pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
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⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 90k┊next update: 29.03.26┊rated: t.
little drabble inspired by arrangedmarriage!dunk ( @honeyoftheisle the idea has been haunting me ever since you tagged me it that post). wrote this at the gym so it's so stupidly unedited, sorry if it's a bit rambling.
your marriage had been arranged without your knowledge.
this fact did not surprise you, it was the norm of many such engagements, ladies placed into betrothals decided before they had even laid eyes upon the man they were destined to marry. and you certainly weren't one to oppose such a thing as despite being an avid reader of literature and secret enjoyer of romance novels, you had never been possessed by the urge to pursue love. you simply did not care for it because love was simply another fable. fiction, mere entertainment to distract the mind.
what need did you have for love and romance? you already knew your fate, why bother opposing it and leading yourself into inevitable disappointment?
amongst the stories of dragons and noble knights and infatuation, they all seemed to blur into one, revealing one glaring similarity. these concepts may have once reigned westeros, but they were extinct now. the greed of man had killed them.
so when your lord father had informed you your match had been made, the betrothal already having been agreed upon before you had even heard whispers of it, you simply nodded, returning to the book that had engaged your fancy.
only to still when your father revealed who your betrothed was.
ser duncan the tall.
the man did not even seem to have a surname, a family, nothing. nothing to tie him to this world.
you had heard of him, of course you had; whispers seemed to trail him wherever he went. the man who dragons seemed to follow. the man who the gods favoured, allowing a prince to die for him to live. perhaps that was what happened when a knight remembered his vows. you were reluctant to admit it, but he seemed to be a true knight.
but would that mean he would be a good man? you were unsure if the two were synonymous.
ser duncan did not shy away from his baseborn beginnings, with there even being rumours that he may have been born out of sin; a bastard. truthfully, you did not care for such rumours, the nature of his birth did not concern you, yet you could not help but wonder why he was allowing himself to be wed off.
he was a kingsguard, the sworn sword of prince aegon targaryen, employed by king maekar targaryen, restricted by the vows that prevented him to wed, to bare children, to own land while under oath, yet now he was willing to give that all up?
it confused you.
you could not see the logic behind such a decision — why sacrifice a lifetime of honour and glory, to do what exactly?
to wed a lady he had never met before? to continue his duty protecting the royals without the recognition?
you were unsure of what to think.
your confusion only intensified once he had come to visit your ancestral castle, the young prince accompanying him.
your family had known of his intentions to visit for quite some time, your mother dictating the household for everything to be perfect, ordering the maids and servants to scurry about, scrubbing each stone until they glistened. your father had orchestrated hunts so that fresh meat would be available when they would eventually arrive, the kitchens brimming with imported herbs and spices awaiting to be used. yet despite how prepared your family had attempted to be, the sight of prince aegon seemed to throw them into a deeper frenzy.
they had not expected the targaryen to accompany the knight — truthfully they did not expect anyone to accompany the knight apart from a squire. through their preoccupied state, they failed to remember a vital fact. the prince was ser duncan's squire.
the prince himself had been wedded to the lady betha blackwood the year prior, being encouraged by love and all other matters of the heart. the irony was not lost on you — the prince had married for love while his sworn sword was having an arranged marriage.
you were unsure of what to make of your future lord husband. from the moment he had entered your family's land to now, the tall knight refused to even look at you. each conversation held lasted approximately 3 sentences, the dialogue torturously short with prince aegon tending to comandeer the conversation when he noticed his sworn sword unable to continue.
was this to be your future?
to marry a man who was willing to charge into battle yet could not look you in the eyes?
were you truly so displeasing? did he find you unsightly?
you cursed your mind for travelling to such insecure thoughts, yet you could not help but wonder. he had spent the majority of his knighthood surrounded by princesses and ladies, travelling across the seven kingdoms. perhaps you simply could not compare to them in beauty, but you were certain that you were a proficient conversational partner, your mind strengthened by the literature you had consumed. so why could he not even talk to you either?
that simply infuriated you instead.
if he was determined to not provide you any respect, from now on neither were you. if he would not look at you, you would not look at him. if he would not speak to you, you would not speak to him.
you would treat him exactly the same way he treated you.
truthfully his reaction surprised you.
you had not expected it to take such a swift effect on the knight, especially since you were not even provided the opportunity to carry out your entire plan that you had curated the night prior.
you had planned to ignore him throughout the entire day, to interact with the people surrounding him yet not gracing him with your attention. you had planned for it to span late into the evening and to not even look at him despite sitting across from him while you would dine. you had expected that perhaps it would take a few days for him to even notice that you were deliberately avoiding him.
it only took him one morn.
you had not greeted him that morn, did not offer him a gentle smile or a subtle nod — nothing. you simply drifted past him, smiling at prince aegon as you continued towards the sept with your mother, intending to provide your morning prayers.
and by the time you had completed your prayers, whispering thanks to the father and the mother, requesting guidance from the maiden, and had begun to prepare to leave, you stilled. you were shocked to find the knight lingering by the entrance, a bundle of wildflowers clutched in his hands as he waited for you.
you did not expect this.
you had attempted to walk around him, to continue ignoring him, but how could you when he was standing there so sincerely, a bashful look gracing his features, his ears tinged pink as he stumbled over some sort of explanation.
"please." he had began, eyes wide as he noticed that you were searching for a way to avoid him. "please i just need to—"
he sighed deeply, passing a hand over his face as he gathered himself, trying to not stumble over his words.
" 'm not good with my words, milady, not good at..." his hands gestured aimlessly through the air as his gaze finally met your. blue, piercing blue. his eyes were pretty, you tried to ignore that thought. "...this. but i don't want you to think that this is unwilling."
your brows furrowed slightly, head tilting as confusion began to seize you. unwilling?
he noticed your puzzled expression.
"egg suggested — sorry, the prince suggested that you may have believed my behaviour was due to..."
"an unwillingness." you offered.
he nodded.
you mirrored the action slightly, your gaze dipping to the flowers clutched in his hands. you recognised them, they were from the field that was close to the castle. a smile threatened to break across your features. you wondered if prince aegon had offered this hypothesis recently, perhaps while you were still in the sept, allowing the knight to come to his own conclusions.
"and how are you certain that i may not have this unwillingness?" you questioned.
he visibly stalled, any hint of a smile immediately dissipating, his skin paling.
"i—" he swallowed harshly, his grip on the flowers tightening as his gaze flickered between you and them. his lips trembled slightly as he tried to think of a response, but gods, how could this now be happening to him when he had finally gathered the courage to speak to you? were you finally going to confirm his worst fear? the very thought that had plagued him throughout the entire visit. that this betrothal was truly unwilling on your side? "i should have — i apologise, milady, i should have spoken to you—"
you interrupted him. "i have no objection to this match. do you?"
he blinked.
once. twice.
and then it happened, all at once. his heart quickened, his poor pulse fluttering unsteadily against the thin skin like the wings of captive bird; his face warmed, a violent blush spreading across his features as he tried to suppress a giddy grin.
oh.
he did not expect this.
you were willing to marry him. you found no fault in him.
a lady of much higher standing, who's blood was noble and courteous, who he was certain could find much better matches than a knight of dubious beginnings. yet you were still willing to marry him.
"you are not aversed to this?" he repeated, doing a poor job of concealing his unrestrained glee.
"i am not." you confirmed, watching the rouge spread across his face and down his neck. those words seemed to worsen his condition.
you stepped back, slightly dazed by the reaction you had garnered from the once stoic knight.
he who had struggled to even speak to you, he who had struggled to even look at you, was now overwhelmed by such great emotion that he was grinning stupidly at you, trying to conceal the fact by pressing the bouquet to his face.
"and you?" you pressed, despite already having an inkling of what his response might be.
"i would rather die than not wed you." He responded with complete seriousness, finally offering you the flowers he had been gripping like a sword. the stems seemed slightly crumpled, but you did not mind.
you accepted them, along with the arm he offered you, listening as the man finally began to talk to you freely, rambling about the journeys he had taken with the prince.
TW; more violence and blood and death threats. Lyonel is struck with agony to see how badly injured you are, after being attacked by bandits- angsty angst angst
Lyonel can’t fathom the sight he’s watching happen in your very bed. Bitterly, he supposes, he must come to terms with it.
He’s stood at the foot of it. But he seems to see it from outside himself. To survey the scene as if he’s become a watcher on the wall; Someone placed outside his very body.
Through the thronging crowd of people in the room, he can barely make out your shape. Laid on the bed. Limp. Still unresponsive. Hair curling dark and wet, unbound sticky vines across a pillow that’s slowly being soaked with filth. Blood and road dirt upon your fine sheets.
He carried you up the stairs himself; cradled in his arms. Felt the hot blood and cold rain seeping off you. Hair dripping. Body trembling. Leaving pink rainwater droplets behind on the stone steps. He burst into the room and placed you kindly on the bed.
Now you are flooded with people. So much so, he had to take a step back. Slait and a maid are cutting you out of the dress and shift because they need to tend to the wound Seldan told them about. Another maid is yanking off your muddy boots.
He hears shouts. Calls in strange voices for clean linens. Wine. Willow bark. Milk of the poppy. More candles so they can see proper.
He tips his chin down. His black tunic is half drenched. A sheen hits it in the dull candle light. Your blood. When he cares to raise his arms, it’s gathered on his trembling hands. Sunk into the cracks on his palms. The rings he wears. Caked in the round of his nails. Some smeared across his cheek where he wiped searing hot tears with the back of his sleeve.
