dancing! even if one's partner is barely tolerable.
you're drunk and in the fuzzy warmth of the hall, gwayne hightower is all you can see. its just a shame that in all your attempts of courting him, he has been nothing but respectful. maybe, its the tension between your families or maybe, just tonight with the liquid courage pulsing through your veins, you'll finally get him to crack.
ser gwayne x targ! fem! reader (daemon's younger sister), fluff!, alcohol, terrible attempts at dancing, kind of one sided enemies to lovers but also kind of not? suggestive! no timeline or canon wars, just good vibes
the pretty auburn- haired noble is so pleasant, its actually suspicious. you've heard the odd quip and snark but gwayne hightower is all easy grins and a charmful demeanour. and unfortunately for you, in a gathering such as tonight, it makes him all the more popular with the ladies.
"that is your fourth cup," your brother daemon speaks from your side and you hardly take your eyes off the knight. you watch him roam around the room, floating between guests and his low laughter bounces off the corners of your brain, the vibration buzzing and echoing and its either that or the wine but you're sure it'll leave you with a dangerous headache soon.
"really," you mumble off-handedly, swatting his chest to create some distance between the two of you.
"really," he nods and pays you no mind, he tries to take the goblet from your hand but your grip is tightened around it, the bone of your knuckles threatening to break through your skin. "give it here, stupid girl." he moans and you swing the rest of it down, thrusting the empty cup in his direction with an insane grin plastered on your face.
"what is so special about that boy anyways?" he huffs, eyes darting across the room to where your vision has frozen in place. "he's most likely still hung up when i unseated him from that horse of his long ago."
"it could also be our damn brother marrying his sister," you sigh, "that itself is," you pause, sickness filling your stomach, "loaded." there's silence between the two of you as you stand in the shadows, the beat of music looming over you and the party continues. daemon replaces your cup with one filled with water but you make no move to consume it; how could you when every cell in your body has stretched and expanded beyond normal to fit in thoughts of gwayne hightower.
"daemon," you whisper, "he's just so pretty." your slurred confession is almost pathetic and your brother breaks the intense staring competition to place a hand on your shoulder in awkward reassurance. "like a deer," and your eyes shine an alarming amount, streaks of moonlight glittering across your iris. god, you are a goner.
"not that pretty," he scoffs, "you are prettier."
"you say that because we share the same mother," you roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder. the compliment from him is born from his distaste of the hightowers and maybe a twinge of fondness for you as he ruffles your hair in return.
"true, but you do have such foul taste in men. of all possible sorts, a hightower?" his brows raise incredulously, "really, is there no other man in this realm?"
"no, not for me," you shake your head in a daze, everythings starting to appear fuzzier, softer but you can still make out the small smile painted across his pink lips so clearly. you wonder what itd be like to touch them up close, to feel them against your own, on your bare skin, on your sheets, just anywhere for you.
"oh no," he groans in desperation, "i beg you to find some sanity, even just a shred of it. no, in fact, find some dignity and if you truly must then bed him and be done with it," its mortifying in a sense for him to say this to you, his younger sister but you are in dire need of saving yourself before ypu melt entirely defenseless to this one-sided love.
"you cannot just bed a man like gwayne hightower!" you hiss quietly in annoyance, "look at him," your eyes dart to his direction once more, "no, it will not do. i must marry him," you declare and daemon snorts out, the cackle leaving his lips in a proud twist and he turns to you.
"you have gone mad, dear sister, truly mad," maybe not mad, but definitely drunk, he gathers. but you can't focus on him. not when you've caught the eye of the pretty red-head and you have never been so grateful to have such an annoying brother. you wave, fingers dancing in a slight tease and you watch as his brows knit together in a small scrunch. he then turns his attention back to the kingsguard as if it had never happened. as if he hadn't just knocked on your heart, entered and laid to rest before slicing you inside out.
oh.
"he definitely hates me," your lip wobbles with each word, eyes glassy with dejection and pure heartbreak. daemon looks at you horrified, unsure of what to do with you in this emotional and heightened state.
"come sister," he tries to usher you away from the table and in the direction of the hallway, "we can always let caraxes have her fun, hmm?"
"you'd hurt him?" your eyes widen comically and daemon can make out the heavy breaths heaving from your chest with great concern. oh god, he's just making things worse for himself.
"send me to the seven hells, no! no, of course not," he drawls, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and trying to keep you moving, "maybe just a little," he murmurs but you catch it and push off of him instantly.
"but i love him," you gasp, and daemon sighs. its like having a child, truly.
"love who?" comes the voice of alicent hightower and the two of you turn. daemon shakes his head at the sight of her brother making his way over and landing inches away from the two of you.
"you," you whisper to him and its a moment too soon before daemon can smother your lips with the heavy weight of his palm.
"me?" gwayne speaks with great confusion, he has no recollection of whats been said before thankfully but his sister sends you a knowing look, a mischievious glint in her eyes as she smiles. you've always thought of alicent as oddly sisterly. she's been kind to you when others have not, she's given you chances when others have paired you with your chaotic brother and some part of her wishes that the two of you couldve been greater friends despite the fate that had been forced upon her.
gwayne looks to his sister, hoping for some explanation and almost misses how you bite down on daemon's palm. the elder pulling back with a curse and a wince as you shoot him your most dazzling smile. its earth bending, soul shattering downright gorgeous the way you look in your black beaded gown; a princess of the night and defender of the realm that gwayne allows himself the mercy of letting his gaze linger longer than it needs to.
"hello, you," the excitement is gathered in your voice and gwayne's eyes narrow in. theres a softness in your shoulders, the relaxed state of your posture, the wind in your hair and the wildness in your features.
"are you drunk?" alicent beats him to the question and he inhales slowly, exhaling slower trying to gather restraint and patience. sober you he has been able to handle. he approaches you with nothing more than polite kindness. he knows the way your soul seeks him out in every room he walks, he knows you ask after him, how you wait at the gates anytime he is planned to return to kingslanding and hes very fond of you.
he also knows the family you come from. the cruelty, the power, the damn dragons that give you the ego boost to demand what you have and take what you must no matter the expense. he despises your brothers particularly and though he tries to be fair to you, he knows its easier to create the distance. to be noble gwayne and play his part in this deathly game.
but drunk you? the adrenaline rushing through your body and mind, no gwayne doesn't know how to handle drunk you when he just about keeps hold of his facade of barely tolerating sober you.
"unwell," daemon corrects her without a second glance, "she is unwell and i was just escorting the princess to her chambers, she is rather tired," daemon stresses, keenly aware of how you're minutes away from embarassing yourself and him by extension silly.
you hold up four fingers cheekily and scrunch your nose in delight, "four cups!" you cheer and alicent lets out a laugh.
"is that all?" she grins, taking in your amusement.
"is that all?" daemon scoffs, "anymore and you will find her at the bottom of the barrell," that instantly has you shaking your head in defiance.
"you will find me on the dance floor!" your eyes widen with pure joy and childish excitement, buzzing through each of your veins and you break free from daemon's hold in the direction of the main party again.
you probably make it two steps ahead before a certain knight blocks your path, "princess," his hand is held up, palm outwards, a silent request for yours to join him and you do. he brings your hand to his lips and the second he presses a soft fleeting kiss you are airborn. its only a greeting but you float, rising and lifting and lord can nothing bring you down. its a manifestation of your earlier thoughts and you are purely giddy.
"ser gwayne," you swoon and its the first of a teasing smile you're met with. youre sure hes reserved this just for you.
"oh fuck me," you brother moans, palms smacking against his face in pure embarrassment but gwayne ignores him entirely, his gaze fixed on solely you.
"are you well?" he murmurs just for your eyes, pure honesty and earnest and you somehow melt even more.
the air softens around you and you're not sure your knees are working, everything feels so light and like heaven. "i dunno," you are stunned, your response incomprehensible as you focus on the invisible print of where his lips have scorched your skin. he lets go of your hand and yours drops to your side. no force or willpower to hold it open, no you are molten.
"might i escort you back to your chambers? perhaps for some rest?" he's hopeful. he catches daemon's deathly stare from behind your back, boring holes straight into him and for a second he's nervous. however, he can sense the hesitation of daemon and the need to get you to safety in this state. youre unguarded and though gwayne would never let anything happen to you now or never, it seems wiser to let you sleep this state off. roaming drunk is not ladylike and he doubts you care too much of what the other noblefolk think, he for sure knows that you are out of control with your actions as you usually like to be and that? that unnerves him incredibly.
"i am perfectly able to do so," daemon cuts in but you pat your brother's chest, cutting off his sentence halfway with a mischievous grin.
