valar morghulis

[grcnseer]

— penned by silk.

silkie (silk) :: twenty-five :: she/her

warning: blog contains & potentially promotes mature content. If you are under the age of EIGHTEEN please do not interact. If you are easily triggered I may not be the writer for you as my work will include dark subject matter. 

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   daydreaming about Sandor Clegane...    streaming Lost on You by LP...    requests currently Open...

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Game of Thrones

House of the Dragon

COMING SOON :: so many things once my new laptop comes in!

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[grcnseer]

Is it too niche to say Minotaur!Dunk… more specifically modern au ren fair…? What am I gonna do with a submarine?

[ghostwrittenalias]

A Lovely Dream | series masterlist

જ⁀➴ "you are a lovely, lovely dream"

✧—Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x fem!Reader ✧—Synopsis: you set off for ashford meadow on your own, with nothing to your name and only one goal in mind. just a day's ride away, you happen upon an inn. little did you know, your stay at that inn would change your life forever. as you get tangled up in the petty affairs of knights and princes, you find yourself repeatedly drawn to a handsome drunk haunted by his dreams. ✧—Content/Warnings: fem!reader, reader has no described physical appearance, commoner!reader, no targcest, reader’s background is a mystery, daeron is a pretty pathetic yearner, alcoholism, strangers to lovers, slowww burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff and romance, follows/parallels the events of AKOTSK season 1 so there will be spoilers ✧—A/N: welcome to my very first reader-insert fic series! AKOTSK, daeron especially, tickled my fancy leaving me inspired to create this fic. the brainrot has been real lol. feel free to use my ask box for questions about this series! thank you for reading, and enjoy!

જ⁀➴ this series has been cross-posted to ao3 for those who prefer reading there!

ˋ°•*⁀➷ CHAPTERS:

Part One: A Lovely Dream

Part Two: A Falling Star

Part Three: A Drunken Prince

Part Four: ... (to be determined!)

Part Five: ... (to be determined!)

Part Six: ... (to be determined!)

ˋ°•*⁀➷ EXTRAS:

Drabble: the first thing i ever wrote about the reader and daeron

➻ ➻ ➻ based off this headcanon i have about daeron and horses

taglist: open! lmk if you would like to join!

[cherrysweets-world]

it will come back

Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x fem!Reader

Summary: Fueled by the betrayal of your betrothed, you tumble into bed with the worst person you can think of- Aerion of House Targaryen. Whilst you may see it as a one time mistake, Aerion Brightflame does not.

Warnings: 18+, cheating (not by Aerion), vaginal fingering, Aerion calls reader a whore, biting with blood, slightly oc Aerion?, blood play, canon divergence, obsessive behaviour, slight dub-con, loss of virginity, hunting, canon typical violence, vaginal sex, no protection, unedited

Word Count: 10k+

targaryen masterlist

The air in the corridor was cooler than usual. With a shiver, you tucked your hands under your armpits after checking that you were quite alone, and began to make your way to the hall for dinner.

Ashford Meadows was different to your home. Grayer, colder, busier. It seemed an unusual time to hold a tourney until you had found out it was Lady Gwin Ashford’s birthday. Lord Ashford himself had invited your family down to join in on the celebrations and your elder brother, Leon, had been eager to join the lists.

It was rare you got to spend time with your family. Your elder brother Edwyn was the heir to your father’s title and, as such, the pair of them spent a great deal of time overseeing the land and renters. Leo, as a second son, was antsy and often busied himself on adventures that you could only dream of. Your sister Marian had been married some six months ago and you missed her dearly. When you had heard than she and her lord husband would also be in Ashford, you had been more than content to brave the long ride down just to see her.

And then there was the matter of your betrothal to Lord Frey’s son, Owen.

You hummed to yourself as you navigated the dark corridors, slippers padding along the stone floor. The only sign of life you could hear was from yourself. There was a good chance that you had gotten yourself turned around so you stopped and began to retrace your steps.

The pair of you had met at your sister’s wedding and both Lord Frey and your own father had been delighted at the way you seemed to draw together. Owen Frey was handsome enough, and not unkind, and he knew all the right things to say. When your father had told you of the potential for an arrangement, you had agreed without really thinking about it.

Owen Frey seemed a sensible enough man, and you certainly tried to be a sensible woman. Lord Frey was said to be an honorable and loyal man, and he and his wife genuinely seemed to care for one another. You hoped that with them as an example, Owen would also come to care for you as a husband should.

You paused, huffing a breath as you scanned your environment. It all looked the same. You were just about to turn on your heel again when you heard something ahead. Some kind of scuffling, and a laugh.

Pressing your lips together, you debated turning around. But by now you were likely already late for dinner and your father would not be pleased. Not when the Ashfords were such accommodating hosts – and not when the Targaryens were also staying.

With a nervous breath, you made your way forward and peeked around the corner. Immediately you sucked in a breath, clapping your hand over your mouth as you registered what was before you.

At first you saw only two lovers entwined. Hands beneath shifts and unbuttoned trousers and choked gasps. Then you recognised the clothes on the woman – a household servant of the Ashfords. You cringed at the way she scratched down the male’s back, moaning into his neck as his hands did something down the front of her dress.

You were not ignorant to the ways of man and woman. Well, not entirely, anyway. But you knew enough to know that it was incredibly bold of the pair to be so intimate so out in the open. You stifled a laugh and turned to dip away – and then you heard it.

“Oh, Owen, please!”

You stalled, mouth popping open with a silent ‘oh’. Shaking, you peered round the wall once more, just to confirm. Neither of the pair had spotted you. This time you saw what you had been previously blind to. The sword at the man’s hip, the Frey sigil on the pommel. The hair, an unassuming shade of brown, that only now you recognised. The man’s hand moved to grip the girl’s hip and you saw the rings adorning his fingers.

You stayed for only a moment longer, a headache forming between your brows. You did not confront them. Instead, you raced away, as quietly as you could, turning blindly down corridors until you bumped into a maid who was, by chance, looking for you.

You trailed after her until she reached the dining room, slipping by her as she held the door open for you. Your father stood to greet you and you heard yourself explaining that you had been lost. So silly of you! Your father laughed boisterously and made some joke about you being distracted due to your engagement.

“For a moment, daughter, we thought you had snuck away with Owen,” he chuckled, “Lord Frey told us the boy is ill.”

Baelor Targaryen offered you a polite smile as he responded to your father. Distracted once more, your father sat down and began conversing with the heir. Feeling that all attention was once again off of you, you made your way to the table and found yourself a seat.

You sat down at your brother’s side without looking up. It was only after your brother had pushed a steaming plate in front of you that you glanced about. You found yourself squeezing at your utensils, something hot and uncomfortable brewing in your stomach as you picked at your beef.

After a particularly vicious stab, you set your cutlery down. Tucking your hands beneath the table, you squeezed at your thighs until you were sure you drew blood. Your eyes stayed dry. You searched yourself for despair, for sadness, and instead found red hot fucking fury.

A shiver wracked through you and finally you looked up. Aerion Targaryen met your gaze. He did not blink as he stabbed a hunk of beef and brought it to his mouth. He chewed it nicely but his eyes were anything but.

You knew about Brightflame. About his propensity for anger and cruelty. You had made a game of avoiding him all week, despite the fact your family took meals with his almost daily. And now, with him sitting across from you, this was the closest you had ever been.

It must be exhausting, you thought, to be so angry all the time. You could feel your own righteous rage swirling in your chest, taking violent swipes at your heart every time you attempted to push what you had seen from your mind.

Aerion stopped chewing and stared openly. You blinked as you realised your lips had curled in something like a snarl. Your anger burned hotter than you knew what to do with. You slouched back in your chair, ignoring the way your brother coughed at your ill manners, and stared right back.

It was stupid. You knew that but you did not look away. Let him be cruel, you thought, let him spit and curse at you for your disrespect. You discovered that you anger enough to return the fire. It needed to go somewhere, did it not?

Your brother stilled, hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing in warning. And still, you did not move. To your surprise, it was Aerion that moved.

He cleared his throat and set his fork down. He leaned forward and you readied yourself for the fall out of your disrespect.

“Woman,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”

Your brother nudged you to answer. Distantly, you wondered if Owen remembered your name. If you thought about you at all as he fumbled with the maid girl in the corridor, where anyone could come across them. Did he feel guilt as he humiliated you? As he made you look like a foolish, sheltered girl?

“You do not recall my name,” you said slowly, “despite the fact that our families have dined together all week?”

Your brother choked on his wine. Aerion’s eyes widened, something chaotic and wild fluttering in his pupils. It looked like fire.

“I do not,” he answered just as slowly, chin dipping as he waited for your response.

You should tread carefully. You should apologise. You should lower your gaze and speak only when spoken to. You should pretend you never saw Owen and the girl and marry him anyway, settle for a life long of betrayal and disappointment.

“Then I do not wish to tell you,” you hissed, slamming your palms to the table as you shot up out of your chair. All eyes landed on you. “Father, I am unwell. I wish to retire.”

Aerion’s eyes made your skin burn. They drilled into the side of your face as you stoutly ignored him, dipping your head as your father stammered out an excuse and the host bid you well.

You walked quickly from the table, wrenching open the door before the guard could do it for you. Once alone in the corridor, the cool air brushing at your heated cheeks, a hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. To Aerion and Leon, it probably looked as though you were running. But it was not fear that had driven you from that hall.

Alone in your room, you waited for the tears to come. When the hours dripped on, and the tears still did not come, you resorted to pinching your thighs until bruises welled beneath your nails. Your eyes remained dry.

The anger would not leave. Seething, you threw yourself across the bed, tempted to tear at the sheets like some wild animal. You did not feel like the lady you had been raised to be. But where had that gotten you? Reeling and thoroughly humiliated, you felt lost.

What Owen had done was not out of the ordinary. You were sure that even your father had fathered a bastard or two in the village. But it was not what you wanted for yourself, and as a fourth daughter, you had more choice than most.

Owen had seemed like the safe choice. The sensible choice. You were vexed at your own naivety, annoyed at your own surprise and subsequent disgust. You had been willing to settle for the first man that seemed reasonable and now you were stuck. Did a right choice even exist?

There would be no wedding. You were sure that you could get your father to agree once you told him of what you had witnessed. Your father would not take kindly to his daughter being embarrassed in such a way. The Freys were going to benefit from the wedding more than your family so it would be no great loss.

You sighed. So much had changed in so little time. The tourney was over tomorrow and you would be making your way back home by mid-afternoon. Once on the road, away from the Freys, you could tell your father what you had seen. He would send word of the cancelled arrangement to the Freys, all without you having to set eyes on Owen ever again.

As the sky began to darken further, a maid came in to light your candles and the fire in the grate. Idly you wondered if she was the one you had seen with Owen earlier. Once she had left, you sat up and went to the window, peering out with boredom.

Anger still kindled in your stomach. You rested a hand over your lowed belly, half expecting to feel heat.

The castle was quiet. The gardens below were quiet, too. Your father would kill you for walking around in the dark without a guard but the room was beginning to feel stifling.

When you were young, you had been an unruly child. Eager to escape your finishing lessons and play with your brothers or roam the grounds alone. Your father had assumed you had grown out of it and maybe you had.

Now, though, all you wanted was to leave the suffocating grip of the castle. Owen was under the same roof as you, somewhere, sleeping soundly or perhaps not alone. If he was going to flout the rules so blatantly, then so would you.

Like earlier, you got turned around several times before you eventually found your way outside. The ground was slightly damp from the earlier rain. You would have to clean your slippers before dawn.

You wound your way around bushes and flower beds until you found your way to a hidden alcove. The moon was bright enough to guide your path and you kept carefully out of sight of the castle. The wall was slanted enough for you to rest against it, almost sitting.

The air was soothing against your harried flesh. You closed your eyes and imagined it cooling further, eager to shake the weight of emotion from your chest.

The garden was enclosed in high walls. Beyond them you could hear raucous laughter and singing. The final night of the tourney was just as loud as the first. What would it be like to be among the smallfolk? To laugh, to dance and to drink as they did? As men did?

What would it be like to fuck as they did?

The word was so crass that you open your eyes and looked around, half expecting your father to appear and scold you for the mere thought. Satisfied that you were indeed alone, you settled back and closed your eyes once more.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed when you heard it. Your name, cutting through the careful silence you had cultivated, drawing a shocked yelp from your lips.

Aerion Brightflame stood five feet in front of you, hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was not threatening – or maybe it was. It was difficult to tell when everything about him was threatening.

Aerion silver hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes appeared hastily thrown on, as though he had gotten ready for bed and then changed his mind. Perhaps the night air cooled his temper, too.

He repeated your name again, and you realised that someone else must have told him it. He looked smug and you wanted to smack him clean across the face for thinking he had won whatever stupid game it was that he thought you were playing.

“Do you make a habit of sneaking about alone?” he asked, stepping closer.

You squinted at him and did not reply. Was this the same man you had been avoiding all week? Whatever fear you had previously felt had been eaten away by fire and now fatigue as you slumped back against the wall.

Aerion’s lip curled at your silence; displeasure dotted in the creases of his face. You tilted your head a little. He was not unpleasant to look at, even when he scowled. He was handsome, you admitted, as all Targaryens tended to be.

“Answer me, woman,” he finally snarled, “or I’ll drag you before your father.”

Aerion had stepped closer. If you reached out a hand, you would be able to lay it on his chest.

What would it be like to fuck as they did?

It was a terrible idea. Downright stupid. When was the last time you had been stupid? Been anything other than the lady you were supposed to be?

You reached out and laid your hand on the dragon’s chest.

Aerion stilled. You met his eyes steadily, attempting to gauge interest. He did not stop you when you stepped closer, tilting your head until your eyes landed on his lips. They looked red and bitten already.

Aerion did not stop you when your hand slid up his chest and into the short hair at the base of the back of his neck. His lips parted and his breath puffed out when you tugged a little, curious. Owen had tugged that woman’s hair. It seemed like something that was done.

“Woman,” Aerion finally said, “are you stupid?”

“No,” you murmured, “but I think I’d like to be. Just for tonight.”

You were not sure who moved first; only that, one second you were thinking how similar a shade Aerion’s hair was to the moon, and the next you were pressed up tight in the alcove.

Aerion used his body to pin you there. At first, the kiss was clumsy and unpracticed. It was your first, after all. But you had always been a quick learner.

Aerion’s mouth was firm and unforgiving. Your lips parted under his like they had done so a thousand times, tongue reaching out to brush silkily along Aerion’s and earning a surprised groan. His hand came up to squeeze your face, holding you still as he had you how he liked.

It felt good. The kissing and the rebellion of it all. Throughout it all, your hands remained in his hair, tugging hard whenever he did something you particularly liked. He nipped at your lips, pulling sweet gasps and moans from them as he went. That push and pull of his tongue in your mouth, smoothing softly over yours – was that what fucking was like?

Aerion pulled away and you almost hissed. His hair looked messier than previously, the front of his clothes ruffled from where you had been pressed together. His lips were red and wet from the kiss and you watched as his tongue darted out and smoothed over them.

The anger had given away to something impossibly hotter. Something molten and desperate was welling in your core. It was nothing you had ever felt or even considered feeling when it came to Owen. You tilted your head back against the stone wall and waited for the prince to make a move.

“Foolish girl,” he finally said, dragging his eyes from where your breasts heaved against the ribbon of your dress. “Is that what you wanted? To act like a whore for the night? Are you satisfied, then?”

You laughed quietly, the sound ringing through the garden. “I think whores do a great deal more than kiss, my Prince.”

Before you could think too much, you reached down to rest your hand over the hard outline of Aerion’s manhood. He made a choked sound and jolted forward, no doubt surprised at your boldness. Instead of laughing at the shock on his face, you pressed your nose to his chest, seeking out the sliver of bared skin you had seen then.

And then you bit down. Hard.

Aerion groaned long and loud, hand coming up to grip the back of your head as he allowed you to sink your teeth into his flesh. It felt powerful. You did not relent until blood welled beneath your teeth, copper leaking onto your tongue as you laved it over his wounded flesh.

You kept your hand firmly on his cock, rubbing the heel of your palm over where you assumed the head was. Aerion’s grip grew tight before he let you go, chest heaving, staring down at you with blow pupils.

He said your name again, quietly this time, and with no mocking. His hands had fallen to grip your wrists but he let go of one, reaching up the place his palm over the spot you had bitten.

“And yet,” you sighed, “I still do not feel like a whore.”

You kept your mind switched off as your hands dropped and began tugging at the strings on his trousers. Your own core throbbed with every little move. It was different from the lazy self-exploration of yourself you had previously indulged in. Was this feeling normal or was it to do with the dragon before you?

“Fuck,” Aerion swore as you popped his cock from his trousers, the heated flesh pulsing in the cooler air.

It looked big – but that did not matter. You had no intention of taking it inside of yourself. Instead, you smoothed your palm over the head, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. You squeezed experimentally and smiled at the sound it produced from Aerion.

Aerion cursed again and then his hands were on you. You yelped as he held you firmly against the stone wall, damp rock pressing into your back, and began to ruck up your dress until it was fluffed around your waist. He kicked your legs apart and shoved his hand down the front of your garments until his fingers met the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.

This was not the plan. Not that there had been one in the first place – but this definitely was not it.

Aerion’s fingers met the soft, pillowy flesh on your cunt with little ceremony. His eyes were glued to your face, chest rising and falling swiftly as he parted you with his fingers and ran his index over the tight flesh of your hole.

“Even whores do not get this wet,” he growled, cupping your tender flesh. “Put your hand back on my cock. Now.”

You resented the bite in his voice but your mind was surprising gentle exploration of his fingers. Instead of sliding inside, they ventured up, up, until they met the soft ball of flesh that would surely make you lose your fucking mind.

Aerion buried his face in your neck, tongue licking over the exposed flesh as your hand found his cock and began to move. When he stopped, you stopped. You would not let him come away from having had more than you. You were determined to satisfy your earlier curiosity.

His fingers rubbed tight circles over your swollen flesh, faster and then slower. He rutted into your palm with hard thrusts, breath hissing in your ear as he approached his peak.

He was not the only one. You could feel your own fast approaching. For the first time, clarity began to clear your mind. You understood why Owen, why that girl, had gotten so caught up. Initially you had wanted to do this to experience what you felt you were missing out on, to be reckless as they had been. Now you felt the urge for control. The urge to prove that you were better than them.

Still you allowed Aerion’s fingers to rub you. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His hips bumped yours as he fucked your hand, orgasm tearing through him in a way that made you dizzy and thirsty for your own.

You yelped when Aerion’s head bent down, nuzzling into the pillowy tops of your breasts before he bit down. Hard enough that you were sure he immediately drew blood. You whimpered and yanked at his hair, teetering on the edge of your own orgasm.

If I go over the edge, you thought, I do not know if I can come back.

With surprising strength, you shoved Aerion away. Your dress came tumbling back down and the whisper of fabric over your skin was enough to almost have you orgasming anyway. Unprepared, Aerion staggered before righting his stance.

His still hard cock was still peeking out of his breeches and you tore your eyes away before you abandoned all common sense. You could feel his seed on your hand, warm and sticky. There was blood smeared all over his mouth and when he snarled at you, you could see it in his teeth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “You are not done here – we are not done here.”

You breathed heavily and swayed a little on your feet. You could see your own arousal on Aerion’s fingers, glittering in the moonlight. It looked rather pretty.

Aerion took a step forward and it shook you out of your reverie. Before he could say anything else (or use his fingers and command you to stay) you tore past him and ran inside. In some miracle, perhaps as reward for your restraint, you found your way back to your room in a matter of minutes. If Aerion called your name, you did not hear it.

The next morning was nothing memorable. You were beyond tired and still mildly irritated, but glad to be rid of the place. You had stayed up late cleaning your shoes and the conspicuous wet spot the prince had left on your dress. If the maids noticed anything as they packed your trunks, they did not say.

Your father was in a good mood. It was a good thing to spent time with the heir to the kingdom; it reflected well on the house. You smiled blandly as he and your brother Leon recounted their days, commenting on who had done well and the favourites.

The Targaryens had supposed to have been leaving early, but as you and your family made their way down, you discovered that they had not. You kept your gaze averted and curtsied when necessary, thanking Lord Ashford for his hospitality and Balor and his family for their company.

When you reached Aerion, you curtsied as before. Aerion surprised you by lifting your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your inner wrist. You felt his tongue on your skin and bit your lip, praying that your father would not notice.

Aerion pulled back and smiled. Your mouth dropped open. Your blood was still smeared across his lips and teeth.

Within days of arriving home, your father had contacted Lord Frey and told him the engagement was off. He was horrified by what you had reported. His poor darling girl, witness to such depravity!

As he had ranted and raved, you had subtly tugged at the high collar of your dress. You had taken to wearing such high collars and avoiding help from the maids since arriving home. The mark that Aerion had left on you was shocking. Blue and purple tinged with red. It was still sore and throbbed when touched firmly, which you did often.

You had managed to muster tears in your eyes and a tremble in your voice as you recounted the events of that evening. Perhaps you exaggerated a little. It did not matter; your father was thoroughly on your side.

