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AKot7K Masterlist
Key — ♤ Fluff ♡ Light Smut ♥︎ Heavy Smut ♧ Slight Angst ♣︎ Heavy Angst ☆ Drama ◇ Platonic
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Up and Coming
Characters I Write For: Maekar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, Ser Duncan the Tall, Lyonel Baratheon, Valarr Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Tanselle Too-Tall
Newest Work — Bathing Together
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Old Blog — @thattargboy
Maekar Targaryen
A Prince and A Tower — Targaryen marriages did not tend to bode well for the women of your line, but you had your eyes set on a certain prize. Maekar Targaryen x Hightower!Reader — discontinued; to be remade
Prologue ☆ || Chapter One ☆ || Chapter Two ☆
Ser Duncan the Tall
Girldad Headcanons ♤
Tanselle Too-Tall
Coming Soon — Send Requests!
Baelor Targaryen
Baelor Lives Drabble ♤
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Daeron Targaryen
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Lyonel Baratheon
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Multiple Characters
How They Propose ♤ — (Dunk, Baelor, Maekar, Lyonel, Valarr, Daeron)
Bathing Together ♤♡ — (Dunk, Baelor, Maekar, Lyonel, Valarr, Daeron)
Prompt Drabbles
Forced Proximity Prompts — MDNI/18+ONLY
Dunk ♡ Baelor ♡ Lyonel ♥︎
daeron targaryen + little details
I think it is going to be legit so awesome when a knight of the seven kingdoms season two pivots from being about honor and glory and tourneys and an entanglement of extremely beautiful but violent but soooooo miserable and tortured Targaryen princelings to being like. sit your little bald ass down we are talking about climate change and water rights and how to be a good person in a world that is slow in the dying and the horrors of war that break us apart decades after they end because they don’t end and there’s not even shippable twinks but Jaime Lannister is there and she’s a girl this time
Daeron, reclined, drinking wine, shirt sluttily open like a debauched maiden waiting for his wife to come back from the hunt, with a far bigger kill than any of his in or the party: “I must say, she was a fantastic match for me.”
(Lady Stark with her sexy, delicate prince that happily respects her choices and lets her run anything he’s meant to.)
Ideal setup here
This is sooooo sexy oh my god
Like Daeron fawning over his lady as the hunting party (or at least the Northern part of it) regale spectators with tales of her feats.
I can also see lady Stark like skinning a buck or explaining how to precisely sneak up on a kill in sickening detail and he’s just moony eyed (and bricked up), kissing her cheek like “yeah that’s my baby.”
I know this pisses Maekar off sooooo bad too, especially with the idea that Daeron takes after him in physique: tall, broad, all the potential to be strong and deadly, and he’s choosing to laze about??? (He’s genuinely impressed with Lady Stark, he values those who are well practiced in skill.) Every hunt he’s like “get up, get up, get up.” And it does not work one bit. Daeron is way too pleased to sit back and watch you in your element.
<3
So … is Lyonel pollen sex fic a possibility or not ? I can bribe.
no bribes needed
Hot and Heavy
Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader
✿ on a hot summer's evening, you find your husband alone in his solar having smoked a rare stimulant brought home from dorne (or, a sex pollen fic with the laughing storm) ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 3.7k ✿ cw: fem!reader/wife!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and sexy ofc, dornish elements, sex pollen, SMUT, fingering, finger-sucking, unprotected piv, creampie, riding!!, mentions of anal, dirty talk, both reader and lyonel being switches, and they’re both just messy and desperate for each other, strong language
The evening air is alight with the colours of the setting sun: a kaleidoscope of oranges and yellows and pinks that glance off the shimmering water below and fragment across the thick walls of Storm’s End.
The heat is dry as you traipse the halls of your home. You wear a dress fashioned from Dorne: the material thinner and lighter, the skin of your legs, arms and abdomen breathing easily as you walk. It whips around your ankles in fluttering ribbons as your bare feet pad along the smooth grey stone.
However, despite your airy appearance, your face is a storm. Eyes flashing, a frown pulled across your face like a veil, and servants you usually greet with a smile and a muttering of their name slip out of your line of sight as you move.
One of your guards hurries behind you, the plate of his gold armour catching the sun each time you pass a window. Dots of light scatter with his movements as he struggles to keep up with your purposeful strides.
“My lady, please,” he reasons as you reach a flight of stairs and take them two at a time, light skirts flowing like water around you. He huffs as he follows obediently. “He doesn’t—”
“He doesn’t what?” You spin around, halfway up the stairs. The guard yelps and freezes as you jut a finger in his direction, other hand gripping the bannister. “He doesn’t want to see me? His wife? Is that it?”
“No, no, not at all,” the guard hurries out as you spin on your heel and continue up the stairs. “But he’s working. He told me not to let anyone disturb him.”
You huff as you reach another hall and begin your flight through it. It’s warmer the higher you rise, and you feel a dewy line of sweat building along the curve of your spine.
“I am his wife,” you say over your shoulder. More servants hurry out of your way as you head down the hall. “I am physically incapable of disturbing him. He conceded that when we were wed.”
Your guard finally catches up to you, panting slightly when he manages to get in front of you. You stop, scowling up at him. The door to your husband’s solar is but a few metres away, but your guard holds out his hands, urging you to be still.
“My lady, your trip to Dorne earlier this week took him away from his duties and he has a lot to catch up on,” your guard attempts to explain but, frankly, it’s just making you more frustrated.
You express that frustration. “He has been locked away since sunrise. The sun is setting, and I have yet to see him. Now, I appreciate your loyalty, but please—” you take a step closer. “—get out of my way.”
Your guard sighs quietly to himself as he yields, stepping aside and allowing you to breeze past him. He moves to follow, but you turn and hold up a hand. He stops, rooted to the spot, and you give him a small smile before you’re pushing open the door of your husband’s solar then slamming it shut behind you. You bolt it as well.
The room is shadowed, the window facing away from the setting sun. Candles lay about unlit and books and parchment are strewn across his thick wooden desk carelessly. Across the room, your husband lounges in front of the fireplace, which glows with dying embers. His legs and arms spread out wide, and his head lolls back against the spine of the couch.
You grumble, ignoring your husband and approaching the hearth. You grab a candle and light it using the dying embers, then walk slowly around the room, illuminating each candle you find. As you move, skirts following you, you whip up a smell that you instantly recognise. Near his desk, you pause, placing the candle down, the room now bathed in a soft orange glow.
“Lyonel.”
Lyonel stirs, moaning as he stretches his arms out. You approach the chaise your husband lays upon, standing before him with your hands on your hips. He opens his eyes, blinking lazily at you.
“My love,” he greets, a wide grin splitting across his handsome face.
But you can’t ignore the smell and, now with candles burning in the corners of the room, the haze in the air. Melting sugar and the skin of fermenting apples. Sweet and acidic. On a small table near the chaise is a silver bulb of sorts, a pinkish sediment staining the curved bottom, the base ashen from where your husband had held it to a nearby candle, thoroughly melted down now.
You snatch the pipe from the table and hold it up. “Working, huh?”
Lyonel sits up, shuffling to the edge of the chaise until his head is parallel with your stomach. His large hands find your hips and he grips you there, his hold hot and calloused atop the thin material of your dress.
“I love you,” he drawls, leaning forward. He rests his face against your tummy, inhaling right above your covered navel. You frown, clutching the pipe in your hand. He mouths at the fabric after a moment, starting to pant as his hands tighten on your hips. “Gods above, I love you with everything I have.”
“Lyonel,” you say sternly, putting the pipe aside and clutching two handfuls of his unruly hair. You tug and bring him away from your stomach. He responds with a hoarse groan, looking up at you with watery eyes. You frown at him. “I haven’t seen you all day.”
“I know, I know, m’sorry, my love,” your husband mutters, eyes fluttering closed as you massage his scalp. A low purr rumbles out of his throat. “S’just… stressed…”
“So you decide what? To smoke the rest of that Dornish sex powder and sit alone in a dark room?” You chastise, pausing your massaging and instead gripping the strands tightly. Lyonel sucks in a breath, eyes flying open. His lips part and he groans as you tug and continue teasing him, “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
Lyonel groans again, tipping his head to chase your hold. His skin is flaming to the touch and there’s some pink powder sparkling in the black and grey hair of his beard. With a huff, you let him go, and he falls back onto the chaise with a petulant whine. You step out of his hold too, and he whines again.
