So this goes with a story I'm writing on my alt AO3 account. An old story that I wrote a while ago called Strangers in a Strange Land that I decided to re-write and it's going pretty good.
Clearly, I am currently experiencing a personal Daensa renaissance. And honestly, I haven't written this much in so long. It seems to be the thing that I needed to get my creative writing juices flowing again.
The story chronicles the harrowing journey of Sansa when she escapes during the Battle of Blackwater Bay through her brutal enslavement in the Free Cities of Essos, culminating in her desperate attempts to return home and the concurrent rise of Daenerys. The story interweaves Sansa's physical and emotional trials with the political and magical upheavals unfolding in Essos and Westeros.
This drawing was hugely inspired by 'Youth and Time' painted by John William Godward.
So a lot of people have theories that Varys is a Blackfyre, that Faegon is his nephew/cousin. And some people even think Tyrion could possibly be Aerys son.
But you know who has a silver/white streak in his hair in both show and books?
✧ | summary: Betrothed to prince Aerion, you have no taste for young princelings. With prince Maekar so nearby, you have one or two ideas in your mind to have your way... In the end, instead of a wife, Aerion ends up with a new mother. (based on THIS request!)
✧ | pairing: maekar 'the anvil' targaryen x reader.
✧ | tags: 18+, mdni, p in v sex, inappropriate relationship, age gap (reader is 19ish!!), oral sex, does this really count as cheating?? degradation, free use if you squint, headlock, freaky freaky use of “goodfather” (aka father-in-law), it is heavily implied reader is not a maiden and is a oldman lover…
✧ | note: hey... i know this took weeks to finish but i am very proud of it!! i know cyvasse wasn't a thing in westeros until 299ac but our reader knows how to play it... again, thank you to the lovely @faeryemperor for beta reading :-)
The trip to Summerhall was hell. Closer thing to hell you’ve ever experienced.
Casterly Rock was far enough that the whole trip was green trees, and playing with your puppy and asking your brother how much longer it would be.
“You’ll be meeting prince Aerion just to see if you fancy him,” your father had said, but you knew it was only an excuse to arrange a betrothal between you and him, whether you like it or not. You had heard your father talk about a wedding already, along with your brothers, which both Tybolt and Gerold agreed.
Your father was travelling later: first he would stop at King’s Landing, and then, conveniently come along with Prince Baelor after a week. You sometimes wondered if they thought you a lackwit, because the obviousness was something they had in abundance.
“If I marry Aerion, would we live in our own castle?” you ask, playing with the edge of the curtain from the wheelhouse. You could see Summerhall at the distance from here, you’d be there in less than half an hour.
“Prince Aerion” he corrects you, and then he answers “You’ll live at Summerhall, most likely”
“But Summerhall is Prince Maekar’s castle” You say to him. “I mean my own castle”
“Well, you’ll live there”
“And when Aerion’s father dies, Summerhall would go to him, right?”
“To prince Daeron” he reprimands you again “Address them properly or I shall make you.”
“Then I’ll marry prince Daeron,” you state, not caring about their plans for you. “He is unmarried as well, isn’t he?”
“You’ll marry prince Aerion.”
“I do not care about father’s plans for me. Or yours. Whose idea was it?”
“Gerold’s” Tybolt murmurs, looking through the window.
“Of course it was” you grumble. "I'm not a brooding mare for his political games, I'll have him know that."
Your scalp itches slightly, the hairstyle that the handmaiden had done was a bit too tight, and it seemed more like a towering braid more than a youthful style. You had ornate jewelry in your hair, and the necklace your brother made you wear was heavy, no doubt to make you more impressive.
“He had a good idea.” Tybolt says, “Prince Aerion is close to your age, it is a good match.”
“Prince Daeron is my age” You correct him. “Why don’t I marry him instead? Perhaps he’ll be the heir…”
“Because the offer was prince Aerion. Take it or marry an old lord.”
If old lords wouldn’t be so cruel, you’d marry one. You gave your first real kiss to one of your father’s friends, who was just widowed by his wife. Well, your first kiss was with a stable boy, and it was more than one, but it didn’t count, it was mere practice.
You remember playing coy, and then ending up sitting on his lap and kissing him. You were not a fool, you knew he could not bed you, but you didn’t care. You felt his lazy cock under your gown, and feigned innocence.
Arriving at Summerhall’s court was less appalling than you thought. Watching the windows on the Great Hall, painted with such precision and dedication, that the light coming from there, colours your feet and the end of your pretty red gown. It was quite modern, certainly not as old as your own home, but it was beautiful. You could certainly imagine yourself living here.
“I really like this castle,” you murmur to Tybolt.
“Do not mess this up, then, and you’ll live here with your husband the prince”
You squint up at him. “I won’t mess it up.”
As you walk in the long hall, you note lots of portraits hanging for anyone to see. The first one is of the Good King, next to his sister, Princess Daenerys. She had been married to the queen’s younger brother, shipped off to Dorne, away from rebellions and enjoying her water gardens. And the pale woman, wearing a hennin and pale colours, next to Daeron and sitting next to Daenerys is the late Queen Naerys.
The next portraits were no different, of King Daeron and Queen Myriah, the next one of the royal couple and his dragonlings. Then, prince Maekar with his brothers, Baelor Breakspear, Aerys, Rhaegel… and then him. He seemed too prideful and perhaps he was; you are yet to know him in some minutes. He looked handsome, strong and tall. You wonder if Aerion is anything like him, so you could have a feast with your eyes in your bedding, just as you are now with this portrait.
