A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Maekar Targaryen x Reader, modern military!au
Word Count: 5.1k
Rating: Explicit
Context: Commander Maekar Targaryen saves you from a fatal mistake after you disobey orders, trapping you both in a collapsed basement on enemy lines. He punishes you for this.
TW: sexually explicit content, power imbalance, age difference implied, dark!maekar, commander!maekar x subordinate!reader, fem!reader, potential military inaccuracies, active combat, adrenaline/PTSD/fight-or-flight-or-fuck, p in v, cnc vibes (there’s consent if you squint), choking, fingering, physical violence, mild gore, yell at me if i forgot one pls
A/N: first time posting smut and we’re diving into the deep end. i am so so willing to right a part two for this so just say the word. ultraviolence can also be found on ao3 can you tell i have my own military complex—variations on a theme from wtos (images above are not my own. creds go to original creators!)
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The basement swallows sound.
Above you, somewhere in the settling wreckage, the building is still deciding what it is—steel groaning against concrete, a slow catastrophic conversation between things that used to hold and no longer do. You can hear it through the floor. Through your spine. Through the back of your skull where the ringing hasn’t stopped.
The emergency strobe on Maekar's chest cuts the dark in pulses. Green. Black. Green. Black. In the intervals you can see the shape of the basement—collapsed support pillar, rebar flowering out of broken concrete, the staircase that is no longer a staircase. The dust hasn’t settled—it hangs suspended in the strobing light, turning the basement into something warped and underwater.
You are sitting against the far wall with your back in the rubble and your legs not entirely cooperating and your mouth tasting of copper and dirt and something underneath both of those things that is just fear, just the animal output of a body that understood before you did that it was about to die. You feel the bile rise in your throat as you swallow.
You didn't hold fire.
The order was clear. Hold fire, fall back, hold fire—in your earpiece, in his voice, the voice that does not repeat itself—and your body heard it and your body did something else entirely, something that had nothing to do with training or protocol or the six months you have spent learning to override the part of yourself that just wants to run when it’s scared. Your body decided. Your hands decided. And then the world came apart at the seams and Maekar's arm was around your chest dragging you backward and the stairs were gone and then there was just the falling and the impact and the dark.
He hasn't spoken since.
This is worse than anything he could say.
He is standing in the middle of the basement, not moving, and the strobe makes him enormous—makes him a series of images rather than a continuous thing, a man assembled from green flashes, Kevlar and tactical black and the gas mask he still hasn't removed. His chest is heaving. You can see it even in the strobing dark, the visible effort of his breathing, the way his hands are held slightly away from his body like he hasn't decided what to do with them yet.
You are watching him the way small animals watch things larger than themselves. Still. Assessing.
Why isn’t he yelling?
Why won’t he tell me off for disobeying his orders?
Say something.
Anything.
Please.
The basement smells like concrete and wet rust and underneath it the sharp acrid bite of cordite that's gotten into everything—your gear, your hair, the inside of your nose. Your own sweat has gone cold against your skin, the cold of fear-sweat that is different from ordinary sweat, sharper. You might actually vomit. Your lip is split. You discovered this when you licked it and got copper and it had already stopped bleeding which means it happened in the fall, which means you didn't feel it, which means your body had other priorities than informing you it was hurt.
Your hands are shaking.
You press them flat against your thighs and they shake anyway.
Hold fire.
Two words. One order. Six months of training for exactly this and your body looked at all of it and chose the animal thing and now you are here in the dark with Maekar Targaryen and the building groaning overhead and the rest of the squad gone, pulled back, following the order you didn't.
He reaches up.
The clasps of his gas mask release with two sharp clicks that sound enormous in the silence. He pulls it off and holds it at his side and you see his face for the first time since before and it is—it's bad. It's the worst you've ever seen him and you have seen him in bad situations, have studied his face across maps and briefings and the controlled blankness he wears in the field, and this is none of those things. He’s furious.
His jaw is rigid. His pupils blown. There’s no violet, only violence. There is concrete dust in his hair, in the lines of his face, pale against the dark, and a cut above his brow that is still bleeding and he does not appear to know it or care. His eyes find you in the dark with the precision of something that has been tracking you the entire time it appeared to be standing still.
He crosses the basement. Not fast. Worse than fast—slow and deliberate, each step measured. He stops in front of you.
The strobe puts him in green intervals, too close, the Kevlar and the cold air coming off him and the smell of cordite and blood—his blood, your blood, it's all the same smell, it's all the same dark. He is very large from this angle. From the floor of the basement with your back in the rubble and your legs that won't cooperate, he is enormous, he is the whole shape of the room, and your already reeling brain does something unhelpful with this information, adds it to the pile of things it cannot currently process and moves on.
He crouches down until he is at your eye level and his face is close and you can see the cut above his brow properly now, the blood tracking down toward his eye in a thin dark line, and he doesn't wipe it away. If he was anyone else, you’d lick your thumb and wipe his brow. But he’s him and you’re you and right now you are scared of him.
The silence goes on. Somewhere above, the building shifts—something settling or giving way, it's impossible to tell which. Distant gunfire.
Then, very quietly—
“What,” Maekar says, “did I tell you to do.”
His head tilts. Just slightly. Just enough. His voice is low and even and the evenness is the frightening part—this is not the calm of a man at rest. This is something caged. Something that has decided, for now, that the cage is preferable. The rage is there, you can see it in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands have gone very still, in the tilt of his head that is not curiosity, that has never been curiosity, that is a predator locating the exact coordinates of a thing before it moves.
He leans forward.
The strobe pulses. Green. Black. His face in the dark. The blood above his brow.
“Answer me.”
“Commander, I—” your voice fails you. “I don’t know.”
The silence after is its own kind of violence.
He's on his feet before you finish. His fist hits the support pillar—once, twice, the second harder than the first—and the concrete weeps dust down through the strobing green and he stands there with his back to you and his shoulders and his breathing and the shaking in his hands that he doesn't know you can see.
“Fuck.” Through his teeth. Then: “Fuck—”
He turns around.
He doesn't speak. He just—looks at you. At your split lip. At the blood on your hands. At all the evidence of what almost happened arranged in front of him, and something in his face does something you have no word for, something that moves through the rage like a current, something worse than rage, and then his jaw locks and the rage comes back doubled.
“The IED—You could’ve—” He stops. Starts again. “You were going to—”
He can't finish it. Either of them. He looks at the ceiling like the words are up there, like if he looks long enough he'll find the one that covers it. He doesn't find it.
“Gods.” Quiet. Hissing. “Do you have any idea—do you have any—”
He crosses to you in two strides and he is too close, crowding the air out of everything, and his hand comes up and drags across his face—once, rough, wiping blood and concrete dust and whatever was written there—and then he takes a fistful of your jacket and hauls you to your feet in one motion and you barely have time to find your legs before your back hits the shattered beam and then his mouth is on yours.
It is nothing like you imagined. And you have imagined it. You are not proud of this but you have and it was nothing like this—this has no gentleness in it, no question, no preamble, just his mouth and the force of six months and two almost-deaths and the rage that has nowhere left to go. His hand is still in your jacket, knuckles against your chest, and the other comes up to grip your jaw and tip your head back and you taste blood—yours, his— and the beam is biting into your spine and you don't care. You grab his Kevlar because there is nothing else to grab and he makes a sound against your mouth—low, torn, almost pained—like something giving way under too much weight.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe. His forehead drops to yours. Both of you wrecked, both of you breathing the same cordite-thick air, the strobe still cutting green through the dark between you.
His hand is still on your jaw.
He doesn't move it.
“Tell me to stop.”
You say nothing.
He doesn’t wait for your brain to catch up with the choice you just made. A hand locks around your shoulder—not a grip, a clamp, the fingers digging through the canvas of your uniform into the muscle until it hurts—and he wrenches you around.