And now he’s helpless;
When they cut open the front of your dress. Lyonel chokes; his throat constricts and squeezes and no sound comes crawling out of him. But he feels his entire being seize. His famously sturdy spine puddles to the floor.
A nasty diagonal wound lay in the crook of your shoulder. It is by a dagger he is certain. Too small for a sword. Bleeding furious and welling with dark blood. Edges red and inflamed. Crimson rolling down your bared shoulder to the bed. Slait’s hands are caked in your blood as he mops the wound, finds herbs and does whatever the fuck else he can to stem it.
Your neck bears marks too. Scratches and red welts. Marks of where jewellery has been savagely ripped from you. The metal digging into your skin. All your rings are missing. Your earrings too. Every mark of nobility has been stripped from you. Yanked off by the filth that put you here.
His gaze finds itself stuck on your hand. Curled on the bed like a dead, limp root. Dirt crusted. Knuckles red, bruised, bearing scuffs that spoke of your fighting back. A nail or two torn. He watches a kindly maid take your hand and dunk it in a bowl to flush the clinging earth from your skin.
It’s then he notes the most gaping absence. It festers something new within him;
Your wedding ring is gone.
Even that too, they had torn from your body. Stuck you like a swine. Uncaring if you’d live or die. So long as they had their gold to sell.
He hears himself speak. Eyes shaking with tears as looks down the bed. “How bad? And don’t fucking feed me riddles. Give me truth” He rasps. Voice raw as brittle rushes.
Slaits mouth in pulled into a grim line. Expression dour. He turns back over his shoulders. Surveys his Storm Lord to give answers.
“The bleeding I can slow. My lord. But I fear for the fever that now grips her. We will starve it. And see-“
“See what-“ Lyonel snaps. His lash line trembles with tears. Hot and bitter.
“See if she will last the night.” The maester tells. Sorrow turns his words to long, gleaming coffin nails.
Lyonel turns away. Spitting profanities. Cursing the gods. The mother and the crone. Spittle flying into his palm as a sob breaks out of him.
Hand running down his face to finish smothering his mouth. A sound that came wrenched out, the way one would tug shrapnel from a wound. Birthed this burst of fear from his gut. Bone deep and awful.
His chest wracks once. He squeezes his eyes shut so tight, lashes stinging with salt. Chest heaving on the cry. Fury warring with the grief in him. A great battle indeed. One that fills him with broken glass. Viscera. Sharp broken bones. Shattered lances. Blunt swords taking to his courage.
He wants to yell; he wants to stalk to the headlands and howl into the winds til his voice grows hoarse. Pound the earth with his fists til they crack and break. Spit profanity in the eye of a lashing storm. He wants to take his long sword and personally cleave every bandit into four pieces like a butcher carving up bloodied haunches of meat.
He wants a slaughter. The burst of blood spraying across his teeth. The fetid stench of his enemies fear- the rolling white of their eyes when he comes for them. He’d make them beg for the stranger before ripping out their tongues. He wouldn’t grant them the sweet mercy of death. He’d give them nothing but desolation. A fraction of what he’s owed.
He finds himself thinking of the stranger. Dark robes. Hanging over this room like a vulture trying to wear a man’s skin. More animal than man. Skeletal hand clawing at the bottom of the bedclothes. Tugging. Slipping you to him. Ready to enfold you in his dark robes as his wraithful shadows sneak in from the corners.
He prays so hard the mush inside his skull rattles with it.
You will not take her. You hear me? You cursed cunt. Her you will not have. I forbid it.
Tears squeeze anew down his cheeks. Helpless grief sits plain, and crushing in his blooded hands. He’s ready to drown in it. All this wealth and power he wields and at the end of it. He is simply a humbled being, stood on this earth, asking the gods one thing;
Please. Don’t take her from me.
“Father?”
Horror fills him in a sickly-clammy wash, when he turns to the doorway. Spying his eldest son stood at the threshold.
Feet bare on the stones. Brown eyes wide as dinner plates. Sleep clothes rumpled. A wrinkled tunic and braies. Dark hair mussed.
He’s looking at the trail of blood across the flagstones.
When he speaks. His voice comes as no more than a weak shadow of its usual bold self. “Jory.”
Lyonel rubs his fingers into his burning eyes. He crosses the room in four strides. “You shouldn’t be up. Please. Back to your bed.”
He takes his sons small shoulder in his hand. Tries to steer his own body between the room and the view of you on the bed. “Please. Jory. I can’t have you seeing this.”
He’s no fool. He saw the pinched look on servants faces. Grief doesn’t lie. Nor spare. Everything that wasn’t being said. Clipped tones and maids scurrying with a weight of grief on their brow.
The blood on the stairs. His own father stood, leaking tears and looking smaller than he had any right too. The legendary laughing storm brought mightily low.
Jorys looks up at him. Eyes begging to understand. Mouth floundering. Hurt confusion etched across his face. Lower lip wobbling.
Lyonel breaks.
He cuffs the back of his boys neck and draws him bodily to his chest. Jorys sags into him like a boned fish. Crosses his arms around him. Feels him sob. His sons hands digging like hooks in the back of his tunic. Grief bridging between them like spiders silk.
He can’t even placate him with kindness or hope. Because he can’t grab onto any of it. He lets him get the tears out. Let’s him exhale and cry and be scared. Because Lyonel was right there with him.
His hand cups the back of his head. Small boyish hair tufted soft in his palm. He can do nothing but hold him. His tongue won’t spill with lies. Not for his blood.
When Jory pulls back to smear tears across his cheeks. He sinks to a crouch. “Look at me. Look. Listen-“ hand slipping for his shoulder again. Eyes intent and pleading.
“I can’t have Ceres or Liri waking and seeing your mother like this. You must go to them and be brave for me. Promise me? keep them in their rooms… and away from this. I will come get you if there are…” he inhales. “changes.”
“Will she die?” His son cries. Earnest. He can see every spec of emotion warring across his little face.
Lyonel falters. He can’t feed that fetid beast of a thought. If he does, he may just throw himself into the sea with stones in his pockets.
“Quickly now. My lad. Off you go.” He sobs. “Do this for me.”
Jorys turns for the door. More tears welling. They catch in the golden lowlight. The door creaks. A flit of a shadow and he’s gone.
He walks quietly back to the bedside. Fists a hand in slaits sleeve. “Anything you can do for her. Will be done. No remedy spared. Am I clear?” He barks. Mouth designed to cut in his bitten off rage.
Slait confirms with a nod.
Lyonel rolls his sleeves. “What can I do. Occupy me.”
“My lord-“ Slait begins.
“If you tell me to wait outside I will fucking geld you and hang you from the highest cross beam. This is my wife. The mother of my children. I am not sitting in the corridor twiddling my thumbs like an idle cunt, as the stranger looms for her. Tell me what to do.”
Even stalking the fringes of his desolation, the laughing storm can still bite when needed.
He feeds you milk of the poppy of a wooden spoon as they stitch you closed. Cups your cheeks and wipes your mouth when he spills some. He soothes your burning brow with a cloth. Hands icy and he presses the cloth into cool water again and again again. Til his fingers prune and his hands go numb.
Wordless. He watches his maester attend your every cut. Every bruise and scratch mopped. He helps lift you. Clean you of dirt and manoeuvre you into a new clean shift. A task usually left to maids.
Then comes the worst part. When the maids and the helping hands drift away. Slaits remedy’s all applied. When they are tipping away bowls of blood stained water. Used bandages. Tucking ointments and vials away. Then the dreadful waiting comes— silent and heavy as a dreadful crypts air.
He watches you. Limp and broken. Chest moving shallow. Rising up and down. Poppy milk on your tongue. A false sleep and fever claiming you. Brow dewy. Neck and shoulders glazed with sweat. They will starve the fever from you.
He settles into a hard, creaking chair by your bedside. The fire roaring high. He watches you succumb fully to the fever. Eyes glassy and unseeing. Not asleep nor are you awake. Suspended in the space between. Sighing when he presses that cloth to your brow again.
The soft wet gasp of your breath, the snap of candles in the room are the only sounds that then reign. The storm hounding tooth and claw at the walls softens. Yields a little. Soft rains sweep by.
He takes your hand. Skin bleeding unnatural heat. Never like you. Like you’d been left too long under a fierce Dornish sun.
He watches you writhe on the bed. Insensate. Twitching in a unnatural sleep. Slaked in fever sweat. Covered in bandages and half treated cuts. Hair damp and laying dark at your temples. He reaches over and pulls pieces of it from sticking to your skin.
He shakes his head. Tears sparkle in those huge expressive eyes. Swallowed in grief.
The only thing he has left is to beg.
He does it with your hand scooped in his. Sweat slicked fingers pressed to his lips. His bread abrading skin you’d usually smile at the feel of. He speaks. Words falling like hot silken petals across your skin.
“Please don’t.” His voice wavers. “Not like this. My love. Please not like this.”
You were his lightning storm. The fact you might, in all your stormy powerful fury, get taken from him in a silent, fevered sickness that could sneak your soul and spirit away in one long breath. That’s something he can’t pretend to stomach.
“Don’t.” He begs. Lacing your fingers together. Determined to watch the rise of your chest, til dawn creeps its sly pink reach across the ceiling.
He sends for Ser Seldan.
Time has slowed to a slow trickle. Midnight black, and heavy as fig syrup.
Lyonel splashes water from a clean new bowl across his face. Rinses his hands. Sheds his outer garments to leave him in boots, his loose collar dark shirt and breeches. Just the other side of the room.