"no, ser gwayne will," you order, you clap your hands in delight and press a lazy kiss to your brothers cheek and then one to alicent. "goodnight brother, goodnight alicent, i shall see you both in the morrow," you throw out your arm for gwayne to take and he chuckles at how overly confident you appear before him now. how miliseconds have hardly passed and you stand with great eagerness before him. its a downright straight ego boost and soar to his chest.
sober you is usually more refined, more subtle and reserved for only the right people. gwayne's not spent much time in kingslanding to meet your close aquaintance but theres some things he can gather from afar. like the way you hold yourself with a rare gentleness from a targaryen he's sure its because of you that halaena has grown to be so fond. you take pride in the way you dress and carry yourself, you are friendly with the animals. you tend to the gardens and so often he finds you in the company of the cooks. yet you are still strategic when helping stage coups and plan attacks, you listen attentively to the working folk and despite what you come from, gwayne is intrigued by who you've become.
you hold yourself looser now, slightly leaning into his side as he carries most of your weight. its evident in the slower steps he takes, the silence he finds himself in in an attempt to catch the slow rise and fall of your breaths. he wishes the two of you were so much more than your last names because all he can see is how perfect you fit at his side. he must do a terrible job at conveying it because you stop so abruptly that his body moves in great whiplash, attending to you immediately.
"is something the matter, your grace?" unlike you, he hasn't drank the slightest drop and is so acutely aware of his environment his senses have heightened. your stance surprises him as he takes you, your fists have balled at your sides with an impatience and theres hurt scrunched across all over your face. a sudden flush of dread works it way into his throat.
"yes, i think you detest me, ser gwayne hightower," and his stomach does somersaults with the way his name slips from your lips. he stutters, trying to catch his breath and mind from moving at a million miles per hour.
"detest? my, oh my, that is a strong accusation," he tries to land it in light-heartedness, the chances are you'll most likely not even remember this tomorrow but the betrayal lingering in the lines of your face has him inhaling slowly, choosing his next words carefully. he opts for a simple truth, "i do not hate you," he speaks plainly, brows jumping with each word.
"no?" you question, the bottom of your lip rests into a little pout and gwayne's eyes move like a laser, narrowing in on it.
"no," he confirms with a steadfast heart, "come," and he holds out his arm again, "let us continue."
"no," you refuse and gwayne wonders which of his sins must be in need of divine punishment right now for this to be happening. his hand drags across his face and tries to think of his next course of plans.
"okay," he shrugs, "what would you like to do?" and he watches how you light up with pure ecstasy. your arms raise in the air and he watches how you hurl your body in a poor attempt at a twirl. the drunken spin has your left foot landing wrong, catching onto the seams of your gown and you feel the world falling back.
the scream dies in your throat when youre surrounded by such intense heat. gwayne hightower is warm all over, his arms have caught you just in time, your head neatly tucked against his chest as his arms span the length of your back and waist. its almost intimate the way you can hear his heartbeat, it bounces and jumps and you'll play it as a soundtrack to your life if you could. you bring your own hands to rest onto his chest, the crisp velvet sliding against your skin as you look up.
it must be the biggest mistake of your life to look up because as soon as you do you're sucked straight in. its like the ocean has swallowed you whole, and in the midst of its vastness you can hear the quiet, you can feel the serenity and calmness hit you so gently.
"princess," his voice tries to pull you from its trance, and the throated rasp cuts you free.
"gwayne?" you whisper, and the rest of his features appear back into focus. the small freckles dancing along his skin almost disappear the way the moonlight streaks before him. the bridge of his nose, the way it slopes so perfectly, gwayne hightower must have been made and born of pure precision and patience.
you're not thinking and he's momentarily distracted by the way you've dropped his title, saving the way you've said his name into pure permanent memory. so you reach out, your cold index finger touch his nose and he freezes beneath your touch. your finger then drags, following the path of his nose and down to his lips, they pause on his bottom lip momentarily before continuing its course down to his chin and then the length of his neck. you can feel his adam's apple tense as he swallows under such intensity and then they rest teasingly on the junction where his two clavicles could meet. the small amount of skin escaped from his tunic and burned into memory.
"princess," he murmurs, trying to gather his footing and he's still holding you so tightly he's realised. "this is not proper," he manages to get out and a slow smile reaches your lips. you've done it, you've broken gwayne hightower and it has only took four cups of wine to do so.
"i wonder what five would get me," you want to touch his hair next, feel the copper strands beneath your fingers and tug on them, feel how they would be burrowed against your skin or what noises he would make if you pulled them right. you don't reach out though however, your hands travel lower to his abdomen, pushing yourself more upright and steady on your feet but gwayne tenses at the contact.
"sweetheart?" he breathes in confusion, he has no idea what you're on about or whats even happening but youre set alight. this is new. you love the way this one sounds, you want to brand it to your forehead and let the term of endearment be the only thing he's ever allowed to call you by. you stand on your own, centimetres from him and try to dust the nonexistenr fluff off your gown and even just moving has you slightly dizzy. you try to reach for a railing but gwayne's hands move quicker and he's steadying your weight once more.
"i don't think you should move so suddenly," he warns, "you need to rest, sleep this haze off."
"i'd like to dance," he watches as your face morphs into something so fierecly determined and for a second, he's almost scared. it doesn't last very long however because a boyish laugh quietly escapes his lips at the sight of you.
youve taken a step back and your eyes are closed, your swaying so slowly and way off beat for this to be considered a dance. you imagine your partner to be there, leaving the gap empty for a body as your hands play with the air, mumbling along to the faint tune you can hear but its all so unrhythmic that gwayne almost feels sorry for you. you're going to make yourself dizzy and sick, you'll probably fall into a bush soon and gwayne decides to put his title as protector into action.
"you are," he breathes, and he steps into the gaps, his hand at your waist and the other taking charge of your outstretched one. your palms are interlocked as he moves you to a more practised rhythm. gwayne may be a knight and soldier but hes a man of nobility, a member of the court and he'd be damned if he didn't how to dance.
"mad?" you offer, opening your eyes to steal a peek at him. its so natural how your bodies align together, fit and move as one. its fluid and light, you can hardly feel your feet on the ground.
but gwayne certainly can, you've stepped on his toes twice, lopsided and lazy footing that he finds endearing, "wonderful," he corrects you with a unguarded softness, "you are wonderful," and you swoon once more.
"keep your eyes open," he whispers and you obey, and when he spins you he does it at such an incredibly slow pace in fear of you falling and your nausea rising. you're having so much fun with him right now that you don't realise you've been dancing with the knight for the length of minutes; so long that he has walked or rather cleverly danced the two of you back to your chamber.
truth be told he doesn't actually know which is yours. he ends the dance with a final spin, before holding onto the two of your hands and kneeling into a bow. he presses a kiss to each of them, so gentle that when you shoot him another smile it goes straight to his head. hes unsure of how hes still alive right now, he swells with pride at having earned so many of them tonight they ought to declare him a champion.
"thank you ser gwayne," you mumble, your hand ready at the knob of your door.
"just gwayne," he smiles and the world tilts its axis. "and if you ever find yourself in need of a dance partner then i am at your service," he drawls and a giggle escapes your lips as you open the door then lean your head against the frame tiredly. you are exhausted and want nothing more to go to bed, you also just want to stare at gwayne all night long.
"even if your partner is barely tolerable," your voice is slurred not from the wine but the fatigue now and gwayne steps forward by an inch. but an inch is all you need to feel the sheer heat radiating from his body and heart again.
"i told you," he uses a finger to trace your cheek now so tenderly it shatters all the walls youve ever built in your heart and laid entry for gwayne and gwayne only, "you are wonderful."
"wonderful," you whisper and there's moons in your eyes again.
"goodnight, sweetheart," he pulls back, clearing his throat. he sees the gears in your head turning and a faint furrow in your brow but before he can even ask what is the matter, youve stepped forward in an ambush, wrapped your arms around him in a bone crushing hug.
and to finally finish him off and send him to heaven, you aim to kiss his cheek. its lazy, off target and lands in the corner of his mouth. before he can register whats happened youre off him in an instant and the door closes.
"w-what?" he whispers to the dead of the night, his fingers come find the place where your lips met his if you can even call it that and its slightly wet. he has half a mind to knock the door down, break it with his bare hands and steal a proper one. however, you are drunk. beyond so and you need to rest.
he could bring this up tomorrow to you but theres a strong possibility that youd either not remember or would be mortified at the memory and avoid him entirely. the latter would devastate him for centeries.
hes still standing at your door, burning holes inside of it that he doesn't know how much time passes. a young jaecarys passes by and stops.
"ser gwayne?" he calls out and the elder is undeterred, his gaze still stuck on where you had once been before him that he doesnt register the onyx curls before theyre completely blocking his view.
"yes?" the trance is broken.
"what are you doing here?" jace speaks, suspicion laced in his tone.
"dancing," he mumbles, "i was dancing," he nods to himself and then lets out one last longing exhale before making a move to the opposite direction. the distance between the two of you burns as it grows but gwayne forces himself to keep moving. and despite the man not having a single drop of alcohol tonight, gwayne feels the buzz in his blood.
"drunk," jace mutters and continues his footsteps.
Cregan Stark loves his spoiled, pampered, heavily pregnant wife
cregan stark x wife!reader
cw: (mdni+18), fluff fluff fluff, pregnancy, lactation, banter, crack, cregan is obsessed with his wife, fondling, breast play, slight dirty talk, (2.5kw).
“I curse you.”
Cregan didn’t even lift his head at the words, the only tell that he had heard his wife being the slight twitch at the corner of his lips as he continued to glide ink on paper.
