Victoria

Marvel, cod, dc, GOT +other (20yo)

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[samthegreenapologist]

Cold Shoulder

Maekar Targaryen x F Stark wife reader

Tags: readers first makeout🫶 fingering F reviving, Handjob, cuddling, fucking on the floor👏, arranged marriage, Maekar doesn’t want a 2nd wife (what else is new), near drowning incident, PnV sex, unprotected sex, losing virginity, brief mention of blood, Maekar experiencing guilt (and reflecting on it *shocker*)

Summary: you’ve married Maekar but the only people who have really welcomed you to Summerhall are his youngest three children. When you risk your own life to protect them Maekar finally has to admit that you do have a place here!

word count: 6.1 k A/N: I loveeee grumpy Maekar but am shit at writing those snappy quips so that’s why he’s always troubling enamored so quickly by the reader in my fics 🙈

“Don’t-“ you were so winded when you grabbed Aegon’s arm that you needed to breath for a solid moment before continuing on. “Don’t run off like that.” You scold him bending a bit so you two were eye to eye.

You’d been lucky to not need to do much scolding of your husbands children. Which had benefitted you greatly while navigating the complexities of running a hall that had been devoid of a lady, a mother for some time. The little ones probably liked you because of the attention you gave them, because of how you enjoyed playing their silly games when their father had no time…or patience for it.

Though with the cold weather their temperaments changed. They never seemed to have enough avenues to exert their energy since their playing was all stuck inside.

The cold did not feel as suffocating to you. It was just apart of life in the north and the storm land hardly got as frozen and bitter as things got back home. Which was why you had decided to bundle the younger ones all up and take them for a walk. You thought they might like to see the frozen leaves, perhaps look for one of the robins that’s feather became easy to spot again the white forest floor.

Maekar had not looked up from his papers when you suggested it at break of fast. The only way you knew he had even heard your proposal was the warning he grumbled out to Egg, Daella and Rhae to behave for you.

Perhaps you should have then them each out individually because the three of them together just led to far to much energy.

“There pond is around here somewhere and the last thing you need is to wind up under broken ice!” You warned him. It was serious, you did not want to see them injured….and it was your responsibility to see to them.

Maekar had made that clear. You knew before the wedding that he had not sought you out. You’d just been conveniently there when the topic of him taking a second wife came up. It was all rather flattering, the Queen herself suggested you to Maekar. She’d seen you knelt down in the gardens helping his children catch little red lady bugs and worms. His mother had convinced him of the value a maternal figure might bring to his household…that additional stability from another an adult could temper issues before they began.

You’d been so excited, foolishly so, but he was a prince it made sense that you were flattered and thrilled by it all. You’d even found yourself remarking on his serious but striking apperence, on the deep tome of his voice…you’d told your lady maids, with flushed cheeks, that you were looking forward to your wedding night.

You hadn’t been looking forward to the bedding ceremony…being grabbed at by random men and touched. Though when he deny the event at the end of the feast you had known something was off right away. He had not asked you of your feelings in the matter so it did not come across like he was doing you some great kindness by avoiding it.

He denied it for himself. You found that out the moment you entered his chambers and he handed you a cup of wine. He did not sit with you on the edge of the bed…did not even look up when you got down to your chemise and chewed your lip eagerly waiting for him to make some sort of advance. You knew what happened in a marriage bed but not enough of the specifics to initiate anything yourself. He stay in the chair by the fireplace that entire night. Not moving as he told you he had taken your hand for his children, so they could have another person looking after them, he told you he wanted no more children, did not need companionship and had no desire to bed you.

Maekar was many things but he was not a liar. All those things he had made painfully clear to you on the wedding night had remained true. You were not here for him, just them.

“Look mother! There’s a red feather!” Rhae exclaimed. She and Aegon had each slipped and called you that. It always made you feel quite important but you were truthfully worried about Maekar hearing it. What would he think? Had you been to involved with them? Should you correct them?

Slowly you let go of Aegon’s arm after giving him one more warning look and then you followed Rhae towards the tree that had a vibrant feather laid on one of the branches. You were mid lifting her up so she could try and grab it when you heard a piercing shriek.

It was so loud, in an otherwise quiet woods, that every bird suddenly flew up out of the trees just as started as you were.

Rhae looked around, gripping onto your shoulders. “What was that?” She whispered her legs winding around your midsection as you began to move in the direction of the sound.

“Daella?!” You called. It sounded like her shout.

When there was no answer to your call you began to run in the direction of the sound. Dropping Rhae down the moment you saw the pond.

Gods, oh gods. You were here to look after them.

Before your eyes Maekars oldest daughter was grasping at the edge of broken ice, her upper body was above the water but everything below her hips was submerged. The air infront of you was clouded white from how quickly you were breathing, your lungs burning a bit from brining in so much of the cold air.

“help!” She cried and you instantly started out onto the pond. It wasn’t nearly cold enough here for the ice to get so thick that it could safely support a person. You should have been watching them better.

“Rhae, go back to the hall, tell the first person you come across about this.” She urged the child and heard her little feet pad against the frozen ground back up to the keep.

You bent down, basically crawling out to her, knowing you needed to distribute your weight so the ice would give out under you as well.

“I’ve got you, just-“ you grabbed her wrists trying to pull her towards you. “Can you kick your legs?” Her skirts were waterlogged and that made them very heavy.

“Come on Daella!” You grunted as you got closer and grabbed her under the arms hoisting her up over the jagged edge of of the hole and she landed right over you. Both of you panting, Rhaella shaking and her teeth chattering loudly.

“Breathe, I’ve got you.” You were holding the back of her head, squeezing her against you as your adrenaline came down. “I’ve got you.” You kissed her head and started to try and sit you both up.

“Egg…” she whimpered. Her teeth were rattling so much it was hard for her to speak. “Egg fell in.” She eventually got out and you scurried out from under her quickly looking at the hole and freezing water.

“Go to the bank!” You directed her sternly and knelt over the edge gasping as you reached your arms down into the water feeling for him. The fact that there was no thrashing around made you uneasy. Had he sunk down to the bottom? Did he breathe in the water?

You took in the largest breath you possibly could and willed yourself right down into the water. The air was pushed out of your lungs almost Instantly from the shock but you attempted to keep moving as much as you could.

It would destroy this family…another loss. Especially rambunctious but loving egg!

Your long dark hair swirled around your face in the water making it hard to see but your foot bumped Into something and you grabbed at it. The only warmth, as mild as it was, in the blinding cold. The pond was not that deep, and so on your tip toes your hands could breach the surface. You shoved Aegon on and somehow dragged your own self up onto the ice.

“no…no wake up.” You started to shake at the little boy a bit and when you saw his hands and lips were purple you found the strength to lift him up into your arms. His feet dragged as you carried him through the woods but it was the most you could manage. Daella shaking, terrified and dazed from it all held to your stiff heavy skirts as you went. He had to get inside, needed to be warmed and see the maester. He was coughing into your chest now, water heaving from his lungs.

You were one of sorts yourself from being submerged and althought you heard shouting you did not actually see anybody coming your way. Not until suddenly Aegon was being lifted off of you and Daella was snatched up as well.

“get her inside!” Maekar, who had been informed after the first guard had been alerted to the issue at the pond, managed to barrel ahead of any other person heading down toward the forests edge. At the time all that was known was that Daella had been on the pond and the ice cream as broken. That was more than enough to put him in this state. The knight would get there, but not as quickly as he would.

The prince was sprinting up the pathway to the keep and you started right after him before any guard reached you to assist. Aegon looked limp in his father’s arms and you were so terrified that you just continued through the hall after the three of them despite maids urging you to stop.

“get off of me!” You warned pushing their hands away and successfully getting into the maesters work room. Aegon was already stripped and being covered in blankets and warmed stone and you saw Rhaella shaking in one of her septa’s arms as she was brought away to be changed and looked over. She seemed, scared and if that was all than she was quite lucky because her brother had still not opened his eyes.

“I told them to stay away from the pond-“ you began trying to squeeze your way closer to the bed the little prince was laid out it. “H-he was coughing when I pulled him out, there was water in-in his lungs.” You managed to shared with the maester, dark eyes wild and frantic as you spoke.

“Get her out of this bloody gown” Maekar directed the comment towards a young women stood near the door, clearly unsure what she should be doing in the mist of this chaos. “now!” He barked snapping his hand against the side table to jostle the maid from her stagnant position. He had pulled his hand off of its spot on his sons head, he’d been stroking the light silver hair back since getting him into this bed.

“I’m quite a-a-alright.” You told the maid quickly, teeth were clattering so much that it took you so long to get that sentence out that the use of ‘alright’ was quite unbelievable.

Maekar could feel the chill that was emanating off your body behind him and suddenly he turned at once, wide shoulders clearing his way as he grabbed the soaked fabric around your waist and backed you up towards the bathing chambers.

“m’lord-Aegon needs you.” You start but are quickly turned around. You supposed it made sense that he could move you and your heavy waterlogged dress so easily, his strength during the rebellion had resulted in songs after all!

“Fucks sake”

You gasp when his fingers sink between the little spaces in the lacing down your back and he pulls the fabric and strings apart. All the grommets would be torn, it was completly wrecked. it was also handing down at your feet now, some relief did come from no longer being squeezed in by such cold fabric.

“He needs you to still be breathing when he wakes…” Maekar muttered out grabbing your chemise and tearing that fabric as if it was nothing more than a single piece of parchment.

He wasn’t wrong, staying dressed like this would have you catching your death. Had you been less panicked you would have likely attempted to get some of the layers off of you down by the pond but the adrenaline had not allowed for proper thinking.

“Your grace,” the maester called from the other room. There was alot of coughing and voices of people telling Aegon to lay back down. You shivered in front of him, back still turned away and your arms had wrapped around yourself half for warmth and half for shielding. You’d never been undressed with him present.

Your eyes facing forward was a gift to the prince because it gave him a moment to take in the sounds of life that were obvious in the other room. His son was alive. He wasn’t losing somebody else, he had not failed again. His chest deflated a bit as his eyes closed and he took in the coughing. They opened again when the maester called once more and he pressed his hands down against your shoulders.

The touch warmed you so much you whimpered a bit, his palms did not retract at the noise right away but when he heard your teeth begin to clatter together again he gave you a squeeze before letting go.

“Get in the bath.” He demanded, there was not alternative option that could even be thought of in your mind when you heard his tone. Instantly the maid came towards with warmed buckets of water and began filling the soaking tub that you had obediently stepped into.

He closed the door on his way out and as the warmth engulfed you your eyes began to close, the feeling of being okay mixed with the combination of your adrenaline crashing left you utterly exhausted.

The next thing you felt was a rumbling against your cheek. Which made you groan and shift about some.

“Give me that,” Maekar sighed pulling the blanket from the maids hands, his forhead had not relaxed for one second since the knight had entered his study two hours prior and told him what his youngest had been shouting as she came up towards the stables.

You leaned towards the sound and your arms, which finally felt less stiff, wrapped around your husbands neck as he lifted you from the now room tempature bath. The towel was draped over you but he was holding you to his chest so you were getting him quite wet.

“Have broth be brought to my chambers.” He directed and carried you from the maesters quarters through the keep. You hadn’t fully smarted to the concept that your husband, you husband who had not even kissed you on the lips when you married was holding you…letting you nuzzled your face against his warm neck. He knew you were seeking more heat.

Gradually, when he set you down in his bed, tucking the towel around the front of you now, you realized Maekar had been the one taking you from the bath. He did not like how red your cheeks still were of that your fingers were still slightly blue.

He’d had a conversation with Daella, an interrogation was more correct of a name for it thought because Maekar demanded to know exactly what had happened. How this, possibly deadly, mess came to be. He’d waited until she was in her thickest dress, wrapped in a fur and being given her favorite tea before he started but he had not given her any time to rest, he needed to know it all as soon as possible. He did not like having to use his imagination to fill in the blanks.

You grabbed the ends of the towel and pulled the fabric around you tighter brining your feet up as well so your knees were tucked into your chest. You’d never been in his chambers. It felt odd…almost intimate.

“you jumped into the water?” He was laying a dark fur across a chair near the fireplace.

“is he alright?” You finally spoke, voice a bit horse from all the shouting earlier.

“Do Starks believe they cannot freeze?” He glanced over his shoulder at you.

“no more than Targaryen think they cannot burn.” You exhale and straighten your shoulders. “Is Aegon well?” You insist to know. Surely he would not be speaking to you if the boy was dead, right?

Maekar shoulders raised a bit, like he had chuckled at your attempt to demand something from him but the sound did not quite reach your ears.

“he is already telling stories of fish frozen in place in the water.” He informed you, finally looking back at you and seeing the relief flood through you.

You smiled, a bright real thing and you chuckled a bit. He was as such a clown of a little boy, it was charming to you even if it came with some wreckless behavior.

“I think he was the only frozen thing in that pond.” You remark shaking your head a bit.

“I think my son is alive because you went down in that water to save him.”

The comment stopped your giggling instantly. It was serious and honest and…this was more sensitive than you had ever known him be. The intensity of his eyes on you, the shock witnessing his forehead ease, it made your skin tingle and every hair on your rise.

“you could have died attempting to rescue them from something that I know they have been warned about.”

You swallowed looking down gripping a bit tighter to the damp towel and you took a moment to figure out what it was that you should say…what you wanted to say.

“I love them Maekar, I could not just watch it happen.” You looked back up to him finding that he had made his way from in front of the fire back to the bedside, that he had taken his cloak off and had as currently undoing the laces that kept his tunic on.

“Thank you.”

You blinked, he’d not thanked you for anything in the 7 moons that had come to pass since you wed. It was obvious that he was not the type to lean to flattery in conversation. That did not bother you, not as much it might some other lady, it wasn’t as if people in the north were exceptionally warm.

Actually when you thought about it they were quite kind, deeply loyal and unmistakably dedicated to people…if they deserved it. If they had good reason to value the person infront of them.

Maekar was not much different. He did. Or bother with unwarranted flattery. You could appreciate that.

“You can go see them later, once you’re warm enough.” He assured you when it seemed like your attention drifted to the door.

“I will dress, I’m warm enough.” You made to stand but his hand was back on your shoulder again, stopping you in your tracks.

“I will deem when you are warm enough wife.”

His jaw tightening gave away that your surpised reaction to the title made him feel bad. Had he truly never used the term once? Was denying you any affection for his first wife’s sake or was it just him being cruel. He’d always told himself he was distance out of respect for Dyanna’s memory. What would she thinking about the women caring for her children never being thanked? Never being welcomed as she should have been into their family?

You watched his light eyes water and stayed still and silent. She must have been very kind…very beautiful. You had heard from the staff of the hall how deeply he had loved her, how he laughed with her.

When he cleared his throat and looked back down at you there was some new found understand of himself in his eyes. He’d hated you, simply because he resented that the longer you were around the more he noticed how attractive you were and worse…that he felt genuinely drawn to your personality. But What favor was he doing Dyanna, or his family by becoming more cold and bitter simply because he wanted to deny anything that brought him joy while she was not beside him?

When your shoulders shook twice, the shiver impossible to suppress Maekar came back to the moment. Back to you.

He motioned for you to stand up and finally undid the last tie that kept his chest covered.

“Clothes and a blanket would do.” You assured him, but your eyes were looking at the expanse of his chest..the pink skin there that you knew would be so warm.

“Body heat is best, I thought you’d know that. What did they teach you in Winterfell woman?” He raised a brow while you got up on your feet. Once you were up he touched your side, grunting at the damp towel that was wrapped there and he pulled it away, quickly pulling you in front of the fire. He sat down first in the chair and then looked to his lap. When you hesitated he sighed. The exasperation that you were used to seeing from him flaring up.

“you are my wife, it is not indecent to sit down.” He rolled his eyes a bit and his hand touched your bare back urging you down to his lap. Pulling the fur that had been warming in front of the flame over you at once. He felt your freezing fingers nervously grabbing at the fur, brushing against his stomach in the process. Quickly Maekar gathered them in one hand and brought them up to his neck cupping them there in that hot region.

You kept your eyes on him, waiting for his feeling for change, for him to suddenly decide again being so close to you. Especially in this state of undress. When he lifted your fingers up to his mouth and cupped them against his lips so he could blow warm air onto the icy digits you realized belatedly that he was not likely to push you away. You relaxed some as that understanding sunk into your mind, and you allowed yourself to sink back against him. Back naturally bent instead of all rigid to keep your figure away from his.

“your warm.” You breath out eyes closing as your cheek rested against one side of hai chest.

“Aye” he grunted in agreement. He would not of been sat beneath you if he wasn’t, he of found something warmer.

He could feel your legs curl up a bit so that your knees pressed to his side. He quickly brought a hand under the fur and wrapped it across your back and around your waist. Hand rubbing over your side pushing the chill off of you.

You savored the heat he offered and eventually you pulled your hands from his palm and held his shoulders rubbing slightly as you gained feeling back. It let him have use of his other hand to rub down the length of your leg and give your feet a few squeezes to ensure blood was flowing there as well.

His hand settled at your hip rubbing the join firmly as he looked down at you. His breathing had gotten a bit deeper, his nostrils flared some when he exhaled and you found that despite your mind telling you to look away from him your eyes were trapped on his. Your hands slowly sliding down from his muscular shoulders to his chest under the blanket and you trailed your fingertips over his pectoral muscles. Straightening some of the hair there as you went.

“I thought of this, before today.” He gripped you hip a bit harder and you pushed yourself instinctually against him more, chest to chest. He could feel how hard and cold your nipples were as they dragged across his chest. He knew how to warm those. It made his mouth salivate a bit.

“of what m’lord?” You blinked once before he slumped his head and down sought out your lips with his. Somehow that part of you was pink and warm and now he craved more contact there. Quickly raising his hand to hold your jaw up towards him so he could devour you in a kiss.

Your lips were clumsy and deeply unsure of what they should be doing but when he felt your soft tongue suddenly slip against his he groaned. You wanted him. He’d been to blind on the wedding night by his own mourning and guilt to notice that that nerves you were showing were those of uncertainty…and excitement. Not anxiety and disinterest. He felt even more guilty for his coldness now knowing that you would of been open to advances over that past many moons.

He groaned when you sat up some more to try and reach his mouth better, you’d been putting quite a bit of weight right over his lap…right over the growing bulge he had and now that that contact was lifted he could suddenly feel that aching need!

You moaned at his calloused hands drifting to your back, warm and thick fingers trailing against either side of your spine and you straighten up a bit which let the fur slip off of your shoulders, letting him see you better. The way her looked you up and down made you feel warmer than the bloody bath did.

When Maekar’s eyes raised back, finally, to meet your own after cataloging every inch of you he smiled, small, but it was unmistakably affection.

You lurched forward and kissed at the corner of his mouth where his lips at tilted up and you grinned the moment his hands found your bottom, callouses from his hilt feeling rough against that delicate pale skin.

You let your head fall back between your shoulders when his beard tickled your neck and his lips pressed pecks until he reached your collar bone and began to lay wet hungry kisses there. Your hand dropped from his chest and shoulder and one hand kept you stead in this position by holding his firm stomach, the other found its way to his breeches. Looking briefly up at him for assurance.

He groaned, deep and throat rattling and it was so assuring to you that you sunk your hand right down into the cloth and felt for him. He was hard and pulsing and extraordinarily erect so your fingers simply needed to fan out to feel him.

“it’s so hard…” you breath out, the earnestness of your surprise had his head spinning and pratically all of his blood rushing down to his cock.

“I am old, but not so old that my prick remains soft.” He lectured and you giggled a bit at the feeling of his hand squeezing your bum as a warning. Acknowledging your innocence, that he had denied you the understanding of how husband and wives function was to much for him to address internally at the moment so he’d decided to pretend you had been taunting him. That was easier for him!

“harder-“ he grunted hand sliding up your side looking for the handhold he wanted while your small fist wrapped around his shaft. “You can grip me tighter than that.” He breathed out nodding as you instantly corrected. “Good, that’s a good girl.” His four fingers settled wrapping against your ribs and his thumb splayed out under your breast lifting it up slightly and he puffed his chest out some to feel your hard nipple slide over his scarred skin.

“like this?” You looked at him bitting your lip as you squeezed much harder at his pulsing length and brought your hand up and down. Your fingers glided easily, he was producing plenty of lubricant himself. when his eyes closed while trying to reign in a moan and you leaned forward kissing the tension away. He held it in lines at the top of his noses bridge.

“I don’t deserve you.” He lowered his head when you kissed his forhead and his mouth dragged against the tops of your chest. It seemed like he was finding the perfect spot before settling in but when he did you gasped at the feeling of his tongue streching out to graze over one of your nipples.

“no…” you breathed out nodding a bit as you stroked him faster. “You don’t.” Your voice was breathy from how nice his mouth felt on your skin. How his nose nuzzled into the soft meat of your tits and he consumed as much of you as he could fit between his lips.

“Easy.” He warned you while his hand let go of your arse and he slipped his hand under your thigh finding your spot instantly because that part of you was radiating heat. You were wet as well, enough that he could feel that the raven black hair on your cunny was slicked into a mess.

When your hand faltered in its motion and your breath hitched at the suddenly presence of his fingertip dipping between you, breaching into your body, Maekar felt the shiver. Unsure if it was genuine chill or nerves he kissed your jaw and lifted you up with him as he got off the chair and then was over you on the fur rug infront of the fire.

“it’ll hurt-won’t it?” He could feel you tensing, feel your core squeezing at just the first bit of his finger entering. It was the princes turn to kiss you worry away, to stroke your cheek and hush you.

“it will hardly be worse than a frozen pond.” It was the truth, he wouldn’t offer you lies, and for that you were glad.

You breathed slowly, to calm yourself and soaked in the feeling of his hand on your hip, his weight leaned strategically against you, how he panted into your neck while slowly working two fingers into your core.

“Ahh!” You gasped at how filling they felt, at how odd…and electrifying it was to be able to feel him moving within you.

“Seven save me-“ he grunted kissing your lips and rubbing soothing with his thumb against your pearl. You realized quickly when an inner warmth began to bloom in your belly, that you would benefit greatly from his experience. He knew how to please a women. You suppose a man did not end up with as many children as he had without his wife wanting him in her bed!

He recognized the expression right away, the parting of your lips…the scrunching of your brows and how the column of your neck hallowed out a bit from how you tensed.

Your climax rolled through you before he could even comment on it. One moment you were getting stiff and tense under him, your knees rising up to push against into his sides and then next you were panting and as soft as dough under him.

Maekar pulled his soaked fingers from you and nodded at your whinny breathing. For a moment when you had clearly reached your release he considered ending it there. Letting you simply enjoy what had just happened. Though that whimpered strained noise you man when his hand was removed from you had the last good sense in him dissolving. You wanted more of him, wanted to feel him there between your legs.

“while you’re still calmed,” he pushed your hair back and then planted his bent elbow beside your head “I’ll- fuck me” he groaned his hand pulling his straining cock free from his breeches and instantly it slapped down against your swollen lips.

“please…” you mewd hands splayed out over your stomach where you had felt the intensity just moments ago.

Between your soft begs and the fact that he her not felt a women, in this way, for years Maekar could not resist a moment more. His eyes closed as he fed himself into your fluttering core. Pratically growling at how the warm squishy sensation of you hugged his prick so deliciously. His hand was fisted at your side, helping to keep him hovered above you some so he would not be fully engulfed by your sweet pussy.

“Oh gods” your teeth were clenched and your fingers dug in a bit to your stomach as it felt like his length began to displace things within you. He seemed large, it felt quite giant to you. Maekar’s hand suddenly went back to your hair the moment he saw your eyes fly shut and felt a warmth flood within you.

“That’s?” He picked up on the unease in your tone and saw how a little tear squeezed its way out of your shut eye. His hips stopped pushing ahead instantly. Actually he pulled out of you an inch or so. Glancing down to see the ring of blood around his shaft.

“it’s just blood…same as a cut.” He assured you, fingers flowing through your raven hair trying to bring you comfort. He wasn’t an overly affectionate or gentle man, and from what he saw you northern women did not want coddling. It made it easier for him to give you some small comforting remarks, ease that worry because this had been the first time he ever sense anxiety within you.

You breathed a bit slowly as the hand he had at your side rubbed under your clenched fingers to ease the tension in your lower belly. You opened you eyes now looking up at him, he was sweating some…the end sod his hair glued to his temple and the stern line between his brows was back. That worry was there for you, his concern and attention was on you in this moment, not the papers in his study, or a mess bis children created.

“it doesn’t really hurt.” You finally told him, it hadn’t ever really hurt, it was just pressure and a feeling you hadn’t anticipated.

“such a strong women.” He murmured. The affectionate tilt to his voice was not covered up at all by some put on huffing and puffing that you imagine he had not actually meant to say it outloud.

You looked down to see half of his cock was out of you and his body was being held up away from you. You wanted all of him-not just half!

“you are meant to be keeping me warm m’prince” Shivering for good measure before wrapping your feet up over him trying to weigh his back down so he would sink down against you.

He grinned some, hand shifting from your stomach to the small of your back and lifting you up towards him a bit more.

“Very well, wife.”

Finally Maekar pushed into you completely, in the manner that had started to haunt his mind over the past few moons when you were near him. He’d begun to have distasteful daydreams of pinning you to the break of fast table in his solar, stoping you on your walk to to rookery and pressing himself to you u til your back was flush against the stone wall. All of these imaginary scenarios ended the same.

His cock pressed fully into you. Tip twitching against your cervix and his stones slapping against you as he rocked in and out of you.

His mind has let him conjure up details about these various situation and still not one had come close to capturing how wonderful you felt beneath him, how dizzying the feeling of his cock engulfed fully within you left him!

“mmmm fucking hells” you swore when he continually bottomed out within you. The cursing made him kiss your jaw. He liked that you had a mouth on you, that you weren’t some sensitive flustered lady. Perhaps this pairing had been made with more thought, on his parents part, than just political strengthening?

“I can finish in my hand-“ your eyes searched for his instantly when he said that. “If you wish me too” he added after seeing the wave of worry in your eyes.

“n-no, I need-please keep going Maekar.” If not for a babe than at least for the orgasm that was building up in you so heavily that the tops of your ears felt heated.

Maekar kissed you, for a moment on the lips and then he pressed one to your temple, hand brushing down your hair and keeping your body pressed down towards his pelvis so your body took each thrust he gave, instead of getting bumped back and forth against the rug.

He felt how your hands squeezed at his sides, they were trembling a bit so he knew you were quite close to another peak. Finally you felt him start to lose his restraint, his weight was heavier over you, his hips rutting more than fully thrusting in and out. But you enjoyed that motion because it provide lovely contact for your clit against his pelvis. It had you moaning quite loudly-your eyes closing because you needed to focus on the intense wave building within you.

“ugh-“ he came with a low grunt, so deep that it came out muddled by vibrations and you gasped. Feeling him come appart, feeling his warm seed squish within you, it made you see stars.

Both of you were breathing heavily though your youth allowed you to revived before him.

“I must admit…I do feel quite warm now.”

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[darktargslut]

The Prince's Whore

Dark!Aerion Targaryen X Reader

SUMMARY: Kidnapped as a child and presumed dead, you survive years of abuse before becoming the kept woman of Prince Aerion Targaryen. In a world where survival means loving a monster, your fragile sense of safety shatters when your past resurfaces in the worst possible way. TW: rape, sexual abuse, sex trafficking, forced prostitution, domestic abuse, dubious consent, trauma bonding, graphic violence, torture, child endangerment, kidnapping, misogyny WC:25K

209 A.C Flea Bottom

The first thing you ever remembered was your brother’s hands.

Not your mother’s face, that was gone, worn away like a coin passed through too many fingers. You could summon the shape of her if you concentrated: the blurred watermark of a jawline, the suggestion of a mouth that laughed like a cracked bell, the smell of cheap wine and cheaper perfume that clung to her hair long after she stopped breathing. But her face? No. That belonged to the dark now, along with everything else from before.

But the hands, those you remembered. Dunk’s hands. Too large for a boy of eight, the knuckles already crosshatched with scars from street fights and kitchen fires, but impossibly gentle as they lifted you from the straw mattress where your mother lay cold and still. You had been five years old. You had not understood death, only that Mother would not wake. It was Dunk who wrapped you in a blanket thin enough to see through. Dunk who carried you out into the grey morning, your face pressed to his neck so you would not see the body being hauled away. Dunk who said, in a voice that splintered because he was barely more than a child himself, “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

And he had, you slept in doorways at first, curled together like kittens against the cold that seeped up through the cobblestones. Dunk learned quickly which bakers threw out day old bread and which watchmen could be bribed with a sad eyed look. He found work at an inn in Flea Bottom and the innkeeper’s wife let you sleep in the stables so long as Dunk scrubbed the floors and hauled the kegs and made himself useful in a dozen small ways. You would sit in the corner while he worked, your knees drawn up to your chin, watching him. Watching the boy melt away, season by season, into something that looked more like a man. He grew taller and broader and harder, his shoulders widening, his voice dropping. He was three years older than you, but sometimes he felt like thirty. He had never been a child. Neither of you had.

But you had each other. And that was enough. It had to be.

Every night, after his labors were done, Dunk would come to you in the stables. He would reek of sweat and sour ale, and he would lower himself onto the hay beside you with a groan that belonged to a man three times his age. And then he would tell you stories he’d gathered like dropped coins from travelers and old soldiers and the septon who sometimes came to beg a bowl of soup. Stories of knights who never faltered, dragons who spoke in riddles, castles of white stone that caught the sunrise like mirrors. Maidens so beautiful that kingdoms burned for a single glance.

You were twelve when the men began to notice you. It happened on an ordinary night, with an ordinary drunk who’d had too much ale and too little sense. You were carrying a tray of empty cups back to the kitchen, your arms aching with the weight, when a hand came out of nowhere and closed on your backside. You froze, no understanding of what the sudden heat crawling up your neck meant or why your body had locked itself rigid as a board. The man laughed and then Dunk was there.

One moment the drunk was leering at you, his hand still on your body, and the next he was on the floor with blood fountaining from his nose and Dunk standing over him like a thunderhead. He threw the man out into the mud, and when he came back inside his hands were trembling with a rage so profound it seemed to warp the air around him. “Stay close to me,” he said, and it was not a request. His voice was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that lives on the far side of fury. “Always. Do you understand? Always.”

You understood. From that day forward, you were never more than arm’s reach from your brother. When he walked to the market, you walked beside him, your fingers sometimes hooked into the rope that acted like a belt, when the crowds pressed too close. The men still looked, by fourteen, you had grown into the kind of beauty that stilled conversations mid sentence, your mother’s eyes and your unknown father’s soft mouth arranged on a face that seemed to belong in a ballad rather than a Flea Bottom inn, but they looked from a distance. Dunk saw to that.

You were inseparable. Joined at the hip, the innkeeper’s wife liked to say, shaking her head with a fondness that bordered on bewilderment. “Never seen the like. That boy would tear the world apart for his little sister.”

You were sixteen when everything ended. The festival came in the spring, an eruption of color and noise that spilled from the gates of the Red Keep and flooded through the city like a tide. Mummers on stilts, jugglers with flaming torches, singers with harps slung across their backs, knights in armor that caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand glittering shards. Dunk had been given the night off—a rarity—and he had taken your hand with a grin you hadn’t seen since you were children hiding from the rain under a stolen tarp. “Come on,” he said, and his eyes were bright in a way that made your chest ache.

You laughed and followed. The crowd was too thick. The torches made everything swim, light and shadow bleeding together until faces became masks and masks became faces. Dunk kept his hand clamped around your arm for the first hour, his grip unwavering, but then a knot of drunkards staggered between you and in the space of a single heartbeat, you lost him.

“Dunk?”

You rose onto your toes, straining above the heads of the crowd. You saw him turn, saw his mouth open to call back to you, saw the sudden alarm flash across his features, and then the surge of bodies carried you sideways, a riptide of flesh and noise, and you stumbled into an alley to escape the crush.

That was when they took you. There were three of them. You never saw their faces clearly, only hands. Rough and quick and impossibly strong, one clamping over your mouth, another banding around your waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You tried to scream. You bit down on the palm pressed against your lips, tasted blood and salt and felt the man curse and shift his grip, but there was no time. A sack came down over your head, coarse and stinking of something you did not want to name, and the world went dark and muffled and small.

The last thing you heard was the festival. The music, the laughter, the endless churn of celebration. It went on without you, as if you had never been there at all.

Dunk searched for three days. He did not sleep. He did not eat. He tore through Flea Bottom like a storm given flesh, overturning carts and kicking down doors, bellowing your name until his voice shredded into something barely human. He went to the City Watch, and they laughed, a girl from the slums, what did he expect? He went to the sept, and the septon only clasped his hands and murmured prayers that tasted like ash. He went to every inn, every brothel, every lightless corner of the city where a girl might be hidden or sold or worse, and he found nothing. Nothing. Nothing and nothing again.

On the fourth day, a woman came to him, she found him in the alley where you had vanished, sitting against the wall with his head in his hands, and she knelt beside him.

“You’re the one,” she said. Not a question. “Looking for the girl with the H/C hair. The pretty one.”

Dunk’s head came up so fast his neck cracked. “Where is she?”

The woman shook her head. Slowly. Deliberately. A gesture that held everything he did not want to know. “They found her in the water this morning, lad. Some men…” She paused, and something that might have been pity flickered across her ruined face. “They took her. And when they were done—” Her hands made a twisting motion, a brutal pantomime that needed no translation. “The women who found her said she was hardly recognizable. They’ve already burned the body. Too much damage, they said. You don’t want to see that. Trust me. You’re better off remembering her the way she was.”

Dunk did not speak. He simply sat there, staring at the woman’s face, and something inside him cracked straight down the middle and bled dry.

“Who?” His voice did not sound like his voice. “Who did it?”

“No one knows. Drunkards, maybe. Travelers passing through. They’re long gone now.” The woman rose, joints creaking, and looked down at him with something that was not quite pity and not quite indifference. “I’m sorry, lad. Truly.”

She left him there. And Dunk stayed. He stayed in that alley as the sun bled out and the moon rose pale and indifferent and the city settled into its night noises around him. His little sister was dead. He had promised—promised—to protect her, and she was dead. And the world, which had never been kind to either of them, now seemed to hold no color.

—

213 A.C Ashford

The gardens of Ashford Castle were not as grand as the ones in Summerhall but they were still beautiful. You had been here for less than a fortnight, arrived as part of Prince Maekar's retinue for the tourney celebrating Lord Ashford's daughter's nameday, and already the place had worked its way under your skin. The roses were in full bloom, cascading over stone walls in waves of crimson and gold and softest pink. The hedges were trimmed into the shapes of birds and beasts.

The little girl was running through the grass ahead of you, her silver gold hair streaming behind her like a banner caught in a high wind, her bare feet slapping against the earth with the unselfconscious joy of someone who had never known hunger or fear or the back of a stranger's hand. She was two years old, small for her age but fierce, so fiercely alive that it stopped your breath sometimes, with violet eyes that missed nothing and a laugh that could fill an entire hall and still demand more room.

"Rhaenyra," you called, and you tried to sound stern, you really did, but the smile kept breaking through no matter how firmly you set your jaw. "Come back here before you trip and ruin that dress."

"Won't," the child announced, with the absolute conviction of someone who had never been wrong about anything in her life, and kept running.

You sighed, gathered your skirts in both hands, and gave chase. The dress you wore was finer than anything you had owned before Aerion had claimed you, a gift he had given you specifically for this journey. Pale blue silk that whispered when you moved, with silver embroidery at the sleeves and neckline. He had wanted you to look presentable at Ashford. You suspected, though you had not said it aloud, that he also wanted to show you off. To remind his family, and perhaps himself, what he possessed.

You were twenty years old now, no longer the trembling girl who had been thrown into a black carriage while a brothel burned behind her, no longer the hollow eyed creature who had learned to disappear inside her own body while men did what they pleased. The past months and years had reshaped you, smoothed some of the sharp edges and hardened others.

But there was something new in you now, something forged in the long nights of learning to survive Aerion Targaryen and the longer days of learning to love your daughter. You knew how to bend without breaking. And you knew, with a certainty that lived in your bones like marrow, that you would kill any living soul who tried to harm your child.

Rhaenyra had tripped over an exposed root and was sitting in the grass, more affronted than injured, examining a smudge of dirt on her palm with the grave concentration of a maester confronted with an ancient and inscrutable text. You scooped her up before the tears could organize themselves, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in the smell of sunshine and crushed grass and something warm and sweet that was just her.

"Told you," you murmured into her hair. "You fell."

"Didn't cry," Rhaenyra pointed out. This was technically true, and there was a note of such fierce pride in her small voice that your heart performed an odd, painful little flip in your chest.

"No," you agreed, pulling back to look at her solemn face. "You didn't. You're a brave little dragon, aren't you?"

The child beamed. She adored being called a dragon. It was one of the few gifts Aerion had given her that did not make your stomach twist into complicated knots. This inheritance of fire and blood and the unshakeable conviction that she was meant for something magnificent.

You carried her back toward the castle, her small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, her voice a ceaseless ribbon of chatter about the butterfly she had almost caught and the bird that had flown directly over her head and the flower she had picked that was pink, Mama, pink and pretty and can I keep it forever please please please. You made the appropriate sounds of wonder and encouragement, your eyes scanning the courtyard as you crossed it, your body perpetually aware of who was watching.

The servants of Ashford avoided your gaze, much as the ones at Summerhall did. They had learned, over the course of the tourney's first days, to treat you with a careful neutrality. Not quite respect, not quite disdain, something suspended in the ambiguous space between. They knew what you were. Prince Aerion's paramour. The woman he had brought with him from Summerhall, installed in a guest chamber near his own, paraded through the grounds like a provocative piece of art he wanted everyone to see whether they wished to or not. They did not speak to you unless absolutely necessary, did not meet your eyes, did not acknowledge the child in your arms except to incline their heads stiffly and step aside.

Ashford Castle was a crowded place during the tourney. Lord Ashford's daughter Gwin had turned thirteen, and to honor her nameday, her father had declared a tourney that would last five days. Knights and lords from across the Reach and beyond had gathered to compete, their banners snapping in the spring breeze, their pavilions spreading across the fields like a crop of colorful mushrooms.

