Totally random, but Baelor would love it when his wife rides him during mindblowing sex, after a day of boring duties. Dare to watch her soft hair fall over her face, her eyes closed almost in a meditative state of intense pleasure and her mouth open unable to stop herself from gasping in ecstasy?A view truly worth it for him.
Gods he would.. and Baelor is every bit about that intensity too. Those fleeting glances across the halls, and through corridors as you both pass to your daily duties aren’t for nothing, they are a promise, and one he intends to keep, and fulfils.
The thought of him being able to come back after council, long and jarring, back tense and brow lowered, to find you in the private comfort of your chambers. It was nonsense, always lords droning on, men moaning about their coin, and yet there you are. Draped near perfectly in your thin fabrics of your small clothes, hair unpinned, already comforted. Perhaps you are already in bed or waiting for him somehow, either way, it melts him. His hands find you first, backing you up into him, resting his body into you with a heavy exhale. No words are needed at first, only your touch, the gentle grace of your fingers shrugging off his doublet, your soft smile beckoning him to bed.
And that’s when he truly crumbles, with not only pure adoration, enchanted by you so much so pupils are blown in tired eyes. It is desire.. the tender, warm kind. But one unrelenting.
Baelor works you down, trailing your body with kisses as he lays you back at first, rough pads of fingers cupping your breast and up and over the curve of your knee. He opens you up with his tongue, pressing his face into your heat passionately, falling into the embrace of your thighs and your arousal. And he feels it from you, radiating from his body to yours, that neither of you can wait, nor truly want to be apart. And that’s when he switches you both, all other clothes discarded, pushing himself up onto the oak headboard where taut muscle will allow him to rest comfortable.
“Come to me my heart..” He urges you on, frame crawling up him as you settle just above his hard cock. Two heavy hands grip at your hips, rubbing you over the heat of his length, your arousal wetting him as you both groan. His eyes flick to you then, dark and unmatched, hues of amber and azure bearing into yours with a need. His thumbs circle over the flesh of your waist, dragging you closer until they hook underneath your arse, lifting you just so. And then you fall into eachother, with your hands wrapped around his neck, and a hand lining himself up with your entrance, he presses you down inch by inch.
He becomes speechless, only watching on from where he rests against the bed, fingers tightening into your flesh as your mouth falls open. Both of you utterly at a loss, the sensitive peaks of your breasts scraping into his scarred chest, your cunt sucking him in greedily. He rocks you into him with every thrust, moans falling sweetly from your lips, unabashed and unrestrained until he catches them with his mouth. Your lips lock together as your tongues glide, tasting eachother, and yourself on his lips.
“So good for me, my girl..,” He mouths across your jaw, sucking deeply into your neck and inhaling your scent. “My wife..” Baelor groans, just as you fall into him, rising and falling with the heat of your high fast approaching, he thumbs at your swollen pearl absentmindedly, but with purpose. He doesn’t dare look away, not after how he’s longed for this, he is all over you, for once, not knowing quite where to touch, where to feel, because he feels all of you.
You are a sight to behold, in the flickered glow of candlelight, hair mussed by the gentle breeze from the window and the fervour of your coupling, your mouth fallen slack, your skin a lustful sheen. He feels as if he could let go right there, all tension, all bore and nonsense whims of the day, surely melted in your arms and the feel of your fingers tightening through the thin threads of hair at his nape.
And just as you both close in, the pressure building and threatening to snap, he speeds up, holding you down to where you are connected, fucking up deep inside of you. His thumb remains on your clit, circling the wetness as it beads down onto his cock, thrusting sloppily up into your cunt until you both crash.
He catches you as you do, strong forearms bracing you against him as you cry out, his moans vibrating from his chest and into your own. Neither of you move after that, only jolted by the tender drag of his cock spilling inside of you, still sheathed as he rocks you both through your highs, not wanting to be anywhere else but impossibly close. You become boneless, flopped onto the warm muscle of his torso, tucked just under his chin, his palm gracing your cheek, brushing the hair carefully from your face.
“How I’ve missed you..” He breathes, pressing a kiss to the corner of your head, and another, and another, until the pair of you let sleep consume you, blissed and sated.
Once again, together.. he rests with a curve of his lip, and brow loosened, truly, a sight that was worth it.
summary: you have long wondered with your husband’s nature, just how he came to father six children. and its high time he proved it to you.
pairing: maekar targaryen x second wife!reader
warning(s): porn with little plot, rough sex, breeding kink (it’s maekar), fingering, hair pulling, biting, dirty talk, slight degradation, slight bit of spanking
word count: 3.6k
a/n: will i ever stop writing maekar with breeding kink? uhhh.. no :)) i hope you enjoy lovelies
If there was one thing more than anything else he’d been forced to endure, it was you.
Not that, but the things that had come with it, the questions and nonsense from others. And some, even worse, from you.
“For the way he acts it is a wonder.”
“Mayhaps he is just nervous.”
“Id wager he’d enjoy the idea of it.”
“But how exactly did you?” That one, was you.
Endless questioning. That was all he had heard, and it was just about enough to drive him crazy, past the point of insanity if possible.
You were no fool, he knew of it. He would not have stepped foot into another marriage let alone being forced to take a bride, if she was dimwitted. And you were far from it.
Callous, stern and prickly many called him, and yet you and what followed had wandered round him like a buzzing fly. Though it was not your company he despised, he liked that more than he could admit, but it was the mockery. For a man of his age, not old and yet not young with six children in his stead, you had been incessant in wondering exactly.
How.
He was handsome, far more than people had mentioned or cared to, striking in that fierce way. Hardened by battles and fatherhood alone. And you were captivated, and curious. And luckily for you, you were the thing, the creature, the pest that consistently managed to get under his skin.
The way you walked, talked, the way you made eyes at him across the feasting table, the way you’d so perfectly slotted into the family and how everyone, including the children adored you. For that he was thankful, truly, but it didn’t stop the fact you drove him mad.
“She is a new addition to the family, and she is fitting in quite well I should say.” Baelor countered as both men walked through the punctured halls of Maegor’s Holdfast.
“She has taken over.” Maekar muttered with a roll of his yes , stalking slowly beside his brother.
“Your senses perhaps.” Baelor replied coolly, an edge of amusement following.
Maekar slowed, squinting piercing eyes at his brother as they moved to stand over the edge, overseeing the court below where you and the children had played. Egg and Rhae had tugged at your hands, making you stand to play and duck behind the plant pots with them in small strides, with Daeron watching on. Even Valarr stood at the corner with a smile, whispering no doubt pleasantries and flattery about you. Some said you would have been more suited to one of the younger Prince’s, perhaps there would be more in common, a likeness, but even though he remained shadowed, the idea made his blood boil. A possessiveness over territory he had yet to claim.
Not a chance.
“What I mean is, she does no harm. It has been a long time since they have all looked like this.” Baelor reasoned, picking at the stone underneath his palm as he eyed Maekar.
“Around you she may not.” The grumble came fast, quick to override his brother’s words. But his throat felt dry, tacky and stuck like the words could barely come out. Like what he had heard was true.
His senses, overtaken his senses. How?
What with your cunning ways, your ability to charm and please, and weasel your way in without needing to, to be so beautiful and too good for him. It needled at him. The marriage both of you had been so blessed with was not necessity, not by anyone’s means, but yet it came anyway.
Swift and secure, as all things should be, strengthening alliance or something else they had bothered to give title.
The loss changed him, hardened him in ways that most wouldn’t be able to understand, but you had tried to. Endlessly. Attempts to break down the brick wall that was your husband became futile, and so you decided to go around him. For it was jsut as new to you as it was to him, and with him years your senior, you had expected him more forthcoming.
And yet he was not.
He was reserved and callous, moving through the halls of Summerhall like a gust of wind more than a steady hand, ignoring all of your questions insisting they were nothing but “nonsensical whims.”
But you had longed for something different. Perhaps not the chivalrous fanciful lords and their ways, but his own.. the longing looks he had given you across court, the fleeting touches at your lower back and arm when duty had warranted it. But you wanted more, you wanted him, not duty. And he had been rather intent on keeping it from you.
But one thing he didn’t deny, was that his brother may well have been right. None of them had looked like it in such a long time, nor had he felt the way he had in so long. So.. undone, having to pry himself from his thoughts, especially when you caught his gaze from across the din.
Your smile bright and curved, more like a smirk, knowing and tempting. His jaw ticked harshly, tongue pressing deep into his cheek, only for a fleeting moment before you had looked away, and his fingers had all but gripped the stone under his fingers enough to chip it.
Baelor had caught it, a single glimpse to his side and back onto you and the children again. The heat that burned from the man beside him was enough to scold and he had not lingered on the thought of what had wandered through his head.
Nor did he need to, because before pulling away, Maekar’s eyes barely left you.
His thoughts were, you.
——
The chamber was cool, years of aged stone encasing you more than you’d have liked. The day had .. wonderfully, breaking your fast with your ladies and the children, tending to them in the gardens and watching over some of their lessons, and retreating back to your ladies once more. For them you were thankful, able to wander the lower halls without question or prying eyes, and the ability to talk as freely as you wished.
“If only he wasn’t so prickly.”
“Careful, he is our Prince after all.”
“It is a miracle he has fathered children of his own at all, not near as pleasant as his brother.” Quickly followed by, “Apologies my lady, we only wish to see you happy..”
You had confided in them briefly, private chatter between you of how exactly to woo the prince, or rather atleast to accept his affections that so many had claimed to have seen. Also that so many had claimed the Prince did not have a heart to give.
But they were wrong.
Not with the way he looked you, so dark and delicate, like he could snap at any moment..
You must have made him feel green again, one had giggled, as you did.
You had asked him to visit your chambers many nights, and yet he did not, instead your maid came to you, always. She bathed you often, brought tea and a fresh pitcher of water, even sat with you a while when you had wanted it. Almost as if it had been sent for you, and for that you were thankful. But there was no sign of him.
And alas, you had had enough.
They were not wrong, you had noticed it too. Such fighting for restraint and the tension that lingered was inevitable, a livin thing that made you ache.
And so you had taken their advice.
If he will not make such a move, perhaps you should.
And you liked that idea, you liked it very much. Because out of all the talk and gossip, the questioning of your husband’s want for you was dwindling, and yet you did not give in.
Your chambermaid, Niamh, had just finished setting out the tray in the small table, a glass bowl of fruits beside a candle, a hand towel and your bodily oils. She stood straight backed and patient for what her ached body would allow, resting her arms at her middle with a small, expectant smile.
“I have run you a bath, should you require assistance, my lady?”
“That will be all thank you Niamh, you are dismissed.”
She nodded curtly, and with the turn of her heel the oak creaked behind her softly. You had waited a further few moments to let the echoes of her footsteps die out before you moved, stepping into the thinness of your laced nightgown with a devilish grin.
Because it was not the bath you were ready for.
Your steps patterned the lines of the corridors you’d mapped out for some time, every corner and shortcut that was hidden beneath stone. Maekar’s own chambers was not far from your own, a whole stretch of hall and a turn away. Every outline of jagged rock shadowed with a trail of sconces and the few tapered and coloured tapestries that hung from the walls.
Your heart thrummed harshly in your chest with adrenaline, your fingertips flexing as you clutched your arms around yourself from the cold night air. And once you arrived outside of his chambers, the feeling only seemed to grow, goose pimples trailing your skin. But with a single look, defiant and what confidence you could muster up, the two men standing vigil outside had stepped aside without protest for you.
Seemingly aware of the mission you had embarked yourself on.
The chambers were darker than your own, everything lined perfectly and sparse just as you had remembered it from your night together moons ago. The last time he had truly touched you. You stepped inside carefully, snaking yourself around the door before closing it shut with a heavy click.
The hearth warmed the room, dimming it in golds and oranges across banners of red and black. Your breath stuttered as you turned, so taken with breathing the space in you hadn’t known the figure staring right at you. And a look of confusion etching the striking, miserable features.
His robe was a dark and velveted crimson, one that wrapped to his shins and broadened his shoulders. His eyes glistened in that light, twinkling more tender than they had let on, almost enticing.
“Husband.” You greeted innocently.
“Who let you in?” Maekar spoke sharply, like the words were a bad taste on his tongue.
“Your kingsguard, very thoughtful of them.” You gestured behind you at the door as you moved further into the room, closing the gap between you as much as you could dare.
“You should be asleep,” His eyes raked over you for a single moment, rather all he could allow himself before he turned to his side, back facing you as he made for the bed, “in your own chambers.”
Your nightdress was of the finest silk, cream and a lightness that hugged your curves in the most torturous way, your hair clung to your shoulders and your skin bared.
Something he should not have seen, should not have wanted as much as he did.
“I have come to see you.”
You dared a foot forwards, planting it across the cool floor and onto the myriah carpet just at the end of the bed, a small smile peeking at your features. He had rested himself onto the edge of the bed, sitting hunched as his legs trailed far and long in front of him, shoulders sagged and tense.
“Well now you have seen. Now leave.”
But you did not, you couldn’t. He was far too close, and you had not yet begun.
You didn’t answer to that, instead you had crawled toward him on the edge of the bed, a mere arms length away.
“I have missed you.”
He only looked at you as he took a heavy inhale, a simple look, displeased and thrown. Why. You blinked up to the violets that bore into yours, a face like statue and stone. How could you. After all that was placed on you both, all the gossip and venomous words that spilled behinds backs, after how much he had attempted to keep from ruining you.
“What are you saying?”
“Well you hardly spend any time here.. with me.” You kicked your legs in front, swinging just beside his, close enough to knock together where yours didn’t meet the length of his own.
“Do not pretend to be so stupid.”
“It scares you.” You inched closely, carefully, arms reaching toward him, through the robe. And he allowed you to, legs spread wide and shamelessly as you settled yourself over him, a knee perched on either side.
“What?” He blinked up through lidded eyes, pupils blown and decisive, even if he would not speak as such. He would let you have your fun, amuse yourself and find out what you had so longed to have.
“The thought scares you.” You continued, fingers running along the collar of his robe, lining the silk just across the hem where his skin was bared. Few silver hairs littered his chest where the material opened, hard planes of pale muscle rising and falling sharply.
“What thought woman? Speak.” Maekar snapped through the quiet, impatience clawing at his skin like a fire.
“Surrendering yourself.”
He almost laughed, almost, a short incredulous huff bubbling from his throat.
“It is not my duty to surrender.”
“But it is your duty to put a babe in me is it not, the marriage was consummated moons ago and you had done so little as touch me.” Your fingers worked at his shoulders, taut muscle pulling between your nails. He stayed rigid, batting your hand away with a flick.
But you moved it back, placing it right back to where you had it.
“Do not test me.”
You could feel him there. The warmth of his breath, the burning glare that did not leave your face, the heat brushing between you through thin layers of fabric. Arousal flooded your core, and you had half the mind to bite back a moan. You had not had him like this, and he was not denying you.
“I’am not testing you.” You shrugged, hands slowly circling to meet around his neck. A brave move, even if not wise. He swore he could hear the hammering of your heart, and still see the curve of the smirk he had not from forgotten hours earlier, the one that plagued his mind.
The one he wished to wipe off of your face and take you over his lap in an instant—
“Perhaps it is more than duty you require..” Your fingers continued at his collarbones, humming dreamily at the thought. “Perhaps it is want.”
Your eyes met, bearing down into one another as your breaths mingled, your faces somehow rocked closer together on instinct, where your lips neared touching.
“Though if you do not wish for more, nor to consummate this marriage.. I wouldn’t be offended. Perhaps you are scared.. and after having so many it would be more than enough for an old man to—“
That was enough. The pure breaking point he’d sure he’d lost a long time ago. All resolve had seemed to snap with a heavy punch in his gut.
You didn’t have time to contemplate another word before he had shifted you both roughly. Long, thick fingers circled around your throat, your back shoved down into layers upon layers of silken sheets and furs. The tassels of his robe had fallen in his swiftness, bearing his chest completely leaving him only in his breeches and you had completely lost your breath.
You were pinned, folded with your legs pressed into his thighs as he kneeled over you.
“Do not anger me, girl.”
You blinked up at him, gasping at the pressure against your throat. You could smell him from there, more than before. And he was intoxicating. His scent, the smell of woodsmoke and pine, and need.
“You know well that is not it.” He gritted, glaring down at you with a gaze that made the pressure in your belly pinch hot.
“Then what is it.. mayhaps that you are older—“
The fingers tightened at your throat as he leaned down, body rising over yours as more weight anchored you down.
“Seven hells no. Tell me what you want. Say it, tell me you want this as I do, before I change my fucking mind.” The hand at your waist clamped tighter, stretching the seams of your nightgown. Your skin was ablaze, ignited under his touch and the aching deep in your core.
There was much you could have said, even struck him for making you wait so long, for denying himself of you for reasons he couldn’t even begin to name, but you had forgotten all else, raw need buzzing through your skin.
“Want you to put a babe in me husband.. want you to show me how well you fuck.”
You breathed out with a whine. And he growled, deep and beastly, like a primal instinct that could not be tamed. So guttural it sounded almost dragonlike.
His grip curled around the back of your neck, shoving you up to face him with bared teeth as he pressed himself further down, nose nudging harshly into yours.
“Good girl.”
His lips crashed to yours, fierce and unyielding, the force shoving you both back onto the bed as he bent over you. Your tongues swept together before his pushed his between your lips, tasting you, savouring and claiming all at once.
“You have driven me mad, wife.” With one hand he reached between you, unlacing the confines of his breeches in one heavy tug. They fell away down to his knees, the sharp ‘v’ of muscle trailing down to his cock defined and pulsing with vein. Even through lidded and lusted eyes you could see him, all of him. He was thick as he was long, the tip reddened with an aching blush and the beading sticky stream of precum.
Maekar waited a moment, slowing as he rose, releasing his grip on your neck, tracing his fingers over the bunched hem of your nightgown. He pushed it up, inch by inch until he brought it to your chest.
“Off.” Was all he called gruffly, and the command made you dizzy, raising your arms shakily as he snaked it off of you before tossing it somewhere to the floor where neither of you had cared to look for it.
He had longed for this sight. You had lingered long in his memory since the first time, the swell of your breasts and nipples pebbling under the cool air, the dip of your waist and curve of your stomach. The flush of your face under the firelight flickering behind you, silhouetted only by his shadow above you. Gods you did drive him mad.
And he was a fool to wait so long, to make you wait.
Hands brushed down your sides, callouses scratching along your skin as you shivered under his touch, fingers splaying over your belly and parting your thighs.
“All of this teasing.. and talk with your ladies who do not know fuck all.”
His fingers dug into the flesh of them, ignoring the way you inched downward to him, the hard press of his length just above your aching cunt.
“She must be so needy for me for being desperate like some common whore...” He tutted sharply, running a finger from your navel to your heat, slipping through the wetness that gathered over your clit and entrance. Flush crept your cheeks brazenly, hips arching instinctly as he curled two inside of you.
You moaned loudly, digits filling you at once as your cunt sucked them in greedily, rocking back onto them as he flexed them. He worked you open like that, scissoring as you bucked and humped yourself back onto his hand restlessly. And again he let you, urging you on, pumping his fingers deep while his thumb circled at your clit, letting your sticky sweetness coat his hand.
