pairing: poly!rosekiller x black!oc, regulus’ twin
warnings: fluff, gn!oc, not edited
wc: 427
“finally! you’re back!” barty had announced with a smirk as evan entered the dungeons, his feet dragging along the cold stone floors. the slytherin common room was characteristically cold, the only warmth came from the fire in front of the you. as the night wore on, the number of occupants dwindled, yet the fire remained steadfast. all that remained were you, barty and regulus as you waited for evan to return from the library.
you and your twin turned to face the blond when the only reply he could muster was a heavy sigh. catching evan’s eye as he approached, you exchanged a small smile, though it seemed to take some effort from him.
“come sit, evan,” you gestured to the armchair opposite the three of you. “you look exhausted, my love.” evan only hummed in response. he slowly made his way towards the couch where his two lovers and friend sat, briefly caressing barty’s neck before stopping in front of regulus.
“shift it,” he murmurs to your twin.
“evan, there’s an empty chair right behind you,” regulus argues.
“reg,” evan sighs, “now if you’d please.” his tone left little room for argument.
regulus grumbles about his audacity now that he’s dating his sibling, but reluctantly moves anyway. evan slumps into the space next to you, arm resting on the back of the couch and legs spread in front of him. regulus and barty ease back into their conversation before evan’s arrival. you watch his face closely. feeling your gaze, evan tilts his head and offers another small smile that reaches his eyes, looking a little more relieved now. you return his smile with a wink and run your hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, his eyes couldn't help but close at the feeling.
as evan relaxed into the couch, he eased into the animated conversation before him. His arm slid from the back of the couch to around your shoulder. The comfort of your presence and the brush of barty’s arm against his fingertips gave him the solace he had being craving for the whole day. he sighed once again, shoulders drooping.
your eyes start to ache and grow heavy as it gets later, it takes all your effort to remain upright and attentive as the three boys converse spiritedly. you quiet down, and opt to listen to them talk in front of the crackling fire. but your head seems to grow more and more heavy as the late night turns to early morning. your head drops to rest on barty’s shoulder. noticing this, evan pulls your legs over his lap, guiding you into a lying position where you rested your head onto barty’s bouncing leg that stills almost immediately.
that’s how the rest of your night passed, your head in barty’s lap and evan gently caressing your ankles as the three of them talk and you offer a remark or a laugh at their bickering. eventually the conversation drowns out and your eyes begin to drift closed, and the only thing you can hear is the muffled conversation and the roaring fire. the only thing you can feel is the scratch and tug of barty's fingers at the hair near the nape of your neck, and the worshipping, barely-there drag of evan's palms against your ankles.
across from you, regulus watches evan pause the delicate attention on your ankles to pull the blanket draped over the back of the couch over your unmoving figure, and barty pulls the blanket to cover your shoulders that shiver underneath your thin pyjamas. the moment lasted only seconds, before his sister’s lovers return their gaze to him to quietly continue their playful banter in the glow of the fire.
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
WC: 937
Warnings: none?
A/N: reader is the mother to all of maekar's children!
The day had been long, a chain of petty disputes and administrative burdens that weighed upon Maekar’s shoulders like a cloak of iron. He had settled a quarrel between two landed knights over a stolen pig, reviewed the ledgers from the harvest, and endured a painfully long petition from a merchant whose grievances seemed to multiply with every breath. Each task was met with his characteristic sternness, his voice a low rumble of impatience, his violet eyes missing nothing. Duty was a relentless master, and he served it without complaint—except to his wife—for to complain was to show weakness. The corridors of Summerhall were quiet as he finally made his way towards his chambers, the torches casting long, dancing shadows that mirrored the weariness in his bones.
He pushed the heavy oak door open, the sound a soft groan in the stillness, expecting the familiar sounds that greeted him each night: the gentle scrape of a brush through her hair, the delicate click of pins set aside one by one as she readied herself for sleep. Instead, he was met with a scene that stole the breath from his lungs.
There, in the centre of the large canopied bed, was his wife, Y/n, fast asleep. But she was not alone. Curled around her, tucked into every available space like a litter of dragon pups, were their children. Daeron, his eldest, the one whose failures tasted of sour wine and regret even in Maekar’s mouth, was slumped against the headboard, his face slack and peaceful in slumber, free of his usual fearsome dreams. Aerion lay sprawled at the foot, one arm flung out dramatically even in sleep, the dangerous, restless energy that so often animated him finally stilled. Aemon, home for a brief respite from the Citadel, had a book open on his chest, his spectacles askew, the profound intellect behind his closed eyes momentarily at rest.
Closer to Y/n, Daella was nestled into her mother’s side, her gentle face serene. One of her small hands rested on Maekar’s pillow, as if keeping his place. Then came Egg, his Aegon, tucked under the crook of Y/n’s arm. Even asleep, there was a determined set to his jaw, a prince’s pride softened by the utter safety of the moment. And finally, little Rhae, a mere whisper of silver-gold hair and rosebud lips, was cradled in the hollow of Y/n’s other arm, her tiny fingers tangled in her mother’s nightgown.
Maekar stood frozen on the threshold, his hand still on the door. The stern lines of his face, etched by wind, worry, and will, did not soften so much as they stilled. The intimidating Prince of Summerhall, the hard man, was utterly disarmed.
His first, instinctual thought was of discipline. The bed was for rest for him and his wife, not a gathering place for wayward princes and mischievous princesses. They had their own rooms, their own duties. This was indulgence. Chaos.
But the thought died before it could take root, washed away by a wave of feeling so profound it was almost violent. This was not chaos. This was a fortress. This was his family, drawn by some silent, collective instinct to the heart of their home—to her. Y/n, the centre of their gravity, the warm sun around which even his own cold, distant star was forced to orbit. She had gathered them all, the brilliant and the broken, the stubborn and the sweet, and given them the one thing he so often struggled to provide: simple, unquestioning comfort.
He saw the affection he could not voice with words made manifest in this tableau. Daeron was safe here, away from temptation. Aerion’s destructive fire was calmed. Aemon’s endless mind was quieted. Daella’s understanding heart was at peace. Egg’s fierce loyalty was rewarded. Rhae’s innocence was protected. And Y/n… she held them all, bearing the weight of their needs as effortlessly as she bore his own.
Slowly, quietly, he closed the door. He removed his boots, the leather sighing against the stone floor. He unbuckled his sword belt, laying the sword aside not as a prince, but as a man coming home. The rigid set of his spine finally eased.
He did not wake them. He did not scold or sigh. Instead, he walked to the side of the bed and looked down at the precious, impossible mosaic of his life. His gaze lingered on each face, a silent inventory of his greatest burdens and his only treasures. Then, with a care that felt foreign to his calloused hands, he reached out and pulled a light woollen blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed. He unfolded it and, with a tenderness he showed nowhere else in the world, draped it over the tangle of his sleeping family.
There was no space for him, and he would not have disturbed them to make any. His expression, in the dim light, was one of stark, unguarded devotion. The protection, the sacrifice, the relentless preparation for a harsh world;it was all for this. For the right to walk into a room and find his entire world sleeping safely in one bed.
He turned and settled into the large armchair by the cold fireplace, his own vigil begun. He would watch over them. He would let them have this peace, this softness he could not personally give but would move mountains to preserve. And as he sat in the dark, the sounds of their soft, synchronized breathing the only music in the room, the hard man with the soft heart finally found his rest.
so like is this anything?? : maekar has to drop aegon off at school bc his nanny randomly got the flu or something and then he meets a much younger single mom who is also dropping her kid off and they hit it off so much he starts making excuses to start dropping and picking up aegon from school and he's like when has dad EVER paid this much attention to me lol
↪︎ wanna go on an unexpected date with that dada? part 2 here
Includes: modern!Baelor x f!reader / modern!Maekar x f!reader
Warning(s): ModernAU, kind of a crack!fic really (i wish my dad kept bees)
GIF by @sakuraspoke
The thing about Valarr, sweet, naïve Valarr, was that he had absolutely no survival instincts.
"He's just reading," he said, from beside you on the kitchen counter, stealing grapes from the bowl between you with the casual ease of someone who had decided you were close enough friends that your food was his food. "It's not that interesting."
"He's got two pairs of glasses on," you said.
"He does that." Valarr ate another grape. "He loses one pair, so he puts on another and then he finds the first pair and instead of swapping them he just—" he gestured vaguely, "stacks them."
You looked back through the kitchen window into the living room where his father was arranged in the armchair by the lamp with the particular quality of a man who had achieved a level of comfort he intended to defend unto death. Dark hair, threads of white catching the warm lamplight. Two pairs of glasses. A book that appeared to be roughly the size of a brick, held with the careful reverence of someone deeply personally invested in its continued structural integrity.
He had a cup of tea on the side table that he had not touched in forty minutes because he kept forgetting it existed.
"What is he reading," you said.
"Something about Byzantine military strategy."
You stared.
"For fun," Valarr added. "He does it for fun."
Baelor turned a page. The lamplight shifted across the lines of his face — the strong bearded jaw, the particular set of his brow when he was concentrating, the slight movement of his lips because he occasionally read difficult passages quietly to himself without realising he was doing it, a habit Valarr had told you about once with the fond exasperation of someone who had grown up watching it and could no longer imagine its absence.
He reached for his tea without looking. Missed it by four inches. Patted the table twice, frowning faintly at his book, and then looked down with an expression of mild surprise at the existence of the cup, like he had genuinely forgotten he had made it.
"Oh no," you said quietly.
"Yeah," said Valarr.
Baelor took a sip of the tea, realised it was cold, made a face of profound personal betrayal directed at no one, set it back down, and returned to his book.
You were experiencing something you didn't have a clean word for. It sat somewhere in the vicinity of I would like to bring this man a fresh cup of tea every day for the rest of my natural life and considerably south of that as well, if you were being honest with yourself, which you were trying not to be.
He turned another page. Murmured something to himself. The lamplight caught the line of his jaw and the silver in his hair and the careful way his hands held the book, and you were, genuinely, a little embarrassed about yourself at realizing that you were, in fact, biting your lower lip.
"Valarr," you said.
"Mm."
"Your dad is—" You stopped. Tried to start again. Stopped again.
"Is…" Valarr prompted, with the patience of someone who had been watching this unfold for the better part of an hour and had popcorn, metaphorically speaking.
You watched Baelor reach for his tea again. Miss it again. The same four inches. The same faint frown. The same expression of mild existential surprise upon locating the cup.
Something in you gave way entirely.
"Valarr," you said. "I want to fuck your dad."
The grape Valarr had been eating went somewhere it was not supposed to go. He coughed. You waited. He held up a finger, collected himself, and turned to look at you with an expression that cycled through several distinct phases — shock, offence, processing, reluctant resignation — in the space of approximately four seconds.
"That's my father," he said.
"I know."
"You just said that about my father."
"I'm aware of what I said."
"He's reading about Byzantine military strategy."
"I know! But him being a nerd isn’t helping," you yelled-whispered to your friend.
You looked back through the window. Baelor had found his tea again, remembered it was cold, and was now looking at it with an expression of genuine philosophical sadness, as if looking at it would eventually warm its content again.
Valarr stared at you for a long moment. Then he looked at his father through the window. Then back at you. The reluctant resignation had settled into something that looked almost like the beginning of a plan.
"He needs a fresh cup of tea," he said slowly.
"He really does."
"Someone should bring it to him." A pause. "He likes it with a splash of milk. No sugar. He'll look up when you come in and forget what he was reading for a moment because he's polite like that, and when he takes his glasses off to look at you properly he'll probably—" Valarr stopped himself. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I'm doing this."
"Valarr—"
"The kettle's right there," he said, getting off the counter and leaving the kitchen with the dignity of a man washing his hands of a situation while absolutely enabling it. "I'm going to be upstairs. Not hearing anything. For a very long time."
You were already filling the kettle.
GIF by @prettysharwood
You had come over to study.
That had been the plan. That was still, technically, the plan, in the same way that standing in Daeron's kitchen doorway staring into the back garden while your notes sat untouched on the kitchen table was still, technically, adjacent to studying.
"What are you looking at," said Daeron, from somewhere behind you, in the tone of someone who already knew and was choosing to witness it anyway.
"Nothing," you said.
"You've been looking at nothing for six minutes straight."
Through the kitchen window and the glass of the back door, Maekar was in the garden.
He was doing something to a raised bed that appeared to involve a great deal of focused activity — kneeling in the dirt in old jeans and a worn grey t-shirt that had not survived contact with the garden soil in any meaningful way, hands dark to the wrist, white hair shoved back from his face with what appeared to have been a forearm and was now sticking up at an angle that should have looked ridiculous and did not. He was frowning at the soil the way, Daeron had once told you, he frowned at everything that failed to immediately cooperate with his intentions.
He said what seemed like a profanity by the look on his face under his breath. Adjusted whatever he was doing. The frown deepened fractionally.
The t-shirt was doing a lot.
"He's been out there since eight," Daeron said, now beside you with a mug of coffee and the expression of a young man who had made his peace with his life. "Something about the drainage not being right."
"Does he garden a lot?"
"He acts like it's a tactical problem he's been assigned to solve." Daeron drank his coffee. "Last month he made an Excel spreadsheet."
"A spreadsheet."
"For the tomatoes." A pause. "It had conditional formatting."
Outside, Maekar sat back on his heels and looked at the raised bed with his arms resting on his knees and dirt on his beard and the particular expression of a man reassessing a situation and preparing a revised approach. The late afternoon light was doing something entirely unreasonable to the line of his shoulders. His forearms were right there. Existentially. Just present in the world, doing that to your composure.
You needed to get a grip.
"He looks like that when he's cooking too," Daeron said conversationally. You wondered if he wore an apron. "And when he's parallel parking. And when he's doing the crossword. Basically, whenever he's concentrating on anything he gets that—" a vague gesture toward the window— "face."
"The face," you repeated.
"You know the face."
You knew the face. The face was a problem. The face combined with the forearms combined with the dirt on his bearded jaw combined with the knowledge that he had made a colour-coded spreadsheet for his tomatoes was creating a situation inside your chest that you were not equipped to manage.
You did not get a grip.
"Daeron," you said.
"Mm."
The words were out before you made a decision about them. "I want to fuck your dad."
The silence that followed had genuine texture.
Daeron lowered his coffee mug with the slow care of a man buying himself time. He looked at you. You looked at the garden. Outside, Maekar was frowning at the soil again, entirely unaware that his drainage problem was the least of what was currently happening in his kitchen.
"That's—" Daeron started.
"I know."
"He's my dad."
"I know."
"You came over here to study."
"I am studying."
A long pause during which Daeron appeared to conduct an internal debate of some complexity. You watched Maekar stand, brush the dirt from his jeans, push his hair back from his face with one forearm, and survey his raised bed with his hands on his hips. The t-shirt. The forearms. The hair. The frown.
"He's going to be insufferable about the drainage for the rest of the evening," Daeron said finally. "He needs something to redirect his attention."
You said nothing. You let that sit.
"He doesn't know you're here," Daeron continued, in the tone of a man constructing a case for something he will deny constructing. "I could go tell him. He does this thing when he's surprised — not bad surprised, just caught off guard — where he kind of—" another vague gesture— "resets. Stops frowning. It's a good moment."
"Daeron."
"I'm just providing information."
"You're facilitating."
"I'm going to go tell my dad you're here," he said, setting his mug down and heading for the back door with the air of someone who has made peace with their choices. "And then I'm going to remember that I have somewhere else to be. Urgently." He paused with his hand on the door. "He likes it when people are direct, by the way. He has no patience for anything else."
"I know," you said.
Daeron looked at you with suspicious eyes, like how long has this woman been observing my father without me noticing kind of eyes. He preferred not to walk down that line of thought and went to open the back door instead.
"Dad," he called, "look who came to visit!"
Maekar looked up from his raised bed. Found you through the glass. The frown shifted into something else — not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one, that fractional movement at the corner of his mouth that you had learned was as much as you usually got and had discovered was entirely sufficient.
Daeron brushed past you back into the kitchen, collected his jacket from the chair, and pointed at you on his way to the hall.
"I want absolutely no details," he said. "Like ever. Under any circumstances."
"Obviously," you said.
"Not even a look. Not a grin. Nothing."
"Daeron."
"I mean it,” he directed one final look to you from the front door. He turned on his heels and, with that wicked smile he usually saved for when he wanted to get under your skin, said: "Go on, pup, go get your toy."
Your eyes widened at the audacity of the man. But, when the front door closed behind him and you looked back through the glass at Maekar, who was still watching you with that fractional almost-smile and the dirt on his jaw and the forearms, you smiled and decided, for maybe the first time in your friendship, to not argue with Daeron.
So, you opened the back door.
I am completely normal about these men. Yeah. Completely normal.
Part of the step!mum universe, but as always you don’t need to read it to understand.
Content: non sexual nudity? Maekar joins us in the bath, the children are doing your head in
Maekar’s Masterlist
“I don’t even get peace on the privy.” You say to yourself when you hear multiple knocks on the door, the children wanting your attention. Rhae not even on the other side of the door as the babe refused to leave your side without crying.
“What?” You ask opening the door to look at 3 of your six children. Aerion holding a ripped shirt while Daella and egg are both crying.
“They ripped my shirt! They deserve punishment!”
“That’s nice dear.” You say walking past the children, just wanting a moment of peace. Why don’t they go bother their father for once?
“Mother!” Aerion shouts shocked wanting your attention and sympathy for a shirt he doesn’t even like being ripped.
“Muña! Aerion pushed me!” Egg complains wanting Aerion to get in trouble not him. It’s not his fault Aerion was playing to rough with them.
“Muña! Aerion mean!” Daella shouts toddling along after you and her brothers.
“Muña! Aerion hid my book!” Aemon shouts running up to you on the brink of tears as he can’t find his favourite book. His elder brother stealing it.
“Mum? Do you know where my blanket has gone?” Daeron asks, when he sees you walking past his chambers. The boys doors wide open while he looks for the blanket you made him.
At all the commotion Rhae burst out crying. All the children’s voices over lapping when you snap. “Right, that’s it!” You shout passing Rhae to Daeron, all children immediately silencing as you never shout at them. “I’m having a nice long bath. If you need or want anything at all. Don’t ask me. Go to your father, if I do get disturbed no dessert.”
At that you walk off all the children just staring in shock. Not sure what to do.
-
“Father?” Aemon asks knocking on the door where their father works. Everyone else just barging in, not caring they’re meant to enter without permission.
“Kepa!” Daella shouts throwing herself into her confused father’s arms who was just about to tell them to fuck off.
“Mums gone crazy.” Daeron says bouncing Rhae, doing his best to get the girl to sleep.
“What?” Maekar asks confused, standing up from his chair, Daella still in his arms.
“It’s all Aerion’s fault!” Egg says before anyone can explain.
“No it not! It’s the little brat’s fault!” Aerion argues, thinking it’s never his fault.
“I didn’t do anything all I asked was if she’d seen my blanket.” Daeron says when Maekar looks at him wanting clarification.
“Muña mad.” Daella confirms from her father’s arms.
“The lot of you shut up.” Maekar says annoyed by all the talking, looking at his third and most well behaved child. “Aemon, what’s going on with your mother?”
-
“Can I come in?” Maekar asks through the door not bothering to knock. Having sent the children to the solar to play, after spending an hour with them.
“Who’s with you?” You ask from your nice hot bath, having the nice expensive oils in it. A glass of wine in your hand while you use the other to read. Having the most amount of peace you’ve had in years.
“No one, it’s just me.” He answers, needing a moment away from the children.
“Fine, enter.” You say, not looking up from your book when he quickly enters. “What do you want?”
“A brake.” Maekar says staring to get undressed, not caring that you’re giving him a look of annoyance. Him disturbing your alone time. “I’ll be quiet.”
“Fine.” You sigh, moving forward so he can fit behind you in the bath. Water spilling over the side as he joins you, hands wrapped around you pulling you back into him. Kissing your shoulder before laying back with a sigh.
“How is the water still this hot? It’s been an hour.”
“Shut up.” You say going back to reading, at a very interesting point in the book you’ve been trying to read all week. Him taking your wine to drink some for himself. “Are they ok?” You ask after 10 minutes of just laying in the bath together.
“They’re fine.” He says having missed time just the two of you, egg and daella sneaking in to your chambers every night. “I’ve missed spending time with you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” You say placing your bookmark on the page you’re reading before placing it on the little table that held the wine. Turning to face the man, lying on him. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He says pulling you into a kiss.
-
“Muña!” Daella shouts in excitement when you enter the solar, Aerion quickly pretending he wasn’t cuddling the girl. “Missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too baby.” You say placing the toddler on your hip, looking at your horde of children. Daeron lying on the sofa with Rhae sleeping on him while Aemon reads to egg. “Are you all ready for dinner?”
“We get cake right?” Aemon asks, still a big fan of cake.
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Constantly compared to Maekar Targaryen's late wife, you never believed you could hold a real place in his heart. But while the court insists on living in the past, Maekar does everything to prove that he chose you for who you are. Between silent gestures, stubborn devotion, and the birth of twin princesses, this is a story about love, belonging, and building a home where only ghosts once existed.
warnings: MaekarTargaryen x wife!F.Reader MDNI +18 mutual pining, slightly bratty reader, kinda pervert!Maekar, Attempt of seduction, sprinkle of plot with porn smut: pillow humping, F!masturbation, ankle pulling(?), slight spanking(like twice), slight licking, p in v, overstimulation, creampie, toxic relationship, dark romance, second wife, referenced death of child, lots of sex
Nota: English is not my native language. Apologies for any mistakes.
Nota: Canonically, Dyanna gave Maekar six children: four boys and two girls. However, in this story, the girls Daella and Rhae are the reader's daughters and are twins.
Número de palavras: 13.300
The air in the royal chambers was so thick it seemed to require physical effort to breathe. You stood by the fireplace, your fingers buried in the velvet of your skirt, your knuckles as white as the marble of the statues in the gardens. You were not Dornish , you did not possess the desert fire in your blood; you came from a lineage of silences and duties, raised to be the gentle breeze that would soothe Maekar 's temper. Targaryen .
But the breeze had become a vacuum.
"Where is she?! Where is my wife?"
His scream echoed down the corridor, making your shoulders heave in a spasm of silent agony. You closed your eyes, but the image of that night refused to leave you. The banquet, the wine, the lights... and that excruciating moment when you, seated beside King Daeron the Good, heard the monarch sigh as he looked at you.
"It's a miracle of mercy," the King had said, his voice choked with nostalgia. "Looking at you, my dear, is like seeing my Dyanna return from the grave. Maekar has finally recovered what death stole from him. You are the mirror of his happiness... you are Dyanna herself reborn."
Those words were the knife that finally pierced his armor of caution.
The door was flung open. Maekar entered, the aura of a warrior prince emanating from him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you once called love, but now recognized as possession.
"What was that?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously hoarse tone as he closed the door. "You rose from the royal table without a word. The King was confused. I was... humiliated. What troubled you, wife?"
You didn't answer immediately. You turned your back to him, staring at the mirror. In the reflection, you saw a young, beautiful, and pale face—the face he had handpicked from among so many other noblewomen in the kingdom.
"Your father complimented me today," you said, your voice so low it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the embers. "He said I'm a miracle. That I'm Dyanna 's return ."
Maekar stood motionless. The silence that followed was a silent confession. "My father is an old and sentimental man. He sees what he wants to see."
"And you, Maekar ?" You turned slowly, your eyes filled with a deep sadness that seemed ancient. "What do you see? Because I spent months being the perfect wife. I accepted the jewels that belonged to her. I accepted the rooms she decorated. I even accepted you calling me by nicknames that, now I know, were exclusive to her."
"I gave you my name!" he exclaimed, trying to regain control of the situation, approaching with heavy steps. "I treated you with honor. What more do you want from me?"
"I want to exist!" The word exploded from within you, a cry for help you had kept inside for too long. Caution shattered like glass under the weight of your despair. "I want to be seen! I am not a receptacle for the soul of a dead woman! I am not a painting you can retouch to feel less guilty about her leaving!"
You began frantically tearing the diadem from your head, tears finally overflowing, hot and bitter. "I wondered why you insisted so much on keeping me in the shadows at night. Why your hands seemed to grope my face as if searching for features that aren't there. Today I understand. You don't love me, Maekar . You love the ghost that inhabits my flesh!"
"Shut up!" Maekar lunged forward, his pain transforming into a defensive rage. "You have no right to dig up what I tried to bury so I could live again!"
"But you won't live again!" you screamed, recoiling until your back hit the cold stone wall, your chest rising and falling in spasms of pure suffering. "You're just trying to steal my youth to feed your grief! I'm barely older than your eldest son! I should be your new life, but I'm just your macabre consolation!"
The distress on her face was so raw that Maekar seemed to hesitate for a second. He tried to reach out and touch her face, a gesture that would once have been affectionate, but now seemed like a profanation.
"Don't touch me with the hands that seek her!" You pushed him away, your voice faltering, despair draining your strength. "You destroyed my chance to be loved for who I am. You condemned me to compete with a woman who never makes mistakes because she no longer breathes!"
Maekar lost what little patience he had left. In a sudden movement, he grabbed his arms, pinning them against the wall above his head. The impact was sharp, and his body—massive, hot, and oppressive—crushed his against the rough stone.
"You're my wife," he hissed, his face millimeters from hers, his breath mingling with her sobs. "I chose you. I brought you to my bed. Do you think I could bear to look at you every day if there wasn't something real here?"
"What's real, Maekar ?" you whispered, your eyes locked on his, challenging him through the haze of tears. "Say my name. Now. Without thinking of the mother of your children. Without thinking of the woman Dayne gave you. Say MY name and convince me you know who I am."
His silence was the cruelest answer he could give. The grip on her wrists tightened, not from desire, but from the agony of a man caught in his own lie. He held her there, immobilized, while the weight of the substitution hung over them both, heavier than the walls of the fortress itself.
How do you cope with the fact that, even now, in his rage, you can see the reflection of another person in the depths of his pupils?
His silence wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a vacuum that sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving you dizzy, suffocated by the realization that, for the man who held your destiny in his hands, you were a blank page on which he insisted on rewriting an old poem.
Maekar kept his wrists pressed against the cold stone. The warmth of his skin contrasted with the ice of the wall, creating a symphony of sensations that made your stomach churn. You could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest, but you knew, with a bitterness that burned your throat, that this rhythm wasn't for you. It was the gallop of a man chasing a ghost.
“Say it …” you pleaded, your voice faltering, tears tracing hot paths down your pale face. “Please, Maekar … say my name. Just once. Claim the woman who is here, bleeding before you, not the memory you hold in your chest.”
His eyes, as dark as the sea before a storm, scanned every inch of her face. He analyzed her forehead, the curve of her nose, the trembling line of her lips. For a second, you saw the conflict—the agony of a man who wanted to love her, but who was chained by a grief that had become his very skin.
“You don’t understand,” she finally hissed, her voice hoarse, laden with a pain so dense it felt palpable. “Do you think you’re the only one who suffers? Every time I look at you, it’s like a wound is reopened. I try to find you, I swear I try … but fate was cruel enough to give you the same light in your eyes, the same tilt of your head…”
“So it’s a punishment?” you interrupted him, your distress exploding into a desperate sob. “Am I your punishment, Maekar ? Am I the torture you chose for yourself so you wouldn’t forget what you lost?”
He released one of her wrists, but only to bring his hand to her neck, not to choke her, but to hold it with a possessiveness bordering on delirium. His thumb caressed her jaw, and for a moment, the touch was almost tender, if it weren't for the shadow of another person lingering between you.
“I wish it were different,” he murmured, drawing his face closer, his warm breath brushing against her skin. “I wanted to walk into this room and see only you. But when the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the similarities become chains. I see her movements in you. I hear the echo of her laughter in yours. How can I love you for who you are, if everything about you screams at me what I can no longer have?”
That confession was the final blow. You stopped fighting his grip. Your body felt heavy, the will to resist draining away along with the tears. Despair was now a calm, deep sea, where you were sinking with no intention of surfacing.
“So you admit it…” you whispered, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t see the denial he was still trying to maintain. “I’m just a shadow. An echo of flesh and blood. You brought me to this castle to be a living tomb.”