Prince Maekar's entire family had come with his children. You saw them sometimes, in the corridors or the courtyards or the great hall at supper, but you never spoke to them. You were not permitted. Prince Maekar had made that blisteringly clear from the very beginning, his voice cold with a disgust he did not bother to disguise.

"The woman stays in her chambers," he had told Aerion when he first met you. "I will not have her parading about in front of the children. She is a whore, Aerion. A whore and you will not embarrass this family."

Aerion had not argued. He rarely argued with his father directly. But he had kept you anyway, had dressed you in silk and silver, had installed you in a room that connected to his own. And now you were here, carrying your daughter back toward the keep while the roses nodded in the breeze and the distant sounds of the tourney grounds drifted over the walls like distant thunder. You had not been permitted to attend the jousts. Not since the yesterday.

You closed your eyes for a moment against the memory. It had been horrible. Aerion's tilt against Ser Humfrey. You had been watching from the stands, Rhaenyra on your lap, your heart in your throat the way it always was when he rode. He was a skilled jouster, your prince, but he rode with a recklessness that bordered on suicidal, and sometimes you thought he would not be satisfied until he left someone broken in the dirt.

This time, he had aimed too low. Deliberately, you were almost certain, though you would never say so aloud. His lance had struck Ser Humfrey's horse in the neck, a brutal, illegal blow that sent the animal crashing to the ground with a scream that would haunt your nightmares for weeks. Ser Humfrey had been thrown, his leg twisted at an angle that made your stomach lurch, and the horse had thrashed in the dirt with blood pumping from its throat.

The crowd had broken through the barriers. Prince Baelor Breakspear himself had risen from his seat, his face a mask of disgust, and you had seen the way he looked at Aerion. The way everyone looked at Aerion. Like he was something monstrous. Something broken beyond repair.

Aerion had found you afterward, still flushed with adrenaline, his eyes too bright. He had forbidden you from attending any more of the jousts.

"It's not safe," he had said, his grip on your arm just shy of bruising. "The crowds are unpredictable. The horses are dangerous. You and Rhaenyra will stay in the castle or the gardens. I don't want you anywhere near the lists."

You had not argued. You rarely argued with him about things that mattered. But you had seen the truth behind his words, the truth he would never admit. He did not want you to see him lose. He did not want you to see the way the other knights looked at him after what he had done.

So you had stayed away. You had walked in the gardens, and played with Rhaenyra, and smiled your careful smile whenever Aerion returned to your chambers in the evenings, bruised and bristling and desperate for the praise only you could give him.

"Up," Rhaenyra demanded as you approached the castle's side entrance. "Up high, Mama. I want to see."

You lifted her higher, settling her higher on your hip with the practiced ease of two years of motherhood, and she gazed around the corridor with the same wide eyed wonder she brought to everything. You loved her so much it scared you sometimes. Loved her with a ferocity that made the love you had felt for your own mother, dim and distant and blurred at the edges, seem like a candle held up against the sun.

"You spoil her."

The voice came from behind you, and you did not startle. Months with Aerion had taught you the particular cadence of his footsteps, the faint jingle of the sword he wore even at peace, the way the air in a room seemed to tighten and grow watchful when he entered. You turned, shifting Rhaenyra to your other hip with a fluidity that had become second nature, and offered him the smile you had perfected over your time together.

It was not a false smile. That was the strange thing, the thing that still surprised you when you stopped to examine it. It was not false at all. There was calculation in it, yes. There was calculation in everything you did, a habit you could not have broken if you tried. But there was warmth there too. The warmth of a woman looking at a man she had somehow, against all odds and reason, come to care for.

Love. The word still felt strange in your mouth, like a garment that did not quite fit. Aerion was not kind. He was not gentle. He was not good, in any sense that your brother Dunk would have recognized. But he was yours, in his possessive, consuming, infuriating way, and you were his, and somewhere in the crucible of the past years, that mutual belonging had transmuted into something that looked, from certain angles, remarkably like love.

He was not a tall man, standing at five and a half feet, and you knew it rankled at him. Knew that every inch he lacked compared to the warriors he trained with was a splinter under his skin. But what he lacked in height he more than compensated for in presence. The way his boots struck the stone floors, deliberate and commanding. The sharp, hawkish beauty of his face, all angles and shadows. The particular weight of his attention when it landed on you, heavy as a hand on your shoulder.

"My dragon," you said, and the word was warm, intimate, a private jest between you that no one else would recognize. "She wanted to explore the gardens. You know how she loves the roses."

He stepped closer, and Rhaenyra immediately lunged toward him, her small arms outstretched, her face alight with the uncomplicated adoration of a child who had never been given a reason to fear her father. "Papa! Papa, I found a flower!"

She had dropped the flower somewhere in the garden, of course. You had seen it fall, a little pink bruise against the green grass, left behind in her headlong rush toward the next thing and the next and the next. But Aerion did not know that, and you suspected he would not have cared if he did. He took the girl from your arms with an ease that still surprised you, settling her against his chest as naturally as if he had been doing it all his life.

Aerion, who was never gentle with anyone. Aerion, whose hands had left bruises on your body in the early days. Aerion, who had aimed his lance at a horse's throat and watched it die without flinching.

But Rhaenyra had never seen that side of him. Rhaenyra saw only the father who bounced her on his knee and called her his little dragon and looked at her as if she were the single good thing he had managed to produce in a life full of sharp edges and bad decisions. And you saw both versions of him, the monster and the man, and you had learned to hold them both in your mind at once, to love the whole complicated, contradictory mess of him.

"A flower," Aerion repeated, bouncing Rhaenyra gently against his chest. "What color?"

"Pink!"

"Pink," he said, with the solemnity of a man receiving a sacred revelation. "Pink is an excellent color. You have impeccable taste."

Rhaenyra giggled, burying her face in the curve of his neck, and Aerion's eyes met yours over the top of her head. There was something in his gaze. A flicker of warmth, a flicker of something that might have been gratitude. It made your heart clench in that way you had long since stopped trying to explain away.

I love him, you thought, and the thought did not feel like a lie. It felt like the truth, strange and inconvenient and slightly terrifying though it was. Gods help me, I truly do.

You knew what people would say if they could hear your thoughts. How can you love him? After what he did to that horse? After what he did to you? After what he is? And they would not be wrong to ask. The early days had been brutal; there was no use pretending otherwise. He had hurt you, in ways that still surfaced in your dreams on bad nights. He had fucked you without asking, had demanded without giving, had treated your body like territory to be conquered and your compliance like tribute to be extracted.

But then something had shifted. Slowly, incrementally, in the way of seasons changing. He had begun to see you. The woman who praised him when no one else would. The woman who listened to his fears and his rages and his strange, tangled dreams of dragonfire and destiny. The woman who had given him a daughter and held his hand through the disappointment and taught him, patient as a stone worn smooth by water, how to be something other than cruel.

And you had seen him, the man underneath, the one who craved praise because he had never received it, the one who lashed out because he had never learned another way to ask for what he needed. You had seen him, and against all wisdom, against all self preservation, you had loved him.

He still hurt you, sometimes. When his black moods descended and his hands grew rough and the words that came out of his mouth were designed to wound. But those moments were rarer now, spaced further and further apart, and after each one he would come to you with his arms full of gifts. Dresses of silk and velvet, jewels that glittered in their velvet nests, books with leather bindings and gold leaf on the pages that you devoured in the quiet hours when he was training and Rhaenyra was napping. He would hold you afterward, his face pressed into your hair, his arms wrapped around you like a cage he was afraid you might slip through.

"You understand me," he would whisper, and his voice would crack on the words in a way that made your heart splinter. "You're the only one who does. The only one who ever has. Don't leave me. Promise me you won't leave."

And you, holding him in the dark, would stroke his short silver hair and murmur the words he needed to hear. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm yours."

You meant them, too. That was the strangest part. After everything, you meant them.

Where would I even go? you thought, watching him bounce your daughter in his arms in this borrowed garden in a borrowed castle, surrounded by roses that belonged to someone else.

You looked at Rhaenyra, at the small, fierce face that was so clearly her father's, and you thought about the day she had been born.

It had been the longest day of your life.

The labor had lasted nearly eighteen hours. You had screamed until your voice gave out entirely, had bitten straight through the leather strap the midwife had given you, had prayed to gods you had not believed in since childhood to make it stop, please make it stop, I can't do this, I'm going to die, please let me die. Aerion had paced outside the door like a caged animal, his boots wearing a groove in the stone, demanding updates every few minutes and threatening bodily harm to the maester whenever the news was not to his liking.

"Is it a boy?" he had shouted through the door, over and over, his voice fraying at the edges. "Tell me it's a boy. It has to be a boy. I'm going to name him Maegor. A strong name. A dragon's name. Tell me!"

You had heard him, even through the wall of agony that had swallowed the world, and you had felt a cold dread settle into the pit of your stomach like a stone dropped into deep water. Maegor. He wanted to name his son after Maegor the Cruel. You had prayed then, harder than you had ever prayed in your life, with what remained of your shredded voice and your failing strength. Not a boy. Please, not a boy. Whatever else you give me, don't give me a boy who will carry that name.

The gods, for once in their capricious existence, had listened.

When the baby had finally emerged, slick and furious and impossibly, breathtakingly alive, the maester had looked between her tiny legs and pronounced, with the careful neutrality of a man who knew exactly how dangerous this moment was: "A girl, my prince. A healthy girl."

The silence that followed had been more terrifying than any scream.

Aerion had burst into the room, his face pale as milk, his short hair standing up in wild disarray from running his hands through it for eighteen hours. He had stared at the child in the maester's arms. At the tuft of silver gold hair plastered to her scalp, at the violet eyes that were already open and glaring at the world with an indignation that seemed profoundly personal. His expression had twisted into something ugly.

"A girl," he had said, and his voice was flat. Hollow. A room with all the furniture removed. "I waited nine moons. Nine moons. For a girl."

He had not touched you. He had not touched the baby. He had simply turned on his heel and walked out of the room, and you had heard his boots ring down the corridor, and then the distant slam of a door, and then nothing.

The next three days had been the darkest of your new life. Aerion did not come to your room. He did not send for you. He did not acknowledge the existence of the child at all. He ate his meals with his family, trained in the yard with a brutality that left his sparring partners bloodied and bewildered, and refused to speak to anyone who so much as mentioned the baby's existence. The girl, the servants called her in whispers, because she had no name yet, and a child without a name was a ghost.

You lay in your bed, your body slowly knitting itself back together, your breasts aching with milk, and you held your daughter against your chest and wondered if this was the end. If Aerion would cast you both out, send you back to the streets of King's Landing with nothing but the clothes on your back and a bastard child in your arms. You made plans in the dark hours. Foolish, desperate plans, the kind of plans that only seemed reasonable at three in the morning when you were alone and terrified and your stitches still pulled every time you moved. You would run. You would find Dunk if he was still alive, throw yourself at his feet, beg him to take you back even though you were ruined and used and nothing like the sister he had lost. You would find work, honest work, kitchen work, anything, and you would raise your daughter to be strong and fierce and free, and she would never, ever know what it felt like to be owned.

But on the fourth day, the door had opened.

Aerion stood in the frame, and you barely recognized him. His eyes were ringed with shadows so dark they looked like bruises, his short hair a disheveled mess, his fine clothes rumpled and stained as if he had been sleeping in them, or not sleeping at all. He had been wrestling with something, you realized. Himself, his pride, his expectations, his disappointment. And from the look of him, he had lost.

"Let me see her," he said. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw, as if he had been shouting or weeping or both. "Let me see my daughter."

You did not trust yourself to speak. You simply lifted the baby from your chest. She was awake, her violet eyes tracking the movement with that unnerving intensity newborns sometimes had. And you held her out toward him.

Aerion approached slowly, cautiously, like a man approaching a wounded animal that might bite. He looked down at the small, wrinkled face, at the silver gold fuzz on her head, at the tiny fists that clenched and unclenched in the air as if she were already fighting battles only she could see. And something in his expression shifted. Not softened. Aerion did not soften, not in any way you had ever witnessed. But cracked. A fissure in the ice, unexpected and profound.

"She looks like me," he said. It was not a question.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice still ruined from screaming. "She's a true dragon, my prince. Just like her father."

He reached out one finger, just one, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly, and touched the baby's cheek. Rhaenyra turned her head toward the contact, her tiny mouth opening and closing in that instinctive rooting reflex.

"Rhaenyra," he said. "I'll call her Rhaenyra."

You knew the name, of course. Everyone in Westeros knew the name. The princess who had been called Maegor with teats, who had fought a war that tore the realm in half and refused to surrender even when the odds were hopeless. It was a name soaked in controversy, in blood, in the stubborn refusal to be anything other than what she was. It was a cruel name to give an infant daughter, in some ways. A challenge. A provocation. A reminder that girls could be as dangerous as boys, if they were bold enough.

But it was not Maegor. It was not the name of the Cruel. And on that fourth day, with your daughter finally named and Aerion's hand resting awkwardly, almost shyly, on your shoulder, you had decided to be grateful for small mercies.

"Rhaenyra," you repeated, trying the name on your tongue. It tasted like strength. Like fire. Like survival. "My little dragon."

And now, two years later, watching that same daughter tug impatiently at Aerion's doublet while he laughed, that hope had only grown. Rhaenyra was fierce and stubborn and clever and alive, so vibrantly alive, and you would make certain she stayed that way. You would die before you let that happen. You would kill before you let that happen. And the truth of that, the absolute crystalline certainty of it, was the most liberating thing you had ever felt.

"Y/N."

Aerion's voice pulled you back from the precipice of memory. He was watching you over Rhaenyra's silver gold head, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and irritation.

"You're brooding again," he said. "You get that look on your face when you're thinking too hard. I've told you. I don't like it."

You let your expression shift, the distant look replaced by something warmer, more present. But you did not apologize; you had learned, over your time together, that apologizing for your thoughts only made him more suspicious. Instead, you reached out and straightened the collar of his doublet, letting your fingers brush the skin of his throat, a gesture of casual intimacy that you knew he craved even if he would never admit it.

"I was thinking about how happy she looks," you said, and it was the truth, or a version of it. "You make her happy, Aerion. You know that, don't you?"

He grunted, but you caught the flicker of satisfaction that crossed his features before he could suppress it. Praise. He could never get enough of it, had been starved for it his entire life, and you had learned to feed him with the same regularity you fed your daughter. All this time, and he still turned toward your words like a flower toward the sun, drinking in every affirmation, every acknowledgment, every whispered you are magnificent, you are powerful, you are loved.

"She's a dragon," Aerion said, adjusting Rhaenyra on his hip with practiced ease. "Dragons don't get sad. They incinerate the things that upset them."

"Papa," Rhaenyra said, with the sudden, intense solemnity that only a two-year-old can muster, "I want to incinerate something."

Aerion threw back his head and laughed. A real laugh, full throated and genuine, the kind of laugh that transformed his sharp features into something almost boyish, almost approachable. "That's my girl," he said, and pressed a kiss to her forehead with an uncharacteristic tenderness. "That's my little dragon. We'll find you something to burn later."

You watched them, this strange, fierce man and this strange, fierce child, and your heart performed that complicated maneuver it had been practicing for years, folding affection and exasperation and hope and fear all into one impossible shape.

This is real, you told yourself. Whatever else is happening, whatever else they say about us, this is real. He is my Aerion, and she is my daughter, and this is my life, and it is real.

Aerion shifted Rhaenyra to his other arm and extended his free hand toward you. His earlier tension seemed to have eased, replaced by something almost eager, a restless energy that crackled just beneath his skin.

"There's a play tonight," he said. "Some puppeteers have set up in the village. I've heard it's about a dragon." His mouth curved into that sharp, knowing smile you had come to recognize. "I thought we might go after supper. You and me and the little dragon here. She should see something worthy of her name."

Rhaenyra's head came up at the word dragon, her violet eyes bright. "A dragon play, Papa?"

"A dragon play," Aerion confirmed, tweaking her nose. "With fire and scales and everything a proper dragon ought to have. Would you like that?"

Rhaenyra's shriek of delight was answer enough. She bounced in his arms, clapping her small hands together, already launching into a stream of questions about whether the dragon would be big or small, whether it would breathe real fire, whether she could meet it afterward and be its friend.

You smiled, and this time there was no calculation in it at all. Aerion was trying. In his own strange, possessive way, he was trying. He had brought you to Ashford to wound his cousin, yes. He had paraded you in front of his family like a trophy, yes. But he was also here, in this sunlit corridor, planning an evening at a play with his paramour and his bastard daughter, and there was something in his face that you had learned to recognize as hope.

"That sounds wonderful," you said, and meant it. "Rhaenyra will be talking about it for weeks."

"She'll be talking about it regardless," Aerion said dryly. "The child never stops talking. She gets that from you."

"From me?" You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense. "I am the very soul of silence, my prince."

Aerion snorted. It was an undignified sound, entirely at odds with the sharp, cruel prince the rest of the world knew. "You are a terrible liar, Y/N. You always have been."

But he was smiling when he said it, and when he offered you his arm, you took it without hesitation. Rhaenyra was still chattering about dragons, her small voice filling the corridor with improbable questions and even more improbable declarations. Aerion answered her with patience, with warmth, with the particular tenderness he reserved for her alone.

And you walked beside them through the halls of Ashford Castle, your hand on Aerion's arm, your daughter's laughter echoing off the stones, and for this moment, this single bright moment, you let yourself believe that everything would be all right.

—

The screaming started before you understood what was happening.

One moment there had been music, the thin reedy piping of a flute and the thump of a hand drum, and Rhaenyra had been bouncing on your hip with her small hands clapping together in delight. The painted dragon had been swaying above the stage on its strings, its wings catching the torchlight, its jaws opening and closing in roar while the puppeteer below made a rumbling growl deep in her throat to give it voice. Rhaenyra had laughed. You could still hear the echo of that laugh, bright and silver and utterly without fear.

Then Aerion and the white cloaks moved, and the world splintered. The first tent pole went down with a sound like a thunderclap. Silk billowed inward, red and gold and orange, catching the torchlight and becoming flame even as it fell. People were screaming. People were running. A woman stumbled into you from behind and you curled around Rhaenyra on pure instinct, your spine curving, your arms locking, your body becoming a shell with your daughter at its center. Someone's elbow drove into your ribs and you felt something grind and shift and send a bright white bolt of pain up your side.

"Mama," Rhaenyra whimpered, and her voice was small, so terribly small, the voice of a child who did not understand why the world had turned cruel between one heartbeat and the next. "Mama, I want to go. I want to go home."

"Shh," you breathed into her hair, though your own voice was shaking so badly the word hardly had a shape. "Shh, my love, my dragon, Mama's here. Mama's got you. Close your eyes, sweetling. Close your eyes and it will be over soon."

She buried her face in the curve of your throat. You could feel her tears, hot and wet, soaking through the silk of your gown. You could feel her heart beating against your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. You could feel every tremor that ran through her small body, and each one was a knife slipped between your ribs.

The guard Aerion had assigned to you stood at your back like a statue carved from ice. Ser Harrold, his name was, you had begged him to escort you from the pavilion the moment the violence began. You had turned to him with Rhaenyra clutched against your chest and pleaded with him to let you leave, to let you take your daughter somewhere safe, somewhere the screaming did not reach.

He had looked at you with eyes that held no more warmth than a winter pond. "Prince's orders," he had said, and the words fell from his mouth like stones dropped into still water. "You stay until he says otherwise."

"But she's frightened," you had said, and you had hated the tremor in your voice, hated the way it made you sound weak when you needed to be strong. "She's two years old, Ser Harrold. She doesn't understand what's happening. Please."

"Prince's orders," he had repeated, and he had not looked at you again.

On the stage, Aerion had the puppeteer by the wrist. She was young. That was the detail that lodged itself in your memory like a splinter, the detail that would come back to you in the dark hours of the night for years afterward. She was young, perhaps your age. Her mouth was open in a scream that you could not hear over the roaring of the crowd, and her free hand was beating uselessly against Aerion's chest, against his arm, against the unyielding iron of his grip.

She had made a dragon out of paint and wood and string. She had painted scales on its wings with her own hands, had worked its jaws with her own fingers, had given it a voice that made children laugh and grown men cheer. She had made the terrible, fatal mistake of letting her dragon be killed in the story she told. The knight had slain it with his sword and the audience had gasped and clapped and cheered the hero's victory.

Aerion had not cheered. Aerion had stared with a face like a thunderhead, and then the Kingsguard had begun to move, and now he was on the stage with the puppeteer's wrist in his hand and her dragon lying forgotten at his feet.

He started with her fingers. The first one broke with a sound like a dry branch snapping underfoot in the depths of winter. It was surprisingly quiet, that sound, almost delicate, almost polite. The puppeteer's index finger bent backward at an angle that made your stomach contract violently, and she screamed, a high thin shriek that cut through the chaos of the pavilion like a blade through silk.

Rhaenyra flinched in your arms. "Mama," she whimpered, "why is the lady screaming? Is she hurt? Mama, I want to go."

"Close your eyes, sweetling," you whispered again, and your voice was breaking now, splintering into pieces you could not put back together. "Close your eyes and think of something nice. Think of the roses in the garden. Think of the pink flower you picked. Think of anything but this."

The second finger broke wetter than the first. A muffled, grinding crack that seemed to echo in the hollow of your chest. The puppeteer's legs gave out beneath her, but Aerion held her up by her ruined hand,ìand his face, his beautiful face that you had kissed and praised and learned to love, was alight with something that went beyond cruelty into a territory you had no name for.

Pleasure. A bright, burning pleasure that lit him from within like a lantern lights a room. His violet eyes were wide and shining, his lips parted slightly around his bloodied teeth, his breath coming in short sharp bursts that were almost sexual in their rhythm. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying this in a way he had never enjoyed a single moment of the years you had spent together, and the realization crashed into you like a wave into rocks, cold and brutal and undeniable.

You love him, you had thought earlier in the gardens. No, you hate him. That was the horror of it, the horror that would never leave you no matter how many years passed. You loved him, you loved the father of your child, you loved the man who had burned down a brothel for you. You loved him, and he was standing on a stage in a village called Ashford, breaking a girl's fingers one by one because her puppet show had insulted his pride.

The third finger made a sound like a walnut being crushed in a vise.

"Please," you heard yourself saying, and you did not know if you were speaking to Aerion or to Ser Harrold or to the gods who had never listened to a single prayer you had ever sent their way. "Please, someone stop him. Someone make him stop."

Ser Harrold's hand closed around your upper arm, immobilizing you. He was wearing gauntlets, the leather stiff and unyielding against your skin. "Hold still," he said, and his voice was the voice of a man who had learned long ago that obedience was safer than conscience.

The puppeteer's fourth finger snapped.

Then the giant came out of the crowd. His hair was dirty blonde, cut short against his skull in a way that suggested practicality rather than fashion, and it was matted with sweat and dust and something that might have been blood. His face was a shadowed blur in the torchlight, his features obscured by the angle and the distance and the chaos, but his size. Gods above and below, his size.

He was enormous. Seven feet of bone and muscle and righteous fury, with shoulders broad enough to block out the firelight behind him and hands the size of dinner plates curled into fists at his sides. He did not slow. He did not hesitate. He cleared the edge of the stage in a single stride, and then he was on Aerion, and his fist was connecting with the prince's face with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil.

Aerion staggered backward. His grip on the puppeteer's wrist broke, and she crumpled to the stage in a heap of brown wool and ruined hands, sobbing. Blood flew from Aerion's mouth in a dark arc that caught the torchlight and glittered like rubies scattered across the stage. He hit the wooden planking hard, his head snapping back against the boards, and for one impossible, crystalline moment, the entire pavilion went silent.

Then the Kingsguard moved. They came from every direction at once, white cloaks streaming behind them like wings, white enameled armor flashing in the firelight. Six of them. Seven. More, perhaps. They swarmed the big man the way wolves swarm a bear, throwing themselves onto his back and his arms and his legs, trying to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers. He fought them. Gods, he fought them. You saw one Kingsguard reel backward with blood pouring from the visor of his helm. You saw another take an elbow to the throat and go down choking, clawing at his gorget. You saw the big man's fists rise and fall and rise again with the relentless rhythm of a blacksmith's hammer, each blow carrying the weight of a righteous anger that no amount of white armor could withstand.

But there were too many. There were always too many. They dragged at his legs and his arms and his neck, six white cloaked knights and then seven and then eight, and still he nearly threw them off, still he nearly got free, still he nearly made it back to his feet with his massive hands reaching for Aerion again. Then one of the Kingsguard drove the pommel of his sword into the back of the big man's skull, and his knees buckled. Another kicked his legs out from under him. Another twisted his arm behind his back at an angle that made the joint scream in protest even from where you stood watching.

They forced him to his knees on the stage. One of them, a tall man with a captain's bars on his white cloak, grabbed a fistful of that dirty blonde hair and yanked his head back, forcing his face up into the torchlight.

Aerion rose to his feet. He moved slowly, carefully, the way a man moves when he is holding onto his composure by the thinnest of threads. His lip was split open, a gash that ran from the corner of his mouth nearly to his chin. Blood sheeted down his jaw and dripped onto the white silk of his collar, staining it crimson. He probed at his teeth with his tongue, grimaced, and spat a wad of blood and saliva onto the stage. Something small and white and hard skittered across the wooden boards.

“Why did you throw your life away for this whore” Aerion said.

"You've loosened one of my teeth,"

The pavilion had gone very quiet. The screaming had stopped, or perhaps it had simply receded to a distance where it could no longer reach you. The only sounds were the crackle of the torches, the soft sobbing of the puppeteer still huddled on the stage, and the ragged, labored breathing of the big man as he knelt in the grip of the Kingsguard. Aerion's voice was soft, almost conversational, the voice of a man discussing the weather over a cup of wine. It was more terrifying than any scream could have been.

"So," Aerion continued, prodding at his mouth again with his thumb and forefinger, examining the blood that came away, "we'll start by breaking out all of yours."

"No." The word came out of your mouth before you could stop it, a reflex as automatic as breathing, as instinctive as flinching from an open flame. "Aerion, no."

He did not look at you. He was not capable of hearing you, not in this state, not with the blood of a puppet show on his hands and the taste of his own tooth in his mouth. He was looking at the big man the way a child looks at an insect he has caught in a jar. Curious. Utterly without pity.

One of the Kingsguard, the captain with his hand still fisted in the big man's hair, forced his head down toward the stage. Another moved to stand on either side of him, gripping his shoulders, pinning him in place. A third stepped forward, removing his gauntlets one finger at a time, flexing his bare hands with the deliberate precision of a man preparing to perform a task that required both strength and care.

"Hold him still," Aerion said. "I want to watch."

Rhaenyra was sobbing in earnest now, her small body shaking with the force of her terror. She did not understand what was happening. She understood only that her father was on the stage and there was blood on his face and the safe bright world of the puppet show had collapsed into screaming and white cloaks and a big man on his knees who was about to be hurt in a way she had no language for.

"Mama," she wept, "Mama, I want Papa to stop, make Papa stop, please make him stop."

"I can't," you whispered into her hair, and the admission was a wound that would never fully heal. "I can't, sweetling. Mama can't make him stop. Close your eyes. Close your eyes and don't look."

The Kingsguard with the bare hands stepped forward. He was flexing his fingers, working the joints loose, his movements unhurried and methodical. The captain still had the big man's head forced down at the angle required for what was about to happen. The other guards braced themselves, digging their heels into the wooden stage, preparing for the struggle they knew would come.

The big man lifted his head against the pressure of the captain's grip. It was a monumental effort; you could see the muscles of his neck straining, the veins standing out like cords, the sweat cutting tracks through the blood and dirt on his face. He lifted his head, and the torchlight fell full upon his features for the first time.

You saw his face.

Time did not slow. It did not fade. It stopped. It stopped completely, absolutely, as if some vast and terrible hand had reached down from the heavens and seized the mechanism of the world itself and held it motionless. The torches froze mid-flicker. The screaming faded to a hum that existed somewhere beyond the boundaries of hearing. The blood in your veins turned to ice and then to fire and then to something that had no name at all.

You knew that face. You knew the hands. The enormous hands that had lifted you from your mother's deathbed, that had carried you through the cold morning while the other whores watched with pity and disgust, that had wrapped you in a threadbare blanket and held you against his chest while he promised you in a cracking boy's voice that he would always, always have you.

Dunk. He was alive. He was on his knees on a stage in a village called Ashford with a Kingsguard's hand in his hair and another Kingsguard's bare knuckles preparing to break his teeth out of his skull one by one, and he was alive.

"Dunk."

You did not recognize your own voice. It did not sound like a voice at all. It sounded like something that had been torn out of you by the roots, something that had been buried so deep and so long that pulling it free left a bleeding hollow in the center of your chest.

"Dunk."

Louder this time. Louder, and it cracked on the second syllable, cracked like your mother's laugh had cracked, like a bell that had been rung too hard and too long and had nothing left inside it but splinters.

"DUNK."

Time restarted itself with a violence that made your vision swim. The torches flared back to life. The screaming returned, a wave of sound that crashed over you and through you and left you gasping. The Kingsguard hesitated, their hands pausing on their prisoner, their white helms turning toward you with the synchronized precision of hunting dogs catching a scent.

Dunk turned his head. The captain still had his fist twisted in his hair, still had his neck bent at that brutal angle, but Dunk turned his head against that grip with the slow, inexorable force of a continent shifting, and he looked at you.

His eyes found yours across the chaos of the ruined tent. You saw the recognition hit him. Saw it travel through his body like a physical blow, a shock wave that started in his eyes and rippled outward through his shoulders, his chest, his hands. His face went slack with it, the tension draining out of his jaw and his brow, replaced by something that was too raw and too vast to be called surprise. It was disbelief. It was hope, the kind of hope that had been dead for so long its resurrection was indistinguishable from agony. It was joy and grief and guilt and love, all of them crashing together in the space of a single heartbeat.

His mouth moved. Formed the shape of your name. You could not hear it over the screaming, over the roaring of your own blood in your ears, but you saw it, saw the way his lips shaped the syllables he had not spoken in years, the name he had called across a hundred alleys and a hundred dark streets while he searched for you, the name he had whispered to himself in the long nights when he believed you were dead and gone and never coming back.

He surged against the guards holding him. Not fighting to escape now. Fighting to get to you. His massive shoulders bunched and heaved, nearly throwing off the two Kingsguard who were gripping his arms. A third lunged in to reinforce them, his white cloak tangling around his legs in his haste. Dunk did not seem to notice. He did not seem to feel the hands dragging at him or the knees pressing into his back or the captain's fist still grinding into his scalp. He was looking at you and only at you, and he was trying to reach you, trying to cross the impossible distance between the stage and the place where you stood with Rhaenyra in your arms.

You surged forward to meet him. You did not think about it. You did not calculate the odds or weigh the consequences. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, driven by an instinct older than thought, older than fear, older than anything you had learned in the years since they took you from the festival. Your brother was here. Your brother was alive.

Ser Harrold's arm locked around your waist like an iron bar. "Hold still," he snarled, and he was no longer calm now, no longer indifferent. He was struggling to hold you, struggling to keep his grip on a woman who had spent years learning to be still and silent and obedient and had finally, in this single shattering moment, forgotten how.

"Let me go!" The words tore out of your throat with a force that made your vision white out at the edges. Rhaenyra was screaming in your arms, her small fists beating against your shoulders, her voice a thin high wail that you could barely hear over the roaring in your ears. "Let me go, that's my brother, that's my brother, let me GO!"

"Aerion!" You were screaming his name now, the name of the man you loved, the name of the monster on the stage, the name of the only person in this pavilion who had the power to make the nightmare stop. "Aerion, please, please, you have to stop, he's my brother,please, Aerion, PLEASE!"

Aerion turned to look at you.

His face was still smeared with blood, his lip still split and swollen, his violet eyes still bright with the pleasure of the violence he had been orchestrating. But something flickered in their depths when he saw your face, when he registered the raw, unvarnished desperation in your voice. Confusion first. Then irritation, a flicker of the familiar petulance that crossed his features whenever something did not go the way he had planned. And then something else, something that chilled you more than any cruelty could have done.

Something calculating.

"What," he said, and his voice was a blade drawn slowly across a whetstone, "the fuck are you doing? What is she screaming about?"

You could barely form the words. Your throat was raw, your chest heaving, your arms trembling with the effort of holding Rhaenyra while Ser Harrold's grip threatened to crack your ribs. But you forced them out, forced them past the sobs that were building in your chest, forced them into the space between you and the man who held your brother's life in his bloodstained hands.

"He's my brother. He's my brother, Aerion." Your voice cracked on his name, splintered into something that was half a plea and half a prayer. "The brother I told you about. Dunk. The one I thought was dead. The one who raised me. Please. Please don't hurt him. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything. Just please, Aerion, please don't hurt my brother."

Something moved in Aerion's face. A muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes narrowed, the bright pleasure of the violence draining out of them, replaced by something harder and colder and infinitely more dangerous. He looked at you, and he looked at Dunk, and he looked back at you, and you could see him putting the pieces together. The brother you had wept for in the dark hours of the night, the brother whose name you had whispered in your sleep, the brother Aerion had forbidden you from ever mentioning again.

The brother who was now on his knees in front of him, bloodied and defiant, the man who had dared to strike a prince of the blood, and his expression closed like a door slamming shut in a winter gale.

"Take her back to her chamber," Aerion said. He was not looking at you anymore. He was looking at Dunk, and his voice was utterly without warmth, utterly without the history that stretched between you, utterly without anything that might have been mistaken for mercy. "Lock the door. No one goes in or out until I give the order."

"No." The word was barely a whisper. Ser Harrold was already dragging you backward, his arm still locked around your waist, his heels digging into the trampled grass of the pavilion floor. "Aerion, no, please, you can't do this."

"Take the child to the nursery," Aerion continued, as if you had not spoken, as if your voice did not exist, as if you were already gone. "She does not need to see any more of this. Make sure she stays there."

"No!" The scream that tore out of you was not a sound. It was a living thing, a creature with claws and teeth and a heart full of desperation, and it ripped its way out of your throat and into the torchlit air of the pavilion with a force that made the nearest Kingsguard flinch. "You can't separate us! She's my daughter! She's MY daughter!"

Rhaenyra was shrieking now, a high thin sound that rose above the chaos like a needle sliding into flesh. Her arms were wrapped around your neck so tightly that you could feel her small fingernails digging crescents into your skin, and her legs were locked around your waist, and her face was buried in the curve of your shoulder, and she was screaming, screaming, screaming. "Mama, Mama, don't let them take me, Mama, please, I want to stay with you, Mama, MAMA!"

Ser Harrold was dragging you backward. Another guard, a man in the pale grey of Prince Maekar's household, was trying to untangle Rhaenyra from your arms. His hands were gentle, gentler than you had expected, but that gentleness made it worse somehow, made it more real, made it a kindness that was not a kindness at all. He was murmuring something to Rhaenyra, some meaningless reassurance that neither you nor she could hear over the screaming, and his fingers were prying at her small grip one digit at a time.

"Don't," you sobbed. "Don't take her. Please. Please don't take my daughter."

But your arms were being pulled backward, and your strength was failing, and Rhaenyra's grip was slipping. You felt her fingers lose their hold on your dress. Felt the warmth of her body pulled away from yours. Felt the cold air rush in to fill the space where she had been, and that cold was worse than any physical pain, worse than the bruises blooming on your arm where Ser Harrold held you, worse than the raw burning in your throat from screaming, worse than anything you had endured in the brothel or the alley or the long dark nights when you believed your brother was dead.

"RHAENYRA!"

She was being carried away, still reaching for you over the guard's shoulder, her silver-gold hair bright as a candle flame in the torchlight, her violet eyes wide and streaming with tears. "Mama! I want my mama! Give me back my mama!"

You fought. You fought the way Dunk had fought, with every ounce of strength in your body, with your teeth and your nails and your fury. You twisted in Ser Harrold's grip and raked your nails across his face, felt the skin of his cheek tear beneath your fingers, felt the hot wet rush of his blood against your palm. He cursed and tightened his hold, and something in your side gave way with a sharp bright spike of agony, but you did not stop. You could not stop. Your daughter was being taken from you, your brother was on his knees with a prince's boot on his neck, and the world was ending, and you could not stop.

And then, cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk, a young voice rang out across the pavilion.

"No! Don't touch him!"

Everyone froze. The Kingsguard with his bare hands paused mid-motion, his knuckles inches from Dunk's clenched jaw. The captain's grip on Dunk's hair loosened slightly in surprise. Even Aerion turned, his bloodied mouth twisting into an expression of annoyed bewilderment.

The boy who stepped forward from the chaos of the crowd was small, skinny, with a shaved head that gleamed in the torchlight like a polished stone. He could not have been more than nine or ten years old, and he moved with the absolute, unshakeable confidence of someone who had never been told that the world did not bend to his will. He was bald and his clothes were the roughspun of a stable boy, dirty and sweat-stained, but he wore them like a prince wearing borrowed silks.

Dunk's voice was a ragged gasp, desperate and afraid in a way it had not been when the Kingsguard were beating him. "You stupid boy! Hold your tongue or they'll hurt you."

The boy did not slow. He did not even glance at Dunk. His eyes were fixed on Aerion, and there was something in them that made the prince's expression flicker with the first hint of uncertainty you had seen all night.

"No, they won't," the boy said, and his voice was calm, steady, the voice of someone stating a fact as immutable as the rising of the sun. "If they do, they'll answer to my father."

He stepped past the Kingsguard as if they were not there, as if the white cloaks and the white armor and the drawn swords were no more substantial than morning mist. He stopped directly in front of Aerion, this small bald boy in dirty clothes, and he lifted his chin and looked the prince full in the face.

"Let go of him," the boy commanded. "Wate, Yorkel, do as I say."

And the Kingsguard obeyed.

The captain released Dunk's hair. The other guards stepped back, their hands falling away from his arms and shoulders, their white helms inclining slightly in gestures of deference that stopped your heart in your chest. They knew this boy. They knew him, and they obeyed him, and that could only mean one thing.