The sounds were lewd, a squelch against his palm where it filled you, motioning and massaging at your g-spot over and over until you had broke a sweat across the sheets, working yourself up with a desire that needed to be sated.
He didn’t let you finish, couldn’t, not even the satisfaction of having you come undone on him was enough. He had to have you, and there was only way it was going to happen, with having you wrapped around his cock and buried deep inside of you.
“Why the fuck did you—“ Your words caught on your tongue, dying as he angled himself, heavy length rubbing through your folds with a sickening tease. He slipped himself inside, thickness filling you with a burning stretch as you took him. His mouth moved back over yours, catching your whines and enduring the way your nails clutched at his back with a groan.
He stilled only to feel all of you, sheathed so far inside you swore you could feel him in the your belly. His cock punched deep, fingers gripped in a swarm around your hips to only anchor himself further, tongue sweeping over yours in a feverish haze. You could hardly breathe, the air punched from your lungs as he thrust inside of you, pulling out gently just to shove himself back deeper, and purposefully until stars blurred your vision.
Your thighs curled at his hips, muscle tensing and straining where he fucked into you like a man possessed, grunts muffled into the curve of your jaw as you begged and whined for him, wrapping yourself tight at his middle as he huddled himself over you. The hard bone of his knees braced at the bottom of your thighs, stretching you further for him to get more of you, your body on full display and all for him.
You tried to speak, to rise over the lack of words as your mouth parted, but it failed you, he was merciless.
“Take. It.” He rasped, rising over you to tug your legs upward, resting them onto his chest and up to his shoulders. Your husband was undone, completely. Silver flattened hair had fallen into his eyes, pale skin flushing with a sheen of sweat and desire, his eyes burning as he took you in. As if to study you so deeply and commit you to memory, finally having you in his arms, unable to spout those stupid questions and irk him further.
But it did not last long, not until he had you flipped again, this time with your face pressed into the furs, a heavy palm smoothed over your back.
“You want to know how hm?” His breath hit the shell of your ear, cock sliding over your arsecheek.
Your blood ran cold, a shiver wracking your body as fingers twisted into your hair, forcing you up along with his hips. He had you bent beneath him, his hips dragging into your arse as he lined himself up once more. You were arched up into him, breasts bunched into the mattress and your cries muffled into the sheets.
The angle there hit deeper, fuller, settling that spot inside of you with every snap of his thrusts. The sound of slapping filled your ears, punctuated only by his grunting and your moans. He tugged you back onto him where you fell completely boneless, his cock spreading you open as your arms spread wide, clutching and fisting at the pillows as you moaned into the mattress.
“This is what you wanted is it, to fuck you full..” A hand cracked down onto your arscheek and you mewled, arching your back to meet the stinging pressure. He fucked into you still, sinking in and out so deeply it was certain to kiss your cervix.
“Perhaps this will shut you up.. spilling inside of this cunt.”
Your whines became babbles, a plea of “yes yes yes” falling from your lips needily, and he gave you it, everything you desired, begged for, everything you deserved. His head fell, a hand moving over the trail of your spine, cinching at your waist to bring you closer.
You couldn’t take it.
The pair of your fell apart together, every slap of skin and pant sending you over the edge. His teeth bit into your shoulder from behind, tongue smoothing over the marks that punctured your skin.
“Please..” You whined, your walls spasming wildly around him as your climax crashed over you.
“Let go for me, my girl..” He groaned through gritted teeth, grabbing a harsh fistful of your arse as you clenched around him, your swollen cunt milking him dry as he chased his own high. He gave few more thrusts before spilling inside of you, fucking it back into you as you shook round him, legs limp beneath him.
He did not let go of you right away, pulling from you carefully, your wetness and his spend leaking from you as he rested your hips back onto the bed. A pillow was placed under your middle as he lifted you without fuss, tilting you ever so slightly downward. So it will keep. Your heart eased its hammering as your body began to rest, heavy warm arms tugging you upward and onto his chest.
The sheets were pulled over you carefully in silence, only his ragged breaths and the crackling of the hearth filling the heavy silence in the room.
“Rest.”
A hand combed through your hair, smoothing over your face as you looked up at him, and this time he found yours, and really looked. Your arm wrapped over his as his hooked under your legs, sweeping you closer, together wrapped in your warmth.
He felt you looking, and he waited, expecting another quip as per usual.
“Are you done with the nonsense now?” He mumbled, resting his head back onto the wooden headboard.
“Mhm.. maybe.” You hummed, tracing the silver hairs at his chest.
“For fucks sake..”
“I believe you’ll have to do it again.”
There it was.
The mouth that drove him mad. His arm tightened around you, but he said nothing.
Though he didn’t need to, his exhales grew harsher, his spend still dripping from you as you rubbed your thighs together, and over the hardening of his cock.
Not as duty, not as requirement, but as your husband, and the pure unrestrained need for wanting you, and how he wasn’t to deny it again.
loving taglist: @targlocket (let me know if you want to be tagged for future reference, i’m accumulating a proper taglist) 💗
waittttt what about calling tt!aerion bro……. oh yeah that’s an itch that needs to be scratched 🙂↔️🙂↔️🙂↔️
✶ valarr's ver.
the first time you call him bro he's mid-sentence, telling you some story about his father's latest bullshit, cigarette between his fingers, sprawled on your couch like he pays rent here (he does not), and you interrupt him with, "damn, that's rough, bro."
aerion stops. stops talking. his mouth is still open. the cigarette pauses halfway to his lips. he stares at you like you've just spoken in tongues.
"i'm sorry," he says slowly, flatly, "what did you just call me?"
"bro," you repeat, innocently. "what's wrong, dude?"
his eye twitches.
"are you," he begins, voice dropping into that dangerous-quiet register, "are you fucking with me right now?"
you shrug. "i don't know what you mean, man."
aerion's jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump in his cheek. he takes a long drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowed, and you can see him trying to decide if this is a bit or if you've genuinely lost your mind. he's cycling through possibilities. running diagnostics. he looks like he's doing complex math in his head to figure out what he did wrong.
"did i do something?" he asks finally, and there's a sharp edge to it.
"no? why, dawg?"
"stop that."
"stop what, bro?"
"stop." he stubs the cigarette out in your ashtray with more force than strictly necessary. "i'm not your bro. i'm not your dude. i'm—" he gestures at himself, glaring, "—i'm aerion, and you know damn well—"
"chill out, mate," you say, biting back a grin.
that's it. that's the breaking point.
he crosses the distance between you in one movement and his hand goes to your jaw and he kisses you hard, all teeth and anger and that specific aerion brand of "i'm going to fuck the attitude out of you" energy. his tongue slides into your mouth before you've even processed that he's moved, and you make a small surprised sound that he swallows.
when he pulls back, you're both breathing harder.
"there," he mutters against your mouth. "that's better. now stop calling me—"
"sorry, bro," you say sweetly.
aerion makes a sound in the back of his throat that's half-laugh, half-snarl. his hand slides from your jaw to your throat, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point in warning.
"you," he says slowly, deliberately, "are being a brat."
"am i, dude?"
his fingers tighten. just slightly. just enough to make your breath catch. his eyes have gone dark now, pale lashes lowered, and you can see the exact moment he decides to stop being patient.
"say it again," he challenges quietly. "call me bro one more time and see what happens."
you hold his gaze. grin wolfishly. "but bro—"
he yanks you to him by the throat.
closing the distance instantly, and his mouth finds yours again and this time there's less anger in it and more heat. his other hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, and he's kissing you like he's trying to replace every single bro and dude with his tongue in your mouth.
and that's when you finally break.
you start laughing. you can't help it. it bubbles up in your chest and spills out against his lips, and aerion pulls back just far enough to glare at you.
"you think this is funny?"
"i think—" you're still laughing, "i think you're so easy—"
"i'm easy?" he demands, but his mouth is twitching now despite himself. "you're the one who—you started this—"
"you fell for it immediately," you gasp, still grinning. "you got so mad—"
"i wasn't mad, i was—" he stops. huffs. and then, despite himself, he snorts. just once. barely audible, but you hear it.
"you were mad," you accuse, grinning up at him.
"i was annoyed," he corrects, but his hand is still on your throat, thumb stroking absently now over your pulse. "there's a big difference."
"oh, huge difference."
"there is." his other hand slides down from your hair to your waist, pulling you properly against him now. "and you're still a brat."
"and you're still too easy, targaryen."
he kisses you again. softer this time. slower. his hand caresses your throat as he deepens it, tongue sliding against yours, and you melt into him because even when he's annoyed with you, even when you're mocking him, this is still fit together.
when he pulls back this time, you're both holding onto each other. his hand is still at your throat, yours have found their way under his shirt to press against hot skin of him, and aerion is peering at you with this expression that's half-exasperated, half-fond.
"you're the fucking worst, stark," he mutters.
"you love it."
"i tolerate it," he corrects, but his thumb is still stroking your throat, and his other hand has slid up under your shirt now, palm flat against your ribs.
"tolerate, huh?"
he tips his head, considering, humming under his breath. "maybe i'm just using you for your body."
you snort. "that's fine. i'm using you for yours."
he grins in response. sharp and mean and pretty. "liar. you like me."
"i tolerate you," you throw back at him.
"liar," he says again, and then he's kissing you.
you're both grinning into it now, still holding onto each other, even as his tongue slides into your mouth and your nails scratch lightly at his stomach.
"don't call me bro again," he says eventually, mouth still against yours, nipping.
"or what?"
"or i'll stop answering to my actual name. i'll only respond to baby from now on."
you pull back to look at him. "you wouldn't."
"try me, sweetheart." his hand tightens on your throat, just for emphasis. "call me bro one more time and i'm making you beg me to use your mouth."
"promises, promises," you murmur, but you're grinning, and so is he, and when aerion kisses you this time it's less angry, just messy and competitive.
both of you trying to win something neither of you can name.
"aerion," you exhale eventually, just his name, soft against his mouth.
you feel him smile.
"there," he mutters. "my good girl. that wasn't so hard, was it?"
Everyone give a big ovation to the winner of the poll! Edit: Maekar's version available!
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader
WC: 8.7k
Warning(s): +18 MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected piv sex, fingering, AFAB reader, power imbalance, age gap, slow burn payoff, established emotional intimacy, touch-starved, yearning, praise kink (light), size difference, male restraint / loss of control, consensual, explicit consent throughout, second person / reader insert (no use of y/n), no beta we die like Viserys
The hour had grown shamefully late by the time the last council parchment finally found its proper place.
Prince Baelor had spent the entire evening buried beneath duties that seemed determined to consume him piece by piece. Petitions. Correspondence. Endless disputes dressed in prettier language. By the end of it, even the candles in his solar had burned low and crooked with exhaustion.
So had he.
You saw it in the way his shoulders sagged slightly now that no courtiers remained to witness him. Saw it in the loosened collar at his throat, in the tiredness shadowing those mismatched eyes that had spent all day watching too carefully and speaking too wisely.
And gods, you loved him so much it physically hurt sometimes.
You stood beside the long table sorting the final stack of parchment while silence settled softly around the room. Outside the windows, King’s Landing slept beneath drifting darkness and distant torchlight. Inside, warmth flickered gold across shelves heavy with books and maps and the lingering remains of responsibility.
You heard him move behind you. Then, suddenly —warmth.
Baelor stopped directly at your back before lowering his forehead slowly against the crown of your head. The contact was so quiet, so weary, so unbearably intimate that your heart clenched instantly beneath your ribs.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply felt him there, large, warm and tired beyond words. His breath left him softly against your hair.
Something about the gesture felt dangerously vulnerable tonight. Less like affection and more like surrender. Like the weight of the day had finally become too much to carry upright.
Your hand left the parchment immediately and you turned slowly within the circle of his arms until you faced him properly. And by the Seven, the look in his eyes nearly undid you where you stood.
Need.
Not merely desire, but neediness in its rawest form, hidden beneath all the prince’s careful restraint. Love worn so openly it almost hurt to witness. Exhaustion too. Relief, longing. The terrible fragile softness he only ever allowed himself to show you.
Your hands rose instinctively to cradle his face. Baelor closed his eyes for half a heartbeat the moment your palms touched his skin.
“You are exhausted,” you whispered softly.
A faint breath of laughter escaped him, though there was no real amusement in it.
“Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Always.”
His eyes opened again slowly.
And there it was again —that unbearable tenderness in the way he looked at you. Like he loved you carefully. Like he loved you constantly. Like, perhaps, he did not even know how to stop anymore.
One of his hands settled lightly against your waist, almost hesitant. As though he still could not quite believe he was allowed this closeness with you.
“You should rest,” you murmured.
“I should.” Yet he made no move to step away. And neither did you.
The silence stretched warm between you, thick with something neither of you had named aloud yet despite how long it had existed.
Baelor’s gaze lowered briefly to your mouth, then immediately away again. Gods, he was still trying to restrain himself, even now.
You saw the effort of it written plainly across his face —the carefulness, the fear of wanting too much, the endless instinct to hold himself back lest he overwhelm you somehow.
The realization struck straight through your chest. So, you ended the distance yourself. Your fingers tightened softly against his bearded jaw as you rose onto your toes and kissed him.
Baelor inhaled sharply against your mouth. It felt almost physical, the exact moment that part of his restraint broke beneath the kiss. His hand tightened hard at your waist. The breath left him unevenly. And suddenly he was kissing you back with the full weight of his longing behind it, like he could not bear to waste a single second of finally having you this close.
He kissed you deeply, carefully at first, drinking in every soft sound you made as though he had starved for it. His other hand rose to cradle the back of your head with almost painful gentleness while your fingers slid into dark hair threaded silver beneath them.
The sound he made at that nearly ruined you. You felt him melt and unravel all at once.
“Gods,” he whispered brokenly against your mouth.
Then he kissed you again. And again. Like he physically could not stop now that he had begun.
The edge of the table pressed briefly against your behind as Baelor moved closer, large body surrounding yours entirely in warmth and steady overwhelming presence alike. Every touch remained careful despite the hunger growing beneath it, every movement restrained only by devotion. Like worship truly sat at the centre of his desire for you.
His forehead rested against yours for one trembling moment.
“You do not understand,” he murmured softly, voice rough with feeling, “how long I have wanted this.”
Your hands slipped over both sides of his neck, holding him close as you kissed him once more and felt the steady, thumping pulse of his life beneath your fingers.
Baelor exhaled shakily against your mouth before his hands slid more securely around your waist and he guided you backward slowly through the candlelit room toward the bed tucked behind carved screens.
Every step felt deliberate, intimate, devastatingly tender, like he was carrying something sacred toward an altar. And gods, the way he looked at you nearly stole the breath from your lungs entirely. Wonder. Love. A need so deep it had become almost holy.
Baelor knelt before you afterward for one suspended heartbeat, broad hands caressing their way up your right leg and taking hold of it, bending it at your knee just in front of his mouth, the hem of your gown spilled at both sides. His dark and light gaze, now almost even in its darkness, moved over your face through half-lidded eyes, looking at you with visible awe. Then slowly, reverently, he pressed a kiss against your knee just above the fabric of your stocking.
The tenderness of it shattered something inside you completely. Your hands found his shoulders for stability, feeling the warmth of his body through the dense fabric of his doublet.
When he looked back up at you again, his eyes were already wrecked with emotion. Like loving you this openly might destroy him. And perhaps he would gladly let it.
Baelor remained kneeling before you for several long heartbeats after pressing that kiss to your knee, as though he had forgotten how to breathe properly.
The candles burned low around the room, gold light flickering softly across the sharp lines of his face and the silver threaded through dark hair alike. Even from above, you could see the emotion still wrecking him openly now that the last walls of restraint had finally fallen.
No man had ever looked at you like this before, like devotion itself had taken human shape.
His hands rested lightly against your leg, large enough that warmth spread through you now that no layer of fabric separated them from the skin at the back of your thigh. Yet, despite the hunger in his eyes, he did not move further immediately.
That was Baelor.
Even now — undone, wanting, visibly trembling with it — he still treated you as though your comfort mattered more than his desire.
His gaze lifted slowly back to your face. “You are certain?” he asked quietly.
The tenderness in the question nearly shattered your heart.
You reached for him at once, fingers slipping and spanning across his face before gently guiding him closer to your body.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Baelor, yes.”
A shaky breath escaped him. His eyes closed briefly beneath your touch like reassurance itself physically affected him. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, he let go of your leg and rose to his full height again, his arms circling you and reaching the laces of your gown.
And gods — he hesitated. Not because he did not want this. Because he wanted it too much.
You saw it plainly in the way his fingers trembled faintly against the fabric of your back, in the care with which he touched you, like he feared moving too quickly might somehow break the moment apart around him.
“May I?” he asked softly.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Yes.”
He undid the first set of laces with slow deliberate care, then paused again. His eyes lifted briefly to yours as though checking once more that you still wanted this, that you were still with him in this unfolding intimacy.
You almost laughed from sheer affection.
“Baelor,” you murmured warmly, “you may stop asking permission every half-breath.”
Heat crept faintly across his cheekbones at that.
“I do not wish to presume.”
“You could never.” The words visibly affected him.
His throat moved once before his gaze lowered again toward your gown. This time when he resumed undoing the lacing, his hands remained steadier, though reverence still clung stubbornly to every movement.
The fabric loosened slowly beneath his touch.
And all the while he looked at you as though committing every reaction to memory: the rise and fall of your breathing, the warmth blooming across your skin, the way your fingers tightened lightly over his chest whenever his knuckles brushed accidentally against bare flesh.
Gods, that seemed to affect him terribly.
Each new glimpse of skin made his expression soften further into something almost dazed. Like he could not quite believe he was being allowed this.
When the gown finally slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, Baelor inhaled sharply. The sound filled the quiet room, its silence otherwise only interrupted by the soft crackling of the hearth.
You felt his hands tighten instinctively at your waist over your thin chemise before gentleness returned immediately afterward, deliberate and careful despite the visible hunger beginning to darken his gaze.
For one suspended heartbeat, he simply looked at you. And gods, the emotion in his face nearly made your eyes sting.
“You are breathtakingly beautiful,” he said softly. A truth spoken with the full weight of his heart behind it.
The tenderness of it settled warm and aching beneath your ribs.
Baelor’s fingertips brushed lightly along your shoulders afterward, almost hesitant again, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin beneath his hands.
“You are still overdressed,” you whispered gently. That startled a quiet laugh from him at last.
“Are you growing impatient, my sweet girl?”
“Desperately,” you confessed.
The look he gave you afterward nearly ruined you outright. Something in him seemed to surrender almost completely then. Not restraint disappearing entirely — Baelor would always be careful with you — but the fear beneath it easing at last.
His hands moved more confidently after that, sliding slowly along your sides before drawing you nearer to the edge of the bed. He leaned forward until his forehead rested briefly against yours again, breathing unevenly while his fingers traced reverently across the newly bared skin of your shoulders.
“You have no idea,” he murmured softly, voice thick with feeling, “what you are doing to me.”
Your hands lifted then to the buttoning of his doublet, undoing them downwards with the practiced ease of a lady-in-waiting, no hesitance in them.
