Alright, cool cats, it’s time to find your groove, and let the music lead the way.
For June, we’re trying something a little different… but don’t worry, the beat stays the same. There will still be an allocated prompt every day, only this time each prompt will be a song. The full setlist is below.
For anyone who feels a little uncertain, or doesn’t want the pressure of choosing where to start, we’ve also picked a line from each song to help narrow things down as a second option.
But for anyone feeling adventurous? You can absolutely choose another line from the song instead.
Your Scribble must contain at least one line from the song. It does not have to be the line we picked, and you’re welcome to use multiple lines if the music moves you.
We’ve also created a playlist so you can listen along with the full prompt list and really get into the June Jukebox mood.
The Goal: Write a Scribble of 300 words max, including the prompt/lyric line. We’d love people to try and stay as close to that as possible, but we’re here for the vibes, not to slap anyone with a ruler.
The Timing: You have until the end of the day in your own time zone to complete and submit each prompt.
The Swap-Outs: If a certain day’s song isn’t your jam, don’t stress. We’ve made sure there are options to swap out, so you can still keep the music playing.
Rules / Guidelines:
The final day for submissions is July 1st, end of the day in your own time zone. Please be aware that any entries submitted after this will not be added to the event masterlist.
For the event masterlist, we will link any users who have created their own Scribbles masterlist. For anyone who has not created a masterlist, we will link to their preferred profile instead. For example, if you have a sideblog, we will confirm this with you.
Please use the tag #JuneJukeboxScribbles (no spaces) so we can find your creations. Please do not use the tag after the event has ended. You’re also welcome to tag @societynsoelsscribbles if you wish.
Please use appropriate warnings for explicit content, non-con, triggers, etc.
Hard no content: No incest, underage, bestiality, or necrophilia.
Any 18+ entries must be posted by an 18+ listed blog to be included.
Here are no limits on the number of submissions for a prompt. Do as many as you like, just remember to use the #JuneJukeboxScribbles tag!
The target is 300 words, but should you go over, we will not scold, fine, or ban you… as long as you deliver (but please.. try)
The possibilities are endless. Any fandom, pairing, reader insert, OC, character, ship, tone, or genre is welcome; smut, fluff, angst, crack, horror, romance, heartbreak, whatever beat you hear.
Join as often or as little as you like. There is absolutely no pressure. Whether you drop one track or complete the whole album, we’re thrilled to have you playing along.
You can use our event header for your own entries or masterlist, but please credit Society.
So warm up the jukebox, spread the sound and get ready to jive to your own funk… Drum roll please!!!
Prompt list: (Playlist for all songs can be found here)
June 1st - Joy To The World - Three Dog Night / “I never understood a single word he said”
June 2nd - I Wanna Be Bad - Willa Ford / “No I can't promise that I won't do that”
June 3rd - Mack the Knife - Bobby Darin / “And he shows them pearly white”
June 4th - Right Place, Wrong Time - Dr. John / “But I'm having such a good time”
June 5th - Hey! Baby - Bruce Channel / “I'm gonna make her mine, all mine”
June 6th - Therefore I Am - Billie Eilish / “I don't think I caught your name”
June 7th - Jump (For My Love) - Pointer Sisters / “I know you like what you see”
June 8th - Living La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin / “I feel a premonition”
June 9th - Somebody That I Used To Know - Gotye / “Like when you said you felt so happy you could die”
June 10th - Pink Pony Club - Chappell Roan / “Every night's another reason why I left it all”
June 11th - Little Bitty Pretty One - Thurston Harris / “Tell you a story”
June 12th - Tainted Love - Soft Cell / “I cannot stand the way you tease”
June 13th - Town Without Pity - Gene Pitney / “Only those in love could know”
June 14th - Play That Funky Music - Wild Cherry / “Til you die?”
June 15th - Bad Habits - Ed Sheeran / “I got nothin' left to lose, or use, or do”
June 16th - Every Breath You Take - The Police / “Every smile you fake”
June 17th - Say Something - A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera / “It was over my head”
June 18th - Come and Get Your Love - Redbone / “What's the matter with you”
June 19th - Raise Your Glass - P!nk / “You can choose to let it go”
June 20th - All Shook Up - Elvis Presley / “Who do you thank when you have such luck?”
June 21st - Animal I Have Become - Three Days Grace / “I can't control myself”
June 22nd - Wonderwall - Oasis / “Because maybe”
June 23rd - I Believe In A Thing Called Love - The Darkness / “We'll be rocking till the sun goes down”
June 24th - Groove Is In The Heart - Deee-Lite / “No, I couldn't ask for another”
June 25th - Rude - MAGIC! / “I hate to do this, you leave no choice”
June 26th - Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler / “There's nothing I can do”
June 27th - The Dark End of the Street - James Carr / “That's where we always meet”
June 28th - Northern Attitude - Noah Kahan (with Hozier) / “If I get too close”
June 29th - Mr. Brightside - The Killers / “But it's just the price I pay”
June 30th - Don’t Speak - No Doubt / “I know what you're thinkin'”
Swap-Out Tracks
Praying - Kesha / “I'm proud of who I am”
Don’t Stop Believing - Journey / “A smell of wine and cheap perfume”
Season of the Witch - Donovan / “When I look out my window”
Cry Me A River - Julie London / “Now you say you love me”
Daydream Believer - The Monkees / “You once thought of me”
Dancing Queen - ABBA / “Anybody could be that guy”
the pitt x reader | dr brendon "the shark" park x black! fem! reader
after snapping your leg while defending a friend in a bar fight, you are rushed to the pitt against your will. you refuse to tell the night shift your name in hopes of saving yourself from your husband's wrath, but it isn't long before he discovers what happened. and all hell breaks loose.
cw - wc: 4.2k, fluff, angst if you squint, protective brendon, jealous brendon, abbott is funny, reader is tough, brendon's a bit of an ass but justified.
a/n - send more requests if you want more pitt stuff i'm losing steam.
Years of loving an orthopedic surgeon had, quite naturally, turned a large part of ordinary life into forbidden territory.
Power tools were out.
Motorcycles, absolutely not.
Seat belts were nonnegotiable, lawn mowers were "death traps," and trampolines might as well have been medieval siege weapons.
Dogs with too much enthusiasm—every one of them had been blacklisted by a man who had seen too many fractures, too many mangled hands, too many limbs that couldn't be saved.
Even jogging too much had earned a suspicious side-eye from him, Brendon muttering darkly about cumulative joint damage and cartilage wear as if the use of your legs was a personal betrayal.
He had known long before marriage that you possessed a surplus of common sense the rest of the population seemed to mysteriously lack—especially in the realm of mundane, everyday tasks—and part of what had first drawn him to you was the cutting sharpness of your mind.
You were the first woman he had ever met who could truly keep pace with him, match his wit stride for stride, keep him honest, keep him guessing.
You never once allowed him to disappear too far into the polished arrogance of a surgeon's ego without neatly taking him down a peg and planting him back on earth where he belonged.
And yet, somehow, the sight of a mandolin slicer anywhere near your hands still sent his pulse into a frenzy, the same way he used to go visibly pale if you so much as reached for a meat cleaver.
It had always annoyed you—that suffocating, almost absurd protectiveness—because Brendon knew exactly who you were.
He knew you were careful.
Capable.
Sensible.
So for him to look at something as harmless as jogging and act as if your knees were one careless mile from catastrophe, it had always felt, if you were honest, just a little belittling.
But now, given your current situation, you had the creeping feeling that once he found out, he would never let you leave the house again.
"Thirty-two year old female involved in an altercation at a bar!" one of the EMTs piloting your gurney barked, breathless but practiced as the trauma team converged at the threshold of PTMC's emergency department. "Exchanged blows with an adult male, was knocked to the floor during the crowd surge, then sustained a compound tib-fib injury after being stepped on."
Jack Abbot was already at your bedside, gloved hands moving with cool efficiency over your face and splinted leg while Dr. Ellis and Dr. Shen flanked the gurney
"Active bleeding from the right temple, three-centimeter scalp lac. Split lower lip. Bilateral abrasions to the knuckles consistent with closed-fist strikes. Open fracture to the left tibia—visible bone protrusion lateral shin, splinted in field, distal pulse present before and after splint placement, foot warm, cap refill under two seconds."
You groaned, voice slurred but sharp with irritation as you pressed the blood-soaked pad tighter to your temple, "I told you guys to take me to Presby."
One of the EMTs exhaled through gritted teeth, exhausted. "Ma'am, please, this was the closest hospital."
John Shen's brows shot up as he glanced at the shredded knuckles and the blood on your lip, "You got into a fight with a man?"
Despite the temple blood trailing warm down the side of your face, you turned your head just enough to flash a crooked, drunken smirk. "You should see the other guy."
Your friend, Nicole, breathless and disheveled beside the gurney rail, immediately jumped in, "He pushed me off the bar while I was dancing. I was fine—she really didn't have to—"
"Shut up, Nic," you muttered, eyes half-lidded but fierce. "The bastard had it coming."
Jack's mouth twitched into a smirk as he palpated carefully around the temple wound, gaze laser-focused, "I like her."
Ellis leaned in, penlight already out as she held your cheek steady, guiding the light over your pupils, "What about the head lac? Did you fall into glass?"
You huffed a humorless laugh, "No. He clipped me with one of those ugly rings he was wearing."
You shifted, trying to lift the bloody gauze pad from your temple.
"I'm not concussed," you assured. "I just need some water."
"Keep that dressing on, ma'am," the second EMT said firmly, pushing the gauze back against your head.
The first nodded to the physician team.
"Intoxicated but alert and responsive, GCS 15. Oriented to questions. Respiration's normal, O2 sats 99, blood pressure 128 over 82, pulse 112 sinus tach, likely secondary to ethanol, stress response, and blood loss. Pupils equal and reactive. Denies loss of consciousness."
"Open fracture site dressed with sterile wet gauze, leg immobilized with vacuum splint, bleeding at temple controlled with direct pressure," the second EMT added. "No narcotics administered en route because patient repeatedly stated she doesn't feel any pain and remained hemodynamically stable."
That made Dr. Shen glance up sharply."No pain?"
The EMT gave a grim look, "None. Not even when we aligned the leg."
You shrugged, "I got a high tolerance."
"Yeah, adrenaline and alcohol'll do that to you," Dr. Abbott confirmed.
Ellis's eyes flicked up, "Name?"
Your gaze immediately shot to the ceiling.
The EMT gave a helpless shrug, "She's refusing to state. Friend won't provide it either."
Nicole pressed her lips together apologetically and stayed silent.
You let out a sigh, muttering, "My husband'll kill me if he finds out."
John gave a short incredulous scoff, partly joking, "What, does he work here or something?"
"Yes."
Ellis deadpanned, already reaching for the side rail as they turned toward Trauma One, "That is the least of your worries right now. We need your name."
A drunken chuckle escaped your split lip, "Jane Doe."
Jack huffed a laugh of his own, then his voice snapped back into crisp command. "Let's stabilize the leg, pressure bag fluids, trauma labs, type and cross. Head strike plus temple lac buys her a one-way ticket to CT soon as she's secure."
The team surged forward, gurney rattling down the corridor at top speed.
As they whipped past the central desk, Dana stopped dead in her tracks, expression twisting into one of concern.
"(y/n)? The hell you doin' here, kid?"
At the sound of your name, you groaned, allowing your head to fall back against the gurney as it disappeared into Trauma One.
"Looks like we got a name," Jack smirked, quickly lowering the rail on his side.
"Goddamnit, Dana..." you huffed.
.
.
.
Up at Orthopedics, the air still carried that sterile, metallic chill unique to post-op corridors—chlorhexidine, cautery smoke ghosts, and the faint rubber scent of fresh gloves.
Dr. Brendon Park strode out of the OR like a storm front in navy scrubs, mask already long gone, hair still slick despite the cap he'd just stripped off.
Behind him trailed a small cluster of medical students, all of them bright-eyed in the way only the deeply sleep-deprived and painfully ambitious could be.
Brendon, meanwhile, looked about as thrilled as a man walking behind his own casket.
"Post-op for BKA," he said flatly, voice clipped and fast enough that pens nearly scratched through notebook paper, "is not complicated unless you make it complicated. Serial neurovascular checks of the residual limb. Monitor flap perfusion, capillary refill at the skin edges, temperature, color changes, any duskiness that suggests ischemia."
He calmly turned the corner, gait smooth and to-the-point like that of a dormant predator.
"Dressing stays clean, dry, and intact unless there's strike-through. Rigid removable dressing or immediate postoperative prosthesis if PM&R clears it. Elevation for edema control in the first twenty-four hours, but don't leave the knee in flexion unless you enjoy flexion contractures."
He cut a look over his shoulder so sharp it could have opened skin.
"And if you forget early prone positioning and aggressive hip and knee extension exercises, congratulations, you just bought your patient a future revision."
The residents murmured frantic notes.
Brendon hated this part of the job.
Not the surgery—never the surgery.
The amputation had been clean, efficient, textbook: posterior flap preserved, tibial cut beveled, fibula transected proximal to the tibia, myodesis secure, hemostasis immaculate.
No, what he hated was this.
The teaching.
The hand-holding.
The dead-eyed terror in learners who somehow survived anatomy and clinicals only to stand here blinking like livestock.
Teaching hospital, he reminded himself bitterly. Comes with the territory.
Without warning, he pivoted mid-stride, nearly causing the MS3 closest to him to trip over her own clogs.
"You," he snapped, fixing her with a stare. "Hypothetical. POD one, BKA patient spikes tachycardia, increasing pain out of proportion, tense posterior flap, drainage darkening under the dressing. Next step."
The student froze.
Actually froze.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Her pupils went wide.
Brendon stared at her for one beat, then another, jaw flexing.
"Well?" he said curtly. "Go on. Quit wasting my time."
"I—I'd probably increase the opioid dose and maybe loosen the ace wrap to reduce—"
He cut her off with a sharp exhale through his nose.
"No," His tone was dry enough to desiccate tissue. "The next step is immediate dressing takedown to inspect the stump. Assess compartment tension, evacuate hematoma if present, and get the patient back to the OR for emergent decompression or hemostasis if there's any question of vascular compromise. Pain out of proportion after amputation is not treated by loosening bandages."
The student went pink with humiliation.
Brendon had already turned away, uninterested.
They rounded the corner into the Orthopedics charge station, the fluorescent buzz louder here over the drone of printers and distant telemetry alarms.
Charge nurse Sally was just hanging up the phone, expression pinched.
"Park," she called, "ED just called up a gnarly open tibial fracture. Sounds like a grade III, stepped on in some kind of bar fight. They're asking if you want to come take a look."
Brendon scoffed, already snagging the chart from the BKA he'd just finished.
He uncapped his pen and scribbled quick postoperative orders across the margin.
"Tell them to irrigate, start cefazolin and gent, tetanus if needed, splint, and wait." His tone was dismissive, eyes never lifting from the page. "I've got better things to do."
Then the elevator chimed.
A soft, ordinary ding.
But it sliced clean through the station noise.
The doors slid apart.
Nicole stepped out.
Brendon's pen stopped moving.
His head snapped up so fast the residents actually flinched.
His brows drew together instantly, dark and severe, eyes narrowing with a speed that telegraphed something far rarer than annoyance.
Recognition.
And then something colder.
Nicole.
Your best friend.
The two of you were supposed to be downtown right now, out celebrating her birthday.
For one suspended, electric second, the entire floor seemed to go still around him.
What the fuck was she doing here?
The instant Brendon's eyes locked with Nicole's, every trace of color drained out of her face.
Her mouth dropped open.
"Oh, shit."
The curse came out in a frantic hiss, far louder than she probably intended, and then she lunged for the elevator panel, jabbing the close door button with panicked, repeated stabs of her thumb.
Brendon moved before the doors even started to slide.
"Nicole!"
His voice cracked through the Orthopedics floor like a rifle shot.
Every resident at the charge station went rigid.
Sally's brows shot nearly to her hairline.
No one—no one—had heard that much raw emotion in Brendon Park's voice in years.
Not anger, exactly. Something sharper. Hotter.
Something terrifyingly close to fear.
He abandoned the chart in his hand without a second thought, pages fluttering against the counter as he crossed the distance in three furious strides.
His palm slammed between the narrowing doors with enough force to trigger the sensor, metal panels shuddering back open.
Nicole winced.
Brendon's face was taut.
"What the hell are you doing here?" The words came rapid-fire, clipped with fury. "Where the hell is (y/n)?"
Nicole's eyes darted left, then right, like she could physically outrun the question.
"I—I was just looking for the cafeteria," she blurted. "I got turned around."
Brendon's expression somehow got darker.
He leaned in, voice low and dangerous, every syllable razor precise.
"You know damn well that's not what I'm asking." His jaw flexed. "Why are you in a hospital, Nicole? Why aren't you out with my wife like you're supposed to be?"
She clammed up so fast it was almost audible.
Her eyes dropped.
Dodged.
Brendon barked her name again, louder this time. "Nicole."
Her chin lifted in stubborn apology, "I was sworn to secrecy."
Brendon's eyes widened.
"What do you mean sworn to secrecy?! What the hell happened?!" he snapped. "Is she hurt?!"
He stepped closer, voice dropping into something so cold it made even Sally flinch from across the desk.
"Nicole, so help me God..."
But she held.
Not a word.
Not a single word.
Brendon stared at her for one searing, vibrating beat, chest rising once, sharply.
Then he let the doors close.
The second the elevator sealed shut, he pivoted on his heel and stormed for the stairwell so fast the residents had to flatten themselves against the wall to avoid getting clipped by his shoulder.
Sally watched him go, wide-eyed.
The med students stood frozen in his wake, mouths parted.
Now that wasn't new.
This was Dr. Park the brilliant, merciless orthopedic shark who shredded residents for sport.
This was blood in the water.
And he was already hunting the source.
.
.
.
He hit the ED level in a blur of motion that made the elevator look lazy.
Fifteen flights should have left any normal person winded.
Brendon barely seemed to notice.
The stairwell door slammed open hard enough to ricochet off the wall as he strode into the chaos of PTMC's emergency department, eyes cutting through the movement with ruthless efficiency.
He scanned for one thing only:
Dana's blonde hair.
He didn't see it.
As Princess swept past carrying a stack of warm blankets, he turned sharply enough to stop her in her tracks.
"Where's your charge nurse?"
Princess blinked, eyes going wide.
He had never once, in the handful of ortho consults that dragged him down here, acknowledged her existence beyond the patient in question.
The sheer fact that he was speaking directly to her left her momentarily stunned.
Three seconds.
That was all the patience he gave her.
When she still hadn't answered, Brendon scoffed under his breath and moved on.
Across the pod, a cluster of male nurses and a couple of security guards stood in a loose knot, voices low and animated.
The second Brendon's expression came into view, the older nurses instantly read the room and scattered like prey.
Everyone except Ahmad.
New enough not to know better.
He looked up, grin easy. "Hey, man, you want in on the pool?"
Brendon ignored him, using the slightly raised vantage point near the desk to keep scanning the room.
Ahmad kept going anyway.
"Female in Trauma One. Bar fight, won't give her name but says her husband works here." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Abbott's the favorite since he admitted her, but weirdly enough Robby's pulling as a dark horse."
And then Brendon saw Dana.
He was moving before Ahmad finished the sentence.
Dana barely had time to look up before Brendon was in front of her, looming, eyes dark with something far more dangerous than his usual surgical arrogance.
She blinked once, surprised, then smirked, "Sally just called. Said you denied the tib-fib consult."
"I've got something more important," he bit out.
Dana folded her arms. "What can I do for ya, Shark?"
His response was curt, immediate.
"Park."
The smirk slipped.
"Did you admit a woman with the last name Park? Brown skin, brown eyes, curly hair." His throat bobbed once. "About this tall."
He gestured roughly to his own shoulder.
Dana frowned, already mentally running the board.
"No Parks."
His brows drew together so hard it almost looked painful, "Double check."
She held his stare, then shook her head once, firm, "No Parks in the ED today with that description."
For one second, pure frustration flashed across his face.
Then Dana's expression shifted.