Aerion stared at the boy. His violet eyes narrowed, studying the shaved head, the dirty clothes, the small defiant face that was upturned to his own. And then, slowly, recognition dawned across his bloodied features like a sluggish sunrise. It was followed immediately by annoyance, a deep and profound irritation that seemed to cut through even the pleasure he had been taking in the violence moments before.

"You impudent little rat," Aerion said. His voice dripped with contempt, but beneath it lurked something else, something that sounded almost like wariness. "What's happened to your hair?"

The boy did not flinch. He did not blink. He looked at Aerion with the steady, unblinking gaze of someone who had spent his entire life watching and learning and understanding things that others missed, and when he spoke, his voice carried the unmistakable weight of royal blood.

"I cut it off, brother," he said. "I didn't want to look like you."

Brother. The word landed in the center of the pavilion like a stone dropped into still water. Brother. This boy, this small bald boy in stable clothes, was Aerion's brother. Which meant he was Prince Aegon Targaryen, the youngest of Prince Maekar's sons, the one you had glimpsed occasionally in the corridors of Summerhall, the one who had looked at you like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

And he had just intervened to save your brother's life. The revelation halted the attack instantly. The Kingsguard could not carry out Aerion's orders now. Not against a man who was connected, through his squire, to the royal family. Not against a man who was protected by a prince of the blood, however young and however bald and however inexplicably dressed in the roughspun of a stable hand. The captain stepped back further, his white cloak settling around him like folded wings, and the other guards followed suit, leaving Dunk kneeling alone on the stage.

Aerion's face was a study in frustration. The pleasure had drained out of him entirely now, replaced by a seething, impotent fury that he could not express without defying his own brother, his own blood, in front of half a dozen witnesses. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The blood from his split lip still dripped down his chin, and his violet eyes were dark with a rage that had no outlet.

But he was a prince, and he knew the rules, and striking a man who was connected to the royal family was a crime that even he could not simply burn his way out of.

"Take him to the cells," Aerion said finally, and his voice was flat and cold and utterly drained of the pleasure that had animated it before. "He struck a prince of the blood. That crime remains regardless of whose squire the little rat has chosen to become. He will await trial and judgment, and lock her in her chamber."

Ser Harrold hauled you backward through the ruins of the pavilion. Your legs gave out beneath you, and he dragged you the rest of the way, your heels scraping furrows in the trampled grass, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice reduced to a raw and wordless keening that did not stop. You passed overturned benches. You passed torn silk and scattered cushions and a child's abandoned shoe.

The last thing you saw before the tent flap closed behind you was Aerion. He was still standing on the stage, his red tunic splattered with blood, his face a mask of cold, distant contemplation. He was not looking at you. He was looking at the place where Dunk had disappeared, and there was something in his expression that you had never seen before. Something that went beyond jealousy, beyond possessiveness, beyond the casual cruelty of a man who had never been denied anything.

He looked like a dragon counting its hoard, and finding a single coin out of place.

—

The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that echoed through your bones.

You had screamed until your voice gave out. You had beaten your fists against the iron banded oak until your knuckles split and bled, leaving dark smears on the wood that looked like accusations. You had thrown yourself at the door again and again, your shoulder bruising, your strength ebbing, until finally your legs had given way beneath you and you had slid to the cold stone floor with your back against the unforgiving wood and your face buried in your bleeding hands.

Rhaenyra was gone. Dunk was gone. Everyone you had ever loved had been ripped away from you in the space of a single night, and you were locked in a borrowed chamber in a borrowed castle with nothing but the silence and the dark and the terrible, circling thoughts that would not let you rest.

You pressed your forehead against your knees and tried to breathe.The hours crawled past like wounded animals dragging themselves toward death. You did not move from your place against the door. You did not lie down on the bed, though it was soft and wide and covered in Ashford's finest linens. You did not drink the water that had been left on the side table, though your throat was raw and burning from screaming. You simply sat, curled into yourself, and waited.

For Aerion. For news. For something, anything, that would tell you what was going to happen next. You thought about the look on Dunk's face when he recognized you. The shock. The joy. The desperate, agonized love. What must he have thought? What must he have assumed about you, about your life, about the choices that had led you to this place?

The shame of it burned in your chest like swallowed fire.

You did not know how long you sat there. It might have been hours. It might have been minutes. Time had lost all meaning in the darkness of the chamber, with the candles unlit and the fire unbuilt and the only light coming from the pale sliver of moon that crept through the narrow window high in the wall. But eventually, eventually, you heard the sound you had been dreading and hoping for in equal measure.

Footsteps in the corridor. Boots on stone, deliberate and unhurried, the particular cadence of a man who knew that the world would wait for him. The jingle of a sword at the hip. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a key turning in a lock.

The door swung inward, and Aerion Targaryen stepped into the room.

He had cleaned the blood from his face since you last saw him. His lip was still swollen. His silver gold hair had been combed back from his face, still damp from washing. He had changed his clothes; replaced by a simple black doublet that made his pale skin look almost luminous in the moonlight. He looked almost calm. Almost controlled. But his violet eyes were too bright, too sharp, the eyes of a man who was holding onto his composure by the thinnest of threads.

He closed the door behind him. You heard the lock click into place.

"My dragon," you said, and your voice came out as a croak, raw and broken from screaming. You tried to rise to your feet, but your legs would not hold you, so you remained on the floor, your back against the wall, your hands still stained with your own blood. "Aerion, please. Please tell me what's happening. My brother. Where is my brother? Is he all right? What are they going to do to him?"

The change that came over Aerion's face was instantaneous and terrifying. The careful mask of composure cracked like ice hit by a hammer. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His hands, which had been relaxed at his sides, curled slowly into fists.

"I come to you," he said, and his voice was a blade being drawn from its sheath, slow and deliberate and full of promise, "after being attacked in front of half the nobility of the Reach. My lip is split open. My tooth is loose in my skull. My dignity has been trampled by some hedge knight with dirt under his fingernails and hay in his hair. And the first words out of your mouth are not 'Are you all right, my prince?' Not 'Let me tend your wounds, my love.' Not a single word of comfort or concern for me, the man who saved you from a brothel, the father of your child, the prince who has kept you fed and clothed and protected for years."

He took a step toward you. Then another. His shadow fell across you like a shroud, blocking out the pale moonlight, plunging you into darkness.

"Your first words," he said, and his voice was rising now, climbing toward a register you had learned to fear, "are about him. A stranger. A man who struck me. A man who loosened my tooth and spilled my blood in front of the Kingsguard. That is who you ask about. That is who you care about. Not me. Not your prince. Not the father of your child. Him."

"He's not a stranger," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. You knew you should stop. You knew you should placate him, soothe him, tell him everything he wanted to hear. That was what you had done for years, what you had become so skilled at doing. But you could not. Not tonight. Not with Dunk's face still burned into your memory like a brand. "He's my brother, Aerion. He's my brother. He raised me. He protected me, and you have him locked in a cell like a criminal. Please. Please, just tell me he's all right. Just tell me you haven't hurt him."

Aerion stared at you for a long moment. The torch from the corridor outside cast his shadow long and dark across the floor, stretching toward you like a grasping hand. His breathing was audible in the silence, harsh and uneven, the breathing of a man who was losing a battle with his own rage.

"You love him," he said finally. The words were flat, toneless, utterly without inflection. "This brother of yours. This hedge knight with his dirty hands and his dirty hair. You love him more than you love me."

"That's not true," you said, and it was the truth and it was a lie and it was everything in between. "I love you, Aerion. You know I love you. But he's my brother. He's my blood. I thought he was dead. I mourned him for years. And now he's here, and he's alive, and I just want to know that he's safe. That's all. I just want to know that he's safe. Please."

"Safe." Aerion repeated the word as if it were a foreign language, a concept he had heard described but never experienced. "Safe. You want to know if the man who struck me is safe. You want to know if the man who humiliated me in front of my family and my father is safe."

He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. It was the sound of something breaking.

"You're mine," he said, and his voice cracked on the word, splintering into something that was half rage and half desperation. "You have been mine since the night I bought you. I paid fifty gold dragons for you. I burned down a brothel for you. I gave you a home, a place in my household, a daughter who bears my name. I have given you everything. Everything. And you stand there, bleeding on my floor, asking about another man."

"I'm not standing," you whispered, and you did not know why that was the detail you chose to focus on. He crossed the distance between you in three swift strides. His hand closed around your arm, hauling you upright with a strength that would leave bruises, and you cried out as the blood rushed back to your legs and the pain in your side flared white hot.

"You are mine," he said again, and his face was inches from yours, his violet eyes blazing with a fire you had seen directed at others but never, never at you. Not like this. Not with this intensity. Not with this complete and absolute absence of restraint. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped. His grip on your arm was agony, his fingers digging into the bruises Ser Harrold had left, and tears were streaming down your face. "Aerion, please, you're hurting me."

"Good." He shook you, once, hard enough that your head snapped back and hit the stone wall behind you. Stars burst across your vision. "Good. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll remember who you belong to. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll stop asking about other men. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll finally understand that the only way you leave me is in a shroud."

"My brother," you sobbed. "He's my brother. Not another man. My brother. Please, Aerion, please try to understand."

"I understand perfectly." His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing your face toward his, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I understand that you have spent years telling me you loved me while you dreamed of someone else. I understand that the moment he appeared, you forgot everything I have done for you. I understand that you are a whore I pulled from a brothel, and no matter how many silk dresses I put on you, no matter how much of myself I pour into you, you will never, ever stop being what you are."

The words hit you like physical blows. Each one was a fist to the gut, a slap to the face, a knife slipped between your ribs. You had known, intellectually, that this was how he saw you. You had always known. But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing it thrown at you like an accusation, like a crime you had committed against him simply by existing, was something else entirely.

"Aerion," you whispered, and your voice was so small, so broken, that you barely recognized it as your own. "I have never been unfaithful to you. I have never looked at another man. I have never wanted anyone but you. He is my brother. My brother. Why can't you understand that?"

"Because I don't care!" He screamed the words directly into your face, his spittle flecking your cheeks, his breath hot and sour with wine and blood. "I don't care who he is! I don't care if he's your brother or your father or your long lost lover! The moment you chose him over me, the moment you screamed his name instead of mine, the moment you fought my guards and clawed Ser Harrold's face to try to reach him, you made your choice! And now you will live with it!"

His hand released your chin and came across your face with a crack that seemed to echo off the stone walls.

The backhand caught you across the cheekbone, hard enough to snap your head to the side, hard enough to send a spray of blood from your already split lip, hard enough that your legs gave out beneath you entirely. You fell. You did not fall gracefully, did not fall the way women fell in the songs Dunk used to tell you, floating down like petals on a breeze. You fell like a sack of grain, heavy and graceless, your hip striking the stone floor with a jolt of pain that made you gasp, your palms scraping raw against the cold flagstones, your already injured side screaming in protest as you landed.

You lay there for a moment, stunned. The taste of blood filled your mouth, copper and salt and something that might have been despair. The world swam in and out of focus. The moonlight from the window seemed very far away, a distant silver promise of a world that existed somewhere beyond this room, beyond this night, beyond the man who was standing over you with his chest heaving and his eyes blazing.

Then he was on top of you. His weight pressed you into the cold stone floor, heavy and immovable, the weight of a man who had trained with sword and shield and lance, the weight of a prince who had never been denied anything in his life. His knees pinned your thighs. One hand caught both of your wrists and forced them above your head, pressing them into the stone with a grip that made your fingers go numb. His other hand was at your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there, a reminder, a threat, a promise.

"You're my whore," he said, and his voice was a growl, low and guttural and utterly without the cultured refinement he wore like armor in the daylight. "Mine. You have been mine since the night I bought you, and you will be mine until the day you die. Do you understand? Do you understand what that means?"

"Get off me," you gasped. Your voice was barely audible, strangled by the hand at your throat and the weight on your chest. "Aerion, please, get off me, I can't breathe."

"It means," he continued, as if you had not spoken, as if your words were less than nothing, as if your voice did not exist in any way that mattered, "that I own you. Your body. Your heart. Your soul. Every breath you take, you take because I allow it. Every night you sleep in a warm bed, you sleep there because I permit it. Every moment you spend with our daughter, you spend because I have chosen to let you. And the only way you leave me, the only way you ever leave me, is if you are dead. Do you understand? Dead."

He was tearing at your dress as he spoke, the silk that he had given you, the dress he had chosen, the dress you had worn to the puppet show, the dress Rhaenyra's tears had soaked through. You heard the fabric rip, felt the cold air on your skin, and you found what remained of your strength and pushed against him. Your hands were still pinned above your head, but you bucked your hips, twisted your body, tried to throw him off the way Dunk had thrown off the Kingsguard.

It was useless. It was always useless. He was stronger than you, heavier than you, and he had the advantage of gravity and rage and years of training in violence that you had never received. He pressed you back down against the stone, and his hand left your throat to grip your jaw, forcing your face toward his, forcing you to look into his eyes.

"Say it," he demanded. "Say you're mine. Say you belong to me. Say that no one else matters. Not your brother. Not anyone. Say it."

You did not say it. You could not say it. The words were locked in your throat, trapped behind the tears and the blood and the terrible, crushing weight of what was happening to you.

You tried to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee drove between them, forcing them wide. He was hard and the sight of his cock made your stomach turn.

"Look at it," he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head forward. "Look at what you made me do. This is your fault. If you had just obeyed—"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, already sore and swollen from the first time, and you whimpered, a high, broken sound that seemed to please him. He held there, just barely breaching you, letting you feel the pressure, the promise of invasion.

"Please," you whispered, your voice cracked and raw. "Please, Aerion, please don't—"

He thrust.

The sound you made was not a scream. It was something worse, a choked, guttural sob that tore from your throat as he buried himself inside you in one brutal push. The angle was wrong, too deep, too dry despite the precum already coating your thighs. You felt every ridge and vein of his cock as it forced its way deeper, splitting you open, claiming space that did not want him.

He paused, buried to the hilt, and let out a low groan that was almost human. Almost tender. Then he began to move.

Not fast. Not yet. He fucked you slowly, deliberately, with a cruelty that made every inch of the motion deliberate. He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in with excruciating leisure, watching your face contort with each stroke. His eyes were locked on yours, challenging you to look away.

You did. You turned your head, pressing your cheek against the cold stone, staring at a crack in the floor until your vision blurred. But he would not allow that. He grabbed your jaw, forced your face back to his.

"Watch," he commanded. "Watch me take what is mine."

His pace increased. The slow, torturous rhythm gave way to a sharp, punishing fucking that drove the air from your lungs with every slam of his hips. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed off the walls, mingling with your ragged breaths and his grunts. He leaned down, his chest pressing against yours, and bit your shoulder, not a kiss, a bite, hard enough to break skin. You cried out, and he licked the blood, humming in satisfaction.

"That's it," he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "Make sound for me. Let the whole castle hear how much you hate it. Let them know who you belong to."

He drove deeper, harder, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your back arch despite yourself. A spark of unwanted pleasure shot through your pelvis, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He slowed down, grinding against that same spot, watching your body betray you as your hips began to rock in counterpoint to his thrusts.

"There she is," he breathed, almost reverent. "There's the whore underneath. You can't hide her from me. She wants this. She needs this."

"No," you gasped, but your body said yes, clenching around him, drawing him deeper. Hot shame flooded through you, hotter than the pain, as your cunt began to slick with something that was not blood. He felt it too, he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his grip on your hips tightening.

"I'm going to fill you," he snarled, his composure cracking. "I'm going to pour every drop of my seed into this worthless hole until you're pregnant with my heir, a son this time, and then I'll do it again. And again. And—"

He came without warning, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he shoved himself as deep as he could go, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside you. You felt the hot flood of his cum, felt it spill out around him, felt it mix with the blood and your own unwanted wetness. He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the stone, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then he shifted, pulling out with a wet sound that made you flinch, and rolled onto his back beside you. The moonlight had moved, illuminating his face now haunted gleam in his violet eyes that looked almost like regret.

But you knew better. You knew he would do it again. And again. And again. Because in his world, you were already dead. You just hadn't stopped breathing yet.

He did not speak. Neither did you. You lay on the cold stone floor with your torn dress twisted around your body and your wrists still aching from his grip and your thighs slick with the evidence of what he had done, and you stared at the ceiling, and you thought of nothing at all.

After a long time Aerion rose to his feet. He straightened his clothes with mechanical precision, adjusting his doublet, smoothing his hair back from his face. He did not look at you. He did not offer you a hand to help you up. He did not speak a single word of apology or comfort or explanation.

"Your brother will stand trial," he said, and his voice was the voice of a stranger, flat and cold and utterly devoid of the passion that had consumed him moments before. "For striking a prince of the blood. The sentence will be severe. How severe depends entirely on you."

He paused at the door, his hand on the latch, his back to you.

"If you try to see him again," he said, "if you try to contact him, if you so much as speak his name in my presence, I will have him executed. Do you understand? His life is in your hands. Remember that."

The remainder of the night passed in darkness. You did not move from the floor. You could not move from the floor. The torn silk of your dress had dried stiff and crusted against your skin, and you had not bothered to cover yourself. There was no one to see. There was no one to care. The moonlight crawled across the stone floor inch by inch, and you watched it the way a corpse might watch the shifting of its own shroud, with a detachment that went beyond despair into something vast and empty and still.

Morning came grey and cold through the narrow window. The sky outside was the color of old iron, heavy with clouds that had not yet decided whether to rain. You heard the castle waking around you. Footsteps in the corridor. The distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. Servants calling to one another in voices too muffled to understand. The tourney, you remembered dimly. The tourney was still happening. Lord Ashford's daughter still needed her champion. The world was still turning, indifferent to the ruin of your life.

Someone brought food. You heard the door unlock, heard the tray scrape against the stone as it was pushed inside, heard the door lock again. You did not get up to look at it. The smell of bread and broth turned your stomach. You had not eaten since the puppet show, since before the puppet show, since the garden when Rhaenyra had found the pink flower and you had believed, foolishly and desperately, that everything would be all right.

The morning wore on. The light shifted. The clouds outside the window thickened and darkened and began to spit a thin, miserable drizzle that streaked the glass like tears.

And then, sometime in the afternoon, you heard the commotion.

It started as a distant murmur, a disturbance somewhere in the lower levels of the castle that grew louder and more urgent as it climbed toward your door. Shouts. Running footsteps. The clash of something metallic hitting stone. You lifted your head from the floor for the first time in hours, your neck aching, your vision swimming. Something was happening. Something was wrong.

The door crashed open. It was not Aerion who entered first but a maester, an old man in grey robes with a heavy chain around his neck and blood on his sleeves up to the elbows. Behind him came two guards, household men in the pale grey of Prince Maekar's service, carrying between them a litter on which lay a figure you recognized only by the silver gold of his hair.

Aerion. He was unconscious. His face was nearly unrecognizable. His lip had been split anew, a fresh gash that ran up toward his cheekbone. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the skin around it purple and black and glistening with some kind of salve. His chest was bare beneath a makeshift bandage that wrapped around his ribs, and the bandage was soaked through with blood, bright red and seeping, the color of life escaping. His right arm lay at an angle that was not natural, and his breathing was shallow and labored and made a wet, rattling sound that turned your stomach even as it ignited something else in your chest. Something you did not want to name. Something you did not want to feel.

You scrambled backward on the floor until your shoulder blades hit the wall. Your torn dress bunched around your knees. Your hands came up in front of you, a defensive gesture that was pure instinct, the instinct of a woman who had spent the night being broken and had no more pieces left to give.

"What," you said, and your voice came out as a croak, barely recognizable. "What happened? What is this?"

The maester did not look at you. He was directing the guards to lay the litter on the bed, his hands already reaching for the blood soaked bandages, already issuing orders about hot water and clean linen and milk of the poppy. But one of the guards, a young man whose face was pale and shocked and streaked with someone else's blood, paused long enough to answer.

"Trial of the Seven," he said, and the words meant nothing to you. "The prince demanded it. Against the hedge knight."

"Trial of the Seven?" The phrase was foreign, nonsensical, a collection of syllables that refused to resolve into meaning. "What are you talking about? What trial? What hedge knight?"

The maester looked up from his work at last. "The hedge knight," he said, and his voice was clipped and efficient, the voice of a man who did not have time for explanations. "Ser Duncan the Tall. The hedge knight demanded a trial by combat. The prince escalated it to a Trial of the Seven. Fourteen knights in the lists. The hedge knight's side won, but the prince was wounded. Gravely wounded. We have done what we can for the immediate injuries, but when he regained consciousness briefly, he insisted, quite forcefully, that he be brought to you. He said he wanted you to be his primary caretaker."

The words washed over you in a tide of incomprehensible information. Trial of the Seven. Fourteen knights. The hedge knight's side won. Dunk's side. Dunk had won. Your brother had won. Your brother was alive and he had won his trial and he was free, he must be free, because if the hedge knight's side had won the trial then the gods had judged him innocent.

But Aerion was on your bed with his ribs crushed and his arm broken and his face beaten into something barely human, and he had asked for you. Even after what he had done to you on this very floor. Even after the things he had said, the things he had called you, the violence he had visited upon your body. He had regained consciousness long enough to demand that you, and no one else, be the one to care for him.

You stared at the maester. The maester stared back at you, and something in his expression softened, just slightly, at whatever he saw in your face. Perhaps it was the bruises on your wrists. Perhaps it was the torn dress. Perhaps it was the way you sat huddled against the wall like a wounded animal that had learned to expect only more pain.

"I have done what I can for the immediate wounds," the maester said again, more slowly this time. "The prince will live, though his recovery will be long and painful. But he needs constant care. Someone to change his bandages, to administer his medicine, to watch for fever. He asked for you. Given his condition and his royal status, we are not inclined to refuse him."

You looked at the figure on the bed. The man who had raped you on the stone floor less than a day ago. The father of your daughter. The monster you loved. The prince who had promised to execute your brother if you so much as spoke his name. He lay unconscious and broken, his breath rattling in his chest, and you were being told that you would be his caretaker. That you would sit by his bedside and change his bandages and mop his brow and listen to him breathe.

The absurd cruelty of it was almost beautiful, in its way. A kind of poetry written in blood and bruises and the particular viciousness of men who believed they owned the women they had purchased.

"Leave us," you said, and your voice did not sound like your own. It sounded like the voice of someone much older, someone who had survived worse things than this and would survive worse things still. "I will care for him."

The maester hesitated. "My lady, there are instructions I must give you regarding the dressing of his wounds. The risk of infection is significant, and the milk of the poppy must be administered precisely. Too much will stop his breathing. Too little and the pain will be excruciating. Do you understand?"

"I understand," you said, though you understood nothing. You understood only that your brother was alive and free, and the man who had destroyed you was lying broken on your bed, and you were supposed to heal him. You were supposed to sit beside him and tend his wounds and keep him alive so that he could continue to own you, continue to threaten you, continue to hold your brother's life in his hands like a coin he might spend on a whim.

The maester gave you his instructions. You listened with half an ear, nodding in the appropriate places, filing the information away in a part of your mind that was still functioning, still capable of processing data and making decisions. Change the bandages every four hours. Watch for red streaks radiating from the wounds. Administer the milk of the poppy in doses measured by the small copper cup on the bedside table. If he wakes, give him water. If he develops a fever, send for the maester immediately.

And then they were gone, the maester and the guards, and the door was closed, and you were alone with him.

You stood in the center of the room for a long time, staring at the bed. At the rise and fall of his chest beneath the bloodied bandages. At the hand that lay limp and pale against the silk sheets, the hand that had struck you across the face, the hand that had pinned your wrists above your head, the hand that had held your chin and forced you to look into his eyes while he destroyed you.

You could let him die.

The thought came to you fully formed, as if it had been waiting in the back of your mind all along, biding its time. You could let him die. The maester had left you with the milk of the poppy and precise instructions about dosage. You could administer too much, or too little. You could neglect to change his bandages and let the infection take hold. You could hold a pillow over his face while he slept and press down until the ragged breathing stopped forever. There was no one else in the room. There were no guards at your door, not anymore. You could end this. You could end him. You could free yourself and your daughter and your brother with a single act of will.

You looked at the copper cup on the bedside table. You looked at the pillow beneath his head. You looked at your own hands, still bruised, still crusted with your own blood, still capable of doing what needed to be done.

And then you crossed the room, and you sat down in the chair beside his bed, and you began to prepare the first dose of milk of the poppy with hands that did not tremble at all.

If you let him die now, his father would investigate. There would be questions. There had been a maester here, and guards, and they had seen you alone with him. If Aerion died under your care, the blame would fall on you. You would be executed, or worse. And Rhaenyra would have no mother at all.

Not yet. But the knowledge was there now, a small cold seed planted in the dark soil of your heart. Not yet. But someday, perhaps. Someday, if the opportunity presented itself, if the circumstances aligned, if you could be certain of escaping the consequences. Someday, you might be free of him.

—

The days that followed blurred together like watercolors left in the rain. You were not permitted to leave the room. Aerion made that clear the first time you asked, your voice carefully neutral, your eyes on the floor. He had been awake for perhaps an hour, propped up on pillows that you had arranged behind his back with your own hands, his broken arm splinted and bound, his ribs wrapped tight in fresh linen. His face was still a ruin of purple and black and sickly yellow green, his lip still split, his eye still swollen half-shut. But his voice had lost none of its edge.

"Leave?" He had laughed, a humorless sound that turned into a wince as his ribs protested. "Why would you need to leave? Everything you require is here. Food will be brought. Water for washing. Fresh bandages from the maester. You have no reason to go anywhere."

"Aerion, please. I only want to see Rhaenyra. Just for an hour. Just to hold her and know she's all right. She must be so frightened. She's only two years old. She doesn't understand why her mother disappeared."

His expression had darkened, a cloud passing over the sun. "The child is fine. She is being cared for by the nurses. She does not need you hovering over her like a hen with one chick. What she needs is a father who is not an invalid, and what I need is a caretaker who does not spend every waking moment asking to leave."

"Aerion..."

"Enough." The word was a door slamming shut. "You will stay here. You will tend to my wounds. You will keep me company. You will not leave this room unless I give you permission. Is that understood?"

So you stayed. You woke when he woke, which was often, his sleep broken by pain and fever and the strange, feverish dreams that made him thrash and cry out in the darkness. You changed his bandages with the careful precision the maester had taught you, peeling back the old linen, examining the wounds for signs of infection, applying the salves and poultices with gentle fingers. You fed him broth when he could eat, spooning it into his ruined mouth one careful measure at a time. You helped him with the bedpan when he needed it, a humiliation that made his jaw tighten and his eyes go cold, as if his body's weakness were a personal insult you had somehow engineered.

You did all of this in silence, for the most part. He did not want conversation. He did not want to be soothed or coddled or reassured. The man who had craved praise like a drug, who had turned toward your words like a flower toward the sun, was gone. In his place was a creature of pure, distilled bitterness, a man whose humiliation had curdled inside him until it became something toxic.

He had lost. That was the core of it, the wound beneath the wounds. He had been beaten by a hedge knight in front of half the nobility of the Reach, and then he had demanded a Trial of the Seven, the most sacred and dramatic form of combat the gods permitted, and he had lost that too. His side had lost. The gods themselves had declared against him, had declared in favor of the dirt-smeared giant who had loosened his tooth and spilled his blood and stolen his dignity. Aerion Targaryen, the prince who had burned a man alive for making a joke, the prince who had broken a puppeteer's fingers for telling the wrong story, the prince who believed with every fiber of his being that he was a dragon in human form, had been brought low by a nameless hedge knight with hay in his hair and dirt under his nails.

And you, who had witnessed the beginning of that humiliation, had become the vessel into which he poured all his bile.

"I should have you hanged for being related to that oaf." His hand shot out and closed around your wrist, hard enough to make you freeze. "Why would a brother fight like that? Why would a brother look at a sister like that? Tell me the truth. Was he your lover before he was your brother? Did you share a bed in the slums of Flea Bottom, before I found you?"

The accusation was so vile, so utterly, grotesquely wrong, that for a moment you could not speak at all. You could only stare at him, at his swollen face and his blazing eyes and the jealousy that was consuming him from the inside out like a fire that would not be quenched.

"He is my brother," you said, and your voice was quiet and steady and utterly without the rage that was boiling in your chest. "My brother. My blood.Nothing more. Nothing less. I have never lain with him. I have never wanted to. The very thought is disgusting to me, and it should be disgusting to you too."

Aerion held your gaze for a long moment. Then he released your wrist and turned his face away.

"Finish the bandage," he said, and said nothing more for the rest of the day.

Sometimes, rarely, they brought Rhaenyra to see you. It was never for long. Ten minutes, fifteen, never more than half an hour. A servant would bring her to the door, and she would run across the room on her unsteady two year old legs, bewildered relief of a child who did not understand why her mother had vanished from her life. You would scoop her up and hold her against your chest and breathe in the smell of her, that particular sweetness of soap and milk and sunshine that you had missed like a severed limb.

"Mama," she would say, her small hands patting your face, your hair, your shoulders, as if reassuring herself you were real. "Mama, where did you go? I looked for you. I cried and cried but you didn't come."

"Mama was taking care of your father," you would say, and your voice would be steady even though your heart was breaking. "Your father is very sick, sweetling. He needs Mama's help. But Mama loves you. Mama thinks about you every moment. Do you understand? Every single moment."

She would nod, her small face solemn, and then she would launch into a breathless account of everything she had done since she saw you last. The bird she had seen on the windowsill. The game the nurses had taught her. The dreams she had dreamed. You drank in every word like water in a desert, memorizing the cadence of her voice, the animation of her expressions, the way her tiny hands moved when she was telling a particularly exciting part.

And then Aerion would stir in the bed behind you, and the servant would step forward, and Rhaenyra would be lifted from your arms.

"No," you would say, every time, reaching for her even as the servant pulled her away. "Please, just a few more minutes. Just a little longer. She's only just arrived."

"Prince's orders," the servant would say, and the door would close, and you would be alone with him again.

The nights were the worst.

During the day, Aerion was mostly manageable. Irritable, demanding, prone to dark silences and darker accusations, but manageable. You could distract yourself with the work of caring for him, the constant rhythm of bandages and medicine and meals. You could count the hours until the next time Rhaenyra might be brought to you. You could lose yourself in the small, finite tasks that kept your hands busy and your mind from wandering to places it should not go.

But at night, when the candles burned low and the fire died to embers and the only sound was the soft, labored rhythm of his breathing, the monster in him stirred.

It started on the fourth night. You had been dozing in the chair beside his bed, your neck cricked at an awkward angle, your body aching for the comfort of a proper mattress. You were dreaming of the garden, of Rhaenyra's laughter, of pink flowers crushed beneath bare feet. And then a hand closed around your forearm, and you were jolted awake with a gasp.

Aerion was looking at you from the bed. His eyes were fever bright in the near darkness, and his hand was hot and dry against your skin. The blanket had slipped down to his waist, and you could see the bandages around his ribs, the splint on his arm, the bruises that spread across his torso like storm clouds. But you could also see, in the shadows beneath the blanket, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

"Come here," he said. His voice was hoarse, rough with pain and desire in equal measure. "I need you."

"Aerion," you said carefully, "you're injured. The maester said you need to rest. You could reopen your wounds. You could..."

"I don't care what the maester said." His grip on your arm tightened. "I've been lying in this bed for four days. I've lost everything. My pride. The hedge knight walks free, and I am trapped in this room like a cripple. The least you can do," and his voice hardened on the words, "is give me this."

"You're not well. Please, just wait until you're stronger. I promise, when you're healed..."

"When I am healed, I will take what I want anyway." He pulled you closer, and you could smell the sourness of his breath, the stale sweat of his unwashed body, the cloying sweetness of the milk of the poppy that still lingered on his tongue. "But I want it now. I have spent four days flat on my back like a turtle overturned, watching you flutter around me with your careful hands and your careful voice and your careful eyes that never quite meet mine. I know what you think of me. I know what you think when you look at me. You think I'm a monster. You think I got what I deserved."

"No," you whispered, but it was a lie and you both knew it.

"Yes," he said. "You do. And I don't care. You can hate me all you like, in the privacy of your own mind. But you are mine.Now. Come. Here."

He could not be rough with you, not in his condition. His broken arm lay useless at his side, and his bandaged ribs prevented any sudden movement. But he did not need to be rough to make you feel the weight of your captivity. He directed you with his voice, that voice you had once praised and soothed and loved, telling you where to touch him, how to move, what he wanted from you. He could not take you the way he had on the stone floor, could not pin you down and force himself inside you while you sobbed and pushed at his chest. But he could make you take him in your mouth while he lay back against the pillows with his eyes half closed and his hand tangled in your hair. He could make you straddle him carefully, carefully, moving with the slow precision his injuries demanded, while his one good hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure and pain and the strange, twisted satisfaction of ownership. "That's my good girl. My sweet girl. You know what I need. You always know what I need."

"Now you should rest." He was already drifting, the exertion combined with the milk of the poppy pulling him back toward unconsciousness.

"You're the only one," he mumbled, his voice slurring with sleep. "The only one who stays. The only one who doesn't leave. Don't leave me. Promise you won't leave."

You did not promise. You dried your hands on a cloth and returned to the chair beside his bed, and you watched him sleep, and you thought about the copper cup of milk of the poppy on the bedside table, and you thought about what it would be like to be free.

—

The servant came for you on the seventh day. You were sitting in the chair beside Aerion's bed, your hands idle in your lap for the first time in what felt like years. He was sleeping deeply, the milk of the poppy dragging him down into a place where even his dreams could not reach him.

The door opened without a knock. You turned, expecting another servant with a tray of food, another maester with fresh bandages, another summons from the nurses saying Rhaenyra was crying for you and would not be soothed. But the woman who stood in the doorway was not a servant you recognized.

"Prince Maekar requests your presence," she said. Her voice was flat, neutral, the voice of a woman delivering a message she did not fully understand. "You are to come with me immediately."

You stared at her. Prince Maekar. The man who had called you a whore to your face, who had forbidden you from speaking to his children, who had looked at you for years with an expression of cold, unwavering contempt. He had never once spoken to you directly, had never acknowledged your existence except as a problem to be managed. And now he was summoning you?

"Prince Maekar," you repeated, and your voice came out uncertain, almost afraid. "Why would Prince Maekar want to see me?"

The servant's expression did not change. "I was not told, my lady. Only that you are to come at once. Prince Aerion is sleeping. He will not miss you. Please, follow me."

You looked back at the bed. Aerion's chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. His good hand was curled loosely on the pillow beside his face, his fingers twitching slightly as he dreamed. If you left and he woke to find you gone, there would be consequences. There were always consequences. But the servant was watching you with her sharp grey eyes, and something in her manner told you that this was not a request. This was an order, delivered with the full authority of the man who ruled Summerhall.

You rose from the chair. Your legs were unsteady beneath you, your body still aching from the nights of sleeping in chairs and on pallets, from the strain of lifting and turning and tending a man who outweighed you by half.

The castle was quiet at this hour. The afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. You had not been outside Aerion's room in seven days. The world seemed larger than you remembered. Brighter. More dangerous.

The servant led you through corridors you did not recognize, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor, until you stood before a heavy oak door banded with iron. She knocked twice, a sharp, deliberate rap that echoed in the silence.

"The woman is here, my prince," she said.

A voice from within, muffled by the door, said something you could not make out. The servant pushed the door open and gestured for you to enter.

You stepped inside. The room was small, sparsely furnished. A table. A few chairs. A narrow window that looked out over the castle's eastern wall. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting the room in shadow and flickering orange light. And standing near the window, one hand braced against the wall for support, a thick piece of wood tucked under his other arm to hold him upright, was your brother.

Dunk.

You stopped in the doorway as if you had walked into a wall. Your heart seized in your chest. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands flew to your mouth, pressing against your lips as if to hold in the sound that was trying to escape, a sound that was half sob and half scream and half something that had no name at all.

He looked terrible. His face was a mess of bruises, purple and black and yellow-green, one eye swollen nearly shut, a gash across his cheekbone held closed with clumsy stitches. His lip was split in two places. His left arm was wrapped in a sling, and the piece of wood under his right arm was a crutch, crude and hastily made, the kind a maester might fashion for a patient who refused to stay in bed. He was leaning heavily on it, his massive frame listing to one side, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion and pain. He looked like a man who had been through a war and had only barely survived.

"Y/N," he said, and his voice was exactly the same as it had been when he was eight years old and lifting you from your mother's deathbed. Cracked. Hoarse. Full of a desperate, aching tenderness that made your chest splinter into a thousand pieces.

One moment you were standing in the doorway with your hands pressed to your mouth, and the next you were in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your shoulders shaking with sobs you had been holding back for years. His good arm wrapped around you, pulling you against him, and you felt the crutch fall away, felt him stagger and brace himself against the wall so he would not fall. He was so big. He had always been so big. Even broken and bruised and barely able to stand, he surrounded you, enveloped you, made you feel for the first time in longer than you could remember that you were safe.

"I've got you," he said into your hair, and his voice was breaking, splintering, cracking into pieces that sounded like your mother's laugh and your father's name and every promise he had ever made you. "I've got you. I've always got you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I looked for you. I looked everywhere. They told me you were dead. They told me they found your body in the river. They said you were burned beyond recognition. I believed them. Gods forgive me, I believed them."

"I didn't know," you sobbed into his chest. Your fingers were twisted in his tunic, gripping the rough wool as if he might disappear if you let go. "I didn't know they told you that. I thought you were still looking. I thought you would find me. I waited for you. Every night, I waited for you. I never stopped believing you would come."

"I'm sorry, i believed them. I believed you were dead, and something inside me died with you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, little sister. I should have kept looking. I should have known. I should have..."

"Stop." You pulled back just enough to look up at his face, at the tears that were cutting tracks through the blood and the bruises. "Stop apologizing. You searched for me. You believed what they told you. Any man would have believed it. I don't blame you. I have never blamed you. I only ever wanted you to know I was alive. I tried to send word. I tried so many times. But Aerion..."

