Zabiba in the seven kingdoms

25❥ My main was getting crowded❥

[harritudur]

the pox 181 AC - The Red Keep

[oriixxc]

[searockwell]

another part of fighter!Maekar (ft. coach/brother and the best son ever, Egg) 🥊

[josnaket]

fem!lyonel the best girl

[therealbaelatargaryen]

͙͘͡★—Express Yourself, Don’t Repress Yourself

Includes: Ser Duncan the Tall x f!reader

Summary: The two times Duncan fantasized about having you, and the third time when he did.

WC: 2.7k

Warnings: NSFW 18+ work, read at your own discretion. Reader is described as having hair. Not proofread, don't hate me.

A/N: I'm so shit at dialogue I'm sorry but this idea is from this post by @believeyourgalaxy, all credit goes to her!! I love you Andromeda and thank you for the idea😘😘 This is the first fic I've ever published so I'm sorry if it's short I only really write headcanons, but I'm trying to write longer works

Dunk didn't mean to think of you like that. Not at first. He wasn't a degenerate. He was a perfect gentleman with you, as he should be, at least up until this point. 

You'd been sitting on the grass with Egg, staring at the clouds, pointing out the shapes of each one. The column of your neck was exposed, your head tilted back, and Dunk stared. Perversely so. The sheen on your skin from sweat, the shape of your lips, the way your hair moved in the hushed breeze, elegant and regal as you always seemed to be, despite being no princess or noblewoman. The thought came before he could stop it. How his hands might look just above the hollow of your neck, holding, not choking, how your face would change in pure ecstasy if he'd been inside you, what you would—

"That one looks like my brother. It's ugly like him, too," Egg snickered, interrupting Dunk's reverie. You laughed with him, and your head turned faintly to face Dunk, your eyes meeting his for a moment. He nearly fell off the tree stump he sat on. A small, shy smile turned up the corners of his lips, and his cheeks felt hot. He wanted to swing the axe he held into his chest, mortified at his own mind. How could he think such a depraved thing about you? He's meant to be a knight now, gallant and respectful of all ladies, no matter their stature. He couldn't even think to look you in the eyes for the rest of the week. 

This was the first of three incidents. 

You had been with Dunk and Egg since the Ashford tourney, once journeying with Tanselle and her puppeteers, now a close companion of the two technical fugitives. You groomed the horses, helped cook the food, cleaned the cuts on Egg's knees after he fell from the trees he so loved to climb. In turn, Dunk taught you stitching and Egg taught you courtly manners, should you ever encounter royalty. You were an odd kind of family, but a family nonetheless. Dunk wasn't set out to ruin the tender life you'd built with one another. His inadvertent lusting was as big of a problem for him as it would be for you should you find out. 

The second incident came when you left early in the morning to bathe in a nearby lake. You needed a cleansing from all the dirt and grime that had built up during your travels. Dunk had only gone looking for you in the first place because he was worried for you, though what he got in return was much more than the reassurance that you were alright. You stood waist-deep a few yards out with your back to him, and the first light of dawn reflected off the clear waters, illuminating your naked figure. He could feel his trousers grow tighter around his crotch and his mouth begin to water. 

Dunk strained his ears to hear the tune you were singing softly, desperate for more of your voice. It was an old ballad about the days of dragons and magic, one he'd heard hundreds of times, yet none of the singers in Flea Bottom sounded half as perfect as you did.

He watched you until you got out, buttoning up your clothes and tying the laces of your boots, and he hid behind a thick oak tree as you walked back through the woods to your campsite, staring at your retreating form, dress sticking slightly to your damp curves. You were back within thirty minutes, but he took an hour to gather himself, or more directly, touch himself. He told himself he was only doing it to avoid the awkwardness of you seeing him with an erection if it didn't go down promptly. He promised he wasn't like those deviants Ser Arlan Pennytree had told him about as he rubbed his thumb over the tip of his cock, precum slipping down his hand in thick spurts. 

Dunk shut his eyes and pretended it was you instead, your hand over his to guide, your whispers in his ear to talk him through it, your lips on his jaw to calm him. He came faster than he ever had in all his life, the orgasm wracking his body and tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He had to wait an entire five minutes to get proper use of his legs back. He felt the need to beg for your forgiveness once he arrived back by your tent, and for a crime you had no knowledge of him committing. 

Egg was a clever boy. He couldn't quite get a read on how you felt about Dunk, but he knew Dunk was head over heels for you. In his whole decade of living, he'd witnessed many wedding ceremonies and even more courting, so naturally he offered his advice on the matter. 

"You must woo her, ser. There aren't supple resources to properly court her, but an excursion in some wildflower field should do. Fair maidens like that. Bring food. And a blanket to sit on. My father used to do it with my mother quite often. I think it's how my sister Rhae came about, actually..." Egg pondered. Dunk denied any claims of harboring non-platonic affections for you, though he stored the idea for another time. Perhaps one where he could properly keep his eyes off your breasts for more than thirty seconds. 

The third and final incident happened on the same picnic Egg suggested. He'd invited you alone to join him, finding a gorgeous field full of assortments of different flowers and plants. You'd been staying at a surprisingly well-kept tavern at a small, welcoming village, and Dunk had seized the opportunity when Egg, exhausted from the traveling, fell asleep for a nap. For all his maturity, he was still just a boy. 

"I reckon we go out to that meadow just outside the village. Be...refreshing," he offered shyly while you two sat at a table in the tavern, fumbling with the strings of his shirt to give him something to do.

"I'd like that," you agreed, fixing his tunic for him and his eyes could have rolled to the back of his head at the warmth of your hands on him. "I'll go change first, still have dirt on my dress." He breathed a sigh of relief once you left the bar to go to your room, thanking the gods. As soon as you came back, he cursed them. The gown you wore was tight, form fitting above your hips and looser past your thighs, cut low enough to be ruinous for his filthy mind, but not improper or whorish.

"You look...er, nice," he stammered. Nice? What kind of compliment was that? You don't seem to notice his state of disarray, and if you do, you don't comment on it. You walked silently to the meadow, holding the basket while he held the blanket, and all he could do was think. Long and hard. 

He inwardly questioned how thin the fabric of your dress was. Would it rip easily if he pulled too hard? Did it feel snug around your breasts? Has it been brushing across the ravishing nipples he'd seen that morning at the lake? He only noticed he was staring when you waved a hand in front of his face. 

"My eyes are up here, you realize?" You chuckled. He couldn't have felt more humiliated. 

"I'm begging your pardon, gods, I meant nothing by it! Well, I suppose I did, but I'm dreadfully sorry nonetheless. I...this has been causing me grief, I must admit," he sputtered. You'd stopped walking a few feet ahead of him, your piercing gaze focused on him. He suppressed a shudder.