Anything else would require taking him out this room, and he’s loathe to leave for even a slither of a second. He stays.
The air in here is now fugged, heavy and falling close, with the smell of geeen antidote and balms of Slait’s design. The roar of the fire is intense. They mean to sweat the fever out. Only one window is cracked, a cool slit of night air comes spilling in. Spliced with salt.
His attention is solely fixed on the rise and fall of your chest. The steady breaths that come. Even though he knows milk of the poppy can dampen them.
He doesn’t care if it’s late enough to be surprising. Or early enough to be rude. Hour of the nightingale or the wolf; this situation has robbed Lyonel of any of his - already limited - courtesies.
He knocks. Lyonel bids his entry with a clipped word.
The maid who was currently laying a tray of food at the far side of the room - one he will leave untouched much to his cooks chagrin - steps briskly to answer it. Swings it open.
The knight limps into the room. Not unbuttoned. Not dressed down. He’s never that. Incapable of relaxed dress. He’s still all leathers, axe blade angles, and darkness. Like he’d dressed to fight the shadows that appear in the way from his rooms to here.
A surcoat of black leather he wears. One that was so dipped into the scent of the armoury it’s a scent that never leaves him. Oil, and old iron. His coat layered over a washed grey shirt that’s loosed at his wrists. Raven hair swept back, wetly, to dry in curled ribbons in a way that suggested he’s bathed. A scuffed pair of grey boots hug his feet, scratched from hard Winterfell stones.
His arm and injured shoulder is bandaged. His face openly wore the cuts and bruises. His knuckles also torn to bloating, swollen shreds. He stands tall as usual but his shoulders sag. The seams on his old wolf are showing. As they’ve every right too, after the days events.
He realised how truly shocking that is; if this new scandal of his house can pit holes in even the sheer stubborn rockiness of this northerner.
Lyonel doesn’t stand. He’s too sapped. Stays to his chair. But he finds the energy to pin the man with a look so poignant, Seldan alters a little in his strong step. Not softens. But alters only a bit.
“Leave us, if you would.” Seldan asks the maid with a firm nod. Brow stern. She does. Bobs a curtsey. Slips out the door and latched it after herself.
Two words. That’s all Lyonel says. It’s been running in his head since they brought you in. Half tattered, stabbed and bleeding.
“What happened—”
Seldan looks to his feet. Flicks his dark eyes up again. Swallows. Lyonel tracks it down his dark bristled throat.
“Are you sure you want to know, Mi’lord.”
Those stormlander eyes flash. Snapping to the man in a way that would have lesser men taking a step back to shrink from the sheer weight of a grieving husbands fury.
The northern wolf has tempted the storm. And the storm has weighed that mighty black direwolf, and found it wanting-
“My wife was stabbed. Her horse shot with arrows. My bannermen killed like they were no more than game for sport. Yes I want to fucking know.”
“I don’t think it will ease your pain.” Seldan prompts. Mouth made for flat truths and he gives them bluntly. “It will worsen it.”
“Then best you say it and let me judge.” He commands. Snappish. Done with the nonsense of courtly politeness.
Seldan nods. He folds his hands at his front. Takes his eyes from his Lord for a minute. Landing on you. Shame flattens down those proud, wide shoulders by an inch or two. Had he acted quicker, a dagger may not have sunk into your flesh.
“The reports you had were right. There were a great number of them. The party that ambushed us was near twelve by my own count. We managed to slay four.”
“They showered us with arrows. Came out the sides of the hedgerows with bows drawn. Told her ladyship and myself to get down off our horses.”
Lyonel’s chest is slowly churning to molten fury. Anger was softer. Quick burning like a fast flash of flame. Anger was something that could happen to a man. Fury consumed. Ate whole. Dissolved bones. Fury could made a man become something else entirely.
He was beyond furious.
He doesn’t know where to set it down yet. Doesn’t know how he’s supposed to deal with the weight of something so mighty. So he must shoulder it until they find the culprits responsible.
“We obliged them. We got off the horses and their presumed leader stepped forwards. Had the audacity to inform us of the tax on their road that we were travelling down. ‘The fucking fat nobles pay their way here. Because we say so’ he says.”
“They wanted our weapons. Waterskins. Coins. The last of the supplies we were carrying. They made threat to take her at sword point out beyond the trees—“ his voice drops, grim.
Lyonel gets the grim picture. Eyes closing. Turns his head away in disgust. His tongue curdles up in his mouth at the thought. His eyes linger on your form on the bed. That bruise turning dark nightshade around your eye. The cut lacerated to your cheek from a fist.
“They made plain would be bloody and violent if we didn’t comply. And that they would cut her throat after they were all done taking turns.” Seldan sneers with vehemence. His northern chivalry balks at the mere intimation.
“We gave them what we could. But they pushed it. Grew selfish. Lady Baratheon acted in every right way. She made sure none of us came to harm. She told the guards to put their weapons down. We gave them what they asked for. But, the leader saw her wedding band.”
“He got it…” Lyonel asks. “It’s missing from her hand.”
“She didn’t give it.” Seldan informs lowly.
“They took it by force. That’s when the violence broke out. She told them the only way they could get that ring off, would be to break her fingers, or cut off her hand. And one of them produced an axe- and made move to grab her and—“ His words end, tearing out his mouth like ripping a bandage off a wound.
“I acted. My lord. I couldn’t stand to let them.” He explains. “Maybe that was wrong of me and if it is I’ll take the due punishment-“
He always spoke with a soldiers repeat of events. A report or a tally. Spoken harsh and true. A northern mouth that doesn’t waste its time spouting niceties.
For once. Lyonel is glad of it. Now he knows the depth of which his vengeance can plummet too-
“Willard told me you rode back for miles. Pouring rain. Clasping her to your chest, injured yourself. Riding your horse so hard you damn near killed the beast. You got her home, Seldan. You’ll see no punishment from me.”
“Did they know precisely who she was….” Lyonel asks.
“No, my Lord. When they asked. She said she was a cousin to house Baratheon. She knew well enough not to crow about who she really is.”
Because even if you’d hissed threats. Men like them soundly would not care. With nasty rotten grins and conniving hunger. Better a white lie, to let the true enormity of your power slip their notice. A wife of the powerful storm lord would fetch a pretty price. Dead or alive.
Or maybe just for your pretty head-
You made yourself small and insignificant. You protected your men. You did everything right- and it all went sour wrong anyway.
“She was smart to deceive. Heaven knows what she’d have been subjected too had they figured her a woman worth capturing.”Seldan remarks darkly.
Lyonel swallows a bitter bile back off his tongue.
“She is smart.” He nods in agreement. Eyes on you. “Quicker on her feet and a faster tongue than anyone I know.”
He hates speaking of you as if you’re already in a grave. The toll it’s taking. Already he has bags swelling to mulberry purple under his eyes.
Seldan looks down to where your fingers are linked through Lyonel’s. Slotted and melting as if you were one. Your hand limp in the hold was unsettling.
“I should have been there with you all. I should have moved heaven and earth to make sure she wasn’t out there, exposed.” He laments. Shame curling up his tongue.
An odd taste in his mouth. He finds; coming from the man who never seemed to know the shape of lament or regret.
“I want a new guard patrol on that route. Twenty. Thirty men I’d needs be. If that’s the one they were using. I want them hunted and found. And I will string every last one of them up in the dungeons by their necks.” Lyonel insists. Snarling.
“I do have some information on that front. My Lord.”
Of course, this old wolf has not been idle. Lyonel reckons.
He didn’t mope. He was a military man. He acted. He didn’t care what captains he had to rouse from sleep. What soldiers he had to chase through the halls. They kicked the north wolf, now they must deal with its teeth. He was changing routes and patrols. Rerouting soldiers. Pulling men off gate duty.
Sending ravens to their men in the ports and harbours. It struck Lyonel that the man would rather be riding back through the rain right this minute to collect his fallen men, than to linger on here in incertitude. His hands fall rough from use, and he’d beg to be useful otherwise they’d have to slaughter him. He knows no other way to be.
“Spit it out.” He commands.
“You might wonder why I sent the maid away…”
Lyonel leans forwards in his seat. A dreadful realisation dawns. No-
“It’s because I believe the word of our route was betrayed. Once more, betrayed by someone inside this house.”
Lyonel’s mood drops from grim, to somehow worse than that. Six foot deep of fury and cold, fierce rage. Rotten, conniving seeds of dissension and ruin sown from within his own walls.
“I heard the ruffians speaking behind as they came to snatch our supplies. I was able to glean enough. They’ve not been using roads. Not like we have. They were using shepherd lanes. Old paths barely carved in the land, that only a stormlander would know exist.”
“No sensible man would risk that path Those lanes are impassable after the heavy rain.” Lyonel insists gravely.
Seldan tilts his head. Openly. “They chose them precisely because they are unwatched. These men have more sense than we first thought.” Seldan mutters. “Our position was given away to them. How else could they happen upon us with the exact men to outnumber our party.”
“I trust you’ve set about to remedy this news.” Lyonel asks.
Seldans eyes take a dark and terrible shade. “Discreetly. My lord. Aye.”
“They’ll think us shaken to inaction for now. But that’s a path that ill suits me.”
“Me too. My lord.”
“If we move quickly, they’ll just scatter and regroup elsewhere. Crawl back into their ditches and hedges. I hate to say it, but we draw them out slow. Appear like a house in mourning. The families of those fallen guards I want written too with honour and support.”