You stopped. The name hung in the air between you like a curse. Dunk's expression darkened. His good arm tightened around your shoulders. "Aerion," he repeated, and the word came out like a growl. "What happened to you, Y/N? Where have you been all these years? How did you end up here, with him?"

You pulled away from him gently. Your legs were shaking. You found a chair and sank into it, and Dunk lowered himself awkwardly onto the edge of the table, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, his crutch clattering to the floor. He did not take his eyes off you. He watched you the way he had watched you when you were children, with that fierce, protective intensity that had once been the only thing standing between you and the darkness of the world.

"They sold me," you said, and your voice was quiet and hollow and did not sound like your own. "The men who took me. They sold me to a brothel on the Street of Silk. A high end place, for lords and merchants. The madam... she was cruel. She said I was special. She said I would make them very rich."

Dunk's hands tightened on your shoulders. His face had gone very pale beneath the bruises, and his jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin.

"And then," you continued, "Aerion came, he bought me and never left me"

And then you told him about Rhaenyra.

"Her name is Rhaenyra," you said, and your voice softened on the name, the way it always did. "She's two years old. She looks like her father. But she's kind. She's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She's the only good thing that has come out of any of this. And she's the reason I can't leave."

Dunk was silent for a long moment. His face was unreadable, a mask of bruises and exhaustion and something that might have been grief. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough.

"I'll take you away," he said. "Both of you. You and the little girl. I'll find a way. I have friends now. A prince and a lord. We can protect you. We can hide you somewhere Aerion will never find you."

You shook your head. The tears were streaming down your face again, hot and silent, dripping off your chin and onto your hands. "You don't understand. He would never let me go. He would hunt me down like a dog. He would burn cities to the ground to find me. He told me... the night after the puppet show, when he came to my room, he told me the only way I would ever leave him was in a shroud. He meant it, Dunk. I have seen what he does to people who defy him. I have seen him cut a servant's hand for spilling wine on him. I have seen him laugh while a man burned alive. If I tried to run, if I took Rhaenyra and disappeared, he would never stop looking. And when he found me, and he would find me, he would kill me. He would take my daughter and he would kill me, and Rhaenyra would grow up without a mother, raised by a monster who would teach her that cruelty is strength and kindness is weakness and love is just another word for ownership."

"He would have to go through me first," Dunk said, and his voice was hard, the voice of a man who had faced seven knights in single combat and emerged victorious. "I lost you once. I believed you were dead for years. I mourned you, Y/N. I sat in that alley and I let the darkness take me because there was no light left in the world. And then I found you again, alive, here, in this place, with that man. I am not going to lose you again. I don't care if he is a prince. I don't care if he has a hundred Kingsguard. I will find a way to get you out of here. I will find a way to keep you safe. I swear it. I swear it on our mother's grave. I swear it on everything I am."

"Dunk." You reached out and took his enormous hand in both of yours. His knuckles were swollen and bruised, the skin split and scabbed over. The hands that had lifted you from the mattress where your mother had stopped breathing. The hands that had carried you into the cold morning while the other whores watched with pity. The hands that had promised you silk and lemon cakes and a world where no one would hurt you. "I want to believe you. I want to believe there is a way out of this. But you have to understand what you're risking. He will kill you. He will kill you without hesitation, without a trial, without anything but the cold satisfaction of removing an obstacle. And if you die, if you die trying to save me, I will have nothing left. Nothing. Do you understand? You are my brother. You are the only family I have in this world besides my daughter. I cannot lose you again."

He squeezed your hands. His grip was gentle, impossibly gentle for a man who had killed knights and broken bones and fought his way through horrors you could only imagine. "You won't lose me," he said. "I promise you, little sister. You won't lose me."

—

You ran. Egg had barely finished speaking before you were out the door and flying down the corridor, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth, your lungs burning with every breath. You did not care if anyone saw you. You did not care if there were questions. All you cared about was getting back to Aerion's room before he woke, before he realized you were gone, before the fragile illusion of your obedience shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.

You reached the door to Aerion's chamber and paused, pressing your palm flat against the wood, forcing yourself to breathe. You could not go in looking like a woman who had just run across half the castle. You could not go in looking like a woman who had been crying in her brother's arms. You smoothed your hair with trembling hands. You wiped the tears from your cheeks. You arranged your face into the careful mask you had worn for years, and you pushed open the door.

Aerion was still asleep. He had not moved since you left. His breathing was slow and steady, his bruised face relaxed in the depths of his drugged slumber. The milk of the poppy still held him in its grip. The bandages on his ribs were unrumpled. His splinted arm lay exactly where you had arranged it. He had not woken. He had not called for you. He had not noticed your absence at all.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, your legs threatening to give way beneath you. You had made it. You had made it, and he did not know, and you were safe. For now. For this moment. For as long as you could keep the mask from slipping.

You returned to the chair beside his bed and sat down, and you waited.

Days passed. Aerion healed. Slowly at first, then with the stubborn, grinding determination of a man who refused to be seen as weak for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. The bruises faded from black to purple to yellow-green. The swelling around his eye went down until he could open it fully again. The split lip closed, leaving a thin white scar that tugged at the corner of his mouth when he spoke. The ribs were slower to mend, the maester said, and he would need to be careful for weeks yet, but the splint came off his arm and he began to flex his fingers, to test the range of motion, to push against the limits of his own body the way he pushed against everything else in his life.

By the end of the second week, he could walk with a stick. You were the one who helped him take his first steps. His arm draped over your shoulders, his weight pressing down on you until your knees buckled, his breath harsh and labored against your ear. You walked him across the room and back again, step by agonizing step, your body bearing the burden of his in a way that felt like a metaphor for everything your life had become.

"Good," he said through gritted teeth when he finally lowered himself back onto the bed. “That's good. I'll be out of this room by the end of the week.”

"My father is sending me away," he had said, and his voice was flat, toneless, drained of its usual fire. "Lys. A city of whores and perfumed merchants. He calls it self reflection. A chance to contemplate my actions and return a better man. But we both know what it really is. Exile. He cannot bear to look at me. He blames me for Baelor's death, even though it was his own blow that killed him. He blames me for everything."

You had not known what to say, so you had said nothing. That was safest. That had always been safest.

"You and the girl will come with me, of course, Lys is said to be beautiful. Warm. The sea is the color of sapphires, and the women walk around in silks so fine you can see their skin through the fabric. You will like it there."

You would not like it anywhere he was. But you had smiled, because that was what you did, and you had told him that Lys sounded lovely, and you had turned away to prepare his next dose of medicine so he would not see the despair in your eyes.

After that, things shifted slightly. Perhaps Aerion felt guilty for uprooting you. Perhaps he was simply trying to secure your loyalty before the journey. Whatever the reason, he began to allow you to visit Rhaenyra in the nursery. Not for long, not unsupervised, but every day. Every single day, you were permitted to leave his chamber for an hour and go to your daughter.

It was the only thing that kept you sane. You would sit in the nursery with Rhaenyra on your lap, her small body warm and solid and alive against your chest, and you would listen to her chatter about the games she had played and the songs she had learned and the dreams she had dreamed. You would brush her hair and sing to her in the soft voice you used for no one else. You would tell her that you loved her, that you would always love her, that there was nothing in the world she could do that would make you stop loving her. And you would try very hard not to think about the fact that in a few weeks, a few months at most, you would be on a ship to Lys, and the only world Rhaenyra had ever known would disappear behind her forever.

It was on one of these days, when you returned from the nursery with Rhaenyra's laughter still echoing in your ears, that everything fell apart.

You pushed open the door to Aerion's chamber and stopped dead in the doorway. There were two guards in the room. Between them, kneeling on the stone floor, was the servant. The one who had come to you days ago. The one who had said Prince Maekar requests your presence. The one who had led you through the corridors to the room where Dunk was waiting.

She was barely recognizable. Her face was a swollen mass of bruises, her lips split in three places, her nose broken and crusted with dried blood. One of her eyes was swollen completely shut, and the other stared at the floor with the glassy, unfocused gaze of someone who had retreated so far inside herself that she might never find her way back out. Her dress was torn, stained dark with blood and sweat and things you did not want to name. Her hands, folded limply in her lap, were missing three fingernails.

You knew, in that moment, that you were going to die.

Aerion was standing by the window, leaning on his stick, his back to you. He did not turn when you entered. He simply stood there, silhouetted against the grey afternoon light, his shoulders rigid, his free hand clenched into a fist at his side.

"Close the door," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The calm of a sea that had gone flat and glassy in the moment before a tidal wave.

You closed the door. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely grip the latch.

"Aerion," you said, and your voice came out as a whisper, thin and reedy and full of the terror you could not hide. "What is this? What happened to her?"

Now he turned. His face was the face you had seen on the stage of the puppet show, cold and cruel and utterly without mercy. His violet eyes were dark with a rage that had been simmering for days, waiting for this moment, and his mouth was a thin hard line that made the scar at the corner of his lip stand out white against his skin.

"Is it true?" he asked. His voice was still calm. Still quiet. Still terrible. "Did you betray me? Did you see that treasonous bastard of your brother?"

Your heart stopped. Your blood turned to ice. The world narrowed to the space between you and him, the fire in the hearth, the broken woman on the floor.

"Aerion, please, let me explain..."

"Did you see him?" He did not shout. He did not raise his voice at all. But each word was a hammer blow, driving the breath from your lungs, the strength from your legs. "This woman, this servant, has told me everything. How she came to you while I was sleeping. How she led you through the castle. How my father, my own father, arranged for you to meet your brother in secret behind my back. Is it true? Answer me. Is it true?"

Your mind raced, scrambling for a lie, a deflection, anything that might save you. But the servant was kneeling on the floor with her fingernails torn out and her face beaten to pulp, and you knew that whatever you said, whatever excuse you offered, he had already made up his mind.

"It was not my choice," you said, and your voice cracked on the words. "The servant came and said your father wanted to see me. I did not know it was a trick. I did not know Dunk would be there. I went because I was afraid to refuse. Please, Aerion, you have to believe me. I did not seek him out. I would never..."

"Liar." He spat the word like a curse. "You have been lying to me since the moment you saw his face in the pavilion. You have been lying to me while you changed my bandages and brought my medicine and performed your little duties like the devoted whore you pretend to be. All this time, you have been dreaming of him. Planning with him. Scheming behind my back. Did you think I would not find out? Did you think I would not have you watched? Did you think I was stupid?"

"No, I never..."

"Be silent." He took a step toward you, and the stick thumped against the stone floor like a death sentence. "I have listened to your lies for years. I have listened to you whisper that you loved me while your eyes were always looking somewhere else. I have listened to you promise that you were mine while your heart belonged to another. I am done listening. Now you will listen to me."

He gestured to one of the guards. The man stepped forward, his face still grim and impassive. You barely had time to register the movement before his gauntleted hand cracked across your face.

The blow sent you sprawling to the floor. Your head hit the stone with a crack that made stars burst across your vision. The taste of blood filled your mouth. Your ears rang with a high, thin whine that drowned out everything else. You tried to push yourself up, but your arms would not hold you, and you collapsed back onto the cold stone, gasping.

"Take her away," Aerion said, and for a moment you thought he meant you. But the guard was already hauling the servant to her feet, dragging her toward the door, her head lolling on her broken neck. The other guard followed, and then the door closed, and you were alone with the dragon.

Aerion stood over you. The stick thumped against the floor as he took another step closer. You could see his boots from where you lay, the fine black leather, the silver buckles shaped like dragon wings.

"Let me tell you what happens now," he said, and his voice was soft, almost gentle, the voice of a man explaining something to a child. "You are going to Lys with me. You are going to share my bed and warm my sheets and perform your duties as you have always done. You are going to smile and praise me and tell me that I am magnificent. You are going to be exactly what you have always been. My whore. My property. My thing."

He lowered himself slowly, painfully, until he was crouching beside you. His hand came down and gripped your chin, forcing your face up toward his. His fingers were cold and hard and utterly without tenderness.

"If you ever see your brother again," he said, "if you ever speak to him, if you ever so much as learn his whereabouts and fail to tell me, I will not kill you. No. Killing you would be a mercy, and I am not feeling merciful. What I will do is make you pray for death. Every single day, you will pray for it, and it will not come. Do you understand?"

You tried to speak. No words came out. Only a thin, animal whimper that you barely recognized as your own.

"And Rhaenyra," he continued, and your blood turned to ice water. "If you betray me again, if you give me even the slightest reason to doubt your loyalty, I will take her from you. Not just for a few days. Not just to the nursery. I will sell her. Do you understand? I will sell her to a brothel the moment she has her first bleeding. She will spend her life on her back with strange men between her legs, just like her mother before her. Just like the whore who whelped her. That is what happens to the daughters of traitors. That is what happens to the children of women who forget who they belong to."

"No." The word tore out of you, a desperate, animal sound. "Aerion, no, please, she's your daughter, she's your blood, you can't..."

"I can do whatever I want." His voice was flat. Final. The voice of a god passing judgment. "She is mine. You are mine. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because I allow it. Your life is a privilege. Your motherhood is a privilege. Your identity as a mother, as a daughter, as anything other than what I tell you to be, is a privilege. And privileges can be revoked."

He rose to his feet with a grimace of pain, leaning heavily on his stick. He looked down at you, crumpled on the floor at his feet, and his expression was utterly without pity.

"Your only duty is to me," he said. "You are not a mother. You are not a sister. You are not a person with a past or a family or a soul. You are my whore. That is all you have ever been. That is all you will ever be. Everything else, every moment you have spent with Rhaenyra, every breath you have taken as a free woman, has been a gift. A gift that I gave you. A gift that I can take away."

He turned to the guard who remained. The man had been standing motionless by the door, his face a mask of professional indifference. He had watched the whole thing without flinching. You wondered, distantly, how many women he had seen broken on the orders of the men who paid him.

"Incapacitate her," Aerion said. "I want her unable to walk. Not permanently. I still need her to be able to perform her duties. But I want her to remember, every time she takes a step, what happens when she forgets who she belongs to."

The guard stepped forward. You saw him coming, saw the purpose in his eyes, and you tried to scramble backward on the floor, your heels slipping against the stone, your hands clawing for purchase. It did not matter. He was on you in three strides, his hands closing around your ankle, and you heard yourself screaming, heard Aerion's voice saying something you could not understand, and then there was a sound like a branch breaking in deep winter, and your leg exploded into white-hot agony.

The world went away for a while. When it came back, you were still on the floor. The guard was gone. Aerion was still standing over you, leaning on his stick, watching you with an expression that was almost curious. As if your pain were an experiment he had conducted and he was evaluating the results.

"The maester will come to set the ankle," he said. "You will tell him you fell down the stairs. You will not mention the guard. You will not mention this conversation. You will not mention your brother or your disobedience. You will smile, and you will thank me for my concern, and you will continue to perform your duties. Is that understood?"

You could not speak. The pain was too much. Your leg was a column of fire, and every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of agony through your body. But you managed to nod, a tiny, jerky motion of your head, and that seemed to satisfy him.

"Good," he said. "I am glad we understand each other."

He limped to the door, his stick thumping against the stone with every step. He did not look back at you as he left. He did not offer you a hand to help you up. He simply opened the door and disappeared into the corridor, and you were alone.

Dunk had promised. Dunk had sworn on your mother's grave, on everything he was. And Dunk had never broken a promise to you. Not once. Not ever.

You held onto that ember as the darkness closed in. You held onto it as the pain in your ankle pulsed and throbbed and dragged you toward unconsciousness. You held onto it as the door opened and the maester's voice exclaimed in shock and you heard yourself saying, over and over, the lie Aerion had given you. Fell down the stairs. Fell down the stairs. Fell down the stairs.

And when the maester's hands began to work on your ankle, when the world went white with pain and then mercifully black with oblivion, you held onto it still.

Dunk had promised.

[pookiemuch]

Jaw dropped when he threatened her with their daughter, i thought he loves their child but he's actually just insane 😭

[darktargslut]

He does love her💔 Someone already asked, but he was never actually going to sell her. It was a threat where at best he would have sent her to be a ward to some noble family while lying to the reader to make her feel bad

[hottytargaryens]

head-canon: what’s it like being married to…

characters: baelor targaryen, maekar targaryen, daeron targaryen, aerion targaryen, valarr targaryen

warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, female gratification, penetration, cowgirl, missionary, spanking, doggy, spoon

authors note: req by @wooceanic <3 I'm sorry this took so long!!!!!

maekar

Maekar maintains a stern temperament with all except you. You see how he scolds the Ser’s, maesters, his brothers, the stewards, all who test his patience. A stare, a smack at the back of the head, a shove. He towers above them all. There is only an infinity of love and patience for you.

In the moments shared just between you, when he thinks no one is watching, nor can they see, he pats you on the backside, grazes his hand against the side of your neck. Maybe even a peck on the cheek. A tug by the wrist into a dark corner to embrace you and kiss you. Though, even when he is in one of his impatient mood's and feeling argumentative, with you, he never is cruel, nor is he vicious.

The two-hour ride to the woods to celebrate Rhaegal's Nameday, a great hunt and feast. Maekar joined you in the carriage instead of riding with the others by horse. He had been well-behaved initially, but you knew better than all, that it started with a little bicker. A little teasing. And then heated contest.

"I told you to wear your red gown today." He started with, a mere fifteen minutes into the journey.

"Darling this is my red gown." You answered immediately, as you tried looking out through the cracks in the window. You could just about make out the blur of the green trees.

"You know which gown I meant. That is maroon." Maekar was playing with a tassel on his tunic as he watched you ease back on your side of the carriage.

"Maroon is red. You should have been more specific." You hummed and after a beat. "Oh I thought you meant this one anyway. It is the newest one."

"Hmm." He grumbled something incoherent, you never tried to ask what he was saying - there was no point. Maekar flickered his eyebrow up in thought.

"Why don't you leave me out a gown specifically. And I can please you as you so desire." Only you could say something so waspish to Maekar and make him semi-hard. Especially with that teasing smile on your face.

"They all come off you the same." He tore his eyes off you for a moment, trying to calm himself. Just watching you red-faced from the heat in the carriage made him hard.

"Please do free me of it.” You exhaled as you used your hand to fan yourself. “It's frightfully hot today Maekar."

He watched in silence, a bead of sweat rolled out from the bottom of your hairline, down the side of your next and across your collar bone. You caught his eye, watching you, then, and he launched off from his seat.

His hands grasped your face first, and you felt his lips crashing against yours desperately. Maekar kissed you, a gentle grunt escaping him as your hands held his face mostly out of support. You had not been intimate for some time; Maekar had been busy assisting Baelor with all matters across the realm. He would not say specifics, he never did, so you learned quickly to never ask. By the time Maekar would get to bed you were fast asleep. He couldn't bring himself to wake you when you looked so peaceful, so angellic.

"Mm- fuck Maekar." You groaned as he bit your lip in the intensity. He pulled away slightly hoping he had not made your lip bleed.

Maekar's tongue soon pushed against yours until you laughed. You spread your legs so he could rest against you, but you both slipped from the seat to the floor of the carriage when it rocked unexpectedly. Maekar pushed his groin into you as he kissed you, he was an unstoppable force sucking your tongue unabashedly loudly. His torso pressed into you to make sure you would not roll around the carriage.

"We cannot- we cannot do this here." You panted between kisses, breathless almost, and he finally tore his mouth from yours, instead planting kissing across to your neck, down to your collar bone.

Maekar groaned as he sucked at you, kissed you, moving all over your body. He bunched up the skirt of your dress, burying himself in material to get to your body.

"Oh yes we can." Maekar grunted as you felt his facial hair against the bare skin of your inner thigh. He kissed you slowly, intimately, and you sighed at the sensation. His hands massaging your thighs warmed you like the summer heat could never. You could not see his face, nor anticipate what he was going to do next.

You felt a single finger at your entrance, making you flinch and grab the door handle to the carriage. Maekar tickled you, as he parted your briefs slowly, his middle finger slipped against you slowly, separating your hot wet folds. You bit your lip as he then rolled his tongue between your legs, the tip of his tongue moving cruelly but deliciously slowly. You moaned with your lips pressed together, your brow tensing, almost frowning down as you watched Maekar's hulking form below, half hidden under your skirt.

"You're going to make me come in this carriage if you keep doing that." You whispered, though the sound of the horses, the carriage itself were loud enough to cover the sounds of you both.

"That's the intent." Maekar spoke against you, his tongue continuing to lick you, flick you.

You arched your back as you felt the sensation build and erupt, as you clenched your thighs against Maekar's head. You were unable to keep your cries of pleasure quiet, gripping whatever you could that was in reach, with Maekar ensuring your legs were spread wide for him.

"God's, Maekar, you're-" You stammered, panting, sweating, chest heaving below you. "Oh Maekar!" You cried and the carriage stopped to a halt.

You froze as did Maekar, his tongue had flicked your clit to an inch of her life. He kissed you between your legs and emerged from your skirt, red faced and flustered. Maekar sat in his seat as you were flustered, desperately trying to get back into yours.

The carriage door swung open as the guard, Ser Link emerged from the sunlight. He blinked, regarding you both. Maekar smoothed down his messed platinum hair as you tried to regulate your breathing, your full chest heaving.

"Is everything okay my Prince, Princess? I thought I 'eard crying."

valarr

Valarr kept his distance from you initially and you thought he was upset with the arrangement once it had been officially announced. It was both out of your control but as you began to spend more time alone with him he warmed to you, and you couldn’t get him off of you. The night of your ceremony was exhausting but passionate, and a sign of things to come.

Valarr had many obligations and as the First Born Son to the First in Line to the Throne, there were many duties for him to perfect. Especially under Baelor. He returned to your chamber late into the night often, but he always woke you in the best of ways.

You woke to his lips against yours, the sweetest way to be stirred. Valarr knelt into your bed and climbed in to join you under the sheets, already stripped and ready for you.

"Where were you this night?" You asked quietly, stretching a little as Valarr ran his hand up the side of your body across the ridges of your ribs, to the base of your arm pit. You shook from the ticklish sensation.

"There's much unrest at Iron's Spear. Father wanted my ear on the Small Council this eve." Valarr spoke so eloquently. Women were not for council meetings, or many things for that matter. He knew it intrigued you to no end and kept you informed of all that he knew. It reassured you, to know he entrusted you with such information.

As Valarr spoke he lifted your night dress slowly from the hem, bunching the material up as he pulled it over your head. Valarr rested his body onto yours and kissed you lovingly, running his fingers through your hair as you became free of clothing. You felt safest under the sheets with Valarr, it were as if nothing could harm either of you. Your hands worked their way up his body, from his plump backside, up his smooth back, around to his downy chest, up to his shoulders. Oh how the others had no idea how hairy Valarr truly was. This was all for you. Over the past few months he had grown strong from his training, on the horse, sword play, archery, to name a few. You took to watching him fight Aerion in the courtyard despite the trainer being very much much against it. You imagined it when Valarr was away from your bed, and you were alone, under the sheets as your fingers explored your body - the vision pleasured you deeply. Endlessly.

Valarr rolled his groin into you teasingly as you kissed, enough to make you gasp involuntarily into his mouth. His tongue melted against yours, almost becoming one. You couldn't help but smile as you felt him pushing down into you. It had been some months since you wed and through experimenting the many positions with Valarr, you found riding him on top was not only your favourite but also his. He would start on top of you, to get you wet and ready for him, then gently hold you as he rolled onto his back, and you were straddling him. Valarr did the same that night, each time becoming more smooth with his movements.

You rested your hands, your fingers into his hairy torso, kissing him and running your fingers up the side of his neck, through his luscious soft brown hair. Valarr sucked at your bottom lip noisily, groaning as you positioned his eager cock inside you. You were impatient. Once Valarr initiated, you unravelled so easily and happily. You felt no reason to play hard to get when you wanted it as much as he did. If not more.

Valarr held securely onto your waist, ensuring he was deep inside you and rolling you back and forth, rather than moving out of you. You sounded impossibly wet, as always; this was the effect he had on you. It was all enough to make you hum and bite your lip. You sat up and held your breasts; he loved watching you play with yourself, touch yourself. Valarr maintained the pace and felt your thighs clench against him as you finally came. You lifted your chin to the ceiling but he pulled you to him, taking your face so he could kiss you, his Wife.

daeron

You had convinced yourself Daeron hadn't been paying attention to you, listening to the conversations you engaged in whilst walking the gardens of the castle. And as you finally resigned to accept that he was too preoccupied with the thought of wine, or ale, when his next cup was, he surprised you in the most glorious of ways.

A painting of a view from home you had talked about missing dearly. A dress you had grown fond of, seeing another Lady at the Keep wear; only it was unique and embellished, more in line with the shades you wore. A necklace he believed you would adore, and right he was. You would wear it to sleep, you even wore it in the bath. As Daeron came into your chamber to surprise you with it, you were overcome with emotion, gaping at him as if he were your shooting star.

"Daeron, you-" Your bottom lip wobbled as he unhooked it and draped it around your neck, hooking the clasp back into one of the loops. You regarded yourself in the mirror momentarily before wiping tears from your eyes. It had been a hard few days; you had hardly seen him and worried he had gone missing.

"Only the best for my Princess." He gazed at you as his fingers gently grazed the skin of your shoulders, squeezing you encouragingly. "My light."

You had pounced on him, taking him by total surprise. The pair of you collapsed onto the bed and your mouth was all over him. Your sweet high pitched moans echoed around the room and Daeron clasped onto your face tightly, his tongue diving into your mouth, rolling across your tongue. He moaned back, as your hands explored his body, right to his crotch. You smiled at just feeling the size of him. One of the biggest in Westeros, no? You had posed many a night to yourself.

Daeron panted as you massaged him over his maroon breeches. You were overcome with love, passion for this man. Your Prince. He twirled your hair around his fingers as you slipped your hand into his breeches, the base of your palm stretching down his length, fingers around his solid balls that were almost as big as the palm of your hands alone. You helped him remove them from his waist, and freed his cock for you to enjoy. Daeron leant back against the bed, your lips kissing him, rubbing against him. He closed his eyes, but was desperate to watch your every move.

"Do you like your new gift?" He asked you, and you nodded without word. You released your tongue against him and licked him from base to tip slowly, and then pushed him as far as your throat could take.

Your afternoon was a heated mess of moans, tearing at clothes, rolling on the bed until you were almost dazed and dizzy, sweating and trembling. Daeron was on top one moment, his toned torso sliding against yours as he fucked you. You were then on top of him, digging your fingernails into his chest, leaving crescent-moon shaped indents in his pale skin. You cried out as he pushed his hand against your lower stomach. Daeron had pulled you into his lap as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, your mouths, your tongues unable to move apart from one another.

You had finished on the floor by the balcony, enjoying the sea breeze against your sweating bodies. Though he had come, he remained inside you, panting and exhaling loudly on top of you. You kissed the side of his face, running your hands through his soft dark blonde hair. This Prince, so unassuming, so endlessly loving.

aerion

The first few months of being married to Aerion were a lustful, passionate blur. You had barely left the castle and initially struggled to walk down the hallway without adjusting your underclothes. Your small clothes. Aerion was determined to keep you satisfied and all to himself, like at times the two of you were inseparable. Bound by an unbreakable, unseen tie.

Aerion was called to join his father on a trip to Mistwood, which made you distraught and alleviated simultaneously. Your body yearned for rest, but as you slept soundlessly on the first night, the second you gazed up at the ceiling of your bed, wondering how you would get through the coming seven days. The nights were hot and made you restless, as you lay with the sheets kicked down to your feet so you could feel the breeze against your neglected skin.

Supper's were peaceful, with most of the men away in Mistwood, except Baelor, who had come from Dragonstone, and Rhaegal who had always matters to attend to. His presence reassured you and you enjoyed his company, especially as he spoke so infrequently. On the fifth night he informed you Maekar had sent correspondence; they were delayed and would be back in a week. In your chamber you kept busy until you could no longer keep your eyes open, reading or sewing, or even painting when you had the patience for it. Only one night you cried, you allowed yourself to look up at the night sky and wonder if he were looking up at the moon, thinking of you too.

When the day finally came, you joined the others at the gate, anticipating their return. A rush of adrenaline riddled your body as you watched the procession, and felt your heart race at the sight of Aerion, gliding up on his horse and dismounting at ease. He came to you first, his platinum blonde hair fluffed from the wind.

"Princess." Aerion kissed you once, his cheeks flushed pink, as you tried maintaining your excitement. You had put on your new black and blood-red embroidered dress for it. Even seeing Maekar, you smiled at him until he rubbed your shoulder encouragingly.

You returned to your chamber at Aerion's side, your hands behind your back as you walked slowly, listening to Aerion describe the journey home, Mistwood, the tedious Lord's.

"It sounds wonderful." You said, intrigued by how Aerion had recalled it.

As you stepped through the door, Aerion closed it behind him and had started undressing before you. You watched for a moment, curious at his eagerness, as he undressed until he remained in only his red undershirt. His throbbing cock was desperate to come out.

"Take your clothes off. Or I will tear them from you." He exhaled as if he had been running uphill.

You stripped slowly for him until you were in only your stockings. As you stood up straight Aerion was at you, taking your face in his hands so suddenly you almost fell back.

Aerion's lips were forceful, passionate, as he took over your mouth, his tongue rolling into you, making you moan for him.

"Aerion."

He lifted you up onto the bed and climbed after you, guiding you back with his lips still attached to yours, determined not to break.

"My Princess." He exhaled into your mouth, as you felt his hands over your body, around your waist, down to your backside to bring you closer to him. Aerion smacked you gently and pulled away noisily from your mouth. "Turn around." He grazed his index finger across your wet bottom lip.

You turned away from him and knew then how Aerion wanted to have you. His hands grasped your backside tightly and pulled you back into him hard. You felt the tip of his erection glide over your wetness, separating your folds, as you rested your elbows into the bedding. It sent goosebumps across your back, and you pressed your mouth against the back of your forearm.

"Did you hate waiting for me?" Aerion asked, and you nodded, your platinum hair tickling your back.

As he thrusted his hard cock into you, the time apart had evaporated and it were as if he had never left you at all. The sensation of him filling you so determinedly, feeling his hands over your soft supple skin made you grab fistfuls of your bedding, squeezing tight enough you thought you may break your nails. You cried out into the bed as he spanked you, hard enough until the room filled with the sounds of smacking of skin. You arched your back like a cat as his rhythm picked up and he pounded against you harder. Aerion very rarely was gentle with you in these intimate moments, but it worked. You adored him for it.

"Did you miss me?" Aerion panted loudly, his hands both at your backside, squeezing hard, .

You lifted your head up and nodded, flexing your hands out of fists.

"Every minute."

Aerion smacked your backside again and turned you over, desperate to see your face again as he teetered on the verge of coming. He spread your legs as he settled between them and massaged your breasts. You gazed up at his face, his steely eyes as he pushed his hard cock into you again. You held your breath until you knew he was fully inside you, and finally you cried out, as he hit that spot that you could never determine if it hurt, or was painfully good.

He scrunched his nose as he thrust into you, his platinum hair messed from the intensity, the physicality. Aerion thumbed your clit as he fucked you relentlessly, as you had dreamt of since he had left. Your hands scratched his hairy thighs gently, your fingernails leaving pink lines in his skin. You knew it wouldn't be long before you came, especially when he had you this way. Seeing his face look down at yours, knowing he was pleasuring you so intensely. You bit your bottom lip, your chest heaving. Aerion had tried to make it so you both came at the same time; he usually was first, but it was never due to his lack of trying. This time you came first, clenching around his thick cock, lifting your chin up to cry out in relief as that indescribable feeling washed over your body. Within a minute Aerion released inside you, his fingers digging deep enough into your hips to leave bruises that would emerge later. Aerion ran his hands through his hair then and collapsed on top of you, his lips keen to still have you, kiss you, taste you. He licked you, from bottom lip to the tip of your nose.

As you panted against one another, you held the back of his head as it rested on your collar bone. Aerion was still inside you, and unbeknownst to you both it was in that moment you conceived your first.

baelor

Even before your ceremony you knew how busy a man Baelor was. There was much weighing on his shoulders, and an unfathomable amount on his mind. Baelor enjoyed sharing a space with you at Dragonstone, even if you were doing separate things. As you embroidered, he read and responded to letters, but when you yawned and stretched in your chair, his eyes lifted to admire you in the peace you two shared.

"Late is the hour." Baelor's rich voice was lax at this time, and you knew he only spoke when it mattered. "You should return to our chamber. I will join you soon."

You gazed up at him from your book sleepily and slowly inhaled, wondering how much longer he would be up for. You rose from your seat and moved to stand behind Baelor, hugging him gently with your arms wrapped around his shoulders. He squeezed you back then turned to kiss you, holding your face with his hand.

You settled into bed, the pillow cool against your cheek, just as you liked. On your side, turned away from the door too anxious to face it. As you began to drift to sleep, a creak in the bed stirred you back, the bedding shifted to Baelor's weight as he joined you.

His hand caressed you from behind, at your waist, he squeezed you reassuringly. The air smelled of extinguished candles, his body of his natural musk. You felt his hand at your hip, massaging you, moving down your thighs between your legs. Smiling, you pushed your face into your pillow, enjoying the sensation of his hands on you. You liked not having to do much when it came to foreplay, Baelor was all over it. He initiated mostly, and he would touch, kiss you like his life depended on it.

"You are still awake." Baelor spoke softly, you could feel it against the side of your ear.

"As are you." You smiled though he could not see your face.

You felt his body against your back, his groin gently moving against your backside. A sweet almost inaudible moan escaped your mouth as you felt his hands on you. His fingers grazed your backside, sending goosebumps rippling over you. Baelor lifted your leg to rest on him, and he found your sweet wetness, his fingers tickling you. You lifted your chin at the sensation, as he then slipped his finger inside you.

"Mm." You exhaled as he put his other arm underneath your neck to support you.

Baelor was unable to keep himself from you longer, putting your legs back together, he adjusted his dark veiny cock, sliding against the back of you, his tip gently pressing against your entrance. He wanted to fuck you from behind, you felt tighter, you moaned sweeter, more intensely. As he pushed into you, you gripped the side of the bed and felt that familiar but overwhelming wave of pleasure wash over you. Baelor held you by the waist with one hand and slowly bent his other arm underneath your neck, gently bringing it in as if he were to strangle you with his forearm but he stopped. He let you rest against him, kiss him. You resisted the urge to bite him as Baelor quickly built up his pace, fucking you harder and more adoringly. He exhaled against you, feeling you tremble, your pussy clench around him. He felt you press your backside into him and he couldn't help but smile.

"You like that, hm?" He told you.

"I love it." You sounded as if you were in pain, but it couldn't be further from the truth. Your cries rippled against his forearm.

Baelor grunted against you as he thrust harder, deeper and you gritted your teeth, stifling a high pitch moan as best you could.

"Moan for me Princess." Baelor spoke. "Don't hold it in."

You nodded, you did not care to keep it inside you any longer. You did not care his guard could hear, or your daughter in the next room may wake from the sounds. Selfishly, you wanted to make the castle walls vibrate from the moans of pleasure.

Baelor pulled out from you and guided you onto your back as he collapsed on top of you, his hands moving your messed hair from your face to see you properly. He spread your legs to rest against your body, your hands got to his wet cock before he could, massaging him and pulling him to be inside you once again. As he entered you again, you closed your eyes and tried to lift your chin, a high-pitched moan emitting from you. Baelor took your face as he began to fuck you, squeezing you just enough to make you open your eyes again.

"Look at me, my darling." He panted as he then finally kissed you.

[mori1b2bpad]

My bestie just sent me this about me and I cried my eyes out! Fucking love my friends🥰🥰🥰

[targlocket]

LICK YOU CLEAN

maekar targaryen x wife!reader

cw: filth!!, licking, sniffing, dry humping, nipple play(m!receiving), degradation, praise, body worship(m!receiving), breath play(f!receiving), scent kink!!, coming in pants, face humping, (2.7kw).

n/a: idk what came over me. based on this post!! u can read this as a piece from the my hot husband au/universe or a stand alone!! i just wrote this with their dynamic in mind lol! enjoy! < 3

"mhm, you didn't bathe after the hunt," you mumbled, fingers lifting maekar's tunic upwards impatiently, revealing his stomach, with that soft pudge of fat at the bottom that you loved. the one pinched by his breeches, making the soft flesh hang just a little over the band of his pants. "good. that's how i wanted you."

your husband only grumbled, rough hands trying to stop you from revealing more skin. still, you were determined, swatting every attempt away with a disgruntled sound, making maekar even more annoyed.

"have you no shame at all, woman?" he grouched, face pinched in irritation as you lifted the tunic until it pooled under his armpits, revealing his chest and belly in all its glory. "disrobing me and pawing at my flesh like i'm nothing but a toy to be played with when i'm exhausted from the bloody fucking—"

but you were barely listening to what your husband was saying, and frankly, in that moment, you had no qualms about paying mind to what came out of his mouth. all you cared about was how good he looked in that moment, leaning back against the pillows of your bed, still sweaty and dirty from the royal hunt he attended, looking every inch a man. all muscle and sinew and gods, the smatterings of fine silver hairs all over his chest and belly, and all the way lower on his navel, where a white trail of hair led right beneath the waistband of his breeches, to his cock.

you almost sighed thinking of it. you loved your husband's cock. it was one of the best things about him.

"you're exhausted," you parroted, humming as your soft hands continued to caress his stomach, pressing your fingers in, kneading at the skin like a cat, leisurely and appreciative, eliciting a displeased groan from your husband. "so sit back and indulge me for a few moments, dear husband."

maekar only scowled at you, the furrow between his brows deepening, lip curling in a snarl as he leaned forward, trying to loom, to intimidate in hopes you would cease pestering him. "don't dear husband me, you aggravating woman," he gritted, teeth barred, akin to a dragon before it unlatched its jaws to breathe fire and ash in anger. it made you warm under your chemise. you loved when your husband was all snappy and indignant.

you leaned forward, undeterred by his little intimidation tactic, noses almost brushing as you spoke, your tone soft and persuasive, as if beckoning a wild animal that might bite. "you were gone for so long, and i have been here, all alone, missing you like a limb," you lamented, distracting him from the way your fingers trailed along the waistband of his breeches now, prodding at the pudgy roll of fat there, loving the soft feel of it. "the least you could do is yield to my whims for a while."

aware that it wouldn't be enough to placate your husband, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his scarred cheek, leaving chaste, sweet kisses on the skin as you murmured. "you always look so good after a hunt, husband," you appeased, relentless in your pursuit of what you wanted, especially when it was something as delicious as touching maekar freely without him grumbling in your ear incessantly. "makes me want to devour you whole," your tone was on the precipe of resembling a purr, lips descending towards the strong line of his jaw and down his neck, nuzzling at the sweaty skin in delight.

as always, he tried to persist, even as you felt his skin warm and flush under your lips, making your mouth curl into a satisfied smile. you had him exactly where you wanted him, even if he was still resisting.