Some days later, after some back and forth with Lord Frey, your father told you that Owen had left The Twins and was no doubted headed here, to your home. Your father had almost had an aneurysm at the sheer assumption of hospitality.

“Do not worry, father,” you had patted his hand, “perhaps he will come to apologise. I will hear him out, but I have no intentions of marrying him.”

“You are kind, daughter,” he nodded, “and wise. You deserve more than foolish young boys.”

Wise. You had nearly laughed. A week ago, you had been the stupidest person in the entire seven kingdoms. Stupider now, perhaps, since you did not regret it.

A week and a half after the tournament, you were sitting in the library when you heard the sound of a party arriving. You set your book down and straightened your spine before marching from the library and heading for the hall.

You paused outside, sharing a look with your ladies’ maid when you heard your father’s laughter from within. That was certainly not the reception you had envisioned for Owen Frey. Confused, you opened the door and stepped within, ready for an explanation.

Your father was stood there, arm in arm, with Maekar Targaryen. And to the left of him, tall and polished, was his son, Aerion.

You froze. For a moment you debated edging your way back out of the room but then your father caught sight of you.

“Ah!” he threw up his arms and came to grab your arm, pulling you further into the dragon’s nest. “My Princes, you remember my youngest daughter?”

“Certainly,” Aerion interjected before his father could speak. He dipped his head, mocking. “My Lady.”

You assumed you responded appropriately. You could not be sure. Maekar nodded stiffly, something like curiosity in his eyes as he looked you up and down. How much had Aerion told his father? Was he, in turn, going to tell your father?

“Why are you here?” you asked bluntly.

Your father said your name, surprised. “You did not know? I invited them here whilst we were all at the tourney.”

“Yes,” Aerion smiled, “I am here to hunt.”

The ground felt like it was dropping out from beneath you. Even the air felt thin. Whilst you swayed on your feet, vehemently regretting that night, your father chattered on to Maekar.

He had no fucking idea what he had agreed to. And, truthfully, neither did you.

Unwilling to leave your father and the princes alone, you found yourself getting ready for a hunt. You yanked on your riding dress and, once your front was covered, turned to allow your maid to lace up the back.

You did not know what Aerion had told Maekar, nor what his plans were with you father. You were worried that, at the first chance he had, Aerion would tell him of your indulgent and careless behaviour. Why else would he come all this way?

It seemed insane that he would do all this just to torment you. Or perhaps it would, if he were anyone else. Out of all the boys to fool around with. . .

You descend from your room and head for the stables. Yanking on your riding gloves, you find the stall of your horse, Silver. She was a precious thing and fickle with anyone other than you. You smoothed your hand over her mane and waited for the stable boy to arrive.

Aerion arrived first.

You scowled at the flash of silver hair you saw from the corner of your eye and did not bother greeting him. It was not him you feared; it was what he might tell you father. You should probably consider attempting to butter him up. Your lips thinned at the idea and you continued to ignore him.

Heat was radiating from his body as he stepped up bedside you, bumping your arm with his. Without asking, he reached out to pet Silver. You hoped she would bite him. Instead, she huffed and leaned down to nose at his palm. You frowned.

Distracted, you did not notice Aerion’s other hand creeping up toward the collar of your dress. You squeaked when you felt his fingers on the hem, yanking it down until the ugly spot he had left on your upper breast came into view.

The flesh was still unhealed. Whenever you looked closely in the mirror, you could still see the outline of Aerion’s teeth.

“Good,” he hummed, “yours has not healed either.”

He did not let go of your clothing, instead leaning closer as though he might bite again. Outraged, you slapped the prince across his face. Aerion let go at once, hand coming to rest on the quickly darkening flesh of his cheek.

Your chest was heaving, eyes wide and blinking furiously. You wanted to shout, to slap him again, to demand the real reason as to why he had come. You had finally been getting back to normalcy when he and his father had shown up.

You snarled still as Aerion reached out again, raising your hand as though you might strike him once more. This time he did not try to tear at your clothes. He tugged them back into the rightful position, brushing the wrinkles from your bosom as though his fingers were not leaving trails of fire behind as they went.

“I knew you had fire in you,” he finally said, brushing his fingers over your bared collarbones.

Before you could respond, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. You whirled around, horrified to see Maekar waiting by the stable doors. Aerion did not seem alarmed. He met his fathers gaze and inclined his head before going to his own horse.

Maekar did not say anything. His gaze bounced from his son and then back to you, as though he was putting something together. He did not speak and seemed surprised. Had he seen you slap his son? It was nothing he had not deserve.

Markar must have agreed because he offered you a soft nod and then turned his attention to Aerion. You went back to Silver and pretended that neither of them were there. The two of them were having some kind of hushed conversation and you could not make out what they were saying.

Eventually your father and the stable boy arrived, and the hunt began.

Your father and Maekar rode ahead, crossbows hanging by their sides. It was the most serious you had seen your father. Neither of the men spoke, which you preferred.

Aerion rode at your side, which you did not prefer. He had his own crossbow but seemed to have little interest in it. His gaze was firmly fixed on the side of your head. Occasionally he would come close and kick softly at your calves, or reach out to pull your hair when he knew neither of your fathers were looking.

One particularly hard pull had you swearing and slapping at his hands. Aerion laughed quietly so as not to draw the attention of your fathers. Yours was particularly oblivious. Maekar, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes sliding from Aerion to you. He seemed bewildered. Perhaps you were not the only one who did not know what Aerion was up to.

After several hours with no sign of game, you began to wish you had remained home. Let Aerion say what he would. It was not worth you distress.

Suddenly everyone seemed to still. You shivered at the sudden change. Even Aerion was silent. You peered out into the dense forest, trying to see whatever it was that had captured everyone’s attention. The only sign that anything was there was a slight rustling in the bush, and then a dull ‘thunk’ as Aerion fired from his crossbow quicker than you thought possible. Then a thud, as whatever it was hit the ground.

Aerion dismounted and disappeared into the brush, returning with an impressively large stag. Your brows raised at the clean shot. It was something even your brothers would have struggled with. Aerion held it up by the antlers and stared in your direction. You smoothed your expression and looked away as though you were bored. You did not want to encourage further ridiculousness.

You stayed on Silver as the men tied the poor creature between their horses and began to head home. Bloodlust satiated, Aerion mostly left you alone, and for that you were thankful.

At dinner, Aerion had the honor of the first serving. It had been divided into manageable chunks, cooked and seasoned in the preferred way of your guests. The scent of venison was thick on the air and you were hungry after the ride.

Your eldest brother Edwyn joined you at dinner. His lady wife was unwell and remained abed. If he was surprised by the royal visitors, he did not show it. He settled into pleasant conversation with your father and Maekar. To his credit, he attempted to include Aerion but the prince seemed determined to make him uncomfortable.

Rather than take the first cut for himself, Aerion slid it your way. All the men at the table went silent. Aware of the gaze of your father and brother, you smiled sweetly and acted surprised.

“For the lady,” Aerion said, smirking at your obvious discomfort.

The meat was rare and bloody. Not your favourite but you would manage. Aerion tucked in to his own with little fanfare, blatantly ignoring his fathers’ eyes. Greasy blood dripped over his lips and he chased the flavour with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with you.

 Conversation resumed and you ate your own food whilst wishing for the ground to open up beneath you. Did Aerion even have to say anything? One look at him and your father would surely learn of your behaviour that night. Aerion was hardly subtle.

For the first time since they had arrived, you wondered about Owen. He had been on his way here, had he not? You cringed inwardly at the thought of Owen and Aerion interacting. Not that Aerion would care about Owen, but during the Ashford tournament, Owen had been practically tripping over himself trying to impress the Targaryen guests. You dreaded to think of enduring that behaviour within your own home.

Aerion chose that moment to kick you under the table. Your knee bounced against the underside, drawing the attention of everyone once more. You laughed uneasily and apologised, waving away your father’s concerns.

You waited until all attention was back on the food, and then you kicked Aerion right back.

The next few days went by in a similar fashion. Maekar continued to hunt with your father, returning empty handed most days, and Aerion remained at the castle with you.

Everywhere you went, he was there. More often than not, the pair of you ended up alone. The servants were scared of him and you could not blame them. You overheard him barking at them on several occasions, and he had even thrown something at one of the maids who had come to wake him one morning.

Miraculously, none of these incidents seemed to make their way back to either of your fathers. If the staff trembled when they refilled Aerion’s cup, they did not notice. Neither did Aerion, for his attention was usually fixated on you.

You kept waiting for that temper to turn on you but it never did. So, you continued to bite back, though not literally, and convinced yourself you were doing it on behalf of all the servants.

After several days, you realised that the only thing that seemed to genuinely irritate him was you ignoring him. So, naturally, that was exactly what you did.

No longer did you glance up when he entered the room. At mealtimes, you arranged yourself carefully in your chair so that his legs could not reach you. You had your ladies’ maid, Silena, wind your hair into intricate braids so that there was nothing he could easily pull.

Aerion’s fury built. You pretended not to notice when he sniped at the servants and scowled at your father. Maekar, eager to soothe over any tensions caused by his wild son, was always quick to distract your father with conversation.

One day, Aerion went out hunting with Maekar and your father. Once again, he presented you with the first cut of meat that he had caught. You thanked him politely and nibbled at it as though dissatisfied. Aerion jerked about in his chair as though he might jump up and start shouting.

Would that be enough to get your father to send him away? Probably not. You were beginning to understand that Targaryen princes got away with everything.

Four days trickled past, and there was still no sign of Owen. Not that you thought of him often. A raven had arrived from Lord Frey, asking if his son had arrived. It was odd and you had felt sorry for the man, worried for his son. No doubt he would turn up soon, but not so soon that you had to bear with him and Aerion under the same roof.

On the fifth day, you were thoroughly exhausted. You had begun to avoid Aerion as much as possible – and it mostly wasn’t. The man seemed to have eyes on you at all time.

He had spent most of the day with you in the library. When he wasn’t thumbing through books, he was digging his dagger into the table that had been in your family for generations. His blatant disrespect was unsurprising and you had snuggled further in your chair and tried to pretend like you were actually reading the words on the pages.

After an hour or two of the stifling silence, Aerion had got to his feet and torn the book from your hands. He had torn into it, throwing pages over you like confetti. You had been furious and ready to deliver another swift smack to his cheek. A servant had entered that time, saving you from breaking your silence, and you had both gone down for lunch.

Your father was not the most observant man, but even he could see that you were beyond taxed by the end of the day.

Rather than indulging in evening drinking and games, he suggested that you retire early and have a bath drawn by the staff. You were more than happy to do just that.

You lounged on your bed with a book you did not read as the servants prepared your tub. The water was steaming hot and inviting. Once it was full, they scattered petals into the water and added drops of some scented oil that had you relaxing almost instantly.

Your ladies’ maid waited to help you undress but, as you had every day since returning, you waved her off.

“I’d like some time to myself, Silena,” you smiled softly, “I’ll call for you once I am finished.”

You waited until the door was shut, and then several minutes more for good measure, before undressing. You tried to avoid looking at the bruise on the swell of your breast. Your eyes were drawn there automatically.

Pressing a hand over it, you hissed at the memory of pain and ignored the sparks it sent between your legs. Piling your hair on your head, you arranged it until you were satisfied it would not get wet. Once you were completely bare, you stepped into the tub and settled down, letting your head fall back against the high edge.

The water was verging on boiling, as you liked it. It was milky from the oils and soap. You grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and began to run it over your shoulders and behind your ears.

You let your mind go blank as you cleansed yourself several times over until all you could smell was lavender and something almost smoky. Once more you sat back, content to relax until the water turned cold.

The sound of the door opening had you sighing and dipping lower into the water to hide your bruise. “Silena, I have no need of you yet –“

“But I have need of you.”

You shot up straight, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. Aerion let the door fall shut, reaching behind himself to click the lock into place. His eyes were dark as the fixed on you in the tub and you shivered, cold despite the hot water.

“I’ll scream,” you warned him.

“I’ll tell your father what we did together,” he countered.

He toed off his shoes as though these were his rooms and began to make his way towards you. You had no weapon, nothing with which you might fight him off with, and he seemed to know it.

You dared not take your eyes off of him. When he settled on his knees next to the tub, you became painfully aware of your naked state. It was strange; he had had his fingers on you, almost inside of you, and yet he had not seen you. Not really.

Aerion seemed to be thinking the same thing. He seemed displeased at the milky state of the water. It concealed you from him. You drew your knees up to your chest and waited for him to speak.

Aerion dipped his fingers into the water and hissed. “Hot.”

“I like it that way,” you defended. Then you shut your lips tightly, wishing you had not spoken at all.

Aerion smiled and touched your bare knee beneath the water. You tried to jerk away but he gripped you tight, nails biting into your softened flesh. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I am not here to entertain you, prince.”

“I thought that, too, at the tournament,” he said, “but then you were so wonderfully entertaining in the garden that night. I want more. Have wanted more, since then, and yet you deny what was once so freely given. Why?”

Your mouth felt dry. “I am a lady.”

“And yet,” he repeated, “you betrayed your betrothed that night, with me, didn’t you?”

You stilled, barely registering his words before they hit you full force. “He betrayed me first!” you snarled, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.

Aerion squeezed your knee tighter, ignoring the water creeping its way up his sleeve. It soaked into the golden embroidery that was pattered there, darkening the fabric until it looked like it had been flecked with blood.

“Betrayed you?” Aerion repeated. “Vengeful little thing.”

“He is no longer my betrothed,” you added weakly. “I told my father about what he did.”

“But he was coming here to see you regardless,” Aerion said, mostly to himself.

“How do you know about that?” you asked, finally tearing his hand from your knee. Blood welled from the indents he had left in your flesh with his nails. You shivered at the sting as the warm water washed over them.

Aerion’s eyes dropped low, searching for that mark he had left on your skin over two weeks ago. Then they dipped lower still, fixing on the tips of your breasts that were barely visible beneath the water.

He let out a muted groan, dragging his eyes upward until they were once again on your face. “I believe I said that we were not finished.”

It took you a moment to remember what he was talking about. “Aerion, no.”

“You think you know what you want,” he murmured, “and maybe you did, all those weeks ago. But your mind has become clouded. Allow me to clear it for you.”

You gasped when Aerion leaned over the tub, hands grasping your shoulders as he pulled you forward and arranged you to his liking. He had you with your back to him, against the tub, allowing him to peer over your shoulders and down your body.

You tried to move forward but he would not allow it. You stopped moving when you felt his teeth at your neck. If he left a mark there, it would be visible to everyone, including your father.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Let me finish what we started.”

Beneath the water, Aerion cupped your breasts with a firmness that had you whimpering. You could feel his warm breath puffing over the shell of your ear and you squirmed, searching yourself for your earlier reluctance. It was not there.

When Aerion rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, you nearly dissolved into the bath water. He kneaded them gentle, rolling the tips between his fingers in a way that had you gripping at his arms and shoving your face against his shoulder.

One hand abandoned your breast, instead snaking down and over the swell of your stomach, searching for the wetness between your legs. You let your thighs fall open without a second thought, eager for that feeling from those weeks ago.

Aerion sucked in a breath. “Sweet girl.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek at the same time as his fingers made contact with your aching clit. This was dangerous, you tried to remind yourself, for this you might do anything.

Like before, Aerion’s fingers began to propel you toward orgasm quicker than you typically could alone. Your clit seemed more than eager for whatever he wanted to give and each touch felt devastatingly soft, as though he was punishing you for not allowing him to give you this back in the garden.

Distantly, you wondered if he was trying to prove something. You could not find it in you to care, so long as he kept doing whatever it was that he was doing.

You almost didn’t notice when his fingers began to slide lower until one was nudging at your entrance. It was not something you typically did alone. You were always too worried of spilling your own blood. You opened your mouth to protest but, before you could, Aerion had you spread apart on his fingers as he gently fucked you with his hand.

You choked on your breath. “Aerion, please – you can’t –“

“Shhh,” he whispered, surprisingly tender as he took you apart. “Do not worry. Just feel.”

All it took was one swipe of his thumb over your clit. You had to plaster your hands over your mouth to mask the sound that was spilling from your lips. Aerion did not stop and instead continued to stroke you through your orgasm, to the point of painful sensitivity. He did not stop until you physically pulled his hands from you, and even then he seemed reluctant.

You sagged against the tub, entirely breathless and shaken. Aerion grabbed your face with one hand, turning you this way and that, as though he were admiring his own work. You waited for some snarky comment.

Aerion hummed to himself, letting his hand drop until it was hovering over the bite mark. His bite mark. He did not touch it, instead he pulled back and got to his feet, stepping somewhat unsteadily away from the tub.

“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. “Never ignore me again.”

With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out as though he was never there. The only sign that he had been was a churning in your stomach and an ache between your thighs.

Once you were sure he was gone, you dunked your head under the water and did not come up until your lungs were screaming for air.

Despite his words, you did not see Aerion the next day. Nor the one after that. You father, brother and Maekar also seemed to have disappeared. Uneasy, you assumed they had some official business that needed seeing to. Maybe the princes had even left.

No, you knew they hadn’t. It felt silly to say but you could feel Aerion, still lurking in your home, despite staying out of sight. Fire seemed to burn hotter with him in the building.

At night you found yourself sweaty and cross, abandoning your blankets and tossing and turning until you were able to pass out. You never slept for long.

On the second day, after hiding in the library and dining alone, you felt unusually anxious. All your clothes felt tight and ill fitting. Had Aerion told your father about the bath? It was all you could think about all day. You picked at your food and didn’t read a thing until it was time for bed, at which time you went up alone and dismissed Selina in favour of dressing yourself.

You tugged on a sleep gown, relishing the soft loose fabric in comparison to your day clothes. The fire in the grate was out and you felt too warm to fetch Silena so you left it alone, allowing the candles lit to guide the way to your bed. You shoved all the sheets down until they were not touching you. Then you positioned yourself like an X, trying to cool down and banish the day’s anxieties from your brain. You had to stay in control. It would not do to let your guard down when Aerion was around.

Sleep would not come. Even when you trained yourself to stay perfectly still, taking even and deep breathes, it seemed to taunt you from the darkest corners of your room. Eventually the candles went out, leaving you in almost complete darkness.

The moon still shone in through your window. It allowed you to see vague shapes and the outline of your own body. You squeezed your eyes shut and begged the seven for sleep.

Just when you were ready to jump up and begin lighting candles, there was a noise. For a moment you did not recognise it for what it was. Your heart shot into your throat as you realised it was the sound of your door opening and shutting, then the lock falling into place.

You remained still, tense and silent as you peered into the darkness, heart hammering in your chest. It was not until the moonlight glinted off of something silver that you relaxed.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed, sitting up as Aerion approached your bed. “You can’t be in here.”

“Scared?” he asked, settling himself on the edge of your bed.

“This is highly improper,” you warned, eyes bulging from your head as Aerion began to shed his clothes as though the room were his own.

He did not respond. He continued shucking his clothes until only his braies remained, the outline of his cock already half hard between his legs. You swallowed and commanded yourself not to stare. Eventually he shed those too.

“You can’t be in here,” you repeated weakly.

Aerion’s hand found your ankle in the darkness. You yelped as he yanked you, your back hitting the mattress as he dragged you further down the bed. You were near winded as he climbed on top of you, knees on either side of your hips as he rested his weight softly on your stomach.

It wasn’t until he began to snatch at your wrists that you remembered yourself and began to struggle. With a yell, you set your teeth to the first line of flesh you saw.

Your teeth sank into his bicep much like they had sank into his chest all those weeks ago. Blood trickled into your mouth and you bit harder.

Aerion’s hand came to cradle the back of your hand. “That’s it, just like that.”

Immediately you let go, hissing up at him with bloodied teeth. “There is nothing sweet about this. Now get off.”

Aerion leaned down and licked the blood from your mouth, moaning every time you nipped at him with already bloodied teeth. It was insanity, madness, and it was making you unbearably fucking wet.

“My turn,” Aerion said, and then his teeth were burying into your neck so deeply that you faintly wondered if you would scar.

Your hips bucked upward, driving his cock into your stomach as he sucked at your neck, teeth pinching and tongue soothing as he went. You were done. There was no way you could cover whatever mark he had left this time. Had this been his plan all along?

When Aerion pulled away, there was blood smeared across his face just like before. More of it, even. He ran his fingers over the mark you had left and hissed, fisting his cock with his other hand.

“Enough with waiting,” he muttered, “I have been a patient man.”

You did not protest as Aerion shoved your night dress up until it was bunched under your armpits. You nearly moaned when he parted your thighs, baring you to him fully for the first time.

He pressed his fingers to your entrance and groaned. “So fucking hot. Are you sure you are not blood of the dragon?”

He ran his fingers through your arousal and brought them to his lips, letting your slick mingle with the blood before licking his fingers clean. Your cunt throbbed with each pass of his tongue over his fingers and it took you a moment to realise you were whimpering aloud.

“No matter,” he said, “you’ll have a dragon inside you, one way or another.”

