Daeron Targaryen x reader!wife (daughter of Baelor) no use of Y/N
18+ universe warnings apply, explicit sexual content, gore, unsettling themes, mind possession, The Targaryens are their own warning. Not a fix it fic but I can make it even more tragic and horny- have we considered that?! Very much up for debate whether Bloodraven has anything at all to do with this, but when did that stop anyone from suspecting him?
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
If you’re enjoying this, tell me so, I don’t bite 💋
Weddings and nightmares- Dark! Daeron the drunken x reader
DARK! Daeron the drunken x Reader
warnings: This is a Dark/ Yandere work that contains Dead Dove Do Not Eat, implied non-con and the aftermath of it, toxic marriages, gaslighting/ manipulation, slight stalking
I obviously do not support nor encourage any of this behaviour nor these actions, this is simply a fictional work.
PLEASE DO NOT READ if any of this triggers you. I am not responsible for your media consumption. Please read the warnings before continuing.
Summary: your wedding is the most lavish event you’ve ever attended. Your dress is expensive, the food is perfect and your husband is the picture-perfect prince. You don’t see him that way
word count: 3766
A/N: This is technically a prequel to my work “Dreams and nightmares” but you don’t have to have read it to understand this. I just really wanted to write about the wedding. Feedback is appreciated :)
I’ll try to get another post out sometimes this week, can’t decided if it’s going to be Dark! Maekar or a short Drabble with Dark! Lyonel. I’ll see what my brain comes up with. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
~~~
The music is loud in the big hall, chiming over the sound of people talking. The feast is still early, and the dancing is in full swing. The large tables about the whole room is filled with food, enough to feed the poor in Flea Bottom for weeks, and yet more is still coming from the kitchen. Everything you had tasted this evening had been marvellous, and you knew that whatever you asked for could most likely be fixed up in a moments notice. It’s truly a fairytale wedding, and you mourn the fact you can’t enjoy it the way you want to.
Your father is seated seats to your right, deep in conversation with your new father-in-law, prince Maekar. You can’t hear them, but if you know your father it is most likely something regarding a seat on the great council, or mayhap a visit from the royal family to your own family home. Ever the opportunist, he couldn’t settle for only wedding you away. Maekar don’t seem all too impressed, but he is talking politely, entertaining your delusional father. At least someone is having a good time.
Another person having a good time is your new husband. Dressed in all white, the Targaryen emblem sits proudly upon his chest. A cloak is attached to his back, mimicking dragon scales, and a thin crown of gold rests upon his brow. It was a gift from his grandfather, something to make him proud. Daeron wore it with happiness, is hair tied back into a braid. You were dressed to match, the wedding dress the most beautiful and expensive piece of clothing you’ve ever worn, draping over you in layers, jewels sewn into the fabric making you shine. A band of gold rest upon your brow, as well. This, a gift from his grandmother. It was so you could match, she said. You didn’t have the heart to tell her you hated the idea.
The ceremony had been one long nightmare, and you were almost convinced that you would throw up at some point. It had been a miracle to had stayed upon your legs as Daeron fastened the cloak over you, and you were sure he could feel your hands shake as the Septon tied your hand and his together. It was another blessing your voice stood strong enough when it came to the vows, the words having been taught to you over and over again. Still, the nauseous feeling you had when the words I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days, left your mouth were hard to ignore.
Daeron had no problem ignoring them. He had been all smiles and laughter throughout the entire day, holding you close every second he could. Apparently, he had almost fought his father to be able to see you before the ceremony, but he had been flatly refused. Only calming down when Maekar threatened to call off the wedding. You wished he had.
Still, Daeron had been positively beaming by the altar as you approached. Nothing could dampen his mood, and as soon as the ceremony was over and you had waved at the crowd of people outside of Baelors sept and were ushered into a carriage to take you to the feast, he had been upon you to show you just how happy he was.
Pressing feverish kisses to your hands, wrists, cheek and finally your lips, talking of how happy and proud he was, how happy he was going to make you and that he couldn’t wait to take you to Summerhall. You barley responded to any of his words, or kisses, too busy trying to keep yourself together to that you could face the people at the reception in a way that let you keep your dignity.
The amount of people flocking around to offer congratulations had been overwhelmingly large, lords and lady you had never meet, and some you had never heard of even. You had almost been grateful for Daeron for accepting so many of them. By now, the feast was in full motion and people were too busy with food or each other to come to you.
Daeron sat beside you, as proud as any husband. He was leaning on the armrest to get closer to you and your chair, one hand firmly holding onto yours. He had been reluctant to let a single moment go by where he wasn’t touching you, holding your hand, one arm wrapped around your waist. Anything, as long as he could stay close. In his other hand he held a glass of Dornish red, a sight that wasn’t uncommon. What was uncommon was the fact he was surprisingly sober.
When Daeron promised he would try to better himself, drink less and be around more, he had been serious, as shocking as it was. He still drank, of course, and sometimes he could still be found passed out in some corner, but he had improved significantly. Something you supposed you should be grateful for.
“Are you alright, my love? You haven’t eaten much”
His voice is soft, and you flinch at his closeness. You turn your head and he is so close you almost kiss. His violet eyes burn brightly, a madman finally in possession of what he wants. Still, he seems genuinely concerned about you, as if he wasn’t the whole reason you were miserable. As if he didn’t have the power to end this horrible affair. He wouldn’t, of course, but he still liked to pretend to be merciful.
“I am not hungry”
The words are short and cold, but it does nothing to stop the burning in his gaze. He isn’t phased by the coldness and angry you have thrown at him, by the insults and begging. He remained steadfast in his decision and simply took everything you threw at him with a smile and promise of bettering.
He shifts his gaze, reaching out to grasp at his fork. He scoops up some of the honeyed pork, before lifting it to your face. He smiles gently, trying to encourage you to let him feed you.
The gall of this man, thinking your some kind of child that needs help. Maybe you are just miserable because he is a pain in the…
He squeezes your hand without warning, the bones cracking underneath the skin. It hurts so much you flinch, eyes widening. The smile on his face is gone, replaced by a cold scowl. The burning in his eyes is still there, as hard and an unyielding as before, but this time its not filled with the same warm love. No, now its filled with a twisted sort of obsession, and you can see he is starting to get annoyed at the fact you won’t play along with his delusions.
With the apparent change in attitude, you feel something cold inside your chest, like a cold fist grasping your heart and pulling it out. Without thinking, you open your mouth. Not wide, not fast, but just enough to he can push the fork between your lips, forcing you to eat.
The food is sweet and sticky in your mouth. You start to chew, but it feels like its growing the more you try and force it down. Its slow and painful all the way down, and it lands heavy in your stomach. You barley have time to swallow before he is back with another forkful, forcing you to eat. The smile is back on his face, but its different now. Fake, somehow.
“You must eat. You have to have strength for the night ahead”
He is cruel. He knows it too, dangling the wedding night right in front of you, as if it wasn’t something you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.
You force your face to relax, not openly showing the sneer you want to wear. It would do good to just learn how to pretend, sooner rather than later. You let him feed you a few more bites, not speaking. After a while, he relaxes back into his old self, smiling genuinely and letting your hand rest gently in his. You prefer this version of him.
“Come on, dance with me? It’s our wedding, after all. We can’t sit here all evening”
He phrases it like a question, but he doesn’t wait for an answer before dragging you up. The people around you giggle and laugh, still throwing congratulations your way. Daeron laughs and smiles along, as do you, gracefully accepting everything. Deep inside, though, you hate them all.
Hate them for being here, for being a part of your ruin and pain. Hate them for the fact they refuse to see the truth, that their sweet prince is a dragon, burning everything in his path to get what he wants. If you could you’d burn everything and everyone in this room to ash.
Dancing at least comes easy to you. You’ve been taught to dance all your life, and the steps are engraved into your mind. So when Daeron puts his hands on your waist and starts to spin, you follow him perfectly. You mirror each other, two pieces of perfectly together. That also makes your mouth taste sour.
The dance at least gives you something else to focus on. You count the steps in your head, swaying along to the music. You focus on how the silk dress flows and sparkles in the light. Everything surrounding you helps you ignore Daeron’s wandering hands, how they pull you closer by your waist. You listen so intently to the music you ignore the way he sometimes leans close to say a joke or a compliment, desperate for you to enjoy this as much as he. He fails, of course, but still he tries.
You share two more dances with Daeron, before his cousin Matarys is there asking for your hand. You accept quickly, and Daeron lets you go with a laugh. After Matarys you dance once with Valarr, thrice with your own brother and even once with your new, very inebriated, father-in-law Maekar, to your own surprise.
“Does your father ever shut up? I am tired of hearing his voice, yours is far more pleasant”
You laugh at his words, finding entertainment in the darkness. It was only right your father should fail at being courteous as well, if you are to suffer. Besides, Maekar turns out to be a rather good dancer, and the way your father is sulking at the table only helps bring your mood up. Soon enough though, you are back in your seat beside Daeron, his hands quickly finding your waist and he leans in closer again, reminding you of the actual reason you are here.