"you're being ridiculous," and oh, he was already panting softly, broad chest heaving along with the warm breaths that brushed your temple as you littered his ruddy-skinned throat in wet kisses. "pouncing on me like a cat in heat the second, ah—fuck," he cursed right when your tongue laved at his skin, tasting the remnants of the hunt. the sweat, the grime, the dirt—him, musky and manly and oh so palatable. “stop. i reek of filth and—”

“and i love it,” you moaned against his throat, mouth parting to press open—mouthed kisses to the skin of his throat, tongue licking at every remnant of perspiration, catching it against your palate and savoring it like the finest arbor gold. “you smell s’ good, husband, gods. i want to lick you all over.”

it always got like this. the more disheveled he returned, the more aroused you got. shame had deserted you moons ago, being absurdly vocal about how much you enjoyed when your husband was anything but presentable and pristine.

maekar made an aborted sound at your words, already flushed all the way to the tip of his ears, one rough hand moving to clasp the back of your nape and squeeze in hopes of deterring your assault on his senses, but it seemed in vain. the touch only spurred you, a soft sound resembling a purr rumbling against his throat as you continued to press your tongue to his skin, dipping it to taste the touch of grime gathered in the hollow of his throat.

“filthy,” maekar snarled, fingers squeezing just so at your nape and pulling upwards, eliciting a disgruntled sound from you; a whine. your lips were slick with spit, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide, hazy with heat and adoration, which only made the pressure of his hand increase, reprimanding you for how far gone you already looked. “you’re a filthy, dirty woman, you know that?” he spat, tone brooking on a growl. “always have been,” maekar continued, tightening his hold onto your nape, the pads of his fingers restricting your breath for just a moment, just enough to make you gasp, before he eased it. “getting hot and bothered by your soiled husband like a degenerate,” his thumb brushed against your throat, where he gripped prior, the closest thing to quiet tenderness you could get in that moment, but it made warmth spread through you regardless.

“what of it?” you challenged, dipping your head back to his throat, nosing along the flushed skin, your soft fingers resuming their pawing along his belly, pressing and prodding at the pudgy flesh there, nails scraping along the trail of fine hairs leading below his waistband, making your husband hiss. “it’s your smell i crave, your taste,—” another filthy lick, along the jut of his collarbones, before moving downwards towards his chest, where the smattering of hair was thicker, the smell of sweat and musk more pungent.

maekar tensed as soon as he felt your lips brush against one of his pecs, and you could feel the shiver that ran through him when the tip of your nose nudged a nipple, willing it to harden.

“don’t you fucking dare—”

you did it again, nosing at the pebbling bud once, twice. then, you licked it, slow and wet, circling the nipple with the tip of your tongue, flicking teasingly.

a garbled moan punched out of maekar’s chest, his hold on your nape tightening anew, his other hand fisting the sheets under him, white—knuckled and trembling with restraint. you could tell he wanted to shove you away, to haul you as far as possible from his body so he wouldn’t be able to feel all this, to have to succumb to your whims and depravity. but you also knew he liked it. craved your attention like poison in his veins. hated that he needed it. snarled and snapped his jaws while being half—hard already beneath his breeches, blushing from the tips of his ears to where your mouth was currently busied, lips parting to suckle noisily at his nipple, drawing out another restrained, delicious grunt from your husband.

“look at you,” he managed to bite out through gritted teeth, broad chest heaving under your mouth, voice thinner, breathier. “licking and sucking like a common whore,—”

but you didn’t let him finish, letting your teeth scrape against the bud, nipping at it enough to sting, halting his crude words, making him curse, back arching, pushing his chest more into your awaiting mouth. it was a reprimand, but also a sick, twisted pleasure. seeing your husband bucking and snarling under your lips and tongue was a sight you could never get tired of, much like right now, as you laved one last lick to his wet, swollen nipple, before nosing between his pecs through the fine hairs there, inhaling the scent of him like a woman possessed.

“how would you know what common whores do, mhm, husband?” you murmured, nuzzling along the underside of his pecs, letting your lips press against the skin in damp kisses as you descended towards his stomach, fingers still trailing along the hairs leading towards his navel. “have you been indulging without my knowledge?”

each question was a taunt, like dangling a hunk of meat under a dragon’s nose, waiting for it to bite. and you loved nothing more than to taunt your dragon until he bit, until you could feel his teeth sink in, metaphorically or not.

and he always bit.

“you think i would debase myself with some pleasure house wench?” he snarled, violet eyes glinting with something close to offense, which made you preen quietly, warmth spreading through your chest like drizzled honey.

as you nosed along his stomach, you couldn’t help but breathe him in again, mouth parting in soft pants as your eyes fluttered, the musk of him stronger the closer you got to the V—shape of his hips. “i would hope you wouldn’t, dear husband,” you mouthed along his belly, tongue poking out to lick at the skin, tasting him again. “i would be thoroughly scorned if you so dared,” another lap of your tongue, slow and filthy, this time along the trail of hair near the waistband of his breeches, feeling a slight tickle onto your palate.

but, gods, the scent. the taste of him.

musky and sweaty and man.

it drove you wild, lips pressing to that tempting silver line, open-mouthed and slow, savoring him on your tongue again and again, as if you couldn’t get enough.

a groan slipped unbidden from maekar’s mouth, fingers tightening at your nape, as if remembering he still had a hold on you, blunt nails biting at the skin light enough to make you shiver as he pressed with firmness, as if scruffing a cat. “don’t need some perfumed, wanton wench when i have my hands full with you,” he panted, eyes trained on you, almost unblinking, having watched you the entire time, despite his protests. lavender hues half—lidded, glinting, part anger, part heat, eyeing you like a predator stalking prey.

his words made you purr against his skin, a satisfied sound, your fingers moving to tug slightly at his waistband, revealing more of his navel to you to lick and kiss. “good,” you murmured into his skin, dipping to nose at the cincture of his pants, and lower, nuzzling against his crotch, where you could feel him hard and throbbing already.

“woman, you—” but his protest dissolved into a shuddering moan as you rubbed your cheek against his clothed cock insistently, eyes fluttering, gaze holding his, molten and smoldering with heated affection. the friction was delicious, and it only made more bitten off pleasured sounds fall from his lips, broad chest heaving, splotched red from how hard he was blushing, skin ruddy and flushed. he looked good enough to eat. and maybe later, you intended to do just that.

the scent of him was strongest there, musk so strong it made you dizzy with want, lips parting to mouth at his crotch, feeling his cock throb beneath the cloth, only spurring you on. “smell s’ good,” you mumbled as you continued to map the hard ridge of his arousal with your mouth, tongue laving at the material, wetting it with your spit, making the outline of his cock even more visible. “taste s’ good, husband.”

“gods, fuck—” came from above you, the grip at your nape firming, pressing down, almost smushing your face into his crotch, but you couldn’t be happier to succumb to maekar’s guidance, feeling his hips twitch upwards, rutting weakly against your face.

it made you moan, the action so debauched, so depraved, making you nose along his clothed cock in time with the clumsy grinding of his hips against your face, the scent of him thickening, clogging your senses and coating the back of your throat from how greedily you inhaled.

“c—can’t believe you’re, shit—” he could barely get his words out, too impaired by the way you looked, the blissful look on your face as he humped against it. “can’t believe you’re getting off on this, you wanton woman,” maekar continued, his hips picking up the pace, forcing you slightly more against his clothed cock, grinding against your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your nose; anything he could, the pleasure tingling down his spine way too rapid for his taste. “mouthing at me like a filthy animal, letting me hump—fuck.”

you could tell he was getting close, the thought satisfying you more than you could tell. seeing your husband so unraveled by this alone, hips grinding against your face, hand holding you down for more delicious friction, chasing more but not being able to get it. a delicious torture that was way too exquisite not to witness.

“mhm,” you hummed against his crotch, rubbing your cheek harder against his clothed cock, feeling it throb incessantly, the smell of him more pungent, the precum leaking steadily through his breeches and staining your cheek. “not my fault my husband left me unattended for so long,” you lamented, fluttering your lashes, continuing to rub against him. “i’ve been so lonely,” the words were mouthed against him, breath warm against his crotch, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“always so fuckin’ demanding,” he groaned, long and suffering, humping against your face with more fervor, so close to his peak, face and throat flushed and splotchy, hand firm against your nape as he pushed your face deeper into his crotch. “n—never satisfied, ah, fuck, fuck, wife—,”

wife. the word strained and close to a whine as he lost control, rutting against your plush cheek once, twice, before he came with a pained groan, as if someone clawed the sound from deep in his chest, his spent dirtying his breeches, wetting the fabric against your cheek.

his chest was heaving, mouth parted wide as he tried to catch his breath, his grip still firm, but trembling against your nape, his thumb now brushing along the side of your throat, just like before, as if rewarding you silently, thanking you for letting him use you like this.

it made you smile and you nuzzled into his now damp crotch, the smell of him more powerful than ever, making you moan against the cloth. the sound seemed to bring maekar back from his post coital bliss, his violet eyes blinking down at you, hazy but attentive.

“lick it,” he breathed out, voice strained and heaving still, the fingers at your nape guiding you towards where his cum stained his breeches most, a wet patch visible where the head of his now softening cock was under the cloth. “can’t let good spend go to waste, wife.”

you only hesitated for a heartbeat, mind not wrapping around his words for a moment, before you moaned, mouth parting eagerly, tongue pressing to the damp material and licking, feeling the taste of him invade your palette. “yes, yes,” you sighed, overly pleased, too preoccupied and greedy, lips wrapping around the wet spot and suckling it into your mouth, the essence exploding onto your tongue.

“fucking filthy woman—,” maekar cursed, the sight of his wife, so desperate and eager, making him equal parts flustered and astounded.

you knew the night was going to be a long one when you felt a twitch under your tongue, your husband’s cock throbbing back to life, making your lips curl.

taglist: @alexjacobsgoodnight @kyoozz @mademoisellepetite @verouys @theliqouricebtch @pinkdoeweirdo @winkymar @loveslide @clumsycopy @eowyns-fantasy @yun4st4r @crayonbug @bloomfaery @thewitch-lives @sem-ra @silkaurum @embalmedopossum

[lostrealityr]

A Lesson in Combat

Maekar Targaryen x Wife Reader

technically a prequel to Summerhall Nights

based off of this amazing anon request

synopsis: Maekar (and his brother) teaches his Wife how to defend at her own hand, purely for his own peace of mind.

word count: 1,661

warnings: 18+ mdni, female reader, no use of Y/N, readers looks are un-described, suggestive sexual themes, kissing, fighting, play fighting, (real world) inaccurate self defense, woman + wife as terms of endearment. (reader is a legal adult) REMEMBER - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME

DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.

✴︎

The chambers you shared in the Redkeep were vast, colder in nature than that of yours in Summerhall in the sense that they did not feel your own. The cavernous space allowed for movement however, and Maekar was taking advantage of this structural change away from prying eyes.

“Again.” He ordered, his body hovering above your own from where your back lay pressed against one of the many expensive carpets that adorned the place. You couldn’t help the groan that escaped you, trousers and a tunic hanging loosely from your damp frame, sweat sticking hairs to your skin as you grumbled in annoyance. “I am not denying I will be attacked husband, being married to a man with a mouth like yours its bound to happen- however slamming me into a stone floor is not going to make me want to practice with you.” You rolled onto your stomach, throwing a glare in his direction as his hand made contact with your arse, the smack echoing off of the chamber walls as he went from kneeling to standing. “Lose the attitude woman, I’m doing you a favour.” The eye roll he threw you in reciprocation did not escape your gaze as he hauled you to stand. “Hit me, come on.”

You aimed your leg straight between his own all too quickly, however he caught your thigh before it could make any true contact. “I said hit me, not permanently damage my cock.” He shouted, releasing your thigh and pushing you back, forcing you to stumble lightly at the force. “I thought you said any contact is better than none, husband.” He scoffed, “Do not use my words against me. In a genuine attack yes hit wherever necessary, however in this bedchamber when it is your husband and his cock, do not damage what you know you will grieve.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as he ordered again, “turn around, we will do this differently if you cannot hit me as I am asking you.” Complying, you turned to face the door. “Now when you feel me close, do as I have showed you. And if you do it properly I will be on the floor, not you.”

You waited until you felt his breath hot against your neck before throwing your elbow back into his ribs, his bicep coming around your throat you felt the urge to bite him just to teach him a lesson. “I know what you’re thinking, don’t you dare bite me, do this properly.”

“I am!” You yelled, yet he had you on your knees before pressing you chest down into the floor, the muscles of his own chest flushed against your back as he caged you. “An intruder would slam you to the floor, I have lowered you out of kindness. Anyone bold enough to attack a Princess will not have mercy, wife.” Using the leverage of is bicep under your jaw he forced your neck up, tilting your head back until your eyes met his own. He pressed a hungry kiss to your lips as his teeth dug into the lower one, a whimper escaping you from the overwhelming sensation of his entire body overs yours, his possessive nature, his need to teach you. Distracted by the kiss and the sight of your body pliant under his control he seemed to underestimate the power of your legs. You pulled your lips from his own, tucking your mouth and nose into the crook of his elbow and elbowing him, causing his hold to slip entirely. Taking his surprise as advantage you turned onto your back before wrapping your thighs around his waist and flipping him underneath you as you now straddled his hips, wrists pinned to the floor above his head. You could not help the proud smug smirk that encased your plump lips, even Maekar grinned lightly with a nod. “Well played, but you cannot seduce an intruder as you would me.”

“But I still did it.”

“You did.”

The door jolted and swung open, Baelor stood in its wake as he eyed the state of the pair of you on the floor. “Am I interrupting something?” He questioned, watching as you released your husband’s wrists but instead they fell to your hips. “Not at all, brother.” Maekar sat up beneath you as you crawled out of his lap to stand, allowing him to do the same. Maekar shut the door behind his brother, taking the book of legislations from his hands and placing it on the bed. “She won’t take me seriously, attack her as if you were an intruder.”

Baelor raised an eyebrow, eyeing your clearly physically exerted state and Maekar’s withering patience. “You want me to attack your wife?” Baelor asked, as if it were a trap, he knew his brother well and he wouldn’t put it past Maekar to suddenly change his mind and fight his brother for even attempting to lay a finger on you. While Baelor definitely succeeded in combat, he did not take pleasure in it, and he certainly would get no pleasure out of attacking his sister-by-law. “That’s what I said isn’t it? She needs to learn and clearly I am a biased teacher.” You shrugged “I’m doing well!” You protested, “There is no need for you to attack me.”

“Do it.” Maekar ordered again, eyes narrowed solely on his brother. You wouldn’t seduce Baelor, nor attempt to- lest in front of your own husband anyway. Baelor sighed, loosening his doublet and the cuffs at his wrists, “Seven hells you’re not actually going to do it!” Your eyes wide, your brother-by-law was proper, cared far too much for his image yet here he was ready to attack you as if he were an intruder solely because his brother asked him to. “You should learn, I taught Jena. It will be fine. You can hit me.” The groan of frustration that left you seemingly only brought amusement to him. “There are many tourneys coming, if you wish to be allowed the company of your own presence, I would suggest you pay attention. Otherwise it will be back to the company of the Kings Guard trailing you.”

You huffed, readying yourself “But don’t pull my hair, that hurts.”

“If you’re being attacked, wife, it’s going to hurt.”

“Alright, alright I won’t pull your hair. I’ll just grab you.”

And what a liar he was. He had you against the wall in seconds as you writhed “I don’t like this anymore you two don’t even give me the chance!” Baelor just shook his head, “Breathe. Think about what you are doing, where I am touching you. If I am touching your arms use your legs, if I am pressing on your chest and not your neck, consider head butting. It’s about process of elimination and balancing your actions to counteract the attackers.”

“I’d knee you in the cock but Maekar said I can’t do that unless it’s actually an intruder.”

“Will you focus on what you are doing!” Maekar shouted, he was watching the other side of the room. From this outside perspective he could see how truly helpless you looked against Baelor, and it pained him to think of what you would look like in the given situation if it wasn’t his own brother, rather someone with genuine intent to hurt you.

“Here.” Baelor loosened his grip, “bring the back of your ankle to my thigh here. If you use enough force it will make a persons leg feel dead weight. It’s a pressure point. Do as I’ve told you.” Following the instruction you did, causing Baelor’s leg to bend unwillingly as he let go of you entirely, falling to one knee with a wince. “See. One move and now you’re free to attack me in return, or run. Which is what I would advise you to do. Not to mention make noise. Break things, scream, shout. Bang against the walls if you must. Anything to draw attention.” He rose to stand, brushing off his knees. “We had an intruder break into our bedchamber once. Jena was alone. She drew the attention of the Kings Guard by smashing the chamber window. An expensive fix but worth nothing in comparison to her life. In that situation you must do what is necessary.” You sighed, nodding your head lightly. You could understand why Baelor took both his and Jena’s safety so seriously given all they’d been through. Not to mention the attacks from the Blackfyres pre-rebellion. “You’ll get better with time, just take it more seriously. You are well protected, but you should know no hand safer than your own.” He squeezed your shoulder gently before going and retrieving his legislations, “I’ll find you later, brother.”

When the door had swung shut behind him, you turned to watch him go. Now rather it was Maekar who had taken you genuinely by surprise, catching you entirely off guard. You thought, you felt, and he did not win this time. Instead he ended up sort of crumpled on the floor, you would have felt bad had you not been beaming with pride. “Yes! I did it! Now I am going to bathe.” You bragged, yet Maekar reached for your ankle and pulled you to the floor, dragging you underneath him, his beard now tickling your cheek. “I am losing patience with you woman. I just want you to be safe.” He grunted, kissing your cheek to your lips. He suffocated you with his mouth, drawing your breath from within your lungs to his own, consuming you entirely. You pulled away gasping lightly as you pressed your forehead into his own, “I did well. I am learning. But now I am tired, can we not pick this up on the morrow, we’ve been at it for hours.” A kiss to your jaw, then another to your collarbone he travelled, devouring with each fluttering contact made between you.

“Alright, wife. As you wish.”

A/N: guys i tried to incorporate a little bit more of baelor into this maekar fic, in the future what would we think of a baelor x reader x maekar? let me know your thoughts (and whether you’d want reader married to one or the other- or both i’m not fussy). anyways as always: requests open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions at all are always always appreciated. take care everyone!!

general akotsk taglist:

@noone1233nobody @antobooh @mikariell95 @kravitzwhore @vanillafan6 @ae-gax @galactict3a @aleemendoza2425-blog @feral-postings @n3rdybirdee @mossthedevouring @loveslide @serduncansdelight @seekingtherapyasap

maekar targaryen taglist:

@mimistimesblog @thorins-queen-of-erebor @erinceles @danaaa21 @nanamin-chan @maximuminfluencerstarlight @pearldaisy @bog-devil @nymphthreshold @luvweezer @icebearcucumber @la2luna-blog @somethingvicked @azuahss

[targlocket]

MY HOT HUSBAND ⤷ part one.

maekar targaryen x second wife!reader

cw: arranged marriage, shameless headstrong reader!!, enemies to lovers (they're enemies in maekar's head), bickering!!!, tension, bedding ceremony!!, non-consensual touching(not by maekar), grumpy maekar, jealousy, over protectiveness, possessiveness, body worship(m!receiving), prone bone!!, manhandling, nose riding, spitting, pussy sniffing, spanking!!, fingering(f!receiving), oral(f!receiving), p in v, dirty talk!!, slight breath play, headlock!!, biting, degradation, praise, hate fucking for one sec, a sprinkle of angst, insecurities, self worth issues, (8.9kw)

a/n: english is not my first language so i'm sorry for mistakes/repeating words!! im nervous to put out a bigger piece than usual aaaa. i will do maybe two to three parts!! this will be an au! so if you have any questions or requests about this pairing, let me know muehehe! i love them so much lol

credits: gif @/goodsirs divider @/feimingo

“i did not believe you wished for witnesses to our coupling, your grace.”

“it is tradition—”

“oh, so it is. a tradition in which half the court will see your wife bare as the day she was born. does that excite you?”

“excite—”

maekar took a deep, steadying breath, trying very hard not to snap at his newly betrothed. or throttle her. was it truly too late to call the arrangement off? a prince of the realm could do as he pleased, after all.

“it excites me in the same measure as a court meeting about grain taxes does, wife,” he grunted, fingers tightening onto the half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. he would need way more than that for what was to come in a few moments. maekar would drown himself in numerous barrels if it would spare him from having to pretend to fuck his wife in front of tens of courtiers and ladies in waiting. oh, and a maester. how could he have forgotten? the gods also needed to be witnesses to such a sacred arrangement. the more people see the proof of his virility, the better. they should invite the whole realm if they are so eager to see him perform his husbandry duties.

“grain taxes,” was heard from his right, your voice deadpan as you sneaked a glance towards him, a huff falling from your lips. “it pleases me that my lord husband would associate us having a moment of unbridled passion with the ever ardent intricacies of grain taxes,” your lips twitched, a little smile in the corner, cheeky.

he could feel the vein in his temple pulsing. a headache was on the way. and even then, it couldn’t even come close to the one that was already in his presence. he could’ve asked all the healers in the seven kingdoms, and none of them would be able to cure him of the ever-lasting migraine that was his wife.

a wound without a cure. a curse without benediction. a grueling fate without end, at least for now.

“unbridled passion?” he almost bristled at the words. the assumption that there will be anything but a poor attempt at make-believe on his part grated on his nerves. “i would have hoped that you would not delude yourself into believing we shall be doing more than a farce of this, wife.”

maekar was not about to engage in any intimate endeavors with his new wife. the court should be more than pleased that he was even willing to go along with this to begin with. having sycophants linger near their royal chambers while they were supposed to get lost in the throes of passion was unnerving enough. he will have to make it seem like the consummation happened, like he was on the other side of the door, pleasing his wife and proving the realm he was still a man in his prime, capable of desire. figures.

“a farce?” you probed, eyebrow raised, the arch of your mouth thinning in displeasure. “you would make a sham of our consummation?” the tone of your voice seemed almost… offended, as if you couldn’t believe your husband would even go to such lengths to avoid bedding you.

that timbre of your voice made his brows furrow, lifting the goblet of wine to his lips to stall his response, glancing to the side over the rim of the cup. he allowed himself a furtive glance towards you, enough to notice the slight narrowing of your eyes. you were opposing him, just as you have been doing since ink touched scroll a fortnight ago, when both of your fates were tied by duty and vow.

“not a sham,” he corrected, although he was not sure it held much truth. “i am sparing both of us of the dreadful act of having to touch one another more than necessary, which i was of the impression would please you. not make you look like a scorned child.”

there was a long, tense silence before you spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “you would think it dreadful to touch one another?”

maekar paused for a moment, taken aback by the note of disbelief underlying your words, making him turn to look at you fully now, needing to see why you would have that reaction to such a simple truth. “by the looks of it, wife, you do not seem to share my sentiment?”

there was a sharp glint in your eyes now, the poise in your posture faltering for a moment, giving way to tension, before you gathered yourself. “not in the slightest. i deem it preposterous that you would even think of it in such a manner,” you retorted, chin lifting, proud. “or, is it perhaps a ploy to conceal your dignity, my lord husband?”

“my dignity?” his voice dipped low, almost cautionary, making it clear that your next words should be chosen very carefully, lest you wish to start something maekar was not sure you had the wits about you to see through.

but you did not seem frightened in the slightest by his attempt to dissuade you.

“yes,” you reinforced, head tilting just so to the side, feigning innocence. “are you so unassured in your virility that you would devise such schemes to keep it from being questioned? i reckon it is normal for a man of your station to care so deeply about these things, but such lengths are truly ridicu—”

your words were cut off by rough, calloused fingers pressing into your cheeks, hard enough to stall your speech as maekar leaned into your space. he was gripping your face, keeping your gaze on his, not giving you an inch of room to even tilt your head one side or the other.

“one more word out of you, and i swear to all the seven,” he snarled, purple eyes slanted in a glare so scathing it could burn you whole, like dragon-fire. he felt the moment your breath hitched, the short puff of air brushing his fingers. “i will throttle you right here, in front of all these good-for-nothing lickspittles.”

he was expecting your demeanor to change. for fear to cloud your vision and reason to come back to you. for apologies to tumble unbidden from your mouth, hoping to appease and coax him into being merciful.

no wife, no woman of his will look him in the eye with so much fervor, insulting one of the qualities he was boastful about. his virility? maekar had sired six children. a feat worthy of praise. a testament to the strength of his seed, to the potency of it. to how easy it was for it to take root in a fertile womb and conceive heirs for him.

his newly betrothed had some nerve trying to undermine the one thing the whole realm knew to be true.

with that same nerve, you looked maekar in the eyes and smiled. a quirk of your lips, eyes lowering as the pressure of his fingers rose, half—lidded with something akin to satisfaction, as if you wanted this to happen, waiting for your husband to lose control and exert that temper you knew flared at the slightest provocation. too quick now, after a fortnight of constant instigation from you, feeling like his fuse grew shorter and shorter, and now it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose, inevitably.

your tone was soft, but the challenge beneath it was unmistakable. “did i perhaps touch a nerve, my lord husband? is it truly so easy to have you rattled? enough to grasp me like a brute, where anyone can see? and at our wedding feast, no less.” the more you talked, the more honey weaved through your words. but it wasn’t sweet, not in the slightest. it burned. “have manners been forgotten by a prince of the realm? i would've thought you more courteous than this.”

you were toying with him, like a cat would a mouse. and maekar targaryen had never been faced with such a thing, with a woman who dared bare her teeth back at him after he showed his. it made the ancient blood that flowed through his veins sear under his skin, hackles raising as if he was a dragon in human form, ready to breathe fire onto its enemies and leave smoke and ash behind.

the gods knew to take dragons away, for if they were still roaming around them now, maekar wouldn’t have hesitated to feed his novel betrothed to his own and watch from the sidelines, not missing a moment.

the thought made his fingers dig even harder into her cheeks, the soft skin dimpling under his blunt nails. your lips were pursed because of the pressure, and maekar will not admit to himself how his scathing glare flitted to the way they formed a pout, glistening still with the wine you were drinking prior. you looked ridiculous. that’s why his eyes lingered before returning to hold your gaze.

“you don’t deserve my manners,” he downright growled, a sound so deep and rumbly, like a dragon made flesh, leaning in until your noses almost touched, but he won’t allow more contact between you two than what he was willing to offer. “you don’t deserve anything that i have to give,” he almost spat, his broad chest heaving slightly, as if restraint was becoming hard to grasp. “i do not want to give you anything, you insufferable wench.”

your eyes widened for a moment at his words, but yet again, there was no fear, no offense, not even a sliver of rebuttal. only pure delight, as if his harsh words were music to your ears.

maekar did not understand. why were you not cowering? why were you not mellowing out? why in gods name were you tipping your head forward, close enough for your breaths to mingle.

“but you will, my lord husband,” came your whisper, brushing against his rough lips, as if you wanted him to taste the resolve in your words, the defiance in your tone. “i am your lady wife. what is yours, is mine.” another twitch of your lips, now higher, more pleased, like a cat that got the cream. “and i shall have it, even if i need to take it from you by any means necessary.”

“you know not of what you speak—”

“and neither do you,” you interjected, firmer this time, your gaze lowering to his lips for just a moment, as if pondering a secret only known by you, before lifting to make eye contact again. “your riches do not interest me. the crown i could do without. your name is nothing but an ancient thing that binds me to you,” you had his attention, to his absolute dismay, and it visibly pleased you.

“what i want,” a pause, leaning in enough to let your lips brush his, making him recoil, before he stubbornly held his place, not wanting to show how much the contact unnerved him. “is you, my lord husband.”

you must’ve had too much to drink, maekar thought. what you were saying made no sense to him, sounding like a lie the simpering women would whisper into one’s ear when they wanted to climb into their beds and rut on their cocks to solidify their station. it must be a ploy to try and soften him, to make him pliant and susceptible to future indulgences of yours.

you wanting him? why in gods name would that interest you in the slightest, when many other things should garner your attention, those which were mentioned by you. it should’ve been his gold, his station, his name, his connections.

not him. never him.

“do not think yourself so clever,” he spat, feeling his frustration mount, underlined with a begrudging sense of confusion, which he chose to ignore. “to believe that i shall fall for these empty words of sentiment,” maekar continued, fingertips squishing more of your now flushed cheeks, but not enough to bruise. he was not a brute to mar a woman, let alone one tied to him by marriage, contrary to rumors and whispers. “so do not waste your breath, my lady. it will do you no good, and i am not inclined to listen further.”

he thought that would be sufficient to shut you up, to make you see reason for once since you wed, and stop you from pushing nonsensical notions like they were fact. but you didn’t. his words seemed to only fuel the fire in your eyes, and he could feel the way your jaw clenched just so under his grip, resolve surging.

“i will prove it to you,” fell from your lips, solid and resolute, as if there was not an ounce of apprehension beneath your tongue. “one day, you will see that i speak truth,” a deep, steadying breath passing between your mouths, as if you were holding back something of great weight. “you will rid yourself of this meaningless whim of yours and accept what i am willing to give.” you spoke it as if the future was as you saw fit, and he had no say in it. it enraged and perturbed him in equal measure. “or you won’t have a sliver of peace in my presence.”

as if that was any different from how things have been since the papers were signed. maekar has not had any modicum of repose since he was cursed with a bothersome woman like you. the gods must jest at his expense now more than ever for the hand he was dealt.

“you have a lot of nerve for a—”

“and now, as the night grows near, we shall encourage the lord and lady towards what they surely are most expectant of! their bedding!”

the words boomed among the feast, ripping them apart from one another as every pair of eyes in the hall turned towards them, more attentive than ever.

maekar almost winced. he hated bedding ceremonies, for he would rather walk on glass barefoot than be subjected to such foolish nonsense. but alas, the court demanded it in fear of maekar showing reluctance towards another bride after many years of being a widower. so, he relented, kicking and screaming internally when it was brought to his attention, but anything to shut the mouths of courtiers and realm alike.

maekar did not look to his side. something in his chest pulled him away from meeting your gaze after the charged conversation you had. he hated that your words had been enough to unsettle him, even the tiniest bit.

instead, his eyes followed a group of way too eager lords who were rounding their high table to hoist you up and out of your seat. had they no shame in being so zealous? to let their hands grip at you, lifting you above their shoulders, fingers too rough against the fine silk of your wedding gown. where had decorum gone?

the sight made irritation spark in his gut, especially when he could hear your squeals of delight and the lilting sound of laughter that spilled unbridled from your lips as you were carried away to the royal chambers. it’s like you reveled in this whole travesty. in men touching you so shamelessly while hooting and hollering ribald jokes, one more salacious than the other.

in his case, being tugged on by simpering ladies was nothing but a nightmare come to life, but he had to bite his tongue and go along for the sake of tradition. maekar would’ve rather your hands on him, trying to rid him of his ceremonial cloak and vest, than a bunch of unknown women with too much nerve and too little propriety. he knew you better than he did these squealing birds.

your mirth was ever present when maekar made it to the chambers, his eyes narrowing to slits as he saw the way one of the lords was handling you, too ambitious in the way his fingers were nearly ripping your gown to the floor, leaving you clad in only a thin chemise. and he wasn’t the only one. the rest of the mindless, idiotic sycophants even dared to let their grubby palms smooth down your curves as they hollered more japes.

the ladies tending to him were more reserved, probably sensing maekar’s prickly nature, his body language so stiff they could barely get his tunic off, now half open, letting the broad expanse of his chest peek through, smattered with fine white hairs.

“a sword needs its sheath, don’t it, my lady?” exclaimed one of the men as his rugged fingers jerked your chemise down your shoulders, exposing the soft mounds of your breasts to the air, nipples hardening into dusky peaks. maekar’s breath stalled for a moment at the sight.

and like a beacon, every lord in the room had no shame in taking it all in, mouths open like panting bulls, some even licking their lips as if wanting to taste, making maekar’s restraint thin.

“gods, i wish my mother hadn’t weaned me, for your breasts are a sight to behold, my—”

“that’s enough,” slipped from maekar’s mouth, regretting it for a moment, before he pressed on. “keep your hands and your words to yourself if you wish to still draw breath where you stand.”

his tone was sharp, brooking no argument, if the people in attendance were smart. enough to cut every single jest, straightening the backs of every man in the room like clockwork, their mouths shut so tight their jaws trembled.

“y—your grace—”

“get the fuck out of the room before i decide to turn my wedding night crimson with the blood of the lot of you,” he barked, taking one step closer to where they stood, and it was sufficient to make them scramble, almost tripping over themselves to stand on the other side of the door.

the ladies remaining were uncertain of what to do, how to proceed. they haven’t undressed the prince like they meant to, hovering near maekar, almost trembling themselves.

“ah, ladies, do not fret,” you lilted, sweet like honeysuckle, stepping towards maekar, one hand lifting to press against the opening of his shirt, fingers spreading, brushing through the fine chest hairs. “i shall have the pleasure of undressing my husband myself. these muscles will know my touch alone.”

and for all the bravado he showed earlier, maekar could barely breathe under the bold touch of your hand, soft fingers brushing through the smattering of white onto his skin, reverent, as if you liked the sensation. and your words, spoken so saccharine, but he could tell it pleased you. having him to yourself. gods, what was wrong with you?

“now, off you go,” you continued, leaning into maekar’s space, pressing your bare breasts against his arm, his bicep cushioned between them. “my husband is ever eager to consummate our marriage, and i do not have the heart to make him wait any longer.”

maekar’s breath left him in one fell swoop, half from the feeling of your lush flesh pressing against his arm, and half from your words. you were a temptress, and the want to throttle you was coming back full force now, just as it was at the feast.

the door closed no long after, leaving you alone in the shared room, but not without company, for the lords and ladies, accompanied by one maester, had to hover on the other side, awaiting no doubt sounds of pleasure to waft through the mahogany wood.

“i’m pretty certain one of them was drooling while looking at my breasts,” you whispered, as if it was a secret, as if maekar hadn’t seen the hunger in their eyes and wanted to rip out each eyeball from their sockets with his bare hands.

“that does not concern me,” came his response, narrowed gaze dropping to where your hand still caressed his chest.

“mhm,” a pause, before your chin lifted, peering at him, a quirk to your lips. “i’m also certain one of them was eager enough to grope at them. i felt it.”

“which one?”

he hated the way he bristled, eyes traveling even lower now, to where your breasts were pushed up against his bicep, cushioning the corded muscle. god, but you had nice tits. they looked good squished against him, but he didn’t give that thought too much attention. he just liked tits a lot, is all. yours held no significance than, let’s say, a whore’s would.

the smile you gave him as soon as the inquiry left his mouth was so self-gratifying, he almost took his words back.

“i thought it did not concern you, my lord husband,” you reminded him, pressing even closer, the hand onto his chest drifting down, deft fingers slowly popping open the buttons on his tunic. “why the sudden interests, hm?”

maekar’s hand shot up to stop yours, halting your progress in undressing him, chest heaving slightly as he grit out, feeling tense as a coiled spring now that you two were alone and so, so close.

“stop it. we are not going to—”

and his words dissolve into a punched out groan as your hand trailed down to his crotch, where you seemed delighted to find him half—hard, and have no shame to press the heel of your palm into the growing thickness, rubbing in a slow downward motion.

“no?” you breathe, and the smile you give him is syrupy. he swears he can taste it, your words almost mocking him for his weakness, for the reaction his body had to… all of this. “then why are you hard, my lord husband? was the touch of all those ladies so satisfactory that it aroused you?”

and maekar wants to say that, yes, he got hard from those stupid court ladies feeling him up and tugging at his clothes, and not from the sight of your breasts pressed up against him, pebbled nipples brushing against the satin of his tunic. and definitely not from thinking how well his mouth could fit around one of them to suckle and lap at like a dog.

these feverish thoughts were just a result of not having seen a woman half—bare in years, and his body was betraying him by plaguing his mind with debauched scenarios that would never happen. that should never happen. he couldn't let himself show intimacy in such a way.

“because you keep touching me,” he snapped, harsher than he would have wanted, but he was so tense, and your hand felt too good, a fact which would never reach your ears. “even though i expressed no desire to want such a thing.”

your hand did not stop, whatsoever, continuing to rub slowly over the now fully hard cock in his breeches, making his breathing come in short, angry puffs against your cheek.

“then stop me,” you offered, only leaning closer, as if goading him into trying. “you’re a strong man. i reckon you could overpower a lady if you wanted,” then your lips pursued, thoughtful, and you continued. “unless… the stories i’ve heard about the anvil’s prowess were only tales for sleeping children?”

maekar knew what you were doing, playing him like a fiddle, making him lose all reason and succumb to your whims against his will, as if he were a weak man. as if he couldn’t discern between what he wanted to do and what you wanted him to do.

and still, he was powerless when challenged, like you knew his visceral need to prove himself to you, or anyone else. the gnawing ache in his chest whenever someone dared question him in any aspect of his life.

but more so, when his strength was disputed. undermined.

it did not even take a blink of an eye until he had grabbed you by the arm, hauling you over to the bed, pushing you backwards until you fell, sprawled against the furs and pelts, which cushioned the fall.

his weight pressed you into the mattress like the anvil itself, his knees bracketing your hips, holding you where he wanted you, wide-eyed and breasts jiggling with every breath. for a moment, he reveled in the surprise etched onto your face, before it turned into a cheeky smirk as your hands wasted no time before brushing down his chest again, seeking to undress him.