Placing one hand on your stomach, Aerion used his other to notch his cock at your entrance. The heat coming off him was intense. Sweat beaded on your hairline as you tried to focus on the consequence, on why you should not be doing this, but your mind refused to focus on anything but the thick feel of Aerion sliding into you.

There was a flash of pain as he nudged up against something inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, instead thrusting forward and taking your maidenhead with little compassion. You winced at the bite of pain.

Aerion kept your thighs pinned wide to accommodate him. His eyes darted from your face to the obscene sight between your legs. His hips began to shift as he thrust in earnest. All thoughts of pain fell away as you became accustomed to the thickness of him.

Aerion Brightflame was fucking you and you were letting him.

Everyt ime your eyes fell shut he would stop until you were focused back on him. The wet sound of your union had your ears burning as you mewled beneath him, greedily chasing every little feeling he was introducing you to.

You could feel yourself twitching around his length as his nails dug into the meat of your thighs. The scent of sweat and sex was a heady thing, heavy on your tongue as Aerion fucked you steadily with deep thrusts of his cock.

Your jaw dropped open when his hand dipped between your legs, collecting blood there and bringing it to his chest, smearing it there as he gazed darkly down at you.

You watched as he smeared the blood in a line over his lips, and then as he reached down and made the same motion over yours. You could taste the copper and sweat and felt almost dizzy with the arousal that hit you.

Aerion was not finished. His hand went down again, this time with his thumb finding your clit. He wasted no time. He began rubbing in the way he had learned that you liked, driving you toward orgasm faster than you could keep up with.

Your thighs clenched around his hips, trying to slow him down, but he was relentless. Between the quick passes of his thumb and the way he was fucking you, you were helpless. Your orgasm splintered through you like physical thing, wiping your mind blank until all that tied you to earth was the cock breaking you open and the hands gripping your face.

“Yes, yes,” Aerion chanted, hips driving into yours with vigor. “Come around me, wife.”

His words made no sense and yet – your orgasm washed over you, stronger than ever, until you were left writhing beneath him on the bed. You recognised your own voice, begging for a break as Aerion wrang every drop of relief from you.

It was only then that his hips began to lose rhythm. He leaned down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, tongue chasing the combination of blood, sweat and arousal that coated both your lips. You felt him moan into your mouth, felt his hips stutter as he emptied himself inside you.

You were still aware enough to know that it was a bad thing. Visions of yourself, unwed and with child, threatened to break the bliss. You tried to push Aerion off but he was having none of it.

“Be still,” he grumbled, arranging you in his arms until he had you pinned to his chest, cock still inside you. He pinched your ass when you would not stop moving.

“Aerion,” you cried, pushing at his chest. “You – you have ruined me! I could be with child –“

“Good,” he yawned, fingers pinching, “it will reflect well on me when you are with child in less than a year after the wedding.”

You paused, remembering his earlier words. “Wedding? I am not getting married, Aerion.” “Oh, but you are,” he grinned, all sharp and poision, fitting his teeth to the mark he had already made on your neck. “You are to be a dragon’s bride. My bride.” “My father would not allow it,” you said weakly, disbelieving.

“He already has,” Aerion bit down, “he will tell you of your good fortune tomorrow morning.”

“My father would not make me –“

“Make you?” Aerion repeated, pulling back slightly so that he could see your face. The movement reminded you that his cock was still very much inside you. “Who is he to refuse a dragon?”

“Besides,” he continued, “you are well suited to me, wife.”

“Wife,” you said numbly, shivering when Aerion tilted his hips and rubbed his cock against a particularly inviting place inside you.

“What do you think I came all this way for?” he smiled wolfishly. “Look how you blossom beneath me. My wife. Call me husband. I demand it.”

a/n - when the cookie is so good he stalks you across Westeros and his father is so tired of him that he goes along with it

I worked so hard on this 😭 please let me know if you enjoyed it! Every like, reblog and comment is deeply appreciated

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[cosmictheo]

𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 | ser duncan the tall

| gif credits: @alicentive |

—summary: you spend your days teasing dunk on purpose, brushing too close, holding his gaze a second too long, slipping into suggestive positions when you know he’s watching—until one day, his patience finally snaps and gives in to the temptation you’ve so carefully crafted. —pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!reader —word count: ~5.4k —content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, outdoor sex, lots of body worship, praise, mutual pining, tension, reader loves to tease him, jealous!dunk, friends to lovers, inexperienced!dunk, needy!reader, dunk is down baddd. not proofread!

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Ser Arlan is gone, no longer around to complain about your presence every chance he gets, or to remind Dunk that a man like him should not travel with a woman like you, whose past burns hotter than the Dornish sun.

What really burns is your presence, your company, your gaze.

Dunk has always believed that you are some kind of trial sent by the gods to tempt him, to test his self-control, his strength of will, and his sense of knighthood.

He also believes that you don't really do it on purpose, and that you are as pure and innocent as he is. But now that the old man is gone, you seem to have only gotten much worse.

Duncan can't help but glance at you when you're bathing in some lake, pretending to be mending a tear in some old piece of clothing or sharpening the blade of his sword. His eyes flick towards you every time he overhears a little splash, just like clockwork, followed by a sharp gulp.

The sound of water lapping against the rocks is the only thing that breaks the stillness of the forest. You’ve wandered just a few yards from camp, far enough to enjoy some privacy, but close enough to feel Dunk's protective presence.

You slide into the natural pool, gasping as the cold water embraces your bare body.

On the other side of the bushes, you hear the rhythmic “shhh-shhh” of the whetstone rubbing against the steel. Dunk is there, sitting on a fallen log, pretending to be deeply focused on his sword.

But you know that’s not really what’s going on.

From the surface of the water, you can see him through the branches. His jaw is clenched and his ears are tinged with a betraying shade of red.

Every time you emerge from the water and the sound of splashing reaches his ears, his shoulders tense. His pretty blue eyes, once brimming with a childlike sweetness, now scan for you on pure gut instinct, at odds with the decency that Ser Arlan so fiercely drummed into him.

“Dunk,” you call out gently, your voice drifting above the mist.

He flinches so violently that he almost lets the sword fall out of his hand. He clears his throat noisily, staring at some ants at his feet.

“Y–yes? Is something wrong? Is it—is it too cold?” he asks breathlessly, without turning his head even a fraction of an inch.

“It’s perfect,” you reply, emerging from the water with exaggerated leisure. You know he can hear the water dripping steadily down your body. “But I could use that old cloak you were mending. I left mine by the fire.”

You hear him getting up. His steps are heavy, purposeful, but when he reaches the edge of the thicket, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Here... here it is,” he tells you, blindly stretching out his arm through the leaves, offering you the fabric.

You step closer to the edge and, instead of taking the cloak right away, you brush his fingers with yours. You feel the heat radiating from his skin, the rush of blood in his big hand. Dunk lets out a quiet gasp, and for a second, his self-control weakens. His eyes drift away, meeting yours.

“I–I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, covering his eyes with his hands to force himself to respect your boundaries. “So sorry”

That makes you smirk playfully, pulling the cloak up around your damp body. “It's nothing you haven't seen before, Duncan.”

You tell him that often. And every time, he is reduced to a blushing, stammering mess.

Sometimes, when he comes back from shopping at a nearby grocery market or roadside merchant, he is almost knocked off his feet when he finds you down on the grass, on all fours to look through the thick bushes for those berries you like so much.

But could they really be found so low to the ground?

His wide eyes are moving on their own before he can even think to try to control them, gliding over your hair, the stretch of your back, and then slowing down as they trace the curve of your bum, that looks absurdly more defined in that skirt.

With a little push you make forward, the fabric slides up a bit more, revealing more of the skin on your legs for his eyes only.

Your hips have widened, the shape of your waist is exquisitely defined, and your exposed skin seems to glow in the light of the spring sunshine.

Dunk feels his mouth go dry instantly and he just stands there, holding the handbag in one hand, his grip gradually loosening as the moment ticks by.

His dilated eyes roam the contour of your hips with an intensity that overwhelms him, a surge of arousal that makes him feel lightheaded with longing.

“Dunk?” you call out as you stretch a little further to reach a particularly red berry, without actually turning around. “Is that you?”

Of course you know it’s him and that he’s there; you’ve heard him approaching ever since he stepped into the woods. But you do like to have a bit of fun, to tease him.

Duncan is frozen in place, the sack of groceries hanging from his fingers as if it weighed a ton. The sound of his own breathing seems loud in the silence of the clearing.

He tries to articulate a response, but his throat feels as if he has been swallowing desert sand.

“Y–yes... it’s me,” he finally manages to squeak out.

He watches with a face bright red as you stretch again, how the fabric of your skirt is pulled tight against your curves and how the sunlight reflects off the softness of your skin.

It is an exquisite form of torture.

“Did you bring what I asked for?” you inquire innocently, arching your back just slightly enough that the motion is impossible to overlook.

“A–aye. I brought... apples. And some—cheese,” he swallows hard, muffling his wheezing voice and blinking sharply to try to snap himself out of the daze. “M’lady... you should—I mean, you could prick yourself on the thorns. It’s not safe to be like that... anyone could...”

You laugh softly, a vibrating sound that sends a chill down Dunk's spine.

“Anyone could...?” you repeat, feigning concern as you finally lean back up, slower than necessary. You turn just enough so that he can see your smile over your shoulder. “There’s no one here but you, Dunk.”

Duncan, just as you are turning your head toward him, forces himself to look everywhere but at you: at the trees, the sky, birds dancing and chirping in the branches above.

“You shouldn't tease like that,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “It's not… appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” you echo, rising to your feet at last, a berry crunching between your teeth.

You take a step toward him, then another.

Dunk recoils instinctively, stepping back from you as if you were a flame that could burn him if he got too close.

“You know what I mean,” he chokes. “You shouldn’t… move like that.”

You look down at your own body, pretending to examine yourself with utter confusion.

“Move how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently, biting your lower lip that’s still stained with the berries’ red juice. “I was just looking for berries.”

“You... you know how,” he manages to croak out at an unusually husky tone, his blue eyes blinking rapidly back down at you. “Like a... like a cat. Or like something from the songs that lures knights into the swamps to drown them.”

“I'm not a fairy tale witch, Duncan. I'm just a woman,” you reply quietly, drawing closer to him to be within arm's reach. Then you hold out your hand, offering him a single perfectly ripe berry. “And you're not a knight yet, are you? You're just a man.”

Dunk leisurely lowers his gaze to your outstretched hand, following the extent of your arm down to the berry, only to return to your eyes, entranced by the hypnotic magnetism of them.

His imposing physique recoils under the overwhelming weight of your attentive gaze and the sweet, alluring glint in your eyes—a gaze that entices him closer. Despite his massive body, Dunk is nothing more than a timid little mouse in your presence.

“Ser Arlan isn't here anymore, Dunk. What are you so afraid of?” You continue speaking so sweetly, attempting to coax him, using a voice as velvety as silk. You press the berry against his lower lip. “Eat now. You've been walking in the sun all morning. You must be hungry.”

Hungry, he certainly is. Just not exactly starved for some woodland berries.

Dunk doesn't take the berry with his hand, instead his lips fall open instinctively as he tilts his head closer to your hand. As his mouth closes over the little fruit in your palm, his tongue brushes against your skin—a flutter of accidental touch that sets off a ripple of heat through your body.

But you realize it was no accident when you catch sight of the way he's looking down at you now, licking the berry juice from his lips and humming in appreciation, reveling in the lingering taste of your skin on the tip of his tongue.

“Mhm, really good,” he drawls, lifting his eyebrows and nodding in approval.

That's the first time Duncan has ever gone along with one of your little flirtations, but that's all it is, nothing more. He doesn't tease you back, he doesn't ask you to give him another berry, he doesn't even bother to glance at you as he shuffles past you, practically stumbling back to camp.

It is a modest victory, but the fact that he has dared to touch your hand with his tongue is a sign that Ser Arlan's lessons are losing the battle against his own natural instincts.

The days go by and that little spark seems to have been extinguished. Dunk has put his walls back up, higher and stronger than ever.

Every time you try to brush his arm as you walk side by side, he finds an excuse to adjust Thunder's load. If you smile sweetly at him during breakfast, he suddenly focuses on a non-existent stain on his coat. It's like trying to melt a mountain with a firefly; completely hopeless.

You reach an inn on your way south, somewhere along the way. The place is crowded, filled with smoke and the acrid smell of cheap ale. Dunk sits in a corner, his gaze low as he drinks, carrying out his role as silent and boring guardian.

Tired of bumping into his armor of politeness, you decide you've had enough.

You get up and head to the bar and it takes less than a moment to catch the eye of a burly-looking mercenary with a scar on his cheek and an easy laugh. You lean against the counter, letting your shoulder brush against his, and let out a laugh that echoes above the din of the tavern.

“And you say you're traveling alone with that giant?” asks the mercenary, eyeing you up and down.

“He's been my friend for as long as I can remember,” you answer lightheartedly, making sure Dunk hears you, because of course he's listening and observing everything you do. “But he's a very... reserved man. I've almost forgotten what an interesting conversation is.”

The man bursts out laughing and tilts his head toward you, his face just inches from yours. Offering you a sip from his own mug, you lean in and accept, drinking slowly and staring at him with an intensity you've reserved exclusively for Dunk, until now.

The creaking of wood makes you flinch.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk spring to his feet, knocking his chair backward with a heavy thud.

He is standing behind you, his huge frame casting a shadow over your own. The mercenary glances up, turning pale at the sight of the tall figure menacingly looming in front of him.

“No more drinks,” Dunk growls. His voice is a low rumble, carrying a possessiveness you have never heard in it before.

“Hey, easy there, big guy, we were just…” the mercenary begins.

Dunk doesn’t let him finish.

He puts a hand on your waist and forces you to spin around to his side.

“We're leaving. Now,” he orders, looking you straight in the eye.

His jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth look like they're about to burst. His pupils are dilated, and for the first time, there is no trace of Ser Arlan in his gaze. There is only a jealous man who has reached his limit.

He doesn't even give you a moment to say goodbye to your new friend; Duncan is already dragging you out of the tavern with him.

The cold night air hits your face as soon as Dunk pushes open the tavern doors, but the heat emanating from his hand around your waist is all it takes to keep you burning.

“Let go of me, Duncan!” you exclaim, but there’s a hint of triumph in your voice that you can’t quite hide. You break free from his grip with a sudden movement and turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s wrong with you? I was having a pleasant conversation for the first time in weeks.”

Dunk comes to a sharp halt and turns toward you, his blue eyes glowing with anger in the darkness of the night.

“That conversation was not pleasant,” he snarls. “That man was looking at you as if you were a piece of meat at a banquet!”

“You don’t look at me, Dunk!” you fire back, waving your hands in exasperation. “You don't talk to me unless it's to tell me the road is long or the porridge is ready. If you don't want to appreciate what's right in front of you, don't complain when someone else decides to.”

“Seven fuck—you did it on purpose,” he gasps accusingly, his voice descending to a dangerously low murmur. “You knew I was watching. You knew I was going out of my mind sitting there while that fool was touching you—you're—fucking infuriating”

“Infuriating?” you repeat, breaking into a short, bitter laugh, feeling offended, and taking a step toward him until your shoes touch his leather boots. “What’s infuriating is having to seduce half the realm just to get you to stop looking at your own bloody hands and look at me instead!”

He keeps staring at you, catching his breath.

“I don't even know why you're whining so much. After all...” you make a dramatic pause, looking him up and down with a slow, disillusioned gaze, “it's not like you’re actually going to do anything about it.”

You turn around with an graceful sway of your hips and make your way back to your camp, concealed in the woods, and don't look back.

Dunk arrives long after you, shifting like a clumsy shadow through the trees. You hear him collapse onto his bedroll across the dying fire, letting out heavy sighs that betray how far sleep is from his grasp.

You smile to yourself, tucked away in your little tent, relishing the chaos you’ve sown in his mind.

The next morning, the sun is just beginning to filter through the leaves when you decide you’re ready to step outside. You expect to find him getting ready for the road, maybe still grumpy or avoiding your gaze as usual.

But what you see takes your breath away.

Dunk is standing with his back to your tent, shirtless.

The fresh dawn breeze brushes against his sun-tanned skin, and his shoulders, broad and powerful, flex and relax rhythmically. He is chopping wood with a small axe, each blow sharp and forceful, causing the muscles in his back to ripple in the golden light. Sweat makes his skin glow, accentuating every scar and line of his muscular, massive build.

You are frozen in the opening of the tent, just standing there watching him.

All of a sudden, he ceases his work, sticks the axe into the log, and slowly turns around. He doesn't seem surprised to see you; on the contrary, there is a fresh spark in his blue eyes, a look you haven't seen in him before—confidence.

“Good morrow,” he tells you. His voice is so deep, filling the clearing. He’s not in a hurry to get clothes on. Instead, he runs a hand through his messy hair and gives you one of those lazy, longing glances you usually give him. “You slept a lot. I thought maybe we should stay another day here, y’know?”

You linger there, your hand still gripping the fabric of the tent, suddenly feeling very small in front of his towering nude figure.

“Did the cat get your tongue?” he teases with a raised eyebrow, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, a motion that causes his biceps and pecs to flex in a very appealing way—one that makes your mouth water and your stomach flutter.

The tables have turned so fast you can practically feel the whiplash. Seeing Dunk like this—exposed, sweat-slicked, and radiating a sudden, quiet authority—is almost too much to handle.

You try to summon that playful, teasing voice that usually leaves him stammering, but your throat feels so tight.

“I... I was just going to the river to bathe,” you manage to say, your voice a little higher than you intended. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to look unimpressed despite the way your eyes keep betraying you, darting down to the hard lines of his stomach. “Since you’re so busy playing lumberjack, I figured I'd give you some space.”

Dunk huffs out a quiet laugh, low in his chest.

“Space?” he repeats, almost amused. “You’ve never cared much about giving me that before.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other under that look of his.

It’s irritating.

And unsettling.

And strangely... thrilling.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, trying to recover your composure, “maybe I’ve grown considerate overnight.”

“Mm,” Dunk nods slowly, though his expression says he doesn’t believe a word of it.

A breeze moves through the clearing, stirring the leaves and lifting a strand of your hair across your face. Dunk’s eyes follow the motion absentmindedly before drifting lower again—down your neck, the loose collar of your chemise, the bare curve of your shoulder and then, your breasts.

You feel it.

Seven hells, you feel it.

You cross your arms tighter, pretending it’s because of the morning chill and that you're not as lustful as a cat in heat, and that your nipples have stood erect ever since you saw the broad expanse of his back.

“Don’t stop working on my account,” you mutter. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

That earns a crooked smile from him.

“River’s that way, my lady,” he says, nodding past the trees. “If you’re bathing.”

You hesitate, because now that sounds like a challenge.

“Oh, I know where it is,” you reply lightly.

Silence stretches between you, birds chatter somewhere in the canopy above, and the fire crackles faintly behind him.

Then Dunk says, casually:

“You’re not going?”

You narrow your eyes. “I said I was.”

“...but?”

Your cheeks warm, and you hate that he’s noticed.

“I was waiting for you to turn around,” you shoot back. “Some of us like our privacy.”

“You?” Dunk huffs, incredulous. “Privacy?”

You glare at him. “Yes, Duncan. Privacy.”

He lifts both hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face lingers. “Alright, m’lady. I’ll be a perfect gentleman for you, then.”

Then he makes a small, exaggerated show of turning around, presenting you with the broad expanse of his back again.

You slide the chemise down one shoulder.

Then the other.

The morning air kisses your bare skin, cool and bright beneath the rising sun. You step out of the garment and let it fall into the grass behind you.

Dunk exhales sharply and you smile to yourself.

“Thought you weren’t looking,” you say sweetly.

“I’m not,” he answers quickly.

The lie sits awkwardly in his voice.

You let out a soft, amused hum and continue down the narrow path toward the river, the morning grass cool beneath your bare feet. The trees thin as you approach the water, sunlight breaking through the leaves in bright golden patches.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him stepping through the trees after you, large and unhurried, his expression no longer shy or flustered but stubbornly resolved.

The river glimmers ahead, cool and clear as it winds between mossy stones. You step down into the shallows, the cold water climbing slowly up your ankles, your calves, your knees.

It makes you gasp softly.

Behind you, Duncan reaches down to pull off his boots, dropping them onto the grass with a dull thud. Then his belt follows, the leather sliding free with a soft creak.

Your mouth opens slightly.

“Dunk—”

“You said it yourself,” he interrupts calmly, stepping closer to the water. “No one’s here but me.”

The water reaches his ankles, then his knees.

You can hear him exhale sharply at the coldness as he wades deeper.

His mouth tilts faintly, you can hear it in his voice.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, voice rumbling with quiet amusement. “You’ve been walking around me like a flame for weeks. Now you look nervous.”

You swallow, still with your back turned to him. “I’m not nervous.”

The words come out a little too fast.

Behind you, the river shifts softly around Dunk as he moves closer, the current curling around his legs. You can feel him there even without turning—his presence big and warm and just impossible to ignore.

For the first time in weeks, it isn’t him struggling to breathe.

