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51. “I would have given you gentleness if I knew how. Instead I gave you everything sharp I had, and you stayed anyway.”

with Maekar X Stark reader please?

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐏 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐒 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.

There was nothing gentle about Maekar Targaryen, this you would come to learn with haunting realisation. He was fire and you were ice, and together you made even the sharper edges worth the blood it paid.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, rough sex, multiple sexual positions, maekar loves your sharp tongue, maekar (my love, you are whipped for your stark!wife), minors dni.

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃: Yes. I am still waiting to get my account back, so this blog will be dedicated to answering requests.

You first saw him across the great hall of the Red Keep during the feast that marked the arrival of the northern envoys.

Prince Maekar Targaryen stood near the high table, tall and broad shouldered, his hair cropped short in the manner of a soldier rather than a courtier.

His eyes, violet and piercing, scanned the room with the same intensity one might use to survey a battlefield.

You had heard the stories, the fourth son of King Daeron, a man forged in the conflicts of the Blackfyre rebellions, known more for his stern command than for any courtly grace.

Your father had sent you south with your brother to strengthen ties, or so the official word went. In truth, the North needed eyes and a voice that would not soften under southern silk.

You had never been one for softness, as the cold of Winterfell had taught you to speak plainly, to cut through pretence the way a northern wind cuts through wool.

When the introductions came, you met his gaze without lowering your eyes. He inclined his head slightly. “Lady Stark,” he said, his voice low and rough edged, as if unused to the formalities of such gatherings.

“Prince Maekar,” you answered. “I had expected a dragon with more fire and less stone in his expression.”

A flicker crossed his face, not quite a smile, but something far more sharper. The men around him shifted, uncertain whether you had given insult, but not once did he look away.

“Stone endures longer than fire,” he replied. “Though I see the North prefers its own kind of edge.”

That was how it began. Not with poetry or soft words, but with a recognition of something hard and unyielding in each other.

In the days that followed, the court moved in its usual patterns of intrigue and dance. You found yourself in his path more often than chance alone would allow.

During a hunt in the kingswood, when the party had spread thin among the trees, your horse stumbled on uneven ground.

You recovered with the ease of long practice, but Maekar was already there, one gloved hand steadying the bridle.

“You ride as if the land itself answers to you,” he said.

“It does, in the North. Here it merely tolerates me.” You looked at him fully. “And you, my prince? Do you tolerate the North, or do you simply measure it for usefulness?”

His jaw tightened, and you watched the muscle work beneath the skin, as most men at court would have offered some polished deflection, he however did not.

“I measure what must be measured. The realm needs the North. That does not mean I pretend to understand its winters or its women.”

“Good,” you said. “I have little patience for pretence.”

He released the bridle. For a moment his hand lingered near yours on the reins, close enough that you felt the heat of him even through the leather. Then he stepped back, courteous, controlled, the tension between you was a living thing, but he made no move to claim more than what you offered in words.

You drove him to the edge of his patience often. In council chambers, when the southern lords spoke of the North as a distant and half wild place, you corrected them with a bluntness that made more than one advisor flush.

Maekar would sit silent through most of it, but you felt his attention like a weight, and once after a particularly sharp exchange in which you had dismantled a proposal that would have taxed northern timber beyond reason, he found you in a quieter corridor.

“You speak as if every word is a blade,” he said.

“And you listen as if every silence is a strategy. We make a fine pair of weapons, do we not?”

He stepped closer, the air between you thickened. You could see the faint scar that cut through one eyebrow, the way his eyes narrowed when he studied something that interested him. His hand rose, then stopped, hovering near your cheek without touching.

“I have known many who carry blades,” he said quietly. “Few who know when to sheath them.”

“And do you think I should sheath mine for you, prince?”

“No.” The word was firm. “I would not ask it.”

He lowered his hand. The restraint in him was as palpable as the desire. You felt it then, the knowledge that he wanted more, that the sharp exchanges fed something in him, yet he would not take what you did not freely give. It made the air between you burn hotter.

There were tender moments amid the clashes. One evening, when rain lashed the windows of the keep and the court had grown restless, you found him alone in a smaller solar, maps of the realm spread across a table. He did not look up at once when you entered.

