Although Aerion loves his wife dearly, he feels that his feelings are not fully reciprocated. His suspicions grow even stronger when he notices that you’re starting to slip out of bed in the middle of the night.
Aerion always knew that your heart didin't belong to him. And he hated it. Despite being childhood friends, when both of you were arranged to be engaged, prince had to mask his happiness, hoping that one day you'd see him through the same adoring eyes.
Years passed, culminating in your wedding, where you seemed to regard Aerion merely as a friend and companion, rather than a lover. Even on your wedding night, he yearned for your affection, only to find you sleeping soundly.
Discovering your late-night randezvous shattered his heart. Your love seemed to belong to another, a simple, dirty, stable boy.
Anger, jelousy, and deep desire to claim you consumed Prince Bright Flame, but he knew it would only drive you away. So, he feigned indifference, all the while plotting to confront your suspected lover.
That very night, Aerion awaited your return, offering a warm smile as you entered your opulent home.
"Oh, my sweet... I was worried" he greeted you, his calm and tired voice belying the storm within. "You have trouble sleeping?
"Oh, God, Aerion, i though you were asleep..." you replied, startled, not expecting to see her husband up so late at night.
White haired prince noticed the subtle signs of fatigue in your eyes. He walked closer and cupped your cheek with his hand, tilting your head towards him.
"You appear quite worn out..." he comented softly, his thumb rubbing gently against your cheek. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"
You quickly nod a little hoping Aerion would go back to bed and stop asking questions.
Aerion scrutinized your face further, taking note of the slight tension in your features. His slender fingers left your chin brushing a stray starnd of your hair behind your ear.
He leaned a little closer, speaking in a hushed tone, as if sharing a secret.
"You know... if something is troubling you, you could tell me, right?
"Yes, my lord husbad" you take his hand and try to lead him to your shared bedroom.
Aerion pulled you closer, his lean figure pressing against yours as he wrapped his arms around you. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, taking comfort in your presence.
"Good... that's good..." he murmured "You know I only want what's best for you, my dearest." Aerion leans to kiss your cheek.
He pulled away and extended his hand towards you with practiced elegance, his emerald eyes softening jys enough to mask the calculation behind them.
"A stroll through the gardens would do us both good" he said smoothly. "The night air is cool, and the roses are in bloom. Come, let me show you something lovely."
His fingers cured slightly, waiting for yours.
"You always loved the gardens at night, didn't you? "he added, a faint knowing smile at his lips" "Unless, of course, you'd rather rest?"
Aerion felt a pang of satisfaction as you accepted his hand, your fingers slipping into his with natural ease. He led you towards the sprawling gardens outside, the soft glow of lanterns illuminating your path. The sould of crickets and gentle breeze accompanied your stroll.
"You remember the first time we came here?" Prince asked suddenly. His thumb gently brushed over the back of your hand in tender gesture.
"Yes, I do. We were children"
Aerion nodded, a soft chuckle escaping his lips at the recollection. There was nostaligia in his voice now, a hint of the boy he once was.
"Indeed, we were"
He slowed their pace, guiding you towards a small, secluded bench hidden amidst the flower beds.
"You were terrified of the dark then, do you recall? Always clutching onto my sleeve, asking me to stay by your side." you nod remembering the old times.
Aerion sat on the bench beside you, maintaining the closeness they shared. His hand slid from yours, coming to rest on your thigh.
"I'd always promise to protect you" he murmured "From the monsters under your bed, the darkness outside, all those who pose a threat lurking within the royal court..."
"And I always kept that promise, didn't I?
Then sudenly we both hear a rustle in the bushes. It's a stable boy Aerion suspects of trying to suduce you. All these unececary touches during your riding lessons, those stollen glances form that... dirty peasant.
Aerion's grip tightened imperceptibly on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to make his dispeasure known. His posture remained perfectly composed, but his violet eyes sharpened, slicing towards the rustling bushes.
"Strange... I don't recall stable boys being permitted in the royal gardens after the dusk. Show yourself you peasant!" the command was like a knife wrapped in velvet.
There was a moment of hesetation before a young man emerged from the bushes, his face pale and apprehensive as he straightened himslef , eyes darting between the prince and his lady wife. Aerion recognised him immediatly - the stable boy, the one he suspeced had been secretly couring you. All these unececary touches during your riding lessons, those stollen glances form that... dirty peasant.
Aerion stood, never once taking his eyes off the boy, though his hand changed it's place to your waist, a clear claim of possesion.
"Well now... this is curious" His voice was like ice, perfecty polite yet loaded with thinly veiled threat "What exactly are you doing here, boy?"
The stable boy fumbled for a response, his gaze glued to the ground, avoiding direct eye-contact.
"M-my apologies, milord," he mumbled, his voice quivering "I was just... passing by."
Aerion lifted an eyebrown, his expression became more sarcastic. "Passing by, at such an hour? And you thought it necessary to 'pass by' under the cover of darkness, though the very area where I walk with my wife?"
"Aerion, it's nothing, please leave it" you’re trying to intervene.
Aerion shot a quick glare yor way, silencing you with a look. He remained focused on the boy, who looked ready to bolt at any moment.
"Nothing? I doubt that."
He took another step closer, the soft glow of the lanterns casting harsh shadows on his handsome features - a visage of a man barely restraining his irritation.
"Tell me, boy... You work in the stables, don't you?" The stable boy nodded nervously, confirming the obvious.
"Y-yes, milord. Been working there since I could lift a bale of hay."
You can see Aerion pulling out his dagger to propabbly scar poor boy.
"Husband, please!" You take his and that was reaching for a blade.
"Darling," he said softly, too sweetly, "I'm not finished." Aerion glances back at the man.
"This boy is trespassing on royal grounds. After midnight. Hiding in the bushes while my ife and I take an evening walk!"
He finally turned to you then, his violet eyes, glinting under the lanter light.
"Forgive me if I find that... suspicious."
A beat of silence. Then he smiled - a perfect prince's smile - and lifted your hand to press a kiss against your knuckes.
"I'll handle this"
The stable boy looked even more panicked.
"Please, milord, I swear it's not what it seems!" he pleaded, his boice cracking "I would never dream of insulting the wife of a prince of dragon blood!"
"Aerion please... I don't feel well, please let's head to our chamber." you quickly lie hoping to save poor boy's life.
Prince's gaze flicked to you. For a moment, his expression softened, concern creeping in.
"You're feeling unwell?" His hand squized your hand gently, a flicker od worry in his eyes. "Of course. Let's get you to our chambers.
He turned back to the stabe boy, his demeanor shifting back to the stone cold. "We'll discuss this later." His arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close.
Aerion led you out the gardens, guiding you with a firm yet cereful touch. Once you were out of earshot from the trembling stable boy.
"You are shivering." he noted softly, his voice uncharacteristcally devoid of annoyence. "You shoul have said you were unwell. We could have gone back inside imidetly. I wouldn’t waste my time on that filthy peasant."
At Aerion Castle, he ordered the servants to prepare a warming bath for you and to escort you back to the shared chamber. Once you had left, he approached one of the guards and gave him an order.
"Behead the stable boy in the garden. He’s been a nuisance to me and my beloved princess."
Alien took over your neighbor's body and plans a romantic night but human courtship seems more complicated than he thought...
Xentho doesn't know anything about human food. What humans love, what humans hate. He's been living off leftovers in Alexander's refrigerator, which is a strange machine he's still not used to. For tonight he's planing on eating raw meat. He's not sure how humans have come to eat these "cooked" foods that lack flavour, but for his beloved eating those strange, overcooked mushes might be bearable.
Xentho even got rid of Alexander's body not to scare you. TV said humans are very sensitive about being in the vicinity of decomposing bodies. Wird.
He knoks on your door at 7 pm sharp. He's on time. That's what he's seen humans do in those romantic picture shows.
"Hey." Xentho grins.
"Hi" you smile seeing your neighbor you had crush on for years.
Dinner at Alex’s house went surprisingly smoothly. Xhentho did his best, eating that disgusting, overcooked mush and chatting to you about human topics to show what a great partner he’d make. He didn’t understand half the words that came out of your sweet lips, but he tried to be as attentive as he possibly could.
Xentho knows that one improtant thing in courtship is human jewlery. He's seen the humans on the talking box give other umans shiny rocks on their hands, so at the end of the dinner he holds out a black box, one that he bought with what the humans call "money". Alexander had a lot of those silly papers in his leather pocket so he used them to make his future mate happy.
"I got you something" Xentho expalins.
Inside the black box is a thin silver ring. It's not the most beauiful thing, and Xentho can't understand why humans believe these things are treasures. Never the less, he's prepared to do whatever is necessary to court you. If his sweet human want a shiny rocks, then Xentho will give you a shiny rock. He even picked out the one that would look nice with his armour, it will matter when he will be shoving you off to his brothers on his planet!
"Alex... but this is an engagement ring..." You look quite shocked, why? The shiny rock is nice and it matches your eyes, shouldn't his human mate be happy?
Xentho blinks. He thinks back to that one human show he watched. The male human gave he female human this rock, and the had a special mating ceremony. A human wedding. Xhentho doesn't quite understands them, but he's also never seen anyone trun down this ring.
"Yes" He simply says. He'll be marrying you once he takes you to his home. "Do you like it?"
"But we only talked a few times." You look confused, why are you confused? Its really simple, so why are you confused?
The rock is supposed to ensure his place as your mate. Why are you refusing this? Is that not why humans give each other these rocks? Xentho has done days of reaserch to ensure he can court you poperly.
"Yes, and?" He asks impatiently. "I don't understand, is this not what humans do when they find a suitable mate?"
"Mate? Alex what are you talking about?" Shit, he almost blew his cover and his mate looks distressed.
"I-I mean spouse! Spouse! Sorry, silly mistake" Xentho tries to laugh it off hoping he can reason with you. "I want to marry you" He explains slowly. "Do you not think it's a reasonable step of our courtship?"
"Listen i really like you... But i think you are moving... too fast" Fuck he is losing her, but he can't understand. Why does it matter? He has found a suitable mate in you. He can provide for you, he is a great warrior and hunter. The trophies on his ship can confirm this! He can also give you lots of healthy and strong offsprings. What could be the issue?
But if his darling mate wants to take things slower he can do this. More meetings, more food and courting gifts.
"Oh, I'm sorry, you are right... Maybe we could get to know each other more on the next meeting? Maybe a picture show, I mean cinema?" Quick save, Xentho is so good at being human!
"It's okay, I would love to go on another date with you!" Oh, Big Gods,his mate smile is so beautiful.
Here is part 1, i really like this and i think i will make a second part, but first i will see if you guys will like it. Enjoy!
"Hello" Xentho says as he picks up his mail. He doesn't know what these random bits of paper are for, but he sees you get them everyday at this time, so he's been copying you. "The weather is warm."
Humans enjoy small talk. At least that's what he's seen from the box with recordings. A TV, he think it's called.
"Your facial structure is pleasing to the eye." Yes, human flirting methods. You'll be impressed by him.
Two months ago Xentho took over the body of your neighbor. He's seen the way you look at him - or, well, your neighbor. You're attracted to him. He believes his name was Alexander or something. A boring name. Xentho is a name that carries strenght, dignity, that of a warrior.
That Alexander was much too friendly with others. Xentho has been fighting off people attempting to talk to him in a way only his mate should. He destroyd that usless electronic box becouse it would not cease its ringing. How was this Alexander male able to remember all these people? Xentho is not that impressed.
His original mission on Earth is to find a suitable mate. Despite looking everywhere for one, the only human who has managed to capture his attention was you. Sweet soft looking you. For now, Xentho won't tell you he's not human... and that he took over the body of your neighbor. He'll tell you once you're on his ship happy and willing. Then you'll have no chance of escape.
"I believe we should get a supper together." Xentho continues calmly. "I'll hunt - Eh, cook you a meal. Not hunt. Hunting is for savages and barbarians, something we humans are not.
He blends in so well!
"Yeah sure, why not "
Xentho smiles "Excellet. I am free tonight, next day, everyday you want!" He has no clue what he's doing. Just copying what he's seen on that human TV box, and hoping that he does no wrong. After all, this human named Alexander did quite well with you, so that must mean Xentho is on the right track.
He's already making plans to kindap you tonight. Xentho's already decided that your house is small and ugly. His ship is a much more suitable home.
“Shock” was a rather mild word to describe Duncan’s astonishment when he received the raven from Lyonel Barethon during one of his travels. No one had expected Lyonel Baratheon, the greatest bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms, to have become a father. Naturally, so as not to offend the laughing lord, Duncan decided to visit Storms End. Once there, Lyonel was waving the chubby fruit of his loins around left and right, telling everyone what a great knight Ormund would be. Lady Baratheon on the other hand was weak and exhausted after giving birth, so additional help was hired to care for the child - including you.
The first time Duncan saw you, he was instantly smitten by you in every possible way. Maybe “saw” is a bit of an exaggeration. The first thing he noticed while talking to Lyonel - after you had taken the baby from the lord—was the sweet smell of soap and water, that clung to your hair and body. You had not come from nobilty. Your hands bore some calluses of laundry soap and broom handles and your shoes scrufferd quietly across marble floors. But your smell brought comfort not only to Duncan but what it seemed to the little Ormund too. Only 3 moths old, gurgled whenever you entered the room. His tiny hands would flail with delight as you lifted him gently from his father arms. He found comfort in the rythm of your voice, in the way you hummed lullabies when you put him to sleep with wetnurse.
After that incident, Duncan decided to stay at Storms End for a while longer. When you were working in the laundry and had your hands full of bed linen, he would open the door for you or try to take it from you so that you wouldn’t have to carry such heavy loads. Whenever you were struggling to sew up a toy that the little lord had torn apart, he’d quickly appear at your side with a sewing kit. On one occasion, when you nearly slipped whilst carrying a bowl of bathwater, he quickly caught you and asked, ‘Are you all right, m'lady?’. You could feel your heart beating faster. The only problem? You knew what most knights expected of maids, and how it usually ended. You didn’t want to end up like the other maids – with huge, pregnant bellies, thrown out of the castle simply because some knight or lord had lusted after them. This Ser Duncan the Tall might have been nice, but a knight is a knight.
It was a clear, golden afternoon, and the sun was casting patches of light on the water as you knelt by the stream, scrubbing the bed linen in the cold current. You were wearing a dirty apron, your sleeves rolled up, and a gentle breeze brushed the strands of hair that had slipped out from under your cap. Then you heard the steady crunch of boots on the gravel, which made you look up. A few paces away stood Ser Duncan, the sun’s rays glinting off his armour. His gaze, as kind as ever, held a quiet warmth – though you never quite understood why he looked at you that way.
‘Ya shouldn’t be here on your own,’ he said in a sweet, concerned voice. ‘Let me help you, m'lady.’ He quickly knelt down beside you and began rinsing the laundry in the stream.
"No, no, there is no need" you quickly responded and tried to take the liniens away from him.
"No need? A lady scrubbing liniens alone by a creek - dangerous place for a slip or even worse" - Duncan despite your asurment still tries to help - "At least maybe ya could let me stand guard. I can help ya bring it back to the castle... "
"First of all ser, I am no lady, i not a high born, I'm a maid and I can do my work just fine" Knight immediately stops when he hears your hiss and sees some blood coming out from your had due to intense scrubing. In the blink of the eye he takes the cloth from your bleeding hand, dunks it into the water, beginning to scrub with surprising dexterity for someone with gauntlets on.
“Sir, you really don’t have to; it could damage your armour,” you say, a little concerned and annoyed at the unyielding knight.
“My armour has seen worse than a bit of steam and water. But I appreciate your concern, m’lady.” Duncan clearly doesn’t sense your annoyance and carries on doing your work for you. “You know, you’re more worried about my armour than your own apron. It’s soaked. You should be careful not to catch a chill.”
“It’s been through worse,” you say, trying to wring out your dress so it wouldn’t be quite so wet.
“I could say the same about my armour,” the tall knight chuckles. “Still, you ought to dry off. We wouldn’t want our little lord’s favourite maid catching a cold.”
You laughed a little at that; you always had a soft spot for little Ormund whenever he was mentioned. Duncan’s light blue eyes seemed to shine when he heard your laugh.
When the work was done and it was time to return to the castle, Duncan insisted on carrying all the cloths himself. The walk back to the keep was not a long one, and they walked in silence, broken only by the rhythmic clang of his armour. From time to time, he would glance at you out of the corner of his eye, as if checking whether your hand had stopped bleeding. Your laughter was sincere, it’s true, but even in the warm sunlight he notices the tremor in your arm – that subtle shiver you probably didn’t even notice yourself. He wants to offer you his cloak, he really doe. It would be a romantic gesture that would increase his chances of seeing you again, but there’s one problem. His cloak is old, dirty and, Seven forbid, probably reeks of his sweat horse. No woman would consider such a gesture romantic or chivalrous.
‘Would you like me to escort you to the maester? Someone must tend to your hand, m'lady...’ – Duncan tries to offer his help, hoping to spend more time with the sweet smelling and lovely looking lady.
“I’m feeling quite fine, kind sir. The bleeding has stopped and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did before. And… thank you for your help. I really do appreciate it.” You smile and try to pull out a few coins to pay the knight for his help. Duncan, embarrassed, refuses and says he would never accept money for helping a lady in need.
“Well, in any case, thank you for your help. I hope we’ll meet again soon, ser,” you say, smiling at the giant of a man, and walk away. As you turn to leave, you notice that the knight is still looking at you, but he quickly looks away. You chuckle to yourself and think that perhaps not all knights are so bad after all.
Autors note:
That's my first ff here like ever. I Hope you guys like it, maybe i will make a part two if there will be a reaquest or at least 5 hearts xD
contents (nsfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!travelling companion!Reader, POV alternating, friends to lovers, mutual pining, yearning (Reader is obsessed, Dunk is enamoured and oblivious), awkward flirting (Reader), jealousy, massive scent kink, body worship, sniffing, armpit licking, rimming (Dunk receiving), handjob, virgin!Dunk, Reader is implied to have some experience.
synopsis: Much ails you, and nearly all of it is Ser Duncan the Tall. After months of failed hints, stolen cloaks and increasingly indecent yearning, a small tourney prompts even the gods to decide enough is enough—and place you both within the same four walls.
word count: 13,3K
a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @uzmacchiato + smooching @hextoken for beta reading! I KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS THINK. ERASE THAT SCENE FROM YOUR MINDS. Dunk is canonically very clean because that is how Ser Arlan taught him. He bathed himself in nice-smelling oils for the purpose of this fic ok. Reader is right where I would die to be she wants to be. And most importantly: happy birthday to my beloved @vekharious ✿
Much ails you. There are matters of earthly grievance: hair that kindles in late sunlight into a copper crown; shoulders so broad they ought to be enough for two men instead of one; hands strong enough to haul in a rope with three bodies pulling at its other end and careful enough to mend a tear neater than you could ever dream of doing. There is the throat as well, drawing tight round every bout of abashment until the cords stand out and the hollow at its base deepens into a little gutter, tongue-ready, or perfect for the selfish wedge of your nose. Long, brown lashes that lower whenever he thinks himself watched. A mouth soft at the corners and so thoroughly made for kissing that leaving it untouched begins to feel like neglect. And the eyes—large, clear, shamelessly honest things that hide naught from the world, even if lives depended upon their secrecy.
The matters less graspable torment you worse sometimes. His courage, for one, which has so little concern for the body housing it that it borders on stupidity. Let any lost soul catch at his sleeve and ask something of him, and he will go—into flood, fire, quarrel, whatever catastrophe has learnt to call itself need. Then there is the honour he clings to, admirable and aggravating in equal measure: the very thing that makes your knees weaken whenever he bows his head and gives his word, and, you suspect, the chief obstacle standing between your nose and the aforementioned well of his neck.
There are moments, too, when he is more boy than man. His smile breaks broad and slightly misaligned across his face, ill-arranged and fitted so precisely to your heart that the poor thing trips over itself whenever it appears. His voice is warm even when his words are plain; his laughter younger than the rest of him, loose and bright and wholly unguarded. Morning roughens him into a rasp that makes the simplest good morrow sound like something you ought to hear with your cheek laid to his chest.
He treats every beast as though the gods reached the height of their craft in making it. The noon sun may hang white and pitiless overhead, yet he will halt the whole procession to see a lizard safely across the road. Dogs trust him. Birds permit him closer than they should. Even rats seem to know there is no harm in him. His kindness made room for you in much the same fashion. You have since proved useful, certainly, but he had no knowledge of that when he shifted his stores, divided his food and offered you a place beside his fire. He had managed well enough alone before you. He would manage well enough without you still. He keeps you all the same.
And then there is his smell, the least merciful trouble of the lot. By evening it rises strongest from the skin at his throat and beneath his shirt: bread left to swell near a hearth, the sweet-bitterness of ale after the body has taken its sharpness and made it flesh, salt and wheat and the greenest ghost of hops. Beneath it lies something darker and richer, like earth newly turned after rain, black and plump and so full of life that roots would grow greedy in it. It is a smell made for putting your face into. For breathing until thought gives way to some older, simpler knowledge of famine; until you wish to bite him softly, burrow closer, and leave enough of yourself behind that he might carry your scent upon him too.
All this to say: much ails you, because Ser Duncan the Tall is abundant in flesh and heart alike, and either troubles you beyond what a common woman such as yourself knows how to manage.
You're watching him from your place by the curbing fire. He’s searching, scratching at the back of his head, most likely for the cloak you’ve stolen (again) under pretence of dainty female shivers, though the truth is considerably more depraved. It smells so thoroughly of him that the only thing likely to rival it is his enormous self. You pull it over your head and cover yourself entire, so that when he inevitably demands it back, some remnant of him might stay caught in the wool of your gown.
Resigned, Duncan comes back to sit beside you with a sigh and stirs the pot where the remains of supper have gone dark at the edges. After a moment, he glances sideways and catches the hem between two fingers. “Ain’t that mine?”
You make a face.
“Wee thing," he croons. "Ye cold again?” His brow pinches with concern. “I’ll fetch ye the blanket. This smells of a three-day horse.”
He begins peeling it from you, but you clutch both sides tight to your chest.
“I like it. I mean—” You swallow. It smells of you. Do not steal the one thing from me if you won't give another. “It smells fine,” you choose to say.
Duncan frowns at the cloth, then releases it. “We can wash it on the morrow. Stream’s near enough.”
“Oh, quit it, you," you quip at him. "It smells good enough. Ser Arlan made you clean beyond any man’s reason.”
He stares at you. Then at the cloak. Then back at you, with colour steadily gathering round his ears. Why being told he is clean should shame him, Duncan plainly has no notion. Perhaps it is the way you say it, wrapped to the nose in something that has spent three days against his body.
“Aye, all right,” he mutters, turning back to the pot. “If ye hate the blanket so.”
It unnerves him sometimes, those odd little ways of yours, though he tries to pay them no mind. Looking too closely would carry him into some country he does not understand and make a greater oaf of him than he is already.
If Duncan knew no better, he might call some of your glances interested. Lustful is not a word he would ever lay on a lady. Himself, though, he is lustful enough, and scolds himself for every thought of that sort. He knows what his own face does when his eyes disobey him and settle on a cleavage deep enough to slide an entire hand into, or, worse, scraped knuckles and knees that might benefit from ointment or kissing better; ankles poking out beneath a hem; wrists he could close his fingers round, for he has never met a lady who outsized him; necks with their napes dampened by heat; hair that would find its way into his mouth if he slept beside a woman, and which he thinks he would take the feeding of gladly. Noses too, and mouths. Large mouths and small ones, with lips pink or red or brown, glossed by licking or ale or wine or grease from a homemade meal.
Your mouth most of all. Always moving round him. Always saying things he does not understand.
Your cleavage, your knees, your ankles, your neck and ears too. He has stared at all of it. Caught you staring in return. He has put the whole matter down to teasing, since believing otherwise would mean presuming upon a woman who travels under his protection. Sometimes he thinks there may be some other world in which you could desire his huge, awkward, penniless self. It happens seldom. And it is less than thought, really. Hope, mayhaps, arriving when his mind is softened by sleep or one pint too many. Then, he must shut his eyes tight and drive it out before he begins believing the absurdities it whispers.
Next day he intends to enter the lists at Acorn Hall, and he is excited about it for many reasons. Coin, first. His purse has been light for some time, and though you make no complaint, Duncan is certain you dream of a proper bath that's not in nature's basin and a supper cooked by somebody else’s hands. A good showing might buy both, with enough left for oats and another week of road.
Then there is the proving of himself. You have seen him in tourneys great and small, seen him win cleanly and come off a horse hard enough to forget his own name for half a minute. Duncan cannot decide which he prefers: the brilliance of your smile when he carries the bout, or your hand pressing a cold cloth to his brow while you tell him he was marvellous regardless. The kindness never lasts. Once you are certain he will live, you begin recalling the fall in cruel detail, laughing harder with every telling until the laugh breaks into snorts. It cuts the wings from his pride terribly. He finds the snorting dear all the same.
A tourney also gives you cause to put your hands on him. You always volunteer to buckle his armour, lace his vambrace, mend a tear in his tunic while he is still wearing it. You spend too long at his waist sometimes, tugging the rope-belt this way and that, leaning close to make certain the sword sits soundly and will not slip when he needs it. Duncan can think of no other reason for such care.
You ask strange things during these little labours too. Once, after a thorn lodged deep in your palm, he sat with your hand cradled in his and worked it free with the point of a needle. You watched his bent head for a while, then asked, “Would you handle all of me so gently?”
“I’d not hurt you,” he said.
You pouted. “That was not quite my question.”
Duncan frowned at your palm and turned it towards the light, searching for some second thorn he might have missed. The question escaped him entirely. After all, he could not see why the rest of you should require handling when the thorn sat plainly enough in one finger.
When he cranes his head, he finds you asleep by the fire, wrapped so entirely in his cloak that only the crown of your head shows beneath it. One hand has slipped free. Your fingers keep a stubborn hold on the wool, as though even in sleep you expect him to steal it back.
By morning the cloak has been returned, folded into a neat square and set beside his bedroll. You are already awake and insisting you both make haste for Acorn Hall, so Duncan postpones the washing of cloth and body alike until the arrival.
He spends most of the road in silence, fighting his own eyes. Whenever thought idles and the reins hang loose in his hand, his gaze finds the shape of your buttocks cradled by Thunder’s saddle. Then he jerks it back to the road and scolds himself until the next time it wanders.
The tourney announces itself long before Acorn Hall rises through the trees. Carts crowd the verge. Pennons snap above patched tents, bright against the dust, and every spare stretch of grass has been claimed by horses, squires, cookfires and men hammering stakes into hard earth. The greater knights have gathered nearer the lists. Duncan takes you farther out, where the lesser tents thin towards a stream, and claims a place beneath an old tree with enough shade for the horses.
You seem giddy. He puts it down to the occasion. Tourneys mean crowds, merriment and stalls full of little useless things you like to handle and admire before remembering the weight of your shared purse. While he unloads the bedrolls and begins untying the feed sacks, you come close enough that your shadow falls over his bowed head.
“I mean to make use of the stream,” you murmur. “Will you keep watch?”
Duncan turns his head. “Aye, course.”
An invitation to join you sits ready on your tongue. So does the clarification that keeping watch ought to mean staring directly at you while you stand wet and naked in the water.
His face still holds some sleep around the eyes. Handsome all the same. When his mouth opens, likely to ask why you continue hovering over him, you smile and say, “Very well.”
The arrangement soon settles into its usual dullness. Duncan sits on the bank with his back to the stream, knees drawn up and arms laid across them, shoulders forming a wall between you and the camp. You wade in behind him and watch that wall sourly.
You wonder whether pretending to drown might bring him round. Whether he would plunge in despite your nakedness, or whether honour would keep him facing the trees while you sank.
The temptation is considerable. Distracting him before the lists would be vile, however, so you wash yourself properly instead. By the time you finish, cold has set your teeth jittering. You drag a shift over your damp back, lace your skirts and pad barefoot over the grass towards him.
He hears nothing. You bend low and breathe into the warm hollow beside his neck. “Did you look?”
Duncan startles so badly one knee slips from under his arm. “N-no.”
You narrow your eyes. “Not even a little?”
