✧ author’s note: this is mainly a blog where i repost things i’m hyperfixated on almost every month. currently obsessed with: a knight of the seven kingdoms!!
✧ get to know me: hellooo i’m xóchitl (xóch), i am a bisexual mexican woc and a huge multifandom obsessionist + history buff + i love dilfs. i have a thing for the color red/black, love shimmery eyeshadow and dark lipstick. horribly addicted to coffee, staying up, and binge watching the same shows. i’m also an artist and an editor, i mostly sketch/edit the characters i like. don’t be shy if you wanna talk or become friends! my dms/asks r always open ! 🫶🏽
✧ requests: OPEN. shoot me an ask! totally okay if you wanna be an anon ;;
✧ warnings: please be aware that some works will be nsfw, meaning 18+, minors dni ! there will be some dark works as well
blurb description: 𓂃 ໒꒱ you can’t take it any longer but baelor insists that you can.
pairing: 𓂃 ໒꒱ baelor targaryen x fem!reader
content: 𓂃 ໒꒱ explicit sexual content, dom!baelor, overstimulation.
Baelor has you pinned beneath him. Not gently, not harshly either, just completely certain about where you are and where you’re not going. There’s no hesitation in the way he holds you there, like he’s already decided you’re not slipping out of his hold until he allows it.
“Why are you making so much noise?” he says, like he’s genuinely curious, even though you both know exactly why. His hand is on your face, holding you there so you’ll look at him properly, making sure your attention doesn’t drift anywhere else.
You try to answer him but it doesn’t come out right. It never does when he’s like this. Your breathing is uneven, your thoughts catching on themselves, your hands clutching at him because there isn’t really anything else to hold onto. The rest of the world feels distant, unimportant, like it’s been pushed out of the room entirely.
“Baelor…” you manage, but it’s wrecked, barely a word, your voice breaking as you try to keep yourself steady under him, trying to keep yourself from not cumming then and there from how overwhelming his pace was as he thrusted into you.
He tilts his head a little, watching you like you're something he's trying to figure out, a breathless chuckle, as he looks down at where he enters then a few moments later, he looks back up to your eyes. "There it is," he says. "That's all you've got left, hm?"
Your grip tightens on his bicep without meaning to.
You're frustrated, overwhelmed, and he knows it.
He always knows it before you do, always knows when you’re about to cum all over his cock like a good girl.
His thumb moves once over your cheek, slower now, like he’s grounding you whether you want it or not. Not letting you drift too far from him, not letting you disappear into it.
“Stop fighting it,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
You shake your head slightly, like that helps you stay in control of anything. It doesn’t. Nothing about you feels in control right now, and that only makes it worse.
“Baelor,” you breathe, sharper this time, like you’re trying to pull him back to you even though he hasn’t gone anywhere.
“What?” He asks, like he’s not the one holding you together, making sure you can hold on for a bit longer.
“I can’t—” you start, but it falls apart halfway through as he thrusted with more force than before, kissing your neck so sweetly in the process, as you let out pretty sounds for him.
“Yes, you can,” he says breathlessly, and he lifts his head up from your neck to look at you properly, and you looked just as beautiful, a moaning beauty.
“You’re my good girl aren’t you?” His gaze doesn’t leave you, but Baelor won’t be cruel for so long. After all he was a kind man, but not so much in bed.
Baelor’s hand is gliding down the length of your back, the sheen of sweat that coats your skin makes the slide easy as his fingers descend to wrap around your nape.
He has you face down in the clumped, silken sheets of your bedding, curved into a deep arch with your backside high, wrists bound behind your back with a satin ribbon, and knees spread far apart enough for him to kneel between them.
The weight of his balls hits your clit with every hard, unyielding smack of his damp hips meeting your equally wet flesh; a combination of his arousal, your slick, his saliva, and the sweat that had dripped down your bodies reverberates obscenely in the chamber.
The most depraved part had not been the way he forced you to spread your slit apart for him to lap languidly at you, it was the large mirror he had propped up in front of the bed and had, at the very start, ordered you to maintain his gaze through.
Of course, you had obliged, but soon enough you were struggling to keep your drooping eyelids up, let alone unblurry and focused on his reflection.
Baelor tilts his head, “My sweet girl,” he’s cooing–a drawl that enters your ears and leaves a syrupy trail as it slinks down the length of your body to settle in the heated pit of your lower abdomen, “Gods, you’re dripping.”
A loud whine escapes your throat and, as though spellbound, you’re hypnotized by the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you only to reappear even more soaked than it was before.
“Good girl, so good,” he’s always been generous when it came to offering praise, however, this time there’s a sharper edge that accompanies every sweet word he bites out.
“So good,” is followed by a raspy, “so eager, my lovely girl.”
Mewls fill the room when his pace slows, the hair across his chest tickling your damp spine when he lowers to nibble on the plump flesh of your ear.
“Look at yourself,” Baelor practically purrs, the hand he had wrapped around your nape moving to hold your jaw, the tips of his fingers creating harsh indents in the plush of your cheeks, “soaking an old man’s cock.”
Immediately, a bolt of arousal shoots up your spine; your walls tighten around him until he can no longer leave your passage as your release engulfs every inch of your being, sending another flood of slick that smears between your bodies.
There’s a knowing glint in his eyes as he pauses to loom over your spasming form, caging you in the sweltering temperature of his body and the shrouded depth of his gaze.
Baelor had not meant to intrude on the private conversation you were having with your maid when he had entered the adjoining room of your shared quarters.
You were immersed in the discussion, the unusually hushed tone in which you spoke arousing his curiosity, beckoning him nearer to the door.
“The prince is kind, is he not?”
“Yes–oh, yes, of course,” you hurried to confirm, sounding guilt-ridden.
“Then, I don’t understand, princess.”
You remained quiet; for a long moment, the repetitive movement of a brush combing through hair was the only sound that filled the chamber.
Then, finally, you confessed, “I only wish that he would not be so kind in our marital bed.”
A beat of silence.
“Well,” your maid’s voice was low, “his grace is not as young as he once was.”
“I did not–,” you sob through gritted teeth, only to be cut off by the piercing movement of his cock pulling entirely out before it slammed back in, all the way to the hilt.
“Does this old man’s cock not please you?”
His hips are moving in slow, circular motions, it has him reaching a deeper depth–one that has your unrestrained keening bouncing off the stone walls.
“Baelor,” his name leaves your mouth like a plea. He ignores it, along with the sputtering attempts you make to explain yourself.
His arm slides around your waist to hold your back firmly against his torso just as the hand on your jaw tightens, and then, he’s hoisting you up.
From this angle, you can see everything.
The way your mouth hangs open and eyes roll back as he lifts you until you’re, quite literally, speared on his cock, how the lines between his brows deepen as he remains transfixed on your expression, to the lewd way your swollen folds hug his girth.
As though he were in a trance, his hold and pace becomes even less forgiving when your head lolls forward and another release plagues your body.
“Perhaps, I will keep you bound and spread for my pleasure,” Baelor’s nips along your shoulders are sharp, courtesy of his canines.
“Please, I did not–,” the explanation is smothered by a guttural moan, which is followed by a mantra of yeses and a repetition of pleas.
From the slits of your eyes, you can see that his pupils are blown, swallowing the entirety of the blue and brown that resides alongside it, giving him the appearance of a ravenous beast in the midst of a long-awaited feast.
Until, finally, he’s releasing inside of you.
With a shuddering breath, you feel the hot spurts of his seed fill you, continuing even as it drips down to pool in the bedding below.
Baelor immediately loosens the restraints around your wrists once he’s caught his breath, gentle hands moving you onto your back as he presses an apologetic kiss to your forehead.
“Are you in pain?” he asks quietly, shoulders tense with concern.
Your head shakes to assure him that you’re fine but your eyes are glossy and you’re unable to meet his gaze; Baelor realizes with a ragged exhale that he may have crossed a threshold you had not been prepared to venture past.
In your dazed state you do not notice that he leaves before the bed is dipping with his return, a tray of fruit having suddenly appeared beside your head.
Baelor cleans between your thighs with the damp cloth that he had also retrieved, removing all traces of your shared fluids before he reaches for another cloth that he uses to wipe the accumulated perspiration from your body.
“Forgive me,” Baelor murmurs, eyes downcast as his fingers lightly brush over the areas he had unintentionally dug his fingers into to maintain his hold on your slippery form.
Your mouth instinctively opens when he holds a berry to your lips, chewing slowly when your jaw clicks, throbbing from the bruising force he had grasped it with.
“Mm,” you hum after a moment, turning to lay on your side.
“I’m sorry, sweetling.”
Once he finishes, he feeds you until you confess you’re full, then slides his hands around your torso, trapping your limp arms between your bodies.
“Forgive me, sweet girl, I do not know what came over me,” he sounds painfully remorseful, mortified of his behaviour despite the look of satiated bliss on your face.
“There may be a way you can make it up to me,” the words are muffled against his chest, a teasing lilt following them.
“Anything you want–absolutely anything, my dear,” is Baelor’s eager response, “consider it already done.”
SUMMARY: You are not adjusting well to Westeros. Luckily, your husband is patient and kind and gentle. Unluckily, all of the other ladies in the Realm are aware of this as well. There are certain difficulties being married to Westeros’s most yearned-for prince, and after one miserable feast too many, everything you have been so desperately trying to quietly endure comes crashing down once you get your husband alone.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, reader is foreign (from Qarth), Westeros-typical xenophobia, starts with reader being jealous but escalates into a whole breakdown of her not feeling welcome in westeros, Valarr is also jealous/possessive at certain points.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I genuinely am not sure where this came from, I don’t even remember writing most of it last night LOLLL I think I woke up from a fever dream at 4 am and banged most of this out, no joke. BUT sometimes a girl just needs to have a very, very justified crashout with a husband who will listen and comfort </3 Valarr I love you euhuhuhuhu Also, got to explore some Westeros-typical xenophobia, which we will see more of in the HTTYD universe after Volantene reader comes to Westeros w/Aerion—but specifically, how bad it likely gets post-Dornish unification when the Storm lords and Reach lords are already losing their mind over Dornish influence in court, and now also having to deal with some foreign Essosi girls being married to their princes. No Kiera erasure here :P Kiera still comes to Westeros, but to marry Matarys, and her and reader become very very close companions. Anyway, enjoy, and ignore any errors I didn't edit LOL! Comments and reblogs v appreciated
“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”
You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?
The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”
You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there.
You bristle instantly.
“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”
“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”
You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”
My love.
His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?
“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”
Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him.
“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”
You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.
“You should know already,” you hiss.
“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”
You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away.
You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react.
They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—
—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband.
Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.
A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.
It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.
“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”
Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.
“The Lannister girl?”
You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”
To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.
You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”
Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.
You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.
The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently.
“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”
“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”
You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.
“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”
“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”
You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.
He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache.
“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”
“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.
“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”
You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.
Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut.
“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”
“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.
“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”
You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn.
“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”
“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”
The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?
Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall.
“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”
“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”
“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”
“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”
Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”
“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”
“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair.
“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”
Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”
“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”
Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.
His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.