“My love,” he pleads as you turn.
“Fine, if you want to be alone, I’m leaving,” you say, heading for the door.
You have to hide your smile when your husband releases a pained noise. You hear him pull himself from the chaise and hurry after you, and as you enclose a hand around the handle of the door, he’s on you: thick chest pressing to your back, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You can feel the beating of his heart against you just as prominent as the feeling of his hard cock pressed to the small of your back.
“Please, please,” Lyonel whispers, nuzzling your shoulder and placing kisses up the side of your neck. The room is warm, but Lyonel is warmer. His beard rubs against your skin, and you can’t help but tip your head to the side to allow him better access as he licks over the tendon in the side of your neck. He hums, pleased. “Come sit with me.”
“Sit with you?” You question, curling back into his hold as his arms wrap around your waist. The curve of your arse drags against the hard outline of his cock and he groans in your ear. You chuckle, your hands leaving the door and smoothing along his forearms. “Sit where?”
“My lap,” Lyonel says, then his teeth graze your ear before he’s turning you to kiss over your cheek. He spins you when you become pliant in his arms, pinning you against the door as his lips hover above yours. He licks the corner of your mouth. “My cock.”
You want to roll your eyes, but Lyonel is already kissing you. His mouth is hot and wet and insistent as his tongue slips through your lips. He bullies them apart and curls straight in, making himself at home between the ivory of your teeth. He moans into your mouth as one of his hands lifts to cup the side of your face, and you respond with a little sound of your own as you manage to keep up, tongues clashing as your lips move. You taste a smoky-sweetness in his spit as he crowds you against the door, his cock pressing thick and tight beneath his trousers, rutting up against your thigh.
He pulls back, kissing along your jaw. “I’d sit you on my face, but I fear I have no patience for that tonight.”
You plant your hands on his chest and push him. He stumbles back and you chase after him, slipping the sheer straps of your gown down your body until your arms are free. The fabric falls past your breasts as you latch yourself to him, throwing your arms around his neck. He grumbles, pleased, as your bare tits push up against his chest and your mouth slots to his, tongues melding together like mortar and stone.
Your husband’s hands make quick work of the rest of your dress: shoving it down with practised hands as you kiss in the middle of his solar. You feel the loose material drop down the curve of your hips and arse before pooling at your ankles, and you lean back to find yourself bare before him. If Lyonel notices your lack of smallclothes, he doesn’t comment on it—instead, he’s taking advantage of your separation and tugging his tunic over his head. You run your fingers through the dark hair on his chest before he bends and slides his mouth to yours.
As you move together, the chambers burning hot around you, you drag one hand down his abdomen. You find the ties of his trousers, already loose and barely knotted, the tent in the front impossibly tight. You tug at the strings and they fall away easily. Blindly, you shove them down his hips, plucking at the ties of his breeches as well.
Lyonel groans into your mouth, your teeth knocking together before he pulls back. His forehead rests against yours, his skin slick with sweat and his pupils swollen with need. He watches your hand work, pulling his breeches down and freeing his cock. It hangs heavy under its own weight as Lyonel quickly kicks his trousers and breeches away while you clutch the width of him between soft fingers.
He hisses. “Oh, fuck.”
You stroke him hard. There’s nothing gentle about your movements as you slide your palm, dampened only by the sweat of the evening, across his shaft. He pumps hot beneath you, the head blushing red as pre-cum pearls at the slit. A groan knifes its way out of his throat as he watches your hand work along his length, the burning velvet of his skin shifting beneath your touch as you twist and pull.
“Yeah, that’s it, that’s it,” Lyonel utters, hands finding your hips again. He brings you closer until the head of his cock rubs against the soft flesh of your belly. He whines from deep in his chest. “Look how small your hands are, my love. Cock’s too fuckin’ big, isn’t it? S’just not fair for this pretty girl…”
His fingers slip down the curve of your hip as he speaks, dragging over your mound and muscling between your clenched thighs. You part for him without a word, and he dips two thick fingers between the slick heat of your folds. Your hand stutters only slightly as the backs of his knuckles drag roughly over the pearl of your clit as he parts you. You feel your entire body heating, slick webbing between his fingers and he slides up and down, and you whine when he drags them all the way back up to press hard against your clit.
“Lyonel,” you bite out, head tipping back. He takes advantage of the new angle, attaching his mouth to your throat and sucking harshly as he draws tight circles against your clit. You hold him, pushing your chest against his, other hand still encircled around the thick of his cock. You moan, “Lyonel, my love—”
Your husband’s other hand cups beneath one of your tits now, bringing it up as the hair of his beard tickles down your chest. His mouth wraps around the bud of your nipple and his teeth scrape against the skin, forcing a yowl from the back of your throat. He sucks to soothe you, but you’re already dropping your hand from his cock and snatching a fistful of his hair.
You tug him away from you. “Lyonel.”
“Oh, no, don’t be…” Lyonel exhales, eyes black beneath the weight of his pupils. “Don’t be mean.”
You roll your eyes and push him backwards. He settles back on the chaise, cock heavy against his thigh as you follow him down. You crawl into his lap, more of a prowl as you slink in close, the heat of your bodies finding each other once more.
“M’not mean,” you tell him, one hand curling around your husband’s throat. He hums, pleased, eyes closing as you hold him there, while the other hand takes hold of his cock. You rub him, teasing the dip beneath the head as you slowly lift yourself. “You’re lucky I’m even here, considering you wanted to be alone.”
You say it pointedly as you drag the tip of his cock back and forth through your slick folds. You pant as you shift your hips to meet the movements, clutching onto your husband’s throat for support. His large hands paw at your hips as you hover in his lap, blinking lazily and watching you as if you were the most beautiful thing in the world.
To him, of course, you are.
“Please forgive me,” Lyonel breathes as you bring the weeping head of his cock to your entrance. He’s burning hot in your hand, dragged through the embers glowing in the fireplace. Unsurprisingly, as the room seems to glow hot around him, he lets out a string of unintelligible whimpers before he manages out, “Oh, yeah, yeah, fuck, m’so sorry, my love, m’so sorry,” as you gently lower yourself.
Your lips part and you breathe out around a whine as you split yourself apart on his cock. It stretches you open, parting the slick walls of your cunt inch by inch as you force yourself down. Your fingers wrap firmly around Lyonel’s throat while you move, and you can feel it working as he swallows.
“Fuck, that feels good,” Lyonel mutters, the Dornish stimulant hot in his veins and casting a thick veil over his brain. He’s in the clouds, and the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his cock is as close to any heaven as he’s sure he’ll get. He groans. “You always take me so well, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” you breathe out when your arse settles against his thighs.
His cock is fully seated inside you now, nudging up towards your cervix, trapped in the silken heat that seems to drip from you, ooze from your pores with each little rock of your hips. You don’t rise and fall. Not yet. You simply shift back and forth, dragging your clit against the coarse hair at the base of his cock.
The hands on your hips tighten, and your husband closes his eyes, head falling back against the spine of the chaise. “Gods above, just like that. Move like that, my love.”
The vibrations of his words tremble through your palm and down your arm, sending a shiver down the line of your spine. But you listen to him, simply rocking back and forth in his lap with his cock pushed all the way inside you. It’s lazy and desperate, sweat building along both of you, skin shining in the low candlelight. Your husband huffs and grunts, and you do much the same, whining as you try your best to find some kind of rhythm. The remnants of the smoked stimulant seem to sit around your head, and if you breathe deeply enough, you can feel it tickle your lungs.
As you rock, one of Lyonel’s hands shifts from your hip and kneads the flesh of your arse. Big fingers squeeze and pull, thick rings branding against the warmth of your skin as his hand moves around. Long arms reach as he dips two fingers down the seam of your arse, and you whine when he dips lower, lower, and lower still.
“Lyonel,” you warn, panting. You give his throat a brief squeeze for good measure.
“My lady,” he coos, eyes opening now. He lifts his head to watch you, his cheeks flushed beneath his beard. As he smiles at you with glittering eyes, his fingers brush over the ring of your arsehole and you give him a stern look. He leans forward and presses a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Just one?”
You roll your eyes, then lift yourself. His hand falls away from your arse as you drop back down, sinking low onto his cock so quickly that he barely has a chance to breathe. You repeat the action, using his neck for leverage, as you rise and sink. Lyonel almost forgets about what he was asking of you in the first place, eyes practically rolling to the back of his head as you take him again and again. The fat of your arse lands against his spread thighs as you ride him, panting, all slick with sweat and desperation.