The feast drags on long into the night, until some lords are sleeping on the benches. You hated the feats, it was a nightmare, but you don’t want it to end. If it ends, it means you’ll be alone with your new husband, and you dread that more than anything.
So, when he finally stands up, taking your hand and dragging you along, you almost try to protest. Just a few more minutes, maybe a dance? It’s in vain, and it’s impossible to postpone the unavoidable future. You are trapped.
The quiet of the corridor scares you more than the loud feast. Everything suddenly seem so still, the torches flickering along the walls and Daeron’s footsteps beside you the only thing moving the quiet air. The bedchamber, your bedchamber, is approaching far to fast and there is nothing you can do, nothing to stop it. You might have tried to step away if it wasn’t for the hand at the small of your back, forcing you forward to the frightening doom awaiting you.
Daeron doesn’t hesitate as the pushes the door open, pushing you inside before quickly entering behind you. The soft click of the lock forces you to freeze in place in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do with the new situation.
The room is absolutely beautiful, you must admit. There are tapestries along the wall, depicting Aegon and his sisters as they conquer the Seven kingdoms. A fire is burning in the fireplace, casting the room in a warm glow. The cold ground is covered in a woven Myrish carpet, warm beneath you, and the bed is large and covered in blankets and pillows. You long for sleep, but you know there will be little of it this night.
Warm hands at the back of your dress has you flinching away like a wounded animal, completely unprepared for the action. Daeron doesn’t seem to mind, hushing you as he follows closer, already letting his hands work with the intricate laces of the corset.
“I know you didn’t want to marry me” his voice is soft, almost apologetic. Almost. “But I promise I’ll try my best. It could have been worse than me, know that. You are a princess now, and I love you. I’ll spend the rest of my days proving that”
His words are meant to be sweet, reassuring, but they only serve to leave a bitter taste in your mouth and let fear grab your heart. He was right in the fact you didn’t want this, and while he tried to pretend to be kind he had still forced you into this all the same. You don’t say that, tough, instead opting to be silent. Daeron doesn’t mind, instead continuing.
“You are so beautiful. The way you shined in the sept today, I was sure The Mother herself had blessed you. The most beautiful women I’ve ever seen”
The last lace of the corset falls of and the dress loosen. You are quick in throwing your hands up, catching the falling dress, trying to preserve some sense of modesty. You can feel the tears prickling your eyes as reality starts to kick in. Daeron reaches his hands around you, grasping at your wrist and slowly forcing your hands away, the silk pooling at your feet and leaving you in only your nightgown. A sob forces its way out of your throat, but Daeron only hushes you, pressing his chest to your back and drawing slow circles on the inside of your wrist.
“You are going to be alright, I’m here”
You are left in only your shift, but it still felt nude. The cold air hit you at once, despite the fire in the hearth, and all you wanted was to crawl underneath the covers and hide away from the world. His grip on your wrists eases up, and he gently turns you around to face him.
The distressed look on your face does not match his. He is smiling, that soft and lovesick smile he always wore. His head gently tilted to the side; he looked at you as if you hung the moon and starts. He lifts your hands up to his face to press soft kisses to the back of them, before he places them right on his chest; gently urging you to let up on his laces. To help him undress in the same way he had undressed you.
Without much else to do, you carefully start to pull at the strings. Its messy and unsure, not at all with the same smoothness which he had used. You get caught up on a bit, but he doesn’t move to help you. No, he just smiles and lets you take it in your own tempo. No matter how slow and unsure you are, soon enough his tunic hits the floor, the cape landing behind it like a dragon sleeping.
Daeron takes a slow step closer, and you attempt to back away. His hands find your waist to force you to stay still, force you to feel the warmth radiating from his chest. He leans in closer, and in a panic, you realise he means to kiss you.
“No!”
With an unexpected strength, you put your hands on his chest and push. He stumbles backwards, clearly not expecting the outburst. You take a step back, chest heaving as you try and collect yourself. Daeron doesn’t even seem mad, and before you can recover fully he is back, crowding your space despite how you keep whispering no.
“Hey, you are okay, I’m here…”
“What if I’m not okay, Daeron? What if I just want to sleep tonight?”
Your voice is thick with tears and desperation, something to fill the void and make him understand you don’t have the strength to play this game tonight. Naturally, he doesn’t listen.
“Husband. You can call me husband now” his voice is awfully happy as he says it. “We must consummate; you know that. We are wedded as one, its natural. Please, let me help you”
Nothing about it feels natural, but you know you won’t be able to change his mind. So, you let him. You let him slowly back you towards the bed, let him lean down and kiss you. You let him pull thin crown of gold out of your hair and place it on the nightstand beside his own. You let him loose all the pins holding your hair up, causing the locks to flow free, before he pushes you down onto the bed on your back. You let him pull the shift over your head, and close your eyes as his start to roam over you.
Just a consummation, then you’ll sleep. Soon it will be over.
*****
The morning light steals into the room with warmth. The fire is long dead, and the early morning has arrived. As carefully as you can, you try to remove Daeron’s arm from around your waist, a task much harder than you thought it would be. Its heavy, and you dread the thought of waking him. When you finally manage to escape, you try to be as quiet as you can as you step over the cold stone floor.
A robe has been placed over a chair in the living space outside the bedroom, one you gratefully put on. The maids are not yet awake, and you are thankful for it. You don’t want anyone to see you like this, ever. Red eyes, hair dishevel, dark bags underneath your eyes. You look a mess and feel one too.
Daeron had takes you more than once, despite your protests. Once had been overwhelming enough, and you ever had quite enough time to recover between. You had wanted to sleep, that’s all you wanted.
You almost hesitate before opening the door. Somehow, it feels wrong. Like you are in prison cell and should wait for permission to go out. You shake the feeling off. It was suffocating inside, and you didn’t want to think.
The corridors outside are also empty. The party must have been long for everyone involved, and you were grateful for it. You were in no state to be seen. You don’t really know where your going, your feet carrying you away from the awful room you now are meant to call yours. The gardens are a thankful sight, and you fall down onto a bench overlooking the Dornish flowers.
You don’t do anything but stare. Stare at the flowers, at the waters surrounding them. Everything hurts, and you don’t want to think. Think of what your life is now.
You are a married woman, a princess. Daeron Targaryen is your husband, and you are to leave everything you know behind to face this new world. A world you dread to even think about. You just want to go home, into your own bed and speak to your own Septas again. Chase your little sister through the garden and hide her away from the truth of being a noble lady. Hide her from the ugly truth of being a girl.
When the thought threatens to take over, when everything just seems like far too much, you start to feel the prickle of tears in your eyes. You swore you wouldn’t cry anymore, but you find it harder and harder the longer you think. A hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality.
You were so deep in thought you didn’t register the sound of footsteps approaching and you jump at the feel. Your eyes fly panicked to the owner of the hand and find your husband staring back. How you didn’t hear him approach is a mystery, but what is even stranger is why he is here at all- how did he find you?
He answers before you can ask.
“I woke up and you weren’t there”
He shrugs as he says it, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to stalk up his wife when she wasn’t there.
“I… I was a bit warm. I just need to be alone for a minute”
You try to blink the tears away, and it takes you a second to realise Daeron hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, hand on your shoulder, a slight concern on his face.
“I… I just need to be alone for…”
He interrupts you before you can finish the thought.
“I’ll stay, don’t worry”
He sits down beside you, close enough that your thighs touch. Immediately you try to scoot away, but he follows until you are pushed to the very end of the bench.
“No, I need to…”
“You don’t have to do this alone” He leans in close, hand still on your shoulder. “I’m here for you, we are one now”
And that’s it, right there. He walks right over you, disregarding and ignoring you, while trying to mask it as care. Trying to force you to see it as love.
You open your mouth to protest again, but it only results in the tears breaking out. You can’t do this, not right now. You are broken down, in pain and afraid and you just want to be alone.
Before you can blink, Daeron’s arms are suddenly around you, pulling you close. He forces your head down on his shoulder, hushing you as if he wasn’t responsible for the tears in the first place. You are feeling trapped, panic in his arms, and yet there is nothing you can do but let him.
“It’s been a long night; you just need something to eat, then you’ll feel better”
You nod into his arms, desperately clinging onto the fabric of his tunic, something to ground yourself to. All you want is some space, and some sort of chance of being alone. Just a few more minutes of silence and being alone would do wonders to you, that’s at least what you want to believe.
“You are right, I think. I’ll go down to the kitchen and…”
“I’ll follow you. You’ll never have to be alone again”
Warnings: Non-con. If this is triggering for you, please scroll on.
Daeron stumbled through the forest, making his way past the low hanging branches that threatened to scratch at his face. He’d stayed at the tavern too late this time, and now, somewhere between drunk and hungover, he faced the journey back to his horse. Moving noisily through the trees, he stilled upon seeing a young woman ahead of him, her face partly concealed by the bush she crouched in front of, fingers deftly picking berries from its stems.