“The North is poorly drawn on these,” you said, moving closer. “The Wolfswood is larger. The rivers run differently.”

He gestured to a chair. You sat. For a time you corrected the maps together, your fingers tracing lines beside his. When your hands brushed, neither of you pulled away at once. He spoke of the campaigns he had fought, not with boastfulness but with a soldier’s plain accounting of cost and necessity.

You told him of winters that killed the weak and tempered the strong, of the old gods and the weirwoods that watched in silence. He listened as if every detail mattered.

At one point he poured wine for you both. When he handed you the cup, his fingers covered yours for a moment longer than needed.

“You are not what I expected of a Stark,” he said.

“Nor you of a Targaryen. I thought dragons breathed only fire. You seem more inclined to hold it in until it forges something harder.”

A rare almost smile touched his mouth. “Perhaps we both disappoint expectations.”

You stayed longer than was strictly proper. When you finally rose to leave, he walked you to the door. In the shadowed corridor he paused.

“If I knew how to offer gentleness,” he said, voice low, “I might try. But I was not made for soft things.”

You met his eyes. “I did not come south looking for soft things.”

He nodded once, as if that settled something between you, and let you go without another word.

The restraint held, the tension remained.

Word of a possible betrothal reached you through your brother’s careful warnings, the king sought to bind the North more firmly.

A match between a Targaryen prince and a Stark daughter would serve that end.

You expected Maekar to resist, or at least to treat it as pure politics, but instead, when the formal proposal came, he requested a private audience with you before any answer was given.

You met in the godswood of the Red Keep, the sparse trees a poor imitation of the heart tree at Winterfell, yet still a place of relative quiet.

“They will call it duty,” he said without preamble. “Alliance. Strength for the realm.”

“And what do you call it?”

He looked at you for a long moment. “I call it a choice I would make even without the realm’s needs. You speak in ways that cut through the fog of this court. You stay when most would retreat from what I am. I would have you as my wife, if you will have me.”

The honesty of it struck harder than any polished speech. You felt the weight of the North on your shoulders, the knowledge of what this union would mean for your house, yet beneath that lay something more personal.

The way he looked at you, as if your sharp edges were not flaws to be smoothed but qualities to be met in kind. “I will not become soft for you,” you said.

“I would not want you to.”

“And I will not pretend that every day will be easy. You are not an easy man.”

“Nor are you an easy woman. That is part of why I ask.”

You studied him. The stern lines of his face, the controlled power in his stance, the way he waited without pressing. Sexual tension had hummed between you for weeks, a current neither had fully acknowledged in words. Yet he stood there now, offering a vow rather than a claim.

“Then yes,” you said. “I will marry you.”

The betrothal was announced with the usual ceremony. Court gossip painted it as a clever political move. Those who watched more closely saw the way Maekar’s gaze followed you across rooms, the way you answered his rare questions with the same unvarnished truth you gave everyone else.

The sharp tongue that drove him to the edge of his composure never softened, and he never asked it to.

In the weeks before the wedding there were more moments of unexpected care. When a southern fever passed through the keep and left you weakened for a day, he sent the maester without fanfare and later appeared himself with a cup of something bitter that he claimed would help.

He sat with you in silence for a time, reading from a campaign journal, the sound of his voice steady and low. When you teased him for playing nursemaid, he only raised an eyebrow.

“Even stone can offer shelter,” he said. “If it chooses.”

You laughed, the sound surprising you both, and the tension eased into something warmer for a while.

On another afternoon he found you in the training yard, practicing with a blunted sword against one of the guards.

You had always preferred to keep your skills sharp. Maekar watched for a time, then dismissed the guard with a nod and took up a practice blade himself.

“Show me what the North teaches,” he said.

You sparred. He was stronger, more experienced in true combat, yet he matched his force to yours rather than overwhelming.

The exchange was fierce, precise, and charged. When the bout ended with your blade at his throat and his at yours in a mutual stop, both of you breathing harder than the exercise alone required, he lowered his weapon first.

“You fight as you speak,” he said. “Without apology.”

“And you allow it.”