“Aye. That I’ve had done already. Word has been sent. I have men combing the halls as we speak, too. Gently. If there’s messages going beyond our walls that we’ve unseen, we will catch them. It may take time. But I trust my men implicitly. They will reveal the source. And I shall be the first to come to you with news.”
Lyonel trusts Seldans word. He knows the route of this place like the back of his scarred hands. Knows when to dip into the mundanity of life to find an outlier.
A question asked too loudly by a waif of a stable boy. The prying eyes of a merchant lingering at the gate. A maid who dithers in cleaning a room for too long. To catch sight of the parchments on a desk. The washer woman who listens at a shadowed doorway where she ought not be.
His grizzled wolf has blood in his nose, and he won’t soon forget the grudge to his house.
“Good.” Lyonel sighs. Tired as he was. This news did not ease much of the tension hunching his shoulders. It was welcome, yet foul, and much as he disliked, he needed to hear it spoken.
“Go and get some sleep.” He dismisses. “You look done in. You old dog.”
“I won’t yet. My lord. There’s still much to be done.”
“Dawn must be soon on the rise. Seldan. You’ve been injured. I won’t have my best Knight drop dead.”
A flick of humour takes one side of his mouth. A flick of a carving etched in granite.
“I’d be amused to see him try. The stranger had already loomed for me once this night. My lord. He wouldn’t stand a fucking chance the second time around.” He grits.
He nods to you on the bed.
“Same goes for our lady. I reckon with her lightning temper, she won’t be easily gotten rid of. Try not to fret.”
Lyonel closes his eyes. Chest bouncing on a ln exhale. It felt like the first kind feeling that’s entered his body all day. He needed to hear that. A reminder of the exact shade of your pig-headedness. One Seldan gleaned from experience of you.
When your eyes spark to danger; when you give that wilful tilt of your chin. Shoulders square. Seven help any poor fucker that tries to disagree with you. Or get in your way. They’d come off bruised and blue. Cowering. They would yield because the lightning in you, never backed down
“Bid you good day. My lord.” He motioned to the day that started to break across the horizon. The cool purple slit of dawn. Punched with oranges and reds like a flamed dragon breath. Light climbs higher in the sky.
“Seldan?”
The man looked at him. Awaiting orders. Ready to decimate.
“If they’re found. Bring them to me alive.” He demands. Every dark, insidious meaning fully taking his words. His eyes remain on you.
Seldan bows his sturdy, stubborn head. Stalks for the door. And takes his leave through it. Back to the shadows. Back to his ruthless task of a manhunt. He’ll see it done. Leave one wolf alive, the sheep are never safe.
Lyonel sighs. Leans back in his chair. The creak of it cradling his back and aching shoulders. Neck strained and stiff. The burning in his bloodshot, salt stung eyes unceasing. An impolite reminder of his age.
He won’t break his fast. Even though he sees a breakfast left for him on the side. Carved ham and eggs. A bowl of porridge. Grilled small fish. A heel of fluffy buttered bread. A dark, red beer. He lets it all grow cold.
He won’t even move to go change, or bathe though his clothes must be ripe with sweat. He won’t dare leave your side. He vowed that much.
He goes back to the horrible trap of waiting. Detesting every passing second.
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex
synopsis: A garden dinner was a rare occasion at Summerhall estate, either several of the children would be misbehaving usually resulting in one or two being sent to bed, or the weather would not allow for such outdoor activities. However on this occasion for Daeron’s nameday everything was running smoothly, until Aerion seemingly could not hold his tongue.
[based off of this amazing anon request]
word count: 5,588
warnings: 18+ mdni, female reader, no use of Y/N, readers looks are un-described (aside from being of House Dayne + having hair), teenage Aerion (you’ve been warned), a lot of the maekarlings, probably a lot of age inaccuracies for the kids but it works, SMUT (eventually), p in v, oral (f!receiving), fingering, (slight) breeding kink, woman + wife as terms of endearment, fluff (honestly quite a lot), kind of angst but not really. 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.
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Little Rhae, scarcely half a year old, sat in your lap as you dined. Your husband, Maekar, and remaining five children sat scattered around the large outdoor dining table as you for once sat in a tranquil calm amongst the soon to be setting sun. A contented smile lingered on your face as you observed your family, the one that you had built with nothing but raw determination and a jealous husband.
You yourself were in your mid thirties. Scarcely. It was a fact that Maekar was subtly insecure about, he was older than you, that was no secret. Yet you had chosen him as your husband out of love not duty, you had chosen that old man and you loved him regardless of others opinions. Your eldest son that the pair of you shared, Daeron, was now seventeen, his nameday now here and a quiet celebration much to the King’s annoyance. He had wanted a grand affair to show his eldest grandson off to the women of the court, hoping to stake an alliance through marriage. Daeron however, had begged and pleaded practically on his knees for his seventeenth nameday to be a quiet affair. We should not even travel to Kings Landing, there is no need. He had said, his sad eyes boring into your own, tears welled in them. And you had caved, in turn pleading to Maekar not to force your son to suffer the event. Not that Maekar took much convincing, travelling to Kings Landing with a small army of children was no easy feat, and one he’d rather not do by dragging the boy of the hour against his will for something he did not care for. So you had remained in Summerhall, sharing a night in the gardens eating cake and watching your children tumble around in the grass.
“Were you content with your gifts, dearest?” You questioned, eyes falling onto your eldest son as he ate the rare meat from his plate. “Yes, thank you Mother.” He smiled. He looked tired, but then again he always did. He had the look of lacking sleep almost always present in his eyes and it pained you to know that was something you could not ease him of. Yet you smiled warmly in return, squeezing his hand gently. You loved all your children dearly, but Daeron would always hold a special place to you regardless of how he turned out because he was your first child. The boy who had been the start to your family, back then you were just three. Now, you were eight.
“Seeing as you are old now, brother.” Aerion begun, you watched as almost all of your children and your husband showed at least some sign of distain at the tone of Aerion’s voice, yet you offered him kind eyes as you cut in, “Your brother is not old, Aerion. Be kind.” Aerion huffed lightly, the boy was fourteen, the size of a twelve year old with the pent up energy of a dog that had spent its entire life in a kennel. The attitude that came out of his mouth more often than not was obscene and he seemed to lack the understanding of watching his words, more-so adopting the mentality of speak now, consequences later. And seemingly for the pale haired boy his tongue always found him consequences later. “Should you not be betrothed already? Mother married Father a year earlier than your age.” Daeron sighed. It was no secret the boy lacked betrothal options, in part due to his lack of presence in court and the fact he chose to hide himself away entirely when in Kings Landing. He had done it to himself, he knew, yet he did not wish for some poor girl to have to put up with the secret state that he was. “Darling, your brother will choose his own path in his own time, as will you. You have expressed not wishing for a wife yourself, instead being a great dragon riding to battle and we have not judged your decision.” Your kindness came with ease towards Aerion, the boy was internally hot like a furnace and the anger that bestowed upon him for seemingly no given reason meant he did not often see kindness from anyone but you. Yes he was a little shit, as Maekar liked to put it, but he was not evil. He was your boy, and like Daeron you would love him regardless. Aerion scoffed, flinging a potato in Aemon’s direction, earning him a swat on the arm from his Father who was sat to his left. “Aemon said I can’t breathe fire so I wouldn’t make a very good dragon, I would call that judgemental.” Aemon was eleven, and far too intelligent for his age, he corrected politely more often than not yet with Aerion everything was a personal offence if it could be taken as criticism. “Actually what I said was you wouldn’t make a very successful dragon, seeing as the fire breathing aspect is what makes them so deadly.” Aemon chided, a childish grin plastered on his face as he taunted his elder brother, “Unless you meant it as a metaphor.”
“What the fuck is a metaphor?”
“Aerion!”
“Mind your tongue!”
Both yourself and Maekar called almost in sync, your voices merging as your son ‘accidentally’ slipped another expletive. “If you cannot watch your words and be polite to your brother on his nameday, you will be removed from the table up to your bedchamber. Am I clear? Aerion?” Maekar scolded, raising an eyebrow in his second son’s direction as Aerion continued to eat his bloodied steak. “It was an honest question.” He raised his hands now in mock defence as blood slipped down his fork from the cut of steak stabbed messily onto it. “Aerion you are flinging blood everywhere, please put your hands down nobody here intends on shooting you.”
“I’d beg to differ.” Daella scoffed. You had to purse your lips to suppress a smirk at the girls attitude. Her appearance was entirely, ethereally, you. But that was the attitude of Maekar Targaryen at its finest. She was seven, and a force to be reckoned with. She was quiet and calculating, a beauty in the eye of all with the foul mouth of her Father stuck onto her like an afterthought. She was perfect, to you, to her Father and to almost all but her siblings who more often than not ended up on the receiving end of her cheeky ploys and attitude. It was also widely known that she had her Father completely and utterly wrapped around her finger, at her mercy, point being actively proven as Maekar cut up her steak for her, removing the fatty bits she refused to touch because they made her teeth feel funny. You couldn’t even be mad at him for coddling her, you knew one thing and that was your girl knew how to stand up for herself and put a man in his place, she could protect herself just fine and that made you feel all the more better about raising girls in this wretched world. However, with three older brother’s and a Father who would go to war for her if she asked, she had no need to defend herself currently, and she definitely used it to her advantage. Because she was your smart girl. You adored her always. “And what is that supposed to mean my darling?” Maekar questioned, pushing her plate back in front of her as a three year old Aegon slingshotted several peas in Aerion’s direction, clearly coached by Daella as there was absolutely no way your three year old had successfully loaded his slingshot with such an abundance of peas. You tried your best with Aerion, there was no doubt in that, to the courts you defended him endlessly but he was disciplined fairly at home for his wrongdoings, he got away with very little except for the foul mouth. But due to this, Daella and Aemon had seemingly formed an alliance against their elder brother, now recruiting young Egg who was still learning his way in the world. It would be adorable if it didn’t cause such problems.
