[honeyhallow]

hi! i'm KY ‧₊˚ ⋅ she/her. twenty-four. filipina. i write sometimes. current hyperfixations: hotd, akotsk, got, bridgerton, the pitt, jjk.

my blog contains adult content. minors dni.

latest fics — wallflower. — my top one. (18+)

[borgialucrezia]

OSCAR MORGAN (28 August 1999) ↴

PRINCE OF GOTHAM in Gotham Knights (2023) PRINCE OF DRAGONSTONE in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (2026)

[myladysapphire]

Pretty Boy

You had been betrothed to Valarr long before you even knew what marriage truly meant, and yet you had never met him. He seemed to be the closest guarded secret in Westeros, at least when it came to you. How were you supposed to know the man who greeted you with kind smiles and mismatched eyes was to be your husband?

requested (1)

Valarr Targaryen x Betrothed!reader

word count: 2,573

CW: fluff, arranged marriage. prettyboy!valarr is a yearner who earns. mutual crush at first sight. mistaken identity kinda? pov is kinda all over the place but it works? kinda proofread.

Author's note: hes so pretty i don't know why its taken me so long to write for him. sorry no smut :(

Being betrothed to a stranger was a common occurrence in Westeros. Nearly every lady in Westeros would be wed to a man they would not meet until the days leading up to the wedding, for some, they wouldn’t even meet their husband until they were speaking their vows. 

Some ladies, however, were afforded much more freedom when it came to the man they were bound to, sometimes a choice in who they wed, sometimes they knew their future husband for years, and were courted and loved by them. Or grew to know them as a friend before being bound to them for eternity. 

You, however, were granted no freedom in your choice. Granted, no prior knowledge of the man you would marry. Of what he looked like, what he liked, and what he disliked. Just his name and who he was, or at least what his title was. 

Prince Valarr Targaryen, the young prince. The heirs heirs. And you're betrothed. 

The match had been made when you were just shy of three. From a noble house, rich and powerful. You were just what the realm needed to solidify the crown. And what Lord would deny his daughter the title of the future queen of Westeros? 

You had no choice and no idea who your future husband was. Even after years, nearly two decades of being betrothed to him, and you were about to meet him for the first time, only a month before your wedding. 

The journey from your home had been faster than you had wanted. With your family’s boat docking in Blackwater Bay a week earlier than planned. But despite that, a large retinue of Targaryen guards and household members stood on the docks ready to greet you. And to no doubt sweep you away to the castle you prayed wouldn’t become your prison, a fate far too many ladies faced. 

A man stood at the front of the Targareyn party, no doubt sent and waiting to greet your family at the docks. He stood tall, his back straight. His clothes were those of House Targaryen, Black and red and a dragon embroidered down the side of his doublet. His hair was a light brown, though if he had turned his head, you would have seen a streak of silver. 

He wore a kind smile as he greeted your parents, kissing your lady's mother's hands with courtly politeness. Had you not waited to be forced off the boat, you would have been introduced to the man who looked around your parents seeking you out, his mismatched eyes wide and eager to find you. 

But you were hiding below deck, waiting for your septa to pull you off the boat and into the wheelhouse that awaited you. You sat watching out the small window in your chambers, watching the outside world from the safety of your room, which was soon torn from you as you were forced to meet what awaited you outside the window. 

You tripped your way onto the dock, falling into the arms of the man you had been eyeing through the window just moments ago. 

“Are you alright, my lady?” Your hands flew into his, stabilising yourself as you caught your breath from your fall. Your face flushed in embarrassment as you eyed the man and his mismatched eyes. 

“I-yes, I am, thank you, Ser,” you smiled softly, going to pull your hands from his, only for him to stop you, squeezing your hand slowly. 

“Allow me to escort you to the wheelhouse?” He asked, though it was more of a statement as he moved your hands to wrap around his arm, falling in step beside you as he led you safely onto the dock. 

His eyes gazed at you as he led you to the wheelhouse, smiling at you politely as you made polite chatter. He, too, had little idea of who you were and what you looked like. Though he was gifted a portrait of you on his twentieth name day. A portrait that did little justice in showing just how beautiful you truly were. Truly, nothing could have done you justice, and though he, too, had logged for letters, the exchange of portraits over the years, he suddenly was very grateful for the lack of knowing you. The years of unfamiliarity had awarded him restraint, and the fact that he could discover everything about you in person only made him grateful. 

Learning things about you,  like your clumsiness, how you had already tripped twice more as he walked along the dock, and how your eyes seemed to be looking at everything you could catch a glimpse of, everything but him. Learning about it first-hand seemed to be a much better experience. 

But despite the new desire to know you, he, too, had spent the last decade begging to know you, to write to you and meet the woman whom he would be bound to. But duty and distance had forced any ideals of not being strangers before your wedding day to fade away. 

He wished to know everything there was to know about you, he had a list of questions in his pocket. A notebook to write down your answers even.

He wished to study you, to mesmerise you. And the second you emerged from the boat, flushed with embarrassment and tripping over your own steps, the need to love you, to hold you and to grab onto you from stopping you trip over yourself again. 

“Thank you, Ser.” Your voice was soft as you approached the wheelhouse, grabbing his hand as he helped you step inside, following in quickly after you. 

Your face was the picture of surprise as he sat opposite you, “Do you- are you riding with me to the red keep, ser?” you asked, swallowing nervously, as his eyes bore into you, a soft smile playing at his lips as he realised you had no clue who he was. 

He nodded, reaching for the notebook in his pocket, ready to ask you all the questions he had thought of. But as you stared at him, your eyes filled with nerves and your face flushed, causing him to hesitate. 

He didn’t want to make you more nervous, he wanted to know you were calm and eager. Without the pressure of courtship, of your impending marriage.

“Are you looking forward to your wedding, my lady?” He asked, watching you as your gaze turned from the window back to him.

“I look forward to marrying a stranger as much as any lady does,” you shrugged, “I believe my mother is the most excited, I am more nervous than anything.” 

“Nervous?”

“Well, I have been denied every chance to know him. What if he is cruel?” Your voice broke slightly, “I have heard plenty of rumours of the other princes, by Prince Valarr? Nothing.”

He leaned forward, his hand itching for yours, wanting to hold it in comfort, “I…though some may call me biased, do not believe Prince Valarra to be cruel. He is-“ gods, he did not wish to sound vain or proud of himself. When it was eventually revealed exactly who he was, this whole conversation would have him flushed in embarrassment. “I am told he is a good man, respected, a good knight even if others say he had it easy.” He flushed slightly, thinking of the words others used to describe him.

You nodded, slouching slightly as he spoke. “And…pray for no one dares tell me how he looks, and I fear it is because he is… gods. I sound vain, but is he…”

“Ugly?” He interrupted, laughing at your wide eyes. The blush on his face deepened, “I would not say he is… though I-“

“I hope he is half as pretty as you, Ser”, you spoke quickly, without even realising it. Your hand flying to your mouth as you realised just what you had said. 

“I-i,” he stuttered, his face red, “I thank you, my lady,” he swallowed, clearing his throat. 

You smiled nervously, clearing your throat and trying to find any topic other than his pretty face to discuss, “Are you betrothed, ser?” 

He straightened his back at your question, fiddling with the rings of his fingers, “I am, my lady,” 

“Have you met her yet?”

He nodded, “Yes, I met her just today.” 

You sighed, your gaze flickering back out to the window and the streets of Kingslanding, “and what did you think of her? Was she everything you hoped for?”

“More so, she is the most beautiful person I have ever seen.” He blushed, hoping you’d know it was you he was talking about. 

You smiled softly, turning back to him, “She is very lucky to have a man such as yourself as her betrothed." 

The rest of the journey to the red keep was spent with polite chatter. The knight spoke kindly to you with his pretty eyes drawn to you and listening to every word that fell from your lips. 

A part of you hoped he would follow you into the keep, to keep you company whilst you waited to meet your betrothed. But instead, a Lord had summoned him the second he helped you out of the wheelhouse. He had hesitated when he left, his hand holding yours far longer than proper as he helped you out of the wheelhouse. “Farewell, my lady,” he spoke, kissing your hand as he lingered, hesitantly letting go of your hand. “Lady Jena shall give you and your mother a tour of the keep,” he mumbled, his eyes flickering over to the woman.

She walked over once the knight had left, her eyes firm but her mouth soft as she greeted you with a soft smile. She spoke your name kindly, greeting you with some familiarity, “it is wonderful to see you again,” she spoke, her eyes focused entirely on you even as your mother approached, “though I suppose to you do not remember it has been near seven years since I last visited your family,” she spoke, as she began to walk you through the halls of the keep. Your mother falls in step beside her, with you trailing behind them. 

You gave her a nervous smile when she looked back at you, you scarcely remembered meeting the woman. But you did remember your mother's endless tales of her. She had been her lady in waiting and even after she was wed, stayed in King's Landing before your father dragged her back to his castle. 

Your mother's friendship and your father's gold had secured the match. A fact often boasted about at dinner and with endless tales. You knew it all too well. In fact, you knew your mother-in-law far better than your betrothed. 

Lady Jena led you and your mother around the keep. Her eyes flickering back to yours now and again, measuring your every step, judging your stance as you walked and listened to her. How you played with the rings on your fingers when you were nervous, and how your eyes looked everywhere but at her. How you snapped up straight whenever anyone walked into whatever room you were touring.

You had never been good at hiding your emotions, let alone your nerves and no matter how many glances your mother or Jena sent you as she showed you around the endless rooms of the keep seemed to do you any good to quell the nerves in your stomach.  

“And when will we be meeting Prince Valarr?” You asked, as you reached the keep's gardens, the summer breeze flowing through your hair and messing with the design your septa had spent hours braiding into your hair.

“Whatever you do, you mean, dear?” Your mother asked, turning away from her conversation with Lady Jena and turning to you as you followed behind them. “You me-“ she began, only to be cut off by the knight from before making his appearance. Hands clasped behind his back, a shy smile on his face.

“Lady mother,” he greeted Lady Jena, though his eyes were focused on yours and the look of surprise that crossed your face.

“Oh- you, he-?” You looked at your mother stuttering, “I didn’t know it was him,” you whispered, moving to stand beside her and grab her arm, wishing you could hide behind her skirts like you would have done as a child.

Your mother shook her head, moving away from you and forcing you to face your betrothed. 

“My lady,” he greeted, bowing in front of you and taking your hand, kissing it softly, “I am sorry for not introducing myself earlier.”

You curtsied, face flushed though it had been since you had gotten off the boat. Your embarrassment at everything not once wavers. “Your grace,” 

“None of that, please, call me Valarr,” he insisted, holding your hand as his mother and yours resumed their conversation, their eyes flickering over every once in a while. His hand never left yours as you continued your stroll in the garden. 

“Then I insist you must call me by my name,” you smiled. A silence stretched between you, a gap needed to be filled, but both of you seemed far too nervous to fill it. “Why didn’t you introduce yourself before?”

He looked over at you, swallowing slightly, “I wanted to…I just wanted to tell you that you seemed so nervous, and you spoke openly with me about…me, I didn’t wish to -“

“Ruin it?” You asked, your gaze turning up to him.

“Exactly,” he agreed, speaking your name softly, his steps slowing. You turned to face him, your eyes locking with his as his hand drew up to your face, caressing your cheek slowly. “I did not wish for you to hate me, and as selfish as you think me-“

“I do not think you are selfish”, you interrupted.

“I am glad, I - I wish to know you without the pressure of court, even if only for a few moments.” He cleared his throat.

“I understand,” you nodded, squeezing his hand softly, “though I wouldn't have done the same.”

He laughed softly, “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t have. I'm surprised i did…i was so nervous to i-” he laughed softly, “i wrote a list of questions to ask you,” his hand that wasn't holding yours stilled on your cheek, “it's embarrassing,” he blushed.

“No, no…i want to hear them,” you giggled, your hand coming to cover his that rested on your cheek.

He leant his head down, his eyes closing as he leant his forehead against yours, “i want to tell you everything, to learn everything about you,”

You smiled, “I can’t believe I had feared you would be cruel,”

“Well, you don’t know me yet,” he teased.

You lifted your head, breaking away slightly from him as you cocked your head, “Oh? So is your pretty boy act a facade?”

He laughed, “You think I'm pretty?”

You blushed, “I’ve called you pretty twice.”

“Only twice? I could have sworn you had said it more than that,” he teased.

You pushed him slightly, “Aren’t you going to call me pretty back?”

His whole face smiled, “You are beautiful…stunning and the most beautiful person i have ever seen,”

You smiled, blushing no longer from embarrassment, “Thank you,” you said, your hand squeezing his as you resumed the trail. More than happy with your betrothed, even if you had only known him for a matter of hours.

I no longer am maintaining tag lists :(

[borgialucrezia]

OSCAR MORGAN ↴ "Before We Forget" Q&A at the Laemmle NoHo 7 on July 18, 2025 in North Hollywood, California.

[spicyrose]

❀˖° — SWEET FRICTION.

onlyfans!dunk x reader.

continuation from here, but not necessary to read.

reader is a good friend and offers to help dunk film another video for his onlyfans, still no sex but this time with heavy petting. reader can handle that, right? wrong you end up humping his thigh until you both cum.

2.8k+ words

cw: fem!reader, no y/n, onlyfans au, dry humping, dunk buys reader lingerie but is too shy to look at her wearing it (but can touch her tits? dunk make it make sense), dirty talk, size kink, good girl/sweet girl, honestly they're just kinda horny and dumb and sweet

You’re shocked when you look in your bank account and see the money transfer from Dunk. You immediately text him.

You: ??

Dunk: ??

You screenshot the transfer and send it.

Dunk: Figured 50/50 was alright?

Seven hells. That was the money from the OnlyFans video you'd made with Dunk? You feel heat rise up your neck and you squirm at the thought of how many people must have watched Dunk spanking you. You'd definitely rewatched it a few times, hardly believing that was you, that was Dunk, it was so fucking hot.

Dunk’s typing.

Dunk: Or should it be 60/40?

Dunk: You were doing most of the work

Dunk: I’ll send now

You quickly text back that 50/50 is fine.

Honestly….you’d forgotten about the money. You’d been so nervous and excited before, and after, well, all you could think about was him. How easily he’d been able to manhandle you into place, but how gentle and sweet he was throughout and how he took such good care of you after. It wasn’t sex, and you weren’t together, but he still wanted to look after you and had kept asking to be sure he hadn’t hurt you. You’d had to resist the urge to confess you could have taken a lot more and a lot harder. As it was, the marks he’d left on your ass had faded all too fast, and you miss them.

So maybe you’d had a tiny crush on Dunk before filming that video, which is maybe just a little worse after being bent over his knee.

You feel hot all over and that heat gives you the confidence to text back.

You: would u want to do another video?

You feel your stomach flip waiting for Dunk to finish typing. He stops and starts several times before sending the message.

Dunk: what would you want to do?

You swallow hard. Oh, so many things you want that man to do to you. But you hold back and try to think of what to say.

You: not sex but sex-ish

It takes him five agonizing minutes to finish typing, stopping, and typing, only to send:

Dunk: ok

Dunk: sounds good

You chew your lip, hesitant, but decide fuck it and text him.

You: I can buy something nice to wear for it

Again you’re stuck watching the ‘Dunk is typing…’ message flicker in and out.

Dunk: ok let me know how much

You: ??

Dunk: what?

You: why

Dunk: I’ll pay you back

You: you don’t have to do that!

Dunk: I want to

Why does he have to be such a gentleman? It’s so sexy. You resist the urge to ask him what he’d like to see you in, or to tease him, or to outright beg him to come over and fuck you with or without a camera.

You: thank you!!

***

“What do you think?” you ask, standing in the lingerie he’d bought you and trying not to feel nervous.

You’d bought a pretty lacy set in the exact same shade of blue as his eyes. If he makes the connection, he doesn’t remark on it; but then he’s hardly even looked at you before his head is ducking down and eyes avert. You’ve never known anyone as bashful as him.

“‘s pretty,” he mumbles.

You pout. You’d have liked more of a reaction than that, but it’s a good reminder of why you’re here. Business, not pleasure.

You found last time you filmed that Dunk seemed to prefer you being in charge of establishing how things would go, so you again take the initiative.

“So just to recap”, you start, in reference to what you’d already discussed for this video through texting. “Just, uh, heavy touching over clothes. Nothing being taken off. You can touch my tits, thighs, ass, just not, um-“

Not your pussy.

Dunk nods his understanding but doesn’t look at you. A red flush creeps across his nose and cheeks that makes you want to kiss his face over and over.

“Kissing is fine, but not on the mouth.”

That just feels too intimate. You don’t trust yourself to remember this is all for show if Dunk kisses you. He’s your friend, a good friend, and you don’t want to ruin things with him.

“And you should talk a lot-“

“Talk?” Dunk interrupts, looking at you for the first time.

“Yeah. I think you’ll want to for this to work. Since we’re not actually showing or doing much. As in, not full sex. But I think that can work, because most of your audience is women, and for women it’s more of a build, and it’s nice to have a …guided fantasy. So I’m really just the stand-in for female viewers to pretend I’m them.”

“Pretend they’re with me?” Dunk asks, and his voice is so genuinely surprised you have to resist teasing him.

“Of course,” you answer.

His hands fidget and he looks away again. He rubs the back of his neck.

“‘m just not used to thinkin’ of myself that way. I mean you…you’re….”

You wait for him to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t, and he looks so nervous it feels a cruelty to force him.

“You did it before. The way you talked last time was really nice,” you say, words chosen to be objective, but your face burns.

“Honestly, don’t even remember what I said,” Dunk shrugs. “And I’ve never been good with words.”

“You are. Just be confident, and it’ll be so good, I promise,” you reassure. “Just talk to me. Ask me what I want. Ask me if I like what you’re doing. Be sweet to me. Call me sweet names and say that I’m being good for you. And go slow. Whatever speed you think is slow, start slower. I’ll tell you if you need to go faster.” You pause. “Are you still good with this?”

“Yeah,” Dunk says, voice low, and eyes meeting yours in a way that startles you, so blue and deep and intimate.

You lean in and kiss his cheek.

“Alright, let’s go then,” you say.

He pulls his shirt over his head. You stare.

You’d seen him shirtless before. You’d walked in on him in just his boxers before. But you’d not really looked and, oh. Oh he’s just so big and strong. Not pure muscle, but healthy, and powerful. You’re going to look fucking tiny next to him.

“‘S this alright?” Dunk asks, and you realize you must have been ogling a little too openly for even Dunk to notice.

“Great!” you answer a little too cheerfully.

***

You’re sat in Dunk’s lap with your back to his chest. His hands are at your waist and one of his knees nudges between your thighs to spread you open for the camera. Goosebumps trail up your arms and you shiver. Dunk’s hands move to your arms instinctively and rub soothingly up and down your flesh. You can feel his heart hammering in his chest and wonder if he can feel the same from you. You can hear him starting and stopping a few times, before he manages to get the words out.

“What do you need, sweet girl?” Dunk asks in a low voice that has you shivering all over again.

“Touch me.”

“Am touchin’ you.”

You give a little huff of annoyance. You can feel Dunk smile against your skin, evidently pleased with himself for that one.

“Kiss my neck,” you say, not asking but telling.

Your eyes flutter shut at the light brushing of his lips against the curve of your neck. You tilt your head further, giving greater access and inviting more. Dunk tries adding a little pressure and you whine.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

His mouth trails further along your neck.

“Like this?”

“Yes," you sigh.

He finds the sweet spot on your neck that has you squirming.

“Here, is it?” Dunk asks.

“Yes!” you practically squeak.

He suckles the skin and you moan.

“That feel good?” he asks.

“Yes,” you admit, feeling your face go hot.

You hadn’t expected to get this turned on this fast.

“Want me to touch you some more?” Dunk asks, and you know he’s actually checking in that he has permission to keep going. He’s so sweet it makes you want to melt completely. He makes you feel so safe.

“Yes, please” you whine.

“Can I play with these pretty tits a little?” he pants in your ear.

“Yes!”

His hands leave your arms and run up your abdomen to rest just below your lace-covered breasts. You can feel his fingers tremble slightly as he hesitates. Your hands cover his much larger ones, running a thumb over his knuckles, giving him time to pull away and call things off. When he doesn’t, you move his hands to your tits and lightly squeeze over his hands so that he cups your breasts.

“Ah, fuck” Dunk groans.

He kneads gently. You hum appreciatively at the delicious feeling of your hard nipples rubbing against the fabric. You want him touching your bare skin. You want his mouth on your nipple. You squirm in his lap.

“You’re so big,” you whine and push your body against his hands. “So big and strong.”

It would be so easy for him to fold you in half. Bend you over. Hold you up against a wall.

You feel like playing a little dirty.

"Like your big hands," you praise. "Like your big everything."

You grin as he curses and hides his face against the back of your neck.

“My sweet girl” he breathes hot against your skin and scatters kisses on your neck and shoulder, nuzzling into you. “My pretty girl wearing the pretty things I bought her.”

Oh. Oh, you hadn’t discussed that, but fuck, it’s hot. You being his girl and wearing nice things for him. Well, that’s a little true, isn’t it? He bought you this pretty lingerie and now you’re both enjoying the reward of him playing with you in it.

“Harder,” you ask, and keen when he complies by squeezing you rougher.

You’ve not been able to sit still. You’ve shivered and squirmed until, somehow, entirely by accident, you’ve ended up with your thighs tightly locked around one of his. Dunk’s thumbs circle your nipples and you jerk forward, your clit catching on his thigh and dragging deliciously.

“Fuck!” you moan, louder than any before, and freeze.

Dunk stills too.

“Were you grinding against m’thigh?” he asks, voice low.

You’re so embarrassed. You hadn’t meant to. It just felt so good. Had you gone too far? Had you ruined everything?

Dunk’s hands drop to your hips and he grips the flesh there hard. His face presses into your shoulder and he groans.

“Y-you can” he pants. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart.”

You gasp in surprise, but fortunately, your body seems to work faster than your brain. Your hips roll into his hard muscle experimentally. Then, harder, angling your hips just right so that your clit grinds against him.

His breath tickles the tiny hairs at the back of your neck. You imagine how good it would feel for him to fuck you from behind. Dunk’s body caging yours and his size completely overwhelming you. Fucking you so deep and good and slow.

You can feel a wet spot soak through your new panties. You duck your head and feel your face burn at the obvious sign of your need. You try to lift yourself off Dunk’s thigh, wondering if you might yet hide it, but his hands on your hips push you back down onto his thigh and there can be no doubt Dunk knows you’re wet.

“You like that?” Dunk asks in that low, sexy voice. “That feel good?”

Again you try to duck your head, but Dunk isn’t having it. One of his hands leaves your hips to tilt your chin up.

“Uh uh,” he corrects, in a tone somehow cooing and condescending. “If you’re gonna get off on m’thigh, you can at least tell me you’re enjoyin’ it.”

“I like it,” you whimper.

“Good girl.”

Fuck, he’s got you so close to falling apart completely. It isn’t fair. How can Dunk, sweet and shy Dunk, your Dunk, be this calm about it? You roll your hips further back against him and that’s when you feel it.

Oh. Dunk isn’t calm and collected at all.

Dunk’s hard. And he’s fucking huge.

Dunk groans and again hides his face against the back of your neck, but now you're the one checking his behaviour. You’re going to cum and he is too.

You push yourself back flush against him. He gives a strangled cry and grips your hips so hard, you can already feel bruises forming. You rub yourself back against him.

“Is this okay?" you ask, voice coming out between little pants. "Does this feel good?"

"Y-yes!" he chokes out.

It makes you feel incredible to have big, strong, stoic Dunk go weak for you.

He lifts and angles his leg just right to make it easier for you to grind back against his cock while still rubbing your clit into his thigh. One of his hands stays anchored to your hip, the other squeezes and plays with one of your breasts. You're both too far gone for dirty talk, panting and moaning and whining for each other, needing release. You can feel it rising, rising, rising within you, until finally, you're overtaken. You cum, thighs clamping down around his as you keen and buck your hips wildly. Dunk lasts hardly three seconds longer before he's giving a cry and cumming, too, clinging to you so tightly it hurts in the best way.

You cling to each other even as the aftershocks die down and cold realization slowly hits you. You'd just humped and gotten off on Dunk's leg, had grinded on Dunk until he came, and you did it all on camera. Sick worry knots your stomach, but surprisingly, it's Dunk who soothes your nerves this time.

"Shhh, shh, sweet girl, it's okay," he breathes, voice low and sexy again, but there's a softness to it that sounds so sweet and real. He nuzzles your neck and his hands run gently over your waist. "You did so good f'me. So good."

Dunk holds you and runs his hands along you soothingly until the anxiety fades, your heartbeat slows, and your body calms. You'd cum harder than you normally did. Maybe it was the thrill of it. Maybe it was Dunk. But fuck, it had felt good, and now all you wanted was to curl up into his side and fall asleep with him holding you, if for nothing else than so you could cling to the fantasy a little longer.

But you had to come back to reality eventually.

You reach over and turn the camera off. You look at Dunk.

"Are you...are we...okay?" you ask.

You can see Dunk fighting to settle on what to say. Finally, he nods.

"'Course. Only natural, I 'spose. You aren't...angry with me?"

You laugh and shake your head. He laughs, too, light, nervous. You're uncertain where all this leaves you but at least neither of you thinks the other has taken advantage.

"D'ya need anything?" he asks.

You shake your head.

"Want to take a shower?" Dunk asks, then quickly elaborates. "Use my shower. As in, do you, alone, need t—"

You laugh again and shake your head.

"Do you mind if I take one? I'm sort of—" he looks down at his groin, your gaze following to see a wet spot from his cum.

You fight every fibre of your being urging you to get on your knees and clean him up with your tongue. Instead, you squeak out, "No, go ahead!"

He sets you up with a glass of water and his discarded shirt to wear before heading to the bathroom. You snuggle down into his sheets and cuddle his pillow, wishing it was him.

***

Dunk's heart nearly leaps out of his chest to you when he comes out the shower to find you'd fallen asleep in his bed. He wants to hold you, pet your hair, kiss you, whisper while you sleep how beautiful you are and how good you made him feel and how lucky he is that he got to see you fall apart like that. But it wouldn't be right to climb into bed with you while you're sleeping. So he tucks the blankets around you, allows himself to enjoy watching you lying peaceful and sweet and snuggled into his pillow, then leaves you to rest.

***

He doesn't upload the video until a few days later. Dunk waits to get your approval first then waits a little longer, selfishly, to keep that moment just between you two for a few more hours. Finally, he uploads.

Dunk gets a text message later from Raymun.

Raymun: srsly WHO is the mystery bird on your OF????

[slvttyfied]

THE JEALOUS TYPE — CAMERON CADE / RAFE CAMERON

“could be torn between two roads and I just can’t decide which one is leading me to hell or paradise.. baby, I can(t) hurt you, sure, but I’m the jealous type..” 🍒

In which you stake your claim on two of the most popular boys on campus 🍒

warnings: 18+ material (MNI), dark! reader, obsession, infatuation, d*ath, mentions of blood, smuttt — MFM threesome, fingering in a public place, choking, spitting, possessiveness, double penetration, jealousy, use of a knife, biting, cussing/swearing, creampie, just filth and a really dirty, fucked up two man 😭

a.n: heed these warnings and strap in boo, that’s all I gotta say 😭 those mf a lil long so have fun. I’ll talk to y’all later 😚

on the jukebox: ‘Jealous Type’ by Doja Cat 🎀

.

“I wonder how many girls they sleep with on a daily basis”

Kaylie, your friend muttered under her breath as you both sat in the collegiate cafeteria courtyard outside.

They were friends, best friends actually. Best friends and roommates.

Class clowns and yet managed good grades, jokers and yet acquired the respect of not just students but faculty.

Everybody loved them. Boys hated them because they weren’t them, girls adored them with hopes of being up in the rotation next to sleep in their beds.

You? You didn’t know if you loved or hated them. Them— Rafe Cameron and Cameron Cade. Both over six feet, long and lanky, they actually had a lot to bond over.

Maybe it was because they came from different yet similar walks of life but sat on their high horses. They bypassed a lot of ridicule and obscurity simply because of who they were.

You didn’t know how they did it. It was stupidly impressive and it pissed you off.

It wasn’t hard to spot Rafe and Cameron from where you sat, they were two of the tallest motherfuckers in your undergrad grade.

Cameron cradled a football, occasionally throwing it from one hand to the other. Rafe sported a notebook and wore his backpack that had his lacrosse sticks connected to it.

They conversed, one made a joke and the other laughed loudly, tossing his head back.

“Don’t you ever think about that?” Kaylie asked.

You didn’t have to think, you already knew it.

Both boys weirdly had the same body count of 15, almost like they fucked together. Rafe was a bit more modest about his but he still kept pussy on his arm. Cameron was far more loud and clear about it.

“I bet you I could fuck them. Not just Rafe or Cameron but both of them, y’know?” Kaylie continued to rave as you both stared at the two men.

You ignored the confidence Kaylie shouldn’t have had.

“How when they don’t know who we are? They get around and have groupie campus bitches, I’m sure they fuck on them every night. No use for regular girls like us”

You didn’t mean to sound so jealous or pessimistic. It was a natural thing whenever you saw the boys.

“Chill out, (Y/N), I doubt Rafe and Cameron even do relationships.. but some good dick will go a long way”

“You think so?”

“I’m willing to bet my life, girl”

It was true that the boys weren’t dating the girls but your jealous streak came out every time you saw them, let alone heard their names.

What was it about Rafe Cameron and Cameron Cade?

Maybe it was their charm. Maybe it was their smiles, their laughter, their ways with words that often had you blushing and laughing along with them with that twinkle in your eye.

Probably the fact that they always knew to come to you for questions about the Hiroshima and Nagasaki incidents, the Gettysburg battle, or even something as basic as fucking where Angel Island was on the map compared to Ellis Island.

It was having them so close to you when they looked at you expectantly for answers. It was how excited they got when you helped them paired with a squeeze of your arm or even a full on hug and kiss to your cheek.

You fucking hated it. Hated it because you knew they had that effect on everybody else and were making other people laugh and blush like you— other women.

Your eyes caught the movements of the exact reason your skin crawled. As if on cue, as if in sync.

Sofia and Jasmine approached the men and greeted them with hugs, both of their lanky arms wrapping around their necks. Their bodies swaying to the sides… both Rafe and Cameron’s arms hugged the girls’ waist so low…

Women like them.

“What the fuck do they have that I don’t?”

You just briefly met the girls’ eye contact before turning away, before sighing out of frustration and packing up your things, before standing up and slinging your tote bag over your shoulder.

“Girl, where’re you going? We still have two more chapters to study for” Kaylie’s frown was soft on her gorgeous, nerdy facial features.

“I need to go”

You stomped on your MaryJanes until you exited the courtyard and found the pathway to the library.

You didn’t know it yet but you caught more attention than just the women you’d steadily grown jealous of.

.

“For your final project of the semester, I’m putting you fours on a collaborative project and I expect you all to work equally to succeed on a passing grade”

The next day found you sitting in the same library next to Kaylie.

Arms crossed and frozen, your heart racing in your ears.

“I hope you know who want to pair up with because I’m picking your other partners”

You and Kaylie met each other’s eyes, telepathically telling each other this project was a cake walk no matter who you got paired with.

But it was your professor’s next set of words that you couldn’t have predicted even if you put money on it.

“(Y/N) and Kaylie, Rafe and Cameron”

This couldn’t be real. Kaylie looked at you like it wasn’t. Eyes wide, a small gape in her mouth that slowly turned up into a smile. She grinned and quietly cheered, she eyed you hoping you to do the same but all you could do was sit there frozen.

You stared at the tan marble table before you and before you knew it, your peripheral vision saw the boys approaching. They sat their backpacks down and pulled out the chairs, getting situated.

When you looked up, you wanted to vomit.

Two sets of the prettiest eyes you’d ever fucking seen stared between you and Kaylie, their smiles pulled and poking at their dimples.

“Hi girls” Rafe smirked, crossing his arms. You tried to ignore the way his biceps peeked through his cream colored Henley shirt. Or the way the small diamonds in his ears dazzled and complimented his buzz cut.

“H-Hey” you murmured.

“Looks like it’s us four together, huh?” Cameron Cade leaned back in the library chair, mirroring Rafe and also crossing his arms with a smirk.

You finally spared the boys a bold glance only to find Cameron Cade staring you down, a certain fire in his eyes. He was unabashed with his gaze on you, you didn’t miss the way his irises checked you up and down.

It was something about his greenish hazels that made it hard for you to pull away from him. It felt trance like.

“Looks that way” you replied back to him. You opened your mouth to speak but the voice beside you was faster.

“So where are we starting first? Better yet, where should we study outside of class? Not to sound thirsty but my spot is pretty spacious—“

You grimaced at your friend, looking to your left. “Kaylie—“

“What? The library isn’t open on the weekends and who knows how much time we’ll get during the week”

She looked at you and shrugged before turning her attention back to the boys.

The same boys who were suddenly so interested in her suggestion, their bodies leaned in and listening to Kaylie ramble about her off campus apartment.

You put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“I know you don’t mean to sound thirsty but you sound and look it. These boys just sat down, can you chill out?”

Kaylie pushed out another sigh, looking both boys square in the eyes and giving them the biggest, fakest smiles you’d ever seen.

“Can y’all give us a minute? We just gotta straighten something out real fast”

They only nodded, those same smirks still pulled at their lips. Next thing you knew, Kaylie was hauling you up by the arm and dragging you over to a section within the library.

“(Y/N), you must not know what God just blessed us with. You’re not dreaming, okay? I need you to wake up and get on that right with me. Why’re you acting like such a prude?”

You blinked at the woman before you, “Kaylie.. for your sake and mine, I’m going to ignore that word choice—“

“But I’m saying, (Y/N)—“

“But I’m saying too, Kay” you put your hands on her shoulders, looking in her eyes, “men like that can see when we’re coming on too strong. I want that just as bad as you do but we have to ease into it. We can’t look desperate to fuck them”

With the way Kaylie’s nose turned up and the way she shrugged your hands off of her, you’d think you called her all kinds of names and told her to go fuck herself.

“So you’re calling me desperate?”

You frowned, confused. “What— Kaylie, no—“

“You act like you ain’t been wanting to fuck them since we started college, that beating around the bush shit is for little girls, (Y/N), you’re too grown to not know what you want.. I know I do”

Kaylie shrugged again. You watched her become bolder, not to mention physically fixing herself— she fluffed out her boho braids and unbuttoned another button of her shirt, subtly exposing her cleavage.

“I mean, you can wait around all you want to but you said it yourself, they’re not fucking on regular girls like us so why not change that when we have the opportunity? You know what I’m on”

All you could do was stare at Kaylie, who the fuck was this girl? And who was she talking to?

“Say the word, (Y/N), I can have both of them to myself if you don’t want them. I’on see you tryna make plays, what are you willing to do?”

She sauntered off, leaving you standing there and stunned.

When you returned to the table, Kaylie had helped herself to sitting closer to Rafe and Cameron. Your professor had already given out the assignment and provided books.

The boys smiled upon your return, Kaylie only smirked at you. Except it didn’t feel welcoming, it felt like she was rubbing it in your face. You swallowed hard, trying to control your emotions.

She sat in the middle of the boys, you noticed an empty seat next to her. That’s when Rafe stood up, easily towering over you.

“Come sit” he smiled that stupid smile that had his dimples exposed, “we didn’t wanna get started without you, sweetheart”

His hand ghosted over the small of your back, guiding you past him and to your seat directly next to his.

Before you could even sit down, you felt the sneaky hand of Rafe Cameron press at your back fully. You glanced up at him with a soft shock in your eyes.

Slyly, he leaned down, his lips through your hair.. his warm, minty breath so suddenly in your ear and down the side of your face.

“You can always sit in my lap if you want” he murmured “I don’t mind”

When you shivered, Rafe chuckled. His heated gaze met Cameron’s over Kaylie’s, she was too busy going over the project for them to notice.. but you noticed.

It felt like the boys were telepathically communicating, a certain language that’d go over many heads.

At first you didn’t understand it but when you did.. Kaylie’s words rang in your head.

‘What are you willing to do?’

Your decision wasn’t hard.

.

“(Y/N), it’s almost quarter after eight, where’s Kaylie?” Your professor quizzically asked as she approached your empty library table.

It was just you sitting there a few days afterwards.

Your phone stayed open with Kaylie’s text chain on the screen, you’d been texting her since yesterday. Nothing, not even a delivered message. You showed your professor.

“She slept at Danielle’s dorm last night and didn’t come back to our apartment so I’m not sure. We’ve been studying like crazy so I’m sure she overslept, didn’t hear her alarm”

Solid. Your professor nodded and walked away, approaching another student table. Behind her walked up the two boys who immediately upped your blood pressure. They even smiled in sync when they saw you.

“Pretty girl” Cameron mumbled as he approached the table, “how are you this morning?”

You prayed the fluster wasn’t obvious.

“Flirting with my girl this early in the morning, Cade? Is bro code not a thing anymore, or what?”

Rafe dropped his backpack beside his chair and sat down with folded arms, a playful look of competitiveness in his blues as he looked at Cameron Cade.

“Jesus” you breathed out a giggle, covering your face, “enough, we have to focus today, guys, okay? Please chill out”

“Yes ma’am” they both said in unison, you rolled your eyes.

.

Call it being the scholar you were but you immersed yourself perfectly in your work despite the fact that you had two of your crushes working so closely to you.

But that was soon short lived.

“Hey, (Y/N)” Cameron whispered across from you, “you mind helping me find a book about this project? I’on really know where to look in here”

You didn’t think anything of it. How could you? You nodded.

“Of course, c’mon”

Cameron Cade followed you eagerly, his tallness towered over you as you walked. The expansive library had so many twists and turns to it, so many corners and hooks to get lost. Easy to hide out.

The history section just so happened to be tucked off.

You were so oblivious. Not just to the lewd thoughts of Cameron Cade but the way he looked at you.. but the way he stalked towards you as you bent over to grab at the book he purposefully placed so low to the ground yesterday.

“Mhphm— it’s so stuck back there— got it! Here you go, Cam”

You turned around to find the man just at your back, all he did was smile and pluck the book out of your grasp. He was close to you, if you wanted to kiss him, you could.

“Y’know I never got to ask you but where’s your lil friend at today? Class damn near over and she ain’t show up yet”

Shrugging, leaning against the bookshelf, “I’ve been calling and texting all period, nothing”

Cameron nodded, saying nothing. All he did was look at you.. more like look through you.

It was starting to make your skin crawl and not in the bad way. He suddenly reached above your head and grabbed another book.

“Yeah I hope she’s alright but uh, it doesn’t matter much to us.. that right, Rafe?”

From around the corner, his best friend emerged. He shook his head, eyes drinking you in. “Nah, not much to me.. if anything, we’ve kinda been hoping to get you alone, (Y/N)”

This couldn’t be real life. You had to be dreaming, right?

You finally found your words but your throat was dry. “W-what are you guys talking about?”

Cameron chuckled, “c’mon, pretty girl.. use that head..”

He slick leaned into you to put the book back but caged you into him, both hands on the sides of your head. Cameron Cade had no shame as his lips found your neck.

Heated, wet, splotches to your skin.. your eyes shut pathetically, a low mewl just barely creeping out of you.

“Can’t tell me you haven’t seen the way we look at you.. ‘s been that way since the beginning, princess.. we’ve been wanting you”

Your lips softly gaped open, you stared at Rafe who stood ahead. His blues going darker by the second.

“We? As in you both? Not just one of you?”

That had Cameron pulling back and Rafe stepping forward, nobody said anything. They both surged in and kissed your lips, blood raced in your ears.

Somehow you moved in a slow, sensual tandem kissing Cameron and Rafe at the same time. Soft smacks and heavy breaths.

Both boys occasionally took turns kissing you individually— Rafe taking you by the chin, Cameron a bit rough and grabbing by the neck as he stuck his tongue down your throat.

It was easily the hottest thing you’d ever done in your life.

If that wasn’t the cherry on top, it was—

“Can we touch you, baby?” Rafe mumbled against your lips. He smirked at your soft panic.

“R-Right now? In here? Our class is just out there, someone could walk in on us any moment” you whispered.

Neither of them responded right away, instead one found your neck and the other began kissing you again.

Cameron held your kiss in place with his hand over your throat, the other hand boldly going under your pleated skirt and pushing your panties to the side. Upon finally feeling the promised land, Cameron groaned.

“Fuck… wet as fuck for me, sweetheart..”

The pads of his thumb circled your clit and all over your pussy before pressing at your entrance, surging forward. Not to start moving but to stay there, Cameron’s fingers were thick.

And if that wasn’t worse—

“What about me, huh? This pretty pussy got room for another?” Rafe muttered in your ear, also going up your skirt.

Similarly to Cameron, he sought out your sopping clit, making your back arch. Two equally thick digits encased themselves inside of you.

You felt a deep moan immediately creep up in your throat, ready to tear itself out but your brain recognized your surroundings. You’d be expelled in no time if someone caught this and reported it.

Just as your hand flew to cover your mouth, Cameron Cade was faster. He grabbed it and put it back to your side, he condescendingly shook his head.

“I’on care about all’a that” at the same time, his fingers began pumping, thumb hitting your clit, “i wanna see this face when you cum.. you better be quiet though.. can you do that for us, baby?”

Rafe’s fingers also began thrusting, you could barely fucking think.

All you could do was bite your lip and swallow hard, that hot, white feeling of pleasure creeping up your spine and spreading throughout your body.

“P-please I c-can’t—“

Cameron frowned down at you and instead of slowing down, his fingers fucked you harder.

“No? Fuck you mean no? You must wanna get caught, huh? You hear that, Rafe? She wants somebody to walk in on us stretching her out”

Rafe mirrored Cameron’s frown and much like him, his fingers also sped up. Your eyes rolled back to your head, your buttoned chest heaved.

Disappointment swarmed throughout your chest as you looked in between your crushes.

“Just f-feels so good.. please, I w-won’t be able to shut up. I-I have to—“

An involuntary yelp of a moan almost sounded from the deepest depths of your body but Rafe quickly swallowed it with a kiss. You melted into him easily, kissing him back and submitting to his dominance. It quieted you down for sure.

The only noises present should anybody walk by being that of labored, heavy breathing, and your squelching pussy wrapped around four fingers.

Still kissing you, Rafe looked over at his best friend— the culprit that rubbed your clit a certain way to emit such a noise. Cameron Cade merely smirked and shrugged.

“Stop bein’ so fuckin’ nice to her” Cameron muttered.

But Rafe was too much of a softie, especially with the more he kissed you and after he pulled back to look at you. Swollen pouty lips, lust blown eyes, you just wanted to be good for them.

“‘m gonna cum” you just barely whispered out, “please don’t make me hold it, I’ll be so good, I promise”

His dark blues peered deeply into yours, he nodded, taking in the desperate and pleading look in your eyes that had his cock rock solid.

“I know baby, I know.. it’s okay..”

You turned your head to look at Cameron for what felt like an eternity. It lit a fire within you. You took him by the shirt and kissed him deeply, it felt like he was the hardest to convince.

“I’ll be so good for you, I fuckin’ promise”

Cameron looked at you with a challenge in his greenish hazels, “yeah?” His fingers sped up, “I’ll hear you scream for me later but for now, I just wanna see you cum.. you’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby, I just wanna see you come apart for me that’s all..”

From the side, Rafe was at your neck, placing the lightest, teasing kisses that was doing everything it needed for you in this moment.

“Yeah c’mon, baby, cum for us.. get my fingers real messy so I can taste you… bet she taste real good, don’t you think, Cam?”

Cameron smirked, “I’m already knowing”

You were surprised you didn’t scream or didn’t black out. Your orgasm slammed into you without notice.

Your legs quivered, hands digging into both Cameron and Rafe’s shirts for some kind of purchase for your release. If anything, your vision was spotty and probably bit on your lip so hard you drew blood.

All you could recall was the snapping and release of your walls, the thrumming feeling that left your body vibrating.

But the looks of the boys said you were in the clear. You watched them slowly, carefully remove their fingers and stick them in their mouths. Their groans soft.

You opened your own mouth to say something but the bell sounded, cutting you off. Whatever message you had in your head was already a thing that the boys picked up on.

They approached you closely and kissed you again, Rafe first, Cameron last.

“Text us your address, let’s finish this tonight, yeah?”

.

If the boys knew what was good for them, they’d have pulled out the very driveway they eagerly parked into.

Turning off the car, they exited and approached your off campus apartment. Nightfall was in full effect, the clock struck 8 PM the last time they checked.

They rang your doorbell and waited only a moment before you opened the door. You dressed in a floor long black silk robe, your kinky hair pressed out in big, fluffy curls.

“H-Hi! Hi, come in! Sorry, i was cleaning up a little bit before y’all came but it’s okay, c’mon”

Both men gave each other a look before stepping inside. You were just a little out of breath, a little flustered but nothing out of the ordinary.

When they stepped inside fully, Cameron’s sight caught notice of an extra set of everything. Shoes, a jacket on the chair, a put up purse.

It seemed like the boys had the same thought but you were on them faster. You wrapped your arms around Rafe’s neck, kissing him deeply. You moved over to Cameron and did the same, leaning into him, your acrylic nails brushing over his buzzed head.

“Mhm..” Cameron groaned as his own hands settled on your hips, “sweetheart, hold on—“

“What’s the matter?” You mumbled. You reached out and gently took Rafe by the back of his neck, bringing him in for another hungry kiss, your tongues mingling.

“Where’s your roommate at?” Cameron asked.

“Where’s she been at?” Rafe mumbled.

You waved them off, “oh she’s fine, Kaylie’s out running some errands for the apartment and doing her thing. She’ll be gone for a couple of hours, it’s okay”

Your sentiment didn’t really convince the men fully but it convinced them some. They should’ve listened to their gut.

“So she’s—“

You silenced Cameron’s concerns with a peck and a nibble to his earlobe.

“If you’re worried about her walking in on the both of you stretching my pussy out, then you have nothing to worry about”

You turned to Rafe and began kissing the column of his neck.

“I promise everything’s okay.. just.. please take care’a me..”

Still on Rafe, you single-handedly worked Cameron’s belt loose and opened his pants, surging your hand past his briefs and seeking out his warm, thick cock. Cameron hissed as you began jerking at him, twisting at his base.

“Been thinkin’ of the both of you since this morning.. I came back home afterwards and tried to make myself cum just as hard as y’all did but I couldn’t do it”

You giggled to yourself as you continued with Cameron and kissing on Rafe. With your other hand, you paid Rafe the same attention.

His dick was a bit longer from what you could feel but just as thick and heavy as Cameron’s, it had your heart racing in anticipation.

It took nothing to get both men hard and ready.. if they weren’t already. They moaned and groaned out into the air with no shame. They weren’t afraid to touch you either.

One of them had reached out to untie your robe, grunting at the sight of you naked underneath. Cameron slid a hand behind and grabbed your ass, Rafe slid up and grabbed at your breast.

“You’re so fucking sexy, baby” Rafe mumbled hoarsely, squeezing your tit, his thumb brushing over your nipple. He leaned in heatedly and captured your lips.

Cameron Cade was growing jealous right beside you. He gripped your ass hard, one of his fingers dipping in between your folds and finally seeking out your pussy. You whimpered pathetically.

“Enough’a that, c’mere, baby”

Cameron Cade led his kiss tongue first. Wet, messy, sloppy, filthy, and you loved everything about it.

“Ooh somebody’s jealous, huh?” Rafe said with a smirk, “I think I can fuck her better than you, Cade.. probably make her cum harder than this morning in the library”

Cameron pulled away, staring down at you. He covered your hand with his that was still stroking his cock, stroking faster.

“Tell him that’s not possible baby. Tell him the only reason you felt so good this morning was because of me”

The attention was becoming overwhelming in the best way possible, it was what you saw in your dreams. You laughed.

“Come on, boys” you pecked their lips individually, “isn’t it better to be about it instead of talking about it?”

That seemed to activate both men. From the middle of the living room to your bedroom, you were finally stripped naked.

Stripped naked and lying on the bare chest of Cameron Cade who fondled at your breasts without a care in the world, not a teasing bone in his body.

All the while his best friend was between your legs, eating your pussy like his fucking like depended on it.

One hand on Rafe’s head as you rode his face, one hand behind Cameron’s head as he tongued you down.

You opened your eyes and suddenly you were on your knees, mouth full of Cameron Cade. Rafe Cameron was behind you, one hand further mold you into a deep arch and in one swift motion, letting the head of him breach your entrance.

“Oh.. fuck..” Rafe groaned under his breath, “fuck, sweetheart” his hand slapped at your ass.

You had two hands at Cameron’s thick base, you dropped his tip from your mouth, your head falling forward.

“So big..” you muttered, tossing your head over your shoulder to look at Rafe.

“Oh yeah?” Rafe probed, beginning to thrust, his hands at your hips. “Just like that, princess? You ever had someone stretch you out this good?”

You didn’t mean to look Cameron Cade in the eyes but when you did, you were glad you did. Mischief swirled in your irises, your hands still stroking him.

“Never had anybody stretch my pussy this good, baby.. and I don’t think I ever will except you”

You knew what you were doing and it pissed Cameron Cade the fuck off. He growled and took you off of him completely.

“Get her up” Cameron ordered, he stood before Rafe, “gettin’ real sick of her mouth”

Rafe only chuckled and hauled you up in his arms, he guided you back until yours met Cameron’s chest. Your legs dangled in Rafe’s arms, your arms around his neck.

You still had a certain playful expression in your eyes but it was nothing like seeing it disappear as both men had you stationed on their lengths, easing you down and stuffing you full of both of them.

“Oh— oh my fucking— shit!” You cried out, tossing your head back onto Cameron’s shoulder. The man took that opportunity to sling an arm around your front to keep you close.

“Nghh fuck, Rafe, she’s so tight. Could cum like this alone” Cameron grumbled.

It wasn’t long before both men began fucking you. They weren’t nice about it either. Ragged, hard, and fast.

At some point, you began bouncing. Your body jutted, hair all over the place, titties jumping up your chest.

There was a slight burn with accomdating two monstrous lengths inside of you at the same time but you were so wet with slick, it became easier.

“You feel so good, sweetheart..” Rafe murmured in your neck, “bein’ such a good girl for us, ain’t she, Cam? Ain’t that many girls on this campus that can take two of us at the same time”

Cameron chuckled, “nah not many at all… but she’s special.. our girl, our sweet girl— this pussy is special.. made just for us to fuck”

The boys so blown in lust and close to their own orgasms weren’t expecting your next response.