It’s you.

“Mm,” he hums quietly, unconvinced.

You bend slightly, scooping a handful of cold water and letting it run over your arms, pretending to focus on the chill biting at your skin. The river only reaches your shoulders here, the surface rippling lazily in the morning light.

“Then why won’t you turn around?” he asks casually.

You swallow. “Because I’m bathing.”

“And I’m not?” he asks back.

You hear the faint splash as he dips his hands into the river, the sound of water sliding over skin. Your imagination, traitorous thing that it is, supplies the rest.

You force your tone to stay light. “You’ve bathed before without staring at me.”

“That was before,” Dunk says.

You finally glance back over your shoulder.

Big mistake.

He’s closer than you expected—standing waist-deep in the river, water streaming slowly down his chest and shoulders. His hair is damp where he’s splashed it, darker now, and his blue eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

Your heart stumbles.

“Well?” you say, forcing a teasing smile. “Enjoying the view?”

Dunk exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh.

“You’ve been asking that question for weeks,” he murmurs.

“And?” you challenge softly.

For a moment he doesn’t answer.

His gaze drifts—over your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your neck where droplets of water slide slowly down your skin.

Then his eyes come back to yours.

“Yes,” he says simply. “I am”

“Well,” you manage, trying to recover your playful tone, “that wasn’t very difficult to admit, was it?”

“You have no idea how difficult it was.” Dunk huffs quietly.

You tilt your head. “Oh, I think I do—”

Suddenly cold water splashes against your side.

You gasp, jumping slightly.

“Dunk!”

He’s grinning now, wide and unguarded in a way you’ve rarely seen.

“You were getting too comfortable again,” he chuckles.

“Oh, is that so?” Your eyes narrow.

You scoop up water and fling it back at him and the splash hits his shoulder and chest, droplets flying everywhere.

Water pushes against his broad hips as he moves, sending small waves rolling toward you. His grin hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown softer, warmer, like he’s finally letting himself enjoy the moment instead of fighting it.

“You’re smiling,” you note suspiciously.

“Aye,” he says.

“That usually means trouble.”

“Only for you.”

You splash him again in retaliation, but this time he’s close enough that it barely slows him.

Now the river barely moves between you. His chest rises and falls slowly, droplets of water sliding down the planes of his shoulders.

You suddenly become very aware of how tall he is, how close. How warm the air feels between your bodies despite the cold river.

“You really thought I wasn’t going to do anything?” he asks.

Your heart beats faster.

“Well…” you murmur, trying to hold your ground, “you usually don’t.”

“You’re impossible,” he breathes out.

“And you're annoyingly boring,” you retort playfully.

“Gods help me,” he murmurs.

Then his hand lifts.

Big, rough fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, almost hesitant for half a heartbeat and he studies your face like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Your lips part slightly.

That seems to be all the answer he needs.

Dunk exhales a trembling sigh, and finally, he leans down.

When he kisses you, it isn’t hesitant the way everything else about him has been. It’s warm and certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like something long overdue finally happening.

Your fingers curl instinctively against his chest, water shifting around you both as you lean into him, relishing in his taste, in his lips.

Dunk groans against your lips and his big hands explore your body with a wild desperation, one tangling in your wet hair, gently pulling to tilt your head, while the other slides down your wet back until it cups your bum with a firmness that makes you breathe out a muffled gasp.

“Tell me t–to stop,” he pants in between hot kisses, his warm breath clashing with the icy water that laps at your lower body. “Tell me to stop, my love, and I—I will.”

“Don't—don't stop. Take me, Dunk, oh please, just fuck me,” you cry out, clinging to his neck with your arms and pressing your bare breasts against his firm chest.

Dunk doesn't need to be told twice. He lifts you with astonishing ease, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He holds you with one arm under your thighs, as if you weigh nothing, as his other hand roams your body, exploring every curve he had previously only dared to sneak a peek at. His rough fingers brush your waist, bringing a sigh from you that he devours with another kiss, one that is wilder and hungrier.

You feel his hard, demanding manhood pressing up against you through the water. Dunk buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nibbling you so hard you arch your back.

“Not here,” he hisses, his voice cracking with excitement. “The water’s too fucking cold.”

Still holding you, he emerges from the river with heavy, steady steps. Water drips from your bodies as he carries you toward the shore, and he stop at the grass and carefully sets you down on it.

As he takes his place above you, he covers your body with sweet kisses, lingering for a few precious moments to worship your breasts.

“Seven hells,” he groans, his body trembling with arousal as he watches your eyes roll back and your back arch for him. “You’re so beautiful, I’ve spent so many nights dreaming of this, you have no idea—fuck.”

He just won't stop talking sweet praises to your body as he covers it with kisses, sucks, and nibbles.

“So beautiful, so delicious, all for me, hm? You’re a dream. My dream.”

When his fingers reach your sex, already drenched by more than just the river water—and wetter than it at this point—you squeal out a little yelp that is lost in the forest and has him breathing heavily.

Dunk takes his time, savoring all of your reactions, tracing slow, purposeful circles that have you begging for more, arching your back off the grass.

“Did you just say something about me being boring?” he teases, his blue eyes burning with a new and dangerous self-confidence as he reaches down to kiss one of your knees, making himself a place in between them.

“Shut up and just get in already,” you whine out, one of your feet impatiently tapping against his backside to make him hurry up. “I’ve been ready for you for months, Duncan.”

You settle yourself more comfortably on the grass, drawing him closer to you with your legs wrapped around his hips. As he finally aligns himself with your pulsating, eager cunt, you feel him hesitate for a moment, awkwardly searching for the right angle in a way that is incredibly endearing, before he manages to find his entry into you.

He stays still for a moment, just as the head of his cock is stretching out into your wet folds, merely feeling your warmth, how you hold him tight and wrap around him from inside. It's a moment of pure lack of experience, where he doesn't know whether to move, how hard to push, or how to even breathe.

You help him, gently rolling your hips, urging him to thrust deeper, and Dunk stutters out a whimper, beginning to move on your lead.

His thrusts are gentle, tentative at first, and he watches your face closely, afraid you will show any sign of displeasure or disapproval. Every time you make a sound, he pauses for a moment, kisses you with an overwhelming tenderness, and then continues, growing more confident as he goes.

“Like this?” he shudders, as he leans down over you, his hips delivering a particularly deep thrust that knocks the life out of you. “Do y–you like it like t–this, m’lady?”

“Y–yes, Dunk, just like that, deeper... don’t stop,” you tell him, digging your nails into his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles tense under your grip. “You’re doing so well, so big...”

Encouraged by your sweet praises, he picks up the pace, and even though his movements are a bit uncoordinated, there's an earnestness in his passion that trumps any expert lover.

His big hands reach down to support your hips firmly, holding you, as he learns along the way how to give you the maximum amount of pleasure. He's clumsy, he's intense, and he's absolutely perfect.

“Dunk, don't—don't stop, keep going, p–please,” you whimper, and he obediently thrusts again with the determination to bring you over the edge.

The finish comes really fast, an overload of sensations where he, unable to hold it in any longer, loses himself in the rhythm, crying out your name like it's a prayer. Your body is still shaking, and every time you shut your eyes tight, you keep seeing him, sparkling like stars in a night sky.

His cock goes all the way into your womb, painting your gummy, fluttering walls with his color and filling you up to the brim, seed gushing out of your clenched cunt and oozing down your inner thighs.

Duncan collapses on top of you, seeking solace in your embrace, burying his face in your neck as his breathing gradually steadies, still whimpering incoherent words and crying out your name with a broken voice.

He is still deep inside you, throbbing and still spurting drops of seed, but he hurries to prop his elbows on either side of your head so as not to crush you with his nearly seven-foot height.

His fingers, still intertwined with yours on the grass, tremble slightly.

“Are you... are you okay?” he eventually asks in a croaky whisper, with such genuine concern that it almost makes you laugh. “Did I hurt you? It’s just... seven hells, I’ve never... I just didn't know how to make it last longer. I was too... I couldn't think about anything else but you”

“It was perfect, Duncan,” you soothe him, raising a hand to caress his damp cheek. “You're perfect”

He releases a sigh of relief that seems to come from deep within his lungs and leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I was afraid of being... I don't know, too rough. Or too clumsy,” he admits with a sheepish smile.

He squirms a little, still feeling the intimate connection between your bodies, and a new rush of heat begins to climb up his neck. He looks so adorably clueless in the afterglow, not quite sure whether to stay like this or find something to cover you with.

“Do you think the gods will be angry?” he abruptly asks, rising enough to look down at you as if the closest thing to a god around there, is you. “For being a knight and... well, this.”

You giggle softly and pull him by the neck to give him a quick, sweet kiss on the lips.

“I think the gods have more important things to do than spy on a woman and her man in the middle of the woods, Dunk.”

When you speak in such possessive terms, he blushes once again, his smile quivering bashfully before he leans his head in closer to you and kisses your lips lovingly.

“Your man,” he repeats, sealing the promise with another sweet kiss. “Yours.”

[idksmtms]

The Nameday Maiden (Maekar Targaryen x reader)

A/N: I was slowly seduced by this old-looking man and now I can’t get controversial age gap ideas out of my head… 

There is def a vibe change at one point during this because I just melded a bunch of abstract ideas together and it became this kinda floaty piece. I hope you still enjoy, and there is def more to come! 

Summary: Prince Maekar has enough to worry about with his two sons missing. He does not need grief from a mischievous young woman hellbent on getting him to enjoy himself. 

Word count: 3.7k 

Trigger Warnings: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), grumpy x sunshine, slightly canon typical misogynistic thoughts, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

“Are you always so dour?” A frown pulled at Maekar’s brow as he turned to his left to look at the young woman who was peering up at him with a curious glint in her eye. 

“Pardon?” He asked, voice low and gruff, but you simply continued looking at him in the same way. 

“I have watched you since you rode into the courtyard and all you have done is scowl or frown. Surely that is not all you do, though?” You asked, leaning a little closer over the arm of your chair. Maekar leaned back a little, eyes widening in shock before his frown deepened. 

“Why the fuck have you been watching me so closely?” He asked, grimacing a little when he remembered how stern his father had once been about being ‘indelicate’ around women. 

“Curiosity, I suppose,” you shrugged, blinking up at him. “Well, that and the fact that it is my name day celebration and I would hope that everyone enjoys themselves,” you smiled a little at that, adjusting the cuff of one sleeve. 

Maekar grimaced again when he finally realised who you were, shifting in his seat a little and glancing out at the tourney ground where the knights prepared. 

“Congratulations,” he grumbled, and your smile became a little more like a smirk as you nodded in thanks. You didn’t let up on your gaze though, continuing to watch him as if waiting for his answer to your initial question. It unsettled him, made him feel as if he was sitting too close to a hearth and the flames licked at his skin. 

Why the fuck were you still watching him? Why were you so interested in him? Did not young women have other more frivolous interests to attend to? Surely your father had gifted you with some new dresses or fabrics or something of the sort to capture your attention? Why were you sitting here and posing such questions to a prince of the realm? Was it insolence, disrespect, or idiotic naivete? When you continued watching him, your eyebrows a little raised, he let out a long sigh, rubbed at his face, and spoke in a tired voice with his eyes still closed. 

“My sons have gone astray on their way to Ashford and I worry for them. The youngest is only just nine.” 

“Oh,” your face dipped into a little frown as well, your lower lip pouting just a smidge. That expression worked wonders to endear you to him. He looked at the dip of your lashes as you looked down, the curve of your lips, and how you seemed to wear all your emotions and expressions on your sleeve. A little sprig of warmth bloomed in his heart. “I am sure your sons are alright,” you told him softly, looking up again and offering him a comforting smile. “Perhaps they were forced to stop in one of the surrounding villages. Have you sent people to look?” 

He scoffed a little at first, getting ready to express his frustration with Daeron and how this was surely his plan from the moment he was sent off, but the earnest look on your face stopped him. He was about to express that the only reason he was attending this tourney was to come look for them himself, why else would he be in such a backwoods place as Ashford, but he refrained once more. For some unfathomable reason, he did not want to inadvertently hurt your feelings. He found no pleasure in breaking the hearts of joyful young women, especially not on special occasions. 

“I will go looking myself,” he chose to answer instead, pursing his lips as he silently hoped you would turn your attention elsewhere and allow him to brood (or spout complaints into Baelor’s ear to his right, he could feel the bastard smirking at his predicament, he just knew it). 

“In the meantime then,” you chirped, smile returning to your face as you clasped your hands together on top of the arm of the chair, “you must enjoy yourself. If for no other reason than to distract yourself from your worries.” 

 “I am enjoying myself just fine,” he responded gruffly, turning to face the grounds again in the hopes that you would take it as a cue to cease bothering him. 

“It does not seem like it,” you quipped, and his scowl deepened. “There, see, you are not enjoying yourself one bit.” 

“I am enjoying myself just fine!” He exclaimed, turning to glare at you as others began to look in his direction. Silence fell over the box for a moment, eyes wandering to the commotion. He huffed, falling back in his chair as Baelor turned to raise his eyebrows at him. 

“Are you alright, brother?” He asked in that perpetually-soft voice of his. 

“I am fine,” Maekar gritted out, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to see your own sparkling and your lips pursed to hide a smirk. His hands clenched on the arms of the chair. There was no denying it now, you were under his skin. 

Maekar stood abruptly, mumbling something about returning soon, then stormed off, his head full of fuming thoughts, and all surrounding you. 

You did not wait long to follow after your latest project. 

When the Targaryens had arrived just before the beginning of the tourney organised for your nameday, your father had dragged you out to stand in the courtyard to welcome them. You understood that it was custom, and you did not mind it too much, but a welcome was always the most boring part of the festivities. You had put on your beautiful new gown, a mix of daffodil yellow and shimmery fabrics and pale oranges to deepen out the skirt, and stood beside your mother and father to welcome them. 

You watched their horses with curiosity, black stallions and white mares dressed in regalia as elegant as those the men wore. But the thing that intrigued you the most, was how dour they all seemed. You had been of the opinion that royalty should be kind and of a sunny disposition, but it appeared that was not the case. 

The crown prince was kind in his greeting, watching you bow with a little smile and patting the top of your head once as he congratulated you on your nameday. And his son was polite, if a little subdued, nodding his head in your direction as he greeted your father then followed after his own. But your curiosity was truly piqued when Prince Maekar and his son appeared. 

Aerion did not even bother with the formalities of a greeting, breezing past your father and into the keep. Prince Maekar was not much better, grumbling his hellos, barely glancing over you, and falling into step with the rest of his family. 

You had felt indignant at first, a little annoyed that though this was supposed to be in celebration of you, no one was giving you a second thought. But that had dissipated and only bloomed into curiosity as the day passed into evening. At dinner, you were sitting near Aerion but he paid you no attention, turning completely away to focus on his father and uncle’s conversations with your family. You did not mind as you did the same, but your eyes never strayed far from Prince Maekar.

If someone asked, you would not be able to tell them why he intrigued you so. He was older, widowed, a fourth son with children of his own, and as far removed from you as could be. You were the third child of a minor house, a daughter whose only value was the chance of a good marriage, not a great one. But you had been curious since the day you were born, and the most intriguing things were always the most inaccessible. 

Prince Maekar was scowling more often than not, he expressed his opinions in gruff and aggressive words with no regard for the opinions or feelings of others. Even the way he cut the meat on his plate was almost violent. And yet all you wanted was to see what he looked like when he smiled… 

After dinner, the first jousts were to begin, and all of you gathered on the balcony overlooking the tourney grounds. With the arrival of the royals you were relegated to the second row, watching the backs of their heads and the jousts over their shoulders. Your brothers were competing for you, but you could not have cared less when you were plotting how you would insert yourself into Prince Maekar’s life and get what you wanted: a smile. 

The next day would be long, jousts and duels only broken up by feasts for luncheon and supper, and you were sure that you could find an opportunity to speak to him, to force his attention onto you. And now here you were, skirts bunched into your hands as you raced through the halls in your silk slippers to keep up with him, your hair billowing behind you. 

He had not gotten very far, and you made a little prayer to the gods as you sped up a little to fall into step beside him. You were forced to almost run to keep up with him, your hold on your skirts slipping a little as you spoke. 

“Where are you going?” You asked, voice airy and out of breath. He stopped abruptly, turning to glare down at you. 

“Why are you following me?” He asked roughly, and you could almost hear his teeth grind against each other as he clenched his jaw. 

“Because I want to know where you are going,” you answered simply, letting go of your skirts as you stood in front of one another. He paused for a moment, then continued on his way again, his long strides carrying him so quickly. You were left to follow once more, but when he noticed you were still there, he stopped again and huffed out an angry breath. 

“You understand this is insolence, do you not?” His words were biting, gruff as they always were, and the glare in his eyes was fierce. All it did was attach you to him more. 

“You have not ordered me away,” you told him, not taunting or teasing, simply making him aware. He paused for a moment, simply staring you down, then said, 

“I order you to stop pestering me, and to leave me alone.” You smiled a little then, but pressed your lips together to try and hide it. 

“I am neither pestering you, nor making any attempt to keep you company, my Prince. I am simply walking in the same direction as you.” And that only enraged him more, his face turning red with anger, his fists clenching, and a growl rumbled from him that would have made any man tremble and back down within an instant. But you simply stood there and smiled gently up at him until he closed his eyes and began taking deep breaths in. He rubbed his hand across his face and stood there for a moment with it pressed over his eyes. 

You felt sorry for a second. You did not mean to cause him grief or distress, he had enough of that already. You cleared your throat a little and flitted your eyes all over him. 

“My Prince?” You asked quietly, stepping closer. He dropped his hand from his face and looked at you, one eyebrow raising. “May I?” And you gestured at where his cloak had gained an unnecessary fold by his shoulder, caused by the clip going wonky. You didn’t wait for a response, simply reached up and adjusted the clip on his chest, unfolding the bit of cloak and righting it on his shoulder.

Maekar felt frozen as he watched you fuss over him, your brow furrowing a little and your lower lip pushing out as you used both your hands to smooth the cloak. His breaths became shallow and something in his chest shifted, warmed, became a pit all at once. It had been a long time since someone had fussed over him like this, since someone had cared enough to notice… He gulped a little, and his fists clenched tighter before loosening. 

“I was going to go for a long walk in the woods,” he put emphasis on the word ‘long’ and it made a little spike of sorrow flash through you. Why did he have to be alone? 

“May I accompany you?” You asked softly, the frown on your face smoothing out into a look of gentle hopefulness. 

“These are your nameday celebrations, you should not be disappearing,” he tried, putting on his best fatherly voice. You hummed, nodding a little. 

“I suppose you are right, but… as they are my nameday celebrations, should I not have a say in what I want to do? I would like to accompany you.” You smiled at that triumphantly, proud to have come up with a valid response, but he just huffed a little and shook his head, looking around the hall again. 

“It is not proper,” he finally broke out, clenching his fists again. “You are a young lady, you cannot be gallivanting off alone with men.” 

“You will not harm me, will you?” You asked, tilting your head a little as you met his gaze. His brow furrowed and he leaned back a little in disgusted shock. 

“Of course not, why the fuck would you even ask that?” He exclaimed, staring at you incredulously. You reached over and grasped his arm, lifting his forearm and then slotting your own into the bend of his elbow before turning back to the hallway and slowly beginning to walk, forcing him to follow if he did not want to drag you back and risk sending you tumbling. 

“As you will not harm me, I see no reason not to accompany you,” you told him, smiling up at him kindly before looking ahead again. You almost had a skip in your step. “And,” you added, “Ashford is my home. If you wish to go for a long walk in the woods and find your way back, you will need a guide. I have traipsed about this land all my life. I know exactly the places to take you.” You said it all with such firm decisiveness, and such a sweet smile on your face, that Maekar could find no words to deny you. Even breath seemed hard to come by at that moment. 

You led him through the halls and out of a side entrance that led straight out onto the fields that bordered the keep. It was not a long walk until you were under the cover of trees, and there you slowed a little to ensure the walk would be as long as possible. 

In that time, Maekar had learned some key details about you. The first being that you seemed perfectly incapable of walking in a straight line. Even with your grip on his arm, your shoulder kept bumping into his, or his arm was stretched as you strayed but kept your grip on him. The next being that you were infinitely clumsy. You managed to catch your feet on roots often enough, and much of his job as your companion was to ensure you did not fall to the floor in your carelessness. The beginning of your walk consisted of him grunting angrily as he steadied you when your foot slipped on a dip in the ground as you were too busy staring up into the branches at the birds. 

“Watch where you step,” he grumbled, tightening his grip as he noted another dip in the ground you were sure to slip through. You simply ignored the comment, continuing to breathe in the fresh air, but you did slow a little to ensure you did not stumble so much. 

“So, what is it you do in your leisure time then?” You asked eventually when the ground evened a little and you had left the fields and Ashford town behind. Maekar turned his head a little to face you, watching you with that ever-present furrow to his brow. 

“I’m not sure if I ever get any of that,” he mumbled, and you just scoffed a little and turned to look at him. 

