haiiii can i ask for akotsk men when they are like doing IT but lowk forget there strength and go to far and hard and there wife like cant take it anymore so she like says the safe word and what would they say and act like,AHH IM SORRY FOR MY DIRTY MIND
Akotsk men when you use your safe word
LMFAO anon dont even worry about it, if ur dirty then what am i??? lowkey kinda short. thx for the ask! just finished my last final, sooo excited to rot in bed and continue to write for u all, tired af too.
hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr
mdni 18+
Aerion - The air was thick with heat and sweat. Aerion had you bent over the edge of the bed, his grip bruising on your hips, his thrusts relentless. He was lost in it, in you, in the sounds you were making, in the way your body yielded to him. But each impact sent a sharp, nauseating ache deep inside you, like he was striking your cervix too hard, over and over.
The initial pleasure had long since faded into something raw and unbearable.
"Red," you gasped. He froze. Instantly. His hips stilled, his hands loosened, and he pulled out of you as if he'd been burned. "What's wrong?"
"I can't-" You tried to catch your breath, wincing as you shifted. "It's too much. You were hitting too deep."
His violet eyes went wide, scanning your face for any sign of real harm. "Did I hurt you?"
"A little." You whispered quietly, slightly ashamed for ruining the vibe. "I-"
His jaw tightened. Not at you, for clarification, at himself. He cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Don't even think of apologize for stopping me," he said, his voice rough.
"The moment you tell me to stop, I stop. Every time. You never have to push through pain for my sake." He rested his forehead against yours. "You come first. Always."
And for some reason, that made you feel much more guilty, so you continued with your whispered apologies. "I'm sorry-"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" He cut you off, his voice sharp, but you knew he wasn’t angry. "You come first. You always come first. Don't ever apologize for protecting yourself."
You felt tears prick your eyes, not from sadness, but from relief. He pulled you against his chest, holding you tight.
"We'll figure out what happened together," he murmured. "And next time, we'll avoid it." He carried you to bed, settling you against the pillows, and held you until your breathing slowed.
Daeron - You never saw Daeron like this, ever. His usual hesitation was gone, replaced by a desperate urgency. He had you on your back, his body pressing you into the mattress, his thrusts deep and frantic.
It was overwhelming, too fast, too deep, the angle wrong in a way that made your muscles seize with each impact. What made it worse was you weren’t used to this type of rhythm, it was foreign and it didn’t feel like it usually did.
"Daeron-stop-" you managed. But he didn't hear you. His face was buried in your neck, his breath ragged. "Daeron!" You pushed at his chest. "Red!" He jerked back like you'd struck him, suddenly snapping out of his lustful haze. His eyes were wide, panicked. "What-what happened? Are you hurt?"
"I couldn't breathe," you said, your voice shaky. "And the angle-it was too much. It hurt."
His face crumpled. He scrambled off you, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands in his hair.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking. "I got so caught up-I didn't think-"
"Daeron." You spoke softly, once again snapping him out it.
He stopped, looking at you with wide, guilty eyes. At your small nod, he moved back beside you, wrapping careful arms around you before resting his chin atop your head.
"Tell me what you need right now," he whispered. "Water? A blanket? Just to stay like this?"
You leaned into him. "Just this. Just you."
He let out a shaky breath and held you closer. "We'll slow down next time- I-I mean I will." he said softly. "There's no rush. I'd rather stop a hundred times than have you hurting."
Duncan - Duncan was strong. You knew that. You always knew that. His thickness was something you had to prepare for every time, and usually, with enough care, it was good.
But tonight, he shifted and changed up the usual angle, hitting you in a way that sent a sharp, grinding ache through your pelvis. It wasn't just discomfort, it was wrong, jarring, the kind of pain that made your body tense up.
"Red," you gasped. He stopped instantly. His hands released you, and he pulled out carefully.
"What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"The angle," you said, wincing. "It hurt. It was like-like grinding. Not the good kind."
His face crumpled. He dropped his head to your shoulder. "I'm sorry. I should've been paying closer attention." Duncan eased you beneath the blankets before disappearing for a moment.
When he returned, he set a warm cloth within your reach and a glass of water on the bedside table. Only then did he settle beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "We'll remember what didn't work," he said quietly.
"Next time we'll do better together." He kissed the top of your head. "You don't ever have to tough it out with me. If something feels wrong, we stop. That's all there is to it."
You leaned into him, letting his warmth soothe the ache. "I know. I just-I didn't want to ruin it."
"You could never ruin anything," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Valarr - Valarr was always controlled. Careful. And took his time. He never rushed, never pushed too hard.
But tonight was different, the stress of the day, the weight of the typical day to day duties, the endless demands asked of him, and he had let himself go more than usual.
Of course, you were always happy to help him de-stress, but there wasn’t enough foreplay. The stretch was more than you were ready for, and the roughness of it left you feeling raw, overstimulated, aching in a way that was anything but pleasant. Not to mention the friction.
"Red," you said. He stopped immediately. His hands released you, and he pulled out, his eyes scanning your face.
"What happened?"
"I wasn't ready," you admitted, wincing. "You were too rough. It just-hurt."
His jaw tightened. He nodded, moving off you, reaching for a cloth. He returned with a soft, warm cloth and began cleaning you gently, his hands careful, reverent. You sighed. He wasn’t feeling well and now he had to take care of you?
"I’m sorry." You blurted out as he continued to clean you up.
"Don't apologize," he said quietly. "This is on me. I should have slowed down. I should have made sure you were ready."
"It's okay. It happens."
Valarr gave a small shake of his head. "We'll take our time from now on," he said evenly. "Nothing is more important than making sure you're comfortable."
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "If something doesn't feel right, tell me the moment you notice. We'll adjust together. There's never any pressure to keep going."
You nodded, leaning into him. "I trust you." "I know. love." He rested his forehead against yours, his hand warm on your back. "I’ll never give you any reason to regret it."
i would love a atosk men reacting to you begging for a baby!
Begging Akotsk men for a baby
i may have droned on for too long with aerions sorry in advance! thank you to everyone for your well wishes, i love uuuuu<3 definitely getting back to my drafts and requests. soosos sorry for absence of like a month. glad to be back;) one final left then im done for two weeks!
hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr
mdni 18+
Aerion - You were quiet all evening. Aerion, the all-knowing husband, noticed. He always noticed when you were thinking about something. He could tell you weren't angry, but he had no clue why you were acting the way you were. So, he watched you over the rim of his wine cup, his eyes sharp as he observed your behavior on the dining table suspiciously. He kept his eyes trained on you, and every time you would look at him, you blushed and looked away.
"Out with it," he demanded.
"What?"
"You're thinking. I can hear you from here."
You set down your needlework. "I-it's just.. I-nothing." You replied in defeat.
Aerion's eyes narrowed further and he looked you straight in the eye. "We both know that's a lie. You're hiding something from me. Something important."
"I would like.. your…"
"My what?"
"Your baby." You said quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks.
His hand stilled on the cup.
"I want your baby," you said. "I want to carry your child."
He set the cup down slowly. His eyes were dark, intense. His jaw tightened.
"Say that again."
"I want your baby. I want to… you heard me."
In one swift motion, Aerion stood up from his chair. He grabbed your wrist roughly, yanking you to your feet. "Come with me. Now."
His voice was low and commanding as he dragged you out of the dining room, not caring if you stumbled. The servants scattered out of his way as he stormed through the halls, pulling you along.
Once inside the bedchambers, he shoved you against the wall, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. His other hand gripped your chin, forcing you to meet his piercing gaze.
"You want my baby? Is that what this is about?"
You nodded weakly, your legs buckling as heat pooled in your lower stomach.
He pulled you towards the massive four-poster bed, never releasing his grip on your wrists. With a quick movement, he shoved you onto the plush mattress, crawling over you predatorily. His eyes gleamed with wicked intent as he loomed above your prone form.
"This is what's been on that pretty little mind of yours all night," he murmured, one hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively while the other traced the delicate line of your collarbone. "Being bred."
His words sent shivers down your spine, desire coiling hot and heavy in your core. You arched beneath him, pressing your body flush against his as your hands came up to clutch at his shoulders.
"Yes," you breathed, looking up at him through lowered lashes. "I want it. I need it. Please, Aerion."
He chuckled darkly at your desperate attempts to entice him, amused by how shamelessly you were throwing yourself at him. His hand moved from your breast to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make breathing slightly difficult.
"Greedy girl," he growled approvingly. "So eager to be claimed."
He sat back on his haunches, keeping you pinned with his grip on your neck. With his free hand, he started unbuckling his belt, the metallic clink obscenely loud in the charged air between you.
"Beg for it then," he said. "Let me hear how badly you need your prince's cock stretching you open."
"Please-" you moaned. "Give it to me-please, please, please-"
He smirked wickedly at your wanton pleas, drinking in the sight of you writhing desperately beneath him.
Now fully nude, he crawled back over you, caging you in with his arms. With a wicked grin, he reached for the hem of your gown, practically tearing the delicate fabric as he yanked it up and off your body in one swift motion. Your undergarments followed shortly after, leaving you bare and exposed beneath his hungry gaze.
Large hands gripped your thighs, pushing your knees up and back towards your chest. He settled between your legs, the thick head of his cock nudging insistently at your entrance.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he purred darkly, rubbing the tip of his member through your slick folds.
You nodded, your hands going to his back as you begged for his cock. "Need to feel you inside of me."
He snarled in approval at your desperate pleas. With a powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt inside your tight heat, not stopping until his heavy balls rested against your ass.
"Fuck, yes," he growled, giving you a moment to adjust before setting a brutal pace. His hips snapped against yours mercilessly, each thrust driving him impossibly deeper. The wet squelch of your joined flesh filled the room, punctuated by the lewd slap of skin on skin.
"This cunt belongs to me now," he said, one hand tangling in your hair, yanking your head back to expose the column of your throat. "I'm going to pump you full of my seed, breed this fertile womb until it takes."
He pounded into you with animalistic ferocity, grunting and snarling as he rutted against your body like a beast in heat. His thick cock stretched you deliciously, hitting depths you didn't even know you had with every savage thrust.
"Fuck, your cunt feels incredible," he roared. "Milk it, you filthy slut. Beg for my cum."
"Yes-please-" you screamed, voice hoarse as he hit something deep inside you.
You shattered around him, your release triggering his own. Gripping your hips bruisingly tight, he slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the root as he exploded inside you.
"Fuck yes, take it all," he groaned. "Gonna fill this cunt to the brim, make this belly swell with my baby."
Hot ropes of thick cum painted your insides as he emptied himself deep in your spasming channel. He kept you pinned, ensuring every drop took root. His balls continued to pulse against your sensitive skin, working to deposit every ounce of his potent seed.
When your bodies finally stilled, he collapsed against you, both of you sweaty and spent. He lifted his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he saw rivulets of pearly essence starting to leak out around his softening cock.
"Looks like some of my precious seed is escaping," he teased, voice husky with renewed lust. In one fluid motion, he flipped you over onto your hands and knees, pulling your hips back towards him. "We can't have that, now can we?"
