Maekar: Some men will say I meant to kill my brother. The gods know it is a lie, but I will hear the whispers till the day I die. And it was my mace that dealt the fatal blow, I have no doubt. The only other foes he faced in the melee were three Kingsguard, whose vows forbade them to do any more than defend themselves. So it was me. Strange to say, I do not recall the blow that broke his skull. Is that a mercy or a curse? Some of both, I think.
Duncan: I could not say, Your Grace. You swung the mace, m'lord, but it was for me Prince Baelor died. So I killed him too, as much as you.
Summary: You attempted to embroider a handkerchief for Maekar as a gift for the first nameday he would celebrate as your husband. It did not go exactly as planned.
Word count: 1.9K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, second-wife reader, unspecified age-gap, fluff, silly, quiet intimacy, English is my second language, proof read once
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
A/N: It all started as a silly idea for Baelor, but then I could not stop myself from writing about Maekar as well. Thank you as always for all your likes, reblogs, comments and follows! I do appreciate each and every single one of them!!
You wanted to make something nice for Maekar. His first nameday since you got married was approaching fast, and you wanted him to have something special from you. Your husband did not lack gifts, but none of them ever seemed personal.
Wishing to rectify that, you thought embroidering a handkerchief for him would be the perfect solution. It was small, useful and something he might actually like. Although embroidery was never your strongest skill, you spent a fortnight working on it slowly.
The cream linen itself was lovely, soft beneath your fingers. You had stitched the edges carefully in black thread. But then you made the mistake of attempting to add the Targaryen sigil.
And now, a few days before his nameday, you sat by the window of your chamber, the despair growing in your chest as you stared at the disaster in your lap.
“You were supposed to be ferocious.” You informed the dragon accusingly.
Maekar was not cruel, but he was proud. A severe warrior prince. You could not imagine presenting him with this crooked little monstrosity without dying of shame the moment he looked at it.
But, you wanted him to have something from you. Something made because you thought of him while making it.
The sound of boots outside your chambers startled you from your thoughts. Your heart lurched and too late, you tried to hide the handkerchief as the door opened.
Maekar stepped inside still dressed from training, silver hair damp at the temples, shirt opened at the neck. There was always something imposing and beautiful about him after sparring. His gaze landed immediately on you, then narrowed at the linen in your lap.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Nothing.” You said, standing and hiding the cloth instinctively around your back.
“It does not look like nothing.” He said, coming closer.
“It is an ugly, unfinished project, my love.” You attempted to dissuade him.
Heat crawled up your neck as you felt his gaze on you like a touch. You could still save yourself, you thought. You could say that it was practice, a gift for one of his children.
You hesitated too long, and his eyes sharpened immediately.
“It is for you…” You admitted finally, sighing. “I… tried to make something for your nameday.”
His expression shifted into something more attentive and somewhat warmer. You suddenly wished even more desperately that the dragon did not resemble a dying bird.
“It was supposed to be better than this.” You rambled quickly. “I wanted to make something nice, but halfway through I realized it looked ridiculous and I thought perhaps it would offend you! So I decided not to-”
Maekar simply held out his hand.
You blinked, confused. “What?”
“The handkerchief.” He stated simply. “Give it to me.”
“No!” You said, mortification washed over you instantly.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because you will look at it.”
“That is generally what one does with things, wife.”
“But it is terrible! Simply dreadful! I cannot give it to you.”
“I have survived worse.” He grunted. “Now give it here.”
You stared at him suspiciously for a long moment before finally surrendering the linen.
Maekar unfolded it carefully. There was silence, absolute, unbearable silence as his eyes moved slowly across the embroidery. Once, twice, then again, his brows furrowing deeper with every passing second. The shape made very little sense to him. It was clearly something, or perhaps several somethings in red thread.
He turned the handkerchief slightly sideways. There was a neck, he was sure of it, curved at such an unnatural angle it looked broken. And there were leaves, or flames, he was not certain. Then, he turned it upside down, which somehow made it worse because now it looked like a damned crab.
Gods, a battlefield map might have been easier to decipher.
“What in Seven Hells is this?” He finally asked.
Mortification flooded through you like a crashing wave.
“It is supposed to be a dragon…” You mumbled weakly. “I tried to stitch the sigil of your house, my love.”
At that, Maekar looked back down at the embroidery. Then back at you, and slowly back at the embroidery again. Now that he knew what to look for, he recognised the shape. One of the heads was noticeably larger than the others, while the other appeared to be stuck in permanent outrage. The third looked exhausted by the entire situation. If he were truly honest, the three heads of the Targaryen dragon resembled three deeply offended snakes.
Maekar continued staring, and then, to your absolute horror, a sharp snort escaped him.
“Oh, you are cruel.” You gasped in betrayal.
“I did not say anything.” He attempted to regain some composure and control of the situation.
“But you laughed!” You groaned, covering your face with your hands.
Scoffing, he looked back at the dragon once more. “Becuase the heads look personally insulted by their own existence."
“Or maybe it is because the dragon knows you are mocking it!” You said dramatically, glaring at the offending fabric through your fingers.
Another snort escaped him before he could stop it.
“Maekar!” Your eyes widened in scandalised outrage, before declaring miserably. “It is horrible! I know it! And now you know it too!”