“And you better know it too”

You had Rafe on his back, Cameron behind you, still inside of you. You began riding Rafe Cameron like the world was ending tonight. There was a look of possessiveness in your eyes that was scaring him yet driving him wild.

But it wasn’t just him that needed to know. You reached back to caress Cameron’s head.

“Both of you are mine and mine only.. and it’s not just because I can fit the both of you inside of me, it’s because I said so. We make each other feel so good.. why give that to anyone else, huh?”

You rode Rafe harder, inadvertently riding Cameron harder. The boys groaned loudly.

“I have no plans to give this pussy away which means you can’t give this dick away, do y’all understand me?”

Call it being pussy whipped and close to an orgasm that had the boys nodding their heads vigorously but they nodded.

“Such good boys..” you leaned back and hungrily kissed Cameron before leaning down and kissing Rafe.

You bounced on him, grinding against his pelvis. “Open” you ordered him and grabbing his jaw. The slack opening saw you dribbling a line of spit onto his tongue.

“Where’s mine?” Cameron gruffly asked from behind. You simply smirked, leaned back, and opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out.

Cameron hesitated none with drawing out a line on your tongue, watching in pure pleasure as you swallowed every bit of it.

Maybe that’s what sent him over the edge.

“Fuck, I’m cumming”

Rafe grabbed at your breasts, “‘m right there too, oh shit—“

Their orgasm triggered your own and when you fell apart, it was much more intense than the first time. The difference being, you got to scream about it.

Your walls squeezed every drop out of poor Rafe and Cameron into your greedy canal, filling you up like you’ve never known. So much that you’d already began leaking.

You didn’t collapse right away, you stayed straddling Rafe, still with him inside of you. Cameron pulled out and laid beside him instead. A post orgasm euphoria coated your body as you looked in between them.

“Better than I’ve ever imagined”

One peck to Rafe, one peck to Cameron.

“After this, we have to promise we’ll be on our best behavior with this project and get it finished” you giggled.

Cameron chuckled, “we can once your load gets lighter, pretty girl. Can’t have you doing all the work. Where is your roommate?”

You laughed again and shook your head, “she’s dead in my bathroom. I killed her before you guys got here”

The boys blinked at you.

“Figured I couldn’t fuck you guys with the smell of her body in here if she died a few days ago, that kind of smell tends to linger”

Call it a coping mechanism but they finally began laughing. A nervous filter behind it, they prayed to every God that you were joking.

You giggled with them, finally getting off of Rafe and grabbing at your robe to dress yourself.

“Don’t laugh, I’m serious! C’mere, I can show you!”

Standing before the audience in your bathroom was very obviously, something heavy wrapped in a blanket. Decorated in a bloody splotches all over, signs of struggle. Placed cramped up in the bathtub.

“Things got a little messy despite me trying to keep it clean but Kaylie she just— she’s been pissing me off lately.. for a long time actually. I should’ve left the bitch a long time ago”

You slithered in between them and also stared. You hugged on Cameron’s arm and played with Rafe’s fingers as you spoke.

“She, um, she got a little too close and showed too much interest in what was mine. Because truthfully, I’ve had dibs on the both of you since I saw you. That was all I needed to do. It was just a matter of getting all of us on the same page. No Jasmine, no Sofia, no Kaylie. Just us.. she asked me what I was willing to do to get you both…”

You snickered, “here we are..”

Horrified was an understatement for Rafe Cameron and Cameron Cade. They stood frozen in fear, fucked, truly fucked.

“It’s something I’ve been trying to work on I swear but I guess sometimes I get jealous”

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[vividxpages]

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ "in the dead of night"･ﾟ✧*: ･ﾟ✧*

pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader

words: 7000

summary: when Jace is attending a late council meeting, two hired assassins take their chance to sneak into your chambers and hold you captive. Taken to the dragon caves below and meant to be slain by your own betrothed’s dragon, you have to trust the bond between Vermax and you is strong enough to escape your captor’s murderous plans.

warnings: soft!reader, fluffy start but HEAVY angst (reader being held captive by two assassins similar to Blood and Cheese), physical violence (slapping, hair pulling), verbal abuse, threats of rape and violence, Vermax being Vermax and also protective of reader, hurt/comfort, shock and crying, Jacaerys being a caring betrothed, Rhaenyra being the best mother in law, aftermath of trauma, healing, hopeful ending

a/n: please mind the warnings for this story, it’s my angstiest so far!

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You smiled to yourself as you held two small wooden figures in your hands, a princess and a prince, their hands linked together and small attires made of cotton and wool. When you were younger, you remembered playing with them for hours, creating little scenarios of the prince who might sweep you off your feet someday.

Now, many years later, you had found the love of your life in Prince Jacaerys.

Ever since your own parents had died too young, Jace’s family had welcomed you as if you were one of them by blood, making you a home at Dragonstone and accepting you with open arms as theirs. Perhaps, a huge part of it was because Rhaenyra’s oldest son had been in love with you ever since he had first laid eyes on you, but there was more to it. His mother adored you and you got alone with his siblings and cousins and brought a joy into their house that was much needed in those dark times of war.

This afternoon, you were sitting on the soft fur carpet in one of the big living rooms of the castle, Rhaenyra’s twins peacefully playing with their wooden toys all around you. Earlier, Baela and Rhaena had joined you for a chat and the newest gossip, but you didn’t mind being alone with the kids as well, your own inner child always coming down around their soft souls.

You let out a playful gasp as little Viserys assembled a row of knights on their horses along the imaginary street you had built together. “Are your noble knights going to a tournament, Vis?”

The boy nodded timidly at you, letting one of the horses gallop forward and making you laugh.

Your betrothed Jacaerys leaned against the doorframe and smiled softly as he watched you. Little Aegon had snuggled close to you and you helped Viserys move the toy carriage around the carpet.

You looked up as he pushed himself off the frame, walking towards you with pure adoration in his eyes. “Oh hello. I didn’t hear you enter.” You said, letting your hand be lifted by him so he could press a soft kiss against your knuckles.

Moving to stand and placing Aegon on the ground, he laid a hand on your shoulder, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to interrupt your play. What adventures is my princess going on today? Have my brothers been behaving?”

“They are the sweetest.” You told him in all honesty, your heart melting at the two little blond boys in front of you. Whenever you spent time with Jace’s smaller siblings, you could not help but notice how your heart expanded and spoke to a deep part in you that wished for children of your own someday. “We were playing a carriage ride to a tournament, I believe, but then a dragon escaped and now we have to look for him.”

Jace squatted down for a moment and handed Aegon a rattle shaped like the bell of a sept, which he immediately took with a toothless grin and tried out. You watched your betrothed with a soft heart and thought what a wonderful father he’d make…

“I dream of the day this will be our life someday.” He confessed to you, the corner of his plump lips lifting sadly. “When there is peace in the realm and we have time to take care of our future children together.”

“I wish for nothing else.” You replied softly, your heart blooming with love for him.

For a moment, Jacaerys looked as if he wanted to sit down and join you and his little brothers, but as you knew your hard-working betrothed all too well, he sighed and stood up again, careful not to step on the big skirts draped around you like a blooming flower.

“There will be a late council meeting this evening.” Jacaerys announced to you, his displeased expression betraying him. “Everyone of the council and the dragon keepers will sit together to discuss. I wouldn’t ask you to join us, it will be very boring and entirely unnecessary.”

You chuckled, knowing all too well how different Jace would do many things if his say in the matters of his mother would be of more weight. But at the same time, you were glad, Rhaenyra kept him sheltered and protected with you for now, at Dragonstone where it was the safest place for the future king and his queen.

“Will you come to bed later?” You asked shyly, although it was not uncommon for the prince and you to share a bed before your marriage had even been consummated.

A small and narrow passage connected your room to Jacaerys’ and you had often made use of it, whether you wanted someone to talk to before heading to bed or were in need of his warm embrace before you eventually drifted off into an innocent sleep together. When he was gone or bound to duties, you usually made yourself comfortable in his bed, but perhaps you’d return to your own tonight if the meeting was going to take a while before he’d be released.

Jacaerys smiled softly at you and nodded before he raised your hand towards his lips. “I will. Don’t stay up too late, I’ll be with you as soon as I can, I promise.”

You hummed pleased and let him kiss your knuckles. “I hope it won’t be too long. And don’t take their words to heart too much, Jace. You’re the prince and they’re lucky to have you.”

“It is me who is lucky to have you, my beloved.” He said and watched in delight as you blushed at his appreciation. “My safe haven, my light.”

Jacaerys leaned down, softly cupping your cheek before he gently kissed your lips, your back arching a little to reach him better. Your lips brushed tenderly against one another and you sighed in bliss at his open affections for you.

You smiled at him when you separated, squeezing his hand in yours. “I love you. I’ll see you later.”

“I love you.I’ll do my best to hurry.” He promised, hugging his little toddler brothers as well and softly stroking their hair before he departed. You sighed to yourself, eager to have the hours pass and let the two of you be reunited again as little Aegon presented you a wood dragon, silently asking you to rejoin their play..

“Alright, where were we, my princes?”

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Being alone in your private chambers had become a rarity since you had been promised to Jacaerys.

You listened to the quietness of the room, the fire cackling in the pit as you sat on your bed and combed out your hair. You had taken a bath after bringing the princes to their nurseries and changed into something comfortable for the night.

The small evidence of Jace’s frequent visits to your room were visible all over the place. A cloak of his was thrown over one of your chairs by the fire and one of his books laid open by your desk. Even his smell still faintly clung to your pillows, a little gift from the last time he had fallen asleep here, not bothering to retreat back to his own chamber under your soft and lingering touches to his hair.

You could not even remember the last time the connecting door between your rooms had been closed.

You let out a small sigh as you sunk into bed, watching the dark outside of your window for a while. The council meeting must’ve been going on for a while now and you tried to read a few pages to keep you awake, not wanting to miss the moment Jace would come to you.

The time went by and your eyelids kept dropping.

But after a while, the door to your chamber opened and a wide smile split your face as you sat up in your bed, ready to welcome Jace back. Your hair fell over your shoulders, the blanket slipping down your body a little, but just a second later, everything in you froze to a stop.

Two men entered your room, their clothes dirty and faces dark as they took you in. These weren’t your guards and as one of them unsheathed a blade from his belt, you opened your mouth to scream.

They were on you in a heartbeat.

One of them drew the blankets off the bed while the other grabbed your hair, dragging you from the mattress and onto the floor, every sound in your throat seizing up and choked off by their sudden display of violence.

You were not a fighter, never had been. You stood no chance as they manhandled you in their middle, the taller one quickly looking over his shoulder as you struggled to no use against their tight grip.

“Look at that.” You heard close to your ear, the deep raspy voice sending shivers down your spine. “The bastard prince’s little bird, right between us. What would your man say now if he could see you like this, huh?”

You whimpered when your head was tugged back, the other gripping your wrists and making quick work of a tight rope around them, scratching over your soft skin and successfully binding you.

“Who are you?” You demanded to know, your voice barely louder than a whisper. You were shaking from head to toe, your body and mind gone into overdrive when they had first laid hands on you.

They shared a grin with each other. “Does it matter? All you have to know is we’re not your fucking maids. And that you will die tonight, princess. Now be a good girl and shut the fuck up.”

You tried to press your heels into the floor, to keep them from stirring you towards the door, but after a moment the tall one simply picked you up and carried you towards the door. Your nails scratched over the man’s back, but it was like he didn’t even feel it, his grip around your legs too tight for you to struggle and free yourself.

“Behave.”

You were set on your feet again, crowded by them against the door. You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat, your eyes flickering between the two of them. “Whoever paid you, their reward is not nearly enough for the misery my family will bring down on you when they find you. I am a princess of Dragonstone and you have no right to-“

They pushed you out of the door, not bothering to listen.

A horrified gasp escaped your lips as you stepped outside your chamber and nearly stumbled over the dead bodies of your two guards, bleeding out and cold on the floor. The sound echoed through the hall and before you knew what was happening, your head was pulled back by your hair and a hard hand slapped you across the face.

Pain exploded in your mind, blinding you for a moment before the sting ebbed away and was replaced with a dull throb in your cheek.

You held the palm of your trembling hand to your throbbing cheek, breathing hard as you recovered from the blow. “You will die for this.” You said oddly calm and collected. It had to be the shock, you could not think clearly, but you knew one thing for sure: “The prince will cut your hands off for laying hand on me.”

The tall one grinned as if it was an empty threat. “We will be long gone once your prince finds you, stupid cunt. And in what state that will be, I still have to decide.” His disgusting hungry gaze crept over your body, barely hidden underneath your thin sleeping gown. You wanted to throw up.

“You will lead us to the place where the dragons are.” The shorter one said. “We know the keepers are all at the meeting and you know ways where no guards keep patrol. And if you dare to scream or run to wake anyone, I’ll cut out your tongue and heart and throw it in front of the bastard prince’s feet.”

You swallowed down bitter tears, your head screaming at you to do something, anything. But your hands were painfully tied and you did not find your voice as you slowly began to walk with them through the castle.

In the past, you have had nightmares like this, terrible visions of you being powerless as hands held you down in the dark, doing horrible things to you. You sometimes had woken up screaming, but Jacaerys had been there for you every time, holding you until the worst of it was over and you slowly were able to calm down in his safe and warm embrace. Now, there was no one, all people living and working at Dragonstone either asleep or summoned by Rhaenyra and Jacaerys for the council meeting. By the time someone had discovered the corpses of your guards in front of your chambers, you’d likely be dead or taken to who knew where.

You walked through your home, shivering against the cool air with only the thin nightdress you wore on you, the dangerous presence of your captors behind your back. You knew Jacaerys would blame himself for leaving you alone and suddenly, a sorrow so consuming filled your chest, you choked on a quiet whimper. You had not even said goodbye…

“Shut the fuck up.” They hissed at you and one of them slung his arm around your waist, your fingers digging into his flesh in protest as cool metal suddenly rested against your ribcage. A dagger. “Be fucking quiet and keep walking.”

Soon, the air began to smell of salt and sea and you heard the distant crashing of the waves against the island. The entrance to the dragon caves came into sight and you turned around to face them.

“Now tell us, girl, where is your precious dragon?”

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach, but before you could open your mouth for a reply, the other one of them shook his head. “No. Don’t be stupid. The beast will kill us right away if it sees their rider in our clutches. But…the bastard’s dragon. It’s a foul ill-tempered beast, isn’t it? Where is it?”

Vermax.

A protective wave washed through you and for a moment, you regained the little confidence you had before the man had laid his hand on you. “What do you want with the dragon? You are in no state to have a chance at killing him.”

They shared a look, both grinning viciously. One of them stepped up to you and touched your chin with his dirty hand, right where a fresh bruise from his violence bloomed. You tried to flinch away, but he held you close.

“We don’t mean to kill it, flower.” He told you, bloodthirst flickering over his features and making you sick. His knuckles brushed over the cut on your lip and you wanted to gag from disgust. “We’re going to watch as it kills you.”

Your mind was swimming as you led them through the darkness, watching their big shadows looming over your small own. The taller one still held his dagger against your waist and you knew he’d make use of it if he noticed you playing any games. There were wild beasts slumbering in the depths of these caves, but would they be faster at attacking your captors than the knife against your skin?

The hope in your chest thinned the further away you walked with them from where you knew your own dragon slept, but one last shimmer of it remained in you. You knew Vermax and he knew you just as Jacaerys did. You had to hold on to that.

“It’s here.” You announced quietly, your whisper echoing across the cave near the ocean. It was quiet here and you had to squint your eyes to make out the big nest at the end of the cave where a green-scaled dragon slept fitfully.

“Call it.” The smaller one muttered, his eyes fixed on the beast. You winced as the tip of the dagger pressed into your skin, a warning. “We will stand behind you and when it has come out, you will command it to kill you, you hear me? No tricks or I’ll gladly be the one to end your suffering, right after my friend here has had his fun with you, princess.”

You took a deep breath as they retreated into a safe distance.

„Naejot Māzīs, Vermax.“ You commanded shakingly and the sound of your familiar voice, the big pile of green and red in the corner of the cage moved, uncurling himself from his light slumber.

Jacaerys’ dragon blinked at you sleepily, a shudder going through his beautiful scales as he tilted his head to the side questioningly. When he spotted the two men in your company, he tensed, stepping forward and showing himself in his full height.

“Lykirī…“ You lifted your hands, trying to catch Vermax’ eyes again so he’d look at you instead of them.

With a low growl in his throat, he settled, stepping closer to you until his snout almost touched your outstretched hand.

“Say it, girl!” You heard the commanding voice behind you, in a safe distance of the beast that slowly blinked at you, considering. “We’re not going to wait much longer!”

You took a deep breath and looked Vermax in the snake-like eyes.

He met you with a calm stare, tilting his head to the side again, a deep rumble in his chest.

You had to trust in him now. You had to trust in the love Jacaerys and you were sharing and the bond between you and the dragons.

Out of the sudden, a heavy thrown stone hit you in the back and you gasped in pain, stumbling forward and almost slipping in a dirty puddle.

“DO IT!”

Trust in Vermax, just as you trust in your Jace.

“Dracarys.” You whispered finally and closed your eyes.

Vermax surged forward with a furious roar, one sharp claw in the ground, his wing shielding you from the scenery. Nearly pushing you out of the way, he advanced on the men who had threatened you with a snarl and warmth filled the large cave, fire burning low in his green-scaled stomach.

A horrible realization flickered over their faces as the green beast drew closer, their backs hitting the wall behind them as they looked at you one last time. “You fucking cunt-“

Vermax wiped out their miserable existence with one single breath of fire. Heat tore through the cave and you stumbled backwards as the dragon fire burned them and the scent of roasted human flesh reached your nose.

You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face in your hands as you listened to their screams. Their agony bounced off the stone walls and heat crept down your spine, but Vermax kept you close, the leathery feel of his wing a small comfort against your skin.

Suddenly, silence rang in your ears.

You dared to peek up over the protective curl of Vermax’ wings.

Where your captors had stood, only ashes and bones remained.

Vermax let out a self-satisfied growl, clearly pleased with what he had unleashed on the terrors. He bent down, blinking at you with his sharp eyes as if to make sure you were alright. Tears, both from the shock and gratitude, filled your eyes and you leaned your forehead against his snout, trying to take deep breaths to steady yourself.

You shrunk back as you heard footsteps in the caves, hurried steps running over gravel and through the water puddles, a flame throwing a long shadow over the walls. You felt Vermax tense, his wing drawing itself tighter around you. Any other threat advancing, he’d burn to the ground.

In the next moment, Jacaerys stormed into the chamber, his sword drawn as his other hand held a lit torch. His chest was heaving, sweat gathering at his hairline as he quickly took in the state of the room. He looked like he had run the length of the castle and you knew it likely had been the case.

Vermax snarled without threat, greeting his rider and lifting his wing to present you to your love.

Your eyes met and you let out a shuddering breath.

The sight of you was a thousand daggers to his heart.

Your face was smeared with soot and the blood from your split lip coated your chin, your hair unruly and disheveled from the way they had grabbed and dragged you along. Your silk dress was dirty and you shivered against the cold of the cave as you slung your bruised arms around yourself.

Behind you, Vermax hovered like a protective shadow and waited, willing to serve with Jacaerys now here with you.

As he took a step towards you, his boot made contact with the skulls of the assassins. Two of them, he realized and the rage surging through his veins was all-consuming. He looked down at their bones and wished to go back in time to kill them himself, over and over again until not even these mortal remains stayed behind.

But his own bloodlust vanished as he raced towards you, your own legs unsteady and finally giving out under you just as he reached you.

He fell to the ground with you in his arms, holding you tightly as you clawed your hand in his clothes, his heart breaking for you right underneath your tight grip. It was like any last strength in you had left, leaving you a broken and sobbing mess in his embrace.

“You’re safe, you’re safe…” Jace murmured into your ear, softly swaying you back and forth as you wept, the adrenaline and shock from the situation finally crashing down on you with full force. “Nothing is going to happen to you, I’m here…”

The Queen and the dragon keepers found the prince and his princess just like this.

Jacaerys was kneeling on the ground, the princess dissolved in tears in his arms and the ill-tempered beast that had saved his love curled around them, chortling comfortingly as the prince stroked her hair and whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

You had been escorted back to the castle, but you couldn’t say you remembered much from the journey. Your mind had gone into an odd state of survival, the girl from before the attack having retreated into a far corner of your mind.

The guards, now dead because of you, had been carried away in front of your door and you had stopped in the middle of the hallway, not able to go another step as you stared at the spot where maids were now scrubbing the blood from the floor.

“Come on, my dear.” Rhaenyra had gently told you and you tore your eyes away from the scene as your Queen and Jacaerys led you into his chambers instead. The warmth and unique scent of Jace’s quarters – the smell of old parchment and books, mingled with the wax of the candles and the smell of his sheets – enveloped you and you drew the cloak Jace had draped over your shivering form tightly around you.

Now, a little later, you were seated at Jace’s work table and blankly stared at your scraped hands in your lap.

Jacaerys had instantly expressed his dislike for an interrogation at this hour of the night, but you had shaken your head, willing to recount the situation to Rhaenyra as if words could wash away the poison they had brought onto you. Your skin felt coated with it and you feared the stain might never go away again.

Yet, you had told her and Jace what happened, slowly and quietly, and when you were done, Rhaenyra was holding your hand and Jacaerys looked as if he wanted to break something.

“My brave girl.” Rhaenyra murmured and softly cupped your cheek as she looked at the bruises on your face and neck. “You’ve fought enough for tonight, darling. I’ll call the maids and healers and-“

“No.” You cut her off, shivering at the prospect of unfamiliar hands on you, seeing the evidence of what had happened on your naked skin. You swallowed hard, your eyes filling with unshed tears again. “No one else. It’s- it’s alright, I can do it myself, I really can-“

Rhaenyra smiled sadly at you. “You are hurt, my dear.”

“I’m not broken.” You insisted, although you felt like it. You were shattered pieces on the ground.

“And no one says so, dear.”

Jacaerys, sensing you were on the verge of breaking down, knelt down next to your chair and caught your gaze with his. “I can help, if you want.” He offered quietly.

You looked back at him, conflicted. If Jace stayed, there’d come the point where he’d see the damage you had taken and you did not know what troubled you more; him seeing you like this or seeing him as his heart shattered for you.

“Jace.” Rhaenyra looked at him. “Perhaps a woman’s presence at this time is better suited for her. I’ll fetch you later, I promise, but she needs a moment for herself now, alright?”

He was tense, your beloved prince, but after a moment he nodded with a set jaw before he stood and looked at you one more time. “I’ll wait outside.”

You didn’t want to meet his sad expression, so you kept your gaze down as mother and son went to the door, talking in quick and hushed voices before Jace stepped outside and Rhaenyra returned to you.

She leaned down and brushed a little bit of soot from your cheeks, careful not to touch your split lip. “Vermax surely knows how to rain down fire on our enemies, hm?”

A weak smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “He saved me. He knew exactly what was going on the moment I entered and he was intelligent enough to play along until the right moment had come.”

Rhaenyra hummed, offering you a hand to stand up. “And still, they only call my son’s dragon ill-tempered. How does a bath sound? I’m sure you’d like to step into more comfortable clothes, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, longing for a simple cotton shirt, preferably one of Jace’s that smelled like home and warmth and safety.

Your future mother-in-law went to the big bath next to Jace’s bedroom with you, a steaming bath already having been drawn for you.

When you saw her drawing a stool close to the tub, your eyes widened and you were quick to interject: “I-I can do it myself, Your Grace, there is no need for you to-“

“Please let me help you just as I would help any other child of mine.” She interrupted you kindly and soon after, you gratefully sunk into the bath, your sore muscles relaxing in its warmth.

Rhaenyra helped you tilt your head back and you closed your eyes as warm water flowed over your hair and down your neck, tears of your own silently running down your damp cheeks. Your throat bobbed painfully as you let her work, the Queen’s gentle hands a mother’s comfort as they helped to get rid of the dirt from the caves and a root clinging to your skin.

“I have sent Jace to fetch an ointment for your bruises and cuts.” She told you quietly and you nodded silently, cupping some of your water to rinse off your face, careful not to touch your throbbing lip. “I want you to tell me if I should send him away for the night. You can be honest with me, dear.”

You sniffled, gladly accepting the towel she lent you after helping you out of the bathtub. After a moment, you rasped: “It is not him I am scared of. It’s just…I know it pains him to see me hurt.”

“He hurts because he hasn’t been there for you, my dear.” Rhaenyra explained softly and you sighed to yourself as you slipped into a silken robe, the fabric easy on the big bruise on your back and arms. Underneath, you already wore one of Jace’s long shirts, the fabric more of a dress on you. “If it is one thing I have learned, as someone who loves and is lucky enough to be loved, it’s that healing means accepting the help of others. No one will fault you if you want to be for yourself tonight, but I know Jace will do anything he can to help you recover from this, no matter what that might look like.”

You did not want to be alone.

You feared it, laying down in bed once again when the door could open at any moment and reveal the terrors, although Jacaerys had doubled the amount of guards outside his door, simply so you’d feel safe.

You wanted to feel sheltered and able to move past this with the one you loved more than anything else, the one who had first thought about when your life had been in grave danger.

You needed Jacaerys.

“Jace may come in again.” You said quietly, suppressing the urge to groan with every step. You had not seen it yet, but the pain the stone thrown to your back caused felt like a flare and you were sure the spot was already turning a deep shade of purple.

Rhaenyra led you towards Jace’s bed, seemingly pleased with your decision. “I’ll make my leave then. Sleep in tomorrow, the both of you. You need all the rest you can get.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” You squeezed her hand in yours, bowing your head in gratitude. “And thank you for helping me.”

She smiled at you one last time, although there was a strain to it, her worry over a sneak attack like this consuming her mind. Tomorrow they’d speak about this in council, but tonight she’d let her son do the rest, his wide eyes meeting hers when she opened the door and let him in.

You turned around to look at him, your damp hair falling over your shoulder and his clothes, a princess despite the cuts and bruises on your skin. Jacaerys slowly walked to you and your heart stung when you noticed his blood-shot eyes and how pale he still was. He was tense all over, yet he softened as he came to a stop in front of you.

“Where does it hurt?” He asked quietly, looking for your honesty and not a false promise towards him.

You let out a shaky breath and leaned into him.

For a moment, you simply stood in front of each other, forehead against forehead and breathing each other in. Hot tears welled up in your shut eyes, his closeness rescuing and suffocating you at once. Jace’s nose touched yours and his soft curls tickled your cheeks and for a second, you thought that everything might be alright again when the morning came.

“My back. My cheek and wrists…” You whispered, your breath tickling his lips. “I know I’ve bathed and changed and I’m safe in your rooms, but…it feels like they’ve put me apart and I’ve been assembled back together wrongly.”

He shook his head, swallowing against his own lump in his throat. “You could never be wrong, my love.”

Your bottom lip wobbled dangerously, only doubling the pain in the cut grazing it. “I’ve been so scared, Jace. When they entered my room- Anything could’ve happened, they could’ve done anything to me-“

You gasped both in relief and sorrow as his arms pulled you against him, the hug both grounding and warm, something you thought you’d lost forever mere hours ago. You were too exhausted to cry once more, but the horror over what else could’ve been done to you shook you to your very core.

“I’m never going to let something like this happen again.” Jace promised you darkly as he tightened his arms around you, soothingly brushing his hand through your hair as you rested the unwounded side of your face against his heart. “You will never have to be afraid again, I promise. I should’ve been there, I should’ve stopped them-“

“You didn’t know they were here.” You reminded him, but you could feel the fury radiating off his body, an all-consuming rage deeply rooted in him. “No one did. No one is to blame except for the ones who sent them, Jace.”

“And they will pay.” You could practically feel the daggers he was glaring at the wall behind you. But just after a moment, you felt his anger deflate as he softly kissed the top of your head and gently lifted your chin so he could look at you. “You’ve been fighting all alone tonight, but I am here now and I want to be of use, beloved. Will you let me help?”

“I don’t want to upset you.” You almost bit your lip before you remembered the pain.

His gaze softened endlessly and he tucked a damp strand of your hair behind your ear. There were lots of tangled emotions inside of him still, but he saw you, this sweet delicate girl he had fallen for ever since the beginning and knew he had to take care of you now. “You could never upset me, my beautiful strong princess.”

The words were mending on your shaken soul and you closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before you let him to his work.

“The maester said the salve might be a little cool on the skin.” Jace murmured and you nodded in understanding. “And he gave me ice, scratched from the old side of the island’s cliffs, for your cheek.”

You took the dripping bundle from his hand, sighing as the cold cloth touched your cheek, the swelling subtle so far yet inevitable to strengthen throughout the night. But every bruise and cut on your body was better than not living to see the sun rise in the morning. “I could apply the salve on my own?”

Jace shook his head. “Let me do this for you.”

He walked with you to his bed, helping you sit down as he knelt before you, devotion shimmering in his eyes. You realized that he needed this just as much as you did, to prove himself he was able to take care of you now, even if he had not been there for you then.

He cupped your healthy cheek as you covered the other one with your ice. “Should we start with your back?”

Jace helped you lift the fabric, only so much so he could see where the stone had struck you, a dull bruise blossoming right next to your spine. It was nothing he had not yet seen so far, still you felt self-conscious under his attentive eyes.

You held very still as Jacaerys began to carefully apply the ointment to the bruise, his finger drawing soft and soothing circles over the blue spot. His other hand touched your waist, just barely underneath the fabric of his shirt on you and you closed your eyes as the cooling sensation drew a little pain from you and let it vanish.

“Good?”

“Feels good…” You murmured and tried to crawl into the feeling, the tiny relief washing away a little of the darkness from before. With a small kiss to your nape, he let the shirt fall and cover you again.

Next came your sore wrists. He lifted both of them, seeing the red marks where the tight rope had cut into your skin and swallowing hard. He wanted to unleash Vermax on the dusty bones of your captors again until their remains were annihilated from this earth. Jace softly kissed both of them before he dipped his fingers into the small jar again and repeated his careful motions.

You made a small sound in your throat and he stopped instantly.

“Too hard?”

You shook your head. “My lip…”

He sat down beside you, the mattress dipping underneath his weight and bringing you closer to him. The cut wasn’t pretty, but no cut was and you did not shy away from him as he took in the damage, one of his hands still rubbing circles into your wrist.

You held your breath as his coated thumb touched your bottom lip, his touch light as a feather as the cooling salve instantly mended the throbbing. Your hand reached up to hold his wrist, not ready yet to let him go when his touch felt infinitely good for your aching body. There was nothing sexual about the way you breathed against the pad of his thumb, relishing his care and simply letting it wash over you, and for a while you were simply content like this, Jacaerys remaining close to you as you breathed through the slowly ebbing pain.

“Do you want me to braid your hair for the night?” He asked quietly like he had so many times before.

Your wonderful beloved Jace. You nodded gratefully as he shuffled once more on the bed and sat behind you. Kissing the back of your head and brushing your hair over your shoulders for you, he got to work.

Your body was lulled into relaxation as his fingers combed through your hair, loosely braiding it so you wouldn’t have to wake up with tangles and knots in the morning. His warmth was a comfort against your back and if the vicious bruise hadn’t been there, you would’ve leaned back against him, ready to melt into his tenderness.

“Vermax saw right through them.” You spoke up after a while, your eyelids drooping from time to time from exhaustion as Jace finished up his braid for you. “He didn’t let them see at first, but there was a moment where I knew he was going to protect me, that he knew what was happening.”

“He loves you as if you were his own rider.” Jace mumbled, affection for you and his dragon in his voice. “I am glad he had been there for you when I wasn’t.”

“I want the finest sheep the shepherds can organize for tomorrow.” You looked over your shoulder with determination and Jacaerys frowned at you, a question in his eyes. You welcomed the small sting your lip caused you when its corner lifted up into a weak smile: “I want Vermax to be rewarded for defending his rider’s princess so honorably.”

“And I’d be honored to be the one to select it for you, my princess.” Jace’s face darkened, fury swirling in his brown orbs. “I still wish they would’ve suffered more. They deserved much more than a quick death of fire.”

His revengeful words were nothing against the soft touch with which he doted on you and when he was done and brushed his fingers once more over your hair, your body wanted to sink into his pillows and melt into them.

Jace laid down with you, carefully adjusting his position beside you so he wouldn’t accidently bump into your sore body. You exhaled deeply when your head touched his pillow, smelling so comfortingly of him. You could not bear to lie on your back, so you snuggled into Jace’s bed on your stomach, hugging his pillow and turning your head so you could look at your love.

He was resting on his side, his brown eyes searching for any discomfort you might have. Your eyes flickered over his shoulder, towards the door of his chambers.

“You are safe now, I promise.” Jace whispered and leaned forward, pressing a small kiss to your nose. “There are five guards outside and my sword leans against the bed. I’m here. Nothing bad will ever befall you again, my love, I swear it with my life.”

You gave him a tiny nod and tried to relax, although it was hard to keep the shadows lingering in the corners of the room at bay. You wiggled one of your hands out from under the pillow and found his, tugging him closer until his lean body warmed your side, one of his hands resting securely on your lower back.

“Tomorrow, I want to take a walk to the cliffs.” You whispered, longing for the fresh air and its cleansing effect.

Jacaerys smiled. “Then it will be arranged. Does my princess wish for any company?”

You nodded timidly, his playful undertone distracting you from the dull throb underneath the ointments. “And I want to have a picnic if the sun is out, with all my favorite things.”

“I’ll tell the kitchens then, first thing in the morning. They’ll be happy to please their future queen.”

“And when I’m healed, I want you to kiss me…” Your eyes drooped, the exhaustion from the night overpowering the little anxiety that remained in you.

“Your wish is my command...” Jacaerys mumbled back, his eyes on you as you slowly drifted off into a well-deserved sleep. He had not been entirely honest with you, there were many things he wanted to do.

He watched you sleep beside him, the most innocent sweet being he knew, covered with his warm clothes and bruises on your skin. Jace still held your hand and was not willing to let it go for the rest of the night.

At the soonest time, he’d convene a council meeting and strengthen the security around Dragonstone. He already had caught word of Daemon wreaking havoc on the guard unions patrolling around the castle for not being more attentive, for the princess was one of his favorite people in this family and Jace knew he’d have an ally for his cause.

He’d take his revenge for you.

But for now, he knew you needed him more than ever, and tomorrow he’d do his best to make you happy again. 

He could almost see it in the dark of the room, your eyes closed blissfully against the sunbeams, your hair dancing with the wind as you walked hand in hand as you had done so many times as children. You’d eat ripe peaches and cake and slowly, this incident would move past you until it was only what it was; a shadow in the corner, in the dead of night…

my taglist (open): @princesschimchim1325 @cecestea @jacesvelaryons @diannnnsss

[wholoveseggs]

Lesson Six

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Baelor Targaryen x f!Reader} Two moons late and a world away from the nervous bride you were, you discover the greatest lesson of all.

♡♡ The only lesson I learned from writing this is that I have a DILF addiction ♡♡

6k words - Warnings: smuttt, morning sex, oral sex (f!receiving ), praise kink, softdom!baelor, pregnancy reveal, lots and lots of fluff, then more smut and more fluff, pregnancy sex, bathtub sex, domestic bliss, childbirth (brief, not graphic) and class dismissed...

{Lesson One} {Lesson Two} {Lesson Three} {Lesson Four} {Lesson Five}

You woke to the smell of flowers. It drifted in through the open windows of your chambers, mingling with the salt-touched air of the Dornish coast. The morning sun was already warm and somewhere outside, you could hear the distant call of birds you didn't recognize, the low murmur of servants beginning their day.

You lay still for a moment, watching the light shift across the ceiling. Beside you, Baelor was stretched out on his back, his arm tucked under your head, his chest rising and falling, slow and steady. His dark hair mussed, his face slack with sleep. The lines of age and worry gone. He looked so much younger, you realized, with the weight of a kingdom lifted from his shoulders.

Your gaze traveled down his chest, over the trail of salt and pepper hair and the scarred skin, to where the bedsheets were pushed down to his waist. You leaned down and kissed a scar on his shoulder, then up to his neck, his jaw, his chin.

He let out a sleepy sound and pulled you closer, his eyes still closed, a small, content smile on his lips.

You laughed and kissed him again, this time on the corner of his mouth.

"Are you awake?" You whispered, tracing the line of his cheekbone.

"Mmm." His eyes stayed shut, but his hand slid down your waist, over the curve of your hip, squeezing your bare backside. "I was dreaming I got to sleep in."

You smacked his arm, but the corners of his mouth were twitching, his eyes still shut.

"Go back to sleep, if you like." You leaned forward and brushed your lips against his, a light, teasing touch. "I have plans for the day."

His eyes opened. "Plans?"

"Its our last day at Starfall. There are still things I wish to do."

"Oh?" He rolled to his side, propping his head on his elbow, his free hand lifting your thigh, pulling it over his hip. "Tell me about these plans."

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "Well first, I heard there is a secret beach nearby."

"A secret beach." His hand moved up your thigh, pulling you closer.

"Yes, a hidden, secluded little cove where no one goes." Your hands slid over his chest, his shoulders. "But I thought it would be perfect for a picnic."

"A picnic." He kissed the sensitive spot below your ear, his stubble grazing your skin.

"And I thought afterwards," you struggled to get the words out. His hand was slipping between your thighs now. "I thought we could take a walk in the gardens, maybe go riding..."

He nipped your ear, the movement of his fingers more insistent. "I have a better idea."

"Baelor." It came out like a whine.

"Let's stay right here," his voice was low, shifting you back against the pillows. "I can think of all sorts of things to do with my pretty wife, in a room all to ourselves, with no one to interrupt us."

"It's our last day," you protested, but your thighs were already parting, your hands curling around his neck.

"Mmm it is..." His mouth skimmed down your throat, moving lower, his lips teasing the swell of your breasts. "So, I'm going to spread you out on this bed and break my fast."

You let out a soft giggle, then a gasp as his teeth grazed your nipple, they were already pebbling and sensitive. He gave a wicked grin and moved lower, his mouth and his tongue and his teeth trailing down the line of your stomach.

"Baelor." The word came out breathless.

"Hmm?" He pushed the sheets aside, his hand sliding over your thighs, urging them higher "I haven't had nearly enough time to taste you."

Your hands found his hair, tangling in the dark strands, holding on tight. He moved lower still, pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin, maintaining that intense eye contact.

The first touch of his tongue was soft, a slow lick from your entrance up to that little nub at the top. Then he did it again. And again. Slow, torturous licks, holding your thighs apart, making you arch and squirm.

He moved one of your legs over his shoulder, holding you tight against him, the fingers of his free hand intertwining with yours.

"Beautiful." His breath was warm against your skin. "My pretty wife."

"Please." You squeezed his hand, wriggling, trying to get closer.

"Mmm." That slow lick again. "So sweet."

He did something with his tongue, flicking it a certain way that made your hips buck, so overwhelming you tried to move away. He held you still, his arm braced across your hips.

"No no, don't go," he whispered.

You let out a moan, your eyes squeezed shut, your head pressed back into the pillow. You were so close, so close.

His finger eased inside, a slow movement, in and out, matching the motion of his tongue, and it pushed you over the edge. Your release crashed over you, and your hands gripped his, so hard your nails left marks.

He was smiling, watching your face, the sweat spread across your skin making it glow, the way your hair tumbled around you.

"I think that was the best breakfast I've ever had."

You smacked his arm, pulling him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist, still panting, trying to catch your breath. "Is that all I am to you? A meal?"

He laughed, leaning forward to kiss you. "The most delicious, delightful meal I could imagine."

"Mmm." You kissed him again, deeper, slower. "I fear you spoil me, husband."

"Good." He grinned, pressing his hips forward just enough for you to feel his arousal, the hardness of him, pressing against you. "You deserve to be spoiled."

You let out a breathy sigh, rolling your hips, feeling his length against your entrance. You were wet and ready, and still wanting.

He was smiling, watching you, enjoying the look of anticipation, the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way you bit your lip, looking up at him through lowered lashes.

"You know," he whispered, kissing you again, and again. "It’s hard to believe it’s been over two moons since we left the capital."

"Two?" You blinked, the word slow to register.

"Yes," his lips moved to the line of your jaw. "And in these last two moons, my dear wife, we have had quite a bit of trouble finding moments alone."

You tried to focus, but his mouth was trailing down your neck, hot and slow. Then the words finally sank in.

You pushed at his chest, just enough to make him pause and open his eyes, with a lazy, self-satisfied grin on his face that suddenly turned to concern when he saw your expression.

"What is it?" He was sitting up now, pulling you up with him.

"I’m late."

"You’re not, it’s barely morning," he protested, and you realized he was still thinking about your earlier conversation.

A laugh escaped you, high and strange, your heart suddenly beating a frantic pace.

"I mean," you swallowed, a sick feeling rising in your throat. "I haven’t bled… since-"

He stilled.

"Since?" His voice was hoarse, his expression frozen.

"Before we left King’s Landing," you finished, and then the words were spilling out, fast and panicked. "We’ve been traveling. We’ve been busy. I haven’t had a chance to think about it. I didn’t even realize. But you’re right, two moons…"

The words hung in the air. Two moons. You hadn’t bled in two moons.

Baelor was already moving, reaching for his smallclothes, his tunic, pulling them on with a speed you hadn’t seen since you were interrupted in the council chamber. His face had gone very still, the way it did when he was working through a problem, weighing outcomes, planning three moves ahead.

"Stay here," he said, smoothing out his hair. "I’ll send for a midwife."

"But what if-" you started to rise, and his hand shot out, pressing you back into the sheets.

"I’ll be quick." His hand pressed against your belly, just for a moment, warm and gentle. Then he was gone.

You lay back against the pillows, staring at the canopy. Your hand drifted down to your stomach, resting there, flat and ordinary. Could there be something inside? Something growing?

The door opened a short while later and a woman entered. She was older, with silver-streaked dark hair and skin kissed by the Dornish sun. Her eyes were sharp but kind, and she carried a leather satchel.

"Princess." She gave a shallow curtsy. "I am Meri. The Prince asked me to attend to you."

You sat up, suddenly aware of your state of undress, quickly pulling a shift over your head. A servant followed behind with a basin of water and clean cloths, setting them on the table before retreating.

Meri approached the bed with the calm confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times. "His Grace said you’ve missed your courses. Two moons?"

"Yes." Your voice came out smaller than you intended.

She nodded, setting her satchel on the bedside table. "Any sickness in the mornings? Tiredness? Tenderness in the breasts?"

You thought back. The long days in the wheelhouse, you’d put the nausea down to the constant rocking. The exhaustion, the heat. "Perhaps. I thought it was the travel."

"That’s common." She smiled. "May I examine you?"

The examination was thorough but gentle. Meri’s hands were warm, her voice low and reassuring as she asked questions, felt your belly, checked your breasts for the changes she said she expected to find.

When she finished, she sat back on her heels, a smile spreading across her face.

"Well, Princess. I’ve seen enough to be certain… and of course you’ll have a maester confirm when you return to the capital, if you wish." She paused, letting the words settle. "You are with child. I’d say about three moons along, maybe a little less."

The words hung in the air.

You stared at her. Then down at your stomach, still flat beneath the sheet. Three moons. Perhaps it happened the first night in his chambers, or the morning in his study. Or any of the dozens of times since.

You are with child.

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, unsure whether you were about to laugh or sob.

Meri patted your knee. "This is happy news, Princess. The Prince will be overjoyed."

"Is he here?" You looked towards the door. "Did he return with you?"

"Yes. I sent him away." Her tone was amused. "Men have no place during a woman’s examination."

Your hand fell from your mouth. "Can I see him?"

"Of course."

Meri gathered her things and left. You barely had time to pull a thin robe over your shift before the door opened again.

Baelor stood in the doorway, looking a little wild.

"She wouldn’t let me in."

"No." You laughed, the sound still trembling. "Apparently men have no place."

His lips twitched. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling you into his arms. "Is it true?"

"Yes."

He took a shuddering breath, and his arms tightened around you.

"Are you alright?" You pulled back to look up at him, a little worried by his expression. "Are you pleased?"

"Pleased doesn’t begin to cover it." His voice was thick. "Are you?"

"Yes."

A slow smile spread across his face. Then, suddenly, he lifted you into his arms and spun, holding you against his chest, your feet dangling. You let out a startled yelp and then laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck, the sound loud and joyous in the early morning light.

"Do not drop me," you chided, a little breathless, as he carried you back towards the bed. "I mean... Us. Do not drop us."

He set you down gently, his hands cradling the back of your head, his eyes shining. "Never."

You reached up and touched his face, his smile, the lines of joy and worry, the soft graying beard. He leaned down and kissed you, soft and lingering.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips.

"And I love you."

He smiled again, his hands moving down to splay across your belly, warm and gentle.

"Now," his tone turned serious. "You need to rest. Stay in bed and I will have the servants bring you anything you wish. Wine, fruit, honey cakes, the finest dishes the kitchen can provide."

"Oh, do not spoil me so," you teased, though your heart fluttered. "I just want that picnic."

"We can have a picnic." His lips moved down your neck, nipping the skin. "Then I will take you on a tour of all the secret beaches in Westeros."

You giggled, running your fingers through his dark hair, feeling giddy and a little foolish. He was nuzzling the hollow of your throat, and you could feel his smile.

"And afterwards," he continued. "We will have a tourney, a feast, and a ball. All in honor of my wife and new babe."

"All that?" You teased, lifting his head.

"And more," he promised, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. "Anything you desire."

"I think we should start with the beach." You let your eyes close, sinking into the warmth of him, the morning, the quiet joy humming in your chest. His lips brushed yours once more, soft and unhurried, and you smiled against his mouth.

"As my lady wishes."

The journey back was quicker than the journey out. Baelor insisted on it, eager to be home, checking on you at every stop, his hands holding you close in the dark of each night.

At first there was nothing to feel. Then, somewhere in the Reach, you noticed the laces of your gowns were tighter. By the time the red walls of King's Landing rose against the grey sky, there was a small but unmistakable curve beneath your bodice.

The news had traveled to the capitol before you, and the castle was bustling when you arrived, servants running up and down the halls, a steady stream of lords and ladies arriving at court.

A nursery was being prepared, Baelor informed you. Cradles, blankets, toys. Maids and wet nurses were brought in from across the Seven Kingdoms. The best midwives, the finest healers.

The maesters confirmed what Meri had already told you, and for the first time, the words took shape in your mind. A baby. Yours and Baelors.

The first week back was chaos. The lords who had remained in the capital, who had kept the realm running in the Hand's absence, all of them demanded his attention from dawn until well past dusk. He attended endless council meetings, reviewed petitions, signed decrees. 

You saw him at breakfast, when he was already half-focused on the day ahead. You saw him at dinner, when exhaustion shadowed his eyes and he listened more than he spoke. And you saw him at night, when he climbed into bed beside you, his arms finding you in the dark, his hand resting on the small curve of your belly.

And you were not your best either. The nausea that had plagued you in Dorne had followed you home, striking without warning. The fatigue settled deep in your bones, making even a short walk to the gardens feel like an ordeal. The maester said it would pass, that your body was simply adjusting, but each day seemed to stretch longer than the last.

You tried not to complain. He had enough to carry without your ailments adding to the weight.

But one evening, a servant found you in the library, bearing a folded note sealed with his sigil:

Come to our chambers as soon as you get this, Or the water will get cold. ~Baelor

Your heart gave a little flutter. You set down your book and made your way through the corridors, curiosity tugging at your steps.

The door to your chambers was closed. A pair of guards stood outside; they bowed as you approached, and one of them opened the door for you.

You stepped inside and stopped.

Candles burned on every surface, casting a warm, flickering light over the stone walls. The fire in a hearth had been built high, and before it sat a large copper tub, steam rising from the water. The air was thick with the scent of rose oil and lavender. Thick towels were laid out on a bench, and a tray of fruit and cheese sat on a small table nearby.

And in the tub, stretched out with his arms along the edges, his head tipped back against the rim, was your husband.

Servants were still moving about, bringing more buckets of steaming water, laying out decanters of water and wine. Baelor's eyes were closed, the firelight playing across his broad chest, the scars, the dark hair damp and curling at his temples.

He opened his eyes when you entered, and smiled, his gaze lingering on the curve of your stomach.

"Princess," a servant said, her eyes widening as she saw you. "We didn't expect you so soon."

"If you wouldn't mind helping my wife with her gown," Baelor said, his voice low and rich, "I would be most grateful."

The young woman dipped her head. "Of course, Your Grace."

She began working at the ties and buttons, and the other servants busied themselves with their tasks, though their eyes flicked in your direction, to the swell beneath your gown.

One by one, the layers were removed. Your gown, your underskirts, your shift, your smallclothes. You stood naked in the candlelight, the heat from the fire warming your skin.

Baelor's eyes followed every movement, the slow reveal of skin, you grinned and his lips twitched in response.

The servants gathered your clothes, dipping into curtsies. "Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"

He waved a hand, his gaze still fixed on you. "You may go."

They hurried from the room, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

He held out his hand. "Come here."

You took it, and he helped you step over the high side of the tub and into the water. It was deliciously warm, and you let him guide you down, your back to his chest, until you were submerged up to your shoulders. His arms came around you, both hands settling on your bump.

You let out a long, shuddering sigh. The heat soaked through you, the warmth and the scent and the weight of his body behind you. You let your head tip back against his shoulder.

"Good?"

You hummed, letting your eyes close.

His lips brushed your temple, and the room fell silent, except for the crackle of the fire and the soft, steady sound of your breathing.

"Did you plan this?" You murmured, after a moment.

"Mmhm, every time you turned away your breakfast. Every time you said you were tired. Every time the council meetings dragged on and I knew you were waiting for me." His hand moved in slow circles over your belly. "I knew my wife needed looking after."

"You're the one who's been working yourself to exhaustion," you murmured, but your eyes felt impossible to open now, the heat seeping into your tired muscles.

"Then we are both in need of this." He pressed another kiss to your temple. "Tonight, we rest."

For a long while, neither of you spoke. His hands simply rested on your belly, not moving, just there. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, steady and slow. The tension of the past weeks seemed to dissolve in the warmth.

"I've missed this," he murmured finally. "Just... this."

You nodded against his shoulder. "The quiet."

"The quiet with you." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "The council pulls me in a hundred directions. But here, with you, I remember what matters."

