Nerd Shit

Moss They/Them 24 Just a nerd tbh 🇵🇸

[dreamed-dusk]

Finally finished the finale of From. Wdym I need to wait another year for the next season 😭😭😭

[goat-limbs]

˚˖ִ໋❀ bath

contents (suggestive): Daeron Targaryen x fem!Reader, Modern AU (90s-ish), ballet AU, light injury, mutual pining, ogling, Daeron is pretty. (loose part 05 of Strange Harmonies Masterlist + glossary) synopsis: Daeron gets injured during a performance. Reader checks in on him.

The Prince is injured. Oh, poor Daeron, he was doing so well. He was doing so well no booze got sniffed on him in a good few days. He was doing so well even second-cast shows started bringing more and more audience and soon it was a full house night after night. Sobriety must be doing tricks on him, or maybe he's bargained a sip or two backstage, between one entrance and another, because his new partner is an overambitious shrew. Good riddance, he needs some heavy handling. Some tough love, his father never gave him any. Poor Daeron landed badly and his ankle took such a grotesque shape he could hear the sympathetic hiss coming from the first row. He danced till the end, pouring the worry into Onegin's misery and the crowd clapped standing.

Only that it was your fault. You walk through the rows of murmuring corps dancers and wince at every overheard rhetoric. He looked wasted. She must be having such a hard time with him. Honestly, she has a stick so far up her ass no wonder he drinks. She thinks she's grabbed God by the feet but she's going to break her neck with him. More of this blah blah blah as you make your way out and towards the physio room, still wearing Tatiana's skin.

Simon's in the doorway. He smiles when he sees you. "Don't worry," he says. "He'll be operational in a few days."

"What happened?" you ask, voice too damn high. You cough, and ask again, lower. "Where is he?"

Simon scratches the back of his neck. "How aware are you of Daeron's... condition?"

"Painfully."

"Right." Smile returns to his face. "So—he's detoxing. Which causes tension. Which causes more damage upon fall if a fall happens." Your face must be doing something strange, because Simon frowns and spreads his palms. "Okay, it's not that bad. It's just a sprained ankle, but because he danced till the end his hip locked. I've loosened as much as was possible and put him in an Epsom-salt bath. I'm going to grab something to eat, you could come with me or—" He gestures vaguely to the door. "Wait inside? If you want. Or—"

You take it. "I'll wait," you say. "Thanks."

The room is full of physio equipment (instruments of torture), but the only thing that interests you is the ajar door to the bathroom. Air leaves your lungs in a long huff.

"I would recognise that sigh from behind a kilometre of concrete." Daeron's voice echoes through the room. "Come in, troublemaker."

You press your shoulder to the doorframe. "You're naked."

There's a slosh. "The water's opaque."

You grunt, cover your eyes with one hand and walk in anyway. The toilet is close enough to the bath that finding it blind requires only one collision of your calf with porcelain. You sit on the closed lid with your back firmly presented to him, draw both legs up and curl your arms around them until your chin can settle over your knees. "Are you okay?"

"No," Daeron murmurs. Another slosh. "I'm irreversibly damaged."

Your head turns just enough to offer him the edge of your profile. "Bastard, I just spoke to Simon."

"There you are," he says. "You have to be able to look your victim in the eye if you want to be a real villain."

"Daeron—" You turn fully this time. Your eyes make an unnecessarily careful circuit around the bath before admitting defeat and meeting his. "I'm... I'm sorry."

His smile softens. It takes the teasing out of his face so completely that your guilt finds fresh room to expand. "It's alright. It's just a sprain," he tells you. "Are they talking?"

"Oh, boy."

"Did you say anything?"

"N-no?"

"Good. Let them talk," Daeron says. He lifts one hand from the water and regards the puckered ends of his fingers. A drop gathers at his smallest nail and falls back between his legs. "I like my mysterious reputation anyway. Occasionally I confuse them by being sickeningly nice." He leaves the hand hanging over the side and looks at you again. "What happened out there anyway, hm?"

You put your face into your palms. After a moment, your fingers spread enough to let one miserable eye through. "I. I saw a critic I know in the audience and panicked?"

"Seriously?" Your shoulders rise towards your ears. Daeron watches the shrug complete itself. "Silly girl."

"Sorry."

It works on him shamefully well. Something about the smallness of the word, and the way you remain half-hidden behind your hands while saying it, makes him wonder whether you would soften in return if he ever managed to offer an apology without wit hanging off it for protection. "Stop apologising. It happens. Baptism in fire."

He turns his head towards you and catches your attention somewhere below his face. It stays there for another second. Then another. "What are you looking at, hm?"

"At opaque water," you murmur.

The water is opaque. Daeron is considerably less so.

His hair is wet and swept backwards by an impatient hand, exposing the pale temples and the ears usually half-lost beneath loose gold. Heat from the bath has coloured his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Both arms lie along the rim, long enough to make the tub seem undersized, veins standing beneath damp skin from wrist to the bend of elbow.

Between them, his chest rests open and loose. Lean, strong, with none of the held tension you are accustomed to seeing under rehearsal clothes; even relaxed, the muscle shifts when he breathes deeply and gives a small jump beneath the skin when something amuses him. Hair gathers densely over his sternum before tightening lower down. His belly has softened into the posture, folding into shallow creases above the navel where he has sunk against the back of the bath.

The sides of him slope beneath the milky water. Everything thereafter becomes suggestion. A dark disturbance where the hair thickens. The vague submerged shape of his hips. Lower still, only the soft shadow of his cock through cloud, enough to tell you where he is without granting anything useful.

You look. Quickly.

Daeron would look too, you think. He spends half his life staring at your lips and is doing it now, gaze dropping there with serene entitlement while you pretend your own has behaved better.

One of his knees rises above the surface, bent loosely while the injured foot remains nursed in the salts. His other leg has escaped over the side of the bath. The calf hangs down beside the enamel and water travels along the tendon at his ankle before gathering at his heel and dropping steadily onto the tile.

His lashes lower. "I should make your life a nightmare now to get you to be nice to me," he says.

You drag your eyes back to his. "My life is already a nightmare."

"Such dramatics." Daeron shifts. Water lifts around his waist and runs in a soft wave against bath's wall. Your gaze drops immediately, following the movement with an interest you disguise as concern over whether the rearrangement has uncovered anything further. It has not. "Is it truly so horrid?" he asks.

When Daeron looks over, he finds you gaping somewhere between his head and the tile. "What?"

"You have some makeup left on your ear," you say.

Your hand enters the water beside his hip. The heat catches you first, then the mineral slick of the salts. You wet two fingers and bring them carefully to his temple. "Here."

Your fingertips graze his lobe. Daeron sighs and closes his eyes.

You rub at the stubborn trace of stage makeup between thumb and forefinger, turning the ear gently to reach behind it. His neck prickles. Once the colour has come away, there is no particular reason for your fingers to remain, yet they do. Your thumb passes over the rim of his ear again, slower this time, and the small cleaning motion loses its practical shape. It moves into the hair behind it, presses lightly against his scalp, then travels higher through the wet strands.

Daeron stirs in the water. His head tips by a fraction into your hand, giving you greater access with such unthinking compliance that his smile arrives a moment later, once he has noticed himself doing it.

"What are you doing, hm?" he asks, smiling.

"Being nice to you," you tell him.

It makes him consider, very seriously, whether he can afford breaking some bone in his body.