Baelor shuddered. For all his size and composure and quiet authority, he became terribly responsive beneath affection once he allowed himself to feel openly.
You pushed the dark fabric fully from his shoulders at last, his doublet made a dull thud as it hit the ground. Underneath it, light linen stretched across broad chest and strong arms alike. Your fingers slipped toward the hem of his chemise, pulling it up over his head.
As he lowered his head to help with your task, it was Baelor who trembled beneath your hands. And when you looked back up at him, those mismatched eyes held nothing now but naked devotion and want so deep it had become almost holy between you both.
Without moving away from his body, you took enough distance to observe his torso. His chest was covered with a fine layer of hair, which ran down his stomach to the waistband of his pants, where your gaze lingered but your treacherous mind wandered.
When your gaze climbed back again to his face, the look that you found in his eyes nearly burned straight through you. There was not lust alone, that would have been easier to survive. No, this was hunger tangled so tightly with devotion that it became almost unbearable to witness. His eyes moved over you slowly, reverently, as though he still could not quite comprehend that you were real and here and allowing him this.
And perhaps the worst part was how openly affected he looked by it.
His composure had already begun unravelling beneath your hands, but now you could physically see the strain of restraint pulling tighter through him. His breathing had deepened noticeably. One broad hand remained firm at your waist like he needed grounding there, thumb moving unconsciously against your skin while his gaze lingered helplessly on every newly bared inch of you.
Your hand slowly rose to his chest, where you placed it right above his galloping heart. You looked up at him and smiled tenderly at the look on his face.
“You are…” He stopped abruptly, visibly losing the thought entirely.
You smiled widened despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “What?”
Baelor looked almost frustrated by his own inability to answer. “Cruel,” he said hoarsely at last.
The sound of it shot warmth through you immediately. Because gods, this man wanted you. Deeply.
You could feel it in every trembling breath leaving him now. And suddenly you wanted to break the last remnants of that restraint apart completely.
Your hand slid upward behind his neck before he could fully anticipate the movement. Baelor inhaled sharply, and you pulled him down onto you as you took one last step back. The shift happened fast enough to startle a rough sound from him as his larger body landed carefully but heavily above yours against the mattress, broad arms catching his weight instantly on either side of your head.
The feeling of him there nearly stole your breath outright. Warm, heavy and entirely surrounding you.
Baelor froze for one stunned heartbeat afterward, those mismatched eyes of his staring down at you with open shock. Not because he disliked it, but because he had not expected you to lose control first.
The realization visibly destroyed him.
You felt it in the way his breathing roughened suddenly, in the instinctive tightening of his hands against the sheets beside your shoulders.
“Gods,” he whispered.
Your fingers remained tangled firmly at the back of his neck.
“I want you too, Baelor.”
That finished him. You watched the last fragments of composure finally collapse behind his eyes.
His forehead dropped briefly against yours as though the force of emotion physically overwhelmed him. Then his mouth found yours again with sudden desperate hunger, kissing you deeply enough to leave your heart hammering painfully against your ribs.
Now he kissed you like a man quenching his thirst after a drought.
His weight settled more fully over you, careful still despite the urgency beginning to thread through him, broad chest pressing warmly against yours while one large hand slid shakily along your side. Gods, he was trembling. That nearly undid you more than anything else.
Baelor broke the kiss with a rough breath, his eyes searched your face immediately.
“You are certain,” he asked again softly, almost painfully, “that this is what you want?”
The tenderness of the question while he looked visibly wrecked with desire nearly shattered your heart.
You cupped his face between your hands. “Yes,” you whispered firmly. “I want you.”
His expression afterward — you would remember it for the rest of your life. Something raw and emotional and desperately loving all at once, like those words struck somewhere deep enough inside him to ache.
Baelor kissed you again immediately afterward, slower this time but somehow even more devastating. One hand slid into your hair while the other held your hip securely beneath him, large enough to nearly span you entirely.
And gods, the reverence remained even through the hunger. Every touch still felt worshipful. Every kiss lingered. Every breath against your mouth carried the weight of restrained affection finally allowed to exist openly between you. Like he could not stop marvelling at the fact that you were truly here beneath him at last.
Baelor’s restraint finally broke in pieces. Not all at once — not violently — but like a dam giving way beneath too much pressure after too many years of careful holding.
His mouth still moved reverently against yours when suddenly his hands slid lower with newfound urgency, fingers tightening briefly against the thin fabric still separating him from your bare skin. Then, with a rough, uneven breath, he took the hem of your chemise and pulled it upwards, your body arching instinctively to allow him the movement.
It startled you. Not because it frightened you, but because it was the first thing he had done all evening without pausing to ask permission first. His breathing stopped for half a heartbeat as he tossed the fabric to an indeterminate point of the room, leaving you bare beneath him in the low candlelight.
Then he looked at you, truly looked, and whatever little remained of his composure shattered completely.
The sound that left him was low and rough and utterly wrecked. A growl. Like desire itself had finally clawed free from the careful prince who had spent so long trying to contain it.
Heat curled violently low in your stomach at the sound. Because gods, you had not thought him capable of making such a noise. Baelor seemed almost unaware he had done it at all. He sat back slightly straddling your thighs, broad chest rising heavily while his mismatched eyes moved slowly over your body with visible awe and hunger alike.
You had never seen him look less princely. Or more beautiful. You did not have the mind to discern it at that moment. What you knew was that every inch of him looked undone by wanting.
But it was the expression in his eyes that nearly stole your breath entirely. In those bright, merciful and peaceful eyes, you saw worship, like he had spent years praying quietly for something he never truly believed himself worthy of receiving.
And now you were there beneath him. Real and bare and wanting him back.
“You are a vision,” he muttered.
You reached for him instinctively, fingers brushing along his jaw. “Baelor.” The softness of your voice ruined him further.
His eyes closed briefly. His head bowed once like he physically felt the affection in your tone. Then suddenly he bent down over you again with all the hunger he had been trying desperately to restrain finally pouring free.
His mouth found your throat first. Not gentle now. Still careful but starving.
The first open-mouthed kiss he pressed beneath your jaw made your breath catch sharply. Baelor groaned against your skin, the vibration of it eliciting a moan from you, and gods, that seemed to encourage him further.
His mouth moved lower slowly, reverently, kissing and tasting every inch of skin he could reach as though he could not bear to leave any part of you untouched. The roughness of his beard against your throat sent heat rushing through you while his large hands slid along your arms, holding them above your head and over your spilled hair.
“Gods,” he murmured roughly against your collarbone before kissing lower again. “How I have longed for this.”
His mouth descended in its journey to your chest, first kissing your sternum and feeling the outrageous beating of your heart against his lips. The sheer devotion in the way he kissed you there made your entire body arch instinctively beneath him. Baelor groaned at the movement, his right arm moving under your body and holding you just like that with his hand fully extended across your back. His mouth lingered greedily against the warm skin of your chest, venturing to your left breast with wet kisses and circling its mount with his lips.
You moved the arm that Baelor's hand had let free and tangled your fingers into his hair immediately. He began playing with his tongue over your nipple. You clenched your eyes and emitted an open-mouth moan, entirely filthy in its nature.
Baelor shuddered hard. He released your nipple with a wet pop and lifted his head only enough to look at you again afterward, breathing heavily now, eyes darkened completely with desire and emotion alike.
And gods, when you looked back at him, the sight of him hovering above you like this, broad body surrounding yours entirely while devotion and hunger warred openly across his face, nearly made your heart stop inside your chest.
Like you had not merely been wanted by him. You had been yearned for.
Baelor settled more fully on top of you with a rough unsteady breath, large body surrounding yours in warmth and weight alike while candlelight flickered gold across the sharp lines of his face.
You had never seen him like this before. Not the careful prince. Not the composed Hand. Just a man hopelessly in love and finally allowing himself to want.
His right hand slid slowly downward across your body, trembling faintly despite all his size and strength. The movement alone sent goosebumps racing across your skin. He touched you like someone trying to memorize every inch at once, palm broad and warm as it drifted with loving fingers from the dip of your neck downwards over your chest before pausing there briefly.
The soft kneading of his hand against your left breast produced a sharp breath from within your throat. Baelor’s eyes lifted immediately to your face.
“There,” he murmured softly, voice already roughened by desire. “That sound… gods, just how I imagined it.”
The confession sent heat curling through you instantly, pooling lowly in your belly.
His hand continued lower afterward, reverent even through the growing hunger beginning to overtake him. Across your stomach, along your waist, fingertips tracing slowly enough to make your entire body tense in anticipation beneath him.
And through it all, he watched you. Constantly. Every reaction. Every breath. Every small movement beneath his hands. Like your pleasure mattered to him almost painfully much. Like he was committed to engrave your likings deep in his brain.
“You are so beautiful like this,” he whispered, leaning down to press another lingering kiss against your throat. “Do you know that? Gods—so wet—I do not think you understand what you do to me.”
His hand finally reached the apex between your thighs, and the sharp inhale that escaped you when he found the button of your clit seemed to strike directly through him.
Baelor groaned softly against your skin.
“There,” he breathed again, almost reverently. “Tell me if it feels good.”
The tenderness in the request nearly undid you.
You nodded quickly, your hands now occupying themselves with the hard planes of his chest. “Yes.”
A visibly emotional expression crossed his face at the answer, like your pleasure affected him nearly as deeply as his own desire.
“You have no idea,” he murmured while his forehead dropped briefly against yours, his ministrations continuing softly, “how difficult it is not to lose myself completely with you.”
One of his fingers slowly prodded at your entrance while his eyes analysed your face in search for any sort of discomfort. He grew bolder when he found none, and he finally inserted his digit inside you, his entire body tensed the moment he felt you open beneath his touch.
The reaction that crossed his face afterward looked almost unbearably emotional, like the intimacy of it struck him somewhere far deeper than simple desire. His forehead dropped briefly against yours while a rough, uneven breath escaped him, warm against your mouth.
You did not even realize that your eyes were clenched shut, your face contorted with pleasure. You opened them just to find his own — consumed by hunger — studying you.
“There you are,” he murmured softly, smiling when your brows knit together in pleasure. "My good girl."
The praise alone made your stomach tighten.
His digit remained impossibly gentle despite the growing hunger beginning to consume him piece by piece, which you noticed by the growing bulge on his pants as it pressed against you. Even now, with desire darkening his mismatched eyes and need visibly unravelling the last remnants of his composure, Baelor still touched you with reverence first.
You felt the slow careful pressure of another one of his fingers as he entered you, learning every reaction with almost painful attentiveness. The moment your breathing hitched harder beneath him, his gaze lifted instantly to your face.
“Too much?” he asked tenderly.
You shook your head quickly, fingers tightening against the back of his neck. “N— no.”
Baelor exhaled shakily at the answer.
The silver threaded through his short dark hair caught softly in the candlelight as he bent his head again, pressing lingering kisses along your jaw and throat while his two fingers continued moving inside of your cunt, flexing at the perfect spot and making you whimper.
“You feel—” His voice faltered briefly. “Gods.” The broken sound of it sent heat rushing through you instantly.
His beard brushed warmly against the skin of your chest as he kissed it and accelerated the movement of his fingers. The tension coiled in your belly made you emit the most sinful sounds, and you tried your best to hide them, covering your mouth with a shaky hand as the other remained on his chest.
Baelor noticed the movement and frowned when he rose his head, taking the offending hand from your mouth with his left one and pining your wrist to the mattress over your head. Without it, your sounds were impossible to muzzle.
“There,” he whispered looking at you. “I want to hear you.”
The sounds that spilled from you now were entirely beyond your control.
Baelor seemed to know it. The quiet authority that had surfaced in him when he pulled your hand away did not retreat — if anything, it settled more firmly into his bearing, into the deliberate unhurried way he watched your face while his fingers continued their work beneath him.
“You are taking it so well, my love,” he murmured softly. A quiet command dressed as encouragement.
His grip on your pinned wrist remained gentle but immovable. Like he had made a decision and intended to keep it. The contrast of it — his tenderness everywhere else against that one firm hold — sent heat coiling violently tighter through your belly.
His fingers flexed deeper inside you and you gasped sharply, your free hand scrabbling instinctively at his shoulder.
Baelor’s jaw tightened.
“I feel you,” he breathed, voice dropped low enough that it seemed to vibrate against your collarbone where his mouth still lingered. “Do not hide from me.”
The words undid something in you completely.
Because gods, it was not a plea. It was quiet and certain and entirely him. The same authority he carried in a war council, in a throne room, distilled now into something devastatingly intimate. Like he simply expected you to give him everything and had full confidence that you would.
And you did.
The tension that had been coiling mercilessly through your belly finally snapped apart.
Your back arched sharply off the mattress, a broken sound tearing free from your throat that you could not have smothered even if he had allowed you to try. Baelor made a rough noise against your skin at the sound of it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing every last shudder from you with careful devastating patience while your thighs trembled on either side of his hand.
“My sweet girl,” he whispered. The words were wrecked. Reverent. Like watching you come undone was the most extraordinary thing he had ever witnessed in his life.
His fingers stilled gradually as the trembling ebbed from your body, remaining where they were for a long, suspended moment as though reluctant to lose the closeness of it. His grip on your wrist loosened at last, thumb brushing once across your pulse point before releasing you entirely.
When you finally found the presence of mind to open your eyes, Baelor was looking down at you.
And gods, the expression on his face.
Wonder, naked and unguarded. Emotion so raw it sat plainly across every feature without apology or restraint. His breathing was uneven, chest rising heavily above yours, and beneath the hunger still darkening his mismatched eyes there was something else entirely. Something that looked terribly close to reverence.
Like he had been trusted with something sacred and intended to spend the rest of his life being worthy of it.
“Baelor,” you managed softly. Your voice came out like a wrecked half-moan.
His throat moved. His free hand rose slowly to push a strand of hair from your face with fingers that still trembled faintly.
“I have you,” he murmured. Simply. Completely.
The aftershocks were still moving through you in soft waves when the wanting hit you like something physical. Not gradually. All at once.
Your hands moved before your mind fully caught up with them, fingers finding the hem of his trousers with clumsy, graceless urgency. The laces resisted you immediately. Your hands were still trembling — from the orgasm, from the heat still pooling low in your belly, from the simple overwhelming need of him — and the knot refused to cooperate with fingers that could not seem to remember how to function properly.
You made a frustrated sound against his shoulder.
Above you, Baelor stilled.
Then, slowly, you felt it. The quiet shaking of his chest. A sound escaped him that you had never heard before — low and warm and entirely unguarded. A laugh. Soft and tender and helplessly fond, like the sight of you undone and fumbling and desperately wanting had broken something open in him that dignity could no longer contain.
“You seem to be struggling,” he murmured, voice still rough with desire but threaded now with unmistakable amusement.
“I am not,” you said immediately.
The laces defeated you again. Completely.
Baelor laughed once more, the sound of it settling warm against the top of your head where he had pressed his mouth. Gods, even his laugh was careful with you.
“I think you are,” he said softly. “Terribly.”
You looked up at him then with what you hoped was dignity and suspected was nothing of the sort. His mismatched eyes were bright with open affection, the hunger still darkening them unable to fully suppress the tenderness sitting alongside it. He looked younger like this. Less the Prince, less the Hand. Simply a man quietly delighted by the woman beneath him.
“Then help me,” you said plainly.
Something shifted in his expression at that. The amusement did not disappear but deepened into something warmer and more devastating beneath it.
“So impatient,” he murmured. Not a criticism. Pure adoration.
“Baelor.” His name left you as something dangerously close to a whine.
His jaw moved. Like the sound of it affected him physically.
“Gods,” he breathed. “Do you have any idea—” He stopped. Exhaled roughly. “The things you do to me when you say my name like that.”
“Then stop making me wait,” you whispered.
That finished whatever remained of his amusement.
He rose from your body and his hands moved immediately with steady deliberate fingers that made quick, efficient work of the laces yours had so thoroughly failed to conquer. The contrast of it — your trembling helplessness against his calm sureness — sent heat rushing through you all over again.
But he slowed as the fabric loosened. Of course he did. Even now.
His eyes lifted to yours as his hands stilled at the waistband.
“Still certain?” he asked quietly. The question was softer this time, less fearful than before, more simply his — the instinct to check, to be sure, woven so deeply into him it surfaced even through naked want.
You reached up and touched his chest. “More than I have ever been of anything.”
The breath that left him was long and unsteady.
Then he pushed the last of the fabric down and away entirely, and for one suspended heartbeat the candlelight caught every line of him above you, and gods, you forgot, momentarily, how to breathe.
He hooked his thumbs beneath the hem of his briefs and pushed them down in one slow, unhurried movement to finally discard them. The candlelight caught him fully then, and you—
Stared.
Completely. Unabashedly. Without a single pretence of composure.
He was beautiful. Broad shouldered and lean hipped, all hard planes and warm skin dusted with dark hair that tapered down his stomach and framed him where he stood fully hard above your body. And gods, that— your mouth went dry entirely. He was thick and heavy and flushed dark with wanting, curved slightly upward in a way that made heat pool so violently low in your belly it nearly hurt.
You were fairly certain you stopped breathing for several seconds.
When you finally dragged your gaze back up to his face, Baelor was watching you, and the expression sitting across those sharp features was something entirely new.
Gone was the careful restraint. Gone was the trembling vulnerability. In its place sat something quieter and infinitely more dangerous — a small, unhurried smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His chin had lifted almost imperceptibly. Those mismatched eyes moved over your face with full, calm awareness of exactly what he was doing to you.
Gods. He knew.
“You are staring,” he said softly.
“I am aware,” you managed.
The smile deepened fractionally. Not arrogance — not quite. Something more honest than that. The simple, unguarded satisfaction of a man who had spent the entire evening coming undone beneath your hands finally watching the scales tip the other way entirely.
He liked this. The evidence of your wanting written so plainly across your face. He liked it terribly.
He lowered himself over you again slowly, the warmth of his body settling against yours, and you felt him — all of him — hot and heavy against your inner thigh. The contact alone dragged a sharp breath from you.
Baelor’s smile had not fully faded.
“I am not going anywhere,” he said quietly as if he knew your thoughts even before you voiced them. Then, softer still, with the pride retreating just enough to let the devotion back through, “I have wanted nowhere else for a very long time.”
His hand slid beneath your thigh, drawing it upward gently, repositioning you beneath him with that same careful deliberateness that characterised everything he did. His forehead dropped against yours. His breathing had deepened again, chest rising heavily, the last traces of amusement dissolving now into something rawer.
The blunt heat of him pressed against your entrance and you inhaled sharply.
Baelor stilled immediately.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
You opened your eyes. Found his already waiting.
“I want to see your face,” he said simply. “When I—” His voice faltered for just a moment, emotion roughening the edges of it. “I want to see you.”
Your hands slid up his back and held.
“Then look,” you whispered.
A shaky breath escaped him, and slowly, with the same devastating reverence he had given everything else tonight, Baelor pushed inside you. The sound that left you was immediate and helpless, swallowed only partially by the quiet of the room.
Baelor made no sound at all.