"What's been causing you grief, Duncan?" 

Fucking hells. 

"Y-You. It's rather hard to...think proper things 'round you. It's as if you do it on purpose. Do you do it on purpose?" He inquired, eyes on the ground.

"Do what on purpose? You're being terribly vague. You can tell me whatever's bothering you. Even if it's me." Now you couldn't look at him, and he felt even worse. Dunk was the one who deserved damnation, not you!

"It's not your fault! You've done nothing at all. It's me. It's all me, I swear it. I...I can't stop thinking about you. The things you do, the things you make me want to do to you, things I'm sure you don't realize you do. I-I think of wicked matters often, my lady. Corrupt and immoral matters...," he paused, inhaling sharply. "Matters a knight of the realm has no business thinking. Especially not about the fairest maiden he accompanies." The words tumbled from his mouth, unrefined and riddled with anxiety. 

You didn't respond for five minutes. In reality, it was only thirty seconds, but it may as well have been more with the way Dunk was itching for a reply. 

"You fancy me, then?" You questioned bashfully, a nervous smile forming. 

"Well, of course I bloody well fancy you. I-I more than fancy you, my lady." He choked. 

"Egg is still in the tavern room, so we can't go there," you contemplated, brows furrowing. 

"What's Egg got to do wi—oh. Oh. I-I see." Duncan had never cum in his trousers before, though it seems there's a first time for everything where it comes to you. 

"Unless you don't wish to—"

"I do! I do! Very...very much so. We could still go out to the meadow." His eyes met yours. You bit your lip, he fought the urge to adjust his breeches. You held out a hand to him, he took it without question. 

It only took you ten minutes to arrive, and three to shed your clothing. It was risky, you knew it. The grass could only cover so much, and Dunk was so big. Fuck, he was so. big. The kisses started tentative. Soft, hesitant pecks that turned ravenous. Your breathing became shallow and labored, inhales stolen between the brushes of your lips against his. His firm, muscular hands traveled the span of your body as he loomed over you, the velvety blanket under you already getting soaked between your thighs. 

Dunk's stomach chest was tight but not in the way he felt when he was sick, or embarrassed, or angry. It was interlaced inside of him with the warmth of you, and it only grew as his kisses became deeper. His tongue brushed your bottom lip and you parted for him instinctively, letting him swallow your moan. After a few more minutes of gentle exploration, he pulled back, resting his forehead on yours. 

"Can I? I'll make it good..." He implored, one hand inching up your leg. You didn't trust yourself enough to speak, so you only nodded twice. You'd heard from women all over Westeros about this. You knew his hand was meant to go between your folds, to feel inside of you, and you took a breath, preparing yourself. What you didn't expect was his tongue. 

It laved at your cunt, flitting and gliding over your clit so nimbly that your back arched and one hand tangled in his hair for stability. The other clapped over your mouth to cover a moan that resembled more of a scream. You were thoroughly enjoying yourself, then he pulled away, only an inch or two. 

"Don't do that, please," he cooed. "I wanna hear you. I need to hear you."

"Alright..." Your hand slides down to his shoulder and he proceeds, tongue circling and tracing anywhere he could reach, lapping up the slick as soon as you released it. The real surprise came when his tongue breached inside you, and he could tell how well he was doing from your whines and gasps. The heat that felt like fire swirling in your veins became concentrated, pooling in your lower belly. 

"Duncan—" You had no time to voice your concerns, the pleasure that had been coiling now burst with a broken half-groan. You felt him already tasting your release as soon as you gathered your bearings. 

"Shhh, 's alright," he assured you, his cheek against your thigh and the incessant pressure finally ceasing for a moment. You felt the overstimulation exhausting you like a wave of dizziness, and you were certainly primed to tap out, then you looked at him. The perfect man looking at you and thinking the same thing. You couldn't leave him unsatisfied after he just turned your world inside out then upside down. 

"We can stop, lovely," he sighed, mouth glistening. 

"None of that. Come here," you crooked a finger at him, and he was up in milliseconds. His hands found your breasts, thumbs pushing into your nipples in tandem, feeling each ridge and depression with admiration. You kissed him to muffle the lewd noises escaping the both of you, tongues tangling in the only real fight you two had. You wrapped your legs around his waist, signaling to him, and he drew back. 

"You're sure?"

"Positive." 

Dunk exhaled slowly, steeling himself, then guided his noticeable large cock towards your cunt. You should've inspected it beforehand in hindsight. There was no way you could take it without splitting yourself open. He ground the length of it up and down your slit, gradually gathering your wetness as lubricant, and it only served to make you more aroused. After several agonizingly slow tries, he finally sheathed himself inside of you, his head dropping onto your shoulder as his breaths grew ragged. 

"You're squeezing me, lovely," he grunted. "Tell me when you're ready." 

Your hands gripped his broad shoulders and you nuzzled against him where he hid in your neck. "Ready." 

The first thrust was unhurried, a careful drag of him inside you. You felt each vein, each ridge, the heated push and pull as your walls pulled him in further. He grasped your hips, holding you in place. You hadn't realized you were bucking up into him for more. 

"Be patient. Please." 

You preened, your face growing hot. The thrusts gradually grew faster, deeper, stronger. It took no time at all for the both of you to be moaning in tandem, mumbling praises and sweet nothings. 

“Never needed anything as bad as you, my pretty girl. Seven hells—haah—you take it so well, fit like my missing piece,” he murmured into your hair, kissing anywhere he could reach. The tip of his cock hit the perfect spot relentlessly, pounding against your sensitive walls, thrusting all the way in, then all the way out. The hair trailing from his navel to his crotch brushed against your clit, stimulating you further. 

“I’m going to—mmphh—again—” You croaked. Instead of giving you peace, Dunk sped up, sharp, uneven rams of his hips against yours, a small bulge visible where he was inside you. 

“Go on. Go on. Take it all.” He growled, and you realized it wasn’t your release he was talking about. You couldn’t think anymore about it because your second orgasm of the day hit you. Not as hard as the first, but it was drawn out, your vision swimming from the after effects. 

His followed only seconds later. You felt the hot, sticky fluid gush into you, jet after jet after jet of his seed. You’d never seen a man cum before, but it couldn’t have been normal for all of them to have this much. It took several minutes for him to pull out, and your fluids poured out of your overused cunt, staining the blanket below. 

It was dusk now, you must have been out here for hours. You knew somewhere in the back of your mind Egg might be worried, but you were too worn out to care.