[superhoeva]

a THIRD woc is being written off the pitt

[mintchipped]

rb to tell ur mutuals ur fond of them

[keyfili]

HENRY ASHTON as DAERON TARGARYEN A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms • season 1

[gameofthronesdaily]

HENRY ASHTON as Prince Daeron Targaryen         A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS | The Morrow   

[kwistowee]

#pretty A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS | 1.05

[vaokses]

I need too much of you

Series Masterlist / Navigation

Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Summary: 

Three days into his wife’s absence from Summerhall, Daeron decides there is at least one kind of restlessness he knows how to deal with. What begins as a familiar attempt to exhaust his body into silence becomes considerably less simple once every anonymous fantasy turns into you, and once release leaves him with no sexual urgency left to explain why he still wants you there.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: explicit masturbation, sexual fantasies, submissive sexual fantasies he is a sub and i will die on this hill, references to casual sex/sex used as a coping mechanism, references to alcohol and drinking, the usual emotional avoidance, loneliness, mild shame/self-deprecation, scent/clothing kink-ish behavior, this man is down bad.

A/N: You know when you pine for your wife so much that you cannot even disassociate in the usual ways? Yea, that's the fic.

This is another installment of the Where I am good and loved collection/series, but like all pieces it can be read as a standalone.

Title is from the quote "But I can't stop thinking of it. Your arms and legs around me. Your mouth, open for my kisses. I need too much of you. A lifetime of nights spent between your thighs wouldn't be enough."

Three days is not a long time. 

Daeron knows this, partly because he has counted them often enough to resent the number. 

You will be back before the week is out. You had said so while fastening your gloves, already half occupied with the journey ahead, and he had told you that six or seven days ought to be sufficient for him to recover from the strain of married life. You kissed him anyway before you left. 

Three nights later, he has discovered that the chief advantage of solitude is being able to sleep diagonally across the bed. The novelty lasted until the first morning, when he woke with one leg where yours should have been and nobody there to complain. 

He had been lonely before you. That ought to make this easier. 

There had been whole stretches of his life in which loneliness was less an event than the ordinary arrangement of things. Summerhall could be full -his father somewhere below, brothers and sisters passing between rooms, servants who knew too much, men willing to drink with him and women willing to take him to bed- and he had still managed to move through it with the persistent sense that whatever room he occupied had somehow failed to include him. He knew how to live with that. More usefully, he had known how not to notice. 

You have made him worse at it. 

The room is quieter without you in ways that have begun to irritate him. Your side of the bed goes untouched. No brushes move across the dressing table while he reads; no paper is folded and unfolded because one of your sisters has written something sufficiently ridiculous to require commentary. Twice yesterday he caught himself speaking aloud and looking toward the chair where you usually sit before remembering there would be no answer. 

He had once required excuses to enter these rooms. Now he is annoyed by their failure to contain you. 

It is early enough that the sun is nowhere to be found, though Daeron has been awake for so long that he ought to have surrendered the bed, dressed, and accepted the existence of morning hours ago. Instead he sits against the headboard in a loose shirt with the throat unlaced, a book open across one thigh and a cup of wine on the table beside him. He has been drinking without much attention. Whatever he poured first disappeared somewhere in the dark; this cup has gone lukewarm while he fails to remember the last four pages. 

He drinks from it anyway. The wine softens the edges of the morning without doing much for the emptiness beside him. 

Daeron shuts the book. 

There is another problem, at least, and this one has the decency to be physical. 

He has been hard on and off since waking, which is considerably easier to understand than the restlessness that has kept him from sleep. There was no particularly bad dream behind it. No blood beneath the sun, no scream dragged with him into waking, no shadow on the wall opening briefly into wings before the room corrected itself. His mind simply refuses to settle, and his body has spent several hours reminding him that his wife has been gone for three days and that he has developed a very inconvenient familiarity with kissing her. 

That, at least, he knows how to manage. 

There are easier humiliations in the world than wanting a beautiful woman one has kissed repeatedly, and Daeron has never regarded sexual appetite as something requiring moral crisis. If his body has decided to make itself troublesome, he can deal with it and return to the more difficult business of being unable to sleep. 

He has dealt with considerably worse. 

There are nights when wine is the simplest method. On others, another body works better. He can let somebody else determine the pace, let sensation become loud enough that keeping track of anything beyond the next touch is unnecessary, and eventually exhaust himself past any useful sense of self. He has become rather accomplished at that. Another person can usually do it more thoroughly than he can alone; being handled leaves fewer opportunities for thought. 

But another person is not required for the basic mechanism. 

Daeron sets the book aside, pushes the bedclothes lower, and reaches beneath the loose fabric at his waist. His hand closes around his cock with the practiced lack of ceremony of a man solving a familiar inconvenience. 

There. Simple. 

He strokes himself slowly at first, not because he means to prolong anything but because his mind has not yet settled on an image. Habit offers him something vague enough to be useful: the suggestion of a woman's body, a hand, a mouth without much of a face attached to it. That has often been sufficient. Too much detail gives the mind somewhere else to wander. 

Then the mouth becomes yours. 

His hand stills for half a beat. 

Daeron stares at the canopy overhead. 

Of course it does. 

The substitution happens so quickly that resisting it would insult whatever remains of his intelligence. He knows your mouth now. He knows the slight uncertainty that entered the first kiss before either of you quite believed it was happening, and the different pause that comes now, when kisses have stopped being accidents and become something either of you may ask for without having to name the request. 

He knows what your hand feels like at the back of his neck, and how your fingers move into his hair when you draw him closer. Once or twice they have tightened just enough to keep him from retreating when embarrassment might otherwise have made him break the kiss too soon. 

A nameless woman would have to be invented. You are already there. 

Fine. 

Daeron closes his eyes and starts stroking himself again. 

Giving himself the thought is almost indulgently easy at first. He imagines you bending over him where he lies against the pillows, your hair falling forward, your hand finding his jaw in the same place it did that evening beside the dressing table. There is no irritated skin to excuse it now, no collar waiting to be fastened afterward. Your thumb moves over his lower lip, and your mouth follows. 

That memory he does not possess, so his mind supplies it. Fantasy has its uses. 

He lets himself enjoy the rearrangement, taking the pieces of you he knows and putting them where he wants them: your mouth against his, your fingers in his hair, the weight of your body pressing him deeper into the mattress. His grip grows firmer as pleasure begins to gather properly, and for a while the familiar physical rhythm does what it is supposed to do. 

Then you tell him to stay still. 

The imagined words arrive with such clarity that his breath catches. 

What affects him is not even the command so much as the particular way he hears you saying it. He has already learned that instructions sound different when they come from you, perhaps because you rarely give one without expecting him to listen and perhaps because he has discovered, to his lasting irritation, that he generally does. 

He can hear other phrases too, all of them ordinary enough until he gives them your voice. Hold still. Look at me. Come here. 

His name is worse. 

He knows the different shapes you give it when you are tired, when you are amused, when he has said something sufficiently appalling that the first syllable becomes a warning. There is a particular cadence that Dorne has left in your Common Tongue, familiar now because he has spent an indecent amount of time listening to you speak. He has never heard what pleasure might do to his name in your mouth. 

The idea makes his hand move faster. 

That is useful. 

He imagines finding out: your breath catching, some of the composure leaving your voice because he has managed to affect you too. He can imagine your hand closing around his wrist and pressing it into the mattress, your knee shifting between his thighs, your fingers in his hair with purpose behind them now. Being made to wait because you have decided he should wait affects him far more than it has any right to, as does the thought of being told where to put his hands and obeying before pride has time to object. 

None of that is difficult. 

The difficulty is your face. 

He wants to know how you would look at him. 

Not simply whether you would enjoy whatever you were doing. That is almost too easy to imagine. What catches him somewhere lower and more vulnerable is the thought of your attention narrowing entirely onto him, the way it had when you noticed the skin beneath his collar, except with no innocent reason left for the scrutiny. He wants to know what your expression would do if you looked down and saw exactly how thoroughly you had undone him. 

Whether you would like seeing it. 

Whether knowing what you could do to him would make you want to do more. 

The question works through him almost as effectively as his hand does. His breathing grows rougher, and when his eyes open for a moment the empty room seems indecently quiet around the sound. 

That is when he sees your shawl. 