“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.
You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours.
“It does not matter.”
“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”
You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood.
“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.
“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”
You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not.
Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”
“No one.”
“Who has frightened you, then?”
You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”
Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.”
His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.
You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.
“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”
“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.
“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”
“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.
“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”
“I did not know that,” you whisper.
“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”
“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.
“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”
Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”
“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”
This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.
“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.
“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.
A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.
“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”
Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”
Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”
You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”
“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”
You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.
The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.
Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.
“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”
You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?”
Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”
“Do not mock me,” you mutter.
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“You are failing.”
“Terribly,” he admits.
You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.
“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”
“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”
Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.
“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.
You blink. “Well, yes.”
You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.
“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”
Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”
“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”
You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”
“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?”
You eye him warily. “What?”
“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”
Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.
“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.”
Something in your chest twists painfully.
“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.
“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”
“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”
“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.”
“You are insufferable, is what you are.”
He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”
“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.
“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.
You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.
You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”
He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”
“I will poison you if you do.”
His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”
You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.
Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.
“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.
Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”
“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”
You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.
“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”
“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.
Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”
“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”
“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”
Your chest aches. Loathsome man.
“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already.
“And I you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Sleep, ñuha jorrāelagon. No one shall ever touch you while I draw breath.”
Thou art Morgan Le Fay, sister to King Arthur, apprentice and student to Merlin the Enchanter... for now.
A great destiny steeped in magic and mystery has been foretold to you, and the unnatural forces of this ancient world are guiding you towards it, whether or not you are willing. Having escaped heartache and woe, you are currently at liberty to enjoy a merry life at the court of Camelot, surrounded by kin and comrades. Raise Ywain, your little son, learn from your ever-disgruntled warlock mentor, go on fantastical quests and romance the knights of the Round Table, or someone else entirely!
Customize your Lady Morgan's name and appearance, study rituals, raise your skill in different domains of sorcery (warcasting, trickery, divination and more), shape your relationship with your child and much more in this text-based fantasy interactive fiction based around Arthurian legend.
View Morgan's family tree.
Love interests (see their links for appearances):
Merlin (m). He's old, prickly, sometimes mean... but less so to you than others, which is gratifying. His study is your sanctuary, his wit your sparring partner. You suspect your tutor is hiding a great many things from you, so pursuing him could be a bad idea. But perhaps you cannot resist an attempt to wiggle your way into his affections.
Sir Kay (m). King Arthur's foster-brother and seneschal of his lands. A behemoth of a man; tall, wide, thickly muscled. He's a brute, but he's carried a torch for you ever since you met him. Whether or not you entertain his affections is of course up to you, but the decision might be easier if only he stopped being so cruel to some of the aspiring knights who should be his protégés.
Sir Gawain (m). The bastard brother to King Lot, who's your sister Morgause's husband... small world. He is Sir Kay's best friend, though the two could not be more different. Fair Gawain is charitable, popular with the men at arms and so charming that he's widely known as the Maidens' Knight. Not that he is without his shortcomings; you would know, given he has somehow become a dear protector and confidant. Perhaps you still want him.
Sir Galahad (m/f*). An upstart knight from a backwards province, he should be fated to obscurity, but possesses strange talents and seems to carry a touch of the divine. Sir Lancelot brought him to court, so impressed was he with the young lad. Maybe you knew him long before he was presented to the Round Table, though. Maybe you've seen him in your dreams. If only Galahad, put off by your witchcraft, didn't hate you to the point of obsession...
Guenevere (f), the golden Queen of Camelot. Your brother's wife. She's the most beautiful woman in Albion, and the most talkative, and perhaps, paradoxically, the loneliest. She desperately wishes for your approval, but with the way she acts sometimes, it's hard not to wonder what else she might be wishing for.
Ninianne (f). The Lady of the Lake, ancient and most powerful fairy in all of Albion. She is the mother of Sir Lancelot, has tested your brother's might and appears to share a complicated history with Merlin. She's a mystery and seems to know much more about you than you can be entirely comfortable with.
Friends and family:
Ywain (m). The son you had by the husband you hated. Ultimately, your relationship with the child is up to you, but as he matures, one thing becomes certain: Ywain is nothing like his father. He's his own beast, strange and emotional, diligent and good.
King Arthur (m). Your half-brother who is five years younger than you. He found you, rescued you and now loves you as though you'd known each other your whole lives. He dotes on your son, aiming to provide you both with the best possible life and asking for naught but fealty in return. He's a sanguine, adventurous and chivalrous young man who was pushed in the role of regent extremely early in life, but is bearing up under the expectations.
Blanchefleur de Beaurepaire (f). Your best friend and penpal with whom you entertain a teasing mentorship. When first you meet, she's but a young girl, but already whip-smart, sharp-tongued and too persuasive by half. Over the course of your acquaintance, she has grown into the epitomy of grace and confidence. She still looks up to you.
Sir Perceval (m). The youngest man to ever be knighted at the court of Camelot and easily the weirdest. He's his own brand of innocent; blunt, cheerful and with the attention span of the average housefly. He is Ywain's favorite playmate.
Queen Morgause of Orkney (f). Your eldest sister. You haven't seen her since she married King Lot. You know that she's had two sons by him, but that's about it. Something about her is different, not at all as you remember... but then again, it's been such a long time.
Queen Elaine of Garlot (f). Your middle sister. Much like Morgause, you lost sight of her after her own marriage to King Nentres. She's passionate, wistful and a hopeless romantic. She seems hopeful that your sisterly relationship can be rekindled.
Setting: this is not a precise retelling of any particular Arthurian cycle and lots of liberties were taken with the characters. Albion is a highly fictionalized version of/inspired by 12th-13th century England and Brittany.
*literally. This character's gender identity is complex and ambiguous and will be explored in the story. Please be kind and don't send asks pressing me to put specific labels on Galahad. Outside of the game itself, he/him will be used for this character.
dividers by @/pixopix; artwork is a commission by the wonderful @/theoasiswinds and the blog's header image is an illustration by Mary MacGregor from her 1907 book "Stories of King Arthur's Knights".
curtsying and humbly presenting this to @interact-if
virgin dex who’s also the best sex you’ve ever had?
The Best You’ve Ever Had
TW virgin!Dex, size kink (?), obsessive jealousy, possessive/territorial!dex, Dex is a little pathetic in this one, switch!Dex, murdering your exes, interrogation, implied torture of your exes, explicit sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual) (lmk if I missed anything)
WC 1.2k
Dex, who admits he’s a virgin at the worst possible moment.
He doesn’t admit it the first time you kiss him. He doesn’t admit it when you guide his shaking hands against your thighs. No, Dex admits it when you’re already on top of him, when he’s already inside you, when his face is flushed against your skin and his body is trembling under yours.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, eyes going wide with panic as he tries not to orgasm too soon. “I’m sorry, I don’t— I don’t know what I’m doing.”
And fuck, he really doesn’t.
You didn’t know for sure, but you did have a feeling that this was the case. He’s so sloppy, so eager, so desperate to be good fuck for you that he keeps losing the rhythm every time you moan. Every time you roll your hips just right, his eyes go glassy.
You just smile and kiss him and say, “It’s okay, baby,” as you groan while being stretched out, “You have— ahh— n-nothing to worry about.”
And he doesn’t! After all, you continue to fuck him even months later. You even make him your boyfriend, and Dex doesn’t even have to beg like he originally planned to.
Sometimes, though, he spirals so badly during sex that you have to stop.
“Dex,” you whisper, taking his face in both hands when you notice his eyes are unfocused. “Baby, are you with me?”
He blinks up at you, dazed and ruined, his hands locked around your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear.
“Who taught you that?”
Your breath hitched. “What?”
“That,” he says, voice raw. “The way you move your hands. The way you— fuck. Who taught you how to make me feel that good?”
Poor jealous, pathetic Dex.
You don’t answer him. You never gave him a name, never soothe him with details, never say it didn’t matter. You only kiss him until he stops asking, which of course means he has to find out for himself.
Dex, who stays late to research your past.
Dex builds a timeline. Dex finds addresses. Dex memorises faces.
And then Dex goes to work.
He knocks your exes out, ties them to a chair, and sits across from them in some dark room, gun resting loose in his hand as if this isn’t personal.
“What did she like?”
They always thought he meant in your day-to-day life at first. “She liked— she liked coffee, I don’t—”
Dex would tilt his head, and sigh. “In bed.”
Sometimes they cry.
Dex hates that. Crying wastes time.
“What did you do in bed that she liked?” He rolls his eyes, already irritated.
Dex wouldn’t need to shout. Dex is patient.
One of them says he remembers you liked being handcuffed.
Dex goes still, visibly enraged.
Yes, he asked for the info, but now he was seeing it. He’s imagining you in bed, trusting this stupid man with restraints, and it hits him so hard his vision narrows. Eventually, at the end of the night, he pulls the trigger.
He buys handcuffs on the way home. The first time he uses it on you, you squirm and whine. Music to Dex’s ears.
Another ex says he remembers you like blindfolds.
Dex has to look away for a second, breathing through his nose, because the image of you blindfolded for this man makes his blood boil.
He slits his throat and buys one anyway. When he uses it on you, he’s pleased with the mess you made.
Another one says you like shower sex.
When Dex comes home that night, he's determined to test the theory of the man he just killed. You could barely get his name out before he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you into the bathroom.
He was right, Dex thinks an hour later, as he wraps a towel over you in the over-steamed shower, watching your legs wobble a little, you do like shower sex.
And then there’s the other question, the one right before he kills them. The one that proves Dex has gone fully insane.
He would crouch in front of them and ask, “How big are you?”
Imagine that from your exes’ point of view.
Bullseye has a gun between your eyes. Point blank. He’s standing there with that dead calm on his face, head tilted slightly, like this is a work meeting and not the last conversation of your life.
The man tied to the chair stares at him like he has misheard him.
Dex presses the barrel in a little closer.
“Show me with your hand.”
Fuck. Imagine having Bullseye standing over you, asking for your dick size because once, years ago, you fucked his girl before she was his girl.
The man’s hand comes up, trembling, thumb and forefinger spreading in the air.
Dex looks at it, then his eyes go cold.
“Don’t lie,” he rolls his eyes. “I’ll know.”
And no, Dex will never actually know.
It’s an empty threat. He would rather gouge his own eyes out than make them prove it. They were disgusting to him by default, because they were not him.
One ex actually started to desperately shift his tied hands to his zipper like he was actually going to show him.
Dex shot his foot.
“Ugh,” he scoffs. “No.”
That was not the point.
The point was that Dex knew men exaggerated. He knew the first measurement was ego, not truth.
So he waited and watched the answer get smaller.
Dex smiles to himself then, like the fucking psychopath he is.
Because he remembers the first time you sank down on him, breathless and squirming, nails digging into his shoulders, so pretty when you whispered, “Baby, wait— slow down, I need to adjust— ah, Dex, you’re s-so much bigger than I’m used to.”
He had believed you then because he wanted to.
Because he needed to.
Because he was a virgin and pathetic and so in love with you that one little sentence from your mouth could rearrange his entire brain chemistry.