"Just rest, I'll be right here, love," Dunk kissed the crown of your head and you succumbed to the fatigue. Your eyelids fluttered and the last thing you felt before falling asleep was thick, brawny arms tugging you to the comfort of a familiar body. 

© therealbaelatargaryen — i do not consent to my work being translated, plagiarized, or fed into ai. it’s weird and mean guys, don’t do it.

[whimsy-goat]

Gwayne the man you are

[ildico-the-golden]

the first time you touch them

is this really me writing fluff w/o smut again? writing for the lady in waiting!reader AU again??

How did Baelor and Maekar react the first time you properly touched them?

Includes: Baelor Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader / Maekar Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader

Warning(s): none that I can think of.

The morning of the Small Council meeting began badly.

Not disastrously badly. Nothing had caught fire, no lord had issued threats of rebellion, and King Daeron had not yet reduced grown men to trembling silence before midday.

By court standards, this counted as promising.

And yet Prince Baelor Targaryen already looked tired. You noticed it immediately, of course.

The signs were small: the faint tension held at the corners of his mouth, the way he rubbed absently at his temple while rereading correspondence, the quiet stillness that settled over him whenever responsibility began stacking too heavily across his shoulders.

Most people mistook Baelor’s composure for ease, but you had learned better.

Queen Myriah sat near the window of her solar while servants moved around her preparing for the day. The room smelled faintly of orange peel and sandalwood, morning light spilling gold across tiled floors.

Baelor stood near the mirror fastening the dark doublet appropriate for council meetings, already half-focused elsewhere mentally.

“You are thinking too hard, my prince,” you told him.

Without turning, he sighed softly. “Good morning to you as well, my lady.”

The Queen smiled faintly over the rim of her cup.

“You see?” she said to you. “I told you'd notice immediately.”

Baelor glanced toward his mother with long-suffering patience. “You both speak of me as though I am not present.”

“That is because you rarely are entirely present before council meetings,” you replied.

His eyes narrowed slightly with quiet amusement. That expression had become dangerously usual in him recently.

“You are bold this morning,” he jested.

“And you are tired this morning.”

“A tragic condition, apparently visible to everyone.”

“Not everyone,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Only people paying attention.”

The words landed softly in the room. Baelor looked at you then, and suddenly you became aware that perhaps speaking honestly to Prince Baelor so early in the morning was an unwise decision.

Queen Myriah, traitorous woman that she was, hid a knowing smile behind her cup before rising gracefully from her chair.

“I have suddenly remembered another matter requiring my attention,” she announced.

You stared at her in disbelief. Baelor looked suspiciously unsurprised.

“My queen—”

“Do ensure my son arrives at council looking respectable,” she interrupted smoothly while crossing toward the adjoining chamber. “The realm grows distressed when princes appear disordered.”

Then she disappeared entirely, abandoning you alone with the heir to the Iron Throne.

Silence followed. A warm silence. A quite dangerous silence.

Baelor turned back toward the mirror, though you noticed the faint curve threatening the corner of his mouth.

“My mother conspires against me.”

“Your mother conspires against everyone. It is how she shows affection.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. You tried very hard not to notice how much you liked being the cause of that sound. Your gaze caught on the silver Hand’s pin fastened crookedly against the dark fabric of his doublet.

“Oh, Seven above—” you muttered.

Baelor blinked. “That is rarely an encouraging beginning to a sentence.”

“You are about to attend Small Council looking as though you dressed in the dark.”

“I assure you I did not.”

“One could not prove it from the state of that collar.” Before caution intervened, you crossed the room toward him.

Only when you stopped directly before him did it occur to you that perhaps approaching Prince Baelor with the intention of adjusting his clothing without permission was deeply inappropriate.

Unfortunately, by then it was too late.

“You permit entirely too many responsibilities to distract you,” you murmured.

Baelor stood very still as you reached upward to straighten the high collar of his doublet, the fabric beneath your fingers was warm. So was the skin of his throat where your knuckles brushed accidentally against it.

Your breath caught slightly.

Gods.

Up close, he was unfair to look at. Dark hair touched gently by silver at the edges, mismatched eyes lowered toward you with dangerous attentiveness, morning light catching soft gold along the edges of him.

You focused determinedly on the silver Hand’s pin instead. “This is crooked,” you informed him quietly.

“So I gathered.”

“You gathered correctly, yet you decided to ignore it.”

“That as well.” There was amusement in his voice now. Soft amusement, the kind reserved only for private moments.

Your fingers brushed the centre of his chest lightly while refastening the pin properly. You could feel the steady pace of his breathing beneath the layers of cloth and leather. You could also feel the rhythmic thumping of his heart through his chest.

Or perhaps it was your own pulse that had simply become loud enough to confuse them both.

“There,” you murmured after a moment. “Now you resemble the Hand of the King again.”

Neither of you moved. Your hands remained lightly against his chest. Baelor looked down at you and suddenly the air felt far too warm.

You became acutely aware of everything at once: the breadth of his shoulders, the nearness of him, the fact that your fingers still rested against his clothing.

Slowly, carefully, you began to pull away.

Baelor reacted before either of you seemed prepared for it. His hands closed gently around your wrists. Not forcefully. Not enough to restrain, just enough to stop your retreat.

The touch shocked through you both and you froze instantly. So did he. For one suspended moment neither of you breathed properly.

Baelor’s hands were warm around your wrists. Your own heartbeat stumbled painfully against your ribs as your gaze lifted fully to his.

He looked startled. Not by you, you gathered. Rather by himself, as though he had not meant to reach for you at all. And perhaps that was the most dangerous part; the realization that wanting your touch had become instinctive.

Colour began rising slowly across his face then, touching first the tips of his ears before warming gradually along his cheekbones. A real blush. Beautiful and helpless and entirely devastating.

You stared before you could stop yourself. Baelor let out a quiet breath that sounded almost embarrassed.

“I apologize,” he said softly.

But he did not let go immediately. Your pulse fluttered traitorously beneath his fingers.

“You caught me,” you whispered.

His expression shifted slightly at that. Something rawer in its nature. Something openly yearning before composure could conceal it again.

“Yes,” Baelor murmured, voice suddenly rougher than before. “I think perhaps I did.”

The words settled heavily between you. Not just flirtation. Something worse. Honesty.

Then, as though remembering himself all at once, Baelor released your wrists carefully. But his hands lingered a fraction too long. And the worst part, the truly catastrophic part, was the unmistakable look of reluctance in his eyes when he finally let you go.

Prince Maekar Targaryen was angry before you even entered the room.

Not loud anger. That would have been easier. No, this was the colder sort. The kind that sharpened him into something dangerous and silent.