"...Though," she said slowly, realization dawning, "there is that woman in Trauma One. Same description. The tib-fib from the bar fight."
The words hit him like blunt force trauma.
Brendon went still.
His heart dropped so violently it felt like it hit somewhere near his knees.
Shit.
You were the tib-fib.
Without another word, he turned and strode hard toward Trauma One, every step faster than the one before, fury and fear now fully braided into something lethal.
Dana watched him go, then slowly turned her head toward Ahmad across the room.
A grin spread across her face.
"Ahmad," she called.
He looked up.
She jerked her chin toward the retreating orthopedic surgeon. "Put fifty on Park the Shark for me."
.
.
.
The doors to Trauma One slammed inward so hard they rebounded off the stopper.
Both you and Jack Abbott jumped.
"For fuck's sake!" you yelped, your hand flying to your chest hard enough to jostle the blood-pressure cuff around your arm.
Abbott looked up from where he'd been checking the gauze at your temple, blatant displeasure flattening his mouth.
"Well," he drawled dryly, "look who finally came down from his ivory tower to join the rest of us."
Brendon didn't so much as glance at him.
His eyes found you.
Then your leg.
And every trace of color seemed to drain out of his face as his gaze landed on the mangled reality of your grade III open tibial fracture—the splint peeled back enough for the jagged cortical edge of tibia to protrude through torn skin and soaked dressings.
"Jesus Christ, (y/n)..."
His stomach visibly dropped.
He was at your bedside in two strides, all sharp motion and barely restrained panic, hands hovering before settling into practiced purpose as he took in the injury.
The second you realized it was him, your eyes screwed shut.
"Nicole," you hissed under your breath, "I'm going to kill her."
Brendon's voice came fast, rougher than you'd heard in a while, "Are you okay? Did you hit your head? Any dizziness, nausea? Can you move your toes? What the fuck happened?"
At the sheer informality of the exchange, Abbott's brows drew together.
Then it clicked.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"No shit," he said, looking between the two of you with delighted disbelief. "This is him?"
Brendon's head snapped around so sharply his curls shifted over his forehead. "What do you mean, this is him?"
And then, against his better judgment, something hot and ugly curled low in his chest.
Jealousy.
You... alone in a room with Jack Abbott for God knew how long, while you were hurt and vulnerable and half-drunk.
Not that he thought you'd do anything.
But Abbott?
He was a psych case with a stethoscope.
You turned to Jack with a pleading look, silently begging him not to say a word.
His grin only widened.
"The ED's been runnin' a betting pool on who her husband is," he said, enjoying every syllable. "Ever since she let it slip he works here and refused to give us her last name."
Slowly, Brendon's stare slid back to you, laser-sharp.
You visibly deflated.
Your glare cut to Abbott, "This is coming out of your patient satisfaction score."
He shrugged with an amused huff, "Worth it."
At the door, he paused just long enough to toss over his shoulder, "I'll take it we've secured that ortho consult."
Brendon answered with nothing more than a grunt.
The door shut behind Abbott.
Silence.
And then Brendon erupted.
"You deliberately omitted your name so I couldn't find you?!"
You scoffed right back, temper flashing despite the throbbing in your temple, "Because I knew this is how you'd react! Brendon, I am not made of glass!"
He took in one short, incredulous breath, anger still sharp but fraying at the edges with fear.
"I have every goddamn right to react like this when I find out from someone else that my wife nearly snapped her leg in half!"
His eyes dropped to the injury again, horror freshening as if seeing it for the first time.
"What the hell happened?!"
You exhaled through your nose, "It was just an incident at a bar."
That somehow made him look more alarmed.
"(y/n)," he started, voice low and serious. "Tell me what happened. Did someone do this to you?"
You held his stare for a beat.
Then sighed.
"Nicole and I were out celebrating. She was dancing on the bartop, we were having a good time, and this random asshole shoved her off."
Brendon's jaw tightened.
"She fell hard," you continued. "Really hard. So I punched him in the face."
His eyes widened a fraction.
"Then we got into it. Fist fight, cops got called, crowd rushed, people started pushing, I got knocked down..."
You gestured vaguely toward the leg.
"Yada yada, here we are."
For a moment Brendon just stared at you.
Then he almost stammered, disbelief cracking through the anger, "You got into a fight... with a man?!"
Your bandaged knuckles and split lip suddenly made awful, perfect sense.
You blinked at him, "Why is everyone so surprised by that?"
"What the hell were you thinking?!"
"I was thinking about my friend!" you snapped. "She could've cracked her skull open because of that guy. You of all people have told me enough stories to know people get seriously hurt from way less."
He shot back immediately, "Nicole isn't the one with the broken leg!"
You folded your arms over your chest and turned your face away.
"I'm not arguing with you about this," you said curtly. "It's already done. So you can either be my husband and leave until I find another doctor, or you can be Dr. Park and do the damn consult."
That hit.
It showed only in the brief tightening around his eyes, the smallest fracture in his expression, but it hit.
He wasn't trying to be that guy.
He'd spent the last ten minutes wondering if his wife was visiting a friend... or lying unidentified in the morgue.
And all because you'd hidden your name so he wouldn't get upset.
He exhaled once, slow and controlled, and forcibly redirected every ounce of emotion into the place he trusted most:
The medicine.
His gaze returned to your leg.
"Alright," he said, tone leveling into pure surgeon.
He snapped on gloves.
"I need you to answer everything honestly. Any numbness in the foot before EMS splinted it?"
"They already asked—"
"Humor me."
At his curt tone, you scoffed, but complied, "...No."
He palpated gently along the exposed margins of the wound, assessing the soft tissue and contamination. "Pain when you stretch your big toe?"
"A little."
He checked distal pulse at the dorsalis pedis, then capillary refill in your toes.
"Good distal perfusion. Toes are warm."
His fingers moved with meticulous care over the deformity.
"Obvious displaced open tibial shaft fracture, likely with associated fibular fracture. Significant periosteal stripping but the posterior soft-tissue hinge looks partially intact. No gross vascular compromise on exam, but I still need to rule out occult injury."
None of that sounded remotely reassuring.
He continued, snatching up the chart Abbott left and glancing it over.
"This needs urgent irrigation and debridement in the OR. Looks like broad-spectrum IV antibiotics were already started, but we'll need repeat tetanus verification, then likely external fixation. We'll also monitor closely for evolving compartment syndrome given the crush component."
You blinked at him.
Half of that might as well have been another language.
He finished the exam, stripped off his gloves with a sharp snap, and let out a breath.
Then his whole posture softened.
"Look," he said quietly.
Your arms loosened a little.
"I'm sorry for how I came in," he said first. "I'm sorry for how I spoke. And I'm sorry that you felt like you had to hide from me to keep the peace."
The anger had burned off, leaving only the truth beneath it.
"You scared the hell out of me," he admitted, voice lower now. "For ten minutes I didn't know if you were in the ED, visiting someone, or downstairs in the morgue. I was furious because I was terrified, and no one was telling me anything."
He rounded the gurney and gently took your hand, his thumb gliding carefully over the bandage wrapped around your raw knuckles.
"You are a strong woman, (y/n). You wouldn't be married to me if you weren't," he murmured. "But strong doesn't mean invincible."
His eyes lifted to yours, steady and sincere.
"And as your husband, it is my job to worry. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you when I could've done something to prevent it."
Guilt curled warm and uncomfortable in your stomach.
Your arms fully uncrossed.
He reached up, cupping your cheek with a careful hand, thumb brushing beneath the uninjured side of your lip.
"But I'll try to be... softer about it," he said, the word sounding begrudging but genuine. "But you can't avoid me. Not in an emergency, and especially not when you're hurt."
You caved.
Slowly, you nodded.
For Brendon, the faint curve that touched his mouth was practically a beaming grin.
"Thank you," he muttered.
Then he leaned in and kissed you.
Soft.
Tender.
A world apart from the fury he'd entered with.
You hummed in pleasant surprise against his lips, the corner of your mouth quirking when he pulled back.
"Trying to bring up your patient satisfaction scores, Dr. Park?"
A quiet chuckle escaped him, forehead touching yours.
🦪ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: I had a fight with myself yesterday, but I'm not gonna give up writing, this is one of my best hobbies. I badly want to publish a short story/novel in the future. But to get to high motivational level I need to start small and write, write, and read, read, read. Hope you enjoy more Bucky Headcannons
🦪ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: fluff-generated content, mentions of guns and violence below the cut. MDNI
Bucky is an awful dancer, sometimes his left foot becomes his right foot or that he has no rhythm or flare...but when he gets into a different mood without any validation, he can suddenly pull you into a space where you both can get crazy, dancing with the rhythm and flare you both understand.
Bucky when the music slows dance, he pulls you close to him, heads resting each other and swaying side to side on the slow rhythm of the music.
Bucky sometimes randomly touches you, bluffing and kidding around.
Bucky loves resting his head on your arm then drapes his arm across your body. It's moments like this when the world is cruel and he just wants to be small for a change.
Bucky has been in army bases most of his life, and he is a highly-trained fighter and assassin. So he knows a great deal of things about weapons and you are too curious for your own good and immerse yourself when you go to shooting ranges, and even ask him to teach you some training moves during sparring sessions.
Bucky even teaches you how to disassemble and assemble a gun.
Bucky as a loving and protective boyfriend, he also teaches you how to spot danger and how to act based on its level. Should you run or should you kick him in the nuts and slice his neck when a knife points toward you?
Bucky is cool, but not as cool as you knowing how to land darts on the marks.
Bucky says “good”, in that restrictive, dry tone when you land bullets on the marks. When you look at him gleefully, he just sends you a nod with that dead, focused look in his eyes.
Bucky when all gets worse, it gets worst for the suspects, the most important thing is your safety.
Summary: Working as a governess in Summerhall for the two young princesses, you see how things have changed after the death of Lady Dyanna Dayne, but you try your best to change things... And perhaps convince an absent father to be more present in his children's life?
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x governess!reader
Warnings: 18+, mature content, child neglect, oral sex (fem receiving)
Words: 8.3k
A/N: this was quite a lot to write (the last part took me like a week to work out the logistics and then Tumblr fucked my final edit and I had to do this all over again...) but I really hope y'all enjoy it!
\_/
Summerhall has quite changed since the death of Lady Dayne.
Not that there’s been too much of a change for you: Daella and Rhae are still young and need a governess, now more than ever.
And yet, even after a few years, you can still tell the difference.
The corridors feel colder. The halls darker, even when the days are bright and sunlight streams in from the windows. Laughter is a rare sound these days, and a duller one. A fog of misery looms over the residence, and it’s infected everyone like a deadly disease.
Daeron is so lost in the bottle that sometimes you worry one day he won’t be able to find his way back up. Aerion has become something ruthless, something… terrifyingly uncaring; something that you don’t dare to get too close to. Aegon’s fear of him tears your heart apart, and when you find him in the library – where he hides during most of his free time – you try your best to bring back the childish spark that used to light his eyes.
He wouldn’t feel so lonely if Aemon were still home, but he’s not come back for a while now, and you’re not sure if he ever will. The maester business, Aegon told you once. You should take that as a blessing – maybe this plague won’t touch him, away from Summerhall – but part of you misses that small child running around the corridors with his younger brother with wooden swords and screams of joy filling the halls. You just hope he doesn’t feel too lonely at the Citadel.
The two girls don’t seem to be yet affected by this curse – if you forget the incident with Rhae and the love potion… – and you try your best to keep it so.
And Prince Maekar…
Well, you don’t see him much these days. Not that you ever saw him much more before.
He’s always been a pretty private person, and nowadays he’s often locked in his chambers. Probably tending to his responsibilities, possibly still in mourning. Everyone in the household knows better than to disturb him when the door is closed shut. After all, despite the hard times that the Seven Kingdoms are facing, you all still have an appreciation for life.
However, in those rare moments you see him in the corridors of the residence, it’s hard to ignore the heaviness that weighs on his shoulders, heavier that the name he gained during the Blackfyre rebellion. Sometimes, when he strides past you, hands behind his back and eyebrows constantly furrowed in a stern expression, you forget that he’s younger than his brother.
The heir to the throne was the first one who had managed a smile on his younger brother’s face, after the death of Lady Dayne. In his presence, the weight on his brother’s shoulders seems to ease ever so slightly. However, he doesn’t often stop by Summerhall. His duties as Hand of the King keep him in King’s Landing, as they should.
Lucky him…
“Miss?”
You look up from your book open in front of you and immediately realize it’s gotten quite late.
The candles’ flickering flames dimly light the room in which you normally spend your evenings. Daella sits in front of you, her needlework forgotten to the side while she gently caresses Rhae’s white hair, her head resting peacefully on her sister’s lap. Eyes closed, her chest rises and falls regularly, her limbs limp hanging from the edge of the couch. How long has she been asleep?
“I think it’s time for bed,” Daella says with that telling tone of voice that shows her regal birth, but that still holds some of her youth.
“Indeed,” you agree, closing the book and taking Rhae in your arms.
She’s getting heavier, you ponder when your back aches as you pick her up. Or I’m getting older.
You hold her close to her chest, her small body breathing softly against yours, and, with a candle in your empty hand, head to the chamber of the girls with Daella close by your side. She’s started to walk with her chin up at all times, back straight and a fierce look in her eyes.
And yet, when you look at her, you still see the little girl who used to play with dolls under the table of the Great Hall.
You dread the moment she will become a woman, but it eases your worry knowing you will still be by her side when that moment arrives.
The chamber of the girls, unlike the dark and freezing corridors, is warm – lit by a dancing fire that covers everything in the room with a golden light. While Daella starts to get ready for bed on her own, you quickly change her sister into her nightgown. Her half-asleep body and your experience aid you in the struggle and Rhae is soon tucked in bed with her favourite doll.
You pause to look at her for a moment, at her peaceful face that’s already started to drool on the pillow. You tuck a few strands of white hair behind her ear and leave a quick peck on her temple.
Then you walk to Daella and help her out of her daydress.
As you brush her hair, you notice a slight frown in her expression. “What’s on your mind, my lady?”
“Father says he’ll be leaving soon.”
You nod. “I heard something of the sort.”
“For a tourney, in Ashford Meadows.”
Her small fists clench around the fabric of her nightgown. You gently pass your fingers through her hair to untie any knot.
“A tourney such as this is not something that a young girl like you and your sister should witness yet.”
“Gwyn Ashford is not much older than me and I bet she’ll be in attendance,” she bites back, pouting her lips.
“Well, the tourney is in her honour…”
The face of the girl suddenly lights up. “Maybe I could ask Father to have a tourney in my honour!”
You smile gently. “In a couple years, perhaps.”
She turns to you, eyes wide and brimming with hope. “Do you think he would say yes?”
Knowing the prince, you doubt he would. Even when the news of the tourney at Ashford Meadows had just reached Summerhall, you heard the other servants whispering… how Prince Maekar despised the idea, how he had begged both his father and his brother not to go, how abrasive he’d become since then.
But who were you to crush the dreams of a little girl looking at you like that?
“I’m sure he would do anything for you.”
Before Aemon was sent to the Citadel, you remember the long discussions in Maekar’s chambers. The screaming and yelling that seemed to reach every corner of the house.
I will not force my son to leave his home!
And yet…
Daella jumped out of her stool and into bed, tucking herself under the wool blankets as best she could with a bright smile on her face. You walked near her bed and your hands, out of habit, fixed the blankets right under her chin, like you had to do for so many years – first with your younger siblings, then with all the children that followed.
“You don’t have to do that anymore,” she points out, pouting her lips.
“I know.” You hesitate for a moment. “Sometimes I forget you’re almost a grown-up now.”
Her smile gets even wider and that’s enough for the dull pain in your chest to ease up, ever so slightly.
“Goodnight, then.”
You take the candlestick on her night table and make your way to leave the room. But a tug at your skirts stops you. When you turn back around, Daella’s hand holds you in place with the stubbornness of a ten year old.
“What about the lullaby?”
A small smirk pulls your lips. “Oh, so you’re not too grown-up for lullabies?”
She shakes her head – hiding a shy smile under the blankets. With a soft giggle, you sit on the mattress next to her. “Very well.”
Closing your eyes, you hum the melody that’s written in your bones, that’s part of you like the blood running in your veins. You may not know many things about the future – what’s to come? What awaits you tomorrow? – but in all this uncertainty, you’re sure that this melody – and the words that you now softly sing to Princess Daella as her eyelids grow heavier and heavier – will always stay with you, no matter what.
You watch as her body falls deeper into the bed, her breathing becomes regular and her hand finally lets go of your skirts. When it does, you tuck her hand back under the blankets. It might be your imagination, but you feel her fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours for a moment, before they relax against the pillow.
As your heart wells with love, a smile grows on your lips.
“Sleep well, princess,” you whisper, as you stand back up with the candlestick in your hands.
Its single, small flame is the only light in the dark room. In the fireplace remain a bunch of dying embers amidst the ashes, on which you throw a small log that should keep the room warm for the night. As you scout the room, you put away a couple of dolls and toys forgotten on the floor.
“These girls would probably forget their head if it wasn’t stuck to their necks…” you mutter with a smile while you’re stepping outside the chamber, closing the door behind you.
“Like their brothers.”
“Fuck!”
The startled word escapes your mouth before you can stop it; before you can realise who’s standing next to you in the dark corridor, his white hair and beard almost glimmering in the dim light of the candle you hold in your hand.
“My Lord.” With your heart still racing in your chest and drumming in your ears, you quickly bow, keeping your eyes stuck to the floor beneath your feet. “I didn’t see you there.”
You wait for a reproach, or something worse. After all, you did just curse in front of one of the princes of the realms. Accidentally, of course, but still…
However, nothing comes.
The prince remains silent.
After a few moments, as your fear slowly subdues, you dare to look up. His gaze is focused on the door you just closed, as if he could somehow look past the wood and see into the chamber. His usual frown’s abandoned his features, leaving behind a pained expression that fills your own heart with ache.
“They’re both asleep now,” you say with a small smile.
He nods but doesn't move.
You hesitate before speaking again: “Did you want to go in, my lord?”
“No,” he quickly utters, shaking his head. “I heard someone singing and I thought–”
He stops himself before he can finish the sentence. Nevertheless, what he meant to say is not lost on you. It's easy to see it in his eyes, fixed on something that's not there – a ghost of a memory you can't see.
“It was just me, my lord.”
“Of course,” he quickly nods. His gaze stops but a moment on you before he turns away and starts striding down the corridor.
As he walks away, the image of Daella's frown comes back to you like a punch in the gut. And so does all the pain you've seen growing on the children's faces for the past few years.
All this grief they have to face… alone.
Before you can stop yourself, before he turns the corner, you open your mouth.
“The princesses would be very happy to see you tomorrow, my lord!”
For a mere moment – so brief you might've imagined – Prince Maekar falters his stride at the edge of the circle of light created by your candle. Then, without a word, he turns right and disappears into the darkness.
You stand still for a moment, pondering how could a father simply forsake his blood like that, until a drop of melted wax falls on your fingers.
“Fuck…”
—
“Lady Rhae, be careful with those plants!”
A few feet away in the garden, the young princess nods silently as she carefully takes some purple berries from a thorny bush and throws them in her basket, almost overflowing with all kinds of small, colorful fruits.
“Aren’t those poisonous?” Daella asks as her sister tries to sneakily put a handful of black berries in her pocket and fails miserably.
“I’ll confiscate them when we go back in,” you assure the princess next to you.
“If she doesn’t eat them before that,” Daella mumbles, her attention moving away from Rhae and going back to her embroidery.
You take a deep breath and stifle a laugh. Sitting on a stone bench in the gardens, your focus shifts between the series of red stitches that the older princess next to you is monotonously sewing into a piece of black linen, and the younger girl sprinting from one wild berry bush to the other, leaving a trail of smashed pink and blue behind.
Every now and then, when Daella’s lost in her work enough not to care for conversation and Rhae isn’t watching too keenly a poisonous plant, you close your eyes and revel in the warm rays of the sun. These past few weeks, the weather has been a mystery – more than usual, that is. Warm days follow cold nights, clear nights follow rainy days, in a confusing sequence that it seems has also left the maesters puzzled. So, whenever the clouds open up, you try to enjoy the sunlight as best you can.