You covered one of his hands with your own. "The realm needs you, but I fear you work too hard."

"There is always more to do." He let out a sigh, his fingers linking with yours. "But that does not mean I have to do it all."

You turned your head, looking up at him. His face was soft in the candlelight, the lines of worry smoothed away. "What are you saying?"

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. "I spoke with my father about reducing my role slightly, once the child is born. Perhaps even for a time after."

"Reducing your role?" You shifted in his lap, trying to read his expression.

"Not immediately. But after the babe comes..." His hand moved from your belly to your chin, tilting your face up. "I want to take my family to Dragonstone. You, the child, Valarr, Matarys. Let the capital spin on without us for a while. Let someone else manage the grain shipments and the trade disputes."

"That would please me," you said softly.

"I thought it might." He leaned forward, brushing his lips against yours, his hand still cupping your jaw. "There will be plenty of time for ruling. Years and years. But I have only one chance to teach our son or daughter to walk and talk, to watch the first sparks of their mind take shape. And I will not miss it for anything."

Your chest tightened, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the bathwater. "Dragonstone."

"Have you seen it? The stone, the sea, the way the light catches on the battlements at sunset..." His voice grew softer. "I want to show you. I want us all to see it together."

You smiled, thinking of the waves and the cliffs, the sea stretching out before you, endless and blue. "It sounds beautiful."

"Good, then it's settled."

He reached for a cloth, dipping it in the water, and began to wash you. Slow, methodical strokes, smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms, across your chest. His touch was gentle, reverent, and you let yourself sink into the sensation, all of your fatigue slowly unraveling.

"The maester came to see me today," he said quietly, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"What did he have to say?" You asked, a little bitter. The maesters seemed to never inform you directly. They told him, and he told you.

"I told them to inform you first, but traditions are hard to break." He set aside the cloth and wrapped his hands around your waist, gently pulling you closer. 

"He said," Baelor continued, his breath warm against your ear, "that I must ensure my wife does not overexert herself. That she should be kept comfortable. That she should be allowed to rest."

You laughed. "He did not need to tell you that."

"He also said," and here his voice dropped lower, "that I must spoil you...and pleasure you...as often as possible..."

You burst out laughing. "I doubt he said such a thing."

"He implied it." His hands glided down your sides, fingers trailing through the warm water. "I can have official orders written up by the maester if you need proof."

"No need. I’m inclined to take your word for it." You let your eyes close and leaned back against his chest.

"Good." His breath was warm against your neck, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid lower, skimming your thighs. "Spread your legs a little wider, sweetheart."

The pet name melted through you. You obeyed, knees falling apart, sinking deeper into the water and the heat of his body behind you.

"That’s good, that’s perfect." His mouth found the tender spot between your neck and shoulder, pressing a kiss there, then another. "Relax. Let me take care of you."

One hand held your thigh, steadying you. The other slipped between your legs, and then he was stroking; feather‑light at first, barely there, making you shiver.

You arched into his touch with a soft noise, and you felt his lips curve against your skin.

"Pregnancy makes you extra sensitive," he murmured, pleased.

You nodded, a gasp catching in your throat as his thumb found the apex of your sex and pressed more firmly, circling.

"And so responsive." He caught your mouth with his, tongue sliding in a slow, filthy glide. You moaned into the kiss, and he swallowed the sound, his thumb never stopping its lazy circles.

When he finally pulled back, his lips brushed your ear. "How many times do you think I can make you come?" A light nip at the shell of your ear. "Would you like to try and find out?"

You nodded, a little desperate, and he laughed low in his chest.

"Good. That’s what I wanted to hear."

Then he touched you in earnest. His palm pressed, rubbed, fingers sliding easily through your slickness. The water lapped against the tub’s sides, splashing softly with every movement. Your moans tangled with the rhythm, his voice a constant whisper of praise. Your eyes squeezed shut, everything narrowing to the heat of his hands, the coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly.

When he pushed you over the edge, it was with the ease of long practice, his fingers knowing exactly how to draw out every pulse of pleasure until you were gasping his name.

You slumped back against him, boneless. He kissed the side of your head, arms wrapping around you.

"I think it’s time to move to the bed." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then stood.

Water cascaded from his body, catching the candlelight, tracing the scars and the dark hair along his chest. You watched, admiring, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

He helped you out, wrapping a towel around your shoulders before rubbing it briskly over your arms, your back, the swell of your belly. His hands were warm and steady, and then he was guiding you toward the bed, settling you in his lap on the edge.

The towel fell away. His hands found your hips, your breasts, his mouth hot and demanding against yours.

"I love you like this," he breathed, palms curving over the slight roundness of your stomach. "Carrying my babe."

"Then perhaps we should have a dozen." You ran your fingers through his damp hair and tugged lightly.

He laughed. "You won’t be saying that once the little one arrives."

You smiled and kissed him. His hands drifted down to your backside, squeezing possessively. He spread his legs, and you slid forward until the hard length of him brushed against your inner thigh. A moan escaped into his mouth; your fingers tightened on his shoulders.

He guided you forward, one hand steady on your hip, the other positioning himself at your entrance. His mouth stayed on yours, teeth grazing your lower lip. You loved the way he took control, the ease and confidence with which he handled your body.

Then he eased you down onto him, and the kiss broke on a gasp.

He watched you intently, hands still holding your hips, his cock buried deep inside you.

"All right?"

You nodded, breathless, as he repositioned your legs, calves bracketing his thighs, knees bent to either side of him. Your body pressed flush against his, his skin still warm from the bath, water droplets clinging to both of you.

The intensity of his gaze made something hot and desperate curl low in your stomach. His eyes dropped to where you were joined, then roamed back up your body, lingering on the rise of your breasts, the flush spreading across your chest.

Your cheeks heated, a little self-conscious. You were aware of every difference: the fullness of your breasts, the slight roundness of your belly, the way your hips seemed to flare a little wider.

But he drank you in like he couldn't get enough, he began to move your hips in small, grinding circles, his hands guiding the rhythm. 

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss between your breasts, his beard scratching softly against the sensitive skin. Then he turned his head, and his mouth closed over one nipple, hot and wet and sucking, his tongue swirling and teasing.

You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, pleasure sparking and sizzling through you. You could feel him smile, and then his mouth switched to the other breast, his beard catching and scratching and driving you wild.

His mouth released your breast, lips trailing up your collarbone, finding the sensitive spot below your ear, his breath warm and ragged against your neck.

"You are so lovely." He murmured the words like a prayer, his hips picking up the rhythm, hands gripping your backside.

The compliment made you blush. Your fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him in for a kiss, your teeth tugging at his lower lip.

He groaned, the sound vibrating against your mouth, his hips bucking, pushing him even deeper inside you.

The heat pooling in your stomach tightened, his name escaping on a broken moan.

He was breathing hard now, his muscles taut, his hands moving down to your thighs, pushing them wider, opening you up. You felt yourself tightening around him, his hips rolling, every thrust sending sparks through you.

You broke the kiss, burying your face in his neck, muffling the cry as you fell over the edge.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your backside, his movements stuttering, hips grinding against yours as he followed you. You could feel the warm rush inside you, and the sensation sent another pulse of pleasure through your belly.

You lay tangled together, his hands still gripping your hips, both of you panting. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, the two of you sharing breath.

After a moment, he kissed you, and then slowly, gently, lifted you off his lap and laid you down on the bed. He kissed and nipped along your neck, down your chest, his beard tickling. You giggled, and his eyes lifted, a smile playing about his lips.

He settled next to you, propping himself up on his elbow, his other hand finding its way to your belly, stroking the curve.

"Are you hungry?"

You shook your head. "Tired."

He nodded, a slight crease forming between his brows. He reached down, grabbed the blanket and pulled it over both of you, pulling you close. You curled against his side, tucking your head into his neck, his arm coming around you.

His voice was a low rumble. "Is there anything you need?"

"You're fussing."

"Yes."

You let out a soft laugh. "You don't need to."

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Perhaps not, but I want to."

"Then let's get some sleep." You let your eyes close.

For a long while, you both lay there, the silence settling around you. His hand still stroked your belly, soothing and slow. You could feel yourself drifting, the exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs.

"You will be an excellent mother," he murmured softly, so quietly you almost didn't catch the words.

You smiled, a little embarrassed, but warmed by the confidence in his voice. "Thank you."

"I know it," he said, sounding so certain. "And our child will love you."

The simple certainty in his voice made your throat tighten. "I hope so."

"They will." He sounded almost offended at the idea of anything else. "Being a parent is just...learning how to love without reserve. Without expectation or demands. You simply love, and that is enough."

You smiled, a sudden, bright happiness spreading through you. "That's a wonderful way to look at it."

"It is what I wish someone had told me when I became a father for the first time."

Your fingers stroked his chest, his heartbeat steady and slow. "I'm glad you will be with me."

"There is nowhere I would rather be."

You both fell silent. The candle flames began to stutter, the darkness deepening, and you realized just how much things had changed between you.

You had come to him frightened and uncertain, a girl who knew nothing but her duty. He had given you patience, pleasure, a place to belong. And now, a child.

He was so certain of your future together. Of the role you would play as a mother. You hoped he was right. You wanted him to be right.

You curled closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "I love you."

His arms tightened around you. "And I love you."

You lay there, feeling the weight of his hand, the warmth of his chest, the quiet certainty settling into your bones. How far you had come. How much he had taught you without ever making you feel small.

And you were ready for whatever the future held.

Epilogue

Your daughter was born on a summer day, the light spilling through the windows, a cool breeze whispering through the curtains.

You screamed, and Baelor held your hand through it, his knuckles white, his voice steady even as his eyes went wide. "You're almost there, sweet girl. Almost there." His other hand brushed the sweat-damp hair back from your forehead. You pushed and panted, and then a sharp wail of a newborn filled the room.

"A daughter," the midwife said, wrapping the infant in a blanket. Baelor pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another, his lips trembling. "A daughter," he repeated, sounding almost dazed.

You reached for her before you knew what you were doing. Your arms were shaking, your whole body trembling with exhaustion and euphoria. The midwife placed her in your arms, and she was so light, so small, her face scrunched and red and absolutely perfect.

Baelor's hand was still clutching yours. You looked up at him, and there were tears on his cheeks. You had never seen him cry before.

"She's beautiful," he whispered.

You looked down at your daughter. She had stopped crying. Her eyes were open, unfocused, seeing nothing and everything.

"She is," you agreed.

You had come to him afraid. Afraid of his age, his title, his hands, the weight of a marriage you did not choose. Afraid you would not be enough. Afraid there was only so much room in his heart, and that you had arrived too late to claim any of it.

But fear, you learned, was a poor teacher.

It was Baelor who taught you otherwise. Not with lectures or lessons written in books. Not with pretty words or grand gestures. But with patience. With the way he looked at you. With the way his hand found the small of your back in crowded rooms. With the way he said your name when you were alone.

You learned that intimacy was not just the joining of bodies. Until pleasure was no longer a mystery but a language the two of you spoke fluently. That intimacy was also falling asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. Waking to find his arm still around you. Arguing in the daylight and making peace in the moonlight. Choosing each other, over and over, not because duty demanded it but because you wanted to.

You learned that jealousy was a poison you had swallowed willingly, believing the whispers of lords who knew nothing of your marriage. You learned to spit it out. To ask the hard questions. To trust his answers even when they stung.

And you learned that a family was not something you married into. It was something you built with steady grace. Day by day. With every meal shared, every fear confessed, every small forgiveness.

Now you held the proof of all of it in your arms. She had his dark hair and his mismatched eyes. She gripped your finger with a strength that surprised you, and you understood why Baelor had wept. This was what it meant to love without reserve. Without expectation or demands.

There is room, you realized, watching him watch her. There has always been room.

Love did not divide. It did not replace. It only grew. It only multiplied.

That was the final lesson. The one no book could teach. No servant could whisper. No mother could prepare you for. You had to live it. You had to risk it. You had to open your hands and let it in.

And you did.

{Lesson One} {Lesson Two} {Lesson Three} {Lesson Four} {Lesson Five}

[serdunkalot]

Through Stone and Shadow

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen Cousin!Reader (ft. Aegon)

Description: You're a Targaryen princess with a dragon, a seat on the small council, and a hole in your wall that looks directly into the Crown Prince's chambers. You should seal it. You should forget what you've seen. You should definitely stop watching your cousin fuck his way through King's Landing's noblewomen.

But you don't. And when Jacaerys starts looking at you like he knows, like he's been waiting for you to break—well. That's when things get complicated.

Genre: voyeurism, jace likes to fook, he definitely knows you're watching, fucking your cousin (it's targaryens what did you expect), why does everyone want to marry him, angst with your hand between your thighs, oblivious pining except he's not oblivious at all, im not sorry, SLOW BURN, VERY VERY SLOW, he hasnt even kissed you and its been 30k words, that type of slow, why do u want to fuck. every cousin........... porn with heavy plot

WC: 28k (100k projected) also on ao3 (where it will be updated!)

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

You hadn't meant to discover the hole in the wall—a gap where the stone had crumbled between your chambers and his. It was small, barely the width of your  index and middle fingers, hidden behind the carved wooden screen that stood in the corner of your room. You'd only found it when you'd moved the screen aside to retrieve a dropped pearl earring, and there it was, a sliver of forbidden sight directly into the heir's private quarters.

You stared at it for a moment longer, crouched onto the floor with the pearl still in your palm.

Rotted mortar, you thought. Old stone. The Red Keep is falling apart in places no one bothers to look.

The right thing would have been to call for the servants, have it sealed with fresh mortar. To forget you'd ever seen it, like a proper lady would. 

That first night, however, curiosity won. Just a glance, you kept telling yourself. Just to see if it truly looked into Jacaerys's room or if your eyes had deceived you in the dim candlelight.

They hadn't, and your breath caught in your throat as soon as your eye found the gap. His bed was perfectly visible—the heavy posts of dark wood, the deep crimson coverlet embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And there, tangled in those sheets, was your cousin.

Worst of all, he wasn't alone.

Turn away. The thought flickered through your mind even as you stayed perfectly still, silver hair spilling over your shoulder and onto the floor in waves as you leaned closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew what the right choice was. You simply weren't making it.

The woman beneath him was dark-haired, flushed, with her mouth open as Jacaerys pounded into her from behind, and you realized with a strange twist in your stomach that this was far from his first time. The rumors that swirled through the Red Keep were true, then. The Crown Prince, for all his duties and noble bearing in the daylight hours, was as much a creature of appetite as any Targaryen before him.

You, on the other hand, had never even been kissed. Never been touched. Good noble ladies waited for their wedding night, and common fucking was for the common whores—thank you for that wisdom, cousin Aemond.

His hand fisted in her dark hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her cunt with a rhythm that was almost borderline brutal. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by her breathy moans and his low groans of pleasure. You could see the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"Fuck," he growled, and the vulgarity of it—hearing such words from the lips of the Crown Prince—sent a forbidden thrill down your spine. "You take me so well."

The woman whimpered something you couldn't quite hear, and Jacaerys laughed—dark and satisfied. He leaned forward, pressing her face into the pillows as he changed his angle, and her muffled cry of pleasure made heat pool low in your belly.

Your hand had somehow found its way to your throat, fingers pressed against your racing pulse. This was wrong, so utterly wrong. You sat here, watching your cousin rut like a beast in heat, and worse—far worse—your body was responding to it. Your thighs pressed together on their own accord, seeking friction you had no right to want.

Leave. Now.

You started to pull back from the gap, but then Jacaerys pulled out suddenly, flipping the girl onto her back with easy strength, and you caught a glimpse of him fully—his flushed cock, hard and completely shameless. He spread her thighs wide and thrusted back into her cunt in with one smooth stroke, and a gasp tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Your hand flew to your mouth, palm clamping hard over your lips. The pearl earring—forgotten, still clutched in your other hand—slipped from your fingers and hit the stone floor with a soft clink that sounded deafening in the quiet of your chamber.

You froze, heart hammering, terrified the sound had somehow carried through the wall.

But Jacaerys didn't pause, didn't look toward the gap. He was too focused on the woman beneath him, and you—gods help you—you couldn't look away.

"Look at me," he commanded, and something in his voice—the authority, the certainty, the  want—made your breath catch. The woman's eyes snapped to his face. "Good girl," he murmured, and thrust deeper.

The words sent heat flooding through you, pooling low into your belly. You felt it between your thighs—a pulse, an ache, something you had no name for. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but you couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely breathe—

The sharp knock at your chamber door made you jerk back from the wall as though it burned you.

"My lady?" came Lysa's voice, muffled through the heavy oak. "We've come to prepare you for supper."

You stumbled back from the screen. Your hand pressed against your cheek—Seven Hells, you were boiling. "A moment," you called out, breathless, hating how your voice wavered in the otherwise silent room.

You smoothed your skirts with trembling hands and tried to compose yourself before crossing to open the door. Your three ladies-in-waiting filed in—Lysa, Maryse, and young Elaena, their arms full of silks and jewelry boxes. They were good girls, all of them. You'd chosen them yourself—daughters of minor houses who actually seemed to like you rather than seeing you as a political opportunity. The last thing you needed were the usual vultures, daughters of great lords who'd spend more time reporting back to their mothers than actually being useful.

"You look flushed, my lady," Maryse observed you with immediate concern, setting down the silks onto the dressing table. "Are you well?"

"Quite well," you lied, settling into the chair before your mirror. Your reflection was damning, your silver hair mussed, falling loose from where you'd been pressed against the wall. Your cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide and dark, emphasizing the violet haze. You looked exactly like what you were, a woman who'd been watching something she had no business seeing. "The fire was burning too hot. I've only just opened the window."

Lysa moved to begin unpinning your hair, her fingers gentle, yet ever so clever, as they worked. "I see my lady. The cook's boy told me the funniest story today," she began, and you felt yourself relax into the familiar rhythm of their chatter.

This was safe. This was normal. Unlike whatever madness had possessed you just moments ago.

Elaena brought forward the gown, it was a beautiful collection of pale red silk that caught the candlelight like dawn breaking over the Narrow Sea. The bodice was fitted, the neckline modest but elegant, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves that fell into drapes. It was a gown befitting a princess of dragon blood, though you sometimes forgot that's what you were.

As your ladies worked, Lysa plaiting your hair into an intricate crown of braids, Maryse threading deep crimson rubies on fine silver chains to weave through the silver, Elaena carefully lacing you into your gown—your mind wandered despite your best efforts.

You could still see it. The flex of Jacaerys's shoulders, the way his head had fallen back in pleasure. The sound of his voice, rough with need and desire. 

Seven hells. 

"Tilt your head, my lady," Lysa murmured, and you obeyed, watching in the mirror as she secured the final braid with a dragon brooch of white gold and rubies, its eyes tiny chips of garnet that seemed to glow due to the candlelight.

Your hair fell in a waterfall of silver down your back, nearly to your calves, the braids creating an ornate crown that framed your face. The rubies caught the light like drops of blood, and for a moment you understood why men wrote songs about Targaryen women. More specifically, why their chantee’s were filled with tales of you.

"Beautiful," Maryse breathed, stepping back to admire their work.

You were beautiful. You knew this, had always known it—it was simply a fact, like knowing the sky was blue or fire was hot. But beauty felt like a strange, useless disease when your mind was still full of images it shouldn't hold.

When your thoughts were consumed by your cousin, the heir to the Iron Throne, and the way he'd looked lost in pleasure with a woman who wasn't you.

The private dining hall was already warm and loud when you arrived, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of serving plates. This was your favorite meal of the week. no courtiers to impress, no performers to sit through, no need to smile politely while some lord droned on about his son and why he’s worthy of your hand. Just family. The table could have seated fifty people easily, but tonight it was just the twelve of you, which somehow made the hall feel bigger and emptier at the same time.

Rhaenyra sat at the head in a gown of black and red, her crown set aside for the evening, silver hair braided simply. Daemon lounged beside her, looking more like a dangerous cat than a prince consort. Down the table, Alicent sat with her children scattered among Rhaenyra's, Aegon laughing at something Jace had said, Helaena showing Baela her embroidery. A year ago, they'd been on the brink of war. Now they broke bread together like it had never happened.

"There she is," Aegon called out as you entered, already half in his cups despite the early hour. "Our lovely cousin, late as always."

"I'm not late," you replied, taking your usual seat between Helaena and Baela. "You're simply too eager for the wine, Aegon."

Aegon clutched his chest in mock offense while Helaena reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing—she rarely did in company—but her smile was soft and genuine. You squeezed back, wishing she'd been born your sister instead of your cousin. She understood silence, understood that sometimes you just needed to exist quietly in a world that never managed to simply shut the fuck up.

"You look beautiful tonight," Helaena murmured, so quietly only you could hear. Her green eyes—so unlike the rest of the Targaryens—studied your face with an intensity that only she had. "Red suits you. Like fire. Like blood."

Before you could respond, the servants began bringing out the first course, and your attention was pulled elsewhere. You reached for your wine, grateful for something to do with your hands, and that's when you saw Jacaerys sat across the table and down two seats, between Luke and Joffrey. He was dressed formally in a black doublet with red embroidery, his dark hair still damp as though he'd bathed recently. He looked every inch the Crown Prince—composed, attentive, laughing at something Luke said.

He looked nothing like the man you'd seen less than an hour ago, flushed and shameless, fucking a woman whose name he probably didn't know. Or didn't care to remember. 

Your cheeks heated at the memory, and you quickly looked down at your plate.

Gods, were you that much of a prude?

"How was your afternoon, my dear?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked you, her voice carrying easily down the table. She'd always been kind to you, treating you more as a daughter than a niece. Your father's sister, mourning the brother she'd lost, had perhaps seen something of him in you.

"Quiet, Your Grace," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "I spent most of it reading in my chambers."

"Always with your books," Daemon observed with amusement. "You're worse than the damn Maesters."

The conversation flowed easily after that—talk of the day's small council meeting, Aegon's latest exploit (falling asleep during a petitioner's complaint), Helaena's new collection of butterflies. You participated when required, but part of your attention kept sliding back to Jacaerys despite your best efforts.

He caught you looking, which was more embarrassing than usual. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrible second you were certain he knew. Knew what you'd seen. Knew you'd watched. Your stomach dropped and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and looked away. When you risked another glance, he was already talking to Luke again, the moment forgotten.

It wasn't until the second course that Rhaenyra cleared her throat in that way that meant an announcement was coming. The table quieted immediately, all eyes turning to their queen.

"I've been thinking," she began, glancing at Jacaerys with obvious affection, "that our heir is now two and twenty. More than old enough to take a wife."

Across the table, Jacaerys kept his expression perfectly neutral and composed. But you saw his jaw tighten, saw the way his hand clenched briefly around his fork before he forced himself to relax.

"It's time we began seeking suitable matches," Rhaenyra continued. "I've already received inquiries from several great houses—the Arryns, the Starks, even a letter from the Triarchy expressing interest in an alliance."

"The Triarchy?" Daemon barked a laugh. "What would they offer, a wife who smells of spices, counts coins and wouldn't know what to do with a cock if you handed it to her with instructions?"

"They offered three ships of gold and exclusive trading rights," Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Which is more than most houses can promise."

"I won't marry for ships," Jacaerys said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him once more. His expression was still composed, but there was a hardness around his eyes. 

"You'll marry where it serves the realm," Rhaenyra said, though not unkindly. "As I did. As all rulers must."

"You married for love the second time," Jace pointed out.

"The second time, yes." Rhaenyra smiled at Daemon. "But first I did my duty. And you will do yours."

The tension at the table was palpable. Alicent looked uncomfortable, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Aegon was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee—always happy when someone else was being pressed into marriage talk instead of him.

"We'll host a series of feasts," Rhaenyra continued, her tone allowing no argument. "Let the eligible ladies of the realm come to court. Let Jacaerys meet them, dance with them. Surely among them there will be someone suitable."

"How many feasts?" Luke asked, grimacing. "I hate feasts."

"As many as it takes," Rhaenyra replied. "We'll begin preparations the following morrow."

Your stomach dropped. Feast after feast, watching Jacaerys dance with simpering ladies who would fall over themselves for the chance to be queen. Watching him smile that charming smile, knowing what you now knew—that he was skilled at pleasing women, that he knew exactly how to make them fall at his feet.

"How exciting," Baela said beside you, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "More opportunities to wear uncomfortable gowns and make pleasant conversation with people who hate us."

"They don't all hate us," you murmured, though your heart wasn't in the defense.

Across the table, Jacaerys stared at his wine cup like it might provide him with answers. You almost felt bad for him. If anyone at this table had no chance of marrying for love, it was him. Not that he seemed particularly interested in finding one person to settle down with, but still, your point stood.

"Well then," Aegon raised his cup. "To Jace's upcoming nuptials. May his future wife have the patience of a saint and the deafness of a stone."

Despite the tension, several people laughed, and Rhaenyra shook her head with exasperated fondness. "Perhaps we should have music," she suggested, gesturing to the musicians who always waited in the shadows during these intimate suppers. "Clear some space. Let us remember we're still young enough to enjoy ourselves."

"An excellent idea," Daemon agreed, already rising. He offered his hand to Rhaenyra with a theatrical bow that made her laugh.

The servants quickly moved the table back, creating a space for dancing as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was informal, nothing like the rigid court dances you'd endure at the upcoming feasts—this was just family, moving together without judgment or ceremony.

Luke grabbed Rhaena's hand first, spinning her into the space with more enthusiasm than grace. She laughed, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. Joffrey tried to convince Helaena to dance, but she demurred with a gentle shake of her head, content to watch from her seat.

"Dance with me," Baela demanded, pulling you up before you could protest. "Before one of the boys asks and proceeds to step on our feet."

You let yourself be drawn into the movement, falling into the familiar pattern. Baela was a good dancer—all the Targaryen children were taught from youth that grace in the ballroom was as important as grace on dragonback. You switched partners as the song changed, first with Aegon, who was surprisingly light on his feet despite the wine, then with Luke, who apologized three times for nearly stepping on your hem, which you found adorable.

"You're doing fine," you assured him with a smile, and he grinned back, boyish and sweet.

When that dance ended, you found yourself passed to Jacaerys.

Your breath caught as his hand found yours, the other settling at your waist. His palm was large and warm against your back, steadying you. You could smell him now, clean linen and spice. Could see his eyes up close, brown with flecks of amber in the firelight. Could see, really see, how stupidly beautiful he was.

"Having fun?" he asked as he led you through the steps, his tone pleasantly neutral and polite. The exact same way he'd speak to any cousin at a family gathering.

"Yes," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "It's nice, having everyone together like this."

"Mm," he agreed, spinning you smoothly. "Rarer than it should be. Though I suppose it'll be even rarer once I'm shackled to some lord's daughter who'll expect me to sit through needlepoint demonstrations."

He was trying to make it sound like a joke, but it came out flat. Like he'd already accepted this was happening and hated every second of it.

"Maybe you'll find someone you actually like," you offered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

A laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe. Though I doubt the great houses are sending their daughters for love matches. They want a crown, not a husband."

"Then perhaps you should look for someone who wants neither," you said before you could stop yourself.

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, something that might have been interest flickering across his face. "And where would I find such a creature? They seem to be in short supply."

Before you could respond—before you could make an even greater fool of yourself—the song ended. Jace released you with a small bow, perfectly proper, and turned to offer his hand to Rhaena for the next dance.

You stepped back, your heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. He'd been so normal. So completely indifferent. There was no awareness in his eyes, no sign that he saw you as anything other than his cousin, someone to dance with at family gatherings and exchange pleasantries with at supper. Which was as it should be. You should be relieved and instead, you felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

"You look troubled," Helaena's soft voice came from beside you. She'd moved so quietly you hadn't noticed her approach. "Like a bird that's flown into a window."

You turned to her, finding those strange green eyes studying you. "I'm fine," you said automatically.

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured, her gaze distant in that way it sometimes got after one of her vision spells. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

"Helaena—"

But she'd already drifted away, drawn by something only she could see, leaving you standing at the edge of the dancing with her cryptic words echoing in your mind.

The spider watches from the corner. Seven hells, your poor, dear, earnest cousin knows you’re a pervert. 

You watched Jacaerys spin Rhaena through the steps, laughing at something she said. Watched him dance with Baela next, then with his mother, the perfect dutiful son. He never once looked your way again and you told yourself that was exactly what you wanted.

The dancing continued for another hour before Rhaenyra finally called an end to the evening. "Early council meeting tomorrow," she announced with apologetic warmth. "And I need at least some sleep if I'm to endure Tyland Lannister's complaints about the damned grain tariffs."

The group began to disperse—Aegon stumbling slightly as Aemond steadied him with the patience only a brother could have, Luke and Joffrey arguing about something as they headed toward their chambers. You walked back to your chambers with Helaena and Baela, their soft conversation a comfortable buffer against your own churning thoughts. When you finally reached your door, you bid them goodnight and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy oak with a shaky exhale.

Your ladies had been by earlier, the room was tidy, the fire banked low, your nightgown laid out across the bed. Everything was peaceful and ordinary. Your gaze immediately drifted, unbidden, to the corner where the carved screen stood.

You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. But your feet carried you forward anyway, your hands moving the screen aside with trembling, eager, perverted fingers.

Empty. Fuck. 

His room was dark save for a single candle burning on the bedside table. The crimson coverlet was smooth and undisturbed. The heavy curtains drawn back from the windows to let in the moonlight. No Jacaerys. No woman writhing beneath him. Nothing but silence and shadows.

You sat back on your heels, a strange mix of relief and something else—something you refused to name as disappointment—settling in your chest.

Where was he? 

It was late, well past the hour when most of the castle had retired. Perhaps he'd gone to the Street of Silk, unwilling to bring his entertainment into the Red Keep on a night when the family had gathered. Perhaps he was in someone else's bed entirely, some lady's maid or kitchen girl who'd caught his eye.

Perhaps he was being discreet, something he clearly hadn't bothered earlier today. The thought dissipated as quickly as it came, no, maybe he was being discreet. Thoughtful, even. Of course, he'd been perfectly discreet earlier too, it was your fault for being a creep. 

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, staring at that empty bed as though it might offer answers. The image from earlier was still burned into your mind—the flex of his shoulders, the sound of his voice rough with pleasure, the casual way he'd commanded that woman's body like he owned it.

Your cousin. The heir to the Iron Throne. The boy you'd grown up with, who used to let you win at cyvasse when you were children, who'd shown you how to skip stones across the fountain and laughed when you both got yelled at for it.

When the fuck had he turned into that? When had he learned to move like that, to take someone apart with his hands like it was easy?

And why, by all the Seven, couldn't you stop fucking thinking about it?

You pushed away from the wall, suddenly furious with yourself. This was madness. Dangerous, stupid madness that could only end in humiliation or worse. You needed to forget what you'd seen. Needed to seal that hole in the wall and pretend it had never existed.

Starting tomorrow. You'd call the servants first thing in the morning and have it filled with mortar. Tonight, tonight, though,  you would sleep, and you would not dream of your cousin's hands, or his voice, or the way he'd looked so beautiful while lost in pleasure.

You climbed into bed still wearing your red silk gown, too tired to call your ladies back to unlace you. The rubies in your hair pressed uncomfortably against the pillow until you pulled them free with impatient fingers, letting your silver hair spill loose around you.

Sleep was slow to come. When it finally did, you dreamed of dragons and fire, of flying on Cannibal's back while something nameless chased you through the clouds. And in the dream, when you finally turned to face it, it had Jacaerys's eyes.

You did not look through the hole the following morning.

The temptation was there—gods, it was there, a constant itch beneath your skin as your ladies dressed you. But you kept your eyes firmly away from that corner, focusing instead on the monotonous task of standing still while they laced you into your gown.

It was white today, or perhaps the palest blue, the color seemed to shift in the light like a sort of moonstone. The bodice was scaled like dragon armor, each piece of fabric layered and stitched to create the illusion of protection. Gold chains draped across your shoulders and down your bare arms, cold against your skin. More chains hung from your waist, swaying gently when you moved. The sleeves were sheer and flowing, doing little to ward off the morning chill.

"You look like a goddess," Elaena breathed as she stepped back to admire their work.

"I look like I'm about to freeze to death, thank you very much," you replied, though without any real complaint. 

Your hair was left mostly loose today, falling in silver waves down your back, with only two small braids pulled back from your face and secured with a dragon clasp of white gold. It was simple and appropriate for a small council meeting where you needed to be taken seriously.

The walk to the council chamber was embedded into your brain, your slippered feet silent on the cold stone floors. Guards nodded as you passed, servants stepped aside with murmured greetings. You were known throughout the Red Keep as kind, perhaps too kind for a Targaryen. You stopped to ask the head cook about her daughter's fever, remembered the name of the stable boy's new puppy hound, listened when the washerwomen complained about the state of the linens.

Your father had been like that, or so Rhaenyra told you. Loved by the smallfolk, remembered fondly even years after his death. You hoped it was true. You hoped you carried something of him beyond just his silver hair and violet eyes.

The council chamber was already half-full when you arrived. Lord Corlys sat at Rhaenyra's right hand, his age showing more each moon but his mind still sharp as any of the younger council members. Daemon lounged in his seat with typical irreverence, picking at his nails with a dagger. Grand Maester Gerardys shuffled through papers, and several other lords whose names you'd long since memorized filled out the remaining seats.

Rhaenys was there too, your mentor in all things draconic and strategic. She caught your eye as you entered and gave you a subtle nod of approval. She'd been instrumental in convincing Rhaenyra to let you train, to let you learn the ways of war despite your aunt's maternal protests.

"Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," you replied, ignoring the knowing look Daemon shot you. He always seemed to know when someone was lying, the bastard.

You'd earned your place at this table through years of study—history, law, trade routes, military strategy. While other noble daughters learned needlework and song, you'd buried yourself in the library, devouring every tome you could find. Knowledge was power, and you'd wanted to be useful. Wanted to matter beyond being another pretty Targaryen to marry off for alliances.

And then there was Cannibal. Your sweet baby boy, Cannibal. 

You'd claimed him at two and ten, a feat that had shocked the entire realm. The wild dragon, the one who'd killed and eaten other dragons, who'd never been ridden—you'd walked up to him on Dragonstone's smoking beaches and simply asked. And he'd lowered his massive black head and let you climb onto his back.

The bond between you was unlike anything the Dragonkeepers had seen. You could feel him, always, a presence at the back of your mind, dark and fierce and free. Sometimes you knew his thoughts, or at least his intentions. When he wanted to hunt. When he wanted to fly far from the castle and its confining walls. When he missed you, though he'd never admit it, that damned proud creature.

He was out there now, somewhere over the Bay of Blackwater or perhaps the Kingswood. You could feel him, distantly, content in his solitude.

Vhagar was different—ancient, massive, slow with age but no less deadly. Aemond insisted he had full control of her, but you'd seen the truth when you flew near them. Vhagar tolerated Aemond. She hadn't fully accepted him, not the way Cannibal had accepted you. It would take years, perhaps decades, before that bond truly solidified.

If Aemond lived that long. Vhagar was known for her temper.

And Cannibal—Cannibal was larger still. Nearly the size of Balerion the Black Dread himself, or so the Dragonkeepers whispered when they thought you couldn't hear. Black as a night sky with none of the stars, with eyes like green flame and teeth as long as swords. He'd never accept the Dragonpit even if he could fit, which he couldn't. He roosted where he pleased, in sea caves along the coast, in the ruins of old Valyrian outposts, anywhere that gave him space and freedom and solitude.

"Shall we begin?" Rhaenyra's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She waited until everyone had settled, then gestured for Grand Maester Gerardys to start with the day's business.

The first hour was tedious, grain shipments from the Reach, trade disputes with the Free Cities, a complaint from House Royce about border incursions from mountain clans. You paid attention, offered your thoughts when asked, but your mind kept drifting.

Don't think about it. Don't think about him.

"There is one more matter," Rhaenyra said as the meeting drew toward its close. She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before moving on. "I've decided that Jacaerys should begin attending these meetings regularly. Starting the following morrow, he'll be joining us."

A few eyebrows raised, but no one protested. It made sense, he was two and twenty, the acknowledged heir, soon to be married. He needed to understand the workings of the realm he would one day rule. 

"Will he be given a formal position?" Lord Corlys asked, ever practical, ever scheming. 

"Not immediately," Rhaenyra replied. "Let him observe first. Learn our ways, then we'll see where his talents might be best utilized."

Daemon snorted. "His talents are best utilized in the training yard and the—"

"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut him off with a warning look, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

You felt your cheeks heat and kept your eyes fixed firmly on the table. In a week’s time Jacaerys would be here, sitting in one of these chairs, probably directly across from you. You'd have to see him regularly, maintain professional courtesy, pretend you hadn't watched him fuck a woman senseless.

Gods have mercy.

"Any objections?" Rhaenyra asked, looking around the table.

Silence. What could anyone say? He was the heir and none of you were about to tell the Queen that her son wasn't allowed in the Small Council. That seemed like a great way to lose your head.

"Good. Then we're finished for today." She stood, and everyone else rose with her. "Same time in three days. Try not to let the realm burn down before then."

The council members began to file out, but Rhaenys caught your arm as you moved to leave.

"Walk with me," she said, and it wasn't really a request.

You followed her out into the corridor, down a side passage that led into the city and the Dragonpit. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never quite lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem distracted," she finally said.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying." She stopped, turning to face you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"

For a wild moment, you considered telling her. I accidentally discovered a hole in my wall that looks into Jacaerys's chambers, and now I can't stop thinking about what I saw, and I think I'm losing my mind.

Instead, you said, "I'm just tired. The dancing went rather late last night."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but eventually she nodded. "Very well. But if something is bothering you—truly bothering you—you know you can come to me."

"I know," you said softly. "Thank you."

She squeezed your shoulder once, then continued down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of dragons roaring in their pit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondered how in seven hells you were going to survive sitting across from Jacaerys in council meetings. Wondered if he'd look at you the same way he'd looked at you while dancing—politely indifferent, completely unaware of the effect he had.

Wondered if that was better or worse than the alternative.

You found yourself wandering toward the kitchens, drawn by the familiar sounds of clattering pots and raised voices. The rest of the castle felt too quiet after council meetings, too full of people watching their words. The kitchens were honest, they were steaming hot, loud and smelling like fresh bread and meat.

"My lady!" Jessamyn looked up from the massive hearth, her round face flushed from the heat. She'd been head cook for as long as you could remember, ruling her domain with an iron ladle and a sharp tongue. "What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be off doing princess things?"

"Princess things are dreadfully boring," you replied, stealing a piece of candied lemon from a nearby tray. "I'd much rather be here."

"Oi, those are for tonight's supper!" But Jessamyn was smiling, swatting at you halfheartedly with her wooden spoon.

The kitchen staff had long since grown accustomed to your presence. You'd been sneaking down here since you were a child, preferring the warmth and chatter to the formality of the upper floors. Here, no one cared that you were a Targaryen. Here, you were just the girl who always burned her tongue on the stew and asked too many questions about how to make proper gravy.

"How's Mara's fever?" you asked, hopping up onto a cleared section of the work table.

"Broke this morning, thank the gods." Jessamyn's expression softened. "That tea you brought from the Maester helped, I think."

"Good. I'm glad." You watched as two scullery maids argued over the proper way to pluck a chicken, their debate growing increasingly heated. "Should you be concerned about that?"

"They'll sort it out," Jessamyn said dismissively. "Or they'll stab each other with the bloody kitchen knives, and I'll have two fewer girls making my life a misery. Either way."

"You staying for midday meal?" one of the kitchen boys asked hopefully. "We're making that venison stew you like."

"Can't today. I'm going to the Dragonpit."

"Your beast finally coming back?" Jessamyn asked, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. "Haven't seen him in what, near a fortnight?"

"Twelve days," you confirmed. Cannibal preferred his freedom, and you'd never been one to cage him. He came when he wanted, and you would not have it  any other way. "He's out past Blackwater Bay somewhere. I can feel him."

"Feel him," one of the maids muttered. "Still sounds like madness to me, my lady."

"It is madness," you agreed cheerfully. "But it's a very useful madness."

You stayed a while longer, listening to the kitchen gossip, who was bedding whom, which lordling had insulted which servant, the general consensus that the upcoming feasts were going to be a right fucking nightmare to prepare for. Apparently, Rhaenyra had requested swan for one of them, and Jessamyn was already composing angry speeches about the impracticality of cooking swan.

"Tough as old leather and mean as sin," she complained, gesturing violently with her ladle. "But does Her Grace care? No. She wants swan because it's elegant. I'll give her elegant—I'll serve it so tough she'll break a tooth on it."

"I'll speak to her," you offered. "Suggest something else."

"You're a good girl," Jessamyn said, patting your cheek with a flour-dusted hand. "Too good for this lot of pompous cunts, if you ask me."

Eventually, you took your leave, stealing one more piece of candied lemon on your way out just to hear Jessamyn's exasperated shout behind you.

The walk to the Dragonpit took you through the city streets, and you pulled your cloak up to hide your distinctive hair. The smallfolk knew you by sight anyway—you came this way often enough—but it was easier not to draw any attention. A few people nodded as you passed, and you nodded back, trying not to think about how different you were from most nobles who never set foot outside the Red Keep's walls without a full escort of gold cloaks.

The Dragonpit loomed ahead, ancient and crumbling in places despite the best efforts to maintain it. The Dragonkeepers bowed as you approached, their respect tinged with something like awe. They still spoke in hushed tones about the day you'd claimed Cannibal, about the wild dragon who'd finally accepted a rider.

You came here even though your dragon never would. Cannibal was too large. He'd never fit through the Dragonpit's entrance even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not.  But you came anyway, to see the other dragons, to speak with the Dragonkeepers who understood what it meant to be bonded to such creatures.

"My lady," the eldest keeper greeted you. "Still no sign of your beast?"

"He's hunting in the Kingswood," you replied, moving past them into the cavernous space. 

Some of the other dragons were here, Vermax in his usual corner, Arrax further back, Syrax sunning herself near the entrance where the light streamed in. They all shifted as you entered, great scaled heads turning, sensing you the way dragons always sensed Targaryen blood.

But none of them called to you the way Cannibal did. None of them were yours.

You could feel him now, distant but present in your mind. He was flying over the Kingswood, hunting deer or perhaps wild boar. Satisfied. He sent you an impression—not words, but feeling—of wind and height and the joy of the chase.

Umbās lenton, ñuha riña, you thought at him in High Valyrian, not knowing if he could truly hear your thoughts the way you felt his intentions. Māzigon lo jorrāelagon. 

Stay free, my boy. Come if needed.

You stood there in the Dragonpit for a while, watching the other dragons, feeling the heat of their breath and the weight of their ancient eyes. Vhagar wasn't here either—she was too massive, kept in the fields outside the city where she had room to spread her wings without crushing half the buildings in King's Landing. But even Vhagar was smaller than Cannibal. 

"He burns green, doesn't he?" one of the younger keepers asked, approaching cautiously. "Your Cannibal. Green flame."

"Yes," you confirmed. "Like poison made fire."

The keeper shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. Most dragons burn orange or red, sometimes gold. But green and his size. Seven hells, my lady, he's near as big as Balerion was."

"Bigger, perhaps," you said softly. "He's still growing."

The thought should have terrified you. Instead, it filled you with something like pride.

Supper that evening was a grander affair than the intimate family meal from the night before. The great hall was filled with lords and ladies of the court, the high table crowded with Targaryens and their most favored bannermen. Musicians played from the gallery, servants moved between the tables with platters of roasted boar and honeyed duck, and the wine flowed freely.

You sat between Baela and one of the Velaryon cousins whose name you could never quite remember, making polite conversation and trying not to let your gaze wander too obviously across the hall.

Jacaerys, much to your surprise, wasn't there.

His seat at the high table sat empty, and when you'd asked Rhaenyra about it as casually as you could manage, she'd simply said he was indisposed. Daemon had smirked into his wine cup at that, and you'd felt your cheeks burn.

Indisposed. Right, your arse.

The meal dragged on, course after course, toast after toast, Lord Whoever droning on about trade agreements until you wanted to scream. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, all while your mind churned with thoughts you had no business thinking.

Where was he? Out in the city again, finding another willing woman to warm his bed? Or perhaps he'd brought someone here, to his chambers, and simply hadn't wanted to risk being seen at supper with the smell of sex still clinging to him.

Gods, you needed to stop. This needed to stop, permanently, and immediately. 

By the time Rhaenyra finally dismissed the court for the evening, you were wound tight as a crossbow string. You said your goodnights to Baela and Helaena, declined Aegon's slurred offer to continue drinking in his chambers, and practically fled back to your own rooms.

Your ladies had already been by, the fire was lit, your sleeping shift laid out. You should call them back to help you out of your gown. Should prepare for bed like a sensible person and get some actual sleep before tomorrow's duties.

Instead, you found yourself moving toward the corner where the carved screen stood.

Don't, you told yourself firmly. Don't be a fool.

But your hands were already pushing the screen aside, your knees hitting the cold stone floor as you pressed your eye to the gap.

Empty. Again. Damn, damn, damn.

The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through the windows. The bed undisturbed, the coverlet smooth. No candles lit, no sign of life. You sat back, frustration coiling in your chest. Where in the seven hells was he?

You should go to bed. Should stop this madness before it consumed you entirely. But instead, you paced. Back and forth across your chamber like a caged animal, your silk skirts swishing against the floor. Every few minutes you'd stop, kneel down, check the hole again.

Still empty.

This was pathetic. You were pathetic. Waiting like some lovesick girl for a glimpse of a man who didn't even know you existed beyond being his cousin at family suppers.

He danced with you, a small voice whispered in your mind. He smiled at you.

He smiled at everyone. That was what princes did. And once again, you checked.

Empty.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead against the cool stone. This was going to drive you mad. You needed to seal this hole, needed to forget you'd ever found it, needed to—

The door to his chamber opened and you froze, eye pressed to the gap, heart suddenly hammering.

Jacaerys entered first, and he wasn't alone. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you told yourself to look away, to be decent for once. Instead, you pressed harder against the gap, like that might somehow get you closer.

The woman who followed him through the door was decidedly not a servant or a whore from the Street of Silk. Her gown was fine silk, deep green with gold embroidery at the sleeves. This was expensive, well-made, the kind only highborn ladies wore. Her dark hair was pinned up elaborately, though a few strands had come loose, and when she laughed at something Jace said, the sound was refined. 

You recognized her after a moment—Lady Cassandra Baratheon, one of Lord Borros's daughters. She'd been at court for the past month, ostensibly to foster closer ties between Storm's End and the crown.

Apparently, she'd been fostering ties of a different sort.

"Wine?" Jace asked, moving to the table where a pitcher sat waiting.

"Please," Cassandra replied, and there was an ease between them that spoke of familiarity. This wasn't their first time together. Not even close.

Something hot and ugly twisted in your chest. Jealousy, perhaps, though you had no right to it.

Jace poured two cups, handed her one, and they stood there for a moment just talking. You couldn't hear the words through the stone, but you could see the way Cassandra touched his arm, fingers trailing down from shoulder to elbow with the intimacy of someone who'd done it before. The way Jace leaned in closer, his head tilted as he listened to whatever she was saying, a small smile playing at his lips.

And then he kissed her, and you inhaled sharply, pulse suddenly pounding everywhere, your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

It started slow—almost tender, really. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw as their mouths moved together in a way that suggested they'd learned each other's rhythms. Cassandra made a soft sound, stepping into him, and her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging slightly.

Pervert, pervert, pervert.  

Your eye stayed pressed to the gap in the stone. Your hand, seemingly of its own accord, had drifted to press against your stomach, just above where heat was beginning to pool low and insistent. 

Jace backed her toward the bed, still kissing her, his hands starting to work at the laces of her gown. She helped him, both of them fumbling slightly in their eagerness despite clearly having done this dance before. You watched as layer after layer of silk fell away and onto the floor, first was the overdress, then the underdress, then the stays—until she stood in just her shift, the thin fabric clinging to curves that made your throat go dry.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jace murmured and you could read the words on his lips even if you couldn't quite hear them through the stone.

Cassandra smiled, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. "You say that to all of them, my grace."

Your jaw clenched. So you were right. There were others. Many others, probably.

"I mean it with you," Jace said, and you wanted to scream at Cassandra not to believe him, that those were just pretty words he knew how to wield. 

But Cassandra seemed to believe him, or at least didn't care if it was true. She pushed his doublet off his shoulders, her hands running over his chest, fingernails scraping lightly over skin, and Jace groaned—a sound you felt echo between your own thighs. He pulled her shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was naked before him.

She was beautiful, that you could admit that even through the haze of jealousy burning in your chest. Full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that Jace's hands immediately claimed, skin like cream in the candlelight. Dark hair spilled down her back as Jace turned her around, pressing kisses down her spine, and you watched his mouth trace the path of her vertebrae one by one.

"Jace," she breathed, arching back against him, pressing her bare arse against where you could see he was already hard beneath his breeches.

Your own breathing had gone shallow. Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, wanting to move lower but not quite daring. Not yet.

Jace took his time with her. His hands mapped every curve, every dip and swell of her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked and she gasped. Kissed the side of her neck, teeth scraping against the tendon there in a way that made her shiver. Slid one hand down her stomach, between her thighs, and even from here you could see how she bucked against his touch.

"Please," Cassandra whimpered, and the desperate edge to her voice made your breath catch.

"Patience," Jace murmured against her skin, but there was dark amusement in his tone. He was enjoying this—enjoying making her wait, making her beg.

When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went willingly, eagerly, spreading herself out on the crimson coverlet like an offering. Her thighs fell open without prompting, shameless in her want, and you could see the glistening evidence of her arousal even from your hidden vantage point.

Jace shed the rest of his clothes—unlacing his breeches with quick movements—and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. You'd seen him before, that first night, but somehow this felt different. More intimate. You could see every line of muscle in his stomach, the dark hair trailing down from his navel, the thick length of his cock jutting proudly from his hips as he climbed onto the bed.

Your hand finally, finally, slipped beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.

Jace settled between Cassandra's thighs, bracing himself above her on his forearms, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then he pushed his cock deep inside her—slow, so agonizingly slow—and Cassandra's head fell back with a moan that you felt echo through your own body.

“Your grace—-hhhhh,” she moaned.

Your fingers found the wet heat between your legs, already slick and aching. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.

"Fuck," Jace groaned, his hips rolling in a steady, measured rhythm. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet for me."

"Harder," Cassandra gasped, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red marks. "Please, your grace, I need—"

He gave her exactly what she wanted.