He looks genuinely troubled by the question. Then he rises, brushes the dust from his knees and turns to face you with defensive shade already crawling over his throat. “No, by the Seven. I gave ye my word.”
A deep, tormented sigh leaves you. You roll your eyes and start back towards camp.
Behind you, Duncan lumbers into motion. “What is with you?”
You throw your damp hair over one shoulder without looking round. “Ah, much ails me, Ser Duncan.”
He appears to have no useful answer. Only silence follows you, and the heavy sound of his steps.
You partake in the tedious labours while he washes his clothes and bathes, both begrudgingly, for despite your eager offer Ser Duncan the Tall has declared he needs no protection while naked in a stream.
You've seen him before, naturally, though only in pieces. A bare shoulder when he changes his shirt. The lean length of one calf. Thighs so disproportionately large they seem to belong to some more excessive creature, glimpsed when he crouches to mend a boot or wades into water with his breeches rolled high. Shards of him haunt you at night, most fiercely when the moon gathers itself low in your womb and turns every thought wet-edged and hungry.
There are many things you wish of him. Sweet things, first. For him to speak softly into your ear. To call you something fond instead of girl, your given name, or the stiff m’lady he reaches for whenever his composure deserts him. For his mouth to come near enough that you might nip it and feel his teeth clack against yours when he kisses you with all the ineptitude you hope for.
The less sweet longings may be more delectable. His hips slotted between your legs. His hands making themselves full of your flesh. He would need no knowledge of force to open you. His width alone would see to that, and though Duncan likely knows naught of violent delights, you would not mind teaching him the gentler shape of the same hunger. He is kind enough to make up for greenness. Wise enough where it matters, which is chiefly in the heart.
Another want you keep hidden, sometimes even from yourself. A gluttonous one. You want to taste him where no decent maiden ought to think of putting her mouth. To learn the salt of every private fold and hollow, to come away with the marrow of him shining over your lips and fingers. You want to wear his essence so plainly that any creature looking upon you would know there is one enormous place in this world where you belong.
If only he knew. No—if only he were willing to grasp the magnitude of your longing. It rivals his height, you are certain.
By evening it is Duncan’s turn to enter his name for the lists, so naturally you go with him. You slow him so badly he is near the last knight in the queue by the time you reach the trestle table beneath the striped awning, beguiled in turn by every merchant’s low promise and every display of bright cloth, ribbons, little silver charms and polished stones with no earthly use beyond being pleasing to look upon.
He grows sourer with every halt. When you dismiss the last merchant and hurry after him, you have to trot to match the length of his stride. “I was only looking,” you tell his shoulder.
He grunts. “The hour’s late.”
At the table, a narrow man with ink on three fingers asks Duncan’s name and standing. Duncan straightens, gives him Ser Duncan the Tall, hedge knight, and names the arms he means to bear. The man writes it down, glances past him, and points the feather of his quill at you.
“And her?”
“His slave,” you grumble.
Laughter breaks out from the men waiting behind you. The clerk bends over his parchment with his shoulders shaking. Duncan goes crimson so swiftly you are certain even his scalp must be burning beneath the hair.
He says nothing until the pair of you are well clear of the lists. Then he turns back towards camp at such a pace that you must trot after him again.
“Don’t go telling folk I’ve put ye in chains,” he says.
I wish, though. In chains, or rope, or merely tangled in the sheets with you, with my mouth full of your fingers, or—“’Twas but a jest. I am exactly where I wish to be,” you tell him. Then, quieter, “Well. Almost.”
Duncan glances down at you. “Almost?”
“It's nothing.”
He stops. Breath leaves him hard through the nose. “Ye keep saying half a thing and expecting me to know the other half.”
You stare at him, convinced you have been plain enough to make yourself understood by a blind septon at midnight. There can hardly be another way of telling him short of climbing him like a tree.
That night you lie beneath a clear sky with the camp settling round you in mutters, laughter and the occasional stamp of a horse. Duncan puts his cloak deep inside his travelling sack and ties the mouth shut. You take the theft personally.
The next morning Duncan wakes with his stomach wrung small and hard beneath his ribs. He forces down one slice of bread by chewing each mouthful to paste and washing it after with water. The second sits in his hand until you take it from him and eat it yourself.
You must see the pallor in his cheeks, for you are exceptionally kind. “You are going to be great,” you tell him.
“I’ve not even mounted yet.”
“And already you look very knightly.”
“I look sick.”
“A sickly knight, then. Still great.”
He has ridden in lists before, great and small, yet the nerves come quietly every time. They begin at dawn as a little tightness in the gut and work upward through him until, by the time he sits atop Thunder, blood pounds behind his ears like a war drum.
You help him into his armour. Tie the points, buckle the plates and lace him with your head bowed over the work. Your fingers tug and test each fastening twice. When you come to the straps near his waist, you spend long enough there that Duncan begins thinking on the shape of your hands rather than the men waiting to strike him from a horse.
It steadies him some. He is grateful for that, though saying so seems likely to make the whole thing strange.
At the lists, Thunder stamps and rolls the bit beneath him. Duncan lowers his visor, raises it again and looks towards the rail. You are easy to find among the gathered folk, bright-eyed and fixed wholly upon him. He keeps the look of you as a token of luck, lowers the visor once more and spurs forward.
He rides well enough to be called back on the morrow.
The first bout is clean. On the second pass his lance catches the other knight square and sends him into the dust. The next man holds his seat longer, but Duncan breaks more wood and takes the better marks. The third nearly undoes him. A lance strikes high and hard, wrenching his shoulder back while the brow of his helm bites into the skin above his eye. For one dreadful moment the world tips sideways beneath him. He catches himself with his knees, hauls Thunder straight and finishes the pass half-blind with blood.
His earlier wins carry him through. That seems a thin comfort when he climbs down with one arm near useless and blood working along his cheek, until he sees you pushing between two squires with a wet cloth already in your hand.
By early evening you sit together beneath some lord's open pavilions, where wine and food have been laid out for the entrants. Your fingers press the folded cloth to Duncan’s temple. Every now and then you lift it to inspect the cut, frown fiercely, then put it back.
“You rode beautifully,” you tell him.
“I near fell,” he mutters.
“But you did not.”
“Near enough.”
A beat. “That third fellow struck too high.”
“He struck where he meant.”
Your mouth frowns. “Well, I dislike him for it.”
Duncan smiles. He smiles often around you, though he does not always mean to. He wishes he had done better. A finer showing might have earned enough coin to buy one of the little silver charms you handled yesterday, or the length of blue ribbon you held beneath your chin before seeing the merchant’s price.
You keep praising him. Tell him how fine he looked when the first knight fell, how everyone shouted after the second pass. Your voice softens whenever you ask whether the shoulder pains him. He likes being touched by you, though bearing it is another matter. When he forgets who he is and what is expected of him, he wonders how those fingers would feel elsewhere. At the base of his neck. Along his stomach. Lower, where a lady’s hand has no business going unless invited.
He stares at your mouth while it moves round another kind word and fails to notice the young knight taking the place beside you until three cups land on the table.
Duncan looks up. The man is near his own age, perhaps a little older, dressed in green wool too fine for camping and fastened at the throat with silver. His hair has been combed since the lists. There is a narrow gold ring on one hand and no dirt beneath any of his nails.
“Ser Duncan,” he says pleasantly. “I watched your third bout. Fine seat. Most men would have gone down after a blow like that.”
Duncan shifts under the cloth at his brow. “My thanks.”
“Ser Martyn,” the man supplies, then gives the name of some small holding upriver. He nudges one cup towards Duncan and another towards you. “For the wounded knight and his diligent healer.”
You take yours with a smile. “That is kind of you.”
The smile Ser Martyn gives back is easy and practised. “Are you his lucky charm, then?”
Your hand leaves Duncan’s temple. The cold cloth remains balanced there by itself. “Merely his companion on the road,” you say.
Merely.
Ser Martyn’s eyes glint. “Then the road has treated him generously.”
You laugh. Duncan reaches up and holds the cloth in place himself.
The third cup has made the table feel crowded. Ser Martyn leans towards you when you speak and asks where you have travelled, what you thought of Acorn Hall, whether you mean to remain for the feast after the final day. You thank him again for the wine. He tells you there is more where it came from. His father keeps a hall two days east, he mentions, with a cellar better stocked than Lord’s Whateverhisnameis and an orchard that sweetens the whole yard in spring.
Duncan drinks and listens.
Ser Martyn knows how to speak to a woman without tripping over his tongue. He owns good cloth and a name tied to a place. There would be servants in his father’s hall. Proper meals. Clean sheets. A room that stays where it is put instead of being rolled and tied to a horse every morning.
Duncan has a bedroll, three beasts and a purse that grows lighter whenever he looks inside it.
Some sour little ache has poured itself into him, close to where the morning nerves sat. It worsens each time you laugh. He tells himself this is foolishness. You are free to speak with whom you please. A decent man would be glad to see you admired by someone able to offer more than road dust and rabbit stew.
Your first cup empties. Then another appears. By the time you finish the third, glass has sparkled your eyes up and Ser Martyn has drawn closer by the width of a hand.
Duncan sets his own cup down. Wine still covers the bottom. “I think I’ll turn in.”
You look at him over the rim of yours. “Already?”
“Aye.” His gaze shifts towards Ser Martyn and away again. “Ye do as ye please, though.”
He rises before either of you can answer and leaves the cup half-full on the table.
The horses are where he left them. Sweetfoot turns her head when he approaches, calm and uncomplicated in the deepening night. Duncan finds the brush, puts one hand to her neck and begins working the dust from her coat. A brush fits his hand. Sweetfoot asks no questions.
The moment Ser Martyn joins you, it occurs that this may be another way of making yourself plain. If Duncan wants you, surely he cannot sit untouched while another man leans close and smiles into your face. Surely some crude, honest piece of him will rise. A hand closing round your wrist. An arm about your waist. Perhaps he will simply pick you up and carry you over one shoulder to camp, deaf to protest and laughter alike.
The thought pleases you enough that you laugh too brightly at something Ser Martyn says. You allow him to refill your cup, then the next. When his hand finds your elbow in the press near the table, you leave it there a heartbeat longer than necessity allows.
Duncan grows quiet. You feel his silence beside you and tend it carefully, feeding it another smile, another swallow of wine, another turn of your body towards the knight in green. He looks miserable. That should satisfy you. Instead it draws a queer ache through the middle of your triumph.
Then he leaves, with no wrist in his hand. Only tells you to do as you please and walks away with half his wine abandoned behind him. The pang of it sobers you briefly.
Ser Martyn continues speaking. You remain because leaving directly after Duncan would make the whole little game too obvious, and because it is pleasant, in its lesser way, to be admired openly. Ser Martyn has pretty eyes and well-kept hair. He is handsome. Kind too, though his kindness is smooth and social, the sort that knows where to sit and when to pour and how long a lady’s gaze should be held. It is not the kindness you want.
You want the one that moves a lizard from the road beneath a killing sun. One that gives away half a meal and calls the smaller half plenty. One that sits with its back to a naked woman because it gave its word, no matter how bitterly the woman resents it.
The wine goes on working through you. Ser Martyn’s face softens at the edges. His voice begins arriving from farther away, though he has moved nearer. Your thoughts wander to Duncan with increasing disobedience: the split at his brow, the bruise darkening beneath his clothes, and his hands, and gods, his mouth.
When Ser Martyn brushes his knuckles over your skirt, you look down and realise with sudden, drunken clarity that they are entirely the wrong knuckles. You stand too quickly. The pavilion tilts by a small, treacherous measure.
“My thanks for the wine,” you say, catching the table with one hand. “And the company. I ought to retire.”
Ser Martyn rises with you. “Allow me to walk you.”
“N-no.” The answer comes harder than his offer deserves. You soften it into a smile, or attempt one. “Our camp is close.”
“You have had rather a lot to drink.”
“I have had exactly enough.”
This is untrue. He looks as though he knows it, but bows and lets you go.
The way back proves longer than you remember. The ground keeps changing its mind beneath your feet, rising to meet one step and falling away from the next. You mutter through the whole journey, carrying on the quarrel Duncan refused to have with you.
Do as you please, you mouth in a poor imitation of his voice. “Aye, thank you kindly, Ser Duncan. Most gracious of you. Perhaps I shall marry him too, since I am doing as I please. Perhaps I shall have twelve babies with neat fingernails.”
A tent-rope catches your ankle. You stagger free and point accusingly at nothing.
“And you would wish me well, would you not? Great stupid—great honourable—” You lose the end of the insult and hiccup instead.
At camp, you find him beside Sweetfoot. His head is bowed close to her neck, one hand resting there while the other draws the brush slowly through her coat. He is tending the horse, though there is something in the shape of him that looks more like he has gone to her for comfort.
You come nearer and sniff. He stills. “I thought I’d not see you till morning,” Duncan says without looking round.
Perhaps he should not have. Perhaps you ought to have gone with Ser Martyn and shut your eyes very tightly. His hands might have become larger in the dark. His hair rougher beneath your fingers. With enough wine and enough wanting, mayhaps you could have lied yourself into Duncan’s body for an hour.
The thought leaves you feeling foul. “I’ve no interest in that one,” you say.
Duncan draws the brush down Sweetfoot’s side. “Didn’t say ye had.”
“Would you mind if I bedded him?”
The brush stops. Only briefly. “It ain’t for me to choose,” he says.
“I know.” You sway where you stand and correct yourself with an unsteady step. “I asked if you would mind.”
Duncan says nothing. That is answer enough and still not enough. You watch the back of his neck while he resumes brushing, angry with the silence and angrier with yourself for begging meaning from it.
Sweetfoot noses at his shoulder. Duncan sets the brush aside, breaks an oatcake and lets her take it from his palm. Her whiskers tickle him. His mouth softens. “There’s a good girl,” he murmurs.
The words leave a sombre quiet behind them. You sigh so heavily your whole body seems to empty. Then you sit down hard in the grass. The earth gives a small jolt beneath you, and after considering the effort required to remain upright, you let yourself fall flat onto your back.
Duncan finally turns. “What ails you, girl?”
The stars have multiplied while you were drinking. You squint at them.
“What must I do so you’d call me a good girl?”
There is a small clatter. The bridle has nearly slipped from Duncan’s hand.
You might pretend you said nothing. You might pretend he failed to hear. The wine has carried both mercies well beyond your reach, so you prop yourself on your elbows instead and look at him. He has gone red to the ears, gaze fixed fiercely on the ground between his boots. You bat your lashes. “I can learn tricks.”
For a moment he remains petrified. Then his mouth tightens. “Aye,” he says. “That’s it.” He strides over, crouches and gathers you from the grass. One arm goes beneath your knees, the other round your back, and the ground gives way with astonishing ease.
“Where are we going?” you ask, hope brightening you despite every lesson learnt thus far.
“Yer drunk. I’m puttin’ you to bed.”
You settle more comfortably against him. “I had the thought sober.”
His throat clicks beneath your cheek. Duncan says nothing else.
He puts you down upon the bedroll and kneels to remove your shoes. You offer little help. One foot keeps slipping from his hand, and when he catches it you giggle as if he has done something clever. Then, he pulls the blanket over you, tucks it under your shoulder and tries not to look at your mouth.
Within moments your eyes are closed. He sits beside the fire.
His cock is hard enough to hurt, thick and trapped beneath his breeches from carrying you against him while you spoke such things into his throat. That is trouble enough. Worse is the part of him that keeps hearing the words in your voice.
What must I do so you’d call me a good girl? I had the thought sober.
Duncan presses both palms to his face.
He has spent months putting you down as strange. Fond of teasing. Careless with words. He has taken every look and touch and queer remark and forced it into some safer shape, because the other shape asked too much of him. Now they return without permission.
You wrapped in his cloak and refusing the blanket. Your hands lingering at him. Would you handle all of me so gently? The disappointment when he kept his back to the stream. Not even a little? The muttered almost after telling him you were exactly where you wished to be.
Even your slave jest changes its face under this new light, though Duncan does not know what sort of light turns bondage into courtship.
He looks towards the bedroll. You sleep with one hand near your mouth, lashes calm against your cheeks, wholly unaware that you have overturned every sensible thought in his head.
Mayhaps you do want him. The hope arrives large enough to frighten him. It catches in his chest and groin together, making his pulse beat hard wherever blood can reach. He imagines calling you good girl with your face turned up to his. Imagines your expression changing beneath it. Imagines putting the words against your ear while his hands—
Duncan grips his knees and stops there. You are drunk. Currently snoring. Whatever truth lies in the confession, tonight it can ask nothing of him.
He feeds another stick into the fire and remains beside it until dawn, watching the flames sink low while every old certainty burns down with them.
The following morning Duncan regrets his vigil. His knees have stiffened, and his wounded shoulder protests when he rolls it. Still, his stomach keeps its peace. That is something.
You wake with your hair across your mouth and no sign upon your face that you remember making a misery of him. Duncan knows better than to trust that.
“Good morrow, m’lady,” he says, far too carefully.
You peer at him through sleep, then scoff. “Good morrow, Ser Duncan.”
Neither of you mentions horses, tricks or the names one might call a girl if properly encouraged. Duncan becomes very interested in saddles.
He rides better for having no sickness in him. Two more bouts go his way, enough to carry him near the final, where a smaller knight with a cleaner lance catches him soundly and sends him from Thunder. Duncan lands hard on the same shoulder he bruised the day before and sits in the dirt a moment, dazed and deeply undignified, while you are already pushing past the rail and calling his name.
The loss troubles him less once the purse is counted. There is enough for the road ahead. Enough for oats, supper and an inn besides. Enough, most importantly, to give you something finer than another night beneath a tree.
“We’ve enough,” he tells you, still hot from the lists and aching wherever a body may reasonably ache. “A room for you. Hot water. Supper made by someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“And you?”
Duncan blinks.
“You look as though a horse sat on you.”
“It near did.”
You laugh, bright and mean enough to make the whole fall worthwhile. “To the inn, then?”
Duncan nods. The gladness of it loosens something in him. For a little while the night before recedes beneath coin in his palm, your laughter and the promise of clean sheets. He forgets to be afraid of what you may remember. The camp comes down swiftly. Bedrolls tied, sacks loaded, tack checked twice. Soon Acorn Hall is behind you, and the nearest lodging lies ahead with a roof, a hot meal and water heated by someone else’s fire.
It proves worth every bruise. Supper comes hot and plentiful: thick stew with onions cooked soft in it, bread still tender at the middle, cheese that has not spent a week sweating inside a saddlebag. You eat with such pleasure Duncan begins to suspect he has been starving you without knowing it.
Ale follows. Only two cups each, though yours seems to empty faster whenever he looks away.
The common room is crowded with men from the lists and folk eager to tell them where they went wrong. Duncan limbers gradually in the candlelight. Warmth gets into his shoulder and takes some of the ache from it. Ale does the same for the rest of him. He leans back on the bench, one arm stretched along the wall, and listens while you recount his fall with increasing cruelty.
“You sat there blinking,” you say. “Like an ox struck between the eyes with a turnip.”
“It were a lance.”
“The expression was the same.”
“You ran towards me,” he points out.
“To see whether you were dead,” you reply with your mouth full.
“Ye looked worried.”
There's a smirk. “I was deciding what to do with the horses.”
Duncan laughs into his cup. You smile over yours fully, pleased with yourself.
The talk turns to the other riders. The knight with the green plume who lost it on the first pass and spent the rest of the day looking somehow less noble without it. The squire who ran the wrong lance to his master and had to chase after him the length of the lists. Ser Martyn comes up only once, when you note that fine wool did not help him keep his seat. Duncan finds that funnier than he ought.
He watches you eat while pretending not to. Your mouth closes round bread, works slowly, then shines again when you take a drink. Candlelight catches on the damp lower lip. It is a very pretty mouth. Duncan would much like it nearer.
Near enough to learn whether you remember. Near enough to ask what you meant. Near enough to put his own against it and make a great fool of himself in some new way.
Yet the knight he is has paid for two chambers, and soon there will be a wall between you. A sound decision. An honourable one. He resents it bitterly.
Mayhaps somewhere along the road ahead he will find courage for a different sort of danger. The foolish surge that takes him when swords are drawn and some smaller man needs defending must live in him somewhere when steel is put away. It ought not be harder to ask a woman whether she wants him than to ride at another man with a lance levelled at his chest.
It is, though. Swords make plain what is required.
At the top of the stairs your doors stand opposite one another. Duncan stops before his. You stop before yours. Neither of you reaches for the latch.
His cheeks have colour in them from ale and the heat below. Damp has curled the hair at his temples, darkened it there with salt. He looks softer after food. Less like a knight carved for carrying blows and more like the boyish part of him has risen close to the skin.
You could tell him: Come bathe with me. Come to my bed. Lean down and let me kiss that sweet mouth. Call me a good girl while you do it.
His eyes remain on yours. Waiting, perhaps. Or only being large and sincere in the manner that has ruined your life.
“Sleep well, Dunk,” you say.
“And you.”
Then he disappears behind his door.
You enter your own chamber, shut it harder than necessary and throw yourself face-first onto the bed. The mattress gives beneath you in one blessed softness. You seize the pillow and bite into it until your teeth meet feather through linen.
It has always been unbearable. Somehow tonight has made it worse.
He had watched your mouth at supper. You know he had. His eyes kept dropping there with all the furtive dignity of a dog pretending it has no interest in the meat laid before it. Still, he has gone into a separate room like he was fleeing plague. You turn your face into the pillow and groan.
Misery aside, your stomach is full of something that is neither burnt venison nor bread hard enough to injure. There is hot water waiting down the corridor, and a bed that does not contain roots, stones or one enormous knight pretending not to dream beside you.
You rise and begin sorting through your things for what you need. Clean shift. Cloth for drying. The little pot of soap bought three villages ago and guarded more fiercely than coin. Your comb is missing.
You empty the bag again, though it has not grown another pocket since the first search. Nothing. Only folded linen, stockings, a ribbon and the small collection of useless treasures Duncan has allowed you to acquire along the road.
He must have packed it with his things while loading the horses. You cross the passage and knock at his door. No answer.
The bath chambers lie in the inn's bowels. He has likely gone there directly, too sore and tired to linger. You wait another moment, then lift the latch.
His room resembles yours, only larger by virtue of having less strewn across it. His sack sits open at the foot of the bed. You kneel and search without guilt. The comb is yours. You have not invented its disappearance merely to enter his place, however much your heart behaves as though you have.
The comb lies tucked inside the fold of one of his spare shirts, caught there when he sorted your belongings from his. “There you are—”
The door creaks open behind you. You turn, and it might as well be a lance taking you square in the chest.
Duncan stands in the doorway practically naked.
A length of damp linen is knotted low round his hips, the cloth darkened where it clings. Your eyes go there first. To the slant of him. To the deep-cut lines running from either side of his belly into the wrap, narrowing your sight towards the heavy shape beneath it. Even softened by bathing, even hidden, he is large like the rest of him. The linen gives enough away to make imagination useless and appetite vicious.
Then the whole of him arrives. No more shoulder glimpsed and stolen. No more calf, wrist, thigh, brief strip of belly gone as soon as you noticed it. He stands complete beneath the candlelight, sheened with steam from crown to bare feet, and every scrap you have gathered over months proves a poor accounting.
His shoulders look excessive without cloth to excuse them. Broad enough to crowd the doorway, rounded richly at their ends, built less like anything honed for display than something made to lift, bear and shelter.
The chest itself is softer than armour ever permits you to imagine. Full. Warm-looking. Hair thickens over the centre and thins towards his nipples, both drawn tight from the cooling air. A bruise from the lists blooms under one collarbone, wine-dark at its middle and yellowing round the edge. Another stains his ribs where the lance caught him badly. They ought to spoil the sight. Instead they make your mouth ache with the urge to tend and taste. You want to put your lips to every discoloured place and see whether tenderness might be pressed into him through skin.
Below, his stomach has none of the hard, starved leanness of carved warriors. It is strong and soft together, abundant enough to invite a cheek, a palm, teeth. The muscles sit under flesh rather than announcing themselves, shifting when he breathes. Water has caught in the shallow cup of his navel. A darker line of hair begins beneath it and travels down, straight and indecent, disappearing under the linen precisely where your gaze has already disgraced itself.
His thighs show below the cloth, enormous and furred, bruised along one side where he struck the earth. They make his waist seem narrower and the towel more precarious. His knees are scraped. His shins marked by old little injuries, some pale, some newly scabbed. Then his feet—long, broad, bare against the boards, toes reddened from hot water. Even those affect you. The naked ordinary weight of them. The fact that all this impossible male beauty still ends in wet footprints.
Steam follows him faintly into the chamber. Candlelight catches it and turns the damp over his skin to gold. His hair lies darker and flattened over his brow. One drop travels the long line of his throat, settles briefly in that beloved gutter at its base, then breaks loose and goes into the vellus hairs.
Your body answers so brutally you near sway where you kneel. Your mouth dries. Lower down, everything does the opposite. It gathers between your legs with a crude, immediate pull, so fierce that for one humiliating moment you think he must be able to see it happening through your clothes. Your fingers tighten round the comb. Your heart strikes hard.
He is beautiful in a way that seems almost biased. Too much man arranged into one body. Near caricature in his largeness, had every piece of him not been put together with such unfair harmony. A body made for work and violence, yet lush enough to make violence against it feel unthinkable. Inviting enough that restraint begins to seem like a personal failing.
You have spent so long making him from scraps. Building the rest beneath shirt and mail, fitting guessed flesh between the parts chance allowed you to see. The true Duncan is larger. Softer. Wetter. Infinitely worse.
He stops with one hand still on the latch. You remain kneeling beside his open sack, comb caught in your fist, staring so openly that even his usual blindness cannot mistake it for anything else.
"M-m'lady," he stammers. Fists the linen at his waist. “Found what ye wanted?”
“Aye,” you breathe. You set the comb down on the floor, rise and take a few steps that you try to keep steady, though blood pulses in your head so loudly the wood beneath your feet feels soft. When you reach him, you push the door closed. Duncan stands still. With your head bowed, for another look might kill you, you mutter, “Have you cleaned yourself proper?”
He sucks in a wet gasp. “What’s that meant to mean?”
"All of yourself?"
"A-aye," he says.
“May I check?”
“You—” Colour rises from his chest into his face. “Yer teasin’ me again.”
You shake your head. "No," you say. “I have not been teasing you for months.”
He turns to you fully. You turn with him, and now there is nowhere for either of you to look but straight at the other.
This close, with almost all of him bare, Duncan is intimidating. Not through any threat in him. Purely scale. His chest fills your sight. The linen hangs low enough that one careless movement might finish what your imagination has begun.
His arms drop to his sides. Both hands close into fists, then open again. He catches his lower lip between his teeth.
“Ye’ve—” He swallows. “Ye’ve had ale.”
“Duncan.” You hold his gaze. “I had the thought sober.”
A sound leaves him, low in his chest, as though he is bracing beneath weight. The muscles there jump. Your gums itch with the urge to bite them.
“What…” He clears his throat. “How d’ye mean to check?”
The answer had seemed simple in every imagining. In those, you were shameless and eloquent. You told him exactly where you meant to put your hands, your mouth, your nose. You made him understand the whole gluttonous scale of you.
Now he stands over you half-naked and waiting, and you feel small enough to fit beneath one of his palms. Worse, you fear that saying it aloud will make the want sound strange even to him.
“I want to…” Your voice belongs to some blushing virgin with no relation to you. “I want to touch you.”
Duncan’s breathing changes. “And?”
You look down. “And smell you.”
His face goes blank for a heartbeat. One of his hands twitches near the linen. “What should I do?” he asks.
You lift your eyes. “You would let me?”
Duncan exhales hard through his nose. “Girl,” he says, rough and helpless, “there ain’t much I wouldn’t let ye do to me.”
Your brows pull together. So you were right: beneath all the retreating and honour and maddening silence, he wants you. He is standing here and giving you leave, and the largeness of that kindness is wounding.
You take his hand. Duncan follows when you lead him farther into the room. At the bedside you stop and reach for the linen, then look up.
His eyes widen. He understands. His fingers come over yours, shaking badly enough that the knot takes him two tries. When it loosens, the cloth slips from his hips and falls in a damp heap round his feet.
You keep your eyes on his face. “Lie down,” you tell him.
He obeys.