Maekar released her other wrist and, instead of pulling away, he pulled her into a violent embrace, burying his face in her neck. You felt his body tremble—a tremor that came from the depths of his tormented soul.
“ Don’t leave me,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin, sounding less like a prince and more like a man lost at sea. “Even if it’s a lie, even if you’re just a reflection of her… I can’t lose her again. I wouldn’t survive burying that face a second time.”
You felt his hands slide up your back, gripping the thin fabric of your underwear, a mixture of desperate desire and a morbid need for confirmation. In that moment, in the oppressive silence of the royal bedroom, you understood the extent of your tragedy: you loved a man who could only love you through the lens of his own loss.
You were both his cure and his disease. And, as he held you tightly as if his life depended on it, you wondered if there would ever be anything left of you to save, or if you would end up disappearing completely, consumed by the ghost of the woman you never knew, but whom you already hated with all the strength of your broken heart.
Maekar 's hands , once iron claws, now tried to find in you a refuge you no longer had the strength to offer. His embrace was heavy, an anchor pulling you to the bottom of an ocean of melancholy. But, inside you, something had died the moment he confessed that you were merely a reflection of an absence.
You didn't hug him back. His arms hung limply at his sides, useless, like those of a porcelain doll whose strings had been cut.
“Let me go…” you whispered, your voice devoid of any warmth, cold as the crypts where Dyanna lay.
“No,” he growled, squeezing her even tighter, his face buried in her shoulder. “You’re my wife. Your place is here, with me, in our bed.”
“This bed was never mine, Maekar, ” you said, and the sound of your own voice, so hollow, startled her. “I’m just an intruder occupying a ghost’s space. I smell her scent on the sheets, I see her trace in your eyes when you look at me… I’m dying here. Every touch of yours takes a piece of my soul.”
With a desperate effort, you broke free. The separation wasn't violent, but it was definitive. You walked to the darkest corner of the room, where the candlelight didn't reach, wanting to disappear into the shadows so he could no longer use your face as a source of comfort.
(...)
In the days that followed, the castle became a silent mausoleum. You began to dress only in gray and pale colors, rejecting the vibrant silks he so loved. You stopped wearing her jewelry, let your hair fall straight and unadorned, and avoided parties, banquets, and, above all, his gaze.
You became a ghostly presence in the Red Keep. You ate little, spoke even less, and when Maekar entered a room, you left as if his presence were poison. Maekar , in turn, began to crumble under the weight of your silence.
At first, he tried to act with the arrogance of a prince. He ordered your presence, demanded that you dine with him, but you remained there, an ice statue, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a single word or a glance of affection. His desire, which had previously been fueled by resemblance, had transformed into a dark and painful obsession with you—with the woman he was truly losing.
One night, he broke into your private chambers. He smelled of strong wine and a despair that stifled the air around him. You were sitting by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass.
“Look at me!” he roared, grabbing his chair and turning it violently. “I’m your husband! I demand you look at me!”
You looked up. But there was no gleam in them. There was no "light" he so desperately sought. There was only a gray emptiness, an abyss of indifference that struck him harder than any sword blow.
“What do you want, sir?” Her voice was a monotonous whisper. “Do you want me to smile? Do you want me to bow my head as she used to? I’ve forgotten how. I’ve forgotten who I was supposed to imitate.”
“I don’t want you to imitate her!” he shouted, falling to his knees before you, his large hands gripping your thighs, squeezing the fabric of your dress with trembling strength. “I miss your voice… your laugh… I miss when you looked at me and I felt there was something alive in this castle.”
“You killed that woman,” you replied, and a single, solitary tear rolled down your cheek, not of anger, but of mourning for yourself. “You suffocated her with the weight of a dead woman. Now, all you have is what’s left. The body you so longed to inhabit. You can use it if you want. I’m no longer inside it.”
Maekar let out a broken sound, a sob he tried to stifle in her skirt. He realized, too late, that in trying to reclaim the past through you, he had destroyed the only future that could have made him happy. He missed your genuine touch, your spontaneous affection, the unique woman you were before he tried to mold you into someone else.
He began kissing her hands, desperate, almost feverish kisses.
“Please…” he pleaded against her cold skin. “Come back to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll burn the portraits, I’ll move to another castle, I…”
“You can’t burn what’s etched in your mind,” you said, pulling your hand away with cruel slowness. “And you can’t bring me back. I’m not Dyanna , I can’t be resurrected.”
You stood up and walked towards the bed, lying down and turning your back to him, leaving him there, on his knees on the cold floor, a powerful prince reduced to a man begging for a crumb of attention from the woman he himself had broken.
The room was utterly dark, but his suffering was almost visible, a black shadow enveloping him as he realized that he now had two dead women in his life: one buried in the earth and the other lying beside him, alive, but forever out of his reach.
(...)
Night crept like a wounded animal along the walls of the Red Keep. Maekar could no longer bear the silence you had erected between them—an ice wall more insurmountable than any fortification he had ever besieged.
He entered the room, the sound of his boots echoing like the beating of an anxious heart. He found her standing before the fireplace, her eyes lost in the flames, her body enveloped in a white linen nightgown that made her look like a specter. She didn't move. She didn't recognize him.
“My sons asked about you today,” he began, his voice low, trying to find a way through the fog of indifference that surrounded her. “ Daeron is drinking more than he should, Aerion is growing increasingly cruel, and even little Aegon misses you… Aemon tried to explain his sadness to me with maester ’s words , but none of them understand why the light in this house has gone out.”
You remained motionless. The names of his children—the four princes Dyanna had left as his inheritance—hung in the air. You loved them, in a melancholic and distant way, but every time you looked at them, you saw the traces of the one you could never overcome.
“They are her children,” you finally said, your voice devoid of emotion. “They have her blood. They don’t need an echo to comfort them.”
Maekar growled, a sound of pain and frustration, and lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his strong arms encircling her waist with an urgency bordering on desperation. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with a hunger that seemed to devour her soul.
“I want children of yours ,” he whispered against her skin, his warm lips tracing the outline of her ear. “I want daughters who have your spirit, not hers. My sons are a disappointment, but my daughters, I know they will be glorious. I saw them in my dreams, beautiful girls. Beautiful like you.”
His hands moved up, bold and possessive, squeezing her breasts through the thin fabric, trying to rekindle the flame that once burned so easily. He turned her forcefully, pressing his body against hers, his muscular thighs trapping hers. His desire was evident, a rhythmic and dark pulse that demanded surrender.
He kissed her with desperate violence, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands feverishly exploring her curves. He wanted to possess her, he wanted pleasure to make her forget, he wanted her moans to drown out the screams of his own conscience.
But you remained rigid. Your arms lay limp at your sides. Your lips didn't move beneath his. Your eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, cold and empty like those of a corpse. You were marble beneath his fire.
Maekar stopped. He stepped back only a few inches, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps, his face flushed with lust and growing anger.
“React!” he ordered, his voice trembling. “Scratch me, hit me, hate me if you have to, but be here !”
“You wanted a dead woman, my prince,” you replied, your voice as calm as a frozen lake. “Here I am. You may use my body. It is yours by right, by law, and by conquest. But do not ask me to participate in your fantasy. Do not ask me to pretend you are looking at me.”
He let her go as if he had been burned. The humiliation of being rejected not in body, but in soul, was a wound that the pride of a Targaryen could not bear.
“You’re torturing me!” he yelled, kicking a chair that flew against the wall. “I’m trying! I’m begging for a fresh start! I talk about future daughters, about our legacy, and you treat me like a rapist in my own bed!”
“Because you don’t want a fresh start!” you exploded, the first sign of life in days being a bitter rage that lit up your eyes. “You want redemption! You want to put children in my womb to prove to yourself that life has conquered death, but you still wear her wedding ring! You still sleep on her side of the bed! You want my daughters so they can grow up and become part of your fantasy!”
"That's not true!" he roared, moving closer with his finger pointed, his face inches from hers.
“It’s the purest truth that exists in this castle of lies!” you retorted, your chest rising and falling with a vibrant agony. “You miss her, Maekar . You miss her so much that the scent of my skin punishes you because it’s not the scent you memorized. You hate me for not being her, and you hate yourself even more for desiring my body while thinking of her soul.”
Maekar remained silent, his breathing erratic. He looked at his own hands, the hands that had just tried to seduce her, and saw the trembling in them. His despair was so intense it seemed he would collapse right there.
“I miss who I was when I was with her,” he confessed, his voice almost a broken whisper. “But I miss who I thought you would be…”
“ I could have been everything,” you said, sadness returning to extinguish your fury. “But you turned me into nothing.”
You walked to the bed and lay down, covering yourself up to your neck, leaving him alone before the ashes of the fireplace. Maekar remained there, a prince without a kingdom, a husband without a wife, realizing that the "love" he had tried to force was the very rope that was strangling what remained of both your hearts.
(...)
The weeks that followed were marked by a Herculean effort on Maekar 's part. He was not a man of delicate gestures or poetic words, but the silence you maintained was a punishment he could no longer bear. He began to act with desperate caution, as if he were trying to tame a wounded creature that could vanish at the slightest rough touch.
The room, once a battlefield, had become a sanctuary of silent offerings. In the morning, you would find flowers that were not Dyanna 's favorites , but wildflowers that grew on his own family's lands, brought by knights he had hastily sent. On his dressing table, the jewels of the deceased were no longer there, but new pieces, recently forged, with designs that he himself tried to describe to the blacksmiths—something that would be uniquely his.
But her soul only found rest away from him, in the gardens or in the library, surrounded by his children.
“Look, Mommy!” Little Aegon, with his tousled silver curls, ran toward her, holding out a stone dragon egg that he swore he could feel warming.
You smiled—a real smile, the first in a long time—and pulled him onto your lap, sitting on the stone bench. Aemon sat beside you, a heavy book on his lap, reading passages about the history of Westeros in his young, serious voice.
“The egg isn’t hot, Egg, ” Aemon corrected, though his eyes shone with affection for his younger brother. “But the sun is. You should be careful not to burn your skin.”
You stroked Aegon's face, feeling the purity of that child who, unlike his father, loved you unconditionally. Daeron , the eldest, lay on the nearby grass, a jug of water (which you insisted replace the wine) within his reach. He watched you with a look of melancholy understanding; of them all, he was the one who best understood the shadow that hung over his father's marriage.
Even Aerion , whose cruel tendencies were beginning to blossom and frighten the court, became docile in her presence. He approached with an almost predatory beauty, but knelt at her feet to show her a dragonbone dagger he had acquired.
“ If anyone in this castle dares to make her cry again,” Aerion hissed, his violet eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, “I will make them forget how to breathe.”
Aerion 's hair , a gesture of affection that seemed to ease the tension in the young prince's shoulders.
"No one will make me cry, Aerion . We are at peace here."
It was in this scene that Maekar found her. He stopped under the stone arch in the garden, observing the scene in silence. His chest ached at the sight of the smile you so generously bestowed upon his children, but which you categorically denied him. He felt a pang of envy for his own children, but also a profound admiration. You were what held that broken family together, even though it was shattered inside.
That night, he didn't enter the room with the weight of authority. He entered slowly, carrying a small tray with tea and honey.
“I saw you with them today,” he said, his voice hoarse, keeping a safe distance. “You have a patience I never possessed. They love you… and I’m beginning to realize they love you for who you are, not for who you represent.”
You turned around, the moonlight framing your melancholy silhouette.
"They are pure. They don't look back. They look to the present."
Maekar set the tray down on the table and took a step forward, his hands open in a gesture of surrender.
“I want to learn to do the same,” he whispered, distress etched into every line of his stern face. “I know what I did… the way I tried to mold you… was a crime. I was lost in my own hell and dragged you there with me. But today, seeing you with Aegon and Aerion , I realized it’s not the past I want to reclaim. I want to conquer your present.”
He knelt down, not to demand, but to beg.
“Let me try again. Not like a man chasing a ghost, but like a man desperately in love with a woman who hates him for good reason. Give me a chance to prove that I know your name, that I know who you are in the dark and in the light.”
You looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, the stiffness in his shoulders eased an inch. The pain was still there, deep and dense, but the sight of Maekar Targaryen — the Prince of Summerhall , the relentless warrior — knelt and vulnerable, and began to pierce the ice around his heart.
“Words are easy, Maekar, ” you said, your voice still trembling with sorrow. “Time will be my judge.”
“Then give me all the time in the world,” he replied, taking her hand with a tenderness you never imagined he possessed, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that seemed like a blood oath. “I will spend the rest of my life in your shadow, if it means that one day you will smile at me again as you smiled at Aegon today.”
(...)
Time was no longer measured by the beating of the stars, but by the cautious rhythm of Maekar 's breaths . He kept his word. In the following months, he became a silent observer of his own life, a man who seemed to be relearning the alphabet through his gestures.
He no longer forced her into bed. In fact, he began sleeping on a small divan in the corner of the room, or often spent sleepless nights in his office, just so she could have the vastness of the real bed to herself, free from the weight of his body and the suffocation of his memories.
However, his true healing came not from his apologies, but from the boys' laughter.
One autumn afternoon, the wind was blowing strongly from the Bay, and you were sitting in the inner courtyard with Aegon and Aemon . Little " Egg " was desperately trying to balance himself atop a low wall, while Aemon read aloud passages about dragons of old.
“If I had a dragon,” Egg exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with an innocence that almost made her cry, “I would take her flying far away from here, to where the sun never sets!”
You laughed, pulling the boy to the ground before he fell.
"And what would I do in a place where the sun never sets, Egg ? I wouldn't be able to sleep."
"You don't need to sleep to dream, Mom," he replied, hugging her neck tightly.
The word "mommy" still vibrated in her chest with a bittersweetness. You felt a pair of eyes on you and looked up. Aerion was leaning against a nearby column, watching the scene. He didn't join in the games, but his posture was less aggressive when you were around. He approached and, with a rarely gentle gesture, placed a perfect red apple in your lap.
“For you, ma’am,” he said, with a half-smile that hid the darkness everyone said inhabited his soul. “It’s the sweetest in the orchard.”
"Thank you, Aerion, " you whispered, touching his hand briefly.
Maekar watched from the upper balcony. He saw how you flourished among his children, how you were the glue that held those distinct and difficult personalities together in harmony. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, a mixture of gratitude and a heart-wrenching loneliness. He desired you, but that desire was now purged of any trace of Dyanna ; he desired the woman who knew how to soothe Aerion 's fury and nurture Aegon's dreams.
That night, the cold intensified. You were in bed, almost asleep, when you heard his hesitant footsteps. Maekar didn't go to the divan. He stopped beside the bed, his imposing silhouette cutting through the light of the fireplace.
“ They’re growing up so fast,” he said, his voice muffled by weariness and melancholy. “ Daeron challenged me today. He said I don’t deserve his silence, that I should be grateful you still breathe the same air as me.”
You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets up to your chest.
" Daeron is too observant for his own good."
Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance, but his eyes were fixed on his with a desperate hunger for connection.
"He's right. I don't deserve this. But today, seeing you in the courtyard... I realized I can no longer live in this self-imposed exile."
He reached out, pausing mid-way, waiting for your permission. You didn't recoil. He touched your face, his scarred fingers gliding across your skin with the lightness of someone touching broken glass.
“I don’t miss her when I’m with you now,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. I miss the woman you were before I tried to bury you alive. Please… let me back in. Not as a ghost, but as the man who wants to be the father of the daughters you will still have.”
The despair in his eyes was so real, so raw, that the last barrier of ice in his heart cracked. You saw the man, not the prince, not the widower, but the broken man being consumed by his own mistake.
“ Maekar …” you whispered.
He leaned in, sealing his lips with a kiss that was anything but violent. It was a kiss of supplication, of mourning for what was lost and of hope for what could be built. His body trembled against hers, and for the first time, when he whispered words of desire in her ear, he used her name. He called for her, and only for her. The night was long, marked by a kind of surrender they had never experienced—a surrender made of pain and a dark need to feel alive amidst so many shadows. And as he possessed her under the dim light of the embers, she realized that, although the scars would never disappear, perhaps, just perhaps, there was room for a new story to be written upon the ashes of the old.
Maekar 's heavy breathing . When he finally uttered your name, the sound wasn't an echo or a comparison; it was an invocation. It was the acknowledgment that, in that bed, there was no room for anyone else but the two of you.
He pulled her to the center of the mattress with an urgency that didn't stem from pure lust, but from a desperate need to anchor himself in the reality of his existence. Maekar undressed with abrupt movements, shedding layers of pride and sorrow, until his warm, calloused skin met hers. The contrast was almost painful: his brute strength against her melancholic tenderness.
“ Look at me,” he ordered, but his voice was a broken whisper, a plea. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see who is here.”
He positioned himself between her legs, the weight of his body a welcome burden that finally chased away the cold. Maekar 's hands , large enough to encircle her wrists, rose to her face, holding her head with a possessiveness that she now understood as a fear that she would disappear.
When he entered you, there was none of the impatient rush of before. There was a sigh. A deep, slow entry that made you arch your back, letting out a trembling sigh against his shoulder. It was an invasion, but also a surrender. With each rhythmic and deliberate movement, Maekar seemed to be trying to fill the void he himself had carved in your chest.
His hands moved down to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with a force that would leave marks—marks that, for the first time, she wanted to bear as proof that she belonged to herself and to him, and not to a dead past.
“You…” he gasped, his face buried in the crook of her neck, their sweat mingling in the warm light of the embers. “It’s just you. The scent of your skin… the warmth of your body…”
The rhythm quickened, becoming more raw, more intense. The pleasure was tinged with a latent anguish, a tension bordering on suffering. Maekar possessed her with the intensity of a man trying to exorcise demons through flesh. He kissed her violently, sucking on her lips as if he could extract the life from her to sustain his own, while their bodies collided in a dull, constant impact.
You felt your nails dig into his broad back, scratching the Prince's skin, leaving red furrows that he received as if they were medals. Pain and pleasure were threads intertwined in a rope that tightened ever more. The desperation of being loved for who you were finally exploded in a climax that left you breathless, your body trembling in spasms of pure emotional and physical exhaustion.
Maekar followed close behind, a muffled roar escaping his throat as he spilled inside you, collapsing onto your chest as if all his strength had drained away in that act of surrender.
For long minutes, the only sound in the room was that of ragged breaths. Maekar did not move; he remained there, heavy and protective, his face hidden in his disheveled hair.
“I will never call you by another name again,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a grim promise. “I will dedicate each night to erasing the shadow I cast upon you.”
You wrapped your arms around him, sensing the vulnerability of the man the entire kingdom feared. Dyanna 's ghost was still there, in some dark corner of memory, but that night, between the sweat and dried tears, you finally felt that your own name was the only one echoing within the walls of the Red Keep.
The silence that followed the first climax was not one of rest, but of a hungry vigil. Maekar did not withdraw; he remained anchored to you, feeling the residual tremors that still coursed through your legs. The light from the dying embers traced the contours of his muscles, transforming him into a creature of shadows and reliefs.
He slowly raised his torso, supporting himself on his elbows to face you. His eyes were clouded, his pupils dilated until they almost extinguished the violet iris. Dyanna 's ghost was no longer between you; there was only an earthly and visceral obsession with the woman who, for the first time, met his gaze.
“I feel you,” he growled, his voice so deep it vibrated against his sternum. “I feel your heart beating against mine. Say it’s real. Say you won’t disappear when the sun rises.”
In response, you slid your hands down his back, feeling the war scars and the furrows your own fingernails had just carved. You pulled him down again, seeking his mouth with a thirst that was no longer for comfort, but for dominance.
The second act began with renewed ferocity. Maekar turned her onto her back with a brusque, possessive movement, pinning her against the silk sheets. He knelt behind her, his large hands gripping her hips with a force that compelled her to arch, exposing the vulnerable curve of her spine.
“You are mine,” he hissed close to her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. “Not the prince’s, not the Targaryen name . Mine.”
When he penetrated her again, the angle was deeper, more invasive. Each thrust was a dry impact that drew hoarse moans from her throat. Maekar moved with the cadence of a conqueror, one hand buried in her hair, pulling her head slightly back so he could bite the soft skin of her shoulder, leaving a purplish mark that would be her secret under her high-necked dresses the next day.
The pleasure was intense, almost painful in its intensity. You felt his heat burning against your cold skin, a contrast that drove you wild. The room seemed to shrink until the entire universe was reduced to that frenetic contact, to the sound of flesh against flesh and the weight of a man's desire, who was trying, through that act, to fuse his soul with yours.
Maekar increased the pace, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his back. He was on edge, his breath turning into short growls. He didn't just want pleasure; he wanted your complete surrender. He wanted you to feel that, in that moment, he was the only man in the world, and you, the only woman he had ever desired.
With one last violent thrust, he held her tight, his nails digging into her hips as he surrendered to the climax. You felt the wave of heat wash over you, a spasm of ecstasy that left you powerless, collapsing onto the pillows as he fell on top of you, exhausted but finally present.
He remained there, his face buried in the back of her neck, his heart pounding against his back. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the unspoken promise that, though the past was a scar, the present was a fire neither of them wanted to extinguish.
(...)
The days in the Red Keep lost the gray hue of mourning and gained the dark, dense tone of suppressed desire. Maekar did not become a bard or a knight of light romances; he remained the Prince of Summerhall , a man of few words and a stern temperament. But his "good husband" manifested itself in acts of protective possessiveness.
He began to notice what you enjoyed when you didn't think you were being watched. He noticed that you liked the cool wind on the battlements at dawn, and he started to be there, waiting for you with a heavy fur cloak to wrap around your shoulders before you could shiver. He noticed that you lost yourself in thought in the septum, not out of devotion, but because of the silence, and he started to ensure that no one disturbed you, posting himself like a sentinel at the door.
The reconquest wasn't made of flowers, but of presence. And of a carnal urgency that seemed endless.
On a rainy afternoon, you were in the royal library, searching for a manuscript for Aemon . The smell of old parchment and dust always calmed you. Maekar entered, his armor still damp from combat practice, the sound of metal echoing in the silence of the room.
He said nothing. He simply walked toward you, trapping you between two tall oak shelves. His weight was a promise.
“ Maekar … the servants may come in,” you whispered, your voice faltering as his calloused, warm hand moved up your thigh, lifting the layers of silk from your dress.
“I told everyone to leave,” he hissed against her lips. “This place is mine. You are mine.”
He lifted her, setting her on the solid wood table, scattering scrolls carelessly. There, amidst tales of dead kings, he possessed her with a savage hunger, his kisses muffling her moans as the sound of the rain outside competed with the frenetic rhythm of their bodies. There was no trace of Dyanna there; only the raw heat and sweat of a man rediscovering pleasure through every inch of his skin.
There was a morning in the glass gardens, where the humid heat of the exotic plants made the air feel like honey. You were tending to some herbs when you felt his hands on your waist. Maekar turned you around so your back was to the broad foliage, undoing the laces of your bodice with an impatience that made you gasp.
“You’re different today,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her back as he penetrated her from behind, his hands gripping her breasts with a force that was almost a claim.
“It’s because I can finally breathe, Maekar ,” you replied, throwing your head back, feeling the sun through the glass and the constant impact of his body against yours.
He paused for a second, his face buried in her hair, and whispered her name as if it were a prayer of gratitude. The sex wasn't just physical; it was his way of asking for forgiveness without needing to use words his soldier's throat couldn't pronounce.
Maekar began to integrate himself into your afternoons with the children. He would sit at a distance, watching you play with Aegon or discuss philosophy with Aemon . Sometimes he would intervene to teach Aerion how to hold a dagger more efficiently, but his eyes always returned to you, seeking your approval.
One evening, after a family dinner where Aerion had behaved himself and Aegon had fallen asleep in his arms, Maekar took her to their chambers. He didn't lead her straight to bed. He sat her down before the mirror and, with infinite patience, began to brush her hair.
“You’re getting to know yourself again,” he said, looking at his reflection. “And I’m having the privilege of getting to know this new woman along with you.”
He dropped the brush and began kissing her shoulders, his hands sliding down to the front of her dress. The act began slowly, almost tenderly, on the wolfskin floor before the fireplace. He explored her with his tongue and fingers, mapping each new reaction, each sigh that was uniquely hers. The pleasure became a dense fire, a struggle of bodies where melancholy finally gave way to a dark and absolute passion.
Each time he took her—at the privy council table, in the stables, or in the dead of night in the royal bed— Maekar made it clear that the past was being buried beneath the weight of the present. He wasn't just being a good husband; he was becoming her world, and you, for the first time, didn't feel like a shadow, but the very light guiding him out of the darkness.
(...)
The following weeks were not marked by major events , but by a subtle and persistent change in the very substance of her body. Maekar 's devouring passion , which had previously seemed to be the only fire capable of keeping her warm, began to exact a price she did not understand.
The first sign came on a gray morning, typical of King's Landing. Maekar had already left for training with the sons, and the room still held the scent of his sweat, sex, and musk. When you tried to get out of bed, the world spun violently. A sudden, acidic nausea rose in your throat, forcing you to put your hand to your mouth and sit up abruptly.
In the Great Hall, the smell of fried bacon and warm bread, once your favorite, had become an enemy. You sat between Aegon and Aemon , trying to maintain a regal posture, but each breath of air laden with the odor of food made your stomach churn.
Maekar , seated at the head of the table, noticed immediately. His eyes, now always attentive to every nuance of your face, narrowed. He saw you push away the silver plate with a hint of revulsion, your skin paler than usual.
“You didn’t touch the food,” he observed, his deep voice cutting through the boys’ conversation. “Are you sick?”
“Just a passing dizziness,” you lied, your voice coming out weaker than you intended. “The heat in the glass gardens yesterday must have been excessive.”
He didn't seem convinced. He stood up, walked over to you, and placed his immense hand on your forehead. His touch, which used to set your skin on fire, now brought a comfort that made you want to close your eyes and cry for no apparent reason.
“You’re cold. And trembling,” he murmured, ignoring the curious glances of his children. “ The maester should examine you.”
“It’s not necessary,” you insisted, but the smell of the wine Daeron was serving beside you was the final blow. You stood up hastily, muttering an inaudible excuse, and fled into the hallway before the humiliation of fainting in front of the court could materialize.
You didn't get far. Maekar caught up with her in the chambers, slamming the door shut with a bang that made his head throb. He found her hunched over the porcelain basin, her body trembling with nausea.
He didn't recoil in disgust. On the contrary, Maekar approached and gently brushed her hair back with a delicacy you never imagined a warrior possessed. He waited for the discomfort to pass, wiping her face with a damp cloth before helping her lie down.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression wavering between extreme concern and something deeper, darker.
“Some days…” you admitted, your chest rising and falling with difficulty. “I feel tired. An exhaustion that doesn’t just come from our nights. It’s like my body is being claimed by something… or someone.”
He remained silent for a long moment, his hand resting cautiously on her belly, on the thin fabric of her garment. The touch was possessive, but imbued with a new reverence.
“The blood?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Did it come this month?”
You shook your head. The penny finally dropped, bringing with it a wave of distress and terrifying joy.
“ I am not Dyanna , Maekar, ” you whispered, tears beginning to well up. “The child who grows up here… he will not be a replacement. He cannot be a ghost.”
Maekar closed his eyes for a second, and you saw his jaw tremble. He leaned in and kissed her—a kiss that tasted of desperation and a solemn promise.
“He will be my new beginning,” he declared, his voice hoarse against her lips. “And you will be the mother of my daughters. They will be the fruit of our desire, not of my memory.”
He pulled her to his chest, embracing her with a strength that said he would never let her fall. The unease was still there, the nausea persisted, but under the protection of Maekar 's arms , you began to feel that, for the first time, the future was not a shadow of the past, but a new territory, dangerous and beautiful, that you two would explore together.
The Prince of Summerhall no longer had ghosts to chase; he had a new life pulsing within the woman he had finally learned to love completely.
(...)
The news of the pregnancy, which should have been a balm, became the trigger for a new and profound affliction. While Maekar saw it as the seal of his redemption, you saw only the danger of a repeating cycle. The nausea in your stomach wasn't just physical; it was the viscous fear that this child would be condemned to carry the weight of a legacy that didn't belong to them.