Sunny days remind you of a time in your life you have almost forgotten.
A time when you and your siblings ran in gardens just as beautiful as the ones of Summerhall. A time when the world smiled on your family, when the future still held hope for all of you.
Before everything was destroyed, and you were left alone in the ashes of a house no one dared to speak of. A house whose name you don’t even remember.
“Father!”
When Rhae’s voice reaches your ears, your gaze immediately goes to her. The young princess’ basket has been thrown to the ground, berries scattered all over, as she’s sprinting to the tall figure dressed in black that stands under one of the entry arches to the gardens.
The surprise of seeing Prince Maekar there – outside, nonetheless – is enough to freeze you for a moment or two. Thoughts start filling your head: did he truly listen to you? Or is this just a coincidence that he’s there after your brief conversation – even though you’re not sure you can call it that, given how little he had spoken?
It’s only when his gaze stops on you that you manage to pull yourself to your feet and curtsy with your head bowed, before sitting back down.
Rhae throws herself against his legs, hugging them tight, and you see the prince slightly falter in his stance under the mighty force of the small impact. You press your lips together, trying to restrain a smile.
“Father, I’ve picked so many berries!” Rhae’s eyes shine when she looks up at her father. “Do you want to see them?”
Even though he doesn’t smile, his expression softens as he places a hand on his youngest’s head and gently caresses her hair. “Of course.”
With a smile that could light up the entirety of Summerhall, Rhae takes his hand in her two small ones and drags him strenuously to the spilled basket. She’s not bothered by the mess; she simply starts picking back up the berries, telling her father the name of each and every one of them. The prince crouches next to her – the hint of a pained look crossing his features as he does – and listens carefully, every now and then furrowing his eyebrows when she shows him a poisonous berry that he is quick – and yet ever so gentle – to take out of her hands.
Still sitting at the bench, you notice a hesitation in Daella’s stitching. Her attention has left the embroidery in her hands, her focus on the scene in front of her instead.
“Why don’t you go to your sister?” you whisper in her ear when she misses another stitch. “The embroidery can wait until tomorrow.”
She looks up at you, a pleading look that slowly shifts into a grateful one. “Really?”
As soon as you nod, Daella’s just as quick as her sister to leave behind everything to sprint next to her father. When she appears at his side, Maekar doesn’t say anything. His hand, however, reaches for his older daughter’s and pulls her into his side.
From the bench, you watch for a while the three of them. The smile on Daella’s face, the laughter coming from Rhae as she crushes some berries in her hands. The soft look in Maekar’s eyes, the hint of the faintest smile on his lips.
As a feeling of warmth fills your chest, you avert your gaze. You shouldn’t be the one watching this. You take Daella’s embroidery and, carefully, undo her mistakes. However, you can’t help but steal a couple glances.
And every now and then, when you look up, you meet Prince Maekar's gaze. There almost seems to be a certain softness in his eyes even when he looks at you.
You quiet down the traitorous jump in your chest.
My eyesight must’ve gotten quite worse lately…
—
Surprisingly, Maekar spends the rest of the day with his daughters.
You keep away as best you can, trying to leave them to enjoy each other’s company, still keeping a watchful eye as you’re used to.
He’s not very talkative, but he doesn’t need to be: Rhae talks enough for all three of them, and when she’s busy munching her dinner, Daella seizes the opportunity to inform him of her embroidery works and her studies. A couple times she tries to start a conversation regarding the tourney at Ashford Meadows, but each time the prince answers with a mumble or a grunt.
Daella’s pouting expression, luckily, doesn’t ever last too long when that happens.
At one point, the two princesses start to bicker over the size of their desserts – Rhae’s quite convinced hers is smaller than Daella’s, while her older sister considers that only logical since she needs less food, given her younger age. You promptly settle the quarrel, and when peace is brought back to the table, you notice Maekar watching you from his chair.
In his ever present frown, there’s a certain degree of amazement in his expression.
You hide a smile behind a spoonful of pudding.
He stays even when the girls head to their bedchamber, helping to tuck Rhae in while you take care of the older princess. When the two girls ask for their usual lullaby, Maekar moves away. You expect him to leave – there’s not much else for him to do there and, having spent most of the day with his daughters, you imagine he’ll have a lot to do to catch up on his duties.
However, his steps halt in the doorway.
As you sing, you can almost feel his silent presence looming behind you, distracting just enough for you to lose the rhythm a couple of times, but not enough to ruin the melody. It doesn’t take long for the two princesses to fall asleep, and when you finally turn to head to your room, you find him still standing there, watching you closely. You lower your head, ignoring his attention as best you can, and take the lit candlestick on Rhae’s night table.
He moves away when you leave the room, just enough so you can pass through, and carefully closes the door behind.
When the latch clicks, the silence stretches for a moment. Maybe it’s just an impression, however – in the darkness lit only by the candle in your hands – the prince seems to be standing close to you, closer than he should.
“I’m…” – you clear your throat, suddenly dry – “I’m glad you took some time to see the princesses today, my lord.”
He nods, his hands behind his back as his eyebrows furrow slightly. “I had no idea Rhae was so keen on plants.”
“Yes, she’s had me read A collection of plants and roots of the Seven Kingdoms to her at least a dozen times, before she was able to read it by herself.” You smile softly at the memory. “But she still prefers dolls to other books.”
A small smile pulls Maekar’s lips upwards. “Understandably so.”
Another moment of pause. The candle flickers between the two of you, slowly burning away.
You should go to your room.
It’s been a long day.
And it’s quite late.
And yet, as the moments pass, you stand still.
As does the prince.
There’s something hanging in the air, something that needs to be said – or done – and that holds you in place.
“I…” Maekar stops – a certain hesitation in his voice, so unlike him. “I will visit them more often.”
You smile, keeping your gaze low.
“I don’t know how much time I will have with the preparations for that bloody tourney… and Daeron’s so adamant on not participating–”
He stops once more, taking a deep breath. When he speaks again, the hints of anger in his voice have faded. “But I will try.”
“I’m sure they will appreciate your presence in any case, my lord.”
He nods and a relieved sigh escapes his lips. The flame in front of you flickers erratically for a second. As it does, a thought crosses your mind.
“My lord–”
The two words escape your mouth before you can stop them. You hold your tongue before you can continue, but you can feel the way Maekar tenses next to you. The way he straightens his sloching posture and pulls his shoulders to gain back his height. Almost as if he knows that, whatever you're about to say, he won’t like.
You hope he will let the matter drop, given you have said nothing that could earn a reproach. You hope he will simply bid you good night and let it go.
“What is it?”
How foolish of you to think he’d do that…
You tighten your fingers around the brass of the candlestick, the metal just as cold as Maekar’s voice.
You could always lie: say the first thing that crosses your mind and hope for the best; hope that he will believe you. He might be a prince, a Targaryen, blood of the dragon and all that, but he’s not a mind reader…
You’ve never been a good liar though, not even when it meant hiding from the people who wanted to see your house burn, or saving your own skin.
And the unuttered words burn in your throat, needing to be let out…
So you take a deep breath, bracing for the impact as you look up at him. “Will you find some time for Aegon as well?”
Maekar stares at you, his eyebrows more furrowed than usual.
“After Aemon’s been sent to the Citadel,” you continue in the silence that follows, swallowing down your fears as best you can, “I worry he’s been left quite alone. Perhaps too much.”
“He has his brothers.”
“They’re much older than him, my lord,” you point out as gently as you can. “And they–”
You stop yourself once again and his eyes sharpen with rage. “They what?”
Shaking your head, you lower your gaze for a moment.
And they’re either drunken or cruel fools; those are the words that dance on the tip of your tongue. A harsh truth, one that you’re sure Maekar’s already well aware of… he doesn’t need you to remind him of his sons’ failures.
You take a sharp breath and meet his gaze with a pleading look. “He could use his father, every now and then.”
“Aegon’s no longer a boy,” Maekar quickly replies, turning his head to the side to avoid your gaze but you’re quick to move back in his line of sight, a bewildered expression on your face.
“He’s but nine–”
“He’s to squire for Daeron at the tourney,” he interrupts you, with a tone that brooks no arguments as he starts walking away. “He’s old enough and it will be good for him, toughening up on his own.”
“But–”
“He’s my son!”
His voice echoes loudly in the corridor and your first thought goes to the two girls in the nearby room, hoping they aren’t woken up by the commotion. Seeing the way Maekar closes his eyes for a moment and clenches his jaw, you imagine he’s had your same thought.
Only when you don’t hear any noise coming from the princesses’ room do you allow yourself to really take in those words.
He’s my son.
Meaning, he’s not yours – a reality that in brief moments escapes your mind.
Therefore, it’s not your place to advise on how to raise him.
“Of course, my lord. Forgive me.”
You bow your head, taking a step back and feeling something cold spread from the depths of your chest through your entire body. The corridor is suddenly freezing, the candle almost out. You’ve stalled long enough. “I shall bid you good night.”
You curtsy as quickly as you can and turn away, heading to your room a couple of feet away. As you open the door and are about to step in, you give in to your weak heart’s request and glance down the corridor.
With the light of the moon coming through the window, you see Maekar’s silhouette in the shadows, standing right where you left him.
A statue as dark and cold as obsidian.
Ignoring the tugging in your chest, you enter your room and close the door behind, just as the candle gives out.
—
Prince Maekar might not be many things.
Kind.
Patient.
Pleasant.
These qualities are not in his nature.
But he is a man of his word, and in the weeks before the tourney he manages to spend a little time every day with the princesses, time that spans from mere minutes to hours on end. The girls are obviously delighted by this sudden care from their father.
You’re… not as delighted.
Your nightly discussion is still fresh in your thoughts, a cold sting in your chest that hits you again every time Maekar appears. So, you keep to yourself whenever he's around – even more than you did before.
Worry fills you every day, thinking about the moment Maekar will go back to his usual ways – forgetting his children even exist – and how that will tear Rhae and Daella’s hearts to pieces.
But that’s not the only reason your stomach churns: the blatant attention Prince Maekar is paying to his daughters might go unnoticed for a while, however in the long run it could grow from a seed of resentment into a fiery hatred from his other neglected sons, especially the younger ones…
Sometimes, you catch glimpses of Aegon, hidden behind a hedge or a wall, spying on his father and sisters spending time together. Waves of emotions run on his young face, ever shifting when he looks at them. Envy, anger… But most of all, heartache.
That same expression twists his features when he’s told he and Daeron will have to leave for the tourney a couple of days before the rest of the family.
“They’ll have more time to settle in,” you heard Maekar a couple of days before – probably talking to the designated escort – while passing in front of his chambers, his voice clear even through the closed door. “And I don’t want to hear Daeron’s grievances all the way to fucking Ashford.”
It’s no surprise that, when they’re all ready to leave, neither of the princes can be found anywhere.
While Maekar shouts orders that reach every corner of Summerhall, you silently slip away, leaving Daella in charge of her sister for a short while. The corridors are filled with knights and Kingsguards, looking everywhere for Aegon. Passing them by with your head bowed, you head to the library. The old wood creaks when you push the door open and the smell of dust and old paper fills your senses.
You’re not surprised to find Aegon under the long table, a book in front of him and a dragon egg in his lap. You crouch, despite the slight pain in your knees, and wait silently next to him.
“Daeron’s a shit knight,” he mumbles after a while, pulling the egg closer to his chest. “He’ll do a shit job, get thrown off his horse immediately and I won’t be able to squire for him for more than one joust.”
“Perhaps he’ll do better than that.”
“Not with all the wine he drinks.”
You smile softly.
“I should stay home,” he continues, lowering his head and his long white hair falling in front of his eyes. “It’s not like father will notice if I’m not there.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” he replies with a decisive tone that reminds you of Prince Maekar. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
A moment of silence falls between you as you can hear the guards still running outside, their metal armours clanking along the corridors.
“Aegon?”
He turns his head to you ever so slightly, just enough to see you through his white strands, eyes starting to well up with tears. You swallow down the growing lump in your throat.
“Your father…” you pause for a second, gathering your thoughts, “is a difficult man. A harsh one at times. His life hasn’t been easy, and that’s sharpened his edges, more than he cares to admit. But he’s still your father, and you should never doubt his love for you.” You push a strand of hair behind his ears. “He’d be ready to go to war for you.”
“Really?”
You nod with a smile. “Really.”
There’s doubt in Aegon’s eyes as he searches your face. But as the moments pass, you can also see a glimmer of hope. And in this house of gloom, that’s more than you could’ve wished for.
“Now,” you pull yourself up, which earns another crack from your knees, “you have a tourney to head to, don’t you?”
Aegon sighs, closing the book and pulling himself up with the egg still in his hands. “If they managed to find Daeron.”
“I’m sure they did. Unlike you, he’s not very ingenious in his hiding places.”
“But you found me,” he points out as you both leave the library.
“Well,” you give him a playful push, “I know you very well.”
Finally, a smile opens up on his face and, while you walk down the corridors of the house, he takes your hand. You try to play it off, to silently treasure this moment that won’t last for long, but a smile escapes your control and pulls your lips upwards.
When you step outside, Daeron’s on his horse, a tired expression on his face and a wineskin to his lips. The Kingsguards are talking to Maekar, probably to inform him that they found his first-born in the cellar, given the stains of wine on his otherwise clean travelling clothes. As soon as his father appears in his line of sight, Aegon’s hand quickly lets go of yours.
“Please,” he says as he then hands you the dragon egg. “Take care of it while I’m gone.”
You take it with a nod, the scales that glimmer like metal in the sunlight cold to your touch. “Of course, my lord.”
As he runs back to his father, something shatters in your chest.
You want to run after him and take him back inside, to safety; the need to stop him is like a call to war impossible to ignore. And yet, you can’t do anything but stand still next to the princesses while Maekar puts a hand on his shoulder and says something that brings a small smile on Aegon’s face; as he’s helped onto his horse and, together with Daeron and their escort, rides away as the day starts burning brighter.
Taking a deep breath, you try to ease the fear that seems to have taken hold of you; the feeling something awful will happen.
He’s going to be fine.
It’s just a week’s journey.
Nothing could ever happen to him.
You keep repeating that to yourself, but it’s no help: dread has its claws dug in your chest and no intention of letting go.
Looking around in a desperate attempt to find something that could ground you, you meet Maekar's eyes. You hold his gaze for a few moments, seconds that seem to last a century, as you finally manage to breathe again.
If something does happen, he will tear the guilty party to pieces and burn their bones to ashes.
That cruel truth, somehow, manages to calm you down more than any other gentle lie you could’ve told yourself.
—
That night, you can’t sleep.
It doesn’t surprise you: worry has never aided your slumber. Your mind seems set on picturing the most terrible possibilities that await Aegon on the road to Ashford, from plausible encounters with thieves to impossible encounters with dangerous creatures that only exist in books and your morbid fantasy. Trying to focus on the good memories doesn’t help either; it only heightens the absence that you feel in your chest.
You’re not sure, however, what pushes you to your feet and out of your room.
Restlessness, perhaps. The need to do something – anything – when you have no control whatsoever on what could happen far away from where you stand.
You walk aimlessly through corridors and halls in the day dress that you didn't find the strength to take off, cold feet on cold tiles or soft carpets or rough bricks, your way lit only by the moonlight streaming from the windows. Another clear night. A good omen, one can hope.
But wasn’t there a clear night when your family was slaughtered?
You wrap yourself tightly in your shawl, shivers running down your spine. You’re not sure what scares you most: the memory of all that blood and violence – so vivid even after all these years, the taste of iron still stuck at the back of your throat; or the fact that some details of it are starting to slip away from you.
What colour were your mother’s eyes?
Which one of your brothers had the loudest laugh?
How old was your father when he was killed? Older than you are now? Or younger?
As you head back to your room, trying to outrun those questions that your memory is unable to answer, your steps take you past Prince Maekar’s chambers. A light shines through the open door, a knife of warmth cutting through the cold that stops you in your tracks.
You haven’t seen this door open in years.
Curiosity pushes you closer, but self-preservation stops you on the edge of the room. From the open crack, you can’t see much: the dying embers in the fireplace, fine carpets and the hints of an even finer collection of furniture, lit candles in silver candlesticks above the carved wood. You should probably – no, most definitely! – leave.
You knock on the door.
“What is it?”
“It's me, my lord.”
Silence is the only reply you hear.
He doesn't tell you to come in... but he doesn't tell you to leave either.
You push the door and slip inside. The chamber is smaller than you expected for a prince of the realms, but still larger than your quarters. Most of the fabrics in the room are in shades of black and red, giving the entire space an almost funereal look. What really draws your attention is the ceiling: even in the dim light, you can see a large fresco of brightly coloured dragons soaring in the sky.
It seems almost cruel to you, that he has to stare everyday at what the follies of their ancestors lost them.
“The door was open,” you simply say, closing it behind you and looking around for him. “I wondered if there was something wrong, my lord.”
“Wrong?”
The voice reaches you from a poorly lit corner, but you can make out his silhouette in the dark, slouched on an armchair, still in his black tunic with a glass hanging precariously from his hand. “Many things, I suppose…”
“Such as?” you ask, taking a small step into the room.
“My sons…” he sighs, head sunk between his shoulders. “They are lost. One to the dreams and the bottle, one to his own vanity and cruelty, and one to the King’s wishes.” He shakes his head, gaze lost as he taps a finger on his glass. “No matter what I try, I’ll never be able to reach them again.”
Have you truly tried?
You torture the hems of your shawl, biting your tongue. “What about Aegon?”
“Aegon…” He scoffs softly, a small smile pulling his lips upwards. “He’s a smart boy, smarter than I was at his age… And I’ve forsaken him too.”
He gulps down what remains in his glass before placing it on the ground with a shaky cling. He runs a hand over his face, a long sigh escaping his lips, and you realise just now how tired he looks; how hopeless. Part of you, the part that understands his pain and can’t help but feel it, wants to reassure him – to tell him that he did his best and that there’s still time to be a better man for his sons.
Another part of you – the one that loves his children as if they were your own and knows what it truly means growing up alone – burns with outrage.
“So you’re simply going to give up,” you take another step in the room, “when he needs you most?”
“He doesn’t need me.”
Maekar states that with such ease, such resignation, that makes you scoff in bewilderment. At that sound, he tilts his head to the side, a combative glint back in his eyes. “You find that funny?”
“My lord, I beg you to stop being so blind.”
His eyes widen in surprise for a mere moment before his brows furrow and he leans forward in his chair.
“You have a family,” you continue with a firm tone, despite the beating heart in your chest – that threatens to jump out of it in fear, “a torn one but a family still. And they all need you. They need you to help them work through the pain you all share. I know Lady Dayne's death was hard on you,” – he clenches his jaw but you try to ignore it – “but so was on the children.”
“You think I don't fucking know?”
His voice is but a whisper, low and menacing like the growl of a wolf ready to attack. And despite the urge that begs you to run away, you straighten your back and stand still.
“I don’t dare to try and guess your thoughts, my lord… But I lost people I loved as well, and when I did, I was left alone and it almost killed me.”
Memories flow in your mind, past the violence you know all too well. Days of running through the woods as far as you could to the meadows and woods you once called home, weeks of solitude on roads you barely knew where they would take you, months of begging whoever you crossed paths with for a piece of bread and a roof.
Sleepless nights filled with nightmares, contemplating if being alive was even worth it.
Feeling as if you could slip into those memories, back into that endless pain, you close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.
“I would've given anything,” – your voice cracks, but you swallow down the tears – “to have someone by my side, someone else to share my pain with. You have that. And your children need someone to lean on.” You pause, looking back up at him. “Why won't you see that?”
Silence follows, and all you can hear is your heavy breathing and the blood pumping in your ears as a jumble of relief and terror swirl in your stomach.You feel as if a certain heaviness has been removed from your chest, however shivers run down your spine as you wait for Maekar to say his piece. After this speech he clearly didn’t ask for, you don’t expect that the prince will keep you in his staff any longer – you’d be surprised if he doesn’t immediately send you to the stocks – however you don’t regret speaking up.
He needed to hear that, even if it’s going to be your ruin.