“I do more than allow it.” His eyes held yours. “I want it.”

He stepped back again, courteous to the last, though the heat in his gaze left little doubt of what simmered beneath the control.

The sparring in the yard became a regular occurrence after that first match. Sometimes you trained with the guards, sometimes he joined you.

The physical contest mirrored the verbal ones. Each clash of practice blades carried an undercurrent that left you both flushed and aware.

Once, after a particularly close exchange that ended with him pinning your sword arm and your free hand braced against his chest, the world narrowed to the space of a breath. His mouth was inches from yours.

You felt the hard line of him against your hip. For a heartbeat you thought he might close the distance. Instead he released you and stepped back, chest rising with controlled breaths.

“Not here,” he said, voice rough. “Not until you are mine by every right, and not until you say it is what you want.”

The words only fed the fire. You answered with a sharp smile. “Then you had best make certain the waiting does not dull your edge, prince.”

He laughed then, a short, rare sound. “With you near, dulling is the last danger I face.”

Another tender stretch came during a formal supper where a visiting lord from the Reach made the mistake of speaking dismissively of northern customs.

You answered him with a precision that left the table quiet. Maekar’s hand found yours beneath the cloth, a brief, firm pressure of solidarity that no one else saw. Later that night, in the relative privacy of a balcony overlooking the blackwater, he stood beside you in silence for a long while.

“You never soften the blow,” he observed.

“Would you prefer that I did?”

“No. The truth is cleaner, even when it cuts. I have spent too many years among those who wrap every knife in silk.”

You leaned slightly against the stone rail. The night air carried the scent of the river and distant smoke. “Then we are alike in that. I have little use for silk around blades.”

His hand covered yours on the cool stone. The touch was simple, almost careful. “I am learning that some edges are worth the blood they draw.”

You turned your palm upward so that your fingers could lace with his. The contact grounded the simmering tension into something steadier, though no less intense. When you eventually returned inside, the court saw only the formal distance required of a betrothed pair. What passed between you in private remained yours alone.

The days leading to the wedding blurred with preparations. Dress fittings, discussions of the ceremony, the arrival of northern guests who brought the scent of pine and cold with them.

Your brother watched you with careful eyes, seeking any sign of reluctance. You gave him none. Whatever political weight the match carried, the personal truth of it had settled into something solid.

On the morning of the wedding you walked the godswood once more, alone this time. The thin trees offered little of the comfort of home, yet the act itself steadied you.

When you returned to the chambers, Maekar was waiting in the outer room, already dressed in black and red, the Targaryen colors stark against his severe features. He looked at you as if memorizing the sight.

“Are you certain?” he asked, one last time.

“I have been certain since the moment I told you yes. Do not ask me again as if I am made of doubt.”

A faint curve touched his mouth. “Then let us be done with waiting.”

The sept ceremony passed in a haze of incense and formal words. You spoke your vows clearly. He spoke his with the same unflinching tone he used in command.

The public kiss was measured, yet the private one that followed in the brief moment between the sept and the feast was not. He drew you into an alcove, pressed you gently against the wall, and kissed you as if the hours until nightfall were an eternity he could no longer abide.

When he released you, both of you were breathing harder.

“Tonight,” he promised, the single word carrying every restrained hunger of the preceding months.

The feast was long.

You endured the toasts, the dances, the watching eyes. Maekar remained at your side, a solid presence, his hand occasionally brushing yours or settling at your waist during a turn of the dance. Each contact sent a fresh spark through the carefully banked fire.

By the time the you both were finally escorted to the chambers with the traditional songs and laughter fading behind the closed door, the air between you felt charged enough to spark on its own.

He dismissed the servants with a few quiet words. Alone at last, he turned to you fully. The fire in the hearth cast long shadows across the stone floor and the wide bed. The scent of woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of the wine from the feast hung in the air.

You stood near the center of the room, still in the heavier wedding gown, the weight of silk and embroidery suddenly too much against your skin. Your pulse beat hard in your throat.

“Come here,” he said, not as a command but as an invitation. His voice had dropped lower, roughened by the long evening of restraint.

You went.