Maekar tried to approach, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction, but you flinched, recoiling from his touch as if his hand might mark the baby with the same shadows that had marked you.
“No…” you whispered, stepping back until the vanity table blocked your movement. “Don’t you dare celebrate this like it’s a trophy, Maekar .”
“It’s life winning, my wife,” he said, his voice vibrant, trying to ignore the distance you were keeping. “It’s our blood.”
“It’s my body being used again to soothe your grief!” You exploded, tears of emotional exhaustion streaming freely. “I won’t allow it, Maekar . I won’t let you do to this baby what you did to me. I won’t let you look at this child’s face and search for traces of children who have already grown up, or of a woman who has already passed away.”
You hugged your own belly, a gesture of instinctive and desperate protection. The anguish in your voice was raw, an open wound bleeding before him.
“And if they are girls…” her voice faltered, becoming a whisper laden with threat and pleading. “If they are the daughters you mention so often, you have no right to be disappointed. You have no right to look at them and sigh because they are not the sons Dyanna gave you. You have no right to demand that they be ghosts of the princesses you once imagined.”
Maekar stopped. The silence that followed wasn't tense like the previous ones, but filled with something unexpected. He didn't growl, didn't defend himself furiously. Instead, a low sound escaped his throat—a short, hoarse laugh, devoid of mockery.
“Disappointed?” He stepped forward, but this time kept his hands down, submitting to his guard. “Sons are a curse of toil and stubbornness, as Daeron and Aerion prove every morning. My sons are my pride, but they are also my eternal battle.”
He moved a little closer, and the candlelight revealed a melancholy gentleness in his features that you rarely saw.
“Girls are all I want,” he confessed, his voice falling into a tone of somber confidence. “I want daughters so I can learn what sweetness is, something that war and duty stole from me long ago.”
Maekar extended his hand, and this time you didn't recoil, allowing him to lightly touch the tips of your fingers.
“I am not a devout man, you know that well. The Gods and I rarely speak,” he continued, with a sad half-smile that broke through what remained of his resistance. “But for them, I will kneel. I will pray to the Seven, every day, that they do not inherit my hardness or the shadow of those who came before. I will pray that they are exactly like you. Sweet, resilient… and entirely themselves.”
The sincerity in his words, the desire for his future daughters to be a reflection of himself and not a mere memory, struck you with the force of a blow. The despair that suffocated you began to give way to a fragile and painful hope. Maekar pulled you close, not with the force of a conqueror, but with the weight of a man who finally understood that the greatest victory was not recovering what was lost, but protecting what had just blossomed.
The months that followed transformed the Red Keep into a stage of contrasts. As your belly grew, rounding out beneath the fine silk, a new, almost ethereal beauty emanated from you. The pallor of suffering had been replaced by a warm glow, a vitality that seemed to defy the cold stones and the whispers of the corridors.
You were radiant, and that was what irritated the "snakes" of the court the most.
Congratulations poured in from all sides, though you received them with cautious courtesy. King Daeron the Good often sought you out in the gardens, gazing at your belly with a tenderness that no longer looked to the past, but to the continuation of your lineage. Your brothers-in-law, Princes Baelor , Aerys, and Rhaegel , brought gifts and kind words, recognizing in you the strength that kept Maekar 's temper in check.
Even her stepchildren seemed to orbit around her. Aegon hardly left her side, fascinated by the baby's movements beneath her skin, while Aerion , in his lucid moments, stood like a personal guard, threatening with his gaze any courtier who dared whisper anything malicious about the prince's "new favorite."
But it was the whispers that still hurt her. The gossip in the dark corners about how you were "just a surrogate womb" or about Maekar 's "sick obsession . "
“We can’t stay here,” you murmured one night, as Maekar undid the braids in your hair. “The walls have ears, and the tongues here are full of poison. I don’t want them to be born in a place where the air is made of lies.”
Maekar stopped, his large hands resting on his shoulders. In the mirror's reflection, his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.
“ Summerhall, ” he said, the name of the summer residence sounding like a promise of freedom. “We’ll go back home. There, the sun warms the stone and there are no courtiers to measure your worth by the face of a dead woman. There, it will just be us.”
But, while the match was still far away, Maekar seemed unable to keep his hands off you. The advanced state of your pregnancy, instead of pushing him away, seemed to draw him in with a gravitational force. He was obsessed with your form, with the fullness of your body that carried the life he so desired.
The scandal was inevitable. During a formal dinner, attended by the Queen and half the nobility of Westeros , Maekar couldn't hide his hunger. He ignored his plate, preferring to lean towards you, whispering dark, hot words in your ear, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your belly under the table, but sometimes rising boldly to caress the exposed skin of your cleavage.
“ Maekar , everyone is looking,” you whispered, your face flushing, a mixture of embarrassment and a desire you could no longer suppress.
“Let them look,” he replied, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on her lips with an intensity that made the ladies-in-waiting look away and the Queen cough discreetly behind her fan. “They see a princess. I see my whole world.”
That same night, he didn't wait for them to reach the private chambers. The moment the hallway doors closed behind them, he pressed her against the heavy tapestry. His calloused, urgent hands moved up her thighs, lifting her heavy skirts, ignoring the bulge of her belly that lay between them.
“You ’re so beautiful it hurts,” he hissed, his kisses trailing down her neck as he possessed her right there, standing, in an act of lust and adoration that defied all protocol.
You let out a muffled moan against his shoulder, feeling the baby kick amidst the warmth of your bodies. Maekar paused for a second, feeling the small movement against his chest, and the hard expression on his face dissolved into something bordering on religious adoration.
“Feel this…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “They are coming. And they will be your reflection, my love. Only yours.”
Maekar 's desire for you had become absolute, a flame that no longer sought to illuminate the past, but to ignite the present you were building, one step at a time. King Daeron the Good rarely lost his temper, but that morning, the walls of the Privy Council trembled with a voice that hid no dissent.
“This is no journey, Maekar , it’s a delusion!” the King exclaimed, slapping his open hand on the map of Westeros . “She’s on the seventh moon. The road to Summerhall is unforgiving, cut by rain and unstable terrain. Do you want to risk her life and my grandson’s out of sheer pride? Out of a lack of the whispers of courtiers?”
Maekar remained motionless, his jaw so clenched it seemed made of iron. His eyes did not waver before his father.
“It’s not pride, Your Majesty. It’s self-preservation,” Maekar retorted, his voice low and dangerous. “I will not allow her to give birth in a viper’s nest that counts her heartbeats, waiting for a mistake. Summerhall is my right. It’s the place where the air doesn’t reek of ulterior motives.”
“You’re a stubborn fool!” Daeron sighed, massaging his temples. “If anything happens to her on that road, no exile or title will protect you from your own conscience. But I see you’ve already decided. Leave, then. But take the boys. If you want your ‘private kingdom,’ take your whole house with you.”
(...)
The entourage set off under a heavy sky. The journey was a military operation. Maekar ordered the carriage to be reinforced with extra springs and lined with twice the amount of furs, but not all the luxury in the world could mask the reality of his body.
Inside the carriage, the space was shared with little Aegon, who wouldn't stop asking questions, and Aemon , who tried to read amidst the jolts. Outside, mounted on their horses, Daeron and Aerion followed the procession. The tension between the brothers was constant; Aerion provoked the guards, and Daeron , in his sober moments, exchanged worried glances with his father.
You felt every mile as punishment. The heartburn was a constant fire in your chest, and the nausea returned with a vengeful force, aggravated by the smell of horse and sweat coming from outside. Sometimes, the world spun so fast that you had to dig your nails into the upholstery to avoid fainting.
"Are you alright?" Aegon asked, touching her hand with his small fingers.
“I’m fine, darling,” you lied, forcing a pale smile as you tasted something bitter in your mouth. “The baby is just eager to see the new house.”
Maekar never left his side. He rode so close to the carriage that you could hear the creaking of his saddle. Whenever the caravan stopped to rest, he was the first to open the door.
"Everyone out!" he ordered his children, his voice not allowing for any delays.
He would enter and find her pale, with cold sweat covering her forehead. Without saying a word, Maekar would pull her into his arms, letting her nestle against his neck. He would bring her water with lemon and pieces of ginger, forcing her to eat it to soothe her stomach.
“I warned you it would be difficult,” he murmured, guilt glistening briefly in his eyes before being replaced by a grim determination.
“I don’t regret it,” you whispered against his armor. “Just get me out of here, Maekar .”
Despite his condition, Maekar 's desire for you seemed to have mutated. It was no longer mere lust; it was a hunger for possession, a need to reaffirm that you were still alive and that you belonged to him. During the nightly stops, inside the royal tent, the outside world would cease to exist.
Even with the discomfort, you sought him out. There was something visceral and comforting about his strength. Maekar undressed you with torturous slowness, his eyes devouring the fullness of your belly, the curve of your breasts that now weighed heavily under his touch.
“You drive me crazy,” he hissed one night, kneeling between your legs while you propped yourself up on pillows to ease the pressure on your back. “This body… this life you carry… I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you now.”
He took her with an almost sickly reverence, slow, deep movements that made you forget the nausea and dizziness. The sex was dense, wet, and charged with a shared anguish. He kissed each nascent stretch mark on her skin as if they were scars from a holy battle. With each moan that escaped her lips, Maekar seemed to reclaim a piece of his own soul.
Outside the tent, the sons listened to the whispers and muffled movements. Daeron merely rolled his eyes and drank more wine, while Aerion kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring that no one approached their father's "sanctuary."
(...)
The journey lasted weeks. But when the towers of Summerhall finally appeared on the horizon, bathed in the golden light of dusk, Maekar looked at you—exhausted, beautiful, and pregnant—and knew that, despite the King's scoldings and the dangers of the road, he had finally brought his queen to the place where shadows were not allowed to enter.
Summerhall was, at last, the balm Maekar had promised. Unlike the oppressive stone and smoke of King's Landing, the summer residence was bathed in a constant golden light, surrounded by fields that smelled of damp grass and wildflowers. But for you, the final stages of pregnancy had transformed that paradise into a gilded prison of weariness and affliction.
Her body seemed to have reached the limit of its endurance. Her belly, now low and heavy, made every movement a Herculean task. Her feet and ankles were so swollen that she could barely fit into her soft suede shoes, and heartburn was a constant companion that prevented her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time.
Maekar , however, had changed. The stern prince whom the kingdom feared had given way to a man whose life revolved entirely around his discomfort. He refused to participate in hunts or long exercises with his sons, preferring to spend the afternoons sitting beside them on the terraces of Summerhall .
“You’re having trouble breathing,” he observed one afternoon, closing a war map he was trying to read. He stood up and stopped behind his armchair, beginning to massage his shoulders with firm, experienced pressure.
“The space is getting too small for her, Maekar ,” you murmured, placing your hand on your belly, which was visibly moving as if an internal storm were raging beneath your skin. “I feel like my lungs have nowhere left to expand.”
He knelt before her, ignoring the dignity of his position. Maekar pressed his ear against her stomach, closing his eyes. The silence that followed was thick.
“They are impatient,” he whispered against the thin fabric of her dress. “Like their father. Forgive me for causing you this burden.”
Her stepchildren also seemed to have felt the change of atmosphere. Aegon brought her fresh flowers every day, sitting on the floor beside her to tell stories he heard from the maesters , trying to distract her from her back pain. Aemon brought her herbal infusions to soothe her heartburn, watching her with an academic seriousness that concealed a deep concern.
Even Aerion had become a constant and strangely protective presence. He refused to let any servant get too close with heavy objects or food that gave off strong smells that might trigger his nausea.
“She will be the most beautiful princess Westeros has ever seen,” Aerion once declared, polishing his dagger as he watched the garden entrance. “And I will teach anyone who disagrees the price of offending my father’s blood.”
(...)
Despite his exhaustion and the feeling of being "broken," as you used to say, Maekar continued to look at you with a hunger bordering on the sacred. To him, your stretched skin, your swollen lips, and your difficulty breathing were the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed. It was physical proof that you were building something new, something that belonged only to the two of you.
At night, the heat in Summerhall was stifling. You would often stay in just an open silk robe, trying to find some coolness.
“Don’t look at me now, Maekar, ” you pleaded one night, feeling heavy and awkward as you tried to settle into bed. “I feel like a burden.”
“A burden?” He leaned closer, his voice hoarse with restrained desire. He helped her lie on her side, gently placing pillows under her belly with an almost painful delicacy. “You are the most perfect sight that has ever graced these halls.”
He lay down behind you, his massive, warm body protecting your back. His hand slid down to the curve of your hip, slowly moving up to the side of your stomach. Maekar began kissing the nape of your neck, your shoulders, his trembling fingers sliding up the fabric of your tunic.
Sex, in these last days, was a slow and moist celebration of survival. He didn't penetrate her with the force of before; he explored her with his tongue and fingers, searching for her pleasure points with infinite patience, wanting to relieve the tension in her body through ecstasy. When he finally entered, it was with an almost tearful gentleness, a rhythmic movement that accompanied her whispers of distress and desire.
“You are my life,” he whispered against your ear, while you moaned softly, feeling the pleasure momentarily ease the pressure on your ribs. “My queen of Summerhall .”
In that darkness, with the scent of jasmine wafting through the window and the warmth of Maekar 's body merging with yours, the Red Keep and its cruel whispers seemed to belong to another world. There, you were the center of a universe that Maekar... Targaryen had sworn to protect with every drop of his blood, anxiously awaiting the moment when the cry of a new life would finally silence the echoes of the past.
The afternoon in Summerhall was filled with the sweet scent of hay and the lazy warmth of the autumn sun. You sat on a carved stone bench beneath the wisteria pergola, watching your stepchildren. Your back felt like a mass of red-hot iron, and an uncomfortable pressure in your lower abdomen came and went, like waves of a persistent tide.
You ignored it. It had already been days of discomfort, and you didn't want to interrupt the rare moment of peace between the boys.
Aegon was at her feet, trying to draw a dragon in the dirt with a stick, while Aemon recited passages from an ancient tome about the stars. Daeron , exceptionally sober, polished the hilt of his sword, and Aerion watched the horizon with that restless look that always kept her on edge.
A sharp pain made her gasp for a second. You dug your nails into the edge of the seat, your forehead beaded with cold sweat.
“You’re very quiet,” Aemon observed, raising his eyes with that insight that would one day make him a maester .
“It’s just the weight, my dear…” you began, but the words died in your throat as a sudden, uncontrollable sensation of heat spread between your legs.
The sound of the liquid hitting the stone floor was faint, but in the silence of the garden, it sounded like a crash. Her light silk skirts instantly darkened, soaked through.
Aegon stopped drawing, his violet eyes wide as he pointed to the puddle forming beneath his feet.
"Mommy... did you... did you pee?" the boy asked, his voice thick with innocent confusion.
Aerion let out a short, nasal laugh, a sound devoid of empathy that cut through the air like a razor blade.
“It seems the great lady of Summerhall has lost control of her basic faculties,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “What a scene worthy of a peasant.”
“Shut up, Aerion !” Daeron roared, leaping to his feet and dropping his sword to the ground. He saw his face—the deathly pallor, the trembling lips—and realized what was happening. “It’s not urine, you idiot. It’s life coming.”
A violent contraction hit her, causing her to bend forward with a muffled groan. The agony was profound, a tear that seemed to want to split her hips in two.
" Aemon , help me!" Daeron ordered, putting his arm around her waist to support her.
Aemon slammed the book shut, acting with the precision that study had given him. He gripped his other arm, the two boys forming a cradle of strength for his now heavy and trembling body.
“Breathe, slowly,” Aemon instructed, his voice trying to remain calm as they guided her out of the garden toward the royal chambers. “Aegon, run! Find our father. Tell him the child is coming! NOW!”
Aegon shot like an arrow through the stone corridors.
"And the midwives?" Daeron asked, sweat glistening on his brow as he felt the weight of his body sway.
“I’ll have the maids summon the Maester and the women,” Aemon replied, looking at you with a troubled tenderness. “We’re past the preparation stage. They’ve decided the world has waited long enough.”
You could barely hear the voices. The world had shrunk to rhythmic pain and the terror that the moment had finally arrived. Each step was torture, each breath a battle. As they climbed the stairs, you could only think of one thing: Maekar . You needed him. You needed that toughness, that fire that was now the only thing capable of keeping you whole as your body prepared to break and give way to the future.
(...)
The delivery room at Summerhall was thick with the metallic smell of blood, hot water, and bitter herbs. The autumn sun, which had once seemed so sweet in the garden, now streamed through the gaps in the curtains like a cruel invader. You lay there, your body arched in agony, your hands digging into the linen sheets until your knuckles were white and lifeless.
The midwives moved like frantic shadows around her. The pain was no longer a wave; it was an ocean that was drowning her, pulling her hips in opposite directions. The Maester prepared the ropes and cloths, his face tense under the light of the candles that were beginning to be lit as the day died.
“Breathe, milady! Push with your belly, not your throat!” ordered the oldest midwife, a woman with a wrinkled face who had served House Targaryen for decades.
You let out a scream that tore through the silence of the hallway, a sound of pure despair and exhaustion. Your forehead was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your pale face. In the fog of pain, you heard what you shouldn't have heard.
“So fragile…” the old woman murmured to the assistant, while wiping the blood from between her legs. “With Lady Dyanna it was much easier. She had the wide hips of the women of her lineage, she was strong as a mare. Here she looks like she’s going to break in two.”
Those words, spoken at her most vulnerable moment, were the final blow. The tears, which she had tried to hold back to conserve her strength, overflowed, hot and bitter. Even there, on the threshold of death to give life, the ghost of the other woman was present to humiliate her.
“I am not her…” you sobbed, your voice faltering as a new contraction hit you. “I am not…”
The bang of the door being opened made the silver goblets vibrate on the table. Maekar burst into the room like a furious god of war. He was still wearing his riding tunic, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot from riding like a madman after Aegon's warning.
“Leave, my Prince!” the Maester exclaimed, raising his hands in protest. “The birthing room is a place for women and gods. It is impure for a man of your position!”
“Impure?!” Maekar roared, his voice making the old midwife recoil. “To hell with the gods and to hell with your purity! This is my wife, my blood is in her! I will not leave her side even if the Warrior himself comes to get me!”
He strode across the room heavily and fell to his knees beside his bed. He grabbed his hand, ignoring the sweat and dirt, and brought it to his face.
"I'm here," he hissed, his eyes fixed on hers, an anchor in the midst of her shipwreck.
The old midwife, trying to regain her authority, approached with a basin.
"My lord, the comparison was purely technical; Lady Dyanna had..."
Maekar turned his face to her with an expression of such cruelty that the woman almost dropped the silver. The fury in his eyes was absolute, dark, lethal.
“If I hear the name of my late wife come out of your withered mouth one more time, ” Maekar said, his voice low and deadly, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. “I will cut out your tongue myself and feed it to the dogs. She is not Dyanna . She is my only princess, and you will treat her with the reverence due a queen, or you will leave here dead.”
He turned to you, softening his touch just enough not to break it.
“Forget what she said. Forget the world outside. Look at me. Only at me. Bring our daughter, my love. Bring her to me.”
Inspired by the fire emanating from him, you felt a new strength, a fury born of love and pain. You dug your nails into Maekar 's hand , feeling his blood beneath your claws, and pushed. You pushed with every fragment of your soul, determined to banish the shadows from that room once and for all and bring light to Summerhall .
The room had become a battlefield where time seemed to have stood still. The smell of blood and sweat was suffocating, and the only audible sound was Maekar 's noisy breathing and screams, which were no longer of fear, but of a transformative agony.
“Once more!” the Maester ordered, his face bathed in sweat. “I can already see the crown on your head! Push!”
You felt your body being torn in two, as if a Valyrian steel blade were climbing up your spine. Your hands crushed Maekar 's fingers , and he didn't flinch; he absorbed your pain, his violet eyes fixed on yours, conveying a brutal, almost violent strength that prevented you from collapsing.
“You can do it!” he roared close to her ear, his voice hoarse with desperation and adoration. “Bring them to me, my love! Bring us our future!”
With a scream that seemed to rip the last of your strength from your lungs, you made the final effort. There was a feeling of sudden relief, a damp vacuum, followed immediately by a sharp, crystalline cry that cut through the tension in the air like a lightning bolt.
“A princess!” exclaimed the midwife, her voice trembling, as she wrapped the tiny creature in warm linen. “A perfect little girl, my lord!”
Maekar let out a sigh that sounded like a sob, but there was no time for celebration. The Maester turned to you urgently.
"It still hurts ..." you sighed. "It still hurts a lot!!"
Don't stop now! I see another head, and he's in a hurry!
The second stage of labor was a blur of pain and exhaustion. You felt like you were going to die, that your heart wouldn't withstand the effort, but Maekar 's hand was a shackle that kept you grounded. He kissed your sweaty forehead, whispering your name between curses directed at the gods, demanding that they spare you.
“Just one more… ” he pleaded. “Just one more and it will be over, I promise.”
You gathered the ashes of your will. With one last push, laden with all the suffering of the past months and all the hope that Summerhall represented, the second life was expelled. Another cry, as strong as the first, echoed through the room.
“Another princess!” announced the Maester , his face finally relaxing into a tired smile. “Two girls. Twins, healthy and strong.”
The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic crying of the babies and the sound of their panting breaths. Maekar didn't look at his daughters first. He remained kneeling beside them, burying his face in the crook of their necks, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. For the first time, the Iron Prince was surrendered.
The midwives cleaned the babies and brought them to the bed. When they were placed in their arms—tiny, with tufts of almost white hair and rosy skin—the pain disappeared.
“What names shall we give these beautiful princesses?” you whispered, your voice almost fading. “Decide, my love. You dreamed of them.”
Maekar raised his head, his eyes moist and fierce with pride. He touched his daughters' tiny foreheads with a gentleness that would make any knight of Westeros doubt his own eyes.
“They don’t resemble anyone,” Maekar said, his voice solemn, gazing at you with absolute devotion. “They are only ours. They are you. Beautiful girls, beautiful like their mother. I will name only one, the one who came into the world first. The second, you must name.”
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from shouting. “I like Rhae for girl. Yes, Rhae . Like in a poem my sweet Aemon once told me in the garden. I don’t remember now. It hurts too much to remember.”
Maekar let out a sound through his boot, something that oscillated between laughter and mockery. It was hard to tell.
“ Daella ,” he said simply, without even bothering to explain the name or where it came from. But you suspected it was a tribute to his father or, perhaps, to his own son, because even though it was a disappointment, Maekar still loved him very much. You accepted it, simply accepted it. You had had two healthy girls in a single birth. Nothing else mattered.
There, in Summerhall , with your daughters at your breast and your husband at your feet, you realized that Dyanna 's ghost had finally been banished. Not by royal decree, but by the bloody and beautiful miracle that you two had created together. Maekar 's daughters would not be shadows; they would be living proof that he had finally found his home.
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Constantly compared to Maekar Targaryen's late wife, you never believed you could hold a real place in his heart. But while the court insists on living in the past, Maekar does everything to prove that he chose you for who you are. Between silent gestures, stubborn devotion, and the birth of twin princesses, this is a story about love, belonging, and building a home where only ghosts once existed.
warnings: MaekarTargaryen x wife!F.Reader MDNI +18 mutual pining, slightly bratty reader, kinda pervert!Maekar, Attempt of seduction, sprinkle of plot with porn smut: pillow humping, F!masturbation, ankle pulling(?), slight spanking(like twice), slight licking, p in v, overstimulation, creampie, toxic relationship, dark romance, second wife, referenced death of child, lots of sex
Nota: English is not my native language. Apologies for any mistakes.
Nota: Canonically, Dyanna gave Maekar six children: four boys and two girls. However, in this story, the girls Daella and Rhae are the reader's daughters and are twins.
Número de palavras: 13.300
The air in the royal chambers was so thick it seemed to require physical effort to breathe. You stood by the fireplace, your fingers buried in the velvet of your skirt, your knuckles as white as the marble of the statues in the gardens. You were not Dornish , you did not possess the desert fire in your blood; you came from a lineage of silences and duties, raised to be the gentle breeze that would soothe Maekar 's temper. Targaryen .
But the breeze had become a vacuum.
"Where is she?! Where is my wife?"
His scream echoed down the corridor, making your shoulders heave in a spasm of silent agony. You closed your eyes, but the image of that night refused to leave you. The banquet, the wine, the lights... and that excruciating moment when you, seated beside King Daeron the Good, heard the monarch sigh as he looked at you.
"It's a miracle of mercy," the King had said, his voice choked with nostalgia. "Looking at you, my dear, is like seeing my Dyanna return from the grave. Maekar has finally recovered what death stole from him. You are the mirror of his happiness... you are Dyanna herself reborn."
Those words were the knife that finally pierced his armor of caution.
The door was flung open. Maekar entered, the aura of a warrior prince emanating from him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you once called love, but now recognized as possession.
"What was that?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously hoarse tone as he closed the door. "You rose from the royal table without a word. The King was confused. I was... humiliated. What troubled you, wife?"
You didn't answer immediately. You turned your back to him, staring at the mirror. In the reflection, you saw a young, beautiful, and pale face—the face he had handpicked from among so many other noblewomen in the kingdom.
"Your father complimented me today," you said, your voice so low it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the embers. "He said I'm a miracle. That I'm Dyanna 's return ."
Maekar stood motionless. The silence that followed was a silent confession. "My father is an old and sentimental man. He sees what he wants to see."
"And you, Maekar ?" You turned slowly, your eyes filled with a deep sadness that seemed ancient. "What do you see? Because I spent months being the perfect wife. I accepted the jewels that belonged to her. I accepted the rooms she decorated. I even accepted you calling me by nicknames that, now I know, were exclusive to her."
"I gave you my name!" he exclaimed, trying to regain control of the situation, approaching with heavy steps. "I treated you with honor. What more do you want from me?"
"I want to exist!" The word exploded from within you, a cry for help you had kept inside for too long. Caution shattered like glass under the weight of your despair. "I want to be seen! I am not a receptacle for the soul of a dead woman! I am not a painting you can retouch to feel less guilty about her leaving!"
You began frantically tearing the diadem from your head, tears finally overflowing, hot and bitter. "I wondered why you insisted so much on keeping me in the shadows at night. Why your hands seemed to grope my face as if searching for features that aren't there. Today I understand. You don't love me, Maekar . You love the ghost that inhabits my flesh!"
"Shut up!" Maekar lunged forward, his pain transforming into a defensive rage. "You have no right to dig up what I tried to bury so I could live again!"
"But you won't live again!" you screamed, recoiling until your back hit the cold stone wall, your chest rising and falling in spasms of pure suffering. "You're just trying to steal my youth to feed your grief! I'm barely older than your eldest son! I should be your new life, but I'm just your macabre consolation!"
The distress on her face was so raw that Maekar seemed to hesitate for a second. He tried to reach out and touch her face, a gesture that would once have been affectionate, but now seemed like a profanation.
"Don't touch me with the hands that seek her!" You pushed him away, your voice faltering, despair draining your strength. "You destroyed my chance to be loved for who I am. You condemned me to compete with a woman who never makes mistakes because she no longer breathes!"
Maekar lost what little patience he had left. In a sudden movement, he grabbed his arms, pinning them against the wall above his head. The impact was sharp, and his body—massive, hot, and oppressive—crushed his against the rough stone.
"You're my wife," he hissed, his face millimeters from hers, his breath mingling with her sobs. "I chose you. I brought you to my bed. Do you think I could bear to look at you every day if there wasn't something real here?"
"What's real, Maekar ?" you whispered, your eyes locked on his, challenging him through the haze of tears. "Say my name. Now. Without thinking of the mother of your children. Without thinking of the woman Dayne gave you. Say MY name and convince me you know who I am."
His silence was the cruelest answer he could give. The grip on her wrists tightened, not from desire, but from the agony of a man caught in his own lie. He held her there, immobilized, while the weight of the substitution hung over them both, heavier than the walls of the fortress itself.
How do you cope with the fact that, even now, in his rage, you can see the reflection of another person in the depths of his pupils?
