your chambers and sat with the books in your lap for a while without opening them.

It happened again. And again.

Small things, mostly. The kind that could be explained away individually as courtesy or coincidence but that accumulated, over weeks, into a pattern too consistent to be either.

He remembered that you found large formal dinners draining and began, without comment, ensuring you were seated near people he had assessed you would find interesting rather than merely important. He noticed when you were cold before you said so — the Red Keep had draughts in specific corridors that you had not yet learned to anticipate — and without fanfare simply began walking on the side that blocked them. He asked your opinion on things with a genuine interest that made it clear he intended to consider what you said rather than simply perform the asking.

Once, during a particularly tedious reception, you had caught his eye across the room and made a very small and very subtle expression of suffering and he had excused himself from his conversation within five minutes and appeared at your elbow and said quietly that there was something in the adjoining gallery he thought you might find interesting if you wished to see it, and the something had turned out to be a window seat with a view of the gardens and a significantly reduced density of courtiers.

You had sat there for twenty minutes talking about nothing of consequence and it had been the best part of the evening by a considerable margin.

"You did that on purpose," you said, when it became clear the something had been the window seat all along.

"I have no idea what you mean," he said, with the composure of a man who had absolutely done it on purpose.

You had laughed.

He had watched you laugh with an expression that was there and gone too quickly to fully read, and then he had smiled — not the courteous public smile you had catalogued in your first weeks, but the quieter real one that you were only beginning to understand was different — and looked back out the window.

You had filed it away with all the others, trying very hard not to read too much into it. Trying very hard not to think about the way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you were not paying attention.

Trying very hard to remember that Baelor Targaryen was simply a good man and good men were kind to their betrothed and none of this necessarily meant—

Stop it, you told yourself firmly.

You stopped it. For approximately three days.

The wedding was six weeks away when one of your maids said the thing.

Not maliciously. That was almost worse — she said it with the cheerful thoughtlessness of someone making conversation, brushing your hair before bed, talking about nothing in particular.

"It is fortunate," she said, "that Prince Baelor is so dutiful. Some men would make the arrangement considerably less comfortable."

You met your own eyes in the mirror.

"Dutiful," you said carefully.

"Well — yes." She seemed to sense something in your tone and backtracked slightly. "I only mean — he is very attentive. Very correct. You are lucky he takes his responsibilities so seriously."

She moved on to talking about something else.

You stopped hearing her.

Dutiful.

The word sat in you like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples outward through every memory you had been carefully accumulating. The books. The draughts. The window seat. The way he looked at you.

Duty.

He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. Everyone said so. You had said so yourself, early on, when you were still cataloguing him from a careful distance. A good man. An honourable man. A man who would be kind to his wife because that was simply who he was, not because—

Not because he was—

You moved your head and the maid set down the brush carefully.

"I am tired," you said. "I think I will sleep."

You did not sleep.

You managed a week.

A week of telling yourself it did not matter, the distinction was irrelevant, you were building a life with a good man and that was more than most people had, and you were not going to be foolish enough to want more than that.

A week of noticing, with new and painful attention, every moment of his consideration toward you and trying to see it as duty rather than— rather than whatever you had been allowing yourself to imagine.

You were not very good at it.

The problem was that you had already, somewhere in the accumulation of small things and golden afternoons and quiet conversations, done something inadvisable.

You had fallen in love with him.

Thoroughly. Helplessly. In the way that sneaks up on a person because it did not arrive all at once but assembled itself quietly from a hundred unremarkable moments until one day the structure was simply complete and there was no unknowing it.

And now you did not know if it was returned or simply — performed. With the best possible intentions, by the best possible man, who would never deliberately mislead you, but who might simply be incapable of being less than wonderful to someone in his care regardless of what he actually felt.

You were sitting in the library — the histories of the First Men open in your lap, unread — when he found you.

He always found you. That was another thing you had noticed and were now trying not to assign meaning to.

"You have been quiet this week," he said. Not an accusation. Simply an observation, offered in the tone of someone who had been paying attention and had decided to say so.

"I am often quiet."

"Not like this." He settled into the chair across from you with the unhurried ease of a man who had decided he was not going anywhere. "Something is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong."

"You are a poor liar."

"That seems presumptuous. You have known me three moons."

"Two and a half." The mismatched eyes were steady on your face. "And yes."