The bed seems built for some lesser man. Duncan takes its whole breadth, shoulders near touching either side, and when he stretches out his heels pass the frame. The mattress sinks under him and lifts in small ridges round his weight.
Only then do you let yourself look. His cock lies half-hard against his belly, thick already, flushed darker towards the head. Beautiful enough that your first instinct is to bow straight over it and put your face there. You resist. Barely. You have waited too long to frighten him now.
You climb onto the bed and settle astride his hips. Duncan groans. His pelvis lifts beneath you in one blunt twitch, then drops back into the lumpy wool. His hands rise and hover beside your thighs, lost for somewhere proper to go. You catch one wrist and bring his hand to your face.
“Beg pardon,” he mutters. “I’ve never—” The rest folds under his embarrassment.
“That makes me glad,” you say.
It is not a kind admission. The thought of him beneath another woman turns your stomach so sharply you could drown in the bile of it. Some other mouth learning him first. Some other hands leaving their knowledge where you wish to be the only one.
You soften your hold. “I won’t hurt you,” you say. “And when you want me to stop, I will. You need only tell me.”
Duncan blinks up at you. His chest expands more heavily beneath your knees. “Aye,” he says. “Though I can’t see myself wanting ye to stop, girl. Oh—”
You press your nose into the hollow of his palm and draw in one long breath.
Gods.
Your eyes close.
Lavender clings faintly from the bath, clean and floral over the skin, but it has not taken him away. Beneath it remains the bittersweet warmth you know from his cloak: body's cloying, living rot, bread, the softened trace of ale and that dark, rich earthiness that belongs to him alone.
You nose lower. The scent thins over his wrist, where skin lies close to bone, then deepens again along the seam of his forearm. Your mouth falls open without thought. You follow with your face, breathing him in from wrist to elbow while the hair there grazes your lips. Duncan’s fingers flex beside your cheek.
At the bend of his arm you stop. Cradle the elbow in both hands. The hollow there smells warmer, private in some small way, and you sniff until his whole arm trembles under your grip.
“Lift them,” you murmur.
His arms are too long to lie straight above him without striking the headboard, so Duncan bends them and crosses his wrists over his head. The posture opens him terribly. Chest spread. Ribs bare. Every soft, hidden place given over.
You lean down and bury your face beneath his arm. A sound nearly escapes you. A stupid, girlish squeal.
“Oh, Seven fu—”
Duncan bites the curse off. His cock thickens hard beneath you, pressing up between your legs. Gods, he will fill you so snugly. Perhaps too snugly. Perhaps he might damage you a little, and by his hand you think you would take it gladly.
The hair beneath his arm is softer than you expected, damp still and curling against your cheek. You press deeper into the warm cup there, where the hard edge of his breast rises towards the shoulder and the thicker muscle of his back draws down behind it. The hollow held between them fits your nose as if his body had made the place in advance.
Bathing oils have hardly reached here. This is Duncan entire. Clean sweat beginning again under heat. Malt. Yeasted sweetness of his skin and beneath it the dark thing, fertile as black soil split open by a spade. Your lips brush the hair. Your mouth waters.
Duncan writhes under you. His crossed hands tighten round one another above his head. You chuckle low against him. “If you want me to stop, you’ve got to tell me.”
“No,” he says quickly. “By the gods, don’t—”
Your tongue slips out. You lick slowly through the armpit, following the deep crease between chest and shoulder.
Duncan whimpers.
You hum. The taste and scent climb straight into your head, dense and bodily and so male it seems to strike some old starving piece of you awake.
He smells like fucking.
You could never swallow such a mass of man whole. But Gods help you, Seven Hells take you, you want all of him.
It takes effort to tear yourself away. Even then you only climb higher, following the length of him to the side of his throat. The difficulty there is keeping your teeth out of him. His pulse beats plainly beneath the skin, quick and strong and made to tempt worse creatures than you. You nip him instead. Barely. Enough to feel a jump under your mouth.
He makes a strangled sound. His arms come down from over his head, hands finding your waist and stopping there as if they require further leave. You breathe him in once more at the place below his ear, then drag yourself higher until your face rests over his.
Nose beside nose. Cheek against cheek. Your mouth hovering near his, too close for either of you to pretend this is some innocent examination.
Duncan has gone deep red. Heat shines over his brow. Sweat has begun again over his chest despite the bath, and the knowledge that you have drawn it from him sends a pleased little shiver through you.
“You smell like life itself,” you tell him, drunk on it. “I love living with you. I wish it never had to end.”
He whispers your name. Shaky and brittle, as if it has grown too delicate for the size of him.
The sound emboldens you. “Call me darling,” you say. “Call me sweetheart.” Your nose brushes his when you shift closer. “When we’re alone, call me a… good girl. So much ails me when you don’t.”
“Sweetheart,” Duncan whispers. His hands tighten round your middle. “Gods, girl. What're ye doing to me?”
You smile against his lip's corner. “Checking.”
“And?”
“I’ve barely begun.”
Duncan believes you. His cock gives such a hard throb that shame ought to follow, but somehow it does not. He is awash in something else. Naught like this has ever been done to him.
He has been looked at and touched on occasion with gratitude, rage or pity. Hands have clapped his shoulder, swatted his head, gripped his arm and tried to tell him there were good things waiting somewhere beyond the bad ones presently happening. He has one stolen kiss in his ledger, and it was not Duncan who did the pilfering. An innkeeper’s daughter caught him in the stables and stood on a stool to reach. He touched himself to the memory more than once afterwards, because the feeling of somebody’s palms against his chest and a tongue inside his mouth had outclassed a full belly and a sound night’s sleep together.
What happens now is beyond accounting. There is a girl atop him. A good girl. His favourite girl. He is naked and thick between the thighs, while you smell him and hum over what you find as though every private part of him is worth discovering. He feels cherished. The knowledge swells so painfully in his chest that he wants to kiss you only to make certain you know you are cherished too.
His head tips towards yours. He finds your mouth and gives it one small, shy peck. Your lips taste of breath and faintly of him already.
Gods, Duncan is so swollen with it. He knows where the cock ought to go for relief, at least in principle, but you remain fully dressed and look far more composed than he feels. So he only presses his pursed mouth to yours again and stays there, uncertain of what comes next.
Your hand frames his jaw. “Like this,” you tell him. A little squeeze of his cheek. “Open.”
So he opens. The same tongue that licked him where he carries the sweat of road and work slides inside his mouth. Duncan grips you so hard his fingers lose their purchase on flesh and only stretch the cloth round your waist.
The first touch of your tongue is soft. Softer than he remembers a mouth having any right to be. It glides over his with a warm, wet pressure and retreats by a fraction, then returns as if testing whether he will follow. He does, though poorly at first. The movement feels too intimate to be so small when your tongue rubs his in the dark of his own mouth, tasting where nobody else can see.
It makes him feel sweetly filthy. You have had your face buried beneath his arm and now you kiss him with that same tongue. He can taste the lavender from his bath, the ale lingering on your breath. His jaw loosens. Your mouth opens wider over his, and Duncan has the dizzy thought that he is being let inside while still lying helpless beneath you.
The feeling begins round his lips and spreads viciously. Heat runs through his jaw, into his throat, then pours down his chest so swiftly he near mistakes it for fear. His belly draws tight. Even his feet answer with their toes curling and a tingling so sharp and absurd he would laugh if your mouth were not busy stealing the breath needed for it.
He had thought kissing belonged chiefly to the face. No one warned him the whole body could be kissed through one mouth.
He is still reeling from it when you begin to slide lower. Your hands go first, travelling his shoulders and chest as though guiding the rest of you down. Nose follows. Mouth after. Each part of you seems unwilling to leave him untouched.
At his chest, you stop. Duncan looks down through heavy lids and finds you nosing through the hair there. Then your tongue comes out and circles one nipple.
The feeling is stranger than it ought to be. Small, wet, almost ticklish at first, until your mouth closes round him and teeth take a broad bite of flesh with the nipple caught at the middle. You hum terribly, pleased deep in your throat. His back rises clean off the mattress.
“Ah—gods—fuck—”
Pain turns sweet before he knows which name to give it. His hands clutch at the bedding. His cock kicks against his belly, hard enough now that the pull in his balls borders on hurt. Then you kiss the place you bit, soft and damp, soothing him with the same lips that made him arch.
He barely settles before you move lower. You drag yourself down and Duncan twitches beneath every breath. At his navel you press your face there, wedging the tip of your nose into the little hollow and breathing him in.
A broken laugh jumps out of him. “Girl, what—”
Your tongue slips into it. The words die.
You lick the hollow once, then again, slow enough to make his stomach ripple. Duncan stares down at you, dazed. Nobody has ever paid mind to that bit of him. Nobody has ever made it feel like anything. Yet your tongue works inside the small fold of flesh and makes ardour spread in his groin.
“Sweetheart,” he gasps. “Seven save me.”
You only sigh. Your breasts press between his thighs as you lower yourself farther. Even through your clothes he feels the soft weight of them nudging close to his sack, and his balls draw tighter still. He spreads his legs without thinking. Makes room. Gives you everything.
His mouth stays open. Tongue resting stupidly against his lower lip in case you decide to climb back and take it again. You seem to have no such notion.
Duncan thinks he cannot breathe any harder, but then you reach there. Oh, right there, where he is his most shameful self. Where blood gathers and betrays him. Where every decent thought has failed since you first climbed atop him.
Your face comes down over his cock with cheek pressing him flat to his belly, firm enough that the pressure wrings a gasp from him. For one wild moment he thinks you mean to milk him so, squeeze the spending out through weight alone.
He is nearly gone when you lift away. Cool air touches the place your body had warmed. Duncan makes a low, miserable sound and looks down.
You are watching him from beneath siren lids, his cock standing between your face and his stomach. “Turn over,” you tell him.
Duncan stares.
"Onto your belly."
He's bewildered first, but eager always. Turning proves less graceful than he wishes it to be. He shifts around you, near kicks your head, then catches one knee in the bedding and has to adjust his hips twice so that his cock does not get painfully crushed. His arms go bent to pillow his head and his face rests turned towards you still. So he can watch, even if only with the corner of his eye.
"Is that what folk do?" he asks, surprising himself with how small he sounds.
"I do not know," you say, "but this is what I wish to do to you."
Duncan trusts you. And so, he lets you.
You've got some gluttonous mouth on you tonight. How you've stopped yourself from swallowing his cock eludes you, but now, with him offered like that, you feel you inner cheeks dampening at the sight. He's equally gorgeous front and back. There is a long shallow road of his spine cutting him in half, and each part works tremendously hard under the skin. Across one shoulder blade lay thin pearl strokes of scars, and a rounder mark ornates his ribs. Bruises you mean to kiss later. You anoint each vertebrae with your palm, down past the narrowest part of his waist to where his back gives itself over to the heavy rise of his arse.
Fuck.
There, you must kiss him there. Smell him, taste him, make him know the force of your adoring. Two great, full halves made for gripping, biting, resting your face upon. When you touch him, the flesh shifts under your hands. You spread your fingers over each buttock, warm and thick and far more yielding than his shoulders. Then, it is as though a boulder has been placed on your back, because there is nowhere else to go but down. You place one cheek on his.
He gasps softly, like he's been braced for another sort of impact. There, you stay a moment, listening to his breathing and feeling the warmth of him seep into your face. Soon, your nose begins to guide you again. You press it to the base of his spine, and breathe. Under your chin, he splits himself like a plum.
Warmer here, and darker too. Sweeter where his body has lain against itself in the bed. You nose lower, nudging into the deep line between his buttocks until Duncan's thighs tense under you.
"Girl," he groans.
He's not that green. He's got ears and has been around men, and men sing of such things when there is drink in them. He has heard of the three-fingered Alice and all the uses she found for herself, along with a dozen cruder tales told by those who claimed knowledge they likely never possessed. It does not astonish him that pleasure may live in a cryptic place. But hearing about a finger put into some nameless man in a tavern is one thing. Lying naked while you move towards his arse is another.
You kiss one cheek. Then the other. Slow presses, each followed by the little drag of your nose on the skin downy with fuzz. He goes taut beneath your mouth. Your answering thing is to laugh quietly, put your hands round him and settle your thumbs on either side of the cleft. You part him only slightly.
It is the most intimate sight of a man. Vulnerable and tender, and Duncan specifically is pinker there, hidden and soft. The small puckered place at the centre of him tightens under your gaze as though even that part knows it is being perceived. You stroke one thumb beside it. "May I kiss you here?" you ask.
He shifts suddenly. Props himself on elbows, shoulders bunching, and cranes his head back as far as his neck permits. Hair hangs into his eyes. His face is all flushed from throat to brow.
"Do ye truly mean to?" he whispers.
"I have not checked there yet," you tell him.
He stares at you over the great length of his own body. You can see the fear in him, but no disdain. More wonder than either. The same stunned disbelief he wore when you told him there was little you did not want. His eyes drop briefly to your hands holding him open. Then, he swallows. "Aye," he husks, rough and quiet. "Check there too."
The leave sends you under. Your nose comes to the deep groove where the cleft draws tight over the little knob of bone. Skin stretches smooth there with a thin satin lustre to it. You press further in. Sound goes. Heft of his buttocks closes warm over your ears. Your cheeks are caught between them, cradled and squeezed soft by muscle and flesh, and for a blink the world beyond him extincts.
Subterranean dim swells behind your eyes so you fold them shut. Here, everything gets severed. Cloak and throat yield lesser versions; this belongs to the chamber of him that anatomy itself keeps barred, and he had to spread himself and let you trespass. A terribly alive animal. A glossy, inward tang of the inside of a person held one thin membrane away. You imagine it living beneath the pelt before the body is opened. It all reaches you deeper than gut resides, as brine warmed into musk.
He smells like a man on the brink of becoming meat.
The intimacy of it turns prurient in your blood. Your teeth ache. Your mouth floods. Your skull fills with blood that stumbles darkly through the veins at your temples.
You breathe again. The whole of you leans towards the forbidden territory. You want to split him wider. Put your mouth to the most secret place on him and stay until he carries the shape of your lips there. Make him helpless, ashamed and adored together, made to understand that no hidden part of him can escape your yearning.
So you kiss him. Open-mouthed. Moaning. Not nearly gently enough to pass for devotion, though devotion is exactly what has debased you.
“Seven fucks—oh gods,” he gasps. It is the quietest thunder ever laid on him.
Your mouth scarcely moves, yet the touch strikes through the tight ring of him and runs white along his spine. All of Duncan argues with itself. His arse closes hard round your face. The movement seems only to trap you nearer. His hips read from the mattress, forcing himself deeper into the heat he has half a mind to flee. His elbows dig down. Shoulders knot. Belly hangs taut beneath him. Between his thighs, his cock swings heavy and weeps for you, untouched, depraved, wholly begging to be noticed.
Touch me. Take me. Keep going.
Your hand answers. It slips under his stomach and closes round the root.
Duncan gasps out: "Ah—good—good girl—"
The words have grooved themselves into him already. He heard what you asked. All Duncan wishes now is to please you, though pleasure currently has him half-scalded and half-drowned.
Then, everything stills. Your lips stay against him. Your fist keeps him full and hard inside it. A clear bead of spend swells at the slit, drawing long, then making its way to slip between your fingers.
He hears you swallow and feels the movement close enough that the shape of the question touches him. "Was that for me?"
He groans into his folded arms.
"Dunk."
“Aye,” he says, and realises his eyes are wet. His thighs quiver wide around you.
Your grip tenses once. Another pearl pushes from him and slides hot over your thumb. "Say it proper," you tell him.
"My—" Breath bottles him in the throat. He tries again. "My good girl," he whispers. Louder: "Gods, my good girl. Please, sweetheart I—" Another gasp. "I beg ye—"
And so your mouth settles back to its work. At the same time, your fist begins to travel. Root to crown, slow enough that he feels each ridge of himself drag through your hand. Your thumb passes beneath the head and presses into the tender notch there. Duncan's sight jumps. The blow lands inside his skull though your hand holds him far below it, and his toes rake furrows into the sheets. He's confused between thrusting into your palm and bearing back towards your face.
Then your tongue spreads bold across his hole. His flesh seizes round it. It grips, releases, grips, each panic tightening him harder. You lick over the ring of muscle once, and circle it with the tip until his hips begin making witless little thrusts into the air.
"Fuck," he mouths into his arm. Tormented in all his sensitive spots, and glad to be. "Girl—"
But you don't listen. Only go lower. You draw down the cleft and reach the seam of his sack. One slow lick follows it, then another. The weight of him settles on your chin, full and pulled tight, while the point of your tongue gauges the delicate skin along the centre. Duncan near leaves his body.
A thin cry comes out of him. His thighs spread farther. Belly's burning, knees keep sliding, opening room for your face until the strain catches him in the pelvis. He welcomes the ache, and anything that lets you stay there.
You keep stroking. The long pull upward gathers him tight; the descent twists with your wrist turning around the length as though you mean to wring every drop out of him by patience. He slickens in your palm so much that the next pass makes a lurid sound beneath his stomach.
And then, you're climbing up again. Same route, same feral mouth. What changes is one hand seizing his arse cheek and dragging it aside. His flesh stretches, air touches the wet place you have licked, followed at once by the hotness of breath. Duncan braces.
"Oh—" he gasps. Small enough to belong to someone three times lesser than him.
Your tongue presses on his hole. It holds firm around the blunt point. You push, ease, push again. Each small pressure sends a queer fullness into him, at first sharp, then warming, then deeper than the place itself has any right to reach. There's another hum, low and pleased, as if he were delectable. The sound enters ahead of your tongue and rolls through his belly. Goes swelling inside Duncan's chest and spreads through him with the loose, splendid confusion akin to the sweetest wine. His elbows soften, and face sinks deeper into the sheets until cloth cradles his mouth and cheek. The hips remain raised, bent over just as you have asked of them, with his back kinked and arse offered squarely to you.
The muscle yields little by little, when at last your tongue slips inside.
"Oh—oh gods—"
The breach feels small and enormous together. A wet nudge coaxing through where he's tightest, then curling past it, licking the tender inside of him in short little brushes. His cock leaps in your fist. You work him through it, pulling him away from his stomach, twisting round the crown, and dragging back down.
"Fuck—girl—" Duncan grits.
His arse closes round you, trying to hold what has entered, and the clench makes you more vicious on his girth. He shakes between both grips, while you invite yourself farther and farther. He's being opened gently, and when you retreat, he pulses around the emptiness.
Had he known the world kept a girl who would do this to him, he would have boxed his own ears bloody for every mile spent doubting you. If he had known a mouth could make shame feel cherished, he would have begged you sooner. You let him keep his body through the split, too—he's being tongue-fucked in his hole, hand-fucked on his cock, spread wide like a common whore and he feels most man he's ever felt.
All of this yielding makes him sob. Everywhere has gone wet. Sweat runs from his hair down his temples. Spit shines at the corner of his mouth. His cock weeps clear all over your fingers. Behind him, you mouth keeps him slick and gaping, until it feels as though every secret place in him has begun to cry. And Duncan doesn't know he's simply coming, because this rapture is unlike any he has delivered himself by the strain of calloused fist in the dark.
It begins in his throat, of all places. A hot thickness pours down him as if some healer has tipped a cup of balm straight into his open mouth. It slips behind the breastbone, coats the ribs, fills his belly, and when it reaches the root of his cock every muscle in Duncan bears down at once. His sack pulls tight. Then it gives.
The first pulse knocks a shout from him. The next sends his seed over your fist, thick and hot, and every closing of your fingers drags another measure after it. It coats your palm, slips between your knuckles, runs down the underside of him and onto his thighs. Duncan feels every spill leave its own path. Feels himself emptied in great, blunt throbs while your tongue keeps the most tender part of him beloved.
“Sweetheart—my good girl—oh gods—” His voice breaks louder than the room can take. “Keep—please, keep—”
He has lost the strength for quieter remorse. Cries leave him rawer, farther gone. Your hand eases him through another hard pulse, then another, until the pleasure seems to exceed the body meant to contain it. By the end of it he's so completely besotted with you, some kinder world reaches through the walls and takes him whole. For several breaths Duncan belongs there instead: soft, milked empty, held steadfast by you, with every foolish doubt burnt clean out of him.
His body steams itself spent. The locked places loosen one by one. Shoulders sag. Thighs shake themselves weak. His hips drop heavily onto the mattress, and the wet he has spilled presses warm between skin and bedding. “Oh gods,” he mumbles. “Oh gods. Girl—”
He never feels your hand leave him. He scarcely understands that you have moved until your weight comes travelling up the length of his back and settles there, a small warm ballast pressing him deeper into the bed. Your chin finds the crook of his shoulder. Breath touches the sweat-damp skin beside his ear. “You’re the most beautiful thing,” you whisper.
By the Seven, he is. To have such mass felled by your doings, to be let in and trusted so openly fills you with such bliss you could kiss him bloody for it. You nose at his cheek. You're ready to rest like this, pillowed by his body, when Duncan moves. He turns slowly until you slide off him. Keeps turning so that he can face you. You cannot look into his glassy eyes for long, because he closes them and claims your mouth. It seems he means to kiss you bloody too, because his teeth work at your lower lip and tongue with eagerness that is new. He must be able to taste himself on you, surely. He acts as though this is the exciting part.
Then, he stops with his nose pressed next to yours. "What is with you, girl?" he asks.
"Very little," you tell him. "Did you like it?"
He huffs a strangled laugh. "Aye." Looks at you long and slightly unsure. "Will ye—" he starts. Swallows. "Will ye let me do the same to ye? I want to—"
"Yes." There's relief in it. Not only he let you. Not only he did not flinch from your oddity. He means to match you for hunger. "Anything you want," you say.
“Anything?” Duncan asks. “Now?”
You stare at him.
He nods, shy only in the eyes, and takes your mouth again. One hand closes round your breast through the shift, vast enough to fill itself with you. His thumb catches your nipple, fumbles past it, then returns with sudden purpose. The other grips your hip and drags you flush against the heat of him. “What has got into you?” you ask, laughing into his mouth.
“So much ails me, my good girl. So much—” He kisses the rest from your lips, then follows your jaw towards the throat. “And yer the only one that can help me.”
You know the state all too well. So you tell him simply: “Undress me.”
5/19/2026 Update: I've retagged all my fics properly so they're easier to filter out and/or search for!
Key:
ꕤ - Fluff
✧ - Angst
𖦹 - Smut/Spice
red font - multiple characters
pink font - one character
Other: This list is arranged alphabetically.
AKotSK
Aerion Brightflame
Like Father, Like Son — (ꕤ) When you give birth to a son, everyone can tell how much he resembles your husband. Everyone, apparently, except his father.
Replica — (ꕤ) After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
Woes of Change — (ꕤ 𖦹) After carrying and bearing your first child, your insecurities about your changed body grow by the day. Meanwhile, your husband doesn't seem to understand in the least.
Marital Affairs — (𖦹) Your husband has a favorite position during the marital act.
What Remains — (✧) After your death, your husband and the pieces of your marriage remain.
Lost Love — (minor ✧, ꕤ) You return to your childhood castle with your Targaryen husband in tow for the celebration of your sister's wedding. However, a familiar face is unexpectedly in attendance.
Above One's Station — (ꕤ ) Even though you're commonborn, you've garnered the sincere interest of a man both wealthy and titled.
Comforts of Flesh — (ꕤ 𖦹) Your difficult Targaryen husband can be so shockingly docile under your touch.
Baelor Breakspear
An Odd Arrangement — (ꕤ 𖦹) Despite being a widow past your prime, your father manages to arrange yet another marriage to a man from the Ruling House of Westeros.
Like Father, Like Son — (ꕤ) When you give birth to a son, everyone can tell how much he resembles your husband. Everyone, apparently, except his father.
Matters of Merit — (ꕤ) After someone makes a snide comment undermining your husband's honor, you defend him (unknowing that he can hear every word).
Replica— (ꕤ) After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
Woes of Change — (ꕤ 𖦹) After carrying and bearing your first child, your insecurities about your changed body grow by the day. Meanwhile, your husband doesn't seem to understand in the least.
Marital Affairs — (𖦹) Your husband has a favorite position during the marital act.
What Remains — (✧) After your death, your husband and the pieces of your marriage remain.
Lost Love — (minor ✧, ꕤ) You return to your childhood castle with your Targaryen husband in tow for the celebration of your sister's wedding. However, a familiar face is unexpectedly in attendance.
Safeguarding Peace — (✧, ꕤ) You finally begin to feel safe and happy after a politically advantageous marriage to your husband. Of course, your father has to dampen it during a visit.
Above One's Station — (ꕤ ) Even though you're commonborn, you've garnered the sincere interest of a man both wealthy and titled.
Daeron the Drunken
Like Father, Like Son — (ꕤ) When you give birth to a son, everyone can tell how much he resembles your husband. Everyone, apparently, except his father.
Replica — (ꕤ) After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
Woes of Change — (ꕤ 𖦹) After carrying and bearing your first child, your insecurities about your changed body grow by the day. Meanwhile, your husband doesn't seem to understand in the least.
Marital Affairs — (𖦹) Your husband has a favorite position during the marital act.
What Remains — (✧) After your death, your husband and the pieces of your marriage remain.
Lost Love — (minor ✧, ꕤ) You return to your childhood castle with your Targaryen husband in tow for the celebration of your sister's wedding. However, a familiar face is unexpectedly in attendance.
Above One's Station — (ꕤ ) Even though you're commonborn, you've garnered the sincere interest of a man both wealthy and titled.
Comforts of Flesh — (ꕤ 𖦹) Your difficult Targaryen husband can be so shockingly docile under your touch.
Dunk
Like Father, Like Son — (ꕤ) When you give birth to a son, everyone can tell how much he resembles your husband. Everyone, apparently, except his father.
Replica — (ꕤ) After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
Woes of Change — (ꕤ 𖦹) After carrying and bearing your first child, your insecurities about your changed body grow by the day. Meanwhile, your husband doesn't seem to understand in the least.
Marital Affairs — (𖦹) Your husband has a favorite position during the marital act.
What Remains — (✧) After your death, your husband and the pieces of your marriage remain.
Lyonel Bartheon
A Strange Situation — (ꕤ 𖦹) Despite being a widow past your prime, your father manages to arrange yet another marriage to a man from one of the Great Houses of Westeros.
Like Father, Like Son — (ꕤ) When you give birth to a son, everyone can tell how much he resembles your husband. Everyone, apparently, except his father.
Replica — (ꕤ) After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
A Stag and His Doe — (𖦹) After being betrothed to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, your wedding finally arrives. That, of course, includes the bedding.
Woes of Change — (ꕤ 𖦹) After carrying and bearing your first child, your insecurities about your changed body grow by the day. Meanwhile, your husband doesn't seem to understand in the least.
Marital Affairs — (𖦹) Your husband has a favorite position during the marital act.
What Remains — (✧) After your death, your husband and the pieces of your marriage remain.
Safeguarding Peace — (✧, ꕤ) You finally begin to feel safe and happy after a politically advantageous marriage to your husband. Of course, your father has to dampen it during a visit.
From Fawn to Stag — (ꕤ) Unbeknownst to you, your husband has allowed your freshly six-and-ten son to enter the lists at The Tourney of Stonehelm.
Above One's Station — (ꕤ ) Even though you're commonborn, you've garnered the sincere interest of a man both wealthy and titled.
Maekar Targaryen
An Odd Arrangement — (ꕤ 𖦹) Despite being a widow past your prime, your father manages to arrange yet another marriage to a man from the Ruling House of Westeros.
Like Father, Like Son — (ꕤ) When you give birth to a son, everyone can tell how much he resembles your husband. Everyone, apparently, except his father.
Replica — (ꕤ) After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
Woes of Change — (ꕤ 𖦹) After carrying and bearing your first child, your insecurities about your changed body grow by the day. Meanwhile, your husband doesn't seem to understand in the least.
Marital Affairs — (𖦹) Your husband has a favorite position during the marital act.
What Remains — (✧) After your death, your husband and the pieces of your marriage remain.
Lost Love — (minor ✧, ꕤ) You return to your childhood castle with your Targaryen husband in tow for the celebration of your sister's wedding. However, a familiar face is unexpectedly in attendance.
Safeguarding Peace — (✧, ꕤ) You finally begin to feel safe and happy after a politically advantageous marriage to your husband. Of course, your father has to dampen it during a visit.