He simply stopped. Buried only partially inside you, arms braced on either side of your head, every muscle in his body drawn taut as a bowstring. His eyes had fallen shut despite himself. His jaw was clenched. His breathing had ceased entirely for one suspended, trembling moment like he did not trust himself to do several things at once.
Then, roughly—
“Gods.”
Just that. Like the word had been torn from somewhere deep.
You felt him twitch inside you and clenched instinctively, and the sound that escaped him then was nothing like the careful prince who had spent all evening restraining himself. Low and rough and entirely wrecked, pressed into the skin of your throat where his forehead had dropped like his neck could no longer support the weight of the feeling.
“Do not—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “Give me a moment.”
The vulnerability of it nearly shattered your heart completely. This man. This enormous, careful, quietly commanding man, undone to his foundations by the simple fact of finally being inside you.
“Take all the time you need,” you whispered, caressing the back of his head with delicate nails.
A broken exhale left him.
His hips pressed forward again slowly then, sinking deeper by careful degrees, and you felt every inch of it — the stretch of him, the fullness, the overwhelming warmth — your fingers dug into the muscles of his back hard enough to leave marks and you did not care even slightly.
“You feel—” His voice failed completely.
“I know,” you breathed.
“No.” His hips pressed flush against yours at last and he lifted his head, finding your eyes with his own, and gods the look in them— “You do not. You cannot.”
He was fully seated inside you now. The completeness of it stole rational thought entirely.
For a long trembling moment neither of you moved. His mismatched eyes searched your face with that relentless attentiveness, checking, reading, memorising. One broad hand cradled the side of your face with fingers that still shook faintly.
“Are you—”
“Yes,” you said immediately. “Baelor. Yes.”
Something in him released.
He drew back slowly and thrust forward again and the sound you made echoed off the stone walls of the solar with absolutely no dignity whatsoever. Baelor groaned low against your jaw, hips finding a rhythm that was deliberate — unhurried, deep, devastating in its patience. Like he intended to take you apart piece by piece and wanted to savour every single moment of the process.
“There,” he breathed against your throat. “Gods— there.”
His hand slid beneath your lower back, tilting your hips upward, and the new angle made white bloom briefly at the edges of your vision.
You cried out his name. Baelor shuddered head to toe.
“Again,” he said lowly. Not a request. That quiet command again, surfacing through the devotion like steel beneath velvet. His lips brushed your ear. “I want to hear you again.”
You gave him exactly what he asked for.
His rhythm deepened. The careful restraint was thinning now, each movement carrying more urgency than the last, his breathing ragged and warm against your throat, your name leaving his mouth between broken exhales like a prayer he had been saying privately for years and was only now finally allowed to speak aloud.
The hand cradling your face slid into your hair.
“Look at me,” he murmured again, pulling back just enough to find your eyes. His own were completely dark now, blown wide with desire, but the emotion in them had not diminished even slightly. If anything, it had deepened, made more naked by the hunger surrounding it. “Stay with me.”
“I am here,” you managed breathlessly. “I am here—," you moaned.
Like he needed the confirmation. Like even now, with your bodies pressed together and no possible closer he could get, some part of him still feared waking up.
The tension was coiling through you again already, rebuilt with terrifying speed, and you felt Baelor’s composure finally fracturing completely above you — his hips losing their careful deliberateness in favour of something more urgent, deeper, his broad chest pressing against yours while one hand gripped your hip hard enough that you would likely find the ghost of his fingers there tomorrow morning and feel nothing but fondness about it.
“Baelor—” His name left you broken and wanting.
“I know,” he said roughly. “I know. Come apart for me.”
And gods help you, you did exactly as he asked.
You felt it building in him as well before it broke — the rhythm losing its careful edges, his breathing coming ragged and uneven against your throat, the hand gripping your hip tightening past the point of deliberateness into something rawer and more desperate beneath it.
And gods, you wanted more.
“Baelor.” Your hands found his face, pulling it up from your throat until those wrecked mismatched eyes found yours. His hips stuttered briefly at the interruption, a rough sound escaping him at being made to pause. “This is not a council,” you whispered. “You need not pretend.”
The effect was instantaneous. Something behind his eyes simply collapsed. Not gradually. Not with the careful measured giving-way you had watched all evening. All at once, like the last stone pulled from the base of a wall.
His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. The breath that left him was long and unsteady and when he looked at you again the careful prince was simply gone — what remained was just a man, enormous and wanting and finally, finally done pretending otherwise.
“Hold on to me,” he said. Low. Certain. A voice you had never heard from him before.
You barely had time to comply.
His arms swept beneath you — one across your back, one beneath your thighs — and he lifted you from the mattress entirely like you weighed nothing of consequence. A startled sound escaped you, hands flying to his shoulders as the world rearranged itself. Then he was on his knees, broad and steady in the middle of the bed, and you were in his lap, chest to chest, his arms locked around you like iron wrapped in warmth.
The new angle drove him so deep your vision went white at the edges.
“Baelor—”
“I have you,” he said roughly against your temple. “I have you.”
And gods, he did.
His hands spread wide across your back, fingers spanning the full breadth of it, and the sheer size of them against your skin sent heat crashing through you so violently you trembled. You felt small. Completely, devastatingly, wonderfully small — surrounded entirely by the warmth and solidity of him, your feet not reaching the mattress, your body entirely dependent on the strength of his arms to remain upright.
Baelor seemed to feel the effect it had on you.
A rough sound left him. Something dark and knowing and entirely unlike anything the careful prince would have allowed himself.
“Do you like it when I handle you like this?” he murmured against your ear.
You buried your face against his throat rather than answer. Which was, of course, answer enough.
A low sound resonated in his chest. “Gods.” His arms tightened fractionally around you, making the point of your smallness against him unavoidable. “I have thought about this.” His lips brushed your temple. “Having you like this. Being able to—” His hips rolled upward beneath you and stole the rest of the sentence entirely from his mouth.
You cried out against his shoulder.
Baelor moved then — properly, fully, with none of the careful deliberateness of before. His hips moved with a newfound deep, rolling rhythm that the position made devastating, each movement pressing you closer against his chest while his arms held you utterly immovable against him. The sounds filling the room now were entirely beyond either of your controls.
And still — still — even through the urgency, even with the last of his restraint finally abandoned — his hands never stopped being careful with you. One broad palm cradled the back of your head. The other held you against him like something precious.
Undone completely. Gentle to the last.
“Look at me,” he said roughly, pulling back enough to find your face. His own was wrecked beyond recovery — flushed, breathing ragged, eyes dark and devastatingly open. No composure. No careful princely distance. Just him, stripped entirely bare. “I want—” His voice broke. “I want to see you when you come apart around me.”
Your fingers twisted into the dark silver-threaded hair at the back of his neck and held. “Do not stop. Baelor, do not stop—,” your voice finally broke.
He did not stop.
His forehead dropped against the crook of your neck, both of you breathing the same broken air, his arms impossibly tight around you as he drove deeper still and the tension inside you wound so tight it became almost unbearable —
“There,” he breathed fiercely against your mouth. “There— give it to me—”
You shattered.
The sound you made was entirely ruinous and you felt Baelor shake around you as it left you — a full body tremor moving through all that size and warmth and strength — his own composure finally, completely gone as he followed you over the edge with your name on his lips like something holy.
For a long, suspended moment afterward neither of you existed as anything other than two people breathing hard against each other in the candlelit dark.
Then Baelor’s arms shifted — still holding, but softer now. Cradling rather than gripping. His lips pressed slowly against your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your jaw. Each one unhurried and deliberate, like he was returning piece by piece to himself and finding you still there each time.
“Gods,” he said finally. Quietly. Into your hair.
You laughed — breathless and undone and entirely helpless against it.
His chest moved beneath you in response. That low warm laugh again, the unguarded one, the one you suspected very few people had ever been trusted enough to hear. His arms tightened once more briefly. Like punctuation. Like mine.
The candles had burned lower still by the time the world returned to you fully.
You were aware of things in pieces. The warmth of him first — overwhelming and immediate, his large body curled around yours where he had laid you both down against the pillows with the same careful deliberateness he gave everything. The sound of his breathing next, slow and deep and evening out gradually above your head. The weight of his arm across your waist, heavy and certain and entirely unwilling to create even an inch of distance between you.
Baelor’s lips pressed into your hair. Once. Then again. Like he could not quite stop.
“Are you with me?” he murmured softly.
The question was so him that something ached sweetly behind your ribs.
“Entirely,” you whispered. A long slow breath left him at that. His arm drew you fractionally closer.
For a while neither of you spoke. The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting the room in deep amber and shadow, and outside the windows King’s Landing remained sleeping and entirely unaware that something irrevocable had just occurred within these walls.
Baelor moved eventually — not away, never away — only enough to press his lips to your temple with a tenderness so quiet it made your eyes sting unexpectedly.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“No.” You turned your face up toward his. “Not in the slightest.”
He searched your expression for a long moment with those mismatched eyes, reading you the way he read everything — carefully, thoroughly, leaving nothing unexamined. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him. The faint line between his brows eased.
“Good,” he said simply.
His hand moved then — slow and unhurried, trailing lightly up and down your arm in a rhythm that felt entirely unconscious. Like touching you had already become something his hands did without instruction. Like they had simply decided this was where they belonged and saw no reason to argue the point.
You watched his face in the low light.
The composure had not fully returned yet. Perhaps it would not, tonight. His features remained soft in a way you had never seen them in council chambers or great halls — open and unguarded and terribly young somehow, stripped of every layer of careful princely distance. He looked like a man who had set down a very heavy thing and was only now beginning to understand how long he had been carrying it.
“You are thinking,” you observed softly.
The corner of his mouth moved. “I am always thinking.”
“Not like this.” You reached up and smoothed a thumb across the furrow that had begun forming between his brows without his apparent awareness. He closed his eyes briefly at the touch. “What is it?”
A long pause.
“I am trying,” he said quietly, “to decide whether this is real.”
The words landed somewhere directly in the centre of your chest.
“I am aware of how it sounds.” A faint self-deprecating breath. “A grown man. A prince of the realm.” His eyes opened and found yours, and the vulnerability in them was so naked it nearly took your breath away. “And yet I find I cannot entirely convince myself that I will not wake.”
You rose up slowly onto your elbow until you were looking down at him properly. His dark hair was thoroughly dishevelled against the pillow, silver threads catching the last of the candlelight, and he looked up at you with that open undefended expression and gods —
You loved him so much it lived in your bones.
Your hand took his and guided it to the centre your chest. Rested there above the steady thumping of your heart.
“Feel that?” you asked quietly.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“That is real. I am real.” You leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, felt him exhale softly against your cheek. “And I am not going anywhere.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then his arms came around you fully, gathering you down against his chest with a care that made your heart clench, his chin resting against the crown of your head and his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
“No,” he agreed quietly. Something settled in the word. Like a decision made and kept. “Neither am I.”
His hand moved slowly through your hair.
Outside, a distant bell marked some late hour over the sleeping city. Inside, the last candle guttered softly in its holder.
Baelor pressed one more kiss into your hair before his breathing began to slow and deepen, the exhaustion of the day and the evening and the full weight of finally having allowed himself to want something catching up with him at last.
And just before sleep took him entirely, so quiet you almost missed it—
“Thank you,” he murmured. “For not letting me hold back.”
You said nothing. Only pressed closer against the warmth of his chest and felt him breathe and let the words settle around you both like something sacred.
The city slept. The candles burned out one by one. And Baelor Breakspear, Prince of Dragonstone, held you in the dark and finally, finally rested.
You were almost asleep when it occurred to you, though. The thought arrived quietly at first, then with increasing and somewhat horrifying clarity.
Tomorrow morning you would rise from this bed — from Baelor’s bed, in Baelor’s solar — straighten your gown, and walk directly back to the chambers of Queen Myriah. His mother. The woman whose correspondence you organised, whose hair you dressed, whose daily confidence you held with practiced discretion and absolute loyalty.
You would look her in the eye, and she would look at you. And you would have to be normal about it.
Above your head, Baelor breathed slowly and peacefully, entirely unbothered, his arm still warm and immovable across your waist. You stared at the carved ceiling in the darkness and contemplated your situation with the full sobriety it deserved.
You had just slept with the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it — small and helpless and slightly hysterical — muffled quickly against his chest.
Baelor stirred faintly. “Mm.”
“Nothing,” you whispered immediately. “Sleep.”
A drowsy sound left him. His arm tightened once across your waist and he stilled again, breathing evening back out within moments. You stared at the ceiling a while longer. Tomorrow, you decided, was a problem for tomorrow’s version of you.
Tonight you were warm and held and loved by a man who had looked at you like you hung the stars, and no amount of impending self-conscious eye contact with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was going to take that from you.
You closed your eyes. Tomorrow could wait.
A.N.: This is my first smut-centered work! Well, this and Maekar's, which you can expect somewhere along the week (I still have to proofread some parts).
Summary: You're married to Baelor Targaryen and your love language is increasing his cortisol level. No thoughts, just prayers.
The evening had gone dull. You were bored and in desperate need of your husband’s attention, and the thought of having him had been distracting you since morning. So you walked over to Baelor’s study.
Without knocking nor announcing yourself, you circled slowly behind his chair, as you had done a hundred times before, and settled directly into his lap.
“My dear—” He drew a sharp breath. But his hands found you immediately - large and certain - the span of his fingers swallowing the width of your waist, steadying you both before either of you tipped sideways.
Even caught off guard, his body knew exactly what to do with you.
And so you began your work. Thread by thread, you unravelled his patience.
You reached for the nearest document before he could recover enough to protest, unfolding the parchment with exaggerated seriousness and holding it up toward the light from the window.
“Grain inventories from Maidenpool?” You let it drop with theatrical disappointment. “Seven hells, no wonder you look miserable.”
“My love.” His voice was already roughening at the edges. “I truly must finish this, if you please.” Yet his chest remained a solid press against your back, making no effort to shift you anywhere.
You smiled to yourself and leaned forward to reach another stack near the edge of the desk. The movement was idle enough on the surface, except that it forced your back into a slow arch and dragged your weight across his lap in one long pull.
The sound he made was low and involuntary. Those large hands spread wider against your hips, no longer steadying but properly holding. Against your back, his exhale came out longer than it went in, the warmth of it pressing through the silk at your shoulder.
“Who is Lord Melcolm?” you continued pleasantly, inspecting a new letter with the grave attention of someone reading a royal decree. “He writes as though someone is actively chasing him through the halls.”
“My dear wife.” His voice dropped low. “If anyone finds us in this position again—”
“Oh, this seal is lovely.” You cut him off without turning, already reaching for a letter in dark green wax and waving it carelessly over your shoulder. The arc of your arm rolled your hips against him, and his fingers pressed into you hard enough that heat flickered low in your stomach.
“Whose house uses a heron? I cannot place it.”
A beat of silence followed, and when you glanced back at him, his jaw was set and his gaze had moved entirely away from the desk.
You shifted a bit to your left, feeling the answering hardness beneath his breeches grow more insistent with every passing moment. The fabric pulled taut in a way that made your thoughts briefly and inconveniently blank.
The movement ground your weight against him, and whatever sound he had been holding back came out quieter, pressed thin through his teeth.
Those big, veiny hands started to move their way to the curve of your hip, firm enough to leave a memory in the skin. His thumb drawing one slow stroke against the silk there before stilling. But he did not move it away. A wise instinct.
You could have turned around and devoured him. The want of it was embarrassingly persistent, pulsing low and inconvenient, and you had been sitting with it for some time. Instead you kept rummaging through the scatter of his desk, tilting one letter after another.
“Mm.” You frowned at the letter, tilting it one way and then the other. “I cannot make sense of this one at all. What does it say, my love?”
Under the guise of needing his assistance, you twisted slightly in his lap to face him, letting one knee rest atop his growing bulge. The motion felt far too deliberate to be accidental.
A silence stretched whilst he gathered whatever remained of himself. He reached to take the letter from your fingers and turned it once. His mismatched eyes settled on your face.
“That,” he said quietly, “is because you are holding it upside down.”
The mask had worn thin now. A flush had crept along the strong line of his throat, high colour against tanned skin, vivid enough that you wanted to press your mouth to it.
“Oh!” A soft, guileless giggle escaped you, and you watched the muscle jump in his jaw at the sound of it. “How foolish of me, husband.”
You set the letter aside and reached for a completely blank sheet instead. “Ah! What about this one?”
You held it up, eyes squinted, pretending to read at obviously nothing.
“It says,” you murmured, “an invitation requesting the Heir to the Iron Throne join his wife in bed, as she has grown terribly cold and increasingly impatient.”
You leaned over and pushed the page beneath his nose, close enough for your breast to press against his doublet. You tapped the blank paper like a mother teaching her son to read. “See? It says right here.”
The distance between your bodies had reduced to almost nothing now, every slow breath shifting heat between you. His eyes had gone very dark. The weight of them settling on your face with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
His mismatched gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then to your chest, lingering a beat too long before he dragged it back up to meet yours. A small, unguarded thing he clearly had not intended to give you.
"I believe it would be terribly unwise for the Crown Prince to deny such an urgent summons," you said, just above a whisper.
He said nothing, but the silence that followed was not empty. It sat between you thick and airless, his eyes not leaving yours for even a moment. His expression holding an answer he had no intention of saying out loud, so you gave him one in return.
You let the knee resting against him begin to move. A long, slow stroke directly against the hardness straining at his breeches. The heat of him consumed you even through all the layers in between. You felt him tense, the strong lines of his body drawing tight all at once like a bowstring pulled to its limit.
Whatever he had been holding back finally slipped through. The sound that escaped him was small and brief. His hand at your hip flexed and tightened in its wake. Then, slowly, something else moved across his face. Amusement creeping in, mixing with hunger. Like he could not quite decide whether to laugh or pull you closer. Knowing him, he would do both.
With nothing left to pretend, he set the blank parchment very carefully on the desk, smoothed it flat with one broad palm, and reached for you instead.
One strong arm closed around your waist, the solid breadth of his chest leaving very little room for pretending you had not wanted exactly this from the moment you walked through the door. The other hand curved around the back of your neck, fingers reaching into your hair, drawing you closer until your lips hovered at the edge of his.
He took your mouth at once, pressing hard at first before softening into something slower and wetter, his tongue sliding against yours until a moan slipped out before you could catch it.
Without loosening his grip, he began to grind his hardened, clothed cock against your hips. You shifted instinctively until his bulge pressed firm between your thighs. You moaned deeper into his mouth, fingers tightening in his collar, and felt him exhale hard against your lips.
The last of whatever restraint he had been clinging to all evening finally burning through. He broke the kiss to catch his breath, still holding you close, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Baelor…” you breathed, your teeth grazing his lower lip, yearning for more.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dropping to drink you in. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“There,” he murmured, watching your expression far too closely. “Now you have my full attention.”
cw: arranged marriage, shameless headstrong reader!!, enemies to lovers (they're enemies in maekar's head), bickering!!!, tension, bedding ceremony!!, non-consensual touching(not by maekar), grumpy maekar, jealousy, over protectiveness, possessiveness, body worship(m!receiving), prone bone!!, manhandling, nose riding, spitting, pussy sniffing, spanking!!, fingering(f!receiving), oral(f!receiving), p in v, dirty talk!!, slight breath play, headlock!!, biting, degradation, praise, hate fucking for one sec, a sprinkle of angst, insecurities, self worth issues, (8.9kw)
a/n: english is not my first language so i'm sorry for mistakes/repeating words!! im nervous to put out a bigger piece than usual aaaa. i will do maybe two to three parts!! this will be an au! so if you have any questions or requests about this pairing, let me know muehehe! i love them so much lol
credits: gif @/goodsirs divider @/feimingo
“i did not believe you wished for witnesses to our coupling, your grace.”