“Oi! Mother you cannot let him get away with that! Control the thing!” Aerion shouted, pushing his chair back and standing as little Aegon giggled in delight at the smushed peas on Aerion’s tunic. “That thing is your brother, and you did worse Aerion, you flung a knife at your Father when you were three. He’s still got the scar to prove it.” You shook your head gently, standing and passing little Rhae over to Maekar who took her with a glad smile as she pulled at his beard and shook with excitement at the familiar face of her Father. You stood in front of your son, brushing the pea residue from his tunic and pushing him back down into his chair, before rounding the table and picking up Aegon and taking him back to your seat, Daeron passing the young boy’s plate across so that is sat in front of you. You fed him quietly as the chatter resumed. He was more than capable, yes, but he made too much mess almost on purpose as if he knew you or his Father would just do it for him. And one of you almost always gave in. So yes, you were both technically being bested by a three year old. “Why did you leave knives lying around then?” He smirked sarcastically, as if he had won. As if you didn’t know the nature of your own boy. “We didn’t, Aerion.” Maekar started, eyes casting over to the boy, “You broke into Uncle Baelor’s solar, into his desk drawer and tried to fend me off from taking you for a bath. I’d show you the scar but I am sure you would not like to see me shirtless at the table.” Aerion grimaced at the thought and shook his head, “Absolutely not.” Maekar nodded his head, “Alright then. Shut up and eat your dinner.”
It was when you were all lounging at the table eating cake when Aerion seemingly could not hold his tongue. The order of the children had chaotically all switched around, Daella had decided to perch herself in your lap, playing with your hair and plaiting it, telling you how good you would look if you just let her do it now. “Maybe later, my angel, we do not want to get hair in our cake- or cake in our hair rather, do we?” You smiled, she giggled in response, “You’re silly mummy.” You nuzzled your nose into her shoulder, tickling her inadvertently causing more giggles to erupt from the girl as she picked at her cake.
“Father.”
“Aerion.”
“You were old when you got married.” The sigh that escaped Maekar was not a quiet one, he anchored his head to eye Aerion, to gage where yet again this conversation could possibly be going. Somehow he had Aemon with a chair pulled directly next to his, the boy nestled into his side under his arm, Rhae now resided in Daeron’s embrace as he doted on her quietly, and Aegon perched atop both of Maekar’s knees, eating from both his and his Father’s plates. “I was older, yes.” He strained. He hated the topic of conversation, he loved you, and how he met you, yet he knew he was considered older than most men when he decided to wed you. You were young and full of life- you still very much were, but he had overheard many women of the court offering you their sympathies when they initially heard of the betrothal. Oh how far from the truth they had been.
“But you’re older than Mother.” Aerion prodded, causing Maekar’s eyes to clench shut, he already knew where this conversation was headed. “Surely Mother could have had any man she wished, she’s beautiful. And she chose an old man. A fourth son at that, claim to nothing. A bit of wasted beauty no? It’s rumoured even the Prince of Dorne vied for her hand and she turned him down, for what? A life in the Storm Lands? Couldn’t say I would do the same- what?Why are you all looking at me like that, it’s an honest question. I am sure I’m not the first to ask.”
Your gaze found Aerion’s with a singular stern look, no words left your mouth. Gently you shifted off of the seat, propping Daella onto it. Grasping Aerion by the shoulder, taking full advantage of his small stature for his age, you pulled him “Get up.” You grunted, he stumbled to his feet as you hauled him up the patio steps into the house, up to his bedchambers. You passed many maids and guards along the way, all looking rather surprised, more often than not it was Maekar dealing with Aerion’s behaviour, not you.
As the door slammed shut behind you, you released your grip on your son, brows furrowed “What, you will punish me for speaking what is in my mind!” Your seething was silent, eerily silent. Never did you see the day you would have to be defending your marriage, your own husband, to the son that you both shared. “Do you truly have no idea the love I have for your Father? Truly do you see none of it?” You questioned, voice painfully quiet as your words flowed freely, willing your son for one more supposed truth tonight. “I mean you have six children so maybe there’s something.” Aerion shrugged. You laughed, physically laughed, fingers pressing into your temples, “Maybe there’s something.” You repeated, another laugh escaping you as it settled into a simmering rage. “If you think, Aerion, what your Father and I share is just something, the world is going to chew you up and spit you out. I was advised against everyone who loved me not to marry your Father, because seemingly he was cold, unlovable, lacks the adoration to be a doting husband was actually a direct quote from one of my previous maids. She was removed from my service for that comment. Regardless, I married your Father because I learned him, and I learned that he was not actually so unlovable because I was actively doing it. And he protested. He said I was too young, too full of life, I needed a Lord my age. But I insisted I wanted him. Being a fourth son? What does it matter, I did not lose him to the courts, you have a more present Father because his status gives him respect and he is entitled to things such as this yet he is not required where he does not will. You should be grateful. The the day he relented and pledged himself to me was the best day of my life. Look at where I am Aerion, I am a proud Mother to six wonderful children, whom I chose to have, I was not forced nor coerced. I chose to have six of you. And because your Father loved me so deeply we had another, and another. I choose his clothing, I speak to the tailors and deal with all that because the faffing irritates him, the same as it does you, I do that for him because I love him as I love you. This house do you think its colours were always purple and gold? No. They were once red and black, yet when I married your Father he had the entire house repainted and decorated so that I would feel more welcome so far from my own family as we begun our own. So don’t you dare ever, ever, suggest that there is no amount of love between your Father and I. Your Father is a great man, great men make mistakes and I know you feel he has done you some injustice by punishing you for your bad behaviour but when you learn one day what some children have to endure at their Father’s hand you will be grateful yours loved you enough not to. You dare speak of him in such a way again Aerion, you dare.” You shook your head, eyes boring into his own violet ones as he stared up at you, ears pink as be chewed at the inside of his lip. You hated feeling anger towards any of your children, but eventually Aerion was going to need to hear it sooner or later.
“You will not leave this bedchamber tonight. You will have some water, have a bath and go to bed. Tomorrow morning at breakfast you will be the first one there and you will apologise to your Father alone and sincerely. Do you understand?” You raised an eyebrow, pulling his hands apart so that he would not pick his nails. “Yes mother.” You nodded, “Good. Do not pick your nails it causes more damage than you’d think. Goodnight Aerion.” You pressed a quick, gentle kiss to the top of his head before departing, closing the door behind you and politely asking a maid to draw Aerion a bath.
You had not realised quite how long you had spent in that bedchamber, for Maekar had managed to put the rest of the young children to bed. You found him in Daeron’s bedchamber, sat in the armchair by the fire as Daeron lounged on the end of the bed. You took a seat next to him silently, “Did you hit him?” Daeron questioned, you couldn’t quite work out which answer he was looking for. You knew he thought Aerion deserved a good smack from time to time, but you also knew he felt guilty for thinking as such because at the end of the day Aerion was his brother, and the Septons say we must love our brothers. “Have I ever hit any of you?” You teased, squeezing his arm. “No, but none of us are Aerion.” Daeron answered, a cheeky grin on his tired face. “I apologise for ruing your nameday dinner, Dae.” You stroked some of his tousled sandy hair back from his face gently as he shrugged. “M’not bothered. Really. This has been a thousand times better than it would have in Kings Landing. So thank you.” You pursed your lips into a weak smile as he leant down so you could hug him tightly, “Happy nameday sweet boy.” You kissed his forehead softly before rising, Maekar too standing and pressing a gentle kiss to Daeron’s forehead, his palm cupping Daeron’s cheek. He admired momentarily. He was now adorning more features of a man than child, no longer was he the chubby cheeked babe that had come into the world singing a gale. “Happy name day, son.” Daeron smiled gently in reciprocation, “Thank you, Dad.” With a nod, Maekar followed to where you had been waiting in the doorway, a lazy smile on your face as your lip quivered lightly. You found every nameday of each child slightly emotional, but Daeron most-so as he was the first of your children to reach any milestone, any age, and any maturity.
The door clicked shut behind Maekar, as he gazed down to find your eyes. Gently he reached for your face, pulling you into a silent yet entirely devoted kiss. He was entirely yours, and he would make it known your defence of him had meant more than anything, just as it had all those years ago.
“Eugh!”
Both your heads snapped to the direction of the sound, finding Daella stood in her purple nightgown in the centre of the corridor, completely and utterly disgusted at the sight of affection between her own Mother and Father. A hearty laugh escaped the pare of you, your hand coming to rest on Maekar’s clothed chest as Daella’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Don’t you have a bedchamber! Why must my eyes be subjected to this torture! Eugh! Miss Melinda where is the soap I need to wash my eyes!” Daella’s night nurse Melinda hurried out of her bedchamber, feigning dramatics “Oh my darling Princess what is it that has caused you such strife.” You had to burrow your head, stifling giggles, into Maekar’s chest so you did not seemingly offend your daughter further. “Unfortunately, Melinda, my dearest daughter was subjected to seeing me show some affection toward my wife.” The grin of amusement on his face was unmistakable, as was the twinkle within his eye as Melinda played along with a wink. “Oh you poor thing! No little girl should have to see such things!” Daella’s giggles could be heard all throughout the corridor as she allowed Melinda to carry her back to her bedchamber, “Goodnight mummy! Goodnight daddy!”