You looked down at the unread book.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable but full — the kind of silence that had weight and shape and was asking something of you.

"Can I ask you something?" you said finally.

"Always."

You looked up. "Do you— " You stopped. Rearranged. "How do you— " Another stop. You took a breath. "Is this—" Your hand moved slightly, indicating the space between you, the whole of the past months, all of it. "Is this duty?"

The quality of his stillness changed.

"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

"I mean—" The words were harder to say than you had thought they would be. "You are a good man. Everyone says so. You would be kind to anyone in my position because that is simply who you are. And I—" You stopped. "I am aware that I cannot always tell the difference between— between who you are in general and who you are with me specifically. And it matters." Your voice had gone slightly unsteady. "It matters to me. To know the difference."

The silence afterward was very still.

Baelor looked at you across the library with an expression you had not seen from him before. Not the composed public face. Not even the quieter private warmth you had grown to treasure. Something beneath both of those, sitting more exposed than he usually allowed, as though your words had reached past every careful layer directly to whatever lived underneath.

"Come here," he said quietly.

"I am—"

"Please."

You went.

He moved the books from the chair beside his chair and when you sat by his side, he took your hand in both of his — that familiar gesture, the one that had started in a courtyard on an autumn morning — and held it with the same deliberate certainty he had held it then.

"Look at me," he said.

You looked.

"I am going to say something," he said carefully, "that I should have said more clearly and sooner. And I want you to hear it properly."

You waited.

"There is nothing dutiful," he said, "about the way I feel about you."

The words landed quietly and absolutely.

"The books were not duty. The walks were not duty. The window seat—" something moved at the corner of his mouth— "was absolutely not duty. I did not arrange your seating at dinner because I am responsible for your comfort. I did it because I know by now that Lady Rowan makes you laugh and Ser Willam bores you to your foundations and I wanted your evening to be good." A pause. "Not because it was required of me. Because I wanted it."

Your throat had tightened considerably.

"Baelor—"

"I have been—" He stopped. Gathered himself in the way he did when precision mattered. "I have been trying to be measured about this. To give you time to settle here, to know me, to make your own determinations without pressure from me. It was not— I did not intend for the restraint to read as indifference." His hands tightened fractionally around yours. "I am sorry that it did."

"It didn't read as indifference," you said quietly. "It read as— I could not tell if it was me or simply— your nature. You are good to everyone."

"I am courteous to everyone," he said, with a gentle precision that made the distinction clear. "What I am with you is—" He paused. Seemed to make a decision. "Different. It has been different since the first day. Since you looked at me and held my gaze and answered my question about the journey honestly instead of correctly." A beat. "I noticed you immediately. Completely. And I have not— I have not stopped."

The tears arrived without much warning.

Baelor's expression shifted immediately, his thumb moving to your cheek with that instinctive gentleness, and he looked at you with something so open and unguarded that the last of the stone in your chest simply dissolved.

"I did not mean to make you uncertain," he said quietly. "That is the last thing I would ever want."

"You didn't," you managed. "I did that myself."

"Then let me be clearer, so there is no more room for uncertainty." He held your gaze with complete steadiness. "I love you. I have loved you for some time. Not only because you are my betrothed and it is my duty, and not because you are easy to be good to, though you are." Something warm and certain in his eyes. "Because you are you. Specifically. Entirely."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I love you too," you said. "I have been trying not to for approximately six weeks because I was frightened it was one-sided."

The smile that crossed his face was the realest one you had ever seen from him. Not the courteous smile or even the private warm one but something underneath both of those, something that seemed to arrive from a place he did not usually allow visitors.

"Six weeks," he said quietly.

"At least."

"I knew I would love you since that day in the courtyard," he said. The laugh that escaped you was slightly tearful and entirely helpless.

Baelor brought your hands to his lips and held them there and looked at you over your knuckles with those mismatched eyes full of something steady and certain and entirely his.

"No more uncertainty," he said quietly. Not a question.

"No more uncertainty," you agreed.

Outside the library windows the autumn light had gone the deep gold of late afternoon, long and warm across the shelves and the books and the two of you sitting together in the quiet of it.

The wedding was on a morning in late autumn when the frost had just begun to touch the edges of things.

You stood beside him in the sept with your heart very full and your hands very steady and listened to him say the words with the same quiet certainty he brought to everything that mattered to him.