Soon, the intimate tone of Summerhall hangs onto you; it was no mystery that court was rarely held here, why no grand feasts or tourneys, this was a family home. Full of intimate portraits of the royal family, of Prince Maekar and his family, portraits of his wife and their children, all six of them.
“That’s Aerion” Tybolt points to the frowny kid next to his father. He was not as tall as the brownish haired one, yet he resembled his father very little. At least in his Targaryen features, because his face was practically a copy of the late Dyanna Dayne.
“He’s like his mother,” you whisper to Tybolt. “In anything but hair.”
“Well, hope and pray to the Mother that your babes look anything like you. He’s got more Dornish blood in him than Targaryen”
“Do you think we could buy a dress like the Queen’s?” You then ask him, as you point to Queen Myriah’s young portrait.
Tybolt slaps your hand and scolds you from your insolence, ashamed of you. “You insolent child, behave for once in your life and realise this isn’t about you.”
You look at the portrait of prince Maekar’s family, wandering from Prince Maekar to Aerion. You’re wrong brother, you think, this is all about me.
Prince Maekar greets your brother first, and you watch curiously at his tall form and stoic face. Your father spoke lots about prince Baelor, about the Good King, but never about the last offspring of king Daeron and his beloved Queen. You imagine all Targaryens to be handsome, and Maekar is a good looking man.
He looks somewhat stern, like a parent who never stops disciplining their kids. Perhaps he is, but you don’t know of such a thing yet. At the same time, he looks like he is one second from rolling his eyes and walking away.
“And this is my baby sister” Your brother presents you, and you look at him with your best charming smile. You had to stop yourself from biting your lip as you looked at his father, unimpressed.
“Aerion, boy, come at once.”
And there’s Aerion. He was not ugly, he was rather handsome. He dressed richly, all velvets and he looked his very best. He had rather silver gold hair, and you thought that perhaps your babies would have blonde hair.
“My sweet lady,” Aerion said, bowing to press a kiss on your hand, and you did a courtesy to him, with a most empty smile. “You are as beautiful as your portrait.”
“Thank you, my prince.”
“My father was right, he got me the most beautiful bride.”
“Did you not choose me yourself?” you ask, your tone sounding naive but you tried to get information from him.
“No, my father did. I asked him to choose the best beauty, and I would wed her.”
You look at prince Maekar with a bashful smile, because he was the one to choose you to be his son’s bride, and Aerion asked for the most beautiful. He’d marry a rock if his father deem it the most gorgeous, yet it was Maekar who thought you the best beauty.
“I’m glad I was the one chosen, then.”
You had high hopes for the match. The rumours of the prince being quite monstrous had not fallen on deaf ears, not on your part. But any boy like that was only one neglected of affections, and even if Aerion had a big loving family, he did not have a mother anymore. Perhaps it was a matter of spoiling him, making sure to complete his whims and assure him of loving yet empty words.
Aerion was very charming, when his father was present. He helped you get upstairs, holding your hand in a chivalrous way, helping you sit and even making a toast on your union.
“A toast for my bride to be,” he had said. “For the union of our houses.”
Your eyes were on prince Maekar, who seemed pleased by his son’s chivalry. His eyes were on yours, and you know when a man desires a woman. You were not an imbecile, as your brothers liked to tell you. You just knew how to play your cards.
“That's sweet of you, my prince,” you had said when he was seated back again by your side.
“Ah. yes,” he had said, as he picked up his wine.
“I hope we can have a pleasant marriage…” you start saying, full of bullshit but it was more like a diplomatic phrase.
Not that Aerion was ugly. He was handsome and fashionable, perhaps a bit too much. Still, when you marry him and become the wife of a prince, surely you can have more elaborate outfits. And he’ll be… like an accessory for you.
Prince Maekar drank by his son’s side, scolding Daeron from drinking the wine too quickly. Then, you felt motivated to say.
“I thank you, your highness,” you say, only to address him. Your tone was different, though, more interested in him, trying your best at playing subtle and seductive. “For welcoming my brother and I into your home. It is very beautiful.”
Maekar raised one eyebrow, as Aerion simply ignored the conversation. It isn’t like Maekar’s face was rid of the scowl, but at least he seems more interested in you than his son.
“It will be your home too” he says simply, as the servants place food on his plate before anyone else, “after you marry Aerion.”
You smile, and nod. “Thank you. I look forward to it.”
“Along with my daughters, Summerhall will be full of beauties once again.”
Aerion rolled his eyes, as he snapped his fingers to ask a servant to serve his plate after his father’s. It was a bit disappointing, that by comparison, he will be your husband, the one who would come into your rooms every night, get between your legs and fill you up with his seed.
The next few days, you spend time with his siblings, explore Summerhall, long halls and chambers, getting in every corner of it and later getting scolded by Tybolt for being improper, and you’d always end up in the gardens.
As you were bent over, trying to see the small bird nest under a shrub, where you could hear the loud chirps of the babies, you heard a small cough behind you.
As you moved back, you saw your soon-to-be Goodfather standing behind you, with crossed arms. Your cheeks get red, as you look at him with a shy glance, for meddling in his garden.