The gentleness evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something raw and almost brutal. Jace pulled nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her, and Cassandra cried out—pleasure and pain mixing in her voice in a way that made your fingers circle faster over your clit. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat, and his teeth found the skin there, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jace growled, his voice low and dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. Not gentle, princely Jace. This was something darker. "This what you've been thinking about all through supper? Sitting there with your father, making polite conversation, while all you could think about was having my cock inside you?"

"Yes," Cassandra sobbed, her body arching to meet each brutal thrust. The obscenity of the words, the rawness of it, sent liquid heat flooding through you. "Gods, yes, don't stop—please don't stop—"

Your fingers worked faster, your other hand coming up to muffle any sounds threatening to escape your throat. You could feel your own wetness coating your fingers, could feel the tension building low in your belly as you watched Jace fuck Cassandra with single-minded intensity.

"Greedy little thing," Jace muttered, but there was dark satisfaction in his tone. His free hand moved between their bodies, and you knew exactly what he was doing when Cassandra suddenly cried out sharply, her whole body going rigid. He was circling her clit with his thumb while he pounded into her, giving her pleasure from two directions at once, and the thought of it—the thought of him doing that to you—made your legs tremble.

"Jace, I'm going to—oh gods, I'm going to come—"

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you, sweetling."

She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer. You could see the way her cunt clenched around him, could see the exact moment the pleasure crested and broke over her.

Your own fingers moved desperately, chasing the same release, imagining it was Jace's hand between your thighs, Jace's cock filling you, Jace's voice in your ear telling you how good you felt. But Jace didn't stop. He kept fucking Cassandra through her peak, relentless, using her body to chase his own pleasure as she whimpered and clutched at the sheets beneath her. Her sensitivity must have been overwhelming, but he showed no mercy, just kept driving into her with brutalness. 

He was so undeniably good at this, at fucking whores, noble ladies, at driving his cock into their cunts and making them squeal beneath him from the pleasure.

"Too much," she gasped, but her hips were still rising to meet his, her body betraying her words. "Y-your grace, it's—fuck—it's too much—"

"You can take it," he said, and there was something almost cruel in his certainty. "You always take it so well for me."

His rhythm grew erratic, desperate. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his arse flexing with each thrust. He was close—so close—

Your own pleasure was building, that familiar tightening, that pressure mounting—

Jace pulled out suddenly, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking once, twice, before he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. His seed spilled across Cassandra's stomach in thick ropes, marking her, claiming her, and the sight of it—the raw, animalistic possession of it—sent you tumbling over the edge.

You bit down on your palm hard enough to taste blood, muffling the sound threatening to tear from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your fingers didn't stop, working you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and barely able to see through the haze.

When you finally came back to yourself, gasping and trembling, Jace was cleaning Cassandra with gentle touches that seemed almost absurd after the brutality of moments before. She was boneless against the pillows, looking thoroughly debauched, her hair a tangled mess and her skin flushed pink.

"Stay," Jace said quietly, pulling her against his chest.

"I shouldn't," Cassandra murmured, but she was already nestling into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "If someone finds out—"

"Let them find out. I don't care."

You wanted to laugh at the lie of it. Of course he cared. He just didn't care enough not to fuck her. Within minutes, Cassandra's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body going lax in his arms. Jace stared at the ceiling for a long while, his expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand stroked absently through her hair, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.

Then he turned his head slightly—and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to land exactly where you knelt. Directly at the wall. Directly at your hiding place.

But that was impossible. He couldn't see you through solid stone. Couldn't know you were there, hand still between your thighs, lips swollen from biting back your moans, watching him like some desperate, pathetic creature.

You jerked back from the hole anyway, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. Your whole body was trembling—from the release, from the fear of discovery, from shame so acute it felt like it might choke you. You'd just brought yourself to peak while watching your cousin fuck another woman. While imagining it was you in that bed, you he was whispering filth to, you he was making come apart on his cock.

This was sick. Wrong. You were sick and wrong and yet, deep down, you knew, with terrible certainty, that you'd be back tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until this madness either consumed you or destroyed you entirely.

You barely slept that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his shoulders, his body, his thick cock, the way his hand had fisted in Cassandra's hair, the rough timber of his voice as he'd commanded her to come. And beneath it all, the shameful memory of your own hand between your thighs, chasing pleasure you had no right to feel.

When dawn finally broke, you were grateful for it.

Your ladies dressed you in silence, perhaps sensing your foul mood. The gown today was the palest blush pink. The bodice was fitted with embroidered silver thread in delicate patterns that caught the morning sun. The neckline dipped low, modest enough for court but still flattering, drawing the eye. Long flowing sleeves of sheer silk hung from your shoulders, gossamer-thin, moving like water with each gesture. The skirts were layers upon layers of the same pale silk, creating an almost dreamlike effect as you walked, the fabric seeming to float around you.

The walk to the council chamber felt longer than usual. You nodded to the guards, smiled at passing servants, and tried not to think about the fact that Jacaerys would be here today. His first small council meeting. Sitting across from you for hours while you pretended you hadn't watched him fuck Lady Baratheon into the mattress last night.

Gods give you strength.

The council chamber was already filling when you arrived. "Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat.

"Your Grace." You settled into your chair, arranging your skirts, trying not to look at the empty seat that would soon be occupied.

Others filtered in quick waves, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Master of Coin; Ser Steffon Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch; a handful of other lords whose presence was required. The table filled, voices murmuring in low conversation.

Then the door opened again, and Jacaerys entered.

He looked... gods, he looked perfect. Rested and put-together in a way that seemed deeply unfair given what you knew he'd been doing until late into the night. His doublet was his usual black with red embroidery, his dark hair neatly combed, and when he smiled at his mother, it was warm and genuine and completely utterly unbothered.

"Apologies for my lateness," he said, taking the empty seat directly across from you.

Of course. Of course he'd be directly in your line of sight.

His eyes met yours for a brief moment—polite, pleasant, utterly indifferent—before moving on. No recognition. No awareness that anything was amiss. He had no idea what you'd witnessed. No idea that you'd spent the night with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was you in Cassandra Baratheon's place.

"Let us begin," Rhaenyra said once everyone had settled. She gestured to Grand Maester Gerardys. "The reports from the North, if you would."

Gerardys cleared his throat and began reading, something about increased wildling activity beyond the Wall, requests from the Night's Watch for additional men and supplies. You forced yourself to pay attention, to nod at the appropriate moments, to look anywhere except at Jacaerys.

It was going to be a very long meeting. The discussion moved from the North to the Stepstones, where Daemon's efforts to hold the islands remained precarious at best. Then to trade disputes with Pentos, grain shortages in the Reach, and a particularly tedious debate about tax collection methods that made you want to throw yourself from the nearest window.

Jacaerys contributed thoughtfully when asked, his observations intelligent and well-reasoned. He'd been well-trained for this, you realized. Rhaenyra had made sure her heir would be ready to rule, ready to navigate the complexities of statecraft. Of the Realm. 

Ready to be the perfect prince while fucking half the women in King's Landing in his spare time.

"There is another matter," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. She was looking at you, and there was something in her expression that made your stomach clench. "The matter of our dragons and their war-readiness."

The table went quiet.

"The realm is at peace," Lord Corlys pointed out carefully.

"For now," Rhaenys replied. "But peace is a fragile thing, as we all learned during the—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—recent troubles. We cannot afford to be complacent."

"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

"That we ensure our dragons are battle-ready. That we train them for war, even if we pray that war never comes." Rhaenys turned her sharp gaze fully on you. "Cannibal, in particular, has never been tested in true combat. He's large, powerful, but wild and untested."

Your jaw tightened. "Cannibal doesn't need testing. He's—"

"A wild dragon who's only known freedom," Rhaenys interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not questioning your bond with him, child. I'm suggesting that bond needs to be forged stronger and that will only come through discipline."

"You want me to train him for war," you said flatly.

"I want you to prepare him for the possibility of war." Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. "With drills and formation flying with the other dragons. Learning to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. These things take time and practice."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Cannibal would never tolerate such constraints, that he'd sooner eat the other dragons than fly in formation with them. That forcing him into drills and formations would break something fundamental in the bond between you, the trust that came from respecting his need for freedom.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you said carefully. "Cannibal isn't like the other dragons. He's larger, older in his ways. Trying to force him into formations could be potentially dangerous."

"Dangerous for whom?" Daemon asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than mocking. "For you, or for the other dragons?"

"Both," you admitted. "Cannibal doesn't play well with others. He never has. That's why he lived alone on Dragonstone for so long, why he—" you stopped yourself before saying ate the other dragons, because that seemed impolitic in the moment. "Why he prefers solitude."

"All the more reason to socialize him now," Rhaenys countered. "Before we're in the middle of a battle and he decides another dragon looks appetizing."

A few uncomfortable chuckles around the table. It wasn't really a joke, not one you found particularly funny. 

"What about Vhagar?" you asked, grasping for any argument. "She's larger, older. Is Aemond expected to fly formation drills with her?"

"Vhagar is already battle-tested," Rhaenys replied. "She fought in Aegon's Conquest, in the wars since. She knows what's expected. Cannibal has only ever known hunting sheep and being left alone."

It stung because it was true. For all his size and power, Cannibal had never been to war. Had never been asked to do anything more demanding than fly when you called and let you sit astride him while he soared through the clouds.

"What does Her Grace think?" you asked, turning to Rhaenyra. Let the Queen make this decision, let it not be your choice to potentially damage the one pure thing in your life.

Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment, her expression deep in thought. "I think Rhaenys makes valid points. But I also trust your judgment when it comes to your dragon. If you truly believe this would be harmful rather than helpful, I'll take that into consideration."

It was a careful, political answer. She was giving you an out, but also making it clear that refusing would require solid justification, not just childish objection. 

"I'll think about it," you said finally. "Perhaps we could start small. Test his tolerance before committing to full formation drills."

"A reasonable compromise," Rhaenys agreed, though she didn't look entirely satisfied. "We'll begin in a week's time. Simple exercises first."

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you nodded anyway.

"What about Vermax?" Daemon asked, his gaze sliding to Jacaerys with lazy interest. "The heir's dragon should certainly be included in this training."

"Vermax and I train regularly," Jace said, and there was the slightest edge of defensiveness in his tone.

"In the training yard, yes," Rhaenys replied. "But have you ever taken him into simulated combat? Flown him through fire and smoke? Tested his response time when startled?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "No."

"Then you'll join us as well," Rhaenys said, brooking no argument. "All dragonriders of fighting age. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon if we can pry him away from his cups long enough."

"Then it's settled," Rhaenyra said, her tone making it clear the discussion was closed. "Rhaenys will oversee the training regimen. All dragonriders are expected to participate." Her eyes found yours. "Including you, niece. I know Cannibal prefers his solitude, but this is necessary."

You bit back a dozen more arguments and simply nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, more reports, more discussions, more decisions that needed to be made. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Jacaerys sitting across from you. The way he listened intently when others spoke. The way his fingers drummed absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he looked so effortlessly princely while you sat there trying not to remember the sound of his voice, rough with pleasure, commanding Cassandra to come for him.

Finally, finally, Rhaenyra called an end to it. "Same time in three days. Try not to let anything catch fire before then."

You stood quickly, eager to escape before—

"Walk with me?" Rhaenys said, appearing at your elbow.

Of course because the gods clearly thought you hadn't suffered enough today. You fell into step beside her, following her out of the council chamber and down a side corridor. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem troubled," she finally said.

"I don't think Cannibal will take well to this training. I'm worried it will damage our bond."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced that was the whole truth. "He'll adjust. The bond between you is strong enough to weather some discomfort."

"It's not just discomfort. He's not like the other dragons. He's—"

"Wild. Yes, I know. But wildness can be channeled, shaped, without breaking it entirely." She squeezed your shoulder gently. "Trust me, and more importantly, trust him. Trust that your bond is stronger than a few training exercises. He did choose you, at the end of the day."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

"Now," Rhaenys said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I believe Helaena was looking for you earlier. Something about her insects?"

Right. Helaena. Safe, sweet Helaena who wouldn't ask probing questions about why you looked like you hadn't slept properly in days.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For everything, Aunt."

Rhaenys smiled, though there was something sad in it. "Go. Spend time with your cousin. The gods know there are precious few people in this world who'll love us without wanting something in return."

You found Helaena in her chambers, which were somehow both cluttered and organized in a way only she could manage. Jars and terrariums covered every surface, each containing some specimen or another, there were butterflies, beetles, spiders, things you couldn't even name. It was entirely Helaena. 

"You came," Helaena said, looking up from where she was carefully transferring a large iridescent beetle from one container to another. Her silver-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of pale green that brought out the unusual color of her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course I came." You settled onto the cushioned bench beside her workspace, careful not to disturb anything. The layers of your pink gown pooled around you like flower petals. "What have you found, dear cousin?"

Helaena's face lit up in that rare, genuine smile she reserved for the things she truly loved. "A stag beetle. Look at his mandibles, aren't they magnificent?"

You looked. The beetle was indeed impressive, its horn-like mandibles nearly as long as its body, gleaming black with hints of deep purple when the light hit them right. "Beautiful," you agreed, and meant it.

For the next hour, Helaena showed you her collection, explaining in her soft, sometimes disjointed way about each specimen's habits and characteristics. You listened, grateful for the distraction, for the simplicity of her enthusiasm. Here, there were no council meetings or dragon training or inappropriate thoughts about cousins. 

"Lord Cregan Stark sent me a letter," Helaena said suddenly, interrupting her own explanation about moth wing patterns.

You blinked. "Did he?"

"Yes. He's coming to court for the feasts. The ones for Jace." She was studying a moth wing with intense focus, not meeting your eyes. "He asked if he might call on me. To discuss insects."

Something in her tone made you pause. "Ah, I see, insects."

"He's interested in the wildlife of the North. The creatures that survive the cold. The ice spiders." Helaena finally looked up, and there was something almost vulnerable in her green eyes. "Do you think that's really why he wants to call on me?"

Oh. Oh.

Cregan Stark was young, newly Lord of Winterfell after his father's passing two years past. By all accounts he was honorable, strong, kind, everything a northern lord should be. And if he was expressing interest in Helaena...

"I think," you said carefully, "that Lord Cregan would be very fortunate if you agreed to speak with him. About insects or anything else, dear cousin."

Helaena's cheeks flushed pink. "He's very kind in his letters. Patient and he doesn't mind when I ramble about things most people find boring. He even sent me a preserved ice spider specimen from beyond the Wall. Said he thought I might like to study it."

Your heart softened. A man who would hunt down rare specimens for Helaena's collection was a man worth considering. "That's incredibly thoughtful, Hel."

"Mother says I should consider marriage eventually. That I can't hide in my chambers with my insects forever." Helaena's voice was quiet, tinged with something like resignation. "But most lords look at me like I'm mad. Like I'm something to be pitied or fixed."

"Then they're fools," you said firmly. "You're brilliant, Helaena. Anyone with half a brain can see that."

"Lord Cregan doesn't look at me like that. At least, not in his letters." She turned back to her moths, a small smile playing at her lips. "He asks questions. Real questions about my observations and theories. He doesn't just humor me."

"Will you see him when he arrives?"

"I... I believe I might." She looked back down at her specimens, fingers gentle as she adjusted a butterfly's position in its case. "It's strange. I never thought—I mean, I never imagined someone might actually want to court me. Not really."

"You're a princess of the blood," you pointed out. "Half the lords in Westeros would trip over themselves for the chance."

"They'd trip over themselves for the crown and the alliance," Helaena corrected softly. "Not for me. But Lord Cregan, he talks to me like I'm a person. Not a prize to be won or a madwoman to be managed."

You reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then I hope he lives up to his letters. And if he doesn't, I'll feed him to Cannibal."

Helaena laughed, a rare, bright sound that made you smile despite everything. "The wolf meets the spider in the dark. The spider weaves while the wolf watches. But which one catches which?"

Another one of her strange pronouncements. You'd long since given up trying to decipher them.

"What about you?" Helaena asked, suddenly aware of her surroundings again. "Will you dance with any lords at the feasts?"

Your stomach dropped. You'd almost managed to forget about the upcoming feasts, the parade of eligible ladies who would be throwing themselves at Jacaerys while you watched from the sidelines.

"I doubt it," you said lightly. "You know I prefer the edges of the room to the center of attention."

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured again, and something in her tone made you look up sharply. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

Helaena suddenly moved on, returning her attention to her beetles, humming softly to herself. Leaving you to wonder if she'd just made an innocent observation or if she somehow knew exactly what you'd been doing in the dark corners of your chambers.

You stayed with Helaena until the sun began to set, letting her soft voice and gentle presence soothe the jagged edges of your thoughts. Here, at least, things made sense. Here, you could almost forget the madness consuming you.

Almost.

When you finally took your leave, pressing a kiss to the top of her silver head, she caught your hand.

"Be careful," she said quietly. "Webs are sticky things. Hard to escape once you're caught."

You had no answer for that. The walk back to your chambers was quiet, most of the castle beginning to prepare for the evening meal. When you reached your door, you found your ladies already waiting.

"We've prepared a bath, my lady," Lysa said with a smile. "Thought you might want to wash before supper."

Gods, yes. Perhaps hot water and lavender oil could wash away the tension coiled tight in your shoulders, the restless energy that had plagued you all day.

"Thank you," you said, letting them usher you inside.

The tub had been set up near the fire, steam rising from the water in lazy curls. Your ladies helped you out of the elaborate pink gown, unlacing the bodice and lifting the layers of silk away until you stood in just your shift. Then that too was removed, and you stepped into the blessed heat of the bath with a sigh.

"We'll be just outside if you need anything, my lady," Maryse said. "Call when you're ready to dress for supper."

You nodded, already sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover you up to your shoulders. The heat seeped into your muscles, and for the first time all day, you felt some of the tension begin to ease.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of lavender, trying to empty your mind of everything, council meetings, dragon training, Helaena's cryptic warnings, and most especially the memory of brown eyes and dark hair and hands that knew exactly how to make a woman fall apart.

Stop, you told yourself firmly. Just stop.

For a few blessed minutes, you succeeded. The water, the warmth, the quiet—it was almost peaceful.

Then something moved at the edge of your vision. You opened your eyes and looked toward the rim of the tub. A spider. But not just any spider, this thing was massive, easily the size of your palm, with thick hairy legs and a body that seemed to pulse as it crept along the wooden edge of the tub. Moving toward you.

The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it, pure, primal terror that echoed off the stone walls.

You shot to your feet, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, your whole body shaking as you tried to scramble away from the creature. But the tub was slippery, your feet finding no purchase, and you nearly fell before catching yourself on the edge.

"My lady!" You heard Lysa's voice, muffled through the door, and then—

The door burst open, but it wasn't your ladies who came through first.

It was Jacaerys. He must have been passing in the corridor, must have heard your scream and thought, what? That you were being murdered? Attacked? He rushed in with his hand on his sword hilt, eyes wild, clearly ready to face down whatever threat had made you scream like that.

And then he froze. Because you were standing there, in the middle of the tub, completely and utterly naked. Water streaming down your body, your silver hair plastered to your back and shoulders, every inch of you exposed in the firelight.

For one endless, horrifying moment, neither of you moved.

His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly as his gaze traveled down and then snapped back up to your face. You could see the exact moment his brain caught up with what he was seeing, the way his cheeks flushed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

"I—" he started, his voice rough. "I heard you scream, I thought—"

"SPIDER!" you shrieked, pointing at the creature that was still making its way around the rim of the tub, seemingly unconcerned with the chaos it had caused. "There's a massive fucking spider, Jace!"

Jace's gaze followed your pointing finger, and you watched him take in the admittedly impressive specimen currently terrorizing you.

"That's, yes, that's a spider," he said, somewhat stupidly.

"I KNOW IT'S A SPIDER!" you yelled, still frozen in place, acutely aware that you were naked and he was staring and your ladies were probably right behind him in the corridor and this was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to you.

Your ladies burst in then, Lysa and Maryse and Elaena, their faces panicked, clearly thinking you were dying. They took in the scene, you, naked in the tub. Jacaerys, standing there looking like he'd been struck by lightning. The spider, innocently crawling.

"My lady!" Lysa gasped, immediately grabbing a linen cloth and rushing forward to wrap it around you.

But the damage was done. Jacaerys had seen everything. Every curve, every inch of skin, every part of you that should have remained hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety. 

Damn the Gods. Damn you, this is your punishment for being a pervert. 

"I'll just—" Jace stammered, backing toward the door, his face now bright red. "I'll—the spider—sorry—I thought—"

He practically fled, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, wrapped in the linen cloth, shaking for entirely different reasons now.

"Oh gods," you breathed. "Oh gods, he saw me. He saw—"

"It's all right, my lady," Maryse said soothingly, though she looked rather scandalized herself. "It was an accident. He heard you scream and thought you were in danger."

"I AM in danger!" you gestured wildly at the spider, which had now made it halfway around the tub. "That thing is massive!"

"It's just a spider, my lady," Elaena said gently, moving toward it with a cloth. Within moments she'd captured it and was carrying it toward the window. "See? Harmless."

Harmless. Right. Unlike the memory now burned into both your and Jacaerys's minds of you standing bare-arsed naked in a bathtub while he stared at you like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

"We need to get you dressed," Lysa said firmly, already moving to pull out clothes. "Supper will be starting soon."

"I can't go to supper," you said, your voice rising. "I can't face him after—after he just saw me naked."

"You have to go to supper, my lady," Maryse said, not unkindly. "If you don't, everyone will wonder why. And rumors will start."

Worse rumors than "the princess screamed bloody murder over a spider and her cousin saw her naked"? You doubted it. But she was right. You had to go. Had to face him. Had to somehow sit through an entire meal pretending that nothing had happened while knowing that Jacaerys now knew exactly what you looked like without clothes. While knowing that you'd seen the look in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something heated that had flashed across his face before embarrassment took over.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath.

"Language, my lady," Lysa chided gently, but she was already helping you out of the tub.

This was going to be the longest supper of your entire life.

The great hall was already filled with lords and ladies when you arrived, late enough that most people were already seated. The musicians were playing something lively from the gallery, servants moved between tables with wine and platters of food, and the general hum of conversation and laughter filled the space.

You wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.

Somehow you made it to your seat at the high table without tripping over your own feet, a minor miracle considering how unsteady you felt. You'd been dressed in a gown of deep purple silk, your ladies working quickly to make you presentable. Your hair was still slightly damp at the ends, but they'd managed to braid it back in a way that hid the worst of it.

Baela was already seated beside you, laughing at something Rhaena had said. On your other side, Helaena was staring at her plate with that distant expression she sometimes got. And across the table Jacaerys sat beside Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

He was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh, that refined, ladylike laugh you'd heard through the stone wall. His hand rested on the table close to hers, not quite touching but near enough to be intimate. He looked perfectly composed, perfectly at ease, like he hadn't just seen his cousin naked less than an hour ago.

You grabbed your wine cup and drank deeply.

"You have no idea," you muttered into your cup.

The meal began, course after course of roasted meats and honeyed vegetables and fresh bread. You pushed food around your plate, barely tasting anything, hyperaware of every movement Jace made across the table. The way he smiled at Cassandra. The way she touched his arm when she spoke. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of more than one night together. 

"All right, what's wrong?" Baela asked finally, setting down her fork and turning to face you properly. "You've been sulking since you sat down. Did something happen at council?"

"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.

Baela's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

You glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. Then you leaned closer and whispered, "Jace saw me naked."

For a moment, Baela just stared at you. Then she burst out laughing—loud enough that several people turned to look.

"Shut up, this is not funny!" you hissed, your face burning with shame. 

"It's a little funny," Baela managed between gasps. "How in the seven hells did that happen?"

You covered your face with your hands, mortified beyond measure. "There was a spider. A huge one. He was in my bath and then I screamed and he must have been in the corridor and he came running in thinking I was being murdered or something and I was just—standing there—completely bare-arsed—hh"

Baela was practically crying with laughter now, her hand pressed to her stomach. "A spider," she wheezed. "You're telling me the mighty dragonrider who claimed Cannibal, who sits on the small council, screamed loud enough to bring the heir running because of a spider?"

"It was a very large spider," you said defensively, though your own lips were twitching despite your mortification.

“And, so, he saw everything?"  Her voice went low and suggestive, bringing a finger to her mouth and biting the tip of it as her lips curved into a smirk.

"Everything," you confirmed miserably. "Full frontal view. Nothing left to imagination."

"Oh gods," Baela wiped at her eyes. "And what did he do?"

"Stood there like a fish for about three seconds, went bright red, stammered something about the spider, and then fled like the castle was on fire."

"That's amazing," Baela said, still grinning. "That's the best thing I've heard all week."

"I'm glad my humiliation amuses you," you said sourly, but you couldn't quite hold onto your irritation. It was sort of funny, in a horrifying, want-to-die sort of way.

"Look at the bright side," Baela said, taking a sip of her wine. "Now you know he's definitely seen you naked. That's more than most ladies can say about the heir before marriage."

You kicked her under the table.

"Ow! I'm just saying—"

"Well don't," you muttered, risking a glance across the table.

Jace was still deep in conversation with Cassandra, his attention completely focused on her. He hadn't looked your way once since you'd sat down. Was probably trying very hard not to look at you, considering what he'd seen.

Your stomach twisted, he'd seen you naked—completely, utterly exposed—and less than an hour later he was here, flirting with the woman he'd been fucking just the night before. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Which of course you didn't. You were his cousin, a political piece on the board, same as everyone else.

The fact that you'd watched him through a hole in the wall, that you'd brought yourself to come while imagining his hands on you instead of Cassandra—that was your problem. Your shame to carry, your degenerate shame.

"You're doing it again," Baela said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Looking like you want to kill someone, dear cousin." She followed your gaze across the table. "Ah. Lady Cassandra."

"You know she's not the only one, right?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Jace." Baela kept her voice low, casual, as she cut into her meat. "He's got quite the appetite, from what I hear. Half the ladies at court have warmed his bed at some point or another."

Your stomach twisted even though you already knew this. Had seen it.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Baela shrugged, a wicked grin playing at her lips. "Just saying, if you ever wanted to... you know. Sample the goods before he's shackled to some boring highborn wife, now's your chance. He's not particularly discriminating."

You nearly choked on your wine. "Baela!"

"What? I'm just saying.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm told he's very talented, Lady Cassandra certainly seems satisfied."

"I am not having this conversation with you," you hissed, your face burning.

"Your loss." Baela sat back with a laugh. "Though honestly, I don't blame you for looking. He's annoyingly pretty for someone with such common blood. Those brown eyes, that hair, he’s very brooding hero of a song, isn't he?"

"You're drunk, Baela."

"I'm tipsy," she corrected, "and you're deflecting."

"I'm not interested in Jace," you said firmly. "Not like that anyways."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You weren't interested in romancing with Jace. You didn't want his love or his devotion or whatever pretty words he whispered to the hoards of women in his bed. You just wanted, gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. To stop thinking about him, probably, most likely. And certainly to stop seeing his fucking gorgeous face every time you closed your eyes.

"Whatever you say," Baela said breezily, clearly not believing you but willing to drop it. "I'm just saying, the man's going to be married off soon. If you wanted a taste, the window's closing."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "You're impossible."

The conversation moved on, Rhaena leaned over to tell you both about some drama involving a lady-in-waiting and a stableboy, and you forced yourself to laugh, despite your gaze kept drifting across the table.

You didn't look through the hole that night.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed, but you left that carved screen exactly where it was and climbed into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even call your ladies back to help you undress properly. Sleep came fitfully, plagued by dreams of brown eyes and smirks and the memory of standing naked in a bathtub while your cousin stared.

When you woke, sunlight was streaming through your windows and someone was pounding on your door.

"My lady!" Lysa's voice, urgent and harried. "You need to wake! The lords are arriving and you're expected in the courtyard within the hour!"

Right. The festivities. The celebration of Jacaerys coming of age, of finding him a suitable bride. A full day of feasting and tournaments and watching eligible ladies parade themselves in front of the heir to the throne. Wonderful, just wonderful. Despite yourself, you managed to drag yourself out of bed and let your ladies descend upon you like a flock of determined birds. They stripped away yesterday's rumpled gown, scrubbed you with rose-scented soap, and set about the elaborate process of making you presentable as they did every morning. 

The gown they'd chosen was magnificent, it was a midnight blue silk that seemed to shimmer between black and deepest sapphire depending on how the light hit it. But you shook your head.

"No. The white one with the gold and red."

Your ladies exchanged glances but didn't argue. They brought out the dress you'd requested, white as fresh snow, with gold embroidery that traced patterns of dragons and flames across the bodice and down the flowing sleeves. Red accents caught the light like drops of blood, rubies sewn into the neckline and waist. The skirts were layers upon layers of silk and gossamer that moved like water, the train long enough to pool behind you like a bride. 

It was a statement, really, like Alicent’s green gowns. A reminder of who you were, a Targaryen, a dragon rider, not someone to be overlooked even as every other woman at court tried to catch the heir's eye. Your hair was left mostly down, falling in silver waves to your calves, with elaborate braids woven through and secured with gold and ruby pins shaped like dragon claws. By the time they finished, you looked like something out of a song. 

You barely heard the compliments ringing from your ladies tongues. You were already moving toward the door, trying to steel yourself for whatever fresh hell today would bring.

The courtyard was flooded when you arrived. Banners from a dozen different houses snapped in the morning breeze, there was Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, more. Lords and their retinues filing in through the gates, their daughters dressed in their finest, all of them here for the same purpose.

To win the favor of the Crown Prince.

You spotted Cregan Stark immediately—he was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. He was a gorgeous man, and currently  he was speaking with Rhaenyra, his manner respectful but not obsequious. A good sign, if Helaena was genuinely considering him. But it wasn't Cregan who made you pause. It was the way every male head in the courtyard seemed to turn as you descended the steps.

Lords, knights, visiting dignitaries, they all looked. Some with open admiration, others with more subtle interest, but they looked. You were used to attention, had grown up beautiful and aware of it, but this felt different. Or perhaps you were just more aware of it now, after everything.

"Seven hells," you heard someone mutter—one of the Tully boys, you thought. "Is that—"

You kept your chin high and your expression serene as you made your way through the crowd. Lords bowed as you passed, their sons stared, and you pretended not to notice any of it. Rhaenyra stood on the dais with Daemon beside her, already holding court. Jacaerys was there too, looking infuriatingly well-rested in black and red, his attention on whatever Lord Corlys was saying to him.

"Cousin," Aegon appeared at your elbow. "You're causing quite the stir. I think Lord Tyrell's son just walked into a pillar because he was too busy staring at you."

"Good," you said flatly.

Aegon laughed. "That's the spirit. Make them all suffer, my dear cousin. "

"Come," Aegon said, tugging at your elbow. "We're expected to stand there and look pretty while Father's old bannermen parade their daughters like prize mares. Should be entertaining enough."

You let him guide you to where the rest of the family was gathering. Rhaenyra sat in the place of honor with Daemon beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Helaena was tucked between Baela and Rhaena, already looking overwhelmed by the crowd. And Jacaerys stood at the center of it all, the sun around which this entire day revolved.

"How many do you think there are?" Aegon asked, settling in beside you with his cup. "I'm counting at least fifteen eligible ladies, and those are just the ones I can see from here."

"Shouldn't you be paying attention?" you asked. "You're supposed to be looking for a wife too."

"Gods, don't remind me." He took a long drink. "Mother's been at me for months about it. Apparently being six and twenty and unmarried is some sort of tragedy."

"Is it not?"

"It's called having standards," Aegon replied airily. "Low ones, admittedly, but standards nonetheless."

Rhaenyra stood, and the courtyard quieted. "Lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying across the space. "We are honored by your presence here today as we celebrate my son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, and his coming of age. Many of you have traveled far to be here, and we welcome you all to King's Landing."

Polite applause. Jace smiled that princely smile, gracious and warm.

"Today marks the beginning of festivities that will last the fortnight," Rhaenyra continued. "Tournaments, feasts, and celebrations in honor of the Crown Prince. And perhaps, by the end, we will have even more to celebrate."

Meaning a betrothal. 

"But first," Rhaenyra gestured to where several young ladies stood with their fathers, all of them dressed in their finest, "we have been honored by requests from several noble houses to present their daughters to the Prince. We welcome them now."

"Here we go," Aegon muttered. "The parade of the desperate."

"Aegon," you hissed.

"What? I'm not wrong."

The first girl stepped forward, a Lannister, judging by her crimson gown and golden hair. She was beautiful in that polished, perfect way. You’re certain her Father, and all the other lords of Casterly Rock  told her she was destined for greatness. She curtsied deeply before Jace, her father presenting her with all the pomp and circumstance House Lannister could muster.

"Lady Cerelle Lannister," the herald announced. "Daughter of Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock."

Jace took her hand and kissed it, saying something that made her blush and smile. You watched him be charming, watched him perform the role of interested suitor with practiced ease.

"She's pretty," Aegon observed. "Bit too much like looking in a mirror for my taste, all that gold hair and self-rightesnous."

"She seems nice enough."

"Nice and boring are often companions," Aegon replied. "Trust me, I know from experience."

The next girl was from House Tyrell, tall and willowy with dark curls and a nervous smile. Then a Tully girl with auburn hair and freckles. Then another, and another. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one curtsying and smiling and trying desperately to be memorable.

"This is torture," Aegon said after the sixth introduction. "How is Jace keeping that smile on his face? I'd have run screaming by now."

"It's called duty, you idiot."

"It's called martyrdom." He drained his cup and gestured for a servant to refill it. "You know what the problem is? They're all the same. Pretty, accomplished, perfectly trained to be queens. Where's the personality? The fire?"

"You want fire, marry a dragon rider," you said absently, watching as yet another lady—this one from the Stormlands—was presented to Jace.

"Excellent idea. Marry me."

You turned to look at him, startled. "What?"

"Marry me," Aegon repeated, gesturing expansively with his cup. "You're a dragon rider, you're beautiful, you already know all my worst qualities so there'd be no nasty surprises. We could get drunk together and ignore all our duties. It'd be perfect."

"You're not serious."

"I'm never serious. But the offer stands." He took another drink. "If all else fails, if the realm goes to shit and we're all desperate—you and me. We could do much worse."

You studied him for a moment. Aegon was handsome, you could admit that. Pretty in the way Targaryens often were, with his silver hair and sharp features. The drinking was a problem, and the complete lack of ambition, but he was kind in his way. Honest, at least, which was more than most lords could claim.

"If all goes to hell," you said slowly, "and we're both desperate and alone. I suppose I could do worse than you."

"High praise," Aegon said with a grin. "I'm touched. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm already planning our wedding. We'll serve nothing but wine, scandalize the Faith, and let our dragons eat anyone who complains."

Despite everything, you laughed. It felt good, like releasing some of the pressure that had been building in your chest since yesterday. Then, another lady was presented, a Manderly girl from White Harbor, plump and pink-cheeked and clearly terrified. Jace was gentle with her, you noticed. He was patient and kind.

"He's good at this," you said quietly.

"He's had practice," Aegon replied, and there was something almost bitter in his tone. "Perfect Jace. Perfect heir. Does everything right, fucks everything that moves, and somehow still manages to look like a hero from a song."

"Jealous?"

"Absoloutely." Aegon studied his cousin across the courtyard. "I love Jace, don't get me wrong. But he's playing a game he doesn't even realize he's in. All these ladies throwing themselves at him, and he thinks it's because he's charming. Because they like him."

"That's not why?"

"They like his crown," Aegon said flatly. "They like the idea of being queen. Jace himself? He's just the pretty vessel holding the thing they actually want."

You said nothing, watching as Jace smiled at the Manderly girl, made her laugh despite her nervousness. Was Aegon right? Did all these women only want the crown?  Did you? No. You wanted—gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. But it wasn't his crown. It was him. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he looked when he was lost in pleasure. That had nothing to do with thrones or politics.

Which somehow made it worse.

"Lady Floris Baratheon," the herald announced, and your attention snapped back to the courtyard.

Another Baratheon girl, younger than Cassandra but with the same dark hair and sharp features. She curtsied beautifully, and Jace took her hand with the same courteous attention he'd given all the others.

"How many fucking Baratheon daughters are there?" Aegon muttered. "Lord Borros must spend half his time just keeping track of them all."

"Four, I think."

"Four. And they're all here trying to land the heir. Ambitious bastard, isn't he?"

You watched Floris smile up at Jace, watched him be charming and attentive. Was Cassandra here somewhere, watching this? Did she care that the man who'd been in her bed two nights ago was now entertaining her younger sister?

Did Jace care?

"This is going to be a very long fortnight," you said.

"Agreed." Aegon raised his cup in a mock toast. "To surviving it with our dignity intact."

"I'll drink to that."

He grinned and passed you his cup. You took it and drank deeply, letting the wine burn down your throat. It was going to be a very, very long fortnight indeed.

Several torturous hours later, you and Aegon were both well into your cups and had devolved into something resembling badly behaved children.

"I'm sorry," Aegon wheezed, barely containing his laughter, "but did that last one actually curtsy to his horse first before approaching Jace?"

"She did," you confirmed, your own shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. "She absolutely did. I saw it, cousin."

"Maybe she thought the horse was the heir. Can't blame her—Vermax has better hair than Jace does."

You snorted wine through your nose, which only made Aegon laugh harder.

"You two are being disgraceful," Baela hissed from your other side, though her lips were twitching. "Show some decorum."

"Decorum is for people who aren't dying of boredom," Aegon replied, reaching for another cup from a passing servant. "We're performing a public service, really. Someone has to make this bearable."

"By getting drunk before noon?"

"Exactly. See? She understands."

You were about to respond when movement at the courtyard entrance caught your eye. Another arrival, late enough that most of the formal presentations had concluded. But this wasn't some minor lord with a daughter to parade. This was someone who commanded attention simply by existing.

He was tall—taller even than Cregan Stark—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that came from actually using a sword rather than just wearing one for decoration. Dark hair, though not as dark as Jace's, fell to his shoulders in waves that somehow looked artfully disheveled rather than unkempt. And his face—

"Oh no," Aegon said, following your gaze. "Oh, that's not fair."

"Who is that?" you asked, unable to look away.

"Trouble," Aegon replied. "That's Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken himself."

The Red Kraken. You'd heard stories, of course. The young Lord of the Iron Islands, who'd claimed his seat at six and ten after his father's death and had spent the years since becoming a legend. A reaver, a warrior, and by all accounts, devastatingly effective at both. He was dressed simply compared to the other lords—dark leather and salt-stained cloth rather than silk and velvet—but he wore it like armor. Like he had nothing to prove. Salt-and-pepper scruff covered his jaw, and when he smiled at something Daemon said, you caught a glimpse of white teeth.

"He's supposed to be in the Iron Islands," Aegon muttered. "What's he doing here?"

"The same thing everyone else is doing here," Baela said dryly. "Paying homage to the Crown Prince."

But Dalton Greyjoy wasn't looking at Jacaerys.

He was looking at you. His eyes—grey-green like storm-tossed seas—found yours across the crowded courtyard, and he didn't look away. Didn't pretend he hadn't been staring. Just held your gaze with the kind of bold confidence that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't.

Then he smiled. Slow and deliberate and knowing, like you'd shared some private joke.

"Oh, dear cousin, he's definitely trouble," Aegon said. "Look at him. Looking at you like—well, like Jace looks at literally every woman who crosses his path."

"Shut up," you muttered, but you didn't look away from Dalton.

"The Red Kraken," Baela mused. "Now that's interesting. He doesn't usually come to court. Prefers his islands and his ships from what I hear."

"And his salt wives," Aegon added. "Rumor has it he's got three. Or is it four now? I lose count."

"Salt wives aren't real wives," you said absently, still holding Dalton's gaze.

"Try telling him that."

Dalton was moving through the crowd now, making his way toward the dais where Rhaenyra sat. Lords parted for him—whether out of respect or wariness, you couldn't tell. Maybe both. There was something dangerous about him, something wild that expensive clothes and courtly manners couldn't quite hide. He knelt before Rhaenyra with surprising grace for someone so large. You couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was made Daemon laugh, actually laugh, which was rare enough to be noteworthy.

Then Dalton stood, turned, and those storm-grey eyes found yours again. And the huge bastard, well, he started walking toward you.

"Oh shit," Aegon said gleefully. "Oh this is going to be good."

"If you say one embarrassing thing—" you started.

"Would I do that?"

"Yes. Regularly, you arse."

Dalton Greyjoy stopped in front of you, and up close he was even more imposing. Taller, broader, with the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier. 

"My lady," he said, and his voice was rough, like he'd spent too many years shouting orders over storm winds. "Lord Dalton Greyjoy, at your service."

He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. Just stood there looking at you like you were the only person in the entire courtyard.

"Lord Greyjoy," you managed, trying to remember how to be polite while several cups of wine deep. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Is it?" He glanced around at the crowd, at the elaborate decorations, at the general excess of it all. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a party."

"It's a celebration, my lord," you corrected.

"Of the Crown Prince coming of age. Yes, I heard." His lips quirked. "Eight and ten years to grow up. We do it much faster in the Iron Islands."

"Everything's faster in the Iron Islands," Aegon interjected cheerfully. "Living, dying, marrying your cousin, certainly fucking your cousin."

"Aegon," you hissed.

But Dalton just laughed. "Your cousin speaks truth, if not tact. We're a practical people."

"Practical," Aegon repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things." Dalton's attention returned to you, and the intensity of it made your breath catch. "I've heard stories about you, Princess. The girl who claimed Cannibal."

"They're just stories."

"Are they?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I heard you walked up to him and asked him nicely. That he bowed his head and let you climb on his back like a trained horse."

"More or less," you admitted.

"Terrifying or impressive. I haven't decided which, my lady."

"Can't it be both?"

That smile again, sharp and interested, like a predator seeking its prey. "I suppose it can. I like that."

There was something in the way he looked at you—direct and unashamed—that felt different from the courtiers with their careful glances and veiled intentions. Dalton Greyjoy looked at you like he knew exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Are you here for the tournaments, my lord?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"Among other things." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked casual but somehow seemed coiled, ready. "I'm here to see what all the fuss is about. The perfect prince, the eligible ladies, the great game of marriage and alliance." His eyes glinted. "And to see if the Dragon Princess lives up to her reputation."

"And does she?"

"I'll let you know," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "May I have the honor of your company at the feast tonight, my lady?"

Before you could answer, Aegon cut in. "She'd be delighted. Wouldn't you, cousin?"

You shot him a look that promised murder, but Dalton was already bowing, actually bowing this time, though it looked faintly mocking. "Until tonight, then."

He walked away, and you could feel his absence like a physical weight. You were certainly going to kill Aegon, kill him and feed him to Cannibal. 

"Well," Aegon said into the silence. "That was something."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. I just got you a dinner companion who isn't boring. You should be thanking me."

You should probably be worried, you thought. Dalton Greyjoy had a reputation that made even Daemon look respectable by comparison. But, nonetheless, instead you felt intrigued.

Which was probably dangerous. Definitely dangerous. But after days of watching Jace parade around with other women, of feeling invisible and foolish and consumed by wanting something you couldn't have. Maybe dangerous was exactly what you needed.

The remainder of the day had been a blur of increasingly bold lords and their sons trying to catch your attention. You'd smiled politely through it all, deflected propositions both subtle and explicit, and tried not to drink so much that you'd embarrass yourself at tonight's feast.

You'd failed at that last part.

The great hall had been transformed for the evening, there were now thousands of candles which casted everything in warm golden light, musicians played from the gallery, and long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits and wine from across the known world. The air smelled of smoke and spices and the musk of too many sweaty bodies pressed close together. You'd kept the white gown from earlier, the gold and red embroidery catching the candlelight as you moved. Your ladies had refreshed your hair, re-pinning the braids and adding fresh ruby clips, but otherwise you looked much the same as you had that morning.

Which apparently was more than enough, judging by the way heads turned as you entered. Dalton Greyjoy was already there, lounging at one of the lower tables with a cup in his hand and that same confidence he'd worn earlier. He saw you immediately—like he'd been watching the door—and stood.

"Princess," he said as you approached. "Come, sit. I've claimed the best seat in the hall."

"Have you?"

"Good view of the wine." He gestured to the seat beside him. "And now a better one."

You sat, aware of how he took up space without apology, all broad shoulders and long limbs sprawled in a way that suggested he'd never learned courtly posture and didn't particularly care to either. A servant poured wine, and Dalton took his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with more force than necessary. "Seven hells, that's good. Better than the piss we brew on Pyke."

"I'm sure."

"You've never been to the Iron Islands." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Good. It's a miserable place. Cold, wet, smells like dead fish and shit." He grinned. "But it's mine."

There was something about the way he said it, simple pride, no need to justify or explain. Just fact that sprung a buzz in your chest. 

"You're far from home," you observed.

"Aye. Your aunt summoned, so I came." He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his hands. "Hadn't planned on it, but then I heard about the festivities. The Crown Prince coming of age, all the pretty ladies competing for him." His eyes slid to you as he brought the bread to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "Thought it might be entertaining."

"And is it?"

"Getting better." He popped the bread in his mouth, still watching you while he chewed. "Tell me something. That dragon of yours—Cannibal. Is it true he ate three dragons on Dragonstone before you claimed him?"

You reached for your wine. "Two that I know of for certain. Possibly three."

"Fuck me." But he sounded impressed rather than horrified. "And you just walked up to him?"

"More or less." You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your cup.

"You're either the bravest woman in the Seven Kingdoms or the maddest." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you."Probably both."

"Most people say it was foolish."

"Most people are cowards."  He picked up his wine again, draining half the cup in one go. "I respect it. Taking what you want, consequences be damned. That's how you survive in this world."

The food kept coming—course after course. Servants appeared with platters of roasted duck, honeyed figs, spiced lamb. Dalton ate like a man who wasn't sure when his next meal would be, unbothered by the elaborate presentation. You picked at your own plate, more interested in the conversation than the food.

"You fight in the tournaments tomorrow?" you asked.

"Planning on it. Need to work off some of this." He gestured at the feast. "Can't spend all day drinking and eating without swinging a sword eventually. I'll go soft."

You doubted that. There was nothing soft about Dalton Greyjoy. You let your eyes drag over him, shoulders, arms, the way he took up space.

"Who do you think will win?" you asked. "The tourney, I mean."

"Not me," he said with a shrug. "I'm a better sailor than jouster. Give me a deck that's moving under my feet and I'm deadly. Put me on a horse in full plate and I'm just another idiot hoping not to fall off." He paused. "Your cousin, probably. The pretty one. Jacaerys."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Jace is skilled."

"Aye, I've heard. Trained by the best, naturally." There was something in his tone—not quite mocking, but close. "Born with every advantage. Dragon, crown, looks that make ladies go weak. Must be nice."

"It has its challenges."

"I'm sure." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. "Still. I'd take his challenges over mine any day."

A commotion near the high table drew your attention. Jace was standing, Lady Cassandra Baratheon beside him, her hand on his arm as they moved toward the dancing. You watched them go, watched her lean in to say something that made him smile, and your stomach dropped. Your hands curled into fists in your lap. 

"There's a look I know," Dalton said quietly.

You turned back to find him studying you, those storm-grey eyes too sharp. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back of it, completely relaxed.

"What look?"

"The one that says you want to set something on fire but you're too well-bred to do it." He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "What's he done to earn that?"

"Nothing. I don't—"

"Right." He drained his cup in one swallow and stood, extending his hand across the table. "Come on then."

"Where?"

"To dance. You're sitting here stewing and it's making me uncomfortable." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He stepped closer, hand still out. "And if I have to watch you watch him dance with that Baratheon girl for one more second, I'm going to start breaking things." His fingers curled slightly, beckoning. "Dance with me, Princess. Give the court something else to gossip about."

You shouldn't. You really, truly shouldn't.

You took his hand.

He pulled you up—quick enough that you stumbled slightly—and steadied you with a hand at your elbow before leading you onto the floor. Other couples were already moving, swirling past in a blur of silk and jewels. His hand settled at your waist, lower than was strictly proper, fingers spread wide against your back and he pulled you into the rhythm without missing a beat.

He moved with surprising grace for someone who'd just claimed to be better on a ship than a dance floor.

"You lied," you said, looking up at him. "You're good at this."

"I said I'm better on a ship. Didn't say I was shit at dancing." He spun you, sudden enough that you stumbled into his chest. His hand tightened on your waist, steadying you. "My mother made sure all her sons could dance. Said it was the one civilized thing we'd learn."

"Was she right?"

"Aye. Rest of it's all fighting and fucking and sailing." He said it casually, leading you back into the steps. "Not much call for poetry and courtly manners on Pyke."

You shouldn't have laughed, but you did, it was sharp and genuine, the sound surprising you. Something about his bluntness cut through all the careful political bullshit you'd been drowning in for days.

"That scandalize you?" he asked, grinning down at you. His teeth were very white against his tanned skin.

"No."

"Good. I'd hate to waste time pretending to be something I'm not." His thumb pressed against your waist, and you felt it through the silk. "Life's too fucking short for that."

The music swelled around you, violins rising. He pulled you closer, definitely too close now, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your dress, definitely crossing into improper territory. But you didn't pull away. Just let him guide you through the steps, let yourself focus on the pressure of his hand, the solid weight of his shoulder under your palm. Anything other than Jace and Cassandra somewhere else on this floor.

"Better?" Dalton asked, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music.

"What?"

"You stopped looking like you wanted to commit murder.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'm taking that as progress."

"I never—"

"You did." He spun you again, pulled you back in. The smile on his face had an edge to it now. "Whatever he did, whoever he is, he's not worth it, Princess."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to defend something you couldn't even name, couldn't admit to yourself. But Dalton's hand was warm and steady against your waist, his grey eyes fixed on yours like you were the only person in the room, and for just a moment, just this one dance, you let yourself pretend. That you weren't obsessed with your cousin. That you hadn't spent the last three nights watching him fuck other women through a crack in the wall. That you were just a woman dancing with a man who looked at her like she mattered.

The song ended far too soon.

Dalton stepped back, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering, his fingers flexing once against your ribs before he let go. "Thank you for the dance, Princess."

"Thank you for asking." Your skin felt cold where his hand had been.

"I'll be fighting tomorrow. In the melee, not the joust, I told you, I'm shit on horseback." That grin again, cocky and so sure of himself.  "Come watch me get my ass kicked by men in fancy armor."

"I might."

"You will." He said it like it was already decided, so much so, that you almost believed him. Then he bowed, properly this time, deep and formal, and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.