It hangs over the back of the chair near the dressing table, where it has been since the morning you left. He remembers it because he complained that the weather was not cold enough to justify wearing it, and you informed him that this was fortunate, as you had not dressed for his benefit. 

Daeron looks away. 

He continues stroking himself. 

A few seconds later, he looks back. 

This is ridiculous. 

The shawl remains where it is. 

He stops long enough to lean across the bed and catch the edge of the fabric between his fingers. The interruption is irritating, as is the distance between himself and the chair, though it amounts to little more than stretching farther than dignity recommends. 

He only means to- 

No. 

There is no useful completion to that sentence. 

Daeron pulls the shawl toward him and gathers it into one hand. 

Rosewater and jasmine have faded over three days, but not enough. Beneath them is something warmer and harder to name, caught in the cloth where it had rested against your shoulders and throat. He lifts it closer before he can decide whether doing so is beneath him. 

The first breath of it sends him back against the pillows. 

“Oh, this is pathetic.” He murmurs. Of course, no one answers, which is fortunate. 

He presses the fabric over his mouth and nose because the scent is stronger there, and for a few seconds he can almost convince himself that this is the only reason. Then his other hand closes around his cock again, and the distinction becomes too stupid to maintain. 

The fantasy returns with humiliating efficiency. 

The shawl against his face becomes your shoulder beneath his cheek. The scent becomes the place below your ear where rosewater and jasmine linger after bathing. He imagines turning his mouth there while your fingers tighten in his hair, and when he hears your voice again it comes much more easily. 

Stay. 

He does. 

The imagined command changes as quickly as he obeys it. Your hand is at his throat now, not hurting, simply holding him where you want him while you look down at him. He imagines the pressure of your thumb beneath his jaw, precisely where you touched him before you knew what it did to him and again after you knew. 

His strokes quicken. 

What matters increasingly is not any particular act but the fact that your attention never leaves him. He could imagine anything he pleased, yet everything keeps circling back to that: you looking at him and understanding what you see. 

His body moving helplessly into a touch you chose. Your expression changing because you enjoy the effect. His name in your voice, altered because wanting him has altered it. 

Then he imagines you seeing him as he is now. 

The thought arrives so abruptly that his eyes open again. 

For half a second he pictures the latch moving and you appearing in the doorway, travel cloak still fastened, gloves perhaps not yet removed, finding your husband in your bed with your shawl crushed against his face and his hand working between his thighs. 

The actual event would probably finish him through humiliation before you managed a word. 

The imagined version proves considerably more useful. 

He sees your eyes travel over him and stop. The pause that follows is unbearable because his mind will not let it remain simple embarrassment. He wants to know what comes after recognition. 

Would you turn away? Laugh? Would that faint pleasure return to your expression, the one he caught when his blush betrayed him beneath your hand? 

Would you close the door behind you? 

His imagination provides the answer most calculated to ruin him. 

You come closer. 

You do not spare him from being seen, and when embarrassment makes him start to cover himself, you tell him not to stop. 

Daeron makes a muffled sound against the shawl and hates you briefly for something you have never done. 

The fantasy reforms around that command. You sit at the edge of the bed and watch him stroke himself. When he tries to turn his face away, your fingers close around his wrist or return to his jaw and make him look at you instead. 

He does not have a name for why this is so much worse than imagining your mouth or your body. He only knows that, in his head, your attention does not feel like judgment. You see what he wants, see the humiliating evidence of it in his hand and his body, and remain interested rather than merely tolerant. 

That distinction sends another hard pulse of pleasure through him. 

Then his mind finds a fresh way to make matters difficult. 

What would you sound like if he touched you? 

Not some woman assembled out of convenient parts. You. 

Would your breath catch? Would his name change in your mouth? Could he make your hands lose some of their certainty for once? 

The need to know is embarrassingly sharp. He wants to affect you and, almost worse, wants proof that you enjoy affecting him. He wants whatever is happening on his side of the bed to exist on yours as well. 

By then his hand is moving with very little restraint, the rhythm no longer leisurely or particularly concerned with prolonging anything. The room has receded behind the scent caught in the shawl and the wife his mind keeps making more specific. 

You push him back when he tries to rise. One hand settles against his chest and the other finds his jaw. 

Hold still. 

He obeys. 

Look at me. 

He does that too. 

The version of you inside his head wants him without ambiguity because fantasy is permitted that particular cruelty. There is no duty in your expression, no patient tolerance, no careful kindness given because he has made himself pitiful enough to receive it. You look at him as though the sight gives you pleasure, as though you chose this and would choose it again. 

Wanting him pleases you. 

The fantasy should stop there. It is already giving him everything required. 

Instead, it continues. 

Your hand is still on his skin afterward. 

That is all his mind produces at first: your fingers resting over his ribs while his breathing settles, your body still close enough that heat remains between you. He imagines the weight of your leg tangled lazily with his and the simple fact of your skin remaining against his when neither of you is trying to get anything else from the other. 

Somewhere beyond the curtains, morning waits. 

Daeron tries to pull the fantasy backward toward something more immediately useful, toward your mouth, your voice, the pressure of your hand keeping him where you want him. His body is already too close for the attempt to matter. 

The morning stays. 

You stay. 

He comes with your shawl pressed hard against his face and your imagined eyes still on him, pleasure briefly wiping the room clean enough that for several seconds there is nothing else. 

For a few seconds, there is nothing else. 

That part works exactly as it ought to. 

Pleasure runs its course and leaves him loose-limbed against the mattress, breathing through his mouth, his hand gone still beneath the bedclothes. The urgency that had been irritating him since before dawn disappears almost offensively quickly. His cock softens beneath his palm, and his mind, so recently crowded with your mouth, your hands, your imagined voice telling him what to do, gives him several blessed moments in which it contains almost nothing at all. 

There. 

Done. 

Daeron lets his head sink farther into the pillow. 

This is the arrangement he understands. The body makes itself unbearable; the body is answered; eventually it is too tired to keep assisting the mind in its rebellion. He has pursued the principle through wine, through other people, through his own hand often enough that there ought to be no surprise left in it. 

He draws the shawl away from his face and becomes aware that he is still holding it. 

That is less dignified. 

The cloth is warm from his breath and from being crushed in his fist. Rosewater and jasmine linger against his mouth. Daeron looks at it with the faint disbelief of a man encountering evidence left behind by someone considerably stupider than himself. 

A laugh almost comes. There is nobody to hear it and little enough in the situation to reward him, so he lets the shawl fall across his chest and reaches for the cloth beside the washbasin instead. He cleans his hand with the practical efficiency the matter deserves, then settles back while the last of the heat begins to leave his body. 

His cup waits on the table. 

Daeron takes a swallow of wine and grimaces faintly at the temperature. It has gone unpleasantly warm while he was occupied. He drinks again anyway before setting it down. 

The room returns around him by degrees. 

The book lies facedown where he pushed it aside. His shirt has twisted around his waist, and one curtain has come loose enough to stir whenever the air moves through the chamber, though the sky beyond it remains dark. The chair by your dressing table is bare now except for the place where the shawl had been hanging. 

Beside him, your half of the bed is untouched. 

Daeron looks at it. 

The quiet that disappeared while he imagined you begins finding its way back into the room. 

It should not matter. If anything, he ought to be grateful for it. His body is finally heavy in the useful way, the ache in his muscles pleasantly dull, the insistent sexual pressure gone. This is usually the point at which thought loses interest in itself. Whatever required solving has been solved. 

He waits for the rest of him to catch up. 

Nothing much happens. 

He is no longer particularly aroused. The fantasy does not immediately return when he closes his eyes, and he feels no desire to start touching himself again. He does not need your mouth or the weight of your body over his, does not need your hand around his wrist or your voice telling him to keep still. 

He still wants you here. 

The simplicity of it irritates him. 

Daeron shifts onto his back and stares at the canopy as though some correction might be written there. 

Three days. 