“My prince!” You say, standing up almost with a jump. “I… I was just- Apologies” you say, bowing slightly. “I was seeing a bird nest”
Maekar had seen the small lady around, wearing rich red with gold details and exploring his house as if it was an old relic that a Maester has fun with.
“Don’t bow,” he grumbles, his hands on his side rather awkwardly. “Come, walk with me.”
You walk along with him, as you try to appear more womanly. More mature, as if you did not care he asked that.
He pretends he does not notice.
“I have been meaning to speak with you,” he starts simply, walking ahead and you try to keep up with him.
“Oh, that’s sweet of you-” you say with a girlish smile, so he did think of you and wanted to speak with you!
“About Aerion.”
“Ah.”
The disappointed tone does not go unnoticed by him. He ignores it, and he keeps going: “I hoped that Daeron would marry first, but my brother set the match. It was I that chose you, but my brother’s idea.”
You try to think why he’s exactly telling you this. Why do you care that he wanted Daeron to marry first? But you nod, listening to him as if he was telling you something interesting.
“Aerion is still a boy,” his tone is plain, yet thoughtful. “He's a little younger than you. And I agreed with my brother that perhaps being wed would bring some… fucking sense to him, and more maturity, as the head of your household”
Yeah, he would absolutely be the head of the household…you think, rolling your eyes. Men and their foolishness.
“Absolutely, my prince,” you say, nodding along to his words. “I’ll do my very best to obey his decisions for our household.”
“I am to be your good-father. We’ll be family,” he says simply. “You can tell me the truth.”
“It is the truth.”
He didn’t buy a single fucking word.
“You seem like a nice lady. I see your wit, and I hope Aerion can appreciate it.”
“Thank you, my prince,” you say to him, softly. “May I call you father once I wed Aerion?”
The question surprises him, but he seems a bit unimpressed at the same time. “However you fancy.”
“And what does he fancy?” You ask, trying not to end the conversation with the lovely prince. Perhaps he is a grumpy old man, who curses for each word he says, but how lovely your good-father is.
“Well, he does like dragons. He likes sparring,” he starts listing things off. “He used to like fishing before his mother passed.”
“A shame I’m no Tully” you say with a soft tone, giggling.
“... Heh. Right” Perhaps it does not amuse him that much, but he seems pleased with you. “You’re quite the beauty, he will fancy you,” he explains, “he is a simple creature, as we all men are.”
At the compliment, you smile. And then – “Would he like Cyvasse?”
“What the fuck is Cyvasse?”
There you were, sitting with Aerion in the great Hall as you explained Cyvasse to him, to Maekar, and to Aegon. The three of them listened to your explanation, and then Aerion smiled at you.
“Oh, there is a Dragon?”
“Yes!” You say smiling to him. “This one” You say, extending your hand to pick his piece and giving it to him.
You look at prince Maekar, as if trying to prove how you were a great bride for his son, and how you will tame him, be gentle with him and loving, as a mother would be.
Yet when you were alone, sitting in one of the private court chambers, being chaperoned by Daeron, who was drunk in his seat and half dead, which did not really count as chaperoning, you tried to actually play cyvasse with Aerion, he showed his true nature.
He was a brat. And if you knew one thing, is that only one of you two could be a brat.
“You have to move something else than the dragon,” you grit your teeth at him, moving the Elephant. “My prince.”
“Shut up,” he murmurs, shushing you for the fifth time.
“I taught you all the pieces, do you need me to repeat? The Dragon is the easy choice…”
“I remember, I’m not a lackwit.”
“There are many other pieces to defend the King-”
“My grandsire is a dragon himself. You won’t tell a prince of the realm how to defend a Dragon King.”
You made a face, trying to ignore the ick growing inside your gut. He was so ridiculous, you soon realised, speaking of such nonsense that had nothing to do with him. Since when cyvasse is about King Daeron?
“That literally makes no sense,” you say to him. “Do you always speak such nonsense?”
“Shut. Up”
You are set to kill his fucking dragons every single time. You move the catapult to make sure he does anything else.
“You whore,” he murmurs as you have him surrounded by a catapult and a trebuchet.
“What did you call me?” You say, not allowing yourself to be insulted. “Learn how to play.”
“You are a fucking whore, do you know what I’ll do to you for killing my dragon?”
“Aerion Bratflame is what they should call you, you corrupt son of a bitch!”
Your brothers always scolded you for being a brat. They loved you, and no doubt they spoiled you. But even they had a line for patience for your antics. For speaking up, for demanding things and thinking yourself superior. You have received more scoldings and slaps in the wrists than most, but you always received double the gowns and gold accessories, plus with affections and praises, so it doesn’t really count.
And they will be really mad now, for ruining the political bond they tried so hard to gain. But with good reason, you think. If you are to get hit for fighting with your betrothed, let the reason be worth it.
You pull his hair as if he was a girl, you used to do so with one of your ladies-in-waiting when she spoke against your back, making her repeat herself if she dared to repeat ill words. And when she did, you pulled her hair hard enough as you scolded her.
Aerion is too caught off guard as you do so, and his long golden locks made it easier to pull off his scalp. Bet no knight did so in battle, pulling him by his silky soft hair, and as you slap him harshly, he catches you by the throat.
You do not recall if it is Aegon the one that finds you and alerts Maekar, or if Daeron woke up from his drunk slumber. You only remember having two guards, one holding him as he still held the end of your gown, ripping a chunk off. You are kicking like a mad kid, cursing at him for calling you a whore.