Afterward, in the brief moments between the ceremony and the feast when the world had contracted to just the two of you in a small antechamber, he looked at you the way he had in the library and said nothing at all.

He didn't need to. You already knew.

That evening at the feast your eyes met in a moment amidst conversations that held little interest for either of you. He looked at you with that quiet real smile and something in it that said I love you as plainly as if he had spoken it aloud.

The thing about arriving somewhere entirely new, you had discovered, was that everything was information.

The way people moved through corridors. Who made space for whom. Where the light fell at different hours and which rooms caught the cold and which held warmth. You had always learned places this way — quietly, observantly, building a picture from accumulated detail rather than relying on what you were told.

King's Landing was going to take some time.

You had known this before the wheelhouse stopped in the courtyard of the Red Keep on a grey autumn morning, frost beginning to cling to the stones and your breath visible in the air. You had known it standing in your father's hall a month ago while he explained, with the careful satisfaction of a man who had secured something significant, that you were to marry the fourth son of King Daeron.

Prince Maekar Targaryen.

You had made enquiries. Quietly, the way you did things. The responses had been — varied.

Difficult had come up with some frequency. Uncompromising. Formidable. One elderly lord had simply said sharp and left it at that with an expression suggesting this covered a great deal of ground.

One lady, however — a woman who had spent time at court three years prior — had said something different.

He is not cruel, she had said carefully. He is simply — exact. He says what he means and means what he says and has no patience for people who do otherwise. If you are straightforward with him, he will be straightforward with you.

You had found this, on balance, more reassuring than the others. You were a reasonably straightforward person, after all.

The wheelhouse door opened.

You descended into that grey morning with your chin up and your eyes open and your heart doing something inconvenient in your chest that you chose to categorise as reasonable nerves about a significant life event.

The welcoming party assembled in the courtyard was considerable.

You catalogued them with the automatic efficiency of someone who has spent a lifetime learning rooms — lords, ladies, a maester, several knights — and then your attention arrived at the man standing slightly apart from the others and stayed there.

Large was the first word that came to your mind to describe him. Not in the soft way of men who had never worked for anything, but in the particular way of someone built by years of genuine physical demand. Broad through the shoulder, carrying himself with an economy of movement that suggested he was always aware of exactly where he was in space.

The hair was more silver than you had expected from the descriptions. The beard. The lines of a face that had seen considerable weather and not been softened by it.

And the eyes — violet, which you had known to expect, but the quality of them had not been conveyed — sharp and direct and already, before you had descended the last step, fixed on your face with an attention so complete and so immediate that it momentarily disrupted the careful composure you had assembled for exactly this moment.

You held his gaze for a breath.

Then you curtsied correctly and said the correct things, and listened to him say the correct things back in a voice that was exactly as direct as advertised, and told yourself very firmly that the way he had looked at you was simply the assessment of a man meeting his betrothed for the first time.

Completely normal, nothing to catalogue separately.

Despite yourself, you definitely catalogued it separately.

He did not speak much at the welcoming dinner.

You had been warned about this — not specifically, but the general picture assembled from your enquiries suggested a man who conserved words for when they were useful and considered most social occasions insufficiently useful to warrant extensive deployment.

What he did instead, you noticed, was listen.

Not with the polite performance of listening that courtiers had raised to an art form — the occasional nod, the maintained eye contact, the mind clearly elsewhere. Actually listen. The way people did when the information mattered to them.

He listened to you with this quality for the entirety of the dinner.

You were talking mostly to Lady Arryn on your other side, and the conversation was pleasant enough, but you were aware — with the peripheral attention you had developed for exactly this kind of thing — of Maekar beside you. Still, present. Not participating in the table's general noise but not entirely absent either.

At one point Lady Arryn said something that made you laugh — genuinely, not politely — and you felt rather than saw something shift slightly in the stillness beside you.

You glanced over. He was looking at his wine.

"Do you find Lady Arryn amusing?" you asked quietly, because you were a reasonably straightforward person and the elderly lady's advice was fresh in your mind.

He looked at you. Direct, as advertised.

"I find her adequate," he said. "I find the question of what makes you laugh more interesting."

You stared at him for a moment. He returned to his wine with the composure of someone who had not just said something that landed like a small precise arrow directly in the centre of your chest.

