pairing(s): baelor "breakspear" targaryen x fem!reader
summary: When Prince Daeron Targaryen refuses your hand in marriage, it puts you between a rock and a hard place. The rock being a deadly sex potion, and the hard place being the heir to the Iron Throne.
words: 21.1k (ahaha. wtf)
cw: explicit, smut, sex pollen, fuck or die, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), virginity loss, hand kink, fluids, belly bulge, mild exhibitionism, implied voyeurism at the end, somewhat forced proximity, brat taming, soft dom!baelor, big dick baelor, baelor is a munch, older man/younger woman, age difference, discussions of pregnancy, breeding kink, mild coercion, this is all very gratuitous, marriage, possessive behavior, noble!reader, reader called 'lady' and 'girl', yearning, poisoning, magic potions, suicidal ideation, sickbed, canon typical sexism, i love you daeron baby but you very much caused this to happen, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: i made the executive decision to use american english for this instead of the canonical british english of the books. found very little information on the dragon's breath flower as it appears in canon, so i made some bullshit up and based it on devil's trumpet. don't ask me about the capitalization of nothin. Mircalla is named for Mircalla Karnstein from Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu. Maester Florin named bc I couldn't just call the fucker Thorin Oakenshield. whatever
thank you again to my babes @urhoneycombwitch and @runawaywerewolf for being so nice to me while i lost my mind about this <3
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI
The Targaryens believe that they have the fire of dragons coursing through their veins, but you aren't certain that it's true. If they did, you don't see how they could get anything done, at all. Because right now you do, and it's agony.
Everything hurts. From your head to your toes it feels like your body is filled with venom, burning beneath your skin, your muscles all convulsing in waves of destruction that leave you all but incapacitated. Milk of the poppy does not help, and nor does wine. If you were delirious it would probably be more bearable, but unfortunately your mind is devastatingly sharp. It feels like you have even more awareness of everything than you normally do— your skin is so hypersensitive that you can feel every fibre of your sweat-drenched chemise, and you can feel the temperature of every breath you take as it fills your lungs. The lights are too bright, sounds are louder, flavors more vibrant on your tongue. Every little thing that is happening around you gets filed into your mind so that you feel, in no uncertain terms, like you could fight an entire army yourself and survive. If you were able to move beyond the pain.
You've really done it this time. You didn't believe that the potion was anything dangerous; otherwise you wouldn't have put it in your wine. You were under the impression that it was just a little charm, something cooked up by a wise woman to make lovesick people sleep better at night. You expected it to put a gleam in your eye and a skip in your step, but not this.
"Put this in your wine and watch your love blossom like a rose in bloom," the old lady had told you as she pressed the vial into your outstretched hand. She had taken your coin readily enough and ignored the skeptical look that your lady's maid, Mircalla, had given her. "Drink deep. Enjoy the fortune of love."
Fortune of love, indeed. You're dying. You can tell just by the look on Maester Florin's face as he tests the remnants of the bottle in the corner with some convoluted apothecary setup he's constructed on your vanity table. You feel as though you have one eye on the bubbling beakers, and another eye on Mircalla as she sits by your bedside and dabs a damp cloth over your forehead.
"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asks quietly, and you know that she means well, but you have to physically stop yourself from smacking her hand away. The cloth is too rough on your forehead, scratching and squelching in your ears with the sound of the water, which smells of ale and sour fruit. Perhaps the bucket she used to bring the water in previously had been used to brew cider, but now it just makes the water stink.
"Nothing else, please," you croak at her with as much grace as you can muster. You lightly grab her wrist, squeeze it. "Thank you, Mircalla. Your services won't be needed anymore today, I think. I would not want you to see this any further."
"I am not certain that I should—"
"No. Go, please—" You just barely manage to turn your head away before a spasm of white-hot pain rips through your body, and you scream as you plant your face into your pillow. Both Mircalla and the maester jump at the shrillness of it.
"They're happening more frequently," you hear her mutter to him as she carries the bucket toward the door. "Shall I send for someone? A septon, perhaps?"
"Not yet, thank you. I must discuss the lady's affliction with her privately."
You close your eyes as if to block out the rush of sound that comes from the hall upon Mircalla opening your chamber door. You know that most— if not all— of your own family members, have retreated to other areas of the Red Keep. You assume that it's because you've been screaming loud enough to wake the dead, but perhaps there are other things happening in the castle that are more important than you managing to poison yourself.
"Maester," you grumble out dryly, your voice crackling in your throat. Now that the water is gone you aren't being assaulted by the smell of old cider, but the air still reeks of incense and acrid fumes from whatever his alchemy wrought. "I know I am dying. Just tell me why."
Maester Florin clears his throat and shifts on his feet, holding the little glass vial in his fingers. "My lady. You say that you bought this from a market stall?"
"Yes."
"And… did the seller tell you precisely what it was?"
"She said it was a potion," you tell him, tensing as a wave of pain swells up but then recedes before it can hit its peak, "to bring fortune in love. Nothing more."
There is a long silence, and you wonder if the maester has gone back to his work. You open your eyes a crack to look at him, but he is still standing in the same spot, seemingly deep in thought. Finally, he chances, "It is… not for me to ask what use you have of this potion…"
You groan, and it has nothing to do with the pain coursing through your body. You can't even gather the strength to cover your face in embarrassment, so you simply close your eyes.
It is common knowledge within the castle walls that Prince Daeron refused your hand in marriage after you were presented to him. He cited 'conflicting personalities' as the reason for his refusal— however, you had never had a complete conversation with Prince Daeron. There was no possible way that your personalities could be in conflict; you'd barely met him. Which meant that there was another reason for his refusal.
You knew that neither the King, nor the Crown Prince or his brother were pleased about it. It caused immense trouble for House Targaryen; your own family is one of the Targaryens' greatest allies, so it would only cause a rift between the two households if you were to be turned away with no good reason. House Targaryen could not afford to lose your family's alliance, and so you were asked to remain in King's Landing for another two weeks— or, to put it more plainly, until Prince Maekar or another of the Targaryens could convince Daeron to change his mind.
All of the muscles in your abdomen lock up, and what feels like a roaring hot fire rushes through your body all at once. You scream again, your back threatening to arch off the bed with your convulsing. It hurts so much. How could it possibly hurt so much? How could this little vial of fluid be enough to make you feel like you're burning alive from the inside out? You can hear your own scream ringing around the stone walls of the chamber, loud enough to startle a couple crows off of the eaves outside the open window.
While you're still curled into a ball on the bed, catching your breath, you hear a swift knock on the chamber door before it creaks open. There, you catch a whiff of spice and musk, rich and full. Your eyes fly open in horror as the source of the scent steps into the room with all the lordly grace of the seven kingdoms.
"Maester Florin," comes Prince Baelor Breakspear's voice, usually grounding and calming, but right now it hits you like a lightning bolt in the chest, knocking the very wind out of your lungs. "There seems to be much commotion. May I inquire as to how the lady is faring?"
Maester Florin bows. "Your Grace, I—"
"No."
The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can even stop it. Everything was manageable, more or less, until the Crown Prince entered the room, but now… now, his scent fills your lungs, his words are in your ears, you can practically taste him on the air, like peppercorn and sweet juniper. Your heart pounds in your ribcage like it's trying to escape, your blood singing with fire and your skin prickling with sweat.
You don't want to think about Prince Baelor right now. Each time he comes to mind, it's with an enormous wave of pain ripping through your entire body, as though the very thought of him causes the affliction to double its efforts to end you. Even so, in your mind you see the image of the Prince's concerned face when he stepped into your sick room one day ago, to make the same inquiry and send for a maester to attend you.
You have to get out. You have to leave before the next wave of pain kills you.
You're so tense that when you try to flop over on the bed, you look like a cockroach trying to right itself. "No. No no no no—" In spite of the pain in your muscles, you grab the corner of the goose down mattress and pull yourself toward the edge of the bed, until your upper body hangs off the side, limp as a wet rag.
"My lady, that is inadvisable—" Maester Florin rushes towards you as soon as your fingers meet the stone floor. "You will hurt yourself without assistance."
"Has she been like this the entire time?" Baelor's voice remains steady, but there is a newer, sharper quality to it: he's displeased. If you were to chance a look at him, you would see the carefully concealed worry beneath his practiced diplomacy, but you cannot bring yourself to look his way for fear that it might end you.
Instead, you continue trying to throw yourself from the bed, while Maester Florin actively tries to put you back in it. "No, Your Grace. Aside from the— the screaming—"
Florin's hand connects with your shoulder, and you just about punch him, the pain is so excruciating. Instead, you whack your hand against the front of his robes and bunch them in your fist to pull him close to your face.
"I asked you a question, Maester," you growl at him with a livid expression, watching his eyes widen at your sudden outburst. "Why is this happening?"
"You consumed a powerful aphrodisiac." He swallows, his eyes nervously flitting in Baelor's direction.
You make the grave mistake of following Florin's gaze, and you look at Baelor. The Hand of the King stands at the foot of your sickbed, his eyes focused on you, and only you. His face remains impassive, yet his fingers twitch as though he is contemplating what he can do to intervene.
You push Maester Florin away and begin frantically clawing your way back up the bed towards the headboard. You can feel it: the next wave of heat and pain, building in your toes and hands, inching down your limbs. "Nonono— Maid and Mother's fucking tits."
You manage to plant your face in the pillow before you let out another scream, but this time it seems worse, like you might actually split in half from the pain. You don't know how much more of it you can take. You've drenched your threadbare chemise in sweat, to the point that it doesn't really preserve your modesty anymore. All it does is stick to your damp, oversensitive skin, irritating you and making the sensory overload that much worse.
Once the pain subsides, you begin to rip at the offending garment in an attempt to draw it over your head. You're babbling nonsense, fragments of sentences and profanities that you don't even remember having in your repertoire, but you can still hear Maester Florin as he rattles off technical explanations to his Prince.
"—was purchased from a market stall— seems to be a tincture of moonbloom and gilliflower— another ingredient I have not yet identified—"
Before you can manage to muscle the useless chemise over your head, a hand settles on your back directly between your shoulder blades.
"Don't do that, my lady."
Baelor's voice is directly over your shoulder, gentle but stern. His hand presses solidly between your shoulders, holding the fabric of your chemise against your overheated flesh. You blink, seeing nothing but the headboard of the bed and cream colored linen, but feeling surrounded by him. His scent, his touch, his voice, so close and so strong, should hurt. It should hurt, because until now the barest touch has been agony, exacerbating the pain and torment.
But Baelor's touch does nothing. It's the oddest thing, enough to make you stop moving and tensing up for just a moment. You are still too hot, your skin is still too sensitive, but the only warmth and sensation that Baelor's hand brings is… comforting. Relief emanates from the single point of contact, bleeding through your body in tangible ripples that seem to stretch out down your spine and along your limbs.
That is, until the relief settles low. And then it becomes something else, something arguably worse than the pain. Your core muscles draw up tight and aching, and the heat and agony is replaced with devastating, almost crippling arousal.
You gasp, your back arching dramatically like that of a frightened cat, and you practically throw yourself away from Baelor with all the grace of a scared animal. Or, at least, you try to leap from the bed, but your body is sluggish, and Baelor Breakspear is nothing if not a quick combatant.
As soon as you try to take off, bouncing up like one of the crows into the air, Baelor's arm comes around your waist and drags you back down to the mattress. Try as you might to wriggle free and fling yourself to the floor, Baelor is strong, a force to be reckoned with.
"Stop this at once." Baelor's voice is still just as firm, but the gentility with which he orders you is… it's awful. He commands you with kindness and patience. "I will not abide you hurting yourself."
"Already hurts," you argue, although it's more of a lie the longer Baelor holds you.
It's as though he has the cure to your ailment within his very palms. But, while he holds you down, cradling you with your back to his chest, your arousal grows to a horrifying degree. You can feel your core muscles contract and release, the wetness between your legs smearing your thighs. There is a very likely chance that you may cum without any other form of stimulation, and you will not be able to survive that amount of humiliation. Perhaps he cannot abide you hurting yourself, but you cannot abide acting like a whore in the Prince of Dragonstone's arms.
You make a small, frantic noise in the back of your throat, and whimper, "I have to go. Let me go. Please. Please— Please. My lord, let me go. I have to go."
The small skirmish nears its end as you plant your hands on his forearm and try to push it away, but your hands are too weak and his arm is like a steel belt holding you down.
"Go where?" His voice is too close to your ear. You shiver in his arms, clamping your thighs together to stave off the new waves of heat coalescing between them. Goosebumps break out across your skin, and you feel your eyes widen. He sounds so fucking calm when he says, "There are several flights of stairs to descend before you reach the ground floor. Your only other option is the window, and you will break every bone in your body no matter which way you decide to go, unless you can walk. Can you walk?"
Only if you're touching me. You grit your teeth. "I have to try."
"No." It's Baelor who says it this time, and in spite of all your fighting, you can't seem to drum up any more of it.
You have to admit that it's a relief to not be in pain anymore, even if you have an entirely different set of problems to contend with, now. You slump forward in his arms, hanging your head as you dumbly squeeze at the fabric of his sleeve. "It is not proper for you to be holding me this way, Your Grace."
"I fear that it would be less proper of me to allow you to throw yourself from the window," Baelor explains rationally. Still, he releases his arm from around your waist, only bringing a hand up to move your hair away from your face. You have to physically fight not to press your overheated cheek into the cradle of his hand, like a cat seeking out affection. He pauses, and then says, "Maester, you said that you had not identified an ingredient of the tincture. Could it be dragon's breath?"
"No, Your Grace." Maester Florin speaks from across the room, where he retreated back to his apothecary setup. "With respect, I am familiar with dragon's breath. I would have been able to identify its presence with relative ease."
"She smells of it." Baelor does not say it unkindly.
"It is possible that while the tincture is in her system, the aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly as well." Florin pauses, then clarifies, "That is, it will cause her to look, smell, or sound in ways that… some may consider… attractive, Your Grace."
Baelor remains silent. The implication hangs solidly in the air. You notice almost immediately that the maester did not include taste in that assessment, although it lingers in the subtext. The Prince is being effected by your presence, even if it is not to the same degree that you are being effected by his.
"You never answered my question, Maester," you finally interject. "Why is it killing me?"
You feel Baelor's fingers tense on your shoulder just slightly at the question, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he waits while Florin seems to flounder for a moment, and then gently supplements, "Please answer the lady's question."
Florin looks deeply uncomfortable. "Your Grace, it's… of quite a delicate subject matter. I hesitate to cause yourself or the lady any offense—"
"Seven above, just spit it out, already!" You swipe your arm across your sweaty forehead, desperate to put an end to the hedging about. "I've been laying here dying for ages! What is it, what?"
"That's enough, now." Baelor holds a hand up to silence you, and you almost think you might bite it, except that he has such beautiful hands. You wouldn't want to mar them. You stare unabashedly at his silver ring and the lines on his palm, and you start… salivating.
Gods be good. You're going to eat him.
Florin hesitates only a second more. "This aphrodisiac… although the recipes differ across various regions, it is normally intended as a… a temporary cure for impotence and infertility. It is… I believe it is primarily used in brothels, to make— er… intercourse more— ehm. Pleasurable?"
You blink. "If it's meant to be pleasurable, then why does it hurt so much?" You still refuse to admit that you're already experiencing the so-called pleasurable function— that is, you're soaking the mattress with it the longer Baelor keeps his hand on your shoulder.
"Well, it is usually taken with the intention of… ehm. Using it for its innate purpose, you see. The aphrodisiac will remain in one's system until it has been expelled during copulation."
Baelor drops his hand from your shoulder and takes a step back. You feel the loss like a punch in the gut— quite literally, all of your muscles tighten at once, and you double over in pain.
Through clenched teeth, you say, "So, you mean I have to… to have sex?" The look on the maester's face says everything you need to know. "Or what? What if I don't? I'm— it hurts so much, I can't— I wouldn't be able to do anything… not on my own."
Your face burns at the admission. The humiliation— the irony of it all is unbelievable. The little lady took a love potion and now can't fuck herself properly enough to get it out of her system. The only hand she reacts to is the one she can't have, because it belongs to the Realm.
Florin chews on his lip while he thinks, and then explains, "This particular recipe seems more aggressive than most. That is likely due to the unidentifiable ingredient. The potion is, essentially, a slow acting poison. If it is not used for its intended purpose… I suppose, generally, there will be immense pain and fits for… three days after ingestion. Delirium sets in after about two days. And then—" His eyes flit from you, to Baelor, and back. "Then, my lady, I'm afraid you will die."
One Week Earlier
Admittedly, you knew it wouldn't work the minute you saw Daeron. He looked green about the face, his eyes so red and bleary that you thought he would keel over at any moment. If you hadn't heard him called 'Daeron the Drunken' behind closed doors, you would have tried to somehow politely ask if he was ill. Instead, you just assumed he'd had one too many before showing up to your presentation in court.
No, you aren't surprised that he turned down the offer of marriage. You were, however, surprised that he did not deliver the news himself. Instead, he sent a servant with a note while you were eating breakfast, and left you to bring it before the King. The entire meeting went over about the way you expected. Prince Maekar went to find Daeron, Prince Baelor apologized for his nephew's rudeness and the inconvenience, and the King assured you that all would be made well.
The truth of the matter is that you have no interest in Daeron, anyway. You do not want a husband who refuses to talk to you, even if his drunkenness was not an issue. Daeron has given you no reason to desire him— at this point, the prospect of the marriage would be a matter of your family's social and financial standing, and your own status as a Princess.
Now that the castle is sufficiently in an uproar about Daeron's refusal, you have made your gracious retreat to the gardens. You don't want to be in the castle any longer than you have to. Your family has already suggested leaving King's Landing in two days' time, and even so, it feels like too long to wait.
From the gardens, you look out over Blackwater Bay, watching ships disappear one by one over the horizon. You have no idea how long you sit there, but the sun slowly creeps lower and lower in the sky, until golden light filters through the leaves of the trees.
"My lady." For how large of a man Baelor is, he is light on his feet. You hadn't heard him approach, and so you jump when he addresses you, spinning around to find him standing a respectable distance away from your bench. When you stand to curtsy, he gives you an indulgent smile. "It appears that you've been out here for some time. I only wanted to ensure all was well."
You fight not to raise an eyebrow at the Prince. "You must have been watching me closely, then, Your Grace."
He squints, then pivots to peer up at the Tower of the Hand, looming over the Red Keep. "Not so close, I should think."
You snicker at that, casting your eyes away from him. Baelor is a handsome man, and kind. You find your awareness lingering on him above all others, and you're beginning to fear that your crush is becoming obvious. You feel nervous in his presence in only the best way, as though you may trip over your own tongue and say something entirely unbecoming just as soon as you open your mouth. That feeling is… refreshing, in the right company. But Baelor is heir apparent to the Iron Throne, Protector of the Realm, and you are simply a noble lady much younger than him, with the prospect of marrying his nephew. Any fantasies you indulge can only be that.
"May I join you a moment?" Baelor asks, and despite your internal angst, you cannot bring yourself to refuse him.
Perhaps it would be more proper to have your lady's maid here with you, but Mircalla has other things to be doing now, and so you sit a respectable distance away from Baelor on the bench while staring out to sea and wishing it was not respectable at all.
"In my week at court, I've discovered that I quite like this view," you say after a beat, to puncture the tight shroud of silence that settles between the two of you. "I enjoy watching the waves. I wonder what it's like to be one of them, sometimes. Rolling always towards the shore."
"Or dashing upon the rocks?"
You hum. "At least they know where they're going, rocks or no."
You retreat back into silence with him, and watch him out of the corner of your eye as he twirls his silver ring around his finger idly. He seems to be thinking hard about something, eyes fixed on the horizon with a purpose. It gives you just a moment to admire his profile— his strong, twice-broken nose, his furrowed brow, the touches of silvery gray in his close-cropped dark hair. The small freckle on his cheekbone. The stretch of his neck from beneath his collar, begging for a pair of lips or a tongue to lavish it.