“You’re the fucking whore, you fucking empty headed silver cunt!” you scream off as the guard picks you up and walks away, and when you see Aerion being dragged away, you end up with one last word. “...Brat!”
Aerion had ripped your braids off their place and you remember kicking his ribs like a rabid cat. You had ripped his earring from his ear, destroying it, as he had left bruises on your throat and in your breasts, ripping your dress like a feral beast would. There were some scratches too, but they wouldn't last until the next morning.
“Are you stupid?” Your brother scolds you as the very kind maester tries to apply a cream on your breasts “Oh, I believe you are a lackwit now, truly, how dare you strike a prince?”
“He called me a whore,” you say to him, not backing down.
“You ripped his earlobe, do you know that?” Tybolt says, exasperated. He was never this upset, unknowing what to truly do at this. “It is lucky prince Maekar hasn’t had your hands cut off for slapping a royal prince.”
“He’ll be fine,” you murmured, as the maester’s hands were steady. It stings a little.
“We tried so hard to find you a fine match. No Lannister has married the royal house. Martells, Velaryons, Arryns, Dondarrions even. Blackwoods and Brackens have been mistresses, even a fucking Lyseni before us.”
You sigh, and you look at your hands. “Prince Aerion is a beast”
“That I know,” Tybolt says as he sighs. “Yet sometimes that is not what matters.”
“Are you seeing my breasts?! The beast scratched me! Over cyvasse!”
“I hate to give reason to Father, but if he had mauled you it is irrelevant here,” Tybolt says, having enough of your attitude. “Don’t you ever learn? Do you think everything is truly about you?”
You remain quiet, your head hanging low like a scolded puppy. You had messed it up, after promising that you wouldn’t, but in your opinion, Aerion was not worth the trouble.
“You’ll apologise to the prince, you hear?” He says, his tone stern. “Or I’ll marry you to the first commoner I find, and then we’ll see if you are so proud about it. I mean it. We have spoiled you far too long, and I can’t deal with you any more. What am I to do with you?”
The threat frightens you. You know he means it, and even if it is a decision at the moment, he could. And a nobody could be your husband because you struck Aerion.
So, you go to the prince to apologise.
Prince Maekar was on his study, and you meekly knocked on the door. He was seated by the window, his face formed in a scowl as he looked at the large gardens of Summerhall. Strange was to think that this was once a fortified castle, which now was more like a home for all dragonlings.
Your maid had undone your braids, brushed your hair gently and massaged your hair after prince Aerion had roughly pulled it. You had a sleeveless dress, the red material embroidered with deep yellow details, and it was one of the dresses you had planned for a garden tea with the prince.
He turns just to see who was intruding; it was that lady again. He sighs, a hand pressing against his forehead as he just seems tired, aging by each second that passes.
“I’m sorry for intruding” you start gently. “My brother has asked me to apologise to you”
What a lie but you don’t have to say that. Not your fault that Tybolt didn’t specify which prince you needed to apologise. You choose Maekar out of your whims, because if you don’t want the son, there is always the father…
“I do apologise, my prince. I am terribly sorry” you say, and you are not truly sorry. You are sorry that the consequences have come, but Aerion deserved it. He deserved a whooping in his royal arse, in your opinion.
“The maester had to stitch Aerion’s ear.” He says, his feet against the edge of the window, as he pushed himself into the chair. “He is a lot to handle now.”
You remain quiet. “I apologise… for that.” More sincere now, part of you was glad that he got his earlobe ripped in half, but you didn’t want to harm the prince. You weren’t cruel like him, wanting to truly harm him.
“Lots of apologies” he murmurs, bitterly. “My son says you attacked him for that fucking cyvasse game of yours”
“It wasn’t…!” You start to defend yourself loudly ,yet you bite your tongue. “It wasn’t like that” you say more quietly, a feel of shame to act like a child in front of him, all stern and scolding to you, even if you were not his daughter. What the fuck, it was making you wet.
“Is that so?” He retorts with little interest.
“I reminded him that there were more pieces other than the dragon,” you say, telling the truth. “That he had to protect his King too, and he spoke of… the Good King, and… about a Dragon prince, and when I took his dragon…”
Maekar loudly sighs at that, as if he knew what shit Aerion had pulled for that. He needed not to hear more. “You should have known how to handle him.”
“Well, you are right, he is a lot to handle” You say to him, anger at bay. Why was everyone mad at you about hitting a mad prince? He had it coming.
“He’s still my son” He reminds you sternly. “You may be all fucking pretty and a lady, but he is still my boy and the blood of the dragon”
“Well, your boy is corrupt and… and… and he hit me as well ”
He squints his eyes,in a grimace showing displeasure. He disapproves, you know, and he scrunches his nose. “You are just like him” He rolls his eyes. “To the doom of you both, you are already betrothed. You and I could save us some screaming from our eldest brothers, knowing this match is still on even if you murder my son. So I tell you once again, endure it”
It is as if everyone asks the impossible of you. You had not wed him yet, and he is atrocious already, not hesitating on hitting you as no prince should lay a finger on a lady. You wonder if he gets it from his great-grandsire, late King Aegon the Unworthy. That raw cruelness had not passed to the King, or the heir nor prince Maekar, but to the second son of his last grandchild.