The way you move together is feverish. The grip you have on his throat is unrelenting. You feel the vibrations beneath your palm and fingers as he moans, chants of your name filling his solar. His hands are back on your hips again and he helps you, rather lazily, in slamming back down onto his lap. His hips twitch but barely lift off the chaise, and you’re doing much of the work despite the fatigue seeping into your muscles. You’re too hot, too tired, and he’s a furnace beneath you. A big, firm furnace that’s currently spreading its heat through your entire body.
The way your orgasm builds has you breathless, and the second-hand smoke lingering in the back of your throat may have something to do with that. Your blood burns beneath your skin, a sticky heat seeping down each one of your vertebrae as you shift your body atop his. Your thighs shake, the backs of your knees wet with sweat, your other hand running up and down your husband’s chest. You feel his heartbeat, rapid and loud, and you’re hyperaware of how it’s syncing with yours.
“Fuck, m’gonna come,” Lyonel whispers, and then he moans loudly, as if trying to fill the air until you suffocate with it. With him. He follows it with another long-winded groan. “M’gonna come so hard, my love. Gonna spill deep inside your tight little—”
You remove your hand from his throat and instead thread two fingers between his teeth, shoving them into his mouth and pinning his tongue down. His eyes fly open, but they quickly flutter, and he moans from deep in his throat as he wraps his lips around you.
“Make me come first,” you whisper, your back aching now. You’re too hot. With shuddering legs, you resume your earlier movements, simply dragging yourself back and forth in his lap.
Lyonel does what he’s told. Sucking on your fingers, one hand on your hip, the other drops to your clit. He pets it gently, sliding two fingers down to feel his cock stretching you open. He groans around your fingers, then shifts his own back up. Pin-pricks, coloured gold, flash in your vision as your husband rubs tight circles on your clit. Your pussy clenches up around the thick of him, and he groans around your fingers again.
That does it.
You feel it burst from you like rays of light—pleasure overflowing and drowning you as you continue to rut against him. You release with a breathy moan of “Lyonel” and he mimics it with a moan of your name, trapped between closed lips. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him in even deeper as you arch and writhe in his lap, head falling back against your shoulders as you ride it. The anger from earlier that evening had disappeared like the setting sun, and you let your release consume you as Lyonel slides his damp fingers across your clit, leading you through it.
Buzzing, you pull your fingers from his mouth and lean in. He meets you half way, eager as his lips smash to yours. The kiss is messy—all teeth and tongue and saliva, and too much of it. His fingers leave your clit to cup your jaw, pinning you to him as he bullies his tongue between your teeth, whining as he does so. His hips twitch beneath you, and with one last squeeze of your cunt around him, he’s spilling.
“Oh, for fuck—shit, shit—” Lyonel curses around a pained groan, his release hitting him harder than a lance’s blow. “This tight little—oh my—uh, ah, fuck—”
He rests his forehead against yours as he spills inside you, his balls pulling up so tight he feels tears welling in his waterline. You angle your head to kiss across his sweaty face as he comes, and he whispers your name as it tracks through him. His abdomen clenches beneath your hand as you rub clammy fingers along his stomach, caressing the hair of his happy-trail. The heat of his release scolds your insides and you almost feel it taking hold of you—so much so that you keen forward, dropping your weight onto him.
Lyonel wraps his arms around you, thrusting up into you a couple more times as his cock jerks, spurting out a few last strings before stilling, blood slowly receding. He groans as you suck the sweat from his neck, his hands tracing gentle lines up and down your spine as the two of you cool off.
After a few quiet minutes, hearts slowing alongside each other, one of Lyonel’s large hands finds the curve of your arse. It gently begins sliding down the split of your arse, and you grumble into the side of his throat after sucking a visible mark.
“Don’t even think about it,” you mutter, biting at his skin when his fingers brush low.
He huffs out a quiet laugh.
———
question do they need a third and follow up question can it be me
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Okay, so I get all the enthusiasm in a Baelor Lives AU that Dunk would be Baelor's man, specifically his Kingsguard. However, I can't get on board with Ser Duncan immediately becoming Lord Commander. Give him time and experience please. Baelor is wise enough to see that's necessary. You can't make any knight that green the pinnacle of Knighthood, no matter how impressive his adherence to the ideals of chivalry is.
And please, Baelor would also clearly see and understand how vital it would be for Egg's best interest to remain Ser Duncan's squire.
On your front.
Content warnings: Ser Duncan the Tall x fem!reader, 18+MDNI, size difference, Dunk is large, unprotected pnv, pronebone, short.
“Dunk!” You yelp as the thick head of him pressed gently to your core, only to slip, grinding up between your ass with a loud groan escaping from deep within his chest. The grip he has on the back of your thighs tightening, spreading you open. The cool air hitting the warmth of your pussy causing goosebumps to ripple across your skin.
“M’sorry,” He breaths, lining himself back to your entrance. “don’t want to hurt ya. Gotta go slow.”
Whimpering, you turn your head to hide in the crook of your elbow, instinctively lifting your hips a tad, the heaviness of his cock resting right where you crave him most.
Massive palms smooth over your back. Massaging every curve, every little roll of skin and tensed muscle. One catching the slope of your shoulder, using it as an anchor to help him ease forward. Thick head slipping past your wet, tight walls.
You cry into the pillows, high pitched and desperate. Feeling him split you open with an agonising drawn-out pace.
Dunks soothing touches falter, stilling to let you adjust. And also himself if he was being honest . “I know, m’sorry. M’going as slow as i can.” He coos, moving his grip from your shoulder to slip his hand up the back of your neck to touch the hair that grew at your nape.
You knew he was big. By the Seven, the whole lot of him was. His fingers would fill you up almost full. And they could probably touch if he were to ring your neck with one of his gentle hands. A thought you’d have more than once. There was no doubt it would take a while for you to take him.
But fuck, if his tip stretched you out this much you worry about the middle. Too bad you were impatient.
“Move.” You muffle. Shifting up even further.
“What love?” Dunk leans forward until his head rested beside yours. Making him sink another inch into your heat. A breath catches hard in your throat. A small bashful smile spreads across his face at your little sound. “I couldn’t hear you.” He continues, empathy laced in his deep voice. “Tell me what you said? Please?”
“Mo- move..”
“Ah, i can’t. Not properly.” He presses his forehead to yours. Massive frame engulfing you, his soft, hair flecked tummy flush to your sweaty back. “Need you used to me.”
“I am used to you.” You complain. Sounding spoiled.
“Not to me inside you love.” He kisses your temple, ignoring the way you complain in favour of running breathy pecks down to the shell of your ear. “M’sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry.”
His lips rest just below your jaw. “I jus’ don’t like hurtin’ ya.”
An intense shudder travels down your spine. “You’ve never hurt me.”
“An’ i won’t start now.” He pulls back, resting his hands over your tailbone. “So please, lay back down. Proper. On your belly.” Pushing down until your flat on your front once more, keeping you from moving. Keeping you still. “Let me make you feel good.”
heard you were thinking about this and got a tiny bit of inspo @captainfern
“need you used to me” PLEASEEEEE
𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄, 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 | 𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
“You are mine.”
“Said who?”
“Said the way you breathe when I'm close.”
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: tender moments, kisses, explicit sexual content, daeron needs some love too, oral (female receiving), tender, gentle love making. (Excuse me? Since when do I do that?
I am going to start adding a personalized tag to my works, so it's easier to find. Thank you for all the continuous support.
The goblet hung lazily from Prince Daeron’s fingers, untouched for once. Deep red wine caught the candlelight and turned it the colour of old blood, but he did not drink. His violet eyes watched you from across the chamber, brighter than the flame deserved, sharper than any blade he had ever drawn in the training yard.
“You are mine.”
You did not so much as look up from the book in your lap. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, throwing long shadows across the stone walls of the solar, outside, the wind off the Blackwater sighed against the shutters, but here the air was warm and the faint scent of the herbs the maesters burned to ease the prince’s restless nights.
“Said who?”
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was the rare sort that reached his eyes, the kind that made the lines of habitual weariness soften for a moment.
“Said the way you breathe when I’m close.”
You finally raised your eyes to him, feigning indifference even as something warm and traitorous unfurled behind your ribs. He stood near the window, hair mussed as though he had dragged his hands through it more than once, the fine black doublet unlaced at the throat. The goblet remained forgotten in his hand.