You turned back to Lady Arryn, brows slightly furrowed and filed it away. Told yourself very firmly it was simply an observation.

Winter settled over King's Landing like a declaration.

Sharp mornings and early dark and the particular quality of cold that got into stones and stayed there. You learned the Red Keep the way you had intended — carefully, observantly, building your picture from detail.

You learned that Maekar was in the training yard before dawn every morning regardless of weather, that he ate simply and without much interest in the ceremony of meals, that he had strong opinions about military history and expressed them without invitation to anyone who raised the subject within earshot, and that he was, as advertised, genuinely difficult.

You watched him reduce a knight to a state of profound professional humiliation in approximately four sentences during a training observation. You watched him dismiss a lord's petition with a bluntness that left the room briefly airless. You watched him sit through a court reception with the expression of a man enduring a minor but persistent physical ailment.

He was, objectively, a great deal.

The thing was—

That he was not like that with you.

Not entirely. He was still direct — bluntly, immediately, without the social cushioning most people employed. He still said what he meant without apparent concern for whether it landed comfortably. He did not perform warmth that he did not feel.

But there was something different in the way he was difficult with you versus the way he was difficult with everyone else.

With everyone else it was — weather. Impersonal. The sharpness of a man who had long since stopped moderating himself for the comfort of people he did not consider worth moderating for.

With you it was—

The first time you noticed it properly was two weeks after your arrival.

You were in the main hall of your solar, working through correspondence with your maid when he appeared in the doorway, assessed the room with his standard military efficiency, and crossed directly to where you were sitting.

"You are in the wrong chair," he said.

You looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

"The light is behind you. You will strain your eyes." He moved to a nearby table, lifted a candlestick that was not his to move, and set it beside your correspondence with the certainty of a man who had not considered the possibility of objection. "That chair—" he indicated one six feet to the left— "catches the window light in the afternoons."

You looked at the chair. Looked at him.

"How do you know which chair catches the window light?" you asked.

A brief pause.

"I have been in this room before," he said.

"So have a lot of other people."

Something moved in his expression that he shut down immediately. "Do you want the better light or not?"

You moved to the other chair. He left without further comment.

You sat in the improved light and thought about it for the rest of the afternoon.

It kept happening.

It was to note that nothing about Maekar was gentle or particularly deliberate in its presentation, as you had noticed over the passing weeks. It happened the way he did most things: directly, without ceremony, as though the action were simply the obvious response to an obvious situation, and he could not understand why it required comment.

He appeared beside you at events with the air of a man who had simply happened to end up there. He inserted himself into conversations where someone was boring you with the blunt efficiency of a man who had decided the conversation should end and ended it. When you were cold — the Red Keep's draughts were considerable — he did not offer his cloak with the gallant performance of a suitor. He simply reappeared at court wearing one fewer layer than he had been previously and if anyone connected these facts that was their business.

He argued with you.

This was, perhaps, the most distinctive quality of how he was different with you versus everyone else. He argued with you genuinely — not talking over you or dismissing you but actually engaging; pushing back on things he disagreed with, demanding you defend positions you had stated, listening to your defence with the focused attention of someone who intended to update their view if warranted. And, to his credit, he had done so on at least two occasions.

You had never had someone argue with you like that. Like your opinion was worth the effort of genuine contest. You found, to your own surprise, that you loved it.

"You are wrong about the Andal migrations," he said one evening, during a dinner that had somehow become a conversation about ancient history.

"I am drawing on three separate sources," you said.

"Your sources are drawing on each other. The primary account is Maester Edwyn and the other two are simply Edwyn with additional speculation."

"And you have a better source?"

"I have a better argument." He leaned forward slightly. "Which I will make if you stop citing Edwyn as though repetition improves him."

You stopped citing Edwyn. He made the argument. It was, frustratingly, quite good.

"You may have a point," you said.

"I have the point."

"You have a point. There is a distinction."

Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile — Maekar did not distribute smiles widely — but the particular movement that you had begun to understand was his equivalent.

"You are stubborn," he said.

"You are insufferable," you said pleasantly.

The almost-smile deepened fractionally. He refilled your wine without being asked.

You filed that dinner alongside everything else and told yourself very firmly to stop filing things.

The orbiting was what finally made it impossible to ignore.