Would your children get the madness too? Become a rake or a cruel man just because of their Targaryen blood?
“You expect me to endure this?” You ask, pulling your cleavage lower, as prince Maekar’s eyebrow shot up in quiet, subtle disbelief. Not surprised at the wounds, but at your boldness. “This is what he did to me, telling me that he will parade me naked on Summerhall so everyone could see the whore I am.”
Maekar sighs, one finger in the bridge of his nose. He doesn't answer at first, as if thinking his next words.
“Cover yourself” he mumbles. If you weren’t so attentive, you think he was dismissing you, but he was not. You could see his gaze on your breasts
“You cannot let him destroy me” you keep on pushing. “What of… what of our bedding? He’ll scratch me and hit me, bruise me all over… and I am a maiden, what if he does something too harshly so he bruises my womb and then we can’t have offspring?”
“That won’t happen” Maekar rolls his eyes, ladies and their imagination “Aerion knows how to treat and please a woman.”
“Does he, truly?”
“You’re exasperating,” he says in a scolding tone. “Of course he does. He is a prince of the realm, and I have taught him properly how to. I taught him myself.”
The thought of Maekar, your future good father, knows how to please a woman. If he had six children, you don’t doubt it. He doesn’t strike you as the type of man to force his bride, as other lordlings do. And with all the memories of his late wife, her paintings, still the decorations that would belong in starfall, you don’t doubt that his Lady Dyanna loved him. And how he pleased her.
“I beg of you” you say then, getting on your knees. “Do not let him have my maidenhead.”
What’s left of it, anyways. Not that you had ever been with another man, but your fingers did a good job. You could kiss all the men you wanted, but you knew that if you didn’t have your maidenhead, you won’t be as worth it.
“Please” you say “Make sure I am ready for him… You tell me to endure it, but I am not sure how to do so. So… Teach me.”
Prince Maekar was a widower. He had loved fiercely his late Lady, yet he was still a man, carnal and lustful. He had always been driven by lust, and it had its fruits, since he had six children. Even more if Dyanna hadn’t taken moon tea.
He has no wish to remarry yet… you are a happy, dirty little secret.
And you are no stupid girl. When he doesn’t pull you away, when he doesn’t speak of throwing you into the streets for debauchery, you move between his legs to nuzzle the bulge on his breeches. He was not fully hard yet, you knew that perhaps with age it took slightly longer.
Undoing his breeches has your mouth watering, and looking up you could see his surprised (yet, as always, unimpressed) look.
“Please?”
“What, do you want me to defilling your fucking throat as well?”
You bashfully nod, and he knows now that you are full of shit. Your weak moments are used to your advantage, taking him by his sympathy and old man feelings.
“Won’t Aerion…?”
“I don’t want to imagine” He groans, as his left hand comes to cradle the back of your head. “Go on.”
That little encouragement is enough for you to keep going. Your fingers work to undo the laces of his breeches, moving a bit too eagerly. Maekar isn’t pleased, at least that’s what you can see from his facial expressions, perhaps he thinks of you as indecorous, as damned goods. But he is not stopping you, not at all.
And that’s enough for you. It is a silent agreement, that perhaps he dares not to name. Yet it is a yes. And so, you go on.
Maekar’s dick is perhaps different from what you expected, or what you imagined as you eyed him from the other end of the table, eating alongside the beast of your betrothed. It was of a considerable size, yet much paler than you thought. It feels hard in your hand, the tip was red as you pressed a soft kiss there.
Watching the prince close his eyes and sigh, that same disappointed sigh you had heard so many times in your short stay in Summerhall. It was hot, in a way, knowing his sounds remained the same.
“Do not tease, girl” he says, slightly bitter, with no patience.
You suck his cock at your own rhythm, not so much to tease him, but so you can enjoy it too. It was slow, trying to get adjusted to the taste of him, of a very much real cock in your mouth. Maekar looks down at you, the sight alone could be enough for him to blow his load right then and there. Yet he is not a greenboy, and watching you little by little swallow more of his cock was more erotic than having you enthusiastically trying to gag yourself on it.
Strangely, you knew what you were doing. Perhaps too much. And he wasn’t a fool like Aerion would be, he notices that as his hand slightly guides you to take more and more of him, little by little.
“You’re good at this” he grunts, taking your pretty Lannister hair in his hands, all loose and without any overly complicated braids. “You just love fucking cock, hm?”
He feels your throat trying to accommodate his cock, the feeling of him in your mouth had you closing your eyes in delight at the feeling, as you felt a twitch of excitement in between your legs. You nod to his words, because having his cock in your mouth was the best thing that has happened to you since arriving at Summerhall.
You pull back as he makes you, mostly to let you breathe once again since you refused to stop. “Yes…” you murmur, looking up at him.
You were shameless, as you moved your mouth lower to show some of your love to his stones. It takes him by surprise feeling your mouth leaving open mouthed kisses upon his balls, filthy and wet as he lets out a moan.
“Fuckin’ hells…” he groans, watching you enthusiastically lick his balls.
A shiver runs over his spine, weakening his legs as his muscles relax over your ministrations. He had no idea how you knew that, and more so, how he was so surprised (and aroused) at the feeling of your wicked tongue on his stones.
He watches you, eyes closed in delight as you appear to have the best feast in all seven kingdoms. He would love to grab your hair, and simply fuck your pretty face, using your mouth as he pleases.