After a few more moments, Maekar stands up. Holding your breath, you watch as – step after step – he gets closer to you until he’s less than a foot away. Only then his face is finally caressed by the candle light. Only then you notice the tears welling up in his eyes.
“Do you think they will still have me?” he asks softly, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “That they will forgive me?”
The pain that tears into your heart when looking at the broken man in front of you resembles nothing you’ve ever felt. Your fingertips itch with the need to comfort him, to take his hand into yours or gently caress his cheek. To hold him close until the sun makes his appearance through the windows of his chambers.
Instead, you grip your shawl, physically restraining yourself from reaching out.
Remember your place.
So, all the comfort you wish you could give him with your touch, you mold it into your voice.
“I can't assure you that they will, my lord,” you murmur gently, a hopeful smile on your lips. “But they're still young. And forgiveness comes easy with youth.”
He nods, lowering his gaze for a moment. “And you?”
“Me?”
“Will you forgive me?”
The question takes you aback, but you quickly answer as you’ve learnt to in a prince’s household: “My lord, there’s nothing to–”
“Don’t,” he quickly stops you, shaking his head. “I know I hurt you, I meant to hurt you. I didn’t want to admit that you could know my children better than me… but you clearly do.”
A fierce pride warms your chest, making you stand ever so slightly taller.
“So… will you–” Maekar stops, then looks up and meets your gaze – a silent plea in his eyes. “Can you forgive me?”
You take a moment to really ponder his question – if you can truly forgive his words, and as you do you drink in that begging look on his face. When you finally nod, relief washes over him, relaxing his features into a calm expression.
There’s still a line in between his eyebrows though.
If only I could just kiss it away…
A traitorous warmth climbs your neck. You lower your gaze and take a small step back. “I should go now.”
You turn around to leave, but a hand wraps around your wrist before you can take another step.
“Please don’t.”
There it is again...
That deep, pleading tone, that blesses your ears and shakes you to the bone.
Your breath escapes shakily your lips. “The hour grows late, my lord.”
“Don’t call me that…”
He’s closer now, his words soft blows of warm air that caress the back of your ear when he speaks again. “Not while I’m begging you to come into my bed.”
Fuck.
You should leave.
You should definitely leave.
His grip stops you, it’s true, but it’s loose enough that, with one pull, you’d be able to free yourself…
And yet, you don’t.
You can think of a thousand reasons why this is a horrible idea, but none of them feel as good as Maekar’s hands roaming on your body.
The one on your wrist moves along your arm, his fingertips leaving a warm trail along your skin, while the other finds your hip and grabs a fistful of heavy fabric of your gown, pulling you closer. Your shawl falls to the ground and his chest meets your back – a soft gasp escaping your lips, and he drowns his face in your hair, inhaling deeply.
“Stay with me tonight,” he pleads in a whisper, his lips moving against the back of your neck. “And I'll make sure to eat every last part of you until there will be not one breath left in that pretty mouth of yours.”
Suddenly, the cold you felt while wandering through the castle is far gone.
Your skin burns with every touch as his left hand moves from your hip down your thigh – taking and grasping all the fabric he can find in the hopes of a hint of flesh – and then back up again, leaving a painful ache between your legs.
You throw your head back against him and close your eyes as his hand moves up your body, pressing into your flesh to pull you even closer. It stops just below your breast, his teasing thumb caressing the curve of it through the fabric, in a motion that drives a soft mumble of desire out of you.
His mouth shifts against your skin, a smile pulling his lips upwards as they press against your neck. “I can tell you’re hungry…”
Hungry?
You turn your head to him and see the ravenous look in his eyes. There’s a promise of ruin in his gaze, one that should scare you, bring you back to your senses and make you leave.
Instead, your right hand – forgotten like its left twin by your sides – reaches up behind you and grabs hold of the back of his neck.
“I’m starving.”
Maekar leans in right as you’re pulling him in. Your mouths crash together, devouring each other’s lips with the desperation of the people haven't eaten for years.
His beard is rough against your skin, but his tongue and teeth are no less ruthless. He takes your lower lip into his teeth as his left hand finally cups and squeezes your breast. As a gasp of pleasure leaves your mouth at the friction of the fabric against your nipple, your fingers grip his hair and pull them with more strength than you wanted to.
A low groan rumbles in his chest and through your bones, an execpeted sound that pulls a smile to your lips.
His right hand pulls down the sleeve of your dress, exposing your naked shoulder. You hear the stitching rip under his grasp, but that's the last thing that bothers your thoughts at this moment. His mouth leaves your tormented lips – much to your dismay – only to dip on your bare flesh.
Teeth, lips, tongue, all move against your skin, leaving not one inch untouched from his torture. You throw your head back, one hand still holding on the back of his neck and the other hanging onto his forearm.
There's something addicting in being needed like the very air you breathe. Everything feels too much, and at the same time not enough…
Almost as if he read your mind, Maekar starts walking backwards, dragging you both to bed.
As he does, he turns you around and dives once again into your mouth. While your hands run through his hair – gaining soft groans of appreciation whenever you feel like pulling them slightly – his fingers dig into your hips, gripping your dress so desperately that for a moment you think he wants to tear it apart.
Then, the fabric held tight in his hands, you yelp in surprise when he lifts you up and drops you on the softest mattress you've ever laid on. You didn't expect such a hard man to appreciate these kind of comforts, but it seems Maekar still has many ways to surprise you.
“Damn these bloody skirts…” he mutters, as he crouches at the end of the bed and reaches for the hem of your dress.
Laid back on the bed, you can't help the laugh that leaves your lips. You prop up to your elbows to see his relentless fight against your gowns and undergarments. “Impatient, are we?”
His gaze meets yours – hungrier than ever – as his fingers trail the length from your ankles to your knees. “Can you blame me?”
Your breath catches in your throat as he brings the fabric up to your waist. His mouth meets your skin, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses and teasing bites on your things. His touch is just as ravenous, fondling the flesh of your legs as he pushes them open and hooks them around his arms before pulling you closer.
Until his warm breath blows shakily, desperate, against your aching core.
His eyes have never left yours as he moved, and they still look at you.
Waiting.
Taking the last deep breath you know you'll be taking in a while, you nod.
And that's all he needs before plunging in.
Bliss.
That's the first word that comes to mind as his tongue revels inside of you. Unrelenting shocks of pleasure run through your body, in a crescendo that builds in your abdomen and renders you completely limp in his hold. You grip the sheets, your dress, his hair, anything you find in your reach as you swallow down the moans that threaten to spill from your mouth, worried that someone outside the room could hear.
However a few wayward ones escape your control, and every time you try to bite them down.
The bliss, suddenly, comes to a quite unfortunate halt.
Flushed and annoyed, you look down. Maekar looks at you, his lips swollen and glistening in what remains of the candle light.
“You like to express your opinion, darling,” he groans against your thigh, his beard grazing against your sensitive skin in a painful pleasure. “Don't be shy now.”
You throw your head back as his mouth covers your folds once again and a loud moan leaves your lips.
Has it been so long? This should be part of a book but what use of it when I am not sure if I can include this. Anyway, I'm left hanging towards the end, maybe we can collab in finishing this excerpt?
The practice of gratifying oneself by means of masturbating when done right and by essence taking pleasure from oneself and for oneself alone can be a healthy part of life. Supple fingers that prance around a delicate bud making its way its petals until a sweet sometimes salty water leaks from within. Fingers like torch lighting and igniting flames of desire that cripple across the rigid body. A cavorting pleasure and a trembling desire, spread wide and fingers trembling in the decreasing aftermath of gratification.
You step out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your body, another one on your head knotted and spun around coiling around your head like some Korean empress’ hair. The sudden urge to give in to pleasure jumps inside you, slender fingers tracing your thigh upwards to your soft breasts tracing its curvature, and pinching your nipples.
You remove her towel and throw your hair towel on the chair. You open the bottommost drawer of the cabinet and take out a large pink pouch onto the bed. The urge of gratification heightens and the fan becomes chilly against the heat. You lie on the bed naked and sprawled with a thick and curved representation of a phallus, a little longer than what your lover packs under, not that you would not choose, but his romantic passion bordering on control and soft touches. When he thrusts his cock into your cunt, he radiates a gentleness and the desire to only pull out your desire.
The silicone phallus traces circles slowly around your delicate pink bud, shuddering by the strict contact as opposed to a callous finger on a clothed cunt. Slow and deliberate until you feel herself getting wet, relishing on the indulgent feeling of raising the temperature. You cup one of your breasts, squeezing lightly to the tips hardening, and you lean your head forward to lick your nipple while simultaneously encircling your clit. You spread your legs further, knees touching the mattress as you spread the slick around your cunt.
When he touches you, it’s gentle and unrushed. Slow and steady, he even makes you ride him, bouncing on his cock, your arms around his neck, and his hands on the firmness of your butt. Never dominating, only gentle, like what he really is, and it was only a few nights ago during another love-making when you asked him to release the chains that bind him, but you're met with a smile. “I don’t like to hurt you.” You slowly push the dildo toy inside you, stretching its gummy walls, your bare lips slowly gaping with the tip to its hilt. Your hand mimics his slow motioning exit of his cock to rub its tip to your clit. “Fuck,” you push the length imitating the way he thrusts his cock, albeit a little faster and harder, “Oh my fuck!”
You squeezes your breasts together, licking your nipples while you continue to thrust the dildo in your pussy. Your supple finger reaches for your clit, rubbing circles greedy on pleasure, cavorting desire, the pleasure heightens as you chase. Praising and singing, mental images of him forming in your mind, his voice gently coaxing you almost feels so close— “My heart?” Like a bubble holding its weight pops mid-air, he is home. You scramble to pull yourself together but the door opens and he walks in before you could even cover yourself and hide the dildo. “My love!”
Baelor Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Daeron the drunken
Has it been so long? This should be part of a book but what use of it when I am not sure if I can include this. Anyway, I'm left hanging towards the end, maybe we can collab in finishing this excerpt?
The practice of gratifying oneself by means of masturbating when done right and by essence taking pleasure from oneself and for oneself alone can be a healthy part of life. Supple fingers that prance around a delicate bud making its way its petals until a sweet sometimes salty water leaks from within. Fingers like torch lighting and igniting flames of desire that cripple across the rigid body. A cavorting pleasure and a trembling desire, spread wide and fingers trembling in the decreasing aftermath of gratification.
You step out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your body, another one on your head knotted and spun around coiling around your head like some Korean empress’ hair. The sudden urge to give in to pleasure jumps inside you, slender fingers tracing your thigh upwards to your soft breasts tracing its curvature, and pinching your nipples.
You remove her towel and throw your hair towel on the chair. You open the bottommost drawer of the cabinet and take out a large pink pouch onto the bed. The urge of gratification heightens and the fan becomes chilly against the heat. You lie on the bed naked and sprawled with a thick and curved representation of a phallus, a little longer than what your lover packs under, not that you would not choose, but his romantic passion bordering on control and soft touches. When he thrusts his cock into your cunt, he radiates a gentleness and the desire to only pull out your desire.
The silicone phallus traces circles slowly around your delicate pink bud, shuddering by the strict contact as opposed to a callous finger on a clothed cunt. Slow and deliberate until you feel herself getting wet, relishing on the indulgent feeling of raising the temperature. You cup one of your breasts, squeezing lightly to the tips hardening, and you lean your head forward to lick your nipple while simultaneously encircling your clit. You spread your legs further, knees touching the mattress as you spread the slick around your cunt.
When he touches you, it’s gentle and unrushed. Slow and steady, he even makes you ride him, bouncing on his cock, your arms around his neck, and his hands on the firmness of your butt. Never dominating, only gentle, like what he really is, and it was only a few nights ago during another love-making when you asked him to release the chains that bind him, but you're met with a smile. “I don’t like to hurt you.” You slowly push the dildo toy inside you, stretching its gummy walls, your bare lips slowly gaping with the tip to its hilt. Your hand mimics his slow motioning exit of his cock to rub its tip to your clit. “Fuck,” you push the length imitating the way he thrusts his cock, albeit a little faster and harder, “Oh my fuck!”
You squeezes your breasts together, licking your nipples while you continue to thrust the dildo in your pussy. Your supple finger reaches for your clit, rubbing circles greedy on pleasure, cavorting desire, the pleasure heightens as you chase. Praising and singing, mental images of him forming in your mind, his voice gently coaxing you almost feels so close— “My heart?” Like a bubble holding its weight pops mid-air, he is home. You scramble to pull yourself together but the door opens and he walks in before you could even cover yourself and hide the dildo. “My love!”
Baelor Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Daeron the drunken
✧ characters: Baelor Targaryen x Daughter!Reader, Valarr x Sister!Reader, Matarys x Sister!Reader
✧ summary: Baelor has never been able to say no to his daughter. Her older brothers choose to take advantage of this fact. Valarr and Matarys are like 12 years old in this.
✧ genre: fluff
✧ warnings: she/her pronouns, children
The afternoon had settled into the kind of golden quiet that only came when lessons were finished and supper was still hours away. She had found her usual spot near the old stone bench, skirts spread around her in the warm grass, her doll propped carefully against her knee. Six years old and entirely content, unbothered by the heat, unbothered by anything at all.
The shadows that fell over her belonged to her brothers.
Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. They stood over her with the particular energy of boys who had a plan and were very pleased with it.
She looked up.
“We need you to ask Father something,” Valarr said.
She tilted her head. “What?”
“We want to go to the tournament next week.” Matarys crouched down to her level, which she had always found more convincing than being talked at from above. “All three of us. You have to be the one to ask him.”
“Why?”
The brothers exchanged a look. Valarr cleared his throat. “Because he likes you best.”
Tournaments held no particular magic for her. She had never once begged to attend one, never pressed her face to the window when the knights rode through the city, never cared much for the noise and the crowds and the dust. But Valarr and Matarys were looking at her the way they always did when they wanted something, that particular hopeful, slightly guilty look, and she loved them more than she disliked crowds.
“What do I say?” she asked.
They told her, carefully and in some detail. Matarys made her repeat it back twice. Their father was not an unreasonable man. It was simply that no one had ever worked out how to say no to her, least of all him. His sons had noticed. They were not subtle about having noticed.
She listened to all of it. Then she picked up her doll, stood, smoothed her skirts, and went inside without another word.
The study was quiet save for the scratch of quill on parchment and the distant sounds of the yard below. Afternoon light fell long and warm across the desk, catching the dust motes that drifted in the still air.
Baelor looked up from his correspondence just in time to see his youngest come through the doorway at something between a walk and a run, cross the room entirely, and climb onto his knee before he had said a single word.
“Hello Papa!” she exclaimed settling in
“Hello my love,” he responded, setting down his quill
She looked up at him with great purpose. “Papa. Valarr and Matarys and I want to go to the tournament.”
He looked at her baffled. “You want to go to a tournament?”
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.
“It runs three days. The last day goes very late into the night, and it is very loud.”
“I am very brave,” she said.
“You are,” he agreed, because this was simply true.
She looked at him carefully, weighing something. Then, with the air of someone bestowing a considerable honour, “You can come too, Papa. If you want.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” A nod, “I will hold your hand the whole time so you won’t be frightened.”
His expression shifted entirely. This small careful child had arrived with what was clearly her brothers’ agenda and somewhere along the way decided to protect him. At that, the last of his resistance simply gave way.
“That is very kind of you,” he said
She nodded. It was only fair, her expression said.
He glanced toward the door. Two faces disappeared from the gap so quickly they might have been imagined.
“Valarr. Matarys.”
A beat. Then footsteps, nervous and shuffling. The footsteps of two boys who had absolutely not just been crouching at a door. The boys appeared in the doorway, doing their very best to look as though they had simply been passing.
Baelor regarded them over his daughter’s head. They had the grace, at least, to stand up straight.
“We go on the first day only,” he said. “You leave the moment your sister is tired and you do not argue with me about it.” His eyes moved between them, “Understood?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Yes, Father.”
He looked back down at his daughter, who had already returned to her doll, entirely satisfied with the afternoon’s work.
Baelor tucked a strand of hair back from her face and reached for his quill.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he told her.
“You’re welcome, Papa,” she said, content
From down the corridor came the muffled but entirely unmistakable sounds of celebration.
✧ a/n: I am simply trying to create as much Baelor fluff as possible before the pain of this week’s episode. Thank you for the likes, comments, reblogs, and messages. Send me your requests
Summary: The North forgives nothing, least of all a lady wandering alone without her lord's permission.
Warnings: implied threats of restraint/violence, intense possessiveness
Winter had crept in quietly, as it always did in the North—slow, patient, merciless.
You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders as you stepped beyond the inner yard of Winterfell, breath fogging in the pale morning light. The snow was shallow here, crunching softly beneath your boots, the forest edge dark and still in the distance. You had chosen the hour carefully: late enough that the guards were distracted with morning drills, early enough that the day had not yet hardened into full cold. The great grey walls of Winterfell loomed behind you, already half-swallowed by drifting flakes, their ancient stones seeming to watch your departure with silent disapproval.
You did not think it dangerous.
Only… quiet.
Your basket hung light on your arm as you moved toward the trees, eyes scanning for the deep red clusters you had been told grew stubbornly even in frost—winter berries, tart and bright. They would sweeten well with honey, the kitchen maid had said. Good for preserves. Good for pastries.Good for Cregan.
The thought warmed you more than the cloak ever could, curling low in your belly like a secret ember. You pictured the faint softening of his mouth when he tasted something made by your hands, the only crack in the granite mask he wore for the rest of the world.
He had been distant these past days—not cold, never that—but weighed down. Too many petitions. Too many disputes between bannermen. Too many hours spent standing still, jaw tight, eyes dark, listening to grievances that never seemed to end. You had watched him last night by the hearth, silent, shoulders rigid even as the fire crackled warmly before him, the flames throwing sharp shadows across the hard planes of his face. His hands—large, scarred, always so steady—had rested on the arms of his chair like weapons laid temporarily aside. When you had brushed your fingers along his knuckles he had caught them, pressed them briefly to his lips, then released you without a word. The gesture had felt like both promise and warning.
He would never ask for comfort.So you would make it.The forest swallowed sound as you stepped beneath the bare branches. Snow clung to bark and roots alike, the world hushed in a way that felt almost sacred. Pine needles lay dark against white drifts; the air smelled of iron frost and resin and something older, something that remembered blood spilled beneath these same trees centuries ago. You moved slowly, carefully, gathering berries where you found them, fingers numbing despite your gloves. Time slipped by unnoticed. The cold began to sink deeper, into your bones, but the small red jewels in your basket felt like tiny victories.Back at Winterfell, the silence became a scream.
Cregan returned from the yard to find your chambers empty.At first, he assumed you were elsewhere, perhaps in the solar, perhaps with the steward’s wife. He gave the servants only a brief glance before continuing down the corridor, boots ringing against stone.Then he noticed your cloak missing.Not the heavy one. The lighter one.The one you wore when you thought yourself safe.
The realisation struck like a blade between ribs.
“Where is my wife?” he asked, voice calm enough that it set the servants on edge. The quiet was worse than shouting; it carried the weight of a storm held back by sheer will.
A maid swallowed. “She… she was not in her chambers this morning, my lord.”
His steps slowed.
“Who saw her last.”
No answer.
The world narrowed.
By the time he reached the gate, the tension had sharpened into something cold and lethal. The guards exchanged uneasy looks as he approached, already pulling on his gloves. His presence filled the gatehouse like smoke; even the horses shifted nervously in their stalls.
“She passed through at dawn,” one said carefully. “Only a basket with her. Said she wished some air.”
Cregan’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. A muscle ticked beneath the dark stubble. His eyes, storm-grey, usually so steady, had gone flat and dangerous, the pupils contracted to pinpoints.
No escort.
No word.
The North was not gentle to those who wandered alone, least of all those who mattered to him.
And you mattered more than breath.
“Mount a horse,” he snapped. “Now.”
The forest met him like an old enemy.
Cregan moved through it with brutal efficiency, eyes scanning the snow, senses sharpened by fury and fear tangled together so tightly he could not separate them. He followed the signs easily—disturbed powder, a broken twig, the faint imprint of boots too small to be anyone else’s. Each mark you left felt like an accusation. Each step you had taken without him burned behind his eyes.His thoughts were dark, unforgiving.