You had not named it that at first. You had noticed it as a pattern without quite articulating what the pattern meant — the consistent proximity, the appearing in rooms, the finding you in the library or the garden or the great hall with the air of a man who had simply ended up there through no particular intention.

It was one of your maids who named it.

"He follows you," she said one morning, with the frankness of someone who had been observing this for weeks and had formed a view.

"He does not follow me," you said, slightly scoffing at the comment.

"He was in the east gallery yesterday."

"A lot of people pass through the east gallery."

"He walked past it twice in the same hour."

You said nothing.

"He was in the library the morning you went to find the Valyrian histories," she continued, with the relentlessness of someone making a case. "He does not use the library. I asked."

"You asked?"

"Someone had to." She met your eyes in the mirror with complete composure. "He orbits you. Like the—"

"Do not say moon."

"My lady." She set down the brush. "That man has not sat through a single court function in living memory without removing himself at the earliest opportunity. Last week he stayed for three hours."

"He had responsibilities—"

"You were there for three hours."

The silence that followed had considerable weight.

"It does not mean—" you began.

"My lady," she said gently. "It definitely does."

You looked at your own reflection for a long moment.

The thing was — you knew she was right. You had known for weeks, in the part of yourself that you had been firmly instructing to be quiet, that the revolving around had to mean something. That the arguments and the candlestick and the appearing-in-rooms and the almost-smiles that he seemed to distribute almost exclusively in your direction meant something.

But.

The other thing you knew — the thing that sat in you like a counterweight, cold and persistent — was that Maekar Targaryen had not chosen this.

Neither had you, of course. Arranged marriages were arranged and you had made your peace with that before the wheelhouse ever left your father's gates. But you had arrived at court genuinely open to whatever this became.

You were not certain he had.

And the gap between he is making the best of an obligation, and he wants you here specifically was one you could not quite cross on the evidence available.

Because what if the circling was simply — supervision. Responsibility. The particular attentiveness of a man who had been told this was his duty and was performing it with the same thoroughness he brought to everything.

What if the almost-smiles were simply relief at finding his betrothed manageable rather than something warmer. What if you had spent months mistaking tolerance for affection because you had wanted very badly to be wanted.

"I think," you said carefully, "that there is a considerable distance between orbiting someone and wanting them there."

Your maid looked at you through the reflection on the mirror for a moment.

"My lady," she said quietly. "You have seen how he is with other people, and how he behaves when you are around."

"Yes," you said. "I have. And I know that he is — less sharp with me. More present. But—" You stopped. "He did not choose me. And I sometimes think — what if he is simply — enduring because that is what he ought to do?"

The silence afterward was soft and sad.

"I think there is only one way of knowing, my lady," your maid said.

"You may be right," you said. "I need to be certain before I—" You stopped.

Before you let yourself love him fully and openly and without the careful guard you had been keeping around it.

"I need to be certain."

You managed another month.

A month of morning walks that you treasured and questioned in equal measure. A month of arguments that made you feel more genuinely met than anything else in your life and then made you wonder afterward whether being argued with was the same as being valued. A month of that steady and reliable circling he did around you, and the almost-smiles, and the appearing-in-rooms, and all of it—

All of it complicated by the thing you had heard a few days ago.

It had been a small thing, objectively. A court function — one of the interminable evening receptions that Maekar endured with his standard expression of contained suffering. You had been across the room when Lord Peake had said something to him, too quietly for you to hear, and Maekar had gone very still in the way he did before he said something cutting.

What you had caught, crossing toward them through the crowd, was the tail end of it.

—grateful she is at least tolerable, given you had no say in the matter.

You had turned around and found somewhere else to be and spent the rest of the reception being perfectly composed and not thinking about it.

You had been thinking about it for a week.

Tolerable.

A week of tolerable sitting in you like a splinter. A whole week of looking at him and the almost-smiles and the map he had drawn you — a map, he had drawn you a gods damned map — and not being able to fully silence the voice that said:

What if this is simply what he does for someone he considers adequate. What if you are a responsibility he is managing well. What if you have built an entire architecture of hope on the foundation of a man who is merely being thorough about his obligations.

You could not keep it any longer. It was making the mornings bittersweet and the arguments hollow and the map — the map that you had folded carefully and kept — feel like something you had misread entirely.

So, you went to find him.