"My lady, allow me to extend my apologies once more for my nephew's behavior," Baelor says finally, and you turn your eyes quickly back out to sea. "It is not the first time Daeron has been irresponsible with delicate matters. Although, it is also the fault of we who expect responsibility from him, that there must be an apology."
"I don't think it's unreasonable to expect responsibility from a prince," you answer without thinking, and then suddenly remember who you are speaking to. "…Your Grace."
"No. On that, we agree." There is a light chuckle in his voice, a slight humor that you imagine is meant to make you feel more at ease. "I do not imagine that Daeron will take long to rectify his behavior, however."
You feel a girlish temper flare within you at the idea that Daeron could rectify anything. You take a long, sobering breath, smelling sea salt and garden flowers on the air.
"You were married, Your Grace. You know quite well how to approach a—" Woman. You want to say it, but you feel it would be too forward. You reconsider, and continue instead with, "a betrothal. Do you believe that anything Daeron has done makes for a… a loving marriage?"
Baelor considers your question with the attention you would expect from the King's Hand. Then, he answers, "I would not hazard a guess as to the sincerity of Daeron's feelings toward you, my lady. Only he can truly know the answer to that. Though, it may bring you some comfort to know that…" He pauses thoughtfully. "My own marriage was not for love. It was arranged, as duty demanded. But, in time, I do believe Jena and I came to love one another, as well as a match made in service to the Crown would allow. Perhaps your marriage to Daeron would be the same."
You sit with his words. Enter into a loveless marriage, having already been besmirched by the man who you would bind yourself to, and hope that love will come in spite of it all. It sounds like a fool's errand.
"Be that as it may, I believe Daeron has already done some irreparable damage to my reputation." When you see Baelor turn his head just barely toward you, you supplement, "My lady's maid, Mircalla, shares with me the gossip I would otherwise be protected from. Sometimes, it can be… harsh. She is honest with me, which is a quality I admire most, you understand." You look down at your hands to find yourself tearing at your own cuticles in your nervousness. "She told me some hours ago that there are rumors floating about as to why— why Daeron would refuse me. Some speculated that we fought upon first meeting. Others suggest that I am pregnant with another man's bastard. Or— Or that we have already slept together, and that Daeron was not pleased with me. Can you imagine…?"
Your voice fades out on a horrified whisper. Although none of these rumors are true, each of them deal a blow to your reputation in turn. Your eyes sting with tears the longer you think of the different stories concocted about you.
"Although it may satisfy me to have Daeron grovel and beg forgiveness, it makes no difference. From now on I will be known as the whore that Daeron refused."
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Baelor pressing his lips together tightly, raising his chin just a tick. The Prince is quiet for a moment, while you bite back your tears and turn your face away from him.
"You say that honesty is a trait that you value," Baelor remarks, and waits until you nod at him in response. "Then please trust me to be honest. I cannot imagine that anyone would truly believe that of you, my lady. You see, I have had the privilege of knowing you during your time at the Red Keep, and I find you to be exceptional in every way. I can't imagine it, because I cannot fathom anyone viewing you as anything else."
You finally turn to fix him with a watery stare, and find him looking back at you with such solitary focus that you practically wither beneath his gaze. For the first time, you notice that Baelor's eyes are two different colors. The castle is not brightly lit inside, and you have never been close enough to him to notice it, until now. One brown, one violet, they lend even more of a sense of mystery to his handsome features. You have a mind to mention it— you open your mouth to tell him that they're beautiful, but then you think better of it.
He's the Prince of Dragonstone. The Hand of the King. There is nothing that could bring you together.
Baelor holds a hand out to you, his palm facing upward. You peer down at it for a moment before placing your hand delicately in his. Baelor's thumb gently brushes your knuckles, his hand practically dwarfing your own. His palm is so warm, and when he places his other hand atop yours, your skin feels engulfed in flames.
"However," Baelor says, and locks you in his stare, "I can believe that rumors abound. It is an unfortunate effect of being highborn that many will speak on what they know nothing about. But rumors seldom bear any truth. They reflect nothing of your true nature. I assure you that House Targaryen, Daeron included, will understand that."
You blink down at your hand, enveloped in both of his. Daeron. Of course, all of this is to convince you not to lose hope, that Daeron will change his mind, that Daeron will decide to marry you.
"I… thank you for your kindness, Your Grace," you respond, for lack of anything else to say. You know that he's being as fair in his judgment as possible, but he has a duty to the King and to House Targaryen. Gently, you withdraw your hand from his as you add, "Unfortunately, I regret that my family are displeased with Daeron's refusal. I understand that they have designs on leaving King's Landing in two days' time. While I know that both you and Prince Maekar are quite persuasive, I doubt that it provides ample time for Daeron to change his mind. I imagine he wanted to refuse me the moment he saw me."
"Why do you imagine that?"
You look out across Blackwater Bay, thinking back to your first meeting with Daeron. When you curtsyed, the princeling looked as though he was going to either throw up or faint, or both. At the time, you blamed it on the drink. Now, you're not entirely sure.
"I believe he finds me ugly."
Baelor huffs a short laugh through his nose, so quiet and subtle that you would not have caught it if you weren't sitting so close to him. You turn to look at him, appalled, and find him with a soft, reserved smile on his face.
"Well, don't laugh."
"Apologies, my lady." Still, Baelor's mouth curves up at the edges as though he just can't help himself. You watch him tongue the inside of his cheek, half-amused. "I mean no jest. I just find it rather unlikely, to be frank."
"I can't think of another reason why," you explain, finally letting your true emotions ring through. You're hurt. You had given Daeron no reason to dislike you; you had been agreeable and good-natured whenever you spoke to him. "He sent his refusal via courier. He wanted not to speak to me, and he has been quite avoidant throughout my entire visit."
"It's true," Baelor replies smoothly. "Daeron has behaved abominably. But I do know him to be kind, and mannerly when given the opportunity."
You had given Daeron plenty of opportunities. You don't want to argue with Baelor, but you think that he is viewing your situation only from the position of a Prince of the Realm.
"How many hours in the day are there? How many days in a week? Daeron could have come to me during any of them, and I would have recieved him. Kind and mannerly though he may be, Your Grace," you say, looking over at Baelor Breakspear with a challenging fire in your eyes, "no one can force a man to want, any more than they can force a horse to drink."
Baelor's expression remains frustratingly unreadable. You gaze into his mismatched eyes as though they will tell you something, anything about what he's thinking, but there is nothing there to betray him.
"Daeron would be a fool not to want you," Baelor tells you, his voice low and edged with a finality that makes you want to take it for fact. "Whether he is or is not, I cannot say. Only time will tell."
"Do you say that as a man? Or as the Hand of the King?" you ask him more pointedly than you should.
"Both."
You gaze at each other for a long time, long enough that the breeze picks up and sweeps your hair up in its gust. You watch Baelor's jaw work— as small of a gesture though it is, it is the only thing about him that tells you he's contemplating something. He is no open book, your Prince, and it frustrates you as much as it seduces you. It sets you daydreaming, watching him openly in the cool evening air as his mouth curves vaguely toward a frown. Down by his knee, he worries the silver ring on his finger.
Then, Baelor lifts his hand, and with a touch so featherlight it's almost inconsequential, he brushes your hair away from your brow and tucks it behind your ear. His skin barely even meets yours— you can explain it away as him just being chivalrous, just keeping your hair from flying into your eyes. But it's enough to make your heart lurch up into your throat, nonetheless.
"It's late," you mutter, now that the sun has dipped below the horizon and the garden is bathed in shadow. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to regain your composure as you drop your gaze.
"It is."
"It's getting dark."
"Yes," Baelor agrees, then finally looks away from you. He squints out across the bay, staring into the distance at the absence of sun. "The dragon's breath will be blooming, now."
"Dragon's breath?" You shake your head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I have not heard of it."
"I'm not surprised. It's a night-blooming flower, native to Dorne. There is a crop of them not far off, if I recall. Come, I can show it to you." Baelor stands and offers you his hand once again, and this time, you do not hesitate to take it.
He leads you, arm-in-arm, down the garden path toward the godswood. Just as the treeline begins to thicken in the gloaming, Baelor brings you to a stop.
"Just there," he murmurs, guiding you to investigate a shrub low to the ground, littered with trumpet-shaped red blooms. As he stoops to pluck one from the shrub, he says, "Dragon's breath. They are sweetly fragranced, but do not be mistaken. They can be quite deadly if eaten."
"I'll make sure not to put them in my tea, then," you tell him as you take the flower he extends to you. It smells slightly of jasmine and woodsmoke when you hold it beneath your nose, careful not to let it touch your lips. "It's lovely."
"Yes," Baelor says, watching you closely. His eyes linger on yours for an extended moment, a gentle smile curving his mouth. Then, a serene look crosses his face. "It is said that the First Men would ingest it to convene with the old gods. Whether or not this is true remains to be seen, but I would not advise it, at any rate."
"No, I'd imagine not." You spend a second twirling the little red blossom, the same shade as the red thread in his doublet, the colors of House Targaryen. Quite suddenly, you observe, "They're your favorite."
Baelor is quiet for a moment. "What makes you so certain?"
"You thought of them first. You could have shown me anything in the entire Keep, but you showed me these. Obviously, they're important to you." You peer up at him, and you can't bite back your smirk. "I'm right, aren't I?"
Baelor huffs a small laugh, the second one you've managed from him. The sound of it warms the pit of your stomach. "You're rather sure of yourself."
"That isn't a 'no.'"
"Mm. It's not a 'yes,' either."
You crack a grin. "Okay. Don't tell me, then. But I'm right."
This time, when Baelor tilts his head downward, you catch him smiling, a flash of teeth and a dimple indenting his bearded cheek. It is imperfect, crooked and so very human. He hides it well, but you're able to see it before he gentles his face into a careful mask once again.
He doesn't know that you see it. It will remain your secret, a fascination to look back on when you're in need of comfort. You made the Prince of Dragonstone smile. A real smile.
"Thank you, Your Grace," you tell him quietly, still pinching the blossom in your fingers. "For your company. And your hospitality."
"The pleasure is mine." Baelor looks as though he may leave the conversation there, but then he adds, "One more word before we part, my lady, if you please?"
"Certainly." You step a touch closer to him. A cricket sounds somewhere in the brush. The night is beginning to wake around you, the longer you linger with the Prince. You wonder if you could draw the moment out long enough to see the dawn.
Baelor does not seem overly concerned about it. "I should like to extend an invitation to your family, if you believe they would be willing. Perhaps, rather than departing King's Landing in two days' time, they would agree to remain another fortnight?"
You blink at him. Another two weeks? For what, exactly?
Baelor answers your unasked question, as though he can see directly into your mind. "So that we may have ample time for Daeron to correct his mistake. Of course."
"Of course," you echo. You feel clean out of air in your lungs, stunned for something to say. "Your Grace, I— I would say that my family would have to answer that invitation for themselves. I cannot speak for the lot."
He affords you the most patient of smiles. "I would like to hear your answer before all, if you don't mind."
"Oh."
Another two weeks at the Red Keep. Two weeks for the rumors to spread, to converge and morph into even worse ones. Two weeks for Daeron to insult you by ignoring you, tarnish your reputation by refusing you a second time. Conversely, two weeks for Daeron to decide that he may tolerate your company and accept you.
You look down at the flower in your fingers. Two weeks to search for the sight of Baelor in the halls and in the councils. Two weeks to speak to him again. Two weeks to indulge in that wickedest of fantasies: that you might fall in love with Baelor Breakspear.
"Yes," you tell Baelor, quiet enough that it threatens to be spirited away on the breeze. "Yes, if my family is willing. I would be glad to stay another fortnight, at Your Grace's pleasure."
Baelor nods at you graciously. "Then I will see to your family's response in the morning. Thank you for your acceptance, my lady."
"Thank you for your invitation." You tilt your face towards the sky. "It is quite dark. I fear that I will have trouble on my way back, should I remain any longer."
"Indeed. The fault is mine, entirely. Allow me to walk you to the holdfast."
You make the journey back to the holdfast in comfortable silence. You find that you do not feel even remotely unsafe as long as Baelor is near; otherwise, you would never chance to linger outside the holdfast, even within the castle walls, after dark. But Baelor's presence is a relief. You would trust him with your life. You would probably trust him with even more than that, given the chance.
"My Prince."
You pause in the golden torchlight, only bright enough to illuminate the bridge over the dry moat. Down in the pit there is nothing but blackness, and a sense that if you stepped too close it would suck you in. Turning to Baelor, you have the dragon's breath blossom still in your fingers, and lift it to your face to take in its scent again— sweet, smoky, like a garden aflame. You can understand why he is taken with this particular flower.
Baelor watches you expectantly, a respectable distance away again, as though every part of your conversation this evening had been a diplomatic mission. Cleaning up his nephew's mess. Doing what is right for the Realm.
The idea rattles you. It cuts you deep and hits something within that you thought you'd left in your girlhood— covetousness. The desire to be shown favoritism, attention. To be wanted, not simply tolerated. You are not a girl anymore, but the King's Hand seems to bring her out of you as though it were second nature. You feel the urge to try to bring the boy out of him, which may be an insurmountable task. He is a prince, a warrior and a lord of refined poise and sophistication. But you have never been one to shy away from a challenge.
You step closer to him. Baelor does not move away, but follows you with his eyes, a reserved expression on his face. Perhaps he is trying to anticipate what you may do, but he does not show any signs of backing down. You imagine that he wouldn't, even if you threw yourself at him unceremoniously. If you kissed him like you desperately want to, open-mouthed and wet.
But you are not improper, or desperate. You are a lady, and well-versed in flattery and elegant flirtation. You take the dragon's breath, and you tuck the green stem into the gap between the silk fabric of his doublet and the Hand of the King pin that adorns his chest. It flares up from the pin, as though the fingers of the hand were holding it tight to his heart.
"Keep this safe," you say, your smile hiding your desirous stare. Your fingers rest against his chest for just a second longer than is proper, but you pull them away quickly enough, you think. "I would hate for it to go to waste."
Baelor's eyes soften. "Certainly, my lady."
"You are quite a wonderful man, my Prince." Your innermost thoughts become physical things, they turn balmy on your tongue. "If you may pardon my saying so. I have wanted to for some time, but… the opportunity did not present itself."
Baelor's brows raise just the slightest, but he does not admonish you. "I thank you for the compliment, my lady. You are very kind, indeed." A pause, a breath on the wind. "Lovely."
You stay there, held captive in his gaze. One violet, one brown. Finally, in spite of your sense of self preservation, you tell him, "Your eyes… They really are very beautiful, you know."
You do not wait for his answer or reaction before you bid him goodnight, and all but flee into the holdfast. And so, you are not able to see the way he watches after you with a lingering smile, and a longing gaze in those very eyes.
Present
Baelor sends Maester Florin away with an order to return on the morrow, and to alert the servants that you should not be disturbed. It is not without your notice that after he ushers the maester out the chamber door, he bolts it with a final clang that reverberates in your oversensitive ears.
You lay on the mussed bedsheets, curled into a ball. You are sideways in the bed; there is no point in putting yourself to rights, because the moment the next wave of pain hits you will become a writhing animal once again, a slave to the torrents of agony. Through the stringy, damp strands of your loose hair, you watch Baelor's back.
He leans against the door with both hands pressed flat to the wood, head bowed in thought. Or, is it distress? Perhaps both. You don't quite know what to make of his reaction to your situation, at all.
What you do know is that you feel a wave of heat flash through your body so fast and so sharp that all of your muscles tense at once, and you yelp from the blast of pain. Your head pounds as though your heartbeat originates from it.
Baelor turns at the sound of your anguish, and his face pinches at the sight of you, a small, trembling heap on the bed. "I will fetch Daeron."
"No."
"My lady, please."
He approaches the end of the bed, but you can't do more than follow the sight of his face with your eyes, until it passes too far into your periphery, and you must drop them to his belt. The sight of Baelor's belt inches away from your face is not something that helps your situation at all, however, and so you shut your eyes before your body manages to torment you further.
"Daeron is… unreliable, yes. And irresponsible. I know that you harbor wounded feelings towards him at the moment, but…" Baelor hesitates. Clearly, he knows that he is not making the best case for his nephew. His eyes roam your disconsolate form, and then he finishes, "But he is your best chance at survival. I am certain that he will be agreeable, at least in this pursuit."
"Do you even know if his cock works?"
Baelor is eerily silent. You don't open your eyes to look at him until you feel the mattress shift, and you find that he's sat on the foot of the bed, his back to you once again. His hands loosely grip the edge of the mattress on either side of him, and his posture betrays no real emotion. It is only when you notice the redness of his ears that you realize your words must have unnerved him.
"I would not know, my lady," Baelor answers quietly, after a moment. "Daeron has sired no bastards, as far as I am aware. His drunkenness may prove an issue, but questionable odds are better than none."
"I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me."
"He is to be your betrothed." Baelor's words are flat, even. Clinical. "I understand that if he had not refused you, then perhaps you would not have resorted to… other methods—"
"I didn't take the fucking thing for him," you finally snap, gritting your teeth against the pain throbbing in your head and in your abdomen.
Baelor's voice surrenders to something inquisitive. "Then, why did you take it?"
Another moment of silence. Baelor is too still, his hand pressed flat to the mattress in front of your face. You stare, unblinking, at the glint of the silver ring on his finger, bearing the insignia of House Targaryen.
"I thought… perhaps there was someone else for me." You take in a shallow breath. "Although, I think my rash decision making outweighs my judgment."
Baelor turns and gives you the most indulgent smile you think you've ever received, even though there is immense pain behind his eyes.
"If you will not have Daeron… perhaps I can call another for you. Ser Duncan may be willing," he suggests, his voice just above a whisper. "Ser Duncan is a good and honorable man. I trust him with my life, and I would trust him with yours."
You stare at him in shock for a moment. "Oh… Oh, yes, of course. Ser Duncan. Ser Duncan. Why didn't I think of that? Ser Duncan the Tall." Baelor remains stoic, nonplussed at your sarcasm. Your stomach cramps up as you blather, "Or, better yet, why not call Ser Donnel as well? The entire King's Guard, even? Drag me down to the Great Yard, maybe they can take turns, pass me off—"
"Enough," Baelor finally snaps, shooting you a stern look. "I will hear no more of that sort of talk from you."
"Or what? Your Grace," you return with a wicked glare. "I will not be foisted off to the first man you think of."
Lit up with the fury of a thousand suns now, and sweating enough to show it, you push yourself up on wobbly limbs and tumble off of the bed onto the bearskin rug on the floor. You land on your aching stomach with a loud, "OOMF," and all the air painfully leaves your lungs.
"Stop this, now." Baelor sounds weary, as though he's bored of a game you're playing.
"No. Leave me." You crawl clumsily across the rug towards the chamber window. "I'm not going to lay there, dying in agony and— and losing my mind. I'd rather throw myself out of the tower. Let me die with quiet dignity and grace."
"Quiet dignity and grace," he eventually repeats, incredulous. He hasn't even gotten up from the end of the bed, but just watches you, fascinated with your display. "You know, I fathered two boys. Theatrics don't impress me, especially when negotiating."
"Yes, remind me again of how you're so amazing at everything, like— fathering sons, and— negotiating," you growl, huffing with the exertion of your endeavor. "Because you're— you're so fucking perfect and chivalrous. The Hammer. With your— fucking— giant, veiny— host of Dornish spearmen."
"My, you're verbose."
It's only when you threaten to tip the table by the window, as you attempt to haul yourself up to your feet, that Baelor rises. He reaches you in three quick strides, snatches you about the waist and throws you over his shoulder, just to carry you back to the bed. Your small amount of spite-fueled energy spent, you merely hang on him like a sack of straw.