“That is simply not true, my prince. What do you do in the evenings when you have finished your meals but have not yet gone to sleep? Or days in which whatever business keeps princes busy does not last very long? Surely you have something to do,” you were persistent, and the way you looked when you spoke was so expressive that it felt fresh in comparison to his stoic family and home. 

“I suppose I go riding, or I read,” he answered simply, shrugging a little, and you smiled brightly at that, as if you had won something with that response. He looked ahead of you into the spaces between the tree trunks and the green leaves. He had once had things to do in those moments, people to spend time with and fun to have. But his wife was dead now, and his sons all grown and disappointing, and his brother preparing to ascend the throne. Much of his time was spent on councils or alone now… 

“I too love to ride,” you told him happily, skipping along for a few steps. “Father gifted me a lovely white mare many namedays ago, and she is the sweetest creature to ever exist!” You had a beautiful lightness to your eyes as you spoke, and Maekar almost felt a smile pull at his lips as he watched you babble on about your beloved horse. Another thing he had learnt, you were rather talkative. 

“What is your mare called?” You asked softly, looking up at him with earnest eyes. “The white one you rode in on.” 

“Duchess,” he told you, and you noticed the way his forehead had smoothed out, and he was no longer scowling. He looked almost… at peace. You felt something spark in your chest. Triumphant, yes, but also more… something warm and soft, like the way one feels when they are content and cozy in their bed. 

And somewhere along your path, as the two of you strolled deeper in the safety of the trees and quietly bathed in the dapples of sunlight, the feeling between you changed. The air softened and cocooned you, hiding the both of you from the world. Your hands gripped him gently, and he pressed you closer, not saying a word as he kept you tucked at his side. The two of you shared soft sighs and gentle caresses over your hands, a sudden intimacy that could not be explained, but was only right. 

“My prince,” you began quietly, and he looked at you, waiting for whatever question you would come up with now. “Are you happy?” You asked softly, with the concern and care of someone who was truly interested. 

Maekar’s stride slowed, and though he was staring at your face, you didn’t feel that he was looking at you. Your brows were furrowed as you watched him, his lips parting a little as if he was going to say something, but no response appeared. You clung to him a little tighter. 

“I do not mean to insult or sound frivolous,” you began again, your voice soft and caring now, “and I may be completely wrong in my deductions, but… you do not seem happy.” 

Maekar let out a long and low sigh, lifting his head up to look into the canopy of the trees for a few moments. His arm was almost limp in your grasp, but you only clung to it tighter, almost fearing letting it go. 

“I oft think,” he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word as if he was thinking as he spoke, “that I no longer know what the word means, ‘happiness’.” 

You frowned, pausing in your step and turning to fully face him. He smiled a sad smile as he looked down at you, a bloom of warmth in his chest at the expression on your face. You felt too deeply, he thought. 

“That is… rather upsetting,” you finally breathed out, looking into his eyes as your head tilted a little. “That makes me sad.” But he just continued smiling that sad smile and you could not bear it. You reached up and gently smoothed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the soft skin above his beard. You ran your fingers over his forehead and the other cheek too, smoothing what you could until he looked peaceful again, and your own face mirrored the expression. 

“Sweet, infuriating, one,” he whispered, reaching up and gently cupping your cheek. You preened under the attention, blinking slowly as you nuzzled into his rough palm. You reached up and held his hand against your face, looking up at him with big eyes. “Why are you so intrigued with me, hm? Why do you waste your time on an old man like myself? There are far better men to fawn over.” 

Because of course that was what you had been doing, fawning. It was dressed in jokes and smirks and antagonising comments, but you were fawning, and it had been obvious from the start. 

“I…” you trailed off, shuffling a little closer so you felt comfortably pressed to his chest, and engulfed in the warmth he radiated without trying. “You are not old,” you argued quickly, shaking your head a little, but not enough to dislodge his hand from against your cheek. He smiled softly at that, just the littlest pull at the corners of his lips, and a small chuckle shook his chest. You smiled too, because that was all you had wanted after all. “And I do not waste my time,” you said, your indignant tone returning a little from before. “You are not a waste of time,” you shrugged simply. 

Maekar clutched you a little closer at that, gazing down at you with his striking blue eyes, so full of emotion, like nothing you had seen before. You were mesmerised. And he was nothing less. Looking at you, at your delicate face and the way you looked at him in return, with reverence and care, a care he had not seen nor felt for years. And what was he, if not just as intrigued as you? Fawning over you?

“Alright my sweet, infuriating, one,” he sighed, and then he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to yours, caressing your cheek with his thumb, threading his fingers through your hair, and kissing you breathless.

[cosmictheo]

𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐘 ── series masterlist

⋆ . ۰˚ ☽ ˚ ｡ “I wonder wich will kill you faster, child—your loyalty or your kindness?”

── 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: During the Ashford Meadow tournament, where she is expected to choose a noble husband and secure her place within the dynasty, Prince Baelor Targaryen's only daughter feels increasingly burdened by the weight of her lineage and her lack of self-belief and identity, finding a sense of companionship in her cousin Aerion, with whom she has long shared a secret and passionate romance, a bond as suffocating as it is unbreakable.

Amidst the chaos of the event and that of her family, she crosses paths with Ser Duncan the Tall, a humble hedge knight with a noble heart and gentle eyes. Despite the vast gulf between their worlds, an immediate and soul-stirring bond sparks between them, one that feels like a reunion with an old friend, dictated by fate itself. This encounter forces her to confront the true cost of loyalty, questioning whether love is a burden to be endured through duty, or a path to be chosen through courage.

To find her truth and claim what is hers, the Gentle Dragon must bleed; she shall surrender the skies and cast away her wings, for only in falling shall she learn how to love.

── 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Ser Duncan the Tall x Reader ─ Aerion Targaryen x Reader

── 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~ 30k

── 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (this will contain major spoilers!): this story is intended for mature audience (18+ only). for aerion ─ targcest, dark romance, psychological manipulation, obsessive/toxic behavior, power imbalance, implicit smut. for dunk ─ past life lovers/soulmates trope, slow burn, forbidden romance, hurt/comfort. in general ─ love triangle, nudity, use of medieval contraceptives, canon-typical violence, descriptions of gore and severe physical injuries, complicated family dynamics, angst, major character death, grief and loss, canon compliant.

── 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬:

‧ ˚ ⋅ ✦ ── one

‧ ˚ ⋅ ✧ ── two

‧ ˚ ⋅ ✦ ── three

‧ ˚ ⋅ ✧ ── four

‧ ˚ ⋅ ✦ ── five

‧ ˚ ⋅ ✧ ── six

‧ ˚ ⋅ ✦ ── seven

[cosmictheo]

𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | ser duncan the tall

( gif credits to @usergambit)

—summary: lord lyonel has a hawk's eye for detail, and he’s set his sights on the hedge knight lingering too close to his daughter. so he decides to interrogate him about his intentions, letting slip how carefully you choose your lovers and stirring a spark of jealousy in dunk. —pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader —word count: 4.8k —content: smut / NSFW, minors dni!!!; oral sex (male receiving bc lord knows duncan deserves the sloppiest, most mind-blowing head ever), marking, lots of kisses, jealous!dunk, sassy & flirty reader, sexual tension, inexperienced dunk, praise, corruption kink, size difference, protective dad!lyonel, forbidden romance.

ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three

writer’s note: this will be the last chapter of this little series; i am extremely thankful for all the love you have given it, i’m so honored. hope you like it!

A day had passed since that encounter on the riverside, and for Dunk, time seemed to have stretched like metal in a forge. At sunset, he always seemed to find you in the same place—caught in the soft, molten gold of the dying sun, light spilling over the grass and dancing upon the river’s skin, warming even the dampest, most shadowed hollows of Ashford Meadow.

And when that twilight warmth touched his own skin, it was always you he felt —your cheek near his chest, your fingers looped around his arm as you walked together, as if such closeness were the most natural thing in the world.

He could not shake it.

He could not shake you.

So at last, he stops fighting the part of himself that tells him to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and people like you. But there is another part—louder and more stubborn—that knows fleeing from you would only bring him deeper trouble.

And trouble? Ser Duncan the Tall already has more than enough of it.

That morning, Duncan washes in the cold river near his camp, scrubbing away sweat and dust. He runs his hands through his bronze hair, slicking it back with river water, trying— and failing —to tame it into something resembling a knight fit to stand before a lord’s daughter. Not just some lord’s daughter, you.

Before he goes, he hesitates.

From his pack, he takes out a small stoppered vial, bought cheap from a market peddler, a simple little thing, no bigger than his thumb, filled with pale oil that smells sharply of crushed mint. He dabs a little at his wrists, then, awkwardly, at his neck, hoping the clean, green scent might chase away the river’s chill and the stink of travel.

It feels foolish.

But he does it anyway.

It is Egg who notice the flowers first, of course.

He walks along the edge of the camp where the grass grew tall and wild, dotted with small yellow blossoms that bent in the soft sunrise breeze.

“Those look like her colors,” Egg remarks, plucking one of the little yellow flowers and holding it up between his fingers to show them to Dunk. “Baratheon gold.”

But Duncan frowns. “They’re just weeds.”

“Not to a lady,” Egg reply, with the solemn certainty of a boy who thinks himself far wiser than he is. “You can’t go see her empty-handed.”

Dunk shifts his weight, suddenly awkward, conceding—however reluctantly—that the boy has a point. “I ain’t bringing her weeds.”

Egg snorts, really impressed by the ignorance a man so big can have. “They’re flowers, Ser. That’s different.”

He begins gathering them anyway, quick and efficient, handing them up to Dunk one by one. Before he quite knows how it had happened, he is holding a small, uneven bundle of yellow blooms, their stems damp with sap, their scent sweet.

Dunk stares at them as if they might bite him.

“She’s a highborn lady,” he mutters, genuinely failing to understand the whole concept of romance that Egg perceives. “What’s she want with field flowers?”

Egg just looks up at him, pale head tilted. “Better than nothing. Tell her you picked them yourself. That will count for something.”

Dunk knows better than to argue with Egg when he use that tone.

So he ties the stems together with a strip of twine, clumsy fingers fumbling as he does, and carry them in his hand as carefully as if they are made of glass.

Ser Duncan set out with long, determined strides toward the great yellow tent of House Baratheon.

He has scarcely reach the entrance when a familiar, thunderous voice stops him cold.

“My daughter appears to have lost the silk ties from her cloak.” Lyonel Baratheon greets him unexpectedly at the entrance to his tent, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “Curiously, they are the same shade of gold that peeks out from the edge of your doublet, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk feels as if the ground has suddenly turned into thin ice. His heart hammers against the very silk that is betraying him.

He stands there, towering over most men but feeling small under Lord Lyonel’s piercing, dark gaze. His gaze lingers on the flowers a heartbeat too long.

The Laughing Storm isn't laughing now. He is sitting on a heavy wooden chair, nursing a cup of thick blackberry wine, his eyes tracking the sliver of gold fabric like a hawk watching a field mouse.

“I… I, uh…” Dunk stammers, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the Baratheon wine. He instinctively claps a massive hand over his pocket to hide the favor, which only makes him look more guilty. “It’s just a bit of… cloth, my lord. To, uh, mend a tear in my… m–my horse’s blanket?”

“A horse’s blanket?” Lyonel repeats, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. He stands up, his height no match for Duncan's, but even so, he stands firmly in front of him. “You’re telling me my daughter’s personal silk is being used to patch up some dusty palfrey?”

The tension is thick enough to choke on. Dunk’s mind went completely blank. He is a man of his word, and lying felt like trying to swallow a mouthful of dry wool.

“Father, do not frighten my friend.”

Your voice cuts through the air like a silver bell, and Dunk feels a wave of relief so strong he nearly sags where he stands. You step out from behind the inner curtain of the tent, radiant in a gown of deep charcoal and amber, your presence breaking the storm before it can truly fall.

“I didn't lose it,” you say, walking over to your father and placing a steadying hand on his arm to calm him down. You give the tall man a look that is both sweet and sharp. “I gave it to Ser Duncan. As a reward.”

Lyonel’s eyebrows shots up so high they nearly disappear into his dark hairline. He crane his head, thankfully withdrawing his intent gaze from Duncan and looking at you, unimpressed. “A reward? For what? Did he slay a fucking dragon while I was napping?”

You let out a soft, musical laugh and turn your eyes to Dunk. The look you give him is heavy with that same secret intimacy of always, a look that make his knees feel like water.

“He did something much rarer, Father,” you explain, stepping toward Dunk until you are close enough to smell the sweet river water on his skin. “He offered me his friendship. And since you’re always complaining that I’m too ‘reckless,’ I thought it wise to have a man of his… stature… keeping an eye on things. On me.”

Lord Lyonel lets out a sound that was half-scoff, half-grunt. He looks up at Dunk, then at you, then back at the golden silk peeking out proudly on the hedge knight's pocket.

“Friendship, eh?” Lyonel finally barks, a small, begrudging smirk forming on his lips.

His dark eyes flick between you and Dunk, sharp as ever, missing nothing, the way you stand just a bit too close, the way Dunk looks like a man trying very hard not to breathe too deeply of your perfume.

“Well,” Lyonel goes on, rolling the word around like he’s tasting it, “if my daughter has decided you’re her new companion, I suppose I ought to see what sort of man I’m trusting her to.”

Dunk straightens instinctively, shoulders back, trying to look every inch the honorable knight he wishes he were.

“I’d give my life to protect her, my lord,” he says, earnest and simple, the truth ringing in every word.

That earns him a long, measuring look.

“Hmph!” Lyonel snorts. “Seven save me, you hedge knights and your big fucking words.” Then, to Dunk’s surprise, he steps aside and gestures into his tent. “Come. Have a cup of wine with me.”

Dunk blinks. “My lord?”

“A cup,” Lyonel repeats, smiling way too much. “Unless you’re afraid of Baratheon wine?”

That, at least, draws a crooked grin from Dunk. “No, my lord. Not afraid of wine.”

You hide your smile behind your hand, suppressing a laugh. Dunk shoots you a helpless look, and you answer with a small, apologetic smile that somehow makes his chest ache even more.

Inside the tent, the air is thick with the scent of leather, smoke, and crushed berries. Lyonel pours two cups of the dark, heavy wine and thrusts one into Dunk’s massive hand.

“To knights who know their place,” Lyonel says dryly, lifting his cup.

Dunk raises his own very awkwardly, his mind going too fast with nerves to prevent the very first thoughts forming on his lips. “To… your daughter.”

Dunk freezes the instant the words leave his mouth.

The tent seems to go very, very quiet.

Lyonel Baratheon slowly lowers his cup, dark eyes narrowing just a fraction. For one terrible heartbeat, Dunk is certain he has just signed his own death warrant with a mouth full of blackberry wine.

You, however, tilt your head and study him with something dangerously close to fondness.

“My daughter,” Lyonel repeats after him. “Not knights. Not honor. Not the Seven. My daughter.”

Dunk clears his throat, ears burning. “I meant— I just— she’s important, my lord. To you. And… and to me. And to the... realm.”

It is the simplest truth he knows how to give.

For a long moment, Lyonel only stares at him. Then he lets out a loud bark of laughter, slapping a heavy hand against the table.

“Gods be good,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re either the bravest man in this camp or the stupidest.”

Dunk manages a sheepish half-smile. “Begging your pardon, my lord. Could be both.”

The wine burns its way down Dunk’s throat, bold and strong — much like the man standing before him.

Meanwhile, you hover near the tent’s opening, your fingers worrying at the edge of your cloak. You meet Dunk’s eyes, just for a heartbeat, and in that look is everything unspoken: come find me.

And Lyonel follows his gaze to you.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says, catching on far too quickly. “You think I don’t see what’s going on here?”

Dunk nearly chokes on his second sip.

Lyonel leans back in his chair, studying you both with an expression far too knowing. “My daughter disappearing into spontaneous walks with a young, big knight? With no guard or chaperone?” He clicks his tongue, “I wasn’t born yesterday, boy”

Your cheeks warm. “Father—”

“Relax,” Lyonel cuts in, holding up a hand to silence you. “I’m not saying anything improper is happening.” His eyes flick meaningfully to Dunk, “Yet.”

“Yet...” Lyonel repeats, savoring the word far too much for Dunk’s comfort.

He sets his cup down with a soft thunk and folds his arms over his broad chest, studying Dunk like a commander sizing up a new recruit.

Ser Duncan is desperate to pour himself a little more wine to fill the now empty cups, consciously turning his eyes down to the cup and praying he were able just sink himself into it and be absorbed in the deep red liquid.

“My daughter,” Lyonel starts slowly, thoughtfully, “has always had… excellent taste.”

Dunk stiffens, opening the blue-colored eyes wide.

“In horses,” Lyonel goes on, eyes glinting. “In wine.”

A long pause.

“In men.”

Dunk's face is equally vibrant red as the beverage, close to choking as he drinks yet another big sip of it.

“She doesn’t take just anyone into her confidence,” Lord Lyonel adds casually, far too casually. “Or into her tent, for that matter.”

Dunk nearly drops his cup at that.

You make a small, scandalized sound. “Father!”

The man only smirks. “What? It is true, my love. You’ve never been one for dull company. Just like me.”

He looks back at Dunk, dark eyes sharp and amused.

“My daughter chooses her lovers with care,” Lyonel explains to him, the word heavy with implication. “And she’s never lacked for suitors. Knights, lords’ sons, even a prince or two who thought themselves charming enough.”

Something tight and ugly twists in Dunk’s chest at that.

He hadn’t known that.

He hadn’t wanted to know that.

“I—” He swallows, not knowing really what to say to that exactly. “I’m honored, then, my lord.”

Should he feel honored? Special?

Undoubtedly, Duncan feels anything but those things.

Lyonel studies him for a long beat, noting the obvious way his broad shoulders have sagged, just a little, under the weight of everything he has just said.

Then, unexpectedly, he snorts.

“Hells. You actually care.” A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s new.”

He gestures vaguely toward the tent opening, deciding the poor knight has been tested enough.

“Go on,” Lyonel urges. “Before I decide your head would look better mounted on one of my bedposts.”

“M’lord”

Dunk does not need to be told twice. He follows you away from the main tent, your personal guard already dismissed, his long strides a little less steady than usual.

“You survived,” you tease softly, glancing back at him with playful eyes.

“Barely,” Dunk admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your father’s a fearsome man.”

“He likes you,” you say, eyes bright. “That’s worse.”

He laughs, low and nervous. “That so?”

For a heartbeat, he hesitates and then he clears his throat and holds out the small, uneven bundle of yellow flowers, suddenly very interested in the ground at his feet.

“These are for you,” he says, voice rough with sheepishness. “I… I picked ’em myself. They— they reminded me of you.”

Your smile widens at once, warm and teasing.

“How very thoughtful of you, Ser Duncan,” you say lightly, accepting them. “They’re beautiful.”

With your other hand, you reach for his, your fingers slipping easily between his calloused ones, warm and loving.

Dunk swallows, looking down at you in awe.

Pulling his hand, he lets you lead him, because he is not certain his legs would remember how to move on their own.

Dunk stands awkwardly once inside, too big for the space, hands unsure of what to do with themselves.

He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, glancing sideways as you pace around, reaching for a glass of sweet wine from the table, placing down the flowers gently.

“I don’t like thinking of other men looking at you the way I do,” Dunk admits quietly.

Duncan looks like he wants to swallow the words the moment they leave his lips, his large frame tensing as he awaits for your reaction. He feels like a fool—a hedge knight with no lands to his name, begrudging princes and lords their gaze.

You pause, the glass of wine halfway to your lips, and turn to look at him. The golden light filtering through the yellow silk of the tent walls bathes you in a warm, ethereal glow, making you look like the very goddess he sees in his dreams.

“The way you look at me, Ser?” you ask softly, setting the glass down. You take a slow, deliberate step toward him. “Ow, don't tell me you're jealous now”

Dunk’s large hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into his palms as if trying to grasp for a composure that has completely abandoned him. He looks down at his boots, then up at the yellow silk ceiling, doing anything to avoid that knowing, astute gaze of yours.

“Your father is right. You have excellent taste, and,” he gulps down nervously when you look up at him like that, as you face him standing right in front of him. “I… I’m just a man who happened to be tall enough for you to notice.”

You reach out, your fingers feather-light as they brush against the back of his hand. Dunk flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away; instead, he turns his hand over, his palm catching your delicate fingers.

“Is that what you still think?” you ask, stepping so close that the charcoal silk of your skirts rustles against his legs. “That I only noticed you because you’re tall? There are plenty of tall men in Ashford, Duncan.”

Certainly not as tall or as handsome as him, though.

Dunk’s breath hitches. His hand, so much larger than yours, trembles as he raises it to your face. He hesitates for a second, his thumb hovering just over your cheekbone, before he finally finds the courage to touch you. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the smoothness of yours.

He sighs tremulously, gathering the courage he requires to look you in the eye and utter a reply, it's so hard when you are gazing at him with such longing.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice thick and vibrating with a sudden, raw intensity, his breath catching as you slide your hand up to the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. “I know there are other men—”

You rush to interrupt him, denying with your head, “There are no other men.”