But now, he knows for sure you were telling the truth. He knows he is the biggest you ever had. He knows he was not just your sweet, nervous, pathetic virgin boyfriend that needed to be comforted by white lies. He knows you were not being kind.
You were being honest.
And boy, does it make him unbearable.
After all, his little extracurricular activities did wonders for his confidence!
He stops touching you like he’s asking permission to exist inside your body and starts touching you like he finally believes he belongs there. He's still needy, still pathetic in the sweetest way, but now there’s this ego in the way he pins your hips down.
He gets meaner about it, too, smug enough to murmur, “Too much?” with his mouth against your throat with a smile. “Need me to slow down, baby?”
And you smack at his chest for being arrogant, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.
Because he’s your Dex.
Dex, who got there last and made himself the only one that counted.
Dex, who can hold a gun to a man’s face and ask the most humiliating question imaginable.
Dex, your pretty little psychopath.
Dex, who comes home and melts the second you kiss him, because all that proof, all that blood still means nothing compared to you cupping his face and whispering, “You’re the best I’ve ever had.”
Because he’s attentive. Because he cares more about your pleasure than his own. Because he worships you.
And Dex believes you now.
—
Note : I will be responding to comments and more kind asks tomorrow. Love you guys, mwah 😘
Just wanted to say how much I appreciate you feeding us delicious stories I really admire your writing and the way you capture every character.
I might have a little something to ask if you’re up for it.
My birthday is tomorrow and I’d like (if you can of course) write something about birthdays or something like that (I trust your brilliant mind) I have an unhealthy obsession for Maekar so if you could please even write a Drabble .
If not then just ignore it (I feel so embarrassed to ask even🙈🙈😩)
THE NAMEDAY—Maekar Targaryen
Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
content: It’s Maekar’s nameday and you have just the gift for him.
words: 1.2k
cw: MDNI 18+ p in v, f!masturbation, riding, breeding, porn with no plot, not proofread, lmk if I missed any
a/n: happy birthday, anon!! I hope this was what you wanted and that you have an amazing day!! <3
Maekar never wanted his nameday to be a big deal in the slightest, to which you were more than okay with. Before you had children you would spend the day locked in your chambers doing what every marital couple did.
Though you did only get to spend one name day like that, as the aftermath led to Daeron.
After that you spent your days with your children, often having a new one by the time the next one rolled around. Though every year when you questioned him about what he wanted for a gift he never did quite give you an answer.
You typically gifted him something he could use. New clothing, scabbards, weapons, or with input from the children in what they wanted to give their father.
This year you took matters into your own hands.
“When you said you had a gift this was not what I was expecting,” he stated, the door shutting behind him quickly, barring it to prevent anyone from disturbing the pair of you.
You sat up slightly, wearing nothing except the grin that filled your face, “Yes it was,” you argued. The sheet that had been pulled over your chest to cover your chest slipping down to lay in your lap.
He shook his head as he began to unbutton his doublet. You made a hum on approval which caused his fingers to work faster, but not fast enough in your own opinion.
“If you take any longer husband I will have to get myself started.” You pushed the covers away fully exposing yourself causing the man’s cock to harden even further, as your legs spread presenting the glory that he was eager to be inside.
“You are a vixen,” he muttered, tossing his boot halfway across the room, hitting something, but neither of you seemed to truly care.
“You loved that about me,” you countered, your fingers trailing your belly before dipping in between your folds. You let out that sound you knew drove him wild as your fingers gathered your slickness circling your clit slowly.
“Wait for me!” your husband hissed continuing to try and undress himself, but you ignored him.
“Be faster,” you moaned, your head dipping back as you played with your cunt.
“Sevens fucks,” he muttered, stumbling slightly over his pants and breeches as he kicked both to the floor before finally having freed himself from his clothes. He moved quickly crawling up the bed until he was over you.
He snatched your hand out from in between your legs holding in between the pair of you as he trapped you in between his muscular thighs on either side of your hips. “I told you to wait,” he told you.
You only grinned up at him. He shook his head before opening his mouth and pulling your hand into the warmth, “This tastes better than any sweets could,” he told you, his tongue moving around your fingers cleaning them fully.
Once he deemed he was done he grabbed your arm leading it above your head before he did the same to the other, wrapping his left hand around your wrists as he stroked himself with his right.
“I told you to wait, and now you are going to pay the consequences.”
You rolled your eyes, and opened your mouth to retort, but instead he leaned down pressing his mouth to yours. He used your surprise to his advantage, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You moaned slightly as you could taste yourself on him.
Maekar pulled away so he could look at your face. He watched your face contort as he slipped himself into your drooling hole with one thrust. You tried to fight against him to free your hands, but he was stronger, holding both down with ease.
“Maekar,” you whined, wanting to run your hand down the muscles of his back.
He didn’t reply, only beginning to move his hips against yours. He withdrew himself only completely, before slamming down into you harshing causing your eyes to roll back, “No insolent remark now, dear wife?” he asked, fucking into you brutally continuously.
You tried to form a coherent remark, you tried to say something that would cause him to roll his eyes or perhaps even deliver a smack across your ass, but you were so full of your husband you could not truly think of anything but him.
Him and his cock that was currently fucking you so deliciously you were sure that you could have finished just from this alone, but you knew he would not allow you to get off that easy for disobeying him.
The wet sound of him fucking in and out of your cunt paired with the noise of his flesh slapping against yours. He finally freed your hand, but you hardly had any time to acknowledge the fact before he was flipping the pair of you over without ever withdrawing himself.
You now sat above him, stilling for only a moment before you took over grinding your hips down against his. He leaned back with a pleased smirk on his lips, his arms moved behind his head as you watched his biceps flex, “Give me my gift, jorrāeliarzy ñuha.”
Your hands braced themself against the faded scars of his chest, your nails digging crescents into his pale skin. ‘You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he told you.
You knew exactly what he meant. Wrecked. Your hair no doubt disheveled your eyes almost fully blown as you used his cock to chase your release.
You dug your nails further into him response causing him to hiss slightly, but he still did not move his hands from behind his head as he watched you fuck yourself down onto him.
“You’re close.”
It wasn’t a question, but a mere observation. He knew you. He knew your body better than he did his own, and could no doubt map it out with his eyes closed if he ever needed too.
You only nodded in response, moving your hips quicker, your clit rubbing against the hair at the base of his cock. Your head tilted back slightly as you coil felt the coil in your belly almost ready to snap, your thighs shaking slightly on either side of his hips.
“My pretty wife is going to cum all over my cock. Such a great nameday gift,” he cooed, his voice half mocking, but you hardly cared.
“Oh, Maekar,” you cried, as you finally felt your orgasm wash over you.
Your entire body felt boneless, as the white hot feeling of relief filled your body to the brim, your vision going blurry. Your husband immediately shot forward from his laxed position, his arms wrapping around your back holding you to him.
He took over, letting you go limp against him as he fucked up into you through your high until you felt his cock twitch inside you moments later filling you with his seed for the countless time.
He did not stop there, thrusting up into you lazily, as his spent slowly began to drip out the sides no doubt making a mess, but neither of you cared. You clenched around him, tears of over stimulation gathering in your eyes as he began to reharden.
“Happy nameday, Maekar,” you mumbled, but sounded slightly slurred as if you were drunk off cock.
“You are the best gift, my love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “Now why don’t you be a good wife and get on your hands and knees.”
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Constantly compared to Maekar Targaryen's late wife, you never believed you could hold a real place in his heart. But while the court insists on living in the past, Maekar does everything to prove that he chose you for who you are. Between silent gestures, stubborn devotion, and the birth of twin princesses, this is a story about love, belonging, and building a home where only ghosts once existed.
warnings: MaekarTargaryen x wife!F.Reader MDNI +18 mutual pining, slightly bratty reader, kinda pervert!Maekar, Attempt of seduction, sprinkle of plot with porn smut: pillow humping, F!masturbation, ankle pulling(?), slight spanking(like twice), slight licking, p in v, overstimulation, creampie, toxic relationship, dark romance, second wife, referenced death of child, lots of sex
Nota: English is not my native language. Apologies for any mistakes.
Nota: Canonically, Dyanna gave Maekar six children: four boys and two girls. However, in this story, the girls Daella and Rhae are the reader's daughters and are twins.
Número de palavras: 13.300
The air in the royal chambers was so thick it seemed to require physical effort to breathe. You stood by the fireplace, your fingers buried in the velvet of your skirt, your knuckles as white as the marble of the statues in the gardens. You were not Dornish , you did not possess the desert fire in your blood; you came from a lineage of silences and duties, raised to be the gentle breeze that would soothe Maekar 's temper. Targaryen .
But the breeze had become a vacuum.
"Where is she?! Where is my wife?"
His scream echoed down the corridor, making your shoulders heave in a spasm of silent agony. You closed your eyes, but the image of that night refused to leave you. The banquet, the wine, the lights... and that excruciating moment when you, seated beside King Daeron the Good, heard the monarch sigh as he looked at you.
"It's a miracle of mercy," the King had said, his voice choked with nostalgia. "Looking at you, my dear, is like seeing my Dyanna return from the grave. Maekar has finally recovered what death stole from him. You are the mirror of his happiness... you are Dyanna herself reborn."
Those words were the knife that finally pierced his armor of caution.
The door was flung open. Maekar entered, the aura of a warrior prince emanating from him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you once called love, but now recognized as possession.
"What was that?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously hoarse tone as he closed the door. "You rose from the royal table without a word. The King was confused. I was... humiliated. What troubled you, wife?"
You didn't answer immediately. You turned your back to him, staring at the mirror. In the reflection, you saw a young, beautiful, and pale face—the face he had handpicked from among so many other noblewomen in the kingdom.
"Your father complimented me today," you said, your voice so low it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the embers. "He said I'm a miracle. That I'm Dyanna 's return ."
Maekar stood motionless. The silence that followed was a silent confession. "My father is an old and sentimental man. He sees what he wants to see."
"And you, Maekar ?" You turned slowly, your eyes filled with a deep sadness that seemed ancient. "What do you see? Because I spent months being the perfect wife. I accepted the jewels that belonged to her. I accepted the rooms she decorated. I even accepted you calling me by nicknames that, now I know, were exclusive to her."
"I gave you my name!" he exclaimed, trying to regain control of the situation, approaching with heavy steps. "I treated you with honor. What more do you want from me?"
"I want to exist!" The word exploded from within you, a cry for help you had kept inside for too long. Caution shattered like glass under the weight of your despair. "I want to be seen! I am not a receptacle for the soul of a dead woman! I am not a painting you can retouch to feel less guilty about her leaving!"
You began frantically tearing the diadem from your head, tears finally overflowing, hot and bitter. "I wondered why you insisted so much on keeping me in the shadows at night. Why your hands seemed to grope my face as if searching for features that aren't there. Today I understand. You don't love me, Maekar . You love the ghost that inhabits my flesh!"
"Shut up!" Maekar lunged forward, his pain transforming into a defensive rage. "You have no right to dig up what I tried to bury so I could live again!"