“it is tradition—”
“oh, so it is. a tradition in which half the court will see your wife bare as the day she was born. does that excite you?”
“excite—”
maekar took a deep, steadying breath, trying very hard not to snap at his newly betrothed. or throttle her. was it truly too late to call the arrangement off? a prince of the realm could do as he pleased, after all.
“it excites me in the same measure as a court meeting about grain taxes does, wife,” he grunted, fingers tightening onto the half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. he would need way more than that for what was to come in a few moments. maekar would drown himself in numerous barrels if it would spare him from having to pretend to fuck his wife in front of tens of courtiers and ladies in waiting. oh, and a maester. how could he have forgotten? the gods also needed to be witnesses to such a sacred arrangement. the more people see the proof of his virility, the better. they should invite the whole realm if they are so eager to see him perform his husbandry duties.
“grain taxes,” was heard from his right, your voice deadpan as you sneaked a glance towards him, a huff falling from your lips. “it pleases me that my lord husband would associate us having a moment of unbridled passion with the ever ardent intricacies of grain taxes,” your lips twitched, a little smile in the corner, cheeky.
he could feel the vein in his temple pulsing. a headache was on the way. and even then, it couldn’t even come close to the one that was already in his presence. he could’ve asked all the healers in the seven kingdoms, and none of them would be able to cure him of the ever-lasting migraine that was his wife.
a wound without a cure. a curse without benediction. a grueling fate without end, at least for now.
“unbridled passion?” he almost bristled at the words. the assumption that there will be anything but a poor attempt at make-believe on his part grated on his nerves. “i would have hoped that you would not delude yourself into believing we shall be doing more than a farce of this, wife.”
maekar was not about to engage in any intimate endeavors with his new wife. the court should be more than pleased that he was even willing to go along with this to begin with. having sycophants linger near their royal chambers while they were supposed to get lost in the throes of passion was unnerving enough. he will have to make it seem like the consummation happened, like he was on the other side of the door, pleasing his wife and proving the realm he was still a man in his prime, capable of desire. figures.
“a farce?” you probed, eyebrow raised, the arch of your mouth thinning in displeasure. “you would make a sham of our consummation?” the tone of your voice seemed almost… offended, as if you couldn’t believe your husband would even go to such lengths to avoid bedding you.
that timbre of your voice made his brows furrow, lifting the goblet of wine to his lips to stall his response, glancing to the side over the rim of the cup. he allowed himself a furtive glance towards you, enough to notice the slight narrowing of your eyes. you were opposing him, just as you have been doing since ink touched scroll a fortnight ago, when both of your fates were tied by duty and vow.
“not a sham,” he corrected, although he was not sure it held much truth. “i am sparing both of us of the dreadful act of having to touch one another more than necessary, which i was of the impression would please you. not make you look like a scorned child.”
there was a long, tense silence before you spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “you would think it dreadful to touch one another?”
maekar paused for a moment, taken aback by the note of disbelief underlying your words, making him turn to look at you fully now, needing to see why you would have that reaction to such a simple truth. “by the looks of it, wife, you do not seem to share my sentiment?”
there was a sharp glint in your eyes now, the poise in your posture faltering for a moment, giving way to tension, before you gathered yourself. “not in the slightest. i deem it preposterous that you would even think of it in such a manner,” you retorted, chin lifting, proud. “or, is it perhaps a ploy to conceal your dignity, my lord husband?”
“my dignity?” his voice dipped low, almost cautionary, making it clear that your next words should be chosen very carefully, lest you wish to start something maekar was not sure you had the wits about you to see through.
but you did not seem frightened in the slightest by his attempt to dissuade you.
“yes,” you reinforced, head tilting just so to the side, feigning innocence. “are you so unassured in your virility that you would devise such schemes to keep it from being questioned? i reckon it is normal for a man of your station to care so deeply about these things, but such lengths are truly ridicu—”
your words were cut off by rough, calloused fingers pressing into your cheeks, hard enough to stall your speech as maekar leaned into your space. he was gripping your face, keeping your gaze on his, not giving you an inch of room to even tilt your head one side or the other.
“one more word out of you, and i swear to all the seven,” he snarled, purple eyes slanted in a glare so scathing it could burn you whole, like dragon-fire. he felt the moment your breath hitched, the short puff of air brushing his fingers. “i will throttle you right here, in front of all these good-for-nothing lickspittles.”
he was expecting your demeanor to change. for fear to cloud your vision and reason to come back to you. for apologies to tumble unbidden from your mouth, hoping to appease and coax him into being merciful.
no wife, no woman of his will look him in the eye with so much fervor, insulting one of the qualities he was boastful about. his virility? maekar had sired six children. a feat worthy of praise. a testament to the strength of his seed, to the potency of it. to how easy it was for it to take root in a fertile womb and conceive heirs for him.
his newly betrothed had some nerve trying to undermine the one thing the whole realm knew to be true.
with that same nerve, you looked maekar in the eyes and smiled. a quirk of your lips, eyes lowering as the pressure of his fingers rose, half—lidded with something akin to satisfaction, as if you wanted this to happen, waiting for your husband to lose control and exert that temper you knew flared at the slightest provocation. too quick now, after a fortnight of constant instigation from you, feeling like his fuse grew shorter and shorter, and now it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose, inevitably.
your tone was soft, but the challenge beneath it was unmistakable. “did i perhaps touch a nerve, my lord husband? is it truly so easy to have you rattled? enough to grasp me like a brute, where anyone can see? and at our wedding feast, no less.” the more you talked, the more honey weaved through your words. but it wasn’t sweet, not in the slightest. it burned. “have manners been forgotten by a prince of the realm? i would've thought you more courteous than this.”
you were toying with him, like a cat would a mouse. and maekar targaryen had never been faced with such a thing, with a woman who dared bare her teeth back at him after he showed his. it made the ancient blood that flowed through his veins sear under his skin, hackles raising as if he was a dragon in human form, ready to breathe fire onto its enemies and leave smoke and ash behind.
the gods knew to take dragons away, for if they were still roaming around them now, maekar wouldn’t have hesitated to feed his novel betrothed to his own and watch from the sidelines, not missing a moment.
the thought made his fingers dig even harder into her cheeks, the soft skin dimpling under his blunt nails. your lips were pursed because of the pressure, and maekar will not admit to himself how his scathing glare flitted to the way they formed a pout, glistening still with the wine you were drinking prior. you looked ridiculous. that’s why his eyes lingered before returning to hold your gaze.
“you don’t deserve my manners,” he downright growled, a sound so deep and rumbly, like a dragon made flesh, leaning in until your noses almost touched, but he won’t allow more contact between you two than what he was willing to offer. “you don’t deserve anything that i have to give,” he almost spat, his broad chest heaving slightly, as if restraint was becoming hard to grasp. “i do not want to give you anything, you insufferable wench.”
your eyes widened for a moment at his words, but yet again, there was no fear, no offense, not even a sliver of rebuttal. only pure delight, as if his harsh words were music to your ears.
maekar did not understand. why were you not cowering? why were you not mellowing out? why in gods name were you tipping your head forward, close enough for your breaths to mingle.
“but you will, my lord husband,” came your whisper, brushing against his rough lips, as if you wanted him to taste the resolve in your words, the defiance in your tone. “i am your lady wife. what is yours, is mine.” another twitch of your lips, now higher, more pleased, like a cat that got the cream. “and i shall have it, even if i need to take it from you by any means necessary.”
“you know not of what you speak—”
“and neither do you,” you interjected, firmer this time, your gaze lowering to his lips for just a moment, as if pondering a secret only known by you, before lifting to make eye contact again. “your riches do not interest me. the crown i could do without. your name is nothing but an ancient thing that binds me to you,” you had his attention, to his absolute dismay, and it visibly pleased you.
“what i want,” a pause, leaning in enough to let your lips brush his, making him recoil, before he stubbornly held his place, not wanting to show how much the contact unnerved him. “is you, my lord husband.”
you must’ve had too much to drink, maekar thought. what you were saying made no sense to him, sounding like a lie the simpering women would whisper into one’s ear when they wanted to climb into their beds and rut on their cocks to solidify their station. it must be a ploy to try and soften him, to make him pliant and susceptible to future indulgences of yours.
you wanting him? why in gods name would that interest you in the slightest, when many other things should garner your attention, those which were mentioned by you. it should’ve been his gold, his station, his name, his connections.
not him. never him.
“do not think yourself so clever,” he spat, feeling his frustration mount, underlined with a begrudging sense of confusion, which he chose to ignore. “to believe that i shall fall for these empty words of sentiment,” maekar continued, fingertips squishing more of your now flushed cheeks, but not enough to bruise. he was not a brute to mar a woman, let alone one tied to him by marriage, contrary to rumors and whispers. “so do not waste your breath, my lady. it will do you no good, and i am not inclined to listen further.”
he thought that would be sufficient to shut you up, to make you see reason for once since you wed, and stop you from pushing nonsensical notions like they were fact. but you didn’t. his words seemed to only fuel the fire in your eyes, and he could feel the way your jaw clenched just so under his grip, resolve surging.
“i will prove it to you,” fell from your lips, solid and resolute, as if there was not an ounce of apprehension beneath your tongue. “one day, you will see that i speak truth,” a deep, steadying breath passing between your mouths, as if you were holding back something of great weight. “you will rid yourself of this meaningless whim of yours and accept what i am willing to give.” you spoke it as if the future was as you saw fit, and he had no say in it. it enraged and perturbed him in equal measure. “or you won’t have a sliver of peace in my presence.”
as if that was any different from how things have been since the papers were signed. maekar has not had any modicum of repose since he was cursed with a bothersome woman like you. the gods must jest at his expense now more than ever for the hand he was dealt.
“you have a lot of nerve for a—”
“and now, as the night grows near, we shall encourage the lord and lady towards what they surely are most expectant of! their bedding!”
the words boomed among the feast, ripping them apart from one another as every pair of eyes in the hall turned towards them, more attentive than ever.
maekar almost winced. he hated bedding ceremonies, for he would rather walk on glass barefoot than be subjected to such foolish nonsense. but alas, the court demanded it in fear of maekar showing reluctance towards another bride after many years of being a widower. so, he relented, kicking and screaming internally when it was brought to his attention, but anything to shut the mouths of courtiers and realm alike.
maekar did not look to his side. something in his chest pulled him away from meeting your gaze after the charged conversation you had. he hated that your words had been enough to unsettle him, even the tiniest bit.
instead, his eyes followed a group of way too eager lords who were rounding their high table to hoist you up and out of your seat. had they no shame in being so zealous? to let their hands grip at you, lifting you above their shoulders, fingers too rough against the fine silk of your wedding gown. where had decorum gone?
the sight made irritation spark in his gut, especially when he could hear your squeals of delight and the lilting sound of laughter that spilled unbridled from your lips as you were carried away to the royal chambers. it’s like you reveled in this whole travesty. in men touching you so shamelessly while hooting and hollering ribald jokes, one more salacious than the other.
in his case, being tugged on by simpering ladies was nothing but a nightmare come to life, but he had to bite his tongue and go along for the sake of tradition. maekar would’ve rather your hands on him, trying to rid him of his ceremonial cloak and vest, than a bunch of unknown women with too much nerve and too little propriety. he knew you better than he did these squealing birds.
your mirth was ever present when maekar made it to the chambers, his eyes narrowing to slits as he saw the way one of the lords was handling you, too ambitious in the way his fingers were nearly ripping your gown to the floor, leaving you clad in only a thin chemise. and he wasn’t the only one. the rest of the mindless, idiotic sycophants even dared to let their grubby palms smooth down your curves as they hollered more japes.
the ladies tending to him were more reserved, probably sensing maekar’s prickly nature, his body language so stiff they could barely get his tunic off, now half open, letting the broad expanse of his chest peek through, smattered with fine white hairs.
“a sword needs its sheath, don’t it, my lady?” exclaimed one of the men as his rugged fingers jerked your chemise down your shoulders, exposing the soft mounds of your breasts to the air, nipples hardening into dusky peaks. maekar’s breath stalled for a moment at the sight.
and like a beacon, every lord in the room had no shame in taking it all in, mouths open like panting bulls, some even licking their lips as if wanting to taste, making maekar’s restraint thin.
“gods, i wish my mother hadn’t weaned me, for your breasts are a sight to behold, my—”
“that’s enough,” slipped from maekar’s mouth, regretting it for a moment, before he pressed on. “keep your hands and your words to yourself if you wish to still draw breath where you stand.”
his tone was sharp, brooking no argument, if the people in attendance were smart. enough to cut every single jest, straightening the backs of every man in the room like clockwork, their mouths shut so tight their jaws trembled.
“y—your grace—”
“get the fuck out of the room before i decide to turn my wedding night crimson with the blood of the lot of you,” he barked, taking one step closer to where they stood, and it was sufficient to make them scramble, almost tripping over themselves to stand on the other side of the door.
the ladies remaining were uncertain of what to do, how to proceed. they haven’t undressed the prince like they meant to, hovering near maekar, almost trembling themselves.
“ah, ladies, do not fret,” you lilted, sweet like honeysuckle, stepping towards maekar, one hand lifting to press against the opening of his shirt, fingers spreading, brushing through the fine chest hairs. “i shall have the pleasure of undressing my husband myself. these muscles will know my touch alone.”
and for all the bravado he showed earlier, maekar could barely breathe under the bold touch of your hand, soft fingers brushing through the smattering of white onto his skin, reverent, as if you liked the sensation. and your words, spoken so saccharine, but he could tell it pleased you. having him to yourself. gods, what was wrong with you?
“now, off you go,” you continued, leaning into maekar’s space, pressing your bare breasts against his arm, his bicep cushioned between them. “my husband is ever eager to consummate our marriage, and i do not have the heart to make him wait any longer.”
maekar’s breath left him in one fell swoop, half from the feeling of your lush flesh pressing against his arm, and half from your words. you were a temptress, and the want to throttle you was coming back full force now, just as it was at the feast.
the door closed no long after, leaving you alone in the shared room, but not without company, for the lords and ladies, accompanied by one maester, had to hover on the other side, awaiting no doubt sounds of pleasure to waft through the mahogany wood.
“i’m pretty certain one of them was drooling while looking at my breasts,” you whispered, as if it was a secret, as if maekar hadn’t seen the hunger in their eyes and wanted to rip out each eyeball from their sockets with his bare hands.
“that does not concern me,” came his response, narrowed gaze dropping to where your hand still caressed his chest.
“mhm,” a pause, before your chin lifted, peering at him, a quirk to your lips. “i’m also certain one of them was eager enough to grope at them. i felt it.”
“which one?”
he hated the way he bristled, eyes traveling even lower now, to where your breasts were pushed up against his bicep, cushioning the corded muscle. god, but you had nice tits. they looked good squished against him, but he didn’t give that thought too much attention. he just liked tits a lot, is all. yours held no significance than, let’s say, a whore’s would.
the smile you gave him as soon as the inquiry left his mouth was so self-gratifying, he almost took his words back.
“i thought it did not concern you, my lord husband,” you reminded him, pressing even closer, the hand onto his chest drifting down, deft fingers slowly popping open the buttons on his tunic. “why the sudden interests, hm?”
maekar’s hand shot up to stop yours, halting your progress in undressing him, chest heaving slightly as he grit out, feeling tense as a coiled spring now that you two were alone and so, so close.
“stop it. we are not going to—”
and his words dissolve into a punched out groan as your hand trailed down to his crotch, where you seemed delighted to find him half—hard, and have no shame to press the heel of your palm into the growing thickness, rubbing in a slow downward motion.
“no?” you breathe, and the smile you give him is syrupy. he swears he can taste it, your words almost mocking him for his weakness, for the reaction his body had to… all of this. “then why are you hard, my lord husband? was the touch of all those ladies so satisfactory that it aroused you?”
and maekar wants to say that, yes, he got hard from those stupid court ladies feeling him up and tugging at his clothes, and not from the sight of your breasts pressed up against him, pebbled nipples brushing against the satin of his tunic. and definitely not from thinking how well his mouth could fit around one of them to suckle and lap at like a dog.
these feverish thoughts were just a result of not having seen a woman half—bare in years, and his body was betraying him by plaguing his mind with debauched scenarios that would never happen. that should never happen. he couldn't let himself show intimacy in such a way.
“because you keep touching me,” he snapped, harsher than he would have wanted, but he was so tense, and your hand felt too good, a fact which would never reach your ears. “even though i expressed no desire to want such a thing.”
your hand did not stop, whatsoever, continuing to rub slowly over the now fully hard cock in his breeches, making his breathing come in short, angry puffs against your cheek.
“then stop me,” you offered, only leaning closer, as if goading him into trying. “you’re a strong man. i reckon you could overpower a lady if you wanted,” then your lips pursued, thoughtful, and you continued. “unless… the stories i’ve heard about the anvil’s prowess were only tales for sleeping children?”
maekar knew what you were doing, playing him like a fiddle, making him lose all reason and succumb to your whims against his will, as if he were a weak man. as if he couldn’t discern between what he wanted to do and what you wanted him to do.
and still, he was powerless when challenged, like you knew his visceral need to prove himself to you, or anyone else. the gnawing ache in his chest whenever someone dared question him in any aspect of his life.
but more so, when his strength was disputed. undermined.
it did not even take a blink of an eye until he had grabbed you by the arm, hauling you over to the bed, pushing you backwards until you fell, sprawled against the furs and pelts, which cushioned the fall.
his weight pressed you into the mattress like the anvil itself, his knees bracketing your hips, holding you where he wanted you, wide-eyed and breasts jiggling with every breath. for a moment, he reveled in the surprise etched onto your face, before it turned into a cheeky smirk as your hands wasted no time before brushing down his chest again, seeking to undress him.