You have been gone three days. 

There are men who leave their wives for months and apparently remain functional human beings. Somewhere in the realm there must exist a husband capable of surviving half a week without becoming sentimental over an empty pillow or treating abandoned clothing like a relic. 

Daeron has never particularly wanted to meet that man, but at present he resents him. 

His hand moves across his ribs. 

The gesture is thoughtless enough that he does not notice it until his palm settles where, minutes ago, he had imagined yours resting after everything was finished. 

He stops. 

There is nothing there, obviously. No warm weight of your fingers. No shift of your body beside his as you make yourself comfortable without asking whether he minds. Nothing to suggest that the person who wanted him in the fantasy had remained once wanting had exhausted itself. 

Only his own hand against his skin. 

Daeron pulls it away. 

“Well,” He says quietly to the ceiling. “That seems unnecessary.” 

The ceiling declines to apologize. 

He turns his head. 

The shawl is still spread across his chest. 

During the act, at least, it had possessed a purpose. The scent made you easier to imagine, and lust has excused men of substantially worse behavior than temporary theft of their wives’ clothing. 

There is no such defense available now, his body is satisfied. 

He still lifts the edge of the shawl toward his face. 

Daeron stops halfway. For perhaps two seconds, he considers himself. 

Then he does it anyway. 

Rosewater and jasmine. Fainter now, or perhaps simply less overwhelming without arousal sharpening everything. Beneath them remains that warmer trace that belongs less to anything you deliberately put on your skin than to the fact that the cloth had rested around your shoulders for hours. 

He breathes it in once. 

The room feels no less empty. It does, however, feel slightly more like the room you will return to. 

That is somehow worse. 

Daeron sits up abruptly. 

Enough. 

There are limits to what a prince ought to tolerate from himself before sunrise. 

He begins smoothing the shawl across his thighs, taking considerably more care with the fabric than he had while clutching it against his face. A crease has formed near one end, and he works it out with his palm before holding the whole thing up and trying to remember how you left it. 

Across the chair, certainly. One end lower than the other. Probably. 

Daeron looks toward the empty chair and then down at the shawl again. 

This has become absurd. 

The correct course is obvious. He puts it back, sleeps for whatever remains of the morning, and never permits himself to remember how much concentration he has just devoted to reconstructing the arrangement of a piece of cloth. 

He swings his legs toward the edge of the bed. The stone floor is cold beneath one foot. 

Then he remains there. 

The shawl is gathered carefully between his hands. 

The problem is not that he cannot put it back. He simply does not want to. 

There is no heat left in the admission now, nothing sexual arriving behind it to make the want easier to explain. He is tired, faintly sticky despite having cleaned himself, beginning to feel the wine behind his eyes, and profoundly conscious that his wife is several days away when lately she has been at arm’s reach almost whenever he wakes. 

He wants the shawl because it smells like you. Nothing clever appears in time to improve that fact. 

Daeron looks again at the chair, then at the bed. 

A familiar current of humiliation moves through him, but it has lost some of its authority. There ought to be a point before which dignity can still be rescued and after which the entire exercise becomes accounting. 

He has already fucked his fist while breathing into the thing, sleeping with it can hardly be what ruins him. 

“Fine.” He mutters. 

He draws his foot back beneath the blankets. 

The care with which he smoothed the shawl becomes immediately pointless when he gathers it against himself again. He lies on his side this time, facing the place where you sleep, and folds one end beneath his cheek. 

Your pillow still bears the shallow depression left behind when you rose three mornings ago. 

Daeron looks at it for a while. 

The fantasy had given him morning. It had given him your hand resting on his skin after pleasure had finished with both of you, your body still there because apparently even the private inventions of his mind have begun developing ambitions beyond their station. 

Reality offers him an empty pillow and a piece of your clothing. It should be considerably less effective. 

He closes his eyes. 

The shawl is warm beneath his cheek. His fingers remain curled loosely in the fabric near his mouth, where rosewater and jasmine survive if he breathes deeply enough. 

You will be home in a few days. 

He considers counting them again, then decides he has done enough arithmetic on the subject. 

The room stays quiet. 

Eventually, so does he. 

Thank you so much for reading!

[punk-in-docs]

Please be assured beloved moots, I know I’ve been radio silent but I haven’t forgotten you all - just had a tonne of irl shit taking place of late. Can assure you, Lyonel is still very much on my brain- more WIPs to come…

Saw this gif the other day and haven’t been able to recover since.

Have a snippet of Quiet Spite III in these trying times-

[ratgirl300]

How would the AKOTSK men react when they meet/marry a very Stark reader. Like hunting, fighting, old gods, direwolf maybe, the look, maybe even not liking and trusting the south and game of thrones schemes

Why a Stark?

18+ MDNI

Summary: How do the men of akotsk feel about their lady Stark?

AN: Obsessed with the idea of Starks having wolf tendencies like Targs having dragon ones (I’ve spent entirely too much time thinking about Rhaenyra’s stare/head tilt combo). I tried to incorporate different Stark characteristics into each of the pairings, hope y’all enjoy <3

Warnings: Allusions to sex, mistrust, slight misogyny (not from any of them)

3.6k Words

Daeron:

Daeron finds his Stark wife kind of terrifying, at least at first. It’s no secret the wolves of the North don’t look fondly on the blood of the dragons, and he dreads the night where his dreams become known to you. You don’t seem like the type to tolerate nonsense; Winterfell does not have a place for simpering and whining, and the disdain written across your features at the sight of perfumed southern knights gives him the impression that you don’t appreciate foolishness. 

But Northern magic runs deep, and Daeron is shocked when met with understanding instead of cruelty. He wakes one night with a shout, hair slick to his forehead with sweat and breath ragged. With dread, he turns slowly to see if he woke you, only to find you already sitting up; your eyes reflecting in the moonlight. You’re watching, not with annoyance or even fear, but curiosity. For several moments, you stare at one another. He knows how it looks: the crazed, bloodshot eyes of a drunken Prince, disturbing his wife’s slumber. He’s ready to make excuses, laugh it off halfheartedly and mourn the days you offer him a place in your bed. Instead, you reach for him. Fingertips brushing away the tears from his cheek. 

“What did you see?”

Daeron is taken aback, to say the least. His face contorts in confusion at your question, how would you know he saw anything beyond the nightmares of a tortured mind? You seemingly sense his unease. 

“In the North, there are people- some say they see things. Things that haven’t happened yet, or things that happened before.” 

It all seems so simple, the way you say it. He doesn’t want to scare you, but the Starks are known to be honorable and he knows you won’t chastise him. 

After his confession, he still wakes suddenly most nights. Sometimes he wakes you, accidentally, and he whispers stories of fire and castles and dragons. Other nights, just having you close is enough to calm him. The steady beat of your heart, the warmth of your skin; he presses himself up against your side and sighs deeply when you unconsciously wrap an arm around him. 

Daeron would have no trouble with you participating in a hunt. In fact, he quite enjoys the look on his father’s face when he sees his heir reclined on the dais sipping wine. The young Prince just shrugs when he’s questioned, gesturing to where you’re readying your horse and stringing your bow. Maekar makes a pinched face, but Daeron only laughs. 

“My wife will be taking my place in The hunt, father. She won’t disappoint you, she’s far more skilled than I am.” 

Side note I think the idea of Lady Stark out-weirding Daeron is so silly like him very nervously telling you about how he sees these visions of the future and fearing you’ll deem him insane and working himself up about it and you say something like “Oh like how I can see through the eyes of my direwolf.” and he’s like “…..what.”

Maekar:

To me, this match makes the most sense. There is definitely a lot of disagreeing, butting heads, arguing back and forth loud enough to shake Summerhall, but in the end Maekar has a lot of the same ideologies the Starks do. I’m not the first person who’s said this, but the Anvil is the type of man who sticks out in the lush, relaxed sort of atmosphere of the southern houses, but slots perfectly into the harsh realities of the North. There's a no-nonsense sort of attitude that is imperative to the lord and lady of Winterfell, no room for prattle and frivolity. Life is hard in winter, they need someone who will help their lady Stark make difficult decisions, and defend her until his dying breath. 