Baelor lays you down so that your head hits the pillow, your hands thrown above your head. "Are you quite finished?" he asks sharply, looming over you, his eyes boring into yours. His jaw set, he states, "I am trying to save your life."
"And I am no one's whore." You stare defiantly up into the eyes of Baelor Targaryen, willing him to yield.
And, to your surprise, he does. His eyes soften, his jaw untensing as he lets out a slow, defeated sigh. "No, you are not."
He sits back, his hands still pressed into the mattress on either side of you. You miss his proximity like a lost limb.
"Forgive me. I have been presumptuous in my suggestions. I would never force you into any situation against your will or desires." A pause. "But I cannot sit idle and let you die. I beg you, my lady. Name someone, anyone, who you would trust in this matter. Someone who you would accept. I will bring them to you without question."
You gaze up at him tearfully, and feel another wave of heat blooming in your hands and feet. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and take in the sight of him, so poised and regal, even when faced with an unmanageable task.
"Baelor."
Your hand— small, clammy with sweat and shaky from the fatigue in your limbs— reaches out and finds his— large, warm, grounding. You pull at his hand, and he lets you. His head turns just slightly, watching you as you cradle his large palm in your two hands and press it firmly against your chest, just below your collarbone.
Whatever this magic is, be it gods sent or gods cursed, it reacts the second his skin touches yours. Your entire body sparks alive with sensation— but rather than the unrelenting heat and pain of the poison coursing through your veins, it's solace. You let out a soft moan at the feeling, like gentle sunlight flooding through your body the moment that his fingers lace with yours.
"My Prince," you whisper shakily, and feel his fingers flex just slightly against your chest. Your heart pounds against your ribcage so hard that you know he feels it. He can probably feel the unbelievable heat radiating off of you. "It's— I feel so much pain. I hear the voices of the guards on the ramparts and I taste— I taste the salt from the sweat on your brow. I feel as though I will rip in two when the waves come, and nothing has made it better except— except you. When you touch me. Your hands on me… it's you."
Baelor is quiet, listening to your rambling speech. Tears stream from your eyes. It is both a relief and a terror to confess what you feel to him.
Then, Baelor removes his hand from your chest and brings it to cup the side of your face. The tenderness of his touch strips you to the bone. You feel like you're breathing only for him, like he commands the very air that gives your body function. His thumb brushes your damp hair away from your face, wiping away your tears with it, and he gazes down at you with such care, such affection.
He says your name softly, but there's a touch of sadness in it. He closes his eyes, breathes in long and slow through his nose. "I cannot do what you ask. You must name another."
"Please." You make a frail noise in the back of your throat, feeling as though you may begin sobbing in a moment. You shake your head, lifting one hand to clutch at Baelor's wrist.
"I cannot," he insists, although he doesn't pull his hand away from you. You don't know if he is bearing in mind what you told him— that his touch is the only thing that keeps the pain from tormenting you. There is palpable tension in his expression, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line. "I am the King's Hand and heir to the throne. If you were to be gotten with my child, it would cause a scandal."
"I am already rumored to be pregnant, remember? House Targaryen has weathered far worse than a bastard child," you remark weakly.
"But you have not. I would not dishonor you in such a way." When you pout and look as though you may argue, he continues, "Whatever rumors circulate about you, we need not give them merit."
"So you would have me carry another man's bastard, instead?"
Baelor snaps his mouth shut, his expression turning suddenly guarded. He makes as though he may pull his hand back as he turns away from you, and your stomach drops.
"Baelor, no."
You clap your own hand over his, turning to nuzzle into the warmth of his palm. On instinct, you plant your lips against his skin, and it's as though something savage bursts alive within you. Some greedy, desperate thing takes hold as your eyes drift shut, with each breath tasting the warmth and spice of his skin as though your tongue were flush to it.
"Don't let go," you whisper into the cradle of his hand. "If you let go of me the pain will return, and I can't— I can't bear it anymore, Baelor, I can't—"
"I know. I won't let you go, darling." He sounds strained even as he reassures you, but he doesn't remove his hand.
There is a long silence, while you practically lose yourself in the feeling of just… giving in. You relax into the glowing feeling, hot pleasure sweeping through your body, up your limbs and into your core, replacing any pain that had been there before. It's glorious. It distracts you, pulls your mind away from the reality of the situation— that you cannot simply have him hold your face and hope that the poison works its way out of your system on its own.
Without meaning to, you drag your parted lips along his fingers, as though exploring them just with your mouth. His fingers are so long. Slender and dextrous, calloused from hours of sword training. You feel each bump and ridge against your mouth and you're trying so hard not to sink your teeth in. Your lower lip catches on the band of his silver ring and draws back, letting the smallest flash of your teeth graze his skin.
You hear his breath catch, and your eyes fly open, suddenly aware of what you're doing. Baelor watches you from the corner of his eye as you press your face into his touch, his jaw locked up tight, his free hand a fist where it rests on his knee.
You feel as though you should apologize, but you can't bring yourself to. Apologize for what? For desiring him? Wanting him? He's so handsome. His differently colored eyes study you, a painful reminder of it. You stare back at him, imagining what it would be like to trace his face with your lips, as well.
"You told me once that Daeron would be a fool not to want me," you say, and you take a purposefully slow breath, because if you don't you may start heaving for air. "Are you a fool, my Prince?"
Baelor lets out a soft sigh, and looks quickly away from you. His fingers twitch slightly against your cheek. He's silent for a long time, long enough that you begin to fear you've misread him, confused his kindness for something deeper.
But then he tilts his head down, and without looking at you, he says quietly, "I am not, my lady. Though, whether my desire in itself is foolish, I have no idea. I may be doomed for it."
"Then… perhaps we are both doomed," you admit, your eyes practically dancing over his features. "I can't think around my desire for you. All I know is that you— you are all that I want in the world. Scandals and suspicious potions be damned."
"Gods above." You watch Baelor roll his eyes toward the ceiling. When he returns his eyes to you, it's with a look of solemn admiration. He strokes his knuckles along the curve of your jaw. "I'm beginning to believe you exist simply to torment me."
You allow yourself to fashion a wobbly smile. "Me? Torment the Breakspear? Never."
Baelor huffs a quiet laugh, looking away from you in a manner that is almost… shy. You can see his jaw flex beneath his short beard and a rosy flush come over his face, and—
You just made Baelor blush.
You lay with that, watching him in the silence. His hand drifts from grazing your jaw to resting flat against your collarbone again, and you lift your own to trace your fingers languidly along the back of his palm. You can hear his breath come out shaky at the light contact, and it's just enough to give you the clarity to really, truly think about this.
His hands on you could be enough, you realize. You practically came the moment that he touched you, and if this magic can just be expelled from your system by an orgasm, it might be that he doesn't need to do anything more than just… put his hands on you. It feels good enough as it is— the heat of him, the smell and the feeling of him, are all adding to the pleasurable fire burning in your core. But, if you felt his hands go… down…
"Baelor."
His name comes out of your mouth faster than it should, and he snaps his eyes to you with a look of sudden concern, as though he expects to find something wrong. But nothing really is wrong— at least nothing that hasn't been wrong to begin with.
"What if—" You bite your lip, trying hard not to move your hips in any way that could startle him off. Your cunt throbs just at the thought of feeling his hands on your body with no barrier. "What if you just… touched me?"
Baelor seems to think your question over, searching your face for any kind of deception. But you simply stare at him openly, your eyes pleading, heart pounding as you feel his thumb stroke once over the hollow of your throat.
And then, his eyes drift down. They linger on the swell of your breast, heaving under the thin, practically sheer linen of your chemise. Everything is too intimate, too bright in the mid-afternoon sun slanting through the open window, illuminating you. Gods, it feels like you're already naked before him with the way he just stares, undressing you in his mind. It hits you directly between the legs, and you clench your thighs together to stave off the rush of arousal.
Your breath hitches, and Baelor snaps his eyes back up to your face, as though he's just remembered himself. "I am touching you."
"Y-You—" Your breath hiccups in your chest with how hard you're trying not to gasp for air. "You don't know how cl-close I am to— to—"
You clap your hands over your face, feeling a flush of heat throughout your body that has nothing to do with his hand on you. It's hard enough to be begging him for some kind of stimulation, but to tell him how close you are to an orgasm just from his touch is mortifying.
Not for the first time, Baelor seems to be able to see inside your mind without you voicing your thoughts. "Tell me," he plies gently, his thumb sweeping across your damp skin. He remains so composed, even when you feel like dissolving into thin air. "What is it that you feel… when I touch you?"
He's still hesitant, but his voice holds a curiosity that he hadn't made manifest before now. Everything in you winds up tight at the sound. He's not just indulging you, he wants to know. You know that he's trying to be proper— Baelor is a man of restraint, of infinite patience and regard for honor and decency. You know that he's clinging to his morals even while trying to rationalize the problem set before him.
But he bolted the chamber door, you remember. Behind your closed eyelids, beyond the sound of your heavy breathing and his, more measured, you can hear the clang of the bolt reverberate in your ears all over again. His hands pressed to the solid oak, his head bowed in thought. Why would he have locked you in together? Unless…
"It feels like sunrise after a frost." Your voice is muffled behind your hands, because you refuse to look at him while you say such things. You don't think you could bear to see his face, as you confess, "It is as though all of this poison in me changes, and it becomes heavenly. I feel… when you touch me… as though my body is not my own, but yours to— to do with as you please. To mold to your whim. And I would let you, my lord, I— I would have you do anything that you desired to me, and I would ask you only to do it again. I could glut myself on your touch and it would not be enough, it undoes me in ways I cannot explain, I… You set your hand upon my back and I thought… I thought I was going to c-cum—"
You choke off on a quiet, humiliated sob. So there it is, out in the open now, with no way to take it back. Baelor is still frustratingly silent, but you refuse to pull your hands away from your face to look at him, because you can't find it within yourself to be clever or brave anymore.
"You wouldn't even need to— to deflower me," you continue, blathering now, unleashing any thought that comes to mind as a way to fill the silence. "It would hardly even be anything that would be significant to anyone, just— just lay your hand upon me, and I might— I could—"
"Where?"
All things stop at once. Your thoughts, your breath, your heartbeat. You freeze up like he has just found a way to completely obliterate you with one word. You take a sharp inhale to kickstart your lungs again, and hesitantly curl your fingers away from your eyes to look at him.
Baelor's eyes are transfixed on your face, unwavering, his expression open and earnest. He waits for you to answer him, but when it becomes apparent that you can't, he supplements, "Show me where you would have me touch you."
You consider him for just a second, just long enough for the gravity of his words to register. He wants you to show him. It occurs to you to tell him that he could touch you anywhere beneath your chemise— your stomach, your hip, your knee— and it may yield the same results. But you don't.
You take Baelor's hand, the one resting on your chest so steadily, and you move it. He allows you to, watching you all the time, the pupils of his mismatched eyes blown wide. With one hand you pull at the fabric of your chemise, tugging it up your legs, while you guide his own beneath it. As soon as his hand touches the plush skin of your thigh, you both gasp in tandem— but for different reasons.
For you, it's the burst of sensation, the sharp arcing pleasure that shoots up your spine and grips at something tight and cruel in your core, making you stifle a moan. You were right. The proximity of his touch to where you want it most makes all the difference— you fist at the gathered fabric in your hand and try not to rock your hips toward his touch, but your pussy throbs threateningly at the heat of him so close to it.
Baelor is simply startled. His brow shoots up, his jaw slack as he breathlessly murmurs, "Oh, my sweet girl."
You're drenched down your thighs, a fact that you had failed to mention to him. His fingers slip through the wetness there, feeling it against your skin, and his breath leaves him in shock.
"I— I wasn't like this, before." You take a shaky inhale, and tremors travel through your entire body. "Before you."
It's as though something within him cracks, and all of his inner turmoil is laid bare before you, etched across his features like a carving on stone. The fear, the worry, the frustration, all manifest in his pinched brow and the dip of his mouth, the tremble of his breath. But there is something else there, too— raw desire, sharp as a knife's edge. It's in his eyes, in the way that his shoulders draw tight, in the set of his jaw. It's in his hands, the way that his fingers shift and press into the pillowy flesh of your thigh.
Baelor's thumb sweeps along the curve of your inner thigh, the same affectionate, instinctive gesture that it had been as he laid his hand on your chest. But on this part of your body it is more suggestive, and perhaps ill-advised. His thumb glides too close to the core of you and, quite by accident, he discovers that you are bare of any smallclothes.
Your gasp is sudden and loud. The brush of his finger against your bare sex is enough to make you jump, your hand clamping down on his wrist desperately as pleasure dances like pure dragonflame over your nerves. Your cunt pulses, and a feeble moan breaks from you. "Baelor, please."
He halts, and something changes in his expression. Call it the end of resolve, or a breaking point. There is no hiding anything from him now, you know. He has seen everything, knows what you are laying with.
"No more begging," Baelor finally says, and it's a gentle order. This man who has led armies, who has killed and fought to defend his realm, speaks to you with infinite tenderness. "I have you now, darling. I am for you. You need not beg anymore."
I am for you. He is your knight, upholding his vows, taking up his sword to defend you.
You shiver to feel his grip on your thigh tighten just a bit, a final test of his resolve before he moves it. There is a shift beneath the white linen of your chemise, and then Baelor's knuckle drags slowly through your soaked folds.
Your breath stalls in your chest as your mouth drops open. His touch turns you golden. Your body seems to light up from the inside, fresh heat blooming low in your stomach. Heart pounding in your chest, you stutter, "Oh, fuck— fuck, Baelor, this— this is too much, you don't have to—"
He shushes you, and the look in his eyes threatens to undo you more than his finger tracing a line through your cunt. There is a fire in his eyes that was not there before. The fire of a dragon, of a Targaryen. His gaze feels almost like a physical caress as he says, "Hush, now. I do this willingly."
Fuck. His voice is deep, rich and soft as velvet as he stares at you with that unwavering intensity, touching you between your legs. Your Prince. Touching you between your legs. It completely arrests your ability to think. He is slow, methodical in his movements as he is with everything; he glides the length of his finger through your pussy without rush, letting you feel each bump and ridge as they pass over your clit.
With your heightened senses, you can hear how wet you are, and the salacious sound of his fingers gliding through the mess you've made is enough to drive you up the wall. He begins drawing circles around your clit with the tip of his finger, and you melt into the mattress. You feel as though your pleasure and your need have turned you inside out, bitten chunks from your sensibilities.
He's too beautiful. The thought plagues you more and more. Baelor is too handsome, too competent with his strong hands and too gentle with his lust-roughened words. Gods above, you feel like you could cum— you should have cum by now, with how badly your cunt spasms under his attention, how hypersensitive your clit is as he continues tracing languid circles around it.
Then Baelor dips down and sinks a single finger into you, where you leak and ache desperately for him. Your thighs widen to give him more room, and he takes it, pushes in to the knuckle and gives you a practiced crook of his finger.
A sound rips from you— something animalistic and completely unfamiliar, a moan from the very depths of your fevered being. You tighten a fist in the tangled bedsheets and turn your face to the side, trying to hide from him while he makes you unravel at the seams.
"Look at me, darling." At the hushed rasp of his voice, your cunt clamps down hard on his finger. He pauses, halting all movement until you turn your head to open your eyes to him.
What you find in his face is enough to move the endless soul in you. You have spent two weeks etching Baelor's face into your memory— his careful, poised demeanor, the way he steadies his expression to keep it neutral, tactful. You know his cautious smiles, and you know his deeper one, the one that you hold tight to your chest like a secret. You know his kindness, and you know his disappointment.
But you've never seen this. This unbridled lust, his every feature touched by the amount of desire he has for you. He gazes at you like he feels everything you do, and more. Baelor inclines his head, and he appears so composed, as he always does, but his chest is heaving— you can see it and you can hear it, in the rattle of his inhale, in the obvious rise and fall of his shoulders.
"I will have you look at me when I do this," Baelor tells you, his eyes so dark and hungry that the very glint in them is wicked. It unnerves you, runs quick and hot through your veins. "I will have you see all that I give, and know it is yours to keep. Only yours. Do you understand?"
You swallow hard. "Yes, my lord."
"Baelor." His voice is quiet when he corrects you.
"Baelor."
He flexes his finger within you and your face crumples, your thighs shaking where they lay spread on the mattress. His free hand comes to rest on your thigh and makes to pull your legs further apart, prevents you from moving it back to center. It is not a rough or demanding move, but it conveys his message. Stay. Don't move away.
Baelor whispers something in a language you don't understand— High Valyrian, most like, but it makes no difference that you cannot speak it. It sounds warm, seductive in his throat, and a tremble rolls through your body at the sound of it.
Soft moans fall from your lips as he adds a second finger beside the first, and your hips nearly leave the bed. You take him in so easily, a quiet breath of disbelief leaves him, and he shifts, giving you strokes that have you fighting to keep your eyes open and fixed on him. A gentle back and forth, a hot press against the wall of you. Your body doesn't know how to react— hot then cold, trembling and then still, rocking against him and then backing away as though it's too much and not enough all at once.
His silver signet ring grazes you, hard to offset his softness. You're so close, you can taste your release on the back of your tongue like the entire ocean is rising within you. You grab at the pillow beside your head, ripping at it between fingers that don't know what to do with themselves. Your eyes clench shut at the sudden onslaught, your head tilted back on the pillow.
"Look at me," Baelor reminds you, his voice gently commanding.
Quick as he says it, you snap your eyes open again and find his fixed on you, dark and fathomless. There is a sudden surge, a quickening in your breath. "Oh, gods, Baelor—"
It looms like some wretched, evil thing come to destroy you. You snatch at his forearm frantically, trying to warn him, but unable to form words.
"I know. I feel it," he soothes, a palm moving sweetly against your thigh. He squeezes you there, a reassuring touch even while his other hand takes you apart. "You don't have to hold on anymore. I've got you. I've got you."
Your hips lurch towards him, your vision whiting out. His fingers hit a spot both perfect and devastating inside of you, and your mind's focus is whittled down to a fine point, aimed at him.
"Cum for me, lovely girl," Baelor orders. So you do.
He remains constant. Even when the wave rises and breaks within you, even when you writhe and let out a ragged cry, the sound torn from a hidden, previously unknown part of you. Through the seemingly unending torrents, Baelor remains your anchor. He does not change. He does not move. He does not let you go.
You turn pliant in the aftershocks. He gentles his movements— he does not stop them altogether, but turns them lighter, slower. His thumb brushes over your clit, and you jolt hard enough to convince him to finally withdraw his hand.
Baelor watches you closely, his darkened eyes focused on yours, but that familiar tenderness is returning, creeping across his features. The span of his fingers curves around the meat of your thigh, measured breaths leaving parted lips. His other hand is drenched with your fluids, still held cautiously between your legs as though hesitant to pull back entirely.
"How do you feel?" He asks then, softly.
You blink at him, and then up at the canopy over the bed. You're still shaking, your brain fizzling and humming from the orgasm he'd given you. "I don't… I don't know, I— that's the first time anyone has ever— done that…"
Baelor stays quiet for a beat, a small, affectionate smile curling the corners of his mouth. Then, he clarifies, "Do you think that it worked?"
"Oh." Yes, that. You had somehow forgotten that there is an ulterior motive to all of this, that it is not just sex for the sake of sex. "We… We could check?"
The words leave your mouth meekly. You don't want him to let you go. You don't want him to go away. Yes, you want the poison to be gone from your system, but you are greedy. You want him to stay with you and take you until morning. You want him to keep looking at you like that, like he'd swallow you whole, bones and all.
Unfortunately, Baelor listens. He slowly lifts his hands away from you, leaving you entirely. For a few calm seconds, nothing happens. Your body is still awash with the remnants of your orgasm, your skin still tingling with the memory of his touch. You lay there for a moment, thinking, was that it?
But then you look at Baelor again. He stares down at his hand— the one drenched in your arousal. It shines in the mid-afternoon light, strings of it threading between the parting of his fingers as he… feels it. Rubs his fingers against each other to test the silkiness, pulls them apart just to watch it web across the gap in thin strands.