He could hear you waddling, huffing, and puffing up a storm as you closed the door to his solar, making as much noise as possible to draw him to pay attention to you, no matter how much work he had to do.
And who was Cregan Stark if not a mere supplicant to all and any of his wife’s whims?
“Curse me?” He spoke, lifting his eyes towards you, the curl of his lips deepening into amusement as he observed how endearing you looked, heavily pregnant and shooting daggers his way. “To what possible end, my love? You had but seen me for the first time today.” Cregan said, arching one bushy brow, leaning back in his mahogany chair to get a better view of his beloved treasure of the North. “What have I done to earn such a harsh punishment?”
You scowled, stepping closer, your gait more akin to a mother duck than anything else, making warmth bloom in Cregan’s chest, letting his eyes sweep over you from the soles of your feet to the top of your head, taking you in, gorging on the sight of his pretty wife, all plump and heavy with his babe. He will never cease to pray to all the Northern Gods for this blessing, dropping to his knees in front of the weirwood tree, forehead pressed to the cold ground as he thanked them profusely for letting him cast his gaze upon such divinity.
“You have done plenty,” you scoffed, scrunching your nose in his direction. The closer you got to his desk, the more the resemblance between you and a disgruntled kitten became more and more apparent, making him hum. “My feet ache, my belly is too big, I’ve eaten a dozen lemon cakes in one sitting, and I can barely walk.”
Cregan pressed his lips together to suppress a splitting grin, way too amused and enamored with his crimes that he had apparently had a hand in, unbeknownst to him. How can a man like him even dare to stand there and not be swiftly punished for such wrongdoings? Other men were beheaded for less.
“Are all those ailments my doing?” He asked, feigning innocence as he waited for you to approach, letting you decide whether you wanted him near or not right now. “How could I have been such a cruel husband, hm?” Cregan continued, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to pull, to hold, but he relented, knowing the wrong move could earn him an even grumpier wife, and that is not what he wished for at the moment.
“Utterly cruel,” you affirmed, lip curling, baring your teeth at him as you stopped next to his chair, your pregnant belly brushing his arm, making his breath hitch, the wonder of such a miracle never quite ceasing. “You brought this upon me.” Your lips pursed into a pout, indignant and fussy as you continued. “If you weren’t so relentless in giving me your seed, I would’ve never resembled a thousand-pound duckling right now.”
Thousand-pound duckling.
Cregan couldn’t stop the huff of amusement that slipped past his lips even if he tried.
Smack.
“You dare laugh?” You gasped, affronted and utterly offended that your husband was finding your grievances even remotely entertaining, hand making contact with his broad shoulder again and again.
It truly only served to heighten his grin even more, eyes crinkling at the edges for a few moments as he let you hit him to your heart’s content, the slaps no more than a kitten batting its paws at a great wolf, Cregan cataloguing them more as pets than anything that could bring any harm.
“I laugh,” he started, tone woven with amusement, but achingly fond now as he watched you, lifting one hand to clasp yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a soft kiss onto the back of it, halting your fussing. “Because my wife is being ridiculous,” and he could already sense the protest on your tongue at his words, so he was quick to preempt that by continuing, turning your palm to press his lips to the inside of it now. “And she does not look like a thousand-pound duckling, but the most beautiful woman I, and the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen.”
You huffed, your scowl lessening.
Watching you melt gradually from his words was always one of Cregan’s joys in life, chest puffing with pride in being able to will his irritable wife into mellowness, that pretty face of yours warming whenever he “had the nerve,” as you often say, to be tender to you.
“You’re only saying that to appease me,” you protested, but moved closer, nudging him with your knee, indicating that you wished to be closer, to be tended to. A silent demand that your husband knew as well as breathing.
Cregan’s chair screeched quietly onto the hard floor as he made space for you in front of him, broad thighs parting to coax you near. He patted one meaty leg with his palm, head tilting as he watched you, lips softening at the corners, amusement bleeding into fondness. “Come here, to your husband, sweetling.”
“Are you certain you can hold the weight of me, husband?” You challenged, even as you stepped into his space. “Perhaps I am too hefty, even for you.”
Utter nonsense, Cregan thought. He knew you knew how strong he was. How easy it would be for him to hold you and not break a sweat while doing so. As if he doesn’t train and work himself to the bone whenever he is allowed a moment from the droning of courtiers to hone the muscles you secretly favour. Cregan could carry you in his arms through Winterfell’s walls for a handful of hours, he wagers, before the need to stop and take a breather would catch up to him.
“Hm, you reckon?” He rumbled, his hands finding purchase on your hips, smoothing over the flowy material of your dress. Gods, he loved the garments you’ve been adorning as of late—warm colors, soft fabrics, all cascading in rivulets down your soft, lush body. He had given word for more of such dresses to the seamstresses, without your knowledge. You didn’t have to know of his plans yet. Nor were you aware of how he made sure the hearths were lit periodically in every room you frequented, so the need for more than a cloak over your soft silks, satins, and linens was not necessary. It would’ve obstructed his view of you.
You squirmed just a bit, just enough to show resistance, even when he could feel you melting like honey in his grasp as he slowly turned you around, your back to his chest, seating you right onto his lap with a pleased, content groan. The solid weight of you, of the babe you were carrying, leaning back against him, trusting him to hold it all, made something pleased and animal bloom into his chest. If he were any more wolf in anything but sigil and tradition, he was sure he would’ve purred like a content beast right now.
“There you go,” Cregan said, broad palms using their grip onto your soft hips to hike you up higher until you were flush against him from hips to shoulders. “My pretty wife,” he murmured, leaning in to nose at your throat with a satisfied sigh, inhaling the scent of your bath oils, milk and you. “Smelling like a treat here on my lap.”
Cregan knows you would taste even better, but the time for that is not now. He loves to savour you most later in the night, when he has you all pliant and drowsy next to him, bundled up in the furs and pelts from his latest hunts, huffing and whining about all the pains and aches that plague you. And it is your husband’s duty to mend them with his tongue, hands and cock, in any way his lovely wife sees fit.
“I do not feel like a treat,” comes your response, leaning your head back against his shoulder as you grumble. “And it is your doing.”
Ah, of course. Anything that ails you is always Cregan’s demerit, be it truth or fib.
“Apologies, sweet wife,” he whispers against the warm skin of your neck, nuzzling there as a hound would its owner for clemency after being scolded. “How shall I repent for my wrongs at present, pray tell? I am yours to command, as always.”
Truth be told, Cregan could provoke you, could throw your whining and complaining back at you, as he often did, but he had found himself powerless to do such a thing in the moons since you have been with child. How could he muster even a modicum of bravado against the woman who now carried their babe? His heir. His little pup, as Cregan often called them, to your dismay, even tho he knew you did not mind the moniker in the slightest, especially when he was kissing all over the taut skin of your belly in the soft light of mornings, whispering sweet nothings to your stomach, as if the babe could hear him.
"Let me, my love." His broad palms smooth up from your hips, just enough to cradle the bottom of your pregnant, heavy belly and lift, supporting some of the weight himself, holding steady and firm. “There you go.”
The relief is instant.
You melt back into him with a soft sigh, as if a great burden has been taken from you, being gifted a moment of relaxation, where your husband was bearing the heavy load of your unborn babe. He had done this countless times since the nearing of your term, only more than a moon away until you were to be surrounded by midwives and maesters.
“It is a boulder,” you fuss, but your eyes flutter in delight, the ache in your back easing the more Cregan bears the brunt of your belly. “One I shall never have to haul around again, Gods be good.”
He hums at your words, knowing them not to be entirely founded, for he knows you are quite fond of the idea of having more than one set of little legs running around Winterfell in the years to come, but he keeps the quip to himself, mindful of your repose.
“I cannot abide by having to change my garments every few hours because I’m dripping milk like cattle.”
Dripping milk.
Cregan freezes for a moment before tipping his chin onto your shoulder to peer down your chest, and truth be told, there they were, your words sounding truthful.
Pebbled nipples peeking through damp material, where milk had stained the fabric, your heavy breasts full of milk, ready to nurture the future babe.
Your husband’s breath caught at the sight, tongue unconsciously poking out to wet his lips, as if wanting to taste the patches of wet silk and suck them into his mouth so he could relish the flavour of your nourishment.
“My poor, sweet wife,” Cregan crooned, one palm still supporting your pregnant belly, while the other slowly travelled upwards, caressing the soft fabric of your dress, until he could cup one full breast, making you huff. “So full of milk already,” he continued, thumb brushing over the damp peak of your nipple through the silk, eliciting a breathier sound this time, which made him hum. “Ready to feed our babe.”
He expected you to squirm, to fuss again at him, but you arched into his touch, limbs melting onto his lap, as if his touches were the flame to melt wax onto paper, willing you pliant and malleable.
“They ache,” you complained, pushing your chest into his palm, urging him to aid you in your grievance, as any husband should. “They’re too full.”
“Too full?” came your husband’s voice, lower, more gruff, as if your words had affected him more than he wished to admit. “And no one to suckle on these pretty tits yet, isn’t it?” He said, palm shifting, covering your breast fully, fingers dimpling the clothes’ softness as he squeezed gently, fondling the lushness slowly.