Yet he knew he was not going to last long, feeling his balls tightening up at your wicked attention. He was not so young anymore, and sure, he had energy, but years also took a toll on his body. Especially the late stress he had been feeling since becoming a widower.
“That’s enough” he says, pulling you away.
You seem disappointed, a bit dumbfounded at first as your lips form in a pout. “But…”
“Enough”
“But I want to make you finish”
“You’re a maiden” he reminds you, a bit stern in his tone.
“Yes” you say, yet he can’t tell if it is true or false. “But… but please, I want your cock so bad…” you whine “It is so tasty, let me have it again.”
“You’re…”
“Please”
Maekar is a weak, weak man.
He pulls you in his arms, not even bothering to kiss you as he simply hides his face in your chest. Gods, he adores a good pair of breasts, no matter how they were, he always found himself obsessed and latching onto them as if he was still a babe.
He is careful not to kiss too harshly, since you had scratches that his own son had made, yet he was still a man possessed by the lust, as he pulled the cleavage lower and lower, until he felt the fabric giving in.
“Such a needy slut with this pretty sweet body of yours” his tone is heated, as he turns you around to his will, not weightening anything to him. You suppose that the Anvil would not be anything but Strong.
You barely notice how he walks with you, practically dragging you and pushing you until you are against his desk.
“You’re trouble, I knew from the moment I saw you” Maekar says, his hands gripping against your waist as he accommodates to his whims. “I knew Aerion won’t know how to deal with you, only giving you a bloody lip each time” he positions you so your torso is against the wood. “He’s only a boy, but you need a firmer hand, don’t you?”
You understand what he means, Aerion wouldn’t know, but I would. That’s what he wants to say, yet he never verbalizes it. He doesn’t need to, because you know it.
“I do” your voice is almost breathless as you answer him. “I always have”
“You are a slut, hm?” He murmurs, yet his tone is not reproachive, it is almost fond. “You want to fuck your bethrothed’s father?”
You nod softly, feeling his hands moving under the skirts of your simple dress. Thank the Gods you were using one of those simple empire gowns, because if not, he would be fighting with layers and layers of clothing.
“Yes” you murmur, not feeling an ounce of shame. Not one, because you knew that he wanted it too.
“Can’t hear you.”
“Yes, my prince” you repeat a bit louder, rolling your eyes like when Gerold scolded you.
It should be humiliating, being a lady of your station being used by a prince of the realm like this. You knew that the royal family had enough of mistresses and bastards for a lifetime alone, so being under prince Maekar as he moves your skirts out of the way – it was pure desire.
You thought what would happen then. You’d love to be his wife, but how messy would it be. Would he even want that? Probably not. Perhaps you’ll marry Aerion, and perhaps he’ll send you both away after this. Perhaps he won’t.
“You feel that?” His cock is heavy against you from behind, as he places his hands on your hips to move you closer against his crotch.
“Yeah”
“You’re going to feel it all inside you” his tone was sultry, caressing the skin of your hips.
Your mind was absolutely blank, trying to ground yourself as you realised; you made it. You were actually going to fuck your betrothed’s father.
“So wet, darling…” Maekar murmurs more to himself, but you still hear it.
The feeling of his sticky head against your slit made you whimper softly, trying to have a hold of anything on his desk just to anchor yourself and not fall on your face. You feel him leaning closer his chest against your back, just to whisper something in your ear.
“You’ll remember this cock each time another man fucks you” his voice is raspy, yet somewhat soft as he pulls back to accommodate himself and push his dick inside you.
He feeds his cock little by little, groaning loudly at the feeling of your warm cunt. His hands grip your hips as you moan loudly at the welcomed intrusion.
“Fuck” you whimper loudly, feeling the girthy length make room inside you. You felt full, the feeling on your lower tummy overwhelming all of your other senses.
“You’re full of me” He groans, leaning back slightly to watch his cock nestled inside your cunt. “So full, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yesyesyes.”
It was obvious that prince Maekar was experienced, as he starts rocking his hips as his lust grows inside, the little restraint he had slipping away with each thrust. His hands grip your flesh hard enough that you wouldn’t be surprised that it would end up bruised. And you didn’t care.
You would have thought that Maekar would be absolutely silent while having intercouse, but surprisingly, he let out loud groans of delight or some grunts as he pounded you from behind. He is an avid lover in bed, that’s sure.
“Fuckin’ hell…” He groans, his balls slapping against your flesh as he moves you closer to his groin.
His thrusts were quick and hammering, pounding deep in you in a way you had never thought possible. It was intense, no doubt, having a girthy cock like his inside your cunt.
“Full of your goodfather,” he repeats, as if the mere thought simply made everything better. That fact turned you on, and to your surprise, also turned him on.
“Harder, harder” you beg of him, trying to maintain yourself stable under his harsh thrusts, and you wish for him to go on and on until you couldn’t breathe from the pleasure.
The obscene squelch that each of his thrusts made was only working to make you moan louder. His balls glistened, coating from your juices as he pumped on your cunt harder as requested. His cock was no different, and that thought made you moan out loud.
You feel one of his arms wrap around your neck, just to hold you still as he leans to speak to you. “Tight little cunt…” he manages to say in between thrusts. “Look at how you take it, made for this,” he grunts.