“so eager, my lord husband,” she whispered, still a bit breathless from the rough manhandling, but delighted beyond measure. “do not tell me that you’ve been secretly aching for this?”
maekar scoffed, scowling down at her from above, even as his breath hitched. gods, no one had touched him like this in so long. not with this teasing familiarity, and not on a night meant to be cold and ceremonial, even if they had never lain together. hell, even stood next to each other for more than duty demanded in the last fortnight.
your hands were warm, picking at the buttons like you had all the time in the world, and it grated on his nerves, even more so when he saw the smirk on your plush lips widening the more skin you uncovered.
he caught your wrist, firm enough to stop your exploration, holding it over his chest for a tense moment, before releasing it, brushing it to the side so he could take over, undoing the buttons himself. maekar rationalized that it was because you were agonizingly slow, and your touch annoyed him, the feeling of your fingertips brushing his skin prickling, leaving gooseflesh behind.
the tunic fell away swiftly, leaving him bare-chested, a mountain of corded muscle and sinew, veins traveling along his forearms and down his throat from how tense he was. your eyes drank him in, mouth parting in a sigh, overly pleased, as if the sight of him alone unraveled you.
it did not take long for your hands to follow the same path your gaze did, pawing shamelessly at the broad expanse of scarred skin, brushing over the smattering of thin white hairs onto his chest and down his navel.
maekar’s skin prickled further under your touch. he could feel your fingers over every scar. the one from dragonstone’s training yard when he was still a boy, the thin line across his ribs from a valyrian steel sword graze, now traced by curious, gentle fingers. but equally desirous.
the low rumble from his throat slipped without his permission as you continued, now groping at the thick muscles of his biceps and pectorals, sighing while you did it, breathy and satisfied, as if the feel of his muscles pleased you. being audacious enough to sink your fingers into the skin, to squeeze and feel every inch you could get under your palms. and he couldn’t do anything but watch you, feeling his breath hitch as he saw you lick your lips, slow and habitual, as if you didn’t realize you did it while feeling him up.
the prince could not get his bearings anymore. his breath came faster now—shallow, uneven. each one of your touches burned like fire, leaving behind a scorching trail. your hands were not those of a shy, hesitant maiden. no, they felt like a claim, like you were worshiping his body with shameless delight, exploring every hard ridge and dense muscle as if you’d been starved for it, as if you’d been waiting to do it.
“gods, husband,” slipped from your mouth as he felt a particularly lingering touch down his abdomen, your nails scraping along the skin, making the muscles ripple. “but you are a sight to behold,” you almost moaned, gaze half—lidded with nothing but unrelenting hunger. “you look delicious enough to eat,” you continued, downright purring now, like a feline playing with your food, daring to brush your hands down his shoulders, and along his arms, nails prickling at the protruding veins along the way. “so big and strong.”
you must’ve had way too much to drink. there was no other explanation as to why such words would come out of your mouth, why your palms touched him like you wanted him. that could not be. no one wanted him. no one should’ve wanted him. he was a hardened warrior, a widower, a father of six, a man who didn’t need—
gods above… delicious? how could you call him something so absurdly ridiculous? as if he were a feast laid out for your personal consumption. as if his body was made to be admired—devoured in its entirety—by her shameless gaze and persistent hands.
“how come no lady pounced on you sooner, hm?” you had the nerve to question—still touching him, mapping out his body like it was yours alone to do with as you pleased—as if there was a line out the door of ladies wanting nothing more but to jump on his cock and have their way with him. what preposterous notions had you in that head of yours? you must’ve hit it when you were a child, to think such perceptions.
his jaw tightened, trying to regain some sort of upper hand against you. “no lady is as impudent as you,” he reproached, his lip lifting in a half snarl, like a beast held at bay. “as adamant to touch something that isn’t yours—”
“isn’t?” you interjected, nails digging into the meat of his abdomen, hard enough to leave red crescent moons behind. a mark of yours, as if punishing him for even daring to say such a thing, when he knew you were bound by vow beneath the old gods and the new. it made maekar hiss, like a dragon challenged, ready to retaliate. “you are mine, by law and by vow,” you firmly stated, nails biting at skin anew, scraping down, painting red indent lines along ivory. “just as i am yours,” maekar had half a mind to snap, to bite, to do anything to stop the words coming out of your mouth, but you did not waver. “yours to have, yours to take, yours to touch.”
a beat, your chest heaving now, too, just like his was, only softer. “so touch me, husband,” provocation again, in your tone, in your gaze, in every single inch of your body. “unless you do not know how? has your prowess deserted you in the years of widowing?” maekar was moments away from strangling you, his fingers twitching with the urge to just wrap them around your throat and squeeze until not even breath slipped past your lips. but he had no such luck, for your next words stalled him, unmoving.
“shall i scream for all those court vipers to hear?” you incited, eyes narrowed, nails still deep into his skin, but he could barely feel the sting over the pounding in his ears over your goading. “shall i let the whole realm know that my lord husband is incapable of even touching his lady wife? of being man enough to make her feel good? instead of standing there gaping at a pair of tits like a green boy in his first whorehouse, incapable of—”
maekar’s eyes flashed—anger. humiliation. and something he couldn’t name, but it burned in his gut, spreading all the way down to his cock, hard enough to split stone now. it was surely the adrenaline of it all, his nerves on high alert, heart pounding so hard in his chest he could taste it in his mouth. nothing else. it couldn’t be anything else. not with you.
you were baiting him again. mocking his hesitation and reluctance to touch you, tone biting, just as your nails have been on his skin. words spoken like a commoner, not even close to the speech of a highborn lady, now wife of a prince of the realm. a targaryen.
he couldn’t continue like this. not with your hands on him, with your eyes watching him like you wanted him, like you desired him. with your—gods, with your tits bouncing with every breath, enticing him to forget all about your insolence and dip down to mouth and slobber all over them like a fucking dog until you moaned and arched against his tongue and teeth and—
his hands were rough, not enough to bruise, but firm as he grabbed your hips, holding onto the fat there and flipping you in one swift motion. not gently, not romantically.
dominant, like he had no doubt you would stay where he put you, where he wanted you, face down into the furs and pelts, hips angled backwards by his steady grip, bare breasts squished against the mattress, as was your tummy.
“m—maekar—,” you shrieked, surprised and muffled into the bed now, but he didn’t want to hear a word from you now, one palm dipping towards your shoulders, pressing down, keeping you in place. a silent command—stay there or else.
he was breathing hard, like a bull after a good run, nostrils flaring, broad chest heaving, eyes trained on the way your body looked beneath him now, arched, at his mercy, under his strong hands, held in place exactly as he pleased. no longer playing by your whims, no longer unnerved by your gaze or touches. no longer making him question things he was not ready to untangle.
his face was hot, hotter now, as his eyes traced the curves of you, the way your chemise hiked up your thighs, letting him get a peek at your rear. gods, what were you doing to him? maekar wished he could forget the way your ardent gaze devoured him whole, as if he were a god among men, as your tone dipped into sweet honey, sultry and purred.
nothing could unnerve him anymore. he was no longer shackled by—
a whine. pitched and demanding, slipped from your lips as your hips wiggled in his grip, pushing your rear back against him, brushing against the bulge in his breeches, ample flesh jiggling from side to side, catching his gaze like a beacon. “d—do something, you useless brute!” you demanded, back arching with the grace of a feline, pleading for attention without much preamble. still shameless, still without an ounce of decorum.
maekar’s breath left him sharply at the sight. your hips swaying, arse sticking out in unabashed invitation, like you were a cat begging to be scratched, petted—or worse, claimed. how dare you? he thought, incredulous as to how a woman could be this unashamed in her desires—in her want for… him. for this brute, as you called him so brazenly.
a brute, was he?
well, if he were such a brute, then he would act like one, and put you in your damn place once and for all, solidifying his place in this marriage and proving you wrong.
slowly, akin to a predator stalking his prey, his hand moved back towards the fat of your hip to join the other, thumbs digging slightly into the curve where waist met ass, feeling the warmth of you through the silk. you were burning, and he barely touched you yet. what a debauched creature you were.
and then, because you begged with that wiggle and sway, he answered. no longer useless, as his hands slid lower over plush cheeks, palm flattening over one rounded backside, and gave a sharp, resounding smack, making the silken flesh jiggle from the impact.
maekar expected a yelp, a rebuke. not a loud, pleasured moan, like a woman possessed, mouth parting against the pelt under your cushioned cheek, eyelashes fluttering, as if savoring the sting of the strike.
“gods, yes, yes,” you sighed, already pushing your arse back towards his palm, wanting more, like a greedy little thing.
his eyes darkened, the purple obscured by the black now, a flush crawling up his throat at the way you sounded, as if he offered you salvation and damnation both. like you’ve been waiting for this very moment since the wedding feast—his hand smacking your ass like a fucking degenerate commoner. and now you want more.
he didn’t hesitate.
smack. another sharp spank landed, not harsh enough to hurt deeply, but firm and stinging through the fabric of your thin chemise.
“look at you,” he grit out, mocking but reverent in equal measure as he hiked up your chemise to your hips, revealing the heated skin of your arse, where his palm smacked, marking you with ardor. it gave him a thrill like no other to see the labor of his punishment on you.
“arching and begging for it like a fucking cat in heat,” he continued, palm smoothing down the flush of your skin, but not to soothe. just to feel the heated pulse of the flesh there beneath his fingers.
it made his cock twitch in his breeches.
even more when he realized you weren’t wearing any small clothes, as a lady should. like a bride would on her wedding night.
gods, you were audacious beyond measure. he didn’t know if it angered him more than it thrilled him.
“no smallclothes,” he noted, tilting his head, as if assessing the expanse of bare flesh now at his disposal. maekar could even see a peek of the folds of your cunt as you continued to arch into his touches. and you were wet, almost dripping onto your thighs, onto the bedding underneath. his spanks have gotten you aroused. “not even a commoner would be this immodest.”
“don’t need them,” you retorted, only trying to push backwards more, relentless and needy. “they’ll only get in the way of you putting your cock in me.”
all the gods above, that mouth on you was lethal.
the words made a ragged, bitten-off curse fall from his mouth as his fingers moved to spread the globes of your rear enough to expose your pussy better to his gaze.
“drenched,” maekar breathed—still hang up on the way you mentioned his cock in such a raunchy manner, unbefitting of a lady—not being able to tear his eyes away from how soaked you were, and only dripping more, your hole clenching around nothing, as if already taunting him inside. “making a mess all over yourself, like you belong on streets of silk than in the bed of a prince.”
he couldn’t help but lean down, but not towards where you were softest. not yet. his rough lips pressed to the warmth now seared onto your arse, only hovering for a moment, before he pulled back his lips to bite, sinking his teeth into the ardent flesh. gently at first, just a slight press of canines. a dragon claiming what he marked.
then he kissed it. a hot, open—mouthed press that warmed the aching skin even more. no finesses, no romance. just raw possession now, letting you know with teeth and tongue that you belonged to him entirely now, and not the other way around. gods and vows aside. he was not yours. but you were his.
you couldn’t help the soft sounds falling from your lips, every touch from your husband burning. a true dragon’s claim on his hoard. no longer distant, no longer resisting that primal instinct you knew lay dormant within him, just waiting to be taunted out.
“a—ah, you could always move your mouth lower, my lord husband.”
lower.
said in such a sultry, daring way, as if you thought he wouldn't, as if you needed to coax him towards your cunt.
maekar exhaled slowly, the flush on his throat only blooming more insistent with every word from you, each more sweltering than the other. he even forgot about the courtiers lingering on the other side of the door. the thought only made his flush deepen, traveling all the way to the tips of his ears, reddening his cheeks along the way. he’s sure they heard the spanks. gods, they’re gonna think him a barbarian who slaps his wife around for pleasure. and it was only your fault for goading him into such things.
he couldn’t let shame burn too hotly in his gut, choosing to distract himself by slowly peppering kisses up your thighs, tongue laving across the skin, pulling more breathy sounds out of you. every press of lips was deliberate, each one slower than the last, inching where you wanted him most, where you smelled strongest. tangy, musky, and just a bit of sweetness, all dripping out of you, the more attention he gave.
for a prince of the realm, the way he comported himself tonight should’ve been shameful, but he couldn’t think about propriety and etiquette as his nose brushed along your folds, inhaling deeply, searing your scent to the back of his throat as he groaned aloud. fuck, fuck, fuck.
it felt perverted to trail the tip of his nose along your drooly folds, spreading them just so, nudging them apart, coating himself in your juices, mouth dropping open in a near growl.
the sound that got out of you was more like a yelped moan than anything, but you pressed your hips back, as if itching to hump your pussy against the bridge of his nose. and maybe one day, he would let you do just that, but today he had other plans, as he let the tip of his nose bump against your chubby clit, brushing against the silky skin.
“yes, yes, yes, right there,” you whined like a mantra, having no qualms in moving your hips, grinding down helplessly in hopes of pressing the tip of your husband’s nose more firmly against the bundle of nerves at the top of your pussy. “feels good, husband, gods—”
just this. just you humping his nose like a fevered whore, getting him soaked with your slick, enough for it to drip onto his reddened cheeks and even down to his lips, urging him to lick at them, tasting you on his tongue.
that was enough to urge him to stick his tongue out and lave at your pussy, a broad, firm flick of it, greedily soaking up all the wetness he could. maekar would drink from you if he could. if such a thing as the nectar of the gods existed, he was sure it wouldn’t come close to the taste of your cunt on his tongue.
your moan was loud, pulled from deep within your chest, melting you from head to toe as your husband continued to lap at you with a greed rivaling a thief's, stealing the sweetest sounds from your throat, the combination of his nose bumping into your clit and his tongue parting your folds almost making you go cross eyed from pleasure. “don’t stop, don’t—fuck, maekar, don’t stop licking.”
even like this, you were demanding and bossy.
“y’taste good, wife,” came muffled from between your thighs, accompanied by wet, slurping sounds, so lewd and arousing, it only made you drip onto his awaiting tongue more. “if i knew this was all i needed to do to keep your mouth shut,” a suck against your quivering hole, obscene enough to make even you flush. “i would’ve had you spread open right after we signed the papers,” a huff against your wetness, before he nudged his nose against your clit anew, grinding it in slow circular motions, making you shake. “it would’ve saved me a fortnight of peace.”
his words only made you seek his touch more, hips grinding with more fervor, seeking as much pleasure as he could give. “you should’ve,” you retorted, airy and soft, molded around a mewl as his tongue replaced the tip of his nose, circling your clit firmly, your eyes almost rolling back into your head from how good it felt. “should’ve taken me, too. put your cock to good use and render me speechless.”
as always, you were relentless. here he was, drowning in your pussy, and you wanted more. he should’ve left you like that, a sprawled mess onto the bed, aching and whining, showing you the importance of patience. of gratitude. of restraint.
but, alas, he has lost the will to make you suffer, to want to see you crumple, and now only desired this version of you. needy and pliant and pleading for every inch of him like a good wife would.
and even then, he couldn’t forget all the lip you gave him, all those jabs and ceaseless fussing.
your husband was not going to give you everything you wanted when you wanted it. not on your terms.
maekar drew back from between your folds, your juices smeared over the bottom half of his face, coating his beard, glistening in the candlelight, and twirled his tongue around his mouth for a few moments, before spitting right onto your quivering hole, thumb following to spread the wetness around. it was vulgar, but it made you whine louder. so he did it again, a bigger glob of saliva this time, dripping from your entrance to your clit, before trailing down onto the bedding.
“filthy,” he rebuked, as if he wasn’t the one dirtying you with such unabashed lewdness. two thick, calloused fingers swiped through the mixture of slick and spit, gathering it generously before feeding it into your hole, slow and methodical, all the way up to the second knuckle.
and curled, brushing against spongy walls.
“gods—,” you cried out, clenching around his fingers, as if sucking them deeper. it made your husband growl, punishing your greed by curling the digits again, dragging the rough pads along those spots which made your pitch higher, your thighs quiver. “more, maekar,” you pleaded, pushing your hips back, grinding onto his fingers, ass jiggling from the way maekar’s wrist slapped against the bottom of your rear. “need more, ah, need your cock. p—put your cock in me already, you brute—” you tried again, but he ignored you, only adding a third finger, stuffing you more full, placating you. but teasing you in equal measure, like the brute he was.
that seemed to frustrate you more, whine gurgling from your throat, hips gyrating with more insistence. “n—not enough!” you gritted, so, so impatient, focused on getting the only thing you truly wanted. “a true husband would’ve had his cock in me by now! a—are you, ah, fuck,” a harsh flick of his wrist interrupted your protests, deterring you for a moment, before you continued, brows furrowing. “does your prick not work anymore, my lord husband? are you afraid i won’t be satisfied?” the words tumbled out of your mouth unbidden, throwing every taunt at him in hopes of him biting.
“is it so small that it’ll leave me asking for your fingers again or—”
silence.
before a weight settled over your back like a blanket, so warm and sturdy, pinning your upper body onto the pelts ruthlessly, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you winded for a few moments.
“shut up,” was growled against your ear, so low and vicious it made your now empty hole quiver and drip even more slick. gods, where had his fingers gone? “you insufferable, wanton wench,” his words dripped with so much venom it made a delicious shiver run down your spine, more than delighted to have him pressed along your back, shoulders to hips, feeling the hard length of his cock press along the folds of your pussy through his breeches.
one of his hands fumbled with the fastenings, pulling himself out, thick and girthy, guiding the head towards your folds, smearing his precum all over the silky flesh as he panted against your ear. “you don’t deserve this,” he rumbled, gliding the cock-head slowly along the wetness, before slapping it against your clit. once, twice, like small love taps, barely giving you any stimulation. “but i’ll give it to you anyway,” he inched back towards your entrance, repeating the lewd motion, precum coating the throbbing hole with each slap of the head against it.
his arms moved, one settling by your head, elbow pressed into the mattress so he can curl all that muscle and sinew against your neck, cradling your head between his forearm and bicep, the crook of his elbow pressing softly against your throat, making you gasp, choked and whiny. your husband had you in a headlock, squeezing just so, just enough for you to feel his strength and what he could do with it, if he wished.
it made you moan shamelessly, palms coming to curl around the muscle there, nails digging in, making maekar hiss, and flex just a bit more in retaliation, before relaxing the squeeze.
“please, husband,” you pleaded, a little breathless from the hold of his arm, pushing your hips back against him. “take me, fuck me, have me.”
music to maekar’s ears. having you so desperate, begging for him so sweetly, letting him place you how he wanted and keep you there, his weight keeping you pressed to the bedding, your hips tilted up by his other hand, which now slowly pushed the head of his cock into your glistening hole, still careful, even with all the pent-up frustration and arousal. he never meant to hurt you, no matter how much you infuriated him.
a loud, suffering groan brushed your ear as he bottomed out, feeling how tight you were, how wet and warm and gods—he could die in your cunt. in this greedy, hungry thing, which pulsed and throbbed and squeezed around him like it wanted him deeper.
you were no better, practically drooling over his bicep, shameless moans spilling freely, loud enough to be heard by the courtiers, perhaps the whole castle. pleasure overtook you, urging you to babble, fingers gripping at his muscles like a lifeline. “have me, husband,” you repeated those salacious words, clenching around him tightly. “t—take me like a real man, not a green boy who—”
the hand that guided his cock inside snapped upwards, clamping over your mouth, thick fingers pressing into the flush of your skin, rendering any more comments to silence.