You stood there for a moment, heart still racing from the dance, or maybe from the way Dalton had looked at you, all that damned confidence and heat and completely unbothered by the surrounding propriety. Your skin still tingled where his hand had been, that deliberate pressure at your waist.

He was handsome. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Rough around the edges in a way that was completely unlike the polished princes and lords you'd grown up around. Dangerous-looking. The kind of man your mother would warn you about. The kind you apparently couldn't stop thinking about for entirely different reasons than you should.

You pressed your fingers to your waist briefly, then dropped your hand. This was stupid. You were being stupid about two different men now, which seemed like an achievement in poor judgment.

When you finally turned to head back to your seat, you found Aegon waiting, leaning against a pillar with that knowing smirk plastered across his face.

"Well," he drawled, pushing off the pillar to stand beside you. "That was something."

"It was a dance."

"That wasn't just a dance." Aegon took a long drink from his cup, eyes gleaming with amusement. "That was him fucking you with your clothes on."

Heat flooded your face. "You're drunk."

"I'm always drunk. Doesn't make me wrong." He gestured with his cup, sloshing wine dangerously close to the rim, toward where Dalton had disappeared into the crowd. "Be careful with that one. He's not like these simpering southern lords. He takes what he wants."

"I'm not."

"I know. I'm just saying." Aegon leaned in closer, lowering his voice even though no one was near enough to hear. "The Red Kraken's got a reputation, and certainly not the fun kind like mine."

You looked back toward where Jace was still dancing with Cassandra, her head thrown back laughing at something he'd said.

"Maybe I need a reputation," you muttered.

Aegon raised his cup. "Now that's the spirit."

"Come on," Aegon said, tugging at your sleeve like a child. "Let's get out of here before someone tries to make us be social again."

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already pulling you toward the edge of the hall.

It didn't, not really. The hall was too hot, too crowded, the air thick with wine and perfume and the cloying smell of too many bodies pressed together. Too many people pretending to be things they weren't. You let Aegon pull you through a side door, the sudden quiet of the corridor making your ears ring.

Down one hallway, then another. Your footsteps echoed off stone. Up a winding staircase, too narrow and steep, the kind that hadn't been used in years. You recognized it dimly as leading to one of the old watchtowers, the ones that overlooked the bay.

"Aegon, we're going to break our necks," you said as he stumbled on a step, catching himself against the wall.

"Good." He kept climbing. "Better than dying of boredom down there."

The tower room at the top was small and forgotten. Dust motes floated in the moonlight streaming through narrow windows. There were  a few old weapons which hung on the walls, all rusted, decorative, and completely useless. The windows looked out over King's Landing, the city spread below like a carpet of flickering lights.

The sounds of the feast were distant here, muffled by layers of stone and height. You could barely hear the music anymore. Just the wind, and the sound of your own breathing still coming fast from the climb.

Aegon collapsed onto a bench beneath one of the windows, wine cup still in hand, sprawling back against the stone. You leaned against the opposite wall, pressing your shoulders into the cool stone. The breeze coming through the window felt good against your flushed skin, cutting through the wine-warm haze in your head.

"This is better," Aegon declared, gesturing broadly with his cup. "Much better. No one up here but us and the ghosts."

"Are there ghosts?"

"Probably." He took another drink, throat working. "Old tower like this? Someone definitely died here. Hopefully doing something more interesting than attending a feast."

You laughed, the sound strange and too loud in the small space, bouncing off stone. Your head was spinning pleasantly, everything soft and blurred at the edges. The wine had settled warm in your stomach, making your limbs feel loose and heavy. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, your dress pooling around you. The stone was cold against your back even through the silk.

"You danced well with the Kraken," Aegon said after a moment.  His eyes were on you now, sharper than they should be considering how much he'd drunk. "He looked like he wanted to eat you."

"He looked like he wanted to dance."

"Same thing, with that one." Aegon tilted his head, studying you. His usual smirk had faded into something more serious. Almost sober. "Do you like him?"

"I barely know him." You picked at a loose thread on your dress.

"That's not what I asked."

You considered it, head tilted back against the stone. Did you like Dalton Greyjoy? He was attractive, certainly. Bold. Honest in a way that cut through all the bullshit.

"I don't know," you said finally. "Maybe. Does it matter?"

"Suppose not." Aegon was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his cup, watching the liquid catch the moonlight in wave-like ripples. Then, without looking at you: "Can I kiss you?"

You blinked, certain you'd misheard. "What?"

"Can I kiss you?" He did look at you now, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression beneath the wine-flush. "I want to kiss someone. And you're here. And you're pretty. And you won't make it mean something it doesn't."

You should say no. Should laugh it off, make a joke, change the subject. This was Aegon—your cousin, your friend, the perpetually drunk prince who took nothing seriously.

But your head was spinning and your chest still ached from watching Jace with Cassandra, and Dalton's words kept echoing in your mind—life's too fucking short.

"Fuck it," you said, the words coming out steadier than you felt.

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a fuck it." You pushed yourself up slightly, meeting his eyes.

Aegon set his cup down on the bench and stood. He wasn't quite steady on his feet, swaying slightly as he crossed the small space to where you sat against the wall.

You had to tilt your head back to look up at him as he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, the faint scent of whatever oil he used in his hair. Up close like this, you could see everything. The wine-flush high on his cheekbones, the slightly glazed look in his purple eyes—Targaryen eyes, the same shade as your own. The way his chest rose and fell, breathing faster than the short walk across the room warranted.

He was handsome. The thought came to you clearly, like you were seeing him for the first time. When he wasn't making an ass of himself, when he wasn't performing for the court or drowning in his cups, when you actually looked at him, Aegon was undeniably, unfairly handsome.

"You're sure?" he asked, and his voice had gone quieter. Careful. Like he was giving you one last chance to back out, to laugh this off and pretend it never happened.

Your heart was pounding. "Stop asking and just—"

He dropped to his knees in front of you.

The movement brought him to your level, purple eyes locked on yours. His hand came up, hesitant at first, then surer, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you realized you were holding your breath.

Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like you'd imagined kissing would be. Not that you'd spent much time imagining it, or maybe you had, late at night, alone in your bed, but those fantasies had been vague and shapeless. This was real. This was Aegon's mouth on yours, warm and wine-sweet and surprisingly gentle. His other hand found your waist, steadying himself, or maybe steadying you.

For a moment, you froze. Didn't know what to do with your hands, with your mouth, with any of it. Then something in you gave way. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders, solid, real, there and you kissed him back.

Aegon kissed like he did everything else, without any restraint, without second thoughts, just pure unfiltered fucking want. His mouth was hot against yours, tasting like wine and something hungrier, and his hands cupped your face like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. He pressed closer, and you made a sound, and his tongue swept into your mouth.

Oh.

Your hands gripped shoulders because you needed something to hold onto, needed to ground yourself before you floated away entirely. He was solid under your grip, all lean muscle and warmth, so much warmer than you'd expected. When he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, something low in your belly clenched hard enough to hurt. 

This was wrong. This was Aegon. Your cousin. Your friend who you'd watched get drunk at a hundred feasts, who you'd laughed with and plotted with and shared secrets with. Who you'd never, not once, not ever, thought of like this.

But his mouth was moving against yours with a desperate kind of hunger, and his hands had slid from your face down to your waist, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, pulled you against him. And your body was a traitor. Heat was pooling between your thighs, your breath coming in short gasps, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his doublet like you needed him closer, needed more.

One of his hands moved lower, gripping your hip, and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, kissed you harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.

When he finally pulled back, breaking the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed against yours, you were both panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were red and swollen.

"Well," Aegon said, his voice rougher than usual. "That was—"

You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. His breath warm against your lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing along your jaw in a way that made your knees weak. 

"I'd like to do that again," he murmured, and there was something in his voice, something hungry and real beneath the usual bravado.

Your heart was pounding. His thumb was still moving against your skin, slow and deliberate, and you could feel the heat of him everywhere he touched. He was everywhere at once, and for the first time in your life you weren't looking at your cousin Aegon, you were staring at someone with pure, unfiltered want.

"Yes," you breathed.

He kissed you again—harder this time, more certain. His hand tightened on your waist, yanking you fully against him, and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest, the lean muscle of his thighs, and—gods—the unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed against your hip through layers of silk and leather.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding hot and slick against yours. His hips rolled forward, slow, deliberate and the pressure of him grinding against you sent heat shooting straight between your legs.

Your knees actually went weak. If he wasn't holding you up, you'd have collapsed.

Your hands found his hair—silver silk between your fingers—and you pulled. Hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, and ground against you harder in response. You could feel yourself getting wet, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, soaking through your smallclothes. The knowledge that he was hard, that you'd made him hard, made you clench around nothing.

"Fuck," Aegon panted against your mouth before his lips dragged to your jaw, your throat. His hand slid down from your waist to your ass, gripping hard, pulling you tighter against him. "Fuck, you taste so good. Smell good. Feel so fucking good."

He thrust his hips forward again, the thick length of him dragging against your belly, and you both made sounds that were almost pained. 

You should stop this. Should push him away before this went too far. This was Aegon, your cousin, your friend who you'd grown up with—

His teeth scraped the sensitive spot below your ear and you whimpered. Actually whimpered like something desperate and needy, your hips rolling forward to meet his next thrust without your permission.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin, doing it again, sucking a mark into your throat that you'd have to hide tomorrow. His hand on your ass squeezed, angling you so when he ground forward again, the pressure hit directly against your aching cunt. "Gods, feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Aegon," you started, voice breaking, but you couldn't finish because he was kissing you again, deeper, filthier, his tongue fucking into your mouth while one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat and the other kept your hips pinned against his.

He found a rhythm now, rolling his hips against yours in steady, deliberate thrusts that had you panting into his mouth. Each movement dragged the hard length of his cock against you, the friction even through all the layers making you want to scream, want to hike up your skirts and feel him properly, skin to skin, want things you'd never let yourself want before.

You rolled your hips back, meeting him, matching his rhythm, and he groaned like you'd hurt him.

"Fuck, yes," he panted. "Just like that. Gods, you're so, I can feel how wet you are even through—"

He thrust harder, and you felt it, the heat of him, the thick ridge of his cock grinding directly against your clit through the soaked silk between your legs. The sensation made white spots burst behind your eyelids.

This wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things you'd imagined in your naive fantasies. This was pure animal want, raw and desperate and hungry. Fueled by too much wine and too many things neither of you wanted to think about. His body moving against yours like he wanted to crawl inside you, like he couldn't get close enough even though you were pressed together so tightly you could barely breathe.

Your hand slid down from his hair to his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palm, then lower, reaching between your bodies toward the hard heat of him—

He caught your wrist. Held it. Both of you froze, breathing hard, hips still pressed flush together.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, flushed, his hair completely destroyed from your hands and your lips kiss-swollen and red, Aegon let out a shaky laugh against your neck.

"Gods," he breathed, forehead pressed to your shoulder. You could still feel him hard against your hip, could feel the answering wetness between your own legs. "We're idiots."

"Probably," you managed, your voice coming out hoarse. Wrecked.

"Definitely." But he wasn't pulling away. His hands were still on you, his body still pressed close, and you could feel him, still hard, maybe harder, against your hip. The evidence of what you'd just done. What you'd almost done. "This is a terrible idea."

"The worst."

"We should stop."

"We should." But your fingers were still twisted in his doublet.

His hand flexed on your hip, thumb pressing into the bone. "One more?"

You pulled him down by his hair and kissed him again. This time there was no hesitation. There was no pretense of this being innocent or simple. Just heat and hunger and his hands sliding down to grip your ass through your skirts, hauling you against him so hard you felt the breath leave your lungs.

You could feel the thick, insistent pressure of his cock grinding against your belly. He rolled his hips, slow and filthy, and you whimpered into his mouth. You wanted release.

"Fuck," he groaned against your lips. "You're going to kill me."

Your back hit the wall—you didn't even remember moving—and suddenly he had leverage. His thigh pushed between yours, spreading your legs, and when he ground forward this time the friction was devastating. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed directly against your cunt through the layers of silk, and you were so wet you knew he could feel it, knew the fabric had to be soaked through.

"Oh gods," you gasped, head falling back against the stone.

Aegon's mouth was on your neck immediately, sucking hard enough to mark, teeth scraping. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you down harder onto his thigh, helping you grind against him.

"That's it," he panted against your throat, moving his leg in rhythm with your desperate rolling hips. "Fuck, you're so wet. I can feel you through everything. Can feel how much you want this."

You should care about the bruises he was leaving. Should worry about questions and propriety and what this meant. You didn't care at all. You just needed more, more, and more.

"Aegon," you gasped, and his name coming out of your mouth broken and desperate seemed to undo something in him.

He kissed you again, dirty and deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth, while his hips pressed forward, grinding his cock against your hip in time with how you were riding his thigh. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you deeper, the other still gripping your arse and guiding your movements.

"Could fuck you right here," he groaned into your mouth, hips thrusting harder. "Pull up these skirts, sink into you against this wall. You'd let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking wet you'd take me easy."

The image, Aegon inside you, filling you, fucking you against cold, dirty stone, made you moan and grind down harder. You were drowning in sensation, the taste of wine on his tongue, the heat of his body burning through the fabric, the devastating pressure between your legs, the thick hardness of him grinding against your hip.

"Yes," you heard yourself gasp. "Yes, Seven Hells."

Reality as sudden as a wave crashing against rock, rippled back through you.

What the fuck were you two doing? What were you saying?

You must have tensed because Aegon pulled back, really pulled back this time, stepping away and putting actual space between your bodies. The loss of contact left you cold and aching. You were both wrecked. His lips were swollen and red, his hair completely destroyed, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. There was a wet spot on his thigh from you. You could see the obvious bulge straining against his breeches.

You probably looked worse. Your lips tender and kiss-bitten, your smallclothes absolutely ruined.

"Yes. Back. To the feast." He ran both hands through his hair, dragging it back from his face, somehow making it look even more fucked. "Where we've been having perfectly appropriate cousin conversations."

"Very appropriate."

"The most appropriate." But he was looking at you like he wanted to shove you back against that wall and finish what you'd started. His eyes dragged down your body, lingering on your swollen lips, the marks on your neck, the wrinkled silk of your dress, before snapping back up. "Fuck, your hair's a complete disaster."

"So is yours."

"I'm always a mess. You're supposed to be the put-together one." He reached out, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to tuck a few loose strands back into place. The touch was gentle now, almost tender, so different from five minutes ago when he'd been fisting his hand in it and pulling. "There. Almost presentable."

You caught his wrist, held it. His pulse was still racing under your fingers. "Aegon, please."

"Don't." He pulled away, stepped back entirely, hands dropping to his sides and curling into fists like he didn't trust himself not to reach for you again. "Don't make it something. It was just—we're drunk. That's all."

"Right. Drunk."

"Very drunk." He looked around, spotted his abandoned wine cup on the bench, picked it up and stared at it like he'd forgotten what it was for. Then set it back down. "We should go. Before I do something even stupider."

"Like what?"

His eyes met yours, and they were still dark. Still wanting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered, cousin."

Your breath caught. Heat pooled low in your belly again, that ache between your legs flaring back to life.

He saw it on your face—saw the want there—and made a pained sound. "Gods, don't look at me like that. We need to leave. Now."

"Okay," you managed.

"Okay." But he didn't move. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, hands still clenched at his sides.

Finally, with visible effort, he offered you his arm, the gesture exaggerated and courtly in a way that didn't quite hide how badly his hand was shaking. "Come on. Let's go back before someone sends a search party and finds us looking like we've been—" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Just. Let's go."

You took his arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm, and you could feel the tension in him. The muscles were tight, coiled, like he was holding himself back. Together you made your way back down the winding stairs. The descent was precarious,  both of you still drunk, still unsteady, but now for different reasons. Your legs felt weak. You could feel the slickness between your thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how close you'd come to, god, fucking your cousin. The cousin that was right there, is still right there. 

You stumbled on a step and Aegon caught you, arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The touch lasted a second too long. His fingers pressed into your hip,  right where he'd gripped you before and you both froze.

"Careful," he said roughly, then let go like you'd burned him.

"Are we going to be weird about this?" you asked as you reached the bottom, voices from the feast growing louder.

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then neither am I." He squeezed your hand where it rested on his arm, the pressure firm and grounding. "It was just kissing. Doesn't have to mean anything."

"Doesn't have to mean anything," you repeated.

Liar, something whispered in the back of your mind. You could still feel him hard against you. Could still hear him saying he wanted to fuck you against the wall. Could still taste wine on your tongue. But when you made it back through the side door, slipping into the edges of the feast and immediately caught sight of Jace across the hall, still with Cassandra, his head bent close to hers as she whispered something in his ear, and you felt that familiar twist of want and jealousy knife through your chest.

And beneath it, something new. Something confusing.

The memory of Aegon's mouth on yours. His hands on your body, gripping and pulling and claiming. The way he'd made you forget everything else, forget Jace, forget propriety, forget your own name, for those few desperate moments.

And worse of all, the way you'd liked it.

You slipped away from Aegon as soon as you entered the hall, murmuring something about needing the privy. In truth, you needed a moment. Needed to look at yourself, assess the damage. Your chambers weren't far. You practically ran there, heart still pounding, skin still flushed.

Your ladies were waiting, they'd been dismissed earlier but Lysa had stayed, dozing in a chair by the fire. She jolted awake when you burst in.

"My lady! Are you—" Her eyes went wide, taking in your disheveled hair, your swollen lips, the very obvious marks blooming purple on your throat. "Oh."

"I need—" You gestured helplessly at your neck. "Can you please?"

"Of course." But she was grinning as she hurried to mix a paste, calling for Maryse and Elaena.

They appeared quickly, and the moment they saw you, the reaction was immediate.

"Ohhhhh," Maryse breathed, eyes sparkling with delight.

"My lady!" Elaena giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth.

"Don't," you warned, but you could feel yourself flushing deeper.

"Was he handsome?" Lysa asked, dabbing the paste carefully on your neck to lighten the marks. It wouldn't hide them completely, but it would help.

"I'm not discussing this."

"Ohhhhh, he was," Maryse decided, starting to fix your hair with deft fingers. "Look how red she is."

"Was it romantic?" Elaena asked dreamily, adjusting your dress, smoothing the wrinkles.

"It was—" You stopped. What could you even say? "It was nothing. Too much wine."

All three of them made knowing sounds, soft "mmhmms" and "of courses" that said they didn't believe you for a second.

The rest of the night blurred together in a haze of wine and music and laughter. You danced with Aemond, too stiff and proper, unlike his brother, but surprisingly skilled. He didn't speak much, just guided you through the steps like an ever-so-graceful swan, his one good eye tracking everything in the hall like he was cataloging threats.

"You're drunk," he observed.

"Very."

"Good. You're less insufferable when you're drunk.”

"You're a delight as always, cousin."

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you'd ever seen from him. "Enjoy your evening, Princess."

Then Daemon cut in, stealing you mid-step with the kind of casual arrogance only he could manage.

"Having fun?" he asked, spinning you perhaps a bit too fast.

"Trying to."

"That Greyjoy boy's been watching you all night." Daemon's grin was sharp. "Wondering if he's going to do something stupid."

"Aren't we all doing something stupid tonight?"

"Fair point." He laughed, and for a moment you could see why Rhaenyra loved him despite everything. "Don't get yourself killed, niece. Your aunt would be very put out."

"I'll do my best."

Even Rhaenyra danced with you—a slower song, her hands gentle as she guided you through it.

"You look happy," she said softly. "That's good. I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm fine, Your Grace."

"Rhaenyra," she corrected. "When it's just us, I'm Rhaenyra. Your aunt who loves you."

The wine made your eyes sting. "I love you too."

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Go enjoy yourself. You're young. These nights don't come often enough."

So you did. You drank more wine, letting the warmth of it blur the edges of everything. Danced with lords whose names you didn't remember and didn't care to learn. Laughed at Aegon's increasingly ridiculous jokes, though you were careful not to stand too close to him, careful not to let your eyes linger.

Every time you saw him across the hall, you remembered. His mouth on yours. His hands gripping your ass. The way he'd ground against you like he couldn't help himself. The things he'd said, could fuck you right here, that still made heat pool between your legs when you thought about them.

And every time you saw Jace, still orbiting Cassandra Baratheon like she was the sun and he was caught in her gravity, you felt that sick twist of jealousy. But now it was complicated by guilt. By confusion. You'd dry-humped Aegon in a tower. You'd been ready to let him fuck you against a wall. And part of you had liked it. Had liked the way he looked at you like you were something he desperately wanted. Had liked feeling wanted, period.

But you still couldn't stop watching Jace. Couldn't stop wondering what his hands would feel like instead of Aegon's. Couldn't stop thinking about the hole in your wall and the things you'd seen through it.

You were a mess. A complete disaster of a person. So you drank more. Let yourself forget, just for a few hours, about holes in walls and wanting things you couldn't have and the fact that you'd apparently developed an extremely inconvenient attraction to not one but two of your cousins.

By the time you decided to retire, the hall was spinning pleasantly and your feet ached from dancing. You waved off your ladies, they were enjoying themselves too, giggling with guards and flirting with servants and made your way through the corridors alone.

The castle was a maze at the best of times. Drunk, it was nearly impossible.

You climbed stairs, turned down hallways, all of it familiar but also somehow wrong. Your chambers should be here? No, maybe down this corridor. Or was it the other way?

Finally, you found a door that looked right. The wood was the same, the handle in the same place. Close enough. You pushed it open, stumbled inside, and didn't bother with candles. The room was dark and quiet. Just kicked off your slippers, fumbled with the laces of your gown until they loosened enough to breathe, and collapsed onto the bed.

The sheets smelled clean. Felt soft. Maybe a bit different than usual but your wine-soaked brain didn't care enough to question it. Good enough, you didn’t give a god’s damn.

You were asleep before your head fully hit the pillow.

Jacaerys was tired, wine-warm, and ready for bed when he finally escaped the feast.

Cassandra had wanted him to stay longer, had made that very clear with the way her hand kept finding his arm, the lingering touches, the invitations in her eyes that he'd politely ignored. He'd begged off with excuses about an early morning. The tournaments started tomorrow, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep before climbing into armor and trying not to get killed in front of the entire court.

He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his thoughts already on collapsing into bed. Maybe he'd been too indulgent tonight. Too much wine, too much dancing, too much of Cassandra's cloying perfume that now clung to his clothes and made his head ache.

He pushed open his door, stepped inside, and froze.

Someone was in his bed.

His hand went to the dagger at his belt, pure instinct, trained response, his body tensing as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The figure was small, curled on their side facing away from him. Too small to be a real threat. Too still.

Then he saw the hair. Silver. Spilling across his pillows, catching what little light came through the window. Long and unbound, the way he'd never seen it during the day when it was always properly pinned and braided.

His heart stopped. Started again, too fast.

It was you.

"What the—" The words died in his throat. He stood there, hand still on his dagger, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You were in his bed. His bed. Fast asleep from the look of it, your breathing deep and even, completely unaware of his presence. Jace's eyes adjusted further, and he could make out more details now. Your slippers discarded on the floor near the foot of the bed. Your gown was unlaced and loose around your body.

Very loose. His breath caught as his gaze traced the line of your form. You'd clearly tried to unlace the gown yourself, drunk fingers fumbling with the ties, getting it open enough to breathe easier before collapsing into bed. But you'd only managed to loosen it, not remove it, and now the fabric had shifted in your sleep.

The neckline had slipped down your shoulder. Lower. Low enough that he could see—

Jace's mouth went dry. Your breast. Half of it bare, skin luminous in the moonlight, the curve of it visible where the silk had fallen away. If you shifted even slightly, if the fabric slipped just a bit more… stop, stop right fucking  now. 

He looked away quickly, heat flooding his face, his chest, lower. His heart was hammering now.

Don't look. Don't be that person. She's asleep. She's drunk. She doesn't even know where she is.

But his eyes were drawn back like a lodestone to true north.

Your leg had escaped the tangle of silk too. One bare leg stretched out across his sheets, the gown rucked up to mid-thigh, higher on the side where you'd rolled slightly forward in sleep. Smooth skin, the elegant line of your calf, the curve of your knee. If he looked, and gods help him, he was looking, he could see almost to your hip where the fabric had bunched.

He could see the shadow between your thighs. Jace's cock stirred in his breeches, and he felt shame burn through him immediately after.

Stop. Stop looking at her like this.

But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. You were sprawled across his bed like some kind of vision, your lips were parted slightly, your breathing deep and peaceful. You looked nothing like the proper, put-together princess he saw every day. Nothing like his cousin who barely spoke to him, who avoided his eyes at dinner, who seemed to go out of her way not to be alone with him.

You looked undone and vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that made his chest ache and his blood run hot.

He took a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed, looking down at you.

This close, he could see more. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, your bare chest, your nipple was just barely hidden by a fold of silk, the fabric draped across it so precariously that each breath threatened to expose you completely.

Jace's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing had gone shallow.

What was wrong with him? This was you. His cousin. A princess. A woman who clearly had no idea where she was or what she looked like right now. And he was standing here staring at you like some kind of pervert, getting hard while you slept completely unaware.

He needed to—he should—

Wake you. Get you back to your chambers. Cover you with a blanket at the very least. Do something other than stand here like an idiot with his cock half-hard and his mind conjuring images of what it would be like to slip into that bed beside you, to pull you against him, to—

No.

He forced himself to step back. To look away. To think like a rational person instead of a man who'd drunk too much wine and found a beautiful woman in his bed. You shifted in your sleep, making a small sound and rolled slightly onto your back.

The movement made everything worse. The gown slipped further. Your breast was fully exposed now, pale and perfect in the moonlight. He could see your nipple, could see the way it had hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. The silk had ridden up higher on your leg too, and now he could see the dark shadow at the apex of your thighs. Gods.

Were you even wearing anything under that gown?

Jace turned away sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like he could scrub the image from his mind. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his breeches, and he felt like the worst kind of person. You were drunk. Asleep. Completely vulnerable. And here he was getting hard looking at you, thinking thoughts he had absolutely no right to think.

He needed to cover you. That was the first thing. Before he did anything else—before he even tried to figure out what to do about this situation—he needed to make you decent.

Jace grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, hands shaking slightly, and carefully, so carefully, draped it over you. He tried not to look. Tried not to let his eyes linger on all that bare skin before the fabric covered it.

He failed. The image was burned into his mind now. Your breast. Your leg. The shadow between your thighs. The way you looked spread out in his bed like some kind of offering.

Stop it. She's your cousin. She's drunk. This is wrong.

But his body didn't care about wrong. His body only knew that you were here, barely clothed, looking like every fantasy he'd never let himself have. And you had been a fantasy. He could admit that now, alone in the dark with you unconscious and unaware. He'd noticed you. Had tried not to, had told himself it was inappropriate, but he'd noticed. The way you moved. The rare times you smiled. The intelligence in your eyes during council meetings when you thought no one was watching you listen.

He'd just never let himself think about it. About you. Not like that. Now he couldn't think about anything else.

Jace ran both hands through his hair, gripping it hard enough to hurt, trying to ground himself. Trying to think. Okay, good. You were covered now. That was good. Next step was to figure out what the fuck to do.

He should wake you. Should get you back to your own chambers before anyone found out you'd spent the night here. Before servants came in the morning and saw you in his bed. The scandal alone would destroy you. Would destroy any chance you had at a good marriage, would ruin your reputation entirely.

He couldn't let that happen. But waking you meant... what exactly? Touching you? Shaking your shoulder? Explaining that you'd drunkenly stumbled into the wrong room and passed out half-naked in your cousin's bed?

Gods, you'd be mortified.

Maybe it was better to just let you sleep. You were clearly exhausted, clearly drunk enough that you'd mistaken his chambers for yours. In the morning, when you woke, he could pretend he'd just arrived. Could act surprised to find you there. Give you a chance to slip out quietly, save you the embarrassment of a confrontation.

Yes. That was better. Kinder. It had nothing to do with wanting to keep you here a little longer. Nothing to do with the selfish, possessive part of him that liked seeing you in his bed, wrapped in his blankets, surrounded by his scent.

Liar, something whispered in the back of his mind.

Jace ignored it. He'd sleep somewhere else. The chairs by the fire, maybe. Or, there, is eyes landed on the small couch in the corner near the window. It looked deeply uncomfortable, probably meant for sitting and reading rather than sleeping, but it would have to do. He couldn't exactly climb into bed next to you. That would be, well, he didn't let himself finish that thought.

Decision made, he moved quietly toward the corner, trying not to make any noise that might wake you. He'd need to grab a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, maybe a pillow. 

Something caught his eye. A small gap in the wall near the floor in the corner. He'd never noticed it before, why would he? It was just a shadow among shadows, easy to miss. But now, looking directly at it, he could see it clearly.

A hole. Small, where the mortar had crumbled away between the stones. Jace frowned, crouching down to examine it. Old damage. The kind of thing that happened in castles this ancient, centuries of settling stone.

He should probably mention it to someone. Get it sealed up. Curious, he leaned closer, peering through the narrow gap to see where it led.

His breath caught. It was a room. Your room.

He could see the edge of a bed with a distinctive purple coverlet—the same one he'd seen when he'd accidentally walked in on you in your bath. A dressing table with jewelry scattered across its surface, glinting in the moonlight. Books stacked on a side table. A carved wooden screen positioned in the corner, partially obscuring his view but not completely.

The hole looked directly into your private chambers.

Jace sat back slowly, his heart starting to pound for entirely different reasons now.

This gap in the wall—it went straight through to your room. A perfect line of sight from his corner to yours. Which meant theoretically, someone could look through it. Could see into your private space. Watch you dress, sleep, bathe, lord knows what else.

His jaw clenched hard, a surge of protective anger rising in his chest. Had some servant discovered this? Some guard with ill intentions? The thought of someone watching you while you were vulnerable, unaware, made his blood run hot.

But then again you'd never mentioned it. Never complained about feeling watched or unsafe. Never called for anyone to repair the wall. Which meant either you didn't know about it.

Or you did know, and you'd chosen not to say anything.

Jace turned slowly to look at you, sleeping peacefully in his bed, utterly unaware of his racing thoughts.

The hole was low in his corner. Easy to miss unless you were looking for it, unless you happened to be right here in this spot. But on your side you'd have that screen. Would have moved it at some point, maybe looking for something, and found the gap.

Would have realized where it led. His heart was pounding now, thoughts spiraling.

No. That was insane. You wouldn't. You barely looked at him most days, avoided him at meals, seemed to go out of your way not to be alone with him. But you'd also been acting strange lately. He'd noticed it, couldn't help but notice. The way you flushed when he was near. How you avoided his eyes, like looking at him directly was too much.

And this morning. Gods, this morning when he'd walked in on you in your bath. You'd screamed, yes, but there had been something else in your expression. Something beyond just shock. You'd looked almost guilty, almost. At the time he'd thought he was imagining it. Had assumed you were just mortified at being seen naked. But what if it was more than that?

What if you'd been watching him through this hole, and suddenly he'd burst into your room, and you'd realized how close he was to discovering your secret?

Jace's breath came faster. He thought back over the past few days. The way you'd been flushed at dinner after he'd brought that woman back to his chambers. The way you couldn't meet his eyes the next morning. How you'd seemed distracted, distant, like your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Had you been watching him fuck her? The thought should have made him angry. Should have felt like a violation, an invasion of his privacy.

Instead, heat shot straight to his groin.

His cock, which had softened slightly while he'd been trying to figure out the logistics of where to sleep, was suddenly achingly hard again. He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock through his breeches, trying to will it down, but it was useless. The image was in his head now and wouldn't leave.

You. On the other side of that wall. Eye pressed to the gap. Watching him with some nameless woman, watching him fuck her, watching every thrust and hearing every sound.

Getting wet while you watched.

Fuck. Because you would have, wouldn't you? If you'd been watching—and gods, everything pointed to you watching—you wouldn't have kept coming back to that hole unless it was doing something for you. Unless seeing him like that, uninhibited and raw, was turning you on.

His proper, untouchable cousin. Getting yourself off while spying on him through a crack in the wall. Jace's hand tightened involuntarily on his cock and he had to bite back a groan.

He looked at you again, sleeping peacefully in his bed, completely unaware that he'd figured it out. That he knew. How many times? How many times had you watched him?

That first woman, the dark-haired serving girl. Had you seen that? Seen him bend her over the bed, seen the way he'd made her moan? And the one after. The minor lady whose name he'd already forgotten. Had you watched him spread her legs and bury his face between her thighs?

Gods, had you touched yourself while you watched? Slipped your hand beneath your nightgown, fingers finding your clit while you watched him make other women come? His cock throbbed and he had to close his eyes, had to breathe through the wave of lust that crashed over him.

This was wrong. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this. Shouldn't be getting hard imagining you watching him, wanting him, touching yourself to the sight of him with other women.

But he couldn't stop. Because if you had been watching—and everything in him said you had been—what did that mean?

It meant you wanted him. Maybe didn't want to want him, maybe fought against it, but you did. Why else would you keep going back to that hole? Why else would you watch him fuck other women if not because you wished it was you?

The thought made him harder, made pre-cum leak from the tip of his cock, dampening his smallclothes. He tried to remember the past few nights, tried to think through the wine-haze of who he'd brought back and when.

 He'd also been with Cassandra. Right here in this room, in this bed where you were sleeping now.

Had you watched that? His breath came out shaky. He'd been showing off tonight, he could admit that now. Cassandra had been impressed by his title, his dragon, the crown he'd someday wear. She'd made that clear. And maybe he'd wanted to impress her in other ways too. Had made it last longer than usual, had made sure she came twice before he'd let himself finish.

Had you been on the other side of that wall, watching him with her? Watching him kiss her, touch her, spread her legs in this very bed? Watching while your heart twisted with jealousy?

The idea shouldn't thrill him as much as it did.

Jace pressed his palm hard against his cock, trying to calm down, trying to think past the lust fogging his brain. His hand came away damp, he was leaking badly now, his cock throbbing with need.

Stop. Get yourself under control.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow, deep breaths. Forced himself to look away from you sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, still half-exposed despite the blanket he'd draped over you.

This was insane. He was standing here hard as iron, thinking about his cousin watching him fuck other women, getting off on the idea of you wanting him. He needed to calm down. Needed to think rationally about what this meant and what, if anything, he was going to do about it.

Jace forced himself to turn away from you entirely. Grabbed the blanket he'd originally intended to use and moved to the couch in the corner, as far from the bed as he could get in the confines of his own chambers. He stretched out on the too-small surface, the blanket pulled up to his chin, and willed his body to calm down. Willed his cock to soften. Tried to think about anything other than you watching him through that hole.

It didn't work.

Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured images. You with your eye pressed to the gap. Your hand sliding beneath your nightgown. Your lips parting as you watched him fuck someone else, wishing it was you. His cock throbbed, still achingly hard, and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

This was impossible. He couldn't sleep like this. Couldn't lie here all night with his cock straining against his breeches and you barely ten feet away, half-naked in his bed. He sat up, running both hands through his hair in frustration.

He needed to leave. Needed to get out of this room before he did something monumentally stupid. Like climb into that bed with you. Like wake you up and ask if you'd been watching. Like find out what sounds you'd make if he gave you something real to watch.

Fuck.

Jace stood, moving as quietly as possible, and grabbed his cloak from where it hung by the door. The Street of Silk would still be busy at this hour. He could find someone, anyone, to take the edge off. To fuck this desperate need out of his system so he could think clearly.

He paused at the door, looking back at you one more time. You'd shifted again in your sleep, the blanket slipping down to your waist. Your silver hair spilled across his pillows like you belonged there.

Tomorrow. He'd deal with all of this tomorrow. Would help you back to your chambers, act like the perfect gentleman. Would decide what, if anything, to do about that hole in the wall.

But tonight, he needed to leave before he lost what little control he had left. Jace slipped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him, and headed for the castle gates.

To read the remainder of part one (I ran out of space on here), please go to AO3 end of this part is Chapter 5: Consequences. Thank you for reading!

[wholoveseggs]

Lesson Five

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Baelor Targaryen x f!Reader} The royal tour brings searing heat, a viper-tongued nephew, and a beautiful woman who knows your husband in ways you never will. But you've learned a few things too… like how to remind him exactly who he belongs to.

♡♡ Thank you for all the love for this series!! More lessons to come ~xo ♡♡

8.6k words - Warnings: smuttttt, age gap, lots of jealousy and insecuity, semi-public sex, wall sex, risk of being caught, fingering, rough sex, softdom!baelor, praise kink, breath play if you squint (hand over mouth), a fountain of angst, aerion being mean, a single valarr crumb, lots of wine drinking, infertility implications, possessiveness && lesson six will be smuttierrr

{Lesson One} {Lesson Two} {Lesson Three} {Lesson Four}

You had not known, before this journey, how much you would come to hate the inside of a wheelhouse.

The rocking. The creaking. The endless jostle of wood and leather over rutted roads. Hours that stretched into days that blurred into weeks, the landscape crawling past the windows. Green fields giving way to brown hills giving way to the red dust of the Dornish passes. Your body ached. Your head ached. Everything ached.

And worse: the proximity.

Baelor rode beside the wheelhouse more often than he sat inside it. It was for duty, for visibility, the lords expecting to see their Hand. You understood. You did. But understanding did nothing to ease the frustration of watching him through the window and knowing you could not touch him.

Could not climb into his lap. Could not feel his hands on your skin. Could not do any of the things you had grown so used to doing, so desperate to do, in the weeks before the tour began.

At night, there were tents or guest chambers in whatever keep hosted the procession. Always thin walls. Always servants nearby. Always the knowledge that any sound, any movement, might be overheard. He held you close in the darkness, his lips pressed to your hair, his hand warm on your hip. But it went no further. Could go no further.

"I'm sorry, sweet girl," he murmured one night, somewhere in a tent in the Reach, when your body had pressed against his with an urgency you couldn't hide. "When we have privacy again, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

You believed him. You did.

But belief didn't stop the wanting.

By the time the procession crossed into Dorne, the wanting had become something sharper. Something that lived under your skin like a fever. You caught yourself watching him constantly. The way his hands moved when he spoke, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his eyes sometimes caught yours across a crowded room with a heat that made your stomach clench.

He felt it too. You knew he did.

But knowing only made it worse.

The heat hit first. A wall of it, dry and pressing, unlike anything you had known in the cooler climates of the Crownlands. The clothes you had worn through the Reach were too heavy here; you shed layers, accepted the lighter gowns prepared for you, thin silks in pale colors that left very little of your body hidden.

Baelor's eyes, when he saw you in the first of them, went dark in a way that made your breath catch.

"That's... not appropriate for a princess to wear," he managed.

"The Dornish ladies dress thus." You turned slowly, letting the silk swirl. "I would not wish to give offense."

He stepped close, too close, his hand finding your waist beneath the sheer fabric. "You're going to kill me before this tour is done."

You smiled, the first real smile in weeks. "Promises, husband."

But even that moment was stolen. A servant appeared. A lord required his attention. He was gone, and you were alone again, the silk still whispering against your skin, the heat still humming in your blood.

The palace where the procession now rested was ancient and beautiful, all open arches and torchlit courtyards, the warm wind carrying scents of citrus and spice. Everywhere you looked, there was beauty. Everywhere you looked, there was him.

And everywhere you looked, there was her.

Lady Allyria Dayne had joined the procession that afternoon, arriving with her own retinue from Starfall. She was everything the lords had whispered. Beautiful in a way that made you feel young and unfinished, dark-haired and dark-eyed, moving with a grace that spoke of decades spent being perfect.

She had greeted Baelor warmly. Had kissed his cheek. Had laughed at something he said, her hand on his arm, and you had stood at the edge of the courtyard and watched and felt the ground shift beneath your feet.

She was almost his wife.

The thought had not left you since.

Now you stood before a mirror in the chambers you shared, with a bed you had barely slept in together and stared at your own reflection. The Dornish gown was the color of pale blue, nearly transparent in the fading light, leaving your shoulders bare and your chest nearly exposed. Your hair was pinned up, tendrils escaping to frame your face. You looked... pretty. You looked young.

You looked like exactly what you felt… a girl playing at being a princess while the real women watched from the shadows.

A knock at the door, your husband's voice on the other side, "Are you ready?"

You took a breath and forced a smile in place.

"Ready."

The great hall of the palace had been transformed. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting warm light over tapestry-draped walls and the crush of bodies moving in dance. Music floated from the gallery. It was a Dornish tune, lively and foreign, nothing like the stately music of the capital. The air was thick with perfume and sweat and the heady weight of summer heat.

You stood at the edge of it all, Baelor's arm warm through yours, and tried to remember how to breathe.

"You're beautiful tonight." He leaned close to murmur it, his lips brushing your ear. "I haven't been able to look away."

You smiled up at him; a real smile, despite everything. "You're supposed to be working. Greeting lords. Being the Hand."

"I am being the Hand." His fingers moved down the small of your back, warm along your exposed skin. "But this hand would rather be doing other things."

For a moment, it was just the two of you. The crowd faded. The music dimmed. There was only his hand, his eyes, the promise in his voice. You wanted to pull him away to some quiet chambers and take advantage of his proximity.

Then a lord appeared, needing his attention. Then another. Then Maekar was there, pulling him aside with some urgent matter. He squeezed your hand, murmured "Find me later," and was gone.

You were alone in the crowd. You drifted through the edges of the ball, accepting a glass of wine, nodding to lords and ladies whose names you immediately forgotten. The Dornish gown felt strange on your body; too light, too revealing, every glance exposing.

A woman approached. Older, beautiful in a severe way, her dark hair streaked with silver. She smiled warmly.

"You must be the Prince's new wife. I'm Lady Blackmont."

You curtsied, murmured pleasantries. She seemed kind.

"And how are you finding Dorne, my dear? Overwhelming, I imagine. So different from the capital."

"It's beautiful," you said. "To see these lands is a wonderful privilege."

She nodded, then her gaze drifted past you. "Ah, there's your husband now."

You turned to see your stepson Valarr standing there, handsome and awkward, his smile polite. Lady Blackmont beamed at him, then at you.

"Oh he's not..." You flushed, "I am married to Prince Baelor, Lady Blackmont."

Her brow creased with confusion, then she laughed. "Of course you are!"

"They married not four moons ago." Valarr said as he came up beside you, his tone courtly and pleasant.

She shook her head, smiling. "My apologies. My old eyes... But it must be comforting to have family so close in age. Like a sister, almost."

You opened your mouth to respond, but she was already turning to Valarr, asking about his health, his own marriage plans. You stood there, glass in hand, feeling a fresh wave of shame rise up.

So close in age you are mistaken as his wife… The thought was an unwelcome one. The difference in years between you and Baelor was always at the edge of your mind; you did your best to ignore it. Now it rose up like a shadow, laughing and taunting you, reminding you what a silly girl you were. How silly a girl your husband had married...

The musicians began a new tune. Valarr bowed, held out a hand to Lady Blackmont.

"If I may, my lady..."

"Oh!" She was laughing. "What a young man!"

He took her hand and led her into the swirling mass of dancers, he gave you a sympathetic smile as they left, but it was no comfort. Your stomach was knotted with shame. You drank the rest of your wine and then grabbed another, sipping it fast. Trying to steady the shaking of your hands.

You watched as Baelor moved through the crowd with easy grace, greeting lords, clasping hands, sharing quiet words. He was in his element here. the Prince, the Hand, the favorite son. You watched the way men leaned close to speak with him, the way women's eyes followed him, the way he commanded any space he occupied.

And you watched her.

Allyria Dayne stood near the center of the hall, surrounded by who you could only assume were a gaggle of her admirers. She wore violet silk that seemed to flow like water, her dark hair loose and gleaming, her smile warm and knowing. She laughed at something a lord said, touched his arm, moved on.

And then she reached Baelor.

You couldn't hear the words, but you could see everything. The way her face lit with genuine warmth. The way he smiled back. Not in the polite smile he gave lords, but something easier, softer. The way she leaned in to speak, her hand finding his arm, lingering. The way he didn't pull away.

They stood together like two people who had done this a hundred times before. Two people who fit.

You weren't going to stand there and let that happen.

The wine made it easy, warm and bold and familiar. You moved toward them with all the confidence you could muster, telling yourself the flush in your face was only the heat, not the jealousy burning beneath your skin.

He looked up as you approached. His face did that thing you loved, a bit of surprise, then warmth, then something softer. His hand reached for you instinctively, finding your waist, pulling you close.

"There you are." His voice was warm, genuinely glad. "I was beginning to think you abandoned me.”

"Never." You smiled up at him, and for a moment everything was okay. His eyes on your face like you were the only person in the room.

Then you remembered her.

You turned, a smile still fixed in place. "Lady Dayne. Forgive me, I should have greeted you properly earlier."

Allyria inclined her head gracefully. "No forgiveness needed Princess. The demands of a royal tour leave little time for pleasantries."

Her voice was warm, cultured, effortless. She made you feel like a child playing at court.

"She was just telling me about Starfall," Baelor said, his hand moving gently over your waist. "The stone there catches the sunrise in a way that makes the whole tower glow. I told her we'd have to see it before we leave."

"That sounds lovely." Your voice came out steady. Good. "I've heard the Dornish coasts are beautiful."

"They are." Allyria's smile was kind. "Though I confess, I miss the cooler climate of the capital at this time of year. The heat here can be... overwhelming for those not accustomed."

Was that a dig? A warning? You couldn't tell. Her face revealed nothing but pleasant interest.

Baelor's thumb traced a small circle on your hip, a private gesture, meant only for you. "My wife has adapted remarkably well. Though I suspect she enjoys the excuse for lighter gowns."

He glanced down at you, teasing. This was yours. This ease between you, this private language.

Then Allyria laughed, a warm, genuine sound that you loathed. "Oh, I remember how you used to complain about court fashion in your youth. Always tugging at your collars, muttering about Southern summers."

Your youth. A version of him you would never know. A time when she was there, watching him grow into the man he is today.

Baelor chuckled. "I was an insufferable youth, as I recall."

"You were." Her eyes crinkled. "But you grew into yourself eventually."

They shared a look. Not romantic, exactly. Just... knowing. The ease of decades, of history, of inside jokes you would never understand.

Your smile was starting to hurt.

"I should mingle," you heard yourself say.

His hand tightened on your waist. "Stay."

"I'll find you later." You patted his chest, a wifely gesture, perfectly appropriate. "Dance with me when you're free?"

"Promise." He kissed your temple, quick and absent, his attention already drifting back to Allyria, to some more lords approaching, to the hundred demands of his role.

You slipped away.

He didn't stop you.

You grabbed another glass of wine as you drifted, not caring who saw, not caring how you looked. Not caring about any of it. The warmth in your body was starting to fray, giving way to something darker and hotter. Something that hurt.

You couldn't help but look back at him. He was already deep in conversation with her and another older looking man, nodding to some request, listening with all his usual intensity. She laughed at something he said and he smiled… that real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes.

You drank more wine.

"Careful, Auntie. If you grip that glass any tighter, it'll shatter."

Aerion. Of-fucking-course Aerion. He appeared beside you like a bad smell, all sharp cheekbones and sharper smiles. You had done your best to avoid him the entire tour, your husband's least favorite nephew, a presence you could happily live without.

But the wine was in your blood now, and his mocking smile made you angrier than ever.

You turned, forcing a smile in place. "Nephew. How pleasant to see you. You look well."

His smile twisted. "And you look... drunk."

You shrugged. "The heat makes me thirsty."

He made a tsking noise, the sound grating. "Highly unbecoming of a future Queen. Drunk and hiding in the corner like some serving wench. My uncle should take a firmer hand with you."

The words hit like a slap. Your whole body burned with it, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing. Instead you forced another smile, the wine giving it a cruel edge you'd never known before. "And here I thought your mother would have taught you to speak to your betters with respect."

You landed a hit. You could see it in the way his eyes flashed. It was cruel, yes, his mother had passed some time ago. But you were tired and angry and, well, you weren't sure you could have stopped if you tried.

He recovered with a cruel grin of his own. "Funny you bring up my mother... She used to tell me stories. About my aunt Allyria. About how she and my uncle Baelor were almost betrothed, before the king had other plans." He tilted his head, watching you. "Beautiful woman, isn't she? My aunt."

You didn't answer.

He followed your gaze to where Baelor and Allyria stood, still deep in conversation. "My uncle has always had excellent taste." He sipped his wine, contemplative. "Pity about the timing. If things had gone differently… she'd be sitting at the high table with my family instead of..." He gestured vaguely at you. "Well… I'm sure you are fine enough.”

You turned on him, your wine sloshing dangerously. "Excuse me?"

Aerion just laughed. "Come on. I've seen you. All doe-eyed, always chasing him around the keep. It's rather pathetic, honestly."

You reminded yourself that this was Aerion. The most awful, poisonous snake you knew. You didn't want to play his game.

But he wasn't done. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, conspiratorial. "You know, my mother used to tell me another story. About why my grandfather ultimately chose a different match for my uncle."

You said nothing. Refused to give him the satisfaction of asking.

He leaned in anyway. "My aunt Allyria was married young, you see. To an older Dornish lord. A good man, by all accounts." A pause, deliberate. "But the marriage was... difficult. She never conceived. Not once, in all those years."

The words hung in the air between you. You felt something cold settle in your chest.

"Of course, the maesters couldn't say for certain whose blood was to blame. These things are never clear." He shrugged, feigning casualness. "But a royal marriage requires heirs. The succession must be secured. And my aunt..." He trailed off, letting the silence do his work.

You understood. You understood exactly what he was saying.

Can't have some barren widow marrying the crown prince.

He didn't say it. He didn't have to.

"So you've got that working for you, at least," he murmured, his eyes sliding back to Baelor. "Youth. Fertility. All the things a man in his position needs from a wife."

The words landed hard and sharp. Your nails bit into your palms, a tightness in your throat. He didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"So… do go easy on him." He turned back to you with that nasty little grin. "He's so very hard working. He deserves to unwind occasionally, don't you agree?"

You hated him. Hated him with an intensity that left you trembling, a white-hot fury that made you want to scream.

Instead, you gave him your sweetest, falsest smile.

"Go fuck yourself."

You set your glass down carefully, afraid you might shatter it. Afraid you might throw it at his head.

Aerion's grin widened. He raised his glass in a mock toast, enjoying your fury far too much. "Such language from a princess. But I'll take that as my cue to leave you to your... observations." He glanced once more toward Baelor and Allyria. "Give my regards to my uncle. And my most beautiful aunt, of course..."

He drifted back into the crowd, swallowed by it like an ember in ash. 