"But you won't live again!" you screamed, recoiling until your back hit the cold stone wall, your chest rising and falling in spasms of pure suffering. "You're just trying to steal my youth to feed your grief! I'm barely older than your eldest son! I should be your new life, but I'm just your macabre consolation!"
The distress on her face was so raw that Maekar seemed to hesitate for a second. He tried to reach out and touch her face, a gesture that would once have been affectionate, but now seemed like a profanation.
"Don't touch me with the hands that seek her!" You pushed him away, your voice faltering, despair draining your strength. "You destroyed my chance to be loved for who I am. You condemned me to compete with a woman who never makes mistakes because she no longer breathes!"
Maekar lost what little patience he had left. In a sudden movement, he grabbed his arms, pinning them against the wall above his head. The impact was sharp, and his body—massive, hot, and oppressive—crushed his against the rough stone.
"You're my wife," he hissed, his face millimeters from hers, his breath mingling with her sobs. "I chose you. I brought you to my bed. Do you think I could bear to look at you every day if there wasn't something real here?"
"What's real, Maekar ?" you whispered, your eyes locked on his, challenging him through the haze of tears. "Say my name. Now. Without thinking of the mother of your children. Without thinking of the woman Dayne gave you. Say MY name and convince me you know who I am."
His silence was the cruelest answer he could give. The grip on her wrists tightened, not from desire, but from the agony of a man caught in his own lie. He held her there, immobilized, while the weight of the substitution hung over them both, heavier than the walls of the fortress itself.
How do you cope with the fact that, even now, in his rage, you can see the reflection of another person in the depths of his pupils?
His silence wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a vacuum that sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving you dizzy, suffocated by the realization that, for the man who held your destiny in his hands, you were a blank page on which he insisted on rewriting an old poem.
Maekar kept his wrists pressed against the cold stone. The warmth of his skin contrasted with the ice of the wall, creating a symphony of sensations that made your stomach churn. You could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest, but you knew, with a bitterness that burned your throat, that this rhythm wasn't for you. It was the gallop of a man chasing a ghost.
“Say it …” you pleaded, your voice faltering, tears tracing hot paths down your pale face. “Please, Maekar … say my name. Just once. Claim the woman who is here, bleeding before you, not the memory you hold in your chest.”
His eyes, as dark as the sea before a storm, scanned every inch of her face. He analyzed her forehead, the curve of her nose, the trembling line of her lips. For a second, you saw the conflict—the agony of a man who wanted to love her, but who was chained by a grief that had become his very skin.
“You don’t understand,” she finally hissed, her voice hoarse, laden with a pain so dense it felt palpable. “Do you think you’re the only one who suffers? Every time I look at you, it’s like a wound is reopened. I try to find you, I swear I try … but fate was cruel enough to give you the same light in your eyes, the same tilt of your head…”
“So it’s a punishment?” you interrupted him, your distress exploding into a desperate sob. “Am I your punishment, Maekar ? Am I the torture you chose for yourself so you wouldn’t forget what you lost?”
He released one of her wrists, but only to bring his hand to her neck, not to choke her, but to hold it with a possessiveness bordering on delirium. His thumb caressed her jaw, and for a moment, the touch was almost tender, if it weren't for the shadow of another person lingering between you.
“I wish it were different,” he murmured, drawing his face closer, his warm breath brushing against her skin. “I wanted to walk into this room and see only you. But when the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the similarities become chains. I see her movements in you. I hear the echo of her laughter in yours. How can I love you for who you are, if everything about you screams at me what I can no longer have?”
That confession was the final blow. You stopped fighting his grip. Your body felt heavy, the will to resist draining away along with the tears. Despair was now a calm, deep sea, where you were sinking with no intention of surfacing.
“So you admit it…” you whispered, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t see the denial he was still trying to maintain. “I’m just a shadow. An echo of flesh and blood. You brought me to this castle to be a living tomb.”
Maekar released her other wrist and, instead of pulling away, he pulled her into a violent embrace, burying his face in her neck. You felt his body tremble—a tremor that came from the depths of his tormented soul.
“ Don’t leave me,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin, sounding less like a prince and more like a man lost at sea. “Even if it’s a lie, even if you’re just a reflection of her… I can’t lose her again. I wouldn’t survive burying that face a second time.”
You felt his hands slide up your back, gripping the thin fabric of your underwear, a mixture of desperate desire and a morbid need for confirmation. In that moment, in the oppressive silence of the royal bedroom, you understood the extent of your tragedy: you loved a man who could only love you through the lens of his own loss.
You were both his cure and his disease. And, as he held you tightly as if his life depended on it, you wondered if there would ever be anything left of you to save, or if you would end up disappearing completely, consumed by the ghost of the woman you never knew, but whom you already hated with all the strength of your broken heart.
Maekar 's hands , once iron claws, now tried to find in you a refuge you no longer had the strength to offer. His embrace was heavy, an anchor pulling you to the bottom of an ocean of melancholy. But, inside you, something had died the moment he confessed that you were merely a reflection of an absence.
You didn't hug him back. His arms hung limply at his sides, useless, like those of a porcelain doll whose strings had been cut.
“Let me go…” you whispered, your voice devoid of any warmth, cold as the crypts where Dyanna lay.
“No,” he growled, squeezing her even tighter, his face buried in her shoulder. “You’re my wife. Your place is here, with me, in our bed.”
“This bed was never mine, Maekar, ” you said, and the sound of your own voice, so hollow, startled her. “I’m just an intruder occupying a ghost’s space. I smell her scent on the sheets, I see her trace in your eyes when you look at me… I’m dying here. Every touch of yours takes a piece of my soul.”
With a desperate effort, you broke free. The separation wasn't violent, but it was definitive. You walked to the darkest corner of the room, where the candlelight didn't reach, wanting to disappear into the shadows so he could no longer use your face as a source of comfort.
(...)
In the days that followed, the castle became a silent mausoleum. You began to dress only in gray and pale colors, rejecting the vibrant silks he so loved. You stopped wearing her jewelry, let your hair fall straight and unadorned, and avoided parties, banquets, and, above all, his gaze.
You became a ghostly presence in the Red Keep. You ate little, spoke even less, and when Maekar entered a room, you left as if his presence were poison. Maekar , in turn, began to crumble under the weight of your silence.
At first, he tried to act with the arrogance of a prince. He ordered your presence, demanded that you dine with him, but you remained there, an ice statue, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a single word or a glance of affection. His desire, which had previously been fueled by resemblance, had transformed into a dark and painful obsession with you—with the woman he was truly losing.
One night, he broke into your private chambers. He smelled of strong wine and a despair that stifled the air around him. You were sitting by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass.
“Look at me!” he roared, grabbing his chair and turning it violently. “I’m your husband! I demand you look at me!”
You looked up. But there was no gleam in them. There was no "light" he so desperately sought. There was only a gray emptiness, an abyss of indifference that struck him harder than any sword blow.
“What do you want, sir?” Her voice was a monotonous whisper. “Do you want me to smile? Do you want me to bow my head as she used to? I’ve forgotten how. I’ve forgotten who I was supposed to imitate.”
“I don’t want you to imitate her!” he shouted, falling to his knees before you, his large hands gripping your thighs, squeezing the fabric of your dress with trembling strength. “I miss your voice… your laugh… I miss when you looked at me and I felt there was something alive in this castle.”
“You killed that woman,” you replied, and a single, solitary tear rolled down your cheek, not of anger, but of mourning for yourself. “You suffocated her with the weight of a dead woman. Now, all you have is what’s left. The body you so longed to inhabit. You can use it if you want. I’m no longer inside it.”
Maekar let out a broken sound, a sob he tried to stifle in her skirt. He realized, too late, that in trying to reclaim the past through you, he had destroyed the only future that could have made him happy. He missed your genuine touch, your spontaneous affection, the unique woman you were before he tried to mold you into someone else.
He began kissing her hands, desperate, almost feverish kisses.
“Please…” he pleaded against her cold skin. “Come back to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll burn the portraits, I’ll move to another castle, I…”
“You can’t burn what’s etched in your mind,” you said, pulling your hand away with cruel slowness. “And you can’t bring me back. I’m not Dyanna , I can’t be resurrected.”
You stood up and walked towards the bed, lying down and turning your back to him, leaving him there, on his knees on the cold floor, a powerful prince reduced to a man begging for a crumb of attention from the woman he himself had broken.
The room was utterly dark, but his suffering was almost visible, a black shadow enveloping him as he realized that he now had two dead women in his life: one buried in the earth and the other lying beside him, alive, but forever out of his reach.
(...)
Night crept like a wounded animal along the walls of the Red Keep. Maekar could no longer bear the silence you had erected between them—an ice wall more insurmountable than any fortification he had ever besieged.
He entered the room, the sound of his boots echoing like the beating of an anxious heart. He found her standing before the fireplace, her eyes lost in the flames, her body enveloped in a white linen nightgown that made her look like a specter. She didn't move. She didn't recognize him.
“My sons asked about you today,” he began, his voice low, trying to find a way through the fog of indifference that surrounded her. “ Daeron is drinking more than he should, Aerion is growing increasingly cruel, and even little Aegon misses you… Aemon tried to explain his sadness to me with maester ’s words , but none of them understand why the light in this house has gone out.”
You remained motionless. The names of his children—the four princes Dyanna had left as his inheritance—hung in the air. You loved them, in a melancholic and distant way, but every time you looked at them, you saw the traces of the one you could never overcome.
“They are her children,” you finally said, your voice devoid of emotion. “They have her blood. They don’t need an echo to comfort them.”
Maekar growled, a sound of pain and frustration, and lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his strong arms encircling her waist with an urgency bordering on desperation. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with a hunger that seemed to devour her soul.
“I want children of yours ,” he whispered against her skin, his warm lips tracing the outline of her ear. “I want daughters who have your spirit, not hers. My sons are a disappointment, but my daughters, I know they will be glorious. I saw them in my dreams, beautiful girls. Beautiful like you.”
His hands moved up, bold and possessive, squeezing her breasts through the thin fabric, trying to rekindle the flame that once burned so easily. He turned her forcefully, pressing his body against hers, his muscular thighs trapping hers. His desire was evident, a rhythmic and dark pulse that demanded surrender.
He kissed her with desperate violence, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands feverishly exploring her curves. He wanted to possess her, he wanted pleasure to make her forget, he wanted her moans to drown out the screams of his own conscience.
But you remained rigid. Your arms lay limp at your sides. Your lips didn't move beneath his. Your eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, cold and empty like those of a corpse. You were marble beneath his fire.
Maekar stopped. He stepped back only a few inches, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps, his face flushed with lust and growing anger.
“React!” he ordered, his voice trembling. “Scratch me, hit me, hate me if you have to, but be here !”
“You wanted a dead woman, my prince,” you replied, your voice as calm as a frozen lake. “Here I am. You may use my body. It is yours by right, by law, and by conquest. But do not ask me to participate in your fantasy. Do not ask me to pretend you are looking at me.”
He let her go as if he had been burned. The humiliation of being rejected not in body, but in soul, was a wound that the pride of a Targaryen could not bear.