“That proves nothing.”
“No?” He crossed the room with unhurried confidence, the soft leather of his boots nearly silent on the carpet. He stopped just close enough that the warmth of him chased away the evening chill that always clung to the stones of the Red Keep. “Then why do you hold your breath whenever I leave?”
You opened your mouth to argue, only to find there was no lie convincing enough. The truth sat heavy and sweet on your tongue.
Daeron chuckled softly, the sound lacking its usual edge of bitterness. He set the goblet aside on a side table without looking at it.
“I have seen kings lie with straighter faces than that.”
“You think your dragon dreams have made you an expert on me?”
“They never needed to.” His gaze softened, the violet darkening to something almost indigo in the low light. “I learned you the ordinary way.”
“And what way is that?”
“By watching.” His thumb brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering longer than necessary. “The way you search every room until you find me. The way your shoulders loosen once you do. The way your hand always reaches for mine before you’ve remembered anyone else is watching.”
You felt your cheeks warm. The book slipped closed in your lap, forgotten.
“You notice too much.”
“I have to.” His smile became quieter, touched by the sadness that never truly left him, the shadow of futures he had seen and could not unsee. “The future is forever trying to steal the present from me. I refuse to let it steal you too.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. The fire popped. Somewhere far below, a guard called the hour.
Then you slipped your fingers between his. His hand was warm, calloused from the sword despite the court’s soft living, and he curled his fingers around yours as though afraid you might vanish if he held too lightly.
“So…”
“So?”
“I suppose I breathe differently around my husband.”
His laugh, genuine this time, filled the room. It was a rare sound, bright and unguarded, and it made something in your chest ache with quiet joy.
“I knew I’d win that argument.”
“You’ve won nothing.”
“No?”
You rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek before stepping away again. The faint scrape of stubble against your lips, the lingering scent of wine and soap and him.
“You still have to earn the rest of forever, Your Grace.”
Daeron watched you go, smiling to himself.
“That,” he murmured, “is a wager I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life trying to win.”
The smile lingered only a moment.
It faded as quickly as it had come, as though joy were something too bright for Daeron to hold for long. His fingers remained entwined with yours when you returned to him, but his gaze drifted to the fire crackling in the hearth.
“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.
The words were so quiet you almost mistook them for another one of his dreams escaping into the waking world.
You frowned.
“What was that?”
A humorless laugh escaped him.
“I said…” He swallowed. “I don’t deserve you.”
You stared at him, searching his face. The firelight painted gold across the sharp Targaryen planes of cheek and jaw, but it could not hide the shadows beneath his eyes, the faint tremor that sometimes lived in his hands after the worst of the dreams.
“Daeron.”
“I am serious.”
“I know.”
His eyes never left the flames.
“I drink more than I should. My father looks at me and sees disappointment wearing a crown that was never meant to fit. Half the court thinks me a fool, and the other half pities me, I still do not know why father insisted we come to King's Landing. We could have been in Summerhall.”
His thumb absently traced circles across the back of your hand. “You could have had a knight sung about in every hall. A lord with lands enough to bury you in silks. Instead…” He smiled without mirth. “You married the prince everyone calls the Drunken.”
You stepped closer until there was scarcely a breath between you. The heat of the fire and the heat of him wrapped around you like a cloak.
“I married Daeron.”
He shook his head.
“They are the same man.”
“No.”
His eyes lifted to yours at last.
“I married the man who apologizes to servants when someone else speaks harshly to them.” You reached up, cupping his cheek. The skin was warm.
“The man who remembers the names of stable boys. The man who wakes from nightmares and still worries more about whether he frightened me than about the dream itself.”
His jaw tightened beneath your palm.
“You make me sound better than I am.”
“I make you sound exactly as you are,” you muttered, your heart clenching in absolute guilt, because how could this beautiful man, whom you loved so fiercely, believe himself incapable of embracing it?
“You don’t see my faults.”
“I see all of them.”
That caught him off guard. The violet eyes widened a fraction.
You smiled gently.
“I see the empty cups left on your desk. I see the fear you try to hide behind your wit. I see the weight those dreams place upon your shoulders.” Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, tracing the delicate skin there. “And I see a man trying very hard not to become bitter because the world has mistaken his pain for weakness.”
His breathing faltered.
“You deserve someone stronger.”
“I deserve honesty.”
“You deserve certainty.”
“I have that.”
“In me?” he asked, almost incredulous.
“In you.”
A long silence settled between you. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the fire and the distant, eternal murmur of the Keep.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.
“If you knew every thought I’ve had… every dream…”
“I would still choose you.”
He closed his eyes.
“You should not.”
“But I do.”
His forehead came to rest against yours. You felt the soft brush of his breath, the slight tremor that ran through him when the weight of your words settled.
“I fear the gods made a mistake.”
“They did.”
He opened one eye, wary.
“They should have let me find you sooner.”
For the first time that evening, Daeron laughed without restraint. The sound was warm, surprised, and wonderfully alive.
It filled the chamber and seemed to push back the shadows that clung to him.
“You are impossible,” he whispered.
“So my husband keeps telling me.”
“And yet…”
“And yet?”
“I thank every god that ever listened,” he said, pressing a lingering kiss to your brow, “that you never listened to anyone who said I was unworthy.”
You smiled against his skin.
“I never asked the realm whom I should love.”
“No?”
“I asked my heart.”
“And what did it say?”
You slipped your hand over his, guiding it to rest against the steady beat beneath your ribs. His palm was broad, warm, and the contact sent a quiet shiver through you.
“It said that every time you walk into a room, this foolish thing forgets all sense.”
His lips curved into the gentlest smile.
“Then perhaps…”
“Perhaps?”
“Perhaps I shall spend the rest of my life trying to become the man your heart already believes me to be.”
You shook your head softly.
“You already are, Daeron.”
He looked at you as though those words were far more difficult to believe than any prophecy he had ever dreamed.
The quiet that followed was different, thicker, warmer. His hand still rested over your heart. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his face and pressed his mouth to the inside of your wrist, just above the pulse. The kiss was soft, almost reverent.
You felt the shift in him the way one feels the first true warmth of spring after a long winter. The self-doubt did not vanish, but it loosened its grip enough for something else to rise in its place: want, careful and aching.
He drew you closer until your bodies aligned, the silk of your gown whispering against the fine wool of his doublet.
One of his hands slid to the small of your back; the other remained tangled with yours and when he kissed you, it was unhurried, deep and searching, as though he meant to learn the shape of your mouth all over again.
You answered him in kind, rising onto your toes, fingers curling into the strands at the nape of his neck. He made a low sound against your lips, something between a sigh and a prayer.
When he finally drew back, his eyes were darker, the violet almost black in the firelight.
“May I?” he asked, voice rough with restraint. His fingers hovered at the laces of your gown, waiting.
You nodded, and the simple trust in the gesture seemed to undo him further. He unlaced you with careful hands, each ribbon drawn free as though it were a vow.
The gown slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet.
Cool air kissed your skin for only a moment before his palms replaced it, warm, slightly trembling, mapping the curve of your waist, the soft underside of your breasts.
He guided you backward until the edge of the great canopied bed pressed against the backs of your knees.
You sat, then lay back among the furs and silks, watching as he stripped with far less ceremony, doublet, shirt, boots, breeches, until he stood before you bare and beautiful and imperfect in all the ways that made him yours.
Daeron climbed onto the bed and settled between your thighs, but he did not rush. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the valley between your breasts, the soft skin just below your navel.
Each press of his mouth was deliberate, as though he were writing something permanent into your flesh.
When he finally lowered his head between your legs, the first touch of his tongue was almost shy, a slow, broad stroke that made your breath catch.
He hummed in quiet pleasure at the taste of you, the vibration travelling through you like a low note of music.
He took his time.
Long, languid strokes followed by the focused, flickering attention of the tip of his tongue against the sensitive peak of your pleasure. One of his hands held your hip steady; the other slid beneath you, lifting you slightly so he could deepen the angle.
Every now and then he would glance up, violet eyes half-lidded, watching the way your back arched, the way your fingers tangled in his hair.
The pleasure built slowly, the way a fire does when fed with care rather than haste. Your thighs trembled around his shoulders. Soft sounds escaped you, half-formed words, his name, little broken sighs.
He answered each one with a gentle pressure or a change in rhythm, learning you the same way he claimed to have learned everything else: by watching, by listening, by refusing to look away.