You watch, wide-eyed, as he returns his gaze to your face. And he lifts his fingers to his mouth to suck your wetness from them. His eyes, amber and violet, trained on your expression until they flutter shut, and he groans.
"Oh— gods on fire."
Your whole body tenses up with the fury of it. The pain. It assaults you worse than before, with a ferocity that scares you. There's so much of it that it is not enough to scream— you can't even breathe for it. You curl into yourself and roll, the muscles of your stomach and core pulling taut.
"No. No no no— Baelor." You whimper, blindly throwing your hand back to grab at him. You find a wrist— left or right, you don't know— and pull so that his hand smacks down onto your flank with a lewd sounding slap. "Didn't work. It didn't— fuck."
"All right. All right, my love. Come here." Baelor's hand slides around your waist to gather you into his lap. You slide across the bedsheets with your spine bent into a crescent, knees pulled to your chest. "I've got you. I'm right here, just relax." You jerk involuntarily in his hold, an elbow catching him in the ribs. He grunts, adjusting his arm around you, curling himself over you like a shield. "Relax. Relax."
You will the tension in your muscles to release one by one. You imagine yourself absorbing into him, your head resting on his strong thigh as you allow your body to feel him. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the distracting warmth radiating from the space between his legs. The smell of him there, strong and sweetly arousing. The taste of something on the back of your tongue— sweat and something muskier, something more masculine.
Him. The taste of him, through silk, through smallclothes. Your head spins, and you fight not to turn your head further into his lap, not to nuzzle into the crotch of his breeches and just breathe him into your lungs.
"Stupid fucking sex potion," you mumble angrily once the pain recedes. "Secret ingredient. Bullshit."
"All right," Baelor says again to quiet you, laying his hand on the crown of your head soothingly. You imagine that he understands what you're feeling, though, because he doesn't argue.
"What do we do?" Your voice is thin, a barely-there thing in the quiet.
"We continue."
You turn your head. Baelor is gazing down at you, eyes glittering with affection. He exudes a calmness that you cannot feel, even though your overwrought body relaxes into him. "You want to… continue?"
"We need not stop at one." Baelor pets your head, shrugs a shoulder. "I wouldn't, even under normal conditions."
You stare at him, aghast. "Your Grace."
He gives you a wry smile. "We don't know what this 'secret ingredient' is. Perhaps it needs… more. We can continue until it takes." Another pause. "You'll have to forgive me for my choice of words. It's my first time experiencing the… joys of a sex potion, as well."
You snort incredulously, trailing your fingers along his clothed forearm. "And what if it… takes?"
You don't need to elaborate. What if you become pregnant with his child, like he suggested you might? What happens if you bear the heir apparent a bastard, and still end up married to his nephew? What if you cause a scandal?
"Then… we continue," he repeats. "Come what may." Baelor takes your hand in his, presses a kiss to the back of your palm. You are filled with so much adoration for him that it almost wounds you. It sets up a home in your body, right below your heart. "Whatever happens, it makes no difference. You may have anything that you want from me."
"Even your hand?"
"Especially that."
"In marriage?" Your chest tightens up in anticipation. You gaze up at him, willing him to accept you, clutching his hand like he might pull it away, recoil in disgust. If he were to turn you down now, you think that it might just kill you before the poison does.
Perhaps he feels how hard you tense up in your nervousness. He pulls back just the slightest bit and peers at you, taking in your expression, before his own turns into something open, genuine. His eyes crease at the corners as he traces a single finger down the part in your hair, and he replies, "Yes. I will marry you, darling girl. I should have, the moment I was able to. I should have begged you on my knees."
You smile at the mental image that provides. The Hand and Heir on his knees for you. "I would have liked that."
He gives you the fondest look. "I have no doubt."
You fiddle with his hand. His skin is soft, prominent veins running up the back and to the knuckles. You fit your hand to his like a question, examining the difference in size and shape. The ring on his middle finger, still damp from where it's been. In you. In his mouth.
"Why did you do that?" You don't mean to ask the question aloud, but it comes out anyway.
"Do what?"
You glance at Baelor and determine that he's only asking because he wants to hear you say it, and not because he's really confused as to what you mean. He looks coy, which is not something you've ever seen on him before— but you think that it suits him.
"Taste it." The words feel sharp in your mouth. "You didn't have to. I wouldn't have expected you to."
He breathes in deeply, and exhales on a long, low hum. Then, his eyes find yours again. "There are few pleasures in this world that compare to the taste of a woman. I wanted to."
Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. "And?"
"And you taste divine." A deft finger twists in the hair just at the very top of your head, twirling it around and around in hypnotic circles. "I would taste you again, if you would allow me."
It's your turn to hum. You hold his one hand in both of yours, tracing the details of them with your fingertips. Your thumbs map out the dip of his palm, the raised, sword-strengthened calluses beneath his fingers. The meat of his hand, where it connects to his wrist.
Without pausing to feel embarrassment or shame, you bring his hand to your mouth. You brush your lips over his fingers just barely, before you take them in and suck on them. You hear a shudder in Baelor's breath, but you don't stop. It is an intimate thing, to have his fingers stroke your tongue, to taste yourself on him, to know that his own tongue had been in the exact same place moments ago. You whimper and draw them in deep, your lips fitting around the silver ring against his knuckle, your eyes falling shut. He watches you, allowing you to take his swordsman's hand and fit his fingers between your teeth, trusting you not to bite down.
You sigh as you release them, dragging your tongue along the ridges and dips of his fingers on their way out. "I wanted to do that," you admit to him quietly. "For a while."
"You like my hands, it seems," he muses, a note of approval in his voice.
"Very much." You blink at him, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze. "I'll let you have me however you want, my Prince. I only ask that first… you kiss me."
"Is that so? Only a kiss?" You nod, and Baelor smirks. He drags the tip of his pinkie finger gently down the slope of your nose. "You drive a hard bargain. If I kiss you now, I fear I may never stop."
"Don't stop."
Baelor lets out a short breath, and then scoops you up into a sitting position. You grunt in surprise, grabbing for his shoulders at the sudden movement, but you settle with his arm tight around your waist. Your heart skips a beat when he cradles your head in his palm, his fingers tangled in your hair.
"I don't think you understand just how wonderful you are," Baelor whispers, his mouth so close to your that the warmth of his lips practically touches yours. He hovers there, a breath away, and it's torturous to hold back. "You'll be the death of me."
With a shaking hand, you rest your palm against his cheek. You feel the scruff of his beard, the way that his jaw tenses the tiniest bit. "And if I don't kiss you, I'll die."
That seems to finally crack his composure. Baelor brushes your hair away from your face, strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, and closes the gap.
His kiss sends shocks of warmth through you, and you melt into him with a quiet sob of relief. Relief from the tension and swells of pain and fear. Relief at finally being able to hold him, to kiss him, open mouth to open mouth. You clutch at his shoulder, his neck, and swing your thigh over his to sit halfway on his lap.
He moves with you, his strong arms keeping you steady as you sink against him, groaning into you. Each point of contact feels bright, like if you opened your eyes to look you would find yourself glowing where he touches you. But his mouth moves against yours like silk, his tongue against yours, and he tastes like peace. It feels like the end of the storm, the answer to all your problems— even if it is only just the beginning.
Baelor's hand slides down to your lower back, holding you fast, splayed wide across your spine. His fingertips press into the flesh there, pulling you closer, until you're flush against him.
Your cunt grinds down onto the meat of his thigh, and you moan brokenly into his mouth. The sound of his name again, sweet on your tongue. He captures your lips with his, his other hand coming down to grip your hip. He rocks you against his thigh purposefully, swallowing the desperate sound that leaves you when your clit presses into the heat of him, through frustrating barriers of fabric.
You make a small, disgruntled noise, and your hand falls to the belt around his doublet. Nails scratching at the leather, you fumble with the buckle until it comes free. You feel beneath the cover of his doublet to find his soft linen shirt, warm from the heat of his body. Strong muscles tense beneath the lightness of your touch.
You huff a perturbed sigh against his mouth. "You are too clothed."
"You are too impatient," Baelor returns, but there is a huskiness to his voice that makes his words seem inconsequential. He shrugs out of his doublet to let your hands wander over his shoulders, down to squeeze the width of his arms. His beard tickles along your jaw as he presses kisses to your skin, trailing up to your ear. "Lie back, darling."
You recline on a pile of tangled sheets, chemise rucked up around your hips. Heat kisses your cheeks and pulses low in your core, your thighs instinctively wanting to close in on themselves, but they are stopped in their endeavor by Baelor's hips.
The mattress dips beside your shoulder where he leans his weight, hovering over you, a veil of security against the rest of the world. He drags his open mouth across your skin like this is not only for your benefit, but for his. You feel the flash of wet and warmth from his tongue, and your back arches up against him. He moves so slowly, savoring, his breath tumbling across your heated flesh like clouds of smoke.
It feels good. It feels so heavenly that you don't quite know how to accept it— you feel almost as though you should move away, but you would only be condemning yourself to more torment. You are bound to the bed by curiosity, an insatiable need to see what he does next. To feel his mouth touch more of you, places that you never thought to feel a pair of lips, teeth, or a tongue.
Baelor skims lightly over your breasts through the fabric of your chemise, while his hands find the curve of your waist. As he lowers, he ever-so-slowly tugs the fabric up, up, up, until you are bare from the waist-down and left open for his wandering mouth.
Your hands cling to him, one clawing against his back, the other gliding over the back of his head, cradling him to you. You gasp to feel the heat of his tongue on the skin just beneath your ribs. "Baelor…"
He hums in acknowledgement of his name, dragging his lips down over the curve of your stomach and lingering there. Baelor is thorough in a way that shouldn't shock you as much as it does— he lavishes you with his tongue and his lips, the quickest grazes of his teeth making you lurch against him with small sighs and moans. You are entirely alive with feeling, winding you up, until your whole body tenses and releases with it.
Then, he's moving. He passes over your pelvis and your aching, swollen cunt, and goes lower, settling between your knees. You make a little sound, a whimper of protest when you can't hold his head in your hands anymore.
He shushes you with his mouth against the inside of your knee, and then the wet swath of his tongue licks upwards in a way that takes you entirely by surprise. Bold, quick, his face so close and coming towards the most intimate part of you that you startle. "Gods—"
"Let me." It's a quiet plea, hushed against the skin of your inner thigh, one big hand cradling it to his cheek. There's the prickle of his beard, then the soft soothing of his tongue after. "My sweet girl. Let me taste you here."
"Yes," you sigh, even as he's already licking over the trail that your arousal has left, smeared across your overheated flesh.
The aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly. The maester had said as much, and it becomes more and more apparent that, as Baelor lingers there, breathing in your scent and tasting you on his tongue, he is becoming intoxicated by the poison leeching from you. It's in the way his breath falls unevenly from his mouth, the way his gaze has gone a bit glassy with want, his pupils so wide that his beautiful, incongruous eyes are nearly black.
Baelor takes to you with a wide, flat stroke of his tongue that practically burns you alive. Your back leaves the mattress, your hands snatching at his head. Your cry breaks in your throat with its intensity and pitch, already taken to pieces by the single touch of his mouth to your cunt.
He groans into you— fully moans, as though this is entirely for his benefit and it is not something that he's doing in service to you. It is not a sound that you would have ever expected to hear from him, half-animalistic and far from the restrained, princely figure you've come to know him as. Large hands grasp at your hips and bring you further into his mouth, firm and consuming.
His name leaves you on a squeal. You're being too loud and you know it— through the open window, you can hear birds soar past, voices down in the courtyards. Any and everyone will hear you, and what the Prince of Dragonstone is doing to you, if you can't help it. You barely have the mental fortitude to let one shaking hand leave his head and clap over your mouth to stifle your cries.
He pulls back, releasing your clit from between his lips with a wet sound that makes your face burn. His eyes find yours, and you feel pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. "Do not silence yourself. Let me hear you."
You hesitate for only a second, but he doesn't move. Baelor's eyes remain fixed on your face as you reach forward, then stroke a hand over the crown of his head, a tentative and seeking touch. Then he returns to suck at your clit again, and you have to bite your tongue on a whimper.
He remains there for a long time. Long enough that you begin to think you may go delirious from the pleasure, and not from the poison throbbing and coursing through your veins, effecting him as he tastes you. He drags you to the precipice, to a place where reason and restraint don't exist anymore. There, you threaten to burn alive.
You cum into his mouth with a hoarse cry, your head tipped back on the pillows. It splinters through you like it may both destroy you and rebuild you anew at the same time— there's a rush, a flood between your legs that you don't expect, any more than you expect Baelor to stay there and take it, in all its viciousness.
You can't quite think. You feel him lingering there, his lips and tongue still on you, but it's as though you've been entirely unmade. He doesn't move, just remains solid and capable with his attention on your spent cunt, his tongue still lapping at the wetness that drips from you until you're certain— almost entirely certain— that this is not for the sake of the poison. This is not the potion at work. This is sex for the sake of sex.
"Baelor," you murmur, your voice a bit too high and airy in your throat. Your fingers dig at his scalp for something to make sense of. "D'you think— think it worked—?"
"Mm. You need another." Baelor answers you before you finish asking the question, his eyes narrowed as he rears back. His face is painted in your wetness, glistening around his mouth as he breathes heavily. "Let's not take any chances, shall we?"
"No, I wouldn't want to— to take chances— oh."
Baelor is climbing the line of your body, traversing over you like a panther on the hunt. His parted lips trail a wet line over your stomach, and he nudges your bunched up chemise back, further up your ribs. With trembling hands, you grab the useless fabric and pull it, tugging it frustratedly over your head so that you can throw it across the room.
"My beautiful girl," Baelor whispers into your skin, almost as though talking to himself more than you. His palm smoothes over the curve of your ribs and comes up to cup your breast, a reverent and tender touch, as though simply feeling the weight of it in his hand. "So stunning. Oh, I dreamt of this."
"You dreamt…?" You stutter out a gasp when his mouth closes hotly over your nipple, and your hands fly up to grasp the back of his head.
"I dreamt," Baelor repeats, moving his attention to your other breast with the same amount of care. "I wanted. I wished."
You pull him by the nape of his neck and he moves with your urging, lifting himself over you so that you can kiss him. The dampness of your arousal, still lingering in his facial hair, smears against your cheek as you lick into his mouth and taste yourself, oddly sweet on his tongue.
"Take your clothes off," you grumble against his lips, the slightest note of impatience lacing your tone as your fingers dig against his shoulders.
His linen shirt meets your chemise somewhere on the floor. Your hands find his chest, sliding down over hard muscle padded with soft flesh. He has a body befitting a man of his station— a soldier, hard and lean, bearing the scars of battle but unashamed of them. You trace a scar stretching across his ribs, trailing down towards his navel. Unhurried fingers dance over the trail of hair stretching downwards, guiding you towards the waist of his breeches.
"You're beautiful." It comes out more forceful than you mean for it to— but gods, do you mean it. You want to map out his body with your hands and your lips and your teeth, you want to learn every inch of him by rote, and still never stop once you know all. You try to convey it to him with your eyes, because you can't find any other words to express it. "You're so beautiful, Baelor, you must know."
He smiles, and it's that smile. The one that has haunted you since you saw it last, the one that you want to see over and over again. It causes a swelling feeling in your chest that… probably isn't healthy, but none of this is. It would be death to deny it now.
"You flatter me," Baelor says, his thumb stroking idly against your thigh, where his hand rests. His eyes are soft, flicking over you with so much adoration you struggle not to squirm beneath it.
"I tell the truth," you murmur, slipping two fingers just beneath the waist of his breeches to trace just below the fabric. His breath hitches, and you smirk. "I could always lie, but I imagine you'd see right through it, now."
"It would be very unladylike of you," he remarks, his smile turning sardonic.
"Hm. Can't have that." Even as you say it, your hands are untying his breeches, your fingers tugging until you're able to slip them down his hips. "We both know just how ladylike I am."
One boot comes off, then two, and his breeches shed to leave him in his smallclothes. There is no finesse to his movements— the seduction is over, leaving only sharp intent and the promise of what's to come. Desire wound tight like a spring, loaded to snap at a single touch.
That touch comes when you slip your fingers along the band of his smallclothes, a single, featherlight graze against the laces. Baelor's entire body goes rigid over you, as if you've held a blade to his throat. You guide them over his hips and down his thighs, until he snaps to and shirks them the rest of the way. He whispers your name, something between awe and guttural need forming the word in his throat.
"Baelor," you hum in response when your fingers find him and wrap around his cock. You freeze for just a moment— he's larger than you expected, and the prospect sends a little shiver through you. The Hammer, you think to yourself. Of course. He's hot to the touch, burning and throbbing against your palm, so hard it seems like it should be unbearable for him. But he bears it, for you. "Do you know how many women in the realm dream of this?"
He makes a small noise of warning, twitching in your grip.
Your grin turns wolfish as you pass your thumb over the head, flushed and leaking. "Do you know how many would kill for this? Would die to lie beneath you like this?"
"Heavens above." He shudders out a sigh as you stroke him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "Don't— you mustn't say such things to me, my love, I— I have to be so careful with you. You have no idea."
So this is what it is, to have him lose his composure. No longer the Prince of Dragonstone, Hand to the King, heir to the Iron Throne— in your hands, he is simply a man. A man who wants, whose breath spills warm across your lips. Whose hips search for yours when you wrap your legs around his waist.
"Would you let me have you, my Prince?" you ask him, and your voice is light, inquisitive. It can't be anything else, because you are just as desperate as he is. You don't have it in you to be teasing, you are simply open with your need for him, allowing your innermost thoughts to surge to the forefront. Your forehead pressed to his, you look up through your lashes to find his eyes closed, squeezed shut in some vain attempt to hold on. "My love?"
His eyes snap open to meet yours, pressed so close that your noses touch. Baelor groans quietly when you guide him between your legs without waiting for an answer— it was a rhetorical question, after all.
But all the same, he replies, "Anything you desire."
Baelor drops his hips, enough to follow the guidance of your hand. He fills you in one fluid stoke, and together you take a long, deep breath.
"You are…"
"Perfect." He finishes your sentence for you, hushed and airy though it is. It feels as though you could be interrupted at any moment with the way he holds you, like a secret, like something that should never been spoken or heard about. Like you are only for him to know this way.
He presses his hips flush to yours, making you keen from the fullness, the exquisite stretch. The potion, for what it's worth, does make everything slicker, easier— you are so swollen and relaxed from his mouth, your body so attuned to his that there is no pain. Only the pleasure of his touch remains.
He moves, and it lights you up from within like wildfire. Your back arches towards him, your chest pressing up against his, and a sound unlike anything you've ever made tears from your throat. Arms blindly snatching for him, you wrap yourself around him as though he may try to move away.
He nuzzles his nose against yours, almost too tender of a gesture for the position you find yourself in. "That's it, darling. Take all of me."
Your mind clouds with pleasure as he rocks his hips into yours. You feel like you're drowning in the skin on skin, stripped to the skin and pressed flush to him. Your hand smoothes down his back, feeling rigid muscle and raised scars there, too.
He withdraws and presses forward, setting a slow, deliberate pace that drives you practically mad. He's so gentle and tender even when everything about him, about this situation, tells you that he wants to let go of his restraint. Widening your thighs on instinct, your hand cradles the back of his head, bringing his lips closer to yours.
"Don't hold back," you tell him, and you feel his breath pause where it fans against your cheek. Even though to try to be commanding, your voice cracks. "Baelor— stop holding back—"
Baelor presses a single, chaste kiss to your lips, and you are too caught up in the moment to realize that it's a warning, a subtle apology before he's shifting. He lifts your hips, planting his knees on the mattress before he pulls you into his lap, your back bent over the expanse of his strong thighs.
You slide down the mattress with an undignified squeak, hands scratching along the sheets for stability where there is none. And then you settle into your new position, gazing up at him with a stunned expression.