He notched the head of his cock back at your entrance. "I suppose I'll just have to put more inside to replace what your greedy little cunt is wasting."
He thrust back into you, and you cried out, your body already aching for more.
Daeron - You’re walking to the tavern together, your arm looped through Daeron's, the evening air cool and pleasant. He had been in good spirits, lighter than usual, his violet eyes soft, his steps steady. You had been looking forward to a quiet night, just the two of you.
Then you heard the crying.
It was a small sound, thin and miserable, coming from the alley beside the tavern. You stopped, pulling Daeron to a halt.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Someone's crying."
You let go of his arm and walked toward the sound. A child, a little girl, no older than four or five, sat on the ground, her knees pulled to her chest, her face streaked with tears.
"Hey," you said softly, crouching down. "What's wrong?"
She looked up at you, her lip trembling. "I can't find my mama."
Your heart clenched. You opened your arms. "Come here, sweetheart. Let me help you."
She hesitated, then crawled into your lap, burying her face in your shoulder. You held her, rocking her gently, humming a soft tune.
Within moments, her crying stopped. She just sat there, curled against you, breathing slowly.
Daeron stood frozen behind you. He had watched the whole thing, the way you knelt without hesitation, the way you held her, the way your voice soothed her instantly. His throat tightened. He looked away, running a hand through his hair. Calm the fuck down, he told himself.
You found her mother a few minutes later, a frantic woman who wept with relief. The little girl waved goodbye, her face now bright and cheerful.
"Thank you," the mother said. "Thank you so much."
You smiled and waved back as they disappeared into the crowd.
"Daeron?" you said, turning to him. "Everything alright?"
He nodded, but his eyes were soft, distant. "You're a natural."
"What?"
"With her. You didn't hesitate. You just... held her, and she stopped crying." He shook his head slowly. "I don't know how you do it."
"Daeron-"
"It's what I want." His voice was low, barely audible. "I want to have a child with you."
You stared at him. "You do?"
"I've been thinking about it for weeks. Every time I see you with children, every time I watch you be gentle and patient and good- I want that. I want to be a father. I want to be a father with you."
You reached out, taking his hand. "I want that too."
He squeezed your hand, his eyes soft and vulnerable. "You do?"
"I've been thinking about it too. Every time I see you smile, every time you hold my hand, I think about what it would be like to have a child with you."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped closer, his forehead pressing to yours.
"Let's go home," he said.
"Yes," you whispered. "Let's go home."
You barely made it through the door before he was on you, his mouth hot on yours, his hands tugging at your gown.
"I want to give you a baby," he breathed against your lips. "I want to see you round with my child."
"Then give me one," you said, pulling him toward the bed.
He laid you down, undressing you with trembling hands. He settled between your thighs, pushing inside you slow and deep.
He moved inside you, deep and urgent. You came with a cry, your body clenching around him, and he followed a moment later, spilling deep inside you with a broken groan.
He stayed, buried deep, his hand pressed to your stomach.
"You're going to be such a good mother," he whispered.
"And you're going to be a wonderful father."
Duncan - You’ve been watching him for what seemed like hours, all afternoon through the window of the cottage.
Duncan was outside, mending the fence by the pasture. His shirt was off, discarded on the grass, his back glistening with sweat under the afternoon sun. His muscles flexed with every swing of the hammer, every pull of the wire. He had no idea you were watching. He had no idea what he was doing to you. No. Idea.
Your thighs pressed together, and you felt the dampness pooling there, your body aching with a need that had been building for days. You had tried to be patient. You had tried to wait for the right moment. But watching him like this, strong and steady and so utterly him, you couldn't take it anymore.
You walked outside, your feet bare on the grass, and stopped in front of him. He looked up, hammer still in hand, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowing.
"Nothing." You stepped closer, pressing your body against his. "I need you."
He blinked, startled. "Right now?"
"Right now."
"Dove, I'm covered in-"
"Duncan." You reached up, tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth down to yours. "I need you inside me. I need you to put a baby in me. Right now."
His hammer dropped. It hit the grass with a dull thud.
"Put a baby?-"
"Yes." You kissed him again, deep and desperate. "I've been watching you all day. I can't think about anything else. I need your cock inside me. I need you to breed me. Please."
"Fuck," he breathed. He lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist, his mouth never leaving yours. He carried you inside, past the kitchen, past the table, and laid you down on the bed with a gentleness that contrasted with his desperation.
His big hands shook as he tore at the laces of your gown, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted, his voice thick with worry. "I don't know how to be-"
"You don't have to know anything," you said, pulling him down on top of you. "Please, Duncan. I need your baby. I need you to fill me up."
He pushed inside you, his movements deep and urgent, and you cried out, your legs wrapped around his waist. The stretch of him, the way he filled you completely, made your mind go blank.
"Yes-yes-" You clawed at his back, your nails leaving marks across his shoulders. "Cum inside me, please. Make me pregnant. Please."
"Fuck-" He groaned, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering against yours. He kept thrusting, desperate, as if he could force it to take.
"Did it work?" he asked, breathless.
"We won’t know yet," you said, your voice shaky. "But I want to keep trying."
He laughed, nodding. "Whatever you want, dove."
He held you all night, his big hand splayed across your stomach, already praying.
Valarr - The council chamber was stifling. The fire crackled too loudly, the candles burned too bright, and the air was thick with the kind of tension that came from men who thought they knew better than their prince.
You sat beside Valarr, your hand resting on his knee beneath the table. You’ve been married for all of two months. A blink of an eye. You were still learning each other's rhythms, still finding clothes in the wrong drawers, still discovering the small ways you fit together. You weren’t really trying for a child, not really. You’ve just been enjoying each other, letting things happen naturally.
The lords did not agree.
"My prince," Lord Hightower said, "it has been two months. The realm is watching. Your father's line must be secured. Perhaps it is time to consider... alternatives."
Valarr's hand stilled on his wine cup. His mismatched eyes flicked to Hightower, cold and sharp.
"Alternatives?"
"A second wife," Lord Redwyne added, leaning forward. "A woman of proven fertility. You could keep your current wife, of course, but a secret marriage-"
The temperature in the room dropped immediately and your breath hitched. Oh boy.
Valarr's hand moved from his cup to your thigh beneath the table. His grip was firm, possessive, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh through the silk of your gown. It was not gentle. It was a claim. Heat pooled low in your belly. You pressed your thighs together, suddenly very aware of every place his body touched yours.
"Let me be clear," Valarr said, his voice low and even. "I will not take a second wife. I will not set aside my wife. I will not entertain the idea of any other woman in my bed."
"My prince-"
"You are advising me to commit treason against the Faith," Valarr cut him off, his voice rising. "You are advising me to break vows I made before the Seven, to humiliate the woman I love, all because you are impatient for an heir, that, need I remind you, is not even yours."
He slammed his hand on the table. The cups rattled. The lords flinched.
She is the only wife I will ever want," he said, his voice shaking with barely contained fury. "She is the only wife I will ever need. If I hear so much as a whisper of this idea again, I will have you stripped of your lands and titles. Do I make myself clear?"
Your breath hitched yet again. The way he said it…so absolute, so possessive, sent a shiver down your spine. You shifted in your seat, your thighs pressing together. The heat between your legs was almost unbearable. The lords exchanged glances. They nodded, bowing their heads.
"Crystal, my prince."
Valarr stood, his hand still gripping your thigh. "We are done here."
He pulled you to your feet and led you out of the chamber, his strides long and purposeful. The servants scattered. The doors slammed behind you.
He did not stop until you reached your chambers. The door had barely closed before he had you pressed against it, his body hard against yours, his mouth hot on your neck.
"Do you have any idea," he growled, "what it does to me, hearing them talk about you like that?"
"Yes," you breathed. "And I'm so wet for you."
He pulled back, his eyes dark. "What?"
"You." You reached down, pressing his hand between your thighs, letting him feel the damp heat through your gown. "I could barely sit still in that room. The way you spoke to them..."
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're-"
"I'm yours." You pulled him down, pressing your lips to his. "Now give me your baby."
He lifted you, carrying you to the bed. He laid you down, undressing you roughly, his hands shaking with need.
"Tonight," he said, pushing inside you. "Tonight, I'm going to fill you so full that you'll be carrying my child before the sun rises."
You cried out, your legs wrapped around his waist. "Yes, yes, please-"
He moved inside you, deep and relentless, his forehead pressed to yours.
"You are the only one," he said, his voice breaking. "The only one I will ever want. The only one I will ever love. Do you understand?"
You nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I understand."
He came with a broken groan, spilling deep inside you, his body shuddering against yours.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
Alas, a few months later, you cradled a healthy baby boy in your arms. Valarr looked down at you, his mismatched eyes soft.
Can you write about a the AKOTSK men and a Stark reader who is a more traditionally northern girl and hates the power plays and games of the south. Follows the old gods and also fights and has battle experience from hunting wildings and bandits.
Akotsk men x Stark!Reader
thank u anon for the req! sorry guys its been soooo soo busy for me, summer semester ends in about 3 weeks? im excited to have a break it’s been so hectic
hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr
Aerion - Aerion was very bored.
The great hall of King's Landing was packed with southern lords and ladies, all of them desperate to impress him, to win his favor, to marry their daughters off to a Targaryen prince. He had been subjected to fake smiles and fluttering fans and endless, insufferable small talk for hours. He was ready to set something on fire.
"Is there no one here with anything interesting to say?" he asked, loud enough for the nearby lords to hear. "Or are you all determined to bore me to death?"
The ladies tittered nervously. The lords shifted in their seats. Aerion smiled, sharp and cruel, and took a long drink of his wine.
Then the herald's voice rang out.
"Presenting the delegation from Winterfell-"
His ears perked.
Northerners. In the South. That was rare. That was interesting.
He watched the doors swing open, and you walked in.
You were a Stark, duh. He could tell by the fur, the obvious Stark sigil on your chest, the way you carried yourself like you were ready for a fight. Your hair was braided back, your face was pale, and your eyes, grey as winter, scanned the room with open disdain. He liked that.
Aerion was fascinated.
He crossed the room and stopped in front of you. "You must be the Stark girl."
You looked at him. No curtsy. No smile. Just a flat, assessing stare. "And you must be the Targaryen one."
"Aerion."
"I know who you are."
He grinned. "And what do you think of me?"
"I think you're a southern prince who's used to getting what he wants." Your accent was thick, Northern, rough around the edges. "I'm not going to be one of your conquests."
He laughed. "You think I'm trying to conquer you?"
"I think you're trying to charm me." You stepped past him. "It won't work."
He followed you. Through dinner, through the feast, through the endless southern flattery. You ignored him. You ignored everyone. You sat in the corner, nursing a cup of ale, looking like you would rather be anywhere else.
He couldn't stop watching you.
"You're very persistent," you said, when he sat down across from you.
"I'm very interested."
"In what?"
"In you." He leaned forward. "You don't play games."
"Neither do the wolves. We don't have time for it."
"Then what do you have time for?"