“so eager, my lord husband,” she whispered, still a bit breathless from the rough manhandling, but delighted beyond measure. “do not tell me that you’ve been secretly aching for this?”

maekar scoffed, scowling down at her from above, even as his breath hitched. gods, no one had touched him like this in so long. not with this teasing familiarity, and not on a night meant to be cold and ceremonial, even if they had never lain together. hell, even stood next to each other for more than duty demanded in the last fortnight.

your hands were warm, picking at the buttons like you had all the time in the world, and it grated on his nerves, even more so when he saw the smirk on your plush lips widening the more skin you uncovered.

he caught your wrist, firm enough to stop your exploration, holding it over his chest for a tense moment, before releasing it, brushing it to the side so he could take over, undoing the buttons himself. maekar rationalized that it was because you were agonizingly slow, and your touch annoyed him, the feeling of your fingertips brushing his skin prickling, leaving gooseflesh behind.

the tunic fell away swiftly, leaving him bare-chested, a mountain of corded muscle and sinew, veins traveling along his forearms and down his throat from how tense he was. your eyes drank him in, mouth parting in a sigh, overly pleased, as if the sight of him alone unraveled you.

it did not take long for your hands to follow the same path your gaze did, pawing shamelessly at the broad expanse of scarred skin, brushing over the smattering of thin white hairs onto his chest and down his navel.

maekar’s skin prickled further under your touch. he could feel your fingers over every scar. the one from dragonstone’s training yard when he was still a boy, the thin line across his ribs from a valyrian steel sword graze, now traced by curious, gentle fingers. but equally desirous.

the low rumble from his throat slipped without his permission as you continued, now groping at the thick muscles of his biceps and pectorals, sighing while you did it, breathy and satisfied, as if the feel of his muscles pleased you. being audacious enough to sink your fingers into the skin, to squeeze and feel every inch you could get under your palms. and he couldn’t do anything but watch you, feeling his breath hitch as he saw you lick your lips, slow and habitual, as if you didn’t realize you did it while feeling him up.

the prince could not get his bearings anymore. his breath came faster now—shallow, uneven. each one of your touches burned like fire, leaving behind a scorching trail. your hands were not those of a shy, hesitant maiden. no, they felt like a claim, like you were worshiping his body with shameless delight, exploring every hard ridge and dense muscle as if you’d been starved for it, as if you’d been waiting to do it.

“gods, husband,” slipped from your mouth as he felt a particularly lingering touch down his abdomen, your nails scraping along the skin, making the muscles ripple. “but you are a sight to behold,” you almost moaned, gaze half—lidded with nothing but unrelenting hunger. “you look delicious enough to eat,” you continued, downright purring now, like a feline playing with your food, daring to brush your hands down his shoulders, and along his arms, nails prickling at the protruding veins along the way. “so big and strong.”

you must’ve had way too much to drink. there was no other explanation as to why such words would come out of your mouth, why your palms touched him like you wanted him. that could not be. no one wanted him. no one should’ve wanted him. he was a hardened warrior, a widower, a father of six, a man who didn’t need—

gods above… delicious? how could you call him something so absurdly ridiculous? as if he were a feast laid out for your personal consumption. as if his body was made to be admired—devoured in its entirety—by her shameless gaze and persistent hands.

“how come no lady pounced on you sooner, hm?” you had the nerve to question—still touching him, mapping out his body like it was yours alone to do with as you pleased—as if there was a line out the door of ladies wanting nothing more but to jump on his cock and have their way with him. what preposterous notions had you in that head of yours? you must’ve hit it when you were a child, to think such perceptions.

his jaw tightened, trying to regain some sort of upper hand against you. “no lady is as impudent as you,” he reproached, his lip lifting in a half snarl, like a beast held at bay. “as adamant to touch something that isn’t yours—”

“isn’t?” you interjected, nails digging into the meat of his abdomen, hard enough to leave red crescent moons behind. a mark of yours, as if punishing him for even daring to say such a thing, when he knew you were bound by vow beneath the old gods and the new. it made maekar hiss, like a dragon challenged, ready to retaliate. “you are mine, by law and by vow,” you firmly stated, nails biting at skin anew, scraping down, painting red indent lines along ivory. “just as i am yours,” maekar had half a mind to snap, to bite, to do anything to stop the words coming out of your mouth, but you did not waver. “yours to have, yours to take, yours to touch.”

a beat, your chest heaving now, too, just like his was, only softer. “so touch me, husband,” provocation again, in your tone, in your gaze, in every single inch of your body. “unless you do not know how? has your prowess deserted you in the years of widowing?” maekar was moments away from strangling you, his fingers twitching with the urge to just wrap them around your throat and squeeze until not even breath slipped past your lips. but he had no such luck, for your next words stalled him, unmoving.

“shall i scream for all those court vipers to hear?” you incited, eyes narrowed, nails still deep into his skin, but he could barely feel the sting over the pounding in his ears over your goading. “shall i let the whole realm know that my lord husband is incapable of even touching his lady wife? of being man enough to make her feel good? instead of standing there gaping at a pair of tits like a green boy in his first whorehouse, incapable of—”

maekar’s eyes flashed—anger. humiliation. and something he couldn’t name, but it burned in his gut, spreading all the way down to his cock, hard enough to split stone now. it was surely the adrenaline of it all, his nerves on high alert, heart pounding so hard in his chest he could taste it in his mouth. nothing else. it couldn’t be anything else. not with you.

you were baiting him again. mocking his hesitation and reluctance to touch you, tone biting, just as your nails have been on his skin. words spoken like a commoner, not even close to the speech of a highborn lady, now wife of a prince of the realm. a targaryen.

he couldn’t continue like this. not with your hands on him, with your eyes watching him like you wanted him, like you desired him. with your—gods, with your tits bouncing with every breath, enticing him to forget all about your insolence and dip down to mouth and slobber all over them like a fucking dog until you moaned and arched against his tongue and teeth and—

his hands were rough, not enough to bruise, but firm as he grabbed your hips, holding onto the fat there and flipping you in one swift motion. not gently, not romantically.

dominant, like he had no doubt you would stay where he put you, where he wanted you, face down into the furs and pelts, hips angled backwards by his steady grip, bare breasts squished against the mattress, as was your tummy.

“m—maekar—,” you shrieked, surprised and muffled into the bed now, but he didn’t want to hear a word from you now, one palm dipping towards your shoulders, pressing down, keeping you in place. a silent command—stay there or else.

he was breathing hard, like a bull after a good run, nostrils flaring, broad chest heaving, eyes trained on the way your body looked beneath him now, arched, at his mercy, under his strong hands, held in place exactly as he pleased. no longer playing by your whims, no longer unnerved by your gaze or touches. no longer making him question things he was not ready to untangle.

his face was hot, hotter now, as his eyes traced the curves of you, the way your chemise hiked up your thighs, letting him get a peek at your rear. gods, what were you doing to him? maekar wished he could forget the way your ardent gaze devoured him whole, as if he were a god among men, as your tone dipped into sweet honey, sultry and purred.

nothing could unnerve him anymore. he was no longer shackled by—

a whine. pitched and demanding, slipped from your lips as your hips wiggled in his grip, pushing your rear back against him, brushing against the bulge in his breeches, ample flesh jiggling from side to side, catching his gaze like a beacon. “d—do something, you useless brute!” you demanded, back arching with the grace of a feline, pleading for attention without much preamble. still shameless, still without an ounce of decorum.

maekar’s breath left him sharply at the sight. your hips swaying, arse sticking out in unabashed invitation, like you were a cat begging to be scratched, petted—or worse, claimed. how dare you? he thought, incredulous as to how a woman could be this unashamed in her desires—in her want for… him. for this brute, as you called him so brazenly.

a brute, was he?

well, if he were such a brute, then he would act like one, and put you in your damn place once and for all, solidifying his place in this marriage and proving you wrong.

slowly, akin to a predator stalking his prey, his hand moved back towards the fat of your hip to join the other, thumbs digging slightly into the curve where waist met ass, feeling the warmth of you through the silk. you were burning, and he barely touched you yet. what a debauched creature you were.

and then, because you begged with that wiggle and sway, he answered. no longer useless, as his hands slid lower over plush cheeks, palm flattening over one rounded backside, and gave a sharp, resounding smack, making the silken flesh jiggle from the impact.

maekar expected a yelp, a rebuke. not a loud, pleasured moan, like a woman possessed, mouth parting against the pelt under your cushioned cheek, eyelashes fluttering, as if savoring the sting of the strike.

“gods, yes, yes,” you sighed, already pushing your arse back towards his palm, wanting more, like a greedy little thing.

his eyes darkened, the purple obscured by the black now, a flush crawling up his throat at the way you sounded, as if he offered you salvation and damnation both. like you’ve been waiting for this very moment since the wedding feast—his hand smacking your ass like a fucking degenerate commoner. and now you want more.

he didn’t hesitate.

smack. another sharp spank landed, not harsh enough to hurt deeply, but firm and stinging through the fabric of your thin chemise.

“look at you,” he grit out, mocking but reverent in equal measure as he hiked up your chemise to your hips, revealing the heated skin of your arse, where his palm smacked, marking you with ardor. it gave him a thrill like no other to see the labor of his punishment on you.

“arching and begging for it like a fucking cat in heat,” he continued, palm smoothing down the flush of your skin, but not to soothe. just to feel the heated pulse of the flesh there beneath his fingers.

it made his cock twitch in his breeches.

even more when he realized you weren’t wearing any small clothes, as a lady should. like a bride would on her wedding night.

gods, you were audacious beyond measure. he didn’t know if it angered him more than it thrilled him.

“no smallclothes,” he noted, tilting his head, as if assessing the expanse of bare flesh now at his disposal. maekar could even see a peek of the folds of your cunt as you continued to arch into his touches. and you were wet, almost dripping onto your thighs, onto the bedding underneath. his spanks have gotten you aroused. “not even a commoner would be this immodest.”

“don’t need them,” you retorted, only trying to push backwards more, relentless and needy. “they’ll only get in the way of you putting your cock in me.”

all the gods above, that mouth on you was lethal.

the words made a ragged, bitten-off curse fall from his mouth as his fingers moved to spread the globes of your rear enough to expose your pussy better to his gaze.

“drenched,” maekar breathed—still hang up on the way you mentioned his cock in such a raunchy manner, unbefitting of a lady—not being able to tear his eyes away from how soaked you were, and only dripping more, your hole clenching around nothing, as if already taunting him inside. “making a mess all over yourself, like you belong on streets of silk than in the bed of a prince.”

he couldn’t help but lean down, but not towards where you were softest. not yet. his rough lips pressed to the warmth now seared onto your arse, only hovering for a moment, before he pulled back his lips to bite, sinking his teeth into the ardent flesh. gently at first, just a slight press of canines. a dragon claiming what he marked.

then he kissed it. a hot, open—mouthed press that warmed the aching skin even more. no finesses, no romance. just raw possession now, letting you know with teeth and tongue that you belonged to him entirely now, and not the other way around. gods and vows aside. he was not yours. but you were his.

you couldn’t help the soft sounds falling from your lips, every touch from your husband burning. a true dragon’s claim on his hoard. no longer distant, no longer resisting that primal instinct you knew lay dormant within him, just waiting to be taunted out.

“a—ah, you could always move your mouth lower, my lord husband.”

lower.

said in such a sultry, daring way, as if you thought he wouldn't, as if you needed to coax him towards your cunt.

maekar exhaled slowly, the flush on his throat only blooming more insistent with every word from you, each more sweltering than the other. he even forgot about the courtiers lingering on the other side of the door. the thought only made his flush deepen, traveling all the way to the tips of his ears, reddening his cheeks along the way. he’s sure they heard the spanks. gods, they’re gonna think him a barbarian who slaps his wife around for pleasure. and it was only your fault for goading him into such things.

he couldn’t let shame burn too hotly in his gut, choosing to distract himself by slowly peppering kisses up your thighs, tongue laving across the skin, pulling more breathy sounds out of you. every press of lips was deliberate, each one slower than the last, inching where you wanted him most, where you smelled strongest. tangy, musky, and just a bit of sweetness, all dripping out of you, the more attention he gave.

for a prince of the realm, the way he comported himself tonight should’ve been shameful, but he couldn’t think about propriety and etiquette as his nose brushed along your folds, inhaling deeply, searing your scent to the back of his throat as he groaned aloud. fuck, fuck, fuck.

it felt perverted to trail the tip of his nose along your drooly folds, spreading them just so, nudging them apart, coating himself in your juices, mouth dropping open in a near growl.

the sound that got out of you was more like a yelped moan than anything, but you pressed your hips back, as if itching to hump your pussy against the bridge of his nose. and maybe one day, he would let you do just that, but today he had other plans, as he let the tip of his nose bump against your chubby clit, brushing against the silky skin.

“yes, yes, yes, right there,” you whined like a mantra, having no qualms in moving your hips, grinding down helplessly in hopes of pressing the tip of your husband’s nose more firmly against the bundle of nerves at the top of your pussy. “feels good, husband, gods—”

just this. just you humping his nose like a fevered whore, getting him soaked with your slick, enough for it to drip onto his reddened cheeks and even down to his lips, urging him to lick at them, tasting you on his tongue.

that was enough to urge him to stick his tongue out and lave at your pussy, a broad, firm flick of it, greedily soaking up all the wetness he could. maekar would drink from you if he could. if such a thing as the nectar of the gods existed, he was sure it wouldn’t come close to the taste of your cunt on his tongue.

your moan was loud, pulled from deep within your chest, melting you from head to toe as your husband continued to lap at you with a greed rivaling a thief's, stealing the sweetest sounds from your throat, the combination of his nose bumping into your clit and his tongue parting your folds almost making you go cross eyed from pleasure. “don’t stop, don’t—fuck, maekar, don’t stop licking.”

even like this, you were demanding and bossy.

“y’taste good, wife,” came muffled from between your thighs, accompanied by wet, slurping sounds, so lewd and arousing, it only made you drip onto his awaiting tongue more. “if i knew this was all i needed to do to keep your mouth shut,” a suck against your quivering hole, obscene enough to make even you flush. “i would’ve had you spread open right after we signed the papers,” a huff against your wetness, before he nudged his nose against your clit anew, grinding it in slow circular motions, making you shake. “it would’ve saved me a fortnight of peace.”

his words only made you seek his touch more, hips grinding with more fervor, seeking as much pleasure as he could give. “you should’ve,” you retorted, airy and soft, molded around a mewl as his tongue replaced the tip of his nose, circling your clit firmly, your eyes almost rolling back into your head from how good it felt. “should’ve taken me, too. put your cock to good use and render me speechless.”

as always, you were relentless. here he was, drowning in your pussy, and you wanted more. he should’ve left you like that, a sprawled mess onto the bed, aching and whining, showing you the importance of patience. of gratitude. of restraint.

but, alas, he has lost the will to make you suffer, to want to see you crumple, and now only desired this version of you. needy and pliant and pleading for every inch of him like a good wife would.

and even then, he couldn’t forget all the lip you gave him, all those jabs and ceaseless fussing.

your husband was not going to give you everything you wanted when you wanted it. not on your terms.

maekar drew back from between your folds, your juices smeared over the bottom half of his face, coating his beard, glistening in the candlelight, and twirled his tongue around his mouth for a few moments, before spitting right onto your quivering hole, thumb following to spread the wetness around. it was vulgar, but it made you whine louder. so he did it again, a bigger glob of saliva this time, dripping from your entrance to your clit, before trailing down onto the bedding.

“filthy,” he rebuked, as if he wasn’t the one dirtying you with such unabashed lewdness. two thick, calloused fingers swiped through the mixture of slick and spit, gathering it generously before feeding it into your hole, slow and methodical, all the way up to the second knuckle.

and curled, brushing against spongy walls.

“gods—,” you cried out, clenching around his fingers, as if sucking them deeper. it made your husband growl, punishing your greed by curling the digits again, dragging the rough pads along those spots which made your pitch higher, your thighs quiver. “more, maekar,” you pleaded, pushing your hips back, grinding onto his fingers, ass jiggling from the way maekar’s wrist slapped against the bottom of your rear. “need more, ah, need your cock. p—put your cock in me already, you brute—” you tried again, but he ignored you, only adding a third finger, stuffing you more full, placating you. but teasing you in equal measure, like the brute he was.

that seemed to frustrate you more, whine gurgling from your throat, hips gyrating with more insistence. “n—not enough!” you gritted, so, so impatient, focused on getting the only thing you truly wanted. “a true husband would’ve had his cock in me by now! a—are you, ah, fuck,” a harsh flick of his wrist interrupted your protests, deterring you for a moment, before you continued, brows furrowing. “does your prick not work anymore, my lord husband? are you afraid i won’t be satisfied?” the words tumbled out of your mouth unbidden, throwing every taunt at him in hopes of him biting.

“is it so small that it’ll leave me asking for your fingers again or—”

silence.

before a weight settled over your back like a blanket, so warm and sturdy, pinning your upper body onto the pelts ruthlessly, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you winded for a few moments.

“shut up,” was growled against your ear, so low and vicious it made your now empty hole quiver and drip even more slick. gods, where had his fingers gone? “you insufferable, wanton wench,” his words dripped with so much venom it made a delicious shiver run down your spine, more than delighted to have him pressed along your back, shoulders to hips, feeling the hard length of his cock press along the folds of your pussy through his breeches.

one of his hands fumbled with the fastenings, pulling himself out, thick and girthy, guiding the head towards your folds, smearing his precum all over the silky flesh as he panted against your ear. “you don’t deserve this,” he rumbled, gliding the cock-head slowly along the wetness, before slapping it against your clit. once, twice, like small love taps, barely giving you any stimulation. “but i’ll give it to you anyway,” he inched back towards your entrance, repeating the lewd motion, precum coating the throbbing hole with each slap of the head against it.

his arms moved, one settling by your head, elbow pressed into the mattress so he can curl all that muscle and sinew against your neck, cradling your head between his forearm and bicep, the crook of his elbow pressing softly against your throat, making you gasp, choked and whiny. your husband had you in a headlock, squeezing just so, just enough for you to feel his strength and what he could do with it, if he wished.

it made you moan shamelessly, palms coming to curl around the muscle there, nails digging in, making maekar hiss, and flex just a bit more in retaliation, before relaxing the squeeze.

“please, husband,” you pleaded, a little breathless from the hold of his arm, pushing your hips back against him. “take me, fuck me, have me.”

music to maekar’s ears. having you so desperate, begging for him so sweetly, letting him place you how he wanted and keep you there, his weight keeping you pressed to the bedding, your hips tilted up by his other hand, which now slowly pushed the head of his cock into your glistening hole, still careful, even with all the pent-up frustration and arousal. he never meant to hurt you, no matter how much you infuriated him.

a loud, suffering groan brushed your ear as he bottomed out, feeling how tight you were, how wet and warm and gods—he could die in your cunt. in this greedy, hungry thing, which pulsed and throbbed and squeezed around him like it wanted him deeper.

you were no better, practically drooling over his bicep, shameless moans spilling freely, loud enough to be heard by the courtiers, perhaps the whole castle. pleasure overtook you, urging you to babble, fingers gripping at his muscles like a lifeline. “have me, husband,” you repeated those salacious words, clenching around him tightly. “t—take me like a real man, not a green boy who—”

the hand that guided his cock inside snapped upwards, clamping over your mouth, thick fingers pressing into the flush of your skin, rendering any more comments to silence.

“shut,” he ground out, dragging his hips back before snapping them forward, thrusting inside you. “your insolent mouth, woman,” rasped against your cheek now, as he set a firm, ruthless pace, navel slapping against the flesh of your ass, making it jiggle, the sound echoing through the room.

your sounds of pleasure were muffled by his hands, slobbering all over the inside of his palm from how much you were drooling, moans and cries barely making it past the rough fingers pressed to your lips. maekar could’ve winced at the feeling of wetness, but it only thrilled him more to have you like this, mindless with bliss from how deep his cock reached, the tip hitting that one spot inside your gummy walls that made your nails scratch at his bicep and your tongue lolling out, pressing against his palm, even daring to lick.

every thrust brought him closer to the edge, feeling the telltale sign of heat at the base of his spine, spreading into the pit of his stomach. and by the way your sounds could barely be silenced anymore, so were you.

his pace quickened, hips snapping against your ass harder, rutting into you with fervor, close to snarling against your ear from how good it felt. gods, your pussy was made for this. for him. coating his cock, making tendrils of slick stick to his navel and the backs of your thighs from how wet you were, the sounds squelching and filthy. “pussy so good, wife,” maekar rumbled, the praise slipping from his mouth. “so good for your husband’s cock.”

his wife was getting close, he could tell; her hands now clawing at the one of his onto her mouth, making him slacken it just enough for her to cry out, garbled and supplicating.

“spend in me,” you mewled, little ah, ah, ah sounds muffling against the inside of his palm, now coated with your drool. “give me your seed, maekar,” the pleading continued, making his thrusts falter minutely. “let me have your seed, husband.”

you sounded so desperate, so… earnest, as if all that happened led to this, to you asking for something a husband should give freely, without a shroud of doubt. like a future where you might end up round and full with his child was something you would be pleased with. it was too much for him. he won’t be made to believe that such a forthcoming was meant to be sound, especially when you were overcome with pleasure.

maekar found himself shaking his head, palms pressing back against your mouth to silence any more begging, to cease such ramblings from a woman who didn’t mean what she was saying, even if your words almost made him cum inside of you moments ago.

“i—i can’t,” he groaned, low and shaky, as if pained. “i won’t, wife.”

tag list: @lupusnoir @mademoisellepetite @vhagars-dementia @eowyns-fantasy @sem-ra @erinceles @bay-harbour-stalker @nena-la-fresa @breakspearz @goodqueenalicunt @marianne-zemo @thesoulwitchh @sunkssdcherry @silkaurum @ghostlybfgf @pinkdoeweirdo @erwinsvow @crayonbug @copiacarstairs @demiene @fandomtrela @and-his-brother-maekar

[hayatistic]

Trickery

✧ Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).

✧ Content warning: oral stimulation (male receiving), a reserved and out-of-practice Baelor is pursued by an overeager and scheming reader, cock warming via throat, overall detailed filth.

✦ — Baelor is a widower who hasn’t been intimate with anyone in quite some time, that is, until you make it your purpose in life to unravel his restrained exterior.

When you arrive at the Red Keep, along with your parents and several other families of the realm, you quickly discover that Prince Baelor is nothing like you had anticipated he would be. 

You had expected someone colder, which was foolish as all you had ever heard of the heir was of his generous and compassionate nature. 

The older prince’s attentive eyes, kind smiles, and gentle mannerisms, as well as the soft lines of age that bordered his gaze and mouth, only amplified his handsomeness, adding a distinguished elegance to his face that no other man you had ever come across had been able to pull off.

Still, a part of you had entertained the notion that those favourable rumors could have been distorted, intentionally spread embellishments of his true, wicked nature, and found yourself both relieved and disappointed when he portrayed himself to be the very representative of nobility and grace.

I would not have minded being ravished by him, you had mused mindlessly, gaze following his figure as he moved around the hall to greet each guest, regardless of their class, with equal civility and warmth.

As the days passed, you found yourself pleasantly surprised to classify Baelor’s demeanour as mellow and his humour, which he rarely exhibited, as neither cruel or demeaning. The prince had a particularly delicate way of sharing his wisdoms and decrees without coming across as arrogantly entitled; it was an advantageous trait that not many men were gifted with.

By the second week of being in his presence you were enraptured by him, from the way his mouth moved when he spoke, to how he would sit back and listen, without judgement, whilst fiddling with his rings.

Baelor’s eyes would relentlessly analyze his surroundings, occasionally falling on you for a beat or two before moving along, never pushing past the barrier of what propriety allowed. 

And Gods, did those odd-coloured eyes of his pique your interest, just as his long, thick fingers did–digits that you had spent every night since you arrived envisioning touching you in places that a proper lady shouldn’t even have knowledge about.

You had your vulgar novels to thank for your ability to conjure up lewd images at your whim, and it was his grace’s face that you dreamt of looking up at from where you would kneel on the ground, unconcerned with how debauched that desire would make you appear if you could have him fall apart from your touch.

How pretty would he look on the precipice of release?

It was then that you decided you wanted him, his heaviness on your tongue, his fingers in your hair, his mismatched gaze on your face as you pleasured him.

Your plan to capture the older prince’s heart began small. 

You would frequently idle within the halls he would regularly pass, periodically showing up when your father was discussing politics with the prince under the pretense that you had a very important message to disclose to him from your mother.

Of course, your father played his part equally well once he learned of your aspirations for the heir’s affections.

Eventually, Baelor became expectant of you, gradually appearing more lively when you would predictably show up each time to shower him in your undivided attention.

“You look remarkably well rested this morning, your grace,” you would casually say, ignoring the disapproving glances from the nobles loitering, eyes solely focused on the way the older prince would stiffen at your words.

“Thank you, my lady, you are most kind,” Baelor had replied after a moment of flustered silence, seemingly having difficulty maintaining your direct stare.

After weeks of bringing him handmade gifts, paying him extravagant compliments, “accidentally” bumping into him in isolated places you should not have been visiting in the first place, your hard work is proven to be successful when he finally asks you, and then your father, for your hand in marriage.

Now, as his betrothed, you conclude that you are allowed to touch him as often and intimately as you please.

“Your hands are so large, your grace,” you praised, a finger ticklishly trailing over his wide palm, “they were made to wield a big, heavy sword.”

The corner of Baelor’s mouth twitches, a modest smile beginning to form as he glances away with a shake of his head.

“You are too generous with your words,” he murmured, a colouring of red painting the tops of his ears and scruffy cheeks, "unfortunately, I have a meeting to attend, but I look forward to seeing you on the morrow.”

“As do I, your grace,” your voice was sultry, lashes fluttering as you gazed up at his rising form whilst nibbling on your bottom lip.

It produced the result you had hoped it would, the flush dusted across his face darkening as he swallowed.

“Until then, my lady.” he said to you after a moment, eyes glancing behind you to acknowledge your chaperone with a nod of his head before he moved to leave.

You watched gleefully as he strolled away, heart leaping within your chest when he turned to glance back at you once more just as he turned the corner.

For a man considerably older and more knowledgeable than you, both of the world and when it came to intimacy, he certainly appeared easily affected by your teasing.

How delightful.

You were content with how slowly things were moving until one night, when you happened across a stable boy singing about “Prince Baelor” and a “giant, veiny.. host of Dornish spearmen”, that you knew you could no longer wait for the marriage ceremony to take place before you saw all of your betrothed’s well-endowed traits.

“I must admit there is a topic I find myself often pondering, your grace,” you began nonchalantly one evening during a stroll of the grounds, hand tucked into the crevice of Baelor’s elbow as he guided you back towards his tower.

The sky’s pink and orange dusk highlighted his silvery-grey hairs and one blue eye prettily, the lack of sunlight darkening his brown eye until it appeared as black as the majority of the short strands atop his head.

Baelor’s head turned towards you as he waited for you to continue, the muscles in his arms flexing under your hold; you had him as affected by your presence as you needed him to be for you to proceed with the next step of your plan.

“However,” you leaned closer, purposely invading his space until the tip of your nose is brushing against his throat, “I cannot speak of it where the wrong ears may hear.”

The hitch of his breath and clearing of his throat have you suppressing a knowing smile, opting to instead gaze up at him innocuously as you wait for him to invite you inside his solar for privacy.

Which is exactly what he does.

“I apologize for the mess,” Baelor says quietly, sitting across from where he had motioned for you to settle yourself comfortably only a moment ago.

Your eyes drift across the space, taking in his scroll-covered desk as well as the many shelves that lined the walls, all of which were filled to the brim with books pertaining to every kind of law, topic, and custom that the heir to the throne ought to have immediate access to.

“You may speak freely here,” his tongue swiped across his lips to moisten them, back rigid as he patiently waited for you to finish your earlier thoughts.

“I heard a stable boy singing a tune I find myself unable to forget,” you start harmlessly, fingers tightening in your skirts as you fix your face into a look of innocent curiosity.

“A stable boy?” Baelor repeats, brows furrowing as he contemplates all the possible things you might have overheard, none of them befitting of a lady’s ears.

“Yes, your grace,” you continued, “it was a catchy song, one about a giant, veiny–,”

Baelor’s quick to cut you off, “You must not concern yourself with such songs, my lady,” his tone is laced with embarrassment, a dark hue traveling up his neck as he offers you a tight smile that he hopes, you’re certain, will deter you from probing further.

Unsurprisingly, it has the opposite effect.

“My prince,” you urge, standing up to peer down at him, “I must know.”

“There is nothing to know, my dear girl,” he offered another, more forced smile up at you, “I shall accompany you back to the dining hall.”

“Please, your grace,” you’re kneeling between his legs, ignoring his look of alarm, “I wish to see it,”

“Gods–see what?” 

“Your giant, veiny host of Dornish spearmen, of course,” you reply matter-of-factly, hands rising to rest on his tense thighs.

Baelor’s mouth is agape and eyes are wide as he struggles to formulate a response in his stunned state.

“I must know, my prince,” you pushed his doublet up to access the ties of his breeches easier, “it is my right, is it not?” your fingers undid the secure knot with little trouble before tugging them open.

“You cannot possibly–,”

“Oh!” you interrupted, mouth watering at the sight of his soft, dangling appendage. It was nearly exactly as you had imagined it would be, albeit thicker, but you were close enough.

Without thinking, you grasped it in your hand, carelessly pushing the velvety skin back to reveal his tip to the cool air and your greedy gaze, ignoring the older man’s sputtering.

“This is not right,” Baelor finally bit out, his hands enclosing around your wrists to stop you from touching him further. Unluckily for him, your mouth was unrestricted and more than willing to join in. 

Clumsily, you opened your lips just wide enough to engulf the soft head of his length within your warm, wet mouth, eyes watering as you stared up at him.

The guttural moan that escaped him had you slipping further down his twitching thickness, encouraged by the crack in his composure.

Gods, you wanted to witness him completely undone.

“I want to see it,” you declared aloud, words muffled.

You release him with an obscene pop to eagerly suckle at the sides of his half-hardened cock, saliva messily dripping down the length as his brows remain raised in a mixture of dumbfounded shock and pleasure. 

Unintentionally, his hands tightened around your wrists, but you were unconcerned as you moved backwards to take in the size of him now that he was properly aroused.

“You wished to withhold this from me, your grace?” you ask accusingly before returning to his burning flesh, tongue dipping out to deliver light licks along the underneath of it.

“Please,” Baelor’s voice is so soft you nearly don’t hear his pleas over the sounds of you sloppily lapping at him, “please..” a clear substance is now steadily oozing out of his twitching cockhead.

Your legs press tighter together at the desperate neediness in his tone, cunt dripping in response to his helpless begging.

“Do not go so deep–oh, Gods,”

The noises that filled his solar were filthy, they belonged to a pleasure house courtesy of a talented whore, not the hand’s solar who was being brought to ruin by his highborn betrothed. 

One of his hands released its hold on you to slide behind your neck, grasping loosely as you continued to force more of his length within your mouth, tears streaming down your cheeks as you fought the urge to gag at the dull pressure against the back of your throat.

“Do not force it–,” Baelor starts, his lower-lidded gaze focused on the way half of his cock was engulfed by your swollen lips, “do not injure yourself.”

His words did nothing but feed your desire to take him entirely, to swallow his length until your throat took its shape, to feel the outline of it in your neck long after he had withdrawn from the heated, tight passage of your mouth.

You withdrew to mumble determinedly, “I will take all of it,” before swallowing him down again, moaning loudly in response to his deep groan.

You reached down to cup the hefty sacs tightening below, fingers kneading them until Baelor was twitching in your hold and mouth.

“I cannot hold back any longer,” a mortified groan accompanied his hushed words, “please, I cannot–,”

Suddenly, he’s bending forward at the waist just as thick ropes of cum hit the back of your throat, a pathetic moan leaving his lips when you persist with your enthusiastic swallowing.

“Sweet girl,” Baelor begs shakily, trembling as his hips move backwards to escape your sucking, “please, that’s enough.”

You ignore him and the attempts he makes to dislodge your mouth from his appendage, continuing to suck until the entirety of his soft, bulky cock is snug within your mouth. 

Baelor is quiet when you stare up at his heaving form, his hands tightly clutching at the cushions below as he struggles to collect his thoughts.

You move to make yourself more comfortable; your knees turning to put your weight on one leg, chest leaning forward to rest your head against his solid, tense thigh as your chin nudges upwards to keep his cock encased between your puffy, spit-slicked lips.

Once comfortable, you resume your light suckling, jaw aching from the unfamiliar stretch, throat burning from his fat cockhead repeatedly nudging against its sensitive walls.

“Gods, what have I done,” Baelor finally gets out, hands rising to cover his feverish face.

“Thank you, your grace,” your words are muffled as you speak around his length, cheekily squinting up at him when he visibly shivers from the vibrations that shoot up his body from where you remained enclosed around him.

[chuluoyi]

𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐧

── oneshots

how good a kisser are you, ser? — fluff in which your gentle knight attempts (and fails) to learn how to be a good kisser

the princess' protector — hurt/comfort, fluff you have never argued with your knight until now, and your bond is about to be tested when danger befalls you

the hedge knight's lady — suggestive, jealousy, fluff in which your hedge knight only has determination and a dream... but he refuses to let highborn lords and low beat him for your affection!

𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

── oneshots

in one's heart of hearts — suggestive, hurt/comfort, fluff to the realm, your marriage with the young prince is a storybook union worthy of songs. but after tragedies befell you one after another, the love that once seemed effortless begins to fracture... and it doesn't help that another prince has his obsession set on you

heart of mine — pregnancy, fluff, hurt/comfort now carrying his child, your prince dotes on you with the devotion of a man utterly enamored with the woman he loves

heart seeker — fluff heavy is the head that wears the crown... your sweet prince has been neglecting you, and you’ve decided it’s only fair to beat him at his own game!

𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

── oneshots

the dragon and the lioness — enemies to lovers for as long as you could remember, you and the bright prince have always been bitter enemies... but when duty calls and you are married off to each other, how will you survive this marriage?

kissed by fire — suggestive, arguments, fluff quarrels between you and your husband are not new, but when a heated argument turns into the two of you see it fit to give each other silent treatment… it takes an incident to make both of you realize that perhaps a lion and a dragon are not a bad match after all

like a dragonfire — 18+ arguments, fluff to aerion brightflame, love is a frivolous thing made up by the storybooks he loathes. but try as he might, he can't keep his eyes off you either. what lies in the store for both of you after passionate nights and a taste of danger… if not realizing that love is not that unreal, after all?

lay all your love on me — suggestive, fluff the three times the dragon prince has been denied your bed, and the one time he succeeds (and finds out why)

forget me not — suggestive, amnesia life as you know it shatters when your husband loses his memories of you in a freak incident. how will you convince him of your marriage and the love that made it real?

© CHULUOYI. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any platforms.

[faelinda]

Burn in my Bloodstream

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Baelor Targaryen x sister!reader x Prince Maekar Targaryen

Rating: Mature (MDNI)

WC: 7.1 k

AKOTSK Masterlist

Tags/Warnings: Targcest, canon divergence, adjusted timeline, jealousy, possessive behavior, minor character deaths, oral, fingering, threesome, breastfeeding, pregnancy, lavender marriage, consensual infidelity

A/n: Finally, I was able to break through the cobwebs and write a Baelor x Maekar x reader threesome

Summary: As the only daughter of King Daeron and Queen Myriah, you were long adored by your brothers. You are married to your Dornish cousin, yet his predilections are unable to provide you with a child. Your widowed brothers offer a solution.

Ten years after the birth of Prince Maekar, Queen Myriah surprised the realm by giving birth to a daughter. A most unexpected turn of events.

You were the apple of your father's eye, adored by your four brothers, and while the Gods had given you Valyrian looks, your mother dressed you as her little Dornish doll. Draped in swatches of bold colors, dripping in gold, emeralds, and rubies, with copper suns banded in your hair. You became the sunlight of the Red Keep. It became a family jest that everyone was surprised you learned to walk because you were constantly in their arms, carried about like a precious treasure.

All four of your elder brothers protected and nurtured you in their own ways. Baelor would place you on his hip and introduce you to members of the court. Aerys would read to you and teach you the histories. Rhaegel was your playmate, happy to play dolls with you, and Maekar was your protector. Your handmaidens would tell you tales of how Prince Maekar would sleep in the nursery when you were a wee babe to make sure you were kept safe at all times. A silver haired guard dog found with your tiny hand furled around his finger.

The fourteen year age difference between you and Baelor made him a surrogate father at times. It was him you went to when you had nightmares, snuggled against him as he lulled you back to sleep. Maekar was the one you turned to when the snotty Tully boy tripped you at Rhaegel's nameday celebration. Tears soaked his crimson doublet as he held you. You knew he restrained himself by only breaking the Tully boy's nose while Rhaegel pelted the boy with lemon cakes. Father gave Maekar quite the talking to afterward, but spared him any punishment, as you had begged mercy for your brother, and the little lordling had tripped a princess after all.

Time saw all your brothers married and your nephews and nieces, becoming your playmates. When you were still a mere girl of twelve, the Blackfyre Rebellion broke out, and saw Baelor and Maekar sent to war. You would hold Jena and Dyanna's hands, saying soft prayers for their safe return. They proved their skill on Redgrass Field, and a song would sing their glory as the Hammer and the Anvil. You remembered the days spent watching them in the training yard: Baelor with his calculating skills and moves, and Maekar with his brute strength. None could swing a mace with such force as Maekar, and none could swing a sword so elegantly and deadly as Baelor. How you loved and adored them. In the youthful days of girlhood, you had imagined marrying them in the Valyrian custom.

Shortly after your sixth and tenth nameday, your cousin, Trystane, began to make frequent visits to the Red Keep. A deep friendship blossomed between you two, and you became the keeper of his secrets. He was sweet and charming, blessed with Dornish good looks. Rich, bronzed skin, honeyed brown eyes, and thick, black hair that fell past his shoulders. Your mother had convinced your father to hold off future bethroals until you were eight and ten, wanting to keep you by her side. However, she began to plant the seeds of marrying your cousin in your head to continue the Targaryen and Dornish alliance.