You recognized it immediately when you stepped into the armoury adjoining the training yard and found him half out of his armour, stripping leather gloves from his hands with enough force to suggest he imagined the buckles personally offensive.

A squire hovered nearby looking deeply committed to surviving the experience.

“Leave us,” Maekar said without looking up.

The boy fled instantly. You watched the door slam shut behind him.

“You frightened him.”

“He should frighten more easily. It may preserve his life.”

You crossed your arms. “That is a deeply concerning mentoring philosophy.”

“I was not aware I was mentoring.”

“You corrected his footwork for nearly an hour.”

“That is called preventing stupidity.”

“Mm.” Maekar shot you a narrowed look.

Gods, you thought. Even irritated, he was unfairly striking.

His white-gold hair was damp from training; pale strands pushed carelessly back from his face while sweat darkened the collar of his undershirt. The beard along his jaw failed entirely to conceal the flush of exertion beneath it, though it softened the visibility of the old pox scars crossing his skin.

You had long since stopped seeing those scars first. Unfortunately, you knew, Prince Maekar had not.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You disappeared after court. Your lady mother wondered whether you planned to attend supper or declare war instead.”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “A difficult choice.”

“There are less destructive hobbies.”

“You say this as though you know any peaceful people.”

“That is fair.”

Silence settled briefly.

Maekar turned away from you then, reaching for the leather fastening at his forearm bracer with visible irritation. The strap had twisted partially beneath itself. He tugged harder, but it refused to move.

A curse slipped beneath his breath.

You watched another moment before sighing. “You are behaving like a man personally betrayed by leather.”

“It is caught.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“I am handling it.”

“You are losing a battle against your own armour.”

“I was unaware you came here to mock me.”

“You make it effortless.”

Another sharp look, but there was less heat behind it now. You stepped closer before he could object.

“Hold still.”

“I did not grant permission—”

“You also did not successfully remove the bracer.”

Maekar muttered something deeply unprincely under his breath but allowed you near. The moment you reached for his arm, however, the entire room seemed to shift.

You felt it instantly, the sudden awareness, the dangerous stillness in him.

Your fingers brushed the inside of his wrist while working the tangled fastening loose. Warm skin. Calloused hands. The solid tension of muscle held too tightly beneath your touch.

Maekar stopped moving completely. Not politely still, more specifically frozen.

You glanced up instinctively. Mistake.

He was already looking at you, not at your hands. At you.

Something sharp and unreadable had entered his expression, violet eyes fixed intently on your face while you stood far too close to him in the warm golden quiet of the armoury.

Your pulse stumbled. “You truly are terrible at this,” you said softly, mostly to break the tension before it consumed you both.

“I am aware.”

“You nearly strangled yourself with the straps.”

“I was managing.”

“You were declaring blood vengeance against buckles.”

One corner of his mouth shifted faintly beneath the beard. The sight startled warmth unexpectedly through your chest.

“There,” you murmured after loosening the fastening properly. “Done.”

But instead of stepping away immediately, your attention caught briefly on the edge of a fresh bruise darkening along his jaw near the line of old scars. The colour stood vivid beneath the torchlight and, without thinking, you touched it lightly.

Maekar inhaled sharply. The sound froze you where you stood.

Your fingertips rested briefly against the roughness of beard and scar and bruised skin beneath. And Maekar—

By the Seven. He looked shattered by it.

His entire body had gone rigid beneath your touch, as though every instinct warred simultaneously between leaning closer and retreating entirely. You realized suddenly, horribly, that no one touched him gently. Not without purpose and certainly not the scars.

Heat climbed immediately into your face. “I am sorry, I did not—”

“Do not apologize, please.” The words came rough and broken at the same time.

Maekar’s gaze had dropped briefly to your hand against his face as though he could not quite comprehend it being there.

Then slowly, almost cautiously, his eyes lifted back to yours. You felt his breath hot against your wrist, yet neither of you moved. The air between you had become painfully thin.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” he said quietly.

Your brows drew together. “Like what?”

His jaw tightened beneath your fingertips. “As though I am broken.”

Something in your chest ached instantly.

“You are not broken.”

“No?”

“No.” Your thumb brushed lightly, instinctively, once beneath the line of his beard before you could stop yourself. “Just used to being treated as though you should never need gentleness.”

Maekar went completely still again.

Then colour rose suddenly beneath his scars and beard alike, visible even through both. A harsh, undeniable flush spreading across his cheekbones and straight toward the tips of his ears.

You stared in honest astonishment. Prince Maekar looked furious about it, which only made it worse.

His eyes dropped away from yours immediately, breathing uneven now in a way you had never heard from him before.

“You,” he muttered hoarsely, “are fucking dangerous.”

Your heart nearly stopped. Because despite the accusation, despite the tension, the embarrassment and the visible struggle for composure, he had not pulled away from your hand.

I had this sitting down in my computer and felt like I wanted to go back to my origins for a bit. Yearning canon-esque Baelor and Maekar are back for a cameo!!

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[ser-duncan-the-best]

Dunk's kindness is especially hot because it is NOT born out of naivety. That man has lived a horrible life, seeing the worst of humanity, but still chose to believe in the inherent goodness of man. That's what makes him so appealing.

[s1lentsadist]

[vaokses]

Where I am good and loved Masterlist

Navigation

Pairing(s): Daeron Targaryen x Female!Reader

Summary:

A collection of non-chronological but connected stories about Daeron and the wife he is given in an arranged marriage. Each installment can be read as a standalone (hopefully), but together they follow the early months and years of a betrothal and then marriage.

Here I will delve into aspects of Daeron's dreams and the things he does to avoid them or survive them, how he might view himself and how he might face the possiblity of being loved, among other things.

Chapters: The stories are listed below in chronological order, not posting order. Some belong to smaller subseries within the collection; those are marked in brackets.

I cannot leave myself

Before the marriage. Daeron, drunk and alone before he ever meets his future wife, learns again how easily his body can become a place where other people take what they want.

Nothing between them but

Maekar’s POV, before the marriage. The Martells arrive at Summerhall, and Maekar tries to turn fear for his son into something else.

Love and mutual incomprehension

First meeting. Daeron has spent three days without wine because his betrothed is arriving. It does not make him better. It only makes him easier to see.

To recieve you

First meeting. The Martells arrive at Summerhall. Daeron meets his betrothed.

I'm not sure what peace is // What it's supposed to feel like // It may feel a lot like you

Early marriage. Daeron ends up on the floor of his wife’s room, too exhausted to leave and too ashamed to ask for comfort properly.

I can, I do

[Soft Midnight Breathing]. Early marriage. Daeron comes to his wife’s room with a bent hairpin that is not hers. It is a poor excuse, but she lets it become what he cannot ask for.