You looked at him, your grey eyes sharp and assessing. "The truth. Honesty. People who say what they mean."
He held your gaze. "I can do that."
"Prove it."
He did. He stopped flirting. He stopped performing. He talked. Honest, blunt, sometimes ugly. You listened. You nodded. And when he finished, you almost smiled.
"You're not as terrible as I thought," you said.
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
A few days later, he found you in the courtyard, your bow in hand.
"You hunt?" he asked.
"Obviously." You looked him up and down. "You?"
"I've been known to."
You grinned, like you already won. "Then let's make it interesting. Whoever catches the biggest one wins."
"What's the prize?"
You shrugged. "Loser has to do whatever the winner wants for a day."
He thought about it. Then he smiled.
"Fine," he said. "But when I win, you have to go hunting with me every day for a month."
You raised an eyebrow. "That's what you want?"
"I want to spend time with you."
You stared at him. "That's pathetic."
"I know."
You shook your head, but you were almost smiling. "And if I win?"
"Then I'll leave you alone for a month."
You considered this. "That's not a very good prize."
"I know." He stepped closer. "I'm trying to lose."
You laughed, and something in him made him want to hear it again. Every day.
The hunt lasted all day. You were fast, precise, lethal. He was... not. He missed shots. He tripped over roots.
You caught a massive stag. He caught a rabbit.
You looked at his kill. You looked at him. You shook your head.
"You did that on purpose," you said.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You let me win."
"I lost fair and square."
You laughed again. He couldn't stop smiling.
"We'll go hunting tomorrow," he said. "And the day after. And the day after that."
"I don't remember agreeing to that."
"You won. I lost. Those were the terms."
You shook your head, but you were still smiling.
"Fine," you said. "But I'm picking the spot."
"Whatever you want."
He meant it. He would follow you anywhere.
Daeron - Daeron has always been quiet. He was always being overlooked. He was the quiet one, the one who drank too much and said too little.
Then he met you.
You were a Stark, which meant you did not simper or scheme. You did not play games. You said what you thought, and you expected others to do the same.
He liked that. He did not know how to tell you.
He found you in the training yard one afternoon, sparring with a knight twice your size. You won. The knight was on his back, gasping, and you were standing over him, your sword at his throat.
Daeron watched from the sidelines. Definitely not thinking this was hot as hell. You caught his eye and grinned.
"You want a turn?" you asked.
"I don't think so."
"Scared?"
"No." He walked forward, his hands in his pockets. "I don't know how to fight."
You tilted your head. "You're a prince. How do you not know-"
"I'm a disappointment."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you sheathed your sword.
"Come on," you said. "I'll teach you."
"I don't-"
"Come on."
He followed you. You handed him a practice sword and showed him how to hold it. Your hands were steady, your voice patient.
"You fight like you've been doing it your whole life," he said.
"I have. Northern women don't sit in towers. We have to live just as the men do."
"So what do you do?"
"Fight. Hunt. Survive." You met his eyes. "We don't have time for games."
He thought about that for a long time. He thought about you.
He started coming to the yard every day. You taught him to hold a sword, to block, to strike. He was not good at it. He was not strong or fast. But he tried. He kept trying.
"Why do you do this?" you asked one day.
"Because you're teaching me."
"You could have any master-at-arms in the realm."
"I don't want anyone else."
You looked at him. He looked back.
"You're different," you said.
"Is that a good thing?"
"I don't know yet."
You kept teaching him. He kept learning.
When he kissed you, he was awkward and stumbling. You kissed him back, steady and sure.
"You're getting better," you said.
"At kissing?"
"At everything."
He smiled. It was the first time in a long time.
Duncan - Duncan and Egg had been traveling for weeks when they reached Winterfell, specifically for the goal to meet House Stark. The North was cold, vast, and utterly foreign. It was Duncan’s first time being this far north and he never met a Stark in his life.
You were the eldest Stark daughter. Your father asked you to show them around, and you agreed with a shrug and a grunt. You were not impressed by the princes. You were not impressed by Duncan. You were just... there.
But you were an enigma. To Duncan.
You moved through the castle like you owned it, well obviously you did? He mentally face palms. Your strides were easy, your hand always near your knife. You spoke to the smallfolk like equals. You ignored the southern lords who sneered at your accent.
And you hunted.
Duncan watched you track a deer through the snow, your movements silent and precise. You killed it with one arrow, dressed it yourself, and carried it back to the castle like it was nothing.
He could barely keep up.
"You're not bad," you said, when he stumbled over a root.
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
He did. He kept trying. He wanted to impress you. He didn't know why. His efforts even made Egg roll his eyes and cringe.
He found you in the godswood one evening, standing before the heart tree. The carved face stared down at him, red leaves dripping. You were praying, or something like it.
He waited until you turned.
"You follow the old gods?" he asked.
"I do." You looked at him. "You follow the Seven?"
"I do."
"Is that a problem?"
He shook his head. "I don't think it matters."
"It doesn't?"
"I think gods are gods. Whatever they're called." He looked at you. "I think what matters is how you treat people."
You studied him for a long moment. "You're not like the other southerners."
"I've heard that before."
You almost smiled. "Stay for dinner."
He did. He even extended it and stayed for a week. He helped with the harvest, chopped wood, listened to your stories about the North. When he left, you walked him to the edge of the village.
"Come back," you said.
"I will."
And he did. He kept coming back. Next time maybe with a ring. If he was lucky.
Valarr - Valarr came north for some annual hunting competition. Every house in the realm sent someone to represent and try to win, southern lords in their furs, northern lords in their leathers, all of them eager to prove themselves. He did not expected to enjoy it. The North was cold, the people were strange, in the nicest way possible, and it was just new to him.
Then he saw you.
You were the eldest Stark daughter, and you were riding into the competition grounds on a black horse, a beauty and powerful, its mane flying in the cold wind. Your bow was slung across your back, your face set in a look of calm determination. He couldn't look away.
"Stark," he said, when you passed him. Fuck he totally messed up, he rehearsed saying hello like five times.
"I am." You did not stop. "And you're the prince."
"Valarr."
"Yes, I know who you are."
He followed you to the starting line. "You're competing?"
"I am."
"Against men?"
You looked at him like he asked something profoundly stupid. "Yes. You think that will stop me? It’s been like this for my whole life."
He opened his mouth to say something else, but you were already gone, your horse leaping forward into the trees.
He watched you ride through the forest, your movements fluid and precise. You tracked a stag through the underbrush, your eyes sharp, your hand steady on the bow. He forgot to watch his own path.
You won.
He found you at the end of the day, standing over a kill that was bigger than anything he managed. A massive elk, its antlers spread wide, its body still steaming in the cold air.
"Valarr," you said, not looking up.
"Stark."
"You didn't win."
"I noticed."
You looked at him then. Your grey eyes were sharp, assessing.
"Did you think I would?"
"I didn't know what to think."
You almost smiled. "Most southerners don't."
He stepped closer. "I'm not most southerners."
"No. You're not." You wiped your hands on your tunic. "You're also not a bad shot."
"You saw me?"
"Everyone saw you. You were staring at me instead of watching the trail."
He felt his ears go red. "I was not."
"You were."
He opened his mouth to argue. Then he closed it.
You shouldered the elk and started walking. He fell into step beside you.
"You don't have to help," you said.
"I want to."
You glanced at him. "Suit yourself."
He walked with you back to the castle, listening as you talked about the hunt, the woods, the North. When you reached the gates, you stopped.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
"Neither are you."
He wanted to say more. He didn't know how. Yet.
"I'll walk you to the hall," he said instead.
You looked at him. "You don't have to."
"I want to."
You nodded and kept walking.
He followed you the rest of the week. He followed you to the training yard, to the woods, to the halls of Winterfell. He wanted to learn about you. He wanted to understand how someone could be so... you.
He wrote to his father that night.
Father,
I hope this letter finds you well. The hunting competition has concluded, and the North is proving to be more complicated than I anticipated. There are trade matters that require my attention here, alliances to discuss, negotiations to be had. I will be staying in the North for a little while longer to see them through.
I will write again when I have more news.
Your son,
Valarr
He sealed the letter and sent the raven. It was not entirely a lie. There were matters to attend to. He just did not mention that the most important matter had grey eyes and killer aim.
He found you the next morning in the yard, already training. He watched you for a long moment before stepping forward.
"You're still here," you said.
"I'm still here."
You lowered your sword. "Why?"
He didn't answer. He just picked up a practice sword and faced you.
"Show me how you did that," he said.
You raised an eyebrow. "You want to learn how to fight like a Northman?"
"I want to learn how to fight like you."
You studied him for a moment. Then you smiled. Despite the cold, harsh weather, Valarr felt warm at that moment.
"Alright," you said. "But don't complain when you're sore tomorrow."
hi hi i love your work !! may i request the akotsk fellas eloping with their beloved? like for some reason they can’t get married so they just say fuck it and wed in secret. thank you!!
Akotsk princes eloping with you
ouuuu forbidden love type shit! if i had huzz and then i was arranged to marry someone else, i WOULD elope tbh <3
hcs of aerion, daeron, valarr
Aerion - Aerion was told no. That was his first problem. He didn’t like that. His father outright refused when Aerion spoke of wedding you, his father’s excuse was something about politics, about alliances, about how a prince of the blood should not marry for love. Aerion sat through the lecture, his jaw tight, if looks could kill, everyone would be dead, as a result of the way Aerion was FUMING. Then he had walked out. Not without a fight, though.
He threatened his father's life, not once, but twice. He swore he would burn the castle down, that he would call every dragon and every sword and every wretched thing he could summon to make his father regret this. Maekar was used to this, so he didn’t care. Aerion then turned on the betrothed his father chose for him, a girl who had the audacity to smile at him when he publicly announced he was going to marry you. She knew. She knew how Aerion felt, but she didn’t care. So Aerion was obviously not kind to her. He might’ve sent her away while she cried. Oops?
But now, you sat across from him in a cozy little tavern, and he couldn't keep the grin off his face.
"We're leaving," he said, his voice buzzing with barely contained energy. You’ve never seen him so… happy?
"Aerion-"
"We're leaving tonight. I've arranged everything. Horses, a septon, a village two hours east." He reached across the table and took your hand. "You and me. Married. Finally."
You stared at him. "Your father is going to-"
"He'll live." Aerion squeezed your hand. "I don't care about my father. I care about you. About us." He was practically bouncing. "I've been waiting for this for months. I've been planning. I've been-" He stopped, laughing. "I've been so angry for so long, and now I'm just…"
"Excited?"
"Yes." He looked at you, his violet eyes bright. "I'm excited. I don't think I've ever been excited about anything before. But I am. About you. About this."
You laughed. He pulled you up and kissed you.
"Pack up," he said. "We leave at midnight."
The ride was cold and dark. He didn't speak much, but he was smiling. He kept your hand in his, his thumb tracing circles on your skin.
The septon was old, and knew who Arron was, who wouldn’t? The septon didn’t care, though. Just said the ceremony while smiling and mumbling something about young loves. Afterwards, after Aerion kissed you oh so passionately, he pulls back.