He's unbelievably gorgeous. His chest leaps with his breath, tanned and freckled skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He pants through parted lips, his eyes sharp and focused as they always are, cheeks flushed. He's a vision, and he's all yours.
Baelor splays his hand flat against your chest, running his palm over the skin where, beneath, your heart pounds a drumbeat loud as thunder in your ears. Then he drags his touch down, between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach. His hand settles warm and solid over your navel, thumb stroking you tenderly enough to make you let out a soft sigh.
But then he's sliding his cock into you again, a wicked thrust that punches all the air from your lungs, and his hand presses down. Your brows draw together, your mouth falling open on a silent moan as he hits something so devastating inside of you that it makes your eyes involuntarily roll back in your head.
"Feel that?" Baelor murmurs, his voice roughened with desperation as he does it again, and again. Pull back, push forward, press down. "Feel how deep I am inside you?"
It comes out so… possessive. Spurred on by the fact that he's the only one to do this to you, the only person to see you like this. Like he's staking a claim to you with each roll of his hips. His fingers rub back and forth over the soft flesh of your stomach, and you do feel it— the tip of his cock as he drives it into you, reaching so deep within you that it makes a faint bulge in your lower stomach.
You sob out an incoherent response, lights dancing behind your eyelids. Your hands, searching for something to hold onto as his thrusts gain momentum, find the pillow above your head. You squeeze it, pull blindly as though it will bring you some respite, and the downy soft padding of it covers your face, smothering the obscene moans that spill from your mouth.
Baelor's hand all but slams down on top of the pillow with a dull thump. You feel the impact through the feather stuffing, a slight bump against the tip of your nose before he's snatching it away from you and flinging the accursed thing across the room. It hits one of the open window shutters and falls to the floor.
"Do not. Hide." It's a snarl released from his throat, his hand coming to cup your chin and pull you to center. "Show me your eyes."
You blink your eyes open at him and bite your lip, trying to keep your whimpering at bay. You watch his core muscles flex with the movement of his hips, his chest dappled with golden sunlight, his jaw tightening with the effort to remain consistent, even when you told him to let go.
"There she is," Baelor whispers, a flicker of awe crossing his features. "My beautiful girl."
His thumb strokes across your lower lip, and without even thinking, you close your lips around it. The pad of his thumb, tasting of salt and the sweet musk of your own cunt, strokes against your tongue. A quiet groan breaks from him, his thrusts turning erratic and unmeasured when you suck hard.
Baelor drops his chin toward his chest, his face drawn in silent agony. "Fuck."
Your cunt clamps down hard around him at the sound of the swear falling from his lips. You don't know why the single word is enough to drive you crazy— probably because you've never heard Baelor curse before, and it's such a juxtaposition to the rest of him. The unshakeable prince brought to shambles by your lips around his thumb, your legs around his core.
Your orgasm mounts suddenly, and your teeth bear down hard on his thumb. It's enough to throw him off-kilter. He hisses through his teeth and pulls you with his free hand, seating himself deep inside you, his hips pressed flush to yours. He slides his hand from your waist downward, through the soft curls of hair on your mound. He finds your clit, brushing a circle around it with the tip of one, impossibly gentle fingertip.
You cum so quickly that the force of it turns blinding and sharp. Your cunt pulses on his cock with an urgency that wracks your entire body. But it is not enough for him that you lay there milking him— no, he has to escalate it.
Just as soon as it hits, Baelor's hand is gripping your thigh, pushing your leg up until your knee hooks over his shoulder, and he bends you. Your thigh presses tight to your chest as he moves over you, his cock hitting immeasurably deeper now. You claw desperately at his back, fingernails scratching, raking hard lines that will be too easy for his servants to notice, come morning.
He doesn't let up, even for a second. Still driving his hips, fucking you through the pulsing of your cunt, his body holding you down against the bed. His thumb slides from your mouth with a wet pop, spit smearing across your cheek as he cradles your face. Baelor replaces his thumb with his tongue, kissing you deeply, reverently, like he can feed all his devotion into you with it.
"Good girl," he whispers into your mouth, dragging his hips back slowly and then filling you back up even slower. You squirm, drowning between your legs from the oversensitivity and the entirely new angle he hits at. The sound that he makes is unbelievably erotic, something between a sigh and a rasping moan that cracks in his throat. "So good for me, my darling."
You cry his name, latching onto him with a trembling hand. "Fuck— Baelor. You need to cum. You should—"
"Don't." He shakes his head, fixing you with a heated look. He swallows, exhaling a stuttering breath. "Not— not yet, I don't—"
But you're nodding against him in retaliation, tightening your core muscles around his cock, squeezing him so hard that he makes a noise like you've punched him.
"Fuck," Baelor grits, hanging his head. "Oh, fucking Seven, you just— just can't stand to lose— can you—?"
Perspiration beads on his brow, and you have the sudden urge to lick it. So, you do. You pull him down by the neck, and he goes, following the urging of your hand like it's a command he's beholden to. You run your tongue across his temple, up and over his drawn brow, and he shudders.
In spite of everything— the overstimulation, the frightening possibility that you might cum again— you manage to break a small, breathless smile. Your mouth finds the shell of his ear, and your voice drops unexpectedly low. "Yield."
He plants his hips against yours, pressing your thigh so far against your chest that your knee almost touches your ear. He cums with an exquisite moan against your cheek, your tongue still pressed to his face to taste more of him, as though you can consume the very beauty from his skin.
You take his hand— the one against your thigh, holding it up around his waist— and guide it down between your flush bodies. Even while you feel him pulse inside you, he follows your guidance without question. He rubs a light caress against your clit, just enough to send sparks shooting up your spine.
You cum again for him, and it's gentler this time— like sunlight breaking through a storm. You give him a soft, relieved moan, while you pulse on his cock and your tense muscles release beneath him.
You both lay there in the feeling, letting the pulsations die down as you settle. And then, he stirs just a bit.
"Better?" Baelor murmurs, nudging his nose against yours.
"Much."
You feel him smile as he kisses you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You let him linger there, smiling into your mouth, for a few more seconds— and then you kick your heel against his shoulder, where your leg is still slung up and pinned against you.
He laughs at the disgruntled noise you make, lowering your leg and smoothing his palm up the length of it as he pulls it to rest against his hip. "My strong girl. You're quite the force when you want something, hm?"
"Don't you forget it," you grumble, but there's no real heat to it.
"I'm not likely to anytime soon."
You sigh when he withdraws from you, but only so that he can roll you both, gathering you into his arms. You lay with your head on his sweat-slick chest, his arm encircling your shoulders to hold you close. Relaxing into him, your body spent, you place a hand over his chest to feel his heart thundering beneath your palm.
Both naked, tangled up in each other, you remain like that for a while. Your fingers drawing idle shapes against his chest, gliding through the hair there as it rises and falls with his breaths as they even out.
He's yours. The thought flits through your mind, light as a feather. He's going to marry you. You'll be his wife. Many things about it make your chest tighten. That you'll be the Crown Princess in the process. That eventually, you will be expected to be Queen.
As quickly as your fears bubble up, one thing quells the flood. He's Baelor. He'll take care of you. He always seems to. You trust him to. You… you love him for it.
"You're staring."
You blink, and tilt your head to look up at him. You had been staring, directly at the mess you made between his legs, while your mind whirled in a dozen different directions. You should probably feel embarrassed at being caught, but there's mirth in Baelor's eyes. His hand pets affectionately against the back of your head.
"We're betrothed," you say, in lieu of an explanation.
"So we are."
"The King should probably know."
Baelor makes a short noise. It rumbles in his chest, against your cheek. "The King can wait until the 'morrow. I'm not terribly enticed by the idea of leaving you tonight." He turns his head slightly towards the open window. "After all, I'd imagine most of the Keep knows about it, by now."
You giggle, turning your face towards his chest. You nuzzle into the hair over his heart and breathe in, smelling the comforting scent of his skin. Remarkably, it is less strong than it has been all evening, no longer heightened to the point of overwhelm. You can't hear every damned thing in the Keep anymore— nor can you taste the saltwater on the air from the bay.
"Baelor."
"Mm?"
"I think it worked." You press a kiss to his sternum. "We did it."
"Good." A pause. Baelor heaves a deep sigh. "Do not. Ever. Drink another fucking sex potion. For the love of the suffering Seven."
You tut, a teasing smile quirking at your lips. "So I shouldn't use the second one I have in my drawers, then?"
Baelor's head snaps towards you. When you see the look of terror on his face, you dissolve into a fit of laughter, pulling yourself closer against his side.
He huffs a quiet chuckle, but you can't mistake the sound of relief underlying it. He lays a warm palm against your bare shoulder. "Troublemaker."
"Yes, I am." You bite your lip, trailing your hand down his stomach, your fingers grazing lightly enough that you watch his abdominal muscles tense beneath the touch. "But I want you like this all the time."
"Naked?"
"Unmoored."
You turn your head to find him regarding you with the same calmness you've come to expect from him, but with a fire burning within his gaze. He smirks slightly. "That shouldn't be too difficult for you to accomplish, I fear."
With a hum, you slip your leg over his hips and lift yourself to straddle him. His hands find your waist, steadying you. You raise yourself up, one hand braced on his chest, the other falling to one of his hands. Beneath you, you feel his cock begin to harden again as you place his hand on your breast.
"Then let me begin, my Prince."
The wedding is scheduled for three weeks later, at Baelor's behest. Long enough for the lords of the seven houses to arrive in due course, but not long enough for there to be question if you indeed are with his child.
You spoke about it at length, actually. He was very insistent, seeing as how he was trying to actively put one in you at the time.
On the day of your wedding, you sit in your vanity chair and fiddle with the cuffs of your dress. It is white and gold, of a fabric quality you've never been able to luxuriate in before. It feels stifling. You fear walking in it, breathing in it, doing anything that may damage it at all. You sit with your spine stiff and straight, allowing Mircalla to fix pins into your hair. Several other serving girls flit about the room, attending to various other chores.
When you feel you've just about had enough of the prodding of pins, a knock sounds at the chamber door. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you shift in your seat, hoping that it may be your husband-to-be, come to steal you away for a moment before the ceremony. It would not be unlike him— Baelor is a busy man, but attentive as often when he can be. Even if it is a mere kiss in an alcove, or a five minute interlude in the courtyard, there is always a time and a place that he can find to be with you, to show you his affections.
But the chamber door opens, and your guard steps a foot into the room. "Prince Daeron to see you, my lady."
Daeron? Your brow draws in confusion, but you rise from your chair, regardless. "Enter."
Daeron stumbles into the room with all the grace of a newborn deer. The maids all pause in tandem, and a hush falls over the room as he blinks up at each of them awkwardly, his blue eyes a bit less bleary than normal, his honey-gold hair tied back with a black ribbon for the festivities. "Apologies for my… intrusion?"
"No harm done, my lord." You clasp your hands anxiously behind your back, all the same. "What may I do for you?"
"I had wanted a word with you, my lady. Alone. For only a moment, if you wouldn't mind?"
You think that you would mind, very much. But the longer you regard Daeron, trying to cling to your vitriol, the less you can find any. You are about to be married to the Crown Prince, a gorgeous and honorable man who you are falling desperately in love with, to no one's surprise.
You cannot bring yourself to refuse Daeron— and so, you dismiss your ladies with a courteous nod.
As soon as the door shuts, Daeron is crossing the room and slumping into an armchair by the window. You do not move, but follow him with your eyes as he slouches, heaving an enormous sigh.
"Are you drunk?" you ask him pointedly.
"Always." He flashes you a sardonic smile. You give him an incredulous look. "Necessity compels. But I am here, and not at a tavern, at least."
"Better wine, I'd imagine."
"Mm, yes. Arbor red. An excellent choice, indeed." He pauses, his eyes flicking over you apprehensively. "I came to… apologize, my lady. I fear I have behaved rather badly towards you, and I felt I owed you an explanation."
You only blink at him. "Yes, you do."
"Right." He licks his lips, seeming to collect his thoughts. "Before you came to King's Landing… I dreamed of you."
"How romantic."
"No, not— not so much." Daeron takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You see, my dreams… they have a tendency to come true. It isn't always a good thing." He pauses for a long moment, his eyes focused on the middle-distance, appearing to see something that you can't. "When I dreamt of you, it was… I saw you dying, my lady. I saw you on your death bed. And you cursed me for it."
You say nothing, but watch him as his shaking hands smooth against his pants.
"I didn't know what it meant. But I figured, when I saw you, that if I was going to be the reason for your death— in screaming agony— then it would needs be best for both of us if I held no relation to you. If I could refuse you and not speak a word, it would be… you wouldn't have died. And I wouldn't have been the cause."
"But, I have not died, my lord."
"No." Daeron lets out a short laugh, void of humor. "But, you had an affliction some weeks back, did you not? I heard it was rather a close call." He fixes his eyes on you, and he looks so deeply apologetic. Like a kicked dog, he peers up at you through his lashes. "If I was in any way responsible for— for any pain caused, I am truly sorry, my lady. My intentions were noble, I assure you. My execution, however…"
"Leaves something to be desired, yes." You close your eyes, breathe in slowly. Daeron reeks of alcohol, but you don't allow it to deter you from stepping closer to his chair. "In your dream, what was it that I said? How did I curse you?"
Daeron swallows, his eyes flicking around the room briefly. "You said… 'I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me. I didn't take the fucking thing for him.'" Your face must betray your thoughts, because Daeron regards you closely before nodding solemnly, folding his hands in his lap. "Right. So, it was that."
Your heart pounds so hard that you swear it's trying to leap up into your throat. "Daeron. Whatever you think you saw—"
"It's not for me to pry." His eyes continuously move from your face to various areas of the room, like he doesn't want to look at you head-on. "What I know is that you are well now, and marrying my uncle. And I am happy for you, my lady. I truly am. It has been many years since I saw him smile the way he does, when you aren't looking." Daeron finally chances to look you directly in the eye, and he looks gravely serious. "Do not take this the wrong way, but I think that we would have been terrible for each other. Wouldn't you agree?"
For the first time since Daeron stepped into your chambers, a smile crosses your face. "You know, I think you're absolutely right. We would have killed each other."
Daeron lets out a sad chuckle. "Quite so."
He looks around, at a loss for a few seconds, before he heaves himself up and stands over you. He's quite a bit taller than you first thought— maybe it's because he isn't slouching as much, now.
"Forgive me, my lady. I've taken enough of your time. I wish you a long and happy marriage." He winks. "Only, one not to me."
That finally earns him a giggle from you, and Daeron smiles, before lifting your hand and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles. You watch him cross the room, narrowly avoiding bumping into your vanity chair as he moves.
At the door, Daeron pauses and turns back to you with a reserved smirk. "Just so you know. My cock does work. If the need should ever arise again."
He ducks out of the room before the pillow you throw can hit him.
jumpcut mid porn scene to mircalla and florin sharing a blunt outside the laundry rooms like "so do u think they're fuckin or"
author's note: sorta the prequel to this pregnant!R fic bc I love soft needy Daeron and wanted to write more of him <3
content warnings: pre-season 1, drinking, pet names, princess/wife!Reader, R wears a dress, R has breasts + a vagina, R is implied plussized, bad family mentions, trauma symptoms (Daeron), possessiveness, whining (also Daeron😏), husky/big-muscled Daeron, swearing, sex while tipsy, oral, facesitting, fingering, PiV sex, cum play, body worship, breeding kink, talks of pregnancy + heirs, flangst and smut mdni!
word count: 4.5k
Daeron is swaying into you as he walks.
Every third step, his cloaked shoulder bumps yours and his boots falter in the muddy pathways between tents. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy telling you with boisterous drunken volume about a pack of dogs set on him by the gamemaster when he was a boy.
Somewhere between the lavish Baratheon pavilion and the high-flying banners of House Beesbury, you decide the best course of action is to help your husband lean on you entirely.
You’re not very smooth with it- a bumbling grab at his arm as it swings wide with story, a sideways heave as you take more of his bulk onto your own frame, wrapping your arm around the mid-back of his doublet- but Daeron isn’t sober enough to refuse your help.
His arm now loops over your shoulders, bringing his face much closer. Daeron presses his cheek to the side of your bare neck, smiling and laughing into your skin- the feeling sends shivers cascading down your spine.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, just behind the shell of your ear. “Should’ve called the Kingsguard to drag me abed.”
The ground slopes slightly before your tent’s entrance, and it takes nearly all of your energy to keep your footing and support another. There are two torches at the end of the path that light your destination just a few yards off.
You take a moment to turn your face against your husband’s.
In the dark of night, it is feeling rather than sight that guides- the bridge of his nose pressing to the side of yours, a soft sweep of his long lashes, the coast of his warm waiting breath over your chin.
“The Kingsguard would not do as good a job as me,” comes your murmured reply.
There’s the tilt of his golden smile against your skin. You can feel it like a brand, hot and searing and filling you up with light long after he moves.
Daeron’s always been a bit funny with touch. Even after knowing him most intimately for three years, it can be hard to tell what sort of reception a gentle hand may grant.
Sometimes it seems to sour him. The corners of his mouth tug down and he twists from any gentleness you may wish to give, much like a dog that’s been beaten in the past and felt made to deserve it.
Other times, your prince seems to crave touch.
It’s evident from the way his hand is curling into the sleeve of your dress and the intention of each inhale to breathe you in that this is one such night.
Your shared tent is about as far north from the tourney field as possible- a positioning meant to subtly shame the eldest princeling for his life choices, or lack thereof. Despite this, you have come to find the particular type of isolation that goes hand in hand with being Daeron’s wife is usually a veiled blessing for the both of you.
Regardless of noble behavior, the tent is still draped and set for two royals of high status. The interior is lush and cozy, deep reds and crimsons painted soft in the flickering candlelight.
There is a trunk at the foot of the postered bed, which Daeron promptly trips over. He slips from your hold to land on his back amongst the stretch of furs with an oof, then stares half-lidded at the canopy above with a lazy smile still slung across his lips.
You bend to ease the boots from his feet. It is no small intimacy, the allowance of undressing- something that has become ritual in the last year.
Daeron’s hand rises from amongst the downy bed and stretches towards you, opening and closing around nothing but the spiced warm air.
“Please…”
Your shush comes gentle, a comfort rather than a rebuke. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re comfortable.”
You rise from the floor to fit your knee to the side of Daeron’s waist in a half-kneel, fingers deft at the silver dragon pins holding his cloak in place.
Daeron waits until you’ve flipped the heavy fabric from his shoulders to run his hands along the length of your sides. His thumbs fit into the spots just above your ribs, where the ties of your kirtle have loosened enough to feel the chemise beneath.
Though Daeron is further in his cups, your state is altered as well, a pleasant tipsiness that makes you giggle at the feeling of his cold fingers against the single layer that separates your skin from him.
“Sweetheart,” you say, chiding lightly, other knee sliding into place against his opposing hip. “This is not conducive to a calming spirit for sleep.”
Daeron whines. His hands slide to the back of your fitted bodice, pulling you into himself more fully- you catch yourself on your palms, on the mattress at either side of his broad shoulders.
“I don’t- I do not wish for sleep,” he slurs, cheeks turning rosy as the tops of your breasts become his new view. His fingers are clumsy on the small of your back, quickly getting tangled in their efforts to rid you of the tightness of your stays.
You manage to push yourself up to sit, thighs now bracketing your husband’s lap quite comfortably as you reach behind yourself to untangle the mess he’s made.
Daeron drops his hands without protest. He finds a new task in pulling at your skirts where they’ve been caught between limbs and bed.
“You should have some water,” you continue. The fit of your bodice begins to give under the undoing of your stays. “And I should send for some food.”
The careful plans to save Daeron from a terrible headache on the morrow go unnoticed. His hands are the hungriest thing about him, roaming to pull at the split fabric sides until the stiff torso piece can be cast aside.