His hands rose to the fastenings of the gown, working them free with a patience that belied the heat already darkening his violet eyes. Layer by layer the fabric fell away, pooling at your feet until you stood in the thinner shift beneath.

Cool air kissed your bare shoulders and the tops of your breasts. Your nipples tightened against the fine linen. He paused, looking at you as if the sight alone was a claim he intended to honor with everything he had.

“You are beautiful,” he said, the words plain and therefore more powerful. “And still sharp enough to cut. Do not change that for me. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You reached for him in turn, helping him out of the formal tunic and the layers beneath until the scars and hard planes of his body were bare to your hands. His skin was warm, almost hot beneath your palms.

You traced one long mark that ran along his ribs, feeling the slight ridge of healed flesh. He allowed it, watching your face with an intensity that made your pulse quicken and a low heat gather between your thighs.

“Battle,” he said simply.

“I know.” You leaned in and pressed your mouth to the edge of the scar, tasting salt and clean skin. “I would not have you unmarked either.”

That broke the last of the careful distance. A low sound left his throat, almost a growl. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, the strength in his arms effortless, and carried you to the wide bed.

The mattress gave beneath your back, soft furs and linens cool against your heated skin. His mouth found yours first, deep and hungry, tongue sliding against yours with none of the earlier restraint.

He kissed like a man who had been holding himself back for months, claiming your mouth thoroughly, teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to sting in the most delicious way.

Then he moved lower. His mouth trailed down your throat, open and wet, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. You arched into it, fingers threading into his short hair.

The scent of him filled your lungs, warm skin, the faint metallic note of the ceremonial steel he had worn, and something deeper that was purely male and purely him. His hands pushed the shift up and over your head in one smooth motion, and then you were bare beneath him. The firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow.

His gaze raked over your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the dark thatch of hair between your legs. You felt no shame under that look. Only a rising, aching need.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. His large hand cupped one breast, thumb brushing over the peaked nipple. The contrast of his rough calluses against the sensitive flesh made you gasp.

He lowered his head and took the nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to send sharp sparks of pleasure down your spine. You cried out softly, back bowing off the bed.

He gave the same attention to the other breast until both nipples were wet and tight and throbbing.

His hand slid down your stomach, fingers spreading, until he reached the heat between your thighs.

He found you already slick, the evidence of how long the tension had been building. Two thick fingers parted your folds and stroked through the wetness, gathering it, then pressed inside you slowly. You clenched around the intrusion, hips lifting to take more.

He worked his fingers deeper, curling them, finding a spot that made your vision blur and a broken sound leave your throat.

“So ready for me,” he said against your breast, voice thick. “All these months of sharp words and restraint, and you are dripping for it.”

“Yes,” you managed, the word half a moan. “I want you. No more waiting.”

He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and tasting you without looking away from your eyes.

The sight alone made another rush of wetness gather between your legs. Then he shifted, settling fully between your thighs. The heavy, hard length of his cock pressed against your entrance, thick and hot.

He rubbed the broad head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top until your hips jerked and you made a desperate sound.

Still he waited, eyes locked on yours, the last thread of courtesy holding.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Fuck me,” you answered, sharp and clear and needy. “I am your wife. Take what I am giving you.”

The last of his restraint snapped.

He thrust into you in one long, powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch was intense, almost too much, the thick girth of him forcing your body to open around him. A sharp cry left your lips.

He groaned low and deep, forehead dropping to yours for a single heartbeat as he held still, letting you feel every inch of him filling you completely. You could feel the pulse of him inside you, the heat, the overwhelming fullness.

Then he began to move.

There was no gentleness left in it. He fucked you hard and deep, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the chamber.

His hands gripped your hips hard enough that you knew there would be bruises in the shape of his fingers by morning. He pulled nearly all the way out and slammed back in, over and over, the force of it rocking the bed.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and met every thrust, nails digging into the hard muscle of his back and shoulders. The friction was exquisite, the thick length of him dragging against every sensitive place inside you.

“Gods,” he gritted out, voice raw. “You feel like you were made for this. Tight and wet and taking every bit of me.”