Above One's Station — (ꕤ ) Even though you're commonborn, you've garnered the sincere interest of a man both wealthy and titled.
Comforts of Flesh — (ꕤ 𖦹) Your difficult Targaryen husband can be so shockingly docile under your touch.
Raymun Fossoway
Replica — (ꕤ) After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
No Bounds — (ꕤ) As the wife of a Fossoway, apples are everywhere. Shame you have an aversion to them.
Marital Affairs — (𖦹) Your husband has a favorite position during the marital act.
Valarr Targaryen
Barren — (✧) After multiple miscarriages, you think you've finally done your duties as a wife until you give birth to a stillborn. The loss haunts your marriage as a result.
Replica — (ꕤ) After giving your husband several sons, you finally give birth to a daughter who is an exact replica of you.
Woes of Change — (ꕤ 𖦹) After carrying and bearing your first child, your insecurities about your changed body grow by the day. Meanwhile, your husband doesn't seem to understand in the least.
Marital Affairs — (𖦹) Your husband has a favorite position during the marital act.
What Remains — (✧) After your death, your husband and the pieces of your marriage remain.
Lost Love — (minor ✧, ꕤ) You return to your childhood castle with your Targaryen husband in tow for the celebration of your sister's wedding. However, a familiar face is unexpectedly in attendance.
HotD
Jacaerys Velaryon
Found — (minor ✧, ꕤ) When checking the longlines for your fisherman father, you uncover a young man washed ashore.
Hi would you write AKotSK characters reassuring their wife when she feels insecure of her body after giving birth and thinking that they wouldn’t want to have sex with her anymore? 💔
𓇊 𝔚𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢
𓆹 Summary: After carrying and bearing your first child, your insecurities about your changed body grow by the day. Meanwhile, your husband doesn't seem to understand in the least.
𓆹 CWs: Implied sexual content and insecurities about weight, relationships, etc.
𓆹 Content: Insecurities, implied *plus-size/chubby!reader, noblewoman!reader, reader is Maekar’s/Baelor’s first wife (no Jena or Dyanna), fempov, use of she/her pronouns, reader's og house is unspecified, reader's appearance is overall unspecified, first baby, overthinking, smitten husbands, hurt/comfort, freaky Targaryens, sexual innuendos, physical affection, words of affirmation, body worship, some canon divergence as reader is Valarr and Daeron's bio mom
𓆹 Pairings: Insecure!Wife!Reader x Husband!Baelor, Maekar, Dunk, Lyonel, Aerion, Daeron, Valarr (all separate scenarios)
𓆹 Word Count: ~5.2k (~600 per part)
𓆹 AN: I really loved this prompt, anon! The *plus-sized aspect is heavily implied, but weight gain is explicitly stated. Take that as you will (I'm curvy myself so I couldn't resist)!! Also, I didn't write a section for Raymun because it would be very similar to Dunk's, and I'm currently working on something solely focused on him lol. Anyways, enjoy!!
You'd changed.
Everything changed over time: people, places, animals, and things. You were no exception to it, as much as you wished you could be. It was an inescapable process that took far more than it gave. Life, the bitter mistress, was a rapacious robber that set its sights on anything that granted jubilation.
However, you had not always disdained the concept.
As a young lady freshly wed, there was a surplus of little joys for you to indulge in.
To begin with, you had a husband to tend to. You had known him before becoming his wife, obviously, but actually being his wife was entirely different. It was a foreign sea you had just set sail upon, the crashing of waves mimicking the noise of his laughter.
Eventually, your babe brought elation as well. Initially, when you'd just been told, you had been thrilled at the news you were with child.
It was one of your duties to your husband—to the realm—and you were finally fulfilling it. Besides, you were besotted by the idea of creating something that was entirely yours. To form a child, nurture life, and one day watch it come to completion. It was an idyllic fantasy.
A fantasy that was soon ruined.
Being with child was no easy feat, but it seemed to take delight in tormenting you. Morning sickness ruled your dawns. You craved sweets and fruits, disdained the smell of meat, and always threw up whatever you'd consumed when you awoke.
Your feet swelled, and your back was a rickety wire that pulled taut when you stood for too long. You fell asleep in the most inconvenient of places (once at the dinner table with your husband's entire family); fog clouded your mind and hid your memories from you. As much as you tried to appear graceful, you were perpetually achy and exhausted.
It was not at all what you had imagined for yourself. Where you had expected to glow and be seen as a pillar of loveliness, you were left with the upsetting feeling of looking like a frumpy toad instead.
No one said anything. Your handmaidens remained polite, peers civil (at least to your face), and your husband treated you just as he had beforehand. Despite the lack of insults, you were well aware of what you looked like.
Just hold out until you go through the pains, you'd tell yourself, this babe will be worth it, and you will return to what you were.
The childbirth had come, and it was a tedious, painful process that damn near blinded you in agony. Still, your child's sobs had trilled like music, and you were filled with relief. Your babe was here, and you would be yourself again.
It should be known, you adored your babe, the toll on your anatomy aside. You did not know you could feel so much for someone so small, so fragile, yet you did. You took great comfort in caring for them instead of their nursemaids, enthralled by every new development that came with the passing weeks.
But as one, two, three moons passed, your figure did not return to normal.
You had never been outrageously comely. Nonetheless, you thought you had been much prettier than you were now. The weight from all the honey cakes, berries, and sherbets did not magically shed.
Silvery and mauve lines decorated your stomach and hips, and other wrinkles and scars refused to fade. Fat clung to your thighs, your breasts were heavier, and plumpness adhered to the apples of your cheeks in a way you could only perceive as mocking.
Seamstresses crafted you fitting dresses with flattering fabrics that failed to make you feel put-together. Ribbons in your hair and jewelry only made you feel as though you were playing dress up, and no matter how much you pleaded, your handmaidens refused to tighten your bodices how you wanted. One had done so just as you requested, once, and the bruises and discomfort that resulted from it made them reluctant to obey.
Still, no one dared voice what you were so keenly aware of. The prime example of this was your lord husband.
You couldn't quite tell if he was purposefully playing ignorant to your bodily transformation, or if he was trying to do you a service by staying silent. Whatever it was, he never spoke a word. In fact, he behaved as if nothing unfortunate had occurred to your figure.
He touched you the same. Or, he tried to touch you the same.
Sometimes, you pretended to be asleep when he saddled up behind you in your bed, mouth trailing over your jaw, and hand caressing the length of your waist. He would give up eventually and turn over onto his side of the bed. It was easiest to avoid it in that way.
In truth, you were terrified of how he'd react when he saw the aftermath fully without any clothes to shield you. It was his responsibility to lie with you, but you were too afraid to allow him to. It was a childish thing to do. You were aware of that, but you still could not find the courage to be bare before him.
Further, you were not harebrained enough to think he was attempting to bed you because he wanted to. That was a ridiculous thought, admittedly, because who in all of Westeros would want to bed you willingly now? It was his duty, nothing more, and you couldn't bear to watch him power through merely out of a sense of obligation.
Hence, you escaped his affections with convenient excuses.
You refused to bathe with him, dressed alone in your own apartments, and feigned tiredness when he attempted to set the mood within your bedchambers. He never forced you, but the dejection that was beginning to blossom across his face lately when he thought you weren't looking was filling you with guilt.
It was one of those nights, again, when you found he'd been waiting for you to be done with your bath (even though you had purposefully extended it in hopes he'd be slumbering when you returned). He was only in his breeches and a loose, open blouse, and you could tell what he was hoping for without him having to open his mouth. It caused weak butterflies to unfold their wings in your stomach before being squashed by your dread once more.
"Not tonight," you murmured in a light way you hope came off as apologetically casual, "I fear I'm too tired."
Your husband held your gaze. You tried not to feel saddened by the faint shift in his expression—the smallest glimpse of something too quick for you to name.
You moved toward the bed, running your hands over your damp hair as you went to sit down on your side of the mattress. Your shift provided the coverage you now absolutely needed, akin to a fish with water, as you kept your back to him. The silence was only interrupted by the popping of the hearth's flames.
You thought to settle under the covers when your husband spoke.
"Why don't you want to join me?"
You were well aware his choice of phrasing had a far more intimate meaning. You could not speak for a moment, hesitating before looking over your shoulder at him. The space between you—an extension of your arm away—felt like a canyon.
You could not think of anything more to say except, "Why would you want to?"
Baelor Breakspear
Baelor blinked at your query.
Your husband was fairly difficult to read. He had mastered the mask of respectful indifference long ago, wielding it as one of his most influential weapons to encourage looser lips and more serious loyalties to the Targaryen dynasty. Beyond the flutter of his lashes, his face conveyed nothing.
Not even his voice strayed from its steady cadence, "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean," you snapped back.
He wasn't a dimwitted man. If anything, Baelor was a frighteningly intelligent one, construing hidden slights and unspoken motives presented before him. He was observant and keen, as any good heir to the Iron Throne should be.
Nevertheless, for the first time in a long time, he looked completely perplexed. His brows minutely furrowed, eyes slowly trailing your face as if you were a piece of furniture he was trying to determine was crooked or not.
"I'm afraid I don't," Baelor settled on. It made a tiny bundle of frustration squirm along the width of your torso. He was so horribly good, you sometimes couldn't stand it.
"Don't play the fool, husband. Just—" you gestured down at yourself as if your hands were saying it's obvious, "Just look at me. I've changed so much."
His mismatched irises flickered faster over your face, down your clothed form, before returning to your face. A breath left him. It wasn't exactly a sigh, but it was low like one.
"You have," Baelor agreed, and something hot flashed across your nape. You didn't want him to lie to you, but for him to just outright admit you were correct without any sugarcoating threw you off balance.
He continued, voice soft as if to calm a hysterical foal, "But that's not a bad thing."
His hand reached out to take yours leisurely, as if you'd run out of the chambers entirely if he did anything wrong. There was ink still staining the crevices of his nailbeds. On the side of his right pointer finger, there was a fresh paper cut, inflamed at the edges.
Evidence remaining from his role and meetings as his father's Hand, certainly.
"You did something both taxing and rewarding," Baelor spoke, and he seemed to gain confidence when you didn't pull your hand away from his, "This body, the one you seem to believe I am now revolted by, carried our son. Protected him, nurtured him, and now… Valarr is here."
He squeezed the width of your palm once, then twice.
"I am nothing but appreciative of your efforts," Baelor stated, and leave it to him to make even vulnerable conversations sound like a treaty agreement.
"Appreciation does not equate to attraction," you remarked stubbornly.
"Perhaps not, but it can enhance it. You've borne my child. How could I view you as anything but desirable?" he countered. His hand trailed up your forearm, settling into your elbow as he leaned closer, the tip of his crooked nose dragging along the curve of your shoulder.
Your husband pressed a lingering kiss there, lips plush and stubble itching. It made a swelling heat crawl up your throat, a squash left out to rot in the summer heat. Bashfulness didn't begin to cover it. It was more like relief, fragile but persistent.
"Let me show you my admiration, dearest," Baelor persuaded into another kiss, amatory, "I'll clear your mind of these doubts thoroughly."
And he showed you his admiration extensively.
Maekar Targaryen
Maekar didn't say anything for a second.
Truthfully, he didn't have to. His stern features scrunched into an expression that came across as sour rather than concerned. The shape of his upper lip curled upwards, head tilting in that quick, barely noticeable way that told you all you needed to know.
"What?" he questioned.
"You heard me. Must you make me repeat myself?" You questioned right back.
"I will if I must."
Your husband could be crass. There was a reason his father did not call upon him when it came to delegations, greeting committees, or offering sympathy in the face of some house's tragedy. Matters of the heart were left in Prince Baelor's capable hands.
Turning back around, you wondered why you'd decided to expose your anxieties at all.
Maekar didn't take kindly to your lack of explanation. He shifted closer, looming right behind you on the mattress. You could practically feel his demanding glower slathering itself across your back, insistent and difficult.
"Tell me," he commanded when you didn't give him the explanation he was looking for, "If it's so bothersome that it leads you to avoid me like a snake from a mongoose, then tell me plainly."
"Can you not see? You are doing me no service by imitating the blind!" you hissed. Your head didn't turn all the way to meet his scowl, neck twisting just so you could see the broadness of his arm.
Your mouth pressed into a thin line as you looked back down to your lap. You adjusted your tone, attempting to ease away from the nervous outburst that threatened to leak from between your teeth.
"… I've changed so much from carrying Daeron. Even thinking of being bare before you perturbs me."
Embarrassment powdered the tips of your ears. To lay your worries out made you feel like you were under inspection—a squirming roach under examination. It didn't help that this was Maekar, a man with the emotional delicacy of a bear creeping toward hibernation, you were telling this to.
He continued to scowl as his voice hit your ears like a blunt flail, "That's ridiculous."
"Ridiculous?" You repeated. You couldn't decide if you should be offended or touched by the concept that he thought your insecurities were ridiculous to him.
"It's— you look fine," he settled on gruffly.
"Fine? What does that mean?"
"It means what it means, doesn't it?" Maekar grouched. At your slight wilt, a great huff left him.
His hands—pale, decorated with callouses, with silvery scars from his youth along the meat of his palm—came to lumberingly pet your hair. They pulled strands from your shoulder, exposing your neck and shoulder blades. His knuckles brushed over flesh, dry and hot.
"You know I'm not good with words," he confessed roughly, touch slow and cautious.
His hands left your tresses to trail over the softness of your stomach, strong arms embracing you from behind. It was a firm hold, limbs iron curved to fit your sides. His nose pushed along your jawline; you could've sworn he sniffed you and savored the scent.
"I say what I think, and you dispute it. If you disgusted me so, would I come to our bed? Would I try to fuck you at every opportunity?" he grumbled, and his blatantness made your cheeks flush like a rose, "You're vexing, do you know that? A vexing, fair woman who thinks a fussy pup changes anything."
His hand slid low between your thighs, his voice the closest you've ever heard it to begging, "Let me."
Heartened, you let him.
Dunk
Dunk's head tilted like a dog's would when perplexed.
He seemed wholly taken aback by your question, looking off to the side before his uncertain eyes slid back to you. His voice was thick in its bafflement, "Why would I not want to?"
His big, blue eyes seemed unsure. His posture hunched slightly more within himself, as if making himself smaller to appear less demanding or intimidating to you. His large hands rested between his thighs like a dove's feet.
Gods, he was so good to you. Even now, in the face of your refusal, he only looked at you with utmost care and devotion. It made despair seep into the nooks and crannies of your heavy, pumping heart.
"Can't you see?" you shrugged, hands fanning out in the recognizable gesture of what. The dim warmth of the hearth's fire dully lit up the rugged planes of your husband's face, overwhelming feeling.
In a way, you felt like a villain.
You had gone against your parents' wishes and the rules of noblewomen to marry Dunk. He was a knight with only a sword and horses to his name, and you were a well-bred lady of wealthy standing. Your romance was considered inappropriate at best, but you had loved him, and he in turn.
Thus, you'd forsaken your family and run away to be with him. You'd even gone as far as to marry him, dressed in a simple cotton gown with flowers as your accessories, where you could have worn silk and jewels if you'd married a man fitting of your station.
You were meant to be his stolen gem of a wife. Now, look at you: thick around the waist and splotchy along your cheekbones.
"I can see," Dunk said back so earnestly it nearly killed you, "I see you. I want to... y'know, be with you."
"Because I'm your wife?" you suggested wryly.
"Aye," he said. His voice was almost breathless at the force of his faithfulness. The length of his face was a near nectarine color, bright and pure. It was an invisible blow that drained all pessimism from your soul, a pulp being mashed between kind fingers.
How could someone be so noble? So tender despite his size?
A lull fell between you, but your eyes didn't move away from one another. One of his hands moved away from his thigh to come tug at the length of your shift, large fingers meek. The little touch felt like an hug.
"I love you. I love the babe you've given me. We don't have to do anything if you're uncomfortable, but I want to at least be able to lie next to you at night," your husband expressed. His words dragged, clumsily measured, but no less good-natured.
The back of his wide hand caressed your side. The flush on his face spread down to his chest. The last time that'd happened, it'd been the first time you showed him affection outside of closed doors. You'd had to stand on his toes to press your mouth to his and Dunk, sweet-hearted Dunk, always let you.
His voice was shy in that endearing way it could be when he couldn't find all the words he wanted to say, "You're the prettiest lady I'd ever seen. Still are."
His great form inched closer and closer to you like a sunflower breaking, bending, just to meet the grassy ground. His fingers curled into the material of your nightclothes as he carefully moved to press a kiss to your lips.
It made you miserably endeared, unable, and unwilling to refuse.
Lyonel Baratheon
Lyonel's response was immediate.
"Huh? What does that fucking mean?" His face was blanketed by confusion, brows furrowing together from where he peered over at you as if you'd suddenly begun speaking backwards.
You made a face, bothered, "Lyonel—"
"No. No! You're my wife," he continued on, trampling on your withdrawn nature, "Why else should I want to lie with you other than you are my comely wife?"
Comely. Comely. He spoke it so simply, so honestly, that it nearly made you burst into laughter or tears (which one would come first, you had no idea).
You did not expect Lyonel to comprehend your hardships.
To begin with, he was not a woman, and did not have to concern himself with the importance of appearances that you and every other highborn lady did. He was a lord, and a handsome one at that. His understanding was comparable to a pig's mastery of how hawks soared.
Secondly, he had enough confidence for the entirety of the Stormlands. It was a self-belief that could fill an ocean. In your entire time by his side, you could not think of a time he second-guessed himself or ran away from his fears.
It was another thing to wonder about your husband.
"I've just… I look so different because of Ormund. I love him, I do, but… I just don't look how I used to," you disclosed hesitantly.
"That's what you think?" Lyonel quickly argued. His hands fell on his knees, as if to steady him at the blow of your lunacy. His brows scrunched together as laughter coated his voice, spun like a web, humorless but present nonetheless.
"Wife, you are something else. A curiosity for all of Westeros to decipher."
"Why are you laughing?" You bit out, prickly at his half-formed chuckles in the face of your apprehension.
"Because you…" he tugged you down onto the mattress with him as he flopped backwards, sheets shifting under your forms. It was drizzling outside of Storm's End tower; you nearly thought he'd smell like rain when you were pulled to him.
So far, he just smelt like a man, touched by the faintest traces of sea salt. His teeth were stained by wine, "… are silly."
The moment he'd brought you close enough, Lyonel latched onto you like a leech. The hair of his beard dragged over your face as he hooked a leg around yours, essentially keeping you trapped.
"Silly? Husband!"
"You are. You are perfectly senseless if you believe I do not think you are beautiful," he raved dramatically. One of his weathered hands dragged down your face, thumb settling into the hollow of your throat.
"You gave me a son, an heir to the Baratheon line, and you have only grown more enticing since. Strong enough to bear me more children, don't you think?"
Your husband had always had a flair for theatrics. It came with his boisterous, lively, and vigorous temperament. You were typically content with turning a blind eye to it, letting it settle into your skull with little weight, rolling off of you like the raindrops hitting the windows of your bedchambers outside.
This, however, was packed with such ravenous sincerity that you couldn't help but trust in him.
"You're my wife, in nothing but a nightgown, and I'd very much like to present Ormund a sibling in nine moons' time," he leered cheekily, hand sliding up your plump thigh, "Do me the honor?"
What an honor it turned out to be.
Aerion Brightflame
Aerion's face contorted vaguely in the classic revolted expression he made when he thought someone or something was offensive or boring. It twisted like velvet on his pretty face, voice curdling like cream left out in the windowsill for days.
"Are you daft?"
You only shook your head at his reaction. It hardly fazed you, serving to emphasize your mortification rather than take away from it.
Aerion wasn't the most empathetic of creatures. He longed for blood and battle, reveling in a good challenge where he came out the victor. Many rumored in the darkness that he was cruel, vain, and a disgrace to good King Daeron's lineage.
Therefore, unsurprisingly, something as miserly as a woman's despair about her post-babe body didn't interest him. He'd rather recount Maegor the Cruel's life from beginning to end in intricate detail than delve into the realm of ladies' sorrows.
You muttered, "Aerion—"
Your husband didn't respond verbally. Instead, he wrangled you onto the med rather unceremoniously. It was like a man-sized dragon tumbling around with you, forcing you into the midst of its hoard without any wariness about your emotions.
His fingers—well-groomed with blunt nails and softness clinging to unworked skin—squeezed tightly at your cushioned hips. You went to protest, but the angle of his canines nipped at your chin, and you were aflame with diffidence.
Your voice was a squeak instead, "Husband, didn't you hear what I said?"
"I heard you," he acknowledged flippantly, "But I don't care."
He wasn't necessarily attempting anything carnal, not yet, but he seemed more focused on caressing you now than enacting his rights as a husband. He just kept biting at you. Small pokes of his fangs, loose holds of his teeth over your clothed form.
Admittedly, you had sometimes perceived Aerion as more animal than human. His tendencies could be primal, behavior territorial like a pestered mutt, and this was but another representation of it.
His pale aristocratic fingers dug into the fat of your thighs, and his teeth over the expanse of your stomach. Mouthing, applying pressure, yet never sinking in far enough to draw pinpricks of blood or tear the fabric of your nightgown.
"You're my wife. A princess of the realm by marriage. You carry the dragon's blood in your womb to fruition, and you let thoughts of weight fester?" he carped. The fabric of your skirt bunched up along his palms, riding up to the top of your hips.
The tip of his nose pushed into your belly, maw settling over where your son had been housed. That place of yours, where little Maegor with his terrible namesake had remained for nine turnings of the moon, was kept safe under sinew.
You were sure that if it could easily be removed at will, Aerion would consume the goriest bits. He'd swallow you whole if he could.
"Have I not spoiled you enough, wife? Do you stoop low enough for stimulation to slander yourself so?" your husband continued. His hands crept under your arse, voice lowering like the whistle of an arrow soaring through the air.
"I'll pry such insults out of you."
Pry, he did.
Daeron the Drunken
Daeron's lips curled into an undeveloped smirk, voice lightly mordant, "Of course."
A huff of something you could not place escaped from the depths of his chest. It was soft enough to possibly be exasperated, but sharp enough to also be worn. You couldn't pick which one, unaware of what was swimming around in your husband's head.
You were never aware of what Daeron was thinking.
His thoughts were haunted by his dreams. Dreams that manifested as incensed wraiths and howling spirits, haunting the walks of Summerhall, just around corners and underfoot. They were invisible to you, as they seemed to be with everyone, except for Daeron.
If he wasn't dreaming, he was slipping away through cracks unknown and returning hours (occasionally a day or two) later with wine on his tongue. His lips were stained red, and when he'd go to drunkenly steal a kiss, you'd taste the grapes and spices there.
He was not a consistently present husband. You knew this, and selfishly, you had hoped it would aid in the distance you tried to forge between you. It was a defensive wall, lacking any intent of attack.
Not unlike the weather of where the castle was situated in the Stormlands, Daeron could be full of surprises. This was one of those moments. He said nothing, but the bed dipped under his weight as he slunk his way to your side like a sluggish spider.
Sandy hair curled around his jaw, falling over his face in a limp curtain that tickled the side of your neck. He nestled his face against the crook between your throat and shoulder, nose burrowing into freshly-washed skin, still dewily warm from the bath. His hand grasped your arm loosely from where he melted into your side.
"I cannot blame you for not wanting to be bed by me, I suppose," Daeron whispered. His voice was pleasantly frayed, a low hum that resonated like an out-of-tune harp.
Your husband had the voice of a man perpetually facing trial. Even now, it lingered in the air like smoke.
"It's not that," you said in response.
His head stayed still against your shoulder, so still that you could presume him a statue if you saw fit to do so. What 'that' was, you couldn't pinpoint. It could be referring to his dreams, his drinking, or his recurring disappearances. Maybe it was referring to all three at once.
"It's me, and how... how my body is now. It's nauseating to think about being bare," you explained rigidly.
"Nauseating?" Daeron hummed.
One of his hands drifted down to your wrist, encircling it. It was a puny excuse for shackles. You could hardly deem it entrapping, a feeble chain in the form of his fingers.
"Nauseating is the riddles of unescapable dooms that occupy my mind, and my sleep. Nauseating is the word used for how I feel after drinking too much," your husband spoke, and it sounded distant, almost dreamlike, "Not a word suitable for you. Not in any way, I think."
His digits filled the crevices between your own like syrup slipping down a tree; the seam of his mouth parted to press a motion that you could only interpret as a kiss to the softness of your neck.
"I can think of much better words to describe you, if you're not too tired to listen."
It threw your intestines into a twist, wonderfully sick in a way that put the term nauseating to shame.
Valarr Targaryen
Valarr stared at you silently.
His face didn't morph into anything. It stayed frozen, stuck in that blankly serious expression when he was lost in thought or intently listening to someone speak. It was the expression you saw when a lord had managed to gain his audience and was relaying concerns not considered before.
Your husband had always managed to have a concentrated bearing. It was mournfully charming, the consistent clench of his muscles that flexed however his mood emboldened.
The air slid like frost covering a hill. It was awkward, warming your lungs over to the point you caught a chill.
Your hands fell into your lap as you proceeded to fidget as if nothing at all was amiss. You fluffed at your hair, pulled at the sleeves of your shift, and rubbed at the blue veins mapped within your inner wrists as if making sense of a map yellowed with age. An inkling of morbid intrigue sizzled against your sternum as the bed frame creaked, Valarr's weight lifting off of it.
His feet padded on the stone floor. The realization sank in your stomach like a rock in a lake, settling amongst cold sand and dimness clouded with algae.
You thought he was leaving. That was bad enough, but what was worse was that he didn't.
Valarr moved around the length of the bed to sit down by your side. The sheets crinkled, feathery mattress concaving under his thighs. He was close, so close that a waft of whatever herbal oil he'd smoothed over his recently shaven jaw drifted into your nostrils.
You glanced at him, but his head was lowered so that the fan of his lashes and the bridge of his nose were more prominent in your vision than the direct planes of his face.
His hand moved away from his lap. It swept over your thigh, his pinky coming to tactfully prod at yours. It was a noiseless inquiry. You knew what he was requesting, and tentatively, you allowed him to take hold of your hand.
Neither of you said anything for a while. Absentmindedly, you wondered if he could feel how clammy your palm was, how perspiring you were in his presence. With practiced sereness, he broke the floury snow that had begun to fall over the two of you.
"Give me a name."
Your eyes moved back to him, "What?"
"Give me the name of the person who has confused you, however that may be: insults, lies, or smarmy comments. A name, a title, a house is all that I require," Valarr promised. The elegant slither of his declaration nearly negated your attention from the total solemnity of how he conducted this conversation.
It was a threat. Prettily wrapped, yes, but the sworn danger to his nonexistent individual (who he believed to have clouded your self-judgement) created the urge to gape.
"There's no one," you uttered. His mismatched eyes met your gawk, pupils peeking out from dark lashes. The pad of his thumb rubbed a circle into the meat of your hand.
"Then I should like to correct you about these falsehoods," Valarr proclaimed mildly.
Your husband, as it turned out, could be far more punishing than you thought possible.
𓆹 AN: WOO finally reached the weekend! I started a three-hour-long night class and understand why the Waterloo engineering majors look the way they do. Holy shit.
You are my destiny! - Part I (Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
Summary: There is a custom that dates back to the Andals that says, "If you put a miniature version of the Maiden inside a large cake for the feast of the Maiden celebrations, the lady who finds it is destined to marry that same year and have a child the following year."
You are this year's lucky lady… You nearly lost a tooth as a result, but the court dismisses it as a joke by the Maiden.
You were one of only a few women in the Seven Kingdoms whose marriage was annulled due to infertility. Your husband annulled the marriage because you did not have children after nearly a decade of marriage.
Even though you were relieved to be free of your awful husband, you live a lonely life because no man wants to marry you.
You accept your fate until the feast of the Maiden, and you catch the eye of the Lord Hand.
Word Count: 3,519
Tags: Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Past Domestic Violence, Infertility, Pregnancy, Child Marriage, Period-Typical Sexism
Baelor’s mismatched eyes surveyed the ballroom.
Everything is going well… so far.
Today is the feast of the Maiden, and all the daughters of the great houses were brought to the Red Keep. The main purpose: to find suitable husbands. All the mothers of Westeros made sure their daughters wore the best gowns and best jewels coin could afford. They whispered among themselves about who has recently become widowed, who is looking for a bride, and who has the best land and titles.