You tug gently, pulling his head down. Dunk obeys instantly, his body acting on instinct, his large hands coming up to hover uncertainly at your waist. He looks at your lips with a hunger that makes your stomach flip, yearning.

And then you lift your other hand, bringing the cup of wine to his mouth so he can take a drink.

Dunk blinks, startled for a second, and then leans down just enough to obey like the good boy he is. The rim of the cup brushes his lips, and he takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. The wine stains his mouth darker, and you can’t help noticing it, the way his breath comes a little heavier afterward.

After that, you take a small sip yourself, savoring the delightful taste of the wine and also the taste of his lips at the spot where he touched the rim of the glass.

“There,” you murmur, alluringly licking your lips under his attentive gaze. “For courage.”

Dunk’s pupils dilate until his eyes are as dark as the blackberry wine he just tasted. He watches your tongue dart out to catch a stray drop on your lower lip, and the wet sound he makes is half-groan, half-prayer.

“I don’t think I've ever lacked for courage, my lady,” he rasps, his voice trembling as his hands finally find purchase on your waist. His fingers are so long they nearly meet at the small of your back, pulling you flush against the solid, warm wall of his chest. “I’m going to do something very stupid.”

He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours and you're truly surprised by his sudden boldness.

“I certainly hope so, Ser Duncan,” you whisper back and then, you reach up, your fingers tangling deeper into the thick, sun-kissed hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him that final agonizing inch down.

Dunk kisses you with a desperate, honest hunger, his large hands sliding up your back to cradle your head, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

The kiss is heavy, unpracticed, and utterly devastating. Duncan groans into your mouth, a low, animalistic sound that rattles through your chest.

And his strength is staggering. As he pulls you closer, your feet nearly leave the ground and with a boost from all the pent-up desire you've been repressing, you hop onto his body, climbing him like a mountain.

Dunk’s breath hitches in a sharp, jagged gasp as your weight settles against him. His hands, previously hesitant, now slam against your thighs to hold you in place, his fingers digging into fancy silk with a desperate grip, your legs wrapping around his waist with the same desperation his hands reach through your skirts, groping for your skin.

You don't give him a chance to breath as he walks backwards, towards the large, fur-covered bed.

You trail a line of biting kisses along his jaw, moving toward the sensitive skin of his ear, while your hands frantically work at the laces of his doublet.

And you kiss him again. As you deepen the kiss, the distinct, refreshing scent of mint rises from his skin at the base of his neck, driving you even wilder.

Once he is seated on the edge of the bed, with you straddling him, Dunk helps you, his big, calloused hands far less coordinated than yours as he tugs at his own clothes, desperate to shed the layers between you.

And when his upper body is bare for you, you can't help but gaze at him with your breath quickening and your lips slightly parted. You can feel yourself getting so wet as you feast your eyes on his big pecs and those stomach muscles, with hairs curling on his chest. Your eyes drift down, taking in his abs, your mouth watering at the sight of that little happy trail down his belly, leading to his prominent erection hiding under his pants.

There's no reason to waste any more time when you have him right there. You push him down onto his back, arching slightly as you bend down, covering his chest and stomach with hot kisses.

“I–I've dreamt of this,” He pants, his voice cracking into a small mewling sound that crawls up his throat when you press a sweet kiss right over his heart. “Every night since the river, the night at the tent… I thought— I thought I was losing my mind.”

His hands, so big and eager, grasp your backside, pressing you down against him.

“It is not a dream,” you assure him, raising yourself up just enough above him to be able to whisper in his ear. “You have me right here to take, my love.”

He may feel that he could cum just from the way you pronounce the term of endearment, and how your teeth catch his earlobe in a nibble that teases the edge of pain, tugging at it playfully, proving to him that he indeed was not dreaming.

Duncan fumbles with the amber silk ties of your gown, his breathing coming in harsh hitches.

When the fabric finally gives way, revealing your shoulders and the swell of your breasts, Dunk freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes wide with a worship that borders on the sacred.

He seems to have forgotten how to breathe. His hands tremble against your skin as the gown falls, baring your shoulders beneath the golden light of the tent. Taking advantage of his stunned silence, you lean forward, letting your hair brush over his bare chest before drifting up to his neck.

“You smell so fucking good, Dunk…” you whisper against his warm skin, your warm breath sending a shiver like lightning down his spine. “Is it mint?”

He is red-faced and breathless, lifting his chin to grant you full access to his neck, “A–aye, I thought you'd like it”

“I love it,” you recognized, pleased.

You trail your nose to the hollow of his collarbone, where the mingled scent of mint and man is strongest.

It is not enough for you to only breathe him in; you let the tip of your tongue glide slowly, drawing a wet, burning line from the base of his throat up to the shell of his ear. You taste the salt of his skin, the raw trace of desire that seems to rise from every one of his pores.

The man lets out a broken groan, his head falling back against the furs of the bed as his fingers dig hard into your thighs. He feels as though he might come apart only from this alone.

Your tongue keeps exploring, licking with deliberate wetness along the tense muscle of his neck, marking your claim upon that colossal body that now feels entirely yours under you.

“Seven hells…” he pants, his voice fracturing as all semblance of composure deserts him.

Your lips find the frantic thrum of the pulse in his neck, and you suckle softly at the skin before dragging your tongue once more over the mark you are leaving through his skin. He arches beneath you and you can feel him throbbing, pressing up against your inner thigh.

“Do not stop, f–fuck—” he pleads, the words thickening into a low roar as his hands slide up your back to crush you against him. “Please, love… don’t stop.”

A playful, wicked curve touches your lips as you pull back just enough to look him in the eye.

“Love...” you relish the word as if you were relishing him.

Duncan is sprawled across the bed, looking up at you with glassy eyes, “Is it okay? I don't intend to cross...”

“Shhh...”

With a flirtatious smile that promises both heaven and hell, you reach for the loosened laces of your bodice.

You don't take your eyes off him for a second, savoring the way his breath hitches as you shrug the amber silk from your shoulders. The gown slides down your curves in a soft hiss of fabric, passing down around your hips until you sit before him in nothing but the golden glow of the tent.

Dunk’s mouth hangs open, his throat working as he tries to swallow the sudden dryness there, taking in the breathtaking sight of you bare upon him.

Your hands do not hesitate to reach for his breeches, tugging playfully at the waistband. Without breaking eye contact, you pull them down his legs; as you do, his manhood leaps free from its confinement, so big, leaking, and utterly desperate for you.

“What do you do to me those dreams of yours, Duncan?” you ask, your fingers tracing a slow path up his thick thighs, grazing the sensitive skin with the sharp, teasing edge of your nails.

“In my dreams…,” he rasps, his hoarse voice fracturing into a small, broken moan as he feels your fingers drumming against his skin, inching ever closer to his leaking cock. “I–I dream of your heat, and— and of the sounds you might make when I finally find my way inside. And of how I ruin you for everyone else.”

As you look up to him, Dunk’s pupils are blown so wide they swallow the blue of his eyes, leaving only a dark, shimmering hunger.

And then, your fingers finally close around him, firm and knowing, he let out a choked, desperate whimper.

You shift your weight, sliding down his body until you are kneeling between his thighs. The smell of him, raw and masculine, is overwhelming, mixed with the sharp scent of the mint on your own breath.

“Then ruin me, Ser Duncan.”

You don't hesitate; you lean forward, taking him into your mouth with a deliberate, slow suction around the tip that makes his pretty eyes roll back in his head.

“Fuck—” he cries out, his hands slamming down to grip your hair and guide you as your pretty lips attempt to swallow his head.

You take him deeper, your tongue tracing the length of him, savoring his salty taste through his leaking seed.

Dunk’s hips buck off the furs, his breath hitching into a series of broken, jagged sobs as you work him with skilled movements of your tongue and mouth. Your own moans vibrating around him as you take him deep in your throat.

“I cannot…” he groans at that, his fingers tighten in your hair as the world begins to dissolve around him. “I can’t hold, love… p–please…”

He thrusts his hips upward with a sudden, desperate strength, driven by a lifetime of repressed longing. You don’t pull back; instead, you use your hands to steady his thick thighs and take him even deeper, your throat tightening around him in a way that sends him over the precipice.

You feel the hot, heavy pulse of him against your tongue, the salty heat of his release flooding your mouth as he spills himself down your throat. So much that you struggle a little bit to swallow it all.

When you finally pull back, a thin, milky thread of him still connects with your plump lips.

Looking down at you from above, his eyes clouded with pleasure, Dunk feels his cock twitching, hardening once more at the overstimulating, overwhelming sight.

He reaches down with a trembling hand, his thumb catching the stray drop at the corner of your mouth, before slowly tracing his finger in between your lips, refusing to let any of him be lost anywhere but in your throat.

You eagerly suck on his finger, swallowing everything he gives you as if it were the finest wine.

“Come here,” he commands gently, his voice so hoarse, guiding you as you climb over his body so he can draw you closer and claim your mouth in a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.

You reach up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, still tasting the lingering scent of mint on his skin.

“My father was lying, you know?” you confess, your thumb brushing over his cheekbones, tracing away a few drops of sweat off his flushed skin. Your tone is light, but your eyes are serious. “When he said all that about me having so many lovers.”

Dunk’s hand, which had been idly stroking your back, freezes. His eyes go wide, the blue returning to them as the pupils finally contract. “You mean… there weren't… princes? Lords?”

“Oh, there were suitors,” you laugh softly, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the tip of his nose. “Dull, preening men who bored me to tears. But there were no lovers, Dunk. Not until a certain a big hedge knight sneaked into my tent.”

You watch the realization wash over him, the way his shoulders lose their tension, the way a flush creeps up his neck.

Your mouth find his once again. “I wanted you to know. I didn’t want you carrying that in your silly head.”

Duncan breathes heavily, resentfully patting your ass with his palms. “You Baratheons are wicked.”

Your cheeky laugh warms his bones.

“Needed something to happen so I could finally do this.”

He kisses you, needing nothing more, crushing you against his body in a tight embrace, “You didn't need to do anything. You always had me ”

Whatever catastrophes could arise, he knows that none can be as devastating as this storm. You.

And for Dunk, that feels like more than he ever dared hope for.

[thereal-jennyofoldstones]

Stag and The Flame series

Pairings: Maekar Targaryen X Baratheon!wifeoc

Synopsis : Lady Lynara Baratheon has been married to the Prince for a few months. After their return to Summerhall after Ashford Tourney they face a deep angst and tension between them as their marriage continues to be strained due to Maekar’s cold and isolating tendencies.

Tags : enemies to lovers, slow burn, age gap marriage, OC is early 20’s, whole point of series is angst and yearning, loyal to show mostly, post AKOTSK, smut in certain chapters MDNI, failed father sad Maekar, mentions of Dyanna Dayne

Playlist because I need that vibe set out

Status: Ongoing

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

[myladysapphire]

Pretty in pink I

Maekar never expected to marry again, never expected to love again. he tried to be a distant husband, a husband in name only. and yet you with your sweet smiles, kind eyes made it so hard for him to forget to be the stern man Westros knew him as, made it hard for him to forget that he didn't want to fall in love.

Maekar Targayren x Florent!reader

Word count: 3,661

CW: MDI 18 +, Arranged marriage, angst, bedding ceremony, smut. innocent and sweet reader, grump x sunshine. age gap. slow burn. by angst i mean a lot of angst like i cried writting some of this.

Masterlist | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

You had always been kind, had always been taught to find kindness in everything. To see the good in everyone. You were a sweet flower, as your mother would say, with none of the cunning of a fox, despite your house sigil. You were the perfect lady, kind, caring, beautiful and always doing what was expected of you. Even when it meant marrying the king's youngest son, becoming his second wife and mother to a large brood of children, the oldest of which was closer in age to you than your future husband. 

You had looked on the brightside, as you always did, you thought of a man who might grow to love you, a man who perhaps would be like the fairy tales you read as a child, a man willing to go to war for you. You thought of his younger children; perhaps they would grow to love you as a motherly figure, not as a mother. You knew you could never replace her, but you hoped perhaps there would be great happiness in your life. Even if you were to be the notoriously hard and tough man they call “the anvil”. 

You grew hopefully as you journeyed to the crownlands, thinking of the life you would live as a princess. 

You had never met the man that would be your husband, nor any royal to be exact, you would meet him for the first time on your wedding day. But your parents hadn't met till their wedding, and now they were the picture of adoration. You were the youngest child of five, though the only girl, and you had spent your whole life watching your brothers fall in love, allowed to marry ladies of their choosing. 

And yes, you were idealistic, but why wouldn’t you be? You have never had to worry about anything, never had to know a single second of sadness. 

You were filled with a sense of nervous joy as you journeyed to the sept, dressed in a pure white gown, with pink accents throughout your gown, small pink flowers laced throughout your dress, and your veil a soft blush. On your shoulders sat your maiden cloak, the blue a tricking contrast against your dress, the fox of your house sat proud on your back as your father escorted you into the sept. 

Prince Maekar stood tall as you walked through the sept, his gaze unmoving as you stood in the door, waiting for the orchestra to start the procession. 

He was far more handsome than you had expected. Though his face was stern, his cheeks were marred with scars, but they did not take away from his looks. He was thickly built, his silver hair was cut shorter than you had expected, but his eyes were what drew you in. As you walked closer, your father's grip on your arm grew tighter. The closer he got to having to let you go, you noticed the lightness of his eyes, you couldn’t tell if they were blue or purple. Your gaze locked with his as you finally approached the altar, your father hesitantly letting go of your arm, placing a soft kiss on your brow. 

Maekar's jaw ticked as you stood before him, his gaze assessing you as you greeted him with a soft smile. Your hands were joined with his as the septon began the ceremony, the roughness of his hands against the softness of your own. 

The septon droned on as you memorised every inch of your new husband, taking in the sternness of his face, how he seemed permanently annoyed by everything around him, how his hands were holding on to yours but seemed to play with your fingers as the septon spoke, he was doing it mindlessly it seemed as he stopped the second you drew attention to it. 

He spoke the vows quickly, his voice sharp and eager to get it over with. Your smile faltered. 

He kissed you quickly, barely touching your lips before moving back, and the smile faded from your face. 

The carriage ride to the red keep was silent, with him letting go of your arm as soon as you stepped inside. He sat opposite you, his eyes not once looking at you. You had tried to talk to him, but every response was a simple grunt. Your smile didn’t return to your face. You, a woman who had never stopped smiling her whole life, who had knights and lords falling at your feet to speak to you, and now your own lord husband didn’t even dare to look in your direction. 

The rest of the night was much of the same, your husband didn’t once ask you to dance, didn’t utter a single word, at least to you. He spoke with his brother Baelor and his children. But not with you.

You loved to dance, never had you had a feast, let alone a wedding, where you didn’t dance the whole night.  Instead, you sat and watched, drinking your wine glass until it was emptied and refilled over and over again. The only people you spoke to the whole night were Maekar's sons, Daeron and Aerion. Daeron, who seemed to delight in your drinking, had made you laugh a few times but had easily moved on to some of his drunkard friends. And Aerion, who leered at you and spoke something about being pumped full of dragons in no time, as he stared at the neckline of your dress.  Your brothers and sister in laws circled the room and spoke kindly to you, but stayed no longer than a few minutes, as was appropriate, it seems. 

The hours droned on slowly, and before you knew it, the bedding ceremony was called. 

Maekar had merely grunted and stood up, his hand flexing slightly before he offered it to you, leading you out to the floor before the rabble of lords who had been eyeing you all night could get their hands on you. 

You had participated in your fair share of bedding ceremonies, you knew what to expect, and yet as they pulled your clothes off you, leaving you entirely bare as you pushed your way into your marital chambers. Maekar sat on the bed waiting for you, wearing far more clothes than you. 

You blushed, reaching to cover yourself as you felt Maeker’s gaze on you. He cleared his throat, standing from the bed, and pulling at the laces of the breeches he still wore. 

“Husband,” you greeted, your smile returning, though feeling far more awkward than ever before. 

“Wife,” he nodded, the first words he had said to you outside of your vows.

“What do we, um, what do we do now?” you asked, awkwardly, your hands covering you up. 

“We consummate,” he grunted, pulling back the covers of the bed and getting in. He stared at you, waiting for you to move. You didn’t. “You do know what is to happen?” he asked, his voice a little awkward but not lacking any of its coldness. 

“Of course I do, I just…” You trailed off, slowly moving towards the bed.

“What?” he asked harshly. You flinched back, halting your steps slightly. 

“Nothing,” you mumbled as you finally approached the bed, settling in under the covers, grateful for the sheet to hide your body. You played with the covers, following the pattern with your fingers, waiting for Maekar to move. 

He sighed as he looked at you, his hand reaching out to stop your movements. “Stop that,” he ordered. You nodded, stopping instantly. You felt the weight of reality settle into your shoulders, realising for the first time in your life that optimism didn't always lead to happiness. 

Makear sighed before he crawled over to your side of the bed. 

He didn’t kiss you, didn't hold you to him, nor did he whisper sweet nothings in your ears. The consummation was over before you knew it, and Maekar, as quickly as he arrived, left. 

He didn’t look at you when he left, said no words, bid no farewells. He just left. Leaving you alone in a room that wasn’t your own, in a keep that wasn't your own. And a marital bed that you felt would never live up to the dreams you held in your heart. 

You cried yourself to sleep that night. 

It was such an oddity for you to cry or feel sadness. The last time you felt sad was when your cat died when you were ten. Never once had you felt sadness this great. Never once did you cry yourself to sleep, praying no one could hear your cries echoing across the hall. 

You knew love and warmth grew with him, but you hadn’t expected there to be such coldness. You hadn’t expected there to be a wall of ice between you, a wall so thick it rivalled the wall in the north. 

You began to question everything your parents had told you. Everything they had told you about your marriage night was a lie. What else would be? 

You got little sleep that night before the maids came in at dawn and awoke you softly. Though strangers, they treated you softly, bathing you in a lavender-scented bath. They wash away the small trickles of blood between your thighs. Wash the tear stain marks off your face. And spoke in hushed tones as they prepared you for breakfast. 

You were the first to arrive, settling at the end of the table, your gaze flickering across the room, noting all the tapestries and art that adorned the walls. The table was filled with fruits and berries, and pastries of all sorts filled the table. 

You contemplated filling your plate before everyone else joined, you were hungry, having eaten little at the wedding feast. 

But before you could reach for even a single grape, the door opened and in walked your husband. His step faltered when he saw you. His gaze took note of your pink gown and the soft smile that graced your features as he appeared. 

Prepah's last night was a blip, maybe he was drunk or nervous. You may as well start today anew. Perhaps your sadness from last night was a one-time occurrence and would quickly be forgotten. “Husband,” you greeted, standing up as he walked towards you, taking a seat at the head of the table. 

“Wife,” he greeted in turn. Grunting as he sat down, reaching to fill his plate. 

“How did you sleep?” you asked, following his lead and filling your own. 

“Fine,” he grunted, not looking at you. The door opened as you went to speak, his younger children running in with their Septa. They called for their father as they ran in, stopping short as they saw you. Aegon bowed, and Daella and Rhae both curtseyed. “My lady,” they greeted, before rushing to fit for a seat next to Maekar. Daella won, sitting closest to him and Rhae next to her. Aegon moved to sit next to you, sighing in defeat. And Aemon, who wandered in with a book in hand, moved to sit beside Aegon. 

The children rambled on over breakfast, asking you all sorts of questions and answering each one you had for them. You smiled softly at their rambles, though your gaze turned to Maekar, hoping to see some softness, hoping to see that he wished to talk to you as much as his children did. Instead, he scowled the second your gaze met his. 

He left the second he was done, not waiting for his elder children to walk in. He ruffled his daughter's hair as he walked by, bidding each of his children farewell. Only side-eyeing you as he left. 

Perhaps last night wasn’t a blip after all. 

He was fucked, totally and completely fucked. He was the second, he saw you walk into the sept in your pretty white gown covered in pink. The second he saw your smile, the second he touched you.

He didn't need another wife, he had six children, had loved before and had absolutely no need for a wife. And yet you appeared. His parents had wed him off and introduced you, a perfect flower from the reach. Eager to be plucked. So perfect and so entirely unlike him. 

He didn’t want a wife and had hoped you would be easy to ignore. And yet as you spoke your pretty words to him, he realised you wouldn't be, he realised that you were as sweet and kind as his father had said. And yet you were stuck with him. He was cold, colder since Dyanna had died. You couldnt possible be happy with the arrangement. Happy with him as your husband. Perhaps you would be happy if you were a wife in name only. Then you would be happy, and not chained to him for the rest of his life, and miserable for it. 

And yet you, with your smiles that could outshine the sun, seemed to make him melt. 

You were too soft, too sweet, too happy. He had noticed it easily, you would hate him, resent him, and he wouldn’t blame you. Not when he never wanted to marry. 