Maekar is fiercely loyal, willing to do almost anything for the people he cares for. It's a trait you share. Maekar doesn't really know what to say when you defend him, speaking out against a knight who made a snide comment about your match. Or when you go out of your way to take care of him; ordering him to stop training and rest, asking him to be careful for you on a hunt. He’s used to being the one who takes care of everybody. Six children, two brothers in need of defending, the other set on overexerting himself to an early grave. You cross your arms, square your shoulders, tilt your head back to look him in the eye, and tell him he will take a hot bath and eat something, otherwise he’ll have to answer to you. He grumbles about it, but is not in the business of denying his lady what she asks for. 

Maekar is also very amused at your inability to handle the southerly heat when visiting his parents and brother in the capital. There are times where it snows in the summer back at Winterfell, and you look so crestfallen when you shed your wolfskin cloak, that Maekar almost agrees to leaving his family and returning to your home. Even your gowns are meant to fight the harsh winds and morning chills, sweltering in the sun of King’s Landing. The Prince is quietly charmed by your humidity-frizzed hair and crabby disposition; the glower you show him when he reaches to brush the thin glimmer of perspiration at your forehead before he presses a kiss there.

He loses his mind the first time you arrive at a feast dressed in the stylings of the south. He adores your traditional clothing, the grey fur and the black leather and the white cashmere, but seeing you dressed in so little has his head spinning. He’s on his feet in an instant, determined to intercept you before any knight or lordling has the gall to stand before his lady Stark. You’re no less regal in the shimmering gossamer, but he still feels like a green boy staring at your exposed décolletage. 

“My love, has something distracted you?” 

There’s a small smirk on your face, but he doesn’t return it. He wastes no time taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. You’re absolutely right: he was staring. 

“You are- my wife, I-” 

He can barely find the words, ears turning an adorable shade of pink, but you give him some grace. 

“Do you like my gown? I had it made when I knew we’d be coming south.” 

It's not the last time you must adjust your wardrobe for the weather. How delighted he is, upon reaching your chambers at the end of a long, hot day, forced into endless meetings with lords who wish to gain favor with the North- as if he was the one whose approval they needed- to find you sprawled out, atop the bedclothes, not a stitch of fabric on you. 

“The heat, dearest, I cannot stand it.” 

You reach for him, and he says a prayer to the old gods and the new before stomping to your bed. He’s no help in cooling you down, but you don’t complain, not when he’s following you into nakedness and climbing into your arms. 

Aerion:

Aerion is obsessed. 

A sort of one-way stalking that slowly takes control over his life. You’re busy; settling grain disputes, meeting with masons, attending to duties of Winterfell with strength and poise appropriate for a woman raised to warden the North. Aerion is your shadow, following behind and watching you with an intensity one can only describe as reptilian. It's enough to make most uncomfortable, and the Prince is no stranger to piercing the young ladies at court with his gaze, but you barely acknowledge the Targaryen. It drives him insane. What woman isn’t instantly drawn to his delicate, Valerian features? 

He throws himself into trying to impress you; ears red and nose dripping from the cold, yet he still tugs his shirt over his head while training in the yard. Aerion knows you're watching from the battlements, looking down your nose with the careful expression that constantly paints your face. He can feel your eyes on him, and it makes him hot. Lithe and wiry, the young dragon impresses you when he knocks down strapping northern boys twice his size. You don’t mention you’re affected, nor do you compliment his swordsmanship, but he preens when you allow him moments of council. 

Every time he moves to speak to you, to get close enough to catch the smell of your evergreen soap you bathe with (he’d spent more than enough time thinking about that), a deep, growling noise startles him. It's primal, the fear that creeps up his spine, and there's nothing he hates more than feeling unguarded. Your direwolf is never far from you, scenting the air and smelling the pampered Prince’s desperation for his lady. It's not that she dislikes him, she's never lunged or snapped at him, it's more that she is completely indifferent- and it's almost worse. Some girl’s silly dog doesn’t see Aerion as a threat? What he doesn’t understand is that the connection between the Starks and their wolves is far deeper than anything a southerner could understand. You thought a Targaryen, so long bound to their dragons, would see the soul-connection with your companion; the way she could sense what you needed, how you felt. She doesn’t read the Prince as a threat because you don’t see him that way. He’s far too busy stewing in his irritation over the Stark sigil still being around to bond with. 

Aerion becomes someone you take to counsel, not because he’s particularly good at strategy, or navigating noble court, but you know he will stand up for what you believe wholeheartedly. You do not need to speak out of turn, to draw attention to the fact that you are a woman ruling Winterfell and there are more than a few lords who think you unqualified. Aerion will happily use that tone of his, the one that means “I don’t respect you and I want you to know it,” to back any claim you make. Misogynistic lords will argue with a lady they believe is playing at being the warden of the North, but who can argue with a Prince? Especially that Prince? Aerion knows he’ll get a kiss, and possibly even a smile, after; he’s ready to swing on any man who tries to discredit his lady Stark. 

Dunk:

A Stark would have more respect for Dunk than most of the southern lords do. Knighthood is intrinsically tied to the Seven, and so the idea of needing the gods to anoint you a knight doesn’t really mean anything to Northerners. It’s his character that determines your admiration for him. Brave, honorable, good-hearted; he’s the type of man you can depend on, and that’s a valued thing when the nights grow long and cold. 

Dunk, like Daeron, falls victim to the intimidation of his Lady Stark. As a noble, there is an uncomfortability in the disparity of your standings. Dunk, while having no problem speaking to those of higher birth, does occasionally fall prey to the incongruence. There is also the notion of your Stark character; direct, clever, just, he’s not used to anyone really acting that way. He’s acutely aware of the horrors the world has to offer, and the cruelty that can come from those with power, seeing you wield your influence (and Ice) with strength and justice throws him for a loop. We see how quickly he idolizes Baelor after showing his character, Dunk just wants a kind, fair lady to follow. 

Dunk is honest to a fault (except for the knight thing lol), and does not appreciate those who lie and scheme to get what they want. Starks of course are known for their honesty- whether it gets them into trouble or not. Treachery is not the true Northern way. When you comment on these attributes, praising his strength and fortitude, pleased with his need to help others, he doesn't really know what to do with himself. Ears red, shrugging his shoulders and fumbling with his words. “‘Tis nothin’, m’lady. Only doin’ what's right.” 

You’re not one to give approval when it's not warranted. Because of this, Dunk tucks each little thing you tell him close to his heart. He is utterly devoted to his lady; he acts like he’s your personal guard dog (or wolf), especially when in the south. In true Dunk fashion, he cannot help but confess to you the truth of his knightship. On his knees before you, big blue eyes wet and brows drawn, head hung low, he begs you to forgive him. 

But there is nothing to forgive.

An oath sworn to faraway gods means nothing to those who know real winter. When the storms come, when houses clash, when there is no one to turn to but your own, what use is a man who has only his word to sustain him?

“You have proven yourself through your presence; I know the nature of your heart.” 

He becomes your shadow- a big, hulking shadow, keeping close and surveying crowds with a watchful glance. It's not that you cannot handle yourself, but he finds himself needing to ease any burden he can assist you with. If that means standing between you and danger, so be it. He is especially fond of helping you stay warm. It's all for your safety- obviously. No other reason to peel back the layers of leather and chainmail, linen and fur, to tuck you against his bare chest in your bed. It's his job, really, sworn to protect you, even from the elements. On particularly cold nights, he’ll pull the blankets and furs into a great pile by the fire, wrapping you in his big arms and cradling you close. The winds howl, the snow blows hard against the windows, but you're safe and warm in your knight’s arms.