With the long spring extended and in honor of your eighteenth nameday, Trystane was invited to court once again, and a grand feast was held in the courtyard that evening at your request. You sat in Baelor's lap, your head resting on his shoulder as you watched Trystane perform a Dornish dance with members of his entourage who had accompanied him. Your parents had retired to bed, leaving you in your brothers' company. Aerys was most curious to learn more of their histories, while Rhaegel picked up the dance rather quickly, spinning around arm in arm with Trystane. Maekar had been recently widowed the past year and drowned himself in endless cups of red wine.

"Do you have eyes for him, sister?" Baelor smiled, smoothing his hand down your loose hair.

Next to him, Maekar grunted as his fingers tightened around his cup. You had told him he did not need to attend, but he insisted. It is not every day that my little sister becomes a woman.

"He is nice, I enjoy our talks," you said. He wouldn't be the worst choice, but you knew his attraction lay with men. Though you did not dare to speak that aloud, you had given Trystane your promise.

Could he love you in such a way?

You reached for the cup of red wine, taking a slow slip as Trystane and his men finished their dance. Loud clapping filled the courtyard, the torches blazing and bathing everything in an orange glow. Rhaegel shook Trystane's hand, the two clapping each other on the back, before your cousin's gaze fell on you.

"We should see you off to bed," Maekar grumbled, his violet eyes narrowing.

You rolled your eyes and sighed against Baelor's shoulder.

"Brother, she is hardly a child; let her have a bit of fun," Baelor said, gently guiding you off his lap. "Go and dance with him."

You did just that, picking up the steps rather easily, as you very much enjoyed your dance lessons as a girl. Baelor and Rhaegel were easy to convince to be your dance partners over the years, while Maekar took more sweet talking. Sweat clung to your skin by the time the dance was over.

"Might I take your sister for a walk in the gardens? I will return her promptly, my lords," Trystane asked your brothers, your arm linked through his.

"Ser Wylde will stay a few steps behind, but yes, you have our permission," Baelor replied kindly, though you noted Maekar looked rather red in the face and irritated by your cousin's request. He stood from his chair, making it clatter behind him.

"Nonsense, Ser Wylde needn't be bothered. I will accompany them," he sneered, his fingers brushing over the pommel of his sword.

"Brother," Baelor warned, and Maekar held up his hand.

The roses were fragrant that evening, Maekar's bootsteps heavy on the ground as he followed behind, keeping a sharp eye.

"I plan to ask for your hand in marriage if you agree, princess," Trystane smiled.

You tilted your head up. "I think we would be happy together. Do you think…perhaps you could love me?"

"Love comes in many forms, princess. I can promise that I would cherish you and never mistreat you."

"But you would keep your paramours?" You were young and lived the sheltered, spoiled life of a princess, but you were not naive.

"You could have your own if you wish."

You gasped, quickly covering your mouth so as not to alarm Maekar. "That is very bold of you to say, cousin."

"I'm simply being honest, which is another thing I can promise. Never to lie to you."

You glanced down at your hands, studying the ruby ring that Maekar had gifted you and the sapphire one from Baelor on the finger next to it. Your gaze drifted over your shoulder as you took in the sight of your brother looming close behind. "And children?"

"I would like children, yes."

You smiled. "We would live in Dorne?"

"If you wish, but I would stay in King's Landing if that made you happy."

"Then I think you should have a discussion with my father on the morrow."

"I shall do so, princess."

He returned you to your brothers, and you could practically feel Maekar breathing down your neck.

"Oh, I know that look in your eye, sweet sister," Jena smiled, taking your hand and drawing you close. "You will be joining our ranks soon enough." She kissed your cheek, and you noted the odd look in Baelor's mismatched eyes. Jealousy. It was more hidden, more subdued than Maekar's was.

"Come, it is time to tuck you in," Maekar growled, roughly grabbing you by the arm and pulling you away from Jena.

"Stop, you are hurting me," you hissed, pulling away and running into Rhaegel's arms. He embraced you warmly, stroking your hair and giving Maekar a rather puzzled look.

"I think perhaps you've had too much to drink this evening, brother," Baelor said softly.

"You should see him off, Baelor," Aerys hummed. It was apparent to all how out of character Maekar was behaving, but he had just lost his beloved, so grace was given.

"For fuck's sake, I am not a child," Maekar grumbled, his neck and face flaming red.

You kissed Rhaegel's cheek and moved from his embrace, slipping your arm through Maekar's.

"Come, I am ready now, you can escort me as planned," you said softly, wishing to save face. Wishing to protect him as he had with you for all these years. You gave Baelor a soft nod, which he returned. Wine peremated from every pore, sinking into the fabric of your samite golden gown. Ser Roland, newly appointed to the Kingsguard and assigned to you, trailed behind.

The walk was silent, and you guided Maekar inside your chambers with Ser Roland posted outside the doors. When your mother came to court, she instructed the kitchen staff to boil water and allow it to cool before filling the pitchers, and a fresh ewer was placed in your room every morning and evening. You poured a cup for your brother and instructed him to sit and drink. You sat at his feet, gently stroking his knee and thigh.

"I do not wish to lose you as well," he whispered, his hand shaking and sending water sloshing over the rim of the golden cup.

"You are not. Trystane says he will live with me here if I wish," you said gently.

Warm tears splattered onto your knuckles. Dyanna's death had broken Maekar, and you didn't believe those pieces would ever be mended.

"I will marry you instead," he stammered, his voice thick with tears.

"Maekar…"

"No, I will," he insisted, standing from his chair and making you scramble to your feet. Pitifully, he dropped to his knees, circling his arms around your waist and weeping against your dress. You stroked his white-gold hair. "That way you will always be by my side, sweet sister."

"You are drunk."

"I am, but I mean what I say. I will discuss the matter with Father on the morrow. I will make you my bride."

His face pressed further into your bodice, his grip so tight that you thought you might be squeezed to death. The proposal did not disturb you. In fact, you considered it. But he was grieving, and a grieving man could not be held to promises. When he lifted his face, you cradled it in your hands. Violet, pleading eyes, flushed cheeks, and such a look of forlornness. Mayhaps you could put him back together. All he needed was his sister's touch.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet, pulling you close and dipping his head to kiss you. Your face flushed with heat as you allowed his warm mouth to consume yours. It was intoxicating, like the first sip of wine that rushed to your head. You should have pushed him away, but you didn't. Your mouth felt swollen in the aftermath when he finally pulled away. His thumb swiped over your plush lips.

"Good night, sister," he whispered before disappearing into the night, leaving you bewildered.

When you woke the next morning, Lady Fowler informed you that Maekar departed for Summerhall with haste that morning. It made your heart sink. Broken words. False promises. A deep breath filled your lungs, and you steadied on, nibbling on your raspberry jam smeared toast. You allowed yourself to feel a long-forgotten girlhood hope, but you could not wallow in the disappointment. Trystane would ask for your hand in marriage, and you knew Father would accept, especially with Mother whispering in his ear.

"Queen Myriah has requested you wear the teal silk today," Lady Fowler informed you, and you nodded with a small smile on your face.

You held Prince Trystane's hand as your father announced the betrothal to the court. You waved and smiled, pearls dripping down your hair. Aerys had a tight-lipped smile, but you could see the happiness reflected in his amethyst eyes. Rhaegel clapped and cheered while Baelor's approval was etched all over his face. Maekar's absence made your heart ache, but you swallowed your tears. Soon, you would be a married woman and not have to worry about your brother's folly.

"I wish to go to Dorne with you once we are married," you whispered in your cousin's ear.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, and we can return to my father's court when needed."

"If that is your wish," he smiled and kissed your hand.

Maekar was there for the wedding with his brood in tow, and Lady Aelinor was most happy to help entertain and mind them. You knew she longed for a child and you could not figure out why Aerys had not provided her with one yet. Perhaps he had the same preference as your husband, which now caused you worry. The wedding was a grand affair with your Aunt Daenerys and Uncle Maron in attendance with your other cousins. That morning, your mother helped dress you in gold and maroon silks and dripped you in gold jewelry, turning you into her bright little sun once more.

"May the Gods bless your union with many children and much happiness," she said, smiling and kissing your cheeks. "Just as they did with mine."

"I hope you will visit us soon, sister," Baelor smiled as he hugged you tightly as you readied for departure to Dorne.

"Soon she will be blessed with little ones and will hardly give us a second thought," Jena teased.

"She best not, or I will swim the Sea of Dorne myself to bring her back to us," Rhaegel responded, sweeping you into his arms and twirling you.

"I promise I will not be gone for too long," you laughed, squeezing Aerys's hand, who pressed a kiss to your cheek.

Maekar stepped forward silently and hugged you tightly. You fought the urge to snuggle your face into the crook of his neck. He had broken his promise, and you had broken yours. Fair is fair. You boarded the ship with your husband and departed.

The first two years were blissful. You enjoyed Sunspear and the water gardens, adjusting to the customs and new surroundings with ease. Trystane was your best friend; there were nights you would stay up talking until golden dawn bled through, and he lavished you with gifts and sang songs to you while strumming his lute. He never raised a hand to you, never uttered an unkind word, and was often by your side.

The only issue was that of children. Gods know the two of you had tried, you had even invited one of his paramours into the marriage bed to help stimulate him. There was one time he was able to spill his seed inside you, but it did not quicken within. It was clear he held no physical attraction to you, and you were unsure of how to navigate the matter. Once, you thought of writing to your mother, but you did not wish to make her worry or risk exposing Trystane in any way. The letters that constantly arrived from your brothers helped alleviate the sadness. Even the short, curt ones from Maekar and the oddly worded ones from Rhaegel, which you assumed involved him dictating to Aerys, who wrote them for him. Poor Rhaegel was never good with his letters or learning the quill.

One morning, a somber, heavy message arrived from your mother by raven. Jena had caught a chill and never recovered. Tears stained the parchment, making the ink run as you penned a letter to Baelor. His response arrived promptly, and many messages were exchanged as he found comfort in corresponding with his darling sister.

You found yourself missing home. You wished to be near Baelor again, to help him as he grieved. To assist him in the way you failed Maekar.

"Might we plan a visit to King's Landing?" you asked your husband.

"Longing for home?" he smiled.

"I am, and I wish to comfort my brother."

"Write to your family, and I'll make arrangements."

"Thank you."

A month later, you returned home and found yourself in Baelor's arms.

"You are a wondrous sight for an aching heart," he whispered in your ear. "I thank you, cousin, for bringing her to us."

"Anything my lady wife wishes for, I will give to her. I am sorry for your loss, cousin. Lady Jena was a fine woman," Trystane said, and squeezed Baelor's hand.

You heard Maekar's scoff, and you gritted your teeth.

"Thank you, cousin. I hope you will not mind too much if I borrow your wife?"

"Not at all. I will go and visit with my Aunt." Though you suspected it was your mother's sworn shield, Deziel Dal, that warranted your husband's attention.

"I would like some time with her later; you cannot have her all to yourself," Rhaegel complained.

"I promise you can have her for tea," Baelor assured him, squeezing Rhaegel's shoulders.

Baelor whisked you away to his quarters in the Tower of the Hand. He held your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"My, how you have grown, no longer the small girl who used to crawl into my lap."

"I think I could make myself fit still," you teased, making him smile.

"Let us see."

He sat in the black, high-backed chair, cushioned in luxurious green, and pulled you into his lap, hugging you close. "It seems you still fit perfectly."

You guided his head onto your breasts, gently stroking his short hair. A peaceful silence enveloped the room as you tended to your older brother, letting his tears gather on your warm flesh.

"My sweet sister, tell me that you are happy. You seemed to hint at an issue that has been bothering you, yet you would not reveal it in your letters," he whispered.

"Your wife is gone, yet you worry about me?" you teased softly, stroking the back of his neck with your fingers.

"Well, I cannot bring her back, but perhaps I may be able to help you."

"I do not think you can, and you must promise not to breathe a word I tell you beyond these walls."

"You have my promise," he assured you, lifting his head and kissing your fingertips.

"My husband does not seem to be able to give me a child," you admitted softly. Maekar's earlier scoff echoed in your ears.

"And you desire them."

"I do."

"You wanted to name your daughter, Naerys, after our grandmother," Baelor smiled.

"You remembered?"

"Of course I did." His fingers spanned over your belly. "Has your marriage been consummated?"

"Is that of importance?" you asked curiously.

"If it has not been, I could request that Father ask the High Septon to annul it. You would be free to marry another with no shame upon you."

"And who would I marry instead?"

"I would take you to wife, sweet sister."

You untangled from his lap, pacing the room as you wrung your hands. "You and Maekar, so different yet so alike."

"What do you mean?"

"The night before Trystane asked Father for my hand, Maekar begged me to marry him, yet he disappeared the very next morning."

"I would never do such a thing," Baelor insisted.

"I love my husband; he is good to me in all ways." Frustrated tears brimmed in your eyes.

"Except for the way you desire."

Tears streamed down your cheeks, and your brother gathered you into his arms. "It is not his fault; his desire lies in other men. I cannot be upset over a matter neither of us can control and one I knew about," you sobbed into Baelor's chest.

"I suppose you are right about that, his nature cannot be changed, nor should it. We live in an unfair world where some must hide. Forgive me, sister, I am lonely and grieving. I was selfish in my offer, wanting to have you as my wife."

You lifted your tearstained face. "It warmed my heart, brother, that you desire me in such a way. The offer was tempting, but I would feel horrible tossing my husband aside."

"Then perhaps there is another solution."

"Which would be?"

"Allow me to give you a child."

In the past, you would have balked at such a proposition, but now it tempted you. Trystane had given you his blessing to find a paramour of your own, but none had caught your interest, and you did not desire a meaningless tryst.

"You would do that for me?" you whispered.

"I would do anything for you, little sister." His mismatched eyes were inviting, drawing you in. "At least take some time to reflect on the matter. I will not force you."

"I will," you smiled, letting boldness overtake you, and pressed your mouth against his.

Strong arms circled your waist, holding you close as passions overtook. He let you go as he had promised Rhaegel, and you felt as if you were floating on air. Tea was lovely with Rhaegel, and he informed you that he and Alys were trying for a third child.

"Oh, that is wonderful," you smiled, patting his hand. After tea, he played a song for you on his lute before you retired to your chambers to rest before supper. You weren't surprised to find Maekar sitting at the table, his boots propped against the edge of the table as he waited for you. You sighed, walking over and shoving his boots off the table before pouring two cups of wine.

"I saw your husband off to the Streets of Silk, no doubt with that guard of Mother's in tow," he said, lightly drumming his fingers against the table. "Off to bugger each other, no doubt."

You tossed your red wine over his face, taking a sadistic joy in watching the ruby liquid drip down his skin.

"How dare you? Must you be so cruel?" you hissed, tossing your cup onto the floor and enjoying the loud clatter it made.

Maekar blinked before removing a handkerchief from his doublet and wiping his face. "If you were mine, you'd have three babes already."

Your fingers curled into tight fists. "But I am not yours! You gave me the false hope, only to abandon me, you wretched man."

"Is that any way to speak to your brother?"

"It is when he is a fool!"

"I should put your over my knee and smack some manners into you," he growled.

"Well, we both know you are shit at following through."

A strange noise toppled from his lips, a sound you had not heard from him in a long time. Laughter. His body shook with it before he stood and took hold of your chin.

"I assume Baelor has presented his cause."

"How would you…"

"He is not the only one who suspected, dear girl, and I am hardly a fool."

You snorted and raised a brow. "I would say that is debatable."

"Careful now, or I will follow through on my earlier threat," he warned. "Let me give you a babe, we are almost mirror images, none would suspect. You could have a little girl who looks just like you and me."

"You do my head in, brother."

"Family is meant to drive one mad."

"I will consider it along with Baelor's offer," you said simply. "Now, leave. I wish to rest."

One hand cupped your cheek while the other moved down your braid, giving it a soft tug and wrapping the end around his hand. "I could keep you warm," he offered. It made your belly clench. Against your better judgment, you agreed and allowed him to hold you in the bed.

You sat by your mother's side at supper, your gaze trailing between Baelor and Maekar. Which would you choose? Your finger circled the rim of your cup, overflowing with a sweet white wine. The brother who resembled your husband, or the one who looked like you? Silver trays piled high with desserts sat to your right. Lemon cakes and cherry tarts. A sly smile spread over your face as you put both on your plate.

Why pick one? Why not have both?

You summoned Baelor and Maekar to your chambers that evening while Trystane slept in the adjoining rooms. Your hair was loose, falling down your shoulders in waves, and you wore your favorite pink silk robe.

"I mean to have you both," you told them plainly. "You will share me and fill me. It will be a gamble whose seed takes; I do not want any quarreling about it."

"As you wish, sister," Baelor smiled, ducking his head.

Maekar's eyes narrowed. "You know that mine takes, quite easily, I would add."

"If you do not agree, then you can sit in the chair and watch our brother take me instead."

"You have turned into an insufferable brat."

"Steady now, brother," Baelor cautioned, ever the gallant knight.

"No, I have grown into a woman who will decide her fate and who warms her bed. I wish for it to be both my brothers, Maekar. I cannot choose when both hold my heart equally."

His mouth twitched, his fingers curling and flexing. The nervous habits he thought he had shaken off in childhood. You stepped closer, taking both of their hands.

"This is my decision," you stated.

"Alright, then," Maekar sighed, giving in to your whims and secretly proud of the woman you had become. You kissed Maekar, letting him be first for a change, then kissed Baelor.

"You will invite us to sup with you tomorrow in the Tower, and then we will lie together," you informed him.

"Yes, sweet sister."

"And what of your husband?" Maekar asked.

"I will inform him of my intentions. We promised never to lie to one another, and I do not intend to start. Good night, my dear brothers."

Each left you with another kiss, leaving you to enjoy a respite in front of the fire. In the morning, you informed Trystane of your plans.

"My, I must say I'm impressed. Taking both your brothers to bed, I am a bit jealous," he grinned.

"I do not wish to know of your fantasies involving my brother," you told him dryly.

"I promise to keep those to myself. Well, have fun."

"I intend to."

You wore your crimson silk gown with a black bodice and black lace sleeves to enjoy supper with your brothers, finding your house colors more fitting for this meal. They, too, wore various shades of red and black. There was a nervous silence in the air as the three of you dined, seemingly savoring every bite.

"The duck is rather delicious," you murmured.

"It was always a favorite of yours," Baelor said, settling his hand on top of yours.

Maekar rolled his eyes, drawing a soft giggle from your mouth.

"You have a good memory, brother," you commented.

"Must we bother with all this ridiculous small talk?" Maekar grumbled.

"Would you prefer to throw me over the table and take me now?"

"Yes, that sounds preferable to me," Maekar huffed.

"Then let us not waste any more time. Come and unlace my gown," you instructed him.

Maekar stood, tugging you roughly to your feet and spinning you around before tugging at your laces. He was rough yet gentle enough not to destroy the garment, peeling it away from your body and leaving you in a simple undershift and stockings. Then he sent you toward Baelor with a quick slap to your arse. The jolt of pain surprised you, yet it did not feel unpleasant. Your eldest brother pulled you into his lap, your back against his chest, after tugging the shift over your head.

"Gods, she is beautiful, is she not, brother?" Baelor purred, his ringed hands squeezing your supple flesh.

"A true beauty," Maekar breathed, stepping closer. While Baelor gently pinched and tugged on your nipples, Maekar knelt between your splayed thighs. His beard scraped against your thighs while his tongue gently lapped at your cunt. You allowed yourself to get lost in the pleasure, letting your brothers have their way for now. Two of Maekar's deft fingers dipped into your opening, making you mewl.

Baelor's mouth worked over your neck, falling onto your shoulder and sinking his teeth into your tender skin. You liked to imagine in the privacy of his chambers and in the throes of passion, he allowed himself to lose control as he kept so tightly together in the public eye. You felt the swell of his cock against the curve of your arse. They made your body come alive. The Hammer and the Anvil were at their best when working in unison, with a common goal in mind.

"You're both overdressed," you whined, wanting to feel their skin against yours.

"I suppose we are," Baelor chuckled, his hand stroking your belly, fingers sliding down to join Maekar's in teasing you. His thumb grazed across your pearl, making you twitch.

"'Tis a pity your husband cannot fully appreciate you," Maekar sneered, before bringing his dripping fingers to his mouth and lewdly suckling them clean.

You swallowed. "I was meant to be yours. Both of yours." Baelor's fingers pressed against your mouth, and you parted your lips, allowing them to sink inside. The salt of his skin mixed with your musk.

Maekar swept you into his arms, carrying you into the sleeping quarters and placing you on the red blanket embroidered with black and gold dragons. Baelor blew out the candles in the solar before following behind and stoking the coals in the hearth. The amber and orange flames grew brighter. He began to loosen his doublet before walking toward the bed where you lay. Maekar sat on a chair and tugged off his boots.

You stretched out languidly, watching them as they unraveled from their clothing. Maekar stood a bit taller, slimmer yet well defined and decorated with scars. White hair decorated his chest, swirling down to his pubic bone and in a sparse, downy covering at the base of his cock. His stones were full and heavy. Baelor's chest hair was darker, with a touch of gray, thicker, and covering more of him. His belly was softer, a sign of his age. His stones were smaller, yet cock equally as thick as Maekar's. How you yearned for them.

You reached out, drawing them closer to you, taking turns kissing and stroking them. Feeling their cocks swell and grow rigid against your soft palms. Three bodies bled into one for a brief moment, and you weren't sure where any of you ended or began. Made for each other. Baelor arranged himself against the pillows, guiding you once more into his lap and spreading you wide for Maekar, those elegant fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.

"He never misses, my sweet sister," Baelor whispered into your ear as Maekar's cock nudged at your opening. You could not fault the logic in that. He had given Dyanna six children.

You groaned as he sank deep inside you, filling and stretching your cunt. Your legs wrapped around his slender waist, drawing him close against you. Baelor's cock gently nudged against you, the fleshy tip teasing you while Maekar's stuffed you. Oh, it would be divine to have both buried inside you. You let the blissful feeling carry you away, pleasure wracking your body as your belly tightened. A sweet pressure built and surged until you burst and toppled over the edge. Maekar pressed his face against the curve of your shoulder, his thrusts becoming more powerful. Bruises would blossom over your thighs in the morning. His seed spilled heavy and thick, filling you to the brim and leaking out.

"I bet a babe already is growing in your womb, sister," Maekar smirked, and all you could do was silently nod your head, mouth agape. He took hold of you, pulling you onto all fours with your arse and seeping cunt facing Baelor. "Go on, brother, have your turn."

Baelor's hands grabbed your hips, his cock entering you with a wet squelch. Maekar's cock was still hard, wet, red, and leaking. One hand twisted in your hair before guiding his cock into your mouth. Baelor's thrusts were steady and controlled, each roll of his hips building the pleasure inside you again. You moaned around Maekar's cock. A second peak rolled through your body, and Maekar's seed dripped down your throat while Baelor's filled your cunt. You nearly wept from happiness.

Your head lay against Maekar's thigh while Baelor gently cleaned you with a damp cloth.

"Thank you," you whispered, stroking your fingers over your belly. Maekar's palm skimmed over your forehead.

"We'll do it until it takes," he whispered.

"As many times as needed," Baelor smiled.

You curled between them, tucked safely in their arms.

Nine moons passed, and soon you were in labor, bringing your first child into the world. Your brothers paced the hall, freezing when they heard the wail of the babe. Trystane emerged, a smile on his face.

"Well, boy?" Maekar asked.

"It is a girl, and she looks just like her mother." His gaze met Maekar's while Baelor squeezed his youngest brother's shoulder.

Naerys was the light of your life, cherished and adored. Two more daughters followed in the span of four years; Aelys with her dark eyes and curls, and Gaella with her cerulean eyes and wisps of silvery hair. It was impossible, but you liked to pretend Gaella was made from both your brothers. A fourth grew in your belly when a second Blackfyre rebellion arose shortly after the death of your father, King Daeron. Your cousin-husband fought bravely alongside your brothers, sustaining a deep wound to his belly. He hovered between life and death for three days with you by his side. You would help change his bandage and dab the sweat that gathered on his brow. A shaky hand rested on your rounded belly.

"Will you grant a dying man one wish?" Trystane croaked. It was hard to see him in such a state, as he had once been a man so full of life.

"Hush now, you are still here with us, but I will still grant your wish if possible," you replied softly.

"Might I name this one? I know I am part dragon, but I wish for her to have a Dornish name."

"Another girl, then?" you smiled. "Tell me the name you wish, dear husband."

"Aliandra."

"Then that shall be her name." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. He died in the late hours of the night, with his hands in yours. Aliandra was born three moons later with indigo eyes and dark hair.

A new era of the Targaryen dynasty approached with Baelor as King, Maekar serving as his Hand, and Aerys as the Master of Laws. Valarr and Rhaegel were given seats as well. You had your hands full tending to your daughters and Maekar's younger children. One evening, you nearly fell asleep in your chair while dining with your brothers, your nipples sore from nursing Aliandra, as she did not take to her wet nurse.

"Already exhausted and we haven't fucked her yet," Maekar quipped before taking a long pull from his cup of wine.

"Leave her be, she is busy mothering and Gods know you're children are exhausting," Baelor replied.

"Oh, while yours are blessed, well behaved beings who can do no wrong? Aelys liked to bite her handmaidens if I recall correctly."

"She grew out of that phase," Baelor scowled.

"All of your children are meddlesome and tiresome," you murmured, peering through slatted eyes. "Mischief runs in our blood, a dragon curse."

"Regretting them, are we?" Maekar asked.

You shook your head and smiled. "Not a bit. But I am a widow now, so you cannot put more in me without raising suspicion."

"We would never put you at risk like that, dear sister," Baelor assured, squeezing your hand. "Allow us to attend to you this evening, no seed needs to fill you."

"Attention from the King and his Hand? How could I turn that down?" you smiled.

A steaming bath awaited you in Baelor's chamber, as if he had anticipated your need. Maekar maneuvered you out of your clothing and helped you into the tub. You groaned as you sank into the hot water, as it magically soothed your aches and pains away. Baelor sat on a stool beside the tub, gently washing your body with a soft sponge while Maekar tended to your hair, massaging your scalp with soap. You melted beneath their touch, savoring the tender care they bathed you with. Even your aching breasts felt better after the hot bath.

You warmed in front of the fire, lounging across the chaise, one bare foot dangling off the edge. You did not bother with clothing, enjoying the flames gently caressing your bare skin.

"You're leaking," Maekar grunted, watching the opaque, milky liquid bead from your engorged nipples.

"So I am, might you come and help me, dear brother?" you smiled, moving from the chaise and toward Baelor's bed where he rested. Thick, wet hair streamed down your back.

Once settled against the golden pillows, you guided Baelor to one breast and Maekar to the other. Baelor's lips were softer, gentler as he suckled at your breast. Maekar's lips were rougher, cracked, while his teeth worked over the delicate nub. You stroked their head, moaning softly as they alleviated your sore, full breasts. It was a delectable sight watching the foamy milk cling to their rosy mouths and dribble down their bearded chins. They removed their clothing, pressing their naked bodies against yours. Fingers explored and gently probed between your legs.

You could take four, two from each older brother. Cunt clenching and fluttering around the appendages as they gave you a sweet release. Once you rode out your peak, you watched your brothers tend to each other, stroking one another's cocks and grunting. You certainly enjoyed the show. Pearly send spilling into rough palms, the sweat soaking their bodies, pink tongues entwining. Dragons would always find each other in the end; blood calling to blood.

The sun and the moon continued to turn as the realm began to adore Baelor as their king. He was fair and kind, quick to settle matters before blood could be spilled. He would even visit Flea Bottom, listening to their concerns and becoming a true man of the people. The king who shook the hands of peasants, letting them know he was for all. He made true of his promise, fixing the slums of the city for the small folk to have better living conditions.

One afternoon, your brothers found you in the nursery, surrounded by a gaggle of children. Aliandra sat in your lap, playing with her wooden dragon. Every so often, she would toss it into the tower of blocks Gaella and Aelys would build. The girls would cheer then repeat the process, enthralled by their little game. Naerys ran over to Maekar, lifting her arms to him, and he scooped her up, nuzzling her cheek.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, brothers?" you smiled, stroking Aliandra's dark, curly hair before passing her into Baelor's arms. He kissed the top of her head, keeping her close against his chest.

"The small council has suggested I remarry. The realm needs a queen," Baelor said.

"And who have they proposed?"

A sly look was exchanged between your brothers.

"You, sister," Maekar replied, bouncing Naerys on his knee.

"Father fought hard against incest in our line," you commented.

"He wished for us not to be kept in the confines of it, but was not opposed entirely. The council reasons that you are a widow with children, and the only daughter of the deceased king. It would be an honorable choice. Or you could marry Maekar and live in peace at Summerhall," Baelor said.

"I do not think my days at Summerhall would be filled with peace with seven children to mind, nine if I were to include Aerion and Daeron," you laughed. "What is your opinion?" You directed the question at Maekar.

Maekar stroked Naerys's pale white hair as he considered. "I think you should be queen. I think the three of us should rule together."

"And our current arrangement?" you asked softly, though the children wouldn't understand.

"Would not need to change," Baelor replied. "At least, I see no reason why it cannot continue."

You reached for his hand and Maekar's, squeezing both. "Then let us rule together, brothers."

The council wished for a public wedding, open for even the small folk to attend. Maekar and Rhaegel presented you to Baelor before the High Septon. Happy tears streamed down Rhaegel's face.

"My little sister is queen," he sniffled, and even Maekar's prickly nature seemed to resolve at his brother's words, a soft smile on his face.

Your mother placed the bejeweled golden crown upon your head and kissed your brow before stepping back and holding Aerys's arm. Baelor wore crimson silks and a black cloak with the Targaryen sigil, and you wore dazzling yellow silks with a matching Dornish-style veil. How you wished you could marry both brothers in the public eye. At least in private, you would have them both.

A grand feast unfolded, but all you could think of was that evening. The desire to have your brothers between your thighs, their blood pounding in your ears. Your thirst was quenched later when Maekar ripped your gown to tatters and Baelor's hand wrapped around your throat. Heat consumed you, the taste of their blood on your tongue after you broke the skin of their lips with your teeth. One would bury deep inside you, quickly followed by the other, hardly giving you time to think, as you gave your body over to them. The three headed dragon roared to life.

Maekar's teeth imprinted on your thighs, his palms leaving stinging marks on your arse.

"Not many can strike a queen and live to tell the tale," he hissed in your ear, his hand gripping your hair tightly.

Baelor's fingertips bruised your hips as he held you so tightly, as if he were afraid you might slip from his grasp. Dark red marks bloomed over your breasts from his hungry mouth.

You left your own mark on them, crimson scratches from your nails. Blood rushed to your head, making the room spin, but you knew they would never let you fall.

A peaceful sleep found you, wrapped between your brothers, just as you were always meant to be.

Taglist: @deadonyouraccount @dixie-elocin @ghostlybfgf @merweleftthisbehind @qardasngan

[eowyns-fantasy]

an encounter in ashford forest

Vampiric!Baelor & Vampiric!Maekar x Ashford!Reader

Based on this ask.

Warnings: Blood Sucking, both Maekar and Baelor are probably a bit OOC as a result of the premise, it's not mentioned explicitly but Age Gap is definitely implied, Smut, Oral Sex (f receiving), Slight Predator/Prey to start of with, Dubcon if you squint, Reader is Lord Ashford's adult daughter

Summary: Your father has offered you to the princes. Or rather, your blood.

Words: 3k

You had been told to go into the woods and hide; that the princes relished the hunt, required it even, to be satisfied. Truth be told, you were quite nervous. It was unusual, but then again the Targaryens had always been such. Ser Willem had reassured you that you would be fine – that the princes would only take as much as they needed. 

Father would not have cared overmuch, you thought, if I had not been fine, as long as the Princes rewarded him.

You were not sure what you’d done to rouse your father ire – you were his daughter, just the same as Gwin – only a handful of years older.

But while she got to be celebrated on her nameday, you had been given the task of entertaining the princes. You would only be responsible for the two elder ones, at least, as their sons were otherwise taken care of. A few pretty maids had been selected for them. Why they could not have done the same for Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar, you do not know.

Had they specifically requested noble blood? If he wanted to please them so much, your father should have offered himself instead.

But it did not matter. You were already huddled beneath the shielding canopy of a low hanging willow, body pressed close to the trunk, a hundred paces into the forest. 

You remembered the princes’ arrival shortly past dawn, their towering forms. You’d been in the background, watching, weighing. Those two were the men who would drink from you.

They were handsome enough, you supposed, though it hardly mattered. You were to be offered either way.

Prince Baelor’s eyes met yours a few times as he conversed with your father, lingering for longer after – you figured – your father revealed that you would serve them. There was a hunger in those eyes, a great beast, though muzzled and restrained beneath courtesies and easy, sharp-fanged smiles. You’d never seen someone with differently coloured eyes. His son, Prince Valarr, shared the trait, though it was not half as pretty on him as it was on his father.

Prince Maekar appeared to be more impatient than his brother. Annoyance was writ on every line of his long body, and you wondered if it was just his nature or whether he had gone thirsty for longer and thus become more desperate. The violet flames of his eyes had certainly tried to devour you with each passing glance, his nostrils flaring as though he were scenting the air for a taste of you. 

Could he actually do that? You realised you did not know. They had told you frightfully little beyond what they deemed necessary. Let them search for you, let them find you. Let them take their fill, and stay still when they do. Someone will be by to tend to you later.

The crunch of feet in the underbrush alerted you to the fact you were not alone anymore. Heart in your throat, pulse thundering in your ears, you suppressed a flinch, any movement at all that might give you away. 

You’d been told to let yourself be found, but you could not help your fear. You had never been alone with a man who was not family before, and now it would be two Princes, stalking you at dusk, hungry for your lifeblood. 

It was a strange condition that the Targaryens suffered from, but you were a daughter of a minor house of the Reach – it was not your place to wonder. Only to provide.

“I can smell her, she’s close.” 

It was Prince Maekar’s voice, and your head swivelled toward the sound, finding his cloaked form much closer than you’d expected. Prince Baelor walked by his side, replying to his brother with a thoughtful hum.

“You’re stomping like a bull, brother,” he told the younger, “You will scare her off.” There was something almost hypnotising about the Crown Prince, his tone low and silky, smooth like gossamer.

You’d been so focused on the elder prince that you had not realised that Prince Maekar had slipped from his brother’s shadow, only to crowd into yours. 

Large hands started wrapping over your shoulder blades, gathering your hair. “There you are,” he murmured against your temple, pressing his nose against your skin and inhaling heavily. “Gods, you smell sweet.”

His sudden touch startled you, and you disregarded everything you’d been told, a primal instinct to flee flooding your body. You scrambled away from Maekar – only able to throw him off due to his surprise, no doubt – and turned, taking off into the opposite direction.

You did not get very far. Barely a few stumbling steps in, your feet caught on the hem of your dress, and you fell. 

But you did not meet the ground. Strong arms hauled you up, a spiced scent filling your nostrils as your face was pressed into a cloaked shoulder. “Easy,” Baelor whispered against your hair. He was amused. By you or the situation, you could not tell. “We would not want you to hurt yourself.”

So only you may hurt me? You thought unkindly. You’d been told it would sting, to start off with.

Another pair of arms, again from behind, slung around you, and you noted, with dismay, that you were utterly trapped. Your heart hammered in your chest. “Please,” you begged. What you were pleading for was a mystery, even to you.

“What did you think would happen, little bunny, trying to run?” Prince Maekar growled above you, “Did you think you might get away?” Something wet trailed a stripe of heat along your neck. His tongue, you realised. 

“We have your scent,” he said darkly, “there is nowhere you could go.”

“And such a sweet scent it is,” Baelor added, tilting your head up with two warm palms at your cheeks. Up close like this, you could see that his pupils were blown wide.

“The most tantalizing one I’ve smelled in a long time,” Maekar finished with a groan, his beard rubbing against your sensitive skin. A strange, foreign warmth settled in your stomach at the sound, at these new sensations you’d never before felt. 

“Maekar,” Baelor warned, sensing something you were not privy to, “we do not play with our food. She’s not here to sate all of our needs.”

“Why the fuck not?” Maekar asked, beginning to mouth at your pulse point, but not breaking the skin. Yet. “She’s pretty enough.” Pretty enough? The offense you felt at those words was quickly smothered when the silver-haired prince shuffled closer, and his pelvis pressed against the small of your back. He was…engorged. You did not know a better word for it. Excited, perhaps.

“And don’t pretend you’re unaffected, brother. Your eyes might as well be black.” Baelor’s mouth thinned into a displeased line, though he did not stop Maekar in his ministrations.

As you breathed in, both their scents filled your lungs. Strangely, it calmed you. More than calmed you. Was this part of their affliction as well? To make you enjoy it? You lost all desire to struggle, your body softening, loosening, growing pliant. 

“Look how fucking receptive she is to us, now that the pheromones have begun their work, Baelor,” Maekar murmured, letting his head drop on top of your shoulder, his rough cheek to yours as he stared his brother down. You wanted to lean into it, rub yourself against his beard like a cat. “She’s compatible.”

One of Maekar’s hands brushed over your chest, seeking out the faint rise of your pebbled nipple. Even through the fabric, his calloused fingers strummed it with expertise, and a whimper escaped you, your core starting to feel molten and slick, hips twitching against the hardness at your arse.  You saw the reluctance in Baelor’s eyes die.

“Very well,” he said. His thumb wiped a streak of dirt off of your cheek, then lingered there. “Do not worry,” he told you softly, “we will not ruin you, you have my word.”

It was meant to comfort you, you believed, but you could hardly think about the contents of his words while his brother’s hand crept between your legs. “Yes, yes, we’ll not breach your maidenhead” Maekar grunted, rucking up your skirts, “fuck– will you help me get this fucking dress off, Baelor, or will you just stand there and make me do all the fucking work.”