“There’s only one thing I wish to eat,” Daeron says. Voice low and coated in desire as his eyes fall to the thin white chemise that’s doing a poor job of hiding how peaked your nipples are.
His words startle a laugh from you- Daeron is hardly ever so bold of speech, but the combination of wine and good cheer has apparently loosened his tongue.
In the low light of bedside candles, you make a careful study of your husband’s face even as he seeks to bury it between the plush of your breasts. A night of dancing and drinking in the Baratheon tent has seemed to make a more tender man of him.
His pupils are like two glittering voids that nearly eclipse the rings of color- normally a soft lilac, his irises have sunken into a deeper, lustier shade of royal purple. The sight makes your heartbeat tick desperately at your throat, at the apex of your thighs.
“It has done you good to be out and participating in happy company, my lord,” you tell him, fingers slipping into the velvet-soft strands of his hair. There’s a cord tied at the back of his head; while Daeron busies himself with mouthing at your chest, you free his hair from the tie so his pale curls swing about his jaw.
“Mmmm.” When Daeron hums against your left breast, the vibration cascades throughout your frame, tightening your fingers against the roots of his hair. “It has done me good to be in your company.”
Whether it is the wine in your system or the sweet talk or the dogged way Daeron persists to rid you of your skirts, you cannot say, but winding down for slumber no longer seems the reasonable thing to do.
Daeron is whining at you again; once your skirts are kicked off to puddle on the floor, he’s tugging at the shorter hem of your chemise to coax you further up his torso.
“Fucking gods-”
When the heat of your cunt brushes against his stomach, his chest, Daeron moans- he doesn’t even bother taking off your smallclothes. They’re hooked to the side with a thick finger as his mouth trails kisses along the tremble of your inner thighs.
“All for me?” His tone is hushed, awed at the slick already shining at your entrance. “Were you this wet the whole evening? Just waiting for me to take care of you, sweetling?”
You grip the wooden headboard and take a shuddery breath as Daeron’s free hand skates against your bare hip, pushing the hem of your skirt further up and curling around the fabric and fat of your skin in one big handful.
He’s both holding you in place and drawing you down, until your thighs are enclosed around his ears and his tongue has the perfect leverage to draw a lapping stroke between your folds.
“Fuck, Daeron-”
He hums again. The noise makes your stomach clench.
You’re not sure when, exactly, you’d gotten so wet. Maybe it was the first time he asked you to dance in front of the whole Baratheon company; maybe it was the second time, or the third.
Or when he refilled your goblet without needing to be asked, or when he refused to be parted from your side the entire evening. Always touching you- a hand on your back, an ankle hooked around yours.
It was meant to be a slight, pitching this tent as far from castle lodgings as possible. But at present, you couldn’t be more glad for the solitude of the space.
Daeron is ripping noises from your throat that should only be heard by him.
There’s also the lewd, wet sound of his tongue stiffening and pushing into the weeping hole of your cunt. The tip of his nose fits perfectly against the swell of your pearl, and when Daeron shakes his head, the sensation forces all the breath from your lungs.
It comes flooding back on the next push and pull of his tongue. A sharp inhale and the creak of your fingers around your headboard join the cacophony of sounds.
Daeron’s been fucking you long enough to have learned your rhythms. He’s made a practiced study, he’s paid attention, and his reward is knowing the best ways to work you up. To have you galloping towards the steep-edged dropoff of pleasure so soon it’s nearly embarrassing.
Nearly. It’s hard to feel anything but the embers of pleasure being fanned into a flame, heat coiling from your gut and rushing southwards with each rock of your hips against your husband’s mouth.
Daeron is groaning again, the fingers of his left hand digging into your hip through the fabric so tightly there will surely be marks left in the shape of his nails. The middle finger of his right hand slips to your spit-wettened opening, tongue moving back up to make room as the digit takes its place.
His first knuckle sinks in, then the second. The ale may make a lesser man uncoordinated, but Daeron hits against the spot that makes your vision burst into stars with every thrust of his finger.
He finds a steady tandem motion with the thrusts and the suckling of his mouth, and one of your hands darts down to thread through his hair again.
There’s a lilting, golden phrase in High Valyrian that Daeron speaks against your cunt- a blessing or an invocation, no matter- and it sends you reeling into an orgasm.
Everything seems to freeze up, go taut- your stomach, the channel of your cunt, the very arches of your feet.
And then, all at once, everything falls, plummets; you’re spasming with euphoria, calling out expletives along with Daeron thrown into the fray.
Daeron holds you through it, coaxes you over the crest and doesn’t let up until you’re twitching from your seat and whimpering at him to cease.
You shuffle backwards into his lap again with an exhausted chuckle. Daeron wiggles his head from beneath your skirts looking like the cat that stole the kitchen's best cream.
“You taste sweeter than wine. Finer than the finest mead.”
There are curled locks of golden hair clinging to the sweat-sheen of his cheeks, which have only rosed pinker in the last few minutes. Daeron is cunt-drunk, blinking slowly as he revives enough to join you in sitting up.
Although he is sweaty from dance and drink and other exertions, Daeron’s neck smells like nothing but familiarity and home as you bury your nose behind his ear. There’s a faint underlying floral note, leftover from the vial of your orange blossom oil he’d borrowed after an earlier bath.
A heady mix of animal wanting surges through you. The blood in your veins is set at a simmer.
“Need you, my lord.”
You know the words will break him. You are counting on it as you kiss them into his skin.
Daeron stiffens beneath you. There’s the hard, insistent press of his cock through his breeches that you can feel against the inside of your leg.
The air shifts. Daeron is panting as he takes you by the chin, grip tender but firm; when he kisses you, it’s mostly wet tongue and a graceless attempt at tasting the inside of your mouth.
He’s growing sloppier, rougher with his touches. You wonder if the dragonfire makes his blood heated, too.
Daeron feeds you the bright tang of your own arousal, twining tongues and letting out a raspy mewl from the back of his throat. He pulls back just far enough to replace his tongue with the finger that had just been inside of you.
The slick returns to your body once more as you suck him clean. Lashes fluttering, chest heaving with breath.
Daeron releases your face and swipes unseeing towards the bed, pushing all the topper furs and his cloak to the floor to clear some room on the mattress.
Your husband’s skills may not lie in brute force on the battlefield, but he has the quietly deceptive strength of a boy who grew up on the backs of horses and can throw around quintains with ease.
There’s a subtle ripple at his biceps and Daeron has you easily flipped onto the silk sheets. You land with a thud in the same manner he tripped earlier, except this time Daeron is climbing over your supine form and pressing the hard length of himself between the cradle of your legs.
Daeron’s brows pull together at the sight of you spread beneath him. Sometimes your beauty pains him, he’s said as much, and this time his words slur together with eagerness.
“Wanna- sh-shit, fuck, please- want to be good for you- so good-”
You cup the flush swell of his cheek, tilting up to kiss him between each croon- “You’ve been- so good, my lord- Daeron- my prince- so good to me, for me- sweetheart-”
He crumples at the affection. Burrows into your neck and drives his hips forward like the movement is totally out of his control, whining lowly at your ear when your arms wrap around his neck.
Some evenings, the spirits of wine and ale seem a third lover in your couplings. The alcohol may affect Daeron’s ability to stave off pleasure, having his peak arrive with little intention and no warning; other times, it will take him an age to come, if at all.
No matter the circumstance, you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and understanding (of which he feels most undeserving) every time, and Daeron- whether by nature of shame, desire, or a confusing mix of both- usually seeks to apologize with his mouth and fingers.
It seems the quickest route will be the one taken now. Daeron’s self-applied penance will not hold with you, not tonight- not when he is humping his clothed cock into the heat of your cunt like a dog in heat.
Broad-shouldered and impressively formed as he is, Daeron is still careful to not settle the entirety of his weight on you. He is rutting against you with increasingly desperate hisses through clenched teeth, thick arms caging you in, the plush fat of his abdomen pressing into yours with every move.
You hitch a knee over his hip to draw him in closer. He whimpers, a choked sound that spirals directly into your hearing.
“So… so fucking beautiful,” he moans, leaning his weight into one arm while the other moves to deal with your chemise. When the fabric is finally ripped free, Daeron latches onto your breast with singlemindedness.
The hot, tight suction of his mouth has your spine bowing from the mattress, serving only to shove your chest further into his wanting mouth. Daeron flicks the tip of his tongue against the hard peak of your nipple and it loosens a cry from your throat.
Your right hand leaves his neck to wiggle between the crush of your bodies, finding the tie of his breeches and undoing them without the need for sight. You make a fumbling attempt at your own smallclothes but Daeron lifts from your breast with a wet pop, moving to support your hips as you lift them so he can aid your endeavors.
There’s a brief, quiet interlude as he slides the remaining fabric from your body and makes quick work of his own doublet and undershirt.
Your very toes wiggle in anticipation and delight, eyes raking over each stretch of newly revealed skin until it is just your husband, nude and breathless with lust, gathering you back into his arms as his body lowers to meet with yours again.
You’re so thoroughly wet from Daeron’s mouth and the build up to this moment that there is hardly any resistance of your muscled walls as he aligns himself, the head of his cock sinking smoothly past your entrance.
Another night, you’ll give his cock the attention it deserves. Such a pretty thing, thick and long and pale up its shaft, blue-green vein running heartily up to the head which always flushes a perfect shade of red-wine.
For now, you are content with letting Daeron set the pace, with hearing every minute noise he makes at the overwhelm that is entering you.
Your wrists cross his neck again and Daeron’s forehead drops to yours, his arms at either side of your head shaking with the effort it takes to control his movements.
“My love…” Your voice is equally strained the further his cock fills you. “I’m all right. Feels so good. Please, just- just have me.”
Daeron curses, hips snapping forwards at your invitation. “Seven fucking hells-!”
He obeys, because he’s never been able to deny you a thing. Not even himself.
You can feel every notch of his cock as your cunt throbs around the length that plunges in and out in a quick, urgent manner.
There’s a flash of deep violet as Daeron’s eyes roll backwards, jaw clenching then dropping open on the next thrust. He speaks against your lips in a voice steeped with desire-
“Let me- give you- a child. A babe. Please, sweetling- if it’s what you want, please, please-”
Your ankles cross to the sweat-soaked small of his back. There’s another tempest brewing low in your stomach, pulsing in response to Daeron’s pleading.
You moan into his mouth and beg right back. “Like that, Daeron- yes, please, please, fill me- mark me, m-make me yours- I’ll give you- an heir, please-”
There are wet, weepy noises spilling from the depths of Daeron’s soul as he fucks into you with fervor, thrusts turning uncoordinated and sloppy again, but still that perfect pressure on your womb and muscles that have you seizing around his cock.
There is a bright, harsh licking of flamed pleasure, like parchment to a candle. It consumes you, catapults your mind into the stars, a feeling of such complete freedom that you wish to live in always.
Daeron looks as beautiful as a painting. Brows scrunched with pleasure, mouth rounded into an o; there’s a line of sweat caressing a path from temple to cheek as his hips falter and smack into yours with a vulgar, erotic wetness.
Your walls ripple around his cock for the final time and you both come together, groaning and keening for each other, everything heady and hot and wild, untameable as fire itself.
Daeron’s hips finally still, cock still throbbing and leaking his seed into the deepest part of you. Sweat sticks your skin together- the soft mounds of your breasts to the broadness of his chest, the slopes of both your stomachs, the wiry curls dampened between pelvises.
Your husband does not move for minutes afterward. You’d have it no other way.
In the hazy aftermath, you trace lazy patterns against his back, trailing up and down in a loop that has your fingertips coasting over every scar and mark that you’ve memorized thus far.
There’s the thin silvery stroke below his ribs from a particularly brutal training session. A small knot of scarring at his left shoulder blade from a riding accident when he was a boy. And freckles, too, a whole constellation of them- as if the gods, when making Daeron, dipped their hands in paint and flicked the spots into being.
As much as Daeron has learned your rhythms, you’ve learned his.
After coupling, his mood often does not take long to return to its former gloom- the doubt crawls back into his bones with aching routine.
Tonight is no different. Still molded to your form, Daeron lifts his head to kiss your shoulder, eyes already full of familiar sorrow as he says, “I do not know why you’ve stayed with me for so long. Why you keep choosing me.”
It defies his logic. The very way you look at him- with love, with compassion and sincerity- is antithetical to what Daeron feels is his lot in life.
His father looks at him and sees damaged goods, a weak link in the lineage. The maesters see someone who needs bloodletting, fixing, a whole week of procedures.
Daeron thinks there is a poison to his soul that can never be excised. That the very existence of his dreams, his nature, is abominable. Intolerable.
But disdain has never arisen in you. Nor has regret.
However many times Daeron needs to hear a profession of love, you will rise to the occasion without fail.
Your hands slip from his neck to cup his cheeks, holding him in place above you, pinning him with your gaze.
“My heart.” Your thumb smooths across the edge of his cheekbone. “In another life, you were exalted as a soothsayer. Your story would become legend, a part of the history books. Just like the gods.”
There’s a shift in Daeron’s eyes, an uncomfortability at your words- you speak more, even softer this time.
“We were born into families that do not understand us. And you’re my golden boy, in a long line of unfeeling silver.”
Luminous tears pool in Daeron’s eyes. He sucks in breath, ribcage expanding into yours, fighting the urge to dismiss and reject.
“You are not a burden,” you whisper. Thumb pressing to the soft skin under his left eye, trying to imbue the words through touch alone. “And even if you were. I truly enjoy caring for you. Probably more than is appropriate.”
This coaxes a smile onto Daeron’s lips; you feel the slant of it pressing into your palm as he exhales a soft laugh. There is a tender moment of acceptance-
and then Daeron is snaking a hand between your bodies, placing his own palm over the soft give of your stomach where he still rests in you.
“I beg of you. Take no moon tea on the morrow.”
The shock makes you mute for a moment, unsure if he is teasing, if he really means it. And then hope blooms like a flower in your chest and your question is hoarse with emotion-
“Really?”
Daeron nods, a lock of hair sliding over his brow, dimples springing to life as his thumb strokes over your navel. “Really. I was not just speaking in the heat of the moment. I hope this takes, I am ready- ready to be-”
He falters, the smile slipping from his face, replaced with something brutally vulnerable and earnest. “-to be a father. A good one. I want to have a babe with you, to see your eyes reflected in one of our own creation.”
The current of emotion pulls at you like the tides. Tears well in you, too, a grin breaking out in answer to Daeron’s own, a giggle trembling through your frame as you test the new idea- “A babe. A child.”
You’ve been so content in your marriage, even with all the ups and downs of being wedded to someone of a cloudy disposition. Loving Daeron has altered your state of being with such welcomed totality that you haven’t felt any need to add or expand around it.
This will be a fraught path with its own complications, hosting and bringing into the world a new Targaryen heir. But for now, the idea is so lovely that you just want to bathe in the happiness for as long as it will have you both.
You guide Daeron’s face down again to kiss where your thumb has been pressing. With sincerity, you tell him- “I hope the babe gets your eyes, instead. They are quite my favorite in all the kingdoms.”
Daeron kisses down the length of your body as he moves to pull from you, a few extra placed on your stomach- a small action that stirs air against the still-glowing embers of your passion.
He wets a cloth from the side basin and wipes between your thighs with calculated gentleness, using the fresh side to swipe against the mess on his own skin. There’s a mess of discarded clothing and furs that should be dealt with but Daeron only kicks through the heap to drag the softest and largest pelt onto the bed.
The silk sheets are a balm to your overheated skin as Daeron slips in beside you, pulling the topper fur over your joined forms as he wraps an arm around you.
Your ear fits to the middle of Daeron’s chest, his heartbeat audibly slowing with each deep breath you take as a mirror for his own.
“My dreamer,” you murmur. Sleep floats at the edges of your consciousness.
Daeron heaves a rumbly, pleased sigh. His palm spans warm against your stomach.
“If your dreams are frightening-” you whisper, with the last of your energy, “-wake me. I will soothe you.”
“You always do. Without even trying.”
There’s a kiss to the crown of your head, a smile that twitches at your lips- and then sleep pulls you into the kingdom of peace.
afterword: reblogs are never required by me but always much appreciated if you enjoyed!! thx for reading!! <3
⭒ TV Shows Directory ⭒ Books Directory ⭒ House of the Dragon
⭒ A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
the drunken | @eu-nicola
Hold the Wine | @deadonyouraccount
Daeron being married to a daughter of Prince Rhaegel | @bronze-vermithor
The Unremarkable | @my-hearts-kickdrum-type-beat
Prince Daeron was a man plagued by foresight, a man who held great fear inside of himself. There was nothing he wanted more than to hide. But he had things to live for; his wife, and his daughter.
“Dreams are just dreams, Daeron…” | @amnesia-ish
a dreamers dream | @jacaerysgf
daeron has only ever had dreams of misery and sorrow. except for that one singular dream. the dream with her in it.
A FOOL NONETHELESS… | @carmysdoll
A LITTLE PLACE CALLED THE MOON | @/carmysdoll
THREE IN THE MORNIN’ | @redwinelewis
another prophetic dream haunts a targaryen prince and he needs you to make him forget all about it.
Love can taste like the wine of the ages | @dustofstarss
After his father’s reprimands over what happened on the way to the tournament, Daeron hides under his blankets trying to calm down, luckily, his bride to be finds him to help him.
daeron and his dear sister!reader | @ghostlybfgf
I Live for Your Touch | @faelinda
You provide your eldest brother, Daeron, with some relief before the trial.
between fire and sleep | @daiscript
daeron targaryen drinks to forget his dreams. you are to marry him and in the dark of the red keep, he swears he has already seen you in fire and sleep. you were not sent for love. you were sent to help him.
RELIEF | @spicyrose
Born of Ash | @raidenre-l
Daeron Targaryen x wife!reader | @/raidenre-l
My Moon, My Man | @escapic-mezzanine
An imperfect bride for a flawsome man – it was not a tragic match by any means, but the heavy shroud of expectations made affection morph into doubt. It felt like a choke, the duty imposed by House Rosby, tightening on the necks of Daeron and his wife.
A Bitter Taste | @sleo00
Daeron Targaryen X Wife!Reader | @lunsilun
Injured and confined to bed with a broken leg after the trial, Daeron is quietly tended by his wife. Her presence brings him comfort and strength as he recovers.
Trial Of The Seven | @/lunsilun
taking care of injured Daeron after the trial.
𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 | @cosmictheo
it’s been a rough day for your long-suffering husband, so you must take his worries and pain away!
Nemophilist Masterlist | @prophecyofwinter
No one in your family takes your dreams seriously after time and time again of them being correct. You see the same man in your dreams night after night getting closer and closer every night. You did not know who he was or when you would meet him but you felt yourself being drawn in by him. It is not until your father takes you to Kingslanding that you uncover his identity.
Night path | @its-applelicious
A rather optimistic and compassionate young lady is promised to the Targaryen prince, Daeron. But after a disappointing dinner with everyone but her betrothed, she decides to go search for him herself, endeavoring on her own adventure.
grow a pear | @pacificheights
when the levee breaks | @/pacificheights
after the death of your father, you aren’t sure how to look your husband in the eye. how could you possibly, when all you could think of was his own father’s mace crushing the back of your father’s helm? / “someone write a fanfic where reader is baelor’s daughter and [daeron’s] wife/fiancée, and after her father’s death, she harbors resentment towards her uncle’s family, just like valarr does.”
Kinship | @faelinda
After you give birth to your first daughter at Summerhall, your family begins to heal and strengthen.
My Light, My Life, Part 2 | @feyhunter78
What began as an insult quickly turned into a marriage of deep devotion and comfort. AKA you’re the only thing keeping Daeron together.
Conversations in the Garden | @/feyhunter78
At a garden party with your husband Daeron asleep in your lap, you discuss the past and finding love with your good brother Egg.
Five Firsts with Daeron | @/feyhunter78
Meeting, apology, lie, kiss, and bedding. Five firsts with the prince who would capture your heart.