You stood frozen. The sounds of the ball swirled around you but none of it felt real. You couldn't hear anything over the roaring in your ears.

Your eyes found them again across the room. Baelor and Allyria. Still talking. Still laughing. Her hand on his arm. Giving her that smile, the one you always believed was yours alone.

She should be here. In your place. At the high table. In his bed. She was beautiful. Graceful. Sophisticated. His equal in every way. And she had known him for decades. Known the man he was before duty and war had shaped him into something harder.

What did you know? A few months. A handful of lessons. A wedding night unconsummated because you were a frightened naive thing.

You were just the replacement. The fertile one. The broodmare the family brought in to do what she couldn't.

That was why he married you. Not love, not choice, not the way he looked at you in the firelight. Just... this. Your youth. Your body. Your ability to give him heirs.

The wine churned in your stomach. Anger and shame and humiliation, a toxic cocktail, swirling inside you, burning through your veins.

You grabbed another glass from a passing servant, then looked around the room for someone to talk to, anyone, to distract you from the storm raging inside.

Then a solution appeared, tall and broad and strikingly handsome, leaning against the wall not far away.

He looked to be about your age. Strong featured, with dark hair and piercing eyes, Dornish by the look of him. You could tell he was a lord. Not the highest born, maybe, but close. And he was alone, no friends or wife nearby.

Perfect.

If your husband could find someone to occupy his time, why couldn't you?

The wine was boldness and fire. You finished the rest of your glass and smoothed your gown, feeling the fabric whisper against your skin.

The lord's eyes found you. Then they widened.

You gave him a smile. He stood straighter, returned the smile with interest. You let your gaze drift past him to your husband. He was still with Allyria, his body angled toward hers. Still laughing at some private joke.

You forced yourself to look away from him. Forced yourself to look back at the other man, the lord still waiting for you. He approached now, still watching you, an interest in his eyes that had nothing to do with conversation.

You forced another smile in place, gave the lord your most innocent eyes. He was handsome, you could admit. And you were so, so angry.

"Princess," he bowed as he reached you.

You didn't bow back. You kept your eyes on him. He smiled at you, confident and eager. He was going to make this very easy for you.

"Are you enjoying Dorne, my lady?" he asked. "The heat suits you. Your beauty rivals the sun."

"You flatter me, my lord. I don't even know your name."

He inclined his head, his eyes still on you. "Lord Santagar, but a beautiful princess like you can call me Emeric."

"Emeric." You repeated it slowly, letting the vowels linger on your tongue.

His eyes darkened.

This was going to be so easy. He was a handsome man. He wanted you. Your husband didn't seem to give a fuck.

"I confess I'm not used to the heat here." You reached up to fiddle with your already low neckline, just enough to attract his gaze.

His eyes drifted down, lingered.

"Would you mind terribly showing me the balcony?" You let your hand find his sleeve. "I think a bit of air would help."

He was staring at your mouth. You had him.

"This way, princess." He touched the small of your exposed back, guiding you forward, his touch already too intimate.

The balcony wrapped around the side of the keep. Torchlight danced over the stones, casting a golden glow on the couples that dotted the space. You could see the stars above, a sea of glittering diamonds. The air was warm, heavy with perfume and wine.

He was saying something, flattery and compliments, the words drifting past you as you moved.

You walked to the railing, trailing your fingers along the edge, looking down at the gardens below, lit with soft moonlight.

"The night is beautiful, isn't it?" you said, not looking at him.

"Beautiful," he agreed, leaning next to you. His gaze was hot on the exposed skin of your back. "But I've always wanted to see the far north. I hear the sky there sometimes glows green and purple at night. Have you seen it?"

"No. But it sounds lovely."

"The world is such a large place," he murmured, taking a step closer. "So many things to see."

You turned and gave him a small smile. His eyes were on your lips, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Unashamed. Hungry.

You felt none of the shyness that had gripped you in the past. No, that was all gone. There was only the fury inside, burning bright and hot. You needed Baelor to see how easy it was for you to find another.

"Do you think I could persuade my husband to allow me to travel more?" you asked, a note of false innocence in your voice. "Or perhaps when I am Queen, I can go wherever I please."

Emeric's gaze darted from your chest to your eyes. He was so very stupid and definitely not listening. "Yes of course."

You took a step toward him, close enough now that he could reach out and touch. You could feel the warmth coming off him. His gaze drifted to your mouth, his hand reached out to skim over your bare arm.

"Where else would you like to go, my lord?" you asked, low and intimate.

His grin widened. He leaned closer. "Wherever the Princess wa-"

"There you are."

The words cut like a whip, cold and sharp.

Baelor. Finally.

Emeric jumped away. His face went a bright, ugly shade of red. "Prince Baelor." He bowed, then again. "Your Grace."

Your husband stood there, smiling with that princely smile, polite but not friendly, a wall of icy detachment. He was too practiced to let his emotions show. His court face was flawless, but you had seen the real one too often now, you could read him, even when you didn't want to.

He was angry.

He was so angry.

But why should he be? He had nothing to be angry about. You had every right to talk to any lord or lady you wished, just as he did.

Lord Santagar was bowing again and again, like some sort of strange bird. "My deepest apologies, my Prince. I was merely-"

"Yes, I saw." The words were still pleasant, but the tone made Emeric's mouth snap shut. "If you could excuse us."

Santagar bowed once more and then, with a nervous glance at the two of you, hurried back inside.

"Princess," Baelor said, all polite formality.

You could play that game, too.

"Prince," Your voice came out steady, but you still sounded young. Childish. Your skin burned hot and tight.

"Are you having a good evening?" he asked, still cool, still formal, not the way he usually was with you in private. "You seemed to be enjoying Lord Santagar's company."

You lifted an eyebrow at that, just enough to make him clench his jaw. "Yes, actually, Emeric was very interesting."

His jaw clenched harder, the vein in his temple pulsing, a rare sign of emotion. You were pushing too hard, you knew you were. But your own anger still simmered beneath your skin. You were itching to make him feel something, anything.

His gaze was steady. "What was so interesting, precisely?"

Your stomach tightened, heat flashing through you. He couldn't talk to you that way. Couldn't make you feel small like that, in front of all these people. Couldn't act like he had any right.

"Oh, many things," you answered, matching his tone. "Emeric had a fascinating view of the world. I'm considering making him part of my household, actually."

His expression didn't change, but his jaw was hard now.

"Oh yes," you continued, a vicious joy blooming inside. "I've always wanted a travel companion. Somebody to keep me company when you're away."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

You stepped toward him, the words spilling out now. You were so angry, it hurt.

"Why? Am I not allowed to have friends of my own?" Your hands found his chest, curling into the fine fabric of his tunic.

"He was not interested in being your friend." He looked down at you, his voice still calm, infuriatingly calm. "And you know better than to flirt with a man like that."

You wanted to scream. Instead, you laughed. "Are we not equals, my husband? You can do as you please, but I'm not allowed the same liberties?"

His expression was a mask, a perfect, princely mask. But his hands came around your waist, gently but firmly pulling you closer. "What has gotten into you?"

"Nothing has gotten into me," you hissed, trying to push his hands off. But he wouldn't let go, his grip was gentle but immovable.

"Sweet girl ..." His tone was placating, but his eyes flashed. "Please."

Something about that hit hard.

Sweet girl.

He always called you sweet girl when you were alone, when it was just him and you, skin to skin, tangled up in one another, bodies joined and minds unguarded.

The sound of it was intimate. Private.

He had no right to use that here, now, when you were so angry and he was acting like he cared. Like he didn't have some other woman all but sitting in his lap.

You wanted to scream, or hit him, or kiss him until he bruised. He could see it, he was watching you with those eyes that always saw too much, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to explain.

But you didn't want to explain. You wanted him to know why you were upset. You wanted him to hurt like you were hurting.

"Why don't you go back inside?" You let your voice slip into pure anger and pain. "I'm sure you and Allyria have a lot to catch up on. I wouldn't want to intrude."

He went still. The muscle in his jaw ticked. "She's not-" he stopped and looked around, suddenly aware that there were other people near.

He let you go and stepped back. You felt suddenly cold. "We're not talking about this here."

He took your arm, his grip tight, and started leading you down the balcony steps and into the gardens. You wanted to rip away from him. You wanted to throw him off and storm back inside. But instead you let him lead, with a mix of anger and a strange sense of satisfaction that you finally made him react.

He led you through the garden, past the still pools of water and glittering fountains, high hedges and trees heavy with fruit. You could hear the laughter and music from the hall drifting down to you, echoing through the night.

He stopped finally by a small pool, the moonlit water rippling gently. He released your arm and walked a few paces away.

He didn't turn, didn't speak. He was silent, the tension clear in the line of his shoulders, the rigidness of his posture.

Your heart was pounding.

He finally turned. The anger was still there, written in the line of his mouth, the intensity of his eyes. "As royals, we do not get the liberty of making a scene. What you did back there, flirting with some lord, throwing a tantrum when I intervened, was childish and reckless and completely unbecoming of a future queen."

You bristled, the anger and shame twisting. "Unbecoming, or unsuitable?"

He let out a frustrated sound, looking away from you and shaking his head. Then he moved closer, his hand coming around your waist again, guiding you back until you were pressed against a stone wall, hidden from the paths by a thick tangle of vines.

"Look at me."

He took your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to his. You wanted to push him away, to spit and scratch and fight, but your traitorous body reacted to his touch. To his scent. To the heat and nearness of him.

"Allyria Dayne is just an old friend." He kept his voice low, the words only for the two of you.

"I heard she was almost your wife." The words felt like a confession, like you were finally laying yourself bare. "That you were in love with her once."

"I was."

His answer was immediate. Unapologetic. Then his hand came up, cupping your face, his thumb tracing the tears you hadn't realized were on your cheeks. 

"I was," he said again. "A long long time ago."

"You are not that old," you whispered, more tears threatening to spill over.

He smiled at that, just a little. "Perhaps not. But it was another life."

"Do you wish she was your wife? Someone your age, with a history together, someone who isn't... barely older than your own sons." The tears were falling freely now, a warm trail on your skin.

He shook his head. "No."

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to forget all about the way he smiled at her. The way she laughed. The way his hand had lingered on her arm, her waist. The history between them.

You couldn't. You tugged hard on his tunic, jolting him forward a little. "I don't want you talking to her again."

He chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. "My sweet wife."

"I mean it," you warned. "Don't laugh at me, Baelor. I won't be made a fool of."

His thumb stroked the edge of your mouth, soft and tender, a counterpoint to the firm hand at your waist, holding you against the stone. "I must speak to her. We are visiting her lands. She is a valuable ally."

"I'm sure." You bit the words out.

He gave you a wry look. "She is not the enemy."

"She's beautiful." You weren't sure why you said it. But the words slipped out, unbidden and you couldn't look him in the eyes. "She's elegant and sophisticated and-"

"So are you." He caught your chin, made you meet his gaze. "You are kind. Thoughtful. Brilliant. And so beautiful you leave me breathless."

Your hands loosened in his tunic, the anger giving way to something else, a softer, shyer feeling, a tenderness that felt so fragile.

"You are my choice. Do you understand?" His thumb grazed the swell of your lip. "No other woman compares."

"Even so," You had to know, had to be certain, "Have you ... ever ... with her..." You trailed off, unsure how to ask it without sounding foolish.

His gaze held yours. "Have I ever taken Lady Dayne to bed?" He finished your sentence. You felt your skin heat up. "Is that what you are asking, my princess?"

Your face was aflame but you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

Something flickered across his face. Not guilt, exactly. Something older. More complicated.

"Yes," he said quietly.

The word hit you like a physical blow. You went cold. Tried to pull away again, but his hand tightened on your waist, holding you in place.

"Once," he continued, his voice low, steady. "A very long time ago. Before my first marriage. Before I understood many things."

"She was the first." Your voice was hollow, empty.

"Yes."

You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The confirmation was somehow worse than the suspicion had been.

He watched your face, at the way your expression crumpled, his heart breaking a little. He knew it had hurt you. He wished you hadn't asked. Wished he hadn't answered.

"We were young. I was perhaps seventeen. She came to court with her family for a tourney. We spent an evening together in the gardens. Wine, summer and foolishness." He paused. "A lifetime ago."

You tried to imagine it, this man you loved as a boy, carefree and impetuous, taking the hand of beautiful Allyria and leading her away to some quiet corner. Then an image came, unbidden and unwelcome, an image of his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin.

Your throat went tight, and your anger returned, hot and painful, burning away the soft, fragile feelings.

"On second thought, I think I will go find Emeric." You tried to wrench free, but his arm was iron around you, holding you in place. "I'm sure he would be happy to-"

"Careful," Baelor's voice was soft. Dangerous. "I don't enjoy you being on a first name basis with a man who would like nothing more than to take you to his bed."

"Why shouldn't I?" You hissed, your own temper rising. "You're doing the same thing with her."

"I am not." He leaned close, his lips inches from yours. "I already have a wife. One I love very much. One who has my complete and utter loyalty."

You looked away, your cheeks flaming, shame and anger and a desperate, aching need warring inside.

His fingers curled around your chin, guiding your face back to his. "Does that answer your question?" he asked softly.

"Not entirely." Your voice came out small, a little uncertain.

He waited, giving you the time to work out the words, to find the courage.

"Was it ... better? Then with me?" You whispered the words. You hated the question as soon as you asked it, the childishness, the insecurity.

He chuckled, low and warm, a vibration that traveled straight through you. "Much, much worse."

You blinked, the answer surprising you.

"Sweet girl," he said it the right way now, the words soft and reverent. "I was a boy then, not a man. All I remember is fumbling in the dark, too much wine, and her giggling because I couldn't find my way inside her."

Your lips twitched. You wanted to smile. You didn't.

"I'm being serious." He was grinning now, a rare, true grin, the kind he had when you were alone, the two of you tangled up and naked and breathless. "I barely lasted a minute. It was the most mortifying experience of my youth."

You couldn't help it, a little giggle slipped out.

His grin widened, his hand sliding from your waist to the curve of your ass, lifting your thigh up and over his hip, pulling you tighter against him. You could feel him, half-hard and firm through the silk.

"That was before I had any idea what to do with a woman." He spoke softly, his voice rough. "Before I learned how to bring pleasure."

You let out a shaky breath, feeling him rock into you, the friction delicious, making heat bloom between your thighs. "So you don't wish to be with her..." You whispered softly.

"What put this thought in your head?" His breath was warm against your neck, his lips skimming your skin. "Did you think I was going to toss you aside and go run off with her into the night?"

You were flustered. Flustered and aroused and wanting. But not quite ready to give up. "She's your... type."

He laughed. A true laugh, one you felt rumble through his chest. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Is she?"

You nodded, swallowing, trying to focus through the feel of his hand sliding up your thigh, lifting your skirts, finding the skin beneath.

"So does that mean this Emeric is your type?" He asked, a hint of disgust in the way he said the name. "You were certainly quick to take his arm."

"Baelor," you protested. He kissed you again, cutting off the rest.

His teeth nipped your ear. "What was that, sweet girl?"

You swallowed. "He... wasn't... I mean..."

He pulled back, his eyes dancing, a playful light in his gaze.

"I wasn't thinking." You finished, trying to hold onto some shred of dignity.

"I haven't felt that in years. That burning need to remove another man's hands from what's mine." He leaned forward, nuzzling your neck. "You're a dangerous woman."

"Am I?" You gasped as his teeth grazed your skin, his hips pressing you against the wall.

"Very." He nipped again, harder. "Wars have started over less."

You laughed, the sound turning into a whimper as his lips found your ear.

"And you're all mine." The word was low, soft. But you felt it, heavy between your legs, that low-burning flame rising, a flare of need and heat that left you trembling, desperate.

You clung to his arms, your breathing uneven, "Yours."

"Always." He whispered it against your lips, soft, but certain, before capturing your mouth with his.

His kiss was gentle, at first, but it quickly deepened. His tongue swept inside, teasing yours, his teeth nipping at your lower lip. You let out a soft sound, a gasp, and he kissed you deeper, hungrier.

You realized then, dimly, that you could still be found. Anyone could pass by and see you, their future king and queen pressed together in a darkened garden, his hand beneath your skirts, the other tangled in your hair, his mouth hot and urgent.

"I thought you were concerned about making a scene." Your voice was a little shaky, breathless.

"Yes." He kissed his way down your jaw, his hands sliding over your skin, making your thoughts scatter.

"Shouldn't we stop?" You were panting now, the need building inside, making it hard to think.

"Absolutely not." His voice was low, almost a growl, his hands pushing your skirts higher, baring the soft flesh of your thighs.

"People might see."

"Let them."

He was kissing your neck again, his teeth grazing the tender spot just below your ear, his hand drifting higher, under your silk skirts and over the thin fabric of your smallclothes, pressing the center of you with his palm.

You gasped, then let out a little whimper, arching into his touch. He let out a soft curse and pushed the thin fabric aside, his fingers finding the wetness gathered there, the sensitive spots.

"Oh," you were having trouble speaking, your legs trembling as he began moving his fingers in small circles, his mouth hot on your neck.

"Look at you," he murmured against your skin. "So wet for me. After all that anger."

You wanted to snap back, to tell him the anger was still there, simmering beneath the wanting. But then his fingers pressed deeper and the words dissolved into a moan.

"I was angry too," he admitted, his voice low. "Watching you let him touch you. Knowing he was imagining..." He didn't finish. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and his fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made your vision blur.

"Baelor-"

"Mine."

"Yours." You panted it out, the word dissolving into a gasp as you felt the cold press of his rings against your skin, you tightened around his fingers, pulling him closer, deeper.

"So perfect," he groaned, his other hand still holding up your thigh, rocking his hips into you. "I can feel you squeezing my fingers, sweet girl."

Your nails dug into his shoulders. Your body was wound with heat and pressure, pleasure coiling inside, tightening, building, and his fingers and the low rumble of his voice and the friction of him pressed against you was all too much.

A moan slipped out, louder than you meant, and his mouth covered yours, swallowing the sound. 

"Shh, my sweet wife," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. "If you make too much noise they'll hear."

You flushed, but you couldn't think, could only rock into his touch. His eyes were dark, intense, watching you as his fingers worked you in small, insistent circles.

You tried, clenching your teeth and digging your fingers into his arms.

"I know," he murmured, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "You need more."

He withdrew his fingers and you made a sound of protest, but then he was lifting you, both thighs around his hips, your back against the rough stone. You heard him fumbling with his breeches, then felt the hot press of him against your entrance.

"Look at me."

His eyes met yours, dark and burning.

Then he eased inside you in one slow, steady thrust.

The sound you made was too loud, you knew it, but you couldn't help it. The stretch of him, the fullness, the weeks of wanting finally satisfied. He pressed his hand over your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath coming in harsh pants.

"Quiet," he breathed. "Remember?"

You nodded, your eyes locked on his.

His hands slid down, cupping the swell of your backside, fingers spreading wide to support your weight. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, and he hitched you higher, his palms kneading gently as he settled you against him.

"There," he murmured, his voice thick. "That's it."

He didn't thrust. He rolled his hips instead, a slow, rocking motion that pressed him deeper without ever fully withdrawing. Your hands found his shoulders, then his jaw, pulling his mouth to yours. The kiss was unhurried, a sliding of lips and breath that matched the rhythm of his body.

You could feel the way his fingers flexed against your skin with each shift of his hips, the small, unsteady sounds he made against your mouth.

"I've got you," he whispered, and it sounded like relief.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape. The stone was rough against your back and he pulled you closer, his palms sliding down the backs of your thighs, then back up to grip your hips, steadying you.

But the weeks of wanting were still there, coiled beneath your skin. The jealousy. The anger. The desperate need to feel him, to keep him.

You rocked your hips forward, pulling him deeper, and a low sound rumbled in his chest.

"More," you breathed against his lips.

His eyes darkened. One hand left your hip, sliding up your side, your ribs, your throat, then his palm pressed flat against your mouth, fingers splaying across your cheek. The weight of it, the warmth, the slight press against your lips, it sent a jolt straight through you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze heavy-lidded, his chest heaving.

"You want more?" His voice was low, rougher now. "Then take it."

He rocked into you harder, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that was no longer gentle. His hand stayed firm over your mouth, muffling the sounds that wanted to tear out of you. The other hand gripped your backside, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

This wasn't the slow, careful husband who had taught you to find pleasure. This was the man who had watched you flirt with another man. The man who had been sleeping beside you for weeks without touching you. The man who was, perhaps, just as desperate as you were.

You met him thrust for thrust, your legs locked around him. The stone scraped your shoulders, but you didn't care. You wanted to feel this tomorrow. Wanted the memory of it pressed into your skin.

"You feel so good," he groaned. "So fucking good. I've thought about this every night. Every night, lying next to you, wanting-"

He didn't finish. His hips snapped forward, even harder this time, and the words dissolved into a low groan. It felt dirty and primal and deliciously rough and the thought that you were out in the open, anyone could walk by and hear or see drove the pleasure higher.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe, trying not to cry out. His own control was starting to slip, the hard snap of his hips jolting your whole body.

"Now," he growled against your ear. "Now, sweet girl. Come for me now."

And you did.

It crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under, stealing your breath, your sight, your thoughts. Your body seized, your inner walls clenching around him, and you heard yourself make a sound that was almost a scream before his hand pressed harder, muffling it against his palm.

He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you.

His forehead was pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, the night air cool against your overheated skin. His hand had fallen away from your mouth, and you realized distantly that your legs were still wrapped around his hips, his body still pinning you against the wall.

Slowly, he lowered you to the ground. Your legs buckled immediately. He caught you, one arm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the stone.

"Careful," he chuckled, his hair tousled, his eyes bright.

You reached up and fixed it, smoothing it back into place, while he tucked himself away and rearranged his clothing.

"Are you alright?" His hands slid down your sides, his fingers curling around the silk at your waist, straightening the dress.

You nodded. You felt... different. Lighter. Some weight gone from your chest. But still, not quite ready to look him in the eye.

"I don't like arguing with you," you murmured, fussing with the edge of his tunic.

"Good." His finger caught your chin, tilted your face up to his.

"You're smug," you told him, narrowing your eyes.

"Of course." He leaned down and kissed the tip of your nose. "I just felt you come apart around me. What am I supposed to be?"

"Baelor!" You protested, feeling yourself blush.

He chuckled, brushing a soft kiss to your lips. "My sweet, blushing wife."

Your cheeks grew warmer. "I'm not blushing."

"No?" He raised an eyebrow, his thumbs moving over the heated skin.

"Stop." You tried to turn away, but he caught your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

"Come, I promised you a dance."

You looked down at yourself, your wrinkled, half-ruined dress, his creased and rumpled tunic. "We look a mess."

"Doesn't matter." He pressed a kiss to your hand, his gaze lingering on your face, soft and warm. "It's Dorne."

He led you back towards the balcony steps, your hand resting in the crook of his arm. Other couples were sitting quietly along the edges, enjoying the warmth, the stars, the quiet. A few people glanced over as you passed, and you noticed several pairs of eyes following you, whispers, the odd bit of laughter.

Before the steps was a stone fountain, the water flowing, rippling softly in the moonlight. And there, standing beside it with a cup of wine in hand, was Allyria Dayne.

She looked up as you approached. Her eyes moved from Baelor's face to yours, then down to your rumpled gown and his wrinkled tunic. Her expression went from surprise to then something that might have been amusement, then a warmth that looked genuine.

Baelor's hand slid down your back, a soft caress, fingers splaying across the small and pulling you closer to his side. You looked up at him, and his eyes met yours, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He nodded a greeting to Allyria. "Lady Dayne."

"Prince Baelor." Her tone was amused, a hint of laughter. 

"Lady Dayne." Your voice came out steady, calm. You smiled at her, not the sharp, jealous smile from earlier, but something simpler. Something that felt almost like grace. "The gardens are lovely tonight. I hope you're enjoying the evening."

"I am," she said, her smile widening. "Thank you."

He looked down at you, pride clear in his gaze. "My wife has promised me a dance."

"Don't let me stop you." Allyria lifted her wine glass in a salute. "The music is still playing."

You smiled at her, feeling something settle in your chest, and turned, taking the arm your husband offered.

The two of you climbed the steps, leaving Lady Dayne and her wine glass by the fountain.

"That was remarkably composed of you." He murmured it in your ear.

"I'm learning to navigate these sorts of things." You kept your tone light and playful.

"That is good," he warned. "Because I have a whole line up of former lovers all waiting for their chance."

You huffed a laugh. "You jest."

"Perhaps," his lips twitched, and the music washed over the two of you as you entered the ballroom, a sweet, lilting melody.

You swiped at his chest, but his hands were already reaching for yours, guiding them up, around his neck. His own fell to your waist, pulling you close, and the two of you began to sway.

"You really have no idea, do you?" he murmured, his gaze warm, his fingers splayed on the small of your back.

"About what?"

"The effect you have." His hands slid lower, over the curve of your ass.

"Baelor," you tried to push him away, but he held firm, pulling you tighter, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"On me."

He kissed you, then. Soft, sweet. His lips lingered against yours, brushing, teasing. He pulled back just enough to speak.

"Or the way men look at you."

"Which men?" You asked, breathless, a little dizzy.

"All of them." His mouth found your neck, the hollow between your shoulder and collarbone.

"You're making that up."

"Am I?" He murmured against your skin. "Lord Santagar is watching you right now."

"He is not." You looked around the room, your cheeks flushed.

"He is." He laughed, low and warm, and spun you, the two of you twirling to the soft, sweet strains of music.

"Well he can't have me," you teased.

"No," his grip tightened on your waist. "He can't."

 You were still learning. But with his arms around you, his heart beating in time with yours; this lesson you already knew by heart.

{Lesson One} {Lesson Two} {Lesson Three} {Lesson Four}

[jagiellonczyk]

Bertie Carvel at the HBO Max Launch Party

25 March 2026 | London, England.

[wholoveseggs]

You can’t be asking who wants lesson four WE ALL DO. WE ARE ALL WAITING FOR IT.

Lesson Four

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Baelor Targaryen x f!Reader} Weeks into your marriage, you've learned to take what you want. But after duty pulls him away mid-lesson, you overhear something that makes you doubt everything...

♡♡ Your wish is my command anon  ♡♡

4.1k words - Warnings: smuttttt, age gap, cockwarming, riding, teaching, tiny bit of softdom!baelor, praise kink, jealous!reader && prepare for even more angst in lesson five...

{Lesson One} {Lesson Two} {Lesson Three}

The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Baelor's study, casting warm light across the chaos of papers and books and the man himself. You had lost track of how long you had been sitting in his lap. Long enough that your legs had gone numb. Long enough that the initial thrill of being here, like this, had settled into something quieter. Something domestic.

He was still hard inside you. Had been, you realized, for longer than you'd thought possible.. Neither of you had moved in some time. He worked quietly, you watched him and the ache between your legs had become something almost bearable. Almost.

This was still new, this position. Being atop him like this, filled so completely while he went about his business as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Weeks ago, you wouldn't have dared. Weeks ago, you barely knew how to ask for what you wanted. Now you sat in his lap with his cock buried inside you, and the most difficult part was staying still.

"You're very quiet," he murmured, not looking up from the parchment he was signing.

"You told me to be good."

His mouth curved. "So I did."

You shifted experimentally, just a small roll of your hips, and his quill paused.

"Sweet girl." His voice held a warning, but his eyes when they met yours were warm, amused. "I'm trying to work."

"I know." You smiled, settling back into stillness. "I'm being good."

He huffed a laugh and returned to his papers, one hand absently stroking your thigh where your skirts had ridden up. You leaned your head against his shoulder, breathing him in. This was intimacy you hadn't imagined before marriage. Not just the act itself, but this. The quiet moments in between. The way he let you stay.

But something nibbled at the edges of your contentment. The royal tour. He mentioned it again this morning, casually, over breakfast. From the Vale all the way to Dorne. Four moon's turn of travel. The way his expression had flickered when he said it, gone so fast you almost missed it.

You hadn't asked. You were learning that there were things he didn't share until he was ready.

"You're thinking," he said softly.

"Always."

"Care to share?"

You hesitated. "Just... the tour. Wondering what Dorne will be like."

His hand stilled on your thigh, and when he spoke, his voice held something softer. "Beautiful. Warm. Like nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms."

You looked up at him, surprised. "You speak of it fondly."

"I should. Half of me is Dornish, remember?" He smiled, but something flickered in his eyes.; there and gone. "My mother's homeland. I spent summers there as a boy."

"What was it like?"

"Later." He kissed your temple, returning to his work. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."

The dismissal was gentle, but you felt it nonetheless. You let the subject drop, settling back into stillness, but the thought lingered. Something about Dorne made him careful. You just didn't know what.

Time passed. The candle on his desk burned lower. The room grew warmer. You grew more aware of every small movement. The way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the way his cock twitched inside you occasionally, as if reminding you it was there. The way your own body responded, growing wetter, needier, despite your best efforts to remain still.

You tried to focus on his work. Really, you did. The scratch of his quill, the weight of his hand on your back, the steady rhythm of his breathing. But the ache between your legs was growing sharper by the moment, and the urge to move just a little became harder to resist.

Your breathing changed. You knew he noticed when his hand stilled on your back.

"Are you getting bored?" His voice was gentle, teasing.

"No." You lifted your head from his shoulder. "Just... enjoying the view."

He chuckled. "I wasn't aware there was anything interesting to see."

You flushed. "I enjoy watching you. It's calming."

"Calming, is it?" His eyes danced with amusement.

"Yes. Seeing you in your element, I suppose."

"My element is a messy tower and stacks of paper that never seem to lessen." His mouth curved into a wry smile, but there was affection in it, too.

"You know what I mean." Your gaze shifted to his chest. "Seeing you at the helm. Making important decisions. Ruling."

He put down the parchment, the amused expression on his face softening.

"Ruling has become my life, but..." His thumb brushed the curve of your chin, and your eyes met. "You have made it so much sweeter."

Your face warmed, and before you could think, your hips moved—just a small, instinctive roll. The friction sent pleasure sparking through you, and you bit your lip to stifle a moan.

He groaned, his hand coming to rest at your waist. "I thought you were being good."

"I'm trying." The words came out breathless. "But I can feel you inside me, and I-"

"I know, sweet girl." His voice had gone rough. "I know."

He set down his quill and you felt a thrill of triumph. You'd done that. Distracted him from his precious work.

"You're learning bad habits," he murmured.

"From my husband." You nipped at his earlobe. "He's a terrible influence."

He laughed despite himself, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Gods, what have I created?"

"Someone who wants her husband's attention." You rolled your hips again, slower this time, deliberate. "Is that so terrible?"

His hands tightened on your waist, and for a moment you thought he might give in and lift you, lay you out on the desk, give you everything you wanted. But instead he took a breath, steadying himself.

"What I want," he said carefully, "is to take you apart slowly. Thoroughly. The way you deserve." His thumb traced your lower lip. "Not rushed between council meetings."

"I don't mind rushed."

"I do." He kissed you, soft and sweet. "You're worth more than rushed."

Before you could argue, a sharp knock came at the door.

"Your Grace? The council is waiting for you."

You both froze. Baelor's eyes closed briefly, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Then he looked at you, all flushed and frustrated, trying your very best not to pout; and a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.

"Duty calls," he murmured.

You nodded, reluctantly untangling yourself from him. You adjusted your skirts, trying to compose yourself, while he straightened his tunic and ran a hand through his hair.

His eyes lingered on your flushed cheeks and your lips, and he pulled you close, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up so he could kiss you. "To be continued," he whispered, the corner of his mouth curved up.

Then he straightened, reaching for your hand and raising it to his lips. "Wait for me." He didn't meet your eye as he said it. His thumb moved over your knuckles. "It shouldn't be long."

"How long?" You hated the petulance in your voice, but it couldn't be helped.

His chuckle was warm. "An hour. Perhaps two." He cupped your face, kissing you softly. "Think wicked thoughts about what I'm going to do to you when I return."

You laughed despite yourself. "You're terrible."

"I know." He kissed your forehead. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

And then he was gone, sweeping out the door with a final, heated glance that made your stomach flip.

You stayed in his study for a few minutes after he left, trying to compose yourself. The room felt empty without him. You ran your fingers over his desk, straightening a stack of papers, righting an inkpot that had drifted too close to the edge. Small gestures, wifely gestures. Things that made you feel closer to him even in his absence.

Finally, you left, closing the door softly behind you.

The corridors were busy with the usual afternoon traffic. Servants with linens, clerks with papers, a few lords and ladies you didn't recognize. You kept your head high, your pace unhurried, the picture of a proper princess. No one needed to know that your heart was still racing and your thighs were pressed together with every step.

The walk to your rooms took you through a less traveled corridor, a shortcut you'd discovered in your first weeks at court. It was quieter here, cooler, the sounds of the castle muffled by thick stone walls.

As you approached the junction that would lead to the royal apartments, you heard voices ahead. Low voices, meant to be private. You slowed.

Two men stood in an alcove near the window, minor lords, by their dress. One you recognized as a bannerman from the Stormlands. The other was unfamiliar. They hadn't noticed you yet.

"...can't say I envy the Hand, dragging his entire family and his new bride halfway across the realm," the unfamiliar one was saying.

The Stormlands lord chuckled. "From what I hear, he doesn't seem to mind that new brides company. Have you seen them together? The man can't take his eyes off her."

"Give it time. These old men and their young wives... novelty fades. And with what's waiting in Dorne..."

You stopped walking. Pressed yourself back against the wall, just out of sight. Your heart had begun to pound, though you couldn't have said why. Just idle gossip. Just lords being lords.

But you didn't leave.

The unfamiliar lord lowered his voice further. You had to strain to hear.

"Lady Allyria Dayne. She's joining the tour in the south. You know the connection?"

"The sister of Maekar's late wife? I'd forgotten she existed."

"Beautiful woman. Dornish. Around the Hand's age." A meaningful pause. "There was talk, years ago. Before Prince Baelor's marriage was arranged to that Dondarrion girl. King Daeron had other plans. Some say the Prince and Lady Allyria were nearly betrothed themselves. Some even called it a love match."

The Stormlands lord whistled softly. "And now she's joining the tour. Convenient."

"Very. She's been a widow these past years. Living quietly at Starfall. Why emerge now, unless..."

The words hung in the air. You felt something cold settle in your chest, a familiar ache that had nothing to do with wanting and everything to do with fear.

"His current wife is young," the unfamiliar lord continued. "Sweet enough, I'm sure. But a woman like Lady Dayne... someone who's known him for decades..." He shrugged. "Well. Wouldn't be the first time a Targaryen took a second wife."

"Poor girl," said the other lord.

Your breath caught in your chest.

"Mm. Such are the fortunes of court. She's there to produce heirs, the rest our prince can find elsewhere." The man gave a low, suggestive chuckle. "We can only hope our good prince doesn't stray too far from his young bride."

They laughed. Low, ugly sounds.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.

Footsteps approached from the other direction. The lords straightened, their conversation shifting to bland remarks about the weather. You pressed yourself further into the shadows, willing yourself invisible, and they passed without noticing you.

You stayed there long after they were gone, pressed against the cold stone, trying to remember how to breathe.

Lady Allyria Dayne. Nearly betrothed. Beautiful. Around his age. Someone who's known him for decades… Love match.

The words circled in your mind like carrion birds. She's there to produce heirs, the rest our prince can find elsewhere.

Was that it? Was that all you were? A young, fertile body to give him children while he had love elsewhere? With her? With someone who knew him, really knew him, not the naive girl who needed lessons in how to be a wife?

You thought of the way he hesitated when mentioning Dorne. The flicker in his eyes you couldn't read. Had he been thinking of her? Wondering how she would look after all these years? Counting the days until he could see her again?

The pain in your chest deepened, sharp and real. You pressed a hand to your sternum as if you could hold yourself together.

You tried to compose yourself. Be the calm, steady princess you were supposed to be. This was nothing. Idle gossip from men who had nothing better to do than speculate about their betters.

But the words wouldn't leave. They clung like burrs, digging in deeper the more you tried to shake them.

Your rooms with him were empty, cleaned by the servants. Your bed made, linens refreshed, you crossed to it and sat on the edge, numb.

A young bride. Someone to bear him children, someone who wouldn't be a burden, interfere with his duties, demand his attention. Someone sweet. Young. Pretty enough for a prince's bed. Someone with a quiet, simple nature, someone easy to keep in place, someone who could be replaced at any time-

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the thoughts. It wasn't like you hadn't considered his life before you. Of course you had. He'd been married. He had loved someone else, built a life with someone else, had children with someone else. You had known these things. Had accepted them.

But this was different. This was a woman who would be there. On the tour. In Dorne. Watching. Waiting. A woman who might have been his wife, if things had gone differently. Someone he once loved without any obligation to…

A woman who could still be his, if he wanted it so. And why wouldn't he?

The pain in your chest deepened, and you had a sudden, vivid image of him. Kissing her in some dim, intimate alcove of a Dornish palace, murmuring in her ear in that low, velvety voice he saved just for you…

The thought hit like a blow. A rush of hot tears came, but you swallowed them. You were going to be queen one day. It wasn't good for you to cry over every petty concern. You were supposed to be strong. Steady. Not someone who dissolved into tears at the slightest provocation.

You rubbed at your face, angry with yourself. You took a shaky breath and looked around the room. His room. A room he had shared with his first wife for many years. You looked at the wardrobe with all your fine gowns inside, hanging neatly, ones he had the finest dressmakers make for you. You wondered if they were similar to the ones she had worn. If he would think of her every time he looked at them.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you brushed it away. Angrily. You hated crying. Hated feeling weak.

You stripped off your gown, letting it pool on the floor. The air was cool on your skin, but you barely felt it. You climbed into the bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, and stared at the canopy.

He would come back. He said he would. An hour, perhaps two. And you would be here, waiting, and you would say nothing about what you heard, because what was there to say? I overheard some lords gossiping and now I'm afraid you'll leave me for a woman I've never met? It sounded foolish even in your own mind.

But the fear remained, a cold knot in your stomach that wouldn't loosen.

The sun slipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a darkening shade of violet, streaked with pale orange clouds. A servant came in to light the candles, giving you a curious, sidelong glance. You pretended not to notice.

Time passed. You didn't know how much.

Then the door opened.

He appeared in the doorway, looking tired but happy. His eyes moved over you, taking in your state of undress, the covers pulled up to your chin. He raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth tugging up. "Missed me that badly?"

You nodded, unable to speak, and he gave you a soft, teasing smile.

"Well, I suppose I'm not entirely opposed to that sort of welcome."

He shrugged off his clothes and crossed to the bed, sliding in beside you. He was beautiful in the candlelight. Your husband. A man who could have any woman he wanted. A man who might have had another, if things had been different.

The thought was a knife in your chest.

He pulled you against him and kissed your neck, murmuring about his meeting, the tour, something about packing and preparing. You were barely listening, lost in dark thoughts and sharp fears you couldn't rationalize but couldn't ignore.

You could see her when you closed your eyes. This Lady Dayne. Beautiful, graceful, poised. The picture of a perfect noblewoman. She would know how to please him without being taught. Wouldn't need lessons in anything. Wouldn't lie awake worrying that she wasn't enough.

You climbed into his lap, desperate for him. To remind yourself you were his wife. You were here, in his bed, in his arms. Your heart raced, but it wasn't with pleasure. It was an overwhelming fear of being cast aside, of having nothing to offer him but your own desperate wanting.

You pushed down the fear and kissed him harder. He gave a low, startled grunt of approval, pulling you close, one hand slipping around to squeeze your ass, the other finding the small of your back.

"Do you wish to continue where we left off?" There was amusement in his voice, his breath warm against your neck. "You don't have to be still this time."

You nodded, moving your hips. Trying to please him. He groaned softly, and your fear sharpened. You needed him, needed to remind him how well you could please him, how much you wanted him.

You reached for his cock, hard and ready against your thigh, and his voice came low in your ear, a little breathless but full of amusement. "Eager tonight."

"I just..." Your eyes stung with hot, frustrated tears and you blinked them back, focusing on his hands on your body, the feel of him against you. "I just want to please you."

"You do, sweet girl. So very much." He nipped at your neck.

You moaned at the words, at the feel of his lips on your neck. Then you positioned yourself, taking him in hand and slowly sinking onto him. The stretch was still new enough to make you gasp; weeks of practice had made it familiar but no less intense. You gave a long, breathy moan, then leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

His hands slid over your thighs, your back, the swell of your hips. "Easy, easy..."

You nodded. You wanted to give him whatever he needed, but all you could think about was Lady Dayne taking his cock like this, moving on top of him. She would be good for him. Better than you. Not afraid or nervous. Able to move on him like you were supposed to-

You took a shuddering breath and forced yourself to move, grinding your hips down in small, hesitant motions. He moaned, one hand sliding to your back, pulling you close, the other wrapping in your hair. You did it again, your motions growing a little more confident.

He murmured encouragement, his voice warm, and the warmth only made your stomach twist. What if this wasn't enough? What if you never learned to please him the way she could?

You sat back, putting your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. He made an approving sound, his gaze moving down to where your bodies were joined. You watched his face as your hips rocked in a fast, rolling motion, saw his eyes darken, heard a soft curse under his breath.

You wanted more of that. Wanted him to lose control the way he made you lose control. You moved faster, chasing that reaction-

Then his hands went to your waist and he pulled you tight to his chest. "Slow down, little love." His voice was gentle.

You froze, embarrassment washing through you. You'd been doing it wrong. Moving too fast, too desperate. Of course.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

"Sorry?" He pulled back to look at you, brow furrowed. "For what?"

You couldn't meet his eyes. "I was... I'm still learning. I know I'm not-"

"Shh." His lips brushed yours, soft and reassuring. "You're perfect. You just felt... far away. That's all."

His lips brushed the curve of your shoulder, the edge of your jaw, soft kisses in your hair. His hand moved down between you, finding the place where you were joined, his finger sliding along that sensitive spot at the top. "So wet. So sensitive. You like that, don't you?"

"Y-Yes." Your hips twitched, and he grinned against your skin.

"Go slow. Press down as you move, like I showed you."

You followed his direction, rolling your hips slowly, pressing down until you felt that sweet ache of being fully seated. A breathy sound escaped you at the friction, at the feeling of him so deep inside you.

"There," he murmured. "That's it. Take your time."

You moved again, slowly, deliberately, focusing on the sensation rather than the desperate need to prove something. His hands guided your hips, helping you find the rhythm, and gradually the fear began to recede. There was only his warmth, his breath, the way he watched you with such focus, such care.

"Like this?" you managed.

His hands tightened around your waist, and he made a low, appreciative sound in your ear, a little breathless. "Just like that, sweet wife. Just like that..."

You kept moving, slow and deep, and the tension in you began to build. Not the sharp, desperate tension of fear, but something sweeter. The pleasure coiled tighter with every movement, with every moan he made in your ear.

You couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop. You let out a soft cry as the pleasure crested, your muscles clenching and fluttering around his cock.

He murmured praise, his voice strained, his hands tight on your hips, guiding you through it. His own climax followed with a soft, breathless grunt. His forehead pressed to yours as he filled you, your breathing ragged as you moved together.

Then you slumped against his chest, panting for breath. He pulled you close, pressing soft, slow kisses to your lips. The sweetness of his kisses made the lump in your throat return, but this time it was different. This time it was gratitude, and love, and the lingering ache of fear you still couldn't name.

"Mmm..." His eyes opened and he smiled, brushing your hair back from your face. "That was..." He trailed off, searching for words.

You managed a small smile. "Good?"

"Good doesn't cover it." He kissed your forehead. "But you still seem far away."

You tried to kiss him again, but he held your chin gently, looking into your face. Concern flickered across his features. "Tell me, sweet girl. What's in that head of yours?"

You hesitated. Tried to gather yourself, the thoughts racing in your mind. "It's just the tour..." Your voice trembled, and you swallowed hard, trying again. "The preparations... and..." You faltered. The words were too sharp in your chest, too raw. You didn't want to admit you had been lurking in corridors, listening to gossip, letting it poison your thoughts. It would make you seem foolish. Insecure. Exactly the silly young wife they'd described.

"It's very sudden," you finished lamely.

The corners of his mouth pulled down, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Is something else troubling you?"

His thumb moved across your cheek. The touch sent a hot rush of tears to your eyes, but you swallowed them back. Held his gaze.

Your voice came out in a whisper. "Are you happy?"

The question hung between you. You watched his face, searching for any flicker of guilt, any hesitation that might confirm your fears.

His frown deepened, his eyes moving over your face. Then his gaze softened and he pulled you closer, kissing you gently.

"I'm happier than I've ever been," he whispered. His lips were still pressed to yours. "With you."

You closed your eyes. Breathed him in. You wanted to believe him. You did believe him, in this moment, with his arms around you and his voice warm in your ear.

But the words from the corridor lingered at the edges of your mind. Give it time. Novelty fades. She's there to produce heirs, the rest he can find elsewhere.

You let him pull you against him, wrap his arms around you. Let your head fall to his shoulder. After a moment, he eased you both down onto the pillows, shifting until you were curled against his chest, his arm wrapped around you.

He kissed your hair, murmured something soft and soothing, and gradually his breathing slowed into sleep.

You lay awake long after, staring at the flickering candlelight, listening to his heartbeat beneath your ear.

You didn't sleep well that night.

{Lesson One} {Lesson Two} {Lesson Three}

[chuluoyi]

heart of mine

- valarr targaryen x wife!reader

now carrying his child, your prince dotes on you with the devotion of a man utterly enamored with the woman he loves

genre/warnings: fluff, pregnancy, protective!valarr, lots of romance bc valarr is devastatingly in love, lover's quarrel, mentions of curses, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent

notes: a continuation to in one's heart of hearts but can also be read as a standalone. *sigh* i'm so in love with him

“My beloved, from this day forth, this heart of mine… is yours to keep.”

That was his wedding vows to you. And those sweet words would be carried by singers and spun into countless songs and verses afterwards.

They would have the realm believe you ensnared Prince Valarr Targaryen with some enchantment that he tumbled into love with you overnight and chose you as his princess consort.

But the truth is far sweeter.

He was the one who fell first, and he fell hard. In watching him love you so fiercely… you found yourself falling too, drawn by the love that had already chosen you.

In all the years you spent by his side, he never once gave you cause for disappointment. Through every joy and sorrow, Valarr remained steadfast, his love unwavering even as the two of you endured even the most painful heartbreaks.

And now, as he pressed his face against your growing belly, smiling giddily and mismatched eyes sparkling—

“My little one,” his voice was warm with affection. “Will you look more like your mother or me, I wonder?”

—you found yourself falling in love with him all over again, as you had done countless times before.

You let out a chuckle, your fingers slipping into his hair, gently combing through his white strands.

“I wish he’ll have your eyes,” you said, your voice fond. “A little prince who resembles you... yeah, I’d love that.”

At that, Valarr lifted his head that was on your lap, his gaze finding yours—bright, almost boyish. “My eyes?” he echoed, amused. “On the contrary, I think a princess like you would be nice too.”

“A princess?” you hummed, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “She will have you wrapped around her little finger the moment she is born.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m already hopeless where you are concerned. What chance would I stand against a daughter of yours?”

“Then you are doomed.”

“Gladly.”

You giggled and your husband only rolled his eyes, caressing your belly in slow, absent circles as though he could already soothe the child within.

“Did you hear that? Your lady mother loves having me doomed… and you haven’t even been born yet.”

Valarr had been overjoyed when he knew you were with child again, but he also worried. After two stillborns, he had sworn he would not see you suffer in childbed again, but now that his seed had taken, he was determined this was to be the last.

The heir of Dragonstone pressed a gentle kiss against the swell of your belly, his voice dropping to a soft whisper meant only for the child you carried.

“Prince or princess… it matters not. As long as you come safely to us.”

His protective hand lingered there, before he glanced up at you—his expression gentler now, threaded with the love he had for you.

“As long as you keep your mother safe too,” he added quietly, the cool blue and warm brown of his eyes blinked then, almost like a plea.

Your heart lurched at his words. He had always feared for you, and though there was something endearing in the way he held you so dearly, you could not bear seeing it weigh heavily upon him.

“Valarr…” You cupped his cheek, guiding him to look at you fully. “You must not carry that fear alone.”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing—only leaning into your touch, his hand moving to cover yours where it rested against his face.

“I would bear far worse, if it means keeping you safe.”

You knew he would.

For if there was one thing all of the Red Keep had come to know, it was this: Prince Valarr was utterly protective of his princess consort.

At your smallest call, he came. At your faintest discomfort, he was already at your side. There was no hesitation or manly pride that stood in the way. It was sweet to see really, but the servants scarcely had time to breathe before he was giving them instructions of more cushions, warmer cloaks, cooler drinks, softer linens—

And it wasn’t just the servants who noticed.

“Gods, nephew,” Prince Maekar grumbled. “She is with child, not made of glass.”

One afternoon in the gardens, as Valarr hovered just a step too close while you walked, his hand always ready at your back, his uncle, Prince Maekar, watched the display with a raised brow.

Valarr did not so much as glance his way, his hand settling securely at your waist in response. “And yet I would rather treat her as such than risk otherwise.”

His uncle snorted, which made him look eerily like his son Aerion. “You fret like an old nursemaid. I have seen squires with steadier nerves.”

At that, his father, Prince Baelor, let out a warm chuckle from where he stood nearby, the sound rich with amusement.

“Let him be, brother,” he said lightly. “It is a rare thing, to see a man so devoted.”

“Devoted? Bah. The boy looks ready to faint if she so much as stumbles.”

“And you did not, when your first was expected?” Baelor returned, one brow lifting.

Maekar fell silent at that—begrudgingly. And Baelor held back his smile. Unlike the others who may feel Valarr’s concern was excessive, he was proud with the man his son had become.

He still remembered it all too clearly—how Valarr, still so young, had stood vigil before the funeral pyre of his two lost sons. That was a grief even Baelor himself had never known, and yet his son had borne it with a strength that was both admirable and heartbreaking. Not once had he faltered or wept while the flames still burned.

Only when it was over did Valarr finally look at him—

“Father.”

And only then would he break. The composure he had held so fiercely gave way all at once, his frame trembling as Baelor gathered him into his arms. He wept like a child in that brief moment... but when it passed, as all storms must, Valarr drew back, steadied himself… and returned to you stronger, as though even his sorrow was something he had to bear so you would not have to.

His bold yet gentle boy. Baelor’s gaze softened as he watched you now, leaning close to murmur something into Valarr’s ear that made him smile.