Foolish. Naïve. Careless.
You should have known better.
And beneath that—deeper, sharper—If anything has happened to you…He did not finish the thought. Instead it branched into something blacker: images of broken branches stained red, of wolves circling, of some faceless man daring to lay hands where only he was allowed. The visions came unbidden and would not leave. His gloved hand flexed around the reins until leather creaked.
He found you kneeling near a thicket, basket half-full, fingers red from cold as you brushed snow aside to reach another cluster. The sight of you—small, unguarded, alive, crashed into him like a wave against stone. Relief and rage fought for dominance; rage won.
You did not hear him until his shadow fell over you.
You looked up—
—and froze.
Cregan stood a few paces away, breath heavy, eyes burning, his expression carved from something far more dangerous than anger alone. Snow dusted the broad shoulders of his cloak, caught in the dark strands of hair that had escaped his tie. He looked less like a lord in that moment and more like a predator interrupted mid-hunt—beautiful, brutal, barely leashed.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, voice low and shaking with restraint, “what you have done?”You stood quickly, startled. “Cregan—I—”
He crossed the distance in three strides, gripping your wrist, not painfully, but firmly enough that there was no mistaking his fury. His fingers encircled it completely, thumb pressed over your racing pulse as though measuring how close he had come to losing it forever.“You vanished,” he said. “No word. No guard. Nothing. Do you know how many ways this ends badly?”
Your heart pounded. “I only meant to—”
“Silence.”
The word cracked like a whip.
You obeyed instantly.His hand loosened slightly, but his expression did not soften. Snow gathered in his hair, melting against the heat of his skin, his breath visible between you—short, harsh, almost ragged.
“You do not walk beyond these walls alone,” he continued, voice controlled now in the way that frightened you more. “Not ever. Not for air. Not for berries. Not for kindness.” Each word was deliberate, carved. “You do not decide what risks are worth taking. I decide. Because if you bleed, it is my blood on the snow.”
Your voice trembled. “I wanted to make something for you.”
That stopped him.
Just barely.
His grip loosened, fingers flexing once as if grounding himself. His gaze dropped—to the basket, the red berries stark against white snow—then returned to your face. For one heartbeat something fractured behind his eyes: gratitude warring with the need to punish, to mark, to bind you closer until escape was unthinkable.
“You risked your life,” he said quietly, “for a treat.”
You swallowed. “You’ve been tired.”
Something in his eyes shifted. The rage did not vanish—but it bent, redirected, curling inward into something darker, heavier. Possessive. Almost covetous.
“You think I would trade you,” he said, voice dropping until it was barely above a growl, “for sweetness?”
“No,” you whispered. “I thought you deserved comfort.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he pulled you against his chest, one arm wrapping around you with bruising force, the other cradling the back of your head as though shielding you from the very air itself. You felt his breath against your hair, uneven, his heart hammering beneath your cheek—fierce, unsteady, alive with the terror he would never voice. His scent surrounded you: leather, pine smoke, iron, and something primal that belonged only to him.
“Do not ever disappear like that again,” he murmured, voice low and fierce. “You are not just my wife. You are my responsibility. My blood.” His lips brushed your temple, not quite a kiss—more a claim. “Mine to keep. Mine to protect. Mine to punish if you ever forget it.”
You clutched his coat, shaking. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You did,” he said honestly. “And you will not do it twice.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing the cold from your cheek, his expression still severe—but threaded now with something raw. His gaze traced your face as though memorizing it anew, as though the hours of not knowing you had been missing had carved new hollows beneath his eyes.
“I will forgive this,” he said. “Once. But you will understand me when I say this: the North is not kind, and neither am I when you are threatened. If I must hunt you again, it will not be with words.” His thumb pressed lightly against your lower lip, a silent punctuation. “It will be with steel, or rope, or my own hands if I have to drag you back myself.”
You nodded quickly. “I understand.”
His thumb lingered, possessive, grounding—then slid to cup your jaw, tilting your face up so you could not look away.
“Good,” he said. Then, softer—only for you—“Come home.”
He took the basket himself as he led you back through the snow, his hand never leaving yours, grip firm, unyielding, and unmistakably protective. Every few paces his thumb would stroke once across your knuckles—a reassurance, a reminder, a quiet brand.
Behind you, the forest stood silent.And ahead—Winterfell waited, warmer for your return, darker for the fear he would never fully admit.
hi my love!!! can i request maekar w a second wife thats like.. rlly good with his kids? n they just adore her. how would he feel?
- A FULL BED,
in which, maekar spends the afternoon looking for you and his children - only to find you all at once.
CW: none, fluff, just a bit of swearing.
REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!
Summerhall was far, far too quiet.
Maekar noticed it the moment he stepped into the corridor outside the council chamber. The castle was never truly silent, of course - stone halls carried every small sound, the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchens, a servant’s footsteps along the lower stairs, the slow sigh of wind moving through the arches of the outer courtyard. Yet the usual noise of the household was missing.
More specifically, the noise of his children.
This place was usually fucking crawling with his offspring. Daella’s laughter somewhere down the hall, Rhae arguing with her sister about ribbons, Aegon asking questions that never seemed to end, Aerion stalking about the yard as though someone had personally offended him by existing, Daeron lingering near a window with a cup he claimed was watered enough to be harmless.
Yet now – nothing.
Maekar stopped in the corridor, looking down its length as if the children might suddenly appear out of the stonework itself. “Where in seven hells,” he muttered under his breath.
And then there was you; because wherever the children gathered, you were rarely far behind.
Which raised the second, rather pressing question.
Where the fuck were you, his sweet, endearing wife?
Maekar turned toward the gardens first.
The evening air had grown cool, the roses heavy with scent along the stone paths. Lanterns had been lit beside the low walls, their flames flickering gently in the darkening blue of twilight - It was the sort of place the younger ones often ended their day, Daella and Rhae chasing each other between the hedges, Aegon trailing after them with some grand idea about knights or dragons.
The paths were empty. No girls, nor boys - Not even the distant noise of play.
Maekar walked the length of the garden twice before turning back toward the castle, his boots striking the stone with quiet irritation.
The solar came next - empty again.
The long table sat undisturbed, chairs pushed neatly beneath it, the tall windows darkening as evening deepened beyond them. A scroll rested on the desk where someone - likely Daeron - had abandoned it earlier, yet the room itself held no sign of recent company.
Maekar exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Seven save me,” he muttered.
The council room followed - Nothing there either, only the heavy quiet of the chamber and the faint creak of wood as the fire settled lower in the hearth.
From there he walked the halls of Summerhall themselves, one corridor after another. Past the gallery where tapestries hung unmoving in the still air. Past the staircases that wound down toward the lower floors. Past the small sitting rooms Daella occasionally turned into temporary kingdoms when she decided the castle required rearranging.
Still nothing - no children and no you.
By the time Maekar reached the upper corridor again he was beginning to suspect some elaborate game had taken place without his knowledge - the sort where everyone vanished deliberately just to see if he would notice.
Well, he definitely noticed.
Only one place remained he had not yet checked - your shared chambers.
The door stood slightly open when he approached, the faint glow of candlelight slipping into the hall. Maekar paused for a moment, pushing the door inward with careful fingers.
He stopped immediately upon entering – The room looked as though a small battle had taken place.
Wooden swords lay scattered across the carpet; A pair of painted toy shields had been abandoned near the hearth, one leaning crookedly against the chair beside it. Bits of ribbon, scraps of cloth, and what appeared to be several of the girls’ hair ribbons lay across the floor in cheerful disarray.
Two feather boas - bright things that had absolutely no rightful place in a castle full of princes - had somehow become tangled together across the foot of the bed.
And the bed itself…
The bed had been entirely claimed; You lay propped back against the pillows, still awake, though clearly trapped beneath an arrangement of sleeping children that would have defeated most grown knights. Daeron lay along your left side - Aerion lay along your right.
Both boys were stretched out fully, one arm flung carelessly across the mattress as though they had simply collapsed there without thinking much about it. Between them, sprawled directly across your middle like a particularly determined cat, was Aegon.
Egg had claimed the warmest position in the entire arrangement and clearly had no intention of moving. Daella and Rhae had arranged themselves across their brothers without hesitation. One of the girls slept half atop Daeron’s shoulder, her hair spread across the pillow like pale silk. The other had tucked herself against Aerion’s side, small fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve.
At the foot of the bed sat Aemon.. or rather, he had been sitting.
At some point he had fallen asleep as well.
His back rested against the carved wood of the frame, legs stretched out before him, and across his lap lay a book so large it nearly covered his entire torso. The thing looked heavy enough to flatten a lesser boy. Apparently he had meant to read it - and had simply… drifted off.
The book now served as an accidental blanket, Maekar’s eyes moved slowly across the scene.
You were awake; and you were smiling sleepily at your husband – not daring to speak, just in case you spook any of them.
Your fingers were buried gently in the hair of the two boys beside you, curled lightly against their scalps as you moved them in slow, absent circles. The gesture was calm, practiced, the sort of quiet motion that soothed without waking.
Daeron slept - That alone made Maekar pause.
His eldest rarely slept easily. Even in rest there was usually tension about him, something tight in his expression as though he expected to wake suddenly - screaming. Tonight that look was gone. His face had softened completely, his breathing deep and steady.
For the first time in longer than Maekar cared to measure, Daeron did not look as though he were about to be dragged off to torture.
Aerion slept differently.
Gracefully, if such a word could be applied to the boy at all. His posture remained straight even in sleep, one arm resting loosely beside him where Rhae had claimed his side as her pillow. The sharpness usually present in his features had faded into something quieter.
Aegon snored loudly.
Your arms might have been full but your hair had not escaped the evening either.
Several of the girls’ hair clips had been fastened into it without mercy, bright little decorations placed wherever small hands had managed to reach. One feather boa had been draped around your shoulders, while another looped carelessly around Daeron’s arm.
Aerion had somehow acquired a ribbon tied loosely around his wrist.
Even Aemon had not escaped; one of the girls had clipped something small and glittering into his hair at some point while he read.
Maekar remained in the doorway, looking over the entire absurd arrangement.
Wooden swords. Toy shields. Ribbons. Sleeping princes draped over every inch of the bed.
And you in the middle of it all, fingers still moving slowly through Daeron and Aerion’s hair as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
For another moment neither of you spoke.
Maekar let out a quiet chuckle, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself; so that was where they all were – every last one of them.
And seeing it; the heap of sleeping children, the quiet patience with which you held them there, the simple peace of the room - Maekar felt something in his chest warm in a way he had not expected.
They adored you, that much was plain. And judging by the way every one of them had fallen asleep wrapped around you like moss around stone… they had decided, quite firmly, that you belonged to them just as much.
When you had finally given Lyonel a healthy baby girl, you watched him visibly soften. The ever confident lord was now at a loss, terrified of the baby in your arms.
You saw his eyes widen when you'd asked if he wanted to hold her. You had to correct his posture, twisting his arms the right way before placing the sleeping infant in the crook of them.
Right in that moment, Lyonel became a different man.
…
You'd woke in the middle of the night two months later, sensing something was wrong. Often, the babe would cry in the next room over— as you had made next door the nursery.
Lyonel's side of the bed was warm, though empty.
You stretched, making your way to the nursery.
Lyonel paced the room with her in his arms. He rocked her so gently in the candlelight, watching her face as if it was the most interesting piece of art. So focused, he didn't notice you.
"I'll have a crown made for you, too," he cooed. "I will. It'll be a gold- no. Silver. Oh, yes, silver will go so well with your dark hair." He ran a hand over her forehead, brushing away the very little dark hair in question. "The grandest crown. Fit for a Stormland Princess."
"Lyonel?"
His head turned, a bit frightened by your sudden presence in the doorway. "Oh. My love. You're to be resting."
You shrug. "Couldn't. Bed's cold without you."
He smiles, walking to your side. "Forgive me for leaving you. Our girl decided she could not sleep either."
"And here you are," you tease, kissing his cheek, "awake with the both of us when you should be sleeping."
"Don't jest such a thing, woman. You know I am where I wish to be." He began to rock the babe again. "If I was not, you would know."
"Oh?" You wrap your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his back. "How so? Would you lock us away?"
You giggle, but he tenses a bit. "Somedays I think about it, but not to keep you from me. To keep you away from wandering eyes, the both of you."
"You'd visit us then?" You say, pushing the idea.
"Of course, I would. Can't live without my girls, you know that." He adjusts the babe. "Though, even then, I don't think I could away from you for more than a few hours."
…
Four months later, the Ashford Tourney was announced to Lyonel by letter. He stood with excitement, a rush of adrenaline coming to him at the idea of a fight. It had been so long since he'd done something dangerous.
He'd packed you and your daughter into a wheelhouse. Your daughter, Ellyn, had now grown into a chubby baby. She was a joyful girl, truly the replica of her father. Dark curls wrapped at her scalp, brown eyes wide and curious.
You weren't entirely excited about the journey. A tourney sounded far from a place for you and your daughter. But Lyonel, the ever excitable man, ensured your safety. You'd stay in the tent, retire early even. He didn't expect you at every event if you did not wish. You could make your own schedule as you saw fit.
The wheelhouse bounced with each patch of rough grass or rocks. Ellyn, however, was having a joyous time. She sat in your lap happily with her rattle and wooden stag (that Lyonel himself carved) and entertained herself.
Lyonel would stop frequently, just to check on the two of you. It was rather endearing.
…
Finally, the company arrived at Ashford Meadow. You were tired, your legs ached, and you were growing lonely from a lack of company.
Lyonel opened the door with a broad smile. "My girls. There you are," he teased, watching Ellyn giggle. "I'll take her, love."
You hand her off, watching the two giggle at one another as if they hadn't seen each other in days. It had been 2 hours.
But you were happy to exit the wheelhouse. Ashford Meadow was pretty this time of year. A bit muddy, but the grass was a beautiful green.
With one hand, Lyonel carried the chubby babe, the other held yours, and he began to parade you two off to any Lord that had already showed and was willing to listen.
For once, you realized why Ellyn was such a happy child. For her father was quite the same.
As he spoke with a lord excitedly of what, you don't know, you watched as her smile matched his. Their expressions were quite the same. Even some of their hand gestures. It was as if you had no hand in making her.
When he called to you, she babbled like she wanted to do the same, kicking her legs out in emphasis.
You blinked out of your stupor, joining him as he walked down the trail.
The entire day, Lyonel carried her, despite your constant asking. You didn't want to keep him from interacting with whom he wished. Though, he made it sound as if it was no problem. You recognized the looks of a few who were surprised to see a baby in the great Lord Baratheon's arms. But if he noticed, he did not give it attention. She would babble, even wave at passerbys. Lyonel loved it.
When you moved back to your tent to get ready for supper, he finally set her on the rug of your private tent.
"You know, I'm enjoying this much more than I thought," he admits, tugging off his tunic in exchange for a fresh one. "And I haven't even started drinking yet."
"Ellyn and I will retire early. Perhaps I'll even have food brought—"
Lyonel looked as if you'd slapped him. He rushed forward, grabbing you as if you'd run away. "Don't you dare. I need my girls with me. If only for a few hours."
You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. "Supper. No more."
He grins madly. "Perfect. Just enough to show you off."
…
To your relief, Ellyn slept through the entire supper. Lyonel insisted on holding her. Her cheek was squished against his chest as he supported her. He talked and drank as if the child was no bother to him.
"Eat," he pointed at your plate. "I need to know you're being properly fed before I let you run off."
"Run off?" You ask, taking a bite. "It is not running off if I am simply going to bed."
"Feels the same. You're leaving me. You're running off with another," he exaggerates.
"With a girl that drools in her sleep," you quip, watching the spit wet his vest.
"Stiff competition, it seems," he jests. "Little does she know, I used to have you up for hours on end—"
"Lyonel—"
"I'm only mentioning that I had you first," he says, raising his free hand in surrender. He takes that moment to look you over, eyes darkening. "I dare say we could all retire early."
You scoff, moving your attention back to your food. "I know what retiring early means for you. That's how I got the drooly thing."
"Aye, but she's a wonder, isn't she? Wouldn't…" He looks out as if imagining to himself, "…six more suffice?"
"Six? You'd had better hope for a second wife, for my womb won't have six more."
"I'd settle for four, then."
"You'll settle for what I give you. And now, I'm going to give you space. Give me the babe. I'm retiring."
He holds her closer, as if you're stealing her away. "No. I'm not ready."
"Lyonel," you warn lowly.
His eyes widen and he reluctantly hands her over, careful not to wake her. He looks over her sleepy face one last time. "Maybe I'll steal her back later. She'd enjoy the party more than you."
You give him a not impressed look, but kiss his cheek anyway before leaving for the night.
With Ellyn already asleep, it was rather easy to lay her in the small cot next to the bed. You were exhausted from the travel, and a good night's sleep would do you well.
But Lyonel had other ideas.
You wake up a few hours later to the sounds from the large Baratheon tent. The party would go on until the morning at this rate, and you weren't expecting Lyonel to even sleep.
You sat up, rubbing your swollen eyes to look at the cot.
The empty cot.
You panic, looking around. She was gone. She was taken while you were asleep.
You jump out of bed with an adrenaline rush, not caring to properly dress. You barely tied a robe around yourself before leaving the tent.
You'd decided to get Lyonel first. Even drunk out of his mind, he'd drop anything to find her.
Walking the short distance through the dirt while barefoot, you entered the tent.
It was louder than you'd left it. Minstrels played and the others clapped along. The dance floor was packed, spilled drinks sticking to the wood planks lining the floor.
Either they were all quite drunk or you were unrecognizable in your mere night clothes, for you managed to get by without them noticing.
Lyonel was not at the high table and you began to feel an even sicker twist in your stomach. You knew he was nearby. You could not lose a high lord. But the insecurity inside you began to think of worst case scenarios.
Then you heard it, a familiar yip.
You pushed through the crowd, not caring if you shoved. You bare feet were stepped on a bit, but you ignored the pain until you caught eyes with the man in question.
Lyonel was in the middle of the circle with a very tall man you did not recognize. And strapped to Lyonel's chest was Ellyn. On her head was the small antler crown Lyonel had made not long ago. You didn't even know he had packed it. The antlers were made of smooth wood, small and harmless, a leather strap wrapped under her chin to keep it on.
He yipped again without a care in the world, circling the tall man.
You were too stunned to speak for a moment. Thus, you became a bystander.
Lyonel had found some kind of fabric, wrapping it around himself and Ellyn to secure her back to his chest. Her arms and legs were free to kick and wave, and she did so happily. Her cheeks were pink from giggling. It seemed she liked the broad shoulder man, much like your husband did.
Mid spin, Lyonel stopped, eyes on you. He blinked a few times as if getting his eyes to focus. "W-What are you doing up?"
He quickly ducked out of the dance circle and pulled you to the side, but they hardly noticed.
You crossed your arms. "I thought my child was lost."
He smiled, gesturing down to her. "Well, she's not."
You squint at him. "Is that your apology?"
"My apology?" He slurs. "My apology for what? Introducing our girl to the wonders of dance?"
As if agreeing, Ellyn's feet kick as she tries to chew at her fingers.
"She's to be sleeping, Lyonel. You stole her from our tent!"
He points a finger at you. "I told you I'd do that, though. Didn't I? There. You can't be mad."
"I thought you were only joking. And what is this?" You ask, gesturing at the fabric that tied her to him.
He shrugs. "Tied it myself. Smart, isn't it? Then I have free hands to drink."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "I'm glad you are having a good time. But it is loud. And crowded. And our child needs sleep. Give her back, and you can go about as you were."
"No, we couldn't possibly stop, my love. Please, you'd enjoy it." He takes your hand, trying to guide you back to the dance floor. "I know how much you love dancing—"
"I do, Lyonel. But not like this." You lean against him. "I'm so tired. I can think of nothing but sleep. And to do so, I need to know my child is safe."
Lyonel sobers up a little at your whine. "Ah. I'm sorry, doe. I didn't realize taking her would have an effect on you." He runs a hand over your hair. "I knew she would like it. I didn't think of the consequences."