The world spins in a green flash. Your face hits the shattered concrete pillar. The rough stone scrapes your cheek, drawing a line of heat across your skin, but you don’t have time to register it before his weight slams into your back. He shoves you flat against the beam. His chest plates—hard, cold, unyielding carbide—crush your spine into the stone. He hasn’t taken off a single piece of his gear. He is a wall of tactical black and iron, and you are pinned between him and the ruin of the building.
The ringing in your ears is a high, steady whine, a siren that makes everything else feel like an impression. A series of impacts.
His hands are violent on your waist. He isn't unbuckling your tactical belt; he is ripping at it, his fingers catching on the heavy nylon web, cursing under his breath. The buckle cracks. The heavy leather hits the rubble by your boots with a dull, metallic thud.
Then his hands are inside your pants.
He doesn’t slide them down. He shoves them. The heavy, grit-caked canvas of your uniform pants is brutally forced over your hips, bunching at your thighs, binding your knees, locking your legs together in a helpless, hobbled knot. The cold, wet air of the basement hits your bare skin like a splash of ice water, making gooseflesh erupt despite the heat of him at your back.
It’s not clinical. It’s a frantic, predatory inventory.
His broad, calloused palms are massive against you, raking over your arms, your chest, the cage of your ribs—not caressing, but laying claim, checking the bone beneath the skin. He slaps his hands hard against the curves of your hips, your thighs, his fingers digging deep into the meat of your ass, squeezing until your breath hitches. He’s hunting for blood, hunting for breaks, frantically tracking the surface of your skin to see if the shrapnel got you, if you’re leaking out right under his fingers.
The rough, dirty skin of his hands drags against yours with a hard, frictional heat. It borders on violence. Every press of his palm leaves a hot, throbbing imprint, a violent reminder that your body is still whole, still solid, still here. You are completely trapped under his mass, your thighs pinned together by the bunched fabric, leaving you entirely exposed to the unyielding, armored weight of his chest pressing into your spine.
But it’s too heavy. Too rough. You whine. His palms are slick with his own sweat and the dust from the ceiling, and every time he moves, he leaves gray streaks on your skin.
“Stupid,” he mutters. His breath is hot, wet against the back of your neck, right where your hair is plastered to your skin with sweat and drying blood. “Stupid girl. You stupid, useless girl.”
He’s talking, but he isn’t looking at you. He’s looking at your skin in the green strobe, his head jerking with every pulse of the light. He doesn't know he's saying it. The iron control is gone; the filter between his brain and his mouth has been burned out by the blast.
“Could've been meat,” he rasps, his teeth grazing the skin of your shoulder blade as your undershirt is dragged down, bunched around your elbows. He bites down—hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make you arch your back and cry out against the concrete. He drinks the sound.
“Two seconds,” he rasps. “Two fucking seconds and you’d have been killed. I’d have been looking for pieces of you.”
He doesn't wait for you to breathe. His broad palm slaps hard against your hip, his fingers clawing into the flesh until you can feel the individual points of his knuckles bruising your bone.
“What am I supposed to do with you?” The words are a wet, desperate hiss against your neck, his spit mixing with the gray dust on your skin. “Look at what you did to me. Look at what you did.”
You try to move your hands, try to turn and face him, but they are trapped beneath your chest, pressed flat against the rough concrete of the pillar. Your nose is running. A mix of snot and dust and the copper from your lip is sliding down your chin, sticking you to the stone. You look disgusting. You feel entirely disassembled—pieces of you crushed against the wall.
“Commander, I—I’m—” you choke out, your voice small, vibrating against the pillar.
“Quiet,” he snarls.
He shoves himself closer. The hard, heavy ridge of his utility belt and the plates of his vest grind into your backside, a brutal, bruising pressure that has nothing to do with re-establishing rank and order and everything to do with the panic that you almost died. He almost didn’t get to you in time. He is marking you against the stone. His hand slides around to the front of your body, hooking into your hip bone, fingers bruising the flesh underneath the hem of your standard-issue briefs as he pulls your ass back against him, locking you into the angle.
The strobe flashes. Green.
You see the shadow of his large hand against your own skin. It’s shaking. The legendary commander, the Anvil himself, the man who doesn't blink when the artillery starts, has fingers that are trembling against your hips.
“You don't die,” he whispers into your hair, his voice breaking on the last word, a ragged, ugly sound that makes your chest ache more than the concrete. “You don't get to leave me here. You don't have the fucking right.”
He shoves his hand lower, rough and uncareful, checking the heat between your thighs, finding you wet—not from preparation, but from the raw, chemical terror of the drop and the heavy, suffocating weight of him over you. He groans, a sound that is almost a sob, and presses his forehead into the space between your shoulder blades, his chest heaving against your back in violent, broken lungfuls of dust.
His hand doesn’t soften between your thighs. It stays wedged there, thick and heavy, pressing through the damp cotton of your briefs until the heat of your own terror is slick against his knuckles. He grinds his palm upward, once, twice, a blunt, deliberate friction that makes your hips twitch helplessly against the hard ridge of his utility belt.
“Look at this,” he mutters, his breath hot. “Soaking wet. You like this? Filthy girl.”
You can’t answer. Your jaw is glued to the cold concrete of the pillar, your nose leaking a smear of gray and rust mud across the stone. But your body betrays you—the sheer chemical relief of not being dead—and you push back into his touch, seeking the solidness of him, seeking more, always more than you ought to.
He doesn’t give you time to think.
He hooks two fingers into the waistband of your briefs, ripping them down just enough to clear the path, and plunges them inside you. Rough. Unrelenting. The dry, friction-heavy intrusion drags a choked scream from your throat, the sound bouncing off the shattered concrete walls like a trapped bird.
His other hand fists your hair, twisting the grit-caked strands until your scalp burns, yanking your head back so your throat is a tight, straining line. He mouths at your neck, his lips sliding over your sweat before his teeth sink hard into the muscle of your shoulder blade. He bites to hurt. He bites to leave a mark. The pain spikes through you, sharp and electric, mingling with the visceral heat between your legs until the boundaries blur and you can’t tell where the terror ends and the pleasure begins.
“M—Maekar—” you whimper, the name slipping out in a wet, broken gasp.
He freezes.
The fingers still inside you, a heavy, stretching weight that feels massive, terrifying. The silence in the basement drops like a hammer. The strobe cuts his profile into the dark. Green. Black.
“Commander,” he corrects, his tone dropping into something icy and dangerous—a warped imitation of the voice that executes orders, the voice that doesn't repeat itself.
He pulls his hand out of your hair and slaps your ass hard. The sharp, fleshy crack echoes off the rubble, a clean shock of sting that rattles your teeth.
“You don’t get to call me that,” he growls against your skin, his teeth brushing the hair at the base of your skull, a low, predatory vibration that goes straight down your spine. “Not yet. You haven't earned the right to put my name in your mouth, girl.”
Before you can draw breath, his hand moves to your throat. His broad, calloused fingers clamp around your windpipe, cutting off your air, forcing your face back down against the rough pillar. The world goes dim at the margins, the green strobe fracturing into spinning dots behind your eyelids. With your breath trapped in your chest, he thrusts his fingers back inside you—deeper this time, twisting them cruelly against the sensitive wall of your core, demanding everything you have left.
You writhe against the stone, hot tears streaming down your face, mixing with the dust and the copper on your lips. But you don’t fight him. You can’t. Your body is a coiled spring, wound too tight by six months of discipline and two seconds of near-death, ready to snap at the slightest friction.
He feels it. He knows it. He knows exactly how ruined you are.
“Take it,” he rasps, his voice finally fraying at the edges, losing its iron, turning into something ragged and starved. “Take all of it. You’re mine. Mine to break, mine to use.”
You nod, delirious, the lack of oxygen making your head light, your hips pushing backward against his armored thigh in a frantic, uncoordinated search for relief. For him. You want the weight of him to crush the remaining panic out of your bones.
“Yours,” you choke on the word.