Baelor:

For a man so proper, so rule-abiding, so utterly fixed toward propriety, Baelor immediately takes a liking to the wild in your veins. It's not that you're carefree, there's a seriousness that comes from understanding the harsh reality of living in the North, but you have no love for the prim rules of court. For that, Baelor finds you endlessly captivating. You wear your hair loose, speak out when you disagree, and handle a bow better than any man in the yard. He’s quick to shut down any unkind word thrown toward you, the Prince’s “Wildling bride,” sent from the North to plead for alliances. 

He can’t quite understand why the other southerners cannot see the beauty in the fierceness, and has little patience, or tolerance, for cruelty toward his betrothed. 

You do not immediately return the gesture. It's no secret the Starks are suspicious of the Valyrian dynasty, and Baelor is the heir, set to inherit a crown and sit on the throne that forced your ancestors to kneel. Initially, you find him trying. Constantly striving for perfection, working long past any other council member, stuck up in the tower of the hand, doing whatever his father says- you imagine. What else would a spoiled, first-born son do but follow in the footsteps of those who came before him? But you watch him anyway, telling yourself it's protecting your people. It's important, of course, to know the man who will one day rule your kingdom; better to understand him now than to guess later down the line.

What you find is a man devoted to the realm, and it's hard to fault him for that. You also observe that he is not as well respected as you would have thought him to be. You roll your eyes at the lords of the Reach, who whisper nonsense about dark hair and Dornish dispositions. It helps you understand him, his need to be the best. To prove to those who doubt him that he’s worthy of the crown. 

He feels your resentment toward him ease. Gone are the days of clipped responses, poor excuses, and snide looks. Baelor can sense you studying him; but instead of the uneasy feeling he’s felt all his life at other nobles watching, he finds himself warmed that you care to know him. You agree with him in a meeting discussing trade agreements, nodding your approval and dismissing the lordling who dared to insinuate Baelor favoring his mother’s kingdom. You ask him to share a meal with you one evening, just the two of you in your chambers, and he can’t quite believe it to be true. He pauses at the door before knocking, straightening his velvet doublet and hoping his hair lays flat. A blush catches on his cheeks when you open the door to find him preening himself. The embarrassment is worth getting to hear you speak unbound to the niceties of court. You can feel the bond forming between you, the northern outsider and the Valyrian Prince who doesn’t look the part, what a pair you make. 

Baelor listens when you talk, so unlike the men who see you as a prize, a ticket to wardenhood- even if it’s in the North. It's not even just a curiosity for the woman who will be his wife, he genuinely wants to know you. The two of you find common ground most easily in nature. Riding out in the cool morning air, sword at his belt the only guard, and the wind whistling the only mindless chatter. He likes to see you in your element like this, a smile on your lips, eyes bright from the exertion, nothing to bind you into the confines of society. He can just be a man, in love with a woman, deep in the King’s Wood. often on your rides, you find yourselves off your horses; Baelor’s fine woolen cloak laid out in the grass, your hands in his hair and his mouth at your neck. He especially likes those mornings.

Lyonel: 

Definition of he fell first AND harder. You’ve heard all about Lyonel Baratheon before you even see him. Whispers traveled up the King’s Road of a beast of a man; wild, lascivious, barbaric, each rumor cruder and more shocking than the next. You knew most of the gossip was just meant to frighten you, a young wolf traveling south to your betrothed. Surely a knight had more honor than what was spoken of him, but it did not stop your trepidation.

He finds you in the misty gardens of Storm’s End, bracing yourself on a low branch, attempting to hop the garden wall. 

“My lady, are you in need of assistance?” 

You spin, silver gown whipping around your feet, to see a handsome stranger leaning against the archway. His blue eyes watch you playfully, and there's an easy grin across his lips. You don’t return the gesture. 

“I’m quite alright, thank you. No need to stare.” 

Hastily, you turn back to your task at hand, so rarely does a man’s smile alone shake a woman of Winterfell. You hear a shout from behind:

“What is it you’re doing?” 

Eyes roll, is it not obvious? 

“Nothing.” 

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” 

You huffed, your attempts at climbing the lattice proving futile. It did not help the penetrating stare of your gawker, boring into the back of your head. 

“Are you afraid of him, then?” 

His words made you pause. 

“Afraid? No. It is only that I have no desire to marry a silly southern knight. No doubt he’s off drinking or whoring right now, what kind of a life for a lady is that?” You say, haughtily, struggling again to climb the rain-slick branches. 

A glower paints your face when you hear him laugh. A deep, thunderous thing, rolling off his tongue in a way that makes your heart quicken. You turn, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to keep your upper hand. When he finally catches his breath, he manages to choke out a response.

“My dear lady, I can assure you that Ser Lyonel is, at least mostly, sober at the moment, and far from any brothel. Though I’m sure if the lady was willing, he would be happy to be of service.” 

Like any Lyonel romance, he is the ultimate ragebaiter. He loves to push your buttons, seeing how far he can take a joke before you snap. Sometimes it's well thought out, playing into your serious tone and pretending to be on the same page until you see a tell-tale glint in his eye. Other days, he's immediately doing what comes to mind; a quick tug on a braid, scooping you up from behind while you're focused, taking something out of your hands and holding it above your head. He doesn't mind if you growl, if you slap his arm or bite, he is thrilled to have your attention on him. Gods help any southern courtiers who try to do the same, commenting on the strange northern customs or the stoic set of your face, Lyonel goes from his usual smile to needing to be restrained. 

He is constantly at your elbow, ready to speak enough for the two of you. He adores it when you take his arm, not because you need it, but because you’re laying a claim on him. Lyonel loves too, to grab you up in his big arms and smother your face in kisses. There's a particular joy in you grumbling about distractions and decorum, but he can always feel you nuzzling closer. 

(Of course inspired by the scene in Queen Charlotte.)  

[marquisdefag]

[ratgirl300]

How would the AKOTSK men react when they meet/marry a very Stark reader. Like hunting, fighting, old gods, direwolf maybe, the look, maybe even not liking and trusting the south and game of thrones schemes

Why a Stark?

18+ MDNI

Summary: How do the men of akotsk feel about their lady Stark?

AN: Obsessed with the idea of Starks having wolf tendencies like Targs having dragon ones (I’ve spent entirely too much time thinking about Rhaenyra’s stare/head tilt combo). I tried to incorporate different Stark characteristics into each of the pairings, hope y’all enjoy <3

Warnings: Allusions to sex, mistrust, slight misogyny (not from any of them)

3.6k Words

Daeron:

Daeron finds his Stark wife kind of terrifying, at least at first. It’s no secret the wolves of the North don’t look fondly on the blood of the dragons, and he dreads the night where his dreams become known to you. You don’t seem like the type to tolerate nonsense; Winterfell does not have a place for simpering and whining, and the disdain written across your features at the sight of perfumed southern knights gives him the impression that you don’t appreciate foolishness. 

But Northern magic runs deep, and Daeron is shocked when met with understanding instead of cruelty. He wakes one night with a shout, hair slick to his forehead with sweat and breath ragged. With dread, he turns slowly to see if he woke you, only to find you already sitting up; your eyes reflecting in the moonlight. You’re watching, not with annoyance or even fear, but curiosity. For several moments, you stare at one another. He knows how it looks: the crazed, bloodshot eyes of a drunken Prince, disturbing his wife’s slumber. He’s ready to make excuses, laugh it off halfheartedly and mourn the days you offer him a place in your bed. Instead, you reach for him. Fingertips brushing away the tears from his cheek. 

“What did you see?”

Daeron is taken aback, to say the least. His face contorts in confusion at your question, how would you know he saw anything beyond the nightmares of a tortured mind? You seemingly sense his unease. 

“In the North, there are people- some say they see things. Things that haven’t happened yet, or things that happened before.” 