Again and again and again.
You didn’t mind the rhythmic press of his palm; on the contrary, you relished it, each one accompanied by one of those sweet sighs of content that Cregan drank in like the finest Arbour gold.
With each squeeze, the material of your dress dampened, your husband drawing out more and more milk, wetting both your dress and his palm. He groaned at the feeling, fingers dimpling the flesh harder, but never enough to hurt. “Gods, sweetling, you’re leaking everywhere,” he rumbled, pupils blown wide as he watched the way the silk darkened as more and more sweetness dripped from your pebbled nipples. “Makin’ me want to suckle at it like a babe.”
You gasped, one of your hands lifting to swat at the one he had around your breast, which only made him squeeze more. “Don’t be dissolute!” You reprimanded, but did nothing else to stop his fondling, weaving your fingers through his against your heaving tit, aiding him as you continued. “Just keep going.”
Cregan groaned, tilting his head to the side to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, the scent of sweet, warm milk already permeating the air around you, making him dizzy with the need to dip his head low and mouth at you until you couldn’t resist any more. “You’re a cruel woman,” he rasped, mouth parting, tongue poking out, as if tasting the air would suffice, as if that would even come close to having your milk on his palate. “All lush and ripe like a summer peach, sitting on my lap, dripping all over me,” he growled, feeling his palm dampen more with each squeeze. “And not letting me put my mouth on you.”
It was torture to sit there and not take what he wanted, but he knew that you’d give in soon. Only a matter of time until Cregan would crawl over you, tugging down at your neckline to slobber and mouth at your milk-heavy tits until he was drunk on the taste and you were pliant and lax under him, mewling and squirming.
And probably offering him your other breast to suckle at as well, if you were in good spirits, and he prayed dutifully to the Gods that day.
Summary: King's Landing is suffering from a heatwave. Maekar Targaryen is irritated by it, but nost as much as his beloved.
Tags: Mormont!reader, unspecified age-gap, AFAB reader, Maekar is grumpy (nothing new), but so is the wife, just a cute little fluff piece while I die from this heatwave
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I haven't written anything in like, ages, and then I watched A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and bam, fell in love with two brothers, because why on Earth wouldn't one obsess over fictional men, amirite? Anyways, even though I slightly prefer Baelor (I swear I've looked at the scenes of him twirling his rings for far too long), my first akotsk work goes to Maekar, because he looks like he would absoultely hate the heatwave we are currently in. Luckily, his wife is there to soothe him...or rather, vice-versa. Also, if there are any grammar mistakes, no there aren't. English is my second language.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, with no commercial purposes. All the characters and settings of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms do not belong to me. You are responsible for the media you consume.
The heat was truly overbearing. It clung stubbornly to the walls of the Red Keep, trapped beneath its high ceilings, nowhere to escape. The air was stale, unmoving, thick enough that every breath felt a labour on its own. It seemed to have subdued the castle itself. Servants, who ordinarily hurried through the halls with their quiet efficiency, now moved at a sluggish pace, their steps careful, conserving the strength such a warm day allowed. Many lingered in the shadows, if duty permitted, grateful even for the illusion of coolness in any shadow they could find.
Inside Prince Maekar's chambers, the stifling heat had stripped away what little tolerance the prince had. Already irritated by the small council (the meeting Baelor had, mercifully, ended quickly), and the exuberance of his children at midday meal (not even boiling temperatures could ever deter Aegon), the prince all but ran towards his chambers, barking at the guards in front not to bother him, shutting the doors and slowly exhaling, trying to ease the headache which has started to appear, aided by the insufferable heat. The stillness, the suffocating air, the sluggish pace of everyone around him - it all grated on his nerves. Even the smallest inconvenience was enough to earn a sharp glare or a clipped command. He ought to have been used to the heat, after all; he was half-Dornish, but even that could not stop the sweat gathering along his brows and beneath his collar, tracing slow paths down necks and backs, leaving linen to cling uncomfortably to skin.
And yet, he was nowhere near as irritated as you. His wife. His usually gentle, kind, easy-smiling wife had turned positively feral in this heat. A Mormont of Bear Island, used to whipping winds and frosty winters, now at the mercy of King's Landing's sweltering heat. Every inconvenience earned a weary sigh, every bead of sweat another muttered complaint beneath your breath. You fanned yourself without pause, more out of frustration than hope, your patience fraying. Maekar hated seeing his wife uncomfortable, the Anvil willing to move mountains for you, yet unable to combat this heat (not that he would ever speak of it in public; his feelings were whispers shared between the two of you in your bed, knowing looks shared at feasts and among crowds, his hand at the small of your back, your fingers wrapped around his forearm). Yet, he could not help but feel a sliver of satisfaction at seeing you so disgruntled; after all, he was usually the irritated one of the pair.
That satisfaction of his was short-lived, because his pretty young wife turned all her frustrations on him in the quiet of their chamber. "You," you said, pointing your fan at him, as if it were a dagger, "are responsible for this." Standing by the window, his goblet of cooled wine in hand, he looked over at you, his eyebrows raised. "This heat. It follows you. Your dreadful dragon blood has cursed this castle."
His violet eyes narrowed at your stretched form on the lounge. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. You Targaryens, burning hotter than the furnace, have cursed us with this insufferable heat, because you think of yourselves as these great beasts of fire, so we all must balk in your heat, you...you...you half-lizards," you finished your lament, throwing the useless fan across the room.
"Half-lizards?"
"Yes, half-lizards, scaly creatures that delight in baking upon rocks."
Maekar scoffed, "I've never baked upon a rock."
"No, you merely insist on living inside one"
Maekar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Seven save me."
On the lounge, you crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes at him. "The Seven have abandoned this city, I am certain of it"
"You've taken leave of your senses, woman."
"Oh yes, I've left them somewhere between the gates of King's Landing and this infernal chamber."
Maekar turned fully towards you, his hands now clasped together behind him. He cracked his neck slightly, willing himself not to roll his eyes at you. "You married me willingly."
"Well, I must have suffered a sunstroke when I arrived at this place"
"It was early spring when we met. Besides, I remember you gushing about how you do not have to wear such heavy dresses and furs anymore because of such splendid weather," he said, with a slight mocking tone.
"Oh, you've noticed my dresses, my prince?" you purred at him, a mocking smile on your face.
Maekar groaned at that. But you were right. Of course he noticed your dresses. He noticed everything about you. He can still remember the first time he saw you, among the many who arrived to celebrate the King's nameday. He can still remember the day vividly, how he could not wait for it to end, when suddenly you appeared, with your braided hair, a mix of awe and caution in your eyes. Eyes that widened slightly when you caught his gaze, and his heart did something, something it had not done in a very long time, so much so that he was almost, almost, thinking of visiting a maester because he thought something must be wrong with him. Over the years, many women were paraded around the Red Keep, in hopes of the King's youngest son marrying again. Many were hopeful, but many were disheartened when they were faced with his cold demeanor. But you, oh, you were not disheartened in the slightest. You took it as a challenge, and you slowly, but surely dismantled all of Maekar's defences, rattling him to the core. And so you became his bride, a pretty, young bride, much more suited for Daeron or Valarr, even Aerion. But no, your eyes only shone for this stoic old widower, and Maekar did not know what he did to deserve you, but he quietly thanked every god there is for having you. You and your kind eyes, your witty mouth, your gentle hands, and gods, he could feel the fierceness of his devotion, of his love for you. He could not stop the ends of his mouth curling upwards.
"There," you smiled triumphantly, noticing the tips of his ears reddening. "You smile because you know I am right."
"I smile because you are being absurd, woman"
"I married a dragon."
"A moment ago, I was a half-lizard."
"Dragons, lizards, same thing," you waved dismissively.
"Alas, you merely married a prince."
"A very hot prince."
He narrowed his eyes at you again. "Careful, wife."
"Or what?" You challenged him, your eyebrows raised questioningly, but a gleam in your eyes, delighting in needling your husband. "I should have married a northern lord; it would be easier to bundle in furs during the winter, rather than melt into my dress here."
He would hardly call what you were wearing a dress. It was a slip of a fabric, a fine silk which clung to your hips (Targaryen red, of course, because you know how much he loves seeing you in his colours), a neckline plunging low; one might find it obscene, were it not for the sweltering weather. Nestled in the hollow between your breasts, he could see the blood-red ruby pendant he gave you as a present when you accepted his proposal. Adding to the inappropriateness of the dress were the two slits at your sides, through which he could see hints of your exposed skin, and his blood pressure spiked when he saw you wearing it this morning, because with every movement he would be offered a fleeting glimpse of the flesh he could very well remember the taste of. Oh, you were going to be the death of him.
He started to slowly approach you, his violet eyes darkened.
You folded your arms again. "Do not stalk toward me as though you intend to frighten me."
As if I could, thought Maekar. "I have no need for that, wife."
"No?"
"Well, you have already admitted you'd rather have another husband."
"I said another climate."
"You implied the husband."
"I implied nothing."