Baelor wasn’t spared.
He doesn't have enough fingers on his hands to count how many Ladies approached them with their daughters and introduced them to him. The daughters would curtsy to him and speak to him with their sweetest voices. Some of them were as young as fifteen. Baelor politely went away from this conversation, feeling a little bit irritable with the attitude of some of these mothers.
He has been a widower for quite some time, and he has made no attempt to find himself a second wife. His mother probably wished he had a wife and, for her, more grandchildren. He has two healthy sons, one who is already married. His line is set, and there’s no need for a wife and more children.
“I can’t believe she’s actually here!” He heard one lady whisper, horrified.
“The nerve! She’s walking bad omen!”
“How could she do that to her own cousins?"
He looked over and saw who they were talking about.
A woman wearing a grey gown enters the ballroom with two young ladies behind her. Some courtiers stopped their conversation and openly gawked at her with curiosity, mockery, disdain and a bit of pity
“Ser Delaney.” He called for his steward. “Who is that Lady and why does her presence cause this much fuss?”
Ser Delaney tells Baelor the woman’s name and house.
“Her husband divorced her.” Ser Delaney whispered. “That’s why they’re staring at her like that.”
“Divorce?” Baelor asked, surprised. “On what grounds?”
"Barrenness, my Prince," His steward explained. “She had been wedded to Ser Helios for almost a decade, and her belly not once swelled. He got the same Septon that wedded them to annul the union. He got remarried a few months later.”
It’s almost impossible to get a marriage annulled. The only ways to get an annulment are impotence, non-consummation and barrenness. There must have been enough proof for a Septon to come to that decision.
Baelor looks at her as discreetly as he can. He watched as the lady and who he assumes to be her cousins sat down. The younger of the two girls is looking around at people staring at them with her head low and her shoulders tensed. The woman in grey gently tipped her cousin's head forward. They shared a look and then a smile. A silent conversation that was enough to ease the young girl’s discomfort.
Baelor smiled at that interaction; it reminded him of when he was younger and his mother would tell him to keep his chin up when the courtiers commented on his Dornish side.
A Lord comes inside with who Baelor assumes to be his daughter. The Lord looked at the Lady in grey, and he smirked mockingly in her direction. Some people take great pleasure in other people's misery.
“That’s the Lady’s former husband," Ser Delaney whispered.
Baelor hummed as he looked at her. The Lady in Grey didn’t pay attention to her former husband. She quietly sipped her wine and talked with the people at the table with a composed face.
“The young lady he just entered with is his new wife."
Baelor looked at his steward with a haughty look. He assumed she could be a younger family member. His steward shared the same expression as him.
...
“The Florent boy is looking at you," You teased.
Your cousin Muriel blushed. “No, he’s not!”
Your other cousin, Muriel’s sister, Mina, laughed. "Yes, he is!”
You smiled at their antics.
These Lords and Ladies expected you to lock yourself in your family’s keep and drown in your misery, but no. Just because you are no longer a wife doesn’t mean you are not a person. If you want to join a feast with your cousins, you will. Your former husband can flaunt his child bride all he wants; you will not cease to exist just because he made your vows void.
“He’s so handsome.” Muriel said dreamily.
“Then you should talk to the Florent boy.” You said.
“Not him!” Your cousin corrected. “The Hand.”
You and Mina stared at the high table where Prince Baelor was talking to the lord next to him. He looked handsome indeed.
“You think the song is true," Mina asked.
“What song?” You asked.
“You know…” Your cousin shrugged her shoulders. “The song.”
You glared at her through the corner of your eye. “You are not supposed to know that song.”
“I know, but it’s so catchy!” She groaned and mumbled under her breath. “Country was in peril; the Anvil was a rock. The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny—"
And as if he could hear from afar, Prince Baelor turned his head and looked directly at your table. You and your cousins turn away so quickly your necks made a snapping noise, and you three burst into laughter, not caring about the looks thrown your way.
The feast went on. Wine flowed and the music kept on. The Florent boy approached the table and asked Muriel for a dance, which the girl happily accepted with blushed cheeks. You and Mina stayed at the table talking and enjoying the cake when another Lord approached her and asked her for a dance; she too accepted and joined her sister on the dance floor.
You remained.
Part of you is happy that your reputation didn't disturb her cousins’ prospects, just like those other nobles whispered.
The other part of you feels empty.
No Lord as looked at you with anything but pity or like you were a walking disease. No Lord appraoched you and asked you for a dance. You don’t think that will ever happen.
You look at the table where your former husband and his new wife sat. He looked happy and he was surrounded by various people. How can he forsake his vows to you and still be surrounded with warmth while you are the one that has to be the pariah? Is it because you barely fought for your marriage like a good noble lady should? What was the point in fighting for something that was as barren as your womb?
“Cake, my lady?” A servant asked with a tray full of cakes.
You nodded, and the servant placed the plate on the table.
“Thank you.”
You grabbed your fork and started eating the cake. You moaned at the taste. It was a delicious cake with berries and a hint of vanilla. You eat the cake while keeping an eye on your cousins, making sure those boys didn't take any liberties with their hands. You take another bite, and suddenly pain suddenly floods your mouth. Blood floods your mouth immediately, and the metallic taste mixes horribly with the sweetness of the cake. You drop your fork and clasp your jaw as you groan in pain.
Conversations at the surrounding table stop.
You feel something hard in your mouth, and you think it’s your tooth. You forgot all the decorum and spit on your plate. Blood, pieces of cake and an object fall on the plate. You look at what you think is your tooth, but to your relief, it isn't. It was bigger than a tooth, and it was mint green instead of white.
“What a…” You mumbled.
“My lady, are you alright?” A kind male voice asked.
You look up, and to your horror, it was Prince Baelor, and you present yourself to the heir to the throne with blood caking your lips and teeth. Words were stuck in your throat.
Prince Baelor didn't care that you didn't answer him. He took out a handkerchief and handed it to you. You hesitantly accept it and press it to your mouth; you could smell wax and parchment.
Your cousins approached you and checked on you while Prince Baelor inspected the object that was on your mouth with the fork. His brows furrowed as he looked at it.
“What is that?” Muriel asked, grossed out.
“The Maiden, I believe.” The Prince answered.
You take a closer look at it, and he is correct. It was a small miniature of the maiden with her serene face and gentle smile. How did it end up on the cake?
“Bessie!” A servant cried out. “They found it!”
A woman in an apron covered in flour ran into the hall. That must be Bessie. She runs to your table, not caring about the blood in your mouth or the presence of the prince. She reaches the plate and picks up the miniature of the maiden that was covered in your blood and spit. Mina gags.
“Oh, my lady! You have been blessed.” She tells you with joy as she holds the figure of the maiden up in the air like a war trophy. "Congratulations!"
You let out an indignant noise. Blessed with what? A chipped tooth?
“The Lady is bleeding.” Prince Baelor said with a firm tone that sent shivers down your spine. He put his hand on your shoulder, and you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “She could’ve choked as well. A Lady as been harmed under my roof. Explain yourself or you and your fellow workers will find work elsewhere."
Bessie’s face became white. He didn't raise his voice, not once, but you could hear the promise in his tone.
“My Prince.” The cook cleared her throat. “At every feast of the Maiden, I put a miniature figure on our cake batter, and the maiden who finds it is destined to be wed by the end of the year and have a child within the next. It’s a tradition in my hometown, and it always comes true.”
There’s laughter behind you. It’s a cruel and cold laugh. You recognised that laughter; it’s your former husband’s. He laughed just like that when the Septon declared your union null and void.
You’ve been married for almost ten years, and red has always stained your sheets. When you were late for a few days, you held your breath and then let out a disappointed sigh. You drank tonics that midwives promised to boost fertility, but it only made you want to throw up. You laid on your back and gripped the sheets so hard that your hands cramped when various maesters put their cold hands and instruments between your legs. You held babies in your arms, and for a few minutes you pretended they were yours. You kneeled in front of the statue of the mother and prayed feverishly.
Humiliations flood your body, and you want to disappear.
“I meant no harm, m’lord!" Bessie said, thinking they were laughing at her. “The lady has been chosen by the Maiden!”
You couldn’t control yourself and sobbed into the Prince’s handkerchief.
A hand smashes against the table, rattling the cups and utensils and quieting down the laughter. You look up and see the Prince’s balled fist on the table. He looked at the table where your former husband was sitting with a ferocity that made you wonder if that is how a dragon is supposed to look.
“Ser Delaney, please escort the lady and her cousins to a washroom so that she can clean herself.”
He stared at you, and all of the harshness in his mismatched eyes evaporated, and his gaze softened as he held his hand towards you. You accepted his hand, and he helped you get up. You followed the steward out of the hall with your cousins by your side and eyes staring at you, but you only hoped that the Prince still had his on you.
...
Baelor let out a tired sigh as he walked to the washroom.
The feast has gone well if you ignore the cake accident.
If Baelor had a motive, he would ban Ser Helios from the keep. He can still feel the way her shoulder tensed under his hand when that man laughed cruelly at her, and the sound of her sob echoed in his ear. He’ll make sure the lady and her cousins are settled comfortably and under his care for the remainder of the festival.
He stands in front of the door but stops the guard from announcing his presence. He listened in to the conversation. He listened to the sound of water in the basin and the two young ladies talking to each other. If his old Septa saw him now, she would pull his ear until it turned red.
“That baker is foolish!” He heard one of her cousins say. “Who puts a choking hazard on a cake? What if you had choked instead of harming your mouth?”
“Well, Prince Baelor would’ve probably saved her!" The other cousin said. “Did you see the way he ran the moment she let out that painful screech? For a moment it looked like he was flying.”
Baelor smiled softly but shyly.
The reason why he was so quick to go to her side is because he was staring at her right until she spit out that miniature.
He didn’t mean to. His gaze just kept drifting to that table, and he couldn’t look away. She smiled beautifully, and when her gaze saddened, he just wanted to go to her and bring back that smile. When the cake was placed in front of her, his heart made a funny movement when her tongue poked out and licked the cream off the fork. Then it made another when she winced and let out a pained groan. He jumped off his chair when she leaned forward and spat out blood on the plate.
“And how would he save her? Shoving his fingers down her throat? It would’ve made it worse!”
“Probably!” She giggled. “Have you seen the size of his hands?”
Baelor unconsciously looked at his hands. They’re average for all he knows.
“They probably felt nice.” The cousin teased.
The Lady finally spoke. “By the Seven! He touched my shoulder, not my tit!”
The trio burst into laughter, and the guards at the door turned their heads away to avoid eye contact with the Prince. Baelor eavesdropped enough. With the tips of his ears red, he ordered the guard to announce his presence.
“Prince Baelor Targaryen, my ladies!” The guard announced.
The laughing stopped.
The door opens and he goes in. The three ladies go to the centre of the room and curtsy to him. The cousin, Mina, was biting her lip, trying to contain the laughter that was still stuck in her throat. The other cousin, Muriel, was looking down, begging the floor to swallow her. The Lady, the woman he came to see, was looking directly at him.
“My lady.” Baelor nodded at her. “If you need a Maester, I would be glad to send my personal maester to check on you.”
“You are too kind, my prince.” She said. “The wound has stopped bleeding, so there's no need to create such a fuss.”
"Nonsense." Baelor said quickly. He cleared his throat. “You are a guest, and your comfort is my priority.”
The Lady smiled and she wrung the handkerchief, his handkerchief, in her hands.
“If there’s anything you need… you can come to me.”
The two younger cousins share a look and have a silent conversation among themselves.
“Thank you, your grace.” She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. “Unfourtnulyey, there’s blood on the handkerchief you so kindly gave me. I’ll be sure it’s thoroughly cleaned before returning it to you.”
“Keep it.” Baelor said softly. “Will I still be seeing you at the feast again?”
The Lady smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my prince. I feel I had my fill of them.”
Baelor buried his disappointment. He understood why. There were a few Lords and Ladies whispering about the baker’s words and how the Gods make funny jests once in a while. He’s not much of a believer like his namesake, but he does wonder if the Maiden has plans for the Lady in front of him. Perhaps it’s just a silly superstition.
...
You stay up at night and stare at the handkerchief Prince Baelor gave to you. The bloodstains have faded thanks to the hard work of the laundress. Part of you, for an unknown reason, felt disappointed you couldn't smell that faint scent of musk and parchment.
You can still remember the way he looked at you. You wonder if he knows your story. If he did, you’ll never forget the way his gaze held no judgement whatsoever and looked like a true person.
The Prince told you to keep it, but as you traced the stitches that formed the dragon sigil, you decided you wanted to do more. At the first sign of light, you sat on the chair near the window and started to embroider. By noon you were done.
You walked through the halls searching for the familiar form of the Lord Hand. You found him in the gardens with his oldest son, Valarr. You smiled but you stopped yourself. Doubt starts to settle in like an uninvited guest.
Would he even accept your gift? He was just being kind to you, nothing else.
You look at the handkerchief in your hand. It’s not perfect now that you take a closer look at it when the sun is at its peak. You did it in such a hurry. The dragon you stitched was a bit crooked; the heads were different sizes, and it looked more like a gecko than a powerful dragon.
You bit your lips as anxiety flooded you. You should leave. You lift your head and your heart skips a beat when you see Prince Baelor staring at you. It starts to beat faster when he says something to Valarr and walks towards you.
You bow when he reaches you.
“My lady, is there anything I can help you with?" He asks gently.
You clear your throat. “I wished to thank you once more for the other day.”
He smiled. “As I told you before, your comfort is my priority."
“Even so, I wish to express my gratitude even more.” You presented him the handkerchief.
Prince Baelor barely looks at it and grabs your hand carefully. Your body shivers with the contact. “My lady, I told you there’s no need to return it…”
“I made it!” You stop him, and you curse yourself for speaking that way with him.
He blinked and looked at the hand holding yours, now noticing how different the piece of fabric on your hand is compared to the one he gave you. He grabs it and holds it carefully. His mismatched eyes analyse the stitches in front of him.
He looks up at you, and his gaze looks different. Relaxed, you could say. “Thank you, my lady.”
“It’s not perfect…” You try to say it.
“It does not matter.” He says softly. “And it being made by your bare hands makes it even more… special.”
You smiled shyly. “The dragon looks like an angry gecko.”
Prince Baelor laughed. “It does look a bit like one. Thank you, once again, my lady.”
You nodded. “You’re welcome, my prince.”
You bowed one more time and left.
Your whole body felt tingly.
...
She made it for him.
She created something with her own hands just for him. Not because she wanted favour with him but because she wanted to thank him and nothing else. Something inside Baelor warmed up.
He carefully traced the stitches. It was not perfect, but he did not care. This was his.
Baelor was so focused on the cloth that he did not hear Valarr call for him until he stood right next to him.
Baelor blinked and looked at his son. “Yes, son?”
“Are you alright?” His son asks.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve been calling for you for quite some time and you didn’t answer.”
"Apologies, I was..." He tried to find the words.
“Is that the lady you mentioned the other day at supper? The one whose tooth broke was almost broken by the maiden.”
“Yes, it was her.” He confirmed. “She just wished to thank me one more time.”
“She’s also the one whose marriage got…”
“Let us not speak of someone who is not here to speak for themselves, Valarr.” Baelor snapped, feeling the urge of protecting her even though he knows Valarr wouldn't say anything inflammatory towards her.
Valarr raised a brow but nodded his head. “Of course, father.”
They started walking.
“I do wish to add one thing.” Valarr said after a while. “Her ‘husband’ is quite a pathetic man if you ask me.”
Hii❤️❤️ Since reading your jealous Lyonel fic, I've been trying to come up with an idea where things are reversed. Like reader is jealous of all the attention he's getting post Ashford, from other ladies. Maybe they're only engaged at this point. She's very proud and happy he made it back in one piece but starts hearing whispers that now he'll be looking for a bride elsewhere, like he'll be having even more options or smth? And she tries her best to prove to him why she's the right choice, only to find out that his eyes never looked at anyone else🤌🏻 I hope it makes sense🤭💜
I Never Lie
Lyonel Baratheon x Florent!Reader
Summary: It has been a month since Lyonel survived the Trial of Seven at Ashford and you are happy that he survived. But since the trial Lyonel has found a new sort of fame and the women have come flocking. Which has started to make you jealous.
A/N: I love all the love that you give my sweetheart! And I appreciate it all! I hope you love this!!
Tags: small bit of angst, jealousy
Word Count: 2.1k
Storm’s End had never been quiet.
The sea crashed endlessly below the cliffs. The wind screamed through ancient stone corridors. Lords barked orders to their men, servants hurried through halls, and knights filled the yard from dawn till dusk.
But after the Ashford Tourney, it became unbearable. Every corner of the castle seemed to echo with one name.
“Lyonel.”
“The Laughing Storm.”
“The stag who survived the Trial.”
“The strongest knight in the realm.”
You sat rigidly at the high table while another group of visiting ladies dissolved into giggles below the dais.
“They say Ser Lyonel fought like the Warrior himself.”
“I heard he fought against the kingsguard and Prince Maekar.”
“They also say that he carried Ser Humfrey Hardyng from the field after the Trial.”
“No, no, it was Ser Humfrey Beesbury.”
“Does it matter who they both died.”
A hush followed that. Even now, weeks later, grief lingered over the realm like smoke after a battle.
Prince Baelor was dead and two good knights gone. The Trial of Seven had become the sort of tale singers would feast upon for generations. And at the center of it all stood Lyonel Baratheon. He was alive and victorious.
You tightened your fingers around your goblet.
The stormlords adored him now more than ever. Smallfolk shouted his name when he rode through villages. Knights sought his good graces. Young squires followed him around like ducklings.
And women—Gods the women. You watched one reach for his arm now as he laughed among a cluster of nobles below. Lady Ellyn Estermont. She was pretty and delicate with her golden hair. The sort of woman songs were written about.
Your stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Lyonel leaned down politely to hear something she said over the noise of the hall. He laughed again warm and booming and the entire cluster around him practically melted.
You looked away sharply.
“Careful,” your cousin muttered beside you.
You stiffened. “Of what?”
“Murdering half the hall with your eyes.”
You shot him a glare. Ser Addam Florent grinned into his wine. “You are glaring holes through that poor Estermont girl.”
“I am doing no such thing.”
“Aye.” He snorted softly. “And I am Aegon the Conqueror.”
You ignored him. Instead, you focused on cutting your supper far more violently than necessary. Addam watched you another moment before his amusement faded slightly.
“You know he has not looked twice at any of them.”
“That does not stop them from looking at him.”
Your cousin shrugged. “Can you blame them?”
Unfortunately, no, you could not. Lyonel was impossible not to look at. Especially after Ashford and especially after surviving the Trial of Seven. But the Trial had changed him somehow. Not physically. He remained broad shouldered, black and grey haired, and powerful as ever.
But now there was legend wrapped around him too. Be it danger or glory. Every maiden in the Seven Kingdoms suddenly dreamed of taming the Laughing Storm.
And you. You were merely the woman he had been promised to before he became extraordinary. The thought lodged like a thorn beneath your skin.
By the time supper ended, your mood had blackened entirely. You escaped the hall quickly before someone else stopped Lyonel to praise him once again. The sea wind hit your face hard the instant you stepped onto the battlements. It was cold and sharp, but it felt necessary to you.
You closed your eyes. This was foolish and you knew it was foolish. Lyonel had never once given you course to doubt him. Not once.
Yet the whispers had begun immediately upon their return from Ashford.
“Lord Lyonel could wed a princess now if he so chooses.”
“They say Lady Caron’s daughter is quite beautiful.”
“A Baratheon should marry higher than a Florent. They are all just a bunch of foxes anyways.”
“He survived a Trial of Seven. The realm will throw their daughters at his feet.”
You hated that those words had rooted themselves inside your mind.
The heavy doors behind you creaked open. You did not turn. You already knew who it was, his presence was enough.
“You vanished.”
Lyonel’s deep voice rolled over you like distant thunder. “I desired quiet ‘tis all.”
“You came to Storm’s End for quiet?” amusement colored his voice. “Then you were doomed from the start.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly.
You heard his boots against the stone as he approached. “You left before the could serve the lemon cakes.”
“A tragedy, surely.”
“The greatest this castle has faced all week.”
You finally glanced at him. Gods. That was part of the problem too. He looked so unfairly handsome tonight. His sheer black doublet clung close enough to show the absolute size of him. Fresh storm wind tangled his dark curls. A faint scar near his eyebrow remained from Ashford, half hidden beneath shadow.
Living proof, he had survived when others had not. Your chest tightened painfully. You remembered hearing the news of the Trial. Remembered the terror clawing through you while ravens flew across the realm carrying word of death after death.
Baelor dead. Humfrey dead. Another Humfrey dead. You had scarcely slept until he returned.
Lyonel studied your face carefully now. “What troubles you, my fox?”
“Nothing.”
“That is a lie.”
“It is not.”
“You Florents are dreadful liars. You would think you would be better at it with a fox as your sigil.”
You frowned. “And Baratheons are arrogant.”
“Aye.” He stepped beside you at the battlement edge. “But at least we admit it.”
The sea crashed violently below but the silence between you two stretched on. Then Lyonel sighed, “You have avoided me for three days.”
Your stomach twisted guiltily. “I have not. You are mistaken.”
“You fled supper tonight for one.”
“I merely wished for air. It was becoming to stifling in there.”
Lyonel nodded. “You scarcely look at me now.”
That struck harder than you expected because it was true. Looking at him lately hurt but not because you did not love him. Gods, perhaps that was precisely the issue. You loved him too much already and you were not even married yet. You loved him enough to fear losing him.
Lyonel leaned his arms against that stone wall beside you. “Did I do something at Ashford to warrant this?”
Immediately your head snapped toward him. “No! Not at all.”
“Then what?”
You looked away again. The wind whipped your hair across your face. “Everyone speaks of you differently now.”
He blinked once, “Differently?”
“You are a hero now.”
He barked out a startled laugh. “Hardly. I had to do what has always been asked of knights.”
“Yet you survived a Trial of Seven.”
“And yet I nearly got my head split open doing it.” He spoke.
“You stood beside princes.”
“And one is dead because of it and others as well.”
His voice quieted at that. Grief flickered across his features. He was remembering his friends, you knew, both Humfreys. The sight made your chest ache.
Lyonel looked back toward the sea. “Both Humfrey’s were good men.”
“I know they were.”
Silence again then softly— “You feared I would die as well.”
It wasn’t a question. You swallowed hard. “Yes. Of course I did.”
He looked at you then really looked. And all at once his expression gentled. “You should have just said that.”
“I am saying it now.” You replied.
“A month too late.”
You huffed quietly. Then your courage failed before you could stop yourself. “And now everyone in the realm wants you.”
The words escaped smaller than intended. All Lyonel could do was stare. Then he blinked and to your utter horror he laughed. It wasn’t a cruel or mocking laugh, but it was genuinely bewildered.
You stiffened immediately. “I fail to see the humor in what I just said.”
“Gods,” he muttered, rubbing one hand over his mouth. “That is what this is all about?”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “You need not sound so astonished.” You said.
“It is simple. You are jealous.” He said with a wicked grin on his face.
“I am not,” you sneered.
“But see that is the thing you are. You looked ready to throw Lady Estermoent into the sea at supper.”
You crossed your arms sharply. “Perhaps the sea would improve her. Her sigil is a turtle after all that’s where she should belong.”
That only made him laugh harder. Your embarrassment turned to irritation instantly. “I do not know why I bothered speaking at all if you are just going to laugh at me.”
You turned around to leave but a large hand caught your wrist gently. The touch of him stopped you cold.
“Wait.”
You refused to look at him holding your head high. Lyonel’s amusement faded slowly into something softer. “You truly think I would cast you aside now?’
You stayed staring stubbornly ahead, not giving him the satisfaction.
“There are prettier ladies than I. I know it true.”
“You are wrong.” He muttered.
“There are.”
“I have eyes.”
“And now every noblewoman in the realm suddenly wishes to marry you. I have eyes and ears as well, Lyonel.”
“A horrifying fate.” He joked.
You yanked lightly against his grip. “You make sport of me and I will not allow it.”
“The Others geld me. It is because you are being absurd.”
That stung. Your chin lifted sharply. “Forgive me for noticing your newfound admirers and you are just oblivious to it all. I wish I knew what that felt like.”
“Newfound?” He looked almost offended. “My sweet, women have admired me for years.”
Now this time you couldn’t help but glare at him. Lyonel grinned briefly before his expression relaxed once again.
“But I did not ask any of them to marry me, did I?”
Your breath caught. His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist. “Now if I remember I asked for your hand.”
Your heart faltered painfully. “You were promised to me before Ashford.” You replied.
“And yet I would choose you after it too.”
The winds whipped around both of you and Lyonel stepped closer to you as if the wind was guiding him to you.
“You think surviving the trial changed what I want?”
Quietly, you admitted. “Mayhaps.”
His brows furrowed. Then suddenly he lifted both rough hands to your face. His hands were warm and large, but careful. You froze completely. “Look at me my fox.”
Slowly, reluctantly, you did. And Gods the way he looked at you nearly unraveled every fear you held inside you. It made your knees weak and your heart stutter.
“I did not fight beside princes and fools and dying men only to come home wanting someone else.”
Your throat tightened.
Lyonel voice lowered. “When I was bleeding in the dirt at Ashford, do you know what I thought of?”
You could barely whisper your response. “What?”
“It was you.”
The answer shattered you and Lyonel’s hands on your face was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.
“I thought that if I survived,” he muttered, “I would return to Storm’s End and finally convince my stubborn Florent bride that I have only ever wanted her and make an honest Baratheon woman out of her.”
Emotions burned hot behind your eyes. His forehead rested lightly against yours. “You think too little of yourself.”
“You think too much of me.”
“Aye,” a small smile touched his lips. “That may be true, but you are mine from this day to the end of my days.”
You laughed shakily despite yourself. Lyonel’s hands remained gentle against your cheeks lightly caressing them.
“I do not want the prettiest woman at court.”
“No?”
“No.” His gaze swept over your face like something reverent. “I want the woman who looked at me returning from Ashford as though she already mourned me. Because that look told me everything I needed to know.”
The wind roared around you more but suddenly it no longer felt cold.
Lyonel smiled softly. “Besides,” he added, his voice lowering mischievously, “I happen to think my Florent bride is beautiful enough to start wars, and I would gladly start one for you.”
You rolled your eyes immediately even as heat rose to your face. “Liar.”
“A Baratheon never lies.” He stated.
“You said earlier Baratheons are arrogant.”
“We are both.” He said proudly.
Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a kiss against your forehead. It was tender and lingering. And in that moment, with the wind raging around you and the sea crashing below you finally understood.
Lyonel Baratheon had returned from Ashford with the admiration of half the realm. But his heart, his heart had come back to Storm’s End belonging and will only belong to you.
Summary: At a royal feast, a noblewoman slips away for air and crosses paths with a drunken prince who becomes fixated on her in a single night.
Part two is out!
CW'S: Rape/Non-Con, Forced Marriage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Abuse, Gaslighting, Obsessive Love, Victim Blaming, Psychological Horror, Marital Rape, Power Imbalance, Dark Fic.
WC: 7.8K
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a living beast of heat, noise, and light.
It roared with the voices of a thousand lords and ladies, the clatter of golden plates, and the soaring notes of minstrels hired to celebrate King Daeron the Second Targaryen’s seventy-second nameday. You sat with your family, the Lovelaces of the Reach, your house’s sigil—the checkered silver and blue—embroidered proudly on your father’s doublet. Your mother sat to your left, fanning herself languidly, and your younger brother was already in his cups, cheering at a juggler with his mouth full of roasted swan.
You had smiled until your cheeks ached. You had danced with a Hightower, politely declined a second dance with a young Rowan heir who stared at your neckline rather than your eyes, and received a very formal, very tedious compliment from a knight of House Webber about the "radiant dawn" of your hair. Your family was powerful, your father the Lord of the Uplands, and you, his eldest daughter, were a prize many in the Reach and beyond had already sought. You were pretty; you knew this. You were sweet; you tried to be. But being pretty and sweet at a royal feast meant being on display, and the weight of all those gazes had begun to press on your chest.