“You’re torturing me!” he yelled, kicking a chair that flew against the wall. “I’m trying! I’m begging for a fresh start! I talk about future daughters, about our legacy, and you treat me like a rapist in my own bed!”
“Because you don’t want a fresh start!” you exploded, the first sign of life in days being a bitter rage that lit up your eyes. “You want redemption! You want to put children in my womb to prove to yourself that life has conquered death, but you still wear her wedding ring! You still sleep on her side of the bed! You want my daughters so they can grow up and become part of your fantasy!”
"That's not true!" he roared, moving closer with his finger pointed, his face inches from hers.
“It’s the purest truth that exists in this castle of lies!” you retorted, your chest rising and falling with a vibrant agony. “You miss her, Maekar . You miss her so much that the scent of my skin punishes you because it’s not the scent you memorized. You hate me for not being her, and you hate yourself even more for desiring my body while thinking of her soul.”
Maekar remained silent, his breathing erratic. He looked at his own hands, the hands that had just tried to seduce her, and saw the trembling in them. His despair was so intense it seemed he would collapse right there.
“I miss who I was when I was with her,” he confessed, his voice almost a broken whisper. “But I miss who I thought you would be…”
“ I could have been everything,” you said, sadness returning to extinguish your fury. “But you turned me into nothing.”
You walked to the bed and lay down, covering yourself up to your neck, leaving him alone before the ashes of the fireplace. Maekar remained there, a prince without a kingdom, a husband without a wife, realizing that the "love" he had tried to force was the very rope that was strangling what remained of both your hearts.
(...)
The weeks that followed were marked by a Herculean effort on Maekar 's part. He was not a man of delicate gestures or poetic words, but the silence you maintained was a punishment he could no longer bear. He began to act with desperate caution, as if he were trying to tame a wounded creature that could vanish at the slightest rough touch.
The room, once a battlefield, had become a sanctuary of silent offerings. In the morning, you would find flowers that were not Dyanna 's favorites , but wildflowers that grew on his own family's lands, brought by knights he had hastily sent. On his dressing table, the jewels of the deceased were no longer there, but new pieces, recently forged, with designs that he himself tried to describe to the blacksmiths—something that would be uniquely his.
But her soul only found rest away from him, in the gardens or in the library, surrounded by his children.
“Look, Mommy!” Little Aegon, with his tousled silver curls, ran toward her, holding out a stone dragon egg that he swore he could feel warming.
You smiled—a real smile, the first in a long time—and pulled him onto your lap, sitting on the stone bench. Aemon sat beside you, a heavy book on his lap, reading passages about the history of Westeros in his young, serious voice.
“The egg isn’t hot, Egg, ” Aemon corrected, though his eyes shone with affection for his younger brother. “But the sun is. You should be careful not to burn your skin.”
You stroked Aegon's face, feeling the purity of that child who, unlike his father, loved you unconditionally. Daeron , the eldest, lay on the nearby grass, a jug of water (which you insisted replace the wine) within his reach. He watched you with a look of melancholy understanding; of them all, he was the one who best understood the shadow that hung over his father's marriage.
Even Aerion , whose cruel tendencies were beginning to blossom and frighten the court, became docile in her presence. He approached with an almost predatory beauty, but knelt at her feet to show her a dragonbone dagger he had acquired.
“ If anyone in this castle dares to make her cry again,” Aerion hissed, his violet eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, “I will make them forget how to breathe.”
Aerion 's hair , a gesture of affection that seemed to ease the tension in the young prince's shoulders.
"No one will make me cry, Aerion . We are at peace here."
It was in this scene that Maekar found her. He stopped under the stone arch in the garden, observing the scene in silence. His chest ached at the sight of the smile you so generously bestowed upon his children, but which you categorically denied him. He felt a pang of envy for his own children, but also a profound admiration. You were what held that broken family together, even though it was shattered inside.
That night, he didn't enter the room with the weight of authority. He entered slowly, carrying a small tray with tea and honey.
“I saw you with them today,” he said, his voice hoarse, keeping a safe distance. “You have a patience I never possessed. They love you… and I’m beginning to realize they love you for who you are, not for who you represent.”
You turned around, the moonlight framing your melancholy silhouette.
"They are pure. They don't look back. They look to the present."
Maekar set the tray down on the table and took a step forward, his hands open in a gesture of surrender.
“I want to learn to do the same,” he whispered, distress etched into every line of his stern face. “I know what I did… the way I tried to mold you… was a crime. I was lost in my own hell and dragged you there with me. But today, seeing you with Aegon and Aerion , I realized it’s not the past I want to reclaim. I want to conquer your present.”
He knelt down, not to demand, but to beg.
“Let me try again. Not like a man chasing a ghost, but like a man desperately in love with a woman who hates him for good reason. Give me a chance to prove that I know your name, that I know who you are in the dark and in the light.”
You looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, the stiffness in his shoulders eased an inch. The pain was still there, deep and dense, but the sight of Maekar Targaryen — the Prince of Summerhall , the relentless warrior — knelt and vulnerable, and began to pierce the ice around his heart.
“Words are easy, Maekar, ” you said, your voice still trembling with sorrow. “Time will be my judge.”
“Then give me all the time in the world,” he replied, taking her hand with a tenderness you never imagined he possessed, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that seemed like a blood oath. “I will spend the rest of my life in your shadow, if it means that one day you will smile at me again as you smiled at Aegon today.”
(...)
Time was no longer measured by the beating of the stars, but by the cautious rhythm of Maekar 's breaths . He kept his word. In the following months, he became a silent observer of his own life, a man who seemed to be relearning the alphabet through his gestures.
He no longer forced her into bed. In fact, he began sleeping on a small divan in the corner of the room, or often spent sleepless nights in his office, just so she could have the vastness of the real bed to herself, free from the weight of his body and the suffocation of his memories.
However, his true healing came not from his apologies, but from the boys' laughter.
One autumn afternoon, the wind was blowing strongly from the Bay, and you were sitting in the inner courtyard with Aegon and Aemon . Little " Egg " was desperately trying to balance himself atop a low wall, while Aemon read aloud passages about dragons of old.
“If I had a dragon,” Egg exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with an innocence that almost made her cry, “I would take her flying far away from here, to where the sun never sets!”
You laughed, pulling the boy to the ground before he fell.
"And what would I do in a place where the sun never sets, Egg ? I wouldn't be able to sleep."
"You don't need to sleep to dream, Mom," he replied, hugging her neck tightly.
The word "mommy" still vibrated in her chest with a bittersweetness. You felt a pair of eyes on you and looked up. Aerion was leaning against a nearby column, watching the scene. He didn't join in the games, but his posture was less aggressive when you were around. He approached and, with a rarely gentle gesture, placed a perfect red apple in your lap.
“For you, ma’am,” he said, with a half-smile that hid the darkness everyone said inhabited his soul. “It’s the sweetest in the orchard.”
"Thank you, Aerion, " you whispered, touching his hand briefly.
Maekar watched from the upper balcony. He saw how you flourished among his children, how you were the glue that held those distinct and difficult personalities together in harmony. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, a mixture of gratitude and a heart-wrenching loneliness. He desired you, but that desire was now purged of any trace of Dyanna ; he desired the woman who knew how to soothe Aerion 's fury and nurture Aegon's dreams.
That night, the cold intensified. You were in bed, almost asleep, when you heard his hesitant footsteps. Maekar didn't go to the divan. He stopped beside the bed, his imposing silhouette cutting through the light of the fireplace.
“ They’re growing up so fast,” he said, his voice muffled by weariness and melancholy. “ Daeron challenged me today. He said I don’t deserve his silence, that I should be grateful you still breathe the same air as me.”
You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets up to your chest.
" Daeron is too observant for his own good."
Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance, but his eyes were fixed on his with a desperate hunger for connection.
"He's right. I don't deserve this. But today, seeing you in the courtyard... I realized I can no longer live in this self-imposed exile."
He reached out, pausing mid-way, waiting for your permission. You didn't recoil. He touched your face, his scarred fingers gliding across your skin with the lightness of someone touching broken glass.
“I don’t miss her when I’m with you now,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. I miss the woman you were before I tried to bury you alive. Please… let me back in. Not as a ghost, but as the man who wants to be the father of the daughters you will still have.”
The despair in his eyes was so real, so raw, that the last barrier of ice in his heart cracked. You saw the man, not the prince, not the widower, but the broken man being consumed by his own mistake.
“ Maekar …” you whispered.
He leaned in, sealing his lips with a kiss that was anything but violent. It was a kiss of supplication, of mourning for what was lost and of hope for what could be built. His body trembled against hers, and for the first time, when he whispered words of desire in her ear, he used her name. He called for her, and only for her. The night was long, marked by a kind of surrender they had never experienced—a surrender made of pain and a dark need to feel alive amidst so many shadows. And as he possessed her under the dim light of the embers, she realized that, although the scars would never disappear, perhaps, just perhaps, there was room for a new story to be written upon the ashes of the old.
Maekar 's heavy breathing . When he finally uttered your name, the sound wasn't an echo or a comparison; it was an invocation. It was the acknowledgment that, in that bed, there was no room for anyone else but the two of you.
He pulled her to the center of the mattress with an urgency that didn't stem from pure lust, but from a desperate need to anchor himself in the reality of his existence. Maekar undressed with abrupt movements, shedding layers of pride and sorrow, until his warm, calloused skin met hers. The contrast was almost painful: his brute strength against her melancholic tenderness.
“ Look at me,” he ordered, but his voice was a broken whisper, a plea. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see who is here.”
He positioned himself between her legs, the weight of his body a welcome burden that finally chased away the cold. Maekar 's hands , large enough to encircle her wrists, rose to her face, holding her head with a possessiveness that she now understood as a fear that she would disappear.
When he entered you, there was none of the impatient rush of before. There was a sigh. A deep, slow entry that made you arch your back, letting out a trembling sigh against his shoulder. It was an invasion, but also a surrender. With each rhythmic and deliberate movement, Maekar seemed to be trying to fill the void he himself had carved in your chest.
His hands moved down to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with a force that would leave marks—marks that, for the first time, she wanted to bear as proof that she belonged to herself and to him, and not to a dead past.
“You…” he gasped, his face buried in the crook of her neck, their sweat mingling in the warm light of the embers. “It’s just you. The scent of your skin… the warmth of your body…”
The rhythm quickened, becoming more raw, more intense. The pleasure was tinged with a latent anguish, a tension bordering on suffering. Maekar possessed her with the intensity of a man trying to exorcise demons through flesh. He kissed her violently, sucking on her lips as if he could extract the life from her to sustain his own, while their bodies collided in a dull, constant impact.
You felt your nails dig into his broad back, scratching the Prince's skin, leaving red furrows that he received as if they were medals. Pain and pleasure were threads intertwined in a rope that tightened ever more. The desperation of being loved for who you were finally exploded in a climax that left you breathless, your body trembling in spasms of pure emotional and physical exhaustion.
Maekar followed close behind, a muffled roar escaping his throat as he spilled inside you, collapsing onto your chest as if all his strength had drained away in that act of surrender.