"You implied everything," he said, slightly growling on the last word. He stood now in front of you, and you tilted your chin to look at his imposing form, and gods, your husband was beautiful. He stood above you, a mountain of a man, with his broad shoulders and a barely restrained power about him, his every moment measured, every muscle coiled under his pale skin. You peered at him under your lashes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you took him in, this husband of yours.
"What are you going to do?" you asked, your voice almost whispering, losing the catty tone you previously held. "Scowl at me until winter comes?"
"I've considered it."
Maekar making a joke? This heat must've truly impacted him.
"It won't work, my prince."
He reached to cup your face, his fingers tracing your lip. "No?"
"I have become quite immune to your scowling, husband."
Maekar groaned at that, this time not being able to prevent his eyes from rolling. "You are impossible."
"So you've said."
"And insufferable."
"I learned that from my husband," you said, slowly rising. He was a full head taller than you, so your head was still tilted to be able to see into his eyes. You could see his desire for you in his violet eyes, the desire you knew was equally present in your eyes. You were pressed to him, and he burned, the dragon blood in him, but the heat was forgotten now, because here, in his arms, is the place you always want to be in. Your words elicited an actual smile from him, which he quickly tried to hide, but you caught it, and you laughed properly then, entirely pleased with yourself.
"There it is," you murmured. "I knew if I teased you long enough-"
Maekar silenced you with a kiss. A searing kiss, and you grabbed onto his arms as he held your face. The world beyond faded into silence, leaving only the steady rhythm of shared breaths and the soft rustle of your silk. The heat was forgotten, because there was only Maekar, and his lips, and you moaned into the kiss as he slightly bit your bottom lip, and you wished for him to never stop kissing you. Maekar's right hand crept downwards, tracing the ruby pendant between your breasts, and his fingers gripped the exposed flesh at your sides. You arched into him, hands gripping at his tunic.
When you finally parted, it was only for a fraction, with his one hand on your hip, the other cradling your face, and you gazed into his eyes, which turned almost black. They dropped to your swollen lips for a moment, before gazing at your eyes back again.
"That," you said softly, "is a far more convincing argument."
"Thought so," he murmured.
"And if I blame your dragon blood again?"
Maekar's hand gripped your waist. "I will simply have to silence you a second time, wife."
A/N: Me again. Thank you for reading! Any Maekar or Baelor requests, send them my way. Kisses!
you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
Hii!! Can you write a fanfic of Sansa stark x fem reader comfort/smut please 🤞💕💕
there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin — sansa stark x reader
authors note: the way i got so giddy getting this request sigh i love sansa so much
warnings: NSFW, period typical sexism and homophobia, closeted!sansa, tribbing
summary: as queen of the north, sansa has to assure her lineage by marrying a lord and bearing children. the problem is sansa doesn’t want a man, she wants you
word count: ~1.2k words
song playing: take me to church by hozier
BEING QUEEN OF THE NORTH WAS DIFFICULT. and sansa knew it would be. she had spent enough time in kings landing, being groomed to become queen of the seven kingdoms, to know the stressors that came with the respected role.
but this was different. she wasn’t queen in the sense that she had married the king. she was the queen in her own right, the sole ruler of the north.
no king beside her. no husband.
how she wanted it to be. but not how her council wanted it.
“my queen,” ser wyman, a member of house manderly and one of her closest advisors, spoke. his voice and tone holding respect for her, but his eyes betraying the smallest hint of desperation and frustration. “you must marry soon. the north grows worried about the lack of heirs.”
sansa sighs, closing her eyes for a beat at the head of the table. her cupbearer comes to pour her drink, to which she covers her cup with her hand, a silent dismissal. “you speak as though by the end of the moon my womb will dry up.”
there was a hint of annoyance mixed with amusement in her tone. sansa was still young, a woman merely in her early 20’s. there had been other highborn ladies who had birthed children at much older ages.
this conversation had always happened at every meeting since she became queen. the urgence of the court to see her wed a northern lord and bare children to inherit the throne. and by bare children, she means sons.
because although she was queen, the north had still stuck with tradition. the old ways of men inheriting thrones over women. the only reason she was queen was because bran had become king of westeros, and with the rest of her brothers either being dead or north of the wall, sansa was rightfully next to inherit.
she purses her lips, feeling the sting in her eyes at the memory of her siblings. of robb and rickon and their untimely demises. of jon with the wildlings north of the wall. of bran all the way in kings landing. of arya set sail west of westeros, exploring unknown lands.
she hears the distant voices of the rest of her advisors trying to persuade her into marrying soon, her mind dissociating at the thought of her family.
she jerks her head to the left to look out the window that oversees the courtyard of winterfell. her eyes waver, looking at all the various people walking about, before her mind stutters shut and her back straightens.
her gaze locks on a figure. a young woman, about her age, wearing light furs and strolling about. her lips curl into a smile seeing you. a lady of a small northern house. the sister to one of her advisors.
she quickly averts her gaze and returns her focus to the meeting at hand, not wanting anyone to catch on.
because although sansa tells everyone she is too young to marry, or that no man she has been presented is worthy enough to be the queens husband, a small part of her heart breaks to know that you are the one she truly wants to marry.
as the meeting drags on, she lets her mind slightly reminisce. she remembers the first times she had begun feeling attraction towards women. the one that sticks out the most being the lady margaery tyrell. the one who made sansa actually question her “attraction” to men.
and the one who made her realize that she wasn’t actually interested in men. rather, she forced herself to, because she was a lady and her duty was to wed a husband. being attracted to another woman was not talked about. the septas would never entertain the concept.
it wasn’t unheard of. men being with men. women having other female companions. but it definitely wasn’t celebrated. it was a secret, something to keep quiet and hidden.
later that night, sansa gets up to her chambers, seeing you already there, waiting quietly for her. she smiles and feels relaxation overflow her as you help her out of her dress and into her nightgown, as she does to you.
the two of you lay down, and sansa watches as you recount your day. her eyes focus on every little detail that make up your face. and as her eyes do so, they also begin to water, and her lips tremble.
you stop what you were saying to look at her, and worry etches your face. “what’s the matter my love?” you ask concerned, hand cupping her face, “are you alright?”
she breaths in a shaky breath, and smiles sadly. “i want to be your wife,” she whispers. a silence follows, but not an uncomfortable one. a sad, but understanding kind of silence. and the way your eyes look at her sadly, she cries a bit more.
“i want everyone to know that you are mine. that we are one,” she continues and sniffles. she looks away as her eyes land on the seven pointed star decor, a show of her religion on her mothers side.
she curses the gods she's meant to love. if it was such a sin, then why make her love a woman? why make her love someone she can never truly be with in their eyes?
sansa feels your hands run through her red locks, and feels your lips press a small kiss to her temple. “i know my love.”
you guide her face to look back at you, and gently wipe away her tears. “i want to be your wife too,” you say with a sad smile, “and it may not be possible for that. but i’m still yours, and always will be.”
sansa smiles sadly. its the reality of the times she lives in. “you promise?” she asks softly, like she was a little girl. you nod and kiss her, “i promise.”
sansa kisses you back, in awe of how much you love her. how you are willing to live a life against customs just to be hers. willing to be shunned from society as an unwed lady for the sake of only being sansas.
the kiss grows deeper, sansa’s tongue pushing past your lips, exploring inside you. she moans into your mouth, tasting you like you were the finest bite of lemon cake she’d ever had. her body moves on its own, going to straddle yours.
the night blurs in the pleasure. cloth being gently peeled off one another, the quiet moans escaping you two as sansa rocks her soaking cunt on top of your own. sansa lets her mind blur as she grinds down hard, feeling herself grow even wetter and needier as your lips met one of her breasts, sucking on her pink nipple.
her hands hold you close, almost afraid that you’d disappear. in this moment of vulnerability, sansa’s eyes water as she feels her core tighten, feels the sense of her impending orgasm approaching, she whispers, “i love you.”
you moan lightly, and move your lips back up to hers, kissing her. your hands hold onto her hips tightly, grinding her even harder. “i love you too,” you say in between kisses.
sansa pulls back to curse and moan loudly as she cums, panting heavily as her thighs shake and her cunt leaves a sticky mess over yours. she sees you moan and roll your eyes back in pleasure as your own orgasm crashes.
and as sansa watches you, a bittersweet feeling overcomes her. while the thought of having to marry another lingers in her mind, she is grateful to know that you will always be here. and to her, in this very moment, that is enough to keep her strong.
SUMMARY: … for you cannot change the future, only suffer knowing it before it comes. OR, Daeron dreams of your death, and he knows in his heart that there is nothing he can do to stop it, but how is he not supposed to try?
WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader is from Braavos. Daeron-typical alcoholism. reader & Daeron have children who are mentioned in passing. hurt/comfort. angsty I suppose but it's tame for me LOL. no character death but it's implied that it may happen in the future bc of Daeron's dreams but who knows, it might not play out the way he thinks (; LOL. I think that's all I didn't really re-read to check.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have been so disgustingly Daeron-pilled lately, he is just so lonely and lovely, I love men who are miserable. This will def not be the last fic for him, and I think I def want to explore more of this reader because I have a whole background/story for her that I think you guys would like. Very different from Volantene!reader, if any of you are following my Aerion series, and I get to delve into Braavos which is genuinely my favorite of the Free Cities, despite my recent fixation on Volantis LOL. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! Ignore any errors because I didn't edit. Comments and reblogs v appreciated!!