Daeron didn’t even notice the way he inched forward to try and get a closer look at her until he stepped on a twig — the snap loud amongst the sound of birds and rustling leaves. The moment her head whipped up in his direction, Daeron couldn’t believe his eyes. It was her.
For years, he’d been having one dream over and over again: a woman, sweaty and tired from the labours of childbirth, holding out a small squirming babe with brilliant silver hair and a loud cry. She always looked up at him, tears of joy in her eyes and a small smile on her face as she presented the babe to him.
“She is your copy, Daeron,” she told him, letting him swaddle his daughter into his chest, his own tears spilling at the way she settled into his embrace.
It was Daeron’s happiest memory, despite it having not come to pass yet. It gave him hope — his own daughter was waiting for him. But he’d started to grow weary, never finding the woman’s face in any of the ladies presented to him at court. Maybe she didn’t exist, and for once his dreams were just that — dreams.
But here she was, standing frozen in fear at the sight of him. Still and rigid, wide eyes searching around for an escape, but Daeron can’t see any of that. Not when he’s within an arms reach of her, nor when he’s dragging her to the forest floor, her head colliding with a rock in their struggle.
She’s here with him! He was never crazy, not like his brother said when he shared his fate with him. He told him a woman would never love a coward like him.
She’s gone more limp now, whimpering as he starts to push her skirts up, and he's grinning, believing she recognises him somehow, maybe from her own dreams. A stray hand comes his way, and despite her using all her energy to try and scratch at his face, he thinks she's reaching out to touch him, to hold him close. To her disgust, the man atop her intertwines their fingers as she feels his other hand rip her small clothes down her legs. But her head hurts so bad, and the pain is making her drowsy, and she just can't make her limbs move more than a few inches. She finds herself left to the man's whims, him pulling her legs open wide for him to slot himself between.
"I–I found you, my love," the man exclaims to her, and with a sharp pain, she feels the moment he pushes himself inside of her. The feeling of his cock breaching her walls, the way he's spearing her open on his cock – it's agony. The cry that leaves her lips is one of pain, but Daeron believes it to be one of pleasure. She barely even notices his grip moving to her waist, holding her still for him – she supposes that will bruise. He's rutting into her now, hard and fast, chasing his own release and watching as her face screws up tightly, rhythmic whimpers and groans filtering from her mouth with every slap of his hips against her flesh. Daeron feels himself close to the edge already, having been unable to find release for weeks. Every whore he'd encountered couldn't manage to help him, but now, he realises, it was all for this. So he could give his seed to her, to bring forth their daughter into their waiting arms.
With a loud groan, one that echoes around the forest, he's emptying himself into her, falling over the edge. Daeron shudders as his release rolls over him, body involuntarily slumping forward onto the woman as his hips grind into her, feeling her twitch and writhe under him as he pushes his seed further into her womb. He sees her hands clawing at the dirt to ground herself, the sensation of their union overwhelming her. Her walls are tight around him, clamping down on him to keep him where he is, and the prince has never felt more overwhelmed in his life. She's here, really here, with him.
The woman stares up at the sky, her skull throbbing and the pain blurring her vision. The man on top of her slumps tiredly over her body, his large, heaving frame keeping her legs spread around his waist like a whore. The burning feeling of him inside her doesn't seem to dull, nor does the sensation of his seed seeping out down the sides of his cock. She’s aware of his heavy breathing in her ear and the way his hands stroke the pieces of her hair that had escaped her braid in the struggle.
The woman feels his hand move towards her stomach and she winces as he presses firmly down on her lower abdomen, pulling away from her neck to look at her. In his haze, he only sees her teary eyes and he thinks she’s as overjoyed as him.
“She’s waiting for us, I know it.”
Daeron, my sweet, sweet baby. I know you wouldn't do this! But I really, really, really needed to explore what would happen if you did.
Not proofread - just a major brain dump of writing.
A/N: tumblr let me post thanks I have fought my writers block for this!!!!! You already deleted once!!!!!!!! It’s Max so if you don’t like max keep it rolling
The neon pink light felt like the back of a club in Max’s ‘den’. You were behaving like someone found in the back of a club— lips stretched around his length, lashes teary as you bobbed up and down. One of your hands cupped his stones, the other gripping on Max’s thigh.
He was sprawled out, long legs stretched as the blonde lounged, blue eyes hazy and lidded, his pink lips curled up. Max hummed as his hand moved to your hair. Gentle at first. You hollowed your cheeks more, thighs trembling with growing arousal.
The smell of him, the stretch of your lips, how he sat on your tongue? Your hips squirmed helplessly as your neglected cunt ached. Your pretty dress was shucked up your thighs with every shift of your body.
Max’s long fingers got a handful of your hair and he pulled, hard. You whined around your boyfriend, eyes shutting as your hands shook and a hot spike of arousal hit your belly. Yet he kept pulling, pulling until you were off of him.
You blinked, eyes watery, lips slack and swollen as confused fell over your features. Max’s lazy expression shifted into something mocking. His voice dropped as he spoke, “I don’t need my mum seeing you on your knees like a common whore. Be quiet.”
You blinked, nodding as you rasped, “I’ll be quiet.”
Max gave you a smile and leaned back. He gestured towards his slick length and stones, “Alright, back to it then.” His grip guided you down onto the tip of him, leaking salty pre. You kitten licked at it, aching even more. Max scoffed, shoved you down further as you breathed in a timed manner, throat relaxing.
“No need for that grade school shit, you know what I need, babe,” he cooed, head falling back as the blunt head of his cock slid down your throat. Max huffed a breath, holding you until your nose hit trimmed light brown hair at the base of him.
You breathed through your nose, cunt dripping into your panties. Max’s grip on you released, only to relocate to the back of your neck, hand big and warm. Warmth flooded your body at the touch. You looked up through your lashes.
“Going to fuck that slutty throat of yours,” Max murmured, eyes dark with arousal. He squeezed your neck, adjusting you as the blonde began to shallowly thrust into your throat— the slick noises and Max’s stuttered breathing had your soaked cunt clenching on nothing. You bit back a whimper, breathing through your nose.
Your boyfriend watched you with pale eyes and an open mouthed smile. His hand slid to your cheek, giving it a pat. Max’s voice cut through the stagnant air, the low thrum of his music.
“Take me like you were born for it. Fuck- fuck babe, goddamn whore throat. That’s what you love, huh? Taking my cock like a dumb slut. Drooling. Cute.”
Your breath hitched, catching your breath again when he eased out. Your belly was a mess of knots, pussy throbbing with how fucking hot you were. The breaths through your nose grew sharp, frantic. Max’s big hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing at the sides.
“Tight, fucking hell, you’re squeezing me, fuck- hah, babe, riled up over some talk.”
He squeezed harder, you felt your vision begin to blur. Your hands scrabbled at your boyfriend, body thrumming as the lack of oxygen made pink and black swirl in your vision. Max shoved you down once more, gasping on a curse before spilling down your throat.
You watched your vision dim completely and ecstasy rolling up your spine before he let go, you reeling back coughing. Max watched you, eyes bright, his lips spread into a self-satisfied smirk.
He leaned forward, smoothing your mussed hair down as the deviant greedily drank your state. Shaking, sweaty, tears and snot and drool. Max grinned, thumbing your swollen lips. His voice softened a hair, thumb lazily tracing the puffy flesh.
“You came huh? Soaked your knickers in your garden dress from choking on cock? You’re so fucked up, you know that?”
He looked proud of you. You swallowed that sentiment down.
Max cupped your cheek. You instinctually leaned into it, wet eyes on him. Shame suffused your face with heat. Shame of how much you loved this. This being however Max Hastings had ripped into your brain and let loose something once unconscious.
Max always got what he wanted.
His voice dropped again in a simile of a coo, “Go clean up babe. No detours, right to my shower. Mum needn’t see that.”
Max’s lips grazed your ear as he whispered, “She still thinks you’re that prissy society girl. Go now, bun. Can’t have my family know I date a girl so easy.”
He grinned as you tucked him back in his trousers. You stood up and turned to the door, Max giving your arse a smack as you tugged the dress down, legs trembling. It wasn’t much longer after the door shut did Max come to follow along.
He taught you to be his pretty pet in the first place. Max was proud of how far you’d come along.
Summary: After receiving a shipment of dresses from Dragonstone, you finally experience a moment of happiness and reconnect with your former self.
TW: Emotional abuse, Psychological abuse, Domestic abuse, Misogyny / slut-shaming, Gaslighting, Age-gap relationship, Implied sexual coercion / marital sexual abuse themes
WC: 6K
The morning of the day everything changed began like so many mornings before it quietly, with the weight of someone else's choices pressing down on you before you had even opened your eyes.