Her hair touching my arm

[Soft Midnight Breathing]. Early to later marriage. After a long public day, Daeron asks to help undo the last pieces of your hair for the night, and learns that a small mistake does not mean his hands are no longer wanted.

And I think, I've loved you

[Soft Midnight Breathing]. First kiss. You are happy with him, and kiss him before he can hide how much it pleases him to be the reason why.

Still, there is this

Various moments of the marriage. Across four moments at Summerhall, Daeron mishandles jealousy, fear, shame, and wanting, until proximity becomes easier to reach for than injury.

With the breath

[By Sun and Candlelight]. Early to later marriage. Daeron has made rooms laugh before. This is the first time happiness does it for him.

The terror of all times

[Soft Midnight Breathing]. Early to later marriage, dreams. The dreams have been quiet, which means Daeron knows they are waiting.He comes to your door with an empty cup and no right answer, and finds the floor beside your bed made into a place to stay.

I do, but I am afraid // We can't deny it

Early to later marriage.

[myladysapphire]

hiii! could you do some akotsk headcanons about how the men would react if their wife stole their clothes and wore their shirts? maybe she thinks their shirts are way more comfortable than her own dresses, or she just likes the feeling of wearing something that smells like them. sometimes the shirts are obviously too big, but she walks around like it’s totally normal. how would they react the first time they notice her in one of their shirts? would they be embarrassed, flustered, amused, or secretly happy about it?

AKOTSK Men reacting to their wife wearing their shirt

For Baelor, Maekar, Lyonel x wife!reader

not proofread, sexual innuendos, reader is implied to be shorter/smaller than men. no descriptions given.

Baelor (<200 words)

“What are you wearing, my dear?” Baelor asked, watching as you readied yourself for bed, choosing one of his shirts over your many night gowns.

You shrugged, turning to face your husband with a smile, “It’s more comfortable.”

He smiled, patting your side of the bed and urging to come to him, “i can see that,” he mused, reaching for you as you sat beside him. “I like you in my clothes,” he hummed reaching over to place a kiss on your cheek, you smiled as he did so, reaching for the book in his lap and placing it on his bedside table.

“Perhaps I should forgo my gowns and wear your shirts instead,” you hummed , sitting in the bed to face him.

“I believe you should wear only my clothes from now on my dear.” He chuckled his hands settling in your hips as you leaned down to place a kiss on his lips, “particularly my shirts and nothing else,”

You smiled laughing at his words as you reached down and placed another kiss to his lips.

Maekar (350 words)

“Wife, have you seen my shirts?” Makear called out, searching his drawers for his shirts, only to find nothing. 

A small laugh sounded behind him, a gleeful laugh that had the stern look on Makear’s face faltering. He turned to where you were readying yourself for bed, your body donned with Maekar’s shirt, your own nightgown nowhere in sight.

“Is that my shirt?” he grunted, prowling towards you as you toyed with the ends of his shirt, a smile on your face as he reached for you. “Are you the thief that has emptied my drawers?”

You cocked your head. “Mayhaps,” you hummed, reaching up and pressing your lips to his, “i much prefer them to my own clothes.”

“So you chose to steal mine?”  Maekar shook his head. “We could order you clothes the same as mine; you need not steal them.”

“But they feel better stolen,” you hummed, your hands flying to his as they rested on your hip.

Maekar clicked his tongue, eyeing you with a bemused look. “How so?”

You smiled, reaching up to place another kiss on his lips. “They smell of you.” 

Maekar thought of a smile, his eyes assessing you as he took in the shirt on your form. It was much too big for you, almost comically so. And the fact that you had stolen them made it clear that you had no plans on giving them back, at least until they stopped smelling like him. 

“How long have you been wearing my clothes?”

“Just your shirts, “ you hummed. “Yesterday, the maid had placed one of your shirts in my own drawers, and I had decided to wear it. It was nice to have a piece of you all day, no matter how annoying it can be to deal with your overly large shirts,” you hummed, your hands moving up with Maekar as they caressed your body. 

Maekar smiled, “I suppose we could share my shirts…if you reveal where it is you have hidden my shirts?”

You laughed, nodding your head as Makear tugged on his shirt, pulling you closer to him. 

Lyonel (<300 words)

Lyonel watched as you walked around the library, his shirt hanging loosely from your body as you reached to place a book on the shelf. 

“Wife,” he laughed, watching as you tripped over your own feet. “What is it you are doing?” he asked, coming up behind you and grabbing the book from your hands. 

“I'm organising the library, it has been left alone for far to long,” you hummed, turning to face lyonel as he reached around you to place the book in its place. He laughed, as he did for everything. 

“And is that why you chose to wear my shirt, to not messy your own gowns?”

You blushed, backing away from him slightly as you reached for the pile of books you were organising, walking as if it were no oddity to be walking around in a shirt too large.” Not at all,” 

Lyonel laughed, is eyes assessing the library as he took in all you had done, before his eyes landed back on you. “Is that so?”

You turned to your husband, blushing at his gaze. “They are comfortable,” you hummed, “and they smell like you.” 

A large smile took over his face at your words, his hands moving back to your waist as you moved up the ladder you had leaned against the endless bookshelves, pulling you off the ladder and tossing you over his shoulder. “What are you doing?” you laughed as Lyonel walked from the library to your chambers. 

“You wish to smell like me, yes?”

“Yes,” you agreed, attempting to look over your shoulder to catch sight of your husband.

 “Then im going to make sure you smell just like me,” he laughed, throwing open the doors to your chambers, his hands already reaching to peel his shirt from your body.

[derailedfiction]

dad!Lyonel / husband!Lyonel

warnings: none, family fluff stuff, some suggestive talk (i guess?)

pairings: Lyonel Baratheon/Reader

wc: ~ 900

a/n: the number of children is unspecified, tho as reading you can think of ~5/6 (🙈🙉🙊)

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel who is all “she may be your mother but she is my wife first. You will have to deal with me now..” whenever children decide to not listen to you

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel who sits in the solar fighting with letters and petitions, cursing under his nose until the closing of the door and quiet voice distracts him.

“Father, I fucked up,” it takes everything in him not to snort at the confession.

“First of all, language. Secondly, what happened?” he asks putting the child on his lap.

“I told mother I like you better,” he waits in silence for following explanation, “That you’re more fun and don’t put me in timeout.”

“Young lady, you perfectly know I always back your mother so if she says you need a timeout, it means I also say that. So you will go and sit through your consequences then you are going to apologise to your mother, and I’ll check on her.”