Daeron does not know you’re awake yet.
In truth, you woke up the moment the door to your chambers creaked open. You aren't sure what time it is, or where your husband has been, but you're only relieved that he returned. He woke up this morning a frantic mess—startled you awake at the crack of dawn when he scrambled out of bed, pulling the sheets right off of you with spluttering, half-comprehensible apologies, ignoring your confused calls of his name.
It’s not as though you’re not used to Daeron’s… more peculiar behaviors. You’ve been married to him for three years now—you have three children with him—so you’re very accustomed to being woken up at odd hours to him spiraling over whatever had haunted him through the night.
But this morning was—it was different.
The fear in his eyes when he looked back at you before he fled the room has left you inordinately anxious all day. You spent the whole day looking for him with an unsettling feeling creeping through you the longer you couldn’t find him.
You roped the young ones into looking for you, easily swayed with the promise of extra desserts once Maekar retreated to his study after dinner, and you even got Aerion involved with the search after an hour of bargaining with him over old Valyrian texts that are supposedly held by the Reyaan family. It will be a pain negotiating with them for the texts when you go back home to Braavos at the end of the moon, but you needed all hands on deck searching for Daeron, because something was terribly wrong, and the longer you went without knowing what, the more unsettled you became.
But no matter how hard you looked and how many people you had looking with you, Daeron had vanished. You hadn't been sure if he was going to come home at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he disappeared for days on end—in the early days of your marriage, he did not wish to trouble you with all of this. He would prefer you think him a drunk and whore than for you to know the truth of what plagued him.
It took months of you whittling down his walls for him to finally confide in you, and you could tell he was waiting for you to laugh at him or scoff at him or whatever he is typically met with when he tells people about his dreams.
And if you're being honest, you're not sure how much you believe it, but it doesn't matter, because you know how it affects him. Whether his dreams are true prophecy or just a cruel, overworked imagination, they are still driving him half-mad, and that is enough for you to believe him, if not them.
So, over the last two years, he has become more fond of burying himself in your arms than fleeing to run down pubs and sleeping in ditches after particularly rough nights.
It became easier for him over time, with someone to rely on, someone who believed him instead of brushing him off as drunk or mad or both. He never stopped drinking because alcohol was the only thing that could keep the dreams at bay, even if they did return tenfold when he sobered, but he drinks less than he once did. He comes back to bed more often, and he lets you hold him through the worst of it instead of disappearing into the streets until he forgets his own name.
There are nights now when he sleeps with his face buried against your throat and does not wake once screaming. Nights where he laughs too loud at dinner and steals food from your plate and kisses your knuckles absentmindedly while rambling through some half-drunken thought. Nights where he looks at you like he can finally breathe.
That is why today has terrified you.
You expected him to come to bed when you heard the door creaking open, already planning your approach to get him to tell you what he dreamed of, and why it scared him so much. But Daeron doesn't come to bed; he shuffles across the floor to sit on the chair near the fireplace, pouring himself another glass of wine, on top of the countless he has likely had since he vanished this morning.
He does not say anything for a long while, and you cannot see his face from where you’re curled in bed, only the back of his shoulders.
They shake quietly, tremors subtle enough that you can almost convince yourself that you’re imagining it. When you realize that you’re not, you think he is cold at first, and that’s why he’s sitting in front of the fire—it is a chilly night, after all, and he likely only just got in from wherever he had hidden out for the day.
Then, you hear the choked inhale, and the way he must press his hand against his mouth to muffle a sob, and your throat goes tight.
You push yourself upright slowly, blankets pooling around your waist, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the fire. Daeron is hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, one hand curled tight around his goblet while the other presses against his mouth hard enough that you can see the tension in his arm from across the room. His shoulders shake harder now, desperately trying not to make a sound.
Your chest aches so terribly that it steals your breath for a moment.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and step out quietly, the stone floor cool against your bare feet. You’re careful not to make much noise as you make your way over to him, a lump in your throat when you see how hard he’s trying not to wake you up, shoulders shaking violently, tears spilling over his cheeks, breath ragged around the fist he’s shoved into his mouth.
He flinches hard when he feels your hand slide against his shoulders, violet eyes wide as his gaze cuts up to where you’re standing behind the chair. He blinks twice, as though processing that you’re standing there next to him—you can smell the alcohol on him already.
“I—” he starts to say, voice half-slurred, breaking over the word. “I apologize. I did not mean to wake you.”
Stupid man, you think to yourself, desperately and fondly and furiously. You shift so that you can stand in front of where he’s sitting, and then you lower yourself to your knees in front of him, resting your forearms on his thighs, and propping your chin up on them to look up at him.
Daeron looks entirely devastated as he looks down at you, throat bobbing, jaw tightening as he fights another ragged sob. He lifts one trembling hand to brush his knuckle beneath your eye, as though he’s scared to even touch you.
“You are a fool, Daeron,” you tell him quietly, one hand sneaking up to grab his wrist, unfurling his fist so that you can press his palm against your cheek. You lean your face into the familiar warmth of his hand, letting out a soft sigh as his breath hitches, and his thumb instinctively moves to stroke your skin. “You should have woken me up right away.”
A wet, broken laugh escapes him at that, cracking halfway through.
“It is easy to say now,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You might not have been so amenable if I actually had.”
His thumb keeps moving against your cheek in slow, absent strokes, like he cannot stop himself now that you’re here in front of him. His other hand, still shaking, puts the goblet down on the table next to him so he can cradle your face between both hands. His eyes are bloodshot—heavy-lidded, tired and terrified all at once.
“Do you truly think so poorly of me?” you counter instead with a frown, letting him outline the shape of your lips. “Have I ever spurned you, or made you feel guilty for waking me up when you needed me?”
“No,” he admits quietly, voice little over a breath, “but it does not mean I do not feel that way anyway.”
You exhale softly through your nose, rising to your feet just enough so that you can slip onto his lap instead. Daeron’s arms immediately encircle your waist, pulling your body flush to his, face dropping into the crook of your neck. You lift your hand to stroke his soft, sandy hair, nails raking gently against his scalp.
“There,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his temple. “That’s much better, isn’t it? Much more preferable to crying alone.”
Daeron makes a noise high in his throat, an agreement, but says nothing more.
You can feel the way he’s holding himself together by threads alone. He presses closer after a moment, one hand flattening against the small of your back while the other curls into the fabric of your nightclothes near your hip, clutching like he’s afraid someone might tear you away from him if he loosens his grip even slightly.
His breathing is still uneven against your throat, and your neck is wet with his tears. You rake your fingers gently through his hair again, untangling soft strands from where he’s likely dragged his hands through it all evening.
“How much did you drink?” you ask quietly after a few moments.
Daeron huffs a faint laugh against your throat, humorless and exhausted. “Enough that I thought it might shut my mind up for a few hours.”
“And did it?”
“No.”
His nose brushes absently against your skin as he shifts closer still, if such a thing is even possible now. You can feel the damp warmth of tears soaking slowly through the collar of your sleep clothes. He kisses you once—the crook of your neck—a second time at your pulse, and then he rests his forehead back against your shoulder.
“You vanished all day,” you murmur after a long silence. “I was worried.”
“I know.” His voice cracks instantly around the words. “I am sorry.”
“You frightened me.”
Another tremor wracks through him.
“I know,” he repeats, sounding miserable.
You tilt your head slightly, pressing another kiss into his hairline, exhaling lightly as you finally ask the dreaded question. “Tell me what happened.”
Daeron tenses instantly, nails pressing crescents into your skin through your thin night gown.
You feel the exact moment he considers lying to you—not maliciously, but you know your husband well enough to recognize that instinctive desire to flee. The way he curls inward around his pain like a wounded animal, convinced that if he can just push it down deep enough, no one will have to suffer alongside him.
You slide your hand to cup the back of his neck, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the warm skin there. You say quietly, “Please.”
“I do not—” he starts to say, swallowing hard. “I do not know how to say it.”
“Try anyway,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his temple once before pulling back to look him in the eye.
They are glassy and red-rimmed as they focus on you—devastated in a way he so rarely looks when he has you to lean on. You slide your hands to cradle his cheeks, tucking his hair behind his ear. He tilts his face into your touch to kiss both of your palms, lashes fluttering as he takes in one ragged breath to prepare himself for whatever it is he’s about to say.
“You cannot go home at the end of the moon,” he finally says. You raise your eyebrows slightly. He doesn’t open his eyes to look at you, jaw tight as though bracing himself for your reaction. “You cannot. I know you have been planning it for months, but—”
“Daeron—”
“And I know you are excited to see your brothers and your nephew again, but you cannot go,” he interrupts, rushing out the words before you can shut him down. “I—you must promise me that you will not go.”
“I cannot—” you start to say, eyes sliding shut as you shake your head, only barely processing what he’s saying.