When the climax finally took you, it was deep and rolling rather than sharp. Your body bowed, a soft cry leaving your lips as wave after wave of release washed through you.
Daeron stayed with you through every pulse, tongue gentle now, coaxing you down from the peak with the same care he had used to climb it.
Only when the last tremors faded did he rise, crawling up your body until his face hovered above yours.
He kissed you, and you tasted yourself on his mouth, intimate, shared. His arousal pressed hot and heavy against your thigh, but still he waited.
“Still with me?” he asked, voice rough.
“Always,” you answered.
He reached down, guided himself to your entrance, and pushed in with exquisite slowness.
The stretch was familiar and welcome, a deep, perfect fullness that made both of you still for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.
Then he began to move.
There was nothing hurried in the way he took you. Each thrust was measured, deep, the slow roll of his hips designed to keep you open and full and aching in the sweetest way.
He watched your face the entire time, one hand braced beside your head, the other cradling your jaw so he could kiss you whenever the need overcame him.
“You feel like home,” he whispered against your mouth. “Like the only place the dreams cannot reach.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, urging him deeper still.
The friction was exquisite, slow, wet, endless.
Every time he withdrew almost fully, only to sink back in to the hilt, a soft sound of pleasure escaped one or both of you.
The second climax built even more gradually than the first. It rose like a tide, inevitable and overwhelming and when it broke, you clung to him, nails digging lightly into his shoulders, body pulsing around him in rhythmic waves.
The tight, rhythmic clench of you pulled him over the edge a moment later.
He buried himself deep and came with a low, broken groan, forehead pressed to yours, your names mingling in the heated air between you.
For a long while afterward neither of you moved. The fire had burned lower, painting the chamber in softer golds and deep reds.
Daeron remained inside you, softening slowly, one hand stroking lazy patterns along your side.
When he finally eased out and settled beside you, he drew the furs over both of you and pulled you close until your head rested on his chest.
Beneath your ear his heart beat strong and steady.
His fingers carded gently through your hair.
“I still don’t deserve you,” he murmured, but this time the words held no bitterness, only a quiet, wondering gratitude.
You pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest.
“Then keep earning the rest of forever,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms tightened around you, the wind still sighed against the shutters, and somewhere far below the Red Keep continued its endless, restless life, but here, in the circle of his arms, the present held, and for once, Prince Daeron Targaryen did not try to look beyond it.
He simply closed his eyes, pressed his lips to your hair, and breathed.
— Maekar/F!Reader, in which he wants and wants and wants (including things he cannot have.)
(cw: infidelity, Maekar’s got a breeding kink, lowkey bittersweet ending.)
no I do not condone cheating, the idea hit me in the head with a brick and I had to write it down. unedited. mdni
He watches as you take him entirely with a breathy exhale. Your lips, wet with spit, wrap around his thumb. He feels the heat of your tongue on his skin, causing his hips to move involuntarily.
The flickering candle light splays shadows on your body, the opened robe of yours leaves little to the imagination. It hangs low from your shoulders, causing your nipples pebble from the night air, a coolness which causes your skin to prickle just slightly.
“Mae…Maekar…” Your voice is a sweet balm to his ears. Your body beneath his, the bed beneath you getting warmer the longer you’re in his embrace.
It’s late. The sky is already dark, the rest of the castle is already asleep, save for the few guards on nightly rotation. But Maekar always insisted that it was unnecessary, he could keep himself safe if the need ever arose. He wouldn’t tell them the real reason was right in his bed.
It was hidden moments like these, as he kept your moans and pleasure all to himself.
One of his hands palm at your breast, the calloused skin of his hand making you shiver. He bows his head, teeth at your skin, before his tongue laps at the nipped flesh.
Maekar did not think himself a man who wanted things so terribly. (Wanted you so terribly, his mind supplies unhelpfully.) But with your cunt wrapped around his cock, your thighs around his waist, and your breathy moans and gasps sounding so beautiful, it makes him greedy. Greedy for more. Greedy for your cunt to clench as his seed spills inside.
A traitorous part of himself wants to see it bloom. Irrevocable proof of who put the child in your belly, your hips widening, your breasts growing fuller… all of it. And then he’d do it again. Again and again, until your children could run through the castle’s halls with their laughter trailing behind them.
Your back arches off of the bed, your eyes fluttering open and closed, a strangled gasp of Maekar’s name leaves your lips.
He meets your mouth with his own, swallowing down your breathless gasps. He works his hips once, then twice. A muffled groan leaves the man as he spills inside.
There’s a dazed look in your eyes, as you swallow heavy breaths down in an attempt to settle your racing heart. They meet his own gaze of violet, and you settle beneath him. It would only be a matter of time before he was ready to go again. So you spread your thighs for him, and he makes himself comfortable.
He takes you again, this time having you straddle his lap. Watching as you sink down onto his lap fully, your hands braced on his chest as you begin to lift yourself, before sinking down again.
It’s a slow rhythm, as his hands squeeze your thighs. They move to your back, grasping at the thin robe you had worn to bed, pulling off completely. He tosses the silk somewhere to the side, letting it fall to the floor of the bed chamber.
Your whimpers settle into choked off moans as he rocks his hips upright.
“Gods… Maekar…!” You barely manage to stifle yourself, your eyes widening. One of his hands delves between your legs, as he moves over your clit between his thumb. Slow circles contrast the movement of your hips, and at times you nearly lose rhythm, having to catch yourself on the headboard as you stop yourself from crying out as you reach a climax again.
“Keep going,” He murmurs back, looking up at you from where he lay. His thumb continued to rub in circles, as he felt your cunt clench in kind. The heat of your body against his made him run slower, even as you sobbed in quiet pleasure.
“One more,” He says, his other hand on your lower back, keeping you in this same position. “One more, my lady.”
“Maekar…” You nearly fall forward. But he moves his thumb faster, your spine grows rigid. A warm yet wet sensation could be felt as you panted above him, your hands weakly gripping onto his shoulders.
He rubs your lower back in soothing motions as you try to catch your breath. Now it is you this time that catches him by surprise.
Your inner thighs are wet, a mess of his seed dripping from your cunt and your own wetter release. But you pull him back between your legs.
“One more,” Comes your breathless voice.
Maekar would readily oblige.
—
“Many congratulations, my Prince,” Maekar hears them say. Months having passed, and the realm had now just welcomed a new Prince.
Baelor, of course being as courteous as ever, accepts them with a smile and a polite nod of his head.
Maekar himself had congratulated his brother too.
“And your wife?” He finds himself asking.
“She was magnificent,” Baelor says, his eyes fond. The marriage had been arranged, so it was certainly no love match. But it was a shared agreement of attempting to at least be cordial, so that the court would see a united front. “She fares well, despite the long labors.”
The chambers were clean, fresh linens replacing the sullied ones. Maids and others moved about with proficiency, carefully tending to the new mother and child.
You are sitting up, a wrapped bundle in your arms. “Husband… Good Brother.” Comes your gentle tone, careful to not disturb the babe in your arms.
Baelor’s eyes crinkle in the corners as little Valarr’s eyes open, a matching mismatched pair meeting his.
You meet Maekar’s gaze for a moment, before looking away, a hint of a smile on your face. “The little Prince has gotten his father’s eyes, and his hair,” You say with pride, as you push the blanket away slightly, revealing the barest hint of dark strands on the babe’s head.
“I am more relieved that both you and he are hale and of good health,” Your husband says good naturedly, giving your hand a squeeze. His finger tracing the babe’s soft cheek, round with baby fat.
Maekar merely nods. His own quiet congratulations are given, before he bows to his brother, then to you, his good sister. He does not linger too long after that.
thank you for reading! my requests are open!!
How would the AKTSK guys react to a screamer in bed? 😏
Headcanons for a reader who is vocal in bed
(including: Baelor, Maekar, Valarr, Daeron, Dunk and Lyonel)
Tags/Warnings: 18+, Smut, Implied Age Gap for the DILFs
Words: about 150-200 for each
BAELOR would tell you to be quiet, lest you be overheard. He'd shush you with a ringed hand covering your mouth, cooing in your ear as he continues thrusting, burying himself inside of you again and again, pummelling the spot that made you scream in the first place.
He wants desperately to make you come, but he does not want the whole castle to hear you. Not because of embarrassment, but because he does not wish others to know what you sound like. Baelor has to give so much to the realm. Your sounds are one of the only things that are his.