"You don't think of the consequences for most actions," you mumble, leaning up to kiss his scratchy jaw. "But alas, I still love you most dearly."
Ellyn wiggles, trying to get attention for her parents.
Lyonel softens. "Well. Perhaps we'll retire for the night. I know it'll take a while to calm her again."
You hum. "You're enjoying yourself here, though. You shouldn't have to leave."
"I won't leave you to tend to an unruly girl."
You scoff teasingly. "Unruly? My daughter?" You lean down to the girl, kissing her cheek and listening to her giggle. "She's anything but."
As he guides you out of the tent, he begins to explain. "It was her idea, really. I knew you didn't want her out past her bedtime. But she's got these eyes, you see—"
PLEASEEE
' Your grace, I am your man. Please. Your man '
this is so relevant for all of the men in ls adoring circle
-dunk
-baelor
-lyonel
-aerion
-maeker
DUNK
You’re tending him again.
He came back from the yard scraped raw, bleeding in that careless way you know he does because he can’t help it—too willing to throw himself between danger and anyone smaller, too stubborn to admit when he’s hurting, too. You sit him down, tilt his face toward the light, clean the cut along his brow while he tries not to flinch more from your nearness more than the sting of the cloth.
“Ser Duncan,” you murmur, brushing mud from his cheekbone. “Hold still.”
He does. Gods, he tries. But you feel the tremor run through him anyway. Not fear, never fear, but something softer and far more perilous for him.
When you finish binding the scrape, he looks at you with that wide, unguarded devotion that always seems to spill out of him before he can catch it and tuck it back. His mouth works soundlessly for a moment, as though the words in him are too large to pass through his throat.
Then he shifts off the stool, and sinks to his knees before you.
Not like a courtier making a show of it, like you’ve seen dozens do over the years to gain your favour. He kneels the way a devout man might kneel before a shrine; slow, careful, almost reverent. His head bows deeply. His huge hands rest on his thighs, palms open, offering before he even speaks.
“Your Grace,” he says, voice shaking in its quietness.
You reach for him automatically, to make him stand, to remind him he doesn’t need to offer himself to you, but he catches your hand in both of his, holding it as though it is a sacred thing, as though touching you is the riskiest thing he’s ever dared.
“I am your man,” he declares, lifting his eyes to meet yours at last.
There is nothing hungry in it. Nothing greedy or selfish. Only devotion so earnest it threatens to break him in half.
“Please,” he breathes, not begging for your affection, but for the right to serve you. “Your man. Your protector.”
He lowers his forehead to your knuckles in a gesture so old, so honest, it feels like a ritual older than any throne.
“I’ll guard you,” Dunk murmurs, voice thick. “With my life. Until you send me away, I am yours.”
And the pure sincerity of it—the way he means every word with the whole of his enormous, gentle heart—settles around you like a finest cloak.
BAELOR
You don’t mean anything by it.
It’s little more than a courteous exchange, a lord offering some practiced compliment, his hand hovering a fraction too close to your waist. You step back before it becomes improper, but Baelor notices it. He always does. His posture never breaks, his face never shifts, yet something in him tightens like a bow quietly drawn.
He finishes his conversation with perfect civility, but his gaze finds you across the hall with an intensity that pins you in place.
“My wolf,” he says when he reaches you, voice low, velvet-edged. “Walk with me.”
Not a question. Not truly a command, either. Something gentler, deeper; a request he expects you to honour.
You follow him into a quieter alcove, torchlight haloing the stretch of his shoulders. He waits until the sounds of the hall soften into a distant hum before turning to you fully.
He doesn’t look angry. He looks steady, frighteningly so.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that your breath catches, “did you welcome his attention?”
Your denial rises instinctively, but Baelor shakes his head once, too slow and knowing.
“No,” he cuts it in smoothly. “I already know your answer.”
He reaches up, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The touch is soft, but his eyes are not. They burn, some relentless, contained thing, but blazing from within all the same.
“He looked at you as if he had earned the right,” Baelor continues, voice a quiet burn. “As if you could be swayed by someone who has never learned the shape of your silences. The strength of your will.”
Your pulse stumbles. He feels it, his hand drifting from your cheek to the delicate column of your throat, fingertips skimming with a reverent, soft pressure.
“Baelor—”
His thumb presses lightly beneath your jaw, stilling the word.
“You forget,” he says, leaning in until your lips almost brush, “why you choose me. Every day.”
Heat flares through you. He sees it, tastes it in the hungry little hitch of your breath, and something shifts in his expression, too; something tender and devastating all at once.
“I see you,” Baelor murmurs. “Not the title. You. The woman who stands like winter and burns hotter than any summer sun. The one no man commands.”
He leans closer, his breath ghosting your mouth.
“The man in that hall saw what he wanted.” His voice drops, darkening. “I see what is.”
Your hands curl into the front of his tunic without conscious thought. His fingers linger against the flutter of your pulse, feeling, counting.
“I am your man,” he breathes, the words rich and rumbling in the quiet between you, “and you are my wolf.”
His head bows, your brows almost touching. “And I am not in the habit,” he whispers mildly, “of letting anyone mistake that.”
His thumb strokes your pulse once, reverently, like he’s memorizing the beat of belonging he feels there. When he finally draws back, his voice is barely more than breath.
“You choose me,” he finishes softly, “and gods willing, I will spend every breath proving why you were right to.”
LYONEL
You catch him lounging again where he shouldn’t be. Sprawled across a cushioned bench in a sun-soaked corridor, boots up, tunic half-laced, every inch of him radiating the smug indolence of a man who has escaped three meetings and one summons from the Hand.
“Stormlord,” you call his title on purpose, arching a brow. “You are meant to be in council.”
He brightens instantly, as though you’ve delivered him from execution.
“Ah,” Lyonel sighs, hand over his heart, “and here I thought you’d come to rescue me.”
You don’t dignify that with an answer. You only stand there, waiting, tapping your fingers lightly against your hip. He watches the movement with far too much interest.
Then, with a groan clearly meant to amuse you, Lyonel pushes himself upright, stretching like a cat waking from a pleasant nap.
“You know,” he says, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “it’s a terrible burden, serving the crown as Stormlord.”
“Oh?” you ask, dry as northern tree bark.
“Mm.” He nods gravely. “Endless storms. Endless paperwork. Endless dull old men droning in my ear about grain.” His eyes sparkle, sharp and devious. “One wonders why I ever agreed to it.”
“Your duty?” you offer. “Your birthright?”
He scoffs. “Hardly that. Duty is for respectable men.”
“And what are you?” you ask.
Lyonel steps closer, grin tilting, voice dropping just enough to slip under your skin.
“Hopeless.”
You blink, genuinely puzzled and wary. “Hopeless?”
“Utterly.” He leans in, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his fingers, a gesture so soft it contradicts every careless word he’s ever spoken to you. “Hopelessly devoted. Hopelessly distracted. Hopelessly inclined to ignore half the realm if you’re standing in the same room.”
Your pulse jumps. He notices it, drinks it in with a knowing little twitch of his lips. And still he keeps smiling that bright, infuriating smile of his that hides a blade.
“You think I bend knee to the crown?” Lyonel wonders, soft and idle, near ponderous. “Gods, no. I serve because you sit beside it.”
You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a laugh, shaking his head.
“Don’t look so startled,” he says. “I’ve never pretended to be honourable. Only reliable.” His voice softens, the joke thinning into something bare and earnest. “For you, at least.”
Then, with a ridiculous, court-mocking flourish, he drops into a half-bow, pressing your hand to his lips.
“Your man,” Lyonel announces lightly.
It should sound unserious, perhaps ridiculing, coming from him. It should be nothing but flirtation. But the way Lyonel looks up at you from under his lashes ruins that lie completely, because his eyes are warm, molten, and far too honest.
“Please,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Your man.”
You feel the truth of it like a physical thing. And Lyonel—reckless, radiant, irreverent Lyonel—straightens with a wink, already turning toward the corridor as if he hasn’t just cracked open something dangerous between you.
“Well,” he tosses over his shoulder, “if I must endure council for the crown, I expect you to repay the suffering with at least one smile.”
He pauses mid step.
“And perhaps,” he adds, voice dipping sweet and sinful, “a reminder later that being your man is not entirely thankless.”
Then he disappears around the corner, leaving you standing in a wash of sun, breath unsteady, pulse still chasing the shape of his words.
AERION
You hear him long before you see him.
A shift of floorboards, a breath held too long. That sharp, restless presence you know like you know your own heartbeat. The hour is late, the castle asleep, and the fire in your chamber has burned down to embers when he appears in the doorway. Barefoot, shirt half-laced, pale hair mussed as if he has raked his hands through it a hundred times.
“Aerion,” you speak quietly into the dark. “You should be asleep.”
He huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “I can’t.”
Of course he can’t. He never sleeps well when something stirs in him. He’s half longing, half nightmares, and mostly just dark, destructive desire. All of it bruises him the same way.
He stands there a moment as though deciding whether he should leave.
He doesn’t.
He crosses the room in three slow steps, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t ask permission. He never asks. He waits, just long enough to be denied if you choose to deny him, and when you don’t speak, he sinks down beside the chair and lays his head in your lap.
The breath you draw catches.
Aerion exhales like someone drowning who has finally reached air. His cheek presses to your thigh. One hand curls loosely at your knee, not gripping, only holding, as though he needs the anchor more than he needs dignity.
“Nightmares?” you ask.
He shakes his head. His voice is low, dark, a whisper cracked at the edges.
“No. Just… you weren’t in my dreams tonight.”
Danger coils under the words, but so does something fragile, something almost childlike in its honesty.
Your fingers hesitate above his hair. He waits, more patiently than he does for anything in the harsh honesty of daylight. The moment you finally touch him—lightly, barely—Aerion’s entire body loosens. His eyes slip shut. He turns his face a fraction toward your hand, toward the warmth, toward you.
“Aerion,” you murmur warningly.
He smiles into the fabric of your nightrobe. A slow, wicked, aching thing.
“Don’t send me away,” he says. “Not tonight. I can’t bear it.”
You thread your fingers through his pale hair despite yourself, and the sharp, thrilled breath he sucks in nearly undoes you. He nuzzles closer, his voice dropping to something fevered:
“You have no idea what you do to me when you touch me like this.”
Your pulse kicks, and he hears it. You know he does. His fingers trace a line along your calf, ever so slowly, savouring, nothing like the arrogant confidence he wears by daylight.
Then, muffled against your lap, dangerous and tender in the same breath:
“Aunt.”
An aching little prayer, a bruise, a surrender.
“I am your man.”
The words scrape out of him like confession, not performance, a truth he can’t hold back in the dark. His hand tightens just slightly at your knee, enough to tremble, not enough to trap.
“Please,” he whispers, silky and dark, breath hot against the thin cloth. “Your man.”
There is hunger in it—wildfire desire that could consume a kingdom, you think grimly—but beneath that, horrifyingly, unmistakably, is need. The kind he would burn the world to keep hidden. The kind he brings only to you, only when the night strips him down to something raw and desperate and hungry.
Aerion turns his head just enough to look up at you, eyes molten, lashes casting shadows on his cheek.
“If you send me away,” he tells you softly, “I’ll go mad.”
Your hand is still in his hair.
And Aerion leans into it like a creature starved for gentleness, letting the fire paint his features in gold and ruin.
“Let me stay,” he breathes. “Let me be yours. Just for this hour. Just until the sun comes.”
He closes his eyes again, as though surrender is safer than looking at you.
“As if,” he murmurs, voice dark silk, “I was ever anything else.”
MAEKAR
It starts in the hall.
Snow has fallen from the hills all day, light at first, then heavier, thickening on the stone steps and clinging to men’s beards as they come in off the yard. The fire roars pleasantly; the air smells of smoke and wet wool and something stewing in a great black pot at the back. Men are loud with drink and the comfort of their own safe keep.
Which is always when someone decides to be brave and foolish.
“He wears our colours well enough, m’lady,” one of your father’s bannermen says, not quite slurring yet. “Talks like he means it, too. But steel’s still southern under it, my lady. Dragon’s a dragon. We’ll see if he holds when the winter truly bites.”
It’s not meant as an insult, not even as an accusation. Northerners are too blunt for such games. It’s worry, spoken poorly but sincerely. The words find their way across the firelight well enough regardless.
At the high table, Maekar pauses with his cup halfway to his mouth.
He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t ask the man to repeat himself. There is just the smallest tightening along his jaw, as if something in him has clenched and he’s set his teeth around it.
You answer, because it is expected of you and because you would have done so even if it weren’t. Your voice is even, and your words are Winterfell’s words, your father’s words, as sharp and cold and sure as the stones underfoot.
The matter dies, on the surface. Men shift, placated. Someone calls for more ale. The conversation turns again, as it always does, back to harvest and levies and some poor fool’s misjudged hunt.
Maekar does not speak for the rest of the meal unless he has to. He listens instead, and that’s worse. He listens with his face turned slightly away, the nape of his neck corded, his hand around his cup as if he’s holding onto it so he doesn’t reach for something else.
You do not touch him there. Not with eyes on you. Not when he is wound that tight.
Later, when the hall thins out and the cold sting of the corridors closes around you, he walks beside you without speaking. His strides are heavy on the stone. He does not offer his arm. But he doesn’t need to. You know precisely how to fall into step with him now. You’ve learned each other well enough.
Only when the door to your chambers shuts behind you and the latch drops does he stop.
The room is dim, lit by one low fire and two candles guttering on the table. Your shadow crosses his when you shrug off your cloak. He stands just inside the door a moment longer, as if deciding whether to leave again.
He doesn’t leave.
He unbuckles his sword belt and sets it aside. Shrugs out of the heavy Stark grey. Underneath, his shirt is dark at the throat where snowmelt and sweat have soaked the linen; his forearms are bare and scarred where he’s rolled the sleeves up. His movements are clipped, agitated. Only the muscle jumping in his jaw betrays anything else.
You hang your cloak. Turn back towards him, eyeing him for a breath.
“What they said—” you begin.
“Did you agree?” he demands.
It’s blunt in a way you’ve stopped flinching from. Maekar is a man who cuts straight to the bone once he’s decided to cut at all.
You cross the space between you until you are close enough to see the pale nick along his knuckles from this morning’s drills, the faint, fresh line at his throat where some boy’s blade slid too close.
“No,” you say.
He studies you. As if weighing that on its own, no other argument offered. Something eases in him, but not much.
“They’ll talk,” you add evenly. “They always have. New lord, new snow, new grumbling. You know this.”
“They can grumble about my manners,” he snaps back. “Or my face. Plenty there.” His mouth twitches, brief and humourless. “They start grumbling about whether I’ll hold the line when it breaks, that’s different.”
“You’ve never broken,” you remind him.
He huffs. “You weren’t there for every year.”
You tip your head, waiting.
He drops his gaze. Not out of shame. Maekar doesn’t waste time on that. It’s something else. A man digging in his heels before he says more than he means to.
“I know what they see,” he says suddenly. “Southern prince in a borrowed cloak. Dragon’s son. Man who rode north on a king’s word and a treaty, not because the old gods whispered in his sleep.”
Your throat tightens. “Is that what you think this is? A treaty?”
“Not now.” The answer comes too fast; he looks almost annoyed with himself for that much softness, for how quick he is to give it to you. His fingers flex at his sides. “Now it’s… different.”
You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. You bite back an impatient sigh.
“Maekar.”
He finally looks up.
You’ve seen this look on him in battle drills, when he has decided a thing and then decided it will be done even if it costs him blood and bone. Old. Stubborn. Unyielding. He takes two steps and then you have your back to the wall and him in front of you, not trapping so much as blocking out the rest of the world. His hands plant on either side of your hips on the stone, bracketing you without touching.
“Your father wants to know if I’ll stand when winter comes,” he says. “Your bannermen want to know if I’ll bleed for some hill they can’t see on a map.” His head dips, shoulders hunched just enough to bring him nearer, to make his voice a rasp between you. “I don’t give a shit about hills.”
Your breath catches; his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“I care if you’re on them,” he adds tightly.
That lands heavier than any oath could.
“If the snows come in and the dead are walking, if the gods themselves climb out of those woods to take a piece of this place—” his mouth twists, the words grinding out, “they’re welcome to try me. They’ll find me where you are. They’ll have to go through me first.”
The way he says it, like a simple fact, makes something in your chest ache and something in your belly coil, low and hot.
“I’m not good with speeches,” he mutters. “You know that.”
“I had… suspected,” you answer, dry despite the tightness in your throat.
“Good,” he grunts. “Then you know I don’t say this because it sounds pretty.”
His hand leaves the stone. Settles, heavy and warm, at your waist. Fingers spread, thumb pressing once into the bone as if to prove to himself you are here, tangible and his.
“I am your man,” Maekar says.
He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t soften the rough edges. The words are as plain as any he’s ever given you.
“Not your father’s,” he goes on, staring at you. “Not your kraken-eyed bannermen’s. Not even my own Father’s, not anymore.” His jaw clenches, bones rolling. “Yours.”
You stare up at him. “Mine?”
He makes a low, frustrated sound. “Don’t make me say it twice, woman.”
You can’t help it. You smile, small and sharp. He sees it, and something in him steadies. His shoulders drop the barest fraction. The corner of his mouth threatens a curve he crushes before it can fully form, much to your disappointment.
“I’ll stand where you tell me to stand,” he says, a shade quieter now, but no less stern about it. “I’ll swing on whatever poor bastard you point at. I’ll freeze on these walls and bleed in these gods-cursed woods and eat boiled leather before I let anything take what’s under this roof from you.”
His thumb strokes once, rough, at your side. It could almost be accidental, but you know better than that. Nothing with Maekar is accidental.
“That’s my loyalty,” he finishes. “They can call it northern or southern or madness. Doesn’t matter to me. It’s yours.”
You lift a hand and catch his jaw in your palm. He goes still under your contact. You feel the scrape of stubble, the heat of skin, the way his throat works once under your fingers like he’s swallowed something sharp.
“Maekar,” you say quietly. “It’s more than enough.”
His eyes shutter for a beat, then open again, clearer and still hard.
“Good. They can keep their questions,” he says, softer now. “You know the answer.”
His hand tightens at your waist, something claiming and steady at the touch in the same breath.
“Your man,” he repeats, low and sure. “That’s all I know how to be.”
So, Baelor argues with wife!reader because in recent days he saw her and Maekar being too close, talking secretly and separating whenever Baelor saw them. He confronts her asking if she is cheating with his brother... and he finds out that his brother has been helping her organize his 40 birthday feast 🥺
You can put everything on it: angst, crying... some reconciliation smut 👀 ...let your imagination flow! lol
Thankssss
- HIS DEAR WIFE,
in which, party planning goes horribly wrong - yet.. right?
professor baelor fic coming soon, just have to write a bit more before i publish the first part :-P
CW: smut 18+, lil bit of angst, baelor self-doubting, cheating allegations, you guys loveeee eachotherrrrr, i got carried away, rough sex, mating press, slight breeding kink (I have a problem), dacryphilia, hair pulling, blow job, pussy eating, rather dom!(and probably ooc)baelor, humiliation
Baelor was never one to dwell on anything for too long, for fear of it becoming draining, for he had long ago schooled himself against brooding humours and idle suspicions. However, it was very curious when he started to notice that his dear wife had begun to spend, perhaps, far too much time in the company of his brother.
It started small - you leaving him cold in the mornings with a brisk kiss pressed more to duty than to want, your fingers slipping from his before he was fully risen from the bed, the space beside him cooling quicker than it ought. It grew harder to find you throughout the day, the solar empty when he sought you, the gardens walked and abandoned, the sept visited yet already left. And when at last he did find you - it was always somewhere near Maekar, your heads inclined toward one another in low discourse, your posture too intent to be idle courtesy.
He loved his little brother, perhaps more than any of the others, for Maekar’s temper was plain and his loyalties rarely strayed, and Baelor had ever understood him in ways the rest of the court did not. So he knew, in reason and in honour, that the situation before him was most definitely not the awful one his mind sought to conjure almost instantaneously. Maekar was not a serpent in his grass, nor a thief of what was not his.