“Goodnight Daella.” Maekar called as you made sure to blow her a kiss as she disappeared into her own room. You were giddy like children. “I’ll race you to the bedchamber.” You spoke, unclasping Maekar’s cloak from his shoulders and chucking it onto one of the standing tables of the corridor. “But I’ve already chased Aegon- Wife!” You were already gone, sprinting down the corridors of Summerhall as your Husband chased, paces behind following your giggles that entirely mirrored Daella’s own. Servants and staff alike only watched with amused grins from afar, it was rare they saw the Prince so happy again. They knew he was contented, but with so many children he was tired more often than not, it brought a smile to all to see the great Prince Maekar, The Anvil, chasing his Wife through the corridors of his estate, a childish grin plastered on the pair of your faces.
Slamming your hand into the door you called, “I win!” He stopped, now towering over you. “You only won, woman, because you are a cheat.” You feigned offence, “What a vile accusation! A Lady never cheats, she simply outsmarts the beast that is man!” He pinched your side causing another giggle to escape you as you tried to manoeuvre away from him, “Beast?” He grinned, “Beast? Who are you calling a beast, wife?” A shriek escaped you as he cornered you into the bedchamber, door swinging shut as his fingers didn’t leave your side “Maekar! Don’t tickle me- I’ve had six children I can’t take being tickled!” He stopped with a laugh, a soft smack to your arse as he turned you over on the bed to being undoing the laces of your dress.
When you were bare before him you turned over, his hands ran over your soft stomach gently, settling above your hips to keep ahold of you. “Perhaps a bath?” You asked, cupping his jaw and pulling him lower into a hungry kiss. “You defended me.” He spoke softly, his voice only being capable of going so low made it rasp against your skin. You frowned “Why would I not?” You helped him undress himself, when he too was bare he lifted you further up the bed to settle against the pillows. “Maekar.” You spoke softly, fingers caressing his cheek. “He is not wrong.” He admitted painfully, pressing his cheek against your breasts, his beard prickly against your supple skin, his hands grounding themselves at the sides of your ribs as he allowed for once, his entire weight to rest upon you as the lower half of him was lying between your legs. You wrapped your arms around him gently, tilting your head forward to bring your lips against the top of his head. “He is so unbelievably wrong. He is our spoiled little boy who we’ve practically coddled near every day of his life, he does not seem to understand that what we have is love because he has nought to compare it to. Baelor and Jena are more than content, your parents are the image of love. When compared to them yes we are less flashy, but anyone who understands us understands what we are. And Aerion will, in time.” You felt your chest dampen, you adjusted your head so that you could see his face, his eyes cast downward as silent tears fell down his face, onto your breasts.
“I have spent my entire life in Baelor’s shadow. The fourth son, claim to nothing. Not desired in court, never supposed to have a woman like yourself as my bride. I’ve never not heard the whispers. My home is my home and I became content with that. The staff care for us, not the rumours. I select who works in my service. And yet it was not a stranger, but rather my own son.” You bit your lip to still its quivering, your heart hurt for him. You had heard the admission before but it had been from strangers, for your own son to haphazardly admit he thought his own father unworthy of you was a stab to the gut for Maekar. The court could think it all they liked but for his own son felt like a cruel jest by the God’s. That he was doomed to be forever reminded by the boy he had helped create that even he could see he was not worthy of your love. “Do not let our son. Our son. The boy we created out of love, who has turned out angry at the word since the day he came. Make you feel any less than what you are. You are everything to me, Maekar. Without you I would not be so loved, so cherished. I would be childless, because God’s be damned if I’d put myself through one pregnancy let alone six, for any man but you. You are a loving husband, a devoted Father, a good man. Do you know how many women pray to the God’s for a man like you? Yet I had to beg for you because you thought I was too good for you? That is what makes you so whole Maekar. You are good, you love me, you love our children, you are kind. I just wish sometimes you could love yourself the way that I love you.” You held him tighter, if that could even be possible, legs coming to wind around his waist and cross at the based of his spine. “You love me.” It wasn’t a question, it was an affirmation, as if he was trying to engrave into his very being the truth your words carried what they meant to him.
“I do. And nothing anyone says can change that.”
He pressed his face against your chest, you felt his tongue glide up the valley between your breasts, “You love me.” He panted, his mouth descended upon one of your breasts, his tongue circling the peak of your nipple before sucking against it, beard scratching the skin around your breast. “I love you.” You panted back, becoming breathless as each kiss he lay tickled against your skin, lower and lower until he reached the top of your mound. He layered a kiss to the skin there before delving lower, another grunt escaping him, “I love you.” He parted your folds hungrily with his tongue before lapping up your growing wetness, a languid mewl escaped you at the feeling as you rested the backs of your knees against his shoulders. “That’s it.” He hummed, the vibrations sending shivers through you causing your back to involuntarily arch. “Give your weight to me, wife. Give your everything to me.” A moan escaped you again, longer and louder this time as he delved deeper, his nose bumping with your swollen clit in rhythm with his tongue lapping at your weeping hole. “M-Maekar, I should be making you f-feel better, my love.” You opened your mouth yet no sound came out, your head flinging back into the pillows as your eyes rolled back. He had increased his pace feverishly, gripping you as close to his face as he could possibly get, he pulled back only briefly “This is for me, sweet wife.” He pressed as sloppy kiss to your inner thigh, sucking until it bruised before digging his teeth in bluntly. “Having you, having all of you at my mercy. This is what I desire more than anything. No other man of my Father’s court has ever seen such a sight, nor will he ever know one as beautiful as mine.” He burrowed himself back in, his fingers joining the ever growing sequence as your legs begun to shake. He wanted this, so you held on as desperately as you could, until you were cumming without realisation. The combination of his rough padded fingers inside of you as his soft tongue lapped and sucked at your clit had forced your orgasm to overtake near every nerve that consumed you, a defeated whimper left your lips as you released you grip on his hair and panted for breath quietly. Your eyes took a moment to adjust back to the light from the darkness and speckles of colour from how truly tight you had clenched them shut. “You still with me sweetheart?” Maekar lifted his head, he knew he had pushed you, but now you were near passed out from overstimulation and pliant to his will. He kissed up from your mound to your navel, before following the path up to your jaw.
You smiled lazily, “Hi.” Pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Are you alright?” He questioned, running his hands over you as you nuzzled into his neck “More than okay, my love.” You pressed your lips against his forehead. “Are you going to fuck me now?” He laughed against your skin, lapping and sucking at the crevice of your collarbone, “Still not satisfied? Some might call that gluttony.” You whined lightly, palms pressing against his chest “I’m asking you to fuck me husband, do you need more direction?” Finally giving in, not that it took much convincing, he lined his cock up to your already dripping hole. He thrust in harshly, knocking the air from your lungs in one swift movement. Nothing came out of you save for an incoherent mumble as you pressed your face into the crook of his neck. Maekar Targaryen did nothing half bothered, everything was done perfect and proper. Which was why pleasuring his wife was one of the utmost serious matters to him.
He flipped the pair of you, his back now rested against the plush pillows, your thighs caging his waist as he kept his knees spread and bent, giving you all the more access and freedom of movement. “Show me how much you love me.” He commanded, kneading the fat of your arse before smacking it, coaxing a moan from you as you begun to ride his cock. He could not escape the noises tearing from his lips, his head thrown back in bliss as you rode him. He could not release his grip from you, he was utterly enchanted by how entirely you were giving yourself to him, like you didn’t already share six children and had been married over a decade. You clenched your walls around him, coaxing an unrestrained groan from his lips as you joined them to your own, slipping letting your tongues dance with one another as you drew closer to your peak. He pulled his hand free reluctantly to press his finger against your clit, rubbing slow circles as you jolted up and down on his thick cock. “S’too much.” You whined, head falling back as your hair cascaded down your spine entirely free. “Cum for me, wife. Come on my cock, I’ll give you another child if you tell me what I need to know.” He rasped, picking up his thrusts to continue your faltering rhythm. “I love you.” Your voice was breathless, skin sticky, your nails clawing at his skin as you fought against him for your own pleasure. “I know you do. Let go f’me.” Unable to fight back any longer you came with an unruly moan, he grunted, pulling your chest until it pressed against his own, head collapsing under his jaw as he released his seed deep inside of you.
You both remained entirely unmoving, entirely obsessed with one another as you silently willed to never part. “Another girl.” He mumbled against your hair, “Hm?” You lifted your head lightly, your nose pressing to his jaw. “When this one takes. Another girl.“ You just nodded, no room for argument as you surrendered entirely to him, pliant against the hard planes that adorned his body, muscles contracting under you lightly with every breath.
“I love you.”
✴︎
The following morning was a quiet one. You remained curled into Maekar, covered by the thin bedsheets resting in the breezed from the window as you nuzzled against his chest. The knock at the door was so quiet you might not have even heard it had you been truly resting. Adjusting the quilts so that you were both appropriately covered, Maekar called “Enter.” Inside came Aerion, a small envelope in hand. He placed it on Maekar’s bedside table before turning, “I am sorry, Father.” Maekar gave a small nod, “Thank you Aerion.” Aerion wasted no time in exiting the room, slamming the door behind him with a thud.
Tearing the envelope softly, Maekar pulled out a surprisingly neat piece of folded parchment, Aerion’s recognisable scrawl adorning the yellowed page. A small smile rested upon your pouted lips, Maekar letting out a small chuckle of amusement at the heading of the paper.