It all seems so simple, the way you say it. He doesn’t want to scare you, but the Starks are known to be honorable and he knows you won’t chastise him. 

After his confession, he still wakes suddenly most nights. Sometimes he wakes you, accidentally, and he whispers stories of fire and castles and dragons. Other nights, just having you close is enough to calm him. The steady beat of your heart, the warmth of your skin; he presses himself up against your side and sighs deeply when you unconsciously wrap an arm around him. 

Daeron would have no trouble with you participating in a hunt. In fact, he quite enjoys the look on his father’s face when he sees his heir reclined on the dais sipping wine. The young Prince just shrugs when he’s questioned, gesturing to where you’re readying your horse and stringing your bow. Maekar makes a pinched face, but Daeron only laughs. 

“My wife will be taking my place in The hunt, father. She won’t disappoint you, she’s far more skilled than I am.” 

Side note I think the idea of Lady Stark out-weirding Daeron is so silly like him very nervously telling you about how he sees these visions of the future and fearing you’ll deem him insane and working himself up about it and you say something like “Oh like how I can see through the eyes of my direwolf.” and he’s like “…..what.”

Maekar:

To me, this match makes the most sense. There is definitely a lot of disagreeing, butting heads, arguing back and forth loud enough to shake Summerhall, but in the end Maekar has a lot of the same ideologies the Starks do. I’m not the first person who’s said this, but the Anvil is the type of man who sticks out in the lush, relaxed sort of atmosphere of the southern houses, but slots perfectly into the harsh realities of the North. There's a no-nonsense sort of attitude that is imperative to the lord and lady of Winterfell, no room for prattle and frivolity. Life is hard in winter, they need someone who will help their lady Stark make difficult decisions, and defend her until his dying breath. 

Maekar is fiercely loyal, willing to do almost anything for the people he cares for. It's a trait you share. Maekar doesn't really know what to say when you defend him, speaking out against a knight who made a snide comment about your match. Or when you go out of your way to take care of him; ordering him to stop training and rest, asking him to be careful for you on a hunt. He’s used to being the one who takes care of everybody. Six children, two brothers in need of defending, the other set on overexerting himself to an early grave. You cross your arms, square your shoulders, tilt your head back to look him in the eye, and tell him he will take a hot bath and eat something, otherwise he’ll have to answer to you. He grumbles about it, but is not in the business of denying his lady what she asks for. 

Maekar is also very amused at your inability to handle the southerly heat when visiting his parents and brother in the capital. There are times where it snows in the summer back at Winterfell, and you look so crestfallen when you shed your wolfskin cloak, that Maekar almost agrees to leaving his family and returning to your home. Even your gowns are meant to fight the harsh winds and morning chills, sweltering in the sun of King’s Landing. The Prince is quietly charmed by your humidity-frizzed hair and crabby disposition; the glower you show him when he reaches to brush the thin glimmer of perspiration at your forehead before he presses a kiss there.

He loses his mind the first time you arrive at a feast dressed in the stylings of the south. He adores your traditional clothing, the grey fur and the black leather and the white cashmere, but seeing you dressed in so little has his head spinning. He’s on his feet in an instant, determined to intercept you before any knight or lordling has the gall to stand before his lady Stark. You’re no less regal in the shimmering gossamer, but he still feels like a green boy staring at your exposed décolletage. 

“My love, has something distracted you?” 

There’s a small smirk on your face, but he doesn’t return it. He wastes no time taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. You’re absolutely right: he was staring. 

“You are- my wife, I-” 

He can barely find the words, ears turning an adorable shade of pink, but you give him some grace. 

“Do you like my gown? I had it made when I knew we’d be coming south.” 

It's not the last time you must adjust your wardrobe for the weather. How delighted he is, upon reaching your chambers at the end of a long, hot day, forced into endless meetings with lords who wish to gain favor with the North- as if he was the one whose approval they needed- to find you sprawled out, atop the bedclothes, not a stitch of fabric on you. 

“The heat, dearest, I cannot stand it.” 

You reach for him, and he says a prayer to the old gods and the new before stomping to your bed. He’s no help in cooling you down, but you don’t complain, not when he’s following you into nakedness and climbing into your arms. 

Aerion:

Aerion is obsessed. 

A sort of one-way stalking that slowly takes control over his life. You’re busy; settling grain disputes, meeting with masons, attending to duties of Winterfell with strength and poise appropriate for a woman raised to warden the North. Aerion is your shadow, following behind and watching you with an intensity one can only describe as reptilian. It's enough to make most uncomfortable, and the Prince is no stranger to piercing the young ladies at court with his gaze, but you barely acknowledge the Targaryen. It drives him insane. What woman isn’t instantly drawn to his delicate, Valerian features? 

He throws himself into trying to impress you; ears red and nose dripping from the cold, yet he still tugs his shirt over his head while training in the yard. Aerion knows you're watching from the battlements, looking down your nose with the careful expression that constantly paints your face. He can feel your eyes on him, and it makes him hot. Lithe and wiry, the young dragon impresses you when he knocks down strapping northern boys twice his size. You don’t mention you’re affected, nor do you compliment his swordsmanship, but he preens when you allow him moments of council. 

Every time he moves to speak to you, to get close enough to catch the smell of your evergreen soap you bathe with (he’d spent more than enough time thinking about that), a deep, growling noise startles him. It's primal, the fear that creeps up his spine, and there's nothing he hates more than feeling unguarded. Your direwolf is never far from you, scenting the air and smelling the pampered Prince’s desperation for his lady. It's not that she dislikes him, she's never lunged or snapped at him, it's more that she is completely indifferent- and it's almost worse. Some girl’s silly dog doesn’t see Aerion as a threat? What he doesn’t understand is that the connection between the Starks and their wolves is far deeper than anything a southerner could understand. You thought a Targaryen, so long bound to their dragons, would see the soul-connection with your companion; the way she could sense what you needed, how you felt. She doesn’t read the Prince as a threat because you don’t see him that way. He’s far too busy stewing in his irritation over the Stark sigil still being around to bond with. 

Aerion becomes someone you take to counsel, not because he’s particularly good at strategy, or navigating noble court, but you know he will stand up for what you believe wholeheartedly. You do not need to speak out of turn, to draw attention to the fact that you are a woman ruling Winterfell and there are more than a few lords who think you unqualified. Aerion will happily use that tone of his, the one that means “I don’t respect you and I want you to know it,” to back any claim you make. Misogynistic lords will argue with a lady they believe is playing at being the warden of the North, but who can argue with a Prince? Especially that Prince? Aerion knows he’ll get a kiss, and possibly even a smile, after; he’s ready to swing on any man who tries to discredit his lady Stark. 

Dunk:

A Stark would have more respect for Dunk than most of the southern lords do. Knighthood is intrinsically tied to the Seven, and so the idea of needing the gods to anoint you a knight doesn’t really mean anything to Northerners. It’s his character that determines your admiration for him. Brave, honorable, good-hearted; he’s the type of man you can depend on, and that’s a valued thing when the nights grow long and cold. 

Dunk, like Daeron, falls victim to the intimidation of his Lady Stark. As a noble, there is an uncomfortability in the disparity of your standings. Dunk, while having no problem speaking to those of higher birth, does occasionally fall prey to the incongruence. There is also the notion of your Stark character; direct, clever, just, he’s not used to anyone really acting that way. He’s acutely aware of the horrors the world has to offer, and the cruelty that can come from those with power, seeing you wield your influence (and Ice) with strength and justice throws him for a loop. We see how quickly he idolizes Baelor after showing his character, Dunk just wants a kind, fair lady to follow. 

Dunk is honest to a fault (except for the knight thing lol), and does not appreciate those who lie and scheme to get what they want. Starks of course are known for their honesty- whether it gets them into trouble or not. Treachery is not the true Northern way. When you comment on these attributes, praising his strength and fortitude, pleased with his need to help others, he doesn't really know what to do with himself. Ears red, shrugging his shoulders and fumbling with his words. “‘Tis nothin’, m’lady. Only doin’ what's right.” 