You found him in the armoury. You had learned this about him the way you had learned everything — by paying attention. Maekar in the armoury meant Maekar thinking hard about something he had not yet resolved.

You wondered, with a distant kind of hurt, if that something was you.

He was working through sword forms when you entered, moving with the focused economy that characterised everything physical he did, and he stopped when he saw you with an expression that arranged itself into attention immediately and completely.

Your heart did the inconvenient thing. You were so tired of your heart doing the inconvenient thing.

"You do not usually come here," he said.

"No," you agreed.

He set the sword aside. Reached for a cloth. Watched you cross the room with that still focused gaze and waited, because Maekar always waited rather than rushing toward things.

You stopped in front of him.

You had rehearsed this. Several versions of it, over several sleepless portions of several nights. You had intended to be measured. Precise. To ask the question cleanly and receive the answer without making it larger than it needed to be.

Instead what came out was—

"Am I tolerable?"

Maekar went completely still.

"What?" he said.

"Lord Peake." You held his gaze even though it cost something. "Three weeks ago. At the reception." A breath. "I heard what he said."

The stillness that followed was different from his usual stillness. This one had texture. Something moving through it that his face was working to manage and not entirely succeeding.

"You heard—"

"She is at least tolerable," you said quietly. "Yes, I heard. And I heard you say nothing back."

Maekar looked at you for a long moment.

Something was happening in his expression that you could not fully read — several things at once, moving too fast and too layered — and then his jaw tightened and he looked away briefly and then back, and the expression he wore when he found your eyes again was not one you had seen from him before.

"How long," he said. Very quiet. "Have you been carrying this."

"A week."

A rough exhale.

"And before that," he said, with the precision of a man reassessing a situation from new information, "you thought—"

"I didn't know what to think," you said. "I don't know what to think. You are — you are so present and then you say something like that and I don't—" Your voice had developed an unsteadiness you had not intended. "I don't know if I am someone you want here or someone you are making the best of. And it matters." You looked at him steadily despite everything. "It matters enormously to me."

The silence afterward was enormous.

Maekar looked at you with an expression that was almost painful to witness — not because it was closed or guarded but because it was the precise opposite. Something sitting fully exposed across his features that he was not attempting to manage, like the usual mechanisms had simply failed to engage.

"Lord Peake," he said. Low and deliberate. "Was asking me questions about you that were not his to ask. In a manner that was not—" His jaw tightened. "I did not trust myself to answer honestly in that room in that moment."

You stared at him.

"So you said nothing," you said slowly.

"Because the honest answer—" He stopped. Something working in his throat. "The honest answer was not something I was willing to give Peake in the middle of a reception."

"What was the honest answer?"

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then he crossed to you with that direct purposeful movement of his — two steps, no hesitation — and took your face in both hands and looked at you from very close and said:

"That you are the furthest thing from at least tolerable that I have ever encountered in my life."

Your breath left you.

"That I have been—" He stopped. Started again. The words clearly costing him, dragged out by sheer force of will. "I do not know how to do this. I am aware of that. I know that I am—" A rough exhale. "I know that I am not easy to read. That I communicate— badly. That what is obvious to me may not be—" His thumbs moved against your cheekbones. "I have been trying to be near you because when I am not I am—"

He stopped completely. Looked almost furious with himself.

"Unsettled," he said finally. Like the word had been extracted.

"Unsettled," you repeated softly.

"You are the only person who—" Another stop. Jaw working. "I do not follow people around reception halls or draw them bloody maps of corridors or—" He cut himself off. The red was climbing his neck toward his ears. "I have never done any of those things for any person. In my life. Before you."

Your eyes were burning.

"Then why—" you started.

"Because I wanted to." The words came out low and fierce and completely certain. "Not because you are my betrothed. Not because it is expected of me. Because I wanted to and I could not seem to stop and I did not—" His voice roughened. "I did not particularly want to stop."

You looked at him.

At this impossible prickly furious man holding your face in careful hands and going red about it and being unable to finish half his sentences because the feelings were too large for the vocabulary he permitted himself and underneath all of it—

Wanting you.

Not tolerating you. Not enduring you adequately.

Wanting you.

"You should have told me," you said. Your voice came out slightly unsteady.