His silence wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a vacuum that sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving you dizzy, suffocated by the realization that, for the man who held your destiny in his hands, you were a blank page on which he insisted on rewriting an old poem.
Maekar kept his wrists pressed against the cold stone. The warmth of his skin contrasted with the ice of the wall, creating a symphony of sensations that made your stomach churn. You could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest, but you knew, with a bitterness that burned your throat, that this rhythm wasn't for you. It was the gallop of a man chasing a ghost.
“Say it …” you pleaded, your voice faltering, tears tracing hot paths down your pale face. “Please, Maekar … say my name. Just once. Claim the woman who is here, bleeding before you, not the memory you hold in your chest.”
His eyes, as dark as the sea before a storm, scanned every inch of her face. He analyzed her forehead, the curve of her nose, the trembling line of her lips. For a second, you saw the conflict—the agony of a man who wanted to love her, but who was chained by a grief that had become his very skin.
“You don’t understand,” she finally hissed, her voice hoarse, laden with a pain so dense it felt palpable. “Do you think you’re the only one who suffers? Every time I look at you, it’s like a wound is reopened. I try to find you, I swear I try … but fate was cruel enough to give you the same light in your eyes, the same tilt of your head…”
“So it’s a punishment?” you interrupted him, your distress exploding into a desperate sob. “Am I your punishment, Maekar ? Am I the torture you chose for yourself so you wouldn’t forget what you lost?”
He released one of her wrists, but only to bring his hand to her neck, not to choke her, but to hold it with a possessiveness bordering on delirium. His thumb caressed her jaw, and for a moment, the touch was almost tender, if it weren't for the shadow of another person lingering between you.
“I wish it were different,” he murmured, drawing his face closer, his warm breath brushing against her skin. “I wanted to walk into this room and see only you. But when the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the similarities become chains. I see her movements in you. I hear the echo of her laughter in yours. How can I love you for who you are, if everything about you screams at me what I can no longer have?”
That confession was the final blow. You stopped fighting his grip. Your body felt heavy, the will to resist draining away along with the tears. Despair was now a calm, deep sea, where you were sinking with no intention of surfacing.
“So you admit it…” you whispered, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t see the denial he was still trying to maintain. “I’m just a shadow. An echo of flesh and blood. You brought me to this castle to be a living tomb.”
Maekar released her other wrist and, instead of pulling away, he pulled her into a violent embrace, burying his face in her neck. You felt his body tremble—a tremor that came from the depths of his tormented soul.
“ Don’t leave me,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin, sounding less like a prince and more like a man lost at sea. “Even if it’s a lie, even if you’re just a reflection of her… I can’t lose her again. I wouldn’t survive burying that face a second time.”
You felt his hands slide up your back, gripping the thin fabric of your underwear, a mixture of desperate desire and a morbid need for confirmation. In that moment, in the oppressive silence of the royal bedroom, you understood the extent of your tragedy: you loved a man who could only love you through the lens of his own loss.
You were both his cure and his disease. And, as he held you tightly as if his life depended on it, you wondered if there would ever be anything left of you to save, or if you would end up disappearing completely, consumed by the ghost of the woman you never knew, but whom you already hated with all the strength of your broken heart.
Maekar 's hands , once iron claws, now tried to find in you a refuge you no longer had the strength to offer. His embrace was heavy, an anchor pulling you to the bottom of an ocean of melancholy. But, inside you, something had died the moment he confessed that you were merely a reflection of an absence.
You didn't hug him back. His arms hung limply at his sides, useless, like those of a porcelain doll whose strings had been cut.
“Let me go…” you whispered, your voice devoid of any warmth, cold as the crypts where Dyanna lay.
“No,” he growled, squeezing her even tighter, his face buried in her shoulder. “You’re my wife. Your place is here, with me, in our bed.”
“This bed was never mine, Maekar, ” you said, and the sound of your own voice, so hollow, startled her. “I’m just an intruder occupying a ghost’s space. I smell her scent on the sheets, I see her trace in your eyes when you look at me… I’m dying here. Every touch of yours takes a piece of my soul.”
With a desperate effort, you broke free. The separation wasn't violent, but it was definitive. You walked to the darkest corner of the room, where the candlelight didn't reach, wanting to disappear into the shadows so he could no longer use your face as a source of comfort.
(...)
In the days that followed, the castle became a silent mausoleum. You began to dress only in gray and pale colors, rejecting the vibrant silks he so loved. You stopped wearing her jewelry, let your hair fall straight and unadorned, and avoided parties, banquets, and, above all, his gaze.
You became a ghostly presence in the Red Keep. You ate little, spoke even less, and when Maekar entered a room, you left as if his presence were poison. Maekar , in turn, began to crumble under the weight of your silence.
At first, he tried to act with the arrogance of a prince. He ordered your presence, demanded that you dine with him, but you remained there, an ice statue, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a single word or a glance of affection. His desire, which had previously been fueled by resemblance, had transformed into a dark and painful obsession with you—with the woman he was truly losing.
One night, he broke into your private chambers. He smelled of strong wine and a despair that stifled the air around him. You were sitting by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass.
“Look at me!” he roared, grabbing his chair and turning it violently. “I’m your husband! I demand you look at me!”
You looked up. But there was no gleam in them. There was no "light" he so desperately sought. There was only a gray emptiness, an abyss of indifference that struck him harder than any sword blow.
“What do you want, sir?” Her voice was a monotonous whisper. “Do you want me to smile? Do you want me to bow my head as she used to? I’ve forgotten how. I’ve forgotten who I was supposed to imitate.”
“I don’t want you to imitate her!” he shouted, falling to his knees before you, his large hands gripping your thighs, squeezing the fabric of your dress with trembling strength. “I miss your voice… your laugh… I miss when you looked at me and I felt there was something alive in this castle.”
“You killed that woman,” you replied, and a single, solitary tear rolled down your cheek, not of anger, but of mourning for yourself. “You suffocated her with the weight of a dead woman. Now, all you have is what’s left. The body you so longed to inhabit. You can use it if you want. I’m no longer inside it.”
Maekar let out a broken sound, a sob he tried to stifle in her skirt. He realized, too late, that in trying to reclaim the past through you, he had destroyed the only future that could have made him happy. He missed your genuine touch, your spontaneous affection, the unique woman you were before he tried to mold you into someone else.
He began kissing her hands, desperate, almost feverish kisses.
“Please…” he pleaded against her cold skin. “Come back to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll burn the portraits, I’ll move to another castle, I…”
“You can’t burn what’s etched in your mind,” you said, pulling your hand away with cruel slowness. “And you can’t bring me back. I’m not Dyanna , I can’t be resurrected.”
You stood up and walked towards the bed, lying down and turning your back to him, leaving him there, on his knees on the cold floor, a powerful prince reduced to a man begging for a crumb of attention from the woman he himself had broken.
The room was utterly dark, but his suffering was almost visible, a black shadow enveloping him as he realized that he now had two dead women in his life: one buried in the earth and the other lying beside him, alive, but forever out of his reach.
(...)
Night crept like a wounded animal along the walls of the Red Keep. Maekar could no longer bear the silence you had erected between them—an ice wall more insurmountable than any fortification he had ever besieged.
He entered the room, the sound of his boots echoing like the beating of an anxious heart. He found her standing before the fireplace, her eyes lost in the flames, her body enveloped in a white linen nightgown that made her look like a specter. She didn't move. She didn't recognize him.
“My sons asked about you today,” he began, his voice low, trying to find a way through the fog of indifference that surrounded her. “ Daeron is drinking more than he should, Aerion is growing increasingly cruel, and even little Aegon misses you… Aemon tried to explain his sadness to me with maester ’s words , but none of them understand why the light in this house has gone out.”
You remained motionless. The names of his children—the four princes Dyanna had left as his inheritance—hung in the air. You loved them, in a melancholic and distant way, but every time you looked at them, you saw the traces of the one you could never overcome.
“They are her children,” you finally said, your voice devoid of emotion. “They have her blood. They don’t need an echo to comfort them.”
Maekar growled, a sound of pain and frustration, and lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his strong arms encircling her waist with an urgency bordering on desperation. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with a hunger that seemed to devour her soul.
“I want children of yours ,” he whispered against her skin, his warm lips tracing the outline of her ear. “I want daughters who have your spirit, not hers. My sons are a disappointment, but my daughters, I know they will be glorious. I saw them in my dreams, beautiful girls. Beautiful like you.”
His hands moved up, bold and possessive, squeezing her breasts through the thin fabric, trying to rekindle the flame that once burned so easily. He turned her forcefully, pressing his body against hers, his muscular thighs trapping hers. His desire was evident, a rhythmic and dark pulse that demanded surrender.
He kissed her with desperate violence, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands feverishly exploring her curves. He wanted to possess her, he wanted pleasure to make her forget, he wanted her moans to drown out the screams of his own conscience.
But you remained rigid. Your arms lay limp at your sides. Your lips didn't move beneath his. Your eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, cold and empty like those of a corpse. You were marble beneath his fire.
Maekar stopped. He stepped back only a few inches, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps, his face flushed with lust and growing anger.
“React!” he ordered, his voice trembling. “Scratch me, hit me, hate me if you have to, but be here !”
“You wanted a dead woman, my prince,” you replied, your voice as calm as a frozen lake. “Here I am. You may use my body. It is yours by right, by law, and by conquest. But do not ask me to participate in your fantasy. Do not ask me to pretend you are looking at me.”
He let her go as if he had been burned. The humiliation of being rejected not in body, but in soul, was a wound that the pride of a Targaryen could not bear.
“You’re torturing me!” he yelled, kicking a chair that flew against the wall. “I’m trying! I’m begging for a fresh start! I talk about future daughters, about our legacy, and you treat me like a rapist in my own bed!”
“Because you don’t want a fresh start!” you exploded, the first sign of life in days being a bitter rage that lit up your eyes. “You want redemption! You want to put children in my womb to prove to yourself that life has conquered death, but you still wear her wedding ring! You still sleep on her side of the bed! You want my daughters so they can grow up and become part of your fantasy!”
"That's not true!" he roared, moving closer with his finger pointed, his face inches from hers.
“It’s the purest truth that exists in this castle of lies!” you retorted, your chest rising and falling with a vibrant agony. “You miss her, Maekar . You miss her so much that the scent of my skin punishes you because it’s not the scent you memorized. You hate me for not being her, and you hate yourself even more for desiring my body while thinking of her soul.”
Maekar remained silent, his breathing erratic. He looked at his own hands, the hands that had just tried to seduce her, and saw the trembling in them. His despair was so intense it seemed he would collapse right there.
“I miss who I was when I was with her,” he confessed, his voice almost a broken whisper. “But I miss who I thought you would be…”
“ I could have been everything,” you said, sadness returning to extinguish your fury. “But you turned me into nothing.”
You walked to the bed and lay down, covering yourself up to your neck, leaving him alone before the ashes of the fireplace. Maekar remained there, a prince without a kingdom, a husband without a wife, realizing that the "love" he had tried to force was the very rope that was strangling what remained of both your hearts.
(...)
The weeks that followed were marked by a Herculean effort on Maekar 's part. He was not a man of delicate gestures or poetic words, but the silence you maintained was a punishment he could no longer bear. He began to act with desperate caution, as if he were trying to tame a wounded creature that could vanish at the slightest rough touch.
The room, once a battlefield, had become a sanctuary of silent offerings. In the morning, you would find flowers that were not Dyanna 's favorites , but wildflowers that grew on his own family's lands, brought by knights he had hastily sent. On his dressing table, the jewels of the deceased were no longer there, but new pieces, recently forged, with designs that he himself tried to describe to the blacksmiths—something that would be uniquely his.
But her soul only found rest away from him, in the gardens or in the library, surrounded by his children.
“Look, Mommy!” Little Aegon, with his tousled silver curls, ran toward her, holding out a stone dragon egg that he swore he could feel warming.
You smiled—a real smile, the first in a long time—and pulled him onto your lap, sitting on the stone bench. Aemon sat beside you, a heavy book on his lap, reading passages about the history of Westeros in his young, serious voice.
“The egg isn’t hot, Egg, ” Aemon corrected, though his eyes shone with affection for his younger brother. “But the sun is. You should be careful not to burn your skin.”
You stroked Aegon's face, feeling the purity of that child who, unlike his father, loved you unconditionally. Daeron , the eldest, lay on the nearby grass, a jug of water (which you insisted replace the wine) within his reach. He watched you with a look of melancholy understanding; of them all, he was the one who best understood the shadow that hung over his father's marriage.
Even Aerion , whose cruel tendencies were beginning to blossom and frighten the court, became docile in her presence. He approached with an almost predatory beauty, but knelt at her feet to show her a dragonbone dagger he had acquired.
“ If anyone in this castle dares to make her cry again,” Aerion hissed, his violet eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, “I will make them forget how to breathe.”
Aerion 's hair , a gesture of affection that seemed to ease the tension in the young prince's shoulders.
"No one will make me cry, Aerion . We are at peace here."
It was in this scene that Maekar found her. He stopped under the stone arch in the garden, observing the scene in silence. His chest ached at the sight of the smile you so generously bestowed upon his children, but which you categorically denied him. He felt a pang of envy for his own children, but also a profound admiration. You were what held that broken family together, even though it was shattered inside.
That night, he didn't enter the room with the weight of authority. He entered slowly, carrying a small tray with tea and honey.
“I saw you with them today,” he said, his voice hoarse, keeping a safe distance. “You have a patience I never possessed. They love you… and I’m beginning to realize they love you for who you are, not for who you represent.”
You turned around, the moonlight framing your melancholy silhouette.
"They are pure. They don't look back. They look to the present."
Maekar set the tray down on the table and took a step forward, his hands open in a gesture of surrender.
“I want to learn to do the same,” he whispered, distress etched into every line of his stern face. “I know what I did… the way I tried to mold you… was a crime. I was lost in my own hell and dragged you there with me. But today, seeing you with Aegon and Aerion , I realized it’s not the past I want to reclaim. I want to conquer your present.”
He knelt down, not to demand, but to beg.
“Let me try again. Not like a man chasing a ghost, but like a man desperately in love with a woman who hates him for good reason. Give me a chance to prove that I know your name, that I know who you are in the dark and in the light.”
You looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, the stiffness in his shoulders eased an inch. The pain was still there, deep and dense, but the sight of Maekar Targaryen — the Prince of Summerhall , the relentless warrior — knelt and vulnerable, and began to pierce the ice around his heart.
“Words are easy, Maekar, ” you said, your voice still trembling with sorrow. “Time will be my judge.”
“Then give me all the time in the world,” he replied, taking her hand with a tenderness you never imagined he possessed, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that seemed like a blood oath. “I will spend the rest of my life in your shadow, if it means that one day you will smile at me again as you smiled at Aegon today.”
(...)
Time was no longer measured by the beating of the stars, but by the cautious rhythm of Maekar 's breaths . He kept his word. In the following months, he became a silent observer of his own life, a man who seemed to be relearning the alphabet through his gestures.
He no longer forced her into bed. In fact, he began sleeping on a small divan in the corner of the room, or often spent sleepless nights in his office, just so she could have the vastness of the real bed to herself, free from the weight of his body and the suffocation of his memories.
However, his true healing came not from his apologies, but from the boys' laughter.
One autumn afternoon, the wind was blowing strongly from the Bay, and you were sitting in the inner courtyard with Aegon and Aemon . Little " Egg " was desperately trying to balance himself atop a low wall, while Aemon read aloud passages about dragons of old.
“If I had a dragon,” Egg exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with an innocence that almost made her cry, “I would take her flying far away from here, to where the sun never sets!”
You laughed, pulling the boy to the ground before he fell.
"And what would I do in a place where the sun never sets, Egg ? I wouldn't be able to sleep."
"You don't need to sleep to dream, Mom," he replied, hugging her neck tightly.
The word "mommy" still vibrated in her chest with a bittersweetness. You felt a pair of eyes on you and looked up. Aerion was leaning against a nearby column, watching the scene. He didn't join in the games, but his posture was less aggressive when you were around. He approached and, with a rarely gentle gesture, placed a perfect red apple in your lap.
“For you, ma’am,” he said, with a half-smile that hid the darkness everyone said inhabited his soul. “It’s the sweetest in the orchard.”
"Thank you, Aerion, " you whispered, touching his hand briefly.
Maekar watched from the upper balcony. He saw how you flourished among his children, how you were the glue that held those distinct and difficult personalities together in harmony. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, a mixture of gratitude and a heart-wrenching loneliness. He desired you, but that desire was now purged of any trace of Dyanna ; he desired the woman who knew how to soothe Aerion 's fury and nurture Aegon's dreams.
That night, the cold intensified. You were in bed, almost asleep, when you heard his hesitant footsteps. Maekar didn't go to the divan. He stopped beside the bed, his imposing silhouette cutting through the light of the fireplace.
“ They’re growing up so fast,” he said, his voice muffled by weariness and melancholy. “ Daeron challenged me today. He said I don’t deserve his silence, that I should be grateful you still breathe the same air as me.”
You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets up to your chest.
" Daeron is too observant for his own good."
Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance, but his eyes were fixed on his with a desperate hunger for connection.
"He's right. I don't deserve this. But today, seeing you in the courtyard... I realized I can no longer live in this self-imposed exile."
He reached out, pausing mid-way, waiting for your permission. You didn't recoil. He touched your face, his scarred fingers gliding across your skin with the lightness of someone touching broken glass.
“I don’t miss her when I’m with you now,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. I miss the woman you were before I tried to bury you alive. Please… let me back in. Not as a ghost, but as the man who wants to be the father of the daughters you will still have.”
The despair in his eyes was so real, so raw, that the last barrier of ice in his heart cracked. You saw the man, not the prince, not the widower, but the broken man being consumed by his own mistake.
“ Maekar …” you whispered.
He leaned in, sealing his lips with a kiss that was anything but violent. It was a kiss of supplication, of mourning for what was lost and of hope for what could be built. His body trembled against hers, and for the first time, when he whispered words of desire in her ear, he used her name. He called for her, and only for her. The night was long, marked by a kind of surrender they had never experienced—a surrender made of pain and a dark need to feel alive amidst so many shadows. And as he possessed her under the dim light of the embers, she realized that, although the scars would never disappear, perhaps, just perhaps, there was room for a new story to be written upon the ashes of the old.
Maekar 's heavy breathing . When he finally uttered your name, the sound wasn't an echo or a comparison; it was an invocation. It was the acknowledgment that, in that bed, there was no room for anyone else but the two of you.
He pulled her to the center of the mattress with an urgency that didn't stem from pure lust, but from a desperate need to anchor himself in the reality of his existence. Maekar undressed with abrupt movements, shedding layers of pride and sorrow, until his warm, calloused skin met hers. The contrast was almost painful: his brute strength against her melancholic tenderness.
“ Look at me,” he ordered, but his voice was a broken whisper, a plea. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see who is here.”
He positioned himself between her legs, the weight of his body a welcome burden that finally chased away the cold. Maekar 's hands , large enough to encircle her wrists, rose to her face, holding her head with a possessiveness that she now understood as a fear that she would disappear.
When he entered you, there was none of the impatient rush of before. There was a sigh. A deep, slow entry that made you arch your back, letting out a trembling sigh against his shoulder. It was an invasion, but also a surrender. With each rhythmic and deliberate movement, Maekar seemed to be trying to fill the void he himself had carved in your chest.
His hands moved down to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with a force that would leave marks—marks that, for the first time, she wanted to bear as proof that she belonged to herself and to him, and not to a dead past.
“You…” he gasped, his face buried in the crook of her neck, their sweat mingling in the warm light of the embers. “It’s just you. The scent of your skin… the warmth of your body…”
The rhythm quickened, becoming more raw, more intense. The pleasure was tinged with a latent anguish, a tension bordering on suffering. Maekar possessed her with the intensity of a man trying to exorcise demons through flesh. He kissed her violently, sucking on her lips as if he could extract the life from her to sustain his own, while their bodies collided in a dull, constant impact.
You felt your nails dig into his broad back, scratching the Prince's skin, leaving red furrows that he received as if they were medals. Pain and pleasure were threads intertwined in a rope that tightened ever more. The desperation of being loved for who you were finally exploded in a climax that left you breathless, your body trembling in spasms of pure emotional and physical exhaustion.
Maekar followed close behind, a muffled roar escaping his throat as he spilled inside you, collapsing onto your chest as if all his strength had drained away in that act of surrender.
For long minutes, the only sound in the room was that of ragged breaths. Maekar did not move; he remained there, heavy and protective, his face hidden in his disheveled hair.
“I will never call you by another name again,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a grim promise. “I will dedicate each night to erasing the shadow I cast upon you.”
You wrapped your arms around him, sensing the vulnerability of the man the entire kingdom feared. Dyanna 's ghost was still there, in some dark corner of memory, but that night, between the sweat and dried tears, you finally felt that your own name was the only one echoing within the walls of the Red Keep.
The silence that followed the first climax was not one of rest, but of a hungry vigil. Maekar did not withdraw; he remained anchored to you, feeling the residual tremors that still coursed through your legs. The light from the dying embers traced the contours of his muscles, transforming him into a creature of shadows and reliefs.
He slowly raised his torso, supporting himself on his elbows to face you. His eyes were clouded, his pupils dilated until they almost extinguished the violet iris. Dyanna 's ghost was no longer between you; there was only an earthly and visceral obsession with the woman who, for the first time, met his gaze.
“I feel you,” he growled, his voice so deep it vibrated against his sternum. “I feel your heart beating against mine. Say it’s real. Say you won’t disappear when the sun rises.”
In response, you slid your hands down his back, feeling the war scars and the furrows your own fingernails had just carved. You pulled him down again, seeking his mouth with a thirst that was no longer for comfort, but for dominance.
The second act began with renewed ferocity. Maekar turned her onto her back with a brusque, possessive movement, pinning her against the silk sheets. He knelt behind her, his large hands gripping her hips with a force that compelled her to arch, exposing the vulnerable curve of her spine.
“You are mine,” he hissed close to her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. “Not the prince’s, not the Targaryen name . Mine.”
When he penetrated her again, the angle was deeper, more invasive. Each thrust was a dry impact that drew hoarse moans from her throat. Maekar moved with the cadence of a conqueror, one hand buried in her hair, pulling her head slightly back so he could bite the soft skin of her shoulder, leaving a purplish mark that would be her secret under her high-necked dresses the next day.
The pleasure was intense, almost painful in its intensity. You felt his heat burning against your cold skin, a contrast that drove you wild. The room seemed to shrink until the entire universe was reduced to that frenetic contact, to the sound of flesh against flesh and the weight of a man's desire, who was trying, through that act, to fuse his soul with yours.
Maekar increased the pace, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his back. He was on edge, his breath turning into short growls. He didn't just want pleasure; he wanted your complete surrender. He wanted you to feel that, in that moment, he was the only man in the world, and you, the only woman he had ever desired.
With one last violent thrust, he held her tight, his nails digging into her hips as he surrendered to the climax. You felt the wave of heat wash over you, a spasm of ecstasy that left you powerless, collapsing onto the pillows as he fell on top of you, exhausted but finally present.
He remained there, his face buried in the back of her neck, his heart pounding against his back. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the unspoken promise that, though the past was a scar, the present was a fire neither of them wanted to extinguish.
(...)
The days in the Red Keep lost the gray hue of mourning and gained the dark, dense tone of suppressed desire. Maekar did not become a bard or a knight of light romances; he remained the Prince of Summerhall , a man of few words and a stern temperament. But his "good husband" manifested itself in acts of protective possessiveness.
He began to notice what you enjoyed when you didn't think you were being watched. He noticed that you liked the cool wind on the battlements at dawn, and he started to be there, waiting for you with a heavy fur cloak to wrap around your shoulders before you could shiver. He noticed that you lost yourself in thought in the septum, not out of devotion, but because of the silence, and he started to ensure that no one disturbed you, posting himself like a sentinel at the door.
The reconquest wasn't made of flowers, but of presence. And of a carnal urgency that seemed endless.
On a rainy afternoon, you were in the royal library, searching for a manuscript for Aemon . The smell of old parchment and dust always calmed you. Maekar entered, his armor still damp from combat practice, the sound of metal echoing in the silence of the room.
He said nothing. He simply walked toward you, trapping you between two tall oak shelves. His weight was a promise.
“ Maekar … the servants may come in,” you whispered, your voice faltering as his calloused, warm hand moved up your thigh, lifting the layers of silk from your dress.
“I told everyone to leave,” he hissed against her lips. “This place is mine. You are mine.”
He lifted her, setting her on the solid wood table, scattering scrolls carelessly. There, amidst tales of dead kings, he possessed her with a savage hunger, his kisses muffling her moans as the sound of the rain outside competed with the frenetic rhythm of their bodies. There was no trace of Dyanna there; only the raw heat and sweat of a man rediscovering pleasure through every inch of his skin.
There was a morning in the glass gardens, where the humid heat of the exotic plants made the air feel like honey. You were tending to some herbs when you felt his hands on your waist. Maekar turned you around so your back was to the broad foliage, undoing the laces of your bodice with an impatience that made you gasp.
“You’re different today,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her back as he penetrated her from behind, his hands gripping her breasts with a force that was almost a claim.
“It’s because I can finally breathe, Maekar ,” you replied, throwing your head back, feeling the sun through the glass and the constant impact of his body against yours.
He paused for a second, his face buried in her hair, and whispered her name as if it were a prayer of gratitude. The sex wasn't just physical; it was his way of asking for forgiveness without needing to use words his soldier's throat couldn't pronounce.
Maekar began to integrate himself into your afternoons with the children. He would sit at a distance, watching you play with Aegon or discuss philosophy with Aemon . Sometimes he would intervene to teach Aerion how to hold a dagger more efficiently, but his eyes always returned to you, seeking your approval.
One evening, after a family dinner where Aerion had behaved himself and Aegon had fallen asleep in his arms, Maekar took her to their chambers. He didn't lead her straight to bed. He sat her down before the mirror and, with infinite patience, began to brush her hair.
“You’re getting to know yourself again,” he said, looking at his reflection. “And I’m having the privilege of getting to know this new woman along with you.”
He dropped the brush and began kissing her shoulders, his hands sliding down to the front of her dress. The act began slowly, almost tenderly, on the wolfskin floor before the fireplace. He explored her with his tongue and fingers, mapping each new reaction, each sigh that was uniquely hers. The pleasure became a dense fire, a struggle of bodies where melancholy finally gave way to a dark and absolute passion.
Each time he took her—at the privy council table, in the stables, or in the dead of night in the royal bed— Maekar made it clear that the past was being buried beneath the weight of the present. He wasn't just being a good husband; he was becoming her world, and you, for the first time, didn't feel like a shadow, but the very light guiding him out of the darkness.
(...)
The following weeks were not marked by major events , but by a subtle and persistent change in the very substance of her body. Maekar 's devouring passion , which had previously seemed to be the only fire capable of keeping her warm, began to exact a price she did not understand.
The first sign came on a gray morning, typical of King's Landing. Maekar had already left for training with the sons, and the room still held the scent of his sweat, sex, and musk. When you tried to get out of bed, the world spun violently. A sudden, acidic nausea rose in your throat, forcing you to put your hand to your mouth and sit up abruptly.
In the Great Hall, the smell of fried bacon and warm bread, once your favorite, had become an enemy. You sat between Aegon and Aemon , trying to maintain a regal posture, but each breath of air laden with the odor of food made your stomach churn.
Maekar , seated at the head of the table, noticed immediately. His eyes, now always attentive to every nuance of your face, narrowed. He saw you push away the silver plate with a hint of revulsion, your skin paler than usual.
“You didn’t touch the food,” he observed, his deep voice cutting through the boys’ conversation. “Are you sick?”
“Just a passing dizziness,” you lied, your voice coming out weaker than you intended. “The heat in the glass gardens yesterday must have been excessive.”
He didn't seem convinced. He stood up, walked over to you, and placed his immense hand on your forehead. His touch, which used to set your skin on fire, now brought a comfort that made you want to close your eyes and cry for no apparent reason.
“You’re cold. And trembling,” he murmured, ignoring the curious glances of his children. “ The maester should examine you.”