Still new to the married life, and to none other but a prince, you try to navigate yourself among the duties of a royal wife. Having Daeron as your husband, and Maekar as your father-in-law brings situations, you weren't prepared for. But your vision haunted husband tries best as he can, to be there for you. Even in the ordinary moments.
dream a little of me | @dreammfyre
being married to prince daeron targaryen wasn't easy, not just because of his lifestyle—you knew he liked to drink, the good life. but the hardest part was dealing with the curse that had haunted him since birth, the dreams that kept him awake.
You’re the only girl that I have ever wanted. | @/dustofstarss
One year of marriage to Daeron has been putting you in situations you never expected when you agreed to the union. Finally exhausted from justifying him, you decide to confront him. Though the last thing you expected was to have Daeron begging you…?
Isn’t that what being a parent is? | @imnotcryingyouare1
in turning divine | @sehaedazokla
your arranged marriage to prince daeron targaryen is distant at best. when your existence begins to bleed into the edges of the mad world he wishes to shield you from, he suddenly finds his hands and his head so very full.
WISHFUL THINKING | @sansaorgana
Your husband doesn’t believe he is worthy of you, so it doesn’t help when other women pity you for being married to him. You defend Daeron in public, not realising he can hear you standing up for him.
Me and Your Mama | @celandeline
a unity in dreams | @spcncershybrid
after being betrothed to prince daeron, he didn’t seem amused. plagued by a recurring vision of your futures, he doesn’t know how to proceed.
Dreaming of Marriage | @blueberrypancakesworld
For every night she remained dreamless, Daeron dreamed all the more. An encounter at the Ashford Tournament, and the prince had never been so sober when it came to her. But how quickly can one fall in love and marry when dreams bring you together?
The River that held a Dragon | @sconniebelle
You are the daughter of House Tully betrothed to the eldest son of Prince Maekar. You’ve heard the rumors about him and his wine. But what you didn’t know is that Daeron has dreamt about you.
“I WANNA BE A GOOD FATHER.” | @idreamedofyouuuu
Your eldest born daughter (named Daenora) is now five years old, but you don't want her to see her father, Daeron being drunk.
summary: While bathing in the creek, your clothes mysteriously disappear. Luckily, a certain hedge knight is there to help.
words: 8.1k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, size difference, outdoor sex, teasing, semi switch!dunk, inexperienced!dunk, reader is ferally horny, guiding dunk through it, dunk has a big dick, naked female/clothed male, canon typical sexism, dunk calls reader 'my lady' and 'sweet girl', fairytale vibes, reader's clothes get stolen, egg the accidental wingman, an abundance of sword metaphors, i'm here to spread the pretty boy dunk gospel, dunk is my sweet himbo, not beta read, not proof read we die like [redacted targaryen prince]
a/n: do not look at me i blacked out and didn't read this after i finished it. thank you to @urhoneycombwitch and @runawaywerewolf my beloveds for indulging me while i screamed about this
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI
"Apologies, m'lady. I did not know you were here."
You pause, your hand wrapped around the ends of your hair as you gaze at the strange man who just interrupted you. You had heard him tromping through the brush. He stomps like an ox— you're sure that half of the nine kingdoms could have heard him coming, but the most you could do to hide yourself was dip your chest beneath the surface of the water. Even then, the water is so clear that you don't think it would have hidden much. You figured that one person finding you bathing would make no difference in the grand scheme of things.
"That's all right," you say after a moment, and continue wringing out your wet hair. Water trails over your skin, dripping in long rivulets that the man is clearly trying very hard not to focus on. The man gazes down at the grass and turns his head away, as though he can somehow unsee you in your nakedness. In fact, he looks anywhere but at you; the tree line, the water, the rocks on the far side of the creek. You tilt your head, examining his demeanor, the way he holds himself stiff and straight, as awkward as can be at the sight of you. "What is your name?"
"Dunk— Ser Duncan the Tall. My lady." He shifts on his feet, and then makes an attempt to bow, a little too late. He still doesn't chance a look at you. "I am… a hedge knight, you see, and I have been sleeping under the tree over there—" he points at the elm tree in the glade, under which a palate has been laid, far enough away that you actually hadn't noticed it, "—for several days, now."
"Yes, I do see."
You snicker under your breath and look at him again, raking your eyes up and down his frame. He's huge, a giant of a man with strawberry blond hair that shifts in the breeze. Even from the side, his profile is handsome, his brow drawn with nervous tension. You figure you would have to look up at him if you were face to face with him, and yet he stoops bashfully as though he expects you to tear him apart just for looking at you. Biting your lip, you can't help the flirtatious smile that stretches across your face.
"Ser Duncan," you say, wading through the waist-deep water towards him. You watch his adam's apple bob as he swallows, moving as though he means to turn away from you. You introduce yourself to him, running your fingers over the surface of the water. "I apologize for my intrusion. I didn't know that this glade was in use. The error is entirely mine."
"No. No, with respect," he looks at you, and then his eyes widen as he remembers himself and averts his gaze again, "I have no claim here. I— I would leave you to your washing, but you are… terribly exposed here, I'm afraid."
"Yes, that usually happens when one bathes, Ser."
"No, I—" He puffs out his cheeks and blows out an exasperated breath. He thinks for a moment. "Begging your pardon, m'lady. What I mean to say, is that there are many people afoot who are not… not honorable."
"Honorable," you repeat, with an air of amusement.
"That would place you in jeopardy, I mean."
"And you would not?" You can tell just by looking at him that he wouldn't do anything to harm you; he looks like he's mortified just at seeing you naked.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he confirms, nodding his head, almost to himself more than to you.
You're almost immediately smitten with him. It takes you a second to come up with a response that won't come off as overbearing; but you can't resist teasing him, at least a little. A small smile stretches across your face as you muse, "Because you don't wish to see me naked, Ser?"
"What? No, I— I mean, I don't— I… I wouldn't—"
"You find me ugly, then?"
"No, ma'am, I—"
"Mhm. Horrid. Repulsive."
"No! No, by the gods, you're beautiful. I just mean—" He breaks off with a deep sigh, clapping his hands over his face. He shakes his head, as though chastising himself. "I am sorry, my lady. I've never been good with words. I would not presume to look upon you in any way that could be un— untoward—"
"Because you are honorable." You giggle at his distress over something so trivial, as you walk out of the water and face him. With a warm smile, you tell him, "I understand you quite well, Ser Duncan. Forgive me for teasing. I meant nothing by it."
He sets his lips in a firm line, shooting you a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Thank you."
You nod at him encouragingly. "I will take my leave, as soon as I am dressed. If you don't mind?"
"No, please. Do as you like, I'll stand watch." And then he turns his back to you, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword with purpose.
You let out a soft laugh. "Quite right." There is a moment where you stand, watching his back, waiting for him to turn around again; he doesn't. You are not shocked, but you still smile to yourself as you turn to retrieve your clothes from where you left them, on the old stone wall.
What does shock you is that your clothes are not there. You had left them within plain sight, and they are nowhere to be seen— not on the ground, or behind the wall at all. They couldn't have been blown away in the wind.
"Ser Duncan," you say, and clear your throat as you turn towards him. "Where are my clothes?"
"Where—?" He glances over his shoulder, and then whirls away again. "How— how should I know?"
"Well, they didn't walk off by themselves." The night air is cool on your damp skin as you place your hands on your hips. "Clearly, someone took them."
All is quiet for a few seconds, and then: "You think I did?" He sounds utterly appalled.
You had, for only a moment— but now, you aren't so sure. You approach him slowly from behind, folding your hands and watching him curiously. He's so wound up tight that he holds his shoulders near his ears, his chest seemingly heaving. He won't even look at you. You have given him every opportunity to, and he won't. Why steal your clothes, and then refuse to reap the rewards?
"Ser Duncan, you may look at me. I don't mind."
You hear him take a shaky breath, and then he turns and looks down at you. His eyes are bright azure, positively glowing in the low evening light and so striking that you nearly recoil from the sight of them; but even so, they drop to the ground almost instantly.
The wind picks up just a bit, rustling his hair. You shiver in the breeze, squeezing your arms against the sudden cold. He immediately snaps to, untying his cloak before handing it out to you. "Here, m'lady."
You feel your heart swell at his gallantry, as he drapes the fabric over your shoulders. The linen is worn and soft on your skin, and warm in the shoulders from his own body heat. Unsurprisingly, it's so long that it pools around your feet, whereas it floats around his knees when he wears it. You're momentarily distracted by the sight of his large hands so close to your face, tying the cloak beneath your chin so that it remains secure.
Once you're covered, he doesn't seem quite so hesitant to look at you. He meets your eye with a gravely serious look. "I do apologize. I did not take your clothes, I assure you."
"No, I'm sure you didn't. Since you seem more concerned about it than I am." Concern is the kindest word you can come up with— really, he looked about to vomit at the prospect of your suspicion. You draw his cloak tight around you, the smell of loam and woodsmoke permeating the fabric. "At any rate, this does put me in a bit of trouble. I am a long way from my tent."
"Would you like me to accompany you back to camp?"
You let out a quiet chuckle, probably giving him a more affectionate look than you mean to. In a voice sweet as honey, you say, "I'm flattered, Ser, but I don't believe that walking through camp on the arm of a knight, dressed in nothing but his cloak, would reflect well on my reputation. I'm afraid I'm stuck here, unless I find some way to steal another change of clothes from someone else."
His head tilted down, he appears lost in thought. You stare boldly up into his face while he isn't paying attention, just simply… admiring him. How have you never seen him before? He looms over you, seemingly cut from marble and brought alive by sunlight. It's humbling, how lovely he is, even without all his chivalry.
Then, he snaps his gaze up to your face. "You could stay here, just for tonight. I'll keep you safe 'til morning, and then I can send my squire to fetch you some clothes from camp. No one need see you, my lady."
"Other than yourself, of course."
He closes his mouth swiftly, flushing red and looking away. You smile to yourself, having to hold yourself back from reaching out towards him.
"I only jest, Ser," you whisper conspiratorially. "I already told you, I don't mind if you see me."
"Right." He laughs weakly, still flustered. "I… I'll alert my squire, then?"
"Yes, I would be glad of it." You step back, trying not to trip on the frayed ends of his cloak. "I thank you for your kindness, Ser Duncan. You're a good man."
"Aye, well… thank you. My lady." He stares at you for a long time, and then seems to remember himself. "Ah… stay— stay here, and, ehm. I'll be back." He turns to leave, and then thinks better of it and turns the other way, before tromping back through the grass the way he originally came.
"Ser Duncan?" You call, just before he disappears from sight. When he turns, looking at you expectantly, you give him a sweet smile. "You're beautiful, too. By the gods."
You feel inordinately proud of yourself when he goes red up to his ears.
Dunk is fucked.
He spends a long time beating his head against a tree trunk. You know, for posterity.
He doesn't know what he's doing. Oh gods, he has no fucking idea. All he knows is that it's a terrible trick to play on a lady, to steal her clothes while she's vulnerable and leave her stranded. He doesn't even know if you're a lady of noble birth— you could be a bar maid, or from one of the brothels, for all he knows. It doesn't matter to him. Dunk would never say no to anyone in trouble, let alone anyone as beautiful as you. And you are. What was he supposed to do? You came out of the water like a vision, as splendid as a water nymph or a goddess. You took his breath away without even trying.
So. Dunk doesn't know how he's going to survive this. He probably won't.
"Egg?" Dunk rears back from the tree, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve and shaking his head. He might throw up from his nerves, but it wouldn't be the first time.
"Ser!" He hears the boy's tiny feet pattering along dirt path as he answers Dunk's call. Egg rounds the tree Dunk leans against, staring unseeing into the creek as the sun sets over the horizon. Egg pauses, standing with something clutched in his hands as he looks up at Dunk. "Are you well, Ser?"
"Ehm. Not sure, really." Dunk glances at the boy. "What… do you have, there?"
Egg holds it up— it's a bird. The little thing squirms in Egg's grip, and then blinks up at Dunk placidly. "Pigeon. Fell out of a tree, I think. I didn't want to leave it."
"Right." Dunk blinks, sucking on his teeth as he tries to think of a way to explain the situation. "Look, lad. I, eh, have matters to attend tonight. In a wee bit of a bind."
"Do you need help, Ser?"
"Well." Dunk tilts his head back and forth. "I— It's not me, really." Dunk sighs and flexes his shoulders, straightening his spine. "There's a lady will be sleeping with me under the elm, for tonight."
"Oh… oh." Egg hums, wiggling his blond eyebrows mockingly at Dunk.
"D'you want a clout in the ear?" Egg doesn't even flinch at the faux severity in Dunk's voice; he simply cradles the baby pigeon close to his chest and pets its head. Dunk sighs, trying not to show how hard he's blushing. "She's… the lady, she was bathing in the creek, and now… she doesn't have any clothes, see."
"She doesn't have clothes?" Egg echoes, screwing up his face.
"Aye, someone took them, it seems." A look of realization crosses Egg's face, but Dunk doesn't give him a second to respond. "And she can't be expected to walk into camp with no clothes on her back, because plenty of men would take advantage, and— and her reputation would be ruined, o' course."
"Of course." Egg frowns. "Ser, I wanted to tell you, I found some clothes—"
"So." Dunk swallows, nodding to himself resolutely and shooting Egg a silencing look. "So, what you'll do is take Thunder and Chestnut— and your bird— and you'll go sleep across the meadow. And you'll go to camp and fetch the lady some clothes on the morn. Is that clear?"
"But Ser—"
"No buts." He points one large, stern finger at the boy. "I'll hear none of that from you. There's a lady needs help, and you best not argue about it. We're meant to protect people in need, not turn them away."
Egg blinks his big violet eyes at Dunk, his mouth on sideways. "Is she pretty, Ser?"
"What?" Dunk does a double-take. He blusters like mad. "What matter is that of yours?"
"Well, it would just make sense, is all." Egg rocks on his feet. "Pretty girl in need of clothes, and a knight willing to defend her. Like they wrote about in the stories. Is she?"
Dunk sighs, knocking his head back against the tree in defeat. "Aye. She's a true beauty, so she is. But I'll hear nothing of it, now. Begone with you. And take the horses."
Egg looks as though he has more arguments to make, but saves them. His mouth ticks upwards, and then he turns, cooing down at the baby bird in his hands as he wanders off down the path. "Have a good night, Ser."
"Shut it."
Dunk bends down and braces his hands on his knees, trying to even out his breath. He takes a long, deep inhale, leaning into the breeze as if it can cleanse him. He's terrified. He's never been good with women, and you've already unraveled him, taken him completely by surprise.
He can't get the image of you, naked as the day you were born, water dripping over the curve of your breast and down across your belly from his mind. That very water drying on the linen of his cloak, wrapped around your body as you wait for him somewhere down the meadow path.
"Fuuuuck me." He drags his hands down his face. There's a place in the seven hells for him somewhere, he's sure.
He's going to die.
"Ser Duncan." He finds you in the glade, still wrapped in his cloak. You've started a small fire in the rudimentary pit near the elm tree. You smile up at him, glowing in the light of the flames, and Dunk temporarily forgets where he is. "I almost began to think that you'd left me."
"Never, my lady." He rests his sword against the trunk of the tree. "And… it's Dunk."
"… Sorry?"
"My— er, my name." He swallows, looking sort of like he wants to crawl into a hole and die. "Most people call me Dunk."
"Okay. Dunk." You smirk, endlessly charmed by him. Your hand drifts over the thin linen of his cloak on your shoulder, fretting about a threadbare spot. "I could mend this for you, if you'd like?"
"Thank you, but, ehm… that isn't necessary." He blinks, the corner of his mouth turning upward. "I do most of my own mending."
"You did these?" You fiddle with a few mended patches on the edges, where he has darned them with green thread. It's been done with very immense care; the weave is tight and strong. "This is lovely work. Where did you learn to do it?"
"Aye, well… I had a lot of time for practice, squiring for Ser Arlan of Pennytree."
"You have a delicate hand," you remark, and look up at him just in time to see him blush a pretty shade of pink. "Still, I think it's the least I could do, for you being so kind to me."
"M'lady, that's… you don't have to do anything." He tilts his head toward you. "I'm just glad of your company."
That makes your heart stutter in your chest. You blink down at the fire, not really seeing it at all. You search for something to say in reply, but you can't think of anything; you look back up at him with what you're sure is an adoring smile. "Will you please sit with me? Or am I to enjoy the fire alone?"
Dunk gives you a wobbly smile and sits beside the fire. He can't move on from the sight of you in his cloak— you've pulled it around you like a blanket, tucking it under your chin while you hug your knees to your chest. You're spellbinding, so small and swathed in orange fire and silvery moonlight, and Dunk can't help imagining you in ways that he ought not to. He imagines you sharing a bed with him in an inn, or tending a flock of sheep on a farm, with his babe in your arms.
Dunk clears his throat. "You look—" He stops as soon as you gaze up at him, an expectant gleam in your eyes. He was going to say 'good,' which is probably not the most proper thing to say to a lady, wearing naught but his cloak. So he swallows and says, "comfortable."
"Considering the circumstances, I suppose." You laugh. It twinkles like stars in the night. "Pleasurable company, good ale and warm tents… I guess I can see why you knights love these tourneys so much."
"Aye, it's not so bad. Though, I'm only a hedge knight. There's food and drink, a chance for a prize, but… we don't do much with tents. Can't afford one, really."
"I can't see how that would be much of a problem. I mean, maybe you get cold or wet sometimes, but… I think you're the fortunate one." You peer up at the stars, tilting your nose toward the sky. "A view of the infinite. It's good for you. Reminds you to stay grounded." You give him a look over the campfire; his blue eyes catch the flames and dance with them. "Have you jousted, yet?"
"Not yet, my lady. I hope to on the 'morrow." He shrugs. "At his lordship's pleasure, of course."
"Of course." You wink at him. "The lord does love to watch men knocking poles about, I hear."
"I guess," Dunk replies quietly, a blush upon his cheeks. He squirms under your scrutiny, and then to fill the silence, he says, "I… told my squire to fetch you some clothes, come morning. Let him know not to come 'round."
"I hope he wasn't too put out," you hum, picking up a stick to nudge the embers. "I'd hate to know I ruined his night."
Dunk shakes his head. "Nah, he's a good boy. He can take care of himself. Doesn't fuss about much."
"Mm, so you do all the fussing, instead."
"Me?" His eyes go round as saucers. "No— no, I don't— I don't fuss… not really…"
You peer up at him through your lashes, a devilish smirk plucking at the corners of your lips. Dunk's heart starts to beat faster— he knows that look. You're going to do something to completely unmoor him, and he'll eat his words as quickly as he says them.
True to form, you shrug his cloak aside and expose your chest. Dunk stares for a moment at your breasts, feels his face warm just at the sight of them— their soft curves, the peaks of your nipples in the cool night air. He takes a staggering breath and turns his eyes away when he feels his cock stir, his trousers tightening uncomfortably.
You huff a little laugh that makes him flush even redder. "See? Fussy."
"Must you be so… so wicked?" He mutters, casting you a despairing look.
"Wicked? No, darling, this isn't me being wicked." You tilt your head at him coyly. "This is me trying to fuck you. There's a difference."
"What?" That seems to rattle him even more. He stares at you, utterly bewildered. "Wh— you want to— why?"
"Why?"
You give him eyes like you want to ravish him where he sits, and by the gods, Dunk thinks he might let you. He shifts in his seat, believing that he might let you do anything that you want to him, if you just keep looking at him like that. But then you lower your knees and rock forward, crawling around the fire like an animal stalking its prey, and Dunk is so painfully hard it doesn't even occur to him to move away. He doesn't want to.
"Because you're beautiful," you tell him slowly, easing toward him on all fours. You watch him trailing you with his eyes, his jaw clenching and unclenching as you inch closer to him. "Because you are… so exceedingly wonderful, Ser Duncan. A good man is hard to find, these days."