You woke to the sound of the bells. Oldtown was a city of bells, something you had not known before you came here. They rang at dawn, at noon, at dusk, at every hour in between, marking time with a relentlessness that made you feel like you were living inside a heartbeat. The sound echoed through the stone walls of the Hightower, bouncing off the ancient masonry, seeping into your dreams. On Dragonstone, you had woken to the sound of the sea and the distant cry of your dragon. Here, you woke to bells.
You lay still for a moment, watching the light creep across the ceiling. The curtains were heavy but a single sliver of gold had found its way through the gap, painting a line across the stone above your head. You traced it with your eyes, following it from one corner of the room to the other, and tried to remember what day it was.
It did not matter. The days were all the same now.
You turned your head on the pillow. Ormund was already gone. His side of the bed was cold, the blankets pushed back, the indentation of his body already fading from the mattress. He rose early, your husband. He had a city to run and a household to command. You had learned quickly that he did not expect you to be awake when he left. He did not expect anything from you in the mornings except that you would be there with your legs opened when he returned.
You sat up slowly, pushing the heavy blankets aside. The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint, familiar scent of smoke from the fireplace. Your shift was wrinkled from sleep, twisted around your legs, and you smoothed it down automatically before swinging your feet to the floor.
You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, just a little. The view was spectacular, you could not deny that. The Hightower rose above the city like a spear thrust into the sky, and from your chambers near the top, you could see everything. The Honeywine River winding its way to the sea. The rooftops of Oldtown spreading out below, a patchwork of slate and tile and thatch. The Citadel in the distance, its domes and spires gleaming in the morning light. And beyond it all, the Whispering Sound, blue and endless, stretching toward the horizon.
It was beautiful. It was not home.
You let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. Your gown was laid out for you already. It always was. You had not chosen the dresses you wore since your wedding night. They simply appeared each morning, draped over the chair by the hearth, waiting for you. Today's was a deep charcoal grey with silver embroidery along the scooped neckline and long, tight sleeves. The fabric was heavy—it was always heavy—and the cut was modest. You had never worn anything like it before you came to Oldtown, and now you wore nothing else.
Your ladies arrived as you were washing your face. Three of them, all Hightower women, all chosen by Ormund's steward. They helped you into your dress without comment. The laces were pulled tight, the sleeves smoothed down, the high collar fastened close around your throat. You stood still and let them work, lifting your arms when they needed you to, turning when they asked. You had learned that it was easier to comply than to question.
"Your hair, my lady?" Ellyn asked, her hands already reaching for the brush.
You hesitated. "I thought I might leave it down today."
A pause. Barely a heartbeat, but you felt it.
"Lord Ormund prefers it up," Ellyn said. Her voice was neutral. Polite. The voice of a servant who had been given instructions and intended to follow them.
You opened your mouth to argue—it was your hair, after all, your head, your choice—but the words died on your tongue. It was not worth the fight. Nothing was worth the fight anymore.
"Very well," you said quietly.
Ellyn nodded and began to brush. You watched yourself in the mirror as she worked. The girl looking back at you was beautiful—you knew that, had always known that, had been told it so many times it had ceased to mean anything—but she did not look like you. She looked like a portrait of you, painted by someone who had only heard a description. The hair was right, silver-gold and falling in soft waves. The eyes were right, violet and clear. But something was missing. Some spark. Some light.
You looked tired. You looked pale. You looked like a woman who had been slowly fading for weeks and had not noticed until this moment.
Ellyn pinned your hair up in an elaborate twist, securing it with silver combs. You felt the weight of it pulling at your scalp, the familiar tension that always followed. Your mother had never made you wear your hair up. Your mother had let you wear it however you wanted—loose and wild when you were flying, braided with ribbons when you attended court, simple and unadorned when you were alone. Your mother had always said that you were beautiful because you were yourself, not because you looked like anyone else's idea of beauty.
You missed your mother. You missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing could fill.
"There," Ellyn said, stepping back to admire her work. "Very proper, my lady."
"Thank you," you said, because that was what you were supposed to say.
They left you alone after that, retreating to their own tasks, and you sat by the window for a long time, watching the clouds move across the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, beyond the Whispering Sound, beyond the Reach and the Kingswood and the Blackwater Bay, your mother was sitting on Dragonstone. Your brothers were running through the halls, laughing, arguing, living their lives.
And you were here. In Oldtown. Married to a man you barely recognized anymore.
The courtship had been so different. You remembered it now, sitting in the grey morning light, turning the memories over in your mind like stones. Ormund had come to King's Landing two years ago, representing his house at some council or another, and he had seen you across the throne room. You had been ten and eight then, young and shy. He had been thirty-six, a widower with four children, a lord in his own right. He had looked at you with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the room.
He had been charming. He had sent you gifts, books from the Citadel, rare perfumes from Lys, a necklace of sapphires that matched your eyes. He had written you letters, long and eloquent and full of praise. He had sought you out at feasts and tourneys, always finding a way to sit beside you, to speak with you, to make you laugh.
Your mother had been skeptical at first. "He is older than you," she had said, her brow furrowed. "And he is a Hightower. The Hightowers are ambitious, my love. They do not do anything without purpose."
But you had argued for him. You had told her that he was kind, that he was good, that he made you feel special. And eventually, reluctantly, she had agreed to the match. Not because she trusted him—you knew now that she never had—but because she trusted you. Because she wanted you to be happy. Because she thought that denying you this would only make you want it more.
And there was the political reality, too. You had known that, even then. The Hightowers were powerful. The Hightowers were influential. The Hightowers could tip the balance in the coming struggle for the throne. Marrying you to Ormund was a way of securing their loyalty, of ensuring that when the time came, Oldtown would stand with Rhaenyra.
You had been a gift. A guarantee. A hostage wrapped in silk and sent south with a smile.
You had told yourself it did not matter. You had told yourself that Ormund loved you, that he would be good to you, that the political reasons were secondary to the personal ones. You had believed him when he promised to cherish you, to protect you, to make you happy.
You had been so stupid.
The knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts. You turned, smoothing your features into the placid expression you had learned to wear, and called out, "Enter."
It was a servant, one of the many whose names you had not yet learned. He was young, barely more than a boy, and he bowed awkwardly when he saw you.
"My lady," he said. "A shipment has arrived for you. From Dragonstone."
Your heart stopped.
"A shipment?" You rose from your chair, and your voice came out breathless, eager, the way it used to sound before you learned to keep your feelings hidden. "Where is it?"
"In the courtyard, my lady. I can have it brought up to your chambers, if you wish."
"No." The word was too quick, too sharp. You forced yourself to slow down, to breathe. "No, thank you. I will come down myself. I would like to—" You stopped. You did not know how to explain what you wanted. You wanted to see it. You wanted to touch it. You wanted to hold something from home in your hands and remember what it felt like to be yourself.
"Of course, my lady," the servant said. He bowed again and retreated, and you were alone once more.
You did not run. Running would have been undignified. Running would have drawn attention. But you walked faster than you had walked in weeks, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands clasped tightly in front of you to hide their trembling.
The courtyard was busy when you arrived. Servants and guards and grooms going about their daily tasks, none of them paying much attention to the crate sitting near the stables. It was large, nearly as tall as you were, made of dark wood and bound with iron bands. And stamped on the side, clear and unmistakable, was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
You stopped a few feet away, suddenly afraid to approach. It was silly, you knew. It was just a crate. Just wood and iron and the things your mother had sent. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a message. A reminder. A lifeline thrown across the distance between Dragonstone and Oldtown, telling you that you were not forgotten.
"My lady?" A servant—a different one, a woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron—approached with a slight curtsy. "Shall I have it brought to your rooms?"
"Yes," you said, and then, because you could not help yourself, "No. Wait. I want to open it here."
The woman looked surprised, but she nodded. "As you wish, my lady. Shall I fetch a crowbar?"
"Please."
You stood there, in the middle of the courtyard, while she went to find the tools. The sun was warm on your face, warmer than it had been in days, or perhaps it only felt that way because you were happy. You were actually happy. The feeling was so unfamiliar that it took you a moment to recognize it.
When the crowbar arrived the scent hit you first.
Jasmine. Your mother's perfume. The same perfume she had worn since you were a child, the same scent that had clung to her hair when she held you, to her gowns when you pressed your face into her shoulder. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough. Your eyes stung, and you had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.
And then the dresses. They were packed in layers of fine paper, each one wrapped carefully to protect the delicate fabrics. You pulled them out one by one, your breath catching in your throat each time. Silk. Chiffon. Velvet so soft it felt like water running through your fingers. The colors were breathtaking, deep violet, pale blue, crimson, silver, black, gold. Lyseni cuts, every one of them. Flowing skirts and fitted bodices and sleeves that would flutter when you walked.
These were your dresses. These were the clothes you had worn before your wedding, before Oldtown, before everything. These were the clothes that made you feel like a Targaryen princess instead of a Hightower wife.
And then, at the very bottom of the crate, you found it.