“It’s not necessary,” you insisted, but the smell of the wine Daeron was serving beside you was the final blow. You stood up hastily, muttering an inaudible excuse, and fled into the hallway before the humiliation of fainting in front of the court could materialize.
You didn't get far. Maekar caught up with her in the chambers, slamming the door shut with a bang that made his head throb. He found her hunched over the porcelain basin, her body trembling with nausea.
He didn't recoil in disgust. On the contrary, Maekar approached and gently brushed her hair back with a delicacy you never imagined a warrior possessed. He waited for the discomfort to pass, wiping her face with a damp cloth before helping her lie down.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression wavering between extreme concern and something deeper, darker.
“Some days…” you admitted, your chest rising and falling with difficulty. “I feel tired. An exhaustion that doesn’t just come from our nights. It’s like my body is being claimed by something… or someone.”
He remained silent for a long moment, his hand resting cautiously on her belly, on the thin fabric of her garment. The touch was possessive, but imbued with a new reverence.
“The blood?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Did it come this month?”
You shook your head. The penny finally dropped, bringing with it a wave of distress and terrifying joy.
“ I am not Dyanna , Maekar, ” you whispered, tears beginning to well up. “The child who grows up here… he will not be a replacement. He cannot be a ghost.”
Maekar closed his eyes for a second, and you saw his jaw tremble. He leaned in and kissed her—a kiss that tasted of desperation and a solemn promise.
“He will be my new beginning,” he declared, his voice hoarse against her lips. “And you will be the mother of my daughters. They will be the fruit of our desire, not of my memory.”
He pulled her to his chest, embracing her with a strength that said he would never let her fall. The unease was still there, the nausea persisted, but under the protection of Maekar 's arms , you began to feel that, for the first time, the future was not a shadow of the past, but a new territory, dangerous and beautiful, that you two would explore together.
The Prince of Summerhall no longer had ghosts to chase; he had a new life pulsing within the woman he had finally learned to love completely.
(...)
The news of the pregnancy, which should have been a balm, became the trigger for a new and profound affliction. While Maekar saw it as the seal of his redemption, you saw only the danger of a repeating cycle. The nausea in your stomach wasn't just physical; it was the viscous fear that this child would be condemned to carry the weight of a legacy that didn't belong to them.
Maekar tried to approach, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction, but you flinched, recoiling from his touch as if his hand might mark the baby with the same shadows that had marked you.
“No…” you whispered, stepping back until the vanity table blocked your movement. “Don’t you dare celebrate this like it’s a trophy, Maekar .”
“It’s life winning, my wife,” he said, his voice vibrant, trying to ignore the distance you were keeping. “It’s our blood.”
“It’s my body being used again to soothe your grief!” You exploded, tears of emotional exhaustion streaming freely. “I won’t allow it, Maekar . I won’t let you do to this baby what you did to me. I won’t let you look at this child’s face and search for traces of children who have already grown up, or of a woman who has already passed away.”
You hugged your own belly, a gesture of instinctive and desperate protection. The anguish in your voice was raw, an open wound bleeding before him.
“And if they are girls…” her voice faltered, becoming a whisper laden with threat and pleading. “If they are the daughters you mention so often, you have no right to be disappointed. You have no right to look at them and sigh because they are not the sons Dyanna gave you. You have no right to demand that they be ghosts of the princesses you once imagined.”
Maekar stopped. The silence that followed wasn't tense like the previous ones, but filled with something unexpected. He didn't growl, didn't defend himself furiously. Instead, a low sound escaped his throat—a short, hoarse laugh, devoid of mockery.
“Disappointed?” He stepped forward, but this time kept his hands down, submitting to his guard. “Sons are a curse of toil and stubbornness, as Daeron and Aerion prove every morning. My sons are my pride, but they are also my eternal battle.”
He moved a little closer, and the candlelight revealed a melancholy gentleness in his features that you rarely saw.
“Girls are all I want,” he confessed, his voice falling into a tone of somber confidence. “I want daughters so I can learn what sweetness is, something that war and duty stole from me long ago.”
Maekar extended his hand, and this time you didn't recoil, allowing him to lightly touch the tips of your fingers.
“I am not a devout man, you know that well. The Gods and I rarely speak,” he continued, with a sad half-smile that broke through what remained of his resistance. “But for them, I will kneel. I will pray to the Seven, every day, that they do not inherit my hardness or the shadow of those who came before. I will pray that they are exactly like you. Sweet, resilient… and entirely themselves.”
The sincerity in his words, the desire for his future daughters to be a reflection of himself and not a mere memory, struck you with the force of a blow. The despair that suffocated you began to give way to a fragile and painful hope. Maekar pulled you close, not with the force of a conqueror, but with the weight of a man who finally understood that the greatest victory was not recovering what was lost, but protecting what had just blossomed.
The months that followed transformed the Red Keep into a stage of contrasts. As your belly grew, rounding out beneath the fine silk, a new, almost ethereal beauty emanated from you. The pallor of suffering had been replaced by a warm glow, a vitality that seemed to defy the cold stones and the whispers of the corridors.
You were radiant, and that was what irritated the "snakes" of the court the most.
Congratulations poured in from all sides, though you received them with cautious courtesy. King Daeron the Good often sought you out in the gardens, gazing at your belly with a tenderness that no longer looked to the past, but to the continuation of your lineage. Your brothers-in-law, Princes Baelor , Aerys, and Rhaegel , brought gifts and kind words, recognizing in you the strength that kept Maekar 's temper in check.
Even her stepchildren seemed to orbit around her. Aegon hardly left her side, fascinated by the baby's movements beneath her skin, while Aerion , in his lucid moments, stood like a personal guard, threatening with his gaze any courtier who dared whisper anything malicious about the prince's "new favorite."
But it was the whispers that still hurt her. The gossip in the dark corners about how you were "just a surrogate womb" or about Maekar 's "sick obsession . "
“We can’t stay here,” you murmured one night, as Maekar undid the braids in your hair. “The walls have ears, and the tongues here are full of poison. I don’t want them to be born in a place where the air is made of lies.”
Maekar stopped, his large hands resting on his shoulders. In the mirror's reflection, his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.
“ Summerhall, ” he said, the name of the summer residence sounding like a promise of freedom. “We’ll go back home. There, the sun warms the stone and there are no courtiers to measure your worth by the face of a dead woman. There, it will just be us.”
But, while the match was still far away, Maekar seemed unable to keep his hands off you. The advanced state of your pregnancy, instead of pushing him away, seemed to draw him in with a gravitational force. He was obsessed with your form, with the fullness of your body that carried the life he so desired.
The scandal was inevitable. During a formal dinner, attended by the Queen and half the nobility of Westeros , Maekar couldn't hide his hunger. He ignored his plate, preferring to lean towards you, whispering dark, hot words in your ear, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your belly under the table, but sometimes rising boldly to caress the exposed skin of your cleavage.
“ Maekar , everyone is looking,” you whispered, your face flushing, a mixture of embarrassment and a desire you could no longer suppress.
“Let them look,” he replied, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on her lips with an intensity that made the ladies-in-waiting look away and the Queen cough discreetly behind her fan. “They see a princess. I see my whole world.”
That same night, he didn't wait for them to reach the private chambers. The moment the hallway doors closed behind them, he pressed her against the heavy tapestry. His calloused, urgent hands moved up her thighs, lifting her heavy skirts, ignoring the bulge of her belly that lay between them.
“You ’re so beautiful it hurts,” he hissed, his kisses trailing down her neck as he possessed her right there, standing, in an act of lust and adoration that defied all protocol.
You let out a muffled moan against his shoulder, feeling the baby kick amidst the warmth of your bodies. Maekar paused for a second, feeling the small movement against his chest, and the hard expression on his face dissolved into something bordering on religious adoration.
“Feel this…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “They are coming. And they will be your reflection, my love. Only yours.”
Maekar 's desire for you had become absolute, a flame that no longer sought to illuminate the past, but to ignite the present you were building, one step at a time. King Daeron the Good rarely lost his temper, but that morning, the walls of the Privy Council trembled with a voice that hid no dissent.
“This is no journey, Maekar , it’s a delusion!” the King exclaimed, slapping his open hand on the map of Westeros . “She’s on the seventh moon. The road to Summerhall is unforgiving, cut by rain and unstable terrain. Do you want to risk her life and my grandson’s out of sheer pride? Out of a lack of the whispers of courtiers?”
Maekar remained motionless, his jaw so clenched it seemed made of iron. His eyes did not waver before his father.
“It’s not pride, Your Majesty. It’s self-preservation,” Maekar retorted, his voice low and dangerous. “I will not allow her to give birth in a viper’s nest that counts her heartbeats, waiting for a mistake. Summerhall is my right. It’s the place where the air doesn’t reek of ulterior motives.”
“You’re a stubborn fool!” Daeron sighed, massaging his temples. “If anything happens to her on that road, no exile or title will protect you from your own conscience. But I see you’ve already decided. Leave, then. But take the boys. If you want your ‘private kingdom,’ take your whole house with you.”
(...)
The entourage set off under a heavy sky. The journey was a military operation. Maekar ordered the carriage to be reinforced with extra springs and lined with twice the amount of furs, but not all the luxury in the world could mask the reality of his body.
Inside the carriage, the space was shared with little Aegon, who wouldn't stop asking questions, and Aemon , who tried to read amidst the jolts. Outside, mounted on their horses, Daeron and Aerion followed the procession. The tension between the brothers was constant; Aerion provoked the guards, and Daeron , in his sober moments, exchanged worried glances with his father.
You felt every mile as punishment. The heartburn was a constant fire in your chest, and the nausea returned with a vengeful force, aggravated by the smell of horse and sweat coming from outside. Sometimes, the world spun so fast that you had to dig your nails into the upholstery to avoid fainting.
"Are you alright?" Aegon asked, touching her hand with his small fingers.
“I’m fine, darling,” you lied, forcing a pale smile as you tasted something bitter in your mouth. “The baby is just eager to see the new house.”
Maekar never left his side. He rode so close to the carriage that you could hear the creaking of his saddle. Whenever the caravan stopped to rest, he was the first to open the door.
"Everyone out!" he ordered his children, his voice not allowing for any delays.
He would enter and find her pale, with cold sweat covering her forehead. Without saying a word, Maekar would pull her into his arms, letting her nestle against his neck. He would bring her water with lemon and pieces of ginger, forcing her to eat it to soothe her stomach.
“I warned you it would be difficult,” he murmured, guilt glistening briefly in his eyes before being replaced by a grim determination.
“I don’t regret it,” you whispered against his armor. “Just get me out of here, Maekar .”
Despite his condition, Maekar 's desire for you seemed to have mutated. It was no longer mere lust; it was a hunger for possession, a need to reaffirm that you were still alive and that you belonged to him. During the nightly stops, inside the royal tent, the outside world would cease to exist.
Even with the discomfort, you sought him out. There was something visceral and comforting about his strength. Maekar undressed you with torturous slowness, his eyes devouring the fullness of your belly, the curve of your breasts that now weighed heavily under his touch.
“You drive me crazy,” he hissed one night, kneeling between your legs while you propped yourself up on pillows to ease the pressure on your back. “This body… this life you carry… I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you now.”
He took her with an almost sickly reverence, slow, deep movements that made you forget the nausea and dizziness. The sex was dense, wet, and charged with a shared anguish. He kissed each nascent stretch mark on her skin as if they were scars from a holy battle. With each moan that escaped her lips, Maekar seemed to reclaim a piece of his own soul.
Outside the tent, the sons listened to the whispers and muffled movements. Daeron merely rolled his eyes and drank more wine, while Aerion kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring that no one approached their father's "sanctuary."
(...)
The journey lasted weeks. But when the towers of Summerhall finally appeared on the horizon, bathed in the golden light of dusk, Maekar looked at you—exhausted, beautiful, and pregnant—and knew that, despite the King's scoldings and the dangers of the road, he had finally brought his queen to the place where shadows were not allowed to enter.
Summerhall was, at last, the balm Maekar had promised. Unlike the oppressive stone and smoke of King's Landing, the summer residence was bathed in a constant golden light, surrounded by fields that smelled of damp grass and wildflowers. But for you, the final stages of pregnancy had transformed that paradise into a gilded prison of weariness and affliction.
Her body seemed to have reached the limit of its endurance. Her belly, now low and heavy, made every movement a Herculean task. Her feet and ankles were so swollen that she could barely fit into her soft suede shoes, and heartburn was a constant companion that prevented her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time.
Maekar , however, had changed. The stern prince whom the kingdom feared had given way to a man whose life revolved entirely around his discomfort. He refused to participate in hunts or long exercises with his sons, preferring to spend the afternoons sitting beside them on the terraces of Summerhall .
“You’re having trouble breathing,” he observed one afternoon, closing a war map he was trying to read. He stood up and stopped behind his armchair, beginning to massage his shoulders with firm, experienced pressure.
“The space is getting too small for her, Maekar ,” you murmured, placing your hand on your belly, which was visibly moving as if an internal storm were raging beneath your skin. “I feel like my lungs have nowhere left to expand.”
He knelt before her, ignoring the dignity of his position. Maekar pressed his ear against her stomach, closing his eyes. The silence that followed was thick.
“They are impatient,” he whispered against the thin fabric of her dress. “Like their father. Forgive me for causing you this burden.”
Her stepchildren also seemed to have felt the change of atmosphere. Aegon brought her fresh flowers every day, sitting on the floor beside her to tell stories he heard from the maesters , trying to distract her from her back pain. Aemon brought her herbal infusions to soothe her heartburn, watching her with an academic seriousness that concealed a deep concern.
Even Aerion had become a constant and strangely protective presence. He refused to let any servant get too close with heavy objects or food that gave off strong smells that might trigger his nausea.
“She will be the most beautiful princess Westeros has ever seen,” Aerion once declared, polishing his dagger as he watched the garden entrance. “And I will teach anyone who disagrees the price of offending my father’s blood.”
(...)
Despite his exhaustion and the feeling of being "broken," as you used to say, Maekar continued to look at you with a hunger bordering on the sacred. To him, your stretched skin, your swollen lips, and your difficulty breathing were the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed. It was physical proof that you were building something new, something that belonged only to the two of you.
At night, the heat in Summerhall was stifling. You would often stay in just an open silk robe, trying to find some coolness.
“Don’t look at me now, Maekar, ” you pleaded one night, feeling heavy and awkward as you tried to settle into bed. “I feel like a burden.”
“A burden?” He leaned closer, his voice hoarse with restrained desire. He helped her lie on her side, gently placing pillows under her belly with an almost painful delicacy. “You are the most perfect sight that has ever graced these halls.”
He lay down behind you, his massive, warm body protecting your back. His hand slid down to the curve of your hip, slowly moving up to the side of your stomach. Maekar began kissing the nape of your neck, your shoulders, his trembling fingers sliding up the fabric of your tunic.
Sex, in these last days, was a slow and moist celebration of survival. He didn't penetrate her with the force of before; he explored her with his tongue and fingers, searching for her pleasure points with infinite patience, wanting to relieve the tension in her body through ecstasy. When he finally entered, it was with an almost tearful gentleness, a rhythmic movement that accompanied her whispers of distress and desire.
“You are my life,” he whispered against your ear, while you moaned softly, feeling the pleasure momentarily ease the pressure on your ribs. “My queen of Summerhall .”
In that darkness, with the scent of jasmine wafting through the window and the warmth of Maekar 's body merging with yours, the Red Keep and its cruel whispers seemed to belong to another world. There, you were the center of a universe that Maekar... Targaryen had sworn to protect with every drop of his blood, anxiously awaiting the moment when the cry of a new life would finally silence the echoes of the past.
The afternoon in Summerhall was filled with the sweet scent of hay and the lazy warmth of the autumn sun. You sat on a carved stone bench beneath the wisteria pergola, watching your stepchildren. Your back felt like a mass of red-hot iron, and an uncomfortable pressure in your lower abdomen came and went, like waves of a persistent tide.
You ignored it. It had already been days of discomfort, and you didn't want to interrupt the rare moment of peace between the boys.
Aegon was at her feet, trying to draw a dragon in the dirt with a stick, while Aemon recited passages from an ancient tome about the stars. Daeron , exceptionally sober, polished the hilt of his sword, and Aerion watched the horizon with that restless look that always kept her on edge.
A sharp pain made her gasp for a second. You dug your nails into the edge of the seat, your forehead beaded with cold sweat.
“You’re very quiet,” Aemon observed, raising his eyes with that insight that would one day make him a maester .
“It’s just the weight, my dear…” you began, but the words died in your throat as a sudden, uncontrollable sensation of heat spread between your legs.
The sound of the liquid hitting the stone floor was faint, but in the silence of the garden, it sounded like a crash. Her light silk skirts instantly darkened, soaked through.
Aegon stopped drawing, his violet eyes wide as he pointed to the puddle forming beneath his feet.
"Mommy... did you... did you pee?" the boy asked, his voice thick with innocent confusion.
Aerion let out a short, nasal laugh, a sound devoid of empathy that cut through the air like a razor blade.
“It seems the great lady of Summerhall has lost control of her basic faculties,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “What a scene worthy of a peasant.”
“Shut up, Aerion !” Daeron roared, leaping to his feet and dropping his sword to the ground. He saw his face—the deathly pallor, the trembling lips—and realized what was happening. “It’s not urine, you idiot. It’s life coming.”
A violent contraction hit her, causing her to bend forward with a muffled groan. The agony was profound, a tear that seemed to want to split her hips in two.
" Aemon , help me!" Daeron ordered, putting his arm around her waist to support her.
Aemon slammed the book shut, acting with the precision that study had given him. He gripped his other arm, the two boys forming a cradle of strength for his now heavy and trembling body.
“Breathe, slowly,” Aemon instructed, his voice trying to remain calm as they guided her out of the garden toward the royal chambers. “Aegon, run! Find our father. Tell him the child is coming! NOW!”
Aegon shot like an arrow through the stone corridors.
"And the midwives?" Daeron asked, sweat glistening on his brow as he felt the weight of his body sway.
“I’ll have the maids summon the Maester and the women,” Aemon replied, looking at you with a troubled tenderness. “We’re past the preparation stage. They’ve decided the world has waited long enough.”
You could barely hear the voices. The world had shrunk to rhythmic pain and the terror that the moment had finally arrived. Each step was torture, each breath a battle. As they climbed the stairs, you could only think of one thing: Maekar . You needed him. You needed that toughness, that fire that was now the only thing capable of keeping you whole as your body prepared to break and give way to the future.
(...)
The delivery room at Summerhall was thick with the metallic smell of blood, hot water, and bitter herbs. The autumn sun, which had once seemed so sweet in the garden, now streamed through the gaps in the curtains like a cruel invader. You lay there, your body arched in agony, your hands digging into the linen sheets until your knuckles were white and lifeless.
The midwives moved like frantic shadows around her. The pain was no longer a wave; it was an ocean that was drowning her, pulling her hips in opposite directions. The Maester prepared the ropes and cloths, his face tense under the light of the candles that were beginning to be lit as the day died.
“Breathe, milady! Push with your belly, not your throat!” ordered the oldest midwife, a woman with a wrinkled face who had served House Targaryen for decades.
You let out a scream that tore through the silence of the hallway, a sound of pure despair and exhaustion. Your forehead was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your pale face. In the fog of pain, you heard what you shouldn't have heard.
“So fragile…” the old woman murmured to the assistant, while wiping the blood from between her legs. “With Lady Dyanna it was much easier. She had the wide hips of the women of her lineage, she was strong as a mare. Here she looks like she’s going to break in two.”
Those words, spoken at her most vulnerable moment, were the final blow. The tears, which she had tried to hold back to conserve her strength, overflowed, hot and bitter. Even there, on the threshold of death to give life, the ghost of the other woman was present to humiliate her.
“I am not her…” you sobbed, your voice faltering as a new contraction hit you. “I am not…”
The bang of the door being opened made the silver goblets vibrate on the table. Maekar burst into the room like a furious god of war. He was still wearing his riding tunic, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot from riding like a madman after Aegon's warning.
“Leave, my Prince!” the Maester exclaimed, raising his hands in protest. “The birthing room is a place for women and gods. It is impure for a man of your position!”
“Impure?!” Maekar roared, his voice making the old midwife recoil. “To hell with the gods and to hell with your purity! This is my wife, my blood is in her! I will not leave her side even if the Warrior himself comes to get me!”
He strode across the room heavily and fell to his knees beside his bed. He grabbed his hand, ignoring the sweat and dirt, and brought it to his face.
"I'm here," he hissed, his eyes fixed on hers, an anchor in the midst of her shipwreck.
The old midwife, trying to regain her authority, approached with a basin.
"My lord, the comparison was purely technical; Lady Dyanna had..."
Maekar turned his face to her with an expression of such cruelty that the woman almost dropped the silver. The fury in his eyes was absolute, dark, lethal.
“If I hear the name of my late wife come out of your withered mouth one more time, ” Maekar said, his voice low and deadly, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. “I will cut out your tongue myself and feed it to the dogs. She is not Dyanna . She is my only princess, and you will treat her with the reverence due a queen, or you will leave here dead.”
He turned to you, softening his touch just enough not to break it.
“Forget what she said. Forget the world outside. Look at me. Only at me. Bring our daughter, my love. Bring her to me.”
Inspired by the fire emanating from him, you felt a new strength, a fury born of love and pain. You dug your nails into Maekar 's hand , feeling his blood beneath your claws, and pushed. You pushed with every fragment of your soul, determined to banish the shadows from that room once and for all and bring light to Summerhall .
The room had become a battlefield where time seemed to have stood still. The smell of blood and sweat was suffocating, and the only audible sound was Maekar 's noisy breathing and screams, which were no longer of fear, but of a transformative agony.
“Once more!” the Maester ordered, his face bathed in sweat. “I can already see the crown on your head! Push!”
You felt your body being torn in two, as if a Valyrian steel blade were climbing up your spine. Your hands crushed Maekar 's fingers , and he didn't flinch; he absorbed your pain, his violet eyes fixed on yours, conveying a brutal, almost violent strength that prevented you from collapsing.
“You can do it!” he roared close to her ear, his voice hoarse with desperation and adoration. “Bring them to me, my love! Bring us our future!”
With a scream that seemed to rip the last of your strength from your lungs, you made the final effort. There was a feeling of sudden relief, a damp vacuum, followed immediately by a sharp, crystalline cry that cut through the tension in the air like a lightning bolt.
“A princess!” exclaimed the midwife, her voice trembling, as she wrapped the tiny creature in warm linen. “A perfect little girl, my lord!”
Maekar let out a sigh that sounded like a sob, but there was no time for celebration. The Maester turned to you urgently.
"It still hurts ..." you sighed. "It still hurts a lot!!"
Don't stop now! I see another head, and he's in a hurry!
The second stage of labor was a blur of pain and exhaustion. You felt like you were going to die, that your heart wouldn't withstand the effort, but Maekar 's hand was a shackle that kept you grounded. He kissed your sweaty forehead, whispering your name between curses directed at the gods, demanding that they spare you.
“Just one more… ” he pleaded. “Just one more and it will be over, I promise.”
You gathered the ashes of your will. With one last push, laden with all the suffering of the past months and all the hope that Summerhall represented, the second life was expelled. Another cry, as strong as the first, echoed through the room.
“Another princess!” announced the Maester , his face finally relaxing into a tired smile. “Two girls. Twins, healthy and strong.”
The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic crying of the babies and the sound of their panting breaths. Maekar didn't look at his daughters first. He remained kneeling beside them, burying his face in the crook of their necks, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. For the first time, the Iron Prince was surrendered.
The midwives cleaned the babies and brought them to the bed. When they were placed in their arms—tiny, with tufts of almost white hair and rosy skin—the pain disappeared.
“What names shall we give these beautiful princesses?” you whispered, your voice almost fading. “Decide, my love. You dreamed of them.”
Maekar raised his head, his eyes moist and fierce with pride. He touched his daughters' tiny foreheads with a gentleness that would make any knight of Westeros doubt his own eyes.
“They don’t resemble anyone,” Maekar said, his voice solemn, gazing at you with absolute devotion. “They are only ours. They are you. Beautiful girls, beautiful like their mother. I will name only one, the one who came into the world first. The second, you must name.”
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from shouting. “I like Rhae for girl. Yes, Rhae . Like in a poem my sweet Aemon once told me in the garden. I don’t remember now. It hurts too much to remember.”
Maekar let out a sound through his boot, something that oscillated between laughter and mockery. It was hard to tell.
“ Daella ,” he said simply, without even bothering to explain the name or where it came from. But you suspected it was a tribute to his father or, perhaps, to his own son, because even though it was a disappointment, Maekar still loved him very much. You accepted it, simply accepted it. You had had two healthy girls in a single birth. Nothing else mattered.
There, in Summerhall , with your daughters at your breast and your husband at your feet, you realized that Dyanna 's ghost had finally been banished. Not by royal decree, but by the bloody and beautiful miracle that you two had created together. Maekar 's daughters would not be shadows; they would be living proof that he had finally found his home.
─ summary: Baelor catches you, his perfect daughter and favourite child, with his favourite brother.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x niece!reader, Baelor Targaryen & daughter!reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | targcest | age gap | angst | shame | Baelor is momentarily kind of an asshole | old men coming to blows | fluff | implied smut |
─ a/n: part two is finally here! Part one here. As always, thank you for reading. 🖤
For a heartbeat, the world was silent save for a choked curse from Maekar beside you. Your hands flew to your bodice, fingers clumsy and numb as they fumbled with the laces. The silk felt rough against your skin. You could feel the heat of shame crawling up your neck. It had nothing to do with the act itself and everything to do with the look on your father's face.
Beside you, Maekar was already fastening his breeches, his movements economical and swift. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes, usually so full of a molten warmth for you, were now wide with panic you had never seen before. He took a step toward the door.
"Maekar, no," You grabbed his arm, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his bicep. "Do not."
"I must," He tried to pull away, but you held on. "I must explain this to him."
"Explain?" A harsh, broken laugh escaped your lips. "He will kill you. He will run you through and not think twice on it. Did you not see his face?"
A sob tore from your throat, your shoulders shook, as you pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, as if you could physically hold the grief inside. Maekar reached for you, trying to pull you into an embrace. "My love,"
You slapped his hand away. The hurt that flashed across his face made you feel guilty, but you could not bear to be touched. "Do not," you choked out, turning your back to him, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Just… do not."
You could feel his gaze on the back of your neck. "I am sorry," he said finally. "I am sorry it happened thus. Yet he was always going to learn of it. I did not wish to keep you a secret."
You hated the words. In that moment, his declaration sounded almost like relief. As if this terrible, earth-shattering confrontation was a necessary step he was glad to have taken. You knew it was not fair, you knew it was your own pain twisting his meaning, but you could not help it. You turned back to him, face streaked with tears, and stepped into the circle of his arms.
He held you tightly, one hand stroking your hair, the other pressed firm against the small of your back, anchoring you. He rested his chin on the top of your head. "He will be angry," Maekar said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "But he cannot stay angry with you for long."
He could not have been more wrong.
The week that followed was an exercise in silent torture. Baelor did not speak to either of you, refusing to so much as look at either of you or be in the same room longer than necessary.
Where you had always stood at his side you found your place now occupied by your brother Valarr. He looked deeply uncomfortable to be in the middle of a squabble he did not understand. His pleading, apologetic gaze meeting yours. You felt like an exile in your own home.
You tried to bridge the chasm. Each morning, Baelor would break his fast with you, yet when you went to his solar, the place where you had always been welcomed without announcement, you were stopped by the guard. "My apologies, Princess. The Prince has asked not to be disturbed."
"Disturbed by me?"
"By anyone, Princess," he replied unconvincingly.
But the cruelest cut of all, the one that truly shattered you, was the tea. Since you were a small girl, you and your father had shared a private tea every seventh day in a small, sun-drenched room in the gardens. It was the one place in the world where titles and duty fell away. You would talk, he would listen, give you counsel, make you laugh as he sipped his tea, his eyes soft with affection. Here, he was just your papa.