"You're mine now," he said, pulling back. "And I'm yours."
"You just angered your father."
"Good." He grinned. "At least now I have you."
That night you did your business, and in the morning, he sent a raven to his father:
Married.
Deal with it.
Daeron - Daeron was never good at speaking up. He let his father plan his life, his marriage, his future. He nodded along, in fact he’s pretty sure he was drunk when he had that conversation.
But when he met you for the first time, he wanted something for himself. He wanted to make decisions about his own life.
He didn't plan a grand escape. He just packed a small bag, took your hand, and walked out the side gate one evening.
"Where are we going?" you asked.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I know we're getting married." He squeezed your hand. "I don't know where."
You found a rural area later on. There was a septon who agreed to marry you, no questions asked. Daeron's hands were shaking. His voice was soft.
"Are you sure?" you whispered.
"I've never been sure of anything," he said. "Except this."
You spoke the vows. He kissed you like it was the first time.
"We should probably tell your father," you said afterward.
"He'll find out eventually."
"You're going to be in trouble."
He smiled. "I don't care."
Three days later, Daeron received a letter. Easily recognizing Maekar’s handwriting.
Fine. You're a foolish boy. Bring her home.
He ran to you asap. "My father says it's fine."
You looked at him. "It's fine?"
"He says I'm a fool. But he wants us to come home."
"Let's go home," he said.
Valarr - Valarr was never impulsive. Everyone knew that, HE knew that. He planned. He prepared. He considered every angle and possibility.
Then he met you. And he realized that some things couldn't be planned.
His father had arranged a match for him. A girl from Tyrosh. A political alliance, a proper match. Valarr sat through the meeting, nodding, saying nothing. So his father Baelor assumed that he accepted.
He hadn't.
He found you in the library that night.
"We're leaving," he said.
You looked up from your book. As if you were actually reading. You were NOT. Definitely not crying either. "Excuse me?"
"We're leaving. Tonight. I've already arranged for a septon."
"You've arranged-"
"I want to marry you." His voice was calm, but his hands were shaking. "I've never wanted anything more."
He always followed the rules. He always did what was expected. He had never deviated from a plan in his life. But you, you changed everything. He couldn't marry some girl from Tyrosh. He couldn't pretend. He couldn't. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
You stared at him. Then you stood.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'm not going to argue with you about this."
He smiled. He took your hand and led you out.
The septon was waiting in a small chapel. The ceremony was quick, quiet, private and perfect. Valarr's hands were steady as he placed the cloak around your shoulders.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
He then sealed your vows in a chaste, but longing kiss. A few days later, he wrote to his father.
Father,
I know you arranged a match for me, and I thank you for that because it pushed me to do what I wanted. Not you, not anybody. I know you expected me to follow your plans. I always have. But I can't. I love her. I love her in a way I didn't know I was capable of. I've spent my whole life doing what was expected of me. This is the first time I've done what I wanted.
I've married her. I know you'll be angry. But I'm not sorry.
Your son,
Valarr
He read the letter twice, folded it carefully, and sent it. He honestly did not care about receiving a letter back, he had you. That was all that mattered.
having a miscarriage and feeling guilty about not giving them a child and they comfort you?
i understand if you don't wanna do it
hope you're doing great <3
Akotsk men when you have a miscarriage
hi guys been so busy i hope u all have been taking care of yourselves, thank you anon for the req and your patience! i have a lot of my reqs in drafts already!! my mom actually had 5 miscarriages so ive seen first hand what happens. if any of you have experienced this i am so so sorry and you are incredibly strong
hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr
Aerion - You were three months along. Aerion already knew and you guys already started planning. You hadn’t felt the quickening yet, but you had all the symptoms and the maesters confirmed it. You had been so sure. So hopeful.
It started in the middle of the night. A dull ache that deepened into something sharp, like your moon blood cramps but 100x worse. You sat up, your hand pressed to your stomach, and felt the blood begin to flow. It was heavy. Way too heavy.
You woke Aerion with a hand on his arm, your nails digging into his skin but he didn’t care. He was alert instantly, his violet eyes sharp in the darkness. He turned to the side and lit a candle, turning back to you.
"What is it?"
"I think-" You stopped. The pain rolled through you, cramping and twisting, and you couldn't speak. It was THAT bad.
He saw the blood on the sheets. His face went white. He was on his feet in an instant, shouting for the maester, his voice hoarse with panic.
The maester came, examined you, and told you what you already assumed since you got that pain. You were losing the baby. Three months of his baby, of your baby.
The bleeding was heavy. You passed clots the size of your palm, the pain sharp and unrelenting, you couldn’t catch a break. You cried, yes from the pain, but more from the loss. The quiet future you had been building in your mind, erased in a single night. You felt like a failure.
Aerion stood in the corner, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. Watching you. If you didn’t know any better you would’ve thought he was angry with you.
When the maester left, he crossed to you. He knelt beside the bed and took your hand.
"I'm sorry," you said. "I couldn't-"
"Don't." His voice was sharp, cutting you off. "Don't you dare apologize."
"I should have been more careful-"
"You should have been nothing." He gripped your hand tighter. "This isn't your fault. It's not your body's fault. It's not anyone's fault."
You looked at him. Trying to decipher how he felt. His face gave nothing away but his eyes were glassy with tears.
"I wanted this," you cried. "I wanted to give you a child."
He pulled you into his arms, his grip fierce and protective.
"Who told you that was your purpose?" His voice cracked. "I don't need a child. I need you. I need you alive and breathing and here."
You cried into his chest. He held you, his hand pressed to your back, his jaw tight against your hair.
He stayed with you all night. He didn't sleep. He just held you.
In the morning, the bleeding hadn’t slowed at ALL. The pain had eased maybe a tiny bit but it was still agonizing, especially the pain of losing a baby. Aerion sat beside you, his hand still in yours.
For a long while, neither of you spoke. The room felt too quiet. Too empty.
When you finally looked at him, you wished you hadn’t.
His face was carefully composed, but the grief was still there, he looked as lost as you felt, and the sight of it made something inside you crack.
Without a word, he moved closer and pulled you into his arms.
One hand cradled the back of your head while the other wrapped around your shoulders.
He held you tightly, resting his cheek against your hair.
Daeron - You were so careful. You tracked your cycles, eaten well, rested when you needed to. When you missed your moon blood, you let yourself hope. You didn’t tell Daeron yet. You wanted to be sure so you could surprise him.
You were in your chambers, sewing, when the cramping started. It was different from the usual, it was off. You set down the needle and pressed your hand to your stomach, waiting for it to pass. It didn't. It built up.
Then you felt it. The sudden, unmistakable rush of warmth between your thighs. You looked down. The blood was already soaking through your dress, pooling beneath you on the chair.
You made it to the bed, but barely. You collapsed onto the mattress, your body wracked with waves of pain as you curled up in a ball. Daeron found you an hour later. He was in the yard, trying to find something to do that would make him feel useful. He opened the door, and his face went white. You were curled on the bed, pale as death, your dress and the sheets dark with blood.
He crossed the room in three strides, his hands hovering over you. "What happened?"
You shook your head, your teeth chattering.
He called for the maester. He held your hand while they examined you. He didn't leave your side. When the maester told you that you had lost the pregnancy, Daeron's face crumpled but he held his feelings in. You needed HIM and he was gonna be there for you.
He held you while you cried. He brought you water. He held the cup to your lips when you were too weak to lift it.
"I thought I was going to surprise you," you said, your voice quiet.
"I know."
"I was so careful."
"I know." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I know."
The guilt sat heavy on him, but he didn't let it consume him. He stayed focused on you, on your recovery, on your comfort. It was only later, when you were asleep, that he let himself break. He sat in the chair beside the bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
You woke and saw him there. You reached for him.
"Daeron."
He looked up. His eyes were red rimmed and full of tears.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have been healthier. I should have done better-"
"You don't know that this was your fault."
He shook his head. "But I could have been stronger for you."
You pulled his hand to your cheek.
"You stayed," you said. "You're staying."
He pressed his forehead to yours.
"I'm not leaving," he said. "I'm never leaving."
In the days that followed, Daeron was quiet, but he was there. He brought you meals. He sat with you in silence. He held your hand when you cried and didn't try to fix it. He didn't make promises about trying again because he knew better. And actions are louder than words, so he stopped drinking entirely. He didn't make a show of it or announce. He never explained, but you knew. He was doing it for you.
Duncan - He knew, obviously. You told him three days ago, sitting by the fire in the small cottage you rented for the summer. His face lit up like you handed him the sun. He lifted you off your feet, spun you around, and pressed his forehead to yours.
"A baby," he said. "Our baby."
He was like a puppy ever since. Bouncing around the cottage, bringing you extra blankets, asking if you were comfortable every five minutes, trying to craft wooden toys for the soon to be baby. He didn't care if it was a boy or a girl. He said it didn't matter, he just wanted a healthy baby. A healthy you. "I don't have a preference," he had said, grinning. "I just want them to have your smile." That had made it hurt even more now.
Today, he went out to chop wood. He kissed your forehead and told you to rest, and you watched him through the window while you made a simple stew, the kind he loved. Then the cramping started. You pressed your hand to your stomach, trying to breathe through it but it felt impossible. After awhile of enduring those cramps, you felt the sudden, unmistakable rush of warmth between your thighs. You looked down. The blood was already soaking through your dress, pooling on the floor.
You tried to call for him. You stumbled, gripping the counter, and then your knees gave out. You hit the floor hard, the pain crashing over you in waves. The stew bubbled and burned on the fire. You couldn't reach it. You couldn't reach anything.
You didn't know how long you lay there. Minutes. Hours, then you were snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of the door bursting open. Duncan's voice was bright, he had no idea.
"I got enough wood for the-"
The bundle of wood dropped. It clattered onto the floor while he ran to you, falling to his knees beside you.
"HEY-hey-what happened-"
"I'm sorry." you sobbed. "I'm sorry, I was cooking, and I-I'm losing it-"
"Don't be sorry." He lifted you, cradling you against his chest, and carried you to the bed. "I'm getting the maester."
After everything, you finally spoke up, guilt eating you away.
"I'm sorry," you said. "I wanted to give you a child. I wanted to give you everything-"
"You gave me everything." He pressed his forehead to yours. "You gave me you."
"I know you didn't care if it was a boy or a girl. You said you just wanted them to have my smile. And I couldn't even-"
He pulled you into his arms. "Stop. Please stop."
You cried into his chest.
In the morning, he buried a small set of flowers in the garden, for your unborn baby. He came back inside and sat beside you.
"I love you," he said. "Nothing would change that."
You leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around you.
"You didn't disappoint me," he said. "You could never disappoint me."
You nodded against his chest. He kissed your forehead and held you close.
Valarr - You went to the maester together. Valarr held your hand the whole time, his mismatched eyes bright with hope. When the maester confirmed it, he turned to you, his face breaking into a smile so pure it made your chest ache.
"We're going to have a baby," he had said, pulling you into his arms. "We're going to be parents."