He would do his duty and nothing more, and yet last night, when he had done that, guilt ate at him. It was clear you wanted a sweet, loving husband, but he couldn't be that, wouldn't be that.  And yet when you greeted him this morning, with gentle eyes and a nervous smile, he almost took back his desire to be a husband in name only. When he noticed his younger children adoring you, how easily you spoke with them, eager to know them. To know him. 

Gods, it would have been easier had you been cold, had you been mean or ugly. But you were anything but. Beautiful, as happy as the sun, kind and caring, and always dressed in pink. And he hated all of it. Or atleast thats what he told himself. 

He tried to be as distant and cold as he could be, and yet time and time again, he was drawn back to you. As time went by and you had all travelled to Summerhall, he had made sure you had your own chambers. Not once did he visit you. Not once did he seek you out. 

And yet you were always there. In his library, his dining hall, and even with his children. You often found yourself in the garden at the same time as him, or standing there at the exact moment he decided to look out of it. Always there, always kind and soft. And he hated it. Hated how you drew him in, no matter what you did. Hated how he fucked his fist to you every night, your name and face on his lips.

You were kind and never had a bad word to say about anything or anyone. Everyone you had ever met would say you were the nicest person they had ever met. They would say that hate was something you were incapable of. And yet as time went by and the coldness between you and your husband seemed to grow, you began to feel the fires of hate breaking into your heart. Your husband was ever distant and running from you the second your paths crossed, offering only grunts in response to your kind words. Never once attending the endless lists of activities you invited him to, you were beginning to hate him. 

You had lost hope of a happy marriage when the third month of it came with no touches, no words, no caresses or even acknowledgement.  He did not try to welcome you, did not try to make you feel at home, or try to fill the loneliness that filled your heart.

You felt so alone and isolated. Sure, his children were kind, and as the months went by, they were happy to see you whenever you’d help with their lessons or entertain their day. But you had no one to speak to, you had no maids or ladies in waiting to chat to. 

You had no one, and whereas before it was rare for you to cry or feel sadness. Now it was rare to feel joy. Every night, tears wet your pillow as the ache of loneliness filled your very soul. 

Maekar didn’t notice, seeming to be annoyed with your presence in his home, to even think about your feelings. He avoided every room you frequented, left every meal before all his children left, as if the thought of being alone with you physically pained him. 

The only time you smiled or laughed was with his younger children. And though you had learned to love them dearly, you were entirely unhappy in your marriage, if you could even call it a marriage. You were more of a reluctant occupant than a wife. 

And yet a part of you still waited. A part of you hoped to wake up one day, with Maekar beside you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear and declaring his love for you.  It’s why you had continued to be kind, soft and always perking up when his gaze fell on you. You invited him to tea, tea that he never joined. Dinners alone, which he either avoided or conveniently brought at least one of his children along to.  

You had formed a mindless routine. Every day, you said good morning and asked him how he slept. Whenever you got to breakfast before him, you would prepare his tea and pile the food onto his plate. Hoping that one day he would take notice and thank you instead of just grunting in acknowledgement.  Every day you’d bring him his lunch in his solar, loitering to see if he needed anything. He never did. You would walk around the gardens, always stopping in front of the window to his solar, a book or paints in hand, as you spent hours either reading or painting. Spending at least a  few hours every day with his children. Helping with their lessons and bringing them to see him every night before they went to bed.  And when it was time for him to go to bed, you would dress in your night gown, prepare him a nightcap and see if he wanted you. He never did. Though you felt his gaze on you when he dismissed you, you saw the flexing of his hand as you walked out of his reach. 

But he never acted on his gaze, his desire to touch. He never did anything. Other than grunt. 

You did a million little things for him every day, replacing the flowers in his solar, placing a bookmark between the pages of the book he had placed upside down. And so many other things that he would never notice. 

You wondered if he’d notice if you stopped. Stopped showing up to meals, stopped trailing after him, stopped waiting for his attention.

You doubted it, and knew deep down you couldn’t. 

That's until it hit six months of marriage, six months of coldness. Of you talking to a wall of ice. 

Six months of growing closer and closer to his children, with little Rhae, a girl who never knew her mother, a girl of only five, a girl who had called you mama in private and then made the mistake of calling you mama in front of Maekar. 

He didn’t say anything at the time, he waited for them to go to bed and waited to escort you to your rooms. And waited until the doors closed behind him. 

He leant against the door, his body shivering with rage. “How long has she been calling you that?” He asked, his tone dripping with anger. No fear? Mayhaps, you couldn’t place his tone, his feelings, “You want to replace my children’s mother? Is that it?” 

You flinched back from the harshness of his tone, “what no, I-“

“Shut up and let me speak, woman!” He interrupted, turning to face you, “You are not their mother, you should have corrected Rhae the second she started calling you that!”

“I did, I promise, but she wanted to call me it anyway-“

“Well, you should have tried harder!” His voice bellowed, “You are not there, mother,” he slammed his hand against the wall. 

Making your whole body flinch, backing away from him slowly as tears began to spill from your eyes. 

“I know, but that doesn't stop them from wanting one,” you spoke softly. Daella slipped and called you mama once, and Eggs' hand was rarely not in yours. All three of them insist on you tucking them in every night, and little Aemon wrote to you every week.

He sighed deeply, his eyes finally turning to yours, noting how you had flinched from him, how you stood against your bed, your gaze not on him for the first time. “You're not their mother, you're just my wife!” he stopped breathing deeply, speaking just loud enough for you to hear, “not more, you can’t be more, you can't be here, you'll never be her,” you weretn sure he had intended on you hearing it, but you had anyway. And he noticed you had too late. 

You turned your back to him, refusing to let him see you crumble, to see how badly his words had affected you. You waited for him to leave, but instead, you felt him walk closer. His hand hovering over your shoulder, “I didn't mean that-“ he said, reaching for you, only for you to flinch from his touch.

“Get out,” was all you said, your body wrapping into itself as you waited for him to leave. He hovered, waiting for something. Perhaps for the sweet, obedient wife you had been to show up. To accept his apology and his words. But you felt all of that slip away the second he said those words. 

Taglist

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All dividers by @zaldritzosrose

[maceoflace]

ser duncan who ends up with the biggest crybaby in all of the realm— debatably. crybaby!reader who sniffles and sobs, and hiccups on her own tears while tending to duncan’s wounds from a training match, because she hates seeing him like that.

gods help them both.

she pays no mind to the blood and grime on him as she gently wipes it off with a damp linen, careful to not cause any extra or unnecessary pain. she knows that comes with the territory— the gruesomeness of it all. it’s the fact that her duncan is hurting that brings the tears on before she can stop them. the same man that helps her tend to the horses and do the washing every day, the man that promises to father her children.

the emotions catch up to her with treacherous ease.

“quit your sniveling and blubbering, lass.” he grits out, but it only makes more hot tears slip down her cheeks and pool at the neckline of her dress. he sighs. the sound is as heavy and telling as it usually is. “sweet one— ye can’t keep carryin’ on like this. it’s not helping either of us here.”

“you think i don’t know that?” she babbles out, almost wailing.

she gives one last big sniffle before she lets out an exasperated breath that duncan has to try his hardest to not jest at. she manages to pull herself together in the next moment, before tending to his gash with a scowl on her puffy face.

later on they’ll have a laugh about it. or he’ll make her cry for an entirely different reason, since she was brazen enough to raise her voice at him— depends on how the day goes.

[navluvr]

the attractive things ser duncan the tall does (18+)

protectively cages you against the joust's railing, his hands resting on either side of you. as a way to avoid other people touching you, duncan places himself between you and the rest of the crowd (rip the person's view behind him lol). his knuckles stay on the railing, his warmth radiating off his chest as he stands behind you. he also gets the perk of enjoying the pleasant scent of your hair that clouds his senses when he's this close.

he's always manhandling you. even innocently, dunk is absentmindedly moving you around. whether it's helping you off your horse, swiftly pulling you out of the way of a bustling wagon passing by, or tugging and lifting your hips closer to his face while he eats you out, he's always displaying his strength through affection. dunk adores the way your eyes go a bit wide with astonishment every time he treats you as if you weigh nothing (because to him, you do). he also might have caught you ogling his muscles once and now enjoys showing off every once in awhile ;)

constantly watches over you (and egg). he has to know where you and his squire are at all times. it eases his conscience to have eyes on you both, to know that you're merely an arms length away should something pop up. also prefers to watch over you so he knows when he needs to make his presence recognized if a man decides to approach you—he can be quite a jealous man, though he would never admit it aloud. moreover, when back at camp, a lot of his time is spent admiring you. he thinks you make the most mundane things look attractive.

is incredibly protective and possessive. as mentioned before, he gets jealous sometimes, though he does his best to subdue it (he knows it's insecurity-based emotions). however, sometimes it does slip into his actions. one minute you're alone, a man trying to encourage you give him one dance, and the next dunk is at your shoulder, quiet but aware that his riveting presence will scare the lesser man away. he hates when other men even glance your way, their greedy desires reflecting in their eyes.

what's his is yours. dunk does not mind sharing. he considers it a privilege to even have people to share with, therefore he will give you whatever you're eyeing that's 'his.' plus he loves the way you look in his clothes (it spurs his size kink mhm). and although you might not wear them outside of camp, it still gives dunk that satisfaction of should someone approach, they'll know you're his.

makes you finish at least twice before he even thinks about his own release. first of all, he's one hell of a giver. second, he understands that you need to be wet when you take his length in order for you to not feel as though you're completely splitting in two. this man can literally just finish by watching his partner come i don't make the rules

praises and talks you through it. and this goes for anything and everything. easing you through multiple orgasms? "one more, pretty girl, jus' give me one more." teaching you how to wield a weapon or basic self-defense? "good girl. again." now he may be dense, but not so dense that he misses the way your gaze shies from his at the praise, cheeks growing warm or the way your cunt clenches around his fingers/cock the second the sweet words leave his mouth.

note please take this while i procrastinate writing a critical analysis on frankenstein for my lit criticism & analysis class sighhhh

[myladysapphire]

The Stags Knight

when ser duncan sneaks into your fathers tent, an unlikley freindship is formed. and when Ser duncan saves you from the wraith of a jelouse prince, a tale of romance follows

Ser Duncan the Tall x Baratheon!reader

Word count: 6,324

CW: MDI, 18+, smut, protective dad lyonel baratheon. drinking and swearing. Aerion being Aerion and cannon typical violence! Dunk is such a gentleman but hes also a little lovesick horn dog! As always only half proofread! fluff, minor angst. virigin!reader.

Authors note: a lot of the dialouge comes direclty from the show! i love dunk! he's so fun to write for! i might write more in this universe!

You had always been told you had a sense of whimsy about you, the kind of whimsy that often meant your head was in the clouds, your mind stuck in the land of books and fairytales. You had always adored tales of knights and princesses, tales of a lady stuck in a tower awaiting the day a knight came to save her. Your father had adored it, your whimsy, your love of tales. You would always listen to his tales and stories for hours, goaidng him on with his endless speeches and tales of tourneys and knights. He had always loved your eagerness, your thrill for tales and your desire for adventure. Always happy to attend whatever event he dragged you to in case you were there to witness the stuff of legends. 

The Ashford toruney was no different. You had happily joined your father and attended the tourney, and though you had yet to see one of the great tales you had read about, you were sure this time it would be different.

Tonight, you sat in your father's tent as he prepared to entertain you, or you supposed his guests, with one of his many tales. 

“Four thousand years ago…” he began, though the loud chatter of the tent failed to quieten as he began to speak, he sighed when they did not silence at the mere motion of him opening his mouth, you looked at him eaglery, awaiting whatever tale he would tell “Four thousand years…” he tried again, and yet the silence did not stop. “…ago… cunts. I can’t hear myself. I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen!” You laughed at his frustration, and the room finally silenced at the boom of his voice. 

You banged your fist on the table for him to continue, and in warning for the few chatters that remained, “Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that…” he motioned aimlessly, his throat clearing “big field outside to blood each other with sticks and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country’s first-ever joust. “ he sipped his wine “Well, I say… Uh, the fuck was I gonna say?” he looked at you, thinking hard to regain his trail of thought.

“First-ever joust,” you repeated, grabbing your knife and jabbing it into the air. You had little idea of what your father had planned to say, you knew he himself had little idea of what went on in his head most of the time” 

He snapped his fingers at your jabbing, suddenly remembering his train of thought “Ah. Men could not have devised such a joy. So, who was it?” He looked towards the people, waiting for someone to respond. 

“Huh? Who was it?” he motioned to you to answer.

You shrugged your shoulders, reaching for your wine, “No clue, father”, you replied. He hummed in response, his gaze snapping back to the many eyes watching him. 

“Fuck it. A hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best,” he declared, his loud laugh booming across the tent. The tent cheered at his words, most already too drunk to know what he was speaking about. “Now, eat your birds so we can dance!”

A mountain of food appeared before you, and wine was drunk in bucketfuls. 

You scanned your eyes across the room, snagging on a giant man stuffing his face. You made eye contact with the man, a small smile gracing your lips. You motioned for him to come over with your finger, a bashful smile full of food gracing the man's lips as he stood, a blush covering his face. 

Your father, ever protective, followed you to where your finger motioned, a smirk gracing his lips, as he approached you. You opened your mouth to speak, but your father beat you to it: “You ever been punched in the face before?”

The man who had been staring at you, as if in a trance, spluttered at your father's words, “I beg...” he began his eyes that had been locked with your flickering to your father, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”

“Big men get punched more than little men. Did you know that?” 

“ No, but… but I believe it,” the man spoke, his eyes flickering between you and your father still.

“That's why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?”

“I… I don’t slouch,” the man spluttered.

“Father! Stop your teasing,” you tusked, your gaze fully locking on the tall man, a full smile gracing your lips. 

“I'm not teasing anybody, my darling girl,” he tusked back at you, taking a large swig of wine before carrying on his teasing, “so why is it you’ve been cowering since you arrived, like a maiden on her wedding night?” he chuckled, his laugh booming as always. 

“Father!” you nearly shouted, slapping him on the shoulder, “he jests, I assure you” You smiled softly at the man as he stood awkwardly. 

“I… I meant no disrespect, ser, honest. Where I grew up, you… You learn to go unnoticed, is all.” 

You tilted your head at his words, curious to learn more about the half-giant. 

“The seven above gave you tallness. So, be tall,” your father declared “Or I will name you a heretic and burn you,” he spoke, “Drown you. Drop you off a tall pl… I don’t know. W-What do they do to heretics?” he asked, turning to you for a response. 

“They burn the father”, you reassured, “but we will not burn you, ser, “ you reassured the man. “What -” you went to ask him your name, but your father interrupted you once more. 

“What have you brought me?” he asked, “or my daughter? You have at least brought her a gift i assume?”

“No i- uh, my lady i am sorry, beggin’ your pardons. I… I didn’t realise,” he apologised, the blush spreading from his cheeks to cover his whole face. 

“Father, he is my friend, he needs not curry your or my favour, for he already has it”, you declared, speaking so softly, “isn't that right, ser…” you trailed off, waiting for him to answer with his name.

“Dunk… Ser Dunk” he replied, nodding a small, a real smile replacing his nervous one. 

“Dunk”, you tasted the name on your tongue “, short for Duncan?” he nodded, “Ser Duncan the tall!” you declared.

Your father had a curious look in his eyes, a large smile on his lips, “ your friend?” he asked, “ and how is it you” he motioned with a butter knife up and down dunks body “are “friends” with my sweet daughter?” 

“I..uhm i” he looked at you, his eyes wide with panic.

“You always tell me to make more friends, and a large and tall knight would surely make the best of friends”, you teased, as both you and your father released a booming laugh. 

“So…if you already have my daughters' favour, that means you have mine. I can assume you're not here for my head then?”

“What? No! No.” 

You laughed at the horror on Dunk's face and your father's own smirk. “So, ser Duncan, why are you in my father's tent then?” you asked, sipping your wine “To admire me?” you jested, but from the blush and smile on his face, you suspected it was half true. 

“Supper”, he stuttered.

Your father bellowed, “Alright. Actually makes sense.” The bard began to play your fathers faviourte tune “Your name is ridiculous by the way”, he stood, slapping his hand on ser Duncan's back, his eyes eying him cautiously, jealous that he was no longer the tallest man in the room.m, “Do you like dancing?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he answered, smiling at you, as you joined tostand. Wanting to dance with your new friend. 

You laughed as your father dragged you both to the floor, his feet stomping on Duncnas as he danced. 

You grabbed duncnas hand, guiding him away from your father's dancing and clapping. 

Dancing with him, it was clear he was nervous, where your movements were practised and measured from years of lessons, his were awkward and far less measured, nonetheless, you had fun as he danced with you and spun the night away. 

Dunk thought that you must be an angel sent by the gods themselves. You, the most ethereal thing he had ever laid eyes on. So beautiful and kind, and your voice, gods, your voice and your laugh. He could die happy after hearing you laugh espially after he had made you laugh, not at him but the joke he had made. 

His eyes had been glued to you the second he walked into the tent. He had never expected you to notice him, let alone call him over and yet here he sat, you leaning against the frame, your father's antler crown on his head as your father recanted tales. His eyes were drawn to you as you rested against his body. You had placed his arm around you, snuggling into him as he spoke to your father. 

His face had a permanent blush, and the smile on his face refused to leave, even more so when you began to play with his fingers, even attempting to place your fingers on his fingers, and the small frustration that ticked on your face when his fingers proved to be too big. 

“And I’m quick and strong, sure,” he spoke, still gazing at you as he continued to speak to Lyonel. You hummed at his words, your hand moving to grab his bicep.

“You sure are,” you agreed, “I'm sure you could carry me all day and not get tired at all,” you hummed whistfully.  

Your father bellowed a laugh at your words, his drunk form moving to boop you on the nose. 

You reached for your wine, sipping loudly, before leaning back and offering the rest to Duncan. Though you ended up with your head falling completely back into his lap and the wine across his face. You giggled at your actions, and Duncun ever bashful, laughed, stopping his conversation with your father. 

“Oh, you have no chance,” Lyonel concluded, whether that was about the conversation with him winning or losing at the tourney or whether he was talking about the hopeless, lovesick look on his face. 

“Right!” your father bellowed, standing up, barely steadying himself as he did, the wine too far gone to his head, “help me carry her to bed!” 

“Ser..that would be improper,” Duncan whispered, his eyes drifting to your form as it snoored on his lap. 

“Huh!” Lyonel asked, confused “I am her father, a man too drunk to stand! How do you suppose I take her to bed myself?” he questioned, wagging his finger at Dunk. 

He had never carried a lady or any woman that mattered, as she lay drunk and half asleep and mumbling something he was desperately trying to understand as he walked you to your tent. 

Lyonel stood in the entryway rambling on about horses and knights. He lay you down gently on your bed, your arms clinging to him as he lay you down. 

“Good night, sweet lady” he whispered as he removed your hands from his clothes. 

“Good night sweet dunk” you replied, kissing his hand before passing out on your feather filled bed. 

You hadn’t left Dunk’s mind, he fell asleep with your name on his lips, and his dreams were filled with you, your face, your voice, your laugh. He could still feel your body pressed to his, and the sweet kiss you had placed on his hand lingered.

He was sure he would have spent the whole day dreaming with you had he not awoken to the smell of fish cooking. 

The small bald boy he had met in an inn had somehow tracked him down and found his camp, and ridden in a lamb cart to find him, or whatever it was he came to the tourney for. 

He reluctantly spoke to the boy, sitting down beside him and eating the fish the boy had cooked for him. 

“What’s your name?”  the boy asked. 

“Dunk”, he answered, thinking of the last person who had asked for his name. You. 

“Ser Dunk. That’s no name for a knight. Is it short for Duncan?” You had assumed the same. 

“Yeah”, he answered, clearing his throat, “Ser Duncan the Tall.” The name and title you had granted him. He blushed as he thought of you, how perfect you had been. He also thought of the dream he had about your perfect-”

“Never heard of him,” the boy remarked, snapping him out of his thoughts of you. 

For somereason he had allowed the boy, Egg, to be his squire. Had had the boy follow him around, and though he made himself useful, what was not useful was the fact that the boy followed him close to everywhere, meaning he saw everything Dunk did. Including the longing stares he sent whenever he saw a glimpse of you. 

He saw you now sat outside your tent, a canvas and brush in hand as you painted a tree. His steps faltered as he saw you. Egg stopped his chatter as soon as he saw you pause, a small smile on his lips as he recognised you. “That's Lady Baraethon, Ser Lyonel’s daughter” 

“I know who she is,” his eyes still drawn to you as you painted, unaware of your admirer, “she’s my friend”

“Your friend?” Egg questioned, his eyebrow perking in question. 

“I..uh, yes, my friend” 

You perkeds you head up your head as youfeelt two pairs of eyes watching you. “Ser Duncan!” you exclaimed, standing up at the sight of him. 

Dunk smiled at the recognition, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck. “My lady”, he greeted. “how - how are you, my lady?” 

You tusked your lips, insisting he call you by your first name, “you promised you wouldn't use my title anymore when it came to me, Duncan” Your eyes locked with his, but the sound of Egg clearing his throat, waiting for his introduction. “And who might this little man be? Your squire?” you spoke, your voice kind as you stared at the boy, though he could have sworn a flicker of something akin to recognition in your eyes, “oh arent you-”

Egg cut you off, “I'm Egg, his squire,” he introduced himself, bowing. 