“shut,” he ground out, dragging his hips back before snapping them forward, thrusting inside you. “your insolent mouth, woman,” rasped against your cheek now, as he set a firm, ruthless pace, navel slapping against the flesh of your ass, making it jiggle, the sound echoing through the room.
your sounds of pleasure were muffled by his hands, slobbering all over the inside of his palm from how much you were drooling, moans and cries barely making it past the rough fingers pressed to your lips. maekar could’ve winced at the feeling of wetness, but it only thrilled him more to have you like this, mindless with bliss from how deep his cock reached, the tip hitting that one spot inside your gummy walls that made your nails scratch at his bicep and your tongue lolling out, pressing against his palm, even daring to lick.
every thrust brought him closer to the edge, feeling the telltale sign of heat at the base of his spine, spreading into the pit of his stomach. and by the way your sounds could barely be silenced anymore, so were you.
his pace quickened, hips snapping against your ass harder, rutting into you with fervor, close to snarling against your ear from how good it felt. gods, your pussy was made for this. for him. coating his cock, making tendrils of slick stick to his navel and the backs of your thighs from how wet you were, the sounds squelching and filthy. “pussy so good, wife,” maekar rumbled, the praise slipping from his mouth. “so good for your husband’s cock.”
his wife was getting close, he could tell; her hands now clawing at the one of his onto her mouth, making him slacken it just enough for her to cry out, garbled and supplicating.
“spend in me,” you mewled, little ah, ah, ah sounds muffling against the inside of his palm, now coated with your drool. “give me your seed, maekar,” the pleading continued, making his thrusts falter minutely. “let me have your seed, husband.”
you sounded so desperate, so… earnest, as if all that happened led to this, to you asking for something a husband should give freely, without a shroud of doubt. like a future where you might end up round and full with his child was something you would be pleased with. it was too much for him. he won’t be made to believe that such a forthcoming was meant to be sound, especially when you were overcome with pleasure.
maekar found himself shaking his head, palms pressing back against your mouth to silence any more begging, to cease such ramblings from a woman who didn’t mean what she was saying, even if your words almost made him cum inside of you moments ago.
“i—i can’t,” he groaned, low and shaky, as if pained. “i won’t, wife.”
Baelor's head barely tilts up as you come crashing into his solar.
You, the ever joyful wildfire that you were, practically skipped towards your husband with the brightest smile he'd ever seen. "My husband. There you are."
His eyes follow you, the only notion that he was paying attention. "As I always seem to be," came his smooth answer. When you neared, his closer hand naturally came up to your hip.
"I have had the most wonderful day," you exclaim, tearing apart the calm essence he'd been basking in for the last few hours. "And now I get to visit you, which makes it all the better!"
You bend at the waist, pressing your lips to his. You notice the way his brows quirk mid-kiss and you pull away with a falling smile. "What is it?"
"You taste so strongly of wine," he says. "Just how many cups have you had?"
He was never one to ruin your fun, for he was glad someone in the Keep could enjoy themselves. And he often lived vicariously through you. He was stuck to letter writing, petitions, and small council matters; the least he could do was let his girl enjoy herself in all matters of the word.
You hum, practically clambering into his lap as you begin to rattle. "I had one with breakfast even though you told me not to." You fiddle with the lapel of his vest as you speak. "And two cups when I met with my ladies for tea." A giggle shoots through you when Baelor sighs. "And then," your giggle turns to a hiccup. "And then two more when my lady-in-waiting and I were deciding fabrics for our dresses for your nameday."
He rubs a soothing pattern against your hip with his thumb. "You have many beautiful dresses, my sweet love—"
"And I shall have a new one!" You giggle again. "One fitting for Prince Baelor's wife, I would say. It is the prettiest material—" you force the words to die on your lips. "No. No, I won't tell you. It will be a surprise."
"Alright—"
You push a finger against his lips with another giggle. "No! You cannot make me tell you!"
He sighs again, attentive to the way you keep biting your lip as you stare at him. He kisses your finger before gently pulling your hand away at the wrist. "It sounds like a wonderful day then," he settles on.
"And it is only noon," you sigh blissfully, leaning back to the point he had to brace. "There is so much more time to make the day perfect."
"Starting with limiting your wine intake, I believe."
You blink, leaning forward again to face him. "Why would I do that?"
"You'll drink our stores dry," he lightly teases, bringing a hand up to brush stray hairs from your face. When he'd seen you off this morning, your hair was so meticulously braided; it's a mess now. Not that he truly minded. He's just glad you're a joyful drunk.
But then you lean against him so prettily with your eyes set on his lips, and he begins to think that you're nothing but trouble. "Then give me something to occupy the time."
His grip on your hip tightens; not to control you, but rather for his own self-control. He utterly loved you like this, but he couldn't let his own lack of control dishonor you.
He brings a hand up your spine, feeling the way you shiver until his fingers find the hair at the back of your neck. "Shall I kiss you, princess?"
You preen in his hold, not letting him make a move. Your lips are hungry against his, sharing the aftertaste of the sweetest wine in the Realm.
He's no better, tightening his hold in your hair just enough to make you groan against him. Your hips naturally start to move, searching for that familiar friction.
The hardening in his pants is finally what makes him remember himself and he pulls away. "My love—" You lean in again, but he keeps the distance.
"Why won't you kiss me?" You begin to whine.
"I have much work still to be done today," he reminds you, much to your chagrin.
"Fine," your tone quiets to a whisper. "I'll stay here and keep you company."
And by 'keep him company,' he knew that meant 'keep him distracted.'
But he still let you rest against his chest with your nose tucked into his neck. It was a bit hard to read over your shoulder and even harder to write with you in the way. But you were beginning to settle after such an adventurous morning and he could let you have this one thing.
Well, until you began to trace your lips across his neck. It was fleeting and light. And for a moment, he wasn't sure you knew you were doing it. But deep down, he knew better.
"My love," he warned.
That's when you laid the first kiss to the hollow of his throat. "What? You can still work, can you not?"
"I suppose so, but—" His words break off as you suck a particularly sensitive spot.
"Let me entertain myself while you work, my prince."
He's never one to say no to you.
Thus, he utterly suffers through as many letters, ledgers, and readings as he can before you grow bolder.
He grunts when you work in one spot alone, no doubt leaving a bruise under your wine-sticky tongue.
He'll have to change into a high-collared coat for supper tonight, it seems.
"Finish early," you try to persuade him. "So you can have me."
"You know I cannot."
You huff, leaning back enough to look him in the eye. "You cannot or you will not?"
"I'm afraid both."
"For once, I just wish you'd enjoy wine as much as I so you could forget your sense of propriety. It is charming but I'd rather you ravish me in this particular moment."
"Well, I will not ravish you while you are five cups deep, my love."
You slump against him. "And here I believed your nameday celebration was going to be the best in the Realm. But here you are, forbidding me from getting to drink at the party."
He gawked for a moment. "I said no such thing."
"You just said you would not have me if I am drunk. So how will I enjoy your nameday feast without my wine or without your ravishing?"
"Hm. It seems it is one or the other. A terribly difficult decision you'll have to make."
You scowl. "Do not tease me so. You'll never understand the hardships I go through for you."
He lets out a scoffing breath. "You sacrifice much, I know."
It strikes a nerve within you, causing you to sober for a moment. You push yourself up onto your feet. His hand reaches out, eyes softening when he sees the effect his words have. But you're alright pulling away. "You'll see, husband. In fact, I will look so stunning for your nameday, you will be begging me not to drink."
His shoulders fall a bit. "I had no doubt of that," he tries to ease. "You always look beautiful, my love."
"I won't falter," you swear to him. "Then you'll be the one begging me to touch you."
His head tilts, trying to hide his amusement. "We shall see."
The quirk of his lips angers you further. You scoff at him, throwing a small tantrum as you leave his solar.
Only when the door is closed does he lean back in his chair.
He loves you to no end, but you may just be the most difficult thing in his life.
…
The two days between then and leading up to Baelor's nameday was leaving him in frustration.
Every time he'd lean in for a kiss, you'd turn your head away, claiming you'd had a cup of wine— even if hours and hours before— and say that he should not touch you.
He was patient. He'd let you play your games for a while longer.
Maekar arrived the day before the others were supposed to. You'd always gotten along quite well with your good brother. Your happy energy always reminded him of his Dyanna, though you were more crass than she was.
He thought you were good for his elder brother. The gods brought you to Baelor because even they knew he was far too swept up in duty to enjoy his life. Thus, you brought it to him with every kiss, every giggle, every wild storm that was you just entering a room.
Baelor was still stuck in meetings and he cursed under his breath knowing that you would be spending your time with Maekar. You always picked up the grump's cursing habits.
You told your good brother about your latest argument with your husband, and he peered over his cup at you like you'd grown extra heads.
"You two fight and don't touch one another. Dyanna and I…."
"Six children tells me exactly what you two were doing," you quip.
For once, he was almost amused enough to smile. He loved remembering his Dyanna so.
"Still, can I implore you to help me sabotage my husband so I might win this argument?"
The silver headed man considers it for a while. He'd fight for Baelor, kill for Baelor. But he could agree that the man needed knocked down a few self righteous pegs. "What must I do?"
You grin wickedly as your plan starts to come to fruition.
…
The hours leading up to the feast, you had scampered to your private chambers. You were hardly in here nowadays, for you spent your days in Baelor's. But here, you were free from his wandering eyes. His beautiful, mismatched, wandering eyes.
You turned in the mirror this way and that, admiring the fabric you had so carefully chosen. It was striking how well the dressmaker had done.
It was a deep red, almost black when away from the candlelight. It laid over your shoulders like a second skin. And the low neckline would surely have your husband grow weak for you.
You'd taken much time to have every hair placed to your liking. Everything had to be meticulously planned, for this was going to be the moment you won.
Now, not only looking beautiful but feeling it as well, you were ready to step out of your chambers.
With so many unfamiliar lords within the Keep, you had to have your guard escort you about. You didn't mind, for you had become friends with the man. Even he knew of your argument with your husband, evident by the tight lipped smile he gave you when you left your room. He knew you were going to torture the poor prince all night.
And torture you did.
You made a spectacle of your entrance, walking through the crowd until you reached the high table. Maekar was hiding a knowing grin behind his hand as he watched his brother become utterly speechless at the sight of you.
You sat by his side just long enough to seem polite before leaving to go dance.
But not before uttering low in his ear. "I've yet to have a glass tonight. Perhaps if you are lucky, I shan't."
Even sober, you were a fun spirit. You pulled your nephew, Aegon, from his chair to dance. Still growing, he was quite awful at it but you did not care in the slightest.
Those brown and blue irises did not leave you all night.
Once Aegon tired, you managed to get Daeron aware enough to join. He danced surprisingly well considering his faults. Though he rolled his eyes the entire time as if it was humiliating.
You danced with a lord here or there, and Baelor would crane his neck to ensure their hands remained in appropriate places.
In came Maekar's ploy.
He sat next to his brother, placing a cup in front of him as you had asked him to. "This is the best wine I've tasted. I believe the Baratheon brought it? You must try it."
Baelor completely ignored him at first.
"Brother?" He huffed, shoving the cup closer. "Are you listening?"
Baelor waves his hand as if his brother was a nuisance. "I'm not interested in drinking tonight."
That made Maekar laugh. "It is but a single cup. A single sip, even."
He scoffs, finally breaking his gaze from you to give an annoyed glare to his brother. "If I do this, will you leave me be?"
"You're sitting here, pouting like you used to when we were younger."
"I did not pout—"
"But you admit you're pouting now?"
Baelor's glare only worsens. He picks up the cup and takes a long sip before slamming it back on the table. His brows raise in a 'happy?' gesture.
Maekar gives him a nod and takes the cup off. He's almost giddy that your plan worked.
You catch Maekar's eye across the room later, to which he gives you a single nod— a conformation.
You're currently dancing with your eldest, Valarr, who notices something is wrong. "What is irking Father so?"
"Me."
"He hasn't looked away all night."
"Someday, you will understand, Valarr. Your Kiera, she is quite docile, but one day she will be able to get under your skin."
He smiles, eyes moving to where his wife is talking amongst the other women. "You say that as if it is a bad thing."
You utterly love the glow in your son's eyes. How he managed to find love in such an arranged marriage makes your heart grow all the more fonder of Kiera.
You are both interrupted by a hand on your waist and a familiar tone of voice. "Kiera has been glancing this way. Perhaps you should ask her to dance, son."
Even though Baelor's voice is always soft-spoken, the family has come to learn the microtones within it, for his face often revealed nothing.
And judging by the way Valarr gave you a look before retreating, you knew you were done for.
Baelor takes his place, resting a hand on your waist and the other taking your own hand in his. He tilts his head down at you. "You look beautiful."
You scoff. "That is not the apology I was expecting."
His eyes darken. "I did not come to apologize."
"The Hand of the King came to gloat then?"
You know you're testing his patience. "I came to dance with you and tell you how beautiful you are."
"You are so close to an apology, I can feel it."
He says nothing for a moment as he spins you. Always the diplomat, he thinks of his words carefully. "If I apologize, will you put an end to this foolish charade and finally kiss me again?"
"Hm. Let me consider it."
He's far from amused as the two of you finish the dance in silence.
But before you can pull away and continue your night, he has an iron hold around your hip that forces you to be dragged alongside him.
He pulls you up to the high table once more, ignoring the lords that wanted his attention on the way. Maekar is still lounging in his own seat further down, watching your interactions like a most entertaining play.
You sit at your husband's side for a while, playing the perfect princess. You give small smiles and pick at the food in front of you. And you wait for the perfect moment to strike.
Right when you believe Baelor is starting to have a good time, you make a show of filling yourself a cup of wine. His attention is immediately on your hands.
You give him a look before raising it to your mouth.
He intercepts, pulling it away just before the liquid reaches your lips.
When you give him a questioning look, his expression goes to one of remorse. "Please," he begs. "Please do not. You look ravishing tonight and I do not want it to go to waste."
He's right where you want him.
You coo at him, pinching his chin between your fingers. "That is quite sweet. But I heard you already had some wine tonight. Seems neither of us will get what we want."
Understanding immediately dawns over his face. His mouth opens, then closes. He spins around to look at Maekar, who tries to pretend he wasn't interested in your affairs, though all at the table now knows he was directly involved in it.
"It was but a sip," your husband defends when his attention finds you again. "A mere sip to appease him." His head tilts. "But you already knew that, did you not?"
You give a noncommittal shrug.
"Cunning of you. Perhaps I underestimated how sneaky my princess can be when she wants something."
"Hm. And to think, this is me being merciful."
"So determined that you'd have my brother involve himself in our affairs? And I dare say he enjoyed it. You are an evil woman."
"Still not an apology."
He sighs, placing a hand on your knee under the table. "My beautiful wife, forgive me for my actions. I was foolish to try to dampen your spark and I am the one to suffer for it. How might I remedy what I have done?"
You hum in thought, looking over the feast. "I suppose I get to even the scales. Only seems fair."
He gives you a confused quirk of his brow, but you're already reaching for the cup you'd poured. And you take a sip— a very, very long sip.
"You test me everyday," he sighs when you set the cup down.
"Enjoy your feast, my love. It is your nameday after all." You stand, leaning over to whisper in his ear. "I shall retire early. But when you find yourself finished here, you may… find me."
"Might I?"
"Mhm. Tell me though, since it is your day, I shall let you have this. On or off?"
He cranes his neck to peer up at you. "On or off? Whatever do you mean?"
"Tis a simple question, husband. On or off?"
He doesn't quite know what you're asking, but he knows you've sewn mischief throughout it. "Off?"
You grin. "Very well." You kiss his cheek. "Happy nameday, my love."
You leave out of the side exit, and Baelor almost misses the way you are already fumbling to untie your dress before you're even out of the door.
You'll be his utter undoing.
It's not much longer before he is retiring as well with a claim that his head hurt. "I suppose you think you are amusing," he murmurs to his brother as he passes him. Maekar definitely does.
He'll find a way to get back at his brother. But for now, he's walking through the Keep to his chambers where he knows his wife is waiting for him in next to nothing.
He was a fool to try to dull his sweet wife's wildfire.
What would be the thing that made Baelor and Maekar blush?
Includes: Baelor Targaryen and Maekar Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader
Warning(s): none that I can think of.
My requests are open for the first time!
By the end of court, Prince Baelor looked tired. Not visibly. At least not to anyone who did not know to look for it.
The prince still stood straight beside the Iron Throne, broad-shouldered and composed in dark velvet adorned only with the Hand’s pin on his chest. His voice remained measured, calm as still water while lords argued themselves breathless around him.
No one else seemed to notice the strain settling gradually behind his eyes. But then, no one else watched him the way you did.
You stood beside Queen Myriah throughout the proceedings, hands folded neatly before you while petitioners droned on endlessly about taxes, borders, marriages, grain stores, wounded pride, and imagined insults.
Through all of it, Baelor listened. Gods, he always listened. Even when men interrupted him. Even when courtiers spoke to him as though patience were weakness.
Even when the King’s temper turned sharp enough to sour the entire hall.
Baelor listened carefully to every word regardless.
It exhausted him and you could see it. The realization sat heavily in your chest long after court dismissed.
The Queen had retired to her chambers with two septas in tow, leaving you momentarily alone in the outer solar while servants hurried about preparing for the evening meal. You had been sorting through folded correspondence when footsteps sounded quietly behind you.
You glanced up. Prince Baelor stood in the doorway.
Without the noise and spectacle of court around him, he looked strangely younger. Less like the heir to the Iron Throne and more like a man carrying too much too carefully.
“You escaped early,” you said.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “So did you.”
“Your lady mother dismissed me.”
“I suspect she noticed your attention wandering.”
Heat rose immediately to your face. “Was it so obvious?”
“To me.” He stepped farther into the room. “You were frowning at Lord Buckwell with remarkable intensity.”
“He spoke for nearly an hour and said nothing.”
Baelor laughed softly. The sound did unfortunate things to your composure.
You returned your attention to the letters too quickly. “You should sit down, my prince.”
“I assure you I am capable of standing.”
“That was not concern for your physical ability.”
That earned you another look. Not surprised anymore. Prince Baelor had long since learned that you spoke before caution could intervene.
It did not seem to displease him nearly as much as it should have.
“You think I looked tired,” he said. Not a question.
You hesitated. Lying to Baelor felt impossible most of the times. He listened too well. Saw too much.
“Yes.”
He moved closer then, slow and unthreatening, until he stood opposite the table where you sorted parchment into careful stacks.
“I did not realize it showed.”
“It did not to most people.”
“But it showed to you.” Again, not a question.
You looked down at the letter in your hands instead of at him. “You always wait until everyone else has spoken before speaking yourself.”
“That is diplomacy.”
“No,” you murmured. “I think it is effort.”
Silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable in its nature, but attentive. When you finally looked up, Baelor was watching you with an expression you could not entirely decipher.
You became abruptly aware of how close he stood, but that was another problem entirely.
Gods.
Prince Baelor possessed a kind of beauty that became actively dangerous in quiet rooms. Court made him seem untouchable, polished into something princely and distant. But here, in the soft evening light filtering through the windows, he simply looked human. Tired, kind. Warm in ways he tried too hard to conceal.
“You notice a great deal,” he said quietly.
“You make it easy, my prince.”
His brows lifted slightly, and immediately you realized how that sounded.
“Oh,” you muttered. “That was not meant flirtatiously.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Of course not.”
“You should not sound so amused.”
“You should perhaps stop saying such alarming things to a prince of the realm.”
“That has been suggested to me before.”
“Yes,” he said lightheartedly. “By nearly everyone who has met you, I imagine.”