He kissed you right there, in front of the maester and the servants. He didn't care. He was going to be a father. He was going to be a father with you.
That was a month ago.
A month of planning, dreaming. You already started picking names. He had listened to every single one, his head tilted, his eyes soft. He had favorites, but he always deferred to you. "You're carrying them," he said. "You get final say."
It was midafternoon, a busy day for everyone and you were in your chambers, mild cramps. You decided to sleep it off, and when you woke up you were in agony. Then you looked down.
You didn't call for him. You couldn't. You just sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blood, your body wracked with pain and grief.
He found you hours later. He was in meetings. He was thinking about you. About the baby. About the names you chosen. He even ended the meeting early to go and find you, which brings you to now.
"Love, I'm back-" He stopped in the doorway.
You were on the bed, pale and shaking, he crossed the room in three strides, his face as pale as yours.
"Valarr-"
"What happened?"
"I think I lost it." Your voice cracked. "I'm sorry."
He called for the maester. When the maester confirmed it and gave you some medicine for pain, it was quiet.
"I'm sorry," you said. "I know you were counting on-"
He pressed his hand to your cheek.
"I was counting on you," he said. "Just you."
"Valarr-"
"The heir is second. You are first." His voice was quiet but firm. "You are always first."
You shook your head. "You're the prince. You need-"
"You." His voice cracked. "I need you. That’s all."
You cried. He pulled you into his arms and despite all his reassurances, in the morning, you still couldn't look at him. You don’t even want to speak with him.
"Can we still name them?" he asked quietly.
You looked up. "What?"
"The baby." His voice was soft. "Even if they're not here. Can we still name them?"
You stared at him. Then the tears came again.
"You don't have to-"
"I want to." He took your hand. "It feels wrong not to."
You nodded. He pulled you into his arms.
"I want to name them something beautiful," he said. "Something that means hope."
You told him the name you had loved most. He repeated it, his voice soft, and pressed a kiss to your hair.
The shame eased, slowly. It never fully went away. But every day, Valarr was there. And every day, he told you, in a hundred small ways, that you were not a failure. That you were not a disappointment.
akotsk men react when he and reader have a fight, then reader ignores him for daysss to he has to grovel a bit to get back into her good graces (bc ofc he cant stand not having her attention) 😋
Akotsk men when you ignore them
this might be my fav ask thank u wishes! in reality i definitely could not ignore these men. im whipped
hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr
Aerion - Aerion woke up the morning after the fight feeling justified. She'll come around, he told himself. She always does.
He went about his day. He attended a council meeting. He snapped at a servant. He sharpened his dagger. He did not think about you.
By midday, he was pacing.
By evening, he was sulking.
You had not come around. You had not sent a note. You had not even looked at him during dinner. You sat at the far end of the table, speaking to everyone except him, and he sat there, jaw tight, watching you ignore him.
"Fine," he muttered. "I don't need her."
He absolutely needed you.
He spent the next three days snapping at everyone, slamming doors, and glaring at the walls. He did not apologize. He did not come looking for you. He existed, angry and miserable, and he made it EVERYONES problem.
The irony was not lost on him. He had called you needy once. Who was the needy one now?
On the fourth day, he found you in the garden. You were sitting on a bench, reading. He stood there for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"You're still ignoring me."
You turned a page.
He stepped closer. "I said-"
You looked up. "I heard you."
"I don't like this."
"I don't care."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he sat down on the grass beside you.
"What are you doing?" you asked.
"Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For you to stop ignoring me."
You turned another page. He sat there and didn’t move. The servants were so confused looking at it. You were walking him like a dog.
"This is pathetic," you said.
"You're the one who's been ignoring me for four days."
"Because you called me needy."
He winced. "I was wrong."
"Say it again."
"I was wrong."
You finally looked at him. "You're very bad at apologizing."
"I know." He reached for your hand, pulling it into his lap. "I can’t do that, it’s just… not my thing."
"That's not a good thing."
"I know." His grip on your hand tightened. "But I'm here. I'm sitting on the grass. I look ridiculous. Can’t you see how sorry I am?"
"You do look ridiculous."
"Will you stop ignoring me now?"
You looked at him and his desperate eyes, his stubborn jaw, his hand holding yours like you might disappear.
"Fine," you said. "I forgive you."
He let out a breath. Then he moved, pulling you down onto the grass with him, wrapping his arms around you.
"I am not needy," he declared.
"You're literally holding me like I'm going to run away. I’m not going anywhere."
"Shut up."
He held you tighter and you let him, he earned it, of course.
Daeron - Daeron had drunk too much. Again. You had gone to fetch him from the tavern, like you always did, and he had mumbled something stupid about you controlling him, about you always telling him what to do.
You had left him there.
He remembered stumbling back to his chambers. He remembered sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the door. He remembered the horrible, sinking realization that you weren't coming.
He spent the next day in his room, too hungover to move, too sad to care. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He just lay there, replaying the fight in his head, wondering how he could have been so stupid.
By the second day, he started trailing after you.
It was pretty pathetic. He would stand in doorways and watch you. He would follow you down corridors, keeping a careful distance. He would sit at the far end of the table during meals, stealing glances at you.
He didn't wanna approach you. He didn't speak. He followed you. Was it creepy? Yes. But it’s the only thing he felt he could do, the mortification in his soul was far too great.
You caught him outside your chambers one evening.
"Daeron."
He froze. "I wasn't-"
"You've been following me for two days."
He looked at his feet. "I didn't know what else to do."
"You could apologize."
He looked up. "I don't know how."
You sighed. "You apologize like a normal person. You say 'I'm sorry, I was wrong, I shouldn't have said that.'"
He stared at you. "I'm sorry. I was wrong. I shouldn't have said that."
You waited.
"That's it?" you asked.
"I don't know what else to say."
"You could say you're an idiot."
"I'm an idiot."
"And that you'll stop drinking."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'll try."
You looked at his tired eyes, his messy hair, his desperate face.
"You're pathetic," you said.
"I know."
You opened your door and stepped inside. He didn't follow. He stood there, looking at you for permission.
"Are you coming in or not?" you asked.
He followed you in. He was going to make it up to you. In fact? He would be delighted for you to control him.
Duncan - Duncan had made a joke. It was early morning, before you'd had tea, before you'd even really woken up. He thought it was funny! A harmless ribbing about your... well, he couldn't even remember now. Partly because trying to remember makes him so sad. All he remembered was the look on your face.
Incredibly bad taste.
He had apologized immediately, but you were already walking away. By midday, you were avoiding him entirely. He didn't know how to fix it.
So he asked for help, and found Egg in the courtyard.
"I need help."
Egg looked up from his book. "With what?"
"Flowers. Honey. I need to-" He gestured vaguely. "I need to apologize."
"Why honey?"
"Because she likes honey."
"And you're bringing her honey?"
"I'm bringing her wildflowers and honey. A peace offering."
Egg stared at him. "You want me to help you pick flowers?"
"And find honey. There's a hive by the old oak."
"There's always bees."
"I know."
The trip was a disaster. The wildflowers were easy, Duncan had brought a sack and filled it quickly. The honey was not easy. The bees were territorial. Aggressive. They did not appreciate him reaching into their hive.
He got stung. Everywhere. While Egg stood a safe distance away, watching.
"You're doing great," Egg called.
"Shut up."
"Your ear is swelling."
"I know."
He emerged victorious, clutching a dripping comb of honey. His face was blotchy. His hands were swollen. He looked ridiculous.
He found you in the garden, reading, more like pretending to read, actually. He could tell because you were holding the book upside down.
He set the wildflowers and honey beside you. You looked up. Your eyes widened.
"What happened to you?"
"I got you honey."
"Your face!-"
"I got stung. A lot. There were bees."
You stared at him. He stared back, his face red, his eyes desperate.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said what I said. It was in bad taste. I'm an idiot. I'm sorry."
You reached up, touching his swollen ear. He winced.
"You did that for me?" you asked.
"I’ll do anything for you."
You sighed. Then you stood and pulled him into a hug.
"I forgive you," you said. "Now let's get you to the maester."
Valarr - You asked for space. Valarr nodded, why wouldn’t he? He said he understood, and gone back to his work.
He thought he would be fine. He was respectful. He could give you space. He was not the type to hover or beg. He had self control.
He was very, very wrong.
He attended meetings. He read documents. He signed things. He did everything he was supposed to do. He also made mistakes, tiny ones at first, the kind that made his clerks exchange glances like "What’s wrong with him?" He signed a document upside down. He called a servant by the wrong name. He walked into a room and forgot why. He was staring at the same page for an hour without reading a word. By day three, he was losing track of conversations mid sentence. He was not fine. He was not content. He was cooked. And may or may not have been caught writing you love letters instead of doing his work.
The worst part for him was seeing you.
Every time you walked past, there was a lump in his throat. Every time he caught a glimpse of you in the corridor, his mind went blank. He would stand there, frozen, watching you disappear, his heart aching in a way he didn't know how to name. He had thought he could handle distance. He could not handle distance. He needed you near him like he needed air.
Three days into your silence, he found you in the library. You were reading, and it had to be a book that HE recommended.
"Can I sit?" he asked.
"I asked for space."
He stood there, not moving. "I thought I could do it. Give you space. Be respectful." He swallowed. "I can't. I can't focus. I can't think. I keep making mistakes-"
He stopped, running a hand through his hair.
"Your space is important," he said quietly. "But so are you. And I don't know how to function without you."
You looked up. He looked very different from the usual. He was rumpled, tired, his mismatched eyes red-rimmed, either from lack of sleep or maybe crying.
"Valarr."
"I signed a document upside down today."
"You what?"
"I signed it upside down. The clerks are very confused."
You stared at him. Then you laughed. He almost smiled but then he remembered the current predicament.
"Please," he said. "I know you asked for space. I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm just asking you to talk to me."
You sighed. "You're impossible."
"I know."
You set down your book and gestured to the chair across from you.
"Sit."
He sat. He reached for your hand and held it, his thumb tracing circles on your palm, and for the first time in three days, the lump in his throat loosened.
Hi! How would the akotsk men deal with you bleeding through your clothes while on your period? Have a good day and remember to drink some water.
Akotsk men when you leak through your clothes
thank you for the reminder anon, doing my best for sure. to you as well! this is my top ten fears of all time for sure. i know its normal but still i get sooo conscious. thanks for the req!!
hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr
Aerion - You were shifting in your seat. You couldn't help it, the warmth, the dampness, the dread of standing up and revealing everything. You just knew you had leaked. You REALLY knew. It’s a shame. You had checked before the feast. You had worn extra layers. You had been so careful as to not have an incident tonight.
Aerion's eyes narrowed as he watched you squirm.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"You're fidgeting like a child."
"I'm comfortable."
"You're not comfortable. You're about to vibrate out of your chair."
You forced yourself to still. He huffed and returned to his wine. But his eyes kept flicking to you.
At one point, you shifted again, only slightly and it ticked him off, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist.
"Stop."