A bead of sweat traced a path down your spine beneath your silk gown, a lovely thing of pale blue that your mother had said brought out your complexion. The braziers were burning too high. The perfume of a hundred bodies was cloying. The King himself looked tired, you noticed, his crown slipping slightly on his wizened head, his splendid sons gathered around him. Somewhere in the recesses of the hall, you had spotted another prince earlier, lean and sandy-haired, slouched in his chair with a wine cup he was treating as a lifeline. He had not stayed long in your mind then, just a fleeting image.
Now, you needed air.
"I'm just going to find the privy," you whispered to your mother, a harmless lie. She nodded, distracted by a discussion of Myrish lace with Lady Flowers. You slipped from your seat, a small, graceful shadow in pale blue, and made your way along the edge of the tables, past the servants rushing with flagons, and out through one of the tall, arched doorways that led to the gardens.
The cool air hit you like a blessing. King's Landing stank of fish and smoke and humanity during the day, but up here in the royal gardens, the night breeze carried the scent of roses, lavender, and moonbloom. The sky was a deep, bruised purple, scattered with a diamond dust of stars. You walked a few steps down a gravel path, the crunch of your slippers the only sound, and let out a long, shaky breath. Here, away from the press of bodies and the demanding eyes, you could finally think. The darkness was soft, broken only by the distant torchlight bleeding from the hall windows and the silver glow of the moon. You wandered towards a marble bench nestled beneath a sprawling canopy of flowering jasmine, your heart rate finally beginning to slow.
That was when he ambushed you, though you would not have called it that at first.
The sound was sudden and graceless, a heavy stumble, a choked-off curse, the scrape of a boot on gravel. A man lurched out from a side path, a dark, flailing shape, and crashed directly into you. The impact was a shock of solid weight and the sharp, sweet reek of wine. You stumbled back with a gasp, but your hands flew out instinctively, grabbing his arms to steady him. Your fingers closed around the fabric of a very fine wool tunic. His hands, clumsy and hot, grasped your shoulders to right himself, his grip too tight for a moment before he seemed to get his feet under him.
"Oh!" The exclamation was startled out of you, your heart hammering against your ribs. For a terrifying second, you thought it was some drunken guardsman, a danger in the dark. But then the man straightened, and the moonlight fell upon his face.
It was a young face, handsome in a sharp, slightly dissolute way. The planes of his cheeks and jaw were clean-shaven, showing a faint, hungry gauntness. His hair was a shock of sandy blonde, falling in lank, uncombed waves to his neck, the color of pale honey in the silver light. But it was his eyes that seized your attention, they were violet. A bright, startling, lucid violet, and they were fixed on you with an unsettling intensity that seemed to cut through his obvious inebriation.
You recognized him then. The slouched prince in the hall with his wine cup. It was Daeron, Prince Maekar’s son, the one they called the Drunken.
"Your Grace," you breathed, releasing his arms as if you’d touched a hot brazier. You dipped into a curtsy, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm. "I am so sorry, I didn't see—"
"No," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp. He still hadn't let go of your shoulders. His thumbs pressed slightly into the bone, not painfully, but with a possessiveness that made you freeze. "No, the fault is mine. I am a clumsy fool. A drunk fool, as they all say." He chuckled, a hollow, mirthless sound. He finally released you, taking a half-step back that was still not quite far enough. He swayed on his feet, his eyes never leaving your face. "Are you hurt, my lady…?"
"Lovelace," you supplied, your voice a little steadier now. "Lady Y/N Lovelace. And no, I am well. Truly. Are… are you well, Your Grace?"
He stared at you. The question seemed to hang in the perfumed air between you. The distant music from the feast, a cheerful reel, felt absurdly out of place. The violet eyes flickered, something unreadable moving in their depths. A slow, crooked smile, surprisingly charming in its boyishness, spread across his lips. "Yes," he said, the word drawing out like a caress. "Very well. Better now, in fact. Much better, now that you're here."
A surprised chuckle escaped you. The line was so practiced, so brazen, yet delivered with such a strange, dreamlike sincerity that you couldn't help it. You felt a faint heat creep up your neck. He was flirting. A prince was flirting with you. It was ridiculous. He was obviously very, very drunk. "Your Grace s-seems to have found the Arbor vintage to his liking," you managed, aiming for a light, polite tease. You were shy, and your words came out a little softer than you intended.
"The Arbor gold is piss," he declared with sudden, startling vehemence. "It dulls nothing. Does nothing." He waved a hand as if dismissing the entire kingdom's wine stock, then staggered a step closer. His eyes roamed over your face, a slow, consuming survey from your brow to your lips. "But you… you are not nothing. You are exactly as you should be. You are just as I knew you would be."
Your smile faltered. A tiny, cold pinprick of unease touched your spine. "I… I do not understand, Your Grace. I don't believe we have ever met."
"We haven't," he agreed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. He lifted a hand, and for a heart stopping second, you thought he would touch your face. His fingers hovered near your cheek, trembling. "Not like this. Not with the day's sun on us. But I have seen you. Gods, I have seen you for moons now."
He said it with such a raw, ragged certainty that the pinprick of unease bloomed into a cold flower of dread. You took a small, instinctive step back. "What do you mean?"
He followed your retreat as if pulled by a string, closing the distance. The charmingly crooked smile was gone, replaced by a look of such intense, feverish focus that the beauty of his violet eyes became terrifying. They were no longer just bright; they were burning. He looked through you, past you, at some vision you couldn't see. "The dreams," he said, the word thick with dreadful meaning. "Every night, when I close my eyes, you are there. I am there. We are together."
He began to ramble, his voice rasping, his gaze taking on a delirious, unfocused shine. "I've seen us. I've seen your face, just like this, bathed in moonlight. I know the sound of your laugh before I've even truly heard it. I've seen you in my bed, your hair spread on my pillows. I've woken reaching for you, and you aren't there, and the emptiness is a pit I drown in. I've seen you in my arms, your belly great with my child, a son with your sweetness and my eyes. I was happy. You don't understand. You made me happy. The only peace I have ever known was you, in those visions. You are the only thing that quiets the dragon's roar in my skull."
He was speaking of a life you had not lived, a future you had not consented to, with the frantic, unshakeable faith of a zealot. The scent of wine on his breath was overwhelming, but it was the raw, desperate want in his eyes that stole the air from your lungs. The charming, clumsy drunk was gone. In his place was a man so completely unmoored from reality that he had built a world for the two of you, and he expected you to simply step into it.
Your mouth was dry. Your heart was no longer fluttering with shy amusement; it was a trapped, frantic bird beating against the cage of your ribs. "I… I apologize, Your Grace," you said, your voice a strained whisper. You couldn't manage the polite, courtly smile. Your face felt frozen. "I must… I must go. My family will be looking for me."
You turned, a sharp, desperate movement, your only thought escape. The gravel crunched beneath your slipper.
His hand shot out and clamped around your forearm.
It wasn't the clumsy, heavy grip of a stumbling drunk. It was iron. It was the coiled strength of a desperate man who had found his anchor and would not let it slip away into the dark. His fingers dug into the soft silk of your sleeve and the flesh beneath, a hard, unyielding circle of possession.
"Wait," he breathed, the word not a request but a command.
Before you could cry out, before you could twist away, he pulled. You stumbled back against him, your free hand flying up to brace against his chest, your palm flattening against the rapid, thundering beat of his heart. His other hand came up, his fingers plunging into the hair at the nape of your neck, tangling in the carefully arranged hair, tilting your face up towards his.
"Don't go," he murmured against your lips, his violet eyes swallowing the whole world. "Stay. You're finally here. Stay with me."
And then he was kissing you. It was not a gentle, questioning kiss from a would-be suitor. It was desperate, hungry, and punishing. His lips crushed against yours, tasting of sour wine and a terrifying, fervent longing. A scream had no time to form; it was punched from your lungs in a silent gasp as your back hit the cold, unforgiving gravel of the garden path. The jagged little stones bit into your palms, your spine, the bare skin of your shoulders where your gown had slipped. The scent of damp earth and crushed jasmine flooded your senses, but it was overpowered by him—the sour wine on his breath, the heat of his body as his weight settled on you, pinning you to the earth like a butterfly to a board.
He was on top of you. Prince Daeron. Your Prince Daeron, now, in the most horrible way imaginable. His lean body was deceptively heavy, pressing you down. He had thrown you in the ground. One of his hands was still tangled in your hair, now pulling painfully at the roots as your head was forced back against the gravel. The other hand was fumbling, clumsy but terrifyingly determined, at the bunched silk of your skirts, his fingers scrabbling at the fabric, hitching it up past your ankle, your calf. You could feel the cool night air on your stockinged leg and it was the most vulgar, violating sensation you had ever known.
"Please—" the word was a strangled, pathetic thing, torn from your throat. "Your Grace, stop, please—"
"Shhh," he hushed you, his mouth hovering over your throat, his voice a demented, gentle croon. "It's alright. It's meant to be. I've seen this. Just be still, my love. Let it happen. You want this. You came out here for me."
His words were a new kind of violence, twisting reality into his delusion. You didn't want this. You had come out here for air, for peace, and he was stealing both. Your free hand scrabbled uselessly at his tunic, pushing against the hard plane of his chest, but he was stronger than his drunkenness should have allowed, driven by a madman's conviction. The hand on your skirts found the bare skin of your thigh, and a sob of pure, primal terror wrenched itself from your chest.
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thigh, nails scraping like claws as he yanked the silk higher, exposing the lace edge of your undergarments. The night air bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body grinding against you, his hips thrusting forward in erratic, insistent bucks. You twisted beneath him, legs kicking futilely against the gravel that scraped your back raw through your bodice, but he pinned your thigh down with his knee, forcing your legs apart.
"Mine," he growled, the word slurred with wine and madness, his free hand releasing your hair only to claw at the ties of his breeches. The fabric rasped open, and you felt the hot, rigid length of his cock spring free, slapping against your inner thigh like a brand. It was thick, veined, pulsing with his delusion fueled arousal, the tip already slick with precum that smeared across your stocking as he rutted against you.
No, no, this couldn't—your mind screamed, but your body betrayed you with shudders of revulsion. He shoved your undergarments aside with brutal fingers, tearing the delicate fabric, and the blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, probing the dry, unwilling folds of your pussy. You clenched instinctively, trying to bar him out, but he laughed—a low, unhinged sound—and thrust forward, forcing the first inch inside you.
Pain lanced through you, sharp and tearing, as your body resisted the invasion. He was stretching you, splitting you open without mercy, his lean hips snapping harder to bury more of his cock into your tightness. "Feel that?" he panted against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. "You're so wet for me, my love. Taking me like you were made for it." Lies. You were dry, aching, every brutal push grinding against your inner walls like sandpaper, but he didn't care, didn't notice, lost in his fantasy.
He pulled back slightly, only to slam in deeper, his balls slapping against your ass with the force of it. You cried out, the sound muffled as his mouth crashed over yours, tongue forcing past your lips in a sloppy, dominating kiss that tasted of wine and violence. His hand returned to your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, where he bit down hard enough to draw blood, sucking at the wound while his cock pistoned in and out, claiming you with each vicious stroke.
Your hips bucked not in pleasure but in a desperate bid to throw him off, but it only drove him wilder. He groaned, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours, his free hand mauling your breast through the silk, pinching the nipple until you whimpered. Faster now, his thrusts turned frenzied, the gravel digging into your spine with every impact, his cock swelling inside you as he chased his release, raping you under the stars with the conviction of a lover.
Your flailing hand, the one not pinned against his heart, struck something hard and rough in the flowerbed beside you. A rock. A jagged, fist-sized piece of decorative stone edging, half-buried in the soft earth. Your fingers closed around it with a strength born of absolute desperation. You didn't think. You couldn't think. You just acted.
With a guttural cry, you swung your arm up and smashed the rock against the side of his head.
The impact was sickening. A wet, heavy thud that juddered up your arm. Daeron let out a sharp, surprised grunt, his whole body jerking. His grip on your hair loosened, his weight shifting just enough. For a single, frozen heartbeat, he stared down at you with those bright violet eyes, and they were wide with a shock that looked almost, impossibly, like betrayal. Then they rolled back in his head, and he slumped sideways, a dead weight.
You didn't wait. You shoved him the rest of the way off, scrambling back like a crab in the gravel, your skirts tearing, your breath coming in ragged, animal gasps. He lay there, a dark, crumpled shape among the jasmine, a thin trickle of blood now visible at his temple. He was not moving. You didn't stay to check if he was breathing. You turned and ran, the bloody rock still clenched in your white-knuckled fist, fleeing the moonlit garden and the monster it had harbored.
—
The Tower of the Hand was a place of order, logic and the stern wisdom of Prince Baelor Breakspear. But on this night, its stately solar had become a pit of chaos, and you were at its center, still in your torn gown, the dirt and tiny cuts on your hands a testament, a silent accusation.
You were huddled in a high backed chair, a shawl someone had draped over your shoulders. Your mother was beside you, her arm a rigid bar of protection around your trembling frame, her face a mask of cold, terrible fury. Your father stood like a thundercloud in the center of the room. Lord Lovelace was a powerful man unaccustomed to being ignored or insulted, and his anger now was a living thing, crackling in the air.
"He ruined her!" your father roared, his face nearly purple, jabbing a finger at the two princes standing before him. Prince Baelor, tall and dignified, his Dornish complexion giving him a darker, more weathered look than his kin, held up a calming hand. Beside him stood Prince Maekar, Daeron’s father, a man built like a castle wall with a face of chiseled, simmering resentment. "He attacked my daughter! My only daughter! He has ruined her honor, her future! Who will marry her now? Tell me! Who will have her after your drunken, lecherous son dragged her into the bushes and—" He could not finish the sentence, his voice breaking into a choked sound of pure paternal rage.
Prince Baelor, stepped forward, his expression deeply troubled. "Lord Lovelace, I understand your fury. It is a righteous fury. No one in this room is unmoved by what your daughter has suffered tonight. But let us all speak with level heads, so that we may find a path forward that doesn't lead to a greater chasm between our houses." He was a good man, you knew. Everyone said so. He was trying to be one now.
"A greater chasm?" your father spat. "Your Grace, the chasm is already here! It is wide enough to swallow my daughter's entire future!"
Then Maekar spoke, and his voice was a low rumble of cold stone. "My son's story differs from your daughter's."
The silence in the room became absolute. Your mother's arm tightened around you. You looked up, your eyes red-rimmed, and saw Prince Maekar's hard, purple gaze looking not at you, but past you, as if you were a piece of faulty evidence.
"What?" your father whispered, the word a deadly, drawn out blade.
"Daeron tells a different tale," Maekar continued, implacable. The muscles in his square jaw flexed. He was a proud man, and the shame of this, of being called to account for his least-favorite son, had curdled into a dangerous defensiveness. "He claims that your daughter was not an unwilling victim. He claims she was waiting for him in the gardens. That she pursued him, and the encounter was… wanted. He says he is the one who was, in a sense, set upon."
A sound escaped you, a ragged, disbelieving gasp. "That's a lie!" you cried, your voice cracking. "A foul lie! I was escaping the feast, I was alone, he attacked me! I had never spoken to him before!"
Maekar's cold eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, the room was a battlefield of truths. "A maiden's virtue is a precious, fragile thing. And a young woman with many suitors might grow... ambitious. To catch a prince." The insinuation was a slap, a shimmering, poisonous thing in the torchlight.
"How dare you," your mother hissed, her voice low and lethal. "How dare you, a prince of the realm, slander my child in the same breath you defend her attacker."
Baelor raised both hands now, a sharp gesture for silence. "Enough. This is unseemly." He looked at Maekar, a deep, unreadable communication passing between the brothers. Baelor’s expression was one of profound disappointment, not just in his nephew, but in his brother’s stubborn rage. He was Hand of the King, and he had to weigh the good of the realm. A war of words between the Crown and a powerful house like the Lovelaces was a wound that could fester. "Where is Daeron? Bring him in."
The door opened, and a pair of household guards escorted him inside. You flinched violently, your body trying to curl into itself. He walked in under his own power, a stark contrast to your shattered composure. A small, neat bandage was on his temple, the white linen stark against his sandy blonde hair, now pushed back from his face, his eyes found you instantly. And in them, you did not see remorse or shame. You saw a dark, quiet, glittering calculation. Then, just as quickly, it was veiled by a mask of pained, honest confusion.
"Uncle. Father." His voice was quiet, a little hoarse, tinged with what sounded like genuine distress. He looked at your father, a deep, sorrowful bow of his head. "Lord Lovelace. There has been a terrible misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding!" your father erupted. "You animal—"
"My lord, please, hear me," Daeron said, turning his hands up in a gesture of supplication. He did not look at you. "I understand your fury. I appear before you as a villain. I am drunk, I am wounded, and a maiden is weeping. The story paints itself, does it not? But I beg you, look deeper." He touched the bandage at his temple, a wince of pain crossing his face. It was masterfully done. "Lady Y/N and I… we met in the gardens. It was not by chance. There were looks between us in the hall. You can understand. She is…" He finally looked at you, and his voice softened to a heartbreaking, honeyed tone. "She is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld. She confessed a desire to escape the feast, to find some air. She invited me to follow."
"No…" you whispered, shaking your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. "No, stop…"
"We talked. She was kind. So sweet. I was already in my cups, I admit this. Her sweetness felt like a balm." He was crafting his narrative, weaving a net of soft words. "There were… intimacies. Kind words. Promises. I believed her affections were true, she kissed me and pulled me onto the ground. And then, she grew... skittish, she heard some steps near us, she tried to leave, and I, a fool blinded by affection, tried to hold her, to calm her, and in her panic, she struck me." He gestured to the bandage again. "I do not blame her. The fault is mine, for I pushed my suit too fast, too ardently. I drank too much and frightened her. But I swear to you, by the old gods and the new, the affections were mutual before my clumsiness turned a tender moment into a terrifying one for her."
It was a masterpiece of lying. He painted himself as guilty only of too much love and too much wine, not of assault. And the worst part was, he could not be fully disproven. The story now had two versions, both with the same ending, you on the ground, him hit, you running. But his version made you a willing participant who panicked. His version made you a liar.
"He pursued me!" you screamed, your fragile composure shattering entirely. "He told me he had dreamed of me! He said he'd seen me in his bed, holding his child! He's a madman! He forced himself on me!"
Daeron flinched, a perfect portrait of wounded honor. "I may have spoken of dreams," he murmured, as if confessing a deep folly. "I am a Targaryen. We dream. I had a dream of a beautiful girl who would be my peace. And when I saw her, I was fool enough to speak of it. To hope, too soon. It is my curse. I did not mean to frighten her. I am not mad. I am only… in love."
The word hung in the air. In love. He was twisting the knife, claiming a sacred emotion as the root of his violence. Maekar’s grim face settled into a hard, believing mask. "You see?" Maekar said to the room. "A foolish, drunken attempt at courtship. Grossly mishandled, yes, and Daeron will answer to me for it. But not the brutal assault the girl describes."
"Your Grace, my daughter's gown was torn, her body bruised!, Her thighs are still darkened by blood!" your mother shot back, her voice shaking with rage.
"My son did not deny that he fucked her, but she was willing, your daughter should go bathe and pray," Maekar countered, willfully blind, desperate to protect his son's name, perhaps even believing the story because it was easier than the monstrous truth.
The arguing exploded again, a cacophony of raised voices. Your father's booming accusations. Maekar's cold defenses. Your mother's sharp, tearful interjections. And through it all, Baelor Breakspear stood with his hand over his mouth, his shrewd eyes moving between you and his nephew. You could see the war behind his brow. He didn't believe Daeron. A man that wise could see the cracks. But your word against a prince's? A public trial would tear the court apart, and what would it achieve for you? Your honor would be bandied about for the realm to gawk at. The Lovelace power was vast, but even they could not unmake a prince without shattering the fragile peace of the realm. He was weighing your life, your pain, on the scales of the kingdom.
Finally, into the loudest surge of the argument—your father bellowing, "I want his head! I want him sent to the Wall!"—Daeron himself spoke again. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise with surgical precision.
"I will marry her."
Silence.
Everyone stopped. You stared at him, your face draining of all blood. The horror of his statement was absolute. It was not a proposal. It was a sentence.
"Never," you breathed. "I will never."
Daeron turned to your father, and his face was a perfectly composed mask of duty and gentle remorse. "Lord Lovelace, we are at an impasse. You believe your daughter. I, knowing my own heart, must believe my own version of a night that went so terribly wrong. But whatever you believe, this is the truth: her honor is gone. This is my doing. And I am a prince of the blood. I am prepared to do the honorable thing. To restore what was… compromised. Let me make her a princess. Let me give her my name, my protection, everything I have. It is the only remedy that leaves no stain on anyone."
"He is a monster," you choked, turning to your father, clutching his arm. "Father, please. Don't make me. He tried to—he will do worse. I beg you."
Your father looked at you. He looked at Daeron. He looked at Prince Maekar, whose face was a thundercloud of resentment at the very thought of his son marrying into a family that had so publicly shamed him, but who also saw no other way to silence the scandal. He looked at Baelor Breakspear, who gave the smallest, most imperceptible of nods. It was the nod of a surgeon who must amputate a limb to save the body.
"It would… silence the scandal," your father said, the words dragged out of him, every syllable tasting like ash. He was looking at the political reality. A marriage. A royal match. It was, in the cold logic of Westeros, a victory snatched from disaster. His daughter, a Princess. But his eyes, when they met yours, were hollow with a grief he couldn't speak aloud. He was choosing the world's definition of honor over yours.
"Then it is decided," Maekar declared, his voice a hammer on an anvil, sealing your fate. He wouldn't look at you. He was drowning his own shame in a sea of cold formality.
"No!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat. "No, you cannot do this! He is a liar! Listen to me!"
But no one was listening anymore. Your mother was weeping silently. Baelor was staring at the floor, a good man who had just sanctioned a quiet atrocity. And Prince Daeron—your future husband—finally let his gaze settle fully on you. The mask of gentle remorse was still perfectly in place for the rest of the room, but behind the veil of his bright violet eyes, a spark ignited. A small, private, victorious flame. A flicker of triumph so pure and so dark it stole the very air from your lungs. He had lied. He had manipulated them all. And now, he had you.
Just as he had always dreamed.
—
The Stranger himself must have presided over your wedding, for no other god would claim such a union.
A moon had passed since that night in the Tower of the Hand. A moon of being a prisoner in your own life. Your father had not met your eyes since the decision was made. Your mother had held you as you sobbed, whispering that it would not be so bad, that many brides were frightened, that a prince was a great match. She did not believe her own words, you could hear the hollowness in them.
The wedding itself had been a lavish affair, the Great Hall of the Red Keep transformed into a garden of roses and lilies, the tables groaning under the weight of seventy-seven courses. The King had rallied enough strength to attend, a wizened, smiling specter who seemed to think this was a love match, a charming story of a prince smitten with a Reach beauty.
You had sat through the feast like a carved doll, your wedding gown a magnificent prison of ivory silk and Myrish lace, seed pearls sewn into the bodice in the pattern of your house sigil, a final, bittersweet tribute to the family you were leaving behind. Your face was a mask of serene beauty, because you had been trained since birth to wear such masks. But beneath the table, your hands were clenched so tightly in your lap that your nails drew blood from your palms. You barely ate. You did not dance. You did not speak unless spoken to.
And Daeron? Daeron was elated.
He had not touched a drop of wine the entire evening. He wanted to be present for this, he had whispered to you during the ceremony, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in to kiss your cheek after the septon's blessing. "I want to remember every instant of this night." It had sounded like a threat. Throughout the feast, he was the perfect bridegroom, attentive, smiling, charming your parents until even your father's frozen anger began to thaw into a bewildered sort of acceptance. He made jests with his uncles, accepted the congratulations of lords and ladies with humble bows of his head, and looked at you with such open, adoring devotion that several older ladies were heard to remark what a shame it was that the poor boy had been so misunderstood his whole life. Look how love had transformed him.
It was the court that was drunk, you realized. Drunk on the romance of it. Drunk on the pageantry. Only you could see the truth behind his violet eyes. Only you could see the hunger.
And now, the feast was over. The well-wishers had finally retreated. The bawdy jests of the bedding ceremony had been mercifully waived, Prince Baelor's doing, a small kindness that had done nothing to ease the dread coiling in your stomach. You were alone with your husband in the marriage chamber, a vast, opulent room in Maegor's Holdfast, dominated by a monstrous bed with posts carved into the shapes of coiling dragons. Candles flickered on every surface, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of incense, the cloying sweetness of roses. It was meant to be romantic. It felt like a tomb.
You stood in the center of the room, still in your wedding gown, your back to him. You could hear his footsteps on the carpet behind you, slow and deliberate. The predator who had already caught his prey and was savoring the moment before the kill.
"My wife," Daeron said softly, and the word was a caress that made your skin crawl. "My lovely, lovely wife. Do you know how long I have waited for this moment?"
You said nothing. Your throat was too tight, your tongue too heavy. You stared at the dragon carvings on the bedpost, tracing their snarling mouths with your eyes, trying to will yourself away from your own body.
His fingers touched your shoulder, and you flinched. He chuckled, a low, intimate sound. "Still so shy. It's endearing. But you need not be shy with me. Not anymore. We are one flesh now, in the eyes of gods and men." His hands moved to the laces at the back of your gown, and you felt the delicate pull as he began to work them loose, one by one. His fingers were steady, practiced. The silk loosened across your shoulder blades, and a whisper of cool air kissed your skin. "I have imagined this so many times. Undressing you. Unveiling you. I would lie awake at night, in this very bed, and picture it. The candlelight making your skin glow. The scent of your hair. The little sounds you would make."
He loosened another lace, and the gown sagged, the weight of it shifting. You clutched the bodice to your chest with both hands, a reflexive, futile gesture of modesty. He didn't seem to mind. He simply moved his hands to your hair, beginning to remove the pearl-tipped pins that held your elaborate coiffure in place. Each pin that fell was a tiny, metallic death knell.
"Do you know," he continued, his voice taking on a dreamy, confessional quality that you remembered with sickening clarity from the gardens, "do you know how many whores I have fucked in this bed?"
The word was a slap. Crude, deliberate, shattering the illusion of the gentle bridegroom. You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat.
"More than I can count," he answered himself, his fingers still working through your hair, freeing the locks so they tumbled down your back in soft waves. "My father sent me to the Street of Silk when I was five and ten, hoping it would make a man of me. Hoping it would cure me of my… peculiarities. My dreams,the measter told him it would make me grow out of them, that i simply had the mind of a child." A soft, humorless laugh. "It didn't work. But I learned other things. I learned the shape of a woman's body. The sounds they make when you please them. The sounds they make when you hurt them. I learned all of it."
He pulled the last pin free, and your hair cascaded fully down, a curtain of silk that he immediately gathered in his hands, lifting it to press his face into it, inhaling deeply.
"But here is the thing, my sweet," he murmured into your hair, his voice muffled, reverent. "Every single one of them… I chose because they looked like you."
The horror of it crawled up your spine like a spider. Your eyes were wide, fixed on the wall, but you could see it in your mind's eye years of him, a boy, then a man, haunting the brothels of King's Landing, picking through the girls like a merchant selecting wares. Searching for something. A shade of hair. A curve of a jaw. A pair of eyes that might, in the right light, look like yours. Before he had ever met you.
"Some had your hair," he went on, his hands dropping your hair and moving to the loosened gown, tugging it gently downwards. You resisted, your knuckles white on the bodice, but he was patient. He didn't force it. Not yet. He just talked. "or something close to it. A girl once, whose hair was almost perfect. I paid triple her price just to watch her let it down. But her eyes were wrong." The word was laced with contempt. "Others had your face, or something like it. Sweet. Innocent. I would make them pretend to be shy. Most whores can play a role if you pay them enough. But it was never right. It was never you."
He stepped around you, moving into your line of sight. You kept your eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to look at him, but he stepped directly into your gaze, forcing you to see him. His violet eyes were luminous in the candlelight, his face handsome and terrible, he looked like a young god, and a devil, all at once.