He lets out a low, dark chuckle—a vibration you feel directly through the Kevlar pressing into your spine. He slacks his grip on your throat just enough to let a ragged gasp of air into your lungs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice rough with an ugly, possessive approval. “Good fucking girl.”
He doesn’t ease his fingers out of you. He wrenches them free—a sudden, slick evacuation that leaves you completely open, empty, and shivering against the stone. The ruthless slap he deals your cunt making your knees buckle, your boots slipping on the loose concrete dust, but his hand is already back on your hip, slick with you, a crushing vise that hoists you back up before you can hit the rubble.
He unzips his fly.
The sound is a sharp, mechanical click-hiss of metal teeth that cuts right through the high-frequency ringing in your ears. He doesn’t take off his vest. He doesn’t strip. He stays fully weaponized, an unyielding wall of Kevlar and carbide, except for the thick, iron-hard length of him that shoves its way between your thighs, blunt and burning hot against the skin of your backside.
You let out a broken, high-pitched sob into the concrete pillar.
“Don't cry now,” he growls, his voice dropping into that dark, hollowed-out register. He catches your chin from behind, his fingers sinking into the vulnerable flesh under your jawline, forcing your face sideways so you can see the edge of his blown-wide eyes in the green strobe.
“You did this,” he snarls, his jaw grinding so hard against your ear you can hear the bone click. “You didn’t listen—look at the fucking mess you made. Look at me. Look at me.”
You can't. Your eyes are swimming with snot and dust-tears, the green light fracturing into jagged, painful lines.
He shifts his weight, his heavy tactical shinguards grinding into the back of your bound calves, forcing you down into an awkward, split-level bend against the pillar. Then he drives into you from behind.
The impact cracks through your skull. It’s dry, blunt, and completely unforgiving—a violent, abrasive intrusion that rips a ragged, breath-starved wail right out of your chest. Your hands slip on the pillar, your fingernails tearing as they scratch uselessly down the concrete, but he catches you by the pelvic bone, anchoring you to his stride.
The canvas pants bunched around your knees keep you hobbled, your thighs locked so tight that every stroke has to tear its way into you. There is no grace in it. The silence of the basement is entirely destroyed by the wet, loud squelch of friction—the gross, slick slap of heavy tactical gear and his sweat-damp groin hitting your bare skin, over and over, a rhythmic, depraved machinery that smells of iron and sex and old cordite.
You are coming undone. The last of your six months of discipline is leaking out of you in a steady, pathetic stream of saliva and sweat that runs down the front of the stone. You can't hold your own weight anymore; your thighs are shaking so violently they feel like water.
“Ma—Commander,” you gasp, your voice completely wrecked, splintering on the syllables as he hits you again, deeper, finding the very back of you and punishing it. “Please. I can't—I'm gonna fall—”
“I have you. I have you, stupid girl,” he snarls, the words tumbling out in a ragged, panicked rush. “Stupid, brave—my brave girl—I’ve got you.”
His broad hand slides around the side of your neck, his fingers clamping hard over your windpipe. He applies pressure—heavy, animal, deliberate.
Air stops.
You panic. For one terrifying, white-hot second, the animal in you takes over and your hands fly back, your fingernails clawing frantically at the skin of his wrists, digging for purchase against his grip, trying to pry the iron out of your throat. But he doesn't budge. He just squeezes harder, anchoring you down, using his palm to choke the scream right back into your chest.
Black dots bleed out in your periphery. Between the concussion of the blast, the lack of oxygen, and the heavy, wet, relentless rhythm of his hips hammering into your backside, your body simply gives out. The green strobe fades to a sickly haze at the edges of your consciousness. Your fingers go limp, slipping off his wrists, and your head drops heavy against the stone as the ringing in your ears swallows the world whole, dragging you down into a suffocating, gray blackout.
A rough, stinging slap hits your cheek.
Then another, harder this time, his palm dragging across your skin to force the circulation back into your face. It is a paradoxical, warped sort of tenderness—violent, but frantic, the gesture of a man terrified that the light is leaving your eyes.
“Don't you dare go out on me,” he growls into your ear, his voice completely unraveled, a starved, desperate sound. He doesn't stop his assault for a single second. He drives his hips forward, pinning you to the stone as you blink heavily, your vision swimming back into the green dark. “You got this. Stay with me. Feel every. Fucking. Inch.”
Each word is punctuated by a brutal, uncoordinated thrust that shudders through your entire spine. He is surrendering entirely to the depravity of the moment, the impenetrable fortress of Maekar Targaryen reduced to a wild, panting beast marking his territory in the wreckage.
He hitches your left leg higher with his forearm, locking his elbow under your knee, tilting your pelvis at a cruel, hyper-extended angle that opens you completely to the bone. You let out a long, shuddering scream, your fingers finally finding the nylon webbing of his tactical harness and bunching it in a white-knuckled, delirious grip.
He shoves himself into you one last time, a hard, desperate plunge that goes deep enough to make your vision go black at the borders. The sound that rips from his throat isn’t human. It’s an ugly, guttural roar—a raw, pained bark like an animal taking a piece of shrapnel straight to the lungs—as he comes inside you, the sudden, scalding heat of it a shock against the freezing basement air.
He doesn't pull out. He stays there, buried to the hilt, his upper body bearing down as he buries his face into the side of your neck, his mouth pressed right against the pulse point under your jaw where your blood is still hammering. His chest heaves against your back in huge, violent, broken lungfuls of dust.
The strobe continues to pulse.
Green. Black. Green. Black.
His hands are still trembling against your bruised hips, holding onto the only piece of wreckage that matters.
He pulls out of you abruptly. The sudden, slick vacuum of his departure makes your knees instantly give out; without his massive weight pinning you to the pillar, you slide straight down into the dust and rubble, your legs still bound and hobbled by your canvas pants.
Maekar steps back. The green strobe hits his face as he tucks himself in, zips his fly, and adjusts his tactical belt with violent, mechanical efficiency. His hands are still shaking, but his expression has curdled into something cold, rigid, and entirely unreadable. He looks at the ceiling, tracking the distant thud of artillery and IEDs, completely bypassing you on the floor.
The reality of what you both just did—and what you are currently tracking down your inner thighs—sets in like a physical sickness. You are cold. Shivering. Covered in dust, blood, sweat, and him.
“Get your gear on,” he barks.
His voice is no longer ragged or imprecise. It is the flat, deadened tone of a commander on a map board, though the sheer force of how hard he is gripping his rifle betrays the storm underneath.
“Sir—” you start, your throat raw and scraped.
“Moving in two minutes,” he cuts you off, his back turned to you as he retrieves his gas mask from the debris.
You are forced to piece yourself back together in the dark, your fingers fumbling blindly with the heavy nylon webbing of your tactical belt. Every movement is agony. You are slick with him, the friction of the grit and canvas burning against your abused skin as you drag your pants up, buckling your armor over a body that is still actively leaking. Your hands are shaking too badly to get the straps right. You reach for your own gas mask, your bloody, trembling fingers slipping twice on the rubber harness, your breath hitching in a pathetic, small sob of frustration because the buckles simply won’t line up.
A shadow falls over you.
Maekar doesn't say a word. He just lets out a low, rough huff through his nose—half irritation, half something heavy and exhausted—and swats your hands away. His large palms are steady now, cold and efficient as they take the mask from you. He doesn't look you in the eyes, keeping his focus entirely on the straps, but he lifts your chin with two fingers, tilts your head back, and pulls the rubber seal cleanly over your face. He tightens the buckles with two sharp, practiced jerks that make the rubber bite into your cheeks, ensuring it's airtight. Perfect. Safe.
Then he lets go of you completely, shoves his own mask over his face, and the seals click into place, effectively erasing his humanity once more.
“Radio silence is broken,” his voice comes through the comm filter now, a metallic, hollow scrape that has no blood in it. “Third platoon is moving on the secondary objective. If you cannot walk, I’m leaving you.”