And he sets the offspring free to search for you, hidden in your shared bedroom looking miserable. You didn’t move as you heard him approaching, just sniffled one more time as the mattress dipped under Lyonel as he sat next to you.

“Are you alright?” he inquiries and swipes the remaining tears from your cheeks away.

“Can I sometimes hate my children?” your head takes its place on his shoulder as you look for comfort in his embrace. He just hums in silent agreement, “You know it’s all your fault really? I’m no fun and cry at any given opportunity because of this.”

You point at your pregnant belly, carrying one more Baratheon to disappoint. Loud chuckle rumbles through your husband’s chest as he kisses crown of your head.

“I can take the blame for that but I am always your knight in a shiny armour first.”

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who is a type of a father that storms into the nursery and goes, “I need a volunteer.”

“What have you done?” the children are not even surprised by his sudden entrance.

“I’ll pay,” distant angry noises coming closer, “a stag”

“a dragon and I’ll consider, father.”

“Fine. You’re a good daughter. My love, I have her!” and storms out

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who knows that you forbade children from eating any extra sweets before night, but still creeps in the kitchen’s pantry in the dead hour to snack on some lemon cakes with two of your oldest children. Hushing each other on the way back, just to find you waiting in the doorway

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel/husband!Lyonel, whose play time with children would often end up with him hidden in your wardrobe, for you to bump into him occasionally.

“Remind me, why there is a pack of wild children running around the castle searching for you?” you ask and sit next to him, sliding in between the dresses.

“Because every two or so years you ask me for one more. And who am I to deny anything to my sweet wife?” he gives you a wink, “Besides we play hide and seek.”

“Fair enough. You want some?” you hand him a piece of blueberry pie.

“Didn’t you say no sweets before dining?” he teased.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” you shrug and eat the cake with wide grin, hearing a thunder of feet approaching.

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who you would find in the nursery, heavily asleep with your youngest toddler on top of him, secured by his hand. two other children also snoring in the close proximity, between evident after-battle disarray of pillows, wooden swords and other toys

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who is a world-class toddler-tossing champion since forever. The moment this man is sure the head won’t fall off the child, it’s over. Throwing left and right, up and down into pillows, the louder the cheerful babbling the higher the babe goes, echoed by Lyonel’s booming laughter.

You on the other hand, for your own sanity you decided not to watch after that one time when the child was literally launched into air and he almost failed to catch it. If the look could kill you’d be a widow and babe would be sitting with joyful tears on its incinerated remains of your spouse.

Later you would scold him, “do you know how long it takes to produce a baby?! You’re not wasting my work!!”

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who, when given time, would carve small figures for children to play with. Mostly various animals or beasts from legends, to the extent your children end up with a literal zoo in their nursery

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who would set up a tent pavilion just because his daughters wanted to sit in a meadow the whole day and make flower crowns, and because he would rather die than any of them would get uncomfortable

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who likes spending time on said days laying on the grass or pillows, listening to childish chatter, accepting all flowery ornaments they produced, adorning himself with them to the point that he resembles more of a maypole rather a lord paramour, when the whole pack returns to the storm’s end

⋆˚࿔ dad!Lyonel who prefers to check on the children at night himself, especially when they are ill. sits with them, reads books or tells stories to boost morale; makes sure they took medication and the temperature is slowly lowering. he would stay vigilant to any sign of distress or discomfort, doing his best to ease the pain. though acting all cheerful and fun, he’s deeply concerned and terrified something worse will follow if only he closes his eyes

a/n 2: part 2 somewhat on the way? also if anyone wants to babble about family guy Lyonel pls do 🩷

taglist (🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻): @sarcasticamaleont @serakyla @fuckyeahmoodywhitemen @mossymissy @holdthedorian @pumpkingirl03 @ncdoppalapudi @wordsaresimple-imnot @spiritual-blob-of-anxiety @baugettelord @krazehiveh @zealousdazementality @simonedk @nervouspeanutbread @cupcake710me @yuinno @ginger-n-coco

[ratgirl300]

omg hii idk if you’re taking requests, but if you are hehe, can i request what maekar is like with an introverted/shy-ish wife pleasee 🤭?

also i hope you had a wonderful vacation!! and can i just say, i love your writing so much!! i’ve gone through your masterlist multiple times already aslfjdjfgk it’s just so good and i always love the dialogue and how you write maekar. you’re amazing! thank you for sharing your writing with us :P

Maekar Targaryen Doting on his Shy Wife Headcanons

18+ MDNI

Maekar Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, insecurity, misunderstandings

AN: Sorry this took so long, I just started a new job so things are kinda crazy lol but I promise I’m back at the writing thing and have lots of wips coming soon! But anyway thank you so much for reading what I write! It means so much to hear :) hope you enjoy <3

1.8k Words

- Initially, Maekar is a little irritated with his shy, genteel wife.

- It's not because you're introverted, gods know he’s not interested in chatting with dreary nobles and conniving gentry, but he finds he cannot get a read on you and it vexes him greatly. Why are you keeping your thoughts so close to your chest? Do you not trust your husband with your heart? He is so used to prying the sly words of courtiers apart, but you give him little besides soft smiles and lowered eyes.

- He knows he’s not good with words, better on the battlefield than charming young ladies, but for the life of him he can’t seem to get you to like him. He’s not even sure why he cares so much. It would be far easier to let you to your own life, and he to his, but there’s a nagging feeling in his chest that keeps drawing him back to your calm demeanor.

- Maekar is not a gentle man by nature, but he is honorable and had set out to do good by his wife, as well as he could anyway. His deep-set insecurity rises to the surface when your shoulders tense when he steps close, when you quickly curtsey and zip off when he enters the room, and when you can barely hold conversation with him when you dine alone together.

- Obviously, he handles this poorly. Anger getting the best of him and staining his image of your relationship. He’s curt, sharp, unsettled by your apparent indifference and bruised by how you obviously don’t care for him.

- He’s grumpy when he watches himself in the mirror, closely monitoring the imperfections in his face and the places time has changed. Then he’s grumpy that he even cares about something as foolish as a pretty wife thinking him grotesque.

- This is, of course, not actually the case. Maekar is just so intimidating. His longstanding reputation as the Anvil, legends of swordplay, snide words and furrowed brows. When you were told he’d be your husband, you’d fretted over how you’d overcome finding him so daunting.

- How surprising it was, then, to find him quite palatable when you finally met. Handsome as sin; tall and broad with his piercing lavender eyes and glittering silver hair. In place of the boorish words you’d expected, you were met with princely honor. He was not warm, or delicate, but he was formidable in his duty, and you soon realized he was daunting in a far more frightening way.