For long minutes, the only sound in the room was that of ragged breaths. Maekar did not move; he remained there, heavy and protective, his face hidden in his disheveled hair.
“I will never call you by another name again,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a grim promise. “I will dedicate each night to erasing the shadow I cast upon you.”
You wrapped your arms around him, sensing the vulnerability of the man the entire kingdom feared. Dyanna 's ghost was still there, in some dark corner of memory, but that night, between the sweat and dried tears, you finally felt that your own name was the only one echoing within the walls of the Red Keep.
The silence that followed the first climax was not one of rest, but of a hungry vigil. Maekar did not withdraw; he remained anchored to you, feeling the residual tremors that still coursed through your legs. The light from the dying embers traced the contours of his muscles, transforming him into a creature of shadows and reliefs.
He slowly raised his torso, supporting himself on his elbows to face you. His eyes were clouded, his pupils dilated until they almost extinguished the violet iris. Dyanna 's ghost was no longer between you; there was only an earthly and visceral obsession with the woman who, for the first time, met his gaze.
“I feel you,” he growled, his voice so deep it vibrated against his sternum. “I feel your heart beating against mine. Say it’s real. Say you won’t disappear when the sun rises.”
In response, you slid your hands down his back, feeling the war scars and the furrows your own fingernails had just carved. You pulled him down again, seeking his mouth with a thirst that was no longer for comfort, but for dominance.
The second act began with renewed ferocity. Maekar turned her onto her back with a brusque, possessive movement, pinning her against the silk sheets. He knelt behind her, his large hands gripping her hips with a force that compelled her to arch, exposing the vulnerable curve of her spine.
“You are mine,” he hissed close to her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. “Not the prince’s, not the Targaryen name . Mine.”
When he penetrated her again, the angle was deeper, more invasive. Each thrust was a dry impact that drew hoarse moans from her throat. Maekar moved with the cadence of a conqueror, one hand buried in her hair, pulling her head slightly back so he could bite the soft skin of her shoulder, leaving a purplish mark that would be her secret under her high-necked dresses the next day.
The pleasure was intense, almost painful in its intensity. You felt his heat burning against your cold skin, a contrast that drove you wild. The room seemed to shrink until the entire universe was reduced to that frenetic contact, to the sound of flesh against flesh and the weight of a man's desire, who was trying, through that act, to fuse his soul with yours.
Maekar increased the pace, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his back. He was on edge, his breath turning into short growls. He didn't just want pleasure; he wanted your complete surrender. He wanted you to feel that, in that moment, he was the only man in the world, and you, the only woman he had ever desired.
With one last violent thrust, he held her tight, his nails digging into her hips as he surrendered to the climax. You felt the wave of heat wash over you, a spasm of ecstasy that left you powerless, collapsing onto the pillows as he fell on top of you, exhausted but finally present.
He remained there, his face buried in the back of her neck, his heart pounding against his back. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the unspoken promise that, though the past was a scar, the present was a fire neither of them wanted to extinguish.
(...)
The days in the Red Keep lost the gray hue of mourning and gained the dark, dense tone of suppressed desire. Maekar did not become a bard or a knight of light romances; he remained the Prince of Summerhall , a man of few words and a stern temperament. But his "good husband" manifested itself in acts of protective possessiveness.
He began to notice what you enjoyed when you didn't think you were being watched. He noticed that you liked the cool wind on the battlements at dawn, and he started to be there, waiting for you with a heavy fur cloak to wrap around your shoulders before you could shiver. He noticed that you lost yourself in thought in the septum, not out of devotion, but because of the silence, and he started to ensure that no one disturbed you, posting himself like a sentinel at the door.
The reconquest wasn't made of flowers, but of presence. And of a carnal urgency that seemed endless.
On a rainy afternoon, you were in the royal library, searching for a manuscript for Aemon . The smell of old parchment and dust always calmed you. Maekar entered, his armor still damp from combat practice, the sound of metal echoing in the silence of the room.
He said nothing. He simply walked toward you, trapping you between two tall oak shelves. His weight was a promise.
“ Maekar … the servants may come in,” you whispered, your voice faltering as his calloused, warm hand moved up your thigh, lifting the layers of silk from your dress.
“I told everyone to leave,” he hissed against her lips. “This place is mine. You are mine.”
He lifted her, setting her on the solid wood table, scattering scrolls carelessly. There, amidst tales of dead kings, he possessed her with a savage hunger, his kisses muffling her moans as the sound of the rain outside competed with the frenetic rhythm of their bodies. There was no trace of Dyanna there; only the raw heat and sweat of a man rediscovering pleasure through every inch of his skin.
There was a morning in the glass gardens, where the humid heat of the exotic plants made the air feel like honey. You were tending to some herbs when you felt his hands on your waist. Maekar turned you around so your back was to the broad foliage, undoing the laces of your bodice with an impatience that made you gasp.
“You’re different today,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her back as he penetrated her from behind, his hands gripping her breasts with a force that was almost a claim.
“It’s because I can finally breathe, Maekar ,” you replied, throwing your head back, feeling the sun through the glass and the constant impact of his body against yours.
He paused for a second, his face buried in her hair, and whispered her name as if it were a prayer of gratitude. The sex wasn't just physical; it was his way of asking for forgiveness without needing to use words his soldier's throat couldn't pronounce.
Maekar began to integrate himself into your afternoons with the children. He would sit at a distance, watching you play with Aegon or discuss philosophy with Aemon . Sometimes he would intervene to teach Aerion how to hold a dagger more efficiently, but his eyes always returned to you, seeking your approval.
One evening, after a family dinner where Aerion had behaved himself and Aegon had fallen asleep in his arms, Maekar took her to their chambers. He didn't lead her straight to bed. He sat her down before the mirror and, with infinite patience, began to brush her hair.
“You’re getting to know yourself again,” he said, looking at his reflection. “And I’m having the privilege of getting to know this new woman along with you.”
He dropped the brush and began kissing her shoulders, his hands sliding down to the front of her dress. The act began slowly, almost tenderly, on the wolfskin floor before the fireplace. He explored her with his tongue and fingers, mapping each new reaction, each sigh that was uniquely hers. The pleasure became a dense fire, a struggle of bodies where melancholy finally gave way to a dark and absolute passion.
Each time he took her—at the privy council table, in the stables, or in the dead of night in the royal bed— Maekar made it clear that the past was being buried beneath the weight of the present. He wasn't just being a good husband; he was becoming her world, and you, for the first time, didn't feel like a shadow, but the very light guiding him out of the darkness.
(...)
The following weeks were not marked by major events , but by a subtle and persistent change in the very substance of her body. Maekar 's devouring passion , which had previously seemed to be the only fire capable of keeping her warm, began to exact a price she did not understand.
The first sign came on a gray morning, typical of King's Landing. Maekar had already left for training with the sons, and the room still held the scent of his sweat, sex, and musk. When you tried to get out of bed, the world spun violently. A sudden, acidic nausea rose in your throat, forcing you to put your hand to your mouth and sit up abruptly.
In the Great Hall, the smell of fried bacon and warm bread, once your favorite, had become an enemy. You sat between Aegon and Aemon , trying to maintain a regal posture, but each breath of air laden with the odor of food made your stomach churn.
Maekar , seated at the head of the table, noticed immediately. His eyes, now always attentive to every nuance of your face, narrowed. He saw you push away the silver plate with a hint of revulsion, your skin paler than usual.
“You didn’t touch the food,” he observed, his deep voice cutting through the boys’ conversation. “Are you sick?”
“Just a passing dizziness,” you lied, your voice coming out weaker than you intended. “The heat in the glass gardens yesterday must have been excessive.”
He didn't seem convinced. He stood up, walked over to you, and placed his immense hand on your forehead. His touch, which used to set your skin on fire, now brought a comfort that made you want to close your eyes and cry for no apparent reason.
“You’re cold. And trembling,” he murmured, ignoring the curious glances of his children. “ The maester should examine you.”
“It’s not necessary,” you insisted, but the smell of the wine Daeron was serving beside you was the final blow. You stood up hastily, muttering an inaudible excuse, and fled into the hallway before the humiliation of fainting in front of the court could materialize.
You didn't get far. Maekar caught up with her in the chambers, slamming the door shut with a bang that made his head throb. He found her hunched over the porcelain basin, her body trembling with nausea.
He didn't recoil in disgust. On the contrary, Maekar approached and gently brushed her hair back with a delicacy you never imagined a warrior possessed. He waited for the discomfort to pass, wiping her face with a damp cloth before helping her lie down.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression wavering between extreme concern and something deeper, darker.
“Some days…” you admitted, your chest rising and falling with difficulty. “I feel tired. An exhaustion that doesn’t just come from our nights. It’s like my body is being claimed by something… or someone.”
He remained silent for a long moment, his hand resting cautiously on her belly, on the thin fabric of her garment. The touch was possessive, but imbued with a new reverence.
“The blood?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Did it come this month?”
You shook your head. The penny finally dropped, bringing with it a wave of distress and terrifying joy.
“ I am not Dyanna , Maekar, ” you whispered, tears beginning to well up. “The child who grows up here… he will not be a replacement. He cannot be a ghost.”
Maekar closed his eyes for a second, and you saw his jaw tremble. He leaned in and kissed her—a kiss that tasted of desperation and a solemn promise.
“He will be my new beginning,” he declared, his voice hoarse against her lips. “And you will be the mother of my daughters. They will be the fruit of our desire, not of my memory.”
He pulled her to his chest, embracing her with a strength that said he would never let her fall. The unease was still there, the nausea persisted, but under the protection of Maekar 's arms , you began to feel that, for the first time, the future was not a shadow of the past, but a new territory, dangerous and beautiful, that you two would explore together.
The Prince of Summerhall no longer had ghosts to chase; he had a new life pulsing within the woman he had finally learned to love completely.
(...)
The news of the pregnancy, which should have been a balm, became the trigger for a new and profound affliction. While Maekar saw it as the seal of his redemption, you saw only the danger of a repeating cycle. The nausea in your stomach wasn't just physical; it was the viscous fear that this child would be condemned to carry the weight of a legacy that didn't belong to them.
Maekar tried to approach, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction, but you flinched, recoiling from his touch as if his hand might mark the baby with the same shadows that had marked you.
“No…” you whispered, stepping back until the vanity table blocked your movement. “Don’t you dare celebrate this like it’s a trophy, Maekar .”
“It’s life winning, my wife,” he said, his voice vibrant, trying to ignore the distance you were keeping. “It’s our blood.”
“It’s my body being used again to soothe your grief!” You exploded, tears of emotional exhaustion streaming freely. “I won’t allow it, Maekar . I won’t let you do to this baby what you did to me. I won’t let you look at this child’s face and search for traces of children who have already grown up, or of a woman who has already passed away.”
You hugged your own belly, a gesture of instinctive and desperate protection. The anguish in your voice was raw, an open wound bleeding before him.
“And if they are girls…” her voice faltered, becoming a whisper laden with threat and pleading. “If they are the daughters you mention so often, you have no right to be disappointed. You have no right to look at them and sigh because they are not the sons Dyanna gave you. You have no right to demand that they be ghosts of the princesses you once imagined.”