It is a lie, and you both know it—he just tore the basement apart because he couldn't bear the thought of you dying—but the fact that he is using the regulations as a shield to distance himself from his own depravity hurts more than anything else right now. He is utterly ashamed of his loss of control, and he is punishing you for witnessing it.
When you finally manage to stand, your thighs are trembling so violently you have to catch yourself against the pillar. Through the green lens of his mask, Maekar watches you struggle. He doesn't offer a hand. He doesn't offer another touch. He just turns and kicks through the collapsed drywall toward the fire escape.
As you breach the upper levels of the ruined building, the cold air hits the wet sweat on your neck, sending a violent shiver through your spine. The rest of the squad is waiting at the extraction point, their faces grim, covered in grime, but entirely focused on the mission.
When Maekar steps into the light, he is the Anvil once more. He delivers a curt, tactical briefing to the secondary squad leader, his voice steady over the comms, giving zero indication that five minutes ago he was spilling himself into his subordinate’s cunt.
But as the unit falls into a standard wedge formation to move through the active hot zone, Maekar takes his place at the rear.
Just before the squad pushes into the open street, his eyes find yours through the dust-caked visor of his mask. It is a brief, heavy, warning glance. The boundary has been re-established, the cage locked tightly around the beast—but the bruise on your neck and the ache between your thighs are permanent reminders that the cage can be broken.
✧─────✧
A/N: 🫣 i promise i’m still working on wtos this fic just had me in a chokehold literally
Did I drop a devastating What If and dissappear for a week? - Yes
Did I write 3 yearning and somewhat smutty stories to make it up to you all? - Also Yes
Spinster Series His POV - Maekar Part One
Spinster Series Masterlist
Lyonel
Baelor
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) wanking, fire, father is his own warning, slight possessiveness, smut - Under 18’s DNI
Summerhall received guests often enough. Lords, banners, obligations dressed up as courtesies.
Maekar had been informed of this visit well in advance, the letter arriving from the King weeks ago.
A suitable match, he had been told. A daughter of a great house, well bred, well tempered, of an age to wed. It was framed as a practical solution, steady presence for his household, woman to stand beside him and more importantly to help him raise the children.
It had not been presented as a question, it was a command for him to find a bride. Maekar had accepted it as such. It was not the first time duty had been placed before preference. It would not be the last.
The introductions began as such things always did, too formal by half, the herald announcing each of his children as though they were strangers in their own home.
Maekar stood through it with the patience long drilled into him, one hand resting at his back, his gaze moving where duty required. First to your father, then to the younger daughter as she stepped forward with the sort of bright smile men often praised in girls they did not intend to truly know.
He had expected a certain type of woman. Soft spoken, agreeable. Someone who would not challenge the structure of his household, but fit neatly within it. The younger daughter was exactly that. She smiled easily when presented, bright and open, her expression full of warmth that did not quite reach depth. She spoke when prompted, laughed when expected.
Maekar found, upon meeting her, that she felt far too young. Not childish, not foolish, but young in a way that left him cold. She smiled easily, laughed quickly, and looked at him as though he were meant to impress her. The Crown might see a bride, but Maekar saw another girl who would need guiding, indulging, managing.
He had no desire to raise another child. He had enough of those already.
His gaze moved from her, briefly, without intention, settling instead on the figure standing just behind. The elder daughter. You did not smile, your gaze moved over him once, deliberate, assessing, as though weighing something unseen.
That alone caught his attention more than he cared to admit. There was nothing shy in the look you gave him, nothing softened for politeness, only a quiet, steady assessment that struck him far more cleanly than your sister’s admiration ever could.
It should have irritated him. Instead, it made him curious.
His eyes met yours properly then. You did not drop your gaze at once. You held it, steady, unflinching, as though he were not a prince at all, but simply a man standing before you to be judged.
Something in his jaw tightened.
Introductions carrying on pleasantly, then Rhea jumped in “Are you the one Father is marrying?” She asked looking directly at you.
Your sister went scarlet. Your father stiffened beside her. Maekar’s jaw tightened faintly, he was about to correct her when you moved first with the ease of someone used to dealing with children before they embarrassed themselves beyond repair.
You crouched so you were level with Rhae, your voice gentler than he expected from a woman whose gaze had been so cool a moment before “No, princess. My sister is to be your father’s new bride”
Careful words. He noticed that too. Your sister is to be your father’s new bride, not your new mother.
Rhae tilted her head, violet eyes bright with bold curiosity “You look braver”
You smile then was small, but real, and something about the sight of it caught at him unexpectedly “Bravery is not required when meeting your new family” you said “Only good manners” and then you winked.
Rhae considered that seriously, her little brow furrowing as though she had been handed some great wisdom to carry away and ponder.
Maekar heard himself speak before he had fully meant to “Rhae” The single word was enough. She stepped back at once, but his attention had already shifted. You straightened, composed again, but he had seen enough in those few seconds to unsettle something in him.
Your gaze lifted and met his then, direct and unflinching, and for one long moment it felt less like an introduction and more like a challenge.
He held it. So did you.
Only when your father nudged you did you finally look away and curtsy in proper silence.
Maekar remained where he was, listening to the rest of the introductions, to your sister’s bright attempts at conversation, to the herald’s endless formality, but his mind had already betrayed him in one small, dangerous way.
When he thought of the family standing before him now, it was no longer the younger daughter he noticed first.
It was you.
He did not yet know that was the beginning.
——————————————-
The gardens of Summerhall were often quiet.
He walked beside your sister, listening as she spoke, music, needlework, all the things a lady is told she must like.
He responded where required, his tone even, his attention measured. It should have been enough. It had been enough, countless times before. Yet his gaze shifted, drawn across the stretch of green toward the trees.
You sat beneath it, at ease, one leg tucked beneath you, the other stretched slightly where the sunlight caught against your skirts. Your shoes had been slipped off without ceremony, forgotten beside you.
Rhae lay beside you, mirroring you without instruction, her small hand already tangled in yours as though it had always belonged there. Daella leaned close, listening intently, her usual composure loosened by your presence.
You spoke, something low and measured, and both girls responded at once.
Maekar’s steps slowed. Your sister faltered beside him, still speaking, still smiling, unaware that she had already lost his attention.
You laughed, your head tipping back slightly, the sound bright and unrestrained.
Maekar stopped walking, he watched as you lay back fully against the grass, sunlight catching against your throat, your skirts shifting just enough that the line of your ankle showed, the curve of your calf revealed for a fleeting, careless moment before the fabric settled again.
His jaw tightened. Not at the sight itself, at the fact that he had noticed it at all. At the fact that he noticed you.
Rhae copied you without hesitation, her laughter rising again at something you whispered to her. Daella followed, her dignity forgotten for the moment as she leaned closer, drawn in despite herself. There was no effort in it, no careful performance. You simply fit into a space that had never quite held together so easily before.
Something in his chest shifted. He changed direction without comment.
Your sister stumbled after him, confused, still speaking, still trying to hold his attention. He had already given it elsewhere.
“Your Grace” you address him, still relaxed.
His daughters straightened at once “Rhae, you were instructed to practice your letters” he orders looking at the small girl.
Rhae faltered, guilt flashing across her face.
“She was telling me of the tower” you said calmly, stepping in before the reprimand could land fully “I believe she understands now why it was unwise”
Maekar’s gaze settled on you fully then “Do you?” he asked. The question was for Rhae, but it was you he watched. Taking in your relaxed face, unable to stop his eyes following the curve of your cheek.
Rhae nodded quickly “I do”
He held the silence a moment longer than necessary “Very well. Letters after supper”
Relief lit her face. Daella’s gaze moved between you both, something thoughtful settling there.
He resumed the path. Your sister hurried to fall back into step beside him, her voice picking up again as though nothing had interrupted it. He let her speak, he even answered.
But something had shifted, he could still hear your laughter. Could still see the ease with which his daughters had turned toward you. Could still recall, unbidden, the brief, unguarded line of your calf against the grass, the way you had not thought to hide it, not thought to care. It was not desire. It was something quieter and more dangerous.