You could only moan in answer, words lost under the onslaught of sensation. The scent of sex rose between you, rich and musky. Sweat began to slick your skin where your bodies met. His mouth found yours again in a messy, open kiss, all tongue and teeth, while his hips never slowed.

One of his hands slid between your bodies and found the swollen bud of your clit, rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation built fast and sharp.

You came hard, the climax crashing through you without warning. Your body clamped down around his cock in rhythmic pulses, a broken cry of his name torn from your throat.

He fucked you through it without mercy, the wet sounds growing louder as your release coated him, the tight flutter of your cunt only driving him harder.

Before the last waves had fully faded he pulled out, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Strong hands flipped you onto your stomach. He dragged your hips up until you were on your knees, chest still pressed to the mattress, then slammed back into you from behind in one brutal stroke.

The new angle let him go even deeper. You cried out into the furs, fingers twisting in the sheets. He set a relentless pace, one hand planted between your shoulder blades to hold you down, the other gripping your hip as he pounded into you. Each thrust forced a soft, punched-out sound from your lips. The head of his cock dragged against that perfect place inside you on every stroke until your arms trembled and your second climax built like a storm.

“Come again,” he ordered, voice rough with strain. “I want to feel it while I fill you.”

His hand snaked around your hip and found your clit again, rubbing hard and fast. You shattered with a muffled scream, body locking up around him, walls fluttering and squeezing.

He growled and drove into you three more times, then buried himself to the root and came with a deep, guttural sound. You felt the hot pulses of his seed flooding you, the slight jerk of his hips as he spent himself as deep as he could go. The sensation of being filled so completely, of his cock throbbing inside you while your own orgasm still rippled, left you shaking and boneless.

He stayed buried in you for long moments, breathing hard against the back of your neck, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you upright. When he finally eased free, the thick slide of him leaving your body made you moan at the loss. His seed immediately began to leak down your inner thighs, warm and slick.

He rolled you onto your back again and looked down at the mess he had made of you: flushed skin, sweat-damp hair, the faint bruises already forming on your hips, the glistening wetness between your spread legs.

A dark, satisfied sound left him. He leaned down and kissed you, slower this time but no less thorough, tasting the salt of sweat on your upper lip. Then he settled beside you and pulled you half across his chest.

His heart hammered under your ear, one heavy hand stroked down your spine, then lower, cupping the curve of your backside before sliding between your thighs from behind.

Two fingers pushed into your spent, sensitive cunt, feeling the combination of your release and his. You twitched and gasped, overstimulated, but pressed back into the touch all the same.

“Still so wet,” he murmured against your hair. “Taking everything I gave you.”

You turned your face and bit lightly at the skin of his chest in answer. He huffed a quiet laugh that turned into a low sound of renewed interest when you shifted and threw a leg over his hip. His cock, still half hard and slick with both of you, twitched against your thigh.

“Again,” you said, the word sharp with remaining need.

He needed no further invitation. In one smooth motion he rolled you beneath him once more and thrust back into the wet heat of you. This time there was no buildup. He fucked you without restraint from the first stroke, deep and hard and possessive, the wet filthy sounds of it loud in the quiet chamber.

You clung to him, legs locked around his waist, meeting every powerful snap of his hips. The oversensitive drag of his thick cock through your swollen tissues was almost too much and yet exactly what you needed. He kissed and bit at your throat, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, leaving more marks that would show above the neckline of any gown tomorrow.

When you came a third time it was with a broken sob of pleasure, your body clamping down hard around him. He followed almost immediately, driving deep and grinding against you as he emptied himself into you again, a low, continuous groan vibrating against your skin. The second rush of heat inside you felt even more intense than the first.

Afterward he did not pull away at once. He remained buried in you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing in the same heavy rhythm. Sweat cooled on your joined skin. The sheets were a wrecked tangle. The air smelled of sex and woodsmoke and the faint metallic note of the marks his mouth had left on you.

When he finally eased free, the thick mess of his seed spilled out of you onto the sheets. He watched it for a moment with a dark, possessive satisfaction, then gathered you against his chest again. His hand stroked slowly along your side, gentler now, though the strength in it was still unmistakable.