You had your mind blank, only feeling the pounding on your cervix as you would wish to ask him to fill you full of his seed. Yet you know that he won’t, because having a bastard would be his ruin… and yours. Still, that thought was enough to make you moan loudly before coming undone in his cock.
“Fuck, fuck, yes!” You moan, feeling drool fall from your mouth. This man was fucking you into patheticness and you did not care.
Maekar groans as he feels your pussy tightening around his cock, still thrusting and overstimulating you. He was all over you, his arm tightening around your neck, not enough to choke, but to help you feel his control over you. His hand gripped your shoulder, as the sounds he makes fall right into your ear serving to fuel the fire inside you. His chest was against your back, and you could even smell his aroma, feel his beard against your skin, the hairs around the base of his cock against your cunny… He was everywhere and you love it.
He takes no longer time to finish, yet against what you predicted, he does give you the pleasure of finishing inside you, burying himself balls deep. The pumps of his cock inside you as he cums makes you bite your lower lip, as he moans rather loudly for his stance. He leaves your insides full and sticky, perhaps too much, but again, he might not have had a proper release in years.
As the last ropes of cum came from his cock, he sighs back, as if the weight of it all came down to him. Yet he does not speak more about it, and you also don’t.
You wondered how to make prince Maekar come back to you. You decided, the very same night he fucked you, that you wanted him as your husband. Not Aerion, not Daeron. You wanted to have his babies, and perhaps if you married Aerion, they could pass as his. But you didn’t want his bastard, you wanted his legitimate babies, you wanted your offspring to call him father. You wanted to bounce on his dick every morning and get pounded from behind every night.
How… was the question that remained in your mind, even when the next morning, when you came to apologise from your unrestrained behaviour from the day before, as maidens were supposed to be pure until marriage, Prince Maekar took no mind in your words. As you were trying to get him to engage, to say something to your words so you could say “well, since you defiled me, you have to wed me” he simply took you in his bed, with no complaint from you.
And so you were wedded to him when his valet and maids found him eating your cunt.
Yet now, after your father and prince Baelor had arrived, the change of news had you smiling widely and being very welcoming to them both, as if you were already the Lady of Summerhall. You'll have to ask prince Baelor if you could be adressed as Princess (even if you had no grounds for that...)
As the announcement was made, Maekar had all of his Maekarlings lined up to welcome you as their future step-mother.
“I hope that we can set our differences aside” You say in a slightly mocking tone to Aerion, as you kiss both of his cheeks in a motherly way. You may never replace their mother, that much was true, yet you still hoped to care for all six of them... and maybe adding one or two children of your own to the family. “And perhaps even play cyvasse again.”
This is an experiment to see if there really are as few of us as people think.You can also use this to freak out your followers who think you’re 25 or something. Yay!
I disliked the scene between Tyrion and Sansa before he left Winterfell. So I changed it.
Sansa watched as the last two surviving dragons in the known world ascended into the sky, their ‘mother’ on one of their backs. Sansa was grateful Jon was not on the other, having decided to ride horseback with the men.
She had said her farewells to Jon. Again. Watching him for the second time ride out through Winterfell’s gates for the South. An awful sense of dread and anxiety was taking residence in her heart. More so than the first time he had left.
“My lady,” a familiar voice greeted her from a few feet away.
Sansa did not return the greeting. Instead she let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. She took in a fresh breath of winter air and tilted her chin up, eyes still cast on the sky. On the dragons.
Sansa noticed they did not fly with the same ease as they had when they first arrived in the Norths skies. They had both received some injuries during the battle, and were likely as exhausted as the men marching below them, still nursing their own wounds. And yet, just like the men, their ‘mother’ was pushing them to fly again before they were healed and ready.
For a woman who appeared to hold the beasts so close to her heart, enough to call them her children, she was not acting like a mother should. She was not acting in their best interests. She used them too liberally, put them at great risk of injury and death. If Daenerys kept acting so impulsively, she would lose her children to this war.
Cersei would be prepared for them as was seen at the Battle of the Gold Road with the Scorpion. She would have more, dozens, if not hundreds, at the ready on ships, on land on the walls of Kings Landing and the Red Keep. But Daenerys didn’t want to hear any of this, and so no one dared say what they were all thinking.
“’my lord’ is the standard response,” Tyrion provided as if Sansa had not been a master is courtesy since she was three.
“Why her?” she asked, eyes still trained on the dragons, once making a decisive close sweep near Winterfell. Sansa could see the silver hair of its rider.
“You know she loves your brother,” Tyrion told her.
That was not an answer to her question.
“That doesn’t mean she’ll make a good queen,” Sansa said to him. Still refusing to look his way.
“You seem determined to dislike her,” he said with a perplexed tone. Not understanding.
Why would he?
He took steps toward her. “A good relationship between the Iron Throne and the North has been the core of every peaceful, prosperous reign we’ve ever known—”
“Jon will be warden of the north, so a good relationship will seem likely,” she said in softer, more placating voice. If Jon was home, in Winterfell, with her, she didn’t care what the dragon queen did after she took Kings Landing.
“I—” Tyrion struggled. As if about to break some terrible news to her. “I don’t expect him to spend much time here going forward,”
“Well, I suppose that’s up to him.” She said quickly. “But what good is a warden of the north if he’s not in the North to warden it?”
Tyrion paused, she could feel his eyes on the side of her face, studying her.
“Sansa look at me,” her urged her gently, but firmly.