He had not been looking for you. He had not been meant to notice you and yet, as he walked on, listening to a conversation he no longer cared for, one thought pressed forward with quiet, unwelcome certainty.
This arrangement was not as simple as it had been made to seem and it was because of you.
————————————————-
When the ride was suggested, Maekar had not objected.
It was practical. Something that required no forced conversation or polite performance. Horses did not require charm, nor did he.
Your sister, however, seemed to think it would improve matters between him and her. She approached the mounting block with careful precision, smoothing her skirts, accepting assistance, her movements deliberate in a way that made it clear she was thinking of how she appeared.
Maekar watched, not unkindly, but without interest.
His gaze shifted of its own accord to you. You took the reins, placed your boot in the stirrup, and mounted in one clean, fluid motion, your body moving with the ease of long familiarity rather than careful instruction. You settled into the saddle easily, your posture straight without stiffness, your hands light on the reins. When the groom released the mare, you did not hesitate, your legs pressing in a quiet cue that the horse obeyed instantly.
Maekar’s gaze lingered, he did not yet examine why.
The ride began at a measured pace. Your sister remained close to him, speaking where she could, her attention divided between the conversation and maintaining control of her horse.
Daella rode properly, every movement precise. Rhae rode as children did, eager, careless, her confidence outpacing her skill. And you moved as though you belonged there.
Your mare responded to the smallest shift in your weight, the slightest pressure of your knees, as though the two of you understood one another without effort.
“You ride often?” Daella asked.
“Every day I am permitted” you replied lightly “It is my favourite pastime”
Your sister laughed “She races the stable boys and refuses to lose”
“I do not refuse” you corrected “I simply do not lose.”
Rhae giggled. Maekar said nothing, inside he was cataloging all these new things about, like you where a puzzle he could not figure out.
The path opened ahead. Grass stretched wide, the low hedge marking the edge of the field.
You did not hesitate. Your heels pressed in, your body leaning forward, and your mare surged beneath you, gathering speed as you approached the jump.
Maekar’s attention sharpened instantly. The line of your body followed the movement, fluid, controlled, your legs firm against the horse’s sides, your skirts shifting with the motion
His gaze dropped. He saw the strength in your thighs, the way they held, the way your body moved with the animal beneath you rather than against it.
The thought came without warning. How that same control would feel beneath his hands. How easily you would ride if it were him between your legs. His jaw tightened, annoyed at himself, at the way his body answered it without permission, heat settling low and insistent, making him strain against his breeches like a fucking green boy.
You landed cleanly, laughter spilling from you, bright and unrestrained, carried back to them on the wind.
He exhaled slowly, forced his gaze forward. But the image did not leave him, especially not now he could add your flushed cheeks to the picture.
————————
He saw it before it happened. The way Rhae leaned too far, the sharp, uneven kick.
“Rhae” he warned too late. The pony joulted and she fell.
The world narrowed. Maekar was already moving before the thought had fully formed, his boots hitting the ground hard as he crossed the distance “Rhae!” He dropped beside her, his hand already reaching, already checking, already searching for injury “Look at me”
She blinked rapidly, more shocked than hurt “My arm”
Relief hit first, almost violent in its force. Then another presence dropped at his side. You.
You dropped beside him without hesitation, close enough that your shoulder brushed his as you reached for the girl “Let me see” you said, your hands steady, your voice calm in a way that cut through the panic.
Maekar let you, that alone should have told him something.
You examined quickly, efficiently “You landed well. It is only bruised”
Rhae’s lip trembled, but she did not reach for him. She reached for you. Lunging at you for a hug, you gathered her without thought, the force of it pushing you back into him.
He caught you both. His hands came to your hips, firm, grounding, steadying the shift of weight before you could fall.
Then, everything slowed. The curve of your hips beneath his palms, the strength there, the way your body fit against his without space, without hesitation, as though it had always belonged there.
His grip tightened. Instinct, mixed with omething far more dangerous.
“She is not injured” you said, turning your head, your face close enough now that he could see every detail, the flush still high in your cheeks from the ride. The faint rise and fall of your chest, not yet steadied. The way your lashes lifted just enough to meet his gaze “Only shaken”
For a fraction of a moment, neither of you moved.
His hands were still on you. He knew it. Knew he should release you. Knew this was already too much.
“Thank the fucking seven” he muttered, the words slipping out unfiltered, his focus split between relief and something far less manageable.
You did not move. Neither did he
You broke first, turning back to Rhae, your voice softening, drawing the girl’s attention away “Come” you murmured “You ride again”
Rhae stiffened against you “Must I?”
“Yes” you said, brushing dirt from her sleeve, your touch reassuring, certain “If you do not, you will fear it next time”
“She is right” Maekar said, his voice lower now, roughened slightly. He hated that he heard it. Only then did his hands flex and release you. The absence was immediate, the coolness of the air replacing the warmth of you.
You did not look at him again, not immediately. Your focus remained on Rhae, steadying her, guiding her, coaxing her back toward the saddle.
As though nothing had happened, like you had not just been in his arms and unsettled something he had held in place for years.
Maekar mounted in silence, but this time, when the ride resumed, he did not keep his distance.His stallion moved closer to yours. Close enough that he did not have to look far to see you. Close enough that the memory of his hands on you did not have to fade.
————————————————————
The ride ended without further incident. Maekar said nothing as you all returned to the yard.
He saw the way Rhae did not look for him when she dismounted. He saw the way she looked at you, the way to encouraged her, your hand smoothing gently over her hair as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
That did not sit easily with him, for a reason he could not name.
Your own sister had already gone ahead, her voice drifting back in nervous chatter “Oh gods that was just terrible. I am glad my sister was there and Rhea was well”
He nodded, but in truth he was not really listening, his gaze still fixed on you. You brushed dust from your skirts, as though nothing of note had occurred.
Your sister noticing Meakar’s attention was elsewhere followed the girls inside.
“She rode again” he said at last, still not entirely certain what to make of you.
You looked at him then, and once again he was reminded of how exposed your eyes made him feel
“She did” was all you said.
He studied you, this woman who had walked into his life and unsettled something he had long kept ordered “Most would have carried her inside” he replied, wanting to understand the woman in front of him, the one whose touch burned still under his hands.
“And let her live in fear?” you challenge calmly.
There is was again that challenge in your voice, in your eyes, the same one as the hall. The challenge that made him feel like less of a prince and more a man. He felt the instinct to push back rise just as quickly “She is not fucking timid ” he said, his tone sharpening slightly.
“I did not say she was fragile” You cut across his thoughts.
He stopped, because no one interrupted him like that, no one spoke over him, no one corrected him. But you did.
“You were correct” he admitted simply through his mind whirled with the thoughts of the woman in front of him “She needed to mount again” he continued “You saw it quickly”
“I have seen it before” you answered simply.
“With your sister” he summarised his gaze casting over you in question still trying to work you out.
“Yes” you nod.
He studied your face unable to stop himself tracing the curve of your still flushed cheek “You were quite young to be raising a child” he said more a fact than question. He knew from the staff that you were quite young when your mother died and it seemed your weak willed father had left everything to you.
“It was necessary” you offered simply. There was no bitterness in it, nor self pity. Just fact. That unsettled him more than if you had complained.
Your words irritated him but intrigued him far more. He did not answer right away. He watched you instead, watched the certainty in your expression Something in his chest tightened again. He did not like it, but he could not bring himself to look away.
“I did not mean to overstep” you added after a moment, he became painfully aware of how long you had just been staring at each other in silence “She reached for me”
“She did” he agreed, he would not forget that moment. Rhea in your arms, you in his. His voice had dropped, rougher than before “Thank you” he said, something he had not felt in a long time pulling at his chest.
You inclined your head slightly, your smile faint, but his gaze dropped to it all the same “She is a brave child” you added
“She is” he replied his gaze still on your lips wondering how you would look when you smiled for real. He became suddenly aware of himself pulling himself back to reality, not foolishly staring at a girl like love struck green boy
“You ride well” he said instead, bringing himself back to the topic at hand, however the words came almost abruptly. As though he needed to say something that was not what he had been thinking.