You’re not one to give approval when it's not warranted. Because of this, Dunk tucks each little thing you tell him close to his heart. He is utterly devoted to his lady; he acts like he’s your personal guard dog (or wolf), especially when in the south. In true Dunk fashion, he cannot help but confess to you the truth of his knightship. On his knees before you, big blue eyes wet and brows drawn, head hung low, he begs you to forgive him. 

But there is nothing to forgive.

An oath sworn to faraway gods means nothing to those who know real winter. When the storms come, when houses clash, when there is no one to turn to but your own, what use is a man who has only his word to sustain him?

“You have proven yourself through your presence; I know the nature of your heart.” 

He becomes your shadow- a big, hulking shadow, keeping close and surveying crowds with a watchful glance. It's not that you cannot handle yourself, but he finds himself needing to ease any burden he can assist you with. If that means standing between you and danger, so be it. He is especially fond of helping you stay warm. It's all for your safety- obviously. No other reason to peel back the layers of leather and chainmail, linen and fur, to tuck you against his bare chest in your bed. It's his job, really, sworn to protect you, even from the elements. On particularly cold nights, he’ll pull the blankets and furs into a great pile by the fire, wrapping you in his big arms and cradling you close. The winds howl, the snow blows hard against the windows, but you're safe and warm in your knight’s arms.

Baelor:

For a man so proper, so rule-abiding, so utterly fixed toward propriety, Baelor immediately takes a liking to the wild in your veins. It's not that you're carefree, there's a seriousness that comes from understanding the harsh reality of living in the North, but you have no love for the prim rules of court. For that, Baelor finds you endlessly captivating. You wear your hair loose, speak out when you disagree, and handle a bow better than any man in the yard. He’s quick to shut down any unkind word thrown toward you, the Prince’s “Wildling bride,” sent from the North to plead for alliances. 

He can’t quite understand why the other southerners cannot see the beauty in the fierceness, and has little patience, or tolerance, for cruelty toward his betrothed. 

You do not immediately return the gesture. It's no secret the Starks are suspicious of the Valyrian dynasty, and Baelor is the heir, set to inherit a crown and sit on the throne that forced your ancestors to kneel. Initially, you find him trying. Constantly striving for perfection, working long past any other council member, stuck up in the tower of the hand, doing whatever his father says- you imagine. What else would a spoiled, first-born son do but follow in the footsteps of those who came before him? But you watch him anyway, telling yourself it's protecting your people. It's important, of course, to know the man who will one day rule your kingdom; better to understand him now than to guess later down the line.

What you find is a man devoted to the realm, and it's hard to fault him for that. You also observe that he is not as well respected as you would have thought him to be. You roll your eyes at the lords of the Reach, who whisper nonsense about dark hair and Dornish dispositions. It helps you understand him, his need to be the best. To prove to those who doubt him that he’s worthy of the crown. 

He feels your resentment toward him ease. Gone are the days of clipped responses, poor excuses, and snide looks. Baelor can sense you studying him; but instead of the uneasy feeling he’s felt all his life at other nobles watching, he finds himself warmed that you care to know him. You agree with him in a meeting discussing trade agreements, nodding your approval and dismissing the lordling who dared to insinuate Baelor favoring his mother’s kingdom. You ask him to share a meal with you one evening, just the two of you in your chambers, and he can’t quite believe it to be true. He pauses at the door before knocking, straightening his velvet doublet and hoping his hair lays flat. A blush catches on his cheeks when you open the door to find him preening himself. The embarrassment is worth getting to hear you speak unbound to the niceties of court. You can feel the bond forming between you, the northern outsider and the Valyrian Prince who doesn’t look the part, what a pair you make. 

Baelor listens when you talk, so unlike the men who see you as a prize, a ticket to wardenhood- even if it’s in the North. It's not even just a curiosity for the woman who will be his wife, he genuinely wants to know you. The two of you find common ground most easily in nature. Riding out in the cool morning air, sword at his belt the only guard, and the wind whistling the only mindless chatter. He likes to see you in your element like this, a smile on your lips, eyes bright from the exertion, nothing to bind you into the confines of society. He can just be a man, in love with a woman, deep in the King’s Wood. often on your rides, you find yourselves off your horses; Baelor’s fine woolen cloak laid out in the grass, your hands in his hair and his mouth at your neck. He especially likes those mornings.

Lyonel: 

Definition of he fell first AND harder. You’ve heard all about Lyonel Baratheon before you even see him. Whispers traveled up the King’s Road of a beast of a man; wild, lascivious, barbaric, each rumor cruder and more shocking than the next. You knew most of the gossip was just meant to frighten you, a young wolf traveling south to your betrothed. Surely a knight had more honor than what was spoken of him, but it did not stop your trepidation.

He finds you in the misty gardens of Storm’s End, bracing yourself on a low branch, attempting to hop the garden wall. 

“My lady, are you in need of assistance?” 

You spin, silver gown whipping around your feet, to see a handsome stranger leaning against the archway. His blue eyes watch you playfully, and there's an easy grin across his lips. You don’t return the gesture. 

“I’m quite alright, thank you. No need to stare.” 

Hastily, you turn back to your task at hand, so rarely does a man’s smile alone shake a woman of Winterfell. You hear a shout from behind:

“What is it you’re doing?” 

Eyes roll, is it not obvious? 

“Nothing.” 

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” 

You huffed, your attempts at climbing the lattice proving futile. It did not help the penetrating stare of your gawker, boring into the back of your head. 

“Are you afraid of him, then?” 

His words made you pause. 

“Afraid? No. It is only that I have no desire to marry a silly southern knight. No doubt he’s off drinking or whoring right now, what kind of a life for a lady is that?” You say, haughtily, struggling again to climb the rain-slick branches. 

A glower paints your face when you hear him laugh. A deep, thunderous thing, rolling off his tongue in a way that makes your heart quicken. You turn, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to keep your upper hand. When he finally catches his breath, he manages to choke out a response.

“My dear lady, I can assure you that Ser Lyonel is, at least mostly, sober at the moment, and far from any brothel. Though I’m sure if the lady was willing, he would be happy to be of service.” 

Like any Lyonel romance, he is the ultimate ragebaiter. He loves to push your buttons, seeing how far he can take a joke before you snap. Sometimes it's well thought out, playing into your serious tone and pretending to be on the same page until you see a tell-tale glint in his eye. Other days, he's immediately doing what comes to mind; a quick tug on a braid, scooping you up from behind while you're focused, taking something out of your hands and holding it above your head. He doesn't mind if you growl, if you slap his arm or bite, he is thrilled to have your attention on him. Gods help any southern courtiers who try to do the same, commenting on the strange northern customs or the stoic set of your face, Lyonel goes from his usual smile to needing to be restrained. 

He is constantly at your elbow, ready to speak enough for the two of you. He adores it when you take his arm, not because you need it, but because you’re laying a claim on him. Lyonel loves too, to grab you up in his big arms and smother your face in kisses. There's a particular joy in you grumbling about distractions and decorum, but he can always feel you nuzzling closer. 

(Of course inspired by the scene in Queen Charlotte.)  

[getyouanearthygirl]

We forgot about him far too soon…

Where are the fanfic writers?!? No character has ever needed you more!

[ashesofwidogast]

Critical Role cast in Edinburgh

[boringkate]

I think it's so cool when girls are having fun. I see girls having fun and I think it's a good thing and I'm like made happy by it. Welcome to my dark and twisted mind.

[kinkydorah]

assad and jacob being cute at the SDCC panel (˶ˆ⌣ˆ˵)

[hauntedfictionland]

#Alicent you are the father.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (since 2022) alicent hightower + jacaerys velaryon.