"I kept hoping I would find you one day," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper of raw, terrifying sincerity. "I would walk through the streets of this city, searching every face in every crowd. I would visit every brothel, every tavern, every corner of the realm in my dreams. I knew you were out there. I knew it. The dreams showed me your face, night after night. Your eyes. Your smile. Your mouth. A face like a promise. And every whore I took to my bed was just a prayer. A prayer that the next one would be you."
He reached up and gently, so gently, pulled your hands away from the bodice of your gown. You were frozen, paralyzed by the grotesque intimacy of his confession. The gown fell, a whisper of silk pooling around your feet, leaving you in your thin linen shift. The candlelight traced the curve of your shoulders, the line of your collarbone, the rapid, panicked flutter of your pulse at your throat. He looked at you as if you were the Maiden herself descended.
"And then you came," he breathed. "At my grandfather's nameday feast. I saw you across the hall, and I knew. I knew immediately. The dreams had not lied. You were real. You were finally, finally real." His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your eye. You flinched, but didn't pull away. Where would you go? "I watched you all through the feast. The way you smiled at that fool Hightower. The way you toyed with your wine glass. The way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Every gesture was a revelation. Every movement was exactly as I had seen it. And then you walked into the gardens, and I knew... I knew that was the moment. The moment the gods had ordained. The moment you would finally be mine."
"It was an ambush," you whispered, your voice cracked and raw, the first words you had spoken to him since the ceremony. "You followed me. You attacked me."
His smile was beatific, utterly untroubled by your accusation. "I call it fate. You call it what you will. The result is the same. You are here. You are my wife. And tonight…" His hand moved from your cheek, tracing down the column of your throat, over your collarbone, to the thin strap of your shift. He hooked a finger beneath it. "Tonight, you will be mine in every way. And so it begins."
He pulled the strap down over your shoulder, baring more skin. His eyes never left yours.
"The life I have dreamed for us," he murmured, leaning in, his lips hovering just above your own. "The children. The happiness. You will learn to love it. You will learn to love me. I have waited too long and sacrificed too much for any other outcome. You are my dream made flesh. And I am going to worship you… whether you want me to or not."
His lips crashed against yours, demanding and unyielding, his tongue forcing its way past your tightly pressed mouth. You twisted your head away, but his hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devoured you, tasting of wine and possession. The kiss was a conquest, his teeth nipping at your lower lip until you gasped, giving him the opening to plunge deeper.
You shoved at his chest, your nails scraping against the fine silk of his tunic, but he only laughed softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. With effortless strength, he scooped you up, your body light as a feather in his arms, and carried you to the massive bed. The dragon carved posts loomed like silent witnesses as he tossed you onto the feather mattress, the sheets cool against your heated skin.
The other strap of your shift followed the first, yanked down roughly, exposing your breasts to the flickering candlelight. Daeron's violet eyes darkened with hunger as he loomed over you, shrugging off his tunic to reveal a lean, muscled torso he climbed onto the bed, his weight pinning you down, knees straddling your hips.
"No," you whispered, but it came out as a plea, your hands pushing futilely at his shoulders. He captured your wrists in one large hand, stretching them above your head and anchoring them there with iron grip.
"Yes," he countered, his free hand roaming down your body, palming your breast and squeezing until you arched involuntarily. His thumb circled your nipple, teasing it to a hard peak, and he lowered his head to take it into his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking relentlessly, sending unwelcome sparks of pleasure shooting through you. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, hating how your body betrayed you under his skilled touch.
He released your nipple with a wet pop, trailing kisses and bites down your stomach, his beard scraping your skin. Hooking his fingers into the hem of your shift, he dragged the thin fabric up and over your head, leaving you utterly bare beneath him. The cool air pebbled your skin, but his gaze burned hotter than any flame.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "So perfect. My wife. My everything." His hand slid between your thighs, parting them despite your clamped legs. Fingers brushed your folds, finding you already slick—traitorous arousal from the unwanted stimulation. He smirked, dipping a finger inside you, curling it to stroke that sensitive spot deep within.
You gasped, hips bucking against your will as he added a second finger, pumping slowly, deliberately. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in firm circles that made your vision blur. "Feel that?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Your body knows what it wants, even if you fight it. Let me make you feel good. Let me show you the pleasure we've both been denied."
Tears pricked your eyes, but the building heat coiled tighter in your core, his fingers thrusting faster, scissoring to stretch you. He watched your face intently, adjusting his rhythm to chase every hitch in your breath, every tremble. When you clenched around him, he groaned in approval, free hand releasing your wrists to grip your hip, holding you steady as he worked you toward the edge.
"Come for me," he commanded, his mouth claiming yours again, swallowing your cries as the orgasm ripped through you. Your back bowed, thighs quivering, waves of unwanted ecstasy crashing over you. He didn't stop, drawing it out until you sagged, spent and shaking.
But he wasn't done. Shedding his breeches, his cock sprang free—thick and hard, the tip glistening. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head along your soaked pussy, coating himself in your release. "This is just the beginning," he said, eyes locked on yours. "You'll crave this. Crave me."
With one brutal thrust, he buried himself inside you, stretching you wide. You cried out, the fullness overwhelming, but he held still, letting you adjust, his hand returning to your clit to rub soothing circles. Slowly, he began to move, pulling out and slamming back in, each stroke angled to hit that spot again. His pace built, hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking under the force.
He fucked you relentlessly, one hand bracing beside your head, the other teasing your breasts, pinching nipples, tracing your curves. Pleasure built anew, forced from your body by his expert touch, his cock dragging along your walls with every deep plunge. You hated the moans spilling from your lips, the way your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him deeper.
"That's it," he panted, sweat beading on his brow. "Take me. Feel how good we are together." His thrusts grew erratic, but he held back, grinding against your clit with each hilt, pushing you toward another peak. When you shattered again, clenching around him like a vice, he followed with a guttural roar, flooding you with hot cum, his body shuddering above yours.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his cock still twitching inside. "See?" he whispered, kissing your temple. "You liked it. And you'll like it more tomorrow. My dream… our dream."
The candles guttered low, the dragons silent, as exhaustion claimed you, trapped in his embrace, your body humming with aftershocks you couldn't deny.
tags: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, dark romance, yandere!aerion, perv!aerion,therapist/patient relationship, modern au, kidnapping, captivity, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, psychological manipulation, savior complex, emotional dependency, eventual smut, masturbation (m) dubcon/noncon (eventual), rough sex (eventual)
summary:
He looked at her like something precious.
The chains on the floor suggested otherwise.
You felt the whisper of the blow as you fought to open your eyes.
Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy and even when you managed to hold them up for a few seconds you were still surrounded by complete and total darkness.
Something trickled down the side of your head. Slow and thick - blood. As you moved your hand up to check the wound, it whipped back to the edge of the bed. The chain you'd been oblivious to until that very moment burned its imprint into your wrist as you fought against it.
You tried to move your other hand. Then your legs. The chains wouldn't give.
You struggled against the bed with every ounce of strength you had left, crying for help with every failed flail. The tears poured out of you like an endless river, the confusion twisting your insides into a pit of utter despair.
Where are you? What happened? Where's Aerion?
The memories began poisoning your mind before you could stop them: his frame looming over you, the half-finished tea resting on the counter, the guilt in his eyes, the plate crashing onto your head.
No.
No, no, no.
Aerion wouldn't have done this, he couldn't have. He was better now, you'd seen it unfold right before your very eyes. As you lost yourself in your own denial, the sound of footsteps approaching pierced your ears.
You trembled, your entire body shivering with every steady clank of the shoe on the wooden floor. As the footsteps grew louder and louder finally reaching just outside the room, you curled yourself into a ball on the front of the bed.
"Are you awake now, darling?"
Aerion.
You knew just from his voice. The voice that clouded every memory from the last few months. The voice you'd go to work smiling every week to hear. The voice of your favorite patient.
With the clink of a light switch, he was before you. Dots of blood were scattered around his white t-shirt and stuck between his fingernails. He had cargo pants on, probably what he wore to go fishing. You could still see the swampy mud stuck on his boots.
Your eyes trailed up to his face and you trembled at how much the man before you seemed like an old friend and a complete stranger all at the same time.
Before you could contain it, the sick mixture of familiarity and isolation made your blood boil and your heart beat with a fear you'd never thought possible. You banged your head backwards as your limbs pushed on the chains with as much force as you could muster. You let out a sharp cry with every movement, the pain overtaken by your determination to escape. Somehow. Even though it was impossible.
"Shhhhh."
Aerion pouted as he walked towards you with extreme care. He took your shoulders into his hands, steadying you, and planted a whisper of a kiss onto your lips, his own just barely grazing the corner of your mouth with a softness that twisted your insides.
He took your head in his hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tears that lingered. He tilted you to the side, surveying your wound as he let out a deep sigh.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, you know I didn't. I just - wanted to be with you."
You scampered further away him on the bed quietly, unable to bring yourself to words. The betrayal - or the misunderstanding - whatever this was, it was beyond you.
"I love you so much, I just - I couldn't control myself. The thought of a future, a life without you. It drove me ... mad."
He looked down, shame painted on every delicate feature. Even now, chained, bloodied, and bruised, you couldn't help but pity him.
"Aerion. Please."
You searched for his eyes, forcing him to look at you as you pleaded, begged for him to let you go without words. You wouldn't risk saying it out loud this time. Not after witnessing this reaction.
A single tear poured out of the pool of his violet iris.
"Let me fix it. I can fix it."
He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a key. You let out a sigh of relief, the fear spilling out of you as your shoulders relaxed. He unlocked the first chain freeing your right hand. You flexed your fingers and observed the cuts you'd given yourself elegantly traced around your arm in a curly imprint of red. He then freed your other arm and your legs. After unlocking the final shackle on your ankle, he traced his tongue across the blood you'd left and trailed up to the hem of your sleep shirt.
He didn't look human, licking the blood off his lips to savor every part of you he could consume.
A moment of silence passed, the two of you staring at each other desperately trying to find any sign of what the other was thinking.
You made the first move trying your hardest to stand, but the dizziness from the head wound made your knees give out in a flash. Before you even hit the bed, Aerion's body was pressed to yours holding you in his arms.
"See? You need me just as much as I need you."
He lifted you into his arms carrying you bridal style out of the room he held you in.
With the lights on now, you could see it. It was beautiful. The room was extremely large, a stunning vanity with white-painted wood and a pink velvet stool sat towards the front of the room. The side was covered in bookshelves, the mini library section completed with the same pink velvet on a seat below the window. The view outside took your breath away. It was still night - or very early morning. There was barely any light, but you could make out the magnificent hills and the tall trees. Like it was out of a fairytale. The bed was huge, ornately decorated with white linen sheets and a gorgeous wool blanket.
Everything was perfect except for the ugly metal chains lying on the floor and the drops of blood - your blood - spattered on the pretty white cushions.
You settled into his touch. You were too weak to hold yourself up, let alone fight. And you were never going to win in a physical fight with Aerion. You knew you'd have to convince him to let you go. Play along until he was distracted. Until he found a shiny new toy to fixate on. That's all this was. A passing interest.
He opened another door leading you into the bathroom. It was just as stunning as the bedroom. Huge mirrors, pink towels, a bathtub just in the center with golden handles.
As Aerion set you down on the edge of a white marble counter, he noticed the bewilderment in your expression. A faint, almost shy smile started to curve on his blood-stained lips.
"I hope you like it."
He grabbed one of the pristine white towels before wetting it with cold water and pressing it to your wound, gently running his fingers through your hair with his other hand.
"I heard you say you like pink that one time. Our third session. And all the books - some are psychology and the others are fairytales. I know how much you love stories."
The weight of his words sank into your chest like a bullet. Every small comment, every casual answer to a question - he was listening. Not just listening, internalizing.
An idea of you. Bound to him forever.
Your breath hitched as you mumbled a clumsy beginning to a response.
"If you don't like it I can change it. I'll redecorate everything, just how you want. Or - or if you don't like this room I can show you the other ones."
The schoolboy sweetness in his voice made your head spin. His unwavering cruelty made him impossible to love, but the streaks of gentleness he showed made him impossible to hate.
"I love it, Aerion. Thank you."
You nodded as he continued tending to your wounds with utmost care. You were in this now. And you had to play the game.
He chuckled softly, a victorious grin spreading across his face.
"Well, hopefully you won't need it very long. I mean you can hang out here in the days and everything. But you'd spend the nights with ... me."
The fear of rejection was knitted into the curve of his brow, the puppy dog eyes he looked up at you with, every tiny detail on his face. You had to try to set some boundaries, try to save yourself a little while keeping him happy.
The thought of sleeping with his arms around you twisted a knot into your stomach. You'd never sleep again feeling the heat of his breath on your neck, the possessive clutch he'd keep you in. You'd faced enough today. This had to wait.
"Aerion. It's not that I don't want to stay with you. I - I just need some time to adjust."
He nodded frantically, his understanding troubling you somehow more than if he'd shown his wrath.
"I know. It's a big change. I'd never force you to do that. You know how much I care about you."
He wrapped you into an embrace, his lips pressed against your forehead. He was responding right now. This was your chance to play into his humanity, his weak spot for you.
"I know, Aerion. And I know you'd want me to be happy no matter what."
You felt his grip tighten around you in confirmation.
"Yes."
He breathed softly onto your temple.
"I was happy, Aerion. With my apartment, my life, with you as my patient."
You couldn't see his face, but from the way his body froze you knew you'd set him off. It was too soon to try to escape. Much too soon. But the thought of staying with him any longer filled you with unimaginable terror.
"Your boyfriend?"
His voice cut through the room, his childlike softness morphing into something impossibly harsh and cold. He peeled his body off yours and burned away any fight you had left with the piercing stare of his violet eyes.
This is it, you thought.
He's going to kill me.
"You think I didn't know?"
He spat as he started pacing back and forth between you and the tub.
"You think I couldn't smell him on you!"
He screamed, face inches from yours. You started to tremble with fear, tears trickling down as you pulled your knees in with your arms looking down at the sink.
"Pathetic little man. He was never good enough for you. And I couldn't say anything for six fucking months. Do you know what that felt like?"
He brushed the silver hair out of his face as he continued pacing, taking each step with increasing insanity.
"You know I can tell when you've been crying. Your eyes - they're darker. And you slump your shoulders. See, I know that. And I know you. And every time you'd cry, you'd smell of him."
The potent disgust in his voice every time he spoke about your boyfriend made you shiver. He was right. Any time you had been crying, he'd been the reason. But they were stupid things - not wanting to see a movie you liked, making mean comments about your cat. But he wasn't a bad guy. He wasn't anything like -
You let out a hiccup as you sobbed, the sound pathetic and embarrassing catching Aerion's attention in spite of the depth of his ravings.
The madness melted away into guilt as he watched the tears flowing down your face. The way you clutched onto your knees with fear. The way you'd been crying so hard you could no longer control the way breath escaped you.
He walked to you with urgency, rubbing your shoulders as he spoke softly.
"No, no, no, my love. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's all gonna be better now. We're gonna be better now. We just have to forget."
His fingers shook as clasped the hem of your t-shirt, almost like he was nervous to touch you. You reflexively kicked your ankle at him, but he caught it in midair.
"Please don't be scared. Trust me, darling. You know I'd never actually hurt you."
He lifted your arms with a frightful gentleness, almost as if he was afraid you'd fracture at his touch. You had no choice but to comply.
"I need to wash you. To clean you. So there'll be no more of him. No more blood. No more hurt. After tonight, there won't be any pain left, can't you see? Just us. Together. Here."
He pulled your t-shirt over your head slowly, leaving you in only your underwear. You crossed your arms in front of your breasts, terrified and exposed. His hands slid from your arms to your upper thighs, pausing to gently grip your waist for a moment before fiddling with lace of your panties.
"You really are beautiful, you know."
He whispered as he eyed your body with something that could only be described as worship.
You let out a scream as he lifted you again, unable to sit in the discomfort at how vulnerable you were now. Naked. Exposed. In the hands of a madman. And you knew what he'd do with you now.
"Shhhhhhh."
Aerion purred as he looked down at you with fascination. You could see it. He didn't understand your fear of him. His wrath was rooted in something much more complex, much more dangerous. Confusion.
He moved you with ease, holding you in one arm now as he started running the bathwater. He traced your spine gently as he waited for the water to rise, fingertips sending your skin into a frenzy.
It sickened you, how comforting it was to be touched like this.
"Tell me if it's too warm or too cold."
The words rolled of his tongue like a prayer as he lowered you into the tub.
The water was perfect. Almost like he planned it. As you submerged yourself further, you found a disturbing peace in the contrast between the heat of the water and the heat of his hands on your skin.
Aerion walked to a cabinet and pulled out a wash cloth and some vials. You weren't sure what they held. Maybe something to make you sleep, to dull your senses.
He walked back to you, testing the water with his hand as he knelt at your side.
"Perfect."
He muttered under his breath. You hated how well he knew you.
He poured each of the vials as his eyes studied your figure below the water. Any question of what was inside of them was now extinguished. The scent hit your nose with a brutal familiarity. Rose. Vanilla. Sandalwood.
Your perfume.
Aerion closed his eyes and tilted his head back as he took a long inhale, face painted with desire.
"Smells like you."
He almost moaned the words out. He'd gotten everything right. The proportions. The exact kind. It's as if he poured it straight from the bottle.
He dipped the washcloth into the water as he lost himself in the sweet aroma, his breath slowing with every second that passed between you. He started with your head, wiping any lingering blood that stuck to your hair with utmost care.
"I'm going to wipe away all your pain."
He pressed a few strands of your hair to his nose as he took a deep breath in. He lowered the washcloth to your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of the tears you shed just moments ago.
"All your sadness."
He held your hands as he brought you to your feet. Your hesitation faltered in the face of your fear. You stood completely bare in front of him, arms tense at your sides as he guided the washcloth around every inch of your body.
"I'll wash away everything that was here before me."
You shivered as the washcloth gently grazed the side of your breast, cheeks blushing with same at how quickly your nipples hardened at his touch. He moved down to your stomach with agonizing slowness, stopping just before the start of your thigh.
"I know you've hurt before. That's why you could see me. Understand me in the way you do."
Just as you thought he'd move lower, just as you thought he'd cross into a new level of violation, he handed you the washcloth.
You stood frozen in a daze. You had mentally prepared yourself. For him to touch you. For him to take you. It was inevitable.
But then he didn't.
He walked away, eyes never parting from you for a second as you began to wash yourself.
"But I don't want you to hurt anymore. We've found each other now. And I'm going to make you happy. Like you made me happy."
You smiled shyly as you continued, desperately ignoring the disgust building through your body. Everything about this was so sick. You had friends, you had a boyfriend, you had a life.
And Aerion wanted to take it all away.
And the worst part. The part that made you hate yourself. Is that you couldn't blame him. For any of it. This was your fault. You'd gone too far, gotten too close. And this was the price you had to pay.
After you finished, Aerion wrapped you in a towel, dropping to his knees to lead you out of the tub. He held your hand as he led you back to the bedroom.
"I'm sorry about the blood on the sheets. I'll have them cleaned tomorrow."
He led you to the bed as you used his strong arms to steady your faltering steps.
You sank into the linen, face covered in complete and utter shock as Aerion turned and made his way to the door. You were certain he'd hurt you. Take advantage of you. Force you down as he had his way. And he didn't.
He turned back before leaving, eyes pleading with yours for a moment that lasted an eternity. He struggled to find the words for a minute, mouth opening to speak with no words coming out.
"I'd never make you do anything you don't want to do."
He finally managed. He smiled softly before he finally left.
Everything he said was a contradiction. Everything he did made no sense. He'd kidnapped you, broken a plate over your head and then washed you like you were something precious and porcelain he didn't dare to break. He unclothed you as if you belonged to him but didn't dare touch you without your permission.
Your thoughts derailed into chaos as you covered yourself in the soft blankets and sheets he so perfectly picked for you. The books, the colors - it was your dream room. And in your nightmare scenario.
Nothing meant anything here.
Your mind darted quickly to possibilities of escape. He didn't chain you again. Left you in your own room unsupervised. You thought about the door. The window. But as much as he knew you, you knew him.
He'd never let you get away this easy. There was something waiting for you outside and you were too weak now to risk finding out what it was.
But you knew the longer you stayed here, the longer he'd feel like you truly belonged.
And the harder it would be to leave.
Tomorrow.
You'd have to do it tomorrow. At the perfect moment. Not too rash, not too tentative. You'd find your moment and you'd take it.
You'd escape.
There was no other option.
_________________
Aerion walked to his room, shoulders heavy with exhaustion but head held high in triumph.
He'd rescued her.
He'd planned it for months. Every detail, every corner of her new room, everything was made for her.
He'd seen her pain. Even though she hid it so perfectly. He could see.
And he didn't want her to hurt anymore.
He fell back on his bed, body finding warmth in the red velvet blanket. He cautiously brought his hand to his pocket, clutching the panties she'd left lying on the bathroom floor.
He couldn't help himself. And why should he?
They were made for each other.
She understood every part of him. And he understood every part of her, even the parts she didn't.
He shut his eyelids as he spread them across his face, desire pulsing through his body as he took in her scent. His hands traveled to unbutton his pants and slide through his waist band as he began to stroke his long cock, throbbing at the memory of her naked before him.
He thrashed wildly with the lace spread across his face, his tongue darting out to taste any inch it could reach. Any inch her body had been on.
He didn't feel any shame in his lust-filled haze, stroking his cock with increasing fervor as he thought of her eyes, her beautiful eyes. The eyes that never gave up on him. His desire burned through his body as he relived what her skin felt like tonight. Wet, soft, his.
It was only natural to want something so beautiful.
And he wouldn't take her until she wanted it. Until she asked for it.
Because he loved her. He knew her.
And he was certain she would.
Eventually.
He came hard, eyes rolling back in pleasure with her name on his lips and her image branded in his mind.
Eventually.
It couldn't come soon enough.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi babies, this one's gonna be a little build up. Things are gonna get ready dark and freaky I'll get to it I promise, I promise. Thinking of doing shorter chapters kinda like this so I can post more often (lmk thoughts). Thank you so much for your love on the first chapter and I hope I'm doing y'all justice. Please leave comments with any thoughts, ideas, feedback, etc. I appreciate all the love and support.
Ask (1) Baelor version, Maekar version, Valarr version, Daeron version
Lyonel Baratheon x fem!reader
Word count: 1,533
Cw: love at first sight? For Lyonel anyway. Fluff, Oblivious reader. Love sick Lyonel? He’s obsessed lowkey, kinda ooc? kinda proofread.
Lyonel wasn’t sure how much more obvious he could be. His eyes never left yours, his hand was always reaching out to hold your own or to offer you a dance. A dance you scarcely accepted. But when you did, he knew you enjoyed it, knew it from the smiles and laughs on your face as he dramatically danced across the room hand in hand with you. He gifted you roses and lilies, jewels and clothes made of the finest silk and cloth. He spoiled you, his life and focus were entirely centred around you. His entire day was haunted by the conversation he had with you the night before, no matter how brief it may have been, your voice played like a melody in his mind.
He had always been an obvious man, his intentions were always clear, subtly had never been a strength for a man as loud as he. He had always been obvious. Clear to everyone, everyone but you, it seemed. You who the second he had laid eyes on had felt besotted with. Had watched you walk around his tent at Ashford, your face nervous as your eyes darted around the room looking for a place to sit. He had thought you looked like a deer stuck between two carriages, lost and scared. And he, bewitched by you, body and soul, had followed you, not out of curiosity but because he had no choice. His feet made the choice before his brain could, he followed after you, grabbing your arm softly and pulling you out of your worrisome mind, a smile and laugh steadying your nervous heart, and the smile you gave him in turn making Lyonels' steady heart beat ten times faster.
After that night, the infatuation he had for you turned into everything. His whole life revolved around seeing you smile and laugh. He worked endlessly to find the jokes you liked, and the ones you never got unless he explained them. His days were spent with him counting down the hours till he could see you again.
He had invited your family to Storm's End, the same night he had met you. He couldn’t fathom the idea of being parted from you. Of courting you through letters and not getting to witness your smile or hear your voice. And your family, eager for a match with a Lord paramount, eagerly agreed, your father all but drafting a marriage contract before you even left Ashford meadows.
The courtship lasted longer than he wanted, but you being so nervous, so unsure of his advances, he waited, and after nearly two moons of courting you, Lyonel was more than ready to propose.
But then Dunk, or sweet Dunk as you had deemed him, who had followed him to Storm's End and had unofficially become your sworn sword. Dunk, who had said the words, " My lady values your friendship," when he had asked your thoughts on him.
Friendship. Not a courtship. Not blind dedication, or what the poets would deem love at first sight. But friendship.
He had asked Dunk how you were faring, your thoughts on him, and life in Storm's End, a question he asked the hedge knight often, but not once did he mention the word friendship. But that had been the word you used, the understanding you had.
And suddenly Lyonel, the loudest, most obvious man most would meet, fumbled. He didn’t know how to proceed nor what to do next. He had a ring made and engraved and was ready to drop to his knees for you. And yet Dunk had told him you saw him little more than a friend.
“Friendship?” He laughed, a bellow lacking his usual joy and humour.
“Aye, m’lord.” Dunk nodded, his eyebrows furrowed as he took in the confused look on Lyonel's face. “I told her I didn’t think your intentions were umm…friendly?”
“Oh”, Lyonel scoffed, “friends? Unbelievable", he muttered under his breath just loud enough for the knight to hear his scoff, “and what did she say to that?”
“That you were just being friendly, offering her a umm…kindness” Dunk frowned, watching the disbelief on Lyonel's face at his words.
“A kindness? I-“ he was at a loss for words, he had courted you by the book, had given you gifts, escorted you on walks around the garden, taken you horse riding, complimented your dress and hair, everything about you. Danced with you and sat with you at every feast and dinner. He courted you far better than any prince could, and yet you saw it all as friendship?
“Where is she?” He asked, a soft laugh falling from his lips.
“Her chambers, m’lord” Dunk nodded, following after Lyone, who had already turned to walk in the direction of your chambers, muttering about how oblivious you had been. “Should I come with you?” The hedge knight asked, following after him and only stopping as Lyonel rounded the corner to the halls of your room.
A loud laugh fell from his lips as he knocked on your door, “No, no, Dunk, go find your squire," he laughed, ignoring whatever response came from the knight, as he waited for your voice to bid him entry to your rooms.
Your voice sounded softly on the other side of the doors. Lyonel, usually loud and what some would say obnoxious, slowly entered your rooms, eyes drawn to you as you sat on your bed, your back turned, focusing on whatever new hobby you had picked up that week, paying little mind to Lyonel's entry into your rooms.
He spoke your name, urging you to look at him, a soft laugh falling from his lips, as if usual did at anything and everything, as you snapped your head in his direction.
“My Lord,” you greeted, moving to turn back to the sewing in your hand, a small hiss from your lips as you nicked your finger.
“Lyonel,” he corrected, tusking softly, as he rounded the bed and watched you embroider a handkerchief.
You nodded, “Lyonel,” you repeated, a smile playing at your lips as you watched him move the mountains of pillows on your bed to sit beside you.
“You’ve taken up sewing again?” He asked, watching as you stitched a stag on a handkerchief, a small ripple of pride following through him at his house's sigil.
You nodded, “for your tourney,"
“Ahh, yes, I will be needing my lady’s favour”, he hummed, reaching for the basket or thread at your side, plucking a yellow thread and handing it to you, “My lady should add more yellow.”
A blush rose to your cheeks, “Your lady?”
He laughed, “My lady.”
You’d shook your head, laughing softly, “You shouldn’t say such things, people will get the wrong idea.”
“The wrong idea?” He cocked his head, clicking his tongue. “What would be the wrong idea?”
You shook your head, focusing on your sewing. “They may mistake our friendship-”
“Friendship?” he scoffed, throwing one of your many pillows on the floor.
You looked at him, flushing at his tone, “Are we not friends?” your smile wavering as you asked.
A soft sigh fell from his lips as he looked at you, how your hands had stopped, your fingers picking at each other in nerves. “Of course, we are friends,” he began, reaching for your hands to stop you as he spoke. “But I…had thought my intentions were clear.”
“Intentions?” Your eyes snapped to his, your embroidery pushed to the side, “What intentions?”
He raised his eyebrow, a small laugh falling from his lips, his hands reaching for your hands and pulling you towards him. “You truly are oblivious, aren't you?” you shrugged, reaching to play with the rings on his fingers. “I’ve been courting you…for marriage?”