“Egg”, you repeated, “is that short for something?” you asked, but before the boy could answer, Dunk chose to interrupt.

“You paint?” he asked, pointing to your canvas. A sheepish smile crossed your lips as he turned your easel to face him. 

“Not very well, Dunk,” you replied shyly.

Dunk scoffed, “I -i apologise,” he cleared his throat “, it is very good, my lady, in fact”, he pulled his shield out from behind his back, “could you paint something for me? 

You smiled, reaching for his shield, “Of course,” you agreed, “What would you like?”

“Um…” he began, clicking his tongue. He had only just been told he needed his own sigil, he had little thought on what it should be “I don’t actually know. I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his head nervously “Sorry, you must think me a fool. “

You shook your head, “No, not at all” You smiled “, Are you in need of your own sigil?” you questioned, and he nodded shyly “Have you thought of what colours you would like?”

“Aye, um, Yeah, the field should be the colour of sunset ’cause the old man always liked sunsets and, uh…” he trailed off, staring at you and the kind smile that never left your lips. 

“An elm tree. A big one. Like the one by the river with the brown trunk and the green branches.” Egg continued for him, noticing the way Dunk acted the fool in front of you. 

“Aye. An elm tree that would serve. But with a shooting star above. Could you do that? Please?” he asked, no-pleaded. 

“Yes, of course, I can have it done by the end of the day for you” You nodded, moving to take your canvas off your easel and replace it with the shield. 

Dunk turned around abruptly, prephas expecting the dismissal to come, and yet instead he felt your hand reaching to tap him on the shoulder, a nervous smile on your lips. 

You cleared your throat, “You can come and collect it tomorrow at dinner, “ you nodded to the boy “, you can bring your squire too if you’d like”“ Too dinner? Like the other night?” he asked, unsure if the boy should attend a party.

“No, I mean - “ you stuttered nervously, “dinner with me, just me.” You smiled, your hand reaching to nervously play with the rings on your fingers. 

“Oh uhh-” he stuttered, “is that proper?” 

You laughed, “eh i- uh i can invite my father if you are uncomfortable being alone-”

“No! I would love to attend,” he interrupted, straightening his back and clapping egg on the back of the head as the boy started to laugh. “The boy- uh he-”

“I have plans,” the boy dismissed, before wandering off and heading back to the puppet show he had talked nonstop about. 

You both laughed, both a bit awkwardly. “I shall see you at dinner then,” you smiled and nodded, before heading back to your stool to start on his shield. 

He had chased Egg down later on, having suffered the teasing from the boy about his crush on you. Now they stood watching the starting tilts of the tourney.

He had seen you seated in the stands, a wide smile on his face as he watched you walk to sit beside Prince Baelor, as he was told by Egg. 

“Why is she sitting with the prince?” he asked Egg, the boy sitting on his shoulders. 

The boy sighed, noting the jealousy in Dunk's voice, “There are rumours of her and a betrothal between one of the princes”

“What?” he asked, confused. You were meant to be having dinner with him tomorrow, and yet you where bethrothed to another man? 

“It's just a rumour, besides, she was warded in King's Landing when she was a child, it's probably just because her father's jousting and she doesn't want to sit alone” Egg dismissed, before motioning to get off his shoulders. 

He hoped it was just a want for company and nothing more. 

His eyes drew to yours for the whole of the tilts, mesmerised by you and how everyone around you seemed to light up as you spoke. 

The next day, after watching the tourney, where you spent another day sitting being admired by Dunk from afar,  he had dismissed Egg shortly after the tourney to go watch the puppet show as he dined with you. He hated that he did not have finer clothes to attend the dinner. His nerves ate at him as he waited for your guard to let him into your tent. 

“Duncan!” you greeted with joy as he dunked through the entrance to your tent. A table was set for two, a meal grander than anything he had seen before was placed on it, and a bottle of some fancy wine was on the table. 

You were dressed in a fine golden dress, with a necklace resembling stag antlers around your neck. 

“Come sit! You urged, motioning at the table. He saw you glance nervously in the mirror, your hand reaching to smooth your hair. 

You smiled when you turned around, noting how Dunk's legs bashed against the table from his size. Apologise, I should have gotten a higher table.”

“It’s no worry, none at all”, he reassured as you sat down. 

“Would you like some wine?” you asked, pouring yourself a glass, “oh and help yourself to the food”

“Thanks and yeah- yes please”, you started to pour his wine, stopping suddenly. 

“Your shield!”You stood up quickly, reaching to bend down to where it lay beside your bed. Dunk knew he shouldn’t look at you, or your perfect arse, but hecouldn'tt help but stare. He averted hieyesys when you turned to look over your shoulders, a blush painting your face as you realised the position you were in. You cleared your throat as you stood up, presenting the shield to Dunk, “I hope you like it!”

“It’s perfect!” he declared, grabbing the shield from you, his hands brushing yours. “I, how much do I owe you?” he asked, bashfully. 

“Oh, nothing, it’s a gift truly.” his hand still lingered over yours. 

You both shared a smile, your hand loosening from the shield as you both moved to sit and eat. 

Though both awkward and bashful at first, it was a comfortable evening, filled with laughter. Until it wasn't, and Egg came bursting in. “Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come! Quickly!” he charged out of the tent, both you and Dunk hot on his tail. 

He had led the puppeteers' tent, where the Prince Aerion stood about to snap the fingers of one of the puppeteers. 

“Aerion,” you screamed as you walked, walking towards him and pulled him off the girl. Dunk followed after you. “What are you doing?” you asked, reaching to see if the girl was okay. 

Aerion sneered, “What do you care?” he spat, pulling you up by the hair. 

“Aerion, stop it!” you screamed, clawing at his hand. His loose hand went to punch you in the stomach, but Dunk stepped in, punching Aerion cold in the hand, “Get off of her!” he demanded, but before he could lay another punch, two guards moved to hold him down. 

“Why did you throw your life away for this whore?” the prince spat, looking at you, “not that I blame you” he laughed, reaching ot tug your hair to have him look up at you, “though she is rather stupid for wanting to throw her life away for that whoreish traitor!” he alughed looking t where the tall puppeteer lay. 

He rubbed the side of his mouth “Why did you throw your life away for this whore? She’s scarcely worth it”, he spoke calmly, loosening his grip on your hair. Your eyes flickered to Dunk, tears welling in your eyes as you looked at him. 

“No! Don’t touch him!” Egg shouted as he barged into the tent, guards following close behind him. 

Recognition clicked across your face, “Oh!” you breathed, and finally realised who Egg was.

“You stupid boy! Hold your tongue, or they’ll hurt you.” Dunk lectured. 

“No, they won’t.” Egg deflected. Dunk looked over at you, as if for reassurance. Your eyes hadn’t left his, not once “If they do, they’ll answer to my father. Let go of him! Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” the boy ordered. 

Aerion stepped away from you “You impudent little rat. What’s happened to your hair?”

“I cut it off, brother. I didn’t want to look like you.” after that Dunk was dragged away, your shouts that he was innocent going ignored. 

Dunk did not see you again until the trial of Seven. Egg had reassured him you were fine, the maester had given you a calming drought and some soothing balm. But other than that you were fine. He regretted nothing, only that he did not punch Aerion more for what he did to you.

He had thought of you all day an dnight, hoping you were truly okay. He didnt know if you blamed him for what happened you you. He prayed you did not and still wish to be his friend. 

Gods how he wished you would be his friend, his friend he could kiss, hug and fu- “Ser Duncan” Ser Lynoel spoke as he walked up to where Dunk stood. 

He felt great relief to see him, not only for the fact that he now had four fellow knights, but also for the fact that his very repsence meant that you were not angry with him. “Ser Lyonel, I cannot thank you enough.” he nodded, “Nor Ser Steffon for bringing you.”

“Who the fuck is Ser Stevron? Your… boy found me” Lyonel dismissed.

“Ah,” he nodded his head in thanks to Egg, straightening his back “, is she is she-is, is she okay?” he asked, stuttering, his eyes tracing the stands to see if you were sat amongst the crowd. 

“Ask her yourself?” Lyonel laughed, his head tilting to where you sheepishly approached. 

He whispered your name, like a prayer “Are you okay?” he breathed. You smiled, reaching to squeeze his hand. 

“Thanks to you i am”, you nodded, your hand giving his a squeeze, your free hand reached into your cloak pocket and revealed a golden silk ribbon, “my favour.” You presented to him, “for luck,” you kissed the ribbon, moving to wrap it around his arm 

“I did not know one would tell me what became of you, until my father agreed to join the trial in your honour” You smiled at your father in gratitude. 

Your father, who stepped away to give you both privacy, rejoined the conversation “Hasn’t been a trial of seven for a hundred years. I wasn’t about to miss a chance to bloody up the Kingsguard in their pretty white gowns,” he dismissed your gratitude, though from the squeeze your father gave your shoulders, Dunk could tell the man was doing it more for his daughters happiness than the glory that came with winning a trial of seven.

“I wish you great luck, both of you” You smiled, rising to you to tip of your toes and placing a kiss onhis cheek, bidding him farewell as you went to take your seat.

You felt your heart stop in your chest. 

Your knight lay on the ground, out cold, as the page prepared to blow the horn and name Aerion the victor. Egg sat beside you, his hand gripping yours as you watched the trial. 

“NO!” you screamed, standing up and pulling Egg or Aegon, you supposed, up alongside you. “Get up, Duncan, get up!” Egg ordered, before screaming  “Wait!” as he pointed to where Dunk was now moving to stand. 

Your heart was still, frozen as you watched Dunk fight and beat Aerin to a bloody pulp. Aerion fell to his knees, and Dunk pulled his head back, yelling at him to speak. “I yield. I yield.” Aerion nearly begged before Dunk tossed him to the floor and grunted.

You allbut ran from the stands the second the trial was over, following after where Dunk and the newly knighted Fossway boy had headed. 

“Prince Baelor”, you greeted, as you saw the prince walk the same way as you, “are you okay?” he stumbled a little in his steps, you surveyed him for injuries, taking note of the fact that he wore his son's armour.

“Quiet,” he smiled at you, “your scream stopped my brother from landing a blow to my head, I must thank you.”

“You can thank me by promising not to marry me off to Aerion,” you japped, though Baelor could tell you were serious. 

“Worry not, after today you will never have to worry about that again”. You smiled, taking his arm to steady him as you walked to where Duncan sat. 

“Ser Duncan”, you greeted, tears in your eyes as you took in his injuries. 

You knelt before him, taking note of the wounds on his body and face, “Raymun, is it?” you asked the nervous knight. He nodded. “Go fetch a maester, and do not come back without a bucket of water, salve and plenty of clean clothes…oh and boiled wine”, you ordered, squeezing Dunk's hand with yours. 

Despite himself, Dunk leaned forward, his head leaning against yours as he placed a soft kiss to your forehead, before moving to stand and kneel before Prince Baelor. 

“Your Grace,” he grunted, “I am your man. Please. Your man,” he pleaded. 

“I need good men, Ser Duncan. The realm is in need of good men” Baelor spoke, accepting Duncans pledge, “and though hous etargayren shall happily take you into its service, i would not take you away from your lady.” he nodded at you “i am sure she is need of a sworn knight more so than me” Baelor watched as Duncan stared at you and him share a sweet smile, “Rise ser Duncan”

The maester came soon after, with Raymun carrying everything you had told him to. 

Ser Duncan was in much better shape than you thought his wounds were patched up, and the worst of it all was his swollen eye, though it would take only a few days before it would swell down. 

You had overseen the master work to heal Ser Duncan, not leaving his side not once. 

“I am so glad that you are okay,” you said, placing a soft kiss on the hand you held, the second the maester left. 

He smiled, blushing at your kiss, “As am i” he breathed, staring at you. 

“You know…I always dreamed of the day a knight would come and save me, and I would become the stuff of fairy tales” You scooted your chair closer to the bed, “I had never dreamed my knight to be-”

“A lowly hedge knight?” he asked. Regretting it immediately in case it was true. 

“So brave.” You placed another kiss on his hand, “so chivalrous.” You stood from your chair, placing a kiss on his cheek, “so perfect”, you whispered, placing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your mouth was so close to his, your breaths mingling “So handsome”, you placed a kiss against his lips, soft and perfect. Everything Duncan knew you to be. 

Duncan groaned into your mouth, his hand reaching to grab your face, pulling you closer to him. The kiss melded from soft to passionate, his tongue parting your lips with a messy groan. 

The hands that held your face moved to grab your hips, pulling you onto the bed and straddling his lap. He let out a groan as you moved to get comfortable in his lap.

“Dunk,” you sighed against his lips, “I don't want to hurt you,” you breathed, his hands still placed on your hips, squeezed you softly. 

“You won’t, love”, he reassured, his hand leaving your waist to grab the back of your neck and pull you back to kiss him. 

You moaned against his lips, his tongue entering your mouth, a groan vinbrating though him as his tongue mingled with yours. 

You felt slick grow between your thighs, a need for friction, for something more than kisses building inside you. 

As the kiss grew more heated, you began to move your hips against his, chasing some friction, some sense of release. “Please,” you begged against his lips, not sure what exactly you were begging for.

He groaned against you, his hands flying back to your hips, guiding your movements. You began to feel a hard bulge grow beneath you. He broke the kiss, a trail of saliva threading between your mouth and his. “What do you need?” he asked, eager to give you the sun and the moon should you ask. 

“I-, I don’t- ’” you shook your head, unsure what it was you needed “I need you” 

He smiled, a full toothy smile at your words. He reached up and pecked your lips, “You do?” he asked, his hand tracing circles on your hip. Your smile was nervous as you nodded, pecking his lips in return, “Have you ever?” he asked softly, noticing the nerves on your face.

“No,” you admitted, a blush overtaking your features, “have you?” he nodded sheepishly. 

“Will you let me…let me make you feel good?” he asked. His hands still circling your hips.

“Please”, you pleaded, reaching down to kiss him again. He kissed you softly in turn, before moving to sit up, his hands moving to your back and playing with the binds of your dress. 

You stopped him, moving to stand. Your eyes locked with his as you got of the bed,  and began undoing the binds of your dress yourself and revealing your chemise. Dunk groaned at the sight, “Come here,” he begged, reaching to take off his own clothes, revealing his bare chest. Your eyes were glued to his body, his muscles. You were sure you were drooling at the sight. 

You reached to grab the bottom of your chemise, slowly pulling it over your head, and revealing your bare body to him.

He swore he could cum on the spot from the sight of you alone. You walked towards the bed, ready to straddle his hips once more, but before you could, he grabbed you, flipping you over and laying you flat on the bed and beneath him. His breeches hung loosely above you, half untied, and the outline of his manhood prominent. 

He took your lips in his once more, his tongue mingling with yours once more as his hands caressed your body. One hand propped him up, the other reaching to grab and squeeze your breast. Your chest rose as he did, a soft moan gasping from your lips as he pinched your nipple. You whispered his name, pleading for more. His mouth trailed from your mouth to your jaw, down to your neck, nibling sofltey but careful not to leave any marks. 

He towered over you, shadowing your entire frame, as most of it hung over the ned of the bed. His kisses cascaded down to your chest, his mouth kissing your breasts, teasing your nipples before he slowly kissed his way down to your heat. You bucked your hips as you felt his hot breath against your core. His mouth feasted on you, licking your core, as his large hands moved to squeeze your breasts and pinch at your nipples. 

Moans racked through you, pleasure like nothing youve ever experienced washed over you, your hands reaching and clawing for anything, your hands ended up tugging at his hair, a groan vibrating through your core as you did so. 

“Dunk!” you moaned, “please,” begging as you felt a delicious heat build up in you. Your leg kicked the air as your peak washed over you, sighing softly as you collapsed into the mattress. 

“Oh, Dunk,” you moaned. He crawled back up your body, or more,  stood up a little as he shadowed your frame. 

Your eyes were locked with his, “I need to prepare you more, love” his voice was filled with desperation. He took your lips once more, loving the feel of your mouth against his. His hands caressed your thighs, spreading them wide as his finger dipped through your folds. His finger edged towards your entrance. He broke the kiss, looking for permission. “Yes, please”, you pleaded. 

His finger entered you slowly, the sting lasting a few moments as he pumped in and out of you. His thumb moved to rub at your bud, your kiss broke as you threw your head back and moaned. You had liked the feeling of his mouth between your thighs, but this. Gods, you loved it. 

Another finger entered you, Dunk's head leaned against yours, “you're so tight”, he mumbled, your fingers clenched around his, another peak rising in you, “I need to stretch you out more” he mumbled, worried you wouldn't be able to take another finger, let alone his cock. 

You opened your legs more, allowing Dunk more access to your heat. A third finger prodded at your entrance, stretching you out more. “Gods!” you moaned, you felt so full. So good and full. Your peak washed over you faster than either of you expected. 

“Dunk…Duncan, please, I need yo,u, you pleaded, pulling him to kiss you as he withdrew his fingers, undoing the rest of his breeches and pulling them down. Gods, he was big, thick and long. God,s you had no idea how he would ever fit. 

He gripped his cock, swiping it between folds, gathering your slick. He teased your whole, pressing in sowly it pained him. 

Your whole body felt like it was on fire as he pressed into you. He stilled when his entire length had entered you, his breath hot and heavy above you, his face bruised itself in your neck, kissing and nibbling at it as he waited for you to adjust. It was pure torture for him. 

“Move, please, Dunk”, you begged, your arms wrapping around his body. He leaned over you again, his hands bracing either side of your head, his hips thrusting forward slowly, testing your reaching, you moaned, your head falling back against the pillow. Dunk leaned his head against yours, kissing your face softly as he continued to thrust in and out of you. Slowly, he began to move faster, in more measured movements. 

His pace slowly got faster, your arms wrapped around his neck, his mouth pressed against yours.

Your bodies were on fire, pleasure filling your entire body, your nerves were on fire. Your hips began to move, matching his movements, your body adapting to his size, and the now familiar coil of pleasure taking you over once more. 

“Oh, dunk” you moaned, his movements getting faster as he began chasing your mutual pleasure, his hand reached between your legs, rubbing your bud. 

Your peak washed over you, dunks not far from joining you, his eyes locked with yours, his breath rapid, “my lady…i where should i finish?” he groaned, as his peak drew closer.

“Outside” you groaned, your peak still washing over you in waves, as Dunk pulled out you and came into the bed sheet. 

He collapsed next to you, his hand moving topull you into him, his head buried in your neck, his hands squeezing your breast. 

Soft satsified sighs left you both. 

“Come with me to Stormsend?” you asked, turning to face him, lying on his chest. 

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he pledged, kissing your lips once more, as sleep overtook you both. 

taglist

@apollonshootafar @flrboyd @Theanxietyqueen17 @dark-night-sky-99@zillahvathek@leavesmealobe@winter-soldier-101@bunbunbl0gs@ka1afbr @Tesha-i-guess @aemondwhoresworld @raynetargareyn2 @littlebirdgot @eddieslut69 @beebeechaos @jennifer0305 @rosedurin @berightback1409 @barnes70stark @perla434 @nessjo @helo1281917 @ateliefloresdaprimavera @random-human02 @f1wh0recom @arieltwvdtohamflash @Aaliyah @valiendokk @delaynew @12thatsanumber @haydee5010 @probablyreadingsmutlol @iheartme @vcnillafairy

divdiers by @zaldritzosrose

[bekkarific]

Spinster Series Masterlist

You were never meant to be the bride. You were the eldest, the steady one, the one who stayed behind when brighter girls were chosen. You told yourself love was not meant for women like you. You think you are an obligation.

He only knows you are the only woman he has ever wanted.

Lyonel

Part One

Part Two

What If - Reader returned home before the scandal? + His Reaction

What if - Reader saved him instead?

Baelor

Part One

Part Two

What If - Reader returned home before the scandal? + His Reaction

What if - Reader saved him instead?

Maekar

Part One

Part Two

What If - Reader returned home before the scandal? + His reaction

What if - Reader saved him instead?

Requests

Post Marriage- Reader makes the first move

Post Marriage - Jealous husband

Post Marriage - Morning’s in Bed

Post Marriage - Reader not realising she is being flirted with + Defending Husband

Post Marriage - Reader being told she is expired goods + telling husband to take mistress + pregnancy reveal

Post Marriage - Pregnancy journey + Childbirth

[tragicsiblings]

CLINTON LIBERTY as ADDAM VELARYON House of the Dragon – 2.06 "Smallfolk"

[grcnseer]

I gasped when I saw you on my dash today, welcome back!!!

Thank you, I’m so happy to be back! It’s been over a year, but I’ve got plenty planned so be ready to see a lot more of me 🤍

[grcnseer]

Which origin do you prefer for the reader?

Original House

Canon House

Smallfolk

Other

Voting ended onJul 18, 2024

I’ll be using all of these at some point or another, just wanting to get an idea of audience preference. If there’s another background that you like lmk in the replies!