Yet reason does not always silence the heart.
Many times he had peeked into doorways and spotted you two; your gown brushing the stone, Maekar’s voice pitched low enough that Baelor could not make out the words. There was nothing improper in the distance between you, nothing that could be named as sin, and still it unsettled him. You would separate when he approached, not guiltily perhaps, but with a swiftness that did not go unnoticed. You would greet him with composure, yet your gaze did not linger as it once had.
There had been occasions when he watched you dismiss Valarr and Matarys from a room with gentle firmness, sending them off under some light excuse, your tone leaving no space for argument. The door would close. Maekar would follow shortly thereafter. The pattern repeated itself enough that it ceased to be chance.
He told himself it was purely coincidence. The Red Keep was not so vast that paths did not cross. Still, coincidence loses its innocence when it repeats.
At supper, you were courteous and attentive, seated beside him as you always had been, your hand resting atop his under the table, yet there was a difference in you. When he spoke, you listened; when he smiled, you returned it; but there was something telling in the curve of your lip and the squint of your eye - He would catch Maekar observing the two of you in silence, his expression unreadable until making eye-contact with him; to which he would grin, and Baelor found that he disliked that most of all.
He shook his head free of those creeping notions and stepped forward one afternoon when he found you alone at last, the light from the narrow windows catching in the strands of your hair. Without ceremony he embraced you, his hands settling firm at your waist, grounding himself in the familiar shape of you. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of lavender and rosewater.
You stiffened only for a breath before relaxing against him, though even in that small hesitation he found cause for unrest.
You had been married for almost half his life, had stood beside him through councils and campaigns, through the births of Valarr and Matarys, through griefs and triumphs alike. There was absolutely no reason to suspect you of betrayal, not with the years you had shared, not with the sons who bore both your features between them. And there was even less cause to imagine such treachery with Maekar, the very man who still carried the memory of Dyanna in quiet devotion, who had never once given any sign of seeking comfort elsewhere.
Baelor drew back slightly to study your face, his mismatched eyes searching for something he could neither name nor justify. He told himself he was being foolish, that this was nothing more than courtly business or some domestic matter he had not yet been made privy to. Still, the doubt lingered like a shadow to a wall.
His hand tightened at your waist, not possessive but seeking reassurance, and he murmured your name softly, as though the sound alone might steady the restless thoughts gathering in his mind. “Good afternoon, my sweet prince,” you mused, lifting your eyes to his with a softness that might have undone a lesser man.
There was something in the manner you regarded him, steady and unashamed, that made him feel not as heir nor as Hand, but simply as your husband. He thought, not for the first time, that he would wed you ten times over if only to be met with that same expression at every turning. Irrevocably beautiful, you are.
“Afternoon, my dear wife,” he returned, voice gentled despite the weight that so often lay upon it.
His hand rose of its own accord, broad palm settling against your cheek. His thumb traced a slow path along your skin, an intimate gesture long familiar between you. He did not rush it. He never rushed you. There was comfort in the constancy of such touch, in the assurance that no matter the burdens of court, this remained unaltered.
The affection between you had always been present, neither performative nor scarce. Yet of late it had been accompanied by something he could not easily name.
Baelor was not a suspicious man by nature. He trusted those he loved. He permitted you your privacy, your correspondences, your quiet dealings. A wife was not a prisoner, nor was a brother an adversary. Yet secrecy of this nature, layered and persistent, sat ill within a marriage bound not only by affection but by crown. You were consort to the Heir, and he was not merely a husband but a prince whose life was never wholly his own.
Still, you were never cold. You did not withdraw from his side at table, nor deny him the closeness of night. You did not refuse his hand when he offered it, nor turn your face from his kiss. If anything, your attentions remained as constant as ever - if not more - which made the quiet concealments all the more perplexing.
So he mastered the disquiet stirring within him. He swallowed his pride, as any man must who would rule wisely, and turned again to the labours that consumed his hours. The duties of Hand did not lessen for his private doubts. Petitions awaited his seal, disputes required judgment, and the realm demanded steadiness where his own thoughts threatened to wander.
“No, Maekar, I have heard him plainly declare he does not like Arbor Gold–No! He said it is far too sweet,” you retorted, the edge of your voice laced with playful exasperation. Maekar rubbed at his forehead, a gesture of utter frustration. “By the gods, both old and new, at this point I require the Arbor Gold merely to endure you,” he muttered, and you could not help but grin at the way he snapped, a faint warmth stirring at the sight of his temper.
“Now, you said you have some notion for the tourney, did you not? Pray, what is it,” you demanded, steadying yourself into your chair, the parchment spread before you both. The tone was firm yet carried the lightness of teasing that had become customary between you, a way to ease the weight of planning the grand day that was yet to come.
For a month you had worked quietly, away from prying eyes, carefully arranging the particulars of your husband’s name day. Each detail considered not merely out of duty, but from love, from gratitude for the constancy of his devotion and the breadth of his care. Every event, every small flourish was meant to honor him, to reflect the years you had shared and the life you had built together.
Maekar had been cautious at first, reluctant to involve himself with his brother’s wife, not accustomed to your temperament or your ways. Yet as he glimpsed the scope of the plans, the care with which you conceived each matter, his reluctance softened. He offered what assistance he could, lending his knowledge of the keep and its courtiers, his hand in preparations, and a careful eye to ensure all might proceed without flaw.
All of it was to remain secret, a challenge not for lack of patience but for the very nature of surprise. You were ill-fitted to concealment; the impulse to speak, to share, had always been part of your being. And yet you restrained yourself, for this purpose, knowing the delight in Baelor’s eyes upon the unveiling would outweigh any discomfort of silence.
So when Baelor appeared unexpectedly in corridors, rounding corners with the impatience of one unaccustomed to being left out, you and Maekar would exchange hurried glances. He pressed questions, probing for the smallest hint, his gaze sharp enough to still your tongue. The threat of that look alone was enough to compel your quiet. Part of you resisted it; part of you ached at hiding from him, yet you endured it, for you knew the truth of his nature: he adored celebrations, and the greatest joy he held was in the unexpected, in wonder revealed.
You had separated yourself with care, so as not to draw suspicion, and now you sat to dine with your husband and children in the quiet warmth of the solar, sunlight spilling across the polished wood and glinting upon the goblets before you. “You have been spending an ungodly amount of time with uncle lately, mother,” Matarys declared with unabashed bluntness, flicking a small, rebellious pea at Valarr’s forehead. Your eldest son frowned, lips pressed into a line, though the faint twitch at the corner betrayed the amusement he tried to conceal.
Matarys was entirely your own blood, untamed and spirited, inheriting none of Baelor’s measured composure or calm restraint. Your youngest moved through the world with wild delight, every gesture unbound, every word a spark of life, and it was a wonder you managed to keep even half the household in order with such energy around you.
“Have I?” you asked lightly, tilting your head as though considering the accusation, the corner of your lips curving with restrained amusement. “I had not thought so,” you added, glancing subtly toward Baelor from the corner of your eye. He watched you with an intensity that was patient yet searching, his mismatched eyes tracing the way you shifted, the smallest flex of muscle betraying thought or hesitation.
Beneath the table, your hand found his, brushing against the warmth of his palm with quiet reassurance, a touch meant for only the two of you. “And how fare those dreadful papers, my love?” you asked softly, pressing the edge of your embroidered cloth to your lips, tilting your gaze toward him with a look both tender and questioning. His hand tightened slightly around yours, and you felt the unspoken weight of his day, the burdens of crown and duty pressing invisibly upon him, even as the children chattered on.
A few hours later you met him again, this time within the quiet confines of your study, a chamber seldom used and shadowed by high shelves and the scent of old vellum, which was precisely why you had summoned Maekar to join you. The parchment lay spread across the table between you, ink still damp, the lines of carefully written names and notes catching the weak afternoon light that filtered through the narrow windows.
“You are far too generous,” he scowled - though you were certain that was just his reading face, his voice low as he scanned the list of provisions and guests. “He will suspect something if half the kitchens are set to this task.”
“He suspects something, I am certain,” you admitted, brows drawn together as your eyes fell to your rings, twisting them absently between your fingers. “I long to tell him, yet I cannot, not just yet, not until the moment is right.”
Maekar’s expression shifted at your words, a flicker of unease crossing his features before he smoothed it into the usual mask of composure. He rested his hand upon the edge of the table, leaning closer, and began to point out a name he thought ill-suited to the list. You pressed your own palm over the parchment to steady it, your attention wholly fixed on the discussion of who might or might not attend, entirely unaware of the quiet corridors that stretched beyond the study door.
Then the door opened.
You knew that sound as surely as you knew your own pulse.
Before you could even think to speak, you folded the parchment with deliberate haste and drew it beneath your sleeve, your fingers trembling slightly as the damp ink pressed against your palm. The motion was too quick, too sharp, betraying the nervousness you had not meant to show. Maekar straightened instantly, jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line he wears when he looks as though he wishes for the world to be ablaze, his eyes flicking toward you with a silent question.
Baelor stood in the doorway, still and composed, unreadable as ever. His mismatched eyes moved from your face to Maekar’s hand upon the table, lingering for a heartbeat longer than comfort allowed, before returning to you. Not a word passed his lips, yet the silence carried weight heavier than any spoken anger could. You felt your stomach tighten, a cold ache spreading beneath your ribs, and for a fleeting moment you longed to rise, to step forward, to explain everything, to assure him that the secrecy was for his joy alone.
The quiet struck harder than anger ever might have, and you could not meet his gaze—not from guilt, not entirely, but from the sudden and terrifying realization that he could misread every gesture, every small action you had taken in careful secrecy. The plans that had once felt innocent now pressed against your chest like a weight, and the very thought of his misunderstanding made your hands clammy.
He inclined his head briefly, composed as ever, and withdrew from the room without accusation, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed impossibly loud in the stillness.
You let out a slow breath only when the echo of his steps had faded, your hands trembling as you pressed the folded parchment against your bodice, as though it could shield more than the inked words from his gaze. “This will end poorly,” Maekar murmured, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.
You nodded, biting your lip. “I agree,” you admitted softly, the weight of the evening pressing on you. Yet despite the fear and the tension, you could not linger any longer in that horrible silence. You rose, smoothing your skirts and collecting the remaining papers, deciding it best to retreat to your chambers.
Turning to Maekar, you offered a careful smile, though it did little to ease the tension that lingered in your shoulders. “Goodnight, good-brother,” you said, your voice steady, though your heart raced. He inclined his head in return, a faint quirk of his lips acknowledging your words, and you departed, the door closing behind you.
You brushed the hair out of Matarys’ eyes, kissing his forehead. “Goodnight, my sweetling.” He grinned up at you - his front tooth missing. Baelor stood at the doorway; watching and waiting – thought he could not lie the sight warmed his heart- set it afire.
“Goodnight, son.” He smiled, “Night mama, papa.” He lisped, turning over and almost instantly falling asleep.
You left, closing the door before reaching for your husbands hand - to which he pulled away. You felt as though he had reached into the hearth and put a hot poker against your beating heart - “What is the matter, my love?” You grabbed his shoulder softly, stopping him from walking further. He grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you into your shared chambers - the candles flickering and the hearth ablaze - the room felt impossibly hot.
“Tell me,” he said, and there was no gentleness in it, only exhaustion held tight. “Have I misjudged my own wife, or my own brother?” He let go of your wrist - so as to not hurt you, and he flexed his hand.
You looked up, startled, then offended. You stepped closer. “What are you speaking of?”
He did not raise his voice when he spoke, perhaps that was worse. “Do not insult me with ignorance. I have seen you whispering - I have seen you hide things from me. If there is something between you and Maekar, I would sooner hear it from your mouth than from another’s.” He looked into your eyes; and in his there was a line of water. Your hand met your mouth.
The words hung there, heavy and bitter. For a moment you only stared at him. Then your expression shifted, not of guilt or one of being caught - one of disbelief.
“Are you serious?” you said quiet as to not wake Matary’ and Valarr by shouting, but your voice was stern. “You think I would shame you? With your brother?”
His jaw tightened. “What else am I to think?”
You crossed the room to the desk where a small chest lay tucked beneath cloth. With little ceremony you drew the key - unlocked it and from it the parchment he had seen earlier, along with a list of names, menus, and sealed invitations bearing his sigil.
“For an entire month,” you said, “I have been planning your feast, your fortieth name-day. The lords from Dorne, the singers you favour, the wines you once said reminded you of Sunspear. Maekar has done nothing but argue over the guest list, whether your like arbor gold or not and ensure the tiltyard is fit for a tourney in your honour.”
There was a beat of silence.
“We have hidden it because you are impossible to surprise.” There was no softness in your tone, only the sound of your wounded pride. Baelor’s gaze fell to the parchment, to the detailed and careful ink – He saw his own name written there, not as a prince nor as a lord - but as a husband - your husband.
He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the suspicion had drained away, leaving only guilt. You sat at the edge of the bed; skirts pooling. “I thought…” he began, and did not finish. You folded your arms as you frowned “You thought I would betray you.”
He stepped toward you then, slower than before, as though approaching something fragile. “I thought I was losing you,” he said plainly; knelt before you. His arms looping around your waist as he hugged it. The anger in you faltered at that. “I am a damned fool,” he said, low. “Forgive me.”
“You are,” you answered, though your voice had softened. “But you are my fool.” Your fingers ran through his cropped hair, soothing him. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he knelt there, his breath ragged against the thin fabric of your gown.
The misunderstanding's sting lingered, but beneath it burned a fiercer need - a raw, aching want to reclaim what was his, to drown the doubt in the heat of your bodies entwined. You felt it in the way his fingers dug into your hips, not bruising but possessive, urging you to straddle his thigh as he nuzzled higher, lips grazing the soft mound where your desire already wept.
"Let me taste you, my dear wife," he whispered, voice a low rumble that vibrated through you, his hands deftly bunching your skirts to your waist. The ties of your dress gave way under his touch, and he then stripped you off your smallclothes, exposing your slick folds to the chamber's warmth. Your core throbbed, slickness trailing down your thighs, and when his mouth descended, tongue flat and insistent against your aching slit, you bucked against him with a whimper that bordered on a sob.
Baelor devoured you like a man starved, lips sealing around your swollen pearl, sucking hard enough to draw stars behind your eyelids.
His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your heat with controlled fury, lapping up every drop of your arousal as if it were the sweetest wine from Dorne. You clutched at his hair, yanking hard when he flicked relentlessly, the pull eliciting a growl from him that hummed straight to your clit. The pleasure surged, hot and unrelenting, your thighs clamping around his head as the first climax ripped through you - walls spasming, a gush of wetness flooding his mouth.
But he didn't stop. Gods, he couldn't. His hands pinned your hips, forcing you to ride his face as he chased your peak higher, tongue circling your oversensitive nub while two thick fingers thrust inside, curling to stroke that hidden spot. You writhed, tears welling hot in your eyes from the exquisite torment, body betraying you with another release that left you squirting against his lips, soaking his chin and the collar of his tunic. "Baelor.. -please," you gasped, voice breaking, but he only hummed in approval, licking you clean before rising, his eyes dark with unspent hunger.
He shed his breeches in one swift motion, his cock bobbing free - thick as your wrist, veined and leaking pre-cum from the tip, flushed a deep red with need. You stared, transfixed even after all these years, as he guided you back onto the bed, furs soft against your spine. With a gentleness that belied the fire in his gaze, he lifted your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders, folding you beneath his weight until your knees pressed near your ears, your dripping cunt splayed wide for him. The position pinned you open, vulnerable, every inch of you his to claim.
The blunt head of his cock nudged your entrance, teasing through your slickness before he drove forward - slow at first, stretching you inch by agonizing inch around his girth until he bottomed out, balls slapping against your arse. You cried out, the fullness bordering on pain, but it swiftly melted into bliss as he began to move, hips rolling in deep, punishing thrusts that ground his shaft against your walls. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat, where he bit down lightly, marking you as he fucked you harder, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room.
Tears streamed hot down your cheeks, mixing with sweat, the intensity of his possession unraveling you. "You're mine," he grunted softly, voice steady but laced with desperation, each word punctuated by a snap of his hips. "Fill you with my seed - give me a daughter, fair and fierce like you." The thought of it, his cum taking root deep inside, sent you spiraling, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. You moaned then, loud and wanton, the sound echoing off the stone walls, unchecked in your abandon.
His palm clamped over your mouth instantly, fingers firm but tender, muffling your cries. His eyes bored into yours, fierce and loving. "Hush, dearest," he breathed, the words a silken command amid the storm, "remember the children are asleep." He withdrew completely, leaving you achingly empty, a whine escaping your covered lips - then slammed back in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that shattered you. Your body convulsed, squirting around his cock as orgasm tore through, milking him desperately.
His free hand gripped your thigh, fingers bruising the soft flesh as he angled deeper, forcing your walls to stretch impossibly around him. “Gods.. – you take me so well,” he rasped, voice a gravelly whisper laced with raw hunger, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. But words gave way to action; he fucked you deeper - and faster - the bedframe creaking under the onslaught, furs bunching and shifting with the violence of his need. Your clit throbbed untouched, but the friction of his pubic bone grinding against it with each downward slam sent sparks racing up your spine, building the pressure until you were keening, moans turning to desperate sobs of ecstasy.
Sweat slicked your bodies, he had ripped his tunic off at some point - revealing his well-built chest. He shifted slightly, one arm bracing beside your head while the other tangled tighter in your hair, yanking your head back further to bare more of your neck for his lips. He sucked there, teeth grazing, as his cock plundered your depths - long, dragging strokes that pulled whimpers from you, then short, frantic jabs that had you gasping, body quaking. “More- p-please, more,” you begged, voice breaking on the words, your hands clawing at his shoulders, then travelling to his back; scratching him like a cat might scratch a post. There would most definitely be marks in the morning.
Baelor obliged with a guttural groan, his usual princely manners dropping as he pounded into you without mercy,, your knees nearly touching your shoulders, cunt splayed and vulnerable to his every invasion. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs in explosive moans- “Oh - yes! …fuck” -the profanity slipping past your lips in the haze of bliss. Your juices flowed freely, coating his shaft, dripping down to soak the furs and his sack, the slickness allowing him to glide deeper, hitting places that made your vision blur. You came again - emitting a moan that bordered on a scream; but he silenced you with a kiss.
Baelor followed with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he flooded you, thick ropes of cum painting your womb, spilling out around his shaft with each grind. He pumped deeper, ensuring it stayed buried, his seed hot and abundant. Only when the last pulse faded did he ease free, his cock slick and still half-hard, glistening with your juices and his release.
You moved before thought could catch you, sliding down his body, perhaps a rather early nameday gift - Your lips parted wide, taking his fat length straight to the back of your throat in one greedy swallow, gagging softly but pushing on, nose brushing his abdomen as you deepthroated him fully. He hissed, hand cradling your head, fingers threading gently now as you bobbed, sucking with fervent pulls, tongue swirling the underside to coax every drop. The salt of his cum mingled with your essence on your tongue, and you hummed around him, the vibration drawing a shudder from his frame.
His release built swift under your worship, spilling down your throat in heavy, endless spurts that you swallowed hungrily, not spilling a drop. When he softened, you pulled back with a gasp, lips swollen and shining, and he drew you up into his arms, holding you close as the hearth's glow bathed your spent forms. The doubt was gone, replaced by this – raw, unbreakable want.
You rounded the corner of the corridor, clutching the parchments for the feast, and froze as Maekar stepped into view, a faint, knowing half-smile tugging at his lips.
“So,” he said, tilting his head, “I knew it would be only a matter of time before you could not hold it in anymore, Baelor knows now, yes?” He spoke gruffly.
“Yes,” you admitted, you admittedly had a pep in your step.. “We can now stop planning in secret, and ask him for what he likes!.”
Maekar rolled his eyes, “I am just going to say it so no one else does - it is a wonder the people of Dorne themselves did not hear you two..”
Your face flamed, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, heart thudding. Behind you, Baelor’s hands slid around your waist, firm and familiar, drawing you close. The warmth of him grounded you as Maekar smirked at Baelor - who was likely making a face - and you could not help the heat creeping up your neck.