The silver-grey gown.
You lifted it from the paper with hands that shook, and the sunlight caught the beadwork, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.
It was the most beautiful dress you had ever seen. The bodice was gathered chiffon, layer upon layer of it, so fine and sheer that it looked like morning mist made solid. Tiny silver beads traced patterns across the fabric—flowers, vines, delicate spirals that caught the light and sparkled like captured stars. The neckline was a sweetheart, low and elegant, designed to frame the collarbones and accentuate the curve of the breasts without being vulgar. The sleeves were off the shoulder, sheer and flowing, held in place by jeweled straps so fine they looked like threads of starlight. The waist was fitted, structured, creating a dramatic contrast with the flowing pleated skirt below. And the skirt was layer after layer of soft, swirling fabric that would catch the air and dance with every step you took.
It was a dress for a princess. It was a dress for a dragonrider. It was a dress for you.
You held it up against your body, right there in the courtyard, and you could not stop smiling. You probably looked ridiculous—a lady of House Hightower clutching a gown to her chest like a child with a new toy—but you did not care. You did not care about anything except the feel of the fabric beneath your fingers and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that things were going to be better now.
"Would you like to wear it, my lady?"
You looked up. The servant woman was still there, watching you with an expression that was almost a smile.
"May I?" you asked, and then realized how foolish the question was. You were the lady of the house. You did not need to ask permission. But somehow, without thinking, you had.
"Of course, my lady," the woman said. "I think it would suit you beautifully."
You dressed alone. You did not want anyone else's hands on this dress. It was too precious, too personal, too much a part of you. You slipped it over your head carefully, reverently, letting the silk whisper against your skin. You adjusted the bodice, settled the sleeves on your shoulders, smoothed the skirt down over your hips. And when you looked in the mirror—
You gasped.
You were beautiful. You spun in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare out around you, and you laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind of laugh you had not made since your wedding night.
And then the knock came.
"My lady?" Margot's voice, muffled through the door. "The other ladies are asking if you will join them in the solar. They have heard about the dresses and are eager to see."
You took a deep breath. You smoothed your hands down the front of your gown. And then you opened the door.
Bethany gasped first. Loud and delighted, the way only a girl could gasp. "Oh, my lady! You look like a queen!"
Ellyn was more restrained, but even she could not hide her surprise. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly before she caught herself. "It is... very fine work, my lady," she said carefully. "Lyseni, I presume?"
"Yes," you said, and your voice came out stronger than it had in weeks. "My mother sent them. I used to wear this style at court."
The walk through the Hightower was different than it had ever been before. You had walked these halls dozens of times since your wedding, head down, eyes averted, trying to take up as little space as possible. But today, in your gown, you walked with your head high. You looked people in the eye. You smiled.
And people noticed.
Servants stopped to stare as you passed. Guards straightened, their gazes lingering on you longer than was proper. A young squire dropped the sword he was carrying and had to scramble to pick it up, his face bright red. You felt their eyes on you and you did not mind. You had been invisible for weeks. It was nice to be seen.
—
Ormund found you in the solar.
It was late afternoon by then, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You were sitting by the window, reading your mother's letter at last—it was full of news from Dragonstone, gossip about your brothers, questions about how you were settling in—when the door opened and he walked in.
You looked up and smiled. "Husband. I did not expect you back so early."
He did not smile back. You should have noticed that. You should have seen the storm gathering behind his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were clenched at his sides. But you were still floating on the happiness of the morning, still wrapped in the warmth of your mother's words and you did not see.
"Where did you get that dress?"
His voice was flat. Too flat. The kind of flat that comes before a storm.
"It was in the shipment from my mother," you said, and you heard the happiness in your own voice, bright and fragile and utterly unaware. "She sent me dresses from Lys—the kind I used to wear at court. Isn't it beautiful? I have not worn anything like it since—"
"Stand up."
You blinked. "What?"
"Stand. Up."
You stood. The letter slipped from your fingers and floated to the floor. You stood, and he looked at you, and the silence stretched out between you like a wound opening.
"Ormund," you said carefully, "is something wrong?"
He crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed your arm and pulled you toward the door.
"You will come with me," he said. "Now."
"Ormund, you are hurting me—"
"Now."
He dragged you through the corridors. You stumbled after him, your beautiful skirt tangling around your legs, your jeweled straps digging into your shoulders. Servants saw you—you knew they saw you, you saw their faces turn away, their eyes drop—and shame burned hot in your cheeks. You were the lady of the house. You were a princess of the blood. And you were being pulled through your own home like a disobedient child.
He did not speak again until the door to your chambers slammed shut behind you.
Then he let go of your arm, and you stumbled backward, catching yourself on the back of a chair. Your chest was heaving. Your heart was pounding. And when you looked at his face you barely recognized him.
"What," he said, low and dangerous, "are you wearing?"
You stared at him. "It is a dress. I told you. My mother sent—"
"Your mother." He spat the words like they tasted of poison. "Your whore of a mother sent you a whore's dress, and you decided to parade yourself through my keep in it."
The word hit you like a slap. Whore. Your mother. He had never—no one had ever—
"Don't look so shocked." He stepped closer, and you stepped back, and the chair between you felt like nothing, like paper, like a wall that would crumble at a single touch. "You know what I am talking about. You know exactly what your mother is. The whole realm knows. She spreads her legs for every man who looks at her twice, and now she cannot even control her own daughter."
"That is not true." Your voice came out thin. Reedy. Nothing like the strong, confident voice you had used all day. "My mother is not—you cannot speak of her that way. She is your future queen—"
"She is a whore." He said it flatly. Calmly. Like he was remarking on the weather. "She is a whore who put bastards in the line of succession and expected the realm to bow. She has fucked her sworn shield for years—everyone knows it, even if they are too afraid to say it—and those Strong bastards she calls sons are proof. And now she has sent her daughter to me, dressed like a common bedslave, and I am supposed to be grateful?"
Your hands were shaking. You pressed them to your stomach, trying to steady yourself. "I am not dressed like a—I am not. This is just a dress. This is the kind of dress I have always worn. You saw me in them at court. You said I was beautiful. You said—"
"I lied."
The words stopped you cold.
"I lied." He stepped closer again, and this time there was nowhere to back away to. Your shoulders hit the wall. "Of course I told you that you were beautiful. That is what men do when they are courting. We flatter. We praise. We tell you what you want to hear. And you—" His eyes raked down your body, and you felt naked, exposed, like every inch of skin was on display. "You were a maiden then. Untouched. A prize to be won. I could look at you and imagine all the things I was going to do to you once you were mine."
He paused. His tongue swept across his lower lip, and the gesture made your stomach turn.
"Do you want to know what I really thought, when I saw you in your pretty little dresses? I thought about what was underneath. I thought about tearing them off you. I thought about bending you over a chair and seeing if you were as tight as you looked. I thought about how sweet it would be to be the one who finally got to touch what you were showing everyone."
"Stop—" The word came out as a choked whisper. "Please, stop—"
"But that was then." His voice hardened. "That was when you were a maiden. That was when you were untouchable. Now you are my wife. Now you wear my name and live in my house and sleep in my bed. And my wife does not dress like a whore."
"I am not a whore." Tears were burning in your eyes now, hot and stinging. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "I am a Targaryen princess. I am a dragonrider. I am your wife, and I have done nothing wrong—"
"Nothing wrong?" He laughed, and it was an ugly sound. Ugly and cruel and nothing like the warm, charming laugh you remembered from the courtship. "You paraded yourself through the entire keep in a dress that shows your tits to every man with eyes. Guards stared at you. Servants stared at you. My squire -your own uncle- dropped his sword because he was too busy looking at your body to remember what he was doing. And you think you have done nothing wrong?"
You had not known about the squire. You had not noticed. But it did not matter. It would not have mattered. He had made up his mind about what you were, and nothing you said would change it.
"It is just a dress," you whispered. "It made me feel beautiful. It made me feel like myself. I have been wearing your dresses for weeks—your grey dresses, your heavy fabrics—and I have not complained. I have not asked for anything. I just wanted one thing that was mine. One thing that felt like home."
"Home?" He sneered the word. "You mean Dragonstone? You mean your mother's castle, where she hides her bastards and her lovers and pretends she is fit to rule? That is not home. That is a den of sin and corruption, and you are lucky I took you out of it."
"Lucky?" The word escaped you before you could stop it, high and incredulous. "You think I am lucky? You think I am grateful for this? For being dragged through the corridors like a prisoner? For being called a whore in my own home? For being married to a man who—"
"Who what?" His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "Who what? Say it."
You opened your mouth. You closed it. The words were there, burning on your tongue, but you could not make yourself speak them. You were afraid. You were so afraid.
"Who does not love you?" He finished the sentence for you, and his smile was terrible. "Is that what you were going to say? That I do not love you? Let me tell you something, little wife. I love you more than you deserve. I love you despite your mother, despite your reputation, despite the rumors about your parentage. Everyone knows you are not Laenor's daughter—no more than the Strong bastards are. And now you come here, dressed like a whore, and expect me to be grateful?"