If you were on Dragonstone, on the other hand... he would encourage you to make whichever sounds you please. He loves knowing that he pleasures you so much that you become unable to regulate yourself, that he unmakes you so thoroughly. The only time he would muffle your sounds in the privacy his seat on Dragonstone affords him is when he kisses you, swallows your sounds into his own throat, consuming you as you consume him.
MAEKAR would be undeniably proud. He takes immense pride in his prowess, and he does not mind everyone knowing how much his lady wife enjoys him and his thick cock. In fact, he wants them to know. All those young, simpering knights that follow you with their eyes - they'll hear your pleased screams and know that your husband is the one making you feel this way. Not them. Never them.
If anything, he encourages you to be even louder, egging you on as he fucks you harder, faster, whatever you need. If you like your hair pulled, he'll do that, too. Maekar can get a little mean with it. This man has no shame, and he can be almost as vocal as you with his groaning and grunting.
The only thing that would dampen his ardour is if his children were staying close. When he needs to be mindful of his brood, Maekar has been known to put something into your mouth to keep you quiet. A gag, his fingers, his cock... it doesn't matter. He'll make you peak regardless. He knows your body well enough.
VALARR would be startled at first. He was raised on gentle courtesies, the politeness of court. He is used to refined speech, people concealing their wants and desires behind mild manners. But that does not mean that he dislikes how vocal you are.
In fact, he learns to treasure it, his longing for your screams in the sanctity of your chambers becoming quite ardent. It's a respite, a break from his burdens. In bed with you, his head bracketed by your thighs, he feels at home. He is finally not afraid of failing, not when you sing so prettily for him and there is no doubt to be had that you enjoy his touch.
With you he knows that he does not need to be perfect for you to love him, though he still always puts you first, wringing at least one peak from you before he even enters you. Valarr himself is quiet, rarely even sighing in pleasure, but you more than make up for it and he would have it no other way.
DAERON would barely notice initially. Other than you, he was used to whores, and they were always vocal in their performances. At first he assumes you are the same, acting to please him, pretending.
Once some time has passed and he realises that you actually like what he is doing, that you are being honest, he becomes more nervous. There's a pressure on him now. What if he cannot make you scream the next time? What if he drinks too much and cannot be good enough for you?
It fucks with his head a little. Daeron is used to being perceived as a failure. That you like him, like the way he makes you feel, is foreign and strange. But with time he learns that it is not bad. To be wanted. That your "expectations" are not hard to meet, that it's different than what he's used to. There's no punishment, no disappointment. Only love.
DUNK would stop immediately. He would freeze above you, scared to death, his broad, towering frame supported by his huge arms, needing to make sure that your scream was a good sound. He's not used to making people feel good.
When you encourage him to continue, when you reassure him, he becomes more confident, bolder. He'd start experimenting with what makes you scream the loudest - a kiss here, a squeeze there, his cock pushing into you in a maddeningly slow drag.
Eventually, he grows to love your squeals, your screams, your sighs. Everything that shows him that he's doing a good job. He knows he can be slow to understand, but he finds that your sounds make your reactions easier to interpret. He almost doesn't even mind the grins and salacious winks people shoot at him when he emerges from his rooms after a rigorous night of activity. But his blush betrays him.
LYONEL would chuckle and tease. All in good fun, of course. He loves a confident woman, a woman that knows what she likes and expresses that. If you are usually shy, he'll like it even more. Seeing a side of you that no else sees, coaxing it out of you with his mouth, hand, or his cock - it drives him crazy.
He's utterly unashamed - Lyonel likes fucking you where people will hear your sounds. If anyone mentions it to him, he'll boast, take it as a compliment. If he's feeling particularly naughty, he might make a comment doubting the other's sexual prowess if they cannot make their wives scream as he does his.
His favourite is when he crooks his fingers inside of you, seeing your face twist in pleasure at the same time. He loves watching that scream form in your throat, loves watching your eyes flutter as you peak. His name on your lips makes him unbearably smug.
i miss my husband
Bertie Carvel as Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen
1.03 | THE SQUIRE
ormund in the book canon just being a good person standing up for his family doing what's right as lord and being a genuine proper foster father to his nephewcousin daeron vs. show ormund who's...well all greens are the antichrist in condal & hess' universe i guess
dunk + textposts part 5
Rhaegel Targaryen my beautiful middle aged princess with a disorder…
to be felled by you | baelor targaryen x fem!reader (18+)
update: pt.ii now out! / read on ao3
summary: It's your wedding night with the prince, and you're terrified he'll find out you're not a maiden
author notes: There's some plot before it gets to the explicit part. If you're into that, great! If not, this is the heads-up :)
content notes/warnings: explicit sexual content, baelor targaryen x reader, baelor targaryen x you, a sprinkle of sworn knight x reader, plot with smut, wedding night, arranged marriage, reader is not a virgin and stressed about getting found out, fingering, pinv sex, voice kink, dirty talk, soft dom baelor, mention of moon tea, canon universe, some period-accurate misogyny, alcohol, older man x younger woman, no use of Y/N, no beta read
word count: 2.6k words
dividers by @saradika-graphics and @strangergraphics
It's a great honor. You should be happy.
Those were the words that rang in your ears. You sat at the table laden with all the realm's delicacies; the scent of spilled wine mixed with the suffocating cloud of sweat from the dancers.
Every now and then, lords and ladies walked up to pay their respects, kneeling in front of you. In some ways, it worked out being stuck listening to their well-wishes and blessings: there was a lot on your mind.
It's a great honor.
Your handmaiden's words, as she braided your hair the day you were betrothed.
You should be happy.
Your cousin's words as she kissed you goodbye, with a glint of envy in her voice.
Do not dishonor our house.
Your father's last words to you as he walked you to the altar.
As the hours passed, you felt more like a convict waiting to be led to the gallows than a bride on her wedding day.
'Are you well, my lady?'
Startled, you looked to your right. The prince's hand was leisurely resting on yours; nothing too sentimental, but a gesture that sent the appropriate message for the room full of people.
'Of course, Your Grace,' you flashed him a reassuring smile, but had an unnerving feeling he wasn't convinced. Nevertheless, he didn't push it. He turned back to the lord who had strolled up to the table.
It was the most important night in the whole Realm. Prince Baelor, heir to the throne, took a new wife; you never thought it might be you.
But it just so happened that both your older sisters passed from fever. It left you with a dowry that rivaled that of the Lannisters, and the king wanted to unite his house with an ancient family.
Your father was elated. You always thought one day he'd ship you off to some old lord. It would be fine, you used to think, disappearing somewhere far. No one would pay you any mind ever again; no one would care what you did, or where you went, as long as you were there to warm your husband's bed. But this was different; married to the heir, you'd be watched forever.
If you knew, you would've been more careful; but you were so young, and thought that your life was going to end in some backwater keep with a lord thrice your age, who couldn't even see who he was screwing.
So when you found yourself in your young and handsome sworn shield's embrace, you let him have you. You just wanted to feel something, and the moment his hand brushed yours was like a dam that broke in you. You promised yourself it was just that one time, but one time became another, and another. You didn't recognize the person you were when with him. You were drinking in those nights like you knew they had to sustain you for the rest of your life.
You confided in your handmaiden; like she told you to, you reached carefully for a small knife by your plate. Making sure no one saw you, you tucked it into the sleeve of your dress. The cool steel resting against your skin was unsettling.
You shot a look over at the prince, making sure he did not see you just then. He was watching the crowd with a calculating gaze. You prayed–though you weren't sure who would listen–that he didn't notice the absence of your sworn knight.
You saw him last night. The hour was late, but you were awake, pacing nervously in front of the window. It was unwise, but you took him to bed.
A bit later, he donned his armor silently and turned to you:
'My lady, I will surrender my post in the morrow. I hope you can forgive me.'
You sat up, covering yourself with the sheets.
'You're leaving? Where?'
'Wherever they'll have me. I cannot serve under your new husband's banner. I've sullied my honor,' he said without meeting your eyes.
'People will talk... more so if you leave right before the wedding–'
'You will be queen one day. No one can touch you.'
'I am not queen yet!' you began to panic, 'Do you understand what they might do with me, if it's found out that–'
'Forgive me, my lady.'
He left, and like he said, by the morning he was gone.
It was when a quarrel broke out amidst a group of drunk men that Baelor signaled the servants and handmaids over.