“I would have given you gentleness if I knew how,” he said into your hair, the words quiet and unguarded. “Instead I gave you everything sharp I had, and you stayed anyway.”

You pressed a kiss to the damp skin over his heart and felt it beat strong and steady beneath your lips. “I stayed because the sharp things were honest. And because you never once tried to take what I had not offered. That is rarer than gentleness in this world.”

He held you tighter, and beyond the chambers, the keep the night continued, but inside the chamber the world had narrowed to the two of you, edges still intact, yet fitted together in a way that felt inevitable.

Later, when the fire had burned lower and the first edge of exhaustion had begun to ease, he stirred again. His hand slid down between your legs, fingers slipping through the wet mess of his seed and your own release.

You were still sensitive, and the touch made you flinch and then press closer.

“One more,” he said, not quite a question. The hunger in his voice had not fully banked.

You answered by turning in his arms and guiding him back to your entrance. He entered you slower this time, but only for the first few strokes and once he was fully seated the restraint vanished once more.

He rolled you onto your back and fucked you with the same unrestrained hunger, the wet sounds louder now, the scent of sex thicker in the air. You came a fourth time with his name on your tongue and his teeth against your shoulder. He followed soon after, driving deep and staying there while the last pulses left him, filling you until you felt marked from the inside out.

By the time true sleep claimed you both, the sky beyond the window had begun to lighten. You were sore in places you had not known could ache so sweetly, marked by his mouth and hands, thighs sticky with the proof of how thoroughly he had claimed what you freely gave. And still, when his arm tightened around you in sleep, you felt only the deep, quiet certainty that you had chosen well.

The days and nights that followed established a rhythm of their own, by day you remained the northern woman who spoke without polish, who challenged poor counsel in the presence of the king’s advisors, who refused to become ornamental.

Maekar never rebuked you for it.

More than once you caught the ghost of approval in his eyes when your words cut cleanly through some tangled proposal. By night the tension found its release in the privacy of your shared bed or, on occasion, in other corners of the keep when the need grew too sharp to wait.

He took you against the wall of a shadowed corridor once, your skirts lifted and his hand covering your mouth to muffle the sounds while he drove into you hard enough that your toes barely touched the floor.

Another time he bent you over the table in the solar where the maps still lay, maps you had corrected together months before, and fucked you until the careful ink lines blurred in your vision and your cries were muffled against the parchment.

Always the underlying courtesy remained before the act.

He never assumed.

A look, a touch, a quiet confirmation was enough. Once that confirmation was given, however, the restraint fell away completely. He took you as thoroughly as his nature demanded, and you met him with equal fire.

There were softer hours as well.

Mornings when you woke to find his arm heavy across your waist and his face relaxed in sleep, the severity smoothed away. Afternoons when the demands of court allowed a brief escape to the godswood or the quieter galleries, where conversation ranged from the politics of the realm to the small details of northern life you still missed.

He listened and he remembered, as he has once arranged for a shipment of northern pine to be burned in the hearth of your chambers simply because you had mentioned the scent of home.

“You notice more than you admit,” you told him that evening.

“I notice what matters.” His hand found yours. “You matter.”

The simplicity of the statement, coming from a man not given to easy declarations, settled something deep in your chest.

As the seasons turned and the political weight of the marriage proved its value, the private truth of it only deepened.

You never became soft.

He never pretended to a gentleness that was not natural to him. Yet between the sharp edges a space had been carved where trust and desire and a fierce, unspoken loyalty could exist without apology.

When the time came that the crown passed to him and the realm looked to Maekar Targaryen for the hardness the age required, you stood at his side still, the woman who had answered his every edge with one of her own and stayed.

In the quiet moments that followed the weight of rule, he would sometimes repeat the words first spoken on the night you became his wife in every sense.

They had become a private vow of their own, a recognition that what bound you was not the absence of edges but the choice to meet them without flinching.

You answered each time in the same way, with honesty and the touch of a hand that had never learned to be anything less than true.

The North remained in your blood. The dragon blood remained in his. Together you forged a union that the court might call political and that the two of you knew was something far more enduring. Everything sharp you had given each other, and it had been enough. It had been more than enough.

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