Reasons that I am grateful for my Father
A/N: this might be my favourite piece i’ve written, the anon request was perfect, it took me a while to start but it just started flowing and i am so so happy, i write my best when im writing about maekar and the maekarlings i swear so if anyone has any other requests for them pls pls pleaseeee send them i adore the entire dynamic
anyway, as always: requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions at all are always always appreciated - take care everyone!!
thinking about taking care of dunk after he’s injured… if you know what i mean…
18+ (smut, praise for dunk, riding)
he sits stiffly against the tree, bare chest shuddering with laboured breaths as your hands ghost across the tender skin of his face. your fingers, soft and warm, brush the deep purple bruise around his eye and the one blooming like a magnolia on his cheek.
his muscles are rigid, jaw working as you apply the earthy-smelling salve to the wounds on his face. he lets out a pained hiss when your thumb swipes a glob of the creamy white balm across a gash above his eyebrow.
you cradle the side of his face, cooing gently as you finish applying the salve. your lean in and plant a gentle kiss to his forehead as he sighs out your name, another shudder racking through him. the muscles in his shoulders and arms shift as his hands grip your hips; vice-like despite his obvious fatigue and the pain that riddles him.
“easy, sweet boy, nice and slow,” you whisper, your free hand roaming down his chest to palm the fat of his pectoral muscles. your thumb swipes over a nipple and he sucks in a breath. you hum a chuckle as you raise your hips, lifting yourself off his length, your pussy pulling tight around the tip. “m’trying to make you feel better, so just take it nice and slow, okay?”
dunk nods, the movement rigid. you smile as his eyes droop, and you lean in to press another kiss to his jawline as you gently sink back down. your pussy splits open around him, the wet clutch of your walls sucking him back in as you lower yourself into his lap. your thighs tense where you straddle him, and you move your hand from his face to the side of his neck, holding for stability.
dunk groans when your fingers brush the nape of his neck, and he angles his face so you can plant another kiss to the underside of his jaw. you kiss a small bruise, and he exhales through his nose, his eyes shut.
“feels good,” he whispers, hands like steel weights on your hips. you take all of him, cunt clenching tight when you bottom out. he groans softly, hoarse and gravel-strewn from the back of his throat. “oh, gods above…”
you ring your hips in a circle. one time, then two, grinding your swollen clit against the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock. there’s a reddened bruise beneath his navel, just adjacent to the trail of hair that leads down from it. you bring your hand down his pectorals, over the soft muscle of his belly until you can run your fingertips across the bruise.
dunk grumbles, but says nothing. his head leans back against the tree trunk, woods serene around him, as he guides you in grinding yourself on his cock. you lift your hips while you pet his bruise, slowly sinking back down as you gently massage the skin around it.
“my poor dunk,” you utter, the thick stretch of his cock making you a little breathless around the vowels. you whimper when the fat head nudges that perfect spot inside you, but you swallow the moan of his name that threatens to escape as you bring yourself up and down. “my poor, sweet dunk. always getting into trouble.”
“s’not trouble…” dunk mutters, mouth falling open as he grunts into the still air. his cock twitches inside you as you take him over and over, the silken walls of your pussy sliding against him—wet and warm and perfect. dunk continues, panting. “i will always defend the innocent. that is my duty.”
“i know,” you say, hand finding his chest again. you place a hand over his wildly beating heart as you lean in for another kiss. before your lips meet his though, you smile. “my big, strong boy. you’re such a good knight, aren’t you? my brave, brave boy.”
you kiss dunk then, slotting your mouth to his just as he groans at the heat in your words. he groans again when your tongue swipes across his lips, and he picks his head off the tree to get a better angle and kiss you better. heat pools low in your belly when your tongues meet, and you taste the bittersweet remnants of your homemade pain relief in the grooves of his teeth.
you lift and lower your hips, grinding on the downstroke. his cock stretches you open, your arse landing softly on the mass of his thighs, which your pussy drips onto as you take him all.
“you’re such a good boy,” you tell him, pulling out of the kiss. he licks his lips, eyelids low and pupils wide. beneath the bruising and blood, a lurid blush glows high on his cheeks as he shudders, sweat building on his brow. you coo at him softly, coaxing him towards his looming orgasm. “and does my good boy want to come?”
dunk trembles, groaning from deep in his chest. it’s your name, strewn across the pained sound with great effort, but it makes your clit swell with your heartbeat and your pussy clench tight around the thick of him. you hold onto the nape of his neck, anchoring yourself as you pick up the pace, ensuring your movements are still as gentle as possible.
mumbling something, the large man pitches a little off the tree to bury his face into the crook of your neck. he’s burning hot against you, and you feel his lips suckling on the supple skin as his hips offer up a few pathetic jerks as you take him all the way to the root. dunk’s body shakes against you, and your hand shifts to the back of his head to cradle him, threading your fingers through his hair and petting his scalp.
he spills then, his cock deep against the plug of your cervix and spreading your pussy apart as she drools around him. the noise from his throat is pained, desperate, strung across a whine as he releases inside you, seed filling you hot as you meet his orgasm with a grinding of your hips. he whimpers your name around another groan, face buried deep in your neck, as you set yourself a gruelling pace.
“ah-ha, ha, f-fuck, oh my gods,” dunk rambles, whiny around the edges as you lift then drop, lift then drop, until your knees threaten to buckle and you settle yourself into a deep grind instead. dunk gasps out when your body goes taut beneath his hold and your cunt tightens around him. “yes, yes, please—”
“dunk,” you moan as your orgasm consumes you from the inside out, your entire body shaking as you hold him to you. the tension in your lower belly quickly dissipates as your pussy pulls tight and you cream around his cock. you hold yourself upright, careful not to collapse into his aching arms. “so good, dunk… yeah, you did so well.”
he detaches himself from your neck and slides his mouth to yours, licking over your bottom teeth and groaning loudly when your tongues meet. your hand finds his face once more and you hold him tenderly as you kiss, your thumb stroking over the bruise on his cheekbone as if your touch alone could fix him.
AN: Sadly we're going to have to do away with the taglist as Tumblr has terminated my account twice over the span of an hour for tagging folks in the comments. As deeply frustrating as this is I prefer to keep my blog active so moving forward I guess just make sure you're following the blog for updates or turn on notifcations.
Summary: One night on a riverboat changes everything for Lyonel Baratheon.
Prequel to:
The Hot Spring (NSFW) - Lyonel gives into temptation when he sees his brother's fiancée off riding into the woods alone.
A Mark For Every Time You Looked At Me - Lyonel realises the extent of his brother's cruelty as he tries to help you cover the truth surrounding his death.
The Daughter of Flames - Lyonel decides to stake his claim after he gets wind of a proposal.
Beloved (NSFW) - Lyonel wants everyone to know just how much you deserve each other.
Whiskey(NSFW) - Lyonel loves it when you spit whiskey into mouth.
Kisses…
Lyonel’s had thousands of them through the years. It’s what comes with being The Laughing Storm. The man who guffaws like a demon while he drives a lance into his opponents’ chest. Who laughs like a banshee while he drives a sword into his gut.
His wins, at tourney and on the battlefield, they’re an aphrodisiac. They send women into his bed, and men too when he desires it. Sometimes there’s the odd orgy. He’s hedonistic, chasing pleasure wherever he can find it, drowning in it to cast away the odd emptiness inside him.
What his wins don’t do is lure in dragons.
Which is fine because stags, they don’t like dragons anyway. They’re mad fuckers with that shining white hair, weird eyes and those Dragon Dreams that people whisper about…. He can’t stand the lot of them, every single one of them is moody with a stick so far up their arse they may as well be riding broomsticks not horses.
But dragons, they’re sneaky things, they find their way into places you don’t expect. Like river boat parties, ones with music, dancing and fireworks. Lots of fireworks, the kind that heat your blood, that set your soul alight with a single kiss.
When he sees you, he can’t help but be captivated. You stand near the bow of the riverboat, flowers woven through your hair, the moonlight caressing your skin. When you throw back your head and laugh it’s the filthiest sound, one that calls to him like a sailor to a siren’s call.
And Lyonel he’s prepared to dash himself on the rocks, to haul himself into the sea if it means he gets to spend time in that presence.
He spends the night at the bow, wrapped up in a woman so thoroughly invigorating that everyone else lies forgotten. When the sun comes up, he steals a kiss, just one and after that he knows his lips will never touch another as long as he lives. When he wakes up hours later nestled in the furs he’d dragged outside to keep you both warm, you’re gone, disappeared into the ether as if you’d never existed.
He mourns the loss as he rides towards his first tourney, berating himself for not getting a name, a house, a moniker.
I’ll find you, he vows as he goes the obligatory waves and smiles to the crowd, studying every face. Even if I have to search the entire seven kingdoms.
It’s when he looks up into the stands where the dragons reside, that he sees you there. You’re dresses in their trademark black, fresh white flowers woven within the strands of your hair. You perch alongside the Breakspear, the edges of your mouth tipping up when your eyes find his.
He realises who you are instantly.
The princess that’s rarely seen outside of King’s Landing, the sister with their mother’s Dornish blood.
The Daughter of the Flames is what they call you.
And you’ve completely ensnared The Laughing Storm.
It appears that stags like dragons after all.
In fact Lyonel things they may just love them.
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Canon: Managing Director of law firm!Maekar Targaryen x Former Accountant!Reader
Trope: From boss and former employee to husband and wife.