“I did not fucking say anything like that.” Maekar replied, sounding truly exasperated now.
“But you looked at it in silence for nearly a minute! And then you laughed!”
“I did it because it required examination.”
“It is an embroidery, not a strategy for the battlefield.”
That finally broke him and a real laugh escaped him this time. You looked at him in utter betrayal. His gaze dropped back to the dragon, thumb brushing once over the crooked red stitching.
“You made this yourself…” It was not a question.
You nodded reluctantly, warmth settling in your chest at his somewhat soft tone.
“For me.” Maekar looked at you then and something unreadable lingered in his expression. It was not softness, but it was dangerously close.
“No one has ever made me a dragon before.” He said quietly.
Your throat tightened, the words landing heavier than anything else in the room.
“It is still a bad one.” You whispered. “It is not what you deserve, my love.”
“But it is mine.” He said firmly. “Just as you are mine, wife.”
Before you could respond, he stepped closer, finger warm against your jaw as he tilted your chin upward. You barely had time to breathe before he kissed you.
Maekar kissed like he did everything else, deliberate and thorough. His warmth surrounded you completely, as he drew you closer, hand tightened gently against your jaw and hips firm against yours. When a low moan escaped you, something in him shifted. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the kiss deepening at once.
It was possessive in that devastating way that made your heart stumble painfully in your chest.
His thumb brushed slowly along your jaw and neck, as though soothing you even while he kissed you harder. And the contrast nearly undid you entirely. You could feel the restraint in him, the effort to remain under control. Yet the unmistakable hunger and affection lived underneath, wrapped tightly beneath all that iron self-control.
When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead against yours. Your annoyance dissolved completely, leaving only warmth and the dizzy awareness of how closely he was still holding you.
“You did not need to hesitate to give me your gift…” He said quietly.
You sighed. “I thought you might be offended...”
“I am not easily offended.”
Maekar’s thumb brushed once against your cheek before he released you entirely. He looked down at the handkerchief again. Then, with a finality that brooked no argument, he folded it carefully and gave it back to you.
“You will finish it.” He said simply.
“Even if it looks like that?”
“Yes.” He grunted. “I intend to keep it.”
And this time, when he looked at you again, there was something quieter in his gaze. Something that suggested he meant more than just the dragon.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
You hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Maekar would keep the handkerchief privately. Maybe tucked away in a chest somewhere, or hidden among his things. Instead, he carried it with him. Not openly or proudly, afterall Maekar was not the sort of man who displayed sentiment for the world to admire. But it was constant enough that you began noticing flashes of cream linen and crooked red stitching everywhere.
And it was not just you.
No one dared question him directly at first, because your husband’s presence discouraged any foolishness naturally. Unfortunately, that did not apply to every knight. When one squinted openly at the fabric and remarked if it actually was a dragon, Maekar looked sharply at him.
“Concern yourself with your swordsmanship. Leave dragons to House Targaryen.” He said threateningly.
You wanted simultaneously to kiss him and disappear into the floor.
When a courtier, one of those men who thrived on false smiles and subtle mockery, remarked lightly that it was an “unusual interpretation” of the royal sigil, humiliation rose instantly in your throat. But Maekar looked at him, with a cold anger that suddenly made the air feel thinner.
“Careful.” The single word cut through like a blade. The courtier paled immediately.
“It was made by my wife.” Maekar said evenly. “And I would advise you to be careful how amusing you find that.”
The courtier attempted a weak smile. “I intended no insult, your Grace.”
“And yet you continue insulting me with your presence. Fuck off!” He growled.
You stared at him, and for a brief moment, his hand grasped yours firmly. The warmth of it lingered long after.
Then came Aegon, who unlike others, did not mock your little dragon. When he wandered one evening into Maekar’s solar, he noticed the handkerchief beside the candlelight, and picked it up curiously.
“Father, why does it look like that?” He asked bluntly.
You nearly choked on your own spit, from where you sat nearby with your book.
“That is because it is a dragon.” Maekar deadpanned.
“It looks like one head wants to bite the other ones.”
“They can be angry creatures.”
The boy considered this carefully, before nodding solemnly and accepting this explanation completely with the seriousness it deserved.
“You carry it everywhere.”
Maekar’s expression did not change, but something gentler settled beneath the severity.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer came without hesitation. “Because it was made for me.”
That was all. It was nothing poetic or elaborate, but the words settled warm and heavy in your chest. It became impossible not to understand what he was truly defending.
It was never the dragon, because even he understood that the creature looked mildly cursed.
It was you.
And the fact you wanted to make something for him badly enough to sit for nights stabbing your fingers raw with needles.
Maekar was not a gentle man, he was fire and iron sharpened by duty. But everyday, he carried your ridiculous little dragon as though it were something precious. And he never once hid it away. And he defended it every single time.
That realisation changed everything. The embarrassment remained and you suspected it always would whenever someone stared too hard at the linen. But beneath all that, something softer began blooming. Pure love and affection for your husband, especially when you caught him later at night absentmindedly smoothing his thumb once across the red stitching before joining you in bed.
And when Maekar looked at you afterwards, quietly and impossibly warm, you thought every crooked stitch was worth it after all.
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