You laughed despite yourself. Baelor’s gaze softened slightly at the sound. Then he looked away first. A tiny thing that you would not have noticed it once, but now you noticed everything.
“You were kind to Lord Staunton today,” you said quietly.
“He lost two sons last winter.”
“Most men would have dismissed his anger as tiresome.”
“Most men are fortunate enough not to understand grief.” The answer came simply. No pride nor performance in it, just truth.
Something in your chest ached unexpectedly, because there it was again, that impossible gentleness. Not weakness, never weakness. Something that made him feel human despite the façade that the court expected of him.
You set the parchment down carefully. “You make people feel safe.”
The words left before you could stop them and Baelor went still, completely still. Outside the windows, however, the world carried on around without paying any attention to the quiet devastation you had apparently inflicted upon the heir to the Iron Throne.
His eyes lowered briefly, and there —
A flush began to rise slowly across the tops of his cheeks. It spread gradually, warming the tips of his ears first before touching the sharp line of his cheekbones. A light hue that tainted his skin and made him look impossibly real.
“Forgive me,” you said faintly, because suddenly you felt as though you had intruded upon something private.
Baelor let out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“You say things,” he murmured, “with a terrifying amount of sincerity.”
“You dislike my sincerity?”
“No.” His gaze lifted to yours again. “That is very much the problem.”
Your pulse stumbled.
The flush remained visible still, though he carried it with more composure than most men could have managed. Yet you could see the effort of that composure now —the careful control settling back into place piece by piece.
And somehow that affected you more than the blush itself.
“You look surprised,” you admitted softly.
“I am.”
“No one has told you that before?”
His smile turned quieter then. Sadder, somehow. “Not in those words.”
Something inside you twisted painfully, because suddenly you understood. People praised Baelor constantly. His honour, his diplomacy, his wisdom. But perhaps very few people praised the man beneath all that duty. Very few people looked at him and saw just how hard he tried.
“You are very good,” you said before caution could save either of you, “at carrying things no one else notices.”
Baelor closed his eyes briefly and the color deepened immediately across his face. It was no longer the faint tone that started mere seconds ago, and when he looked back at you this time, there was something almost helpless in his expression, as though your honesty had struck somewhere beneath the armour he had forgotten he was wearing.
“You must learn,” he said quietly, “to stop speaking directly into the centre of people.”
You swallowed. “Forgive me, my prince, but I do not know how.”
For a long moment he simply looked at you. Then Baelor smiled —soft and genuine and unbearably fond.
“I fear,” he said, voice warm with embarrassment and something dangerously close to affection, “that I had already realized that.”
The first time you realized Prince Maekar truly hated being compared to his brother, he was sixteen years old and bleeding from the mouth.
You remembered it because no one else had noticed.
The training yard had been crowded that morning, thick with knights and squires and courtiers eager to watch Prince Baelor spar after returning from court. Baelor had fought beautifully —of course he had. Prince Baelor Targaryen did most things beautifully.
The praise afterward had been endless. A born leader, a perfect heir and the best of King Daeron’s sons. And then, inevitably—
“Prince Maekar might learn elegance from his brother.”
You had turned instinctively toward Maekar then.
Not because of the insult itself. Men said cruel things thoughtlessly at court every day. No. You had looked because, unlike Baelor, Maekar did not know how to hide hurt quickly enough.
For one brief moment, before the coldness settled over his face, you had seen it. Something raw. Something furious. Resignation.
As though he had heard the same thing so many times that eventually it had carved a permanent place into him.
Years later, the memory returned to you unexpectedly while watching him stand alone on the castle battlements at dusk.
The wind tugged at the dark fur mantle around his shoulders, pale hair catching silver beneath the fading light. He stood rigidly still, one hand resting against cold stone while the city stretched below in flickering gold.
You almost turned back because you knew that Prince Maekar was not a man who welcomed interruption.
Unfortunately, your sense of self-preservation had still not improved.
“Your lady mother wondered where you vanished to,” you said as you approached.
“I am not vanished. You found me easily.”
“That may say more about your hiding places than my skill.”
A quiet huff escaped him. Not quite amusement, but you took that as encouragement. The evening air was cold enough to sting your cheeks. Below, King’s Landing glimmered in the gathering dark while distant bells echoed faintly through the city.
Maekar did not look at you immediately.
“You stayed late in the yard today,” you observed.
“So?”
“You looked angry.”
“I often look angry.”
“That is true.”
His violet eyes cut toward you sharply. “You are remarkably brave for a woman who annoys armed men regularly.”
“I serve Queen Myriah. It has made me resilient.”
That earned you the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it disappeared beneath the beard again. Silence settled briefly between you.
“Ser Gormon praised Baelor again today,” you said carefully.
At once, the air changed. You felt it as if it had been physical. Prince Maekar went still in the particular way he always did before anger.
“You came here to discuss my brother?”
“No.”
“Then do not.” The words landed flat and hard.
You should have stopped. Instead, and against the better judgement of anyone who had observed long enough your exchange of words, you said softly:
“You looked tired afterward.”
His expression sharpened immediately. “After what?”
“After pretending it did not bother you.”
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The wind moved through his white-gold hair, pale strands shifting against the darkness of his cloak. The old pox scars remained half-hidden beneath his beard, though you had long since stopped noticing them as flaws.
Maekar looked carved from something harder than most men, as though gentleness had never been allowed to touch him without consequence.
“You imagine much,” he said at last.
“No.” You leaned against the stone beside him. “I observe much.”
“That is somehow worse.”
You ignored that. “I think people expect you not to care.”
“And you think otherwise?”
“I think no one enjoys standing in someone else’s shadow.”
His jaw tightened visibly.
“There is no shadow,” he said. “Baelor is heir. He was raised for it. He is better suited to it than I am.”
The answer came quickly enough to be judged as muscle memory. Practiced.
You looked at him then properly. At the tension held constantly in his shoulders. At the exhaustion hidden beneath severity. At the anger he wore so naturally it had become mistaken for personality.
And suddenly the truth of it hurt.
Prince Maekar had spent his entire life being measured against a brother no man could reasonably equal. And worse, he had begun measuring himself the same way.
“That is not what I meant,” you said quietly.
“Then do explain.” The challenge in his voice should have warned you.
Instead, you met his gaze directly. “You speak as though your worth depends upon being compared to Baelor.”
His expression closed instantly, almost dangerously.
“You presume too much.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you angry?”
“I am not angry.”
“You nearly bit through your own teeth when Ser Gormon praised him.”
Silence, but not denial. Just silence.
The realization settled heavily between you. Seven above, no one spoke to him about this. Not honestly. Perhaps because no one dared.
Maekar looked away first, gaze fixed on the city below. “You should return to the queen.”
“No.” The word escaped before caution intervened.
His eyes flicked sharply back toward yours and you swallowed in valor, then continued anyway.
“No one says these things to you, do they?”
“What things?”
“That you are enough as you are.”
The breath seemed to leave him all at once. Small thing, barely visible enough to notice, had you not been looking at him with all the attention that the galloping beat of your heart allowed you.
“You are cruel tonight,” he said quietly after a moment.
Your chest tightened painfully. “Why would that be cruel?”
“Because you speak of things you do not understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
Maekar laughed once bitterly.
“You wish to understand what it is to spend your life beside someone people call perfect?”
His voice had roughened unexpectedly.
“You wish to understand hearing your brother praised while men look at you as though you are the lesser version carved badly from the same stone?”
The words struck harder than you expected, not because of the bitterness, but because of the certainty. As though he believed it completely.
“That is not how I look at you,” you said softly.
“I did not ask how you look at me.”
“No,” you agreed. “You did not.”
The wind howled briefly across the battlements, tugging at your sleeves. Maekar stared out toward the city again, rigid and guarded and so clearly waiting for disappointment that something inside of you ached.
You thought suddenly of all the ways court misunderstood him. They saw harshness and never restraint. Anger and never loyalty. Severity and never care.
Because Maekar cared fiercely once someone belonged to him. You had seen it in small, hidden moments: the way he positioned himself between danger and others instinctively, the way he remembered injuries, the way he watched over younger squires when he thought no one noticed.
No one looked long enough to see those things. Or perhaps they simply preferred Baelor’s easier warmth.
“You are not lesser,” you said quietly.
His eyes closed briefly, just briefly, as though the words themselves exhausted him.
“You should stop talking now.”
“No.” The answer startled something that almost looked like helplessness across his face. You stepped closer before courage failed you.
“Prince Baelor shines easily,” you murmured. “People love him easily. He was made for it.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened immediately. “And you think I was not.”
“I think,” you said carefully, “that you were made differently.”
He looked at you then, the fading light caught violet in his eyes.
“And what does that mean?”
“It means people mistake warmth for worth.”
The silence afterward felt enormous. You could see the exact moment the words reached him. Not because his expression changed dramatically —Prince Maekar had too much control for that. But suddenly he could not seem to hold your gaze steadily anymore.
His attention flickered away. Then returned, then left again. Colour began creeping slowly upward beneath the high planes of his cheekbones.
Gods.
You had never seen him blush before. It transformed him strangely. Not softening him but exposing something younger beneath all the armour.
“You,” you said softly, “are loyal in ways that frighten people. You love fiercely. You protect everything entrusted to you even when no one thanks you for it.”
The flush deepened immediately, spreading toward the tips of his ears. Maekar looked genuinely cornered now.
“You should stop.”
“No.”
“You do not know what you are saying.”
“Yes, I do.” Your voice gentled despite yourself. “You are not failing because you are not Baelor. You are not failing at all.”
Something in his face cracked then, not visibly enough for most people to notice, but you did. And suddenly Maekar looked unbearably tired. Tired of proving. Tired of comparison. Tired of carrying himself like a weapon because he no longer knew how to be anything else.
“You are enough,” you said quietly. “You yourself. Not in comparison to anyone. Not after earning it. Now.”
The red in his face deepened all at once. It was not graceful embarrassment and certainly not fleeting color. A real blush climbed visibly across his cheeks and ears while his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder as though direct eye contact had suddenly become impossible.
You stared in honest shock. Prince Maekar looked horrified by his own reaction, which only made it worse.
“You,” he said roughly, “have no idea what you do to people.”
Your heart stumbled painfully against your ribs.
“I only speak honestly.”
“That,” Maekar muttered, still refusing to look directly at you, “is precisely the problem.”
Summary: Baelor's wife is sick. The maesters forbid him from seeing her, until they can't.
---
It starts out as a chill. He notices the scarves and shawls you wrap yourself in even when you were just lounging in his solar during one of his late nights sending ravens and reviewing ledgers. Even when winter was moons away and he’s kept the hearth tended to throughout the night. He never says it but he loves it when you wait for him like this, though he wishes it was not at the expense of your own health.
Nevertheless, if you were cold, he only took it as another excuse to close the distance between you in bed, wrapping an arm around your middle. You don’t complain, intertwining your hands against your stomach. If he wakes in the middle of the night, he ensures the blankets are up to your shoulders and the hearth is burning enough to keep you warm.
But then came the coughing fits, so extreme it wakes you up, causes you to sit up in bed, catching your breath. Baelor wakes, a hand on your back, not crowding but also just there. He worries, of course. He gets you a cup of water and watches you finish the entire thing. He’d ring the servants for tea in the dead of night, ignoring your reassurances that you were alright and you didn’t want to bother the staff. No maesters, you insisted and he's but a slave to your whims.
The last straw for him is when you throw up the contents of your stomach in the middle of the night, swiftly pulling the covers back and running towards the silver pot in the far corner of the room. He’s up before he’s fully awake at the sound of your rushed steps across the stone floor.
I’m fine, you insist, sitting on the edge of the bed and clutching a goblet in both your hands as the sickness subsided. You can tell he’s restless. He wraps you up in a robe and the maesters are called before you can say anything.
While waiting, Baelor has inquiries of his own. What did you eat today? What were you doing? Who were you with? Were any of them unwell? You tell him you had the same food as everyone, did not do anything unusual. He seems unsatisfied by this.
The maesters conduct their examination and he’s standing behind them, watching, smallclothes disheveled under his robe. They tell you it’s probably just an upset stomach and leave. You reassure Baelor, and he caves but you can tell he files it away, similar to the way he assesses important information he finds when he holds council. He holds you just a little tighter that night.
The next day he lets you sleep in. He murmurs goodbyes against your temple and you mumble sweet nothings in return. He kisses your hand once, twice, asks you if you need anything, before leaving.
Call for me if you need anything, he reminds you before you shoo him away.
In the afternoon, when the duty provides respite, he decides to seek you out. You’re not in the gardens, or in the solar reading. One of your ladies informs him you’re still in your chambers. He feels the familiar creep of worry on his shoulders, especially when he enters your shared chambers and it is obviously devoid of sound, of life. Then he sees your form curled up under the covers. He sits on the edge of the bed, careful. He calls your name once, then twice. Then his hand is on your forehead and you’re burning up so much he nearly flinches.
He walks across the room, commands one of the kingsguard standing guard outside to fetch the maester. Quick. Now.
A hand on your cheek. Sweet girl, he sounds far away to you, can you sit up for me?
You push yourself up on your shoulders, body heavy and protesting. Your back is damp with sweat, hair slightly matted. Your eyes are hot and barely open. You hear water being poured, then a hand is on your face again, gently pushing strands of hair away.
Drink, you do a little too quickly like you’ve walked a mile in the desert, how are you feeling?
Baelor would feel bad about causing any discomfort to you even if it was for the sake of getting better. He’d press cold damp cloths to your forehead. You’d flinch and try to get away from the stinging cold, and he’d be there murmuring apologies. I’m sorry, sweet girl, this is just to bring your temperature down, he’d remind, a hand on your shoulder, I’m sorry, please stay still.
Would definitely be sweeter on you, more patient and caring. Knowing you’re unwell, you'd be on the back of his mind constantly.
He plans on seeing you after a small council meeting, but he’s intercepted by a maester halfway across the hall.
Isolation is best, the maester says.
For who?
For both of you.
He understands then what precautions they were taking, eliminating threats to the heir apparent. But all he could think of was how bad it could be for the maesters to isolate you, to separate you both out of fear of contagion. The maesters are concerned about his health, they check him too, but all he could think of was your condition.
Then he'd try to send Maekar in. Maekar would act offended about his brother’s lack of care for him, 'ah yes, allow the fourth spare to get the plague’. But it was all dramatics; he’d see the toll it took on Baelor, the worry about your condition, only hearing from you through the maesters, and give in eventually. You're responding well to the medicine, Maekar informs him, and you sleep most of the time.
At first, he'd try to reason with the maesters, that Maekar had been in your chambers and seemed well enough. But they are strict in their implementations.
A week of isolation, a week without his wife, and people can tell he’s more irritable than usual. Moments in small council meetings where he’d be quiet, lost in thought. He doesn’t let go of his duties but he’d definitely have a shorter span of patience than usual. Lords would learn to get to their points quickly and not stall any longer. He doesn’t snap, but he’d go quiet, nod tensely as if agreeing with whatever suggestion, but it’s clear it’s more of a do whatever you want, see what happens, than an actual agreement.
"She’s asking for you," Maekar says one night in his solar.
The space where you usually sat had been empty for many nights.
"What?" His writing halts.
"She’d been asking for you since yesterday." Something in his chest physically clenches.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing, really. Just said your name, asked where you were, then went back to sleep. She’s quite delirious, probably milk of the— Hey! What in the Seven— " His chair scrapes across the stone floor and he's out of the room before Maekar can finish.
Being forced apart from you rattled him, especially in your state. Already, the image of you, sick and alone, has his chest clenching. But to hear that you were searching for him, seeking him out, and he was not there was the last straw. Everyone had their duty. Him as heir, as prince. Even the maesters, he trusted, were doing everything in their knowledge to ensure a swift and safe recovery. But as of the moment, he felt as though he was the only one doing a disservice in being your husband.
He’s down the stairs of the tower of the hand lightning quick, nearly jogging across halls and abandoning the Kingsguard that followed him. Maester Yormwell greets him by the door of your chambers, mouth beginning to open in protest.
"Your Grace, I must insist on complete iso—"
"Let me through, or I’d have you back in the Citadel by nightfall."
The threat, akin more to Maekar than the heir apparent, has the maester stepping back both in surprise and fear. Everyone had their ends. Baelor, who was usually diplomatic, who seldom spoke unkindly, found that it was his wife who unraveled him.
You wake at the sight of your husband, pushing yourself up and immediately reaching for him. He closes the distance quickly, taking your hands and sitting by your bedside. He presses a kiss to your temple, a hand on the junction of your neck, feeling how warm you were. I’m sorry, he murmurs, I’m here, darling.
He knew you to be fiercely independent any other time, preferring to do your own thing and accompany him on your own time, so for you to be so rendered sick and incapable broke his heart a little, although he doesn't complain when you reach for him more often than not.
He seldom left your bedside by that point and any suggestion for isolation by the maesters were met with a glare. He seldom left you even when you were feeling better, enough to sit up in bed during long periods. He's gone for small council meetings but ensures you have one of your ladies in the room when he's not there.
He nearly moves his solar into your chambers.
The bed is large enough that he often works by the foot of it while you rested. You inspect the papers scattered on the bed leisurely. Mostly you slept. Then awoke to eat and have your medicine administered. He endures the steam in the room and eats with you. He holds you, without complaint, when it got too cold, when the sickness caused you to slip in and out of consciousness. He'd stroke your hair, run a hand across your back. Where does it hurt? He asks, and soothes the pain.
In the end, you feel as though his constant presence contributed a great deal to your recovery and the fever breaks eventually.
I'm fine, you urge him, go back to your work. Don’t you have any pressing matters to attend to?
My wife’s health, for one. He says, barely looking up from the paper in his hand.
At night, one call of his name has him abandoning whatever he was looking at, walking over to you and taking your outstretched hand. He takes whatever papers he needs and settles in the space beside you. You’d fall asleep to the sound of quill on paper.
You refuse to kiss him nearly the entire time. He leans in once, and you quite literally push his face back. I don’t want you to get sick, you reason, and laugh at the dejected look on his face.
When you get better, he’s still careful. But he accompanies you for a walk in the gardens, letting you feel the sun, or along the shore for some salt air.
"I heard you assaulted a maester." You say as you walk through the gardens. He holds your hand in the crook of his elbow. He matches your pace, slow and steady.
"Maekar exaggerates." He says. "Although I remember threatening to send someone back to the citadel."
"Baelor," you half laugh, half scold.
"They weren’t letting me see you." The gravel crunches under your shoes.
"Probably for good reason. I was ill, remember?"
"It wasn’t contagious. Maekar never got sick."
"Ah yes, I recall."
A squeeze of your hand. His other hand holds the shawl you've abandoned, one he insisted on bringing just in case. "He told me you were calling for me. "
"I was?" You frown, unable to recall.
"You were." He supplies. "It was torture."
You smile. "Maekar truly is your blood. Now you are the one exaggerating."
He stops half way through the path, facing you. "I’ve… Gods, I was so worried." A hand rests at your waist. "Never do that to me again."
"I’m better now." You cup his cheek, smiling, if only to reassure him. "I promise."
You see the worry disappear in his eyes before he closes the distance between you two.
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