The Hand of the King found himself wishing, with all his heart, for nothing but happiness for the two of you.

. . .

While it was him who was well-known throughout the Red Keep, there were moments where it was you who was being protective of him in return— mostly behind closed doors though.

“From now on, no more tourneys,” you had said firmly one evening, your arms crossed despite the softness of your voice.

Valarr blinked at you. “No tourneys...?”

“Yes,” you emphasized with a frown. “No melees, no tilts, no… whatever it is you men insist on doing to break your bones for sport.”

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “You would deny me my honor?”

“I would deny you a broken limb—or worse,” you countered. Your hand found his, squeezing gently. “Do you know what it does to me, watching you ride out there?”

His amusement faded at once, his fingers instinctively curling around yours, as though to reassure you.

“You would send me into early labor with such stress. Is that what you want?”

“Never,” he answered at once, his grip tightening around your hand, a faint frown settling as his gaze found yours.

“Then you will stay. For me.”

There was no hesitation as he kissed your palm. “Your wish is my command, my love.”

And that was how your husband cheated his way out of the lists for the upcoming celebration of his father’s name day. My lady wife worries for me, was what he told the small council as though that alone was reason enough.

. . .

Two days of lavish feasts, followed by five days of jousts, melees, and hunts held to celebrate Baelor Breakspear’s name day were as grand as it could be.

While your husband didn’t partake in any of the potentially harmful activities, the two of you still made your rounds through the nightly balls, as was expected.

“Are you tired?” Valarr asked gently, his hand coming to rest at the small of your back. You were only in your sixth moon, yet there were moments your breath came a little shorter—and he took notice of it.

You glanced up at him, thoughtful for a moment before giving a small shake of your head. “No…”

The soft tune of waltz had already begun and it caught your attention. You had always loved to dance. Turning back to your pliant husband, you looked up with a twinkle in your eyes.

“Dear husband,” you said sweetly, “dance with me?”

Valarr blinked, caught off guard for a brief moment. His gaze dipped instinctively to your belly before returning to your face. “Are you certain? You should not overexert yourself, and besides—”

“Besides?” you echoed, one brow lifting.

He hesitated and that was all it took for your expression to change, a pout forming as you looked away.

“Ah… I see. Perhaps you are embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed...?”

“To be seen with me,” you continued petulantly, your hand resting over the curve of your belly. “A woman grown fat and ungainly with child… I suppose it is not a pleasant sight next to the prince second in line to the throne.”

It took him a good three seconds to take in your words, and a smile spread across his face at the realization—whenever you were with child, you grew softly needy, seeking reassurance in the most endearing ways.

And every time, he found himself just as helpless against it.

His hand came to your face then, turning you back to him, and before you could say another word—

“Mm!” He captured your lips with his.

It was not hurried, nor harsh, but firm enough to squash any foolish thought before it could take root. When he drew back, his warm breath lingered against your lips, and a dashing smile on his face.

“If there is anyone in this hall worth looking upon tonight… it is you— my princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms.”

His thumb brushed along your cheek, mismatched gaze softening as it lingered on you—as though he could not quite fathom how you could think so little of what he held so dear.

“I would move heaven and earth for the right to stand beside you. You—and the child you carry—are my whole world. There is no one who could ever compare.”

Your breath caught slightly at the sincerity in his voice.

“You are beautiful…” he murmured, still smiling, his hand slipping down to rest over yours atop your belly. “More so now than ever. And I would count it an honor to have every eye in that hall see me at your side.”

The tension in your chest eased, your lips curving despite yourself.

“…Then you will dance with me?”

Valarr took your hand in his, lifting it to press a tender kiss against your knuckles, a roguish smile playing upon his lips.

“Always, love.”

And once more, the Young Prince and his princess consort left the court spellbound on the dance floor— dazzling them all with the unwavering devotion they so effortlessly showed one another.

Your union was harmonious… but even the sweetest of bonds was not without trouble in its paradise.

And this time, it was in the form of your husband conjuring terrible images inside his own head after seeing you together with the bastard brother of the king.

“You should keep your distance from him,” Valarr said, his tone stern, and he looked mildly vexed by how you merely crossed your arms before him.

“From Lord Bloodraven?” you replied, glancing at him with a hint of incredulity. “Valarr, I know. I’m not a child.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “Nor do I think you one. I have told you time and time again— Brynden Rivers is not to be taken lightly. Don’t exchange many words with him, he’ll twist your words sooner or later.”

“I know how to handle him and how to take care of myself!” you returned, your voice sharpening just enough to show blatant irritation.

The very notion that your husband thought of you incapable of navigating the court wounded your pride, and you looked as if you resented him, which Valarr took notice.

“Don’t look at me like that, love. That still doesn’t mean I should stand idle when I feel something is amiss.”

“And it does not mean you must hover over every step I take—you cannot guard me from every shadow you imagine!”

“I speak only of what I see—and what I see is carelessness. In your selfish pursuit to be a princess who pleases everyone as if that is a trophy in and of itself, you are too blind to the consequences of overlooking this.”

A heavy silence fell between you. You had quarrels before—small disagreements born out of concern that twisted into bursts of anger, and usually you would understand him.

But this time, his words pierced you too deep. Selfish pursuit? A princess who pleases everyone? Did he not see it? That everything you did was for his name?

Valarr exhaled quietly, choosing to give in as he realized that he might have been too harsh. “I only wish to keep you safe.”

“And I only wish for you to trust me,” you answered with wobbling lips, though no less firm.

Then suddenly, your breath hitched as the child within you kicked your ribs sharply. Your hand flew to your belly, instinctively soothing it.

“…I am tired, husband,” you decided at last, trying to remain icy and hiding the cold sweat that had run through your spine. “I should rest.”

His expression faltered, regret flickering across his face. For a moment, it seemed he might say more—but whatever it was, he swallowed it down because he feared that pressing further would only upset you more, and it was the last thing he wanted.

“Of course.”

You did not wait for more. Turning, you excused yourself, leaving him standing there.

. . .

The small council chamber that followed felt stifling just as it usually was. King Daeron sat at its head, composed as ever, with Prince Baelor at his side. Across from them sat Brynden Rivers—Lord Bloodraven—his pale gaze as unreadable as the rumors that surrounded him.

Valarr took his place among them, his expression guarded, mood still sour from that argument with you earlier. Though he listened and offered his thoughts when required, there was an edge to him that was apparent to at least his own father.

And when Lord Bloodraven brought up the next topic, his patience had nearly reached its limit.

“There is a matter worth noting... Among the smallfolk, a children’s song has begun to spread.”

Prince Baelor’s brow furrowed. “A song?”

“A foolish one, no doubt,” King Daeron added, though his tone suggested he already disliked where this was going.

“And yet such things have a way of shaping thought,” Lord Bloodraven continued. His gaze shifted to Valarr, giving him a nod. “They speak of the princess.”

Valarr stilled for a moment, before leveling his sharp gaze on him.

“Of her misfortune,” Lord Bloodraven went on, voice calm, almost detached. “Since she has yet to carry a healthy child to term, some have begun to wonder if she bears… a curse. And coupled with the whispers of infidelity with Prince Aerion before, it may be prudent to consider whether the princess consort remains fit to make public appearances amongst the smallfolk—”

To Valarr, that was enough.

“Words are wind, and I will leave them as such,” Valarr said, his voice cutting clean through the chamber, sharp as drawn steel, “But if it is you who are questioning the honor of the princess, or her ability to conceive...”

His gaze locked onto Lord Bloodraven’s, unflinching.

“Then I will consider it a slight against her— and by extension, against me. Mind your tongue, Lord Bloodraven, for I do not take such matters lightly.”

Prince Baelor watched his son closely, absently turning the ring on his finger. In that moment, he saw himself reflected… and yet not entirely. Where Baelor would have tempered his words, Valarr did not. He was bolder, brasher, and less willing to bend for the sake of diplomacy.

So much for the “prince among men” they so often liken him to, Baelor mused, a faint smile on his lips.

King Daeron exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once against the table. “Enough,” the king said at last. “We will not give weight to idle songs.”

Lord Bloodraven inclined his head slightly, though whether in concession or calculation, none could quite tell.

. . .

Today couldn’t have gone any worse, but fate really decided to test him today, it seemed.

Valarr had barely stepped out into the corridor when hurried footsteps broke through his thoughts.

“Your Grace—!”

He turned sharply. It was your handmaiden, rushing to him while trembling with tears streaking her face.

“Your Grace, we are looking for you!” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath, “the princess—she—she has collapsed!”

For a single, terrible moment, the world fell silent.

And then Valarr had broken into a run.

Fear seized him mercilessly, his steps echoing sharply against the stone halls as he made for your chambers, heart pounding with a dread that made his chest burn.

The doors to your chambers were thrown open without ceremony. Inside, the air was thick— but you were not lying still as he had feared.

You were awake, propped against the pillows, your hand resting over your belly, though your expression was still dazed. Relief struck him so sharply it nearly brought him to his knees.

“What happened?” he demanded from the maester, breathless.

“My prince,” Maester Yormwell greeted, stepping forward. “Her Grace suffered a spell of exhaustion. Too much stress, and perhaps too little rest, but all things considered… she is well.”

Valarr was at your side the moment the maester finished speaking. His hands found your shoulders at once, drawing you into an embrace— yet with a tinge of hesitation, as though he feared holding you too tightly might somehow harm you.

A shuddering breath left him, and your fingers lifted, curling gently into his doublet as you leaned into the familiar comfort of him, seeking his scent.

And then you felt it— the rapid pounding of his heart and tremor running through him.

“Valarr…” your voice still faint, your head swimming slightly as you looked up at him. Just like that, all your grievance vanished, realizing how deeply this had shaken him. “I’m fine.”

But he only shook his head, his grip tightening.

“I should not have argued with you,” he blurted, the words spilling out strained. “Not like that—not when you are— This is my doing. I upset you.”

“It is not—”

“I should have known better.”

“Valarr.” You held him a little tighter, grounding him. “I’m fine,” you said again, more firmly this time, before easing back just enough to look at him. “It was nothing more than a moment’s weakness.”

The blue and brown of his eyes wavered, caught between relief and lingering fear, failing to bring himself to believe it so easily.

But you were insistent in reassuring him. Leaning in, you peppered soft kisses to his neck, your voice gentle against his skin.

“I promise you… this time, both me and the babe are well.”

He drew in another shaky breath before pulling you back into his arms, holding you closer and burying himself in your warmth, as though he could not bear even the smallest distance.

“I’m so… so glad you’re safe,” he murmured against your shoulder, his voice muffled, but you could have sworn he was near tears himself.

And your heart warmed so much, because this man was still the same kind man you had sworn your wedding vows to.

Before you knew it, the time for your confinement had come.

The days grew quieter, slower—your world narrowing to the comfort of your chambers as the heavy weight of the child you carried made even the simplest movements a monumental effort.

And most fortunately, you were not alone in it. Brightening your days like the sun, Valarr was always there.

Far more than anyone expected of a prince with duties as many as his, he found his way back to you each time—to the point of stealing moments between council meetings, trainings and all obligations that had kept him away.

You sat propped against a mound of pillows, a soft moan leaving you as you shifted, your hand instinctively reaching for your aching back.

“I swear,” you muttered under your breath, “this child is determined to make a sport of my suffering.”

A quiet chuckle sounded beside you.

“Hmm? Already so wilful, aren’t they,” Valarr mused, settling himself on the bed before gently guiding you back—until you were seated between his legs, your back resting against his chest. His hands came to rest over yours, warm and steady, feeling the firm skin of your belly that housed his babe.

“This child takes after you, I’m sure of it,” you huffed. “I was never so troublesome, my mother can vouch for me.”

He hummed, his chin coming to rest lightly atop your head. “Mm, what a slanderous thing to say. I seem to recall otherwise.”

You tilted your head just enough to shoot him a look, lips pursed. “You are an insufferable prince through and through.”

“And yet,” he said, mismatched eyes twinkling and lips curving, “you chose me.”

You shifted slightly to settle more comfortably against him, though not without a faint wince. His hands went to massage your hips at once, attentive and careful as ever, his expression focused.

“You are far too stiff when you put on the face of Prince of Dragonstone,” you said playfully, eyeing him. “It makes you… rather frightening.”

“Frightening?”

“Yes.” You feigned solemnity as you placed a hand on your chest. “Terribly so. I fear I may be getting nightmares from it. A prince who accuses me of having selfish pursuits...”

You felt him pause, but then he chuckled, warm against your skin as he pressed a kiss to your face.

“Oh?” His voice changed—dramatic, almost exaggerated, as he gently took your hand and lifted it with mock reverence. “Then perhaps I must remedy that at once.”

You narrowed your eyes, almost bursting out in laughter at the way he composed himself into a princely air.

“Oh, fair lady,” he began, his tone rich with theatrics. “I find myself madly in love with you. Please become my wife. I can offer you fresh meat and wine daily—”

You snorted, swatting his hand away.

“—and soft sheets too,” he winked, leaning closer, a grin tugging at his lips. “What say you? Come with me to Dragonstone? I assure you, this prince is thoroughly harmless.”

Turning within his hold, you faced him with equal dramatics. “How bold of you, to make such an offer to a lady already wed.”

“A tragedy. I shall have to win you over regardless.”

“I fear you shall fail, my prince. My husband would not take kindly to it.”

Valarr’s grin softened, warmth settling in his gaze.

“Then... I suppose I shall simply have to remain him then.”

Your breath caught, just slightly, when suddenly he closed the distance. But this time, there was no jest—only warmth as his lips met yours.

The kiss was deep, unhurried—filled with a warmth and devotion and certainty. He nibbled on your lip, and you pressed yourself closer to him in response.

He shifted, easing your back against the cushions as he hovered over you, mindful as ever—careful not to press any weight, never forgetting the life you carried between you.

His lips brushed yours again and again, softer this time, and while he could not quite bring himself to stop anytime soon, he had to.

“My love,” Valarr murmured against your lips, voice threaded with something achingly tender, “if I had a hundred lives, I would spend each one finding my way back to you.”

When he pulled away, his gaze swept over you, the beauty of his two-colored eyes stilled you in place. His hand came to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

“I know more than anyone of what you have gone through.” His gaze was solemn. “And I only regret that I was not strong enough to spare you from it.”

The memory of that bleak birthing chamber and the grief of losing your sons made your chest tighten, tears rising—but he caught your hand, lacing your fingers together and guiding them to rest over your swollen belly.

“I swear it, there is nothing in this world that I wouldn’t cast aside if it meant sparing you pain. And if any hardship remains to come...”

The way he paused made lump rise in your throat. But then your prince smiled that pure, dashing smile of his.

“Then let it find me first. I will stand between you and it all. Be it fear, fate, or the will of gods themselves… I will not yield.”

Your first tear fell, overcome by the weight of his words, while his hold on your hand tightening just a fraction.

“I could not protect you in childbed,” he admitted, “but I will spend the rest of my life ensuring that nothing touches you without first going through me, for as long as I live…”

His forehead rested against yours then, his voice barely above a whisper now—

“You and our child are mine to protect.”

—and you smiled tearfully at what he promised as you knew it to be true.

“Your Grace, it’s alright… take deep breaths— Yes, yes! Just like that!”

Your time had come when on one night, your waters broke just after you’d gone to bed. You had woken up to persistent contractions afterwards, sealing your fate.

You had gone through this twice before, and you learned that there was nothing to be done when pain seized your womb with its merciless hold that made you cry out, except to let it run its course.

You lay on your side on the bed clad only in your shift, eyes closed, whimpering as another pain came over you.

“Valarr—” Your voice faltered, trembling with tears as you clutched your handmaiden’s hand. “W-where is he…? Has he— has he returned…?”

She squeezed your hand in return, promising you before she ran, “I shall fetch the prince, Your Grace!”

Though it was considered improper for men to enter the birthing chamber, Valarr had always been present during all your labors. This time, however, he had ridden into the city on urgent business just as your pains had begun.

And now you were terrified, haunted by the memories of the previous births that led to stillborns— and desperately wanted him here.

. . .

When Valarr was alerted with the news of how your pains had started and that you were asking for him, he marched back towards Red Keep with everything he had.

The doors to the chamber flew open with a force, and Valarr strode in, breathless. His gaze found you at once and something in his expression shattered.

“My love—!”

Your name broke from him as he seized your hand, his grip firm, grounding, as though anchoring you to him might somehow lessen what you endured. You scarcely had time to register his presence before another contraction seized you, fiercer than the last.

“I’m here!” He engulfed you in his embrace. “I’m here...”

But the pains came without mercy, one upon the next, stealing what little rest you might have. Your body trembling as the agony built and built— until your moans dissolved into anguished wails.

Valarr felt his heart splinter.

Your sweet face was drawn tight with suffering, your hair damp and clinging to your skin, your fingers crushing his as though he were the only thing keeping you from being swept away entirely, all the while withstanding the pain he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Guilt gnawed at him— he was the one who put you into this suffering, and more so when your voice broke:

“No! Please— I can’t! I can’t take this!”

He leaned close at once, pressing his lips to your temple, then to your ear, his voice low, tinted with grief. “Yes, you can, my love. You can. Don’t fight it… Breathe. It will pass.”

Hours blurred into one another, marked by pain and the brief moments of reprieve between. Through it all, Valarr never once let you go. His voice remained at your side, soft and steady, murmuring against your skin.

Until, at last, the maester’s voice broke through the haze.

“Your Grace—it is time. You must push.”

Valarr’s grip tightened around yours, and you bore down, summoning what strength you had left.

Each push felt as though it tore you apart, the burning between your legs rising until it consumed you as a whole. Your world narrowed to the searing, all-encompassing agony that made you feel as though you were being split in two.

“Oh Seven, it hurts!” you wept and your husband pressed another kiss to your temple, trying to soothe you.

“You’re doing so well.” His voice thick with emotion. “Just a little more… I know you can.”

And so you gave in to your body's demands. Knees bent, you pushed again, feeling your baby move down through your body. Again and again you pushed until the fire between your legs was unbearable, tears endlessly falling from your eyes—

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and unrestrained.

The pain surged to its peak in one final blazing rush, and with it came a foreign sound.

A weak, feeble cry. Your baby’s first cry.

For one stunned heartbeat, silence swallowed the chamber. Everyone stood frozen as the newborn was caught, while you collapsed back upon the pillows.

“A prince!” the maester cried, joy breaking through at last as he carried the tiny life to be cleaned by the handmaidens. “The princess has given birth to a healthy prince!”

But unlike the others who hastened toward the babe, Valarr did not move. He remained exactly where he was, his eyes never leaving you, who lay unconscious in his arms.

“Love...?” His voice trembled as he leaned over you, his free hand brushing your cheek, his heart lurching violently in his chest. “Stay with me—please—”

Around him, the noise dimmed, the celebration stilled into a breathless hush as all eyes turned back to the bed. They all saw their prince, who ignored his heir, for the sake of the woman he loved.

“Wake up,” he urged softly, desperately, his thumb trembling against your terribly pale form. “Please… open your eyes.”

A moment stretched with you staying still.

Then another.

And then—

Your lashes fluttered. A breath seemed to pass through the room all at once.

Relief hit the Young Prince so sharply that he buckled, and a broken sound escaped his chest as he bent to you, pressing a lingering, trembling kiss to your lips.

“You did it,” he whispered, tears spilling now as he pressed his forehead to yours. “You did it, my love. Thank you... Thank you...”

Only when he had made sure you were fine did Valarr finally turned to see his son. Carefully, he took the tiny, swaddled bundle from the maester and placed him gently into your arms, guiding him close to your chest.

“A boy,” he murmured softly, pulling you into his embrace again. “Just as you wished… Isn’t it something? We have a son…”

His hand came to rest over yours, both of you cradling the small, warm weight between you. You were utterly spent, your strength all but gone, and so you leaned into the steady rise of his chest. A breathless sound left you when the babe stirred and opened his eyes.

Cool blue and warm brown.

“He has your eyes…” you cooed, your voice thick with awe as you looked up at your prince, tears shimmering in your gaze.

This little one was too precious—perfect, with all ten fingers, and not cold like the ones you held in your nightmares. He had drawn his first breath in this world, and in time, he would only grow stronger beneath your care.

Valarr only looked at you. Not at the heir you had just given him— but at you, as though the very sight of you, alive and breathing in his arms, eclipsed all else.

Then, with a tenderness that trembled at its edges, he leaned down and kissed you again.

All those who bore witness to it—the maester, the handmaidens, every soul within that chamber—fell silent, for they knew that their beloved prince and princess had deserved this.

Their lives, once fractured by grief and shadowed by loss, had finally been made whole.

And so the years that followed would come to tell the same story.

Life, at last, had found its completion for the Young Prince and his princess.

Though Valarr had hoped for a daughter he could spoil and cherish as his little princess, it became plain that he doted on his son from the moment he first took him in his arms. The realm delighted in the little prince as well—he was cherished and adored as the future of the kingdom.

Yet even so… there was something all had come to understand. For all the love and pride Prince Valarr bore his son, it never rivaled what lived in his gaze when it fell upon his mother— you, his sweet princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms.

That though he was a devoted father, a proud prince, and one day would be a great king…

Above all else, he was still and forever would be yours.

[erwinsvow]

hopelessly devoted to you — viii.

summary: things are beginning to look up for you and baelor.

pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader

word count: 5.6k

based off of this! | masterlist

baelor has always slept dreamlessly.

for as long as he can remember, he was never plagued in the way that others were by the notion of dreams. dark and light visions, tormenting the mind of their creator, alternating between showing something completely out of their grasp and letting them taste it, if only for an imaginary moment, or a nightmare entirely, where you are pleading with yourself to wake up faster.

he’s been unburdened for most of his life. until now.

when sleep finally takes him—almost at the close of another hour since you fell into slumber, with your warm, naked body pressed against him and nothing but the sound of the fire crackling and your soft snores filling the chamber—he dreams for the first time in a long time.

more of the same, he thinks. 

that half-memory, half-vision of you in the gardens of your home, wearing that white dress that is so familiar to him.

in the dream, you do not look afraid of him. the nerves and fear have melted away from your pretty features, though everything looks blurry as if he’s watching through the sheen of tears before they’ve fallen.

you smile and laugh at whatever he says—whether or not it was good-humored, he does not truly know. but there is something altogether enchanting about the recollection. even in sleep he feels his shoulders relax, feels the guard that stands so tall in the face of all others rest himself for a few moments. 

you words are sweet and genuine. you do not lie or flatter, though he can tell you believe you should. you call him your grace most politely, as your septa has no doubt ingrained, but you look at him as though you cannot believe he would deign to speak to you.

no, he thinks, and the very idea of the thought melts into his muscles and bones until it’s truly a part of him altogether. we shall have to remedy that. 

whatever, or rather whoever, has conditioned you to feel this way needs to be punished. a lovely young girl should not be so burdened, should not carry so much pain the way you do. you try to hide it, and you do a very good job, but something in baelor alerts him that it is, in fact, just there. 

barely visible, hiding beneath the surface. something stirring, hidden under the cover of petals, like those fragrant yellow flowers in that garden. had you planted them yourself? had you grown them with love between your own hands? 

watching them bloom must feel extraordinary to you, if you had. from seed to blossom. 

he imagines, though he knows he should not, that he could do the very same to you. how you would bloom in his hands, blossom so beautifully that you would outshine any flower he has ever seen—

your stir in your sleep, turning towards him this time. 

baelor’s eyes blink open, though exhaustion sits heavily in his body. for a mere moment, the thought appears—he was always one to wake up first.

whatever discomfort and confusion he feels dissipates in an instant when he sets his eyes upon you.

your hair is undoubtedly tangled. it splays over the pillows and the bare skin of your back, no doubt nestling that intoxicating floral scent into the fabric. he can only hope it is fixated there permanently.

the sheets rest somewhere by your waist, and though baelor imagines he could stare you forever, his eyes can focus nowhere but your belly. 

it is just protruding now, though he can easily imagine a vision of you in the future. four moons from now your belly will grow large with his child, keeping the little girl he has long thought of safe and protected. no doubt you will be uncomfortable, and he will do all he can to remedy that, though he cannot deal with the source directly. 

baelor brings his hand there, for just a moment, on the warm of your skin. perhaps in a fortnight or two from today you will feel the flutters and kicks that will bring the both of you such joy. he can already envision how your face will light up at the sensation, imagines you curled up in bed beside him, just like this, with no more pain or worry. only you and he and the babe in your womb.

his eyes travel to your lovely face.

you sleep soundly, despite his hand resting on you. though he has watched you sleep before—that terrible night when you had fainted—this feels entirely different. even within just a few days of him regaining some of his memories of you—gods forgive him—the burden you feel has lightened immensely. 

that sorrow, at least in part, has left you. a certain hopefulness has returned, he knows. even in your sleep you look more at peace than he can ever say he has seen you.

even the version of you from his fragmented memories.

something inside of him feels satisfied. as though a vow he made to himself has been fulfilled, though memory of such a vow escapes him.

it is utterly infuriating. he has never once so much as had a portion of a thought that he could not easily recall. now memory and dream and recollection all merge together into one insatiable beast that he cannot separate apart, that he cannot overcome entirely.

baelor sighs, watching as the gentle light that slowly fills the room rests over you and allows you to glow before his very eyes.

the sun shines mutely through the curtains of his chambers, revealing that it is at least an hour past the nightingale. 

that is strange, because usually that is when malleon first arrives to check on him—

“your grace,” baelor hears, the doors of the chamber opening. the kingsguard on watch steps in for a moment to allow the grandmaester to enter. “how is your condition this morning—oh.”

the noise awakens you instantly, as you turn towards the sound. you scramble to hide yourself, covering your body with your arms as baelor grips the sheets and pulls them until you’re fully covered. 

“seven hells,” baelor mutters, as he meets your wide, embarrassed eyes.

he has never before had an urge to strike a maester until this very moment.

baelor looks up at him—the maester has spun around on his heels, facing the door, whilst the kingsguard—red in the face, he imagines—steps out quickly and shuts the door behind him.

“grandmaester, perhaps you can return for your assessment later?”

“o-of course, your grace. i apologize, my prince, princess, i could not have known-” the older man stumbles over words, muttering to himself about returning later, opening the chamber door himself to leave.

it closes with a loud thud, and baelor feels your body sink into the mattress beside him.

“i am humiliated,” you whisper, taking the sheet and covering your face with it. 

baelor wrestles the cloth from your hands, pulling it down until he’s greeted by the sight of your eyes, blinking fast, and your lips, which you have taken between your teeth again.

“you should not be,” he starts, holding the sheet away from you with one hand, lest you cover your face again. that he absolutely will not allow. he moves until he is resting on his elbow, his body facing yours. 

and what are you, if not a gift from the gods? 

the way you look completely in place besides him. how delicate and bashful your smile is. how you hold back laughter once you saw that he is holding back laughter. smiling and joyous in his bed, the sun raking over you until every part of you glows and shimmers, a reflection of your true nature, he knows.

he had possessed this already. four moons of it—though it feels now as though even an entire lifetime would not feel like enough for him. if only he could remember—

“what will he think of us? oh-” you stop yourself, covering your face with your hands. he pries those away too, gently, and holds them in place with one of his hands, resting on top of your belly. 

“he will think,” baelor begins truthfully, “that we have finally come to a point where we might be husband and wife again. a most awaited time. there is no shame in that.” 

“if he tells someone, though,” you say, blinking quickly. “the rumors would spread so quickly. i shudder to think what the maids would say of me-”

baelor can tell, perhaps, for the first time that he has unearthed another part of you that was somewhat unknown to him. how worried you seem about what others might think of you, what they might be saying. 

he has never much concerned himself with those thoughts. it does not seem like a particularly easy way to live one’s life. 

and yet, as you think it, all he can wonder is how he might ease your mind. how he can bring you back to the serenity of sleep you were just in.

“the maids will think we cannot keep our hands off of each other. i suspect they are not entirely wrong,” baelor says, and your expression changes. you giggle softly, smiling as you turn to face him.

“perhaps,” you say quietly. “how do you feel? are you well? if we find our robes quickly we may be able to summon grandmaester again-”

“absolutely not,” baelor says firmly, and your eyes fixate on his. your doe eyed gaze makes his chest ache. “i am perfectly well. he has already interrupted your sleep, he will not interrupt the little time we have together as well.”

“if you say so, husband,” you murmur absentmindedly, coming to bring your hands to the side of his face, tracing the hair of his beard softly. you do not even recognize that you have behaved so casually, so intimately with him.

helplessly, baelor wonders if this is what the two of you were like together before the mace took it away from him.

“how do you feel, my wife?” he asks instead, his eyes closing for a moment too long as he feels your soft hands on his face.

“as though i have awoken in a dream,” you sigh. you attempt to bring your hand back to your side, abandoning your touch, though he takes hold of your wrist before you can. he brings your hand slowly to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss there.

the numbness of sleep still possesses your senses, your eyes shutting. you move closer, slotting yourself against baelor until it is unclear where he ends and you begin.

“let me keep you in this dream, then. for as long as you desire,” he whispers. 

when he meets your sleepy, endearing eyes again, your lips curve up into a smile. your hand, still covered by his, is led down to your stomach, where he rests against your slight bump.

“has she given you any trouble? must i begin my stern, fatherly conversations already?” baelor teases, and you laugh, your lips pressed against his shoulder. he can feel the vibration of the sweet sound all the way down to his bones.

“none at all. perhaps she senses there is already enough trouble out here.” you say the words quietly, as though they were mostly a thought meant to stay inside of your head. then you hesitate, flustering for a moment. “oh baelor, i did not mean-”

“you do not have to explain yourself,” he starts. “unless you wish to say my name again. in that case, i should like to hear you.”

you bring your hand to his arm, leaning in closer towards him. instinctively, he brings an arm around your waist and holds you as close as he can.

“i only meant that… despite all i have put her through, she is strong. like her father.”

“strong like her mother. despite all that i have put her through, rather,” baelor corrects. 

“you were healing. i should not have gone so long without eating and sleeping. it seems so foolish now, as though that could have helped your recovery. i only-”

you stop, new tears welling up in your eyes. you blink quickly, staring at him, while he stares back. his hand comes to stroke your hair, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. you lay your head against his chest so he cannot see you, but he feels your eyelashes fluttering and the wet of your tears against his skin.

“only what, sweet girl?” he asks quietly.

“i was so afraid. that you would never remember me. that her and i would be all alone in this world.” the words are said faintly. any softer and he would not have been able to hear you.

baelor’s grip becomes tighter, wrapping around you as you melt into his touch. 

there is nothing he can say. of course that fear lived within you for those weeks, of course it still runs through your veins even today. it’s not even half a year, maekar had told him, that you’ve been his wife. in half a year baelor changed your life completely, brought you here and made you a princess, away from anything you’ve ever known. 

baelor cannot imagine how it feels for you. you’ve already lost your parents. the fear of raising your child—his child—like that, all alone. he looks at you in his grip and wonders how he might ever repent properly.

“you will never have to worry about that again. that is a promise,” baelor whispers, and you sniffle, releasing a quiet sob. 

you move aside gently, wiping your eyes.

“i am sorry. i’ve gotten you all wet-”

“come lay down, sweet girl. there is still one question i have not asked you.”

you comply easily, resting yourself besides him again. he keeps his palm on your belly, the heat of the skin there anchoring him to this world. something to live for everyday—you and his children—something to work harder for, to regain his memories for, that he might truly know how it feels.

baelor knows he is pleased. he knows how lovely you are. maekar has explained all that he could of the story and how it came to be.

but he still does not remember it. 

only the lovely girl you are now—the one who he has gotten to know so well these past few days. the one who cries at even happy words, the one who prefers apples to break her fast, who spent a fortnight by his side reading to him about daeron the first’s conquest of dorne.

“what question is that?” you ask, interrupting his thoughts. you blink at him slowly and he wishes to never forget, at least, this.

“what shall we name her?”

your expression brightens to something magnificent—looking at the sun with his own eyes right before him.

“i thought of it,” you confess with that sweet, maddening smile. “but i wished to ask you. it is your first daughter, after all.” 

“how are we so certain it is to be a girl, hm?” he asks, with a teasing lilt to his voice.

you look confused for a moment, your eyes revealing it even if your words do not. then it seems as though you cast the thought aside, smiling widely again.

“it is only that… we so often spoke of having a girl. you are not wrong, though, it could just as easily be a boy. all this time i have been thinking of the babe as a girl but-”

“of course,” he corrects hastily. “of course we did, my love. i was only teasing.”

“oh,” you sigh, curling up further against him. “o-of course. i am being silly. what names do you find agreeable?” you ask him quietly, closing your eyes and basking in the sunlight.

“i confess i have not paid it enough thought. valarr had come to me in a conversation with father. i have a book—where i had found matarys’s name. no doubt it lays in my study, somewhere-”

“we should go through that, of course,” you say, running your fingers up and down the length of his arm. your touch is soothing, as a balm might be to a wound. 

“rina means girl. she could match her eldest brother,” baelor says, and you dig your fingertips into his skin. “daema means violet, like the flower. that would be lovely. or perhaps elaeni. before the legend of the storm king, it meant melody in high valyrian-”

“all of those are lovely,” you say, though he can discern none are particularly to your liking. you sit up slightly and he mimics your movement.

“which name has your heart settled upon, sweet girl?”

“well,” you confess quietly. “in my head i have taken to call her naerys. i thought perhaps father would be pleased.”

something small yet strong moves inside baelor’s chest, just where his heart sits. a surge of love, stronger than that which he has ever felt before, rushes over him. he does not know when or why you had taken to calling his father by the very same title, but it pleases him more than he thought something so small ever could.

“i am certain he would be more than pleased. it is a lovely name,” he says, and you crawl into his lap quickly, pressing your head into the crevice of his neck. “as are you,” he whispers, his hands holding you in place, refusing to let go.

“i am so happy,” you breathe, the words a small flutter of air against his skin. “it feels as though i am still dreaming.” 

whatever sin he has committed by lying to you, baelor thinks, it was entirely worth it.

“forgive me, sweet girl,” he murmurs, before he can stop himself. you bring your face to his, foreheads just barely touching. you hold his face in your soft hands for a moment.

“for what, husband?”

baelor blinks at you, before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. 

“for suggesting such arbitrary names, of course. when you had thought of the perfect one all along.”

the radiance of your smile is unmatched to any glimpse of the sun baelor has ever seen. 

-

eventually, the two of you do rise from bed. he finds you a robe of thick, soft wool, telling you that those scraps of silk will not keep his daughter warm, making you smile all over again.

the servants bring warm bread and butter and those apples you enjoy so much for the two of you to break your fast in the privacy of his chambers. 

the morning has a lovely, slow start, and baelor wonders if this is what he can expect for the rest of his days.

he cannot imagine what, if anything, he could have found to complain about in the past. you bathe and ready yourself for the day whilst baelor has malleon come check his condition quickly. 

you had wanted to be present for the encounter, but he had convinced you otherwise to enjoy a warm soak in the tub rather than listen to malleon conduct his visit, which would undoubtedly yield no new findings.

you had reminded him to tell the maester of the progress of his memories, before departing with another gentle kiss to his lips.

the thought has not stopped haunting baelor since you took your leave.

“grandmaester, i have a question for you.”

“yes, sire?” baelor meets the elderly man’s blue eyes, frail yet keen. 

“when do you believe the remainder of my memories will return?” 

“my prince, i could not say. such cases are documented far and few in between-”

“if you had to guess. if i forced your hand,” baelor emphasizes, hoping malleon could understand his circumstances.

it is not just an eagerness to return to life as it once was. his duties as hand and as crown prince could wait a little longer, even as recent events slowly made their way back to him about the state of the realm. 

he could remember the last time the levy on grain was raised by the master of coin, only two weeks before the tourney. he knew the proposal between kiera and valarr had been determined by him and his father, and that had only been a year’s time in the past. he knew aemon had left for the citadel already.

all of these things had somehow worked their way back to him. and yet the one thing he desired to remember the most still escaped him time and time again.

“i have heard of a lord of the reach who had faced a similar experience. he had taken a fall after being thrown from his horse. perhaps i could send a raven to the maester-”

“no, no,” baelor interrupted. “that won’t be necessary. if you come to find an answer without… speaking to anyone of this, do let me know.”

“of course, sire. the matter shall not be uttered to any other.”

when you had returned, donning a pretty gown of cornflower blue, malleon was just taking his leave. you had smiled and nodded at the grandmaester, who had turned a remarkably bright shade of crimson, and left as hastily as his feet could take him.

you made your way to baelor’s arms with a laugh, wearing that lovely smile that he so wishes would never leave your face.

after he dressed, the two of you made your way to the feast room, where his mother had decided to host luncheon today.

he’s sat across from you, as is proper, though he desperately wishes they could forget about propriety for a few hours. 

now that he has had you beside him, he does not wish to ever let you leave. he is certain, even, that the food might taste better, that the wine might be sweeter, if you were sat next to him, instead of next to his brother.

the table is filled with the echoing sound of laughter and conversation before long. the conversation with his father mostly surrounds his health, though baelor knows grandmaester has been updating them.

from the corner of his eye, he notices his mother conversing with you. you look pleased, a little flustered, perhaps from all the commotion. your hand does not leave your belly, where the small bump of his child is visible through this dress of yours. 

baelor suddenly has an overwhelming urge to name this gown his favorite—though he cannot recall which was his favorite before.

he smiles watching you, no doubt telling his mother how you have been feeling, perhaps of the name you have chosen for the babe. she will be pleased, baelor knows, and yet—

you glance up when valarr enters, sitting down beside baelor. your eyebrows furrow slightly, though he does not know why.

“will kiera not be joining us, valarr?” you ask him, and his son smiles at you quickly, before looking away.

“she is not feeling well today. she sends her apologies.”

“there is no need for that,” baelor says. “have you sent for the maester?”

“no, no, she does not need the maester. i asked several times.” 

valarr does not say the words clearly, but it seems that you understand him all the same. you smile gently at his son, nodding in agreement.

“of course. would it be alright if i visited her after our luncheon ends?”

valarr glances up, his eyes shifting into something else entirely. gratefulness, perhaps, for your concern. for not making him say anything aloud.

“yes. of course,” he says, clearing his throat. baelor brings his hand to valarr’s shoulder, leaving it there until his son smiles at him. 

you will make a fine queen, baelor thinks, the thought possessing him hotly. your thoughtfulness does not go unnoticed by a single person, he is sure. without being told in clear words who or what to worry about, to concern yourself with, you just do. you know kiera needs someone, even if she cannot bring herself to ask. yes, he knows you will serve the realm well in that seat beside him one day—

“rhae, cease this at once-”

it’s not until maekar’s girls begin quarreling over who should have the last piece of lemon cake that baelor’s thoughts are pulled away.

his parents leave first—followed by aerys and his wife. rhaegal had not come, preferring to dine in his chambers with his wife as it was. the noise of their family was intolerable to both his other brothers for differing reasons.

“did he tell you,” maekar starts, bringing a slice of blood orange to his mouth. “of the tourney?”

“which tourney?” you question, looking between baelor and maekar quickly. 

another newly acquired thought floods him—you have never much liked tourneys. he feels triumphant at its return. the violence, the bloodshed. if he thinks about it long enough, he can recollect it. the tourney for our wedding, perhaps. i had broken a lance against maekar with your favor around my arm.

but you had covered your eyes for the remainder of the tilts—he recalls vaguely. a memory of your burying your face against him, shielding yourself, from whatever foolish knight had acted cowardly, done something untoward. the sound of a horse crying out in pain—

“father wishes to host a tourney. for baelor’s swift recovery. now that he has… regained some of what he had lost.” maekar’s violet eyes flick quickly to meet his, and baelor stares back, as if to say, be quiet. 

“oh,” you say gently. relieved or worried, he cannot tell. “it does deserve to be celebrated, i suppose. but a tourney so soon after-”

“my lady,” daella interrupts, and you focus your attention singularly on the young girl. “might we be allowed to name the baby? rhae and i have many ideas for you.” 

at the mention of her name, rhae nods along eagerly.

“oh?” you question, smiling at the girls. “i should like to hear what you think.”

“first, if it is a boy, i think daello-” and you respond in a fit of giggles, trying to conceal them and then failing.

another vision—the damned thing—takes hold of him. you and their daughter, little naerys. how you would hold her and kiss her and listen to what she said so attentively. making sure that their child never feels ignored or wears dresses too large for her for a day in her life. 

his heart begins to beat faster.

“perhaps i might bring the girls to their septa? on my way to visit kiera?” you ask, glancing up at maekar. 

“of course,” he responds, bidding his daughters goodbye, each with a kiss to their forehead. he pries from rhae a fistful of lemon cake.

you smile at baelor, walking around the curve of the wooden table, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. his eyes close without his leave, and when he opens them, you have taken daella and rhae’s hands into your own. his son leaves too, accompanying you back to his wife’s chambers.

the air still lingers with the scent of your sweetness. flowers and fruit, as always. his eyes briefly shut again, inhaling the aroma, before maekar’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

“you fool,” maekar snaps as soon as the footsteps grow silent. he looks at baelor with an odd, judgemental expression when he opens his eyes. “what did you tell father?”

“nothing,” baelor responds—because it is the truth. “i merely-”

“what did you tell her?” 

baelor’s eyes focus on his brother. he was not sure if it would seem so obvious, but-

“i only… wished for her to stop crying. it cannot be good for the babe-”

“you bloody idiot. did you repeat what i told you?”

“in… part,” baelor says, watching as maekar brings his face into his hands, groaning loudly. 

“fuck me,” maekar curses, running a hand over his beard. 

“do not-”

“whatever i told you were recollections of my memory. from whatever you told me five moons ago. there could very well be falsities tied in-” he hisses back.

“falsities? have i not-” they bicker like young children, baelor thinks, though this is not a matter of lemon cakes.

“your graces,” a boy that baelor recognizes as one of the malleon’s assistants interrupts. “prince baelor, the maester would like to see you again if you are not otherwise occupied.”

“fuck off,” maekar says, at the same time that baelor begins speaking. “he is occupied-”

“tell him i will return to my chambers in a moment.”

but when he and maekar arrive, it’s not malleon that greets him. it is the other maester—the young one whose name he keeps forgetting.

he almost apologizes to him, before biting back his tongue. your name is the last thing i wish to recall presently. 

the young maester, with sandy blond hair and focused brown eyes, comes to inspect the healing wound on the back of his head. he presses his fingers in gently, then deeply, making baelor wince.

“push in harder, why don’t you?” maekar chides, pacing by the window as he watches. 

“do not listen to my brother. he simply worries and does not know how to express himself.” 

maekar laughs bitterly.

“you’ll have a time expressing yourself when she finds out-”

“apologies, my young maester. remind me of your name again?”

“maester cayde, my prince,” he replies, though the boy seems to be… irritated that baelor had not remembered.

most unfortunately for him—baelor cannot bring himself to care. not when his mind is scattered with thoughts of you and cayde’s hands are bringing him to the precipice of a headache.

“have you enjoyed working with the grandmaester?” he asks quietly. cayde jots down notes of some sort before returning to further evaluate his healing wound.

“greatly. the grandmaester is a fine teacher. though-”

“though?” baelor questions. 

malleon had been at the red keep for as long as baelor could remember, though he supposes the sentence does not mean much now. 

he had never once found an issue with him. he was gentle with the children, calming and thorough during births. he had taught him how to remember all the houses of the riverlands using a silly song, that baelor thinks he recounts in his mind every time the topic comes up.

malleon must have been born in the riverlands, he thinks, before maester cayde begins speaking and distracts him.

“though i have felt as though… he is much too accommodating to the hysterics of ladies.”

“what?” maekar snaps. “what reason do you-”

baelor holds up his hand to silence his brother, if only for a moment.

“the hysterics of which ladies?” baelor asks quietly. maekar recognizes the tone, he knows, and he knows what is to follow.

the anger that bubbles beneath the surface. the way it weaves and furrows into the words, hiding beneath until it is ready to make itself known.

maester cayde does not know of any such thing.

“i only meant that i was taught at the citadel not to pay much mind to the histrionics of ladies of the court. that often it is merely a cry for attention.”

“and of whom do you speak in particular?”

cayde’s eyes move between maekar and himself for a moment. baelor presumes that he feels much like a prey animal trapped in a cage.

or—perhaps not.

“well, there has been one hysterical lady of late.”

“boy, silence yourself-” maekar starts, but he is interrupted again.

“you cannot be speaking of her grace, can you? surely you would not be foolish enough to disrespect a princess in that way?”

“o-of course not, your grace,” cayde says, his face flushing deeply. “but she is a lady. not-”

“her grace. how many times must i say it? she is a princess.” 

“no, your grace. she is a lady-”

“leave us,” maekar orders, and both baelor and cayde turn to look at him. “leave us!” the boy scampers away as quickly as his feet will take him.

“what was that?” maekar demands, and baelor rubs his fingers over the cursed wound. the tender area tingles with pain now.

“he was being disrespectful-”

“yes, he was. gods, have it. do you remember? you are the one who told us to address her as princess.”

“i know,” baelor shouts, standing up, frustration coursing through his veins. “i know, but i don’t. i know it but i cannot truly remember it. you do not understand how it feels. it’s maddening-”

“i… can never understand. and i am sorry for it,” maekar says, approaching him until he is near enough to rest a hand on his shoulder. “but you cannot pretend to know and then slip up in front of a fucking maester. and she will be devastated if she learns of the truth. why would you-”

“i know. i did not… i had not intended for it. it just… slipped out. and she was so pleased, maekar, you should have seen it. she lit up in a way i have never seen before. such a small sentence. and it quelled her fears in an instant.”

“baelor…”

“i should regret it, i know. i should not have lied. but it felt sweet on my tongue,” baelor grits, glancing up at maekar, meeting his violet eyes. “and to tell her the truth would punish her further. there is no reason to-”

“besotted fool,” maekar says quietly, without nearly any of the bark he is so used to his little brother possessing. instead, baelor thinks, perhaps some small semblance of understanding grows within him. “we might make sense of this yet. tell me what you have told her.”

“told me what?” baelor hears your soft voice near the door, as you step inside his chambers. 

[ghostlybfgf]

PRECIOUS — KEEP ROOM IN YOUR HEARTS FOR TWO

summary: as maekar’s younger second wife, you have learned to put up with many customs, much of his temper and distance, but little did you expect the eyes of his closest on you, and what came after.

pairing: maekar targaryen x wife!reader, baelor targaryen x reader

warning(s): SMUT, threesome, cheating (sneaking around with baelor), pinv, oral (f!recieving), cum eating, degradation, little overstim, slight angst (maekar being maekar), unnamed but noble house!reader, happy ending dw

word count: 3.8k

a/n: idk why i can never do shorter fics but there you go.. i had to do this, and i might do more because my god the way they share 🫠

When you had married into House Targaryen, the proclaimed blood of the Dragon, you had not expected much. Rather, you had not expected how much would come with it.

It was decided by lords of the High Council, and in with it sat your father, the King, and his two sons, one of which you were chosen to marry. His youngest, Prince Maekar. After the death of his wife, Dyanna, it was unseemly for a man of his standing to be left alone for so long, and though begrudgingly he had not delighted in the fact of having one at all. You were made a match.

He had children to care for, worry over, and drag around more like, all six of them. The last thing he needed for was a wife. And he had noted so to them quite simply, though it went unheard. Even in your own worrying and flurry of endless questions to your Lord father, you had no choice, it wasn’t of love, only strengthening an alliance.

Duty. That’s what they had called it, a sacrifice stated so plainly that they did not have to make. A fairytale, your maids had remarked splendidly as they adorned you in your new house colours, a perfectly hemmed dressed lines in crimson and coal. And before you had met him, you would have rejoiced at the idea, part of you did. A Prince, why wouldn’t you, why shouldn’t it be of the tales you’d read of as a girl. And yet it was anything but.

You had been introduced at court, leaving the first glance of those stone, silvery features between extended hands and muttered formalities. He only grimaced, remaining tight lipped even as his gaze softened at the sight of you. Your soft smile, the welcoming curve of your bodice, the ache seeing you in colours not of your house, like the ridding of your own name had personally wounded him.

And no matter how you tried, he only left you with short answers.

Despite everything you did, many moons had passed into a marriage of coldness, without so much as a touch or kind word to be had, it was only fleeting orders and whispered profanities, a steady hand at your back, correcting not comforting. At least how it seemed. A marriage that had yet to be consummated, and though still a maiden, you knew enough, and you knew of your wants. Beyond the upset and loss of a supposed husband, you were about as pent up as his temper seemed to be, and you seethed in it.

The children kept you company, all six of them in their own time, and it had kept you busy, happily so. You had taken it upon yourself to know them, to care for them as a guardian should, and you did. The little ones clung to you most, tugging at your skirts, and playing with you in the gardens, away from prying eyes and the gaze of who seemed to be far. He kept at a distance, but even such endeavours didn’t go unnoticed, it only seemed to eat at him more. Yet he did not state so to you, the broken feeling, the guilt of not being at their side so much as yours, only muttering to watch them and their “senseless mischief”.

And other than the little dragons that followed you about, there were few familiar faces you grew to know, and fond of. The King was dutiful, encouraging in his word, surprisingly gentle with you, as were few ladies of the court amid the vipers, and of course.. Baelor.

Maekar’s eldest brother. He was far different from your husband, oft times leaving you wondering how they came from the same womb, much less family. Other than looks, favouring their mother than father, he was kind, just, and eager to learn you. Having lost his own wife years prior, a widow much like your husband, it had left him emptied, it though he did not allow it to break him, nor his attitude. Be it for his own sons, or his honour, he did not say, but he found a certain solace in your company as you did him.

“I’am afraid my brother has always taken issue with temperament. No doubt he will come to..”

He assured you on a round of the gardens one early morn, arms clasped behind his back as you walked beside. It was comfortable, lighthearted and you shared laughter together, small smiles and jests that made you forget the marriage you were condemned to.

So much so, you left the gardens for your own duties, as he did his, with one lingering, regretful thought.

Why did you have to marry the wrong one?

You had grown to know he enjoyed reading, perhaps not as much as his brothers, such as Aerys who was constantly found in one. But instead the lighter works, Old Valyrian poetry and the histories. He enjoyed hunting, and travelling to his motherland of Dorne should the time be kind for it. As for Maekar? You knew near nothing of him, only what Baelor had told you.

That he had a love for the outdoors, and had since he was a boy, and training whenever he had the time, that he was a gossip at heart, always quick with a jest. And in that heart, it was soft beneath its exterior. One he reserved through the years, but it was true.