“Oh?” your eyes snapped to his, “I- you have?”
He laughed, a bellow that filled your chambers and echoed down the hall. “I have gifted you whatever your heart desires. Endured your parents' relentless company for two moons, spent every second I could by your side, and you thought I wasn’t courting you?”
“I didn’t want to assume,” you shrugged.
Another bellow fell from his lips, “of course not,” his hands reached for yours,s topping htem in their nervous twists of his rings, “was i not obvious in what I was doing?”
“I..you never asked me, or told me!” you dismissed, fighting a smile.
Lyonel sat up straight, pulling you to settle between his legs, a large smile on his face, “Will you do me the honour of allowing me to court you?”
Your hand fell to his chest, pushing him softly, “of course,” you laughed, your hands settling on his chest.
He smiled, eyes darting to the deer on your handkerchief, “good,” he smiled, “now I expect that favour tomorrow, we can’t have my lady giving her favour out to any knight”
“Your lady? Tilted your head, smiling softly.
“My lady,” he reiterated, his hand moving to your cheeks and pulling you to him, “can I kiss my lady?”
You answered by pressing your lips softly to his, as Lyonel's hands moved to wrap around your waist, holding you to him as he kissed you softly.
“My lady,” Lyonel spoke against your lips, a laugh falling from both your lips even as your lips joined once more.
find your next favorite yandere here. Each fic contains warnings so proceed with caution coz they are unhinged af.
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Nicholas Sterling III —
✾ Descent Into Madness | one shot
✾ Chasing The Light | mini-series
part one | part two | part three | part four
✾ Domestic Bliss | one shot | commission
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
King Callixto —
✾ Sovereign's Reign | Series Masterlist
No matter how far you run, Callixto is never far behind. Freedom was never yours to keep—only borrowed before the inevitable claim.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Xavier Veluxe —
✾ Eclipsed Affliction | one shot
✾ A-J | yandere alphabet
✾ Yandere Heir | headcannon
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Alastair Moreau —
✾ Mine, Oh Mine | one shot | sugar daddy
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Valentine Sinclair —
✾ My Valentine | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Harrison Velenzi —
✾ To Have and To Hold | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Unnamed God —
✾ Cursed Covenant | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Laurent Delacroix —
✾ Dark Roast | novel | grab your copy here!
You thought you were making your own choices. But Laurent was always there—watching, guiding, ensuring every step led you straight to him. And now, there’s no way out.
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Cassian Veltre —
✾ Scripted Fate | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Isaiah Hartwell —
✾ Lavender and Powder | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Caelum Ashford —
✾ Curtain Call | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Malcolm Harroway —
✾ The Good Wife | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Dorian Shaw —
✾ His Silent Script | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
William Harrington —
✾ The Price of Legacy | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Anselm Faer —
✾ Glass Garden | one shot | Son's POV
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Zeiryn —
✾ Bride of the Abyss | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Seraphim D'Aronn —
✾ Where the Ivy Grows | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Elarion Vaelthir —
✾ Of Moss and Memory | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Zaeral —
✾ Serpent's Claim | one shot
⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅
Luca —
✾ Lavender Snow | one shot
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Azraël —
✾ An Offering of Skin | one shot
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Rhett Valle —
✾ Made to be Seen | one shot
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Azriel —
✾ Heaven's Leash | one shot
Series
Yandere Hotline
You thought you've drawn the line hard enough for them to notice, but it seems like the concept of boundaries are far beyond their understanding.
Seven Days of Devotion | Holy Week Special
Every day, you wake to a different kind of devotion. Some call it love. Others call it madness. But in the quiet spaces between reverence and ruin, you begin to understand—this was never about salvation. It was always about possession. And now, during the holiest week of the year, they will each find their own way to claim you.
Sanctum | Holy Week Special Series
You came seeking peace. But Father Caelestis has been waiting—ready to crown you his divine bride in a paradise that was never meant to let you go.
contents: Dunk x fem!Reader, Modern AU rom-com. Features Raymun, Rowan, Lyonel, Egg and very background Targaryens. Semi-reversed medium-burn (lmao, go figure). Friends to friends-with-benefits to lovers with a secret third thing. Which brings me to the biggest nsfw warning of this fic: unplanned pregnancy. It doesn't happen until Ch.3., but I know some people (including me, ironically) don't like reading about pregnancy, so you have been warned. If that's the case you can safely read up to chapter two and then call it a day. Dunk has my uterus confused, ok.
Besides that: mutual pinning, awkward crushes, they are in their 30s, it's set in Ireland (I know -.-) but most of nationalities are not defined, miscommunication but not in a way that will make you hate the characters, actually lots of humour, fluff, smidge of angst, attempt at magical realism. So far nsfw warnings include: drunk unprotected sex, pregnant sex. Tags will be updated for each chapter.
disclaimer: I've never been pregnant, but I hope my extensive research will prove sufficient. If you 🫵 have been and ever notice something wildly incorrect, please let me know! If you haven't noticed anything incorrect yet, but still would like to share your experience, also let me know! If you want. I'd love that.
synopsis: For two years, you and Duncan orbit each other inside the same circle of friends, each mistaking the other’s awkwardness for disinterest. Then, one reckless night changes the terms entirely. A story about bad timing, good longing, and leaving the hardest thing until last.
a/n: Hi *waves awkwardly*. Yeah so... this happened. Nobody look at me. I have no idea how many chapters this is going to have, but I'm planning weekly updates on Fridays. I promise to tag up to the wazoo. Anyway, banner as usual by me, and dividers by @strangergraphics. This fic is being proofread by @hextoken!
chapters:
chapter one: (sfw) In which they all get very drunk.
chapter two: (nsfw) In which they make the baby :')
chapter three: (sfw) In which she realises they made a baby.
chapter four: (sfw) In which she tells Duncan.
chapter five: (sfw) In which Duncan freaks out a little.
chapter six: (nsfw) In which she deals with life kicking her ass.
Summary: Ser Arlan takes Dunk to a brothel for the first time, insisting it’s where he’ll truly find manhood. When he falls into readers service, she decides to teach him what it means to be good
Warnings: sub!dunk, inexperienced!dunk, use of sweet/good boy, prostitution/brothel work (obviously), handjobs, oral (m!receiving), riding, begging, gentle!dom reader, fem reader, fem anatomy, typical GOT/medieval misogyny
WC: 4.5k
note: not proofread- also, sorry if this is an inaccurate depiction of a medieval brothel, idk I wasn’t there LMAO- Also, im sorry the spacing is so weird, it turned into a huge pain in the ass so I hope it’s not too weird, thx!!
“You‘ve the body of a man, but not the spine of one, aye? Bit of stubble doesn‘t make you grown.“ Ser Arlan barked into the night air, Duncan in tow. Despite his squire being the age of twenty and…something, Ser Arlan insisted he had yet to be a man. Pretty adamant on the matter, actually. Perhaps it was because he still looked upon the same hunger-ravaged lad Duncan had once been. Or maybe the youthful glimmer that lingered in his gaze.
Regardless, Duncan was at his wit‘s end. After being berated with phrases like, you‘ve a man‘s height and a child‘s wits or, you‘re green as spring wheat and twice as foolish, what Ser Arlan deemed manhood was a riddle so thorned, not even the wisest minds could make sense of it.
Beneath the weeping heavens, they journeyed side by side. One wandering, one bound with purpose. They marched beneath the moonless rain as one debated in the chamber of his thoughts, where the seven hells are we going? And the other debated if he‘d spend his coin on a ginger or a blonde.
“Well now, this is where the realm stops coddlin‘ ya. Where men are forged.“ Ser Arlan remarks the brothel before them as though it was a gilded throne, eager for him to warm it. As the matter became plain to Duncan, he found himself stricken with unease. His nerves twist, restless with dread. He had been riddled with quiet torment as his eyes widened at the shelter ahead. Never had Duncan wielded a honeyed tongue nor the gleaming riches that women tended to favor. Still, coin in this establishment could succeed where his words failed. If he had any coin…
“Ser we- I mean no disrespect but, I‘m uncertain we can afford such…service.“ Verily, Duncan was ignorant of how heavy the coin purse was. But, it‘d make a fine plea to wait outside with the horses.
“Nonsense, boy, I‘ll buy myself the lowliest of the lot. You can spend the rest on a decent lady. The grimy ones are sold cheapest, and I‘d not shame ye with ‘em.“
To Ser Arlan, that phrase was even more endearing than “I love you“.
A restless quiver stirred in Duncan‘s blood as he envisioned his own hand offering the coin. The notion sickened him, striking foully against the image he had long held of himself. It defied every principle, every virtue and every moral he had. Regardless of the coiling dread in his stomach, he was highly aware of the inevitability of it all. Duncan opened his mouth in protest then closed it, in hopes to find wiser words on his tongue. He had never laid with a woman before. And he didn‘t wish to humiliate himself before someone who does it for coin.
Without so much as another murmur, Ser Arlan advanced upon the entrance and strode toward the brightly lit dwelling. Well, it appeared bright amidst the veil of impossible nightfall. With unwilling feet did Duncan stagger after, his heart beset by mounting fear as the haze upon his mind faded.
His senses gained clarity. Beneath the shroud of eveningtide there stood the house as he approached. A house of ill renown and impropriety. Yet, it was garbed in such splendor that even a septon’s eye might linger upon it. The timbered walls were painted a deep crimson and wine-dark velvet hues, whilst lanterns of amber glass hung from iron hooks. It casted honeyed light upon the rain slick cobbles below. Silken banners stirred languidly from the upper balconies, and from within came the muffled strains of girlish squeals, soft laughter and the clink of silver goblets.
Before Duncan knew what was hell and what was his reality, Ser Arlan pushed the heavy oaken door, amplifying every sight and sound from outside. The ceilings were draped with silk, sheer as a maiden‘s sigh. The gold thread glimmered like the eyes of the temptresses watching from their alcoves. Sweet perfumes of myrrh, rose and spiced wine wafted through the chill night air, entwining themselves with all who enter.
The madame of the house was quick to greet the pair of them, yet she couldn‘t help to think it odd a father brings his son to such a place.
“Cheapest you have.“ Ser Arlan grunts, placing coin in the madame‘s palm. Before Duncan could ask how much he ought to spend, he has nowhere to be seen, already escorted to the ‘cheapest accomodation‘.
“I- sorry, M‘lady, I‘m new to these…dealings. What‘s the fee? And- where do I head?“
The madame was a mere stranger to men of gentle make and virtuous heart. At once she perceived what should be amended in him, and where he must be sent. Duncan handed her the appropriate coin with a trembling, clammy palm. The woman takes it as though it‘s life blood, nodding vaguely down the hall.
“Eighth door to your right. Don‘t stray.“ Duncan nodded at her gruff words as though they were orders in battle. With a gulp, he began his death procession down the narrow hall. His ears were met with a growing symphony of skin against skin and restless pants. With eyes widened like silver platters, he cast his gaze from the gauzy curtains, behind which lurked filth scarcely shielded.
“Three…four…five…six…“
He counted each curtain as his feet carried him closer to what he thought was his certain demise. After a rushed recounting, he found himself before the eighth curtain to the right. He needed to be certain it was the right one. He didn‘t want to end up with the “lowly lot“ Ser Arlan entertains. Without another moment to lose, he clears his throat, reluctantly ducking through the archway.
The gruff sound from his throat alerted from where you lounged on your bed, tucked behind the silken canopies that shielded the bed from the rest of the room. Like muscle memory, you adjust the jewelry that sits heavy atop your skin. You then make sure your satin garment, (only worn for the sake of being taken off), sits right. Then came your speech, which also flowed from your lips like you had rehearsed it for years.
“Right then, shed your breeches and leave your boots by th-“ Your unenthused instructions were interrupted by a sharp hitch of your breath. You finally assessed the man that stood before you, awaiting your service.
A towering man of broad shoulders and abundant frame, fashioned strong as an oak yet fair upon the eye. His strength sat plainly upon him in the swell of arm and chest, though softened somewhat by a pleasing fullness around his mid section. His countenance was comely and warm, bearing the easy humbleness of a man often admired in tavern and hall alike. Even though Duncan found that far from the truth.
“Seven‘s bones…look at the height on you. I ought to tell someone to fetch me a stool. Or perhaps a ladder.”
You remark as you giggle at your own joke. He nodded politely at your crude comment, at an utter loss for words. Any would fail him if he tried. Still, there he remained, rigid and motionless, as though wit and will alike had abandoned him.
Tense in limb and uncertain in purpose, he obeyed what you instructed prior (only the second step), by removing his boots and leaving them by the threshold.
“You're quite the timid sort aren‘t you? May I have your name, Ser?“ You stood closer, radiant doe-like eyes peering up at him. The sight only made his words feel more scarce on his tongue. He opens and closes his mouth, anticipating sound. How would anything he say compete with your melodic, sing-song voice?
“Dunk…My name is Dunk, M‘lady.“ A flattered beam finds your lips as you blush at his formality. No man had ever addressed you as such. Somedays you were fortunate to even be referred to as “woman“.
“Please, spare me your fine formalities, Dunk, I am no lady. Unless, you have a knack for pretending…“ Your words trailed as he nervously interjected you.
“No, I do not wish to pretend anythin‘, M‘lady. You are a lady, so I‘d like to speak to you as one.“ Dunk managed to nervously choke out, to which you nodded in somewhat understanding.
You stole a moment to gawk at the kindness he had already shown you, despite being in your room for nearly thirty seconds. As you beheld the man before you, he finally allowed himself to drink you in properly.
You were fair in visage, (certainly the most beautiful woman he could‘ve bought his time with), radiant in youth. Your beauty was something gentle and natural, neither overworked or vain, but softly striking in its ease. Dunk thought the embodiment of grace had taken a particular liking to your form. Eyes bared bright, attentive life to them, keen as the morning sky.
“So, Dunk, what would you have of me? Or shall I decide, since you don‘t seem forward sort?“
“Pardon my ignorance, but I am untried in these matters. Not certain what‘s…customary.“
“Well, these sorts of places don‘t demand practice. All the girls know plenty of their trade for the likes of you. So, just tell me what excites you.“
“I suppose I don’t quite know, M’lady.” He curtly replied with a chuckle on his lips. You shrug at his response, having a quiet debate in your head. What were you to do with him?
You hum, beginning to drag your nails and finger tips across his chest, spurring him on. The muscle stiffened beneath the touch, but he seemed to relish the sensation. Still, there was much more to be done.
The idea took root in your mind, slowly lowering yourself to your knees. He appeared even taller from where you kneeled, and you appeared far smaller in comparison to his stature. Something foreign stirred in the pit of Dunk‘s stomach at the sight.
A faint, knowing curve of your lips betrayed your feigned innocence, taking delight in his slow undoing. You shifted your attention to the hilt of the long sword that rested at his hip. It was an old iron thing, clearly worn with use and age. Your fist grasped the base of it as your face neared closer to the handle of his sword.
“Does this excite you, Ser?“ Your sultry voice is followed by the breath stalling in Dunk‘s lungs, faltering as you drag your tongue up the expanse of the hilt. Through half lidded vision, you watch his brows furrow in what appears to be a wounded frustration. The drag of your tongue is met with the old taste of sweat from his palm, the masculine flavour going straight to the throbbing between your thighs. As he watched the lewd act, he couldn‘t help but picture the hilt of his sword as something much more…localized.
You brought yourself back to standing, your body in closer proximity to his than before. With an audible gulp, his stare conveyed a captivated terror. As though something he had been dreaming for was coming true faster than he could make sense of it.
“Or perhaps, this?“ You sang, eyes transfixed to where his stare lingered. As you began to fiddle with the clasps of your gown, the fabric bunched at your feet in one fell swoop. Leaving you completely bare before him, aside from the lavish jewelry adorning your form.
Before he could reply, his rigid cock strained against his breeches as he practically drooled beholding you. You tilted your head in hopes of finding his gaze, but it proved to be futile. His eyes feasted upon the sight of your breasts, mind restless with image. How they‘d feel in his hands, how they‘d feel in his mouth.
You took his rough hands into your own, guiding them to caress the tender swell of your breasts. The column of his throat bobs as he kneads the flesh in his palms, a muffled groan escaping him. His thumbs run across the pebbled buds of your nipples causing you tot shudder under his touch.
As you noted his newfound pleasure, you took his hands back into yours, escorting him to your bed with an unyielding smile upon your lips. He complied, his eyes now enraptured by your own.
You pushed him back onto the bed, surprising you slightly due to his size. He was entirely powerless under your gaze, pliant putty in your hands. His eyes peered up at you as though he was witnessing divinity. As though you were to pardon him from all worldly anguish. Unlike other men, who seek haste and efficiency, Dunk would not be hurried. He would have every fragment of time, and hold it close as though it were treasure beyond reckoning.
You joined him amongst furs and silks in slow, calculated movements. What was once dread had now turned to fervent impatience, a yearning for only nearness. He would deem it a blessed passing to die with so much as your company, without having to lay a hand on you.
In one swift motion your legs bracketed his, straddling him where he laid. The position somehow made him appear more helpless beneath you, completely at your mercy. Mercy you had, as you were inclined to be gentle and slow with the blushing giant underneath you. Your nails found their rightful place a second time, mindlessly tracing lines into his tunic.
“Do you touch yourself, Ser?“ Your keen gaze flicks to him as your lip catches between your teeth. The filthy question was spoken so innocently, so softly, he began to think he had misheard you. The question was a handy way of allowing your inexperienced clients to open up. Dunk turns a crimson that matches the silks the pile of you lay on top of.
“Most men do, M‘lady.“ Dunk nervously chuckles beneath you, still unsure where to put his hands. For now, they would lay tensely beside him.
“And… that means you do as well?“ The tease brought another wave of flush to his neck and ears, only making your smile grow wider.
“Show me.“ Your order finds his ears in a silvery whisper, to which he begins to fumble with the laces of his breeches. To save him the embarrassment, you place his hand aside, shifting your attention to the tangled prison. As your fingers work the strings, his hips buck into your hand as he suppresses a whine.
“Eager are we?“ You giggle in amusement, pushing his breeches to his ankles. For a moment, you deem yourself disoriented, that your eyes have betrayed you. You gulp in astonishment, unsure what to make of his…length.
“Your knight, Ser Arlan, you‘re certain he is not your father?“
“No, M‘lady.“
“Right then.“
You deny yourself a witty remark like your cock would do a better job impaling me than that sword on your hip, or perhaps, so men can just carry lances however they please? You did not wish to subject him to further embarrassment, considering it was his first time in a brothel. You wanted to give him a reason to return, you thought.
Dunk kicks them off, instantly taking his cock in his fist. With eyes half-lidded in languor, he keeps you vigilantly in his sight, as his hand squeezed amidst his clumsy strokes. You shifted where you laid, positioning yourself to replace his hand. His breath came in sharp exhales through his nose, cheeks redder than a field stained by battle.
“Dunk,“ the name crawled off your tongue, “you‘re blushing in front of a whore.“ You remark with an amused tone, watching as he tries to shield his face from you. Gently, you grasp his wrist, pulling his hand away.
“Allow me, sweet boy.“ You purr into the shell of his ear, taking his length into your palm. His breath hitches in his throat at the feeling, head thrown back against the furrs. He‘s sensitive, you note mentally. You start working him in slow, languid movements, his mouth falling open into an ‘o‘ shape. He feels heavy in your hands, finger tips just barely touching due to his size.
“M‘not a boy.“ He grits through his teeth as you continue stroking him exactly how he showed you. To his comment, your hand hastened in speed only slightly, watching his heaving breaths grow more laborious. You remarked every twitch, every stiffening muscle. As he lost himself in the abyss of his own pleasure, he became far less mindful of his sounds. It was a pleasure to bear witness to his unraveling.
“Forgive me, Ser. It‘s a fair assumption to make, when you're so needy for me, like a good boy.“ Despite his best efforts, he seems to cherish the title, a needy groan escaping him. You buried yourself against the crook of his neck, leaving a lingering path of kisses upon his skin, as though you were marking him with the memory of your closeness. The dual sensations draw needy whines and groans deep from his chest. Your fist quickens at the sound.
“D-don‘t stop, M‘lady, mmph, feels so g…“ His words trail off as he loses himself in the sensation, pleading eyes finding your own.
“Does my hand feel better than yours, Dunk? Am I making you feel good? Such a big strong man…so handsome when he‘s begging.“
The pad of your thumb drags over his slit, his hips bucking at the feeling. He nods and agrees listlessly, so enraptured by your touch. You maneuver yourself down the bed, your hand still working Dunk through his pleasure. His eyes snapped open as he felt your breath on his tip, your face a dangerous proximity to his cock.
“You musn‘t- I‘ll s-spend too soon.“ His empty plea draws a breathy laugh from you. A lumbering giant who could surely break firewood with his palms, reduced to a writhing mess beneath your touch.
“I won‘t tell a soul.“ You whisper, swearing yourself to secrecy. To your assurement, Dunk nods vigorously, eager to feel your lips around his cock. You began by placing sloppy kisses on his reddened tip, gently licking ever so often. It was pure anguish for Dunk, growing even needier as you continued. The tip of your tongue dragged right along his slit, causing him to nearly cry out.
“Shhh, ‘gonna take such good care of you. Just relax for me, sweet boy.“ He nods again at your assurance, watching intently as your soft lips wrap around him. It was rather challenging to deny such an offer when faced with your tempting, darling eyes. His lips part as he feels the warmth of your mouth, smothering him so sweetly.
The feeling was intoxicating, a surge of bliss coursing through him. He whined at the sensation, carding his rough fingers through your hair. Not with the intent to force or push, solely to ground himself to the moment.
You peered up at him through your glossy eyes, meeting his gaze, clouded with pleasure. A wistful part of his mind wished he could be subjected to the view of you every day. His reasoning warned him that such fantasies were but folly. He thought of your sweet kindness as purchased, not something he had rightfully earned.
Through the chamber resounded the lewd strains of your mouth, rich with sinful delight, until Dunk felt his senses reel. It was wicked indulgence, yet incredibly tender.
You grew bolder in your efforts, taking him deeper into your throat. The act was followed by wet sounding gawks coming from the walls of your mouth. His cock twitched and pulsed against your tongue, signalling you he did not make his claim in falsehood. He really was about to spend too soon. You hummed against his length, a pleased purr from your throat as his breathing grew more erratic.
“I can‘t-fuck- I‘m gonna…Gods I‘m so sorry, M‘lady,” His pleas are followed by strained groans that rattled in his chest, earning him another content hum from you. The vibration of your voice, the wet eyes boring into his, the soft tousled hair tangled in his fist, was enough to send him over the edge. He came with a hoarse, whiny moan, hips involuntarily bucking further into your mouth. Dunk had never felt such invigorating bliss in all of his days.
As you swallowed each drop of his release, your eyes never dared to leave him. You watched as he convulsed with each spurt, his eyelids fluttering with a pleasure he didn‘t think achievable. His chest rose and fell with each quivering breath. There was something so enchanting about a man who has entirely surrendered. As his breathing slowed and stalled in his lungs, your bare form crawled up the furrs to run your fingers through his wayward hair.
“So good for me, Dunk. Such a good boy for me, hm?“ He nuzzled into your touch as you tenderly caressed his head. Your other hand finds his flushed cheek, stroking the feverish skin as he regains his bearings.
With one elbow propped on the mattress, you lean into his chest as you touch him. You feel the raw heat of his body as one of your bare tits press into his tunic. With a newfound courage, his palm kneads your exposed breast, groaning at the contact. A few gentle squeezes then turns into him maneuvering you on your back.
The angle grants him access to both, nuzzling his face between the swells of supple flesh. To Dunk, air was a trifling matter. He could suffocate between your tits without a single lament on the matter. Your fingers continue gently stroking his scalp as he explores the skin. Open mouth kisses and nudges with his nose sends a pleasurable hum through your veins.
“Want t‘please you, M‘lady. Wanna be so good for you.“ He murmured with a strangled voice still buried between your tits. You gently tug on his sandy hair in hopes he‘d speak clearer.
“That‘s sweet of you, Dunk, but I can fetch us wine in the meantime. It is not my intent to overwhel-“
Your words are cut off by a soft gasp as he begins to suckle on the tender peaks of your nipples. His tongue flicks and sucks the skin as you feel yourself writhing beneath him. Your fist tightens in his hair as he bathes them in wet heat, the suction of his lips sending blood straight to your throbbing clit. And to your astonishment, he‘s hard again. Hard as stale bread.
The slavering sounds of his mouth on your tits fill the room, accompanied by your gentle sighs of bliss. His mouth left your tit in a wet pop, eagerly latching to your other one. In the midst of his movement, you clasp your arms around his torso, flipping him onto his back quicker than a flea on a farm dog.
He makes a vexated, wounded sound as you find yourself straddling him again. Your tits gleamed with the slick of his mouth in candlelight, bestowing a delicious vision unto Duncan‘s eyes. You drag a finger over his lips, hushing his confused pleas.
“Y‘wanna make me feel good, Dunk? You want this brothel to hear me cry your name?“
Dunk keenly nodded at your words, partial to that last suggestion. You tugged at the hem of his tunic, implying you wished to see it on the floor. Drool pooled in your mouth as you watched him comply. His muscles bulged from his flesh with every movement.
Dunk writhes beneath you, his chest heaving as he stared at you intently. With your eyes fixed on his, you lean back slightly, your hands finding the mattress behind you. You bare your dripping cunt to his gaze, watching his pleased grin turn to a wounded pout. As he watches your slick pussy, you begin rubbing your slickness across your folds, displaying how wet he makes you.
“See what you do to me? Need you to fill me like a good boy. Need you to fuck me so good, Dunk. You can make me feel good, can‘t you, baby?“
“Uh-huh, I can please you, M‘lady. Please- let me be good for you.“
You nod, humming at his words. Your leaking pussy hovers above his eager cock, practically begging you to sink down on it. Who were you to deny it such pleasure?
In slow, deliberate movements, you lower yourself onto him, feeling your walls accommodate him in a delicious stretch. His mouth falls agape as you sink further, a low groan rattling his throat.
“Gods above…“ He loses the thought on his tongue as your bare hips meet his, feeling himself entirely buried inside you. A sweet moan leaves your throat as you feel him reach places none of your customers could. So thick and deep, you were completely full with him.
Your hands take hold of his wrists, pinning them beside his head. The act startled him, his eyes widening in sweet bewilderment. You were a hair‘s length from his face, his ragged pants fanning your cheeks. The grip on his wrists tightened as you rolled your hips, feeling his tip rub against the spot inside you that made your knees limp. Your lids fluttered shut as he bucked into, feeling deeper than you had before.
Your chamber rings with the sharp, wet slaps of skin against skin, and strangled moans. With aching knees you bounced atop him, one hand groping your tit, the other scraping its nails down the plane of Duncan‘s chest. You were pleased by the helpless groans that escaped him, hypnotized by the sight of before him. You were even more pleased by the new red marks marking his pec.
“Fuck- Dunk, it‘s so fucking big- filling me so perfect. Such a good boy for me.“ You choke out through the haze of your pleasure. Shameless moans left your lips as you bounced with a newfound vigor, taking him from tip to base every thrust. Dunk began to meet your hips each thrust, brushing your sweet spot each time. The mounting pleasure in your stomach began to coil, threatening to snap.
“Oh Dunk, I- I‘m…mm…“
You listlessly warned as your pleasure thrashed upon you, igniting every vein in your body. Your aching pussy clamped down on his length, a surge of wet slick coating his cock. You were slightly humiliated by how fast you managed to finish. The feeling lessened as you felt Dunk coat your insides with hot ropes of cum, a shudder racking his body. He came with a groan more strained than the last, surrendering to his pleasure.
Soon, the only sounds that remained were your uneven breaths and the muffled commotion from the other rooms. You gaze upon the man, so spent, yet so swallowed by pleasure.
In a rare, defiant act of your morals, you leaned down to claim his lips with your own, tenderly kissing him. His hands clasped your jaw and he clumsily reciprocated the kiss. Duncan‘s inexperience was clear, but his enthusiasm was a force of nature.
Perhaps you didn‘t need a stool or a ladder, to take such a man
another note: sorry for the rushed ending, I had a bit of a writers block at the end- hope u enjoyed !!
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
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