Maekar stopped. The silence that followed wasn't tense like the previous ones, but filled with something unexpected. He didn't growl, didn't defend himself furiously. Instead, a low sound escaped his throat—a short, hoarse laugh, devoid of mockery.
“Disappointed?” He stepped forward, but this time kept his hands down, submitting to his guard. “Sons are a curse of toil and stubbornness, as Daeron and Aerion prove every morning. My sons are my pride, but they are also my eternal battle.”
He moved a little closer, and the candlelight revealed a melancholy gentleness in his features that you rarely saw.
“Girls are all I want,” he confessed, his voice falling into a tone of somber confidence. “I want daughters so I can learn what sweetness is, something that war and duty stole from me long ago.”
Maekar extended his hand, and this time you didn't recoil, allowing him to lightly touch the tips of your fingers.
“I am not a devout man, you know that well. The Gods and I rarely speak,” he continued, with a sad half-smile that broke through what remained of his resistance. “But for them, I will kneel. I will pray to the Seven, every day, that they do not inherit my hardness or the shadow of those who came before. I will pray that they are exactly like you. Sweet, resilient… and entirely themselves.”
The sincerity in his words, the desire for his future daughters to be a reflection of himself and not a mere memory, struck you with the force of a blow. The despair that suffocated you began to give way to a fragile and painful hope. Maekar pulled you close, not with the force of a conqueror, but with the weight of a man who finally understood that the greatest victory was not recovering what was lost, but protecting what had just blossomed.
The months that followed transformed the Red Keep into a stage of contrasts. As your belly grew, rounding out beneath the fine silk, a new, almost ethereal beauty emanated from you. The pallor of suffering had been replaced by a warm glow, a vitality that seemed to defy the cold stones and the whispers of the corridors.
You were radiant, and that was what irritated the "snakes" of the court the most.
Congratulations poured in from all sides, though you received them with cautious courtesy. King Daeron the Good often sought you out in the gardens, gazing at your belly with a tenderness that no longer looked to the past, but to the continuation of your lineage. Your brothers-in-law, Princes Baelor , Aerys, and Rhaegel , brought gifts and kind words, recognizing in you the strength that kept Maekar 's temper in check.
Even her stepchildren seemed to orbit around her. Aegon hardly left her side, fascinated by the baby's movements beneath her skin, while Aerion , in his lucid moments, stood like a personal guard, threatening with his gaze any courtier who dared whisper anything malicious about the prince's "new favorite."
But it was the whispers that still hurt her. The gossip in the dark corners about how you were "just a surrogate womb" or about Maekar 's "sick obsession . "
“We can’t stay here,” you murmured one night, as Maekar undid the braids in your hair. “The walls have ears, and the tongues here are full of poison. I don’t want them to be born in a place where the air is made of lies.”
Maekar stopped, his large hands resting on his shoulders. In the mirror's reflection, his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.
“ Summerhall, ” he said, the name of the summer residence sounding like a promise of freedom. “We’ll go back home. There, the sun warms the stone and there are no courtiers to measure your worth by the face of a dead woman. There, it will just be us.”
But, while the match was still far away, Maekar seemed unable to keep his hands off you. The advanced state of your pregnancy, instead of pushing him away, seemed to draw him in with a gravitational force. He was obsessed with your form, with the fullness of your body that carried the life he so desired.
The scandal was inevitable. During a formal dinner, attended by the Queen and half the nobility of Westeros , Maekar couldn't hide his hunger. He ignored his plate, preferring to lean towards you, whispering dark, hot words in your ear, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your belly under the table, but sometimes rising boldly to caress the exposed skin of your cleavage.
“ Maekar , everyone is looking,” you whispered, your face flushing, a mixture of embarrassment and a desire you could no longer suppress.
“Let them look,” he replied, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on her lips with an intensity that made the ladies-in-waiting look away and the Queen cough discreetly behind her fan. “They see a princess. I see my whole world.”
That same night, he didn't wait for them to reach the private chambers. The moment the hallway doors closed behind them, he pressed her against the heavy tapestry. His calloused, urgent hands moved up her thighs, lifting her heavy skirts, ignoring the bulge of her belly that lay between them.
“You ’re so beautiful it hurts,” he hissed, his kisses trailing down her neck as he possessed her right there, standing, in an act of lust and adoration that defied all protocol.
You let out a muffled moan against his shoulder, feeling the baby kick amidst the warmth of your bodies. Maekar paused for a second, feeling the small movement against his chest, and the hard expression on his face dissolved into something bordering on religious adoration.
“Feel this…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “They are coming. And they will be your reflection, my love. Only yours.”
Maekar 's desire for you had become absolute, a flame that no longer sought to illuminate the past, but to ignite the present you were building, one step at a time. King Daeron the Good rarely lost his temper, but that morning, the walls of the Privy Council trembled with a voice that hid no dissent.
“This is no journey, Maekar , it’s a delusion!” the King exclaimed, slapping his open hand on the map of Westeros . “She’s on the seventh moon. The road to Summerhall is unforgiving, cut by rain and unstable terrain. Do you want to risk her life and my grandson’s out of sheer pride? Out of a lack of the whispers of courtiers?”
Maekar remained motionless, his jaw so clenched it seemed made of iron. His eyes did not waver before his father.
“It’s not pride, Your Majesty. It’s self-preservation,” Maekar retorted, his voice low and dangerous. “I will not allow her to give birth in a viper’s nest that counts her heartbeats, waiting for a mistake. Summerhall is my right. It’s the place where the air doesn’t reek of ulterior motives.”
“You’re a stubborn fool!” Daeron sighed, massaging his temples. “If anything happens to her on that road, no exile or title will protect you from your own conscience. But I see you’ve already decided. Leave, then. But take the boys. If you want your ‘private kingdom,’ take your whole house with you.”
(...)
The entourage set off under a heavy sky. The journey was a military operation. Maekar ordered the carriage to be reinforced with extra springs and lined with twice the amount of furs, but not all the luxury in the world could mask the reality of his body.
Inside the carriage, the space was shared with little Aegon, who wouldn't stop asking questions, and Aemon , who tried to read amidst the jolts. Outside, mounted on their horses, Daeron and Aerion followed the procession. The tension between the brothers was constant; Aerion provoked the guards, and Daeron , in his sober moments, exchanged worried glances with his father.
You felt every mile as punishment. The heartburn was a constant fire in your chest, and the nausea returned with a vengeful force, aggravated by the smell of horse and sweat coming from outside. Sometimes, the world spun so fast that you had to dig your nails into the upholstery to avoid fainting.
"Are you alright?" Aegon asked, touching her hand with his small fingers.
“I’m fine, darling,” you lied, forcing a pale smile as you tasted something bitter in your mouth. “The baby is just eager to see the new house.”
Maekar never left his side. He rode so close to the carriage that you could hear the creaking of his saddle. Whenever the caravan stopped to rest, he was the first to open the door.
"Everyone out!" he ordered his children, his voice not allowing for any delays.
He would enter and find her pale, with cold sweat covering her forehead. Without saying a word, Maekar would pull her into his arms, letting her nestle against his neck. He would bring her water with lemon and pieces of ginger, forcing her to eat it to soothe her stomach.
“I warned you it would be difficult,” he murmured, guilt glistening briefly in his eyes before being replaced by a grim determination.
“I don’t regret it,” you whispered against his armor. “Just get me out of here, Maekar .”
Despite his condition, Maekar 's desire for you seemed to have mutated. It was no longer mere lust; it was a hunger for possession, a need to reaffirm that you were still alive and that you belonged to him. During the nightly stops, inside the royal tent, the outside world would cease to exist.
Even with the discomfort, you sought him out. There was something visceral and comforting about his strength. Maekar undressed you with torturous slowness, his eyes devouring the fullness of your belly, the curve of your breasts that now weighed heavily under his touch.
“You drive me crazy,” he hissed one night, kneeling between your legs while you propped yourself up on pillows to ease the pressure on your back. “This body… this life you carry… I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you now.”
He took her with an almost sickly reverence, slow, deep movements that made you forget the nausea and dizziness. The sex was dense, wet, and charged with a shared anguish. He kissed each nascent stretch mark on her skin as if they were scars from a holy battle. With each moan that escaped her lips, Maekar seemed to reclaim a piece of his own soul.
Outside the tent, the sons listened to the whispers and muffled movements. Daeron merely rolled his eyes and drank more wine, while Aerion kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring that no one approached their father's "sanctuary."
(...)
The journey lasted weeks. But when the towers of Summerhall finally appeared on the horizon, bathed in the golden light of dusk, Maekar looked at you—exhausted, beautiful, and pregnant—and knew that, despite the King's scoldings and the dangers of the road, he had finally brought his queen to the place where shadows were not allowed to enter.
Summerhall was, at last, the balm Maekar had promised. Unlike the oppressive stone and smoke of King's Landing, the summer residence was bathed in a constant golden light, surrounded by fields that smelled of damp grass and wildflowers. But for you, the final stages of pregnancy had transformed that paradise into a gilded prison of weariness and affliction.
Her body seemed to have reached the limit of its endurance. Her belly, now low and heavy, made every movement a Herculean task. Her feet and ankles were so swollen that she could barely fit into her soft suede shoes, and heartburn was a constant companion that prevented her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time.
Maekar , however, had changed. The stern prince whom the kingdom feared had given way to a man whose life revolved entirely around his discomfort. He refused to participate in hunts or long exercises with his sons, preferring to spend the afternoons sitting beside them on the terraces of Summerhall .
“You’re having trouble breathing,” he observed one afternoon, closing a war map he was trying to read. He stood up and stopped behind his armchair, beginning to massage his shoulders with firm, experienced pressure.
“The space is getting too small for her, Maekar ,” you murmured, placing your hand on your belly, which was visibly moving as if an internal storm were raging beneath your skin. “I feel like my lungs have nowhere left to expand.”
He knelt before her, ignoring the dignity of his position. Maekar pressed his ear against her stomach, closing his eyes. The silence that followed was thick.
“They are impatient,” he whispered against the thin fabric of her dress. “Like their father. Forgive me for causing you this burden.”
Her stepchildren also seemed to have felt the change of atmosphere. Aegon brought her fresh flowers every day, sitting on the floor beside her to tell stories he heard from the maesters , trying to distract her from her back pain. Aemon brought her herbal infusions to soothe her heartburn, watching her with an academic seriousness that concealed a deep concern.
Even Aerion had become a constant and strangely protective presence. He refused to let any servant get too close with heavy objects or food that gave off strong smells that might trigger his nausea.
“She will be the most beautiful princess Westeros has ever seen,” Aerion once declared, polishing his dagger as he watched the garden entrance. “And I will teach anyone who disagrees the price of offending my father’s blood.”
(...)
Despite his exhaustion and the feeling of being "broken," as you used to say, Maekar continued to look at you with a hunger bordering on the sacred. To him, your stretched skin, your swollen lips, and your difficulty breathing were the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed. It was physical proof that you were building something new, something that belonged only to the two of you.