Maekar’s litany of curses seemed to spur Baelor into action, and he assisted his brother, large hands sweeping over your legs. Without warning, the Crown Prince dropped to his knees in front of you, his dark head level with your middle. Cool air kissed your thighs as they finally maneuvered the fabrics out of the way. 

Their hands moved perfectly in tandem – neither fumbling, nor getting in each other’s way, like they’d always done so. When you thought about it, they probably had. Hammer and Anvil. 

You squeaked when the bristles of Baelor’s beard trailed down your stomach, lips whispering against your heated flesh. “Will you allow me to drink my fill?” He asked, eyes flickering up to your own as he paused between your thighs, mouth hovering over your sex, still covered by your small clothes. 

Your knees all but buckled – but Maekar caught you, guiding your body into the cradle of his as he lowered the two of you slowly, never quite stopping the fluttery kisses he was pressing against your throat. 

You settled in his lap, your bottom snug against his hardness and he hissed, the hand that wasn’t cupping your breast drawing your legs further apart for his brother, the tips of his fingers deliberately slipping beneath the band of your smallclothes as he did so. “There we go,” he taunted, “there she is. This little cunt is soaked. Soaked for your princes, isn’t that right?”

You tried shaking your head, embarrassed, but his jaw bore down, holding you fast, teeth scraping against your shoulder. “Now, now,” he tsked, “none of that.”

“Maekar,” Baelor admonished, digits playing with the edges of your coverings as he placed a scruffy kiss to your inner thigh, lingering, inhaling the musk of your arousal. “Do not tease. This sweet dove has been gracious enough to grant us use of her body for the night.” For sustenance, some distant part of you implored, not whatever this is. But you did not want to stop, could not stop squirming for more.

Baelor might as well have been speaking in front of a council with how eloquently he articulated himself, though the breathlessness of his voice betrayed that he was not unaffected by the sight of you.

You had never quite answered his question – Will you allow me to drink my fill? But your bucking hips must have been enough of an encouragement, for the Crown Prince did not continue to waste time. With a strength that startled you, he tore your smallclothes in two, leaving you bare from the waist down, spread open for his gaze. 

“Gods.” Baelor dove at your glistening folds, enveloping them with his hungry mouth, tongue gathering as much of your slick as it could. Desperately, you clutched at his hair, seeing his throat move as he swallowed your arousal. “Almost as sweet as your blood will be.”

“Ever the romantic,” Maekar chuckled against your neck, tweaking your nipple until you yelped, and used the opportunity to shove two fingers of his other hand between your lips. Tasting yourself on them faintly, you tried mumbling around the digits. The blonde prince shushed you. “Can’t have you getting too loud, little bunny, don’t want the guards to think we’re killing you.”

Struck dumb, you nodded around his fingers. You expected him to withdraw them, but he kept them buried in the warm cavern of your mouth, absentmindedly petting over your tongue, along the blunt rows of your teeth. Almost on instinct, you began sucking, molding your lips around them. “Fuck, keep going, you’re good at that,” Maekar encouraged, as he began thrusting them in and out slightly, nibbling at your skin more insistently, but still not biting down. 

Was he imagining his manhood in your mouth, instead? You had heard servants talk about acts like those, of whores getting on their knees. 

Impatiently, he tugged at your laces, loosening them enough to slip his other hand beneath your dress finally, your breasts spilling into his fingers. “So soft,” he moaned as he circled the bud of your breast again, this time without barriers. The touch sent a buzzing pleasure straight to your core and you twitched forward, inadvertently pressing yourself into Baelor’s waiting mouth. The older man smiled against you, then began to kiss the top of your sex where your desire itched strongest. 

His tongue swirled around your pearl, and you swore you saw stars, moaning around Maekar’s hand. “She’s not going to last long, I can tell,” the silver-haired prince murmured, “her pulse is thrumming.” 

Baelor’s left hand tightened around your thigh, while his right joined his mouth. A long, ringed finger probed at your hole, and you flinched away from the foreign sensation. “Shh,” he hushed. “It’ll feel good.” His lips shone with spit and you as he spoke. “So good. Only good.”

You nodded faintly, continuing to suckle at Maekar’s fingers as though to provide you solace. Like a babe, in a way.

The finger returned, and this time, it breached you carefully. “Gripping me like a vice,” Baelor panted against your thigh, “You’re doing so well.” He began moving the digit, in and out, crooking it inside you in a way that drove you wild. Absently, you realised that his rhythm matched his brother’s, their hands moving in perfect synchronicity. 

Just as Baelor’s mouth returned its maddening assault on your bundle of nerves, Maekar sank his teeth into you in one sudden move. You moaned, high and broken, half pain and half pleasure. “I couldn’t wait any longer,” the blonde murmured against your throat as he licked at his bite, greedily swallowing down the beading blood. At some point, his hips had begun bucking up into you, his leaking member rutting, desperate for friction.

“Just stay still, let us make you feel good, bunny,” he continued, placing his lips over the wound and sucking.

You’d expected it to feel strange, foreign. Bad. It did not. It felt intimate, the way his lips were suctioned to your skin, whiskers tickling you with every twitch, his throat working as he drank you down. 

And all of it as he penetrated your own mouth with his fingers, over and over, and as Baelor worked at your core with a diligence that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

Something inside your body, something low in your tummy was coiling, despite the distraction that Maekar’s bite had caused. A band pulled taut, read to snap – storm clouds gathering, preparing to burst. You felt it in your arms first, a prickling, then your legs, toes curling. You whined, unsure. 

“Let it happen,” it was Maekar who reassured you.

Baelor, encouraged by your reaction, by the tension he could detect in you, sped up, adding a second finger, thrusting both digits inside of you. There was a wet squelching sound as he moved his hand, your body receiving him eagerly. A moan vibrated against your core, and Baelor’s mouth closed around your most sensitive spot, sucking there like his brother was sucking your blood.

All at once, the band snapped, and you fell, and fell and fell, your muscles locking up as blinding waves of pleasure wracked your body. In the midst of it, you felt Baelor tilt his head and bite down into the soft meat of your thigh where he drank in large gulps, keeping his fingers buried inside of you as you spasmed.

When you came down from your high, both Baelor and Maekar sat back a little, removing their fingers and mouths from you, your blood dripping from their lips. Both wounds continued to bleed sluggishly, though you weren’t worried. You felt light-headed, in the best way. 

You tried to sit up and adjust your dress, only to be stopped by the iron of Maekar’s arms around you. He ground you against his lap, harsh, his long nose skimming along the column of your throat. “Not yet, you don’t.”

You blinked at Baelor in confusion, trying not to notice the slick shine of yourself in his beard. “Did you not…” You trailed off, unsure what you’d even say. 

“Did you think we were finished?” Baelor asked with a small smile, voice kind. 

You blushed. You had thought that. You didn’t answer. 

“Oh, bunny, we’re just starting,” Maekar, in contrast to his brother, was scoffing, licking crimson from his lips as he adjusted his grip on you. “Did you think I would let my brother be the only one to get a taste of your cunt?”

The words made you whine.

It was almost sunrise when they finally had their fill of you. 

As you drifted off, safely tucked against Maekar’s chest – you had trembled like a fawn when you’d tried to stand, and the younger prince had swept you up wordlessly – you heard them exchange a few words. “Will father throw a fit, do you think, if we turn up with her at the Keep?” Maekar started, his voice rumbling.

“We shall have to find out.” Baelor replied with a quirk of his mouth, wiping away a few stray drops of your blood.

“You’re in agreement, then?”

You tried to stay awake for longer, to piece together what they meant, but your limbs were so heavy. The two brothers had sated themselves on you, in more ways than one. 

Why would they take you to the Keep?

“I’d not leave her here, with a father who cares for her virtue so little as to let us do this. We could have done much worse to her, and none would have been the wiser.”

Maekar huffed. “Always so damn honourable.”

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Wine and A Pretty Wench

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.

[cats4dayssss82]

Imagine how safe you would feel with a man like Maekar. He is tall and heavily built, physically intimidating. He has NO problem telling someone to fuck off and he would never let someone disrespect you. He is a battle hardened war hero, so no one would dare try and cross him. If there was ever any danger, you know his first priority would be to protect his children and you.

[lostrealityr]

Summerhall Nights

Maekar Targaryen x wife reader

[based off of this amazing request]

synopsis: In which Maekar Targaryen's wife is not as fickle as she may be perceived

word count: 1,564

trope: husband x wife

warnings: descriptions of death, blood, violence, reader kills someone, use of a dagger, slight intimacy towards the end, husband and wife used as terms of endearment, female reader, no use of Y/N, reader is a legal adult. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!! REMEMBER - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA THAT YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME

DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used and characters from A Knight Of The Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me

✴︎

The air in Summerhall was a storm-lands special, humid, thick and exhausting. With the ever rising heat of the summer as the days drew longer it begun to become unbearable. And in being so suffocating, it became a weapon all in the house seemed to use against one another. Tempers flared, arguments ensued. It seemed no one in the house had a way of regulating themselves in the humidity, despite having grown up here the children of Maekar found themselves at the hand of it too. Brother turned on sister, Father turned on son, husband turned on wife. It was growing relentless. So much so that you had opted to reside in the guest wing of the house just to escape the bickering, the hugging heat, the misplaced words. 

The previous night had been your breaking point, in which yourself and your husband were unable to find comfort in your bed, Maekar claiming your close proximity to his own body was forcing him to sweat.

“And what would you have me do? Husband? Sleep on the floor?” You asked, sweat clung to your own sticky skin, thin chemise near turned sheer as it layered you. “Sleep on the other side of the bed, every time you touch me I get warmer.” He grumbled, turning on his side to face the window and the lack of cooling breeze. “I am sleeping on the other side of the bed!” Your voice exasperated, frustration radiated through you like a furnace- literally. You climbed out of the sheets, the stone floor barely cold to the touch anymore, limbs heavy with exhaustion that your body would not give into. This had to have been the hottest summer the Stormlands has seen in centuries, you had been married to Maekar for near four years now and never had any of you suffered like this because of it. “Where are you going!” He called, not even turning from his sanctuary to see you leave, “Away from you, husband, if my body next to yours is so repulsive it is causing you lack of sleep!” You hissed, opening the chamber door and slamming it shut behind you.

The pair of you had remained in separate bedchambers for near a week now, which is why you led in the canopy bed of the guest chambers, stripped of all quilts and covers in only a thin nightdress. You had been tossing and turning for hours, the skirts of your nightdress tangled around your legs as you huffed, drawing your hair up so that it was tied away from the nape of your neck- which it had too been stuck against. Maekar and yourself had not discussed the terms of this arrangement, and sure enough neither of you were ready to forgive the other yet. It was something petty, not meaningful. And when it was petty, it became a competition of who would be first to break. Yet as the night grew longer a longing feeling settled low in your stomach, perhaps if you snuck into your husbands bed he would not notice until he rose with the sun, which is what formulated your plan to sneak across the halls in the first place.

The corridors bore no more coolness than that of your temporary bed, the air hung sickeningly thick, willing you to choke on it, yet you did not give in. Only when your feet stopped outside your shared room did you hear what sounded like shuffling inside. Summerhall was a stronghold, a Targaryen settlement that was far apart from any immediate danger and had little to no enemies of the physical house itself. Guards were permitted to be more lax than they would have the RedKeep. They patrolled the outer grounds and lower floors, making sure no stragglers entered too close. There was no need for them to be positioned on the upper levels and corridors for nobody could enter unseen- in theory.

You opened the door near silent from the sight before you, a man in unrecognisable clothing held your shirtless husband in what appeared to be a headlock, a red gash down his chest. Had your husband not been so abled by lack of sleep he likely would have never fell victim to the intruder, yet tonight he had. Your lips parted, not in horror, but rather surprise. He had to have been quite a man to have the anvil on his knees. 

Maekar was a possessive man by nature, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as the welcoming scent of your bath oils wafted through the room from the quiet force of the door. You were here. And he did not know what to make of it.

A valyrian steel dagger led upon the dresser by the door, it was cold in your hands. A welcome feeling amongst the heat radiating through you, and around you. You were not unfamiliar to wielding a blade, Maekar had to give himself peace of mind that if he were not there to protect you, you could protect yourself. He despised the very thought of you ever having to use what you had been taught but it was a quiet comfort knowing you knew no hands safer than your own. 

The slit to this intruders throat was clean and quiet, he had been so pre-occupied with the anvil on his knees- a sight you adored yet you knew this man desired it for reasons very different to your own. The blood flowed freely without constriction, coating down his neck and soaking his shirts, he gargled as if he were drowning. Being submerged to the depths of a death so unwelcoming it clawed at him, like a hand grasped over his mouth to keep the water in so that he choked on it, only this water was not clean and fresh, it was crimson. A warm river provided by the very vessel that promised to give him life was taking it from him. When his knees gave out, his arms released your husband who wasted no time in standing shakily and turning to see the sight now before him. Your pupils were blown wide yet your breathing was steady, as if you were observing the act from a distant dream rather than committing it. When he keeled forward, blood soaking the expensive carpets he stopped convulsing, stopped fighting what was trying to claim him. He had complied in death, the Stranger accepting the gift your hand had provided these Gods. A sacrifice in untimely blood spilt to save the one you loved. A sacrifice many men had made on battlefields, grass adorned in bloodshed of young men fighting in wars that they had no choice in giving their lives to. But this man had made his choice the moment he decided your husband’s life was his to take, which is why you had not hesitated in making sure he knew the agony he had been grievously intending to cause.

“You should not have done that.”

“I was protecting you.”

“Let me rephrase that. You should not have had to do that.” Maekar was near heaving, the entire ordeal feeling so foreign to a man well accustomed to the sight of another’s blood. His own wife had slaughtered someone neither of them knew the name of, because she felt her husband was in danger. He was in danger. And she had not hesitated. You had not hesitated. “Are you alright?” he asked, stepping around the man and pulling you back away from the evermore staining carpet. “I should be asking you that, husband. You are bleeding.” Your hand grazed his chest, inches from the slice that had sort to tear him in two. It was not deep, but that did not mean it was not painful. Maekar took in the state of you, you appeared far too composed to have just taken the life of another, let alone it be the first time you had truly wielded a blade against a foe. Your eyes found his own, “Do not look at me as if I will fall apart. You needed me.” You spun the dagger between your fingers before tossing it onto the carpets next to the man. You had done what was needed, it should not have been at your hand but the man would have ended up dead from touching a crown Prince regardless. At least the one dealing the fatal blow here had done it to truly protect something they cared for, not a kingsguard doing what is expected of them. It was not expected of you yet you had willingly done it regardless.

“I never wanted you to have to take a life for me.” He frowned, thumb brushing your cheek as you pressed a kiss to his palm. You were concerned for the blood seeping from him, the only blood that now coated you was your husband’s from where his chest now pressed against yours as he caged you to the bedchamber wall. His teeth clashed against yours ferociously, tongue forcing its way into your mouth as you whimpered against him, startled by the sudden intrusion from your husband’s tongue. You managed to break-free for breath, “Maekar we need to get you to a maester.” He grunted, violet eyes glinting in the dim candlelight, “I needed my wife and you came without call. I don’t need a maester, I need you.”

A/N: guys i loved this request, i apologise if this is shitty i worked hard on it but like i just didn’t know how to do the request justice bc i can so see maekar with a badass wife!reader like ughhh i love it. anyway as always, requests open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always appreciated!! take care everyone!!

general akotsk taglist:

@noone1233nobody @antobooh @mikariell95 @kravitzwhore @vanillafan6 @ae-gax @galactict3a @aleemendoza2425-blog

maekar targaryen taglist: @mimistimesblog @thorins-queen-of-erebor @erinceles @danaaa21 @nanamin-chan @maximuminfluencerstarlight @pearldaisy @bog-devil @nymphthreshold @luvweezer @icebearcucumber @la2luna-blog

[sem-ra]

This was a great read! It makes perfect sense that Maekar’s wife would be a badass!!

[aerionsfanart]

louisybachy

[bitterdorothy]

Unrepentant admission

Summary: Your father-in-law, Maekar, gives you a proposition. He will warm up to Daeron’s efforts of patching up their father-son relationship and will even give him some leniency, but all you have to do is let Maekar have his way with you for the night. Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x Reader Content warning: minors do not interact, Daughter-in-law!Reader x Father-in-law!Maekar, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, porn with plot, explicit smut, NSFW content, cheating, Maekar exploiting the reader’s love for Daeron, Maekar enters Daeron and the reader’s bed chambers without permission, dubcon touching by Maekar at first, pussy job, P in V sex, unprotected sex, breeding, mentions of self-inflicted harm and oral sex (reader receiving), angst. You are responsible for your own consumption! Word count: 4.8k Author notes: I wrote this fic because I have so much love for akotsk and all the fanfic authors out there. If you’ve ever written an akotsk fic, drabble, horny thirst, or the like, this is for you. Thank you for your service and for sharing your writing with us. You've inspired me to write this 💕 I would also like to personally thank Sam Spruell for being a fantastic Maekar, brilliant actor and an overall sweet guy LMAO – He will never see this but I would like to thank him regardless. I am planning to do a part two but will release it when I’m happy with it. Please don’t ask for updates because I’m a slow updater and it took me months to complete this story and feel confident about posting it. Dividers are by saradika-graphics

“Must you go?”

You whine against your husband’s chest and he can’t help the breezy laugh that falls from his unfairly handsome face.

“Hush, sweetness, I’m only gone for a few days,” Daeron smiles.

He pats your head before he embraces you with a warm hug.

“You won’t be alone,” he stated. “You have your ladies in waiting, the guards, my siblings and father to watch out for you and keep you company.”

You bury your head hard against his chest, wishing that you could crack his skin and hide inside his flesh so that he takes you with him.

“But I miss you! You’re always in meetings with your father and his council men. You even sit with your father at his solar after dinner sometimes to talk about more boring council stuff. We haven’t spent any time together other than sleeping, waking up and breaking fast or having supper with each other! Can’t someone else do it?”

Daeron can’t help but sigh when he looks at you with your tantalising wet eyes and sinful sheer night gown. He mulls over the notion that maybe you are right, but he also knows he spoils you with an abundance of love and affection so you are used to having most of his attention on you. The sight of him departing anywhere without you must have rang alarm bells for you.

“My love, this job is important. I must ride to the Reach and be my father’s representative. All the lords will be there and as his first-born son and heir, I must go. He requested it himself.”

He kisses the crown of your head and walks around the room to collect his essentials. You watched in silence.

You knew Daeron was eager to impress his father, he detailed it to you so many times about how he was a terror during all of his boy and teenager years, haunted by dragon dreams and did self-inflicting harm through drink and dangerous acts. Yet, when he reached adulthood, the dreams stopped but the trauma and conflict created a deep wound within his family, especially with his father who picked up the pieces in the aftermath. Always covering his messes and having the servants find him and clean him up. He can see the torment devour his body every time he makes a mistake or did something to displease his father. Daeron isn’t proud of what he did to survive, but you understood the eagerness to heal and recover some sort of positive relationship with his father. He wanted to redeem himself by serving his father for those these years of torment.

You empathised him with your whole being. You loved him strongly and couldn’t be any prouder of him in trying to step up and take on his role as the heir to Summerhall.

“I understand. If your father personally requests it, then who am I to stand in your way. I hope this keeps you in your father’s good graces.”

Daeron softly smiles as he walks to you and gives you a tender kiss on your lips.

“You are my heart.” He looks at you with earnest eyes, “I will only be there for the time that is needed and then ride back home to you.”

He peppers your face with quick kisses, “and once I return, I will ravage you just the way you like it.”

You couldn’t help the grin that shoots up your face and the heated warmth and wetness that grows in your pussy.

“Just the way I like it?” You purr. “Tell me, how do I like to be fucked?”

Daeron gives you a sultry smile as he pushes his body against you and grabs a handful of your arse.

He slowly and deliberately grinds his clothed cock against you and you can’t help but bite your lip at the friction.

“You get wet the most when I eat you out first and come from it.” You bite your lip and nod, “then I’ll have you ride me while I hold your hips and help you fuck yourself on my cock until we both unravel. I’ll fuck you with the intent of breeding you full with my seed. I want to give you a babe so then you won’t feel alone when I’m gone.”

Your pussy aches at his words.

A babe. You’ve always wanted a babe with Daeron ever since your betrothal to him. You pictured your child to have his silver blonde hair with your eyes and facial features but his brilliant smile. The same smile you fell in love with. You hoped that they had his sincerity and willingness to try and be a better person but have your overwhelming affection.

“Then hurry because I want nothing more than to be filled up by you.”

You grab his cheeks and give him a heated kiss. And when you feel Daeron give the same intensity, your heart stutters at the mutual love you have for each other.

You thank the gods, old and new, countless of times for him being your husband.

Daeron leaves you with a soft kiss against your knuckles and departs your shared bedchambers. You wistfully sigh and head to bed with the sinful thoughts of what your lord husband would do once he came back from his very important meeting.

You can feel fingertips lightly tracing your body. Your eyes are still closed with the heaviness of sleep, but your body and mouth have a mind of its own as you moan and shiver at the feeling of hands gently gliding from your arms to your shoulder and makes its way down to your thighs.

“Daeron?” You mumble.

“Not quite.”

Your brows scrunch together. Your mind doesn’t fully process the reply but what it can decipher is that someone’s body is behind you.

The person’s breath hitches as their large hands engulf your breast and starts massaging it. You groan at the roughness of their hands against your smooth skin, and the firm pressure of their hands gripping and squeezing your breast.

A sharp gasp falls out of your mouth, “Daeron, I thought you went to the Reach?”

You grind yourself against them and you feel yourself getting turned on.

You hear a chuckle, “he did.”

He did?

Your heart sinks to your stomach, then who is touching you? A flash of anger bursts inside your body.

Who. The fuck. Is touching you?

You swiftly turn yourself but are caught by a strong hand wrapping around your wrists and pinning them down at the top of your head.

Your eyes adjust to the dying candle light and see a neatly trimmed white beard and cheeks marred with pox scars. Your heart stops when you see harden lilac eyes stare at you.

“Maekar? Father-in-law? Have you lost your senses? Unhand me!”

You thrash around to get him off you but it fails miserably. He doesn’t even move an inch.

“Well look at that. You’re feisty when upset, it’s quite endearing. Your eyes narrow with such a ferocious rage, it can spur many men to cower at its sight.”

“Maekar, let go NOW.”

“No.”

Maekar moves his free hand to engulf the sides of your cheeks. He squishes them to force your full attention to him and to his intense eyes.

“Scream all you want, all the royal family’s apartments have a good amount of distance between each other so it would be hard for them to hear you. And if you were thinking about your guards, I sent them away for a few hours, telling them that I have important things to discuss with you privately. I am the anvil so I can protect you if something goes awry.”

“Protect me?” You screech, “I am needing protection from you!”

Maekar spits out an annoyed sigh, “Let me make this clear for you since your silly little head can’t understand the situation you’re in. I sent everyone away and it’s just you and me now. The reason? I am here because I want to fuck you. And if you submit to me and I get my way with you tonight, I will be more receptive to Daeron wanting a better son for me. I know how desperate he is for my approval.”

You are taken aback by his sudden confession.

Immediately, your pride and dignity say no. But your head thinks about his proposition.

Your Daeron. You can do this for him, can’t you? You love him fiercely to the point that you might be obsessed with him. Mere moments ago, you thought about how hard he’s working to gain his father’s love and approval. Can this one act weaken his father’s cold-heartedness? Can this give Daeron some leniency when Maekar gives him none?

You look at Maekar and he’s inscrutable. His gaze feels like a basilisk waiting for any sign of movement from you so that he could strike you down.

You breathe deeply and give him your answer.

“You can bed me just for tonight, but do not expect me to enjoy it. I am doing this for my husband.”

Maekar’s eye gleam with gratification and your heart stutters.

What have you just put yourself in to?

Maekar silently stands up and gets off the bed and you pull yourself up to lay your back against the headboard.

‘Is he retreating?’ You wonder.

His eyes stare at you as he fingers his doublet to unbutton it and toss it aside on the floor. He then grabs the edges of his tunic to pull it over his head to reveal his toned chest and arms littered with darken and raised scars. He has a strong body by the way his skin is taut against pure muscle. You know he has earned his strength as you have seen him in the training yard practicing sword fighting and in the fields horse riding at dawn. You assume that his Blackfyre rebellion days has made him disciplined and vigilant, and that he will always train his body even if there is a small percentage that another rebellion of the sort might arise.

He unlaces his pants and removes them along with his breeches. You look down at his sparse white haired happy trail that leads to his neatly kept bush on top of his…

Maekar’s cock, you begrudgingly noted, is not like your husband’s.

You’ve only laid with your husband so you don’t know what other cocks look like and you do not entertain the thought as you are very much content with what you have. Daeron’s cock has a gentle curve, feels good when he’s inside, and has delicious veins forking on its left side that feels so good in your cunt and in your mouth. His balls are soft with a lovely weight; and you love playing with them when you’re in the mood to tease and spoil him. His size and girth don’t matter to you when his love and enthusiasm to please and make you cum until you are satisfied is enough. It has always has been enough.

But after looking at Maekar’s cock, it pales in comparison.

Your eyes widen at the sheer size and girth of it. His cock stands proud with a curve. It must be around 7.5 inches long but the girth, the girth is intimidating. It looks thick and heavy by how it leans down at an angle. He has an equally thick and bulbous tip that is coloured in a darker shade than its base. His balls look big and heavy as it hangs low next to his cock.

It’s the cock you would have fantasised about if you were still a maiden.

The kind that lives in those sinful books you read behind closed doors when you are alone.

A cock that stretches and fills a pussy up to the brim, with hefty balls that only has the intention to breed.

It’s the cock, you thought, that gave Maekar his six children.

You tremble at the thought, but your traitorous pussy leaks at the sight of it and the prospect of all those inches going inside of you.

‘This is bad,’ you think.

“Like what you see?”

You scoff and roll your eyes.

“Just fuck me and leave.”

Maekar chuckles as he grabs your ankle to drag you back down to the bed. He climbs back to the bed and stops when he puts his knees on either side of your hips and places his hands in between your head to cage you in. He nods his head up to the pretty night gown you wore for your love.

“Did you try to seduce him before he left?”

You narrow your eyes at him and he grins widely.

“That’s a shame. I would have fucked you before I left,” he says before cleanly tearing it apart. It gives him a wonderful view of your body. His eyes wander over the curve of your neck, the fullness of your breasts, all the way to your soft stomach and stops at your laced small clothes.

“I could fuck you and leave” he starts, “but I want to tear you apart and build you back up again so that you crave me whenever I’m around.”

“That will be impossible in this life and the next. My soul is with your son. I’ll never crave an old man like you. I’m sorry that you are a widower but that does not mean you should lust for the woman who is married to your son, your heir!”

“Do you want to know why I want you?”

You stare at the intensity of his eyes but Maekar keeps going.

“Because you bring life into this wretched placed. My children all gather to you to bask in the sunlight of your love and affection.”

“Then why couldn’t you be the same?”

“Like you said, I’m an old man. An old man who is tired of trying to conform to what is expected of me, I have been doing that my whole life as a prince of our royal family. I want you. I want to fuck you. You have given me your word and I will selfishly bask in your sunlight alone and for myself, even if you’re doing this for Daeron. But just know, once I have my way with you, you’re going to crave me as much as I crave you. I want you to feel the insanity I’ve been going through for months that can only be remedied by your touch and affection. I guarantee I will destroy everything you thought about love, pleasure and want.”

You’re silent at his honestly, which he takes as permission. He gently removes your small clothes and leaves you naked in front of him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers before he leans down as if in reverence to kiss your forehead.

He looks down and palms his cock to tap the tip against your clit. You flinch in surprise.

“I’m just introducing my cock to your cunt,” he hushes. “I want you to feel how heavy the weight is against you.”

He lays his cock on top of your pussy and stares at how his tip reaches the top of your pelvis.

He can already feel some wetness from your pussy and he smirks. He’s not even doing anything to you yet your pussy is reacting to him so well. He uses his fingers to part your slippery folds and places his cock in between it, and then he starts to drag his cock up and down your pussy.

Your breath is shaky as his dick stimulates your clit and teases your hole with the hope of being filled.

He gently rocks his hips back and forth as if he has all the time in the world to play with you. You close your eyes in bliss and let out a small pleasurable sigh for him to hear. But as time passes it turns maddening as his now soaked cock drags in between your drowning pussy and his balls and bush are drenched with your arousal. He has given you something and yet nothing and as much as you detested him at his moment, you wanted more. Yet, you won’t give him the satisfaction of telling him you want more.

“So fucking wet, you’re enjoying this more than I am,” he notes.

“No, I’m not,” you hiss.

He snickers at your lie.

“Your mind might not like this, but your body….” he moves down to kiss your clit “your body loves me, especially her, she’s so engorged and sensitive.”

He looks at you with mischievous eyes. Like he knows you will give in to him. That it’s not a matter of if, but when.

Maekar cradles the back of your head with one hand and he moves his hips so that the tip of his cock knocks at your entrance.

“Watch me sheath inside you.”

Your eyes train at how his thick, wet cock slowly opens you up. You groan at its thickness. Your cunt stretches widely at the intrusion but clings to it as if it was greedy for more. His cock is overwhelming as it plunges so deep inside you. It keeps on going and going and you try, try, try to not roll your eyes backwards. At least you won that battle, but as he finally bottoms out you feel as if his cock is hitting the entrance of your womb.

Maekar looks at you with complete arrogance as he knows you’ve never had cock like his before. He knows you’ve never laid with anyone but his son. And to be frank, as Daeron’s father he has seen his son’s cock on occasions when the boy was blind drunk or when him and his boys bathed together at Dorne’s outdoor baths. But Daeron isn’t as blessed compared to him.

“Is it too much for you, little one?”

You breathe deeply and calm yourself before glaring at him.

You’ve never felt like this before. His cock is a lot and more, but you refuse to say that.

What you want to do is to wield your words like a sword and make gashes on his pride. But you can’t. You think back at the reason why you’re doing this in the first place. For your Daeron and for him to feel accepted by his father. He needs his father’s love.

Yet you would rather die than admit your true honest feelings to Maekar.

“I feel full,” you lamely reply.

‘It’s a truth but at least it won’t get to his head,’ you think to yourself.

Maekar hums in agreement as he pinches one of your nipples before he gives it an open mouth kiss.

“It must be a big stretch. My late wife told me all the time how my cock felt as if I was rearranging her insides.”

He continues on his assault as he sucks and bites on your breast. You bite your lip to hold off a moan as you didn’t want to give him anything else other than your body. He leans back to marvel at the hickey that blooms on your teat and moves to palm, grab and kiss your other breast as if it was his plaything.

“That’s enough time for you to adjust to my cock, no?”

You look at him puzzled.

“Your cunt” he stares at you blankly, “it’s been squeezing me constantly from me touching your breasts. You’re ready.”

You were about to protest until Maekar pulls his hips back to just leave the tip in, before deliberatively pushing his cock back into your pussy. You instinctively roll your eyes and give him a lingering gasp.

He moves at a slow and restrained pace of pulling and pushing his hips back into you. At first, you thought it would fine, an act of kindness even, as it seems as if he was helping you adjust to his size. But as time when on, it was agonising. Instead, you feel every inch and ridge of him. Your pussy is so full of his cock, it’s borderline torture. His slow pace makes you fully realise how thick he is and how he splits you apart and you’re just forced to take it. It reaches so deep within you, it makes you feel like he’s discovering a new part of you that you or Daeron never reached. The veins on his cock makes your gummy walls latch onto them when he drags himself in and out, in and out, in and out. While it frustrates you with how slow he is going, you cannot deny the addictive feeling of how your pussy is struggling to try and accommodate to Maekar’s big, thick cock. You secretly like the burn, ache and stretch your pussy does to adjust to him and how it refuses to let go.

And it’s not only his cock that drives you insane. Maekar’s kisses and touches are like flames against your skin. All-consuming and intense, like he wants to devour you whole until there is nothing but your ashes left.

‘This is what fucking a true dragon feels like,’ you think.

Overwhelming and being forced into submission.

But you don’t give up. Not yet.

“I’m not going to feel satisfied until you give in to the pleasure of what I am doing to you.”

You grit your teeth in defiance and Maekar sees that there’s still some fight in you. He thinks it’s time to break you down into pieces by slightly changing the pace. He slides his cock out of you slowly but then brutally thrusts back in. You yelp in surprise.

You feel your pleasure start to mount up in your belly from his slow-fast pace. The change is different as you don’t feel your pussy trying to adjust to the fullness of his cock, but rather you adapt to his quick thrusts of his hips that gives you delicious friction.

Maekar, as always, watches you and knows that it’s not enough so he switches it up again. Every 2 to 3 slow pull, fast thrust back in, he gives you a quick pull before he roughly pushes himself back into you. You moan brokenly every time he gives you a taste of a quick pull and thrust, and he can’t help the shit eating grin that adorns his face as your cunt flutters around him.

Maekar feels you lose your will to fight as you become more pliant and your face subtly morphs to be softer and poutier. Your breath is airy and your choked gasps turn into needy, desperate moans whenever he gives you a proper thrust. He looks down at you with a knowing smile.

You couldn’t take it any longer. You’re delirious and swept in the heat of the moment when you utter the words he’s been wanting to hear.

“More… Faster. Maekar, please.”

Your ardent permission.

“Fuck me properly.”

“Good girl,” he kisses your cheek, “just surrender to the feeling of my big, fat cock fucking your cunt.”

You close your eyes and do what he asks. You feel him shift the pace to a fast, steady tempo and your moans tumble out of your mouth.

So. Fucking. Good.

“The little princess is finally getting what she wants, right? To be fucked properly?”

You nod furiously with tears of relief brimming your eyes.

Maekar fucking you with vigour spurs you to start pushing your hips against him. Your body trying to do whatever it takes to reach your high.

“Yes, that’s it,” he coos. “Fuck yourself against me. Show me you want this too.”

You mewl wantonly and try to match his pace.

The air reeks of sex and sweat and you can’t help but get so turned on by the obscene sounds of Maekar’s loud thrusts of his cock and balls against you, and your body producing wet pat-pat-pat noises when you and Maekar thrust into each other.

Maekar moves a hand to travel in between your bodies and touches your clit.

“Ohhh…Mmhmm,” you say with a breathy voice as his fingers start to rub small and quick circles against your pearl.

You feel so overwhelmed by Maekar’s touch and how he rests his head besides to yours so you can hear his throaty groans and breaths.

“You’re taking me so well,” he teases. “It feels like you can’t get enough of me.”

Maekar feels your pussy clench his cock and that’s all he needs.

‘You greedy little thing,’ he thinks.

“Touch me more, Maekar. I’m so close.”

He does as you ask as he uses the hand that is not on your clit to pinch your nipples, then he caresses one side of your body before touching your stomach. He strokes your stomach and is delighted at the way you flinch and gasp ‘sensitive’ when he keeps on touching that part of you. He settles on having his hand grip your hip so he can steady himself to fuck you harder and push you to your orgasm.

His worship becomes too much and you can taste that your peak is within reach.

“I-I’m gonna cum!”

“Go ahead little one, but call the name who’s giving you all this pleasure.”

“M-Maekar. Maekar! I’m cumming! I’m─”

Your body arches as the coil within your pelvis snaps and you are hit with an intense orgasm. Your eyes roll back and your moans tumble out of your mouth as you ride the waves of pleasure and euphoria. Your pussy, still wanting more, tries to pull Maekar’s cock inside you even deeper, never wanting to let go.

You give Maekar a fucked-out smile as you bask in your afterglow, and he replies by grabbing your hips with both hands to set a punishing pace of fucking your cunt to chase his high as well.

“Let me cum inside you. It’ll feel so warm when I shoot my seed into you. Your womb will even welcome it.”

You whimper at the thought of being bred, at the promise of warm seed filling you. Maekar smirks as he sees your cloudy eyes dilated with pleasure and want. Drool leaks at the side of your mouth and he quickly laps it up with his tongue.

Maekar’s cock twitches. He could feel his balls pulse and become taut at the need to release his seed but he squeezes his toes to prolong his peak.

He’s already achieved the goal of having his way with you. Now he wants to ruin you by breeding you full.

“You want me to cum inside?”

Your hazy eyes look at him and he burns that image of your face being completely lost into the pleasure that he gave you in to the back of his mind. He wants to remember it when he’s lonely and wants to fuck his hand to your image.

“Yes,” you mewl. “Breed me please, Maekar.”

Maekar buries his head against your neck to hide his wicked smile.

‘You’ll never be the same after this,’ he thinks.

Maekar gives a few more rough thrusts before he wraps his arms around your body and crushes himself against you. His mouth opens with a guttural groan as his cock spurts his seed inside of you. You feel its searing heat gush within you and it keeps going and going and you can’t help the soft sighs and long hums you make as he breeds you full. He grinds his hips against yours to draw out his pleasure and to release the last spurts of his seed inside you. When his cock is spent, he breathes a heavy sigh and lays on top of you. His weight is a welcome pressure as it engulfs your body. It makes you try to centre yourself with thoughts of how his body feels so good against yours and how you feel so full and sated.

You both share exhausted breaths and a few moments of reprieve before Maekar pushes his upper body up and sits on his haunches. You groan as you stare at where you’re both connected. The combined cum froths at the base and drips down to your arse. It’s a filthy and obscene mess but you adore the sight as it is a physical reminder that you were fucked thoroughly.

Maekar gently eases his cock out of you before quickly gathering up the combined cum that leaks outside your hole to push it all back in. He mutters to himself but it is loud enough for you to hear.

“I wonder, will you give Daeron a son or a half-brother?”

The thought makes you still and Maekar can’t help the sly grin that creeps up his handsome face. He leans in to press a kiss on your bare shoulder before his hand combs your sex messed hair away from your face before he gets really close to your ear to whisper, “I hope it’s mine.”

He says it like a secret, like a prayer, like an unrepentant admission.

Maekar gets up and walks away from your bed to gods know where, but you lie frozen in place overcome by the deed that has transpired and the uncertainty of happens comes next.