You went to the sun room, fussing over the servants' work until it was just as you wanted. The tea was brewed, the little lemon cakes you both loved were on a plate, and the sun was high in the sky. You waited until the room grew cold, until the tea was undrinkable. He did not come.
You were utterly alone.
What you did not know was that Baelor had come. He had stood by the door only a few steps away, close enough to hear you singing a little tune. He had pictured you inside, waiting for him, your face bright with anticipation, and the weight of what he had seen, what he had lost, crushed him. He could not bring himself to walk through the door and retreated to the silent, cold comfort of the library, where he worked through the night. The ink from his quill blurring with tears he would not allow himself to shed.
That evening, you poured all of it out to Maekar. You sobbed against his chest, your hands fisted in his tunic as he held you, his body rigid with fury on your behalf. This could not continue.
You were in your language lesson the next afternoon when a steward arrived for you. "Princess," he said with a formal bow. "His Grace, the King, requests your presence."
Your heart seized as you walked the familiar path to Daeron's chambers, your stomach a knot of dread.
The room was exactly as you remembered it. Walls lined with books from floor to ceiling. Massive windows overlooking the city, and there, standing as far apart as possible, were your father and Maekar. The air between them crackled with tension and volatile energy.
Your grandfather, Daeron, sat behind his desk. He saw you immediately, his gaze softening as he took in your defeated face and the tremor in your hands.
"Oh, my child." He rose from his chair and came to you, his hands reaching out to take yours. "The days have not been kind to you, have they?"
You simply shook your head, the gesture releasing a fresh wave of tears you had not realized were still trapped inside.
Daeron tutted softly, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbing at your face. "There, there, we cannot have you weeping over this."
He released your hands and turned, addressing the room, his statement for everyone and no one. "Maekar has asked for your hand in marriage," he announced. "I have decided to agree to the match."
"Father?" Baelor snarled, his mismatched eyes blazing. "How could you? Without even consulting me?"
"Someone must think of her," Maekar said, his voice laced with contempt. "Since her own father cannot be troubled to—"
That was it. Baelor flew across the room, his face a thundercloud, lunging for his brother, his fist connecting cleanly with Maekar's cheek. "Stop! I beg you," you shouted, but they continued grappling, a mess of furious muscle and royal silks.
"Boys, please," Daeron said, his voice weary from a lifetime of mediating squabbles. "Stop this, you are men grown."
Baelor shoved Maekar away, his chest heaving. "I have always given you everything that was mine," his voice trembling with pain. "Freely! Without complaint! Yet it is not enough. You would steal my daughter?"
You moved to Maekar's side, your hand finding his, fingers lacing through. "I am a woman grown," you said. "Free to make my own choices, as you have always claimed."
Your father looked at you for the first time in a week. The anger in his eyes seemed to fracture, replaced by hurt. He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I do not understand this," he whispered, the words meant only for himself.
Daeron sighed. "Children will astound you," he said, turning to glare at his youngest son as he spoke. "They do not always behave as you would wish them to." He sighed again. "Come, Maekar. Let us leave them to speak."
He placed a hand on Maekar's shoulder and guided him toward an adjoining room, the door closing softly behind them, leaving you alone with Baelor in silence.
You turned slowly to face your father. He was staring at the spot where Maekar had been, his profile sharp and unreadable.
"Papa. Look at me."
He would not.
Tears pricked at your eyes again, a fresh well of sorrow. "I am so sorry," you choked out. "I am sorry I have shamed you. You are right to hate me, and I shall understand it if you do. But I need my father, please."
That finally turned him. His eyes searched your face, and the hard mask of anger crumbled. He saw his girl, weeping and broken, because of him.
"Petal," he breathed, crossing the space between you, his hands coming up to cup your face and gently wipe away your tears. "I could never hate you."
You blinked up at him, confused.
"It was never about you being with him. Not truly." He shook his head, his gaze distant. "Since you were small, you have told me everything, from the ladybug that landed on your finger to the quarrels amongst you and your friends. You never once kept a secret from me, even when you feared you were in the wrong. I cannot understand why you would keep this from me. It makes me feel as though… the trust, the closeness, was never real."
His voice broke on the last word, and the sight of it, your strong, unshakeable father brought to the brink of tears, was more than you could bear. "The act wounds me," he continued, his voice a whisper. "But the lie… the secret is what has broken my heart."
Then you pulled him into a hug, and he held you so tightly you could barely breathe, his face buried in your hair. "I am sorry," he murmured. "For how I have behaved. For the silence. No amount of apologies can undo it, but I am sorry, petal."
You clung to him, the week's worth of ice and fear finally thawing in the warmth of his embrace.
He held you for a long time, just rocking you gently, until the tension had finally drained from both of you. Then he pulled back, his hands on your shoulders, and a faint, wry smile touched his lips.
"You know," he said, his tone lighter. "I might yet find you a better match."
You pushed lightly against his chest, a laugh bubbling up, startling you both with its sound. "Stop it," you said, swatting at his arm. "I love him."
He eyed you, his head tilted. "Are you certain? He is a dark cloud, and you my sunshine. I cannot imagine what the two of you could possibly speak of."
"Father!" you said, indignant, pushing away from him more firmly this time, a smile gracing your face.
He relented, his hands held up in surrender. "Very well, very well," he chuckled. "I accept it. You have my blessing." His expression then sobered slightly, a glint of the old, protective fire returning to his eyes. He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone.
"But if he ever misbehaves," he said, his gaze hard and deadly serious, "if he ever causes you a single moment of unhappiness, I will run him through."
You looked at your father, at the fierce, unwavering love in his eyes, and smiled. "Do not fret," you said softly. "Maekar is well aware of it. You ought to beg his forgiveness for striking him."
pairing: poly!marauders (james, remus, & sirius) x fem!reader
summary: virginity loss trope :)
warnings: smut (MDNI 18+), language, gender swapped dorcas cus i said so 🤷🏻♀️
────── ☾ ──────
“That’s ridiculous,” you said, body halting as the staircase began to shift beneath you, “and completely untrue.”
“Oh come on, you never do anything interesting! For your sake, it has to be true,” Sirius teased.
You turned to him, mouth open in offense. “I’m plenty interesting.”
“But not interesting enough to lose your virginity to Meadowes in the library during fourth year?” Remus raised an eyebrow.
“No! It didn’t happen!” you protested, “now please, let it go.”
“How would a rumor like that even get out if it isn’t true?” James asked genuinely.
“Probably because everyone knows Meadowes has the hots for her. Bet you he started it himself,” Remus answered, distaste evident in his voice.
“Are you three done now?” you asked, whispering the common room password and letting the boys in.
“So if it isn’t true, how did you lose it?” Sirius pressed.
You looked at him stunned, eyes wide in disbelief that he would ask you something like that out of the blue.
“Absolutely not,” you said, raising a finger toward him, “I’m not playing that game.”
“Oh come on!” Sirius raised his hands and smiled, “you’re no fun.”
“Yeah, now I’m curious,” James continued on, “if not Dorcas, who?”
You sighed, placing your books down and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, turning toward them exasperated. “Why does it matter?”
“You know seventeen of the girls I’ve slept with by heart,” Sirius replied, “I’d say it’s only fair.”
“Sirius, you told me about seventeen of the girls you’ve slept with. Willingly. Without me asking. Ever,” you said, earning a laugh from James at your disgust.
They followed you up the stairs to your dorm, empty from everyone sneaking off to a party in the Ravenclaw common room that you were supposed to be getting ready for, but alas, you were late and distracted.
You sat down in front of your vanity mirror, ready to start applying makeup, when Remus placed a hand on the desk in front of you, leaning his face in close to you, his hair falling slightly in front of his face. He was completely in your personal space.
“Come on, Y/N, tell us who got to fuck you first.”
Remus’ voice was low, and his breath fanned your face as he spoke. You locked eyes with him, a sigh leaving your chest that you weren’t aware you were holding in. You were nervous to have him this close.
“No one has. Sorry to disappoint. Now drop it, will you?”
Remus didn’t move. You continued to look up into his eyes, your voice a little shaky, and you didn’t know what to do. You moved to get up, but Remus caught your chin between his fingers, pulling your attention back to him. “Meaning what?”
“Did you not hear me? Cus you’re like 6 inches away from me, so if you didn’t, you need to get your hearing checked,” you said, annoyed at your current predicament, just wanting to make the embarrassing conversation end. Remus finally let you stand, but Sirius and James were right behind you, stopping you from leaving the room. You opted to sit on your bed.
“You guys are insufferable.”
Sirius cleared his throat. “So you’re-“ he trailed off.
“A virgin, yes, wow, how crazy of me. You know, it’s not that weird, you all just have a personal body count higher than everyone at this school combined. And everyone else’s body count includes you. Can we please just forget about this?” you begged.
“Such attitude,” James teased, “from such a good girl.”
“Oh, so I’m a goodie two-shoes now that you’ve all discovered I’ve never had sex?”
“Kinda, yeah,” James giggled.
“Fuck you guys,” you sighed, partially lighthearted and partially annoyed, “it was my choice. You think I couldn’t have screwed Dorcas Meadowes in the library if I wanted to?”
No one had a response. Sirius’ nostrils flared, and Remus sighed. They almost seemed… jealous? at the thought of you and someone else.
You four were ridiculously close, anyone could see that, and you would be lying if you said you haven’t thought about them in that way, but you were best friends, and you didn’t want to risk ruining that.
“You ever think about, like, just doing it?” Sirius asked.
“What?” you replied.
“Do you ever think about just saying fuck it and asking someone, like, I don’t know, one of us, to just take your virginity?”
Your breathing caught in your chest. You stared at Sirius, a million thoughts coming to your head but you couldn’t articulate any of them. You had no idea what to say.
“I mean, I’ve thought about losing my virginity, yeah, that’s normal,” you explained.
“To one of us?” Remus asked.
You could lie. You could act disgusted at the question and walk away now, or, you could tell the truth, and risk ruining your entire friendship. You could also tell the truth and potentially gain everything you wanted.
Your voice became small, your eyes watching your hands fidget in your lap, “maybe.”
The boys all exchanged a look between one another.
James was the only one who was able to pull himself together. “W-who?”
You titled your head up at him. “What?”
James sat down on the bed next to you. “Which one of us?”
You could physically see all the boys tense up, ready to be filled with either pride or jealousy. Sirius and Remus were staring daggers at you, anxiously awaiting your answer. James kept his eyes on you as well, trying to make you feel less intimidated and tense than Sirius and Remus were.
Your eyes darted between all of them, “I-“
You were evidently nervous, and Remus felt bad. He knelt on the ground in front of you, taking your hands in his own. It was the most intimate gesture you’d received from him yet. He kept his voice soft. “Angel, you don’t have to tell us, but we really want to know. I promise none of us will be too hurt. Please,” he almost begged.
You sighed. You weren’t worried because you only thought about one of them, you were worried because you were embarrassed to tell them the truth. You took a deep breath. It was now or never. “All of you.”
They were not prepared for that answer.
Remus and James stared at you and tried to process your words. Sirius was more of an “act on impulse” and “speak without thinking” kind of guy.
“Fuck off,” he said, “all of us?”
“Mhm.”
“Like at the same time?” he pushed.
“Sirius-“ Remus warned.
“No, no, I wanna hear you say it,” he said, attention back on you, “I wanna hear you say that you’ve thought about losing your virginity to all three of us. At the same time. I wanna hear you say that you’ve thought about us fucking you.” He was standing dangerously close to you now.
“I- I have,” you said, blush evident in your cheeks.
Sirius growled. “Remus, move.”
“Excuse me?” Remus snapped back.
“Move.”
Remus sighed and moved out of the way so that Sirius was standing directly in front of you. “You stop us if there’s anything you don’t like. Understood?”
You nodded your head, but that wasn’t enough.
“Words, baby.”
“Yes,” you retried.
Sirius gave you a small smile before grabbing your face in his hands, tilting your head up and leaning down to give you a long, intimate kiss. Once you had settled in, he deepened the kiss, his carnal desires taking over. He slowly leaned you back on the bed, your legs still hanging off the mattress, as he placed one knee next to your waist, holding himself up as he continued kissing you. When your back hit the mattress, you held the back of Sirius’s head to keep him in place.
You felt one of the boys behind Sirius, pulling your pants off and leaving your lower half nearly exposed.
Sirius flopped down on the bed next to you, still kissing you as you ran your fingers through his hair.
James slowly kissed up your thigh, throwing both of your legs over his shoulders as he kissed your underwear right above your heat. You gasped, but Sirius didn’t let you break the kiss.
“Sirius, come on, give her a break,” James pleaded, “I wanna hear her.”
Sirius groaned into the kiss before breaking it, looking down to James in between your legs. “Well, go on then.”
Sirius was still feral and needy, pulling your shirt over your head and ripping off your bra, immediately going to grab and kiss at your breasts. You were embarrassed at the exposure, but everyone was moving on your body so fast that you didn’t have time to think about your body being on display.
James pushed your underwear to the side and kissed your folds, causing you to squeal. This was an unfamiliar feeling, but you were growing wetter and wetter by the minute. He pushed your folds open with his tongue, licking and flicking at your clit. You whined and threw your head back. He continued his actions, peeking up at you from between your legs, watching you come apart as he ate you out like a man starved.
“Take it easy,” you heard Remus say from behind your head, “you gotta remember she’s never done this.”
James moaned into your cunt as a response, sending a shiver up your body, causing your legs to shake slightly. He kept sucking and licking circles around your bud, and you couldn’t help but grab the hair at the back of his head, pushing him closer into you.
“Good girl,” Sirius cooed from beside you, touching every exposed part of your body that he could.
As James’ tongue quickened, your whines grew louder, but you tried to tame them and save yourself further embarrassment. Remus noticed and was not happy. He grabbed your face and forced your neck to look backward at him. “Are you holding back?”
“N-no,” you said anxiously, not sure if it was the truth.
“Ah, but I think you are,” he started, “and we don’t accept that. Let us hear you.”
“But I’m emb-“
“I don’t care if you’re embarrassed. Stop holding back. Now.”
Remus’s demanding and controlling demeanor only added at the pleasure James was giving you with his mouth. You did as he said. James continued to quicken his pace, whines and moans falling from your lips.
“Does that feel good?” Remus asked.
“Yes, Rem, I-“
“No fair!” Sirius suddenly exclaimed, “if you ask her all the questions, you get to hear her moan your name. Selfish prick.”
“Are you gonna let this be about her or what?” Remus retorted.
“I am! I should be asking you the same thing, why do you always get to be in control of everything?”
They bickered back and forth for a few minutes, but the entire time, James remained focused on you. He watched from between your legs as his tongue made you squirm and moan, and he had you nearly seeing stars.
You desperately tried to tell him you were going to come, but Remus and Sirius were too busy bickering for James to hear you. You tapped at his head to signal him, and he got the message, sucking at your bud until you finally came. Your chest rapidly rose and fell as James continued to lick you until he had tasted every last drop of cum from your hole, standing up and placing a wet kiss on your lips.
“What, did you just give up?” Sirius asked when he saw James standing.
“No, idiot, she came,” James replied, “you two dickheads were too busy arguing to notice.”
Remus’s nostrils flared. “You just let us keep arguing?”
“She tried to say something!” James defended you, and partly himself.
“Baby, you ok?” Remus checked in.
“Mhm,” you nodded.
“You got a little more in you?”
“Mhm.”
“You want me?”
“Mhm.”
Remus pulled his pants and boxers down and climbed on top of you, pulling your underwear completely off of you as he placed his knees on either side of your waist.
“You sure?” he asked, wanting to confirm your consent.
“Yes,” you responded.
“And you’re sure you’re okay with it being me?”
Instead of responding with words, you tilted your head up and kissed Remus, assuring him that you wanted it to be him. You would have been okay with any of the boys, but Remus was always so in control, it made sense that he would be your first. Your relationship with him was always a little less silly, and a little more intimate, than your relationship with the other two.
“Are you ready?” he checked, lining up his already hard cock at your entrance.
“Yeah,” you replied, “just- please be nice, okay?”
Remus smiled, “of course, baby.”
You nodded at him and locked eyes as he slowly pushed into you, a long gasp leaving your lips as he filled you up. His cock was bigger than you thought it would be, and it was taking you a while to adjust to his size.
“Shit, Rem,” you breathed out, “you should have warned me that you’re that fucking big.”
Sirius growled next to you, your words driving him crazy. He couldn’t help but pull out his cock, stroking it slowly as he watched you.
Remus gave you plenty of time to adjust before you nodded at him, signaling that he could move. He started slowly, pushing in and out of you as an excruciatingly slow pace. It burned, and you almost told Remus to stop, but after a few minutes, the pain subsided, and the pleasure took over.
A particularly filthy moan left your lips, and Sirius cursed under his breath. James appeared behind your head, stroking your hair as Remus’s head dropped to your shoulder as he began to pick up the pace.
“Shit, baby,” he moaned, “you feel so fucking good.”
“You look so fucking good,” Sirius breathed.
“Thank you, Siri,” you cried out, causing Sirius to cum in his hand, the nickname making him lose all control.
“What a good girl,” Remus spoke, his thrusts quickening until he was causing your body to jolt upward with each hit from the force, “you’re doing so well.”
James placed a kiss on your forehead and you reached up to grab his hand for leverage. You squeezed his hand, the pleasure between your legs becoming almost too much.
“Relax, baby, you’re being such a good girl,” James said.
Remus’ breathing quickened. “You’re so tight, angel, if you keep squeezing my cock like that I’m not gonna last,” he warned.
“I c-can’t help it,” you told him.
“I know baby,” he replied.
“I d- don’t know how to m- make it stop,” you said.
Remus giggled, “you don’t have to make it stop. It feels good for me.”
“Oh,” you whimpered, “that’s good.”
Remus giggled again. You were so cute, even in the middle of losing your virginity. Remus leaned down and kissed you, your lips moving in harmony as he began to pound into you. Any sense of kindness and mercy he had for this being your first time went out the window when you kissed.
Your moans grew louder and louder, and you tried to cover your mouth with your hand to quiet yourself down.
“Ah ah ah,” Sirius tsked, pulling your hand away, “none of that.”
“Rem- Rem- I-“
“I know angel, let go.”
Your high crashed over you again, your hips bucking upward to meet Remus’ final few thrusts before he came inside of you, the feeling of you squeezing him becoming too much for him to hold on. Remus stayed inside of you for a moment, watching your face as you calmed down from your high, a slight shake in your legs.
“What a good girl,” James praised, kissing your forehead.
“You okay?” Remus checked in, pulling out of you and standing in front of you.
“Mhm,” you hummed, “‘m okay.”
Sirius leaned down to kiss you again. “Everything you imagined?”
“Mhm.” You were too tired to formulate complete words or sentences.
“You wanna skip the party?” Sirius continued.
“Mhm.”
“You wanna cuddle and watch a movie?”
“Mhm.” You shifted so your head was resting on Sirius’ lap as he began to stroke your hair.
when Remus placed a hand on the desk in front of you, leaning his face in close to you, his hair falling slightly in front of his face. He was completely in your personal space.
i kept thinking how its not fair how remus is usually the one to take r virginity so i was wondering if u could write a poly!marauders with sirius taking their virginity ik u did a fic about this but i just wanna have my man sirius take their virginity for once! hope u do it u dont if u dont want to tho!!
actually had a lot more fun with this than i thought i would so thank youuuuu
ready | poly!marauders
pairing: poly!marauders (james, remus, & sirius) x fem!reader
warnings: smut (MDNI 18+)
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“I wanna talk about having sex.”
Sirius leaned back in his chair, running his hands across his thighs. Remus stayed leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and James ran his fingers through his hair, attention trained on you.
“Okay,” Remus sighed, “have you been thinking about it?”
You took a deep breath. “Yeah, and, I mean, I know that last week I said I wasn’t ready yet, but-“
“We didn’t pressure you, did we? We were just asking to check in and make sure you know your options, we didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t pressure me,” you cut Remus off, “I promise. I just-“ you sighed as the sentence died in your throat.
As you dipped your head, eyes trained on your fidgeting hands in your lap, the boys all exchanged looks. Sirius raised his eyebrows at James, who nodded toward Remus, signaling to Remus that he should say something. Remus, seated in the middle, turned his head to the right to look to Sirius, pushing the responsibility of breaking the silence back onto him.
“I saw-“ you could barely get the words out, and the boys’ attention focused back to you, “I saw something, and it helped me feel differently. It helped me realize that I want this.”
The boys all exchanged a quick look again.
“What did you see?” James asked.
Your cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson. You couldn’t look any of them in the eyes. You swallowed hard and dropped your gaze again, evidently nervous.
“Baby, I say this with love and as gently as I can: if you can’t talk to us about sex, there’s no way to be sure you’re ready to have it,” James said, his voice soft.
He was right.
Huffing out your nerves in a short, quick breath, you forced out, “I saw Sirius a few days ago,” deep breath deep breath deep breath, “touching himself.”
Sirius’s eyes widened, his arms crossed against his chest, his leg still shaking as his casually slouched form paid close attention to every breath you took. “Yeah? When?” he asked, nodding his head upward with each word, almost in challenge.
“A few days ago, I got my usual potions timeblock free, and I knew you had that time free too, so I came to the dorms to say hi, and- you were, you know.”
Sirius ran his fingers through his hair, his arms crossing on his chest as one hand rested in front of his mouth.
“So you saw Sirius masturbating,” Remus took over, “and that made you want to have sex? How?”
“Well, he was-“ deep breath, you can say it, “moaning my name.”
Sirius, only moving his leg up and down, otherwise stagnant, barely blinked as he stared at you, his eyes darkening with each passing moment. He could barely breathe.
“Baby, please connect the dots for us,” James pleaded.
“I thought I wasn’t ready,” you started, “but when I saw and heard you,” you said, gesturing to Sirius momentarily before refocusing on the whole trio, “it made me feel really… really… I don’t know, the same way I feel when you kiss me.”
Sirius nearly lept out of the chair, but this wasn’t about him. He could control himself, even if only momentarily.
James kept looking to Remus and Sirius, a silent plea that they keep you talking. James was about as awkward with conversation as you.
“You mean horny?” Remus asked like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“I guess?”
“Seeing Sirius masturbating made you so horny that you’re ready to lose your virginity?” Remus asked.
“Remus,” Sirius warned, fighting to keep his composure, but slowly losing.
“I mean, yeah. I think-“ you paused for a moment, “I think I wanted to do something, but I got nervous. So I just left. I wasn’t really sure how to tell you, since I had just said I wasn’t ready yet.”
“Define do something.”
Sirius wasn’t asking.
“What?”
Through gritted teeth, and a mouth still covered partially by his hand, he repeated, “define do something.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. You looked to Remus and James, who knew better than to disregard Sirius’s requests or intentions when he was this worked up.
Sirius’s dark eyes were transfixed on you, refusing to let up until you spoke.
“I don’t really know what to say,” you admitted.
“Did you want to touch him? Is that what you mean?” Remus asked.
“I guess. I think it made me want him to touch me. I don’t know if that makes sense.”
Sirius didn’t move, apart from the shaking leg.
“We know you’re a virgin, Y/N, but have you ever been touched?”
You thought you’d already had this conversation, but in hindsight, it had stopped the moment you said you hadn’t had sex, and weren’t ready yet. The boys never pried further, but always allowed you to go to them when you were ready for something. They didn’t know the true extent of your inexperience.
“No.”
Sirius jolted off of his chair and began to pace back and forth behind the other two boys.
“Sirius, relax,” James said.
Sirius just growled at him in return.
“Keep it together, this isn’t about you,” James continued.
“What does it look like I’m fucking trying to do?” Sirius snapped.
“Don’t you think we’re all fucking losing it right now? Damn,” Remus said, turning back to look at Sirius is annoyance.
Sirius paused his pacing to say, “At least I’m trying to walk it off, you’re just sitting there with your dick pressed up against your jeans like it’s gonna explode.”
“Guys, for fucks sake,” James ran his fingers through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, “please don’t be mad at me.”
“No, no, no, baby, we’re not mad,” James said, pulling you out of your own head, “you did nothing wrong. You know we’re idiots.”
“See? Look what you fucking did,” Remus shot at Sirius, gesturing toward you.
Sirius begrudgingly slumped back down into his chair. “Fuck off, she knows I could never be mad at her.” He then turned his attention to you and said, “sorry, babydoll.”
“Did I upset you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you acting upset?”
“Because it’s taking everything in me not to come over there and fuck you right now.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
“Baby, do you want to have sex?” James asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Do you want to have sex right now?” James continued.
“Does- is that okay with everyone?”
“Is that okay with everyone?” Sirius repeated, “fucking hell.”
“Would you keep your fucking innocence kink in check for at least the next 20 minutes?” Remus glared at Sirius.
“I’ll do my best mom.”
“Can I come over there?” James asked you, ignoring the boys’ bickering.
You nodded your head yes.
James approached your seated frame on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you so that you were nearly eye level. “We’re gonna take such good care of you, angel.”
You leaned down slightly and captured James’s lips in a kiss, nothing you hadn’t done before.
Only this time, James wrapped his fingers through your hair to keep you in place as he stood, leaning over you until your back was against the mattress.
As the kiss heated up, James pressed his hips against yours, and you let out a small whimper. James pulled away from you, a smile growing on his face. “What, you like that?” he teased, grinding down harder on you.
You made another little noise, and James began to fully grind onto your hips, the friction of cloth between your bodies becoming an unbearably annoying barrier.
“You wanna be touched, huh?” James whispered into your ear, moving a hand between your bodies, “you ready?”
“Please,” you whispered back, the word for James and James alone, as he pulled your underwear and skirt down your legs.
Remus, from behind James, took them fully off of you and discarded them to the side.
James ran a finger slowly between your folds. “You’re already so wet, baby, shit,” he said, his voice almost more surprised than sensual.
“Sorry,” you said, your heart rate increasing and your breath shaky.
“Not a bad thing, honey,” he assured you, “usually means you like it.”
“It feels-“ you fought through the embarrassment, “really good.”
“Yeah? You want me to go faster? You want more?”
Remus sat beside you, watching the scene unfold as he stroked your hair for an added sense of comfort.
“Yes,” you said.
“Good girl,” James praised, circling your clit, and progressively moving his fingers quicker and quicker.
“Fuck,” you moaned at the sudden sensation.
Sirius remained seated, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, silently watching you come undone.
Remus leaned down and kissed you, swallowing your whines and whimpers as James slowly lifted himself off of you, sinking back down to the floor and throwing your legs over his shoulders.
You squealed and pulled away from Remus, looking between your legs. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna taste you, hun, that okay?”
“I mean, sure, but what does that mean-“
You went silent immediately when James ran his tongue between your folds, collecting your wetness and sucking on your clit, causing you to throw your head back.
You squirmed nonstop underneath his tongue, the sensation new and overwhelming.
“Easy,” Remus said, partially to you and partially to James, reminding him to go slow since you’d never done this before.
“Sorry baby,” James said, “you just taste so good.”
With James between your legs, looking down your body gave you a clear view of not only him, but of Sirius, who was seated directly behind him.
When you saw Sirius, you couldn’t look away. The way he was looking at you was something you’d never seen or experienced. All three of the boys looked at you in different ways, but you’d never seen Sirius with this look in his eyes.
You couldn’t help but maintain eye contact as you moaned and gasped, James’s expert tongue knowing exactly how to work you up. You decided he had his reputation for a reason.
Watching you come undone with James between your legs, and your eyes locked on his, Sirius shifted in his chair, refusing to give up control but becoming very, very close to losing it.
You threw your head back when James hit a particularly sweet spot with his tongue, and your sight landed back to Remus next to you.
You grabbed at his hair, a smile on his face as you needily pulled him down into a kiss.
“You want James to prep you?” Remus asked.
“Mhm,” you moaned.
You weren’t entirely sure what he meant, but you knew you should say yes to any preparation for what would inevitably be a painful virginity loss.
James kept his mouth on you, but very slowly slid one finger into you.
Your eyes widened at the sudden intrusion, and Remus pulled away, his face still close to yours. He gently gripped your chin in his hands, keeping you in place to look at him.
James began to move his finger in and out, curling the digit every once in a while to add to the pleasure.