They led you to Baelor's room: you'd never seen it before and weren't sure what to expect. Likely something grand, opulent.
To your surprise, when you stepped inside, you were greeted by a spacious but dimly lit room with sprawling bookcases. By the window stood a large table with candles that melted into mounds. In the middle was a bed covered in a rich golden duvet, and near it was a lit fireplace. It was actually somewhat... welcoming.
And it almost made you forget that you had to act fast. You hurried up to the bed and ran your hand under the mattress, looking for a dent. The silk sheets were pleasantly cool against your fingertips. You found a place where you could nicely hide the knife and find it later; you reached into your sleeve and pulled it out.
When you were sure the knife was neatly tucked in, you smoothed the blanket and turned to find Baelor standing in the doorway, watching you quietly.
The blood froze in your veins.
How long had he been standing there? How did you not hear him coming? Did he see... Gods, did he think...
'It's not what it looks like, Your Grace...' your voice quavered, and the ice in your veins morphed into hot mortification when you realized that your fate could turn even darker. If they thought you were trying to hurt the prince...
'Like what, my lady?' his expression was impossible to read. You had no idea what was going on in his head as he considered you. It was like he had a drape up, keeping anyone from seeing inside.
It was this expression that you noticed when you first met him in your home. Even then, as you walked with him in your gardens, you couldn't tell how he felt about the match. But he sounded kind; you noticed that too. It was one reason you felt less scared about the marriage.
Even now, as he inquired of you, you noted the soft edges of his voice. As if he wasn't questioning you about why you just hid a knife in your wedding bed.
'Do not fret, my lady. I think you to be smarter than to attack the king's heir with a butter knife,' there was a light jest in his voice, which you found strange.
What were you supposed to say? That you were going to wait till he was asleep to cut yourself and stain the sheets, hoping he wouldn't figure out you were not a maiden?
Just bring the guards and send me back to my father, you thought, and closed your eyes. There would be hell to pay once your family found out. You'd be better off running away.
He walked up to his table, where a pitcher of wine and two goblets stood.
'Come,' he said, and you did.
He poured you a cup first, then one for himself. He drank, and you followed suit. You weren't sure what else to do. After a bit of consideration, he broke the silence.
'I thought you seemed troubled since this morning,' he said as he examined the wine in his cup, 'at first, I thought it was just the nerves.'
Oh gods.
'After all, you've been put under immense pressure. Your lord father is a severe man. You have your entire house's name riding on your shoulders,' he was looking at you now, with that same calculating gaze he watched everyone with. You felt yourself bend under the weight of it.
'But I think there's something else burdening you, isn't there?' he asked.
You shut your eyes and awaited the accusation.
'Is it your knight?' his voice was lower now. There was a barely noticeable waver in it; was it from containing his anger?
You carefully put the goblet on his table, and descended to your knees.
'I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. My lord father didn't know. It was not his fault,' you said with a shaking voice, and waited for the flood of his rage. To be cast aside; to be thrown out. To face the thunder that came next.
Except that it didn't.
'Rise, my lady,' he said, and poured himself another cup. After a bit of consideration, he asked:
'Are you with child?'
You shook your head.
'My handmaiden helped me source moon tea from the Grand Maester. I ordered her to. Please do not punish her,' before you could think, you told him. You could only hope he would have mercy on them.
'Does anyone else know?'
You shook your head again.
'Only my handmaiden and I. And my sworn knight. He resigned from his station this morning,' your voice was barely audible.
He stared into his cup just like before. A long silence, before he spoke again.
'Do you love him?'
Your eyes jumped to him: you expected him to sneer at you, to spit in your face, or, at best, dismiss you without another glance. But to this, you were unsure how to answer. You decided to tell the truth.
'I do not.'
He turned back to you.
'Why, then?,' he asked, with a small frown on his face. You could tell he was still studying you, but there was something else now, too. Puzzlement? Curiosity, perhaps?
You tapped your finger on the goblet, before you were able to answer.
'Because I wanted something for myself.'
The honesty of that surprised even you, but it was true.
Ever since you could remember, you felt a terrible dread hovering over your head; it felt like your life had ended before it could even begin. The first time you realized that feeling quieted was when your hands touched your knight's. It was after a tourney; he'd asked for your favor. He won, but was badly injured, and you visited him afterwards.
'Are you going to send me away, Your Grace?' you asked Baelor, waiting for the blow.
He considered you for a second, leaning against his table.
'Why would I do that?'
It was the second time he surprised you with something he said. You tried to read his face to see if he was perhaps mocking you, but it didn't seem so. He was genuinely asking.
'Because I am not a maiden. You married me believing you were getting a pure bride; I have deceived you,' you said, though it was strange you had to spell it out.
'That's not the reason I married you,' he said, with a strange level of calmness.
Everything about this conversation was curious. Seeing your frowning expression, he continued.
'This match was made because the king hoped to unite an ancient house with the crown. As far as that is concerned, you haven't erred. As for our personal hopes...'
He trailed off and fiddled with one of his rings, the one with the Targaryen sygil.
'It is my sincere hope that you can find happiness here. But if you wish to go home...' he looked into your eyes, and you were shocked to see his typical calculating watch gone. He seemed genuine.
'...If you wish to go home, there is still time.'
That, you didn't expect. You were so terrified of the prospect that it never crossed your mind that it would be presented to you as an option.
No, you did not want to go back home.
You walked to him; he watched you as you got closer, trying to read what you were going to say. He was always studying people like that: you noticed it from the moment you first met him. Perhaps as the Hand, he'd had to get accustomed to reading between the lines, planning moves as he spoke with lords. Trying to spot what someone's next motion might be, what they might say.
You were now in front of him; you felt his gaze on you. You stood there for a minute, in front of this invisible line. You wondered if he was going to move over it, when you realized: he was waiting for you to do so.
You reached your hand out and brushed it against his. You felt a whir in your ears at that touch; you'd been technically wed for hours but never been... like this.
He ran his fingers against your knuckles, then on your arm; you finally took the courage to look up at him. Your face was inches away: he'd kissed you before at the sept during your vows, but this was different. Then, thousands of eyes and the murmurs of spectators; this time, just the crackling of fire and the feel of his breath against your lips.
He closed the space between you, and you marveled at the softness. It made you smile. Your worries from earlier melted away as you went to rest your palms on his chest; he caressed your arm, planting soft kisses on your mouth.
You began to run your hand lower, and his breath hitched in response. He deepened the kiss, and you felt a pleasant jolt in your belly as his tongue entered your mouth.
'You said you wanted something for yourself,' he said between kisses.
'Yes, Your Grace...'
'Tell me what you want,' he breathed against your mouth, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
'Your Grace, I–'
'Baelor. Call your husband by his name.'
'Baelor...'
'Yes,' he said while he ran his mouth over your throat.
'Mm... Keep talking to me,' you said, shuddering at the feel of his stubble against your skin.
His voice was one of the first things you took notice of when you met him.
It was, in some ways, jarring when compared to his looks. He seemed serious, stern, intimidating even, with his ever-calculating gaze. So his voice held a tenderness you didn't expect: warm, raspy, dancing in a gentle but assured tone. When he talked, you felt... sheltered. That's what you noticed as you walked with him that afternoon, when he and his entourage arrived at your father's castle.
Now, hearing his words made your pulse quicken.
'Turn around for me.'
You did, and he unlaced your corset. When he hooked his fingers to remove it, you shuddered.
He had you facing him again as he ran his palm over your small clothes. He slipped his hand in, and you gasped at the contact. You could hear how wet you were for him already.
He studied your face as he touched you. Then, in a voice that sent a dull ache to your center, he said:
'Did he fuck you last night?'
Your mouth fell agape from the feeling of his fingers rubbing you, spreading your come, and from the question he just asked. Heat enveloped your face...
'I asked if he fucked you last night.'
Shame bubbled in you as you nodded–then cried out as he pushed two fingers inside you as a retort.
'Is that what you're doing on the night before you're wed?' his fingers pushed against that spot in you that made you buck against his palm.
'Fucking your knight in your bedchamber?'
'I'm sorry,' you pleaded, desperately digging your hands into the bedposts, as he worked on you with his hands.
'Could've come to me,' he said, leaning against your ear now, in a low voice, 'if you needed to be fucked so bad.'
That was all you needed; you came pulsing around his fingers, panting a string of apologies, over and over again. You pleaded for his forgiveness and promised yourself to him, as he made you his wife that night.