"My father loved me." Your voice cracked, and the tears spilled over at last. Hot and wet, tracking down your cheeks. "Laenor Velaryon raised me. He was my father. And you will not speak of him that way."
"Laenor Velaryon was a fool." Ormund's lip curled. "He raised another man's bastards because he was too weak to do anything else. Just as your mother is too weak to control her own desires. And you are just like her. Weak. Vain. Desperate for attention. You think you are special because you have a dragon? You are nothing. You are a spoiled princess who has never had to work for anything, who has never had to serve anyone, who does not know the first thing about being a wife."
"I am not—"
"You are a piece of property." He stepped forward, and his hand came up, and for one terrible moment you thought he was going to hit you. But he did not. He touched your face instead, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that made your skin crawl. "My property. Your body belongs to me now. Your hair, your face, your tits, your cunt—all of it. You do not get to decide what you wear or what you show. You do not get to decide anything. You are mine. And I will not have my property parading around like a common whore."
"Let go of me."
You did not recognize your own voice. It was quiet and cold and utterly steady, nothing like the sobbing, broken girl you felt like inside.
He did not let go. His grip on your jaw tightened, just slightly. Just enough to remind you of his strength.
"You do not give me orders," he said softly. "You are my wife. You obey me. You do what I say, when I say it. And if you cannot do that—" His thumb pressed harder, digging into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone. "Then I will teach you. I will teach you to be grateful for my attentions. I will teach you to be the wife I need you to be. And by the time I am finished, you will thank me for it."
"You are hurting me."
"I am trying to help you. But you are making it so difficult." He released your jaw, finally, and stepped back. His eyes dropped to the dress. To the silver beadwork. To the sweetheart neckline that he hated. "Take it off."
Your blood ran cold. "What?"
"Take. It. Off."
You did not move. You could not move. Your body was frozen, your mind screaming, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
"Please," you whispered. "Please, Ormund, I will not wear it again. I will put it away. I will wear whatever you want. Just please—"
"Take it off, or I will take it off for you."
You raised your hands. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely grip the fabric, but you tried. You tried to be good. You tried to do what he wanted. The jeweled straps slipped from your shoulders, and the bodice sagged, and then—
His patience ran out.
He grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.
The sound the fabric made was like a scream. A high, rending shriek of tearing silk, and then the bodice was splitting, the beadwork scattering in all directions like falling stars. You cried out and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His hands found the seams and pulled, and the dress came apart in his grip like paper. Chiffon shredded. Beads flew. The jeweled straps snapped, the tiny stones scattering across the floor and skittering into corners where you would never find them again.
"No, no, no—" You were sobbing now, your hands batting uselessly at his arms, your voice rising to something that was almost a scream. "Please stop, please, it was a gift, it was from my mother, please—"
"Your mother." He grabbed the skirt and tore it from the waist, the pleated fabric ripping with a sound like thunder. "Your mother should have taught you how to be a wife. Instead she taught you how to be a whore."
"My mother—" You could barely speak. The words were choked with tears, your throat raw from screaming. "My mother loves me. She sent me this because she loves me—"
He laughed. It was the cruelest sound you had ever heard.
"Your mother sent you here because she wanted to get rid of you. Because you were inconvenient. Because she has her bastards to think about now, her precious Strong boys, and there was no room left for you. You were a spare. A surplus. A problem to be solved. And I solved it. I took you off her hands when no one else would."
That was when you slapped him.
You did not think about it. You did not plan it. Your hand just moved, arcing through the air and catching him across the cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. You stared at him, your palm stinging, your breath coming in ragged gasps. And he stared back at you, his head turned slightly from the force of the blow, his cheek already reddening. For a long, terrible moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he turned back to you, and his eyes—
His eyes were dead. Empty. Two pits of black that looked at you without recognition, without humanity, without anything at all.
"You should not have done that," he said quietly.
And then he reached for the rest of the dress.
You did not fight him anymore. You could not. Your body had gone limp, your strength drained, your spirit crushed into something small and broken. You stood there, shaking and crying, as he tore the remaining fabric from your body. The skirt fell away in ribbons. The underskirt followed, ripped from the waistband like paper. And then you were standing in nothing but your shift, your arms wrapped around yourself, your shoulders bare and trembling.
He stepped back. His chest was heaving. His face was flushed. And in his hands, he held the ruins of your dress. He held it up. Looked at it. Then looked at you.
Then he walked to the fireplace.
"No." The word came out as a broken whisper. "No, please. Please, Ormund. Please don't."
He threw it into the flames.
You watched it burn. The silk caught immediately, curling and blackening like a living thing in its death throes. The beadwork melted, silver droplets running down the fabric like tears. The chiffon vanished in a flash of orange, there and gone, consumed by the fire that had never felt warm, not once, not since you arrived in this cold, cold city.
You sank to your knees. You could not stop crying. Your whole body was wracked with sobs, your shoulders heaving, your hands pressed to your face to muffle the sounds. You were kneeling on the cold stone floor in nothing but your shift, surrounded by scattered beads and torn silk and the ashes of the only thing that had made you feel like yourself in weeks. And you had never felt so small in your entire life. You had never felt so alone.
And then he was there.
He knelt in front of you. His hands found your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so that you had to look at him. His expression had changed completely. The fury was gone. The cruelty was gone. In their place was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love.
"See?" he said softly. Gently. As if he were comforting a frightened child. "See what you made me do?"
You stared at him through blurry eyes. You could not speak. You could not think.
"I do not want to be like this." His thumbs brushed your tears away, tracing gentle paths across your cheekbones. "I want to be a good husband to you. I want to love you, and cherish you, and protect you. But I cannot do that when you dress like a whore. You make me angry. You push me to do things I do not want to do."
You shook your head. It was a tiny, weak movement, barely perceptible. But he saw it.
"Yes," he said, and his voice was so certain, so utterly convinced of its own righteousness. "It is your fault. If you had worn what I told you to wear, if you had been a good wife, if you had simply obeyed me, none of this would have happened. I would not have had to raise my voice. I would not have had to rip the dress. You made me do this."
"I did not—" Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely audible. "I did not make you do anything."
"You did." He stroked your hair now, smoothing it back from your tear-stained face with a gentleness that made your stomach turn. "You know you did. You knew how I felt about those dresses. You knew I did not want you wearing them. And you wore it anyway, in front of everyone, flaunting yourself like a common—" He stopped himself. Took a breath. Softened his voice even further. "You chose to disobey me. And actions have consequences. You understand that, don't you?"
You did not answer. You could not answer. You were trapped in a nightmare, and the monster was stroking your hair and telling you it was all your fault.
"But I forgive you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips were warm and dry, and you wanted to scrub the feeling of them off your skin. "I will always forgive you. Because I love you. Do you understand that? Everything I do, I do because I love you. If I did not love you, I would not care what you wore. I would not care who looked at you. But I do love you. I love you so much it drives me mad. And that is why I get angry. That is why I cannot control myself sometimes. Because I love you, and I cannot bear to see you make yourself look like a whore."
You were shaking your head again, but you did not know what you were denying. The words coming out of his mouth? The gentleness of his touch? The horrible, impossible reality of everything that had just happened?
"Say you are sorry," he said.
"I—"
"Say it." His grip on your chin tightened, just a fraction. Just enough to remind you that he was still in control. "Say you are sorry for what you did."
You were sorry. You were so sorry. You were sorry you had worn the dress. You were sorry you had opened the crate. You were sorry you had been happy, even for a moment. You were sorry you had ever come to Oldtown, ever said yes to his courtship, ever believed him when he looked at you with hunger in his eyes and told you it was love.
"I am sorry," you whispered.
The words tasted like ash.
"Good girl." He kissed your forehead again. "Good girl. I forgive you."
He pulled you into his arms. He held you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Satisfied.
"See?" he murmured into your hair. "It is over now. It is over. I love you. I love you so much."
You could smell the smoke from the fireplace. The ashes of your dress. The death of the girl you used to be.
"I will always take care of you," he said. "I will always forgive you. But you have to learn. You have to be better. You have to be the wife I need you to be. Do you understand?"
You nodded against his chest. You did not know what else to do.
"Say it."
"I understand." Your voice did not sound like your own. It was hollow. Empty. A shell of the voice that had laughed in the dragonpit this morning.
"Good girl." He stroked your hair. "Good girl. We are going to be happy together. I promise you. We are going to be so happy."
He held you there, in front of the dying fire where your dress was ash, and you cried into his chest until you had no tears left and when he finally pulled back and tilted your face up to look at him, you let him see the tears drying on your cheeks and the emptiness in your eyes, and you did not flinch when he smiled.
"There," he said. "That is better. That is my good, obedient wife."
He kissed you. Softly. Tenderly. The kiss of a lover, not a monster.