"I'm not-"
He leaned close, his voice low and sharp. "You have been twitching all night. You're pale. You're not eating." His grip tightened. "I'm not an idiot. What is wrong?"
Your face burned. "It's nothing."
"It's something." He searched your face, then his gaze dropped. He saw how tense your legs were, the way your skirts pressed together.
His jaw tightened. "You've leaked."
"I'm sorry-"
"I'm not going to yell at you for bleeding, you fool."
He pulled you up without another word, positioned himself behind you, and walked you out of the hall. He kept his body close, his cloak shielding you, his hand firm on your lower back.
In your chambers, he helped you clean up. He worked silently, efficiently, muttering under his breath about how you should have told him.
"You were being so weird," he snapped. "I thought you were hiding something. You were hiding something. You were hiding blood."
"I didn't want to ruin the feast."
"The feast wasn't as important as your dignity."
He pulled back, his chest heaving. Then he pressed his palm to your cheek.
"Next time, you tell me. The moment it happens. I don't care if it's the middle of a feast."
You nodded, breathless.
"Good." He sighed. "Now get in bed. I'll get tea."
And before you could say thank you, he left. Typical Aerion.
Daeron - You had come to watch him train, since Daeron never does so. And it was a nice sunny afternoon. You wanted to be near him, even if he spent most of his time getting knocked into the dirt by a sparring partner.
Then you felt an uncomfortable rush of warmth, you were going to stand up but no. Too much.
You had not planned for this. You were wearing a light dress, too thin, mainly because it was sunny, it was way too thin to hide anything. You pressed your knees together and willed the ground to swallow you whole.
Daeron caught your eye from across the yard. He grinned and waved. You tried to smile back.
Then he saw your face.
He dropped his sword. Ran across the yard. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just-" You stood too fast. The warmth spread. You froze.
Daeron looked down. Saw the stain blooming on your dress.
His eyes went wide. His face went pale.
"YOU'RE BLEEDING!"
"Daeron-"
"WHY ARE YOU BLEEDING?!"
"Because I'm a woman-"
"WHERE IS THE MAESTER?!" He was already turning, looking around wildly. "SOMEONE GET THE MAESTER!"
"Daeron, it's fine-"
"IT'S NOT FINE! YOU'RE BLEEDING THROUGH YOUR DRESS!"
He scooped you up like you were made of glass, cradling you against his chest.
"I need to get you to the maester," he said, voice shaking.
"Daeron, I don't need the maester. I need a change of clothes."
He stared at you. "But you're bleeding."
"I know. It happens every month."
His face went through several expressions, some of which were confusion, horror, then a dawning, embarrassed understanding.
"Oh," he said.
"Oh."
He set you down carefully, his ears bright red.
"I'll-" He cleared his throat. "I'll get you something to wear. And water. Hot water. Is that right?"
"That would be nice."
He nodded and practically ran to the castle.
Duncan - Lyonel Baratheon knew how to throw a feast. Nobody would deny that. Music, dancing, endless amounts of drink. The hall was packed, the torches blazing, and Duncan had been trying to drag you onto the dance floor all night. You weren’t feeling it so much, considering your head was aching for whatever reason.
"Come on," he said, offering his hand. "One dance."
"I'm fine here."
"You've been sitting for an hour."
"I'm resting."
"You're hiding."
You laughed and took his hand.
The music was fast, lively. Duncan spun you around, his big hands gentle on your waist. You laughed, breathless, and let him twirl you.
He twirled you again.
And then he saw it.
The back of your dress. A small, dark stain. Just visible in the torchlight.
His hands froze on your waist.
"What?" you asked, breathless.
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
He was panicking. You had no idea. You were still smiling, still laughing, completely unaware. If he told you, you would be mortified. If he didn't tell you, someone else would notice.
He made a choice.
He pulled you close, his cloak sweeping around you both, hiding your back.
"I'm tired," he said.
"You just got here? What will Lyonel say?"
"I want to go outside."
"Outside?"
"For some air."
You frowned, but followed him. He kept you close, his body blocking you from the crowd, and led you out of the hall and into the corridor.
"What's going on?" you asked.
He turned you around. "Look."
You looked. Your face went white.
"Oh."
"I didn't want to tell you in there."
"Thank you."
He shrugged off his cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders.
"I'll walk you to your chambers," he said.
"Duncan-"
"It's fine."
You walked in silence. When you reached your chambers, he helped you clean up, his face red, his hands gentle.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For not noticing sooner."
"You're not supposed to notice."
"I'm supposed to take care of you."
You looked at his earnest face, his red ears, so cute.
"You do," you said. "You already do."
He smiled, very relieved and sat on the floor beside the bed.
"I'm staying," he said.
"You don't have to. I’m sure people are looking for you."
"They’ll understand."
He reached up and took your hand.
"Next time," he said, "I'll just carry you out. I don't need a reason."
Valarr - Valarr had planned a ride with some of the other men, a short excursion through the hills, nothing too strenuous. He had not planned to bring you, because you were tired, but you had insisted.
"I need air," you said.
"You're tired."
"I'm fine."
"You're pale."
"I'm always pale."
He sighed. He knew you well enough to know when you wouldn't budge.
"Fine," he said. "But we'll go slow."
The ride was pleasant enough. The sun was warm, the breeze light, and you felt good. Valarr stayed close, his eyes flicking to you every few minutes to make sure that you were enjoying yourself.
When the ride ended, he dismounted and offered you his hand.
"Come on," he said. "I'll help you down."
You took his hand and swung your leg over. He caught you around the waist, steadying you as you landed. The motion was smooth, practiced.
And then you landed, and felt an unfortunate, uncomfortable, liquid rush.
You hadn't felt it while riding, the motion, the saddle, everything had kept it contained. But now, standing still, you felt it.
You looked down.
Valarr followed your gaze. He saw the stain.
His face didn't change. He just stepped closer, his body blocking you from the other men.
"You didn't know?" he asked.
"I didn't feel it."
"Come on."
He kept himself between you and the others, his hand steady on your lower back, and walked you toward the castle.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"For what?"
"For ruining the ride."
"You didn't ruin anything." He glanced down at you. "You got some air. That's what you wanted."
He helped you inside, kept his back turned while you cleaned up, and brought you tea without being asked.
"Did you know this was going to happen?" you asked.
"I knew you were tired. I didn't know why." He sat beside you. "But I know now."
"You planned this."
He looked at you, his mismatched eyes soft.
"I plan everything." A pause. "Next time, don't push yourself."
"I wanted to ride."
"I know." He took your hand. "And I wanted you to enjoy it. But not at your own expense."
You leaned into him. He wrapped his arm around you.
need am akotsk men (especially Maekar and Aerion) head cannon where the reader is super spoiled. she's probably a Lannister too.🙏🏻
Akotsk Targ men with a spoiled lannister wife
oh DEFINITELY. i know that these men would be absolutely whipped for you. yes. summer semester is whipping me so bad rn guys. im so lost with stats but apparently its supposed to be easy, so am i just stupid???? i sorta rushed valarrs. my apolocheese
hcs of aerion, baelor, daeron, maekar, valarr
Aerion - Aerion was already unhinged. Adding a spoiled Lannister wife to the mix did not calm him down. It made him worse. Because here was the thing about Aerion: he had never, in his entire life, wanted to please anyone. Not his father. Not his brothers. Not the gods. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and if someone didn't like it, that was their problem.
Then of course he happened to marry you of all people.
A Lannister. With your signature smile that said "I deserve the world and you're going to give it to me." You were spoiled. Entitled. You had opinions about the wine, the bedsheets, the temperature of the bathwater. You complained about the draft in the corridor and the lack of lemon cakes at breakfast. You were, by any reasonable measure, insufferable.
Aerion had never been more attracted to anyone in his life.
He loved giving you things. He loved watching you open a box of jewels and seeing your face light up. He loved hearing you gasp at a new gown, a new horse, a new set of silk sheets. He would have given you the moon if he could figure out how to reach it. Not because he was generous. Because pleasing you pleased him.
You wanted breakfast in bed? He carried it to you himself. You wanted a new saddle for your horse? He commissioned the finest leatherworker in the Seven Kingdoms. You wanted to redecorate his chambers? He handed you the keys and let you go wild.
You complained about the stable. Too drafty. He had it rebuilt. You complained about the journey to court. Too bumpy. He bought you a litter with velvet cushions. You complained about his brothers. He couldn't do much about that, but he glared at them more intensely when you were around.
"You're spoiling me," you said once.
"No. I'm enjoying myself."
He was. He had never wanted to please anyone. He had never cared if someone was happy or miserable or anything in between. But you, you with your impossible standards and your endless demands, you made him want to try.
He still didn't know how to be gentle. He still threatened servants and set things on fire. But when you looked at him with those eyes and said, "I want the blue gown, the one with the silver thread, and I want it by tonight," he found himself moving before he'd even finished thinking about it.
"You're impossible," he told you.
"You're enabling me."
"I don’t regret it."
Damn right.
Baelor - Baelor was honorable. Dutiful. He believed in restraint, in discipline, in not giving in to every whim. In self control, in restraint, in moderation, and all those other fancy words the crown prince should be. So when he married you, he was oh so scandalized. You were spoiled. Entitled. You complained about the weather, the servants, the way the light hit the great hall in the afternoon.
He should have been annoyed. But He was charmed. And increasingly, he was convinced you needed a firmer hand.
"You're a bratty girl," he said one evening, watching you rearrange the flowers on the dinner table for the third time.
"I'm particular."
"You're impossible."
"You're still here."
He was. He was always here.
But tonight, you had pushed too far. You had rolled your eyes at him during dinner in front of the servants. You had made a snide comment about his choice of wine. You had crossed your arms and looked away when he asked you a question, like a child refusing to eat her vegetables.
The meal ended. The servants cleared the plates. Baelor stood, offered you his hand.
"Come," he said.
You took it. You knew that tone. Uh oh.
He led you to your chambers. He closed the door behind him and turned to you.
"You were testing me tonight."
"I wasn't!-"
"You were." He stepped closer. "You rolled your eyes at me. You made a comment about the wine. You refused to answer me." His eyes were serious. "You wanted to see what I would do."
You swallowed. "And what will you do?"
He reached out, his fingers brushing your chin, tilting your face up.
"I've given you everything you've asked for. The gowns. The jewels. The horse you wanted. I've indulged you because I enjoy seeing you happy." His thumb traced your lower lip. "But you are still my wife. And I am still your husband."
He took your hand and led you to the bed. He sat on the edge and pulled you across his lap.
"Baelor-"
"You've been a bratty girl tonight." His hand rested on the curve of your backside. "And bratty girls need to learn manners."
You felt the heat rise to your cheeks. "You wouldn't."
He raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't I?"
His hand came down. Did he just spank you?
"I'll give you anything you want," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "But you will be my good girl. Do you understand?"
Daeron - Daeron had never thought about having a wife. Not really. He had assumed, if he ever married, it would be a quiet arrangement, two people sharing a table, not speaking much, existing in the same space without requiring much from each other. Then you guys got married and he was not prepared.