You tried, to even get through such barriers. You gifted him trinkets, more like offerings, of silvers and books, a decorated pommel for his short-sword. You offered walks and rides into the wood, the kind Baelor had told you he enjoyed most. And yet, nothing.

Exhaustion grew to misery, and misery grew into a burning ache that you could not relent from. You wanted Maekar, the man your brother in law had told you that he was. Not just at your side, to be dutiful and proper, but carnally, the kind you had dreamed of. He was handsome, the striking features that of the Gods the people claimed dragons were. You wanted his ability to be gentle and rough all at once, commanding as he did armies, and the softness he gave to the chidlren.

And at the same time, over so much of it, desires for his brother grew deeper. Baelor, the man was who he said he was, not just in dreaming, and you saw it first hand.

You had been spending more time with him than thought respectable for a sister and brother connected by marriage. Innocent rounds of the gardens had turned to escorts to feasts gatherings in the Great Hall, lingering gazes meeting eachother from across tables. Then visits in the Tower of the Hand, offering help and assistance with no other inclination, until visits lasted into the evening in the small confines of his study.

Then became the touches with hushed regrets whispered into your lips. Where his doublet came off and your hair came down, letting you feel him as he did you, his hands gracing you so gently, kissing every inch of you, speaking filth and praise into your ears. But he had not taken you, could not, not yet.. but he had worshipped you. He fucked you onto his fingers with you bent over his desk, your hands wrapped around his neck and kissing into your mouth like a fever. Or the times when your legs planted over his back draping over muscle as he devoured you, face pressed into your heat.

Such comfort you fell into with another, your affections growing deeper by the day.

Though such goings on did not go unnoticed. much less by your husband. Even at his distance, it’s all he could allow himself, as guilt ate at him watching you descend further from him, he still watched over you. Never once leaving yours, not even as he watched you sneak away with a familiar face.

“Quiet, my love..” Baelor mouthed at your throat, sucking reddened marks onto the the pulse as you gripped his forearms tightly. He had two fingers curled inside of you, pressed deeply into the weeping hole of your cunt after the heat between you snapping once more. You had been there for some time, sneaking into the study of the tower as you usually did, such conversation moving into his lap as the hearth crackled behind you. He had set you onto the desk, your arse rested onto the oak as you arched into his hand.

Moans spilled from your lips as he pumped them inside of you freely, your head falling to his shoulder as if the guards down the corridor mattered not, or the sound of a heavy door creaking open and shutting abruptly was lost on you.

“What in the seven fucking hells.” A voice broke through the echoes of your moans, the room filled with the surrounding scent of ink, woodsmoke and desire, and now a figure gruff and seething. One you’d grown familiar with somehow.

Maekar.

Baelor’s body sagged slightly, fingers stilling inside of you as they pulled from your wetness carefully. A hand stayed at your hip where the lightness of your chemise bunched, leaving full view of you. The man before you turned from between your legs, standing between as his face met yours.

It was a deep red, icy features scorned as violets rakes over your body. He looked more frazzled than usual, slicked hair more wiry and the soft flicker of candlelight casted your shadows across the room, lighting up the flush that crept your necks.

“Husband..”

You slid from Baelor’s grip, padding your feet across the cold floor, stopping just in front of him. Shame and guilt etched your body, but that was not all. Pride. That’s what you felt. You were apologetic, head hanging low as you met his eyes, already looking down his nose at you as his nostrils flared. But you couldn’t help the warmth that settled in your stomach, the deep burning that ignited your body at the scene. He had left you without, and now he saw you take it from another. His own brother no less.

Your hand reached out for his arm, though it was surely batted away, not roughly, only certain and you clutched it back at your side.

“Do not ‘husband’ me.” He spat, staring between you both, fists clenched at his hip. Baelor only straightened, resting back onto the desk he’d pinned you to, and without speaking, his face read all, the same as you. A sense of apology with understanding, a disappointment not only of himself, but Maekar.

“Is this why you have been stalking around hm? Come to fuck my eldest brother, have your fill?”

“I—“ You wanted to argue, to snap back, but he left no time to, pressed only a stride in front of you.

“While will not come to my chambers, as if you are not my wife.”

The words near made you laugh, your gaze switching from embarrassed to angered so quickly it made your head spin.

“Come to your chambers? You have not so much as looked at me since our marriage, since our betrothal.. you have not touched me, not managed a single word—“ A palm clasped at the side of your face, his mouth working onto yours before you could finish, lips against yours feverishly. You went to protest, a hand pushing at his chest, fingers shoving but you relented, falling into the kiss.

The roughness of his beard scratched your lip and chin, only pulling away to rest at your forehead as he strode you backward.

“You would not even come near me..” You whispered between breaths, a longing silence hanging between you both. His eyes closed, sucking in a breath, before opening again, peering back into your own.

“I kept my distance because I wished not to.. defile you. To have you run.” He confessed.

“You are my husband, you could not..”

“I do not how to be all.”

“Not by distancing.. “

“So I have noticed.” His eyes flicked up past you, hand still firmly placed at your head, the other gripping at your hip.

“I will not do so again.. had I known this was what you wanted.” Your hands snaked around the back of his neck, pulling him downward to meet you lips once more, his tongue slipping inside and over yours, curling into your mouth with a groan. He stepped you both backwards, your backside hitting the desk, as a steady cough reached the your ears. He did not look up. Though you felt Baelor’s eyes on you.

“You like when my brother fucks you hm? Is that it?” He questioned, lips curving as his hand moved to your throat.

“He has kept me company..”

He hummed, fingers coasting down your sides as he listened, working the thin straps of your chemise down your body until it slipped to the floor, sinking in a pool at your feet. You shivered under the coolness, the rough touch of his doublet scraping at your pebbled nipples. Maekar’s breath stuttered, Baelor’s eyes watching over you both as his throat bobbed, both men taking you in.

His thumbs rubbed at your hips, smoothing circled as his hand tightened around you, nudging you in for another kiss. Fingers mov down to your wetness, needy and aching from baelor’s fingers only moments before.

“Poor girl, has he not helped you enough?” He teased sarcastically and you shook your head, pouting lightly, thick, rough fingers shoving their way inside of you at once. Your head fell back, your back shoved back into the cool wood of the desk as he worked you open, the pressure coiling around you as he rubbed at your swollen pearl.

“There you are..” His mouth moved to your jaw, slinking down your neck to where a reddened blush had already formed from the heat of his brother’s mouth. “Beautiful.. should have taken you sooner.”

He scissored you open, your body arching into his him as you ground down into his palm, arousal coating his fingers with every curl and drag. He only smirked against you, working his doublet off with one hand, buttons unclamped and near thrown across onto stone with a yank.

“You’ve had her..?” He rasped, angling toward his brother as his shirt linked open, revealing the tough of pale planes of muscle.

“I would not wish it.. she is yours to have.” Baelor admitted, voice not faltering as he dared between you both. Maekar huffed a laugh against you, your moans ghosting his ear as your fingers gripped his shoulder. The mark on your neck, the way he had kept himself from you, kept you wanting and waiting to fall into the arms of another, his brothers fingers deep inside of you. It spoke of another story.

“Clearly, she is ours.” He spoke roughly, but it wasn’t malice that reached his tone, nor jealousy, only acceptance, an understanding. And a content one at that. The thought of it hardened his cock beneath tight breeches.

Ours.

You moaned, his thumb working harshly at your clit as you came undone, thighs trembling in his hold as Baelor moved closer, your hand searching for something to brace as it met his side, his hand enclosing around yours as they steadied you at the table. You came around Maekar’s fingers, breaths falling into pants as you crumbled. A silent agreement met them both, pairs of eyes looking over you for the same. Your husband, and his brother, both of them looking to you with the same adoration, one whose affections had been made clear and proclaimed, the other assured in learning to do so, the same glint of love in each.

“You want this?”

“I have waited too long..” He shrugged himself of his shirt then, Baelor following suit as hands placed you up onto the desk. They were an image, working together as both mouths moved onto you. Maekar at your lips and Baelor at your neck, adorning you in kisses and traces of their tongue, “Please..” Your plea was enough, skin alight with a want you had yet to name, spurred by the anger and desire you were left to deal with on your lonesome. And Maekar had wasted no time, pulling himself free, resting the thick hardness of his cock head against your heat.

“Far too long..” He thrusted into you deeply, shoving himself in inch by inch, the hard pulse of him filling you entirely as you gasped. The burn stretched you open in a way no other had dared to, “and I have wronged you for it.” His hips snapped into yours, punching the air from your lungs and your mouth fell open, the hand around yours squeezing gently, encouragingly, both men beside you stilling as you settled. The heat of Maekar’s mouth moving to breasts, sucking your nipple between his lips.

“Tell me.. does he fuck you like this? ” He snarled into your skin, tongue swirling over your sensitive bud, with a brashness in his tone. Hands heated and scorched all over you, one rough at your back and hand, lips on your neck, the other grasping your breast and hip. Entirely in their hold.

“He has not.” You admitted through wanton moans.

“A surprise, as you have thrown yourself at him..”

A moan slipped from your lips shamelessly, fingers tightening into the harsh muscle of his back, hells digging into his backside, urging him deeper. “My own wife.. a whore.” His fingers moved around your back, one to the top of your arse cheek, cracking a smack the flesh there.

“It’s not my fault you would not do your duty.” You snapped back, without anger but with truth, the burn deepening as the pressure in your belly grew. Maekar tutted at that, his head angling back into yours, releasing your nipple with a pop, pressed tightly into you, chest against yours, shoving you flush to him at the edge of the furniture. “Then I’ll prove it to you.”

Your arms snaked around his neck, toying with the silver strands as your fingers threaded through them, seemingly hanging on for dear life at the rampant rhythm in which he fucked you. His thumb moved between you, tracing between your sternum, over the curve of your stomach to where he punched inside of you, curling over your clit.

Baelor watched on, circling his hands around your neck as he inched you back to him, your head dizzying as he took your mouth once more, tongue sliding over your own. The scratch of his beard rubbed against you, holding you steadily as Maekar rutted inside of you. He groaned into you, tasting your want and the heightening of your pleasure about to come undone.

Maekar’s eyes flickered between you both, breath stuttering as he watched his brother kiss you with raw passion, and you back to him all the same. Your body trembled in his grip, cock thrusting into your walls tight and heavy, and he felt it. Every clench and shock that littered your skin and flesh.

“Let go for me, my love.. let me feel you.” He whispered at your other side, Baelor swallowing every one of your whines. His other palm moving to work at your breast, forefinger pinching your nipples lightly, still damp from his brother’s mouth. You gasped at his lips, the rough pads of his digits, your husbands cock filling you, the assault to your pearl, you were done for.

“Come and I will make sure to fill you before he does..” He called out through the haze, grunting into the crook of your shoulder as you crashed around him. You came undone with a clench, crying into Baelor’s mouth as they worked you through it, hands cupping and squeezing, as his thrusts began to falter, cock thrusting in and out frantically.

Maekar made sure to fuck you full, hips snapping into you until you were full of his warmth, hot spurts spitting into you as he dragged himself out. You rocked forwards into his chest, chest heaving where his beaded sweat and he panted. And as you dared to look up, you saw neither one was done.

“Perhaps you can decide hm,” A finger curled under your chin, Maekar’s, breath steadying gruffly with every fast beating inside his chest, “who fucks you better.” The words left you boneless, and you barely had time to register them before they switched places, Maekar sliding into your side kissing at the skin of your shoulder, and Baelor in between your knees.

He looked to you, mismatched eyes glinting in the low light, deep into yours, resuming the same position you had found yourselves in earlier. He refrained at first, carefully checking over you so much as if you might break, cupping your face as if it would hide his own desire. Like he hadn’t thought of it every night you came to him, how hard he fought it, “Are you certain, my heart..?”

“Yes.. yes, I’am.” You breathed, sure as you could through the tremble in your voice, aftershocks taking over your body still jittering.

Baelor took in your words, registering for a single moment before he was wrapping your legs around him tightly, hand pumping at his cock as he lined himself up with you, and with one steady look he sheathed himself inside. He was slower rocking into you than Maekar, less frantic but just as attentive, sinking you down onto him inch by inch. He was thicker than his brother, only just, but enough you felt the curve of him, reaching the aching burn where Maekar hit into you kissing your womb right away. His fingers grasped your thighs, pulling the flesh taut as he readied himself, thrusting tender and worshipping.

Your husband’s lips remained on you as he took you, eyeing you both from the way the desk shook and your body shivered, mouth falling into dazed of “uh, uh, uh’s” with every drag of his cock and the mouth claiming you. Your nails raked down his back, already fucked full and aching, your cunt sucked him in greedily, wanting more, falling into the pit of pleasure they dragged you into.

“Baelor..”

“Gods, I know sweet girl.. you have me, you have us.” He grunted, reminding you as he did himself, every word a vow, a prayer against your lips punctuated with every thrust he gave you. Your head tilted in the lull, falling into Maekar, his hand catching you as your cheek pressed into his palm. His gaze burned into yours, already knowing without need for a question, and he simply nodded, eyes fluttering closed and open again.

Baelor came inside of you just as hot, thrusting over and over until you spilled around him, coating his cock in your wetness and the mix of their seed. Both pairs of hands wrapped around you, soothing and easing the burn they left you with, Baelor’s hand circling your knee as he kissed you. His lips moved to yours, chaste and tender, “Did so well..” He offered you a small lustful smile before nudging his brother, more commanding than he had been.

“I do believe you should make it up you your wife.” Baelor pulled from you gently, cock still twitching in his hold at the sight you beheld, glowing and blissed out by them both, moving to stand behind Maekar. His hands pushed at the younger man’s shoulders, breath bristling his ear as he looked to you. “She is sweeter than you know.” A deadly smirk met his eyes then, just as Maekar’s knees hit the floor, shuffling into you as Baelor rested your feet onto the tables edge, baring yourself entirely before them.

The wetness of your cunt hit the cool air, your legs insinctively closing as they held them open, Maekar’s hands rubbing at your calves gently. He softened then, tongue wetting his lips as he stared up at you affectionately, and you blushed. Your hair mussed and body open for him, you must have been a sight. And that you were.

Their seed seeped out of you, smudged at your thighs and white spend sticking at your entrance. Maekar planted your feet at his shoulders, placing them delicately as he pushed in, his face shoved into you, tongue teasing through your folds. You wriggled, the pleasure too much as the electric bursts shuddered through you once more. Baelor caught you, kissing the crown of your head as you fell into him, and he simply smiled, an almost proud look etching his face as he watched his brother devour you. And he did, taking in all of you like a man starved, a man who had denied himself and you for far too long. His mouth wrapped over your heat, lips sucking around your clit sharply as his tongue fucked into your hole, tasing your sweetness and the saltiness of their want.

“You are divine..”

He groaned into you, your hand moving into his hair, pushing, pulling, tugging, every which way and yet he did not relent, only swallowing every drop you gave him.

“I cannot..” You cried, his tongue flicking over your swollen and aching pearl, urging you on. His fingers tightened at your legs hanging over him. “You can and you will..” Maekar demanded, muffled by the plush of your thighs shaking around him, your high building with every swirl of wet muscle.

“One more, I know you can, my heart..” Baelor encouraged, ever the opposite, fingers smoothing over the dip of your waist, holding around you as he kissed your cheek, your bodies sheened with arousal and sweat. Maekar lapped at you, head shaking as his beard burnt your inner thighs, scraping sinfully into the wetness of your cunt, dragging whines and moans from you.

You came with a cry, a final wave crashing over you and coating his chin. He took all of it, licking up your juices and the remnants of them both as he pulled from you, standing between you, breeches loose and disheveled. Baelor was just the same, now tucked back in as you braced yourself against them both. The three of you remained there for a few moments, taking in the comfortable heaviness in the air and the sweet scent of your shared sex. A smile cracked onto your face at their faces, both equally flushed as you, pupils lust blown and wide, one forehead pressed to your shoulder, the other to yours.

“A verdict?” Maekar questioned lightheartedly, exhaling through his nose.

“I have yet to decide, I may need more convincing.” You teased, hand resting onto his shoulder as smiles found way to their faces, chuckles vibrating into your skin. A gentile descended the room them, a promise for more.

And through the weariness that threatened, they had taken care of you, tenderly carrying you into your shared marital chambers, This time not alone, instead in your husbands arms delicately wrapped beneath the sheets, with an added warmth pressed into your back. Apology marked onto your skin tender as vows now coming to fruition. For just as Maekar adorned your body so, he intended to show such growing love in every way he had refused himself before.

And they both intended to prove it to you.

[ingystark]

Can you write for Baelor Targaryen x "commoner" reader. This is purely based off of Bridgerton's reccent season, and how the Cinderella's story has me in a chokehold.

So seeing Baelor with a Cinderella reader and going through the motions of meeting them at a masquerade ball, losing them in a night with only a garment of them, then coming to find out there a maid within being mistreated in their own house.

Your writting is just...... chefs kiss so I know you will make it great.

I WISH I WAS YOUR GIRL

[ baelor targaryen x reader ]

tags: forbidden love, class difference / social gap, maid!reader, love at first sight, AU (in which baelor is widowed and valarr doesn’t exist i’m sorry valarr fans but it wouldn’t make sense otherwise, just pretend he will be reader’s son)

note: thank you for the trusting! i really enjoyed bridgerton s4 i think it’s such a good idea to apply to baelor. i had to split it in two parts but let me know if you like it so i’ll write the second!

masterlist / request list

To sneak in a masquerade royal ball wasn't your initial plan when House Targaryen hired you as a maid in the Red Keep.

Life was better and easier than it was in Tyrosh, as a servant. You had a personal, way nicer bedroom, you ate decent meals for someone of your status, and princesses Daella and Rhae were more than kind to you.

That was why the idea of almost ruining your perfect life wasn’t yours. But you did agree when Daella suggested you’d come to the ball too. You were talking about how wonderful attending a ball was, about the fact that it’s always been one of your greatest dreams, and she proposed the crazy idea to you.

You could have refused, yes, but the way Daella described it, it seemed all so magical. You couldn’t stop thinking about how thrilling it would have been. “No one will ever find out,” she had said. “You deserve to feel that, just for one night.”

She started to plan every detail: she found a stunning silver and blue dress, a pair of pretty sparkling shoes and a matching mask. She fixed your hair with a pair of glimmering clips, and that’s when you started smiling and never stopped.

Now that you were there, surrounded by nobles in masks, enjoying the night, your fear to be discovered was just a distant thought. You wandered around the ballroom, lost in its beauty, astonished and in awe the same time. Everything was so majestic, from the ladies’ gowns you had only dared to touch when dressing them up, to the elaborated food served that you were only able to see in the kitchens, to the enormous chandelier covered in crystals hanging from the roof.

You were still busy admiring the ornaments when you walked straight into someone. You bumped against a broad chest, dressed in dark colours. “Oh! I’m sorry m’lord, I was–“ the words got stuck in your throat when you looked up and realised you didn’t just run into a normal lord.

Baelor Targaryen’s face was half covered by a black elaborated mask. “It is me who should apologize, my lady, I was looking for a way to escape. I wasn’t paying attention.”

The sight of him enchanted you.

“Are you feeling alright, my lady?” His voice was as sweet as the music the violins were playing on the background.

You quickly nodded. “Yes, yes I am, thank you, Your Grace.” For a moment you thought he recognized you, but his curious gaze seemed to suggest otherwise.

“Do you need to get some air?”

You tried to get back into reality. “There’s no need for it, thank you again for the concern.” You repeated. You tried to formulate a more meaningful sentence. “Why do you want to leave? Are you not enjoying the ball?”

“The ball is perfectly fine, but my family insisting for me to find a spouse right here, not as much.”

You chuckled. You were aware of that: the princesses talk, and the servants do too. “And did you find any worthy candidate?”

“Not really. As I said, I was looking for a way to go back to my political obligations.”

His mismatches eyes studied you, taking a long look at your figure from head to toe. Your cheeks flushed, and you sincerely hoped he didn’t notice it. “And you, my lady? Why aren’t you on the dancing floor?”

You softly smiled and shrugged. “I’m not much efficient in it.”

He seemed amused by your statement. “Oh, you want me to believe a graceful woman like you is not skilled in dancing?”

You felt your cheeks burning again for the compliment. You shouldn’t do this, you shouldn’t be talking with him like you’re any other guest, or worse, any other lady trying to win his favour. “I’m afraid not.”

Baelor put his hand forward for you to grab it. “Would you like a lesson?”

You shook your head. “Thank you for the courtesy, my prince, but I’m shy, it is better if–“

“We tried outside?” He insisted, completing your sentence. “So you won’t be feeling judged by all these prying eyes.”

You pondered his offer. Yes, you shouldn’t do this, but… who would ever find out about it? It was so improbable, so out of any social norm that, even if someone recognized you, no one would ever believed that. And also, you were none but a maid, who suffered servitude her whole life. You deserved it. After all that work, all those years unwillingly subjected to others’ whims and desires, you deserved to be treates like a lady, just for one night.

You took the prince’s hand, and let him lead you outside.

His attitude was so polite and gracious when he took you by the waist and started teaching you the basics. Under the gazebo, away from all the noblemen and noblewomen and the risk of them peering and talking behind your back, you were free to not feel judged.

You tried hard not to trample on his feet, you didn’t want to disappoint him. Eventually you managed to find a fluid coordination. “Here, keep going, you’re doing great,” he reassured you.

His chest was warm close to yours, his hands were delicate and his smile comforting. As it was every time you had seen him walking around the castle, and he never forgot to greet you with a simple smile, if he wasn’t busy in a conversation with someone else. Even now, behind the mask, his kind eyes were the same, one violet and brown the other. Authoritative, and severe at times, but never unjust. You saw him demonstrating it, the rare times you saw him in the Throne room, if you happened to accompany there the little Rhae. By the King’s side, he advised him correctly, with no presumption or arrogance or sense superiority, helping every person who presented themselves asking for favours, aid or justice.

That proximity was sealing the two of you in an imaginary bubble, away from the rest of the crowd, that turned into a distant background sound. His scent was intoxicating, it reminded you of something you couldn’t quite identify. Ebony, or amber, or both. It was drawing you closer and closer to him. You could never, not in your wildest dreams, think of ever finding yourself this near the Heir to the Iron Throne.

You were still lost in that tender touch, when the sound of the bells rang, and you realized it was midnight. And you knew you couldn’t stay any longer, or you would have been discovered by the other maids.

“I must go now, I’m sorry, Your Grace,” you sadly confessed him. Panic was taking over you. What if someone had already started to notice your disappearance? What if someone had seen you sneak out, or worse, recognised you at the ball?

He gave you a confused look. “You must go? Where?”

“I wish I could stay, but…” you looked around yourself, worried. “I’m really sorry,” you turned around and tried to run away, but the prince held you by your wrist: “Wait!”

Baelor attracted you to himself and kissed you.

You were startled at first, but melted in his arms as soon as you realized what was happening. The prince was kissing you. His soft beard grazed your chin, his hand was firm on your waist while the other was still holding you by your wrist.

Your heart was beating so fast, uncontrollably. Your stomach was clenching and butterfly were dancing around inside it like the ladies were dancing in a ballroom.

His tongue slowly entered your mouth, but before he could taste you, you pulled away.

You shared a gaze that couldn’t be described with words, a gaze you couldn’t bear. He let go of the grasp he had on you, and you run down the stairs of the gazebo, and far, far from the venue, and you never looked back.

Only when you finally were in the comfort of your room, folding and hiding the beautiful dress and shoes along with the mask, carefully removing the glimmering clips, you realized you missed one.

The following days couldn’t have been spent in a further way than what you had just lived. A lot of boring tasks occupied you: baskets of laundry waiting for you, mostly. After the ball every lady courtiers’ gowns and under-gowns had to be washed, dried and tidied. The ballroom was to be cleaned, and although that wasn’t usually your job, it required help from other servants and more than one day of work. Nobles couldn’t even imagine what was behind a social event, and especially what was after that.

You had only dared to fantasize about that kiss right after you had found a way to enter back in the Keep without being seen. Before falling asleep, that night, you could still feel his tongue brushing yours.

But later, you were too busy even to relive the memories of that night, despite having retraced the same exact floor you walked in that silver aristocratic dress.

The only time those otherworldly moments flowed back in your head, was when it came to you to serve tea in the gardens, where half of the royal family was reunited to enjoy some afternoon sun.

Baelor was there. He was the first person you noticed. And he was glorious, as always.

His brother Maekar sat next to him, along with his wife Dyanna, his sons Daeron and Aerion and his daughter Daella. They were discussing some gossip when you came in with the tea.

For a moment, you wondered if Baelor could recognise you. The thought concerned you and excited you at the same time.

But he didn’t. His eyes did not lie on you, not for a split second.

“Our father is starting to question why you’re still not remarried, brother.” Maekar was saying. “You must produce a successor. The crown needs it, to stabilise the lineage as soon as possible.”

“There are a lot of nice suitors,” princess Dyanna continued. “I can introduce you to some of them. I know lady Melara Tyrell, she’s cute.”

“And fourteen.” Baelor replied. Daeron and Aerion scoffed together.

“Fair,” she admitted. You approached them and began pouring the tea. “What about lady Alys Blackwood? She’s fun. And smart, you’d adore her. She’s skilled in horse riding and can discuss politics…” she stopped and sighed when she noticed Baelor was just absently staring into the distance. “You have the privilege of not having to put up with an arranged marriage, the privilege of choosing a bride of your liking, that you may love, someone–“

You were so caught up in lady Dyanna’s speech that you forgot to carefully watch what you were doing. The hot liquid spilled out of Aerion’s cup, ending up on his sleeve and hand. He yelled. “Seven hells!”

Oh no. “Forgive me, my prince,” you quickly put down the teapot on the table. All the presents’ eyes were on you. You wanted to disappear. “I’m really mortified, I didn’t mean to–“

Aerion stood up and took you by the arm. “You idiot, who the fuck hired you?” He held it tight. Too tight. His nails dig in your skin. You whined.

“Aerion!” Daella shouted. “Let her go! You are hurting her!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” You tried to free yourself from his grip, but he gave you a hard push and you fell on the ground. Your elbows saved you from a disastrous ending. A sharp pain spread on your back.

He laughed cruelly. “She did all by herself,” he mocked you. Bastard, you wished to call him. Your cheeks were burning for the embarrassment. You wanted to cry really bad, but forced yourself to hold back the tears. “Seriously, who’s hiring these maids?” He grinned, studying you from up to down. His head tilted. “But actually, this one is kinda pretty. I could bring her to my chambers, see if she’s more suited for other–“

Before he could end the phrase, a firm hand grabbed the collar of his tunic and pulled him back, cutting the words off his throat.

“Enough.” Baelor stated. He striked Aerion with a glance. His tone was furious. “I’m not tolerating this behaviour. She’s a person, not your toy.” He averted him away.

You’ve never seen Aerion so pissed off as in that instant. He slipped away and shrugged. “Yes, uncle,” he mumbled, submissively. He frowned at you, then stalked off.

Baelor kneeled in front of you. “Are you bruised?” His voice had changed suddenly. Now it was gentle, calm again, like how he spoke to you the night of the ball, when he asked you if you were feeling okay.

You sat up on the ground. You raised your bare arms, looking at them. Scratched covered your elbows, and your arm was starting to get reddish from Aerion’s grisp.

“I am truly sorry,” he sounded sincere. “I’ll send the master.”

“She’s just a maid, brother,” Maekar intervened. “She’ll live.”

Baelor ignored him, and offered you a hand. The gesture suddenly reminded you of when you danced together. “Aerion won’t apologize, but, please, accept my apologies on his behalf.”

You took his hand and nodded. His touch was so familiar. He helped you on your feet. “I’ll make sure he never touches you again.”

It was in that moment that your sight caught a clip pinned on his sleeve, shining. Your clip.

[wholoveseggs]

Lesson Three

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Baelor Targaryen x f!Reader} After days of stolen glances and empty nights, you couldn't wait another moment. So you interrupt his Small Council meeting with an urgent matter. Fortunately, the realm can wait. You cannot.

♡♡ days of no communication after eating pussy??? in this economy???  ♡♡

4.5k words - Warnings: smuttttt, age gap, teaching, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, loss of virginity/maidenhood, semi-public sex, fingering, praise kink, breeding kink if you squint, soft!Baelor supremacy && who wants lesson four??

{Lesson One} {Lesson Two}

You woke twisted in the sheets, your shift rucked up around your hips, your heart hammering against your ribs. For a moment you couldn't remember where you were; only that you'd been somewhere else, somewhere warm and dark, with your husband's hands on you and his voice in your ear saying things you never heard him say before.

Then the dream frayed at the edges, dissolving like mist, and you were left with only the ache between your thighs and the certain knowledge that you could not spend another day simply waiting for night to fall.

The doors to your bedchamber opened, and a servant entered, bearing a breakfast tray. "Good morning, Your Highness."

"Good morning."

You sat up, pushing back the blankets. Your sheets would need changing and your skin was damp, your thighs sticky.

The servant set the tray on the small table by the window and turned, a smile on her face. "Would you like to bathe before breakfast, Your Highness?"

"I would."

"I'll send for the girls."

A bath was drawn, a tub set before the hearth, and you sank into the steaming water with a sigh. Your servants scrubbed your skin and washed your hair, and all the while you tried to think of a reason to visit Baelor today. Something, anything, so you would have a pretense for seeing him.

Several days had passed since the dinner in his chambers. Several days of meals taken separately, of brief sightings in corridors, of him disappearing behind the door of the Small Council with an apologetic look that said duty calls. Several nights of lying alone, staring at the canopy of your bed, replaying every moment of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, his voice rough with wanting.

You had not slept well any of those nights.

But this morning's dream had been different. More vivid. In it, he had not been patient. In it, he had lifted you onto the great council table and… 

You sank lower into the water, until it lapped at your chin.

"Your Highness?" One of the servants looked at you with concern. "Is the water too cold?"

"No, it's perfect. Thank you."

But her gaze lingered. She exchanged a look with the other servant who was folding your discarded shift.

You had been married long enough now to recognize that look. It was the same look the servants had given you in the first fortnight, when the marriage bed remained unslept-in and your sheets unmarked. Still not consummated. Poor thing.

But this look was different. Curious, rather than pitying.

You thought of the gossip you'd overheard before your wedding… whispered advice, crude jokes, warnings about pain and duty. They knew things. Things your mother had only hinted at. Things Baelor had shown you, but never explained in words.

"Margot," you said, before you could lose your nerve.

The older servant looked up, the shift still in her hands. "Your Highness?"

You hesitated. The water sloshed gently as you pulled your knees up, making yourself smaller. "You've been married, haven't you?"

A pause. Then Margot's face softened, just slightly. "Seventeen years, come spring."

"And your husband..." You trailed off, heat rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the bathwater.

Margot set down the shift. She was a plain woman, sturdy, with gray threading her dark hair and eyes that had seen too much and judged too little. "You can ask, child. I won't bite."

The other servant had gone still by the hearth, clearly listening.

"Does it... hurt?" The question came out smaller than you intended.

Margot considered this. "The first time, for some. Depends on the man. Depends on the woman." She came closer, kneeling by the tub so she could speak quietly. "A good man makes it hurt less. A patient man makes it not hurt at all, given time."

You thought of Baelor's fingers, slow and gentle, stretching you. The ache that had turned to pleasure. "And if he's patient?"

"Then you're lucky." Margot's eyes were knowing. "Most girls aren't."

The other servant spoke from the hearth, her voice shy. "My sister said it gets better. After the first few times. She said..." A blush crept up her neck. "She said she started to like it."

Margot snorted. "Took me a year to like it. But your sister's husband is older than mine was when I wed." She glanced at you. "His Grace is also not a young man."

Your stomach tightened.

"He's been married before," Margot continued, more gently. "He knows his way around a woman. That's worth more than youth, if you ask me. Young men are in a hurry. Older men..." She shrugged. "They've learned that rushing gets them nothing."

"That's true," the younger servant agreed. "But now you're happy now, aren't you Margot?"

Margot nodded, a faint smile curving her lips. "Happy enough. Though I could do with a husband who doesn't snore."

They both laughed, and you did, too…but the sound faded quicker than theirs, drowned out by the persistent ache between your legs.

By the time they had finished helping you from the bath, the feeling had only grown stronger, settling deep in your bones like something that meant to stay. It stayed through the drying of your skin, through the breakfast tray that appeared and disappeared, through your servants lacing you into a gown of pale red and pinning your hair just so. It stayed as you rose from your vanity and crossed to the window, as your gaze found the Tower of the Hand rising against the grey sky.

The ache had not faded. It had only changed shape.

You could not spend another day waiting.

But you could not simply appear at his door, could you? What would you say? I dreamed of you. I can still feel where you touched me. I've replayed that moment a hundred times. I need a new one.

The thought made you cringe. You pressed your palm against the cool glass, trying to maintain reason. You did not move from the window, because moving meant deciding, and deciding meant either cowardice or madness, and you were not yet certain which this was…

So you left your chambers without a clear destination, your feet carrying you down corridors and up staircases. You told yourself you were going to the library. Or the gardens. Anywhere but there.

But your feet ignored your protests.

By the time you realized where you were going, you stood at the end of the corridor that led to the Small Council chamber. The door was closed. Through it, you could hear the low murmur of voices, men arguing, men deliberating, men deciding the fate of the realm.

You should leave.

You should absolutely leave.

But your feet would not move.

And the door opened.

A man emerged; some lord you did not recognize, with a pinched face and a stack of papers. He startled at the sight of you, then recovered, bowing stiffly.

"Your Highness." His eyes flicked past you, as if looking for an explanation. "Were you... expected?"

"No, I-" Your voice came out too high. You cleared your throat. "I need to speak with my husband. It's urgent."

It wasn't. Not remotely. But the lie came easily.

The lord's eyebrows rose, but he was not so foolish as to question the crown prince's wife. He stepped aside, holding the door. "Of course, Princess."

The Small Council table was long and dark, scarred by decades of use. Maps and papers covered its surface, along with wine cups and half-eaten plates of food. The afternoon light slanted through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

Seven men sat around that table. You recognized some: the Master of Coin, the Master of Laws, the Grand Maester with his chain and his weathered face. And at the head, Baelor.

He looked up at your entrance, and his face did that complicated thing again, a mix of surprise, then warmth, then something hungrier, that quickly disappeared.

"My dear." He set down his quill. "Is something amiss?"

Every man at the table was looking at you. You felt your cheeks burn.

"I... I needed to speak with you. It's... private."

A beat of silence. Someone cleared his throat.

Baelor rose, followed by the rest of the council. He did not look at them. His eyes were fixed on you, at the blush spreading across your cheeks.

"Gentlemen." His voice was calm, unhurried. "We'll resume on the morrow."

"My prince, the grain shipments-" someone began.

"On the morrow," Baelor repeated, and there was steel beneath the calm.

Chairs scraped against stone. Men gathered papers, exchanged glances, bowed in your direction as they filed out. You kept your eyes on Baelor, too embarrassed to meet anyone else's gaze.

The door closed behind the last man.

Silence.

Baelor stayed where he was, watching you, his face unreadable. You suddenly regretted coming here. Regretted barging into a council meeting. Regretted lying, telling the lord it was urgent. Your behavior was unbecoming of your status, driven by emotion and not duty. You felt so very foolish.

You looked down at your hands, twisting in the fabric of your skirts.

"Come here, sweet girl." He spoke softly, and the familiar endearment made your chest loosen.

He reached out, taking your hand, pulling you into the space between him and the table. You could feel the heat of his body, could smell the woodsmoke and ink that clung to his clothes. His thumb stroked over yours, gentle and slow, and his gaze moved over you, assessing.

"Did something happen?" he asked.

You shook your head, too flustered to speak.

"Why are you here?"

You swallowed, gathering your courage. "I was wondering..." You trailed off, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat.

"Wondering what?" He brought your hand to his mouth, and kissed the inside of your wrist.

"Why you've ignored me." Your voice came out in a whisper. "You didn't send for me again. For days, I haven't... haven't seen you... After..." You couldn't bring yourself to finish the thought, so instead, you looked down, trying to control your blush.

He paused, then chuckled softly. "Do you really think I've been ignoring you, my sweet wife?" He drew you closer. "You, whom I can think of nothing else?"

You let yourself be drawn, let yourself breathe in the familiar scent of him, let his hands on you drive out all your fears of rejection and shame. His fingertips trailed down your arm, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

"The realm begs for my attention." He spoke in your ear, low and intimate, and the sound of it made the ache in your bones surge. "I am duty-bound. I must do my work."

"But not to the exclusion of me." The words escaped your mouth, bold and impudent.

He huffed a laugh. "You think I'd willingly stay away from you?" He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your hip. "I've been doing this alone for so long, I forget sometimes that I'm not alone anymore. That there's someone who notices when I'm gone." His voice dropped lower. "Someone who minds."

Before you could respond, his hands closed around your waist and lifted you easily, setting you on the edge of the council table, maps and papers crinkling beneath you.

You gasped, clutching his shoulders for balance. He stood between your legs, looking down at you with his dark mismatched eyes. One of his hands came up, brushing hair back from your face, stroking a thumb across your cheek.

"Tell me," His voice was soft. "Why are you really here? In this room?"

Your tongue darted out, wetting your lips. You swallowed. "I couldn't stop thinking about the other night. In your chambers. And how I didn't want it to be over."

"Mm-hm." His gaze dropped to your bodice, taking in the full swell of your breasts, the way they heaved with each shallow breath. "I know the feeling."

He leaned in, brushing his mouth against yours. It was a soft, slow kiss. Teasing. The tip of his tongue touched the seam of your lips. When you gasped, he slid his hand behind your head, holding you there while he deepened the kiss. You clutched the front of his tunic, pulling him closer, heat coiling low in your belly.

"It's difficult to concentrate on ruling when there are far more interesting things to think about." He moved his lips down your neck. "Far more pleasant things." 

"Like what?"

"Like how I'd like to tear the seams from this dress." His voice was a low rumble, the words sliding over you, leaving a trail of heat. "Like how much I want to touch you again." His hands slid up your sides, and back down, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. "Like how wet I bet you are already, and how much I want to taste it."

Your thighs automatically tried to press together, but his hips were between them, keeping them apart. His hands moved to the front of your bodice, tugging at the laces.

"May I?"

You nodded, and he loosened your bodice, his hands sliding beneath the cloth and pushing it aside, baring your breasts. His eyes darkened. His thumbs found your nipples, circling them gently.

You gasped.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and then his head dipped, and his tongue traced a circle around one aching bud.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Pleasure jolted through you, tightening in your belly, dampness gathering between your thighs. He pressed his hips forward, and you felt the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches.

He kissed his way back up your throat, to your ear. "How badly do you want me to keep going, sweet girl?"

Your hands tightened on his shoulders. You shifted against him, a silent plea.

"Hmm." His hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples, the touch maddeningly light. 

"I- please-"

"Please what?" His lips were so close, his voice so soft, but the look in his eyes was anything but. "Tell me."

"I want-" Your whole body ached.

A sudden loud knock on the door made you both jump. Baelor quickly pulled your dress back into place, smoothing the fabric just as the door opened.

"Your Highness-" The same lord who had let you in had returned, a fresh stack of papers in his hands. "I meant to mention, the tax-"

He froze, taking in the scene before him: the crown prince between the legs of his young wife, the princess flushed and disheveled, her gown hastily retied.

"If you wouldn't mind, Ser," Baelor said pleasantly, his eyes never leaving the intruder, "this is a private meeting."

"Your Highness, I had no idea-"

"Clearly."

The lord was bright red. He ducked his head, backing toward the door. "My apologies, my prince... princess..."

He retreated, and the door shut once more.

Silence.

Baelor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. His arm wrapped around your waist, his lips finding your ear. "That's one way to let the court know their prince is no longer celibate."

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder. "Gods, I'm mortified."

"Don't be. It will save us an awkward conversation." He kissed the side of your neck, fixing the laces of your bodice. "Now the servants will speak of babes instead of beddings. The Small Council will be relieved, I assure you."

"Babes?" you repeated.

"Mm-hm." His hands went back to your waist, his lips tracing a line of kisses along your throat. "It's our duty, after all."

His palm slid up the curve of your stomach, pressing lightly. "A duty we must try to fulfill," he continued, his voice low and rough. "Many, many times."

You whimpered, tilting your head back, granting him access to your neck.

"But not here." He whispered, kissing your neck softly before pulling back. "We should go somewhere more private."

You nodded against him, not trusting your voice.

He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and led you from the council chamber. The corridors were blessedly empty… whether by chance or because word had already spread that the Crown Prince was not to be disturbed, you did not know. Still, you kept your eyes on the stone floor, certain that anyone who saw you would know exactly what you were thinking, what you were about to do.

His chambers were not far. He opened the door, drew you inside, and closed it behind you with a final-sounding click.

The fire was lit. The window was open, a breeze stirring the heavy curtains. A single candle flickered, casting warm light across the bed, which had been turned down already, the pillows fluffed, the blankets straightened.

Baelor moved to stand behind you, his hands settling on your waist. He kissed the side of your neck, drawing you back against him.

"Relax, I'm going to add more logs to the fire."

He pulled away, crossing the room. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your stomach. You watched him build up the flames, stacking logs and kindling until the fire was crackling and bright. You enjoyed the way the firelight played across his broad shoulders, the silver streaks in his dark hair.

He straightened, and his eyes found yours. The same warmth was there, along with something darker, deeper. Something that made your heart beat even faster.

He reached for the clasp of his tunic, unfastening it. The fabric fell away, and he discarded it, letting it drop to the floor.

You lifted trembling fingers to the ties of your bodice. They were still loose from his attentions in the Small Council chamber. You undid them slowly, the fabric loosening, slipping from your shoulders.

His gaze was unwavering, watching you reveal yourself to him.  The dress pooled at your feet, and you stepped out of it, clad only in a thin shift.

"Keep going," he murmured.

Your hands found the hem of your shift, pulling it up and over your head, letting it drop on top of the dress. You stood before him, vulnerable and trembling, every inch of you exposed.

His gaze moved over you, taking you in, a slow smile curving his lips.

"Come here."

He held out a hand, and you took it. He pulled you to him, the heat of his skin against yours. His hands moved down your back, cupping your ass, drawing you closer, until you could feel his hardness pressing against you.

Your hands were on his chest, slowly exploring. He had always been well-made, but age had added muscle. He was no young, lean soldier; he was a man, with broad shoulders and a thick chest and a solid stomach. A man who had spent a lifetime ruling and sparring, and the evidence was in his body. Your fingers traced over a deep scar on his chest, and his hand covered yours, stilling it.

"Old wounds," he murmured. "Nothing to worry about."

You nodded, biting your lip. You let your hand drift lower, to the laces of his breeches.

"Go ahead, sweet girl," he said, his voice thick.

The laces loosened, and you pushed his breeches and smallclothes down. He stepped out of them, and kicked them aside, his cock sprang free, hard and ready.

You were standing so close, but he did not move to touch you. He simply stood, looking down at you, his eyes moving slowly over your face.

"You are perfect," he said quietly.

Heat bloomed in your chest, your cheeks, your stomach. You looked away, suddenly shy.

"And you are lovely." His lips brushed the top of your head, and then he took your chin, tilting it up. "Are you nervous?"

You hesitated, then nodded.

His eyes were warm. "Don't be. We'll take our time. All right?"

You nodded again.

"Wrap your arms around my neck."

You did, and his hands went to your hips, lifting you easily. You let out a gasp and held tighter, and he carried you to the bed, depositing you gently in the middle.

He kissed you, slow and deep, and you relaxed into the furs. His hands were warm and solid, sliding up your legs, tracing the contours of your body.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his fingers trailing up the soft skin of your inner thigh.

You let out a sigh, spreading your legs, welcoming him. He hummed in approval, and his thumb grazed over the seam of your cunt, spreading the wetness there, and a soft moan escaped your lips. . "Do you like when I touch you here?"

"Yes," you whispered, arching into his hand.

"Mm. And if I do this..." He dragged the pad of his thumb up, circling the little bundle that had given you such pleasure before. "Do you like that, too?"

Pleasure jolted through you. Your breath came short, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"That's a yes, then." He grinned, and bent his head, his mouth finding the peak of your breast.

He teased you with his thumb, rubbing circles, coaxing more and more wetness. Then he eased two fingers inside you, curling, stroking the same spot that had made you tremble before. The soft squelching sound, the lewdness of it, only made you hotter. 

You made soft, desperate noises as he pumped his fingers in and out, his thumb circling that spot above. Lost in the sensation, lost in him. Your eyes were glazed over, half-lidded, clutching at his shoulders, his hair, as if to keep him from stopping.

He hummed softly, kissing your throat, the hollow of your neck. "Are you ready, sweet girl?"

"Please." You were nearly breathless, rocking into his hand.

He chuckled. His fingers left you, and you made a soft noise of protest, your hips bucking against him, seeking more.

"Easy," he murmured. 

He settled himself between your legs. You felt the head of his cock nudge against you, and you took a shaky breath. He stayed like that, letting you get used to the sensation, his hands lifting your thighs, spreading them wider, opening you for him.

His lips brushed your forehead. "You're going to feel a pinch, sweet girl. Just breathe."

His hands tightened on your thighs, and he pressed forward, the blunt head of his cock easing inside you.

You whimpered, feeling the stretch. It was not like his fingers. This was different. Deeper. Almost too much. Then something did pinch, sharp and hot.

"Ah," you gasped, digging your nails into his biceps.

"I know," he soothed. "I know. But it will feel better soon."

You nodded, and the sting faded. The fullness, however, did not. You squirmed beneath him, trying to adjust, trying to understand this new feeling.

His hands smoothed over your thighs, soothing, his lips brushing yours. "Do you need me to stop?"

"No, I... no." You took a deep breath, hands moving to his shoulders, trying to steady yourself.

"Good." His mouth trailed down your throat, his hips shifting, his cock pressing further, then withdrawing, a slow, measured movement. 

Your walls clenched around him, adjusting, and the feeling slowly turned from pain to something else. Pleasure. Not the same sharp pleasure as his fingers, but something softer, deeper, spreading through you.

"Oh," you breathed.

He let out a low chuckle, his breath warm against your cheek. "Feeling better?"

"Mm-hm."

He began to move in earnest then, slow heavy strokes that seemed to reach your very center. Each thrust pressed him deep, held, then withdrew just as slowly before sinking home again. The pressure was building, the pleasure building, and you were making noises that would have embarrassed you in any other circumstance.

He angled his hips, and something shifted inside you. A spark, a building pressure. Your back arched.

"There," he murmured, his eyes watching your face. "There it is. I can feel you clenching around me."

You moaned, gripping his forearms. His pace stayed the same, steady, slow, until you were gasping, trembling, your eyes squeezed shut.

"No, no, open them." He leaned down, nuzzling the soft skin below your ear. "Look down, watch us."

You forced your eyes open. You were both flushed, slick with sweat, his skin glistening in the firelight. You looked down the length of your body, past his chest, to where you could see his cock disappearing into you, each thick, slow stroke.

"Touch yourself," he murmured.

You shook your head, overwhelmed, your gaze still fixed on where his body met yours.

"Just like I showed you before." He caught your wrist, guiding it between your legs. "Make yourself come on my cock."

Your eyes widened at his crude words, and a wave of heat went through you. Then your fingers found the little bud above where his cock was buried inside you, and the world went white.

It was beyond anything you had experienced, it felt like you left your body. You could hear your own moans, the slick sounds of him fucking you. Your head tipped back, body moving without thought, hips rising to meet his thrusts, desperate to draw out this sensation.

You could hear his groans, his muttered praise, but could not make out the words. Then his thrusts grew shallow, and his hands clutched your hips, his body tensing.

He made a strangled noise, and then warmth spread through you, the press of his cock deeper than ever. It made everything sharper, brighter.

A silent moan left your lips, and your whole body tipped over into oblivion. Your walls clenched around him, again and again, and you were dimly aware of him whispering your name, his cock pulsing inside you.

Then you collapsed into the furs, and his weight came down beside you, his arm draped over your waist, his face pressed against the curve of your shoulder.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the slowing thunder of your hearts. You were floating, weightless, the ache between your legs now something warm and satisfied rather than sharp with wanting.

You turned in his arms to face him. He was watching you. Had been watching you, you realized. His mismatched eyes moved over your face like he was memorizing it. You should have felt exposed. Instead, you felt seen.

No one had ever looked at you quite like this.

You reached out before you could think better of it, your fingers finding the edge of a scar near his shoulder. Old and silvered, faded into his skin like something that had always been there.

He went very still.

"May I?" you whispered.

He gave the smallest nod.

Your fingers traced along it, then found another lower, and another. A map of a man you barely knew, written in healed wounds.

"So many," you murmured.

"Old scars from the rebellion," he said softly, his hand drifting up and down your spine.

"I thought the kingsguard were supposed to protect their prince," you said, tracing a star-shaped mark on his chest.

He chuckled, his hand pausing on the small of your back. "They do. But it's a bit harder when the prince is in a battle."

You made a soft noise, thinking of him younger, covered in blood, fighting for his life. It was so different from the man beside you, holding you. You had never thought of him as a warrior before.

He kissed the top of your head, his arm tightening around you. "I'm fine, sweet wife."

"I don't want you fighting." You buried your face in his chest.

"No?" He chuckled, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your hip. "Why not?"

"Because..." You struggled for the right words, and settled for the truth. "Because you're too important. The realm needs you."

His expression softened. "The realm needs a leader that will fight for it."

"I'd rather it had one that stays alive," you muttered.

"Sweet girl." He tucked your hair behind your ear, his thumb tracing along the line of your jaw. "I'm not planning to die. Not for a very long time."

You nodded, pressing your face against him, and his hand came to rest at the back of your neck, warm and solid.

"Besides," he murmured, his thumb stroking over your nape, "I have a great deal to live for now."

"Like what?"

"Hm. Well, there's a certain princess who has agreed to give me a babe or two. Or three."

You smiled, blushing, and his fingers tightened at the back of your neck.

"I have a kingdom to rule, sons to raise, a library full of books I've never read... And a wife to please." He chuckled. "There are many things to keep me occupied. For a very long time."

"Oh, is that right?" You tilted your head back, looking up at him.

"Yes, it is." He cupped your chin, his eyes moving slowly over your face.

"You should start with the wife," you said softly.

"That is the plan." His lips brushed yours. "As soon as I catch my breath."

{Lesson One} {Lesson Two}