SWEET TASTE OF PRAYER
gwayne hightower x wife!reader
cw: (mdni +18), oral (f!receiving), praise, face humping, fluff fluff fluff, unplanned voyerism (cole watches them lol), dirty talk, hair pulling, sub!gwayne if you squint really hard, scent kink, pussy drunk gwayne, dry humping, (1.7kw).
synopsis: It is said Ser Gwayne knows not how to please a woman. Is it truth or lie?
Ser Criston taunts Gwayne about his supposed inexperience with women, even if he has a lady wife, betrothed to him for a few fortnights already.
Surely he doesn't know how to please you, right?
Too pious, too knightly to even know where to put his cock, most likely. Oldtown's teachings must've left him bereft of any talk about a lady's cunt or other erogenous places.
He's sure all those letters the knight keeps sending back to Oldtown are full of prayers and flowery words meant to soothe his lady, and nothing sort of salacious, like the other knights oftentimes scribble on the parchment meant for home.
A man like Gwayne has no knack for such things, Cole is sure of it.
"Your lady longs for you so much that you're sending a second letter this fortnight, Ser Gwayne?"
And the Hightower heir can sense the slight dissatisfaction beneath Ser Criston's tone, but he does not dwell upon it. Only smiles, nodding. "Yes, Ser. My lady worries, for her heart is pure and sensible. I must do what I can to quell her doubt of any mishaps that might've befallen me."
"Ah, of course. A most dutiful husband you are, Ser."
It isn't until their troops inevitably need to fall back to Oldtown two moons later that Gwayne gets to see his sweet lady wife again.
You've been waiting for this moment for so long, your heart hammering into your chest like a bird's wings as you see your husband's horse trot through the gates.
No one and nothing matters when you finally are cradled in Gwayne's arms, pressed to his steel-clad chest, sweet nothings whispered against your temple as your man peppers your warm skin with kisses of tenderness and longing.
Ser Criston looks away from the sight, scoffing. He knew the acclaimed Hightower heir was good for nothing but sweet presses of lips and warm embraces. Not even a kiss on the lips when greeting his lady wife? He should be ashamed to not bestow such gifts upon a gorgeous creature such as you.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and most knights were off to their sleeping arrangements, the Commander had to do one last search of their horses and supplies before calling it a night as well.
What Cole didn't think to find in the stables was Gwayne, on his knees, head squeezed between your thighs as he feasted on your cunt, moaning like a man starved, the sound muffled by the folds of your pussy.
The sight stopped Ser Criston dead in his tracks.
Ser Gwayne. Pious, dutiful, ever devoted to the faith, now sitting in the same position one would for prayer, but using his mouth not to plead to the Gods, but to bring his lady pleasure.
And what immense pleasure he did bring, for your hands were fisted in his auburn hair, tugging with intent, the demand for more crystal clear. You wanted more, smushing the knight into your heat, hips grinding against his face with abandon as you whined, trying to quiet the volume of your wantonness with your hand pressed to your mouth, but it was in vain. Nothing felt as good as your husband's tongue between your legs, only second to the feeling of his cock splitting you open.
"Yes, yes, my love, yes," fell from your ruddy lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears from how good Gwayne was making you feel. "I missed your mouth greatly," you lilted, fingers unrelenting as they weaved through your husband's hair, offering him respite from your rough insistence, petting him as you would an obedient hound as he continued to circle his tongue against your hole, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit. "Couldn't wait until we were together anew, husband."
All you got in return was another moan, unbashed and wet from the slick of your cunt against Gwayne's mouth, your words spurring him on, broad palms smoothing up your thighs to lift your skirts higher, bunching them at the waist, held in his fists. "My sweet wife," he babbled, flattening his tongue from hole to clit, parting your folds on the ascent. "The moons without your cunt have been dreadful," your knight says, words woven around a whine, lapping at the peeking nub between every word, kindling the heat in your lower belly. "Not being able to taste you each morrow left me wanting, even in times of battle and bloodshed."
Oh, what a debauched picture that was. Your dutiful husband, ever present when called to arms, thinking about worshipping between your legs as he swung his sword, falling enemies and stealing breath after breath from steel-clad men. The thought made you shiver, brushing auburn hair from Gwayne's temples to get a good look at those baby blues you so cherished, a dopey smile onto your lips as you whispered. "You must be cautious, my love," you chastised, albeit tenderly, running your fingers through his hair to soothe, hoping the ache for you had dwindled, if only a little. "Such thoughts might distract you, and then you might not come back to me."
Gwayne shook his head swiftly upon hearing your reprimand, leaning into your touch as a flower moves towards the sun, soaking up all its warmth down to the marrow. "Never," he protested, eyes widening, ever eager to prove his devotion to you. "I shall never fall to another man's sword, if it meant not seeing you again, sweetling," and he turns his face towards one of your palms, pressing a searing kiss upon the skin as he whispers. "That is my solemn vow."
You feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and splatter at your husband's feet from the earnestness of his promise, weaving warmth along your body, from your head down to your toes, a full-body gratefulness at having such allegiance offered to you.
"A vow you had upheld valiantly, my love," you praise, your hand shifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing against the plump of his bottom lip as you slowly tug him down, back towards your cunt, to which he allows without resistance. "One for which you shall have the prize you so dreamt of, even in bloodshed."
Gwayne's tongue lolls out as you guide his head, eager to have you on his palate again, eyes fluttering shut as the sweet musk of your pussy becomes more potent. It coaxed him to dip his chin so he could press his nose in damp curls and inhale deeply, exhaling a punched-out groan, as if he had forgotten the smell of you in the mere moments that had passed since he'd been tongue deep between your thighs.
"This cunt is a gift from the Gods, sweetling," he praises, mouth open and panting against your folds, just breathing you in lungful by lungful. "I wish I could have it with me on campaign," Gwayne continues, white-knuckling the skirts bunched at your waist, as if the imagery of such a thing wounds him. "Feast on it from morrow to dawn. Allow you to have my tongue whenever you please, my love."
You cannot help but moan at such a confession, fingers returning to his auburn strands to grip and tug, eliciting a muffled whine from your husband, whose tongue dipped between your folds anew, flicking at your clit on the upstroke, knowing how much you favoured it. "You're so good to me, husband," you coo, lips curling into a loving smile, holding your knight still by his hair as your hips resume their grinding, humping against Gwayne's awaiting tongue, using him for your pleasure.
And he loves it. Gods, does he love it. Blue eyes half-lidded, heated with love and lust as he only gives you more of it, poking his tongue as far as it would go for you to rub your clit against, moaning with each movement of your hips, bringing you even closer by the grip on your skirts.
"Oh, my sweet husband," you moan, feeling the heat tingling up your spine and pooling low in your belly with each wet swipe against your clit. "I can't wait to have your cock as well." The words are the opposite of pious, not at all what a lady wife should offer her betrothed, but you are past caring. "For your mouth feels heavenly, and still, I cannot wait to feel you inside me again."
The words melt and light Gwayne in equal measure, feeling his cock strain even harder against his breeches, hips kicking, rubbing himself along the seam of his pants in anticipation of what's to come. He nods, the motion making his tongue rub in rapid succession along your clit, the stimulation so delicious it makes you cry out, wanton and unbashed. Words fail him, the only thing that matters now being making you cum so he can sheathe himself into your pussy and have you milk him for all he's worth, like a prized stallion made for breeding.
It doesn't take long for your back to arch off of the hay bale you are lounging upon, Gwayne's name on your lips, your juices flowing down his tongue and chin, which your husband laps greedily. He has to stop the grind of his hips to not cum into his breeches like an untrained squire, even if the friction of his hard cock against the material of his pants feels heavenly.
He knows your pussy surpasses that by the thousands, which is why he forces himself to still the pathetic humping of his hips. It's only moments now until he'll be inside you, letting you catch your breath, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs and behind your knees as he massages the muscle there, willing you pliant and lax for what's to come. "Thank you, sweetling. Gods, so pretty for me," he whispers against warm skin, reverent and grateful, mouth still wet with your slick. "Missed you so much. Never want to be away from you again. Never, never—"
Perhaps it's safe to assume that Ser Criston Cole will not utter a word about Gwayne and his lack of prowess anytime soon, after what he witnessed tonight.
oh absolutelyyyy !!! god it’s actually a need at this point omg i’m obsessed