You could barely breathe. You just laid there, gazing up at Remus, helplessly squirming your hips, to either stop the pleasure or add to it, you didn’t know.
“Fucking hell,” you moaned.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” Remus cooed, “does that feel good?”
“More,” was all you could get out.
Remus nodded to James, who clocked it, and added another finger into you.
Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, three pairs of eyes on you. James’s glasses were lightly fogging up as he tasted you, his eyes peering up at you through the still-clear zones of glass, focusing completely on how you reacted to each movement of his hand and his mouth.
James, ever the awkward, goofy, muscular idiot, loved knowing that he was the one making you writhe. He griped your thighs as they instinctively closed around his head, but not to stop them, only to hold you close enough to him that you didn’t squirm away. James would happily let your legs crush him.
He began to scissor his fingers inside of you, and you let out the filthiest moan yet, your back arching as you ground yourself against James.
Remus leaned down to unbutton your blouse. You decided not to wear a bra today, despite it bothering your back, because you had hoped you would end up here. Remus attached his mouth to one of your nipples, a hand squeezing the unattended breast, adding to your pleasure.
“Shit, shit, please,” you whimpered.
“James, get up,” Sirius said, the first words since the sex started.
James turned around, his fingers still inside of you, “what?”
“She’s never had sex, coming twice is gonna be too much for her right off the bat. Get up.”
James knew Sirius was right, and he reluctantly pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you feeling empty as James stood up.
Remus didn’t move, but instead kissed you to help ease the sudden stopping.
“Who do you want, baby?” Remus asked, his hand on the side of your face.
You swallowed your nerves, suddenly worried that naming one of the boys would hurt the others. However, given the situation, there was really only one answer.
You looked down to Sirius, and when you caught his eyes, he immediately stood up and walked toward the bed, positioning himself over you with his knees between your legs.
“You want me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You remember seeing me touching myself and moaning your name?”
“Yes.”
“I was imagining this,” he said, slowly running his cock between your folds. You didn’t know when he stripped his clothes off, but there he was, naked above you.
You didn’t notice James and Remus strip either.
You let out a breathy moan at the feeling of Sirius rubbing himself against you.
Sirius leaned down to kiss your neck, holding his cock against you as he bucked his hips. “I was thinking about how fucking pretty you’d look and sound underneath me, and how fucking good you’d feel around me.”
“Sirius, please-“
“Sh, baby, I got you,” he said, “I’m gonna treat you so fucking good, baby, you’re gonna come so fucking hard.”
You whined as Sirius continued to kiss your neck, his cock lubricated from all of your wetness.
“Need you,” you said, so quiet he nearly didn’t hear it.
“Yeah? You need me?” he taunted, lining himself up with your entrance.
You reached around to find either Remus or James’s hand, but instead found James’s cock. You gripped it anyway, looking to pleasure him, but he pulled your wrist away.
“This is about you, angel, relax,” James said, “Rem and I can take care of each other.”
You nodded your head in understanding, and focused back on Sirius.
Looking up at him, you couldn’t help but admire his beauty. You reached up and tucked a piece of fallen hair behind his ear. That seemed to break him, as his intense demeanor completely folded as he gave you the sweetest smile you’d ever seen. He could have cried right then and there, the gesture was so sweet and intimate.
Sirius leaned down and kissed you softly as he pushed his tip into you. Your body tensed up, and you gasped in your throat.
“Sh,” Sirius told you, pulling away and looking intensely into your eyes, pushing himself into you at a torturously slow pace until he bottomed out inside of you.
“Fuck, you’re big,” you said, not to be seductive, but out of the feeling of how-the-fuck-did-you-fit-that-in-me-and-why-didn’t-you-warn-me.
Sirius dropped his head. “You’re so fucking tight.”
“I’m sor-“
Sirius kissed you briefly to silence you. “It’s a good thing. Relax, baby.”
Your eyebrows were furrowed and Sirius watched you closely, waiting until your muscles relaxed and your breathing calmed before he began to move.
Your moans were much louder than you thought they would be, considering how slowly he was fucking you. Sirius slammed a fist down into the sheets next to your head, fighting with himself to go easy on you.
Remus, who was being sucked off by James, placed a supportive hand on Sirius’s back. “Hold it together, Pads, you got it.”
Anyone who looked at Sirius, even anyone who didn’t know him, could take one look at Sirius and know he was holding back. You felt bad, but you needed it, especially when it felt like your entire lower body was bursting into flames.
Tears threatened to spill from your eyes, and you focused on your breathing. You fought opening your mouth to tell Sirius to stop.
“Sirius, she’s hurting,” Remus warned.
You shook your head no. “Don’t stop, please, it’ll only make it last longer,” you cried.
“Oh, bunny, you shouldn’t feel like-“
“The pain’ll go away, just please,” you choked, “I gotta get there.”
Sirius understood. He leaned down and licked a tear off of your cheek, straining even more to be gentle and move slowly.
“Breathe,” Sirius reminded you, “are you okay?”
“Just burns,” you said, voice strained as you tried to keep your tears at bay.
“I know, I know,” he said kissing you to help distract you.
As he continued his steady pace, the burning began to subside, and quickly turned to pleasure. As it did, you moaned into the kiss, and Sirius pulled away, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Can you- fuck- can you please go faster?” you whined.
“You sure?” Sirius spoke through gritted teeth.
“Please, Siri.”
The nickname was enough for him. He began to move quicker, his head falling into the crook of your neck as one hand gripped your shoulder, partially holding himself up and partially holding you in place.
“Fuck,” Sirius moaned.
Your moans got higher as Sirius picked up the pace, and you grabbed at his back. You didn’t know what you needed, you just needed more.
“What’s up, baby?” Sirius said as you heard Remus groan, his cum squirting down James’s throat.
“More,” you whispered.
“You want more?”
“More,” you repeated.
Sirius shifted his knees, pushing your legs up higher and hitting deeper inside of you.
You nearly screamed, and Sirius wrapped an arm around your head, helping push you against him as he thrust up into you.
“Siri-“
“Fuck, you sound so pretty,” he praised.
You tilted your head to see James touching himself sat beside you, and you grabbed for his face, kissing him when he leaned down toward you.
You combed your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer.
When James pulled away, he turned to Sirius, and Sirius lifted his head, hungrily kissing James as he thrust up into you, your body jolting with each hit.
Watching Sirius and James make out as Sirius fucked you, and as James fucked his fist even harder as they kissed, made you wetter and wetter.
James was decently big, but his hands were so fucking large that it didn’t take much movement to cover the length of his cock. You watched his arm muscles contract as his hand moved faster and faster. You didn’t even notice him come, or that the kissing stopped.
“Somethin’ catch your attention?” Sirius teased.
James smirked and kissed you one more time before getting up to clean himself up.
You squeezed Sirius’s cock involuntarily, approaching your climax quicker than you anticipated that you would.
“Shit, baby, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” Sirius moaned.
“More,” is still all you could say.
“Fuck, you still want more? Tell me what you want,” Sirius said, his eyes locked on yours.
You whined, “I want- shit- I want you to fuck me like I’m not a virgin.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” you heard Remus say from somewhere in the room.
Sirius dropped his head, still restraining himself as he tried to collect his thoughts. “Baby, I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt you.”
“Please don’t hold back, Siri. I want you,” you said, desperate to feel any semblance of what it’s really like to fuck him.
Sirius searched your eyes for any doubt or regret, but he found none. He tilted his head and said, “okay then.”
Sirius grabbed your thighs and hooked his arms beneath them, pushing them upwards until you were nearly folded in half. You weren’t super flexible, but Sirius was strong. Despite your protestations, he wouldn’t fully let loose with you. Not right now. You had time.
Your legs rested on Sirius’s chest and shoulders, and as he leaned down to kiss you, he began to buck his hips again. The new angle had you moaning desperately into the kiss, his cock hitting deeper and deeper with every vicious thrust of his hips.
You held onto his hair as you kissed him harder, using him to swallow your uncontrollable moans.
Grunting and breathing heavy, Sirius kissed down your jaw and stopped at your neck, sucking at a sweet spot.
You moved your hand to cover your mouth, and James grabbed your wrist, gently moving it away and holding your hand. “Let us hear you, hun.”
You couldn’t protest or agree; all you could do was lay there, writhing, moaning, and swirling your hips to give yourself even more friction. With your movements and the new angle, your core ground against Sirius with each thrust, causing your back to arch and your head to push into the pillow.
Sirius noticed.
He placed a sweet kiss on your cheek as his hand slid around one of your thighs to your core, and he began to rub somewhat gentle circles onto your clit as he breathed you in.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted.
You could feel your walls squeezing Sirius, and he growled animalistic-ally in your ear at the feeling.
“Shit, baby, you gonna come?” he asked through shaky breaths.
“I think,” you said. Sure, you’d made yourself come, but you’d never come from penetration before.
“You don’t know?” Remus asked, watching you intensely.
“I- fuck, fuck, Siri- I think I’m gonna c- shit, gonna come,” you gasped out.
Sirius pounded into you harder, gripping your waist to keep you positioned slightly upward as he pulled you onto him to meet his harsh thrusts.
You squeezed James’s hand desperately as you came, your eyes also squeezing shut as your body slowly relaxed back down to the mattress.
Sirius stilled his hips, despite being close to his own high, and allowed you to catch your breath before he pulled out of you.
Remus quickly sunk to his knees on the floor next to the bed, and Sirius turned toward him, heavy breathing as he stood and tilted his head back, his fingers running through his sweat-slicked hair as he came down Remus’s throat. The sight was so pretty.
Remus rose from the ground and lightly kissed Sirius, moments before Sirius collapsed next to you in the bed.
James was already on you, scooping your frame up into his arms. You protested, thinking he couldn’t hold all of your weight, but James was ridiculously strong, somehow lifting someone your size effortlessly.
“Let’s clean you up, eh?” James asked.
You just rested your head against his shoulder, and James kissed the top of your head before walking you toward the bathroom.
Once you were out of earshot, Sirius turned to Remus, smirking as cocky as ever, “I hope you guys always remember that that was because I’m just too hot to resist.”
Remus shoved him playfully, and Sirius smiled, flopping his back onto the bed.
wolfstar doing that thing when you're telling a story to a group of people, and you glance at the person you love so you have to hold back a smile and try not to lose focus
Your writing style is so good, and I love how you manage to capture Baelor and Maekar respective softness towards reader differently!
How would they react if their wife or betrothed survived an assassination attempt? Happy ending of course, but I'd love to see how over protective they both can get when their beloved is hurt
oh, oh, this was so delicious to write. something about watching Baelor and Maekar go feral out of instinct to protect you? i am IN
the dragon bears its teeth
Includes: Baelor x betrothed!reader / Maekar x betrothed!reader
Warning(s): slight mentions of violence, minor angst, happy ending (let me know if I missed anything, please)
The solar smelled like ink and dried flowers.
You had learned, in the months since your betrothal was announced, that it was the safest room in the Red Keep. Not because of the guards posted outside — though there were always guards now, ever since your name had begun appearing in the same sentences as Targaryen and heir and threat — but because of what the room was. Baelor's space. Ordered and deliberate, every object placed with intention, the kind of room that felt like its occupant even when he was absent.
You had taken to spending afternoons there when he was in council. You read. You wrote letters home that grew less frequent as the Reach began to feel farther away and the Red Keep began to feel more like your home. Sometimes you left small things behind without thinking — a ribbon marking a page in one of his books, a sprig of dried lavender pressed between the leaves of his notes, the cup you always used left on the same corner of the desk. You did not do these things deliberately. They simply happened, the way warmth happened, the way light found the corners of a room without being asked.
Baelor had never mentioned the ribbon or the lavender. But the cup was always clean when you arrived.
This was how you had learned to read him. In the things he did not say.
You were in a good mood that day, which was perhaps why you did not notice sooner.
The morning had been kind: a letter from your youngest sister, full of news about the harvest and a new foal and three paragraphs about a boy she swore she did not like, and you had laughed alone in your chambers in a way that made your handmaiden smile. At breakfast you had made the Queen Mother laugh — genuinely, not the polished court-laugh — with something you said about the pigeons on the windowsill, and Queen Myriah had looked at you across the table with those dark, perceptive eyes and said, very quietly, you are good for this house, and you had felt it like sunlight between your ribs.
Even the walk to the solar had been good. A kitchen boy had shown you a stray cat he'd been feeding. You'd spent ten minutes crouched in the corridor making friends with it, and arrived at Baelor's rooms with grey fur on your sleeve and no particular urgency about anything.
The day had felt like a gift. You had thought I am happy here. I did not expect to be happy here.
You should have noticed sooner that there was something wrong with one of the servants.
The hands were the thing, in retrospect. Too still. The posture too practiced — the way he moved through the room without the particular learned invisibility of someone who had spent years trying to become furniture. You noticed it the way you noticed a wrong note in a familiar melody. Not a conscious recognition. Just a small wrongness, registering somewhere below thought.
You were still registering it when he moved.
There was a blade.
There was the sound of your own breath, caught and held, and the desk's edge finding the small of your back, and a cold so complete it felt almost like clarity. Your mind did something strange — sharpened, narrowed, cleared entirely of everything that was not this room, this man, this moment.
You did not scream.
Later you would not be able to explain why. Some instinct older than thought, maybe. Some understanding that noise spent breath you might need, that stillness bought seconds, that seconds were the only currency that mattered right now.
He stepped toward you.
You stepped sideways.
It was not graceful. It was not brave. It was pure animal refusal, your body deciding before your mind caught up, and your hand found the ink pot on the desk — heavy, solid, completely by accident — and you threw it.
It caught him on the shoulder. Not hard enough to stop him. Hard enough to make him stagger, to break the straight line of his advance, to buy you the half-second you needed to get the desk between you. Ink bloomed across his clothing, across the floor, across the corner of your sister's letter, and you were already moving — shoving the chair into his path, sending the stack of books sliding — creating noise, chaos, the beautiful unglamorous mess of someone who did not know how to fight but understood, distantly and desperately, that the guards outside needed a reason to open the door.
"Help—"
Not a scream. Your voice came out sharp and flat, the single word, and it was enough.
The door opened. Two guards. The ugly, brief, necessary violence of it, and then he was on the floor and the blade was beside him and you were standing at the far end of the room with your back against the bookcase and your chest heaving and ink on your hands and the grey fur still on your sleeve from the kitchen cat.
You looked at the man on the floor. He looked back at you with eyes so full of rage that they did not resemble something human. You did not understand — and perhaps you never would — how someone could hate with such depth. It was like he carried it in his bones.
"Bind him, please," you said, and your voice was steady. You did not know from where.
You held yourself together through the wait.
It did not feel like bravery. It felt like a door held shut by both hands, all your weight against it, and you knew very well what was on the other side but you could not open it yet because there were still things that required you to be upright. The guards. The questions.
You stood at the window. You watched the courtyard below. You counted the pigeons.
Baelor arrived in eleven minutes.
You knew because you counted those too.
He did not make a sound when he came through the door.
You had expected something. Command. The controlled authority he wore so naturally, sharpened into purpose. Some version of Baelor Targaryen, Hand of the King, managing a situation with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything.
He was silent.
He took in the room in one sweep — the guards, the man bound on the floor, the blade, the ink spreading its dark stain across the stone — and the silence was not composure. Not quite. It was something that wore composure's shape, the way a fire wore a grate.
Then his eyes found you.
He crossed the room. His hands came up to frame your face before he had finished closing the distance, that particular gesture, hovering just short of touch.
"Are you hurt," he said. Not a question. The space before one.
"No," you said.
He looked at you anyway. His mismatched eyes moved over your face with the focused attention of a man checking for damage he could not allow himself to find — your face, your throat, your hands, the ink stains, the grey fur on your sleeve, back to your face.
"Certain," he said.
"Baelor," you managed a smile, just for him, "I promise I am not hurt."
He exhaled. His hands settled, finally, barely — fingertips at your jaw, your temple, lighter than they had any right to be for hands that size. You felt the careful in them. The tremendous, effortful careful.
"You fought back?" he said.
It was not quite a question, even if posed as one.
"I threw the ink pot," you said. "It wasn't—"
"Thank you," he answered, and you didn't really know why. Something moving through his expression that you did not have a full name for. Something that looked, underneath the relief, like it was being filed away somewhere permanent and important.
Then he turned, and you watched it happen.
He stepped back from you — one step, deliberate, a boundary drawn between what you were to each other and what he was about to do — and he looked at the man on the floor, and the fracture happened.
Not loudly. Not visibly, to anyone who did not know his face. But you knew his face. You had spent months learning it, the careful version and the rare unguarded version and every gradation between, and you saw the single clean line that ran through his composure now, and through it — brief, absolute, unmistakable — something that was not Baelor the Hand, not Baelor the principled, not Baelor the deliberate and restrained.
Something older than all of that.
He crouched down beside the man on the floor. And then — unhurried, without heat, with the particular calm of something that had never needed heat to be dangerous — he took a fistful of the man's hair and turned his face up.
The man made a sound.
Baelor looked at him the way you might look at a problem you had already solved. Patient. Absolute. Completely without the performance of menace, which was so much worse than menace, because performance implied there was something to prove and there was nothing here that needed proving.
"You came into my house," Baelor said, quietly.
The man said nothing.
"You came into my house," Baelor repeated, in the same tone, "and you dared to raise a blade to her."
A pause. Long enough to be deliberate.
"I want you to understand something," he said, softly, still holding the man's face up, still meeting his eyes with that fractured calm. "Not as a warning. Warnings are for situations where the outcome is still uncertain. I want you to understand it simply as a fact." His head tilted, slightly. "There is no version of what happens next that does not take everything from you. There is no mercy available here. There is no appeal." A breath. "What you chose to do in this room today — you will spend the rest of your life regretting it. However long that is."
He released him.
Stood.
The composure sealed itself back over the fracture like water closing over a stone. So complete you might have imagined it.
He turned back to you, and he was Baelor again — careful, deliberate, the mismatched eyes quiet — and he said, to the guards: "Get him out of my sight," and to the empty room, to the ink-stained floor, to the ruined afternoon: nothing at all.
You held yourself together through all of it.
Through the maester who confirmed you were unharmed. Through the questions, which Baelor deflected before they could overwhelm you, placing himself between you and everyone who entered with unhurried, immovable certainty. Through the hour of necessary proceedings — the Hand of the King resuming, fractionally, the work of being the Hand of the King, because it did not stop, it never stopped, and you watched him manage it from the window with the part of your mind that was still observing from a slight remove.
You held yourself together until the room emptied.
Until it was only you and him, and the light had gone gold and thin, and the solar was quiet again — except it was not the same quiet, it would never quite be the same quiet — and your sister's letter was ruined under the ink, and there was grey fur still on your sleeve from a kitchen cat you had met that morning when the day still felt like a gift.
Your legs stopped participating.
You sat down on the floor.
Not gracefully. Not deliberately. The stone was cold and real, and you pressed your palms flat against it, and the first breath shook, and the second one broke entirely, and by the third you were crying in a way you had not cried since you were small — the kind that had been waiting in your chest since the moment you saw the blade and threw an ink pot because it was all you had.
Baelor was beside you before you had completed another full breath.
He sat — this careful, composed man, in his court clothes, on the floor — and he put his arm around you, and you turned into it with complete gracelessness and no embarrassment whatsoever.
He held you through all of it.
His hand moved in slow deliberate strokes down your hair. His chin rested against the top of your head. He said nothing because you did not need words yet. You needed the solid fact of him. The reality of his heartbeat under your ear, steady and present and real.
You cried until you could not anymore. Until you were wrung out and still, and the light through the windows had shifted, and his arm had not moved.
"I should have—" he began, and stopped himself.
You felt the breath he took. The way he made himself start again more honestly.
"I knew there was still risk," he said. "I told myself the precautions were sufficient."
"It wasn't your fault," you said, into his chest.
"No," he agreed, quietly. "It was theirs." A pause. "I intend for that to be made very clear."
The mildness of it. The absolute, bottomless mildness.
You lifted your head and looked at him.
"I saw it," you said, trying to fight against your runny nose. "When you turned to him. I saw how you looked at him."
He looked at you steadily.
"I'm not frightened," you told him. "I want you to know that. I'm not frightened of you."
Something moved through his expression — that nameless thing, between relief and grief, the shape of a man who had spent a very long time being careful about what he was. What he was truly capable of being.
His forehead dropped to yours.
"You threw an ink pot at him," he said, very quietly, after a beat.
"It was within reach," you simply said with a slight shrug.
A breath. Warm against your face.
"Within reach," he repeated. And there was something in his voice that was not quite a laugh and not quite undone and was entirely, helplessly fond. "Of course it was."
His arms tightened around you. Not carefully. Not with his usual deliberate lightness.
Fully. Like something that had stopped pretending it needed to hold back.
"You can rest now," he murmured, into your hair.
So you did.
You stayed on the floor of his solar until the light failed completely, and he stayed with you, and his heartbeat was steady under your ear, and outside the pigeons were still on the windowsill, and somewhere down the corridor there was a stray cat waiting by a kitchen door, and you were here, and you were safe, and the man who held you would have — you understood this now, completely and without question if it came to it — burned everything down to keep it that way.
The thing about you, Maekar had decided sometime in the second month, was that you did not know you were doing it.
That was the part he could not account for. He understood deliberate charm — had grown up watching it deployed at court, had learned early to recognise the difference between warmth offered as currency and warmth offered as itself. He had become, by necessity, very good at spotting the seam. The moment where the performance showed its stitching.
With you there was no seam.
You had smiled at his squire on your third day at court — not the careful measured smile of a girl learning which relationships would be useful to her, but the full unguarded thing, because the boy had said something that struck you as funny and you had simply laughed, and the squire had stood there looking like he'd been lit from the inside. You had learned the name of every guard on your rotation within a fortnight. Not strategically. You had just asked, and then remembered, and then asked after their families, and Maekar had watched his own men become devoted to you with a speed that should have alarmed him.
It did not alarm him.
This was, precisely, the problem.
He had spent his entire life under no illusions about what he was. The fourth son. A sword. An anvil. Useful in the specific way that instruments of force were useful, which was to say when something needed breaking, and set aside after. He had made his peace with it — or something he had mistaken for peace, which held its shape well enough if you didn't press on it. He did not reach for things. He had learned not to. Reaching was for men who had been told the world held something for them, and no one had told Maekar that, and he had decided, quietly and finally, sometime in his adolescence, that it was simpler not to want.
And then you had sat down in his armoury.
Not in a calculated way. In the exact opposite of a calculated way — you had wandered in by accident with a book under your arm and a slightly lost expression, and when he'd looked up from the whetstone you had said, very politely, oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were here, and then simply stayed. Sat on a crate in the corner and opened your book and said nothing else, and the silence had been — he had not known what to do with it. He had waited for the agenda to reveal itself. For the reason behind the staying.
There was no reason. You had just stayed.
He had let you, and told himself it meant nothing, and the next afternoon you had come back.
That had been three months ago.
He did not know what to do with you.
This was the blunt truth of it, the thing he turned over in his mind in the early mornings when the yard was empty and the work of the day hadn't yet crowded everything else out. He did not know how to hold the fact of you — this girl from the Reach with her unguarded laugh and her genuine questions and the way she looked at him, straight on, like she was not afraid of what she found there. Like the scars beneath his beard were simply part of the landscape. Like the sharpness he aimed at everyone was something to be waited out rather than fled from.
Nobody waited him out. In his experience, people did not do that.
You did. Patiently, warmly, with apparent total serenity, the way sunlight waited out a cloud — without effort, without agenda, simply continuing to be what it was until the obstruction passed.
He was not accustomed to being the cloud in this metaphor.
The betrothal was not his doing — nothing in his life was entirely his doing, his life had been arranged by other hands since birth — but he had looked at you across the table after your arrival at dinner and you had looked back with those clear eyes, not calculating, not performing, just looking, and he had thought that this is either the best thing that has ever happened to me or it will ruin me entirely.
He had not, at the time, understood that these were the same thing.
He was in the yard when the messenger came.
Drilling. The repetitive honest work of it, the thing that had been the fixed point of his life since he was old enough to hold a practice sword — this, at least, was simple. His body knew what to do. There was no ambiguity in a blade, no subtext, no bewildering warmth that required him to exist in ways he had not been prepared for.
He was mid-form when the man crossed the yard at a run, and that was the first alarm he noticed.
Maekar was trained to read approaches — speed, posture, the quality of urgency in a man's movement — and this one read as wrong before the messenger had covered half the distance. Something in Maekar went very still before a single word was spoken. The way it went still before a battle. Not calm — the opposite of calm, every sense sharpening to a single point.
The man said your name.
He said solar and blade and unharmed, my lord, she is unharmed and Maekar was already moving before the sentence finished.
He did not remember crossing the yard.
He did not remember the corridors, the stairs, the guards stepping aside. He remembered only the thing that had replaced thought, which was not quite rage and was not quite fear and was something underneath both of those, older than both of those, the part of him that had been the sword of this family since before he chose it, turned now toward a single point with a focus that was total and absolute and not entirely human in its quality.
She is unharmed had been said. He heard it. It did not change anything.
Because she could have been. Between the sending of the messenger and the saying of those words there was a distance, and in that distance someone had decided to put a blade near you, had decided that you — you, with your face full of joy and your laughing at his squire and your patient unhurried presence in his armoury — were a target. Had decided that what was beginning, quietly and terrifyingly, to be the only good thing in his life was a variable to be eliminated.
That was what boiled in him as he ran.
Not injured pride. Not political calculation. Not the cold strategic fury of a Targaryen prince responding to an act of aggression against his house.
Something much simpler, much less governable.
He filled the doorframe and took in the room the way he always took in rooms — all of it, instantly, the threat assessment automatic and immediate — and found: guard, man on floor, blade, overturned ink, scattered books, a slightly crooked candlestick, and you.
Standing.
Ink on your arm. A careful stillness to the way you held your left side that told him immediately, with the eye of a man who had catalogued a thousand injuries, that something had caught your ribs. Your expression — and this was the thing, this was the thing that did something he could not account for — was not the expression of a girl who had been helpless and then rescued.
"Step away from him," he said to the guards that were pining that man, that wretched man, to the ground
"My prince—"
"Step away."
He crossed the space in an unhurried pace. Did not crouch. Did not negotiate with the geometry of it. He reached down and took the man by the collar and lifted, one hand, and felt nothing about the effort because there was no effort, because every piece of him that was not focused on you had narrowed to this, to the man in his grip and what was going to happen now.
He held him up and looked at him.
And the thing that lived in the Targaryen blood — the thing that had not died with the dragons, that had no outlet left except this, the cold and total and absolutely merciless thing that was not cruelty because cruelty required emotion and this was beyond emotion, this was simply the oldest part of him stating a fact about the world — looked back.
The man in his grip understood. Maekar saw the moment he understood.
"Who sent you," he said.
The man refused to tell Maekar anything, just decided to stare at him with a smug grin painted on his lips. You noticed, from where you stood, that it was a deliberate thing, that taunting. Even if the man — you could see it in the way both his hands tried to relieve the pressure from Maekar's hand on his neck — was trembling as a leaf.
You couldn't hear what Maekar said to him then, because his voice sounded as if he were underwater. You made out something about rotting and cells. Maekar called the guards back in and gave his instructions and they moved fast, the way men moved when they had felt what was in the room and wanted very much to be on the right side of it.
Then he turned to you, and all of it — every cold ancient terrible thing — had only one place left to go.
He looked at you for a long moment. You looked back, steady, chin still up, ink drying on your arm.
The shaking started in his hands first.
He had not expected that. He was not a man who shook — had not, in thirty-odd years of soldiering and sparring and riding into things that ought to have killed him, experienced his hands as anything other than reliable. They did what he needed. They did not develop opinions.
They were shaking now.
He crossed the room and his hands came to your face before he had decided to do it, both palms, tilted up to look at him, and he felt the tremor in them and knew you felt it too and could not find it in himself to care.
"You are not hurt," he said. Rough. The wrong way round — statement when it should have been question, because he needed to say it, needed to hear it in the room, needed to make it real with sound.