Warning: no use of Y/N, modern AU, courtroom drama
Summary: After helping her win a major lawsuit against her ex-husband who had framed her for tax evasion and financial fraud, Maekar finally kicked that faithless bastard out of her life. Having spent years loving her in silence, he resolved to stay by her side and take care of her for the rest of their life.
Note: Gwin Ashford is Reader’s best friend.
Gilded Rot - coming soon
People across Westeros thought Maekar Targaryen had lost his mind. Why else would the managing director of one of the country’s most prestigious law firms willingly take on the defense of an accountant accused of tax evasion?
— singing skies and dancing waters (m); maekar x reader. modern!au, cowboy!maekar, bartender!reader. best friend's dad, strangers to lovers. fluff, angst, smut.
— i howl for you, i sing to you, i circle you (m); baelor x reader. modern! au, cowboy!baelor. exes to lovers, second chance romance. fluff, angst, smut.
— the great divide (m); baelor x reader. prequel to i howl for you, i sing to you, i circle you. modern!au, cowboy!baelor, young!baelor. fluff, angst, smut.
— (some things are) flawed by design (m); baelor x reader. modern!au, exes!au. angst, smut.
weeks after you and baelor have called it quits, your car breaks down, your cellphone battery dies, and you're stranded on the side of the road under a pouring rain. and somehow, in an act you have yet to decide is either a blessing or a curse, you're thrown back into the dangerous spiral that comes with the very last person you wanted to see.
— nothing from nowhere, i'm no one at all (m); maekar x reader. modern!au, wrestler!maekar, seamstress!reader. fluff, angst, smut.
trying to make ends meet as a young waitress, you set up an ad on the newspaper offering sewing and clothing alteration services in hopes of making some extra coin. you're not expecting much from it—until an up-and-coming wrestler from the indie scene asks for you to fix his ragged gear.
— oh, you set my soul alight! (m); baelor x reader. chapter three to the pornstar!baelor universe. smut, fluff.
lights, camera... action? baelor targaryen has the best numbers in the business, and, finally, also has you, sitting on his lap while on a night out and making coffee in his kitchen when you return. you're a couple in all but title, and baelor spirals in the woes of want that come with being your man.
these titles are being brainstormed...
— pool boy at the vampire mansion (m); duncan x reader. modern!au, pool boy!duncan. acquaintances to friends to lovers. smut.
— make you want all of her love (m); baelor x reader. modern!au, firefighter!baelor, bartender!reader. ex-boyfriend's dad. fluff, angst, smut.
— and orpheus wished and pray, in vain, to cross the styx again (m); baelor x reader. moulin rouge!au, slightly inspired by the myth of orpheus and eurydice.
let me know if there is any work you'd like to be tagged in!
— this is a tracker for my longer wips! drabbles and shorter one-shots are not listed, so please let me know if you'd be interested in being in my general tag list 🥰 thank you so much for the support! it really means the world to me!
Summary: Lyonel gives into temptation when he sees his brother's fiancée off riding into the woods alone.
Prequel to:
A Mark For Every Time You Looked At Me - Lyonel realises the extent of his brother's cruelty as he tries to help you cover the truth surrounding his death.
The Daughter of Flames - Lyonel decides to stake his claim after he gets wind of a proposal.
Beloved (NSFW) - Lyonel wants everyone to know just how much you deserve each other.
Whiskey(NSFW) - Lyonel loves it when you spit whiskey into mouth.
Lyonel doesn’t intend to go on a ride with you.
In fact, he doesn’t intend to be anywhere near you at all, not since news of your engagement to his brother broke. You’d both agreed to stay away from each other and that’s what you’ve done until this tourney.
Being around you again, it’s like a lance driving into his heart, the shards splintering the deeper it goes. He’d planned to drink it away, fuck it out with a couple of whores but then he’d seen you sneaking off towards the woods with your horse and he knew he simply couldn’t let you go.
The two of you have been riding in a companionable silence since he caught up with you, he doesn’t have anything to say that will change the way things are and neither do you. Your families making this decision, stealing away your choice… It’s a cruel twist of fate, one he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.
He hears the waterfall long before he sees it, the rush of water in his ears, drowning out the sound of the woodland surrounding you. There have always been rumours about a hot spring in this area, but no one was ever able to determine the truth of it because the tourney hosts have always been fiercely protective of their land, keeping it closed off to outsiders.
Although he’s seen plenty throughout his travels but nothing quite as stunning as the waterfall that appears when the trail opens up into a shrouded clearing. He can feel the raw power of it vibrating through the air as the water rushes from an opening in the rock face, descending down several ridged ledges, crashing into the pool below. The force of it causes the water to ripple, extending out towards the shore, where it calms before reaching the sandy edges. The water itself is almost translucent, steam coiling off the surface from the heat.
You slip off your horse before taking the reins and tying them to a tree, Lyonel follows suit, his eyes fixed on you as you stand before the pool with your hands on your hips.
“I found this place yesterday. The water comes from an aquifer that flows about 300 feet underground.” You say, gesturing at the gap in the rockface the water cascades from.
“Why are we here?” He asks as you focus on pulling off your worn riding boots. There’ll be no more of that when you marry his brother, he wants a house mouse, a lady who sews all day and tends the children he gives her.
“Because I need to do something crazy right now or I’m going to lose my fucking mind.” You tell him as you unfasten your breeches. “Stay, go, I don’t fucking care.”
He gets it, truly he does. You’re about to have your freedom stripped away and for a woman as wild as you, it’s the equivalent of a death sentence.
He chooses to stay, averting his gaze as you shimmy out of your breeches, leaving them in a heap at your feet. The white linen shirt goes next, leaving you clad in your undergarments. He barely has the chance to catch more than a glimpse before you dive into the water, a quick fluid motion that sends you disappearing under the surface. He holds his breath for a moment before you reappear a few feet away, swiping your hair away from your face as you tread water.
“Are you coming in?” You ask him.
It’s a challenge, one he finds himself powerless to resist.
He whips his own shirt off over his head, kicking off his boots to Lord knows where. He’s not pretty like you, not with those scars of his. The ragged pink indentation on his left shoulder from a lance. A clean slice across his collarbone, a sword gone awry. Your mouth purses together as you look at him and he can’t help but remember the feel of your lips on his skin as you kissed every single one of them before the engagement.
He shoves his breeches down his hips, and you start to laugh. He’s wearing yellow silk underwear with tiny stags handstitched into the fabric. That sound, it’s infectious and he finds himself smiling as he steps out of his breeches and stands before you, brazen and half-mast.
“On or off?” He asks you, making it clear that you’re the one in control here. He can sense how much you need it. Your life right now is a whirlpool of chaos, an assemble of things you have no day in, this needs to be your choice, he needs to be your choice.
“Off.” You say and you both know where this is heading.
He pushes his underwear down his hips slowly, drawing it out like a show. Your gaze fixes on him, your lips parting as he strides down the embankment into the water. The warmth creeps up his calves, his muscular thighs until his hips disappear underneath surface.
“Better?” Lyonel asks as he lingers in front of you. Your hands come to rest on his shoulders as his arms wrap around your waist, drawing you close.
He’ll never forget how good it feels to be held by you, to have your hands roam over his flesh. His love, his desire, it thrums through his body as he remembers nights he spent tangled up in you in his furs. The way his fingertips chased over your skin in the candlelight as he traced his name in looping swirls.
“It feels like I can breathe again.” You whisper, your mouth so perilously close.
“Oh, my beloved. I feel the exact same way.” He tells you and those pert lips tip up into a smile.
Your mouth brushes over his and it’s like a fire igniting deep down in the depths of his soul. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your hips as he moans his ecstasy into your mouth. It feels like he’s burning from the inside, like there’s thousands of tiny flames dancing underneath his flesh.
“You want this?” He asks you and you bite his bottom lip hard in response. Copper bursts on his tongue, and it unleashes something in him, the need to claim you, to possess you.
His fingers pull off your underwear, tossing them onto the embankment, they land in a damp ball alongside his own, the wetness soaking into his silk.
“Hold onto me my love.” He whispers as he guides himself inside you. “Don’t let me go.” He enters you slowly, savouring every inch as he holds you close, burying his face into the curve of your throat to stifle his moan.
“I know exactly how you like it, don’t I?” He murmurs, stoking the fire inside you as he starts to thrust. You cry out as he hits that sweet spot and his mouth covers yours, stealing away your breath as he chases your pleasure like an arsonist, piling fuel on the flames, watching it burn with a frantic glee. “I’m the only one that can fuck you so hard you see stars when you close your eyes.”
You cling to him, your thighs tightening around his waist as you start to whimper. You’re getting close now, he can feel it in the way you grip his cock, hear it in each and every single heightened breath. His own release surges up inside him, rising like a stag, baying for blood as it kicks its hooves into evening the air.
“Look at me.” He begs as he drives you right to precipice. “Look at me darling, show me how much you love me.”
Those eyes, he could spend an eternity getting lost in them. They’re his moon, his sun, his sky all lit up with a patchwork of stars, they’re his salivation and he knows eventually they’ll be his death.
The climax hits, his release spilling into you as you cry out his name into the woodlands, your fingertips sinking into his shoulders as his hips stutter, fucking his cum even deeper. It’s a desperate act, one of a desperate man who know his entire world is slipping through his fingers.
Your fingers stroke through his relentless curls as emotion overwhelms him, making his eyes sting as he nuzzles the curve of your throat, gracing your skin with his kisses as well as his tears.
“Oh, my beloved.” He whispers, his lips brushing over your tender flesh. “Whatever am I going to do without you.”
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