"I was telling you," he said. With the exasperation of a man who has been shouting in a language he forgot to teach you. "Every morning. Every — I was telling you constantly. I did not realise you were not—" He stopped. The exasperation folding into something softer and more painful. "I did not realise you could not hear it."

The tear that escaped was entirely without your permission.

Maekar looked at it with the expression of a man who had just understood the full scope of something and found it considerably more significant than he had calculated.

"You thought I didn't want you here," he said quietly.

"I thought you were making the best of an obligation," you said. "I thought tolerable might be the ceiling."

Something moved through his face that was almost difficult to witness — the specific pain of a person realising that their silence, their indirection, their assumption that presence spoke for itself — had caused hurt they had never intended.

"No," he said. Roughly. Completely. "No. You are not—" He seemed to abandon the sentence in favour of a more direct approach. "I would have chosen you. Do you understand that? If there had been a choice. I would have chosen you anyway."

The tears arrived properly then.

Maekar made a low distressed sound at the sight of them and pulled you forward until your forehead rested against his chest and his arms came around you with the fierce careful certainty of someone who had decided this was where you belonged and intended to make that structurally clear.

"I would have chosen you," he repeated into your hair, like he needed you to have it twice.

You held onto him and let the week of tolerable dissolve out of you.

"I love you," you said into his chest. Muffled and slightly tearful and entirely sincere. "I have been trying not to fall for you like a stupid maiden since I arrived here."

The arms around you tightened.

"Trying not to," he repeated, something almost amused in the way he phrased it.

"You are very difficult," you said.

A sound escaped him. Short and low and startled — that real laugh, the unguarded one. "I am aware."

"And I love you anyway. Entirely." The silence that followed was warm and full.

His lips pressed into your hair.

"I am afraid that I am not going to become easier without a little time," he said gruffly.

"I know."

"I will still argue with you."

"Good."

"But I am—" A brief pause. "I am going to be better. At saying things. Directly. So you can hear them."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. He was flushed and slightly wrecked and entirely, completely serious.

"You don't have to become someone else for me," you said softly.

"I am not becoming someone else. I am becoming—" He seemed to search for it. "Clearer. So you do not have to put up with a husband who is incapable of communicating."

Your heart turned completely over.

"I love you," you said again.

The red reached his ears.

"I know," he said gruffly.

You raised an eyebrow. A long pause.

"I love you," he finally conceded. Like a man starting to pay a debt he was glad to owe. "Obviously. Entirely. Since approximately the moment you stepped out of that wheelhouse and looked at me like you were taking notes."

"I was actually taking notes," you said.

"I know." That almost-smile. The real one.

The wedding was on a morning in deep winter when the snow had just begun to fall over King's Landing.

You stood beside him before the sept and listened to him say the words with the directness he brought to everything true and thought, with distant clarity, that almost no other would be capable of fully knowing what sat behind those violet eyes that you had learned to read over the months.

Afterward in the brief moment before the feast he looked at you and said, without preamble—

"You look—" he stopped. The old frustration with vocabulary fleetingly visible. Then, with the deliberate care of a man who had made himself and you a promise, "You look like someone I would have chosen," he said. "In any life."

You had learned his language months ago. But he was learning yours too.

You rose onto your toes and kissed him once, briefly, and felt him exhale against your mouth like something that had been held carefully for a very long time finally being set down.

"There," you said softly. "Was that so difficult?"

"Insufferable," he said. With considerable fondness.

That evening during the feast he sat beside you, and you talked about things that had little or nothing to do with the celebration surrounding you. Maekar meticulously refilled your cup without you having to ask, and you, in return, stole some of the food from his plate.

After a moment of silence in which you looked around the great hall at all the people overcome by the emotion that a royal wedding allowed, when you returned your gaze to Maekar you realized that he had been watching you all that time.

Not with the careful concealed attention of before.

Openly. Completely. With those full violet eyes that were no longer a riddle for you. They were so full that he had needed not words to express what was behind them. He did not look away when you caught him.

You smiled and he, for a moment, smiled fully, with the intimacy of addressing an audience of one.

Outside the snow continued to fall over King's Landing.

Inside, Maekar Targaryen sat beside his wife at his own wedding feast and looked at her like she was something he had found unexpectedly and intended to keep for the rest of his life.

Sorry this took me so long! I had a lot of ideas flying over my head and I had to catch them before it was too late! Thank you for your request, hope you enjoyed it <3