"A bruise," you said. "The desk caught my ribs. The blade did not—"
"Show me."
The words came out before he'd dressed them in anything acceptable. Raw need, that was all, no armour on it, and the back of his neck went hot and he knew his ears were red and he looked somewhere past your shoulder for a moment because he could not currently manage your expression on top of everything else.
"Maekar." Your voice, gentle. "It is only a bruise. I promise."
He made himself look back at you.
Your eyes were clear and steady and you were not afraid of him, had never been afraid of him — not of the scars, not of the sharpness, not of whatever had just been in this room with you — and the thing that did to him, the specific unbearable thing—
"I know," he said, roughly. "I know. I just—"
He didn't finish.
He stepped back. Turned away, one hand at the back of his neck, and stood there looking at nothing, breathing, doing the slow effortful work of becoming something other than what he'd been for the last several minutes.
"You could have been killed," he said. To the wall.
"I was not."
"You could have been." He turned back. His jaw was very tight. "Someone decided that you were expendable. That you were—" His voice did something he did not sanction. He pushed past it. "You are not."
He said it the way he said things that were simply true. Flat, final, not up for interpretation.
You looked at him, and something in your expression softened, and you said, quietly: "I know."
"I am not certain you do," he said.
You held his gaze. "Then perhaps you should keep telling me."
The silence that followed was very loud.
Maekar looked at you — this girl, this unbearably warm impossible girl, who had sat in his armoury and asked for nothing and come back the next day and remembered the names of his guards and laughed with her whole face and made him feel something shift in him. Permanently. The way foundations shifted.
He had spent his life not reaching.
He crossed the room and his arms went around you and he held on.
Not gently. Not with the careful tentativeness of a man who was uncertain of his welcome. He held on the way he did everything once he'd decided, which was completely, which was without reservation, which was with the full weight of a man who had been keeping himself at arm's length from good things for thirty years and had just run out of reasons.
Your arms came around him, and he breathed, and the solar was quiet.
The rest of it came out sideways. In the wrong order. The way things always did with him.
He did not say: I have not known how to want things and then you sat on a crate in my armoury and I have been undone since.
He said it in the arms that did not loosen. In the chin tucked against your head. In the six guards he would assign in the morning — six, and then when he thought about it longer, more, and he did not care if it was excessive, he did not care at all.
He did not say: the thought of losing you turned me into something I do not entirely recognise.
He said it when he pulled back enough to look at your face, and looked at it, and said nothing, and looked anyway.
You had hit a Blackfyre loyalist with a candlestick, he came to know.
You had stood with your chin up and told him that what sat on your ribs was a bruise, only a bruise, with the same serenity with which you did everything, as though the world could throw you whatever it liked and you would simply remain warm through it.
"You did well," he said, finally. Into the quiet. Roughly, like the words had cost him something.
Your smile, when it came, was small and real and did what your smiles always did to him.
"Thank you," you said.
He looked away. His ears were red again.
"Six guards," he said, to the middle distance. "Starting tomorrow."
"All right," you said.
"Possibly more."
"All right."
He nodded. Looked back at you, and there was something in his face — not open exactly, Maekar was never quite open, but the layers so reduced that what was left was simply him, the unarmoured version, the one he almost never let into the light.
"You will tell me," he said. "If anything—"
"I will tell you," you said. "I promise."
And that was, for now, enough.
The sun went long and amber through the window, and somewhere down the corridor something settled into quiet, and Maekar Targaryen — the anvil, the one who had learned not to reach — stood in your solar with the candlestick still crooked in its place and understood that reaching had happened anyway.
That it had been happening for three months.
That it was, now, irrevocable.
And found, to his own considerable surprise, that he did not want it any other way.
soft sirius black who, when no one is looking, stops and admires the leaves returning for the spring. soft sirius black, who always puts a blanket over peter when he falls asleep in the common room after a chess match. soft sirius black, who thinks his cruelty is unfixable, but who smiles at little babies, saves the last piece of chocolate for remus, and keeps every single silly note james ever passed him in class. who does have a cruel laugh and an arrogant posture, but who also has teary eyes every time remus gives him a gift, who talks to regulus's star every night before bed just to hope he's doing okay, and keeps a record of everything his friends ever mention wanting, just so he can scheme up ways to give it to them. soft sirius, who was raised to be hideous, but could never truly be it, because deep down, he was always kind.
sirius who cried the first time regulus accidentally fell asleep on his shoulder during the potter's Christmas Eve celebration after he finally left grimmauld place and went to live with them too
a servant struggles with some kind of physical labour in the yard, and maekar goes "you imbecile, i will do it" and does it easily because he's STRONG. and reader is just standing there, drooling over her husband (and perhaps suggests that maekar show her that same strength in the bedroom later)
MY STRONG HUSBAND—Maekar Targaryen
Maekar Taragryen x wife!reader
content: You like watching your strong husband demonstrate his strength
words: 800
cw: MDNI 18+ sexual themes & references
A walk in the gardens with your lord husband took place daily like clockwork. It was routine. It was some of the only peace the pair of you had each day. A moment away from duties, from children, and you could bask in the other’s company.
But in typical fashion your small moments of blissful peace never did truly last. You both stood watching as one of the servants attempted to lift something from the ground, but it reminded you of Aegon.
He grunted trying to lift the wooden box that was much too big for himself. He looked like the young boy when he would play with his brother trying to carry around fake swords that were double his swords.
“Oh, for fucks sake,” your husband grunted from beside you.
“It is too large for him. It is not his fault,” you told him, patting his arm gently.
He grunted in reply, before finally his composure snapped, “Oh, I will fucking do it you imbecile!”
He unlaced himself from you, stomping forward, “And he wonders where Aerion gets it,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
You looked up watching him, as he pushed the young servant away, bending down to pick up the crate with ease. Your mouth practically watered at the sight.
Your husband was a warrior, a strong man. You had seen the scars and the muscles that laid beneath the clothes thousands of times, but watching him demonstrate this strength away did something to you.
You watched his biceps strain against his doublet, threatening to burst through the streams you almost wished they would just to bear witness to them. He stood to his full height as your eyes trailed down admiring his strong legs and ass with a grin
“Maekar, mayhaps you should move the one beside it too! For sage measure of course!” you called out, biting your cheek to prevent yourself from laughing.
He grunted in reply, taking your suggestion and doing the very same. You watched him with the same intent, now imaging your large arm wrapped around your throat as he fucked into you from beside.
He set the other out of the way, muttering something to the servant that you did not hear, but it did not matter as you stared only at him. He finally turned toward you, but paused, noticing the look on your face.
“Wife?” he questioned.
“Husband,” you replied, in a sultry tone, moving toward him. He stopped allowing you to meet him, your hand moving to rest against his chest as you looked up at him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
You shrugged, “Like what?: you asked innocently, smiling at him slightly.
“Like you are going to jump my bones,” he replied honestly, causing you to bark out a laugh.
Neither of you moved, staring at the other. You dragged your eyes across his form slowly, at an agonizing slowness causing goose bumps to fill his skin as if you were touching him. For a moment he swore he could feel you, pressed against him as he thrust into you, but you were still half a foot away from him.
‘What are you thinking of?” he asked, you moved forward your eyes acting as if you were undressing him from where you stood, before you finally were in arms reach.
You pressed your lips together as if you were truly in deep thought, but he knew you well enough to know exactly what you were thinking, but he wanted to hear you say it. He wanted to know exactly what you wanted.
He would give it to you.
He would give you anything and everything in his power he just needed to
You tilted your head back and forth, “Mayhaps you should handle me the same way you did those crates tonight,” you suggested, your eyes trailing up from his chest to meet his eyes.
He raised a brow, "Tonight?"
“Or now,” you said with a shrug, taking another step forward pressing yourself into him.
He nodded as if he was thinking about it, before he reached down, hauling you off your feet into his arm causing you to let out a loud laugh, “What will the staff say when they see their Prince throwing his wife around like a sack.”
“Just think of what they will say when they hear their Princess screaming out mid day in a moment,” he replied, a smile pulling at your lips.
You let out a laugh, “You talk big.”
“Oh, I plan to follow through,” he assured you.
You grinned, reaching forward to press your mouth to his, causing his fingers to dig into you as his grip tightened causing anticipation to fill you, “Take me to bed, husband.”
hi! i just read your drabble with remus fixing the readers attitude and i was wondering if you could do the same with sirius? i really loved your other one and seen you were trying to take requests for sirius.
i hope you have a wonderful day!!
Thanks for requesting, hope you have a lovely day as well <3
cw: d/s dynamics, reader has hair troubles and uses products + tries running fingers through it so it's long enough for that
Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 991 words
Sirius can hear you fuming from outside the bathroom. Heavy breaths and drawers being shut too harshly and the occasional, frustrated grunt. If it wouldn’t be such a betrayal of you, he’d take a video so Remus can see what he’s like while he’s transforming during a full moon.
“What’s going on in there, gorgeous?” he asks from the bed.
Your reply is nearly a growl. “Nothing.”
“Mm. Yeah, sounds like nothing.” Sirius gets up, going to the bathroom and nudging the door open. He leans against the doorframe as you scowl at yourself in the mirror, wringing product into your hair like you half hope it just tears off. “What’s got you so wound up?”
“Nothing.”
He tuts. “Not any more convincing the second time. Try again.”
You’re pointedly not looking at him, but Sirius notices that your scowl intensifies. “My hair is being fucking unbearable.”
Sirius opens his mouth, but you cut him off.
“And I don’t want to hear that it always looks good, or that you think I look nice no matter what, or any of that bullshit, okay?”
“That’s unfortunate. I’m sorry, sweetness, but I’m not going to start lying to you. Your hair is perfect, and you do always look—”
Your eyes bore into your own reflection, sharp and wrathful. “Don’t.”
Sirius’ eyebrows lift. “I’m sorry, don’t? Don’t compliment my girlfriend, or don’t be honest?”
“Either. I know you’re full of shit, because it looks insane right now, but even if you have miraculously gone blind since this morning, Lily and Alice will be there, and they know what hair should look like when it’s not being so—so—”
“Alright.” Sirius is beginning to grow amused with you. You’re so ridiculous when you’re upset, brash and squinty-eyed and cute. “Save yourself the exertion of finishing that sentence, gorgeous. Take a breath.”
“I don’t want to breathe!”
“And yet, we all have to anyway.”
“God, Sirius, fuck off!” You finally lock eyes with him in the mirror, positively fuming. “I knew you wouldn’t get it. I’m trying to look nice for your friends, and you’re making fun of me! If my hair would just—fucking—” You appear to give up on the product, your attention returning to your hair as you begin dragging your fingers through it mercilessly. “—do what I tell it to, maybe then I’d fucking breathe, but instead it’s basically unsalvageable, and—”
“Oi.” Sirius’ humor at the situation has vanished. By the time you think to look at him he has both your hands in his, restrained from doing further damage to yourself. “No. If you’re going to be like this about going to Frank and Alice’s, we won’t go. So is that it, or can you be good?”
Sirius uses the sharp tone he knows you’ll respond to, but really he isn’t angry. He only wants to give you pause. And oh, it’s so sweet to watch the brattiness leave your eyes. The terse pucker of your mouth softens to an almost imperceptible pout, your whole demeanor shifting in an instant.
He takes both your wrists in one hand. With the other, Sirius cups the side of your throat, fingers curled around your nape and thumb rubbing against your erratic pulse.
“I need an answer,” he says.
“Yes,” you say, and your voice is soft, like the sharp edge from a minute ago has been bitten off. “I can.”
“Good.” Sirius allows his tone to gentle some, though he keeps his firm grip on your wrists. “Then you have to relax, baby. Breathe.”
This time, you do as you’re told. It works as he knew it would, your shoulders drooping after the long exhale like the last of the fight has finally gone out of you.
“Thank you.” He touches his lips briefly to the center of your forehead, pretending not to notice how you sway towards him for more. “Now, do you still want to go to Frank and Alice’s tonight?”
You open your mouth, but this time it’s Sirius who stops you.
“Wait. Really think about it. Are you going to enjoy yourself, or are you going to spend the whole time feeling weird about your hair?”
You hesitate, rubbing your lips together. Sirius strokes his thumb down the line of your throat approvingly.
“I still think I want to go,” you say after a few moments.
“Okay.” Sirius nods. “Then you’re going to let me braid your hair for you. You’ll look just as lovely and perfect as you do now, but you won’t be able to mess with it any more. Does that sound alright to you?”
Your relief is palpable. You let out a breath, eyes growing suspiciously bright. “Yeah. That would be great, thank you.”
“Okay, come here.” Sirius releases your neck and wrists to wrap his arms around you. He presses his lips to your lovely, perfect hair while you curl your hands in his shirt as if to keep him from slipping away. Like Sirius would ever want to. “Shh. You’re fine, baby. Ease up.”
“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” you mumble against his front.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. You did it more than once, if I recall.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.” He laughs a little, hugging you tighter. “It’s okay. You get a hair insanity pass, just this once. Let’s have a good night, okay?”
You let out another sigh. Sirius rubs your back reflexively. “Yes, please.”
“M’kay. Let’s go.” He starts ushering you towards the bed, grabbing a couple of hair ties on his way out of the bathroom. “We’re done with the mirror for today. And no yelling at me while I do your hair, got it?”
You try on a coy smile; it’s small, but Sirius respects the effort. “I could never yell at you.”
“Uh huh. I may forgive, but I don’t forget that easily, sweetness. Try it again and we’ll be staying home to deal with that attitude of yours.”
Hiii! Could you write a meet cute for either remus lupin or sirius black with reader? It could be the first time they meet while at Hogwarts or get stuck working on a project together?
hi angel! thank you for requesting. i changed it a bit so it can be a hogwarts uni setting, i hope i made it justice! enjoy xx
sirius black x reader
word count: 2.7k
tags: gn!reader. hogwarts university au.
—
The club is bustling, packed to the brim and reeking of sweat with alcohol—all this is noticeable from where you’re standing outside. Thank God.
You wrap your cardigan around yourself, both in response to the sudden chill that overcomes you and to give your anxiety something to latch onto. The grip on your phone isn’t doing it anymore, and neither does the guard posted by the entrance that is still headset in not letting you inside.
“Please,” you say, for what feels like the millionth time just in the last twenty minutes. “I’ll just go check if she's okay and we’ll be leaving. I promise.”
The guard considers you, face impassive as he multitasks between checking bags and ignoring you. “You think you’re the first person to tell me that excuse to cut the line?” he smiles at a group of girls, gesturing them inside. Then at you sideways. “If you’re so eager to get in, I reckon you can wait in line.”
You scoff, pointing down at your clothes. “Do I look like I’m eager to get in?” you ask, at your patience’s end. The guard waves you off and turns back to the next people in line. “Okay—wow, thank you.”
He doesn’t provide any further reaction, clearly too used to these sorts of interactions. You wave him off, too; turning around to walk away and try calling your friend again. If she picks up or manages to hear her phone from the ruckus inside. The initial worry for her wellbeing is beginning to morph into one with irritation—not at her, but at the weird situation she’s put you in. Pausing your five hour study session for the Potion’s final to come pick her up after a worrisome phone call informing you she was too drunk, or drunk enough to start bargaining to leave with some strange person, and alone.
Again, straight to voice mail.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, letting your face drop to your hands. The edge of your phone digs into your forehead, screen lit up with your friend’s contact. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“Uh… hi?”
Your head snaps up, jumping both in surprise at the interruption of your thoughts and the cadence of the voice. Velvety smooth, throaty and… familiar.
“Hi,” you echo unconsciously, turning around and immediately regretting it. Sirius Black simply cocks his head to the side, flashing you his characteristic charming grin. Though it’s confused at the edges. Curious, almost. You clear your throat. “Sorry, hi.”
Sirius’ eyes continue scanning you curiously before snapping up to meet your gaze. “Hi,” he laughs. “You okay?”
You hug the cardigan closer to you, trying very hard to not let your own gaze drift somewhere else. “As of right now? No, actually,” your tone sours, sending a glare towards the bouncer. “Thanks for asking, though. I’ll just…”
He follows your glare, face breaking into yet another amused smile. “I gather Timmy is giving you a hard time?”
“Timmy?” you echo, momentarily distracted from your spiral to try and maybe sneak in.
Your eyes snap back to the entrance, the bouncer doesn’t really look like a Timmy. SIrius leans a bit back, studying you more intensely in your distraction. He schools his expression when you look back at him.
“Do you come here often?”
Sirius grins. “Well, that’s a new one.”
“What?”
“I’ve never had that line used on me before.”
“You’ve never had someone ask if you’re a regular at a club?”
“I have, yes,” he nods, voice lilting back into that smooth tone. You roll your eyes, forcing your gaze down at your phone. Anything to tame the strange fluttering in your stomach—it must be stress. There’s no way Sirius Black is flirting with you outside a— “No, but seriously… Are you okay? I saw you arguing with Timmy.”
Timmy. Of course, because now you’re on a first name basis with the bouncer, apparently.
“Yeah,” you rub at your forehead, being sourly reminded of the reason you’re standing here outside a packed club. “I’m just trying to get to my drunk friend before she accidentally joins a cult or gets married.”
Sirius blinks. For a moment he looks genuinely taken aback at your admission. He clears his throat when your eyes flash with amusement. “That’s… oddly specific. Has it happened before?”
You laugh, nimble fingers typing yet another lengthy text. “Oh, you’d be surprised at the kind of things she gets into when tequila is involved.”
A laugh escapes him, throaty and nice enough to make you glance up. “See, you can’t just drop cult and marriage anecdotes and leave me hanging,” he crosses his arms, ringed clad hands glistening under the lampposts. “Where is this friend of yours? I must know everything.”
“Inside—but your close personal friend Timmy won’t let me in.”
He clicks his tongue. “Oh, that simply won’t do,” his eyes study you more casually this time, amusement morphing into resolve before he's jutting his chin towards the club entrance. “Come on.”
“Come on where?”
“As you so lovingly said,” he turns around, walking backwards towards the front of the line. His smile is wide and charming. When you don’t move, he gestures at you more animatedly. “My close personal friend Timmy owes me one. Don’t you, Tim?”
Timmy, to his credit, doesn’t drop his disdain when you follow after Sirius.
“Don’t be rude, say hi to my friend, uh…?” Sirius turns to you, looking genuinely sheepish for a split second. It lasts shortly when you give him your name, face breaking into a grin. “Say hi to y/n, and let us in, please.”
“Hi,” he nods curtly at you, not quite letting you in, either.
“Great. Now,” Sirius gestures at Timmy to step aside. “If we could just…”
The bouncer studies you inquisitively, and you only flash him your most innocent smile—hoping it’ll be enough to convince him. Of course, Sirius’ charm does all the work. Timmy rolls his eyes before stepping aside, finally letting you inside.
You flash him a little grateful grin on your way in. Sirius’ laugh is the last thing you hear before music engulfs you entirely, pounding from every corner and with such intensity it feels like it’s rattling your bones.
He turns to you, lips parting as he speaks, you think he’s asking you about your friend but then you’re being stopped left and right the deeper you walk into the club. Sirius smiles and nods and winks as he guides you through the crowd—if the stark contrast of everyone’s glamorous appearance compared to your cozy demeanor wasn’t enough to make you feel out of place, this definitely does. You try to text your friend again, but none of them mark as read.
“Nothing?” Sirius asks loudly.
“What?”
Sirius shakes his head, bending his head closer. “Do you see your friend?” he asks, too close.
“No!”
He frowns, nodding once before tilting his head back to try and see over the crowd of people. You almost want to point out that he probably doesn’t even know who he’s supposed to be looking for. Thank God, your friend manifests herself exactly like you’d expect her to—stumbling her way out of the ladies room, her arm interlocked with a guy that is definitely less drunk than her.
“That’s her!” you point out, and Sirius blinks once before following your finger.
He’s moving before you can even think, and you only scramble after him because the bloke is pulling your friend towards the exit. You weasel around sweaty bodies and sequin dresses, couples dancing and avoiding being tackled by the ones openly snogging. Sirius is on your friend at record time, flashing his characteristic charming grin towards her—though it tightens when the bloke tries to step in.
“Hi, I’m here,” you say loudly, immediately pulling her towards you. Your friend stumbles to your side with a drunk giggle. “Sorry I’m late, Timmy wouldn’t let me in.”
“Who’s Timmy?” she laughs.
“Doesn’t matter,” you wave her off, guiding her arm around your shoulders when it’s clear she can’t walk a straight line.
Sirius is already gesturing at someone at the door, pointing between the bloke and him before another tall boy is nearly dragging him outside, he sends Sirius a curt nod before walking away. His scarred arms swatting any drunk attempts to stop the bloke from getting away.
“Alright!” Sirius says, turning to help you. His movements are less smooth as he approaches your friend. Tentative, almost. “Time to hit the road, party girl.”
Your friend giggles, head dropping to your shoulder. “That’s me!” she shouts, not at all minding the way she’s being actively manhandled through a sweaty crowd by you and Sirius Black. You’re beginning to feel a little sorry for the hangover that awaits her tomorrow.
Sirius herds you through the club and the bar, gesturing at the boy behind the counter for something until a sealed water bottle is being handed to him. He expertly shoves it behind the back pocket of his trousers before finishing your walk out the club.
You’re endlessly grateful when the breeze hits your face again. Your friend… not so much. She immediately goes limp on you, and the curse that escapes you is borderline hilarious in its frustration.
“Let’s get you down.” Sirius says, to no one in particular as he helps you set your friend down to sit at the curb. You crouch in front of her as she giggles to herself, but then he’s handing you the water bottle. “Think she can drink this?”
You take it out of reflex, uncapping it without thinking much before setting it in her hands. “Drink this. Small sips,” you instruct, feeling a little bad about the faint edge of your tone. But worry is beginning to seep into your general mood again. “Try to breathe, too. Don’t want you to get dizzy on the drive back.”
“Copy that,” she nods, saluting. “Captain!”
“Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes at her. “Stay still, please.”
When you stand, you catch Sirius scanning you again. That curious glint back in his gaze. He blinks, clearing his throat and pointedly looking away, pretending he was lost in thought and not openly staring. You wrap the cardigan around you again, mostly out of nervousness this time.
“Um,” you clear your throat, too. “Thank you.”
He smiles, that charming though tentative grin again. “No problem,” he nods. Then down at your friend. “Is she in the habit of going out partying alone?”
“No,” you frown, being cruelly pulled back to the reason of your frustration. “No, she was here with a couple of friends but they ditched her.”
At this, Sirius looks properly distressed. “What?”
“Right?” you spread your arms, feeling oddly vindicated by his reaction. “That’s so fucking vile!”
“Vile? Try bloody horrific.”
“I know! And then she calls me and it’s…” you shake your head, glancing down at your friend and feeling the stress dissipating. “I couldn’t come ‘cause I’m studying for that stupid Potions final and now I regret it. It sort of feels like I didn’t anyway, so.”
Sirius laughs, though quieter this time. “Well, for what it’s worth,” his eyes glance down to your friend as well, where she’s leaning sideways on your leg. “I think that saving your friend from a culty marriage is far more productive than memorizing moonstone properties.”
“Oh, don’t remind me,” you blurt out. Then blink, turning sideways to meet his gaze. “Wait—you’re in Slughorn’s class, too?”
“Yeah,” he nods, then drops his arms. You watch in barely suppressed awe as he brushes his hair away, almost sheepish. “Or I’m trying to. Turns out Potions isn’t really my forte.”
“I…” you blink again, brain clearly buffering. Or it has clearly taken many hits just today with everything that’s happened the last six hours, between the studying and now this. “I’ve never seen you in class. I’m sorry, I didn’t…”
“S’fine,” his smile goes sideways, still charmingly bashful in a way that softens him and causes problems to your fluttery heart. “Now you see why it’s not my forte.”
You smile, too. It slips momentarily when your friend’s weight gets impossibly heavier against your calf, nearly falling asleep on you. “Well,” you clear your throat. Forcing courage and conviction into your tone. “I’m not saying I’m very good but… if you, uh… need help to study…”
Sirius looks properly surprised at your very pathetic attempt at an olive branch. But he recovers quickly. “I think you might be underestimating how incompetent I am with a cauldron.”
“Well,” you say. Again. Jesus—what’s happening to you? Why has your brain gone blank? Sirius tilts his head in amusement when you take a bit longer to speak again. You clear your throat. “you did rescue my friend from a culty marriage, as you lovingly said. So… it’s only fair I return the favour.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’d really like that, actually,” his gaze flickers down at your friend before meeting your gaze again. His eyes have softened slightly, still amused but softer around the edges.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Sirius nods, smiling.
You find yourself mirroring it unconsciously. Then remember where you are, what you’re wearing and who’s nearly slumped over the curb by your side.
“Oh, fuck—um, sorry,” you scramble, crouching down to help her up. Sirius huffs an even quieter laugh before crouching to your side to help her up, too. “It’s okay, I can, uh…”
“I don’t mind,” he says easily, like he really doesn’t.
“It’s okay, I’ve already kept you away for too long.”
“Nothing Timmy can’t handle,” he waves you off, glancing down at the tinkling keys inside the pocket of your joggers. “Where’s your car? I can help you walk her up.”
You blink, buffering at the different questions and implications being thrown at you. It’d be easier if your brain wasn’t still latched on the fact that Sirius just accepted to study with you.
When it’s clear you’ve taken too long to answer again, Sirius tilts his head. It makes a curl fall on his face. “Right,” you clear your throat, fixing your hold around your friend. “Of course, yeah. This way.”
Sirius only salutes you. “Lead the way, captain.”
You do, though mostly to tame the faint warmth of your cheeks. You try to channel it somewhere else. “Jokes aside, you do seem to know your way with Timmy—and the place in general.”
He laughs. “I work at the bar,” his voice quietens again, like you’re in on a secret. “Occasionally.”
“Occasionally?”
“When I’m not helping lovely strangers try to find their friends, that is.”
You’re starting to feel like your friend’s drunkenness is beginning to rub off on you. Sirius only flashes you yet another smile before fixing his hold around her, careful but firm as you walk the rest of the way to your car. He dutifully waits as you open the door and make sure she’s secure and comfortable, seatbelt on before closing the door.
You swear there’s a fond glistening in his eyes when you pointedly lock the door on her. Lest she tries to escape while you’re distracted.
“Well,” you clear your throat. Then suddenly realize there’s no follow up.
“Well…” Sirius echoes, smiling. Tentative at first, like he’s gauging the words or mustering courage. “Are you still up for the challenge?”
“What challenge?”
“To make me remotely competent at Potions.”
“Oh,” you blink, hugging the cardigan closer to you. “Of course.” The words slip out before you can process them.
Sirius’ face breaks into a wider smile this time. Relieved, too.
“Lovely,” he shoves his hands into the pocket of his trousers. Smiling too hard you can’t help but smile back. “Uh… what about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Unless you have hangovers to tend to,” he says, eyes flickering to your car before moving back to you. His smile is easier now.
You laugh. “Right, of course. Um, not really,” you shake your head. Inside your chest, your heart flutters again. “I might try to slip away to the library before she wakes up.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s a heavy sleeper.”
He nods, seeming to pick up your meaning. “Is she now?”
“I say… uh, around noon?”
Sirius smiles. “Noon it is.”
You nod, not quite being able to look away from him. He seems to be on the same wavelength. Your friend… not so much. She clumsily reaches across the console to slam her hand into the honk of your car.
“Jesus!” you flinch, turning to glare at her. “What’s your problem? I’m going, my god!”
“Can we stop for food on our way home?” she screams, like you can’t hear her through the window. Like it isn’t halfway open.
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave her off. Passing a hand through your chest to tame your heart, Sirius huffs an amused laugh. “Sorry about that.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he shakes his head. Looking all soft and boyish. “I better leave you to it. Majesty requests her food.”
You laugh, stupidly delighted at his easy smile. Sirius’ eyes get knowing as he starts walking backwards towards the club again. “Thank you for everything.”
“No problem,” he winks. “See you tomorrow?”
Your heart slams in your chest, nearly against your palm as you hold his gaze. “See you tomorrow.”
Sirius doesn’t turn away. Not even when your friend honks again. His laugh overlaps with your startled yelp.