"'S D—Dunk," he stutters, nearly jumping out of his skin when you crawl into his lap. His hands fly up of their own accord and snatch onto your hips, and his heart lurches at the feel of you, soft and hot beneath his fingertips.
"Ser Dunk. My apologies."
You smile at him, straddling him while untying his cloak from around your neck and letting it fall by the wayside. For all your bravado, you nearly tremble at just how imposingly big he is; your hand looks comedically small against his chest, your thighs parted unbelievably far to accomodate the width of his own. Still, you drag your hand down, down, down, until you palm him through his trousers— and then bite your lip as he hisses, jerking against you.
"Well," you gasp, trying not to gape at the size you feel beneath your hand. "A hard man is good to find, though. Isn't that right?"
"M—My lady, please—" He gazes at you wide-eyed, his lips parted. He digs his fingers into your hips so hard that you swear he might rip you in two.
"Please, what?" You lift your hand away and trail your fingers back up his stomach to his chest. "Want me to stop?"
"No. Please, don't—" He sighs, almost defeatedly, and closes his eyes. "Don't stop."
Still, you pause. You lift your hands and cradle his face, waiting for him to blink his eyes open and look at you. You stroke a lock of hair away from his forehead, and his brow knits in confusion.
"You must be the loveliest thing in all the nine kingdoms, Ser Dunk," you whisper to him, not even bothering to conceal the awe in your voice. "The gods must have made you, because I think you're too… bloody perfect."
"Me?" He takes a small, astounded breath, and then cracks a slightly humorous smile in spite of his nerves. He quirks a brow. "Shall I send for a looking-glass for you, as well?"
"Charmer." You trace your thumb across his lower lip and watch his eyelashes flutter. "You don't get many women throwing themselves at you, do you?"
"Not— Not really. No."
"Gods know why. You're really something to behold." You drag your knuckles down his cheek, bending forward to crush your chest up against his. You didn't expect him to be lecherous, but he's so tentative, you guess that he must be grievously inexperienced— possibly even a virgin. You can desire him, hunt him like some deranged beast, but you don't want to frighten him. "Mind if I throw myself at you?"
Dunk shakes his head, but leans forward and kisses you before he can say anything else. His arms come around you, wrapping you in an embrace that all but engulfs you. You are surrounded by warmth, and his lips taste like sweet spiced mead.
He breaks away from the kiss with a sharp gasp and stares down into your face with a mildly terrified expression. "'Pologies. Needed to do that 'fore I— I said something stupid."
You grin, leaning close to nuzzle your nose against his. "Never apologize for a kiss, Ser Dunk. You can have as many as you want, from me."
There's a bright pink blush beneath the freckles on his cheeks and his dimples when he cracks a smile. Dunk clears his throat, feigning composure. "Do you want to, uh… y'know…?"
"Fuck?"
"Yes, that." He laughs nervously. "What— what would you like me to do—?"
You hum in a low voice, reaching down to take one of his hands in yours. His palm dwarfs your own; the comparison of the two is enough to make you ache with want. He watches you closely as you lift his hand towards you, looking somewhat confused. That is, until you run your tongue along the length of his two fingers and take them into your mouth, and his confusion is rewritten into complete shock.
"My lady." Dunk blinks rapidly, speaking with a slightly chastising tone. That was the last thing he expected you to do, and it somehow feels more debased than having you sit on his lap entirely naked. His fingers come out of your mouth covered with your saliva, glistening in the light of the fire.
"No need to fret, Ser. I can guide you." You already sound a little breathy, the look in your eyes much darker than before. You drag his hand down between your breasts, his two fingers trailing wet along your skin. You lead him downwards until his fingers brush through your soft curls, while the breadth of his warm palm flattens over your lower stomach.
Dunk's breath hitches and his mouth drops open the moment his fingers dip into the soaking heat of your pussy, and a shudder flows through your body. A wrecked moan leaves you, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips from the single touch.
"Feel what you do to me?" You ask him, snatching onto his shoulder to prevent yourself from simply jamming yourself down onto his hand with your full weight. It's overwhelming— the warmth of his touch and the pressure of his naked skin on you, even if it's just a hand, a finger.
"Y—You feel—" Dunk sucks in air through his teeth, his eyes flicking frantically from your face to where his hand dips further between your legs, his fingers gliding through your wetness. The touch is intimate, exploratory. "Seven hells, you feel unreal."
"Oh, I'm very real." You cover his hand with your own— or, you try. You have to spread your fingers wide to even approximate the width and placement of his own. "Want me to show you how?"
He gives you the briefest little nod, like if he moves too far in any way you might disappear. You wrap your thumb and pinkie around the edges of his hand, lining up your two fingers with his own.
"It's not unlike shining a blade," you tell him softly, beginning to move his fingers with yours, rocking your hips as you do. "You keep— keep this amount of pressure. And you just move back… and forth… just like that."
Dunk's eyes widen at the sound of your moan, his entire body feeling as though it's filled with fire. The Targaryens might believe themselves to be dragons, but Dunk is sure that in this moment, he must be turning into one. Everything feels too hot beneath his collar, as though his skin might melt away and flay him bare. "How— How does it feel?"
You shiver, a smile curling at your lips. He's still so eager to please, even now. "Feels good. But it can feel better."
"Show me."
You swallow past the thickness in your throat, lifting his hand just the tiniest bit. "There's a spot on every woman— it's a… a sweet spot. You focus on it, and she'll sing to the heavens."
"Will you sing, my lady?" Dunk's deep voice is so much lower than you've heard it yet. He watches everything you do so closely, his free hand pressing into your lower spine to keep you steady, holding you fast against the hand that you guide between your legs.
"I will if you make me. If you focus… here." And you guide the calloused pads of his fingers over your clit.
Hot pleasure sweeps through you at the touch, making you gasp aloud. He keeps up the pressure and the movement that you've shown him, feels the swollen hardness of your clit and stays there. His pupils are so wide they nearly cover the beautiful azure of his irises, becoming two black mirrors to reflect the fire.
"Is that it?" Dunk's eyes are locked on yours, and you whine, hips twitching toward his touch. Something passes over his face— be it possession or resolution, you can't be sure. But his jaw sets and he adjusts the pressure of his fingers as he dips his fingers down to collect some of your wetness, and brings it back up to your clit. When you keen loudly, he hums, "Mm. There."
You nod, your hand slipping against his. It seems like you don't need to guide him anymore, but you keep it there anyway, just to feel the way that his knuckles tense and release, to feel the warmth against your own palm.
"Gods above, Dunk," you gasp, nearly launching forward into his chest when he traces a circle around your clit. You close your eyes, swallowing a sob. "You don't— don't need my help."
"I want it," he urges, his mouth watering at the sounds of the breathy moans that fall from your lips. His fingers never stop moving, even when he adds, "Want to hear you sing for me, m'lady."
You whimper and push on his hand, moving him downwards. Dunk follows your directions, letting you guide him, until his fingertips catch on your entrance. Without any further instruction, Dunk prods inside. The stretch to accommodate him is immense, even just with his two fingers.
Dunk is in agony. His cock is straining in his trousers, throbbing unbelievably hard at the smell of you, the feel of you, every gasp and moan that falls from your lips. Still, he grits his teeth, and he ignores it. His voice a quiet rasp held tight in his throat, he asks, "And now?"
You blink your eyes open, feeling yourself beginning to unravel at the seams. "Dunk…" You take a deep, sobering inhale, while he gazes at you like you hung the stars in the sky. "Shine your blade."
Dunk's lashes flutter, his breath still coming out in little pants between his lips, but he does as you tell him. He crooks his fingers just the way you showed him how, and the entire fucking world shatters.
With a cry of his name, you fling your arms around his neck. It's so abrupt— enough to make him falter and hug you to him with one arm, his big hand cradling the nape of your neck. The other has gone still, while he listens to you gasp and lets you press your forehead against his cheek.
"Have I—" Dunk turns his head a bit, wanting to look at you, but unable to. He murmurs your name, and you shiver in his arms. "Did I hurt yo—?"
"No." You're shaking your head before he can even finish the question, gripping at the ends of his shaggy hair. "No, Dunk, it's so— you— you're just so good."
He huffs a little sigh of relief, and feel him smile as his hold on your shoulder loosens just slightly. "You make it easy."
You shift your hips, and Dunk feels your lips drag against his cheek. He's almost scared to let you go, now, and strokes his thumb over the back of your neck just to soothe you. But then you whisper, "Don't stop," and he doesn't want to deny you.
His fingers slide into your hair, feeling it slip soft through his fingers as he holds you to him. Testing, he moves his fingers again, flexing them within you just to hear you gasp and feel you squirm against him. That same fire blooms in him, creeping up the back of his neck and deep into his chest— the fire that makes him dare to feel like the dragonborn— and he thinks that he may hold you for as long as you like. For as long as he can.
Moaning his name against his skin, you seek out his lips, turning your head just to capture him in an open-mouthed, desperate kiss. Dunk makes a noise of surprise, but keeps up his movements, plunging his fingers in and out and stroking you from the inside, feeling each pulse and flutter of your core like a punch to his gut.
He curves his fingers a particular way that sends a wave of euphoria shooting up your spine, and you moan pathetically loud into his open mouth. Dunk seems shocked by it, pausing for half a second, before doing it again, just to hear you keen.
"You do sing very pretty for me," Dunk murmurs against your lips.
The sound of his voice in that low register— like soft rolling thunder— does things to you that you never even thought possible. It bores a hole through you, melts everything within you. Then he grinds the meat of his palm up against your clit, and all your muscles seize up.
"Seven fuck— Dunk." You feel around for something else to grab onto, but only get his shoulder, his hair, his bicep. Your breath hitches, and then you cum with his name falling from your tongue, your hips bucking into his hand. Dunk marvels at the feeling of you spasming around his fingers, the flood of wetness that drips from you and coats his skin.
You hear him breathe your name. It sounds so sweet coming from him, a reverent prayer spoken in the night. Still trembling, you open your eyes to find that you've shifted— you've somehow lifted yourself with your hands on his shoulders, and his spine has bowed into an arc beneath your hold. You look down at him. Dunk looks up at you, like he's glimpsing the divine in your very face.
"Did you come off just then, my lady?" It's a quiet, almost too innocent question for the way that he's looking at you— like he could throw you to the ground and completely decimate you, if he was a little less controlled, a little less staunch in his respect for you.
"You know very well that I did, Ser." Your chest still heaves with the effort of your breathing.
His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up. "D'you think I could make you do that if I put my mouth on you, too?"
Your mind reels around that. Dunk gazes at you with open hunger, flushed and almost as out of breath as you. The sight makes you dizzy.
"I'm sure that you could," you tell him. You hold the sides of his throat, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumbs. "But I want you too much right now. Must I beg you to take that beast out of your pants? Or will you leave me wanting?"
The thought of leaving you wanting for anything is enough to make Dunk balk. He withdraws his hand from you, and with it comes a dreadful absence, an ache where pressure should be. Instinctively, you want him back, carressing you and filling you as he had been, but he moves to untie his trousers.
"If I were a more noble man, I would lay you down in furs, as you deserve," Dunk confides in you, a touch of insecurity lacing his tone. "But I am only a hedge knight— all I can offer you is the tall grass."
"Then I'll be glad to have you in the tall grass," you say, feeling his pulse jump beneath your fingertips. "I don't want furs, I want you."
Impatient now, you reach down to untie his trousers yourself, and—
Well.
"Seven fucking hells, Dunk."
Gods above, he's going to die. He's going to die, you're going to kill him and it won't even be in combat. "What?"
You stare down at his cock, and feel the barest inklings of fear creeping in. You'd known just from the size of him and the barest touch through his clothes that he'd be big, but this… It's glorious. Thick and long, with a flushed red tip dripping with precum. He looks painfully hard, and the weight of it nearly drags it downwards.
"Nothing in the entire world needs to be this big."
The tips of his ears redden. "Well, I—I'm quite large—"
"Yes, I know that. I know that very well, indeed. You're magnificent." You chew on your lip, feasting your eyes upon it for a moment. With the lightest touch, you trace one finger up the vein that runs along the underside of his shaft. Dunk gasps and twitches against you. "Mm. I can take it."
There is a concerning amount of resolution in your tone, as you shift your hips and hover over him. He snatches at your waist, practically holding you aloft without even trying. His eyes wide, he blurts, "M'lady, don't hurt yourself—"
"Shh. I do what I want. Right now, that's you." You lift your hips, lining him up where you want him. "Don't fuss."
"M'not fu—UCK!" Dunk growls the curse with his eyes closed tight. The head of his cock is engulfed in the sweet, excruciating heat of your pussy. He bares his teeth as he grits out, "Oh, fuuuck me."
"Mhm." You gasp, pausing and trying to acclimate to the stretch. Fuck, he's enormous. You rock your hips and try to shift your weight, adjusting to take more of him, despite the pain of the stretch.
Dunk squeezes at your waist, fingers digging into the curve of your back. You lift up and sink down again, slipping down further, and he's sure he's done for. He's sure that you could cut out his heart with a dinner knife, and he might thank you for it. He hangs his head, resting his forehead against yours. "You feel like heaven. I kn— I knew you would."
He groans softly as you seat yourself finally with one achingly slow push of your hips. It nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs, feeling him hit the end of you. He grinds up into you, not wanting to be rough, but gods. Each move, each small breath that falls from your lips against his feels like a dream.
"Told you I could take it," you whisper brokenly. You sound just about wrecked, your fingers tangling in his hair as you rock against him. It burns in the best way, stretching you so wonderfully, filling you to the brim. A pleasant tingling slinks up your spine. "You fit me perfectly, my knight."
The fire crackles. Somewhere across the creek, crickets sing in the brush. Perhaps back in the camp, lovers roll as one in the solitude and warmth of tents, but here in the glade you seat yourself upon the hedge knight, guiding him with one hand to squeeze at your breast, and you would not trade the night air for any tent or pillowed furs in the world. Be it rough, be it dirty and perhaps a bit animalistic, it is only as you want it to be.
Dunk's nostrils flare as he uses one arm to haul you up, lifting you like it's nothing, and he lays you down in the grass. Your head hits the wide palm of his hand, protecting you from knocking your head against the ground. And he slides back into you with one fluid motion, filling you again and making your toes curl. He groans obscenely loud, his eyes fluttering shut as he braces one enormous forearm against the ground beside your head.
You arch against him, his name caught in your throat as you clutch at his shoulders and neck. He looms over you, hulking and godly, and desire bubbles up like a torrent in your throat. Your eyebrows tilt upwards in earnest.
He makes you feel so small. Cages you in the shelter of his arms, keeps his weight from crushing you— but presses his warm chest to yours, so that your sensitive nipples scrape against the rough linen of his tunic. Your hands cup his shoulders, nails scratching at the fabric keeping you from feeling his skin.
"Dunk, please—" you hiccup, squeezing at the muscles beneath his shirt.
"What is it, sweet girl?" There is an edge to his voice hinting at desperation. Dunk thinks that he would give you anything you want. Money, fame, a life of beauty and devotion. There's no coming back. He would do anything that you ask, if only to stay in this feeling forever. Breathing in your air, feeling you quiver and tremble as you grind your hips against his.
You tighten your fists in the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up to tug at it. "Off."
Dunk plants his hips flush against yours, so deep that you can feel him in your throat. He dips his head and lets you pull at the fabric of his shirt, until it slips down his arms and his overheated skin meets the cool night air. Your hands glide along his strong biceps, smooth over the curves of his shoulders and down his chest.
"Kiss me," you breathe. "Dunk, kiss me—"
You gasp when he snatches you by the waist and lifts you, rocking back on his knees to seat you in his lap. Crushed up against his broad chest, you wrap your arms around his neck and push yourself down onto his cock, as far as he can go, moaning as he hits heaven up inside you. The coarse hair at the base of his cock grinds sharply against your clit, sending sparks of hot pleasure coursing through your veins.
Mouth open, he breathes in small, quick pants as he smoothes your hair away from your face, his large hand cradling your cheek. It's a tender touch, even while you feel like he could tear you to shreds from the inside out. You push your face into his palm, turning to pepper the breadth of his hand with kisses.
"Kiss me, please," you beg him again, and Dunk pulls you towards him, meeting you with a hot, open mouthed kiss. It sears you, makes you whimper onto his tongue.
"My lady," Dunk groans, tilting his head just slightly where it rests against yours. "I will not last."
"Then don't," you tell him. "And I'll love you a dozen more times before the night is out."
And then, so fast it's as though he's following your orders to the letter, he cums. Moaning as he jerks his hips up into yours, he shoves himself deep and cums so long and hard that he swears he sees stars behind his darkened eyelids. A ragged gasp tears from his throat while his hips twich and buck up into yours, muscles flexing and nearly throwing him off-balance.
Dunk blinks open his eyes, gazing at you with his brow furrowed in consternation. "But you— you didn't—"
You shush him, taking his hand to guide it between your legs. "Remember what I told you?"
Dunk hums, flicking his gaze downwards. His throat jumps when his fingers brush through your wet curls. "Yes, m'lady."
His breath catches in his throat when he touches your clit, and he feels you clench down on him. Oversensitive as he is, he doesn't think to pull out or refuse you— he stays there, deep in the heat of you, while he strokes you the way you showed him before.
With a feeble noise, you cant your hips further toward his hand. A pleased hum tears from your lips. "You learn fast, my knight."
Dunk blushes. It's the first time anyone has told him that. "I want to please you."
"You do," you whisper, holding his face in the cradle of your small hands. "You please me so well, Dunk."
The evidence of your words burns in your core, wound up more and more by the movement of his fingers over your clit. You rock against him and hear his slight hiss of breath, and you know that it won't be long. Your thighs twitch and your fingers dance through his hair while your breath mingles with his, washing over your skin.
Then your muscles clamp down tight as your orgasm washes over you, and Dunk nearly chokes at the feeling. "Oh, fuck," he grits out, feeling you pulse on his cock, clenching around him so hard that his eyes nearly roll back in his head. "Ah, gods above—"
It burns through you like fire, enveloping you in its grasp. You collapse against Dunk's warm chest, resting your head on his shoulder. As you tremble through the aftershocks, you giggle weakly, biting your lip when the feeling has him moaning again. You hum, sighing as you come down. "Beautiful thing, is it not?"
"Yes, you are," he chuckles, breathless. He meets your eye with a pleading, starry look. He traces his fingers down your spine, reveling in the warmth and softness of your body. "I would— I think I would like to, again…"
"Let me give you some respite, first." You lift off of him, hissing as he leaves you achingly empty. He squeezes at your hips, his fingers pressing into your lower back as he keeps you steady. You press a kiss to his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat on his skin. "Have some ale, my love. We'll go again when you're ready."
Dunk clears his throat, nodding. "Yes, my lady."
"And Dunk… take off your pants, this time?"
"…Yes, my lady."
In the morning, you rouse from beneath the shelter of Dunk's cloak, and find a pile of clothes set out on the wall that separates the glade from the meadow. You stare at it for a moment, recognizing the jewel toned embroidery on the dress, the tanned leather of the shoes. Beside you, Dunk shifts, pulling you closer by the hip. He'd put his clothes back on in the night, right before he swaddled you again in his cloak, preferring not to insense his squire whenever the boy came round.
"Dunk," you murmur, nudging him in the shoulder.
"Mmph."
"I thought you said you didn't know what happened to my clothes."
"I know not, m'lady," he slurs tiredly.
"Right." You click your tongue. "But it appears that your squire did."
Dunk's eyes fly open, giving you a wide, bright blue stare. You tilt your head at him, a smirk stretching across your face as you nod towards your missing clothes, perched on the wall. He looks at the pile of clothes for a moment, blinking sleep out of his eyes. And then, he screws up his face as something Egg said comes back to him.
"Seven fucks." Dunk scrambles up, remembering Egg's insistent and earnest face when he'd been silenced.
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