At night, the heat in Summerhall was stifling. You would often stay in just an open silk robe, trying to find some coolness.
“Don’t look at me now, Maekar, ” you pleaded one night, feeling heavy and awkward as you tried to settle into bed. “I feel like a burden.”
“A burden?” He leaned closer, his voice hoarse with restrained desire. He helped her lie on her side, gently placing pillows under her belly with an almost painful delicacy. “You are the most perfect sight that has ever graced these halls.”
He lay down behind you, his massive, warm body protecting your back. His hand slid down to the curve of your hip, slowly moving up to the side of your stomach. Maekar began kissing the nape of your neck, your shoulders, his trembling fingers sliding up the fabric of your tunic.
Sex, in these last days, was a slow and moist celebration of survival. He didn't penetrate her with the force of before; he explored her with his tongue and fingers, searching for her pleasure points with infinite patience, wanting to relieve the tension in her body through ecstasy. When he finally entered, it was with an almost tearful gentleness, a rhythmic movement that accompanied her whispers of distress and desire.
“You are my life,” he whispered against your ear, while you moaned softly, feeling the pleasure momentarily ease the pressure on your ribs. “My queen of Summerhall .”
In that darkness, with the scent of jasmine wafting through the window and the warmth of Maekar 's body merging with yours, the Red Keep and its cruel whispers seemed to belong to another world. There, you were the center of a universe that Maekar... Targaryen had sworn to protect with every drop of his blood, anxiously awaiting the moment when the cry of a new life would finally silence the echoes of the past.
The afternoon in Summerhall was filled with the sweet scent of hay and the lazy warmth of the autumn sun. You sat on a carved stone bench beneath the wisteria pergola, watching your stepchildren. Your back felt like a mass of red-hot iron, and an uncomfortable pressure in your lower abdomen came and went, like waves of a persistent tide.
You ignored it. It had already been days of discomfort, and you didn't want to interrupt the rare moment of peace between the boys.
Aegon was at her feet, trying to draw a dragon in the dirt with a stick, while Aemon recited passages from an ancient tome about the stars. Daeron , exceptionally sober, polished the hilt of his sword, and Aerion watched the horizon with that restless look that always kept her on edge.
A sharp pain made her gasp for a second. You dug your nails into the edge of the seat, your forehead beaded with cold sweat.
“You’re very quiet,” Aemon observed, raising his eyes with that insight that would one day make him a maester .
“It’s just the weight, my dear…” you began, but the words died in your throat as a sudden, uncontrollable sensation of heat spread between your legs.
The sound of the liquid hitting the stone floor was faint, but in the silence of the garden, it sounded like a crash. Her light silk skirts instantly darkened, soaked through.
Aegon stopped drawing, his violet eyes wide as he pointed to the puddle forming beneath his feet.
"Mommy... did you... did you pee?" the boy asked, his voice thick with innocent confusion.
Aerion let out a short, nasal laugh, a sound devoid of empathy that cut through the air like a razor blade.
“It seems the great lady of Summerhall has lost control of her basic faculties,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “What a scene worthy of a peasant.”
“Shut up, Aerion !” Daeron roared, leaping to his feet and dropping his sword to the ground. He saw his face—the deathly pallor, the trembling lips—and realized what was happening. “It’s not urine, you idiot. It’s life coming.”
A violent contraction hit her, causing her to bend forward with a muffled groan. The agony was profound, a tear that seemed to want to split her hips in two.
" Aemon , help me!" Daeron ordered, putting his arm around her waist to support her.
Aemon slammed the book shut, acting with the precision that study had given him. He gripped his other arm, the two boys forming a cradle of strength for his now heavy and trembling body.
“Breathe, slowly,” Aemon instructed, his voice trying to remain calm as they guided her out of the garden toward the royal chambers. “Aegon, run! Find our father. Tell him the child is coming! NOW!”
Aegon shot like an arrow through the stone corridors.
"And the midwives?" Daeron asked, sweat glistening on his brow as he felt the weight of his body sway.
“I’ll have the maids summon the Maester and the women,” Aemon replied, looking at you with a troubled tenderness. “We’re past the preparation stage. They’ve decided the world has waited long enough.”
You could barely hear the voices. The world had shrunk to rhythmic pain and the terror that the moment had finally arrived. Each step was torture, each breath a battle. As they climbed the stairs, you could only think of one thing: Maekar . You needed him. You needed that toughness, that fire that was now the only thing capable of keeping you whole as your body prepared to break and give way to the future.
(...)
The delivery room at Summerhall was thick with the metallic smell of blood, hot water, and bitter herbs. The autumn sun, which had once seemed so sweet in the garden, now streamed through the gaps in the curtains like a cruel invader. You lay there, your body arched in agony, your hands digging into the linen sheets until your knuckles were white and lifeless.
The midwives moved like frantic shadows around her. The pain was no longer a wave; it was an ocean that was drowning her, pulling her hips in opposite directions. The Maester prepared the ropes and cloths, his face tense under the light of the candles that were beginning to be lit as the day died.
“Breathe, milady! Push with your belly, not your throat!” ordered the oldest midwife, a woman with a wrinkled face who had served House Targaryen for decades.
You let out a scream that tore through the silence of the hallway, a sound of pure despair and exhaustion. Your forehead was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your pale face. In the fog of pain, you heard what you shouldn't have heard.
“So fragile…” the old woman murmured to the assistant, while wiping the blood from between her legs. “With Lady Dyanna it was much easier. She had the wide hips of the women of her lineage, she was strong as a mare. Here she looks like she’s going to break in two.”
Those words, spoken at her most vulnerable moment, were the final blow. The tears, which she had tried to hold back to conserve her strength, overflowed, hot and bitter. Even there, on the threshold of death to give life, the ghost of the other woman was present to humiliate her.
“I am not her…” you sobbed, your voice faltering as a new contraction hit you. “I am not…”
The bang of the door being opened made the silver goblets vibrate on the table. Maekar burst into the room like a furious god of war. He was still wearing his riding tunic, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot from riding like a madman after Aegon's warning.
“Leave, my Prince!” the Maester exclaimed, raising his hands in protest. “The birthing room is a place for women and gods. It is impure for a man of your position!”
“Impure?!” Maekar roared, his voice making the old midwife recoil. “To hell with the gods and to hell with your purity! This is my wife, my blood is in her! I will not leave her side even if the Warrior himself comes to get me!”
He strode across the room heavily and fell to his knees beside his bed. He grabbed his hand, ignoring the sweat and dirt, and brought it to his face.
"I'm here," he hissed, his eyes fixed on hers, an anchor in the midst of her shipwreck.
The old midwife, trying to regain her authority, approached with a basin.
"My lord, the comparison was purely technical; Lady Dyanna had..."
Maekar turned his face to her with an expression of such cruelty that the woman almost dropped the silver. The fury in his eyes was absolute, dark, lethal.
“If I hear the name of my late wife come out of your withered mouth one more time, ” Maekar said, his voice low and deadly, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. “I will cut out your tongue myself and feed it to the dogs. She is not Dyanna . She is my only princess, and you will treat her with the reverence due a queen, or you will leave here dead.”
He turned to you, softening his touch just enough not to break it.
“Forget what she said. Forget the world outside. Look at me. Only at me. Bring our daughter, my love. Bring her to me.”
Inspired by the fire emanating from him, you felt a new strength, a fury born of love and pain. You dug your nails into Maekar 's hand , feeling his blood beneath your claws, and pushed. You pushed with every fragment of your soul, determined to banish the shadows from that room once and for all and bring light to Summerhall .
The room had become a battlefield where time seemed to have stood still. The smell of blood and sweat was suffocating, and the only audible sound was Maekar 's noisy breathing and screams, which were no longer of fear, but of a transformative agony.
“Once more!” the Maester ordered, his face bathed in sweat. “I can already see the crown on your head! Push!”
You felt your body being torn in two, as if a Valyrian steel blade were climbing up your spine. Your hands crushed Maekar 's fingers , and he didn't flinch; he absorbed your pain, his violet eyes fixed on yours, conveying a brutal, almost violent strength that prevented you from collapsing.
“You can do it!” he roared close to her ear, his voice hoarse with desperation and adoration. “Bring them to me, my love! Bring us our future!”
With a scream that seemed to rip the last of your strength from your lungs, you made the final effort. There was a feeling of sudden relief, a damp vacuum, followed immediately by a sharp, crystalline cry that cut through the tension in the air like a lightning bolt.
“A princess!” exclaimed the midwife, her voice trembling, as she wrapped the tiny creature in warm linen. “A perfect little girl, my lord!”
Maekar let out a sigh that sounded like a sob, but there was no time for celebration. The Maester turned to you urgently.
"It still hurts ..." you sighed. "It still hurts a lot!!"
Don't stop now! I see another head, and he's in a hurry!
The second stage of labor was a blur of pain and exhaustion. You felt like you were going to die, that your heart wouldn't withstand the effort, but Maekar 's hand was a shackle that kept you grounded. He kissed your sweaty forehead, whispering your name between curses directed at the gods, demanding that they spare you.
“Just one more… ” he pleaded. “Just one more and it will be over, I promise.”
You gathered the ashes of your will. With one last push, laden with all the suffering of the past months and all the hope that Summerhall represented, the second life was expelled. Another cry, as strong as the first, echoed through the room.
“Another princess!” announced the Maester , his face finally relaxing into a tired smile. “Two girls. Twins, healthy and strong.”
The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic crying of the babies and the sound of their panting breaths. Maekar didn't look at his daughters first. He remained kneeling beside them, burying his face in the crook of their necks, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. For the first time, the Iron Prince was surrendered.
The midwives cleaned the babies and brought them to the bed. When they were placed in their arms—tiny, with tufts of almost white hair and rosy skin—the pain disappeared.
“What names shall we give these beautiful princesses?” you whispered, your voice almost fading. “Decide, my love. You dreamed of them.”
Maekar raised his head, his eyes moist and fierce with pride. He touched his daughters' tiny foreheads with a gentleness that would make any knight of Westeros doubt his own eyes.
“They don’t resemble anyone,” Maekar said, his voice solemn, gazing at you with absolute devotion. “They are only ours. They are you. Beautiful girls, beautiful like their mother. I will name only one, the one who came into the world first. The second, you must name.”
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from shouting. “I like Rhae for girl. Yes, Rhae . Like in a poem my sweet Aemon once told me in the garden. I don’t remember now. It hurts too much to remember.”
Maekar let out a sound through his boot, something that oscillated between laughter and mockery. It was hard to tell.
“ Daella ,” he said simply, without even bothering to explain the name or where it came from. But you suspected it was a tribute to his father or, perhaps, to his own son, because even though it was a disappointment, Maekar still loved him very much. You accepted it, simply accepted it. You had had two healthy girls in a single birth. Nothing else mattered.
There, in Summerhall , with your daughters at your breast and your husband at your feet, you realized that Dyanna 's ghost had finally been banished. Not by royal decree, but by the bloody and beautiful miracle that you two had created together. Maekar 's daughters would not be shadows; they would be living proof that he had finally found his home.
shh… don’t cry. @jakecockley - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