Warmth touched your expression again, faint but unmistakable, he liked that “So I have been told”
That traitorous part of him rose up again, imagining your blushed warm face under him as his lips demented on yours. Luckily a groom approached then, breaking the moment, before he made a fool of himself.
Maekar stepped back, he had not truly realised he had gotten so close, like you had drawn him in like a moth to a flame.
The space between you returned. It felt wrong. He ignored that.
But as he turned to leave, he found himself speaking again, the words coming before he had decided to say them “She will ride with you again” It sounded like an order, it was not, not entirely.
You met his gaze “If you permit it” that small smile once again adoring your features.
His eyes flicked, briefly, to your mouth “I do” he choked out quickly and turned before he did something he could not take back.
———————————————
He had not meant to stop in the gardens.
He had told himself he was passing through, that there were always matters requiring his attention. It was an easy excuse, one he did not examine too closely, because the truth of it sat somewhere far less comfortable.
He had begun to look for you.
He saw you before you noticed him, kneeling between his daughters in the dirt, sleeves pushed back, your hair slipping loose from its careful arrangement, entirely unconcerned with the state of yourself.
It drew his attention in a way he did not trust.
He did not announce himself, instead lingering where he stood, his gaze fixed despite himself as you guided Rhae’s hand with patient precision.
He saw the mistake before it happened, the slight shift of your grip, the slickness of crushed leaves beneath your fingers, the angle just wrong enough to matter.
The blade slipped, a thin line opened across your palm, bright and immediate, and you drew in a breath that was sharp but controlled, already dismissing it before anyone else could give it weight.
“It is nothing” you assured the girls, of course it was nothing, because you had decided it was, like your wellbeing did not matter.
Something in him resisted that instinctively, sharply, before he had the thought fully formed he was across the grass “What has happened?”
You looked up at him then, and there it was again, that look that met him without hesitation.
“She cut herself” Rhae said quickly.
“It is hardly dramatic” you replied, already drawing your hand back, already intending to deal with it yourself.
He stepped closer without asking permission, without even considering it “Your hand”
You resisted, as he had come to expect you would “This is hardly necessary”
“Your hand” he repeated, his voice low, leaving no space for argument.
You exhaled, something in your expression tightening for a fraction of a moment before you extended your hand toward him, palm up, as though conceding something you did not care to concede.
He took it and for a moment, everything else fell away.
Your hand settled into his, smaller than his own, warmer than he expected, the softness of your skin at odds with the steadiness of your grip. He tightened his hold without meaning to, turning your palm to examine the cut, focusing on the task because it was something he could control.
“It is not deep” you said lightly.
“Hold still” he replied, his thumb pressing at the base of your hand to steady it. The motion was practical, meant for nothing beyond the task at hand, but his thumb shifted, just slightly, to the inside of your wrist, where your pulse beat beneath the surface of your skin.
He felt it. The sensation struck him harder than it should have, sharper than reason allowed, because it was not simply that he felt it, but that he recognised it, that it seemed to echo somewhere beneath his own skin in answer, something tightening low in his chest without his consent.
For a moment, he forgot the garden, forgot the girls, forgot himself entirely, aware only of the point of contact between you, of the rhythm beneath his thumb.
For one brief, dangerous moment, he allowed himself the thought that it was not entirely one sided. That perhaps you felt it too.
His jaw tightened as he forced the thought down, forced himself back into the task, binding the cut with efficient precision, though his movements were firmer than they needed to be, his control not as complete as he would have preferred.
“That should hold” he said at last, his voice rougher than intended.
“Yes” you replied, a fraction too quickly.
He did not release your wrist as quickly as he should have, his thumb lingering a fraction longer than necessary, as though confirming it, as though committing it to memory. Then he let go “Do not be careless” he said, his voice lower now, roughened in a way he did not care to examine.
“I was distracted” you answered.
His gaze dropped to your mouth before he could stop it, drawn there without permission, lingering just long enough to be dangerous before he forced it away again.
Rhae made a small, pointed sound behind you, breaking whatever had settled between you.
The world returned all at once.
He stepped back, the distance immediate and necessary, though it felt wrong in a way he did not care to name.
You looked away first, as you always did, and he found that he disliked it more each time it happened, because it felt less like indifference and more like retreat.
He turned without another word and left the garden, because something had shifted in him in a way he did not yet understand, something that had taken root the moment he felt your pulse beneath his hand.
And if he remained there any longer, he was no longer certain he would choose restraint.
—————————————————
The library was an easy place to sit. Maekar had taken his place beside your sister near the hearth, a goblet in his hand, the fire casting long shadows across the stone as she spoke brightly beside him, her voice light, eager, attempting to draw him into some story of his youth.
He gave her enough to satisfy appearances. A word here, nod there. He did not truly listen, because his attention, despite himself, was divided.
You sat not far from him, on the rug with his daughters, your skirts gathered neatly, your posture relaxed in a way that seemed at odds with the sharpness of your mind. Rhae’s fingers were tangled in your hair, working through a braid with uneven concentration, while Daella watched you with that same keen, assessing interest she gave anything worth understanding.
He told himself he listened to them because they were his children. It was not the truth, he listened because you were there. Because your voice moved through the room in a way that drew his attention whether he willed it or not, calm and measured, threaded with that quiet wit he had begun to recognise.
“We should play a game” Daella declared.
He did not turn his head, but his attention sharpened.
“What kind of game?” you asked, already resigned.
“A question game. You must answer honestly”
“That is dangerous”
“That is the point” Despite himself, the corner of his mouth almost shifted, she was defiently his daughter.
He took a slow drink of his wine, his gaze still fixed somewhere ahead of him, though he was no longer seeing the room as a whole, only listening.
“Very well. Within reason” he could hear the warning in your tone.
Daella leaned forward, her voice bright with anticipation.“Why are you not married?”
His hand stilled slightly around the goblet. He had not meant to care about the answer, and yet he did.
“Because no one has ever asked me” His jaw tightened. That answer sat poorly with him, what fools of men did not ask for you.
“That cannot be true” Dealla argued
“It can”
Rhae ever earnest, added “You are pretty enough”
He did not look at you. But he imagined, vividly, the way your mouth would have curved at that, the way you would deflect it, brush it aside as though it meant nothing.
“Do you not wish to marry?” Daella pressed.
There was a pause “It has not been necessary”
“That is not the question” Dealla argued
Another pause. He found himself waiting, listening in a way he had not listened to anyone in years.
“Yes. When I was a girl”
His grip tightened slightly on the goblet.
“And now?”
“I am content”
He did not believe you. Not for a single moment. Something in him rejected the idea outright, instinctive and immediate, because he had seen the truth of you in smaller moments, in the way your expression shifted when you thought no one watched, in the quiet things you did without recognition.
You were not content, you endured. The distinction mattered more to him than it should have.
“Would you want children?” Daella asked, softer now.
The question shifted something in the room. He felt it in the way your breath caught, faint but there.
“Yes” The word was simple but it struck him harder than anything you had said before.
Because he could hear what sat beneath it. He could hear the want you did not voice.
He lifted the goblet again, if only to give his hands something to do.
Then Rhae, bright and unthinking, said “Father could give you children”
Everything stopped. The image came without warning. Violent in its clarity. You beneath him, breath unsteady, your body yielding beneath his in a way that made something deep in him tighten and pull. Your hair loose, cheeks flushed, hands gripping at him in need. The way you would respond to him, the way you would say his name as he buried himself inside of you.
The thought struck through him like a blade. He choked, the wine caught in his throat, a sharp, violent cough breaking from him as he turned away, his hand coming up too late to mask it “Seven fucking hells”
Your sister startled beside him, her hand coming to his arm as he coughed again, harder this time, his composure breaking in a way he had not allowed in years.