You are not just going to see your family—you’re going because his father and grandfather asked you to go, because the Blackfyres are gaining support in the Free Cities, and they need to ensure they have the Iron Bank’s backing should the other cities declare for them. You are the bridge between the Targaryens and the keyholders. It is not up to you, Daeron knows this, so why—
“You must!” Daeron interrupts, voice rising suddenly until he sees the way you draw back. An apology flickers across his face as he shrinks backward, shoulders hunching to make himself smaller, lashes fluttering. Quieter, voice breaking, “You must promise me. Please. I cannot bear to lose you—I will not survive it.”
You exhale through your nose as you realize exactly what Daeron is implying, lifting one hand to tilt his face up so that his eyes meet yours. You wipe away a tear that rolls over his cheek.
“Tell me what you dreamed, Daeron,” you say quietly. “Perhaps it is not what you think.”
Daeron scoffs bitterly, trying to look away, but you do not let him, holding his chin firmly.
“Tell me.”
His throat bobs as his gaze lowers, the fight draining from him rapidly.
“A black dragon shadowed Braavos,” he says so quietly that even in his lap, you have to shift closer to make out the words. “Your family’s palace—it was burning, and you—” His voice breaks, eyes glassy again as they meet yours. He shakes his head as though he cannot even bear to speak the words out loud, and your stomach drops. He repeats, “I cannot lose you.”
You smooth your thumb beneath his eye again, catching another tear before it can fall. He lets out a ragged, trembling breath, seeking out your touch, so you hold the side of his face, letting him press his nose and mouth into your palm.
“You do not know if this wasn’t just a dream,” you tell him quietly after a moment. His gaze snaps up toward you, suddenly alight with a fire that makes you tense. You misspoke—you realize it right away. You press on before he can snap. “Daeron, all I mean to say is that you have been anxious about me leaving for Braavos alone since your father and grandfather decided I would months ago. Your mind has never been kind to you; it could only just be fear—”
Daeron recoils as though you’ve struck him, away from your touch, shrinking back into the chair. Something awful—pained and twisted, betrayed, and it makes your heart break—crosses his face.
“You think I cannot tell the difference,” he says quietly.
Regret begins to weigh in your stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. “That is not what I meant.”
“It is.” He laughs—it is brittle and exhausted, but not surprised. You think you hate that most: that your doubt was always expected, no matter how much you assured him that you believed him. “Everyone always says it eventually.”
“Daeron, please—”
“It is always just wine, or grief, or fear, or madness.” His voice roughens around the last word. “Always some simpler explanation.”
He finally pulls his face away from your palm, and you hate how empty the loss of contact feels instantly.
“You believed me before.”
“I do believe you,” you insist, trying to get him to look at you again, but he will not. “Daeron—”
“No.” He shakes his head once. “You believe that I believe it.”
The devastation in his voice hurts worse than if he had shouted. You open your mouth to protest, but he keeps speaking before you can.
“I know what ordinary dreams feel like.” His fingers tighten painfully against your waist. “I know what fear feels like. This was not fear.”
“I believe you, Daeron,” you tell him, because you do. You believe him—it doesn’t matter what you think of the dreams themselves. His grip loosens, eyes searching yours as he tries to figure out if you’re lying or not. You lift your hands to his face to cradle his cheeks, and you repeat, “I believe you.”
“Then promise me,” he says, ragged with desperation, pleading as he holds you closer. “Promise me that you will not go. You will stay with me here. Promise me.”
“It is not up to me, Daeron,” you say, voice thin. “It is your father and your grandfather—I cannot refuse them without explanation. If I suddenly refuse to board a ship because my husband dreamt of a dragon, they will think—”
“They already think that I am mad,” Daeron cuts in bitterly. “I do not care what they say. I—”
“Daeron,” you interrupt, resigned, fingers absently stroking his face. “I cannot refuse your father and grandfather without an explanation.”
“Then I will give them one.”
The words come out immediately—sharp enough that you blink. Daeron is already pulling away from you enough to sit upright properly, frantic energy beginning to creep beneath his skin again now that he has something to cling to besides helpless grief. He almost moves you off of him to rise to his feet, but your hands tighten at his shoulders, signaling for him to say seated. His hands shake where they hold your waist, eyes glassy and bloodshot and terribly awake despite all the wine he has consumed.
“I will speak to them,” he says quickly, like he is piecing together the thought as he says it aloud. “Tomorrow. No—now. I can wake my father now.”
“Daeron—”
“I will tell him what I saw.”
You reach for him instinctively, palms sliding against his cheeks again. “Love, slow down.”
But Daeron is spiraling now in a different direction entirely—panic and grief set aside for a type of frantic determination that unsettles you more than the other two did.
“He will listen if I make him listen,” he insists, though even he sounds unconvinced by his own words. “And if he does not, then my grandfather will. Or—” His breath catches. “Or I will go with you.”
Your brows knit together. “What?”
“I will not let you sail to Braavos alone after this.” His grip tightens again. “If they insist you must go, then I am going too.”
“You know your father will never allow that.”
At that, pain flickers across Daeron’s face—because he does know.
Prince Maekar loves him—you know he does, somewhere beneath all the frustration and grief and disappointment—but Daeron’s dreams have always been a point of misery between them. Too many years of drunken warnings. Too many prophecies no one wanted to hear. Too many occasions where Daeron was right, but not enough for anyone to truly trust him with it.
“He thinks I am sick,” Daeron says quietly, confirming your thoughts. “They all do.” He laughs weakly then, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Gods, maybe I am.”
“Do not say that.”
“But I saw you die.” His voice breaks again immediately. “How am I supposed to sit here and say nothing after that?”
You cannot answer that because you do not know how to.
Daeron presses suddenly into your touch again, all the frantic resolve collapsing back into fear as quickly as it came. He buries his face against your shoulder once more, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
“I will beg them if I must,” he whispers hoarsely, breath hot and shaky against your skin. “I do not care anymore. I will kneel to my father. To my grandfather, too. I do not care if the court laughs at me afterward. I do not care if my father locks me in my rooms again like he did when I was younger.” His arms tighten convulsively around you. “I cannot let you go there if there is even a chance this is real.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“Daeron…”
His breathing shudders.
“He will not believe me,” he admits at last, voice small and devastated all over again. “He never believes me until it is too late.”
You close your eyes briefly and pull him closer, cradling the back of his head against you as he trembles in your arms.
For a moment, neither of you speaks; your breath shudders as you press your face into the top of his head, eyes sliding shut as you drown in the familiar scent of him. His arms are trembling around you, fingers pressing hard into your sides, as though he’s scared you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little. He presses his face into your chest and inhales shakily, and the two of you stay like that for a long while, basking in the familiar warmth of each other’s arms.
You do not know how long you sit there with him.
Long enough that the fire burns lower in the hearth. Long enough that the worst of his shaking subsides into smaller tremors. Long enough that Daeron’s breathing begins to even out against you, though not enough for you to think he is calm, only exhausted by the intensity of his own fear.
You keep one hand buried in his hair and the other curved around the back of his neck, thumb stroking absently over the knob of his spine. He has always gone so terribly soft beneath your hands, even at his worst. As though touch is the only language he can believe without suspicion.
“We will speak to your father in the morning,” you say quietly at last, pulling his face back slightly so that you can press your lips to his forehead. You lean back again so you can meet his eyes. “Okay?”
He stares at you for a moment, an unreadable look in his eyes as his gaze searches yours. His voice is small as he asks, “We?”
Your lips curve up into a small smile. “That is what I said, didn’t I?”
Daeron is not so amused, throat bobbing unsurely. “You would—you would stand beside me?”
Your smile fades. The question hurts more than it ought to—it’s not an accusation, and it’s not meant to be cruel, but it’s the disbelief, the wavering hope that drives home the pain. You hate that he has learned not to expect anyone to stand beside him once he starts speaking of dreams and death and doom. You hate that even after three years of marriage, you have not been able to convince him that you’ll always stand by his side.
“You are a fool, husband,” you tell him, smiling lightly. “Of course, I will stand beside you.”
“I am the luckiest fool in all of the kingdoms, then,” Daeron breathes, eyes shining again as he looks up at you, violets pretty and broken and glassy in a way that makes your heart ache. “Gods, I love you.”
“And I, you,” you say quietly, leaning in to brush your lips against his. He tastes of wine and salt, and his breath wavers as he moves his lips against yours, kissing you chastely. You part your lips and rest your forehead against his after a moment. “I would love you significantly more if you would bring me back to bed.”
Daeron laughs at that—a pretty, boyish thing that has your lips curling up into a soft smile. He leans in to steal a second kiss, then a third and a fourth, before his hands slide down to your thighs to hold you as he pushes himself to his feet.
You yelp, arms circling his shoulders tighter, legs wrapping around his waist. He buries his face into your neck, kissing up the skin there obnoxiously as he carries you over to the bed, and you find yourself laughing with him, breathless as he drops the two of you down on the plush mattress, hovering above you with breathless smile.
He leans in again to kiss you, longer this time, deeper. You sigh into his mouth as one hand cradles the side of your face, tongue easing open your lips so that he can trace the inside of your mouth.