“Well.. we shall be more careful next time..” You cringed, elbowing Baelor behind you softly.
I wanted to hug Baelor while writing this but I'm happy to finally publish this fic, I hope you enjoy it!
Please, if you like it, don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Comments really motivate me and make me happy 🥰🥰💖
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Warnings: incest and age difference.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
Ever since Spring Sickness reached King's Landing, Baelor Targaryen felt frustrated and powerless with each passing day as the disease seemed to spread further across the realms. At first, he tried to help, sending maesters and healers to different parts of King's Landing, including Flea Bottom. He knew the wisest course of action would have been to close the roads and city gates. But how could he stand idly by while his people fell ill and suffered?
Then some servants and nobles at court began to fall ill. Baelor ordered the gates of the Red Keep closed. But it was too late; the next to fall ill were his father, his sons, and you.
The worst part was that you had fallen ill from taking care of his sons, trying to help him ease his worries so that he could continue to focus on his work as Hand of the King.
The gods were cruel. He was supposed to leave you first, that you would be the one by his side, holding his hand in his final moments, surrounded by his children.
But now it seemed that at any moment he would lose you and his boys. He couldn't. He couldn't bear it.
Baelor Targaryen felt like he was living a nightmare. Each day trying to calm the inquiries of the small council while taking turns visiting his father's bedside—trying to update him on what was happening in the realms—his sons—it broke his heart to see Valarr trying to appear strong in front of him and Kiera and to see Matarys complaining, his poor boy had always hated being sick—and yours.
Whenever he went to your chambers—it was the first time since you were married that you didn't share chambers or sleep together—he had to make sure the girls didn't try to sneak in to see you. He hated hearing Myri cry because she couldn't visit you, and he detested the betrayed look Daenys gave him every time he scolded them for trying to sneak in, but Baelor didn't know how he would survive if his little girls ended up sick too. He couldn't lose them all.
Baelor sighed in relief when he saw that this time at your doors, your royal guard wasn't trying to calm two little girls, but was simply on guard. Baelor nodded in greeting before entering.
The crown prince stood still when he saw you were already accompanied. Rhaegel was sitting beside your bed. Baelor couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his younger brother so lucid, but since you had fallen ill, your father had come to see you every day.
“Brother,” he finally said, making Rhaegel look at him.
“She just fell asleep,” the other man said, letting go of your hand. “I was just leaving,” he said, rising from his chair.
“It’s not necessary, we can both be here,” Baelor said, though deep down he longed to be alone with you, but he would never deprive his brother of being with you in such a crucial moment.
“No, you should be able to say goodbye to her in private,” Rhaegel said, already walking toward the door.
Baelor grabbed his shoulder tightly. “Did the maester say anything while I was gone?” It sounded more like a demand than a question. Rhaegel shook his head. “Then don’t talk like that, she’ll recover.”
Baelor wasn’t going to give up. There was a reason the maester had said to have hope; many died within hours of falling ill, but you, the boys, and his father continued to survive day after day despite everything.
“You’re cruel for letting her continue living with this pain, forcing her to endure it.”
Rhaegel’s gaze, his words, disgusted Baelor so much that he let go of him. He stared at your sleeping figure as he heard the door close again. Baelor barely slept that night.
The next morning, when Baelor came to visit you, he was met with the unpleasant surprise of finding Rhaegel there. But what shocked him most was seeing his brother holding a small vial and trying to force you to drink its contents. You kept losing consciousness, making it impossible for him.
“What are you doing?” Baelor demanded, striding forward and snatching the vial from him. He was startled to smell the scent of Sweet Dreams. “Are you mad?!”
Baelor couldn't remember the last time he had felt such fury. He threw the vial aside and grabbed his brother by the collar of his doublet. “What were you thinking? Do you want to kill her?!” he yelled, shaking him. His shouts must have been heard from the corridor because the royal guard entered without knocking.
“She’s suffering all the time! I don’t want to see her like this!” The desperation in his brother’s voice surprised him, but Baelor couldn’t understand his reasoning. “She cries all the time, she’s in pain!”
At that moment, a sob is heard. Baelor looks at you. You’re asleep, but you’re crying.
Baelor carelessly throws his brother to the royal guard. “He’s forbidden to come back,” he says firmly before approaching your bed. Trying to ignore Rhaegel’s cries of “She’s in pain!”, he focuses on trying to soothe your sobs, while passing a damp cloth over your forehead hoping to relieve your fever.
Sometimes, Baelor feels relieved when he goes to see you and finds you awake. But that doesn't mean you're okay. Sometimes he hears you delirious and feels powerless because he can't do anything to fix it.
He thinks today is just another one of those days where you're too lost in the illness because you won't stop crying. But the words that come out of your mouth directly shatter the defenses he's had to build these past few days to avoid breaking down from the moment this whole nightmare began.
"I don't want to die," you sob as you cling to Baelor's hand. He feels like, for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. During these days, you hadn't uttered a single word related to "death."
Baelor's fear of losing you feels more real than ever. Were you in so much pain that you were certain of your fate? Do you feel death lurking nearby?
“You won’t,” Baelor says, struggling to hide the trembling in his voice, clinging to your touch. He leans forward in the chair beside your bed, drawing even closer.
“I want to see the girls grow up,” you continue, as if you won’t hear him. Your chest aches at the thought of your daughters growing up without you, of never hearing them sing again, never playing with them, never helping them choose their dresses, of one day becoming married women who have forgotten their mother’s face, your face.
“You will,” Baelor says, his voice breaking, and with his free hand, he wipes the tears from your face. “You’ll be here to see them grow up,” he says, desperately needing to believe it.
“No, I will die. The gods are punishing me,” you continue crying, distressed.
“The gods? Why?” Baelor asks, trying to understand your delusional mind.
“For what I did to Aerion,” you reply, looking at him desperately. “They’re punishing me for killing my own flesh and blood,” you say, shaking your head.
But Baelor sees right through you. You must feel guilty, you must think you deserve to die for what happened at Ashford. God, his foolish girl.
“Listen to me, you’re not going to die,” Baelor says, this time firmly, giving your hand a squeeze to get your attention. “So what if the gods think this is your punishment? You’re a Targaryen. I want you to fight back. Fight them. You can’t leave me. You can’t leave our girls. I won’t allow it. Do you hear me? I’ll never forgive you if you make me a widower again.”
His words are harsh, but what convinces you not to let this sickness win is the tears you see welling up in his beautiful eyes. You didn’t want to see your beloved cry for you.
“Fuck the gods. I will win,” you whisper.
“Fuck the gods,” Baelor repeats with a watery laugh and kisses your forehead.
Baelor feels the nightmare slowly beginning to end. First, Valarr recovers. When the maester gives him the news, Baelor spends almost the entire night with his eldest son. He can't stop hugging him, stroking his hair, listening to him speak intently. A part of him feels at peace seeing his son better. He has to keep an eye on the girls so they don't cling to their brother. But Valarr, ever patient and loving, takes it upon himself to entertain the girls without complaint.
The second is Matarys. The moment he's told his fever has broken, Baelor has to prevent his son from escaping into the gardens. Matarys hates being confined to the castle. So, to keep him in bed, Baelor has Daenys and Myriah bring him flowers so they can make wreaths together to lift Matarys's spirits. It works.
Then you finally recover. As soon as they receive the news, Baelor has you immediately returned to their shared chambers. He spends the entire night holding you, telling you how much he misses you and that you're absolutely forbidden from ever leaving his bed again, that you can't leave him alone.
You laugh and bury your face in his neck. You spend the rest of the night looking at each other, touching each other, kissing each other, enjoying and appreciating each other's company. And Baelor thinks it's all finally over.
But in the early hours of the morning, you and Baelor wake up to the news that Daeron II is dead.
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The first thing you learn about your husband is that he does not bend.
Prince Maekar Targaryen stands as though carved from the same pale stone as the towers of Red Keep, unyielding and cold. His silver hair falls straight to his shoulders, severe as a blade. His purple eyes rarely soften, and the pox scars along his cheeks only sharpen the harshness of his face. He is a hard man, broad through the chest and thick in the arms, his hands calloused from sword and lance. When he touches you, it is with that same roughness, as though you too are something to be gripped and mastered.
You had not been raised so.
In Starfall, beneath the falling star of House Dayne, love had not been a thing whispered of in shame or endured in silence. In Dorne, passion was not a duty alone. It was a language. A dance. You had grown beneath warm suns and warmer embraces, with laughter drifting through open windows and music threading through the halls.
Here, the halls are colder.
Your marriage had been arranged swiftly. A union of dragon and falling star. You had known what was expected of you. Smile sweetly. Bear sons. Bring Dorne and your family closer to the Iron Throne. You had not expected tenderness, perhaps, but neither had you expected such distance.
On the third night of your marriage, you had reached for his hand.
It had been a small thing. He sat beside you at table, silent as ever while courtiers prattled on. You thought perhaps a simple touch would bridge the gulf between you. Your fingers slid over his.
He pulled back sharply. Not violently, but firmly enough that heat rushed to your face. His purple eyes fixed on you with a look that needed no words. Do not.
You withdrew at once.
That night he came to your bed as he always did. He does not neglect his duty. He never leaves your marriage bed empty. His weight settles over you with certainty, with purpose. He kisses you only briefly, only once in the beginning, as though the act itself is prelude enough. His hands are everywhere and nowhere, efficient, claiming, seeking his own end. You arch for him, hoping he will notice the small sounds you cannot quite keep in, hoping he will slow.
He does not.
You know the ways of pleasure. You know how it can build slowly, like heat shimmering above Dornish sands. You know how a lover can coax and tease until breath becomes prayer. Maekar does none of this. He takes what is required, and when it is done he turns onto his back, staring up at the dark canopy as though already armored once more.
You lie awake beside him, staring at the faint scars along his cheek, wondering if this is to be the shape of your life.
You begin to feel small.
It is in the gardens that you speak of it. The air smells of roses and earth. Lady Jena Dondarrion walks beside you, her dark hair bound neatly, her expression thoughtful. She is wife to Prince Baelor Breakspear, Maekar’s elder brother and heir. Where Maekar is flint, Baelor is said to be warmth and sunlight, though even sunlight can falter in private.
“You look unhappy,” Jena says plainly. She is kind, but she does not coddle.
“I am not unhappy,” you answer at first. It is what you have practiced saying. But your voice betrays you. “I simply… do not think he likes me.”
Jena studies you for a long moment. “Maekar likes very little.”
A reluctant smile touches your lips, but it fades quickly. “He does not speak to me unless he must. He does not touch me unless it is time for bed. And even then…” You hesitate, cheeks warming despite yourself. “Even then it is as though he is fighting a battle.”
Jena laughs softly. “Men like our husbands often are.”
You glance at her. “Baelor does not seem so fearsome.”
“He was awkward,” she says without hesitation. “At first he treated our marriage bed as though it were another tourney field. All effort. No listening.” Her eyes glint. “So I corrected him.”
You blink. “Corrected him?”
She leans closer, lowering her voice. “I got on top.”
The words strike you silent.
“He is a prince,” she continues calmly. “But in our chambers, he is my husband. I would not be tyrannized there. Nor should you.”
You cannot imagine it. Maekar beneath you. His broad chest pinned by your palms. His stern mouth parting not in command but in surprise.
“He would not allow it,” you murmur.
“Have you asked?” Jena counters.
You flush. No. You have not asked for anything.
That night you lie beside Maekar, watching the candlelight trace the planes of his body. He undresses without ceremony. Scars cross his torso too, pale lines against pale skin. He climbs into bed and pulls you beneath him with the same steady inevitability.
Your heart pounds, but not with fear.
When his mouth presses to yours, you do not simply receive him. You lift your hands to his shoulders and push.
He stills at once.
His eyes flash, not angry yet, but startled. You swallow. Your palms tremble against the hard muscle of him, but you push again, more firmly. He allows himself to roll, more from surprise than surrender, and suddenly he is on his back and you are straddling him.
Silence fills the chamber.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks, his voice as gruff as it ever has been. Truthfully, you do not know. He wonders if you’ve gone mad.
You reach for his hands and place them on your hips. His gaze searches your face, sharp and warning. His face is hard, but his body betrays him. Beneath your thin chemise, you can feel him underneath and your body clenches in anticipation.
You think of Dorne. Of sun warmed skin and slow kisses. Of lovers who learned each other like poetry.
You lower yourself slowly, not in haste but with purpose. Your hands slide over his chest, tracing the scars there. He draws in a breath, sharp as a blade being unsheathed.
“Let me, husband, please,” you whisper.
It is the boldest thing you have ever said to him.
For a moment you think he will throw you aside. His jaw tightens. His fingers flex against your hips. But he does not move you. He watches.
So you move instead.
Slowly. Deliberately. You lean down and kiss the scarred curve of his cheek, the one he never turns toward the light. His entire body goes rigid beneath you.
You are gentle.
You show him what he has never given you. Your mouth trails lower. Your hips roll with patience rather than urgency. You listen to the hitch in his breath, the way his grip shifts from controlling to holding.
His stern mask fractures, just slightly. But it does enough so you can see it.
Your hips continue to roll as you sit up, your hands cover his own as you bounce at whatever pace brings you the most pleasure. Your head rolls back and you moan when the tip of his cock nudges your opening. You look down at Maekar and he looks entranced. His eyes are locked on your body and his mouth falls open a little, enough so little huffs leave him as pleasure overwhelms him.
Your slick covers him, you’re sure, you can feel it. Your hips slow and you bite your lip nervously as you take off your chemise, baring yourself completely to him. You don’t think he’s seen you like this since your wedding night.
His eyes drop to where your bodies connect, he swallows thickly as he watches your cunt slide on him, when his head disappears between your folds, only to appear again when your hips move.
“Do I please you, my prince?” You ask, unable to decipher the look on his face. He doesn’t have to say yes, though you would’ve liked to hear it, you can see that he is enjoying you. You lean down so your face hovers over his. You grab one of his hands and bring it to your chest, your fingers clenching over his own so he might squeeze.
Your mouth falls open against his, quiet gasps of pleasure escaping you as he eventually moves on his own, twisting your nipple sharply between his fingers.
Your hands reach up to frame his face. Your desperate eyes search his as you lay a gentle kiss to his lips. Your body feels hot as you try to deepen the kiss.
“Please, husband, open your mouth,” you plead. He inhaled shakily as he opens. Your tongue explores his mouth, and luckily he does not need to be told to do the same. His tongue enters your mouth, and you sigh contently as the kiss deepens naturally.
“You are quite good at kissing, my prince, might you do it more with me?” You ask him once you pull back, desperately needing air. Your hands still frame his face, and your thumbs rub over his cheeks.
“Maekar, call me Maekar,” he grumbles.
“Maekar,” you nod.
“Do you desire me, Maekar? As a wife?” You ask him shyly. He had been forced into this marriage like you were, you wanted to know if he was still angry about it. If maybe he found your appearance displeasing, if he liked you even.
“Yes,” he breathes out. You hum in acknowledgement as you sit back up. This time, Maekar follows, sitting up as well.
You swallow as you reach down for him, rubbing his cock slowly. Maekar grits his teeth to keep quiet, but his hips buck and his breathing goes erratic.
“Then won’t you make love to me in the marriage bed, instead of taking me like some common whore?” You ask as you line him up against yourself, gently lowering yourself onto him. Your mouth falls open, as does his. You grab his chin and force him to look up at you, you lean in so close that your noses touch.
“Won’t you kiss me in our bed? Won’t you touch me and seduce me? Our marriage need not be so cold, Maekar, I wish it to be warm and I would wish you would be gentle. Might you grow to love me one day, as I am growing to love you?” You ask as you sink down completely. One of your arms wrap around his neck while the other grabs his other hand to grope at your chest again. You press kisses to his face as he legs out a silent shudder.
“Have you ever made love to another before, my prince?” You ask him.
“No, my brothers and I swore we should never father bastards, not after what has happened with the last Aegon,” Maekar answers. You trust his hand will not leave your breast, so yours touches his chest. You had never touched him like this. The muscle felt foreign, but not unkind.
“So you don’t know of all the ways a husband might seduce his wife? Of how I might seduce you?” You whisper into his ear. A shiver wracks his body as his free arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer to him.
“I want you to be more than my husband, Maekar, be my lover as well. Say yes,” you plead. Your thighs shake around him, your cunt feels so full but you can’t move yet. Say yes, you plead, or else this marriage would be lost to you.
He turns his head so his lips catch yours. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling softly but enough that Maekar groans.
“Is that a yes?” You ask as he kisses down your neck.
“Yes,” he answers. You smile as you bring his face back to yours.
“I desire you too, Maekar. I think you are very handsome and strong. I dream of your hands, of your mouth, and what they might do to me,” you breathe out as your hips begin to grind down on him.
“You are a wanton little thing,” he says shakily, forcing a laugh from you.
“I long to be yours completely, not just through my body but with my heart. You are a hard man, Maekar, but won’t you soften yourself to me? I want all of you,” you tell him, face contorting as you move faster.
“Yes, yes, I will,” Maekar groans. You push his head down and force him to envelope one of your nipples with his mouth. You beg him to suck, and he complies. You bounce on him as his hips dart up. The moans that escape you are nothing like Maekar has ever heard, the noises alone might’ve been enough to finish him completely.
You shove his shoulders so he’s lying on his back. From his view, he can see you completely. Your eyes shut in concentration as you work yourself, desperate for release.
“Maekar!” You whimper, tears well up in your eyes from how close you are.
You grab at his hand again and place his thumb on your clit.
“Please, gods, please,” you beg. He draws tight circles on you, and you press against his hand to make him press harder.
Your back arches as you reach your peak. Maekar’s mouth goes dry as he watches you, at the way your hands scratch at his toned stomach. You had never reacted like this before in the bed, a thought flickers in his mind that he’s never made you finish before.
He sits up with more conviction this time. His lips suckle on your neck. He supposed you enjoy it because your arms wrap around him and you pull on his hair.
“Maekar,” you moan. His hips buck beneath you, he feels almost overstimulated at this point. He had been so close before but hadn’t piqued.
He guides your face down into his waiting mouth. He kisses you furiously. His blood boils hot as his teeth bump yours.
He turns you both over so you are on your back this time. He lifts your legs up so they wrap around his hips. You squeak at the new position, at how different it feels as he fills you. At the pressure of him pushing so he’s buried to the hilt, and that same hilt rubbing against all your sensitive spots.
His hips begin to thrust. They are quick and erratic movements, just so he can push himself over the edge. You lie there, back arching as he pushes and pushes. You can tell he’s still holding back, his lips press together tightly.
“No,” you breathe out as you grab his face.
“I want to hear you, please,” you plead, tears brimming your eyes once more at the overstimulation. You could feel yourself getting closer to the edge.
He keeps his eyes on you as he moans and curses.
You try to drag his hand back down, but he stops over your stomach and presses down. He can feel himself inside you, and you feel a pleasure like you never have before.
“Say my name,” he breathes out as his hand moves down and his fingers begin to play with you.
“Maekar! Oh, Maekar, don’t stop!” You gasp as you plant your feet onto the mattress and try your best to meet his thrusts. He can tell you finish again when your legs stiffen and your eyes roll back. When your body clenched him so tightly.
“Come on, give it to me,” you moan seductively. Maekar thrusts again and again, until finally coming with a final roar.
Your arms and legs wrap around him when he collapses completely on top of you. Your bodies are wet and slick with sweat, but neither of you cares.
He rolls over so he doesn’t crush you completely, and his arm wraps around you.
He stares up at the canopy but you guide his face to look at you instead. You smile softly as you inch up, gasping quietly as he slips out of you. But from here, you can cradle his head.
“You may be stoic and hard to everyone else, but within our chambers you will open your heart to me,” you tell him as you press a kiss to his lips.
“We have so much more fun when you’re kinder, don’t we?” You ask between kisses. He nods his head as he lifts the cover over you both.
“I am sorry that I hadn’t helped you finish all those other times we laid together,” he says finally.
“Think nought of it, you have many nights yet to make it up to me,” you assure him with a kiss.
“Tomorrow night, I shall teach you how to pleasure me with your mouth, would you like that?”