And you did not pull away.
Because you were learning. You were learning to be the wife he needed you to be. You were learning to smile when you wanted to scream, to nod when you wanted to fight, to say "I love you" when what you really meant was "I am afraid of you."
It was easier than admitting that you had made the worst mistake of your life, and you did not know how to undo it.
I’d love to hear your take on this and I absolutely love your work!
If reader was riding them, like they’re in the middle of having sex and say some of the servants entered the room unexpectedly— exposing them to the view.
How would the men react to reader, if instead of freaking out— she was like “let them watch, i don’t care, or i’m not stopping”??
being walked in on with their s/o
features: baelor, maekar, dunk, aerion, lyonel, valarr and daeron
warning(s): SMUT, pinv, use of fem genitalia/pronouns, getting caught, slight exhibitionism, use of threats
The sounds of your moans engulfed the room, the languid breeze of summer hitting your bare back where warm hands held you, ringed fingers gracing your skin pulling, bracing, anchoring with every rock of your hips. Baelor watched you with a dark intensity, the kind that nothing else could falter, a mismatched gaze fixed surely onto you.
“You take me so well, my love.. if only you could see yourself.” A hand reached up from your hip, sliding over your jawline, curling the disheveled hair from your face as you moaned. He had a way about him that seemed determined not to break, and yet even now, with you atop him, riding him, taking what you wanted, he was certain that would be it. You had already come undone three times before he entered you, leaving you utterly blissed and shaking.
His eyelids fluttered as he rocked you onto him, the hand at your back sliding lower, gripping your arsecheek, moving you back and forth. Nothing could come between you, and you were determined not to let it, the candlelight flickered around you, swallowing the room into a moody shadow, fuelling the fire you could feel in the pit of your belly. It complimented him. The tan of his skin, the dark salted pepper of his hair, the scorch of his touch against you, inside of you.
He allowed you to set the rhythm, working yourself onto him and into a haze as your mouth fell slack, barely able to hear the door as it was shoved open. Nor the knocking that came before it. Baelor had of course, ears pricking up at the slightest movement outside of the door, fingers tightening just enough around you.
But he did not move you, and neither did you, not as you eyed the young maid who has stood in the doorway.
“My Prince I—“
The sheets were drawn up around your waist and back, covering your body in the thin fabrics entirely, silhouetted right where you stayed, on top of him, slowly grinding.
“I do not wish to stop.” You breathed, the familiar heat turning into a crescendo in your belly.
The same gaze that had beneath burning you flickered to you once again, twice, before landing on the servant in the doorway. It was not subtle, the poor girl’s face a deep blushed red, not knowing where to look. But it had been too long, the way he felt and looked, so poised and unbroken and still melting under you touch, you did not want to stop.
And he should have known of your stubbornness, the callousness that could cost you both rumoured amid court and yet he found it in him not to care, nor truly. You were in the privacy of your chambers, you were his wife, and you were claiming him. Something stirred in him then, arms flexing around you, a hand stuttered at your waist. He slowed, your bodies colliding, obvious to what was happening and yet hidden enough that dignity was in tact.
“It would be best to call on me at a better time.” His voice was a deadly honey, as smooth as silk as a small smile graced his features, correcting the girl carefully, but not impolite, even as he was shoved fully inside of you.
The door closed immediately, footsteps darting down the corridor, and his lips curved, so much so he may well have laughed, your hand planting down onto his chest where it rumbled, a groan eliciting his lips.
A sharp kiss found its way at your jaw, thrusts slowing before quickening once more, and that was all that was needed. Baelor Targaryen, the crown Prince, one would not abandon honour, nor would he his own wife, and he was eager to prove it.
Gods he wished to be nowhere else. And he did not need to come out and say it, the way his fingers tightened with every thrust as you fucked yourself down onto him. His grunts mixing with your moans as he moved up into you, head pressed tight against there headboard. It was a bliss he had not known of in far too long.
“By the seven.. fuck woman.”
His hair was fully mussed, rather an unprincely sight, but a beautiful one nonetheless. And it was one you’d come to appreciate even in all of his brash ways. He’d come to you not long after you’d readied yourself for bed, shrugging his clothes off in a rush and striding over you to you from where you lay on the bed, setting you down onto his lap in one swift motion.
The pair of you needed this, about the only thing he managed to breathe, was a short, “Need you, now.” Before backing you up into his arms, your bare bodies rolling into one another as you rode him, thick length driving into you from beneath. Your head fell back as you revelled in the feeling, sinking up and down.
You were lost in each other, his gaze rolling into his head as his teeth gritted, growling under his breath at a loss for words. Something he had missed, not that he had been far from you, but the pure ecstasy, unbothered and blissed with you, it was something always left wanting for.
He heard it first, a soft knock, rattling the oak frames of the door to your bedchamber. Not a chance, he thought, choosing to ignore any other sound other than those coming form your lips. The groans rumbled deeper from his chest, urging you on with every whine you let out through fallen lips.
Then it came again, faster this time, and harder, your fingers gripping his shoulder tighter as you felt the heat pool in your belly.
“Do not stop.”
“Unless you are too scared for them to notice.”
The last part was a test, watching the way he twitched at the joke alone, you smirked.
He squinted, by the slightest, violet eyes raking over you as if you had gone mad, grip clamping around your middle. He was not to argue, there was no protest in it, the opposite in fact, only a roll of his eyes as he answered.
“My Prince there is—“
“Leave us..” He growled, the pierce of his gaze not leaving you, his head only tilting enough to spit at the poor young man who stood at the doorway with a half opened door. And before you could stifle a moan, he had flipped you over in one motion, your lidded eyes barely registering the way the squire had shuffled backward, the Prince roughly manoeuvring you both until you were tucked underneath him. Without a care for what parts of him were on show, he draped the sheets around himself quickly, bunching them at your sides and covering the view of your breasts.
“Enough gawking, I said leave.” He managed to grit out, and the door closed with a heavy tug. The new angle made you groan, his hips punching steadily back into you near making you scream before you could think, the force making you take all of him at once.
“Do not make promises you cannot keep.” His lips sharply shoved back into yours, hands smoothing at the underside of your thighs to anchor you to him.
And there was one promise he was willing to keep— ruining you.
The tavern was a small comfort. A poxy room with a bed large enough for two people, normal sized people that was, one your giant hedge knight just about managed to fit in, but it was a welcome break at last. With a creaky bedframe to come with it.
Neither of you were up for much, preferring the comfort of one another’s arms, breathing in the warmth as you both got into your smallclothes, tucked up into Dunk’s chest. Minutes had passed when you first you rocked into him, strong arms tightening around you, soft kisses pressed to your forehead.
A hardness poked into you from underneath, his body enclosing around yours tighter as you shuffled your way into him, the heat in your core ignited by the friction. He gripped you down into him, fitting you into him much like a puzzle piece, your frame melting into his, not knowing where to pull and where to push, utterly enchanted. Blue eyes were blown wide, fingertips pressing deep into the dimples at your back as you keened, moving to sit up, shedding layer by thin layer of your chemise.
The leathers of his breeches were scuffed own his legs, ruffled to his knees in one careful push, holding you to him, as you took him. Inch by tortuous inch he gently moved you down onto him, his pulsing need throbbing deep into your core.
And just as you had not bothered to leave the bed for anything else, you had not managed to notice the figure that stood in the doorway, with eyes almost as wide as Dunk’s, his face flushing under the bead of sweat at his forehead.
A burly woman, an older maid with towels in her hands, stepping to set a pitcher of water at your bedside before even darting to look up again, the slight curve of her lip showing all. That she had seen it all before, meeting her gaze.. and after that, you found it in you not to care. Not when you had him like this.
And you did not stop, not even as you eyed her in your peripheral, he felt too good, too big and too warm, in fact you moved harsher, his thick length filling you entirely as you cried out.
“M’love..” Heavy hands closed around you tightly, shoving the rough sheets up your back and over your breasts, wrapping you entirely into him.
“Let her see I do not care.”
“Are.. you sure about that?” Though it was hardly protest, only confirmation, the woman half ducked out the door, your bodies connecting deeper with every movement, neither pulling away, only closer.
“I’ll just leave these here.” She said as she slunk away from the door, closing it behind her.
“P-please.” Though you couldn’t tell if it was for you or her, his reply coming through gritted teeth, holding back just as much as he could, fighting all his might not to sink wholly inside of you in that moment. Yet his hands closed around your waist tighter, thrusts beginning to meet yours as the room was left just the two of you once more.
Your chambers were as adorned as you felt, nail marks gripped down your sides just as they were down his back. The sheets of silk were ruffled and crumpled beneath you, rolled between a tangle of limbs. It felt soft, oddly enough, because he never was, and never had been, and yet a certain tenderness only reserved for you had settled, sheathed fully inside of you, he was almost peaceful.