- It was not like he was the only one you didn’t make much conversation with. Maekar watched you like a hawk at feasts, eyes following you as you trapezed around the crowds, avoiding nosey guests and keeping to yourself. Whispering softly to the ladies you knew but generally staying clear of new acquaintances. He equates it to the nerves of being the new lady of Summerhall, nothing more. Your feelings for him and your disinterest in mingling have nothing to do with each other. Obviously.

- Maekar’s staunch belief in your apathy is tested when one afternoon, as he sits with you in the gardens of Summerhall, sweating in his leather doublet but pretending to enjoy his present condition for your sake. You’d finally risen to leave, something about a meeting with a Septa, when you turned back to him with an unreadable look on your face. As quick as lightning, you leaned in, fingertips gliding over his chin as you pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw. You’d backed away in an instant, eyes wide and fingers to your lips, before you curtseyed and ran off.

- It was not often that the Prince found himself bewildered, but that had certainly thrown him off.

- His mind was once again proven mistaken when upon idling up to the door of your chambers, he heard you conversing with a maid.

“I cannot ask him to spend an entire morning with me! He is a Prince, he has far more important matters than entertaining his wife.”

Maekar pushed down his embarrassment as he pressed his ear against the smooth wood of the door.

“M’lady, you could always ask him. Has his grace not treated you with kindness?”

You let out an exasperated sigh.

“He has been the very picture of a gentleman, yet I do not think he cares for me.”

The defeat in your voice made Maekar’s chest clench. You were the one who did not care for him? Why would it matter to you that he couldn’t get you out of his head, that the very thought of you upset with him gripped his heart.

- After months of marriage, Maekar finally begins to understand that maybe you feel the same skepticism toward him as he did to you. He does try to come off less harsh, less hardheaded, and slowly he watches with hidden delight as you open yourself up to him.

- It’s gradual, but eventually you start offering him answers to questions he’s asked himself about you. Why you favor chiffon gowns over velvet, how do you get ready for bed, what dessert makes you lick the sugar off your fingers (he’s particularly interested in watching that one). It dawns on him that you are allowing him in, that few people get the gift of your affections, and Maekar is exceedingly pleased that you feel safe in your marriage to him. Protection is his way of showing love, and he is more than happy to keep you close.

- When a knight becomes too forward with you at a tourney, leaning in low and asking after your favor, Maekar’s head almost explodes with white-hot anger at your wide eyes and worried brow. He’s there in an instant, stepping up behind you with a hand firmly gripping your elbow and his chest against your back. The Prince will gladly be your shield if it means you aren't frightened.

- Banquets are no longer the same dull, awkward affairs as before. Maekar sits close to you at the high table. The leering eyes of the court are harsh, but the arm he has possessively slung over the back of your chair, coupled with a glare that would make the bravest of knights turn tail, keeps anyone from staring too long. It also means he gets you all to himself; leaning in to whisper against your ear, and listening to you speak softly back. The first feast you laugh openly at something he says, leaning over and pressing your palm against the bulk of his thigh, his ears are turning red and his trousers are bursting at the seams.

- He craves your attention, proud to be a place you go when you cannot face the brunt of court. He is more than happy to tuck you into his cloak, mumbling some lame excuse before leading you off to have you alone.

- Even years into your marriage, there are still times Maekar makes you feel bashful and demure. Sometimes it's a grand gesture; a jeweled necklace that must have been a fortune he insists on clipping around your neck, a book so rare it was thought that every copy was lost to time. It has you giggling sweetly and insisting it's too much. Of course, to him, nothing is too much for his wife, the very thought is ridiculous. Sometimes it's the little things that get to you. Giving you his gloves when he feels your hands are too cold, fresh flowers on your nightstand every morning in spring, a gruff compliment that’s just the right combination of romantic and stoic awkwardness. It always has you biting your lip, covering your face, and shuffling your feet. Maekar will roll his eyes, a halfhearted comment about the ridiculousness of your shyness after all this time, but he’s still so charmed to get the reaction out of you.

“Surely you cannot still be coy around me, my lovely girl?”

- You kiss him so sweetly he can barely stand it. Hands curled around his face, mouth soft and timid against his own; he wants nothing more than to take you in his arms and kiss you properly, but he bides his time and lets you lead. He’ll blissfully sit back and let you perch in his lap as you explore him with your tongue. The nervous giggle you let out when you bite at his bottom lip ignites dragonfire deep in his belly, and the startled yelp you let out when he grips your hips tighter only fans the flames.

- The sounds you make in bed are music to his ears, but he has to work to get you to let them show. He’ll be tongue deep in your cunt, juices dribbling through his beard and hands gripping your thighs before he realizes you’ve got your hand over your mouth. He reaches up to bat it away, set on hearing the sweet moans you release as he pleasures you.

- “None of that, little lady, I want to hear you.”

- He’s holding your chin while he slides his cock through your folds and pressing into your entrance. He doesn’t want to give you the chance to look away; he likes watching your eyes as he sinks into your cunt, the way they roll back a little as he cants his hips up, the fluttering of your lashes as he thrusts into you and you fight to keep looking at him.

- Maekar insists on you being clear with what you want from him when he takes you. He will not have you silent, laying by as he takes his pleasure. It's mortifying at first, the way he presses close over you, whispering that he will not move again until you’ve told him how you feel. Is he too much? Would you like him slower? Faster? Do you prefer his fingers or his tongue? Pierced atop his cock or held underneath him? You mumble out responses, and he makes you repeat them until he can hear you clear as day. He’s a soldier, he lives to serve, and so knowing exactly what you want pleases him greatly; it means he can take your orders and execute them to the fullest extent.

- His kisses are hot on your neck, hands roaming from the swell of your bottom to the curve of your breast, clutching your waist and tugging you close to his chest. You whimper softly until he bites at our throat, a grin on his lips at the sudden shriek you let out.

“What do you need from me, my love? What can your husband do for you?”

[lepoulpe-blog]

Hello! I love your writing sm and I especially adore the way you write Maekar. If you do not mind, could you pleaseee write a Maekar Targaryen fanfic, him getting cuteness aggression from reader? <3

REQUEST - MAEKAR x READER

SUMMARY : You've been married for almost a year, yet Maekar still treats you like a stranger. Tired of being kept at arm's length, you decide to do something about it and step into the courtyard.

AUTHOR'S NOTE :

I loved writing this! Maekar is definitely one of the characters I enjoy writing the most. I have to confess, I'm the one feeling the cuteness aggression toward him whenever I write him, which sometimes makes it difficult to come up with a scenario that still feels true to his personality.