There is desperation in it still, seeping through the softness—something aching and terrified beneath the slow drag of his mouth against yours. His hand cups your jaw carefully, thumb brushing along your cheek as though reassuring himself you are still here beneath him, still warm and breathing and real, that you are not on the cusp of death as his dreams taunt.
You melt beneath him with a quiet sigh, fingers slipping into the soft strands of his hair. He shudders when you tug gently, mouth parting against yours as he deepens the kiss instinctively, slow and languid now instead of frantic.
Daeron makes another low sound into your mouth when your fingers tighten in his hair, the noise half swallowed by the kiss, and your breath hitches as his hand slides down your jaw to your throat.
He pauses when his thumb accidentally brushes over your pulse point, as though the erratic thrumming of it beneath his touch has reminded him of what has been haunting him all day. You feel the warmth and levity drain from him immediately; his shoulders tense, and his lips falter against yours.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, sharing the same sliver of air. His breath catches, and his eyes stay shut, long lashes trembling faintly against his cheeks.
You card your fingers through his hair absently, waiting.
“I am afraid to sleep,” he admits finally, voice small.
You say simply, “Then we will not sleep yet.”
“You need rest.”
“So do you.”
“I will only dream again.”
“Then we will stay awake until the sun comes up, if we must.”
He pulls back enough to look at you, brows drawn together. “You would do that?”
You arch a brow at him. “I have spent three years married to you, Daeron. This would not be the first night of sleep you have stolen from me.”
A faint laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is small and ruined and wet, but it is a laugh, nonetheless, so you take it as a victory.
“I hate it,” he whispers after a few moments, nosing into your cheek. Your eyes slide shut as he kisses you there, too, lips lingering.
Your voice softens. “I know, love.”
“I hate seeing things. I hate knowing just enough to be terrified and never enough to change anything.” He drags a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I hate that when I am wrong, I am mad, and when I am right, I am still mad, only too late.”
Your throat tightens again. “Daeron.”
“No,” he says, almost pleading now. “Tell me how I am supposed to make him believe me. Tell me what words I am meant to use. I will say anything. I will stand straight and sober and calm. I will not shout or weep. I will not sound like—like this. I will tell him exactly what I saw, and he will still look at me with that face—”
He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. Your eyes slide shut as you fight a sigh. You know the face he means.
You have seen it often enough. Maekar’s stern mouth, the deep crease between his brows, the disappointment that settles over him whenever Daeron stumbles too loudly or laughs too bitterly or speaks of things no one wants to hear. Not cruelty in the traditional way—something more complicated and worse for it. Love mixed with frustration until it begins to feel like contempt.
Daeron’s voice thins. “He will think I am trying to keep you here because I am afraid to be without you.”
You do not answer quickly enough. His eyes flick to yours.
“And maybe I am,” he admits, shame twisting his expression. “Maybe that is part of it. I am afraid every time you leave a room for too long. I am afraid every time I wake, and you are not there. I am afraid one day you’re going to realize what everyone else already knows about me. I have loved very few things in my life that did not get taken from me, and I do not know how to act reasonably about you.”
Your breath catches.
“But that does not make the dream false,” he says fiercely, as though begging you to understand the distinction. “It does not. I know the difference between wanting you near me and seeing you die. I know if you go there, you will not return to me. I know it.”
The silence stretches heavily between the two of you. Daeron is worked up again, staring at you like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to give way beneath him. His breath is uneven, shoulders taut beneath your hands, violet eyes shining with fear. You cradle his face again, pulling it down slightly so you can press your lips to his forehead, and then you pull him down, letting him bury his face into your chest.
“We will figure it out, Daeron,” you tell him quietly, hands smoothing over his tense shoulders, rubbing them gently until the tension slowly eases from them and his body melts into yours. “I promise.”
“What if we cannot?” he asks, voice small. “My father never listens to me. I cannot bear to lose you. And what of little Vaegon and Vaemon? They are still young—what am I supposed to say when they ask where you've gone? They'll never understand. And Dyanna, she is still only an infant. I am a shit father—I am not cut out for it, not without you. I—”
“Gods, Daeron,” you interrupt with a humorless laugh. “You speak as though I’m already gone.”
“I’m sorry,” he says into your skin, words breaking over a ragged breath. You can feel wetness against your chest—he’s crying again. “I am sorry. I am. I do not mean to—”
“I know,” you tell him quietly, stroking his hair again as he settles against you, “but Daeron, listen to me.” He makes a noise as though to say he is. “No, I mean it. Listen to me.”
He lifts his head up just enough for his eyes to meet yours, heavy with a type of sorrow you thought you’d become used to seeing in him, but it hits you harder than it ever has right now. You caress the side of his face, watching as he leans the weight of his head into your palm.
“I will come back to you,” you say, and when he starts to shake his head, you squeeze his cheeks hard to stop him. “I will. If your father does not listen, and in the worst-case scenario, I have to go. I will return to you.”
Because you will have to go. You know it. He knows it. There is no world where you do not sail to Braavos at the end of the moon, because the Blackfyres refuse to remain a distant threat across the Narrow Sea. Coin is worth more than swords in this war, and the Iron Bank matters more than any army. Your family name opens doors in Braavos that no raven or envoy, no silver-haired prince or three-headed dragon could ever open as easily. It can only be you.
Duty is a chain. You both know that better than most.
His jaw tightens, spasming as he fights more tears, eyes terribly glossy. “You cannot promise that.”
“I can,” you insist. “I can, and I will. Rest assured, there is nothing in this world that can stop me from coming home to you and our children.”
Daeron lets out a watery laugh. “You should not be the one saying things like that,” he whispers hoarsely. “Gods, I am so—”
“Hm?”
“It should be me. You are promising to come back to me. You are reassuring me. It should be the other way around,” he says, frustrated, eyes red-rimmed and expression twisted into something helpless and guilty all at once. “You are meant to be able to rely on me. You are meant to hear your husband tell you everything will be alright, that he will protect you, that he will come home to you no matter what. Instead, I am lying in your arms crying, and you are the one reassuring me.”
“Daeron,” you start to say.
“You deserve better than this. I am trying so hard not to be the sort of man who ruins everything he touches anymore, but I just—I cannot seem to help myself,” he says miserably. “I am sorry that you were saddled with me, and not one of my cousins. Valarr or Matarys, they would have—”
“Enough,” you tell him before he can finish the sentence. “You know I do not like to hear you speak about yourself that way.”
“But—”
You slide your hands into his hair, holding him there between your palms. “There is no but, Daeron. I adore you. I love you. There is no one I would rather be with.”
“That seems like terribly poor judgment on your part,” he says with a laugh that breaks halfway through, but he has settled down, resting his head back down on your chest. You brush your fingers through his hair absently. He tells you quietly, “I love you. You and the children are the only things that have ever made me want to survive my own mind.”
You exhale softly through your nose, leaning down to kiss the top of his head again. He lets out a long, shaky sigh.
“Gods,” he whispers, pressing his face into your skin so that his voice is muffled. “It is infuriating how difficult you make it to remain miserable.”
“That is because you are not meant to remain miserable, dear husband.”
“Says who? I think the gods have been quite persistent in ensuring it.”
“Says me.”
Daeron laughs at that, smiling into your skin. “Well, who cares what the gods have to think when my wife says otherwise.”
“As all good men ought believe,” you agree solemnly, earning another laugh from him, this one softer and more genuine.
The silence is not quite so tense now. Daeron remains sprawled half atop you, listening to your heartbeat as though reassuring himself it is still there every few moments. Eventually, his breathing begins to slow enough that you think he may finally be drifting toward sleep despite his earlier fear of it.
Then, he says softly, “I am still afraid.”
Your hand stills briefly in his hair before resuming its slow strokes. “I know.”
“I do not want to close my eyes and see it again.”
You glance down at him. Daeron keeps his face tucked against you, but you can hear the exhaustion in his voice now beneath the lingering fear. He sounds wrung out completely, and you do not know what to say that will comfort him, so you resign to holding him.
Then, very softly, “Will you wake me if I start to dream?”
Your expression softens immediately. “Of course.”
“I love you,” he says again, kissing your collarbone. “I do not know what I would do without you.”
“You will never have to know,” you assure him quietly. “I promise.”
Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+.
Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!Reader
Masterlist
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Masterlist
General Synopsis: Lyonel is horrified to discover what conditions his new wife comes from, and you are just as horrified to learn that things are not practiced in the world as they are within your father's House. A good wife is obedient, by correcting hands if need be. That is the philosophy you have been raised on since birth. A lady obeys. A lady agrees. A lady endures. Lyonel does not want you to endure, but some habits are so much harder break. (slow burn)
Content Warnings: emotional abuse (parental), child abuse (punishment), psychological conditioning, trauma responses, arranged marriage, anxiety, mention of first time intercourse, slow burn, angst.
AN: This fic won the vote! I promise that this is not all doom and gloom, but the reader has a rough go of it at the beginning. Lyonel has my entire heart in this.
** = smut
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight**
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten**
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve**
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen**
Chapter Sixteen**
Chapter Seventeen**
imperfect writer @itstheimperfectwriter - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