“Are you well?” She asked wide eyed
He did not answer her, he could not. Because the image had not left him.
Because it lingered, unwanted and yet impossible to dismiss, settling low in his body, heavy and insistent in a way that left him momentarily unsteady.
“Rhae” he said at last, his voice rougher than intended, sharper, cutting across the room “that is not appropriate”
“I only meant” she began to protest
“It does not matter what you meant” he cut her off
Silence followed.
He did not look at you, he could not. He stared instead into the fire, his grip tightening around the goblet until his knuckles paled, forcing his thoughts back into order, forcing the image away, forcing himself back into the shape of the man he was meant to be.
But it did not leave him, not entirely.
—————————————-
The evening wore on after that, the conversation stuttering back to safer topics, but Maekar's focus splintered. He nodded at the right moments, offered clipped responses to his daughters' chatter, yet his mind circled relentlessly back to that searing vision.
The corridor to his chambers felt endless, the stone cool under his boots. He slammed the door behind him, the thud echoing his pounding heart.
He stripped off his tunic with rough jerks, the fabric whispering to the floor. His breeches followed, kicked aside, leaving him bare and throbbing. His cock stood rigid, heavy with unmet need, the tip already weeping clear fluid at the mere recollection.
He collapsed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, linens tangling around his legs as he sprawled out.
One hand gripped the base of his shaft, fingers encircling the hot, pulsing length. He squeezed, a hiss escaping his lips, and began to stroke, slow at first, base to head, feeling the skin slide over the rigid core.
The image flooded back, you on your back beneath him, thighs parted wide, slick and inviting as he notched his cock at your entrance. He'd push in deep, inch by inch, watching your face contort in pleasure, your lips parting on a gasp as he filled you completely.
His pace quickened, fist pumping steadily. He imagined your walls clenching around him, hot and tight, milking him as he thrust hard, hips snapping against yours. Your hands would claw at his shoulders, nails digging in, urging him deeper “Maekar” you'd moan, voice breaking, until he spilled inside you.
Maekar's breaths came in harsh pants, his free hand twisting the sheets as his strokes grew frantic. His balls drew up tight, the pressure building like a storm. He pictured your face in the throes, eyes locked on his, flushed and desperate.
He came with a strangled roar, hips jerking off the bed, waves of ecstasy ripped through him, leaving his muscles quivering.
Panting, he sank back, hand falling limp, the room spinning faintly. The release ebbed the urgency, but the image lingered tormenting him.
——————————————————-
The hour was late. Summerhall had fallen into that rare kind of quiet that came only when the household slept, when even the corridors seemed to rest.
Maekar did not often wander at night. Tonight, he did. He told himself it was habit, that he was checking the halls, ensuring all was as it should be.
He did not question why his steps led him here, to your chambers.
The light beneath your door was still burning, you should have been asleep.
He knocked once, sharp and controlled before he could stop himself. There was a pause, then movement. You stood peeking out through the crack of the opened door, your hair unbound, a simple shift in place of your usual gown.
It struck him harder than it should have, feeling that familiar heat curl low in his stomach.
“My prince” you said, surprise flickering across your face before you smoothed it away, pulling your shall tighter around your shoulders
“You are not abed” he said, his eyes flicking over you.
“No” you replied, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.
He should have left, he did not. “What occupies you?” he asked instead.
You hesitated, then stepped back slightly, allowing the door to open further “Reading” you said.
He stepped inside before he could reconsider it. The room was simple. A book lay open on the table beside a half-burnt candle, some dresses and shalls lay over the chairs. The room smelt faintly like your perfume. You had been writing too. He noticed that, he noticed everything about you these days.
“You do not sleep?” he asked keeping his voice even.
“I do” you said “Eventually” you say with shrug
“That is not sufficient” he says studying you now.
Your brow lifted slightly “I was unaware my sleep was your concern”
“It is” he said, before he could stop himself.
You looked at him differently then “You need not trouble yourself” you said after a moment, softer now “I am quite accustomed to managing alone”
There it was again, that quiet acceptance. That you would always be the one overlooked. Something in him rejected it outright.
“You should not have to” he said, wanting to take a step closer but holding himself back.
You stilled just slightly “And yet” you replied carefully “it has always been so”
His jaw tightened. Because he knew that was true, but he knew, with a clarity that unsettled him, that he did not want it to remain so “You will sleep” he said finally.
Your lips twitched faintly “Is that an order, my prince?”
“Yes” his voice lower and rough then he intended, his eyes dropping down to your lips.
“Very well” you said at last. You moved to extinguish the candle, he watched the way your movements slowed, just slightly, as though aware he still stood there.
When the room dimmed, you turned back toward him “You need not remain” you said you voice sounding different to his ears.
He knew that, but he felt it hard to walk away. He waited enough to see you settle, to see you draw the covers around yourself.
Only then did he turn, only then did he leave. As he stepped back into the corridor, one thought followed him, quiet and immovable.
You were not accustomed to being looked after. He would change that.
————————————————-
The courtyard had been arranged for celebration, a party for the visiting lords of the Reach. An effort for the crown to ‘make a good impression’ or so his father’s letters told him.
Lanterns hung in careful lines between stone arches, their light warm against the gathering dusk, music drifting easily through the space as wine loosened tongues and laughter followed close behind. It was not a grand feast by court standards, but it was enough, more than enough to satisfy expectation.
Maekar stood beneath the archway, your sister seated beside him, speaking brightly of nothing in particular, her voice a steady stream he acknowledged only where necessary.
He had done everything required of him. He had appeared, listened, played the part expected of a prince considering a match.
Still, his attention was elsewhere. It found you without effort, like it always did now.
You had not meant to draw notice, that much was obvious in the way you kept to the edges at first, positioned just beyond the centre of the gathering.
It did not work, not for him. He saw you the moment you stepped into the light.
Something in his chest tightened, sharp and immediate, his gaze fixing before he had the chance to look away. His gaze drifting up the flower crown woven into your hair.
He did not hear what your sister said as she carried on chatting to him, because someone had approached you. A knight, confident in the easy way of men who had never been denied by a pretty girl.
Maekar’s grip tightened around his goblet. He told himself he watched because it was his duty to observe those within his walls, to know who spoke to whom, who sought advantage where it could be found.
It was a lie, he watched because you had given the man your hand and led you onto the dance floor.
The music shifted and he found he could not look away. You moved well, the way you followed the steps with quiet precision.
He saw the way the knight leaned closer, the familiarity of it, the confidence of a man who believed himself welcome.
Maekar’s jaw tightened as the knight’s hand settled at your waist. You stiffened, only slightly, but saw it Maekar felt it like a physical thing. Something instinctive and immediate rising in him that had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with possession.
Maekar’s vision darkened at the edges, his grip on the goblet shifted, fingers tightening until the metal bit into his skin. And all he could think, was how wrong it was. How it should have been him. Maekar’s gaze fixed on the point of contact, on the way the knight’s hand settled against you as though he had any right to it.
He imagined, without meaning to, stepping into the space instead. His hand in place of the other man’s, his grip firmer, certain, leaving no question as to who you belonged to in that moment.
His jaw tightened, his fingers curling harder around the goblet as he forced himself to remain where he was, to watch rather than act.
The dance ended, The knight bowed and you answered with a polite curtsey, steeping back. Relief struck him unexpectedly, sharp enough to catch him off guard, something loosening in his chest that he had not realised had tightened.
When you made your way back to Rhea, Maekar’s shoulders eased by a fraction. Only then did he look away. Only then did he become aware again of the space around him, of your sister beside him, of the music continuing as though nothing had shifted at all.
But something had, irreversibly.
Because as he sat there, staring into his untouched wine, one truth settled into him with a clarity he could not deny, no matter how he might wish to.
He did not want you touched by another man.
He did not want you looked at by another man.
You were his. And that was a problem, because he had no right to you, none at all.
And yet he felt it anyway.
———————————————
The first thing he noticed was the sound.