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I also hope I understood your request correctly—that Maekar was the one receiving the cuteness aggression, not the reader. If I got that wrong, feel free to send me another ask! XD

In many ways, Maekar reminded you of your childhood pet: Salem.

A white Persian cat who hissed and clawed at anyone foolish enough to go near him. Except you, whom he simply chose to ignore, walking away as soon as you entered his space. That didn't stop you from cooing at him and buying his affection with food and catnip. It eventually worked, for you were the only person in your household who could hold and kiss the little devil and live to tell the tale.

Your husband was, in many ways, like your cat.

He cursed as much as Salem hissed. No one was spared from his sharp tongue. Maekar cussed at his brothers (especially Aerys), at any lord foolish enough to speak to him, and at the ladies who glared at him after he cussed at their lord husbands. His mother, Queen Myriah, once told you his first word had been a swear word. Even though you suspected the Queen was teasing, it wouldn't have surprised you in the slightest. You could perfectly imagine an infant Maekar, his white hair cut into a bowl, cussing at his governess.

Instead of claws, Maekar had swords. Your prince especially enjoyed blowing off steam in the training yard, sometimes battering his opponent if he was in a sour mood. Though his weapon of choice remained the mace, which he loved to use against his eldest brother.

Finally, like Salem, Maekar left his white hair absolutely everywhere...

However, unlike the little pest, you weren't Maekar's favorite person. That spot belonged to Prince Baelor, with whom your husband spent most of his time.

At first, you found the love the brothers bore each other endearing. It was rare for siblings to get along within the nobility, and especially within the House of the Dragon. The Blackfyre Rebellion was the perfect example.

However, you thought Maekar would come back to you whenever Prince Baelor had to attend to his duties. On the contrary, your lord husband preferred to spend his time either in the training yard or in his solar. You only saw him during meals and before bed.

His behavior was vexing, to say the least. You had been married for almost a year now, too long to qualify as newlyweds, yet he still treated you like a stranger. No one would know you were his wife if it weren't for the softening of his cursing whenever you were around.

Something had to be done.

Since Maekar wouldn't come to you, you would go to him.

Therefore, on an unassuming afternoon, you stepped into the courtyard wearing training attire. The stitch was much heavier than you would have expected beneath your clothes, but the simple tunic and trousers allowed you to move freely. It pleased you to be able to move your legs however you liked, without the fear of ripping expensive fabric constantly plaguing your mind. As pretty as your gowns were, they were too elaborate for a simple stroll through the gardens.

Or training with a sword in the courtyard.

Once you spotted Maekar's clump of white hair from across the yard, you walked straight toward him. One of the soldiers training there stopped mid-movement to gawk at you in shock, and his opponent took advantage of the distraction to knock him into the dirt. To be fair, ladies in trousers were a rare sight.

If only you could have such an effect on your own husband. The latter seemed determined to win his bout against his opponent, his sword strikes falling like rain upon the poor fellow. Maekar truly was glorious in battle, and the fact that he remained shirtless while training only added to his appeal.

His opponent saw you before he did and barely managed to block Maekar's deadly sword.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the Anvil growled. "A squire could have seen this from a mile away!"

"Your lady wife is here, my lord."

Maekar frowned at him suspiciously but turned around nonetheless, his sword steady in his hands.

There you were, smiling right in front of him. If your clothes disturbed him, he didn't show it in the slightest.

"Husband," you greeted him happily.

"Wife," he replied grumpily. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to see you, of course! Your prowess as a knight is sung all across the realm, yet I realized I'd never seen it for myself."

A lie. You had been observing the prince from the window long before you were even married.

"Prince Maekar truly is remarkable, my lady," the knight your husband had been training with chirped teasingly.

"Shut it," the Anvil growled before taking your wrist and guiding you well away from the clashing of swords and shields.

A scowl adorned his face, yet his grip was gentle. He released you once you were out of earshot.

"This isn't a place for a woman," he grunted, staring at you as though you were a willful child. "You could get hurt."

"So you do care about me," you teased.

His eyes widened as if surprised by your statement. He opened and closed his mouth, gaping like a fish, unable to decide what to say. His confusion, as well as the blush creeping onto his cheeks, only made him even more endearing to you. It was certainly a welcome change.

Maekar must have noticed your amusement, for his shyness instantly disappeared, replaced by his usual grumpiness.

"Don't flatter yourself," he grumbled. "Baelor wouldn't let me hear the end of it if you got yourself unnecessarily hurt. I don't have the time for this kind of nonsense."

"I wouldn't get hurt if you were the one training me," you suggested, even though that had been your goal from the very beginning.

Maekar looked at you as though a horn had suddenly sprouted from your forehead.

"Absolutely not. That idea is even madder than the last. I've seen the way you turn your head away during tourneys. You don't even care about training."

"Mayhaps, but I care about spending time with my husband."

His blush deepened at the word husband.

Interesting...

"Still, there's no way in the Seven Hells I'm training you," he argued, stubborn as ever.

"Would you rather I find another man to train me? There are plenty of skilled warriors around. I'm sure I can find a suitable teacher on my own."

For the first time, Maekar truly noticed the way you were dressed, and how well your clothes suited you. He frowned, clearly displeased by the thought.

Finally, the Anvil let out a sigh of resignation.

"You're going to be the death of me, woman."

"I certainly hope so, husband."

The word definitely flustered him. He coughed to regain his composure, but it was too late. Maekar lent you his own sword and positioned himself behind you, using his hands to correct your stance.

You didn't mind having his hands on your hips, and you certainly didn't mind making him stammer by pressing a kiss beneath his jaw.

"Gods be good," he grumbled.

You smiled, victorious.

After all, you had always found a way to tame grumpy cats.

[maekarart]

By galdraws on X

[drrattt]

Someone asking Maekar and Baekor who their favoutie child is.

Maekar goes on some massive rant about how their all equally awful and he loves them because they all came from Dyanna. But he’s this 🤏close to taking them on a ship and sinking it.

Baelor immediately answers Matarys.

[kleoshe]

Headcanon that Maekar Targaryen is always complaining about how bad his back hurts. This is based off him always mf groaning when sitting down LMFAO

Like Daeron gets found drunk in a ditch again and dragged back to an audience with his father and Maekar is like “someone else fucking deal with this boy, my back is fucking killing me”

Maekar has to wrangle some clothes on Rhaegal so he isn’t running nude in the red keep and all Baelor hears for the next few hours is how “I pulled a muscle making sure our brother isn’t exposing himself, the least you could do is get shitfaced with me”

However he never complains if he gets to do some activity he actually likes, such as training in the yard or hunting, he only does it to annoy Baelor or to make everyone know how grumpy he is feeling (so all the time)