You wanted things. Specific things. Impossible things. And you did not ask, no you stated, you ordered, as if the universe would simply rearrange itself to accommodate your preferences.
"I want the blue curtains replaced with gold ones."
He blinked. "The blue ones are fine."
"The blue ones are dull. Gold will bring out the light."
"There's no gold in this room."
"Exactly."
He replaced the curtains.
You wanted the fire to be a specific temperature. Not too hot, not too cold, you needed it just right.
"Warmer," you said.
He added a log.
"Too warm."
He removed it.
"Now it's cold again."
He added a different log.
"There," you said. "Leave it."
He left it. He had no idea what he had done differently.
You wanted him to sit beside you at dinner instead of at the far end of the table. He moved. You wanted him to hold your hand under the table. He held it. You wanted him to look at you when you spoke. He looked.
Once, you wanted a new horse. A white one. With a silver mane. "I saw one in a painting once," you said. "I want that one."
"That's not how horses work."
"I don't care how horses work. Find me that horse."
He found it. It took him three months. He didn't tell you how many stables he visited. He just handed you the reins and watched you ride.
Another night, he was carrying you upstairs, after you "pestered him." to carry you. You actually didn’t, just mentioned your feet were hurting and he whisked you away. When he continued to keep whining about how he’s going to drop you, you kissed his cheek. Cue the nose bleed: he forgot what he was complaining about.
Maekar - Maekar was not a soft man. He cursed. He glowered. He told people exactly what he thought of them, and what he thought was usually not complimentary. When he married a Lannister, he assumed he would spend the rest of his life arguing.
And he was right. You DID argue about everything.
You wanted the windows in your chambers replaced with larger ones. "More light," you said.
"The light is fine."
"The light is dreary. I want to see the garden."
"You can see the garden from the window you have."
"I want to see it better."
He cursed under his breath and walked away. You thought that was the end of it.
The windows were replaced within a fortnight.
You wanted a specific breed of dog. Not a hunting hound, not a lapdog, a wolfhound. "They're elegant," you said.
"They're enormous."
"They're elegant and enormous."
He told you no. He told you the castle didn't need a beast the size of a pony wandering the corridors. He told you to pick something smaller, quieter, less likely to knock over a serving girl.
You crossed your arms and stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you blinked.
The wolfhound arrived three weeks later. Maekar pretended it was a gift from a northern lord. You knew better.
You wanted him to attend a poetry reading with you. "Absolutely not," he said.
"It's by the sea. There will be wine."
"I don't like poetry."
"You don't have to like it. You just have to sit there and look stern."
"I always look stern."
"Exactly. You'll fit right in."
He cursed. He went. He sat in the back, arms crossed, glaring at the poet. You held his hand under the bench. He didn't pull away.
You wanted a new tapestry for the great hall. "The current one is ugly," you said.
"It's historical."
"It's ugly and historical."
He grunted. You assumed that was a no.
The tapestry was replaced within a month. You didn't ask where the old one went. You didn't care.
You were both stubborn. You both refused to give in. But somehow, impossibly, things kept appearing. A new saddle. A larger hearth in your chambers. A set of silk sheets in your favorite color.
"Did you order these?" you asked, holding up the sheets.
"The servants must have."
"The servants don't know my favorite color."
He grunted and walked away.
You smiled and cherished those sheets, and maybe you’ll show Maekar how much you cherish them. Later. At night.
Valarr - Everyone was surprised when Valarr married you.
He was quiet, studious, prone to long hours in the library. You were loud, demanding, prone to long lists of grievances. No one thought you would suit.
No one was more surprised than Valarr. Because he was right where he wanted to be.
You wanted a library of your own. Not to share with him, you wanted YOUR own. "I need space for my books," you said.
"You have space in my library."
"Your library is full of your books. I want my own."
He built you a library. It was smaller than his, but warmer, with a fireplace and a window seat overlooking the sea. You spent hours there. He visited you every evening.
"You're distracting me," you said.
"I'm admiring you."
"Same thing."
He smiled. He stayed.
You wanted him to attend a feast with you. He hated feasts, and you knew he did. He hated the noise, the crowds, the endless small talk. But you asked, and he went. He stood beside you the whole time, his hand on your lower back, his mismatched eyes scanning the room.
"You don't have to stay," you said.
"I want to."
"You hate feasts."
"And I love you."
You stared at him. He stared back.
"That's cheesy," you said.
"That's honest."
You rolled your eyes. But you held his hand tighter.
You wanted him to call you "my love." He already did. Every morning, every evening, every time he looked at you. "My love, are you warm enough?" "My love, did you sleep well?" "My love, you're beautiful when you're angry."
"I'm always angry," you said.
"And you, my love, are always beautiful."
"Shut up and kiss me."
No complaints from him!
Can you write for platonic Maekar x daughter!reader who is the only normal + sensible child he has
Maekar x daughter!reader (platonic)
maekar is a total girl dad! also do note that i didn’t include daella and rhae in here, solely because i thought that reader being the only daughter was a little more interesting. as a girl who grew up with four brothers, i can confirm it is rough out here. its about to be a pretty busy week so im contemplating on whether or not i should stay up and work on reqs
Maekar had not wanted four sons. Okay. Maybe he did. Who wouldn’t? He had wanted one, perhaps two, heirs, the usual. But four? Four boys who drank and raged and read and ran away and did unbecoming things for princes? He had prayed for a daughter after each one, and after the fourth, he had stopped praying altogether.
But then you were born. A girl. Small, quiet, and miracle of miracles, completely normal.
He told himself he was not the type to favor one child over another. He told himself this as he gave you a larger portion of honeyed bread than your brothers, and let you ride right beside him on journeys. He told himself this as he started asking your opinion on small matters, which horse to stable where, whether to accept Lord So-and-So's invitation to hunt. He told himself this as he realized, slowly, that he trusted you. Not in the way a father trusts a daughter to be good and obedient. He trusted you like he trusted a councilor. Like he trusted a partner.
You were fifteen when he first asked your advice on a political matter, about a disputed piece of land between two minor houses. You listened, asked three questions, and gave him an answer that made him pause.
"That's... sensible," he said.
"Thank you, Father."
He grunted. It was the closest he came to praise.
Your brothers, meanwhile, were a disaster. Daeron had stopped speaking at dinner. He sat, he drank, he stared at the wall then disappeared. Eventually coming back smelling like perfume. You started sitting beside him. After three nights, he ate a piece of bread. After a week, he grunted at you. After a month, he muttered your name. An improvement compared to his usual behavior.
Aerion was always worse, if not the worst. Aerion threatened servants, set things on fire, and once challenged a mirror to a duel. How could anybody be so foolish? You found him in the corridor with a kitchen boy cornered, a knife in his hand. You did not yell. You did not run for Maekar. You just walked up to him, took the knife from his hand, and said, "The cook needs that back." He stared at you. You stared back. He let the boy go. The next day, he apologized to the cook, in his own way. Maekar watched from the doorway, his arms crossed.
"How did you do that?" he asked later.
"I asked him to stop."
"He doesn't stop for anyone."
"He stops for me."
Maekar stared at you. "Are you using dark magic?"
"No, Father."
"I'm not convinced."
Aemon was never there. He lived in the library, read by candlelight, forgot to eat. You started fetching him for dinner. He complained. You stood in the doorway until he put his book down. "Fine," he said. "Fine." He followed you to the great hall. He ate. He went back to the library. But he came to dinner every night after that.
Egg was the adventurer. He disappeared for weeks, came back with wild stories and no warnings. You told him, gently, that he needed to send a raven. "Just one word," you said. "'Alive.' That's all I need." He grinned and said he would. He forgot. You reminded him again. He forgot again. You stopped reminding him and simply stood in his doorway whenever he returned, silent, arms crossed. He started sending ravens.
Maekar watched all of this. He did not understand it. He had tried yelling, threatening, grounding, none of it worked. You did not yell. You did not threaten. You just existed, and your brothers fell in line.
"You're a witch," he said one morning.
"I'm a sister."
"There's no difference."
He meant it as a compliment, of course.
Maekar and affection did not go hand in hand, but you started hugging him when you were young. You were small, barely tall enough to reach his waist, and you wrapped your arms around his legs without warning. He froze. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Hugging you."
"Stop."
You didn't stop. He stood there, stiff and uncomfortable, until you let go. The next day, you did it again. The day after that, again. He complained every time. "You're too old for this." "This is undignified." "What will the servants think?" You ignored him. Eventually, he stopped pushing you away. He did not hug back but he stood still and let you hold on.
By the time you were grown, it was routine. You hugged him hello. You hugged him goodbye. You hugged him when you were sad, when you were happy, when you had not seen him in a while. He grumbled. He did not pull away. Once, when you left for a month long visit to your aunt, he stood at the gate longer than necessary. You waved. He nodded. Did he cry? Yes. But you weren’t aware of that.
When you returned, you hugged him. He did not grumble. He just stood there, one hand coming up to pat your back once, awkwardly, before stepping away. The servants pretended not to see. They were paid well.
Maekar asked your opinion on everything now. Trade agreements. Marriage alliances. Whether to execute a thief or send him to the Wall. You answered honestly. He listened. Sometimes he took your advice. Sometimes he didn't. But he always asked.
"You have a good head," he said once.
"Thank you, Father."
"Don't let it go to your head."
He meant: I trust you. He meant: You are valuable. He meant: You are my favorite, even though I will never say it.
Your brothers noticed but instead of being jealous, they were relieved. You were the buffer between them and Maekar's temper. You were the one who translated his grunts into actual communication. You were the one who remembered everyone's name, everyone's birthday, everyone's grievance.
Daeron started coming to you before he went to Maekar. "Can you... tell him?" he would ask. You told him. Maekar listened.
Aerion started asking you to accompany him to court. "He's less angry when you're there," he admitted. You went. Maekar was, in fact, less angry.
Aemon started sending you letters from the Citadel. Short ones. "Still alive. Reading." You wrote back. "Eat something."
Egg started bringing you souvenirs from his adventures. A carved wooden horse. A shell from the sea. A pressed flower. You kept them all in a box under your bed.
One evening, after a particularly disastrous council meeting (Aerion had insulted a lord, Daeron had fallen asleep, and Egg had not shown up at all) Maekar sat in his solar, staring at the fire.
You brought him tea. With honey. The way he liked.
"Your brothers are trying to kill me," he said.
"They're trying to live their lives. There's a difference."
"One of them set a curtain on fire today."
"Aerion’s trademark."
"Obviously."
You sat beside him. "He's restless. He needs something to do."
"He needs a keeper."
"He has me."
Maekar looked at you. His face was tired, but his eyes were soft.
"I don't deserve you," he said.
"You deserve all of us. Even the ones who set things on fire."
He huffed. It was almost a laugh.
"I did want sons," he said quietly. "I wanted one. Maybe two. But I wanted a daughter. I always wanted a daughter."
"You have me."
"Yes." He reached over and patted your hand very awkwardly. "I do."
You sat in silence, watching the fire. Then you leaned over and hugged him. He did not push you away. He never pushed you away anymore. He just sat there and let you hold on.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For being normal."