Commentary of his latest victories and jests of an opponent besting had reached the realm, spreading in gossip between commoner and noble alike, and it angered him. All good words for his cousin and yet none for him, even the everlasting compliment for his uncle who did not ride as often, and instead he brought it back to you. All balled fists and curses falling way into your touch, his head finding its way to your shoulder as sly hands had guided you to the bed, tugging his cloak free as he made work of untying your smallclothes.
“They know nothing of a true knight, but you do.. don’t you, my dove.” Tight muscle flexed beneath you, thighs bracing into your back as he fucked up into you, an aching burn filling you as he grunted, merciless in his thrusts.
Your hands braced over his chest, shoving him down as he roughly bucked inside of you, violet eyes fluttering closed and open, the fangs of his teeth biting hard enough to pierce his lip from the tension.
“That’s it. Ride your dragon.”
The sounds of your coupling swarmed the room, filing your ears as he did your senses, body and skin aching with every drag of skin and tug of him inside of you.
He never cared for others to hear, let alone see, at least him taking you, though you were only for him, and he would not stand for another to take sight of it. And he made the most of it, drawing every sweet sound from you purposely, selfishly, all for him, just to fill his ears.
And when interruption came he did not falter, only tightened around you, your cunt pulsing around him as it sucked him in greedily, feeling, wanting, yearning for the same thing. For none of it to stop.
“No one is stopping dove, take it.” It practically came out as a whine, as he answered before you could speak, the door swinging open with a careful shove, a boy, merely in adolescence with wandering meeting the both of you. small and measly.
Aerion’s head lulled back, watching you smugly, angling his head toward the very apologetic face of the squire, where his smirk deepened as he felt the eyes burning into you both. Possessiveness curled into his chest mere seconds after deciding enough had been seen of you that wasn’t of his own eyes.
A hand snaked around your back, reaching up to grab at your hair, yanking it backward harsh enough that it bared your teeth, the way he liked it most. He let him see that much, savouring the sight before him as he imagined one would, imagined the boy standing in the doorway marvelling at your beauty. Just as he did. It burned him, aching his chest as he pulled once more, wrapping the strands around his hand, hissing as your nails dig harder into the back of his neck.
“Now leave us boy we have no use for you.” He snarled, and the boy tripped backward with endless apologies.
Though the use you had for eachother was different entirely.
Arbor red coated your tongues as they connected, the sweet tang of spice and his musk filling your mind as you collapsed into one another. He hadn’t bothered to get unchanged, not that he needed to, his breeches were the only thing left on him when you left the celebration at the tourney tent, retiring to your own.
His touch did not leave you, nor for the whole night, nor the arm at your waist on the tumble back to your chambers, nor the hands that spun you around and into his chest with a huff.
“Gods.. they have blessed me with you.”
You giggled into his lips as he lifted you up into his arms, tugging you both down onto the plush covers of the bed. Kisses turned deeper, hungrier, shedding your gown with it until you straddled him, gripping his shoulders and the darkened curled at this neck.
The celebration had been joyous, rowdy and raucous as it usually was, laughter and love warming your cheeks, yet nothing had pleased him more than you, dragging you into him as you both hit eachother.
Your body glided on top of his, sinking up and down onto him with a fervor, an eager sweat tickling your brow as he cupped your breast from underneath.
The tent had filled with the scent of your sex and spiced perfume, your moans giving way into the night, though he did not care, it drove him instead, his moans growing louder with every inch of skin that rubbed against yours.
Pulling not only your attentions it seemed.
Ser Beesbury. A close friend of the both of you had opened the tent flap with a hearty rip, a weary smirk making way onto his rather inebriated face as he tumbled in, a mug of ale still in his hand. Lyonel had cocked his head around you, curls falling into his face as a proud smile christened his face before flicking back to you.
“It seems we have company.” He growled into your lips, hands cupping at your back flush to him, splaying over your skin in a small covering.
“So what, do not stop.”
His chest rumbled at your order, teeth shining in the candlelight. Not faltering once.
“As you wish my love.” His fingers trailed down your back, moving to cup your arse cheek beneath him in a fine pinch, letting you squirm at the sensation and onto his cock.
“Do depart form us now Beesbury, I believe my lady wife requires my attention.” A mumble and laugh rang out into the distance, his body folding into a gracious bow as he disappeared into the night, a burn of eyes into your skin leaving you flushed.
At last, you were alone, not to be bothered once more, the nights chaos descending with the hours, and a growing desire setting alight your bodies. Hands never once leaving your body, nor wishing to, and a mouth steadily moving lower. And lower.
The morning came sweetly, gentle touches and graces as you stirred next to your husband, his breathing staggered and tender behind you as you felt him. He awoken you first. Pressing into you. Face flushed and a bashful smile on his face, but his eyes spoke something different, something deeper. The young prince everyone knew was all he represented, heirs and graces, and yet the man underneath was much more.
He was sure, human, improper at times and perfectly imperfect, but more than anything else, he was yours, and he made sure in the smallest of ways to show you.
His lips found the back of your neck, hands grazing over your body through thin sheets until you were rolling around one another. The sores on his back from the latest tourney were still evident, purple hues gracing the skin that had once been a porcelain pale, and yet he melted into you. With every tug and pull of flesh, he took it gratefully, groaning from underneath where he had set you both, naked bodies sprawled in a loving warmth.
It didn’t take him long to be grip you tighter, holding on for what felt like dear life, about to break as you were, your climax fast approaching with every thrust of his cock up into your wetness. As eager as he fought, he was in his love making, squeezing and mouthing at your skin until it became a salty sweetness.
You both had stayed like that for a while, slowly inching closer to the edge before dragging one another far just to tease, to prolong the divine ache neither of you had wanted to end. The Keep felt just as quiet, the soft pattering of feet barely heard, leaving you in privacy, a release you desperately needed, and one he had taken.
That was until the Kingsguard had called upon him, two of them, standing in the doorway swung open wide with an announcement to meet his father. For nothing important, but matters were enough, their cloaks fluttering behind them, as he shoved the sheets up and over you both roughly.
“Valarr.. do not stop, let them see.” You managed out, sliding up and down onto him as you took him, your whine bitten through your lip, hands tangling in his hair as he moved chest to chest with you, shielding you as much as he could.
“It seems they already have.” He whispered into your lips, eyeing the men brazenly, a silent signal, one he could not bring it in himself to speak aloud. Lest you moved form him and he could not have that. His mouth fell open with a broken grunt as his hand moved from you, waving to the side, to them, and they listened, coughing sharply and removing themselves, metal armour clinking down the hall.
As the door closed, he pressed his lips roughly to you, a hand clasping at your jaw to bring you back down, his back hitting the mattress as your breast bunched into his chest. The plant of his heels into the bed, a desperate and heavy guarantee of what was to come.
“You shall be the very death of me, my love..”
He was in a trance, he was sure of it.
The night had been as dark as any, and yet you, his own light had changed everything, in every way. You were beautiful like this, taking what you wanted, coming undone from your own movement, and on top of him no less.
Daeron wouldn’t have dreamed anything sweeter.
Sandy, gold hair has fallen in tendrils down his face, in a mess only brushed delicately by your fingers every so often. Though his were planted carefully at your hips, sliding up the curve of your waist to grope at your breasts, dragging you ever so slyly closer to lean up into you so his mouth could reach.
“My beautiful girl, my everything.. please take all of me.” He mouthed around you, tongue swirling at your breast as he groaned. Your head fell into his, moans spilling into the muffle of his hair, fingers gripping at the nape of his neck as his groans turned into pants, completely entranced with gentle affirmations.
“Im yours, Im yours, Im yours..” Fell free from his lips in wanton moans, wetness soaking your nipples as he dribbled down them, kissing every taste of you into his mouth.
He fell into you, entirely, body rocking into yours just purely a mess, but a true one, not the kind he let go, the kind he gave his all into. The kind he would not give up on for you, driving with every movement as you sunk down onto him, the soft muscle of his belly grinding into your clit with purpose, drawing you close to your edge.
The dreams had been bad as always, heinous and unyielding, but so had court, endless in its gossip and nonsensical ways. And here with you, he found the only solace he did know, one worth while at least, his head shoving up into the crook of your neck and shoulder.
You noticed first, the soft gasp from the doorway, lowlight setting aglow the figure, a young woman, a maid with her head bowed carefully. The smirk fell to your face, his head lulled, rocking back to look up at you, meeting your sheepish face as you continued, moving down onto him.
“M’not stopping.” You whined out, fingers curling tighter into his hair, tilting his head back as he chuckled, a sloppy thrust bucking into you just as the girl remained hushed, near closing the door as quickly as she opened it. Clearly not completely unused to the Prince’s whereabouts and afflictions.
“Trouble you are..” He curled his arm around you, nipping at your lip as he kissed you deeply, “Leave us please.” And the maid ran off, the pair of you chuckling into each other’s lips, your bodies a messy cascade that was soon to become more.
Baroness Zemo @groovyponypatrollamp - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