She couldn’t. If she looked at him he would see the tears in her eyes, the fear in their depths. But she did it anyway.
She tried to smooth her features, harden her eyes and slowly turned her head to look at him.
“With Jon in the capitol you’ll be the true power in the North.” He had no idea what those words would unleash, the offense they would cause. “I would feel much better about leaving here today if I knew you and Daenerys were allies!”
Sansa barred her teeth, snarling at Tyrion. “I don’t want to be the ‘true’ power in the North! I want my family to stay together!”
Tyrion was so stunned that he found himself taking a step back from her.
“It’s all I have wanted since the day Joffrey took my father's head. To be home, together with my brothers and my sister, and you and your queen want to separate us. Take Jon away!”
“Sansa—”
“Jon belongs in the North, with his people, with his family!” she spat. The feelings she had been keeping bottled up since Jon came home with their new queen finally bubbled over.
“I am not your sister, and I am not your queen or even Margaery.” She told him. “I don’t want power. I don’t care about control. I care about protecting my family and making sure we don’t repeat the same mistakes that almost destroyed us once.”
She jerked her chin toward the sky and the shrinking specks in the sky. “We are getting dangerously close to doing just that,”
Tyrion let out a soft sigh. “Sansa, this is not the same as when you left for Kings Landing. Daenerys is not Joffrey,”
“No?” she asked, brows raised in shock. “Because what I have seen of her, she is rash, impulsive, arrogant, and wildly ignorant. Traits your nephew possessed in abundance.”
Tyrion looked to begin a defense, but Sansa did not want to hear it, instead she dropped to her knees before him and took his hands in hers.
“When we married, after my mother and brother were murdered, you begged me to let you help me.” She reminded him. “And I asked you how you could possibly help me. Now I know now how you can help me.”
She squeezed his fingers. “Don’t take Jon from me. Don’t tear my family apart more than your family has already done,”
Shame and guilt furrowed his features.
"If he chooses to stay?" he asks her.
She shakes her head. She knows Jon. Knows his heart. Being South is not what he wants. The dragon queen is not what he wants.
"He wouldn't, unless you made him feel he had no choice. That we, his family, and the North were at risk, if he didn't stay--"
"He loves her,” Tyrion said as if it were the surest thing in the world.
Sansa frowned and shook her head again. "He has affection for her, but he does not love her enough to stay in the south for her and her alone. He doesn't love anything more than he loves the North."
“Are you so sure?” he asked, not entirely believing her.
“Yes,” with her whole heart, she knew Jon didn’t love Daenerys. Not the way he had made everyone believe he did. “Please, Tyrion, once the fighting is done, send him home to me. To our family, and I will be your queen's ally and loyal subject!”
Tyrion didn’t answer her, and something flashed in his eyes that made Sansa’s heart clench with that familiar dread. “Tell me, tell me if he wanted to come home, she would let him?”
“Of course she would,” there had been a second before his answer, a second of doubt, and it was all Sansa needed to hear.
Sansa dropped his hands and stood again. Her eyes were cold, knowing. “Just because I don’t want power, doesn’t mean I don’t have any. And I will use all the power I possess to bring Jon home. Do you understand me?”
“Sansa, you do not want to provoke her.” He warned, glancing down at the Unsullied marching out their gates.
“You’re scared of her,” it wasn’t a question. She could see it plain on his face.
He made a face, almost startled, as if he were realizing it for the first time himself. He tried to hide it, but it was too late.
“Every good ruler needs to inspire a bit of fear,” he explained—a weak excuse.
“You should fear a ruler’s justice, as your Jorah Mormont feared King Roberts, not the ruler as we did Joffrey.” She narrowed her eyes. “As you fear her.”
Tyrion looked away and shifted his weight between his feet. Uncomfortable.
“Perhaps you should think more about why you fear her,” Sansa suggested. “Then tell me again she’ll make a good queen,”
Sansa turned, looking back at the sky, and then at the army of tired, hungry, wounded men leaving her homeland. She pitied them. They had saved all of Westeros, and they hadn't even been allowed proper rest.
Part of me is like “neat. Reblog,” and part of me is like “I understand now why impressionism took off, because there’s a 0% chance the artist wasn’t like ‘fuck this shit’ by the halfway point.”
This fandom is so silly because: what does it mean that we have a noble house capable of dominating a land constantly involved in every war and tormented by every turmoil that afflicts the continent and with atavistic internal struggles so ancient that we cannot establish its origin, which can boast men like Black Fish so famous for military skills to have Jaime fucking Lannister, the youngest and most promising of the royal guards, in adoration and a temperament so proud and determined that Ned Stark was careful not to challenge one of them (yes, he was joking but there was a grain of truth) and the fandom sees it as a weak and uninteresting house because..their symbol is a fish?
Could GRRM strive to find a better animal? Maybe.
At the same time, is it worth it if I say that it is not just any fish but a TROUT, a fish famous for its ability to completely change its shape to adapt and thrive to all kinds of water, salty or not, and that it swims stubbornly against the terrible currents to achieve its goal? like...its cool but you guys would like it only if it was a shark or an orca.
Everyone, needs to mentally prepare themselves for this one. And I mean, get your comfort blanket, stuffy. A hard drink if you need it. Whatever you've got to do because this is traumatic as hell.
Just brilliant writing that will leave you feeling so shattered.