You laughed. He did not. He was dead serious. But the corner of his mouth twitched.
That night, he lit a candle in the sept. He thanked the gods for you. He asked them to keep you safe. He did not ask them to explain how you controlled your brothers, since he had given up on that years ago. He simply accepted it as a mystery, like rain or the changing of the seasons.
His daughter. The only one he trusted. The only one who hugged him without flinching. The only one who made him think, just for a moment, that he might have done something right.
He blew out the candle and went to bed.
In the morning, he would yell at Aerion again. He would worry about Daeron again. He would wait for a raven from Aemon. He would wonder where Egg had gone.
But first, he would drink his tea. With honey. The way you made it.
AKOTSK men reactions to their partner bringing in an injured animal, and nursing it back to health. Reader is taking a stroll, and comes across the injured animal and immediately takes it to see the measter.
Akotsk men when you bring home an injured animal
so cute, thank you for the req anon! also guys i just realized apparently i need to fill up the tags to the max so i reach more people?? i did not know that
hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr
Aerion - You had wanted to go foraging. Aerion insisted on coming, not because he enjoyed tramping through the woods, but because you had a habit of wandering off and getting lost. He wasn't going to admit he worried. He just said he needed fresh air.
You found the raven at the base of a twisted oak. Its wing was bent, its feathers matted with blood. It let out a weak croak when you knelt beside it.
"Aerion, look."
He looked. His nose wrinkled. Gross. In his opinion.
"It's probably diseased. Don't touch it."
"I'm already touching it."
"Of course you are." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Put it down. We'll find a healthy bird somewhere else."
"It's hurt. I'm not leaving it."
He watched as you carefully scooped the raven into your shawl. It didn't peck you. It just lay there, breathing shallow, its black eyes fixed on your face.
"You're going to carry that all the way back?"
"Yes."
"This is why I don't let you go anywhere alone."
You smiled at him. He glared. But he walked beside you the whole way, and when the raven let out a pitiful cry, he even held a branch out of your way so you wouldn't trip. Maybe sliced a few branches too.
The maester set the wing. You set up a small nest in your chambers, nest being a basket lined with soft cloth, placed near the fire. Aerion watched from his chair, arms crossed. What an attitude.
"If it gives me a disease, I'm blaming you."
"It won't give you a disease."
"You don't know that."
The raven recovered slowly. You spent hours feeding it scraps of meat, changing its bandages, talking to it in a low, soothing voice. Aerion pretended not to notice, but he noticed. He noticed that you weren't paying attention to him.
"You're obsessed with that bird," he said one evening.
"It's healing."
"It's a bird. I'm your husband."
You looked up. He was scowling, but his ears were red.
"Are you jealous of a raven?"
"I'm not jealous. I'm stating a fact. You've spent more time with it this week than with me."
You laughed. He didn't. In fact he does not find it funny.
The raven, sensing an opportunity, let out a loud caw. Aerion glared at it.
"I hate that thing."
"You don't hate it."
"I do."
He didn't hate it, you knew that because you caught him sneaking it bits of bread when he thought you weren't looking. You saw him talk to it once, low and gruff, when you were pretending to sleep.
"You're not so bad," he muttered to the bird. "But if you tell her I said that, I'll pluck your feathers."
The raven cawed softly.
When it was finally strong enough to fly, you carried it to the window. It sat on your wrist, looking out at the sky.
"You have to go," you said.
It didn't move.
"Go on."
It hopped to the sill, turned, looked at you. Then it flew.
Aerion came up behind you, his hand on your waist.
"It'll come back," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're its person now."
You leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your hair.
"Don't get another one," he said.
"I make no promises."
He sighed. But he was almost smiling. Maybe next time you could bring home more birds, or maybe a deer!-
As if Aerion read your mind, he cut you off. "Don’t get carried away."
Okay. Nevermind.
Daeron - You found the squirrel at the base of a chestnut tree, its leg trapped under a fallen branch. It was tiny, frantic, its tail twitching as it tried to drag itself free.
Daeron was walking with you, as he'd been trying to spend more time outside, fresh air instead of wine. He stopped when you stopped and crouched down.
"What's that?"
"A squirrel. Its leg is stuck."
He crouched beside you, peering at the animal. "It's very... twitchy."
"It's scared."
"It looks like it wants to bite me."
You lifted the branch carefully. The squirrel scrambled back, then collapsed, its leg bent at an odd angle.
"We need the maester," you said.
"You want to bring that thing to the maester?"
"I want to bring it to the maester."
He sighed but helped you wrap the squirrel in your handkerchief. It bit him through the fabric.
"See?" he said, wincing. "Vicious."
"You'd be vicious too if your leg was broken."
Once the maester did what he could, you set up a small box in your chambers, lined with some rags. The squirrel slept for a full day.
When it woke, Daeron was sitting nearby, watching it.
"It's staring at me," he said.
"It's curious."
"It's plotting my demise."
You laughed. He didn't.
Later that evening, you found Daeron offering the squirrel a drop of wine on the tip of his finger.
"Daeron!"
"What? It looked thirsty."
"It's a squirrel! They don't drink wine!"
"It's an animal. Animals like wine."
You slapped his arm playfully, but you very serious.
"Don't give alcohol to wildlife."
"Fine. More for me."
He took a sip himself, then watched as you fed the squirrel a piece of apple.
"You're good at that," he said.
"At what?"
"Being gentle. I'm not."
"You're gentle with me."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and took your hand.
"That's different. You don't bite."
The squirrel healed slowly. It grew bold, climbing the curtains, stealing crumbs from the table. Daeron complained constantly, but you caught him talking to it when he thought you weren't listening.
"You're a menace," he muttered to the squirrel. "But she likes you. So I suppose you can stay."
When the squirrel was fully recovered, you carried it to the forest. Daeron came with you, standing a few feet back.
"You'll miss it," he said.
"A little."
"It had character."
"It had a lot of opinions."
He laughed. You set the squirrel down. It scampered a few feet, looked back, then disappeared into the trees.
"Goodbye, little one," you whispered.
Daeron put his arm around your shoulders.
"You know, I would never run away from you, if I was a squirrel" Daeron says, triumphantly.
"I wouldn’t let you."
Duncan - Duncan heard the crying while you guys were being adventurous, a thin, desperate mewling coming from a pile of rubble near the old watchtower. He lifted a broken beam and found her: a tiny grey kitten, no bigger than his hand, one leg bent, her fur matted with dust.
"Oh, sweetheart," you breathed.
Duncan knelt beside you, his big hands gentle as he scooped her up. She was trembling, terrified, her eyes huge in her small face.
"We need the maester," he said.
"I'll run ahead."
"No." He tucked the kitten into his tunic, against his chest. "She's scared. She'll be warmer with me."
You ran together. As the maester did his work, Duncan held the kitten the whole time, murmuring to her, his deep voice a low rumble.
"There now," he said. "You're all right. We've got you."
The kitten stayed in your chambers for weeks. She was too small to be away from her mother, but it seems the kitten was abandoned already, the maester said. She needed round the clock care.
You fed her warm milk from the tip of your pinky. Duncan built her a bed in a wooden box with your softest scarf as her bed. She slept curled against his chest at night, tucked under his chin.
"She likes you," you said.
"She's scared of everything."
"She's not scared of you."
It was true. The kitten, who hissed at the servants and hid from the maester, would climb into Duncan's lap the moment he sat down. She kneaded his tunic with her tiny paws and fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
"She thinks you're her mother," you teased.
"I'm not her mother. I'm her... large warm thing."
When the kitten was fully healed, you sat down with Duncan to discuss releasing her.
"She's wild," you said. "She belongs outside."
Duncan looked at the kitten, who was currently asleep on his shoulder.
"She's not wild. She's never caught a mouse in her life."
"She needs to learn."
"She needs a home."
He looked at you. His eyes were soft.
"I want to keep her."
You stared at him. "You want to keep the kitten?"
"I want to keep the kitten." He shrugged. "She's small. She's quiet. She doesn't take up much space."
The kitten opened one eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.
"We're keeping her," you said.
"We're keeping her."
You named her Pip. She grew into a sleek grey cat who followed Duncan everywhere, sat on his shoulder during meals, and slept on his pillow every night.
(fun fact! Pip is actually based off of a REAL GREY KITTEN THAT I FOUND. it was yearsss ago but I still miss her.)
Valarr - You were eavesdropping conversations while walking with Valarr around the village, one conversation piqued your interest. A farmer was grumbling to his wife about the weakling lamb, the one born too small, the one that couldn't keep up with the flock. "No use wasting good grain on it," he said. "Let nature take its course."
Your heart clenched.
Valarr was beside you, as always, his hand resting on your lower back. He felt you tense.
"What is it?"
"That lamb. The farmer's going to leave it."
"You don't know that."
"He said 'let nature take its course.' That means he's going to let it die."
Valarr looked at the lamb, a tiny, shivering thing, one leg dragging, its eyes half closed. It was curled in a patch of straw, separate from the others.
"You want to take it," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"To the castle."
"The stables. Just until it's strong enough."
He was quiet for a moment. You could see him calculating the space, the feed, the maester's time, the inevitable mess. He did not like the idea of this whole thing. But he knew you. He knew this was important to you.
"Fine," he said. "Go talk to the farmer. I'll arrange for a cart."
You kissed his cheek and ran to the farmer.
The lamb was installed in a clean stall in the royal stables that afternoon. The maester examined it, malnourished, a damaged leg, mostly genetics but not entirely hopeless with enough care. You named it Clover.
Valarr visited once a day. Not because he cared about the lamb, but because he knew you'd be there. He'd lean against the stall door, arms crossed, watching you care for the tiny creature.
"It's going to follow you around like a dog," he said.
"That would be adorable."
"It would be annoying."
You smiled. He didn't, but his eyes softened.
When Clover grew strong enough to wobble around the stable, Valarr started bringing apple slices. He claimed they were for his horse. You noticed the lamb nibbling them from his palm.
"You're feeding her."
"I'm feeding the horse. She steals them."
"She can't reach your horse's mouth."
He smiled and didn't answer.
The day came when Clover was fully healed, her leg strong, her coat thick, her eyes bright. You knew she needed to go back to the flock, but your chest ached.
Valarr found you sitting in the straw, the lamb's head in your lap.
"You're going to miss her," he said.
"A little."
He sat down beside you on the straw, in his fine tunic, without a word of complaint.
"She can't stay forever, my love." he said.
"I know."
"But she can stay another day."
You looked at him. He was watching the lamb, not you.
"Really?"
"One more day." He shrugged. "Then she goes back to the farmer."
You threw your arms around him. He stiffened, then relaxed, his hand coming up to pat your back.
"Thank you," you whispered.
When you finally returned Clover to the farmer, Valarr walked with you. The farmer was very grateful and extremely surprised, a healthy lamb was worth something after all. He offered you coin. You refused.
As you walked back to the castle, Valarr took your hand.
"She has a good life because of you."
You squeezed his fingers. "Does that mean this can by a daily thing?"
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