A crack of something wrong, sharp and sudden, followed by a ripple through the courtyard that did not belong to celebration. Laughter broke apart, voices shifting, rising, something jagged and uncontrolled threading through it.
Then came the shouting.
Maekar was already on his feet “What” He did not finish the question. Because he saw the flames.
They climbed too fast, wrong in their hunger, catching along stone and cloth alike, licking upward where nothing should have burned so quickly.
“Water!” someone shouted “Buckets!”
Maekar did not look at the fire. He looked for his children.
“Daella!” he snapped, already moving, his voice cutting clean through the chaos. “Rhae!”
Your sister’s voice said something beside him, but it meant nothing. He was already moving through the courtyard, shoving past men who hesitated where he did not, his gaze cutting through smoke and bodies, searching.
His heart slammed hard enough to hurt. He found Daella first.
She stood near the edge of the courtyard, her face pale beneath the lantern light “Where is you sister?” he demanded
Daella’s breath hitched “Into the tower” she said, her voice breaking “Rhae went inside and…..she went after her”
He did not hear the rest, he already knew which ‘she’ Dealla meant. You went after her, of course you did.
His chest tightened, something far too close to fear clawing its way up through him before he could force it down “Stay here!” he ordered Daella, though he did not look at her as he said it.
He was already turning. The smoke had thickened at the archway, dark and choking, spilling outward into the courtyard as servants rushed with water that would never be enough, never be fast enough.
Then movement came from above. His head snapped up at the narrow slit of the tower window, hands reached through the smoke, dragging something small, struggling.
Rhae.
His breath left him in a single, sharp exhale as he saw her, saw her being pulled through, her limbs scrambling, her face streaked with soot and tears.
Alive. She was alive. For one brief moment, everything in him stilled. Relief struck hard, sudden, almost disorienting in its force.
“Careful!” someone shouted below as they hauled her free.
She disappeared from the window, pulled into waiting arms. His daughter was safe.
His gaze returned to the opening. No second figure, no movement behind her, no sign of you. The relief twisted, you had gone in after her and you had not come out.
You were still inside.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache as he looked once more at the window, as though you might appear there belatedly, as though the moment might correct itself.
“Water!” someone shouted beside him “Buckets!”
He understood exactly what he was about to do. He had a daughter below, shaken but alive. He had another watching him, waiting. He had duty, responsibility, reason.
Still none of it mattered, because you were in there.
His gaze fixed on the archway, on the thick, choking smoke that marked the entrance, on the fire that should have driven any sensible man back.
He was not a sensible man, not when it came to you.
Rhen he moved with the same certainty that had driven him into battle, into war, into every decision that had ever mattered. He crossed the threshold into smoke and heat without a second thought.
Because you were inside and he would not lose you.
——————————————————
The smoke swallowed him the moment he crossed the threshold.
It burned immediately, sharp and choking, dragging at his lungs with every breath, the heat pressing in from all sides as the fire climbed higher through the old stone and timber.
“Where the fuck are you” he muttered, more instinct than thought, forcing forward through falling debris, one arm raised against the worst of the smoke as his eyes strained through the grey.
The stairwell loomed ahead, half lost to flame, the path he would have taken already compromised, the heat rolling down in waves that would have driven any other man back.
He moved lower instead, cutting along the edge where the smoke thinned just enough to see shapes rather than shadows, his boots slipping against stone slick with ash and oil, his breath growing harsher with each step as the air grew thinner.
“Damn you!” he rasped under his breath, anger threading through the fear he refused to name
And then he saw you, a shape against the wall, half collapsed, your body leaning where you had tried to stay upright and failed, your hand braced weakly against stone that no longer offered you support.
You swayed, knees bucking, he crossed the distance, the world narrowing to nothing but you as his hand closed around your arm, hauling you upright before your knees could give way entirely.
“I have you” The words came rough, dragged from somewhere deeper than his throat, something already fraying at the edges.
“She’s out” you managed, your voice breaking through smoke, barely more than breath.
“I know” His arm locked around your waist without thought, pulling you flush against him, your body fitting against his in a way that struck through him even now, even here, even with fire closing in around you both.
You did not resist. You did not have the strength to.
Your head tipped forward, brushing his shoulder, your weight shifting fully into him as he turned, forcing his way back the way he had come, through heat and smoke and falling debris that no longer mattered.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache as he drove forward, his shoulder slamming through what remained of a half burnt beam, his hold on you never faltering, never loosening, not even when the heat bit into his skin through cloth.
He would not pull you from death only to watch you slip back into it in his arms.
The archway appeared through the smoke, light cutting through grey, voices rising beyond it, hands reaching, shouting something he did not process.
The air hit like a shock, cool and clean and wrong after the heat, but he barely felt it, barely registered anything beyond the weight of you in his arms, the way you sagged against him, too quiet, too still “Get me the fucking maester!” He growled at the staff frozen in shock.
He lowered you, his hand coming to your face immediately, too firm before it softened, his thumb brushing soot from your cheek.
Alive. Breathing. His. The thought came unbidden, he did not correct it.
Because as he held you there, your breath uneven against his throat, your weight fully in his arms, one truth settled into him with a certainty that left no room for doubt.
He had walked into fire for you.
——————————————————-
He did not remain in the courtyard, not once you had been taken from his arms.
The maester had insisted, hands already moving, directing servants, calling for clean cloth and air and space. He had only stepped back when it became unavoidable.
Even then, not far, close enough to see you. Close enough to assure himself that your chest still rose, that breath still found you, however uneven.
Alive.
The word settled heavily in his mind as he retired to his chambers to clean the soot and ash from his skin.
“My prince” The voice broke through his thoughts, stalling his step.
Your father
Maekar did not turn immediately. Your father stood rigid, his expression drawn not with relief, not with gratitude, but with something far colder. Displeasure.
“She has caused considerable difficulty” the man said, his tone measured, controlled, as though speaking of an inconvenience rather than a woman who had just walked into fire. “She has always had a tendency toward recklessness” your father continued, as though explaining a flaw in breeding rather than an act of courage.
Something in Maekar shifted. He took a step forward.
“She went into a burning tower” your father went on, as though the point had not yet been made clear enough “and in doing so, has placed herself in a most compromising position. Half the household saw her carried out of the flames in your arms, her gown”
“That is fucking enough” Maekar’s voice was quiet.
The man stopped, not because he had finished. Because something in the tone left no room to continue.
Maekar held his gaze then, fully, for the first time, his expression stripped of what little courtesy he had afforded him until now. “You speak of fucking recklessness” he said, measured, controlled, each word placed with care “as though she acted without cause”
Your father’s jaw tightened slightly “She endangered herself needlessly”
“She saved my daughter!” She acted where others hesitated” Maekar continued, his gaze unwavering “She did what was required when it was required, and she did it without thought for herself”
A pause. Then, colder “You would do well to consider that before you speak of her as though she were a fucking burden”
Silence followed.
But your father did not yield easily, that much was evident “And yet” he said after a moment, his tone tightening “the reality remains. She was seen, her person exposed, her state”
Maekar stepped closer “In my arms” he said, cutting across him, his voice lower now, something darker threading through it “because she would have died otherwise”
Your father held his gaze “So we are agreed” he said, attempting to reclaim ground that was no longer his “Her honour now rests with you”
Maekar did not look away nor hesitate “She will be my wife”
Your father’s expression shifted, something calculating flickering behind his eyes “You were to wed her sister”
Maekar simply held his gaze, and in that silence made it clear that what had been arranged no longer mattered.
Your father exhaled slowly, the shape of the outcome already forming in his mind, the advantage being weighed, measured, accepted “Then the announcement will be corrected” he said at last.
Maekar walked away, he did not elaborate, he did not need to.
Because the truth of it had already taken root, already shaped itself into something he would not unmake, no matter the cost.
This was not obligation. This was not convenience. This was not something that could be rearranged at another man’s discretion.
You were his, and whether you knew it yet or not he was already yours.
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